by Peter Watt
Sally drove until they had left the city behind and were on country roads passing through little towns bustling with commerce. Eventually they reached the water. There Sally parked and produced a picnic hamper, spreading out a blanket under the shade of tall trees swaying in the tropical breeze. The blue sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds and off the beach a fishing boat drifted as the men aboard hauled in a net.
Sally spread out cheeses, chutneys, pâtés, thin slices of roast beef and wafers, as well as a bottle of good champagne crusted with ice and two crystal goblets. After Patrick had poured the wine, they sat side by side, gazing out at the tranquil waters.
‘You know,’ Patrick said, ‘I think I have just died and gone to heaven in the company of a beautiful angel. Except I know I’ll be forced to return to earth in a few hours because the bloody army owns me, body and soul. I will be on the ferry and back with the company before midnight. It is at times like this that I hate the army. I have cobbers back in Civvy Street who can simply tell their bosses that they cannot come into work because they are sick. Not in the army. There is no such thing as taking leave when you feel like it.’
‘We’ll enjoy the few hours of your leave that you have left then,’ Sally said, reaching over to place her hand on his.
Patrick could smell the sweet scent of her body. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips, and for a moment their touch lingered until Sally gently withdrew. ‘Patrick, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. We have only just met, and I don’t want you to get hurt.’
Confused, Patrick pulled away. ‘I thought you liked me,’ he said.
‘I do,’ Sally replied. ‘Being in your company is wonderful, but anything else is doomed. You are a soldier who has no choice of where you will be sent. Nor do I, and my father has plans of opening an office in Hong Kong. I could be sent there any day. We can’t be together, not because I don’t like you but because of this lousy situation we find ourselves in.’
‘Are you saying that you don’t want to see me in the future?’ Patrick asked, holding his breath at the pain of possible rejection.
‘I am not saying that,’ Sally replied. ‘It’s just better we remain friends.’
Her answer crushed Patrick whose desire for her was overriding even his loyalty to the army. In the back of his mind he considered desertion, but he knew that was not a real option. It was ironic that the army had brought him to Malaya to meet the woman of his dreams – only to force them apart.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should make my way back to the battalion now.’
‘We still have a couple of hours left,’ Sally said. ‘Why not stay with me and enjoy this beautiful place?’
Patrick rose to his feet. He could not stand being near this beautiful woman knowing he could never kiss her again. ‘I need to go,’ he said bitterly. ‘I think the war against the CTs might need me more than you do.’
‘Patrick, this is not goodbye,’ Sally said. ‘We can see each other when you get your next leave.’
‘I don’t think I can do that,’ Patrick said. ‘I don’t think I can be just a friend to you. It would be too cruel. I’d like to go now please.’
Sally shrugged and packed up the hamper. She walked back to the car and Patrick followed. He could not think of anything else to say and they drove in silence to the ferry terminal.
Patrick stepped out of the MG to join the throng of passengers awaiting transport to the mainland.
‘Goodbye, Sally,’ he said. ‘I hope Hong Kong goes well for you. Maybe we will meet again one day in better times.’
‘Patrick,’ Sally called as he walked away, but he was lost in the colourful throng of people waiting to board the ferry.
Patrick hardly noticed that he was crossing the strait. All he could do was stare at the small waves splashing the side of the boat and wonder why the pain of losing Sally hurt more than the bullet ripping open his arm. The worst thing about it was that he knew Sally was right. They were from different worlds. He was a simple soldier and she a young woman of wealth and elegance.
Patrick returned to the barracks where he was met by his platoon comrades who had just returned from another patrol deep in the jungle.
Terituba greeted him with a wry smile under the sweat and grime of the day’s efforts. ‘You bin having a good time laying around the hospital while we bin out in the scrub,’ he said and slapped Patrick on the shoulder. Then he saw the sad expression on his friend’s face. ‘Not so good,’ Terituba added.
‘Good to be back,’ Patrick said lamely. ‘How have things been going while I was away?’
