They halted, Uncle Hugo released her from his arm, and Charlie on the other side at once squeezed her hand and gave her a quick, unrehearsed kiss. For once she was grateful for his uncontrollable physicality.
The day went on more and more like a play in which she was both performing and watching, a series of tableaux which she was able to view and experience at the same time. At the church steps the warm June breeze caught her silk tulle veil and she felt it tug at its moorings in the piled coils of her hair. Charlie pulled her into his arms in the car, confetti spilling from the creases in his grey Blades suit, and teased her by tugging open the zip down the back of her dress.
In the ballroom, where the pillars were swagged with garlands of white carnations, Cathy stood in the receiving line until her Louis-heeled satin pumps pinched her toes like red hot irons. When the last guest had been greeted and launched into the room, she brightened her smile and dutifully worked her way around the circuit of congratulating strangers until, with relief, she saw Monty with Simon and Rosanna in a group apart. Monty looked both decorous and sexy in an Ossie Clark crépe dress printed with tendrilling vines.
‘You haven’t got a drink.’ Simon at once halted a waitress and gave Cathy a glass of champagne. ‘Stop being perfect and talk to us. Do you realize you’ve got half the Shadow Cabinet here?’
‘Of course she does, she wrote the invitations.’ Monty nudged him affectionately in the ribs as she raised her own glass. ‘Here’s to wedded bliss, Cathy – may it be everything you ever hoped.’ She spoke warmly, wanting to heal the breach that had opened between them.
Cathy surveyed the crowded room, noticing several groups of men whose faces were vaguely familiar from television newsreels and who were set apart by the indefinable aura of power around them. Simon was right. A large proportion of the Conservative politicians swept out of office by Harold Wilson’s government had gathered to drink to their health.
‘You’re right, Simon: how awful of me, I must have written the names not realizing who they were.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose Charlie introduced you to the Shadow Chancellor during an evening at Annabel’s.’ Simon gulped down a canapé and licked his fingers.
‘They’re not Charlie’s friends – they’re his father’s, surely,’ Rosanna suggested and Cathy nodded.
‘I thought I was just marrying a man. I forgot I was marrying a merchant bank as well.’
‘Oh boy, try being Jewish,’ Rosanna laughed, ‘then you’ll really know that family means business. Sometimes my father and his friends make me feel as if they’re planning a merger rather than a wedding for me and Simon.’ Rosanna, to the ecstatic delight of her mother, had just announced her engagement to a stocky young man whose mother’s cousin had married a Rothschild.
‘Yes, but family isn’t so important with us. This is more like the sort of thing my father used to talk about. When I said I didn’t want to be a deb, I remember him telling me, “Don’t write the Season off as mere frivolity. When people reach into their pockets to make a splash there’s always more to it than fun and games. They want the world to know something about them.”’
‘Or prove that the upper classes still have the upper hand. Is your eyelash OK?’ Monty carefully pressed a straying corner of her sister’s false eyelash back into place.
At last it was almost over. The three-tiered cake was cut, the speeches made, the bride and groom toasted and the overtired tiny bridesmaids led away to grizzle out of earshot. Cathy left the ballroom, kicked off her shoes, and ran up to the bedroom where her going-away dress was ready.
Monty followed her and flung her arms around her. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a pig, Cathy. I’ve been awful, I know I have. I just couldn’t bear to think I was losing you, that’s all.’
Cathy felt light-headed with relief as the anxiety of the past months melted away. ‘I felt just the same,’ she told her sister. ‘I couldn’t bear thinking that you hated me because you hated Charlie. Oh, darling Monty, let’s not be so stupid ever again.’
To Monty’s surprise, she saw tears glistening in her sister’s almond-shaped eyes. ‘Hey, hey,’ she soothed her, reaching for the tissues. ‘Don’t cry, your eyelashes will fall off.’
