White Butterflies

by Colin Mcphedran

  One day while we sat at the study table in the bedroom, William, who was finishing school that year, cleared his throat.

  ‘You know I’m going to university soon. Personally, I’m feeling quite excited at the idea of going somewhere different. Do you feel as if you need a change from Bangalore too?’

  ‘Maybe I do,’ I said slowly.

  He was right: I wanted an escape. But where to?

  ‘The trouble is, the only thing I want is to go back to Burma.

  But everyone says it’s still out of the question.’

  ‘It’s true. Father says the Allies are having a difficult job keeping the Japanese from advancing into India.’

  The state of war was seldom discussed at family gatherings. It seemed the children had been forbidden to talk of the hostilities, lest they revived memories of my recent tragedy. The Beers were a considerate family.

  One evening, at the end of nightly prayers, Dr Beer asked me to stay behind for a moment.

  ‘Colin, I hope by now you truly know that we love you as one of our own.’ I nodded silently.

  ‘I cannot stand by and not do something to help bring happiness into your life. You are still young and you have so much life ahead of you. We want to do the best we can to help it be a fulfilling life, despite the tragedies you have endured.’ He did not wait for me to answer.

  ‘I have had preliminary discussions with a Christian colleague of mine. He is the principal of a boarding school in Ootacamund in the mountains of South India, near where you went for your holiday. The majority of students are children of missionaries who are working in the field, families quite like us. It is a co-educational school, and quite broad in its approach. There is also a lot of sport and the educational standard is high. Would you be interested in going there?’

  His description of the school had me interested. I brightened up. ‘It sounds all right,’ I said cautiously.

  I knew I had reached the stage in my education where I would have to make a special effort to attain reasonable results in the final couple of years – something drummed into me by my father.

  So the decision was made. Plans were set in motion to move me to Breeks Memorial. I was to begin in February 1945. The months flew by. I knew I would miss the close support of the Beer family. But my time of shifting from one situation to another had taught me to develop a barrier which I did not permit anybody to breach unless I so desired.

  IN THE AUSTRALIAN SUMMER OF 1998–99 I received a letter from a Dr William Beer of Bangor, in Wales. He wrote that with help from the Lord he had traced me to my address in Perth, Western Australia, where I was living at the time. His 54-year search for me, he said, had ended. He was due to fly to Christchurch, in New Zealand, in January 1999, for a medical conference. His itinerary allowed for a five-hour stop-over in Sydney.

  We arranged to meet at the international terminal on 27 January at 7.30 am.

  I was looking forward enormously to meeting up with the young fellow whose family had taken me in as one of their own in India in 1943. I arrived at the airport as the passengers were walking through Customs. There he was, the same dapper little fellow, wearing rimless spectacles and his hair brushed back on to his head. He stepped briskly through the barriers with an air of confidence.

  We recognised each other immediately. It was an emotional and joyous meeting with a man who had shared nearly two years of his youth with me. He introduced his wife and told me that Lily was living in Canada.

  I could see William was hoping that I had continued my links with the Christian church, so I quickly explained that I had chosen to follow the Buddhist path. He wasn’t the least bit surprised, and he respected my choice.

  ‘But I will never give up praying for you in the hope that one day you’ll return to the fold,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ I said. ‘My brother and my Burmese relatives in Perth still pray for me for the same reason!’

  Over a cup of coffee his wife said, ‘Now that we’re all sitting here together, tell us the story of how this young refugee boy, Colin, came into your life.’

  William took a deep breath and, speaking in the same old-fashioned, rather formal manner that I remembered so well from the years I spent with the Beer family, he began his tale.

  ‘My father,’ he said, ‘was a missionary doctor in Bangalore, South India. Since leaving the army he had devoted his life to caring for the sick and homeless among the poor in India. Our family of six lived in a modest house in East Bangalore. I was the youngest boy and Lily, my sister, who was about Colin’s age, was the youngest. At our nightly family prayers we were always reminded of the war in the border region and our concerns and prayers were directed at the thousands of refugees who were being displaced as a result of hostilities.

  ‘During a prayer session one night, Dad quoted a passage from the Bible. It read, “My children, let us not live in word, neither in tongue, but in Deed and Truth.” Father was spurred to do something in a practical way to display charity and provide a home for a refugee child. He got in touch with missionaries in Bengal and arranged to have one child sent down to his home, to be cared for by the family.

  ‘Colin arrived. He was a thin, tall, melancholy chap in his early teens. My mother, in her wisdom, advised the children to give the newcomer space to himself. Within a short period of time, this young, despondent person was transformed into a spirited teenager, mature beyond his years. We became firm friends. A brotherly relationship developed. Nearly two years later I moved to university. Colin too moved on and was enrolled in a boarding school in Ootacamund in the Nilgiri Mountains.

  ‘It has been nearly 55 years since we last talked with one another. I must say, I have found him, as expected, an independent sort of chap, a survivor, and, it seems, one with that same love of people he always displayed. Having known him for those years he spent with us in Bangalore, I was always confident that he would never fall by the wayside.’

