The Bird in the Bamboo Cage

by Hazel Gaynor

  ‘Are you all right, Miss?’ Joan asked as we reached the classroom. ‘You’ve gone ever so pale.’

  I’d noticed how she watched me closely since that awful day. I think she understood, too, that Trouble was merely biding his time.

  ‘I’m sorry, Joan. I was just thinking about something. Go and sit down now.’

  As she took her seat behind her desk, it struck me how much she had changed from the shy quiet girl at the back of the classroom at Chefoo. I had a feeling that Joan Nuttall might yet turn out to be the most remarkable of them all.

  ‘Open your books, girls. Page forty-nine.’

  I carried on, bolstered by the precious stability of routine and discipline, as the shadow of Trouble’s threats settled in the seat behind me.

  He found me the next day.

  The second time was worse.

  The second time, he closed the door.

  MOUSE

  I was always known as the quiet one; the one who never joined in, or spoke up, or stood out. But what I didn’t say, I made up for in watching and listening.

  I noticed things the other girls didn’t. I understood the dormitory hierarchies long before they understood it themselves. They were always too busy bossing each other around and showing off, or giggling and whispering secrets to one another while I stood at the edge of it all, looking on. They thought I was minding my own business, but I was actually minding theirs.

  I saw the way Larry Crofton looked at Nancy during our Girl Guide displays and ceremonies; how he always sat where he could see her. I saw the anxious glances between Miss Kent and Miss Butterworth when they took our monthly measurements and saw how thin we’d become. I heard the quiet sobs Miss Kent tried to muffle beneath her bedsheets at night. Worst of all, I had seen what Trouble did to her in the abandoned old shed, and I saw him pull her inside a second time, before kicking the door shut behind him. I didn’t fully understand it, but I understood enough to know that he was hurting her in the most unimaginable way, and I hated him for it.

  I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer, but I couldn’t bear to tell Nancy either. She was ever so fond of Miss Kent, and I knew it would upset her dreadfully to hear what was happening.

  So, I told the only person who could help.

  Mrs T wasn’t easily shocked, but even she was horrified when I told her. She asked me to tell her precisely what I’d seen, and where, and how often.

  ‘I wish he was dead, Mrs T,’ I said when I’d told her everything I could remember. ‘Truly, I do. I know it isn’t Christian to think that, and that we must forgive our enemies, but I wish he would catch the typhoid, or whatever killed Uncle Eric and Sprout.’

  ‘And you’re quite sure about this, Joan?’ Mrs T asked. ‘About what you saw? This is very serious. It isn’t something to be exaggerating, or making up.’

  I promised on Guide’s honour that I was telling the truth.

  She looked at me and, for the first time since she’d returned from her ‘holiday with the Commandant’ as she called it, she looked like the Mrs T I remembered. The Mrs T who wouldn’t put up with anybody’s nonsense and would always lend a hand.

  ‘Well, in that case, you did the right thing by telling me.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘But now you must forget all about it.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘I just wish there was something I could do to help Miss Kent.’

  ‘You already have,’ she said. ‘You leave the rest to me, dear.’ She stood up, suddenly all action as she rubbed her hands together and rummaged through a pile of handwritten notes until she found what she was looking for. ‘Now, how about a cup of tea? I’ve been experimenting with some new plants.’

  Mrs T always made a fuss of serving tea, insisting on doing it properly and using her proper bone-china tea set with pink hand-painted English tea roses. The teapot had a cracked lid, and one of the cups had a chip on the rim, but I always thought it looked so elegant and refined among all the dust and dirt.

  ‘Finest Wedgewood that,’ Mrs T said as I lifted the handle. ‘It belonged to my mother. She always kept it for best. For special and important occasions.’

  ‘What’s special about today?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re having tea, dear, and nobody is bothering us. That’s special, wouldn’t you say?’

  I tried to do as Mrs T had said and forget about Miss Kent and what I’d seen, but I couldn’t help noticing how dreadfully tired Miss Kent looked, or how nervous and twitchy she seemed. Even at Guides she wasn’t as enthusiastic as usual.

