The Long Journey Home

by Cecily Blench

  Her whole body was trembling and she felt for a moment as if she might faint as the blood roared in her ears. The ridges of the tree bark under her fingers felt oddly reassuring and for a moment she was at home in England, perched in the thick branches of an old oak tree. Soft rain. Wind on leaves. The crack of a twig.

  Someone came towards her and she felt strong arms holding her tightly, pressing her to his chest.

  ‘You did a brave thing,’ Fred said quietly. ‘I’m sorry it came to that.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he said, and stroked the back of her head. ‘You will be, though. I promise.’ She could smell woodsmoke and blood on his shirt.

  She looked up at him, and for a moment he held her gaze, his expression half wary, half longing. Then he leaned forward and kissed her, his arms tightening around her, and she felt a pulse of desire. She became acutely aware of the thumping of her own heartbeat and the sighing of the wind in the trees.

  A call came from nearby and they pulled quickly apart as Mi Khin appeared, trailing a blanket, her eyes wide in the half-light. ‘A noise woke me up. Christopher says men fighting!’

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ said Fred, tucking the blanket firmly around her shoulders. ‘Let’s all go back to bed.’

  He looked up at Kate with a shy smile and then looked away again, as they made their way back to camp. She knew, with a sense of inevitability, that in the morning he would be stiff and formal with her. He had kissed her because she was there and he was fond of her, but she knew that his heart lay elsewhere, that she would be a poor replacement for the woman he had lost.

  The children took some time to get to sleep and long after the others had drifted off, Kate lay listening to Fred’s slow, heavy breaths somewhere nearby. She was no longer trembling, and gradually she felt her heart rate return to normal. Eventually she slept, as the first pale fingers of dawn began to appear through the trees.

  43

  Worcestershire, March 1936

  The bus dropped her off at the turning and she watched it rattle away down the hill, the lights receding until she was standing in darkness. Her eyes gradually adjusted until she could see the outline of the hedges against the dark blue sky.

  She felt elated, her steps light, and realised what a tonic it had been to leave the house. The cinema had been warm and softly lit, the dramatic plot and loud music of the film a wonderful distraction. I should do this more often, thought Kate.

  She had walked up this lane more times than she could recall and she could pick out familiar shapes formed by the stars above her head. Soft rustles came from the fields on either side of the lane and occasionally she saw something small dart across the road.

  The quiet was broken by the sound of a car coming along the lane behind her; instinctively she pressed herself into the hedge, wondering who was going to the farm at this time of night, at such a speed.

  The headlights flooded the lane for a moment, dazzling her as she looked back, and then the black car raced past her and up the lane. As it receded she recognised it and began to run.

  The quarter of a mile home seemed to take forever and no time at all. Everything shrank down to the bodily sensations – the rasping breath, the cold night air on her cheeks, the burning calf muscles, and the rubbing of shoes that were not made for running.

  At last, reaching the main gate, she slowed, and saw with dread the police car parked beside the house, just beyond it an ambulance with its back door open at the entrance to the barn, the headlamps throwing light across the cobbled yard. There were three or four men talking intently in a group beside the police car.

  ‘Where’s my mother?’ she said loudly, and they turned to her, gaping. No one replied at first, and then Ben, the oldest farmhand, came hobbling towards her, taking his cap off.

  ‘Miss Kate – oh, my dear – there’s been an accident.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kate, feeling suddenly calm, as though someone else was speaking with her voice. ‘I understand.’ She laid a hand on his arm, feeling vaguely sorry for him, seeing the tracks of tears down his old whiskery cheeks. ‘Do you know where my mother is?’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen, Miss Kate,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘With the young lady constable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate, and went towards the back door. Before she got there it opened and her mother emerged, looking pale.

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Mother?’ She ran to her at once, and put her arms around her, feeling the slight body beneath the thick jumper.