Terituba launched into a story about laying an ambush on a CT track, and Patrick listened without hearing. Sally’s face was still fresh in his mind. What had his Uncle David once said about his own life? Lucky in war, unlucky in love.
*
It was one of those rare but beautiful days in the English countryside when the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky. Michael Macintosh walked to the crease, trailing his cricket bat behind him. The trials for the school’s first eleven were crucial if he was to be seen as more than an upstart colonial kid. Michael had always loved cricket, and back in Sydney had represented his old school as a batsman.
He was acutely aware that in the tiny crowd of people watching was Jane White, the daughter of his hosts in England, Sir Ronald White and his attractive, much younger wife, Lady Georgina White. Jane had been fortunate to inherit her mother’s elegant beauty, but the attractive sixteen-year-old was always aloof in Michael’s company. This was his opportunity to impress her. He suddenly realised that he was very nervous, not because the spin bowler facing him had a formidable reputation, but because he might be bowled out for a duck in front of Jane.
Michael squared off against the bowler who came in fast and hard. The ball bounced but Michael was able to swing and hit it with all his strength. He was aware of the polite clapping from the pavilion as the ball was driven over the boundary for six. The bowler had turned his back and walked to his run-up start point, shaking his head in disbelief. Michael glanced across at Jane, but she was too far away for him to tell whether she was impressed. He continued to bat and made eighty-six runs before an alert player on the boundary was able to catch him out. As Michael walked off the field his coach said, ‘Well done, lad. I hope you can perform as well against Eton.’
Michael reached the pavilion and Jane offered him a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
‘Jolly good show,’ she said with a smile. The way she spoke always amused Michael. He wondered if Britain’s upper classes cultivated their own English dialect just to identify with one another.
‘Jolly good,’ Michael echoed with a grin, mimicking her accent. ‘At home we would have said, “Bloody grouse, cobber.”’
‘You colonials have mangled our beautiful English language with your convict influence,’ Jane said with a giggle. ‘I know that you had a good education in Australia – where on earth did you learn to use such vulgar language?’
Michael could tell that her attitude to him had thawed in the course of eighty-six runs. She attended an elite ladies’ college not far away and it had strong links to his own snobbish boys’ college.
‘I spent my holidays on a cattle station in central Queensland with some truly rough and tough characters,’ he said. ‘My cousins taught me how to hunt in the scrub, ride a horse like a stockman and swear like a true colonial.’
‘How horrid,’ Jane said, pulling a face. ‘Did you learn to play polo?’
‘No, but I learned how to ride down a scrub bull in the brigalow. I suppose that’s a bit like polo.’
‘Polo is a gentleman’s sport. You must try it sometime. My father has a stable of good ponies.’
Michael sat down next to her and removed the cumbersome lower leg pads. He stole a glance at Jane as she returned her attention to the boy who had replaced him
at the crease. She had flawless milk-white skin and grey eyes. She was slim, and her long auburn hair swirled around her shoulders. It was a Saturday morning, and Jane wore a fashionable long skirt.
Jane was leaning forward. ‘Isn’t that Jason Arrowsmith at the crease?’ she asked.
Michael was reluctant to confirm her observation. From the moment he had arrived at his English school, Arrowsmith and his cronies had attempted to belittle him. The boy led a small group whose fathers depended on Arrowsmith Senior for favours in the merchant banking world. Jason was an arrogant, good-looking young man who was also a favourite with the girls from Jane’s school.
‘Yeah, that’s Jason all right,’ Michael growled.
Jane turned to him. ‘He’s doing rather well,’ she commented, returning her attention to the young man hitting runs.
‘Will you be free this evening?’
‘Why do you ask?’ Jane asked distractedly.
‘I thought that I might ask your father’s permission for us to cycle down to the village for fish and chips. I gather they’re meant to be very good,’ Michael said, almost holding his breath.
‘Oh, I am sorry, Michael,’ Jane said. ‘I’ll be attending a party at the Margates’ house. Jason invited me to go with him. Possibly some other time.’
