The Orchid Tree (2 page)

Ruth nudges him and makes a face. ‘I hope they give us something proper to eat. I didn’t like that nasty cold rice and those turnips this morning.’

The streets, normally bustling with people, cars and rickshaws, are quiet. In five minutes they arrive at the back of the Peninsula Hotel, and a soldier ushers them into a hostel. On the fifth-floor they’re given a pokey room with only one bed, which they’ll have to share with another family.

‘This isn’t the worst of it,’ Pa says, his mouth twisting. ‘I’ve just heard that the governor has surrendered to the Japanese.’ He pauses. ‘Happy Christmas!’

Charles lets out a hollow laugh. ‘A
Very
Happy Christmas.’

I turn the last page of
Rebecca
. Maxim de Winter is so romantic, even if he has committed murder. How odd that his second wife doesn’t have a name. And Mrs Danvers! Altogether too creepy for words . . .

My parents and I have been confined to our house on the Peak since the surrender. Thank God I’m an avid reader, and Mama has said I can read my way through her collection of books, otherwise I’d be terribly bored. We’ve been waiting for the Americans to come and liberate Hong Kong for ever, it seems.

Papa’s pipe smoke wafts across the room, making me sneeze. Gravel crunches in the front courtyard, then footsteps scuffle in the hall. Strange at this time of the day, given that it’s nearly lunchtime. My pulse hammers. A Japanese officer is standing in the doorway.

Mama’s face has frozen: eyes wide, lips pressed together, cheeks colourless. Our first encounter with the enemy face to face and certainly not unexpected, yet terrifying all the same.

Papa puts down his pipe, gets up from his armchair, and glares at the officer. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You go Stanley Internment Camp tomorrow,’ the Japanese man says, saliva spraying from his mouth as his tongue trips over the English words. ‘All things will be good. Plenty food.’ He fingers the sword hanging from his hip and smirks, his thin lips curling but his eyes expressionless.

I gape at him, trying to take in what he’s just said. Stanley is a prison on the other side of the island where they usually send murderers. Why are they putting us there?

The officer puffs himself up, thrusts his chest forward, and points at Papa. ‘Bow!’

Papa stands immobile and fixes his gaze on the opposite wall. Should I go up to him and whisper that he must bow if he doesn’t want to get into trouble? But my feet are rooted to the floor. The second hand on the grandfather clock ticks through half a minute, and I hold my breath.

The officer shrugs, marches up to Papa, and slaps his face with a front-hand-back-hand motion. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound plays in my head again and again like a stuck gramophone record. A trickle of urine wets my knickers; I put a hand to my mouth, my cheeks burning.

I shake myself. Finally my legs obey me and I run to Papa. He wipes his moustache, grimaces and bows his head to waist-level. His eyes hold mine and he mouths the words, ‘Steady, dear girl!’

The officer struts out through the open door, his long sword trailing behind him. Gravel crunches outside again and an engine races. Then silence. Even Mama, normally unafraid to have an opinion on everything, has been struck speechless.

I hug my father. ‘Poor Papa, look what he’s done to you.’

‘Stings a bit, but not to worry. I’ll be all right,’ he says, although a red blotch has formed on his cheek.

Mama moves from the sofa, as if in a trance, and dabs at his cut with her handkerchief. ‘Did he say there’ll be lots of food in Stanley? We’ve almost run out here.’

‘We’ve run out of more than food.’ Papa’s voice is quiet. ‘Japs have locked up practically all the British. They only let us stay up here on the Peak this past month while they sorted out where to put us all.’ He shakes his head. ‘I suppose we’d better start packing.’ He turns to the crystal decanters on the mahogany sideboard, pours himself a large whisky, and swallows it in one gulp.

I don’t want to pack; I don’t want to leave my home and go to a prison. Yet there’s no getting out of it. I walk from the room, my feet dragging. ‘I’m going to see Ah Ho.’

After changing my underwear, I cross the small courtyard dividing the staff quarters from our two-storey house. My mouth trembles, but I clamp my jaw firm. It’s the way things are done in our family.

Mama and Papa are keeping calm, so I’ll do the same and not think about what might happen.

I run up the steps and pull open the door to Ah Ho’s room, breathing in the comforting scent of camphor from the White Flower Oil she rubs into her knees to ease their stiffness. ‘Where will you both go after we’ve gone?’

‘Back to China,’ Jimmy says from his chair by the window.

‘But the war’s there too, isn’t it?’ I tug at my hair and tuck it behind my ears.

‘Our village won’t interest the
Law Pak Tau.
’

‘What?’

