The Orchid Tree (4 page)

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.’

I have three turns before I manage it, then I give the ball back to Bob. ‘Your go.’

A shout rings from the entrance to the Indian Quarters. ‘Kate, come back this instant!’

‘Sorry. I’ve got to rush. Can we play again another time?’

‘Aye, whenever you like, pet.’

At the bottom of the staircase, Mama grabs me by the arm and marches me inside. ‘Stay away from him! He’s not our sort of person.’

My jaw drops. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s one of those rough Northern policemen.’

‘I thought he had a different accent. I couldn’t understand him at first.’

‘I don’t want you mixing with the likes of him. Why they had to move those policemen over here from the college is beyond me.’

‘They repaired those blocks on the other side of the village green, and I expect they were very crowded in St Stephen’s.’

‘The committee could have installed families. That would have been much more suitable.’

‘I think you should be glad the policemen have moved here.’

‘Really? And why’s that, young lady?’

‘Well, they’ve taken over all the heavy jobs for a start.’

Mama watches me with raised eyebrows, but I carry on. ‘Everything’s much better organised. We don’t have such long queues for food.’

My mother sniffs.

‘And they’ve pasted V for Victory signs on the glass doors,’ I say. ‘I think we should be grateful to them.’

‘Are you answering me back, Kate?’ Mama taps a foot. ‘Because, if you are, I want you to stop right away.’

‘Well, I think you’re being a snob.’

I run from the room. On the stairwell I career into Papa, nearly knocking him over. I don’t stop to apologise. Glancing at him, I find I have nothing to say. If I told him about Bob, he’d back Mama up. He gives in to her more than ever these days.

I stomp along the pathway that edges the coastline, then slow down and listen to the sound of the sea. Shutting my eyes, I imagine the waves washing through me, rinsing away the squalor of Stanley, and carrying me back home to the Peak.

***

Two nights before the bombs started falling, Papa and Mama went out to what was called “the tin hat ball” at the Peninsula Hotel, organised to raise money to buy a bomber for Britain. Freed from my mother’s strict rules about what I could and couldn’t eat, I squatted at the staff table for some
chow fan.

Whenever Papa and Mama went out to socialise, which happened often, I would have supper with the servants and my parents never found out. They didn’t like Chinese food, but I loved it.

I picked up a piece of crunchy
pak choi
with my chopsticks from the communal dish. The oyster sauce dribbled down my chin and I put the bowl to my teeth and shovelled the steamed rice in, coolie style, letting out a burp like the locals to show how much I’d enjoyed my food. (Only once did I ever make the mistake of belching in front of Mama - a topic of scorn for days.)

Ah Ho was sitting on a low stool. Her bottom, as ever, overflowed the edges. She smiled and her gold teeth shone in the low light. ‘
Bo
,’ she said as she always did. ‘Full up.’

The staff gossiped about the other families on the Peak. I wanted to join in, but would have needed to sing different tones in their tricky language, which changed the meaning of words, and I usually sang them wrong – even though I understood most of them.

Anyway, Papa and Mama didn’t like me to speak Cantonese.
Not the done thing
, they said, which was one of their favourite expressions. And Jimmy always laughed when I made mistakes; his command of my own language was perfect.

Later on, upstairs, I slipped into my mother’s dressing room. The wardrobe overflowed with the latest fashions, copied from Vogue by expert tailors. I tried on one of Mama’s ball gowns and sprayed behind my ears with Chanel No. 5. Preening in front of the mirror, I smoothed the silk against my skin then smeared my lips with a bright red lipstick. Ah Ho came through the door, scolded me and sent me to bed. I bridled and thought Ah Ho still treated me like a child.

***

I’d give anything to be treated like a child by my amah now. I stare towards the horizon. Where is Ah Ho? Have she and Jimmy managed to get to their family in China? There’s no way of knowing. I’ve visited that huge country beyond the Kowloon hills only once. When I was nine, my parents took me with them on a trip to Shanghai. It was a cultured vibrant city in comparison with sleepy provincial Hong Kong. After I returned to the colony, though, I was relieved to get back to my routine of school from Mondays to Fridays and weekends at the riding school.