  ‘I saw you come into the yard,’ said her mother, her voice low and unsteady. ‘Oh, Kate – I can’t bear to tell you.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mother,’ said Kate, and held her tighter. ‘I know. It’s Father. I knew as soon as I saw the police car.’

  She felt her mother crumple as sobs heaved through her body, saw past her to where a young policewoman stood anxiously by the back door, twisting her hat in her hands and looking as if she would rather be anywhere else.

  Her mother breathed in deeply. ‘He borrowed a shotgun,’ she said quietly. ‘Ben found him in the barn.’

  Kate looked over to where old Ben now sat on a pile of logs, the ankles of his worn overalls tied about with twine. One of the other farmhands lit him a cigarette and she saw his hand shake as he took it, staring wordlessly into the distance.

  ‘We knew it was coming,’ she said, hating the words as she spoke them.

  ‘Not like this,’ said her mother, shaking her head violently. ‘Not yet.’

  The policewoman tried to get them to come inside, but they gently shooed her away. People milled about and occasionally the sergeant appeared to ask questions or offer condolences. The farmworkers stood about in groups, talking quietly.

  Kate looked at the stars again, tracing the lines of the Plough over and over as the night wore on. At last the doors of the ambulance slammed and it moved off. Two policemen spoke to her mother while Kate stood silently by, watching their mouths move, wondering why everything seemed so quiet.

  They were asking if the policewoman should stay at the farm, but Kate’s mother said no, that wouldn’t be necessary, and thanked the girl for the tea she had made. Looking rather relieved, she patted them both on the shoulder and got into the car with her colleagues.

  The car rattled out through the gate, and then old Ben appeared before them, apologising and trembling in equal measure, and they embraced him and thanked him for his loyalty, and eventually the other farmhands came over and led him away to his cottage.

  ‘Don’t leave him alone, will you?’ said her mother anxiously.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ said young Tim. ‘He’ll be right. Good night to you.’ He hesitated. ‘Very sorry for your trouble.’

  And suddenly the yard was empty, the door of the barn locked tight, and all that remained was the usual pungent animal aroma, and the lingering smell of cigarette and gun smoke.

  44

  Margherita, October 1942

  It was autumn when they reached Margherita. The deep jungle of the Naga hills had given way to the tea fields of Assam. Camps were operating every few miles and by travelling from one to the next Kate, Fred and the children found at last that their long trek was nearly over.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re in a town,’ said Christopher, looking wonderingly at the humble buildings that surrounded them as though he was in some great city.

  Margherita was a small and pleasant town in the colonial mould, with attractive views across rolling hills and terraced fields of tea. On the outskirts they were greeted at a reception camp, where a pair of young men took their names and sent them directly to the makeshift hospital that had been set up in a series of large tents. Bright pink bougainvillea flowered all around.

  ‘Look how smooth the grass is,’ said Christopher as they walked across the field. ‘This doesn’t feel like India at all.’

  ‘It’s a golf course,’ said Fred, pointing. ‘See that sandy patch? It�
��s called a bunker.’ He strode steadily across the immaculate turf and Kate noticed that his leather boots had rotted almost to pieces, although he had carefully mended them with twine.

  ‘Look, Mi Khin,’ said Christopher. ‘Perhaps we can build a sandcastle. Have you ever been to the seaside?’ She shook her head blankly.

  In the hospital they were registered and sent to separate wards. ‘Look after her,’ called Kate, as Mi Khin was carried off by a pair of kindly nurses, clucking over her and promising baths and toys.

  ‘What about you, madam?’ said the elderly Indian doctor who supervised their admission. ‘You are ill.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ said Kate, feeling her hot, clammy forehead. She had barely noticed the return of what she guessed was malaria, but now that they were safe she felt close to collapse.

  ‘Nurse?’ called the doctor, and soon Kate was led away to a cubicle to undress and bathe.

  Nurse Basu had clearly dealt with many refugees and did not flinch when she saw the state of Kate’s body. Her feet, under the layers of mud, were bleeding and rotten, and her legs and arms were covered in infected leech bites and swollen welts from mosquitoes.

