by Jean Chapman
At the top of the escarpment they rested while Chemor looked around the area. Another time Liz would have pulled off her shoes and socks and dangled her feet in the running water, but it was not the time to take comforts.
Chemor beckoned from some fifty yards away where the jungle grew down to the first rocky step of the falls. ‘Here, see,’ he said, pointing to the ground, ‘tiger tracks. He drinks here — ’ his fingers traced a line from trees over the rocks to where a natural hollow in the rock made a deep pool — ‘but more.’ He moved a few more paces and stooped to show them a tunnel through the undergrowth. ‘Way tiger comes, and man goes — once, anyway.’ He stood up to show where twigs had been broken above the height of the tiger’s back. ‘Man pushed through some two, three weeks ago.’ Delicately between his finger and thumb he held a twig that had been broken off and displayed where two new young growths sprang from it. He found others the same.
‘You think whoever sent the jeep over left this way?’ George said.
‘Someone did, tuan.’
George nodded.
‘You want me to follow man’s trail, see if he went to jungle or plantation?’ Chemor asked, demonstrating the two directions the track could take — straight on or curving back towards Rinsey.
‘I don’t want you eaten by a tiger or murdered by communists,’ George told him.
Chemor shook his head. ‘No one here now, and tiger he no bother, he well eaten, big heavy tracks.’ He pointed down to a recent spoor and swayed his body, holding his hands some distance from his stomach and grinning. ‘He very full.’
George nodded agreement but added, ‘Don’t go far. I don’t want to lose any more men.’
‘Quite safe.’ Chemor turned and stooped into the tunnel.
George and Blanche turned to make their way back through the plantation. Liz waited until they were some dozen paces away and called after them, ‘I’m going with Chemor, I have to see where this man went.’
She heard their protests as she too ducked into the run, like Alice down the rabbit hole, she thought. Indeed, hurrying to catch up Chemor she was reminded of the rabbit runs she had seen through the English hedgerows. This run was just a larger version, she told herself, and provided you could stoop low enough it was a much easier way of travelling then hacking a way through the jungle.
Chemor heard her coming and waited. ‘Tuan know you come?’ he asked. When she nodded he looked doubtful but moved on. They had not gone far when he stopped. She was both awed and fascinated by the way he crouched quite still, every sense so alert she was reminded of a sea anemone, tentacles drifting, trawling for sensations.
She realised as he slowly looked around that he was motionless because he did not want to destroy any shred of evidence either beneath his feet or by pushing through the undergrowth. Unexpectedly he put out a hand to the wall of the run, gave a low grunt of satisfaction and beckoned Liz off at a tangent through the jungle again.
He used his machete a few times but Liz could see it was merely to give her better passage. In minutes they were in the lesser jungle, the beluka. Suddenly her mouth dropped open in surprise. They were at the rear of Rinsey. She could see ahead the old buildings at the back and the young guardsman coming out of one of them.
So whoever had caused her father’s jeep to go over the escarpment had come back to Rinsey. She folded her arms over her stomach and rocked with anguish.
Under questioning from Sturgess, Josef had only belatedly remembered his employer had driven down to Singapore, but had been unsure what day he had left. Josef had said he was living at the manager’s bungalow. So much pointed to the duplicity of Josef. It was like finding one’s brother was a thief or a murderer ... She felt the prickly chill of icy perspiration on her forehead.
Alan Cresswell turned and smiled as he saw her. She thought he looked as if he suddenly decided to come to meet them, but was not sure. In the tide of blackness that was rushing over her, she felt her limbs, her life, drift like some hapless thing unanchored from all it knew. Then someone caught and lifted her as she sank into insensibility.
She came to on a long chair in the house. For a moment she thought it was a compassionate, sympathetic stranger looking down at her, then she remembered the soldier.
‘Lie still,’ he said.
She closed her eyes again, half rebellious. Was he going to start ordering her about too, like his officer?