‘Turnip heads,’ Jimmy giggles. ‘That’s what we call the Japanese because they’re always eating turnips.’

I pick up a handful of rice from the sack in the corner, and let the starchy grains trickle like tiny pebbles through my fingers. ‘Where will you live?’

Jimmy sits forward and places his elbows on his knees. ‘Uncle will take us in.’

Ah Ho perches dejectedly on a stool; she must be dreading going back to the subsistence life of a peasant.

I take the seat opposite Jimmy. ‘Will you be able to go to school?’ Papa has paid for him to attend an English-speaking school since he turned six.

‘I’ll need to work in the fields with my cousins.’

A picture comes into my mind of farmers in the New Territories, near the border with China, planting rice in the paddy fields, their wide-brimmed straw hats shaped like giant toadstools, backs bent double as they push the seedlings one after the other into the water-sodden soil. I make fists of my hands. Jimmy is a brilliant student; he shouldn’t have to give up his studies.

‘It won’t be for long, you know.’ I try to inject a note of optimism into my voice. ‘The Americans will rescue us.’

His lips have formed a straight line; it’s clear he doesn’t believe me. ‘I heard my parents talking about it,’ I say. ‘My father said the American Air Force is the best in the world and they’ll help us. Once they’ve recovered from Pearl Harbor, of course.’

Ah Ho gets up from her stool and pulls a metal comb through her long, thin, black hair before fastening it in a bun. She strikes a match and lights a joss stick. The fragrance is so familiar that my breathing slows. If only I could stay here with the people I love, where I’ve grown up, where I feel safe.

I get to my feet and face the small statue of the Bodhisattva of Compassion by the door, running my palms up and down the smooth white soapstone.
The Japanese will be defeated quickly. They have to be.

Ah Ho puts her hands together and bows three times. With a sigh, she reaches under her bed for a battered leather suitcase.

‘Let’s go out to the garden,’ I say to Jimmy. ‘Some fresh air will cheer us up.’

On the other side of the terrace, Papa and Ah Woo the houseman are digging a large hole. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Burying the family silver. We can’t let the Japs get their hands on it.’

‘We’re just heading down there.’ I point to the path leading to the tennis courts.

The oleander bushes sway in the breeze, and a gecko scuttles back into its hole in the hedge. I pluck a heart-shaped leaf from the orchid tree and crush it between my fingers; the dried-pea scent teases my nostrils and the garden walls enclose me as if I were already imprisoned.

‘Jimmy, let’s have one last walk around the Peak.’ I pull him gently towards the front gate and meet with little resistance. He probably wants to escape for a while as well. I look behind to check we haven’t been seen. Papa would have my guts for garters if he knew I was leaving the compound. ‘Why are the Japanese going to lock us up?’ I ask Jimmy. ‘We could stay up here and not be any trouble.’

‘They won’t allow white people to look down on them.’

His dark eyes briefly meet mine before he looks away. I throw my arms around him, but he’s so unyielding I might as well be hugging a rock.

I let him go, and he follows me along the pathway circling the summit of the Peak. The pungent sweaty-socks smell of the sub-tropical forest wafts into my nose. Brushing past a plant with leaves as large as elephants’ ears, I peer through dense clumps of vegetation hanging like interwoven ropes.

The houses, apartments and office blocks below are so small they could be mistaken for children’s toys. Where are the junks and sampans usually clogging the harbour? Only Japanese ships have anchored in its depths. Kowloon Peninsula, a narrow piece of flat land, juts out into the deep blue-green water. Bare hills, with ridges like dragons’ backs, form a framework to the scene. When will I see it again?

A British anti-aircraft gun battery nestles halfway down the western flank. I grab Jimmy’s wrist. ‘Come on. There’s no one about. Let’s see if we can find any mementos.’

Slabs of concrete and metal bolts stick up from the ground, and there are gaping holes blasted through the thick walls of the brown and green camouflage-striped buildings. Shards of broken glass shimmer in the sunlight. I pick up a spent bullet. A cold gust comes from nowhere and I shiver. Someone or something is moving in the azalea bushes below . . .

‘A soldier died when this place came under heavy artillery fire,’ Jimmy says, glancing from left to right. ‘He’s probably a ghost now.’

My scalp prickles. A spirit is definitely lurking in the untamed vegetation, ready to cause chaos. We’d better get out of here . . .

‘Come on!’ Jimmy breaks into a run and heads back up the hill.

I follow his zigzag footsteps. The soldier’s ghost will be hungry for revenge, but Jimmy once told me that spirits can only travel in straight lines. Jimmy and I will be safe enough.

