by Jean Moran
Rowena’s eyes fell instantly to the tiny feet, broken in childhood, forced into unnatural shapes, now encased in tiny slippers decorated with pearls and silk thread.
Pursing her lips, Kim’s grandmother glowered once more, then closed her eyes, her hands folded in front of her.
What was she doing there? Merely waiting for her grandson to come home? Unless she was there as a chaperone – but protecting Rowena from whom or what?
She stared at the wrinkled face, the fine brows, and the puckered lips. The old woman’s robe was made of heavily embroidered purple silk, the wide sleeves trimmed with black satin.
There was no chance of a conversation, but it felt worse than that. Her presence made it seem that Rowena’s was of no consequence, that she was no more important than the pots on the table or the chair she was sitting on.
The darkness closed in, deeper as the hour got later.
She sat listening for the sound of a car but heard only the singing of crickets, a nightingale and the resonant snores of Kim’s grandmother.
Sighing with exasperation evoked no response from the old woman.
The French clock hanging on the wall of the Chinese house struck the half-hour and then ten o’clock. Still no Kim.
Feeling hungry, she took one of the sweetmeats from the table, the pastry light and delicately flavoured, melting like a whisper on her tongue.
Sensing movement, the old lady’s eyelids fluttered open, then shut again.
Rowena sat watching her, her resentment growing, even though the sound of the ticking clock was now more noticeable than the snoring.
She took another sweetmeat. The last one had been cherry. This was apple.
At last she heard the sound of a car and the screeching of iron gates being dragged open in the compound beyond the inner wall.
Straightening she brushed the crumbs from her mouth and her clothes, listening as the sound of his footsteps on the tiles came closer.
The old lady heard too, grabbed her walking stick and swung her elfin feet to the floor.
He stood framed in the doorway, the darkness of night and the glow of lanterns behind him. His smile was faint and disappeared when he noticed his grandmother.
Oblivious to his displeasure, Zu Mu took her stick in hand and got to her feet, bowing and prattling as though he were a god not a mere mortal.
Kim looked less than pleased at what she was saying and, although Rowena did not understand his words, his tone was harsh.
Hurt at being spoken to in such a manner, the sparkle left the eyes of the doting grandmother and her fractured expression almost made Rowena feel sorry for her.
She left, but not before throwing a look of pure malice in Rowena’s direction, as though it was all her fault and there would be a reckoning.
‘You upset her,’ Rowena dared to say.
‘I did not request her to be here.’
‘I thought you ordered her here to be my chaperone.’
‘Do I need to appoint a chaperone?’
Rowena couldn’t help smiling. ‘Not unless you suspect me of taking the cook or the fishmonger as my lover.’
‘They would not dare.’
The sound of his scathing laughter made her bold. ‘Have you had a good day? Is all well with the world of Kim Pheloung?’
‘All is well.’
He began to take off his top tunic, was bare to the waist before he reached for his robe and put it on.
She held her breath. No matter his crimes, he was still a beautiful man. But despite being attracted to him, she had to keep her options open in case the need to escape became inevitable.
‘Did you have to travel far today?’
‘Here and there.’
He was reticent. She could have asked more direct questions, but she held back. There was a look in his eyes that she had not seen before, guarded but speculative, and somehow she guessed he was about to say something – something she might not like.
He frowned at the clock, then at the table. ‘How long has this been here?’
‘An hour.’
‘Send it back.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it. I’ve already eaten one or two of those sweetmeats – well three, actually...’
‘You have eaten? Without me being here?’
His anger was almost palpable.
‘You hadn’t come and I was hungry...’
His jaw tightened. His eyes blazed. ‘I said we were to eat together.’
‘But you didn’t come.’
‘Get rid of it.’
‘But I’m still hungry. Even if you are not willing to eat it—’
‘No. I will not eat it and you will not eat this stale food.’
With a sweep of his arm, dishes, plates and chopsticks were brushed off the table and onto the floor.
Rowena gasped and stared, first at the broken crockery mingled with food that poor people would envy, then at the anger on his face and the realisation that she had awoken a sleeping dragon.
‘You will be seated here at the same time tomorrow evening. You will wait for me to join you. You will not eat until I do.’
She wanted to retaliate, but held her tongue. Kim’s arms were hanging at his sides, his fists clenched.
The message was clear. She understood immediately. One word, just one word of defiance, and one of those fists might break her jaw or black her eye.
*
It was late. The events of the evening were still with her. For the first time she felt afraid of him and as escape seemed a far-fetched fantasy – at least for now – she had to make amends for inadvertently upsetting him.
Could she escape? Her options were few. Stalk across the courtyard when Kim’s black-clothed guards were otherwise engaged; climb up onto the fishmonger’s cart and bribe him to take her into Kowloon where she could hide while thinking of the next stage of her escape. But how could she do that? She had no money and had given the silver lighter, her only valuable, to Connor.
Other possibilities. She had to think of another way.
Adopt some kind of disguise, perhaps as a boy, or jump out of the car when she was taken driving with Zu Mu, though that would result in the driver running after her and he was big enough to swing her off her feet and carry her back.
