‘They loved each other,’ said Laura, sounding defensive.
‘Of course,’ said Kate, surprised. ‘Mother will always love Dad, just as we will. But she’s been exhausted and overwhelmed for years and years. Can’t you see that it’s a weight off her shoulders?’
‘Certainly sounds like it’s a weight off yours!’
‘Christ, Laura, don’t be so sanctimonious,’ said Kate sharply. She heard her sister start to protest but she suddenly felt angry and hurtled on. ‘You have no right to judge how Mother or I might be feeling. We spent years in that house, waiting on him, hearing his nightmares, watching him slowly die before our eyes.’
‘Kate, I didn’t mean—’
‘You weren’t even there! You sailed off into the sunset as soon as you were able, hardly ever came home, hardly ever asked any of us how we were feeling. We were all miserable!’
There was a long silence. ‘I didn’t know . . .’ said Laura at last. She sounded shocked. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Kate, the fight suddenly leaving her. ‘Not your fault.’
‘You should have told me.’
‘I didn’t know how,’ said Kate. ‘You were always so happy – I didn’t want to spoil that. Everything always seems to go your way.’
‘Well, it doesn’t.’
Kate rubbed her forehead, feeling exhausted, regretting what she had said.
‘I lost a baby,’ said Laura. ‘Back in the summer.’
Kate closed her eyes. ‘You didn’t say.’
‘I didn’t want to upset Mother.’
There was a long silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Kate at last. ‘I really am. I wish – I wish you’d been able to tell us.’
She heard Laura sigh. ‘We’re all hopeless at communicating.’ She paused. ‘Are you going to stay in Birmingham?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Kate, her head in her hands. ‘I haven’t made many plans yet. I’m going to get my teaching certificate and then . . . who knows?’
She put her foot up on the chair beside her and examined the bruises on her thighs. The night before she had drunk too much, and once again had woken beside a man she didn’t know and didn’t much like.
‘Kate,’ said Laura, her voice soft, ‘you are looking after yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Kate, and felt the tears trickling down her cheeks.
46
Tavoy, November 1942
The weeks passed slowly. Edwin knew that Rama was planning something, although he said little about it in case they were overheard. He knew what it was he felt for Rama, and knew that it was returned, but there was no way to be alone and no way to discover what was ahead.
He longed to be far away from the camp but felt a strange sense of fear for what lay beyond. The camp was predictable in its horrors, but who knew what awaited them outside? How far would they get in a country ruled by the Japanese?
The camp at Tavoy had been operating for some months and its inhabitants were starting to show signs of strain. They were all malnourished, the hospital ward almost always full. But even those who were not actually sick were weak from lack of food and worn down by the long hours of hard work.
Edwin, unskilled in any trade, was generally allocated to building roads. Other groups with more relevant experience were made use of elsewhere: gangs containing trained engineers were often sent off for days at a time, working on projects vaguely defined as ‘construction’. Rumours flew of massive bridges being built, of the railway that was apparently edging through the mountains towards Burma, although no sign of it had yet been seen.
One day Rama was not at work on Edwin’s stretch of road. This was not unusual; they couldn’t always manage to work together. But Edwin was afraid, because that morning he had seen a truck arrive in the yard.
When work was over he headed back to the camp with the rest, his mind turning over all the possibilities. Perhaps Rama was being taken away. Perhaps he would never see him again. And he felt his heart clench, for in this desolate place Rama was the only thing that made him want to keep on living.
The truck was still in the yard but standing beside it were a dozen men. They stood in rigid lines, facing the side of the truck, and a Japanese officer paced up and down behind them.
Edwin scanned the rows; at once he saw Rama’s tall silhouette and felt his stomach lurch. There was a shout from the sergeant and suddenly the men were being herded towards the back of the truck. Edwin fought the urge to run forwards, to shout something, to plead for mercy.
The man turned sideways and he saw at once that it wasn’t Rama. The young man who was even now climbing into the truck looked quite different and Edwin found himself shaking with relief.
