by Maggie Ford
She glanced up at the domed clock on the mantelshelf and sighed, ignoring Susan’s look of horror as she put the rest of her husband’s socks back into the workbasket to finish off later. ‘Come on, you kids, time fer bed. Yer’ve got school in the mornin’.’ Mattie, just a baby, had been put to bed ages ago. Emma’s edict was met with a howl from the younger two, because Malcolm was still out playing.
‘It’s still light, Mum.’
‘This time of year, it’s always light. It’s still eight o’clock and time fer bed.’
‘Malc’s not bin called in yet.’
‘’E will be. Soon as you two are up them stairs. Come on now.’ She threw Susan an amused backward glance as she ushered them from the room in front of her. ‘I was only jokin’, Sue. My Geoff’d never go off wiv anuvver woman. ’E knows only too well where ’is bread is buttered, don’ you worry.’
In the flimsy bamboo and attap construction they called the hospital, Matthew eased his way between the low platforms of sick men, some still as death, some tossing and turning in delirium, some bloated by beri-beri or calling for a pan as they strained to the flux of dysentery, or waited to have tropical leg ulcers attended to.
Bob lay at the far end, a cadaverous figure whose hair had mostly fallen out to leave just a few dry tufts. His dull eyes glowed in the depths of their sockets and his lips parted in a grin at Matthew’s approach.
‘Hi.’ He was unable to say more.
‘Hi,’ Matthew returned. ‘How goes it?’
The thin shoulders hitched a fraction. ‘Fine,’ croaked the voice.
Kneeling beside him, Matthew recounted the day’s news as he gave him a drink and then the soup he’d concocted from rice and a tiny bit of dried fish, but Bob turned away after the first mouthful, appetite destroyed.
‘Cream of asparagus,’ Matthew made the pathetic joke, ‘straight from Harrods.’
But Bob’s body had doubled up in pain, and Matthew held the panshaped piece of tin beneath his pal as the bowels evacuated the black blood-stained fluid. He felt helpless. How Bob had stayed alive for so long was beyond him. Sheer will-power sustained him and nothing else, for he no longer ate.
There were no drugs and food was his only chance. But rice alone was not food enough. For his friend, Matthew stole, but not well. Bob had always been better at it than he, his cheerful slant on life serving him well in the face of the anger of their conquerors if caught. Even for them food was not all that forthcoming and understandably they were apt to become overwrought by light-fingered prisoners purloining the tiniest portion of what small comforts they did receive. But stealing was a necessary part of survival. Bartering what inedibles he stole called for patience, and again Bob’s stolid approach to life had allowed him to stand the strain of it and the disappointment that often followed. Wily villagers knew they had the edge on British POWs with half a mind on prowling guards. The Nippon cigarettes or stolen truck spares they’d risked their lives for would reap a couple of tiny eggs or a pomelo or two or a scrap of dried fish. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The watery dawn coming up, Matthew turned his face towards camp with a lighter heart than usual. Under his loincloth hung half a tiny chicken, a bit high but edible. It made him walk oddly but the gait of anyone with a raw scrotum was easily ignored. Once the chicken was made into a soup, Bob must surely find the appetite to take a few mouthfuls.
The night shift had been unusually short. Yamagata, their shoko, had miscalculated the quota and his pleasure at their apparently superhuman efforts to reach the target he’d set showed on his round face, his tone almost pleasant as he’d called out ‘Yoroshii,’ which meant things were good. Or men finish.
With the railway growing apace it was a long march back to camp. By the time they reached it, Yamagata would have eaten and been in the arms of Morpheus. It was a surprise then to see him coming back to meet them, his short arms flailing like stubby windmill sails, his face animated. He had obviously discovered his error in judging his quota and intended putting it to rights; no doubt he’d been hauled over the coals himself for the mistake. But instead of marching the men back to the railway, he took them down another narrow path into the jungle to arrive at another camp.
