“But her education, what will become of that?”
Sachiko laughed again. “Etsuko, I’m not about to leave for the jungle. There are such things as schools in America. And you must understand, my daughter is a very bright child. Her father was an accomplished man, and on my side too, there were relatives of the highest rank. You mustn’t suppose, Etsuko, simply because you’ve seen her in these … in these present surroundings, that she’s some peasant’s child.”
“Of course not. I didn’t for one moment …”
“She’s a very bright child. You haven’t seen her as she really is, Etsuko. In surroundings like this, you can only expect a child to prove a little awkward at times. But if you’d seen her while we were at my uncle’s house, you’d have seen her true qualities then. If an adult addressed her, she’d answer back very clearly and intelligently, there’d be none of this giggling and shying away like most other children. And there were certainly none of these little games of hers. She went to school, and made friends with the best kinds of children. And we had a private tutor for her, and he praised her very highly. It was astonishing how quickly she began to catch up.”
“To catch up?”
“Well” — Sachiko gave a shrug — “it’s unfortunate that Mariko’s education’s had to be interrupted from time to time. What with one thing and another, and our moving around so much. But these are difficult times we’ve come through, Etsuko. If it wasn’t for the war, if my husband was still alive, then Mariko would have had the kind of upbringing appropriate to a family of our position.”
“Yes,” I said. “Indeed.”
Perhaps Sachiko had caught something in my tone; she looked up and stared at me, and when she spoke again, her voice had become more tense.
“I didn’t need to leave Tokyo, Etsuko,” she said. “But I did, for Mariko’s sake. I came all this way to stay at my uncle’s house, because I thought it would be best for my daughter. I didn’t have to do that, I didn’t need to leave Tokyo at all.”
I gave a bow. Sachiko looked at me for a moment, then turned and gazed out through the open partitions, out into the darkness.
“But you’ve left your uncle now,” I said. “And now you’re about to leave Japan.”
Sachiko glared at me angrily. “Why do you speak to me like this, Etsuko? Why is it you can’t wish me well? Is it simply that you’re envious?”
“But I do wish you well. And I assure you I …”
“Mariko will be fine in America, why won’t you believe that? It’s a better place for a child to grow up. And she’ll have far more opportunities there, life’s much better for a woman in America.”
“I assure you I’m happy for you. As for myself, I couldn’t be happier with things as they are. Jiro’s work is going so well, and now the child arriving just when we wanted it …”
“She could become a business girl, a film actress even. America’s like that, Etsuko, so many things are possible. Frank says I could become a business woman too. Such things are possible out there.”
“I’m sure they are. It’s just that personally, I’m very happy with my life where I am.”
Sachiko gazed at the two small kittens, clawing at the tatami beside her. For several moments we were silent.
“I must be getting back,” I said, eventually. “They’ll be getting worried about me.” I rose to my feet, but Sachiko did not take her eyes off the kittens. “When is it you leave?” I asked.
“Within the next few days. Frank will come and get us in his car. We should be on a ship by the end of the week.”
“I take it then you won’t be helping Mrs Fujiwara much longer.”
Sachiko looked up at me with a short incredulous laugh. “Etsuko, I’m about to go to America. There’s no need for me to work any more in a noodle shop.”
“I see.”
“In fact, Etsuko, perhaps you’d care to tell Mrs Fujiwara what’s happened to me. I don’t expect to be seeing her again.”
“Won’t you tell her yourself?”
She sighed impatiently. “Etsuko, can’t you appreciate how loathsome it’s been for someone such as myself to work each day in a noodle shop? But I didn’t complain and I did what was required of me. But now it’s over, I’ve no great wish to see that place again.” A kitten had been clawing at the sleeve of Sachiko’s kimono. She gave it a sharp slap with the back of her hand and the little creature went scurrying back across the tatami. “So please give my regards to Mrs Fujiwara,” she said. “And my best wishes for her trade.”
“I’ll do that. Now please excuse me, I must go.”
This time, Sachiko got to her feet and accompanied me to the entryway.
“I’ll come and say goodbye before we leave,” she said, as I was putting on my sandals.
At first it had seemed a perfectly innocent dream; I had merely dreamt of something I had seen the previous day — the little girl we had watched playing in the park. And then the dream came back the following night. Indeed, over the past few months, it has returned to me several times.
Niki and I had watched the girl playing on the swings the afternoon we had walked into the village. It was the third day of Niki’s visit and the rain had eased to a drizzle. I had not been out of the house for several days and enjoyed the feel of the air as we stepped into the winding lane outside.
Niki tended to walk rather fast, her narrow leather boots creaking with each stride. Although I found it no trouble keeping up with her, I would have preferred a more leisurely pace. Niki, one supposes, has yet to learn the pleasures of walking for its own sake. Neither does she seem sensitive to the feel of the countryside despite having grown up here. I said as much to her as we walked, and she retorted that this was not the real countryside, just a residential version to cater for the wealthy people who lived here. I dare say she is right; I have never ventured north to the agricultural areas of England where, Niki insists, I will find the real countryside. Nevertheless, there is a calm and quietness about these lanes I have come to appreciate over the years.
When we arrived at the village I took Niki to the tea shop where I sometimes go. The village is small, just a few hotels and shops; the tea shop is on a street corner, upstairs above a bakery. That afternoon, Niki and I sat at a table next to the windows, and it was from there we watched the little girl playing in the park below. As we watched, she climbed on to a swing and called out towards two women sitting together on a bench nearby. She was a cheerful little girl, dressed in a green mackintosh and small Wellington boots.
“Perhaps you’ll get married and have children soon,” I said. “I miss little children.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like less,” said Niki.
“Well, I suppose you’re still rather young.”
“It’s nothing to do with how young or old I am. I just don’t feel like having a lot of kids screaming around me.”
“Don’t worry, Niki,” I said, with a laugh. “I wasn’t insisting you became a mother just yet. I had this passing fancy just now to be a grandmother, that’s all. I thought perhaps you’d oblige, but it can wait.”
The little girl, standing on the seat of the swing, was pulling hard on the chains, but somehow she could not make the swing go higher. She smiled anyway and called out again to the women.
“A friend of mine’s just had a baby,” Niki said. “She’s really pleased. I can’t think why. Horrible screaming thing she’s produced.”
“Well, at least she’s happy. How old is your friend?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen? She’s even younger than you are. Is she married?”