A Pale View of Hills

Chapter Seven

As the summer grew hotter, the stretch of wasteground outside our apartment block became increasingly unpleasant. Much of the earth lay dried and cracked, while water which had accumulated during the rainy season remained in the deeper ditches and craters. The ground bred all manner of insects, and the mosquitoes in particular seemed everywhere. In the apartments there was the usual complaining, but over the years the anger over the wasteground had become resigned and cynical.

I crossed that ground regularly that summer to reach Sachiko’s cottage, and indeed it was a loathsome journey; insects often caught in one’s hair, and there were grubs and midges visible amidst the cracked surface. I still remember those journeys vividly, and they — like those misgivings about motherhood, like Ogata-San’s visit — serve today to bring a certain distinctness to that summer. And yet in many ways, that summer was much like any other. I spent many moments — as I was to do throughout succeeding years — gazing emptily at the view from my apartment window. On clearer days, I could see far beyond the trees on the opposite bank of the river, a pale outline of hills visible against the clouds. It was not an unpleasant view, and on occasions it brought me a rare sense of relief from the emptiness of those long afternoons I spent in that apartment.

Apart from the matter of the wasteground, there were other topics which preoccupied the neighbourhood that summer. The newspapers were full of talk about the occupation coming to an end and in Tokyo politicians were busy in argument with each other. In the apartments, the issue was discussed frequently enough, but with much the same cynicism as coloured talk concerning the wasteground. Received with more urgency were the reports of the child murders that were alarming Nagasaki at the time. First a boy, then a small girl had been found battered to death. When a third victim, another little girl, had been found hanging from a tree there was near-panic amongst the mothers in the neighbourhood. Understandably, little comfort was taken from the fact that the incidents had taken place on the other side of the city: children became a rare sight around the housing precinct, particularly in the evening hours.

I am not sure to what extent these reports worried Sachiko at the time. Certainly she seemed less inclined to leave Mariko unattended, but then I suspect this had more to do with other developments in her life; she had received a reply from her uncle, expressing his willingness to take her back into his household, and soon after this news, I noticed a change come over Sachiko’s attitude to the little girl: she seemed somehow more patient and relaxed with the child.

Sachiko had betrayed much relief about her uncle’s letter, and at first I had little reason to doubt she would return to his house. However, as the days went by, my suspicions grew about her intentions. For one thing, I discovered some days after the arrival of the letter that Sachiko had not yet mentioned the matter to Mariko. And then, as the weeks went on, not only did Sachiko make no preparations for moving, she had not, so I discovered, sent a reply to her uncle.

Had Sachiko not been so peculiarly reluctant to talk about her uncle’s household, I doubt if it would have occurred to me to ponder such a topic. As it was, I grew curious, and despite Sachiko’s reticence I managed to gather certain impressions; for one thing, the uncle was not, it seemed, related by blood, but was a relative of Sachiko’s husband; Sachiko had never known him prior to arriving at his house several months earlier. The uncle was wealthy, and since his house was an unusually large one — and his daughter and a housemaid the only other occupants — there had been plenty of room for Sachiko and her little girl. Indeed, one thing Sachiko did mention more than once was her recollection of how large parts of that house had remained empty and silent.

In particular, I became curious about the uncle’s daughter, who I gathered to be an unmarried woman of roughly Sachiko’s age. Sachiko would say little about her cousin, but then I do recall one conversation we had around that time. I had by then formed an idea that Sachiko’s slowness in returning to her uncle had to do with some tension which existed between herself and the cousin. I must have tentatively put this to Sachiko that morning, for it provoked one of the few occasions upon which she talked explicitly about the time she had spent at her uncle’s house. The conversation comes back to me quite vividly; it was one of those dry windless mornings of mid-August, and we were standing on the bridge at the top of our hill, waiting for a tram to take us into the city. I cannot remember where it was we were going that day, or where we had left Mariko — for I recall the child was not with us. Sachiko was gazing out at the view from the bridge, holding up a hand to shield her face from the sun.

“It puzzles me, Etsuko,” she said, “how you ever managed to get hold of such an idea. On the contrary, Yasuko and I were the best of friends, and I’m greatly looking forward to seeing her again. I really don’t understand how you could have thought otherwise, Etsuko.”

“I’m sorry, I must have been mistaken,” I said. “For some reason, I supposed you had some reservations about returning there.”

“Not at all, Etsuko. When you first met me, it’s quite true, I was in the process of considering certain other possibilities. But a mother can’t be blamed for considering the different options that arise for her child, can she? It just so happened that for a while there seemed an interesting option open to us. But having given it further consideration, I’ve now rejected it. That’s all there is to it, Etsuko, I’ve no further interest in these other plans that were suggested to me. I’m glad everything has turned out for the best, and I’m looking forward to returning to my uncle’s house. As for Yasuko-San, we have the highest regard for each other. I don’t understand what could have made you suppose otherwise, Etsuko.”

“I do apologize. It’s just that I thought you once mentioned a quarrel of some kind.”

“A quarrel?” She looked at me for a second, and then a smile spread over her face. “Oh, now I understand what you’re referring to. No, Etsuko, that was no quarrel. That was just some trivial tiff we had. What was it about now? You see, I don’t even remember, it was so trivial. Oh yes, that’s right, we were arguing about which of us should prepare the supper. Yes, really, that’s all it was. You see, Etsuko, we used to take it in turns. The housemaid would cook one night, my cousin the next, then it would be my turn. The housemaid was taken ill on one of her nights, and Yasuko and I both wanted to cook. Now you mustn’t misunderstand, Etsuko, we generally got on very well. It’s just that when you see so much of one person and no one else, things can get out of proportion at times.”

“Yes, I do understand. I’m sorry, I was quite mistaken.”

“You see, Etsuko, when you have a housemaid to do all the little jobs for you, it’s surprising how slowly the time goes by. Yasuko and I, we tried to occupy ourselves one way or another, but really there was little to do other than sit and talk all day. All those months we sat in that house together, we hardly saw an outsider the whole time. It’s a wonder we didn’t really quarrel. Properly, I mean.”

“Yes, it certainly is. I obviously misunderstood you before.”

“Yes, Etsuko, I’m afraid you did. I only happen to remember the incident because it occurred just before we left and I haven’t seen my cousin since. But it’s absurd to call it a quarrel.” She gave a laugh. “In fact, I expect Yasuko’s thinking of it and laughing too.”

Perhaps it was that same morning, we decided that before Sachiko went away, we would go together on a day’s outing somewhere. And indeed, one hot afternoon not long afterwards, I accompanied Sachiko and her daughter to Inasa. Inasa is the hilly area of Nagasaki overlooking the harbour, renowned for its mountain scenery; it was not so far from where we lived — in fact it was the hills of Inasa I could see from my apartment window — but in those days, outings of any sort were rare for me, and the trip to Inasa seemed like a major excursion. I remember I looked forward to it for days; it is, I suppose, one of the better memories I have from those times.

We crossed to Inasa by ferry at the height of the afternoon. Noises from the harbour followed us across the water — the clang of hammers, the whine of machinery, the occasional deep sound from a ship’s horn — but in those days, in Nagasaki, such sounds were not unpleasing; they were the sounds of recovery and they were still capable then of bringing a certain uplifting feeling to one’s spirits.

Once we had crossed the water, the sea-winds seemed to blow more freely and the day no longer felt so stifling. The sounds of the harbour, carried in the wind, still reached us as we sat on a bench in the forecourt of the cable-car station. We were all the more grateful for the breeze, for the forecourt offered scant shelter from the sun; it was simply an open area of concrete which — being peopled that day largely by children and their mothers — resembled a school playground. Over to one side, behind a set of turnstiles, we could see the wooden platforms where the cable-cars came to rest. For some moments we sat mesmerized by the sight of the cable-cars climbing and falling; one car would go rising away into the trees, gradually turning into a small dot against the sky, while its companion came lower, growing larger, until it heaved itself to a halt at the platform. Inside a small hut beside the turnstiles, a man was operating some levers; he wore a cap, and after each car had come down safely, he would lean out and chat to a group of children who had gathered to watch.

The first of our encounters that day with the American woman occurred as a result of our deciding to take the cable-car to the hilltop. Sachiko and her daughter had gone to buy the tickets and for a moment I was left sitting alone on the bench. Then I noticed at the far end of the forecourt a small stall selling sweets and toys. Thinking I would perhaps buy some candy for Mariko, I got to my feet and walked over to it. Two children were there before me, arguing about what to buy. While I waited for them, I noticed among the toys a pair of plastic binoculars. The children continued to quarrel, and I glanced back across the forecourt. Sachiko and Mariko were still standing by the turnstiles; Sachiko seemed to be in conversation with two women.

“Can I be of service, madam?”

The children had gone. Behind the stall was a young man in a neat summer uniform.

“May I try these?” I pointed to the binoculars.

“Certainly, madam. It’s just a toy, but quite effective.”

I put the binoculars to my face and looked towards the hill-slope; they were surprisingly powerful. I turned to the forecourt and found Sachiko and her daughter in the lenses. Sachiko had dressed for the day in a light-coloured kimono tied with an elegant sash — a costume, I suspected, reserved only for special occasions — and she cut a graceful figure amidst the crowd. She was still talking to the two women, one of whom looked like a foreigner.

“A hot day again, madam,” the young man said, as I handed him the money. “Are you riding on the cable-car?”

“We’re just about to.”

“It’s a magnificent view. That’s a television tower we’re building on the top. By next year, the cable-car will go right up to it, right to the top.”

“How splendid. Have a nice day, won’t you.”

“Thank you, madam.”

I made my way back across the forecourt with the binoculars. Although at that time I did not understand English, I guessed at once that the foreign woman was American. She was tall, with red wavy hair and glasses which pointed up at the corners. She was addressing Sachiko in a loud voice, and I noted with surprise the ease with which Sachiko replied in English. The other woman was Japanese; she had noticeably plump features, and appeared to be around forty or so. Beside her was a tubby little boy of about eight or nine. I bowed to them as I arrived, wished them a pleasant day, then handed Mariko the binoculars.

“It’s just a toy,” I said. “But you might be able to see a few things.”

Mariko opened the wrapping and examined the binoculars with a serious expression. She looked through them, first around the forecourt, then up at the hill-slope.

“Say thank you, Mariko,” Sachiko said.

Mariko continued to look through the binoculars. Then she brought them away from her face and put the plastic strap over her head.

“Thank you, Etsuko-San,” she said, a little grudgingly.

The American woman pointed to the binoculars, said something in English and laughed. The binoculars had also attracted the attention of the tubby boy, who previously had been watching the hill-slope and the descending cable-car. He took a few steps towards Mariko, his eyes on the binoculars.

“That was very kind of you, Etsuko,” said Sachiko.

“Not at all. It’s just a toy.”

The cable-car arrived and we went through the turnstiles, on to the hollow wooden boards. The two women and the tubby boy, it seemed, were to be the only other passengers. The man with the cap came out of his hut and ushered us one by one into the car. The interior looked stark and metallic. There were large windows on all sides and benches ran along the two larger walls.

The car remained at the platform for several more minutes and the tubby boy began to walk around impatiently. Beside me, Mariko was looking out of the window, her knees up on the bench. From our side of the car, we could see the forecourt and the gathering of young spectators at the turnstiles. Mariko seemed to be testing the effectiveness of her binoculars, holding them to her eyes one moment, taking them away the next. Then the tubby boy came and knelt on the bench beside her. For a little while, the two children ignored each other. Finally, the boy said:

“I want to have a look now.” He held out his hand for the binoculars. Mariko looked at him coldly.

“Akira, don’t ask like that,” said his mother. “Ask the little lady nicely.”

The boy took his hand away and looked at Mariko. The little girl stared back. The boy turned and went to another window.

The children at the turnstiles waved as the car began to pull away. I instinctively reached for the metal bar running along the window, and the American woman made a nervous noise and laughed. The forecourt was growing smaller and then the hillside began to move beneath us; the cable-car swayed gently as we climbed higher; for a moment, the treetops seemed to brush against the windows, then suddenly a large dip opened beneath us and we were hanging in the sky. Sachiko laughed softly and pointed to something out of the window. Mariko continued to look through her binoculars.

The cable-car finished its climb and we filed out cautiously as if uncertain we had arrived on solid ground. The higher station had no concrete forecourt, and we stepped off the wooden boards into a small grass clearing. Other than the uniformed man who ushered us out, there were no other people in sight. At the back of the clearing, almost amidst the pine trees, stood several wooden picnic tables. The near edge of the clearing where we had disembarked was marked by a metal fence, which separated us from a cliff-edge. When we had regained our bearings a little, we wandered over to the fence and looked out over the falling mountainside. After a moment, the two women and the boy joined us.

“Quite breathtaking, isn’t it?” the Japanese woman said to me. “I’m just showing my friend all the interesting sights. She’s never been in Japan before.”

“I see. I hope she’s enjoying it here.”

“I hope so. Unfortunately, I don’t understand English so well. Your friend seems to speak it much better than I do.”

“Yes, she speaks it very well.”

We both glanced towards Sachiko. She and the American woman were again exchanging remarks in English.

“How nice to be so well educated,” the woman said to me. “Well, I hope you all have a nice day.”

We exchanged bows, then the woman made gestures to her American guest, suggesting they move off.

“Please may I look,” the tubby boy said, in an angry voice. Again, he was holding out his hand. Mariko stared at him, as she had done in the cable-car.

“I want to see it,” the boy said, more fiercely.

“Akira, remember to ask the little lady nicely.”

“Please! I want to see it.”

Mariko continued to look at him for a second, then took the plastic strap from around her neck and handed the boy the binoculars. The boy put them to his face and for some moments gazed over the fence.

“These aren’t any good,” he said finally, turning to his mother. “They aren’t nearly as good as mine. Mother, look, you can’t even see those trees over there properly. Take a look.”

He held the binoculars towards his mother. Mariko reached for them but the boy snatched them away and again offered them to the woman.

“Take a look, Mother. You can’t even see those trees, the near ones.”

“Akira, give them back to the little lady now.”

“They aren’t nearly as good as mine.”

“Now, Akira, that’s not a nice thing to say. You know everyone isn’t as lucky as you.”

Mariko reached for the binoculars and this time the boy let go.

“Say thank you to the little lady,” said his mother.

The boy said nothing and started to walk away. The mother laughed a little.

“Thank you very much,” she said to Mariko. “You were very kind.” Then she smiled in turn towards Sachiko and myself. “Splendid scenery, isn’t it?” she said. “I do hope you have a nice day.”

The path was covered with pine needles and rose up the side of the mountain in zig-zags. We walked at an easy pace, often stopping to rest. Mariko was quiet and — rather to my surprise — showed no signs of wishing to misbehave. She did however display a curious reluctance to walk alongside her mother and myself. One moment she would be lagging behind, causing us to cast anxious glances over our shoulders; the next moment, she would go running past us and walk on ahead.

We met the American woman for the second time an hour or so after we had disembarked from the cable-car. She and her companion were coming back down the path and, recognizing us, gave cheerful greetings. The tubby boy, coming behind them, ignored us. As she passed, the American woman said something to Sachiko in English, and when Sachiko replied, gave a loud laugh. She seemed to want to stop and talk, but the Japanese woman and her son did not break their step; the American woman waved and walked on.

