The Pure Land (26 page)

Glover thought a moment, called him back and formally, with understated ceremony, returned the sword to him.

‘Don’t bite!’ he said.

Again the boy grinned, then held it in check, overcome with
a deeper emotion, reverence for the sword, pure gratitude at having it restored to him.

He bowed low, said ‘
Arigato, Guraba-san. Arigato gozaimasu
,’ his voice hoarse, choked.

It began again with the handshake, the secret sign they were on the level, could trust each other. Hele, conceal, never reveal. Glover was a guest at the Lodge meeting, sat through the formalities, then Russell took him aside, said he wanted a word.

The room was comfortably furnished with a polished oak table, capacious leather armchairs. The walls were lined with books, Masonic texts, and in between the bookcases hung scrolls bearing the secret symbols, the square and compasses, a configuration of stars, a single eye blazing at the heart of a pyramid.

The whisky was poured, cigars lit. Fragrant smoke filled the room, curled in the shadows under the high ceiling. The atmosphere was safe, male. Mackenzie was there, and Robertson, and young John Grant, Martha’s lad. He worked for Russell, was an engineer. In this company he was very much the junior, the prentice, but he seemed at ease, affable. Glover had taken a liking to him, thought him a good match for Martha.

Robertson still worked for old George, was a step away from his father-in-law’s job. His father-in-law. Christ. When the old man retired, in a year or so, Robertson would step up, run the business. Mellowed by the drink, the good smoke, Glover looked at Robertson with something like warmth. He had plodded away, had everything he’d ever wanted in life. Not enough for Glover, he’d been too restless. And yet. There was the pang again, twisting. This dullard had Annie, and the boy. Christ, the boy. Another sip of whisky, another dram. Don’t mind if I do, an excellent malt if I may say so. Ach. They made choices, lived by them. Enough.

Russell was addressing him.

‘Scotland has need of men like you, Tom, men of vision. If you should ever be of a mind to come home, there would be no shortage of offers.’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t think it would be unreasonable to talk about a directorship, a seat on the board, perhaps a safe parliamentary constituency.’

‘T B Glover, MP. It has a ring to it. My mother would fair burst with pride!’

‘I’m serious, Tom.’

‘Oh, I know you are, believe me. I know fine, and it’s tempting.’

‘You could buy yourself some land, an estate.’

‘You’re taking me to the top of the mountain. Get thee behind me!’

Russell let the suggestion of blasphemy pass, looked at Glover hard. ‘Give it some thought.’

‘I will,’ said Glover. ‘I will.’

Glancing across, he saw Robertson’s face was grim.

Russell changed his tone, was suddenly hearty, proposed they all play golf next morning. ‘I take it you play, Tom.’

‘Och, I’m willing to give it a go.’

The green at the eighteenth hole was right at the edge of the cliff-top, ten yards from a sheer drop, a hundred feet into the North Sea. A fierce wind whipped in from offshore, directly from Norway, made any kind of judgement impossible. Glover’s ball landed in a bunker, down a slope from the green.

‘Ha!’ he shouted, into the wind. ‘A challenge!’ He shielded his eyes, squinted at the flag.
‘Another
challenge!’

He had no great skill, played with gusto and energy and no little luck.

He checked the lie of the green, the direction of the gusting wind, took the club his caddie handed him, a wedge. He held it a moment in front of him, raised like a samurai sword, chuckled, shouted again. ‘Ha!’

Not hesitating, not stopping to think, he hacked with the wedge, chucked the ball in a flurry of sand up out of the bunker, watched it buck at the edge of the green, roll to within a few feet of the hole.

‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘Yes!’

They had come out early, after breakfast, Glover and Russell, Andy Robertson and John Grant. Only Mackenzie had declined, said he had no intention of dragging his old carcass round a golf course at some ungodly hour.

Russell had clearly set up the game as a continuation of last night’s meeting, said nothing obvious or crass to mar the play, beyond the odd remark, say, about the freshness of the air, the amenity of the city; and the remarks lent themselves to tangential musings about the future of the Northeast, the planned improvement in road and rail links over the next ten years.

