The Missing Sister

by Dinah Jefferies

  I tell her it’s fine and, while she is gone, I think of home. After I said goodnight to Annabelle last night, I saw Douglas. He was softer than when I left this morning. He came to my room and we held each other for what seemed like a long time. I didn’t want him to see my tears so pulled away and with my back to him dried my eyes. He saw through my little charade, of course, and knew I was crying. And when I looked at him I saw his eyes were sad too and his hands were shaking.

  I inhale slowly. In and out.

  I am here now and feel sure I will come to know every nook and cranny of my new home as well as every blade of grass in the garden too. The thought of it is strangely comforting. Maybe one day I will know the village as well. The world outside my window feels suddenly less flimsy, and my connection to it less fragile. Simone was right: there is something special about this place, but it has come at such a price and, more than anything, I wish Annabelle could have come too.

  36.

  Belle’s first meeting with Walter Guttridge, the archaeologist, was memorable. She had not expected him to be, well, so large – over six foot six – and well into his seventies too, with long straggly hair and a dark tan that served to exaggerate the deeply etched lines around his eyes. Judging by the look of him, he was still spry, but he had a strange habit of pulling his left ear when he was speaking.

  ‘I was sent here in 1905 from the British Museum,’ he said in a loud and strident voice after Harry had introduced them and he had agreed to take Belle out with him for the morning.

  ‘Quite a culture shock, I imagine.’

  He nodded his agreement. ‘The government had recently decided to maintain and preserve Bagan. For more than thirty years I’ve been surveying the area, making recommendations, overseeing renovations and so on.’

  They were walking and talking as he led her along sandy tracks towards the village, bypassing tall clumps of bamboo and wild banana and the secrets of the dense forest beyond. Harry had cried off with some excuse of work he urgently needed to do, and so Belle was on her own with this bear of a man who seemed so incongruous among the tiny Burmese and yet whom they all seemed to respect. He spoke to them in their own language and nodded and laughed as they replied.

  Belle glanced up at him. ‘You know everyone?’

  ‘As I said, I’ve been here a long time.’

  ‘Would you ever go home?’

  ‘This is home.’

  ‘Even when you retire?’

  ‘I don’t intend to ever retire. I shall continue to live and work and then I shall drop. Here.’

  ‘The purser on the boat said you might be able to recall the story of a white baby being accompanied by a Burmese couple on their way to Mandalay.’

  ‘I recall it all right. Back in 1912, wasn’t it?’

  ‘1911, actually.’

  ‘Very curious it was … at the time.’

  ‘And you saw the baby yourself?’

  ‘Ah, no. That would have been my assistant.’

  ‘He’s here?’

  ‘He will be. He’s on his way down from Mandalay. Has family there.’

  ‘I hope he’ll be back before I have to leave.’

  As they arrived she looked around at the village. At first glance, it appeared to consist entirely of wooden-framed houses, the walls constructed of intricately woven bamboo.

  ‘Are they bamboo? The walls?’

  ‘Toddy palm, actually. They cover the windows with bamboo matting.’

  The first house, nestling amid the trees, built on stilts and with a thatched roof, looked cosy. In front and to the side of it, in an enclosed compound, a woman swept the earth, a child played with a ball, and several scrawny chickens pecked about in the dust. At the back two mottled goats were tethered to a spike and a dog lay slumbering in the shade.

  ‘What do the people do?’ she asked.

  ‘Cultivation, fishing. They make farm implements and nets, ropes, sails. And some make lacquerware to sell to the pilgrims who come.’

  She had worked out Guttridge was deaf in the left ear, the one he continually pulled as if to encourage it to function again, and so she made a point of always walking on his right-hand side. They passed three barefoot monks in saffron-coloured robes with two very young ones following behind carrying bowls. Belle asked him about them.

  ‘Between the ages of seven and thirteen, the boys live together in the monasteries for differing amounts of time. Those who stay form strong bonds, become a family of sorts.’

  ‘Do all the boys have to do this?’

