When We Were Orphans

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  “I’m sure that’s so, Mr. Banks. Well, let us speak further about it.” With that, she turned to some other guests to exchange boisterous farewells.

  But Lady Beaton did indeed get in touch with me less than a week later. Possibly she had been making enquiries about my character; perhaps it was simply that she had had time to think things over; in any case, her attitude had quite changed. Over lunch at the Café Royal, and during our subsequent meetings, she could not have been warmer towards me, and Jennifer duly arrived at my new house just four months after the dinner at Osbourne’s apartment.

  She was accompanied by a Canadian nurse named Miss Hunter, who departed again a week later, cheerfully kissing the girl on the cheek and reminding her to write to her grandmother. Jennifer considered carefully the choice of three bedrooms I offered her, and decided on the smallest, because, she said, the little wooden ledge running along one wall would be perfect for her “collection.” This, I soon discovered, comprised some carefully selected sea-shells, nuts, dried leaves, pebbles and a few other such items she had gathered over the years. She positioned the objects carefully along the ledge and called me in one day to inspect.

  “I’ve given each a name,” she explained. “I realise that’s a silly sort of thing to do, but I do so love them. One day, Uncle Christopher, when I’m not so busy, I’ll tell you all about each of them. Please will you tell Polly to be extra careful when she cleans along here.”

  Lady Beaton came to assist me in conducting the interviews for a nanny, but it was Jennifer herself, eavesdropping on proceedings from the next room, who proved the most decisive influence. She would emerge after each candidate had left to deliver a damning verdict. “A complete horror,” she pronounced of one woman. “That’s obvious nonsense about her last charge dying of pneumonia. She poisoned her.” Of another, she said: “We can’t possibly have her. Far too nervous.”

  Miss Givens struck me during her interview as dull and rather cold, but for some reason it was she who immediately won Jennifer’s approval, and it must be said, in the two and a half years since then she has amply justified Jennifer’s belief in her.

  Almost everyone to whom I introduced Jennifer remarked on how self-possessed she appeared for one who had experienced such tragedy. Indeed, she did have a remarkably assured manner, and in particular a capacity to make light of setbacks which might have brought other girls her age to tears. A good example of this was her reaction concerning her trunk.

  She had for some weeks after her arrival made repeated references to her trunk that would arrive by sea from Canada. I remember, for instance, her describing to me once in some detail a wooden merry-go-round someone had made for her that was coming in the trunk. On another occasion, when I had complimented her on a particular costume she and Miss Givens had brought back from Selfridge’s, she had looked at me solemnly and said: “And I have a hair-band to match it perfectly. It’s coming in my trunk.”

  However, I received one day a letter from the shipping company apologising for the loss of the trunk at sea and offering compensation. When I told Jennifer of this, she first simply stared. Then she gave a light laugh and said:

  “Well in that case, Miss Givens and I will just have to go on an enormous spending spree.”

  When after two or three days she had still shown no sign of distress over her loss, I felt inclined to have a talk with her, and one morning after breakfast, spotting her wandering about in the garden, went out to join her.

  It was a crisp, sunny morning. My garden is not large, even by city standards—a green rectangle overlooked by any number of our neighbours—but it is well laid out and has, despite everything, a pleasing sense of sanctuary. When I stepped down on to the lawn, Jennifer was drifting about the garden with a toy horse in her hand, dreamily walking it along the tops of the hedges and bushes. I remember being rather concerned the toy might be harmed by the dew and was on the verge of pointing this out to her. But in the end, as I came up, I said simply:

  “That was rotten luck about your things. You’ve taken it awfully well, but it must have been a terrible shock.”

  “Oh . . .” She went on moving her horse carelessly. “It was a bit of a bore. But I can always get more things with the compensation money. Miss Givens said we could go shopping on Tuesday.”

