The Turning Tide (25 page)

Later we returned for the final ceremony. With chopsticks we lifted fragments of bone from the steel tray into a funerary urn, starting at the ruins of Betty’s dainty feet and moving to her shattered skull. I was mindless with horror.

I remembered something that had puzzled me when I first came to Hiroshima: people painstakingly picking through the charred ruins of houses with chopsticks, seeking, I now understood, the fragments of their loved ones for true burial.

We took Betty’s urn to the cemetery, to the new family grave with its memorial stones for her brother Ken and
her aunt and uncle. It was a small carved monument with a ledge for incense and flowers and a chamber beneath for urns.

Prayers were chanted again and again through the following weeks, until a full forty-nine days had passed and Betty’s spirit was assured of being at peace.

How I envied her.

Even from my abyss of loss I could still recognise the great sorrow Mary and Yoshi were suffering, with two of their three children gone. I was grateful they had six-year-old Tomeo as an incentive to endure.

Bewildered little Tomeo didn’t understand where his beautiful big sister had gone. To tell the truth, neither did I. But I helped Yoshi and Mary and Great-Aunt Kiyo as best I could through that cruel spring and the long sad summer that followed.

When autumn came again, when, in a kinder world, Betty and I might have celebrated our fifth anniversary, I found I could no longer stay. I loved my small family by marriage, but I yearned to see my own people again.

Yoshi and Mary took me to the small airport. Mary took my hand. ‘Mike, we were so grateful Betty had you,’ she said softly. ‘It helped her live far longer than we ever expected.’

‘You knew she was going to die?’ I was astonished. Mary had never said anything like this before.

She looked at me with pity. ‘She was doomed from that dreadful day onwards. Of course we did. Didn’t you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I thought we’d live forever.’

Chapter 23

I turn down the heat in the oven and check the dining table. The doorbell rings and Alan’s there with his kids Sue and Terry; my stepchildren. There are welcomes and hugs as we manoeuvre the long narrow hall of my house.

Alan’s in Melbourne for a conference, so we’ve grabbed the chance to catch up, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve been with the kids without their families around. I’m looking forward to the evening.

It’s late August 1983 and I haven’t seen any of them since Jan’s funeral eight months ago. Alan seems well, though his eyes are puffy; I think he’s drinking a lot. Sue looks smart in black jeans and high boots, her auburn hair pulled into a ponytail, and Terry’s his usual calm school-teacher self.

I bring the wine and pour for everyone and we sit in the lounge chatting, the small fire crackling. After a time we
move into the dining room and I serve salads and lasagne. I pour more wine and we eat. Everyone seems to enjoy it but I feel an odd sense of tension in the room.

Alan hasn’t much to say, I can see he’s still pretty knocked about by losing Jan. But I get to hear about the exploits of Terry’s youngsters and his wife Robyn’s new part-time job. And Sue’s partner Gail, a fashion designer, is stressed from preparing for a big show. I think they want to say something else. I wait.

After dessert (my own tiramisu, of which I’m rather proud), we sit with coffee in the lounge room. I look from Sue to Terry. ‘Okay. What’s up? Is there something you’d like to talk about?’

‘Well,’ says Sue slowly, ‘we wanted to discuss the house, Mike. You remember how Terry and I inherited Mum’s half ... I mean it was fine to leave things as they were after she died but, you see, we both need the money now.’

‘We don’t want to turf you out, Mike. You and Mum lived here for years,’ says Terry, his grey eyes gentle. ‘But the market’s not bad at the moment, we’d all get good money and you could go somewhere smaller, easier to look after.’

I sit thinking for a moment, surprised, then say, ‘Wow. That’s a great idea. I didn’t realise it, but I think I do need a change. There’ll be a lot to organise, but yeah.’ I smile. ‘Brilliant idea. Let’s do it.’

‘Oh, Mike, I’m so relieved,’ says Sue. ‘I didn’t know how you’d feel.’

I look at her with affection. She’s never understood me, has always kept her distance. Of course she didn’t know how I’d feel. To both the kids, Alan was always Dad. Though he only saw them once a year it was as if Santa Claus had
turned up. I knew they never stopped yearning for him, hoping he’d come back to Marion. I couldn’t match him in their eyes; I was always just Mike to them. They told me over and over that I wasn’t their real dad, till I could have wept with frustration.

