‘All right,’ she says, her mouth trembling. Tears prickle, but she won’t cry. Not in front of Leo.
***
The counterpane is cold beneath her fingers, like the icy feeling inside her. She runs her hands up and down the smooth silk. How will she cope without Natalia? She’ll just have to and that’s that. This war won’t go on forever. When it’s over, she’ll start a new life. Maybe go to Hong Kong. She’s always loved it there.
A knock at the door. ‘I’ve been trying to talk some sense into the boy,’ Father says, lowering himself onto the chair by the window. ‘He won’t listen. It’s grief, I suppose. I can’t help feeling responsible. I should never have allowed the marriage. It was bound to end in tears.’
‘You weren’t to know. I’m sorry for not telling you about Natalia. And I’m devastated for Leo about Michiko. Really, I am. And her family. It’s so, so sad.’
‘I don’t understand why Leo thinks Natalia is responsible for this tragedy. He says Siu Yin’s cousin caught her following him. He won’t tell me anything else. Can you shed any light on this?’
What to do? She doesn’t want to lie to Father. But if she says anything, Leo will find out and that’ll make things even worse. Then, there’s Uncle. No one must know he’s been helping the guerrillas. She made a promise she can’t break. That’s it. A prior promise cancels out a future lie. She gets to her feet and makes eye contact with her father. ‘I don’t know anything.’
15
The Pearces’ balcony directly overlooks the prison exercise yard. Every evening, from five to six, I’m there, watching Charles pace up and down with the rest of the prisoners, my heart going out to him with every step he takes. I’ve practically haunted the place in the eighteen months since his arrest.
Ruth tugs at my sleeve. ‘Can you test me on my spellings?’
‘Of course, kiddo.’ How resilient Ruth is! Just like the rest of the children, she’s full of joy at life, even in this terrible place. I’ve been trying hard to keep positive, telling myself the war is bound to end soon and that Charles will survive. It’s hard, though . . .
Minutes later, after I’ve given Ruth full marks for her spellings, my heartbeat quickens. He’s come into view. I can see him clearly. He turns his head in my direction and waves furtively. Like everyone else in the camp, he’s deathly thin. At least he’s still walking tall and doesn’t look ill. Oh, how I long to take him in my arms . . .
Charles’ family have been kind and welcoming. If they didn’t know I loved their son before, they know it now. Papa wouldn’t have been like them if it had been me who’d been imprisoned. He would have told Charles he didn’t think him worthy. One day, I’ll confront Papa about his prejudice, but only when liberation comes and I can love Charles openly.
I point to the flower from the orchid tree I’ve tucked behind my ear. If Charles can see it, he’ll understand . . .
***
On the fifteenth of January, air-raid sirens blare above Stanley. I rush to the window. American planes are flying overhead. They come often now to bomb the harbour, as well as targets on Hong Kong Island and Kowloon. Papa stands next to me. ‘We haven’t got any white crosses on the rooftops. How will they know we’re an internment camp?’
Throughout the day I count the aircraft, over three hundred of them, the biggest raid yet. The next morning, the alarm sounds again. ‘Look! They’re back.’ I go to the balcony. ‘Thousands of them.’
‘Not quite thousands,’ Papa says. ‘I’ve heard the Japs have put guns on top of the prison buildings. That’s certain to attract attention.’
Japanese soldiers dash onto the village green, firing revolvers and rifles at planes miles high. ‘They’re running around like headless chickens,’ I laugh, keeping my worry about Charles to myself. He’ll be a sitting target in the prison . . .
A sudden roar. Four planes drop from the sky. They’re heading straight for the Indian Quarters! Three American aircraft pass overhead, chasing a Japanese plane, their machine guns roaring.
‘Quick! Get down!’ Papa shouts.
A huge explosion rocks the building. Flinching, I peer over the parapet. The Americans have gunned down the Japanese plane, which has crashed into the hillside to our right - just above the bathing beach. A plume of smoke rises up. Tell-tale signs of more planes shot down: towers of smoke come from the outlying islands, from behind the hill on the other side of Stanley Bay, and from the cove itself.
