The Orchid Tree

by Siobhan Daiko

  Charles’ stomach clenches. The soldiers are abandoning them; they probably realise this is a lost cause. Or maybe they think by staying they’re putting the civilians in more danger.

  The trapdoor crashes open. He jumps, but it’s only the junior pageboy. The boy drops down, balancing a tray with water, coffee and food. How has he managed to avoid getting shot? Shrugging, Charles reaches for a sandwich and passes it to his sister.

  They munch in silence. It’s been easy to keep quiet for the twelve hours a day they’ve hidden in the darkness. The periodic sound of gunfire above their heads would quieten anyone. Unless help comes soon, however, capture is certain. Fear gnaws at Charles and grows stronger by the minute.

  Night comes; it’s too dark for the snipers to see their mark. He creeps back into the hotel with the others. They wait in tense silence on the first-floor corridor; anything could happen at any moment . . .

  The hotel staff, or rather the senior pageboy and his assistant, arrive with trays of supper. A sudden flicker on the window panes. Lights are flashing in the north wing. Charles can hardly breathe. Japanese voices and the echo of footsteps. A patrol going from room to room. The enemy forces are battle-stained and most likely battle-maddened; they’ll shoot everyone on sight. Best to let them know that only civilians remain.

  Charles leaps up and calls out, ‘There aren’t any soldiers here!’

  The door crashes open. Two Japanese men come in and point their bayonets directly at him. Everyone puts their hands up. The women let out muffled sobs. Charles stands still.

  Keep calm! Don’t let the side down!

  The soldiers glare at him then spin on their heels. There’s a stunned hush.

  Within minutes, the heavy tread of more soldiers from the other side of the door. The senior pageboy, eyes wide and jaw set, bars their entrance.

  Pa rushes to stop him. Too late. An enemy soldier knocks the pageboy back against the wall. With a flash of steel, his commanding officer makes a jabbing motion and sticks a bayonet into the pageboy’s chest. Blood spurts, the pageboy twitches and his eyes glaze over.

  Charles glances at Ruth. She’s still asleep on her mattress, thank God. But how will he ever forget what he’s just witnessed? There’s no time even to think about it; the officer is barking orders to the civilians to line up. ‘You must get ready. Tomorrow very early you go North Point.’ Charles gives his sister a gentle shake.

  ***

  After packing what bags they can carry and snatching a few hours’ sleep, Charles and his family troop outside with the other prisoners. He blinks in the early morning sunlight. A foul stench hits the back of his throat, like nothing he’s ever smelt before: much worse than the stink of the drainage tunnel or even the raw liver their cook had once forgotten to put in the fridge. It fills the air, lodging in Charles’s mouth, clinging to his taste buds and coating his tongue. He gags. The smell is coming from something or someone who’s died, and he shouldn’t look. A force beyond him, an intense curiosity, turns his head with an invisible hand.

  He eyes the building opposite. Eucliffe mansion, property of a Chinese millionaire. Piles of bodies lie by the balustrade overlooking the sea. British prisoners. Tied together. Shot and left to rot. Ma snatches a couple of handkerchiefs from her bag. ‘Cover your nose!’

  During the long, dreary trudge up the hill they pass the bodies of numerous soldiers, left unburied by the side of the road. Each time, Charles places himself between Ruth and the dead men. Each time, his stomach lurches. Each time, his anxiety grows.

  At the top of the hill, he sets off with Pa and the other men; they’ll march the rest of the way. Except, a Japanese soldier points his rifle and indicates his place is with the women and children in some lorries that take them down to Happy Valley.

  How old do they think I am? I’m in my second last year at school, for God’s sake . . .

  The roads are empty, but the sound of mortar-bombing reverberates in the distance. Hong Kong hasn’t surrendered yet.

  At an abandoned factory, the Japanese herd the prisoners into a wide ground-floor storage area lined with cans of paint. They give them water and sugar, the only food they’ve had all day.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Ruth whines.

  ‘Hush.’ Ma opens her bag and rummages around. ‘I wish we’d thought to pack something to eat.’

  Pa and the rest of the men arrive. ‘Let’s spread our overcoats on the floor and make ourselves a den,’ Pa says.

