The Missing Sister

by Dinah Jefferies

  As a friendly dog followed at her heels, she listened to the birds chirruping and thought about Elvira. What would her childhood have been like had she grown up with a sister? Would they have shared secrets and protected each other in the way sisters did? Or would they have been rivals engaged in endless squabbles, seeking attention and never getting on? She imagined Elvira walking beside her now, their arms wrapped around each other as they pointed out this plant or that and laughed too loudly about some silly thing or someone they both found hilarious. And what about discussing boys in a giggling hush after their parents had gone to bed? Their parents. It was not without a lump in her throat that she wondered who her mother might have been …

  She walked on deep in thought without really noticing where she was, until she looked around and saw she’d left the last of the houses behind and had arrived in some open scrubland. Wanting to get out of the still baking hot sun, she set out for a wooded area around one of the stupas and then, resting on the grass and sucking a mint, she gazed lazily at the low late-afternoon light with only a hint of pink on the horizon.

  She checked her watch. Just a little longer. The gentle sound of temple bells drifted on the wind and leafy scents floating from the trees combined with the perfume of the sweet white flowers growing so profusely. She closed her eyes and relaxed against the sun-warmed trunk of a tree. She’d been coasting like this for some time, listening to the tap tap tap of something like a woodpecker in the trees when, wrenched from her reverie, she was startled by a deep moan. Her eyes flew open and she quickly rose to her feet. She brushed herself down, ready to make off, not knowing if she would still get back in time and berating herself for her stupidity. But the moans came again, only this time sounding even more agonized. Someone was in dreadful pain and so, despite a strong misgiving and hoping she wasn’t being led into a trap, Belle decided to investigate. Acutely aware of her status as a woman and a foreigner, in a country she barely understood, she hadn’t a clue what bizarre practices might be going on. Not to mention the deadly snakes and insects hiding in the undergrowth. Gingerly, she walked around the entire circumference of the stupa, keeping an eye out for trouble, and almost stumbled over the pregnant woman from the boat, now lying on her side with her legs drawn up.

  Belle dropped to her knees and knelt beside the woman. ‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘I can go for help.’

  The woman reached out a shaking hand. ‘Please, no. Do not go. I am scared.’

  ‘But why are you here alone?’

  The woman gasped in pain before she was able to speak again. ‘I wanted to bring the baby on. It is overdue. But I have to give birth on the boat or my husband will be angry.’

  Belle frowned. Was this another of the outlandish superstitions she’d heard about? ‘Why does it matter?’ she asked.

  ‘It is great good fortune to be born on a riverboat on the Irrawaddy. I have been up the river once already.’

  ‘Where’s your husband?’

  ‘He is working at the Secretariat in Rangoon but could not get time off for a second journey.’

  ‘So, you came alone?’

  The woman let out an agonized wail.

  Belle got to her feet. ‘I really must get help. I know nothing about childbirth.’ She didn’t mention how the idea of it made her squeamish.

  The woman pointed to a bag. ‘I have brought turmeric to anoint the baby’s body. It is to drive out evil spirits and we must find the astrologer too. There is one on our boat. I made sure before we left.’

  ‘Do you think you can make it as far as the boat?’

  The woman reached out a hand and Belle helped her up, but the poor soul immediately doubled over, clutching her belly and whimpering. Belle managed to help the woman to sit in the shade of a tree, but it was clear she wouldn’t be going back to the boat any time soon.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Belle asked, squatting down beside her and continuing to hold her hand.

  ‘Hayma. It means forest. I was born in a forest.’

  ‘You are not from Rangoon?’

  ‘No, but I was born in a small hamlet not far from the town.’ She doubled over again, her face twisted, and Belle could see the woman was forcing herself to stifle a scream.

  Belle’s chest constricted in fear. ‘I have to get help,’ she said again, glancing at her watch, knowing she’d now missed her appointment, but also feeling terribly anxious for Hayma.

  ‘Please, I beg you, do not leave me on my own.’

  Belle acquiesced and for twenty minutes or so the woman remained relatively calm. She seemed more composed now Belle was keeping her company. But soon the contractions began again. Belle glanced around, hoping to seek out anyone who might take over the vigil. At first the place was deserted, but after half an hour she spotted a woman carrying a baby on her back while solemnly treading the path back towards the village. Belle beckoned the woman over and between contractions Hayma was able to speak to her. After a moment the woman spun on her heels and hurried away.

  ‘She gets help,’ Hayma said.

  But the woman didn’t return immediately and, as Belle tried to soothe Hayma, she felt it couldn’t be long before the child would be born. She wracked her brain. What did one do with a newborn baby? She scratched her head, wishing there was somebody to consult, and then, at last, the woman who’d been carrying the baby returned with what looked like a large bundle of cloths and a jug of water. With a huge sigh of relief, Belle rose to her feet.

