Fields of Gold

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Is it time?’ Robbie asked, dark eyes wide and alert, but sauntering casually in his shorts that were too big for him and his pale blue shirt that was clearly a size too small.

  Ned nodded. ‘They’ll be right behind me,’ he said quietly. ‘Is this going to work?’

  ‘It will if you stick to the plan. Just do exactly as I’ve said.’

  ‘But how will we find a ship or —’

  ‘Here they come. Act properly now. No anxiety. Sullen is best. I won’t let you down, Ned. Now smile. I promise I will bring Bella to you.’

  ‘Ah, Robbie. Saying your farewells?’ Brent called.

  Ned stuck out his hand. ‘See you, then. Look after Bell for me, until I visit.’

  Ned was sure there was a false note in his voice but Robbie seemed to have just the right tone. ‘I hope you get a chance to visit the grave.’

  ‘I plan to, as soon as I can. Bye, Robbie.’ They shook hands before he turned. ‘Goodbye, Dr Brent. Please let me know as soon as we have word from Mr Fraser.’

  ‘Absolutely, my boy. You can be sure of it. Now, here’s a small sum of money. Mr Fraser left this with me and I’m returning it to you.’

  Ned stared at the envelope dully.

  ‘So, off you go then,’ Brent said, waving his hands as though herding Ned into the cart. ‘Thanks, Horace.’

  Foster nodded solemnly beneath his topi and gave instructions to his driver. The cart lurched and then they were in motion. Ned waved, feeling sick about leaving his sister, but also excited that stage one of their plan was finally in action. There was no going back now.

  He cleared his throat. ‘How long will it take, Mr Foster?’

  ‘By road, about forty minutes.’ Foster’s English was flattened out by his Indian accent.

  ‘Are we going straight to the school?’

  ‘Where else did you think we might go?’ Ned assumed there was no further point engaging the dour man in conversation.

  The journey lengthened, as did the silence, and before long Foster was dozing, his head waggling with the motion of the cart. The driver had not said a word and clearly didn’t intend to. Ned took out the envelope from Brent, slitting the paper open with his forefinger.

  Inside were three pounds, two of them in ten-shilling notes and the rest in coin, no doubt a fortune in this part of the world, but Ned saw it for what it was. Brent’s guilt money. He could now tell Fraser, or anyone else who came looking, that he’d done everything humanly possible for the Sinclair boy.

  Finally the cart hauled to a stop. Already the various stalls in the bazaars had begun their food preparations for the evening. The sounds of car horns and braying cattle assaulted him and he could hear the rumble of the tram in the distance.

  Foster jerked awake. ‘Ah, we’re here, are we?’

  ‘The school?’ Ned frowned. ‘I don’t see any —’

  ‘No, Sinclair. This is a shop where I need to pick up some supplies.’ He suddenly prattled in urgent Burmese and the driver nodded and leapt off the cart. ‘Can you wait here, please?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ned replied, confused. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, just wait here and don’t leave the cart unattended. We won’t be long. All right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Foster disappeared into the large, ramshackle building that seemed to offer everything for sale from pots and pans to fresh food for sale.

  Ned clambered down and stared angrily at the dark entry of the store. He could just make out Foster’s back, heading towards a counter at the far end. Ned looked around wildly. The driver was nowhere to be seen. His heart began to hammer and his mouth turned suddenly dry. This was surely his chance! He would not get a better shot at it. During the hot journey he had tried to envisage his escape, but even in his daydream he hadn’t imagined being left alone long enough to disappear into the throng of the city.

  He gave himself no further time to think. Thinking was dangerous, his father had often said. Sometimes you just have to act on instinct. It was an argument that certainly suited his father’s adventuring ways. Ned had nothing to take. Only his three pounds and the clothes he stood in.

  The gods had certainly smiled on him and answered his prayer. Within seconds the horse stood alone, tethered to the cart, and Ned was running at full pelt as far away from imprisonment as he could, hurtling towards freedom.

