Return to Mandalay (41 page)

It was dusk and nothing more could be achieved today. He should eat, try to relax, leave his decision till the morning. But …
A man of honour
. Did a man of honour leave the woman he loved and let himself be seduced by another, a woman who trusted him, whom he thought of more like a sister, for God’s sake? Did a man of honour then marry that woman, a woman he did not love?

‘
When you are home
,’ Helen had written. ‘
Then our life together will truly begin
.’

Truly
. Truly, it filled him with dread. She had not said how she felt about her father dying, she did not really say what
she felt about him. But she had waited for six long years. He owed her.

Even so, today, like every other day, Lawrence walked the streets and looked for Maya. Every day more refugees were returning. And what would he do if she came? He could not answer that question.

The second letter was from his mother.

‘How I have survived this terrible war, I shall never know,’ she wrote. And Lawrence had to smile, for he could hear her voice saying it. ‘But I have and now you must come home.’

Lawrence sighed. Typical black and white. Typical Mother.

‘We need you. The company needs you to rescue it.’

She seemed to have considerable expectations of his skills. How would he rescue the family firm? Lawrence knew nothing about stock broking. He had never cared to know.

And then came the emotional twist she’d always been so good at. ‘You owe it to your father to do this. He and Helen’s father spent their whole lives working for the company’s success.’

Which was true. But did that mean the son had to follow the father? What about the son’s pathway? The son’s destiny? Could he not choose his own?

‘I need you,’ she wrote. ‘I need to see my son again, to see with my own eyes that he is alive and well, before I can believe it.’ On the other hand, how could Lawrence deny her that? It had been seven years.

‘And Helen needs you too. You made a commitment to that girl, Lawrence. I know it. Her father is dead now and you
must take his place and look after her. It’s the right thing to do. If you do not return, her heart will be broken.’

Because of course, his mother knew. Lawrence had never been able to hide anything from her. She had known about Maya, or at least that there was someone, on his last leave before the war. She knew her son. She always had, and that was why she had first let him go.

Days went by and Maya did not come. He delayed his return. Weeks passed and still he stayed. He asked after her and her father; no one knew where they were or what had happened to them. So many had got to India and might never return. So many had died in the trying.

He went to the house in Maymyo. It was a depressing visit. The house was still there, but shut up. Perhaps it had been requisitioned during the war, perhaps others had lived there, Lawrence had no idea and no one seemed able or willing to help him. Or perhaps there was no information to pass on. Much of the town had disappeared though, destroyed by bombs, and only a skeleton community remained. How long would it take them to recover, Lawrence wondered. To restore even half of the town’s lush beauty and architectural grandeur? Nature would recover in time, but most of those buildings were lost and now would be lost forever.

He stayed for three days at Pine Rise, his old place of refuge, which had also survived the bombings, bar some damage to one side of the house and shattered windows and doors. And he remembered that last time he’d been there in March 1942, just before he was called up for action. He remembered a perfect
day with Maya when she had given him the gift of the little chinthe, he remembered the photograph that one of the lads had taken. He remembered that last evening in the club, it was crowded because you could still get whisky there, when you couldn’t in the shops. It was rationed though, they filled a glass barrel early every evening to limit the supply. Otherwise you’d hardly know there was a war on: there was still dancing at the club and even strawberries and cream for tea. And he remembered saying goodbye to the woman he loved.

But now he could stay no longer. If Maya were still alive and still in Burma, she would have come to Maymyo if not to Mandalay as they had agreed. He had to face it. He had lost her. And perhaps it was for the best.

Lawrence booked his passage. Another three weeks passed and still she had not returned to Mandalay. He tucked the little chinthe in his travelling bag. He’d keep a part of her though. He’d always keep a part of her.

He wrote to his mother and he wrote to Helen. He had no choice.

‘I’m coming home.’

They had lunch with Cho Suu Kyi, a clear soup with herbs and leaves followed by
Pa Zun Thoke
, salad with prawns. Maya was resting, Suu told them.

Eva made the most of her time with her, encouraging Suu to talk about her childhood and her life in Myanmar. Maya was linked to her grandfather by their love. But Cho Suu Kyi was actually related to Eva. She was her Auntie, well, half-Auntie, if such a thing existed.

