The Orchid Tree

by Siobhan Daiko

  Mama bursts into tears. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Maybe tonight we’ll sleep in soggy sheets stinking of carbolic acid,’ I say. ‘But it’s better than being eaten alive by bed bugs, don’t you think?’

  ‘Cheer up!’ Papa puts his arm around Mama and gives me a disapproving look.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stutter. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ***

  From then onwards, Papa’s pipe makes rare appearances. Often, I see him stooping and picking up cigarette butts discarded on the roadside. He retrieves the small amount of tobacco then mixes it with dried sweet potato leaves and toilet paper, which is really just a piece cut up from The Hong Kong News.

  Our neighbours soon give every indication that they’re struggling with the over-crowded conditions as well. They’ve divided their room in two by hanging a curtain made from old sheets stitched together. It’s difficult sharing the kitchen and bathroom with the Chambers and the Morrises. Squabbles often break out between us about who’s responsible for cleaning the communal areas.

  I remember the first time I met the two couples last February. After an awful meal on our first night, I stood with my parents at the door dividing our rooms. A grey-haired man staggered to his feet. ‘Professor Stuart Morris, Hong Kong University,’ he said.

  A mousy-looking woman got up from her camp bed. ‘And I’m his wife, Diana.’

  I spotted another woman, fast asleep under a large, brown overcoat. A tousle of wavy red hair spread over the pillow.

  ‘You’ll excuse my wife if she doesn’t get up?’ A burly man with a dark beard stepped forward. ‘She’s suffering from a nasty cold. Bloody freezing here at night. We’re the Chambers by the way. Tony and Jessica. Welcome to Stanley!’

  ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Mama held out her hand. ‘Weren’t you at the Boxing Day Meet last year?’

  ‘Of course. How could I forget?’ Tony Chambers clapped his hand to his forehead.

  His brown eyes smiled at me. ‘You’re something of a horsewoman, young lady, aren’t you?’

  ‘I can’t stand the creatures myself,’ my mother chipped in. ‘They make me sneeze. Well, we’d better get on. Things to do. No doubt we’ll meet again.’ She laughed in an almost hysterical way and I followed her through the door, wishing I could have shrunk to a speck of dust on the floor, I was so embarrassed.

  Since then, I’ve seen a lot of Professor Morris at school as he’s my Latin teacher, and his wife helps out with French. But the Chambers keep themselves to themselves.

  ***

  After the discovery of the bed bugs, Mama has become obsessed with getting me to do the cleaning. She makes me scrub our room from wall to wall every day then wash the clothes. I rub them with lye soap until my hands bleed.

  ‘Off you go,’ Mama says to me one morning after I’ve done my chores. ‘I can’t be doing with you getting in my way any longer.’

  ‘I haven’t been getting in the way. I’ve been slaving over a scrubbing board. Why can’t you do more of the work?’

  Mama lifts her hand. I duck, and before my mother’s palm can reach its target, Jessica Chambers pokes her head around the door. ‘Your daughter has stolen my lipstick.’

  Mama’s eyes widen. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, who else? The children are out of control, thieving left, right and centre.’

  Mama gives me a stern look. ‘Did you take Mrs Chambers’ lipstick?’

  I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Let this be a warning to you, Little Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt-In-Her-Mouth,’ Jessica spits. ‘If ever I catch you in our room, you’ll receive the severest of punishments.’

  ‘Please don’t threaten my daughter!’ Mama holds up her hands. ‘I know my Kate’s mixing with all sorts of people in this place, but she wouldn’t steal.’

  I slip out of the room, pretending that I’m leaving. But I hide behind the door instead, peer through a crack, and listen.

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t her. The lipstick went missing yesterday. Not the first thing that’s been taken,’ Jessica says, the colour rising in her cheeks.

  Jessica Chambers has red hair. Not auburn, but deep red. Bob’s hair is distinctly carroty by comparison. Jessica is probably only in her mid-twenties, no more than a decade older than me, yet in spite of the months of living in close proximity, Jessica hasn’t spoken a word to me until this morning, which makes her fair game. Jessica left the lipstick in the kitchen, so what did she expect? She should have looked after it. I turn around and march out of the flat.

