The Pure Land (24 page)

Tsuru moved around the house in a dream. It was bittersweet this feeling; the memory of the night still clung to her like his smell. It was like an old poem, a Noh drama, to be with the lover at last, only for him to go. But he would come back, she was sure of it. He had this house, his life here, his work. She picked up his yukata from the floor, held it to her face, breathed in its smell. She would tidy the house, clean it, but in her own good time, not yet. She would make the bed later; she folded back the sheets, lay down again; she would just lie there a few minutes more.

In the light of another day, Maki composed herself. She bathed, put up her hair with a silver comb, made up her face, put on a perfumed kimono – one he liked with a design of leaves and butterflies. She hired a norimon to transport her from the edge of town, carried by two men. They laughed and said she was so light she added little to the weight of it. As if a tiny bird had landed on the seat, said one. A butterfly, said the other, like the ones on her kimono. She smiled, pulled down the blinds and closed her eyes, listened to the sounds she passed through, the strange, familiar music of it all, washing over her as she bumped along; vendors and hawkers haggling with their customers, the chop of an axe cutting bamboo, a child laughing, another crying, cartwheels turning, a nightingale, a cricket, the bark of a dog. She stopped at the foot of Minami Yamate, paid the two men. It won’t feel any lighter going back, said the one. Might as well still be carrying her, said the other. And his words brought a story back to her, about two monks crossing a river. One of them carried a woman across, set her down. The other was still angry about it hours later, and his companion asked why he was still carrying her. Guraba-san loved her stories. They made him laugh.

She walked on up Minami Yamate, took short, slow, precise steps, placed one foot after the other, delicate in her wooden-soled
geta
. She went in at the gate of Ipponmatsu, stood in front of Guraba-san’s door, breathed deep, knocked.

Tsuru was dragged from a dream by the tap tapping. She had been with Guraba-san but knew that the tiger was outside; now it was tapping with its claws at the door and he had gone to answer it; she had to stop him. The tapping came again and now she was fully awake, sitting up. It wasn’t the tiger, it had gone long ago. And Guraba-san had gone too, that very morning. And someone really was knocking at the door.

Maki had knocked twice, was about to turn away when she heard sounds from inside, movement. She would try one more time, rapped again, sharp and firm, waited.

Tsuru pulled her housecoat about her, tried to arrange her dishevelled hair as she hurried to answer the door. She eased it open, peeked out, saw the woman standing there, the other, his favourite from the Sakura, the one he had brought here to the house.

Maki looked at the woman staring out at him, the other, the one who cooked and cleaned for him, looked after him.

The women stared at each other, said nothing. 

Glover, on deck, was thinking of Tsuru, remembering the unexpectedness of the night before. Then it was Maki he was picturing, her face a moment vivid to him, clear. She had told him stories, and one came back to him now. A man was crossing a field when he met a tiger. The tiger growled and chased him. The field ended in a precipice, and the man fell over it, grabbed a wild vine to stop himself plummeting to his death. The tiger stood above him, teeth bared. Far below, at the foot of the precipice, another tiger paced up and down, growling, looking up at him, waiting for him to fall. Two mice appeared and started nibbling at either side of the vine, little by little chewing their
way through it. Just beside the vine hung a luscious strawberry. By holding on with one hand and reaching out with the other, the man could just reach the strawberry. He plucked it and popped it in his mouth. How sweet it tasted! 

Maki bowed, asked if Guraba-san was at home.

Tsuru bowed, a strand of hair falling forward over her face, said she was sorry, Guraba-san had left, had gone home to Scotland, would be away for a very long time, maybe years.

The silence lay heavy. Tsuru excused herself and closed the door. Maki stood on the step, mind empty, a grey blank. She felt the sickness rise again in her throat. She would head back down the hill, go to Sakura and speak to the madame, ask for the address of the doctor in Naminohira.

