They didn’t talk about the war. It was too real, too horrifying, an ever-present reality now, and this was possibly their last chance to learn more about each other.
They talked about happy memories, the things they missed about home. They argued gently about their favourite things. Roast lamb or roast goose. Christmas in the snow or Christmas in the summer holidays.
Stella told Tom about her one and only birthday party, when she was eight and children had come from cattle stations more than fifty miles away.
‘It was only cake and lemonade, sausage rolls and balloons,’ she said. ‘With Blind Man’s Bluff out in the yard, and Pin the Tail on the Donkey, while our mothers drank Pimm’s on the verandah. So simple, really, but to us it seemed like the most exciting event ever.’
She smiled as another memory stirred. ‘Betty James gave me perfume for that birthday!’ Pressing a hand to her heart, she sighed dramatically. ‘Such amazing luxury! The perfume came in a little bottle shaped like a French poodle. Eau de cologne.’
Then her smile wavered and went out like a snuffed candle. ‘I can’t remember the last time I smelled French perfume.’ These days her nostrils were filled with the scent of blood, or carbolic, or smoke.
Tom reached across the table and covered her hand with his. His skin was warm and his hand was broad and golden brown. Stella loved the way it enveloped hers completely. She wanted to imprint the shape of his hands on her memory. Wanted to remember every part of him. The fall of his dark hair. The shape of his jaw. The laughter lines around his eyes.
If only they had more time.
‘I’ll buy you perfume when all this is over,’ he said. ‘And we’ll go to a tropical beach. Not Singapore. Somewhere in Australia, perhaps. We’ll have a cabin among the palm trees right on the sand. We’ll lie in bed and listen to the sea and watch the moon come up over the water.’
Stella was hot all over as she pictured it. The two of them in a cabin, lying together on a wide bed and looking out through open shutters. She could almost smell the sweetness of coconuts and frangipani, the salty tang of the sea. Could almost feel the night breeze, cool on her skin, and the potent warmth of Tom’s naked body beside her.
He rubbed his thumb slowly over her knuckles and she wished he could hold her hand forever.
‘We’ll make it happen, Stella.’
His words and his touch awoke a violent yearning in her. She was suddenly breathless, wanting Tom and knowing it might never happen. This bloody war had brought them together, but it would also, almost certainly, tear them apart.
The Japanese might arrive any day now. How could they expect to survive?
Time was of the essence. She wanted Tom. Now. She was shocked and thrilled by the fierceness of her need. Anywhere would do.
‘Stella.’ His hand tightened around hers and his eyes were fierce. Burning.
Lifting her chin, she met his gaze boldly, let him read her message of impatience and desire.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Outside, the air was hot and still, and the surrounding sea lay flat like a sheet of shiny metal.
Instead of driving back to the hospital, Tom headed in the opposite direction. Stella wondered if he was aiming for the swimming club. Or perhaps the East Coast Road? She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t want to break the magic spell that seemed to have swept over them. Every inch of her skin was acutely alive and aware.
The streets of the business district were as bustling as ever, and Tom was nudging past a badly parked oil tanker when they heard the roar of engines overhead. Then bombers appeared in the sky in front of them, looking for all the world like menacing silver sharks.
Tom reacted instantly, swerving the car into a clear space at the edge of the road and slamming on the brakes. ‘Get in the drain!’ he yelled.
Terrified, Stella wrenched her door open and tumbled out, diving for the smelly concrete ditch. As she landed, she felt the sting of scraped knees and elbows. Then she found herself lying in several inches of filthy water.
She couldn’t see Tom, had no idea where he was, but before she could even look for him, a spine-chilling, whistling shriek sounded directly overhead.
Instinctively, Stella shrunk lower, covering her head with her arms as a deafening explosion blasted frighteningly close.
And then another.
The whole world seemed to shake. Then everything went very dark.
When Stella opened her eyes, she was buried beneath a heavy weight. She couldn’t breathe.