It was empty. It didn’t take long to discover why. Every one of the native labourers there was dead. Ordered to burn every corpse, a strong suspicion grew that they were disposing of cholera victims and Matthew thought that no Japanese could ever have seen men work faster. Two hours later they were marching back to their own camp, a very sober, thoughtful bunch. But worse was to come. In their absence three British POWs had died of something also strongly resembling cholera.
Matthew felt his flesh creep, seeing the Japanese running about making ready to flee before it struck them also. He noticed too that the guards with his column had disappeared. Nothing would prevent a man escaping except the jungle itself; thousands of square miles of rainforest; a mapless terrain where he would climb and slither endlessly; inedible plant life, poisonous insects, evil water; he would go round in circles until he died. No iron bars could have made a better prison.
In a steady rain that had again begun, the camp was a nucleus of panic, the sick being transported from the hospital on makeshift stretchers to be unceremoniously dumped on the bare, wet ground. Catching the panic, Matthew grabbed the arm of one of the helpers.
‘I’m looking for Bob Howlett.’
The man looked put out. With over a hundred sick to get out of this place at the double, who the hell remembered one man’s name? ‘Go and ask the bloody MO.’
‘Where’s the MO?’
The orderly shrugged free of his grip. ‘Listen chum. We’ve got just five minutes to get these poor buggers out before them bastards set fire to the hospital. They’re bleedin’ terrified. If you can’t help us, sod off!’
He had jerked a thumb towards three guards, no doubt ordered by their CO to stand their ground, which they would, more frightened of his wrath than cholera. Two had set up a machine gun, obviously meant for any protesters as the third stood by with several cans of kerosene. Their faces, full of terror, were the colour of putty.
‘There’s blokes gonna die being moved like this. But they ain’t gonna burn. Now leave us alone if you ain’t gonna help.’
Matthew found the MO inside the hospital frantically supervising the exodus. ‘Bob Howlett,’ he enquired urgently. ‘Lantern-jawed chap. Has dysentery.’
The distinguishing feature had made an impression. The MO paused in his work, his expression one of commiseration. ‘Were you the mate who used to feed and wash him?’
There was no need for the man to say more. Matthew felt numbed.
‘When?’ he whispered.
‘Buried him last night.’ The statement was almost callous. The MO had expended his compassion in this direction. Now he must return his attention to the living.
‘Where was he buried?’ Matthew persisted.
‘Cemetery.’ The soldier with the kerosene can was coming forward, approaching cautiously as though the dread killer might pounce out on him.
‘Where in the cemetery?’
‘I don’t know where!’ The MO pushed past, pointing to his helpers. ‘You, over there with that one. Quick now!’ His shout was one of exasperation. Two British officers, identifiable by the tattered shirts they still retained, were arguing with the soldier.
‘Wait – please – wait.’
But he pushed them aside, shaking his head. ‘Iie! Dame desu! Kirai! Hayaku!’ He was demanding they move out of his way. Those with the machine gun had grown tense. Defeated, the officers fell back. The can at arm’s length splashed against the hut. Numbed by his own grief, Matthew watched a lighted match thrown into the place, heard the fuel ignite with a soft roar. Flames met rain-soaked material, hissed, spluttered, hesitated. A pall of yellow smoke rolled the length of the hut. Men running in and out, bearing their occupied stretchers, coughed in the smoke, shouting, getting in each other’s way. More fuel wa
s splashed on, another match struck. A growl rose up from the rescuers, but the Japanese had the machine gun and were trigger-happy.
Conquering the wet bamboo and palm-leaf roof, the flames leapt, and still the rescuers ran in and out, the sick draped over their shoulders, men, hardly able to stand, clambering over the open sides of the hospital.
His own personal loss dulling his senses, Matthew ran with the others, blindly helping the last of the sick to safety until the heat finally forced him to retreat. With the flames crackling behind him he went towards the cemetery at the far end of the camp where a tangle of jungle prevented any further intrusion. There he stood gazing at the rows of bamboo crosses, each tilted in the sodden mud, each bearing a pathetic attempt to inscribe the name of whoever lay beneath.
It was very still here. Just the sound of pattering rain on the soft earth and the distant cries of those still helping with the rescue and the red glow from the burning hospital flickering on the drunken crosses in the monsoon-dulled morning like something in a weird dream.