Michael immediately felt the wind go from his lungs in his disappointment. Bloody Arrowsmith. Bad enough that he niggled him at school, never mind taking Jane from him.
After the cricket trials were finished, Michael caught a bus to the White country estate with Jane. He was greeted warmly by Jane’s mother, while Jane raced upstairs to change for her date with Jason Arrowsmith.
‘Did you do well at the trials?’ asked Lady Georgina sweetly.
‘I think I made the team,’ Michael answered.
‘Well done, young man,’ Lady Georgina said, placing her hand on Michael’s arm. ‘I shall tell the cook to prepare you a hearty dinner; I expect you’re ravenous. It is a pity Sir Ronald is away in London this weekend as I am sure he would have offered you a Scotch to celebrate. Do you play gin rummy?’
‘Yes, Lady Georgina,’ Michael replied, glancing over her shoulder at Jane who had reappeared in the foyer wearing very red lipstick.
‘Jane, ensure that Jason has you home before nine o’clock,’ her mother said, dabbing with a delicate handkerchief at Jane’s lipstick. ‘You know I do not approve of that colour. It makes you look like a loose woman.’
‘Mother, this is the 50s. All young women wear bright lipstick,’ Jane declared, and Michael thought that the only child of Sir Ronald White could probably get away with anything.
A car horn tooted outside and, when the front door opened, Michael saw a chauffeur-driven Bentley had pulled up in the driveway. He could see Jason Arrowsmith in the back seat. Jane jumped in and the car pulled away just as rain clouds began rolling in on a chilly front.
Michael went back inside with Lady Georgina who produced a pack of playing cards. They played until dinnertime when Lady Georgina retired, and Michael sat down alone at the huge polished teak table to eat a meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It was delicious and when he had finished he stopped off in the kitchen to thank the cook, an elderly stout lady from the village. Michael noticed that it was already going on ten o’clock and there was no sign of Jane.
Michael was considering going to the living room where the Whites had a television set, when he heard the sound of a car outside. He walked to a window to look down on the Arrowsmith Bentley. He saw the rear passenger door open and Jane step out into the steady downpour of rain. She ran to the front door and the vehicle departed.
Michael went downstairs to greet her. He would make her a hot cup of cocoa once she had changed out of her wet clothes, but when he reached the foyer he was stunned to see that she was crumpled on the floor, sobbing. Michael knelt down beside the stricken girl.
‘Jane, what happened?’ he asked, placing his hand on her shoulder and feeling her recoil from his touch.
Michael could see that her dress was torn and she had a slight swelling to her face. A cold chill went through him.
‘Was it Jason?’ he asked, and she nodded between sobs. ‘You need to change into dry clothes,’ Michael said, helping her to her feet. ‘I will make you some cocoa and you can get into bed. I will wake your mother and tell her what has happened.’
‘Please, please, do not tell my mother,’ Jane begged in a hoarse voice, gripping Michael by the arms. ‘I do not want anyone else to know.’
Reluctantly, Michael agreed and led her upstairs to her room. He left her to change. His thoughts were in turmoil as he waited for the kettle to boil on the stovetop. That bastard, Arrowsmith! He didn’t know whether he had done the right thing, agreeing not to tell Lady Georgina. Eventually the kettle boiled and he carried a large mug of steaming cocoa upstairs to Jane’s room. The door was open and he could see Jane huddled on top of the bed staring at the wall opposite with a blank expression of shock. Michael gently passed the mug to her and she took it in both hands.
‘You do know this should be reported to the village police,’ he said quietly.
‘No!’ Jane replied vehemently. ‘My family would not want this to be made public. People would only say I provoked him. I will get over it and everything will turn out for the best. Jason tried to . . .’ She paused, not able to say the word. ‘But I fought him off.’
Michael felt his anger turning to a cold, dangerous rage. If Jane would not report this, Michael would seek his own style of justice. Deep down in this young man’s blood was something that made him more dangerous than most. Although he did not know it, Michael was the product of a man who had fought ruthlessly in war, and a woman who had killed her own father without remorse.