  “All the same. Look, I think you’re awfully brave. But there’s no need, you know, to put up a show, if you see what I mean. If you want to let your guard down a bit, you should do so. I’m not going to let on to anyone, and neither, I’m sure, is Miss Givens.”

  “It’s all right. I’m not upset. After all, they were just things. When you’ve lost your mother and your father, you can’t care so much about things, can you?” With that, she gave her little laugh.

  This is one of the few instances I can now recall of her mentioning her parents. I laughed too, and saying: “I suppose not,” started to walk back to the house. But then I turned to her again and said:

  “You know, Jenny, I’m not sure that’s true. You might say a thing like that to a lot of people and they’d believe you. But you see, I know it’s not true. When I came from Shanghai, the things that came in my trunk, those things, they were important to me. They remain so.”

  “Will you show them to me?”

  “Show them to you? Well, most of it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

  “But I love Chinese things. I’d like to see them.”

  “Most of it isn’t Chinese as such,” I said. “Well, what I’m trying to say is that for me, my trunk was special. If it had got lost, I’d have been upset.”

  She shrugged and put her horse up to her cheek. “I was upset. But I’m not any more. You have to look forward in life.”

  “Yes. Whoever told you that is quite right in a way. All right, as you will. Forget your trunk for now. But remember . . .” I trailed off, not knowing what I had intended to say.

  “What?”

  “Oh nothing. Just remember, if there’s anything you want to tell me, or anything that’s troubling you, I’m always here.”

  “All right,” she said brightly.

  As I stepped back up to the house, I glanced behind me and saw she was roaming about the garden once more, moving her horse in dreamy arcs through the air.

  I DID NOT MAKE such promises to Jennifer lightly. At that time, it was my intention entirely to fulfil them, and my fondness for Jennifer only grew in the days that followed. And yet here I am today, planning to desert her; for how long, I do not even know. It is, of course, possible I am exaggerating her dependence on me. If all goes well, moreover, I may well be back in London before the next school holidays and she will hardly notice my absence. And yet, I am obliged to admit, as I was to Miss Givens when she asked me flatly last night, that I may be gone a lot longer. It is this very indefiniteness that betrays my priorities, and I have no doubt Jennifer will not be slow to draw her own conclusions. Whatever brave face she puts on it, I know she will see my decision as a betrayal.

  It is not easy to explain how things have come to this. What I can say is that it began some years ago—from well before Jennifer’s arrival—as a vague feeling I would get from time to time; a feeling that someone or other disapproved of me, and was only just managing to conceal it. Curiously, these moments tended to occur in the company of the very people whom I might have expected to be most appreciative of my achievements. When talking to some statesman at a dinner, say, or to a police officer, or even a client, I would be suddenly surprised by the coldness of a handshake, a curt remark inserted amidst pleasantries, a polite aloofness just where I might have expected gushing gratitude. Initially, whenever such incidents occurred, I would search my memory for some offence I might inadvertently have caused the particular individual; but eventually I was obliged to conclude that such reactions had to do with something more general in people’s perceptions of me.

  Because what I am talking of here is so nebulous, it is not easy to recall instances to serve as clear illustrations.
But I suppose one example is the odd exchange I had last autumn with the police inspector from Exeter in that gloomy lane outside the village of Coring, in Somerset.

  It was one of the most dispiriting crimes I have ever investigated. I did not arrive in the village until four days after the bodies of the children had been discovered in the lane, and the constant rainfall had turned the ditch where they had been found into a muddy stream—making the gathering of relevant evidence no simple affair. None the less, by the time I heard the inspector’s footsteps approaching, I had formed a fairly clear view of what had occurred.

  “A most disturbing business,” I said to him as he came up to me.

  “It’s sickened me, Mr. Banks,” the inspector said. “Truly sickened me.”

  I had been crouching down examining the hedge, but now rose to my feet, and we stood facing one another in the steady drizzle. Then he said:

  “You know, sir, just at this moment, I dearly wish I’d become a carpenter. That’s what my father wished of me. I really do, sir. Today, after this, I really do.”

