Glorious Boy, page 13
She dropped her head, smiling, and Shep beamed as Roger took her gloved hand.
The last time he and Roger had seen each other, Shep said, they’d been sixteen and drilling along the Bund as part of the Shanghai Volunteer Corps. Young Roger had been famous for his ability to crack jokes in seven languages, plus three separate dialects of Chinese. Despite a nervous stutter, linguistic fluency came as naturally to him as breathing, and although he was treated as something of a freak by the other boys, Shep always admired him.
So did Claire. Intellect aside, he had a scarecrow’s build and a wide, somewhat horsey face framed by unruly brown hair, but he wore his homeliness with aplomb. He still had a boyish quality, perhaps because he’d never married, or because his intellectual gifts greased the wheels for him so he could sidestep human foibles. That stutter, for instance. It endeared him to Claire, especially when he told them he’d become a lecturer in Sydney straight out of school and had translated several ancient Chinese tomes. Within minutes they were chattering about arcane grammar, diphthongs, umlauts, and all manner of linguistic intricacies—and his stutter vanished.
Two years later, when Ty’s silence became a concern, Shep would remind Claire that Roger had overcome his impediment, as if that should encourage her. It didn’t much, but she still has fond feelings for Roger. The more so now that he’s put her to work for the war effort.
He’s also promised to meet her today for lunch, but he’s made that promise every day since she arrived in Calcutta, and every day official duties intervene, so she pays scant attention to the ebb and flow of traffic through the Fairhaven’s lobby.
What she can’t tune out is the passing commentary.
“The Japs call it the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.”
“Prosperity my ass, slavery’s more like it.”
“The better to raise a Fifth Column.”
“Wavell and Alexander ought to be court-martialed. Talk about appeasement! They directed British citizens to stay in Rangoon while the high commissioners were flying their pets out on military transport. I shudder to think what’ll happen to all those families left behind.”
“I shudder to think what’ll happen here. Don’t look now, ladies and gents, but the Barbarian’s at the gate!”
“I hear the Wireless Centre up at Barrackpore’s recruiting every Twing, Dot, and Shirley for the Women Assistants Corps. Even the COs’ wives!”
Outrage, derision, alarm, and analysis of the war now accompany every cup of tea, every chance encounter, every meal or drink. Through these riptides, Claire clings to Shep’s telegram like a life buoy. In six—eight more days at the most—he and Ty will be here. NAILA TOO, she tells herself. Well, whatever happens, they’ll figure it out together.
Shep always claimed the British were experts at making light of bad situations. That’s just what she needs to do now. Step back and treat the war as if it’s a game whose primary purpose is to shut off all other thought. A game, as Naila might say, of map mastery.
Germany played its hand by keeping Holland, France, and Britain too busy close to home to defend their colonies in the Far East. In return, Japan swooped across Asia claiming eastern China, Indo-china, Singapore, and Burma as Axis trophies. Thus, Port Blair, closer to Rangoon than to either Calcutta or Madras, became a strategic trinket now up for grabs.
So much for games. She tries to concentrate on the task in front of her, but her mind keeps slipping. This morning she found a temporary home for Shep’s plant specimens at Agri Gardens. This afternoon she’ll sift through listings of possible homes for Shep and Ty and herself. Many of the British soldiers have wives coming out and no billets provided, so lodging options are shrinking fast. On top of that, she’s no idea where Shep might be stationed next, or if he’ll even want her and Ty to stay on. Yesterday she wired her parents to let them know she’s safe—saying nothing of Shep and Ty—and her father replied with an offer to pay whatever it costs to bring them back to America. If only it were that simple.
“Military Intelligence.”
The phrase tugs her out of her reverie. Two women stand before her in the foyer, one in a snugly fitting uniform and the other, older, in a shapeless floral housedress. The young Wren has an Irish accent. “You’re brilliant with puzzles, Mum. They’d hire you in a minute, and you might even enjoy it. Barrackpore’s cooler, greener, more spacious—heaven compared to Calcutta, and the code girls are jolly enough. It’d beat your pining away here for Dad, any day.”
