In the Mouth of the Tiger (76 page)

‘I'm going back, Norma. I'm not going to stand by and do nothing. I'm going back to Singapore to strike a blow.'

I just stared in amazement, and Ivan emitted an uncertain laugh. ‘If they let me. Some of the brass hats don't think it's a very bright idea.'

‘How can you possibly go back to Singapore?' I asked. The place is crawling with Japs, and if they catch you they'll bump you off.'

‘Bill Reynolds and I have come up with a plan.' He paused, frowning thoughtfully. ‘It's top secret, of course. But Denis knows all about it so I see no point in keeping it from you.'

Ivan looked a great deal more animated than when he first arrived, and rose from the cushions to stride about the room ‘We've had a great idea. We want to take some chaps up to the Riau Archipelago in a Japanese fishing boat that Bill got hold of in Singapore. After he reached Sumatra, he sailed her all the way to India to escape the Japs. He had some narrow escapes but he and his boat are in fine form. Oddly enough, it's one of the craft George Fortesque and Denis rounded up the day Singapore was attacked. She used to be called the
Kofuku Maru
but Bill renamed her
Krait
. We reckon she'll pass muster
as a local craft in those waters. When we are close enough to Singapore, the attack party can paddle into Singapore Harbour in folboats – folding canvas canoes – and stick underwater charges on all the ships in dock. As soon as he's had the engine overhauled in India, he'll be on his way to Australia. By the time he arrives, I hope I'll have knocked on enough doors to get someone to back our plan.'

I remembered scudding past Singapore Harbour in the
Norma II
, and Ivan speculating on how easy it would be to mount a raid from the jungle-clad islands just offshore. He'd been thinking of Japanese raids on a British-held Singapore, but the principle remained the same.

‘Who is against the plan?' I asked. ‘You've seen how close those islands are to the docks. It seems a perfectly sensible plan to me.'

‘Nobody is actually opposing the plan – yet, anyway. In fact it's got General Wavell's approval. We've even got a name for it – Operation Jaywick.' I must have looked startled because he added, ‘Yes – the name of the lavatory deodorant. I figure that if a jay wick can get rid of nasty household smells, our Operation Jaywick can help get rid us of the stench of defeat. I've just come back from a meeting with General Gordon Bennett that Denis set up for me. Like Wavell, he thoroughly approves of the plan – and the name we've given it. I'm pleased Bennett managed to get away from Singapore before the Japs banged him up. He's the only commander in Australia who knows anything about fighting the Japs and, of course, he also knows Singapore well. So he gave me a good hearing and he's all for it. But he's in Perth, which is a long way from the real seat of power. I need a kick-start to get things moving over here. But Denis has warned me that the Navy Board is lukewarm at the best. I suspect they think it's a crazy scheme cooked up by an even crazier Pom.'

‘Oh, you'll convince them, Ivan. You have the ability to talk the hind leg off a donkey!'

But Ivan sighed. ‘They won't listen to me for a start. And their support is vital if we're actually going to get moving. What can I do to make them take me seriously?'

It was a rhetorical question but I gave it deep consideration. What would Denis do in these circumstances? What would Stewart Menzies do?

And then I had a flash of inspiration. I knew precisely what Stewart Menzies had done to have himself taken seriously. ‘Australians are an egalitarian lot on the surface,' I said, ‘but a lot of them are snobs at heart. Do you know anyone important in Australia? I mean really important?'

‘Well, I soon will. A member of my family has a senior posting at Government House in Melbourne, and I've been invited to stay as a guest of the governor, Sir Winston Duggan. I've managed to get a seat on a military aircraft leaving early tomorrow, so by tomorrow night we'll be dining together.'

I thought for a moment. ‘You need to go to the very top. Sir Winston will be able to get you an introduction to Lord Gowrie, the Governor-General, and if he goes for it, you'll have some real clout when you approach the Navy Board. Now for the tricky bit. We need to raise your profile. How many people know you are related to the Queen, through the Bowes-Lyon family?'

Ivan threw back his head with a laugh. ‘Why, hardly anyone does, Norma. It's not something we talk about outside the family. You have to go back hundreds of years into Scottish history and even then the link is through some distant cousin or other.'

