The Orchid Tree

by Siobhan Daiko

  ‘Well. I can take you to lunch at the Solmar, if you like.’

  Sofia claps her hands. ‘My favourite restaurant.’

  Uncle is good to her, but then, most people are. There’re only a couple of people she can think of who aren’t, and one of those is Leo, her half-brother. She can guess why that is, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

  ***

  She gets home early to the white villa overlooking the old town of Macau. The afternoon stretches before her with no lessons and the prospect of boredom. Sofia hates being bored almost as much as she despises moodiness.

  I’ll go and find Father.

  The walls of his study are panelled in teak, and a Tientsin carpet, decorated with a floral medallion surrounded by blue and purple birds and animals, covers the centre of the room. She feels the thickness of the pile through the thin soles of her house shoes and inhales the scent of beeswax. Father is sitting at his mahogany desk. She crosses the room, and he looks up from his papers.

  ‘Querida!’ Father likes to use the Portuguese term for beloved, although they usually speak Macanese with each other. ‘You’re back early.’

  ‘Uncle says sailing is too dangerous because of the Japanese. I wish they’d just go and leave us alone.’

  ‘Not much chance of that, I’m afraid. Your uncle is quite right not to put you in danger and I’m glad you’re back in time. We have visitors this evening. Japanese visitors.’

  ‘Father! How can you invite the enemy here? We should have nothing to do with them.’

  ‘Hush, querida. All is not as it seems. We must be polite to them, that’s all. They’ve children of thirteen and twenty like you and your brother. In import-export like we are. Be nice to them!’

  ‘All right. But what about Leo?’

  ‘Oh, he’s very enthusiastic. He’s been telling me we should side with the Japanese. He says European civilisation has come to an end and it’s the turn of the East now.’

  ‘Typical of Leo to say that.’

  ‘Now, now, I want you two to get along this evening for once.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ And she will. She always tries to get along with Leo . . .

  ‘Is your wife going to be there?’

  ‘I wish you’d call her Mother.’

  ‘Siu Yin isn’t my real mother.’ Sofia moves to his side. ‘My real mother wouldn’t look down her nose at me all the time.’

  Father puts his arm around her shoulder. ‘Just ignore her. She’s quite harmless, really.’

  Sofia wriggles out of his embrace. She won’t tell him of the snide remarks about her illegitimacy, or the surreptitious pinches that really hurt. She hates tale-tale-tits even more than she despises moodiness and boredom.

  ‘Shall we have a game of chess before getting ready for dinner?’

  ‘And have you thrash the living daylights out of me,’ Father says in an indulgent tone. ‘Why the devil not?’

  ***

  A large rosewood table dominates the centre of the dining room. Sofia shoots a glance at Leo, placed opposite, and eyes his tall muscular frame. He has the physique of a grown man and appears far more Portuguese than Eurasian. A throw-back, everyone says, despite Siu Yin being half English on her father’s side and Chinese on her mother’s.

  Chinese blood. That’s what links them. But they’re a hotchpotch, really. Sofia has the light skin and dark brown hair Father inherited from his Dutch great-grandmother. Would she like to be just one nationality? No. That would be so boring . . .

  Leo’s voice cuts into her thoughts. He’s preaching about Asian nations achieving independence from the Western powers - one of his favourite topics. There’s an arrogance to Leo’s nature that simmers beneath the surface. Being the legitimate son of the head of the Macau Consortium must give him a sense of power in the territory. She’s seen how he behaves towards others – lording it over them like a big-headed prince – but she’s also seen a side to him that few have.

  When she was small, he used to carry her around on his shoulders, and he taught her how to swim almost before she could walk. Yet something happened as she grew older, and it turned him against her. Shrugging to herself, Sofia gives her attention to the Japanese girl on her left. Her name is Michiko, and she’s delicate-looking, with an oval face, straight nose, and bow-shaped mouth. ‘What a pretty Kimono,’ Sofia says in English. She doesn’t speak Japanese, and neither do Father, Siu Yin or Leo. That doesn’t matter - the Kimuras speak fluent American English. Apparently they used to live in San Francisco . . .

