The Long Journey Home

by Cecily Blench

  ‘Heap of junk,’ said Patrick, but he patted the bonnet of the car and looked regretful. ‘Well, she gave us a head start.’

  ‘How far back do you think the Japanese are?’

  ‘They could be anywhere,’ Patrick said. ‘They may be sneaking around the countryside in small groups. On the wireless it just said that they were moving north . . .’

  It was completely dark by the time they reached the edge of a village. Patrick was all for knocking on a door and asking for refuge, but Edwin was anxious about being seen by anyone, or being mistaken for a hostile force and attacked.

  In the end they slept in a tumbledown barn and drank murky water from a tank outside. Reluctant to eat the minimal supplies they had brought, they broke lengths of sugar cane from the neighbouring field and sucked the sweet juice.

  The next day they walked on, heading west.

  21

  London, October 1940

  In the Blitz, nothing was as it seemed. The streets of the West End were darkened, but behind closed doors, if you knew where to look, the life of the city went on, sparkling brighter than ever.

  When had it begun? Edwin had been caught in an air raid in Leicester Square. He’d had a drink, two drinks, and when in the flickering darkness of the Underground station he became aware of the advances of the man who stood pressed against him, furtive but determined, he’d frozen for a moment before disgust set in. He shoved the fellow away and pushed through the crowds. Glancing back, he saw the face of the man in the lamplight – handsome, with a knowing smile that lingered and seemed to say, ‘You’ll be back.’

  But no, that wasn’t the first time. More than once, in the streets, he’d been whispered to, importuned.

  ‘I’m looking for somewhere to stay,’ said a handsome young officer with a cut-glass accent. ‘Might you . . .?’

  ‘No. Sorry!’ And he’d scuttled away, wondering what kind of signal they were reading in him.

  *

  Another night, weeks later. He’d been drinking late with colleagues at a pub not far from the school. It had been a difficult day; they’d had news that another of the young teachers had been killed in the Western Desert, a fellow of Edwin’s age with a wife and children. Edwin drank more and faster than ever before, and suddenly it was time for last orders and he was stumbling out onto the street. His colleagues, all men too old for the war, patted his shoulder and pointed him towards a cab rank.

  There were no cabs, so he wandered to the station, but he’d missed the last train. Emilia would be worried, he knew, and he felt a pang of remorse. He would get home to her somehow. He knew the city well and it was only a few miles, after all. He was drunk, but the streets were familiar and he felt as though he was flying as he strode towards central London. Even in the darkness he could dimly see the massive shape of St Paul’s looming like a ship, the centre of the city drawing him on. Occasionally he heard the drone of a plane overhead.

  In no time at all, it seemed, although it could have been hours, he was strolling through the West End. Passing a doorway, he heard the distant sounds of music and thought enviously of the party that was taking place somewhere below the street, the dancers moving fast in each other’s arms, the pouring of drinks, the dimmed lighting.

  He was standing now in the middle of the road, in a trance, and it was not until he saw people spilling out of doorways all around that he realised an air-raid siren was howling. He watched them run, feeling detached from it all, and walked on.

  Edwin noticed that the street was almost empty. Everyone had gone to the shelter, but where was it? He tried to picture the area from above to work out where the nearest Underground station was, but it was a blur. It occurred to him suddenly that Emilia was away for the night, staying with her parents. His home would be dark and empty.

  The man who appeared before him looked unruffled. He had been standing in a doorway, watching Edwin approach.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s the shelter? Aren’t you going to it?’

  ‘No.’ The man shook his head. ‘I always just stay at home and have a drink. Why bother?’

  ‘You could be killed.’

  He shrugged. ‘Always a possibility.’ He was young, his dark hair falling in messy curls around his ears. He wore an expensive suit, and Edwin could see that he was a gentleman – of sorts. ‘I’d rather enjoy myself while I can. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Edwin. The drink had worn off a little now, but he still felt distant, as though he was observing the scene from above. The man had a louche look to him, his shirt untucked, his waistcoat half-buttoned. The siren was still shrieking but it had become background noise.

