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CHAPTER ONE

Mikey Zakharkin sat back in the open jeep, his young face raised and soaking up the sun. He was singing at the top of his voice, the words competing with the noise of the engine and only slightly more mellifluous.

Love is the greatest thing

The oldest yet, the latest thing

I only hope that fate may bring

Love’s story to you.

The way he felt this morning, he reckoned that if he was running alongside the speeding jeep he could outstrip it. On either side of the dusty, potholed road, paddy fields stretched into the distance behind a screen of tall, wispy trees. With the rains long gone, the earth was dry and the rice gently billowed in great golden waves like wheat.

With the last verse complete, he grinned at nothing in particular for a mile. Then, rather than start into another Al Bowlly song, he began all over again. Love is the sweetest thing...

He was filled with the sort of joy that comes from being young and strong and on the brink of a great adventure.

He relished the shuttle-run from the airfield at Mingaladon to the docks in downtown Rangoon. It was twelve miles of pure heaven; never more so than on mornings like this. He was driving as he had seen The Ace do up at Toungoo when the American Volunteer Group was new to the country and doing their initial training in central Burma.

The Ace had a way of draping himself across a jeep like an old coat before shoving in the gears and letting rip. He would drive with his left leg hanging out of the side, the foot resting on the mud flap, and seldom used more than one hand on the wheel. This left the other free for whatever purpose seemed most appropriate, sometimes to assist with the steering, but usually to hang over the back of the adjacent seat regardless of who was in it, be it general, crewman, or girl.

Sometimes he would use it to throw candy to the kids of whichever village he happened to be passing through. He always kept a box-full on the floor and had become well-known in the Toungoo area where the British had leant them the Kyedaw airstrip. At the sound of the motor, kids would come rushing out from all over, laughing and shouting if they saw The Ace sprawled across his jeep, a trail of candy flying in all directions. If it was anyone else they would jump up and down in protest, grinning all the while they threw sticks and stones.

Mikey had mastered the slouch, but the first time he had put his spare arm across the back of the passenger seat Big Fat Dutch had been sitting in it. He had just looked at it once, then at Mikey, and Mikey had never tried it again. The reason wasn’t hard to guess. The Ace had been shooting down Japs since ‘38 when Colonel Claire Chennault had taken his first batch of mercenary pilots into Yunnan to fly for the Chinese. He was a star, a pro, quite simply The Ace. Mikey on the other hand was the squadron clerk.

He had been lucky to get into the AVG in the first place. When it was decided early in 1941 to raise a proper formation rather than the rough happy-go-lucky outfit that had existed before, Chennault and his recruiters had gone to the top. With the blessing of Roosevelt himself they had scoured the best of the Army, Navy and Marine pilots and ground crew. Shipping out of San Francisco, Mikey’s home town, they had sailed via Honolulu, the Solomons and Singapore, arriving at Rangoon in July and the AVG had been born.

Mikey had been working in the office of the San Francisco Herald at the time and had gone along with a senior reporter to cover one of the recruit briefings at the Bellevue Hotel. From that moment it had been the conversion of Saul on the road to Damascus. He just knew he had to go with them. Colonel Chennault had looked at him like he had crawled out from under a rock when he said he was training to be a newspaper man. But Mikey could be pretty persuasive when he set his mind to it, and after a few hours of wrangling and a number of beers, he had found himself with the job as clerk. Ever since he was a kid he had dreamed of being a fighter pilot, and if squadron clerk wasn’t exactly the same thing, it was good enough for now.

There was another reason behind his eagerness to sign up, one that he was less ready to admit to. Oddly enough it was homesickness, because although Mikey had been raised in San Francisco he had been born in China. Listening to the talk in the hotel, he had become steadily more interested as Colonel Chennault outlined the plan for the AVG to operate out of their old base in the southern Chinese province of Yunnan. That had clinched it for Mikey. His heart had skipped a beat and his ears had started to burn. He was going home. Even if Yunnan was a long way from the International Settlement of Shanghai where he had lived with his parents, it was at least in the right country.