‘But you are still a Lyon, aren't you? And everyone knows that the Queen used to be Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon.' I grinned mischievously. ‘From now on, Ivan, you are a second cousin to the Queen. You correspond with her regularly. Balmoral is your second home. I'm going to start the rumour tomorrow, and Denis will help me spread it. It will be known in Melbourne within a week.'

Ivan looked unconvinced. ‘I don't want to end up a laughing stock.' ‘You don't have to be involved,' I said. ‘In fact, it's up to you to deny any link with the Bowes-Lyons as strenuously as you can. In a way that will give the rumour legs: people
never
believe denials in those circumstances. There's no smoke without fire, and so on. It's a real stroke of luck that you are staying with the Duggans. Everybody in Melbourne reads the Vice-Regal Notes in the
Age
.'

Ivan sat up a little straighter. ‘You are a little dynamo,' he said. ‘D'you think it might just help?' But then his face clouded. ‘But even if people did think I was the Queen's cousin – how could that possibly make the Navy Board take the mission seriously?'

‘Not the mission,' I said. ‘You. They will start to take you very seriously if they think you are somebody. It's been done before. Look how seriously they take Stewart Menzies.'

Ivan looked puzzled for a moment but decided not to pursue the subject. ‘It's worth a go,' he said. ‘So I'm damned near royal, am I?'

‘As close as dammit,' I said firmly

The prospect of trying
something
cheered Ivan up no end. By the time Denis came home he was happy and positive, quite a different man to the forlorn creature who had arrived on my doorstep. He stayed to dinner and then Denis and I walked him down to the bus stop. The rain had cleared and it was a glorious night, still and warm, and with a million stars.

‘I'm damned grateful to you, Norma,' he told me seriously. ‘I felt like death this morning, and didn't know where to go. You and Denis are part of the life I shared with Gabrielle, and so of course it seemed natural for me to track out here. I hope it was all right, bursting in on you like that.'

‘Of course it was all right,' I said, giving him a hug.

As soon as we got home, Denis rang his friend and colleague Sir Norman Brookes, whose wife Mabel was the doyenne of the Melbourne social scene, to tell him of the impending arrival of the Queen's cousin. Of course I have no proof, but do I suspect that our little conspiracy did help Jaywick. Soon the Melbourne establishment was abuzz with the story of the lonely British officer, a cousin of the Queen, who was staying at Government House. Within days, Ivan had his introduction to the Governor-General, who realised Jaywick's potential and by the 17th of July Ivan was in conference with the head of the Naval Board, Admiral Royle, and with Denis's boss, Commander Long, head of Naval Intelligence. They embraced the plan with enthusiasm, and soon Jaywick was on its way.

A few days after Ivan's visit, Denis was posted north. Like most partings in wartime, it came like lightning from a clear blue sky. He arrived home from Leeuwin one evening looking a little preoccupied, and then after dinner slipped a long manila envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

‘Posting orders, I'm afraid. I'm going up north for a while.' He captured my hand in his, knowing the shock the news would give me.

‘When?' I asked. I tried hard but despite my efforts the tears suddenly welled up, then spilled down my cheeks to drop absurdly on the bright chintz tablecloth. Shirley was ‘getting the boys tired for bed', as she called it, playing cowboys and Indians with them in the back yard. Frances was fast asleep in her cot in our bedroom. The house was still and peaceful, the only sound that of my harsh, uneven breathing as I struggled to control myself.

Denis came around behind me, wrapping me in his arms. ‘I'm on tomorrow's train for Melbourne,' he said gently. Then, after a while, ‘It's better this way, Nona. No time for either of us to brood about things.'

I had always known that Denis had been marking time at Leeuwin, and that one day he would go back to the war I was trying so hard to block out of my mind. But knowing that the parting was inevitable had not prepared me for the evil day itself. I didn't sleep a wink that night. Somehow, this time parting was much harder than it had ever been in Singapore. At least in Singapore there had always been a chance that Denis would just turn up out of the blue, climbing out of his little Marvelette in our driveway and shouting out for me and the boys. This time it was certain that he would be away for months – months during which I would have no idea where he was or even if he were still alive.