  The nurse made her stand in a deep tub of warm water and Kate, who had barely removed her clothes for weeks, looked on with macabre curiosity at the washing process, lifting her limbs now and then to assist. She noticed, without surprise, her protruding ribs and deflated breasts, feeling by now wholly detached from her body.

  ‘Your feet are quite bad,’ said the nurse. ‘They will heal but it will take some time.’

  ‘I had no shoes for a while. I found some more but they didn’t fit properly.’

  ‘I’ve seen children who walked the whole distance with no shoes,’ said the nurse, gently sponging Kate’s legs. ‘Several of them had lost all their toes.’

  ‘Poor little things,’ said Kate. ‘The children who came with me are all right, I think, apart from a few cuts and lost toenails. And of course they’re so thin.’

  ‘The boy isn’t yours, then?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Kate. ‘I just sort of found them both. Their mothers died in the Hukawng Valley.’

  She thought desolately of the misery she had seen. How would these children ever live normal lives?

  ‘What about the gentleman who came in with you?’ said the nurse, turning Kate around to wash the back of her legs. ‘Your husband? Or father, perhaps?’ She giggled a little.

  ‘Neither,’ said Kate. ‘He’s just another friend made along the way.’ Since the night that she had killed Faulkner, Fred had been distant – regretting, she supposed, their moment of closeness. For a moment she had wanted him badly and it was impossible to go back to their usual easy friendship when so much lay unsaid between them.

  When no more dirt would come off, Kate stepped out of the now brown water of the tub and was given a towel. It was threadbare but felt like a wonderful luxury, and she wrapped it tight around herself. When she was dry, the nurse gave her a cotton gown to wear and led her along a corridor with rough wooden partitions.

  The sounds of the hospital murmured all around – distant crying, urgent conversations, the creak of trolleys. Her feet, in light slippers, made no sound on the floorboards.

  The nurse led her through a door at the end of the corridor, which said ‘Princess Elizabeth Ward’. Inside were eight beds, all of them empty.

  ‘It’s so quiet,’ said Kate. ‘Why so few patients?’

  ‘This ward is just for European ladies,’ said the nurse, busily plumping the pillows on the bed nearest the door.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Kate, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Are the other wards full? For Indian ladies, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, mostly.’

  Kate climbed into bed, the white cotton sheets brushing against her skin. This world felt alien but somehow horribly familiar.

  ‘You know,’ she said tentatively, ‘you could bring others in here if they need beds – I mean . . .’

  ‘There’s a rule,’ said the nurse, looking a little shocked. ‘You mustn’t worry about it. Now lie down and I’ll be back shortly with the doctor.’

  ‘Nurse – can I send a telegram from here? I must let my mother in England know that I’m all right. I have money.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get some paper so you can write it down. Someone will take it up to town.’

  When the nurse was gone, Kate lay looking up at the fan spinning lazily above her. She felt as if she was up there on the ceiling, looking down at a pink figure in white sheets. Surely she would wake soon to find herself curled in mud in some wretched stretch of jungle, her body starting to decay, with nothing to fill the time but more walking.

  *

  One evening Fred limped into Kate’s room, escorted by Nurse Basu, who watched him like a hawk from her seat in the far corner as she darned socks.

  ‘My chaperone,’ he said, nodding his head in her direction with a smile. ‘She wouldn’t let me come in at all to begin with. She says five minutes only.’

  ‘She’s sweet,’ said Kate. She looked at Fred, who stood with his hands behind his back, looking around the ward. ‘You look well.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘A few square meals inside me, even if they do serve the most insipid curries I’ve ever eaten. Better than rice and leaves.’

  ‘I’m still on porridge. I look forward to something more substantial.’

  He looked Kate over, taking in the sweaty hair on her forehead and her flushed cheeks. ‘You still look peaky.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Feverish, are you?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t sleep . . .’ She wondered whether to tell him that her nights were disrupted by visions of ghostly figures and decided against it.