Our feet pound the dusty track, and scores of butterflies rise from the feathery fronds of the wild banana trees. We sprint past the high broken-glass-topped walls of the mansions of the wealthy, and into our own open gateway at number eight. We barge through the front door, still uselessly guarded by stone lions, then turn right into the kitchen.

Ah Ho looks up from chopping vegetables. ‘Wah! Missy angry no can find you.’

‘Sorry, Ah Ho.’ I peck my amah on the cheek.

Jimmy goes to his room, and I head for the sitting room, sliding across the polished parquet floor to where my mother sits at her antique rosewood desk.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. ‘What are you doing, Mama?’

‘Making lists of the items we won’t be taking into the camp. So we can check they’re still here when this nightmare is over.’ She puts her pen down. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Jimmy and I went for a walk.’

‘What were you thinking of?’ Mama’s voice is sharp. ‘Don’t you realise how dangerous that is? I’ve just heard from Ah Ho that Jap soldiers have been doing unspeakable things to women, and even girls of your age. Jimmy wouldn’t have been able to protect you.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’ And it’s true; I never thought for a moment I might be in danger.

‘Well, you’d better start thinking. Do something useful and take the silver-framed photos to the garden!’

Outside, the trench full of silver opens up like a grave and there’s the cup I won last year in a show-jumping competition. My eyes sting. It’s been fifty days since I’ve seen Merry. Fifty days since the enemy came across the border. Fifty days waiting to be rescued.

I wince, no longer able to keep what Mama said about the Japanese out of my mind. I can guess the unspeakable things they are doing to women. A shiver of fear. Will they do unspeakable things to me in Stanley?

‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’ I’m standing in the doorway of Ah Ho and Jimmy’s room. It’s the morning after the Japanese officer’s visit and my voice, clogged with emotion, sounds almost strangled to my ears. I stare through the window at a bank of fog obscuring the view of the garden. Chilly, damp and miserable, it fits my mood.

Ah Ho perches on her stool, her bottom spilling over the edges. ‘You sit down.’ She pats the seat of the rattan chair next to her.

I lower myself and give Jimmy a half smile. ‘All packed?’

He nods and hands me a small package. I tear it open to reveal a jade bangle. ‘To bring you luck,’ he says.

I slip it onto my wrist, the emerald green stone cool against my skin. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you. I’ve got this for you.’ My words are even more choked now. I give him my treasured copy of
Murder on the Orient Express.
‘My mother will help you out with some of her jewellery, too.’ I squeeze Jimmy’s hand. ‘You can sell it.’

Ah Ho sobs, open-mouthed, and enfolds me in a warm embrace. I rub my cheek against the starched white tunic. My throat tight, I swallow hard. I won’t let myself cry. Instead, I give my amah a hug and say, in my brightest voice, ‘I expect we’ll be together again before too long.’

An hour later, I stand on the forecourt with my parents and Ah Ho. The houseboys are loading up an open-topped lorry: mattresses, an electric hot plate, three suitcases full of clothes, my mother’s jewellery, and a large hat box. The Japanese officer ordered Papa to arrange our own transport to the camp.

Mama, dressed in her mink coat, hands Ah Ho a gold necklace. ‘To be sold. Divide the money between you all.’

I fling myself into my amah’s arms. ‘I’ll miss you,’ I sob. The tears run freely; I can’t stop them.

Ah Ho kisses me noisily on the cheek. ‘I come back by and by.’

My lower lip wobbles, but I stiffen it.

***

Heading south, the lorry trundles its way around the craters and pot-holes left by the shelling. Soon we reach the Repulse Bay Hotel, where I would have Earl Grey and cake as a special treat with Mama before the war came. The fountain at the front of the building is dry and the palm trees gracing the gardens have a downhearted look, as if they’ve seen things they’d rather forget. At the check-point, a Japanese soldier barks questions to our driver. My heartbeat races, but the soldier waves us on.

We pass the resort where I used to spend lazy summer days swimming, and paddling a canoe from the rocks with my best friend Mary. Mama and Papa would play bridge with Mary’s parents and drink gin slings in their beach hut, only occasionally venturing into the warm waters of the South China Sea. Mary left for Australia with her mother last year. We’ve been writing to each other faithfully. How will I keep in touch with her now?

There’s the lido! It’s boarded up. What did I expect? Hardly likely the Japanese would keep it open for Sunday afternoon tea dances . . .

Gears grinding, the lorry climbs the headland then follows the road down to Stanley Village. Fishing boats line the beach like deck-chairs. Old men sit in doorways smoking their long pipes; dogs and children play in the dust; washing hangs from bamboo poles.