Silence. Pitch blackness.
Panic flooded her. This was it. She was going to die. Buried in a Singapore ditch.
Where was Tom?
Blindly, she pushed at the heavy object on top of her. She didn’t know if it was fallen earth, or timber, broken metal, or even a piece of concrete. To her surprise, her hands met fabric and warmth and then the unmistakable stickiness of blood. Oh, dear God. A body.
Not Tom. Please don’t let it be Tom.
Desperate and fearful, Stella pushed again, harder, and there was no resistance from the body, which was even more frightening. With another horrified push, she felt the body slump away beside her and she managed to sit up.
Dazed and dizzy, soaked in drain water, she looked in terror at the figure she’d shoved aside. It wasn’t Tom, but an Indian man. Unconscious.
Several times she tried to feel his pulse, but there was nothing. Her ears were ringing from the blast and her throat was tight with tears as she looked down at the Indian’s handsome, lifeless face. His staring dark eyes.
With shaking hands, she lowered his eyelids.
Fighting tears and coughing, she looked around her, peering through the swirling fog of dust and smoke as she tried to take in her surroundings. She saw Tom’s borrowed Austin parked, as they’d left it, at an awkward angle, its doors hanging open.
Past it, she saw the gaping black hole of an obliterated shopfront and another body lying beneath the charred remains of the doorway. Nearby, three parked cars were now burning hulks. Shocked Indian women in bright saris huddled together beneath a rubber tree.
Frantically, Stella looked for Tom, but there was no sign of him.
Tears and smoke stung her eyes. ‘Tom!’ she cried weakly.
But then another voice, a man’s voice, yelled hoarsely, ‘The tanker! Get the bloody tanker away!’
Through the clearing smoke, Stella saw him, yelling in the middle of the road. He was European. Not Tom, but a fair-haired fellow, in a British military uniform. His right arm had been blown off and the stump was bleeding, dripping crimson onto his neat uniform. With his good hand, he was pointing past the burning cars to the tanker parked alongside them.
A group of Chinese and Indians, cowering on the footpath, were looking at him in a dazed kind of stupor.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ the wounded man screamed. ‘Someone do something. Get that thing moving. The keys are in there. It’s going to blow up!’
Then he suddenly seemed to realise he was injured. He stared at his bleeding stump. And he collapsed.
Stella’s nursing instincts kicked in and she hurried across the road to the unconscious man, kneeled quickly and felt for his pulse. It was there – just.
A fleeting movement caught her eye and she saw Tom. She had no idea where he’d come from, but he was racing out of the smoke, past the trio of burning cars towards the tanker, which was almost certainly full of highly flammable fuel.
Oh, dear God.
‘Tom,’ she called.
But he either didn’t hear her, or was too focused on his mission to respond.
Before Stella could call again, Tom was clambering up into the tanker. She held her breath. She had no idea whether he knew how to drive such a cumbersome thing. All she could think was that, at any moment, it could explode.
Then she returned her attention to the collapsed man. If she wanted to save him she had to act quickly.
As the tanker’s engine coughed and spluttered, she swift
ly undid the narrow belt at her waist, slipped the strap through the buckle and pulled as tightly as she could around the poor fellow’s bleeding stump. Then more tightly again.
The blood flow slowed, but what she needed now was a bandage.
She would have torn up her skirt and petticoat, but they were soaked with blood and dirty ditch water. There was a scarf in her handbag, but that was still in Tom’s car.
It would have to do. As she hurried back to the Austin, she heard the screech and strain of the tanker’s engine. Tom must be having trouble getting it to start. Another screech and sputter.
She sent up a frantic prayer. Please, God, help him. Please don’t let him die.
Her thoughts were chaotic as she scrabbled for the scarf. She heard the tanker’s engine whirr again and this time it grumbled and roared to life. As she hurried back across the road to her patient, the huge tanker began to lurch forward and then kangaroo-hopped drunkenly over the bitumen.