Thinking about my favourite pony, I twirl my jade bangle and taste the salt of my tears. Did Merry survive the bombing? Who’s looking after him now? Sniffing, I brush my cheeks with my hands and make my way down the path. Crying for my old life is a sign of weakness I won’t allow myself.

Back at the Indian Quarters, Papa gets me to clean out the foul-smelling lavatory as a punishment for being rude to my mother. The smell of the backed-up sewage makes me retch, and I have to force down the usual revolting lunch.

I set off for school in the afternoon. On the village green, my foot knocks against a pebble. Only it isn’t a pebble; it’s a boiled sweet. Sneakily, I take off the cellophane wrapper and pop it into my mouth.

The sugar has an immediate effect, making me quicken my step and run up the road. By the time I arrive at the school hall, my energy has gone and guilt has taken its place. It was selfish of me to keep the sweet for myself instead of sharing it; I’ll never be able to admit what I’ve done.

Later, after Professor Morris has set our Latin homework, I sit next to Charles. He’ll ignore me as usual. But he smiles and says, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about that tiger. It’s just that normally we don’t have them roaming the countryside.’

‘That’s all right. I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t seen it.’ His eyes meet mine and a thrill of pleasure courses through me. ‘This morning,’ I say, ‘I met one of those policemen who’ve moved into the block next door to ours. He was showing me how to play a game called “cannon”. Only my mother won’t let me talk to him again.’

‘Well, that’s easily fixed.’ Charles appears thoughtful for a moment before smiling his lovely smile, the smile that makes my heart rate flutter. ‘I’ll ask him to teach me the game and show it to the rest of the children. If everyone’s out there playing with this man, your mother won’t have a leg to stand on, will she?’

‘Mama never does anything but complain and get my father to run around after her. She’s impossible.’

‘I suppose she’s finding it hard to get used to how things are here.’

‘I suppose.’ I giggle, grab his hand, and pull him to his feet. ‘Come on! School’s finished. Let’s take Ruth along to find Bob and we can put your plan into action!’

‘They’ve caught that tiger,’ Papa says at supper three days later. ‘An Indian guard shot it.’

I put down my spoonful of cold gritty rice.
Thank God.
‘Do you know where it came from?’

‘Apparently, it escaped from a circus. A fellow who used to be a butcher at the Dairy Farm will skin it. I wonder what tiger meat tastes like? No doubt only the Japanese will get any.’

Papa said the Japanese rations were almost as poor as ours; of course they’ll get first sniff of the tiger meat. Mama must be shuddering on her mattress at the very thought of being interned with a butcher. In Hong Kong society she wouldn’t have dreamt of mixing with a tradesman.

‘How many of us are here in this camp, do you reckon?’ I ask my father.

‘At the latest count, two and a half thousand British, sixty Dutch and nearly four hundred Americans, but the Yanks are due to be repatriated any day now.’

‘Lucky them.’

‘They’re about to be exchanged with some Japanese nationals in the United States.’ Papa stands and makes a move to gather our empty plates, then quickly sits down again. ‘Bugger! All the strength’s gone in my legs.’

‘It must be the bad diet,’ Mama says from the other side of the mattress. ‘Too much polished rice and no greens. The hot weather doesn’t help.’

‘We’ll be able to cool down a bit this morning.’ I deliberately insert cheerfulness into my voice. ‘Don’t forget we’ve been given permission to swim!’

Papa’s mouth twists grimly. ‘You go with the young ones, dear girl. It’s too much of an effort for your mother and me.’

***

After doing the washing up, I line up with the rest of the children. Two guards march us down a path edging the bleak white walls of the prison. Dense scrub hides the beach from sight until we walk through a clearing in the canopy. ‘Last one in’s a rotten tomato,’ I call out, the sand hot between my toes.

