‘And Madam bloody Cherry,’ snarled Peggy.
Caroline was half-heartedly eyeing her complexion in the small mirror of a powder compact. She was chewing one end of her lip. ‘I would like some lipstick. And something oily to eat. My skin’s getting dry.’
Peggy turned and regarded her open-mouthed.
Lucy stepped in. ‘And Nadine can get it for us. I thought we all agreed on this. We have to make life bearable whilst we are here, otherwise we will all be throwing ourselves off the balcony.’
The harsh looks and rigid features turned into frowns. Whispered comments passed from one woman to another.
‘Don’t you see?’ said Lucy. ‘We are being given twice the rations of the coolies, but even that is only half of what we’ve been used to. Madam Cherry is a trader of some renown – I think we’re all aware of that. She has plenty of everything locked in that storeroom of hers. And it’s all stolen. We steal from her. She’s stolen from us – she’s stolen our lives. That woman has everything.’
‘Except heart,’ grumbled Peggy. ‘I doubt she’s got much of that.’
‘Precisely,’ said Lucy. She was dressed in a turquoise kimono, a rope wound around and around her waist and ending in heavy gold tassels. She knelt next to Nadine, her hands resting in her lap.
Caroline poked at the blood spot she’d raised on her lip. ‘That’s not the point. Nadine should be here doing what we have to do.’
Nadine heaved with resignation. ‘If that’s what you want, then so be it. This auction for my virginity is bloody nonsense anyway. The Japanese shot my husband not long after we escaped from Singapore.’
Those who understood eyed her with disbelief. Those who didn’t have much command of English waited with interest for their compatriots’ interpretation.
The Australians burst out laughing.
Lucy shook her head, her eyes sweeping over each woman reproachfully. ‘Nadine has Madam Cherry’s ear. She also has access to the keys to the storeroom. Do you not think it wise that she remains in this favoured position? Do you not think it to be of benefit to us if she does? We did agree on this. It is a good idea.’
Kiri, the Burmese girl, leaned forward, her eyes wide with interest, her arched brows raised even higher. ‘It is hope. A slight hope, but the only one we have.’
Betty clutched the coffee-brown shoulder and tugged her back, her attention directed at Nadine.
‘Can you get some laxatives? And liquid paraffin. Anything that causes loose motions.’
Nadine frowned. ‘I suppose so.’ Luxury items she’d expected. They could be used or bartered for useful things like quinine, mosquito nets, clothes and things to eat. But laxatives?
Something between a grin and a grimace lifted one side of Betty’s wide mouth. ‘Gin would be good too.’
Before Nadine could question her choices, Betty explained.
‘Soft options for getting rid of unwanted puddings.’
Everyone except Caroline knew what Betty was getting at.
‘Close your mouth before a fly makes its home in there,’ said Peggy. ‘When was your last period?’
Caroline shrugged her pale, thin shoulders.
‘Has it occurred to you that you might have a turnip in the field?’
There were puzzled frowns.
Peggy continued. ‘In case one of the Law Pak Tau gets you pregnant.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘Is that the right word, Lucy?’
Understanding Chinese, the Malay girls and Kiri burst out laughing.
Lucy grinned and explained to the others. ‘It means turnip-heads,’ she said, her grin turning into a delightfully elegant chuckle. ‘In China we call the Japanese turnip-heads.’
It was finally agreed. Nadine would do what she could for as long as she could. What she’d do when the truth was found out was a mystery, but she’d cross that particular bridge when she came to it.
In the meantime, she rang money into the till. Although a magnificent piece of machinery, polished daily on the express orders of the She-Dragon, it did not record how much went in.
Nadine was careful. Just a few dollars a day: over a period of time it would grow into quite a nest egg, and then…
That was where the plan came undone. How could she buy her freedom? Madam would want to know where the money came from. It would be necessary to keep it hidden until it could be spent wisely. Her heart was leaning more and more towards escape. Could it be done?
