Summer of the Three Pagodas

  By the Same Author

  Tears of the Dragon

  SUMMER OF THE THREE PAGODAS

  Jean Moran

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Jean Moran, 2020

  The moral right of Jean Moran to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781788542586

  ISBN (ANZTPB): 9781838934453

  ISBN (E): 9781788542579

  Head of Zeus Ltd

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  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Hong Kong, 1950

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13: Korea

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19: Hong Kong

  Chapter 20: Korea

  Chapter 21: Hong Kong

  Chapter 22: Korea

  Chapter 23: Hong Kong

  Chapter 24: Korea

  Chapter 25: Hong Kong

  Chapter 26: Korea

  Chapter 27: Japan

  Chapter 28: Hong Kong

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  To my daughter and my granddaughters.

  May they never have to experience anything like this

  Chapter 1

  Hong Kong, 1950

  Wind and heavy rain swooped under ill-fitting doors, through cracks in crumbling walls and funnelled up narrow alleys. Waves in the harbour piled up into mountains and sent huddled sampans crashing and rolling into each other. Larger vessels fared little better, freighters and oil tankers from all over the world lolled like listless whales whilst inside their cavernous bellies their crews hunkered down until the typhoon – the dragon wind – had breathed its last.

  On the battered land, ramshackle dwellings took flight on the furious updraught. Clothes and baskets, umbrellas, leaves and branches became air-borne missiles, some more dangerous than others. Cooking pots and tin cans rolled along streets, clanging like bells.

  Fragments of humanity who hadn’t been blown away with their makeshift dwellings crowded the reception area and narrow corridors of Victoria House; some injured and all of them hungry.

  Life went on as it always would and the typhoon would pass – as it always did.

  In the midst of the deluge babies were being born with uncommon regularity; already today Dr Rowena Rossiter had delivered three, one of them born outside on the steps of Victoria House in fluid and afterbirth that was quickly swept away by the pouring rain.

  Immediately following the birth and being told she had a daughter, the mother struggled to her feet. Someone held an umbrella over Rowena’s head as she tidied up the child and wrapped it in a scrap of blanket that they kept for such eventualities. The mother was quick on her feet. The moment she became aware of the girl child, she escaped their clutches as speedily as the wind, disappearing into the filthy night.

  A porter was sent to give chase, but his task was a difficult one. Soaked by rain and blinded by darkness, the odds were against him. By the time he came back the baby had been given its first post-birth feed and was bedded down in a metal crib that was only just a little bigger than a bucket. Well lined with clean blankets, the solid sides kept out the worst of the draughts.

  When the porter shook his head droplets of rain trickled from his hair and eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Rossiter, but she ran very quickly.’

  Resigned to what had happened and from experience knowing there was nothing she could do about it, Rowena thanked him for his efforts. ‘I’m sure you did your best.’

  His head remained bowed with apology. Rowena knew he had no real need to be apologetic. Similar things had happened before. Women already burdened with a large family and no means of feeding another mouth – especially a girl – made considered choices. The baby could have been left outside a church or convent – worse still, thrown onto a refuse dump or into the sea – smothered beforehand, sometimes. This baby had been lucky enough to be left with people who would ensure she was looked after.

  The windows of the old building ran with rivers of condensation. The rain continued to lash against the trembling panes as though trying to break through. The windows were draughty, the metal frames becoming rustier with the passing of time.

  The storm was subsiding, as was the number of people seeking medical attention. In a brief moment of respite, she slumped into the chair behind her desk, closed her eyes and slipped off her shoes.

  The night became quieter with the advent of midnight. She was glad of it. A peaceful moment. There were so few and when they came were to be relished.

  Hong Kong was crowded and getting even more so. The tide of refugees from mainland China had grown; so had the incidence of babies being born. It was, she thought, as though humanity was attempting to make up for the millions of war dead. Her only regret was that she herself had not conceived. She had the man and there was no doubting the passion between her and Connor O’Connor. They’d been through a lot together, not least imprisonment during the war, she in Hong Kong and he, ultimately, in Japan, taken there as slave labour. To some extent they’d found the sunny uplands Churchill had promised in the midst of war. There was only one thing they’d so far not achieved and wished for. They deserved the absolute happiness of a child and had promised themselves that they would marry once she’d conceived. She smiled. It certainly wasn’t for the want of trying.

  Her musings faded when Sister Barbara Kelly poked her head around the screen that served as the door to her office, flashing a dimpled smile.

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘I would love one.’

  ‘Ginger biscuit?’

  ‘I would love one of those too.’