I pull off my shorts, and wade into the ocean in my knickers and a thin cotton vest. Charles and Ruth come up behind me, laughing and splashing. Treading water warm as a bath, I gaze at starfish splayed on the sandy seabed. ‘Why don’t we swim over to those rocks and look for sea urchins? My father told me we can eat them.’

Charles sets off at a crawl and I follow, swimming at a slower pace. Light-headed from the exercise, I clamber onto the sun-warmed rocks, then stretch out and half-close my eyes.

Low clouds of humidity cover the tops of the distant islands. The sun beats down through the haze and dries me in minutes. The pungent smell of seaweed, left by the retreating tide, tickles the back of my throat. The gentle waves make a sucking sound as they slosh against the barnacles. I brush salt from my arms and stare out to sea, picking at the mosquito bites on my legs. ‘I wish we could swim like fish and get away.’

‘My mother saw four of the men who escaped. They’ve been caught.’ Charles squints in the sunshine. ‘They were in an open lorry being driven into the prison. We have a good view from our balcony and Ma hardly recognised them. She said they were like walking skeletons.’

‘How terrible!’

‘Ma was angry. She thought the men had been starved.’

The sound of splashing, and Derek Higgins swims towards us with two of his friends.

Charles pushes himself to his feet. ‘Go away! We were here first.’

Derek heaves himself onto the rocks. ‘We’ve got as much right to be here as you,’

He leers at me and I look down. My breasts are visible through my damp vest. How humiliating!
Derek speaks in Cantonese to the other boys; they snigger and make a lewd remark about my nipples.

Charles lets fly a stream of Chinese insults, calling them stupid pigs. My cheeks burn as he turns to me. ‘I’ll race you back to the beach,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s too late to look for sea urchins. I can see the guards waving their rifles. They want us to go.’

On our way back up the hill, I keep my arms folded in front of me. I should have packed a swimming costume when we left the Peak. But I never thought I’d need one; the Japanese were supposed to have been defeated before now. Worst of all, Charles must have seen me semi-naked and realised what a kid I am . . .

***

After school, I hurry home, finish my Latin translation, and queue for supper. The adults have organised a concert on the lawn in front of the canteen. Everyone says it’s a sham. A team of Japanese press and cameramen are making a propaganda film about the supposedly cheerful, contented detainees enjoying their treats.

I sit next to Ruth on the grass in the front row. Charles is on the other side of his sister. Best to ignore him; I’m still too mortified about what happened earlier. Frogs croak and crickets screech in the thickets that separate the canteen from the Indian Quarters, almost drowning out the crash of waves on the rocks below. There’s a tang of fresh vegetation in the air. Rain in the early evening threatened to cancel the performance and the ground is still moist. The new moon cuts a thin sliver of silver in a sky that billows with stars.

Leaning back on my arms, I watch the show. The Japanese have commandeered a floodlight from somewhere to illuminate the stage; mosquitoes and moths flutter in the beam. A group of internees are singing and dancing to music performed by the orchestra, a collection of people who’ve managed to bring their instruments into the camp. They play discordantly, but no matter; the tunes distract us from the filming.

‘This is stupid,’ I mutter. ‘How can those cameramen and journalists think we’re happy to be locked up here?’

‘Let’s show them!’ Charles says, giving the V for Victory signal.

‘Yes,’ Ruth joins in.

Impossible to ignore Charles now. I giggle and make the sign with my fingers. The other children swiftly catch on, even Derek Higgins. Seconds later, most of the adults lift their hands in the air as well.

The photographers stop filming and Yamashita, the newly arrived Japanese Commandant, jumps up from his seat. ‘No more entertainment for one month,’ he spits, hopping from one foot to the other like a manic tap dancer.

A heavy crunch of boots on the path behind, and I twist around. Where’s Charles? I hold back a scream. A squat Japanese guard is pointing his bayonet straight at him. ‘You! Boy! Very bad!’