Such a different world to the Peak . . .

On the other side of the police station, we cross a short strip of land leading to a small peninsula. Barbed wire blocks the road. Japanese guards verify our names and let us through.

‘Out you hop,’ Papa says in a false bright voice. ‘I’ll go and find out where we’re to be billeted.’

A cold wind whips my coat. I shiver and stare at a queue of people waiting by a building. Papa returns with a short bald man. ‘This is Mr Davies from the Housing Committee.’ His voice is still chirpy. ‘We’re in the Indian Quarters.’

‘What are the Indian Quarters?’

‘Where the Indian prison wardens used to live. The Japs’ve kept some of them on as guards, but they’re living in the village now.’ He smiles briefly. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be too bad here, after all. The camp is governed by the internees. Housing, food distribution and medical care are all run by our chaps. Apparently, the Japanese just oversee things and send in supplies.’

Papa folds his gangly frame into the lorry. I heave myself back into the cab with Mama and the bald man, all squashed in together. We pass a school and stop by a block of garages. The last two hundred yards we struggle on foot, carrying our luggage down a few steps, past a small mosque, and along a stony path.

‘How can you put us here?’ Mama drops her hatbox. ‘These buildings have been bombed to bits.’

‘Not all. Follow me!’ Mr Davies leads us up a narrow stairwell. ‘I’ve managed to get you a room to yourselves.’

‘A room?’ Mama echoes.

We enter a two-storey block facing the sea and climb the stairs to the first floor. ‘Our youngest amah has a room bigger than this. And she has the room all to herself.’ Mama places her hands on her hips and, with a shudder, eyes the grubby grey walls. Her face looks as if she’s swallowed a mouthful of sour milk. ‘Is there a bathroom?’

‘A washroom with a tap,’ Mr Davies says apologetically.

I glance at the lavatory. We have similar loos at home for the staff, and Jimmy calls them crouchers on account of having to squat over a hole. If Jimmy can manage I’ll manage too. But Mama must be beside herself with disgust.

Mr Davies waves his arm to the left. ‘There’s a sort of kitchen as well.’ A single tap graces a small annex; it’s like no kitchen I’ve ever seen. Filthy stone benches line the sides; there’s neither a stove nor any cooking utensils. A balcony runs along the front of the flat, and an open passage through the back.

I peer into the adjacent room. ‘Who lives there?’

‘The Chambers and the Morrises. They seem to be out at the moment.’

‘Two couples sharing?’ Papa stands on the tiny floor space next to the mattresses, our suitcases piled on top. He frowns. ‘For God’s sake, my dear chap. That’s a bit poor.’

‘This is the best I can do for you. You’ve no idea what things have been like. In other parts of the camp, where the rooms are bigger, we’ve had to pack even more people in. Some of the apartments and bungalows have between thirty-five and forty-five souls with only one bathroom.’ Mr Davies sighs. ‘There’s no water for the toilets either, so they’re overflowing with sewage. And there aren’t any beds. People have been reduced to sleeping on the floors. No provision has been made whatsoever. It seems the Japs had no idea there’d be so many of us to deal with.’

‘We should’ve been rescued before now,’ Mama says, opening a suitcase. ‘What
are
the Americans doing?’

‘We’ve discussed this, Flora.’ Papa puts his arm around her. ‘They’ve got other fish to fry. I shouldn’t think it will take them too long to defeat the Japs, though. We must have faith, that’s all.’ He turns to me. ‘Stay and help your mother unpack, dear girl, and I’ll go back up the hill with Mr Davies to fetch our other stuff.’

Papa returns, and I hover by the cases. This room is far too small. How will we cope all cooped up together? I’ve never spent more than an hour a day in both my parents’ company before now . . .

‘Thank God we’ve brought a few basics.’ Papa takes a hot plate into the so-called kitchen. ‘I presume the electricity is working.’

‘The only thing that does,’ Mr Davies says.

Mama trips over one of the mattresses and falls against me. ‘Must you get underfoot, Kate?’

I step out of the way. ‘Can I explore outside?’

‘If you’re careful,’ Papa says. ‘But don’t go near any Japanese!’

***

I stroll along a narrow trail leading away from our quarters and around the headland. Waves smash against the shingle below and the scent of the sea fills the air. Sunlight sends a gleam of gold across the turquoise swell of the ocean. I contemplate the stark beauty of the hills on the other side of the bay; the vegetation slopes down like the wing of a bird to rocks hugging the shore. A long coil of barbed wire hangs half way down the cliff like a hedge of thorns. Despondency washes over me. I’m imprisoned, and no amount of beautiful scenery will compensate for my loss of freedom.