  Even sitting on his coat, the concrete chills Charles’ bones. ‘It’s Christmas Eve. Why don’t we sing some carols?’ he suggests. Tentatively, he starts on the first verse of O Come All Ye Faithful.

  A middle-aged couple, who’ve copied them and are sitting on their jackets, put their thumbs up and add their voices. ‘Sing choirs of angels.’

  The groups of internees around them join in, one after the other. ‘O Come let us adore Him.’

  Charles progresses to Hark the Herald Angels Sing and they all chorus, ‘Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.’

  The Japanese soldiers shout and wave their rifles. The singing stops. Have they understood the words? With the carols, unity of a sort has developed among the prisoners; more likely, their captors wanted to spoil it.

  ***

  The next night, Charles sits with Ma, Pa and Ruth, clumped on the damp deck of an old ferry. God only knows where the Japanese are taking them . . .

  The skyline is dark, yet he can make out the stately old colonial buildings lining the waterfront. He tucks his hands under his armpits. Waves slap against the side of the boat and the breeze feels as if it will pass straight through him.

  At Kowloon pier, the gangplanks wobble under his feet as he takes Ruth’s hand. Ma and Pa line up next to him on the concourse. Japanese soldiers wave their bayonets and march them in the direction of Nathan Road.

  Ruth nudges him and makes a face. ‘I hope they give us something proper to eat. I didn’t like that nasty cold rice and those turnips this morning.’

  The streets, normally bustling with people, cars and rickshaws, are quiet. In five minutes they arrive at the back of the Peninsula Hotel, and a soldier ushers them into a hostel. On the fifth-floor they’re given a pokey room with only one bed, which they’ll have to share with another family.

  ‘This isn’t the worst of it,’ Pa says, his mouth twisting. ‘I’ve just heard that the governor has surrendered to the Japanese.’ He pauses. ‘Happy Christmas!’

  Charles lets out a hollow laugh. ‘A Very Happy Christmas.’

  3

  I turn the last page of Rebecca. Maxim de Winter is so romantic, even if he has committed murder. How odd that his second wife doesn’t have a name. And Mrs Danvers! Altogether too creepy for words . . .

  My parents and I have been confined to our house on the Peak since the surrender. Thank God I’m an avid reader, and Mama has said I can read my way through her collection of books, otherwise I’d be terribly bored. We’ve been waiting for the Americans to come and liberate Hong Kong for ever, it seems.

  Papa’s pipe smoke wafts across the room, making me sneeze. Gravel crunches in the front courtyard, then footsteps scuffle in the hall. Strange at this time of the day, given that it’s nearly lunchtime. My pulse hammers. A Japanese officer is standing in the doorway.

  Mama’s face has frozen: eyes wide, lips pressed together, cheeks colourless. Our first encounter with the enemy face to face and certainly not unexpected, yet terrifying all the same.

  Papa puts down his pipe, gets up from his armchair, and glares at the officer. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You go Stanley Internment Camp tomorrow,’ the Japanese man says, saliva spraying from his mouth as his tongue trips over the English words. ‘All things will be good. Plenty food.’ He fingers the sword hanging from his hip and smirks, his thin lips curling but his eyes expressionless.

  I gape at him, trying to take in what he’s just said. Stanley is a prison on the other side of the islan
d where they usually send murderers. Why are they putting us there?

  The officer puffs himself up, thrusts his chest forward, and points at Papa. ‘Bow!’

  Papa stands immobile and fixes his gaze on the opposite wall. Should I go up to him and whisper that he must bow if he doesn’t want to get into trouble? But my feet are rooted to the floor. The second hand on the grandfather clock ticks through half a minute, and I hold my breath.

  The officer shrugs, marches up to Papa, and slaps his face with a front-hand-back-hand motion. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound plays in my head again and again like a stuck gramophone record. A trickle of urine wets my knickers; I put a hand to my mouth, my cheeks burning.

  I shake myself. Finally my legs obey me and I run to Papa. He wipes his moustache, grimaces and bows his head to waist-level. His eyes hold mine and he mouths the words, ‘Steady, dear girl!’