Kim filled her dreams in which he was an emperor and she was his concubine, expected to please him in any way she could.
The French clock chimed midnight. The old house creaked. The singing crickets accompanied the music in her mind, the old fiddle, rattling out a tune, the dancing blue eyes, the tapping of feet, a rich voice outshining them all.
When dreams of Kim vanished and nightmares threatened, it was Connor O’Connor and his music that eased her weary soul.
She started.
What was that?
Gunfire?
It was no dream. More cracks followed. She sat bolt upright.
Logic told her to stay away from the open window, but curiosity guided her actions.
Glowing like red moons, the lanterns hanging from the overhead rafters played on figures without features running through the darkness, male voices shouting and somebody screaming in pain.
She glanced over her shoulder. The bed was empty so it might be Kim.
From outside, she heard his voice, the rapid footfall of running men, barked orders, and the thudding of bone upon bone.
She grabbed her green silk dressing-gown and hastily slid her feet into slippers embroidered with gold thread.
Mindful of stray bullets, she kept close to the wall, heading for the reception room separating the courtyard from the outside world in the ancient heart of Kowloon’s walled city.
The gunfire had ceased. The only sound she now heard was that of a man in pain and guttural tones of alarm.
When she entered the reception hall from the courtyard she saw four men gathered around another lying on the floor, their giant shadows lying like a black cloud behind them, thanks to a wooden lantern at the end of a pole hanging
over the supine figure.
The features of all were in shadow.
‘Kim?’
He looked up, displeasure spreading across his shadowed face.
‘Get back inside. This has nothing to do with you.’
‘Is that man injured?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it is to do with me. I’m a doctor, remember?’
Ignoring his angry expression and the clenched fingers that failed to grab her arm, she fell beside the man lying on the floor, feeling for a pulse, her fingers dipping into the sopping wet patch in his stomach area.
‘I take it the Japanese did this, or somebody who dislikes him – or you?’
Kim’s face was like thunder. ‘It does not concern you.’
‘No. I’m the one who can pick up the pieces and sew them back together. Fetch me boiling water. Bandages. And a sharp knife.’
This time he did manage to grab her. With one jerk of his hand she was back on her feet.
‘It is no concern of yours. We have our own doctor. A Chinese doctor. You are just a woman while you are here. Just a woman. Is that not clear?’
She dared to stand up to him. ‘So where is this doctor? Where is anyone who knows about medicine? This man could die waiting, and you would have lost a valuable servant. Is that not so?’
Even in the darkness she could see his face contort with anger.
‘It is none of your business.’
She winced when he grabbed her arm and resisted when he attempted to march her back into the inner courtyard and towards her room.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We are not savages. We will deal with it ourselves.’
‘But—’
In the deep shadows she saw a small figure hobbling towards them.
Immediately understanding, she looked at the old lady, then up at him.
‘Your grandmother is old and so are her methods. Isn’t it best that I stay with your man until the proper doctor comes?’
She felt his grip ease and, from his expression, knew he was seeing the common sense in what she was saying.
‘Only until then.’
In the meantime Zu Mu had taken temporary charge, bundling up herbs and, with a loud voice, slaps and a waving of her stick, instructing Luli to hand her the hot water and bandages.
Rowena eased her way back to where she had been kneeling at the man’s side, probing the wound for the bullet and pressing down on severed blood vessels.
‘The bullet has to come out. I would prefer a scalpel but a sharp knife will do.’
Her request elicited a torrent of angry comment from Kim’s grandmother, who waved her bunch of herbs at Kim in the same manner as she did her walking stick at Luli.
Ignoring the furore between grandmother and grandson, Rowena repeated her instruction for Luli to fetch a knife. ‘A needle and cotton too.’
She also ordered more lanterns. ‘Though a flashlight would be better.’
Everything she asked for was provided.
Furious and spitting bad words between her teeth, Zu Mu stalked off, the tip of her walking stick tapping angrily as though the stone slabs also deserved a thrashing.
Not until she was back behind the big screen that divided her quarters from everyone else did the sound of the tapping cane cease. By then everyone was leaning over the British doctor, watching with undisguised interest as she sewed the man’s flesh together.
Finally she held up a bullet between her bloodied fingers. ‘He is a lucky man. It wasn’t too deep.’
‘There was no need for you to do that. You will never do it again.’ Kim yanked her back to her feet.
‘But I—’
‘My men know how to sew a wound together. He is not the first injured comrade in need of embroidery. You have done enough.’
His finely chiselled face was disapproving when she’d expected to see only gratitude. ‘I wanted to help. It’s my profession.’
‘I do not care about that. You have no need to prove yourself while you are under my roof.’
She frowned. ‘It’s not about proving myself, it’s what I am.’
‘Go back to bed. Now.’ He paused and looked at her more deeply than he ever had. ‘I will come to you. Be ready.’
Thanks to the open window, her bed felt cold and she shivered as she slid between the silken sheets. He’d said he would come to her and she wanted him to. His habit of lying beside her had aroused surprising feelings. Perhaps, she thought, that was exactly what he’d intended, teasing her with his presence, accustoming her to him lying beside her but showing no desire himself, waiting for her to make the first move.