“Ah, Jenny . . .”
The mother’s voice fades as she hitches an old white pocketbook under her arm and pushes out through the front door, but Claire considers young Jenny’s proposition from her own point of view. She’s heard they’re hiring women as temporary assistants up at the Signal Centre. Many, like Jenny’s mother, have husbands off God knows where, and this gives the wives a place to wait and a way to contribute to the war effort safely out of harm’s way. To the astonishment of their male cohorts, some of these women reputedly make stellar codebreakers. But what of the women with children?
Roger appears in the doorway. Beaming. “C-Claire, I’ve b-brought you a surprise.”
The delight in his voice, alas, raises an expectation that’s dashed the instant she looks past him. He’s followed not by Shep and Ty, but by a short, sturdy, plain-faced woman with a light brown bob shoved behind her ears.
Claire catches her breath and looks away to conceal her disappointment, but Roger is too pleased with himself to even notice. He nudges the stranger forward and beckons Claire out from behind the desk.
The woman looks to be in her midthirties. She wears a long khaki skirt, white Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, white socks and dirty white plimsoles. A leather camera case is slung over her shoulder. Roger towers behind her.
His delivery turns clear and bright. “Claire, meet your sister-in-law, Vivian, though you’d best call her Viv if you know what’s good for you.”
Claire blinks in bewilderment. This must be some sort of stunt. When last heard from, Shep’s sister was in Sydney. The one picture Shep possessed of her was taken when Vivian was a skinny fifteen-year-old, throwing a snowball during one of their winters at boarding school in China, and the sole resemblance between this woman and that image are the thick straight-across bangs.
This Vivian grips Claire’s elbow and yanks her into an implosive hug. Only when Claire steps back does she notice that the stranger’s eyes are the same sea-glass green as Shep’s.
“There, now.” A hand cups Claire’s wet cheek. Late morning heat ripples through the front window. Vivian says, “I know just how you feel.”
In a daze of confusion, Claire follows the two to seats in the coolest corner of the shabby dining room. Roger practically dances. He looks like a boy who’s just thrown the switch on his model train and is more than a little surprised to see the tracks align.
Vivian is saying, “I was in Singapore when Hong Kong fell. Be there still if my editor hadn’t recalled me. He always said running a newspaper gave him a god’s-eye view while his foot soldiers got lost in the mud. Predicted the fall of the Peninsula weeks before any of the rest of us saw it coming. You know, the Japs took Malaya by bicycle. No motors to give them away.”
But how did she get here? Her ship must have sailed right past the Andamans.
“And Burma?” Roger asks.
“No, not even he got that one right. I came to cover the Burma Road. So much for that now.”
It has the ring of small talk. Their hands lift and drop, the perpetual dimness of the room obscuring the perpetual stains on the tablecloth. The listless fans rotate overhead. Her ship could have stopped in Port Blair. Couldn’t she have brought Ty and Shep with her?
Well, clearly, she didn’t. Claire tries to refocus. At the other tables, soldiers eat and drink and laugh, and the smell of curry and beer is infused with their masculinity. Vivian swigs a Lion Ale. With her frank, unyielding gaze and bulldog carriage, she fits right in with the boys. Shep never told her this about his sister, though perhaps she hasn’t always been so mannish. Femininity might be a handicap in her line of work.
“I sent Shep a letter before I left Singapore. Don’t imagine it reached you?”
“No.” Claire wrestles with the banality of the question. “I don’t know.”
“At the best of times,” Roger says, “only two mail deliveries a month made it down to Port Blair.”
“What did it say?”
“What?”
“The letter.”
“Just that I was coming and hoped to have a chance to see you both.” Vivian leans across the table, slides her arm between the dishes to touch Claire’s wrist. “And meet your glorious boy.”
Claire feels herself caving in at this. She draws back and struggles to catch herself, turn this around. Vivian’s presence is not the outlandish miracle it seems. It’s simply evidence of normalcy. A good omen.
Roger is called to the phone, and Claire remembers her manners. Reaching for Vivian’s broad hand, she says, “Shep will be elated to see you.”
