At the Break of Day (39 page)

They handed them in but an American who knew Korean heard the guards say that they would never be sent and home seemed very far away.

The wood-gathering parties had to scavenge further afield now but suddenly the trips became more popular because Mexican POWs had discovered marijuana growing on the hillsides and now they rolled the leaves between book pages and smoked them to ease the boredom of the days. But Jack and Steve refused to smoke because they needed to care for Nigel who was weaker each day from dysentery and beri-beri.

There were no medical supplies, though there was a doctor who tried to help. The Chinese had no drugs for themselves either.

They still sat through lectures, listening just enough to be able to answer questions, but they also talked to the Puerto Ricans who knew and understood the herbs which could save lives. Steve and Jack used the remains of the paper which they had been given for their essays to write down descriptions of the plants.

The following week they strayed from the wood-gathering party, searching, picking, stuffing the herbs into the pockets of their trousers, remembering to carry wood under their arms as well. They brewed the mixture up behind the hut and no guards stopped them because boiling up water was common. Nigel drank it from his cigarette-tin and he seemed a little better and they talked of home, and of Oxford where he would go when the war was over.

They did the same the next week, and the next, and then it was the beginning of August and new prisoners said that talks were being held in a tea-house in Kaesong on a ceasefire in Korea. That this must almost be the end, and that day the wood party looked up at the hills, felt the heat and the dust, and because the war would be over soon it didn’t seem so important to stretch themselves beyond endurance. They were late mustering, slow in leaving and Jack watched them straggle in on their return. He watched the Commandant too, standing frowning, and waited for what he knew would happen.

The Chinese herded all the prisoners into the square. They were lectured on their negative attitude to labour and made to sit in the sun for the afternoon and Nigel became worse as the heat increased. The herb gatherer had forgotten to gather.

Jack and Steve went out on the wood detail the next morning, even though they were tired and weak and it wasn’t their turn, but Nigel was worse. They needed herbs, they needed to make sure the squad were brisk and that Nigel didn’t need to sit in the sun again.

They took the sloping paths, lifting the wood which was already hot though it was only eleven a.m. They found the herbs, bitter, sweet. The smell clung to their hands. They moved further from the others, picking, leaning over for wood, glancing behind, checking the guards, picking, always picking. And others did too now for their own friends.

They came out the next day too, and the next, picking for Nigel, and for others, but on the Sunday afternoon Jack and Steve were not cautious enough as they searched and picked. They didn’t check how close they were to the squad. Jack heard the shouting of the guards first, then the warning from Steve, then bullets thwacked into the ground at their feet. There was the sound of running feet and they were pushed face down and kicked, then dragged back to the camp.

They were brought before the Commandant, who accused them of trying to escape. They said nothing. The scent of herbs was still on their hands. Steve looked at Jack who shook his head. They couldn’t admit to the herbs in case others were stopped too. In case the marijuana smoking was discovered and men punished.

‘You must admit your error,’ the Commandant said.

‘I’m kinda sick of admitting to errors,’ Steve said. ‘Why don’t you go take a powder.’

The Commandant didn’t speak, he just nodded and the guards took Steve across the square. He dropped the herbs on the ground. They were picked up by another prisoner and taken to Nigel.

Jack saw this. He also saw the flies around his head. Then he watched the smoke rising from the Commandant’s cigarette and there were no flies near the smoke. Power brought advantages, that was for sure.

‘And you. You will admit your error? Your attempt to escape.’

Jack stood to attention. He rubbed the scar the scissors had made. He was tired too, of obedience, of humility. Yes, he was tired and the war was nearly over anyway.

‘I have made no errors,’ he said.

He also dropped his herbs on the ground and they were picked up too and the soldier who did so said, ‘I’ll get them for Nigel until you’re back out.’

He was thrown into the pit near the latrines and Steve called out from the other, ‘You’ll like the privacy, Jack.’

He didn’t, though, and neither would Grandpa, he thought, smiling wryly. It was dark, it was hot, so hot. The sun beat down on the iron, the guards banged with sticks and he sat crouched, hugging his knees, feeling the sweat rolling off his body. He stripped off his clothes, held his head in his hands while it ached enough to burst.

