The Pure Land (25 page)

Annie.

He no sooner thought of her than he turned and she was there. They were here and this was happening, again; recurrence, a scene in a play, a dream in a dream. She too was amazed, but not completely surprised, had half expected it; he could see it in the way she looked, one hand reaching up to her throat.

Without thinking, he stepped forward, held her, kissed her hard on the mouth, felt her give, respond; then she disengaged, stepped back, coming to her senses as the boy ran towards her from the other side of the bridge.

‘Jamie!’ she cried out, too loud, flustered and fussing over him. ‘You remember Mister Glover.’

‘Tom!’ the boy shouted, bold, then he hid behind her, shy again, peeked out.

‘Hello again, Jamie!’ said Glover.

‘He’s quite taken with you, Tom.’

‘As I am with him.’

He took a gold coin from his pocket, flipped it spinning in the air, caught it, slapped it face down on the back of his hand. Keeping it covered, he bent down to Jamie. ‘Heads or tails?’

The boy looked at his mother, who shrugged. He had to choose.

‘Heads!’ he said. ‘No, tails!’

‘Sure?’ said Glover.

The boy nodded, changed his mind again. ‘Heads!’

Glover made a great show of raising his hand, squinting underneath at the coin, not letting the boy see.

‘Heads it is!’ he said, and gave the coin to the boy, who laughed, pocketed it.

And suddenly there was something in the boy’s eyes that made him think the unthinkable.

‘He’s a fine boy,’ he said.

‘He’s a rascal,’ she said.

‘Not like his father then?’

‘Or too like him.’

She realised what she had said, bit her lip.

‘How old would he be then?’

‘Old enough.’

‘I’m guessing he’d be about six.’

‘You know he is.’ She looked at him, her eyes fiercely calm. ‘Don’t do this, Tom.’

The silence hung between them, the river flowing beneath the bridge, the cry of an oystercatcher, piercing.

‘Andy always did carry a torch for you,’ he said, breaking it at last.

‘You’ve made a life for yourself, Tom. Now, leave us to get on with ours.’

She took Jamie by the hand, led him over the bridge. The boy looked back once, startled, called out a shrill goodbye.

He walked into town after that, two miles, not noticing, not aware of his surroundings. The certainty burned in him. He had a son. All these years he hadn’t known. Now there was nothing he could do, without causing damage, destruction.

He walked on, found himself before he knew it down by the docks, in the dark backstreets, searching for comfort, oblivion.

The carriageway of the slipdock was over 200 yards long. Constructing it was a major feat of engineering; transporting it to Japan would be a feat verging on the miraculous. Glover had explained to Russell, the yard owner, that the site for the dock, at Kosuge, was already being excavated. The Satsuma clan which owned the land had already invested $10,000. They were building more than a dock, they were constructing a new, industrial Japan. They had to succeed.

Russell’s solution was both simple and complex. They would build the dock in the yard, then dismantle it, transport it in sections to be reassembled on site, in Nagasaki.

‘It’s mad!’ said Glover. ‘It’s magnificent!’

Russell was showing him round the yard, at Footdee. The building of the dock was well under way, and work had begun on a ship to transport the separate sections out to Nagasaki. The ship was a five-masted clipper to be named the
Helen Black
, its hold specially reinforced to take the sections of dock and its accompanying machinery, transport it halfway round the world. The whole project was a massive undertaking, provided work for squads of
skilled tradesmen, gangs of navvies and stevedores. The air rang with the constant noise of construction, from first light till dusk.

Russell himself had pioneered the yard’s production of boilers and steam engines. Now it was paying off. And Glover was holding out the prospect of even more work. The Choshu wanted a warship, this was the place to build it.

‘They’re serious,’ said Glover. ‘They have the money and they’ve already paid me a commission to get the job done. Until now they’ve made do with worn-out hulks they’ve bought from the Americans and the Dutch, sometimes reconditioned merchant ships with a few light cannon. They’ve had a few disasters, trying to use cannon that were too big and wrecked the ships with their recoil!’

Russell laughed. His eyes twinkled at the implications, but his enthusiasm was tempered by genuine concern.