When I complimented Sachiko on her command of English, she laughed and said nothing. The encounter, I noticed, had had a curious effect upon her. She became quiet, and walked on beside me as if lost in thought. Then, when Mariko had once more rushed on ahead, she said to me:

“My father was a highly respected man, Etsuko. Highly respected indeed. But his foreign connections almost resulted in my marriage proposal being withdrawn.” She smiled slightly and shook her head. “How odd, Etsuko. That all seems like another age now.”

“Yes,” I said. “Things have changed so much.”

The path bent sharply and began to climb again. The trees fell away and suddenly the sky seemed huge all around us. Up ahead, Mariko shouted something and pointed. Then she hurried on excitedly.

“I never saw a great deal of my father,” Sachiko said. “He was abroad much of the time, in Europe and America. When I was young, I used to dream I’d go to America one day, that I’d go there and become a film actress. My mother used to laugh at me. But my father told me if I learnt my English well enough, I could easily become a business girl. I used to enjoy learning English.”

Mariko had stopped at what looked like a plateau. She shouted something to us again.

“I remember once,” Sachiko went on, “my father brought a book back from America for me, an English version of A Christmas Carol. That became something of an ambition of mine, Etsuko. I wanted to learn English well enough to read that book. Unfortunately, I never had the chance. When I married, my husband forbade me to continue learning. In fact, he made me throw the book away.”

“That seems rather a pity,” I said.

“My husband was like that, Etsuko. Very strict and very patriotic. He was never the most considerate of men. But he came from a highly distinguished family and my parents considered it a good match. I didn’t protest when he forbade me to study English. After all, there seemed little point any more.”

We reached the spot where Mariko was standing; it was a square area of ground that jutted off the edge of the path, bound in by several large boulders. A thick tree trunk fallen on to its side had been converted into a bench, the top surface having been smoothed and flattened. Sachiko and I sat down to recover our breath.

“Don’t go too near the edge, Mariko,” Sachiko called. The little girl had walked out to the boulders and was looking at the view with her binoculars.

I had a rather precarious feeling, perched on the edge of that mountain looking out over such a view; a long way down below us, we could see the harbour looking like a dense piece of machinery left in the water. Across the harbour, on the opposite bank, rose the series of hills that led into Nagasaki. The land at the foot of the hills was busy with houses and buildings. Far over to our right, the harbour opened out on to the sea.

We sat there for a while, recovering our breath and enjoying the breeze. Then I said:

“You wouldn’t think anything had ever happened here, would you? Everything looks so full of life. But all that area down there” — I waved my hand at the view below us — “all that area was so badly hit when the bomb fell. But look at it now.”

Sachiko nodded, then turned to me with a smile. “How cheerful you are today, Etsuko,” she said.

“But it’s so good to come out here. Today I’ve decided I’m going to be optimistic. I’m determined to have a happy future. Mrs Fujiwara always tells me how important it is to keep looking forward. And she’s right. If people didn’t do that, then all this” — I pointed again at the view — “all this would still be rubble.”

Sachiko smiled again. “Yes, as you say, Etsuko. It would all be rubble.” For a few moments, she continued to gaze at the view below us. “Incidentally, Etsuko,” she said, after a while, “your friend, Mrs Fujiwara. I assume she lost her family in the war.”

I nodded. “She had five children. And her husband was an important man in Nagasaki. When the bomb fell, they all died except her eldest son. It must have been such a blow to her, but she just kept going.”

“Yes,” said Sachiko, nodding slowly, “I thought something of that nature had happened. And did she always have that noodle shop of hers?”

“No, of course not. Her husband was an important man. That was only afterwards, after she lost everything. Whenever I see her, I think to myself I have to be like her, I should keep looking forward. Because in many ways, she lost more than I did. After all, look at me now. I’m about to start a family of my own.”

“Yes, how right you are.” The wind had disturbed Sachiko’s carefully combed hair. She passed her hand through it, then took a deep breath, “How right you are Etsuko, we shouldn’t keep looking back to the past. The war destroyed many things for me, but I still have my daughter. As you say, we have to keep looking forward.”

“You know,” I said, “it’s only in the last few days I’ve really thought about what it’s going to be like. To have a child, I mean. I don’t feel nearly so afraid now. I’m going to look forward to it. I’m going to be optimistic from now on.”

“And so you should, Etsuko. After all, you have a lot to look forward to. In fact, you’ll discover soon enough, it’s being a mother that makes life truly worthwhile. What do I care if life is a little dull at my uncle’s house? All I want is what’s best for my daughter. We’ll get her the best private tuition and she’ll catch up on her schoolwork in no time. As you say, Etsuko, we must look forward to life.”

“I’m so glad you feel like that,” I said. “We should both of us be grateful really. We may have lost a lot in the war, but there’s still so much to look forward to.”

“Yes, Etsuko. There’s a lot to look forward to.”

Mariko came nearer and stood in front of us. Perhaps she had overheard some of our conversation, for she said to me:

“We’re going to live with Yasuko-San again. Did Mother tell you?”

“Yes,” I said, “she did. Are you looking forward to living there again, Mariko-San?”

“We might be able to keep the kittens now,” the little girl said. “There’s plenty of room at Yasuko-San’s house.”

“We’ll have to see about that, Mariko,” said Sachiko.

Mariko looked at her mother for a moment. Then she said: “But Yasuko-San likes cats. And anyway, Maru was Yasuko-San’s cat before we took her. So the kittens are hers too.”

“Yes, Mariko, but we’ll have to see. We’ll have to see what Yasuko-San’s father will say.”

The little girl regarded her mother with a sullen look, then turned to me once more. “We might be able to keep them,” she said, with a serious expression.

Towards the latter part of the afternoon, we found ourselves back at the clearing where we had first stepped off the cable-car. There still remained in our lunch-boxes some biscuits and chocolates, so we sat down for a snack at one of the picnic tables. At the other end of the clearing, a handful of people were gathered near the metal fence, awaiting the cable-car that would take them back down the mountain.

We had been sitting at the picnic table for several minutes when a voice made us look up. The American woman came striding across the clearing, a broad smile on her face. Without the least sign of bashfulness, she sat down at our table, smiled to us in turn, then began to address Sachiko in English. She was, I supposed, grateful for the chance to communicate other than by means of gestures. Looking around, I spotted the Japanese woman nearby, putting a jacket on her son. She appeared less enthusiastic for our company, but eventually she came towards our table with a smile. She sat down opposite me, and when her son sat beside her, I could see the extent to which mother and child shared the same plump features; most noticeably, their cheeks had a kind of fleshy sagginess to them, not unlike the cheeks of bulldogs. The American woman, all the while, continued to talk loudly to Sachiko.

At the arrival of the strangers, Mariko had opened her sketchbook and begun to draw. The plump-faced woman, after exchanging a few pleasantries with me, turned to the little girl.

“And have you enjoyed your day?” she asked Mariko. “It’s very pretty up here, isn’t it?”

Mariko continued to crayon her page, not looking up. The woman, however, did not seem in the least deterred.

“What are you drawing there?” she asked. “It looks very nice.”

This time, Mariko stopped drawing and looked at the woman coldly.

“That looks very nice. May we see?” The woman reached forward and took the sketchbook. “Aren’t these nice, Akira,” she said to her son. “Isn’t the little lady clever?”

The boy leaned across the table for a better view. He regarded the drawings with interest, but said nothing.

“They’re very nice indeed.” The woman was turning over the pages. “Did you do all these today?”

Mariko remained silent for a moment. Then she said: “The crayons are new. We bought them this morning. It’s harder to draw with new crayons.”

“I see. Yes, new crayons are harder, aren’t they? Akira here draws too, don’t you, Akira?”

“Drawing’s easy,” the boy said.

“Aren’t these nice little pictures, Akira?”

Mariko pointed to the open page. “I don’t like that one there. The crayons weren’t worn in enough. The one on the next page is better.”

“Oh yes. This one’s lovely!”

“I did it down at the harbour,” said Mariko. “But it was noisy and hot down there, so I hurried.”

“But it’s very good. Do you enjoy drawing?”

“Yes.”

Sachiko and the American woman had both turned towards the sketchbook. The American woman pointed at the drawing and uttered loudly several times the Japanese word for “delicious”.

“And what’s this?” the plump-faced woman continued. “A butterfly! It must have been very hard to draw it so well. It couldn’t have stayed still for very long.”

“I remembered it,” said Mariko. “I saw one earlier on.”

The woman nodded, then turned to Sachiko. “How clever your daughter is. I think it’s very commendable for a child to use her memory and imagination. So many children at this age are still copying out of books.”

“Yes,” said Sachiko. “I suppose so.”

I was rather surprised at the dismissiveness of her tone, for she had been talking to the American woman in her most gracious manner. The tubby boy leaned further across the table and put his finger to the page.

“Those ships are too big,” he said. “If that’s supposed to be a tree, then the ships would be much smaller.”

His mother considered this for a moment. “Well, perhaps,” she said. “But it’s a lovely little drawing all the same. Don’t you think so, Akira?”

“The ships are far too big,” said the boy.

The woman gave a laugh. “You must excuse Akira,” she said to Sachiko. “But you see, he has a quite distinguished tutor for his drawing, and so he’s obviously much more discerning about these things than most children his age. Does your daughter have a tutor for her drawing?”

“No, she doesn’t.” Again, Sachiko’s tone was unmistakably cold. The woman, however, appeared to notice nothing.

“It’s not a bad idea at all,” she went on. “My husband was against it at first. He thought it was quite enough for Akira to have home tuition for maths and science. But I think drawing is important too. A child should develop his imagination while he’s young. The teachers at school all agreed with me. But he gets on best with maths. I think maths is very important, don’t you?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Sachiko. “I’m sure it’s very useful.”

“Maths sharpens children’s minds. You’ll find most children good at maths are good at most other things. My husband and I were in no disagreement about getting a maths tutor. And it’s been well worth it. Last year, Akira always came third or fourth in his class, but this year he’s been top throughout.”

“Maths is easy,” the boy announced. Then he said to Mariko: “Do you know the nine times table?”

His mother laughed again. “I expect the little lady’s very clever too. Her drawing certainly shows promise.”

“Maths is easy,” the boy said again. “The nine times table is easy as anything.”

“Yes, Akira knows all his multiplication now. A lot of children his age only know it up to three or four. Akira, what’s nine times five?”

“Nine times five make forty-five!”

“And nine times nine?”

“Nine times nine make eighty-one!”

The American woman asked Sachiko something, and when Sachiko nodded she clapped her hands and once more repeated the word “delicious” several times.

“Your daughter seems a bright little lady,” the plump-faced woman said to Sachiko. “Does she enjoy school? Akira likes almost everything at school. Apart from maths and drawing, he gets on very well with geography. My friend here was very surprised to find Akira knew the names of all the large cities in America. Weren’t you, Suzie-San?” The woman turned to her friend and spoke several faltering words of English. The American woman did not appear to understand, but smiled approvingly towards the boy.

“But maths is Akira’s favourite subject. Isn’t it, Akira?”

“Maths is easy!”

“And what does the little lady enjoy most at school?” the woman asked, turning again to Mariko.

Mariko did not answer for a moment. Then she said: “I like maths too.”

“You like maths too. That’s splendid.”

“What’s nine times six then?” the boy asked her angrily.

“It’s so nice when children take an interest in their schoolwork, isn’t it?” said his mother.

“Go on, what’s nine times six?”

I asked: “What does Akira-San want to do when he grows up?”

“Akira, tell the lady what you’re going to become.”

“Head Director of Mitsubishi Corporation!”

“His father’s firm,” his mother explained. “Akira’s already very determined.”

“Yes, I see,” I said, smiling. “How wonderful.”

“Who does your father work for?” the boy asked Mariko.

“Now, Akira, don’t be too inquisitive, it’s not nice.” The woman turned to Sachiko again. “A lot of boys his age are still saying they want to be policemen or firemen. But Akira’s wanted to work for Mitsubishi since he was much younger.”

“Who does your father work for?” the boy asked again. This time his mother, instead of intervening, looked towards Mariko expectantly.

“He’s a zoo-keeper,” said Mariko.

For a brief moment, no one spoke. Curiously, the answer seemed to humble the boy, and he sat back on his bench with a sulky expression. Then his mother said a little uncertainly:

“What an interesting occupation. We’re very fond of animals. Is your husband’s zoo near here?”

Before Sachiko could reply, Mariko had clambered off the bench noisily. Without a word, she walked away from us, towards a cluster of trees nearby. We all watched her for a moment.

“Is she your eldest?” the woman asked Sachiko.

“I have no others.”

“Oh, I see. It’s no bad thing really. A child can become more independent that way. I think a child often works harder too. There’s six years’ difference between this one” — she put her hand on the boy’s head — “and the eldest one.”

The American woman produced a loud exclamation and clapped her hands. Mariko was progressing steadily up the branches of a tree. The plump-faced woman turned in her seat and looked up at Mariko worriedly.

“Your daughter’s quite a tomboy,” she said.

The American woman repeated the word “tomboy” gleefully, and clapped her hands again.

“Is it safe?” the plump-faced woman asked. “She might fall.”

Sachiko smiled, and her manner towards the woman seemed to grow suddenly warmer. “Are you not used to children climbing trees?” she asked.

The woman continued to watch anxiously. “Are you sure it’s safe? A branch may break.”

Sachiko gave a laugh. “I’m sure my daughter knows what she’s doing. Thank you all the same for your concern. It’s so kind of you.” She gave the woman an elegant bow. The American woman said something to Sachiko, and they began conversing again in English. The plump-faced woman turned away from the trees.

“Please don’t think me impertinent,” she said, putting a hand on my arm, “but I couldn’t help noticing. Will this be your first time?”

“Yes,” I said, with a laugh. “We’re expecting it in the autumn.”

“How splendid. And your husband, is he also a zoo-keeper?”

“Oh no. He works for an electronics firm.”

“Really?”

The woman began to give me advice concerning the care of babies. Meanwhile, I could see over her shoulder the boy wandering away from the table towards Mariko’s tree.

“And it’s an idea to let the child hear a lot of good music,” the woman was saying. “I’m sure that makes a lot of difference. A child should hear good music amongst his earliest sounds.”

“Yes, I’m very fond of music.”

The boy was standing at the foot of the tree, looking up at Mariko with a puzzled expression.

“Our older son doesn’t have as fine an ear for music as Akira,” the woman went on. “My husband says this is because he didn’t hear enough good music when he was a baby, and I tend to think he’s right. In those days, the radio was broadcasting so much military music. I’m sure it did no good at all.”

As the woman continued to talk, I could see the boy trying to find a foothold in the tree-trunk. Mariko had come lower and appeared to be advising him. Beside me, the American woman kept laughing loudly, occasionally uttering single words of Japanese. The boy finally managed to hoist himself off the ground; he had one foot pressed into a crevice and was holding on to a branch with both hands. Although only a few centimetres off the ground, he seemed in a state of high tension. It was hard to say if she did so deliberately, but as she lowered herself, the little girl trod firmly on the boy’s fingers. The boy gave a shriek, falling clumsily.

The mother turned in alarm. Sachiko and the American woman, neither of whom had seen the incident, also turned towards the fallen boy. He was lying on his side making a loud noise. His mother ran to him and kneeling beside him began to feel his legs. The boy continued his noises. Across the clearing, passengers waiting for the cable-car were all looking our way. After a minute or so, the boy came sobbing to the table, guided by his mother.

