by Lees, Julian
She waited in the cold, bicycle propped against the Porter’s Lodge.
Cloister Court, Room 11. With a steadying breath, Lu See knocked on the door. Entering, she found herself in a small, dark study lined with books.
Dr Mildred Coutts, the Mistress of Girton, wearing a blue cardigan with pearl buttons, was the first to come forward. ‘‘Miss Teoh, allow me to introduce you to Dr Agnes Brooks, director of studies.’’ Dr Brooks clamped her pipe between her teeth and shook Lu See’s hand. ‘‘And this is Miss Watts-Thynne, lecturer in Theology and tutor.’’
They all sat down in stiff-backed chairs with Lu See facing the three ladies. ‘‘We’re delighted you could join us today, Miss Teoh,’’ said Dr Coutts. ‘‘I received excellent references from your former headmaster at Bing Hua School and I note that academically you excelled in your Senior School Certificates but I’d like you to please tell us a bit about yourself.’’
Lu See started to elaborate about Malaya, her schooling and why she felt Girton was the right place for her. As she spoke, her shoulders sloped forward. No slouching! Her mother’s voice yelled in her head. Sit up straight! Immediately, Lu See’s back grew as straight as a number-2 pencil.
‘‘Why have you set your heart on Girton?’ Dr Brooks asked. ‘‘Why not Newnham College?’’
Miss Watts-Thynne added, ‘‘Or the Oxford establishments – St. Hilda’s or Somerville or Lady Margaret Hall?’’
‘‘The history of the college attracted me, being the country’s first residential college for women.’’
‘‘Indeed, and do you know what the first intake of students were known as?’’ asked the Mistress.
She nodded. ‘‘The Pioneers.’’
Miss Watts-Thynne interrupted. ‘‘But you do realize we are not officially recognized as a fully-fledged member of the University, at least not yet. We’re still regarded as an institution for the higher education for women.’’ Lu See said she was aware of that.
‘‘Male-chauvinist poppy-cock of course,’’ Dr Brooks bit down on her pipe. ‘‘Any other reason for choosing Girton?’’
Lu See smiled a half-smile. ‘‘Well, I must confess that I’m a fan of Sarojini Naidu. I love her poems.’’
‘‘And you want to follow in her footsteps.’’
‘‘Not into politics, no, but as an example to women around the world? Yes, I do.’’
‘‘And you wish to read Theology,’’ Miss Watts-Thynne said.
‘‘Yes. Living in Malaya has exposed me to Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, even Sikhism. I think it would be fascinating to take it further.’’
After seeing to the breakfast dishes, Sum Sum and Mrs Slackford walked together into town. Bulrush basket in hand, the landlady headed along Sidney Street with Sum Sum following close behind. As they turned down Petty Cury, Sum Sum stopped to take a snap of a street scene with the Kodak Retina. A barrow boy was selling cod and herring at 8d per lb. The fish flopped about in the barrels of water. ‘‘Straight out of Southwold ’Aarbour! Get your fresh ’erring!’’
The morning sun was in Sum Sum’s eyes. She was a good ten yards behind Mrs Slackford when she felt as if somebody was watching her. Ever since arriving in England she’d felt more aware and suspicious of her surroundings. For a moment she thought she was simply imagining things but then she saw a man standing in front of a set of bakers’ stalls; a dark figure against the glare. Smiling self-consciously, she shielded her eyes with a hand to try and make out his features, but the sunshine flashed red against her eyelids. When he began to move towards her, something inside her tightened and she took a step back. She looked again for Mrs Slackford but the landlady was nowhere to be seen.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud and she saw his face. The mole on his left cheek appeared as dark and slippery as black onyx.
She ran.
‘‘Whom do Buddhists worship?’’ asked Miss Watts-Thynne.
Lu See took a deep breath. A trick question. ‘‘Nobody. Because Buddha is not considered a God, at least not in the supreme creator sense. The word ‘Buddha’ means ‘the enlightened one’. Siddhartha Gautama by all accounts was a spiritual teacher, not a God.’’
‘‘So why do Buddhists idolize Buddha? There are statues of him in Buddhist temples and monasteries across the Orient. Surely it’s a form of iconography.’’
