The Other Side of Paradise (5 page)

She pouted. ‘I don’t see why.’

‘Things are too unsettled at the moment. Wait a while and we’ll see. Besides, you can’t drive yet.’

‘Actually, I can. Someone’s been teaching me.’

He frowned. ‘Who?’

She hesitated. ‘Some chap in the army.’

‘Well, I’d sooner you waited to have proper lessons. Much safer, and there’s no rush.’ He laid his hand on her shoulder as he passed her chair. ‘Look in on Mummy before you go, will you, poppet? She’s still not feeling well.’

Amith came forward, jug in hand.

‘You like more orange juice,
missee
?’

She sipped the juice slowly, watching Sweep, the black cat, stalking something near the pond. Maybe she wouldn’t bother to go to the college this morning. Learning to type had to be one of the most boring things in the world. Sitting in a stuffy room, bashing away at the keys. Shorthand was even worse. Light strokes, dark strokes, hooks to the left, hooks to the right, words joined on to other words … she could never read it all back. And what for? So that she could work in an office where some dreary man would dictate dreary business letters for her to type out so he could sign them with an important flourish. She had no intention of ever doing any such thing.

Rex padded over to sit beside her and she gave him another piece of toast. Now, if she accepted the next marriage proposal she wouldn’t have to do any kind of job at all. Hey presto! She’d be a married woman with her own home and servants, meeting friends for coffee, going to lunches, shopping, taking tea at Raffles, swimming and playing tennis at Tanglin, giving amusing parties, having a lovely time.

Sweep pounced suddenly and she saw that the quarry had been a frog. Jeremy Fisher took several giant leaps and plopped into pond and safety. The cat braked hard at the water’s edge and saved face by pretending to examine a flower.

She gave the last bit of toast to Rex and went upstairs to fetch her swimming and tennis things. Afterwards, she stopped at her mother’s room and opened the door. The shutters were closed and the room smelled of the lemony citronella lotion that her mother always rubbed on her temples and wrists when she had one of her heads.

‘Li-Ann? Is that you?’

‘No, it’s Susan.’

‘Oh.’

She went over to the bed. Her mother was lying under the mosquito netting with her eyes closed. ‘Are you feeling any better, Mummy?’

‘Not really. I shan’t get up today. Cookie will have to manage without me.’

Cookie had learned to manage years ago. He would bicycle off to the market and the Cold Storage to buy whatever was wanted without needing to be told.

She said, ‘I probably won’t be in for dinner, anyway. I’m playing tennis at the club this evening.’

‘Who with?’

‘Clive Godwin, and John and Alison Campbell. I expect we’ll have dinner after.’

‘Well, don’t be late back.’

‘I won’t be.’ She moved towards the windows. ‘It’s a lovely morning after all the rain. Not too hot. Wouldn’t it be better with the shutters open? You’d get some air.’

‘Don’t touch them, for heaven’s sake! The light would make my head even worse. Just leave me in peace, Susan.’

‘Do you want Li-Ann to bring you anything?’

‘Tell her to bring some more barley water. And a cold towel.’

She went down and spoke to Li-Ann and Cookie and, by the time she’d done that, Ghani had returned. He drove her to Pitman’s College. She was late but her mother’s migraine served as a good excuse. When the classes finished at one o’clock she took a rickshaw over to the Tanglin Club. The coolie pulling it was a broken-winded, wheezy old man, his seamed face like chamois leather under his conical hat, sweat rag knotted round his neck, jogtrotting through the dirt on filthy bare feet. But he set her down at the entrance steps to the club with as much ceremony as if she had been Cinderella arriving with her bewigged coachman for the ball. She rewarded him with fifty cents and a dazzling smile. Some people always argued over the fare and treated the poor things badly; her father had taught her never to do that.

There were only a few people at the pool – mostly wives lolling about and gossiping, and a couple of girls she’d known at the convent. She changed into her costume, pulled on her rubber bathing cap and did a few fast lengths of crawl. Swimming was one thing she did very well, though she didn’t often demonstrate the fact. It was better to leave the showing off to the men.

The tennis four had been arranged for five o’clock when it was cooler – John and his sister, Alison, against Clive and herself. It was evenly matched but, in the end, she and Clive won. Clive, who minded a great deal about winning, clapped her on the back.

