The White Pearl (39 page)

‘No. A good, important job. He says he will train me.’

‘And me?’

For the first time uncertainty flickered in his black eyes. ‘You must go where I go. It’s what our mother’s spirit whispers
to me. You are no longer sick on the boat, and that shows she is pleased.’

Maya snatched up the tin of shiny polish on the deck, stuck her finger into its greasy depths and drew streaks of black down
her own cheeks, across her forehead and along her nose. She took hold of Razak’s chin and did the same to him. When they were
both daubed with warpaint, she whispered into the delicate curve of his ear, ‘Razak, you forget who you are.’

The ocean was so blue, and its surface so full of sunlight, that at times as Connie gazed into its depths she lost her bearings.
She became convinced it was the sky. Silvery shoals of fish became sunlit flocks of gulls in her mind, wheeling and spinning
through the heat-laden air. They shimmered and flashed. Like the thoughts in her head.

The heat was ferocious today; it hammered on her skull despite her straw hat, and the air itself seemed exhausted. They had
sailed through the night, the seas growing heavier, so that the boat pitched as Connie took soundings and Madoc trimmed the
sails. Fitzpayne guided them by a chart that seemed to exist only in his head. He wove a stealthy pathway, twisting and turning
among an archipelago of more than fifty islands that were hunched and brooding slabs of blackness that loomed out of the sea.
The canopy of their dense forests was stitched into silvery lace by the moonlight. Sometimes the belly-roar of a wild animal
or a screech from a night bird would ring out and make Connie’s hands pause in whatever task they were performing.

Shortly before dawn, she collapsed into bed beside Nigel for a few hours, weary enough to sleep without dreams for once. When
she woke she found daylight waiting for her and the boat almost empty, only Fitzpayne and Teddy sitting with heads together
on deck and fishing with long lines in the swirling blue waters. The others were ashore. Before dawn, Fitzpayne had sought
a temporary haven to hide away
The White Pearl
during the daytime. He had tucked her into the mouth of a narrow river and furled her sails, nestling in close to the thorny
rambutans and the feathery fingers of the casuarinas, where passing aircraft would not notice her.

‘Caught anything?’ she enquired.

Teddy held up two fish by their tails for her to examine. ‘It’s a red-tail gourami,’ he told her, ‘and look, a Javanese rice
fish.’

‘Oh, how splendid. It comes with rice already cooked inside it, does it?’

Her son rolled his eyes. ‘That’s silly!’ But he laughed, and the sound of it warmed her insides. Too often that sound had
been missing. ‘Mr Fitzpayne has been teaching me to tie knots,’ he added with excitement. He abandoned the fish and picked
up a length of rope from the deck. ‘Look, this is a bowline.’

Deftly his young hands tied the rope while he murmured the ritual instructions, ‘Rabbit comes out the hole, goes round the
tree and back down the hole.’ He pulled it tight. ‘See?’

‘I am impressed.’

The previous night’s bombing already seemed a long time ago. A sudden shout made her look up.

The White Pearl
’s passengers were playing cricket on the white frill of sand on the shore. The sight of it made Connie laugh out loud. She’d
had no idea that Nigel had smuggled bat and ball on board.

Behind her, Fitzpayne commented, ‘Wherever Englishmen gather together, there will always be the sound of leather on willow.
It’s one of the laws of the universe.’

She laughed, and noticed he hadn’t shaved this morning. Sometimes he didn’t bother, much to Nigel’s disgust, but she liked
the way he looked. Unshaven and clothed in an old black shirt and trousers that were turning green at the knees, and a wide
leather belt holding a Malayan
kris
knife at his waist. Always barefoot. Dark hair bleaching in the sun, and an energy in him that defied the heat. All he needed
was a cutlass between his teeth to look like a South Seas pirate. A shout of ‘Well bowled’ caught her attention.

‘Look, Kitty Morgan is in wicket!’ Connie exclaimed.

‘She’s better at catching than the men.’

Nigel was limping after the ball before it rolled into the water, while Pippin roared in circles around him in a frenzy of
barks.

‘How is your husband’s leg these days?’

‘Improving.’

‘Good.’

For a moment she wanted to tell him that one spot on the wound
looked bad, swollen and ulcerated. But she didn’t. Nigel would hate it.

