That was when Mrs Pascoe glanced towards the house and saw her husband at the front door. In that instant she abandoned whatever purpose she may have had in mind, changed direction and walked straight past him into the house. Jerold Pascoe hardly gave his wife a glance. He simply remained there watching Claudia, until she got in her car and drove away.
It was almost a month since the day they had gathered to farewell Kaito. The boy from Hiroshima as they were calling him, had made an impact that was impossible to forget. They were all affected in their different ways. Tough old Billo the cook bought fresh flowers to put on his grave and secretly wept while he knelt there. Tobias spoke movingly of him in a night-time tribute that went out over the BCOF network, and was relayed across Asia on Radio Australia. Ben had taken a photo of him and most of them asked for copies. An enlargement was framed and hung in the music library. Jimmy Marks had one pasted on the control panel of the jeep.
Meanwhile Ben had called a meeting, at which the unit agreed they wanted to erect some kind of memorial for him in Hiroshima itself. It was decided to meet and discuss it with the Japanese Municipal Authority, rather than Colonel Rawleigh or any of his minions at BCOF headquarters.
During this time Luke was cheered by a cable from Harry Morton in Tokyo:
THAT’S MORE LIKE IT. WILL PUBLISH AND SEND IT ON.
Where it was to be sent was not specified. A week later came another cable.
STORY WAS IN TODAY’S ISSUE ABOVE THE FOLD.
Asking Ben, who’d worked in newspapers, what ‘above the fold’ meant, Luke was told this was at the top of the page in a broadsheet newspaper, where the best stories were placed. Thrilled by this accolade, he forgot about the first cable and no longer wondered where it was being sent.
There had been a dock strike, with ships queued up along the coast and mail held up on board, so there was a delay before Claudia received the next letter from Luke, telling her about Kaito and the battle with the brass hats. He sent a copy of the article with it, which she passed on to Helen and to Rupert.
It made me cry, she wrote back, and Rupert says it ought to be seen more widely, to make other people cry.
She thought of telling Luke about her vicious encounter with Pascoe, but on reflection decided not to, because there was nothing he could do to assist her from so far away. And it might give him a few sleepless nights like the ones she’d already had. For Pascoe’s threats had begun to concern her. It had never occurred to her that she’d meet such bitter antipathy. Or that she’d be confronted with a possible charge of some kind. Her first thought was to consult with Helen. She explained about the threats and aggression over a meal with both Helen and Rupert at the Greek restaurant in Dee Why.
“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed. “Is it possible he could really bring a case against me? Alienation, or whatever?”
“Sounds a bit outlandish,” Rupert said, “but the law can be an ass, as my learned friend may confirm or not. What do you think, Helen?”
“It can be twisted by people like him,” Helen agreed, “and he’s done it before. He’s a notorious bully, and loves litigation. He’ll sue at the drop of a hat,” she raised a hand to forestall any alarm, “which is not to say he’ll win.”
“So it might be a bluff?” Claudia asked.
“More of a tactic,” was the reply, “but an intimidating one. That’s how he wins. Let me talk to a barrister I’ve worked with, Claudia. I’m not sure Pascoe could succeed with a case like this. The danger is, he might bring it anyway. He’s rich enough not to care about the cost, and malicious enough to want to persist, to force you to get legal counsel, give you sleepless nights, and make you start worrying about being in court accused of trying to deprive parents of their crippled son …”
“He’s already achieved that,” Claudia admitted.
“And then he may drop the case, by which time you’ll be up for your costs, you’ll have had a dreadful time, made to feel people are talking about you, probably received some unpleasant press. There are various ways to use the law that to me seem close to illegal, and this bastard’s an expert at it.”
“So what do I do?”
“Relax, if you can. Let me get advice as soon as possible. And you can start relaxing by helping Rupert and me to demolish another bottle of red.”
“Second that,” said Rupert. He turned thoughtfully to Claudia. “You said you felt the mother might be sympathetic?”
“I got that impression. But I’d say she’s scared of him.”
Rupert was still thoughtful. “Helen, would this be a stupid idea? Suppose Claudia was to write to Mrs Pascoe. Just a friendly note saying she thought Steven’s mum wished to speak to her, and she could be contacted at the hospital or at home. Worth a try?”