He often remembered his life there, the comforts suffused with the glow of childhood memories, and in sharp contrast with his subsequent youth in depression-hit California. His roots were exotic, if a little entwined. His father had been Colonel Alexander Zakharkin, an officer in the Imperial Army of Tsar Nicholas until the Bolshevik Revolution had brought the whole edifice tumbling down. The Colonel had fought on with the White Russians for four years of bloody civil war, but at last, acknowledging defeat, had fled to China and settled in the prosperous trading city of Shanghai at the mouth of the Yangtse River. His decision finally to abandon the struggle and escape from the war had mainly been due to his wife’s announcement that she was expecting a baby. So, in the mid-summer of 1921, the exiled Russian community of Shanghai gathered at the house of Alexander and Katarina Zakharkin to celebrate the birth of little Mikhail.

Mikey’s memories of his early childhood in the International Settlement were of a golden era. His father had managed to escape with enough of the family wealth to ensure a lifestyle of modest luxury. Mikey’s mother, Katarina, had hosted numerous parties and the little family had counted among their friends several members of the exiled nobility.

But Alexander had grown anxious. The countryside was in turmoil as local warlords carved out huge fiefdoms with their private armies, and in the cities he saw with dismay all the signs of corruption, poverty and decay that had preceded the revolution in Russia. He determined to leave with his wife and young son before becoming embroiled once again in the downfall of a rotten empire. Impressed by all that he had seen there of the American businesses which operated with an efficiency that contrasted well with the hide-bound traditionalism of their colonial European counterparts, he determined to travel to the promised land of America. There he would work hard, invest wisely and provide a secure foundation for his son’s future.

And so might it have been. But it was 1929 when they stepped off the ship in San Francisco. Had their arrival been delayed by a few months, Alexander could have avoided the investments into which he immediately plunged all his money, just in time for the Wall Street Crash to wipe out the lot. Colonel Alexander Zakharkin was a proud man and a professional soldier, better-equipped to confront an enemy cavalry charge than the horrors of poverty that now closed around him. Devastated by his inability to support his family, he kissed his wife and son one evening when retiring to bed, withdrew instead to the small study of their rented house, and shot himself through the mouth with his revolver.

Fortunately for the eight year old Mikhail, Katarina Zakharkin had been better able to adapt to their new circumstances, however foreign. The sale of her jewellery and every remaining asset they possessed, had provided a vital breathing-space in which she had established herself as a teacher of her several languages to a variety of clients, ranging from the daughters of wealthy American families, to businessmen with interests in the relevant countries and, in some cases, in Katarina Zakharkin herself.

Shrewd and clear-sighted, she had avoided the pitfall of clinging to her status as wronged exile, and rapidly set about the Americanisation of her son. Mikhail became first Michael, briefly Mike, and finally Mikey – never Mickey which she hated - and as the passing years drew him ever further from his inauspicious start in the New World, he left behind all trace of his tangled roots, replacing them with the solid growth of an all-American youth. Life was never easy for either of them. Mikey was obliged to leave school early and, following the trail of a gift with words and an insatiable curiosity that sought to discover all the world’s secrets, landed the job in the newspaper office. But he had never forgotten China which continued to beckon with the same allure as his happy childhood, a Siren-call for a return to the golden age.

As a step on the homewards path, Burma was a welcome port of call. In every other respect it came as a regrettable delay. He had arrived in the country in mid-summer at the height of the monsoon and within minutes of stepping off the ship, had been soaked in his first downpour. Looking back on the months that had followed, it seemed that he had been dripping with sweat or rain throughout the whole period that the Group had been at Toungoo.

At last the rain had tailed off and stopped in October, giving way to the cooler, dry winter season. With the training almost complete and the redeployment of the Group to Yunnan imminent, a further setback to his plan had occurred. Following the success of the surprise attacks on Pearl Harbour, Malaya, and other targets throughout the Far East, Colonel Chennault had been quick to see that the Japanese would next turn their attention to cutting the last supply route into China. All of the ports along the Chinese coast and in Indo-China were already in Japanese hands and the forces of General Chiang Kai-shek were being starved into submission. The Burma Road provided their last thin trickle of vital supplies. Shipped into Rangoon, weapons, ammunition, equipment and food were taken north by rail as far as the town of Lashio and then trucked all the way over the tortuous seven hundred miles of mountain and ravine that straddled the border between Burma and China. If the Japanese could sever this, China could be knocked out of the war altogether, releasing tens of thousands of Japanese troops for use elsewhere in their ambitious programme of conquest.

