第 10 页

For a moment, I went on gazing at the windows. Then I said quickly: “I’m sure your friend will write a marvellous poem." I took an apple from the fruit basket and Niki watched as I began to peel it with my knife.

“So many women”, he said, “get stuck with kids and lousy husbands and they’re just miserable. But they can’t pluck up the courage to do a thing about it. They’ll just go on like that for the rest of their lives

“I see. So you’re saying they should desert their children, are you, Niki?”

You know what I mean. It’s pathetic when people just waste away their lives.”

I did not speak, although my daughter paused as if expecting me to do so.

“It couldn’t have been easy, what you did, Mother. You ought to be proud of what you did with your life.” I continued to peel the apple. When I had finished, I dried my fingers on the napkin.

“My friends all think so too,’ said Niki. “The ones I’ve told anyway.”

“I’m very flattered. Please thank your marvellous friends.”

“I was just saying, that’s all.”

“Well you’ve made your point quite clearly now.” Perhaps I was unnecessarily curt with her that morning, but then it was presumptious of Niki to suppose I would need reassuring on such matters. Besides, she has little idea of what actually occurred during those last days in gki. One supposes she has built up some sort of picture from what her father has told her. Such a picture, inevitably, would have its inaccuracies. For, in truth, despite all the impressive articles he wrote about Japan, my husband never understood the ways of our culture, even less a man like Jim. I do not claim to recall Jiro with affection then he was never the oafish man my husband considered him to be. Jim worked hard to do his part for the family and he expected me to do mine; in his own terms, he was a dutiful husband. And indeed, for the seven years he knew his daughter, he was a good father to her. Whatever else I convinced myself of during those final days, I never pretended Keiko would not miss him.

But such things are long in the past now and I have no wish to ponder them yet again. My motives for leaving Japan were justifiable, and I know I always: kept Keiko’s interests very much at heart. There is nothing to be gained in going over such matters again.

I had been pruning the pot plants along the window ledge for some time when I realized how quiet Niki had become. When I turned to her, she was standing in front of the fireplace, looking past me out into the garden. I turned back to the window, trying to follow her gaze; despite the mist on the pane, the garden was still clearly discernible. Niki, it seemed, was gazing over to a spot near the hedge, where the rain and wind had put into disarray the canes which supported the young tomato plants.

“I think the tomatoes are mined for this year,” I said. “I’ve really rather neglected them.”

I was still looking at the canes when I heard the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and when I turned again, Niki was continuing with her search. She had decided after breakfast to read through all her father’s newspaper articles, and had spent much of the morning going through all the drawers and bookshelves in the house.

For some minutes, I continued working on my pot plants; there were a large number of them, cluttering the window ledge. Behind me, I could hear Niki going through the drawers. Then she became quiet again, and when I turned to her, she was once more gazing past me, out into the garden.

“I think I’ll go and do the goldfish now,” she said.

“The goldfish?”

Without replying, Niki left the room, and a moment later I saw her go striding across the lawn. I wiped away a little mist from the pane and watched her. Niki walked to the far end of the garden, to the fish-pond amidst the rockery. She poured in the feed, and for several seconds remained standing there, gazing into the pond. I could see her figure in profile; she looked very thin, and despite her fashionable clothes there was still something unmistakably childlike about her. I watched the wind disturb her hair and wondered why she had gone outside without a jacket.

On her way back, she stopped beside the tomato plants and in spite of the heavy drizzle stood contemplating them for some time. Then she took a few steps closer and with much care began straightening the canes. She stood up several that had fallen completely, then, crouching down so her knees almost touched the wet grass, adjusted the net I had laid above the soil to protect the plants from marauding birds.

“Thank you, Niki,” I said to her when she came in. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

She muttered something and sat down on the settee. I noticed she had become quite embarrassed.

“I really have been rather neglectful about those tomatoes this year, I went on. “Still, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I never know what to do with so many tomatoes these days. Last year, I gave most of them to the Morrisons.”

“Oh God,” said Niki ”the Morrisons. And how are the dear old Morrisons?”

“Niki, the Monisons are perfectly kind people. I’ve never understood why you need to be so disparaging. You and Cathy used to be the best of friends once.”

“Oh yes, Cathy. And how’s she these days? Still living at home, I suppose?”

“Well, yes. She works in a bank now.”

“Typical enough.”

“That seems to me a perfectly sensible thing to be doing at her age. And Marilyn’s married now, did you know?"

“Oh yes? And who did she marry?”

“I don’t remember what her husband does. I met him once. He seemed very pleasant.”

“I expect he’s a vicar or something like that.”

“Now, Niki, I really don’t see why you have t adopt this tone. The Morrisons have always been extremely kind to us.

