The Long Journey Home

by Cecily Blench

  ‘Why, Miss Girton, isn’t it?’ said a bleary voice. Startled, she looked at the man in the next bed, who was staring intently at her. He was a stretcher case, but looked wide awake now, and suddenly familiar.

  She stared at him, trying to place him. ‘Tim? Good heavens.’ He looked much older than he had been when he worked for her mother on the farm, only a few years ago.

  ‘That’s right, Tim Fletcher,’ he said, a slow smile spreading over his face. ‘Fancy seeing you in India, Miss Girton. And you’re a nurse, now. What shall I call you, then?’ His voice had the gentle country twang that she knew so well and it gave her an unexpected rush of longing for home.

  ‘Just nurse is fine,’ said Kate. ‘What are you doing in Calcutta?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been all over, miss – nurse,’ he said, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to remember. ‘I was in France at the beginning, then we were on the way to Singapore when it fell so we got sent to North Africa instead, and ended up over here in the last few months of the Burma campaign.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  He considered. ‘Hot. Bloody. The Japs torched most of the towns as they retreated.’

  ‘And the people?’

  ‘Miserable. I don’t know if they were pleased to see us, exactly – it wasn’t the warm welcome you might expect. But they seemed glad to see the back of the Japs.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘I heard you’d come out East, now I think of it. Was that where you were?’

  Kate nodded, thinking of all the people she had known. You do not understand us, Myia had said, and she was right. She had left them to their fates and knew nothing of the misery that they had endured in the years since the invasion.

  ‘You got out, though,’ said Tim. ‘I’m glad to see that.’

  I did, she thought. I survived. ‘How did you get this?’ she said, gesturing to the burn scars she could see inside the neck of his pyjamas.

  ‘Wrong place at the wrong time. Got caught in an exploding oil depot a week or two before we took Rangoon. It was a native fellow who found me, as a matter of fact, and fetched my CO.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘On and off.’ She peered at the scarring, seeing how the skin stretched over his neck, mottled and dry.

  ‘How’s your mother these days?’ he said. ‘Seems no time at all since she was waving me and the lads goodbye.’

  ‘I think she’s all right,’ said Kate. ‘I don’t write to her as often as I ought. I’ve been so busy here.’

  ‘I’ll always be grateful to her,’ he said. ‘She was a kind boss, and the moment I said I was signing up she did all she could for me.’

  ‘I worry about her, rather.’

  Tim smiled. ‘Well, you’d know better than me, but I’d say she’s a strong lady.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘She was always very proud of you. When you went East she’d tell people about your adventures.’

  Kate smiled, surprised but gratified. ‘I’ve always felt that I let her down.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s not for me to say, miss, but I doubt she thinks the same. You were a great support with your father . . . and afterwards.’

  With a jolt she remembered that he had been there the night her father died. Old Ben had found him in the barn and the other farmhands had rallied round, as much a support in their own quiet way as her mother’s friends who arrived in droves with food and condolences.

  ‘I was too late.’

  He watched her curiously, then shook his head, and she felt a strange bond between them, though she had not seen him for years. He had been there, and she knew they were both remembering the farmyard, the police car, and the silence that had fallen.

  His voice sounded as if it was coming from far away. ‘It weren’t your fault. No one thought that, not ever.’

  She turned away and wiped her eyes, knowing that he had seen. She could not dwell on it again, not here.

  ‘What about your parents, Tim – do you hear from them?’

  ‘Aye, now and then,’ he said, taking a sip from the cup of water she passed him from the trolley. ‘It’s not been easy for them. Nora – that’s my wife – went to live with them, and she’s a comfort to my mother.’

  ‘You’re married now?’

  ‘Aye. Just before the war started.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  He smiled wanly. ‘She’s a good girl. I can’t wait to be home. We’d like to get a bit of land of our own, maybe raise a few pigs and cows, have a couple of kids perhaps.’