“Tree-climbing is so dangerous,” the woman said, angrily.

“He didn’t fall far,” I assured her. “He was hardly on the tree at all.”

“He might have broken a bone. I think children should be discouraged from climbing trees. It’s so silly.”

“She kicked me,” the boy sobbed. “She kicked me off the tree. She tried to kill me.”

“She kicked you? The little girl kicked you?”

I saw Sachiko cast a glance towards her daughter. Mariko was once more high up the tree.

“She tried to kill me.”

“The little girl kicked you?”

“Your son just slipped,” I interrupted quickly. “I saw it all. He hardly fell any distance.”

“She kicked me. She tried to kill me.”

The woman also turned and glanced towards the tree.

“He just slipped,” I said again.

“You shouldn’t be doing such silly things, Akira,” the woman said, angrily. “It’s very very dangerous to climb trees.”

“She tried to kill me.”

“You’re not to go up trees.”

The boy continued to sob.

In Japanese cities, much more so than in England, the restaurant owners, the teahouse proprietors, the shopkeepers all seem to will the darkness to fall; long before the daylight has faded, lanterns appear in the windows, lighted signs above doorways. Nagasaki was already full of the colours of night-time as we came back out into the street that evening; we had left Inasa in the late afternoon and had been eating supper on the restaurant floor of the Hamaya department store. Afterwards, reluctant to end the day, we found ourselves strolling through the sidestreets, in little hurry to reach the tram depot. In those days, I remember it had become the vogue for young couples to be seen in public holding hands — something Jiro and I had never done — and as we walked we saw many such couples seeking their evening’s entertainment. The sky, as often on those summer evenings, had become a pale purple colour.

Many of the stalls sold fish, and at that time of the evening, when the fishing boats were coming into the harbour, one would often see men pushing their way through the crowded sidestreets, carrying on their shoulders baskets heavy with freshly caught fish. It was in one such sidestreet, filled with litter and casually strolling people, that we came across the kujibiki stand. Since it was never my habit to indulge in kujibiki and since it has no equivalents here in England — except perhaps in fairgrounds — I might well have forgotten the existence of such a thing were it not for my memory of that particular evening.

We stood at the back of the crowd and watched. A woman was holding up a young boy of around two or three; up on the platform, a man with a handkerchief tied around his head was stooping forward with the bowl so the child could reach. The boy managed to pick out a ticket, but did not seem to know what to do with it. He held it in his hand and looked emptily at the amused faces all around him. The man with the handkerchief bent lower and made some remark to the child which caused the people round about to laugh. In the end, the mother lowered her child, took the ticket from him, and handed it to the man. The ticket won a lipstick, which the woman accepted with a laugh.

Mariko was standing on her tip-toes, trying to see the prizes displayed at the back of the stall. Suddenly she turned to Sachiko and said: “I want to buy a ticket.”

“It’s rather a waste of money, Mariko.”

“I want to buy a ticket.” There was a curious urgency in her manner. “I want to try the kujibiki.”

“Here you are, Mariko-San.” I offered her a coin.

She turned to me, a little surprised. Then she took the coin and pushed her way through to the front of the crowd.

A few more contestants tried their luck; a woman won a piece of candy, a middle-aged man won a rubber ball. Then came Mariko’s turn.

“Now, little princess,” — the man shook the bowl with deliberation — “close your eyes and think hard about that big bear over there.”

“I don’t want the bear,” said Mariko.

The man made a face and the people laughed. “You don’t want that big furry bear? Well, well, little princess, what is it you want then?”

Mariko pointed to the back of the stall. “That basket,” she said.

“The basket?” The man shrugged. “All right, princess, close your eyes tight and think about your basket. Ready?”

Mariko’s ticket won a flowerpot. She came back to where we were standing and handed me her prize.

“Don’t you want it?” I asked. “You won it.”

“I wanted the basket. The kittens need a basket of their own now.”

“Well, never mind.”

Mariko turned to her mother. “I want to try once more.”

Sachiko sighed. “It’s getting late now.”

“I want to try. Just once more.”

Again, she pushed her way to the platform. As we waited, Sachiko turned to me and said:

“It’s funny, but I had a quite different impression of her. Your friend, Mrs Fujiwara, I mean.”

“Oh?”

Sachiko leaned her head to see past the spectators. “No, Etsuko,” she said, “I’m afraid I never saw her in quite the way you do. Your friend struck me as a woman with nothing left in her life.”

“But that’s not true,” I said.

“Oh? And what does she have to look forward to, Etsuko? What does she have to live for?”

“She has her shop. It’s nothing grand, but it means a lot to her.”

“Her shop?”

“And she has her son. Her son has a very promising career.”

Sachiko was looking again towards the stall. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said, with a tired smile. “I suppose she has her son.”

This time Mariko won a pencil, and came back to us with a sullen expression. We started to go, but Mariko was still looking towards the Kujibiki stand.

“Come on,” Sachiko said. “Etsuko-San needs to be getting home now.”

“I want to try once more. Just once more.”

Sachiko sighed impatiently, then looked at me. I shrugged and gave a laugh.

“All right,” said Sachiko. “Try once more.”

Several more people won prizes. Once a young woman won a face-compact and the appropriateness of the prize provoked some applause. On seeing Mariko appear for the third time, the man with the handkerchief pulled another of his amusing faces.

“Well, little princess, back again! Still want the basket? Wouldn’t you prefer that big furry bear?”

Mariko said nothing, waiting for the man to offer her the bowl. When she had picked out a ticket, the man examined it closely, then glanced behind him to where the prizes were exhibited. He scrutinized the ticket once more, then finally gave a nod.

“You haven’t won the basket. But you have won — a major prize!”

There was laughter and applause all around. The man went to the back of the stall and returned with what looked like a large wooden box.

“For your mother to keep her vegetables in!” he announced — to the crowd rather than to Mariko — and for a brief moment held up the prize. Beside me, Sachiko burst into laughter and joined in the applause. A gangway formed to allow Mariko through with her prize.

Sachiko was still laughing as we came away from the crowd. She had laughed so much that small tears had appeared in her eyes; she wiped them away and looked at the box.

“What a strange-looking thing,” she said, passing it to me.

It was the size of an orange box and surprisingly light; the wood was smooth but unvarnished, and on one side were two sliding panels of wire gauze.

“It may come in useful,” I said, sliding open a panel.

“I won a major prize,” said Mariko.

“Yes, well done,” Sachiko said.

“I won a kimono once,” Mariko said to me. “In Tokyo, I won a kimono once.”

“Well, you’ve won again.”

“Etsuko, perhaps you could carry my bag. Then I could carry this object home.”

“I won a major prize,” said Mariko.

“Yes, you were very good,” said her mother, and laughed a little.

We walked away from the kujibiki stand. The street was littered with discarded newspapers and all manner of rubbish.

“The kittens could live in there, couldn’t they?” Mariko said. “We could put rugs inside it and that could be their house.”

Sachiko looked doubtfully at the box in her arms. “I’m not sure they’d like it so much.”

“That could be their house. Then when we go to Yasuko-San’s house, we could carry them in there.”

Sachiko smiled tiredly.

“We could, couldn’t we, Mother? We could carry the kittens in there.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Sachiko. “Yes, all right. We’ll carry the kittens in there.”

“So we can keep the kittens then?”

“Yes, we can keep the kittens. I’m sure Yasuko-San’s father won’t object.”

Mariko ran a little way ahead, then waited for us to catch up.

“So we won’t have to find homes for them any more?”

“No, not now. We’re going to Yasuko-San’s house, so we’ll keep the kittens after all.”

“We won’t have to find owners then. We can keep them all. We could take them in the box, couldn’t we, Mother?”

“Yes,” said Sachiko. Then she tossed back her head and once more began to laugh.

I often find myself recalling Mariko’s face the way I saw it that evening on the tram going home. She was staring out of the window, her forehead pressed against the glass; a boyish face, caught in the changing lights of the city rattling by outside. Mariko remained silent throughout that journey home, and Sachiko and I conversed little. Once, I remember, Sachiko asked:

“Will your husband be angry with you?”

“Quite possibly,” I said, with a smile. “But I did warn him yesterday I might be late.”

“It’s been an enjoyable day.”

“Yes. Jiro will just have to sit and get angry. I’ve enjoyed today very much.”

“We must do it again, Etsuko.”

“Yes, we must.”

“Remember, won’t you, to come and visit me after I move.”

“Yes, I’ll remember.”

We fell silent again after that. It was a little later, just as the tram slowed for a stop, I felt Sachiko give a sudden start. She was looking down the carriage, to where two or three people had gathered near the exit. A woman was standing there looking at Mariko. She was around thirty or so, with a thin face and tired expression. It was conceivable she was gazing at Mariko quite innocently, and but for Sachiko’s reaction I doubt if my suspicions would have been aroused. In the meantime, Mariko continued to look out of the window, quite unaware of the woman.

The woman noticed Sachiko looking at her and turned away. The tram came to a stop, the doors opened and the woman stepped out.

“Did you know that person?” I asked, quietly.

Sachiko laughed a little. “No. I just made a mistake.”

“You mistook her for someone else?”

“Just for a moment. There wasn’t even a resemblance really.” She laughed again, then glanced outside to check where we were.

Chapter Eight

In retrospect it seems quite clear why Ogata-San remained with us for as long as he did that summer. Knowing his son well enough, he must have recognized Jiro’s strategy over the matter concerning Shigeo Matsuda’s magazine article; my husband was simply waiting for Ogata-San to return home to Fukuoka so the whole affair could be forgotten. Meanwhile, he would continue to agree readily that such an attack on the family name should be dealt with both promptly and firmly, that the matter was his concern as much as his father’s, and that he would write to his old schoolfriend as soon as he had time. I can see now, with hindsight, how typical this was of the way Jiro faced any potentially awkward confrontation. Had he not, years later, faced another crisis in much the same manner, it may be that I would never have left Nagasaki. However, that is by the way.

I have recounted earlier some details of the evening my husband’s two drunken colleagues arrived to interrupt the chess game between Jiro and Ogata-San. That night, as I prepared for bed, I felt a strong urge to talk to Jiro about the whole business concerning Shigeo Matsuda; while I did not wish Jiro to write such a letter against his will, I was feeling more and more keenly that he should make his position clearer to his father. As it was, however, I refrained from mentioning the subject that night, just as I had done on previous occasions. For one thing, my husband would have considered it no business of mine to comment on such a matter. Furthermore, at that time of night, Jiro was invariably tired and any attempts to converse would only make him impatient. And in any case, it was never in the nature of our relationship to discuss such things openly.

Throughout the following day, Ogata-San remained in the apartment, often studying the chess game which — so he told me — had been interrupted at a crucial stage the previous night. Then that evening, an hour or so after we had finished supper, he brought out the chess-board again and began once more to study the pieces. Once, he looked up and said to my husband:

“So, Jiro. Tomorrow’s the big day then.”

Jiro looked up from his newspaper and gave a short laugh. “It’s nothing to make a fuss about,” he said.

“Nonsense. It’s a big day for you. Of couse, it’s imperative you do your best for the firm, but in my view this is a triumph in itself, whatever the outcome tomorrow. To be asked to represent the firm at this level, so early in your career, that can’t be usual, even these days.”

Jiro gave a shrug. “I suppose not. Of course, even if tomorrow goes exceptionally well, that’s no guarantee I’ll get the promotion. But I suppose the manager must be reasonably pleased with my efforts this year.”

“I should think he has great faith in you, by all accounts. And how do you think it will go tomorrow?”

“Smoothly enough, I should hope. At this stage all the parties involved need to co-operate. It’s more a case of laying the groundwork for the real negotiations in the autumn. It’s nothing so special.”

“Well, we’ll have to just wait and see how it goes. Now, Jiro, why don’t we finish off this game. We’ve been at it for three days.”

“Oh yes, the game. Of course, Father, you realize however successful I am tomorrow, that’s no guarantee I’ll be given the promotion.”

“Of course not, Jiro, I realize these things. I came up through a competitive career myself. I know only too well how it is. Sometimes others are chosen in preference who by all rights shouldn’t even be considered your equals. But you mustn’t let such things deter you. You persevere and triumph in the end. Now, how about finishing off this game.”

My husband glanced towards the chess-board, but showed no sign of moving nearer it. “You’d just about won, if I remember,” he said.

“Well, you’re in quite a difficult corner, but there’s a way out if you can find it. Do you remember, Jiro, when I first taught you this game, how I always warned you about using the castles too early? And you still make the same mistake. Do you see?”

“The castles, yes. As you say.”

“And incidentally, Jiro, I don’t think you’re thinking your moves out in advance, are you? Do you remember how much trouble I once took to make you plan at least three moves ahead. But I don’t think you’ve been doing that.”

“Three moves ahead? Well, no, I suppose I haven’t. I can’t claim to be an expert like yourself, Father. In any case, I think we can say you’ve won.”

“In fact, Jiro, it became painfully obvious very early in the game, that you weren’t thinking your moves out. How often have I told you? A good chess player needs to think ahead, three moves on at the very least.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“For instance, why did you move this horse here? Jiro, look, you’re not even looking. Can you even remember why you moved this here?”

Jiro glanced towards the board. “To be honest, I don’t remember,” he said. “There was probably a good enough reason at the time.”

“A good enough reason? What nonsense, Jiro. For the first few moves, you were planning ahead, I could see that. You actually had a strategy then. But as soon as I broke that down, you gave up, you began playing one move at a time. Don’t you remember what I always used to tell you? Chess is all about maintaining coherent strategies. It’s about not giving up when the enemy destroys one plan, but to immediately come up with the next. A game isn’t won and lost at the point when the king is finally cornered. The game’s sealed when a player gives up having any strategy at all. When his soldiers are all scattered, they have no common cause, and they move one piece at a time, that’s when you’ve lost.”

“Very well, Father, I admit it. I’ve lost. Now perhaps we can forget about it.”

Ogata-San glanced towards me, then back at Jiro. “Now what kind of talk is that? I studied this board quite hard today and I can see three separate means by which you can escape.”

My husband lowered his newspaper. “Forgive me if I’m mistaken,” he said, “but I believe you just said yourself, the player who cannot maintain a coherent strategy is inevitably the loser. Well, as you’ve pointed out so repeatedly, I’ve been thinking only one move at a time, so there seems little point in carrying on. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish reading this report.”

“Why, Jiro, this is sheer defeatism. The game’s far from lost, I’ve just told you. You should be planning your defence now, to survive and fight me again. Jiro, you always had a streak of defeatism in you, ever since you were young. I’d hoped I’d taken it out of you, but here it is again, after all this time.”

“Forgive me, but I fail to see what defeatism has to do with it. This is merely a game …”

“It may indeed be just a game. But a father gets to know his son well enough. A father can recognize these unwelcome traits when they arise. This is hardly a quality I’m proud of in you, Jiro. You gave up as soon as your first strategy collapsed. And now when you’re forced on to the defensive, you sulk and don’t want to play the game any more. Why, this is just the way you were at nine years old.”

“Father, this is all nonsense. I have better things to do than think about chess all day.”

Jiro had spoken quite loudly, and for a moment Ogata-San looked somewhat taken aback.

“It may be very well for you, Father,” my husband continued. “You have the whole day to dream up your strategies and ploys. Personally, I have better things to do with my time.”

