‘Well, I settled back in Liverpool for a bit,’ said Fred. ‘I tried, anyway. But somehow . . . It wasn’t the same, you see.’
‘What wasn’t?’ asked Christopher.
‘I’d spent three years fighting with barely a break, all for this idea of an England I wanted to defend. I’d think of the fields and the woods and the beaches and the pubs and that was what kept me going, even after my brother had been killed. But once I was home . . . it was gone. All of it, somehow, turned to ash. So I came out here. That way I could preserve the memories of how it used to be.’
He smiled bleakly. Kate thought of the thousands more like him who had returned from the war, their ideals as well as their limbs shattered. They had come home to a country that seemed no longer to want them, and which forgot their sacrifices with unseemly haste. She thought of her father, who had seen no place for himself in this new world and had turned his face to the wall.
When Mi Khin began to nod off, Kate urged her to bed and tucked her under a blanket in the driest part of the shelter. She yawned and turned over, her dark hair splayed on the bag that served as a pillow.
‘What happened next?’ asked Christopher, looking over to where Fred leaned against a tree stump. ‘When you got to Burma.’
‘I didn’t come straight here,’ said Fred, drawing on his cigarette. ‘First I went to India and spent a few years in the army there. Good years, they were, and good people. But the crowds and the poverty began to get me down and finally I thought I’d come East to see what was happening. In Rangoon I got a job with the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company – and the rest is history.’
‘Did you never marry?’ said Christopher. There was a small silence.
‘As good as,’ said Fred finally. ‘There was a woman, a young Shan.’ His eyes flickered towards Kate and he seemed reluctant to say more.
‘What was she like?’
‘As lovely as the days were warm,’ said Fred, and Kate heard the longing in his voice. ‘She stayed with me for ten years and bore me four children. The oldest would be not much older than you, my boy. The smallest must be about Mi Khin’s age.’ He glanced over to where she lay sleeping.
‘But you don’t see them?’
‘Their mother was the daughter of a Shan chief, up in the mountains. He tolerated our relationship, but when he died she was called back to take his place. She took the children and a marriage was arranged for her soon after with another chief. The children were young and it would have been cruel to confuse them, so I let them go.’
Christopher shook his head. ‘You should find them,’ he said.
‘It’s too late.’
‘When my father died, I would have given anything for another day with him. Same with my mother. Anything.’ They heard the break in his voice and his fractured breathing as he wept in the darkness. Fred’s smoke rose in a wavering stream, silver on the night air, and Kate found herself crying silently too for all that she and her companions had lost.
39
Worcestershire, March 1936
‘What are you going to see?’ asked her mother, crunching across the driveway, her boots encrusted with mud. She looked tired and Kate felt guilty at once.
‘The Mill on the Floss,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t go – you look exhausted. You ought to have a rest.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said her mother, pushing her shoulder lightly. ‘I’m quite all right. I’ll have a cup of tea with your father shortly. The men are having a break too.’
‘How many more to go?’
‘We’re over halfway,’ said her mother. ‘Fifty-six lambs so far from thirty-five ewes. About another thirty due to pop any day now.’ She looked out across the fields, squinting slightly in the glare of the low sun, and breathed in deeply. ‘It’s rather a lovely evening. Spring is coming.’
‘I hope so,’ said Kate. ‘It’s been a miserable winter.’
‘Look at this,’ said her mother, pulling a branch delicately away from the hedge. ‘The hawthorn is starting to come out.’ Kate saw the tiny pale green leaves that were beginning to sprout here and there.
‘Laura and I used to eat hawthorn leaves, do you remember?’
‘I do,’ said her mother, laughing. ‘They didn’t do you any harm. Some old country people swear by them for cooking. Very nutritious, apparently.’
‘They just tasted of leaves,’ said Kate, wrinkling her nose. ‘I’d better go, the bus won’t be long.’ She hesitated. ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Of course,’ said her mother, and kissed her cheek. ‘Enjoy the picture. See you later.’
