‘You look much better.’
‘Thanks. I feel better. Still a bit feeble, though.’
‘I came to see you in the hospital, but you were asleep,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’
Mi Khin saw another girl pass by the open window and scampered away, calling to her.
‘Poor little thing,’ said Fred. ‘She attached herself to me a few days ago. Her father’s an Englishman, I gather, or perhaps Anglo-Indian – name of Smith – but he went off to India and hasn’t been heard of since. Her mother doesn’t seem well but won’t go into the hospital ward as she doesn’t believe they can help her.’
He nodded his head towards the woman who slept on the floor. ‘She barely eats. I think she’s dying. The little one may make it, though.’
‘It’s all so awful,’ said Kate, staring at the prone form. ‘I can’t believe so many are dying.’ She looked up at Fred. ‘What can we do?’
He shrugged, looking tired. ‘We can’t leave just now. The paths are too bad in the hills, so they say. It would be reckless in the extreme. And Mrs Bryant is very ill. I think we must bide our time and do what we can to help these poor people.’
‘I’ll go and volunteer tomorrow.’
‘In the hospital?’
‘I suppose so. It’s all I know how to do.’ She sighed. ‘I wish I was good at something else. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life nursing.’
Fred touched her on the shoulder. ‘You won’t, Kate. When this is over, there’s a whole world out there. You can do anything you want – anything.’
He sounded so certain. For a moment she believed him wholeheartedly.
34
Tavoy, July 1942
The days crawled by, each one like the last. Edwin registered occasionally, with dull surprise, that he was still alive.
On bad days he silently shifted rocks, fell down, picked himself up, watched other men collapse by the roadside, and witnessed the casual cruelties meted out by the Japanese. They were not monsters, he saw that now; just hardened and trained not to feel remorse. They had a sense of ruthless efficiency that divided the world into ‘useful’ and ‘not useful’. Edwin expected every day to slip from one group to the other.
The work was monotonous and he drifted into reveries. They were shrouded in mist, somehow, and he could not be sure if he was remembering something or simply daydreaming. A girl lying on a rug, a book in her hand, leaves in her dark hair. Kate, is that you? But she was gone, and only the road remained.
On better days he found himself working near Rama. Sometimes they heard the thunder of dynamite being used to carve out a way through the hills ahead, but Edwin no longer jumped at the sound. Explosions had become part of the background noise of his life. Often they were put to work breaking rocks with pickaxes, exhausting work that left little breath for talking. On easier days they were given rakes and ordered to smooth long stretches of gravel and sand.
At first they talked mostly of books, and the world outside became a little more real. Edwin told Rama about Oliver Twist and how he recited the start each night, always falling asleep before he got to the third paragraph.
‘I was twelve when I first read Dickens,’ said Rama. ‘A little barefoot boy marching into the Delhi city library and asking for a card – can you imagine?’
‘Is that where you grew up?’
‘No, I was born in the Punjab. My brother was working in Delhi as a cook’s assistant and so I went there too to find work when I was eleven.’
‘Did they let you join the library?’ asked Edwin, leaning on his shovel for a moment, imagining the ragged child and the suspicious librarians. He saw a guard in the distance and started shovelling again. It had begun to rain and the dusty road was already turning to mud. He could barely see through his smeared spectacles but could not find the energy to wipe them.
‘No,’ said Rama. ‘I had no papers or money, nothing but the clothes I wore. My parents only spoke Punjabi and I knew very little English.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I stole the books,’ said Rama with a chuckle. ‘Well, borrowed without permission. I returned them all.’
‘Did you get caught?’
‘Never. I worked as an errand boy, so I would carry a great basket into the library, pretending I was delivering lunches to people working there. Then I would dash into the fiction room, take the next volume of Dickens and hide it under the banana leaves in my basket before leaving, and return it the next time. I got through all of his novels that way. It took me months to read the first one and a week to read the last – I can say that Charles Dickens taught me to read English.’