  ‘All Buddhist Burmese boys become novice monks for at least a few weeks, some for several months, some even for years, especially if they have no family.’

  ‘Can they leave?’

  ‘Of course. They can return to normal life at any time or they can stay on as a monk.’

  ‘And the bowls are to collect food?’

  ‘Yes. They can only eat what they are given. Sometimes it’s just rice. They believe life always includes an element of suffering and the cause of suffering is desire. To end the suffering, you give up desire and attachment. Hence their simple lifestyle.’

  Belle wondered about it. Certainly, her desire for Oliver had ended in suffering but, despite that, wasn’t life all about light and shade? And she couldn’t help thinking she’d prefer facing the challenges of such a life, with all its ups and downs, rather than existing in a lacklustre one. But then again, she was young, and knew she had a lot to learn.

  She paused to watch a beautifully dressed woman wearing a longyi with a traditional shawl, her neck and wrists encircled by gold chains. Squatting on the compacted earth, she was grinding the wood she would then mix with water to make thanaka paste. Shyly, she held some out and with a few nods encouraged Belle to take it. Belle smoothed some on her hand, but it dried rapidly in the oppressive heat and began to itch.

  At a small crossroads an Indian man was waiting with a horse roped to a carriage, or rather something that looked more like a cart with open sides and a straw roof, clearly intended to serve as a carriage.

  ‘We are going in that?’

  Guttridge nodded. ‘Best way. You’re welcome to walk but it’ll get hellishly hot.’

  As they reached the odd-looking vehicle he helped Belle up the one step at the back and then folded himself into the cart too.

  ‘So, what are you doing today?’

  ‘Checking up on a stupa over on the far side.’

  ‘Stupa?’

  ‘A stupa, sometimes called a pagoda, is the top of a huge structure, often with a relic chamber inside. During the Pagan kingdom’s height between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries, there were over ten thousand Buddhist temples, pagodas and monasteries built in these plains alone. It was Pagan then, not Bagan.’

  ‘How many are left?’

  ‘Less than three thousand. You’ll be able to spot the ones we’ve restored in recent years, mainly using Indian labour which hasn’t always gone down well.’ He shook his head. ‘Some are sadly too far gone. You’ll see them cracked and ruined, lost beneath the greenery strangling them. Mind you, the earthquakes haven’t helped. It’s a wonder so many have survived.’

  ‘And the people live among them?’

  ‘The way they have always done, although there’s talk of moving them out.’

  ‘What a shame. I like the idea that ordinary life is going on around the monuments.’

  The carriage set off on its bumpy path, bypassing the occasional cow or sheep. With no springs to soften the ride, Belle was jolted, jerked and bumped as Guttridge’s booming voice fought with the loud screech of metallic wheels. She spotted stupa after stupa, usually in the reddish colour of the earth upon which they stood, looking as if they were acts of nature and not edifices built by man.

  ‘And what are all the trees?’

  ‘Tamarind, plum, neem mainly,’ he said. ‘But to really understand the layout a hot air balloon is the only way to see it all. Are you game? I’m going up tomorrow. You have time.
My assistant won’t be back until later.’

  Belle glanced up at the sky. Was she game?

  ‘Constructed in England to the highest standards and brought over some years ago. Completely transformed what we do. I’ve trained the local lads as helpers, so it’s perfectly safe.’

  After a moment she nodded and began to feel excited. What did she have to lose?

  ‘You’ll have to be in the field by five in the morning. We always go up before dawn. Mark my words, seeing the sun rise over the plain is an experience you’ll never forget.’

  At the sound of persistent knocking Belle woke in complete darkness, her head still throbbing from the hours she’d spent in the cart during the unforgiving heat of the previous day. She fumbled for a light switch, glanced at her watch and saw she only had five minutes before she was due to meet Walter Guttridge in the hall downstairs. She climbed into a pair of loose-fitting trousers, threw on a long-sleeved white shirt and then, as an afterthought, added a woollen cardigan. It might be cold up there this early in the day.