  Fred looked at her. ‘Nightmares?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I get them too,’ he said wearily. He sat down on the cane chair by the bed, wincing as he sat back. ‘I used to get them years ago as well, after the last war. The odd thing was that they didn’t start until I was back in London, safe and sound. Now they’re old friends.’

  ‘My father did, too. I think that’s why . . .’ She hesitated.

  ‘He killed himself?’

  ‘Six years ago. How did you know?’

  He sighed. ‘I pieced it together. Happened to a friend of mine. The memories of the trenches wouldn’t go away.’

  ‘Mother was so relieved when the war ended,’ said Kate. She remembered her mother running across the garden to where she and Laura were playing with the old sheepdog, still wearing her apron and her slippers. ‘She kept saying, “Daddy’s coming home!” But he never did come home. Not really.’

  Fred laid a hand on hers and looked intently at her. ‘What do you see in your nightmares?’

  ‘The dead.’

  He nodded. ‘I used to think it was a punishment.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Surviving.’

  She found herself blinking back tears. ‘But you’ve done so much good. You fought in the war. I’ve never done anything useful.’

  Fred was silent for a moment and then looked at her. ‘Didn’t I tell you about my brother Graham, and what he did before he died? You can’t change the past. All that matters is what you do when things are falling apart. And here you are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve brought those kids through hundreds of miles of rough country. You killed a man to save their lives. You could have left long before but you didn’t. You stayed. You did something good. Don’t you know how rare that is?’

  ‘Why did you bring Mi Khin?’ asked Kate abruptly, knowing the answer. ‘Above all the others?’

  Fred shrugged, but she saw tears glistening. ‘She reminds me of my children. It’s too late for me to get them back but I might be able to do something for her.’

  ‘Redemption?’

  ‘Yes. Of a sort.’

  She sighed. ‘What will happen next?’

  ‘When they disch
arge us? We’ll travel to Calcutta, I suppose.’

  ‘The nurses say it’s a long journey.’

  ‘Three days by train, at least,’ said Fred. ‘Nothing to what we’ve been used to.’

  ‘What will you do once we get there?’

  ‘My first task will be to make arrangements for Mi Khin. She deserves a real home and a family, even if her father’s dead. I’ll do whatever I can for her. And Christopher, of course.’

  ‘And then?’ Kate found her heart was beating fast.

  ‘I’ve spent a long time looking for a home,’ said Fred quietly. ‘I think you have, too.’ He took her hand and squeezed it gently.

  Nurse Basu cleared her throat and began rattling medicine bottles in a meaningful way. Fred smiled wryly and pushed back his chair.

  ‘Time’s up. I must go.’

  Kate looked up at him and suddenly the future seemed much brighter. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ he said, and lifted her hand quickly to kiss it before hurrying out under Nurse Basu’s stern gaze.

  45

  Birmingham, September 1936

  Laura’s voice sounded anxious as it echoed slightly down the line.

  ‘Kate, are you sure it’s wise to leave Mother like this?’

  ‘Like this?’ said Kate, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Well – you know. So soon.’

  ‘It’s been six months.’

  ‘That’s hardly any time,’ said Laura earnestly. ‘Not when you’ve been married for twenty-five years.’

  ‘Mother’s fine,’ said Kate stiffly. ‘She wanted me to go. She urged me to, in fact.’

  Laura sounded unconvinced. ‘Of course she’d say that . . .’

  Kate shook her head. ‘You ought to know her better than that, Laura. She says what she feels. She’s doing fine. Of course she’s sad but—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I expect,’ said Kate carefully, ‘she’s also rather relieved.’

  There was a silence. ‘Kate, that’s a dreadful thing to say!’

  ‘Not if it’s true.’ Kate took a deep breath. ‘It’s been tough for her. She’s had to run a farm while also looking after Dad and trying to scrape a living.’