Return to Mandalay (36 page)

But there was one part of the story that Maya did not tell them. She didn’t think that she would ever tell another living soul.

In 1943, after their parting, Maya had given birth to a child. Eva’s grandfather’s child … Eva continued to roll the knowledge around in her head as Ramon drove her back to her hotel. What a bombshell. And her grandfather didn’t know. Which meant that Eva would have to tell him.

The tension between Eva and Ramon, so palpable she’d almost felt she could cut it with her butter knife, had increased during the evening as Maya told her incredible story. It was a tale that held Eva riveted. Of her nursing, of how she had kept her and her daughter alive in an occupied and poverty-stricken country at war, while Eva’s grandfather had been fighting in another part of the country, with absolutely no idea of his daughter’s existence. Her grandfather had wanted to know about Maya’s war experiences and it had turned out that Maya’s war had been an awful lot more complicated that he could ever have guessed.

Her grandfather had left Burma and returned to Dorset, still not knowing. If he had known, Eva wondered, would he have stayed?

The streets of the city were much quieter than when they had left a few hours ago. The street sellers had cleared their
stalls and gone home, leaving just the hint of oil and fried spices in the air, the shops were shuttered and the bars were closing up too. Very few people remained on the dark pavements, for there were no street lights and this, along with the rickety kerbs and loose, broken paving slabs, plus the fact that it was virtually impossible to cross the road, was why it was hard to walk anywhere in the city at night. ‘It is a lot to think about, isn’t it?’ Ramon said, as they drew up outside the hotel. ‘It was a shock for you, finding out about my aunt, Cho Suu Kyi.’

‘Yes.’ And it would be a shock for her grandfather too. How would he react? How would he feel when he found out he had a daughter he had never known about, never had the chance to acknowledge, living on the other side of the world in Myanmar? And as for Eva’s mother … Eva shuddered at the thought of what she might say.

‘Tell me about your mother,’ Cho Suu Kyi had said over dinner, which had consisted of a selection of delicious curries and salads. She served a small portion of
Bae Tha Hin
, a type of Burmese duck curry, on to Eva’s plate, along with some rice. ‘My mother has told me much about my father, I almost feel I know him. But I would so like to know about my other half-sister.’ She smiled at Ramon and then back at Eva. ‘About Rosemary, your mother.’

So would Eva. She would very much like to know about her mother. But she couldn’t say that to Cho Suu Kyi. Even so, she wasn’t sure where to start. ‘She lives in Copenhagen,’ she said. ‘My father died when I was seven.’ Which was
nothing compared to Suu’s experience, she realised. She had never even known her father. ‘She married again when I was seventeen.’

And I chose to stay in Dorset
. She didn’t say this though. It would only confuse this new family that she now seemed to be part of. It confused Eva too. She knew why she’d chosen to stay: her grandparents and Dorset were her security, their home her home. They had seemed like the only thing that was holding her family together. But she didn’t know why her mother had left. Was it out of love for Alec? Or did Dorset represent everything that she’d held dear and everything that she’d lost?

‘Do you think your mother would come over here to visit?’ Cho Suu Kyi was so excited, her dark eyes shone. And Eva could see why she had immediately found her familiar. She had the dark eyes of Maya. But her cheekbones, her mouth, her smile … She had the look of Eva’s mother, even of her grandfather too.

‘I’m not sure.’ Ramon had told her about
arnadeh
, a kind of over-politeness and extreme consideration for other people’s feelings, which was part of Burmese etiquette. It was why they served food to their visitors rather than inviting them to help themselves and it was important to observe it so as not to cause offence. So how could Eva tell Cho Suu Kyi that her half-sister Rosemary had never wanted to know anything about her father’s Burmese days? She simply hadn’t been interested. To her, they represented her father’s disloyalty. Or so Eva supposed. She didn’t really know, since her
mother wouldn’t talk about it. But she’d have to talk about it now. And perhaps Eva could make her see that this lovely Burmese family weren’t a threat, with the possible exception of Ramon, she reminded herself. They were part of her past, her story.

‘Would you care for a nightcap?’ Ramon wasn’t even looking at her. His green eyes were fixed resolutely on a point in the darkness in front of him.

