Return to Mandalay (3 page)

He listened to the news without saying very much at first. Then, ‘Well, Eva,’ he said. ‘My goodness. I can scarcely believe it. Burma. That’s wonderful.’ He drew in a shaky breath, perhaps remembering his own life there, she thought. ‘Really wonderful.’ He paused. ‘Are you looking forward to it, my dear?’

Was she looking forward to it? ‘I can’t wait.’

‘And when are you going?’

‘Next week.’ As soon as it could be arranged, she guessed. Jacqui didn’t want any of those enticing antiques going anywhere other than to the Emporium. But there was a good deal of money at stake. Burmese traders, like any others, understood international markets: those artefacts wouldn’t be going cheap.

‘Next week!’ He seemed quite shocked at this. ‘So soon?’

‘I think so.’

There was another long pause. What was he thinking? She imagined she could hear the cogs whirring. ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘I wonder.’

Eva smiled to herself. ‘What do you wonder, Grandpa?’

She heard him take another breath. ‘If you could possibly come here first, Eva?’ he asked, his voice quavering just a
little, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Can you come to see me before you go?’

‘Well …’ She hadn’t planned to. She adored her grandfather, of course, but this weekend would be quite a rush. Although it was tempting. Eva loved West Dorset and she still thought of it as home. Her mother no longer lived there … And Eva pushed that thought swiftly away. But her grandfather
was
her home – hadn’t he always been?

‘It’s important, my dear,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t ask otherwise. I wouldn’t expect it of you. Only …’ His voice tailed off.

‘Important?’ Not just that he wanted to see her before she made the trip then? Eva hesitated.

‘There’s something that should have been done a long, long time ago,’ he murmured. ‘It’s too late for me to do it now, of course. Perhaps I made a terrible mistake. I just don’t know for sure. But if you …’

What was he talking about? Eva waited. She could hear his breath, thin and wheezy on the other end of the line. She didn’t like the way he sounded. What should have been done a long time ago? What terrible mistake?

‘It’s such an opportunity, my darling,’ he said, a sense of wonder in his old voice. ‘For you and for me. Almost heavensent. But I’m wondering if it’s too much to ask. And after all these years …’

‘If what’s too much to ask, Grandpa?’ Eva was intrigued. ‘What is it? Can you tell me?’

‘Yes. I should tell you, Eva.’ And just for a moment he didn’t sound like her frail grandfather. Instead, Eva had a mental picture of him as a young man, before he went to Burma perhaps, when he was only seventeen.

‘I’ll come over tomorrow evening,’ she said, making an instant decision. ‘I’ll stay the night.’

‘Thank you, my darling.’ He let out a breath as if he’d been holding it, waiting.

Eva was thoughtful as she ended the call and clicked on to her gmail. She re-started the music. It was a mystery, but she’d find out soon enough. At least her grandfather was pleased that she was going. It wouldn’t be nearly so easy, she knew, to tell her mother.

Eva parked her ancient but much-loved red-and-black Citroen 2CV in the drive and got out. She pulled on her jacket, grabbed her overnight bag from the passenger seat, slammed the door sufficiently hard for it to shut properly and walked up the path to the front door. The yellow stone was pockmarked by sea winds and the green paint on the door was a little cracked and faded, but otherwise the house of her childhood looked much the same as always, the orange rose climbing from its pot by the bay window up to the black roof slates and beyond, still in full bloom. Eva bent to sniff the nearest blossom. The scent of tea-rose immediately whirled her back to childhood days, making rosewater perfume and picnics on the lawn in summer. Those were the good bits. It was different – everything was different – after her world fell apart. But she wouldn’t dwell on that now, not when she had Burma to look forward to. Not to mention her grandfather’s mystery.

She lifted the brass door-knocker and let it fall. Pulled her hair out from under her collar. Waited.

Her grandfather opened the door, beaming. ‘Hello, darling. Come in, come in.’ He helped her with her bag, took her
tweedy jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. ‘How was your journey? I suppose the roads were busy? They always are these days.’

‘The journey was fine,’ Eva reassured him.

He turned to her. ‘Let me look at you.’

Eva pulled down the sleeves of her lacy blouse and slipped the silk scarf she was wearing from her neck, tucking it next to her jacket. ‘Let me look at
you
,’ she said. Her grandfather had always been tall and lean. But was he a little more bent than the last time she’d seen him? Was his kind and familiar face more lined?

‘You look as lovely as ever.’ He smiled. ‘How about a hug from my favourite girl?’

