“Spoil him rotten,” was Ben’s order, and they did their best. Ben himself was there as often as possible, speaking to him in Japanese. The others used their limited vocabularies to make him feel at ease and entertain him. Luke hit on the idea of reading him stories, and acting them out with sad or comic faces. It didn’t seem to matter that it was in a foreign language, because Kaito appeared to enjoy the variety of expressions that Luke could muster. The small boy never laughed aloud, but he smiled often and was no longer afraid. Tobias had a good baritone voice, and sang songs when he was on babysitting duty. Jimmy Marks revealed a surprise talent, and drew cartoons and sketches for him, and when they ran out of ideas they played him music from the record library. They treasured his shy smile, and became awfully fond of him.
On the fourth day Major Bickerton arrived at the studio on a surprise visit, and there was no time to hide Kaito. The Major was accompanied by a military police corporal, and instantly gave orders for the child to be physically removed. Anticipating this, Luke forestalled them. In a flash he entered the rest room and locked the door, remaining inside there with Kaito while the Major and corporal knocked furiously, shouting for him to open up without success. Kaito was scared, and, realising this, Luke picked him up to comfort him, while knocking on the door himself and matching shouts from the other side, yelling at the Major to bugger off. Kaito, to Luke’s surprise, suddenly found it comical, and tried to punch the door with his tiny fists, for the first time laughing aloud.
Luke relished the boy’s laughter, but began to think it would inflame Bickerton into ordering the door be broken down. Instead the assault on the other side stopped, and the Major’s voice told him he was on a serious charge — rebellious behaviour, disobeying an order by a senior officer, and inciting a foreign child to rebellious behaviour and an act of derision against the army — and to report at HQ with his commanding officer within an hour.
“An act of derision against the army,” Ben Warren said. “This is getting seriously absurd. I think bloody Bickerton has lost the plot.”
They were paraded in front of Colonel Rawleigh, an Englishman in charge of communications and amenities for the entire Commonwealth Force, and well known as a convivial drinking companion in the officers’ mess. ‘Ten pot’ Rawleigh was his nickname, confirmed by a network of blood vessels on his bulbous nose. Luke was charged with insubordination and told he would be reduced to the ranks. He would face later charges that might mean a term of imprisonment.
“As for you, Lieutenant, we hold you entirely responsible, and unless the matter is rectified and the Japanese child removed at once, you’ll be court-martialled. It will be the end of your army career.” The Colonel had a nervous facial twitch and a sharp cough that sounded as if he was a heavy smoker. “Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant Warren?”
“Quite clear, Colonel. The end of my career is a matter of little concern to me. I was never intending to make it a lifetime occupation, having seen what happens to those who attempt such a course, so you must go ahead with your threat. It’ll make you feel better.”
“What?” Rawleigh’s twitch became more pronounced, his cough this time sounding like an angry bark. “What? Explain yourself, man.”
“I said, go ahead, court-martial me, kick me out of the army. But if that’s how I’m to be treated for trying to look after a sick and dying child, it’ll make a big headline in the newspapers at home. And those tabloids in Britain.”
“What the devil do you mean dying child?” snapped the Colonel going a deeper shade of pink. “A medical officer now, are you? What qualifications do you have to diagnose that he’s dying?”
“I’ve got a pair of eyes, Colonel, for a start. And if you’d do us the courtesy of coming to see for yourself, you’d agree. Why do you think we’re looking after him, trying to make things easier? Why have all my unit been volunteering to go short of sleep to take shifts night after night so they can care for him. Why are we so fucking upset?” he shouted in the Colonel’s surprised and florid face.
“What?! Swearing at a senior officer! Steady on, man …”
“I’ll tell you why,” Ben ignored his interruption, “because we do care. He’s survived all these months and of course the poor little kid is dying. I invite you to come and look for yourself.”
“Certainly not,” Rawleigh said, and turned to Major Bickerton. “Make out the charge sheets. Disobeying orders, use of filthy language to senior officers, illegally sheltering a foreign national. That should do for a start. Dismiss them,” he ordered the Major and left the room.
