‘Eggs and bacon,’ put in Nurse Rogers. ‘With black pudding and maybe a sausage, and baked beans …’
‘Oh! Crab omelette,’ said Mrs Addison dreamily. ‘With mango sambal, and proper rice, a pile of it, all fluffy …’
‘It sounds terribly fattening,’ said Vivienne. ‘I just have toast for breakfast. No butter, of course, and black tea.’
The group was silenced. Mrs Hughendorn looked at Vivienne with a carefully neutral expression, as if she did not deign to discuss the concept of ‘banting’ when they were close to starving. She turned to Nancy, her expression the most amiable it had been. ‘It sounds an excellent idea, my dear. Shall one of us choose what each of our meals will be? I shall go first.’
Of course you will go first, thought Nancy, both amused and grateful.
‘This morning we are eating kedgeree,’ proclaimed Mrs Hughendorn. ‘But made the proper way, none of this lentil business. I always inspect the new cook boy’s work every day of his first week in my kitchen. The best white rice, and Keen’s curry powder — it must be Keen’s — the onions sautéed in butter then added to the cooked rice, flaked salt cod, then hard-boiled eggs scattered over the top. No cheese paring with the butter either.’
Mrs Hughendorn looked down at the bowl in her hands with a small smile. ‘Coffee, not tea, two spoonsful of sugar and a dash of condensed milk. And then toast.’ She flicked Vivienne a look. ‘At least four slices. Thick ones. Served hot, so the butter soaks in. I always ask the boy to bring me two lots of toast. Toast gets cold so quickly. Butter right to the crusts, plum jam — my dear father sends it from home. Ninety-four last birthday, but he still insists his housekeeper makes enough jam every autumn for our household as well as his. And then perhaps a sliced mango …’
Nancy shut her eyes. She could almost taste the old woman’s words. She lifted the bowl to her lips, eyes still shut. Yes, that was plum jam, deep red, solid with lumps of fruit but light enough to spread, the crunch of toast, the tang of melted butter spreading across her tongue …
The bowl was empty. She opened her eyes again.
Mrs Hughendorn looked at her empty bowl too. ‘I must say, that was a definite improvement. But I fear that the effect on the digestion will still be the same …’ Her voice trailed away.
Nancy grinned. Ladies did not speak of digestions. But she knew what Mrs Hughendorn meant. They all did. Their bodies revolted at the scarcity of their diet. Some had only used the latrine to urinate.
‘I think we need to get used to it,’ said Nurse Rogers. ‘There’s no point hoping they’ll feed us more once they have got the area properly under control.’
‘Could we grow vegetables?’ suggested Nancy. If the locals could grow most of their own food, why couldn’t they? But she doubted this would be a tactful way of putting it to the women assembled here. ‘Your servants had a vegetable garden, didn’t they? Hens. Do you think they’d let us keep hens?’
‘What would we feed hens?’ asked Moira.
‘Good point,’ said Nancy. ‘But we could grow vegetables.’
Vivienne looked at her nails. ‘If you think I am going to go grubbing in the dirt …’
‘Nonsense. There is nothing wrong with gardening as a hobby,’ said Mrs Hughendorn.
Nancy looked at her in surprise. She had expected the mem to have had nothing to do with manual labour.
‘You should see my father’s rose garden at home. Papa won’t let anyone else prune his roses. And his asparagus …’ Mrs Hughendorn looked as if she was tasting the spears. The first true smile Nancy had ever seen her give touched her lips. ‘We must ask that translator fellow if we can get seeds and roots. If we can get a note to one of our servants, I’m sure they will help us get seeds and tools and cuttings. They are all terribly loyal to me.’
‘You might be putting them in danger if they help us,’ said Nancy.
‘Ah. You may be right there.’ Mrs Hughendorn nodded. ‘We shall have to test the lie of the land first. Softlee softlee catchee monkey. Perhaps we should ask the translator if we might buy seeds from the villagers. And spades and garden forks. If he accepts that, we might push it a bit further.’
‘You have money to buy tools and seeds? What about food? Proper food?’ asked Vivienne.
Mrs Hughendorn did not reply.
‘We’ve got a right to have proper food.’ Vivienne looked sideways at Mrs Hughendorn. ‘It’s your fault I’m here anyway. I should have taken a job on the mainland. Somewhere with a proper club. A golf course.’