So it was that when the AVG finally vacated their Toungoo airstrip in mid-December, only the “Adam and Eves” of the First Squadron and the “Panda Bears” of the Second flew north to Kunming. The “Hells Angels” of the Third Squadron went south instead, with the task of assisting in the defence of Rangoon, moving into the Mingaladon air base alongside the obsolete Brewster Buffalo fighters of the Royal Air Force. To his helpless disgust Mikey had been sent with them.

He had settled in as best he could, finding compensation in the daily shuttle-runs to the docks where one of his jobs was to check on the arrival of spare parts and supplies for the Group. It was good to be out by himself, hurtling through the countryside in his jeep like The Ace. But while this went some way to softening his disappointment, he still regretted his missed appointment with China. Until The Sweetest Thing had happened. Mikey Zakharkin had fallen in love.

He had met her in the Silver Grill where all the guys from the AVG hung out. The evening he first saw her had been pretty tame compared to most, partly because the other two squadrons were busy preparing to leave for Kunming. Mikey had seen a girl come in with a group of friends and had watched them take a seat and order drinks. Unlike her companions who made it obvious by their giggling that they were not supposed to be there, she had breezed in as bold as brass. A cream coloured dress clung tightly to her slim sinuous figure, her blond hair tumbling carelessly to her shoulders where the ends had been curled inwards by long efforts with brush and comb. Even from where he sat Mikey could see that her eyes were blue, and beneath a slender aristocratic nose her lips were full and smiling. Later on he had managed to speak to her and they had ended up sitting together and talking for the best part of an hour. She had that strong English accent that he had last heard in Shanghai and he had soon decided that he loved everything about her. By the time she left the club that evening he knew he would suffer all the pains of hell before he could see her again.

Since then, his trips into Rangoon had taken on an altogether new perspective, the lure of his beloved adding to the blizzard of colours and exotic, unfamiliar sights that made Asia such a place of magic and splendour for Mikey. Not that he got to see the girl much. She seemed strangely secretive, meeting him only furtively at the Silver Grill. But all that was about to change with the approach of Christmas, for with a great sense of ritual that was not lost on the son of a Tsarist Russian Colonel, she had invited Mikey home to meet her family. It would be wonderful, they both agreed as they chatted, and Mikey was unable and unwilling to ward off the daydream whispering to him that perhaps it might even be like the ones he remembered as a boy in Shanghai. He could hardly wait.

He was still thinking about the Christmas daydream when his jeep reached the outskirts of Rangoon and he sat up at last with both hands on the wheel in preparation for the thickening onslaught of people and animals in front of him. He was so absorbed by it as he hurtled alongside the sprawling Inya Lake, that he almost missed his turning at the south-western corner. Starting into full consciousness, he tugged the wheel over and swung the jeep into a sharp left-hand turn that sent the tyres skidding in a spray of grit and dust. He shifted in his seat and settled into a more comfortable position. Imitation was all very well, but only if you didn’t have to work at it too hard. Besides, driving like The Ace gave him a crick in the back.

A toddler, naked from the waist down, raced out of a tea shop and with all his concentrated might, lobbed nothing in particular at the jeep. Further on, a group of boys stood around a brick water tank like marsh birds, their long thin legs ending in giant flip-flops. The flowing material of their sarong-like longyis had been gathered and tucked in at the waist in bright puffs of chequered cotton, and they laughed, chattered and gasped as they ladled the tank’s murky contents over their heads with huge tin pots.

The road leaned gently into a curve and a moment later Mikey brought the jeep to a halt and sat back in contemplation of the sight before him. Rising out of the mess of buildings and treetops, seemingly weightless on the Singuttara Hill, the Shwedagon pagoda thrust its unashamed wealth of gold at the sky. Too many to count, the pinnacles caught the morning light and flung it in a brilliant haze upon the city beneath, while from the heart of the glittering forest, the perfect form of the central stupa held aloft its single spire, clothed in gold and tipped with precious gems.

The first time he had seen it Mikey had felt his jaw drop. The Ace had been with him then and had laughed his socks off having seen the temple for himself back in ‘38. But then nothing impressed The Ace, neither Jap Zeros nor “that hunk of tin” as he called the Shwedagon. To Mikey it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and a foretaste, he felt sure, of the even greater wonders that awaited him in China.

On that first occasion there had been no time to stop. Along with the other new arrivals, Mikey had been bundled into the waiting trucks, taken to the station, and then straight up to Toungoo. But all the way out of town he had craned his neck to keep sight of the golden spire, mesmerised as the train looped round the east side of the Royal Lake, starting on its hundred and fifty mile run northwards up the Sittang River valley.

