The Long Journey Home

by Cecily Blench

Kate moulded a ball of rice with her fingers and dipped it into the curry. She noticed Edwin tentatively copying her and laughed at the alarm on his face when he first tasted the spicy curry.

  ‘Here, have some water.’

  He mopped his face and took another bite. ‘It’s rather nice, actually.’ For a moment she felt that she’d overstepped – some men didn’t like being laughed at, especially not by a woman they’d just met. But he was laughing too, now, although he seemed out of practice, and she wondered how long it was since he’d laughed at all.

  ‘So, what’s your story?’ asked Kate, licking her fingers and taking a gulp of water.

  ‘You mean, why am I not in the army?’ said Edwin, with a half smile.

  ‘I suppose that is what I mean. I expect you’ve got some dreadful medical problem that will make me feel bad for even asking, haven’t you?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Edwin. ‘It’s my eyes. I’m blind as a bat.’ He took off his glasses and waved them and she saw immediately that his eyes were unfocused as he squinted at her.

  ‘How unfortunate. At least your specs aren’t those awful thick milk-bottle bottom lenses. My sister Laura has those and she looks like a mole. A very nice mole, though.’

  Suddenly vulnerable without his glasses, Edwin put them back on and adjusted them, looking embarrassed. ‘Anyway, I went to sign up, back in the first year of the war. But I didn’t meet the minimum requirements, what with a weak chest too, so that was an end to it. Lucky me, I suppose.’ But he looked doubtful.

  ‘I gather you were teaching in London.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, fiddling with his glasses again and looking down at the half-finished meal before him. ‘A grammar school in Lambeth. Not a brilliantly well-paid job but it was pleasant and easy. The boys were cheeky but rarely troublesome.’

  ‘What made you chuck it all in and come out here?’ asked Kate, mopping up the last remnants of her curry.

  He had obviously been expecting the question. ‘My wife died. In May.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  He looked down. ‘I thought coming out here would be a good distraction. I was about to take up a position in Bombay when they said I’d be more useful here.’ He smiled feebly again and finished eating his curry, before folding the banana leaf carefully and putting it in the wastepaper bin. ‘And what brought you out here?’ he asked.

  ‘It was just chance, really,’ said Kate, standing to pour tea from a large thermos into two little cups. It was Chinese tea, thin and yellow, with leaves floating here and there. ‘My friend Christina wanted to visit – her uncle works for Burmah Oil somewhere in the north – and we decided to come out together for six months. I was working in a very dreary job in Birmingham so I was thrilled to chuck it all in. I’d always liked the idea of Burma.’ She passed him one of the steaming cups and he looked uncertainly down at the pale tea.

  ‘Anyway, Christina got engaged to a wealthy Scotsman after about two months here and is now living in Delhi. I meant to go home, but when the war came . . . well, I cancelled my ticket and got this job. And here I still am.’

  ‘Do you miss England?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Kate. ‘I miss my mother – she’s been alone since my father died a few years ago. And I miss the countryside, the cool spring weather. But for a long time I’d felt this sense of being trapped there. I wanted to escape.’

  She looked at her hands. ‘Everyone who comes here seems to be running away from something.’ She glanced up and saw Edwin’s expression. ‘Oh – I didn’t mean—’

  He shook his head. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  The door opened and another young boy came in, carrying a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a bar of soap, which he took first to Kate, who washed her hands thoroughly.

  ‘Hello, Cho. Capital of France?’ she said to the boy.

  ‘Paris!’

  ‘Italy?’

  ‘Rome!’

  ‘Iceland?’

  ‘Too hard!’ complained the boy laughingly. ‘No one knows that.’

  He carried the bowl round the table for Edwin to wash his hands, then bowed and shut the door gently behind him.

  3

  Worcestershire, November 1922

  ‘Did you have to fight in the war, Daddy?’ asked Kate when she was seven years old, as they ranged across the common together. He was quiet for so long that she thought he hadn’t heard her.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ he said at last.

  ‘Mummy said your lungs were hurt.’