The Perth railway station was packed with servicemen and those seeing them off, a great, confused crowd of people, colourful and drab at the same time, full of forced good humour, tears and desperate hugs. A naval friend of Denis's, a lean, tanned lieutenant called Ernest Hutchison, had driven us to the station and when the whistle shrilled he backed away to let us say goodbye in private.

‘We've been through worse than this,' Denis said, cupping my face in both his hands. ‘Buck up, darling. I want to see you smile before I go.' He looked different in his new black winter uniform. A handsome stranger with the double gold braids of a full lieutenant on his sleeves and his officer's cap low over his eyes.

I pulled myself together. ‘I know I'm being weak, but it's going to be so lonely,' I said. Then I tried desperately to explain: ‘Everything is so different here, darling. Hard and unfriendly. I'm afraid it's put me off my stride somehow.' Then I managed a rather tremulous smile. ‘But I'll be fine as soon as I get home.'

Denis had a compartment to himself, and after he had boarded the train he opened his window and we clutched hands briefly as the train shuddered into motion and then began to glide slowly forward. ‘I know it's different here,' he shouted. ‘But it's a tremendous country, darling. I know you will soon get used to it. Mark my words – you'll soon be in love with the place.'

It took me an awfully long time to learn to love the place. Everything was so very different – the people, the buildings, the landscape, even the light itself. In Malaya, the humid air softens everything, clothing every scene in a gentle, forgiving haze. In Western Australia the clarity hurt my eyes. Objects stood out, clear and hard and unfamiliar in the diamond brightness.

I kept up the evening walk that Denis and I used to take, but now as I walked alone through the block of bushland behind our house I saw how harsh and alien it really was. Tall, lean, hard-leafed gum trees, savage-looking ironbarks, tortured, tattered paperbarks, and grasstrees with their spears and sharp, spiky fronds.

Even the ground seemed alien. It was winter and we were having a lot of rain, but still the earth seemed dry and barren, bleached by too much sun and covered by harsh yellow grass. I'd remember the lush green paddy fields of Malaya, the ulu with its orchids, its cascading lantana bushes and its sweeping palms, and feel such a surge of homesickness that my head would swim.

I even began to think that the people, the ordinary Australians I met every day, were under their surface affability as hard and unforgiving as the land they lived in. The men all seemed to have lean, closed faces and the women hard, loud voices that jarred even when they were pretending to be friendly. I'd study them on the bus, or when I was out shopping, and I'd shudder at how hard and unfriendly they appeared. We had a neighbour who seemed to go out of his way to be unpleasant, a dried-up little man who had worked in the Collie coalmines before a chest complaint had turned him into a bitter recluse. I'd done my best to make friends, cooked him cakes and pies and called out a bright greeting whenever we met. But he remained implacably antagonistic. If the children made a noise in the garden I'd hear him grumbling to himself, deliberately speaking loud enough for me to hear: ‘Spoilt bloody brats. Take after their spoilt bloody parents. Turfed out of bloody Singapore so now they've come to bludge on us.'

One day I was at the corner store and dropped a bag of shopping. As I stooped to gather my things I glanced up just in time to see the other women in the shop smirking with malicious pleasure. ‘Send your servant girl next time,' someone said. Or I thought someone said, because I was so confused and flustered that I couldn't swear to anything. The shopkeeper stooped down to help me but I couldn't thank him because I was too frightened that I would burst into tears. I just scurried out of the shop like a frightened rabbit, only remembering that I had not paid when I was halfway home.

That night, I faced the fact that something must be wrong with me. Dreadfully wrong. I'd never felt like this or acted like this in my life. I helped prepare the boys for bed in a trance, so preoccupied in trying to work out what was wrong with me that even they noticed. ‘What is wrong, Mummy?' Tony asked as I stuffed toys and dirty clothes into the cupboard all jumbled

together. ‘You are looking at things without seeing them!'

I paused and breathed deeply, wondering if this was what people called a nervous breakdown. ‘I'm all right, darling,' I said, forcing myself to sound calm. ‘It's just that I have lots to do tonight. I'm in a bit of a hurry.'