  “It’s awful, I agree. But one mustn’t turn away. We have to see to it justice prevails.”

  He shook his head forlornly. Then he said: “I came out here to ask you, sir, if you’d formed a view of this case. Because you see . . .” He looked up at the dripping trees above him, then went on with an effort: “You see, my own investigations do lead me towards a certain conclusion. A conclusion I’m somewhat loath to reach.”

  I looked at him gravely and nodded. “I fear your conclusion is correct,” I said solemnly. “Four days ago, this looked to be as horrific a crime as one could imagine. But now, it seems the truth is even more ghastly.”

  “How can it be, sir?” The inspector had gone very pale. “How can such a thing be possible? Even after all these years I can’t comprehend such . . .” He fell silent and turned away from me.

  “Unfortunately, I see no other possibility,” I said quietly. “It is indeed shocking. It’s as if we’re looking right into the depths of the darkness.”

  “Some madman who was passing, something of that order I could have accepted. But this . . . I am still loath to believe it.”

  “I fear you must,” I said. “We must accept it. Because it’s what happened.”

  “You’re sure of it, sir?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  He was gazing across the neighbouring fields to the row of cottages in the distance.

  “At times like these,” I said, “I can well understand, one gets very discouraged. But if I may say so, it’s well you didn’t follow your father’s advice. Because men of your calibre, inspector, are rare. And those of us whose duty it is to combat evil, we are . . . how might I put it? We’re like the twine that holds together the slats of a wooden blind. Should we fail to hold strong, then everything will scatter. It’s very important, Inspector, that you carry on.”

  He remained silent for another moment. Then when he spoke again, I was rather taken aback by the hardness in his voice.

  “I’m just a small person, sir. So I’ll stay here and do what I can. I’ll stay here and do my best to fight the serpent. But it’s a beast with many heads. You cut one head off, three more will grow in its place. That’s how it seems to me, sir. It’s getting worse. It’s getting worse every day. What’s happened here, these poor little children . . .” He turned around and I could now see fury in his face. “I’m just a small man. If I was a greater man”—and here, without a doubt, he looked accusingly straight into my eyes—“if I was a greater man, then I tell you, sir, I’d hesitate no longer. I’d go to its heart.”

  “Its heart?”

  “The heart of the serpent. I’d go to it. Why waste precious time wrestling with its many heads? I’d go this day to where the heart of the serpent lies and slay the thing once and for all before . . . before . . .”

  He appeared to run out of words and simply stood there glaring at me. I do not remember quite what I said in response. Possibly I muttered something like:

  “Well, that would be most commendable of you,” and turned away.

  THEN THERE WAS ALSO that incident from last summer, on the occasion I visited the Royal Geographical Society to hear H. L. Mortimer deliver his lecture. It was a very warm evening. The audience of around a hundred was made up of specially invited figures from all walks of life; I recognised, among others, a Liberal peer and a famous Oxford historian. Professor Mortimer spoke for just over an hour, while the lecture hall grew steadily more stuffy. His paper, entitled: “Does Nazism pose a threat to Christianity?,” was in fact a polemic to argue that universal suffrage had severely weakened Britain’s hand in international affairs. When questions were invited at the end, a fairly vigorous argument started up around the room, not about Professor Mortimer’s ideas, but concerning the German army’s move into the Rhineland. There were passionate voices both condoning and condemning the German action, but I was exhausted that night after weeks of intense work, and made no real effort to follow.

  Eventually we were ushered out of the hall into a neighbouring room, where refreshments were being served. The room was not nearly large enough, so that by the time I entered—and I was by no means among the last—people were already squeezed uncomfortably up against one another. A picture I have of that evening is of large, aproned women elbowing their way ferociously through the crowd with their trays of sherry, and of greying, bird-like professors talking in pairs, their heads tilted right back to maintain a civilised speaking distance. I felt it was impossible to remain in such an environment, and was pushing my way towards the exit when I felt a touch on my shoulder. I turned to find smiling at me Canon Moorly, a cleric who had been of invaluable service to me on a recent case, and saw nothing for it but to stop and greet him.