  Guttridge was waiting for her as she arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked in a brisk tone of voice that brooked no dissent.

  She nodded, wishing she’d had time for a cup of tea and slightly regretting she’d agreed to do this.

  The driver of the bullock used a torch with just a suggestion of light to faintly reveal the track, though what he could see was a mystery to Belle. However, he succeeded in driving them to a place where her eye was instantly drawn to a brightly burning brazier. In the eerie silence, but for the sound of the fire, it took a while for her eyes to adjust to the gloomy field. Gradually she made out the shape of a huge balloon lying flat on the ground and saw dark figures were moving about noiselessly as they prepared the balloon for flight. She shivered, and by the time the gas was lit and had begun to roar, and the balloon had been raised from the ground, something was buzzing and thumping in her ears. The basket seemed so small and insignificant. Surely it couldn’t be safe?

  ‘Come on then,’ Guttridge said. ‘Time to climb in. I will be noting any changes I spot since I last went up, so I’m afraid I’ll not be talkative.’

  He went first, along with one other man. As she waited her turn she admonished herself. Embrace the experience, she whispered. You may never get another chance. She used the moment to settle herself before a helper stepped forward with a stool which she used to climb into the basket in a less than graceful fashion, feeling glad she’d worn trousers. From there she could now see five other men holding the balloon steady by pulling on long ropes.

  Guttridge explained the rules. Then the basket bumped a little and began to rise, and she felt a thrill.

  Before long they were high above Bagan, drifting in the cool, silent air. At first, when she saw the land wreathed in mist, she felt disappointed. But then the mist melted and as the sun gradually rose, it tinted the tops of the pagodas and stupas in shimmering shades of pink and gold. Her spirits soared as she witnessed the full magnitude of the ancient plain. The further the balloon floated on, the more she saw: smoke circling up from a lone farm, tidy regulated patchworks of fields, bullocks already ploughing, birds swooping, and the silence broken only by the ringing of temple bells or the bark of a dog. She hadn’t expected the timeless tranquillity of floating in the air above the extraordinary expanse of so many ancient monuments. In the distance the sun streamed across the water of the Irrawaddy, turning it silvery-gold. She wasn’t religious but there was something about this she could only call mystical. Full of the sense there was so much more to life than she’d ever known, her eyes dampened. She felt light, transformed, as if she too belonged suspended high up, sharing the air with birds and the gentle wind. That the world could contain such extraordinary beauty and yet such violence seemed incomprehensible, but she knew she would somehow have to find a way to understand and accept these extremes.

  She felt she could have stayed up there for days but by the time Guttridge had finished jotting his findings in his notebook the ride was almost over.

  Their descent was slow and the landing bumpy as they came back down to earth, the basket thumping several times as it bounced along the ground. Apart from that slight discomfort Belle had spent the time smiling with satisfaction. She would live her life differently now. She would stop dwelling on what had happened in Rangoon. She would see with new eyes and stop worrying about what she couldn’t change. Never had she expected to ride in a hot air balloon in one of the world’s most extraordinary and beautiful settings. But she had.

  37.

  Diana, Minster Lovell, 1922

  Today I’m to see Dr Gilbert Stokes for the first time. I know little about him save that he was a doctor at Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford for some years and afterwards he worked at the Radcliffe Asylum. When Simone told me I must have paled because it worried me terribly but, she assures me, he’s now semi-retired and only maintains an interest in patients with special problems. Apparently, he’s very forward thinking in his ways, has studied the work of Sigmund Freud, and I understand he believes in treating certain illnesses through discussion. I’m not sure what I think about that and, to be honest, have yet to be convinced, because really, how can talking help?

  One good thing. I am in love with my cottage with its drystone wall marking the boundary, tall oak trees on either side, and its split limestone tiled roof. I’m also pleased some of the smaller and, I have to say, nicer pieces of furniture have arrived from our Cheltenham house: my mother’s cream dressing table, a tiny chest of drawers which used to be in the nursery, my favourite Tiffany lampshade, a small semi-circular hall table and my mother’s old desk with its little secret drawer.