No, I wasn’t their real dad. I was the man who stood by their mother and looked after their household and applauded at their play nights and attended those God-awful parent–teacher meetings that always seemed to demand excruciating scrutiny of Sue’s delinquency and Terry’s idleness. They were affectionate enough in an offhand way, but they were always and ever Alan’s children, not mine.

How odd, I think. As if bonds like similar looks and sense of humour were more meaningful than years of nurturing.

I stop pondering and say briskly, ‘Well, I’ll talk to an agent tomorrow and get it on the market. And if there’s any furniture you want, any of Marion’s things, tell me and they’re yours. I’ll only need the minimum. And both of you should share out her collection.’

‘Really? That’s almost too generous, Mike,’ says Terry. ‘There’s nothing you’d want to keep?’

‘I’ve got a lot of pictures of my own – don’t forget my famous brother. Maybe a couple, let’s see. But I reckon Marion would like you two to have most of them. And what about you, fella?’

Alan says, ‘Me?’

‘Yeah. Those pictures you two bought together. You should have something, a memento of Marion. The Arthur Boyd, for instance.’

‘That’s a pretty valuable work, fella. Are you sure?’

‘Yes. She’d have wanted you to have it,’ I say.

‘I have my doubts about that,’ he grins. ‘But thanks, Mike. We got it in the early days and I’ve always loved it.’

We spend a little time working through the logistics and timing, then the kids have to leave. Alan says he’ll stay for a nightcap and get a taxi later. So I hug Sue and Terry goodbye and close the door after them. I look around at the high ceilings, the intricate plasterwork, the polished timber floors, and say to Alan, ‘I love this house, had wonderful times here. But I didn’t realise what a dead weight it’s become. Was it your idea, you old bastard?’

Alan grins. ‘Me do something altruistic? Got the wrong bloke there.’

‘Altruistic? Cheeky sod. You’ve scored an Arthur Boyd out of it.’

‘Ah well. I might have suggested it to the kids. But I had my reasons.’

‘Which were?’ I say, pouring us brandies and handing him one.

‘I’m moving, myself,’ Alan says.

‘What? But you love that house.’

‘Too many memories. And I could see what hanging around this place was doing to you.’

I look up, surprised. He was right.

‘Of course I don’t want to break apart what Jan and I built up over so many years …’ He sighs, looks at the brandy for a moment, then takes a sip. ‘But, Mike, I’ve got to do it or I’ll go mad.’

‘Where are you moving to?’

‘Not too far. A modern unit in Balmain.’

‘That’ll cost you,’ I say.

‘I’ve got a Victorian terrace to sell, reckon I can afford it.’

I laugh. ‘Well, congratulations, Al. Invite me to the house-warming.’

‘I will. Here’s to us. Old bastards, new houses.’

The day I returned from Japan, Liam met me at Perth airport and took me to his place to freshen up. In his early forties now with silver in his hair, he still looked like a handsome version of Dad, his presence as comforting as ever.

We drove to my parents’ place at the port of Fremantle, about ten miles from the city. They’d moved there from Rosa and Anton’s after the war, deciding not to return to Broome, now almost a ghost town, the luggers gone and the pearl-shell trade ended.

The house was an old sandstone terrace near the harbour. The door opened moments after we’d rung the bell and Mum flung her arms around me, followed by Dad. Later, after we’d composed ourselves, we talked about the Egawas – Mum and Mary had always been close – but I couldn’t discuss Betty. My throat kept closing in anguish. I could see Mum’s eyes were worried for me.

I had gifts for them of antique silk kimonos, which lightened the mood. Liam’s was in dark red, Dad’s in steel-blue and Mum’s had sprays of green and pink chrysanthemums. Mum modelled hers, posing and smiling, and I felt a pang of sadness. Mum’s fine bones, Dad’s stoop – how had they grown so fragile, my parents? She was sixty-one and he’d soon be sixty-nine, and I’d gone away for years without a second thought. I’d make it up to them now, I decided.

They showed me my room, upstairs with a view of the
water across roofs, and left me in peace for a rest. Later, at dinner, no one commented on my sister Anna’s absence.

Next morning my parents went to get groceries. About ten minutes later I heard a knock and, when I answered it, Anna was on the doorstep. Her eyes widened when she saw me.

‘Hello, Mike. Good to see you.’

It patently wasn’t but I hugged her lightly.

