‘So you do know why I’m here,’ said Joseph, and he shifted closer to her, taking her hand. She felt his rough palm against hers and the sky seemed brighter than ever.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘why don’t you come with us?’
‘Come where?’
‘Home,’ said Joseph, and the word hung in the air, the past and the present and the great wide earth encompassed in one syllable.
‘Where is home?’
‘There’s a little town on the coast, a few hundred miles from here,’ said Joseph. ‘I used to go there as a boy with my parents and I’ve thought of it for years. We’re going there on the way to Madras. Ah, Kate,’ and he gripped her hand tighter, ‘you should see it. Long empty beaches, glorious swimming, and the sky . . .’
‘The sky?’
‘You can see a million stars,’ he said at last, gazing off across the cemetery as though he was there, standing on the beloved clifftops, watching the night sky.
Kate was silent for a long time, feeling the pull of the tides that threatened to uproot her precarious existence. At one moment she wanted nothing more than to go with Joseph, and at the next she knew that she could not, must not. She had to find out what had happened to Edwin and to Myia. That was the path laid before her. Being alone had always been safer.
‘I shall have to go back to England,’ she said. ‘Someday soon.’ But she had been resisting doing so now for years, and her mother had never asked her outright to come back. My beloved mother, she thought sometimes, knows me better than anyone. Perhaps that’s why I’m afraid to go home.
‘Of course,’ said Joseph, ‘it’s where your family are. I am longing to see my mother.’
‘What is your mother like?’
‘She’s strong,’ said Joseph, smiling. ‘When she was a young woman her parents arranged a marriage for her, but she said no – she would marry a man of her choosing. Then she met my father, an English tea merchant, and they were very happy together for forty years. Now she volunteers in a hospital and helps my sisters with their children.’ He laughed. ‘She would like you.’
Kate imagined going with him to his mother’s home, meeting this tough old woman in a white sari. ‘What would I do?’ she said.
‘Whatever you want,’ said Joseph gently. ‘I would not expect you to play the role of quiet village wife any more than my father expected my mother to be an English society lady. We could live anywhere, go anywhere – you could work or do whatever you please.’
He paused. For a moment she pictured a railway station somewhere in Europe, Switzerland perhaps, with cool mountains in the background, and a family alighting from a train: herself, Joseph, and Mi Khin, dressed neatly in winter clothes and carrying umbrellas. The sound of bells and the smell of chocolate hung in the air, and for a moment she could almost reach out and touch the scene, before it vanished, and she wiped the sweat of Calcutta from her brow.
Joseph watched her and sighed. ‘When I was a child my father had a parakeet that lived in a cage. It sang beautifully, but he worried about it all the time – whether it was happy. At last, one day he opened the door and it flew away immediately. But the next day we came to breakfast and found it perched on the cage, waiting to be fed. And after that we never closed the door again.’
Kate laughed despite herself. ‘Are you saying I’m like a bird?’
‘No! But I would never try to keep you if you were unhappy or stop you from doing what you want.’ He put his hands either side of her face and kissed her, and for a moment the confusion fell away. ‘I just want you.’
She pulled away and sighed heavily. ‘You think you know me,’ she said. ‘Even I don’t know me.’
‘Perhaps it’s easier to see from a distance. I see that you have been running away from your grief and that you’ve put up walls so that you don’t get hurt again. Kate, if I thought for a second that you’d be happier to keep running then I’d let you go at once, without looking back.’ He sounded passionate, and she knew he meant it. ‘But you want a home, you want safety, you want love. I am offering just one possibility.’
‘I used to wonder what it would have been like if my father had come back healthy from the war,’ said Kate, pulling up tufts of grass. ‘A sort of parallel existence – I could see it as if through glass, going on alongside mine. And Edwin: what if the bomb that killed his wife had not struck their house? Two ships sailing to different places.’
She took his hand gently, feeling her heart swell with love and sorrow. ‘It’s a sweet future that you have offered: you, me, and Mi Khin. But it’s not mine.’
‘Then what is?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly, trying not to weep in front of him. ‘I don’t have any answers yet.’
‘Would it be different if you knew what had become of Edwin? If you didn’t have all these questions hanging over you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You can’t spend all your life waiting and wondering,’ said Joseph, and he looked so kind that she felt that she was making a terrible mistake. ‘Whether or not you discover the truth, at some point you will have to choose a path.’
‘I suppose I am choosing,’ she said.
He stood, pulling her to her feet beside him, and she looked into his blue eyes, memorising the face before her.
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he said, and she knew he meant it wholeheartedly, though the roar of misery and confusion in her ears almost drowned him out.
Kate watched him leave. She sat back on the rug and picked up her book, but the words blurred in front of her. She looked around the churchyard, surrounded by the graves of those who had come to India and never left. The merciless sun bleached their headstones. One day the English would be long gone from India, and all that would remain of them would be their churches and their bones.
61
Calcutta, December 1945
Kate bought a newspaper from the stand at the end of Ashoka Street as she arrived home from a night shift. Lying on her bed, she flicked through it until she found a small piece about the Burmese political delegation, which was still in Calcutta.