  Michiko thanks her politely, then remains silent. Sofia gives up trying to draw the girl out and, suppressing a yawn, studies the boy opposite her. Supposedly her age, he’s shorter than she is and uglier than his sister, who’s actually quite pretty. The boy is shovelling rice into his mouth as if he hasn’t had a square meal in weeks. But from his general chubbiness, it’s probably only been a couple of hours . . .

  Sofia fidgets and turns her gaze towards the mother. Mrs Kimura is an adult version of her daughter, and Father is having more success at drawing her out than Sofia is with Michiko. The older woman giggles at something Father has said, and hides her mouth behind her hand.

  Siu Yin’s chatter drifts across the table, and Sofia peers at her step-mother. Siu Yin sits at the far end between Mr Kimura and Leo, tossing her glossy black hair and pouting her lips like some Hollywood actress. They’re discussing pearls, of all things. Pearls! Father’s business is in gold. Sofia glances back at the Japanese woman. Mrs Kimura is wearing a long string of the largest pearls she’s ever seen. Could that be the import-export business Father was talking about? Why else would he invite a Japanese family to dinner?

  Sofia picks at the grouper fish on the plate in front of her; she’s not hungry. One large meal a day is enough, and she ate more than enough at lunch with Uncle. Boredom nudges at her. Threading her fingers through the lace at the edge of the tablecloth, she lets her mind wander.

  Father said all was not as it seemed. What if Mr Kimura wasn’t really a businessman? She’s been reading about spies in the Helen MacInnes novel Natalia got for her to improve her English. It would be fascinating if Mr Kimura was a spy. Natalia said Macau is full of Japanese spies . . .

  6

  An acrid stench of overflowing latrines hangs in the air, contrasting with the loveliness of sunbeams dappling the leaves on the orchid trees beside the main road as I stroll towards the canteen. Cramped in our shabby room, Mama has all but pushed me outdoors this morning.

  We’ve been in Stanley for over a week now, and I’ve already found out that the few classmates I had are here too. Classmates, not friends. My friends left Hong Kong at the same time as Mary.

  My step lightens. Ruth and Charles are crouching behind a shrub up ahead. They’re staring at a group of European men loading tins onto trucks, parked by warehouses everyone calls godowns. Japanese and Indian guards sit on the side, smoking.

  ‘What’s in those cans?’ I whisper to Charles.

  ‘Food.’

  ‘If they’ve got all that food, why can’t we have some?’

  ‘It’s our food. The Government stashed it here before the invasion so we’d have enough to last through a blockade. The Japs’ve stolen it just like they’ve stolen Hong Kong.’

  I shade my eyes. Each time a guard looks the other way, one or other of the European men drops a couple of tins into a ditch. A man with sandy coloured hair has even tied his trousers at the ankles, and is filling the improvised bags with sugar from some torn sacks. The man motions to the guards, goes behind a bush not far away (probably pretending to go for a wee), and empties the sugar into a sack he must have hidden earlier.

  Moments later, the working party moves off and Charles beckons.

  I scramble down to the trench after him and collect as many cans as I can squirrel up my jumper: a jar of strawberry jam, a tin of potatoes, and a can of bully beef.

  Charles does the same, and Ruth shoves a packet of biscuits into her pocket.
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  I follow them up to the road, but a blond boy jumps out from behind the godowns and blocks my way. ‘Hand that over,’ he barks.

  I stand firm. ‘Finders keepers!’

  ‘Those men are in the Hong Kong Police,’ the boy says with a sneer. ‘You’ve pinched some of their loot.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Charles glares at him and plants his feet wide apart. ‘It’s the police who’ve done the stealing. By rights they should share everything. Anyway, there’s plenty left down there. We’ve only helped ourselves to what we can carry.’

  The boy raises his fist and aims a punch at Charles. Before the blow can land, Charles moves to the side and leaps into the air, floating for an instant. His whole body twists and he kicks the boy’s fist away.

  My mouth opens like a goldfish at feeding time. I’ve heard about Chinese fighting skills, but I’ve never seen them in action before now.