  On my way down the stairs, guilt ties my stomach up in knots. Maybe Mama is right and Stanley is changing me? I wouldn’t have dreamt of stealing anything when I lived on the Peak. I put my hand into the pocket of the shorts I stitched together from an old rice sack, and clasp the tube. I’d wanted to make myself look pretty for Charles. Now I’ll have to bury the lipstick on the hillside behind the cemetery, so no one will discover I took it.

  I reach the village green and stop dead. Derek Higgins is bent double, surrounded by a circle of European men, his white buttocks bared and receiving six of the best from a thin bamboo cane.

  The cane comes down with a thwack, and I wince. Thwack, thwack, thwack. I screw my eyes shut. Poor Derek!

  Finally, the men leave and Derek comes up to me. ‘Why were you watching? I suppose it seemed funny to you.’

  ‘Not it didn’t. Not at all. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. Who were they and why were they beating you?’

  ‘From the camp tribunal. They caught me with some cans of bully beef I took from the canteen a few weeks ago. I only took them because my dad is sick.’

  ‘Gosh! I wouldn’t like that to happen to me. Do you think they’d beat girls as well?’

  ‘More than likely. Better than the Japanese Gendarmerie, I suppose. Well, I’d better get back to my parents. Dad’s ill with beriberi because he’s not getting enough vitamins. That’s why I took the cans.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Did you know the Red Cross are sending comfort parcels? Hopefully they’ll arrive soon and we’ll have some extra food.’

  I wave Derek off and go up to the cemetery. Burying the lipstick, I promise myself I won’t take anything that belongs to someone else ever again. What was I thinking of?

  ***

  Three weeks before my sixteenth birthday, in early September, Papa rushes into the flat and exclaims with a wide grin, ‘The parcels are here. Come on, we’re to line up at the canteen.’

  We wait for an hour in the queue, Mama complaining all the while that she has things to do. What these things might be, I can’t imagine. After all, I’m the one doing all the washing and cleaning . . .

  ‘Flora, my dear, you don’t want to be shut up indoors on such a lovely morning,’ Papa says, laughing. ‘It’ll do you good to get some fresh air.’

  I look up at the sky, so blue and cloudless it seems to go on forever. For once, the high hills separating Stanley from the other side of the island are clearly visible, not hidden by warm mist.

  Finally the Red Cross representative hands us two packages each. Back in the Indian Quarters, Mama says we don’t have enough storage containers so we can indulge in an instant feast. I open my parcel. Chocolate tablets, biscuits and packets of sugar! I tear the wrapping off a Dairy Milk bar and stuff every morsel into my mouth, savouring the sticky sweetness. A sensation of fullness settles in my belly, which lasts the rest of the day. For the first time in months I go to bed without feeling hungry.

  The sound of screaming wakes me, and I blink in the morning sunshine. What’s wrong with Mama?

  ‘There are ants crawling on everything,’ she wails.

  ‘I’ll boil up some water and pour it over them,’ Papa says in his keep calm voice.

  Mama eyes the soaked sugar. ‘All ruined now. What a mess!’

  I help Papa scoop up the soggy packets then glance at my mother. Oh, no! Her face has a yellowish tinge. />
  ***

  That night, a moan comes from Mama’s mattress. ‘I feel terrible. I’ve got the shakes and my head is killing me.’

  Papa grabs a thermometer and takes her temperature. ‘Good God! It’s one hundred and three,’ he says, shaking the glass tube. ‘I’ll fetch some water, my dear.’

  I hold Mama’s hand as she groans and thrashes about, then I help Papa sponge her down. Finally, Mama slips into a fitful sleep, but neither Papa nor I can bear to leave her side.

  ‘I’ll take your mother to the camp hospital,’ he says at daylight. ‘They’ll be able to help her. She’s probably got malaria and they must have some quinine.’

  Regret surges through me as I remember my harsh words to my mother. I stay in and do my chores. How long has Mama had malaria? No wonder she’s been even colder than usual these past weeks. I scrub the toilet. How to make sense of things? Mama doesn’t resent me. She’s just ill, that’s all . . .

