by Jean Moran
His eyes met Harry’s. His friend had seen what he’d done and stepped further back in the queue. He, too, would be walking. Bulging with men, the truck moved off in a cloud of black smoke, a crocodile of men following, Connor and Harry included. The daily grind had begun.
Every week, sometimes every day, somebody died. Funeral units had done their best to cope with the ominous numbers, but some bodies remained at the side of the road, torn by vultures. The sight was sickening and Connor was beginning to feel that the human race was sickening too. He reminded himself that that didn’t apply to everyone. War brought out the best in people as well as the worst.
And nature was still nature. Animals didn’t make wars and their lives went on regardless. They gave him hope.
Food was constantly on everyone’s mind. What wouldn’t he give for a rasher of the bacon he’d smelt in his dream?
He became aware that Harry was smiling at him as they plodded on towards another back-breaking day.
Connor frowned. Sometimes that smile made him feel uncomfortable.
Harry jerked his chin at Connor’s feet.
He looked down. The yellow dog pattering along at his side on thin legs gazed back at him. She had a kind look and ribs as fine as guitar strings. A row of distended teats swayed as she walked, which explained the prominent ribs. The puppies had sucked everything out of her and had then probably died, either from natural causes or eaten as a delicacy.
Despite all she might have gone through, the dog looked as though she was smiling, tongue lolling from an open pink mouth. ‘And what might you have to smile at?’ He glanced at Harry. ‘She’s a girl and I think she’s in love with me.’
‘Lucky you. It’s about time you settled down.’
‘Hah!’
The day consisted of dust, sweat and finally total fatigue. Men walked slowly back to the camp, longing for their frugal supper, a cup of water and the poor pallets they slept on.
The rows of huts that constituted the camp were hardly the most auspicious buildings in the world, but the sight of them after a long day’s work was a relief.
A team of Chinese civilian prisoners, a few Europeans and some Indians were building a second fence outside the original one. The Chinese refugees who had lived there pre-war had not wished to escape so a secondary fence had not been thought necessary. The present occupants were a different matter. So far there had been no escapes, but security measures were constantly reviewed.
The fences were scrutinised by the prisoners.
Connor was cautious but Harry was hopeful and kept pressing him. ‘Think there’s a chance?’
‘Cat in hell’s once they’ve built new fences and got some kind of sentry system in place. The trouble is they didn’t expect so many prisoners, what with here, Singapore and other places. They’re still getting organised.’ He knew he was right. The roll-call was a bit haphazard and the Japanese Army hierarchy were not yet sure who of their number was properly in charge.
As the gates closed behind them, rain began to fall and the whole camp was galvanised. Buckets, oil drums and dustbins were utilised to capture rain from an elaborate guttering system running down and along the roofs, every drop precious in a country where, thanks to the harrying of Allied aircraft, the municipal system was less efficient than usual.
As he ran to help, Connor noticed the dog was still with him, her ears dripping with moisture, eyes bright and tail wagging. She’ll go away, he thought, as he got on with what had to be done. You can’t adopt her. You haven’t even enough food to feed yourself.
Tarpaulin sheets that had once covered army lorries were stretched across the gaps between barracks to collect more rain. Every drop might count within the coming days. The system could fail altogether and prisoners might be severely rationed.
When the rations were handed out, supplemented by those lucky enough to have bought from the black-market traders lurking around the perimeter fence, Connor felt the tiredness in his soul and took his share. Bowl in hand, the rice supplemented by a few cubes of corned beef, he climbed onto his favourite concrete block, whose purpose had been to protect Hong Kong, to be used to build a defensive wall. Now the blocks provided a good vantage point from which to observe the city and the scarlet sky left by a setting sun.
The dog lay panting in the shade below him, looking up at him expectantly. Her tail wagged as though he’d said something kind when he’d said nothing at all. Neither did he throw her any food. There was too little. He had to keep up his strength. Give nothing. Survive. That was what he had to do.
He’d eaten most of the frugal evening meal leaving just two pieces of corned beef in the bottom. He glanced down at the dog. ‘No good looking at me like that. I’m a big man, working all day on a bowl of rice and a few cubes of bully beef. You’ll get nothing from me.’
He turned his gaze back to the setting sun and wished he could walk along one of its rays, jump off the end and find himself far away, a lot further west… a lot further north too. Unfortunately the friendliest islands were to the east. If his reckoning was correct the Hawaiian Islands were in that direction and his safest bet. Despite the bombing at Pearl Harbor the Americans were still in the game, if the rumours filtering from Chinese traders were to be believed.
A slight movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to look down. The dog was sitting with her head up and ears erect, eyeing the shadows between the stones. She was some sort of terrier, but definitely of mixed ancestry.
‘What you up to, girl?’
She didn’t look away at the sound of his voice but remained stock still.
Connor deduced that she was watching something, as keen-eyed and still as only a perfect hunting dog could be – though almost cat-like in her manner, crawling forward on her belly.
He looked to the darkening shadows and saw a seabird waddling unconcerned, pecking at the cockroaches that had dared to come out from beneath the stones.