He smiled and continued his work, using a heavy rake to level the surface of the road where Edwin had been shovelling stones. Black mud splattered across his boots.
‘I read his novels at school,’ said Edwin. ‘We wrote essays about some of them.’
‘A boarding school?’
‘Yes. Not one of the famous ones. My parents weren’t really wealthy.’
‘Wealth is relative,’ said Rama mildly.
‘Of course. But in England – well, we were middle class I suppose. My father started out poor but managed to achieve some success. He never felt he’d really made it, though.’
‘Your caste system is interesting to me,’ said Rama. ‘It’s not so different to India, really. Everyone has their place.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Edwin. ‘There was a boy at school with me – Jenkins. He was there on a scholarship and they never let him forget it. The richer boys bullied him mercilessly for being poor.’
‘And you?’
‘I didn’t join in, but I let it happen.’ Edwin wiped his sweaty forehead. He recalled the afternoons in the library, watching out of the window as Jenkins hurtled along the driveway, pursued by a flock of jeering boys in tailcoats hurling stones.
Another memory followed, of dark corridors, a tall figure holding a candle, whispers in the darkness, an empty bed beside his. He shivered in the heat of the afternoon.
‘What happened?’ said Rama, watching Edwin curiously.
‘There was a master who none of the boys trusted. God, I haven’t thought about any of this for years. Memory is so fickle. He was cruel and there were rumours that he – you know – interfered with boys.’
Rama listened impassively, his skin glistening with rain and sweat as he raked. It was still very hot and Edwin felt light-headed.
‘I can’t imagine why I’m telling you all this. One night he came to our dorm and took Jenkins away. I was pretending to be asleep, but his bed was next to mine and I saw them leave. It happened again and again, once a week at least. Jenkins stopped speaking and got all thin and spotty, which made the bullying even worse.’
Licking his dry lips, Edwin thrust the spade into the ground and it clanged against a stone. ‘Eventually Jenkins must have told an adult. There was a big fuss and his parents came to the school. He was made to repeat the accusation in front of all the masters and they asked if he had any witnesses. He said I had seen him being taken away each night and would swear to it.’
‘And did you?’
‘I couldn’t do it,’ said Edwin. ‘I was terrified that if I said anything the master would start on me as well.’ He shook his head. ‘I betrayed Jenkins. It was crueller than anything the other boys had done. I felt so terribly ashamed.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was expelled for lying. I’m sure he was relieved to get away, but the shame for his family was dreadful. He’d lost his scholarship so there was no chance of another school place. I heard later he went to work in a factory and was killed in a machine accident. My fault.’
Rama shook his head. ‘You were a boy. You were scared. What happened to the master?’
‘He didn’t touch me. I think he found other victims, though. He was dismissed from the school after I left – he’d been caught with a boy and they couldn’t turn a blind eye after that. It was hus
hed up, though. The last I heard he was working in another school.’
‘The world is full of terrible men,’ said Rama. ‘What happened was not your fault.’
‘I didn’t start it,’ said Edwin. ‘But I should have protected Jenkins. I have always been a coward.’ Emilia’s face came to his mind and the guilt rose up in his throat and threatened to choke him.
‘I’m sorry to tell you all this. I just needed to get some of it off my chest.’
‘You have carried the guilt for too long,’ said Rama seriously, looking at him directly. ‘Let it go.’
‘It’s not just that,’ Edwin said, and felt his voice quaver, tears threatening to fall. ‘Emilia, too. I betrayed her. I sometimes feel as though I’ve let down everyone I ever cared about.’
He blinked and felt his eyes blur. There was a clang nearby as a tool was dropped on the ground, and he felt his free hand being taken in a larger, warmer one that squeezed and held on tight.
‘They are beyond forgiveness,’ said Rama. ‘You must forgive yourself.’
After long seconds his hand was released and Edwin wiped his eyes. He saw Rama going back to work, the shovel almost light in his strong arms. Edwin looked around but the nearest prisoner was a dozen or so yards away and he was paying no attention to them, fully occupied by the misery of his task.
