The Long Journey Home

by Cecily Blench

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I had a letter from Christopher, though. He sent me some nice books and told me all about England and the strange food they eat. Merin-joos or something.’

  ‘Meringue,’ said Kate. ‘It’s a sort of crunchy pudding made of egg whites and sugar. Lovely with cream and raspberries. He wrote to me, too – I gather he’s working for one of his uncles now.’

  ‘He said he would come back to India one day for a visit.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’

  Mi Khin looked up at her. ‘Are you lonely, in Calcutta?’

  ‘A little,’ said Kate. ‘But I work a lot and the girls I live with are kind.’

  ‘You’re not happy, though?’

  ‘I’m alive and I’m healthy,’ said Kate with a shrug. ‘That’s enough.’

  56

  Calcutta, November 1945

  In the wide silence of the Imperial Library, only occasional footsteps intruded on the concentration of the scholars who sat staring at dusty tomes and occasionally scribbling on a scrap of paper. Most of them were university students; serious young men with self-conscious moustaches and round glasses who had been too young for the war.

  Kate had noticed their polite astonishment at seeing her poring over books in the library; she suspected that they would be all the more baffled, and rather condescending, if they knew she had left school at fourteen.

  Most of the books were old and of little interest, but occasionally she stumbled upon something vaguely appealing. Much of her time in the library was spent staring out of the window at the jute mills that lined the Hooghly River, and trying to write letters home.

  Will is home at last from hospital, read the latest letter from her sister. Laura had been a diligent correspondent since Kate had made contact from Calcutta and wrote often despite her gruelling job in a London hospital. Kate felt guilty that she did not write nearly as often but it was hard to know what to say.

  While she had clammed up, Laura had begun to confide in her. Perhaps due to the war, and the distance between them, she told Kate things that she could tell no one else. Kate was flattered and grateful for her trust, and felt deeply for her sister, even as she tried and failed to reciprocate with confidences of her own.

  Laura’s husband Will had been injured in Trieste shortly before the end of the war and had spent months moving between hospitals. Laura was caring for him now in a rented flat in London, and slowly adjusting to the reality that he would be an invalid forever.

  One leg is all gone, Kate, it’s awful to see. The rest of him – you must forgive me for such coarse talk – is intact. But so far he’s in constant pain, so there’s been no opportunity or desire to see if it still works. I’ve waited this long, God knows I can wait longer, but I’m terribly afraid. What if he’s too damaged? I can live without THAT, though it wouldn’t be easy I suppose, but what about children? How shall I have the children I want? He already feels that he’s failed me. He won’t talk about it but I can tell he’s scared too.

  Laura, dear Laura, who had talked of having children since she was a child herself. She was thirty-five. How would she cope if her last opportunity to be a mother was taken away from her? Would her relationship with Will survive? She would be condemned to repeat her parents’ marriage, locked up with him as the world moved on outside.

  Kate frowned down at the paper before her and stared around the library. There was a little old man who seemed to be there almost every day, sitting in a huge chair with a stack of books on the table. Sometimes when she looked at him he was dozing, and she smiled, knowing that like her he came for the atmosphere of the library rather than its contents.

  A young librarian went past and as he did so he bowed his head to the old man, placed his hands briefly together, and then touched his forehead. The old fellow nodded regally and went back to his book. Kate wondered who he was, or who he had once been.

  A shaft of sunlight fell across the marble floor, and suddenly she knew exactly what to do. She could not reassure Laura that everything would be all right, for it almost certainly would not be. But she could repay her honesty. Their mother had not pushed Kate to reveal what had happened on the journey out of Burma, and her letters were light-hearted and comforting, but she had suffered as much as either of her daughters. She, too, deserved to know.

  Picking up the pen, Kate started to write. She would tell them everything. It would take more than one letter, but she would start today and eventually her family would know what had happened to her. One day when she saw them again, they might be able to grieve together for all that they had lost and take stock of what had survived.