  WE SAID OUR GOODBYES AT THE AIRPORT. It was a memorable reunion with the kind man who, as a teenager, had helped fill the lonely void left by Robert’s death. We promised to keep in touch, now that we had found one another again.

  Then, in 2000, I received a phone call from his wife. William had been killed in a car accident in Wales. He had been on his way to fly to India to comfort the widow and surviving daughter of a missionary who had been brutally slaughtered, along with their two young sons, by Hindu extremists. William, it seems, was doing good deeds until the very last.

  Chapter 19

  A Fresh Start

  February in Bangalore was a glorious month. The weather was cool and the moderate rainfall from the north-east monsoon helped keep the town fresh and clean. The train trip would take about 12 hours, via Madras and on to the foothills of the Nilgiri Mountains. The whole family came to see me off, and we all said tearful goodbyes.

  The train, like all Indian trains, was packed. I was travelling first class and the reservation had been made days ahead. I shared the compartment with several high-class Indians.

  Before long we had struck up an acquaintance and the chatter kept us all awake until the time arrived for me to change trains. It was the middle of the night and I waited on the platform for my connection, which was overdue by two hours. I whiled away the time observing the Indian travellers moving briskly back and forth along the station. Food hawkers plied their wares and the drink sellers kept up a song, advertising hot tea and cold drinks.

  Ever so slowly, the train pulled into the station. The hordes on the platform were jockeying excitedly to be first on to an already crowded set of carriages. Since my seat was pre-booked I did not hurry aboard. However, the poor devils who were alighting were forced to battle their way over the clambering commuters and their baggage. It was all done, despite the seeming chaos, with good humour. There was no violence and it amazed me to see these people accepting the hassles of travel as their lot.

  When the flow of human traffic thinned out, I proceeded to m
y carriage, which was easy to identify, and went aboard. I shared the leather-trimmed eight-seater with one Indian gentleman. He seemed tired and no doubt had been awakened by the noise of the last stop. We exchanged smiles and did our own thinking for the trip to the bottom of the mountains, a journey of about four hours.

  I dozed off in the luxurious seat, but not before pondering the situation of the third-class passengers who were herded together like cattle. My mind returned again to the 400-mile train journey with my family from Mandalay to Myitkyina. We had been in a similar situation to the poor devils now in the carriage behind, with the additional danger of being strafed twice by Japanese aircraft. I nodded off to sleep.

  It was still dark when the train pulled in at the end of the line. Most of the passengers had alighted along the way and there were not many of us left to continue up the mountain. The sun began to creep up over the horizon. The station was divided, the broad gauge on one side and the narrow tracks of the funicular train on the other.

  It was a glorious morning and, to the south, the mountains seemed to sprout straight out of the plain. A porter carried my bags and beckoned me to follow him to the other platform. There awaiting us was a ‘toy’ train, a miniature version of the early engines with their long funnels. The engine appeared out of place surrounded by the giants of steam. The carriages were open-sided and reminded me of tram cars in larger cities.

  The trip up the mountain was delayed for a long time, but the old porter seemed reluctant to leave me. We wandered around the comparatively deserted station and shared snacks purchased from the hawkers. Communication did not come easily, I with a smattering of Tamil, he a bit of English and Hindustani. Aided by body language we managed to get some messages across.

  People stared, perhaps wondering what was going on between the old man of India and this half-caste youngster from anywhere. In that short time a fondness developed between us and I discovered that he had travelled widely in his younger days in search of work, to keep his family fed. He had worked in pre-war Burma, as had many natives of the Coromandel Coast.

  Burma had had a huge enclave of Indian workers in the early days of British rule. They came from all parts of India and were engaged in all manner of work and business. The North Indians, who comprised the higher caste Hindus, were generally merchants and moneylenders. The mountain men, recruited from the foothills of the Himalayas, became the guardians of law and order, employed in the police force and the army.

  My porter friend, who was a South Indian and of lower caste, was one of many who had been employed to do the menial jobs in the development of Burma. They had been the coolies, porters and street cleaners. They had been recruited in the poor regions of South India, the British-owned shipping companies ferrying them across the Bay of Bengal to Rangoon. Many thousands of these South Indians remained in Burma, acquired small land holdings and grew food for the markets of the bigger towns.

  Because of their Buddhist faith, the Burmese displayed tolerance to these low-caste Indians. The traditional caste separation of these darker-skinned folk in their own homeland was never a problem in Burma. As a consequence, many thousands of the Tamil people were integrated into the Burmese population. I had been reminded of this during my trek out from Burma through the Hukawng Valley. Of the 20,000 or so refugees, more than two-thirds had been of Tamil origin.

  I was beginning to accept that throughout my stay in India I would constantly be reminded of the trek, try as I might to shake it off. However, these flashbacks led me to a realisation that I did have to get on with my life and not dwell on the past.

  The other passengers began to board the miniature train. Among them were a few blonde European girls being farewelled by their parents.

  A couple of European boys introduced themselves.

  ‘I say, you must be heading for Breeks too. Why don’t you sit with us?’ I was glad to, and we soon joined the group of girls.