A few moments later, the hairdresser arrived to unpin Cathy’s false curls and brush out her hair. He was followed by Caroline, who began packing away the wedding regalia with workmanlike bustle; then Lady Davina appeared, and finally Charlie who babbled incoherent compliments and fumbled at the buttons on her beige Courrèges shift. At the top of the stairs which led down to the ballroom Cathy looked round for Monty and mischievously hurled her bouquet in her sister’s direction; the guests surrounding her stood back and she was obliged to catch the flowers.
On the Comet to Nice, Cathy and Charlie slept like exhausted children, but when they arrived at the Coseleys’villa in Antibes, the warm, flower-scented air of the Cóte d’Azur revived them. Charlie carried his bride over the threshold, dumped her in the middle of the vast, Art Deco bed, dragged off her knickers and set about consummating their marriage with no further wasted effort. He took about ninety seconds Cathy felt no pain and was almost delirious with the happiness of being desired.
For the next ten days, Charlie made love to her constantly, in bed, on the floor, on the massive, veneered dining table, on the beach, in the water, on the yachts of the various friends who were moored in the enchanting harbour. At dinner he would pull her hand under the table to his crotch, in the car his hand would stray past the gearshift to her thigh and in the powerboat he made her take the wheel and joyfully ripped away her pink gingham bikini, while she struggled to control the juddering shell on its crashing course through the waves.
She adored him more than ever. They had one fight, when they had drunk too much, over whether the moon was waxing or waning. Charlie punched her viciously in the side of the head then collapsed in grovelling apologies and made love to her with even more passion than before.
Two weeks after they came home to the impressive house in Royal Avenue, Cathy picked up a lipstick from the floor of his E-Type. It was a pearlized apricot shade which she did not wear. Charlie said it belonged to his secretary, and Cathy never considered disbelieving him.
Six weeks after their return, Cathy realized that the box of tampons she had bought before her wedding was still unopened. Two weeks later, she went to see her doctor, who asked her to come back in three days. ‘Congratulations, Lady Laxford,’ he said beaming as she walked into his consulting room. ‘You’re about to start a family.’
Chapter Ten
‘Our first priority is to maintain the economy, and as far as we’re concerned at Bukit Helang that means keeping up our rubber output, meeting our quotas and exceeding them if we can.’ Douglas Lovell’s shoulders, normally braced, were bowed and he spoke seriously. ‘In the event of an enemy invasion, Malaya will be defended by the British Army; so will the rest of the Empire, most of Europe and half bloody Africa by the looks, of things. The Army runs on rubber tyres, and our war service will be done better here than anywhere else. So any young fool thinking of running off home to enlist can think again – they’re sending back any man who tries it.’ The elderly manager glared fiercely at the men who had assembled in his office at the hour normally devoted to tennis.
Japanese troops were fighting in Burma, a few hundred miles to the north, and all over Malaya the Europeans were anticipating a call to arms.
‘Strategically, because of our remote position we’re not as important as the estates near the coast or the border,’ he continued. ‘We’ll form our own detachment of the Federated Malay States Volunteer Force and organize our people for military training. Bourton, I’m seconding you to the District Officer to help organize an intelligence effort – he needs a linguist. Rawlins, Wilson and McArthur, you’re to work with the Civil Defence Committee. I want plans for defence works on the estate on my desk as soon as you can. Anderson – pick out a dozen bright boys and give’em First Aid train
ing. I want parades every Sunday morning, drill in the evening – fight out a timetable among yourselves.’
The tennis nets had already been struck and stored, and within a fortnight the white lines of the courts were all but invisible, and the turf itself worn to its roots by marching feet. Beside the board on which he marked the rubber prices, Douglas Lovell set up a bulletin board where he posted news of the progress of the war.
‘Two battleships of the Royal Navy, HMS Repulse and HMS Prince of Wales, are sailing to join the Far Eastern fleet where they will strengthen the defences of Singapore Island,’ proclaimed a notice which was embellished with a thick red border and star. Gerald Rawlins read it out with satisfaction. ‘That’ll show the Japs we mean business. They’ll think twice about sticking their nose in Malaya now.’
