The baby is due in the summer. Do you remember listening to the nightingales down in the wood? Every year I go back and think how lucky I am. I have been very happy here, despite everything, and there isn’t much I would change.
You sounded unsure about coming home. You must decide for yourself, Kate, but you know that there is always a home for you here, and that we will be glad to have you back when the time comes. If there is something calling you to stay, then you must stay. There’s no rush. Life is there to be lived. Grasp it with both hands.
The evening is drawing in and I must get the loaves out of the oven before they burn. It’s beautifully warm in the kitchen when the range really gets going, but the rest of the house is chilly. When I’m making my hot water bottle I shall think of you roasting in Calcutta.
Sending all my love across the sea to my dearest Kate, and a very Merry Christmas.
Mum x
For a moment Kate could almost feel the frost on her toes and hear the cracking of ice on the pond. Winters on the farm were always hard, but so beautiful. She remembered bundling up in thick socks and a heavy duffle coat and trudging through snow to check on the animals. She and Laura had made snow angels in the meadow and old Ben had helped them to make a giant snowman.
‘Look, Daddy!’ Laura had called, aiming a snowball carefully at his window, and he’d opened it to peer out, wrapped in his dressing gown. The snowman was wearing one of his scarves and a pair of spectacles and he had laughed, even as he coughed and spluttered . . .
The ceiling fan juddered and Kate suddenly remembered where she was, looking around, startled, at the quiet room. Pamela’s bed was bare, a set of clean sheets folded on the pillow. She would be halfway home by now. Beside Kate’s bed was a basket of fruit that Priya and Asanti had given her as a Christmas present, adorned with a huge bow.
She blotted her shining forehead and looked again at her mother’s letter, feeling a strange sense of relief. She realised now that her mother did not resent her for going away. She had been puzzled, perhaps, and a little hurt to find herself alone, but she trusted that her daughters knew what they were doing and had managed to carve out a life for herself. All she wanted was for them to be happy.
Perhaps I can be, Kate thought, chewing the end of the pen. I just wish I knew how.
She looked up at the clock, folding the letter over, and laid it down on her pillow. She would write a reply later. She had an appointment to keep.
*
In Victoria Park the elegant European plants were wilting in the heat. In normal times a team of gardeners was busy every day, but these were not normal times. Kate had seen a troupe of sturdy Englishwomen pruning roses the week before, as well-equipped and as absorbed in their work as if they were at Kew.
At a quarter to four she sat on the bench nearest to the fountain and watched small children play in its feeble jets. Their parents perched on the stone wall that surrounded it, splashing them to uproarious laughter.
She remembered that Christmas in the park in Rangoon, four years ago to the day, when Edwin had played football with a horde of children, and for a few short hours she had almost forgotten the war. What a long way they had both travelled, she and Edwin, and what misery they had met along the road.
Autumn had turned into winter and Kate had been in India long enough now to notice the lowering of temperatures. The days were still hot, but at night she was no longer unbearably sticky, and the hospital wards were pleasantly cool under the ceiling fans. Nineteen forty-five was drawing to a close, and despite the end of the war she would be glad to see the back of this year. The patients on her ward were disappearing one by one, going back at last to their homes in Mysore and Manchester.
At home, England was starting to recover from the worst of the war’s effects, but men were still coming back in coffins, and many of Europe’s cities had been flattened. The war in Burma had been bloody and all-encompassing, for her and for millions of others, but it was a tiny part of a larger conflict and she sensed, with a sad inevitability, that it would soon be forgotten altogether.
For some reason Kate remembered the grand piano they had found on the way through the Hukawng Valley, sinking into the muck of the jungle as Fred played his lament, and saw that it heralded the end of an era. But the end of the Empire meant the start of something else, and it might be something extraordinary. Don’t waste it.
As the clock struck the hour she looked towards the gate. In the glare of the afternoon sun she saw a figure appear between the gateposts, tall and thin, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He wore a pale linen suit and was almost invisible against the brightness.
Too impatient to wait, after so much waiting, she hastened towards him. He saw her at once and she knew that he had recognised her as she had recognised him, their faces strange but familiar.
‘You’re here,’ said Kate, feeling suddenly shy, and studied his face. He smiled and held out a hand, and she grasped it.
‘Hello,’ said Rama.
63
Moulmein, December 1942
Somewhere near Moulmein, Edwin crept around the edge of a paddy field, trying not to crush too many plants and so give his presence away. It was early morning and the labourers had not yet emerged for their work in the fields.
He and Rama had been travelling north for what he estimated to be two weeks, although he had lost track of time in the simple repetition of the days and the glorious contentment of being together. In theory, they were travelling towards India, but it was a thousand miles away and somehow it seemed not to matter if the journey had an end.
Avoiding villages as far as possible, and foraging for food, they had several times taken a gamble on making themselves known to someone – a lonely farmer, a pair of women doing laundry in a river – and asking for food. The elderly farmer had shaken their hands and given them an armful of sugar cane; one of the laundry women had gone to her home and returned with a huge bag of cooked rice left over from breakfast.
