by Nevil Shute
I said, “May we see where they would have to sleep?”
The old man led us to another house. I said to Connie, “What about it? Is it a bit primitive? You can live in Den Pasar if you’d rather.”
He said, “I would rather live here, with these people.”
“What about you, Phinit?”
The Siamese boy said, “It is similar to how they live in my mother’s village, near Hua Hin. I should be happy to live here.”
The house that Wajan showed us was a single room with one charpoy in it, apparently kept for putting up a casual traveller. He could produce another bed. As regards food, he had a daughter who would cook for the two strangers, and he sent a child running for his daughter. She came in a few minutes, a striking-looking, smiling woman of about forty perhaps, but very well preserved. She was wearing only a sarong, but as she had come to meet the strangers she had thrown a towel over her shoulders with the ends hanging down her back so that her firm, fine breasts were partially hidden. She talked to her father and to Andel for a minute or two, smiling, and then nodded.
The Dutchman said “This is Mem Simpang. Simpang is her son; Balinese women take the name of their first child, unless there is another to make a confusion. You call her Mem Simpang.”
Connie repeated that, and the woman nodded, laughing with him. He indicated himself, still laughing, and said, “Shak Lin.” She repeated it, and then turned to Andel and asked something. He replied in the negative.
“She asked if you have a caste,” he said. “She thinks you must be an aristocrat.”
Connie shook his head. “Tell her we’re just ordinary people.”
“I will do that.” A little conversation ensued, while a small crowd of people gathered round. A girl of seventeen or eighteen with a very sweet face, with a piece of cloth thrown over one shoulder and breast as a sign of good manners, came and stood by Mem Simpang. Presently Andel turned to us again.
“She will provide food and cook for you,” he said. “They are asking for three guilders a day each, for food and lodging. I have told them that it is much too much, and they should be ashamed to treat strangers so, but they say you are high-born people and must have the best.”
Three guilders a day is about six English shillings. Connie laughed and said, “Ask her if she’ll take two if I help to look after the children.”
Andel translated, and for some reason that sent the fine, middle-aged woman off into fits of laughter, and the people round laughed with her. Andel coloured a little. “She has only two children,” he said. “The eldest, a boy, is away fishing.” He indicated the pleasant-looking girl. “This is the younger, Ni Madé Jasmi. You call her Madé; that means, second child. She will probably do most of your work.”
He paused, and then he added, “I am afraid you will find that these people have a very broad sense of humour, Mr. Shak Lin.”
Connie said, “Most country people have, in all parts of the world. Tell her that we will pay three guilders and Madé shall look after us.”
We went back through the houses to the wall entrance, having made arrangements for Connie and Phinit to get their gear and move in next day. Passing the open space with the shrines, Connie said,
“They are Hindus, aren’t they?”
Andel said, “Of a sort. I do not think that Indians would recognise much of their religion in what these people do. It is a very complicated religion, Mr. Shaklin; there are over forty thousand temples in Bali, and each has a festival two or three times a year. The people here spend most of their spare time in going to festivals or making up offerings to take to the next one. They are very devout. And yet, I do not think they really know what their religion is about. Certainly, I don’t.”
Connie said quietly, “It will be interesting to learn about it.”
Andel said, “You will learn plenty about it as soon as you can talk to them, because their whole life centres round the temple festivals. They are a very religious-minded people.”
As we drove off in the jeep I wondered uneasily what would come of putting Connie down to live in such a place as that.
Next morning Arjan Singh and I took off in the Tramp for Diento on our way back to Bahrein. We left Connie and Phinit to get on with it and set up the small maintenance base I had planned. I left a credit at the bank for him, and told him not to economise too much on cables; it would pay us to know what his requirements were before the next trip left Bahrein to come to him.
We got to Diento that day after a stop at Batavia for formalities and fuel. We loaded up with about a ton and a half of machinery and three passengers for Yenanyaung and made Rangoon next evening after one stop at Penang. At Yenanyaung next day we picked up five passengers and two tons of load for Bahrein and got back to Mingadon by dinner time, refuelled, and made Calcutta for the night. Next day took us to Karachi, where we night-stopped before going on to Bahrein.
We stopped outside the airport building at Karachi and Arjan went up to the Control office to do his stuff there; I went and fixed up accommodation for my passengers in the airport hotel. Then I had to move the Tramp because it was in the way of other aircraft, and I got in and started it up, and taxied it down the tarmac past the hangars to its parking place for the night.
It was evening by then, and after sunset. I was very tired; we had flown and worked continuously for four days since leaving Bali, and even in so well-equipped an aircraft that can be a strain. I stopped the engines and locked the controls. There were things I should have done that night, but it was nearly dark and all the jobs could wait till we were fuelling at dawn. I got down from the cockpit into the big, empty fuselage and walked down to the door, and got down on to the tarmac, locking the door after me.
There was a man waiting for me by the tailplane. He came towards me, and I saw that it was Salim, the lad who had worked for us at one time and was now with Sind Airways. He came forward and said, “Good evening, Mr. Cutter.”
“Evening, Salim,” I said. “How goes it?”
