A Different Sky (53 page)

‘I hope Krishna is not pulling you into his mad politics?' Raj warned as he sipped his whisky, turning suddenly upon his brother-in-law.

‘All he is wanting is to get back to some studies,' Krishna retorted, the sharpness of his tone revealing the antagonism between himself and Raj.

‘Study? Why do you want to go back to studies? You have a good job at the Harbour Board,' Raj replied testily, staring at Howard over the raised rim of his glass. The subject of education made him nervous; he was always afraid it would be found that he had none.

‘I'm not a businessman. It's difficult to get far in the world without qualifications.' Howard defended himself before the intensity of Raj's gaze.

‘You seem educated enough. You have more education than me, so why are you now wanting more?' Raj spoke fiercely, and Howard felt bound to explain himself.

‘If I could get to a university, perhaps in Australia . . . but of course there's no money just now . . . men who have education can make a difference in the world . . .' Howard broke off, embarrassed, prepared to be ridiculed by the worldly, wealthy Raj who continued to stare at him intently, saying not a word. Then, with a shrug of his heavy shoulders, Raj took another mouthful of whisky and spoke almost angrily.

‘Education. You want education? You have developed ambition, that's why you want education.' He gave a sceptical snort and fell silent again, peering down into his glass. He understood only too well Howard's sudden interest in further education. The man was bright, very bright. He might easily have been a Queen's Scholar and done what he wished with his life many years before, but luck had been against him. If he, Raj, had had even half Howard's education, he too would be looking at more. Raj remembered Manikam, and the investment the man had made in his own education, meagre as that had been; he remembered his early admiration for Krishna, who had taught him all he knew. He remembered crouching down beside his brother-in-law, dictating those long-ago letters to Leila, and for a moment the smell of jasmine from the garland shop came to him over the years. He sighed and began to speak again.

‘What little education I have, I owe to Krishna. Even now, it takes me so long to read a newspaper, and many words I still do not yet know. I am like a child in that way, but I can read, and that is the important thing. I too had much ambition, but instead of education God gave me good wits and I used them. And there were men who helped me from the goodness of their hearts, like Krishna.' Raj threw his brother-in-law a look of sudden, grudging gratitude. He remembered his other mentors, Mr Ho and Mr Yamaguchi and Mr Shinozaki, whose assistance had brought him to this Waterloo Street house.

‘Such education as helps men fly high is not my destiny. Indians with that kind of education are few and far between here; mostly
here in Singapore we Indians are lowly merchants. Long ago I decided my ambition would be always to have money, and this I have achieved. Money can be made with no education.' Raj gave a smile, and for a moment his face lost its shrewd, impenetrable guard. His voice was filled with new depth when he spoke again to Howard.

‘Perhaps, at last, through you I can repay a debt to the men who helped me. Tell me what it is you are needing, and perhaps I can help you.' He held a hand up to silence Howard, who had started in surprise.

‘This is just a further investment for me, but as on all my investments, I expect a good return.' Raj raised his whisky glass in a toast to Howard, but his eyes rested on Krishna, who at last gave a slow smile and a nod of approval.

W
ILFRED DROVE SLOWLY, CONCENTRATING
hard. Although his physical health had recovered in the years since the war, his nerves were still bad and he found driving a strain. In the chaotic traffic conditions of the rutted Singapore roads, he was always afraid of killing someone. The car was third hand, but in good condition and served his purpose. Some mornings he dropped Cynthia at the General Hospital and then, if it was necessary, drove to the Reuters office in Cecil Street.

He had not returned to
The Straits Times
when his health improved but had instead joined Reuters on a freelance basis. He had also agreed to be the Malaya correspondent for the
Observer
in London, writing a weekly column for the newspaper. He was working mostly from home where he could break off and rest as the doctor insisted. His back and legs never stopped troubling him after the experiences in the Japanese camp. There were also headaches, and frequent shivering fits that were the remains of malaria. He still could not sleep without a pill; but generally he was better, and refused to complain.

