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About the Author

Dinah Jefferies was born in Malaysia and moved to England at the age of nine. Her idyllic childhood always held a special place in her imagination, and when she began writing novels in her sixties, she was able to return there - first in her fiction and then on annual research trips for each new novel. Dinah Jefferies is the author of five novels, The Separation, The Tea Planter’s Wife - a No.1 Sunday Times bestseller, The Silk Merchant’s Daughter, Before the Rains and The Sapphire Widow. She lives in Gloucestershire.

By the same author

The Separation

The Tea Planter’s Wife

The Silk Merchant’s Daughter

Before the Rains

The Sapphire Widow

1.

Rangoon, Burma, 1936

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.

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.

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