T
he train journey north, after the long sea voyage, was debilitating, took a day and a half. By the last stage, from Edinburgh, he was in a kind of limbo, a dead zone, neither asleep nor fully awake, drifting or jolting between the two. North of Montrose it all felt chillingly familiar, a dream of something he had once known, the harsh windswept landscape, grey rain falling out of a grey sky into the grey sea. So far. So far north. By Stonehaven he felt it clench in his guts, a sense that this was reality, and this was him waking to it, the last seven years just a dream. Then the train was gathering momentum, hurtling down the last sweep into Aberdeen, smoke and cinders billowing past, and they were passing the lighthouse, and the fishing village at Torrie, and trundling into the city itself, its grey granite heart.

He eased down the window, slipped its holding belt a notch or two, stuck out his head, took a deep breath of that unforgettable tang, in behind the smoke and oil of the station, the stink of fish that hung in the air. And there were the sea gulls, swooping and diving inside the station, hovering under the iron girders, the massive overarching glass roof, filling the vaulted space with their cry. A specific fierce northern breed, tough and predatory, they swept over folk’s heads, shouldered their way along the platform, scavenging for scraps.

Then he was out on the platform himself, stretching his limbs, negotiating with a porter to carry his luggage, the same old battered trunk that had served him all these years, and, in addition, a wooden crate laden with gifts; and all the time he was keeping an eye open, looking out, and through the hissing smoke and steam he saw something small and white, fluttering, a hanky waving at him; and the young woman waving it was Martha, his sister, the turn of her head, the way she stood, unmistakable, so dear and familiar it moved him, deeply and unexpectedly. It welled in his heart, choked in his throat. And there behind Martha stood an old couple, looking at him, unsure, and it took him a moment to recognise them as his mother, his father. Dear God. How could they have aged so quickly, shrunk in on themselves so much?

He went to them, hugged Martha, who laugh-cried. ‘Look at my big brother!’

‘Look at you!’ he said, holding her at arm’s length, amazed.

He embraced his mother, felt her thin shoulderblades through her coat.

‘Tom!’ she said, reluctantly delighted. ‘You’re … a man!’

‘Ach, mother,’ he said. ‘You always were one for the sharp observation!’

He turned to his father. The old man cleared his throat, shook his hand, firmly, with dour restraint.

‘Aye, Tom.’

‘Aye, faither.’

Behind the family group, hanging back, stood another familiar figure, Mackenzie, grinning.

‘Ken!’ he shouted. ‘
O genki desuka?
’

‘
O genki desu!
’ said Mackenzie, and they bowed to each other formally, then laughed and shook hands.

‘Just a wee exchange in Japanese,’ he explained to Martha.

‘I’m guessing,’ she said, ‘a rough translation would be
Fit like?
Aa right!
’

He laughed again, said, ‘Och, Martha! It’s grand to see you, lass.’

‘You too,’ she said, beaming.

A sudden disturbance, a commotion at the other side of the station, made them all turn. The crowds in the concourse parted and there was a short, stocky figure, striding towards them with that rolling gait, that distinctive samurai swagger, so familiar, but incongruous here.

Young Nagasawa was dressed in full samurai garb, the dark wide-sleeved robes; in place of a full-length sword he carried a short dagger, tucked in at his waist, his right hand resting on the hilt.

‘Christ!’ said Glover. ‘Did he walk down Union Street like that? He must have turned a few heads!’

The boy’s expression was all seriousness, composure, restraint. Folk in the crowd gawped at him, pointed, guffawed. One or two shouted out, jeered as he passed.

‘Hey, daftie!’

‘Chinkie boy!’

‘Eezie peezie japaneezy!’

He stopped, turned to face them, gripped the handle of the dagger tighter.

Glover called out to him. ‘Nagasawa-san!’

The boy hurried the last few strides towards him, stood in front of him, bowed deeply.

‘Guraba-san.’

Glover also bowed, then laughed, took him by the shoulders, shook him till he grinned.

‘You can take the boy out of Japan,’ said Mackenzie. ‘But you can’t take Japan out of the boy!’

It was the first time he had seen the new house at Braehead.
His father was trying to thank him for the money he had sent home, helping them buy the house.

‘It was good of you,’ he said, top lip tight, keeping any unseemly emotion in check.

‘Och,’ said Glover, ending the discussion.

The house was only half a mile from the coastguard station. Like Ipponmatsu, it stood on the brow of a hill, had a spacious garden and open views. Compared to their old home, it was a mansion.

