Sunrise on their final morning was fiery and, as the sun streamed across the water in a blinding shaft, Belle closed her eyes. When she opened them, it was to see the rippling water had been showered by sparkling silvery jewels. A little later, as they neared the city, dozens of golden pagodas situated proudly on the hills shone. How was it possible such magic and splendour could live alongside the brutality she’d heard about, and had witnessed too?
The bamboo huts lining the wharf were busy with people hoping to sell small trifles as they disembarked. Belle glanced across at the distant mountains on the other side of the river and wondered if that was where the baby who’d been on the boat had been taken.
Despite being besieged, they picked a path through the fishermen and vendors, then made their way quickly through the thronging streets by car. Soon Belle was settled in her hotel, one of only three frequented by British guests she’d been told. It was teak-built and her small room, smelling of lemon-scented polish, was comfortable with a window overlooking the Red River. Belle had a headache and so decided to stay at the hotel for the rest of the day.
Harry had told her he’d arranged for a meeting with the District Commissioner at ten the following morning, so after lunch, and with nothing else to do, she lay on top of her bed in her underwear and tried to sleep. But thoughts of the massacre infiltrated her daydreams, so she eventually gave up. Would she ever be free of what had happened? She watched a lizard creep up around the door opposite her bed. A brownish-green colour and small – an infant perhaps – it moved in short bursts as if it wasn’t sure where it was going. A bit like her. The sounds of the city had quietened in the heavy afternoon heat and she could have sworn she’d heard the tread of footsteps coming up the corridor then halting outside her room. Languid and sweltering but also annoyed at the thought of her rest being interrupted, she didn’t move to put on her clothes. In any case, she was sure she’d locked the door so whoever it was would just have to go away. She stared and waited, expecting a member of the hotel staff to speak. But instead of hearing a voice she was surprised to see the door handle turn infinitesimally slowly. Mesmerized, she watched it turn again.
‘Who is it?’ she finally called out, expecting a shy maid to reply. Hearing nothing and feeling irritated, she grabbed her robe and marched over to fling open the door. No one was immediately outside, but she glanced down the corridor and spotted Harry right at the end just about to turn a corner.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Were you looking for me?’
‘Sorry, I …’
‘Harry, did you want something?’
‘No. I … got mixed up. Sorry. My mistake.’ And with that he turned the corner and was gone.
She shook her head and went back inside her room. The heat really did do odd things to people.
Once her headache had cleared she opted to take a rickshaw to explore the town where the tree-lined streets were buzzing with life. Although she felt lonely and a little bit sad, mainly about Oliver, it was a lovely day and she wanted to make the most of it.
She passed a temple where a few nuns with shaved heads and wearing pink robes knelt to pray. The pagodas and golden Buddhas on what seemed like every street jostled for dominance among the gracious stone-built British mansions. The upstairs verandas of these mansions were supported by huge pillars and gave shade to the walkways that had been formed beneath them. Next came the silversmiths, squatting in little courtyards in front of their wooden homes, a fire in the corner and their fabric bags of tools laid out on small benches beside them. Belle glanced at the exquisitely intricate work on items ranging from enormous bowls intended for the temples to tiny silver elephants and dragons. When she arrived at the huge walls of the palace and its pavilions, now used by the British for administration and the throne room a club, she gasped at the extent of it. She glanced through an open gateway and saw the lucky colours of red and gold everywhere, with ornate carving on the buildings and latticework above the doors.