Kate buttoned her coat and started towards the road, hands deep in her pockets. She glanced back and saw the light come on in the kitchen. Her mother bustled around, filling the kettle, hanging her coat on the back of the door, taking things out of the larder for supper.
Looking up, Kate saw that a lamp was glowing in her father’s room too, and as she watched, he appeared at the window in his dressing gown and blew a kiss.
40
Tavoy, September 1942
The camp at Tavoy ran smoothly and there had been little violence since the incident at roll call. Occasionally a prisoner would be taken away and interrogated, and even more occasionally someone would simply disappear, his absence only noticed at night when the man’s cellmates saw that they were one fewer.
Edwin realised that the Japanese hardly needed to use violence to enforce their will. The fear of what might happen was enough to keep most of the prisoners in their place, and there was little hope of rescue while the Japanese held dominion over Burma.
The guards disliked too much camaraderie among their prisoners and regularly a truck would pull into the main yard, offloading a dozen or so men, and taking away a similar number. Where they went, no one knew. Of the many prisoners at Tavoy, the chances of being picked were slight, but they were there all the same.
A few days of sickness had given Edwin a respite from working on the road, but the dysentery had retreated all too quickly, and before long he was sent back to work, the Japanese doctor silently ticking the box that declared he was fit enough. Now the monsoon was over and the dry heat had returned, leading to sunburn and heat rashes.
Edwin sometimes looked back at his old life and could hardly believe that he was the same man who had taught schoolboys in Lambeth, overhearing their jokes about his shyness and his spectacles; now he laboured each day under torrential monsoon rains and baking sun, heaving earth and stones to build a road that would one day link up with the railway that now stretched from Bangkok to the Burmese border.
But something else had changed, too, although he did not yet have the words to speak of it. Almost every day, when it was possible, he worked with Rama, and the days that they were not together seemed to drag at a glacial pace. He could hardly recall the old, shameful lusts that he had indulged in London, in that other life. This was real.
He often wondered what Rama was thinking. There were days when a guard was stationed too near for them to talk, so they worked quietly, heads down, content just to be near one another. On other days they were able to talk and did so, of everything under the sun, except the most important things.
Edwin longed for something to change so that they could be alone, just to talk, but the camp was set up so that no one was ever really alone during the day, and at night he was locked into his cell with three others, hearing snores and the occasional grunts of a lonely man in the darkness.
*
‘Do Sikhs believe in God?’
‘Of course,’ said Rama, without pausing as he raked sand across the road. ‘We do not see him like your God, though.’
‘What is he like?’
‘He is not male or female,’ said Rama. ‘But for simplicity in English we say “He”, as you do. He is an immortal being, without physical form, supreme, and all-seeing. We are all equal before him.’
Edwin listened as he worked, spreading thick red sand before him. ‘I read about
Hinduism and Buddhism before coming to Asia but your religion sounds quite different.’
‘There are a few similarities,’ said Rama. ‘We all believe in the cycle of life and rebirth.’
‘Do you believe you’ll be reincarnated?’
‘Of course,’ said Rama. ‘The only way out of the cycle is to achieve total union with God – and I do not think I’m there yet.’ He laughed.
And I could not be further away, thought Edwin, feeling the blisters on his palms rubbing painfully against his rake. He leaned on its handle for a moment and flexed his fingers, hearing the stiff knuckles crack.
‘What do you believe?’ asked Rama.
‘Very little, these days. I was brought up as a Christian but I haven’t been to church for a long time. I suppose I still believe there is a God,’ he said doubtfully. ‘But he’s probably given up on me.’
‘Not if he is a loving God,’ said Rama. ‘God does not give up on anyone.’
‘But I’m a sinner.’
‘We’re all sinners, Edwin. What is your sin?’
Edwin swallowed. How could he tell Rama? What if he had misunderstood the connection between them? Even if he hadn’t, Rama was honest and decent. He would be disappointed.
