Return to Mandalay by Rosanna Ley Page A

from her.
    She blinked and took a graceful step backwards. Lawrence noticed her feet which were tiny and clad in red silk slippers.
    ‘Excuse me.’ Lawrence addressed her. ‘You were here first.’
    She shook her head, took another step backwards.
    Would she speak English, he wondered. Many of them did, and Hindustani too. Scottie spoke fluent Burmese. If she didn’t speak English, would he act as interpreter? Lawrence hadn’t had time to get to grips with the language yet.
    ‘Really. Please. So rude of me.’ Lawrence grabbed the blanket, which was made of a soft and fine wool. He handed it to her. ‘It is a good blanket, is it not?’ His voice to his own ears sounded tender, and this was a surprise.
    She looked up at him. Her dark eyes were calm, but he saw in them a curl of humour that gave him hope. He’d been right. This wasn’t some poor and lowly Burmese servant girl. This was a young woman of class. She understood him, he could tell.
    ‘It is very fine,’ she conceded in perfect English. Her voice was soft and gentle, it seemed to stroke his senses. And as he continued to hold the blanket out to her, she reached out her hand and again held the fabric, smoothing it with her fingertips.
    ‘Lawrence Fox.’ He gave a little bow. ‘Please excuse my bad manners. Blame the heat, it must be affecting me.’ A weak attempt at humour, he knew. But it was all he could strum up at the present time.
    Scottie cleared his throat. ‘Jimmy Scott,’ he said.
    ‘We are both at your service.’ Lawrence smiled.
    She nodded her head in acknowledgement but made no attempt to reciprocate their introductions.
    What next? Lawrence had always considered himself pretty expert at chatting up the girls. Warming them up with a compliment and a joke, making them laugh, moving in for the thaw, that sort of thing. Not that he had a wealth of experience to draw on. But somehow, knowing he was destined for Helen Forster had freed him to playing fast and loose whenever he had the chance. Cross that bridge when he came to it. But this girl wasn’t like any of the other girls. She wasn’t British for a start. He had no idea what to bloody do.
    ‘And may I enquire your name?’ he said, quietly so as not to intimidate her. At least she hadn’t walked away.
    ‘Moe Mya,’ she said.
    ‘Moe Mya,’ he repeated. The short syllables were small and neat like her. And yet, as he looked into those eyes, he’d like to bet she could let go. Not in the way Scottie and the others in the club might joke about it, but … Well, in the real meaning of letting go.
    She nodded. ‘Some call me Maya,’ she said. Her lips pursed together slightly.
    I want to kiss them
, he thought.
Jesus
. He felt an ache, almost a pain, in his groin. What was the matter with him?
    He offered what he hoped was a suave, confident but reassuring smile. ‘And you live here in Mandalay?’ he asked.
    ‘I live with my father, yes,’ she said. ‘Most of the time.’
    ‘And the rest of the time?’ Was there a man in the picture? Lawrence desperately needed to know.
    ‘Sometimes we stay in Maymyo. My father has a house there.’
    Lawrence acknowledged this with a nod. The hill station of Maymyo was situated at a higher altitude than Mandalay and was cooler and restful. Some said it was like England with its grass and neat manicured gardens, its road names reminiscent of his homeland, such as Downing Street and Forest Road. And Lawrence knew that its Englishness was confusing to the Burmese – even the notion of a garden planted with flowers was confusing, since wild flowers were so abundant, why would one plant one’s own? But it wasn’t just the British who went there. Any Burmese family in Mandalay who had money would generally also have a place in Maymyo for holidays and weekends. Her admission had reinforced his previous impression. She was not a poor native girl. She was, for Burma, a class act.
    ‘And I have an aunt who lives in Sinbo. It is a small