The day wears on and the air-raids continue. I curl up on my mattress, holding my breath during the attacks, and letting it in and out while waiting for the next one. Papa sits next to me, grumbling and muttering about the lack of a proper shelter.
Late in the afternoon there’s a massive bang. I stumble to the back of the flat, my legs shaking so much I can hardly move. A heavy cloud rises up from behind the cemetery and I grab Papa’s arm. ‘They must have hit one of the buildings at St Stephen’s.’
***
Derek Higgins walks up to me the following morning in the water queue. ‘Guess what?’ he says with his habitual smirk. ‘The Americans must have thought that rusty old wreck of a tanker in Stanley Bay had some strategic importance. A couple of aircraft turned to attack it, but their wings touched.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘The pilots had to jump out when the planes crashed into the hillside. One of them didn’t make it and his parachute tangled up in the propellers. The other pilot got out and the Japanese shot him just as he landed.’
‘Oh no! What about St Stephen’s?’
‘Bungalow C scored a direct hit. When the all-clear sounded, ten bodies were lying on the grass. Someone said they looked like they were asleep as they didn’t have a scratch on them.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because I went up there for a look.’
‘Were they all right?’
‘Of course not. They were dead. Six people were taken to the infirmary. One woman died on the way there. Three more bodies were found in the wreckage. The funeral’s later today and they’ll be buried in a mass grave.’
‘Another mass grave,’ I murmur. Heavy-footed, I make my way back to the Indian Quarters, my chest aching. Of course they’ll be buried in a mass grave. There’s only one coffin in the camp. The base has been removed and it’s used again and again for the many funerals, just like it was for Mama’s. A picture comes into my mind of standing in the rain under a paper umbrella, and of strangers shovelling clods of earth onto my mother’s shrouded body. I swallow the knot of sorrow in my throat and grip my bucket.
Papa is waiting for me. ‘You haven’t heard the worst.’
‘What can be worse?’
‘Some people didn’t wait till the all-clear and looted the bungalow even before the bodies were removed.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I often think we’re interned with a bunch of animals.’
‘Are you sure it was one of us? Isn’t it something the Japanese would have done?’
Even as I ask the question, I remember Derek’s description of the bodies and my stomach clenches.
‘Japs mounted a guard as soon as they found out what happened then presented arms above the wreckage.’
‘Such strange people . . .’
‘They seem to think it’s honourable to die in war, but equal to losing your soul if you’re taken prisoner.’
‘That explains a lot of things, but not their treatment of us.’ I stretch out on my mattress and stare at the wall. Last October I turned eighteen. I’ve been in the camp for over three years and it’s hard to imagine my life when peace eventually comes. What will it be like to no longer be hungry? To have proper clothes? To be able to go out and about? To be with Charles again?
And what will happen if peace doesn’t come?
***
A week after the air-raids, I’m on the Pearces’ balcony, waiting to catch sight of Charles. Tailorbirds chirp in the bushes below and a kite soars above, gliding in circles among the thermals
and giving an occasional long drawn-out squealing call. I look down at the exercise yard. It’s getting late. Where is he?
A chill. The hairs on my arms stand up. A shift in the atmosphere. Anxiety radiates from Ruth, Mr and Mrs Pearce. A sudden terror. Everyone leaps to their feet. Charles isn’t among the prisoners!
‘I’ll go and find out what’s happened,’ Mr Pearce says, making his way to the door.
Mrs Pearce seizes his arm. ‘Be careful, dearest!’
The next hour drags. I bite what’s left of my fingernails, which stopped growing ages ago for lack of nutrients. I pace up and down the balcony, then I sit on a camp-bed, then stand, then sit again, twirling my jade bangle round and round.
Mr Pearce returns and slumps down on a camp-bed, his face grey. ‘Charles has been drafted to a labour camp in Japan along with some of the POWs from Shamshuipo camp.’
