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 aloofness 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 the 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,” I 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. I 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 hill. 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.”
“How kind you are,” Sachiko said age in. Then she smiled once more. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll make a splendid mother.”
After parting with Sachiko, I made my way down the hill and back through the housing precinct. I soon found myself back outside our apartment block, facing that expanse of wasteground. Seeing no sign of the little girl, I was about to go inside, but then caught sight of some movement along the riverbank. Mariko must previously have been crouching down, for now I could see her small figure quite clearly across the muddy ground. At first, I felt the urge to forget the whole matter and return to my housework. Eventually, however, I began making my way towards her, taking care to avoid the ditches.
As far as I remember, that was the first occasion I spoke to Mariko. Quite probably there was nothing so unusual about her behaviour that morning, for, after all, I was a stranger to the child and she had every right to regard me with suspicion. And if in fact I did experience a curious feeling of unease at the time, it was probably nothing more than a simple response to Mariko’s manner.
The river that morning was still quite high and flowing swiftly after the rainy season a few weeks earlier. The ground sloped down steeply before it reached the water’s edge, and the mud at the foot of the slope, where the little girl was standing, looked distinctly wetter. Mariko was dressed in a simple cotton dress which ended at her knees, and her short trimmed hair made her face look boyish. She looked up, not smiling, to where I stood at the top of the muddy slope.
“Hello,” I said, “I was just speaking with your mother. You must be Mariko-San.”
The little girl continued to stare up at me, saying nothing. What I had thought earlier to be a wound on her cheek, I now saw to be a smudge of mud.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?” I asked.
She remained silent for a moment. Then she said: “I don’t go to school.”
“But all children must go to school. Don’t you like to go?”
“I don’t go to school.”
“But hasn’t your mother sent you to a school here?”
Mariko did not reply. Instead, she took a step away from me.
“Careful,” I said. “You’ll fall into the water. It’s very slippery.”
She continued to stare up at me from the bottom of the slope. I could see her small shoes lying in the mud beside her. Her bare feet, like her shoes, were covered in mud.
“I was just speaking with your mother,” I said, smiling at her reassuringly. “She said it would be perfectly all right if you came and waited for her at my house. It’s just over there, that building there. You could come and try some cakes I made yesterday. Would you like that, Mariko-San? And you could tell me all about yourself.”
Mariko continued to watch me carefully. Then, without taking her eyes off me, she crouched down and picked up her shoes. At first, I took this as a sign that she was about to follow me. But then as she continued to stare up at me, I realized she was holding her shoes in readiness to run away.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, with a nervous laugh. “I’m a friend of your mother’s.”
As far as I remember, that was all that took place between us that morning. I had no wish to alarm the child further, and before long I turned and made my way back across the wasteground. The child’s response had, it is true, upset me somewhat; for in those days, such small things were capable of arousing in me every kind of misgiving about motherhood. I told myself the episode was insignificant, and that in any case, further opportunities to make friends with the little girl were bound to present themselves over the coming days. As it was, I did not speak to Mariko again until one afternoon a fortnight or so later.