Belle straightened her shoulders, flicked back her long red-gold hair and stared, her heart leaping with excitement as the ship began its steady approach to Rangoon harbour. Think of it. The city where dreams were made, still a mysterious outline in the distance but coming into focus as the ship cut through the water. The sky, a shockingly bright blue, seemed huger than a sky ever had business to be, and the sea, almost navy in its depths, reflected a molten surface so shiny she could almost see her face in it. Even the air shimmered as if the sun had formed minute swirling crystals from the moisture rising out of the sea. Small boats dotting the water dipped and rose and she laughed as screeching seabirds swooped and squabbled. Belle didn’t mind the noise, in fact it added to the feeling that this was something so achingly different. She had long craved the freedom to travel and now she was really doing it.
With buzzing in her ears, she inhaled deeply, as if to suck in every particle of this glorious moment, and for a few minutes she closed her eyes. When she opened them again she gasped in awe. It wasn’t the bustling harbour with its tall cranes, its freighters laden with teak, its lumbering oil tankers, its steamers and the small fishing boats gathering in the shadow of the larger vessels that had gripped her. Nor was it the impressive white colonial buildings coming into sight. For, rising behind all that, a huge golden edifice appeared to be floating over the city. Yes, floating, as if suspended, as if a section of some inconceivable paradise had descended to earth. Spellbound by the gold glittering against the cobalt sky, Belle couldn’t look away. Could there be anything more captivating? Without a shadow of a doubt, she knew she was going to fall in love with Burma.
The heat, however, was oppressive: not a dry heat but a kind of damp heat that clung to her clothes. Certainly different, but she’d get used to it, and the air that smelt of salt and burning and caught at the back of her throat. She heard her name being called and twisted sideways to see Gloria, the woman she’d met on the deck early in the voyage, now leaning against the rails, wearing a wide-brimmed pink sun hat. Belle began to turn away, but not before Gloria called out again. The woman raised a white-gloved hand and came across.
‘So,’ Gloria’s cut-glass voice rang out, breaking Belle’s reverie. ‘What do you make of the Shwedagon Pagoda. Impressive, no?’
Belle nodded.
‘Covered in real gold,’ Gloria said. ‘Funny lot, the Burmese. The entire place is peppered with shrines and golden pagodas. You can’t walk without falling over a monk.’
‘I think they must be splendid to create something as wonderful as this.’
‘As I said, the pagodas are everywhere. Now, my driver is waiting at the dock. I’ll give you a lift to our wonderful Strand Hotel. It overlooks the river.’
Belle glanced at the skin around the other woman’s deeply set dark eyes and, not for the first time, tried to guess her age. There were a number of lines, but she had what was generally termed handsome looks. Striking rather than beautiful, with a strong Roman nose, chiselled cheekbones and sleek dark hair elegantly coiled at the nape of a long neck … but as for her age, it was anyone’s guess. Probably well over fifty.
Gloria had spoken with the air of someone who owned the city. A woman with a reputation to preserve and a face to match it. Belle wondered what she might look like without the thick mask of expertly applied make-up, carefully drawn brows and film-star lips. Wouldn’t it all melt in the heat?
‘I occasionally stay at the Strand after a late night, in fact I will tonight, though naturally I have my own home in Golden Valley,’ Gloria was saying.
‘Golden Valley?’ Belle couldn’t keep her curiosity from showing.
‘Yes, do you know of it?’
Belle shook her head and, after a moment’s hesitation, decided not to say anything. It wasn’t as if she knew the place, was it? She simply wasn’t ready to talk to someone she barely knew. ‘No. Not at all,’ she said. ‘I simply liked the name.’
Gloria gave her a quizzical look and Belle, even though she had determined not to, caught herself thinking back. A year had passed since her father’s death, and it hadn’t gone well. The only work she’d found was in a friend’s bookshop, but each week she’d pored over the latest copy of The Stage the moment it arrived. And then, joy of joy, she’d spotted the advertisement for performers wanted in prestigious hotels in Singapore, Colombo and Rangoon. Her audition had been in London, where she’d stayed for a gruelling two days and an anxious wait until she heard.
Belle had done her reading. She’d discovered Rangoon had been under British rule since 1852 and had grown from a small town of thatched huts to a vast city and thriving port, of which she was now to be a part. As Gloria pointed out imposing government offices, private houses and stores, Belle felt the stifling heat of the car and longed to get out and feel the air against her skin. Gloria had been right. The saffron-robed monks milling along the street were everywhere, and a few women too, though they were dressed from head to toe in faded pink.
