In the Mouth of the Tiger (59 page)

So it was always with relief that I would hear the Navy car crunch to a halt under the coconut palms, and then the shouts of the two boys as they ran to their daddy. Bobby had been walking since eleven months and was now quite a handful, trailing his elder brother in and out of mischief all the livelong day, a cheeky grin on his chubby face. We had a nurse for each the boys at this stage, young graduates from Singapore's newly-established Institute of Childcare Studies. Agatha and Christine wore crisp white uniforms and kept discipline with patience and good humour.

On one occasion, the
Penghulu
remained at sea for an unprecedented three weeks. I had one brief message from HMS
Sultan
that she was ‘on an extended operation', then nothing as one day followed another. By the middle of the third week I was convinced something had gone wrong and began to pester anyone I could think of for news. ‘
Penghulu
?' Ivan Lyon finally said. ‘I think she's in company with a couple of Australian sweepers, clearing the Lombok Strait. A German raider seeded the place with magnetic mines. A ferry went down there about a month ago and lots of civilians were drowned.' He shouldn't have told me, and in retrospect I wish he hadn't. It meant sleepless nights and a permanent gnawing pain in the stomach. I realised that I was not cut out to be the wife of a warrior.

I tried to keep up my morning ride, but couldn't stand Thor whickering with disappointment when he heard Dame Fashion going off without him, and I gave it away. I missed riding, and I missed Denis, and I found myself at times unaccountably, unreasonably angry with him. ‘You selfish man,' I once said aloud. ‘You should be here with us, not off somewhere in the wild blue playing toy soldiers!' And then of course I felt most awfully guilty, and asked God's forgiveness.

I was working on the day's menus with Amah in my sewing room when his car finally crunched up the driveway. There was at first an overwhelming feeling of relief, and then that silly, unreasoning anger rose to the surface. I decided not to rush out. I'd keep on talking to Amah, affect casual indifference to teach him a lesson. It worked until I saw Denis standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips, smiling at me with his eyes, his lips pressed tight to preserve decorum. And of course the inevitable happened and I was in his arms, babbling my fears, holding him tight to reassure myself he was really home. After that I really did begin to fear the coming Japanese attack. If three weeks of uncertainty had done that to me, what would happen when the bullets were flying, and men were dying?

In the middle of August 1941 I walked into John Dalley's office at Dalforce HQ to find Malcolm Bryant sitting at John's desk, smoking a cheroot and leafing through a pile of papers I knew contained the personal details of Dalforce members.

‘You have no right to do that, Malcolm,' I snapped. ‘Those are private documents. You can't see them unless you have a search warrant!' It seemed to me as plain as a pikestaff what Malcolm was doing. The Communist Party was still an illegal organisation in Malaya and Malcolm was gathering incriminating information about a fine bunch of patriots who had volunteered to fight for their country. I strode across the room and reached for the papers in front of him.

Malcolm did not resist. He sat back in his chair and puffed his cheroot. ‘We seem destined to always meet at cross purposes,' he said mildly. ‘I assure you that I have every right to do what I'm doing. Why don't you ask John himself?' Someone had come into the room and I spun around to see John Dalley with another pile of personnel files in his arms.

‘What on earth are you doing, letting a policeman read our people's files?' I asked angrily. ‘You know Malcolm is a policeman, don't you? No doubt he's chasing after Communists.'

John kicked the door shut behind him and put the pile of files down on his desk. ‘Don't forget that I am a policeman too, Norma,' he said. ‘Outside of Dalforce, I'm the Director of the Police Intelligence Bureau. Malcolm has just joined my unit and I'm briefing him on some of the people we have to keep an eye on.'

I felt as if I had been kicked in the solar plexus, and stared from one
man to another, the colour draining from my cheeks. ‘If this is some awful police scheme to trap Communists you can count me out,' I said furiously. I thought of Robert, and Gordon Tang. And Catherine. And how Denis and I had been used. Curry tiffin with an understanding Governor, indeed! It had been an almighty confidence trick. I needed fresh air and spun on my heel, but Dalley's bulk barred me from the door. He was suddenly a sinister figure in his khaki uniform and with a pistol at his belt.

