by Lees, Julian
She walked past the old pith wood store and drew the usual hostile looks from the people inside. She realized some of the villagers resented her working for Tozawa. In the circumstances they’d do exactly the same. At any rate I don’t see them turning away Japanese customers. Bloody hypocrites! Just then she collided with an infantryman as he strolled out through the entrance of the toddy shop.
‘‘Rei!’’ he yelled.
Lu See bowed.
The soldier drew himself up to his full height. She bowed again, glared at his trousers gathered at the knees into webbing gaiters, and offered the soldier polite salutations.
He slapped her across the top of the head and stuck out his hand. He wanted to see her papers.
Lu See bowed once more and proffered her Special Protection Certificate. The infantryman looked at the official Imperial Seal and thrust the papers back at her. Lu See bowed for a fourth time. When she looked up he had gone.
For the past three years that little scroll of paper in Lu See’s hands had kept her family alive. In exchange for the ‘gift’ of the family car, a 1935 Bentley Saloon, the Special Protection Certificate issued by Colonel Tozawa, the Provincial Garrison Commander, had ensured their safety.
She trekked toward the limestone boundary wall and up the driveway that led to Tamarind Hill, over frangipani blossoms scattered in her path, ready to sacrifice another tiny piece of her soul. The road shimmered with heat haze and the chatter of birdsong and the scratch of cicadas filled the air. As she approached the sentry box a guard marched out of the shadows and into the ferociously hot sun. She offered a bow and handed him her papers. He waved her through.
Colonel Tozawa stood at the front verandah of the big house dressed in a satin kimono. In the shadows behind him Lu See saw a Malay servant-boy poised with his arms outstretched, holding a tray of tea.
Tozawa had a bald head and a stubbly toothbrush moustache. His eyes were jet black and unyielding; Lu See found them awkward to look at, as though they could see into her soul and read her thoughts. She could feel his fondling gaze on her as she made her way past the row of tamarind trees towards the servants’ quarters.
‘‘My dear Teoh-san,’’ he said, sucking air loudly between his teeth, ‘‘you are being most foolish.’’
Lu See bowed deeply. ‘‘I apologise if I have offended you somehow.’’
‘‘You are foolish to walk in such heat without cover.’’
Lu See glanced away. She knew he was right of course; she just did not want to acknowledge it. ‘‘Thank you for your concern, o-colonel-sama, but I am used to the sun.’’
‘‘In future please, you are to carry a parasol.’’
‘‘Hai, o-colonel-sama.’’
‘‘Also, I would like you to wear these hair grips when you make your appearance after dinner.’’ He dropped several ornate hair clips into her hand. ‘‘I cannot have hairs falling in my food, do you understand?’’
‘‘Hai, o-colonel-sama.’’
His eyes fell on the tin of sugar tucked under her arm. ‘‘I am most looking forward to your English bread-and-butter pudding. I will dine at the usual hour. Please leave the receipt for foods with my attendant. He will reimburse you accordingly.’’
Once more she bent from her waist with her hands on her thighs. She waited for him to move off before lifting her chin. The Imperial Army had requisitioned Tamarind Hill in 1942. At first they planned to turn the building into a retreat for convalescing Hikotai pilots but then Colonel Tozawa viewed the site and chose it for himself. It galled her that he was living in her house, but at least she knew the Colonel treated her home with respect. With his fleet of servant-boys, he ensured all the rooms were well looked after and the gardens maintained.
Lu See had been hired to cook for Colonel Tozawa at the big house. Originally Ah Gwei, the Teohs’ cookboy, had prepared meals for the Colonel, but he was beheaded in the summer of 1943 for spitting at a Seicho representative during a drunken rage. With nobody else to call on, Tozawa sent for Lu See. The first dish she knocked up for him was a noodle recipe from Sum Sum’s little blue exercise book, but he hadn’t liked it. ‘‘This is not British!’’ he screamed. ‘‘Nowhere in the Katei-no-Tomo magazine did they say noodles are British.’’ From then on Lu See relied on the recipes she found in her father’s old copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management.
