The Restoration of Otto Laird (23 page)

Mrs Pham smiled politely.

‘You could say that. My family were refugees, from the war in Vietnam. We were among the first of those who were known at the time as the Boat People. Perhaps you may have heard of us?'

Otto and Chloe nodded.

Huge numbers of civilians, Otto recalled, had fled the country in desperation in the years after the war, often in boats that were chronically overcrowded. They spent weeks on the ocean at the mercy of hostile forces. Thousands did not survive the experience.

‘My family's story is an unusual one, but it isn't so unusual in a place like Marlowe House. Refugees from many countries have found shelter here at different times. I've been friends with quite a few of them.'

‘How long were you at sea?' Chloe asked her.

‘Four weeks, in total.'

‘What was it like?'

Otto winced a little at the directness of Chloe's question. But perhaps he was being overly sensitive. Mrs Pham appeared unfazed. She had clearly been asked that question many times.

‘It was bad, although the spirit on board was good. We escaped from Saigon on a wooden fishing boat, soon after the city had fallen. It was built to carry around fifteen or twenty people. There must have been at least fifty of us on board. We knew the dangers, but we felt at the time that we had no choice but to flee. My family was not rich, we had no interest in politics. All we had ever done was run a small restaurant. But during the war, it became popular with the American soldiers. Even one or two colonels used to eat there. Once the Americans had left the city, and it fell to the Communist forces, we feared that we would pay a heavy price for the hospitality we had shown them. So we decided to take our chances at sea with the others. We were hoping to reach land in the Philippines.'

Mrs Pham paused a moment.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I almost forgot to ask. Would you like some sugar with your tea?'

Declining politely, they assumed that she wished to change the subject. But after sipping her own tea once more, she set down her cup and returned to her story, describing events with a sense of measured calm.

‘We lived below deck,' she told them, ‘squeezed in among dozens of others. It was just as packed up on top. Everyone had the same look about them: staring-eyed, frightened, exhausted by years of conflict. The smell, the lurching waves, the heat that made the sweat run down our bodies in little rivers – all of these things made life on board uncomfortable.'

‘And you couldn't move around, I suppose?'

It was Chloe, again, who had spoken. Otto was listening intently, his head inclined forward, occasionally raising his eyes to Mrs Pham.

‘We couldn't lift a limb without striking other people. Cramp and seasickness were constant companions. In the heat of day, beams of light would come through the cracks in the timbers of the hull. These were hot enough to burn, like a magnifying glass, if any of us got trapped within their range. I don't know if things were worse for us down below, or for those who were staying up on deck. But we told ourselves that at least down there we were protected from the eye of the sun.'

‘What about water and food?'

‘Fresh water was kept inside leather bottles, but supplies soon ran low. Everyone was praying for the arrival of the monsoon rains. There were biscuits and dried rice, but again not enough to last us long. We had all left Saigon in such a hurry. There wasn't any time for us to prepare.'

‘So how did you manage?' Chloe asked.

‘With discipline, I suppose. We adults consumed the least that we could, reducing the size of our intake to that of mice. It was difficult to sleep, though, with the heat, thirst and hunger. I'm not sure that my husband slept at all. Whenever I woke at night, the cramp biting into my ankles, I saw him sitting there, alert, cradling our two sons in his arms. The whites of his eyes were shining in the darkness of the hold.'

‘And when the food and water ran low? What then?'

Mrs Pham paused for breath.

‘The passengers started to die. Two young children, a brother and a sister, were first to go, followed by more in the next few days. The very old and very young. Their bodies were passed up out of the hold and over the heads of those sitting on deck. There they were lowered over the side and into the ocean, a small space having been made for their families to watch.'

Otto's cup vibrated slightly as he raised his tea to his lips.

‘By this time I believe that almost everyone on board was resigned to the prospect of death. I think Binh and I would even have welcomed it at that time, if we had been there by ourselves. But we had to keep going for the children.'