Which cross belonged to Bob? Was he yet to have a cross? So many crosses. So many. From some of them a fine rivulet of mud was trickling. By the end of the monsoon many of the markers would be horizontal. As the camp moved on, following the railway, the jungle would return, cover them with vines and roots and fungus, all signs of them obliterated as though they had never been. By that time he and others would be far away, perhaps themselves beneath the mud under a rough bamboo cross out there in this senseless tangle. All were living on borrowed time. All a man could hope for was a mate to hold his hand so he would not die alone.
But Bob had died alone. The man who’d been his friend from almost the beginning of their Army service, who had carried him for two days on the march to Rangoon, who had bathed him so many times when he had been sick and helpless, had been denied the privilege of a companion to ease his last moments. Amid other dying men he had gone unnoticed, alone.
The thought of that loneliness constricted Matthew’s throat muscles. He should have been with him, should have been there to put an inscription on his pitiful bamboo cross, to honour Bob’s burial with his presence.
Without strength Matthew let his knees buckle, sank down in the mud which, disturbed by his light weight on it, offered up a fulsome stink. And as he had failed to comfort his dying friend, so there was no comfort for him – only the rain mingled with salt dribbling down his cheeks; only the empty silence of the lonely graves, the intermittent calling of the wild things of the rainforest, and, faintly, the shouts of men trying vainly to help each other.
Chapter 21
‘I really enjoy these moments of peace and quiet.’
Geoffrey Crawley lounged in one of the sagging armchairs in the living half of Susan’s partitioned room. ‘Between you, me and the gatepost,’ he continued, ‘Emma’s jolliness can go right through one sometimes.’
‘She’s a very nice person,’ Susan defended, handing him the cup of tea she’d made on the small gas ring she seldom used except when he came up here to escape the constant din of wife and kids downstairs.
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong.’ He took an appreciative sip of the tea. ‘I’d be the first to challenge anyone who says anything against her. Salt of the earth – Emma. But sometimes …’
Susan smiled. He seemed to like her as an audience, to get off his chest the little things that bothered him or to regale her with little anecdotes of his travels which Emma, managing three growing boys and a house, had no time to listen to and had probably heard before. At first it had been a little embarrassing, him coming up here. What if Emma got the wrong idea?
She’d said as much to Emma who had promptly viewed the whole thing with amusement. ‘Keeps ’im out of my way while I’m gettin’ dinner. S’long as yer don’t mind ’im. If yer don’t want ’im up there, just send ’im packin’ back down ’ere. Yer don’t ’ave ter put up wiv ’im. Need yer own privacy sometimes, I expect. Just turn ’im out when yer’ve ’ad enough.’
But she didn’t want to turn him out. It was nice having a man’s company all to herself. He made good conversation but his was quiet where Emma’s could be so noisy. He brought her little things, sweets he’d got from under the counter, most of them for his children and for Emma and even Mattie, but a few for her. Lately he’d been giving her more and more little presents: a pair of nylons; a length of parachute silk from which she made herself a couple of slips; a lipstick on her birthday – Max Factor – not easy to come by. The ends of previous ones were melted down and poured in to one container to make them go further. Emma didn’t wear lipstick since having the boys. ‘He knows what I look like,’ she’d said when Susan had offered her a touch of hers. ‘’E’d ’ave a fit, me dolled up. Think I’d got meself some other bloke.’
Susan accepted them all gratefully. At least she didn’t have to go with some GI like Edie to get them. On her first Christmas with the Crawleys – she’d refused to spend it with her in-laws – he had brought home a tiny wooden doll for Mattie. At Easter a real chocolate egg, not a cardboard one. On her first birthday a pink dress, and on Susan’s birthday, lace hankies. Where he got these things from she never asked; she was just flattered by the attention. And ever since her birthday he’d come up to sit in her armchair and chat for an hour or so, whatever Sunday afternoon he was home. It had become almost a habit.
