The Bird in the Bamboo Cage. Hazel Gaynor

to an emergency meeting in the staff room.

      ‘I will assess the local and international situation with Mission HQ and await further instruction,’ our headmaster explained. ‘We have one hundred and twenty-four children in our care, comprising ninety British, three Canadians, five Australians, two South Africans, eighteen Americans, three Norwegians and three Dutch. The preservation of the children’s faith, safety and education must be our utmost priority until assistance arrives, and, in the meantime, it’s business as usual.’

      Everything else, including my plans to return to England, would simply have to wait.

      After the short meeting, we returned to our respective classrooms.

      I smoothed any signs of worry from my face and walked the eleven steps to the front of the classroom, just as I had yesterday, and the many hundreds of days before that. I tapped my metre rule three times against the desk, and cleared my throat, twice. Routine and discipline sustained me in many ways, but especially on days like this.

      The simmering noise of the girls’ chatter fell away as they stood behind their desks, the scraping of chair legs against the floor setting my teeth on edge.

      ‘Good morning, class,’ I announced.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Kent.’

      Like a well-rehearsed song, there was a distinct harmony and tone to the exchange, but the girls’ response that morning was understandably sombre.

      ‘Hands together for prayers.’

      When the children had closed their eyes tight, and I was certain nobody was peeping, I crumpled Emperor Hirohito’s declaration into a ball and tossed it into the wastepaper basket beneath my desk. I placed my resignation letter inside the China Inland Mission Bible in my drawer. The pages fell open at Joshua 10:25. Joshua said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Be strong and courageous.’ Not for the first time, I wished the words meant more to me than they did.

      I joined the girls in prayer, focusing on the singular truth I’d clung to all these uncertain years: that every decision I made, whether right or wrong, whether people criticized or admired me for my choices, took me closer to the place, and the person, I was meant to be. As the girls’ bright voices filled the classroom, I closed my eyes and absorbed the simple familiarity of the moment: chalk dust on my fingertips, the pool of winter sunlight against my cheek, the sounds of singing and instruction drifting along the corridors. Routine and discipline. The glue holding me together while the world was falling apart.

      We were halfway through the Lord’s Prayer when the soldiers arrived.

       NANCY

      Our prayer puttered to a stop, and the classroom fell silent.

      I opened my eyes and reached up onto my tiptoes to see what all the commotion was beyond the snow-speckled windows: the loud rumble of trucks, raised voices, doors slamming.

      Miss Kent followed my gaze, all the colour having drained from her face. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, unsure of what to do with us next, until Miss Kent clapped her hands and cleared her throat.

      ‘Face the front, children,’ she instructed. ‘It appears our new rulers have arrived. But that’s no excuse for incomplete prayers. Start again, please. Our Father …’

      But another loud noise outside pulled everyone’s attention back to the window. The low winter sun glinted against steel helmets and short swords that hung from belts. Khaki-coloured jodhpur-like trousers ballooned over the tops of glossy knee-high boots that stamped roughly across the fresh snow. I was too shocked to do anything but stare. It wasn’t the soldiers themselves that was so shocking – we’d seen them plenty of times before – it was the fact that they were here, in our school, trampling all over Wei Huan’s lovely flower beds.

      ‘They’re spoiling everything!’ The words came out before I could stop them. I clapped my hand over my mouth and glanced at Miss Kent, expecting a reprimand. When none came, I added, ‘Wei Huan will be so upset. They’re squashing the China roses. His favourites.’

      Miss Kent started us off in the Lord’s Prayer again. I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowed hard, and pressed my knees together to stop them shaking.

      ‘Our Father, Who art in Heaven …’

      There was an unusual wobble to Miss Kent’s voice. Even when we joined in, our combined voices couldn’t drown out the noise that was now coming from all directions. As we reached the part where we forgive those who trespass against us, an almighty commotion started up in the corridor outside the classroom. I opened my eyes a fraction and glanced at the door.

      ‘For Thine is the kingdom,’ Miss Kent continued, raising her voice another level until we joined her in the final words.

      ‘The power and the glory, Forever and ever. Amen.’

      A long pause circled the classroom as we waited to see what would happen next.

      Miss Kent stood at the front of the room, her cheeks as pale as chalk dust. I couldn’t remember the classroom ever being so quiet. Even Sprout was silent. She’d recently returned from a spell in the San with instructions to take Nurse Prune’s awful cough medicine. I glanced toward the door again as another loud bang came from the corridor, closer this time. Any moment now they would burst in, I was sure of it. Agnes started to cry, which set off Winnie, and then Elsie beside her. I looked at Mouse, who stared at the floor. At the back of the room, Sprout smothered a cough with her hand.

      ‘You can sit down,’ Miss Kent announced, finally finding her voice. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

      Miss Kent rarely smiled in the classroom so I knew the smile she gave us that morning was the sort of ‘we must be brave’ smile adults use when they’re trying to pretend something awful isn’t happening. As I smiled back at her, the classroom door flew open, swung roughly back on its hinges and banged against the bookcase which fell forward with an almighty thud, spilling its books everywhere as two soldiers marched through the door. Their long boots squeaked against the polished floor as they positioned themselves on either side of Miss Kent’s desk, their dark eyes fixed on the wall at the back of the classroom where the map of the British Empire hung below a painting of King George VI. A third, older man, arrived and stood stiffly in the doorway.

      ‘School is now the property of Emperor Hirohito,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘I am Commander Hayashi. You obey my orders. All children. Come.’ He waved a heavy-looking bamboo stick in the direction of the corridor.

      We all looked at Miss Kent.

      ‘Form a neat line beside the wall, girls,’ she instructed, her voice as steady and calm as if she were about to lead us out to the bay for a spot of exercise.

      We did as we were told. Nobody said a word.

      With one soldier at the front of our line, and one bringing up the rear, we filed out of the classroom. I stared at the world map as I passed it, remembering how I’d borrowed Edward’s atlas before we left England and traced my fingertip around China’s vast coastline, wondering what it would be like to live somewhere as mysterious and exotic as the Far East. I’d seen so little of the real China, the China beyond the missionary and school compound walls, that I still didn’t know the answer. As Commander Hayashi marched ahead, leading us to the assembly hall, I wondered if I ever would.

      Most of the other children were already gathered in the hall by the time we arrived. I looked around for Edward and was relieved to see him with his friend, Larry, and some other boys. I waved when I thought he was looking, but he didn’t wave back. I let my hand fall to my side, embarrassed for having waved at all.

      ‘I don’t think he saw you,’ Sprout whispered as she squeezed my hand encouragingly. ‘Connie never waves when she sees me. She doesn’t like to be seen with her little sister now that she’s all grown up and wears a brassiere.’

      I