A Different Sky (21 page)

‘Chwee Gek,' he murmured her name once again.

Propped up on his pillows he could see out of the window to the turreted mountain of Lim Villa. A tall fence shut him out of the great house he had built, schoolchildren now played on its lawns. Long ago he had lain in this very room in Bougainvillaea House with Little Sparrow, and delighted in his truancy from the bed of Lustrous Pearl and the manner in which he piqued her. Little Sparrow with dimpled cheeks and a body that so attentively serviced his needs had made him lose his head for a while. Now so much was changed, and regret washed through him. In the distance he listened to Lustrous Pearl's throaty voice asking if he had been given a laxative. Although she now encased her small feet in fashionable leather shoes, the smell of rotting flesh seemed always about her. She had taken him over entirely.

It showered through the morning, but later the sun returned and the drying earth steamed. After lunch Mei Lan took Lim Hock An's chauffeured car to the Chinese Chamber of Commerce on Hill Street. As the car entered Chinatown, the density of life closed about her; washing on bamboo poles protruded from windows and dripped upon the passing traffic, the cries of food hawkers, and the perfume of sewage and roasting pork assailed her. People and carts and rickshaws crowded the narrow streets. As she approached Hill Street she saw two small boys, smart in school uniforms, stop before a malt candy seller. The old woman, squatting by the roadside with her metal pot of sticky black molasses, was stretching the toffee back and forth between two sticks, chatting to the children. Mei Lan remembered her own delight as a child at buying a stick of malt candy. As she turned to watch the scene, a stone came hurtling passed her and struck the elder of the boys.
He jumped up in shock, his face stricken with fear. Almost immediately another stone landed on the younger boy who, with a cry, cowered behind his brother in terror, blood running off his thin arm and on to his clean white shorts. Mei Lan saw that a gang of rough youths were steadily closing in on the children. The malt candy seller put the lid on her pot and hurriedly backed away. The terrified children, hands clasped protectively over their heads, cringed beneath the hail of stones.

Stopping the car Mei Lan climbed out, recognising an overweight boy with a fleshy face known as Dumpling Pan. He was from one of the zealous groups connected with the China Relief Fund, whose work was the weeding out of pro-Japanese elements amongst the Chinese and those who flouted the Japanese boycott. In her duties as a Youth Leader she had come across Dumpling Pan before. The gangs assumed pretentious names such as the Singapore Assassin Corps or the Chinese National Emancipation Vanguard Corps; they sent death threats to people or vandalised property, and the more extreme had no difficulty in slicing off ears. Mei Lan shouted to Dumpling Pan, who turned to stare at her in surprise, a stone in his raised hand.

‘They are Japanese children,' he told her, his podgy face creased in anger, his friends crowding menacingly behind him. Mei Lan moved to stand in front of the children and felt a small hand clutch her skirt as the younger child pressed close.

‘Our father is Chinese. We live in our grandfather's house and he too is Chinese. Only our mother is Japanese,' the eldest boy explained in a trembling voice.

‘Their mother is Japanese and their father buys soya flour for his biscuit factory from his wife's Japanese family in Middle Road. Let everyone know what traitors they are.' Although Dumpling Pan spoke threateningly, his hand had dropped to his side and he returned the stone to a cloth pouch still heavy with ammunition; he knew Mei Lan's position in the China Relief Fund, and knew he could not disregard her.

‘I will take responsibility for them,' Mei Lan said, ignoring the angry shouts of Dumpling Pan's friends.

Once the gang turned away people began to come forward. The malt candy woman offered the children her toffee for free. From his pitch on the roadside a cobbler raised his eyes from repairing a clog.

‘The children live around the corner. They are old Ho the biscuit maker's grandchildren. Already, that gang have thrown hot tar at his house and left a dead cat at his door.'

‘It's not far,' the elder boy said, pointing out the way as Mei Lan helped the children into her waiting car; the sky was darkening again, threatening more rain.

Soon, they reached a tree-lined road of shabby houses. At the boy's direction they drew up before a larger but equally dilapidated bungalow.
HO PROSPERITY BISCUIT COMPANY
was written in faded letters above a rotted gate. The children scrambled out of the car and ran up the steps into the house. A powerful smell of baking enveloped the place and Mei Lan took a deep breath of the sweet vanilla-scented air. Soon, the children reappeared on the veranda with their mother who hurried down the steps towards Mei Lan, followed by an elderly man.

‘They were so late returning, we were worried,' the children's mother said as the boys jumped about her, spilling out their news, showing off their wounds.