  It sounded idyllic and Kate could see it at once – the little house that he would build himself, his wife sowing flowers that would bloom in the front garden, the children feeding pigs in the yard. While living with her parents, longing for adventure, she had found the locals dull and provincial, but suddenly their lives seemed richer and more real than anything she had achieved. Tim and his wife would be happy.

  ‘I must get on,’ she said at last, but turned back. ‘Let my mother know when you get back, Tim. I think she’d want to know and help you any way she can. I’ll write and tell her I’ve seen you.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, and bobbed his head. ‘Thank you, nurse. What will you do? Will you be going home soon?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  55

  Bihar, October 1945

  The bus up into the hills took most of the morning. Kate sat next to the wide, glassless window, watching the dry grass and ragged trees go by. Occasionally they passed through a village, where the bus would stop for a few minutes to pick up passengers and huge sacks of rice and bales of cloth.

  Kate closed her eyes, leaning back against the hard narrow seat, and tried to shade her face until the bus moved off again. The air had been much cooler since leaving Calcutta, but the sun was still hot.

  They went on, trundling around hairpin bend after hairpin bend. Sometimes in the distance she saw the road ahead, snaking up a sheer-looking hillside, and wondered if the bus would make it, but it always did, the driver grinding the gears lower and lower as they climbed.

  The slow train had deposited her in Simultala, a small town a few hundred miles north-east of Calcutta. She had missed the only bus up into the hills that day, and the main hotel, a health resort, looked alarmingly expensive, so she stayed in a dak bungalow near the train station.

  The caretaker, a wiry little man in a white dhoti, carried her bag into the bungalow, unrolling a sleeping mat and depositing a bucket of water. A little later he returned, carrying a basket that emitted savoury smells.

  ‘Oh, thank you. How kind.’ She went to help him unload, but he waved her away again and set down the contents of the basket on a low table.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Two rupees, memsahib.’ He gestured to the bungalow and the food. ‘For all.’

  She handed over the money and he bowed deeply before slipping it into his waist pouch. ‘You are going tomorrow where?’

  ‘Dhanbasar. The children’s home.’

  He nodded and bowed before disappearing. A moment later he returned and said, ‘Bus tomorrow nine o’clock,’ and he pointed down the street to where a huge tree cast its shade. ‘Beside tree. Nine o’clock.’ After seeing that she understood, he withdrew.

  She had brought whisky in her father’s old hipflask, but for once she did not hear its siren call and it lay untouched in her bag as she ate and read a book on the veranda.

  Later, emerging from the little hut that held the long-drop toilet, she caught sight of a brilliant moon, not quite full yet but radiant, and stood still, marvelling at it.

  Afterwards, Kate lay down on the mat and listened to the silence. She had not heard quiet like this since the journey to India and she felt almost homesick for those nights in the jungle, surrounded by kind companions. She felt lonely, but somehow very safe, in this town where no one knew her.

  The dead did not come that night. She woke to find her head in a square of sunlight, already hot, and realised that she had s
lept soundly through the night for the first time in years.

  *

  Dhanbasar Jubilee School was on a slope miles above the valley, about as high as you could go in this part of India. The bus dropped Kate off at the end of a long driveway, where an imposing set of gates stood open, flanked by two enormous stone monkeys.

  Along the driveway were beds of flourishing roses and orchids, which were obviously carefully tended. A hose was coiled neatly next to an outside tap, and a steel watering can lay on its side. She noticed that the emblem on the base read ‘HAWS – MADE IN ENGLAND’.

  As she drew near the house, she could hear children calling somewhere nearby, and saw a sweeper busy on the steps outside the front door.

  ‘Good afternoon. Where might I find Mrs Princeton?’

  He showed her through to a small sitting room and she perched on a sofa, looking around at the watercolours on the wall and the lace antimacassars on the chairs, reminded irresistibly of her grandmother’s parlour. Even the mournful china dog on the windowsill, she was sure, was the same.

