Ah Ho perches on her stool, her bottom spilling over the edges. ‘You sit down.’ She pats the seat of the rattan chair next to her.
I lower myself and give Jimmy a half smile. ‘All packed?’
He nods and hands me a small package. I tear it open to reveal a jade bangle. ‘To bring you luck,’ he says.
I slip it onto my wrist, the emerald green stone cool against my skin. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you. I’ve got this for you.’ My words are even more choked now. I give him my treasured copy of Murder on the Orient Express. ‘My mother will help you out with some of her jewellery, too.’ I squeeze Jimmy’s hand. ‘You can sell it.’
Ah Ho sobs, open-mouthed, and enfolds me in a warm embrace. I rub my cheek against the starched white tunic. My throat tight, I swallow hard. I won’t let myself cry. Instead, I give my amah a hug and say, in my brightest voice, ‘I expect we’ll be together again before too long.’
An hour later, I stand on the forecourt with my parents and Ah Ho. The houseboys are loading up an open-topped lorry: mattresses, an electric hot plate, three suitcases full of clothes, my mother’s jewellery, and a large hat box. The Japanese officer ordered Papa to arrange our own transport to the camp.
Mama, dressed in her mink coat, hands Ah Ho a gold necklace. ‘To be sold. Divide the money between you all.’
I fling myself into my amah’s arms. ‘I’ll miss you,’ I sob. The tears run freely; I can’t stop them.
Ah Ho kisses me noisily on the cheek. ‘I come back by and by.’
My lower lip wobbles, but I stiffen it.
***
Heading south, the lorry trundles its way around the craters and pot-holes left by the shelling. Soon we reach the Repulse Bay Hotel, where I would have Earl Grey and cake as a special treat with Mama before the war came. The fountain at the front of the building is dry and the palm trees gracing the gardens have a downhearted look, as if they’ve seen things they’d rather forget. At the check-point, a Japanese soldier barks questions to our driver. My heartbeat races, but the soldier waves us on.
We pass the resort where I used to spend lazy summer days swimming, and paddling a canoe from the rocks with my best friend Mary. Mama and Papa would play bridge with Mary’s parents and drink gin slings in their beach hut, only occasionally venturing into the warm waters of the South China Sea. Mary left for Australia with her mother last year. We’ve been writing to each other faithfully. How will I keep in touch with her now?
There’s the lido! It’s boarded up. What did I expect? Hardly likely the Japanese would keep it open for Sunday afternoon tea dances . . .
Gears grinding, the lorry climbs the headland then follows the road down to Stanley Village. Fishing boats line the beach like deck-chairs. Old men sit in doorways smoking their long pipes; dogs and children play in the dust; washing hangs from bamboo poles.
Such a different world to the Peak . . .
On the other side of the police station, we cross a short strip of land leading to a small peninsula. Barbed wire blocks the road. Japanese guards verify our names and let us through.
‘Out you hop,’ Papa says in a false bright voice. ‘I’ll go and find out where we’re to be billeted.’
A cold wind whips my coat. I shiver and stare at a queue of people waiting by a building. Papa returns with a short bald man. ‘This is Mr Davies from the Housing Committee.’ His voice is still chirpy. ‘We’re in the Indian Quarters.’
‘What are the Indian Quarters?’
‘Where the Indian prison wardens used to live. The Japs’ve kept some of them on as guards, but they’re living in the village now.’ He smiles briefly. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be too bad here, after all. The camp is governed by the internees. Housing, food distribution and medical care are all run by our chaps. Apparently, the Japanese just oversee things and send in supplies.’
Papa folds his gangly frame into the lorry. I heave myself back into the cab with Mama and the bald man, all squashed in together. We pass a school and stop by a block of garages. The last two hundred yards we struggle on foot, carrying our luggage down a few steps, past a small mosque, and along a stony path.
‘How can you put us here?’ Mama drops her hatbox. ‘These buildings have been bombed to bits.’
‘Not all. Follow me!’ Mr Davies leads us up a narrow stairwell. ‘I’ve managed to get you a room to yourselves.’
‘A room?’ Mama echoes.