‘These friends of yours, Tom – the Choshu is it?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are they not the rebels you were talking about?’

‘They are that. They’re changing the face of Japan, for good.’

‘Be that as it may, I have no wish to incur the wrath of the Admiralty for breaking British neutrality, effectively arming one side in another country’s civil war.’

‘But you’d be arming the right side!’ said Glover. ‘Mark my words, the so-called rebels will be running the country before long. Then they’ll be building a navy, commissioning an entire fleet.’

Russell took in the enormity of the idea. ‘I’m inclined to trust your judgement,’ he said.

‘I have the specifications,’ said Glover. ‘They’ve even named the ship, in anticipation.
Ho Sho Maru
. And they’re quite clear about what they want. An iron-plated corvette, three-masted, operable by sail
or
steam; four guns on deck – two 110-pounders and two 60-pounders.’

Russell’s excitement showed in his eyes. ‘It’s the way we’ve
been going with the yard,’ he said, ‘from wood and canvas to iron and steam.’

‘It’s the way forward,’ said Glover. ‘Who better to build this ship, and all the rest to follow?’

‘I think we can do business,’ said Russell, and they shook hands on it, the grip Masonic, reassuring.

The boy Nagasawa had struggled. The language had made things difficult, not just English but peppered with the local speak, the doric, that had its own strange music, hard for him to pick up. They said
fan
for
when. Fit like?
was
How are you?
He worked at it, listened. Then there was the place itself and its weather, the grey rain, the damp haar, the cutting north-east winds off the sea. He wore warm clothes, clenched against the cold, survived a winter. He was samurai. He was strong. He would thole it. That was the word they used.
Thole
. Endure.

The hardest thing was being so far, so very far from home, from his family. He dreamed sometimes of Kagoshima, woke thinking himself back there and everything as it was, expected to look out his window at Mount Sakurajima with its plume of white smoke. He could almost smell it, the faint hint of ash in the warm air. There were times too when he dreamed of the bombardment, saw buildings flattened, whole neighbourhoods razed. Then the smell was destruction, cordite and burning and churned earth.

At school they made allowances for his English. The dominie said once, ‘You speak as well as some of these gormless loons.’ He hadn’t understood, till someone explained.

He had always been good at mathematics, and that hadn’t changed. The language of that was universal. He excelled, and some of the gormless loons hated him for it. They were the ones who baited him, yelled insults. He ignored them. He tholed it. Then one day it went further.

Glover saw it from the upstairs window at Braehead, on the side looking over the street. He’d been poring over some plans for the slipdock, heard a commotion, looked out.

Nagasawa was still some way off, heading up the brae on his way home. Behind him four boys were laughing at him, shouting. Then one of them picked up a stone, threw it, and it hit Nagasawa on the back.

Glover was about to rush out, was surprised to see Nagasawa run into the house. He hadn’t taken him for a coward, but perhaps the odds were just too great; with his mathematical bent, he would have worked it out, settled for discretion.

He heard the front door open, bang shut, Nagasawa’s footsteps on the stairs, heard him take something from his room, clatter downstairs again. The boys who had taunted him were at the gate, still laughing, enjoying their triumph. Glover looked in disbelief as Nagasawa strode towards them, carrying his samurai sword, unsheathed.

The boys must have seen it at the same moment and they froze, all bravado and bluster gone, a gang of scared wee boys. Nagasawa raised the sword above his head, charged at them, roaring out a battle-cry.

‘Kaaaa!
’

‘Jesus Christ!’ said Glover out loud, and he was down the stairs and out the door.

At the gate he called out to the boy. ‘Nagasawa-san!’

He had chased his tormentors fifty yards down the street, terror making them spring-heeled. At Glover’s call he stopped, turned back.

Glover was fierce with him, as he had to be, made him hand over the sword, ordered him inside.

‘This won’t do,’ he said.

The boy stood rigid, chastened. ‘They insulted me. Is a matter of honour.’

‘I know fine. It’s
bushido
, the samurai code.’

The boy snapped to attention. ‘
Hai, so desu
.’

‘But we’re not in Nagasaki. We’re in Bridge of Don!’

‘I am sorry if I dishonour you.’

