After a few minutes they pulled apart.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, scrutinizing her face under the light from a street lamp.
She beamed at him, happy to prolong things. ‘Utterly famished.’
‘You and me both. Fancy Burmese? There’s a terrific place immediately round the corner.’
‘I’ve not tried it.’
‘Dear God, you need educating. Come on.’ And he held out a hand to her.
Within minutes they arrived at a lantern-lit restaurant and were shown to a quiet table at the back where a strange fishy smell hung in the air.
‘You’ll have to order for me. I have no idea what anything is.’
‘Ginger salad to start with. Gin thoke they call it. What do you say?’
She focused on his eyes and felt she’d agree to anything he might suggest.
‘They make it with pickled ginger, plus lentils and lima beans which are soaked overnight and then crispy fried and mixed with shredded cabbage, peanuts, sesame seeds, lime juice and fish sauce.’ He waved a hand about. ‘Fish sauce is what you can smell, and it tastes a lot better than it smells.’
She grinned.
As he ordered she watched his hands tapping out a rhythm on the table.
‘What’s that?’ she said.
‘Just a tune. You know the way they get stuck in your head?’ He paused. ‘So, after getting to know the food – next time we’ll have tea leaf salad – I shall introduce you to Burmese culture, music and so on, starting with the most important pagoda.’
Next time, she thought. There will be a next time. And she felt thrilled at the thought.
28.
In the early evening, two days later, Belle and Oliver made their way to Sanguttara Hill and the Shwedagon Pagoda. Hectic market stalls selling fabric, sticky cakes, wooden goods and flowers lined the way, while brightly coloured umbrellas protected the traders from the heat. The whole place teemed with people flocking to buy and, here and there among them, Belle spotted young women sweeping the ground.
‘They volunteer,’ Oliver said. ‘It’s central to their beliefs to gain merit by charitable work and good deeds, thus increasing the chance of a favourable reincarnation.’
‘And the pagodas? Why are there so many in Burma?’
‘Well, the wealthy pay for pagodas to be built to increase merit. Each of those is an Odeiktha zedi. But there are other kinds of pagodas too with holy relics inside.’
Belle nodded. They moved on and soon reached a stall packed with bamboo cages, each with a tiny green sparrow-like bird confined within. ‘Look!’ she said, aghast.
‘Would you like one?’ Oliver asked.
She shrank back. ‘A bird in a cage? No thank you.’
‘It isn’t what you think. Come on.’
Reluctantly, she followed him as he stepped up to the stall.
‘So, how many?’ he asked, twisting round to her.
‘Are you crazy?’
He grinned at her. ‘Trust me.’
As he bartered with the trader Belle stood watching anxiously. After a few moments an agreement seemed to have been reached and the man placed three cages on top of a makeshift table.
‘All yours,’ Oliver said.
She raised her brows but didn’t move.
‘Go on.’
‘But I don’t want them.’
‘Just open the cages. You can let the birds go now. That’s what they’re here for. It will gain you merit.’
She shook her head and laughed. ‘Honestly, Oliver, you let me think …’ Her words trailed off.
‘I couldn’t resist it.’
She opened the cages one by one and watched in delight as each little bird took to the air and flew off, soaring higher and higher.
They carried on up the steps towards the colourful central compound which Oliver called the aran. Until she was actually standing there, staring at the multiple edifices before her, Belle hadn’t realized that the huge central pagoda stood in the midst of a complex of so many smaller pagodas dotted among trees. Nor had she realized how busy it would be or what a social event it was to visit the pagoda. All of Rangoon seemed to be out. First, she concentrated on the families promenading in their smartest clothes while small children slept in little heaps guarded by elderly grandmothers. Then she watched young couples praying on their knees and groups of people sitting together sharing food. Most intriguing of all were the saffron-robed monks she saw scrambling up the lower terraces of the Shwedagon itself.
‘Whatever are they doing?’ she asked Oliver.
‘Checking the surface for problems.’
‘It looks precarious. Surely they don’t climb all the way to the top?’
‘I believe they do, all three hundred and twenty-six feet of it.’
‘Good God!’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We need to see it properly before the sun sets.’
He linked arms with her and they went on, passing huge bells hanging within stone structures, decorative pavilions protecting shrines and magnificent lion-like statues. She loved the bustle going on around the main concourse, which seemed in complete contrast to the quiet shady corners where monks prayed beneath the trees.
‘It’s covered in jewels,’ she said, gawping at the astonishing scale of the Shwedagon.
‘Yes, though some are glass.’
As the sky turned gold and dense black shadows began to dissolve the light within the pavilions, she gasped in awe at the dazzling brilliance of the Shwedagon illuminated by the dying sun. With light refracting through coloured glass the whole thing glittered and sparkled: a multi-jewelled marvel like no other Belle had ever seen. The arena, now glowing with oil lamps, candles and limited electricity, shimmered in the breeze. The atmosphere had changed too, becoming more enthralling and less excitable, as if a magical mantle had descended with the night, muffling the chatter and intensifying the religious significance of the moment. She shivered slightly, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
‘So,’ he whispered, his head close to hers. ‘You like?’