We enter a two-storey block facing the sea and climb the stairs to the first floor. ‘Our youngest amah has a room bigger than this. And she has the room all to herself.’ Mama places her hands on her hips and, with a shudder, eyes the grubby grey walls. Her face looks as if she’s swallowed a mouthful of sour milk. ‘Is there a bathroom?’
‘A washroom with a tap,’ Mr Davies says apologetically.
I glance at the lavatory. We have similar loos at home for the staff, and Jimmy calls them crouchers on account of having to squat over a hole. If Jimmy can manage I’ll manage too. But Mama must be beside herself with disgust.
Mr Davies waves his arm to the left. ‘There’s a sort of kitchen as well.’ A single tap graces a small annex; it’s like no kitchen I’ve ever seen. Filthy stone benches line the sides; there’s neither a stove nor any cooking utensils. A balcony runs along the front of the flat, and an open passage through the back.
I peer into the adjacent room. ‘Who lives there?’
‘The Chambers and the Morrises. They seem to be out at the moment.’
‘Two couples sharing?’ Papa stands on the tiny floor space next to the mattresses, our suitcases piled on top. He frowns. ‘For God’s sake, my dear chap. That’s a bit poor.’
‘This is the best I can do for you. You’ve no idea what things have been like. In other parts of the camp, where the rooms are bigger, we’ve had to pack even more people in. Some of the apartments and bungalows have between thirty-five and forty-five souls with only one bathroom.’ Mr Davies sighs. ‘There’s no water for the toilets either, so they’re overflowing with sewage. And there aren’t any beds. People have been reduced to sleeping on the floors. No provision has been made whatsoever. It seems the Japs had no idea there’d be so many of us to deal with.’
‘We should’ve been rescued before now,’ Mama says, opening a suitcase. ‘What are the Americans doing?’
‘We’ve discussed this, Flora.’ Papa puts his arm around her. ‘They’ve got other fish to fry. I shouldn’t think it will take them too long to defeat the Japs, though. We must have faith, that’s all.’ He turns to me. ‘Stay and help your mother unpack, dear girl, and I’ll go back up the hill with Mr Davies to fetch our other stuff.’
Papa returns, and I hover by the cases. This room is far too small. How will we cope all cooped up together? I’ve never spent more than an hour a day in both my parents’ company before now . . .
‘Thank God we’ve brought a few basics.’ Papa takes a hot plate into the so-called kitchen. ‘I presume the electricity is working.’
‘The only thing that does,’ Mr Davies says.
Mama trips over one of the mattresses and falls against me. ‘Must you get underfoot, Kate?’
I step out of the way. ‘Can I explore outside?’
‘If you’re careful,’ Papa says. ‘But don’t go near any Japanese!’
***
I stroll along a narrow trail leading away from our quarters and around the headland. Waves smash against the shingle below and the scent of the sea fills the air. Sunlight sends a gleam of gold across the turquoise swell of the ocean. I contemplate the stark beauty of the hills on the other side of the bay; the vegetation slopes down like the wing of a bird to rocks hugging the shore. A long coil of barbed wire hangs half way down the cliff like a hedge of thorns. Despondency washes over me. I’m imprisoned, and no amount of beautiful scenery will compensate for my loss of freedom.
I walk until I reach an asphalt road. White-washed prison ramparts rise up, cut by massive black gates. A glint of steel.
A Japanese sentry is standing straight-backed, his rifle pointing skywards. Heart thudding, I duck from view.
A path edges the jail gardens and I follow it, the grass soft and springy under my shoes. I climb through a thicket of conifers. A clearing opens up ahead, dotted with old tombs spread out as if they were on a plate of enormous Swiss rolls and up-ended biscuits. I sit on one and recover my breath. Twiddling my plaits, I take in my surroundings. Then stop and listen. Someone’s coming up the hill, swinging his arms and heading straight for me . . .
I scramble down from the tomb, crouch behind it, and peer over the top. A tall boy, dressed in a light blue jersey and beige slacks. He’s definitely not a Japanese soldier; he’s wearing civilian clothing. Getting to my feet, I study his dark brown hair and European features. The boy has oriental eyes, though, and they widen with surprise as he catches sight of me.
