How do I go on? she remembered Christopher saying, and still she had no answer. She knew what Fred would say: we go on because we must and try to do what is right.
Kate fell asleep briefly and for once she did not see the armies of the dead. Instead she dreamed of Fred, younger, playing with a group of small children she knew were his, a pretty dark-haired woman waving nearby, the beautiful green mountains of the Shan State filling the horizon.
At dawn Dr Choudhury returned and told her Fred was gone. Her legs stiff, Kate stood, feeling tired and heartsick. She looked once more at his face, now peaceful, and kissed his cheek, then went out of the ward and walked across the grass, which was already warm in the early morning sun.
48
Calcutta, December 1942
It seemed to Kate that the culmination of such a journey should be marked by some sort of fanfare. Instead they arrived by train in Calcutta on a blindingly hot day in December, and all of a sudden the great journey that had begun for her nearly ten months before in Rangoon was at an end.
Fred had been cremated beside the river in Margherita, early one evening when the sun was setting and mist rolled over the tea plantations. She knew it was what he would have chosen and, despite offers of a plot in the Christian churchyard, they had flung his ashes into the river.
‘Where does that river go?’ she had asked the priest who supervised the cremation.
‘It is joining Brahmaputra,’ he said, gesturing to the east, ‘one of the largest rivers in Asia. Eventually it is emptying into the Bay of Bengal.’ He smiled, raising a hand to his chest. ‘Heart of Asia.’
With nothing left to stay for, Kate, Christopher and Mi Khin departed for Calcutta soon afterwards. The journey was long and slow. Christopher, poring over a map, had measured the different lines they would take and looked up, astonished to find that there were over a thousand miles more to cover.
They had taken a slow train to Pandu, followed by a ferry across the Brahmaputra, then at last they had boarded the southbound service that took them all the way to Howrah Junction in Calcutta. They dozed through the long days and nights on hard wooden benches, watching the countryside roll by, getting slowly coated in red dust, living off the fruit and tea that was offered by hawkers.
‘It’s huge!’ said Christopher, looking up at Howrah Junction as they approached through the suburbs. ‘It must be a hundred times the size of Maymyo station.’
Kate led the way off the platform and onto the main concourse. All around the daily life of India danced: busy, dirty, poor, fascinating, alive. The children were excited to be in the city at last. Kate did her best to keep a cheerful face for their sake, but she knew that they saw through it. All her energy had been focused on getting them to Calcutta; now, the task complete, she felt as though she might crumble.
At the Evacuee Enquiry Bureau on Wood Street, which was staffed by efficient young Indian clerks and overseen by Mrs Sharpe, a formidable Englishwoman, they were given forms to fill in.
‘Father’s or husband’s name?’ said Kate, frowning at the sheet of paper. ‘I can’t see that my father’s name will be much use here.’
‘My grandmother’s name is Diana Wilson,’ said Christopher, after writing slowly on the form. He chewed on the pen. ‘And there’s Uncle Roderick, my mother’s brother. But all I can remember is that they live at a place called Doddenham Hall in Sussex. Mother always called it Doddering Hall. Do you think they’ll find them?’
‘I’m sure they will,’ said Kate. ‘It might take a while, though.’
On Mi Khin’s form she wrote the names Hla Pemala and Joseph Smith, noting that the former had died at Shinbwiyang. She wondered if anyone would claim the child.
‘Where is my papa?’ asked Mi Khin.
‘He’s not here, sweetheart,’ said Kate, feeling wretched. ‘We’ll try to find him. I promise.’
‘I thought he might be waiting for me.’
Mrs Sharpe took Kate to one side. ‘Of course all efforts will be made to find the child’s father, but I must warn you that it can take some time. There are hundreds of unaccompanied children looking for their parents and sorting them all out is the devil’s own job.’
‘What happens to them in the meantime?’
‘Most of them are sent to children’s homes until they are claimed,’ said Mrs Sharpe. ‘We’ll find a place for the little girl.’
