by Jean Moran
*
William Shaw proved an amenable man who chain smoked and had the yellow fingers and brown teeth to prove it. Along with each cigarette he drank a pint of bitter with a whisky chaser. To Connor’s mind he looked like a man with one foot on a bar of soap and the other in the grave.
‘So you want to know more about Dr Rossiter. I take it you know her.’
‘Yes. We knew each other back in Hong Kong before the Imperial Army came to call.’
‘“Knew” in the Biblical sense?’
‘None of your business. I want to know how she is and where she is.’
William – Bill, as he insisted on being called – polished off three rounds of drinks without paying for one. ‘She struck me as a strong woman. Very attractive too.’
‘You interviewed her.’
‘I did. In depth. Only about her work, of course, but we did on occasion touch on her background. She spent some time in a prisoner-of-war camp. Fort Stanley, I believe. Speaks some Cantonese and a little Japanese. I did a ward round with her and a male doctor, an Australian bloke. What struck me was that the patients seemed to accept a woman more readily than they did a man. The hostility was still there, you see. I don’t know whether they’ll ever forgive the Yanks for dropping that bomb, but, still, the Japs did some evil things themselves. The Burma railway, Nanking and countless other atrocities. Totally unnecessary most of them.’
Connor could not disagree. He’d been through enough himself, seen enough to give him nightmares for the rest of his life.
Shaw ordered more drinks for himself, but Connor declined, resigned to paying for this round too.
‘You don’t mention her being married.’
‘She wasn’t, though she did have a kid, a little girl of mixed parentage. Chinese or Japanese.’
‘Japanese.’
‘Oh. Another reason they were more accepting of her. Did he die, the kid’s father?’
Connor shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He wasn’t going to tell Shaw about the rape. The man had too much of an appetite for salacious scandal. ‘You say she was deported to either Australia or Hong Kong. Do you know that for sure?’
He shook his head. ‘I got chucked out myself after that. The bomb and its wider repercussions are a touchy subject. An Australian journalist was the first to report on the devastation, the dead and the living dead, and that was a month after the event. Had to use a Japanese press agency to get it through. Even then it never hit the American newspapers. I believe it was a London paper that printed it. Poor bloke was ostracised after that. Called a Commie and unpatriotic. You might try the Red Cross to find out where she is. It may take a few phone calls and telegrams, mind. It’s a big outfit. Their offices in London may not hold the information – although, of course, if she’s a British national...’
‘She is.’
Bill Shaw was ordering another pint when Connor left, the only one he would have to pay for himself.
*
It took a few phone calls, letters and, finally, a visit to the offices of the Red Cross in London before he had the details he wanted.
The woman on the other side of the desk fingered through a bulky file. ‘We may not be entirely up to date. You can imagine how long paperwork takes to travel between our Far East outposts and here. It makes things very difficult for me. From what I can gather...’ A few more pages fluttered over. The woman traced down the open page in front of her with a blunt finger. ‘Australia. Darwin. We operate from there for some of our projects in the area – and there are a lot of them. The war, you see. It was a very difficult time,’ she said, as though being in charge of a mountain of paperwork was deserving of a medal.
‘Yes. It was.’
He took the address she gave him and contemplated how much and how long a journey that was. Six weeks at least, but it would feel longer. It would feel like six years.
‘A long journey if you go by sea. A lot less if you go by air – but the price of flying is prohibitive.’
He thanked her for the information. His mind was made up.
A poster advertising a trip to Australia that took only four days dominated the window of Imperial Airways in Regent Street. It did not mention a price, and when he went inside and asked, he could understand why they preferred not to mention it. He needed a chair to sit down and think it through. ‘The flight actually terminates in Sydney and there are several stops on the way. Tripoli, Cairo, Karachi, Singapore, Darwin and then Sydney.’
He bought a ticket for Darwin.
*
‘Connor! Mr O’Connor. Is that really you?’
Not having found Rowena at the address he’d been given, the person who’d answered the door suggested he try the hospital. ‘I believe that was where Dr Rossiter was working. Somebody there might know where she’s gone.’
The looks of the senior staff nurse striding towards him were familiar, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name.
‘Alice,’ she said, on seeing his confusion. ‘We met first in your bar, then a few less salubrious places after that. I take it you’re looking for Dr Rossiter.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Very. But she’s not here. She’s gone back to Hong Kong.’
‘To stay?’
‘I’m not sure about that and neither is she, but she’s taken Dawn with her – you know, her daughter following that... incident.’
He couldn’t help noticing the shaded look that came to her eyes, almost as though she was reluctant to admit Rowena had a daughter or even to mention the word ‘rape’. Describing it as an incident somehow lessened its horror. He guessed that was how she coped with it.
‘And before you jump to conclusions, I don’t think it’s got anything to do with a man, if you know what I mean. I do know she wanted to pick up where she left off as regards the refugee issue. You know it’s becoming a big problem there, don’t you?’
‘I did hear.’
‘Can I treat you to a cup of tea before you go?’
Over tea and currant buns they talked of what they’d been through and Rowena’s ordeal with Kim Pheloung.