She was just a baby and so did not remember the war, she said, though her mother had told her some stories. ‘But after the war, I was happy.’ Her expression was serene. ‘Before my mother’s marriage, we lived with my grandfather.’ And it was clear that this arrangement had suited everyone. The family were not as well off as they had been before the war, but Maya’s father had resumed his business interests as a broker in the rice industry and Maya brought in some money by doing fine embroidery work, a skill she had developed before she even met Lawrence and which she was able to pick up again after the war. They managed well enough to keep both a modest house in Mandalay and retain the one in Maymyo, which Eva, and her grandfather before her, had visited.

‘We have some pieces of my mother’s work here in the house.’ They had finished lunch and Cho Suu Kyi got up to show Eva a vibrant embroidered silk tapestry in silver, gold and red threaded silk on a background of black velvet, which had been framed and hung on the wall. It was of a golden temple with two silver chinthes guarding the gate, their eyes red as rubies. And it was the work of the same skilled needlewoman who had embroidered the dragon tapestry in Ramon’s quarters, Eva realised.

‘And there is the quilt. You must see the quilt.’ Cho Suu Kyi went to fetch it. It was sewn from multi-coloured patchwork squares, each one having an image from Myanmar embroidered within: there was a ruby of course, a golden temple, an orchid and a chinthe, to name but a few.

Eva fingered the delicate material. ‘It’s very fine,’ she said. And it must have taken a long time to finish. But she wasn’t surprised. Maya’s patience was etched on her face and Suu, her daughter, had the same look about her. Not for the first time, Eva wondered if it was their religion, their upbringing or their character that gave them such a sense of acceptance and peace. She thought of her own life back in the UK, of her grandfather, who was becoming so old and frail, and of the Emporium. Whatever was going on there, did she want to spend the rest of her working life following other people’s rules? Or did she want to work for herself, find her own pathway? Eva thought of Sagaing and the enlightenment people sought by going there. She needed to recapture her dream, the dream that had inspired her to do her degree in the
first place, the dream that was about the scent of teak wood and the history of past lives.

Suu nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Even now, my mother works most days for an hour or two,’ she said. ‘She says that her work gives her purpose and pleasure. She would not like that to end.’ She smiled. ‘But she often asks one of the young ones to thread the needle.’

Eva smiled too. How different would Maya’s life have been if she had remained with Eva’s grandfather? She didn’t know. She just couldn’t imagine it. But the fact that Maya could still undertake such work was a testament to her health, as well as her ability. She was not the kind of woman who would ever give up. So why had she given up on Eva’s grandfather? Or had he given up on her? Eva was determined to find out.

‘And then my mother met Ramon’s grandfather.’ Cho Suu Kyi put a hand on Ramon’s arm. ‘And he made her happy, I know.’

Ramon’s Burmese grandfather, Eva discovered, had a small but successful business managing a tobacco factory, and it was clear that he had been more than willing to take on Cho Suu Kyi as his own.

Eva couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Maya had enjoyed a more fulfilled personal life than her grandfather had had in England. He had never said a word against her grandmother to Eva, but there had always seemed to be something missing. Maya might have married primarily for the security of herself and her daughter, but she had married a good man and it had clearly developed into a rewarding kind of love. Eva
was glad. And she was sure that her grandfather would be glad too.

‘And they had a daughter,’ Suu continued. ‘Ramon’s mother.’ One of the younger girls had brought tea and now she poured the stream of green-gold liquid into the tiny porcelain cups with no handles.

‘Who met and fell in love with a furniture maker from Devon.’ Eva smiled. ‘Thank you, Suu.’ She took the cup that was passed to her.

‘Exactly.’ Ramon smiled too as he took up the story. ‘My father’s business did well in Burma. My family were able to build this house.’ He sipped his own tea and looked at Eva across the rim of the tea cup. It was a disconcerting look. Perhaps, Eva thought, it was easier to know what you wanted to do in life when you were following in the footsteps of your mother or your father.