I let out a muffled cry. Charles has been weakened by years of semi-starvation. How will he survive? I can see in Mrs Pearce’s eyes the same thoughts that I’ve been thinking. Ruth sobs, and I put my arm around her.
‘Don’t worry, kiddo! Charles will be fine. You’ll see!’
***
Time passes. Winter releases its hold, the orchid tree finishes its flowering season, and a muggy spring turns into a fierce summer. There has been no news of Charles.
I line up on the village green for a bowing lesson, heat and humidity enveloping me. The Camp Commandant is obsessed with military etiquette and seems convinced the prisoners aren’t getting it right. I go through the movements, my mind elsewhere.
‘How can the Japanese expect us to take this bowing seriously?’ I whisper to Papa. In May, The Hong Kong News announced Germany’s surrender. Soon afterwards, the Japanese said, “no more newspapers” and they became another item for black market traders. ‘It’s obvious they’re losing the war.’
‘They’re doing it out of spite, I reckon.’ Papa laughs, yet his eyes, staring blankly, give the lie to his apparent mirth. ‘A guard said they’ve been tunnelling shelters and foxholes into the hills. Japs seem to think they can fight for Hong Kong. How desperate and pathetic . . .’
‘Whenever I hear a guard coming, I run and hide or I give them my best bow.’ I shrug. ‘Everyone does. Don’t they realise we’re too weak for all this?’
To my left, Jessica Chambers is staring straight ahead. On the other side of the parade ground, a group of young men from the Hong Kong Police grin mockingly and make little effort to bow. I study the outline of Papa’s ribs poking through his bare chest. Sweat pouring from his face, he stands to attention in the hot sunshine; I take his hand and it’s like holding a bunch of twigs.
I glance at the Pearce family. Physically, they’re surviving. Mentally, though, they’ve become listless and resigned to their circumstances, just like everyone else. They no longer mention Charles; they probably think talking about him will jeopardise his chances. So I try to do the same and carry on as if everything will turn out for the best. And I cling to that hope; it nestles next to the numbness that has seeped back into my soul.
The Commandant struts in front of us. ‘Captain Ito show you.’
The Japanese officer stands on a table. He inclines at the waist, holding his body at a forty-five degree angle. We try to imitate him, struggling with the exertion, weak with exhaustion.
The new Formosan guards stand on the side-lines, their faces unreadable. The Commandant has put them through field training over the past couple of weeks, leading them around the camp, wielding a bamboo stick. He has no chance! The Formosans don’t give a damn about fighting to keep Hong Kong in Japanese hands. The Japs treat them like dogs, unaware they participate in a thriving black market with the prisoners, keeping us informed about events in the outside world. Manila has already been liberated. Surely it won’t be long before it’s Hong Kong’s turn? My hands shake. If freedom doesn’t come soon, we’ll all starve to death. The situation has become that serious.
And poor Charles stuck in Japan . . .
***
The days go by in the same monotonous pattern – get up, queue for food, lie around too weak to do anything, queue again, sleep. Finally a copy of The Hong Kong News is smuggled into the camp with the information we’ve all been longing for. Japan has surrendered. I hear about it in the supper queue and join in as everyone hugs and kisses each other. Even though I’ve no energy, my step quickens. ‘It’s over,’ I say to Papa back in our room. ‘The war is over.’
He stares at me. ‘I can’t believe it. Far too sudden.’ Then he breaks into a smile and hugs me as hard as his lack of strength allows.
The next day, a notice pinned to the canteen wall informs us officially that hostilities have ceased. The Representative of Internees, one-time Colonial Secretary, has accepted responsibility for the maintenance of discipline. I read the report slowly. Then I read it again so I can relay all the facts to Papa. I let out a sigh and close my eyes. I won’t have to worry about survival any more. From now on, I won’t have to live behind barbed wire. Then I stare into the distance, as if by doing so I can see Charles.
Where is he? How is he?
I walk up the road and the camp is quiet. All the guards have disappeared and the Japanese are marching shamefaced to their headquarters. I make my way to the canteen. Passing the godowns, I spot a group of European policemen in uniform, patrolling the area. At least I don’t have to bow anymore . . .