In a matter of moments the cumbersome vehicle was clear of the burning cars and it continued careering across the wide stretch of road. As she kneeled beside her patient, the tanker came to a slamming halt against an uprooted tree on the far side.
Thank you.
Blinking through tears of relief, Stella unfolded the scarf patterned with pink and yellow butterflies and began to wrap it around the bloody stump.
She was sitting in the gutter, with her patient’s head in her lap, cradling his wounded arm in the crook of hers when Tom came back to her.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, crouching quickly beside her.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Ridiculously, she began to cry.
‘Hey, there.’ His voice was gentle and, by a miracle, he found a clean handkerchief in his pocket. But it was no longer clean after he’d dried her grimy cheeks. ‘How’s your patient?’
Stella touched her fingers to the man’s neck. He was young and suntanned with blond hair. Rather nice looking. ‘There’s still a faint pulse.’
‘Good.’ Tom didn’t hesitate. ‘Let’s get him straight to the hospital then.’
Carefully, Tom supported the young man’s shoulders while Stella held his legs. Between them, they lifted him into the Austin. He groaned as they eased him gently onto the back seat, but he was soon out to it again.
Together, they made a quick check of the devastated street to see if there were any other injured people in need of help. Most people were simply stunned and shaken, but they found four bodies, including the Indian.
‘This man landed on top of me in the gutter,’ Stella told Tom. ‘I was terrified. I couldn’t breathe, but I think he may have saved my life.’
Tom looked shaken and slipped an arm around her shoulders. He gave her a quick hug and then they drove back the way they’d come.
‘You were very heroic,’ she told Tom. ‘I was terrified that tanker would catch fire.’
‘Must admit I’ve never driven one of those things before. I had no real idea what I was doing.’
‘I’ve never put on a tourniquet, not on a bleeding stump.’
‘You were incredible,’ he said quietly, and they shared crestfallen smiles.
The car sped along back streets pockmarked with the grim evidence of recent bombings. At one corner, water gushed over the road from a broken pipe. At another a Chinese man was trying to sweep away fallen bricks.
Stella found it hard to believe that only a short time ago her head had been filled with lust and longing. Instead of passion, she’d encountered a close brush with death and had come face to face with the reality of war. Tom was so blackened by dust and smoke that his teeth looked bright white by contrast, and she knew she had to be just as dirty.
Her dress, once a pretty shade of pale blue with darker blue flowers embroidered around the hemline, was now bright red with the blood of two men.
While the young man was being admitted, Tom waited at the hospital entrance. It was some time before Stella was free to speak to him, but the news was good.
‘The doctors think he hasn’t lost too much blood and he should pull through,’ she said.
‘That’s wonderful.’ Taking her hand, Tom drew her through the hospital doorway to the courtyard outside. It was late afternoon and the air was tinged with the orange light of the sinking sun. A flock of brightly coloured birds squabbled noisily in the mango trees by the gate. ‘I’m afraid my time’s up,’ he said. ‘I have to get back to the barracks.’
Stella nodded. ‘And I need to change and be ready for my shift.’
He touched a dust-streaked hand to her cheek and she wondered how such a simple touch could feel so important. So perfect. She lifted her hand to hold his palm there, cradling her cheek. She wanted to make this precious moment stretch forever, wanted the war to stop, the world to stand still.
‘I know the timing’s all wrong,’ Tom said. ‘But I’m going to say it anyhow. I’m in love with you, Stella.’
Joy exploded inside her. ‘Your timing’s perfect,’ she assured him.
‘When this is over, I’m going to find you, and I’ll ask you to marry me.’
‘Oh, Tom.’
Heedless of the dirt and blood on her clothing, Stella slipped her arms around his neck. ‘My answer will be yes.’
Then she kissed him. And when he kissed her back, her wish came true. The world stood still and she lost herself completely in the sweetest and most precious of kisses.