“Why not? It’s strange she wasn’t present,” Helen replied, “since it was entirely about their son.”
“She was told to leave,” Claudia said. “No words, just a signal to go. I’ve been curious ever since, how she’d feel about what was said.”
“What puzzles me,” Rupert told them, “is the father’s behaviour. You’ll both say I’m a story editor making a drama out of it, but from what Luke told me of Steven’s previous life, I can’t see why the father so desperately wants him back? He threatens Claudia because he wants his son home, to spend the rest of his life in an iron lung. Why? For the pleasure of his company? Do you really think so? I thought he hated Steven for refusing to join the firm, and for challenging him by enlisting in the army. We know Steve dislikes him, and dreads the thought of that kind of life. So what does his motive for refusing to even consider an alternative treatment sound like to you two? Or can I tell you what it sounds like to me?”
“What?” Claudia asked, as they both stared at him.
“Revenge,” Rupert said.
“You are a story editor making a drama out of it,” Helen told him, “but the man’s such a bastard it just might be true.”
In early May when Luke least anticipated it, came another cable from Harry Morton. He opened it without expectation.
MAKING ARRANGEMENTS FOR YOU TO URGENTLY JOIN US IN TOKYO. YOU MAY LIKE TO KNOW YOUR ARTICLE WAS SENT ON TO THE GUARDIAN IN ENGLAND WHICH HAS PUBLISHED IT. IT HAS ALSO APPEARED IN THE WASHINGTON POST AND LAST WEEK IN THE NEW YORK TIMES. CONGRATULATIONS AND START PACKING. HARRY.
The telegram Luke sent her with his news was the only bright spot in what had been a difficult time for Claudia. It had begun to feel as if it might become impossible for her to continue helping Steven. It might even be difficult to see him, although she knew how eagerly he looked forward to her daily visits. A remark from Matron caused her to wonder if Pascoe had already made a complaint. And whether this was his first move in a campaign to discredit her.
“I know that nice young man is a friend of yours,” Matron said, “but it’s best not to visit the ward too often. I do realise it cheers him up, and is done in your own time when you’re off-duty, but polio is still a mystery. We can’t be sure if he might still be contagious, Claudia. So do take care.”
It was all she said, but the warning seemed too coincidental not to be connected. She kept wondering what Mrs Pascoe had wanted to talk about, still convinced she had positioned herself outside for an interception, but there was no longer any way to find out if this was true. Her letter to Steven’s mother was sent two weeks ago, and gone unanswered. Helen’s barrister friend was away in Broken Hill on a trial that would last another week.
So it was in a state of frustration that she finished her shift one wintry afternoon, and went upstairs to the orthopaedic ward. At least she had the good news about Luke to tell him, and would do her best to remain cheerful. No point in imparting gloom; it was the last thing he needed. And he’d sent a message by one of the ward nurses, asking her to please be certain to come upstairs as she was off-duty at four o’clock. She always did, so wondered about the reason for the message. It was soon explained. He had a visitor sitting by the bedside with her back to the
door. When Steven saw her arrive, he spoke to the woman who turned around to look at her. Claudia could not suppress a gasp of surprise. It was his mother.
“I had to wait until my husband was away, so there’d be no chance of him finding out,” she said, on greeting Claudia, “but can I begin with an apology for his behaviour, and for not being able to meet you sooner. You were right, Claudia, what you said in your letter. I did want to talk to you that day at the house, and now at last I’ll explain why.”
TWENTY
From the train window it was a surprise to Luke how much rebuilding was now taking place in Tokyo. In the short time since he had last been there most of the rubble had been cleared away, and even the worst of the battered suburbs were revealing new housing. In the city itself cranes dominated the skyline and the streets were clogged with trucks and teams erecting scaffolding. As a result traffic was painfully slow. Luke had queued for a taxi at the station with his luggage, and the driver’s few words of English had already revealed a convoluted American accent.
“Goddam traffic,” he said, “real bad shit.”
Luke noticed on his last trip how American troops had commandeered the taxis, just as they had in Australian cities, and doubtless the flower shops were also feeling the benefit of occupation. He wondered if the girls here were selling orchids back to shops the next day, as they’d quickly learned to do in Sydney.
