The Arb

CHAPTER ONE

The light sprinkle of rain against the car window was not something Sothea had ever seen before. It was delicate and timid, and seemed to hang in the air like a mist rather than fall. She squinted her eyes as the tiny droplets clung to the glass like inanimate insects, and tried to predict when the window wipers would swoosh them away. The wind was meek as well, the leaves of the trees fluttered flimsily, and the nature that surrounded them was bare compared to the lush dense abundance of the Cambodian jungle.

Back home she was used to the powerful, heavy rainfall that came for months at a time. The rain she knew formed with giant droplets that would fall suddenly and for hours, flooding streets with enough power and anger to uproot trees and carry stilt houses down mountains. Sothea was used to the thick, humid texture of the air, that was filled with the chirping sounds of insects and the bright and colourful skyborne calls of tropical birds. She had lived with ancient ruins in her backyard, built by a civilisation long gone, and even more ancient trees – massive venerable trees, with thick vines as far as the eye could see, below which stood bushes that took up every inch of ground and foliage so impenetrable that it took numerous men with machetes to clear. The English countryside was feeble in comparison.

The front passenger seat of the car was empty. At least physically it was. That was where Sothea’s mother would ordinarily sit, and Sothea believed it was where her mother’s spirit wanted to be, even now, when they were thousands of miles away from home in a foreign land where the rain had no courage. Sothea believed in those kinds of things, and most people would too if they had experienced what she had. She knew the world was blinded by what they could see, blinded by the privilege of what lay right in front of them. Most never cared to look past the tips of their own noses.

There had been an argument. Her father, who was driving in cold silence, had made a fuss over Sothea’s refusal to sit in the front, and when he finally gave in, made another fuss about her not wanting their housekeeper, Ama – who had flown with them from Cambodia – to sit in the front either. Now all three of them sat in a tense and uncomfortable silence, a tension only made worse by the rain’s near silent patter and the annoying squeak of the window wipers.

Sothea could still hear the phantom echo of the jungle wildlife in her ears. She wished they were still at home in their village. She wished that her father hadn’t suddenly decided that they were all moving to England. Hadn’t torn her from her heritage where she had been born and raised, and stolen her away to this weak land that couldn’t even make up its mind whether it wanted to rain or not. Sothea strongly believed that a land was a reflection of its people, and that the people were a reflection of their land. If this was England, then she already knew what kind of humans lived here. And she despised them.

They had pulled off the smooth tarmacked surface of the motorway, driven through rolling hills, and had been on narrow wood-lined roads for nearly twenty minutes. Sothea squinted as a slant of sunlight filtered through the grey clouds, and they slowly rolled to a stop in front of a giant black gate. It was gothic in appearance, with wrought-iron filigree embellishments and a signature pointed arch. Her father opened the car door in a huffed and tempered silence and got out. She watched him through her curtain of jet-black hair, and a small smile crept over her lips as he struggled to open the huge metal gate. She felt a dark amusement as she heard him cursing to himself.

“Tsk.” Ama clicked with her tongue.

It was a Cambodian catch-all phrase – in this case, a sign of disapproval.

Sothea turned her head towards Ama and met the old woman’s eyes with a piercing glare. Ama returned that stare with a look of fearless strength, and muttered a chastisement in Khmer. “Show some respect. He is your father.”

The language had a light nasal quality, with very pronounced and distinct vowels, sharp, bright “ah”s and “ow”s defined and framed by gentle, aspirated consonants.

Sothea’s jaw clenched and her lips pursed, conceding the fight as she folded her arms and turned back to the window. Even though she was being told off, it warmed her heart to hear Khmer spoken. Especially in this foreign land. Especially now. Whatever frustration she was feeling vanished in an instant as the creased skin of Ama’s fingers slid across her arm and rested on the back of her hand. Sothea was eternally grateful Ama had come with them. The familiar feeling of the housekeeper’s weathered, calloused hand on her skin was both comforting and calming.

