it from our window, standing alone at the end of that expanse of wasteground, practically on the edge of the river. It was the kind of cottage often seen in the 6iiiff is, e,with a tiled roof sloping almost to the ground. Often, during my empty moments, I would stand at my window gazing at it.
To judge from the attention attracted by Sachiko?s arrival, I was not alone in gazing at that cottage. There was much talk about two men seen working there one day ? as to whether or not they were government workers. Later there was talk that a woman and her little girl were living there, and I saw them myself on several occasions, making their way across the ditchy ground.
It was towards the beginning of summer ? I was in my third or fourth month of pregnancy by then ? when I first watched that large American car, white and battered, bumping its way over the wasteground towards the river. It was well into the evening, and the sun setting behind the cottage gleamed a moment against the metal.
Then one afternoon I heard two women talking at the tram stop, about the woman who had moved into the derelict house by the river. One was explaining to her companion how she had spoken to the woman that morning and had received a dear snub. Her companion agreed the newcomer seemed unfriendly ? proud probably. She must be thirty at the youngest, they thought, for the child was at least ten. The first woman said the stranger had spoken with a Tokyo dialect and certainly was not from Nagasaki. They discussed for a while her ?American friend?, then the woman spoke again of how unfriendly the stranger had been to her that morning.
Now I do not doubt that amongst those women I lived with then, there were those who had suffered, those with sad and terrible memories. But to watch them each day, busily involved with their husbands and their children, I found this hard to believe ? that their lives had ever held the tragedies and nightmares of wartime. It was never my intention to appear unfriendly, but it was probably true that i made no special effort to seem otherwise, for at that point in my life, I was still wishing to be left alone.
It was with interest then that I listened to those women talking of Sachiko. I can recall quite vividly that afternoon at the tram stop. It was one of the first days of bright sunlight after the rainy season in June, and the soaked surfaces of brick and concrete were drying all around us. We were standing on a railway bridge and on one side of the tracks at the foot of the hill could be seen a cluster of roofs, as if houses had come tumbling down the slope.
Beyond the houses, a little way off, were our apartment blocks standing like four concrete pillars. I felt a kind of sympathy for Sachiko then, and felt I understood something of that aloof i had noticed about her when I had watched her from afar.
We were to become friends that summer and for a short time at least I was to be admitted into her confidence. I am not sure now how it was we first met. I remember one afternoon spotting her figure ahead of me on thd path leading out of the housing precinct. I was hurrying, but Sachiko walked on with a steady stride. By that point we must have already known each other by name, for I remember calling to her as I got nearer.
Sachiko turned and waited for me to catch up. ?Is something wrong?? she asked.
?I?m glad I found you,? I said, a little out of breath. ?Your daughter, she was fighting just as I came out. Back there near the ditches?
?She was fighting??
?With two other children. One of them was a boy. It looked a nasty little fight.?
?I see.? Sachiko began to walk again. I fell in step beside her.
?I don?t want to alarm you,? 1 said, ?but it did look quite a nasty fight. In fact, I think I saw a cut on your daughter?s cheek.?
?I see.?
?It was back there, on the edge of the wasteground.?
?And are they still fighting, do you think?? She continued to walk up the hill.
?Well, no. 1 saw your daughter running off.?
Sachiko looked at me and smiled. ?Are you not used to seeing children fight??
?Well, children do fight, I suppose. But I thought I ought to tell you. And you see, I don?t think she?s on her way to school. The other children carried on towards the school, but your daughter went back towards the river.?
Sachiko made no reply and continued to walk up the hill. ?As a matter of fact,? I continued, ?I?d meant to mention this to you before. You see, I?ve seen your daughter on a number of occasions recently. I wonder, perhaps, if she hasn?t been playing truant a Little.?
The path forked at the top of the bill. Sachiko stopped and we turned to each other.
?It?s very kind of you to be so concerned, Etsuko,? she said. ?So very kind. I?m sure you?ll make a splendid mother.?
I had supposed previously ? like the women at the tram stop ? that Sachiko was a woman of thirty or so. But possibly her youthful figure had been deceiving, for she had the face of an older person. She was gazing at me with a slightly amused expression, and something in the way she did so caused me to laugh self-consciously.
?I do appreciate your coming to find me like this,? she went on. ?But as you see, I?m rather busy just now. I have to go into Nagasaki.?
?I see. I just thought it best to come and tell you, that?s all.?
for a moment, she continued to look at me with her amused expression. Then she said: ?How kind you are. Now please excuse me. I must get into town.? She bowed, then turned towards the path that led up towards the tram stop.
?It?s just that she had a cut on her face,? I said, raising my voice a little. ?And the river?s quite dangerous in places. I thought it best to come and tell you.?
She turned and looked at me once more. ?If you have nothing else to concern yourself with, Etsuko,? she said, ?then perhaps you?d care to look after my daughter for the day. I?ll be back sometime in the afternoon. I?m sure you?ll get on very well with her.?
?I wouldn?t object, if that?s what you wish. I must say, your daughter seems quite young to be Left on her own all day.?