Knowing he would have a chance to visit the pagoda had helped to soften the blow when he had first learnt that he wouldn’t be going up to Yunnan. The Ace had already left in the advance party, flying up with the paint still wet on his P40 Tomahawk freshly uncrated at the docks and assembled. Big Fat Dutch and Willem had gone too, though by the land route with the trucks, up to Lashio then all the way up and over the mountains by the Burma Road to Kunming, God help them. For Mikey there had been the pagoda and, though he hadn’t known it at the time, his girl from the Silver Grill.

This morning the stupa looked as beautiful as ever, even though he had missed the best of the early light. The trick was to catch it at sunrise as he had done the previous week when he had driven to the far side of the Royal Lake and waited. It was the best time of day to be about; everywhere was still moist, the city easing out of the night like a new-born calf from its mother, a bit hazy, bewildered and punch-drunk with the discovery of life. Then the sun had come up. Mikey had stood with his back to the east, facing the temple, and as the first shafts of light reached across the emptiness of space to touch, as if in blessing, the diamond-studded topmost point of the spire, Mikey felt almost embarrassed to witness their solemn communion. The sun had scoured the earth’s display of treasures, and found its prize on Singuttara Hill.

He checked his watch. He wouldn’t have to be at the docks for well over an hour and if he took the Pagoda Road to the waterfront he could make it in a few minutes. Grinding through the gears, he shot the jeep on again down Windermere Road, crossed over Boundary and drove round to the southern side of Singuttara Hill pulling up opposite the main entrance. So long as he kept an eye on the time he reckoned he could manage another short visit.

Four separate stairways, each of more than a hundred steps, led to the top of the hill, one stairway from each point of the compass. The main one led from the southern side where Mikey had parked, and here it rose out of the Shwedagon Pagoda Road which led straight down into the centre of Rangoon. On festival days there would be a steady stream of visitors winding their way up towards the great stupa.

Two enormous statues flanked the foot of the steps. One was a giant ogre of some kind, and the other a strange mythical beast, half-lion and half-griffin. The Burmese name for it, Mikey had been told, was chinthe. He stooped and unlaced his shoes, adding them to the collection of sandals already there. Then, slipping off his socks, he stuffed them into his jacket pocket and set off on the climb. The marble was cool under his bare feet as he padded up noiselessly. Later on, when the sun got higher, the terrace up above would be almost too hot to walk on, but here the stairway was covered and the roof would keep the marble cool all day.

Lining the stairs, an array of stalls awaited the worshippers and visitors. There were souvenirs, flowers and incense, pens and books of writing paper, candles, fruit, and brightly-painted statues of the nats, the spirits that in the Burmese belief influenced every aspect of daily life. Mikey loved the battery of sights and already knew several of the stall-keepers well enough to exchange a nod and a greeting.

He came out onto the terrace and paused to take in the full splendour of the sight before him. Shrines and pagodas were scattered in every direction, covering a vast area, the golden shape of the main stupa rising from the centre of the splendid confusion. He took a deep breath, the air a mixture of incense and the smells of the city below, and with hands in his pockets, set off on his stroll.

He was happy. His soul had been sand-blasted clean by the drive into town. He could feel a wonderful promise of some kind filling the morning, and the war which had started around the Pacific rim only a few days before seemed a long way off. No doubt things would hot up soon enough, but today there was no sign of it.

Although not able to meet his girl, it would soon be Christmas and then he would be with her again. There was only one problem. The evening that Mikey had met her he had been with The Ace and some of the other pilots, and she had assumed, quite naturally, that he too was a fighter pilot. There was no intentional deception on his part; it was just that he hadn’t found the right moment to set her straight. He was resolved to do so when they next met.

To left and right, gods, kings and spirits loomed from the shadows or sat in the full glare of the sun. Crowned with multi-tiered roofs, pavilions jostled each other for space on top of the sacred hill, and here and there, worshippers knelt at the shrines, or sought to gain merit for the next life by sweeping the marble floor of the terrace with long, slow strokes of their bamboo brooms.