“Sorry,” Sothea whispered in Khmer.

“It’s not me you should apologise to.”

Sothea kept her gaze focussed on the trees and turned her hand to interlock her fingers with Ama’s. She loved Ama and Ama loved her. The old woman had been around since she was ten, coming on six years now. Sothea didn’t see her as hired help, but like a grandmother. That was to say that Ama was very dear and close to Sothea’s heart. Ama had become like blood to her. It was a sentiment that wasn’t shared by her father, who had never been comfortable with a stranger moving into their house. It was another point of contention between them.

There was the sound of metal scraping and some self-congratulatory mumbles from her father, and Sothea looked up to see him pushing the large gates open. He jogged back to the car, closing the door instantly behind him, and engaging the gear-box. The tyres spun for a second on the wet earth before finding their grip and propelling the car forward, up the long, winding drive.

The rain, if you could call it that, had stopped now, and the grey clouds seemed to be blowing eastward, away from them. Sothea rolled down her window and looked up. Large scudding clouds sailed across the sky above her, with cracks of blue shining through, and already small grey-and-brown birds were chirping happily in the trees.

Sothea took in her first breath of the English country air and was taken aback by the crisp freshness of it. It carried with it the gentle sweetness of the flowers and herbs of the woods. Of course, she didn’t know the names of the plants yet, but suddenly had a desire to learn where the smells came from. Ama and her late mother had always been keen herbalists, and she had followed in their passion. She knew every single medicinal property, herbal remedy, and other purpose for all the fauna and flora in Cambodia, and she was enticed by the prospect of learning an entirely new range of plant life here in England.

Maybe it won’t be so bad here, she thought.

She found her heart responding to the tranquil tweets of the little birds. They were nothing like the open, awe-inspiring calls of the vibrant and colourful jungle birds, but they had their own unique charm. Sothea was, after all, both Khmer – through her mum – and English, through her dad. She reflected on the fact that she knew little to nothing about her Caucasian heritage.

The woods fell away as they drove, and the landscape opened into a large and slightly unkempt clearing. Right in the centre stood a large Victorian manor house. It was a perfect image of the time period in which it was built. Ama muttered something akin to awe under her breath, and Sothea found herself feeling the same. The manor house was stunning, but not only that. There was something else about it, something different, like it held a presence – a power even. It stood tall and majestic, despite the test of time, commanding attention with the intricacies of its architecture, designed with a puzzlement of turrets. There was a maze of large, projected windows framed in brilliant arches, along with porches and balconies on each of the three stories. The roofs were decorated with finials and confident crestings, with large chimneys that jutted out of the patterned roof tiles. On the upper stories, the roof was embellished with decorative trim, elaborate brackets, banisters, and spindles. All of this together made the house look mysterious, mystifying, and even romantic.

But as the car drove further up, the side of the house – which had been obscured only moments ago – came into view. It was not nearly as breathtaking, mainly because it was covered in scaffolding and blue plastic tarpaulin.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Sothea’s father cursed. “What are they still doing here?!”

Sothea frowned and exchanged a glance with Ama, who shrugged, raising her eyebrows and looking up. Sothea smiled at the non-verbal commentary on the way her father was reacting.

She watched through the open window of the car as her father jumped out and yelled at the workers. She scanned the pinched and slightly red faces of the English men, and noticed a strange boy hiding in the shadows behind them. Their eyes met for a moment.

“You told me the repointing was finished weeks ago!” her father chastised them.

“We’re a little behind schedule I’m afraid, Mr Bailey,” replied one of the workmen.

“A little behind? You should have been done and gone. This isn’t what we agreed.”

“Cement. Timber. Even builder’s sand. Can’t get none for love nor money.”

“Why am I only hearing about this now? You could have mentioned it when we spoke on the phone last week.”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” the workman continued. “What with your big trip and all. Figured you had enough to worry about. And anyways, Big Phil said he could sort me out with some timber off a job that’s gone wrong down Nantwich way. But it didn’t happen.”