  ‘It was mustard gas.’ He called to the dogs. ‘Harry! Ginger! Don’t get too far ahead!’

  ‘Mustard gas?’ said Kate, puzzled. ‘Is it made of mustard?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ her father replied. ‘It comes from some of the same chemical compounds, I believe. I don’t know the science, I’m afraid.’

  The two spaniels sprinted back, panting and eager to please, pushing their wet noses at Kate until she knelt to fuss them. ‘Good boy, Harry. Good girl, Ginger.’

  ‘We ought to be heading back,’ said her father, glancing at the sun, which sat low on the horizon. ‘It’ll be getting dark soon.’

  ‘All right,’ said Kate, and they walked on across the common, watching the light draining slowly from the sky. A herd of ponies stood some way off, silhouetted against the skyline.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, Kate?’

  ‘Does it make you sad to talk about the war?’

  ‘It does, rather.’

  ‘Was it very scary? Were you afraid?’

  ‘Often,’ said her father, sounding suddenly dreamy. ‘It gives you a strange clarity, knowing you might be killed at any time.’

  She thought he had probably had enough and decided not to probe further. But he was still thinking, and at last he said, ‘I was lucky to get away with only minor health problems. Mustard gas is incredibly toxic. Many men weren’t so lucky.’

  ‘Does it kill people?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘When they breathe it in?’

  ‘Yes, but it also causes a lot of damage to the outside of the body if you’re exposed too closely to it.’ He glanced at her. ‘I oughtn’t to tell you all this, darling, it’s not a pleasant subject.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Kate, taking his hand. ‘It’s interesting. Why didn’t you get more hurt?’

  ‘I was a mile or so from the worst of it,’ he said. ‘There were men much closer who . . .’

  He closed his eyes and Kate watched him curiously.

  ‘Anyway, there was a gas attack and it drifted,’ he said. ‘I inhaled some as I was putting my mask back on—’ He coughed, the deep painful cough that Kate heard every night, echoing from his room at the top of the house. ‘And this was the result.’

  ‘Did they send you home?’

  He shook his head, his eyes still watering. ‘No – they didn’t realise it was bad. I was back in action a week or so later.’

  They had nearly reached the herd of ponies and her father reached out a hand, slowing Kate’s pace so as not to alarm them.

  ‘Are you still angry at the Germans?’

  ‘The Germans?’ He laughed. ‘Good heavens, no! I never held a grudge there. They weren’t responsible.’

  ‘Then who was?’

  ‘It was a British gas attack,’ he said at last. ‘The fools managed to gas us, their own men – released it too early and it drifted back to the British trenches on the wind.’

  A grey pony nudged gently at his hand. Kate, beside him, timidly touched the side of the pony’s nose and felt the velvet softness.

  ‘We lost a lot of men that day,’ he said. ‘And all for a stupid mistake. I’ll never forgive that.’

  Her father turned to look out at the view. They were higher than anything else for miles, and woods and fields stretched out to the horizon where shadowy grey mountains rose in the distance.

  ‘Nothing will ever equal this view,’ he said at last, and she heard him take a deep breath be
fore coughing again. ‘The heart of England.’

  4

  Rangoon, November 1941

  It was a year of unseasonable weather in Rangoon. In the midst of the dry season the heavens opened one Saturday and the rain poured down.

  Kate made her way along Pagoda Road, jumping across puddles and dodging around equally hurried pedestrians, cursing all the while. In one hand she carried a red silk umbrella and with the other she clutched a stack of books to her chest.

  A boy wearing little more than a loincloth galloped past her, hauling a rickshaw that held two well-dressed women sitting bolt upright under one parasol. The boy was drenched and muddy and Kate felt chastened, although at the same time cheered to think that someone else was having a worse time of it.

  Turning a corner, she scurried along for a few yards more and then darted in through an open doorway. Mr Myint’s shop was tiny even by Rangoon standards. It was a cubicle opening onto the street, not much bigger than a London telephone box. Books were piled high all around, right up to the ceiling, and Kate sometimes felt that if she looked at the floor for long enough it too would be made of books.