  A few minutes later Foster emerged and squinted into the sharp sunlight. He blinked, his pink lips thinning in his dark face as he looked around. The driver arrived carrying two huge sacks of rice and dumped them into the cart.

  ‘So he took up the offer, Master?’ he asked in Burmese, with a gap-toothed smile.

  ‘Seems so,’ Foster answered. ‘Dr Brent will be happy.’

  It felt to Ned as though he could run forever. He had deliberately taken the most zigzag path, twisting and turning deeper into the busy streets of Rangoon, finding himself in places where no white faces looked back at him.

  He finally skidded to a halt, leaning back against a wall, breathing hard and suddenly realising he was now in a particularly quiet area. He’d run through so many alleys he couldn’t begin to imagine where he was, but he could hear the reassuring traffic from the main roads.

  The sight of a topi triggered a fresh panic and he spun into a door that opened, pushing past a swirl of saffron fabric and careening into a small group of young boys, dressed in red and orange robes. Their heads were shaved, their dark, almond-shaped eyes surprised at the sight of him, but he was touched by their wide smiles. They were chatting and laughing, like a flock of chirruping sparrows.

  Ned paused, baffled, then realised he had stumbled into a monastery. Around him men – young, old – went about their rituals in a comfortable silence. Timber structures created separate areas along a winding labyrinth of stone-floored corridors, which led Ned further into the place of prayer and contemplation. As he walked, in silent wonderment, he noticed a monk taking a traditional bath, tipping water from a small vessel over his head. If the man noticed the foreigner passing by, he didn’t pause. Nearby, Ned saw a circle of men sharing out a pot of rice and what looked to be a thin gravy of curry.

  The smell made his belly rumble. He was hungry but it was irrelevant, given his circumstances, and he ignored it. Unlike the monks, he would not have to beg for food, which is what he imagined the stream of men heading past him were going to do right now. Full of smiles, seemingly not at all fazed by his sudden presence, the men flowed like a colourful river out of the monastery. In a moment of clarity, and feeling safer than he had done in days, Ned stopped one of them.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  The man nodded, clearly unable to understand him.

  Ned dug into his pocket and pulled out one of the two shilling bits. He pressed it into the man’s palm. ‘For you, for everyone here,’ he said, waving his hand expansively. He knew it was plenty of money, could feed all of them probably for at least a day. ‘In return, pray for my family,’ he pleaded, and held his hands together in the pose of prayer. The dark-eyed, studious-looking man said something in Burmese. His words were unintelligible to Ned, but sounded comforting all the same.

  Instantly, Ned felt more at ease. The plan was going to work. Somehow they would escape Brent’s clutches and get away from Rangoon altogether. He looked up at the marshmallow clouds scudding across a perfectly blue sky, then left the monastery, picking up his pace again and running with even more confidence.

  13

  Ned scrambled his way into a covered market and found himself assaulted by the shrieks and calls of animals. He wasn’t especially squeamish, but he didn’t enjoy seeing animals slaughtered or butchered. He squelched through blood that ran in great rivulets beneath his feet.

  He began to run again, moving blindly, hardly registering the people whose shoulders he knocked or feet he stumbled over. The smell of blood was overpowering and the squeals of frightened creatures and busy people made him dizzy.

  He passed through a calmer area wher
e incense was sold. Great spirals of the baked mixture, infused with perfume, uncoiled to form a beehive-shaped dome that hung from ceilings and burned for hours when lit.

  The smell made him sneeze and a shopkeeper laughed at him as he ran by. He passed a stack of grey stone slabs and frowned, pausing briefly to suck in great gasps of air. A young girl tending the stall mimed grinding something on the slabs and then rubbing her face. Ned understood. He had seen many of the orphans using thanaka, a golden paste ground from the bark of trees, on their cheeks, mainly the girls. Apart from the pleasant fragrance and cosmetic beauty, it also had cooling properties and helped prevent sunburn.

