The Forgotten Promise, page 17
Sometimes, after the lessons, Naoki would come into the kitchen. He would sit at the small kitchen table as Grace told Noor what she had learnt. Once or twice after she had expended her excitement and gone to finish her homework, he would stay a little longer. He’d ask Noor what she was cooking, and on one occasion helped her repair a saucepan handle. His kindness continued to surprise her – she knew that he was firm with the other soldiers, but unlike most of them, she had never seen him be cruel, and he didn’t attend their drunken evenings spent in the kampongs with the ‘comfort women’ – those women or girls who were forced to satisfy the carnal needs of these enemy men so far away from home.
For this she respected him. He began to sit with her in the evenings when the men were out in the kampong, and their conversations shifted from pleasantries to confidences. She told him how she had grown up in the villa as Ella’s companion, how she had shared her lessons and tried to educate herself. He told her he admired her for that, and that he was not surprised to learn she was good with numbers, reading and writing. After that, on occasion, Noor started to find the Perak Times on the kitchen table, but the news was always slanted favourably towards the Japanese, always showcasing their superiority. There was never any of the local news she craved.
One evening Naoki came into the kitchen and said, ‘Noor, there is something I want you to do for me.’
A bitter taste flooded her mouth: she’d heard from Omar about the women other soldiers had taken as mistresses. She knew that they were only trying to support their families, but the thought of what they did disgusted her. How could they become consorts to the Japanese and parade their new status in the kampong? Was this what Naoki was thinking? No, she thought, he would never suggest it, he wasn’t that type of man.
‘I wonder if you can help me,’ he continued, his voice gentle. ‘You see, there is something I cannot do alone. I have important documents that need translating from Japanese into Malay. I will write them in English, but can you help me with the rest?’
Noor thought for a moment, then nodded – after all, what could be the harm?
And so, Naoki would sometimes arrive in the kitchen after Grace had gone to school. He didn’t speak but left a document in English on the kitchen table. She hid it in the larder, then when no one was looking, she would painstakingly translate it.
In the afternoons, Grace would return from school, polish the piano with teak oil, refill the bowl of water to keep the wood from drying out, and if he were there, Naoki would teach her. But what neither he nor Grace knew was that in the child’s rucksack Omar frequently hid notes for Noor, providing snippets of information from the kampong: how they’d intercepted an army transport vehicle driven by Japanese officers containing precious food they had stolen from the kampong, or about their attacks on the railway line, the wires they had cut along the perimeter fence and the workers they had managed to help escape.
As the weeks and then the months passed, Naoki showed both Noor and Grace courtesy and much kindness. Noor knew he missed his family and, despite herself, during the times she spent with him in gentle conversation, she found her feelings changing. Surely the Japanese weren’t all bad? Sometimes, Naoki would leave a bag of wheat or some sugar in the kitchen. At first, she was reluctant to take these supplies, after what Omar had told her about the treatment of the locals in the kampong, but need forced her to turn a blind eye. Sometimes, she used these gifts to earn extra money: she baked bread that Grace would sell in the kampong on her way to school; at other times, she would sell small bags of rice. Noor hid the money she’d earnt in the larder – not the dollars she was used to, but the strange new notes the Japanese had imposed on Malaya that she learnt were called ‘banana money’ because of the pictures of banana trees on them.
As time passed, Naoki brought her more personal gifts: a pair of cream Western-style shoes waited for her in the kitchen one day. She picked them up, marvelling at the craftsmanship, but had no idea when she would wear them nor why he was favouring her so. A few weeks later, a pink and orange silk scarf followed, then a white, loose-fitting dress. He never said anything to her, and when she tried to thank him, he avoided her eyes.
Noor found that her feelings shifted. She also noticed that although the faces of the other officers in the villa changed, Naoki was the one who always stayed. More and more often, she found her thoughts turning to him. There was an air of loneliness and solitude about him, this kind, gentle man who really didn’t want to be here, but his position and his honour forced him to stay. The only times his sadness seemed to disappear were when he played the piano, when he was teaching Grace, or when he talked to Noor in the kitchen. She could only guess at the feelings that lay hidden within him, but realised that he, like her, longed for company and for the outside world.
The time came that whenever he came into the kitchen, she imagined their eyes connecting, that he would tilt her chin with his hand before lowering his face to hers and then at last she would feel the softness of his lips on hers.
Her own feelings puzzled her. Again and again, she chided herself for wanting Naoki’s attention, yet her longing turned from being a dream to a need. Her youth was slipping away and with it any hope of rising above her situation, of having a family – of finally being someone.
Then Noor discovered a small black velvet box containing a pair of diamond earrings in the kitchen. They were larger and glittered more brightly than the pair belonging to Ella that Noor still had hidden away. She opened the box and held them in her hand; surely Naoki’s feelings were just as strong as hers? They were so beautiful and caught the light so perfectly, but both the gift and Naoki’s behaviour mystified her, and with every day that he avoided her gaze, the ache within her deepened.