‘Why aren’t you down there scoring runs with them?’ She smiled at him. The horrors of last night were being carefully overlaid
by a fragile structure of normality: a smile, a game of cricket, a fishing rod. Only Maya prowled alone, like a stray cat
at the water’s edge.

‘Not my game,’ Fitzpayne commented, and nodded towards where Teddy was reeling out his fishing line again. ‘Anyway your son
refused to go ashore.’

Connie frowned. Teddy adored cricket, but he wasn’t even watching the players. She glanced back at Fitzpayne and caught a
momentary softening of the muscles of his face as he looked at her son. ‘He’s finding it hard,’ she said under her breath.
‘There’s something not right.’

Fitzpayne’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s something not right with us, either.’

Us?
Did he mean himself and her? Or all of them?

‘There’s a war on, you know.’ She raised an ironic eyebrow, and was relieved when he laughed.

‘Mrs Hadley, don’t look so concerned. Teddy will survive.’

‘Survival isn’t enough,’ she said fiercely. ‘I want more for him than just survival.’

‘By his age I’d seen a dozen men die.’ His voice was gentle. ‘It will make him stronger – inside. Where it matters.’

‘He won’t talk about it.’

‘Let him deal with it in his own way. He’ll come to you when he’s ready. And if he doesn’t, well, then you know he’s learning
to grow up.’

‘I don’t want him to grow up. Not yet.’

Fitzpayne’s mouth tipped up at one corner. ‘The eternal cry of mothers.’

Connie shook her head. ‘He’s still so young.’

‘He’ll learn from his experiences. Don’t try to prevent him.’

Connie studied his face, seeking out the man behind it who had convinced himself that seeing death makes you stronger. ‘So
what is it that you think he will learn?’

‘How to face reality. Not to run from it.’

Connie snorted. ‘There’s nothing wrong with running from reality sometimes.’

Fitzpayne came forward. He didn’t touch her. But it almost felt as if
he had, as though a part of him reached out with a hand that steadied her, a hand that belonged to someone who knew exactly
what it was to run from reality.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, surprising her.

‘For what?’

‘For agreeing to sail you to Singapore.’

She stood there, held his gaze and didn’t let him see how much his remark had stung. ‘I’m not,’ she said firmly, and turned
away. ‘I must go and see what fish Teddy has managed to hook.’

But her eye was caught by a lonely figure on the riverbank. Maya had moved to a secluded stretch that was hidden from the
cricketers by a kink in the shoreline, and she was stepping out of her bright sarong and
kebaya
. She stood naked, slight and fragile, her dark skin glistening in the sun and dappled by brilliant pools of light that danced
up from the water’s surface. She stretched her slender arms up towards the heavens as though in supplication, then plunged
into the river with an almighty splash. For no more than ten seconds she paddled around in the waves before bursting back
onto the shore and shaking herself like a dog. Her long wet hair flicked out in an arc around her, creating a brief enchanting
rainbow.

It was too private a moment to linger on. Connie stepped away from the rail and headed over to Teddy, but when she glanced
back at Fitzpayne, he hadn’t moved. His gaze was fixed on the native girl.

In the late afternoon heat, they slept in their cabins. The boat itself grew quiet, silencing its sighs and creaks as though
preparing for what the night ahead would bring. Connie dozed fitfully. The air was thick and weighed down by flies, but just
as she was contemplating sliding out of the bed and going up on deck, the noise started.

Soft at first. A faint moan. A regular
arr-arr-arr
sound. At first Connie thought it was a sob. Someone crying. She looked at Nigel’s back lying beside her, but it was stiff
and silent in sleep. Or was he awake, listening to the noise as closely as she was? The moan grew louder and she thought of
Johnnie, of his damaged shoulder, of the pain he never mentioned and the sorrow of watching his comrades shot out of the sky.
She sat up.

At once the regular
arr-arr-arr
speeded up and a lower-pitched groan joined it. Abruptly Connie knew where it was coming from. Her cheeks
flooded with colour and her ears burned, but she didn’t cover them with her hands. She sat there, gazing down at her own pale
thighs and listened to the Morgans’ coupling as intently as she would to a piece by Brahms. Twice she looked round at her
husband, but he hadn’t moved a muscle.

Her heart rate climbed as the sounds grew more intense, and she imagined the blood pumping around her body, charging through
her veins until she felt the heat of it between her legs and released a whisper-thin moan of her own.