  Restless, she stood up and peered out of the window. There were five or six children playing a skipping game on the shaded lawn, two of them holding out a long rope. She peered at each of them in turn and saw a pram parked in the deeper shade nearby, accompanied by a nurse who sat calmly knitting.

  ‘She’s not there,’ said a voice behind her and Kate turned to see a large-busted woman in a tweed suit.

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Girton,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

  ‘Mrs Princeton,’ said Kate, holding out a hand. ‘I’m glad to see you again. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Do sit down.’

  A maid arrived with a tray and carefully unloaded it, glancing anxiously at Mrs Princeton. She was a young Anglo-Indian girl who could not have been more than fifteen, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun. She took the tray, curtsied to both of them, and left as quickly as possible.

  ‘Theresa is one of my recent graduates,’ said Mrs Princeton, leaning to stir the tea. ‘She’s a good girl. She’ll work here for a year or so until we can find her a place in a respectable household.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I hope to find her a position somewhere pleasant like Darjeeling. She’s quite willing to travel to Calcutta or Delhi if necessary, but I prefer not to send girls to the big cities, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kate murmured. She took the cup of tea and allowed it to cool.

  ‘I’ll take you out to find Maria in a moment. But I must warn you, Miss Girton, that she is not herself.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that she has been very badly behaved of late,’ said Mrs Princeton, shaking her head. ‘She has missed numerous classes and has at times been unforgivably rude to the mistresses. Miss Jones was quite hurt by her insults.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Kate feebly. ‘I suppose it’s to be expected . . . she has suffered a great deal.’

  ‘They’ve all suffered, Miss Girton,’ said Mrs Princeton sternly. ‘I’m afraid it’s no excuse here. The staff all want the best for her and want to help her.’

  ‘I should have come before,’ said Kate. ‘I meant to, but . . .’

  ‘Perhaps you can speak to her,’ said Mrs Princeton, sipping her tea. ‘She won’t listen to me. Explain to her that we are trying to help her. And how important her education is for the future.’

  ‘I’m not sure she’ll listen to me either.’

  ‘Do your best, Miss Girton.’ The older woman sighed. ‘What news do you have from Calcutta? Have the soldiers all gone home?’

  ‘Most of them,’ said Kate, thinking of her half-empty wards. ‘It’s much quieter now.’

  ‘How long do you intend to stay in India?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She frowned and drank some more tea. ‘I’m still waiting for news of some of my friends. They may be dead but – well, I want to know. Either way. I don’t know what else to do.’

  Mrs Princeton looked at her sympathetically. ‘It isn’t easy.’ Her voice sounded unsteady and Kate saw, in surprise, that her eyes had filled with tears.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Quite well. Thank you.’ She paused and fiddled with her teacup. ‘I lost my fiancé on the Western Front – almost thirty years ago now. The worst part was not knowing. Once I knew, I was able to pick myself up and move on. One never forgets, of course.’

  *

  Kate followed a winding path between two walled gardens, pausing occasionally to sniff a rose or examine the fruit trees that grew espaliered against the crumbling red brick. On this Indian hilltop was a place that would be forever England.

  The path went through a small orchard, where apple trees were mixed in with something more exotic, its fat, heavy leaves making the branches droop. She saw, in the distance, a small summer house, with a roof made of palm leaves. As she drew closer she could see someone sitting on the veranda in a rocking chair, but the girl made no move to greet her, simply watched impassively as she approached.

  ‘They told me you were coming,’ she said, when Kate was nearly at the steps. Her accent had faded and now she sounded almost English.

  Kate observed her for a moment and noted the untidy plait in her dark hair, the scuffed shoes and the muddy knees.

  ‘Hello, Mi Khin.’ She sat down. ‘I spoke to Mrs Princeton.’

  ‘Did she ask you to come?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why did you?’

  Kate shifted uncomfortably and looked sideways at her. ‘I know you’re probably angry with me . . .’