As she rounded a corner close to a Chinese temple she spotted the silk bazaar and went inside to look for fabric. For a moment she stood still, then went further into the depths of the bazaar, where tightly packed stalls were teeming with people. She felt fine at first, happy to be there and enjoying the atmosphere, but after a few moments the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. Something wasn’t right. Could someone be following her? Was that it? She glanced back now and then. Had the ghost of a young Burmese man really slipped back into the shadows each time she turned? At first she thought she must be imagining it, but gradually she cottoned on. For each time she turned she glimpsed the red of his longyi and his pale-green shirt. More annoyed than genuinely frightened by this tedious game of cat and mouse, she continued to finger the delicate silks while the pretty Burmese stallholders watched her. After all, what could the man do in this busy hall? But still he persisted in following her and whenever she stopped, he stopped. Enough was enough. She spun on her heels and there he was, bold as brass, staring openly. Perhaps he was after money? Planning to rob her in a quiet corner? She clutched her bag tight to her chest and carried on walking, wondering where the nearest exit was.
Then she froze in fear.
Two grinning men – malevolent, dark-skinned men, covered in black tattoos – were striding towards her. Was it a trap? She knew the Burmese believed tattoos provided immunity to bullets and knives. Were they looking for her? When she glanced at their narrowed eyes she felt hemmed in and scanned the area. Could they smell her fear? The boy was still behind her and they were in front. As she wondered what to do, she thought about offering them money, but when they came close and then passed by, they simply nodded and continued to smile. She put a palm to her chest to help calm herself and felt ashamed that merely because of their dark skin she had automatically seen them as dangerous. The boy had vanished too. Horrified she’d so quickly turned into the worst kind of Englishwoman, she admonished herself for being suspicious. She took a deep breath and headed in what she hoped was the direction of the exit, wondering if she’d imagined it all.
For a moment the background sounds of the bazaar appeared to have faded, growing increasingly quiet as if from far away. Calmer now, she felt oddly detached. It didn’t last. Suddenly the sound intensified, as if someone, in a successful effort to orchestrate the entire bazaar, had turned up the volume. The clashing, clawing sounds of this entire huge place rose and rose. She felt a surge of panic. Was she in danger of turning into her mother, too terrified to be outside? By the time the noise reached fever pitch, Belle felt she was going to be sick. The women’s voices became a shrieking, horribly foreign sound, and the men’s laughter wicked and alarming. The whole place vibrated with the clang and clatter of money changing hands and far too many voices. Her head began to spin. Now the previously polite stallholders harried her, and the swarming crowds pushed past, jostling and hurting her as she bumped into them. When she tried to get away she moved with nightmarish slowness. Every single memory of the massacre was coming back to her. All the images she’d tried to push to the back of her mind and that she’d believed were fading now seemed as real as they had been when they were happening. It was as if her eyes had filled with blood. The unnatural deafening sounds pounded in her head and crushed her chest. She could not take in air, and everyone was staring at her.
And although she felt faint she broke into a wild, panting run, not caring who she jarred or jolted. She had to get back to the hotel.
By the time Belle reached the hotel her panic attack had faded. Maybe the intense heat had brought back the massacre? She wasn’t sure. But calmer now, she approached the reception desk where the young man behind the counter was holding out an envelope.
‘Miss Hatton?’ he said, smiling politely. ‘It’s for you.’
Surprised, she frowned as she took it. Perhaps Harry had left it for her. Arrangements maybe?
The receptionist bowed before wishing her good day and then bent his head to study his appointments ledger.
Upstairs, Belle ripped open the envelope and exclaimed when she read the contents.
Think you are safe in Mandalay?
Her heart plummeted. It was almost identical to the anonymous note she’d received in Rangoon. She recalled the Eurasian man she’d seen leaving the girls’ corridor at the hotel, a few moments before she’d entered her room and Rebecca had handed her the first note. Could the same man have delivered it? But why was someone trying to frighten her?
She hurried back downstairs to ask who had left the note and found out it had been a tall Eurasian man, although the receptionist hadn’t asked his name. But yes, it might well be the same man. She felt sick with nerves as she climbed the stairs.