Mikey was rounding a corner, intent on a statue of the Buddha, when he heard someone humming. Looking across the terrace he saw a young English girl kneeling on the marble floor, busying herself with a drawing. In shorts and loose white cotton blouse, she leaned over a large pad of paper, her bare feet neatly folded at the toes. Her soft musical voice was coming from behind a long screen of light brown hair that fell down to conceal whatever was being created underneath. He moved silently to her side and peered over. Instead of the expected statue or shrine he saw a pencil sketch of a large paddle-steamer. Surprised, he leaned closer, casting a shadow on the paper.

The girl turned with a start. “Can I help you?”’

She was flustered and cross. Holding back her hair with one hand she looked up at him, squinting into the sunlight. Her eyes were hazel flecked with green. The bridge of her nose was covered with a spray of freckles and Mikey was again surprised, this time to see that she was only a child.

He took a step back feeling a blush in his cheeks. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” He smiled awkwardly, trying to set her at ease. “I was just passing and I heard you humming.”

The girl turned again to her drawing and slammed the folder shut. She sat back on her heels as she stuffed her work into a leather satchel. Her jaw set in a firm line and she gathered up her pencils. In her haste one of them rolled away across the marble tiles.

“Let me,” Mikey said, stooping to grab it before it disappeared under a nearby doorway. But the girl was already scrabbling after it herself. Halfway there they collided. Mikey’s bare feet skidded on the smooth surface, the girl made a lunging snatch at the pencil and they both went sprawling.

The girl let out a shriek and the line of sweepers on the far side of the terrace paused to look blankly across at the two groping figures.

Mikey sat up clutching his ankle. Opposite him the girl nursed an elbow with the same grimace of pain. “Why can’t you watch what you’re doing?” she snapped.

Mikey flushed again, cross himself now. He had only meant to be friendly. He had seen at the airfield how the English managed to speak to folks as if to subordinates. Some pimply Royal Air Force Lieutenant would quack at him with vowels so round you could spit through them. The guy might be chinless, hollow-chested, knock-kneed and white as a lily, but his arrogance and sense of his own worth could still be Olympian.

In the AVG there were no distinctions of rank. The British had given them a wide berth ever since Dutch had made the point in his own special way. A Flight Lieutenant had called across to Dutch, reminding him ever so nicely that he really ought to salute an officer. Big Fat Dutch had visibly swelled, rolled himself across the tarmac and sent him flying with a blinding upper cut. Colonel Chennault had backed him all the way when the British commander had lodged a complaint. Since then the AVG had been left alone, written off as a pack of no-hopers.

Mikey picked himself up and offered her a hand, suppressing the throb in his ankle and a sense of irritation. “Here,” he said.

The girl pondered his hand for a second before allowing herself to be pulled to her feet, wincing as her elbow took the strain.

“Let me take a look at that,” Mikey said. There was a graze and a small red patch that would darken to a bruise by evening. Letting go of her arm, he forced a smile. “I reckon you’ll live.”

With her good arm the girl picked up her satchel, unprepared for his genial manner. They looked down at the errant pencil snapped clean in two.

“Sorry about that,” Mikey said, and bent down to pick up the two halves. He tried to match the jagged breaks. “There you go.” He held up the finished article which looked as good as new until the top half sagged. “Anyway, why do you come here to draw a paddle-steamer?”

“I started it yesterday and just wanted somewhere quiet to finish it. That’s all.”

Mikey grimaced. “Sorry.”

The girl considered him for a moment. “It’s one of the Irrawaddy steamers.”

“I’ve seen them tied up at the wharves in town,” Mikey said. “Don’t stop now. It’s looking good. I’d hate to keep an artist from her creation.”

She cleared the hair from her face, trying to decide if he was being sincere.

“I mean it,” he assured her. “But you have to do something about the water.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You’ve drawn the paddles blurred to make it look like they’re turning, so if the ferry’s moving, you should have some kind of wake behind the boat. I haven’t done any drawing in a long time, but in school I used to be pretty good, though I say so myself.”

Seeing she was not convinced he added, “It’s true. Give me the pad. I’ll show you.”

Without giving her time to think about it, he reached for her satchel and took out the sketch pad. He searched for a convenient step and settled himself on the warm marble, pulling her down beside him. The gaudy grim face of a statue loomed over them, gazing stonily ahead at something beyond mortal vision. Across the terrace the sweepers continued with their ritual, simultaneously cleansing the marble of dust and their lives of sin.