Although the city was still battered in appearance, life in Singapore had returned to normal, and food was once more available. Except for a remaining couple of families living in makeshift huts in the garden, the squatters were long gone from Belvedere; the house looked much as before, if shabbier. They had reclaimed their old room and Cynthia had somehow managed to buy new curtains and a spring mattress for their bed. Now that Wilfred was stronger and earning money again, he and Cynthia had decided to move out of Belvedere and look for a home of their own, much to Rose's distress. They had also decided to try for a child; they were full of plans and Cynthia had agreed to give up work if they had a family. She held a responsible position at the General Hospital, involved with the training of young nurses at a newly established nursing school. Although this absorbed her, it was disheartening
to find that on their return the British had brought back all the old structures; senior nursing staff were again European and Cynthia, as a local, was once more second-rung personnel. Once Wilfred's health had improved, he encouraged her to return to full-time work, knowing she missed it. It was impossible also for Wilfred to tell Cynthia how much he wanted to be alone; sometimes he did nothing but lie on the bed all day, staring up at the whirling fan.

That morning he had dropped Cynthia not at the General Hospital, but at Joo Chiat Hospital where she had a matter to discuss with Dr Wong. From there he planned to drive to the Reuters office. The Joo Chiat area was less familiar to him than the central roads in town, and trying to take a short cut he was soon lost. By the many roadside stalls and
kampong
-style houses and the preponderance of Malay faces, he knew he was in Geylang Serai. On the narrow street the traffic was unusually thick and he wondered if there was an accident ahead. The strong rotting smell of durian from the many fruit stalls along the road drifted to him through the open car window.

Soon he was forced to draw to a halt behind a thick mass of stationary traffic; in the distance he heard shouting. Although he pressed the car horn, nothing moved and the driver of the bullock cart ahead glanced over his shoulder and gesticulated angrily. Already, exhausted by the stress of driving on a strange road, Wilfred's hands were trembling on the steering wheel. He could not move backwards or forwards for the press of carts and trishaws now piling up around him. A group of Malay youths rushed by waving their arms and yelling aggressively. Usually, it was the Chinese communists who ran around shouting and agitating; the Malays were a peaceful people and Wilfred stared out of the open window in surprise, noticing in alarm that several of the young men were carrying lethal looking
parangs
. He decided to make an attempt to turn the car around and drive back in the direction he had come to find an alternative route.

Slowly, after much tooting of the horn, room was reluctantly made for him to edge the car out into the opposite lane. Another group of excited Malays appeared, shaking their fists. At the sound of Wilfred's impatient honking the youths halted, staring angrily at him as he peered anxiously out of the window. With a shout of fury, one of them stepped into the traffic as if he would approach the car, but then decided otherwise and ran on behind his friends. Wilfred saw with further alarm
that all the young men carried an assortment of knives, as if prepared for violence. Everyone had now turned to observe him, and he realised with a throb of panic that he was the only white man in the vicinity.

With difficulty, he completed the turn and felt relieved as he began to drive back along the road. After a short distance an acrid smell of burning rubber came to him, and he saw that a car ahead of him had been overturned and set on fire. Flames shot up as the petrol ignited. The young men who had passed him earlier were running around the burning car, shouting wildly. Wilfred's heart leapt in fear. Quickly, he turned into a narrow unpaved road to his right, hoping his car had not been seen. His head thumped painfully, and his hands now trembled so violently he was afraid he would lose control of the vehicle. The narrow dirt track was deserted; filled with relief, he stopped the car beside some
kampong
houses, mopping his brow and bending to retrieve the water flask that had rolled off the seat on to the floor. Before he could straighten and take a drink, shouting welled up around him. Out of the back window he saw a crowd of men racing towards him. In panic he reached for the ignition, fumbling with the key.

Before he could start the engine, they were around him. The door was tugged open and he was pulled out. All he could see was a mass of dark angry faces, wet mouths, white teeth. He was thrown to the ground and kicked. Other blows followed, hurled down viciously at him. Beyond the pain and shock of attack was the knowledge that these men were prepared to kill him. He saw the flash of
kris
and
parang
and prayed he would not feel the sharp blades.

