The Other Side of Paradise (3 page)

I barely listened to the occasional chatter about the Japanese. We knew that they had been at war with the Chinese, had taken over Indo-China in July that year, 1941, and were generally throwing their weight about a bit in the Far East, but it was unthinkable that they would ever dare to take on the mighty British Empire. They were comical little yellow men in wire spectacles with slitty eyes, bandy legs and tombstone grins – vastly inferior to white Europeans. There were quite a number of them living in Singapore – photographers, dentists, masseurs, hairdressers, dressmakers, small shopkeepers selling cheap and shoddy goods. A lot of people couldn’t tell them apart from the Chinese; nobody believed them to be any sort of threat. It was said that they couldn’t see to shoot straight, that they didn’t know how to sail ships and that they were no good at flying aircraft, especially not in the dark.

And so the leisured life and the giddy social round went on. The cocktails and the dinners and the dances. The swimming and the sailing and the picnics and the moonlight beach parties. The curry tiffins, the morning coffees, the ladies’ luncheons, the afternoon teas, the theatre visits, the shopping, the bridge, the mah-jong, the tennis, the squash, the billiards, the rounds of golf, the gentlemanly cricket matches, the unhurried games of bowls, the rugger, the hockey, the polo. An idyllic life with servants and sunshine. A paradise. We were like passengers on the
Titanic
– in First Class, of course – having a perfectly lovely time and blissfully unaware of the iceberg lying in wait.

I can see myself now, just the way I was then. Eighteen years old. Spoiled, lazy, self-centred and vain.

I am lying by the swimming pool at the Tanglin Club on a hot Sunday afternoon in late October 1941, the Year of the Snake. Eyes shut, thinking of nothing in particular, and without a care in the world.

Part One

BEFORE THE FALL

One

‘I SAY, IT’S
Susan, isn’t it? Susan Roper?’

She opened her eyes slowly, shielding them with her hand. Some chap was standing there in swimming trunks with a towel draped round his neck; she couldn’t see him properly against the glare of the sun.

He said, ‘I’m Roger Clark. We met at the Chambers’ party a couple of weeks ago. I don’t expect you remember me, though.’

She sat up to get a better look at him. He did seem vaguely familiar. A nice face with an eager, hopeful sort of expression, like a dog waiting for you to throw its ball. At any moment he might wag his tail.

‘Of course, I was in uniform,’ he went on. ‘We look a bit different out of it.’

That was very true. Uniform – especially the Royal Navy’s – improved most men. It made even the duds look good.

He squatted down on his haunches beside her. ‘I must say this is a jolly nice club. Very decent of them to let us army chaps in here. Do you come here often?’

Now that she’d mentally dressed him in uniform she did remember meeting him at the Chambers’ cocktail do. Mrs Chambers had brought him over and introduced him but then some other chap she knew had come up, and then somebody else, and after a bit she’d moved on. The trick at that sort of party was to avoid getting stuck in a corner with anybody boring. To keep circulating.

‘Quite often,’ she said. ‘It’s very popular at the weekends.’

He glanced over his shoulder at the pool and the swimmers splashing merrily about. ‘I can see that. And they have dances here, don’t they? With a band. There was a notice on the board.’

‘Every Saturday.’

‘That sounds wizard. Our regiment only got here last month so we’re still finding our way around. Learning the ropes, so to speak. Singapore’s an amazing place, isn’t it? Terribly exotic. I’ve spent most of my life in Esher … not counting school, of course, and the army.’

‘Esher?’

‘In Surrey. The parents live there. Very quiet. Nothing like Singapore. Actually, this is my first time abroad. I missed the whole show in Belgium and France. Just as well, really. I’d probably be a POW now, or dead.’

He smiled, as though it was all rather a joke. She felt a bit sorry for him; he was a long way from home and Esher. His face was pink from the sun and the white skin on his body was turning red like part-cooked meat. If he wasn’t careful, he’d burn.

‘And you’ve come all the way out from England to help protect us from the Japs? How frightfully brave!’