The man at the back of the group was white and for a split second he glanced towards where Edwin stood watching. The doors were slammed, then the truck moved off and the man was gone, heading off to some other bleak place of neglect and punishment, unlikely to be seen again. He had been thin, covered in dirt, his balding head bare to the sun, but Edwin was certain that it had been Daniel Haskell – the kindly, melancholy Jew who had once offered to let him an apartment in Rangoon, a lifetime ago.
*
Returning to the sleeping quarters, early one evening, Edwin found a man from the cell next door, a young American, lying half-conscious on the floor. Another prisoner knelt beside him.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Charlie couldn’t work today so they cut his rations,’ said his friend, looking anxiously around. ‘I didn’t know or I’d have saved him some of mine.’
‘I need to eat regularly,’ said Charlie, his breathing shallow. ‘I get – sick if I haven’t eaten.’
‘Sounds like low blood sugar,’ said Edwin. ‘You ought to go to the hospital.’
‘No,’ Charlie said quickly, his breath coming out in a gasp. ‘They think I’m faking. Last time it happened they said I was just trying to get out of work. I’ll be fine. I’ll just have to wait until morning.’
‘You won’t make it to roll call,’ said his friend. ‘They’ll beat you. Or worse.’
Edwin stood irresolute, wondering what he could do. ‘I’m on water duty tonight. I might be able to get something.’
‘What will you do? Steal it?’
‘It’s too risky,’ muttered the sick man, but Edwin shook his head and hurried away.
He had noticed that the kitchen was sometimes left unattended for ten minutes or so in the evening, when the cook was taking food to Colonel Kojima in his rooms. There was usually a soldier on guard, but he patrolled up and down and it might be possible to slip in without him seeing.
I must be mad, thought Edwin, as he hurried along the path that led towards the kitchen area. This is absurd – I’ll be caught! But something had gripped him, and he knew that it had been spurred by seeing Daniel Haskell and being unable to help him. Perhaps in some way, he thought, I can make amends.
Approaching the kitchen, he hovered in the shadow of a nearby building and watched the cook through gaps in the bamboo shutters. The guard was nowhere to be seen.
At last the cook emerged, carefully carrying a wide tray with a cloth laid over it. Even from twenty yards away Edwin thought he could detect a savoury smell and felt his mouth water as he wondered what delicacies were being served up for the Colonel.
As soon as the cook was out of sight he slipped into the low kitchen and felt the heat from the ranges rush towards him. A cauldron was boiling; sniffing it, he knew it was the same watery soup that was served up every day, sometimes with rice thrown in, sometimes not.
Flinging open boxes, his heart thudding, Edwin found sacks of dry rice, large unidentifiable vegetables, and in a cooler, a slab of raw meat, presumably destined for the Japanese rather than the prisoners. It was all he could do not to grab the oozing meat and eat it there and then.
At last he found what he was looking for: bread. A large hunk of hard bread, only a day or two old. Resisting the urge to eat
any, he rushed out of the kitchen and came face to face with a Japanese guard.
He saw the machine gun in the man’s hand at the same time as the soldier saw the lump of bread in Edwin’s. They stared at one another. The guard was only twenty or so, and for the first time Edwin found himself seeing the Japanese for what they were: young men, far from home, fighting a war that they had no say in. He wondered if the man could see him with as much clarity: a thin, exhausted prisoner, stealing bread to give to a man who would otherwise die.
It seemed that they must have been there for some time, but afterwards he knew that it could only have been a few seconds. The soldier gave an almost imperceptible nod, jerking his head in the direction of the cells, and Edwin knew at once that he was safe.
He would never know what had made the guard let him go. He imagined that for one brief moment the man had recognised their shared humanity. Perhaps he, too, wanted the war to be over. Perhaps he had European friends. Perhaps he was just sick of the bloodshed.