Glover’s crate was delivered by horsedrawn cart from the station. In the front room he prised it open with a crowbar from his father’s toolshed, carefully unpacked his treasures. For his mother and Martha he had brought rolls of shimmering silk, to be made into dresses. For his father there was a set of samurai swords, sheathed and mounted, a carved hardwood pipe. For the house itself, for pure adornment, there was a little bronze Buddha, a suit of samurai armour, hanging silk scrolls delicately painted with birds and flowers, a trove of ornaments and knick-knacks, exquisite
netsuke
carvings, Satsuma pottery in black and white with its subtle dull glaze. His father handled a matt black vase, nodded his approval.

‘There’s so much!’ said his mother. ‘You didn’t have to.’

‘This is nothing,’ he said. ‘There’s furniture on its way, and screens and rugs, and a whole crate of tea!’

‘You’ll be turning the place into a wee corner of Japan,’ said Martha.

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ he said, and he produced from the crate a seedling, packed in earth, wrapped in muslin.

‘Kurumi
,’ he said. ‘Japanese walnut. I thought we could plant it in the garden.’

For Mackenzie he had brought a book he’d had specially bound, full of bright woodblock prints of Nagasaki.

‘A wee memento,’ he said.

‘Och!’ said Mackenzie, but he smiled, looked moved as he turned the pages.

For Nagasawa he had brought another, smaller, samurai sword. The boy looked stunned, unbelieving, as he took it, held it reverently. That Glover should bring him a gift, as if he were one of the family, and that the gift should be this.
This
. He was almost overcome, bowed and touched the sword with his forehead. Then he stood rigidly to attention, bowed again, turned on his heel and left the room.

Over dinner, warmed by a dram of malt his father saved for a special occasion, Glover regaled them with edited tales of his years away. He sang Mackenzie’s praises, said Ken had taught him all he knew.

‘I refuse to accept the blame!’ said Mackenzie.

He told them of his business dealings, the fortune he’d managed to make, the rogue Walsh, the indomitable Ito. He made light of the dangers, the attack on the Legation, said it was a time of upheaval and change and he was glad to be a part of it. He completely excised all reference to the floating world, the pleasure quarter, once or twice caught Mackenzie’s eye and saw there a knowing twinkle at the gaps he was leaving in his version of events.

When their talk started to veer towards work, the dealings with the Hall Russell yard, the progress being made, Martha interrupted, said they could discuss business tomorrow and there was something much more important, far more demanding of her brother’s attention.

Chuckling, he let her lead him out to the garden. She had already chosen a spot, dug a little hole to plant the seedling, brought it out in readiness.

‘I thought it was important that you plant it,’ she said, and he kneeled, eased the root into place, replaced the earth round about it, trowelled it flat.

‘There!’ he said, standing up.

She clapped her hands and he was once more amazed at her, this beautiful, poised young woman, his wee sister.

‘This lad of yours is a lucky fellow,’ he said.

‘John,’ she said. ‘You’ll like him.’

‘I’m sure I will.’

She looked at him, seemed to hesitate a moment, then came out with it.

‘Was she bonny, Tom? Your wife, Sono?’

‘Aye,’ he said, simply.

‘And the wee lad, your son?’

‘He barely lived.’

‘It must have been an awful hard time for you.’

‘Aye.’

‘You never said much in the letters.’

‘No.’

‘I had to read between the lines.’

‘Aye.’

‘But you’re fine now?’

‘It’s been two years.’

‘Is that all?’ she asked. ‘It feels longer.’

‘It does.’

She took his arm and they walked to the end of the garden, looked down over Brig o’ Balgownie.

‘How’s young Annie?’ he asked, remembering a summer night, a heron skimming the river.

‘Not quite so young,’ said Martha. ‘A bit like yourself!’

She laughed but seemed momentarily uncomfortable. ‘She’s fine.’

‘I wrote when I first went out there,’ he said. ‘But she never replied.’

‘Och well,’ she said. ‘What’s done is done. Sometimes it’s best just to let things go.’

‘Aye,’ he said.