  ‘I’ll get you later,’ the boy shouts, backing away. He scrambles down the bank towards the gully and disappears behind the warehouses.

  Charles stares after him. ‘I’ve seen him hanging around with some rough-looking boys. I wonder who he is?’

  I shrug. Charles looks at me and shrugs back. He turns and I fall into step beside him, eager to take my pickings back to the Indian Quarters.

  ***

  The chill of winter has given way to the mugginess of spring. I stretch as early morning sunshine slants through the curtain-less windows and moisture fills the air. Running my tongue over the beads of perspiration on my upper lip, I taste the salt. It’s late May now, and in a fortnight or so the heat and humidity will be ten times worse.

  If only I could be back in my comfortable room at home where I used to sleep below a ceiling fan, its whirring lulling me on hot summer nights. Beneath my mosquito net, I’d imagine I’d been cast adrift on the ocean under a transparent sail. In Stanley, though, I’ll soon be melting in a pool of sweat and covered in mosquito bites. I give a shudder; those mosquitoes might carry malaria.

  Rolling over, I feel my bones rubbing the stone floor through my lumpy mattress. I was dreaming of breakfast: bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and a cup of steaming hot tea. I’m fed up with congee; I always gobble the rice and water porridge too quickly and am left desperate for more. The last time I had an egg was at Easter, when the guards gave us one duck egg each. Far from doing unspeakable things, the Japanese officers keep their distance and, when we first arrived, the guards even gave the kids sweets from time to time.

  That was ages ago, though, and now they don’t give us anything. Hunger knots my belly and I glance at my parents snoring on their mattresses. They’ve both lost so much weight; their bodies have shrunk inside their clothes.

  I creep out of bed and pull on a cotton dress. It hangs off my skinny shoulders, but feels cool and comfortable. Outside the early morning queues for hot water have already formed, and the blond boy from the godown raid has staked a place at the front of the line. Yesterday I discovered his name - Derek Higgins - when a teacher called it out. There are lots of teachers among the internees, and the adults say we children are running wild, so, a week ago, a group of parents decided to organise classes. A good thing too, otherwise I’d be terribly bored.

  Derek is fluent in Chinese, and I’ve seen him spending his time with the Eurasian boys whose mothers married English policemen. He shuffles up to me barefoot. Like most of the kids, I discarded my shoes weeks ago. I rub my feet on the gravely soil; they’ve grown as tough as leather.

  Derek runs his hand through his wispy blond hair and glowers at me. ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘None of your business!’

  I head up to the cemetery, sit behind a headstone, and think about Charles. I’ve got into the habit of standing close to him in the supper queues, yet he hardly talks to me and I’m too shy to start a conversation. Whenever I see him my heart rate flutters, and I want him to like me as much as I like him.

  My experience with boys has been limited to those spotty English youths who fumbled the odd kiss at school dances and Jimmy, of course. He used to call me his mui mui, little sister. I didn’t mind Jimmy thinking of me like that; he was like a brother to me. But I want Charles to think of me differently. How differently? Not like a sister, that’s for sure . . .

  I peer around the gravestone. Derek Higgins is coming up the hill, looking from left to right. What’s he up to? Ha! If he thinks he’ll find me he’s got no chance. I gather up my dress and prepare to run. The chorus of birds in the thicket falls silent and the hairs on the back of my legs tingle. There’s a presence behind me. A ghost? The cemetery is probably full of them . . .

  I spin around. A huge cat crouches in the undergrowth. Two eyes burn bright in a striped face. Enormous whiskers quiver.

  Oh my God! It’s about to spring.

  I leap to my feet. ‘Tiger! Tiger!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Derek shouts, chasing after me. ‘There aren’t any tigers in Hong Kong.’

  I reach the main road. Charles is carrying a pail of water in my path, and I run full pelt into him.

  ‘Steady.’ He drops the bucket. ‘This is hot.’

  I suppress a smile as Derek runs off.

  Charles rubs his hands on his shorts. ‘Why was he chasing you?’

  ‘I told him I saw a tiger and he didn’t believe me.’

