by Jean Moran
‘This is my house. Come.’
Only to a rudimentary extent did she take in the finer details of the cats, the lanterns, the painted walls and the wooden buttressing holding up the lower balcony.
The interior smelt of incense, sandalwood and lotus blossom. In striking contrast with the brightness outside, it was a place of cool shadows, soft silks and dark wood.
He led her out through another door into a courtyard crowded with chrysanthemums, their heavy blooms like miniature suns, round and perfectly golden. She recalled seeing the same flowers before at another place, a garden beneath a high window from which one could see the whole of Hong Kong.
‘The flowers...’
‘The queen of flowers, first grown in Japan but I have long loved them. They are the emblem of my house, my family.’
He pulled on the chain of a brass bell hidden among the leaves of a miniature red-leaved Japanese maple. ‘We are prepared for you,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Just as we were before.’
The same diminutive woman who had waited on them back at his property in Hong Kong came tottering out behind a servant girl carrying a tray.
She said something to Kim, which sounded quite pleasant.
‘My grandmother welcomes me back. She welcomes you also.’
Rowena found herself doubting the woman’s welcome. She had beamed at her grandson but had avoided looking into Rowena’s face.
The hands of the servant girl wobbled as she placed her burden on the low table. Some tea spilled onto the tray.
The old woman growled words at her, like a dog about to bite, then punched the girl in the ribs.
Rowena looked up at Kim. ‘What did your grandmother say?’
Kim smiled. ‘That the girl is Han and has big feet. It is only to be expected that she is clumsy.’
With trembling hands she poured the tea into her parched throat. Over the rim of the cup she followed the rolling gait of the small woman with the tiny feet.
Kim noticed. ‘You are staring. It is impolite.’
‘I can’t help it. It seems so... barbaric.’
Kim stopped drinking from the fragile gold-edged tea dish. ‘It was tradition.’
‘Were your mother’s feet bound too?’
His change in expression made her think she’d said the wrong thing. ‘No.’
Whatever the circumstances of his mother’s unbound feet, she wasn’t going to hear about it.
The tea warmed her blood and perhaps jolted her memory. ‘Why am I here? Where are my friends? I remember now. I was with my colleagues from the hospital. We were rounded up and were being taken somewhere.’
‘You do not want to go where they have gone. It is best you stay here. Here there is food and drink, water for you to bathe in, silks for you to dress in and to lie on. And there is me, here to look after you. You will trust me. You will be happy.’
She rubbed at her forehead disturbed by the resurgence of memory that she’d willed herself to preserve in vivid detail. The memories had jagged edges, like broken glass, and they would be painful to fit back together. ‘Will I ever be able to leave here?’
‘Not while the war is going on. You are an enemy of Hirohito and the Empire of the Rising Sun. The emperor’s army will shed much blood in his name – including yours.’
‘Well, that’s clear enough.’
Yes, it was clear, but it was also troubling. She looked down at the tea, the rice balls, which had been sweetened with honey, rolled in flour and deep-fried.
‘Take one. These are very special. My grandmother’s recipe. I know you have not had much to eat of late. I intend making sure you do eat. Please. Take one.’
At first her stomach curdled at the thought of eating, but after one bite she discovered just how hungry she was. The rice balls were delicious and she told him so. ‘I’m very grateful you whisked me away from wherever I was destined to go, but I’m worried about the others I was with.’
‘I am sorry. I have some influence, but not enough to press for the release of all enemy aliens. My priority was to have you released and, with a little persuasion and some very good whisky, I achieved that.’
‘I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.’
‘Do not worry about it. You needed my help. Anyway, there is still the prospect of us dining together. I am determined that we will do that.’
‘At the Jockey Club?’
‘It can be arranged.’
His smile was full of the confidence of one who knows when to be bold, when to be tender and when to swap sides in times of trouble.
She shook her head. ‘I can’t...’ She paused as she fought to find the reason why she didn’t want to be seen out dining anywhere.
‘I understand,’ he said, before she had the chance to continue. ‘Very bad things happen in war, but it is behind you now. I will keep you safe within the walls of my house. I want to take care of you. It has been bad. Very bad. China sheds many tears for its children, but the dragon will rise again. As you may have noticed we believe in lucky charms, and the greatest one of all is the dragon. China considers itself the dragon and, although it weeps now, has vowed that it will rise again. Whether it does or does not, I will be there to assist the victor.’
She rose to her feet. ‘I should really be with them.’
Suddenly everything around her seemed to be swimming in a violet haze. Her legs buckled, but his arm was around her so she didn’t fall. He pressed a cold hand against her forehead. ‘You are very hot.’
‘I’m so tired.’
The sound of her voice seemed so far away.
He let her sink onto the velvet-covered divan, heard him give orders, then footsteps coming and going.
There was comfort in being cared for.
He had the Han girl bathe her, attend to her injuries and put her to bed. She let it all happen, uncaring who might be in the room when the girl stripped off her dirty clothes, but vaguely aware that she had not heard him leave.
The air was cool upon her naked flesh. The girl rubbed her down with herbs and oils, brushed her hair so it fanned over the pillows and applied more ointments to her face, the bruises and cuts on her body, her breasts and between her legs.
