A Different Sky (25 page)

Rose was not interested in battleships, she was visiting the naval base because of her respect for Mr Churchill. She was sure the arrival of the ships in Singapore was Mr Churchill's way of shaking his fist at the Japanese. The naval base had only recently been finished and, if it lacked a fleet yet to fill it, these two great ships made up for any inadequacy. Rose felt sure the Japanese, with their supposedly paper planes, bad eyes and beer-bottle glasses that hampered their ability to fight, would not be foolish enough to tangle with such might. She had chosen a dress sprinkled with mauve and grey flowers for the outing, and had clipped on some rarely worn pearl earrings that Charlie had given her at the time of Howard's birth. Howard had ordered a taxi for the journey to the naval base and she scolded him for the expense; she herself still went about by rickshaw.

At last they arrived and joined a long queue of people craning their necks to observe the cliff-like hull of the
Prince of Wales
rising impressively out of the water. The sea slapped softly against the quay, but the great ship sat solidly where it was berthed, stretching above Rose to impossible heights. Against the sky a grey metal rail could be seen, and occasionally a young sailor was sighted in a white uniform, a breeze filling out the legs of his shorts. Further along the quay was the
Repulse
,
which had accompanied the
Prince of Wales
to Singapore. It was an old tub of twenty-five years that had already fought many battles; nobody was interested in the
Repulse,
Howard informed his mother.

People were being taken on to the ship in small groups to tour the interior and walk on the vast plateau of the deck. The upper echelons of the European community had already been invited to dinners and dances on board the battleship; lesser ranks had been left to queue in the equatorial sun along with crowds of locals. Rose dabbed her perspiring face with a handkerchief under the shelter of her linen parasol. Although the queue was made up mostly of local people, she noticed a smattering of Europeans. Some distance behind her was a tall blonde woman in a straw hat, holding a parasol similar to her own. Catching the woman's eye Rose smiled, but in reply received a cool stare of query.

A sailor in the smart white uniform and peaked cap of an officer appeared, and walking along the length of the queue stopped to converse politely with the Europeans. As he returned to the ship, they left the queue one by one, to follow him aboard ahead of all the locals. This did not bother Rose in the way it bothered Howard, who grumbled angrily at the Europeans' preferential treatment.

‘It is the way things are; it is their right as our rulers,' Rose told him impatiently. To complain seemed ungrateful to Mr Churchill and the young British sailors who, impeccable in uniforms and caps, might soon risk their lives for her. Looking up at the towering bulk of the vessel, she caught the faint odour of fried fish from the ship's kitchen, edged with the sea's oily perfume.

The European group walked forward behind the officer, amongst them the woman with the parasol, accompanied by her husband. As she came level with Rose she appeared to stumble, and her husband quickly reached out to support her. She was painfully thin, and Rose knew from the slight curve of her abdomen that she was pregnant. She remembered how ill she had felt while expecting Howard and stepped forward impulsively in concern.

‘It is very hot. Perhaps she is just feeling faint,' Rose advised.

The woman's husband gave Rose a brief but appreciative smile before turning back to his wife.

Opening her handbag, Rose pulled out a clean folded handkerchief and the miniature bottle of eau de cologne she always carried with
her. Wetting the cloth with the cologne, she offered it to the man. He took it gratefully and dabbed his wife's brow. Within a moment the woman steadied herself and looked at Rose askance. Shaking herself free of her husband's grasp, she moved forward after the group.

‘Keep the handkerchief, she may need it again,' Rose said. The man nodded, an expression of helplessness on his face, and hurried after his wife to press the handkerchief into her hand. Beside Rose, Howard glowered unpleasantly, and she hoped he was not going to make further derogatory remarks that would be heard by the officer or other Europeans. Instead, to Rose's relief, he returned his attention to the
Prince of Wales
, refusing to involve himself.

‘Battleships like these should always have air cover. They're sitting ducks without it. Apparently the aircraft carrier with the
Prince of Wales
ran aground on a sandbank somewhere on the way,' Howard said, mopping perspiration from his neck.