  He was watching Edwin with a sardonic smile. ‘Why don’t you come in for a drink?’

  Later, Edwin would replay that moment again and again in his mind, turning over all the different ways in which he might have said ‘No’, the excuses he could have given, then the journey home, and a different outcome.

  Instead, he said, ‘All right,’ and followed the man into his house. As the door clicked shut, the bombs began to fall.

  22

  Upper Burma, May 1942

  A rumour went around that a ferry would shortly be calling at Katha. Kate and Myia took their luggage down to the jetty and sat hopefully on the edge, dangling their legs over the water and peering downriver. They had been awaiting onward transport for days.

  The Irrawaddy at this point was as wide as ever, and the current, though sluggish, was clearly powerful. They watched young boys diving off the jetty and being carried downstream before scrambling back up the bank.

  Much of Katha’s commerce centred on the river and all around people were living on it or by it. Wrinkled old fishermen in tiny sampans bobbed around in the shallows, while larger boats fished upstream.

  At the edge of the water women stood washing clothes or themselves, their longyis pulled up demurely to cover their bodies, the water dripping from their long black hair. After drying their hair, they helped one another to style it, always tucking in a bright orchid or spray of cherry blossom, before painting on thick thanaka paste to protect their cheeks from the sun.

  In the distance came the low bellow of a horn and Kate squinted at the haze over the river. A few minutes later a large steamer appeared around the bend, belching smoke and approaching at a stately pace. The deck was crowded and people were pressed against the railings. As they watched, one or two young men, keen to be home, jumped over the rail and swam briskly for the shore.

  ‘We’ll never get on,’ said Myia, and as she spoke a swell of hopeful passengers surged past them, hurrying along the jetty in the hope of getting a place. There were far more people trying to get on than off, and the men working on the boat were pushing people back.

  ‘What now?’ said Kate.

  ‘We could try the train station again.’

  ‘What’s the point? None of the trains have any space. We’re stuck here.’

  As the day wore on they bought cups of tea from a stall by the dock and approached a number of officials, but no one seemed to have any information about how they might leave Katha.

  ‘I find you truck to China,’ offered one young man, gesturing to the east. ‘Is not difficult.’

  ‘China?’

  ‘I do not want to go to China,’ said Myia, looking at Kate. ‘We’ll just get stuck there instead.’

  ‘Let’s keep it as a last resort.’

  Later they had bowls of fish soup, purchased from another stall, and sat watching the river. A European man arrived and ordered the same. He was around fifty, stocky, with sun-browned skin and dressed in faded khaki. An English teak merchant, Kate supposed, or perhaps an oil worker.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said, catching her eye and nodding.

  ‘Hello.’

  He busied himself accepting the soup and then sat down nearby on a log and ate it unhurriedly, watching the boats and the people come and go.

  ‘Headin
g north?’ he asked.

  ‘Trying to,’ said Kate. ‘We’re aiming for Myitkyina.’

  He nodded. ‘The airfield. Me too, actually. Fred Thompson.’ He held out a strong hand to each of them in turn.

  ‘Kate Girton.’

  ‘Myia Win.’

  He spoke to Myia in Burmese, and she laughed and said, ‘And you.’ She turned to Kate. ‘You know that phrase, I think.’

  ‘Oh – pleased to meet you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The lads I work with tend to laugh at my pronunciation,’ said Fred. He lapsed back into silence, looking a trifle embarrassed. Kate sensed that he was used to being on his own a lot. His voice had a northern lilt and she wondered where he was from.

  ‘How are you getting to Myitkyina?’ he said.

  ‘We’re not sure yet.’

  ‘Would you like a lift?’

  ‘A lift! Yes, please!’ said Kate, adding as an afterthought, ‘In what?’