Nothing between them had been resolved, had it? They had reached a stalemate. And if Eva were going to take any action regarding the crate she’d seen on the truck, then she couldn’t confide in him. He was, though it was hard to accept, looking at him now, the enemy.

But she’d been only too aware of that enemy as she’d sat at the round table in the restaurant, Cho Suu Kyi placed on her left and Ramon on her right. They were almost terrifyingly polite with each other.
Can I pass you more fish curry? Would you like some vegetable salad? May I refill your glass?
Which was almost worse than having a full-scale slanging match.

‘Is everything satisfactory?’ Maya had asked mildly at one point. ‘Has something upset you, Eva? Ramon?’

‘No,’ they both replied. ‘Absolutely not,’ Eva added.

But Maya was a wise one and despite the celebratory nature of the evening, her expression remained a little concerned.

‘He is a good man, my grandson,’ she whispered to Eva when they said goodnight. ‘But I hope you found out what was troubling him.’

Eva crossed her fingers. ‘Not really, I’m afraid.’ It wasn’t up
to her to blacken his name, no doubt Ramon could manage it entirely on his own.

And now he wanted to prolong the evening?

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said. She was tired. And besides, what more was there to say? He had talked of trust. But had he trusted her, by confiding in her, by telling her his supposed plan? No. Perhaps, because there was no plan.

‘Eva—’

‘No.’ She fumbled with the door catch. The last thing she needed was to be caught at her most vulnerable, especially after a night like tonight. And besides, there was so much to think about.

Ramon whipped out of the car, came round to open her door. He took her hand as she climbed out and pulled her into a close embrace so swiftly that she was there before she had the chance to wonder if she wanted to be there.

‘I cannot pretend to understand,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘But I just want you to know—’

She pulled away, but not far enough. He was holding her quite firmly by the shoulders and he didn’t seem about to let her go.

‘Ramon …’ The sense of him seemed to envelop her. She tried to remind herself of what he was, but when he bent his head and his lips met hers, she lost all that and just felt it. His lips, firm, demanding. His kiss. The scent of him – of wood shavings and polish and just a hint of cardamom. The heat of him.

It was the sort of kiss you could drown in. The sort of kiss you wanted to go on forever. But. She pulled away.

‘Eva.’

But she was gone. Literally running. Through the door of the hotel, grabbing her room key from the desk, leaning on the button to call the lift, almost sinking into it when the door opened. Thank God it was empty. She closed her eyes. Ramon …

The lift stopped at the seventh floor and she got out with a sigh, wandered down the corridor, put her key in the lock and—

And the door was already ajar.

It swung further open. The next moment seemed frozen in time. Eva stood there, taking in the scene. A man – a stranger, small, dark, Burmese, was rummaging through the clothes in her chest of drawers, her things thrown around the room, on the bed, on the floor. In that split second, she must have gasped. Because the man twisted round to face her. They stared at one another. Eva felt her legs almost dissolve with fear. She hung on to the door handle. And then she opened her mouth to scream.

Rosemary had gone out to get some shopping, but she hardly liked leaving him, especially after this morning’s episode.

She shivered as she arrived at the supermarket car park and parked the hire car in a vacant space. And not just because it was such a cold day. It had stopped raining at least, but now there was a winter bite to the air that reminded her: time was getting on, she had to decide what to do. Seattle was still looming on her horizon. Hers and Alec’s.

Her father had been in the kitchen slumped in the chair, the kettle whistling full pelt. That’s what had woken her, of course. She’d heard the noise and thought for a minute it was a siren, ambulance or police perhaps. Then she’d realised it was coming from the house, to be precise, from the kitchen downstairs.

Rosemary had grabbed her bathrobe, pulled it on and run down there. The kitchen was steamy and she didn’t see him for a moment. Just thought,
what the
 …? And snatching the oven glove from the Aga rail, took the kettle off the heat.

Now, Rosemary got out of the car, plucked her shopping bag from the back seat and went to get a trolley. They had to eat.

As soon as she’d turned around, she’d seen him. ‘Dad? Dad …?’ And her heart had flipped over in much the same way as it had when she’d first arrived at the house and found him out for the count on the bathroom floor. But fortunately, this time he was just asleep, bless him, waking even as she raced into the room, muttering something about ‘holding fire’. How he could have slept through that racket, she had no idea.