Flustered and ill at ease, she paced her room. She had no one here apart from Harry, and he wasn’t exactly a friend. She didn’t like Mandalay, not one bit. It became clear the best thing was to head back to Rangoon as soon as humanly possible. She would just meet with Ogilvy, the District Commissioner, as arranged by Harry, and then she’d go. So far, the story of the white baby on the boat had come to nothing. Why waste any more time here? In any case, her agreed time off would soon run out and if she wanted to keep her job she needed to get back. She had hoped finding Elvira might make up for what she’d felt had been missing in her life, but no one had seen what had happened. All she’d heard were wild suggestions. She sighed in defeat and made her way back downstairs to the hotel lobby.
As she leant against the reception desk and pressed the bell, hoping the clerk would be able to help her book a train ticket to Rangoon, Harry turned up at her side. She told him she was leaving the next day just as soon as she’d seen the Commissioner. She didn’t mention the anonymous note.
His face fell, and she was surprised by how disappointed he looked. ‘Oh, but I have specially arranged for us to go to a pwe tomorrow evening.’
‘A pwe?’
‘It’s a zat pwe, a variety show you might say, with dancing performed outdoors accompanied by percussive instrumental music. You’ll enjoy it, I promise.’
‘I don’t think –’
He interrupted her. ‘You should come. Really. There’s someone I want you to meet. He’s an Anglo-Indian jade dealer who knows of a white toddler who was said to have been abducted and smuggled through the Shan States to China.’
‘Did he say when?’
‘No. But I really think you need to talk to him yourself. He speaks perfect English. Come with me tomorrow night and I’ll assist you with trains the next day. What do you say?’
Belle hesitated. ‘Let me think about it, Harry.’
Back in her room she noticed one of the window shutters was slightly open and a shaft of light fell in a straight line across the polished wooden floor. She walked over and flung open the shutters, and the room flooded with sunshine. In the bathroom she spotted one of the taps in the washbasin dripping. Had someone been in her room? The cleaner maybe? Lost in thought, she looked at the tap, then palm uppermost, placed her hand beneath it and allowed the drips to fall and collect in a pool. After that she turned the tap on fully and filled the basin before bending over and letting her hair fall into the water.
Once she’d washed and towel dried her hair, she slipped on a freshly ironed dress. She’d had to change her clothes twice a day since coming here but at least the hotel had a good supply of hot water. She combed her hair, put on some lipstick, then paced her room, thinking about what Harry had said.
At the start of all this she had been seized by the idea of finding Elvira, but the drive had suddenly gone out of her. It had become too difficult. And yet … What if this last-ditch attempt were to throw up something vital and she hadn’t bothered to go? She ran her fingers through her hair, lifting it away from her scalp, so it might dry more quickly. She couldn’t decide whether to go back to Rangoon or stay and go to this pwe thing with Harry. She argued with herself and sighed in frustration as she weighed the pros and cons. But then it came to her: whatever she might tell herself otherwise, the truth was she really couldn’t stop looking. Probably never would. And if she did give up it would dog her for the rest of her life. Whatever had happened to her sister, she had to know.
At ten the next morning she knocked on the impressive carved door of the Commissioner’s office. A well-dressed young Burmese man opened the door, bowed, and then ushered her in, asking if she’d like tea. The room, painted white, was flooded with light. Ogilvy stood with his back to her and seemed to be staring out of the large window, lost in thought. When he turned and walked towards her she saw he was a short, broad-shouldered man, with a large nose and smiling grey eyes in a round, very red face. He shook her hand and then indicated she should sit on a hard-backed chair on the opposite side of the polished teak desk from his own, to which he now moved. Once comfortable, he lit a cigar and then cleared his throat.
‘So, Miss Hatton. My man has scoured our registry of births and deaths.’
‘And?’
‘Well, it isn’t good news, I’m afraid. Or maybe it is, depending how you look at it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He coughed before explaining there were no records of a white baby having died in Mandalay during January, February or March of 1911. ‘So, you see, if your sister made it to Mandalay, it’s highly likely she would have still been alive at the end of March.’
