“Oh, Miss Khin Myo, you don’t need to do that.”
“What?”
“Wash my clothes.”
“Who will wash your clothes if I don’t?”
“I don’t know, it’s just that—”
She interrupted him. “Look! Captain Nash-Burnham is here.”
He saw the Captain rounding the corner. “Hello!” he shouted. He was wearing mess dress: a scarlet shell jacket, a mess waistcoat, blue trousers. A sword hung from his waist.
“Hello, Mr. Drake! Hope you don’t mind a stroll. The carriage was needed for some of the less vigorous guests!” He walked into the yard and looked at Khin Myo. “Ma Khin Myo,” he said, bowing with a flourish. “Aaah, you smell lovely.”
“I smell like cleaning soap.”
“If only roses could bathe in such a soap.”
Here at last, thought Edgar, is the man who called the Irrawaddy a shimmering serpent.
The Commissioner’s residence was twenty minutes on foot from the house. As they walked, the Captain tapped his fingers on his scabbard. “How did you enjoy your morning, Mr. Drake?”
“Well, Captain, very well. I went on a most charming walk with Miss Khin Myo. She is unusual for a Burmese woman, isn’t she? They are all so shy. And she speaks beautiful English.”
“She is very impressive. Did she tell you how she learned?”
“No, I didn’t ask, I didn’t want to pry.”
“That is kind of you, Mr. Drake, although I don’t think she would mind telling you. But I appreciate your discretion. You wouldn’t believe all the problems I have had with other guests. She is very beautiful.”
“She is. Many of the women are. If only I were a young man again.”
“Well, be careful. You wouldn’t be the first Englishman to fall in love and never go home. Sometimes I think that the only reason we seek new colonies is for their girls. Let me be the one to warn you to stay away from matters of love.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Edgar protested. “I have a dear wife in London.” The Captain looked at him askance. Edgar laughed, But I am telling the truth, I do miss Katherine even now.
They followed a fence that enclosed a broad lawn surrounding a stately mansion. At the entrance to the driveway an Indian in a police uniform stood guard. Captain Nash-Burnham nodded at him and he opened the gate. They walked up a long path where several horses stood harnessed to carriages.
“Welcome, Mr. Drake,” said Nash-Burnham. “It should be a bearable afternoon if we survive lunch and the requisite poetry reading. We will be able to play some cards once the ladies retire. We are a bit jaundiced with one another, but we do manage to get along. Just pretend that you are back in England.” He paused. “But first some advice: don’t talk to Mrs. Hemmington about anything Burmese. She has some unpleasant views on what she calls ‘the Nature of Brown Races,’ which are embarrassing to many of us. Seems as if only mentioning a temple or Burmese food gets her talking and she won’t stop. Talk to her about London gossip, or crochet, but nothing Burmese.”
“But I know nothing about crochet.”
“Don’t worry. She does.”
They were near the top of the stairs. “And be careful if Colonel Simmons drinks too much. And don’t ask military questions– remember you are a civilian. And one last thing…perhaps I should have told you this first: most of them know why you are here, and they will extend the hospitality due a fellow countryman. But you are not among friends. Please try not to talk about Anthony Carroll.”
They were met at the door by a tall Sikh butler. The Captain greeted him. “Pavninder Singh, my good man, how are you today?”
“Fine, sahib, fine,” he smiled.
Nash-Burnham handed him his sword. “Pavninder, this is Mr. Drake.” He motioned to Edgar.
“The piano tuner?”
The Captain laughed, his hand on his belly. “Pavninder is an accomplished musician himself. He is a wonderful tabla player.”
“Oh, sahib, you are too generous!”
“Quiet, and stop calling me sahib, you know I hate that. I know music. There are thousands of Indians in Her Majesty’s service in Upper Burma, and you play the finest tabla of any of them. You should see the local girls swoon over him, Mr. Drake. Perhaps the two of you can play a duet if Mr. Drake is in town long enough.”
Now it was Edgar’s turn to protest. “Actually, Captain, I am quite unskilled on the piano—at playing, that is. I only tune and repair.”
“Nonsense, you both are too modest. Regardless, pianos seem to be quite a sore subject at the present time, so you have been spared. Pavninder, have they started lunch yet?”
“Soon, sir. You are just in time.”
He led them into a room crowded with officers and their wives, gin and gossip. He was right, I am back in London, thought Edgar, They have even imported the Atmosphere.