With that, my husband returned to his paper. His father continued to stare at him, an astonished look on his face. Then finally, Ogata-San began to laugh.

“Come, Jiro,” he said, “we’re shouting at each other like a pair of fishermen’s wives.” He gave another laugh. “Like a pair of fishermen’s wives.”

Jiro did not look up.

“Come on, Jiro, let’s stop our argument. If you don’t want to finish the game, we don’t have to finish it.”

My husband still gave no sign of having heard.

Ogata-San laughed again. “All right, you win. We won’t play any more. But let me show you how you could have got out of this little corner here. There’s three things you could have done. The first one’s the most simple and there’s little I could have done about it. Look, Jiro, look here. Jiro, look, I’m showing you something.”

Jiro continued to ignore his father. He had all the appearance of someone solemnly absorbed in his reading. He turned over a page and carried on reading.

Ogata-San nodded to himself, laughing quietly. “Just like when he was a child,” he said. “When he doesn’t get his own way, he sulks and there’s nothing to be done with him.” He glanced towards where I was sitting and laughed rather oddly. Then he turned back to his son. “Jiro, look. Let me show you this at least. It’s simplicity itself.”

Quite suddenly, my husband flung down his newspaper and made a movement towards his father. Clearly, what he had intended was to knock the chess-board across the floor and all the pieces with it. But he moved clumsily and before he could strike the board, his foot had upset the teapot beside him. The pot rolled on to its side, the lid fell open with a rattle, and the tea ran swiftly across the surface of the tatami. Jiro, not sure what had occurred, turned and stared at the spilt tea. Then he turned back and glared at the chess-board. The sight of the chessmen, still upright on their squares, seemed to anger him all the more, and for a moment I thought he would make another attempt to upset them. As it was, he got to his feet, snatched up his newspaper, and left the room without a word.

I went over quickly to where the tea had spilt. Some of the liquid had begun to soak into the cushion Jiro had been sitting on. I moved the cushion and rubbed at it with the edge of my apron.

“Just like he used to be,” Ogata-San said. A faint smile had appeared around his eyes. “Children become adults but they don’t change much.”

I went out into the kitchen and found a cloth. When I returned, Ogata-San was sitting just as I had left him, the smile still hovering around his eyes. He was gazing at the puddle on the tatami and looked deep in thought. Indeed, he seemed so absorbed by the sight of the tea, I hesitated a little before kneeling down to wipe it away.

“You mustn’t let this upset you, Etsuko,” he said, eventually. “It’s nothing to upset yourself about.”

“No.” I continued to wipe the tatami.

“Well, I suppose we might as well turn in fairly soon. It’s good to turn in early once in a while.”

“Yes.”

“You mustn’t let this upset you, Etsuko. Jiro will have forgotten the whole thing by tomorrow, you’ll see. I remember these spells of his very well. In fact, it makes you quite nostalgic, witnessing a little scene like that. It reminds me so much of when he was small. Yes, it’s enough to make you quite nostalgic.”

I continued to wipe away the tea.

“Now, Etsuko,” he said. “This is nothing to upset yourself about.”

I exchanged no further words with my husband until the following morning. He ate his breakfast glancing occasionally at the morning newspaper I had placed beside his bowl. He spoke little and made no comment on the fact that his father had not yet emerged. For my part, I listened carefully for sounds from Ogata-San’s room, but could hear nothing.

“I hope it all goes well today,” I said, after we had sat in silence for some minutes.

My husband gave a shrug. “It’s nothing to make a fuss about,” he said. Then he looked up at me and said: “I wanted my black silk tie today, but you seem to have done something with it. I wish you wouldn’t meddle with my ties.”

“The black silk one? It’s hanging on the rail with your other ties.”

“It wasn’t there just now. I wish you’d stop meddling with them all the time.”

“The silk one should be there with the others,” I said. “I ironed it the day before yesterday, because I knew you’d be wanting it for today, but I made sure to put it back. Are you sure it wasn’t there?”

My husband sighed impatiently and looked down at the newspaper. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “This one will have to do.”

He continued to eat in silence. Meanwhile, there was still no sign of Ogata-San and eventually I rose to my feet and went to listen outside his door. When after several seconds I had not heard a sound, I was about to slide open the door a little way. But my husband turned and said:

“What are you up to? I haven’t got all morning, you know.” He pushed his teacup forward.

I seated myself again, put his used dishes away to one side, and poured him some tea. He sipped it rapidly, glancing over the front page of the newspaper.

“This is an important day for us,” I said. “I hope it goes well.”

“It’s nothing to make such a fuss about,” he said, not looking up.

However, before he left that morning, Jiro studied himself carefully in the mirror by the entryway, adjusting his tie and examining his jaw to check he had shaved efficiently. When he had left, I went over once more to Ogata-San’s door and listened. I still could hear nothing.

“Father?” I called softly.

“Ah, Etsuko,” I heard Ogata-San’s voice from within. “I might have known you wouldn’t let me lie in.”

Somewhat relieved, I went to the kitchen to prepare a fresh pot of tea, then laid the table ready for Ogata-San’s breakfast. When he eventually sat down to eat, he remarked casually:

“Jiro’s left already, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, he went a long time ago. I was just about to throw Father’s breakfast away. I thought he’d be far too lazy to get up much before noon.”

“Now, don’t be cruel, Etsuko. When you get to my age, you like to relax once in a while. Besides, this is like a vacation for me, staying here with you.”

“Well, I suppose just this once then, Father can be forgiven for being so lazy.”

“I won’t get the opportunity to lie in like this once I get back to Fukuoka,” he said, taking up his chopsticks. Then he sighed deeply. “I suppose it’s time I was getting back soon.”

“Getting back? But there’s no hurry, Father.”

“No, I really have to be getting back soon. There’s plenty of work to be getting on with.”

“Work? What work is that?”

“Well, for a start, I need to build new panels for the veranda. Then there’s the rockery. I haven’t even started on it yet. The stones were delivered months ago and they’ve just been sitting there in the garden waiting for me.” he gave a sigh and began to eat. “I certainly won’t get to lie in like this once I get back.”

“But there’s no need to go just yet, is there, Father? Your rockery can wait a little longer.”

“You’re very kind, Etsuko. But time’s pressing on now. You see, I’m expecting my daughter and her husband down again this autumn, and I’ll need to get all this work finished before they come. Last year and the year before, they came to see me in the autumn. So I rather suspect they’ll want to come again this year.”

“I see.”

“Yes, they’re bound to want to come again this autumn. It’s the most convenient time for Kikuko’s husband. And Kikuko’s always saying in her letters how curious she is to see my new house.”

Ogata-San nodded to himself, then carried on eating from his bowl. I watched him for a while.

“What a loyal daughter Kikuko-San is to you, Father,” I said. “It’s a long way to come, all that way from Osaka. She must miss you.”

“I suppose she feels the need to get away from her father-in-law once in a while. I can’t think why else she would want to come so far.”

“How unkind, Father. I’m sure she misses you. I’ll have to tell her what you’re saying.”

Ogata-San laughed. “But it’s true. Old Watanabe rules over them like a war-lord. Whenever they come down, they’re forever talking about how intolerable he’s getting. Personally I rather like the old man, but there’s no denying he’s an old war-lord. I expect they’d like some place like this, Etsuko, an apartment like this just to themselves. It’s no bad thing, young couples living away from the parents. More and more couples do it now. Young people don’t want overbearing old men ruling over them for ever.”

Ogata-San seemed to remember the food in his bowl and began to eat hurriedly. When he had finished, he got to his feet and went over to the window. For a moment he stood there, his back to me, looking at the view. Then he adjusted the window to let in more air, and took a deep breath.

“Are you pleased with your new house, Father?” I asked.

“My house? Why, yes. It’ll need a little more work here and there, as I say. But it’s much more compact. The Nagasaki house was far too large for just one old man.”

He continued to gaze out of the window; in the sharp morning light, all I could see of his head and shoulders was a hazy outline.

“But it was a nice house, the old house,” I said. “I still stop and look at it if I’m walking that way. In fact, I went past it last week on my way back from Mrs Fujiwara’s.”

I thought he had not heard me, for he continued to gaze silently out at the view. But a moment later, he said:

“And how did it look, the old house?”

“Oh, much the same. The new occupants must like it the way Father left it.”

He turned towards me slightly. “And what about the azaleas, Etsuko? Were the azaleas still in the gateway?” The brightness still prevented me from seeing his face clearly, but I supposed from his voice that he was smiling.

“Azaleas?”

“Well, I suppose there’s no reason why you should remember.” He turned back to the window and stretched out his arms. “I planted them in the gateway that day. The day it was all finally decided.”

“The day what was decided?”

“That you and Jiro were to be married. But I never told you about the azaleas, so I suppose it’s rather unreasonable of me to expect you to remember about them.”

“You planted some azaleas for me? Now that was a nice thought. But no, I don’t think you ever mentioned it.”

“But you see, Etsuko, you asked for them.” He had turned towards me again. “In fact, you positively ordered me to plant them in the gateway.”

“What? — I laughed — “I ordered you?”

“Yes, you ordered me. Like I was some hired gardener. Don’t you remember? Just when I thought it was all settled at last, and you were finally to become my daughter-in-law, you told me there was one thing more, you wouldn’t live in a house without azaleas in the gateway. And if I didn’t plant azaleas then the whole thing would be called off. So what could I do? I went straight out and planted azaleas.”

I laughed a little. “Now you mention it,” I said, “I remember something like that. But what nonsense, Father. I never forced you.”

“Oh yes, you did, Etsuko. You said you wouldn’t live in a house without azaleas in the gateway.” He came away from the window and sat down opposite me again. “Yes, Etsuko,” he said “just like a hired gardener.”

We both laughed and I began to pour out the tea.

“Azaleas were always my favourite flowers, you see,” I said.

“Yes. So you said.”

I finished pouring and we sat silently for a few moments, watching the steam rise from the teacups.

“And I had no idea then,” I said. “About Jiro’s plans, I mean.”

“No.”

I reached forward and placed a plate of small cakes by his teacup. Ogata-San regarded them with a smile. Eventually, he said:

“The azaleas came up beautifully. But by that time, of course, you’d moved away. Still, it’s no bad thing at all, young couples living on their own. Look at Kikuko and her husband. They’d love to have a little place of their own, but old Watanabe won’t even let them consider it. What an old war-lord he is.”

“Now I think of it,” I said, “there were azaleas in the gateway last week. The new occupants must agree with me. Azaleas are essential for a gateway.”

“I’m glad they’re still there.” Ogata-San took a sip from his teacup. Then he sighed and said with a laugh: “What an old war-lord that Watanabe is.”

Shortly after breakfast, Ogata-San suggested we should go and look around Nagasaki — “like the tourists do”, as he put it. I agreed at once and we took a tram into the city. As I recall, we spent some time at an art gallery, and then, a little before noon, we went to visit the peace memorial in the large public park not far from the centre of the city.

The park was commonly known as “Peace Park” — I never discovered whether this was the official name — and indeed, despite the sounds of children and birds, an atmosphere of solemnity hung over that large expanse of green. The usual adornments, such as shrubs and fountains, had been kept to a minimum, and the effect was a kind of austerity; the flat grass, a wide summer sky, and the memorial itself — a massive white statue in memory of those killed by the atomic bomb — presiding over its domain.

The statue resembled some muscular Greek god, seated with both arms outstretched. With his right hand, he pointed to the sky from where the bomb had fallen; with his other arm — stretched out to his left — the figure was supposedly holding back the forces of evil. His eyes were closed in prayer.

It was always my feeling that the statue had a rather cumbersome appearance, and I was never able to associate it with what had occurred that day the bomb had fallen, and those terrible days which followed. Seen from a distance, the figure looked almost comical, resembling a policeman conducting traffic. It remained for me nothing more than a statue, and while most people in Nagasaki seemed to appreciate it as some form of gesture, I suspect the general feeling was much like mine. And today, should I by chance recall that large white statue in Nagasaki, I find myself reminded primarily of my visit to Peace Park with Ogata-San that morning, and that business concerning his postcard.

“It doesn’t look quite so impressive in a picture,” I remember Ogata-San saying, holding up the postcard of the statue which he had just bought. We were standing some fifty yards or so from the monument. “I’ve been meaning to send a card for some time,” he continued. “I’ll be going back to Fukuoka any day now, but I suppose it’s still worth sending. Etsuko, do you have a pen? Perhaps I should send it straight away, otherwise I’m bound to forget.”

I found a pen in my handbag and we sat down on a bench nearby. I became curious when I noticed him staring at the blank side of the card, his pen poised but not writing. Once or twice, I saw him glance up towards the statue as if for inspiration. Finally I asked him:

“Are you sending it to a friend in Fukuoka?”

“Well, just an acquaintance.”

“Father’s looking very guilty,” I said. “I wonder who it can be he’s writing to.”

Ogata-San glanced up with a look of astonishment. Then he burst into loud laughter. “Guilty? Am I really?”

“Yes, very guilty. I wonder what Father gets up to when there’s no one to keep an eye on him.”

Ogata-San continued to laugh loudly. He was laughing so much I could feel the bench shake. He recovered a little and said: “Very well, Etsuko. You’ve caught me. You’ve caught me writing to my girl-friend — he used the English word. “Caught me red-handed.” He began laughing again.

“I always suspected Father led a glamorous life in Fukuoka.”

“Yes, Etsuko” — he was still laughing a little — “a very glamorous life.” Then he took a deep breath and looked down once more at his postcard. “You know, I really don’t know what to write. Perhaps I could just send it with nothing written. After all, I only wanted to show her what the memorial looks like. But then again, perhaps that’s rather too informal.”

“Well, I can’t advise you, Father, unless you reveal who this mysterious lady is.”

“The mysterious lady, Etsuko, runs a small restaurant in Fukuoka. It’s quite near my house so I usually go there for my evening meals. I talk to her sometimes, she’s pleasant enough, and I promised I’d send her a postcard of the peace memorial. I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.”

“I see, Father. But I’m still suspicious.”

“Quite a pleasant old woman, but she gets tiresome after a while. If I’m the only customer, she stands and talks all through the meal. Unfortunately there aren’t many other suitable places to eat nearby. You see, Etsuko, if you’d teach me to cook, as you promised, then I wouldn’t need to suffer the likes of her.”

“But it would be pointless,” I said, laughing. “Father would never get the hang of it.”

“Nonsense. You’re simply afraid I’ll surpass you. It’s most selfish of you, Etsuko. Now let me see” — he looked at his postcard once more — “What can I say to the old lady?”

“Do you remember Mrs Fujiwara?” I asked. “She runs a noodle shop now. Near Father’s old house.”

“Yes, so I hear. A great pity. Someone of her position running a noodle shop.”

“But she enjoys it. It gives her something to work for. She often asks after you.”

“A great pity,” he said again. “Her husband was a distinguished man. I had much respect for him. And now she’s running a noodle shop. Extraordinary.” He shook his head gravely. “I’d call in and pay my respects, but then I suppose she’d find that rather awkward. In her present circumstances, I mean.”

“Father, she’s not ashamed to be running a noodle shop. She’s proud of it. She says she always wanted to run a business, however humble. I expect she’d be delighted if you called on her.”

“Her shop is in Nakagawa, you say?”

“Yes. Quite near the old house.”

Ogata-San seemed to consider this for some time. Then he turned to me and said: “Right, then, Etsuko. Let’s go and pay her a visit.” He scribbled quickly on the postcard and gave me back the pen.