‘Imagine it, Tom,’ said Russell, lining up a drive. ‘Iron rail bridges over the Forth and Tay. The journey time to Edinburgh will be cut to two or three hours.’ He whacked his ball, straight down the fairway. ‘Imagine!’

As a dance round the subject matter, discussing it without discussing it, it was worthy of the Japanese.

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘I know what you’re saying.’

Russell was easily the best player among them, played a canny game, hit safety shots for the most part, took the odd calculated risk. He was well in the lead. Behind him young Grant had the makings of a decent player; he hit the ball sweetly enough, but lost focus if he mis-hit, skewed off-course, got bogged down in rough. Robertson was cautious, methodical, looked affronted if his shots went agley. On the last green he was only two shots ahead of Glover, who had whacked and sclaffed his way round.

Russell tapped in for a par on the hole and to win the game. The others applauded politely. Grant two-putted, tapped in for second place. Glover strode across the green, gave a moment’s thought to the rub of it, pocked his shot maybe too hard. It ran straight at the hole, might completely overshoot, might hit the flag and bounce out, might catch the rim and slingshot past. Grant took two strides, light on his feet, took out the flag at the last second. The ball did hit the rim, spun round it, orbited the hole twice and dropped in with a satisfying clunk.

‘
Hai!
’ shouted Glover, lapsing. ‘And again, Yes!’

Robertson still had his last shot to take; just five feet from the hole, it looked easy, but conditions were less than perfect, the slope awkward, the wind tricky, the green itself patchy. He walked round the ball, addressed it from every angle, checked the direction of the wind, got down and smoothed the grass with his hand.

‘Come on, lad!’ said Russell. ‘It’s gey snell to stand around up here freezing our arses off when we could be sipping a tipple at the nineteenth!’

Robertson smiled, a tense grimace, said, ‘Right.’

He steadied himself, bent over the ball, knees slightly bent, straightened up again, shifted his feet slightly, tried again, drew back the head of the putter and smacked the ball with a dull clack, and they all watched as it trundled past the hole, and off the green, accelerated down the slope and disappeared over the cliff, into the abyss.

The other three were restrained a moment, holding it in, then they all roared with laughter.

‘Bad luck!’ said Grant.

‘You could scramble down and play the ball!’ said Russell.

‘You’d probably find some poor gannet sitting on the thing,’ said Glover, ‘trying to hatch it!’

The others laughed again, but Robertson was downcast.

‘Your face is tripping you!’ said Russell. ‘Come on and I’ll buy you a drink.’

‘God!’ said Glover as they headed for the clubhouse. ‘What a great bloody game!’ He stopped, a thought forming. ‘Maybe I could introduce it to Japan.’

‘Surely it would never catch on,’ said Russell.

‘Ach,’ said Glover, ‘you’re probably right.’

As they walked, Russell asked him, casually, if he’d given any thought to his proposals. And suddenly, as he looked at the flags snapping sharp in the wind, he found himself thinking of Nagasaki with great longing. Up ahead he saw Robertson, head down, crestfallen. Glover could stay, be all Russell had suggested and more, he could prosper, increase his fortune, live off the fat of the land. And if he did, he would be near his son, could watch him grow up. But looking at Robertson, slumped and hangdog, he knew how it had to be. Right now, in this moment, he knew he would have to go back, and it would be sooner rather than later.

The flags flapping in the wind off the sea. Ito and the others would be scheming their schemes.

‘I’m truly flattered,’ he said to Russell. ‘But I have unfinished business, in Japan.’

Flags, flapping in the wind.

C
oming back to Nagasaki felt like a return home. He felt no strangeness here, the hills, the bay, so familiar, his own house, Ipponmatsu, so welcoming; the very air was balm to his soul. Now it was Aberdeen that seemed a dream, so far away.

In the house he walked from room to room, touching things,
his
things, reacquainting himself: a Daruma doll that had been Sono’s, Matsuo’s samurai sword. He heard a movement behind him and Tsuru was standing in the doorway, smiling at him, unsure.