She thought of the Burma to which she had arrived in 1939. It was hard to imagine what the new Burma would look like. The men who had first betrayed the British and then allied with them to get rid of the Japanese would be in charge. Would they really do the right thing this time? It’s none of my business, she told herself, but she had grown to love the country and cared very much what happened to it.
She wondered where Myia was, and what she thought of all this. Had she found Denpo? She knew that it was quite possible that they were both dead, and her heart clenched.
Pushing the paper aside, she rolled over and slept fitfully for a few hours. Myia and a man she guessed to be Denpo appeared in her dreams, followed closely by Joseph, who carried Mi Khin in his arms. It was better than seeing the dead, but she had lost them all, just the same.
Kate woke abruptly, caked in sweat and grime. It was early afternoon and the sun was pouring into the room. She noticed a letter beside her bed. Asanti must have left it there while she was asleep. On the envelope she recognised the handwriting of Mr Shaji Acharya but could not bring herself to open the letter yet.
She pulled off her uniform and flung it into the basket beside her bed. Bending under the tap, she washed her hair and thought about the article she had read. ‘Members of the Burmese delegation are staying at the Royal Lake Hotel off Canning Street.’
Walking through the hot streets, she felt her hair beginning to dry. She heard a shout nearby. Two groups of young men were facing off against each other, the air crackling with tension, and she walked briskly past, averting her gaze. There were so many angry people in Calcutta, many of them justifiably, and she had no wish to be caught up in a riot.
She was in the part of Calcutta that some people called Little Rangoon, although it had none of the civic pride of Chinatown or Armenian Street. The buildings were tatty and even the te
mples looked neglected.
She passed the teashop where she had eaten with Joseph and Mi Khin, averting her gaze. It had been a mistake to meet with them at all, she saw that now. It would have been better to let Mi Khin go off without saying goodbye, without ever meeting her father. Joseph deserved a life with someone unencumbered by painful memories – he had enough of his own.
Tentatively, Kate approached the hotel. It was rather small and shabby, not at all the sort of place where one would expect a political delegation to stay.
She took a deep breath and approached the door. Two young security men questioned her briefly and then nodded her past. She went across the wide lobby to the desk.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ said the young boy receptionist, bowing.
‘I’m looking for a Burmese man called Denpo. I don’t know his full name. I believe he works for the new government but I don’t know what his role is. Or what he looks like.’ She stopped. ‘I’m sorry, this is not very helpful.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ said the boy, waving a hand, looking at the ledger in front of him. ‘You are looking for someone in the Burmese delegation, yes?’
‘Yes. Denpo. And there’s a woman, Myia Win . . .’
He flicked through the pages. ‘The names are not listed here. I will consult the manager and see if there is any information I may share.’
He vanished through the beaded curtain behind him, and she looked around. Incense burned somewhere nearby, making the air heavy, and tinkling music was coming from the back room. On the counter a statue of the Buddha stood beside one of Ganesha, and a wooden cross hung on the wall. Clearly this hotel liked to cover all denominational possibilities.
The boy returned, shaking his head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry; only the manager is having the list of guest names for this party and he is not allowed to give it out. Security, you see.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Thank you anyway.’
She walked briskly back across the hall and out through the front door, feeling suddenly foolish. If Denpo had survived the war he was probably in Rangoon and she imagined him at the Secretariat, striding the corridors that she had walked down every day. As for Myia – she could be anywhere.
She wandered on for a while and found herself outside a crumbling building with a sign bearing looping Burmese writing. The place looked unprepossessing, but in English a smaller sign said, ‘Burmese Buddhist Temple’, so she went in.
For a moment she felt so strongly that she was back in Bagan that it took an effort to remember the distance that lay between here and there. At the back of the main chamber a great golden statue of the Buddha smiled slyly against an ornate gold screen and offerings of flowers and food were strewn around.
A monk appeared silently and nodded, seeming unsurprised to see her. ‘Welcome,’ he said softly. He turned away and busied himself with lighting new candles, then padded away.
Kate sat on a wooden bench and leaned against the wall, feeling the tiles cold against the back of her head. She watched the candles flickering.
Several worshippers passed in and out, prostrating themselves briefly before the Buddha and leaving a donation before moving on. She supposed they had been forced to leave Burma – it was written in the lines on their faces and their ragged clothes – and came to this temple to keep in touch with what they had lost.
At last it began to grow dark outside and, with an effort, she stood up, feeling calm. The Buddha sat serenely and she gazed at him, feeling as though she had spent time with an old friend. She rummaged in her bag for money and pushed a few coins through the slot in the lid of the teak collecting box.
She stood in the doorway, contemplating the fastest way home, watching people passing this way and that along the narrow street.
Visiting this part of Calcutta was probably the nearest she would ever get to returning to Burma. She knew that for the rest of her life her short time there would glow in her memory, and that even if she were to return one day it would not be the same. What was it that Fred had said about returning to England after the first war? All of it turned to ash. Burma would endure, her people would win the independence they deserved, and it would be a better place, but she could not help grieving for the country she had known.
