Music on the Bamboo Radio Page 12

  ‘It say,’ Tang replied, ‘Japanese no win war.’

  Six weeks later, Tang returned early from a day’s fishing. Nicholas was sweeping out the pigsties when the sampan hove into view. Tang was rowing so hard the whole vessel violently pitched and yawed. He was still a hundred metres from the shingle beach when he started shouting.

  Nicholas and the others rushed down to the shore. Tang did not even bother to run the sampan aground. He leapt from it into the shallows, shouting, ‘Lai! Lai! Come! Come! Fai! Fai! Quick! Quick!’ and set off towards the promontory.

  The others followed. Even Venerable Grandmother and Grandfather came, hobbling as fast as they could.

  Brushing through the scrub, they reached the family grave to find Tang staring out to sea, shading his face with his hands. They gathered around him.

  ‘Look!’ Tang said. ‘You see?’

  Nicholas screwed his eyes half closed against the glare of the sun on the sea. Far out, beyond the islands, he could just make out a low grey shape near the horizon.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Tang put his arm around Ah Mee and said, ‘British navy ship.’

  The next morning, as soon as it was light, Nicholas and Tang set off for Sai Kung. They arrived to find the little harbour packed with sampans and junks, and the village in festive uproar. Several houses were hung with red lanterns, the tea-house was packed and a huge crowd was gathered before the temple. Tang purchased a packet of joss-sticks and joined the mass of people shuffling forward to light the incense and place it in a brass urn before the effigy.

  ‘Tang,’ Nicholas asked, ‘will you give me a few joss-sticks?’

  For a minute Tang looked at Nicholas, then he handed him half the packet. When he had nearly reached the front of the crowd, Nicholas lit his joss-sticks from an oil lamp, moved forward, held the sticks between his hands, placed together as if in prayer, bowed three times and stuck the incense in the sand in the urn.

  As he stepped away from the effigy, he felt a great sense of peace come over him. The war was over. He had survived. The Tangs and Qing-mai had survived. And yet, as he felt the relief sweep over him so he experienced a fear. What would the future hold?

  That evening, Venerable Grandmother roasted one of the latest litter of piglets and Venerable Grandfather produced a bottle of rice wine he had been hoarding away to celebrate the end of the war. After the meal was over, as Nicholas sat alone with his thoughts on the terrace in the twilight, Qing-mai came and sat next to him, placing a small package on the terrace wall.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘you are going back to Hong Kong island with Tang and Ah Mee.’

  Nicholas did not reply. He looked down at the beach and the sampan wallowing near the mouth of the Dragon Tail Stream.

  ‘Are you not happy?’ Qing-mai asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas answered. ‘I don’t know what will happen. My life… Sek Wan is my life. You are all my life. I don’t… I don’t really remember what it was like… before… What it was like to live with my parents.’ He paused. Dai Kam ambled by and he reached down, letting his fingers stroke the dog as it passed. ‘I don’t even know if I have any parents.’

  ‘If not,’ Qing-mai said quietly, putting her hand on Nicholas’s, ‘then Tang and Ah Mee must be your parents now. And I will be like your sister. Venerable Grandfather…’

  ‘I don’t want to leave,’ Nicholas declared. ‘This is my home now.’

  ‘But you must go,’ Qing-mai replied. ‘And you can always come back. It is not so far.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘I will stay here. Wait for my father to come.’

  In front of the terrace, there was a brief rustling sound in the air. A bat flickered across the space of sky in front of the lychee tree.

  ‘In China,’ Qing-mai said, ‘if a bat flies over people, they will be very lucky.’ She passed the package along the wall to Nicholas. ‘This is for you,’ she said. ‘My present for you to take.’

  ‘What is it?’ Nicholas enquired.

  ‘My poem.’

  ‘Your poem?’ Nicholas answered.

  ‘My poem,’ Qing-mai repeated. ‘The poem of my life.’

  She leaned across then and kissed Nicholas on his cheek. He could feel her eyelashes tickle his skin. Her face was wet and he turned to realize she had been crying.

  The ferries were not yet operating so Tang had to hire a sampan to take them across the harbour from Kowloon to the island of Hong Kong. As the boatman propelled the sampan over the choppy waves, Nicholas counted two aircraft carriers, a battleship and several smaller fighting vessels, a merchant cruiser and a hospital ship all riding at anchor or moored alongside the docks. At the bow of every vessel flew the white ensign of the Royal Navy.