‘Funny man,’ she said, frowning. ‘Well, not so much funny as out of his mind. Liked to train humans as though they were dogs. That’s what Rowena told me. She didn’t like to talk about him much. Can’t say I blame her. She gave me enough information to know he was a bad lot. ’
He felt her studying his face.
‘What happened to the officer in charge that Christmas Day?’ she asked.
‘Harry.’ Connor shifted in his chair and fingered the edge of his saucer. ‘He didn’t make it. I survived on Bali for a while, courtesy of the locals. I’ve been a bit aimless ever since, not quite sure what to do or where to go next.’
Alice grinned. ‘Well, you could open a bar.’
*
There were no flights from Darwin to Hong Kong but there was a freighter that took a few passengers. It was a lot cheaper than flying or taking a passenger ship.
P and O, the old Peninsular and Oriental Line, was back in operation, for the most part ferrying civil servants and the administrators of international agencies back and forth. There was also a plethora of military staff, who shunned their own transport in favour of luxury.
The freighter suited him fine even though it took just over a week.
*
Victoria Harbour had changed little since the days when it was the staging point for trade with the Chinese mainland. As usual ships were at anchor, and it was easy to forget that a vast upheaval had taken place. The effects of the civil war on the mainland had been ongoing for years, but the occupation should have dented Hong Kong’s eternal optimism, depending as it did on free movement throughout the Pacific Ocean and beyond.
Thanks to the shipping office in Darwin, he’d been able to send a telegram ahead of his arrival. Rowena hadn’t given Alice her new address and she wasn’t sure of the organisation she was working for, so Connor fell back on his own resources
and sent a telegram to Yang, care of Connor’s Bar, Kowloon. It was a faint chance but the only one he had and he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that the message would get through.
His spirits soared when he saw Yang, his one-time barman, standing on the quay waiting for him, waving his pork-pie hat and dressed like a waiter from the Savoy.
‘Yang. Good to see you, old friend.’
They threw their arms around each other, not a natural greeting for either man, but they hadn’t seen each other since the day the bomb had dropped on Connor’s Bar.
‘Good to see you, too, boss.’
Connor looked him up and down. ‘That’s a fine suit you’re wearing. Have you got a job with the Hilton Hotel?’
‘No, boss. This is my suit. I am boss so I dress like boss. Connor’s Bar is Yang’s Bar. We are doing very well.’
Connor shook his head. ‘No, no. We ran out on you and left you to it. It’s yours.’
‘No. You my partner. You keep Kim Pheloung and his apes at bay. I grateful for that.’ He paused. ‘And Mr Harry?’
‘He was killed. It’s only me now to keep Pheloung’s apes at bay. I came here looking for Dr Rossiter. Do you know where she is?’
‘Yes. Of course I do. The offices of Kim Pheloung. That’s where she is.’
Connor’s face darkened. Without knowing it, Yang had voiced his worst fear. ‘She’s with him?’
‘Oh, no, boss. She not with him. She at his offices. They filled with refugees now, not Pheloung.’
A great relief swept over him. ‘Take me there, Yang. You can explain on the way.’
Yang talked and Connor listened as the rickshaw driver pedalled his way from the harbour to the place where Kim had taken Rowena on that fateful Sunday in 1941.
Piles of rubble still dotted the narrower streets but in the wider ones the metal carcasses of tall buildings were rising quickly, an army of Chinese labourers swarming over them.
The sound of pneumatic drills mixed with the rumble of increased traffic and the perennial racket of packed streets where tailors still shouted for custom but were almost drowned by clanking cranes reaching for the skyline.
‘Pheloung think world would go on the same. He travel here, he travel there, Hong Kong, Kowloon and Shanghai. He do this too during war, keep on right side of Japanese. When it over he try to keep on right side of Chinese in Shanghai, but they know he collaborate with Japanese. They not like that. Not forgive him. They kill him. So that is that!’
He slapped his hands on his thighs and laughed. Connor couldn’t blame him. Pheloung had destroyed Yang’s business and Yang would have been killed if it hadn’t been for Connor and Harry supplying the money and muscle. As they were representatives of the British Empire, Kim had been more wary of their response to intimidation. The one thing he had not wanted was those officers of the Hong Kong police who were not open to bribes looking too closely into his criminal activities.
‘So he’s dead.’ Connor felt an incredible sense of relief and could see that Yang felt the same.
‘Very dead. Head chopped off. Doctor very glad too. I tell her. She very happy. I too.’
‘The future looks bright, Yang.’
‘And now you back we run bar together. Very good bar. Posh bar where barmen wear suits, just like you and Mr Harry used to. Yes?’
Connor threw back his head so he could better feel the sun on his face and Yang wouldn’t see the sadness in his eyes. ‘Yes, Yang. Just like Mr Harry and I used to, though we drew a line at a hat like yours.’
‘I like this hat.’
‘That’s all that matters.’
The sun was setting by the time the rickshaw drew up in front of what had been the centre of a criminal empire. A Red Cross banner fluttered over the front portico.
As he made to get out, Yang caught his arm. ‘Wait. She say wait. She not be long. I have to check.’