‘Hello, sis. Come into the kitchen. Excuse the mess, I haven’t cleaned up from our dinner party last night,’ I said with false innocence; the place was perfectly tidy.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t attend,’ Anna said. ‘I had another appointment.’

‘Let’s have a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘Uh-huh. But it kept you away.’

She flushed. ‘Mike, I’m sorry. I didn’t feel up to it.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘No I don’t. Why, Anna?’

She turned away from me to look out through the window into the small back garden. I put the kettle on and sat down at the table.

‘Because I married Betty?’ I said. ‘You can’t bear to see me because I married my oldest friend?’

‘Because you married a Japanese,’ she said bitterly, looking at me. ‘Because you went over there to help them get back on their feet so they’re free to make war on us again as soon as they can.’

I was incredulous. I knew she had bad memories but surely by now she’d come to terms with them, like most of us.

‘Anna, their soldiers did terrible things but we did terrible things too. Unforgivable, appalling things. And in the end: Hiroshima, Nagasaki.’ I shook my head. ‘Nobody – I swear to you, Anna – nobody deserved what happened. Then or afterwards. To innocents. To Betty.’

Anna didn’t say a word. She sat down and put her hands over her face.

The kettle whistled and I stood, spooned fresh tea into the teapot and filled it with hot water. I put one of Mum’s bright knitted cosies over the pot and brought it to the table with the milk and cups and saucers. I sat down again.

After a minute or two I poured the tea. ‘Milk?’ I said politely.

‘You’d think I’d learn,’ she said from behind her hands. ‘You’d think I’d get it right, just once.’

‘Get what right?’ I said gently. I put milk in both our teas – I knew perfectly well she always drank it white – and pushed a cup towards her.

She took a breath and took her hands away, wiping her eyes impatiently. She tucked her chestnut hair behind her ears.

‘I did it again, Mike. I wasn’t going to care about another man, not for a long time and certainly not a patient.’ She blew on her tea and sipped it and sighed. ‘He’d been a prisoner of war. In Burma. Sick as a dog with beri-beri and ulcers you could fit a tennis ball into. Malnutrition of course. All of it.’

I nodded.

‘He got better, it was a miracle; we hadn’t expected him to make it.’

‘This was ’46, was it, when I’d gone back to uni?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Once he was discharged we started seeing each other. We fell in love slowly. Mike, I was so careful. I wasn’t going to let myself get hurt again.’

‘But?’

‘No buts. It was wonderful. He was such a good, funny, loving man. We had three glorious months, long enough for me to start believing …’ She took a deep breath. ‘Then it began. He became horribly sad but couldn’t, wouldn’t, say why. Nightmares got worse and worse, he’d babble in prison-camp Japanese. Our future crumbled away in only a few weeks. And then it ended.’

‘How?’

‘An overdose.’

‘Oh God, Anna,’ I said, appalled. ‘You weren’t the one to find him, were you?’

She grimaced. ‘Oh yes. Lying on his bed with his war souvenir – a stinking samurai sword – beside him. Maybe he imagined it would protect him. I don’t know.’

‘So all you could think about was what the Japanese had taken from you.’

She nodded, her head down. ‘I couldn’t reach him, Mike. All my love, my passion, wasn’t enough to help him, to save him from what they’d done to him. I was so, so angry.’

She finished her tea and picked up the teapot with a sigh. ‘More?’ I nodded and she poured us both fresh cups.

‘Then we got your letter.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘So pleased about going over there, helping with reconstruction, searching for your Japanese friends. I think I went almost mad for a while. I don’t remember much about it now.’

‘Didn’t anyone help, did you see doctors?’

‘They’d heard my story a thousand times and far worse than mine. They gave me pills that made me sleepy. But then I had to wake up, I had to go to work.’

‘Mum and Dad?’

‘I kept it from them as much as I could. They tried but there was nothing they could do. Hatred was the only thing that gave me the energy to keep going. And then we got the letter about your marriage.’

‘But it was
Betty
I was marrying. You used to play dolls together, for God’s sake.’

‘It didn’t matter. I was implacable. Year after year. Then we heard from you how ill she was and instantly I wanted to see her again, desperately, to say I was sorry for being so stupid. And then it was too late.’ She put her hands over her face again and wept.

I pulled my chair closer and put my arm around her shoulders. ‘It didn’t matter to Betty. We talked about it and she said she believed you’d been terribly hurt in some way. She knew you.’