Treason if You Lose

by Peter Rimmer

  “Never got into mine.”

  “Seems to have got into Frank’s. The war in Europe’s been over for months and not a word from him. Last letter from Ralph Madgwick said Frank’s hunting in the Zambezi Valley.”

  “I read the letter, Harry.”

  “Sorry, darling. Just it doesn’t look like he’s coming home in a hurry. Do you mind?”

  “The children should live their own lives, whatever we say. Can you imagine us as grandparents? Beth’s going to be married first. She’s very beautiful. They grow up so quickly. She was a bit torn in coming to America but I think staying at home and having a bit of freedom from us was really what she wanted. Dorian and Kim will be out of boarding school before we can blink.”

  “What does Beth want to do? I’ve asked her. All she says is to enjoy herself. Twenty-one next year. Key of the door. So many of the men she would have married died in the war.”

  “Please, Harry. Don’t remind me.”

  “I’m sorry. Would you like to dance, Tina? Just look at Cousin George. There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

  “Would you live in America, Harry?”

  “If it would make you happy.”

  “And make you miserable. Hard enough to keep you in England. Come on. Let’s shake a leg. I hate the speeches. Do we have to have them?”

  “You are lucky not to have to give one. Just me. Janusz as best man. Tinus as the groom. It’s called tradition. They both look nervous.”

  “Do you like giving speeches?”

  “No one does. Especially at weddings. The trick is to make them laugh once and sit down. Barnaby’s enjoying himself.”

  “Of course he is,” snapped Tina. “The place is crawling in young girls. Just look at him. That one’s young enough to be his daughter.”

  Sighing to himself, having brought up two subjects he should not have done, Harry put out his hand to his wife having pulled back her chair. Then he led her onto the wooden dance floor in the middle of the marquee.

  They all had a small table to themselves next to the third pole that held up the tent. William and Betty Smythe, Horatio and Janet Wakefield, Gillian Kannberg playing the part of the lone dutiful wife waiting for her husband to be released from a Japanese prison. On Tina Brigandshaw’s scale of importance, William thought, none of them ranked very high. There were so many newsmen at the wedding, two more from England made little impression.

  Arthur Bumley of the Daily Mirror in London had asked William to report on the British prisoners to be released from the Japanese prisons. And take Mrs Kannberg with him; a human story of the Mirror looking after its own would be good for circulation. As in Europe, there was going to be a tribunal to charge the Japanese Prime Minister Tojo with war crimes, especially for his handling of Allied prisoners of war. Stories of atrocities building the Burma railway line with British troops had been circulating before the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan. For some reason the Emperor was above the fray.

  William’s commission was to interview released British prisoners on how they had been treated. According to Arthur Bumley, the British public were entitled to the truth and with the truth, retribution. If Englishmen had died like dogs under a Japanese whip, someone was going to pay, the Mirror calling the fouls. In William’s personal opinion, one he would keep out of his dispatches to London, there was going to be a witch-hunt in the Far East, similar to the one taking place in Germany. To the victors the spoils and the righteousness; to William the job of digging up dirt. The fact that Arthur Bumley had not so much as mentioned William’s cousin Joe in Changi jail, said something for Arthur Bumley’s priorities.

  “It’s like Versailles all over again if we’re not careful,” Horatio had said to him before they left their small hotel in Long Beach for the wedding. “Don’t we ever learn? Hanging a few poor sods won’t change what happened. We flattened Cologne and Dresden with the help of the Americans. The Yanks just flattened Hiroshima and Nagasaki on their own. What do you think the Germans and Japanese would have done with Truman and Churchill had they won the war? Our kids will have to live in the same world as their kids. With this new bomb we can annihilate each other, entire countries in one day, not cities pounded into the rubble week after week. Hatred. All they think of is hatred. What can the likes of us do, Will? Janet and I are staying a few days after the wedding before flying home. The kids want to play in the sand and swim in a warm sea. They never knew the sea was warm before. Do you know, this is the first holiday we’ve taken as a family? What are we going to write about now the war’s over, William? They won’t listen to a lecture on the stupidity of war.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. There’s always a story the public want to read. The big one from our side of the pond is the end of the British Empire. From now on America will call the shots. We’ve won a war and are about to lose an empire. Like Churchill. The opinion of those in the know says Labour will win the election by a landslide. Take from the rich and give to the poor. Wonderful politics. Especially when the poor voters outnumber the rich by ten to one. Oh, we’ll have plenty to write about. My pieces on Genevieve are paying well. People want to know the intimate details of the famous.”