  The officer struts out through the open door, his long sword trailing behind him. Gravel crunches outside again and an engine races. Then silence. Even Mama, normally unafraid to have an opinion on everything, has been struck speechless.

  I hug my father. ‘Poor Papa, look what he’s done to you.’

  ‘Stings a bit, but not to worry. I’ll be all right,’ he says, although a red blotch has formed on his cheek.

  Mama moves from the sofa, as if in a trance, and dabs at his cut with her handkerchief. ‘Did he say there’ll be lots of food in Stanley? We’ve almost run out here.’

  ‘We’ve run out of more than food.’ Papa’s voice is quiet. ‘Japs have locked up practically all the British. They only let us stay up here on the Peak this past month while they sorted out where to put us all.’ He shakes his head. ‘I suppose we’d better start packing.’ He turns to the crystal decanters on the mahogany sideboard, pours himself a large whisky, and swallows it in one gulp.

  I don’t want to pack; I don’t want to leave my home and go to a prison. Yet there’s no getting out of it. I walk from the room, my feet dragging. ‘I’m going to see Ah Ho.’

  After changing my underwear, I cross the small courtyard dividing the staff quarters from our two-storey house. My mouth trembles, but I clamp my jaw firm. It’s the way things are done in our family.

  Mama and Papa are keeping calm, so I’ll do the same and not think about what might happen.

  I run up the steps and pull open the door to Ah Ho’s room, breathing in the comforting scent of camphor from the White Flower Oil she rubs into her knees to ease their stiffness. ‘Where will you both go after we’ve gone?’

  ‘Back to China,’ Jimmy says from his chair by the window.

  ‘But the war’s there too, isn’t it?’ I tug at my hair and tuck it behind my ears.

  ‘Our village won’t interest the Law Pak Tau.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turnip heads,’ Jimmy giggles. ‘That’s what we call the Japanese because they’re always eating turnips.’

  I pick up a handful of rice from the sack in the corner, and let the starchy grains trickle like tiny pebbles through my fingers. ‘Where will you live?’

  Jimmy sits forward and places his elbows on his knees. ‘Uncle will take us in.’

  Ah Ho perches dejectedly on a stool; she must be dreading going back to the subsistence life of a peasant.

  I take the seat opposite Jimmy. ‘Will you be able to go to school?’ Papa has paid for him to attend an English-speaking school since he turned six.

  ‘I’ll need to work in the fields with my cousins.’

  A picture comes into my mind of farmers in the New Territories, near the border with China, planting rice in the paddy fields, their wide-brimmed straw hats shaped like giant toadstools, backs bent double as they push the seedlings one after the other into the water-sodden soil. I make fists of my hands. Jimmy is a brilliant student; he shouldn’t have to give up his studies.

  ‘It won’t be for long, you know.’ I try to inject a note of optimism into my voice. ‘The Americans will rescue us.’

  His lips have formed a straight line; it’s clear he doesn’t believe me. ‘I heard my parents talking about it,’ I say. ‘My father said the American Air Force is the best in the world and they’ll help us. Once they’ve recovered from Pearl Harbor, of course.’

  Ah Ho gets up from her stool and pulls a metal comb through her long, thin, black hair before fastening it in a bun. She strikes a match and lights a joss stick. The fragrance is so familiar that my breathing slows. If only I could stay here with the people I love, where I’ve grown up, where I feel safe.

  I get to my feet and face the small statue of the Bodhisattva of Compassion by the door, running my palms up and down the smooth white soapstone. The Japanese will be defeated quickly. They have to be.

  Ah Ho puts her hands together and bows three times. With a sigh, she reaches under her bed for a battered leather suitcase.

  ‘Let’s go out to the garden,’ I say to Jimmy. ‘Some fresh air will cheer us up.’

  On the other side of the terrace, Papa and Ah Woo the houseman are digging a large hole. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Burying the family silver. We can’t let the Japs get their hands on it.’

  ‘We’re just heading down there.’ I point to the path leading to the tennis courts.

  The oleander bushes sway in the breeze, and a gecko scuttles back into its hole in the hedge. I pluck a heart-shaped leaf from the orchid tree and crush it between my fingers; the dried-pea scent teases my nostrils and the garden walls enclose me as if I were already imprisoned.

