The Glass Palace (65 page)

‘I see, sir.'

‘I'm telling you this, Lieutenant, only to alert you to some of the dangers of the situation in which we now find ourselves. I think we both know that our morale is not what it might be. But this is, of all times, the last in which anybody should waver in their loyalties. The reverses we've suffered are temporary—in a way they are a blessing in disguise. America's entry into the war makes it absolutely certain that we shall prevail, in time. In the meanwhile perhaps we should remind ourselves that the army has a very long memory when it comes to questions of allegiance and loyalty.'

The Lieutenant-Colonel paused to extinguish his cigarette. Arjun sat staring silently into his glass.

‘You know, Roy,' Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland said quietly, ‘my grandfather lived through the Mutiny of 1857. I remember that he bore very little rancour towards the civilians who'd got mixed up in the troubles. But as for the soldiers—the sepoys who'd led the Mutiny—that was another matter altogether. Those men had broken an oath: they were traitors, not rebels, and there is no traitor so contemptible as a soldier who reverses his allegiances. And if such a thing were to happen at a dodgy time, I think you would agree with me, wouldn't you, Roy, that it would be hard to conceive of anything quite so unspeakable?'

Arjun was about to answer when he was interrupted by the sound of racing footsteps. He turned to a window to see Hardy running across the front lawn.

‘Sir,' Hardy came panting to the windowsill. ‘Got to move, sir . . . Jap convoy heading up the road.'

‘How many? Could we take them on?'

‘No, sir . . . There're at least two platoons—maybe a company.'

Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland pushed his chair calmly back, dabbing his lips with a napkin. ‘The main thing, gentlemen,' he said quietly, ‘is not to panic. Take a moment to listen to me: this is what I want you to do . . .'

They left the house by the rear entrance with Arjun in the lead and Hardy and Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland bringing up the rear. On reaching the shelter of the first row of trees Arjun fell into a defensive position. With him was a detail composed of Kishan Singh and two other men. Their orders were to cover the others until everyone was clear of the grounds.

The first Japanese truck pulled into the compound just as Hardy and Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland were running across the back garden. For a moment Arjun allowed himself to believe that they had managed to escape unseen. Then a volley of gunfire erupted out of the back of the truck and Arjun heard a chorus of whistles shooting past, well over his head.

Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland and Hardy were almost abreast of him now. Arjun waited till they were clear before giving the order to return fire. ‘
Chalao goli
.' They fired indiscriminately, in the general direction of the bungalow. The only result was the immediate shattering of the kitchen's windows. In the meantime, the Japanese truck had swung round to take shelter on the far side of the house.

‘
Piche. Chalo
.'

Arjun gave the order to fall back while staying in position himself, firing randomly, hoping to give Kishan Singh and the others time to regroup. He saw that the newly arrived Japanese soldiers were slipping into the trees one by one. He rose to his feet and began to run, holding his Tommy gun under his arm. Glancing over his shoulder, he encountered the now familiar sight of dozens of long files of trees, telescoping towards him— but with the difference that now, each tunnel offered a glimpse
of a tiny grey-uniformed figure, somewhere in the far distance, running in pursuit.

Arjun began to run faster, breathing hard, watching out for the branches that lay hidden underneath the fallen leaves. A hundred feet or so ahead, the land fell away steeply. If he could get as far as that he might be able to lose the pursuing soldiers. He sprinted, shortening his steps as he neared the lip of the declivity. Just as he was going over the top he felt his right leg shooting out from beneath him. He fell, tumbling face first down the slope. The shock of the fall was compounded by confusion: he could not understand why he had fallen. He hadn't tripped and he hadn't lost his footing—he was sure of that. Grasping at the undergrowth he managed to bring himself to a halt. He tried to get back on his feet and found that he couldn't. He looked down and saw that his trouser leg was covered in blood. He could feel the wetness of the cloth against his skin yet he was not conscious of any pain. His pursuers' footsteps were closer now, and he glanced around himself quickly, looking at the carpet of dead leaves that stretched away in every direction.

Just then he heard a sound, a familiar whisper. ‘Sah'b.'

He rolled over to find himself looking at Kishan Singh: his batman was lying prone, hidden inside a dark opening—a culvert or drainage pipe of some kind. The opening was blanketed by leaves and undergrowth. It was very well-hidden, almost invisible. The only reason that Arjun could see it at all was because he was lying flat on the ground.

Kishan Singh extended a hand and dragged him into the culvert. Then he crawled out to scatter leaves over the traces of Arjun's blood. Minutes later they heard the sound of footsteps racing past overhead.

The culvert was just wide enough for the two of them to lie side by side. Now, suddenly, Arjun's wound began to make itself felt, the pain welling out of his leg in waves. He tried to stifle a groan, not quite successfully. Kishan Singh threw a hand over his mouth and wrestled him into silence. Arjun realised that he was about to black out and he was glad: at that moment there was nothing he wanted more than oblivion.

thirty-six

E
ven though he was following the news closely on the radio, Dinu had trouble understanding exactly what was under way in northern Malaya. The bulletins mentioned a major engagement in the region of Jitra but the reports were inconclusive and confusing. In the meantime, there were other indications of the way the war was going, all of them ominous. One of these was an official newspaper announcement, listing the closing of certain post offices in the north. Another was the increasing volume of southbound traffic: a stream of evacuees was pouring down the north–south highway in the direction of Singapore.

One day, on a visit to Sungei Pattani, Dinu had a glimpse of this exodus. The evacuees seemed to consist mainly of the families of planters and mining engineers. Their cars and trucks were filled with household objects—furniture, trunks, suitcases. He came across a truck that was loaded with a refrigerator, a dog and an upright piano. He spoke to the man who was driving the truck: he was a Dutchman, the manager of a rubber plantation near Jitra. His family were sitting crowded in the truck's cab: his wife, a newborn baby and two girls. The Dutchman said he'd managed to get out just ahead of the Japanese. His advice to Dinu was to leave as soon as possible— not to make the mistake of waiting until the last minute.

