2.

It was the next morning before Belle met her room-mate. As she had lain in bed the night before, waiting for the girl to turn up, she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, only lurching awake when the sound of buzzing roused her. Eager to start her new life, she sat bolt upright and stared at the window where a couple of gigantic flies – at least she thought they were flies – were batting at the glass angrily. Without any qualms, she threw back the thin cover, swung her legs to the floor and leant across to open the window.

The small attic room was painted off-white and furnished with two single beds – one, beneath the small window she’d just opened, was clearly already reserved. So, Belle had slept in the other. A single chest of drawers, a small desk and one wardrobe constituted the rest of the furniture. But when she’d pulled open the wardrobe door to hang some of her own things, she’d found it jam-packed with her room-mate’s clothes.

At a washbasin in the corner she splashed her face and hoped her pale skin would not turn into a mass of freckles in the harsh Burmese sunshine. Her compelling looks – sea-glass-green eyes, symmetrical oval face, wide mouth and straight nose – meant she stood out from the crowd and that had served her well when she’d auditioned for this job. Still in her nightdress, she brushed her hair, probably her best feature, and thought of her mother’s hair, a bit darker than her own, though Belle couldn’t say how true her memory was. It had been so long.

Now, while her room-mate was still absent, Belle opened the wardrobe again, wondering if her clothes might give an insight into the girl’s character. There was an awful lot of shiny red silk and she pulled out a skimpy dress to take a closer look.

The door flew open and someone burst in.

Belle twisted round to see a blonde girl of medium height, who stood with hands on hips just inside the room, glaring at her.

‘Like it, do you?’ the girl said.

‘Yes. It’s nice,’ Belle replied and, determined not to be put off by the girl’s hostile attitude, she gave her a broad smile.

‘Nice? It’s bloody lovely. Saved a whole month for it, so if you don’t mind I’d prefer you kept your mitts off.’

Belle hesitated. ‘Sorry. I …’

The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘Best get things straight from the start.’

‘Yes, of course. I was only wondering where I’d hang my things.’

The girl glanced at Belle’s enormous trunk. ‘Blimey, did you bring the kitchen sink an’ all?’

Belle shrugged. ‘My father’s,’ she muttered pointlessly.

‘Rebecca,’ the girl said, and held out her hand.

Belle shook it. ‘Annabelle … everyone calls me Belle.’

‘I’m a dancer,’ Rebecca added. ‘There are four of us.’

Belle nodded and took in the girl’s dishevelled appearance – smudged make-up framing large blue eyes, an upturned nose, full lips painted red and a clinging cotton dress doing little to conceal a voluptuous figure.

‘You must be the new singer. I hope you can bloody sing. The last one was right useless, always crying, miserable as sin and light-fingered too. Up and effin’ left, taking my favourite earrings with her.’

‘Was she homesick?’

‘What do I know, or care? Hope you’re not a whinger too.’ She paused and searched Belle’s face as if for signs of feebleness. ‘First time away from home?’

‘No. I’ve lived in Paris and London.’

The girl nodded. ‘So, where you from then?’

‘West Country. Cheltenham.’

‘Posh.’

Belle sighed. Was it always to be like this? Perhaps she should have lied and claimed Birmingham instead. She’d worked there briefly.

‘You got family?’ Rebecca asked.

Belle shook her head.

‘You’re lucky. Our house is crawling with kids and I’m the eldest. Course I love ’em all, but I couldn’t wait to get away.’

‘Maybe they’ll come and visit?’

Rebecca laughed. ‘Not likely. Haven’t got the cash. Poor as church mice.’

‘Ah.’

‘Anyway, as long as you don’t interfere in what I do. Your predecessor came from Solihull, thought she was better than the rest of us. If there’s one thing I can’t abide … Anyway, I need to get some kip now. You goin’ out?’

‘I was rather hoping to unpack.’

‘Rather hoping, were you?’ she said, mimicking Belle’s accent. ‘Well, jolly dee. Now give me a few hours with my head down and do it after.’

‘Fine, but I need to wash and get dressed before I can go out.’

The girl merely shrugged.

‘I waited up for you,’ Belle said. ‘It seemed a bit rude to go to sleep without having met. Where did you get to last night?’

Rebecca tapped the side of her nose. ‘Least you know, less likely you’ll be telling tales.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake …’

‘Not a goody two-shoes then?’

Belle bristled. ‘Of course not.’

‘We’ll see. Bathroom’s opposite. But you need to get in early. All five of us share it and the hot water runs out.’

Belle choked in surprise as a foot-long lizard with a wriggling tail suddenly ran up the wall and behind the wardrobe while making a strange inhuman sound.

Rebecca laughed. ‘They live indoors and keep you awake at night. We see insects inside too, larger than at home, and maybe the odd squirrel.’

‘Inside the room?’

Rebecca simply tugged off her dress and, leaving it in a heap on the floor, slid into bed in her underwear. Scarcely a moment later, as Belle was about to open the door and head towards the bathroom, the girl raised her head.

‘Bloody lovely hair you’ve got, an’ I bet it’s natural, that red in it,’ she said, and then she turned over and faced the other way.

Belle smiled to herself. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad sharing with Rebecca after all.

The day before, soon after she’d arrived, Mr Fowler, bursting with self-importance, had given her a tour of the hotel. From the grand entrance hall with its mirrored walls, dark leather sofas, polished hardwood floors and glass coffee tables, he’d led her through to the plush dining rooms. Pale-pink silk lamps dotted the room and paintings of Burma decorated the walls, alongside portraits of dignified white men and their bejewelled women. The tables were already laid with crisp damask tablecloths.