“You mean, go now, Father?” I was a little taken aback by his sudden decisiveness.

“Yes, why not?”

“Very well. I suppose she could give us lunch.”

“Yes, perhaps. But I’ve no wish to humiliate the good lady.”

“She’d be pleased to give us lunch.”

Ogata-San nodded and for a moment did not speak. Then he said with some deliberation: “As a matter of fact, Etsuko, I’d been thinking of visiting Nakagawa for some time now. I’d like to call in on a certain person there.”

“Oh?”

“I wonder if he’d be in at this time of day.”

“Who is it you wish to call on, Father?”

“Shigeo. Shigeo Matsuda. I’ve been intending to pay him a call for some time. Perhaps he takes his lunch at home, in which case I may just catch him. That would be preferable to disturbing him at his school.”

For a few minutes, Ogata-San gazed towards the statue, a slightly puzzled look on his face. I remained silent, watching the postcard he was rotating in his hands. Then suddenly he slapped his knees and stood up.

“Right, Etsuko,” he said, “let’s do that then. We’ll try Shigeo first, then we could call in on Mrs Fujiwara.”

It must have been around noon that we boarded the tram to take us to Nakagawa; the car was stiflingly crowded and the streets outside were filled with the lunchtime hordes. But as we came away from the city centre, the passengers became more sparse, and by the time the car reached its terminus at Nakagawa, there were only a handful of us left.

Stepping out of the tram, Ogata-San paused for a moment and stroked his chin. It was not easy to tell whether he was savouring the feeling of being back in the district, or whether he was simply trying to remember the way to Shigeo Matsuda’s house. We were standing in a concrete yard surrounded by several empty tram cars. Above our heads, a maze of black wires crossed the air. The sun was shining down with some force, causing the painted surfaces of the cars to gleam sharply.

“What heat,” Ogata-San remarked, wiping his forehead. Then he began to walk, leading the way towards a row of houses which began on the far side of the tram yard.

The district had not changed greatly over the years. As we walked, the narrow roads twisted, climbed and fell. Houses, many of them still familiar to me, stood wherever the hilly landscape would permit; some were perched precariously on slopes, others squeezed into unlikely corners. Blankets and laundry hung from many of the balconies. We walked on, past other houses more grand-looking, but we passed neither Ogata-San’s old house nor the house I had once lived in with my parents. In fact, the thought occurred to me that perhaps Ogata-San had chosen a route so as to deliberately avoid them.

I doubt if we walked for much more than ten or fifteen minutes in all, but the sun and the steep hills became very tiring. Eventually we stopped halfway up a steep path, and Ogata-San ushered me underneath the shelter of a leafy tree that hung over the pavement. Then he pointed across the road to a pleasant-looking old house with large sloping roof-tiles in the traditional manner.

“That’s Shigeo’s place,” he said. “I knew his father quite well. As far as I know, his mother still lives with him.” Then Ogata-San began to stroke his chin, just as he had done on first stepping off the tram. I said nothing and waited.

“Quite possibly he won’t be home,” said Ogata-San. “He’ll probably spend the lunch break in the staff room with his colleagues.”

I continued to wait silently. Ogata-San remained standing beside me, gazing at the house. Finally, he said:

“Etsuko, how far is it to Mrs Fujiwara’s from here? Have you any idea?”

“It’s just a few minutes’ walk.”

“Now I think of it, perhaps it may be best if you went on ahead, and I could meet you there. That may be the best thing.”

“Very well. If that’s what you wish.”

“In fact, this was all very inconsiderate of me.”

“I’m not an invalid, Father.”

He laughed quickly, then glanced again towards the house. “I think it might be best,” he said again. “You go on ahead.”

“Very well.”

“I don’t expect to be long. In fact” — he glanced once more towards the house — “in fact, why don’t you wait here until I pull the bell. If you see me go in, then you can go on to Mrs Fujiwara’s. This has all been very inconsiderate of me.”

“It’s perfectly all right, Father. Now listen carefully, or else you’ll never find the noodle shop. You remember where the doctor used to have his surgery?”

But Ogata-San was no longer listening. Across the road, the entrance gate had slid open, and a thin young man with spectacles had appeared. He was dressed in his shirt-sleeves and held a small briefcase under his arm. He squinted a little as he stepped further into the glare, then bent over the briefcase and began searching through it. Shigeo Matsuda looked thinner and more youthful than I remembered him from the few occasions I had met him in the past.

Chapter Nine

Shigeo Matsuda tied the buckle of his briefcase, then glancing about him with a distracted air came walking over to our side of the road. For a brief moment he glanced our way but, not recognizing us, went walking on.

Ogata-San watched him go by. Then when the young man had gone several yards down the road, he called out: “Ah, Shigeo!”

Shigeo Matsuda stopped and turned. Then he came towards us with a puzzled look.

“How are you, Shigeo?”

The young man peered through his spectacles, then burst into cheerful laughter.

“Why, Ogata-San! Now this is an unexpected surprise!” He bowed and held out his hand. “What a splendid surprise. Why Etsuko-San too! How are you? How nice to meet again.”

We exchanged bows, and he shook hands with us both. Then he said to Ogata-San:

“Were you by any chance about to visit me? This is bad luck, my lunch break’s almost over now.” He glanced at his watch. “But we could go back inside for a few minutes.”

“No, no,” said Ogata-San hurriedly. “Don’t let us interrupt your work. It just so happened we were passing this way, and I remembered you lived here. I was just pointing out your house to Etsuko.”

“Please, I can spare a few minutes. Let me offer you some tea at least. It’s a sweltering day out here.”

“No, no. You must get to work.”

For a moment the two men stood looking at each other.

“And how is everything, Shigeo?” Ogata-San asked. “How are things at the school?”

“Oh, much the same as ever. You know how it is. And you, Ogata-San, you’re enjoying your retirement, I hope? I had no idea you were in Nagasaki. Jiro and I seem to have lost touch these days.” Then he turned to me and said: “I’m always meaning to write, but I’m so forgetful.”

I smiled and made some polite comment. Then the two men looked at each other again.

“You’re looking splendidly well, Ogata-San,” Shigeo Matsuda said. “You find Fukuoka to your liking?”

“Yes, a fine city. My hometown, you know.”

“Really?”

There was another pause. Then Ogata-San said: “Please don’t let us keep you. If you have to hurry away, I quite understand.”

“No, no. I have a few minutes yet. A pity you weren’t passing a little earlier. Perhaps you’d care to call in before you leave Nagasaki.”

“Yes, I’ll try to. But there’s so many people to visit.”

“Yes, I can understand how it is.”

“And your mother, is she well?”

“Yes, she’s fine. Thank you.”

For a moment, they fell silent again.

“I’m glad everything’s going well,” Ogata-San said, eventually. “Yes, we were just passing this way and I was telling Etsuko-San you lived here. In fact, I was just remembering how you used to come and play with Jiro, when you were both little boys.”

Shigeo Matsuda laughed. “Time really flies by, doesn’t it?” he said.

“Yes. I was just saying as much to Etsuko. In fact, I was just about to tell her about a curious little thing. I happened to remember it, when I saw your house. A curious little thing.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes. I just happened to remember it when I saw your house, that’s all. You see, I was reading something the other day. An article in a journal. The New Education Digest, I think it was called.”

The young man said nothing for a moment, then he adjusted his position on the pavement and put down his briefcase.

“I see,” he said.

“I was rather surprised to read it. In fact, I was quite astonished.”

“Yes. I suppose you would be.”

“It was quite extraordinary, Shigeo. Quite extraordinary.”

Shigeo Matsuda took a deep breath and looked down at the ground. He nodded, but said nothing.

“I’d meant to come and speak to you for some days now,” Ogata-San continued. “But of course, the matter slipped my mind. Shigeo, tell me honestly, do you believe a word of what you wrote? Explain to me what made you write such things. Explain it to me, Shigeo, then I can go home to Fukuoka with my mind at rest. At the moment, I’m very puzzled.”

Shigeo Matsuda was prodding a pebble with the end of his shoe. Finally he sighed, looked up at Ogata-San and adjusted his spectacles.

“Many things have changed over the last few years,” he said.

“Well, of course they have. I can see that much. What kind of answer is that, Shigeo?”

“Ogata-San, let me explain.” He paused and looked down at the ground again. For a second or two, he scratched at his ear. “You see, you must understand. Many things have changed now. And things are changing still. We live in a different age from those days when … when you were an influential figure.”

“But, Shigeo, what has this to do with anything? Things may change, but why write such an article? Have I ever done something to offend you?”

“No, never. At least, not to me personally.”

“I should think not. Do you remember the day I introduced you to the principal at your school? That wasn’t so long ago, was it? Or was that perhaps a different era too?”

“Ogata-San” — Shigeo Matsuda had raised his voice, and an air of authority seemed to enter his manner — “Ogata-San, I only wish you’d called in an hour earlier. Then perhaps I’d have been able to explain at greater length. There isn’t time to talk the whole thing over now. But let me just say this much. Yes, I believed everything I wrote in that article and still do. In your day, children in Japan were taught terrible things. They were taught lies of the most damaging kind. Worst of all, they were taught not to see, not to question. And that’s why the country was plunged into the most evil disaster in her entire history.”

“We may have lost the war,” Ogata-San interrupted, “but that’s no reason to ape the ways of the enemy. We lost the war because we didn’t have enough guns and tanks, not because our people were cowardly, not because our society was shallow. You have no idea, Shigeo, how hard we worked, men like myself, men like Dr Endo, whom you also insulted in your article. We cared deeply for the country and worked hard to ensure the correct values were preserved and handed on.”

“I don’t doubt these things. I don’t doubt you were sincere and hard working. I’ve never questioned that for one moment. But it just so happens that your energies were spent in a misguided direction, an evil direction. You weren’t to know this, but I’m afraid it’s true. It’s all behind us now and we can only be thankful.”

“This is extraordinary, Shigeo. Can you really believe this? Who taught you to say such things?”

“Ogata-San, be honest with yourself. In your heart of hearts, you must know yourself what I’m saying is true. And to be fair, you shouldn’t be blamed for not realizing the true consequences of your actions. Very few men could see where it was all leading at the time, and those men were put in prison for saying what they thought. But they’re free now, and they’ll lead us to a new dawn.”

“A new dawn? What nonsense is this?”

“Now, I must be on my way. I’m sorry we couldn’t discuss this any longer.”

“What is this, Shigeo? How can you say these things? You obviously have no idea of the effort and devotion men like Dr Endo gave to their work. You were just a small boy then, how could you know how things were? How can you know what we gave and what we achieved?”

“As a matter of fact, I do happen to be familiar with certain aspects of your career. For instance, the sacking and imprisoning of the five teachers at Nishizaka. April of 1938, if I’m not mistaken. But those men are free now, and they’ll help us reach a new dawn. Now please excuse me.” He picked up his briefcase and bowed to us in turn. “My regards to Jiro,” he added, then turned and walked away.

Ogata-San watched the young man disappear down the hill. He continued to stand there for several more moments, not speaking. Then when he turned to me, there was a smile around his eyes.

“How confident young men are,” he said. “I suppose I was much the same once. Very sure of my opinions.”

“Father,” I said. “Perhaps we should go and see Mrs Fujiwara now. It’s time we ate lunch.”

“Why, of course, Etsuko. This is very inconsiderate of me, making you stand about in this heat. Yes, let’s go and see the good lady. I’ll be very pleased to see her again.”

We made our way down the hill, then crossed a wooden bridge over a narrow river. Below us, children were playing along the riverbank, some with fishing poles. Once, I said to Ogata-San:

“What nonsense he was speaking.”

“Who? You mean Shigeo?”

“What vile nonsense. I don’t think you should pay the slightest attention, Father.”

Ogata-San laughed, but made no reply.

As always at that hour, the shopping area of the district was busy with people. On entering the shaded forecourt of the noodle shop, I was pleased to see several of the tables occupied with customers. Mrs Fujiwara saw us and came across the forecourt.

“Why, Ogata-San,” she exclaimed, recognizing him immediately, “how splendid to see you again. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“A long time indeed.” Ogata-San returned the bow Mrs Fujiwara gave him. “Yes, a long time.”

I was struck by the warmth with which they greeted each other, for as far as I knew Ogata-San and Mrs Fujiwara had never known one another well. They exchanged what seemed an endless succession of bows, before Mrs Fujiwara went to fetch us something to eat.

She returned presently with two steaming bowls, apologizing that she had nothing better for us. Ogata-San bowed appreciatively and began to eat.

“I thought you’d have forgotten me long ago, Mrs Fujiwara,” he remarked with a smile. “Indeed, it’s been a long time.”

“It’s such a pleasure to meet again like this,” Mrs Fujiwara said, seating herself on the edge of my bench. “Etsuko tells me you reside in Fukuoka these days. I visited Fukuoka several times. A fine city, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed. Fukuoka is my hometown.”

“Fukuoka your hometown? But you lived and worked here for years, Ogata-San. Don’t we have any claim on you in Nagasaki?”

Ogata-San laughed and leaned his head to one side. “A man might work and make his contribution in one place, but at the end of it all” — he shrugged and smiled wistfully — “at the end of it all, he still wants to go back to the place where he grew up.”

Mrs Fujiwara nodded understandingly. Then she said: “I was just remembering, Ogata-San, the days when you were the headmaster at Suichi’s school. He used to be so frightened of you.”

Ogata-San laughed. “Yes, I remember your Suichi very well. A bright little boy. Very bright.”

“Do you really remember him still, Ogata-San?”

“Yes, of course, I remember Suichi. He used to work very hard. A good little boy.”

“Yes, he was a good little boy.”

Ogata-San pointed at his bowl with his chopsticks. “This is really marvellous,” he said.

“Nonsense. I’m sorry I have nothing better to give you.”

“No, really, it’s delicious.”

“Now let me see,” said Mrs Fujiwara. “There was a teacher in those days, she was very kind to Suichi. Now what was her name? Suzuki, I think it was, Miss Suzuki. Have you any idea what became of her, Ogata-San?”

“Miss Suzuki? Ah, yes, I recall her quite well. But I’m afraid I’ve no idea where she could be now.”

“She was very kind to Suichi. And there was that other teacher, Kuroda was his name. An excellent young man.”

“Kuroda …” Ogata-San nodded slowly. “Ah yes, Kuroda. I remember him. A splendid teacher.”

“Yes, a most impressive young man. My husband was very struck by him. Do you know what became of him?”

“Kuroda …” Ogata-San was still nodding to himself. A streak of sunlight had fallen across his face, lighting up the many wrinkles around his eyes. “Kuroda, now let me see. I ran into him once, quite by accident. That was at the start of the war. I suppose he went off to fight. I’ve never heard of him since. Yes, an excellent teacher. There are so many from those days I never hear of now.”

Someone called out to Mrs Fujiwara and we watched her go hurriedly across the forecourt to her customer’s table. She stood there bowing for several moments, then cleared some dishes from the table and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ogata-San watched her, then shook his head. “A great pity to see her like this,” he said, in a low voice. I said nothing and continued to eat. Then Ogata-San leaned across the table and asked: “Etsuko, what did you say was the name of her son? The one who’s still alive, I mean.”

“Kazuo,” I whispered.

He nodded, then returned to his bowl of noodles.