She nodded, ‘I like very much,’ though whether she was referring to her feelings about him or the sight of the pagoda, she couldn’t say. She leant against him for a few minutes, absorbing the peace. Then, as they began to walk away, he held her hand.
She felt his energy sweep her entire body and longed for him to kiss her again. The first time it had happened on her initiative but now she wanted him to take the lead. She stopped walking, then lifted a hand to touch his cheek. When he took her in his arms and skimmed her lips gently with his own, it electrified her. He teased her, and she teased him back, her lips barely touching his but searching for the moment when it would become more. She felt the power of her own feverish appetite, until she was ready to dissolve. Fluid like water, or molten like mercury. It was a wonder. A joy. Then – and she didn’t know how it turned from one thing to another – when she rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, unexpected laughter erupted from her. It was laugh-out-loud happiness and perhaps the only way to deal with the intensity of her heightened senses while surrounded by so many other people. He joined in the laughter.
‘Come,’ he said, when they stopped, and he pulled away a little, holding both her hands. ‘We’d better move on. People here are offended by public displays of affection.’
‘Affection?’ She laughed again. ‘Is that what it is?’ But she looked around and saw a few women were staring at them.
She felt altered by being with him on such an intensely romantic evening but was also curious about what she’d witnessed. Once her emotions had subsided and she had calmed herself she asked him to tell her about the religion.
‘Buddhism,’ he said, ‘blended with nat worship.’
‘Nat worship?’
‘Remember I said before?’
‘Oh yes. Spirits.’
She listened to the sounds of the evening, the noise now more subdued.
‘And the monks? I often see them
in the streets.’
‘Yes, they go out usually early each morning with their bowls to collect alms. Food for the day.’
‘And it’s all they have?’
He nodded. ‘The role of Buddhism has changed so much since the British took over. The laws used to be built around Buddhist teaching and the monks were protected. Now, of course, the connection between government and Buddhism has been lost.’
‘What do they believe in?’
He frowned as he thought about it. ‘Very simply, they believe in showing respect for parents and elders. They’re naturally curious and think ignorance is a sin. And they emphasize the need for forgiveness and caring for family and community.’
She glanced up at him. ‘Sounds pretty good to me.’
‘But there’s an odd kind of contradiction because this type of Buddhism is highly individualistic. Each person is responsible for their own salvation, despite the emphasis on community.’
‘It must lead to a peaceful life.’
He laughed. ‘Maybe. Anyway, after all that, I think it’s time to come back down to earth. Ready for a drink?’
29.
Rangoon, 1937
Over the following months Belle spent most of her time working, and, if not working, she spent it with Oliver. When she wasn’t actually with him, she usually found herself thinking of him. On one of their evenings together they had been drinking champagne beside the Royal Lakes, watching the fireflies, laughing at nothing, and slowly becoming a little drunk. Since she had given up resisting alcohol there had been several nights like this.
‘So,’ she had said, ‘will you stay on in Burma?’
‘I suppose that depends. They will achieve independence from the British sooner or later and who knows how things will be after that.’
‘But you do like living here?’
‘For now.’
‘And you came here because?’
‘I think I told you when we first met. There is change afoot and that’s newsworthy.’
‘But what about after?’
‘I don’t know, Belle. There are worrying rumblings going on in Germany, suspension of civil liberties and elimination of political opposition, that kind of thing, and I foresee trouble ahead.’
‘But surely that won’t affect us here?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell at this stage.’
This had been followed by a long silence, after which he’d gently turned her head towards him. ‘Let’s not talk about depressing things,’ he’d said and then he’d traced the outline of her lips with his fingertips.
Happy to steal every possible moment together, they went to the races, too, where they lost money, watching keenly as Gloria did rather well, while her brother shook his head in gloom when the horse he part-owned came in last. They went to the Silver Grill for delicious dinners, and the park for walks in the evening when the heat of the day had faded. They ended up in his flat for coffee when they were tired and wanted to put their feet up. It was as if each was biding their time in an unspoken agreement that whatever this was, it must not be rushed. She was glad of the time getting to know him. To understand his funny turns of phrase, and then tease him over the American murder of the English language. He took it in his stride and never did she feel as if he was pushing her.
This was so different from her first and only real relationship, the one she’d had with Nicholas Thornbury. As a producer he’d promised her the world and had wanted to move so quickly. She’d tried to be what he asked of her, a serious girlfriend, but it hadn’t felt real. It would never have worked, although maybe she should have told him to his face, rather than just leaving a letter. She was sorry about that. He had been clever, and she’d found him stimulating. Had enjoyed the way he knew his way around town and associated with all kinds of exciting and unusual people too. But the truth was she’d been swayed by the glamour and, overly impressed that he’d been interested in her, she’d gone along with it. Only later had she realized she was with him for the wrong reasons and had felt a little ashamed.
After that, men had sometimes taken the view that because she was a singer her morals would be loose, that she’d be ready for anything. But Belle was not like that at all, with a reserve most failed to recognize. Oliver was different – sensitive – and increasingly she felt she could trust him. She loved that it felt a bit like coming home.
