The Orchid Tree

THE ORCHID TREE

FRAGRANT BOOKS

First Edition 2015

The English used in this publication follows the spelling and idiomatic conventions of the United Kingdom.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by the copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the email address below.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Siobhan Daiko

All rights reserved.

All enquiries to
[email protected]

Edited by John Hudspith
www.johnhudspith.co.uk

Cover painting “Junks” by Douglas Bland (courtesy of the Bland Family Collection)

Cover design
www.jdsmith-design.com

In memory of my parents and grandparents

Another deep blast reverberated from the ship’s horn. The deck vibrated beneath my feet, my toes tingling as the engines grumbled to a stop. Hong Kong Island loomed, like an enormous whale rising into the morning mist. The salty tang of the sea filled my nostrils. Was I doing the right thing? On the water, the dark shapes had turned into ships, junks and sampans. I was home and there’d be no going back now.

My wrist touched the metal rail, cold as the Japanese executioner’s sword, and my breath caught. A blade, glinting in the sun. A streak of silver. Shining. Silent. Deadly. Choking back a sob, I raked my nails across the scabs on my hands, scratching harder and harder until I could bear the pain no more.

The clatter of the anchor chain, then the chug-chug of a motor-boat, and I leaned over the barrier. Where was Papa?

A young man in a navy blue jacket strode up the gangway. ‘Miss Wolseley?’ He swept off his peaked cap. ‘Lieutenant James Stevens,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’m here to take you ashore. Your father sent me.’

I forced a brief smile. Lieutenant Stevens was taller than me by a couple of inches, and his bronze-coloured hair had curled in the moisture-laden air; he was patting it down as if he wanted to draw attention to himself.

‘There aren’t any liners direct from Sydney. I’m sorry you had to come all the way out to the middle of the harbour,’ I said.

‘Not a problem. How long were you away?

‘Over three years. Since September 1945.’

‘You were in Hong Kong during the occupation?’

‘In the internment camp at Stanley.’

‘I’ve heard about that place,’ he said, frowning.

I flinched. I’d grown up in “that place”, behind barbed wire, suffering cruelty and starvation at the hands of the occupying Japanese, my heart frozen ever since.

So why come back?

1941-1945

Hong Kong

December 1941

Bamboo by the side of the path rustles in the breeze, and a waterfall gurgles into a natural pond. My pony bends his head to crop the grass. I let go of the reins and slip off my riding hat. It’s time for a rest now. Papa and I set out from the stables at Jardine’s Lookout an hour ago and have ridden right round Happy Valley.

I dismount and run my hands over the smooth leather of my saddle. It’s too small since my recent growth spurt; I’m such a beanpole.

‘Papa, do you think I can have a new one for Christmas?’ I give him my best smile.

‘Maybe.’ He winks and reaches into his pocket for his pipe. Papa is tall with wavy dark-brown hair, amber-coloured eyes and a high forehead. I adore him, of course, but hate taking after him. I wish I’d been born blonde and blue-eyed like my beautiful mama.

Rubbing Merry’s dusty chestnut neck, I breathe in the sweet scent of equine sweat, one of my favourite smells. Of course Papa will get me the saddle. Mama says I’m spoilt rotten and it’s true. Only Papa does the spoiling, though . . .

‘Come on, Kate,’ he says. ‘I need to change my breath.’ Papa says that every week and it’s become a joke between us. All he really wants is a change of scene. We remount and trot back to the stables, then stop off at the Yacht Club on the way home.

Papa goes to the bar, but I’m not allowed in there as I’m not sixteen yet. So I wait outside the clubhouse, soaking up the winter sunshine and watching the junks in the harbour, their sails open like giant butterfly wings. The creak of an oar, and the boatwoman selling orchids from her sampan ties up at the jetty. She steps ashore with a bouquet in her hands. There’s a baby, head lolling but fast asleep, in a sling on her back. I pay the woman and clutch the purple flowers. I’ll give them to Mama, like I do every Sunday. And Mama will nod, smile, and hand them to one of the servants as usual.