‘My wife,’ he said, forcing out the words.
‘Emilia,’ said Rama, and her name was soft on his tongue. ‘Ah. You deceived her. Did she know?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’ He remembered sneaking home in the early hours, trying not to disturb her, but knowing that he smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. Perhaps she did know. The thought of her hurt and anger made his stomach lurch.
He did not know how to form the words for the rest of it – that it was not a woman he had been meeting, but a series of unfamiliar men, and sometimes he was terrified he would never be normal. But meeting Rama had changed all that, for he suspected that Rama knew exactly what he was because he was the same. And if Rama, so wise and trustworthy, was the same as him, then perhaps he wasn’t so abnormal after all.
He remembered Rama touching his back and the hand that had clasped his. Was it possible? Could he dare to hope?
‘You’re not alone, Edwin.’
*
As the season changed, the duties they were given became more varied and Edwin was given the task in the evenings of ferrying water to buildings around the camp, in exchange for a half day away from the road each week. Since the rains had stopped, water was rationed, and washing was supervised. It was almost pleasant to wander around in the dusk, speaking to no one, alone with his tormented thoughts.
‘It’s doing you some good,’ observed Rama one day. ‘You look a little less sunburned.’
Edwin felt his forehead. ‘Working at night is a lot more bearable. I wish we could do this at night too.’ He gestured at the road, which was almost shimmering in the midday heat.
‘It must be nice to be alone for a while.’
‘I’d rather be here with you.’
Rama smiled at him, and suddenly all that needed to be said passed between them in a bolt of understanding. The sun was high overhead and Edwin felt faint. He could see a Japanese guard in the distance looking their way, and forced himself to keep working, feeling his neck burn and wondering how he had lived a whole life without experiencing this sense of divine elation.
‘If only we were somewhere else,’ said Rama, his usually calm face restless. ‘I can’t bear it here. We’ll never be alone. There’s so much I want to say . . .’
‘Yes.’
Rama paused, leaning on his shovel. ‘What if we were to escape?’
‘From the camp? Is that possible?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps not, although I’ve thought of it again and again. It would be hard to get past the guards unless we can think of a way to distract them.’
Edwin looked around and saw the soldier walking towards them, his rifle resting on his shoulder. ‘The guard’s coming.’
They both began to shovel faster, heaping the sharp gravel and then smoothing it out. The guard, a few yards away, paused and watched them suspiciously but they did not catch his eye.
‘No talk,’ he said at last. ‘You work, no talk.’
He watched for a few more minutes and then strolled back up the line, pausing to shout at a Burmese prisoner who sat on the hard ground, his legs having given way. The man scrambled to his knees and began digging that way. The guard kicked him hard and the man fell over, then picked himself up again.
Edwin watched all this and then turned towards Rama, his voice low. ‘I’ll come with you. If you think of a way to get us out of here, then I’ll come with you.’
41
Nagaland, September 1942
The journey now entered more challenging terrain. From the moment they left camp the next morning, the path went firmly upwards, winding through steep jungle slopes and leading them along the edges of deep ravines. Steam billowed on all sides as the temperature rose.
Back on the road after some weeks, Kate noticed once again all the things she had grown accustomed to on the way through the Hukawng Valley. The straps of her knapsack bit into her shoulders and, while she at least had shoes again, they rubbed constantly. There were many streams to be forded, which they crossed by holding hands in a chain, and after the first few it seemed pointless to remove footwear before entering the water.
Before leaving Shinbwiyang she had sorted through her possessions. The books, mildewed and damp, were thrown away, along with most of her clothes. She had debated briefly whether to keep the yellow silk dress, but it was torn and stained now and she could not foresee a time when she would need it. Her silver rupees, all the money she had in the world, lay heavy in the bottom of her bag. The only sentimental item she allowed herself was her father’s hip flask, in which she could carry water. Very little else remained of her old existence, and she knew that if she ever reached India she would have to create a new life from scratch.