‘No!’ he said. ‘It’s not that. It’s just that we do things differently here. And beheading someone for chucking a wee stone is seen as a mite excessive.’

‘I understand.’

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’m taking this back, in the meantime, just for safekeeping. Now, if you give me the sheath, we’ll put it away.’

The boy fetched the scabbard, handed it over. Glover held the sword out towards him, let him nick the tip of his thumb, just a scratch, on the blade, enough to draw blood, satisfy honour. Then he slid the blade home in its sheath.

The boy turned to go, looked so crestfallen that Glover called him back.

‘I gave you this as a gift,’ he said, ‘and in time I’ll return it to you. But for now I want you to have something else as a sign of respect and friendship.’

He laid down the sword, took from his top drawer a heavy pocket watch on a chain.

The boy took it, bowed in gratitude. His eyes shone.

Nagasawa told Glover the story himself.

The same four boys he’d chased with the sword were waiting for him on his way home from school, just before the bridge where a path led up from the river. They’d blocked his way, moved to surround him, started their taunts.

‘Hey, chinkie!’

‘Yellow-face!’

‘Slantie-eyes!’

‘You’re not so brave without your muckle big sword.’

As they’d closed on him, he’d put his schoolbooks at his feet, reached into his jacket pocket, brought out the watch Glover had given him, felt the weight of it in his hand. Then he’d held it by the chain, spun it above his head like a weapon, lashed out at the nearest boy, the ringleader, caught him on the shoulder, a sharp blow. Shocked, the boy had stumbled, lost his footing, fallen to the ground. The others had moved as if to rush Nagasawa, but he’d turned to face them, still spinning the watch, roared out his war-cry and drove them away. The first boy had stood up, terrified now, but Nagasawa had stopped, checked that the watch was still ticking, put it away in his pocket. The boy had moved away, a few tentative steps, then quickening his pace, then pelting after his friends.

Glover listened to the story, nodded. ‘Thank you for telling me, Nagasawa-san.’

Nagasawa handed him the watch. ‘Now you will take this back also, keep it with the sword. For safekeeping.’

Glover laughed. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. And I don’t think those boys will be bothering you again.’

Nagasawa looked confused.

‘My friend Ito-san,’ said Glover, ‘once told me a story, about standing up for yourself.’

The boy flinched. Of course. Ito was Choshu, still the enemy.

Glover continued.

‘There was once a snake which lived in a small village, and it used to frighten people and bite them. Then one day a Zen master passed through the village, and he gave a talk about nonviolence. The snake happened to be passing by, and he stopped to listen. He was so inspired by the talk he saw the error of his ways, and he vowed to be a good snake from that day on. He slithered up to the master and asked his advice. Of course, animals can always talk in these stories. Or perhaps the master could read his thoughts and speak to him in silence.’

Nagasawa looked more confused.

‘In any case,’ Glover went on, ‘the master gave him simple advice. Meditate every day, and stop biting!’

The boy nodded, intent.

‘Now, time passed, the way time does, and after some months the master was once again passing through the village. He had a look round, said, Where’s my friend the snake? But nobody could tell him. Then just as he was leaving the village, he happened to look down at the side of the road, and there was the snake, all battered and bruised, half dead. What happened? said the master. You told me not to bite, said the snake. And the boys in the village realised I wasn’t a danger, and they lost all their fear of me. When they realised I wouldn’t even fight back, they took revenge for all the years of biting. They gave me a thrashing and threw me in the ditch. The master gave a wee smile, shook his head, said, I told you not to bite. I didn’t tell you not to hiss!’

Nagasawa was still concentrating hard, forehead furrowed, eyebrows meeting.

Glover handed back the watch, said, ‘Sometimes you have to hiss.’

And suddenly there was light; the boy understood; the point hit home, the itzibu dropped. And a huge boyish grin spread across his face, and he threw back his head, for the first time in Glover’s hearing laughed out loud.

‘
Hissu!
’ he hissed, gleeful.

He laughed so much he had tears in his eyes. Glover handed him a hanky and he wiped his face, blurted out another chuckle, then consciously, deliberately, regained his appearance of calm formality, his composure. He handed back the hanky, thanked Glover, bowed and turned to go.