Sothea’s father turned to her. “Get inside.”

He mumbled something in heavily accented Khmer to Ama and handed her a set of keys. She took Sothea’s arm, guiding her out of the backseat and away from the scene, towards the wooden double doors of the front entrance. Sothea sighed and let Ama lead her.

“The people here are strange,” she said in Khmer.

Ama gave her signature tsk. It was a million words in one.

Sothea stole one last frowning glance at the strange boy behind the scaffolding. He disappeared as they took the stone stairs up to the front door. It creaked as it opened, and a musty smell filled her nostrils.

Stepping inside gave Sothea a strange feeling. The house was dark and quiet, and yet it was as if a thousand spirits whispered in the walls. The entrance hall was grand, with beautiful dark herringbone parquet flooring. Intricate, unpainted woodwork framed every inch of space and a giant stairway unfurled in the centre of the grand hallway, rising fifteen steps before splitting into two wing staircases, carved in such a way that it resembled a wave curling over and crashing against a static shore.

Dust motes hung suspended in the air, as if a spell had been uttered long ago, freezing the tide of time in its place. Sothea reached out and rubbed the tip of her finger against the dusty wood, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, letting her mind fill the gaps and spaces between her knowledge. An air current moved through the halls like a phantom, whispering to whomever would listen, and there was a gentle sway and rhythm to the creaking floors.

Ama gave Sothea a sharp pinch on her arm, and her eyes shot back open. The old woman gave her a pointed look. She took in a couple of deep breaths and tried to focus on the details of the house to keep her rooted in the here and now.

She quickly found that the house had a wildness to it, contrary to how sculpted and planned everything was. There were so many tiny details carved into the panels, arches, chandeliers, and ornate banisters that the eye had no place to rest. There were symbols, swirls, flower motifs, animals, and faces. Only the smooth parquet floor had escaped the carpenter’s chisel. It made Sothea dizzy, remembering only one other place that made her feel like this – the sprawling temple complex of Angkor Wat. Ama seemed to notice and rested a hand on Sothea’s shoulder, muttering a soft mantra in Khmer.

Sothea focused on the words as footsteps echoed through the hallway and her father’s silhouette came to a stop at the base of the grand staircase. He pulled out a brass pocket watch and flicked it open. Except that the face of the watch was not a clock. Not a clock to tell the time anyway. Instead of numbers, there were sixteen depictions of the moon around the border, from full to new and back. There were three hands, the longest of which pointed towards the thinnest sliver of the waning crescent. Her father’s jaw clenched and Sothea could see the worry in his features.

“Ama, please take Sothea up to the top floor. The attic. Follow the stairs until you can climb no higher,” he said simply.

Sothea looked up at him, and he met her eyes with that distant gaze of his. Sighing, he approached her and brushed her jet-black hair from over her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. He stroked her delicate cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I will sort it out. Just go upstairs and get some rest. Settle in and I’ll give you the tour once I’ve dealt with the builders.”

Sothea’s lips thinned into a narrow line, and she nodded.

“Come,” Ama said sweetly in Khmer, linking her arm through Sothea’s.

Once at the top of the stairs, they turned right and walked down the long length of a dimly lit corridor. There were no windows, and a narrow carpet muffled the tread of their footsteps. Sothea frowned and looked quizzically at the assortment of portraits hanging on the walls. These were all people she did not recognise, and yet scanning the small brass plaques under each painting revealed that they all shared the same last name. Her family name. Bailey.

Her ancestors on her dad’s side. Her English heritage.

In addition to the family name, they all seemed to share a similar expression. A distant sombre haunting, as if a single spirit inhabited them all. Ama muttered some prayers in Khmer under her breath, obviously unsettled by the eerie silence.

There was a single door at the end of the corridor. It was worn and weathered with the varnish peeling to reveal the original wood beneath. Ama opened it and they were greeted with a wooden staircase, spiralling upwards to an unseen room above.