‘You’re so kind,’ said Edwin wonderingly, and she laughed.
‘Japan soldiers not kind,’ she said. ‘Very not kind.’
Another time a group of adolescent boys had seen them on the outskirts of a village and shouted at them to stop, but they ran away and were not pursued.
‘They might have been all right,’ said Edwin.
‘Or they might be working for the Japanese,’ said Rama. ‘Better not to take the risk.’
At night they slept in barns or under trees and made love in the darkness as the cicadas whirred in the jungle nearby. It was like nothing Edwin had known before, and for the first time in his life he felt sure that he was in the right place. Inexplicably, he had been granted a second chance.
‘You said you came to Burma looking for a new home,’ said Rama one day as they clambered over a crumbling wall. ‘When all this is over, where do you think you’ll find it? Perhaps you’ll want to go back to England.’
Edwin shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine going back to England.’
‘Then where? India?’
‘As long as I’m with you, it doesn’t matter.’
But it went further than that, this strange new feeling, this sense of completeness and detachment from the world, now that he had found this shared connection. Home is wherever you are, he thought.
‘What about your family?’
Edwin was about to say that it didn’t matter, but he stopped himself. That wasn’t quite true. There were people he loved and who had been kind to him, though they were far away. His mother, his father – and Kate, he thought with a rush. Kate, who had been the dearest friend he had ever had. He had promised to find her in India! He had been caught up in the excitement of being with Rama and had almost lost sight of their destination and what would happen when they got there.
They were approaching Moulmein, the first major town on their route. It had had a significant European population not so long ago, he knew; now, presumably, they were all flown, dead, or captur
ed.
A few miles back they had passed an abandoned teak mill, the names of its British owners fading on the sign outside. Inside, massive saws lay rusting on the ground and ropes and pulleys hung from the rafters, creaking eerily. In the office they found mildewed photographs of the mill in its heyday, with a team of working elephants hauling timber into the yard. Now the place stood deserted and there was no knowing what had happened to the owners, the employees, or the elephants.
*
The mist lay low on the paddy fields, the cool wet drops brushing against Edwin’s skin as he passed through it. The ground was muddy but he knew the sun would soon rise fully and dry the mist and the mud. It was his turn to forage and beyond the rice fields he could see the tops of what looked like fruit trees.
It was pleasant being out in the cool morning, watching the sky grow lighter. He had left Rama sleeping in a tumbledown hut, his chest rising and falling. He had not been sleeping well, a fever had been threatening, so it seemed kindest to leave him to get some rest.
Edwin passed the remains of a crumbled pagoda, the pale stones scattered into the trees, and saw a headless Buddha sitting impassively in an alcove.
He reached a high hedge, behind which he had seen the fruit trees, and moved along it looking for a gap big enough to scramble through. Instead he came suddenly to an ornate iron gate set into the hedge and he lifted the latch, feeling as though he was entering an English country garden.
Instead it was a small orchard filled with fruit trees, many of them thickly laden. He reached for the nearest tree, which was a papaya, and gently lifted three or four of the heavy fruit down into his bag, sniffing the warm skin. The next tree held ripening mangoes, and again he picked a few, trying to take them from different branches so that no one would notice their absence.
He knelt to tie the top of the sack. Then he stood and turned to leave, and found himself face to face with a nun. She was European and elderly, her crisp habit neatly folded around her shoulders.
‘Good morning,’ she said pleasantly, as though she found men stealing fruit from her orchard every day. Her accent was hard to place and her sharp eyes took in his ragged clothes and his thin frame.
Edwin had a frantic urge to run away but resisted. He felt dreadfully ashamed and lowered his bag to the ground. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘You’re very welcome to all the fruit you can eat,’ she said, gesturing around the orchard. ‘It’s here for those who need it. But come, wouldn’t you like a proper meal? I am Sister Caterina, the Reverend Mother here.’
Edwin had not spoken to another European for weeks, and he was so surprised that he found his mouth hanging open. ‘What is this place?’ he said at last.
‘It’s a convent. St Mary’s Convent School, Moulmein.’
‘What about the Japanese? Why aren’t you prisoners?’
‘Oh, but we are prisoners,’ she said, shrugging. ‘The Japanese soldiers check on us once a week. We can’t go anywhere, but otherwise they leave us to ourselves. Where have you come from?’
‘Tavoy,’ said Edwin.
‘The prison camp. Of course,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘Look, do come inside. It’s quite safe. We’ve got decent food – bread and so on – and can even give you a real bed for a night or two. You look dreadfully underfed.’
Edwin’s stomach rumbled. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’m not alone, though. I’m travelling with a friend – I left him in the woods back there. We must keep going north.’
‘Bring him here too,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘We’ll feed you up and send you on your way with whatever you need. We’re rather poor but certainly have enough to spare.’ She smiled and began walking back to the house. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
64
Moulmein, December 1942
Ten minutes later Edwin was tearing back through the jungle to where he had left Rama, his mouth watering at the thought of toast and tea.
