The Orchid Tree

by Siobhan Daiko

  I have three turns before I manage it, then I give the ball back to Bob. ‘Your go.’

  A shout rings from the entrance to the Indian Quarters. ‘Kate, come back this instant!’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve got to rush. Can we play again another time?’

  ‘Aye, whenever you like, pet.’

  At the bottom of the staircase, Mama grabs me by the arm and marches me inside. ‘Stay away from him! He’s not our sort of person.’

  My jaw drops. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s one of those rough Northern policemen.’

  ‘I thought he had a different accent. I couldn’t understand him at first.’

  ‘I don’t want you mixing with the likes of him. Why they had to move those policemen over here from the college is beyond me.’

  ‘They repaired those blocks on the other side of the village green, and I expect they were very crowded in St Stephen’s.’

  ‘The committee could have installed families. That would have been much more suitable.’

  ‘I think you should be glad the policemen have moved here.’

  ‘Really? And why’s that, young lady?’

  ‘Well, they’ve taken over all the heavy jobs for a start.’

  Mama watches me with raised eyebrows, but I carry on. ‘Everything’s much better organised. We don’t have such long queues for food.’

  My mother sniffs.

  ‘And they’ve pasted V for Victory signs on the glass doors,’ I say. ‘I think we should be grateful to them.’

  ‘Are you answering me back, Kate?’ Mama taps a foot. ‘Because, if you are, I want you to stop right away.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re being a snob.’

  I run from the room. On the stairwell I career into Papa, nearly knocking him over. I don’t stop to apologise. Glancing at him, I find I have nothing to say. If I told him about Bob, he’d back Mama up. He gives in to her more than ever these days.

  I stomp along the pathway that edges the coastline, then slow down and listen to the sound of the sea. Shutting my eyes, I imagine the waves washing through me, rinsing away the squalor of Stanley, and carrying me back home to the Peak.

  ***

  Two nights before the bombs started falling, Papa and Mama went out to what was called “the tin hat ball” at the Peninsula Hotel, organised to raise money to buy a bomber for Britain. Freed from my mother’s strict rules about what I could and couldn’t eat, I squatted at the staff table for some chow fan.

  Whenever Papa and Mama went out to socialise, which happened often, I would have supper with the servants and my parents never found out. They didn’t like Chinese food, but I loved it.

  I picked up a piece of crunchy pak choi with my chopsticks from the communal dish. The oyster sauce dribbled down my chin and I put the bowl to my teeth and shovelled the steamed rice in, coolie style, letting out a burp like the locals to show how much I’d enjoyed my food. (Only once did I ever make the mistake of belching in front of Mama - a topic of scorn for days.)

  Ah Ho was sitting on a low stool. Her bottom, as ever, overflowed the edges. She smiled and her gold teeth shone in the low light. ‘Bo,’ she said as she always did. ‘Full up.’

  The staff gossiped about the other families on the Peak. I wanted to join in, but would have needed to sing different tones in their tricky language, which changed the meaning of words, and I usually sang them wrong – even though I understood most of them.

  Anyway, Papa and Mama didn’t like me to speak Cantonese. Not the done thing, they said, which was one of their favourite expressions. And Jimmy always laughed when I made mistakes; his command of my own language was perfect.

  Later on, upstairs, I slipped into my mother’s dressing room. The wardrobe overflowed with the latest fashions, copied from Vogue by expert tailors. I tried on one of Mama’s ball gowns and sprayed behind my ears with Chanel No. 5. Preening in front of the mirror, I smoothed the silk against my skin then smeared my lips with a bright red lipstick. Ah Ho came through the door, scolded me and sent me to bed. I bridled and thought Ah Ho still treated me like a child.

  ***

  I’d give anything to be treated like a child by my amah now. I stare towards the horizon. Where is Ah Ho? Have she and Jimmy managed to get to their family in China? There’s no way of knowing. I’ve visited that huge country beyond the Kowloon hills only once. When I was nine, my parents took me with them on a trip to Shanghai. It was a cultured vibrant city in comparison with sleepy provincial Hong Kong. After I returned to the colony, though, I was relieved to get back to my routine of school from Mondays to Fridays and weekends at the riding school.