And have been on an evacuation ship that was torpedoed, thought Nancy.
‘It’s up to you to make sure I get treated decently! All of us,’ Vivienne added quickly, glancing around.
‘I think we should pool any money we have,’ said Nurse Rogers. ‘Use it for the most important things.’
Vivienne looked righteous.
‘What do you think is important?’ asked Moira, lifting the bowl of gruel to Gavin’s lips again. They made his food more liquid than their own, partly so he could eat it without teeth, but also so that he spilled less of it. Food was too precious even for a few drops to fall on the ground. He slurped it eagerly, waving his arms and legs as if hoping to catch some more.
‘Medicine,’ said Nurse Rogers crisply. ‘Quinine in case we get malaria. Sulphur, if there is any to be had in the village. If we buy things like food, well, we may be here for years. We’d need a lot of money to buy food for that long.’
‘Surely it won’t be years,’ said Mrs Addison. ‘The Allies will have retaken the islands by next Christmas. And we’ll all starve if we don’t get more to eat.’
No one spoke for a minute. Was it because Mrs Addison was Eurasian and kept slightly but subtly an outsider, or because they, like Nancy, were less than sure that they would be rescued by Christmas?
At last Nurse Rogers said, ‘A garden would still be useful. Just in case.’
‘I think,’ proclaimed Mrs Hughendorn, ‘that we can safely leave decisions about how to use the money wisely to those who own it. But we should ask about garden tools and seeds.’
Which means you do have money, thought Nancy. Possibly Mrs Hughendorn had even travelled to the bank at Singapore to draw out cash, as many people had immediately after the invasion, in case the banks closed. To her surprise, the Japanese guards had neither searched them nor demanded they hand over any valuables, as she knew had happened in German prison camps in the last war. The thefts that had occurred had been minor. Possibly the guard responsible might even be disciplined if the camp commandant knew what he’d done. Which meant that Moira’s pearls and brooch, and whatever money the others had, were still safe — if they were allowed to spend it.
She didn’t contribute to the argument. Alone of all the women here she had nothing, neither money nor jewellery that might be sold for money. But I can grow things, she thought, though she doubted anything would grow much in the dry season. Even if they saved the dirty water they were allowed for washing, it would not be enough to keep vegetable gardens watered.
She looked around the camp restlessly. She had thought school was bad. But at least school finished at three o’clock. Things happened at school. Here they just sat, apart from their camp jobs, the women who had known each other before gossiping, the others trying to find acquaintances or experiences in common. A rectangle of dirt, barbed wire and years of it, maybe. One year at least …
‘Rats in the cupboard,’ muttered Sally. That was their code for Japanese soldiers approaching.
It was the translator. They stood, bowed. Mrs Hughendorn now wore the green and purple bruise across her face.
‘There is news for captives of the Emperor,’ said the translator. ‘Item the first. Japanese soldiers march in triumph through the streets of Singapore.’
‘No!’ said Mrs Addison. ‘Singapore is impregnable.’
‘The sons of the sun will always triumph,’ said the translator. He is reciting from a radio broadcast, thought Nancy. ‘Item the second
. The imperialist armies have surrendered. All ships trying to escape have been sunk.’
Moira gave a small cry. Sally gasped, biting her lip. Her husband too was with the local Volunteers. I don’t believe it, thought Nancy. Not every ship. But that was probably what the translator had heard on Nippon radio. She remembered how the BBC had refused to admit the British losses in Malaya. Why should the Japanese be any more careful with the truth?
‘Item the third. All white imperialists will stay in camps. All will work.’
‘What sort of work?’ demanded Mrs Hughendorn.
The translator blinked. Even he can’t see Mrs Hughendorn chopping firewood to boil gambir leaves, thought Nancy.
‘Work will be found. Japan will be generous. Till you work you will be given food.’
‘We need more food,’ said Nurse Rogers. ‘Vegetables. Fish and meat. Fruit.’
The translator ignored her.
‘If we can’t have more food, could we have seeds and cuttings to grow our own? Spades and garden forks?’
‘No tools for prisoners.’
‘Do you really think we might attack the guards with spades and garden forks!’ cried Nurse Rogers.
I might, thought Nancy. And if Mrs Hughendorn sat on a guard or two, they’d never get up again.