“Bloody cars,” the cab driver spoke again, after it had taken an unconscionable time to progress one block. “You English guy?”
“Australian,” Luke said, and to avoid further conversation took out two of the letters he’d received just before leaving and immersed himself in reading them again.
One was from his mother, telling him she’d been in touch with friends from her ballet school days, and was thinking seriously of a move back to England. Or at least a visit. The rapprochement with neighbours in Collaroy had proved short-lived.
As you know, Luke, I was always rather homesick, and when I wrote to several chums from those days, their response was so welcoming that I feel I’d love to see them again. Can you understand, my dear? Because I know my husband left his financial affairs in your hands, and it seems cruel that I have to ask for your help, but that was his final unkindness to me. So, if we can work something out that does not endanger the way he structured the will, I’d like to go there and find out whether my friends from the past are still friends, and if so it might solve my future. I hate to come to you with a begging bowl, but perhaps that was what he intended.
Claudia drops in from time to time. She’s doing what she can for Steven, although the father is a problem, but I seem to recall he was always a difficult man. She brought me a copy of the article you wrote about poor little Kaito. I was immensely moved, and very proud of you.
In the same mail came a letter from Alistair who was proving an invaluable ally. It was a letter that made him smile with pleasure.
In my candid opinion Louisa needs a trip to Britain for health reasons, which supersedes any rigid determinates of the will, and it is my belief she should be granted a suitable lump sum to undergo such a journey. If you would care to sign and send back the agreement I’ve drafted — I know we would both wish her to travel in the utmost comfort, so I’ve taken the liberty of booking her a first-class seat on a Qantas Constellation leaving in three weeks time. If this meets with your approval, I remain Yours Most Sincerely, Alistair Tate.”
Brilliant, Luke thought, and before leaving Kure had signed and sent the agreement with a note attached that simply said, You beaut! By now, he imagined, Louisa could be sitting in luxury on the aircraft headed for London. And not before time, being treated with respect. He envied her the journey, and wondered when he would see her again. It was good to think that, with Alistair and Helen’s help, they were able to look after her and circumvent the intent of his father’s vindictive will.
Helen arranged a meeting for Claudia with Roger Armitage KC. They met in his chambers, a small cloistered room in Phillip Street lined with law books. Armitage was a cheerful stocky man in his fifties, who had once played rugby for New South Wales, and toured as a reserve with the Wallabies. He was well-groomed, wearing a three-piece navy suit, and had a suntanned face, short sandy hair and a ready smile.
Claudia found him not only well-briefed on her own case by Helen, but he knew all about the courtroom tactics of Jerold Pascoe. And, in fact, had experienced a similar situation as a young lawyer, when a client of his was driven to attempt suicide. The timber baron had tormented him to the point of despair, and caused his financial ruin with constant court delays and appeals. As Armitage pointed out, Pascoe could afford this kind of costly strategy, and had spitefully driven his opponent into bankruptcy and a nervous breakdown.
“There’s nothing quite as lethal as a very rich and malicious appellant,” he told Claudia. “I gather his wife had something to say, when she met you.”
“She had lots to say.” Claudia told him of the conversation she’d had with Mrs Pascoe. “She’s on my side, but frightened of her husband. She did confirm he’s already consulting lawyers, with the intention of making life as difficult for me as possible.”
“So much for goodwill towards anyone trying to help his son. A son to whom he personally bears no goodwill whatever.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s at the core of it. He wants to scare me off, and although I don’t scare easily, I must admit I lie awake thinking about it. Helen painted a grim picture of the kind of court case he’d try to bring, where, to put it bluntly, I’m accused of trying to steal a crippled son from his distraught and loving parents. While a jury gazes at me and is led to think I’m a monster.”
“I doubt if any jury could gaze at you and think that, Claudia, if you don’t mind my saying so. But we want to make damn sure it never gets that far. And it’s my opinion that there is an answer, but the answer’s in your hands. You could prevent his case ever getting to court.”
“How, Mr Armitage?”