As the heat of the day beat on the steel covers he took shallow breaths, panting, seeking air, lifting his head, but there was none. He rolled on to his side. The earth was cooler. He buried his face in it but the dust entered his mouth, his nose. He crouched, he wept and the tears were salty and then he sat, still and straight, as Suko had done before the Shinto shrine. He thought of white blossom, of the cool of the stream about Rosie’s legs.

They lifted the covers at twilight. He staggered to the latrines, heard Steve’s voice as he returned. It was cracked and dry.

‘Kinda like a long holiday, eh, Jack?’

Jack slipped down again into the pit. The guard handed him sorghum in a tin and half a can of boiled water. It was warm. They pushed him down. Some of the water spilt. They slid the sheeting over again.

He heard Steve being taken now and when he returned he called out to him.

‘Better than a deckchair at Southend, eh, Steve?’ His voice was cracked and dry too.

The next night was cold and the morning took so long to come, but then the heat came too and the flies and the noise of the sticks and because they had spoken to one another their arms were tied behind their backs after they had been taken to the latrines. Food was still passed in, though, but they had to bend over and lick it from the tin like animals.

They didn’t call to one another again, but they shuffled their feet or they coughed and that was enough. And it was enough, too, for Jack to sit still now and hold his body upright, to ignore the bindings and think of blossom, Rosie and the cool of England.

After two days the guards untied their arms, but pushed them back down again into the pit. There were deep raw grooves in their skin from the rope but these didn’t touch the thoughts inside Jack’s head, the memories, the echoes of the life he had lived, the people he had loved.

In the second week he pictured the pebbles in the stream below the hop-yards. He picked them from the water. The water was cool, the pebbles wet. He built a pyramid. The pebbles dried. He walked amongst the cool green fountains of hops, and saw the yellow dust beneath his fingernails. He picked the hops, flicking them into the bin. He smelt them, felt them. Kissed Rosie, laughed with Ed, smelt the lavender on Maisie’s neck, threw Lee up into the air, heard his laughter. Heard Ollie’s too.

In the third week he breathed slowly, emptied his mind, and on each trip to the latrine he coughed with a dry throat, and each time he heard Steve do the same he knew he could go on. They were released at the end of August.

Jack could barely stand. The light hurt his eyes as it had hurt them each time he had walked to the latrine. He was marched back to the compound, through North Koreans who threw stones at him and called him a murderer.

They did the same to Steve, whose beard was dark against his white skin. Jack rubbed his own beard. He watched the stones hit his friend. But Steve didn’t notice. He was thin, his legs trembled as Jack’s did. They met at the gate, nodded, smiled, held one another’s arms.

‘The war must be nearly over,’ they called to a prisoner who brought them water. They lifted the cans to their lips.

The young boy shook his head. ‘New POWs in say the talks will go on and on, maybe for years. There’s no truce, only more fighting.’

They felt sick with something deeper than anguish and couldn’t move as they watched the boy walk on, his head down, dust scuffing up with each step. The hop-yards were fading. Jack couldn’t hold on to them.

They walked towards Nigel’s hut but he wasn’t there. He had been moved to the officers’ camp, another prisoner told them.

‘He didn’t want to go. He wanted to wait for you, but he had no choice. They’re trying to destroy the old leadership system, demoralise everyone, so the officers have been separated from the ranks. He died there last week. We’ve only just heard.’

Joe came at the beginning of June, when Rosie had only been home a week. He walked into the café as Lucia slept in her pram outside the kitchen door in the small sunswept courtyard. Rosie was talking on the phone to a promoter who wanted Luke at whatever cost.

‘Though within reason, my dear.’

Rosie laughed. ‘Twenty pounds. Excluding expenses. I don’t think I can be more reasonable than that, Harry.’ She knew he would take far more in profit for she had been to the function room behind his pub, seen his gold rings, his expensive watch.

Rosie grinned as he sounded her out about a national tour for the band. She turned to write the date in the book. Joe moved and she looked up, saw his blond hair, his tanned skin, his white teeth. She saw the watch which gleamed against his skin. It was new. Everything went quite still and then jogged into motion again as she put her pen down, carefully. There was ink on the nib. It had smeared her finger.