‘A home? I ought to look after her.’
‘She needs to go to school, Miss Girton,’ said Mrs Sharpe firmly. ‘I understand you want to do what’s best, but supporting a child on your own would be a great strain and she needs to be educated. There are charities that will cover the fees. What do you plan to do?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Kate blankly. ‘I suppose I must find a job. My savings won’t last long.’
‘I have a few contacts I can put you in touch with,’ said Mrs Sharpe, shuffling the forms together. ‘I’ll send you some names and addresses next week. Do you have any experience of nursing?’
Quietly, when everything else was agreed, Kate asked Mrs Sharpe if she had any record of a man named Edwin Clear, who ought to have arrived from Burma within the last six or seven months.
After leafing through a number of ledgers, Mrs Sharpe shook her head and Kate’s heart sank. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’
Somehow, after everything, she had thought that Edwin would be here waiting for her, her dearest friend, with the same shy smile as always, ready to tell her what he had been doing since they last met. She, in turn, would tell him about her journey, about the horrors she had seen, and about the man she had killed and the man she had loved.
But Edwin Clear had not passed this way; there was no sign of him and nothing to say if he was alive or dead.
‘Try the hotels,’ said Mrs Sharpe, ‘the army – the governor’s office – we’re not as joined up as we ought to be . . .’ She supposed that the young woman was looking for a lost lover. It was a story she had heard again and again, people looking for husbands, fathers, brothers, wives, children. Thousands of fractured families, thousands of hearts broken.
*
They were given temporary lodgings at Loreto House, a requisitioned girls’ school close to the cathedral. The staff who ran the place were kind and gave them two small rooms on the top floor with a view of the nearby park. A few nights after their arrival the Japanese began to bomb Calcutta and the strange, quiet interlude of their months in the jungle came firmly to an end.
One evening, when the children had gone to bed, Kate took her towel to the shared bathroom. Undressing, she saw blood in her underwear, vivid red, and stood stock-still for a moment, staring at it. What a remarkable thing the human body was; you could starve it and abuse it, put it through hell, but it was capable of renewal. After many months without bleeding, her body at least was beginning to recover.
‘The mental scars will take some time,’ the doctor had said, and she supposed he was right. She still woke sweating and tearful from her dreams, and much of the time she was gripped by anxiety, as though an icy hand was squeezing her heart. Now, with Fred gone, she felt more alone than ever and afraid of the great emptiness ahead of her.
But this – well, it’s a start, she thought, and throwing her towel to one side she stood under the tap that protruded high on the wall, feeling the cold water beat down on her skin, and watched blood and dust mingle in the suds on the floor before they were washed away.
49
Tenasserim Region, December 1942
Plunging down through the trees, tripping over roots and low shrubs, Edwin felt vines whipping his face and reached up to hold his glasses on his nose, terrified of losing them.
‘This way!’ shouted Rama, ahead of him, pointing between two trees. ‘I can see a path going downhill.’
Panting, Edwin followed, feeling sweat pooling in the small of his back, his shirt clinging to him. In the distance he could hear shouting.
Rama had slowed to a steady jog and, looking back,
he saw the panic on Edwin’s face. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Just keep moving. No need to overdo it.’
‘If they – catch us . . .’ panted Edwin and shook his head. They ran on along the path, which sloped steeply away through the trees, winding down the hillside.
When they had covered half a mile or so, Rama stopped and Edwin did likewise, leaning over, his hands on his knees, feeling suddenly sick. He stared at the ground, focusing on a little patch of dry earth. At last his breathing and his heart slowed, the nausea retreated and he looked up.
Rama was listening intently. They both stood quietly. All Edwin could hear was the gentle rustling of the jungle in the breeze. The shouting seemed to have stopped, and here they were, away from their cells, away from the road, suddenly in unknown country.