Mikey folded back the top cover and took a long appraising look at the picture. “You’ve got to rough up the water a bit like this.” He took the business end of the broken pencil, licked the tip and made a few sweeps across the paper. “There we go. I’m still pretty good, aren’t I?” He bit his bottom lip in concentration.

The girl watched doubtfully, screwing up her face as her own delicate lines disappeared beneath Mikey’s bold heavy strokes.

“Gee, this takes me back. I haven’t drawn anything in ages. I’m more of a writer myself. It feels good though. Sort of creative.”

He continued to sketch, stopping after every few strokes to show it to the girl whose responses were ambiguous.

“There you go,” he said at last, less confident than when he had started. “A wake. Kind of.” He handed over the pad and watched her consider his efforts.

“I’ve spoiled it, haven’t I?”

She looked at it thoughtfully. “No,” she said, slowly.

“Wow. That’s the loudest Yes I ever heard.” The girl smiled.

With a sudden convulsive movement, he jumped up from the steps. “Maybe we should start all over again.”

He jogged away a few paces, turned, sank his hands deep in his pockets, and sauntered casually back.

“Well hello there,” he said. “You must be the great temple artist I’ve heard so much about.” He reached out and shook her hand vigorously. “My name’s Mikey Zakharkin. And yours is...?” He cocked an ear towards her.

The girl couldn’t help herself and smiled again. “Hannah.”

“Hannah,” Mikey repeated, surprised to find how perfectly it matched the girl before him. There was something distinctive about her face. The features were soft and finely formed. Her eyes had an expression beyond their years, kindly appraising, but with another quality somewhere between hurt and humour. He judged her to be about fourteen. It was hard to be certain, her expression and confidence belying her narrow shoulders and girlish figure.

He released her hand. Aware of the silence between them, he filled it with an awkward and rambling tale of his journey there that morning, of the things he had seen, of the near misses he had had, and surprised all the while to find himself chatting so uncharacteristically.

As he did so, Hannah got to her feet and dusted off her shorts, the two of them starting to walk slowly back towards the southern stairway as Mikey continued with his tale.

When the story with its peppering of anecdotes had petered out and Mikey was wondering what to say next, they came upon a man kneeling close beside the base of the main stupa, fixing something to the golden wall.

“Do you know what he’s doing?” Hannah challenged.

Mikey did, but from her proud tone he gathered that she hoped he didn’t. He shook his head.

“He’s pasting on small squares of gold leaf. You can buy them in the bazaar coming up the stairway, little books of gold-leaf squares. You must have seen them. Each one’s so thin it’s almost transparent. Look.”

She took him over to the base of the stupa and pointed out that far from being solid gold, the wall was a mass of tiny squares, pasted one on top of the other.

“Well I’ll be!” Mikey exclaimed, watching her watching the man pasting on the squares.

“The more gold you paste on, the more merit you earn. See?”

Mikey leaned forward and scratched at the gold, tiny flakes coming off under his fingernails.

“Don’t do that.” She pulled his hand away. “You’ll go straight to hell now.”

He brushed his nails on his shirt and then had an idea. “Have you seen the wishing-stone?”

“Of course.” Seeing his disappointment she quickly added, “Though not for a while.”

“OK. Let’s make a wish before we go.”

The wish-granting stone was an oracle that was held in the hand while a wish was being made. If the wish was to be granted the stone would seem to grow lighter. Mikey had tried it on an earlier trip when the routine had been explained to him by a monk who found the whole business hilarious. He had been sure he had noticed a change in the weight and had left the pagoda in a jubilant mood, reassured that his wish of soon reaching China was about to be granted. But the very next day he had heard about the Japanese occupation of neighbouring Thailand, of their move up to the Thai-Burmese border, and that consequently the Third Squadron’s stay north of Rangoon was to be extended. He didn’t feel inclined to trust the stone again.

When he mentioned his lack of faith to Hannah, she countered, “You weren’t using it properly. It’s worked for me before. When I was twelve I wished that my parents would buy me a dog.”

“That’s cheating,” Mikey cut in. “All you had to do was ask them.”

“No, wait. I did and they said no. I couldn’t understand it because when I’d made my wish here, the stone really had felt lighter. So my birthday came and there was no dog. I just got all the usual boring things that they thought I’d like. Then, just after dark, we were all sitting down to supper when we heard this whining at the back of the house. My father sent Ramesh to see what it was - Ramesh is our houseboy - and when he came back he said there was this little mongrel at the kitchen. He’d chased it away, but the next morning it was back again.”