“I am very well, Mr. Cutter,” he said. “Mr. Shak Lin, he has not come back with you?”
“No, he’s staying down in Bali for a time,” I said. “He’s looking after things for us there.”
He was silent. Then he said, “Mr. Cutter, you heard about the trouble in Bahrein?”
I turned to him quickly. “I haven’t heard of anything. Has something happened there?”
“They say there has been fighting in the souk,” he said. “Much trouble, very much trouble. It is because the Teacher has been sent away.”
Nadezna lived in the souk, but Gujar Singh lived near; surely, he would have been looking after her? “What happened in the souk, Salim?”
“An English officer was stoned,” he said. “They say he was very badly hurt. He would have been killed, but the Sister was there.”
“Who was this English officer?”
“It was the Liaison Officer, from the Residency.”
“Major Hereward?”
“I do not know the name. It was the Liaison Officer. The people of Bahrein say it was because of him that the Teacher was sent away, and so they stoned him. And then the R.A.F. stopped men from going to the hangar by a guard, and when the people came the guard fired, but they fired into the air and the people went on and said their Rakats at the hangar as usual. One of the bullets fired into the air fell down and killed a goat. Then the guard was taken away, and now the people go and say their Rakats every night. Many people go, every night.”
God, this was awful. It was just what Connie had warned me might happen. I had done nothing to prevent it, but there was probably nothing that I could have done; the Residency would not have listened to anything I said.
“How is the Liaison Officer?” I asked. “Will he recover? When did this happen?”
“It happened the day after you came through here with the Teacher,” he said. “Eight days ago.”
“How is the Liaison Officer?”
“He is in the hospital. It is
all right, because the Sister was there and she saved him.”
I was puzzled. “Which sister was that?” I was thinking of someone from the hospital.
“The Sister of the Teacher,” he said. “The one who works for you as secretary.”
“Nadezna? Was it she who saved the Liaison Officer?”
“Yes,” he said. “The Sister.”
“Do you know what happened, Salim?”
“The Englishman was driving in his car alone in the Muharraq road towards the Causeway,” he said. “Someone threw a stone and broke the windscreen. And the man stopped and got out of his car, and more stones were thrown, and one hit him on the arm and broke it, and one hit him on the head and then he fell down beside the car, and more stones were thrown to hit him as he lay upon the ground, by many people. But God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, took pity on him. The Sister, who was in the street, came running, and she saw the crowd and the men throwing stones. And the Sister came to the crowd and they made way for her, and she went forward through the stones that men were throwing and stood over the Englishman who was lying on the ground. She said, ‘This is a bad thing, and the Teacher will be angry when he comes to hear of it.’ Then the men stopped throwing, and she called to two of them to take up the Englishman and lay him gently in the back seat of his car, and that was done, and the Sister got into the car and drove it to the hospital, and the crowd made way for her to pass with the car. And when they came to the hospital men came with a stretcher and they put the Englishman upon it and took him inside, and he will recover from the stoning. And when that was done, the Sister was ill and she was sick in the road by the car, because she is a woman and had been afraid. And one came and said, ‘Sister of the Teacher, shall we take you also to the hospital?’ But she said, ‘I will go back now to the souk, to my own place. Go you to the Residency and tell the guard to come and drive this car away, and see that no harm shall come to it.’ And that was done.”
I walked back with him to the main airport building, but he knew nothing more than that. It had all happened a week ago. A machine of Orient Airways had been through Bahrein upon a pilgrim flight to Jiddah and the crew had heard all this and brought the news back to Karachi, but since then there had been no authentic news of what was going on. “I think everything is quiet now,” said Salim. “If there was still trouble we should have heard, because the radio operators talk to each other all the time.”
Outside the main building we met Arjan Singh walking towards us in the tarmac lights. He said, “There has been fighting in Bahrein,” but it turned out that he knew no more than we did, and had the same story. We talked about it for a time, but there was nothing we could do except get going for the Persian Gulf as soon as possible in the morning; so we dined and went to bed with an order to be called at four o’clock.
We landed at Bahrein about midday next day. Gujar Singh and Hosein were both out on jobs, Gujar flying the Carrier and Hosein one of the Airtrucks. Chai Tai Foong was in the hangar, however, and he came out and met us as we stopped the engines on the tarmac. I got down quickly from the door ahead of the passengers, leaving the machine to Arjan, and walked over to the Chinese engineer, and said, “Morning, Tai Foong. How are things here now? They tell me that you’ve had a bit of trouble while I’ve been away.”
He smiled. “All is quiet now. It was only one day. The people were angry with the Major Hereward and they hurt him with stones, but now they listen to Mem Nadezna and there is no more trouble.”
“Was there trouble here, about the people coming in to pray?”
