Part 1 - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - 'Change and Chickens'

Baan Chomsin, Hua Hin 1939

The afternoon sun slanted across the wide veranda of Baan Chomsin, painting the polished wood a deep amber. A soft breeze rolled up from the fields beyond, carrying with it the smell of cut grass and faint salt from the sea.

Chonlada knelt cross-legged, trying to keep a straight face while Narisa tugged at her plaits with stubborn fingers. “Hold still,” Narisa scolded, “you move too much. It won’t look nice for Mother.” “I don’t care,” Chonlada shot back, but she stayed still anyway, half-smiling.

Across the veranda, Nop had arranged three sticks into a crude game of hop, insisting on rules only he seemed to understand. “If you can’t jump the last one,” he said firmly, “you owe me two sweets from the market tomorrow.” “You always make up rules so you can win,” Narisa complained, abandoning her sister’s hair to join him. “But,” she smiled, “I’m going to win all the sweets.”

Their voices rose in mock argument, echoing into the dusk. For them, the world was still no bigger than tomorrow’s trip to the market — a jumble of baskets, sweets, and the smell of fried bananas. Beyond the veranda rail, fireflies had just begun to spark in the growing shade, small lanterns drifting in and out of sight.

On the far side of the veranda, Ekkachai and Boon sat low at a table, their teacups sending thin trails of steam into the evening air. They spoke in quieter tones, though the rhythm of their words carried an edge that the children’s laughter did not touch.

Ekkachai leaned back, his arms folded loosely. “The newspapers are useless these days. One says the Japanese will protect Asia from the West. Another warns we will be swallowed whole. Which am I to believe? And yet, everyone reads them as if they contain truth.” Boon shrugged, swirling his tea. “Truth is not printed, my friend. It’s felt — in the pockets of the farmers, in the fear of men at the docks when rumours of warships spread. What happens in Europe, America or elsewhere in Asia, we hear it late, like thunder after lightning. But the sound still makes the ground shake here.”

Ekkachai tapped a finger on the wooden table. “Business follows the same confusion. Rice, sugar, even pineapples. One month the buyers in Bangkok cannot get enough, the next they vanish, saying ships are turned away, or tariffs will change. How can a man plan? My father’s time was simpler — you grew, you sold, you saved. Now everything is tied to some decision made in a foreign capital.” Boon gave a low laugh. “Foreign capital? Or closer than that? You forget, even here in Thailand, alliances shift like tides. Some say the Prime Minister leans to Japan, others whisper Britain still holds his ear. I don’t trust any of it. A man like me, a Chinese face, is always told to be careful whom he speaks with. Too much sympathy for one side, and you’re a traitor. Too much for the other, the same.”

Ekkachai’s gaze softened. “And yet, without you, this farm could not run. You know the machines, you keep the workers steady. It is nonsense that men see only your blood, not your worth.” Boon smiled faintly. “Worth is measured differently in times of unease. To some I am just the mechanic. To others I am a reminder of merchants they distrust. But here, with you —” he paused, choosing his words carefully — “we are partners, though few would smile it if they saw us share this tea.”

The night settled deeper, the sounds of the children carrying faintly over the railing. Ekkachai’s eyes lingered on them. “I watch them and wonder — what will they inherit? This house, these fields, yes. But also, the uncertainty. They will grow with it, perhaps more quickly than we wish.”

Boon followed his gaze. “Children grow faster when the world forces them to. They hear the adults worry, even if we whisper. They see soldiers drilling on the beach, even if we tell them not to stare. My boy, your girls — they will not be children as long as we were.”

A silence settled, filled with cicadas and the creak of the wood beneath them. Finally Ekkachai said, almost to himself, “Then perhaps the best we can do is give them a little longer. A few more evenings where the greatest concern is whether sweets are fairly won.” Boon nodded, lifting his cup in agreement. “To a little longer.”

December, 1941

The sun was gracefully retiring for the day, slowly sinking under the horizon, painting the sky above Hua Hin with shafts of deep gold sneaking through the low clouds which, in response, changed hue every few seconds. The veranda of the family home, Baan Chomsin, caught the last light, holding it in the way polished wood always seems to, warm and glowing.

Chonlada leaned back against the railing, a frown creasing her eleven-year-old face. In her lap sat a small notebook where she had tried, with all the determination of youth, to copy lines of English. She had managed only a few, the letters uneven and stubborn.

Narisa, now seven, peered over her sister’s shoulder. “It looks like a little chicken walked across the page,” she declared, then clapped her hands over her mouth as though she’d said something far too bold. For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Chonlada’s lips twitched, and a small laugh escaped. It grew, against her will almost, until she was laughing fully. Narisa, delighted at her sister’s surrender, joined in. Their laughter rang out across the veranda, spilling into the dusk air. It was not the sort of laughter that mocked. It was the relief of sisters knowing they were safe, here, together, even as the world around them grew more confusing by the day. They laughed until Narisa leaned against Chonlada’s arm, the notebook forgotten.

This memory would stay with Chonlada all her life. Decades later, when war and loss had written themselves into their family’s story, she would remember that evening most of all, two sisters laughing as though nothing could ever touch them.