Mikey frowned but she continued, waving her arms to reinforce her point. “It’s true! And in the end it was allowed to stay. So you see the stone was right. I got my wish, though not quite in the way I’d asked for it. Isn’t that fantastic?”

“I’ve got to admit that’s powerful medicine. What did you call the mutt?”

“I never got round to it,” she said, her voice faltering, “He was bitten by a snake and died.”

“Oh.” Mikey made an effort to look sombre. “Well have a go anyway. Maybe your luck will last a bit longer this time.”

They came to a brightly-painted pavilion and Mikey hoisted the stone off its stand and onto the girl’s outstretched palms. “OK now, here we go.”

She steadied herself and was about to shut her eyes when she remembered something. “You’re not allowed to watch, and afterwards you mustn’t ask me what I’ve wished for. It has to remain a secret.”

Mikey solemnly crossed himself. “Whatever you say.”

Leaving her to make her wish, he checked his watch and strolled into the pavilion. It was almost time to go. The sun was now well up in the sky and he could feel the first prickles of sweat under his cap. Taking off his leather flying jacket, he slung it over his shoulder and gazed out of a window on the city below, the worn, colonial buildings stretching down to the wharves where he would soon be checking on his ship. It was due in this morning with spares and coolant for the powerful Allison engines of the P-40s. There were also supposed to be some new radio sets, as well as ammunition for the Browning machineguns and even the chance of a couple of complete new planes. If so, he would have to see that they were delivered to the Rangoon branch of the American-owned CAMCO, the Central Aircraft Manufacturing Company, who would unpack and assemble them. The squadron supply officer at Mingaladon would want a complete rundown on everything. With the Japs just over the border in Thailand and already well down the Malay peninsula, the Squadron could expect to be in action at any time.

The sounds of the city seemed far away as he leaned on the sill. He sucked in a deep lungful of air. The chat with the British girl had been diverting. It was strange how folks put up a wall around themselves to shut others out. He supposed it was about the girl’s age when the first bricks were being cemented in place. Had she been just a bit older he would probably have met with the full range of ploys and stratagems that entangled the sexes. That said, with characters like Dutch and Willem on the loose, perhaps the defences were justified. Nature wasn’t stupid.

He wondered what she would be wishing for this time. He would have wished he could see his girl from the Silver Grill today instead of having to wait another week until Christmas. He wished he could fly. Jesus, how he wished he could fly. He remembered standing as a boy on a headland overlooking the Pacific Ocean near Monterey, watching the big white-crested waves pounding in and wondering how it would feel just to take off and soar out and away back to China. He had often thought about that, remembering his life with his parents in Shanghai. Sometimes in his new home city, he had walked all the way from Fisherman’s Wharf up Stockton Street and into Chinatown, going into the stores to look at the vaguely-remembered foods, herbs and medicines, loving the exotic sweet stuffiness of the air, and grappling all the while for sharper images of his earlier childhood. All he had found were the pale memories that he was still chasing, retreating further beyond reach as the years passed. What was the good of wishing? You had to make things happen yourself, make your own wishes come true. That was why he was in this country, wasn’t it? Trying to make something happen.

When he came out of the pavilion the light was so strong it stopped him dead. He blinked and pulled his cap low, squinting to clear the searing blur. Straight and slender as a wand, Hannah was standing with eyes tightly shut, still holding the stone with her thin brown arms outstretched. Light poured off the surface of the pagoda, playing across her face and hair. There was a glow about her that bounced it right back at the walls, fastening it there like the pasted leaves of gold.

A breeze gusted out of nowhere, plucked at her blouse and ruffled the white cotton. Her slim bare legs shuddered and were still, more golden than brown. Her toes on the marble gripped for purchase as she rose on the balls of her feet, sank slowly back on the heels, and lowered the stone.

Mikey felt as he had when watching the sun on the spire the previous week. As on that day, it was as though time had stuck and locked in place. One breath, one thought even, would kick it in motion, but so long as it lasted he felt he could glimpse the world as it should be, as perhaps it had once been, and as he hoped he could one day fashion it again.

She opened her eyes. “You weren’t supposed to look.”

Mikey tugged down the peak of his cap. “I thought you’d have finished by now. Does that mean it won’t work?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, replacing the stone on its plinth. “I’d already got my answer. I was just enjoying the warm breeze. Isn’t it wonderful?”