‘Does it say anything about aircraft?’ asked Bill Treadwell, peering as he scanned the typed lines. ‘Not much use sending battleships without some air cover.’
As a European closely involved in Malay affairs rather than an employee of a foreign trading interest, Treadwell had been called to Singapore and given some rudimentary propaganda training then returned to Perak to whip up support in the largely uninterested Malay community. His weekends were spent touring the state making speeches and distributing leaflets and posters.
Gerald stood self-importantly in front of the bulletin and spoke to his friend as if to a particularly obtuse corporal.
‘Don’t be daft, man, Jap pilots are all short-sighted. They couldn’t bomb a battleship at sea any more than you can read that notice without your glasses. That’s if their planes can stay airborne long enough to get out to sea in the first place.’ He picked up a swagger stick and military cap and tucked them under his arm.
The Australian shook his head with a smile. ‘What I like about you, Rawlins, is your cock-eyed optimism, your pea-green innocence and your astounding ability to swallow any crap that’s handed down to you as long as its got Made in England stamped all over it.’
‘Careless talk costs lives, old man.’ Gerald did not smile and he glanced uneasily around the office.
‘Careless talk costs lives all right, especially if it’s written up on the wall and signed C-in-C British Forces, Singapore,’ Bill rejoined, deliberately not lowering his voice. ‘If I were you I’d give some thought to sending your wife away while you still can.’
They walked out into the bright heat of morning and turned towards the parade ground. Douglas Lovell insisted that the Sunday parade take place at 11 am in the full heat of the day, to accustom the volunteer soldiers to the worst that the climate could inflict on them.
‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that already.’ Gerald flapped his hat at a dog that had strayed from the coolie lines. ‘Now Betty’s in the family way, I’d give anything to have her safe and out of here. But she won’t leave. Took on so much when I suggested it, I let the subject drop.’
‘Women!’ Bill spoke in tones of light-hearted despair which alluded to the well-known propensity of the weaker sex for persecuting the stronger with their weakness.
‘Said she’d go to pieces if she had to leave me,’ Gerald admitted with pride. ‘She’s got a point. She can hardly go back home, and if we got her on a boat to Colombo or Durban or somewhere she’d be billeted on some of my family who’d be total strangers to her. Betty just isn’t the sort who can take all that in her stride. She’s delicate.’
On the trampled turf forty men in makeshift uniforms lined up, trailing spades, sticks and dummy weapons carved from plywood packing cases.
‘All Chinese?’ Bill enquired, at last taking the trouble to put on his glasses.
‘Mostly. One or two of the conductors, a few Malays. Most of them don’t seem to care.’ As a captain of this ragged fighting force, Gerald strutted along with greater self-importance as he approached his command.
‘Can’t blame them – it’s not their war, after all. One master’s the same as another to a coolie.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Bill, it’s not the Tamils I blame, I’m right with you on that one. But you’d think the Malays would stand up and fight – it’s their damn country, after all. They’ve had nothing but good from the British, now they won’t lift a finger.’ He halted at the edge of the levelled ground. ‘You’re not joining us, I take it? Don’t fancy a spot of exercise to whet the appetite for lunch?’
‘No fear. In intelligence, our function is merely to observe, not engage the enemy.’ And Bill threw him a salute that was only just short of insolent and lounged over to a bench in the shade of the casuarina trees, watching Gerald march stiffly forward as a sergeant called the men to attention.
An hour later, dripping with perspiration, they returned to Gerald’s bungalow for him to change, then set off with Betty up the rutted track to James’s house. Gerald’s proudest possession was his new car, a dusty Model T Ford bought from another junior assistant at the start of the war. It struggled pluckily up the red earth lane, bucking over deep channels cut by the rivulets of water which coursed down the hillside after every rain storm.
‘James, you idle bastard – on your feet!’ he shouted in greeting as he mounted the verandah steps. But instead of James, Ahmed, the houseboy came running from his quarters.