  Ignoring the raging storm battering at the windows and making the linen screen wobble, they sat on either side of Rowena’s battered desk, dipping biscuits into the tea, discussing patients, the way of the world, the many babies being born. They also discussed those abandoned on the doorsteps of churches, police stations and army barracks. Worst of all were those small bodies found floating in the harbour, bouncing like mangled coconuts between the sampans and junks.

  The conversation naturally turned to the latest abandoned newborn.

  ‘The mother ran like a greyhound. I wonder whether she would have run away if the baby had been a boy.’

  Rowena shrugged. ‘Less likely. But I do feel for her. No way of limiting family size and condemned for giving bir
th to a girl child.’

  ‘Who knows? She might have a few daughters already and no boys. People do keep trying for what they really want. Sad though.’

  Rowena sighed and held her hand to her brow. ‘Sad indeed. Sometimes I feel totally helpless.’

  Barbara shook her head, the corners of her lips downturned. ‘It’s a very sad state of affairs, but there, what can we do? And so many reasons; women with too many mouths to feed. Single women, their reputations ruined if it becomes common knowledge that they’re pregnant – even if they’ve been raped. Then there are those who miscarry a malformed child…’ She shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is. There really is nothing we can do about it.’

  Rowena frowned at her teacup and shook her head. ‘At this moment, not much, but who knows what the future holds. Science is continually unlocking more and more of Mother Nature’s secrets. Things will change. Perhaps not in our lifetime…’

  Barbara regarded the thoughtful look in Rowena’s eyes but found it difficult to read. In a bid to drag her back from her thoughts and get her talking again, she mentioned the details of an abortionist who had been arrested by the Hong Kong police, but released when nobody would come forward to condemn the person concerned.

  Rowena sighed and unclasped her hands on which she’d been resting her chin.

  ‘That abortionist was responsible for the deaths of at least three women.’

  ‘Whoever does that kind of thing is a criminal. Abortion will always be illegal and that’s the way it should stay. That’s what I think anyway. Get married first and all will be well – and if not be careful. It’s the only advice we can give,’ said Barbara, eyeing the last ginger biscuit which had obligingly broken into two halves. She reached out and took the largest piece.

  Rowena had known Barbara for only a short time. She found her bouncy and fun, but at times a little dogmatic, even a bit self-righteous. ‘It might not always be that way and I for one will be glad when a woman can approach her sexuality on the same level as a man; without fear and able to enjoy lovemaking without worrying about an unwanted pregnancy. Men certainly don’t.’

  Barbara winced at the stalwart manner in which Rowena stated her case.

  Finally she found her voice. ‘I can’t really see things changing that much. I mean, abortion will never be legalised and…’

  Barbara had the kind of complexion that always looked as though she’d just finished washing it with scented soap and water. It always looked healthy and outdoor fresh and was naturally pink. Even so, Rowena perceived a deeper pinkness seeping over her peaches and cream complexion and knew she was thinking about available forms of contraception which at present were mainly the man’s prerogative. Most women thought that way; leave it up to the man. It was enough to be an object of a man’s desire, to be wanted, to be possessed.

  Rowena had her own views and they were becoming more entrenched along with her growing inclination to question the status quo. At one time she would have bitten her tongue before declaring her corner. Not now.

  She leaned forward, hands clasped in front of her, eyes shining with fervour, so much so that Barbara retreated into the back of her chair.

  ‘I firmly believe things have to change and believe they will. Not yet, perhaps, but great freedoms were won for mankind in the first half of this century and there’s another half to go. The first step for women was gaining the right to vote. It was the first tentative step, but, Barbara, there are more domestic freedoms needed to be won for women. Things will change, Barbara. Somebody will develop a better contraceptive than a rubber johnny and quite frankly I’m all for it.’

  Barbara winced at Rowena’s mention of rubber sheaths but then pulled herself together and made her own statement.

  ‘They work if you’re careful.’

  Rowena leapt onto what was almost a confession of personal experience. ‘I take it you’re speaking from first-hand knowledge.’

  For a moment it looked as though Barbara was disinclined to say more. A forthright toss of her head and she made her confession.

  ‘Of course I am. Touch wood I’ve never known one to fail. God forbid I ever have to consider something more drastic.’ She shivered. ‘I wouldn’t have an abortion. At least I don’t think I would.’ She shook her head. ‘And I don’t like Dutch caps. It’s too… well… planned, the having to shove it in beforehand. But definitely no to an abortion, back street or otherwise. I would never do it.’

  ‘You might. It depends on the resultant fallout – loss of respectable reputation and your career in ruins. Hospitals dislike employing unmarried mothers – not because they’re incapable of doing their job, but purely as a moral statement. Fallen women need not apply here!’

  She was on fire with all this. For the most part she controlled all these buried beliefs, but there were times when they poured out – like now.