  ‘I’m angry at everyone.’ Her dark eyes looked away and she rocked in the chair disconsolately.

  ‘Mrs Princeton said you weren’t happy.’

  ‘She hates me.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong about that.’ Kate paused. ‘She cares about you. She’s worried about you.’

  ‘They all say that. They don’t like me much really, you know. I’m too much of a mongrel even for this place. You know what they call me? Maria. Like a nun or something.’

  ‘I know. It’s silly.’ Kate was silent and looked out over the hillside that fell away before them.

  Mi Khin looked sideways at her. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’ve been working hard.’

  They were quiet again. ‘Look,’ said Kate at last, ‘it’s not an excuse, Mi Khin, and I’m sorry I haven’t come before. I truly am. This is the first time I’ve had more than two days off from the hospital since I last saw you.’

  ‘I understand. I didn’t really expect you to come.’ She hardened her mouth and sighed, fidgeting in her chair.

  She expected me to let her down and I did, thought Kate. ‘It wasn’t just that,’ she said. ‘It was so hard – after what happened I could barely take care of myself. I thought seeing you again would open up all the old wounds, for both of us.’

  ‘You were very sad,’ said Mi Khin. ‘I saw that.’

  ‘Yes. But I was a coward. I’m sorry. I won’t let you down again, I promise.’

  Mi Khin nodded, but she looked less angry. ‘I got your birthday parcel,’ she said at last. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It occurred to me afterwards that the turtle might have been a bit young for you,’ said Kate. ‘You were a little girl when I saw you last.’ Mi Khin seemed far older than nine. It was as though the years in between had hardened her.

  She shrugged. ‘I liked it. And the little Indian girls enjoyed playing with it.’

  ‘What did you say to the mistresses?’ asked Kate. ‘Apparently they were very upset.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Mi Khin dismissively. ‘They don’t like brown girls much, you know. I think secretly they all wish they were bringing up nice little white girls somewhere in England. Miss Jones got angry with me and said I would never be a respectable lady with manners like mine. So I told her that my mother was a Burmese prince
ss and that one day I’d summon my uncles to raze this place to the ground and kill all the teachers.’

  Kate snorted and shook her head. ‘I’m not surprised she was upset.’

  ‘I said I was sorry.’

  ‘Did you? Out loud?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I think you must apologise,’ said Kate with a sigh. ‘Learn how to play the game, Mi Khin. Be polite to your teachers, listen to them even if you disagree with them – and keep your head down. This isn’t forever, you know. There’s a whole world out there.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘Is there anything I can do that would help? Anything at all?’

  ‘Find my father,’ said Mi Khin softly, gripping the arms of her chair. ‘I know you’ve tried but – please – please keep looking. I’m sure he’s alive.’

  ‘I’ll keep trying,’ said Kate. ‘But I’ve so little to go on. I sent off so many letters, filled in every form I could think of, but they haven’t found any trace of him yet.’

  ‘I had a dream the other night,’ said Mi Khin, swinging her legs back and forth. ‘I think it was about my grandmother – it was a little old Indian lady, anyway. She was calling to my father and she was saying, “Aditya!” But Papa’s name was Joseph.’

  ‘Aditya?’

  ‘Do you think it’s worth looking into?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Kate. ‘All the forms I filled in just said we were looking for an Anglo-Indian man called Joseph Smith. If he had another name then it might explain why they haven’t found him.’

  ‘I never heard him call himself Aditya,’ said Mi Khin doubtfully. ‘But it’s been so long and I was very little.’

  ‘Some people don’t use their first names,’ said Kate. ‘My grandmother was Doris Caroline, but she only ever went by Caroline as she didn’t like Doris. Could be something like that.’

  ‘It was only a dream, though.’

  ‘It’s something,’ said Kate. ‘We may as well try.’

  They walked back down the path together and Mi Khin took her hand. Kate squeezed it.

  ‘I miss Fred,’ said Mi Khin with a sigh.