A Different Sky (47 page)

‘I'm sorry,' he said in a low voice and could find no other words with which to journey to her dark world. She nodded absently, but before he reached the door he heard her speak and turned to her again. She still stood on the veranda, looking out at the sun caught in the leaves of a coral tree.

‘In the cell there was a tiny barred window high up; I could watch the sky and the clouds pass by. Once I heard a golden oriole sing.'

‘I'm sorry,' he repeated, stiff with embarrassment, wanting to run from the room and the discomfort she made him feel. The words were a whisper, barely reaching his lips as he turned to hurry away.

Once he had gone she sat down to absorb the news about Howard, her face filled with the emotion she had refused to show Raj. Ah Siew shuffled forward, attentive and anxious.

‘Go quickly to the Joo Chiat Hospital, to Cynthia, ask her for news of Howard, ask her to come,' Mei Lan said. Pulling some notepaper from the drawer of a desk, she wrote a quick note to Cynthia, something she had not found herself able to do before.

Please come. I do not yet have the strength to go out. Ah Siew looks after me,
she wrote, forming the words with difficulty.

Wilfred found that any small cut turned septic and ate deep into his flesh. No one had shoes and the hard labour, the scratches from clearing bushes and trees, the knocks from breaking stones, were a continual aggravation to the suppurating lesions they all had on their bodies. Once or twice Wilfred had sat with his legs in the river and let the small fish there nibble at the sores to clean them, but this was a painful process. Then a novel treatment was found. Cement dust, if packed into an open sore, would bind with the pus and mucus there to dry into a hard protective scab. Eventually, these heavy scabs fell off and revealed new skin beneath. Every day they dug graves for those who died. No one prayed any more.

Cholera came. They were warned that when monsoon rain swelled the river, dead animals, decayed rubbish and the contents of village cesspits upstream would be carried down to them and cholera would come; it came every year without fail.

The Japanese held white squares of cloth over their faces for protection but, within hours of the first case being reported, the rotted, leaking tent set up as an isolation ward was full. The monsoon rolled down, drenching dying men who writhed in agonising spasms. Vomit and diarrhoea covered the ground in pools of slime. Few men could survive, and the growing pile of bodies must be buried quickly. Mass graves were dug and bodies were unceremoniously thrown in, layered one on another up to the top. There needed to be six feet of earth above the bodies, or maggots would crawl to the surface from rotting corpses and immediately metamorphose into cholera-carrying blowflies. All the time they dug it rained; their feet were ankle deep in mud. They were warned not to touch their mouths with their fingers, mess tins and spoons must be dipped in boiling water before a meal;
no fly must be allowed to settle on food. As flies congregated in a metallic black swarm on any morsel, this was a difficult order to fulfil. There was also no way to shift a corpse except by grasping it with bare hands and Wilfred dreaded falling into the toxic mud or that it would splash on to his mouth; there was no way to protect themselves against contamination. Each day he wrapped himself around the same silent mantra, the words repeating and reverberating through him.
I will not die. I will not die.

T
HE DENSE SHADOW
of the jungle broke at last and Howard found himself in the dazzle of sunlight. As the trucks careered along the narrow road a green carpet of rice fields spread out around them. People bending to the paddy straightened and waved. When the rumour that war was over and the Japanese had surrendered reached them in the jungle camp, they had not known whether to believe it; they were again without a radio. It was many weeks before they eventually set out to join the other groups of Malayan People's Anti-Japanese Army liberating the country.

Howard held his face to the sun, as if to wash away the green and cloistered years. He had grown so used to the filtered half-light of the rainforest, a dark canopy of branches always above him, that the endless vista of sky filled him with amazement. The breeze on his face, the unrelieved heat on his skin, the brightness of it all was disorientating; he wondered if, after hiding so long within the dark mansion of the jungle, his skin had absorbed its green light. He was weak with illness and lay stretched out in the back of the truck. The thought of freedom was frightening; he remembered how he had once longed to escape the camp. Now, without the cohesion of its organised life about him, the world appeared daunting.