Christmas came round again, and again she refused to spend any of it with Mr and Mrs Ward, nor, to be fair, with her own family. They were too much of a journey away and the house remained crowded with her grandparents still there, their home still uninhabitable. She sent them a card though, one of those postcard things that now took the place of the fancy pre-war ones.
But Mrs Ward was as put out as she’d been the previous year. ‘We never see Matilda unless we come to you. Surely one Christmas with us.’
Susan had remained silent, sullen, but she had her way. Here was fun, she could be herself with an easygoing family. The thought of spending it with the Wards, the long silences, the brooding atmosphere she always sensed there, though it was probably of her own making, made her cringe. She turned from the knowledge that there would be just three people at the Wards’ house this Christmas, Mr and Mrs Ward and Louise, home on leave, and they would sit and mourn the absence of their son through the whole festive season. She wanted none of it.
On Christmas Eve came an uproar from below, exactly as last year, when Geoffrey arrived home with presents. As before she remained in her room, not wishing to intrude. But soon footsteps echoed up the stairs and she heard a light tapping on her door.
Opening it she saw Geoff standing there, face flushed from the many whiskies and gins offered by various customers and reps who could still get hold of it. Swaying slightly he held out a large square brown paper parcel with a smaller one on top.
‘Happy Christmas!’ he burst out, thrusting the packages at her, and, too excited to wait for her to open them when the time came, announced in a slurred voice: ‘Dolls house f’r Mattie. Cardboard I’m ’fraid. The small one’s f’r you, pair o’ gloves.’
Susan felt her face flush with pleasure. ‘Geoff, you shouldn’t have.’
‘Part o’th’ family, hey?’
Even tipsy, he spoke much better than Emma. A Cockney twang could still be discerned there but Susan supposed that his work called for better speech. He was the exact opposite of Emma in every way; she bonny, sloppy, talkative, animated, her hair fair and frizzy; he slim, neat and quiet, brown hair slicked back by brilliantine. He was something like eighteen years older than Susan – Emma said he was nearing forty though she hadn’t said how near – but he looked younger than that. Although shorter, he resembled Matthew in some way, but was more sleek and not so dark-haired and his eyes looked an indeterminate shade of blue where Matthew’s had been brown. (She had used the past tense when that thought had come to her, though it had gone unnoticed.) But Geoff was here, and she had begun to notice him a lot. Not only was he nice to look at but he
smelled nice, from lotions she supposed he picked up on his travels.
‘I’ve got everyone something,’ he was saying, still swaying in the doorway. As she stood back to let him in, he plonked the packages on a chair.
‘I’ve got something for everyone too,’ she said. They were already wrapped and waiting, in brown paper. Christmas wrapping had become a thing of the past. ‘Wooden toys for the boys,’ she announced. ‘Someone I know makes them out of old furniture.’ It was a man who worked next door to where she worked. ‘I’ve got a brooch for Emma.’ That too was made from wood with a picture painted on it by the same man, making quite a trade out of it, it seemed.
‘And this is for you.’ She handed him the tiny package.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m not saying. Wait ’til you open it.’
He giggled. ‘I’ve told you what I got you. Tell me what you’ve got me.’
‘It isn’t much.’ They were cuff-links, not expensive.
‘Ah, th’ best things always come in li’l packages?’ He was regarding her closely and she felt he was referring to her personally. She felt herself blush.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘No.’ He swayed towards her. ‘I mean it.’ His breath smelled sweetly of whisky, not at all unpleasant. Leaning forward, he laid a kiss on her cheek. Suddenly all the loneliness she’d been pretending wasn’t there whenever Edie regaled her with what she’d been up to the evening before welled up inside her. She lifted both arms and put them around his neck and at the obvious invitation, his lips settled on hers.
Susan felt herself trembling with all the longing that had lain inside her, and she realised that he too harboured a certain loneliness, though why he should, with Emma there for him, she couldn’t understand. But at the moment she didn’t want to understand. Her whole being was crying out for comfort. For a second, her thoughts flew wildly to the bed behind the partition. Her heart seemed to be pounding through her entire body, her blood throbbing to its thumping. Then suddenly he released her.