Edwin started shovelling again, his mind reeling, feeling the sweat pooling on his back as he watched the gravel scatter across the road.
35
Shinbwiyang, July 1942
Sweeping the dormitory one day, Kate heard a gasp from the pile of blankets nearby. She looked up and realised that Mi Khin’s mother was watching her out of half-closed eyes. She was lying on the floor, her breathing laboured. Kate approached and knelt beside her, taking her hand gently. It felt hot and limp.
‘Can I bring anything for you?’ she said. ‘There’s water here.’
The woman shook her head but allowed Kate to drip a little water between her lips, running her tongue slowly around her mouth to catch the drops.
‘Where is my daughter?’
‘She’s outside, playing with some other children,’ said Kate, putting the flask down. ‘Shall I go and get her?’
The woman shook her head. ‘No, leave her please. She is happy.’
Her voice was very low, and Kate had to crane to hear what she was saying. The woman looked exhausted.
‘Won’t you come to the hospital?’ Kate said. ‘We could take better care of you there. It’s basic but they have some medicine . . .’
She shook her head. ‘It is not necessary. I know I will die here. I’d rather be with Mi Khin than in a place full of sickness.’ She heaved a sigh and pulled the blanket closer around her.
‘Don’t say that,’ said Kate, feeling a sense of dread. ‘You’ll be all right.’
‘No,’ said the woman, and she stared intently at Kate, ‘I was told that I would die here.’
‘Told? By whom?’
‘By a nat.’
‘A nat? A spirit?’
She nodded and closed her eyes. ‘I cannot fight it. I am sure it sounds strange to you as a foreigner but it is very simple to me.’
Kate listened, a thousand questions racing through her mind, but she suppressed them. Somehow she believed the woman implicitly; she would die here.
‘What is your name?’
‘Hla Pemala,’ said the woman, reaching out a hand to touch Kate’s gently. ‘And yours?’
‘Kate.’
‘Who is the man? The old Englishman?’
‘That’s Fred.’
‘He is kind to Mi Khin.’ She smiled a little. ‘My husband Joseph’s father was English. Perhaps Fred reminds her of her grandfather.’
‘Where is your husband now?’ asked Kate hesitantly.
‘I do not know,’ said Hla Pemala. A tear rolled gently down her cheek. ‘India, perhaps. I do not want Mi Khin to be alone.’
‘She won’t be alone, I promise,’ said Kate, feeling her throat constrict.
*
A day later she saw Fred emerging from the dormitory with Mi Khin cradled in his arms. She was crying, her face pressed against the rough fabric of his jacket.
He caught Kate’s eye and nodded towards the dormitory. ‘They’re taking her mother into the hospital.’
‘Is she . . .?’
He shook his head, and gently put his hands over Mi Khin’s ears. ‘But she won’t last the night.’
Kate saw two men come out of the dormitory, carrying Hla Pemala on a stretcher as a nurse hurried alongside, anxiously watching the woman’s face. Her eyes were closed and it seemed that she had already gone.
‘I ought to be with her,’ said Kate.
Fred nodded. ‘I’ll take the little one away.’
So Kate went with the dying woman into the hospital ward and held her hand, listening to her shallow breathing. She knew very little about Hla Pemala’s life or how she had ended up in Shinbwiyang. She had married an Anglo-Indian man some years before and had tried to flee to India to be with him, but the rest of her story was a mystery. Kate wondered about her childhood, where her parents were, what had made her so sure that she was doomed.
Hla Pemala died shortly before midnight but Kate stayed beside her bed until the sun came up. Mi Khin had lost enough already, she thought, and knew that one way or another she would feel responsible for the child for as long as the journey to India might last.
*
Kate stood in the rain, watching Christopher dig his mother’s grave. Mrs Bryant had been unconscious for some time, and though she woke occasionally she had not seemed to recognise Kate when she visited. Her breathing became slower and slower and at last she slipped away.