The takings were counted first thing in the morning. Madam would arrive to oversee the count, her tongue licking a wet thumb as she leafed through the notes, her mouth moving with numbers.
Sometimes she’d frown.
‘You have stolen from me. You have kept some for yourself.’
Then she would lay the cane across Nadine’s shoulders, though only lightly, her price as an unblemished commodity always foremost in Madam Cherry’s mind.
The routine was always the same and Nadine realized the She-Dragon never knew for sure whether she’d taken money. The cash register did not record transactions. She realized it was a warning that if she did she would be beaten, especially once she had made Madam Cherry a lot of money. Once that happened and she did get caught, her life would be forfeit.
Chapter Seventeen
Though life in the camp was bleak, Nadine’s efforts to sneak small luxuries and necessities were gratefully received – even by Rosalyn, who continued to make her resentment of Nadine abundantly clear.
On occasion, it felt as though even Madam Cherry herself tried to make life more bearable for those in the Bamboo House. Such as the day she announced that she had acquired twenty chickens. It was presumed they had come from a local farmer via her lover, Commandant Yamamuchi.
‘Eggs,’ said Madam Cherry as she surveyed the new arrivals clucking and scratching in the dust.
‘At a price,’ muttered Peggy.
The hens were housed in wire-covered runs constructed by the army of coolies still on site.
‘That is what I have them for. Eggs. And meat, of course, when they have finished laying.’
Nadine closed her eyes. Rice, rice and more rice was the order of the day. What wouldn’t we all give for a slice of roast chicken dripping with juices?
Nadine was given the job of feeding them. Sumatran chickens were not particularly fussy about food. Initially it was a case of fencing off a suitable piece of vegetation. From then on they were like locusts, pecking until the earth was bare of anything green.
Once the land was cleared – a matter of days as it transpired – their greedy little eyes turned to the vegetation outside their fenced domain.
It occurred to Nadine that the women at Bamboo Bridge House were just like the chickens; thoughts of freedom were never far away. Unlike the chickens, however, they were more aware of their mortality or the market price of their eggs or their flesh. Nadine shivered at the prospect of her own flesh being sold off, though in a different way from the chickens. The date of the auction was fast approaching.
* * *
It was on a languid morning, when the humidity in the air soaked them with sweat, that their minds became focused on what could happen if they jumped the fences.
Water dripped from branches, the star-like leaves of bamboo, and the eaves of the hut. It saturated clothes, spangled on hair and hung like pearls from the tips of their noses.
‘Come!’ ordered a stony-faced Madam Cherry.
Wondering what was up, Nadine followed her to the Bamboo Bridge House. The girls were being hustled over the bridge by guards with fixed bayonets.
Madam Cherry eyed them the same way she did chickens loath to produce eggs. ‘You will follow me.’
She led the girls to outside the commandant’s office. ‘Line up! Line up for tenko.’
The word for roll call was becoming a byword for lectures on how the Japanese army was destined to rule the world – or at least that part of Asia.
Nadine tacked herself onto the end of a row, her nerves tingling and her mouth
dry. Colonel Yamamuchi came out flanked by two other officers. She recognized one as being the flute player madam was organizing to accompany their dancing. So far he’d proved unusually reluctant.
‘Bow,’ barked Madam Cherry.
‘Wow,’ muttered Peggy which raised a slight titter amongst those closest to her.
Colonel Yamamuchi spoke in Japanese, immediately turning to Madam Cherry to interpret.
She lifted her head that bit higher, her soft hands clasped against a shantung skirt that changed colour when she moved. ‘Colonel Yamamuchi-san says…’
The words of the commandant were not revealed as a common soldier chose that moment to come running. He addressed the colonel, but his news obviously had something to do with Madam Cherry. He bowed woodenly to his senior officer, but his eyes slid sidelong to her.
‘The chickens have escaped,’ muttered Lucy.
