Tears of the Dragon

by Jean Moran

  Please try to understand our situation. I do hope you find somewhere here to suit your needs. In the meantime I remain as always,

  Your loving brother, Clifford

  It was as she’d thought it might be. Dawn would not be accepted and she could not contemplate her daughter being unhappy.

  ‘So be it,’ she said to Alice, after she’d told her what Clifford had said.

  ‘Poor you. Poor Dawn, but I did try to say...’

  ‘That I should have her adopted? Is that what I should do, even now?’

  ‘That isn’t what I said.’

  ‘No,’ said Rowena, getting to her feet. ‘It isn’t. I’m off. I have many Chinese and other refugees to look after – and they don’t give a damn where I’m from.’

  She fumed about it all night. In the early hours of the morning she felt her daughter sliding into bed beside her.

  *

  Men, women, children and babes in arms, poured into the refugee centre from China, their meagre possessions carried in bundles on their backs.

  Some came through the crossing point above Kowloon. Others took a boat across, the vessels overloaded and filling with water by the time they made land.

  Not all did so, their overburdened craft easily sinking in the most moderate seas.

  Those who did disembark ended up either in one of the camps or, if they managed to side-step the border controls, built ramshackle houses in the walled city, some of which were now three, four or five storeys high. A city of only a few hundred inhabitants had swelled to many thousands.

  For a while Rowena was content to help them, although at times she felt she could do more to repair what had happened over the last five years. The opportunity came not many months after she’d accepted a job with the Red Cross in Hong Kong.

  ‘Dr Rossiter. I wonder if I could have a word.’ Adrian Smith was a quietly spoken Australian doctor, who had come as part of the Red Cross contingent to help with the refugees fleeing the ongoing struggle in China. His office was situated in a one-storey flat-roofed building on the other side of the arterial road that circled the huts housing the refugees.

  As she made herself comfortable she studied his rangy frame and the deliberate way in which he moved, as though he considered everything very thoroughly before he moved at all.

  ‘Do you mind me leaving the window open?’ he asked. ‘I know some people dislike the smell of cooking coming from the camp.’

  ‘I don’t mind it at all.’

  ‘Good. Neither do I. Their cooking has to be better than the stuff we’re dishing up. Wish I could join them.’

  He was sardonic but funny.

  ‘Is anything wrong? I take it you’re satisfied with my work.’

  ‘Goodness me! You’re an asset, Dr Rossiter, and I congratulate myself that I took you on.’

  ‘I appreciate your faith in me.’

  ‘We need you, Doctor. As I am sure you’re aware, the Red Cross is currently overwhelmed, so many needs and not enough staff. Thanks to international support – from the United States and other countries – we have money to fund various projects, the latest being in Japan, but medical staff of your calibre are thin on the ground.’

  She sensed he had paused to study her reaction. ‘I hear there is a great need there.’

  He nodded. ‘Very. Unfortunately General MacArthur is very touchy about the whole situation there following the dropping of the atomic bomb and its ongoing impact on the Japanese civilian population.’

  ‘Ongoing?’

  ‘Side effects the powers that be are denying exist.’

  She looked away at the busy people outside his window, carrying on with a makeshift life in their makeshift world. How long would they be there before they were processed and allowed to join the Hong Kong community?

  She had a hunch where this was going and turned back to face him. ‘You want me to join a Red Cross medical team in Japan?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s exactly what I want. I think you would be a great asset to us, Doctor.’

  ‘I don’t speak Japanese.’

  ‘Those people have been through horrors untold. The power of the sun was unleashed upon them, killing thousands, with thousands more dying in the aftermath. To say the people of the two cities destroyed are hostile is putting it mildly and it isn’t only speaking their language that’s capable of breaking down the barrier. You have something else that might make them trust you. Your daughter is half Japanese. Is that right?’

  Nausea swept over her. She nodded but dared not open her mouth. Dr Smith had inadvertently brought it all back to her.