‘Tuan Bourton present his apologies, tuan. Gone this morning to Kampong Malim on defence business. Back noon, he say. Tuan Anderson has just arrived.’ The plump doctor and his wife were already settled in the shady interior with drinks in their hands.
‘Well, here’s a fine to do! Asks his friends over for tiffin then clears off.’ Gerald flopped into one of the rattan chairs and motioned the others to do the same. ‘Now I ask you, is that the act of a gentleman?’
‘The boy’s flapping because James left no orders about lunch, either.’ Jean Anderson crossed her thin legs primly. ‘He simply tore off and forgot about us, I suppose.’ Sunday lunch scarcely required specific instructions from James; the estate community ate in each other’s homes in rotation, but the menu was always the traditional curry tiffin – chicken in spiced sauce, rice, and bowls of coconut, banana, chutney and sliced salad vegetables, followed by fruit and a sago pudding known as gula malacca.
Ahmed reappeared with a tray of gin pahits, lukewarm cocktails of gin, water and pink Angostura bitters which were customary before most of the planters’meals.
‘I’ll never let him call me an uncouth colonial again,’ Bill lifted his glass in salute. ‘Your health, Captain, Doctor. Here’s to our future generation.’
Betty blushed as he glanced at her. It was only a month since Dr Anderson had confirmed her pregnancy, and she was not yet accustomed to the role of mother-to-be in her small community. She felt sick most of the day, as much from nerves as anything else. Anderson was the only man with whom she felt at ease; bluff and hearty in company, he was comfortingly tactful when they were alone together. She found that the touch of his small hands, delicate, confident and cool in spite of the climate, was enough to calm her. He anticipated all the alarms and discomforts of her condition, so that her pregnancy seemed like a delightful secret she could share with him alone.
Anderson was concerned about her. Although she was healthy and followed his instructions with childlike trust her emotional inadequacy worried him far more than her physical condition. He had directed her to join his First Aid classes and was pleased to see that having work to do calmed her anxiety.
The men’s conversation rambled on, by tacit agreement avoiding all issues of importance in front of the women. Betty had the effect of dominating the company around her merely by her timidity; the prospect of alarming this frail creature was so self-evidently dreadful that menfolk automatically talked in nursery terms.
Bill told a rambling story of his one encounter with a tiger, when he had all but fallen over the dozing beast in the deep jungle. ‘Dunno who was more surprised, me or the tiger!’ he finished cheerily. He always finished the story that way, and Gerald, who had heard it many times before, was r
oused from inertia by irritation.
‘Damn James, how long is he going to be? The kampong’s only half an hour on that bike of his.’
Boredom settled over them like the clouds of white water vapour that mantled the jungle after rain. To Betty, the life of a memsahib, with its boredom and total inactivity, was almost a comfort; the heat, idleness, unvarying landscape and unchanging company held her secure in a blanket of predictability.
They fell silent, and in time became aware of the quiet crooning of a chicken that picked its way around the scarlet canna lilies at the bottom of the steps. When the boy brought another round of pahits, the doctor ordered him to fetch some bread, and in a few moments Ahmed returned with some small, half-leavened Malay loaves that were like flattened dinner rolls.
‘Ever seen a chicken get drunk?’ Anderson asked them, winking one eye. His sun-reddened face was creased with deep lines already, and when he winked half of it seemed to vanish in a knot of wrinkles.
On the rattan sideboard stood an array of bottles. The doctor selected a full bottle of navy rum and splashed it liberally over the bread, then threw one of the sodden loaves down to the chicken. It ran eagerly forward, gave a wary peck, then began gobbling the treat as fast as it could. Two more chickens scuttled out from under the house and Anderson tossed them another rum-soaked loaf.
‘Take it easy, fellas,’ he advised. ‘Don’t choke on your last supper.’
‘They love it, don’t they?’ Gerald was excited as a child at the spectacle. ‘Look at them put it away. Go on, give’em another one.’
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