***
“Could you find out why May’s parents were moved into this New Village? Damn it! Could you do something to move them out again?” Mark demanded, his voice clipped and impatient.
Mark was in the military base of the Royal West Kent Regiment near Tanjong Malim. He had gone straight to it after leaving May.
“My friend, you ask the impossible.” Major Hugh Anderson let out an exasperated sigh. “Suspects or not, we are to treat all Chinese squatters the same. That is the new policy. They are all deemed potentially dangerous. The arrangement helps to deter those so inclined from helping the insurgents but look at it this way. It also protects them from being intimidated into doing so. You know what insurgents do to those unwilling to help them. Let us hear no more about this. Your May might still be rounded up so keep a lid on your temper.”
“Surely not! She has been cleared. That was why she was sent to me,” Mark blustered.
“I am telling you this as a friend. The killings in the neighbouring estate have prompted this response. Two Chinese plantation assistants decapitated! Their boss, an Englishman like you and me, shot in both legs. What do you expect? The order from above is that we have to shut off the insurgents’ lifeblood. We suspect that they could not have lasted without outside support. Their food supply would have run out if people had not been supplying them on the sly.”
“Is that why the rice rations to these settlements have been cut off ? So many innocents suffering just because of a suspicion. Do you not feel guilty?”
“Orders,” Hugh replied sheepishly and went back to his desk, “and you know that it is not just a suspicion.”
Hugh sat down. He waved Mark to a seat. He did not like the policy any more than Mark but there was nothing he could do. It was a case of a few rotten apples infecting the majority. “Listen! Things will get worse. This is only the beginning; more and more Chinese squatters will be rounded up into settlements under General Brigg’s plan. You cannot fight it.”
Mark plonked himself on the chair, energy seeping out of him. He could feel the cold metallic seat pressing against his buttocks, which were already wet with perspiration. In fact there was not a single part of him that was not wet.
“About May,” Hugh continued eyeing Mark sternly. “I was not joking when I said that she too could be rounded up now that her family is resettled and held in suspicion. It was all right before because they were living in Malacca town. That was why she was given a clean bill of health. I do not know why the family decided to move to this area to become squatters. Tanjong Malim is hardly an attractive place. How could any person with common sense wish to move here! The minute they made the move, they were classified as suspects. They should know that Tanjong Malim is a hotbed of terror.”
“They moved here because May was posted to me!” Mark spluttered with exasperation. “They wanted to be near their only daughter. Look! After the Japanese left, May’s father was too ill to look for another job. He was tortured and imprisoned during the Japanese occupation. After the war, the family had no means of looking after themselves. May was sent out to work. She was sent to me. Soon after, their landlord in Malacca kicked her family out because of their arrears with the rent. They ended up as squatters. You know as well as I do that under the new laws, which may I remind you the British helped to formulate, many Chinese would find it difficult, if not impossible, to buy land even if they had the resources.”
“Well, what can I say,” Hugh replied, “except that we can only act according to orders. We cannot make special preferences.” He was as frustrated as Mark about the entire situation. He had seen May once, a young slip of a girl. He remembered her. She was beautiful.
Mark got up and, without a further word, left the room. He walked quickly, kicking up dust with each stride, taking his anger out in the only way he could for the moment. If he could he would have shouted out his rage. He knew Hugh’s hands were tied. That did not stop Mark’s anger. Waiting outside was Amat, his driver. He got into the jeep. “Back to the plantation,” he ordered.
The driver stole a sidelong look at Mark. “Yes Sir,” he said.
They drove out of the military camp, leaving a trail of yellow dust. Mark kept silent, a whirlwind of thoughts churning in his mind. He took little note of the heat, the pungent smell of oil from the engine, the dust and the constant humming of insects. He did not wish to disappoint May but there was little else he could do for her family. Hugh made that amply clear. He had to find another way. He would drive to Kuala Lumpur and talk to his superiors. He reached into his pocket. With a guilty start he remembered the letter. He had left it on the dresser when he was about to leave. It must be from Ruth.