The shadow of the building was lengthening into solid black, its stark lines accentuated by the rosy glow of sunset.
After a few minutes, Yang said, ‘I go in now and see if she’s ready. You stay.’
The little man in his dapper suit sprang down from the rickshaw and marched smartly indoors.
Connor waited, uncertain why he had to wait, but wanting to make everything perfect. If his waiting here would please her, then that was what he would do.
Half an hour went by and his impatience was becoming too much to bear. The springs on the old rickshaw squealed as though in pain as he swung his long legs out, both feet hitting the ground at the same time.
Just as he got to the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance, Yang came out of the door.
‘I have this,’ he said. ‘She tell me to give it to you.’
As Yang raised it chest high, Connor recognised his old violin case.
‘She say we go round to garden at the back. I bring you drink. You wait there for doctor. She wants you to see.’
He had no idea what she wanted him to see, but the sight and feel of his beloved instrument thrilled him. His impatience vanished and, like a lamb, he followed Yang without question.
‘This used to be Pheloung garden,’ said Yang, as he pushed open a traditional gate complete with the painting of a dragon.
Connor found himself in what had been a pleasant garden of flowers, cherry trees and carp swimming in cool green pools. In the centre there was a dovecote in the form of a pagoda, its swallowtail roof ends climbing like spines from its base to its green-tiled apex.
A hundred pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. This was what Rowena wanted him to see and the sight pained him. Men and women of all ages, children and babies, their clothes ragged, their faces worn by months, perhaps years, of fleeing one slaughtering army after another.
‘Nice garden,’ he said to Yang. ‘More people than flowers.’
‘Dr Rossiter chop them down.’
‘She doesn’t like flowers? Well, there’s a surprise.’
‘Not those flowers. Big yellow ones. They were Pheloung’s flowers. She gave them to the children to sell. “Nothing must go to waste,” she said. The doves they ate.’
‘So she doesn’t like yellow flowers,’ Connor muttered to himself, then watched as a smiling, nodding Yang handed out pieces of chocolate to the children, who continued to look at the European with wide-eyed suspicion.
When he sat down on a stone bench to watch the proceedings, their wariness was replaced by curiosity. One or two waved their fingers at him. Others began to smile.
He smiled back, attempted a few words, his pronunciation bringing forth outright laughter.
‘Laughing is good,’ he said mostly to himself, and it really was uplifting to hear them laugh. Then to Yang, ‘It’s a wonder they can still laugh after all they’ve been through, the things they must have seen.’
Yang agreed. ‘No happy times. No school, no nothing.’
Connor ran his hands down the curved form of the violin case. The shape of a guitar or a cello was said to follow that of a woman’s body, yet to his mind the violin had a more silken feel than either of those, more sylph-like. He smiled on recalling the last time he’d run his hands down Rowena’s body. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Some of the children reached out and did as he did, running their small hands over the shape of the case, fingering the clasps that held it shut.
They started when he spoke to them, but did not pull away.
‘I’d like to see you happy.’
More children drew near as he began to open the case. Even the adults began to take an interest. One or two nodded as they recognised this was an instrument and, whispering, got to their feet and edged closer.
‘You’re a bit the worse for wear,’ he muttered to his fiddle, as he did his best to tighten and tune, finally deciding that he’d done his best. With slow deliberation he tucked it under his chin, picked up the bow and ran it across the strings.
All chattering ceased. He felt something stir in the air, and in the demeanour of the was
ted people standing around him, it was as though he was about to open a door that had been closed to them for so long.
Both man and fiddle being out of practice, he decided on something steady that wouldn’t overtax either the instrument or the musician.
A brief thought and he decided what it would be. Drawing the bow over the strings, he teased out the plaintive, gentle notes of ‘The Londonderry Air’.
He closed his eyes and let the music waft over him. The words came to mind, though he couldn’t sing them for the words were painful and reminded him of Harry.
Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling...
Few people understood that the pipes were the pipes of war calling a young man to arms. So many young men had been called to fight, these last few years and many would never return.
And I will wait in peace until you come to me.
As the final notes fell away, the crowd pressed closer. They began talking among themselves, then exhorting Yang to intercede, to tell Connor they wanted more.
Connor smiled and shook his head when Yang told him. Not because he didn’t want to play another tune, but because their enthusiasm filled him with such joy that he wanted to share it.
‘Something a bit livelier, Yang. Something they can dance to. How would that be? ’
‘Good, Mr Connor. Very good.’
Yang’s interpretation brought a gale of laughter and cheerful comments that Connor didn’t need to understand. He could feel the joy of these displaced people. Words were not needed.
‘Here we go!’
‘Star of the County Down’, faster-paced, undeniably merry and uplifting, had the children dancing and the adults laughing. Even an old man, with a string of a beard, shuffled his feet and tapped with his stick.
The words were in Connor’s head, but he was concentrating on the tune, playing the fiddle with stiff fingers, his foot tapping in time with its soaring, dancing notes, his eyes closed so he could remember better.
*
Nobody saw Rowena come into the garden, her face shaded but spellbound. It was as if he had stepped out from the page of the book she’d kept in her mind, a man against whom she would measure all others.