‘Oh! You made me jump,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here all by yourself?’
‘Exploring. I’m Kate Wolseley. Who are you?’
‘Charles Pearce. You’re a bit young to be wandering around on your own, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not. I’m fifteen,’ I say, indignant. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen. I’m sorry. You look younger.’
Heat whooshes up to my face. If only I’d worn my hair loose around my shoulders, instead of tied up in the schoolgirl plaits that make me appear like a twelve year-old child . . .
Charles sits cross legged beneath a tree and I lower myself down next to him, the ground hard and dry. I gaze in silence at a junk tacking its way across the bay, sails flapping, then take a quick peek at him. He’s terribly good-looking, like a young Clark Gable minus the moustache. I smile, but he only gives me a brief glance before looking away again.
He seems a bit standoffish.
‘How long have you been in Stanley?’ Might as well be friendly.
‘Three weeks. We were interned in a hotel before that. Where were you?’
‘The Peak. We only got here an hour or so ago.’ I stare at the crumbling tombs. ‘How old is this cemetery, do you think?’
Charles hugs his knees. ‘I went to St Stephen’s, the school here,’ he says in a proud tone. ‘So I know the history. It’s where they buried the soldiers killed by pirates, or those who died of typhoid fever and malaria in the last century.’ A spark of warmth flashes in his eyes. ‘I’ll show you around the camp, if you like.’ He pushes himself to his feet. ‘It won’t take long and you’ll be able to get your bearings.’
I follow him down the hill, past a mound of freshly-dug earth. ‘What’s that?’
‘A communal grave, I’m afraid.’
I let out a gasp. ‘What happened?’
‘St Stephen’s became a hospital towards the end of the battle. Stanley held out until Christmas morning, you know, shortly before the Governor surrendered.’ Charles falls silent; he seems to be considering what to say next. ‘Some drunken Japanese soldiers went on a rampage and did terrible things . . . and afterwards the survivors buried the dead here in this cemetery.’
A chill slices through me. ‘Have the Japanese killed anyone else since you arrived?’
‘No, we’ve been left alone and the Camp Commandant isn’t even Japanese. He’s Chinese.’
‘I thought Japan was at war with China.’
‘My father said a group of Chinese spies had wanted to get the British out of Hong Kong and they’re in the pay of the Japs. It’s one of the reasons they defeated us so quickly.’
‘Oh.’ How strange! I’ve always thought of China and the colony as separate entities, not part of the same country at all.
We pass the building where I saw people queuing earlier. ‘This used to be the Prison Officers’ Club,’ Charles says. ‘Now it’s a canteen where you can buy expensive groceries. Problem is, there isn’t much available.’ He pauses. ‘I say, would you like to meet my parents and sister?’
Without waiting for a reply, he sets off towards the sinister-looking gates of the prison, then down a short road on the left, and I practically have to run to keep up with him. ‘They call these the Married Quarters.’ He indicates with his hand. ‘It’s where the married British prison warders used to live. Our “mess” is very over-crowded, unfortunately, and we’re sharing with another family.’
In the front room of the first-floor flat, a European man sits on a camp-bed and squints at me through the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘Hello,’ he says, running a hand through his hair. ‘Welcome to Stanley! Have you just got here?’
‘We were allowed to stay on the Peak for the past month. But now we’re in the Indian Quarters.’
A petite Chinese woman with porcelain skin and a chignon appears at my elbow. ‘I’m Charles’ mother. So sorry they’ve put you in those awful flats. They seem to have reserved the worst billets for people from the Peak.’
A girl, sitting with a book in her hands, looks up from a camp-bed. Her curls are tied in neat bunches, and her eyes tilt attractively in her oval face.
‘This is my sister, Ruth,’ Charles says.
I smile at the girl then gaze around the room. On the far side, an Englishman, a Chinese woman, and three children of junior school age sit despondently on camp-beds pushed against each other on the bare parquet floor. ‘This place is bigger than ours. But at least we’ve got it to ourselves.’
