‘He looked similar, a bit thinner but who wasn’t? There was a look in his eye, though, or perhaps there wasn’t. It had gone. Only once did we speak of it. I told him one evening as we were finishing work, “You know Curtis, it really had nothing to do with the guns.” I wanted him to understand, you see. It didn’t matter which way they were facing, there was no way we could have stopped the Japs once they came through the back door. They didn’t even have to invade, they could have cut the water supply and forced us to surrender without firing a shot. Losing the two capital ships was just a sign of the times. In the absence of air power, ships are sitting ducks. He said he knew that, but …’ Mr Simkins paused and a pained expression came into his eyes. ‘You see, the Japs when they arrived … they did things … it was really very terrible. Curtis lived out on Alexandra Road, near the hospital. So he heard it. Heard what they did there, sat through the night listening to the screams of the nurses. It was the beginning of December when he told me he was leaving. He said he was going off on a hunt for the scattered fragments of a screenplay. I thought he was joking at first, but off he went. Last I heard, he’d turned up in Bangkok. He did something there that scandalised the British community. That alone is a most remarkable piece of news, for in the ten years I knew him I don’t think I can remember him ever having caused a stir before.’
He took out a fountain pen and notebook. ‘You need to speak to his priest. He’ll tell you where to find him, if you can catch him sober.’ He stopped and looked up. ‘I use the term “priest” loosely. He was a priest, I’m not sure what word you would use to describe what he is now.’ He tore out a page and scribbled down a name and address. Webster. Hotel Malabar, Malabar Street. ‘It’s a notorious neighbourhood and I recommend you do not take your wife there.’ He glanced at Jenny and seeing the look on her face, added, ‘Or at least make sure you leave before midnight. The British sailors are wont to put on a show at that hour that no decent man would want a lady to see. I don’t understand why the shore patrol allow it. It reminds one of the final days of Rome. You could wish for no better indicator that we are all washed up.’
INT. SHIP’S HOLD. NIGHT
CHO LEE is holding a lantern, showing MILLIE the cargo. The light gleams on a giant tin of Tate & Lyle Golden Syrup. He moves on to show rows of glass flasks containing a colourless liquid.
CHO LEE
Missy come see.
MILLIE
What is it? Liquor?
CHO LEE shakes his head and mimes a patient being given ether and losing consciousness.
MILLIE
Chloroform? What for? Why so much?
CHO LEE
Missy husband.
He carries the lantern further into the hold and shines it on a plaster of Paris cast of a giant ape’s footprint.
MILLIE
I don’t understand.
CHO LEE mimes a gorilla and then points towards the roof and to the plaster cast to indicate the gorilla is very big. He acts out putting a wedding ring on MILLIE’S finger.
CHO LEE
Sings the Wedding March
MILLIE
My God no!
INT. CAPTAIN’S CABIN. DAY
MILLIE stands in the doorway, SQUIDEYE is reading his charts.
SQUIDEYE
I do not remember giving you permission to visit the hold.
MILLIE
Is this true? Cho Lee says you have promised me in marriage to a giant ape?
SQUIDEYE
I will punish him for his loose tongue.
MILLIE
What is the big tin of syrup for?
SQUIDEYE
Your betrothed has a sweet tooth.
MILLIE
I won’t do it. You can’t make me.
SQUIDEYE
You will do as you are told. I can do what I damn well please. I bought you fair and square.
MILLIE
There is no need for bad language.
SQUIDEYE
What?
MILLIE
You said ‘damn’.
SQUIDEYE
This is a ship, not a church.
MILLIE
I’m not scared of you.
SQUIDEYE
Then you are the only one aboard who isn’t.
He moves towards her. MILLIE kicks him in the shin and runs out of the cabin.
EXT. C/U OF PORTHOLE. DAY
MILLIE, nose pressed to the glass, stares out disconsolately.
