Within ten minutes every damp and mildewed article of clothing and bedding had been pulled out and now lay steaming in a wide patch of sunlight in a clearing among the trees.
Kate rinsed out her shirt and shorts and laid them to dry, then washed herself, standing knee-deep in the stream, out of sight of the camp. Without soap it was impossible to get all the dirt off her skin, but she was cleaner than she had been in weeks. She retrieved the yellow silk dress from her knapsack and put it on, feeling self-conscious, but it was the only clean thing she had left. The thin silk felt alien against her skin as she wandered back to camp.
‘Look, Mother – I’ve made you a seat, come and sit down.’ With Christopher’s help Mrs Bryant lowered herself stiffly onto a folded sack and leaned back against a tree.
‘Thank you, darling.’
‘I’m going to make a swing for Shreya.’
‘That’s a lovely idea.’
Kate saw how exhausted Mrs Bryant looked. Her feet were swollen and barely fitted into her tattered shoes. The leather had started to come apart and the filthy stockings were in shreds. Her grey hair, which must once have been carefully styled, was pulled back in a limp bun. She looked old and it was hard to imagine her getting to the next village, let alone to India.
They watched Christopher at the edge of the woods, showing Shreya how to tie sailors’ knots. He set her to plaiting vines together to use as a rope and began looking for a suitable seat for the swing.
‘Your son is a good boy,’ said Nabanita abruptly, sitting down beside Mrs Bryant. Her cheeks were thinner than ever, and she watched as Shreya ran about, picking up sticks for examination. She still plaited Shreya’s hair carefully each morning, brushing it over and over until it gleamed.
Mrs Bryant reached out carefully, taking Nabanita’s small brown hand in her puffy white one. ‘So was yours.’
Nabanita nodded. ‘It is very hard for Shreya. I’m glad Christopher is able to make her laugh. It allows her to forget for a little while.’ She swallowed. ‘I worry that I am failing her.’
‘You could never do that.’
‘I feel paralysed since Satish died. How will I start again when this is over? I don’t want Shreya’s whole life to have this shadow over it.’
‘She knows that you love her,’ said Mrs Bryant. ‘That’s all they need.’
Kate closed her eyes. She thought of her parents, of how often she had privately raged at them in her youth, frustrated by the constraints of the house and the farm and the feeling that the years were slipping away. But they had loved her unconditionally – that was enough.
Some time later she awoke suddenly. Mrs Bryant was fast asleep against the tree, snoring gently, Nabanita and Sameer were curled side by side on a rug, and Myia was lying gracefully on a patch of warm rocks, her long hair, newly washed, spread out to dry.
She could hear Christopher whistling somewhere nearby, the heavy dripping of water off leaves, and the faint trickling of a nearby stream. The air felt thick and humid. It was late afternoon.
Stretching her stiff limbs, Kate wandered into the jungle, pausing every now and then to examine a plant growing among the trees. Bamboo shoots were usually the only edible things available. She saw Christopher stalking through the undergrowth, carrying a catapult and scanning the trees for wildlife. He saw her and waved before darting away.
The jungle looked quite different when the sun was out. Instead of the usual dark and brooding atmosphere, it felt almost friendly. Birds sang high overhead and once she heard the chattering noise of a monkey as it swung somewhere nearby. Bright flowers bloomed in the distance.
The further away from camp she went, the easier it was to believe that she had dreamed the last few months, and that she was simply taking a walk in the woods. She sat on a low branch and closed her eyes, imagining that she was in the woodland that bordered the farm at home. She remembered an early summer evening, not long after she had left school, when she and her father and mother had walked into the woods to listen to the nightingales.
He walked slowly, leaning on her mother’s arm, his breathing laboured, and when they stopped he sat down on a tree stump. Kate stood a little behind them, feeling superfluous. Her mother’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder, both of their heads tilted to one side as they listened, just as she imagined they had done when they were courting in the years before the war.
