“Look at the mouth, at the tongue,” I’d say to my Japanese students, while exaggerating the sound of ‘llll’. Then again, “Roll your tongue” for the sound ‘rrrr’. “Can you see the difference? Can you hear the difference?” “rrrr, llll’, rrrr’, llll” consecutively, followed by an exaggerated “rred lleather, yellllow lleather, rrrred lllleather, yellllow lllleather”. Kiyomi, like most of my Japanese friends and students, could hear the sounds, even reproduce them, but could not distinguish them.

But more than the English lessons, it was Alex, my baby son that Kiyomi gave most of her time and attention to. Desperately wanting a second child, Kiyomi began to love Alex as the ‘daughter’ she craved for. “Arekkusu kun!”, we’d hear the call as she screeched to a halt outside our gate in her little mini most evenings and scooped up the waiting child in her arms. Off they’d go and when she returned my little boy at bed-time, we’d shake our heads despairingly at the cute pink ribbons that tied his curly brown hair in a mop on the top of his head. We desisted protesting as she obviously adored the child and he returned the adoration. They had a ball together and I was loath to take that away from them. It was also obvious from the start that Ali Baba, as we called him, was a little man with his rich deep husky voice, and no pink ribbon was going to have the slightest effect on him.
Especially because like most young boys, he was passionate about cars. Before he could cycle, he had a little ‘motorbike’ that he would, helmeted and jacketed, push along with his feet. Once he got the hang of a tricycle, the supporting little wheels on his little cycle had to be taken off as he disdained their assistance. He was born to control wheels, and born to fall constantly as well, it seemed. He was the most accident-prone person we’ve ever known, whether on the street outside the house or the school yard, a racing track or the ski slopes.
And so it happened when he was about three. We lived in a little house on an estate in a suburb of Tokyo. Suburban Tokyo is interesting as you find pockets of little farm land – little patches of rice or vegetable fields really – amidst housing estates. Fortunately, there was hardly any traffic on the cosy residential lanes. But I always had to keep the front door closed as Alex would escape if he saw an open door. One day he did. I grabbed my little daughter’s hand and we raced out and around the blocks desperately looking for the truant boy. As we dashed along one little path, we saw a pair of Japanese housewives, with their aprons on their neat dresses, standing outside a traditional Japanese house, huddled together, deep in conversation. As we ran, we saw a strange sight in the distance, beyond the tall green foliage of vegetable patches. It was the top of a child’s pram gliding along by itself! We couldn’t see anyone pushing it. Only the curved tops of the moving handles were visible; the rest of the pram was hidden behind the green.
I ran with my heart in my mouth. As I turned the corner, dragging my little girl behind me, I saw little Alex merrily pushing a pram much taller than him. I was shocked but, somehow, not surprised. Alex could not resist wheels when he saw them. When he heard my shout, he started pushing and walking as fast as his little legs could carry him. I caught him up and, have to admit, gave him a sharp little spank on his bottom. The baby by the way, was cooing and gurgling merrily, enjoying the fast trot.
To my horror, but not surprisingly, the mother by this time had discovered that the baby and pram were missing. As we turned the corner, we saw two frantic women racing around in search of the missing baby. Taking the pram and baby back to them must be one of the most difficult things I’ve had to do. Terribly embarrassed, I went back to them and, bowing deeply, explained what had happened. I pushed my three-year old’s head down too. He did manage to mumble “gomen nasai” in apology. The immensely relieved Japanese women, with their quintessential sense of honour and fair play, bowed equally low and apologized saying it was their fault and they should have been more careful. Typical of them to take responsibility for their actions, something I admire so much about my hosts in the land we had made our home.
Some years later, when Alex was knocked off his speeding bike on his way to school by a car driven by a new employee of Honda motors, it was every parent’s nightmare come true. Passers-by had called for an ambulance and he had been taken to hospital. It took us 40 numbing minutes, to rush to the hospital to see a badly-bruised and bandaged but not seriously hurt, Alex. He was more terrified about being told off for breaking his new glasses – his third pair in as many months! He had been warned he would not be bought another pair if he broke these. Before I could say anything, he managed to whisper through the bandages, “Sorry Mummy, I broke my glasses”.
As is the way in Japan, Alex had to be interviewed alone by the police to explain exactly what had happened and to see if the motorist was guilty. By then we’d met the driver, knew it was his first job and he desperately needed a car for his job. I wished I could have warned Alex to be careful about what he said because his statement could result in the young man losing his licence and worse, his job. Mercifully, Alex admitted that he’d been at fault as he crossed the road without looking. I was proud of him. The Japanese sense of honour and of taking responsibility for their actions had rubbed off.
But that was not all. The friendship and love the Japanese, particularly the women, showered on me and my family will always be remembered and cherished by us. We used to try and inculcate a little of the Japanese way of honne (the true face you show only close family or friends) and tatemae (the face you show the rest of the world so as not to impose your own views and opinions too strongly on others); but for Alex it was only honne. There was no reserve, no shyness, no holding back. There was no need. All were his friends and Japan was his home.
When Alex was about five, we went to the sea with some friends. There was some confusion on who was keeping an eye on the children and after a few minutes on the beach, we realised that Alex was missing. The familiar sickening sensation in the stomach returned and began the frantic racing along the beach. Calling out his name, we raced and then saw two figures in the distance, standing by the water, with fishing lines. The first was a tall thin old fisherman. Next to him was a familiar gangly little figure trying to hold on to a line much too big. We raced up and demanded what Alex was doing there. Alex beamed saying ‘ojiichan’ (endearment for grandfather) was teaching him fishing. Torn between the need to  thank the kindly old man, the urge to reprimand Alex for wandering away and talking to strange men, and guilt at our own carelessness, we decided to keep quiet. We bowed to the old man, returned his line and firmly gripping Alex’s hand, walked back. After walking a few yards, Alex turned round to wave goodbye to his new friend, calling out: “Sayonara, ojiichan!”
We heard the kindly old man call back: “Sayonara, Arekkusu kun!”
We hope all those who let us in their lives during our years in Japan are safe today. We thank them for the memories and pray for their well-being.

Rani Rao Innes is the senior partner and lead trainer of Link Communications, a specialized communications skills company based in the UK. She has regularly presented courses and training workshops for private and public business sectors as well as students and teachers in the UK, Belgium, Malaysia, Japan and India. She has also been active in theatre for 30 years and was the director of Canterbury Players in Kent for eight years.