  Before the baby arrived, the sun had begun to sink in the east, the sky had turned vermillion and then in a flash had transformed into a blanket of velvety indigo, dusted with the light of millions of tiny stars. Belle felt magic stirring in the woods and beneath the surface of their everyday world life seemed visceral and deep. Alive with anticipation, Belle held her breath. And then it happened. The strong night-time scents and the sound of cicadas singing fiercely as the baby girl was finally born brought a flood of joy. She watched a shooting star and heard the fruit bats babbling in the trees as if to welcome the child, and Belle knew she would never forget this moment. She stayed with Hayma, holding her hand, and made a little prayer until the baby let out her first indignant shriek. Good girl, Belle thought. Make your voice heard.

  Then she reluctantly took her leave, but she left knowing life had given her this extraordinary opportunity to redress the balance. Yes, she had witnessed death, terrible violent death, death that would stay with her for the rest of her life, but she had watched the birth of a new life too and, above all, that was what she would hold on to.

  After heading off down several wrong turnings, and with her hands protecting her head from bats flying close above and hoping to avoid any underground snakes coming out for food, she focused on the one track she could remember and eventually traced her way back to the rest house. It was now half past eight and she wasn’t even sure if the boat had waited for her.

  She soon found out, for the first person she came across was Harry Osborne. The livid expression on his face as he paced the entrance hall muttering belligerently to himself told her everything she needed to know. As soon as he saw her he stood still and glared.

  ‘What the hell time do you call this?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, trying to compose herself but still feeling overawed at witnessing her first birth. ‘It really wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘You women are all the same. I wish I’d never taken this job on.’ He bit his lip and looked as if he’d somehow said the wrong thing and then pushed his spectacles further up his nose in a nervous manner.

  She could smell the whisky on him and frowned. ‘Job?’

  He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘I mean … um … I meant allowing you to accompany me. In any case, we’ve missed the sodding departure.’

  ‘I really am sorry. I had to help a pregnant woman. It was …’ But she couldn’t find any words that could begin to convey how amazing it had been to be present at the arrival of a new life. And how, for a few minutes at
least, it had been as if there could only ever be good in the world.

  He raised his brows as if in total disbelief but didn’t make a comment.

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ she asked.

  He sighed. ‘I’ve managed to get us two cabins for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’

  He gave her a wry look. ‘You haven’t seen the boat yet. Doubt you’ll be calling it wonderful. Thank goodness we’ll still arrive in Mandalay in time for your meeting with Alistair Ogilvy, the District Commissioner. My name would have been mud if you’d missed that. If anyone knows anything, he will. Anyway, Guttridge’s assistant is in the lounge waiting for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Although thirsty and longing to get out of her dusty clothes and sink into a bath, she made for the lounge. From the open door she could see the man inside had been sitting very upright on one of two sofas, but he rose as she entered the room and she saw he was tiny, with large ears and wiry grey hair.

  As he made a little bow she smiled.

  ‘I am Nyan,’ he said. ‘Please sit. You have questions for me?’

  ‘Yes. I’m so sorry to keep you.’

  ‘Keep?’

  ‘To make you wait.’

  He gave her the sweetest of smiles. ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘It was an awfully long time ago. 1911, in fact, but Mr Guttridge said you’d know about it.’

  ‘He did explain and, yes, I do indeed remember. I was purser on the same boat to Mandalay and it was I who took the matter up with the captain.’

  ‘So, what actually happened?’

  ‘Not much. I can tell you the baby was small and looked European but the couple accompanying the child were from Thailand and not young. Even though I expressed my concerns, the captain didn’t want any fuss and refused to become involved. He was a sluggish Scot due for retirement if I remember.’ He paused, looking embarrassed. ‘Do excuse me. I have the greatest respect for the many dedicated Scottish captains our river has seen over the years. He simply wasn’t one of them.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I questioned the couple, who claimed the baby was their grandchild. I had my doubts but became more suspicious when I asked them to repeat their story a little later the same day. This time they said they were taking the child upriver to be with its grandparents who were British. They said they had not fully understood my question the first time, but I feared misconduct and resolved to inform the authorities as soon as we laid anchor, with or without the captain’s approval.’

  ‘And did you?’

  He nodded. ‘I watched the couple disembark but by the time I reached the local police it was too late. I had no power to detain them myself and the captain washed his hands of the entire business.’

  ‘And did the police follow through?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes. Initially a thorough search of the surrounding area was made but the couple had vanished. No one admitted to having seen them. But I knew about a baby’s disappearance from the garden in Rangoon and feared the child had been kidnapped. It was in all the newspapers, you see, and so I still had hopes the police might be persuaded to extend their search.’

  ‘But they didn’t?’ she said, feeling the disappointment.

  ‘No. I am afraid they did not.’

  ‘Do you know if the baby was a girl?’

  ‘It was.’

  39.

  Diana, Minster Lovell, 1922

  We were never country folk. I say this because I’m adjusting so well to living in the countryside and it has surprised me. My mother’s people had once been farmers so there might be something in my blood.

  It hasn’t been long, but Minster Lovell is perfect for me. I do miss Annabelle very much; and I feel a yearning for Douglas too, if I’m honest, but not so much I feel deeply unhappy. The missing is offset by the fact I can do as I please without any fear of upsetting anyone. I have Simone and Mrs Jones, who is a good soul, and of course I have Dr Gilbert Stokes, who is coming for our session in a moment.