“I need to emphasise it’s a course you may hesitate or not wish to take. But I gather you feel strongly about helping Steven despite being threatened by Pascoe, and you therefore have a solution. Perhaps a solution of last resort, but there is a way to shut down his nasty little game, stop his threats, and see the last of him.”
“That sounds such a relief.”
“Hear me out first, Claudia. You may not think so.”
Luke was shown the furnished apartment that Doreen had found for him as a temporary home, and pronounced it perfect. It was on the first floor in a building overlooking the Sumida River, with a bedroom, a sitting room lined with bookshelves and stocked with books, a modern kitchen and bathroom. Compact, but exactly what he needed. “No wonder he calls you the Treasure,” he told her, “it couldn’t be better. Convenient and comfortable.”
“And yours for the next seven months,” she said. “The owners are friends of mine, who’ll be back from Europe at Christmas. Gives you heaps of time to find something else before then.”
He didn’t mention it, but he’d already been offered and turned down something else.
“The guest room is yours if you want it,” Alfie Metcalfe had been on the phone the moment he heard of Luke’s transfer, “and the delightful Miki will be only too happy to accommodate your every wish.”
“Mate, don’t tempt me,” Luke replied.
“Still true blue, eh? Well, the offer remains on the table. Or, if you prefer it, in the bed might be preferable,” he said with a typical grin.
“You are a mad, wild bugger,” Luke laughed. “I had a warning letter from Rupert, who said ‘beware of Metcalfe. He’ll get you into serious shit.’”
“That’s where all the fun is,” said Alfie. They met regularly, Luke glad to have a friend who knew the lurks and perks in this exhilarating city.
At the Pacific Monitor he soon picked up the newsroom vernacular. The splash meant the lead story on the front page. Good reportage, as he already knew
, went above the fold, dud stories on the spike. Disclaimers were set in italics. It was an invigorating few weeks at the end of which he was startled to be told by Doreen that cheques had been coming in for his article on Kaito, including payments from The New York Times, Washington Post, and smaller amounts from newspapers all over America and Britain.
“I didn’t expect this,” he told Harry, “it was written as a tribute to Kaito, and I feel guilty making money out of it.”
“Bloody nonsense,” Harry admonished him. “Wealthy newspapers should not be encouraged to publish without payment. Sam Johnson would be deeply disappointed in you,” he said with pretended severity.
“Apologies to Sam,” Luke replied, “but I still feel embarrassed.”
“What can we do with him?” Harry asked Doreen. “He’s written a strong plea against nuclear bombs, one that deserves wide publication that makes him money. Doreen, how can we prevent him from feeling embarrassed?”
“Yuri Nakamura,” said Doreen, and Harry beamed approval.
“Our Treasure,” he said to Luke, “is pretty damn bright.”
Pretty and bright, Luke thought, by now knowing of their relationship. Any young journalist lusting after Doreen had no chance against the boss, at least fifteen years her senior.
“Who’s Yuri Nakamura?” he asked.
“He runs a research group on radiation illness,” Harry said. “He needs funds, so if the fees are an embarrassment you could make a small donation.”
They met for lunch at the American club. Doctor Yuri Nakamura was a rather dignified Japanese man in his forties, with thick glasses, bushy eyebrows, and a pronounced limp. He had been badly injured, lucky to be alive, when the hospital in the central district where he worked was destroyed during one of Tokyo’s most ferocious raids.
Yuri, as he asked Luke to call him, had been an emergency surgeon during the raids in March, 1945, when in a single night hundreds of Superfortresses dropped incendiaries that reduced much of the city to ashes and rubble. It was the night when shelters had proved ineffective, creating panic as scorching fires swept by fierce winds destroyed the Ginza, and turned the Sumida lake into a boiling cauldron. He had little memory of the direct hit on the hospital. Recovering consciousness in a basement full of dead or badly wounded nurses and doctors, he spent the next few months in intensive care while colleagues tried to save his leg. In the end partial amputation had been necessary, and he had a prosthetic limb fitted below his right knee. Before the war he’d been a keen golfer; now, with this activity curtailed, he’d turned his attention to research on the problem of radiation. It was a major challenge, the kind of dilemma they’d encountered with Kaito, the fear that so many who’d survived Hiroshima and Nagasaki were now suddenly showing new and alarming symptoms that led to death.
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