***
It seems liberation will never come. An American aeroplane flies over and drops pamphlets saying the internees should remain calm and not leave the camp until the Allied forces arrive. Time moves on slowly as we wait for the Royal Navy. The local Red Cross representative makes a speech, promising that the authorities will increase rations and provide buses to bring visitors from Victoria City and the Kowloon camps.
One afternoon, I’m reading to Ruth in her quarters. She looks up. Charles’ Auntie Julie and Uncle Phillip come into the room. Phillip Noble, a tall man with silver hair, is a Portuguese-Chinese who married Mrs Pearce’s sister ten years ago. They’ve spent the war in Macau.
‘Conditions weren’t much better than in Hong Kong,’ Mrs Noble says. She looks so like Mrs Pearce they could be twins. ‘We didn’t have much food, but at least we didn’t starve.’ She hugs Mrs Pearce and stares at Ruth with a sympathetic expression. ‘My poor dears! You’re nothing but skin and bone. The sooner we get you out of here the better. And we’ll do everything we can to find out about Charles.’ She goes on to explain that the Pearces’ old home was destroyed in the bombing. ‘And the Japanese turned our place in Kowloon into an officers’ club. Before they left, they did their business in the corners of every room. Such barbarity! The whole place needs disinfecting and a fresh coat of paint.’
I shake hands with Charles’ aunt. Should I beg her to get information about him quickly? That would be inappropriate, though. I’ll just have to wait, and hope, and believe he’ll soon be home.
***
Food rations in the camp improve when the Red Cross send in beans and the Japanese manage to provide more vegetables and daily meat. For years I’ve dreamt of filling my stomach, and now I can’t digest the unaccustomed protein.
The Colonial Secretary takes the oath as Officer Administrating the Government. Papa explains it’s an important move, establishing British civilian authority over the colony.
A week later, I spot a familiar figure stepping off an open-topped lorry that has drawn up next to the canteen. A slight Chinese woman with thin black hair scraped into a bun turns and flashes a gold-toothed smile at me. ‘Ah Ho!’ I fling myself into her arms, then lead her to the Indian Quarters. Papa stares at her in evident amazement.
‘You got any washing?’ she asks.
Ah Ho tells us she set off for the colony as soon as she learned about the surrender, leaving Jimmy behind. She explains that he’s joined up with the communists, but Ah Ho is glad to be back with Papa and me. She didn’t like bunking down in the same roo
m as the family’s pigs and chickens in China.
Ah Ho sleeps on a mat in the passageway at the rear of the flat, and works alongside the other internees’ amahs who’ve turned up in recent days, helping them prepare food in the communal kitchens. Her loyalty makes me feel humble.
A few days later, I go with Papa to visit our old home. We catch a lift in one of the buses laid on to bring visitors to the camp. It’s strange leaving Stanley after more than three and a half years. In town, I stare at the devastation, the bombed buildings, the craters in the roads, the piles of debris. On the Peak, the house has been stripped of its wooden flooring and black roof tiles. And the Japanese have sunk a well in the garden. Papa puts his hand to his forehead. ‘It’s right where Ah Woo and I buried our valuables.’
He finds an abandoned spade and digs. Before exhaustion claims him, he strikes something and bends down to reach for one of my silver riding cups. I study the object, won with such pride in my old life.
What was all the fuss about?
***
At the end of August, the British fleet finally reach Hong Kong. The day before they arrive, planes fly over the camp and drop medicines and food that flutter down on green, red and white parachutes. I’m on the parade ground in front of the Married Quarters with Papa and we eagerly take a package each, nearly making ourselves sick gorging on chocolate. I grab one of the ‘chutes; I’ve heard the rayon is perfect for making underwear.
I barely sleep I’m so excited and, when morning comes, the drone of planes sends me dashing onto the balcony; they sweep low in formations of two, three, four or eight. I wave, cheer and cry tears of happiness at being free at last. But how can I be happy when I don’t know what’s happened to Charles?
The Orchid Tree Page 10