Nash-Burnham was forging a path between two rather large and tipsy women in flowing muslin, each decorated with a cascade of sashes that perched like butterflies on the slopes of their dresses. He placed his hand on a large and dimpled elbow, Mrs. Winterbottom, how are you? Introductions, Mr. Drake?
They moved slowly about the party, the Captain leading Edgar through the eddies of chatter with the intensity of a boatman, his face shifting rapidly between a look of caution as he scanned the room and a wide engaging grin when he pulled one powdered matron or another from their circles to introduce the tuner with a soliloquy, Lady Aston, My Dear, I haven’t seen you since the Commissioner’s Party in March, My Dear you do look so Lovely tonight, Was it the month in Maymyo, Yes? See I knew! Well, I must bring myself to travel there again soon, Not much fun for a bachelor, though, Too peaceful! But soon, soon, I must visit, Wait, let me introduce you to a visitor, Mr. Drake from London. A pleasure to meet you, Lady Aston. And you too, I do miss London dreadfully. Myself as well, madam, and I have only been away one month. Really? You have just arrived, well welcome, I must introduce you to my husband, Alistair? Alistair, meet Mr. Drick, recently arrived from London. A tall man with Dundreary whiskers held out his hand, My pleasure, Mr. Drick…Mr. Drake, actually, Lord Aston, It is a pleasure. Even I know Dundreary whiskers are long out of fashion in London, he thought.
Moving. I would like you to meet Mr. Edgar Drake, recently arrived from London. Mr. Drake, this is Miss Hoffnung, perhaps one of the craftiest whist hands in Upper Burma. Oh, Major, you flatter me, Don’t believe anything he tells you, Mr. Drake. Mrs. Sandilands, Mr. Drake. Mrs. Partridge, this is Edgar Drake from London. Mr. Drake, this is Mrs. Partridge, this is Mrs. Pepper.
“What part of London are you from, Mr. Drake?”
“Do you play lawn tennis?”
“What is your business in London, Mr. Drake?”
“Franklin Mews, near Fitzroy Square. And, no, I don’t know how to play lawn tennis, Mrs. Partridge.”
“Pepper.”
“My dearest apologies, I still don’t know how to play lawn tennis, Mrs. Pepper.”
Laughing. “Fitzroy Square, that is near the Oxford Music Hall, right, Mr. Drake?”
“Indeed, it is.”
“You sound as if you know it. You’re not a musician, are you, Mr. Drake?”
“No, not really, peripherally associated, you might say…”
“Ladies, enough questions for Mr. Drake. I think he is quite tired.”
They stopped in a corner of the room, sheltered from the crowd by the broad back of a tall officer dressed in tartan. The Captain took a swift sip of gin.
“I hope you are not exhausted by the conversation.”
“No, I will manage. I am amazed, though, it is all so…reproduced. ”
“Well, I hope you enjoy it. It should be a fine afternoon. The cook is a chap from Calcutta, they say one of the finest in India. I don’t come to these functions regularly, but it is a special day. I expect you will feel right at home.”
“At home…” and Edgar almost added, As much as I feel at home, at home. But a gong sounded in the hall, and the crowd moved into the dining room.
After grace, lunch began. Edgar was seated across from Major Dougherty, an obese man who laughed and wheezed and asked Edgar about his journey, and made jokes about the state of river steamships. At his left, Mrs. Dougherty, powdered and spindly, asked him if he followed British politics, and Edgar answered obliquely by recounting some news about ongoing preparations for the Queen’s Jubilee. When she persisted, the Major interrupted her after several minutes, chuckling, “Oh, my dear, I imagine one reason Mr. Drake came to Burma was to escape British politics! Right, Mr. Drake?” Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Dougherty, who settled back into her soup, content with what little she had pried from the visitor, and Edgar tensed briefly because the question, like a tightrope dancer, had tottered somewhat close to the real reason he had come to Burma. On his right, Mrs. Remington jumped in to scold the Major for laughing about such matters, “It wasn’t idle talk, no, as British subjects, we must know such things, for the mail here comes so late, and how is the Queen now, and I heard that Lady Hutchings had contracted consumption; was that before or after the London Fancy Dress Ball?” “After.” “Well that is fortunate, not for Lady Hutchings, but for the Ball, after all it is so lovely, and how I wish I had been there,” and some of the other ladies twittered and then began a conversation about the last society ball each had attended, and Edgar sat back and began to eat.