‘Do you hear it?’ Her mother was smiling as she looked back. Kate tilted her head too, listening intently, and heard the distant sound of the nightingale, a high, sweet song. She smiled back, unaware of what was to come, seeing only her parents – her mother, happy, her father, his eyes closed, looking more at peace than she had ever seen him.
As a child she had pressed flowers, layering pansies and rosebuds carefully between sheets of tissue paper before twisting the screws at the four corners of the press, only opening it when all the moisture had gone and the flowers were dry and flat, their beauty suspended in time. Somehow she had done the same with her memories, pressing them safely away. For a moment the scene was as vivid as it had ever been, and she could have reached out to touch her mother and father, waiting patiently in the wood for the first nightingale of summer.
‘Kate? Do you hear it?’
There was a rustling sound nearby. She looked up to see Shreya running towards her.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Do come and see,’ said Shreya, tugging her hand. ‘It’s the most wonderful thing!’
‘What?’ said Kate, laughing at her urgency. ‘Oh, all right. What is it?’
They ran along the path, leaping over roots and fallen logs, pushing back the vines that dangled overhead, and Kate felt suddenly carefree.
‘What – oh!’
She slowed and cocked her head, astonishment dawning on her face. For coming clearly through the trees was music, a tinkling tune that sounded more familiar than her own heartbeat.
‘This way,’ said Shreya.
The tune went on, growing louder now, and despite the heat Kate felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
They reached a clearing. The sun was sinking and long shadows extended across the grassy meadow. And there, in the middle, was a grand piano. One of its legs was broken, weeds were growing around the others, and there were leaves and twigs all across the lid, which tilted towards the ground. The varnish had begun to bubble and crack from the intense heat and heavy rain.
Fred was standing at the keys, his eyes closed and his shoulders relaxed, playing a wistful melody that soared up and down.
‘I know this tune,’ said Kate, and she felt tears pricking.
He played on, his fingers moving across the keys without hesitation, his body swaying gently with the tune. Time seemed to pause as they listened, and despite the weeds and the vines that threatened the piano, and the warping of the strings, and the death and pain that hovered just out of sight, Kate had never heard anything more beautiful.
The tempo sped up and she saw Shreya dancing, pretending, perhaps, that she was in a far-away ballroom as she moved gracefully across the clearing. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
At last the melody soared up once more and then ended, the last high note fading gently away. Fred glanced up and looked suddenly bashful, closing the lid gently then stepping briskly away from the piano.
‘Fancy finding this here,’ he said. ‘In awful condition, of course – you heard the missing strings and the flatness? Such a pity, it must have been a beautiful instrument.’
‘How did it get here?’ asked Shreya, still swaying dreamily, her long black lashes wet with tears.
Fred shrugged. ‘I imagine one of the silly memsahibs thought she could take it with her and then found that no one was keen to carry it. Coolies ditched it, I expect. Who can blame the poor devils? It weighs a tonne.’
‘What’s that song? Is it British?’
‘It’s by an English composer, Vaughan Williams,’ said Fred. ‘It’s called “The Lark Ascendin
g”. You need a violinist, really – or an orchestra, if you’ve got one. It’s not meant for a solo pianist.’
‘Strange hearing it here, of all places,’ said Kate. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I found it sad,’ said Shreya.
‘To me . . .’ said Fred, and he smiled, ‘it’s England. All of it, contained in that one tune. A lost world. That’s why it’s so beautiful. And so sad.’
‘Where did you learn to play so well?’ asked Kate. His playing had been so sure, so instinctive. She remembered his hands on the wheel of his boat as they steamed up the Irrawaddy, deft and reassuring.
‘Once upon a time,’ said Fred, ‘I was a music student, just before the last war. I had a scholarship to the Royal College in Manchester. I joined up in 1914, planning to go back and finish when it was all over. I never did, of course. I heard that tune at a concert after the war and I’ve never forgotten it.’
Neither will I, thought Kate dreamily, noticing flecks of dust suspended, glowing, in the dappled light that shone all around them, billowing as Shreya danced again across the clearing. She wondered, not for the first time, why Fred had left England.