After taking the bread to the sick man, Edwin went back out on his rounds, filling up buckets at the stream and carting them around the camp. He was still trembling, although he knew he had done the right thing, possibly for the first time in his life. Would the guard regret letting him go, and report it later? He thought not, although he could not have said why he felt so sure.
Passing the main courtyard, he saw another Japanese guard ahead, an older man, and walked faster, his head bowed.
‘More water,’ said the guard, pointing towards the main courtyard. ‘Now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Edwin, and hurried along between the buildings until he came out in the courtyard.
In the moonlight eight naked men were washing hurriedly from buckets set out in a row. Most of the men were Burmese, slight and very thin now, their ribs protruding. On the end of the row was Rama, much taller than the rest, the scars on his back gleaming silver in the moonlight.
Edwin’s mouth felt dry. His hands shook as he offered the buckets to one of the orderlies, who took them and thumped them down before the prisoners. The water was already brown and murky.
‘Finish!’ shouted one of the guards. Edwin saw Rama turn, his chest glistening, and he at once saw Edwin. Their eyes met and Rama’s mouth curved into the beginnings of a smile as he scooped up water from the bucket and flung it over his head.
‘Back to cells,’ said the guard, and picking up their meagre bundles of clothes, the men filed across the yard, passing Edwin where he stood uncertainly, waiting to collect the buckets. The men dripped as they passed, leaving a trail of wet dust that turned to mud as they trod in it.
Rama brushed against him and whispered, ‘Friday at noon. Watch for my signal.’
He was out of sight before Edwin had a chance to process what he had said, although his body was tingling. Picking up his buckets, he left the yard quickly and went to refill them, the words echoing in his head. Friday at noon.
47
Margherita, November 1942
At night the dead came as usual, making their sorrowful pilgrimage through Kate’s dreams. She was no longer afraid of them. Now she just felt sad and guilty to be reminded again and again that she had survived.
She watched a corpse stagger past and saw that it was Edwin, his eyes blank, his body torn and bloody. Suddenly the silent procession was interrupted by shouts and it seemed that a dozen people were calling her name through the darkness, but it wasn’t dark any more; the lamps were lit, the dead had vanished, and she was awake.
Christopher was at her side, Nurse Basu a few steps behind him, and he was calling her name and tugging on her arm.
‘Kate, Kate! Come on, quickly!’
‘What is it?’ she said thickly, her mouth suddenly full of ashes.
‘Fred.’
In a fumble of sheets, unsure whether she was still dreaming, she got out of bed, grabbing Christopher’s arm to steady herself.
‘Here,’ said Nurse Basu, folding a shawl around Kate’s shoulders as Christopher led her out of the ward.
‘What’s wrong with Fred?’ Kate whispered as they hurried along the dark corridor.
‘I think he’s dying.’
Her bare feet were almost silent. There was a ringing in her ears and for a moment she was back at the airfield at Myitkyina, in the moments after the attack, dazed and uncomprehending.
They came to another room, where the letters on the door said ‘George VI Ward’. The door opened and Kate saw one of the orderlies holding it, his dark face solemn in the half-light.
In the golden glow of an oil lamp Dr Choudhury leaned over one of the beds, looking up as they approached.
‘How is he?’ whispered Kate, going to the bedside. She looked down at Fred, who lay still, his eyes closed, his face flushed. She could see his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly, and his moustache quivering a little each time he took a breath.
‘He has had a heart attack,’ said Dr Choudhury, turning to look at her sombrely. His glasses were askew and he looked drained. Kate wondered if he had been up all night.
She gazed down at Fred. He had been stocky when she first met him, but in the last few months he had become thin. Under the sheets his body looked bony and frail and utterly defenceless.
‘Will he live?’ she asked.
The doctor sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. His heart is very weak. Has he had other attacks before? Collapses?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Kate.
‘I found him on the ground in the jungle once,’ said Christopher suddenly. He looked at Kate anxiously. ‘He said he’d tripped over a tree root and must have been knocked out. He told me not to tell anyone else as you’d all worry.’
‘When was this?’ asked the doctor.