‘Well played, partner.’

‘Well played yourself. You did some brilliant shots.’ He’d also poached like mad though she didn’t mention that.

‘Bit of a fluke, most of them.’

They had drinks in the clubhouse and then went in Clive’s car to see the film that Milly had been talking about. The Capitol was full of men in uniform – British regiments, Gurkhas and Malays and Australians.

Over dinner at the Coq d’Or, she watched Clive and wondered what it would be like to be married to him: to live with him, eat with him, sleep with him. If he proposed – as he well might – would she accept him? He was something up-and-coming in the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, good at tennis, swimming, cricket, rugger, a fairly good dancer and not bad-looking at all. She didn’t love him but that was probably asking too much.

On the following Sunday he took her to the Sea View for pre-lunch drinks. The hotel was at Tanjong Katong, about five miles out of the city on the East Coast road – a Victorian building of faded grandeur with a domed roof, white marble floors and a colonnaded terrace that looked out over its private sandy beach towards the coastal islands. A snake charmer sat on the entrance steps, basket beside him, bulbous pipe in hand. As a child she had always been fascinated to watch the snake emerge and sway to the music.

The terrace was already crowded, the palm court orchestra playing ‘I’ll Follow My Secret Heart’ and the Chinese boys balancing trays loaded with
stengahs
, gimlets, Tiger beers, gin slings. The heat from the midday sun penetrated deep into the corners of the terrace and it was stickily humid, the way it always was just before the monsoon. As they hunted for a free table, a couple waved at them, the man getting to his feet and beckoning insistently.

‘That’s Paul Fawcett and his wife. He’s a colleague of mine at the bank,’ Clive said. ‘We may as well join them.’

They sat down and Clive called to one of the boys and ordered a round of drinks. The orchestra had moved on to another Noel Coward: ‘I’ll See You Again’. The wife, whose name was Marjorie, was fanning herself desperately with a card. She leaned forward, baring front teeth like a rabbit’s.

‘Have you been here before, Susan?’

‘Yes, but not for ages.’

‘We come every Sunday, don’t we, Paul? It’s become quite a ritual – ever since the war started. It makes us feel better.’

‘Better?’

‘About not being at home. Being so far away from England – when they’re having such an
awful
time there. Don’t you feel like that? Terribly guilty?’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

The smile faded, the buck teeth disappeared. ‘Oh. Well, Paul and I do. So do a lot of people here.’

The drinks arrived and Clive signed the chit with a flourish. He was never stingy – another point in his favour. Pencil-shy men were not popular in Malaya. The husband, Paul, was overweight and kept mopping his sweaty red face with a handkerchief. He looked as though he was about to melt into a puddle of
ghi
, like the tigers in
Little Black Sambo
.

He eyed her shorts and sleeveless blouse. ‘You look marvellously cool, Susan. Don’t know how you manage it.’

‘I don’t feel the heat so much. I’m used to it.’

‘You’re damned lucky. Marjorie can’t stand it – nor can I, to tell the truth. Give me a nice chilly English day, any time.’

‘I’ll See You Again’ had ground to a halt and the orchestra were starting on ‘A Room with a View’. Susan looked around the terrace, seeing mostly older married couples, but she spotted one or two young people she knew and waved to them, mouthing greetings.

‘We’re hoping to go home next year when our leave comes up,’ the red-faced Paul was saying. ‘Marjorie wants to take the children back and put them in school there. She thinks this climate’s very unhealthy for them.’

‘Wouldn’t it be safer to stay in Singapore?’

He did some more mopping. ‘As a matter of fact, I think they’d probably be a lot safer in England, now the invasion scare’s over. The Germans aren’t likely to try anything since Hitler missed the boat in 1940. And he’s got his hands full with the Russians on the Eastern Front. The only snag is that we’ve let our house back home, but the lease will be up fairly soon and they could stay with Marjorie’s parents until then.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Surbiton. Nice part of the world. Near London, but not too near – and we’re very close to the river. Do you know it?’

She remembered her father’s remark about Surbiton. ‘I hardly know England at all.’

He seemed quite shocked, as though such a thing was unthinkable. ‘Really? Do you come from somewhere else, then?’