‘Rama!’ he called in a low voice, expecting to find him awake, but he was still asleep, his black hair tousled across his forehead. He was curled up and looked suddenly vulnerable. I have never known love like this, thought Edwin.
‘Wake up,’ he said, kneeling beside Rama and putting his hands either side of his face, which felt hot and damp.
With a great effort Rama opened his eyes and peered blearily up at Edwin. His mouth tried to form words but it was too difficult, and he closed his eyes again.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m . . . not well,’ said Rama thickly. ‘Feel hot and cold.’ He shivered suddenly and rubbed his arms.
Edwin gripped his hand, feeling how hot it was. ‘Don’t worry. Can you walk? Do try.’
With an effort he got Rama to his feet, where he swayed and looked dizzy. Flinging one of Rama’s arms around his shoulders, Edwin leaned into him and took much of his weight. Rama was the larger of the two and Edwin was weak, but adrenaline and worry made him forget all that, and he supported Rama carefully as they walked across the fields back to the convent.
Passing through the orchard, they came to an open door in a stone wall. Inside was a garden, shady in the early morning, planted with neat beds that had once, perhaps, held flowers, but now grew mostly vegetables, although lilies bloomed here and there and a jacaranda blossomed on the lawn. In the shade of the grand stone house, the Reverend Mother stood by a table, pouring tea while a younger nun buttered slices of toast.
‘Oh, heavens,’ she exclaimed, looking up, and put down the teapot at once. ‘He’s sick. Sister Margaret, go and get some help.’
‘Of course,’ said the younger nun, who was Indian, and she smiled shyly at the two men as she passed.
‘Put him in this chair for now,’ said the Reverend Mother, and Edwin lowered the half-conscious Rama into a chair, feeling the sweat of his exertions sticking to him.
‘I think he’s got malaria,’ said Edwin.
‘We’ll look after him.’
Sure enough, a moment later three other nuns emerged from the house and, with practised skill, loaded Rama onto a stretcher.
‘I’ll help you . . .’ said Edwin, but the youngest of them, a cheery Frenchwoman, would not hear of it.
‘Eat your breakfast. You’ll do no good like that.’
He watched them carry Rama into the cool dark house and then sank back into his chair, accepting the tea and toast that the Reverend Mother was offering.
‘There are eggs on the way,’ she said, sipping tea herself and watching him.
‘This is wonderful,’ said Edwin, looking around at the house and the garden.
‘You’re not the first stray to come our way.’
‘Did you say this was a school?’
‘Yes. Much depleted these days. We had fifty children this time last year; then the invasion came and of course most of the children were retrieved by their parents. Those who are left are either orphans or their parents are missing.’
‘And have the Japanese treated you badly?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘My being Italian helped, at least at the start. Sometimes they get the urge to make us work and we all spend a couple of weeks chopping up fruit or sewing sheets for them and then they seem to lose interest. I suppose they know it won’t look good if they harm a company of nuns and children.’
He told her a little about his history, but he found it difficult to reconstruct all that had happened, and the Reverend Mother did not push for information. She clearly saw it as her duty to help them, and it hardly mattered how they had come to be here.
Sister Caterina had come out from Italy nearly forty years earlier to join a convent in Rangoon and had eventually found her way to Moulmein. In its heyday the convent had had twenty nuns but over the years they had dwindled; by the time the Japanese marched into Moulmein in January 1942, there were just eight.
*
‘What will you do?’ asked Edwin that evening as he dined with the nuns, revelling in the cleanliness of
his clothes and skin. Rama lay asleep upstairs, the nuns taking turns to check on him.
For much of the day Edwin had watched the children playing in the garden. He joined in occasionally, but he felt very weak, and had at last to excuse himself and sit instead in the shade, laughing at their japes before dozing off. They were a charming bunch, clearly not much troubled by the war. Most of them were half Burmese, half English, and he wondered if any of their parents would ever come back.
‘What can we do?’ said Sister Margaret, placing a bowl of soup in front of him.
‘I don’t know. Escape?’
‘This is our home,’ said the Reverend Mother gently. ‘We are blessed to live in this extraordinary country and we are blessed that the Japanese have been merciful to us. Oh, we’ve seen their cruelty, and they will be judged, but not by us.’
‘So you’ll stay here?’
‘Of course. The occupation won’t last forever. We hear rumours that the British are gathering their forces in India to strike back. One day the occupation will end and life will return to normal.’
Edwin wondered how long they would have to wait. It seemed very strange to be here at dinner in this country house with flowers on the table, eating with knives and forks and sipping glasses of home-made lemonade.
‘What about you?’ said Sister Madeleine, the youngest, who had a sweet round face. ‘Where will you go?’
‘We must get to India,’ said Edwin. ‘It’s the only safe place.’
‘It’s too far!’ said Sister Margaret. ‘You will be caught.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, rather helplessly. ‘Since we escaped I dread all the time that we’ll be captured. I can’t fight or anything like that. In fact, I’m a dreadful coward.’
‘God loves all his children,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘You may not be a fighter, but you have a good heart. I see that you have loved very deeply and have also lost a great deal. God will protect you.’
The Long Journey Home Page 29