  Barbara, respectful as ever because Rowena was a doctor – even though only a female one – and she was only a nurse, shook her head. ‘With all due respect, Dr Rossiter, I can’t see abortion ever being made legal.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong. It will come; when, I don’t know, but mark my words, it will be legalised – and in our lifetime.’

  Barbara looked very shocked.

  ‘And you agree with it?’

  ‘Absolutely. A woman should be able to choose whether she wants children or not. Better contraception is the first step. Prevention is better than cure – in this case abortion. But even that will come. At some point in the future it will become legal.’

  Barbara looked thoughtful as she clutched at her cup. ‘You sound as though you’re in favour of it.’

  ‘To some extent, yes. Especially in rape cases or where the mother’s health is endangered – though I wouldn’t condemn anyone out of hand. Everyone has a reason and deserves to be listened to. Things happen. Anyway, it’s only the poor who don’t get abortions – we both know that. If you’ve got enough money, anything is possible.’

  ‘Yes. I have heard that. As you say, anything is possible for the right money.’

  Rowena sipped at the last of her tea. Barbara had slipped into silence and seemed to be holding her breath. Somehow Rowena guessed what was coming.

  ‘Would you carry out the procedure?’

  Rowena found herself being more forthright than she’d meant to be. ‘Yes. In certain circumstances. Rape leading to social stigma. Or if the child was deformed, though ultimately it’s the mother’s decision.’

  ‘What about the father? Do you think he should have a say?’

  Rowena winced. The question was unwelcome. Without her being aware, Barbara had resurrected old images with alarming clarity. Wickedly laughing faces flashed into her mind, Christmas decorations dancing overhead, and the abuses of a number of Japanese soldiers, one of whom had fathered her daughter.

  ‘Not necessarily. It depends. As I said, ultimately it’s a mother’s decision. It’s her body. Anyway, that’s enough of that subject.’ She stretched her arms above her head and tried to pretend that she wasn’t tired out and that this unnerving conversation had never happened. ‘Let’s talk about what you’re going to wear this evening and where you’re going.’

  Barbara flushed slightly and her eyes sparkled. ‘How did you know I had a date tonight?’

  Folding her hands on top of her head, Rowena looked at her and smiled. ‘You hum romantic ballads when you’ve got a date – even when administering a bedpan. And you usually tell me you’re undecided what to wear.’

  Barbara beamed. ‘Not tonight. I know exactly what I’m going to wear. I had a tailor just off Shantung Street make me a blue silk dress. The feel of it… wonderful!’

  ‘And who is the lucky man?’

  Barbara, whose romantic notions kept a spring in her step and a very full social diary, tapped her chin with one finger. ‘I can’t tell you. Not yet anyway, but he’s a real gentleman. He’s taking me to the Shanghai Midnight Club. It’s very exclusive. Drinks, dinner and some dancing. But
nothing else,’ she said, smirking as she got to her feet. ‘Especially following this conversation.’

  Rowena smiled and her eyebrows arched almost as far as her hairline. ‘Unless he’s a true boy scout?’

  ‘What?’

  Rowena grinned. ‘Well prepared!’

  The wind sent something crashing outside.

  On looking out they saw the tin roof of an outhouse had been ripped off and sent cavorting into the old dovecote. The shadowy branches of a naked cherry tree waved like spindly arms. An item of escaped laundry, a long tunic, had wrapped itself around the trunk of the tree, twigs looking like hands protruding from the voluminous sleeves.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Barbara. ‘Look at that. It looks like just like a Chinaman – or the ghost of one at least. Don’t you think so?’

  Rowena did not respond as she too stared into the darkness. The shadow had startled her and for a moment it had truly felt as though somebody had walked over her grave.

  *

  The typhoon didn’t subside until late at night though the water in the harbour still surged, sending vessels bobbing up and down, their lights twinkling like grounded stars.

  Rowena poured herself a stiff drink. Her head ached, her arms were tired and she was glad that Barbara was the one going out tonight and not her.

  She reopened a notification she’d received from the Trustees of Victoria House. Her contract was coming to an end.

  ‘…Under the circumstances…’

  The circumstances were that they wanted to wrest control from her. The prospect of being dismissed hurt. Victoria House had been hers from the start. It seemed she had now reached the end.

  Connor rang to say that no ferries would be running from Kowloon to Hong Kong until the storm had blown itself out.

  Rowena adopted an air of exasperation that she did not feel. ‘It’s after midnight.’

  ‘I still thought I’d say goodnight. I trust Dawn is sleeping through all this?’

  ‘A weekend home from school and a typhoon descends on us. I’d promised to take her swimming. I don’t think we’ll be making it this weekend. Still, it’s nice to have her home if only for a short while.