  ‘I’ve got a little boat,’ he said, jerking his head upstream. ‘She’s moored over there, out of sight. Room for a couple more. I’ll be going as far as Bhamo – the river’s too narrow for boats after that and there are rapids. You can get a truck from there to Myitkyina.’

  *

  The boat was a small paddle-steamer, her name written in looping Burmese script on the prow. Underneath, in English, it said ‘Irrawaddy Flotilla Company’. On board was a mixed crowd of refugees, several of them ill or wounded, and the smell of gangrenous wounds permeated the boat. They looked without curiosity as Kate and Myia came aboard. Many of them had evidently been travelling for some time and looked wretched.

  Fred soon cast off and the steamer made its way up the river. At last he handed over to his young apprentice, a boy in a maroon loincloth, then went around the ship checking knots, patting luggage, and checking that all was well.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kate said as he passed. ‘For taking us.’

  ‘No trouble,’ he said, with a faint smile. ‘Helping a few people is all I can do at this stage.’ He looked around the boat, surveying his empire, then gazed upriver, where the sun was starting to descend towards the hills. ‘Her last voyage.’

  ‘Last?’

  He nodded. ‘She’ll be scuttled once we get to Bhamo. Can’t risk her falling to the Japs, you see.’

  He caressed the wooden rail and then was gone, hurrying off to whatever business awaited him, and Kate felt a glimmer of sadness. It was clear that he loved this boat, and its impending loss was yet another small tragedy in amongst all the others.

  They watched Katha disappearing around the bend, and now all that could be seen was the wide brown expanse of the Irrawaddy, although the smoke from fires rose in the distance. Birds waded in the shallows and gentle waves lapped against the sides of the ship.

  They slept that night on deck, surrounded by people. The boat was anchored close to the bank, palm fronds quivering overhead as the river flowed by. Kate noticed Fred curled up next to the rail, a coil of rope under his head, and realised he must have given his cabin to someone who needed it more. She liked him even better for that.

  It was cool outside, but pleasant after the heat of the day and, wrapped up in her shawl, Kate felt almost comfortable. She lay on her back for some time watching the stars and listening to the sounds of the boat, and eventually fell asleep.

  *

  The day dawned hot on the boat, which was already moving by the time Kate woke up. She and Myia ate some of the fruit they had bought at Katha and dipped lukewarm water from a barrel in the middle of the deck. It tasted slightly of tar.

  At around midday, as Kate dozed in a patch of shade beside the cabin, a commotion on board made her eyes fly open.

  ‘What is it?’ said Myia groggily beside her.

  ‘Aeroplanes,’ said someone in the crowd nearby, and at that moment she heard the roar of an engine somewhere to the south.

  At last the plane passed over. It was too high to see the markings, but she knew instinctively that it was not a British plane. They watched it roar away, until it was almost out of sight, and then something black fell to earth, followed a couple of seconds later by a distant rumble.

  Smoke could be seen rising from whatever target it had hit and Kate felt her breath catch in her throat.

  Myia let go of the sack she had been gripping tightly. ‘I wonder what they hit?’

  ‘Something military,’ said Fred, who had not moved from the wheel. He was scanning the skies with binoculars. ‘There’s a base not far from here, the King’s Own, I think. The Japs are very far north. We must get to the airfield as soon as possible.’

  Later that day they stopped to take on food and water at a village from which smoke was rising. The men told Fred that the village had been looted and burned by Chinese soldiers.

  ‘Aren’t the Chinese on our side?’ said Kate later.

  Fred smiled cynically. ‘In theory. But they’re badly paid and short on rations, or so I understand. Desperate men, desperate times.’

  She watched him steering the boat, his strong hands resting lightly on the wheel. ‘Have you lived in Burma for a long time?’

  ‘I came out from Liverpool in 1920,’ he said. ‘Seems like yesterday.’

  ‘It must be hard to leave.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem real yet,’ he said. ‘How can I leave all this behind?’ He gestured at the glimmering water and the misted hills, and she understood at once what he meant. There was beauty all around them, but he was also giving up a whole way of life. He would have to start again, as she would. I’ve done it before, thought Kate, but it was hardly a comforting thought, and sometimes it seemed that she would be running forever.