‘She was three weeks old when she was taken. Could she have been passed off as someone’s child here?’
‘If a British or should I say European couple tried to pass her off as their own in this region, they would have had to register a birth. We’re strict on that count, although, sad to say, it’s not impossible to make a false entry if you know the right doctor.’
‘And nobody registered a baby during that time frame?’
He sighed. ‘Oh, indeed they did. Three babies were born in January. All boys, I’m afraid.’
‘What about further out from this region? Maymo perhaps?’
He nodded. ‘We are a small community here in Mandalay and even smaller there, but my man checked the Maymo registry too. Nothing useful, I’m afraid.’
‘I was told you’d been here a long time and you would have heard if there’d been any gossip.’
‘Quite right. And from time to time one does hear sad stories of children going astray, never to be seen again. In the furthest outposts of Burma, it’s often a case of the child wandering off and getting lost. And, of course, there are wild animals aplenty.’
‘Oh God, you mean …’
He nodded again and rose from his chair. ‘I’m so sorry not to be more helpful.’
‘Do you remember the time when my sister was taken?’ Belle held her breath as she stood too and waited for his reply.
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Oh yes. Apart from anything else, it was in all the papers. We were all on red alert up here, on the lookout, you see.’
‘Did anyone see anything?’
He smiled regretfully. ‘Plenty of sightings. All led nowhere. Some of the women had nothing better to do in those days. A bit of drama brightened up their lives and nothing excites a woman as much as a lost baby.’
Belle held out her hand and thanked him but left feeling she’d reached the end of the line.
On their way to the pwe that evening, Harry and Belle passed small fires burning at the sides of the road with smiling people knotted around them and vendors selling coconut pancakes and fried rice cakes. Further on, at an outdoor area where a temporary roofed pavilion had been built from bamboo, Harry led Belle to a quieter spot at the back. The pavilion was about thirty feet long and twenty feet wide with an orchestra at the front and a large space in the middle lit by braziers set up around the stage. The noisy audience, seated in family groups on the ground where they had spread blankets, seemed in exuberant mood as the musicians assembled.
At a signal from one of the drummers some of the dancers began a prayer to Buddha.
‘It’s the most popular of Burmese performanc
es,’ Harry whispered in her ear in a moment of hush before the dances began and, as he did, she could smell the whisky on him.
She deliberated. Something about Harry was off and she couldn’t work out what it was. He seemed nervous, jittery even.
‘Are you all right?’ she finally asked.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You seem troubled.’
He ran a finger inside his collar. ‘It’s just the heat.’
‘I would have thought you’d be used to it by now.’
He didn’t reply.
‘So how long have you been a surveyor? That is what this trip is about?’
‘Yes. I’m hoping to reach Nagaland, as I told you previously.’ He spoke rather irritably, as if annoyed she’d forgotten.
‘Tell me again,’ she said.
‘Well, the Naga are ferocious headhunters. That’s what everybody always asks about.’
‘And that doesn’t worry you?’
He shook his head. ‘They won’t be interested in me. And, in answer to your question, I’ve been doing this job for twenty years. I’ll only be there to survey the land.’
‘And you live here all year round?’
‘In Rangoon with Angela.’
‘Angela?’
‘My wife, of course.’
Belle had assumed he was a bachelor and was surprised. ‘You never mentioned you were married.’
He frowned. ‘I didn’t know I had to.’
‘What I mean is, I thought you might have said something before. Do you have children?’
He shook his head. ‘We haven’t been blessed.’
‘Does she mind about your long absences?’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘What a lot of questions.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Well, the truth, if you must know, is that Angela would like to go back to England.’
‘And you?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s rather a question of raising the cash.’
And then, with a loud clashing sound, the star of the show leapt on to the stage, dressed in a glittering colourful costume like one of the princes of old. He danced for ages like a frenzied gymnast, performing extraordinarily complex moves, accompanied by drums, gongs and oboes.
The Missing Sister Page 20