The faces mingling outside were greatly varied and she marvelled at the range of nations and histories that were represented on the streets of Calcutta, many of them brought here by war and famine and disaster. She was just a tiny piece of a huge puzzle and suddenly her own small tragedies seemed unimportant. It was a strangely liberating thought.
Then she frowned and shook her head, for one face in the crowd looked familiar and the past and the present seemed very close together. The rest of the figures in the street seemed to blur around her and the only person she could see, making a beeline towards her as though they had planned to meet, was Myia.
She looked hardly changed, her hair pinned up as usual with a spray of jasmine, and she was beaming incredulously.
‘Kate! I’m so happy to see you.’ She ran the last few steps and threw her arms around Kate, the scent of the flowers in her hair almost overpowering.
‘You’re here! How?’ asked Kate, holding onto Myia’s shoulders and staring at her.
‘I came to look for you!’
‘What about your family?’
‘My mother and brother are safe. They spent the war in Delhi and have just returned to Burma. My husband was sent to Calcutta on official business and so of course I asked to come too. I thought you might be in England.’
‘No, I’ve been here all the time. Your husband?’
‘Yes, and I have a son, too! He’s almost two years old.’
Kate could hardly believe that it was the same woman she had last seen in Shinbwiyang three and a half years ago, debating whether to go back into Burma to be with the man she loved.
‘I came looking for information,’ she said, gesturing ineffectually. ‘At the hotel.’
‘I heard,’ said Myia. ‘The security men said a white woman had come to the hotel asking questions. Denpo’s colleagues were a little suspicious but I knew it had to be you – I just knew it.’ She smiled up at Kate, holding her hands tightly. ‘I was making enquiries about you today. Denpo has a friend who works in a government department here and I thought they might be able to find your address in England. I never supposed you’d still be here!’
Talking rapidly, they went to a teashop nearby. ‘What happened when you got to Rangoon?’ said Kate.
‘Oh, a great deal. I can’t begin to tell you now. It took a long time to get back there, travelling from village to village, all the while terrified of the soldiers, and then I couldn’t find Denpo for months because he had been sent elsewhere. By that time he was thoroughly sick of the Japanese but could see no way to get away from them. We married quietly and I kept my head down, working in a market. I had my son a year later – his name is Thagyamin.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Change,’ said Myia, smiling. ‘Denpo’s idea.’
‘I’ve been following the news but I don’t understand half of it,’ said Kate, pouring out tea into tiny cups.
‘It is quite complicated,’ said Myia. ‘They are trying to set up a new government but there is a great deal of protocol that must be followed – and of course there are many opposing factions. Denpo’s old friend, Aung San, is the obvious leader but not everyone agrees.’
‘I’ve seen his name in the newspaper now and then,’ said Kate. ‘I don’t understand how he was able to switch sides. It must have taken a great deal to make him change his mind.’
‘In 1943 the Japanese declared Burma officially independent,’ said Myia. ‘But it was a mirage, of course. That year Denpo told me that Aung San was planning to rise up and defeat the Japanese.’
‘But what was it that made them come back to the British?’ asked Kate.
‘Aung San is a practical man. He would have risen up with or without help but knew tha
t he had more chance of winning with the British on his side. It wasn’t until May this year that they formally agreed to fight side by side. The rest . . . well, you probably know.’
‘There was a photograph in the newspaper, taken outside the Secretariat. I thought I saw you in it.’
‘I remember a day just after the end of the war when all of Aung San’s men were asked to gather for a photograph with their wives and families. That must have been it.’
Kate shook her head. ‘I thought you must be dead.’
‘And I you,’ said Myia, squeezing Kate’s hand. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. But you’re carrying a great deal of sorrow.’
‘I don’t know where to start. So much has happened. How long are you here for?’
‘A few more days.’
‘Then you’ll go back to Burma?’
‘Yes,’ said Myia. ‘It’s time to go home.’
62
Calcutta, December 1945
Darling girl,
Your letter arrived on the coldest morning so far this winter. The sheep huddle together for warmth and the men are having to break the ice on the water troughs first thing. But it’s beautiful – there are icicles in the wood and the sky is a pale clear blue.
I’m glad you felt able to tell me at last about the journey. You’ve been so brave, Kate – you won’t like me saying it, but it’s true. You have endured far more than you ever ought to have done. I know you feel that you’ve let people down, but don’t think that for a minute. You have survived. You have saved lives. That is more than most of us will ever be able to claim.
I was never disappointed in you. You were the greatest comfort imaginable to me and to your father, and I know that we asked too much of you. The end was hard for all of us, but we find different ways of coping, and you did what was necessary. He was so proud of you, and would be even more so now, as I am.
Laura telephoned yesterday. She has some exciting news: she’s expecting a baby. It’s very early days but she asked me to let you know and said she would write soon. She and Will are thinking about moving home, and I suggested they live in the little cottage, which is now empty. (Ben died last month, I’m sorry to say. He was eighty-five and quite ready to go, or so he said.)
The Long Journey Home Page 28