Viv grins. “Oh, we must do something wicked to celebrate! Roger tells me he should be here in another few days. I cannot wait! My big little brother. I used to hate the way he dwarfed me. By the time he was six he was growing right past me, but the dear boy tried to make up for it by letting me boss him mercilessly. Now, Claire, tell me about—”
She glances sideways and falls silent. Roger is returning, but he’s moving as if he’s not quite sure how. His face has drained of all color. When he reaches them his syllables fracture.
“The Norilla was su-sunk midway ba-ack to P-P-Port Blair.”
Claire sees it in a flash. The torpedo racing black through bright water. A blast like a geyser. The ship’s Lebanese Captain flying over the bridge. Flames lick the shirts off his screaming men. A floating severed hand. The Norilla’s great steel hull tips lengthwise, driving into the deep.
A phantom chill curls up her spine, and her teeth begin to chatter.
Wind whips up the grayed shoreline, high tide crashing and sucking at the rocks, dawn a muted blur as Shep watches his son teeter out of the brush between Leyo and Naila, the three of them picking their way toward him down the dry stream bed. Locals burn garbage along this stretch, leaving the cove’s beach scorched, and despite the wind, it reeks. It’s a dangerous place to launch, but with no dwellings in sight, they’ll be undetected at this hour, and that’s what matters most.
As Ty gets closer, he pinches his nostrils, draws back when Leyo motions him toward the mangroves where his father waits in a borrowed skiff. The boy whimpers when Naila pulls him to her but otherwise holds quiet. A speaking child, Shep thinks, would make this unbearable. A tantrum right now would make their escape impossible. But Ty does not throw tantrums when Naila is in charge. Would that he did, they might be safe in Calcutta now.
And in that instant, Shep knows it’s true: Without his human pacifier, Ty would have made their life here impossible long ago. They’d have had to leave, to seek help for him, and none of this would have happened. Naila was their blessing and their curse.
“Where are we going, Doctor saab?” the girl asks when they reach him. As instructed, then, Leyo has told her nothing. Shep shakes his head in reply.
Leyo tosses in the rucksack, then struggles to hold the skiff steady as Naila detaches Ty from her neck and passes him to his father. When all are aboard, Shep yanks the outboard to life, and Leyo steers them into the waves.
Ty is sick almost immediately, and Naila holds him as he heaves over the gunwale. His vomit draws sharks, which bump against the hull. Shep uses his oar to bat them away, venting his rage on the black-finned beasts for his own stupidity and cowardice.
Shortly after hearing yesterday’s grim news about the Norilla, he caught Denis Ward in Phoenix Bay with the harbor master and two Indian drivers boarding a motorboat aimed for Madras. Seven hundred forty nautical miles, sharks and torpedoes be damned. If Shep had a fraction of the police chief’s loathsome nerve, he and Ty would be with them now. Instead, he folded a hastily scribbled note for Claire into Ward’s hand and said he hoped they’d make it. Alfred Baird appeared on scene and bet Ward he wouldn’t. Ward, with a parting salute, said he’d take his chances over Baird’s. We can settle up after the war.
Half measures, Shep thinks bitterly. My specialty. So here we are.
Finally, Ty has nothing left to give back and sinks into Naila’s lap. They pass the outer shore of Ross, the broken crown of the hill, the shape of their old house black against scarlet sky. They’d be visible to anyone left on Ross to watch them, but there is no one.
Shep leans closer to Naila and tries to explain his plan without frightening the girl. The final evacuation has become uncertain, so he needs to take precautions. Leyo’s people will keep her and Ty safe until the next ship comes. This is only an interim measure, but he has to consider all contingencies, and this now seems the lesser of evils.
The wind snatches at his voice. He thinks aloud. It’s impossible to tell how much she grasps—how much any of them can.
He starts again. “I’m going to stay in Port Blair, and just as soon as I’m sure when the next ship will be here, I’ll bring you back and we’ll sail for Calcutta.” He strokes Ty’s listless back and glances at Leyo. “Shouldn’t be longer than a few days.”