Despite the Nipponisation of the country many of the top brass craved British food – it gave them a feeling of authority and social status; they loved English roast beef dinners, pork chops, HP brown sauce, Baxters tomato soup, shepherd’s pie and canned ox-tail. They drank Johnnie Walker and Dewar’s. They smoked Capstan and Raleighs. And they breakfasted on Earl Grey tea and marmalade on cold toast.
All week long she worked at Tozawa’s, arriving mid-morning and leaving only when the last of the scoured pots and dishes were set away, returning to her little house to put Mabel to bed, scrub her clothes clean, hang them up, tidy up the mess, then to wake at seven to prepare breakfast for her daughter before walking her to the village school and going to Ko’s shop for supplies.
‘‘There is an elegance to the British colonial lifestyle, no?’’ said Colonel Tozawa as he took his seat at the dinner table. The table was laid out with sterling silver cutlery, crystal glasses and fine Blue & White china with a pair of silver candelabra anchored in the centre. As usual there was only the one place setting. ‘‘It is one of the things we envy you for.’’ Tozawa spread his napkin on his lap. Apart from his wooden sandals, he was dressed smartly, in a white shirt and green single-breasted tunic and trousers.
‘‘May I remind o-colonel-sama that my family is not British nor are we colonials.’’
‘‘Yet you chose to mimic a country house thousands of miles away.’’
Lu See struck a respectful pose beside the mahogany sideboard as his meal was served, ready to receive his compliments or complaints. She wore the ornamental hair clips he had given her. He smiled a thin smile. She watched as a servant-boy poured him three fingers of whisky into one of her father’s crystal tumblers.
‘‘Very good flavour,’’ he said of the shepherd’s pie, taking a mouthful.
She bowed and with a geisha’s glide took her leave. She felt his fondling gaze on her back. Just as she reached the door he said, ‘‘One more thing, please.’’
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘Why is it that you never speak about the Woos?’’
‘‘Excuse me, o-colonel-sama?’’
‘‘Your neighbours, the Woos. They are supporters of Chiang Kai-shek, no?’’
Lu See’s blood quickened. She could almost feel his dark eyes boring into her skull, trying to read her. ‘‘Not to my knowledge.’’
He picked up the pepper pot and shook it, contemplated the pepper powder fall on to the palm of his hand. ‘‘You do not think they are Chinese Nationalists?’’
‘‘No, o-colonel-sama.’’
‘‘In which case they must be communists.’’ He watched her watching him.
She swallowed. ‘‘As far as I am aware the Woos are loyal supporters of the Emperor, Tenno Heika.’’
‘‘You are saying they are not communists?’’
‘‘No,’’ she said without hesitation, keeping her voice as steady as she could. ‘‘They are not communists.’’
‘‘There is something you are not telling me.’’ He kept his unyielding gaze fixed on her face, her throat, her hair. ‘‘I find your answer curious.’’
‘‘Oh?’’ She swallowed again. ‘‘How so, o-colonel-sama?’’
‘‘The Woos were your father’s sworn enemies, or so I have learned. Your father would have used a gun on them, no?’’ The words had barely left his lips before the serving-boys perked up. She didn’t know what they expected her to say. But he didn’t use a gun on them. He used it on himself and blew his own head off.
‘‘Surely you must have heard something to connect them with communists
?’’
‘‘The Kempeitai military police have already questioned me on this issue, o-colonel-sama.’’
‘‘I am aware of that. But I find it strange you have not accused them of anything. Some rumours that they are involved in political crime?’’
Lu See blinked. She knew what type of game was being played here. She had to be careful. ‘‘My family’s issues with the Woos are all in the past. My late husband was from the Woo clan. We have no axe to grind now. As I said, the Woos are loyal supporters of Tenno Heika.’’
‘‘Your late husband? Is that so?’’
‘‘Yes, o-colonel-sama.’’
‘‘You are on friendly terms with them.’’
‘‘Ever since my child was born we have been on cordial terms.’’
‘‘They see your daughter often?’’
Lu See smiled through unsmiling eyes. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘Because they still cannot trust you, even though she has Woo blood. How do you know they have not said anything against you? Surely, there have been times when you have complained about the high cost of living or the worthlessness of our military scrip, or joked about Nippon-go? It is only a matter of time before they say such things of you.’’