‘I think it’s all right,’ said Rama at last, relief etched on his face. He patted Edwin on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’
This time they walked briskly downhill, following the narrow path that had evidently been worn by generations of Burmese villagers. It seemed to be rarely used and was overgrown with creepers and thorny bushes. He ran a hand over a bright red blossom and sniffed its sweet scent.
‘Watch out,’ said Rama. Edwin looked up to see a huge and intricate spider’s web, glistening with the last of the dew, in its centre an enormous yellow spider.
‘Poisonous?’
‘Perhaps. Best to be on the safe side.’
Watching carefully for spider webs, Edwin squinted ahead of him as he followed the path. Peering through the trees, he blinked suddenly. ‘I think I can see the sea.’ He pointed to where a shimmer showed in the far distance, a slick of silver between the trees.
Edwin tried to picture the map of Burma. He knew that Tavoy was somewhere down on the tail where Burma narrowed and shared a long section of the Siamese peninsula. They were hundreds of miles south of Rangoon, and an unthinkable distance from India.
‘It’s such a long way,’ he said, and heard the despair in his voice. ‘Do you really think we’ll get to India?’
‘We can try,’ said Rama. ‘The only alternative was to stay in that camp for the rest of our days or until the war ends, and who knows how long that will be?’
Edwin walked on, following the path as it curved. ‘It’s so much distance to cross, and all of it Japanese territory now. I wish there was an easier way.’
‘So do I,’ said Rama. ‘But we’ll do our best. We’ll keep moving, try to avoid seeing anyone, get food where we can. Perhaps we’ll think of a better idea. But for now we have to just keep going.’
‘I suppose people will try to turn us in,’ said Edwin as they trudged on.
‘Some of them, yes, I think so. Others – I’m not so sure. There is still affection for your people, even after all that has gone before. And the Japanese can be very cruel. There are many who will help us, I believe.’
Edwin hoped beyond hope that Rama was right. For now they were just walking through the jungle; that was all that was expected of him. There was a great deal of pleasure to be found in the simple act of walking freely among the rustling trees.
Late in the afternoon they saw a stone pagoda and knew that they were nearing a village. As they emerged into a meadow, Rama exclaimed and pointed up into the nearby trees. ‘This fruit, we can eat it.’ Edwin peered up and saw a bunch of small round fruits that looked like little potatoes.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a Siamese fruit, longkong. I didn’t know it grew in Burma. I suppose we are very far south.’
Rama reached up into the branches and, breaking off a twig that held a cluster of fruit, handed one to Edwin, who sniffed it doubtfully. It smelled slightly smoky, as though it had been held near a fire. He tore open the yellow skin and saw shiny white flesh inside, the sweet smell immediately reawakening his appetite. He bit into the fruit and closed his eyes.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Rama, who was already on his second. He laughed at Edwin’s expression and handed him another. They stood quietly under the tree, the juice trickling down their chins.
‘I’d forgotten what fruit tastes like,’ said Edwin, looking wonderingly at the tree.
‘We’d better not overdo it,’ said Rama reluctantly. ‘We might get ill.’
‘Let’s take some with us.’
‘Good idea.’
They picked dozens of the little fruits and put them into the sack they’d taken from the camp, which held their few belongings. The dry handfuls of rice they had brought from the morning’s rations would not last long. As they finished, a shout came from somewhere nearby and quickly they darted back into the woods, ducking down behind a thick bush with sharp thorns.
A few minutes later they saw four or five young men crossing the meadow, all dressed in checked longyis. They carried scythes and other tools and had evidently been working somewhere in the fields. Their gossip and laughter carried clearly into the woods as they chatted happily, swinging their tools and strolling unhurriedly towards the village.
Edwin was reminded of the men he had seen in London coming off building sites on Friday afternoons, their boots dusty, their hands calloused, slapping each other’s shoulders as they headed for the nearest pub. He had envied their camaraderie, in the face of poor wages and appalling conditions, and regretted that by class and by temperament he would forever be barred from such friendship.