  “There’s no dirt on Genevieve.”

  “Of course there isn’t.”

  “Gregory says she’s pulling out of film now Pacific War is on the circuit.”

  “When you’ve made your money what’s the point of making more? Give the next lot a chance.”

  “How are you getting to Singapore?”

  “The American Air Force are flying us. Big press detail. You know the Americans. Like to do everything big. They also want the dirt on the Japanese to show the public why it was imperative to drop the atomic bomb. Betty’s looking forward to the wedding. Tina’s organised a crèche in the house. Give Betty some peace from Ruthy. As you know, they’re demanding, young children. In the old flat Ruthy slept on a mattress in the bath. Only way we could get any sleep with the door closed.”

  “When’s the new one due?”

  “January.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Do you know, I like being married.”

  “So do I.”

  “We’d better find the women and go to this wedding.”

  “That’s why we came here.”

  Looking across now to Horatio and Janet dancing like lunatics on the dancefloor brought so many memories back to William. From the days they were both cub reporters on the Daily Mail. The almost catastrophic trip to Berlin before the war.

  “Would you and our son like to dance, Mr Smythe?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. How do you know it’s going to be a boy?”

  Then the thought of meeting Joe and Cherry Blossom in the days ahead made William smile with the pleasure of expectation.

  Tinus Oosthuizen had listened to his Uncle Harry’s speech with tears in his eyes, the pain of losing his father flooding back to him as Uncle Harry talked about his friend Barend, Tinus’s father. Uncle Harry read out a letter from Tinus’s family in Rhodesia. Another one from Lord St Clair and his mother. Genevieve’s Uncle Robert St Clair stood up among the guests at the mention of his name, having brought his American wife to the wedding with their two children. Janusz Kowalski made them laugh as the best man. Then it was his turn in front of the guests and the press. Remembering every word his Oxford tutor, Mr Bowden, had told him about speaking in public, Tinus began without any notes. Everything he wanted to say about his new wife was firmly in his head. For a moment he had the soft-hearted ladies among the guests looking for their handkerchiefs as they soaked up every sentimental word; when he looked at Genevieve there were tears in her eyes.

  “No, I’m not going to thank you all individually for coming to our wedding. I’m not going to say the names of my friends who will never be able to go to a wedding. We have waited long years through the war for this moment, Genevieve and I, God bless you all.”

  Pulling out her chair from the back, Tinus having stood behi
nd his own chair for his speech, he helped Genevieve to her feet. Then they moved together among the guests, all of them standing and clapping as they passed. On the dance floor, Tinus took Genevieve in his arms.

  “Where’d you learn to speak so well in public, my darling?” asked Genevieve.

  “Oxford University Debating Society. Are you happy?”

  “Of course I am. It went off without a hitch. How soon can we make a duck? Mother’s getting quite tiddly.”

  “Barnaby has promised to look after her. You can’t worry about everything.”

  “After this dance I’m going to change. How are we getting out of here?”

  “On the back of a motorcycle. Compliments of Uncle Harry. Parked at the back of the house near the path down to the beach. The press will never think of that one. Give it an hour. Then we’ll be off on our own.”

  “Don’t we have to say goodbye to everyone?”