‘What are you doing, Dad?’ Fear made her voice sharp and she saw him flinch. ‘Did you put the kettle on?’ she asked in a gentler tone.

‘It was a long, bloody night,’ he said. ‘You can get fed up of marching.’

Ah. So he was back in wartime, was he? ‘So you thought you’d come and make a cup of tea, is that it?’ She took his arm. ‘Let’s get you back to bed.’

He blinked in confusion. But he went with her, like a lamb.

Rosemary picked up a bag of salad and some fresh noodles. Perhaps she should ring the doctor again. Later this morning he’d been so much better though. After he’d freshened up in the bathroom, she’d taken in some coffee and read him out bits from today’s paper. Sometimes they even tackled the crossword, but Rosemary had something else on her mind today. Then they’d chatted about this and that. Not what she wanted to hear about though. She wanted to hear about Burma.

‘I read the letters, Dad,’ she told him. She wanted to confess. And she wanted to know more. ‘The letters you keep in the drawer.’

‘Letters?’ But she saw the understanding touch his eyes.

She nodded.

‘When?’

‘I found them after Mum died.’ She realised that something had shifted inside her, that she wanted to tell him now. ‘I wasn’t snooping. Just tidying up. And then I couldn’t resist reading them. I’m sorry.’

‘Ah.’ He shook his head. ‘I knew there was something.’

Yes, she thought. Something to pull you apart.

‘Perhaps I should have told you about her,’ he said. ‘But it was all so long ago. And I couldn’t, not without upsetting your mother. You are our daughter, love.’

Yes, she was. His coffee cup was rattling in the saucer and Rosemary steadied it for him. ‘You didn’t send any of those letters though,’ she said.

‘No.’

‘Why not, Dad?’

He fixed her with his honest blue gaze. ‘Because I was married to your mother.’

‘But you needed to write them?’ She wanted to understand. Nick was dead, so there was no point in writing to him. Or was there? She had always thought that if only she could communicate with him one last time … Then perhaps it would somehow clear the way for her future. She looked helplessly at her father. Would he realize what she was asking him?

‘I did. It helped, Rosie.’

‘Why did you ever come back here?’ Rosemary whispered.
She didn’t want to hound him or upset him when he was so frail. But it was a question she’d wanted to ask for such a long time. She understood how her mother had been and the pressure the families had put on him. But why did he succumb? The way she’d loved Nick she would never have let him go. ‘Why did you come back and marry Mum? When you were still in love with someone else?’

‘Ah, Rosie.’ He looked at her full on. ‘It was Maya’s decision, not mine,’ he said. ‘At least …’ And he seemed to be remembering something. ‘I could have done more. I should have done more.’

‘Maya knew how it was back here in England?’ Rosemary guessed. She could picture them all, waiting for his homecoming. His mother, Helen’s mother, anyone else who was left of the family when the war was over. Everybody wanting him to marry Helen.

He nodded. ‘She knew most things.’ And smiled.

‘She thought it was your destiny,’ Rosemary murmured.

He folded the newspaper she’d left on the bed, smoothing it with his gnarled old hands. ‘She let me go.’ He exhaled with some difficulty and she saw him wince with pain.

And you didn’t want to let everyone down
.

‘But you never forgot her.’ She patted his hand.

‘No, I never forgot her.’ His eyes seemed to glaze over, as if he’d slipped back to the past once again. ‘It’s like that with love sometimes. I think you know that, Rosie.’

Rosemary looked away, beyond him and out of the window. The days were getting so short now, she hated that,
longed for the stretched out days of summer. ‘I do, yes,’ she said.

He came back to her then, just for a moment, and he held out his arms.

She curled into them, like a child, eyes closed, feeling her father’s frail warmth, feeling his comfort. It still didn’t take much to make her think of Nick. And Alec knew that too. Did he also know that she had never been able to give herself to him in the way she had so carelessly given herself to Nick? Of course he did. He had said as much, he had said that he would take what was left.
Just like her mother had …
But she knew that something had changed for Alec. It wasn’t just her going away. It had been building, in her, in him. And sooner or later there would be an explosion, or as near as Alec would ever come to an explosion. And why not? It was hardly fair. Seattle, she realised, was that explosion.