  Papa returns at lunch-time. ‘They’ll keep her in there for a few days,’ he says, his expression grim. ‘Your mother would like you to visit.’

  I follow the path around the headland to arrive at a three-storey red-brick building. Mama is in a ward on the second floor with four women and their new-born babies. I perch beside her on the bed.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ she says. ‘It’s dreadful. I can’t sleep with all the noise. Can you read to me, please? I need distracting.’

  There’s a bookshelf in the corner of the room where I find a well-thumbed copy of Gone with the Wind. I read aloud as my mother dozes.

  “Let’s don’t be too hot-headed and let’s don’t have any war. Most of the misery of the world has been caused by wars. And when the wars were over, no one ever knew what they were all about.”

  Then, later.

  “Hunger gnawed at her empty stomach again and she said aloud: As God is my witness, and God is my witness, the Yankees aren’t going to lick me. I’m going to live through this, and when it’s over, I’m never going to be hungry again. No, nor any of my folks. If I have to steal or kill - as God is my witness, I’m never going to be hungry again.”

  I put the book down and wipe her forehead with a damp cloth. Mama has to survive this. She has to . . .

  At the end of the week, Mama comes out of hospital. Her fever peaks and troughs, but Papa says she’s out of danger. Even so, my chest aches with worry.

  I hope he’s right; he has a tendency to be over-optimistic.

  ***

  On the morning of my birthday, I roll out of bed onto Mama’s mattress. She pulls an item from under her pillow. ‘I made it myself.’ Two of Papa’s silk handkerchiefs have been stitched together to make a halter-neck top. ‘I hope you like it.’

  I take the gift and hold it against my chest. With joyful tears, I hug her and receive a peck on the cheek in return.

  ‘And I’ve got this for you.’ Papa hands me a bar of chocolate. ‘It’s the last one from my comfort parcel. I managed to save it from the ants.’

  If anyone had told me a year ago I’d be happy to receive such gifts, I’d have thought they were mad. My usual presents are cashmere cardigans, Yardley’s toiletries, riding accessories and books. When the war is over and life returns to normal, I’ll appreciate every single thing I used to take for granted. It’s a firm promise I make to myself.

  Once dressed, I go to queue for hot water. I took over the duty months ago, supposedly to give Papa some respite. But, actually, it’s a way for me to see Charles, even though he usually ignores me. This morning, though, he waves and I go up to him. ‘Happy Birthday,’ he says, touching my arm.

  My heart dances. I’ve known him for about eight months now, but never tire of looking at him. I’ve such a crush. If only I were more gown-up and knew what to do where boys were concerned . . .

  How can I tell if he likes me as much as I like him?

  ***

  On the 30th of October, I’m at an informal celebration for Charles’ eighteenth birthday on the village green. Even though the weather is still hot, the air has turned dry and we no longer drip with sweat. Mrs Pearce has saved her flour rations and has baked a sponge cake in one of the communal ovens. I’ve contributed the few biscuits I kept from my comfort parcel.

  The Red Cross deliveries indeed included some desperately needed medicines. Only a small amount of quinine, though, which has to be shared among countless others. Mama sits on the edge of the group, sipping watered-down tea. She’s receiving treatment, but she’s still weak.

  I bite into the unaccustomed floury texture of the cake and lick my fingers. There were tears as I struggled to find something pretty to wear. In the end, I put on one of Mama’s blouses. It’s too big for me and looks funny worn over my shorts.

  I giggle at Charles; he’s doing an impression of Professor Morris, and has got his “now for your Latin homework” saying spot-on. A loud drumming noise echoes. A flock of silver planes soars above. I can just make out the stars of the US Air Force under their wings. ‘Look! They’ve come to rescue us!’

  ‘They’re probably headed towards Canton,’ Charles says calmly.

  Gunshots ring through the air. The Japanese soldiers at the fort on the other side of the camp have started firing at the planes, even though they’re a mile high. ‘Ha,’ Charles laughs. ‘They’ll never hit them.’