‘Nuns,’ Gloria said, clearly not impressed. ‘Buddhist monks and nuns. Though the nuns are fairly rare.’
Gloria went on to tell her the Strand had been the first area to be developed by the British and, together with the block at Phayre Street, was the best business address to be had. Belle didn’t really care. There would be time to explore later. All she wanted now was a long cold drink and to feel solid ground beneath her feet.
‘You’ll like Phayre Street,’ Gloria added. ‘Named after the first Commissioner of Burma. Runs along the river just like the Strand. It’s lined with beautiful rain trees and, more importantly, it’s where one finds all the jewellers and silk merchants.’
Belle didn’t speak, but ran a hand across her brow where beads of sweat were already dripping from her hairline.
‘Here we are,’ Gloria was saying as the drive came to an end and the driver pulled up in front of an elegant portico with a large palm tree growing resplendently on either side. ‘But, heavens almighty, let’s dive beneath a fan.’
Two silent porters came to fetch their cases and when they reached the massive glass doors a turbaned doorman bowed and held them open. Inside, the lobby was high ceilinged and refreshingly cool.
‘I love to see the river shimmering through the tall bamboo opposite the hotel,’ Gloria said as she turned to face the doors. ‘Look.’
Belle looked.
‘I suspect you’ll be in one of the small back rooms in the new extension or in the attic. One hears talk that they might cover the swimming pool to build more rooms, you know, but it hasn’t happened yet, and I hope it won’t.’
She drew out a packet of Lambert and Butler cigarettes from her crocodile-skin handbag and offered one to Belle.
Belle touched her throat. ‘I can’t. My voice. I have to protect it.’
‘Of course. Silly me.’ Gloria paused. ‘Word of warning. I’d keep away from the harbour and the narrow streets along the riverfront, especially after dark. It’s where the Chinese live in an absolute maze of hidden alleyways. One takes one’s life in one’s hands.’
A short, rather stolid and officious-looking man with a pencil moustache and florid complexion marched over to welcome Gloria.
‘Mrs de Clemente,’ he said, with an obsequious bow, and speaking in what seemed to be a northern accent he was attempting to disguise. ‘And your lovely guest. My apologies for intruding but if your companion requires assistance I can book her in straight away.’ He turned to smile at Belle.
‘Oh no,’ Belle said, keen to put right his misconception. ‘I’m not a hotel guest, I’m a performer. Singer, in fact.’
His jaw stiffened and, ignoring Belle, he addressed Gloria. ‘As you are no doubt aware, Mrs de Clemente, there is a separate servants’ entrance. I would respectfully ask your companion to use it.’
Gloria’s eyebrows shot up and she gave him a gracious but icy smile. ‘But, Mr Fowler, Miss Hatton is not a servant. As a performer and, I might add, as a personal friend of mine, she has certain rights. I shall expect to hear they have been adhered to.’ She spun on her heels dismissively and stalked over to the reception desk.
Fowler had turned an even brighter red and, glaring at Belle, hissed that she should follow him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, guessing the short interaction was not going to help.
After he’d led her away from the lobby, he stopped and drew himself up to his full height. ‘I’m sure you will be able to find a way to make it up to me. Remember, I am the assistant manager and, as such, you answer to me.’
As he’d been speaking Belle had willed herself not to smile at his excessively mobile eyebrows. Eyebrows that might at a moment’s notice strut off and demand a life of their own. She could tell he was a man who would not take kindly to being a figure of fun and managed not to giggle.
His smile was taut. ‘I make it my business to have eyes in the back of my head. All seeing is what I am. And may I say you don’t seem to be the typical performing type.’
She shrugged.
‘So where are you from? Home counties?’
‘Cheltenham.’
‘Same difference. Well, I don’t know how you’ll get on with the other girls. Most of them come from the East End of London. I hope you don’t consider yourself too good for the job.’
She frowned. ‘Others?’
‘The dancers.’ He raised his brows and gave her a look. ‘Airs and graces won’t get you far here.’
‘I hope I can manage to fit in,’ she said, wanting him to go and pleased when he took a step away.
‘Well, I can’t waste any more time chatting,’ he muttered, and with that he turned a corner, took her up three flights of a narrow staff staircase and then stopped outside the first of four painted white doors lining a dark corridor. ‘This is you,’ he said and handed her a key. ‘You’ll be sharing with Rebecca.’
Sharing? Her spirits dipped a little bit. But then, she thought, it might turn out to be fun.