‘What on earth is all this?’ Bettina demanded as the amah carried the baby into the bungalow and James followed carrying the older child, who had at last screamed herself into an exhausted sleep.
‘These are my children,’ he told her harshly.
She quickly crossed the room and inspected the baby, drawing back the cotton cloth in which it was wrapped with her fingertips. ‘What children? What are they? Native brats! I should have known! Not in there,’ she commanded the servant as she walked towards the room they had intended as a nursery. ‘They can live in the servants’quarters. I won’t have you … I won’t have them near me.’
‘Yes, you will, Bettina, my dear.’ Wearily, James motioned her to sit down. She remained standing, arms folded, rigid with anger. ‘Yes, Ah Ching, that’s the right room. The Mem made a mistake.’ She opened her mouth to protest but he silenced her with a gesture. ‘Now tell me, Bettina – do you want your divorce?’
She stepped back as if he had hit her.
‘What!’
‘I’m too tired for any lies, Betty. I’ve known what was going on between you and Anderson for a long time, so there’s nothing you can deny. No need to panic.’ He smiled at her, summoning the remnants of his old charm to impose his will, and she approached as if drawn by a spell and sat down opposite him. ‘We can both have exactly what we want. I can have my inheritance if I have children, and I have children. You can have Anderson if I divorce you, and I will divorce you. All that’s necessary is for you all to cooperate.’
He got up and took a cheroot from the box on the black, wooden sideboard, then lit it himself. Ah Ching and the amah were bustling to and fro with hot water and bed linen. He could hear the sleepy voice of the older child asking in Malay for its mother.
‘Cooperate with what, James?’ His wife was watching him with suspicion, torn between hope of a way out of the bleak emotional labyrinth in which she was trapped, and fear of her husband.
‘Making absolutely sure that there’s no question about the legacy business, that’s all. I can’t take the chance that there’ll be any question about the children’s legitimacy.’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ she snapped, her voice almost cracking in fright. ‘They’re your bastards, James, your native bastards. You can’t make them any more than that. You don’t seriously expect me to pass them off as my own children! You’re mad! Two little niggers like that. It’s absurd.’
‘That’s where you’re quite wrong. I’ve thought it out in great detail, Bettina, I’m not a fool. They’re three-quarters white, and since my whole family are dark-haired I don’t suppose they’ll be in the least conspicuous. All I need are birth certificates, and all I need to get birth certificates are a couple of chits from the good doctor – do you see? No one will know any better by the time I get back to England. I’ll leave it a few years, of course.’
‘You’ve gone mad, James. You’ll never pass them off as white children.’ He saw that her hands were shaking, and she clasped them together in the lap of her mauve print dress. She felt weak with tension.
‘I don’t see why not. They’re no darker than I am. The older one’s lighter, actually. You’ll see tomorrow, she’s got brown hair. Darker than you, lighter than me – what would be more likely?’
She looked at him in silence with hope and anxiety mingled in her misty blue eyes. ‘And you’ll really let me go?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you won’t make any trouble for us?’
‘Considering that you would be in a position to make trouble for me, I’d be foolish to even think of it. Of course, if Arthur didn’t agree I would have to write to the Medical Council pointing out that he’d alienated my wife’s affections, committed adultery with a patient, that sort of thing. You are my wife, Bettina. You haven’t been a very good wife either, I should say.’
A deep flush of shame darkened her pale face and her expression became anguished. ‘I didn’t mean to, James, I swear it. I never intended to look at another man. I don’t know what happened. The whole thing just grew and grew, day by day, until …’
‘Until it was bigger than both of you?’ He had intended to sneer, but checked himself. Like a horse, Bettina was uncontrollable when she was frightened. He would have to calm her to win her obedience. ‘I think we both made a mistake,’ he put as much kindness in his voice as he could. ‘And we won’t be the only ones. A lot of people were unsettled by the war. But there’ll be no harm done if we keep our heads, I promise you.’ He took her hands and held them, looking into her eyes with a pleading expression which seldom failed to get him what he wanted. ‘Of course, I was hurt, dreadfully hurt when I discovered …’ She began to cry and he released one hand and gave her his handkerchief. ‘But when I thought about it, I realized that you’re suited to Arthur, he’s more your kind of chap than I am. Believe me, I don’t want to stand in your way. But I must have my inheritance, don’t you see? There’s no future for any of us in this country. There’ll be all-out war with the Communists soon, it’s inevitable. And I’m damned if I’m going to go home to sponge off my brother for the rest of my life.’