  ‘You don’t think Miss Kent’s poorly, do you?’ Nancy asked as we washed our socks that evening. ‘She’s ever so quiet.’

  I said I hadn’t noticed, and felt awful for telling fibs.

  A few days later, as I was walking back from visiting Sprout’s grave, Trouble stopped me as I passed the guards’ house.

  ‘You. Girl. Take this.’ He held out Mrs T’s special teapot and the cup with the chip. ‘Tell her Japanese tea is better.’

  I didn’t ask any questions, but took the teapot and cup and hurried to Mrs T’s accommodation.

  ‘Trouble asked me to give you these,’ I said.

  ‘Did he say anything?’ she asked as she grabbed them from me.

  ‘Not much. Only that Japanese tea is better.’

  We looked at each other for a moment before she lifted the lid of the teapot, and peered inside. ‘Well, it can’t have been that bad. He drank almost the full pot.’

  ‘Was it one of your own recipes,’ I asked. ‘A special recipe?’

  She nodded, and tipped the last few drops into the bushes beside the window. ‘Your friend, Home Run, took it to him. He had a bet with Trouble as to which tea was better: Japanese, or English. Probably best not to mention it to anyone else,’ she added.

  ‘I won’t even tell Nancy,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Good girl. Now, I’d best go and wash these.’

  ‘I’m very glad he liked your tea,’ I said as we walked together to the pump.

  Mrs T stopped, patted my arm lightly, and squeezed my hand. ‘So am I, young Mouse. So am I.’

  News reached us the next morning that one of the guards had become gravely ill.

  ‘Home Run told me,’ Nancy whispered. ‘He says it’s Trouble.’

  I hardly dared breathe. ‘Does Miss Kent know?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I just think she might like to know.’

  ‘Well, there she is now. Come on. Let’s tell her.’

  She dragged me toward Miss Kent who was drawing water from the pump.

  ‘Did you hear, Miss?’ Nancy said, all excited to share the shocking news.

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘About the guard? Trouble? He’s been taken ill. He’s in a very bad way, apparently.’

  Miss Kent’s hand stilled on the pump handle as she seemed to sway a little. ‘Are you quite sure, Nancy?’

  ‘Yes. Home Run told me.’

  ‘It must be a tropical fever,’ I added.

  Miss Kent looked at me for a moment, before excusing herself. We watched her as she walked quickly toward the school building. When she reached the wall, she leaned forward, her palms placed against the red bricks. Even from a distance, I could see that her shoulders shook violently. I felt the tremors of her pain and relief news beneath my feet.

  As we lined up for Same Old Stew that evening, Mrs T joined the line behind us.

  ‘Hello, girls,’ she said. ‘Ready for a feast? I hear it’s roast swan tonight, with a fried ostrich egg.’ We usually laughed at her imaginary menus, but I just stared at her. ‘Dramatic news about that young guard, isn’t it?’ she added as she fussed with her earrings. ‘Although I can’t say I’m one bit sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I hope none of us catches whatever he’s got,’ Nancy said. ‘Edward said it’s probably a tropical fever.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need to worry, Nancy,’ Mrs T replied. ‘Not all fevers are in
fectious. Not this one, anyway.’

  My tin bowl slipped from my hand and fell to the floor with a clatter. As I bent to pick it up, Mrs T reached for it at the same time, and our hands found each other.

  I looked at her as she wrapped her fingers around mine, and I smiled.

  ELSPETH

  May 1945

  Trouble’s sudden illness became a turning point around which everything else began to pivot. Like a tightly coiled rope being slowly unwound, I felt myself loosen. I could breathe properly again.

  ‘I heard he had some sort of seizure or heart attack,’ Minnie said, eager to talk about the event that had most of the Chefoo group speculating and gossiping. ‘According to Charlie Harris, he’s been sent back to Nagasaki for medical treatment. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’

  She trilled on and on until I had to ask her to stop talking.

