The Bird in the Bamboo Cage - Hazel Gaynor

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feathers are placed close together, to look like enamel,’ she explained. ‘The jewellery is very delicate.’ She described the elegant aristocrats – wives and daughters of emperors – who’d worn the treasured pieces. I enjoyed the story until we learned that the kingfishers were captured in nets, their feathers taken from them while they were still alive in order to preserve their beautiful blue colour.

      ‘But that’s cruel,’ I said.

      ‘And yet it is a Chinese tradition, and a highly valued skill,’ Miss Kent countered. ‘We can’t simply dismiss things that are unfamiliar to us as cruel, Nancy. We must learn to understand, and respect.’

      Even so, I was relieved when Shu Lan explained that the activity was now illegal. We finished our snowflakes in silence.

      That night, I dreamed of lost things and of kingfishers trapped in a metalsmith’s net. I was still dreaming when I was woken by the sound of an approaching aeroplane. The dormitory was dark as I crept out of bed and tiptoed to the window. The floorboards were cold. They creaked beneath my bare feet.

      As I opened the shutter, a Japanese plane flew low over the school chapel and headed out across the bay. In the distance, a line of soldiers marched toward a truck. The Japanese army had occupied the city of Chefoo a year before I’d arrived at the school, so I was used to seeing the soldiers coming and going on operations against their enemy. We understood that Britain wasn’t at war with Japan, so although it was unusual for one of their planes to fly so close to the school, I hardly gave it a moment’s thought and turned my attention instead to the fat snowflakes tumbling from the sky. I pressed my forehead to the glass, delighted by the spectacle.

      I watched until I began to shiver from the cold and climbed back into bed. I pulled the sheets up to my nose, wrapped my arms around myself, and listened to the soft patter of snow at the window. I imagined Mummy lying awake somewhere too, remembering a time when we’d watched the snow together, missing me so much that her bones ached. I wished, more than anything, that I was with her and not stuck at school, and hoped I really would see her in the spring.

      But wishes and hopes are fragile things, easily crushed by the marching boots of enemy soldiers.

       ELSPETH

      I rose before dawn, my sleep disturbed by the prospect of the difficult conversations the morning would bring, and by Japanese soldiers roaring past the school gates in their noisy trucks until the small hours. While I knew they posed no threat to a western missionary school, I didn’t care to be so close to other people’s disputes, especially when it kept me awake half the night and left unsightly bags under my eyes.

      I washed and dressed and made my bed, hospital corners precisely tucked in, the eiderdown smoothed of any unsightly creases. A cursory glance in the mirror left me wishing I could remove the lines from my face as easily. I missed the Elspeth Kent I used to see in the reflection; the carefree young thing who’d smiled for a week when Harry Evans asked her to dance. I hoped I might still find some scraps of her in England. Stitch her back together. Make Do and Mend. After all, wasn’t that what the Ministry encouraged?

      The decades-old floorboards creaked and cracked beneath my shoes as I made my way along the corridor and downstairs, past trophy cabinets and the many proud moments of the school’s history. Once outside, I took a moment to glance toward the waters of the bay and then hurried on across the courtyard, beneath the branches of the plum trees, to the old stone chapel. My footsteps echoed off the flagstones as I walked to the altar and bent my head in prayer before settling into a pew. I sat in silent thought, remembering the wedding day that had been cruelly taken from me, and the other I’d walked away from. I was six thousand miles away from home, and still they haunted me: the man I should have married, and the man who had nearly taken his place. Ghosts now, both of them.

      Pushing my memories aside, I took my letter of resignation from my pocket. I’d agonized over the words for so long they were imprinted on my mind. It is with much difficulty, and after a great deal of personal anguish and reflection, that I must inform you of my intention to leave my position at Chefoo School and return to my family in England … For weeks it had idled among the pages of my Girl Guide Handbook. I would give it to the principal of the Girls’ School after assembly that morning, and confirm my intention to return to England on the next available steamer from Shanghai. There was no reason to delay further, although the prospect of telling Minnie Butterworth – my dearest friend on the teaching staff –wasn’t quite so straightforward. Calling off a wedding and travelling halfway around the world had been easy in comparison.

      I sat in the chapel until the cold got the better of my faith, and made my way outside to discover a soft blanket of snow had fallen. It was a perfect winter morning, still and calm. I stood for a moment beneath the arched lintel of the chapel doorway, admiring the quiet beauty and the deliciously plump flakes. Across the courtyard, Shu Lan, was already busy with her day’s work. She paused to listen to the distant toll of the Buddhist temple bells. I listened too, imagining that they were saying goodbye. China was almost invisible beneath the western sensibilities of Chefoo School and its privileged offspring of missionaries and diplomats, so much so that I sometimes forgot I was in China at all. The temple bells and the snow-covered branches of the plum and gingko trees were a timely reminder of place, and that as the seasons moved on, so must I.

      A smile laced the edge of my lips. Finally, I would set in motion the wheels that would lead me back home. But the heavy drone of an approaching aircraft interrupted the delicate silence, and saw my smile quickly fade.

      Instinctively, I stepped back inside the chapel doorway and tipped my face skywards, shielding my eyes against the swirling snow. I brushed a stray curl from my cheek as I watched the aircraft pass directly overhead. I stared up at the distinctive red circles painted onto the wingtips, and tracked a stream of papers that tumbled from the rear of the craft before the pilot banked sharply over Chefoo harbour, and disappeared into the rose-tinted snow clouds.

      When I was quite sure it had gone, I brushed snow from the bottom of my coat, and grabbed one of the papers as it fluttered toward me through the frigid air. I stood perfectly still as I read an English translation of the front page of a Japanese newspaper: We hereby declare War on the United States of America and the British Empire. The men and officers of Our Army and Navy shall do their utmost in prosecuting the war … I skimmed over the full declaration, my hand raised to my mouth in dread as I reached the signature, HIROHITO, and the distinctive chrysanthemum emblem of the Japanese Imperial Seal.

      I leaned against the chapel wall to steady myself as the world seemed to tilt a little to one side.

      It had happened then, just as we’d feared.

      Britain was at war with Japan.

      I immediately made my way back to the school building, my footprints sinking deep in the snow as I scooped up as many leaflets as I could. Across the courtyard, beneath the plum trees, I saw Shu Lan doing the same. We paused and looked at each other for the briefest moment before resuming our collection. As I turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of an eager little face peering out at the snow through an upstairs dormitory window, warm breaths misting the glass. Nancy Plummer. The sight of her set my mind racing. What would the declaration of war mean for the children with their parents already thousands of miles away? I sighed as I searched for the ocean in the distance. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Maybe I could take a rickshaw to the harbour and set out for Shanghai later that morning.

      When it was time for morning assembly, I slipped into the back of the packed hall, beside Minnie, who towered above me.

      She tapped her wristwatch. ‘What kept you? It’s not like you to be late.’ If she noticed the fear and worry in my eyes, she was kind enough not to say anything.

      Minnie had been at the school almost seven years. We hadn’t hit it off at first, my natural pessimism and faltering faith rather at odds with her stoic optimism and steadfast devoutness, but we’d recognized something familiar in our Northern sensibilities, not to mention the silent shame that surrounded women like us –

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