‘It was my father’s favourite, too,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘He played it over and over when we got a gramophone. Then we played it at his funeral. I haven’t heard it since.’
Fred nodded. He dusted the lid of the piano ineffectually and ran his hand over the wood. ‘I’m sure your father would be very proud of you,’ he said at last, catching her eye, and she felt an ache of longing, although she could not have said what she was longing for.
Shreya waltzed back over and looked curiously between them, sensing the strangeness that had fallen.
‘Come along,’ said Fred, patting Shreya on the shoulder. ‘Better get back to camp. Your mother will worry.’
‘She won’t,’ said Shreya. ‘She knows I’m tough.’
‘All mothers worry,’ said Fred. ‘And fathers.’ He looked at Kate and smiled, as if noticing how she was dressed for the first time. She felt rather foolish in the yellow silk, but Fred said nothing.
Kate followed them out of the clearing, looking back once more at the piano. It would never leave these woods, she knew, and she imagined it sinking slowly into the weeds. Within a few years it would be lost to time, and no one who passed this way would know it had ever existed.
33
Shinbwiyang, June 1942
They reached Shinbwiyang a few days later. What had once been a small village, nestled in the trees, had now been turned into a sprawling refugee camp.
Walking between the ramshackle buildings, flinching at the smell, they immediately saw one of its causes. Mass graves had been dug around the edges of the village, soil piled high, the occasional wooden cross stuck into the earth.
People milled around or sat silently in the entrance to one of the huge dormitories. Children were playing in the distance, but the adults talked quietly; most of them looked miserable and unwell. They glanced at the newcomers without interest.
Kate walked with Fred and Myia through the camp. Among the trees, the thud of hammers could be heard, and voices rang out clearly. As they approached they saw the wooden frame of a building being lifted gently off the ground by several people, as others stood around, watching anxiously.
When it was stable, the English soldier who had been directing proceedings turned to them, wiping his forehead, and introduced himself as Jim. He was skinny and sallow and evidently not well at all.
‘If you think it’s bad now you should have seen it a couple of weeks ago,’ he said. ‘People fighting over rations, pushing and shoving the elderly and children, men hitting women. It was anarchy.’
‘Everyone looks very sick,’ said Myia.
He nodded. ‘Cholera, I’m afraid. Plus dysentery, malaria, etcetera.’
‘How many people are here?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t say. Perhaps two thousand.’
‘And have you any doctors?’
Jim shook his head. ‘There was one, an Indian fellow, but he moved on last week. Before that they tell me there was a French chap, but he didn’t stick around either. Funnily enough, no one wants to stay here.’
‘So who’s in charge?’ asked Kate, nodding her head at the camp.
‘There’s a handful of British chaps running things day to day and trying to keep order. But we’ve very little food. We’ve had the occasional drop of supplies from the RAF but it’s never enough.’
‘The army know you’re here?’ said Myia. ‘But why don’t they help?’
Jim looked at her cynically. ‘You may well ask. We assume it’s because they’re overstretched elsewhere. It’s impossible to land planes in this jungle so they couldn’t airlift everyone out, not by any means, but they could do better than a sack of rice.’
‘Is there any help coming?’ asked Kate.
‘Apparently the army are building camps along the route to India,’ said Jim. ‘It may be true, but they haven’t reached us yet.’
Kate looked glumly at the others.
‘How many in your group?’ Jim asked, running a hand over his forehead. ‘Are they sick?’
‘Eight of us,’ said Fred. ‘Some sickness, mostly malaria.’
‘If there was anywhere to go I’d advise you not to stay here,’ said Jim. ‘I’d get as far away as possible.’
‘Some of our party can’t go any further,’ said Fred.
‘Conditions in the hills are atrocious,’ said Jim. ‘A scout came back yesterday from a reconnaissance mission. The terrain up there makes the valley look like Kew Gardens.’
