In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  But that night the magic was still in the air. We finished dinner and strolled out to the edge of the lawn where we could hear the breakers on the beach below us, the women smoking cigarettes in ivory holders, the men with their Cuban cigars. That night war did seem rather a game. We’d all feared its coming but now it was here, and nothing had changed, we were beginning to see it as an adventure rather than a tragedy.

  Life at Whitelawns settled into a delightful pattern. Denis and I would be woken with a cup of tea at dawn. We’d shower and change into riding kit, and then stroll down to the stables as the eastern sky flooded with pink and gold. Thor and Dame Fashion would be saddled and waiting, and we would be off together, giving our mounts a pipe-opener along the beach before slowing down for the climb up through the coconut groves to the Changi road. We’d reach the Changi padang while it was still cool, and perhaps take a jump or two, or just dawdle through the lovely morning until it was time to canter back to Whitelawns. We had developed a taste for waffles and maple syrup at the KL Riding Club and on our return we’d usually have them for an informal breakfast, lounging on the verandah with the morning papers on our knees.

  The war may have been six thousand miles away, but it did have some effect on our daily lives. For a start, there was the business of Denis’s commission. Soon after war was declared he was told was being given a commission in the Straits Settlement Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. Originally, this was to be in the Pay Branch, the branch into which specialists, including intelligence people, were traditionally commissioned. The advantage of a commission in the Pay Branch was that virtually no training was involved. The disadvantage was that a Pay Branch officer could never command a ship in action.

  ‘I’ll never accept it,’ Denis snapped when the official offer of a Pay commission arrived in the post. ‘Damned cheek! Can you imagine Nelson accepting Pay rank? Better to be a private in the FMS Infantry Reserve than a desk-wallah.’ Denis tore up the small brown envelope with its ‘flimsy’ into tiny pieces. He was completely serious. He was utterly determined not to be stuck behind a pile of paper if or when the shooting war came to Singapore.

  ‘Admiral Manisty is Paymaster-General, isn’t he?’ I asked mildly. I had rather hoped he would accept Pay Branch rank. It sounded much less risky than being a deck officer.

  But my comment did not help. Even when Captain George Yeo dropped in on us that evening Denis had been obdurate. ‘It’s sheer common sense to accept a commission in Pay Branch,’ the Captain had said, seating himself primly in one of our long steamer chairs. He was in full tropical uniform, his cap, dripping with gold braid, still clutched in his hand. ‘A commission in the Executive Branch would be a damned nuisance to you, Denis. It would require you to get a watch-keeping certificate, keep up your sea-time, and pass exams in navigation and gunnery. Waste of time for a man in your position, I can assure you.’

  ‘If I’m to be a naval officer, I want to be a naval officer in the full sense of the word, not some paper-pusher stuck into a fancy uniform. I’ll accept a commission in the Executive Branch or nothing at all.’

  Captain Yeo’s features froze over. ‘Then it will have to be nothing at all,’ he said coldly. ‘Because I’ll be damned if I’ll let you have a deck commission!’ He literally swept from the room, calling for his driver. Months later we learnt that Captain Yeo was himself a Pay Branch officer.

  Yeo must have changed his mind or been overruled because Denis received his commission as a sub-lieutenant in the Executive Branch the next afternoon. He telephoned me from Government House, struggling hard to keep the satisfaction from his voice. ‘Be a darling and dig out all the Hornblower novels you can find,’ he requested. ‘I’m going to have to learn a few naval terms . . .’

  The downside was that he had to report to HMS Sultan, the RNVR headquarters, for full-time training almost immediately. His absence, first doing an officers’ training course on Sultan, then doing sea-time on HMS Tenedos, took him away from Whitelawns for over a month. It was the longest that Denis and I had ever been parted, and it was incredibly hard for me. I went back to my gramophone records, winding up the HMV and sitting in the fading afternoon light as I listened through the old favourites one by one. And a new favourite – or rather, an old lullaby with new significance: Bobbie Shafto. When I sang Tony to sleep with the words ‘Bobbie Shafto’s gone to sea, silver buckles on his knee’, the tears ran down my face. ‘Have you been cutting onions again, Mummy?’ Tony asked with a cheeky grin. He knew perfectly well why I was crying but as a precocious three-year-old he liked to try his hand at a little humour.

  The afternoon Denis came back a sumatra was blowing. The howling of the wind hid the sound of the naval car so that he simply appeared on our front steps, incredibly handsome in his white uniform and with his peaked officer’s cap in his hand. I had been sitting listening to the gramophone and I fear that when I saw him I leapt up and ran into his arms like a Hollywood actress in one of those overdone romances. One of my shoes actually fell off as I was reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘Steady on!’ he laughed. ‘You’ll frighten the horses.’