‘‘If they accuse me of such things then I shall deny it.’’
He took a sip of whisky. His bald head shone in the candle light. ‘‘If you tell me the Woos are helping to finance the communist hill-people you will be rewarded. In fact any information you can supply of the genjumin would be wholeheartedly appreciated. I can provide new clothes for your daughter. I can give her English Canterbury biscuits. She must like Canterbury biscuits, no?’’
Lu See felt something quiver within her. The only sweet things Mabel had eaten since the outbreak of war were rambutans and mangoes filched from the forest floor and a coconut sugar birthday cake once a year. She would dearly love to give her a tin of Canterbury biscuits. ‘‘I’m afraid I have nothing to tell you, o-colonel-sama.’’
He placed his crystal tumbler down carefully. The tip of his black toothbrush moustache glistened with whisky. For several moments he watched her, studied her mouth and eyes.
Then with a loud suck of his teeth he slapped the air and waved her away. She’d been dismissed for the night.
From the day Colonel Tozawa took possession of Tamarind Hill, Lu See was forced to live in a small Chinese-style house by the river which once belonged to the rubber estate’s overseer before he was arrested by the Kempeitai. Allowed to take only what she could carry, she stuffed her old eel-skin trunk with anything she thought she could barter and made her way down the hill. The small house had a tiny stone courtyard and a neat roof made of clay tiles, with two bedrooms, a wet kitchen and a teetering porch, which was home to a family of yellow geckos. And because it wasn’t connected to the electricity board, candles were used after dark.
It was a pleasant little place, surrounded by shady trees and the call of birds, and there was always a cleansing breeze which cooled the air at night.
Her mother slept in one bedroom and Uncle Big Jowl in the other, which meant that Peter and James claimed the settees in the main room whilst Lu See and Mabel shared a mattress and a conical mosquito net in the wet kitchen. Before the war Uncle Big Jowl lived in Penang but his home was bombed from the air by the Japanese.
There were two wicker chairs on the porch, a large worn one reserved for Uncle Big Jowl’s cheroot smoking and a smaller one with a bright red cushion nestled at its heart. Each evening Mabel settled on the red cushion with both hands clasped in her lap waiting for her mother to return home.
Sometimes she ate her stale-rice supper propped high on the red cushion, rice bowl in hand, eyes fixed on the dirt road that led up to Tamarind Hill. Sometimes she ate by the window of the wet kitchen, heaping grains into her mouth with a pair of chopsticks, never allowing her attention to waver. She watched the beaten earth path like a hawk.
‘‘Chee-chee-chee! Staring at the road will not make your mother return any faster, little one.’’
‘‘I know, Grandma.’’
‘‘So why not come inside and relax. You will wear out eyes otherwise.’’
‘‘I’m fine.’’
‘‘Come, I’ll light fresh candles and make banana bread.’’ Mabel shook her head no.
As the darkness thickened and the smell of kerosene lamps soured the air Uncle Big Jowl beached himself in the chair by her side. He lit a cheroot and smoked, cupping the cigar in his hand, hiding the crimson glow within his palm. Mabel wondered whether he did this to protect it from the breeze or to conceal it from sight; he was forever telling Mabel that smoking was bad for you. She glanced at him momentarily then continued her vigil.
‘‘Ai-yooo!’’ he wheezed, half-slumbering with his arms hung slack. ‘‘I used to have a dog like you. She used to hunt for squirrels, watching every tree branch like it contained a bar of gold. Speaking of gold, next week is end of durian season. Remember never to mix durian with alcoholic drink, can cause bad reaction you know.’’
‘‘What time is it, Uncle?’’
Uncle Big Jowl rubbed the top of his head with cheroot ash to ward off the mosquitoes. His short grey hair was unevenly pruned as if cropped by a goat. With a languid lift of his wrist he checked his watch and then replaced his hands on his melon-bellied gut. ‘‘Two minutes later than when you last asked me, aahh.’’