  Although I haven’t yet sat down on a bench in the garden, I like to leave the front door open and stand in the porch. If anyone passes I do feel slightly panicky but I have learnt to wave and set my face into a smile. Today, you can smell the rain in the air, even though the sun is shining – so soothing this fresh air, so worth living for. The rain will be good for the lawn as we’ve had a long dry spell. As the scents of mown grass and the glorious early summer flowers drift over, I wait for the doctor.

  His body is at an angle and his head is bent against the rise of the hill when I spot his shock of white hair. But at the top he lifts his face, sees me and waves. I return the gesture. I won’t say I’m not nervous, but he is a kind man and I’m feeling hopeful.

  Once we have shaken hands we make ourselves comfortable in my little sitting room where Mrs Jones has left a tray of tea and biscuits. She’s off to market now, so we shall not be disturbed.

  I can’t articulate how deeply reassuring it is when he states I must let him know if any of his questions make me feel awkward. I had been worried about that.

  So, for a while, we talk about my childhood. I’m not clear what he wants me to say, but he tells me there’s no right or wrong and it’s purely a question of starting somewhere. After he suggests I tell him what my father was like, I inhale sharply and then let out my breath slowly to give myself time to think. I think about how my father used to encourage me to ‘be myself’.

  The problem has always been I’ve never known how to do that. I express the thought and when the doctor gives me a gentle, encouraging smile, I notice the light in his blue eyes. ‘Does it worry you, the not knowing?’ he asks.

  I chew the inside of my cheek, uncertain how much it is safe to say, but then I remember this man has no interest in sending me to the Grange or anywhere like it. I draw courage from that and tell him it makes me feel sad.

  ‘And lonely maybe?’ he adds.

  I am uneasy, a lump growing in my throat, so stare at my feet and can’t manage a reply. He tells me many people only begin to understand who they are near the end of their lives, or more realistically, who they have been or might have been all along.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. For so long I’ve been made to feel I am beyond redemption, that whatever is wrong with me cannot be healed. This doctor gives me a little hope and I reward him with a generous smile.

  I tell him I thought we’d be talking about what happened in Burma but when he asks me if I want to talk about that, I shake my head.

  40.

  Harry was right about the boat, Belle thought as dawn approached. She silently surveyed the scene, but even before she’d managed to make her way up the muddy gangplank, she’d seen how crowded it was. Families were huddled together, wrapped in shawls and longyis and still asleep on the deck, though most of the women were already plaiting their hair and applying thanaka to their cheeks. While their mothers began to prepare their breakfast, some of the children awoke, blinking rapidly and wiping the sleep from their eyes, their thick, straight, chocolate-brown hair sticking up from their heads in disarray.

  A group of monks stood together and Belle wondered if they were praying. She watched the sun rise, the sky deep blue at the top with wispy stripes of white cloud and the sun incredibly yellow. A royal-blue bird, perching on the rails, seemed to be watching too before flying off. Some of the men were stretching their legs and smoking. If not that, they stood gazing at the grey riverbank without speaking in those precious few moments before you gather yourself to face the day, when you’re still partly in the land of sleep, of dreams and of forgetting.

  Others still sat on the deck with dazed-looking faces, leaning against the sacks of produce making up part of the cargo. A fine layer of dust had settled over the deck. There were no miniature palm trees in tubs and therefore no shade either and there were very few rattan chairs from which to watch the world drift by. At least I have a cabin, Belle thought, though it might have been fun to
sleep under the stars, if a little uncomfortable.

  She and Harry were shown the way to their cabins and Belle fell back to sleep as soon as she lay on her bed. It was still early but, stirred up from the emotion of the birth, she’d slept badly the night before.

  The journey to Mandalay passed quickly and, though not as peaceful as the earlier part of the river trip had been, it was more fun. As the sun streamed across the deck, Belle found herself constantly absorbed by the daily lives of her fellow passengers playing out in full view. They were mostly a happy, chattering bunch who seemed to take life as it came without complaint, although, of course, Belle was unable to understand anything Harry had not already translated.

  While they stood leaning against the rails and looking down at the river, Harry also explained a little of the history of Mandalay. He told her whenever a new king took the throne all potential rivals had to be murdered to prevent the threat of anyone else seizing power. When Thibaw, the last king, had been crowned, at least eighty members of his family, including young children, were dispatched in the most horrific manner.

  ‘Story goes,’ Harry said, glancing across at her, ‘they were tied up in bags, then beaten to death while an orchestra played to mask the sound of screaming. Afterwards their corpses were trampled by elephants.’

  ‘Dear God,’ she said, aghast at the thought. ‘How utterly barbaric!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yet the Burmese seem to be such gentle people.’

  Harry raised his brows. ‘Not only that but when the royal palace and enclosure was originally being built, many people were abducted and then buried alive beneath its walls to protect the city from evil spirits.’

  Horrified by this, she couldn’t help a feeling of foreboding descending on her. What might be about to happen in Mandalay?