Mrs Fujiwara came back a few moments later. “Such a shame I don’t have something better to offer you,” she said.

“Nonsense,” said Ogata-San. “This is delicious. And how is Kazuo-San these days?”

“He’s fine. He’s in good health, and he enjoys his work.”

“Splendid. Etsuko was telling me he works for a motor car company.”

“Yes, he’s doing very well there. What’s more, he’s thinking of marrying again.”

“Really?”

“He said once he’d never marry again, but he’s starting to look ahead to things now. He has no one in mind as of yet, but at least he’s started to think ahead.”

“That sounds like good sense,” Ogata-San said. “Why, he’s still quite a young man, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is. He still has all his life ahead of him.”

“Of course he has. His whole life ahead of him. You must find him a nice young lady, Mrs Fujiwara.”

She laughed. “Don’t think I haven’t tried. But young women are so different these days. It amazes me, how things have changed so much so quickly.”

“Indeed, how right you are. Young women these days are all so headstrong. And forever talking about washing-machines and American dresses. Etsuko here’s no different.”

“Nonsense, Father.”

Mrs Fujiwara laughed again, then said: “I remember the first time I heard of a washing-machine, I couldn’t believe anyone would want such a thing. Spending all that money, when you had two good hands to work with. But I’m sure Etsuko wouldn’t agree with me.”

I was about to say something, but Ogata-San spoke first: “Let me tell you,” he said, “what I heard the other day. A man was telling me this, a colleague of Jiro’s, in fact. Apparently at the last elections, his wife wouldn’t agree with him about which party to vote for. He had to beat her, but she still didn’t give way. So in the end, they voted for separate parties. Can you imagine such a thing happening in the old days? Extraordinary.”

Mrs Fujiwara shook her head. “Things are so different now,” she said, and sighed. “But I hear from Etsuko, Jiro-San is getting on splendidly now. You must be proud of him, Ogata-San.”

“Yes, I suppose that boy’s getting on well enough. In fact, today he’ll be representing his firm at a most important meeting. It appears they’re thinking of promoting him again.”

“How marvellous.”

“It was only last year he was promoted. I suppose his superiors must have a high opinion of him.”

“How marvellous. You must be very proud of him.”

“He’s a determined worker, that one. He always was from an early age. I remember when he was a boy, and all the other fathers were busy telling their children to study harder, I was obliged to keep telling him to play more, it wasn’t good for him to work so hard.”

Mrs Fujiwara laughed and shook her head. “Yes, Kazuo’s a hard worker too,” she said. “He’s often reading through his paperwork right into the night. I tell him he shouldn’t work so hard, but he won’t listen.”

“No, they never listen. And I must admit, I was much the same. But when you believe in what you’re doing, you don’t feel like idling away the hours. My wife was always telling me to take it easy, but I never listened.”

“Yes, that’s just the way Kazuo is. But he’ll have to change his ways if he marries again.”

“Don’t depend on it,” Ogata-San said, with a laugh. Then he put his chopsticks neatly together across his bowl. “Why, that was a splendid meal.”

“Nonsense. I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you something better. Would you care for some more?”

“If you have more to spare me, I’d be delighted. These days, I have to make the best of such good cooking, you know.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs Fujiwara again, getting to her feet.

We had not been back long when Jiro came in from work, an hour or so earlier than usual. He greeted his father cheerfully — his show of temper the previous night apparently quite forgotten — before disappearing to take his bath. He returned a little later, dressed in a kimono, humming a song to himself. He seated himself on a cushion and began to towel his hair.

“Well, how did it go?” Ogata-San asked.

“What’s that? Oh, the meeting, you mean. It wasn’t so bad. Not so bad at all.”

I had been on the point of going into the kitchen, but paused at the doorway, waiting to hear what else Jiro had to say. His father, too, continued to look at him. For several moments, Jiro went on towelling his hair, looking at neither of us.

“In fact,” he said at last, “I suppose I did rather well. I persuaded their representatives to sign an agreement. Not exactly a contract, but to all purposes the same thing. My boss was quite surprised. It’s unusual for them to commit themselves like that. He told me to take the rest of the day off.”

“Why, that’s splendid news,” Ogata-San said, then gave a laugh. He glanced towards me, then back at his son. “That’s splendid news.”

“Congratulations,” I said, smiling at my husband. “I’m so glad.”

Jiro looked up, as if noticing me for the first time.

“Why are you standing there like that?” he asked. “I wouldn’t mind some tea, you know.” He put down his towel and began combing his hair.

That evening, in order to celebrate Jiro’s success, I prepared a more elaborate meal than usual. Neither during supper, nor during the rest of the evening, did Ogata-San mention anything of his encounter with Shigeo Matsuda that day. However, just as we began to eat, he said quite suddenly:

“Well, Jiro, I’ll be leaving you tomorrow.”

Jiro looked up. “You’re leaving? Oh, a pity. Well, I hope you enjoyed your visit.”

“Yes, I’ve had a good rest. In fact, I’ve been with you rather longer than I planned.”

“You’re welcome, Father,” said Jiro. “No need to rush, I assure you.”

“Thank you, but I must be getting back now. There’s a few things I have to be getting on with.”

“Please come and visit us again, whenever it’s convenient.”

“Father,” I said. “You must come and see the baby when it arrives.”

Ogata-San smiled. “Perhaps at New Year then,” he said. “But I won’t bother you much earlier than that, Etsuko. You’ll have enough on your hands without having to contend with me.”

“A pity you caught me at such a busy time,” my husband said. “Next time, perhaps, I won’t be so hard pressed and we’ll have more time to talk.”

“Now, don’t worry, Jiro. Nothing has pleased me more than to see how much you devote yourself to your work.”

“Now this deal’s finally gone through,” said Jiro, “I’ll have a little more time. A shame you have to go back just now. And I was thinking of taking a couple of days off too. Still, it can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“Father,” I said, interrupting, “if Jiro’s going to take a few days off, can’t you stay another week?”

My husband stopped eating, but did not look up.

“It’s tempting,” Ogata-San said, “but I really think it’s time I went back.”

Jiro began to eat once more. “A pity,” he said.

“Yes, I really must get the veranda finished before Kikuko and her husband come. They’re bound to want to come down in the autumn.”

Jiro did not reply, and we all ate in silence for a while. Then Ogata-San said:

“Besides, I can’t sit here thinking about chess all day.” He laughed, a little strangely.

Jiro nodded, but said nothing. Ogata-San laughed again, then for several moments we continued to eat in silence.

“Do you drink sake these days, Father?” Jiro asked eventually.

“Sake? I take a drop sometimes. Not often.”

“Since this is your last evening with us, perhaps we should take some sake.”

Ogata-San seemed to consider this for a moment. Finally, he said with a smile: “There’s no need to make a fuss about an old man like me. But I’ll join you in a cup to celebrate your splendid future.”

Jiro nodded to me. I went to the cupboard and brought out a bottle and two cups.

“I always thought you’d go far,” Ogata-San was saying. “You always showed promise.”

“Just because of what happened today, that’s no guarantee they’ll give me the promotion,” my husband said. “But I suppose my efforts today will have done no harm.”

“No, indeed,” said Ogata-San. “I doubt if you did yourself much harm today.”

They both watched in silence as I poured out the sake. Then Ogata-San laid down his chopsticks and raised his cup.

“Here’s to your future, Jiro,” he said.

My husband, some food still in his mouth, also raised his cup.

“And to yours, Father,” he said.

Memory, I realize, can be an unreliable thing; often it is heavily coloured by the circumstances in which one remembers, and no doubt this applies to certain of the recollections I have gathered here. For instance, I find it tempting to persuade myself it was a premonition I experienced that afternoon, that the unpleasant image which entered my thoughts that day was something altogether different — something much more intense and vivid — than the numerous day-dreams which drift through one’s imagination during such long and empty hours.

In all possibility, it was nothing so remarkable. The tragedy of the little girl found hanging from a tree — much more so than the earlier child murders — had made a shocked impression on the neighbourhood, and I could not have been alone that summer in being disturbed by such images.

It was the latter part of the afternoon, a day or two after our outing to Inasa, and I was occupying myself with some small chores around the apartment when I happened to glance out of the window. The wasteground outside must have hardened significantly since the first occasion I had watched that large American car, for now I saw it coming across the uneven surface without undue difficulty. It continued to come nearer, then bumped up on to the concrete beneath my window. The glare on the windscreen prevented me from seeing clearly, but I received a distinct impression the driver was not alone. The car moved around the apartment block and out of my vision.

It must have been just then that it happened, just as I was gazing towards the cottage in a somewhat confused state of mind. With no apparent provocation, that chilling image intruded into my thoughts, and I came away from the window with a troubled feeling. I returned to my housework, trying to put the picture out of my mind, but it was some minutes before I felt sufficiently rid of it to give consideration to the reappearance of the large white car.

It was an hour or so later I saw the figure walking across the wasteground towards the cottage. I shaded my eyes to see more clearly; it was a woman — a thin figure — and she walked with a slow deliberate step. The figure paused outside the cottage for some time, then disappeared behind the sloping roof. I continued to watch, but she did not re-emerge; to all appearances, the woman had gone inside.

For several moments, I remained at the window, unsure what to do. Then finally, I put on some sandals and left the apartment. Outside, the day was at its hottest, and the journey across those few dried acres seemed to take an eternity. Indeed, the walk to the cottage tired me so much that when I arrived I had almost forgotten my original purpose. It was with a kind of shock, then, that I heard voices from within the cottage. One of the voices was Mariko’s; the other I did not recognize. I stepped closer to the entrance, but could make out no words. For several moments I remained there, not sure what I should do. Then I slid open the entrance and called out. The voices stopped. I waited another moment, then stepped inside.

Chapter Ten

After the brightness of the day outside, the interior of the cottage seemed cool and dark. Here and there, the sun came in sharply through narrow gaps, lighting up small patches on the tatami. The odour of damp wood seemed as strong as ever.

It took a second or two for my eyes to adjust. There was an old woman sitting on the tatami, Mariko in front of her. In turning to face me, the old woman moved her head with caution as if in fear of hurting her neck. Her face was thin, and had a chalky paleness about it which at first quite unnerved me. She looked to be around seventy or so, though the frailness of her neck and shoulders could have derived from ill-health as much as from age. Her kimono was of a dark sombre colour, the kind normally worn in mourning. Her eyes were slightly hooded and watched me with no apparent emotion.

“How do you do,” she said, eventually.

I bowed slightly and returned some greeting. For a second or two, we looked at each other awkwardly.

“Are you a neighbour?” the old woman asked. She had a slow way of speaking her words.

“Yes,” I said. “A friend.”

She continued to look at me for a moment, then asked: “Have you any idea where the occupant has gone? She’s left the child here on her own.”

The little girl had shifted her position so that she was sitting alongside the stranger. At the old woman’s question, Mariko looked at me intently.

“No, I’ve no idea,” I said.

“It’s odd,” said the woman. “The child doesn’t seem to know either. I wonder where she could be. I cannot stay long.”

We gazed at each other for a few moments more.

“Have you come far?” I asked.

“Quite far. Please excuse my clothes. I’ve just been attending a funeral.”

“I see.” I bowed again.

“A sorrowful occasion,” the old woman said, nodding slowly to herself. “A former colleague of my father. My father is too ill to leave the house. He sent me to pay his respects. It was a sorrowful occasion.” She passed her gaze around the inside of the cottage, moving her head with the same carefulness. “You have no idea where she is?” she asked again.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“I cannot wait long. My father will be getting anxious.”

“Is there perhaps some message I could pass on?” I asked.

The old woman did not answer for a while. Then she said: “You could perhaps tell her I came here and was asking after her. I am a relative. My name is Yasuko Kawada.”

“Yasuko-San?” I did my best to conceal my surprise. “You’re Yasuko-San, Sachiko’s cousin?”

The old woman bowed, and as she did so her shoulders trembled slightly. “If you would tell her I was here and that I was asking after her. You have no idea where she could be?”

Again, I denied any knowledge. The woman began nodding to herself once more.

“Nagasaki is very different now,” she said. “This afternoon, I could hardly recognize it.”

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose it’s greatly changed. But do you not live in Nagasaki?”

“We’ve lived in Nagasaki now for many years. It’s greatly changed, as you say. New buildings have appeared, even new streets. It must have been in the spring, the last time I came out into the town. And even since then, new buildings have appeared. I’m certain they were not there in the spring. In fact, on that occasion too, I believe I was attending a funeral. Yes, it was Yamashita-San’s funeral. A funeral in the spring seems all the sadder somehow. You are a neighbour, you say? Then I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her face trembled and I saw she was smiling; her eyes had become very thin, and her mouth was curving downwards instead of up. I felt uncomfortable standing in the entryway, but did not feel free to step up to the tatami.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said. “Sachiko often mentions you.”

“She mentions me?” The woman seemed to consider this for a moment. “We were expecting her to come and live with us. With my father and myself. Perhaps she told you as much.”

“Yes, she did.”

“We were expecting her three weeks ago. But she has not yet come.”

“Three weeks ago? Well, I suppose there must have been some misunderstanding. I know she’s preparing to move any day.”

The old woman’s eyes passed around the cottage once more. “A pity she isn’t here,” she said. “But if you are her neighbour, then I’m very glad to have made your acquaintance.” She bowed to me again, then went on gazing at me. “Perhaps you will pass a message to her,” she said.

“Why, certainly.”

The woman remained silent for some time. Finally, she said: “We had a slight disagreement, she and I. Perhaps she even told you about it. Nothing more than a misunderstanding, that was all. I was very surprised to find she had packed and left the next day. I was very surprised indeed. I didn’t mean to offend her. My father says I am to blame.” She paused for a moment. “I didn’t mean to offend her,” she repeated.

It had never occurred to me before that Sachiko’s uncle and cousin would know nothing of the existence of her American friend. I bowed again, at a loss for a suitable reply.

“I’ve missed her since she left, I confess it,” the old woman continued. “I’ve missed Mariko-San also. I enjoyed their company and it was foolish of me to have lost my temper and said the things I did.” She paused again, turned her face towards Mariko, then back to me. “My father, in his own way, misses them also. He can hear, you see. He can hear how much quieter the house is. The other morning I found him awake and he said it reminded him of a tomb. Just like a tomb, he said. It would do my father much good to have them back again. Perhaps she will come back for his sake.”

“I’ll certainly convey your feelings to Sachiko-San,” I said.

“For her own sake too,” the old woman said. “After all, it isn’t good that a woman should be without a man to guide her. Only harm can come of such a situation. My father is ill, but his life is in no danger. She should come back now, for her own wellbeing if for nothing else.” The old woman began to untie a kerchief lying at her side. “In fact, I brought these with me,” she said. “Just some cardigans I knitted, nothing more. But it’s fine wool. I’d intended to offer them when she came back, but I brought them with me today. I first knitted one for Mariko, then I thought I may as well knit another for her mother.” She held up a cardigan, then looked towards the little girl. Her mouth curved downwards again as she smiled.

“They look splendid,” I said. “It must have taken you a long time.”

“It’s fine wool,” the woman said again. She wrapped the kerchief back around the cardigans, then tied it carefully. “Now I must return. My father will be anxious.”

She got to her feet and came down off the tatami. I assisted her in putting on her wooden sandals. Mariko had come to the edge of the tatami and the old woman lightly touched the top of the child’s head.