‘From Malaya. I was born in Kuala Lumpur.’

‘Oh, I see.’

She said firmly, ‘I love it here. I’d never want to leave.’

The orchestra rounded off the Noel Coward selection and stopped playing. Everybody suddenly stopped talking, too. The wife, Marjorie, leaned across the table, baring her rabbit teeth again and holding out the card that she’d used as a fan.

‘Would you like to have this, Susan? Paul and I don’t need it. We know all the words by heart.’

There were more cards on the other tables and people were picking them up, clearing throats, obviously getting ready to sing. After a thumping chord and a roll of drums from the orchestra, they began. By the time they reached the chorus, the singing had swelled to a roar that carried far beyond the terrace, across the beach below and out over the sea.

There’ll always be an England

And England shall be free
,

If England means as much to you

As England means to me
.

Some people were crying. Susan could see tears trickling down faces – of men as well as women – as they sang the sentimental words. Faces shining with patriotic pride and absolute faith. Paul was dashing a hand across his eyes, Marjorie dabbing away with a little lace-edged hanky. She thought, I’m the odd one out. I’m the only one here that England doesn’t really mean much to at all.

Three

THE MONSOON BROKE
in early November, when winds from the north-east swept across the South China Sea bringing torrential rainstorms. With the rains came scaremongering rumours: the Japanese photographers living in Singapore were sending pictures of the island to Japan, thousands of Canadian troops had been sent to defend Hong Kong against attack, Japanese warships had been sighted off Cambodia Point, steaming towards the coast of Malaya, a prospector upcountry had reported news of Japanese activities on the northern frontier. Nobody took the stories very seriously. The naval guns kept hurling their shells miles out to sea. At night powerful searchlights probed the dark waters and the skies. There were occasional blackout practices, and on Saturday mornings the air raid sirens were tested and wailed out over the city. Susan’s father joined the Civil Defence while younger men joined the Volunteers. Their initial training and drill took place on the racecourse, interrupted for several days so that a race meeting could be held.

Clive Godwin proposed and when Susan turned him down he was angry and resentful.

‘May I know the reason why – or is that too much to ask?’

‘I’m not in love with you, Clive.’

‘I had the distinct impression that you were.’

‘Then you were wrong.’

‘But you seemed to enjoy coming out with me.’

‘That’s not quite the same as marrying you, is it?’

‘I believe I’m considered quite a catch.’

‘Then you’ll easily find another girl.’

‘Well, if you change your mind, you can let me know.’

‘I won’t change it.’

The invitations kept coming – a reception at Government House for several hundred newly arrived servicemen, private parties, a big dance at the Officers’ Mess out at the naval base at Krangi. The
dersey
had made Susan an evening gown of pale-blue taffeta and her hair had been washed and set in a new style. A good-looking sub lieutenant commandeered her for several dances. They quickstepped and foxtrotted and tangoed to lovely tunes played by a wonderful band.

‘Mind if we take some air?’ he said, running a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘This kit’s most frightfully hot.’

They walked away from the Mess, the dance music fading. It had been raining hard earlier but there were no puddles or mud to spoil her silver shoes or dirty the hem of her taffeta gown. Everything was shipshape: His Majesty’s Royal Navy all present and correct, which gave a nice, safe feeling.

She said, ‘We can hear the big guns when you’re practising firing them.’

‘Hell of a racket, isn’t it? Any Jap ships would be blown clean out of the water, and the base would be out of range of
their
shells – which is why we built it here, of course. Smart thinking. We’ve got everything, you know. Floating docks, deep-sea anchorage, harbour room for a whole fleet, if necessary. The Japs wouldn’t stand a chance.’

The naval base was on the northern shore of the island and the narrow strip of the Johore Straits lay ahead, bridged by the Causeway to mainland Malaya on the other side. Four hundred miles from there to the borders of Siam and, beyond Siam, Burma. A mountain range like a backbone down the centre. Dense jungle where trees strained upwards a hundred feet or more towards the light. Bamboo thickets and palm groves. A hidden network of sluggish rivers, creeks and fetid swamps. All of it inhabited by crocodiles, tigers, leopards, deadly snakes, malarial mosquitoes, leeches, giant red ants – to name a few of the less friendly residents.