Unseen by Howard, the Englishwoman was now rebuking her husband angrily. ‘It's a local woman's handkerchief; who knows where it has been. Why ever did you bring me to this place?' she protested, loud enough for Rose and others to hear. With a toss of the head she walked up the gangplank and, before stepping into the belly of the ship, stretched out a hand to drop the handkerchief into the water below. The incident had taken no more than a few moments, and Howard had not noticed.

‘Air power is what will win a modern war,' he continued to grumble, looking up at the ship.

Rose did not reply. The Englishwoman's words repeated unpleasantly within her, filling her with resentment, and she was thankful her son had not seen the flow of events. Absorbed in trying to justify the woman's response to her own impulsive action, Rose was overcome with feelings of self-reproach. Perhaps the woman felt ill and was not used to the tropical heat Rose reasoned, but the fault was hers: she had stepped out of place and appeared too familiar. It was all because of Wilfred. His recent marriage to Cynthia had left Rose feeling socially confused. Her son-in-law's unfailing politeness and affection, and the relaxed manner in which she responded to his presence, had upset her sense of how things were done. Lost in these thoughts, she was conscious of Howard guiding her forward, and to her relief saw they were at last being hustled up the gangway on to the
Prince of Wales
.
Rose collapsed her parasol, but as she neared the ship could not stop herself from looking down over the side of the gangplank. The handkerchief floated far below, a small white square washed this way and that on the water between the ship and the quay. Rose was shocked to feel anger flooding through her.

As they stepped aboard, a young British sailor came forward to greet them. His bony knees, protruding below the stiff white shorts of his uniform, gave him an appearance of vulnerability; he looked too young to be defending the Empire, Rose thought.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Ordnance Seaman John Jefferies and I am your guide to the
Prince of Wales
this afternoon. Please follow me. Hold on to the handrails, the ship's companionways are steep, and mind your heads for ceilings are low.' He turned smartly, leading the way to the top deck.

When they emerged on that high plateau, Rose was unprepared for the breeze that blew about her at this height. Before her the ocean stretched away dotted by small islands she could not name. The great space of it elated her. Ordnance Seaman Jefferies pointed out the heavy mounted guns, and explained that they could be rotated 365 degrees to take down an enemy plane from any angle.

Soon, they came into the dining room where the Captain's table was pointed out. Ordnance Seaman Jefferies read the week's menu and revealed interesting details about methods of transporting and maintaining the freshness of vegetables. He showed them the kitchens and the clamps that would keep a lidded pot strapped to the stove in an unruly sea. In the big dining room, rocking gently beneath her feet on the swell, Rose's eyes settled on a portrait of the King nailed firmly to a wall. Perhaps the King had visited the ship, touring it just as they were doing. Mr Churchill too must have walked all over it, examining its many intricacies. He might have sat at the Captain's Table on the very chair that was now before her.

They were shown the High-Angle Plotting Table in the small but important Communications Room. Here, in the event of a crisis, the officers below decks would plan the ship's response. The technical area of the vessel with its ultra-modern radar and surveillance rooms was quickly bypassed, disappointingly off limits to all but an initiated few.

‘Even I am not allowed in there,' Ordnance Seaman Jefferies confided.

Eventually the tour was over and they were guided back to the gangway for the return to shore. Once on land, Howard began complaining that as well as the radar and surveillance area, they had been denied sight of the torpedoes for which the battleship was famous.

‘Well, I for one shall sleep well tonight, knowing such ships are patrolling our waters,' Rose announced firmly in the taxi as she and Howard returned to Belvedere. She inhaled the leathery smell of the vehicle and the heady essence of petrol fumes. All frightening talk of a Japanese advance had been put into perspective now that she had seen Mr Churchill's great ship.

Some weeks before, in early November, Brigadier Simson, Chief Engineer, Malaya Command, had agreed to an interview with Wilfred for
The Straits Times,
over a beer at the Cricket Club. The Brigadier had been sent to Singapore four months earlier, with instructions from the War Office in London to evaluate and improve defences on the island. After the interview Simson had arranged for Wilfred to visit a military camp in Johore. Captain Jenkins, smart in his khaki uniform, had been delegated to accompany Wilfred on the drive there. A square-set man with broad shoulders, he spoke to Wilfred from the front of the army truck, staring all the while straight ahead.