‘‘They’re not worshipping him. I believe you’ll find that they are paying respect to his image and to his teachings. The statues help to focus the mind for meditation. Buddhism should be seen more as a philosophy than a religion; it doesn’t share any hallmarks of the other faiths.’’
The ancient road marker read Falcon Yard but as Sum Sum ran down the lane turning left into what she thought was the market square, the lane narrowed and dimmed under the dark mass of a derelict pub.
She was lost.
And she was trapped.
Behind her, the thud of shoes echoed against stone. Sum Sum’s eyes flickered back and forth, struggling to find an opening.
She tried to get in through the door of the pub, but it was locked. ‘‘Help me!’’ she screamed. ‘‘Can anyone hear me?’’ Slowly, the pressure in her chest increased.
The silence told her she was the only person in the abandoned lot. The surrounding buildings were deserted too. Looking over her shoulder, she prayed that he had gone. Perhaps, she thought, she had lost him. But no. He was still there, in full view now, visibly panting from the chase, the shadows emphasizing the deformity of his shoulders.
‘‘Go away!’’ she screamed. A flash of metal caught her eye. There was a knife in his hand.
Sum Sum edged up against the wall.
He moved in close. A vulgar smell of camphor filled her nostrils. His clothing and skin stank of rubbing liniment.
Suddenly his face was just in front of hers. She placed her hand on the flat of the blade as it pressed against her stomach.
‘‘You want camera? Here, take. I give you negatives and all photographs.’’ Sum Sum removed a paper packet from her coat. ‘‘There is only one photograph of you.’’
‘‘That is what Mr Quek said when he developed the negatives.’’ His eyes never left her. ‘‘If it wasn’t for him I would never have tracked you down.’’
She felt the first brush of his fingers on the back of her neck. And then in her hair. The blade pressed slowly harder.
‘‘I should kill you for what you saw,’’ he said, his tone deliberate.
‘‘I saw nothing.’’
He shook his head, measuredly. ‘‘You know that I dynamited the dam.’’
Sum Sum hesitated before nodding.
‘‘There was another village girl who saw me besides you. I drowned her and threw her in the river before she could talk. Are you going to talk?’’
Sum Sum shook her head.
‘‘I could have slit your throat on the Jutlandia but you were with a policeman and killing you would only have drawn attention to me. And then I would have had to kill your mistress.’’
‘‘She has nothing to do with this!’’
‘‘Did you mention me to the policeman?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘I have been watching you, making sure the fat man Big Jowl is not around. I hear he is on your trail. I would prefer not to have to deal with him too.’’ He snatched the camera from her together with the negatives. ‘‘You tell your mistress that if she says a word I will come back and hurt her, the same way I am about to hurt you. Only worse.’’
He motioned with his eyes and she got down on her knees. The tip of the blade scraped her chin. His hands went to her breasts.
‘‘It is my experience that a terrified victim is more useful than a dead one.’’
Sum Sum closed her eyes. She understood. She had to do this to protect Lu See.
‘‘You say Buddhism doesn’t share the hallmarks of other faiths; perhaps you could elaborate.’’
Lu See thought for a minute, her spine rigid as an ironing board. ‘‘Wel
l, to start with Zen Buddhists don’t believe in a transcendent God or Gods. Nor is there a concept of heaven or hell. Instead they focus on reincarnation and the attainment of nirvana.’’
‘‘But nirvana is heaven is it not?’’
‘‘If you ask a Muslim or a Christian, heaven is a place, somewhere you hope to go when you die. Even for Hindus, in the Mahabharata it is written that the Pandavas go to heaven and the Kauravas descend to hell.’’
‘‘So if nirvana is not a place, what would you classify it as …?’’
‘‘It’s a state of mind.’’
Miss Watts-Thynne nodded. ‘‘How strong are you on the Christian teachings?’’
‘‘Not terribly. I can’t quote long tracts from the gospels. Should have paid more attention in Church.’’
They all smiled politely. Dr Brooks took a hit from her pipe and showed off her yellow teeth. Lu See smiled back. This is going quite well, she heard herself think.
‘‘The Passion of Christ,’’ Miss Watts-Thynne continued. ‘‘Tell me why in theological terms the word ‘passion’ is significant. Doesn’t passion imply sexual love, or a strong emotion towards something?’’
