She opened the top drawer of Dad’s chest and saw all his socks: some in pairs, others odd, most of them full of holes. For some reason, the sight of them lying there in the drawer, the intimate reminder of his lack of care for material things, brought tears to her eyes. She slammed the drawer shut and sat down on the bed sobbing.
She looked up to see Ken in the doorway.
‘I’m so sorry, lassie,’ he said, sitting beside her, his own lips quivering. ‘Perhaps you’re not ready to sort through your Da’s things yet.’
‘I wasn’t sorting through his things. I was … looking for something. I’ve just been to the War Museum. I read some of the accounts of men who’d been on the railway with Dad. Oh, Ken, what he must have been through. I was just looking to see if he’d saved anything, you know, from that time.’
‘I don’t suppose he kept anything. He didn’t want to remember it.’
‘There were a few odd things in a drawer in the study. A couple of old badges and a ring. I wondered if he’d kept anything else.’
‘You don’t need to torture yourself with all this.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s the least I can do, after what he went through.’
‘But not now, lassie. Why don’t you wait a while? What’s happened to laughing boy, by the way?’
She couldn’t help but smile at the nickname. She dried her eyes.
‘I’m not sure. He’s gone away for a few days. I think he found it a bit claustrophobic here.’
‘He shouldn’t leave you at a time like this.’
‘It’s not his fault …’ she began, but stopped. It was useless to argue. Ken was right.
He’d been right all along about Luke.
‘Ah, well. It’s not my place to say anything,’ he went on.
‘Like “I told you so”?’
‘An artist’s intuition, perhaps,’ he said with a wry smile.
‘Can you think of anywhere that Dad might have kept stuff?’ she said after a short silence.
‘Hmm,’ Ken thought for a moment. ‘There was an old trunk of Tom’s in the corner of the loft. I remember seeing it when I put some old paintings up there years ago.’
‘Shall we go up and have a look?’ She got up from the bed with a tingle of anticipation.
Ken found an old step-ladder in the back yard and carried it up to the top floor. It wobbled as he mounted it and pushed open the loft door. She watched from the landing as he hauled his bony frame through the trap door.
‘Can you see anything?’
‘There used to be a light up here somewhere. Ah, here it is.’
The trapdoor space filled with yellow light. This was followed by a few thumps and crashes as he moved the old pictures aside. Then came the sound of him dragging something heavy across the loft floor, and the sight of his bare feet dangling down through the hole.
‘Hold onto the ladder, lassie. I’m coming down.’
Ken held the ladder for her when she climbed it. She tried not to look down at the gap between the banisters, through which she glimpsed dizzying views of the hall, three flights below. She crawled into the filthy loft full of bird droppings and dirt. In front of her was an old leather trunk covered in dust. She stood up and wiped away the dust on the lid. She saw that a torn luggage label was glued onto it: ‘Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ellis, 15 Gordon Square, London’. Beside the address was a faded date stamp. Peering closely, she could just make out the words: ‘Georgetown, November 1941.’
14
Tom lost track of how long he’d been festering in the pit. His whole body was in constant pain. His muscles and bones still throbbed and ached from the beating. The stinging and itching from the cuts on his skin, now swollen and suppurating with infection, was intolerable. He was forced into a constant stoop, his spine bent to fit the shape of the pit. Would he ever be able to stand straight again? Not that it mattered. He would probably die in here, or be dragged out and shot like Ian and Harry.
Often he was deafened by the tropical rain drumming on the tin roof, gushing down the sides of the pit, collecting in the bottom, so he was up to his knees in filth. He remained there shivering uncontrollably, his teeth clamped together, overwhelmed with hatred for his captors, willing the time to pass and his ordeal to be over. At other times the sun would beat down on the metal, heating up the pit to oven temperature. Steam would rise from the putrid puddle, and his body would run with sweat. Barely able to breathe, he would slip into a heady, delirious state, his mind clouded with bitterness and confusion.
Every day was the same. Before the sun rose, he would be jolted from his semi-conscious state by the clatter of the tin roof being ripped off above his head. One of the guards, jabbering at him in Japanese, would shove a plate of semi-cooked rice against his face, before slamming the tin roof back over him. With trembling hands he would try to force the food down his throat, gagging and retching out most of it.
Through the bamboo bars he would then watch the camp assemble for roll call as the