Naila’s dark eyes study him as if he’s just handed her a death sentence. “I’ll get you aboard,” he promises. And he knows this time he must.
Eventually, they turn into the inlet that marks the start of the trail to Behalla. Ty rubs his eyes and rallies, and in minutes Shep is standing in the surf, his son in his arms and his face crushed into those sweet, salty curls.
The boy pulls his ears as they make their way to the beach, and reluctantly Shep sets him down. From his pocket he pulls a necklace that Claire gave to Naila last Christmas, which he found in the debris of the house last night.
“I fixed the clasp for you,” he tells the girl. “And this one’s for you, Ty.” He’s added his old Shanghai Volunteer Corps medallion to Naila’s gold chain.
Ty cranes closer to see. The charm is a brass circle embossed with an eight-pointed star decorated with the flags of Europe and America.
“I received this when I was a boy, just a bit older than you.”
His son ignores the star for the necklace’s eucalyptus green moonstone globe, which he holds up to the light.
“It’s magic to keep you safe.” Shep turns to Naila, then to Leyo, who stands in the water, steadying the boat. “All of you.”
Ty sighs heavily and passes the necklace back for his father to fasten around Naila’s neck. The girl does not respond except to close her eyes at his approach.
“For safekeeping,” Shep says.
They wait without talking for several minutes as Ty runs after the waves. Leyo throws his head back, a trance-like smile on his wide, easy face. Though he’s doubtless just glad to be going home, Shep finds his serenity consoling. Leyo’s people have welcomed Claire and been generous with her. Kuli especially, she’s said. Like a second family, she’s said. Between Kuli and Leyo, they’ll keep Ty safe.
He tells himself again that this is only for a couple of days, that the next ship is bound to get through, but then he catches sight of the medallion at Naila’s throat, and his whole bloody life seems to circle it.
Go, it warns him in his father’s voice, before you make an even bigger ass of yourself.
He steps forward so Naila and Leyo won’t see the tears welling or hear the claw in his throat. He picks up his son and hugs him tight.
“Give us a kiss, old boy. Just a few more days of camping for you, and we’ll finally be off to see Mem!”
Ty accepts the kiss but gives no sign of listening. He’s too busy watching a school of dolphins leap.
March 21, 1942
Ty Babu adapts quickly, every bit as delighted by his new surroundings as Naila is miserable. He takes to Artam and the two yellow dogs and soon runs naked with them around camp, splashing and hunting for frogs and turtles in the nearby stream. Without complaint, he lets Leyo rub him with oil to keep the insects from biting. Not even the lack of a toilet bothers him, as he’s always hated the confinement and interruption of using the WC.
Naila, however, thinks only of escape. It is better, she tells herself, that her boy is happy. When the time comes, the less Ty wants to leave, the more Doctor Shep will need her help to pull him away. He will see for himself that he cannot take his son without her. And, she assures herself, so many already have left Port Blair that surely there will be space for her on the next ship. Just as the doctor promised.
Leyo tries to keep her company, to jolly her into smiling at the others, but it is clear that not all the Biya welcome her and Ty. She sometimes catches that girl Ekko and the wide-mouthed boy Tika pointing and snickering when Naila tries to stop Ty from tasting one of the disgusting grubs that Mam Golat roasts on the fire, or when she leads him down alone to the stream to bathe.
“Your ways are strange to them,” Leyo says, and she knows he is trying to help, but the naked people are the strange ones.
“Why does she wear that skull?” Naila whispers, motioning with her head at the woman Obeyo, who spends her days alone weaving mats and baskets and rope. Obeyo has buck teeth and a shaved head, scars like a valley of rain on her belly, and she speaks little to anyone except her son Tika. The truly disturbing thing about Obeyo, though, is that little skull, like one of the goddess Kali’s trophies, dangling from a string on her back.
“It helps to keep the spirit of her youngest child close,” Leyo says. “He died before the age of Ty Babu.” He shakes his head. “Her husband also is dead.”
So are my parents, Naila thinks spitefully. She’s lucky to have that skull.