There was silence for a moment. Even Bickerton looked embarrassed.
“You’re a pair of stupid bloody fools,” he said.
“Not quite as foolish as you think,” Ben Warren snapped a curt reply, as he and Luke saluted, did a smart about-turn and left him there, not waiting to be dismissed or allowing the Major to ask what he meant.
That night he got the unit together and played them the recording of the meeting, having been fitted with a pocket recorder by the chief engineer. Luke then read aloud a letter he’d composed, which the staff signed. It offered the mass resignation of the entire unit if Lieutenant Warren was victimised, and along with the tape recording it was sent to General Robinson, British Commonwealth Forces Supreme Commander. The letter pointed out that total resignation would doubtless mean they would all be disciplined, but the radio station would go off the air until a new team could be found. It would mean there’d be questions asked all the way to army headquarters by the politicians in Canberra, and perhaps in London, questions about why the army was inhumane, refusing to allow its members to care for such a desperately sick child, a young and innocent victim of the atomic bomb. And at a time when Lord Russell and other eminent people were attracting huge crowds of people, gathering to protest against nuclear weapons.
An answer eventually came from the Aide-de-Camp to General Robbo Robertson. It took four days more, and meanwhile they had continued to care for Kaito without harassment. Luke and Ben Warren were called to meet with Colonel Rawleigh, who had clearly been told to fix this mess, and do it swiftly. He was obviously under orders as he said that the charges would be withdrawn, because, he muttered, there was a certain amount of confusion, perhaps some misunderstandings. His tightly compressed lips seemed to have great difficulty in actually framing the words.
“I daresay you thought you were doing your best to help this poor unfortunate child. But of course real care is essential, and there must be a hospice where he can be looked after in a proper manner. Perhaps by nuns, or at least by his own people. Tragic as it may be, looking after him is simply not our business or concern. So I’ve put out an urgent and immediate order for my staff to search for such a place as soon as possible. And, since we are all on the same side, I hope you agree and approve this is the sensible and correct procedure.”
It was a real mea culpa, and the Colonel had certainly been lent on by someone from a great height. He stood waiting for a reply, then Ben quietly thanked him, but said he could rescind the order.
“Rescind it? Damn it, Lieutenant, don’t you realise that I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble?”
“Perhaps so, Colonel. But a little too late. We think he’d rather have died among friends like us, than among strangers you’d wish upon him.”
“He’s dead?” The Colonel tried not to show his instant relief at this news. “When did this happen?” he asked.
“He died early this morning.”
It was all Ben wanted to say. Neither he nor Luke wanted to prolong the meeting by explaining the whole unit had been there, all of them somehow guessing the end was near, sitting around his bed just before dawn when the pain ended. For over an hour he’d clung to Luke’s hand, his grip eventually softening, his face becoming relaxed and peaceful. It had been quiet and mercifully quick. One minute he was there with his brave little smile, the next he was gone.
They employed a sculptor to chip his name on plain granite,
and placed the headstone on his grave where they gathered to say goodbye.
KAITO, AGED 9. BORN IN HIROSHIMA. DIED APRIL 10TH 1946
It was all they knew about him. There was nothing else they could say, but the brevity of it seemed to have a simple dignity. Afterwards they had a few drinks to his memory, and Ben got drunk. Luke felt close to tears; he kept thinking about Kaito long afterwards, for there was something about the boy he could not free from his mind.
The massive shock of Hiroshima, the deaths and what he’d seen in the ruined landscape was one thing, but this was different; it was singular and deeply personal. He completed the article he had been writing each day: how they’d found him, cared for him, fought the army brass-hats to keep him, and grown so fond of him. He wanted it to be known to as many people as possible, so he sent it to Harry Morton, and in the final paragraph tried to sum up what knowing Kaito for those ten days had meant to them all, and in particular how he had personally felt.
For me, from that time on, the tragedy of Hiroshima would never be that of an annihilated city, in which so many thousands were killed within seconds of the explosion. It was, and will forever be, the face of a bewildered and damaged child, wringing wet, hungry, and dying a little more each day.
NINETEEN
The Federation-style mansion had spacious verandahs around the upper floor, and was set amid acres of land in a district where even a modest block was expensive. Flanked by a grass tennis court and a tiled swimming pool with a cabana, it was built on a hillside slope that dominated other homes and provided a brilliant ocean view. It was forbiddingly elegant, Claudia realised, asserting wealth and lots of it. She parked there in her Ford Prefect, the little sedan like an intruder beside the gleaming Mercedes in the driveway, and a fin-tailed Chevrolet in the car port. A gardener was working in the grounds, edging lawns that already seemed immaculate.
She felt oddly apprehensive as she rang the doorbell and heard chimes sound deep within the house. It was not an emotion she often experienced, but the curt note and pre-emptory summons had left her feeling nervous and insecure. She hadn’t met his parents, but the woman who opened the door was clearly Steven’s mother. She had the same fair hair and grey eyes, an agreeable face that resembled his, lacking only his warm and friendly smile, the element that made Steven so attractive. She also looked rather nervous.
“Miss Marsden?”
“Claudia,” she said, but this attempt at amity was ignored.
“Please come this way,” was the abrupt request. Claudia wondered if it was arrogance or anxiety? Steven liked his mother, the only family member he welcomed at the hospital, but the brusque reception was not promising. She followed her along a wide hallway, conscious of luxury: a thick pile carpet, panelled cedar doors and damask wallpaper. They passed a room with a billiard table, another with a grand piano, and then the hall led into a spacious living room with high ceilings, ornate cornices, a central rose and large crystal chandelier. Claudia had seen many graceful rooms in Paris, and, although she barely had time to glimpse these trappings of wealth, was reluctantly impressed. Settees and armchairs were grouped around a stone fireplace with an Adam surround, and in one of them sat the man who owned this opulence, Jerold Pascoe.
He did not stand up to greet her, merely pointed to a chair opposite, which Claudia gathered was a directive to sit there, and as she did so he signalled again, this time a gesture with his head ordering his wife to leave them. There was no attempt to offer her tea or coffee, not a word of welcome. It was like being ushered into Matron’s office for a rebuke. The thought was enough to make her want to smile, but the atmosphere constrained that. It was so intensely hostile. After his wife left them Pascoe continued to gaze at Claudia without uttering a word. She knew it was a tactic, but the silence was so unpleasant that it forced her to speak first, doubtless what he intended. She felt unable to put up with his intimidating stare any longer.
“You sent a note requesting me to come and see you, Mr Pascoe. Perhaps you’d like to explain why.”
“You know damn well why, Miss Marsden. The way you are continually interfering with the management of my son’s illness has to stop.”
“Interfering? I’m trying to help.”
“You’re doing nothing of the kind. You’re hindering his treatment, giving advice contrary to the doctors, and it will either cease from now on or I’ll have you dismissed from that hospital.”
“Dismissed? I beg your pardon, but I don’t believe you can do that.”
“I can do whatever is necessary to get rid of you, Miss Marsden. I daresay you’re unaware that I’m now on the board of trustees.” He allowed himself the trace of a smile at her discomfort. “Hospitals are always grateful for donations, and anxious to accommodate the wishes of benefactors. As a board member I’m in a position to advise the chairman that you’re a disturbing influence, alienating my son against his parents and trying to dictate in matters of his treatment. Which is nothing more than the truth. You seem to forget your place, and need to remember that you’re a mere junior nurse, with no experience and certainly no right to persuade Steven to decrease his time in the iron lung.”
“It’s not my persuasion. It’s Steven’s own wish to spend as little time in it as possible. He dislikes the lung, and doesn’t want to become dependent on it.”
“Bloody rubbish. That’s precisely the kind of intrusion that must end. Whatever he may wish, the iron lung is how people with polio survive. He can live that way to a decent age.”