She looked at the smiling face of the woman sitting across from her. ‘But you never married, Suu?’ She hoped it wasn’t too personal a question.

‘No.’ She looked down. ‘I became a teacher and I was content in my job until I retired. But I never met a man I wished to marry.’

Eva nodded as if she understood, but she wondered how difficult it might have been for an Anglo-Burmese woman back in the early sixties. The streets of Myanmar were full of mixed races – she’d noticed this from the first – but back in the fifties when Cho Suu Kyi was growing up, it might not
have been so easy. And how had Suu felt about the man who had unknowingly abandoned her, Eva’s grandfather?

‘Will you tell him about me?’ Cho Suu Kyi asked, as if she had read her mind. She offered more tea.

‘Of course.’ Eva nodded and pushed her cup a little closer. He had a right to know. She was planning to phone him this afternoon. She didn’t add that he had been ill, nor that she was worried about how her mother would take the news. But both these things were never far from her mind.

Suu glanced at her. ‘But like my mother, he is very old now, I think?’

‘He is.’ Eva sighed. ‘He would not be able to travel …’ She tailed off. She didn’t even know if Cho Suu Kyi wanted to see him, if she had forgiven him.

‘Perhaps one day I can make a visit to England.’ Suu looked down. ‘If it is meant to be,’ she said quietly.

If it is meant to be …

Eva took her hand. ‘He’ll be so happy to know about you,’ she said.

Suu looked up, her eyes bright with tears. ‘And he will forgive my mother for not telling him?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Eva was sure of that much. ‘He’ll understand. I’m sure he would forgive her anything. If he had known about you …’ She squeezed her hand. ‘He would have loved you.’

Suu nodded. She seemed to be hanging on Eva’s every word.

‘And if he could possibly come and see you, he would.’
She just hoped that she was getting the message across to this woman, who must still feel so abandoned.

‘Thank you, Eva,’ she said serenely.

Eva leaned closer towards her. ‘He is a good man,’ she assured her in a whisper. ‘He would never have wanted to leave you.’

*

‘I have been thinking,’ Ramon said, on the way back to Eva’s hotel.

He had been rather quiet at lunch, clearly still mulling it over. And yet he hadn’t seemed in a hurry to get back to work this afternoon. Could that be because he wanted to spend more time with her? Eva thought of the look he’d given her earlier. ‘About those crates?’

‘Yes.’ His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his brown hands loose on the steering wheel.

Eva watched him, stapling the image into her mind, so that she could conjure it up whenever she wanted to in the future. She wasn’t sure quite how she felt about him, but she certainly wasn’t ready to forget him.

‘It makes me very angry,’ he said. ‘That they have dared to use my name, my father’s company, in this underhand way.’ He glanced across at her as if considering how much he should say.

And for the first time Eva wondered, was he doubting
her
integrity? She couldn’t blame him. After all, the crates were being sent to her company. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s unforgiveable.’ She hesitated. ‘But what do you think is inside? Fake
antiques?’ It seemed the most obvious thing, given what she had seen in Li’s showroom.

Ramon frowned and braked at the road junction. She could almost see his mind moving up a gear. ‘Perhaps. But what sort of fake antiques can they be?’

He was echoing her own thoughts. ‘Forged antiques can fetch a lot of money in Europe,’ Eva pointed out. ‘An ancient Buddha that once stood in the temple of Pashmina, you know the sort of thing.’

He laughed and indicated right by hooting and swinging the steering wheel around sharply. ‘Pashmina is a shawl, Eva. Even I know that. But …’

‘But?’ She looked across at him. It sounded like a big ‘but’. His features were concentrated, still on the problem rather than on the road, she guessed, though Ramon continued to weave the car in and out of lanes as deftly as ever.

‘You are right, of course.’ Now, Ramon turned left on to the road Eva always called the moat road, lined with trees and a walkway, the wide waters of the moat glinting in the afternoon sun on the other side of the railings. ‘Perhaps that is all it is. And perhaps Li tries to implicate us because his family continue to hate my own. But still …’ He let out a sigh, ‘I would like to see.’

So would Eva. She would very much like to see. She had wanted to see inside those crates for a long time.