“Can I have some food and water?” he had asked.
No answer.
Then he had seen the well and gone over to it, followed by angry eyes, and had drunk deep from it. Then he had sat down and had begun to wait.
The village was small, well hidden. It seemed quite rich. The houses, built around a square, were on stilts and made of bamboo and atap. And under the houses were many pigs and chickens. Near a larger house was a corral and in it were five water buffalo. That meant the village was well-to-do.
At length he was led to the house of the headman. The silent natives followed up the steps but did not enter the house. They sat on the veranda and listened and waited.
The headman was old, nut-brown and withered. And hostile. The house, like all their houses, was one large room partitioned by atap screens into small sections.
In the center of the section devoted to eating, talking, and thinking was a porcelain toilet bowl, complete with a seat and lid. There were no water connections and the toilet sat in a place of honor on a woven carpet. In front of the toilet bowl on another mat the headman sat on his haunches. His eyes were piercing.
“What do you want? Tuan!” and the “Tuan” was an accusation.
“I just wanted some food and water, sir, and—perhaps I could stay for a little while until I’ve caught up with myself.”
“You call me sir, when three days ago you and the rest of the whites were calling us Wogs and were spitting upon us?”
“I never called you Wogs. I was sent here to try to protect your country from the Japanese.”
“They have liberated us from the pestilential Dutch! As they will liberate the whole of the Far East from the white imperialists!”
“Perhaps. But I think you’ll regret the day they came!”
“Get out of my village. Go with the rest of the imperialists. Go before I call the Japanese themselves.”
“It is written, ‘If a stranger comes to thee and asks for hospitality, give it to him that thou find favor in the sight of Allah.’”
The headman had looked at him aghast. Nut-brown skin, short baju coat, multicolored sarong and the decorating head cloth in the gathering darkness.
“What do you know of the Koran and the words of the Prophet?”
“On whose name be praise,” Peter Marlowe said. “The Koran had been translated into English for many years by many men.” He was fighting for his life. He knew that if he could stay in the village he might be able to get a boat to sail to Australia. Not that he knew how to sail a boat, but the risk was worthwhile. Captivity was death.
“Are you one of the Faithful?” the astonished headman asked.
Peter Marlowe hesitated. He could easily pretend to be a Mohammedan. Part of his training had been to study the Book of Islam. Officers of His Majesty’s forces had to serve in many lands. Hereditary officers are trained in many things over and apart from formal schooling.
If he said yes, he knew he would be safe, for Java was mostly the domain of Mohammed.
“No. I am not one of the Faithful.” He was tired and at the end of his run. “At least I don’t know. I was taught to believe in God. My father used to tell us, my sisters and I, that God has many names. Even Christians say that there is a Holy Trinity—that there are parts of God.
“I don’t think it matters what you call God. God won’t mind if he is recognized as Jesus or Allah, or Buddha or Jehovah, or even You!—because if he is God, then he knows that we are only finite and don’t know too much about anything.
“I believe Mohammed was a man of God, a Prophet of God. I think Jesus was of God, as Mohammed calls him in the Koran, the ‘most blameless of the Prophets.’ That Mohammed is the last of the Prophets as he claimed, I don’t know. I don’t think that we, humans, can be certain about anything to do with God.
“But I do not believe that God is an old man with a long white beard who sits on a golden throne far up in the sky. I do not believe, as Mohammed promised, that the Faithful will go to a paradise where they will lie on silken couches and drink wine and have many beautiful maids to serve them, or that Paradise will be a garden with an abundance of green foliage and pure streams and fruit trees. I do not believe that angels have wings growing from their backs.”
Night swooped over the village. A baby cried and was gentled back to sleep.
“One day I will know for certain by what name to call God. The day I die.” The silence gathered. “I think it would be very depressing to discover there was no God.”
The headman motioned for Peter Marlowe to sit.
“You may stay. But there are conditions. You will swear to obey our laws and be one of us. You will work in the paddy and work in the village, the work of a man. No more and no less than any man. You will learn our language and speak only our language and wear our dress and dye the color of your skin. Your height and the color of your eyes will shout that you are a white man, but perhaps color, dress and language may protect you for a time; perhaps it can be said that you are half Javanese, half white. You will touch no woman here without permission. And you will obey me without question.”