INT. DARKENED ROOM. DAY
MILLIE is kneeling at the side of her bed in silent prayer. The Virgin Mary appears before her. She watches MILLIE for a while and then reaches out a gentle hand to stroke her cheek.
MILLIE
Holy Mother?
MARY
Child.
MILLIE
Oh Holy Mother, what should I do?
MARY
Do not fear. All will be well.
MILLIE
How can that be? I am promised in marriage to an ape.
MARY
You must work on the Captain’s heart.
MILLIE
How should I do that?
MARY
The same way you would catch a fish.
MILLIE
I’ve never caught a fish.
MARY
Child, men are easily beguiled. I never met one yet who could resist the chance to be a knight in shining armour. What we need is a school of dolphins.
Chapter 7
I waited in the lobby, soothed by the fan. The night was as hot as the footplate when the firebox door is opened. I must have dozed off for a few seconds, because I did not see Jenny descend the stairs. ‘What do you think?’ she said, rousing me from my reverie, and adding for dramatic effect, ‘Ta da!’ She was wearing one of the trouser suits in the collection. Cream linen, with a matching jacket belted at the waist. My face fell.
‘I knew you wouldn’t like it.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘I think it’s … it’s … dashing.’
‘I think it’s swoony.’
‘That too.’
‘Why shouldn’t I wear it?’
‘No one has told you that you shouldn’t. Perhaps it might be considered a touch too modern for … Singapore.’
‘In lots of parts of the world it is considered totally normal for ladies to wear trousers.’
‘Indeed it is. And in some it is considered totally normal for them to wear nothing.’
Jenny laughed. ‘Jack, for you, that is surprisingly funny.’
‘My tragedy is that I don’t do it on purpose.’
She laughed again and took my hand. ‘I bet Millie would have approved.’
I was quite startled by her casually referring to my mother. ‘Do … do you really think so?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘How can I possibly know? I know almost nothing about her.’
‘Yes, but look at what you do know. What she did. That took real pluck, don’t you think? Falsely accused of stealing money, thrown out onto the streets with no one to turn to … it must have been horrible. And then to think up a brilliant plan like that – to forge an invitation to the Gosling Programme. What amazing spirit that shows, and she was only sixteen. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, yes, I do!’ For a brief moment I saw her vividly in my mind’s eye, standing before an imposing house at the end of a dark street, looking up as if summoning the courage to ring the bell. I was pierced with anguish for her suffering. ‘Yes,’ I said now more softly. ‘What an astonishing spirit she must have possessed.’
‘In a way it was almost like getting one back on Her Ladyship.’
The image of long ago vanished, like a bubble pricked by the tone in Jenny’s voice. ‘I have noticed a number of times when you refer to Lady Seymour, there is a hint of disdain in your voice.’
‘Is there?’
I did my best to mimic her tone. ‘Her Ladyship.’
/> She gave me a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth look.
‘Don’t you think it was generous of her to give me this information about my mother?’
‘She could have sent you the photo years ago, Jack.’
‘I suppose that is true, but I imagine … people like that are very busy.’
‘I suspect the thought never crossed her mind.’
‘I imagine sending chaps photographs of their mothers would have been forbidden by the rules of the Gosling Programme.’
‘Yes, I expect it was, and yet she breaks those rules when it suits her purpose, such as when she needs you to do something for her.’
‘Really, Jenny, that is a very harsh light in which to view her behaviour! Don’t you recall she said she would have been willing to help my mother if she had made her circumstances known.’
‘Yes, but Millie clearly didn’t think so, did she?’
‘B-but she was mistaken. We have Lady Seymour’s word.’
Jenny gave me a look that defied precise classification but certainly held more than a hint of disbelief.
‘Are you saying she behaved in bad faith?’