  *

  As she left the library and walked out between the great white pillars, Kate heard her name being called and swung around to see a man whose face she did not recognise at first. He wore a faded army uniform and carried a heavy knapsack.

  ‘Patrick,’ he prompted. ‘We met in Mandalay.’

  She stared at him. ‘Of course! You worked with Edwin.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if it was you,’ said Patrick. He looked much older than the cheerful young man she had last seen nearly four years ago, his face lined and his hair speckled with grey. ‘What are you doing in Calcutta?’

  ‘I’ve been here for years,’ said Kate. ‘Ever since leaving Burma. Gosh,’ and she put a hand to her heart. ‘I feel quite shocked to see you! It’s so rare that I see anyone from back then.’

  ‘Here,’ said Patrick, and took the heavy shoulder bag from her. ‘Sit down for a moment.’ They sat on a bench and Kate looked at him again with surprise.

  ‘What brings you here? How did you get out of Burma?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story, I’m afraid. Edwin and I left Mandalay by car, I suppose it must have been a few days after you left.’

  ‘You were with Edwin?’ she said eagerly.

  ‘On the day they blew up the Ava Bridge.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’

  Patrick frowned and shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’

  She felt a stab of disappointment. ‘But what happened? How did you get separated?’

  ‘Edwin was captured,’ said Patrick. ‘By the Japs. We both were, actually. I don’t have much time, I’m afraid, I’m taking the night train to Bombay and then a ship home.’

  Kate sat still, trying to calm her thudding heart. Edwin had been taken prisoner by the Japanese. It was what many people had suggested to her, and what she had known was the most likely answer, but it was a wrench to hear it confirmed. Perhaps he was still alive.

  Patrick looked up at the great clock that hung over the main library entrance. It was nearly five o’clock. ‘Listen, my train leaves Howrah in two hours. I’ll tell you what I can before then.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kate.

  ‘I hoped he might have got away somehow. You haven’t heard anything?’

  ‘Nothing. Do you suppose he’s still a prisoner?’

  ‘He must be,’ said Patrick, although he looked doubtful. ‘Unless—’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Kate firmly. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

  57

  Calcutta, November 1945

  Late one afternoon Kate sat in the cathedral nave. It was quiet and cool, and in the transept a choir was practising hymns. Outside the merciless sun was glaring down, but here all was calm.

  As a child she had gone to church regularly with Laura and their mother but after her father’s death she decided that she no longer believed in God. It was not an angry parting, and she felt no anguish about it; it simply seemed impossible and absurd to believe in a God who had allowed such things to happen. I did not abandon God, she told herself – he abandoned me.

  In India going to church felt very different. She had gone tentatively one Sunday afternoon, soon after her arrival in Calcutta, still raw with the pain of her journey, and found it almost empty. The place was big enough that she could sit undisturbed, dozing slightly and enjoying the cool marble on which she sat.<
br />
  She had come nearly every week since, usually in the early morning or late afternoon, before or after a shift at the hospital. It had become a place of refuge, although God had never seemed further away. For I have killed a man, she thought, and knew she was beyond saving.

  She now knew more about what had happened to Edwin, but Patrick’s part in the tale cut off abruptly in May 1942, when he and Edwin had been separated. He believed that Edwin had probably been taken to another internment camp somewhere.

  ‘I didn’t see it myself but they put him in a truck with a few others and they drove off early one morning and that was that. Someone said they were going south.’

  ‘And what about you? How did you get out?’

  ‘I was put in another truck and taken west – odd, really. I can only suppose they were heading for one of the camps near the Chindwin to interrogate me further. But there was an accident – the truck went off the road, the driver was killed and the guard stunned. There were four of us prisoners and we hared off west for a few days and eventually met up with the British forces retreating over the river at Shwegyin. They let us tag along in their trucks to Imphal.’