“Agreed.”
“There is one other thing. To hide an enemy of the Japanese is dangerous. You must know that when the time comes for me to choose between you and my people to protect my village, I will choose my village.”
“I understand. Thank you, sir.”
“Swear by your God—” a flicker of a smile swept the features of the old man—“swear by God that you will obey and agree to these conditions.”
“I swear by God I agree and will obey. And I’ll do nothing to harm you while I’m here.”
“You harm us by your very presence, my son,” the old man replied.
After Peter Marlowe had had the food and drink, the headman said, “Now you will speak no more English. Only Malay. From this moment on. It is the only way for you to learn quickly.”
“All right. But first may I ask you one thing?”
“Yes.”
“What is the significance of the toilet bowl? I mean, it hasn’t any pipes attached to it.”
“It has no significance, other than that it pleases me to watch the faces of my guests and hear them thinking, ‘What a ridiculous thing to have as an ornament in a house.’”
And huge waves of laughter engulfed the old man and the tears ran down his cheeks and his whole household was in an uproar and his wives came in to succor him and rub his back and stomach, and then they too were shrieking and so was Peter Marlowe.
Peter Marlowe smiled again, remembering. Now that was a man! Tuan Abu. But I won’t think any more today about my village, or my friends of the village, or N’ai, the daughter of the village they gave me to touch. Today I’ll think about the wireless and how I’m going to get the condenser and sharpen my wits for the village tonight.
He unwound himself from the lotus seat, then waited patiently till the blood began to flow in his veins once more. Around him was the sweet gasoline smell, carried by a breeze. Also on the breeze came voices raised in hymn. They came from the open air theater, which today was the Church of England. Last week it was a Catholic Church, the week before the Seventh-day Adventist, the week before another denomination. They were tolerant in Changi.
There were many parishioners crowding the rough seats. Some were there because of a faith, some were there for lack of a faith. Some were there for something to do, some were there because there was nothing else to do. Today Chaplain Drinkwater was conducting the service.
Chaplain Drinkwater’s voice was rich and round. His sincerity poured from him and the words of the Bible sprang to life, and gave you hope, and made you forget that Changi was fact, that there was no food in your belly.
Rotten hypocrite, Peter Marlowe thought, despising Drinkwater, remembering once again…
“Hey, Peter,” Dave Daven had whispered that day, “look over there.”
Peter Marlowe saw Drinkwater talking with a withered RAF corporal called Blodger.
Drinkwater’s bunk had a favored spot near the door of Hut Sixteen.
“That must be his new batman,” Daven said. Even in the camp the age-old tradition was kept.
“What happened to the other one?”
“Lyles? My man told me he was up in hospital. Ward Six.”
Peter Marlowe got to his feet. “Drinkwater can do what he likes with Army types, but he’s not getting one of mine.”
He walked the four bunk lengths. “Blodger!”
“What do you want, Marlowe?” Drinkwater said.
Peter Marlowe ignored him. “What’re you doing here, Blodger?”
“I was just seeing the chaplain, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” he said moving closer, “I don’t see you too well.”
“Flight Lieutenant Marlowe.”
“Oh. How’re you, sir? I’m the chaplain’s new batman, sir.”
“You get out of here, and before you take a job as a batman, you come and ask me first!”
“But sir—”
“Who do you think you are, Marlowe?” Drinkwater snapped. “You’ve no jurisdiction over him.”
“He’s not going to be your batman.”
“Why?”
“Because I say so. You’re dismissed, Blodger.”
“But sir, I’ll look after the chaplain fine, I really will. I’ll work hard—”
“Where’d you get that cigarette?”
“Now look here, Marlowe—” Drinkwater began.
Peter Marlowe whirled on him. “Shut up!” Others in the hut stopped what they were doing and began to collect.
“Where did you get that cigarette, Blodger?”
“The chaplain gave it to me,” whimpered Blodger, backing away, frightened by the edge to Peter Marlowe’s voice. “I gave him my egg. He promised me tobacco in exchange for my daily egg. I want the tobacco and he can have the egg.”
