The Bird in the Bamboo Cage. Hazel Gaynor

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СКАЧАТЬ a soft blanket of snow had fallen. It was a perfect winter morning, still and calm. I stood for a moment beneath the arched lintel of the chapel doorway, admiring the quiet beauty and the deliciously plump flakes. Across the courtyard, Shu Lan, was already busy with her day’s work. She paused to listen to the distant toll of the Buddhist temple bells. I listened too, imagining that they were saying goodbye. China was almost invisible beneath the western sensibilities of Chefoo School and its privileged offspring of missionaries and diplomats, so much so that I sometimes forgot I was in China at all. The temple bells and the snow-covered branches of the plum and gingko trees were a timely reminder of place, and that as the seasons moved on, so must I.

      A smile laced the edge of my lips. Finally, I would set in motion the wheels that would lead me back home. But the heavy drone of an approaching aircraft interrupted the delicate silence, and saw my smile quickly fade.

      Instinctively, I stepped back inside the chapel doorway and tipped my face skywards, shielding my eyes against the swirling snow. I brushed a stray curl from my cheek as I watched the aircraft pass directly overhead. I stared up at the distinctive red circles painted onto the wingtips, and tracked a stream of papers that tumbled from the rear of the craft before the pilot banked sharply over Chefoo harbour, and disappeared into the rose-tinted snow clouds.

      When I was quite sure it had gone, I brushed snow from the bottom of my coat, and grabbed one of the papers as it fluttered toward me through the frigid air. I stood perfectly still as I read an English translation of the front page of a Japanese newspaper: We hereby declare War on the United States of America and the British Empire. The men and officers of Our Army and Navy shall do their utmost in prosecuting the war … I skimmed over the full declaration, my hand raised to my mouth in dread as I reached the signature, HIROHITO, and the distinctive chrysanthemum emblem of the Japanese Imperial Seal.

      I leaned against the chapel wall to steady myself as the world seemed to tilt a little to one side.

      It had happened then, just as we’d feared.

      Britain was at war with Japan.

      I immediately made my way back to the school building, my footprints sinking deep in the snow as I scooped up as many leaflets as I could. Across the courtyard, beneath the plum trees, I saw Shu Lan doing the same. We paused and looked at each other for the briefest moment before resuming our collection. As I turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of an eager little face peering out at the snow through an upstairs dormitory window, warm breaths misting the glass. Nancy Plummer. The sight of her set my mind racing. What would the declaration of war mean for the children with their parents already thousands of miles away? I sighed as I searched for the ocean in the distance. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Maybe I could take a rickshaw to the harbour and set out for Shanghai later that morning.

      When it was time for morning assembly, I slipped into the back of the packed hall, beside Minnie, who towered above me.

      She tapped her wristwatch. ‘What kept you? It’s not like you to be late.’ If she noticed the fear and worry in my eyes, she was kind enough not to say anything.

      Minnie had been at the school almost seven years. We hadn’t hit it off at first, my natural pessimism and faltering faith rather at odds with her stoic optimism and steadfast devoutness, but we’d recognized something familiar in our Northern sensibilities, not to mention the silent shame that surrounded women like us – surplus women, society’s problem – whatever term was fashionable at any given time. Despite our differences, we’d become the greatest of friends.

      ‘I’m not late,’ I replied, fussing with the bun at my neck which was all asunder.

      Minnie narrowed her eyes at me, poised to ask more, but the rousing strains of ‘Imperial Echoes’, the accompanying theme music for the popular Radio Newsreel programme on the BBC Overseas Service, emerged from the wireless cabinet, and we all jumped to attention. I was relieved to be spared an interrogation. At that moment I was held together by the smallest fragments of resolve. It would take only a fraction of Minnie’s gentle kindness to set me off.

      The hubbub of conversation subsided as the introductory music reached the final bars and we waited for the announcer’s smooth English accent. His steady delivery made even the worst news palatable to the very youngest ears, and had become another reassuring constant I’d come to rely on while I was so far from home.

      ‘This is London calling in the Overseas Service of the British Broadcasting Corporation. Here is the news, and this is Alvar Lidell reading it.’ Goosebumps ran along my arms. I laced my hands and cleared my throat, prepared to react appropriately to whatever he was about to say. ‘Japan’s long-threatened aggression in the Far East began tonight with air attacks on United States naval bases in the Pacific. Fresh reports are coming in every minute. The latest facts of the situation are these: messages from Tokyo say that Japan has announced a formal declaration of war against both the United States and Britain …’

      An audible gasp rippled around the room. Minnie grabbed my hand.

      ‘Oh, Els! It’s happened. We’re at war with Japan.’ To hear her say the words out loud made everything horribly real. ‘We’re enemy aliens.’

      I shushed her, a little too brusquely, as I strained to hear the rest of the broadcast.

      ‘Japan’s attacks on American naval bases in the Pacific were announced by President Roosevelt in a statement from the White House …’ the announcer continued, calmly relaying details of sustained Japanese bombing raids on an American naval base in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, with significant casualties reported. ‘President Roosevelt has ordered the mobilization of the United States army …’

      The words settled ominously over the room as I observed the faces of my colleagues, watching closely for their reactions: Mr Collins, our ever-reliable headmaster; Amelia Prescott, all the colour drained from her usually ruddy cheeks; Ella Redmond, stoic as ever; Tom Martin, the Latin master; young Eleanor Yarwood, a recent addition to the teaching staff at the Prep School, and on and on. Even the boys’ PT master, Charlie Harris, was lacking his usual disarming smile. Everywhere I looked, a familiar face concealed the true emotions the announcement had stirred. We hid it well, but we all understood that Japan’s declaration of war against Britain changed everything. Missionary school or not, we were now the enemy, and we were in danger.

      That winter had seen an unusually high number of children remain at school for the Christmas holidays, one hundred and twenty-four, in total. Just over a dozen staff and a handful of missionaries had also stayed, a few through choice, but most due to the Sino-Japanese war which made long journeys across the country too dangerous. The irony was not lost on me that danger had found us anyway.

      My first instinct was to locate the girls from my class.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Minnie asked, as I reached up onto my tiptoes and began muttering under my breath.

      ‘Counting,’ I replied. ‘I can’t just stand here. I have to do something.’

      For all their similarities, honed by the strict routines of school, it was the girls’ individuality I’d come to enjoy: Joan Nuttall, nicknamed Mouse, crippled by shyness but growing in confidence recently; Dorothy Hinshaw, nicknamed Sprout, the resident class clown, bursting with potential if only she would apply herself; and good-natured, ever-reliable Nancy Plummer, Plum to her friends, whom I’d recently appointed as Sixer of Pixies in the 2nd Chefoo Brownies. Nancy wasn’t the most natural leader, but was more than capable when given a nudge, and I was pleased to see her rise to the challenge. Despite being warned by several of the teachers about having favourites, the undeniable truth was that I’d grown fond of these СКАЧАТЬ