ELEVEN
Michael finished his breakfast in the school’s refectory, all the time watching Jason Arrowsmith sitting with his sycophants at a table opposite. Arrowsmith was laughing at his own jokes, and Michael strained to hear what he was saying. Despite the background noise of the other boys in the large hall adorned with heraldry and memorial boards of old boys who had given their lives for king and country, he could hear the gist of what Arrowsmith was saying. It was obvious he was bragging about his ‘conquest’ of Jane on the weekend and his little group hung on every word.
Michael could feel a strange, cold feeling of violence overwhelming him, and he pushed his chair away from the table to confront the braggart.
‘What do you want, Macintosh?’ Arrowsmith asked when he looked up to see Michael standing over him at the table.
‘I know what you did, you gutless bastard,’ Michael said in an icy tone, causing Arrowsmith to blanch. He rose from his chair to confront Michael, picking up a butterknife as he did.
‘If you are referring to Jane White, the little slut wanted it,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Did she run home to Mummy and Daddy to say I forced her?’
‘No,’ Michael replied, eyeing the blunt knife in the taller boy’s hand. ‘Worse than that: she told me what really happened.’
‘Worse than that?’ Arrowsmith frowned. ‘You really have a very high opinion of yourself, Macintosh.’
‘How about you and I go to the gym to find out all about that high opinion,’ Michael said, never taking his eye off the knife Arrowsmith held in his right hand. Michael was aware of the hush descending on the refectory. Jason Arrowsmith had ruled the corridors and dormitories of the school, and his power had never been challenged before.
‘Put the knife down now or you will regret it,’ Michael said. He could see his confident manner was having an impact on the bigger boy as his smirk turned to a grimace of fear.
Suddenly Arrowsmith swung the knife in a downwards motion, but Michael was ready. Uncle Donald had taught Michael and his cousins the rudiments of unarmed combat. He blocked the bigger boy with his left hand and swiftly gripped the knife arm with his righ
t, snapping it down and forcing Arrowsmith onto his knees. The hush in the room turned to something like a groan. Michael kneeled, gripped Arrowsmith’s shirt front and slammed his forehead into his face, feeling his opponent’s nose yield under the blow. The knife clattered to the refectory floor. Without hesitating, Michael brought around his right hand in a fist, smashing into Arrowsmith’s already broken nose. With a high-pitched scream, Arrowsmith raised both his hands to his battered face and attempted to scuttle backwards away from Michael, whose rage was now red hot. For a second Michael saw Jane’s shattered expression, and he slammed his foot into his opponent’s crotch as hard as he could. Now Arrowsmith truly screamed in pain.
‘Macintosh, stand where you are,’ shouted the voice of a housemaster, and Michael complied. He had taken revenge for Jane’s assault and was satisfied that it would be some time before Arrowsmith would try to take advantage of another innocent girl.
‘You two boys, help Mr Arrowsmith to the infirmary, and you, Macintosh, go to the headmaster’s office immediately.’
Michael was well aware of the consequences of his actions. Without a word, he turned and walked from the refectory, while Jason Arrowsmith was half carried, half dragged in the opposite direction. The rage was gone and Michael felt the adrenaline draining from his body. Other than a sore and bloody knuckle, he had no other injuries. His assault had been swift and violent and he would not apologise for that.
*
Sir Ronald White stood in the living room of his country manor in a fury. Before him stood Michael.
‘I cannot believe it!’ he exploded. ‘We offer you our hospitality and this is how you repay us. The headmaster tells me that you offered nothing in your defence for the unprovoked and vicious attack on Jason Arrowsmith. Of course he has no option but to expel you. Arrowsmith belongs to one of the leading families in this country, and I have been informed that his injuries are very serious. I would not be surprised to hear that the police are involved. You leave me with no choice but to contact your mother and tell her that we will be putting you on the first ship back to Australia. You have no future in a civilised country.’