  ‘Good morning!’ she called and, sure enough, a smiling face appeared between the stacks.

  ‘Ah, Miss Girton, very nice to see you,’ said Mr Myint. ‘Still raining? Here,’ and he handed her a length of cotton to dry off with. He was a little elderly Burman, wrinkled and dusty.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kate, pressing it to her face and hair. ‘Definitely still raining.’

  ‘What have you brought for me this time?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, putting down the pile of books she carried, ‘here are the four I got from you last month, the three from the month before, and a couple of new ones my sister sent that arrived last week.’

  Mr Myint shook his head. ‘All finished already? You read too fast, madam. It is not good for you.’

  ‘Good for business, though,’ said Kate. ‘Anyway, what deal can you do for me?’

  The old man looked through the pile, examining the condition of the books, running a finger along the spines. Most of them had seen better days. The hot Burmese sun and the grubby fingers of dozens of eager readers had turned them yellow and brittle in the years since they had made their way east.

  He looked with interest at the new books from London, which stood out – the pages still white and uncreased, the covers glossy.

  ‘Hemingway – I know this name.’

  ‘He’s all the rage back home,’ said Kate. ‘Bestseller.’

  ‘He is English, yes?’

  ‘American, I think, but very well respected. I thought it was rather good, although at this stage my judgement isn’t to be relied on. Spanish Civil War, love story, religion, lots of guns. Something for everyone.’

  The old fellow tipped his head to one side, assessing the pile before him. ‘You can choose . . . three books.’

  Kate laughed. ‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that. Those two are brand new! I’d say six is a better number.’

  ‘Six? Madam, you will bankrupt me. Four is my final offer.’

  ‘How about five and I promise to get my sister to send more from London? Brand-new editions, the first in Burma.’

  The old man sighed and raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Very well, madam. Choose your five and be gone.’

  But he was careful to wrap Kate’s haul in an old newspaper and, looking out at the still heavy rain, added a couple of banana leaves as an extra layer before tying the whole parcel up with string.

  *

  Throwing down her umbrella, Kate picked up the letter that lay on the mat at home. It had a London postmark and the handwriting told her it was from her sister Laura.

  Dearest Kate,

  It’s been months since we’ve heard from you, do write to Mother soon, won’t you? She says she doesn’t mind – she knows you’re busy – but I know she’d like to hear from you more often.

  Things are rather awful here. Of course I don’t see much of it on the maternity ward, but all around I know there are men hurt and dying, and essential supplies are often hard to come by. I feel useless.

  There may be an opportunity to transfer soon, and I am inclined to do it. They are looking for theatre nurses. The work will be harder and I expect I shall hate every minute, but at least I’ll feel that I’m doing something useful while Will is in North Africa. I can only pray that he doesn’t have cause to pass through my care.

  They say that the East will soon be at war. I do so hope that Burma will not be caught up in it. Perhaps you ought to come home?

  Kate sighed. How could she explain to Laura that going home was what she most dreaded? And that, even if she wanted to, the journey back would be too dangerous? Rumours of war were flying about but there seemed little that she could do at this stage. I’ll stay, she thought – until the bitter end. Whenever that might be.

  *

  Standing in the street as carts and rickshaws rolled past him, Edwin looked uncertainly at the scrap of paper in his hand. He had been given a list of potential landlords by Miss Soe at the Secretariat.

  His room at the Strand, white and empty, was too quiet and it felt so far removed from the reality of life in Rangoon that he might as well have been in England.

  ‘No Burmese names?’ he had murmured, looking at the list.

  Miss Soe smiled apologetically. ‘Landlords in Rangoon are mainly European and Indian. Most Burmese are not wealthy enough to own extra properties.’

  ‘Of course.’ He was distracted by the flower that bobbed in her hair and caught its scent, disturbingly feminine.