‘We’d all go to jail if they found out,’ she protested, half-convinced.
‘Nonsense. They don’t send people to jail for this sort of thing. And-we’ll never be found out, I promise you. The country’s still in confusion, a few irregularities in paperwork aren’t going to attract any attention. Why not talk to Arthur about it? Sleep on the idea, eh?’ he suggested, patting her shoulder. ‘I’ll take the guest room, shall I?’
The next morning, she agreed. By the end of the week Anderson had accepted the proposition with extremely bad grace, and filled in two dockets confirming the birth of girl babies to James and his wife. James chose the names Catherine and Miranda as a vain homage to Khatijah and Maimunah; he selected birth dates which cut months off the children’s real ages, in order that the births should not pre-date the wedding and that Pasterns should suspect nothing. For the same reason James also insisted that the divorce proceedings should wait a few months.
James decided to remain in Malaya for as long as he could, despite the news that some isolated rubber estates had been attacked by the Communists. They agreed that Bettina would leave as soon as Anderson found a temporary home for them. He and Bettina planned to leave for Britain as soon as another doctor came out to replace him.
Bettina at once became sweet-tempered and friendly towards James; the log-jam of their hostility had been breached. There was an atmosphere of good humour about the bungalow for the first time. James found it charming to return for his lunch and find the two infants sitting in the shade with their amah. He acknowledged with pride that, in their white romper-suits and sun-bonnets, they were extraordinarily attractive children. The older girl was becoming sweetly attached to him and frequently toddled up to offer him a hibiscus flower, or a snail shell, or whatever treasure had most recently caught her fancy.
Bettina was surprised when he roused her one afternoon from her lie-off. ‘Wake up, my dear, you must wake up. It’s important.’
Puzzled, she sat up and he passed her the silk wrapper she wore over her nightdress.
‘Come into the other room.’ He did not want to tell her this in her bedroom.
‘What is it – the Communists?’
‘Yes, my dear, the Communists. There’s been another attack I’m afraid.’
‘Someone we know?’
‘Up at Amblehurst.’ This was the English name of a rubber plantation almost as remote as theirs, further up in North Perak. ‘They killed the manager and his wife, and someone else who was with them.’ James paused, wrenched in spite of his disdain for his wife’s attachment, because he knew the news he had to give her would remove the only kind of happiness she had. ‘Be brave, my dear. It was Arthur. Arthur Anderson is dead.’
She gave him a narrow, cringing look and said at once, ‘He can’t be. It wasn’t his week to go to Amblehurst. It was someone else.’
He mixed a strong gin pahit and put it in her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Bettina. My poor Bettina. There isn’t any mistake. He’s gone.’
Bettina did not cry. She was numbed with shock. ‘It isn’t fair,’ she said, almost crossly. ‘I loved him. It isn’t fair.’ As finally as if she had walked out of a door in real life, she retreated into a distant interior world and behaved like a sleepwalker for weeks. She never mentioned Arthur Anderson again, and never again exhibited any real cheerfulness or energy.
She stayed with James, because she had nowhere else to go. They rubbed along together amiably enough for a year or so, although she was unable to feel anything at all towards the two little girls. She drank a little more with each month that passed, and formed a bridge circle with three other planters’wives who relieved their fearful isolation with a day in Kuala Lumpur once a fortnight.
The Communist guerrillas, led by Chin Peng, picked off more and more of the Europeans who lived in isolation in the jungle, supervising the plunder of the country’s resources. Five hundred Europeans died in the same year as Dr Anderson. The Communists attacked in other ways as well: three hundred strikes hit the rubber estates and the tin-mines. The British administration responded slowly, playing down the situation and gagging the press.