  “By the time the last guest leaves this marquee most will be beyond caring. We can write them nice little letters of thank you for their wedding presents. How does it feel to be Mrs Oosthuizen?”

  “Wonderful. At last I have a surname. Hold me, Tinus. Hold me very tight.”

  4

  Ten days later the DC-3 took off from its base outside Los Angeles en route for Singapore. On board were William Smythe, Gillian Kannberg and seven Allied journalists. In charge of the press detail was Major Johnny Delany, the army press liaison officer. In the flat in Los Angeles Janusz Kowalski had been left on his own waiting for Tinus and Genevieve to return from their honeymoon. Betty and Ruthy had flown back to England via New York. The DC-3 was to refuel along the South Pacific islands and Northern Australia. It was going to be a long, hot, noisy journey, according to Major Delany.

  For once in her life Gillian was not trying to flirt with the men. She was to William subdued, brooding on the reception she would receive from her husband. Briefly, William had spoken to Joe and Bruno separately by phone on the 15 September from America, three days after Singapore was liberated. They were both alive, unwell, but alive. They were both recuperating in the same hospital.

  Three days after leaving America the plane landed in Singapore. William and Gillian drove to the hospital. When they found Joe on the third floor his hand was being held by Cherry Blossom. Soon after Gillian found Bruno on the second floor and burst into tears. His face was the colour of yellow parchment, his eyes sunk in the back of his head.

  An hour later William and Bruno found themselves alone. Gillian had gone to the shops.

  “You want to tell me your story, Bruno? Arthur Bumley wants a sob story for the Mirror. My cousin Joe’s on the floor above.”

  “How’s Joe?”

  “Buggered. Like you. They tell us the body picks up quickly with proper food. What did the Japs feed you on?”

  “Rice. Just rice. Sometimes water from the cabbage they cooked for the Japanese soldiers. It might have been better for Gillian to let me get well first. Going to the shops to find me some fruit was an excuse.”

  “Maybe not. She wants to find a place and nurse you back to strength herself.”

  “Gillian!”

  “We all change, Bruno. I’ll ask Cherry Blossom. If there’s room you can come to Joe’s house. The Japs had commandeered it but they’ve got it back. It’s a mess. Her father lives with them. During the occupation they all lived in one room, Cherry Blossom, her father and the two kids.”

  “Would Joe mind?”

  “Of course not. Now, about your story.”

  “Just a general brief. Not today. Let’s have another look at you. The real story’s mine. A real book this time. A novel. So I can get into everyone’s heads. Thanks for bringing her.”

  “I’ll go check with Cherry Blossom. Genevieve got married. To her pilot.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Quite a wedding. Your wife will fill you in.”

  “Can you mail me a bottle of real Scotch?”

  “Do my best. You remember Johnny Delany? He came on our flight as the chaperone. I’ll ask him. We’ll have a good drink together you and I. I fly back to London day after tomorrow.”

  “How many of us prisoners are you interviewing?”

  “As many as possible.”

  “More than half died by report. Disease from lack of proper food. Tropical disease. She still looks wonderful, Will. Same as the day we first met.”

  “Tell her that, Bruno. She’s a bit nervous. Two and a half years is a long time. Glad you made it, old friend.”

  When William turned round from the doorway, Bruno’s eyes were closed, his head lying back on the pillow. He looked dead. William turned back in alarm.

  “Bruno!”

  “Just taking a nap. I’m so tired. They only feed us a little at a time or else it goes straight out. Time. Don’t you worry. When I come over to England we’ll have a drink together in the Duck and Drake. I often imagined that pub in Changi. Kept me alive. Amazing what the mind can do. It’s going to be one hell of a book, William. Max Pearl will like it.”

  “She’ll be back soon.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Harry Brigandshaw sends his regards. He was at Genevieve’s wedding.”

  “Do I look as bad as Harry in that tropical diseases hospital when he got back from the Congo?”

  “About the same.”

  “He came through that as right as rain.”