The sound of footsteps, and Papa arrives. ‘All the chaps have been called up for manoeuvres,’ he says in a false jaunty tone. ‘I was practically the only one in there.’

A prickle of anxiety creeps up my spine, and I grasp his hand.

‘Nothing to worry about, dear girl.’

I relax my shoulders and walk with him towards the pier.

***

The next morning air-raid sirens wail from Victoria City far below. I stifle a yawn; it’s only another drill. Pulling at my maroon school jumper, I lean back at the breakfast table opposite Mama and Papa. There’s a geography test this afternoon. Have I done enough revision?

A pang of disquiet. Something’s different. The sirens are wailing longer than usual and a droning sound echoes. The door bursts open and my amah erupts into the room.

I eye the chopping knife in my old nanny’s hand. Ah Ho has been a constant presence for as long as I can remember, yet never before have I seen her take a knife from the kitchen.

Rocking from one foot to the other, Ah Ho drops the blade onto the table and wraps her arms around her starched white tunic. ‘Too much air-plane,’ she shrills. ‘Too much air-plane.’

Leaping up, I send my chair crashing to the floor. Hong Kong only has a few aeroplanes. Are these American? Or even Chinese? Not Japanese, though. That would be unthinkable. Besides, everyone knows how hopeless their pilots are . . .

I rush through the wide doors and onto the veranda skirting the front of the house. Planes soar in a V-shaped formation above the harbour almost level with my eyes. Grey planes with a red sun under their wings. Something, I’m not sure what, spills from their bellies.

The echoes of explosions ricochet off the distant hills. Papa comes up and pulls me towards him. ‘Bally hell!’ His grip is so firm that it hurts.

My gut twists and the orange juice I drank at breakfast comes back up my throat, the sourness stinging my tongue. A flying boat is on fire. Coils of smoke rise from the airport. I clamp my hands to my ears, a sick feeling spreading through me.

Papa’s hold tightens. I push my head into his shirt; I’ve recently turned fifteen and haven’t done that for years. I lift my gaze. One by one, the planes tilt their wings and peel off in the direction of China. ‘Is it over?’

Papa shields his eyes with a hand, his knuckles white. ‘I hope so.’ He leads me back into the house.

In the dining room I run to Mama. She stands at the picture window, her lower lip trembling. I squeeze her icy fingers. ‘They’ve gone.’

Mama blinks, takes her hands away and shakes her bobbed hair. ‘Why on earth did you run outside?’

‘I don’t know. I just had to see. Where’s Ah Ho?’

‘She went to find Jimmy.’

He’s Ah Ho’s son, one year older than me and a close friend. Breathing in short, sharp bursts, I run after my amah.

Pray God Jimmy hasn’t left for school yet!

***

The planes come back again and again.

I bite my nails. This can’t be happening. Things like this don’t happen. Yet, it
is
happening and nothing will ever be the same again. I should be at school, not crouching in the sitting room with Jimmy, Ah Ho and my parents, in near darkness, as Papa has ordered the typhoon shutters to be put up on all the windows.

I can’t stop thinking about the people I know who might be caught in the bombing: the flower seller at the Yacht Club; the grizzly old newspaper vendor on the ferry concourse.

Are they still alive? My heart thuds against my ribs. Are we all going to die?

‘I’m frightened,’ I whisper.

Ah Ho strokes my hair like she used to when I was little. ‘Everything be all right.’

Jimmy pulls a pack of cards from his pocket. ‘Let’s have a game of Canasta to keep our minds off things.’ He smiles his crooked-toothed grin. It’s too dark to see, though, and impossible to concentrate. Jimmy puts the cards away and we sit in silence, arms drooping.

Every now and then Papa turns on the radio. The same announcement each time. There haven’t been any sightings of the Japanese Navy steaming towards Hong Kong. ‘The raids are probably just a show of force,’ he says.

Towards evening the all-clear is sounded. But the typhoon shutters stay up.

***

That night I toss about in bed, the sheets wrapping themselves around my body. I can’t rid the image of the bombs dropping from my mind. If the planes come back tomorrow there won’t be anything left of Hong Kong.