Madoc did not like the mood on the boat. What was the matter with these people? Bowing like field coolies to Fitzpayne’s every
suggestion, putting their lives in his hands and agreeing to be taken to some phantom island where they would be safe for
a while. The bastard! He had them eating out of the palm of his hand. What was he up to?

The White Pearl
had set off just before sunset. The wind had dropped and the sails hung with a lethargy that was at odds with the restlessness
of those on board. They wanted to move on fast to their destination, the island that Fitzpayne had promised would offer a
safe breathing space, even a hot bath and a decent meal that wasn’t rationed on the plate. That was where Madoc planned to
make his move. Just the thought sent adrenalin thundering through his bloodstream, and he felt the familiar ache. That addiction
to danger, danger that he needed like other people needed air.

Around them, other boats were on the move, all with the same idea to flee the relentless advance of Admiral Yamamoto’s Japanese
aircraft carriers with their strike planes. The sky seemed to have been steeped in blood by the setting sun and it made Madoc
uneasy – he could imagine how much blood was staining Malaya’s soil right now. Yet tiny
perahu
boats, doggedly plying their trade, still darted out to the fishing grounds, and a few sailing boats were still bound for
Singapore in the vain hope of gaining a berth on one of the departing troopships. But most were like themselves – scattering
outward across the South China Sea to seek safety. Throughout daylight hours Japanese planes droned across the sky, forcing
Madoc and his fellow passengers to withdraw into the forest, to clamber over the grasping roots of the mangroves and retreat
into its dark world like creatures of the night.

But now, below deck, Madoc couldn’t stop his hands from touching
the inlays in the varnished wood, the gleaming brass fittings, the inviting curves of the table and benches. They drew him
to them.

‘Madoc!’ Kitty hissed at him. ‘Stop it. It’s not yours yet.’

Her eyes were shining, but he knew her well and he’d seen the sweat glistening just behind her ears where her hair was tied
back with a length of Mrs Hadley’s black ribbon. She only sweated in such an odd place when she was nervous.

‘Do you have it ready?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

Lodged in the deep pocket of her voluminous skirt was the Tokarev pistol. It was too bulky for him to carry, even in his waistband,
without someone spotting it as he worked at hauling the sails.

He stepped close to her and stroked her throat with his palm. ‘Watch out for yourself, Kitty.’

She roared with laughter. ‘You’re throwing my own words back at me, you wretch.’

But he meant them. He shifted his palm over her mouth to quieten her. ‘I’ll watch out for you, Kitty,’ he whispered.

The lone aircraft came streaming down out of nowhere. In the west, the sky was growing darker but in the east it still clung
to its peacock blue, despite the approach of evening. It was from the east that the ear-splitting note arose.

‘It’s a Hurricane,’ Teddy yelled.

All on deck watched the battle rip across the heavens. A Japanese Zero had latched onto the British plane’s tail and its guns
spat out repeated flashes of fire. The Hurricane slipped and slithered through the air, turned on a wing tip dropping height,
spinning and twisting to shake off its attacker.

‘Hell, look at that!’ Nigel roared. ‘The Jap plane is faster, more agile.’

The Hurricane’s tail was hit. Johnnie stood in grim silence, a look of agony on his face.

‘Here, use these.’ Teddy thrust the binoculars at him.

But the pilot gave a tight shake of his head. ‘No.’

‘You’ll see better.’

‘I’ve seen enough.’ Yet his eyes clung to the plane.

Connie could not imagine what kind of terror must be stalking the
Hurricane pilot’s heart but he continued to duck and weave out of the line of the Jap’s fire.

‘Higher,’ Madoc bellowed up at the sky. It was streaked with a tangle of white trails like a giant spider’s web. ‘Get higher,
man, for Christ’s sake.’

‘He’s trying,’ Johnnie muttered, his lips bloodless.

‘He’s crashing,’ Connie gasped as the British plane abruptly plunged into a downward spiral.

‘No,’ Fitzpayne said. ‘He’s playing dead. What do you think, Blake?’

‘Please God!’

The small group stood transfixed. They watched the British pilot hurtle towards the waves and certain death, but they released
a great whoop of joy when the nose of the Hurricane suddenly popped up, dragging its frame back into the sky on shuddering
wings. With one elegant switchback manoeuvre, it came swooping down behind the Zero and opened up its guns.