“Drop in at my house first,” he said.
Amat swerved and turned into a side road. Ahead the road forked into two, one leading to the west and the other to the east. Jungle loomed on both sides.
“Sir, look! Check point?” Amat turned urgently to his master for confirmation. Mark looked towards where Amat was pointing.
Barbed wire and crates barred the road just before the junction. Two uniformed men with rifles stood behind the rolls of wire. Amat slowed down to a halt and wound down his window. Suddenly from behind the two uniformed officers, a band of men and women surged forward. Dressed raggedly in khaki shorts, trousers that were ripped and torn, and an assortment of headgear, they opened fire. The two officers fell, one clutching his arm and the other spurting blood from his neck. Amat slumped forward, hitting the horn. Mark reached for his pistol. Faces pressed onto the windowpanes and arms reached into the jeep. Someone grabbed Mark’s pistol and smashed its butt onto his temple. They yanked open the door. Two men got hold of his ankle. Mark felt the kicks; his ribs burned and blood squirted from his nose. Then darkness.
***
All was quiet in Mark’s bungalow. At the back of the house, next to the kitchen, stood an altar. A figurine of the Goddess of Mercy, no bigger than a foot high, looked benignly down from her perch. Her forehead was smooth and between her fingers prayer beads flowed. May knelt before it and bowed low. Her lips moved in silent prayer. “Please,” she prayed, “keep us safe. Please keep us together. Please keep our child safe.”
She had not told Mark. She wanted to be absolutely sure. Her aunt had lost two babies in the initial months of pregnancy. She must wait for the critical months to pass before telling him. Her hands went to her tummy. It hardly showed. When she first realised that she was carrying Mark’s baby, she was frightened. Now she thought of it as a blessing; everything would be all right. Mark had promised that he would find a way. He would look after her. She trusted him. She got up and went into the living room. The ceiling fan turned slowly, stirring air somnolent with the heat. The hibiscus and oleanders picked in the morning were already wilting. She must replace them with fresh flowers. Hastily she went to the dresser where the vase sat. Next to it was a letter addressed to Mark. She saw the stamp. Her heart stood still. Mark’s words came back to her. “Was this it?” she asked herself, “Was his wife coming?”
Chapter 3
Singapore
THE SKY WAS a clear bright blue. Ruth stepped off the gangway clinging on to her hat. A gust of wind threatened to dislodge it. She tightened her hold and hugged the suitcase to her side with the other hand. Tendrils of hair clung damply to her cheeks. The heat struck her with a force she could not describe. The journey on the cargo ship had taken almost a month. During that time, as the ship skirted the Indian Ocean to make its way to Singapore, she had thought she had become acclimatised. She was mistaken. The sun was red hot on her skin. She placed one foot carefully in front of the other. The earth beneath them seemed to roll and waver. Someone caught hold of her elbow.
“Steady on. Hold my hand.”
Ruth turned.
“Is someone meeting you?”
Ruth searched through the crowd. Doubt crept into her eyes. She shook her head. “I am not sure. I wrote to my husband. I left without waiting for his reply. He s
hould have received my letter by now but I don’t see him.”
She stood on tiptoe hoping to see beyond the throng of people bustling on the dock side. Bare brown bodies carrying heavy sacks and crates on their shoulders moved with dogged purpose. Men in suits, sailors, women in long skirts holding on to their children; a multitude of people of all colours, dress and walks of life. “I don’t know if I am going to be met,” she confessed. She was frightened and excited at the same time. She did not know if she had made the right decision. In truth she had had no choice; she had to come. There was nowhere else to go. The farm was gone. Overcome by grief and loss, her father had passed away suddenly. She remembered that day as if it were yesterday. She was washing up in the kitchen when she looked out of the window. Her hands were full of soapsuds. She saw her father walk towards the barn. Halfway there, he staggered, reeling like a drunk. His hand went to his chest and the next minute he was on the ground. She ran to him, her feet still shod in house slippers. She recalled her feet sinking into soft mud and the smell of soap on her cheeks. She tried to revive her father, slipping her arms around his shoulders in a desperate attempt to lift him. But he was gone. With her father’s death and the loss of the farm, there was nothing to keep her in England.