The sound of a radio wakes me; it must be morning. I pad across the corridor and push open the door to my parents’ room. My feet sink into the deep pile carpet as I stare at the untouched tea tray on Mama’s bedside table. My gaze passes to Papa. Why is he still in his dressing-gown?

‘The Japanese have bombed Singapore and the American base at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii,’ Papa says in a shocked tone. ‘And their bally troops marched across our border last night. Not to worry, dear girl, our chaps will soon see them off. But in the meantime, we have to be brave.’

I sit down heavily on my parents’ bed. I will be brave. Of course I will. Just like the Hong Kong Volunteers and the garrison soldiers are being brave. They’ll defeat the enemy and life will return to normal, won’t it? The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about . . .

In Happy Valley, standing on the front drive of a large house overlooking the Jockey Club, Charles Pearce is helping his father load up their old Austin. He spent the whole of yesterday crouched with Ma and his little sister under the dining room table, ears ringing with the boom of explosions, the crash of falling masonry and glass, his stomach twisted into knots by the terror, the indescribable terror. Either the Japanese pilots thought the racecourse was a strategic target, or they were useless at aiming for the oil tanks at North Point. This morning there’s a lull in the bombing. Good thing Pa has decided they must leave.

Charles turns round for one last look at his home, perched on the side of the hill with a gap next to it like a missing tooth. His neighbours’ mansion has been reduced to a pile of rubble, the fate of its occupants unknown.

Hope we’ll find shelter on the other side of the island . . .

After checking his shortwave radio is carefully stowed, Charles lifts his knapsack onto his shoulder and piles into the car with his little sister. Ruth’s light brown curls are tied in bunches, the red ribbons unravelling, and fear is in her eyes. He gives her a hug. ‘We’ll be safe now.’

Pa gets behind the wheel and pushes back his thatch of white-blond hair. Ma sits next to him, dressed as ever in a
cheongsam,
her delicate face pinched with worry.

They take the road that cuts through the hills and leads to the south. Cresting the rise, they come to a roadblock. A European soldier points his rifle at the car and Pa winds down the window. ‘Let us pass! We’re British!’

‘Japs are on the island. Didn’t you know?’

Pa jerks his head back so fast his glasses fly off the end of his nose.

‘We’ll stop them here,’ the soldier says as Pa contorts downwards to retrieve his specs.

Charles slumps in his seat. No point in worrying Ma and Ruth, but the European was being a tad optimistic, given the fact that the British couldn’t halt the Japanese advance on the mainland. How wrong of them to have expected that an attack, if it had to happen, would have come from the sea . . .

The road levels out by the Repulse Bay, and Pa says they should wait in the car while he goes and sees if they can stay here. The hotel faces the beach, its main section and two right-angled wings come forward towards the ocean and form three sides of a square, with the road, sands, and South China Sea making up the fourth side. Behind are steep slopes covered with trees and scrub undergrowth where Japanese soldiers might well be hiding.

Charles puts his arm around his sister again. Mustn’t let her see he’s scared. She’s only eight and a half and he’s twice her age.

Pa emerges from the front of the hotel. ‘There’s lots of food, apparently. But not many staff. Just a group of Naval Volunteer officers and a few British families. I think this’ll make a good bolt-hole. The senior pageboy is doubling up as receptionist and he’s sorting out a couple of rooms for us.’

Moments later, Charles steers Ruth across the lobby behind his parents. The scent of polish from the parquet floor mixes with the aroma of freshly baked scones. It’s just like he remembers from his last visit and hard to believe there’s a war on.

A British woman, slumped in a rattan chair at the far end of the room, calls out in a braying voice, ‘What’re those Chinese doing? They’ve got no right to be here.’

Ma rolls her eyes and keeps walking. Charles swallows the bitterness in his throat. He carries both suitcases and shields Ruth from the woman’s stare. Luckily Pa is half-deaf as well as being short-sighted, otherwise there’d be hell to pay. It’s obvious that his father is English, just as it’s obvious that Ruth and he don’t look anything like the locals. Ma’s Chinese, but she has finer features than the Cantonese, because she’s from the north. Charles mutters to himself. Shame they couldn’t find refuge with their family in Macau . . .