James found notices tacked to the trees on his plantation, proclaiming ‘Death to the Running Dogs’. Their bungalow was fortified with sandbags, they were given a police guard and James toured the state in an armoured car with a shotgun at the ready.
In 1950, when James’s eldest daughter was officially almost four years old, the British High Commissioner, Sir Henry Gurney, was assassinated beside his bullet-riddled Rolls Royce en route to a hill-station for the weekend. James decided it was time to take his wife and children home and claim his inheritance.
The war with the Communists in Malaya continued for twelve years, involving a hundred thousand British citizens. For the National Service conscripts in the fifties it was the posting they most feared because the fight was against two enemies, the Communists and the jungle; of these the jungle proved the more implacable enemy.
Malaya was granted independence in 1957; the war, which was always referred to as ‘the Emergency’by the British, ended in 1960 with a victory parade in Kuala Lumpur, and the British military commander sat on the dignitaries’ dais next to the American President of Pacific Tin. In London, James turned down invitations to the celebration cocktail parties and dinners. Malaya was now a part of his life which he did not wish to emphasize.
In Penang, Bill Treadwell applied for citizenship of the new country.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Gonna spend my whole life through –’ Monty reached forward to the audience, stuck out one hip as far as the tight, leather dress would allow, and marked the beat. The stage lights flashed. ‘Lovin’ you-u-u-u-u-u!’
There was some desultory applause, and Monty and her band made brief bows. A whine of feedback hurt their ears, as it had done periodically right through the performance. The lights died. Three or four beercans sailed through the air and fell short of the small stage.
‘Thank you, Ruby Slippers. Thank you, everybody.’ The DJ spun the new single by the Clash and the crowd pogo-ed into life. Monty stumbled back to the cupboard-like dressing room on shaking legs.
‘Christ! That was awful.’ She slumped on to a hard chair and looked at her face in the mirror. ‘And I look so vile. They hated us, just hated us.’ Her new band trailed after her – Winston, who’d done sessions with the Juice when they’d wanted an extra drummer, Stas, who had been playing with another of Biffo Records’hopeful signings when that band had split up, and Tony, who was really doing her a favour, because he was one of the most sought-after session guitarists in town. Monty admired Tony’s effortless musicianship so fiercely that she felt overawed by his willingness to follow her into the succession of sleazy punk clubs which they had played over the past few weeks.
They all looked defeated. One of the flying beercans had caught Stas on the temple and he searched for a tissue to mop up the trickle of blood. There were no tissues. The dressing room at Dingwalls club was not equipped with such luxuries.
Sig shouldered through the door, full of energy. ‘Great, fuckin’ great,’ he enthused, giving them all Cokes. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ He squeezed Monty’s ass and the leather dress squeaked under his sweaty hand.
‘C’mon, Sig, it was a disaster. All these poxy clubs are disasters. We’re not building a following doing this, we’re just dying on our feet.’
Sig picked Monty’s coat off the hook on the wall, put his arm around her and led her out of the club into the damp night. Dingwalls was built on a cobbled courtyard by the side of a canal, and he supported her firmly as she stumbled over the uneven surface in her red stilettos.
‘Now get this straight, girl. You talk like a loser, you will be a loser. Nobody does great when they’re starting out. You gotta give it time.’
‘There’s a difference between doing great and having beercans raining down from the ceiling, Sig.’
‘Ferchrissake, these kids throw beercans at all the bands they see. They also spit, yell and throw bricks if there are any bricks around. They want to be cool and be punks and stick safety-pins through their noses, that’s all. Don’t mean nothin’. Not a thing. They liked you, you were good.’
Monty squirmed inwardly; she was frightened of Sig. He was tough, physically strong and completely ruthless. He was also as stubborn as a pig and never conceded an inch when she argued with him. Instead, he would hit her if that was what would get her to do what he wanted, or bully her verbally, or, which was the most likely, simply argue her into a corner so that she obeyed him of her own free will but with fear seeping through her tissues.
The problem was that Monty was not only afraid of Sig. She was also afraid of every one of the boys in studded dog-collars and girls with green hair who stood in a sullen mass on the other side of the microphone. Without the Juice to hide behind, without Rick to blame if they should fail, Monty was getting a chronic case of stage fright.