  ‘Come indoors,’ Mama says briskly. ‘We don’t want to catch a stray bullet.’

  In our tiny room I huddle with my parents, Charles and his family. Explosions boom in the distance and, through the window, a cloud of black smoke rises behind the mountains.

  ‘They’re bombing the airport,’ Papa says in a loud voice.

  Charles leaps up. ‘It’s begun.’

  ‘At last,’ Mama murmurs.

  ‘The Americans are going to set us free,’ I squeal, excitement making me dizzy.

  ***

  The next afternoon, I set off for school as usual. There hasn’t been a repeat of the bombing raid. Surely there’ll be another one soon? Then the Japanese will be so badly hit they won’t be able to do anything but surrender Hong Kong.

  I sit on a mat spread on the floor. Charles lowers himself down next to me, and I give him a surprised glance before going back to the algebra problem scribbled on the back of an old piece of card. There aren’t any exercise books available for school. I chew the end of my pencil; I haven’t got the faintest idea how to do the sum.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’ Charles talks me through the working-out step by step.

  ‘I’ve think I’ve got it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No. Not really. I hate maths. I’m much better at geography.’

  ‘Then, when we do geography, you can help me.’

  I’m sure he’s good at geography too, but the lie doesn’t matter. He fixes his gaze on me and our eyes lock. I glance away then back again, not knowing what to say. Idiot! Ask him something about himself! ‘Is it strange for you to be in your old school?’

  ‘A bit. I keep expecting to bump into one of my old teachers. Which school did you go to?’

  There’s only one school considered suitable for expatriates. ‘The Central British School in Kowloon. It took me ages to get there and back every day. I would have gone to boarding school if it hadn’t been for the war.’

  ‘I’m hoping to go to university in London. When the war ends.’

  ‘I sometimes wish my mother and I had been evacuated. Papa was ill so we stayed on. My parents never believed the Japanese would dare attack.’

  ‘My mother tried to get us evacuated, you know.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘She thought we’d be eligible as we’ve got British passports. She was told by the authorities they didn’t know what to do with the likes of us.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I say, shocked.

  A shuffling sound, and Derek Higgins sits down behind us. ‘Stop talking or I’ll tell the teacher.’

  ‘Don’t be a snitch!’ Charles glowers
at him before giving me a smile that makes my heart miss a beat.

  After class, he walks me back to the Indian Quarters. At the bottom of the stairwell, he turns to me as if about to say something. Then he takes my hand and gives it a brief squeeze. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Smiling, I run up the stairs and into our room. Papa is sitting on his own. ‘Thank God you’re back, Kate. I’ve just taken your mother to the hospital. The fever’s returned and her temperature is sky high.’

  ***

  Mama is in a side room, apparently fast asleep. A nurse leads Papa and me to one side. ‘Mrs Wolseley has slipped into a coma. There’s very little we can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nooo!’ All the saliva drains from my mouth. ‘She can’t die.’

  Papa grabs me to him and whispers, ‘Be brave, my dear girl. Your mother might be able to hear and you wouldn’t want to upset her.’

  I pull out a chair for him, and we sit in silence, giving each other worried glances until the nurse makes signs that visiting hour is over. For the next three days we visit and watch helplessly as Mama slips away. Each day, I feel it’s like being in a living nightmare. Each day, the sense of unreality grows. Each day I ask myself, how can my beautiful vibrant Mama have been reduced to this inert creature lying wraith-like on a bed?

  10

  Sofia stands at her bedroom window peering at two coolies pulling a cart up the road. It’s laden with dead bodies! She shudders. People have literally been freezing to death on the streets. A year now since the fall of Hong Kong, and Natalia has told her about rumours of the terrible conditions in the old British colony: food shortages, massacres, atrocities against women, starvation of prisoners and the rampant spread of typhoid and cholera. The misery goes on and on . . .

  Here in Macau, things aren’t much better. Thousands of homeless beggars and this winter has been so cold. Even if the poor had any money, they wouldn’t be able to buy much to eat. When did she last have any meat? Sofia can’t remember. And she’s fed-up with fish, in spite of it keeping her from feeling hungry all the time.