***

The following morning, he sits by the open French windows in his bedroom. Ma has gone with Pa and Ruth to the lobby, saying they need to establish themselves.

Fat chance of that!

Charles picks up the Steinbeck novel someone’s left on the desk. Sunlight filters through the window and he catches movement on the road.

What?

He shades his eyes. Short, stocky men with black hair. Fully armed and camouflaged with bits of leaf and grass. Slouching in front of a garage.

Charles takes off his shoes, lets himself out onto the veranda, then down to a small lawn.
Better find out who they are.
He crawls for a short distance, rough prickly grass scratching his stomach, then freezes.
Damn!
The men are wearing peaked caps with red bands. Japanese uniforms.

He hides behind a low wall, his palms sweaty, and peers over the top. An enemy soldier is pointing a bayonet at six British men dressed in uniform. Another man, an officer as he’s wearing a sword, starts yelling and repeatedly slapping one of the Europeans on the face.

Heart pounding, Charles wriggles his way back across the lawn then runs to the dining room, where the British commander is taking tea with his men.

‘There’re Japs. On the main road,’ Charles yells. ‘They’ve got some of our chaps. I think they’re going to kill them.’

‘Stay here,’ a Volunteer shouts, grabbing his rifle and charging off down the corridor.

Charles sneaks back to the veranda, and flattens himself against the wall. On the other side of the lawn, the Japanese officer is still slapping the British soldier. The man stands taking the blows and doesn’t even seem to notice them.

The Volunteer takes aim. Cold sweat spreads over Charles’ body. He holds his breath. Bullets catch the Japanese officer on the side of his face and neck, spinning him around. His body crumples to the ground. Charles has never seen anyone killed before and nausea swells his gullet. He retches, and half-digested porridge spews down his chin.

The rest of the Volunteers form a group at the windows above. They open fire, aiming wide of the British. The unarmed prisoners scramble headlong into the garage with the enemy behind them, colliding and tripping each other up. Five of the Japanese fall in twisted heaps.

The surviving Japanese soldiers poke their rifles out of the garage. Charles hides behind a pillar. A bullet whizzes past his left ear and his bowels become water. Shaking like a dog with distemper, he runs back to the lobby.

***

Three days later, he sits on a brick in a drainage tunnel behind the hotel, hiding with the rest of the civilians to avoid catching a stray bullet from the continuing battle. The chill seeps into his bones and the stench of rotting vegetation comes through the dank walls.

Ruth pulls at his trousers with one hand and points with the other towards the shadows, her eyes enormous. A huge rat is watching them, whiskers twitching.

‘You’re being so brave,’ Charles whispers to her. The rodent scuttles away. He touches Ruth’s arm and looks at the collection of people around them, English men and women, for the most part, and a handful of children.

‘The Volunteers have decided to leave tonight,’ one of the men murmurs. ‘They’re heading for Stanley Fort.’

Charles’ stomach clenches. The soldiers are abandoning them; they probably realise this is a lost cause. Or maybe they think by staying they’re putting the civilians in more danger.

The trapdoor crashes open. He jumps, but it’s only the junior pageboy. The boy drops down, balancing a tray with water, coffee and food.
How has he managed to avoid getting shot?
Shrugging, Charles reaches for a sandwich and passes it to his sister.

They munch in silence. It’s been easy to keep quiet for the twelve hours a day they’ve hidden in the darkness. The periodic sound of gunfire above their heads would quieten anyone. Unless help comes soon, however, capture is certain. Fear gnaws at Charles and grows stronger by the minute.

Night comes; it’s too dark for the snipers to see their mark. He creeps back into the hotel with the others. They wait in tense silence on the first-floor corridor; anything could happen at any moment . . .

The hotel staff, or rather the senior pageboy and his assistant, arrive with trays of supper. A sudden flicker on the window panes. Lights are flashing in the north wing. Charles can hardly breathe. Japanese voices and the echo of footsteps. A patrol going from room to room. The enemy forces are battle-stained and most likely battle-maddened; they’ll shoot everyone on sight.
Best to let them know that only civilians remain.

Charles leaps up and calls out, ‘There aren’t any soldiers here!’