  ‘Jimmy, let’s have one last walk around the Peak.’ I pull him gently towards the front gate and meet with little resistance. He probably wants to escape for a while as well. I look behind to check we haven’t been seen. Papa would have my guts for garters if he knew I was leaving the compound. ‘Why are the Japanese going to lock us up?’ I ask Jimmy. ‘We could stay up here and not be any trouble.’

  ‘They won’t allow white people to look down on them.’

  His dark eyes briefly meet mine before he looks away. I throw my arms around him, but he’s so unyielding I might as well be hugging a rock.

  I let him go, and he follows me along the pathway circling the summit of the Peak. The pungent sweaty-socks smell of the sub-tropical forest wafts into my nose. Brushing past a plant with leaves as large as elephants’ ears, I peer through dense clumps of vegetation hanging like interwoven ropes.

  The houses, apartments and office blocks below are so small they could be mistaken for children’s toys. Where are the junks and sampans usually clogging the harbour? Only Japanese ships have anchored in its depths. Kowloon Peninsula, a narrow piece of flat land, juts out into the deep blue-green water. Bare hills, with ridges like dragons’ backs, form a framework to the scene. When will I see it again?

  A British anti-aircraft gun battery nestles halfway down the western flank. I grab Jimmy’s wrist. ‘Come on. There’s no one about. Let’s see if we can find any mementos.’

  Slabs of concrete and metal bolts stick up from the ground, and there are gaping holes blasted through the thick walls of the brown and green camouflage-striped buildings. Shards of broken glass shimmer in the sunlight. I pick up a spent bullet. A cold gust comes from nowhere and I shiver. Someone or something is moving in the azalea bushes below . . .

  ‘A soldier died when this place came under heavy artillery fire,’ Jimmy says, glancing from left to right. ‘He’s probably a ghost now.’

  My scalp prickles. A spirit is definitely lurking in the untamed vegetation, ready to cause chaos. We’d better get out of here . . .

  ‘Come on!’ Jimmy breaks into a run and heads back up the hill.

  I follow his zigzag footsteps. The soldier’s ghost will be hungry for revenge, but Jimmy once told me that spirits can only travel in straight lines. Jimmy and I will be safe enough.

  Our feet pound the dusty track, and scores of butterflies rise from the feathery fronds of the wild banana trees. We sprint past the high broken-glass-topped walls
of the mansions of the wealthy, and into our own open gateway at number eight. We barge through the front door, still uselessly guarded by stone lions, then turn right into the kitchen.

  Ah Ho looks up from chopping vegetables. ‘Wah! Missy angry no can find you.’

  ‘Sorry, Ah Ho.’ I peck my amah on the cheek.

  Jimmy goes to his room, and I head for the sitting room, sliding across the polished parquet floor to where my mother sits at her antique rosewood desk.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other. ‘What are you doing, Mama?’

  ‘Making lists of the items we won’t be taking into the camp. So we can check they’re still here when this nightmare is over.’ She puts her pen down. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Jimmy and I went for a walk.’

  ‘What were you thinking of?’ Mama’s voice is sharp. ‘Don’t you realise how dangerous that is? I’ve just heard from Ah Ho that Jap soldiers have been doing unspeakable things to women, and even girls of your age. Jimmy wouldn’t have been able to protect you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’ And it’s true; I never thought for a moment I might be in danger.

  ‘Well, you’d better start thinking. Do something useful and take the silver-framed photos to the garden!’

  Outside, the trench full of silver opens up like a grave and there’s the cup I won last year in a show-jumping competition. My eyes sting. It’s been fifty days since I’ve seen Merry. Fifty days since the enemy came across the border. Fifty days waiting to be rescued.

  I wince, no longer able to keep what Mama said about the Japanese out of my mind. I can guess the unspeakable things they are doing to women. A shiver of fear. Will they do unspeakable things to me in Stanley?

  4

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’ I’m standing in the doorway of Ah Ho and Jimmy’s room. It’s the morning after the Japanese officer’s visit and my voice, clogged with emotion, sounds almost strangled to my ears. I stare through the window at a bank of fog obscuring the view of the garden. Chilly, damp and miserable, it fits my mood.