As a man he was beguiling, but medicine was important to her. Emotion and pragmatism were fighting a battle, making her feel as though she was on the edge of a precipice, deciding whether to jump or retreat to safer ground. The trouble was she wasn’t sure which was which.
Her mind was restless, her body even more so. Throwing aside the covers, she paced to the window and looked into the darkness. The gathered men had gone and she couldn’t tell whether a doctor had arrived. She wondered at the whereabouts of the injured man, presuming he was housed with the other men in the south of the house along with the stores and the kitchen.
The lanterns had burned low. Cloaked in shadows and disturbed by a breeze, the round heads of the chrysanthemums seemed to be nodding at her. She imagined them having faces, grinning mouths and staring eyes, just like the Japanese soldiers at the hospital, and began to hate them.
*
Unseen by Rowena, eyes were watching her from the other side of the courtyard. Zu Mu could not sleep either. She’d been married off at fifteen to a silk merchant and borne one girl child, who had disappointed her in marrying a man of her choice, not one found by a matchmaker. The old woman put it down to the fact that the girl had run wild because her feet had never been bound. When she’d died and the boy child had been passed to Zu Mu to raise she’d given him her all and in turn he had respected her. Unfortunately she had indulged him too much, denied him nothing and told him he could be anything he wanted to be and do anything he wanted to do.
Her big mistake had been never to chastise him when he did wrong, when he stole, bullied or shunned his former friends for those who lived in the city and showed him a more colourful life, where everything was free and nothing was denied.
He’d collected women as other men might collect butterflies and when he’d tired of them he’d let them go.
This woman was different. The others had been beautiful, but she was European and also intelligent. Why was he obsessed with her when he could have Chinese concubines who would do his bidding and not have an intelligent thought in their heads?
Now she felt he was making a bad mistake. Not only was she angry, she was deeply hurt. This woman, this doctor, was taking her place in his affections and had created a rift between them. She was the one who should have treated the injured bodyguard. She knew who had shot the man and the retribution that was to come, while this woman, this Westerner, would be appalled at her grandson’s ways, his cruelty and his cleverness.
Worst of all, he had not listened to her good advice about the woman. For once he had totally ignored her. Her own grandson!
From the very start she’d warned him not to bring the woman under the family roof, counselling that she would be his ruination. He had not listened, so it was up to her to act in his best interests and deal with the matter herself.
Her mind was further made up when she saw the tall young man, of whom she was so proud, moving through the darkness. He was going to her. He would spend the night with her as he had before, teasing her with his presence, waiting for the right moment to take her. It would happen soon. There was no time left. She had to act quickly.
12
Disturbed by the sound of men coughing, spluttering and moving into wakefulness, Connor opened his eyes.
The interior of the hut that had once held Chinese refugees was pitch black because
it had no windows. A guard stood silhouetted against the encroaching dawn in the doorway at the end of the hut, berating them to get to their feet, to attend tenko – roll call – then to march to the old city and, with crowbar and sledgehammer, remove more of the old stone.
He closed his eyes again, wishing he could get back into his dream and watch the bacon sizzling in the pan. It had been so vivid that the smell had made him salivate. He’d been ready to add an egg when the shout had come to get out of bed. It was four a.m.
Months had passed since the surrender and the last time he’d eaten a decent meal. Breakfast today would be the same as it was every day: a bowl of rice, perhaps with a few vegetables. Not enough to live on and certainly not enough to work on.
Work was getting harder and so were their taskmasters. The demand for the runway to be completed rated higher than taking care of the labour force that was building it. He knew, as did everyone else, that they didn’t need to conserve slave labour: thousands had been taken prisoner, with more muscles to waste, more bones to break, more stomachs to leave hungry. Supply outstripped demand.
Little time was given to eat after roll-call and the trek to the airfield.
A comment passed like a spring breeze from one man to another. ‘Only one truck.’ It was followed by groans.
Goaded by rifle butts, the men pressed forward. Those at the front would ride; those behind would walk to the walled city.
Connor looked across at Harry who seemed tired but happy. His Eurasian friend was not around, no doubt having tunnelled or climbed back over the wire to wherever he’d come from. ‘Could be we’re riding today,’ he called.
Harry grinned from ear to ear. ‘A second-class ride, old chap, is always better than a first-class walk.’
Their assumption proved correct and they counted themselves lucky to be close to the front of the queue.
Compared to some they weren’t in bad condition. Connor was reminded of this when the man next to him stumbled and muttered, ‘Christ. I don’t think I can walk there today. They’ll have to shoot me where I stand.’
Connor glanced at the man who had spoken. It was hard to say for sure, but he looked to be a civilian, his once-plump flesh now hanging from his bones. Connor saw that his feet were swollen, a sure sign of vitamin B deficiency, due to the lack of eggs and other protein. He guessed the poor bloke had probably slept with his feet in water to alleviate the pain. ‘You go in front,’ he said, stepping back and pushing the man forward.