‘Tsuru, lassie! It’s good to see you!’

She bowed, said ‘
Irasshaimase!
’, then she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. He went to her, held her to him.

‘Och!’

The visits began that very evening, a steady stream of folk, beating a path to his door.

Walsh was the first, looked excited to see him.

‘Damn it, Tom, it’s good to have you back!’ He shook his hand, clapped him, hearty, on the shoulder, laughed. ‘The place has been kind of dull without you.’

‘Now that I don’t believe!’

‘Well, maybe not! Things have been bubbling away nicely in
your absence. But you do add a certain spice to the mix, and that’s been sadly lacking.’

‘I’ll see what I can do!’

Walsh’s first thought was to drag him out to the pleasure quarter, but Glover was reluctant.

‘Bring me the smelling salts!’ said Walsh. ‘I never thought I’d see the day!’

‘Did Maki ever reappear?’ asked Glover.

‘You know, she never did. Darnedest thing. Just vanished off the face of the earth.’

‘Queer.’

‘Mind you,’ said Walsh, ‘from the rosy glow on Miss Tsuru’s countenance, I’d say maybe you have all you need right here!’

‘Maybe,’ said Glover, noncommittal.

‘Dog!’ said Walsh.

Glover opened a bottle of fine malt he’d brought back from Aberdeen, poured two generous measures. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I want
all
the news.’

Over the next hour, and two or three glasses more, Walsh brought him up to date on everything, from the price of tea to the strength of the new alliances being formed, unholy or otherwise.

‘Your old pal, Montblanc, he of the
pince-nez
and the strange predilections, has been muscling in on your territory, trading with the Satsuma.’

‘Has he now?’

‘He brokered the sale of a couple of ships to them, steamers. But I heard he’d made a real
faux pas
with one of them. He wanted to pull out all the stops, impress these guys. So he had their clan crest incorporated in all the furnishings and decorations.’

‘Cheap,’ said Glover. ‘Just what I’d expect.’

‘But he made the mistake of having it woven into the carpets, so the Daimyo and the other dignitaries from the clan were practically falling on their faces trying not to step on it!’

‘Serves the bastard right.’

‘Didn’t do his reputation much good.’

‘Well, let’s see if we can blacken it even further.’

‘He’s had his knuckles rapped by his own Consul, new guy by the name of Roches, bit of a swashbuckler by all accounts.’

‘The French stance is still resolutely pro-Shogunate?’

‘Exactly. I believe this Roches character had quite a set-to with Sir Harry Parkes last week, real sabre-rattling on both sides. Roches accused the British of being lukewarm in their support for the Shogun and the Bakufu.’

‘I wish I’d been there.’

‘I’m sure the sabres will be rattled in your direction before long!’

‘What did Sir Harry have to say for himself?’

‘Just repeated the party line about Her Majesty’s Government being committed to a policy of absolute neutrality and nonintervention.’

‘That was quite a piece of non-intervention in Kagoshima!’

‘But things are changing, Tom. You can feel it, a ground swell. Your old friend Satow seems to have swung over completely to your way of thinking. He’s written a few pieces in the
Japan
Times
, heavily criticising the Shogun. I’ve brought copies for you to read when you have a minute.’

He took the newspaper reports from his valise, handed them to Glover, who flicked through them, scanned the headlines.
The
present situation in Japan. The Shogun’s Treachery
.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Maybe it really is time.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said Walsh, ‘back in my neck of the woods, our little local skirmish has finally come to an end.’

‘A very un-civil war.’

‘With a satisfactory outcome.’

‘I met a Southerner on the way out here,’ said Glover. ‘Gentleman from Louisiana. He begged to disagree. He argued the issue of slavery was a pretext only, an excuse by the North to wage the war, break up the plantations, take over the land.’

‘That’s exactly how a gentleman from Louisiana
would
see it. You might as readily argue that your little revolution here is at the behest of the British, with the French waiting in the wings to step in if it all goes wrong.’

‘I definitely owe Montblanc a bloody nose.’