‘How do I go on?’ Christopher had said blankly as he held his mother’s cold hand. I don’t know, thought Kate now, as he flung mud and stones onto a heap, his face a mask of misery. How do we go on when we’re left behind?
Looking around, she saw Nabanita nearby, watching them. She was standing under the dripping trees, her dark hair plastered to her head. Kate wondered whether to go over to her, but Nabanita turned and walked briskly away without looking back. I have let them all down, thought Kate.
When the rain began to ease she heard an engine in the distance, and looked up to see a small plane flying low over the trees. There were shouts from the camp, and she saw half a dozen men including Fred hurrying into the jungle, two of them pulling a rough wooden sledge over the muddy ground.
‘What is that?’ said Christopher, leaning on his spade. ‘Is it the army?’ His face and clothes were splattered with mud.
‘Just a supply drop, I think,’ she said, peering through the trees. The plane was out of sight now, and the sound of the engine was growing fainter.
‘Why can’t they rescue us? If they know we’re here?’
‘They can’t land the planes,’ said Kate, feeling helpless. ‘There’s no way out except on foot.’
He shook his head. ‘I just feel that there must have been something we could have done to save her.’ He looked down at the empty grave. Puddles were forming at the bottom.
‘You did all you could.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you, Christopher – I hope you know that. Fred will too.’
He nodded, his mouth pressed tightly closed, and she knew that he was trying not to cry.
‘I’m due at the hospital,’ she said, noticing the light beginning to fade. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind doing that alone?’
‘It’s my duty,’ said Christopher, and with an effort he smiled. ‘Thank you. Good luck on your shift.’
Kate hurried away. She looked back and saw him digging frantically again, flinging earth over his shoulder onto a pile that grew steadily bigger. He no longer looked like a boy; whatever vestiges of childhood remained had been swept away, lost somewhere in the mud of the Hukawng Valley.
*
Weeks went by, although Kate did not count them. She worked long hou
rs in the hospital, sharing shifts with the few others who had medical experience. Most of them were amateurs, and she knew that they could not provide anything like the level of care required.
More people arrived at the camp every day, and every day more people died. Those who were not sick already often succumbed within days. It was not a healthy place, but for most of them there was no other option. The mountains beyond Shinbwiyang were such impossible terrain during the monsoon that the place had become a bottleneck, as many of the people who had trudged slowly towards India now became trapped there.
Kate assisted with operations, bandaged wounds, dispensed medicine, emptied bedpans, and laid out the bodies of those beyond help. Sometimes whole days went by when she could barely recall what she had been doing and she realised, with alarm, that she had somehow detached from it all.
One night she was called to assist at the bedside of a child with a fever, a little Indian boy who tossed and turned, his forehead burning hot. He was around the same age Satish had been and she felt gripped by despair. Was she condemned to see him die again and again?
‘Will he die?’
The boy’s father, curled on the floor beside the bed, had awoken and was now watching through half-closed eyes as Kate pressed a wet cloth to his son’s forehead.
‘It’s not a certainty. But he is very ill.’
‘Is there no one who can save him?’
‘The staff are doing all they can.’ She could not bring herself to tell him that they were running low on supplies.
The boy murmured faintly and his father grasped his hand, stroking the little fingers as tears coursed down his cheeks.
‘That poor man,’ said Mrs Abernathy when she went to the dispensary a little later. ‘Did you know he’s already lost four children? That boy’s the last of them.’ Mrs Abernathy, wife of a minister in the Church of Scotland, had been at Shinbwiyang since March.
‘I don’t know how people survive losing a child,’ said Kate. She thought of her family and suddenly felt deeply homesick.
‘At first it seems that the world must end,’ said Mrs Abernathy, her voice gentle. ‘But slowly and surely the light comes back. It’s thirty years since my daughter died. The pain never leaves, but in time it becomes transformed, and love is what remains.’
The Long Journey Home Page 16