He went even pinker. ‘Actually, it doesn’t seem as though you need much help. The island’s absolutely stiff with troops. Safe as houses. The Japs would never get anywhere
near
here.’ He wiped the back of his hand across his damp brow. ‘I say, it’s most awfully hot, isn’t it?’

‘Why don’t you go in for a swim?’

‘Jolly good idea. I think I’ll do that. Cool off a bit.’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘Any chance of you coming in as well?’

‘Not just now. I’m going home in a minute.’

‘Oh … what a shame. Another time, then?’

She said kindly, ‘We’re bound to run into each other. Go and have your swim.’ If she’d had a ball, she’d have thrown it in the water for him to go fetch.

She watched him run and dive into the deep end. Rather a good dive – he’d probably been in the school team – and he was rather sweet, but he could become a bit of a nuisance. It was amusing to have so many of them fighting over you, but it could get quite boring at times. Some were really hard to shake off and she’d had three marriage proposals in the last two weeks. She watched him swimming the length of the pool – a fast crawl that she knew, like the dive, was being done for her benefit. Men always showed off, even the sweet ones. They couldn’t help it. As he reached the shallow end and flip-turned to come back, she gathered up her things and made her way to the changing rooms. When she was dressed, she stopped by the card room. Her father was still playing bridge and it looked like it was going to be ages before he was ready to leave. At the front entrance, the Indian
jaga
who knew every member’s car and number plate sent a boy off on his bike to fetch Ghani. The
syce
brought the Buick round to the club steps.

‘
Tuan
not come,
missee
?’

She answered in Malay. ‘Not yet. You can take me home and come back for him.’

On the way she told him to stop the car.

‘I’ll drive now, Ghani. I need to practise.’

He slowed the car reluctantly. ‘The
tuan
not pleased if he knows. The
tuan
very cross with me.’

‘He won’t know, I promise.’

She got out of the back and took over the wheel. The
syce
sat beside her on the bench seat, his brown moon-face creased with anxiety. At sixteen she’d bullied him into teaching her to drive and practising whenever there was the chance – another secret, like the Cantonese lessons from Nana. She’d been asking for a car of her own for months – something fun to whizz about in, not a great heavy thing like the Buick – but for once her father had refused her.

She drove around the back roads for a bit, taking some of the corners quite fast.

‘
Missee
go too fast. Not safe.’

‘Nonsense, Ghani. I’m only doing forty miles an hour.’

She put her foot down still further and the needle crept round to forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.

Ghani clutched at the velvet
songkok
on his head. ‘Slower, please,
missee
. Very dangerous.
Berenti! Berenti!
’

She took pity on him and braked to a stop. ‘You can drive now, Ghani. If you like.’

She climbed into the back again and the
syce
drove on sedately, his neck stiff with disapproval. They turned down Cavenagh Road and into the driveway of the house and, as the Buick drew up under the front porch, the Indian houseboy, Soojal, came out on to the steps.

He opened the car door smiling, his white teeth showing glints of gold. ‘
Missee
good swim?’

‘Yes, thanks, Soojal. Is the
mem
at home?’

‘Up in bedroom. Very bad headache. Li-Ann look after her. You want to feed the doves? I fetch food for them.’

She couldn’t be bothered; it was too hot. ‘You do it, will you, Soojal. I’m going to lie down.’

Rex, the latest in a long line of Sealyhams, appeared and she patted the dog’s head and then rubbed the tummy of the smiling glass Buddha as she passed by the table at the foot of the stairs. On the upper verandah she met Li-Ann creeping out of her mother’s room, a finger to her lips.

‘
Mem
very bad head,
missee
. Not to disturb.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

She walked along the verandah to her own room, pulled off her frock and dropped it on the floor for one of the
amahs
to take away and wash. Nana had always cleared up after her: picked up her clothes and her toys, made her bed, tidied her room, looked after everything. At night Nana had slept on a truckle bed on the verandah outside the room, ready to fetch drinks of water, to rearrange pillows, to bring comfort after bad dreams. Always been there.