  I currently employ a gardener to cut the grass and undertake the weeding but ache for a time when I’ll feel well enough to go outside and take care of planting and pruning myself. I don’t know the village yet, but Simone says if you walk through the churchyard and come upon the ruins of Minster Hall and then go beyond them, you arrive at the glorious riverbank.

  The sudden murmur of voices reaches me from outside, though I can’t see Simone or the doctor. They must be standing in the porch just out of sight and so I wait until they enter the house. When they come into my sitting room, I’m surprised by what I see. Gilbert Stokes is not what I expected. I think of psychiatric doctors as being thin and weaselly, always trying to trip you up with their clever ways, but he is a round, avuncular man with kind blue eyes and a shock of astonishingly white hair.

  He holds out a hand to me. I shake it and can’t help smiling. He claps a second hand over mine and squeezes gently.

  ‘Mrs Hatton. It’s an absolute pleasure.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘It’s actually Miss Riley now, but please do call me Diana.’

  ‘Apologies. My mistake.’

  Simone starts to back out of the room. ‘I’ll make tea,’ she says with a smile.

  I nod. We’ve already arranged this beforehand. It’s a small contrivance to give me a chance to assess the doctor on my own and, I think with a wry smile, for him to assess me.

  ‘Shall we sit?’ I say and indicate the chair by the window.

  I sit opposite it, so I can see the view of the front garden. He turns his chair to face me.

  ‘I want to be sure you understand this process may be relatively slow, but that you are free to change your mind about it at any time.’

  I nod. ‘We just talk. Am I right?’

  His eyes twinkle and he gives me a genuinely warm smile. ‘Indeed.’

  As I said earlier, I can’t see how talking will really help but I nod and then, hearing the kettle whistle, I turn my head towards the door, wondering if it would be rude to go and help Simone.

  As if he senses what is in my mind he says, ‘Do lend your friend a hand if you’d like,’ and I’m impressed.

  Maybe behind his jovial exterior there lies a sharply perceptive mind, but if he is kind I can accept that. And I think by giving me permissio
n to leave, I no longer feel the need to go, so instead of absconding to the kitchen, I stay where I am. As we talk a little longer about the village and he tells me about his house down near the church, I find myself relaxing. There is something so gently reassuring in his presence I’m a little disappointed when Simone returns with a tray and I no longer have him to myself.

  After the tea pouring, the tea drinking and the biscuit eating is done, he wipes his mouth with his napkin, then rises from his chair. ‘So, if you are happy to become my patient, Diana, we can make a start next week and maybe aim for two sessions, one on Monday and one on Friday. Both at ten. How does that sound?’

  I get to my feet too. ‘Thank you, Doctor Stokes. I’d like that.’ And, as I show him out and then stand in the porch not at all worried at very nearly being outside in the garden, I am surprised by how genuinely I mean it.

  38.

  Just before five as the day began to cool down and with an hour to spare before meeting Guttridge’s assistant, Belle, feeling the need to distract herself, decided to leave the rest house and set off to wander on her own. With her boat’s departure not due until eight, she had plenty of time, so she gulped down a glass of water and slipped some mints into her pocket.

  A gentle breeze helped lessen the heat and, as she kept to the long shadows of the taller, bushier trees, she was able to keep relatively cool. She followed the dusty yellow track, listening to the crunch of her own footsteps and choosing to turn right at each junction, so that on her return she could retrace her steps by turning left. She almost stepped on a long-horned beetle with pom-poms on its antennae and stood for a while to watch its progress. She passed the same houses as before, only now the compounds were busier with entire families sitting out in the shade with the smell of fish sauce and onions frying on outdoor charcoal burners. Sunlight flickering through the trees threw shifting patterns on the dry ground and everyone seemed so charming and friendly as Belle waved hello and then continued to walk further and further from the centre of the village.