  Landing at a jetty on the island, Nicholas and the Tangs had to stand aside as a column of dejected Japanese troops was marched by, surrounded by a contingent of Royal Marines with fixed bayonets. Along the pavement, Chinese stood three deep, cheering.

  When the column had passed, they set off up the steep streets in the direction of Peony Villa. At every corner, people talked animatedly. Windows were open with laundry hanging out on poles to dry. In Hollywood Road, a long queue had formed outside a rice shop which was being guarded by three Marines and a Royal Naval officer.

  As they walked, Nicholas recognized nothing until they reached the street where, it seemed a lifetime ago, he had seen the two Japanese soldiers. Under the bauhinia tree, seated at a very rickety table, two old men were sitting chattering away like sparrows. In the branches above them, a golden finch chirped in a cage. Near by, the barber had set up a stool and was waiting for a customer.

  An hibiscus hedge lined the road, unkempt and badly in need of pruning. Through the branches, Nicholas could just make out iron railings and a gate leaning on its hinges. Glancing up, between the sheer mountain behind and the tops of trees, he could see a tiled roof.

  ‘There you house,’ Ah Mee said.

  Tang opened the gate. It squeaked rustily. The path beyond was strewn with dead leaves. Weeds poked up through the gravel.

  Looking up, Nicholas found he could not remember the house. Not exactly. He could recall Victoria Peak rising behind it but not the actual building itself although certain aspects of it stirred a memory. The shutters seemed somehow familiar, the veranda and the palm tree by the front door.

  At the foot of the lawn, they halted. The house stood before them. The window-sills were peeling. Several shutters were missing, showing jagged broken glass in the frames. There were dark holes in the roof where there should have been tiles. On the veranda, one of the plant pots remained but it was cracked open. The earth had spilled out and was growing weeds.

  Nicholas did not want to go on. He could not account for it, but he was afraid, as scared as he had been nearly four years before when Ah Kwan had grabbed him from behind.

  Tang, who had gone ahead, beckoned to him.

  ‘We go in,’ he said.

  The front door was ajar, the lock smashed, the brass handle and letter-box stolen. Nicholas slowly pushed it open. The interior of the building was cool and dark. He entered the hallway. It was bare of furniture and the wallpaper was torn and curling off the walls. Some floorboards had been removed leaving gaping holes. He pushed at the door into the drawing room. Like the hallway, the room had been stripped of furniture. Not even the light switches by the door remained, just bare wires protruding from the plaster. The room smelt mouldy.

  Careful to avoid more holes in the floor, Nicholas stepped towards the window. The frame was missing and the shutters were awry. He pushed the shutters out and sunlight flooded into the room.

  A faint noise behind him made him turn. Standing in the doorway was a European woman wearing a faded floral print dress. Her blonde hair was untidy and she wore no make-up. Upon her feet, Nicholas noticed, she had a pair of army boots.

  For a moment, they stared at each other then she said,
in not much more than a whisper, ‘Nicky.’

  Nicholas made no move. He just looked at the woman. Her face was drawn and her wrists were so thin that, in the bright sunlight, Nicholas could see the blue veins crisscrossing beneath her skin. Around her eyes was a light grey shadow. In contrast, her lips were almost colourless.

  ‘Nicky?’ she ventured again.

  Was this woman his mother? She did not look like the woman in the photograph. That woman was young and vibrant: the one standing before him looked old and exhausted. What was more, he was taller than she was: his mother, he remembered, was at least head and shoulders taller than him.

  ‘I am Wing-mi…’ Nicholas began then, pausing, gathered himself up and continued, ‘I am Nicholas Holford.’

  The woman slowly stepped forward. Her arms were outstretched. Her heavy boots clomped on the bare boards.

  ‘Oh, Nicky…’ she said, her eyes filling with tears.

  Over the woman’s shoulder, Nicholas caught sight of Tang and Ah Mee standing in the doorway. They were holding hands and looked, he thought, so much younger than they really were, and happy, like people in love for the first time.

  The woman reached the middle of the room. Nicholas gazed into her face.

  ‘Watch out for the floor, Mum,’ he said. ‘Some of the boards are missing.’