The translator went on as if Nurse Rogers hadn’t spoken. ‘Item the fourth. All Asian races are now freed.’ He looked at Mrs Addison, and then shot a less confident glance at Nancy. ‘You may leave. Now.’
‘I can go? Go where?’ asked Mrs Addison, her voice suddenly tremulous.
The translator again had no reply. He turned, and stepped neatly back past the sentry at the gate, then across the veranda into the house.
‘I … I had better get my things.’ Mrs Addison carefully didn’t look at the others. Nancy followed her. She sat on one of the other bunks as Mrs Addison folded a dress into her suitcase.
‘Where will you go?’
‘I have friends in Singapore. If I can get there, I can stay with them.’ She stopped, looked at the dress in her hands, then held it out to Nancy. ‘Here. You need another spare dress. And my shoes should fit you.’
‘Thank you. It’s incredibly kind of you.’ It was. Mrs Addison might be free, but Nancy suspected that there would be few new dresses available even in Singapore for some time to come.
‘Miss Clancy?’ Mrs Hughendorn’s bulk darkened the doorway.
‘Yes, Mrs Hughendorn?’
Mrs Hughendorn said nothing as Mrs Addison moved towards the door. ‘Good luck,’ said Nancy.
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Addison stood aside as Moira came in, her arms empty of baby. As the only child in the camp, Gavin now had twelve aunts, none with anything better to do than play with an eight-month-old child. No, eleven aunts now, thought Nancy.
‘Miss Clancy, I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it,’ said Mrs Hughendorn, with all the tact of a tiptoeing elephant. ‘But with your … tanned … skin, I think the Japanese might accept that you were Eurasian too.’ She held up her hand as Moira began to protest. ‘Yes, I know you are not.’ She carefully avoided looking at Moira. She knows I am not truly white, thought Nancy. ‘But if you were to wear a sarong, perhaps — I have one I use as a bedspread — and tie your hair back, I think the Japanese would accept that you were Straits born.’
‘She’s right,’ said Moira.
Nancy sat on her bunk. She had thought of escape. She had thought of an Allied landing, the ships that had to come to take the armies from Singapore, just as the armies had been rescued at Dunkirk, stopping at all the islands to rescue all the Japanese captives.
But if the translator was right, there had been no Dunkirk for Singapore. She thought of Mr Harding and his belief that the British commanders were incompetent, despite the men under their command outnumbering the Japanese. How many men were in camps like this? Was Ben?
If she could get out of here, she might be able to find out. Surely someone on the island other than the guards had a short-wave radio that might get news from the BBC or Australia, or even a local newspaper. Prisoners of war taken by the Germans were listed in the newspaper, so maybe those taken by the Japanese would be too.
Or would they? What exactly was in that Geneva Convention that Mr Harding had talked about? She should have asked him more questions. And loaded herself with jewellery and coins … and probably sunk under their weight.
She looked at Moira, carefully expressionless, at Mrs Hughendorn, ludicrously formal in her rings and pearls, diamonds at her ears, her lipstick and stockings and sensible shoes, even if her dress was becoming grey from repeated washings in muddy water, both waiting to hear her answer. If she was free, or at least out of the camp, she might even be able to persuade one of the fishermen to take her to the next island towards Australia. Then another fisherman to take her to the next and the next …
Or she could stay on the island, try to get food to the inmates. But would the islanders shelter her? Would they risk their own lives if they took a stranger in?
Freedom. Free of a hut that stank of sewage and a touch of despair; of this miserable blank rectangle of ground with its single tree; be able to breathe and move, even if she had to work as someone’s servant in exchange for food. She didn’t mind working. She wanted to work. To see the sea and trees. Even birds avoided the camp, as if they knew there was neither food for them there nor shelter. She needed to walk. To walk and keep on walking, the wind in her face. If her grandfather hadn’t been suited to the office, as the poet had claimed, then neither was she suited to sitting still. Not when she could be free …
‘Will you go?’ asked Moira quietly.
‘Do you want me to?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘Mummmll ffop,’ said Gavin, suspended in the doorway between Nurse Rogers and Sally, his tiny bare feet just touching the ground.
‘Look!’ said Sally. ‘He’s walking! Tell Mummy how well you can walk, Gavin.’