She stretched up on her toes again, her bare feet twirling on the marble. Shading his eyes, Mikey looked up towards the spire of the golden stupa. “It’s the sort of place where anything’s possible.”

Hannah clapped her hands in delight. “That’s exactly the way I feel. I’m so glad you feel the same.”

Mikey picked up her satchel of drawings and together they walked to the stairway and started down the steps. By now there were quite a few people about and the stalls were doing a brisk trade. It was good to feel the cool steps underfoot and to walk slowly down to the echo of voices, haggling and bartering the length of the stairway bazaar.

Hannah looked up at him, noting the baggy leather flying jacket with a snarling tiger emblazoned across the back. “You’re with the AVG, aren’t you?”

Mikey flicked the peak of his cap in salute.

“My father said the papers are calling you the Flying Tigers. Is it true you paint the nose of your planes to look like a shark?”

“You bet we do,” he answered casually.

“Then why aren’t you called the Flying Sharks?”

Mikey laughed. “I’d never thought of it like that. Hell, that’s sacrilegious.”

The Group had been christened with the name only a short while ago and everyone was proud of their new aggressive title. With the entry of the States into the war there had been a sudden surge of press interest in the Group. With bad news from almost every other theatre, the American public had latched onto the only success story going, the three hundred American pilots and ground crew of the AVG who, alone of the forces, seemed not to have been caught with their pants down. A visiting journalist had coined the phrase and the name had stuck.

“I suppose they could call you the Flying Fish,” the girl laughed.

Mikey scowled at her. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

He held out his jacket, stretching the back taut to show the emblem. “I bet you couldn’t draw a tiger like that.”

“I bet you I could,” she replied, sizing it up.

“Well if you think I’m going to leave my jacket with you, you can think again.”

“I don’t need it. One look’s enough. I’ll be able to draw it from memory now.”

Mikey whistled. “I’m impressed. Is that how you do most of your drawings, from memory?”

“Of course. That’s how I drew the paddle-steamer up on the terrace. I come to places like this for the peace, not the sights.”

They reached the statues at the foot of the steps and sat to put on their shoes, the gleaming while teeth of the chinthe bared above them in a savage snarl. Mikey pulled on his socks and was lacing up his scuffed brown shoes when Hannah opened her satchel and handed the pad to him.

“You can choose one to keep if you like.” She fiddled with the laces of her white canvas shoes trying to appear unconcerned.

“I couldn’t do that. They’re yours.”

“If you don’t want one…”

“No…I mean…sure I do.”

He quickly opened the pad and began to leaf through the drawings. Most of the sights of Rangoon were there; a teeming market scene, monks begging for alms, Indian stevedores working in the docks, a Chinese apothecary, and a large, fierce-looking Burmese woman, arms folded across an ample bosom, scowling at the artist.

“You’ve got a real gift.” He had just found one of the Shwedagon Pagoda itself, sketched from somewhere down by the Royal Lake. He held it out at arm’s length, admiring the detail. She took the pad from him and carefully tore out the page.

“Keep it. It’s yours.”

Mikey took the sketch from her and sat admiring it, turning it this way and that in the sunlight. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t have anything as beautiful to give you.”

Hannah got up to go, tossing back her hair. “Oh that’s alright.”

Seeing her prepare to leave, Mikey jumped to his feet and held out his hand, uncomfortable now that they had descended from the temple to the real world. “It’s been fun, Hannah. Maybe I’ll see you here again,”

“Maybe.”

She stepped onto the pavement, their encounter ending more abruptly than either of them wished, but with the drawing presented and the tour over there was nothing else to stay for and Mikey was already late for his appointment. He walked across to his jeep and swung into the seat, pressing the starter until the engine fired, surging raucously as he gunned the accelerator.

“Keep up with the drawing,” he called above the noise.

Hannah smiled and called a reply, but Mikey was already shoving the jeep into reverse, swinging it round in a giant arc that aimed the nose at the waterfront. He looked for her before speeding away and caught a glimpse of her back as she walked briskly down Pagoda Road. For a girl of her age her step was self-assured and purposeful. He smiled as he watched her go, ready to wave in case she turned, but a moment later the crowd closed about her and swallowed her from view.

The Moon Tree

About The Author

Also by Anthony Conway

Acknowledgements

Notes on Terminology

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE