When We Were Young & Brave

by Hazel Gaynor

  The resilience of that little flower, and all that it stood for, finally saw me crack. I sank onto my knees and wept without embarrassment or apology. Minnie wrapped her arms around me, and held me like a child.

  Over the following weeks, the girls cared for the sunflower as if it were the most precious thing in the world. In many ways, it was. They sang to it and watered it, and supported it with pea canes when it grew taller. As it followed the sun and outgrew even the tallest girls, that single neglected sunflower came to represent the struggle and resilience of us all. In full bloom it was magnificent. Within its bright face, and its quiet determination to thrive, I saw every one of us, and I knew that we, too, would somehow prevail.

  Autumn in China was an artist’s dream. As the leaves on the maple and gingko trees turned, the mountains burst into nuggets of rich golds and dazzling reds, and long beams of amber sunlight reached like fingertips across the bay. Everything was clearer beneath the autumn skies: crisp edges, rich colors, and a temperature far kinder to hair with a natural curl than the sticky humidity of summer.

  Apart from the changing seasons, time passed in a blur of sameness, but one constant barometer of progression was the children. Even war couldn’t hold back what nature intended, and they continued to grow, upward and outward, and every which way. Most of my girls had, by now, reached their eleventh birthday. One or two had already started their monthlies, which had caused great consternation and a degree of personal intimacy I hadn’t anticipated when I’d accepted the teaching position here. Thankfully, there were adequate supplies for the situation, albeit helped by the fact that the adult women and older girls washed their napkins, many of which had, by now, seen better days. Boys who’d sounded like boys a year ago now spoke in much lower tones, and soft downy mustaches adorned many a top lip. Charlie Harris and Tom Martin taught the boys how to shave.

  At least we had a semireliable food supply now, with Red Cross parcels making their way through to us, albeit intermittently, and Commander Hayashi having reached some sort of arrangement with Mission HQ in Shanghai. Portions and standards of meals still weren’t back to what we were used to, but we knew better than to complain. Somehow, we made the best of things, even when the best was really quite awful.

  Life under occupation brought daily challenges and unexpected difficulties, but our focus remained firmly on the children, and we did everything we could to retain an air of normality for them. Our weekly meetings of Brownies and Guides had become an essential part of that normality. We all found strength and comfort in the camaraderie and routine they provided; a reassuring constant amid such unpredictability. As promised, we’d formed our new Girl Guide patrol, and the older girls of the 2nd Chefoo Brownies were now proud members of Kingfisher Patrol. Nancy’s suggestion for the patrol name had been voted the most popular, and the girls had all carefully embroidered the patrol emblem onto felt badges that were now neatly sewn onto the shirt pockets of their Guide uniforms.

  “Why a kingfisher, Nancy?” I’d asked at the end of our first meeting of the summer term. “I never got around to asking you.”

  “Because of Shu Lan’s story, Miss. Because we’re trapped, like the kingfishers in the metalsmiths’ nets.”

  I was touched that she’d remembered Shu Lan’s story, but the sense of entrapment was rather desolate.

  “Perhaps we could think of it another way. That rather than being trapped, we are simply waiting for the right time to fly away.”

  She liked that idea. “Did you know that female kingfishers are more colorful than the males?”

  “I didn’t, although it doesn’t surprise me. Us girls are often more colorful.” My playful wink brought a smile to Nancy’s face.

  At our next meeting, I gave her the paper kingfisher Shu Lan had sent to me. “Shu Lan would be very pleased to know you remember her stories about China. I think she would like you to keep this.”

  “Thank you, Miss. It’s ever so pretty. I’ll put it with the rest of my special things.”