‘Whatever the politics of the situation, whatever the ideology, the fact is the war is over, and that means there’s going to be a huge amount of redundant weaponry on the market, worldwide: rifles, cannon, Gatling guns, you name it. No better time to arm your rebel army.’

Glover raised his glass. ‘To revolution, and unholy alliances!’

Walsh had no sooner gone than Harrison and Groom arrived, with Shibata and Nakajimo following deferentially behind. Another bottle of malt was opened, a round poured, another toast proposed.

‘To Glover and Company!’

‘Kanpai!
’

He had kept in touch the whole time he was away, but communication was slow, he needed to catch up. He poured more whisky, heard what amounted to a company report, enthusiastically delivered. The traffic in ships continued apace; they had brokered the sale of half a dozen vessels and were currently awaiting delivery of the gunboat
Nankai
to the Tosa clan for $75,000. Jardine’s still owed them $20,000 towards the building of three steamers. Glover would write, demanding the transfer of funds forthwith. Harrison had continued to invest in property; Groom’s adventures in foreign exchange, playing on currency fluctuations between Nagasaki and Yokohama, still turned a profit and managed to stay, if only just, within the confines of the law. The tea business now employed over a thousand people, and Glover had designed a steam-driven machine for sifting the tea, rendered the whole process more efficient. An improved version of the machine was even now being developed in England and would
be shipped out as soon as it was complete. Meanwhile the company’s agency work had expanded, and they now acted for Lloyd’s as well as a number of Chinese banks.

‘All in all,’ said Harrison, ‘business is booming.’

‘And these two fellows here,’ said Groom, indicating the two Japanese clerks, ‘have kept everything absolutely shipshape in the office.’

The two men beamed, bowed.

‘Another toast,’ said Glover. ‘Shibata-san! Nakajimo->>#QC::Hyphen#<<

‘
Kanpai!
’

When the four men had gone, he sat and read the newspaper articles Walsh had left, Satow’s diatribe against the Shogun.

If criticism like this was being widely circulated, the wind had indeed shifted.

He yawned, stretched. The long journey from Aberdeen was beginning to make itself felt, in a general weariness, an ache in the bones. He would ask Tsuru to draw him a bath. But the thought had barely formed when, for the third time in the one night, there was a tapping at the door. This time it was Ito, accompanied by Godai.

‘Dear God!’ said Glover. ‘Unholy alliances right enough!’

Once more a bottle was opened, drink taken. Glover shook himself awake, prepared to talk into the night.

Ito grinned at him, gave a nod to Tsuru, grinned even more. It was Ito who had sent her to him in the first place, after Kagoshima. He shook Glover’s hand, looked delighted to see him.

‘Guraba-san! Welcome back!’

‘Ito-san! You rogue! It’s good to see you!’

Godai was more circumspect, formal. He bowed.

‘Guraba-san.’

‘Godai-san. I hope you learned much from your sojourn in the West.’

Godai bowed deeper. ‘
Hai! So desu
. Whole Satsuma clan most grateful.’

Godai said in London they had been treated like dignitaries, like ambassadors from a foreign state. Laurence Oliphant, with the perspective of distance, and with his wounds quite literally healed by time, had championed the rebel cause, argued that the Shogun must be deposed if Japan were to progress. Glover saw him a moment, face livid, arm cut to the bone by a samurai sword. Now he had used his influence at Westminster to arrange for Godai to meet the Foreign Secretary, Lord Clarendon, who had shown great interest in what he had to say about the possibility of political change in Japan, the forging of stronger trade links.

‘This is all good news, Godai-san,’ said Glover.
‘Very
good.’ Then he paused. ‘But I have a bone to pick with you!’

Godai looked alarmed. ‘Bone?’

‘Satsuma have been dealing with this stupid Frenchman Montblanc. He even sold you a ship!’

‘Ah,’ said Godai. ‘
So desu
.’ And he smiled, mouth tight, a hideous rictus, the way Japanese men al ways did to cover embarrassment. ‘
Furansujin, hai. Monburo
.’