Daylight had diminished by the time she was falling asleep in a bed with a canopy, wooden walls on three sides and a curtain across the front. The buttercup-yellow pillows were soft and the overhead canopy, side walls and curtains kept the light away from her tired eyes.
Tonight, this first night in the house of Kim Pheloung, the demon faces did not come and neither did she hear herself screaming, beating the empty air with her fists. Fighting back only happened in her dreams. At the time she had feared what might happen if she did fight back, had stared at the Christmas decorations and pretended that she was flying away on that magic carpet. Tonight she was closer to that escape than she had ever been and the smiling prince on the flying carpet with her was Kim Pheloung. Tonight she slept deeply.
*
Kim stretched full length on a sofa against silk cushions smoking a cheroot. On the opposite sofa lay his grandmother, eyes half closed as she puffed on her opium pipe.
‘She sleeps.’
‘She would, though I did not put too much in her tea. You did not drink?’
‘I pretended to.’
His grandmother half raised her wrinkled eyelids and studied him shrewdly. She wasn’t always sure she liked her grandson, but she loved him because he was of her blood and looked after her. ‘Why her?’
Kim smiled. ‘I like exotic blooms. You know I do.’
His grandmother scowled. ‘She’s foreign, like a weed in the flowerbed.’
‘She’s a doctor.’
His grandmother was surprised at this, just as he’d known she would be. ‘And that’s your reason?’
‘Doctors are not gods. Women are not goddesses. Both need to know that.’
‘I don’t like her being here. It will come to no good. If the British find out...’
‘That I r
escued one of their own? They are no longer the lords of Hong Kong. They are defeated.’
Her eyes narrowed further as though the smoke was stinging her eyes. ‘And the Japanese?’
‘I paid an agreed price.’
‘With one man only, not the entire Japanese Army. I hope she proves worth it.’
Alarmed by his wilful obsession, she closed her eyes and pretended that she was at one with the opium in her pipe. He was her only grandson and it was her duty to protect him – even from himself.
9
Killings and beatings had continued until the white flag fluttered in meek surrender, but if Hong Kong thought that was the end of it, it was sadly mistaken.
There were still beatings, still killings but, as Connor had speculated, their labour was valued. In time the Allies would counter-attack and the Japanese High Command knew they had to be ready. In the meantime he would await his chance to escape, whenever that chance might come.
Sham Shi Po had been a refugee camp before the war following the Japanese invasion of China. It now served as a prison for those who had guarded the Chinese refugees. The accommodation was crowded but from the first there was camaraderie of like among like, all men in the same situation, some of whom were civilians, mainly administrators, engineers and public servants. The rest were military.
‘You will work.’
That was the order and for the most part it was accepted as better than being bored.
Harry got a slap for daring to ask if they would be paid for their labour.
‘Seems not,’ Connor grunted.
The sight of the walled city still fascinated and, prior to harvesting the old stone, Connor was surprised at how serene it was at that hour of the morning, although the rest of Kowloon was only barely waking up.
Its history fascinated, though it had a jaded look now its walls were being dismantled. He understood that only a few administrators had resided in the yamen, before the war, and had scarpered back to the mainland. After struggling to the top of the wall, sledgehammer slung over his shoulder, he looked into the compound and saw the house with red pillars and a pagoda-style roof. He also saw how well guarded it was and knew that the rumours he’d heard in Kowloon were true. ‘That’s Pheloung’s place. Just look at those guards. Armed to the teeth they are.’
Connor spent longer than he should have taking in the details. The guards were familiar, big-shouldered men wearing traditional costume offset by American-style gun belts. He didn’t need to see the pale green Lagonda to know who lived there.
Harry saw where he was looking.
‘Don’t even think of breaking and entering, old chap, and before you suggest I might like to accompany you and steal a little opium, forget it. I know when a fad has run its course, especially if I’m likely to get shot trying to steal some.’
The guards were using long canes to keep everyone working. Connor received a lash across his legs, and Harry jumped down from the wall onto the first block of the day before he got one too. Once quarried, the huge stones were manhandled onto the back of trucks, which were taken to the airport where another labour force was engaged in smashing them with hammers to be used as hardcore for lengthening the runway.
Connor had not jettisoned the idea of escaping, but now he was close to where he believed Rowena was being kept prisoner. He voiced his concerns to Harry. ‘The dear doctor doesn’t know it yet, but she’s as much a prisoner as we are.’
‘Better fed.’
The labour force was staggered, the same men never assigned the same job two days in a row. Sometimes they were dismantling the ancient walls, at others working at the airport.
Those chosen to work at the airport were obliged to get up at four in the morning to follow trucks already laden with the stone they were to smash. The sledgehammers were distributed on site, counted out and carefully counted in again at the end of the day.
‘That’s the secret. Hide a hammer,’ remarked Connor. ‘It should smash a few heads.’
‘And where do you suggest we hide it, old boy? Up our jacksy? Sorry, even I have to draw the line at that.’