‘The top brass don't like journalists poking around. With all due respect, Brigadier Simson is new to things here. We don't want defeatist talk, not good for morale,' Jenkins told Wilfred in careful clipped words. They had crossed the Causeway on to mainland Malaya, and had been travelling for more than an hour. The metal seat in the truck had grown so hot Wilfred could not put a hand upon it. Above him, the canvas canopy gave only partial shade. Occasionally a plane droned over the jungle road and they both looked up. Jenkins nodded in satisfaction.

‘Good to know the RAF is overhead.'

‘All I ever see up there are old Brewster Buffaloes,' Wilfred replied, trying to suppress his growing resentment of Jenkins's superior manner. ‘Whitehall should have sent us some modern aircraft.'

‘Nonsense,' Jenkins replied curtly. ‘Buffaloes are more than a match for antiquated Japanese aircraft; they have no adequate air power.'

‘A Japanese Zero is far in advance of any Buffalo,' Wilfred argued in an even voice.

‘If they want to attempt an invasion, they'll approach Singapore from the south, from the sea, and we're ready and waiting for them. They will never get through the jungle,' Jenkins insisted impatiently. This was not what Brigadier Simson had told Wilfred, but he chose not to argue. He remembered Simson's complaining that his proposals for strengthening Singapore's defences were being blocked by arrogant local military personnel.

The most important event the year had produced for Wilfred, was his marriage to Cynthia. The wedding in January had been small and witnessed only by Howard and Rose, Boffort with his new wife Valerie, and Collins from the office.

‘Not done to get married during your first tour of duty, I waited five years to marry Valerie. Have you told them at the office?' Boffort was unable to resist the opportunity to make his disapproval known.

They had been married in the Church of Our Lady of Lourdes and Cynthia had worn her mother's white satin wedding dress and veil, altered to fit her slighter frame. Wilfred had initially suggested a no-fuss civil wedding; because of the disapproval of early marriage in most British companies, it was important to keep a low profile. Rose had been so shocked he did not pursue the suggestion. As a Catholic, she wished Cynthia to marry as she had been brought up, in the Catholic faith. Wilfred had talked through the matter of faith with both Cynthia and her mother. At one point he was tempted to say he felt Agnostic, rather than Anglican, might better describe his religious views, but thought it politic to remain silent. In the end, he was prepared to go along with any request, as long as it meant he could marry Cynthia. When at last they stood before the priest, the perfume of incense and lilies filling the air, sun falling through stained glass upon them, he knew that whatever the future held, he would not regret this moment; he had never been so happy.

‘If
The Straits Times
object to my marriage, I'll join
The Malaya Tribune
,' Wilfred had answered Boffort in a jocular tone. ‘Being a local paper they don't care about such piffling things.'

There had seemed no practical reason to wait to marry; Rose had offered them a large downstairs room in Belvedere free of rent, unable to hide her delight at the wedding. Wilfred had proved that his intentions were honourable and Rose was full of relief. Wilfred thought of Rose fondly; he had hardly known his own mother and was happy to
let her fuss about him. As a staff nurse at the General Hospital, Cynthia was earning enough to supplement his income if necessary. From the beginning, Wilfred decided his marriage should be presented to
The Straits Times
as a fait accompli.

All Simmons said when Wilfred eventually faced him was, ‘She's a local girl; you should expect problems with your social life.'

‘We'll be all right,' Wilfred told him, suppressing his anger. He had already decided not to join the clubs that
mattered,
from which Cynthia would be barred entry because she was not European; he would not put her through that humiliation.

The jungle pressed forward on each side of the road; a cloud of green parrots flew low overhead. The day before a flock of raucous cockatoos had settled noisily in the trees outside the bedroom window at Belvedere as he lay on the bed with Cynthia. Their precious hours together were frequently ruptured by the harsh pattern Cynthia's work imposed upon their life. She was working full time at the hospital and could not escape her turn of night duty. My part-time wife, he jokingly called her, but could not at times eradicate his resentment at the long hours she was forced to spend away from him.