I expected the text in this little diary to be the key to Ken’s story. In reality, much of what he wrote was quite mundane. The entry for 15 August 1945 — VJ Day — is typical of the pages: the weather, writing home, going to SACA or watching a film.
Even on a day of enormous historical significance, Ken’s own record is matter-of-fact.
But the little diary had secrets of its own, and they were not really hidden in the angular handwritten sentences that recorded each day.
They were in the group of photographs tucked into the leather pocket at the front.
They were in the little orange sleeper ticket from an unknown and long-forgotten journey.
They were in the careful notes of what had been spent, and on what.
They were in the tiny calendar, meticulously marked with postcards and aerograms, and with dates recording when mail had been sent or received.
The diary told me less through what Ken wrote than through what he chose to keep.
And even now, I suspect it still holds a few secrets.
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