Why didn’t he come? Ting-Yan realized how fond she’d become of Tak-Tam in their four years of marriage, and how much happier she was than Emily, who still didn’t have a child, and who bore Tak-Wing’s wandering eye with a stoicism no one could have foreseen. Tak-Tam on the other hand remained shy but warm. Working the fields and the boat day and night, he’d grown stronger and sturdier too. She’d married a kind person and grown to love him. She hated to admit it, but her father’s judgment had been correct.

Why didn’t he come? The village grew quiet as the moon rose across the water. The fragrances of food and smoke dissipated. He must be dead in the burnt-out family house, or out in the fields, or somewhere in the trees that surrounded the village. He was a good man. Why hadn’t she treated him better?

From the pocket of her light summer jacket, Siu-Wai produced a tin. “I don’t know what it is,” she said. “I brought it down to the pier to ask one of you. But we can eat it now!”

The tin had a white label, and a picture on it of little round green balls. Ting-Yan, who could read a bit of English, sounded out the words. “Fresh … Garden … Peas!”

“What are garden peas?” said Siu-Wai.

“A kind of English vegetable,” said Ting-Yan, laughing. “Not very tasty, but food is food!”

Captain Lee produced a knife. He drove it into the lid and carefully worked the can open. “Must have come from one of those English houses in Kowloon,” he said. “Poor dead devils.” They each had a couple of mouthfuls. The peas were hardly satisfying, but they were better than no dinner. They burrowed further down into the leaves and tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep.

Early in the morning, Ting-Yan heard the Japanese soldiers marching along the upper trail out of the village. She, her parents, and her little daughter remained in hiding until they’d heard the last footsteps echo in the distance. Then, stiff and hungry, they stood up, shook off the leaves and twigs that had covered them, and returned, trepidatiously, to the village.

It was more or less still standing, for which they were thankful. Back in the family’s lane house, they found Tak-Tam, grey as a ghost, but otherwise all right. Fourteen women had been raped. Eleven men had been shot. The recent rice harvest had been taken, as well as the water buffalo and all the pigs and chickens. All the village’s watches, fountain pens, and jewellery were also gone, as was all the food, furniture, and clothing that she and Tak-Tam had fought about just the day before, and all the other shares of loot from Kowloon that the villagers had divided among themselves.