It was humour – black or otherwise – that kept them going, that and the little extra food they could buy from street traders who came right up to the fence to barter. There was plenty of variety. Rice, vegetables and fish, squawking chickens, their legs tied together, hanging upside down from a pole slung over the trader’s shoulder, cigarettes, gin and whisky, no doubt looted from the officers’ club before the Japs had had a chance to take it themselves.
Money was the preferred currency but unless it had been well hidden, nobody had any, unless they’d had the foresight to sew it into the lining or seams of their clothes. Some still had wedding rings, wristwatches and the odd coin caught in a deep pocket. Bartering and clubbing together with a few coins or valuables became the norm. United they might survive.
The work was relentless and so were the empty nights. Connor’s Irish ballads and traditional folk songs entertained the inmates during the long evenings and helped them forget that they weren’t getting enough to eat, that bathing was restricted and that it could get bloody cold if all you had was a single blanket to keep you warm.
When he sang Connor imagined Rowena singing with him and wondered at how quickly the woman had got under his skin. Now his greatest wish was to survive and find her again. There was a long road between now and that happening, but his mother had told him that if you wished hard enough you’d get what you wanted.
He closed his eyes. ‘Mother, I wish I was bloody out of here.’ When he opened them again nothing had changed. ‘Ever the optimist,’ he muttered to himself, and smiled.
‘Come on, Paddy. Give us a song. I’ll accompany you on the mouth organ.’ The speaker blew a few notes.
‘And I’ve got a drum,’ said someone else, banging with a pair of sticks on an upturned bucket.
After he’d finished doing his bit to entertain his fellow prisoners he would lie in his bunk, still hearing her voice and seeing her hair blowing in the wind as Kim Pheloung had driven her away. Would he see her again? Perhaps he would glimpse her outside Kim’s house. Perhaps she would take a walk in his direction.
It was a faint hope, but all he had.
*
The faint hope turned into reality on the slog back from the airport at the end of a long day. His hands were raw from the stone dust, his feet sore from being on them all day and walking back and forth from the airport to the camp.
The sweat pouring into his eyes cleared the grit from them. That was when he saw her.
The Lagonda was easily recognised: the chrome was shiny, the paintwork pale green and highly polished. Kim’s car.
His steps slowed, and although his eyes burned from the remnants of stone dust still in them, he kept staring, his spirits soaring because she was still alive. There was still a chance.
Looking well groomed and cared for, she was sitting next to an old woman with a sour expression.
His steps had slowed, but he badly needed to stop, to stare, perhaps even to wave.
With that in mind he paused and began to rub at the small of his back, acting as though it was paining him. He knew he was chancing a slug from one of the guards, but if she saw him it would be worth it.
At least she was still alive but vulnerable to whatever Kim Pheloung had in mind for her. He’d heard of him taking women before, but never a European. He was a man with a finger in many pies, gambling, opium and prostitution forming the main part of his business empire. Rowena, he decided, represented more to Kim than anything she could earn as a whore. There had to be some reason for the man to find out all he could about her.
Yang had told him a story about another beautiful woman, the wife of a Chinese official. ‘He forced her to abort her child, but it was born alive so he forced her to kill it with her bare hands. He had stolen her from her husband with sweet words, then broken her soul until she was his creature, as you would a dog.’
Somehow
he had to attract her attention but he couldn’t do that unless the car stopped.
‘Wait your chance, Connor. Wait your chance.’
The chance came when a pile of loosened stones tumbled down close to the front wheels of the car causing the driver to slam on the brakes. A huge dust cloud arose in front of it. He saw both women waving their hands in front of their faces.
The guards waved their sticks, beating the backs of those men who were nearest, exhorting them to move the stones so the car could drive on.
Although he was nowhere near, Connor ran to assist, bending away from where the stone had fallen, heading for the rear passenger door. Almost whooping in triumph, he got close to the back of the car.
At first she was not aware of his presence, her gaze held by the sight of the overworked men with their ragged clothes, healing scars and blistered feet. Then, suddenly, she saw him, saw through the stone dust covering his face and dusting his hair.
‘Doctor.’
The most wonderful smile lit her face. ‘Connor! It’s so good to see you.’
‘My star. You’ve just lit up my heaven. Not that it’s much of a heaven. A pretty dirty one, as you can see.’
‘What’s happening here?’
He jerked his chin in the direction of the dust cloud that only now was beginning to settle. ‘Stones from the old city wall to Kai Tak. A new runway.’
‘You look thin.’
Grinning perversely, he grasped the loose folds of his shirt. ‘It’s a new diet they’ve got us on. Rice, rice and more rice. What I wouldn’t give for a spud and a rasher of bacon.’
‘Is that all you’re getting? Just rice?’
‘There’s sometimes bits of fish or meat in it, stuff we don’t recognise as edible. We buy a bit from the locals outside the fence, but money and valuables are scarce. The Japs saw to that. They’ve robbed us blind.’
Her eyelids flickered. ‘I’ve no money to give you. I wish I had.’
‘I didn’t ask. I’ll get by somehow.’ He followed her glance to the old woman beside her who was engaged in haranguing the driver to get going. He was telling her he had to wait for the stones to be moved and permission from the Japanese Army to continue their journey.