‘I am Ho, the boys' grandfather. Who has done this? They are just children.' The man shook his head in distress while Mei Lan looked curiously at the children's mother.

‘It is because of me, because I am Japanese, but I was born here in Singapore, I have never even been to Japan,' the woman protested, tears filling her eyes. She clasped her hands together below the sleeves of her white Japanese apron, pursing her lips to hold back emotion.

‘They say you are baking biscuits with Japanese flour,' Mei Lan told them reluctantly, but old Mr Ho shook his head.

‘We are using only what is left from our previous stock. Until now, Mr Yamaguchi, Yoshiko's father, has always supplied us with flour, so we are in a difficult situation. Now, at Mr Yamaguchi's own request, we are no longer buying flour from him as he knows the danger this would be for us,' Mr Ho replied.

‘Won't you take some refreshment? Taste some of our biscuits, please,' Mr Ho offered as Mei Lan prepared to leave.

‘I am already late for an appointment,' Mei Lan explained, climbing back into the car.

As the vehicle drew away, Mei Lan looked back to see the children waving to her and their mother wiping her eyes, and stared at them in confusion. The China Relief Fund had turned everyone against the
Japanese to such a degree that she had not opposed the punishment and intimidation of people who did not obey the boycott. The Japanese woman standing with her arms about her Chinese children was too complicated a matter to immediately decipher.

The sky had darkened again and the first drops of rain spat down as she reached the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, and saw a large crowd gathered before the building. With a sudden crack of thunder the rain began, emptying ferociously out of the sky. People pushed into the building or took shelter under ornate parapets and eaves. Banners dripped and sagged, food hawkers huddled beneath bits of tarpaulin, their charcoal fires stowed hurriedly away. Beggars and cripples, who had been vigorously demanding alms only moments before, now huddled together against the deluge.

Mei Lan was relieved that Tan Kah Kee had not yet arrived. Shaking the raindrops off her umbrella, she entered the building. The foyer was noisy and filled with people whose wet shoes and dripping umbrellas made the stone floor slippery. A ceiling fan sped around at a great rate but had little effect on the hot and stifling space. Leaving her umbrella with an attendant, Mei Lan looked about for faces she recognised and was surprised to see a tall Englishman standing self-consciously beside the stairs. As he observed the excited crowd, he was scribbling notes on a pad that he slipped into his pocket, only to take it out again. Looking up, he caught Mei Lan's eye and stepped forward with a smile, as if he was waiting for her.

‘I'm Wilfred Patterson. I'm here from
The Straits Times
to write an article on the China Relief Fund.' He extended his hand in greeting, speaking in a direct and easy way. Still appraising Mei Lan, he launched into an earnest explanation of his reasons for attending the meeting.

‘Is there any way I could meet Mr Tan Kah Kee for an interview?' Wilfred lowered his voice conspiratorially. The young woman had immediately caught his eye with her purposeful manner and natural elegance; her short, fashionable hair and chic clothes immediately set her apart. He noticed a small birthmark just above her jaw.

‘Mr Tan is a family friend, but you'll have to sit through the meeting first.' Mei Lan found herself responding to his pleasantness; Europeans were so often condescending in their manner with local people, but Wilfred appeared to have genuine interest in the China Relief Fund.

Mei Lan pulled a small ivory fan from her bag and waved it
vigorously as she made her way towards the crowded auditorium, conscious of the curious glances the European man at her side drew to them both. Large electric standing fans were placed at intervals down the sides of the hall, but served only to ruffle hair and spread odours. Mei Lan burrowed through the crowd to a row of reserved chairs directly below a raised dais and Wilfred took a place beside her as she indicated.

Within moments there was a stir as Tan Kah Kee entered the hall. As he approached the stage people crowded about him. Wilfred knew the man was a mercurial figure who embodied the ideals of the Chinese community, yet his first sight of Tan Kah Kee was a surprise. Wilfred saw a small scholarly looking man in a creased suit and heavy spectacles who resembled a second-hand book dealer more than a legendary entrepreneur, social reformer and political activist. Although Tan came from poor beginnings and, with only a few years' education could not read a newspaper until late in his life, he was one of the few Chinese the colonial government trusted. At last Tan mounted the stage, made his way to the microphone, and prepared to speak.

Wilfred could understand nothing of what Tan said, but Mei Lan leaned towards him, translating in a low whisper. Wilfred stared curiously up at the man, noting the wide forehead and thin moustache, and the shrewd but restless eyes behind his thick-framed spectacles. He took out his notebook, writing whatever he could catch of Mei Lan's translations.