‘Don't go off half-cocked, Norma,' he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. ‘Let me explain. If you still want to walk out after I've explained I won't stop you. But hear me out first.'

We sat in John's cane visitor's chairs, Malcolm leaning back puffing at his cheroot, John leaning forward earnestly, doing all the talking. He had pleaded for, and been given, permission to organise Dalforce and recruit its members from the Chinese community in Malaya. He'd done it because unlike most FMS police officers – in fact unlike most British officials in Malaya – he trusted the Chinese more than the Malays. The English had an affinity with the Malays. Their nonchalance, their sense of honour, their casual approach to work and money appealed to the upper-crust Englishmen who tended to fill the top ranks of the Malay Civil Service. John had experienced the other side of the equation. He'd investigated and exposed a Malay political association – the Perisoc Association – as a dangerous and subversive organisation plotting to overthrow the FMS Government. There had been an attempt on his life, a drugged Malay
assassin
running at him after a polo match with a pistol in one hand and a kris in the other. John's Chinese clerk had saved his life. After that, John Dalley had fought to redress the official view of the Chinese as too-clever-by-half businessmen or cunning Communists and criminals. He had received permission to form Dalforce and been given the rank of colonel only on the condition that his Intelligence Bureau was fully integrated into the unit. Chinese joining the unit, John said, knew this perfectly well and accepted the arrangement.

‘They know that if they join Dalforce they must desist from any activity against the Government,' he said. ‘Surely you can see that is only reasonable. What Malcolm is doing is to check that none of our people are stirring up trouble. The fact that they may be Communists isn't relevant.'

‘I'll believe what you say if Robert Koh tells me it's true,' I said, and John immediately pushed the buzzer on his desk.

‘It is all perfectly true, Norma,' Robert said. ‘Embarrassing but true. You
see, we are at the best only half trusted by the British. But we trust Colonel Dalley. He won't let us down.' He paused, thinking. ‘To be frank we would join Dalforce even if we
didn't
trust Colonel Dalley, simply because there is no alternative. We want a crack at the Japanese when they come, and we need British guns and ammunition. It's not a loyal-to-the-Sahib thing. It's practical politics.'

We lunched in the newly decorated ‘officers' mess' with Robert as a guest. Afterwards, Malcolm and I sat on alone, sipping coffee as a single superannuated fan flapped inefficiently at the turgid air above us.

‘Thank you for not dashing off after lunch as if I were some kind of leper,' Malcolm said quietly. ‘I know we've had our differences in the past, but I really would like to try and make amends.' He looked fitter than I remembered and somehow more mature, more comfortable with himself. He had a Malacca cane with a silver handle propped by his side. He clearly did not need it but it gave him an air of casual elegance.

‘You are still on probation,' I said, but smiled as I said it. To tell the truth I was glad of the chance to say some things to him. A lot had changed since we had last met, and I wanted to put the record straight. I was now legally married. I was a wealthy woman in my own right. I had travelled. I had a handsome and well-regarded husband and two bonny children. I had Whitelawns. I was no longer an alien but an Englishwoman, a British subject by birth.

‘You seem very happy,' Malcolm said, and I smiled again. ‘I am very happy,' I said. ‘We were married, you know. At St Andrew's Cathedral, as Denis promised.'

Malcolm tipped his head. ‘I know,' he said. ‘I saw the photograph in the
Straits Times
. Congratulations.'

‘And I've met his people in England,' I lied. ‘His sister in Taunton is a lovely person.'

‘No doubt.'

‘I had tea with Maxine Elliott,' I went on. ‘She was not exactly the blowsy Hollywood actress you described. She was a woman of great charm and influence. Before she died she gave me a priceless piece of silver. She said she would have given it to her daughter if she had had one.'

Malcolm bobbed his head again.

‘So you were wrong on every count,' I said. ‘Denis
has
married me. He is not a charlatan. He comes from a respected family. He was not Maxine's gigolo, but a dear friend and protégé. I would like you to apologise for the
things you said, and the hurt you caused me.'

‘I apologise,' Malcolm said. ‘I was wrong on every count, and your trust in Denis completely justified.'