  Thinking about my favourite pony, I twirl my jade bangle and taste the salt of my tears. Did Merry survive the bombing? Who’s looking after him now? Sniffing, I brush my cheeks with my hands and make my way down the path. Crying for my old life is a sign of weakness I won’t allow myself.

  Back at the Indian Quarters, Papa gets me to clean out the foul-smelling lavatory as a punishment for being rude to my mother. The smell of the backed-up sewage makes me retch, and I have to force down the usual revolting lunch.

  I set off for school in the afternoon. On the village green, my foot knocks against a pebble. Only it isn’t a pebble; it’s a boiled sweet. Sneakily, I take off the cellophane wrapper and pop it into my mouth.

  The sugar has an immediate effect, making me quicken my step and run up the road. By the time I arrive at the school hall, my energy has gone and guilt has taken its place. It was selfish of me to keep the sweet for myself instead of sharing it; I’ll never be able to admit what I’ve done.

  Later, after Professor Morris has set our Latin homework, I sit next to Charles. He’ll ignore me as usual. But he smiles and says, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about that tiger. It’s just that normally we don’t have them roaming the countryside.’

  ‘That’s all right. I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t seen it.’ His eyes meet mine and a thrill of pleasure courses through me. ‘This morning,’ I say, ‘I met one of those policemen who’ve moved into the block next door to ours. He was showing me how to play a game called “cannon”. Only my mother won’t let me talk to him again.’

  ‘Well, that’s easily fixed.’ Charles appears thoughtful for a moment before smiling his lovely smile, the smile that makes my heart rate flutter. ‘I’ll ask him to teach me the game and show it to the rest of the children. If everyone’s out there playing with this man, your mother won’t have a leg to stand on, will she?’

  ‘Mama never does anything but complain and get my father to run around after her. She’s impossible.’

  ‘I suppose she’s finding it hard to get used to how things are here.’

  ‘I suppose.’ I giggle, grab his hand, and pull him to his feet. ‘Come on! School’s finished. Let’s take Ruth along to find Bob and we can put your plan into action!’

  8

  ‘They’ve caught that tiger,’ Papa says at supper three days later. ‘An Indian guard shot it.’

  I put down my spoonful of cold gritty rice. Thank God. ‘Do you know where it came from?’

  ‘Apparently, it escaped from a circus. A fellow who used to be a butcher at the Dairy Farm will skin it. I wonder what tiger meat tastes like? No doubt only the Japanese will get any.’

  Papa said the Japanese rations were almost as poor as ours; of course they’ll get first sniff of the tiger meat. Mama must be shuddering on her mattress at the very thought of being interned with a butcher. In Hong Kong society she wouldn’t have dreamt of mixing with a tradesman.

  ‘How many of us are here in this camp, do you reckon?’ I ask my father.

  ‘At the latest count, two and a half thousand British, sixty Dutch and nearly four hundred Americans, but the Yanks are due to be repatriated any day now.’

  ‘Lucky them.’

  ‘They’re about to be exchanged with some Japanese nationals in the United States.’ Papa stands and makes a move to gather our e
mpty plates, then quickly sits down again. ‘Bugger! All the strength’s gone in my legs.’

  ‘It must be the bad diet,’ Mama says from the other side of the mattress. ‘Too much polished rice and no greens. The hot weather doesn’t help.’

  ‘We’ll be able to cool down a bit this morning.’ I deliberately insert cheerfulness into my voice. ‘Don’t forget we’ve been given permission to swim!’

  Papa’s mouth twists grimly. ‘You go with the young ones, dear girl. It’s too much of an effort for your mother and me.’

  ***

  After doing the washing up, I line up with the rest of the children. Two guards march us down a path edging the bleak white walls of the prison. Dense scrub hides the beach from sight until we walk through a clearing in the canopy. ‘Last one in’s a rotten tomato,’ I call out, the sand hot between my toes.