  “That’s my boy. Good food, lots of sleep and your wife by your side. You’ll come through just fine, Bruno.”

  Not knowing where to look for fruit, Gillian walked out of the hospital into the street. There were people everywhere going about their business. Her whole body was in a state of panic. With no money, Bruno was her last resort. If he died she would find herself destitute, no longer able to bend men to her will. She was thirty years old. In the plane the men had looked at her but not the same way they had when she married Bruno. They were interested, looking to see if her reaction was the same. When she failed to return their look they went back to reading their books. When she looked again they had forgotten her. Just another married woman like the rest.

  The moment Bruno was well enough to make love to her she was going to get herself pregnant. As insurance for her future. The thought of finding herself a spinster shorthand typist wearing glasses appalled her. She had been a fool. The likes of Gregory L’Amour and Nathan Squires were no good to her. For them she was a fling. Convenient. No strings attached for Gregory as she was married. Nathan had been after an easy life at no cost to himself. She hoped he never found a part in a film for the rest of his life. Forcing herself to concentrate and control the panic, she found a Chinaman in a big hat by the side of the road selling bananas. She bought a whole hand, giving him an American dollar. The bananas were quite heavy. With her mind clear, her only choice was nursing Bruno back to health and seducing him. Her life, she told herself, had never been easy. About to begin the most important part of her life to secure her future, she brought the bananas back to the ward on the second floor of the hospital. Bruno was lying back in the bed, his eyes closed. He looked dead. The panic returned with a vengeance. Bruno opened his eyes and smiled. The same smile of wanting she had always seen in his eyes. He wanted her. Wanted her body just the same. Feeling back in control she put the small hand of bananas, still on their stalk, down next to his bed, bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Can’t you do better than that?”

  “Later, Bruno. Oh yes, later. When you are well again.”

  “William thinks we can move in with Joe and Cherry Blossom.”

  “That will be nice. When you can travel why don’t we take the boat back to England? A sea voyage will do you good. We can sail round the Cape. Make the voyage longer than going through the Suez Canal.”

  “Do they go that way?”

  “We can find out.”

  “Don’t you want to go back to America?”

  “Arthur Bumley will want you in London now he’s mak
ing you famous. The prodigal son, according to William. We’re English, Bruno.”

  “My father’s Latvian.”

  “Never mind. We’ll find a little house in Surrey. The trains run well up to Waterloo. A cottage with trellised roses. It will be nicer for the children than living in London.”

  “You want children!”

  “Of course. We’re still young enough. Three of them, Bruno.”

  “What about your friends in America? The rich and famous you like so much.”

  “I much prefer England. You can write your novel about the war in the weekends. Max Pearl won’t mind you living in England.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Give me a banana.”

  “You need someone to look after you.”

  “It’s so wonderful to see you, Gillian. You have no idea. All through the years as a prisoner your face in my mind helped keep me going. He’s a good friend, William. We can all be friends in England.”

  When Bruno closed his eyes again, Gillian was back in control. The panic had subsided. The thought of a suburban house in Wimbledon no longer seemed so bad. She would get used to having children, she told herself. It just might be fun. Anything was better than being some man’s secretary. The further she kept away from America the better. Quoting again the old saying she had used when having her affairs, ‘what the eye does not see the heart will not grieve about’. She began to plan the days and years ahead to make sure their boat sailed together.

  When William came back from seeing his cousin she was dutifully sitting on a chair next to her husband.

  “When they discharge him, both of you come to Joe’s house. Joe likes the idea of recuperating together. They got to know each other in Changi. Joe will be leaving the army. Going into import-export with Cherry Blossom’s father. Joe’s not coming back to England. Are you all right, Gillian?”

  “I’m just fine. So’s Bruno. We’re going back to England when he’s well.”

  William smiled at her. Gillian rather thought he knew what was going through her mind. Journalists, in her experience, had the bad habit of reading people’s minds.