“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 Nagasaki. 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 Jiro. I do not claim to recall Jiro with affection, but then he was never the oafish man my husband considered him to be. Jiro 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 ruined 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 child-like 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 Morrisons 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 to 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 bring any 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 plants, 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 speculation. In 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 — I 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 Jiro. However, such things are in the past now, and there is little to be gained in going over them here.