  ‘Please, Minnie. Can we talk about something else? I have the most dreadful headache.’

  I couldn’t share in the joy Minnie and many others took from Trouble’s departure. His violence stuck to me like a dark spreading stain. No matter how far away he was, I would never be free of him, or what he’d done to me.

  ‘I wish you would tell me what on earth’s the matter,’ Minnie said. ‘I’m sure you would feel an awful lot better for getting it off your chest.’

  I came close to confiding in her, but couldn’t find the words. It was my secret; my burden to bear. I told her she worried too much, and went to bed early.

  Alone on my mat, I folded in on myself, and wept for the life I’d lost; for the quiet life I should have been living with Harry in a pretty Yorkshire village, instead of fading away in this terrible unimaginable place. When I eventually fell asleep, I dreamed of birds kept in cages and kingfishers trapped in nets, and morning came before I could set any of them free.

  As I’d seen so often since our internment, our primary concerns and problems changed quickly, and our fortunes fluctuated as drastically as the seasonal temperatures. Without the threat of Trouble lurking around every corner, I was able to focus on the infant a little more. I apologized to Minnie for having left her to take the brunt of the responsibility.

  ‘Gosh, Els, I don’t mind at all. You’ve enough on your plate with Alfie missing and what-not.’

  Neither of us had mentioned Alfie for many months, perhaps for the best part of a year. His name stung my conscience.

  ‘I’m sorry for bringing it up,’ she offered, sensing my discomfort.

  I told her I didn’t mind. ‘I should talk about him more,’ I said. ‘Say his name.’

  ‘Do you think about him often?’ she asked.

  ‘As often as I can,’ I replied. ‘But there’s no point driving myself to distraction, is there? I can’t very well send out a search party.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ She placed a hand on my arm. ‘Stay strong, Els. Don’t give up on him yet.’

  The child cooed in her arms, adding her own voice of encouragement.

  The blossom on the plum trees, and the baby named for them, were the only things capable of bringing a smile to my face that spring. Like the sunflower that had grown at Chefoo, Meihua stubbornly thrived, despite the impossible conditions she’d been born into. We spoke to her of her parents; told her their names, and how brave they were, and I told her stories of beautiful ladies who wore jewels made from kingfisher feathers. Her innocence and resilience gave me strength. Her tiny little shoulders bore the weight of so much hope, and she buoyed us up as surely as a hundred barrage balloons. I adored her as if she were my own. But it was Minnie’s face she smiled at; Minnie’s voice she turned her head toward.

  Wei Huan sent secret messages to us whenever he could. We were relieved to hear that Shu Lan had managed to escape from the soldiers who’d occupied Wei Huan’s uncle’s farm. She was now hiding in the hills with others. I find her when we free, he wrote. I take Meihua to her.

  The world was broken beyond all recognition, but the child gave us a reason to believe – to hope – that it could be healed, and that we might heal with it.

  ‘Elspeth. Psst. Elspeth. Wake up.’

  I stirred and opened my eyes to see Charlie’s face at the window.

  ‘Charlie. Whatever are …’ I wrapped my blanket around myself and pulled at my hair to smooth it down.

  ‘Come outside,’ he whispered.

  I stepped from the room as quietly as I could, and pulled the door shut behind me. It was still dark, but the moon was bright and the first streaks of light were visible in the east. Charlie was already fully dressed.

  ‘What time is it?’ I asked, still half-asleep.

  ‘Early. And I’m sorry to wake you, but I wanted to be the first to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Germany has surrendered.’ A broad smile spread across his face. ‘The Allies have declared victory in Europe. We’ve won, Elspeth! We’ve bloody well won!’

  I couldn’t believe it. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes! I’m sure. A message was sent in from a reliable source, and the guards are twitchy. The war in Europe is over, and it won’t be long before Japan surrenders, too.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘We’re nearly there, Elspeth.’

  After six years of unimaginable horror, it was almost impossible to believe that the Nazis had surrendered. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In the end, all I could do was stand in shock, my hand in Charlie’s. My thoughts turned immediately to Alfie. If, as I’d chosen to believe, he’d been held as a prisoner of war, surely this would mean he was a free man.