“Well, let me help you with this.” Bill reached out to take her suitcase, brushing her hand as he did so.
“Thank you,” she said shyly. He had been very attentive during the journey. She was not used to the attention he gave her but was grateful for it. Everything seemed strange and alarming. She didn’t know any of her fellow passengers. She had never been abroad before, not even across the Channel and found herself at a loss at the dining table with little to contribute to conversations.
“No problem. Let me lead the way.” Bill walked ahead. He was in luck, a lone lady whose husband had not turned up to meet her. He threw another quick glance at her over his shoulder. He had learnt a lot about Ruth during the voyage. He remembered every detail and filed it in his mind. It was his way, to record every minute detail that could be useful.
***
Ruth watched as the last of the passengers left the dock. The immigration office was almost empty. Only a handful of officers remained. They hovered at the far end taking an inventory of trunks that were to be collected the following day. Ruth scanned the docks again.
“It looks like your husband will not be here. What do you want to do?”
Ruth couldn’t hide her dismay. “I’ll have to find my way to my husband’s office in Kuala Lumpur. I’ll have to take a bus. Perhaps I should find a telephone to call his office.”
A young boy with a turban came over and handed Bill a telegram before retreating to the side. Bill read it and stuffed it into his pocket. He made no reference to it, except that he waved the young boy over and scribbled a note before whispering into his ear. The boy ran off with the note and Bill walked to a notice board hung on the wall. “You won’t have time to look for a telephone if you are to catch a bus. There is only one more today.” He looked around the near-deserted depot. No telephone booths could be seen. “According to this schedule, buses do not run very frequently,” he continued, “the curfew makes it difficult. Perhaps the train might be more comfortable. One will be leaving in thirty minutes.”
“Does it cost more?”
He nodded.
“I’ll take the bus.” Her lips trembled. Suddenly she was afraid. Mark was not expecting her. He hadn’t got her letter.
“I’ll take you to the bus stop.” Bill took her suitcase and they walked out of the immigration control into the bright sunshine. A group of people stood across the road. “There it is,” Bill said. He walked quickly over, leaving Ruth to follow.
“I expect you don’t speak any of the local languages,” he said over his shoulder. “It is difficult for newcomers. There are many dialects and languages to wrestle with.”
The dismay in Ruth’s face deepened. She was not sure she could cope in this strange country. How could she, if she couldn’t even communicate with people?
“You’ll get by though,” he added more kindly seeing her panic. “Most people speak a smattering of English. What you need to prepare yourself for is the bus ride.”
“Why?” she asked, alarmed.
“Riding a bus here is not the same as in England. It is the cheapest way to get to Kuala Lumpur though not the safest. The train would have been better. Although in fairness, any form of travel in Malaya at the moment is not safe. The threat of ambush by outlaws is always there, whatever means of transport you take.”
Ruth’s heart sank with each piece of information that Bill gave her.
He ushered her to a tree with spreading branches heavy with bright yellow blooms. “Here, stay in the shade. The next bus is due soon. Even then it is not worth the risk of standing in the open under the sweltering sun on your first day.”
Ruth wiped her forehead. Underneath her hat, her hair was sodden. She was nervous. She had gathered from other passengers on the ship that a full-scale war was being fought in Malaya. Mark had never said anything in his letters beyond a clipped acknowledgement that it was not safe. They had described with relish the atrocities that insurgents inflict on victims. She remembered the woman from Kent on her way to rejoin her husband. The woman, a mother in her mid-forties, had declared calmly as though it was the most ordinary of events that she would shoot insurgents willingly to repay what they had done to her friends. The other passengers had cheered her on. Ruth shuddered and tried not to think of them.