The door crashes open. Two Japanese men come in and point their bayonets directly at him. Everyone puts their hands up. The women let out muffled sobs. Charles stands still.

Keep calm! Don’t let the side down!

The soldiers glare at him then spin on their heels. There’s a stunned hush.

Within minutes, the heavy tread of more soldiers from the other side of the door. The senior pageboy, eyes wide and jaw set, bars their entrance.

Pa rushes to stop him. Too late. An enemy soldier knocks the pageboy back against the wall. With a flash of steel, his commanding officer makes a jabbing motion and sticks a bayonet into the pageboy’s chest. Blood spurts, the pageboy twitches and his eyes glaze over.

Charles glances at Ruth. She’s still asleep on her mattress, thank God. But how will he ever forget what he’s just witnessed? There’s no time even to think about it; the officer is barking orders to the civilians to line up. ‘You must get ready. Tomorrow very early you go North Point.’ Charles gives his sister a gentle shake.

***

After packing what bags they can carry and snatching a few hours’ sleep, Charles and his family troop outside with the other prisoners. He blinks in the early morning sunlight. A foul stench hits the back of his throat, like nothing he’s ever smelt before: much worse than the stink of the drainage tunnel or even the raw liver their cook had once forgotten to put in the fridge. It fills the air, lodging in Charles’s mouth, clinging to his taste buds and coating his tongue. He gags. The smell is coming from something or someone who’s died, and he shouldn’t look. A force beyond him, an intense curiosity, turns his head with an invisible hand.

He eyes the building opposite. Eucliffe mansion, property of a Chinese millionaire. Piles of bodies lie by the balustrade overlooking the sea. British prisoners. Tied together. Shot and left to rot. Ma snatches a couple of handkerchiefs from her bag. ‘Cover your nose!’

During the long, dreary trudge up the hill they pass the bodies of numerous soldiers, left unburied by the side of the road. Each time, Charles places himself between Ruth and the dead men. Each time, his stomach lurches. Each time, his anxiety grows.

At the top of the hill, he sets off with Pa and the other men; they’ll march the rest of the way. Except, a Japanese soldier points his rifle and indicates his place is with the women and children in some lorries that take them down to Happy Valley.

How old do they think I am? I’m in my second last year at school, for God’s sake . . .

The roads are empty, but the sound of mortar-bombing reverberates in the distance. Hong Kong hasn’t surrendered yet.

At an abandoned factory, the Japanese herd the prisoners into a wide ground-floor storage area lined with cans of paint. They give them water and sugar, the only food they’ve had all day.

‘I’m hungry,’ Ruth whines.

‘Hush.’ Ma opens her bag and rummages around. ‘I wish we’d thought to pack something to eat.’

Pa and the rest of the men arrive. ‘Let’s spread our overcoats on the floor and make ourselves a den,’ Pa says.

Even sitting on his coat, the concrete chills Charles’ bones. ‘It’s Christmas Eve. Why don’t we sing some carols?’ he suggests. Tentatively, he starts on the first verse of
O Come All Ye Faithful.

A middle-aged couple, who’ve copied them and are sitting on their jackets, put their thumbs up and add their voices. ‘Sing choirs of angels.’

The groups of internees around them join in, one after the other. ‘O Come let us adore Him.’

Charles progresses to
Hark the Herald Angels Sing
and they all chorus, ‘Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.’

The Japanese soldiers shout and wave their rifles. The singing stops. Have they understood the words? With the carols, unity of a sort has developed among the prisoners; more likely, their captors wanted to spoil it.

***

The next night, Charles sits with Ma, Pa and Ruth, clumped on the  damp deck of an old ferry. God only knows where the Japanese are taking them . . .

The skyline is dark, yet he can make out the stately old colonial buildings lining the waterfront. He tucks his hands under his armpits. Waves slap against the side of the boat and the breeze feels as if it will pass straight through him.

At Kowloon pier, the gangplanks wobble under his feet as he takes Ruth’s hand. Ma and Pa line up next to him on the concourse. Japanese soldiers wave their bayonets and march them in the direction of Nathan Road.