She’d written back to Simone, thanking her profusely for such a detailed letter. In fact, it had finally put her mind at rest about her mother. Clearly, the events of 1911 had affected her mother’s state of mind and for the first time Belle wished there was some way to make up for everything. They say sadness doesn’t kill you, she thought. But it does. It can. She was sure it had killed her mother. Yet there was something Belle still couldn’t work out. What had Simone meant when she’d said her father hadn’t understood his role in her mother’s illness? What had he done?
Nor could she figure out why her own birth had not been enough to redress the balance, or at least go some way to defuse the pain caused by the loss of Elvira. It still hurt. Though she’d never spoken about it with Oliver, she felt he’d somehow picked up on it, and had been able to sense her distress.
On the day she finally took possession of the keys to the house in Golden Valley, she thought of asking Oliver to accompany her again but then decided she preferred to go on her own this time. Now it was hers, she longed for something that she couldn’t totally explain. She needed space to touch its surfaces, feel the texture of its walls, and maybe sense whatever might still linger from the past. And she wanted to do it alone. There were decisions to be made about its future and, although she quite liked Edward, she wasn’t sure she wanted to sell to him.
She took the tram again and then walked the last part, passing the luxurious colonial homes, looking the same as they had before. Her house though – and a little quiver ran through her at the thought of ‘her house’ – looked different. On hearing she was to shortly receive the keys she’d employed a gardener to cut back the undergrowth. Now, as she opened the gate, she could see the change. It was as if the front garden had been unwrapped, making the house appear larger and lighter too. She glanced up at the incandescent sky and felt a surge of happiness.
Although the front door was stiff and at first would not budge after she turned the key in the lock, she was determined to enter the house the way her parents would have done, and not by illicitly sneaking in through a back door. She placed her shoulder firmly against the peeling door and pushed and pushed until a creak and then a groan hinted at its imminent surrender. When it suddenly did she fell into the hall and wobbled before reaching a hand out to steady herself. Sorry, old place, she whispered. It had not been the most elegant entry to her new home. She paused, taken aback by her train of thought. Was it really to be a home?
She left the door wide open. This house needed fresh air to blow the cobwebs away. Now she could see the hall properly she inspected the floor, a black-and-white-checked marble affair lit by shafts of light and, luckily, still largely intact. Then, walking through the rooms again, she began to see it with new eyes, and a spirit that longed to coax it back to life, though it became obvious the rest of the downstairs needed a great deal of work if the ghosts of the past were to be truly expunged. She opened any window that wasn’t jammed and then climbed the stairs, going directly to the room she believed might have been her parents’. From the veranda she looked out at the garden. The hired gardener had been at work there too and, now much of the jungle had been cut back, she could see how much her mother must have loved it.
The few good memories she had of her mother were of when they had been together in the garden of the Cheltenham house, but they were hazy images and Belle couldn’t really tell if they were merely a child’s wishful thinking. She did know her mother had loved flowers. That much was true.
After opening the upstairs windows, she went back downstairs and then out through some French windows to what had been the
patio. It was treacherously patchy, most of the paviours broken and some missing altogether. As she picked her way, armies of ants scurried from her footsteps and a family of tiny lizards ran for shelter. She walked across the mown lawn, terribly uneven still, but no longer knee high, and headed for the entrance to the hidden part of the garden. Before she went through she turned to glance back at the house. It looked golden in the sunshine and a lump grew in her throat as she absorbed its faded beauty. It wasn’t hard to imagine her parents living here before everything went so wrong. She felt a moment of intense sadness, but it passed, and she went on through and headed for the tamarind tree. She lay on the grass beneath it to gaze up through its shady leaves and, although she had never lived in Burma before, she felt a connection, as if she’d finally found the place she really belonged.
Could she live here? Restore the house? Bring it back to life again? Was it possible?
The next evening, two minutes before going on stage, Belle received a note from Edward asking her to meet with him and another man straight after the show. Belle had spent so much time with Oliver she’d almost forgotten about Edward’s mention of the agent – or, if not forgotten, she’d certainly taken it with a pinch of salt and had put it to the back of her mind. However, here he was. A Mr Clayton Rivers, Australian, and an international theatrical agent. It was a pity she’d have to stand Oliver up, but it couldn’t be helped. She’d tried calling but there’d been no reply. They had agreed to meet at the Silver Grill for a nightcap and she’d been planning to tell him about her recent trip to the house. She knew he’d understand why she couldn’t keep their date but, at this late stage, there was now no way to let him know.
Despite a mixture of excitement and nerves the show went well and at half past eleven she adjusted her hair and make-up, put on her highest heels and headed past the few remaining drinkers to the bar where she could see Edward, looking relaxed and at ease in an open-necked shirt, sipping a whisky with another man. They both rose at the sight of her and, with a beaming smile, Edward introduced Belle to the theatrical agent, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a deep tan and white-blond cropped hair.
The Missing Sister Page 13