She’d murmured her admiration volubly enough to satisfy him, and in truth she really was impressed, and more than happy to be working there. He’d shown her more of the place, telling her the hotel had been totally renovated in 1927. ‘Of course, I wasn’t here then.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Not long,’ he’d said, brushing her question aside and continuing, ‘We’re the most comfortable, up-to-date hotel in Rangoon – we even have our own post office and a jewellery shop owned by I. A. Hamid and Co.’

A prettily dressed room followed which, he’d told her, served as the breakfast room, doubling later for afternoon tea. She’d glanced at the wicker chairs and dainty place settings. It was nice, she’d thought, with a more relaxed atmosphere than the grand dining room. They were famous for their afternoon teas, he’d said, with a note of pride in his voice.

‘There are sometimes cakes left over for the staff,’ he’d added, smiling magnanimously, as if leftover cake had been bestowed by him alone.

The storerooms came next, then a large high-ceilinged kitchen opened on to a small room where the staff took their meals, and finally they’d ended up where the Strand concert hall had been built behind the annexe, with a girls’ changing room and a small garden behind it.

‘We used to rely on visiting orchestras, dancers and singers. A resident band and performers are a recent thing. We’ve yet to see if things really work out.’

‘Is it only the English who come here?’

He’d nodded, then added, ‘Well, and the Scots. A lot of Scots.’

‘And what about the people who work here? All British?’

‘Course not. We have Indian kitchen boys and you’ve seen the doorman.’

‘No Burmese?’

He’d shaken his head. ‘The Burman – the menial class, I mean – does not like to work.’

‘At all?’

‘For us.’

‘Oh.’

‘There are plenty of the more educated Burmese in governmental departments.’

Here, as in the main building, the public areas were extraordinarily lavish. Once they were back in the entrance hall she’d pointed at the velvety carpeting of the wide staircase sweeping up to the floors above, but he’d shaken his head. ‘Guest bedrooms, suites and lounges,’ he’d said. ‘No need for you to go up there.’ And she had immediately longed to see.

Catching the curious look on her face, he’d pushed open a swing door leading to a dark corridor. After they had gone through he’d taken her right hand in his and placed his other hand on her left shoulder. She’d squirmed out of his hold as he tried to push her back a little. ‘It’s possible for the right girl to see an unoccupied bedroom from time to time, you know, between guests, if you get my drift. Are you one of the right girls, Miss Hatton?’

She’d stepped away from him. ‘I doubt it, Mr Fowler.’

He’d inclined his head and narrowed his eyes slightly before saying, ‘Well, we shall see, shan’t we.’

She wasn’t worried. There had been men like him before.

Now, with a day to herself, ostensibly so she could settle in and generally stake out her bearings before a busy rehearsal the next day, she decided to explore the town. As she came out of the hotel, she nodded at the turbaned doorman and blinked as the haze of dust in the air stung her eyes. She passed the offices of a shipping agent, followed by an ornate red post office, but then, changing her mind, turned back on herself and headed in another direction.

She inhaled the heavy air, bursting with mysterious Eastern scents. What could smell so aromatic, she wondered? Then she paused, listening to temple bells ringing from every direction. In the street, the swarm of rickshaws, bicycles, automobiles and pedestrians forced her to frequently dodge out of the way. Judging by the differing languages she heard – possibly Hindustani as well as Burmese and, of course, English – a broad mix of races lived here. The Indians looked busy and vigorous, the Chinese anxious to sell you their wares, but it was the Burmese who enchanted her. The men smoked cheroots and tilted their heads at her as she passed, and the women, dressed in immaculate pink silky clothing, were tiny and doll-like in their beauty. They wore their hair tightly coiled and decorated with a flower at one side, but she was surprised to see they had painted their faces with some thick yellow stuff. Charmed by the sweetness of their smiles, she grinned back at them. She was fascinated to see that men and women all wore skirts with short jackets – she’d already found out the skirt was called a longyi – although the women’s version was more bunched at the waist. She also noticed the men generally wore pink turbans while the women often seemed to drape a gauzy silk shawl around their shoulders.

Further on a faint odour of drains mingled with the distinctive spicy aromas stemming from the various stalls and traders. She stood at a crossroads and listened to the iron-tyred wheels of the horse-drawn gharries, no more than old-fashioned boxes on wheels for hire, and marvelled at the way past and present coexisted in these streets. After a moment she turned left into Merchant Street.

All along the Strand Road, and beyond, evidence of British building dominated the town, but Belle was yearning for something more thrilling than these monuments to colonialism. She turned right, passing the ornate high court building, where she believed her father must have worked, then she turned again and, with a sharp intake of air, saw what she’d been looking for. This had to be the one they called the Sule Pagoda, smaller than the Shwedagon Pagoda she’d seen from the ship. Delighted to have come across this shining golden apparition in the centre of downtown Rangoon, surrounded by the bustle and noise of everyday life, she stopped to look. The receptionist at the hotel had informed her it was 2,200 years old and had always been at the centre of the city’s social activity.

As she stared, the gold sparkled and shimmered seductively but, dizzied by the scorching heat, she glanced about. She hadn’t remembered a hat or an umbrella, and as the flies buzzed around her face she batted them away and looked for somewhere to have a drink. The tea stands lining the streets looked none too savoury, so where? She looked again and spotted Gloria coming out of Rowe and Co., a large cream and red department store with a corner tower, curved top-floor balconettes and ornate windows. Belle called and waved.