  There were moments when I was glad to have stayed in China, despite the circumstances, and standing as Guide captain, beside my lieutenant, Minnie, listening as the girls solemnly recited their Guide Promise and Laws, offered a rare moment of gratitude each week. I’d been so proud to watch our Brownies “fly up” to become Girl Guides, and loved to see them all turned out so smartly each week in their blue skirts and shirt blouses, dark blue felt hats and knotted neckerchiefs. Most heartening of all, the girls had elected Joan as their patrol leader. Like a December rose, she’d bloomed over the winter, thriving while many of the more confident girls had wilted under the long months of occupation. Electing someone who wasn’t the most popular girl, but who would value the responsibility the most, was a sign of the girls’ increasing maturity. In the months since their investiture, they’d all worked hard and were almost ready to progress to Second Class rank, after which they would be able to start earning their proficiency badges. Minnie and I had already agreed that Self-Defense and Ambulance badges would be a priority

  But, as I’d come to realize about life during a war, nothing stayed the same for long. Just when you thought you’d adjusted and adapted and found a way to cope, the situation changed.

  It was a bright autumn morning when Mr. Collins was summoned to a meeting with Commander Hayashi. We were all anxious while he was gone, remembering his long absence once before. But he returned quickly, and called an emergency staff meeting.

  “I’m afraid I have some rather alarming news.” He cleared his throat and fiddled with his tie, his face pale and gravely serious. “Our school is to be taken over entirely, to be used as a training base for the Japanese Navy.” He paused, before continuing. “All staff and children will be moved to a new location. We are to make immediate preparations to leave.”

  Chapter 12

  Nancy

  We’ve been instructed to leave the school with immediate effect,” our headmaster announced. “We will all be relocating to another school in Chefoo, at Temple Hill, about three miles across town.”

  A stunned silence drifted around the assembly hall as we absorbed the shocking news that we were to leave our school. Sprout reached for my hand.

  “I expect you all to be helpful and patient while we make the necessary preparations,” the headmaster continued. “You are each to pack your belongings. Wear as many clothes as you can, and pack the rest into your trunks and cases. We leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow!” I was so shocked I couldn’t stop myself blurting it out.

  After all the wondering and imagining, after all the talk of dramatic rescues, we would leave Chefoo School and our Japanese captors, only to become prisoners at a different school, with different soldiers guarding the gates. It was far from the thrilling midnight liberation we’d hoped for.

  “Why do we have to leave, Miss?” Sprout asked when we returned to our classrooms for the morning’s lessons. I was glad to see Sprout almost back to full health, although Nurse Prune was keeping a close eye on her to make sure she took her medicine and had plenty of rest.

  Miss Kent did one of her funny little sniffs and pushed her spectacles onto the bridge of her nose. “The school is to be used as a military base for the Japanese Navy. There’s no need for alarm, girls. We will set ourselves up at the new location, and school routine will continue as normal there.” She paused, giving her words time to settle so that we might try to make sense of them. “Are there any other questions?”

  I put my hand up.

  “Yes, Nancy?”

  “Will Miss Butterworth be able to take the kitten?”

  Miss Kent was surprised by my question. “Well, yes. I don’t see why not. We can’t very well leave the kitten behind, can we?”

  Miss Butterworth had found the kitten in a patch of wildflowers behind the San, the only one alive in a litter of six. The mother cat was nowhere to be seen, so Miss Butterworth had rescued the little orphan and kept her in a bed of old newspap
ers and scraps of wool in a drawer in her bedroom. We’d christened her Tinkerbell after the fairy in the story of Peter Pan. We were sometimes allowed to play with her, and we all adored her.

  I sat on my hands to make sure I didn’t ask any more questions because Miss Kent looked ever so weary and I suspected she wanted to get on with packing and organizing for the big move rather than answering questions about kittens.

  “I’d rather stay,” Sprout said sulkily as we packed all our belongings into our large school trunks and smaller cases. “Even with the soldiers marching about and our silly armbands, I’d rather stay here.”

  I agreed. None of us wanted to leave unless it was because the war was over and we were on our way to be reunited with our parents. Chefoo wasn’t just our school; it was our home. Leaving now was as unimaginable as staying under Japanese guard had once been.

  “Maybe they’ll let us come back when they’ve finished their training, or whatever it is they’re doing,” I said. I didn’t believe it, but it felt like the right sort of thing to say.