  ‘Something is happening there, Doctor. Something we don’t yet understand. Women and children who were not scarred by the inferno are becoming sick and dying. We need somebody the women will trust, someone who they can feel some empathy with.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can ask me this... not yet...’

  He turned a page in his file, read something quickly, then looked up at her. ‘I have to warn you that there is hostility towards the Allies, especially the Americans. We can provide you with an Indian passport, if you like, since your grandmother was from Bombay. I believe your grandfather was a subaltern in the Indian Army.’

  She felt the colour drain from her face. ‘You’ve dug into everything.’

  ‘It wasn’t that difficult. Army records are very thorough… Look, may I give you something to read? It was published by the Daily Express in London back in September by a man named Wilfred Burchett, an Australian journalist. It may help you make up your mind.’

  When she didn’t answer, he opened his desk drawer, got out a few pages of newsprint and placed them before her.

  ‘Please. Read it at your leisure. I’ve got someone waiting to see me. I won’t be long.’

  He turned the newspaper the right way up before he left so she could read the headlines.

  The Atomic Plague

  I write this as a warning to the world.

  By the time she came to the end of the piece her hands were shaking. Feeling as cold as ice, she laid it back on the desk. Never had she read anything so harrowing – the frustration of the doctors and other medical staff as they tried their utmost to save lives. Already she had half made up her mind, though she would feel guilty at leaving the displaced persons who cooked and did their laundry beyond the wire fence.

  When Dr Smith returned she was sitting stiffly, two factions fighting for her answer. He did not press her but went back behind his desk and sat down.

  He was looking down at his ink blotter, both hands curled into tight fists and resting on the desk to either side of him. He glanced up and out of the window. Both fists thumped the desk. ‘Do you see that man out there? Once the refugees are processed he comes here offering them shelter in the walled city – at a price. I’ve ordered that he is not to be allowed in again, but money talks and he has plenty. I believe he’s an opium dealer.’

  She looked out to the wide gravelled yard in front of the building and immediately recognised the pale green car. Kim was there and likely to find her. Japan seemed a safer option.

  ‘I knew a man from Hiroshima. He made a doll for my daughter.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll consider it?’

  She dragged her gaze from the window. If Kim had contacts in the refugee camp it wouldn’t be long before he found her. ‘I will go to Japan.’

  Before leaving she asked to visit St Stephen’s, which was still operating as a military hospital. To enter she needed official clearance, but Dr Smith was more than willing to help when she told him the basics of her mission.

  Once there, to the caretaker’s surprise, she went down into the basement, to the cupboard behind the boiler and retrieved a dusty violin case.

  25

  England, 1947

  ‘What the bloody hell am I doing here?’

  Connor had packaged up the ash-filled ginger jar and sent it by registered post to Harry’s mother. He’d expected that would be that, but now, more t
han a year later, she had tracked him down and asked him to visit. It had been the last thing he’d wanted to do because in facing Harry’s mother his guilt might show on his face. He’d told her in the note he’d enclosed with the jar that it contained her son’s remains, which wasn’t quite true.

  The glorious height of Granthorpe Hall loomed ahead above a red-brick wall and wrought-iron gates. The house was clearly visible at the end of a sweeping drive. A firm tug of the iron bell pull hanging from one side of the gate, and somebody would appear to let him in.

  Hands stuffed into his pockets, he eyed the bell pull, the ornate leaves at its base. More like daggers, he thought. What was the bloody artist thinking of?

  He asked himself for the third time that day what he was letting himself in for. Riddled with doubt, he began to pace up and down, wearing a shallow furrow in the ground.

  His dog, an old mongrel named Bob, which reminded him of Vicky, eyed him.

  ‘Why didn’t you ring the bell?’

  Deep in his own world, he had failed to notice the short, wide woman who dragged open the gate. She had a pert look, bright eyes and hair as fluffy as a dandelion head.

  ‘I’ve been watching you pace up and down for the last half-hour and couldn’t stand it any longer. Even from a distance you’ve been making me dizzy. Now, are you coming in or what?’