‘The very man,’ said Glover, terse.

‘We learn from you,’ said Godai. ‘Make competition. Good business!’

‘Oh, did you now?’

‘We buy one ship from him, but he is not good man, not honourable.’

‘Tell me more, and I’ll blacken the bastard’s name. Then his eye!’

‘Sorry?’

‘I heard about the clan crest on the floor!’ said Glover.

‘Bad,’ said Godai. ‘Then he want to sell us more ships, but his Government say no. They support Shogun and Bakufu.’

‘Don’t I know it!’

‘So we don’t pay him full amount.’

‘Ha!’ Glover laughed. ‘The biter bit!’

Again Godai looked confused.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Glover. ‘He’s getting what he deserves.’

‘But now Daimyo want to meet you.’

‘Ah.’

He minded that ferocious intransigent face, hard set. Kagoshima in flames. Rubble and smoke.

‘He want to talk to your Government also, make deal. Want you to bring Sir Harry Parkes to Kagoshima.’

‘Is that all?’ said Glover.

‘Is important,’ said Ito. ‘It has to happen. Satsuma have made strong alliance with Choshu. Kido-san has made Choshu a real fighting force;
Kiheitai
well trained, well armed. With Satsuma can easily beat Shogun.’

Glover breathed out a long slow sigh. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘Welcome back to Nagasaki!’

They talked, planned, schemed, through the small hours, and when Glover walked with them to the gate, the first faint light, a red glow, was starting to streak the sky. Ito and Godai still moved with a kind of furtiveness, a habitual stealth, looking about them, always half expecting figures to step from the shadows, the Shogun’s agents, French spies. Glover walked to the end of his garden, looked out across the sleeping town with a few lamps lit here and there, the harbour, the vague shapes of the hills. He would have to post guards again, install cannon on the hillside. He rubbed his face, exhausted, breathed in the night air, fragrant and mild.

Back inside, Tsuru was curled in a chair, woke when he closed the door. She looked up at him, sleepy.

‘Now then, Tsuru lass,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’

It was the first time he’d been back to Kagoshima since the bombardment. So much had changed, so much was the same; there was the volcano,
Sakurajima
, the familiar contours of the bay; the air still smelled faintly of ash; there were the docks, rebuilt, and suddenly in the air was the sound of cannon-fire. But this time it was a salute, four guns, and it was for him, the honoured guest, and the ship that carried him was the Satsuma’s own steamer, the
Otento Sama
. For a moment he was shaken, thought he might give away his emotions but managed to hold them in check, stood to attention and saluted. Godai, beside him on deck, did the same.

Shimada was waiting to meet him at the quay. The old man bowed, greeted him, his manner still formal and gruff, but in the crinkling of the eyes was a glint of recognition and acceptance, familiarity and warmth. Half a dozen guards lined the quayside, and Shimada led Glover to a norimon which would convey him to the Daimyo’s residence. It was the first time he’d travelled in one and he felt awkward as he clambered in, sat on the cushion, his knees jutting, angular as the carriage was lifted by two men front and back and he was bumped and jostled on the short journey.

The Daimyo wasted no time, had Glover led to an anteroom where he took off his boots, and from there into the inner chamber where the Daimyo himself sat, cross-legged on a raised platform.

Glover bowed low, but not so low as to undermine his own dignity. The Satsuma Daimyo, Shimazu Saburo, Prince and Regent of the clan, acknowledged him with a nod of the head. The last time he’d come here, Glover hadn’t been allowed past the anteroom, and the Daimyo had refused his gift of a pocket watch, had magnanimously allowed him to leave the place with his head still attached to his shoulders.

This time Glover had again come bearing gifts, entrusted to Shimada on his arrival. Glover brought them forward, two packages, elegantly wrapped in the finest paper, tied with silk. This was important, showed respect, concern for the formalities, the aesthetics of the situation. He placed the packages in front of the Daimyo, spoke with precisely the right degree of respect. He glanced at Godai, who had coached him in precisely what to say. Godai gave a fleeting half-smile, yes, he had got it just right.