  “What I’d like to know is how our parents will know where to find us,” Sprout continued.

  I’d been wondering the same thing. When we’d first arrived in Shanghai, and Mummy had taken me and Edward shopping along the Bund, she’d told us that if we got lost, we should stay where we were, rather than go wandering off. “That way, I can retrace my steps to find you,” she said. “If you go wandering around, how will I ever know where to start looking?”

  “I’m sure the headmaster will write to them,” I said. “Or Mission HQ. They won’t move us and not tell our parents where we are.”

  Sprout raised an eyebrow. “We’re in the middle of a war, Plum. It’s not exactly easy to get in touch with people.”

  Mouse put her hand up, and then put it immediately down again as she remembered she wasn’t in the classroom.

  “What is it, Mouse?” I prompted.

  “I just thought we could maybe leave some clues about where we’re going. Or not. It doesn’t really matter.”

  For someone who didn’t speak very often, when she did, Mouse always made it worthwhile. We agreed it was a good idea and spent the last few minutes before lights-out scratching our names, and the date, and the words “Gone to Temple Hill” onto a loose floorboard beneath Mouse’s bed. It felt like a very clever thing to do. Like something a Girl Guide would do to Be Prepared.

  As darkness filled the room after lights-out, my imagination started to wander and I couldn’t sleep, my head occupied with the prospect of the day ahead. I thought of all the times I’d imagined leaving the school, my trunk beside me in the rickshaw as I set off to spend the holidays with Mummy and Daddy. I’d imagined the sway of the ship as we sailed around the peninsula, and my excitement when I saw Mummy waiting on the wharf. She would be wearing her favorite blue dress and would say how wonderful it was to see me, and how terribly grown-up I was, and I wouldn’t say a word, but just sink into her arms and inhale the lovely lavender warmth of her. Leaving the school felt like leaving Mummy all over again. I could still remember the sickening sense of dread as I’d stepped aboard the boat in Shanghai.

  It was now three years since I’d seen her. The scent of English lavender had faded from her letters, the paper worn so thin from where I’d folded and unfolded it that it was almost falling apart. Afraid that they would disintegrate entirely, I’d stopped reading them. I was especially disappointed that Mummy hadn’t written since our occupation, when other parents had. Letters from home were few and far between, and hopelessly outdated when they did eventually arrive, thanks to the intervention of the Red Cross. Edward said the guards intercepted all the mail and censored the letters, and that Mummy had most likely written, but her letters had got lost. I wanted to believe him.

  Sometimes I couldn’t quite grasp her image in my mind, as if I were looking at her through ripples in water. It had often been said how alike her I was. The same heart-shaped face, the same petite nose, the same hyacinth-blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair. Perhaps I saw a little of her every time I looked in the mirror, although I didn’t think about her as often as I used to. Sometimes, I forgot to miss her at all.

  After tossing and turning for a while, Sprout crept into bed beside me. We often shared a bed, to keep each other warm, and to feel safe. We held hands in the dark as a light rain tapped against the window.

  “What’s bothering me is who will look after the sunflower when we’re gone?” Sprout whispered.

  I stared at the ceiling.

  “It will have to look after itself now. In the end, I suppose we all do, don’t we.”

  Chapter 13

  Elspeth

  The day of our move arrived with golden syrup skies and the first hoarfrost of the season. I rose early, partly relieved that it had happened so quickly, and that I hadn’t had time to think about it too much, or dread it. There was only time for the practicalities of packing, and yet, I felt a need to say a farewell to this place I’d called home.

  I washed and dressed as quietly as I could, anxious not to disturb Minnie, who was still snoring away on her side of the bed. I pulled on my shoes and wool coat, and crept silently downstairs. We’d been blessed with bright clear skies, but a cool breeze whipped around the school and whistled at the eaves as I set off toward the bay. I imagined the school was singing a farewell.

  Home Run was patrolling the grounds. He stopped me, as I’d anticipated.

  “Where do you go?” he asked.