“There’s no harm in that,” Drinkwater blustered, “no harm in giving the boy some tobacco. He asked me for it. In exchange for an egg.”
“You been up to Ward Six recently?” Peter Marlowe asked. “Did you help them admit Lyles? Your last batman? He’s got no eyes now.”
“That’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything about him.”
“How many of his eggs did you have?”
“None. I had none.”
Peter Marlowe snatched a Bible and thrust it into Drinkwater’s hands. “Swear it, then I’ll believe you. Swear it or by God I’ll do you!”
“I swear it!” Drinkwater moaned.
“You lying bastard,” Daven shouted, “I’ve seen you take Lyles’ eggs. We all have.”
Peter Marlowe grabbed Drinkwater’s mess can and found the egg. Then he smashed it against Drinkwater’s face, cramming the egg shell into his mouth. Drinkwater fainted.
Peter Marlowe dashed a bowl of water in his face, and he came to.
“Bless you, Marlowe,” he had whispered. “Bless you for showing me the error of my ways.” He had knelt beside the bunk. “Oh God, forgive this unworthy sinner. Forgive me my sins…”
Mrs. Alicia Drinkwater plodded ponderously into the little Rectory and closed the door and went into the kitchen. She began to make a cup of tea and heavily set the table for herself and the Reverend Webster Trout whom she had allowed to look after the flock while the Reverend was away at war.
She knew that Reverend Trout had none of the qualities of her husband, dear Theo, none of his richness of voice or his Godliness or his humility or his saintliness. But in war times, one cannot be too choosey. And though Reverend Trout was nearly seventy and his sermons long and droning and his theories on how the flock should be looked after were immoral and lax, he was the best she could find. After all, she told herself, it was her parish. And the parish had been in her family for generations, the Rectory, the Church, the surrounding lands, and the village of Tuncliffe, and Tuncliffe Manor where her brother was Squire.
She could just see Reverend Trout standing at the Church door—and such a lovely Church, built by Roger, Ninth Squire of Tuncliffe in Elizabethan times—old and bent and droning to the flock as they left to go home, precious few now that the villagers had gone to war and the girls had gone to the factories, to the hotbeds of sin in the cities and towns. Disgusting.
Well, she was content that there was a God in Heaven and He would have vengeance on those who sinned with their flesh. Disgusting. No spirit or backbone to this modern generation. Dancing on Sundays and not reading the Good Book. Not like in her day. Oh no. Well, they deserve everything they are going to get.
Alicia was sure of God’s vengeance. She was as sure of her place in Heaven, and certain that she and the Reverend would sometime stand before His Majesty and He would bless them for carrying His word and keeping His faith while they were mortal.
She went to the privy, disgusted that the flesh was so demanding. Everything physical was of the devil and the pure in heart had to be on guard eternally. The disgusting clothes that people wore nowadays showing themselves to all and sundry. Bathing costumes and low cut blouses and silk stockings. Disgusting.
As she walked back to the kitchen door, Alicia was glad that she had been brought up in the truth and the pure spirit. No gaudy clothes for her. Sensible woolen underclothes, combinations, and sensible bloomers. Sensible flat shoes and thick wool stockings. And knowing the Bible so well. She smiled, remembering her father, the Squire. Firm, upright, reading the lesson on Sundays, and all the services every Sunday, going to Church five times, her brother and her beating the boys and girls of his village if they didn’t come to church for every service. And being so near to God. How lucky you are, Alicia, how lucky to know that you haven’t strayed. That you’re one of the good and you’ll live in heaven for eternity.
Reverend Trout came in tiredly. He was feeling all of his years and he sat down at the table, hating the square, massive ponderous woman who set the plate of fish before him. But he hid his hatred, for he was glad of the parish and the two pounds per week he received from her, less ten shillings for his keep. He liked Tuncliffe; it was so old and beautiful and quiet and gentle. It was like his old parish in Dorset, but that had gone long since, like his wife and his child. Both dead, long since.