  “What a most fascinating evening it’s been,” he said. “It’s given me so much to think about.”

  “Yes, most interesting.”

  “But I must say, Mr. Banks, when I saw you there across the room, I did rather hope you’d say something.”

  “I’m afraid I was feeling rather tired this evening. Besides, virtually everyone else in the room seemed to know so much more about the topic.”

  “Oh, nonsense, nonsense.” He laughed and tapped me on the chest. Then he leant in closer—perhaps someone behind him had pushed him—so that his face was only inches from mine, and said: “To be quite truthful, I was a little surprised you didn’t feel compelled to make an intervention. All this talk of a crisis in Europe. You say you were tired; perhaps you were being polite. All the same, I’m surprised you let it go.”

  “Let it go?”

  “What I mean to say, forgive me, is that it’s quite natural for some of these gentlemen here tonight to regard Europe as the centre of the present maelstrom. But you, Mr. Banks. Of course, you know the truth. You know that the real heart of our present crisis lies further afield.”

  I looked at him carefully, then said: “I’m sorry, sir. But I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”

  “Oh come, come.” He was smiling knowingly. “You of all people.”

  “Really, sir, I’ve no idea why you think I should have any special knowledge concerning such things. It’s true, I’ve investigated many crimes over the years, and perhaps I’ve built up a general picture of how certain forms of evil manifest themselves. But on the question of how the balance of power might be maintained, how we can contain the violent conflict of aspirations in Europe, on such things I’m afraid I have no large theory as such.”

  “No theory? Perhaps not.” Canon Moorly went on smiling at me. “But you do have, shall we say, a special relationship to what is, in truth, the source of all our current anxieties. Oh come, my dear fellow! You know perfectly well to what I’m referring! You know better than anyone the eye of the storm is to be found not in Europe at all, but in the Far East. In Shanghai, to be exact.”

  “Shanghai,” I said lamely. “Yes, I suppose . . . I suppose there are some proble
ms in that city.”

  “Problems indeed. And what was once just a local problem has been allowed to fester and grow. To spread its poison over the years ever further across the world, right through our civilisation. But I hardly need remind you of this.”

  “I think you’ll find, sir,” I said, no longer trying to hide my irritation, “that I’ve worked hard over the years to check the spread of crime and evil wherever it has manifested itself. But of course I’ve been able to do so only within my own limited sphere. As for what occurs in faraway places, surely, sir, you can hardly expect me to . . .”

  “Oh come! Really!”

  I might well have lost my patience, but just at this point another clergyman came squeezing through the crowd to greet him. Canon Moorly introduced us, but I quickly took the opportunity to slip away.

  There were a number of other such incidents which, if they were not quite so overt, nevertheless built up over a period of time to push me steadily in a certain direction. And then of course, there was the encounter with Sarah Hemmings at the Draycoats’ wedding.

  CHAPTER 11

  IT IS NOW ALREADY over a year ago. I had been sitting near the back of the church—the bride was not expected for several more minutes—when I saw Sarah come in with Sir Cecil Medhurst on the other side of the nave. Certainly, Sir Cecil did not look appreciably older than when I had last seen him on the evening of the Meredith Foundation banquet in his honour; but the many reports that he had been hugely rejuvenated by his marriage to Sarah appeared to be something of an exaggeration. He looked happy enough, none the less, as he gave jovial waves to people he recognised.

  I did not speak to Sarah until after the service. I was strolling around the churchyard amidst the chattering guests, and had paused to admire a flower bed, when suddenly she appeared at my side.

  “Now, Christopher,” she said. “You’re virtually the only one here not to have congratulated me on my hat. Celia Matheson made it for me.”

  “It’s splendid. Really very impressive. And how are you?”