  Ned ran on. It was only the arresting smell of spice that halted him and then he doubled over, hands on his knees, sucking in air again. He was wet through; his shirt was clinging to his body, his pale trousers sticky and uncomfortable. He’d lost his topi somewhere and sweat was running into his eyes.

  ‘Sir?’ asked a gentle voice. ‘All right?’

  He looked up into the softly frowning face of a young woman. She was not Burmese – probably Chinese, with her smooth pale complexion that had a slightly golden hue. Her hair was glossy black, matching her feline eyes, and tied in a long ponytail. She was exquisite and petite, like an oriental porcelain doll.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, straightening. ‘Thirsty,’ he admitted, instinctively mimicking drinking.

  She held up her hand. ‘Please,’ was all she said, disappearing into the shop that Ned now realised was a tea place of sorts. Tea shops dotted all of Rangoon and were popular meeting places. The young woman re-emerged clasping a delicate china cup.

  ‘Try. Hot but cooling,’ she urged and nodded, her gentle smile as much a tonic as her drink. She was beautiful.

  It was green tea. Many people swore by it. He did not like it especially, but right now he was happy to oblige her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He blew on the pale liquid and sipped as the grassy fragrance hit him first and then the slightly bitter, earthy taste nudged his tastebuds.

  ‘This is good for you,’ she said in halting English.

  How could he resist her? He drank it all, then reached into his pocket.

  ‘No, no, sir. My gift. All right, now?’ she asked again.

  ‘Much better, thank you.’ He pointed to himself. ‘Ned.’

  ‘Li Li,’ she replied. ‘Hello,’ she finished, getting her tongue around the English salutation.

  It sounded as exotic and alien to him as she looked.

  ‘Hello, Li Li,’ he said haltingly.

  She giggled deliciously. But then a shadow fell on him and an older man appeared, speaking to her in rapid Chinese. She made a deferential bow. The man cast an unfriendly glance at Ned. Ned didn’t need to understand their language to know the instructions given. He handed back the cup.

  ‘Thank you, Li Li. I feel well now.’

  She smiled more sedately and gave a similar bow. ‘Good day, sir,’ she said carefully, and began backing away.

  ‘Er, The Strand?’ he asked, hoping for a last moment with the beautiful Chinese girl, but Li Li was urged back into the shop.

  He moved on, stopping at various eating-houses until he found someone who spoke English and could direct him to the famous main road.

  Finally Ned found himself on The Strand itself, facing the hotel. His heart leapt with the pleasure of familiarity, although that feeling was quickly followed by an equally heartfelt sense of sorrow. This would never be a happy place for him.

  He arrived into its cool reception, with a sense of déjà vu. He didn’t want to relive that ghastly moment when his life and that of his family had changed irrevocably.

  In truth, he hated this hotel. He hated Rangoon.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ asked the man standing behind the desk pretending not to notice Ned’s dishevelment.

  Ned cleared his throat. ‘I’m Edward Sinclair. I stayed here not long ago. May I speak with the general manager please?’

  ‘He is not here, Mr Sinclair. He is in India at present.’

  Ned’s hopes plummeted.

  ‘Perhaps I could help? I remember your family. I am Frank Jones, deputy manager.’

  The man’s English was impeccable and he certainly gave the impression of being British, yet like Robbie, he looked clearly foreign with his tawny skin and thick, dark hair.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jones. I’m wondering first if you would change some money for me?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘I have two ten-shilling notes, thank you,’ he said, handing over the notes bearing the portrait of King George V alongside Britannia and her great shield.

  ‘This is a large sum of local currency, sir. May I put it into an envelope for you?’

  Ned nodded.

  ‘Can I also caution you, sir, if you plan to walk around with this in your pocket?’

  ‘I will be careful. Mr Jones, can I rely on you not to mention that you have seen me here today?’

  ‘We are very discreet at The Strand Hotel, sir.’

  ‘Good. I hope I can count on that. Can you give me any indication of what a passage to Calcutta might cost?’ He and Robbie had already agreed they would aim for Bangalore, which meant a voyage to Madras.