‘I’ll fetch missy drink.’ It was Chemor’s voice. ‘Then go find mother and tuan. They coming long way round,’ he said, nodding significantly to Liz as she opened her eyes again.
Alan Cresswell supported the glass as her limbs shook. ‘I think it’s shock,’ she reported as the glass rattled on her teeth.
‘I would say that’s about right,’ he agreed, holding on to the glass and pulling up a stool so he could hand it back if she wanted more. ‘The tracker told me you had found your father’s jeep.’ She looked up at him with such an agonised expression he reached forward and took her hand, held it tight.
‘Mysteries about people you love are awful,’ he said.
She suddenly realised he was older than she had first thought, probably not an eighteen-year-old conscript at all. She wondered if there was some personal reason he had made that remark, or whether he was just talking to distract her from whatever thoughts had driven her to escape consciousness.
‘I heard before I came that your father was missing. I’m not sure how that feels — but maybe something like my father’s sudden death.’ He stopped, frowned and looked down at their hands, and instinctively she curled her fingers tighter around his as if the role of comforter could be hers too. ‘I went to his funeral the day before we sailed from Southampton.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Her concern for him now veneered the raw anxiety she had been feeling; innate sympathy and trained good manners prompted the question, ‘What happened?’
‘I still can’t believe it, really. He was only forty-eight. In the air force all through the war, then dies digging the garden. My mother’s completely floored.’
The unseemliness of rushing a son from his mother within a day of his father’s funeral was outrageous. ‘Wouldn’t the army give you compassionate leave?’
‘I did have extra time, but there was a postmortem and an inquest — and they said as I had an older brother at home they considered my mother was taken care of.’ He paused and looked at her a little shamefaced, ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘I shouldn’t he … you have enough worries.’
She pushed herself upright, denying the need for apology. ‘So your mystery was how he died.’
‘More why, really. The sort of question you ask yourself when you’re hurt. It doesn’t make sense, just gives you a better sense of grievance.’ He smiled ruefully.
‘But at least you know.’ She gritted her teeth for a second to stay the tears, lifting her chin as she had been taught. Shoulders back, chin up, don’t slouch. She remembered being stood in the school gymnasium, her shoulder blades and the small of her back pressed against the wall, to teach her deportment. ‘Are you a regular soldier?’ she asked.
‘No, just your run-of-the-mill conscript.’ He tossed the empty glass in the air and caught it. ‘But I wish our drill sergeant at the Guards’ depot could hear you ask me. He used to say I was “as upright as the bleeding Tower of Pisa!”’
The imitation made her laugh. Then she heard herself say, ‘I think my father’s dead. Now I do think he’s dead. It’s just not knowing where he is, what happened to him.’
He gave her time to take control again. ‘He was in the war, I expect.’
‘He was in the navy. He was always away, always in danger — but I thought when the war was over ... ’ She looked around as if scanning not just the lounge but the whole terrorised countryside. ‘But we’ve just swopped one battle for another.’
‘That was another thing my mother took so hard, my being sent out to a battle area when her husband and first son had fought all through until 1945. S
he wrote to her Member of Parliament.’
‘Did she have an answer?’
‘He came to Southampton to see the troop ship off.’
They both laughed. Looking in each other’s eyes they saw the rueful understanding and laughed again but softer, like echoes of people in old age talking of lost loves.
The sound was that of a man presented with an intriguing emotional problem he wanted to solve, but was totally unsure how to tackle it.
Liz studied him as he now tossed the glass in a series of rapid arcs from hand to hand, thinking of the sketch she had made of him. How strange that he should come to Rinsey! She weighed what she now knew, weighing the sadness in his life with her impression, and yet there was still more, some quality that she could not name in words or drawings — not yet, anyway. She felt she might well have echoed his ‘Hmm’ for she was just as fascinated.
He held the glass suddenly still and caught her studying him. They both smiled again, very carefully.