Mabel blinked into the darkness, listening to the sounds of the jungle. Straining to hear footfalls amongst the sounds of the tree frogs, she stared beyond the tangle of vines dangling from the mass of trees. And then, craning forward like a chipmunk spotting a stray nut, her back flinched and her throat tensed and before you could call her name she was bounding from the porch and along the road. ‘‘Mama, Mama, Mama!’’ Running with her arms outstretched she hopped over a pothole and threw herself into her mother’s embrace.
Since the start of the occupation both Peter and James worked as Post Office inspectors at the former De La Rue printing press in Butterworth, reporting to a Mr Miyagi. Each day they cycled to Juru station and boarded a train, returning each night in time for supper.
As Lu See entered the candle-lit kitchen she heard Peter say, ‘‘Today, on my way back from the presses, this Japanese lorry almost ran me off the road. I was lucky not to lose control of my bicycle and end up in a ditch.’’
Lu See saw them sitting with her mother, in the centre of the room, around a table laid with a bowl of bananas. Mother plucked one free and waggled it at her son like a pistol. ‘‘You a mouse or man! There’s plenty of room on the roads. Where’s your backbone?’’ Lu See half expected her to reach over and twist his earlobe.
‘‘You should have seen how close he was,’’ he exclaimed. ‘‘Jehovah be my witness, it brushed my sleeve.’’
‘‘Cha!’’ said Mother.
‘‘It’s true,’’ challenged Peter.
Mother shot him one of her looks. James rose to do the dirty dishes, moving cautiously as if there was a sleeping tiger sprawled across the floor.
Removing a deck of withered playing cards from a drawer, Mother gave her thumb a lick. ‘‘Gin Rummy?’’
‘‘We’re not allowed to gamble!’’ her sons replied in unison. Both men looked almost identical with boyish clean-shaven features and slightly protruding eyes, which gave them an air of perpetual bewilderment.
Mother gave an exhausted sigh. ‘‘What did I do to deserve sons like you? No matter how many years go by I never-never get used to this Jehovah’s Witnesses business. And both unmarried to boots.’’
James rolled his bulbous eyes. ‘‘Not this again.’’
‘‘I mean, take you for example, Peter, you always hated going to church as a child,’’ she continued. ‘‘You had tantrum in the pews. The whole congregation turned and stared.’’
‘‘That was James.’’
‘‘I was four,’’ argued James, cradling a bible in his lap.
‘‘You were seven and you
wet your front side,’’ Mother counteracted.
‘‘He was scared of the priest,’’ said Peter. ‘‘Something about his red hair, wasn’t it?’’
James shut his eyes as though to block out the memory.
‘‘Now you turn into religious fanatics,’’ huffed Mother.
In unison: ‘‘We are not religious fanatics!’’
‘‘I’m relieved,’’ said Mother, sounding not the least bit relieved.
In the ensuing silence a variety of winged insects knocked and pinged against the bare ceiling bulb. Lu See cleared her throat.
Mother looked up from her deck of cards, which she’d fanned across the kitchen table. ‘‘What the matter? What is wrong?’’
‘‘Nothing’s wrong.’’
‘‘You only clear your throat like tree frog when something is wrong.’’
‘‘Nothing’s wrong. I just put Mabel to bed.’’
Mother rose from her chair and moved to replace the kettle on the stove, bare feet padding across the floor. ‘‘You want tea?’’
Lu See declined the offer.
‘‘A slice of banana bread maybe? Or peanuts, nah, we have plenty of peanuts.’’ Mother nodded her head encouragingly. ‘‘Come, eat.’’ This, Lu See knew, was her way of showing love – showering food on her children.
Lu See shook her head and drew a hand over her face. She still had the smells of cooking under her fingernails. ‘‘There was some rice left over at the colonel’s.’’
‘‘But you didn’t eat,’’ said Mother.
‘‘How can you tell?’’
‘‘You loitering and nobody loiters on full stomach. Whole country starving and you don’t eat his leftover food.’’ Mother brought out a large basin of peanuts. ‘‘Come, help me shell these, will you?’’
Lu See took a chair. ‘‘For the record I wasn’t loitering.’’
‘‘Just skulking,’’ said Peter.
‘‘Precisely,’’ said James.
Peter pressed a finger to the sky like Moses. ‘‘For they are called labourers and should not be loiterers!’’