“Remember then, Mariko-San,” she said, “tell your mother what I told you. And you’re not to worry about your kittens. There’s plenty of room in the house for them all.”

“We’ll come soon,” Mariko said. “I’ll tell Mother.”

The woman smiled again. Then she turned to me and bowed. “I’m glad to have made your acquaintance. I cannot stay any longer. My father, you see, is unwell.”

“Oh, it’s you, Etsuko,” Sachiko said, when I returned to her cottage that evening. Then she laughed and said: “Don’t look so surprised. You didn’t expect me to stay here for ever, did you?”

Articles of clothing, blankets, numerous other items lay scattered over the tatami. I made some appropriate reply and sat down where I would not be in the way. On the floor beside me, I noticed two splendid-looking kimonos I had never seen Sachiko wear. I saw also — in the middle of the floor, packed into a cardboard box — her delicate teaset of pale white china.

Sachiko had opened wide the central partitions to allow the last of the daylight to come into the cottage; despite that, a dimness was fast setting in, and the sunset coming across the veranda barely reached the far corner where Mariko sat watching her mother quietly. Near her, two of the kittens were fighting playfully; the little girl was holding a third kitten in her arms.

“I expect Mariko told you,” I said to Sachiko. “There was a visitor for you earlier. Your cousin was here.”

“Yes. Mariko told me.” Sachiko continued to pack her trunk.

“You’re leaving in the morning?”

“Yes,” she said, with a touch of impatience. Then she gave a sigh and looked up at me. “Yes, Etsuko, we’re leaving in the morning.” She folded something away into a corner of her trunk.

“You have so much luggage,” I said, eventually. “How will you ever carry it all?”

For a little while, Sachiko did not answer. Then, continuing to pack, she said: “You know perfectly well, Etsuko. We’ll put it in the car.”

I remained silent. She took a deep breath, and glanced across the room to where I was sitting.

“Yes, we’re leaving Nagasaki, Etsuko. I assure you, I had every intention of coming to say goodbye once all the packing was finished. I wouldn’t have left without thanking you, you’ve been most kind. Incidentally, as regards the loan, it will be returned to you through the post. Please don’t worry about that.” She began to pack again.

“Where is it you’re going?” I asked.

“Kobe. Everything’s decided now, once and for all.”

“Kobe?”

“Yes, Etsuko, Kobe. Then after that, America. Frank has arranged everything. Aren’t you pleased for me?” She smiled quickly, then turned away again.

I went on watching her. Mariko, too, was watching her. The kitten in her arms was struggling to join its companions on the tatami, but the little girl continued to hold it firmly. Beside her, in the corner of the room, I saw the vegetable box she had won at the kujibiki stall; Mariko, it appeared, had converted the box into a house for her kittens.

“Incidentally, Etsuko, that pile over there” — Sachiko pointed — “those items I’ll just have to leave behind. I had no idea there was so much. Some of it is of decent enough quality. Please make use of it if you wish. I don’t mean any offence, of course. It’s merely that some of it is of good quality.”

“But what about your uncle?” I said. “And your cousin?”

“My uncle?” She gave a shrug. “It was kind of him to have invited me into his household. But I’m afraid I’ve made other plans now. You have no idea, Etsuko, how relieved I’ll be to leave this place. I trust I’ve seen the last of such squalor.” Then she looked across to me once more and laughed. “I can see exactly what you’re thinking. I can assure you, Etsuko, you’re quite wrong. He won’t let me down this time. He’ll be here with the car, first thing tomorrow morning. Aren’t you pleased for me?” Sachiko looked around at the luggage strewn over the floor and sighed. Then stepping over a pile of clothes, she knelt beside the box containing the teaset, and began filling it with rolls of wool.

“Have you decided yet?” Mariko said, suddenly.

“We can’t talk about it now, Mariko,” said her mother. “I’m busy now.”

“But you said I could keep them. Don’t you remember?”

Sachiko shook the cardboard box gently; the china still rattled. She looked around, found a piece of cloth and began tearing it into strips.

“You said I could keep them,” Mariko said again.

“Mariko, please consider the situation for a moment. How can we possibly take all those creatures with us?”

“But you said I could keep them.”

Sachiko sighed, and for a moment seemed to be considering something. She looked down at the teaset, the pieces of cloth held in her hands.

“You did, Mother,” Mariko said. “Don’t you remember? You said I could.”

Sachiko looked up at her daughter, then over towards the kittens. “Things are different now,” she said, tiredly. Then a wave of irritation crossed her face, and she flung down the pieces of cloth. “Mariko, how can you think so much of these creatures? How can we possibly take them with us? No, we’ll just have to leave them here.”

“But you said I could keep them.”

Sachiko glared at her daughter for a moment. “Can’t you think of anything else?” she said, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. “Aren’t you old enough yet to see there are other things besides these filthy little animals? You’ll just have to grow up a little. You simply can’t have these sentimental attachments for ever. These are just … just animals don’t you see? Don’t you understand that, child? Don’t you understand?”

Mariko stared back at her mother.

“If you like, Mariko-San,” I put in, “I could come and feed them from time to time. Then eventually they’ll find homes for themselves. There’s no need to worry.”

The little girl turned to me. “Mother said I could keep the kittens,” she said.

“Stop being so childish,” said Sachiko, sharply. “You’re being deliberately awkward, as you always are. What does it matter about the dirty little creatures?” She rose to her feet and went over to Mariko’s corner. The kittens on the tatami scurried back; Sachiko looked down at them, then took a deep breath. Quite calmly, she turned the vegetable box on to its side — so that the wire-grid panels were facing upwards — reached down and dropped the kittens one by one into the box. She then turned to her daughter; Mariko was still clutching the remaining kitten.

“Give me that,” said Sachiko.

Mariko continued to hold the kitten. Sachiko stepped forward and put out her hand. The little girl turned and looked at me.

“This is Atsu,” she said. “Do you want to see him, Etsuko-San? This is Atsu.”

“Give me that creature, Mariko,” Sachiko said. “Don’t you understand, it’s just an animal. Why can’t you understand that, Mariko? Are you really too young? It’s not your little baby, it’s just an animal, just like a rat or a snake. Now give it to me.”

Mariko stared up at her mother. Then slowly, she lowered the kitten and let it drop to the tatami in front of her. The kitten struggled as Sachiko lifted it off the ground. She dropped it into the vegetable box and slid shut the wire grid.

“Stay here,” she said to her daughter, and picked the box up in her arms. Then as she came past, she said to me: “It’s so stupid, these are just animals, what does it matter?”

Mariko rose to her feet and seemed about to follow her mother. Sachiko turned at the entryway and said: “Do as you’re told. Stay here.”

For a few moments, Mariko remained standing at the edge of the tatami, looking at the doorway where her mother had disappeared.

“Wait for your mother here, Mariko-San,” I said to her.

The little girl turned and looked at me. Then the next moment, she had gone.

For a minute or two, I did not move. Then eventually I got to my feet and put on my sandals. From the doorway, I could see Sachiko down by the water, the vegetable box beside her feet; she appeared not to have noticed her daughter standing several yards behind her, just at the point where the ground began to slope down steeply. I left the cottage and made my way to where Mariko was standing.

“Let’s go back to the house, Mariko-San,” I said, gently.

The little girl’s eyes remained on her mother, her face devoid of any expression. Down in front of us, Sachiko knelt cautiously on the bank, then moved the box a little nearer.

“Let’s go inside, Mariko,” I said again, but the little girl continued to ignore me. I left her and walked down the muddy slope to where Sachiko was kneeling. The sunset was coming through the trees on the opposite bank, and the reeds that grew along the water’s edge cast long shadows on the muddy ground around us. Sachiko had found some grass to kneel on, but that too was thick with mud.

“Can’t we let them loose?” I said, quietly. “You never know. Someone may want them.”

Sachiko was gazing down into the vegetable box through the wire gauze. She slid open a panel, brought out a kitten and shut the box again. She held the kitten in both hands, looked at it for a few seconds, then glanced up at me. “It’s just an animal, Etsuko,” she said. “That’s all it is.”

She put the kitten into the water and held it there. She remained like that for some moments, staring into the water, both hands beneath the surface. She was wearing a casual summer kimono, and the corners of each sleeve touched the water.

Then for the first time, without taking her hands from the water, Sachiko threw a glance over her shoulder towards her daughter. Instinctively, I followed her glance, and for one brief moment the two of us were both staring back up at Mariko. The little girl was standing at the top of the slope, watching with the same blank expression. On seeing her mother’s face turn to her, she moved her head very slightly; then she remained quite still, her hands behind her back.

Sachiko brought her hands out of the water and stared at the kitten she was still holding. She brought it closer to her face and the water ran down her wrists and arms.

“It’s still alive,” she said, tiredly. Then she turned to me and said: “Look at this water, Etsuko. It’s so dirty.” With an air of disgust, she dropped the soaked kitten back into the box and shut it. “How these things struggle,” she muttered, and held up her wrists to show me the scratch-marks. Somehow, Sachiko’s hair had also become wet; one drop, then another fell from a thin strand which hung down one side of her face.

Sachiko adjusted her position then pushed the vegetable box over the edge of the bank; the box rolled and landed in the water. To prevent it floating, Sachiko leaned forward and held it down. The water came almost halfway up the wire-grid. She continued to hold down the box, then finally pushed it with both hands. The box floated a little way into the river, bobbed and sank further. Sachiko got to her feet, and we both of us watched the box. It continued to float, then caught in the current and began moving more swiftly downstream.

Some movement caught my eye and made me turn. Mariko had run several yards down the river’s edge, to a spot where the bank jutted out into the water. She stood there watching the box float on, her face still expressionless. The box caught in some reeds, freed itself and continued its journey. Mariko began to run again. She ran on some distance along the bank, then stopped again to watch the box. By this time, only a small corner was visible above the surface.

“This water’s so dirty,” Sachiko said. She had been shaking the water off her hands. She squeezed in turn the sleeve-ends of her kimono, then brushed the mud from her knees. “Let’s go back inside, Etsuko. The insects here are becoming intolerable.”

“Shouldn’t we go and get Mariko? It will be dark soon.”

Sachiko turned and called her daughter’s name. Mariko was now fifty yards or so away, still looking at the water. She did not seem to hear and Sachiko gave a shrug. “She’ll come back in time,” she said. “Now, I must finish packing before the light goes completely.” She began to walk up the slope towards the cottage.

Sachiko lit the lantern and hung it from a low wooden beam. “Don’t worry yourself, Etsuko,” she said. “She’ll be back soon enough.” She made her way through the various items strewn over the tatami, and seated herself, as before, in front of the open partitions. Behind her, the sky had become pale and faded.

She began packing again. I sat down at the opposite side of the room and watched her.

“What are your plans now?” I asked. “What will you do once you arrive in Kobe?”

“Everything’s been arranged, Etsuko,” she said, without looking up. “There’s no need to worry. Frank has seen to everything.”

“But why Kobe?”

“He has friends there. At the American base. He’s been entrusted with a job on a cargo ship, and he’ll be in America in a very short time. Then he’ll send us the necessary amount of money, and we’ll go and join him. He’s seen to all the arrangements.”

“You mean, he’s leaving Japan without you?”

Sachiko laughed. “One needs to be patient, Etsuko. Once he arrives in America, he’ll be able to work and send money. It’s by far the most sensible solution. After all, it would be so much easier for him to find work once he’s back in America. I don’t mind waiting a little.”

“I see.”

“He’s seen to everything, Etsuko. He’s found a place for us to stay in Kobe, and he’s seen to it that we’ll get on a ship at almost half the usual cost.” She gave a sigh. “You have no idea how pleased I am to be leaving this place.”

Sachiko continued to pack. The pale light from outside fell on one side of her face, but her hands and sleeves were caught in the glow from the lantern. It was a strange effect.

“Do you expect to wait long in Kobe?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I’m prepared to be patient, Etsuko. One needs to be patient.”

I could not see in the dimness what it was she was folding; it seemed to be giving her some difficulty, for she opened and refolded it several times.

“In any case, Etsuko,” she went on, “why would he have gone to all this trouble if he wasn’t absolutely sincere? Why would he have gone to all this trouble on my behalf? Sometimes, Etsuko, you seem so doubting. You should be happy for me. Things are working out at last.”

“Yes, of course. I’m very happy for you.”

“But really, Etsuko, it would be unfair to start doubting him after he’s gone to all this trouble. It would be quite unfair.”

“Yes.”

“And Mariko would be happier there. America is a far better place for a young girl to grow up. Out there, she could do all kinds of things with her life. She could become a business girl. Or she could study painting at college and become an artist. All these things are much easier in America, Etsuko. Japan is no place for a girl. What can she look forward to here?”

I made no reply. Sachiko glanced up at me and gave a small laugh.

“Try and smile, Etsuko,” she said. “Things will turn out well in the end.”

“Yes, I’m sure they will.”

“Of course they will.”

“Yes.”

For another minute or so, Sachiko continued with her packing. Then her hands became still, and she gazed across the room towards me, her face caught in that strange mixture of light.

“I suppose you think I’m a fool,” she said, quietly. “Don’t you, Etsuko?”

I looked back at her, a little surprised.

“I realize we may never see America,” she said. “And even if we did, I know how difficult things will be. Did you think I never knew that?”

I gave no reply, and we went on staring at each other.

“But what of it?” said Sachiko. “What difference does it make? Why shouldn’t I go to Kobe? After all, Etsuko, what do I have to lose? There’s nothing for me at my uncle’s house. Just a few empty rooms, that’s all. I could sit there in a room and grow old. Other than that there’ll be nothing. Just empty rooms, that’s all. You know that yourself, Etsuko.”

“But Mariko,” I said. “What about Mariko?”

“Mariko? She’ll manage well enough. She’ll just have to.” Sachiko continued to gaze at me through the dimness, one side of her face in shadow. Then she said: “Do you think I imagine for one moment that I’m a good mother to her?”

I remained silent. Then suddenly, Sachiko laughed.

“Why are we talking like this?” she said, and her hands began to move busily once more. “Everything will turn out well, I assure you. I’ll write to you when I reach America. Perhaps, Etsuko, you’ll even come and visit us one day. You could bring your child with you.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Perhaps you’ll have several children by then.”

“Yes,” I said, laughing awkwardly. “You never know.”

Sachiko gave a sigh and lifted both hands into the air. “There’s so much to pack,” she murmured. “I’ll just have to leave some of it behind.”

I sat there for some moments, watching her.

“If you wish,” I said, eventually, “I could go and look for Mariko. It’s getting rather late.”

“You’ll only tire yourself, Etsuko. I’ll finish packing and if she still hasn’t come back we could go and look for her together.”

“It’s all right. I’ll see if I can find her. It’s nearly dark now.”

Sachiko glanced up, then shrugged. “Perhaps you’d best take the lantern with you,” she said. “It’s quite slippery along the bank.”

I rose to my feet and took the lantern down from the beam. The shadows moved across the cottage as I walked with it towards the doorway. As I was leaving, I glanced back towards Sachiko. I could see only her silhouette, seated before the open partitions, the sky behind her turned almost to night.

Insects followed my lantern as I made my way along the river. Occasionally, some creature would become trapped inside, and I would then have to stop and hold the lantern still until it had found its way out.