‘I think I can hear your mother coming.’ He rose to his feet and, backing away, looked once more a young, tall, awkward soldier in jungle green. Desolate was how she felt as he moved away towards the door.
Blanche came in quickly, anxiety making her forgetful of her own exhaustion. She noted the glass in the young man’s hand and the complete lack of vagueness in her daughter’s face. ‘No wonder you felt faint going off after Chemor! What did that achieve?’
*
All the whole expedition achieved was related to the police inspector from Ipoh and his sergeant early the next morning. Liz was surprised when all those who had visited the fails, and Alan Cresswell, were interviewed separately by Inspector Aba. ‘As if we’re suspects,’ she complained.
After her interview she admitted to herself she had told far more about the missing Josef than she would had her mother been present, even going back to her first sighting of him coming through the back garden.
Chemor also spent a long time with the police and afterwards led them off through the plantation. She was helping her mother prepare a curry tiffin for everyone when they returned by the back way.
‘The inspector’s uniform looks a bit worse for wear.’ She drew her mother’s attention to the window.
They watched as George joined the police and Chemor. A serious conference seemed to be developing and the guardsman was beckoned over.
Liz wondered about going out to join them, but judged it looked like a closed circle of men making decisions.
‘Men only, I think,’ Blanche said, as if reaching the same conclusion.
‘And it’s not about where the perimeter wire is going to be,’ Liz was certain. ‘They look as if they’ve got their hands tied to their sides, they’re keeping them so still!’
‘They know we’re watching.’
The serious talk went on for some time, then the inspector seemed to reach some decision and all of them nodded.
‘That was unanimous, anyway,’ Blanche commented with dark irony.
‘I’ll go and see what they’re discussing.’
‘They’d stop. Just watch.’
The inspector stepped back as if leaving his final words for approval. George nodded several times and moved forward, hand outstretched as if ready to help. Instructions now from inspector to sergeant, who saluted his acceptance, then more tentatively to the soldier. He rubbed his chin speculatively, then seemed to make a suggestion that rather spoiled the momentum. The men went back to the circle. The inspector spoke rapidly again; George put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
Liz saw Alan glance towards the kitchen window where they stood, then he made the dismissive open-handed gesture of one who has tried to help but has been turned down. She would ask him what it was all about. She was deciding to go and tell him about the spare charpoy in the old nursery at the first opportunity, as the inspector nodded himself away from the others and came towards the kitchen door.
‘Mrs Hammond.’ He bowed himself into the kitchen. ‘More men are being detailed to come immediately so we can make a thorough search both around the jeep and around your house.’ He paused, then pronounced in more serious and ponderous tones, ‘Also farther afield for the son of your former manager.’
‘What are you expecting to find?’ Blanche asked.
‘Well ... ’ The inspector paused to put his finger ends together as if steadying himself against this English mem and her disconcerting directness. ‘We cannot afford to overlook anything. Mr Harfield’s man found much on his own, so my trained men may find ... much more.’ He smiled disarmingly.
That afternoon there was a message from Bukit Kinta for George to return immediately — some difficulties with one of the dredgers.
‘Shall I try to ring back,’ Blanche asked.
‘No, I’d better go. It’s getting on for time and I’ve a mechanic whose favourite tool is a big hammer if I’m not there to restrain him.’
It seemed to Liz that hardly had the mine manager left Rinsey than his men digging holes for the fencing and lighting posts became severely hampered by the police, whose search was closing around the bungalow. Some of the officers were working slowly over the area just looking, others with stout bamboo poles prodding and poking the ground.
‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ Liz exclaimed, thinking she had spent most of her day watching men take decisions and do things, while she and her mother wandered around the bungalow from window to window, as if the mental seige they felt under also restricted them physically.
Blanche came to her side, inhaling on yet another cigarette. ‘Those poles!’ Liz exclaimed. ‘Is that all really necessary? What are they doing?’