Often, throughout the day, they would see other travellers, but there were various routes through the hills and they could only have seen a fraction of the total. Occasionally they walked for a mile or two with another group, but generally their walking speeds did not match and other travellers overtook them quickly.
They walked for a day with a man named Fielding, an eccentric and well-spoken Englishman who said he had come from Taungoo and had been separated from his friends.
He seemed curious about their mixed group, and teased Mi Khin until she scowled and retreated to walk with Christopher.
‘What were you doing in Taungoo?’ asked Fred.
‘I own an oilfield there,’ said Fielding. ‘Been in the family for donkey’s years.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘My old man died last year and I thought I ought to come and check on the natives, make sure none of the oil’s being appropriated, and all that. I’ve club fees to pay.’ He grinned, then blew his nose on a monogrammed handkerchief. ‘Wasn’t expecting to get caught up in all this.’
He told them of his childhood in Hong Kong, the prestigious schools, and the career in the City. Fred asked innocuous questions and looked thoughtful.
‘He is a bit daft,’ Kate conceded later, having seen Fielding solemnly trying and failing to light a fire before Fred took the flint away.
‘He’s either daft or a liar,’ said Fred, glancing over to where Fielding was now fiddling with a pair of binoculars, occasionally holding the wrong end up to his eyes. ‘I say liar.’
‘Why?’
‘There aren’t any oilfields at Taungoo,’ said Fred. ‘The only one that’s remotely near is owned by an old chap who I happen to know, and he’s alive and kicking. This fellow’s talking nonsense.’
‘Perhaps he’s just got mixed up.’
Fred grunted, sounding unconvinced, and none of them were sorry when Fielding announced the next morning that he was pushing on alone.
‘Cheerio, kids,’ he said, clapping Christopher on the shoulder and waving at Mi K
hin, who darted away. ‘Good luck to you.’
As he disappeared, Christopher snorted. ‘Kids! What a stuffed shirt. He reminds me of Bertie Wooster.’
‘I do not like him,’ said Mi Khin solemnly, looking up at Fred. ‘His clothes are silly. And he stares at me.’
‘I didn’t like him either,’ said Fred, taking her hand.
Kate didn’t think Fielding had been much stranger than some of the other travellers they had met: the Punjabi businessman in a pinstriped suit who rode a pure white bullock, the British soldiers who carried a bag that they claimed contained a Japanese head given to them by a Naga tribe, and the monk they had seen being arrested at an aid camp on suspicion of spying.
‘Are we in India yet?’ said Christopher suddenly.
‘I don’t know exactly where the border is,’ said Fred. ‘It’s somewhere in these hills. We may be crossing it right now.’
They decided to make a ceremony out of it and, linking hands in a line, they all took a big step forward together, Mi Khin swinging her legs as Fred and Christopher lifted her up between them. She looked back wistfully. ‘Not Burma any more?’
‘No, sweetheart,’ said Fred. ‘We’re in India now.’
‘Closer to Papa?’
‘I hope so.’
The food supplies they had collected at Shinbwiyang dwindled quickly and the extra rations they were given at camps along the way were not enough to slake their ravenous hunger. Most meals still consisted of rice and bamboo shoots and the occasional daal provided by the army. There was never enough protein to make up for the energy they expended each day.
One evening, out to collect water, Kate gazed into a deep, still pool. After years spent half-heartedly dieting, she hardly recognised the sharp-cheeked stranger who now stared back at her. At some point, perhaps at Shinbwiyang, she had stopped bleeding each month, and despite being grateful to avoid having to deal with it she couldn’t help feeling that the last vestiges of womanhood were being stripped away from her.
She remembered standing in a tiny room that smelled strongly of jasmine, in one of Rangoon’s smaller markets, a few months after her arrival in Burma. She had been careful, but not careful enough. The shrivelled proprietor, an ancient Chinese man, dug through drawers full of traditional remedies, selecting this and that, grinding the herbs in a mortar, and finally handed her a little paper bag.
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