The bird did not see the dog until it was too late. Although it was almost as big as she was, she dealt with it efficiently. One toss of her head and its neck was broken.
Connor watched, fascinated, as she tore at its wings and feathers, her sharp teeth gradually exposing the warm flesh beneath. Rice bowl clutched in one hand, he vaulted down from the wall.
‘You’re one hell of a hunter,’ he muttered, and realised what an asset she could be.
Not knowing how she might retaliate, he tentatively stroked her head. Thankfully she went on eating. Connor checked the pathetically inadequate pieces of corned beef remaining in his bowl then peered at the bird’s meaty breast. He took a piece of corned beef between finger and thumb, wagging it in front of her nose.
She licked her chops and looked up at him, the bird firmly wedged between her paws.
He eyed the remains of the bird. Only half the breast was gone. The rest was intact. No wonder her coat was still glossy. The puppies had taken all the best from her, but she’d survived on her hunting skills. She was thin, but her condition wasn’t bad, all things considered.
The dog got to her feet to sniff at the morsel of tinned meat, then took it delicately between her teeth. The remains of the bird were within his grasp. Broken up and stewed it would make a tasty addition to the rice. ‘Here,’ he said holding out the last piece of bully beef. ‘How about it? Fair exchange is no robbery, so my old mother used to say. How’s that with you?’
Again the dog sniffed delicately before taking the beef between her teeth.
Connor’s movements were stealthy. Only a little blood oozed from the dead bird, the dog having licked up most of it. He held up the carcass as though it were a trophy.
The dog wagged her tail.
Later Harry laughed when he saw the dog. ‘She really is in love with you.’
‘And I with her. She’s a hunter.’ He swung the bird in front of Harry’s face. ‘She caught this.’
‘And ate some by the look of it. What is it?’
‘Some kind of heron or crane
. Nice bit of meat on it.’
‘I’m glad she left some.’
‘Can’t wait. Meat in the stew tomorrow, and if I’m right about this dog, there’ll be more where that came from. She’ll hunt for us, won’t you, girl?’
She seemed amiable enough and after a little scratching behind the ears she lay down.
‘Have you thought of a name?’ Harry wondered.
Connor held up his fingers in the V for Victory salute. ‘Vicky,’ he said. ‘Short for Victory – or Victoria.’
13
The following morning Luli brought Rowena a message: the car would be outside shortly and she was to go for a drive with Zu Mu.
That seemed strange: they had already been out twice that week. Until now there had never been a third outing.
Rowena kept her face expressionless as though she didn’t really care where she was going, when in fact she was very interested. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I do not know. The grandmother did not tell me.’
Rowena had once had mixed feelings about going out on one of Kim’s grandmother’s mystery tours – just driving around and looking at the scenery or peering at the huddled shops of the old towns in the New Territories, never in Kowloon.
As usual, Zu Mu gave the driver his orders, striking his shoulder to emphasise where she wanted to go and how quickly she wanted to get there. On the whole they travelled slowly and avoided bumps in the road. She tended to draw her legs up under her, so she was perched precariously on the seat. One jolt and she might easily fall off.
At the old lady’s instigation, the driver turned away from their usual route through familiar villages and waterlogged rice paddies along a road Rowena did not recognise, meandering through trees and rows of jagged rocks. They had never taken this route before, yet it seemed vaguely familiar. Was this the way Kim had brought her that first day?
Her suspicion was confirmed when the flat land broadened and the road looked like a ribbon reaching for blue mountains in the distance to their right, and to their left the city that could only be Kowloon, a glimpse of sea visible through a gap in the jagged rocks.
Although parts of Kowloon were in ruins, shopkeepers, tailors, food vendors and others had set up their stalls among the ruins, their need to make a living outweighing their fear of the occupying army.
Some of the shop frontages had been rebuilt in a rickety, haphazard style that only just kept out the elements. Those not so lucky or unskilled in construction laid their wares on chunks of fallen debris beneath a canopy of ragged canvas or tarpaulin. Rowena stretched her neck in an effort to locate the bar she and Alice had entered before their world had been turned upside down. Such a happy memory, though she’d had reservations at the time.
The car edged its way through collapsed buildings, piles of stones and ragged people doing their best to survive. A pang of sadness struck her when she saw a lopsided sign sticking up from a pile of fallen stone. Connor’s Bar was no more, yet she thought she saw a pair of eyes looking out at her, not Connor’s, but those of the barman who had served them that night.
When she closed her eyes he stood before her, like an actor on a stage, barking orders. She heard again the crack of gunfire and saw the corpses scattered over the once neatly kept lawns at the front of the military hospital. If things had been different, where would they be now?
The bar and the barman were left behind, but a vision of Connor popped into her head and his voice sang in her heart. As they drove along she hummed the tunes he had sung and played on his fiddle. Doing so made her forget where she was and the danger she was in.
The old woman grumbled and muttered in response to her humming, which only made her hum louder, then break into song:
‘From Bantry Bay unto Derry Quay,
From Galway to Dublin Town,
No maid I’ve seen like the fair colleen,
That I met in the County Down...’