Offering a hasty bow, Madam Cherry rushed off with the private and after a quick shout and a rigid pointing of the commandant’s stubby finger, two more joined them.
The line-up fractured a moment, rushed glances passing from one woman to another.
The commandant was still barking orders, this time to the flute-playing major. A conversation ensued. The commandant looked to have lost patience and when he received a message from yet another officer, this one lowlier than those gathered, the junior man received a clout around the ear for interrupting. The colonel stormed off, followed by the subdued soldier. Only the flute player was left.
Madam Cherry came rushing back in hot pursuit of an escaped chicken. The major bent swiftly, scooping it up by its scrawny neck.
He said something to Madam Cherry to which she smiled, bowed and replied. She looked apologetic.
When she turned to face them her features were stiff, perhaps with indignation. It was difficult to tell.
‘It has been reported that some of you have been less respectful to Japanese officers than you should be.’
No one moved. The sun was hot, heavy on their shoulders.
‘This will not happen again. You will be respectful to Japanese officer at all times. You will fulfil his every need and be honoured that he has chosen you.’
Madam’s eyes slid sidelong to Major Shamida. He stood with shoulders back, legs slightly apart, the squawking chicken hanging from the hands he clasped behind his back. She smiled and bowed respectfully, a sign that she was inviting him to pronounce punishment.
‘You will not do this again,’ said the major.
The women’s attention was transfixed. It was the first time they’d heard him speak English, which he did with a hint of an American accent.
Madam Cherry gestured to the remaining guards. Two of them stepped forward and dragged Peggy from the line-up. The culprit surprised nobody and looked almost proud to be chosen.
‘You will be beaten,’ hissed Madam.
A loud squawking came from behind the major’s back. He winced and brought the chicken around to the front of him, holding it up before his amazed eyes.
Raising his arm, Genda Shamida stared at his thumb which was pouring blood. Surprise replaced the anger he’d been supposed to direct at the women. His features stiffened as he held the bird out in front of him, the legs dangling and the beak slightly open. He seemed to come to a decision. Both hands closed around the chicken’s throat and there was the grating sound of one vertebra crunching against another.
Satisfaction lit his face. He pointed to each woman in turn whilst they stood, unblinking and quaking inside. More than one trembling hand stretched protectively over a throat already scrawny, each one imagining his hands wringing their neck like that.
‘Be warned,’ he said. ‘Your necks are no stronger than that of this chicken. No more insulting Japanese officers.’ He flung the bird to the ground. ‘Behave. Like ladies.’
* * *
Peggy escaped worse punishment thanks to the major’s symbolic warning and some well-chosen advice.
‘Ten strokes only,’ she said, rubbing at her backside. ‘I won’t be able to sit down for a week. Not that Cherry is worried. She still wants her money. Still wants me to earn some. I think Shamida pointed those particular facts out to her. If he hadn’t I would have got twenty strokes, I think.’
Shamida had become something of a talking point. First off was his very distinctive English. Secondly he was distant. And, though they argued about this, they agreed that there was something unusual about him.
‘Like a tiger’s different from a lion, though still just as likely to tear your head off,’ commented Peggy.
Having learned a little of the local dialect, Peggy assisted the doctor examining Saint Soppy, the name they’d given to a Malay girl brought up by missionaries. Her predicament was becoming fairly obvious.
The girl was pretty but regarded as a bit below par. ‘I’m not really having a baby,’ she exclaimed. She was the only one who believed it. Her belly was already the size of a football.
Peggy smiled and stroked her hair. ‘I’m afraid you are.’
‘No. I don’t think so. God wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Have it your way,’ said Peggy, her legs still weak from all the punishment she had received.
The doctor looked over a few other girls whilst he was there, giving them cream for the various itchiness and infections with which they were plagued. Only one was injected for venereal disease. He looked surprised and implied that the girl must have brought it with her.