She halted a moment, to sip her tea. ‘One morning, just after dawn, a great noise began up on deck. There were screams and shouts – the beams of light through the timbers went out. Another boat, we realised, was pulling up alongside us. Binh and I looked at each other as we hugged the boys in our arms. We did not look fearful, either of us. It was a look that said: “It is over now. We may die in a few seconds, with a bullet in our heads, or we may live for fifty more years. But we have reached the moment of truth, and at last our ordeal on this boat is over, along with the uncertainty of how and when it will end for us.”'

‘And who was on board this other boat?'

‘It was a large merchant ship. The crew were helpful, but a little shocked, I think, by what they found. We were given food and basic medical treatment, then transferred to a camp for refugees in Hong Kong. Conditions there were poor, by any normal standards, but after the weeks at sea, and our years in a war-torn country, we felt as though we had somehow landed in paradise. The boys ran up and down the paths between huts, simply because they could, and they laughed and clapped their hands for joy because the earth beneath their feet was solid, and the horizon no longer moved. But our fears soon returned. What would happen to us? Where would we go? The camp became crowded, there were problems. Finally we were told, after months of questioning and waiting, that we had been given the status of refugees by the British government. We would be going to live in London!'

Mrs Pham said this with a certain nostalgic pride, as she reached out to refill their cups from the pot.

‘What did you think of it when you first arrived?' Otto asked.

‘It was strange but, in its way, wonderful. Marlowe House was huge, the city even more so. But we were alive, the whole family, in a country at peace with itself, so we were happy enough with our fate.'

‘And how did you settle? It can't have been easy. As a foreigner in England, I remember it took me some considerable time. I even changed my surname in a bid to be better accepted.'

‘It
was
difficult. Binh had great trouble finding work. The language was a problem, especially during the early years, and there were not so many jobs around for anyone at that time.'

‘But he found something … eventually?'

‘Only ever casual work. Nothing well paid, or secure. I know he found this hard, though he rarely spoke about it. He never again found a real footing in life, the way he had done in Vietnam. One time, when he was serving at tables, in a restaurant belonging to an old friend, I took the children over to meet him at work. I became quite angry at the way some customers spoke to him. People in suits, clicking their fingers, ordering him around. I told him it was a disgrace, that he deserved more respect, especially given what he and his family had been through.'

‘And what did he say when you told him that?'

‘He laughed and said perhaps we should have stayed with the Communists in Saigon, after all! Binh was a good man, with a fine sense of humour; always better able to cope than I with the difficulties that sometimes came our way. Towards the end, with the struggle of work behind him, he was more or less completely at peace. Knowing he was no longer at the command of others left him with a great sense of freedom. He liked to tend the flowers in our window box, and we would go for short walks together by the river. Once, when he was feeling strong enough, we went to see the gardens at Kew.'

Mrs Pham fell silent as she finished her tea.

‘What happened to your husband?' Otto asked her.

‘He passed away, three years ago, from cancer of the liver.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘It was quick, a few months only. He didn't suffer long.'

‘And your sons?'

‘They are back in Ho Chi Minh City, which is the modern name for Saigon, of course. The name has changed – the city, too. I hear it's a thriving place, these days. I miss my children and my grandchildren, but we talk to each other all the time. They speak to me every other day on Skype.'

Otto sat staring into space. He was lost once more along the tangled paths of memory; Mrs Pham's, now, as well as his own.

He saw for an instant an open-topped van, weighed down with household belongings. Family photographs, rolls of bedding, the horn of an old gramophone sticking out through the clutter. He felt his father's arms beneath his shoulders, lifting him onto a seat beside his sisters. Then he felt again the sense of confusion, the change of atmosphere in the city that had been their home. The familiar sights – the opera house, tram wires and high tiers of chocolate cake – had taken on a new dimension since the
Anschluss,
one that he had struggled as a child to comprehend. Despite the appearance of calm on the streets, following the celebrations of the crowds a few days before, there was a new sense of fear in Vienna, of dangers unidentified. These were reflected back to Otto through the frightened eyes of his mother, as she helped his father up onto the seat beside them.