Hell! I ought to know this. The Passion always refers to the crucifixion and death of Jesus. Accounts of the Passion are found in all four canonical gospels, but from where do the doctrinal roots to the word originate? She was in a bind here. She racked her brains.
‘‘Let me give you nudge. You do know, by the end of year one you’ll be asked to master one of the Scriptural languages, either Hebrew, Sanskrit or Ancient Greek.’’
Lu See looked down at her hands. The answer must lie in the etymological origins of the word. God, how I wish I had Ah-Ba’s dictionary here. Passion: from the Greek word …? She drew another blank. She tried not to panic. She made another attempt. Passion: from the Latin word ‘passio’ meaning suffering. That’s it! The relationship between holiness and suffering.
She gave them her answer. There was much nodding of heads all round.
Next, they talked about the current vogue for cubist painting and atonal music, wanted to know her views on Stalin, the Moscow show trials and the recent Japanese incursions in China. After this, they discussed college life and the syllabus and then Dr Coutts asked Lu See whether she was available to sit a special entrance examination in early September.
‘‘Yes, of course, I’d be honoured to.’’
‘‘There’ll be a general paper and one on comparative religions.’’ As she stood up to leave Miss Watts-Thynne handed her a long reading list of theological texts as well as a card that allowed her the use of the Divinity School library. ‘‘Do your very best and we hope to see you here at the start of Michaelmas term in October.’’
Moments later Lu See emerged from the dark study into the bright mid-morning sunlight. Before the interview she might as well have had lead weights clamped to her feet. Now her tread was much lighter, as though wings had been sewn to her ankles. Feeling as if she’d been dismantled and put back together again, she rode her bicycle down Huntington Road with her head abuzz with thoughts: That went well, I think. I hope they liked me. A general paper and one on comparative religions. See you here Michaelmas term. She stopped cycling after five minutes and retrieved the list of theological books from her basket. She counted sixty-eight titles and immediately broke into a prickly sweat. Hell … ! Sixty-eight bloody textbooks! September’s less than . . She counted out April, May, June, July on her fingers. Less than six months away! That’s almost twelve textbooks a month!
When she returned to Portugal Place, she saw red, and blue and white tea towels twitching in the breeze on a long pole; laundry aired from the first floor window, swaying in the wind high above like Tibetan prayer flags.
‘‘What’s all this?’’ she asked Sum Sum when she came to the door.
‘‘For luck and happiness. My way of appeasing the gods. Mrs Slackford not home yet, still at market. How was interview?’’ Sum Sum’s bloodshot eyes flickered up and down the cobbled street.
Lu See gasped hard when she saw Sum Sum’s face. ‘‘What happened to you?’’
Sum Sum touched the side of her nose lightly, wincing in anticipation of the lancing pain. ‘‘Aiyoo! I so stupid, lah. I was taking picture of one of the big colleges and climbed on to a bridge to get tip-top shot, but then my foot slip and I fall and hit head on floor. Camera smash on ground and then fall into river.’’
‘‘Do you want me to take you to a doctor?’’
‘‘No, lah!’’ Sum Sum sounded offended. ‘‘Only small accident. I’m sorry for the camera.’’ Just then a fat string of blood seeped from her nose and down her chin.
‘‘Never mind the camera. Take this tissue and keep your head up. Let me get you some ice to put on it.’’
Sum Sum set her head back and blinked away the pain. She wouldn’t be aware of her scraped hands and elbows until much later.
6
The following week, to celebrate Lu See’s success, Adrian promised to take the girls to London as a treat. A day at the zoo followed by a trip to the Natural History Museum! – Lu See could hardly contain her excitement. ‘‘It’ll be fun, don’t you think, pumpkin-head? You might even see your Picalilli Circus. And while in London I can call on the organ maker, Conrad P. Hughes.’’ Pietro decided to tag along too.
They lingered in the waiting room at Cambridge station before catching the 09.45 for King’s Cross. The conductor, leaning from a carriage door, blew his whistle and a great gout of locomotive steam engulfed the railway.
Adrian wore a plaid, Windsor double-breasted suit and a Cagney-style homburg. He carried his overcoat draped over his arm. Lu See thought he must have dressed in a hurry that morning because his back collar stud was missing. ‘‘Love the outfit, Adie,’’ mewed Pietro. ‘‘Do you like my hat? It’s by Elsa Schiaparelli. It’s a woman’s hat, I know,’’ he sighed, ‘‘but I simply had to have it.’’