Ama indicated forward with her eyes. “Laeng,” she whispered in her original tongue, before switching to her broken English. “Up.”

With one hand on the wooden rail, Sothea slowly ascended the spiral stairs. Halfway up, grey light poured in through a frosted window, highlighting again the stagnant particles of dust that lingered in the silence. Every step creaked loudly, all the way up to the top, until they opened into a large attic room. At the far end was a queen-sized four-poster bed with dark-crimson curtains, and the ceiling slanted to a point with a single circular window in the centre. It was framed in wrought iron, and a strange symbol that slightly resembled an eye was also cast into the metal, forming the centre of the windowpane.

Sothea smiled. The room had been swept, dusted, and freshly painted. Something about the room welcomed her, like it had been waiting for her arrival. She ran her fingers over the quilted bedspread and couldn’t resist sitting down on the bed to see if the springs squeaked. A moment later she was up again, exploring, opening each of the wardrobe doors and all the drawers, each as empty as the last.

Footsteps clunked up the stairs and her father appeared in the entrance a moment later, struggling to bring the two large suitcases up the narrow stairway, and then setting them down with a relieved huff. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his brow before looking around.

“I had someone prepare the room before we arrived,” he told her.

“I love it,” Sothea said, reaching over to hug her father in what had become a rare act of affection.

“I’m glad.” He kissed the top of her head and held her tight before she pulled away. “I was thinking that Ama could spend the first few nights up here with you.”

Sothea looked to her excitedly.

“Just until we sort out some of the other rooms,” he said, exchanging a quick glance with the old woman, who nodded and gave Sothea a little bow of respect. “Okay, why don’t you unpack and I’ll bring a mattress up for Ama?”

“Tsk,” Ama said, waving a dismissive hand. “Just blanket fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her father replied. “The floor isn’t soft like the bamboo back home. It also gets very cold at night, and in a house as old as this there will be a chill seeping through the cracks in the floorboards.”

Ama let out a dismissive huff through her nostrils, but eventually she conceded, nodding. She didn’t speak much English, but she understood everything. She spoke rarely and when she did, it was seldom in English, and never in sentences. More so single-worded observations or commands.

“I’m going to nip into the village and pick up some things for dinner,” her father continued. “You hungry?”

Sothea nodded and her mouth began to salivate at the mention of food.

“Good.” He turned to Ama and switched to Khmer. “The shipping container arrives tomorrow.” He took a step closer to her and lowered his voice so that Sothea could only just make out what he was saying. “I will need you to unload the plants and get them into the greenhouse before sundown.”

The old woman gave a nod.

Sothea’s eyes wandered back and forth between them as they talked. Her heart stung a little that her father clearly wanted her to be kept out of the conversation and so she turned away, gliding softly over to the large window. She leaned to the side of it, staring out, so that if you were looking from down below you could only make out the faint pale outline of the side of her face. Her reflection was an ethereal white. Whiter than the peachy cream of the English, soft like moonlight, and yet not the kind of white to burn in the sun. As half of her face was illuminated by the thin rays of light cracking through the clouds, it almost seemed to shimmer, as if a small lunar aurora hovered over the surface of her skin.

“Sweetheart?” her father said. “What are you looking at?”

Sothea didn’t turn away from the window but shifted her focus to watch as the workers packed up their tools for the day. The boy that had been hiding behind the scaffolding was hovering awkwardly, fiddling with his fingers. She frowned, and as soon as she did, his head turned, and he looked straight up to the eye-framed window. Sothea’s father came to stand by her side.

“Those men. You’re not to talk to them,” he told her. “Let them get on with their work. They don’t need you getting under their feet. They’ll just use it as an excuse as to why they haven’t finished.”

He didn’t wait for a response before turning and making his way down the stairs. Sothea watched her father leave with narrow eyes. She didn’t like when he did things like that. Laying down the rules. Forbidding her from this and that. Managing her. Treating her like a child… Ama came to her side and laid a hand on Sothea’s arm, but she yanked it free.