  She listened to Patrick’s tale, trying not to feel resentful that he had made it out when Edwin had not. He had gone to war, she reminded herself; in the three years since his lucky escape he had probably seen unspeakable horrors. She wondered what sort of life awaited him at home.

  He looked at Kate for a moment, and then said, ‘It’s quite possible that Edwin’s still a prisoner, you know. Or he could have escaped. Or—’

  ‘Or he might be dead.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  The clock was striking a quarter past six when Patrick heaved his bag onto his shoulder. ‘I must go. I’ll just make the train if I get a rickshaw.’

  He was already gone, she could see that; like the soldiers who had passed through her hospital, he had relinquished the ties that once held him here and was now pawing at the ground, impatient to be off.

  Kate stretched out her hand and grasped his. ‘Have a safe journey. And good luck.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Go back to my maps, get a quiet job, forget the war altogether if I can. Look, here’s my father’s address – you’ll let me know if you hear anything more of Edwin?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He gave a half smile. ‘Good luck.’

  She watched him hurry away to the roadside, where he flagged down a rickshaw and slung his bag into the back before climbing in after it. The driver stood up on the pedals and it moved off into the crowd.

  *

  ‘Miss Girton?’

  Kate’s eyes flew open and for a moment she struggled to focus on the woman in front of her. She had fallen asleep on the hard pew at the back of the cathedral.

  ‘Mrs Campbell! Good heavens.’

  ‘So sorry to disturb you, dear,’ said Mrs Campbell, fanning herself and looking flustered. ‘I was just surprised to see you, that’s all. I said to myself, now there’s a familiar face.’

  She looked hardly changed from how she had been at the Scottish party in Rangoon; winter 1941. Kate remembered, inexplicably, the beautiful gold trim that she had had on her dress that night. She was still a large woman, though her face was perhaps a little thinner, and her dress plainer. It was strange that she should appear so soon after Patrick, another ghost emerging from the past.

  ‘It’s quite all right. I’m afraid I was drifting off to sleep. It’s so beautifully cool in here.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Mrs Campbell hesitated. ‘I didn’t know you were in Calcutta, Miss Girton.’

  Kate smiled wanly. ‘I’ve been here since late forty-two.’

  ‘Oh? You must have—’ She looked flustered again. ‘How did you come out?’

  ‘The long way, Mrs Campbell. The Hukawng Valley route.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  Kate took pity on her. ‘You were sensible to leave when you did. How is Mr Campbell?’

  ‘He’s quite well. His business has taken a dent, of course, but it will recover soon enough now that the war is over. We’ll be sailing for Edinburgh in the New Year.’

  ‘And Mrs Hamilton – how is she? And the baby?’

  Her face dropped. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, almost whispering. ‘Such a sad story. They had a dreadful journey out. They got to India all right but the baby was sick. Mr Hamilton was a few weeks behind them and by the time he arrived little Sam was dead and buried.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ said Kate numbly. She stood to leave, feeling depression settling on her shoulders once again like an old winter coat. ‘Please pass on my condolences to Mrs Hamilton.’

  ‘I rarely see her,’ said Mrs Campbell. ‘I feel dreadful about it sometimes, but I’m almost ashamed to. We were the best of friends in Rangoon, but since coming here – well, it’s not the same.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  Mrs Campbell pressed her hands together and looked pensive. ‘There’s too much of a difference between our experiences, Miss Girton. I’m not sure it’s possible to bridge that gulf.’

  Neither am I, thought Kate, as she left the cathedral, feeling the warm air roll over her, and the sound of the choir fading away. Till we have built Jerusalem . . .

  She felt sorry for Mrs Campbell, and envious too. She had escaped unharmed, her family intact, but her life – most of it spent in the East – had been upturned and she would have to spend what remained of it feeling guilty for having survived. Much like the rest of us, thought Kate.

  *

  The traffic on Kidderpore Road was even more congested than usual. As Kate walked towards the park she could see a long queue of cars and buses, could hear the deafening din of dozens of horns being leaned on.