“Not as a lifetime prisoner in that machine,” she said vehemently. “He dreads the idea!”
He’d tell you himself, she thought, but you’d only create more havoc at the hospital and upset him.
“A prisoner, eh? That’s the kind of nonsensical feedback I’m getting, and it comes directly from you.”
“They’re Steven’s own words. He’s said as much to his mother.”
“Just shut up and listen to me, young woman! And leave his mother out of this. Our doctor and all the consultant specialists have assured us that’s precisely all he can hope for. It’s your stupid opinions that are trying to indoctrinate him.” Pascoe noticeably raised his voice as he lent forward, his finger stabbing at her as he pointedly listed each complaint.
“Firstly, you’ve made him think he can somehow live a normal life. That is ridiculous; the specialists are unanimous that he can’t. Secondly, you’ve filled him with false hope of some new fangled treatment, and the policies of that bloody charlatan Sister Kenny. I’m advised the medical profession regard her as nothing but a quack. So you stop this meddling, or I’ll see you get sacked for constant intervention and attempting to give dangerous advice. Thirdly, by the time I’ve finished, Miss Marsden, you’ll not only lose your job at that hospital, but I’ll see to it you’ll never get another one anywhere in this state.” He was red-faced as he stopped his finger pointing. “You can clear out now.” He waited for her to leave, but Claudia sat staring back at him. “I said you can go. That’s all I intend to say.”
“It’s certainly not all I have to say, Mr Pascoe. Had I known I’d be abused and threatened like this, I would not have bothered to come here.” She tried to control her voice and sound rational. “I came in the hope that you might listen to me, but your son is right. He warned me you’re a bully who doesn’t care and won’t listen to anyone. I hoped his illness might’ve changed you, made you more amenable to reason. You see, he wants to go to Queensland. He believes, and so do I, that a warmer climate can help his chance of recovery. It’s helped a great many others. I can give you details, including even the late American president, Franklin Roosevelt, who moved to Palm Springs because it was warmer. Steven thinks it is worth trying, and it was always my intention to meet you and ask if you could assist to finance this move. He is, after all, your only male child.” She could tell she’d failed, but had to continue. “So despite how you feel about me, for Steven’s sake I’ll still ask the question. Will you agree to help him?”
>
For a moment he just stared at her, astonished by her temerity.
“You’ve got a fucking nerve,” Jerold Pascoe said, and the muted tone he adopted seemed more menacing than his louder threats. “Help him, you ask! I’ll help Steven the day he cares to make me a full apology for dropping out of university against my wishes, for running off and enlisting in the army against my wishes, for refusing to live here and even trying to get me barred from visiting him in hospital. When he says he’s sorry for those things, and stops listening to a foolish bitch like you, then I’ll help him. When he comes home to live here, there’ll be an iron lung to help him survive, and the rest of his life will be none of your business.”
He stood up and pointed towards the door. “So just get out of my house, Miss Marsden. Get out before I have you removed. We’ve nothing else to discuss. And remember what I said. Stop trying to influence him or you’ll not only lose your job — that’ll be just the start. I’ll bring charges in court. There are laws against trying to alienate a son from his family. A crippled son, Miss Marsden, just think how that will impact on a jury, when you’re charged with trying to estrange him from parents who only want him home so they can look after him. You’d better take legal advice, young lady, because I most certainly have. It will cost you a great deal if I have to bring charges and put an end to this asinine campaign of yours.”
Claudia avoided a retort. She knew it was useless. Luke had told her the kind of implacable man he was. Steven had warned her against the visit. Both were right, and it was foolish to have come here. She stood up and left without a word, unable to reply, eager to be freed from his intimidating presence.
As she walked to her car she saw his wife in the garden, using secateurs to trim a rose bush. It hardly seemed to require pruning. Claudia had a sudden feeling she was lingering there for a reason, perhaps hoping to talk, so she paused for a moment.
Above the Fold Page 14