‘Let’s go,’ said Rama beside him, as soon as the men were out of sight. Moving tentatively through the trees they emerged again in the field and hurried across it. But they saw no one else that day and soon they were far away from the village, heading north, with the sea somewhere to the west. Dusk fell and they walked while the sky faded from pink to pale blue to darkest navy.
At last they found a stream, tiny and trickling, and stopped to drink deeply and to wash, kneeling on the dry earth. All around the jungle was quiet; nothing could be heard except the tinkle of the stream and the sighing of the trees.
They ate a meal of fruit, keeping the bulk back for the following day in case they found no food. When they had finished eating, Rama took the skins and flung them one by one into the undergrowth. With a sigh he lay down on the ground near Edwin and smiled up at him.
‘You look anxious.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Everything is going to be all right.’ He reached for Edwin’s hand and squeezed it, his touch sending sparks of desire through Edwin’s body. He let go, and Edwin lay back on the jungle floor beside him, their arms touching.
‘So many stars,’ said Rama. ‘Have you ever seen so many?’
‘Never,’ said Edwin, tracing the shapes that were both familiar and completely new. ‘It’s one of the first things I noticed at night in Rangoon. In London there are too many street lamps to see them properly.’
‘Everything is different here.’
‘It is,’ said Edwin. ‘I was lonely and grieving when I came to Burma, and yet somehow it has been one of the richest years of my life, despite everything.’
‘Thanks to your friend Kate.’
‘At first. Yes.’
‘You care for her very much. What is she like? Tell me.’
And so he told Rama all about the girl he had known in Rangoon, about swimming at the India Club, sunrise at Amarapura, about Kate’s father, about her yellow silk dress, about how lively and joyous she was despite her own sorrow and loneliness.
Rama listened, laughing in the right places, and Edwin knew he understood that she held a different place in his affections.
‘I would like to meet her,’ he said at last, pushing back his thick hair from where it clung to his forehead.
‘You will,’ said Edwin, and he suddenly felt hopeful about the future.
They were quiet for a few minutes, watching the universe as it sparkled above them.
‘How long have you known?’ asked Edwin, surprised by the question as it emerged. He heard Rama chuckle in the darkness beside him.
‘Longer than you.’
‘When you were a boy?’
Rama shifted so that his arms were folded behind his head. He was still looking up at the stars. ‘I was twelve or thirteen, I suppose. I became aware that I was not quite like the other boys. They began to chase girls.’
‘And you weren’t interested?’
Rama laughed. ‘Oh, I was. Girls are wonderful. And they liked me back. I listened to them, which none of the others did.’
Edwin felt a mosquito land on his arm and brushed it away. ‘And did you ever . . .’
‘I was sixteen or so. She was a little older and had already been with all my friends.’
‘Isn’t that frowned on in India? Before marriage, I mean?’
‘Of course, but young people are the same in every country of the world. This girl was kind and gentle. I even fancied myself in love for a short time.’ He laughed. ‘It didn’t last long.’
‘What happened?’
‘There was a boy. His father was a big landowner and they were wealthy and high-caste. He was twenty and much more experienced – he had had many lovers, boys and girls. He was handsome and dashing, very charming.’
Edwin listened. He wondered if he ought to feel jealous, but instead he was fascinated at this insight into a youth so unlike his own.
‘I fell for him head over heels, spent all my meagre pay on gifts for him, almost abandoned my friends so I could spend time with him. He taught me a lot. We used to go to a place by a lake where the grass was long and the trees trailed down to the water.’
Edwin imagined hot nights in India, cool water, brown skin glistening as it moved, and felt a prickle of returning desire.
‘It caused a rift with my family,’ said Rama. ‘Some rumour reached my father, I don’t know how, and he wrote to me saying I was no longer welcome at their home. I haven’t seen them for ten years.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘She writes to me in secret.’ Rama frowned. ‘At least, she did until I was captured. I didn’t tell her anything about the boy, of course – or any of the others. She probably thinks I’m dead.’
The Long Journey Home Page 22