‘Oh, ages ago,’ said Christopher. ‘Before Shinbwiyang. Four months, or so.’
‘Well, it’s no matter,’ said Dr Choudhury. ‘His heart has always been weak, I believe. But the worry of your great journey, not to mention the constant physical trauma, must have put great strain on it.’
They were all silent. Kate took Fred’s hand and squeezed it a little, hoping upon hope that he would open his eyes and tell them all not to fuss. She studied the kind lines of his face and thought of all that they had not said to one another.
‘Can he hear us?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Dr Choudhury.
She perched on the chair by the bedside and leaned in towards him. ‘Fred,’ she said, speaking close to his ear. ‘Fred, it’s Kate.’ He did not respond. But she felt – or was it her imagination? – a twitch in the fingers that lay within her hot hand.
‘I’m going to get Mi Khin,’ said Christopher and she saw him leave the ward with one of the nurses. The doctor was gone too, and suddenly she was alone with Fred.
‘Kate,’ said Fred, and she knelt at once beside him.
He was evidently fighting to stay conscious, his eyes blinking heavily and his voice thick. ‘Forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ said Kate, pressing his hand between hers. ‘I owe you my life.’
‘Couldn’t have got here without you,’ he said slowly. ‘I meant to get you . . . all the way.’
‘You did,’ said Kate. ‘We’re so close now. Whatever happens . . .’ she gripped his hand tighter, ‘I promise I’ll look after the children.’
‘In my bag . . . there’s still about £50 in rupees. Take it.’
‘Christopher and Mi Khin can have it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it.’
He was quiet for a moment and then said. ‘I know it’s been bothering you . . . Fielding, I mean. You did the right thing. Never regret that.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And what I wanted to say yesterday – I wanted to tell you . . .’
‘I know,’ she said, lifting his hand and kissing it. ‘I know.’ His eyes met hers and she saw the yearning, the regret for all the wasted time.
‘What will you do . . . after?�
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‘I don’t know yet.’
‘You want to be free,’ he said. ‘But there’s – there’s a home waiting for you somewhere. Find it.’
She saw Christopher looking hesitantly around the door. He brought Mi Khin into the room and she stood at Fred’s side, her tiny hand in his. She was singing a nursery rhyme that he had taught her and Fred smiled up at her, whispering the words.
For a moment Kate could not bear to witness any more and walked away down the ward, passing beds occupied by sleeping figures. Breathing deeply, she went back, and saw Christopher crouched beside the bed.
‘Your parents would be proud,’ said Fred, patting the boy’s arm. ‘I’m sorry . . . that we couldn’t save your mother. She deserved better.’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher, gripping the edge of the bedclothes, his face pale in the lamplight. ‘But so do you. I’ll be all right, Fred.’
‘I hope you can put . . . all this . . . behind you,’ said Fred. His voice was growing fainter, each word painful. ‘There’s a lot to look forward to. Out in the world.’
He looked around at all of them, swallowing, his dry lips moving, smiling a little as he caught Kate’s eye. ‘The shadows are closing in. Look after each other.’ His eyes closed and he lay still, though his moustache fluttered a little now and then.
Dr Choudhury came unhurriedly across the ward and put a stethoscope to Fred’s chest. ‘His heartbeat is very weak.’
‘Take Mi Khin back to bed,’ said Kate, looking up at Christopher. ‘I’ll stay with him. Good night, sweetheart . . .’ She hugged Mi Khin, who smiled sleepily.
Christopher took Mi Khin’s hand. ‘You’ll be all right?’
Kate nodded. ‘Go to bed.’
He leaned over quickly and kissed her on the forehead, then retreated bashfully, Mi Khin clinging to his hand.
Kate sat back in the cane chair, watching Fred’s chest rise and fall very gently as it began to grow light outside. Two roads diverged here; she had hoped to have a choice, but now one was closed forever. There would be time tomorrow for making plans, for regrouping, for harnessing what energy she still had, but for now she felt dazed.
The Long Journey Home Page 21