It was only when Tom finally released her that she heard the loud cheers and whistles from the group of curious patients watching from a verandah above them.
12
The one-armed soldier proved to be a young man from Devon called Alan Huntley. A former surveyor, just twenty-two years old, Alan had been working in Malaya at the time of the invasion, but then of course he’d been conscripted into the army.
‘I’m told that you saved my life,’ he said to Stella.
‘And you saved a lot of other people’s lives by warning us about that tanker,’ she assured him.
Alan had a great sense of humour and was coping manfully with the loss of his arm, but as a right-hander, he struggled to write with his left hand. Stella offered to be scribe while he dictated a letter to be sent home to his family.
Stella had written several similar letters in the past weeks, courageous messages of love and hope to wives and families from wounded men who feared they might never see their homeland again. Her heart broke a little further with each letter. And her own letters home were even harder to write.
By the end of January the air attacks were unbelievably ferocious. All through the nights and well into the mornings, the Japanese bombers and Zero fighters strafed the length and breadth of Singapore Island. The RAF didn’t have enough planes to fight them, and the worst attacks were on the docks, their approach roads now choked with convoys of army lorries racing to get military stores away from the wharves.
The black smoke of burning oil tanks hung over the city. Casualties were heavy and the clanging of ambulance bells was constantly in the background. Hospitals overflowed and private homes were being used to house the wounded.
In the midst of the frantic activity, a Chinese orderly found Stella.
‘A phone call for you, Sister.’
Stella’s heart was thumping as she hurried to the phone. ‘Hello?’ Clutching the receiver, she sank back against the wall, eyes closed, praying that it wasn’t bad news.
‘Stella?’
Tom’s voice brought a rush of sweet relief. ‘Oh, Tom, how lovely. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’
She was almost dropping with exhaustion. ‘I’m fine. Terribly busy. Where are you?’
‘We’ve been working in the north.’
This brought a fresh jolt of fear. ‘You’re not still up there? On the mainland?’
‘God, no. Johore’s on the brink of collapse. Our troops are retreating back across the Causeway as fast as they can. No, the engineers are building up the island’s
northern defences at last.’
‘Oh, thank goodness.’ Stella knew this was one of the hugely important tasks that Tom and his brigadier had been desperate to implement months ago. Until now, all the guns had been trained on the sea rather than the mainland.
‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘I hope it goes well, Tom. You might save us all yet.’
‘We can only hope.’ After a pause, he said, ‘I wish you could get out of here, Stella.’
Stella swallowed. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t scared. All the army wives had been shipped out finally, ordered to leave the island, almost too late. ‘But the nurses can’t possibly leave,’ she said. ‘We have a job to do.’ She thought of Alan Huntley and the others like him. ‘Our patients need us.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Tom spoke gently, if sadly, and then in a more determined tone, ‘As soon as I get back from here, I’ll come to see you.’
‘That would be wonderful.’ She was smiling as she gripped the receiver. In a burst of giddy foolhardiness, she said, ‘Let me know when you’re coming and I’ll have champagne on ice.’
It wasn’t an idle boast. A friend of Guy Cornick’s had hitch-hiked from up-country Malaya. Keeping one jump ahead of the Japs, he’d brought several cases of champagne with him and had generously shared them around.
‘Can’t leave good champagne for the Nips,’ he’d said.
Now, Stella heard Tom’s laugh on the end of the line and she pictured his smile, his handsome face creasing into laughter lines and his silvery grey eyes narrowing to sparkling slits.
She bit hard on her lip to stop herself from weeping.
‘I’ll look forward to the champagne,’ he said.
Each day the news got worse. On the first of February, thousands and thousands of British, Australian and Indian troops marched across the Causeway that bridged the strait between the mainland and Singapore. The last men to cross were the pipers of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Stella had heard from some of the wounded Scots that they’d fought every inch of the way south from the Siamese border.
The Grazier's Wife Page 12