  ‘Are you sure the light wasn’t playing tricks with your imagination?’

  ‘I saw a real tiger. I’m positive.’

  ‘Right.’ He picks up the bucket and, balancing his weight carefully, looks at me. Our eyes meet, and my heart beats so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

  A shout, and Papa arrives, his lips pinched together. He wipes his forehead and puffs. ‘Where have you been? I’ve just found out one of the guards has been mauled by a tiger.’

  Should I run after Charles and warn him? But Papa grabs my hand and leads me away.

  7

  Scooping the last of the watery rice from my breakfast bowl, I get to my feet. The sooner I get my chores done, the sooner I’ll get away from the claustrophobia of this room.

  I pick up my parents’ bowls and take them through to the kitchen. Papa has bought lye soap from an enterprising man in the flat below. It’s made of wood-ash and lard. The trouble is, the man used too much wood-ash in the recipe. The soap is caustic and irritates my skin, but it’s all that’s available to clean my teeth, wash my body and do the dishes.

  I pour the water I queued for at daybreak into a pan and scrape off a few flakes of soap with a knife. After immersing the breakfast bowls in the suds, I rub them with a threadbare cloth, then take them back to the room. The soapy water will be used to flush the stinking toilet later.

  ‘A rumour’s going round some people have managed to escape,’ Papa says, wiping his moustache and looking up at me.

  ‘I thought Stanley was escape-proof?’ Mama mutters from her mattress. ‘I mean, we’re surrounded by barbed wire and sea on three sides. And the road to the village is always guarded.’

  ‘It appears two or maybe even three groups of people have managed to sneak out, my dear. They’re going to find it difficult, for it’s a long way to unoccupied China.’

  ‘The Japanese would be punishing the rest of us if it were true. Just like they made those policemen they caught after the raid march up and down the main road for hours.’

  ‘Not necessarily. They can’t be seen to lose face.’

  ‘I’m surprised no one’s formed an escape committee.’

  ‘We’ve enough wretched committees in this place, Flora,’ Papa retorts with a huff.

  ‘Has anyone formed a committee to catch the tiger?’ I haven’t told my parents about how near I came to ending up the animal’s supper.

  ‘No, and you’re not to go anywhere near the thickets, Kate,’ Papa says.

  ‘I promise.’ Drat! I won’t be able to wonder around so freely on the off-chance of bumping into Charles.

  ***

  A week later
, I stroll along the path leading to the old football field in front of the Indian Quarters. The village green, as everyone calls it, bears little resemblance to those traditional village greens in my childhood picture books. A scrappy piece of land, parched and forlorn in the dry weather when we first arrived, is now a soggy mess in the wet of summer. But at least it’s somewhere for the children to play.

  I’ve been cooped up with my parents all morning. They’ve been bickering over which piece of Mama’s jewellery they’ll sell next to buy some food. I press my lips together. What does the jewellery matter if we starve to death? All we get at every meal are a few tiny pieces of bad fish or a couple of teaspoons of stringy, watered-down buffalo stew. And the rice is contaminated with particles of grit, cockroach droppings and the occasional weevil. Disgusting!

  A ginger-haired man is approaching from the opposite direction. The sun has turned his skin a fierce shade of pink and his legs, poking out of his baggy shorts, remind me of a couple of raw sausages.

  ‘Aalreet, little lass?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Forgetting me manners,’ he says in a thick accent. ‘Name’s Bob.’

  ‘I’m Kate. How do you do?’ I offer my hand.

  ‘Well as can be expected,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘Where are you from in England?’

  ‘Newcastle. What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing much. In fact, I’m terribly bored.’

  ‘You don’t need to be bored. I’ll show you a game I used to play when I was a lad. We called it “cannon”.’

  Bob takes an empty can from his pocket. There’s a picture of pears on the label; he must have been involved in the police raid on the godowns. After setting the can down in the middle of the field, he scrabbles around for a couple of sticks. Then he takes a tennis ball from his other pocket. ‘It’s a competition, you see,’ he says. ‘The person who throws the ball and knocks the tin and the sticks over with the fewest tries is the winner.’