When Lu See watched Sum Sum settle into her compartment seat she noticed something she hadn’t seen before – she looked morose. Sum Sum had always been feisty, sometimes touchy, but never ever morose. It must be this grey weather and stodgy English food, she decided. All those pork pies! Still, that’s no reason for her to be acting like a cursed princess in a fairy tale.
Ignoring the scrutiny, Sum Sum pretended to read a copy of Modern Screen magazine with a picture of Marlene Dietrich on its cover. Meanwhile, Adrian buried his nose in the Manchester Guardian. After a while he muttered something about German troops crossing into the west bank of the Rhine. ‘‘It’s a flagrant violation of the Versailles Treaty,’’ he said to nobody in particular, shaking his head. ‘‘Bloody fascists!’’
Outside, beyond the window, a steady drizzle of rain hit the glass.
Pietro clapped his hands to cheer everyone up. ‘‘When we get back to Cambridge tonight you’re all invited to supper at Christ’s College Hall. I’ve asked chefy to prepare something gorgeous – I’ve even offered to lend him a hand.’’
‘‘You? Cook? No, lah.’’ Sum Sum proclaimed, momentarily sparked by the news.
Offended, Pietro removed his hat and patted his blond coiffure. ‘‘I’ll have you know, Samson, the maternal side of my family is Italian. Cooking is part of my heritage. And speaking of heritage, are we museuming it as soon as we get to London?’’
Adrian shook his head. ‘‘First stop will be Lu See’s organ man. Then we’ll head for the zoo.’’
On arrival at King’s Cross they pushed past the red-coated porters and jumped into a taxi. Sum Sum had a vague notion of where London was, but no idea where to find it on a map, or how big or small it was. As she stared out the taxi window she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. This, she thought, is the heart of the Empire? ‘‘Everything so grey and dirty. Nothing like pictures of Big Ben and Buck-and-Ham Palace.’’
The taxi dropped them at a store front near the Angel tube station. There was a black Vitrolite fascia hung above the m
ain entrance with the legend Conrad P. Hughes – Pipe Organ Specialists in crimson raised letters. Once inside, Lu See was greeted by a delicate, worried-looking man in a six-guinea suit and two-tone shoes.
‘‘Conrad P. Hughes at your service,’’ he said. ‘‘Miss Teoh, is it? Yes, I received your letter last week.’’ He looked at Adrian, Sum Sum and Pietro in turn. ‘‘A project you have in mind for Malaya, if memory serves correctly. Yes, we would be more than happy to take on the commission.’’ He took a few moments to show them to a low-level glass-fronted display case with an array of miniature pipe organs. ‘‘All built to scale,’’ he said. ‘‘Now if you’ll come through here and take a seat …’’
He spent the next few minutes presenting himself and his designs to the four who sat in judgement of his work.
‘‘How long have you been in this industry, Mr Hughes, if you don’t mind me asking?’’
‘‘Not at all, Miss Teoh,’’ he replied, proudly fingering the lapel of his six-guinea suit. ‘‘All of sixteen years. We’ve had some ups and downs but overall the business has done me proud. Now, shall we move on to the mechanics of the beast?’’
‘‘Please do.’’
For almost half an hour he pieced together the many features, explaining how the sound was produced via the workings of the air reservoir, the reed and flue pipes and the stop-action sliders, and how each pipe equalled one pitch. ‘‘It’s not like a flute or a clarinet which produces multiple pitches depending on the instrument keys. No, the organ pipe’s pitch is determined by the pipe’s length.’’
‘‘How many pipes will we require?’’ asked Lu See.
‘‘Typically, a church organ would have a keyboard span of five octaves, from C2 to C7. And each octave has twelve semitones, hence a rank of 61 pipes.’’
‘‘That’s a lot of pipe,’’ said Pietro.
‘‘Our pipes are made from only the finest copper and aluminium. No cutting corners here. But what we’ll require from your people in Malaya are specifics for the Great and Swell divisions. Here you are,’’ he said, handing Lu See a tiny manual. ‘‘You’ll find everything explained in this pamphlet. It’s all to do with the range of sound you want. Once we have an idea, then we can get things rolling with some drawings and sketches.’’