Slowly her ears adjusted to the voices and chatter around her. Perhaps the dangers were exaggerated. There was so much laughter. She could not believe that anyone in the throng of people surrounding her could commit violence. They all looked gentle and amiable. While in England, people would not stare, people here made no attempt to hide their curiosity. They stared openly, often giggling with a hand poised in front of their mouths. Men and women squatted by the road, some with their sarongs hitched high while others rolled up their trouser legs to reveal bare brown feet shod in rubber slippers. Ruth could not help smiling back at them. Surely, no guerrilla would dress in such a manner.
Bill watched her. He took care not to be observed. He could see that she was captivated by everything around her.
Ruth threw him a quick glance and nodded towards a hawker selling sugar cane juice by the wayside. She watched with fascination when the man hacked each cane into shorter lengths and fed them into a metal roller. He discarded the cane debris carelessly on the ground. Bees hummed and buzzed around the jugs of rich pale green liquid. Next to him a vendor, with nothing on him except a thin singlet and a sarong, sold young coconuts. He slashed one open and offered it to Ruth. His eyes, bright with expectation, coaxed her to take it. He laughed when she hesitated, revealing toothless gums stained by betel nuts. She looked to Bill again.
He nodded. “It should be safe. It is best to drink while you can. No liquid is allowed on board.” Gratefully, she reached out and took the coconut. She gulped the juice, not caring that some spilled on to her cotton blouse.
“The bus will take you to Kuala Lumpur. It will be a long ride. You should arrive before dark. Travel is forbidden at night under the new laws.”
Fear returned to Ruth’s eyes, fear that had been temporarily laid aside because of the novelty of the scene in front of her. She would be on her own from then on.
“Once there, get in touch with your husband’s employers. I am sure they would help take you to your husband.” He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Remember, you have my telephone number. Call me.”
Ruth was nervous. She could not muster a smile. He saw it.
“I have written in Malay the address of your husband’s firm. The telephone number is at the bottom. It is a small world here. Our paths will cross I am sure.” Of that he was absolutely confident. He would make certain of it.
The bus arrived. It grunted to a halt. A cloud of dust rose, dust the colour of paprika. People rushed
to clamber on board. Bill pushed Ruth forward and helped her up. She could feel his hand on the small of her back. She turned to say goodbye but he was already swallowed by the crowd of people behind her. There was no time to say more. She walked down the narrow aisle looking for a seat. An Indian woman pointed to the empty space next to her, gathering as she did so her bright turquoise sari to make more room. Ruth sank gratefully on to the plastic bench, thankful to rest her aching feet. She waved to Bill. The bus lurched forward, its wheels protesting against its load. Bill stood by the wayside, his eyes watchful. Then he gave a small, almost indiscernible, nod. A man jumped on to the bus, his foot catching the step just in time as the bus picked up speed.
The bus was packed. Many stood like sardines in a can, lined up against each other, swaying with the motion of the vehicle. Ruth could feel the rumbling in her stomach. She had not eaten since she left the ship. There would be no food until she reached Kuala Lumpur. The carrying of food and drinks was prohibited in case bandits waylaid them. The bus rolled and swayed. By and by Ruth fell asleep, overcome by heat and fatigue. When she woke, she found the lady beside her had also nodded off. People had wound down the windows and a hot breeze blew in dissipating the smell of body odour and spice. Lush green paddy fields and plantations rushed by. She looked across the aisle; between the gaps of swaying bodies, a man was watching her. She looked again. He had turned away. Mindful, she glanced nervously again in his direction. He was bowed low and she could see only his dark hair. Ruth chided herself. Her imagination must be running wild. Surely no one would be interested in her.
Where the Sunrise is Red Page 2