  ‘Damn the horses! You’ve been away far too long! It’s time . . .’ I checked myself suddenly as Ivan Lyon came into view, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  ‘I ran into Ivan at Fort Canning,’ Denis explained. ‘We’re going to take the Norma out for a few hours as soon as the storm blows over.’ He saw my face and put his arms on my shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said softly. ‘It would have been nice for us to be together after so long. But Ivan hasn’t done any sailing for a devil of a time and I just had to ask the poor blighter along. You do understand, don’t you?’

  Men! Our gallant heroes. Sometimes I could quite happily line the lot of them up against a wall and let loose with a machine-gun.

  I went with them on that sail. I simply could not have stayed behind, waiting yet again. The wind and sea were still high from the storm and we crashed through the rollers, green water flying everywhere. It was exhilarating, and after a while I realised I was thoroughly enjoying myself. The sun came out and Singapore Island glittered like a long, green jewel off to starboard. To port lay the little islands that stand sentinel to Singapore Harbour, a jumble of shapes and sizes, big and small, high and low.

  ‘You know,’ Ivan mused, ‘we should have a good look at these offshore islands of ours one day. If the Japs ever do lay siege to Singapore they’d be pretty convenient jumping-off points for their saboteurs. One could almost swim into the harbour from some of them.’

  Years into the future Ivan Lyon was to use those islands as his own jumping-off point for a very famous raid on Japanese shipping in occupied Singapore. When I read about that raid, I have no doubt at all that the seeds of Operation Jaywick were sown then and there, as the Norma careered through Singapore Strait with a little too much canvas on and the three of us soaked and laughing in the cockpit.

  Singapore is a small island and it was inevitable that I would run into my mother sooner or later. It happened one Sunday, when Denis and I were having curry tiffin at the Sea View Hotel. I had just clinked glasses with him in a small private toast when I looked up to see Mother staring at me from across the room. My heart gave a great lurch and I found myself holding my breath.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Denis asked quickly. ‘You’ve gone quite white.’

  ‘My mother is here,’ I said, looking down at my plate. ‘Just across the room. What should I do?’ For some absurd reason I felt like a schoolgirl who had been caught out doing something naughty. I had no reason to feel guilty. I had sent Mother a letter and a photograph after Bobby’s birth, just as I had after Tony’s. But Mother had not responded. Surely, if anyone was at fault it was my mother.

  ‘Well, you can’t just ignore her,’ Denis said. ‘Do you want to wander across and say hullo?’

  ‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘That’s the last thing I want to do. But I suppose I will have to.’ I got up and made my way to Mother’s table. She w
as dining with a tall, burly man in a Hawaiian shirt, and pretended not to see me approach.

  ‘Hullo, Mother,’ I said quietly.

  Mother looked up at me, then placed her knife and fork down carefully. ‘So. My little English rose is not too proud to acknowledge her own mother after all.’ The man with her looked up with a nervous grin, then got up, dropping his napkin on his plate. ‘I won’t be long, Julia. Need to see somebody.’ He’d clearly realised a row was in the offing and retreated hurriedly.

  ‘You haven’t shown much interest in your two grandchildren,’ I said. I had decided that attack was by far the best form of defence.

  ‘Are you married yet, Nona?’ Mother asked. She had clearly also decided that attack was the best way to handle things. I suddenly saw the nonsense of it all and sat down in the chair opposite her. ‘Let’s not trade insults,’ I said placatingly. ‘It’s been a long time since we last spoke with each other. I’d like to know how you are, Mother.’

  Mother snorted. ‘Fat lot of interest you have in what happens to me,’ she said coldly. ‘You’ve been much too busy learning how to be an elegant English lady, haven’t you? Being a Russian, being my daughter – these things mean nothing to you now, do they? I don’t blame you – you always were a weak, stupid little thing – I blame that Denis of yours.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Mother, I’m not going to just sit here and let you say such things,’ I said, feeling the familiar pain beginning in the pit of my stomach. ‘If you continue, I will simply get up and go back to my table. I’m not a little girl any more. I don’t need to stay and listen to your insults.’

  Mother just sat there, her head cocked slightly on one side, looking at me with a faintly sardonic smile on her lips. ‘So grown up! So wise! So mature! Don’t play-act the lady with me, Nona. You pretend to be this Norma, this English girl from Somerset. How stupid! How childish! Can’t you see that we are all laughing at you behind your back? Everybody in the émigré community is laughing at you. And you are not married, are you? These so-called grandchildren you talk about so proudly – they are bastards, are they not?’

  I sat there, my face suffused with blood, my heart hammering in my throat, and realised that I was not after all as grown up as I had thought. Mother could still reduce me to tears if she wished. A few nasty words, a sneer, and I was close to blubbering like a schoolgirl. I rose with as much poise as I could muster. ‘Goodbye, Mother,’ I said, almost levelly. I even had the presence of mind to offer a cool hand.

  Mother stared at me. I think she knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to cut her completely out of my life. I was never going to think of her or speak of her again. She no longer existed as far as I was concerned.

  It was the only way.