‘Maaaaaaahstpt!’ said Gavin in delight.
‘See,’ said Sally. ‘He can say Mummy. Now say Auntie Nancy.’
Gavin’s small face broke into a grin. ‘Gibba!’
‘Near enough,’ said Sally.
Nancy bent and picked him up. He pulled her ear lobe and stared at it, fascinated, as if he had never really noticed ears before.
‘No,’ Nancy said to Moira. ‘I’m not leaving.’
‘Good show,’ said Mrs Hughendorn. She nodded approvingly at Nancy.
Moira said nothing for a moment. Nancy wondered if those were tears at the edges of her eyes. But all she said was, ‘I’m glad.’
Chapter 22
Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 17 April 1942
General MacArthur Arrives to Take Command!
Heroic American General Douglas MacArthur has taken control as Supreme Commander of Allied forces west of Singapore. ‘All Australia welcomes the hero of the Philippines,’ said Councillor Bullant at last night’s Council meeting …
ST ELRIC’S SCHOOL, SYDNEY, NEW SOUTH WALES, AUSTRALIA, 31 MAY 1942
MICHAEL
The classroom smelt of old wooden desks and chalk, long-boiled school lunches and the indefinable scent of caged teenage boys. Mrs Glokerman tapped on the door during maths. ‘Headmaster would like to see Andrew Taylor in his office, please.’
Michael glanced at Taylor. A year ago a summons to the headmaster’s office might mean you’d been caught smoking behind the tennis courts. Now Taylor’s two soldier brothers were somewhere in the Middle East. His father was in Malaya. A summons might mean many things; nearly all of them were bad.
Michael gave Taylor a sympathetic nod as he passed.
He tried to focus on the textbook in front of him, while Mr Fothergill dozed at his desk. Old Fothergill had been retired for nearly a decade, but the shortage of teachers since so many had enlisted meant he had come back. He wasn’t a bad teacher, when he was awake.
A shadow behind him: Taylor returning. Mr Fothergill gave a grunt
and opened his eyes. His smile showed long yellow teeth, like a walrus’s. ‘Taylor. Good news?’
If it had been bad news, Taylor would not have returned to class; would have been allowed to join his family, his mother might already have been waiting in the headmaster’s office.
Taylor nodded. ‘Good news, sir. A phone call from my mother. My father’s made it back.’
‘Jolly good show,’ said Mr Fothergill. ‘I think a prayer of thanksgiving is in order, don’t you, boys?’ He put his hands together and shut his eyes. ‘Oh, heavenly Father, we thank you in our hour of need for protecting Captain Taylor. We thank you for …’
Michael looked at Taylor through his half-shut eyes as the prayer rumbled on. Taylor’s hands trembled. Suddenly he put his head on his desk, sobs erupting even though he tried to choke them off.
‘Amen,’ said Mr Fothergill, opening his eyes. He looked at Taylor, his head still buried in his arms, his shoulders heaving with the effort of suppressing his sobs. ‘I think you boys could all do with a bit of exercise. Twice around the oval. Chop, chop. Taylor, you will stay behind.’
Michael ventured a pat on Taylor’s back as he passed him. But Taylor did not respond.
The wind from the south was cold as they jogged around the oval, compulsory gas masks flapping at their belts — even if you got up to the toilet in the middle of the night, you had to take your gas mask — avoiding the air-raid trenches at the edges of the oval, the walls of sandbags the boys had filled last month. A small plane circled them briefly, then vanished towards the sea. The bell had gone by the time they’d finished. Michael trotted back to the dorm to change. Cricket practice, then dinner — stew tonight and frog’s eggs, tapioca — then prep.
The sirens came just as prep was over, the sound shuddering between the buildings. For a moment Michael thought it was another drill, then realised that no one had warned of air-raid practice today.
This was real.
‘To the shelters,’ said Mr Fothergill, who had been supervising prep that evening and was suddenly very awake. ‘You two, Taylor and Thompson, go and fill the baths.’ Sydney residents had been instructed to do this at the first sign of a raid, in case the pipes were bombed and broken and Sydney’s water supply disrupted. Michael wondered how long six bathtubs of water would last twenty boys … ‘No running!’ Mr Fothergill shouted. ‘Brisk walk. Now!’
To Love a Sunburnt Country Page 20