Malaria gripped him so that even now he ached and shivered. Before they left the camp, dysentery had also taken hold of him and he had wondered if, now that the war was finally ended, he was destined to die. Instead, he had been placed on a bamboo stretcher and carried along with the guerrillas, who had orders from the Malayan Communist Party to liberate nearby towns; Howard was too weak to protest. Everywhere, as the Japanese moved out, making way for the returning British troops, the communist guerrillas moved in. Roads were clogged with the retreating Japanese army, sullen faced and with truckloads of equipment, and the loot of furniture,
pianos and bicycles, with soldiers seated precariously atop these loads.

‘The Shorties are going,' Wee Jack laughed, shooting about the feet of Japanese soldiers, making them dance and run.

In village after village the Communist Party's red flag with hammer and sickle emblem now flew above the Union Jack and the guerrillas' own Malayan People's Anti-Japanese Army pennant. When Wee Jack and his men entered a village, their first task was to establish a rule of terror. Any remaining Japanese police or soldiers were immediately shot. The guerrillas marched up and down the main street flashing guns, demanding enthusiasm from the populace. People's Committees were put in place, and a village jury tried those who had collaborated with the Japanese. The guilty were carried around in pigs' cages before being butchered before a cheering crowd. The punishment and dispatch of women who had been the mistresses of the Japanese was greeted with the greatest approval.

Howard was required to see little of this. Racked by illness, he was exhausted by the smallest exertion and Wee Jack finally installed him in the house of an elderly couple, ordering them to care for him.

‘Get yourself better soon. We're returning to Singapore,' Wee Jack announced one day. ‘The Malayan People's Anti-Japanese Army are being honoured by the British. Our leaders are getting medals.' Wee Jack gave a bark of laughter, and Howard stared at him in amazement, wondering if this meant he was free at last.

Now, the truck bumped over the trunk road taking them back to Singapore. Howard was weak, but no longer so ill after the medicine, food and kindness shown him by the elderly couple in the last town. The truck was going too fast for safety, throwing them about, the men shouting and laughing. They were one in a convoy of six Malayan People's Anti-Japanese Army trucks, and behind followed a further truck with a cargo of weapons. Similar convoys were heading to Singapore from all directions. Sitting beside Howard, Wee Jack wore his official high peaked cap with three gold stars, and a creased and unwashed uniform.

‘It will do for the ceremony, I'm not one of those receiving medals from Mountbatten,' Wee Jack told Howard. ‘The British want to make a pact with us. If the MPAJA gives up its weapons and disbands, they've promised to officially recognise us, to recognise the Malayan
Communist Party.' Wee Jack threw back his head in triumphant laughter. Howard leaned his aching head on the side of the bouncing truck, too weak to argue. He could not share Wee Jack's buoyancy; all he felt was apprehension at the thought of returning to Singapore. How would he take up his old life again? How would he fit back into society, mix with people like Lionel again? Even his mother now seemed unrelated to him.

At the Padang, a platform had been erected on the steps of City Hall on which sat uniformed British generals, air marshals, admirals and brigadiers, and a lone representative of the Malayan Communist Party. At their centre was Lord Louis Mountbatten, Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia, waiting to honour the communist guerrilla fighters. The music stopped as a fleet of open cars drew up carrying the guests of honour, the sixteen leaders of the newly disbanded Malayan People's Anti-Japanese Army.

There was cheering as the men climbed out of the cars, wearing olive green uniforms and peaked caps. The band struck up ‘God Save the King', and as this ended paused discreetly for a moment before beginning ‘The Red Flag'. As the last notes died away, Lord Louis Mountbatten stepped forward to pin medals on each MPAJA leader. Tall Lord Louis bent low to secure the Burma Star upon the smaller Chinese men, but although he smiled gravely as the occasion demanded, shaking the hand of each man, his gestures were interpreted as condescending. As the band played ‘Land of Hope and Glory', the guerrilla leaders gave a sudden clenched fist salute, their arms thrusting up to the sky. Wee Jack nudged Howard who stood beside him.

‘The British think they're returning to the old order of things. Instead, they'll find it's a different world. If the Japanese could get the British out, then so can we, that's what we've learned from the war: the British are not invincible.' Wee Jack laughed.