‘The Overseas Chinese have always had the reputation of being the Fathers of the Chinese revolution . . . For any country at war the most important things are manpower and money. It is impossible to successfully fight a war if one of these two things is lacking . . .'

As Tan paused, taking the heavy spectacles off his nose, Wilfred whispered in Mei Lan's ear, ‘He's known in the world as the Henry Ford of Malaya but I believe he doesn't live it up like his namesake.'

Putting back his spectacles, Tan continued. ‘Since the Japanese invasion of our homeland we Overseas Chinese in South East Asia have spared no efforts in our fund-raising attempts . . . You may say you have fulfilled your moral obligation if you have given a few dollars to the fund but in terms of our sacred duty to our nation, it is not enough . . . You must give more.'

‘He lives a very frugal life and expects everyone else to do so as
well. His family have a hard time. It is said they're always in a state of near penury and on principle he allows no one to own gold jewellery,' Mei Lan informed Wilfred as Tan's voice flowed on above them.

‘As long as the guns at the front continue firing, the supplies at the rear cannot stop . . . From now on all of us must exert ourselves more generously . . . We must wipe out the blood and humiliation brought by the Japanese upon our homeland.'

For as far back as Mei Lan could remember Tan Kah Kee had been in and out of her home, conferring with her grandfather. Lim Hock An was the elder by a decade, but their friendship persisted on the basis of the similarity of their frugal beginnings and the mutual regard of two shrewd minds. Once, she remembered sitting on his knee as he discussed with Lim Hock An selling a pineapple cannery both men had invested in. Both had suffered during the years of the Depression, forced to sell off their vast plantations, but Tan had survived the trauma whereas Lim Hock An had not.

As Tan finished his speech, cheering erupted. At both sides of the stage rally leaders began to recite the lines of the pledge that was taken at every meeting, shouting the words into their megaphones. The crowd joined in.

We will not engage in trade with the enemy,
We will not spread or read their propaganda . . .
We will not communicate with the enemy or traitors,
I will support the relief work with my savings . . .
I am a Relief Fund worker and will do my best.

More cheering broke out as the pledge ended. A piano began to play the first bars of ‘Selling Flowers', a popular song to boost the morale of the fund-raisers. Everybody knew the song and the hall filled with spirited singing. As Tan Kah Kee left the stage the rally leaders picked up their megaphones to read out the monthly list of Relief Fund donations.

‘The Hawkers' Association raised $970 in the month of October. The Clog Makers of Tangjong Pagar raised . . .' As the list droned on Mei Lan and Wilfred made their way out of the hall.

‘Do you have any booklets or pamphlets I could look at?' Wilfred asked as he pushed forward behind Mei Lan.

‘I can get something to you and send it to the
Straits Times
office or your home,' Mei Lan replied as they came out into the fresh air of the foyer to see Tan Kah Kee surrounded by a crowd of people. Mei Lan moved towards him to request an interview for Wilfred.

‘The office is fine. I live some distance away off Bukit Timah, in an old boarding house called Belvedere,' Wilfred replied as he followed her.

‘I live next door to Belvedere.' Mei Lana stopped and turned to him, her heart jumping in shock. ‘I know someone there – Howard Burns.'

‘My landlady's son.' Wilfred smiled.

‘I'll drop the pamphlets off at Belvedere on my way home,' Mei Lan decided, hoping she did not show eagerness.

W
HEN THE RAIN STOPPED
, Raj found a rickshaw. The runner wiped the handrail dry and spread newspaper upon the damp seat before heaving up the shafts as his passenger climbed in, muscles knotting in his shoulders under the sudden weight. Eventually Raj reached Middle Road and alighted outside the Japanese draper Echigaya where, within glass cabinets, rolls of bright silk and kimono fabric could be seen. Shoulders back, stomach pushed out, Raj swung his arms vigorously as he walked, eyes focused firmly ahead. He did not appear a man to hinder and people stepped aside to let him pass. Middle Road was home to many Japanese shops, mostly of the ten-cent variety selling toys, knick-knacks, buttons and thread, chinaware and household items such as graters and sieves. There were also Japanese photographers, dentists, barbers and brothels, whose expertise was always in high demand. The Japanese community in Singapore overflowed with shopkeepers; there were few rich men amongst them. It was this uniformity of status and lack of ambition that led to the rumour that they were all spies. It was said that through information gained from their citizens in Singapore, the Japanese government prepared for expansion into South East Asia