He nodded. “One day only. After that Mem Nadezna went to the C.O. and said the people meant no harm in coming here to pray. And Flight Lieutenant Allen, he spoke on the radio to Air Vice-Marshal Collins at Habbaniya near Baghdad and said — his own words, Mr. Cutter, I am sorry — he said the local Jesus had been crucified and he was in a mess and wanted some advice because there was nothing in the book to tell him what to do. And next day the Air Vice-Marshal flew down from Habbaniya in his Devon, and after he had talked to Flight Lieutenant Allen they both came here to the hangar and talked to Gujar Singh, and then they talked for a long time to Mem Nadezna. And after that the guard was taken off the road and there was no more firing, and the people now come here to pray each evening. It is quite all right now, Mr. Cutter. No more trouble at all.”
I went into the hangar with him and he showed me what had been going on in my absence, but I had only half my mind upon his maintenance jobs. I told him to get on with the routine checks on the Tramp since she would be leaving again for Bali in a few days’ time, and I went over to the office. It was the lunch hour and the babu clerk was there eating something that he brought with him every day done up in a cloth; he told me that Nadezna was over in the restaurant having lunch, as she usually did. I went there to find her.
She was eating curry and rice at a table by herself, and at first she did not see me. I crossed the room thinking how small she was, how delicate, with her slim figure, her black hair, and her kind, thoughtful features. It was incredible that this slight girl had pressed through a yelling crowd of furious Arabs stoning a man to death, to walk through the flying stones and stand over him, and tick them off. It was more credible that she had been sick afterwards from nervous exhaustion. I walked towards her not quite knowing what to say, because she had become very dear to me, and I was shocked at the risks that she had taken.
She heard my step and looked up, and got up to meet me. “Mr. Cutter! I didn’t know you were back. Have you come back in the Tramp?”
“Yes,” I said. “We landed about a quarter of an hour ago.”
“I had no idea. I’m so sorry — I’d have come out to meet you. Have you had lunch?”
I shook my head. “I’ll join you, if I may.” I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. “They tell me that you’ve had a bit of trouble here.”
“Nothing to speak of,” she replied. “It was just one afternoon, down in the souk. The people were a little upset. But that’s all over now.”
“How’s Major Hereward?”
“He’s still in hospital. He’s going to be flown home on leave in a few days’ time. His relief, Captain Morrison, was flown up here from Aden yesterday.”
“Is this one any better?”
“You mean, as a liaison officer?”
I nodded.
“They say in the souk that he was quite popular at Aden. I don’t think Hereward was very bright.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll see him here again,” I said. “They’ll probably send him to another district, after this.” I smiled at her. “He ought to be very grateful to you, but I don’t suppose he is.”
She said, “Oh, but he is. He sent a message asking if I’d go and see him in hospital, and all he wanted was to say thank you.” She hesitated. “It was a bit pathetic. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong to make the people so angry.”
“Didn’t he realise that sending your brother away was likely to make trouble?”
“I don’t think he did. I think he thought he was preventing trouble when he sent Connie away.”
You cannot argue with stupidity; you just have to accept it patiently as one of those things. I said, “You didn’t get hit by any of the stones?”
She shook her head. “They stopped throwing as soon as they saw me.”
“Thank God for that,” I said quietly.
She looked at me curiously for a moment, and then coloured a little. “There wasn’t any danger,” she said. “They wouldn’t do anything to me. I knew that from the first.”
“Like hell you did,” I said. “That’s why you were sick as soon as it was all over.”
She stared at me. “However did you hear of that? Did Chai Tai Foong tell you?”
I shook my head. “Salim told me, last night at Karachi. He’s a Pakistani lad who used to work for us here. He’s with Sind Airways now.”
“He told you I’d been sick outside the hospital?”
“He mentioned it in telling me the story.”
She looked me in the face with her thoughtful eyes. “They know about that in Karachi. Do they know that I was sick in Rangoon, in Bangkok, in Bangalore and in Bombay?”
I was silent.
“Does every little thing we do here in Bahrein go halfway round the world?”
I met her eyes. “If you want a straight answer to that one, Nadezna,” I replied, “ — I think it does.”
She smiled. “A goldfish in a glass bowl has more privacy than we have, if I can’t even be sick without the whole of Asia knowing.”
“Much more,” I agreed. “But that’s what comes of having Connie for a brother.”
“How did you leave Connie?” she enquired. “What sort of place is Bali, anyway?”
I told her what had happened on our flight out as we sat over lunch in the airport restaurant, and about that far-off village he was living in, Pekendang. “It’s very quiet, very lovely there,” I said. “It’s not like this at all. It’s tropical, of course, but it’s a gentler place than this, with plenty of rain-fall, plenty of shady trees and greenery. And cleaner, gentler, happier people than live here. He hasn’t got a lot of work to do. I think he should be able to rest there, and put on weight a bit. It seemed to me that he was getting very thin.”
She nodded. “I know; he’s terribly thin. I think he’s been in Bahrein long enough.”
I sat thinking for a time, wondering if I could ask her what was in my mind. At last I said, “I wonder if you’d tell me something. Was Connie ever married?”
She shook her head, smiling. “Never came within a hundred miles of it.”
“Was he ever in love with a girl?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway. He always thought too much about religion. What’s all this about, Mr. Cutter?”
“I don’t want to be nosey,” I said. “It’s just that he’s stuck down there in a very lovely place with very lovely women to look after him. I was wondering how he’d make out.”