Later, the truck dropped Howard off near Lionel's house before bumping away over the rutted track and finally disappearing. For a moment he panicked, overwhelmed with loss, suppressing an urge to run after it. Illness had left him debilitated; his head spun and his legs were weak as he turned to walk along the sandy track towards the coconut estate. The familiar landscape appeared surreal, as if he saw it in a dream. Perhaps, he thought, Lionel's house might no longer be there; he did not know what he was returning to, he did not know if
his mother was still alive. In the distance he heard the unchanging rhythm of the sea, and breathed in the familiar comfort of the briny air, edged by the odour of drying sardines. The sun was going down, there was the smoke of cooking fires and shadows settling for the night, just as there had always been, just as he remembered. Soon, he came to the old shack where he had spent so many hours hidden away, where he had taken Mei Lan, and stopped. The hut had collapsed inwards and now lay in a heap of splintered struts and planks and disintegrating attap leaves. He knew he should feel some emotion, but within him his feelings congealed, unyielding. Mei Lan was so distant he could not clearly recall her face; he himself was but a spectre visiting a previous life.

Lionel's house was not only standing as before, but Lionel was sitting on the steps strumming his guitar. He stood up in amazement at Howard's sudden appearance, and yelled into the house for Ava. She came running, her children behind her, all now grown and lanky. It was an emotional reunion, and Howard immediately learned his mother had returned to Belvedere. Lionel kept slapping him on the back and Ava insisted he spend the night.

‘It's dangerous out there. Wait for daylight, then you'll be all right,' she advised.

‘She's right, boy. It's every man for himself out there – looting and plunder and the law of the street now that the Japanese have gone. Almost as bad as when they were here, in a different sort of way,' Lionel agreed. Howard sat down on the top step of the veranda, the noisy welcome surging about him was more than he could take. He dropped his head into his hands and tears streamed down his face.

‘Now the British are back, law and order will return, just you wait and see.' Ava drew her daughters into her arms and they leaned against her biting their nails, regarding Howard curiously as she gave him news of Rose.

‘Your mother and Mavis hurried home to Belvedere as soon as they could. Lionel took them back. It upset them to see what had happened to the place. It's full of homeless people. Lionel said even though the place belongs to Rose, she had to battle for a few inches to call her own. Cynthia is back at the General Hospital.'

Howard left Lionel's house in the morning and as he came into town was shocked to see the number of destitute people and the
unspeakable filth piled up everywhere. Eventually, he reached Belvedere and as he walked through the gate he thought for a moment he had made a mistake. The garden was a shanty town of squatters' huts. Ragged, emaciated people passed constantly in and out of the house, while two coolies squatting down to smoke outside the front door looked up at Howard with interest. As he stepped into the vestibule, the dining room opened before him and he saw not the usual sea of red Malacca tiles, but a further squatters' village. Old sheets, curtains and pieces of tarpaulin were strung up, dividing the great room into many small cubicles. Behind these flimsy walls Howard saw families, sleeping babies and bits of furniture: a box, a mattress, a chair – even the small round tables at which Belvedere's lodgers had once sat. There was a foul odour. He walked anxiously down the corridor to his old room and found the door open. A crowd of faces turned towards him as he peered in, and he drew back hastily. The door to his mother's room was firmly shut, but he forced himself to open it. For a moment he stared disbelievingly. His mother sat on a chair by the window sewing while Mavis, sitting on another chair, was reading a book. In the midst of chaos the room appeared almost as before. On the chest of drawers the usual silver-framed photographs were arranged beside a bowl of mangosteen. Rose's walnut double bed stood in its usual place. The women looked up as he entered. Rose lowered her sewing, frozen in shock; Mavis jumped up and rushed towards him.

They had set up a small spirit stove in a corner and upon it they heated whatever food they could find. They said it was better than queuing to use the gas rings in the kitchen. Some precious tea was unearthed, and boiled up in celebration of Howard's return. A valuable tin of sardines was also opened to accompany a hard heel of bread, that Mavis told him excitedly had been made with real flour and not tapioca.