Jenny saw the consternation growing on my brow and looked conflicted herself. ‘I don’t know, Jack, but it does seem to me that these people … are very good at seeming to care for your welfare but really are only interested in themselves. She could have sent you the photo a long time ago, but obviously the thought never entered her head. What does that tell you?’ She squeezed my hand. ‘But what about Millie? What a plan! Aren’t you proud of her? She must have been remarkable, Jack, really remarkable …’
‘Yes, yes!’ I said, pride welling up, ‘she really must have been.’
‘And she would definitely have been the first to wear a trouser suit, mark my words.’
‘Well, all I can say is, you seem to know my mother better than I do.’
Jenny smiled up at me, and then her countenance darkened slightly. She said softly words that would only later reveal their full meaning to me: ‘I know how she felt, Jack.’ And then she led me out through the hotel doors.
We hailed a cab in the street and handed the driver the slip of paper that Mr Simkins had given us with Webster’s address. Considering the reputation of our intended destination, the taxi driver – a Sikh gentleman – seemed not greatly surprised by our request and drove off amicably.
‘We’re … we’re visiting a friend,’ I explained.
He nodded. ‘Don’t buy any watches.’ He told us the area to which we were headed was called Bugis Street and was named after the Buginese people from the island of Celebes in Indonesia. They were a seafaring race of traders and occasional pirates, who in former times had sailed up the river here to trade. The main thoroughfare we drove along was wide and lined with palm trees. Cars passed in either direction, mostly British marques as far as I could see, along with bicycles and Triumph motorcycles.
‘Your friend, is he a frequent visitor to Singapore?’ said the taxi driver.
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say,’ I answered. ‘He’s not really a close friend. We don’t know much about him.’
‘You don’t know him?’
‘Not very well,’ I said.
The driver considered for a few seconds. ‘In my experience you can tell a lot about a man from the sort of hotel he stays at. But in this case, it would depend on whether he knew what sort of hotel it was before he booked.’
‘My feeling is he has been in Singapore a long time, so I imagine his choice was deliberate.’
‘I’m not one to judge,’ said the driver, in words that conveyed the opposite of their intended effect.
‘Is it terribly dangerous?’ said Jenny.
‘Only to your soul,’ said the driver. ‘You will be in no physical danger, brawls are very rare and your Royal Navy Shore Patrol are quick to break them up. The greatest danger to you is of being cheated or scandalised. You should be aware that not everyone wearing a frock is a lady.’ His eyes darted for the tiniest fraction of a second to Jenny and her attire.
‘And tonight, not everyone wearing trousers will be a man,’ said Jenny.
The driver smiled.
‘In the war ladies wore trousers and no one minded.’
‘So I understand.’
‘They worked on the railways too, didn’t they Jack?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘they did.’
‘They wore trousers for that. I’m going to be a train driver,’ she said.
‘I’m sure you will make a very good one,’ said the driver. ‘But why not become an actress? Katherine Hepburn also wears this style.’
The driver pulled up at the end of Malabar Street and apologised that he could take us no further, for reasons that were obvious. The street, which formed a crossroads with Malay Street, was clogged with tables and chairs at which the whole world seemed to be sitting and engaging in something of a bacchanal. The people who sat at the tables were mostly European, but all other races seemed to be present too. There were many sailors in white bell-bottomed trousers and the traditional blue sailor collar. The music from some unseen gramophone was Chinese and was amplified by the crowd who caroused and sang along. In among the throng waiters in vests and shorts threaded their way past boys with trays of cigarettes and trinkets hanging from their necks. But most striking were the ladies—assuming they were ladies—in bright gaudy frocks of all colours of the rainbow. They wore Western dress and cavorted with the sailors and other tourists in a most licentious manner.
The Hotel Malabar had seen better days. At least one hoped it had. The lobby had a red-tiled floor that was almost as black as dried blood with grime. The desk stood unmanned, stranded like a rotting ship. Even the fan forgot to swirl. There was no bell to ring, so we slapped the wooden counter and shouted out ‘Hello.’ After a while a boy appeared and answered our inquiry simply by pointing up. We climbed a staircase that gave one no confidence that it would support our weight and walked onto a small landing, containing four doors. One was half open and the sounds from within led us to believe that we had found our quarry.