‘Well, that’s a blessing.’ Mrs Pearce lets out a short laugh. ‘Please can you ask your mother if she has any clothes to spare? The nights are freezing and we can’t get warm, although we all huddle together. We weren’t able to bring much with us.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs Pearce’s dress is hanging off her and her husband’s face has a sunken look. ‘I’d better be off. I’ll see what my mother can find.’
Charles is sitting with his sister on the camp-bed and isn’t looking in my direction. What to make of him? He was pleasant enough while showing me around the camp, but now I feel like a stray puppy he’s found and handed over to his parents. Picking my way between the beds, I head out of the door. I’ve been exploring for at least an hour and my parents are probably worried.
I stroll along the path overlooking the shore. A Sikh guard stands with a rifle in his hands, ignoring me as I edge past him. Below, the sea has turned choppy in the breeze. I knuckle the hot tears from my cheeks; I’ve held them back all day. Now I’m alone I let them flow.
I’m so afraid.
‘But I will be brave,’ I repeat like a mantra all the way back to the Indian Quarters.
5
Sofia Rodrigues gazes out of the back window of her father’s limousine. There’re definitely more beggars out on the streets of Macau since Hong Kong surrendered to the Japanese. She reaches into her pocket for a coin. It’s the last of her pocket money, but she doesn’t mind. Father will give her more when she asks for it. The car slows at the pedestrian crossing, and she tosses the money into the tin held out by a thin Chinese man dressed in filthy grey rags.
She eyes Natalia, sitting next to her, and smiles to herself. Her governess isn’t what you’d consider a beauty, with her beaky nose and cropped grey hair. No man would have wanted to take Natalia for a concubine, like Father took Mother a year before Sofia was born. Poor Mother. If only she’d had the chance to know her. But then she wouldn’t have Natalia, would she?
Sofia grasps her governess’ hand. ‘I can’t wait to get to Uncle’s. He promised he’ll take me out on his biggest junk.’ Uncle’s junk-master taught her how to handle the sails on her own last autumn, the day after she turned thirteen. She hugs herself, excitement sparking in her chest. That sense of freedom she gets running before the wind is so intoxicating . . .
Natalia squeezes her fingers. ‘You worked hard on your studies this morning, my Sofichka. I hope you enjoy the sail.’
‘French verbs, English translations, Algebra. I feel as if my head is about to explode. I need some fresh air.’
The car pulls up in front of Uncle’s mansion, a two st
orey structure with a balcony running along the side. She’s seen pictures of the buildings in Portugal, and Uncle’s house wouldn’t look out-of-place there.
She’s never been to Portugal; she’s only ever visited China, Hong Kong and the Philippines. The British colony is her favourite. She can speak perfect English, albeit with a slight Russian accent, thanks to Natalia, and she loves to go to the cinema in Hong Kong to watch British and American films. She and Natalia always stay in the Peninsula Hotel. Unfortunately, they won’t be able to do that anymore.
Sofia huffs to herself. I wish the Japanese hadn’t come and spoilt everything.
The Japanese seem to be everywhere, in spite of Macau, like Portugal, being neutral in this war. She’s seen Japanese soldiers and the Kempetai, their secret police, parading openly in the streets. Sofia doesn’t know any Japanese and she doesn’t want to, either; she’s heard stories about what they’ve done to people in China . . .
She clambers out of the car. Natalia has some errands to run in the old town, where she’ll stock up on necessities before the shops sell out of everything. ‘See you later, darlink,’ her governess says.
Uncle’s houseman opens the front door, and Sofia strides across the marble-tiled hall to the sitting room. She stops dead. Why is Uncle still in his long robe? He should be in the trousers and jacket he normally wears sailing.
‘Ah, my child,’ Uncle says in the Chiu Chow dialect he has taught her to speak with him. He pushes up his sleeves, his fat cheeks wobbling. ‘I tried to telephone earlier, but the lines are down. I’m afraid we can’t set out for the open sea. Those turnip heads have put a blockade around Macau and it’s too dangerous to try and slip through in broad daylight.’
‘I was really looking forward to it.’ She must keep her voice from sounding sulky, though. She can’t stand sulkiness; she stopped being friends with Jennifer Kwok last year because the girl was so moody. ‘What can we do instead?’
The Orchid Tree Page 3