  News about the Allied victory in Europe spread quickly across the compound, and yet, for all our quiet relief, the fact remained that while one part of the war was over, another part wasn’t. Our war continued.

  We tried not to make too much of it when we told the children, careful not to raise their hopes of imminent release. We’d fallen into a rhythm at Weihsien, carefully navigating our day-to-day existence. It had kept the children safe and educated and in reasonable spirits for two years. Like a carefully balanced weight, we were all aware that too much emphasis on one thing or another could send everything crashing to the ground.

  So, we pressed on; quietly hopeful of a change to our situation while we followed the now-familiar patterns of daily camp life. Roll-call and prayers. Lessons and Girl Guides. Sunset and sunrise. Routine and discipline sustained us once more as the gentle warmth of spring gave way to the suffocating heat of summer, and the heightened threat of disease returned.

  Early August brought a fresh outbreak of dysentery that spread quickly and saw the hospital inundated with patients, several Chefoo children – including Nancy Plummer – among them. Losing Dorothy had been one loss too many. After all we’d come through, when we believed we were so close to being liberated, I prayed desperately for the children to make a full recovery.

  Victory cannot come soon enough, I wrote in my diary. Each new day feels like one too many.

  My diary entries had shortened over the months. Once-detailed accounts had given way to a few scant lines. Some days, and occasionally for entire weeks, I’d written nothing, unable to find the energy or the pencil lead necessary. But August brought a flurry of news, and I reached for my diary at the end of each eventful day.

  America has dropped atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Tens of thousands are dead. All expect Japan to surrender.

  I wrote the words with a mixture of hope and horror.

  ‘I can’t bear to think of all those innocent people, killed,’ Minnie said at the weekly staff meeting as we discussed the latest developments. ‘Many children among them, no doubt. It’s simply too terrible to think about.’

  ‘War is a terrible thing, Almena,’ Charlie said with a deep sigh. ‘On that, I think we are all agreed, whichever side we are on.’

  ‘Nagasaki? Isn’t that where Trouble was sent when he fell ill?’ I asked.

  Minnie looked at me. ‘I believe it was, yes.’

 
; His name was never spoken again.

  While the gathering rumours of imminent Allied victory over Japan brought real and sustained hope, it also brought new concerns about retaliation, and what the guards would do with us if their leaders surrendered.

  ‘There is a very real possibility of the children being used as hostages,’ our headmaster warned. ‘Or local farmers mounting some sort of mutiny and stealing what little food we have. Or, worse still, that all enemy prisoners will be killed.’

  Set out so starkly, it seemed that, victory or not, there would be no easy end to this.

  I had terrifying dreams that night in which the children were forced to dig a long ditch, which we were then all lined up alongside, our backs to the guards whose guns were carefully trained on us. On the command, they fired. Not all at once, but one at a time, so that those at the end of the line had to witness the execution of every other person before their turn came. I was the last in line.

  I woke in a cold sweat and watched the guards’ bayonet drills that morning with a heightened sense of dread. Would liberation – the very thing we’d hoped and prayed for every day since that snowy December morning at Chefoo – become the very thing that would see us all dead in an unmarked grave, our families never to know what had become of us? I couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. Too much had already been lost; too many voices silenced for it to end that way. I stubbornly pulled on the tangled threads of the latest Allied victories, and stitched them into a shield of hope.

  Before supper that evening, I walked alone to the imposing compound gates and imagined British and American soldiers breaking through, and the great cheers that would go up from the children. I’d already decided I wouldn’t lead them out in an orderly manner, as I’d once thought I would. I would encourage them to run out of the gates in an unruly swarm of delight, arms windmilling wildly, their thin little legs hardly able to keep up with them. Routine and discipline had been our glue, but I wanted the children to understand that the best part of routine was the pure exhilarating joy that came when the rules were torn up and the gates of possibility flung wide open.