In time, the small wooden bridge appeared on the bank ahead of me. While crossing it, I stopped for a moment to gaze at the evening sky. As I recall, a strange sense of tranquillity came over me there on that bridge. I stood there for some minutes, leaning over the rail, listening to the sounds of the river below me. When finally I turned, I saw my own shadow, cast by the lantern, thrown across the wooden slats of the bridge.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, for the little girl was before me, sat crouched beneath the opposite rail. I came forward until I could see her more clearly under my lantern. She was looking at her palms and said nothing.

“What’s the matter with you?” I said. “Why are you sitting here like this?”

The insects were clustering around the lantern. I put it down in front of me, and the child’s face became more sharply illuminated. After a long silence, she said: “I don’t want to go away. I don’t want to go away tomorrow.”

I gave a sigh. “But you’ll like it. Everyone’s a little frightened of new things. You’ll like it over there.”

“I don’t want to go away. And I don’t like him. He’s like a pig.”

“You’re not to speak like that,” I said, angrily. We stared at each other for a moment, then she looked back down at her hands.

“You mustn’t speak like that,” I said, more calmly. “He’s very fond of you, and he’ll be just like a new father. Everything will turn out well, I promise.”

The child said nothing. I sighed again.

“In any case,” I went on, “if you don’t like it over there, we can always come back.”

This time she looked up at me questioningly.

“Yes, I promise,” I said. “If you don’t like it over there, we’ll come straight back. But we have to try it and see if we like it there. I’m sure we will.”

The little girl was watching me closely. “Why are you holding that?” she asked.

“This? It just caught around my sandal, that’s all.”

“Why are you holding it?”

“I told you. It caught around my foot. What’s wrong with you?” I gave a short laugh. “Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not going to hurt you.”

Without taking her eyes from me, she rose slowly to her feet.

“What’s wrong with you?” I repeated.

The child began to run, her footsteps drumming along the wooden boards. She stopped at the end of the bridge and stood watching me suspiciously. I smiled at her and picked up the lantern. The child began once more to run.

A half-moon had appeared above the water and for several quiet moments I remained on the bridge, gazing at it. Once, through the dimness, I thought I could see Mariko running along the riverbank in the direction of the cottage.

Chapter Eleven

At first, I was sure someone had walked past my bed and out of my room, closing the door quietly. Then I became more awake, and I realized how fanciful an idea this was.

I lay in bed listening for further noises. Quite obviously, I had heard Niki in the next room; she had complained throughout her stay of being unable to sleep well. Or possibly there had been no noises at all, I had awoken again during the early hours from habit.

The sound of birds came from outside, but my room was still in darkness. After several minutes I rose and found my dressing gown. When I opened my door, the light outside was very pale. I stepped further on to the landing and almost by instinct cast a glance down to the far end of the corridor, towards Keiko’s door.

Then, for a moment, I was sure I had heard a sound come from within Keiko’s room, a small clear sound amidst the singing of the birds outside. I stood still, listening, then began to walk towards the door. There came more noises, and I realized they were coming from the kitchen downstairs. I remained on the landing for a moment, then made my way down the staircase.

Niki was coming out of the kitchen and started on seeing me.

“Oh, Mother, you gave me a real fright.”

In the murky light of the hallway, I could see her thin figure in a pale dressing gown holding a cup in both her hands.

“I’m sorry, Niki. I thought perhaps you were a burglar.”

My daughter took a deep breath, but still seemed shaken. Then she said: “I couldn’t sleep very well. So I thought I might as well make some coffee.”

“What time is it now?”

“About five, I suppose.”

She went into the living room, leaving me standing at the foot of the stairs. I went to the kitchen to make myself coffee before going to join her. In the living room, Niki had opened the curtains and was sitting astride a hard-backed chair, looking emptily out into the garden. The grey light from the window fell on her face.

“Will it rain again, do you think?” I asked.

She shrugged and continued to look out of the window. I sat down near the fireplace and watched her. Then she sighed tiredly and said:

“I don’t seem to sleep very well. I keep having these bad dreams all the time.”

“That’s worrying, Niki. At your age you should have no problems sleeping.”

She said nothing and went on looking at the garden.

“What kind of bad dreams do you have?” I asked.

“Oh, just bad dreams.”

“Bad dreams about what, Niki?”

“Just bad dreams,” she said, suddenly irritated. “What does it matter what they’re about?”

We fell silent for a moment. Then Niki said without turning:

“I suppose Dad should have looked after her a bit more, shouldn’t he? He ignored her most of the time. It wasn’t fair really.”

I waited to see if she would say more. Then I said: “Well, it’s understandable enough. He wasn’t her real father, after all.”

“But it wasn’t fair really.”

Outside, I could see, it was nearly daylight. A lone bird was making its noises somewhere close by the window.

“Your father was rather idealistic at times,” I said. “In those days, you see, he really believed we could give her a happy life over here.”

Niki shrugged. I watched her for a little longer, then said: “But you see, Niki, I knew all along. I knew all along she wouldn’t be happy over here. But I decided to bring her just the same.”

My daughter seemed to consider this for a moment. “Don’t be silly,” she said, turning to me, “how could you have known? And you did everything you could for her. You’re the last person anyone could blame.”

I remained silent. Her face, devoid of any make-up, looked very young.

“Anyway,” she said, “sometimes you’ve got to take risks. You did exactly the right thing. You can’t just watch your life wasting away.”

I put down the coffee cup I had been holding and stared past her, out into the garden. There were no signs of rain and the sky seemed clearer than on previous mornings.

“It would have been so stupid,” Niki went on, “if you’d just accepted everything the way it was and just stayed where you were. At least you made an effort.”

“As you say. Now let’s not discuss it any further.”

“It’s so stupid the way people just waste away their lives.”

“Let’s not discuss it any further,” I said, more firmly. “There’s no point in going over all that now.”

My daughter turned away again. We sat without talking for a little while, then I rose to my feet and came closer to the window.

“It looks a much better morning today,” I said. “Perhaps the sun will come out. If it does, Niki, we could go for a walk. It would do us a lot of good.”

“I suppose so,” she mumbled.

When I left the living room, my daughter was still sitting astride her chair, her chin supported by a hand, gazing emptily out into the garden.

When the telephone rang, Niki and I were finishing breakfast in the kitchen. It had rung for her so frequently during the previous few days that it seemed natural she should be the one to go and answer it. By the time she returned, her coffee had grown cold.

“Your friends again?” I asked.

She nodded, then went over to switch on the kettle.

“Actually, Mother,” she said, “I’ll have to go back this afternoon. Is that all right?” She was standing with one hand on the handle of the kettle, the other on her hip.

“Of course it’s all right. It’s been very nice having you here, Niki.”

“I’ll come and see you again soon. But I’ve really got to be getting back now.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s very important you lead your own life now.”

Niki turned away and waited for her kettle. The windows above the sink unit had misted over a little, but outside the sun was shining. Niki poured herself coffee, then sat down at the table.

“Oh, by the way, Mother,” she said. “You know that friend I was telling you about, the one writing the poem about you?”

I smiled. “Oh yes. Your friend.”

“She wanted me to bring back a photo or something. Of Nagasaki. Have you got anything like that? An old postcard or something?”

“I should think I could find something for you. How absurd” — I gave a laugh — “Whatever can she be writing about me?”

“She’s a really good poet. She’s been through a lot, you see. That’s why I told her about you.”

“I’m sure she’ll write a marvellous poem, Niki.”

“Just an old postcard, anything like that. Just so she can see what everything was like.”

“Well, Niki, I’m not so sure. It has to show what everything was like, does it?”

“You know what I mean.”

I laughed again. “I’ll have a look for you later.”

Niki had been buttering a piece of toast, but now she began to scrape some butter off again. My daughter has been thin since childhood, and the idea that she was concerned at becoming fat amused me. I watched her for a moment.

“Still,” I said, eventually, “it’s a pity you’re leaving today. I was about to suggest we went to the cinema this evening.”

“The cinema? Why, what’s on?”

“I don’t know what kind of films they show these days. I was hoping you’d know more about it.”

“Actually, Mother, it’s ages since we went to a film together, isn’t it? Not since I was little.” Niki smiled, and for a moment her face became child-like. Then she put down her knife and gazed at her coffee cup. “I don’t go to see films much either,” she said. “There’s always loads on in London, but we don’t go much.”

“Well, if you prefer, there’s always the theatre. The bus takes you right up to the theatre now. I don’t know what they have on at the moment, but we could find out. Is that the local paper there, just behind you?”

“Well, Mother, don’t bother. There’s not much point.”

“I think they do quite good plays sometimes. Some quite modern ones. It’ll say in the paper.”

“There’s not much point, Mother. I’ll have to go back today anyhow. I’d like to stay, but I’ve really got to get back.”

“Of course, Niki. There’s no need to apologize.” I smiled at her across the table. “As a matter of fact, it’s a great comfort to me you have good friends you enjoy being with. You’re always welcome to bring any of them here.”

“Yes, Mother, thank you.”

The spare bedroom Niki had been using was small and stark; the sun was streaming into it that morning.

“Will this do for your friend?” I asked, from the doorway.

Niki was packing her suitcase on the bed and glanced up briefly at the calendar I had found. “That’s fine,” she said.

I stepped further into the room. From the window, I could see the orchard below and the neat rows of thin young trees. The calendar I was holding had originally offered a photograph for each month, but all but the last had been torn away. For a moment, I regarded the remaining picture.

“Don’t give me anything important,” Niki said. “If there isn’t anything, it doesn’t matter.”

I laughed and laid the picture down on the bed alongside her other things. “It’s just an old calendar, that’s all. I’ve no idea why I’ve kept it.”

Niki pushed some hair back behind her ear, then continued packing.

“I suppose,” I said, eventually, “you plan to go on living in London for the time being.”

She gave a shrug. “Well, I’m quite happy there.”

“You must send my best wishes to all your friends.”

“All right, I will.”

“And to David. That was his name, wasn’t it?”

She gave another shrug, but said nothing. She had brought with her three separate pairs of boots and now she was struggling to find a way of putting them in her case.

“I suppose, Niki, you don’t have any plans yet to be getting married?”

“What do I want to get married for?”

“I was just asking.”

“Why should I get married? What’s the point of that?”

“You plan to just go on — living in London, do you?”

“Well, why should I get married? That’s so stupid, Mother.” She rolled up the calendar and packed it away. “So many women just get brainwashed. They think all there is to life is getting married and having a load of kids.”

I continued to watch her. Then I said: “But in the end, Niki, there isn’t very much else.”

“God, Mother, there’s plenty of things I could do. I don’t want to just get stuck away somewhere with a husband and a load of screaming kids. Why are you going on about it suddenly anyway?” The lid of her suitcase would not shut. She pushed down at it impatiently.

“I was only wondering what your plans were, Niki,” I said, with a laugh. “There’s no need to get so cross. Of course, you must do what you choose.”

She opened the lid again and adjusted some of the contents.

“Now, Niki, there’s no need to get so cross.”

This time, she managed to close the lid. “God knows why I brought so much,” she muttered to herself.

“What do you say to people, Mother?” Niki asked. “What do you say when they ask where I am?”

My daughter had decided she need not leave until after lunch and we had come out walking through the orchard behind the house. The sun was still out, but the air was chilly. I gave her a puzzled look.

“I just tell them you’re living in London, Niki. Isn’t that the truth?”

“I suppose so. But don’t they ask what I’m doing? Like that old Mrs Waters the other day?”

“Yes, sometimes they ask. I tell them you’re living with your friends. Really, Niki, I had no idea you were so concerned about what people thought of you.”

“I’m not.”

We continued to walk slowly. In many places, the ground had become marshy.

“I suppose you don’t like it very much, do you, Mother?”

“Like what, Niki?”

“The way things are with me. You don’t like me living away. With David and all that.”

We had come to the end of the orchard. Niki stepped out on to a small winding lane and crossed to the other side, towards the wooden gates of a field. I followed her. The grass field was large and rose gradually as it spread away from us. At its crest, we could see two thin sycamore trees against the sky.

“I’m not ashamed of you, Niki,” I said. “You must live as you think best.”

My daughter was gazing at the field. “They used to have horses here, didn’t they?” she said, putting her arms up on to the gate. I looked, but there were no horses to be seen.

“You know, it’s strange,” I said. “I remember when I first married, there was a lot of argument because my husband didn’t want to live with his father. You see, in those days that was still quite expected in Japan. There was a lot of argument about that.”

“I bet you were relieved,” Niki said, not taking her eyes from the field.

“Relieved? About what?”

“About not having to live with his father.”

“On the contrary, Niki. I would have been happy if he’d lived with us. Besides, he was a widower. It’s not a bad thing at all, the old Japanese way.”

“Obviously, you’d say that now. I bet that’s not what you thought at the time though.”

“But Niki, you really don’t understand. I was very fond of my father-in-law.” I looked at her for a moment, then finally gave a laugh. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I was relieved he didn’t come to live with us. I don’t remember now.” I reached forward and touched the top of the wooden gate. A little moisture came away on my fingers. I realized Niki was watching me and I held up my hand to show her. “There’s still some frost,” I said.

“Do you still think about Japan a lot, Mother?”

“I suppose so.” I turned back to the field. “I have a few memories.”

Two ponies had appeared near the sycamore trees. For a moment they stood quite still, in the sunshine, side by side.

“That calendar I gave you this morning,” I said. “That’s a view of the harbour in Nagasaki. This morning I was remembering the time we went there once, on a day-trip. Those hills over the harbour are very beautiful.”

The ponies moved slowly behind the trees.

“What was so special about it?” said Niki.

“Special?”

“About the day you spent at the harbour.”

“Oh, there was nothing special about it. I was just remembering it, that’s all. Keiko was happy that day. We rode on the cable-cars.” I gave a laugh and turned to Niki. “No, there was nothing special about it. It’s just a happy memory, that’s all.”

My daughter gave a sigh. “Everything’s so quiet out here,” she said. “I don’t remember things being this quiet.”

“Yes, it must seem quiet after London.”

“I suppose it gets a bit boring sometimes, out here on your own.”

“But I enjoy the quiet, Niki. I always think it’s so truly like England out here.”

I turned away from the field, and for a moment looked back towards the orchard behind us.

“All those trees weren’t here when we first came,” I said, eventually. “It was all fields, and you could see the house from here. When your father first brought me down here, Niki, I remember thinking how so truly like England everything looked. All these fields, and the house too. It was just the way I always imagined England would be and I was so pleased.”

Niki took a deep breath and moved away from the gate. “We’d better be getting back,” she said. “I’ll have to be going fairly soon.”

As we walked back through the orchard, the sky seemed to cloud over.

“I was just thinking the other day,” I said, “perhaps I should sell the house now.”

“Sell it?”

“Yes. Move somewhere smaller perhaps. It’s just an idea.”

“You want to sell the house?” My daughter gave me a concerned look. “But it’s a really nice house.”

“But it’s so large now.”

“But it’s a really nice house, Mother. It’d be a shame.”

“I suppose so. It was just an idea, Niki, that’s all.”

I would like to have seen her to the railway station — it is only a few minutes’ walk — but the idea seemed to embarrass her. She left shortly after lunch with an oddly self-conscious air, as if she were leaving without my approval. The afternoon had turned grey and windy, and I stood in the doorway as she walked down to the end of the drive. She was dressed in the same tight-fitting clothes she had arrived in, and her suitcase made her drag her step a little. When she reached the gate, Niki glanced back and seemed surprised to find me still standing at the door. I smiled and waved to her.