Return to Mandalay by Rosanna Ley

final squall in October. The fields would dry up and there would be, at last, a wonderful short winter, when the breeze was mild instead of burning, when wild flowers reminiscent of those in English meadows grew in the rural areas, when the paddy grew and ripened into yellow and the nights and mornings could even be cold in the upper reaches of the country, with a cooling mist that filled the valleys and hung over the hills.
    The company was generous in giving leave, perhaps it knew that it had to be in order to keep its young blood healthy and content, relatively speaking, at least. Like the rest of them, Lawrence enjoyed visits to Rangoon, going to the English bookshop to stock up on reading material for those long evenings alone in camp, out to sample steak dinners with as many G and Ts and as much ice as you wanted (there was no running out of ice in Rangoon …). He enjoyed his regular bouts of R and R up at the hill-station too and the easy camaraderie of the chummery there at Pine Rise in Maymyo, the guesthouse owned by the company and used as bachelorquarters for the single male employees. But there was something about the British clubs that left him cold.
    They know who are the masters
, Scottie had said. But sometimes Lawrence wondered.
Us and them
. Was it that simple? He thought not. It was a careless racism that was little more than an assumption. Could it be right to make such an assumption? It seemed to Lawrence that there was something in their eyes …
    *
    There was something in her eyes. She was standing by a stall and he could see her in profile. Small, neat, self-assured. And when she looked up …
    The stall holder, an Indian, was selling hand woven rugs and blankets. The girl was inspecting a piece of cloth. She held it lightly between her fingers. She wore a
longyi
of bright orange and yellow like the streak of a sunset and her hair hung down past her shoulders as dark and glossy as a bird’s wing slicked in oil. Her nails were pale pink, almost white, her lips a kind of bruised plum. And there was the slightest pucker of a frown on her brow. She was perfection, in miniature.
    Scottie followed his gaze. He leaned closer to Lawrence. ‘I know what you’re thinking, old man.’
    Lawrence ignored his grin.
    ‘She’s a stunner.’
    But it wasn’t that. Lawrence moved towards the stall, couldn’t help himself. She was attractive, yes, but lots of girls were attractive. Helen was attractive – she was a beauty – or so his parents kept reminding him, a fragile, very English kindof beauty. And more significantly, she was the only daughter of his father’s business partner and closest friend. But the look of this woman wasn’t just striking, she’d walloped him right in the pit of his chest.
    ‘Yes, sir?’ The stallholder was quick to notice his interest. ‘You like a nice new rug, sir? What colour is it to be? Red, blue, yellow? What size, sir?’
    ‘A blanket.’ Lawrence addressed him but looked at the girl.
    She glanced up as he spoke, but immediately glanced down again. The Burmese were like that. They weren’t meek, but they were self-effacing, the opposite, he thought now, of women like his mother, like Helen.
They know their station
, Scottie would say. Lawrence suspected they knew rather more than that. And no doubt were careful not to show it.
    ‘What kind of blanket, sir? Wool? Cotton? Silk? I have very good collection. What colour? Red? Yellow? Brown?’ Deftly, he swept first one blanket, then another, then another down from the display, flourishing each in front of Lawrence for his approval. Pretty soon the stall was in complete disarray, swathed in fabrics of every material and hue.
    Scottie stood to one side and languidly lit a cigarette.
    The girl seemed about to move away.
    ‘That one,’ Lawrence said quickly, indicating the blanket she still held lightly between her fingers. ‘Let me see that one.’
    ‘Indeed, sir, a fine choice.’ The stallholder whisked it away