I walk until I reach an asphalt road. White-washed prison ramparts rise up, cut by massive black gates. A glint of steel. A Japanese sentry is standing straight-backed, his rifle pointing skywards. Heart thudding, I duck from view.

A path edges the jail gardens and I follow it, the grass soft and springy under my shoes. I climb through a thicket of conifers. A clearing opens up ahead, dotted with old tombs spread out as if they were on a plate of enormous Swiss rolls and up-ended biscuits. I sit on one and recover my breath. Twiddling my plaits, I take in my surroundings. Then stop and listen. Someone’s coming up the hill, swinging his arms and heading straight for me . . .

I scramble down from the tomb, crouch behind it, and peer over the top. A tall boy, dressed in a light blue jersey and beige slacks. He’s definitely not a Japanese soldier; he’s wearing civilian clothing. Getting to my feet, I study his dark brown hair and European features. The boy has oriental eyes, though, and they widen with surprise as he catches sight of me.

‘Oh! You made me jump,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here all by yourself?’

‘Exploring. I’m Kate Wolseley. Who are you?’

‘Charles Pearce. You’re a bit young to be wandering around on your own, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not. I’m fifteen,’ I say, indignant. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen. I’m sorry. You look younger.’

Heat whooshes up to my face. If only I’d worn my hair loose around my shoulders, instead of tied up in the schoolgirl plaits that make me appear like a twelve year-old child . . .

Charles sits cross legged beneath a tree and I lower myself down next to him, the ground hard and dry. I gaze in silence at a junk tacking its way across the bay, sails flapping, then take a quick peek at him. He’s terribly good-looking, like a young Clark Gable minus the moustache. I smile, but he only gives me a brief glance before looking away again.

He seems a bit standoffish.

‘How long have you been in Stanley?’
Might as well be friendly.

‘Three weeks. We were interned in a hotel before that. Where were you?’

‘The Peak. We only got here an hour or so ago.’ I stare at the crumbling tombs. ‘How old is this cemetery, do you think?’

Charles hugs his knees. ‘I went to St Stephen’s, the school here,’ he says in a proud tone. ‘So I know the history. It’s where they buried the soldiers killed by pirates, or those who died of typhoid fever and malaria in the last century.’ A spark of warmth flashes in his eyes. ‘I’ll show you around the camp, if you like.’ He pushes himself to his feet. ‘It won’t take long and you’ll be able to get your bearings.’

I follow him down the hill, past a mound of freshly-dug earth. ‘What’s that?’

‘A communal grave, I’m afraid.’

I let out a gasp. ‘What happened?’

‘St Stephen’s became a hospital towards the end of the battle. Stanley held out until Christmas morning, you know, shortly before the Governor surrendered.’ Charles falls silent; he seems to be considering what to say next. ‘Some drunken Japanese soldiers went on a rampage and did terrible things . . . and afterwards the survivors buried the dead here in this cemetery.’

A chill slices through me. ‘Have the Japanese killed anyone else since you arrived?’

‘No, we’ve been left alone and the Camp Commandant isn’t even Japanese. He’s Chinese.’

‘I thought Japan was at war with China.’

‘My father said a group of Chinese spies had wanted to get the British out of Hong Kong and they’re in the pay of the Japs. It’s one of the reasons they defeated us so quickly.’

‘Oh.’
How strange! I’ve always thought of China and the colony as separate entities, not part of the same country at all.

We pass the building where I saw people queuing earlier. ‘This used to be the Prison Officers’ Club,’ Charles says. ‘Now it’s a canteen where you can buy expensive groceries. Problem is, there isn’t much available.’ He pauses. ‘I say, would you like to meet my parents and sister?’

Without waiting for a reply, he sets off towards the sinister-looking gates of the prison, then down a short road on the left, and I practically have to run to keep up with him. ‘They call these the Married Quarters.’ He indicates with his hand. ‘It’s where the married British prison warders used to live. Our “mess” is very over-crowded, unfortunately, and we’re sharing with another family.’

In the front room of the first-floor flat, a European man sits on a camp-bed and squints at me through the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘Hello,’ he says, running a hand through his hair. ‘Welcome to Stanley! Have you just got here?’

‘We were allowed to stay on the Peak for the past month. But now we’re in the Indian Quarters.’

A petite Chinese woman with porcelain skin and a chignon appears at my elbow. ‘I’m Charles’ mother. So sorry they’ve put you in those awful flats. They seem to have reserved the worst billets for people from the Peak.’