“How nice,” he said politely. The fish was haddock. It was old and stank and lay in a pool of graygreen slime of well-used congealed fat. The Brussels sprouts were boiled, boiled to that perfection of tastelessness only the English call cooking. Also on the plate were two soapy boiled potatoes, wet and slimy. A piece of bread and margarine. Sunday lunch, and it was always the same.
True, we are at war, he told himself, a little unhappily, but the war had little to do with it, as Tuncliffe was a dairy farm and the government allowed the farm to keep some of its produce, butter, eggs, bacon, pork, meats of various types and chickens and eggs and there was also a wealth of partridge and pheasant in season. There was plenty, but the plenty was for the Squire’s table and Mrs. Drinkwater always had her meals at the Manor.
He only got his rations. Sometimes he ate with one of the parishioners in the village, but this was rare and the village had many children from the big cities billeted on them. So the little food was distributed. To them. But the Squire entertained. Once a month he was invited to dinner at the Manor. The first Monday of the month. It was a custom from time immemorial.
But today’s Sunday was not the first Sunday. And tonight he would have Bubble and Squeak. It was his usual Sunday dinner. Boiled cabbage and Brussels sprouts leftovers mixed with more of the soapy potatoes—when there was a whole storehouse full of last year’s crops, but these had to be kept, kept usually until they were rotten, and then given to the pigs to make them fat and rosy and healthy—and this mixture of cabbage and potatoes was burnt-fried by Mrs. Drinkwater’s indelicate hand. She always prided herself that she looked after the Reverend Trout herself. It was a penance that she did, hoping thereby to placate the evil spirits that inevitably surrounded him and his immoral ways.
The old man sighed, and forc
ed himself to eat. It was all he would get. He was thankful that he was old, and near the grave, and thankful he needed little to keep his thin blood circulating his thickening veins. He did not hope for death, in any way. He liked life. He gloried in life. But he would be content to die. When his time came. Then she put down the rice pudding. It was warm and lumpy—a sludge of condensed milk. He picked at it, then pushed it away. “Thank you,” he said, “but I’m not too hungry.”
“That’s all there is.”
“That did me very well, thank you, Mrs. Drinkwater.”
He got up and found his pipe. On Sundays he could smoke three pipes to celebrate the Lord’s day. The rest of the week he could only afford one, but today, one after each meal. He knew that Mrs. Drinkwater disapproved of his smoking on Sunday. She had said so many times. And she would not let him smoke in the house—“makes the place smell like the halls of Babylon” she always said with a twist of her thin lips.
Reverend Trout sighed inwardly, pitying the woman. But who was he to judge? Perhaps she was right to be so firm.
He went out of the Rectory putting on his scarf and topcoat and cap. “I think I’ll take a little walk,” he said. “Thank you for an excellent lunch.” Then he made his way down the lane, past the hedge rows flicked here and there with spring growth. Beside the rutted lane, the gentle meadows rolled and dipped under the gentle drizzle. Crisp and clean. He quickened his pace slightly as he crested the hill and looked down on the hamlet of Tuncliffe nestling the oaks. He took out his watch and peered at it rheumily. Happily he noticed it was only twelve fifteen. Good. An hour and three quarters to closing time. The little pub, the Cow’s Bell, would be warm and easy and the Squire would be there and he would have a pint of mild and bitters with the Squire and they would play darts and even perhaps some shove halfpenny and they would have a fine time, he and the Squire and the villagers. Warm and content and far away. His arthritic fingers tightened on the shilling he had in his pocket. Perhaps he could afford one of those wonderful sausage rolls old Mister Wethersby, the Innkeeper, made. No. He better keep the shilling. Perhaps the Squire would offer him one. That would be nice. Perhaps he might beat the Squire twelve games in a row and that would make a shilling, for they played for a penny a game. Reverend Trout saw nothing wrong in a little game on a Sunday in a pub, even though the Squire always laughed long and loud and told him that if Alicia ever found out what he did with his Sundays he’d be tossed out of the parish. But Reverend Trout knew that the Squire would never tell, and even if she found out, he, the Squire, would let him stay on for the duration, for after all it was the Squire’s money that paid his stipend.
King Rat Page 22