Kate looked helplessly at Fred. ‘We must get to India.’ But her limbs felt heavy, and suddenly the idea of walking to India was laughable; it might as well be on the moon.
‘That building over there is the clothing exchange,’ said Jim. ‘They’ll give you whatever you need, within reason. Shoes, certainly,’ he said to Kate, and with surprise she looked down at her filthy bare feet. She had lost her shoes somewhere along the way but could not have said when or where.
*
A week passed. For Kate it was a time of fever and confusion, as she slept much of the time in the hospital ward and felt oddly distant even while conscious. One night she awoke and thought she heard singing. It sounded like the Indian song that Nabanita had sung at little Satish’s funeral. She saw Satish playing in the aisle by her bed, throwing a ball to his father, and knew she was dreaming.
Her fever reached its climax a day or so later and she woke one morning to find that the malaria had receded. Her hair was damp with sweat and she felt weak, but her head was clear for the first time in weeks.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Myia when she came a little later. She looked tired and pale. Her longyi had been replaced by a long cotton skirt and she wore a man’s shirt that was much too big for her.
‘Better. No more hallucinations. I saw all sorts of things.’ Kate hesitated. ‘How are the others?’
Myia looked down. ‘Sameer is dead.’ Kate felt her heart lurch. ‘It came on very fast. He had dysentery – there was nothing they could do.’
Kate stared at her. ‘What about Nabanita? And Shreya?’
‘You can imagine. They won’t speak to anyone.’
‘Oh, God.’
Left alone, Kate lay looking up at the bamboo ceiling. The ward around her was dirty and noisy, with feverish patients calling out, and children clustered around the immobile forms of their parents. English voices were mixed with the sounds of Hindustani and Burmese. Perhaps they were people she had known back in Rangoon, in another world. She thought of Nabanita and could almost feel the force of her grief radiating through the camp. She had lost too much.
Christopher shuffled in the next day. He looked a little healthier than before, but his young face was lined with anxiety.
‘My mother’s dying,’ he said conversationally as he sat on the end of her plank bed, pulling at a loose thread in the cuff of his shirt.
&nbs
p; ‘Where is she?’
‘In the next hut. She’s asleep most of the time. Better that way, I suppose.’
Kate squeezed his hand. ‘She’s been so strong, Christopher. She might make it.’
He shook his head. ‘Not this time. The cancer’s really taken hold of her, it’s all through her body now. And the malaria won’t go.’ He looked up with a sigh and his eyes were gleaming with tears. ‘She won’t leave this place.’
*
Kate felt stronger each day and soon she was able to move out of the hospital into a dormitory. It was a gloomy place where rats scuttled in and out, looking for scraps of leftover food, of which there were few.
Across the room a little Burmese girl played with an empty box, as her mother lay asleep beside her. The woman was thin, and her round face looked worn beyond her years, but she had once been beautiful. She wore a faded longyi and was covered by a thick blanket. She coughed occasionally and winced in her sleep.
The little girl caught Kate’s eye where she sat reading and came over to look curiously at her book, a silver bracelet sliding down her small wrist.
‘Hello,’ said Kate, smiling up at her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mi Khin,’ said the little girl. ‘And you?’
‘Kate. Is your mother sick?’
‘I do not know,’ said Mi Khin, looking anxiously back to where her mother lay asleep. ‘She says not. But she sleeps a lot.’ Mi Khin’s English was confident, and Kate wondered where she had learnt it.
‘Do you have any other family?’ she asked.
The girl’s lip trembled. ‘Papa. I do not know where he is.’
‘Who looks after you? Does your mother bring you food?’
‘No,’ said Mi Khin, shaking her head. ‘Ah May sleeping. The kind man brings food.’
‘He sounds very kind.’
‘He says I remind him of someone.’ She pointed to the doorway. ‘There he is.’
It was Fred, carrying a bag of rice and another of army-issue tinned food. He saw Kate and smiled, passing one of the bags to Mi Khin, who eagerly unpacked it.
The Long Journey Home Page 15