  A rickshaw wallah grew tired of waiting and mounted the pavement, pedalling furiously along, weaving in and out of pedestrians. Kate leapt out of his way and stood with her back to a wall for a moment, breathing deeply. This city!

  There was a crowd gathering on the Maidan, and three black cars were pulled up at the roadside, half-hidden by the swarming onlookers. Someone bumped into a fruit stall nearby and the owner huffed irritably as he gathered up the guavas that threatened to roll away.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Political delegation,’ he said shortly, now piling the fruit back onto his stall. ‘Conference starting today.’

  ‘A delegation? From where?’

  ‘Burma.’

  ‘What conference?’

  He shrugged. Standing on tiptoe she tried to peer across the crowd, but she could see nothing except a group of men surrounded by supporters, journalists and photographers.

  Soon the photocall was over and they were being hustled back into the cars, which drove away and gradually disappeared into the traffic.

  Kate saw a young Burmese reporter standing nearby, a notebook in his hand, and accosted him. ‘Excuse me, can you tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘It is a delegation, miss, from Rangoon. Led by Thakin Than Tun. They are here to discuss the future of Burma with members of the Assembly.’

  ‘Is there a man called Denpo among them?’

  He scribbled something in his notebook and looked up at her distractedly. ‘I do not recognise that name. Sorry, miss, I must go to my office.’

  ‘Of course.’ She watched him walk away and thought of Myia.

  *

  At home a letter lay on her bed. She stared at it, knowing without a doubt that it held news of one of the two men whom she had been seeking since arriving in Calcutta.

  She had spent years waiting for answers, for herself and for Mi Khin, and now she was almost afraid to open the letter. Was there even the smallest chance that they had found Mi Khin’s father? Could Edwin really still be alive?

  Quickly she ripped it open and began to read.

  58

  Calcutta, December 1945

  ‘You look nervous,’ said Pamela, looking up from the letter she was writing.
She was lying full-length on her bed, nibbling at a bag of dried apple slices. Clothes were draped over the headboard and folded in precarious piles on the floor.

  Kate shrugged. ‘It just feels like a big moment.’

  She smoothed down the smart linen dress she had borrowed from Pamela and adjusted her sun hat.

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ said Pamela. ‘It looks fine. Much nicer than any of your old things.’

  Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Nearly packed?’ she asked, looking around at the chaos.

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time. You know this chap Damien I’ve been seeing? The one I met at Firpo’s? He’s promised to look me up in London. Apparently he’s got a lovely sports car.’

  Kate imagined Pamela being driven through the city in an open-top car, the wind in her hair, a handsome man at her side. She smiled but felt a small stab of envy.

  Pamela surveyed Kate through half-closed eyes. ‘What do you think he’s like? This Joseph, I mean. Or is it Aditya?’

  ‘Both, apparently, but he calls himself Joseph.’ Kate stared at her reflection. ‘I’m surprised he’s here at all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when they finally tracked him down I thought that would be it. He’d go and pick Mi Khin up and disappear and I’d never see her again.’

  ‘He wants to thank you, I suppose,’ said Pamela. ‘You saved her life.’

  ‘In a way,’ said Kate, wishing that they had not started the conversation. Try as she might she could not get away from the journey out of Burma – at every turn it was waiting to remind her. ‘I’ve been useless since we arrived in India, anyway. He’s probably angry that I ditched her in a home.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘The main reason—’ said Kate, sitting down abruptly on the edge of her bed, ‘The main reason I’m afraid to go is that I know this will be the last time I’ll see her.’

  Pamela sighed. ‘You can stay in touch.’

  ‘It won’t be the same.’

  ‘I know.’

  *

  She went early to the appointed meeting place, a Burmese teashop, intending to sit for a while and calm herself. But she had scarcely set foot over the threshold when a familiar voice hailed her.