  “For a walk,” I replied, smiling politely, even though my stomach turned cartwheels. Since the shock of Trouble punching Minnie in the face that first morning, the threat that it could happen again had been ever present, but thankfully there hadn’t been a repetition of any physical cruelty. Even so, whenever I’d had cause to interact with one of the guards, I felt deeply uncomfortable. “I want to say goodbye,” I added. “I won’t be long.”

  He considered me for a moment. “You are sorry to leave?” he asked

  I nodded, surprised by the exchange. “I am sorry that any of this ever happened.”

  He nodded toward the beach. “Ten minutes.” As I turned to walk away, he added, “I am sorry, too.”

  The sun had not yet fully risen, and the bay was cold and steeped in shadow. I didn’t mind. I was alone and undisturbed, like the quiet December morning in the chapel doorway when I’d watched snowflakes tumble from the sky and finally felt confident about my decision to leave. Just as I had then, I drew strength from the quiet beauty.

  The ocean was a calm gray-blue. Gentle waves lapped at the shore as I closed my eyes and imagined the merry squeals of the children captured in the water. I drew comfort from the thought that the tides would carry their laughter on, until it lapped at some other shore and mingled with the laughter of children at liberty to play where they wanted, watched by adoring parents whose arms waited to enfold them in a loving embrace.

  I thought of Lillian Plummer, and how she’d pressed her gratitude into my hands when I’d offered to keep a special eye on Nancy during the journey from Shanghai. “You’re very kind to offer, Miss Kent. It’s never easy to let your children go, especially not your youngest, but it will be a little easier now, knowing she’s with you.” I recalled the delicate scent of her perfume, and the way she’d turned her face so that Nancy couldn’t see how upset she was. I’d known Lillian Plummer for all of ten minutes, and yet I’d felt her beside me ever since; reminding me of my promise, encouraging me to be the mother she couldn’t be.

  I’d often felt angry with her over the past year; resentful that she, and the other parents, had placed such a huge responsibility on our shoulders, but now I only felt sorry for them. What a terrible waste it was to have children you never saw. Like the ebb and flow of the tides, these formative years came and went so quickly. The children were growing up; developing from young girls into young women, and their parents were missing it all. I wondered if it would ever be possible for women like Lillian Plummer to ca
tch up with these lost years, or if the scars of separation would run too deep to ever truly heal.

  Stretching my permitted ten minutes to fifteen, I picked a handful of shells from the sand, and made my way back to the school. The seashells clattered in my pocket as I walked. A reminder that this gentle place had offered me shelter when I’d needed it most. A memento, so that I would never forget where I’d been, or how far I’d traveled.

  * * *

  I returned to my bedroom and pulled the steamer trunk from beneath the bed. While the sudden arrival of war had caught us all by surprise a year ago, I’d since made sure I was prepared for whatever might happen next. Over the past few months, I’d been quietly putting aside old schoolbooks and exam papers, reams of writing paper, poetry books, chalk, pencils and sharpeners, and other classroom supplies. It wasn’t much when I looked at it now, but it was better than nothing.

  As I sorted through my many skirts and dresses, blouses and cardigans, stockings and shoes, I wondered how I’d ever thought so much of everything was necessary. I dressed in as many layers as I could stand, limited myself to two items each of anything that remained, and one pair of shoes. Sacrificing clothes made room for extra textbooks and exercise books, past exam papers, all the wool I could find, knitting and crochet needles, spools of cotton and embroidery thread, needles and scissors, safety pins, first aid supplies, and all the Brownie and Girl Guide uniforms I could stuff inside. There wasn’t space for all the books I’d brought from home, so I chose just two: my Girl Guide Handbook, and the Buddhist scriptures Shu Lan had given to me. I picked up the small cotton square containing the eight remaining sunflower seeds from Wei Huan, and placed it in my coat pocket. I remembered what he’d said that cold morning before he’d been marched out of the school. We grow anywhere with strong roots. Wherever we were going, and wherever we might go beyond that, I resolved that I would plant a sunflower seed at each place; a symbol of our strength and our determination to carry on. A reminder that we could thrive, even in the harshest conditions.