‘You know exactly what I mean!’ said an American voice. ‘Don’t you play the innocent with me, with your holier-than-thou bullshit. I trusted you. All my life I looked up to you. I worshipped you, you know that? You little double-crossing jerk … I ought to break your legs, that would take the smile off your face, wouldn’t it, eh? You goddam plaster saint. Well, I’ve got a better idea!’ A gunshot rang out. I kicked the door open and beheld an amazing sight. The man was lying on the bed, holding a semi-automatic with an outstretched arm pointing ahead. The room was full of the sweet stench of cordite and swirling gun smoke. At the far corner of the room a five-foot alabaster crucifix stood propped against the wall. The wall was pockmarked with bullet holes, but Jesus seemed to have escaped serious damage.
Sitting on the end of the bed was a young oriental lady in a scarlet satin cheongsam, nonchalantly filing her nails. She looked up. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘he lousy shot.’ Then she put down her file, jumped up and held out a hand to shake. ‘My name Zsa Zsa!’
We both shook hands solemnly. She was of the Malay complexion. She wore her hair coiffeured in the modern style, her lips were letterbox red, but it did little to conceal the jaw and throat of a boyish man.
Mr Webster, who wore stone-coloured trousers and an open shirt betraying no sign of a dog collar, apologised and explained that he and Jesus had fallen out over a girl. He proposed we repair to the street for a cooling beer, and this is what the four of us did.
We sat in the street at a metal fold-up table and Mr Webster ordered satay and beers, which soon arrived. I explained to him the purpose of our visit. He listened without interruption, and once I had finished allowed a second’s pause before saying the name Curtis in a voice that combined laughter, disbelief and derision.
He didn’t seem eager to expand on that single word, so we made small-talk for a while. I asked him about the need to leave before
midnight and he laughed. ‘It’s just a show your Limey sailors put on when they’ve had too much to drink. I think you need to be born there to understand it.’
‘What do they do?’ said Jenny.
He pointed to the end of the street where an outhouse stood against the end wall of a building. ‘That building is the john. The sailors like to climb onto the roof and put on a show that Englishmen seem to find incredibly funny and the rest of us don’t understand.’
‘What sort of show?’ I asked.
‘They call it the Dance of the Flaming Ass— sorry, Arseholes. Your guys climb on the roof, pull down their pants and stick newspaper up their ass and set fire to it. The guys below egg them on with the song, “Haul ’em down you Zulu Warrior!”’
‘Golly!’ said Jenny. ‘I hope they do it tonight.’
‘Jenny!’ I snapped, ‘You can’t seriously …’ I turned to Mr Webster. ‘Are you perhaps taking us for a ride, Mr Webster?’
‘Webster, call me Webster. Everyone else does. If I understand your meaning, no I’m not.’
Zsa Zsa pointed at Jenny’s jacket and said, ‘I like your suit. Where you buy?’
‘I bought it in England,’ said Jenny. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Very beautiful. Would look good on Zsa Zsa.’
Webster leaned across and said into my ear, ‘The way to tell them apart generally, is the prettier ones are the men.’
‘If you like,’ said Jenny, ‘I could give you one. If you write down your address for me, I will send one to you.’
‘Are you joking?’ asked Zsa Zsa.
‘I have a few in my luggage,’ said Jenny. ‘I’m sure I could spare one. Where should I send it?’
‘Send to Webster,’ said Zsa Zsa. And then having accepted that Jenny was in earnest, she squealed with disbelief and delight at the prospect of receiving a trouser suit.
‘The chap we met at the Raffles gave us to understand you and Curtis were friends,’ I said.
The Corpse in the Garden of Perfect Brightness Page 8