  ‘They’re bound for Hebron High. That’s our sister school in the mountains at Coonoor. It’s 15 miles below Ootacamund. We always see them on the train.’

  ‘I know Coonoor. I’ve been there before.’

  It was the place I had visited with the Beers’ house boy.

  They were a happy crew, and it occurred to me that if they were a sample of what I could expect in my new school, I would be lucky. They were living the life I had lived in Burma. Living was for the day, not for the future nor for surveying the past.

  The countryside was beautiful and as the air got cooler the landscape looked greener. The train made very slow progress.

  ‘We’re going to get off and walk beside the track for a while. Do you want to come with us?’

  Of course I did. I was ready for anything. We hopped off and trotted along beside the train, getting back on again when our legs began to get tired.

  A festive air prevailed. The tea-pickers had completed their morning harvest. The long line of women with straw baskets on their backs headed toward the buildings of the tea-processing stations.

  As we climbed up above 5,000 feet the dark green tea bushes gave way to misty grey-green plantations of Eucalyptus trees.

  ‘They were introduced from Australia and they’re cropped for an oil which is sold to pharmaceutical companies,’ one of the girls said helpfully. ‘How do I know that? My parents are Australian.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. They’re missionaries from Tasmania. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘At the bottom,’ I said promptly. I had always liked geography. Months down the track, this young girl and I became good friends. Helen was blonde and a little overweight, with blue eyes and slightly protruding teeth. She was not in line when pretty looks were handed out, but what she lacked in the beauty department she made up for in the sweetness of her nature. She was a typical missionary’s daughter with a terrific attitude of inclusiveness. She also had a natural, outgoing manner that was typical, I would discover years later, of Australians. In the months to come, whenever the two schools got together for social functions, Helen would seek me out.

  ‘Come over here, Colin, and let me introduce you to some people. Everyone, this is Colin. He’s from Burma.’

  We pulled into Coonoor and the train was half-emptied as the girls from Hebron High alighted. It was mid-afternoon when we reached the end of the line. The school had dispatched some horse carriages to ferry us the two miles to the boarders’ quarters.

  ‘The school itself is in the town,’ said one of the boys as we swayed along. ‘Look, there it is, over there. Boarders don’t live there. We stay in buildings up on the hill. They’re right next door to the Governor’s residence and the botanical gardens.’

  It was a pleasant introduction to the final years of my secondary education. The principal, a gentle man, met me at the entrance and shook my hand warmly.

  ‘McPhedran! Welcome to our school.’

  He briefly outlined what was expected of the pupils and led me to my bed in the dormitory.

  It was two days before classes commenced and boarders were free. I was the only new one that year. The eyes of the domestic staff seemed to pick me out as I familiarised myself with the place.

  The head of our house was a woman, a mother figure who, though strict, was a tremendous source of caring if anything went wrong. She was a large, heavy-boned woman, a spinster who had devoted her life to Christian ideals. A strict disciplinarian, she was devoted to us boys and treated the injuries we incurred on the playing fields. On one occasion I had to ask her to attend to a boil on my backside. I was extremely embarrassed, and she knew it.

  ‘Just imagine I am your mother!’ she said.

  I had the feeling that Breeks Memorial was what I needed. I did expect some lessons in religion since the school was established by missionaries, but I soon realised that I could talk freely about many different aspects of living and playing. A few days later more boarders arrived and an assembly was called after dinner that night. The principal welcomed us and, after a b
rief talk about his expectations, he briefly told the assembly about the new boarder. ‘Please make McPhedran’s stay a pleasant one,’ he said to the boys.

  We were awakened early the next day.

  ‘Shower, then breakfast in the dining room.’

  After breakfast we assembled in the courtyard and marched to our classes, a mile or two down the road as my new friend in the train had indicated.

  My first morning at school was taken up with selecting subjects. I was piled high with textbooks and writing paper. The realisation that I was already into the final two years of my secondary schooling hit me and I was soon given an ultimatum by my father that he expected me to perform.

  He never wrote to me himself. The messages were always relayed downwards to me by the school principal. I don’t even know whether he wrote directly to the school either, for that matter. As I was to discover, the travel company Thomas Cook had been appointed to handle my finances. My father provided well, but he did not think it necessary to communicate with me. I still felt abandoned, but I did not wallow in it. I had grown used to the state of affairs and, for most of the time anyway, managed to push aside my resentment.

  So it was passed down to me as a message from on high that my father wanted me to put the events of 1942 out of my mind and knuckle down to my education. This was the same thing he had said when he had visited me in Bangalore.

  I was left under no illusion that he expected me to give him value for the money he was spending. I could understand his concern, although I did not take kindly to the prodding of someone who had so little to do with me. Nevertheless, I set my mind on proving to myself that I could perform.

  All the boarders were male but the school had male and female teachers, as well as girl day-students.

  ‘Most of them are the daughters of missionaries or businessmen who use the cool hill station as their country residence,’ one of the boys informed me. ‘Some are the daughters of the European tea-planters from around here,’ he added.