  23

  Upper Burma, May 1942

  Early on their third day aboard Fred’s ship, Bhamo hove into view in a heat haze. People began to clamber wearily off the boat, helping the sick and injured passengers off first, piling their belongings on the jetty.

  ‘Any news?’ said Fred to a harassed official on the dock.

  ‘The Japanese have crossed the Shweli Bridge. They’ll be in Bhamo by tomorrow.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ said Kate, seeing Fred start back up the gangplank.

  ‘Got to scuttle the boat. It’ll take me a couple of hours to get sorted out. You should go on ahead, there are bound to be trucks going north.’

  ‘All right. See you at Myitkyina, perhaps. If not, thank you again.’

  ‘I’d advise you to get on the first plane you can,’ he said. ‘Don’t hang about too long, it’s not safe here. I’ll be along later, once I’ve taken her upriver.’ He hesitated and smiled. ‘Good luck.’

  He nodded again and then vanished into the cabin.

  ‘It seems a dreadful waste,’ said Kate. ‘Imagine having to sink that lovely boat. It’s his livelihood.’

  ‘Better than letting it be used by the Japanese,’ said Myia. ‘They are very close, now.’

  They stood by the harbour for a moment, watching the crowds come and go. In the distance a queue of trucks and cars were at the centre of a mob of people.

  ‘We’d better get over there, I suppose,’ said Kate, shading her eyes. ‘How much do you think a lift to Myitkyina will cost?’ She turned to see Myia staring off into the crowd. ‘Myia?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Myia turned to her, looking startled. ‘I thought . . . I saw a familiar face. Here of all places.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  But Myia was scanning the crowds again, frowning, and shook her head. ‘I think it was a mistake. It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.’

  *

  It took over twenty-four hours to drive to Myitkyina, in the back of a rattling truck that had to take long detours to avoid numerous broken bridges. But they had come so far already that it seemed no time at all before they were slowing down. It was another dusty nondescript town, the northernmost end of the railway line in Burma. They had seen a broken-down train
abandoned a few miles from the town.

  They bumped through the outskirts and onto a rutted road leading west, along which people were drifting in a steady flow. As they drew closer they could see a plane already parked on the runway, surrounded by a swarm of people, all trying to get on board. Many others were sitting in small groups on the parched grass.

  ‘Heavens,’ said Kate, feeling panic rising as they alighted from the truck, exhausted and unsteady from the long drive. ‘What shall we do?’

  Myia was staring at the distant chaos and shrugged distractedly. ‘I don’t know. We’ll never get on there.’

  They sat down on the grass, in the partial shade of a scraggly bush, and watched the scene before them. People were still thronging around the plane, but someone seemed to have taken charge and several men with flags were fanning out, gradually moving the crowds back.

  A man ran out of the crowd and tried to mount the steps to the plane’s door, but he was immediately tackled by one of the soldiers and knocked to the ground. The prone body was dragged away and the runway cleared by the soldiers. There was a long pause, the crowds restlessly watching the plane preparing for take-off, its doors now closed. The engines started and built up to a low roar. Kate saw people in the crowd clutching hats and scarves as the wind from the engines buffeted them.

  Finally the plane began to move, and after the usual slow start it pelted off along the runway and then rose sharply into the air. It circled once above the airfield and then, heading west, was soon out of sight.

  The crowds around them were mostly women and children. Occasionally Kate looked around, hoping against hope to see Edwin pushing through the throng towards her, but he was never there and eventually she stopped looking. She had not expected to find him here, not really. He could still be in Mandalay, or at some other airfield. Perhaps he had been lucky and was already in India.

  The day wore on. At last Kate went looking for someone with information and, in a wooden hut, she found an overworked British soldier, leafing through lists and crossing out names. Crowds of people were waiting to speak to him but at last she fought her way to the desk.