It was as if nothing had changed in all his years away. The same congregation, older, the same minister, greyer, more thrawn, the same grim oppressiveness and hard ardour, the same soberly resonant hymns, remembering the green hill far away, exhorting all people that on earth do dwell to sing to the Lord with cheerful voice. He felt again the mounting panic, the fear that life had caught up with him, returned him here to this dour place, his escape from it mere illusion.

He minded his younger self, casting about him in des peration, resting his eyes on young Annie, a vision of grace. Without thinking, he looked round now, and there she was, he was sure of it, the fair hair longer and a little darker, the bonnet covering part of her face. He couldn’t see her clearly, but he knew her, remembered exactly the way she stood, the shape of her head. He willed her to turn round, look at him as she once had, but she didn’t, stared straight ahead, singing the hymns of sober praise.

He left ahead of Martha, shook hands with the minister at the door.

‘Aye, Mister Glover,’ the minister said. ‘We’d heard you were back.’ And he made it sound like a life sentence. You shall be taken from this place.

He waited in the kirkyard, saw Annie come out, stepped forward and doffed his cap to her. Older, her face thinner, but even more beautiful than he remembered, the beauty tempered by experience, a half-sad knowingness in the eyes.

‘Annie.’

‘Tom.’

She registered no surprise; word would have spread that he was back; she would be expecting to see him. But the recognition, the remembrance of him, came from deep. She knew him, as he knew her. He took her hand, held it. For a moment she seemed to respond with the tiniest pressure of her own, then she tensed, withdrew and turned away.

For the first time he noticed a man standing behind her, a
little way off; Glover’s own age or a year or two older, already corpulent, hair starting to thin.

Annie held out her hand, drew the man in, introduced him.

‘You know my husband, Andrew.’

Glover looked, saw the much younger man behind the flabbiness, the premature settling into middle age.

Andy Robertson, his fellow clerk from that old life, drinking companion from all those years ago, quoter of Burns, feared of adventure, wanting the quiet life.

‘Andy!’

They shook hands, Robertson’s grip limp, unwilling.

‘Good to see you, Tom.’ The mouth smiled but the eyes flickered, said the opposite of the words.

Glover laughed at the memory of something. ‘D’ye still go diving off the Brig o’ Balgownie?’

Robertson’s smile was weak, the lips tight.

‘Thon was a night!’ said Glover. ‘
Gettin fou an unco happy!
’

‘Aye,’ said Robertson, uncomfortable, not wanting reminded.

Out the corner of his eye, Glover caught a movement, a wee boy darting from behind a gravestone, rushing over, hiding himself among Annie’s skirts.

She laughed, brought him forward. ‘This is our son, Jamie.’

Fair hair, blue eyes. The boy darted a shy glance up at him, hid his face, peeked out.

Glover crouched down. ‘Pleased to meet you, Jamie.’

‘This is Mister Thomas Glover,’ said Annie.

‘Tom,’ he said, and he hid his own face, keeked out between his fingers, made Jamie laugh.

‘Come on,’ said Robertson, taking the boy’s hand. ‘It’s time we were going.’

He looked at Annie, saw something in her eyes, unspoken, fleeting, a momentary yearning, regret.

‘It really
is
good to see you, Tom,’ she said, then the door was closed, her face set.

‘It was indeed,’ said Robertson. ‘I hope your visit home is a pleasant one.’

Then they were heading out the gate, only the boy looking back, waving at him; Martha came out of the church, came up behind him, took him by the arm, said nothing.

He walked to the end of the garden, late afternoon, still a faint trace of warmth in the air, but tempered by that chill that was always there at the back of it, a sharpness in the breeze, turning to downright cold in the shadows. He smiled at the seedling Martha had planted; it was good to think of generations to come sitting under its branches, in its shade, Martha’s children, maybe even grandchildren.

He looked down at Brig o’ Balgownie. On a whim, a fancy, he decided to go down and take a look.

Like everything else it was smaller than he remembered. It sat there, quite the thing, in a wee stone dream of itself. But the drop to the river was still high enough, the parapet narrow and uneven. He thought of Robertson keeling over, laughed at the daft foolhardiness of it. How easily they might have cracked their skulls, drowned. But they hadn’t. They had lived their lives, gone down different roads.