That night, at Morningside, Dinu told Alison exactly what
the Dutchman had said. They looked at each other in silence: they had been over the subject several times before. They knew they had very few choices. If they went by road one of them would have to stay behind—the estate's truck was in no shape to make the long journey to Singapore and the Daytona would not be able to carry more than two passengers over that kind of distance. The only alternative was to go by train—but rail services had been temporarily suspended.

‘What are we going to do, Alison?' Dinu said.

‘Let's wait and see,' Alison said hopefully. ‘Who knows? Perhaps we won't have to leave after all.'

Late that night they were woken by the crunch of bicycle wheels, rolling up the gravelled drive of Morningside House. A voice called out from below: ‘Miss Martins . . .'

Alison got up and went to the window. It was still dark. Parting the curtains, she leaned out, peering down into the drive. Dinu glanced at a bedside clock and saw that it was four in the morning. He sat up: ‘Alison? Who is it?'

‘It's Ilongo,' Alison said. ‘He has Ah Fatt with him—from the restaurant, in town.'

‘At this time of night?'

‘I think they want to tell me something.' Alison let the curtain drop. ‘I'm going downstairs.' She pulled on a dressing gown and ran out of the room. A few minutes later, Dinu followed. He found Alison sitting in a huddle with the visitors. Ah Fatt was talking urgently, in rapid Malay, stabbing a finger in the air. Alison was biting her lip, nodding: Dinu could see a deepening anxiety in the crimped lines of her face.

In a while Dinu jogged her elbow. ‘What are you talking about? Tell me.'

Alison stood up and took him aside.

‘Ah Fatt says that Grandfather and I have to leave—for Singapore. He says it's going badly on the front. The Japanese may be able to push through in a day or two. He thinks the Kempeitai—their secret police—have information about us . . .'

Dinu nodded. ‘He's right. It won't do to wait any longer. You've got to go.'
Tears started into Alison's eyes. ‘I don't want to go, Dinu. Not without you. I really don't.'

‘You have to, Alison. Think of your grandfather . . .'

‘Miss Martins,' Ah Fatt interrupted, to let them know that he'd heard that a special evacuation train would be leaving from Butterworth that morning. He wasn't sure that they'd be able to get on it—but it was worth trying.

Dinu and Alison exchanged smiles. ‘We'll never get another chance like this,' Alison said.

‘Let's wake your grandfather,' Dinu said. ‘Let's not waste any time.'

They left early the next day in one of the estate's trucks. Ilongo drove and Dinu rode in the back with the luggage. Alison sat in front, with Saya John. There was little traffic, because of the time of day, and they arrived in Sungei Pattani in half the usual time. The town was silent: many of the shops and houses were locked or boarded up. Some had notices hanging outside.

A short way from town they picked up the main highway. The road's embankment was dotted with parked vehicles. Families could be seen to be sleeping in their cars, snatching a little rest before daylight. At intervals one-and-a-half-ton military trucks came barrelling down the highway, heading south. They would bear down very suddenly, pushing other traffic off the road, headlights blazing, sounding their horns. Dinu caught occasional glimpses of soldiers, squatting in the trucks' tarpaulin-covered beds.

Approaching Butterworth, the road was jammed with cars and trucks. The railway station was right next to the ferry terminus that connected the mainland to the island of Penang. This area had taken several hits during the recent bombing raids and there was a great deal of confusion in the rubble-strewn streets. People could be seen heading towards the station on foot, carrying bags and suitcases.

Ilongo parked in a side street and left Alison, Dinu and Saya John in the truck while he went ahead to make inquiries. He came back an hour later to report that they had a long
wait ahead. There were rumours that the train would not leave until after midnight. Penang was being evacuated too and a fleet of ferries was to be dispatched under cover of darkness. The train would not depart until the ferries had returned to Butterworth with the Penang evacuees.

Alison took a room in a hotel so that Saya John could rest. They spent the day taking it in turns to go out to make inquiries. Night fell and at ten o'clock there was still no news. Then, a little after midnight, Ilongo came running into the hotel with the information that the ferries had been sighted, returning from Penang. Shortly afterwards a train was shunted into the platform of the railway station.

Alison woke Saya John and Dinu paid for the hotel room. They stepped out into the darkened street and joined the crowd that was hurrying toward the station. The entrance had been cordoned off and could only be approached through a defile that was packed with people and luggage.

A few yards from the entrance Ilongo decided to turn back. He put an arm around Saya John and gave him a big hug. ‘Goodbye, Saya.'

Saya John gave him a blankly affectionate smile. ‘Be careful how you drive, Ilongo.'

‘Yes, Saya.' Ilongo laughed. He turned to Alison and Dinu but before he could say goodbye they were pushed ahead by the press of bodies. He shouted after them: ‘I'm going to spend the night in the truck. You can find me there—just in case. Good luck.'

Dinu answered with a wave. ‘And to you too . . . good luck.'

The entrance to the platform was manned by two guards, both Indian. They were dressed in green uniforms and had rifles slung over their shoulders. There were no tickets to be checked: the guards were looking the evacuees over and ushering them through.

They got to the gate with Saya John leaning heavily on Alison. Dinu was directly behind them, carrying their suitcases. Just as they were about to go through the entrance, a guard
stopped Alison with an outstretched arm. There followed a hurried consultation between the two guards. Then the guards gestured to Dinu, Alison and Saya John to step aside. ‘Please . . . Move away from the gate.'