I put my arm around her, held her small frame close to me and smiled at her, trying to convey reassurance and comfort.
“Mr. Simpson, please tell her exactly what I’m saying,” and he nodded assent.
“Teruko, you are my little sister, and I am taking you to England with me, you will be safe there with my family. We will look after you, you will be part of my family now.”
Simpson spoke briefly with her; she listened carefully, hugged me, and stood to bow again, once more saying something almost ritualistic in its formality.
Simpson smiled.” She said ‘Thank you very much, Revered Older Brother!’ Now, if you want to call home, you should probably do it now; we’re nine hours ahead here, so it’s just about seven a. m. in England, there’s a telephone in the dining room if you want some privacy. The international code is 0044 before the number, and these are secured-lines if that kind of thing concerns you.”
I called home and let mum know what I’d done so far, and that I would have to take Teruko to her home to collect her stuff. Mum had cried a little more; I guess me telling her baldly about the things I was having to do now really drove home to her that he was dead and gone. She and father may have been divorced for many years, but they still loved each other, they just weren’t in love with each other, and they were old friends to boot, so the fact of his death had hit her quite hard.
I told her what was likely to happen to Teruko if I left her here alone, and that I’d sort of pledged to look after her, and mum agreed: a civilised man doesn’t abandon a child like that. For the first time ever, she actually told me she was proud of me, which made me feel good inside. She also pointed out that Granddad would be pleased; Teruko was the grand-daughter of his oldest friend, and he would happily support us if we brought her into our family.
The consulate’s services group had agreed to arrange the funeral for father and Setsuko, and promised they would be in touch with Teruko’s guardian (me, I suppose) or her trustees regarding father’s Civil Service pensions, his Death-In-Service benefits, and his property and effects. As I was over 18, and her brother, the Consul-General wasted no time in appointing me her legal guardian pro-tem and releasing her into my care.
Going through my father’s home with Teruko was a strange and eerie experience. Even though I had no real memory of him, the sense of his presence was everywhere, from his shaving kit laid out the bathroom, to what was obviously his favourite coffee mug on the counter in the kitchen, to the clutter of assorted keys, coins, cufflinks, and other paraphernalia in a tray on his dresser.
Teruko mainly wanted her clothes, and I helped her pack a holdall with an amazing number of ‘Hello Kitty’ and ‘Keroppi’ T-shirts, windcheaters, and plastic rain capes, although I did grab a couple of padded jackets for her; England can be cold and damply unpredictable, even in summer.
She stuffed another bag with a pile of photo albums of her mother and father, and some family memento’s. Poor little Teruko was in tears by the time we left, this was her home, but her parents were never coming back, and she was being taken to a foreign country. I didn’t blame her for crying, to be honest I was feeling pretty rotten myself by now; I’d never really made an effort to connect with my father, and now I never could.
She held my hand all the way back to the Residency, tears streaming down her face, and all I could do was pat her hand…
When we got back, we had dinner with the Simpsons, and then Mrs. Simpson took Teruko to her room and got her settled. I was shown to another guest room, where I soon discovered I couldn’t sleep, the events of the day playing out in my head over and over again. I tossed and turned for several hours, before finally turning on a bedside lamp and fishing out a book from my flight bag. I had barely begun reading when there was a light tap on the door. I investigated, and there was Teruko, in a floor length nightgown, eyes bright with un-shed tears, looking small and vulnerable. I gestured for her to come in, and she came in and sat on my bed, lip trembling. I sat next to her and tried to dry her eyes, but she buried her face in my shoulder and cried.
I don’t know how long we sat like that, but at last her tears dried up, and she hugged onto me. At some point she decided she wanted to talk, and she just talked, an endless stream of fluting, liquid syllables, rising and falling in tone, expressive and melodic. Japanese is a nine-toned language, and the constantly shifting tonal phrasing was musical and hypnotic. I began to catch the words ‘Haha’ and ‘Chichi’, the words for Mother and Father, so I knew she was telling me about her parents. Her monologue went on and on; obviously she had a lot to tell me, and I was fascinated, and half hypnotised, listening to the cadence of her speech. Obviously I couldn’t understand what she was saying, so I began making up stories to myself about what she was telling me, about her parents, school, family holidays, and her friends.
She stopped now and then to politely yawn, and I sat more comfortably on my bed, leaning against the backrest with the pillows piled up to prop me up, and Teruko huddled up against me, with my arm around her, still talking, but slower now, yawning very prettily, her speech becoming blurry as she talked herself out.
We must have fallen asleep together, and I awoke to find her fast asleep against me, her hand clutched around my arm as she huddled against me under my arm. She looked even younger asleep, her bottom lip pooched-out adorably, and I felt a wave of compassion and sorrow for her. No-one should have to undergo what had happened to her; what would have happened to her if I hadn’t turned up, who would have taken her, where would she have gone? I shuddered to think; at least she would be safe with Mother and me, with Granddad as a backup.
The funeral was a week later, at the Catholic Cathedral in Osaka, and my father and his wife were buried in the Uriwari Memorial Park cemetery, a non-denominational cemetery for interfaith and non-Shinto burials. It was a strange, almost surreal experience. Mother was unable to attend, her job commitments wouldn’t allow it, and the only other mourners were Consular staff who were ordered to be there, plus a few stragglers from the various foreign legations, Charges-d’affaires and Consulates in Osaka. We did get a brief murmured condolence from the British Ambassador from Tokyo, and a tele-message from 10 Downing Street, and that was that.
After that, there seemed nothing to do except come home, bring Teruko back to her new life, and hope she could adjust to a new country, a new language and customs, and vastly different surroundings. She seemed resigned, she knew the alternative that waited for her in Japan with no family to protect or shelter her.
*
Mum met us at Heathrow, with a long padded coat and soft, warm gloves for Teruko; the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and it felt more like late autumn than late summer. She was able to hold a halting conversation with Teruko, her long-ago memories of Japanese gradually reawakening now that she was conversing with a native speaker again.
It was dark when we finally arrived back home in Shropshire, Teruko’s eyes large and astonished at the size of the house, the number of rooms, and the size of the kitchen and bathrooms. She was a little daunted by the space we had, as houses in Japan, unless you’re very well-off, are small, compact, and huddled together. Our house, standing alone with gardens all round it must have seemed impossibly huge to her after the apartment in Osaka.
Mum had made steamed fish and rice, Miso soup and Ramen noodles, to give Teruko a taste of home, and it only took a short while to heat it up for dinner. Teruko ate in silence, answering mum’s questions but asking none of her own. When she yawned, mum asked her if she would like to sleep now, and when she nodded, she showed her to her room. She was half-way up the stairs when she stopped and looked back at me, saying something.
I looked enquiringly at Mum, who smiled at me.
“She’s asking you to come with her, she’s calling you ‘Onii-san’, it means ‘big brother’. You should call her ‘Imoto’; it means little ‘sister’. It’s a lot less formal than using her full name all the time.”
I followed them upstairs and showed Teruko her room; again she was wide-eyed at how much space she was going to occupy. I showed her how the aging shower unit worked in the family bathroom, and where my room was in case she got frightened or confused, mum translating as best she could. Once she was settled in, I was done; it had been a long flight, followed by a long drive, and I was bushed, so I headed off to bed.