  ‘If you like I can ask someone here to make enquiries for you?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Edwin. ‘It’s quite all right, thank you. It’s a good opportunity for me to explore.’ She smiled and left, but the scent took some time to fade.

  Now, a week later, he was rather regretting his decision. It was always so hot in the streets of Rangoon, although the rain seemed to have stopped, and his task had been thankless; the first four landlords on the list were no longer letting rooms out.

  ‘The war,’ said an elderly Indian businessman, waving a hand regretfully. ‘I am selling everything.’

  Edwin wondered, fleetingly, what Kate did with her weekends. The day before she had taken him out to lunch, showing him how to eat tealeaf salad and writing down a few useful Burmese phrases phonetically. Most of the European women he had met since coming to the East had been finely dressed and rather reserved, and everything they said was tinged with resentment that they were stuck in colonial exile. Kate dressed casually and she was bright and enthusiastic about her work and about Burma. She rarely spoke of the life she had left behind in England and he sensed in her a kindred spirit, although he could not have said why.

  The fifth name on his list of landlords was Mr D. Haskell, and he stood now outside a busy factory, with ‘Haskell’s Imports and Exports’ emblazoned on the wooden frontage. He stepped into the shade of an archway that led into a courtyard, where several large lorries were parked. Men were heaving crates and boxes around the yard, surprisingly agile in their cotton longyis, their bare chests gleaming.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ A Burmese servant had appeared – obviously the gatekeeper, for his belt held a hoop of heavy keys and a large knife like a machete hung at his side in a leather sheath.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Haskell. I was told he might have rooms to let? He’s not expecting me, sorry. My name is Edwin Clear.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I will ask Mr Haskell if he can spare a moment. Wait here, please.’

  Before long he was shown into an office and a tired-looking young man in a white shirt and slacks stood up to greet him. He was tall and thin and Edwin saw that he wore a black skullcap.

  ‘Mr Clear. Good to meet you. Daniel Haskell. Have a seat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Edwin, shaking the proffered hand and sinking into a chair. He wiped his forehead, trying to be discreet.

  ‘It tak
es some time to adjust to the heat,’ observed Haskell with a smile. ‘Or so I’ve heard. I don’t know anything different.’

  ‘You were born here?’

  ‘My family has been in Rangoon for generations. There’s a fairly large Jewish community – my father’s grandparents were Polish and Iraqi and my mother’s family are Cochin Jews from India.’

  ‘I saw the synagogue on my way here.’

  ‘But you’re not Jewish yourself?’ A servant placed two small cups on the table and Edwin caught the smell of strong coffee.

  ‘No. My wife Emilia was, though.’ He paused and, feeling that it was better to get it out of the way, said, ‘She died. The war, you know.’

  Haskell shook his head. ‘I’m very sorry. It isn’t easy. I’ve cousins in Poland and – well, you can imagine. I haven’t heard from them for two years. I fear greatly for them.’

  Edwin nodded. A door slammed somewhere and there was a spluttering noise as an engine turned over. There were calls back and forth, then at last the engine started with a roar. The lorry idled for a moment before pulling away and gradually the commotion faded.

  ‘It is a catastrophe,’ said Haskell, sipping his coffee. ‘Not just for the Jews, of course. But we’re dying out here, too. One day soon there will be no Jews left in Rangoon.’

  Edwin, his mind still on Emilia, nodded silently again.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Haskell, ‘they told me you were looking for a room.’

  ‘Yes, I’m at the Strand at present.’

  ‘You’re with the government, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. At the Secretariat.’

  Haskell looked thoughtful. ‘I have a little apartment next to my house. It’s very simple. You are welcome to it.’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘But I don’t think you should take it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Edwin stared at him.

  ‘They say that Japan will soon attack the Empire, Mr Clear. How long do you think the government will keep its foreign staff here once that happens? Save your time and trouble and stay at the Strand.’

  Haskell walked Edwin to the gate, a sheaf of paperwork in one hand, occasionally calling instructions or greetings to workmen who passed by. The sun was high in the sky and out on the street it was baking. The morning’s puddles had already dried up.