  I pull off my shorts, and wade into the ocean in my knickers and a thin cotton vest. Charles and Ruth come up behind me, laughing and splashing. Treading water warm as a bath, I gaze at starfish splayed on the sandy seabed. ‘Why don’t we swim over to those rocks and look for sea urchins? My father told me we can eat them.’

  Charles sets off at a crawl and I follow, swimming at a slower pace. Light-headed from the exercise, I clamber onto the sun-warmed rocks, then stretch out and half-close my eyes.

  Low clouds of humidity cover the tops of the distant islands. The sun beats down through the haze and dries me in minutes. The pungent smell of seaweed, left by the retreating tide, tickles the back of my throat. The gentle waves make a sucking sound as they slosh against the barnacles. I brush salt from my arms and stare out to sea, picking at the mosquito bites on my legs. ‘I wish we could swim like fish and get away.’

  ‘My mother saw four of the men who escaped. They’ve been caught.’ Charles squints in the sunshine. ‘They were in an open lorry being driven into the prison. We have a good view from our balcony and Ma hardly recognised them. She said they were like walking skeletons.’

  ‘How terrible!’

  ‘Ma was angry. She thought the men had been starved.’

  The sound of splashing, and Derek Higgins swims towards us with two of his friends.

  Charles pushes himself to his feet. ‘Go away! We were here first.’

  Derek heaves himself onto the rocks. ‘We’ve got as much right to be here as you,’

  He leers at me and I look down. My breasts are visible through my damp vest. How humiliating! Derek speaks in Cantonese to the other boys; they snigger and make a lewd remark about my nipples.

  Charles lets fly a stream of Chinese insults, calling them stupid pigs. My cheeks burn as he turns to me. ‘I’ll race you back to the beach,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s too late to look for sea urchins. I can see the guards waving their rifles. They want us to go.’

  On our way back up the hill, I keep my arms folded in front of me. I should have packed a swimming costume when we left the Peak. But I never thought I’d need one; the Japanese were supposed to have been defeated before now. Worst of all, Charles must have seen me semi-naked and realised what a kid I am . . .

  ***

  After school, I hurry home, finish my Latin translation, and queue for supper. The adults have organised a concert on the lawn in front of the canteen. Everyone says it’s a sham. A team of Japanese press and cameramen are making a propaganda film about the supposedly cheerful, contented detainees enjoying their treats.

  I sit next to Ruth on the grass in the front row. Charles is on the other side of his sister. Best to ignore him; I’m still too mortified about what happened earlier. Frogs croak and crickets screech in the thickets that separate the canteen from the Indian Quarters, almost drowning out the crash of waves on the rocks below. There’s a tang of fresh vegetation in the air. Rain in the early evening threatened to cancel the performance and the ground is still moist. The new moon cuts a thin sliver of silver in a sky that billows with stars.

  Leaning back on my arms, I watch the show. The Japanese have commandeered a floodlight from somewhere to illuminate the stage; mosquitoes and moths flutter in the beam. A group of internees are singing and dancing to music performed by the orchestra, a collection of people who’ve managed to bring their instruments into the camp. They play discordantly, but no matter; the tunes distract us from the filming.

  ‘This is stupid,’ I mutter. ‘How can those cameramen and journalists think we’re happy to be locked up here?’

  ‘Let’s show them!’ Charles says, giving the V for Victory signal.

  ‘Yes,’ Ruth joins in.

  Impossible to ignore Charles now. I giggle and make the sign with my fingers. The other children swiftly catch on, even Derek Higgins. Seconds later, most of the adults lift their hands in the air as well.

  The photographers stop filming and Yamashita, the newly arrived Japanese Commandant, jumps up from his seat. ‘No more entertainment for one month,’ he spits, hopping from one foot to the other like a manic tap dancer.

  A heavy crunch of boots on the path behind, and I twist around. Where’s Charles? I hold back a scream. A squat Japanese guard is pointing his bayonet straight at him. ‘You! Boy! Very bad!’

  9

  It’s late August, and I wake up after a hot, mosquito-infested night. I think about Charles. Something changed in him when he spent twenty-four hours in the prison. He’s been avoiding me, and doesn’t even come swimming these days . . .