When an angry note arrived from Omar wondering why she didn’t share any news with him anymore, she scrunched it up and threw it in the bin. Omar had got it wrong, she told herself, the Japanese weren’t so bad – and did he really think being governed by them was any worse than being ruled by the British? She was done with telling tales, and Omar ought to think of how much better his life could be if he stopped being a troublemaker.
One morning, when she was making rice porridge in the kitchen, Grace told her, ‘Did you know that there are musical concerts where children play? The best players win prizes.’
‘No, I didn’t. How do you know?’
‘Naoki told me. The emperor has decreed it. The children play the violin or the piano. He said that I am really good – that I only need to hear a piece of music to play it well. I told him I can even hear the music in my head to play it and he said that I must be a genius. I really wish I could go.’
Noor lifted her head from the stove. She’d been worrying about Grace for some time now: she was looking less like the boy she was supposed to be, and Noor wondered when her figure might start to fill out.
‘And where exactly do these concerts take place?’
‘Menglembu. Sometimes further away.’
Noor placed the spoon she was stirring with down on the counter. ‘How would you get there?’
‘I don’t know. I thought you might be able to ask Naoki.’
Noor gazed out of the window. Perhaps this was the opportunity she had been waiting for to see a little more of the outside world, and if Grace really was as good as Naoki said she was, it would only be right for her to attend. But did she have the courage to ask Naoki to take them?
Later that evening, after the soldiers had eaten and he was playing the piano, Noor lingered in the kitchen, hoping to catch him before he made his way up to bed. At last he stopped playing and she heard his footsteps coming towards her. The door opened, but fear got the better of her and she turned away.
‘Noor?’ he said, his voice gentle.
She turned to face him, unable to read his expression or to articulate her request. He stepped closer. She drew in her breath and said the words she had been rehearsing a hundred times.
‘Jaza says that there are concerts for the children – I wonder how we can attend?’
‘Noor,’ he said, taking a step closer. ‘Do you think I don’t know?’
‘What?’
He lowered his face to her ear. ‘Your secret.’
She pulled away, the intake of her breath deep and sharp. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Of course you do. I know that Jaza isn’t a boy, that she isn’t yours.’
Cold settled in her legs, weakening them and making them tremble. So, he had known all along and never said a thing. She didn’t know where to look, but at last she managed to ask, ‘Do the others know?’
He shook his head. ‘Of course not. Your secret is safe with me. Now, we should make some plans for how to get the girl up to standard.’
It was agreed that from time to time they would attend public competitions where Grace could perform. Naoki or one of the junior officers would take them there in his staff vehicle. Grace won most of the competitions, and her reputation as a pianist grew. She won many types of prizes – packs of pencils and notebooks mainly, items that were deemed educational but were desirable to local children who couldn’t get hold of them, and so acted as currency.
On their journeys to the venues, Noor would sit in the front next to the driver. She wondered what people would be thinking when they saw her in her smart clothes and diamond earrings. Her feelings for Naoki deepened, but still he only spoke to her with great politeness and courtesy. She hoped that by seeing her wear his gifts in public, he had registered her appreciation.
One day, as they arrived outside the village hall in Menglembu, she spotted Omar’s face in the crowd. Their eyes met but Noor quickly looked away and focused on her feet in their cream-coloured shoes.
I’m only doing what anyone would, she told herself as she climbed up the steps into the hall, and none of it is wrong. Who wouldn’t want to better themselves, to survive?
But Omar’s expression haunted her.
That night she dreamt that she was in the jungle during a tropical storm. There was strange music playing – she didn’t know who it was or where it was coming from. As she searched, her clothes and hair drenched by the pounding rain, she came across Omar who was sitting in the mouth of a cave. Behind him were guns and the bodies of scores of murdered MCP members. He sat by a fire, and when he lifted his face to hers, his expression was as dark as thunder.
‘Traitor!’ He spat on the ground. ‘Prostitute!’
‘That’s not fair, Omar. I’m not doing anything wrong.’
‘Look behind you. See – the faces of these dead men! May their blood be on your hands forever.’
‘Omar, please. Think of the child. Everything I do, I do for her!’
‘Do you lie in his bed for the child?’
‘How can you say such a thing, Omar?’
A flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the faces of the dead men who lay behind him.
‘Liar. Traitor. When was the last time you had anything useful to tell me, hey?’ He brought his face close to hers – his teeth were stained with betel-nut juice, and the colour seemed to have bled into his eyes. He spat on the ground, but the spit didn’t soak away. Instead, it bubbled like blood cascading from an open artery.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sleep evaded Ella. She lay in a large mahogany bedstead in a draughty room as the unfamiliar noises of the house mingled with whispers from her past. The stew that Polly had cooked for dinner lay heavily on her stomach. She wondered if all English food was like this, sloppy and tasteless with overcooked vegetables, and then she felt bad for thinking that way.
Toby slept in a wooden cot at the foot of her bed; it was painted blue with a large white bunny rabbit on the headboard. She suspected it had been Johnnie’s and the idea unsettled her. Her thoughts moved on, to the servicemen that Polly said had been billeted here. She tried to think of the faceless people who had slept in the bed and then it occurred to her that once this must have been Johnnie’s room and his bed, and it unsettled her further to think that he should be there with her now, not thousands of miles away and goodness knew where.