The shutters were closed, the room dim and cool, the fan humming overhead sent little draughts of air across her bare skin as she lay on the bed. She could hear the flutter-flutter of the doves flying down from the dovecote and the lovely cooing sound they made. Soojal would be throwing food for them and they would be pecking about his sandalled feet. When she fed them, she sat on the verandah steps and sometimes they sat on her shoulders and cooed sweetly in her ear.

Her mother had been having migraines for years. Whenever they came on, she would go to lie down in her room – sometimes for several days. In fact, she spent a great deal of time there, with or without a migraine. She always had breakfast in bed on a tray instead of coming downstairs to the east verandah, and she stayed there until mid-morning when she discussed the menus with Cookie in the dining room. After lunch there was a siesta during the hottest part of the day, and then tea served on the lawn in the shade of the jacaranda. When that was finished it was soon time to dress for dinner. Her father, who got up very early and stayed up very late, slept in another room. There had been rows – bad ones. Susan had eavesdropped and heard her mother threatening many times to go back to England. When the war had begun in Europe there had been even bigger rows about returning to be with the London grandparents, but the German U-boats had started to sink liners and the Luftwaffe to bomb England and it had been thought too dangerous to travel.

She stared up at the ceiling, watching the fan and wondering what to wear that evening at the Bensons. Not a full-scale party, just supper and a bit of dancing afterwards to gramophone records. It would be mostly the same old crowd, Milly had said, so no need to dress up or make much of an effort. The blue and white cotton would do and now that she’d grown her hair longer she could sweep it up at the sides with combs. The new Elizabeth Arden lipstick would go rather well and she could paint her fingernails with the matching polish. What about shoes? The white peep-toe platforms, or the navy courts? The peep-toes were much more fun but they were tricky to walk in and they hurt.

She slept for about an hour and then got up and took a cool shower. In the end, she decided on the peep-toes and found some big ear clips like outsize white buttons to match. The hair combs looked rather good and so did the scarlet lipstick. She painted her nails the same colour and dabbed her favourite scent,
Je Reviens
, behind her ears and on her wrists.

Soft-footed, genie-like Soojal appeared as she went down the stairs.

‘The
tuan
send message,
missee
. He stay at Tanglin for dinner. Not home till late.’

‘Is Ghani here?’

‘Yes,
missee
. He stay after the
tuan
telephone. Later he go to the club to fetch the
tuan
.’

‘Tell him I’d like him to drive me over to Colonel and Mrs Benson’s house.’

‘Yes,
missee
. You want at once?’

‘At once.’

‘I tell him. Looks like rain is coming. Sky very black.’

As she waited on the front steps for Ghani to bring the car round, the first drops were splashing heavily on to the ground.

The Bensons lived on Winchester Road, Alexandra Park, in one of the black and white, red-roofed houses built for senior army officers. Susan liked Colonel Benson – he wasn’t pompous like some of the other older servicemen – and Mrs Benson was nice too. The two sons had been packed off to school in England, but Milly Benson had gone to St Nicholas’s convent and was one of her best friends.

Ghani stopped the car under the portico outside the front door.

‘What time you leave,
missee
?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll probably get a lift back with somebody.’

‘The
tuan
does not like this. Please telephone when you are ready,
missee
.’

What a silly old fusspot he was! ‘I’ll see.’

The Bensons’ Chinese houseboy opened the door and they had a little chat in Cantonese.

‘How are you today, Meng?’

‘Very good, thank you,
missee
. I hope you are well too.’

‘I’m fine. Is it going to be a good party?’

He grinned. ‘Always a good party in this house,
missee
. Everybody has a good time.’

‘Anybody new?’

‘Some Australian officers,
missee
.’

She pulled a face. ‘Oh, God.’

Aussie soldiers were an uncouth lot. They rolled up their shorts, turned up the brim of their awful bush hats and saluted as though they were flapping away flies. And they spoke with a sort of horrible cockney twang.

She said hallo to Colonel and Mrs Benson and several army chaps immediately clustered round, offering cigarette cases, flicking lighters under her nose. She could see with one glance that she was easily the prettiest girl in the room. Milly came up. Poor Milly, she’d put on even more weight but she never seemed to care a row of beans what she looked like.

‘Come and meet some Australians, Susie.’