She was still singing and the old lady scowling when the car swung into the harbour, heading to where the Star ferry still tied up to ply between Kowloon and Victoria Harbour.
Rowena stopped singing. ‘We’re going to Hong Kong?’ She said it softly unable to believe that it was so.
Perhaps they were going to Kim’s office, Victoria House, where she’d gone with him for breakfast the day Pearl Harbor was bombed and he’d picked her up from the hospital.
On recognising the car and checking with superior officers, those guarding the incline onto the ferry did not ask for papers. A guard glanced a second time but, on seeing her black hair and aquiline features, perhaps decided she was a citizen of a neutral power that had not yet declared war on the Empire of the Sun.
They were allowed to stay in the car all the way across the water – like two queens, thought Rowena, turning her face into the breeze and drinking in its freshness. The night before, when Kim had come to her bed, she’d expected him to make love to her. His hand had dropped beneath the silk coverlet but only to caress her back and her hip, shushing her to sleep when she began to respond. Her body had been on fire, so much so that she’d almost begged him to take her but some vestige of pride stopped her. She was the one to be persuaded, not him.
Perhaps I should escape, she thought. Perhaps I could jump over the side and swim ashore.
It was a stupid idea. The guards might not hesitate to shoot her, especially if they were in Kim’s pay.
There was no point in asking Zu Mu where they were going so she mulled over the probabilities aloud. ‘His office perhaps? The Jockey Club? Or perhaps he’s having lunch with the Japanese High Command and wishes our company.’
The old lady eyed her grimly.
It was pure devilment to start singing all over again, from the first verse of ‘Star of the County Down’, to the last, then ‘The Flower of Killarney’:
‘Mavourneen is the flower of Killarney,
And none is so fair as she...
The land of the mists and mountains...’
Zu Mu smashed her stick against the back of the driver’s seat, barely missing Rowena’s knees.
Rowena glared at her. ‘You hate me. I know that. You hate me and I hate you. I’ve seen your face when your grandson enters the room. I’ve seen the way you fawn over him as though he were a god, yet he’s a man who kills people, trades in opium and goodness knows what else. Opium ruins people’s lives. Do you know that?’
The old lady responded, spouting venomous words that she didn’t understand but knew were disparaging, condemning who and what she was. A European. A woman not fit to grace her grandson’s house. A woman with big feet!
With regret she realised that Fate had taken a hand in her life. Kowloon and now Hong Kong. Here, whether she wanted to or not, was the chance to escape. What would he do if she ran away? Come after her? Seek gratification elsewhere?
When she closed her eyes she could still see and smell his gleaming body, the muscles honed to perfection, the skin like polished wood. Deep in her soul she knew it wouldn’t be long before the inevitable happened. Did she really wish to escape before it did?
The sea was calm and the ferry made good progress. The crossing was soon over.
As they rolled down the incline, Rowena experienced a sudden bout of anxiety. If she wasn’t mistaken, a faint smile had come to Zu Mu’s thin lips and there was a definite change in her eyes. Sheer dislike had given way to what she could only interpret as extreme happiness.
She glanced at the woman’s inscrutable face, wrinkled like a long-fallen crab apple. ‘If we’re not going to Kim’s office, where are we going? Are we going shopping? More silks? More seed pearls to sew on your slippers? Though they look like purses to me. Just big enough for pennies, not feet.’
Zu Mu remained silent.
They finally came to a halt in a busy street, the traditional buildings leaning against each other and across to the opposite side. Shops and stalls, street pedlars and labourers jostled for space in the narrow alleys. The smells of food, spices, heat and a
nimals clogged the air.
The driver was ordered to park at the widest end of the alley where a column of rickshaw men slept, leaning on their vehicles, one leg lifted, the foot resting on a naked knee.
Zu Mu barked more orders, raising her stick more than once when the driver questioned what she’d said to him.
Concerned at their arguing, Rowena tried to follow what they were saying, but they spoke too fast for her to follow. But she was right about one thing. There was conflict between them. They were disagreeing about whatever was about to happen, the driver looking worried, the grandmother forceful, determined to have her way.
At last some kind of agreement was reached. The driver alighted to help Zu Mu down from the car, lifting her as he might a doll or a child. The moment her tiny feet touched the ground, she was dependent on her walking stick to remain upright. At her shouted instructions, a rickshaw driver peeled off from the rank, lowered the shafts of his vehicle and helped her climb onto the ripped leather seating from where she shouted at Rowena to join her.
Rowena wondered how far she could run before the driver caught her and carried her back to the car.
He looked worried, hopping from foot to foot, continuing to bow and ask questions to which Zu Mu gave only clipped answers and a wave of her cane.
For a moment her eyes met those of the puzzled driver. There was more to this than met the eye and she worked out what it was. Neither she nor Kim’s grandmother was of a class that took rides in shabby rickshaws – if they used one at all. Rickshaws were the preferred mode of transport for matelots on leave wanting to explore the seedier side of the city. Only a few of the very poor used one to get around, and even fewer of the very rich.
Zu Mu was not of the class or nationality to take a rickshaw. Rowena imagined she would have considered it the way the poorer class or a gweilo got around.