Chloe looked at Otto, wondering whether he might express whatever it was that appeared to be weighing on his mind. He turned instead to Mrs Pham.

‘Would you ever think of returning to Vietnam? Permanently, I mean.'

Mrs Pham thought for a second.

‘My children keep asking me that same question, almost every time we speak. They want to know why I stay in this horrible building.'

She paused.

‘Oh dear, I'm so sorry. What I mean to say is…'

‘I understand, don't worry.'

Otto had replied with a small and rueful smile.

‘My children think I would be happier in Vietnam. But I'm not really so sure. If Marlowe House is pulled to the ground, I
will
return, but it's many years now since I actually lived there. The idea of going back gives me butterflies. There are memories, you see, from the war. Too many of them, perhaps. So for now, at least, I think I will stay where I am. When I get up in the morning, look out and see the sun rise behind the nearby towers, I see it just as Binh and I did, every morning of our lives for thirty-five years. There is nowhere else on earth that can give me that – nowhere, even in the country of my birth, that has that kind of meaning for me.'

Otto looked thoughtful, remembering his own past.

‘It
is
difficult,' he said, ‘returning to the scene of a traumatic experience. Once it has happened, life is never the same again. The world changes shape, and there's nothing one can do to restore its contours. And then, somehow, without even intending it, a new life has appeared elsewhere. After that, it becomes difficult to ever think of going back.'

He looked at Mrs Pham, and continued, ‘It's not easy to explain all this, when talking to other people, unless they've been through a similar experience themselves.'

She smiled, with understanding.

‘I'm glad you came to visit today – although, I must admit, I was a little nervous about the cameras.'

She asked him, then, if he had children of his own.

‘I have a son, called Daniel.'

‘That's a beautiful name.'

‘It is. His mother chose it, as a matter of fact.'

‘And does Daniel have any children?'

‘A daughter and a son.'

‘Where do they live?'

‘Here in London.'

‘And you will be visiting them, your family, during your stay?'

Otto reddened and looked at the floor.

Chloe intervened.

‘Thank you so much for your time, Mrs Pham. It was kind of you to speak to us. We really shouldn't keep you too much longer.'

Twenty-Two

Sitting alone in his living room late that evening, Otto looked out at the countless pins of light beneath the window. Gathered together, like the dots on a Pointillist painting, they formed a giant image of a city.

In the distance, he heard the sound of sirens. Somewhere, a helicopter hovered. At midnight, the insomniac capital stirred beneath his gaze.

Such a frenetic sort of place, exhausting to me now.

Yet it was all a question of perspective, he realised. To Mrs Pham and her family, on the day of their arrival, London must have seemed an oasis of order and calm.

Lifting his spectacles from his face, he rubbed the pins of light from his eyes. His outer vision blurred, but his inner one intensified. At this late hour, the past flowed in on him unchecked.

‘Do you have any children?' Mrs Pham had asked him earlier.

His memory, now, brought forth to him a son.

*   *   *

Daniel arrived in the world two weeks prematurely. He was delivered at home and, unusually for that era, Otto was present at the birth. He held Cynthia's hand throughout, but was of less practical help than he had planned. In this sense, it set the tone for the years that were to follow.

The midwife, a fearsome woman in her late fifties, barked instructions at Cynthia as if she were a contestant at Crufts.

‘Push!' she ordered. ‘Harder, Mrs Laird …
harder.
We can have this over and done with by teatime!'

When not haranguing Cynthia, the midwife harangued Otto for not joining in with her cries of encouragement. Instead, he held onto Cynthia's hand, repeating time and again in a soft, plaintive mantra: ‘My poor Cynthia … my darling Cynthia … there, there, my love … there, there.'