Niki sighed impatiently. “It’s just the way they do things,” she said. “It makes me sick. Like the way they’ve brought up their kids."

“But you’ve hardly seen the Morrisons in years."

“I saw them often enough when I used to know Cathy. People like that are so hopeless. I suppose I ought to feel sorry for Cathy.”

“You’re blaming her because she hasn’t gone to live in London like you have? I must say, Niki, that doesn’t sound like the broadmindedness you and your friends seem so proud of.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. You don’t understand what I’m talking about anyway.” She glanced towards me, then heaved another sigh. It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, looking the other way.

I continued to stare at her for a moment. Eventually, I turned back to the window ledge and for some minutes worked on in silence.

“You know, Niki,” I said, after some time, “I’m very pleased you have good friends you enjoy being with. After all, you must lead your own life now. That’s only to be expected."

My daughter gave no reply. When I glanced at her, she was reading one of the newspapers she had found in the drawer.

“I’d be interested to meet your friends," I said. “You’re always welcome to bringany of them here.”

Niki flicked her head to prevent her hair falling across her vision, and continued to read. A look of concentration had appeared on her face.

I went back to my plant for I could read these signals well enough. There is a certain subtle and yet quiet emphatic manner Niki adopts whenever I display curiosity concerning her life in London; it is her way of telling me I will regret it if I persist. Consequently, my picture of her present life is built largely upon her letters, however—and Niki is very good about remembering to write—she mentions certain things she would never touch upon in conversation. That is how I have learnt, for instance, that her boyfriend’s name is David and that he is studying politics at one of the London colleges. And yet, during conversation, if I were even to enquire after his health, I know that barrier would come firmly down.

This rather aggressive regard for privacy reminds me very much of her sister. For in truth, my two daughters had much in common, much more than my husband would ever admit. As far as he was concerned, they were complete opposites; furthermore, it became his view that Keiko was a difficult person by nature and there was little we could do for her. In fact, although he never claimed it outright, he would imply that Keiko had inherited her personality from her father. I did little to contradict this, for it was the easy explanation, that Jiro was to blame, not us. Of course, my husband never knew Keiko in her early years; if he had, he may well have recognized how similar the two girls were during their respective early stages. Both had fierce tempers, both were possessive; if they became upset, they would not like other children forget their anger quickly, but would remain moody for most of the day. And yet, one has become a happy, confident young woman—have every hope for Niki’s future—while the other, after becoming increasingly miserable, took her own life. I do not find it as easy as my husband did to put the blame on Nature, or else on Jim. However, such things are in the past now, and there is little to be gained in going over them here.

“By the way, Mother,” said Niki. “That was you this morning, wasn’t it?”

“This morning?”

“I heard these sounds this morning. Really early; about four o’clock”

“I’m sorry I disturbed you. Yes, that was me." I began to laugh. Why, who else did you imagine it was?” I continued to laugh, and for a moment could not stop. Nib stared at me, her newspaper still held open before her. “Well, I’m sorry I woke you, Niki," I said, finally controlling my laughter.

“It’s all right, I was awake anyway. I can’t seem to sleep properly these days.”

“And after all that fuss you made about the rooms. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

“Maybe I will.” Niki went back to her newspaper.

I laid down the clippers I had been using and turned to her. “You know, its strange. I had that dream again this morning.”

“What dream?”

“I was telling you about it yesterday, but I don’t suppose you were listening. I dreamt about that little girl again.”

“What little girl?”

“The one we saw playing on the swing the other day. When we were in the village having coffee.”

Niki shrugged. “Oh, that one,” she said, not looking up. “Well, actually, it isn’t that little girl at all. That’s what I realized this morning It seemed to be that little girl, but it wasn’t."

Niki looked at me again. Then she said “I suppose you mean it was her. Keiko.”

“Keiko?” I laughed a little. “What a strange idea. Why should it be Keiko? No, it was nothing to do with Keiko.”

Niki continued to look at me uncertainly. “It was just a little girl I knew once,” I said to her. “Along time ago.” “Which little girl?"

“No one you know. I knew her a long time ago.” Niki gave another shrug. “I can’t even get to sleep in the first place. I think I only slept about four hours last night.”

“That’s rather disturbing, Niki. Especially at your age.

Perhaps you should see a doctor. You can always go and see Dr Ferguson.”

Niki made another of her impatient gestures and went back to her father’s newspaper article. I watched her for a moment.

“In fact, I realized something else this morning," I said.

“Something else about the dream.”

My daughter did not seem to hear.

“You see," I said, “the little girl isn’t on a swing at all. It seemed like that at first. But it’s not a swing she’s on.” Niki murmured something and carried on reading.

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 waste- ground 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, the 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 waste-ground. 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 Marjko 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, sol discovered, sent a reply toter 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.