Eva stepped into his open arms and closed her eyes, just for a moment. His hair was fine wisps of snow-white. His fawn woollen cardigan smelt of eucalyptus and wood, a fragrance she seemed to have lived with all her life.

‘Do you mind if we eat in the kitchen tonight, darling?’ he asked, holding her at arm’s length for a moment, his hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s so much more cosy now that the nights are drawing in.’

‘Of course not.’ Eva followed his slow passage along the L-shaped hall past the shelf of memorabilia that her grandfather had brought back to the UK after his Burmese days. She knew it all so well, but now she lingered, taking it all in as if for the first time: the wooden elephant bells, a souvenir of his work in forestry; the set of opium weights made in the image of Buddha; the Burmese flowered paper parasol and
finally the Japanese flag in a bamboo case, the silk burned by shrapnel during the war. And soon, she reminded herself, she would be experiencing her own Burmese days.

In the farmhouse kitchen at the back of the house, the Aga’s reassuring warmth filled the room and one of Mrs Briggs’s stews bubbled on the hob, a rich fragrance emanating from the pan. Two places had been set at either end of the old pine table and a bottle of red wine had been uncorked but not poured. Thank goodness for Mrs Briggs. Now that he was on his own, Eva’s grandfather needed her help with cooking and housework more than ever. Eva knew how much he valued his independence. And she couldn’t see him anywhere else but here, in his own house, big, rambling and impractical as it was. It was part of him. It always had been.

Eva pulled off her laced leather ankle boots and left them in the corner next to her grandfather’s green wellies. That was better. The ridges of the flagstone tiles felt reassuringly familiar, and warm from the heat of the Aga on her stockinged feet.

Her grandfather was watching her appraisingly. ‘How about a drink?’ he suggested. ‘I’ve opened a particularly pleasant Burgundy I’d like you to try.’ His faded blue eyes held a definite twinkle.

Eva smiled. Her grandfather was quite a wine buff these days. And since Eva’s grandmother’s death, he had allowed himself to pursue his hobby even more keenly. ‘That sounds lovely, Grandpa.’

With a shaky hand, he poured them both half a glass. ‘Lovely to see you, my dear.’

‘And you, Grandpa.’ Eva took a sip. The wine was as mellow and rich as antique velvet. ‘That is very good.’ She put the glass down and lifted the lid of the stewpot. ‘Mmm. And this smells wonderful. What would we do without Mrs Briggs?’ She wouldn’t rush him. Let him tell her what he wanted her to do in his own good time.

‘What, indeed?’ He chuckled. ‘It’s ready when you are.’ He steadied himself for a moment on the antique dresser.

‘Let me.’ Eva put down her glass and fetched the plates from the warming oven. She began to ladle out the beef stew.

‘I expect you’ve been wondering why I asked you to come here this weekend, hmm?’ Her grandfather eased himself down on the chair. ‘Selfish old fool that I am.’

‘Nonsense.’ Eva brought the plates over to the table. ‘You could never be selfish.’

‘Ah, well.’ He shook his head. ‘You wait till you hear what I’ve got to say before you decide.’

Eva smiled. ‘Eat up.’

He smiled back at her and picked up his fork. Took a mouthful and chewed slowly, watching her all the while. ‘I don’t want to take advantage of your situation, my darling. But when you said you were going to Burma … I saw immediately. It is what you might say, fortuitous.’

‘Fortuitous?’ Eva picked up her glass and took another sip of her wine. It was a strange choice of words. But she trusted
him. Her grandfather might be old and frail, but his mind was razor-sharp, it always had been.

He dabbed at his lips with his paper napkin. ‘When you grow old, you have plenty of time to think,’ he said.

‘About Burma?’ Eva guessed. She speared a potato and dipped it in the rich, fragrant gravy.

He nodded. ‘And other things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Decisions that have been made, pathways that have been taken, wrongs that should have been made right.’

Eva reached across the table, which still bore the indentations of pens and pencils pressed a bit too hard during childhood crayoning sessions, and squeezed his hand. ‘Everyone has regrets,’ she said. It wasn’t something reserved for the old.

‘Even you, my dear?’ He watched her sadly.

‘Even me.’ Eva thought of her mother. Too many regrets. Even at sixteen, you could make a decision that could snatch a person away from you. Was that what she had done? She wasn’t sure though that she could have done it any differently.

He leaned forwards, those blue eyes as intelligent as ever and put his other hand over hers. ‘But you’re not talking about Max, I hope?’