  The moment he saw her he knew her name.

  ‘I’m Louise Gracey. I take it you’re Connor O’Connor. I won’t say you haven’t changed much since Harry sent me that picture of you both. He was very handy with a Box Brownie, though obviously he got somebody else to take it.’

  ‘It was a corporal.’

  ‘As good as anyone.’

  He found himself looking into a pair of dark brown eyes. Her ladyship was wearing what looked like a man’s checked shirt over faded green corduroys tucked into a pair of wellington boots. If she hadn’t told him her name he would have assumed her to be staff – perhaps the cook or wife of the gardener, though her voice was crystal clear with rounded vowels. He recalled conversations with Harry as they’d lain in the dark, their stomachs rumbling with starvation. Mothers were discussed, as much as wives and sweethearts. Harry had described her succinctly but accurately. Different was the word best remembered. He felt her eyes on him.

  ‘That’s quite a head of hair you have. Same colour as my Harry’s. Your eyes too.’ She stopped as though at a sudden choke, which she swiftly turned into a hearty chuckle.

  ‘What about a cup of tea? And there’s cake. My old friend Minette brought it up. She lives down in the village.’

  ‘I don’t want to be wasting your time.’

  ‘I’ve plenty to waste. One’s faculties fade as one gets older and the social life goes with it. I have fewer visitors nowadays – unless for the horses and then they’re not here to see me. With the exception of Minette, of course. Now, I insist you stay for tea and listen to what I have to say. Will you at least do that for me?’

  She turned so quickly she almost left her boots behind.

  ‘What about my dog?’

  ‘I assumed he was coming with us. Don’t mind dogs in the house, and he looks like a good ’un. He’s getting on a bit. How old is he?’

  ‘He was a stray and a bit grey around the muzzle so I think he’s about eight.’

  ‘I would guess that too. Good for his age. Shame they don’t last as long as little yappers. Small dogs,’ she said, on seeing his puzzled expression. ‘Small dogs make up for their size with noise. Didn’t you know that? No matter. Now, come along. We’ve given each other the once-over and I think we both like what we see. Let’s find out if you and I really can judge a book by its cover.’

  ‘Is Harry’s father at home?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t remember Harry ever mentioning...’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. My husband was always going to fall from grace and get himself killed. The blame was entirely his. He was like an old stallion I used to have – couldn’t accept that he was too old to be mounting the fillies. Hasty Gracey, I used to call him. In this instance he hastily followed a sweet young thing with a comfortable bosom and an ample backside. He forgot he was getting older and that his ambition was not matched by the capability of the heart to recover after strenuous exercise. After a particularly energetic tryst, he made the mistake of driving home on top of a few whiskies. It was a foolhardy combination that led to him swerving off the road and hitting a tree. My son’s ashes were delivered on the day of my husband’s funeral.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be. I was glad to get them. Round here,’ she said, swerving to the left off the driveway and onto a red-brick path bordered with fancy red tiles. ‘Tradesmen’s entrance, I’m afraid. I’ve been mucking out the stables. I’ve got help, but like to give a hand. The horses are used to me. Think I’m their mother – or I like to think they do, silly old mare that I am. My house-keeper Mabel huffs and puffs a bit if I go in stinking of horse shit – sorry, manure. Slip of the tongue. I use expletives in front of the stable lad, but make the effort to curb my language once I’m inside the house. My housekeeper doesn’t like it.’

  He followed her through a wide back door and along a flagstoned passage where she stepped out of her boots, kicking them beneath what looked like an old church pew. From there she trod onwards in knitted seamen’s socks that, like the boots, seemed too big for her. The room they entered had a homely rather than a stately atmosphere. The furniture was old but handsome, the faded upholstery worn in places, and underfoot the Persian rugs had holes.

  Hunting scenes in gilt frames hung alongside bigger portraits of poker-faced people from centuries past, against heavily embossed Victorian wallpaper. It might have been a riot of rich colouring in its day but was now faded.