‘I just know enough about gardening to know a cane goes into the ground much easier where it has been dug.’
She had hardly screwed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the kitchen windowsill, and Liz just begun to put together the possible implications of what her mother had said, when one of the men shouted. Those nearby hurried that way, then the inspector arrived at a run.
The two women watched as the inspector took a pole from his man and gently probed into the earth under the great tree.
In a curious kind of flashback it seemed to Liz she saw her father sitting under the tree, with herself as a child reaching up and begging to look at a sketch he had made of her as she sat at his feet. It was like looking into a picture containing a picture of the original and on the picture another representation of the same scene. She felt a strange conviction that if only her mind had been capacious enough to hold all the images together, it would have been possible to go back in time to the original, to that very time.
So was the image confirmation of the worst possible scenario? Never had she felt so vulnerable, so unprotected.
The kitchen window seemed suddenly like a proscenium arch, with overgrown lawn as theatre apron, the trees a backdrop with policemen and poles. Friendly guardsman entering and coming towards front stage, while lesser players entered stage left, carrying spades.
Chapter Eight
Some of the police had begun digging while others rigged tarpaulins. The very discretion of the screening sheets added to the anxiety. The noise of the spades and the quiet talk of the men went on, it seemed to Liz, endlessly.
Blanche went to the study at the far side of the bungalow where it was quiet. She sat at first looking haphazardly through the desk drawers. Liz stood and watched for a time, leaning in the doorway.
‘I’ll write to your aunt Ivy,’ her mother suddenly decided, pulling out air-mail notepaper. ‘I shall write what is happening now and ... ’ She paused, then added quickly, ‘add the result of the ... police activity. If necessary I’ll ask if she’ll go and see Wendy, take her home with her for a time.’
‘Good idea,’ Liz agreed huskily. ‘She’ll need some spoiling.’ Blanche’s sister, married but childless, had always been more like a second mother to the girls than an aunt. She left her mother writing with some degree of fevered concentration — while
she seemed doomed to spend another day wandering aimlessly about.
A man emerged from the tarpaulins, his mouth and nose shrouded in a tightly knotted scarf. Without the slightest conscious intention she found herself outside and heading for the screens.
Someone called and she began to run.
She peered over: the police were in special overalls; the hole was deep — and the smell appalling. She registered no more as voices were raised in protest and arms waved her away. She turned, gasping, staggering into the path of the young guardsman hurrying to her side. They caught each other, but she snatched free to retch dryly. The smell felt lodged for ever in her throat. ‘I had to see if ... if there was anything to see. What have they found?’
His height made it possible for him to support her closely, tucking her under his arms as it were, then turning and walking her slowly away. ‘They won’t tell me, obviously, but something’s been buried quite deep there, by someone strong, according to Chemor. Look.’ He stopped and turned her round to look back at the scene. ‘Themor pointed out how the leaves on the big tree, there way above the tarpaulins, have died. He says it is because someone has cut the main roots. I understand he told them to dig there.’
The turn had lessened his supporting hold, and for a moment she wanted to lean back again just for the sheer comfort of a man’s strength. Pride made her resist the urge — he’d be thinking she did nothing but faint away. ‘I’m all right now,’ she said. Then, as she looked from tree to screens, either a breeze or her memory resurrected the smell. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘No,’ he endorsed and held her so firmly that even if she had fainted clean away, she would not have fallen. ‘I did suggest you and Mrs Hammond be taken back to Bukit Kinta until this was over and the fencing built. But they didn’t think you would go.’
That was a fair assumption, she thought, considering the performance her mother had put up at the Ipoh police station and the persistence they had shown in returning to Rinsey. ‘Not so sure today.’ She forced herself to smile up at him, she felt that wry quality of it on her lips, but saw understanding in his eyes, intense, total understanding. ‘I feel I wouldn’t mind running away for an hour or two.’