  I crawl off my mattress. There’s a small black spot, marooned in the middle of my sheet. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A bed bug, I think.’ Papa squashes the speck between his thumb and forefinger. ‘What a stink!’

  I wrinkle my nose and inhale a whiff of bitter almonds.

  Papa fetches a knife from the kitchen, turns the mattress over and cuts a hole. Thousands of slimy, shiny, black insects squirm as if irritated at being disturbed.

  I back away, revolted. I stare at the spots on my legs and my stomach heaves. ‘I thought these were mosquito bites. Do you think they’re in your beds as well?’

  ‘More than likely,’ Papa says.

  Mama pulls up her nightdress and examines the angry, red wheals on her thighs. Her face blanches. ‘I can’t take any more,’ she sobs.

  ‘There, there.’ Papa pats Mama on the back. ‘I’ll find something to get rid of them and, in future, we’ll make sure we do spot checks.’

  I clutch my sides as hysteria builds up. ‘Ha, ha, ha spot checks!’

  ‘Be quiet, you silly girl!’ Mama slaps me on the arm. ‘We can’t let the neighbours know we’ve got bed bugs. Whatever will they think?’

  ‘If we’ve got them they’ve probably got them too. Stay here with your mother, Kate, while I look for a container.’

  He manages to find an old kerosene tin, which he trundles over to the Police Block. I strip the beds as my mother looks on helplessly.

  Half an hour later, Papa returns with Bob.

  ‘Aalreet, pet?’

  Bob pours carbolic acid from the tin into our only pan, then mixes it with the water I collected in a bucket from yesterday’s rainfall. ‘This is how we deal with the little beasties,’ he says, setting the pan on their hotplate.

  The water boils, and Papa soaks all three mattresses with the liquid. Then Bob and I haul everything over to the balcony. Mama stands to the side and fixes the policeman with a frosty stare.

  ‘I’ll be off now,’ Bob says. ‘Got to get back to me rice cooking shift. Did you hear the good news?’ He smiles. ‘There’s been a delivery of pork today. Disease has struck a pig farm in the New Territories and they’ve killed the whole herd. We’ll have some meat with our dinners for once.’

  Papa shakes Bob’s hand and thanks him for his help. I go with my friend to the bottom of the stairwell, and watch him saunter across the village green. He stops and throws a “cannon ball” with a group of children. Such a nice man.

  Back indoors, I help Papa scrub our sheets in lye soap, wishing my mother had shown more gratitude to Bob
.

  ‘How low we’ve sunk that we can even contemplate eating diseased food,’ she says.

  Papa heaves a sigh. ‘I’m sure the Colonial Vet will check to make sure it’s safe.’

  Mama glowers at him. ‘We’d have been able to buy more bully beef from the canteen if you hadn’t used up our spare cash for your wretched tobacco.’

  ‘There hasn’t been any tinned meat available for ages, my dear. Do you think I’d put my pipe before your needs?’

  ‘I can’t understand why you still insist on smoking it when it’s so difficult to get hold of tobacco. I’ve managed to give up my cigarettes. You should give up your pipe too.’

  ‘Having a smoke clears my airways. You don’t want me catching TB again, do you?’

  Papa’s TB was the reason my mother and I were still in Hong Kong when the Japanese came. Most of the British women and children, including Mary and my other school friends, had been evacuated eighteen months before then, as the authorities must have thought war was on the cards. If it weren’t for that TB scare, Mama wouldn’t have had the excuse to stay and nurse him back to health.

  Papa never believed the Japanese would attack, so he was happy for her to remain, and I didn’t want to go without her. Mama fed him huge amounts of protein and moved his bed onto the veranda so that he could breathe plenty of fresh air. When fog came to the Peak, she bundled him into the car and drove him to Repulse Bay with the window down. Gradually he recovered, but his poor health kept him out of the Volunteers.

  Thank God for that. If he’d survived the battle he’d be in the POW camp in Kowloon instead of with the civilians in Stanley.

  I put the sheets in the sun. The mattresses are still airing on the balcony, so I sit on the concrete floor. A sudden rumble of thunder, and I run outside. Rain peels across the village green and people scurry for cover. Everything is soaked.