‘Oh, no.’ He released her hand and Eva took another forkful of Mrs Briggs’ beef stew. ‘I’m not talking about Max.’

Her grandfather chuckled as he carefully topped up both their glasses. ‘I’m glad to hear it. That man wasn’t anywhere near good enough for my favourite girl.’

Eva smiled back at him. He’d never liked Max, and yet again, he’d been proved right. But she noticed that he’d pushed his plate away leaving most of the stew uneaten. ‘Had enough?’ she asked him. She didn’t want to fuss, she knew that Mrs Briggs did enough fussing as it was. But she couldn’t help worrying. He meant so much to her. He wasn’t so much a grandparent as the life-force behind her childhood.

He nodded. ‘My appetite isn’t what it was, my dear.’

Head on one side, Eva regarded him. ‘What is it that you regret, Grandpa?’ she asked. She couldn’t believe he’d done anything so very bad. Maybe things had happened in the war that had scared him or that he hated to think of, but he would never have willingly hurt anyone, not if he didn’t have to.

He sighed. ‘I kept something that didn’t belong to me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t find out the full truth when I should have done. And I never went back.’ He heaved himself up, took the plates over to the kitchen sink and then slowly lowered himself down again into the old rocking chair.

Eva went over to him and took his hand. It was trembling. His skin felt paper-thin and it was threaded with blue veins and massed with liver spots from all those years of living in the tropics. ‘You never went back to Burma?’ she guessed. Did he mean after her grandmother had died? Why should he have gone back after all that time?

He nodded.

‘And the truth?’

‘That’s what I would like you to find out, Eva, my dear,’ he said.

She stared at him.

‘I have an address.’ There was a blue manila folder on the table next to the rocking chair, and from this he extracted two slips of paper. ‘Two addresses,’ he said, handing them to Eva.

She looked at the scraps of paper. He must have had them a long time. They were written in a younger man’s handwriting and the paper was yellowing with age.
Daw Moe Mya
, she read. The same name, but a different address on each. Who was Daw Moe Mya?

‘It’s a long story, my dear,’ he said.

Eva put the pieces of paper down on the table and moved over to the stove. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’ She needed to keep a clear head. She filled her grandmother’s ancient black kettle, her thoughts buzzing. A long story? Hadn’t she heard all the stories about Burma?

She went back to sit by him. ‘You’d better start at the beginning,’ she said. ‘And tell me exactly what it is that you want me to do.’

‘I’m old, my dear,’ he said. He leaned forwards and adjusted the red-tasselled cushion behind him. ‘I’ve made mistakes. But perhaps it’s not fair to ask you to help me. That’s what your mother would say.’ He shot her a look from under his bushy white eyebrows.

‘I’m all grown up now, Grandpa.’ Eva twisted her daisy ring. Thought of the email she’d sent to her mother last night. It was sad that these days they mostly communicated that way. More than sad, it was heart-breaking. But sometimes
the fissures in a relationship only grew wider and deeper with time. And that’s what seemed to have happened to theirs.

The kettle boiled and Eva got up to make the tea, using her grandmother’s old floral patterned teapot. She assembled the porcelain cups and saucers and brought the tray over to the table by the rocking chair where he sat, went back to stack the dishwasher and put the pan in to soak, before returning to pour. She had the feeling that her grandfather needed a bit of thinking time. And so did she.

‘What did you keep, Grandpa?’ she asked gently as she placed a cup on the table next to him. ‘What did you keep that didn’t belong to you?’

‘Get the chinthe,’ he whispered.

‘The chinthe?’ Perhaps his mind was wandering after all? But Eva knew what he was referring to. The dark and shiny decorative teak chinthe – a sort of mythical lion-like creature, which always stood on her grandfather’s bedside table – had been a feature of Eva’s childhood, a feature of all those stories of Burma.

Eva had grown up sandwiched between her mother’s flat and this yellow-stone, rambling house, between the gentleness of her grandfather’s care and the brittle grief of Rosemary, her mother. Eva’s grandmother Helen had been delicate, often tired, disliking noise and disruption. But her grandfather … He had picked her up from school and taken her on outings down to Chesil Beach and the Dorset sandstone cliffs, or off for muddy walks in the Vale. In the evenings they’d sat here in this kitchen and he’d made them
mugs of hot chocolate and told her such stories … Tales of dark wood and darker mysteries. Of a land of scorching heat and drenching monsoons, of green paddy fields and golden temples, of wide lakes and steamy jungles. Those stories had become almost a part of her.