Lucy interpreted. ‘I do not think so. She was pure before she came here.’
His jaw hardened. He slapped her face. ‘Officers do not have such disgusting diseases.’ The girl was never seen again.
* * *
Nadine feared the march of time striding ever onwards. At times she wished she had never passed herself off as a virgin, but she’d been driven by fear and by the need to survive at any price.
It was less than two weeks away now. Only in dancing was some of her fear kept at bay. When she danced the bells tinkling around her ankles helped her to imagine that she was back in India, in the pergola with Zakia and Sureya, not here in this awful place.
‘I think I prefer these slower dances,’ said Madam Cherry, as they practised in her quarters, twisting from the waist and wafting her hands before her eyes. She finished the routine, then declared she must attend to business elsewhere, though Nadine knew it was because her energy was spent. Madame Cherry was too proud to admit that.
There had been a number of outside events at which Nadine had been required to dance and sometimes the She-Dragon joined her on stage. When she did so, Nadine purposely chose the most exuberant dances, those that left Madam Cherry breathless and begging for water – with a dash of whisky. Sweet revenge, or at least that’s what she’d thought at first.
After breakfast and a brief check of the accounts, Madame Cherry stated that she had to go out. ‘I have business with the local headman. You will dance alone but first feed the chickens.’
Nadine did as she was bid. The ground was warming, the monkeys chattering in the trees and she felt hot and dusty when she returned to Madame’s quarters.
The shutters at the front of the house faced east and kept out the worst of the heat and the glare of the sun, while those at the back of the house were rolled up. The interior was cool.
Having set down the rattan basket used to hold corn for the chickens, she mopped her brow with the front of her sarong. For a moment she saw nothing. On dropping the shimmering blue silk she saw she was not alone.
Major Genda Shamida was standing in front of the window with his back to her, blue smoke curling up from an unfinished cigarette. His flute rested against the crook of his elbow.
The light from the window outlined his features and form. He didn’t turn round. She chanced studying what some of the girls in the Bamboo Bridge House had called a chiselled profile. It had surprised her to hear them talking so charitably about an enemy officer. Just recently he had visited there for the first time,
but only to play the flute. He had shunned the girls’ interest and took only one or two glasses of sake with fellow officers, never overindulging, never losing control. His aloofness was interpreted as arrogance. To Nadine’s eyes, he seemed entirely different from his comrades. It was hard to describe. Just something about his demeanour as though he didn’t see everything the way they did and had experienced things they couldn’t possibly understand.
She bowed and whispered his name. ‘Major Shamida. I was not expecting you.’
‘Are you ready?’
The sound of his voice surprised her.
‘Yes, Major Shamida.’ She bowed again, feeling a mix of fear and anticipation. What did he want her to be ready for? Her death? Did he know she sometimes took an extra hen’s egg?
‘You are not concentrating.’
His sudden comment scared her so much she flattened herself against the wall and stared at him wide-eyed.
Shamida sighed and rubbed at his eyes. ‘Honey, I’m playing a flute, not aiming a gun at your head. I play the flute. You dance.’
‘Dance?’
‘I accompanied your dancing along the road there. Madam requested me to play for you.’
‘Oh!’
He sighed and flicked his cigarette stub out of the window.
‘OK. Let’s get started.’
‘You made me jump.’
‘Nadine. That’s your name, isn’t it? Nadine?’
She nodded, wanting to comment on his accent which was so much more pronounced now she was close to him here in this shaded room. She’d heard American accents before in Singapore where sailors from the US Pacific Fleet had perused the bars and clubs and eyed the local girls.
‘Try and forget that I’m Japanese. Pretend I’m just a regular guy who’s doing his best in difficult circumstances. Now who is it that you see?’
‘The enemy.’
She thought she sounded foolish. Certainly not brave.
He looked down at his fingers spread the length of the instrument.
‘You’re Indian. Am I right?’
East of India Page 17