She got out of bed and pulled on the navy towelling dressing-gown hanging on the back of the door. It was a little too big and from the aroma of soap and its scratchy surface, she assumed it had recently been washed. Had this been Johnnie’s, too? she wondered. She pulled the collar up to her chin and inhaled, as though it could bring her closer to him, but couldn’t detect the slightest trace of his scent. After all, it would have been years since he’d worn it.
She opened the door and listened. The landing and staircase were in shadow, and she could see her chilled breath frosting in front of her as she looked about. To her left was the bathroom and a little further along from James and Polly’s room she could hear snoring. James McCain had got back just after supper, but his welcome had been as cold as the English weather.
‘Ah,’ he had said, when she had stood to greet him as he came into the study. ‘Ella.’ Her memory of him from his visit to Malaya was of a tall man with dark hair. Now, his face along with his hair had whitened and he stooped a little. His gaze turned to Toby and lingered a beat too long. She guessed that her son must be reminding him of Johnnie as a child, and again, the sense of her betrayal in abandoning her husband and child surged through her. However hard it was for her, it must be just as hard for James, not knowing where his only son was. Eventually, Polly made Ella repeat all the details of her escape, then she insisted that James found an atlas and made him spread it on the coffee table to see where their route had taken them.
Now, as she listened to him snoring, Ella continued to look about and noticed that to the right the stairwell plunged into darkness. She pulled the dressing-gown tighter around her waist and followed the stairs down.
The smell of Polly’s stew still hung in the hall, and the study door creaked as she opened it. Embers flickered like fireflies in the fireplace, casting a mellow glow over the room. She could see dents in the cushions, the impressions of those who had sat there acting like ghostly reminders of Grace and Johnnie’s absence, and it choked her. She closed the door, deciding to explore the rest of the house.
Now, she was glad of the carpet as her feet padded along the hallway. The first door she opened revealed the dining room, where they had eaten. Moonlight illuminated a large mahogany table surrounded by eight perfectly aligned balloon-backed dining chairs, the highchair where Toby had sat propped up on cushions, a large dresser of a dark wood she didn’t recognise containing plates and silver tureens. Polly had explained again that from time to time they had servicemen from RAF Benson to stay whenever they had leave and that sometimes their wives or children joined them and this was where meals were always served. Ella didn’t like this room as much as the cosy table she had seen in the kitchen.
‘We’ve all got to do our bit,’ Polly had said. ‘There probably isn’t a single bedroom in Oxford that is vacant now.’
The hall clock struck the hour, the pendulum sending a vibrating shudder through the air. She closed the door and wandered further along the hallway and discovered another door. She paused, then turned the stiffened handle and pushed hard to open it. The smell of the room made her think of books that had been left too long unopened, of the beeswax and polish that the servants had used at home.
As the door swung open, a baby grand piano in the middle of the room captured her attention.
It was a little dusty, yet silver photograph frames glittered from its surface, reflecting the watchful moon. Silently she walked towards it, her heart pounding but her feet silent. She picked up a frame: Johnnie as a toddler, sitting in a pit of sand; Johnnie in his prep-school uniform – a crooked row of teeth visible as he grinned; Johnnie with his arm wrapped around a spaniel’s neck, making her think of Apollo. Wondering what on earth had happened to him brought a stifled sob to her throat. With the tip of her finger, she followed the line of Johnnie’s jaw and the angle of his nose on the photograph, then she returned it to the top of the piano. She sat down on the stool and lifted the long-untouched lid to reveal the ancient keyboard.
Her fingers lingered over the ivory as she traced the places she knew Johnnie’s fingers must have touched. Each key had felt the impression of his skin, had been caressed as he swept his hands backwards and forwards over the expanse of black and white.
Tears trickled down her cheeks and she wiped her face with her sleeve as visions of Johnnie clustered around her. She could almost hear him humming a tune, feel him next to her. It was as though all she had to do was to turn her face, and she would see him looking at her and feel the force of their eyes meeting.
‘Oh, my God.’ Her shoulders heaved. The not knowing was making her go out of her mind. ‘Whatever happens, I will find you both and we will all be together again,’ she vowed.
Her hands hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to play but didn’t want to wake the others. Stillness hung in all the corners of the room as though time had stopped here and didn’t want to move, but she thought she felt something moving near her. Did she imagine it, or did she hear Johnnie whisper that he loved her, that Grace was safe? She resisted the desire to turn her head and look, for if she did, she knew that the sensation would disappear, and she wanted to cling to the whisper of hope forever.
It became her habit to wander down to the piano at night. When she thought all the house was sleeping, she would creep down the stairs and sit on the stool, running her fingers gently over the keyboard, quietly reproducing the tunes she had loved to hear him play and desperately hoping to recapture the presence she had felt that first time.
During the day, she and Polly scoured passenger lists and wrote to the Red Cross, hoping for news of Johnnie and Grace.