A man in the camp had been beheaded because he was too sick to lift a stone and, no longer caring, spat at the Japanese guard. He was pushed to his knees and the guard's long sword came down upon the man, severing his head in a single stroke. It rolled down the slope like a football, while blood fountained out of the fallen body. Wilfred remembered the rushing sound of the blade as it cut through the air before slicing into the man. Now, holding up his arms to fend off blows, he did not see the iron bar coming down until it cracked sickeningly upon his head. His mind floated over the black edge of consciousness, just as it had many times before in the camp.

When Wilfred opened his eyes the first thing he saw were the blades of a fan turning lazily above him. Everything was white and light.
There was silence, and the louvres of a half-shuttered window threw slatted shadows on to the wall. A smell of flowers came to him, and when he turned his head in the direction of this perfume he saw Cynthia sitting on a chair a short distance away, a vase of flowers beside her. She came to him immediately, and put a cool hand on his head.

‘The police found you. Luckily you had identification on you and they called us,' she told him. He saw she wore her nurse's uniform, and that he was in a hospital ward.

‘I cannot feel my legs,' he said, trying not to sound desperate.

‘You have been in and out of consciousness for three weeks.' Cynthia pulled a chair up beside the bed and wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand; she had requested Matron to take her off her usual duties so that she could nurse Wilfred privately.

‘I cannot feel my legs,' he repeated, trying to remember what had happened and seeing only confused images.

‘You're lucky to be alive,' Cynthia admitted in a low voice. He realised then that his head was heavily bandaged and his limbs were weighted down with plaster. Cynthia's voice was calm and professional but he saw tears spring again to her eyes. Both his legs were broken and the doctors said he might have difficulty walking again, the blow to his head had fractured his skull, Cynthia told him. All their plans must be put on hold.

‘There was Muslim rioting; it was that custody case,' she told him later, mentioning the court case everyone had been following in the paper, of a Dutch girl, adopted by a Muslim woman when the Japanese had interned her parents during the war. The girl had been brought up as a Muslim but the Dutch mother now wanted her back and returned to the Catholic faith. The Muslim community had gone mad, massing in front of the court, indiscriminately attacking white people and property.

It took many months for Wilfred to recover from the vicious attack but slowly he regained some use of his limbs; his head wound healed without the predicted dire consequences. Eventually, he was discharged from hospital and returned to Belvedere. Then, every day with Cynthia's help he hauled himself out of the wheelchair and, supported on each side, attempted to walk, his legs buckling painfully beneath him. Although his body responded to rest and care, he had fallen again into depression, speaking little and erupting often into uncontrollable anger.
Cynthia was distraught. It had taken so long for him to return to physical and mental health after his experiences as a POW. When he joined Reuters she had been happy to see him interested again in life. Now, in a stray moment of violence, everything was wiped out and the struggle back to health must begin again.

Yet, once he was free of the plaster casts and his wounds had healed, she sensed the difference in him. She caught not sorrow, but the hard fist of his anger. He railed at her continuously, and even when he apologised began almost immediately shouting again over things she thought were trifling. She knew he could not help himself, and that his anger must be taken as a positive sign.

‘I do not want to sit with your mother,' he told her sharply one morning, as she pushed the wheelchair across the red Malacca tiles of Belvedere's dining room to where Rose sat crocheting on the old chintz sofa.

‘Two invalids keeping each other company. You know she misses Mavis.' Cynthia laughed to humour him. Mavis had returned to Penang some time before, and Rose was surprised to find how lonely she felt without her. She had aged suddenly and now suffered from angina that required her to rest.

‘I'm a wreck,' Wilfred admitted to Rose, as Cynthia settled the wheelchair beside the sofa and drew up a chair for herself. Ah Fong brought coffee and they sat together before the open windows facing the orchard. In the war a shell had landed in the middle of the mangos-teens and many charred and leafless trees still clustered lifelessly about the crater.