  Jones handed him the money, giving away nothing on his expression, but Ned was sure his question surprised him. ‘Er, you mean by ship, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know exactly. Of course, you could negotiate a passage. I would be happy to —’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary but thank you. My family trunks. I’m wondering where our possessions have been kept?’

  ‘In our storage rooms. Mr Fraser asked us to retain them until further notice.’

  ‘May I see them, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ He rang a bell and a pristinely dressed man arrived swiftly. ‘Is there anything else I can assist you with?’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, thank you. I will send word about our trunks in due course.’

  ‘I understand. They are safe with us until you’ve made all your arrangements.’

  Fifteen minutes later, after reliving his despair as he looked over the contents of the two humble trunks, Ned had taken only some clothes for himself and Bella, and one of his own shirts for Robbie. The main reason he’d even taken this chance in coming to the hotel was to secure their passports. His father had told Lorna she’d need this new documentation to travel. He’d been issued with his at the outbreak of war, when the Allies felt it was important men had papers declaring their state of origin. And so Lorna had paid the sixpence for the new-fangled travel document that described her features, showed her signature and detailed her dependants as Edward and Arabella Sinclair.

  He was glad the hotel had found Lorna’s small leather satchel of documents that included this important travel paperwork, and placed that in one of the trunks. He could only wonder at where his father’s documents were, but he was lingering too long over this. He took his mother’s prayer book, her tiny watch, and stuffed one of her hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, still smelling of the 4711 Cologne his father had brought back from Europe, into his pocket and then rifled around Bella’s favourite books. He couldn’t carry them all. Their mother had loved sharing Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland but Ned knew Bell secretly preferred Peter Pan and The Wind in the Willows. And then there was their father’s final gift to her, a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, which he claimed would whet her appetite for her new life abroad. Ned tucked that single book under his arm.

  It felt terrible to close the trunks. They had signified the beginning of a happy new era as a family in peacetime, but now they stood for only death and sorrow. In closing them for what he knew was the last time, he was turning away from everything that was familiar. From here on, it would be steps into the unknown.

  14

  Robbie felt as though he was balanced on the edge of a precipice, preparing to jump. He crossed the compound in search of Bella, wanting to
explain everything yet knowing he could tell her nothing. His normally expressive face was curiously blank.

  ‘Robbie,’ called a familiar voice. ‘A moment, please.’

  Robbie’s heart began to hammer in his chest but he urged himself to act naturally.

  ‘Yes, Dr Brent?’ he answered, jogging up to the man he despised.

  ‘Where is Arabella Sinclair? Apparently she’s not in her lesson.’

  ‘I don’t know, Dr Brent. I’ve been running some errands for Matron.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your errands, boy,’ Brent snapped. Then he changed tack. ‘That was a touching scene this morning with her brother.’

  Robbie blinked, said nothing.

  Brent cocked his large head to one side. ‘You all seem very friendly.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, Dr Brent. I suppose they are the first English children I’ve been able to know.’

  ‘And what will you do now that Edward has gone?’

  ‘I’ll get over it. We really didn’t have much in common.’

  ‘Other than Arabella,’ Brent said slyly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It is obvious Edward loves her a great deal.’

  Robbie forced himself not to fidget, not to swallow or show any sign of just how nervous he felt.

  ‘Well, she is his sister,’ he said carefully.

  ‘But so, I fear, do you, and she is not your sister, so that is an altogether far more dangerous admiration. A love like that could prompt you do anything, try anything.’

  Now Robbie did swallow, but held eye contact with Brent. To look away now would damn him. He desperately reached for the nonchalance he didn’t feel. ‘I like Bella, Dr Brent, but —’

  Brent advanced on him. ‘Bella, eh? That’s a nicely familiar name for someone you hardly know.’

  Robbie tore his gaze away from the sneering doctor and saw the laundry cart arriving.

  ‘I should go, Dr Brent. Matron wants me to accompany the dhobi’s chokra today. I have a message to deliver.’