I took a long, deep breath. All the painful ghosts had been exorcised. I looked at Malcolm through fresh, candid eyes. He no longer had any power over me, never would have again.

I considered for a while, quite cold-bloodedly, whether or not I wanted him as a friend. I knew that I could walk out of the room and never see him again, and it wouldn't matter tuppence to me. I had no anger, no resentment, no concern that he could hurt me if he wished. He'd been a silly boy but I had forgiven him.

‘What are you thinking?' he asked.

‘I was wondering if we should stay friends,' I said quite frankly. Malcolm didn't say anything, but lit another cheroot and puffed on it quietly.

‘It is for you to say, Nona.'

‘Norma,' I corrected absently. Then I shook my head. I was being deliberately cruel, and that wasn't my normal nature. ‘Of course we should be friends,' I said. ‘Denis told me that you kept an eye on me as a child. That must count for something in the scheme of things.'

We talked on for a while, inconsequential stuff, just feeling each other out. He told me that his sister had gone down to Sydney, partly to get away from the possibility of a Japanese attack, partly in pursuit of some man. He was worried for her. She wasn't getting any younger and her years in the Far East had not been kind.

I talked about my children, about life at Whitelawns, about going riding with Denis when the morning dew was still on the grass, and about how happy I was.

‘I'm glad for you, Nona,' he said, and I thought at the time that he meant it.

Sunday, 7 December 1941 was a particularly hot day. I remember the day so clearly that if you were to name an hour I could tell you precisely what we were all doing at that time. I remember the day so clearly because it was the last day of peace before war finally caught up with Malaya, and everything changed forever.

I remember that we got up at our traditional hour, and had our traditional ride. Even at seven in the morning it was unbearably hot, and
afterwards Denis and I went down to the beach and took a long, leisurely swim. I remember lying on my back in the comparative cool of the water and looking up at Whitelawns, the green terraces rising from the white sand of the beach, the tall roofs of the bungalow framed by coconut palms. We breakfasted with the boys on the verandah. They were both rather fretful after a hot night, and I recall that Christine told us we needed calamine lotion for a heat rash Tony had developed. At about ten we drove down to the Swimming Club for a splash and some ice cream, and then drove home, stopping on the way to pick up the calamine lotion from the clinic in Changi.

Sunday was curry tiffin day, and this Sunday was no exception. All morning preparations had been under way: the scrawny Malayan chickens caught and beheaded, the grey-green curry paste pounded and mixed in its stone crucible, the various sambals prepared, and the sago and palm sugar made ready for our traditional dessert of
gula malacca
. I recall that the dining room at Whitelawns, usually cooled by the afternoon sea breeze, remained stubbornly hot and airless that day, and that after lunch we dragged mattresses and cushions out to the loggia for our siesta.

Margaret and Alec wandered around for afternoon tea, bringing Mark and Rory with them – a blessing as all four boys found renewed energy in each other's company and took off for the nursery to play their interminable war games.

‘They are playing Ivor Novello tunes down at the Sea View tonight,' Margaret said, holding up her copy of the
Straits Times
. ‘Why don't we have dinner down there? We could sit outside and catch the sea breeze.'

I even remember what we had for dinner. It was chicken Maryland, a popular new American dish then sweeping Singapore. The sea breeze rose at last and we sat on the waterfront looking out at the spidery row of kalangs offshore, speckled with lights, and with the dark loom of islands beyond them. We were all tired by the heat and went home quite early, Denis and I tiptoeing in to kiss the boys goodnight before flopping down under the mosquito net.

I awoke a bit before four o'clock in the morning to a dull, heavy sound that seemed to fill the night air, rising and falling in a strange way, unfamiliar and threatening. I know it was just before four because I rose on one elbow and looked across at the illuminated clock on Denis's side table. He was wide awake, listening intently.

‘Those are Japanese planes,' he said, suddenly swinging out of bed. ‘Unsynchronised twin engines. Probably bombers.'

I followed him out onto the lawn. It was a little cooler, the grass wet with dew, and the stars glowed dimly through thin, high cloud. ‘What's happening?' I asked, but Denis just gripped my hand, staring towards the loom of light from the city of Singapore a dozen miles to the west.