She didn’t kiss him but shook his hand, feeling cold, wishing he hadn’t come. Her world had been intruded upon. The lies were about to be exposed and she was ashamed. For the first time for weeks she was ashamed.

He grinned, looked around. ‘So this is it?’

‘Yes, this is it.’ She poured him coffee, nodded towards Luke. ‘We’re on for Saturday. Expenses excluded. Twenty pounds!’

Luke whistled and Joe looked at her. ‘From what Frank said I imagined the restaurant would be bigger.’

‘Remember you’re in little old England now,’ she said, wiping the counter.

‘You’re looking good.’ He sipped the black coffee as he leaned against the counter.

Rosie didn’t know what to say to this man who didn’t belong here. Who shouldn’t have come. ‘You must meet Luke,’ she said, her voice cold and crisp, because she could remember that the hand that lifted the cup had stroked her breasts. It had been a mistake.

Joe arched his eyebrows. ‘Have I said something wrong? Burst in on you? I should have rung. I didn’t think.’ He looked unsure suddenly. She hadn’t seen this in him before and she smiled, reaching out her hand, touching his.

‘No, I’m just busy. Too much to do, too little time.’ She had pushed the thought of his trip away, unable to think of any lies strong enough to make Frank change his plans, too engrossed in Lucia. And now she relaxed. What did it matter? Lucia was with her, safe, beautiful. That was what was important.

‘Luke,’ she called. ‘Meet Joe. Uncle Bob’s scout.’ She laughed and Joe relaxed, shook hands and passed Camels round while Rosie collected cups, took orders, and passed them through to Mrs Orsini.

She then took Joe out to the yard. There was no point in wasting time but she had to make sure he didn’t tell Frank and Nancy.

She walked to the pram, and pulled back the blanket. ‘This is my child. Jack’s child,’ she said.

She watched Joe flush. He looked from the baby to Rosie but said nothing. He just stood, his hands in his pockets, and then he murmured, ‘Quite a surprise. No wonder you didn’t want to visit Frank and Nancy. They’ve got quite a bit on their plates already. This might shake them up a bit.’

Rosie touched her child’s hair. It was always so fine, so soft, so warm. ‘I’ll tell them when things are easier for them, but you must say nothing. You must promise me that.’

She waited, wondering whether he would agree, wondering how she could make him, if he refused. But he agreed and she was surprised, but why should she be? He was kind, wasn’t he? He had sent her money to go over to Frank. But she was still surprised and didn’t know why.

Joe touched the baby, who woke.

‘I thought you hadn’t heard anything from Jack?’

‘I haven’t. He doesn’t know, but I’ll tell him, when he writes, because one day he will.’

He laughed as Lucia gripped his finger. His shirt was so white against the tan of his skin and he had promised he would say nothing. Rosie was grateful. He had touched her child and smiled and she was pleased.

He didn’t stay long but came again in the evening to hear the band. Luke played while Joe drank Coke and listened, his finger tapping on the glass. Luke’s band played for an hour and the music was good, mellow, haunting, penetrating. They listened to the chord held at the end of the chorus, heard the crescendo as Luke led the band into an all-in section. They heard the growl, heard his improvisation but it was a carefully planned one. He was so good, and Jake was better. So much better, but he still needed to go a little further.

‘He’ll get there though,’ she told Joe. He nodded.

Luke sat with them in the interval. There was smoke in the air and candle wax on the table. Rosie checked her watch. Mrs Orsini was looking after Lucia but she would need a feed at ten.

‘Great, really great. This club is good too, better than I expected,’ Joe said, and Rosie winked at Luke, who sat back in his chair and smiled. ‘You’re right, Rosie. Bob’ll really go for this. It’s what he’s been looking for. The guy on sax will have to go though.’

Rosie felt cold. It was as though there was no laughter in the room, no murmur of voices. Hadn’t he heard her? Hadn’t she just said that Jake would make it? Joe was still smiling, lifting the glass to his mouth, and she could picture him at the Lake Clubhouse, smart, adored, arrogant, ruthless. But he had agreed to keep her secret. There must be some softness there, maybe?