‘I can’t stand it much longer,’ she told Cindy Moon when Sig allowed her to return home. It was high summer, and the faint pulse of reggae music from the West Indian club in the next street throbbed in the dusty air.
‘He’s a bastard.’ Cindy was sitting cross-legged in front of her typewriter. ‘Sig Bear has a heart of solid dirt. How can he push you so hard? If you crack up he’ll never get his money out of you. Men are stupid.’ She uncoiled and put her arm around Monty. ‘You’re good. You’re a star. Keep hold of that and forget Sig.’
‘I’m not good though. I can write pretty songs, sure, and I can play well, but it takes more than that. I should never have let go in front of the band the way I did. I just don’t know how to manage people. That was what Rick was so good at. OK, he was arrogant, but he knew how to put on a front for the rest of us, and how to talk people into things.’
‘He was just another dominating bastard.’ Cindy squeezed Monty’s shoulders in a gesture of protection. ‘Men are all on total power trips. You don’t have to grind other people down in order to get on top of them.’
Monty sat down on the black, plastic-covered divan which was both their sofa and Cindy’s bed. She felt as if she were being torn in two between Cindy and Sig, both of whom praised her talent but tried to push her into doing what they wanted.
At least Sig was easy to understand. He wanted her to finish the album and make him money. He did not pretend that he loved her – the word never crossed his thin red lips. Cindy, on the other hand, smothered her with compliments and caresses, wrote her poetry and bought her presents. It was balm to her affection-starved soul. Monty had thought at first that Cindy was gay: there were plenty of rumours that she was.
She soon discovered that Cindy got her kicks going down to the reggae clubs and picking up young black boys. Every month or so she would vanish for a few days of degradation with these contemptuous kids wh
o felt sexually exploited and abused her accordingly. Then Cindy would reappear in the apartment with a witchy, lopsided smile, show Monty her bruises and announce that white men didn’t know the first think about fucking. She had some surprising white boyfriends, too – wealthy, straight business types, but Cindy seldom had a good word to say about any man, whatever his race or proclivity.
She would usually return with some cheap brown heroin powder as well, which she burned on a strip of silver foil to inhale the smoke. Smack was something else of which Monty was terrified. Cy had used it a lot, and it fitted with the nihilistic, destructive surrender to despair in his personality which frightened her because she sensed the same chasm of nothingness in herself. Cindy sometimes offered her some of the drug, but she always refused.
‘Tell you what,’ Cindy proposed suddenly, ‘come and see the Joe Jones Band with me tonight. That’ll teach you everything you need to know about men on power trips.’
‘Aren’t they big in Japan?’ Monty enquired with a faint sneer. The British rock élite tended to look on bands which were big in Japan as soulless and commercial.
‘Colossal. They’re huge in the States, too. I liked a lot of their early stuff, it was sort of Dylan-ish, country rock. But now all they do is make a lot of noise and flash their equipment about.’
Monty decided to go. She had nothing else to do except sit in the apartment in the heat, fighting the fear in her heart. Cindy took an hour and a half to get ready, at the end of which she looked stunning in another of her diaphanous chiffon dresses, this time striped electric blue and pink. She wore gilt stiletto-heeled sandals and a 1940s fox wrap with the animal’s muzzle and paws worked into the design. Monty felt hopelessly dowdy in her leather dress, which was creasing and falling out of shape.
The Joe Jones Band took the stage between two mountains of speakers. With the first crashing chord they played, Monty felt as if she were lifted off her feet and dashed against the wall by a gigantic wave of sound. The volume made her bowels vibrate and her mind empty completely. It was impossible to do anything but give herself wholly to the ocean of noise and let it sweep her away. They were lanky, long-haired American boys. Joe Jones was a mesmeric figure with raven-black hair which whipped about his naked torso. He wore nothing but a pair of skintight, white satin trousers, which revealed every line of his magnificent thigh muscles, and a silver-buckled belt. He leapt around the stage, howling into the hand-mike like a Red Indian warrior.
Pearls Page 58