  She pointed a wrinkled finger at a winged armchair and the roundel of black fur sitting on it. ‘Throw that cat off and take a seat.’

  At first the animal seemed loath to move until Bob came out from behind Connor. Hissing, it showed its needle-fine fangs, then jumped down and high-tailed it out of the room.

  Lady Gracey made herself comfortable in an armchair opposite the one in which the cat had been sleeping. Its horsehair stuffing and the webbing that was supposed to support it had fallen down. ‘Whoops!’ Her legs went up in the air as her backside sank into the chair’s innards.

  Connor sprang to her assistance, his strong arms pulling her upwards until she was balanced on what bit of the chair was still functional.

  ‘So wonderful to have a pair of strong arms come to one’s aid. I’ve never been used to that. Hasty Gracey’s arms were usually to be found assisting another woman – mostly into bed.’

  Huffing and puffing she was sitting fairly comfortably, her feet hovering some way off the floor. Patting the chair arms, she said, ‘I really should get these old chairs repaired. I’ll get Mabel to find someone to sort them out. I would have a go myself, but I just don’t have the time. Too busy with the horses. Do you like horses, Sergeant Major?’

  His attention wandered to the mantelpiece and the blue and white ginger jar sitting at one end. Why hadn’t she buried or scattered Harry’s ashes, perhaps over his father’s grave?

  ‘I said do you like horses?’

  He tore his gaze away from the ginger jar, his eyes skimming past the photograph of him and Harry, two young men in uniform on the threshold of life.

  ‘I like all animals,’ he said, and nodded thoughtfully. ‘I like them more than humans.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I feel very much the same. Except for Harry, of course. I miss him, and nobody was ever going to take his place, but you … ’ She paused as her gaze drifted around the room. ‘You were his friend. I’m so glad I tracked you down. Where is Mabel with that blessed tea? The woman’s useless. I should have sacked her years ago, but there...’ She shrugged. ‘She has strange habits and a mind of her own. Her sweetheart ran away with the fishmonger so she never eats fish,
not even on Friday. It was bad enough keeping staff after the Great War. It’s even worse now. Nobody wants to go into service any more. If I upset Mabel, she’ll take off in a huff and I’ll have to go chasing after her and offer all sorts of bribes to get her back.’

  With a crash of heavy wood against a stout wall, the door flew open, hitting the wall. When it rebounded a tall woman with bad-tempered features gave it a kick while balancing a heavy tray in both hands.

  Lady Gracey carried on talking about something to do with horses, then about family, Harry and her ungracious husband. ‘So many young women left our service after he’d put them in the family way.’

  Connor was amazed at her matter-of-fact acceptance of her husband’s indiscretions, which she recounted with great good humour.

  Not until she’d come to the end of what she wanted to say did she acknowledge her housekeeper. ‘Ah!’ she declared, as though all was right with the world and Mabel the most amenable person living therein. ‘Put it there on the table, Mabel, and then you can go. We’ll help ourselves.’

  Mabel, an elderly woman with age-speckled hands and the scowl she wore looked to be a permanent fixture. ‘The sandwiches are fish paste and the cake is supposed to be fruit cake though you won’t find much fruit in it. You’ll have to make do.’

  ‘Really?’

  Mabel’s scowl deepened. ‘It’s all that’s available.’

  ‘If you say so. I thought somebody was making a coconut cake. I’m sure I smelt it cooking.’

  ‘There is one.’

  ‘When will it be ready?’

  Mabel stopped at the door. ‘It’ll be ready when it’s ready.’ Then she was gone.

  Her ladyship’s eyes twinkled. ‘See? I told you what she was like.’ She gestured at the teapot. ‘Do you mind pouring? You can reach it more easily than I can. That’s the problem with being petite. Short legs.’

  ‘Sure I will.’

  ‘I think your dog likes the smell of the sandwiches. Have one yourself and give him one. I’m not going to eat any. I hate fish-paste sandwiches. I’m sure Mabel makes them purely to spite me.’