  Of course she didn’t take my hand. Absurdly, as I turned to walk away, I saw the brightness beginning in her eyes, and her lips starting to tremble. I wish to God I hadn’t seen that.

  I sat stiff and silent on the drive back to Whitelawns, quite unable for the moment to talk about what had passed between us. It was only much later, as we sat in steamer chairs on the verandah with gin and tonics in our hands, that I was able to talk. I blubbered, I can’t deny that, but only briefly, and after Denis had dried my eyes I spoke with quiet dignity about my decision to cut Mother out of my life. ‘I’ll keep one photograph,’ I said, ‘just in case one of the boys wants to know what she looked like. But as far as I am concerned, she is no longer part of my life – our lives. She is a stranger. I’m not going to risk her hurting me or mine ever again.’

  ‘You know, we’ve let this marriage business slip too long,’ Denis said thoughtfully. ‘Puts you in a rotten position, darling. More my fault than yours. It’s just never seemed important to me before now.’

  I didn’t say anything. There was nothing really I could say.

  We went for a walk through the dusk, down to the beach and then along the shoreline towards Mata Ikan. It was very peaceful, just the slap of the occasional wave on the wet sand, and a gentle rustling from the coconut trees.

  ‘I think we should get married sooner rather than later,’ Denis said. ‘I hate the thought that your mother can say the sort of things she said. Would it be too soon if I teed it up for a couple of weeks’ time?’

  I turned and pressed my finger against Denis’s lips. ‘Don’t talk about it,’ I said. ‘Do it if you want to. But please don’t talk about it.’

  We were married precisely two weeks later, in St Andrew’s Cathedral as Denis had promised so long ago. It was a small wedding, just the Deans, the Lyons and the Aubreys being present. I wore a simple white cotton dress with a short tailored jacket, and Tanya had curled my hair and woven flowers into it. ‘Something old’ was an 1812 silver rouble which had been smuggled out of Russia in my swaddling clothes, ‘something blue’ the sapphire pendant necklace I’d bought in London. Standing at the high altar with Denis in full dress uniform by my side, I felt the prettiest, luckiest bride in Christendom.

  We all dined at Raffles, then joined the dancers on the vast, roofed-over verandah. There was a particularly good swing band playing that night, and we danced until the sweat ran down our faces and the men’s tuxedos hung from them like tissue paper. When Denis and I arrived home, I guided him into my sewing room for a little ceremony I had planned. I’d promised myself years before – before I’d even met the man – that I’d hand Denis the title to Happy Valley on our wedding night. I couldn’t quite do that because I didn’t own Burnbrae, but I did the next best thing. I’d had Mark Morrison’s office obtain a copy of the survey plans for Burnbrae, and traced from it the boundaries and contour lines for Happy Valley. I made the tracing into a sort of title deed, all done up in pink ribbon and bearing an official-looking wax seal. Across the top I’d intended to write ‘Happy Valley’, but unaccountably put ‘Golden Valley’ instead. I think the sombre connotation which Happy Valley had for the second Mrs de Winter in Rebecca stopped me writing those words, but both Denis and I knew what I had meant. When one is in love and very, very happy, one can be dreadfully superstitious.

  Denis opened the roll and read it solemnly. ‘This is the best present you could possibly have given me, darling,’ he said. ‘Because I know you are giving me your dreams.’

  ‘It’s for being a good boy,’ I said.

  Marriage satisfied something deep in my soul but it didn’t change our life at Whitelawns at all. We still got up at dawn and rode through the coconut groves. We still held dinner parties in our light green dining room, and went to dances at the Tanglin Club or at Raffles. Perhaps I was more confident in company, but I really don’t think so. Marriage for me was something important between Denis and me, not between me and the rest of the world. Many, many years later, the issue of when I married Denis came up and a woman, a supercilious, long-nosed creature, asked me how much longer I would have stayed with him if he had not married me when he did. She simply didn’t understand. I would have stayed with him forever.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the second half of 1940, the war in Europe had taken a serious turn. The euphoria and downright cockiness of the ‘phoney war’ period was well and truly over, and the papers were full of British defeats and disasters. Hitler had swept through Europe, and Britain’s great ally, France, lay defeated at his feet. The victorious German Army, separated from England only by the bare few miles of the English Channel, was preparing to invade. The Battle of Britain was raging, with British and German aircraft fighting in the pale blue skies of a late English summer, their twisting white contrails a counterpoint to the green patchwork of fields below. Denis and I now listened to the BBC World Service every morning, waiting to hear the latest score of downed German and British planes, just as Denis had once waited to hear the latest County cricket scores. Despite the valiant efforts of the RAF, defeat seemed a distinct possibility.

  In Malaya, attitude to the war changed dramatically. Robinsons set up a collection point for the ‘Spitfire Fund’, where mem
s on shopping trips could drop off conscience money before gathering for afternoon tea, and in the Tanglin Club and at Raffles people talked solemnly about the possibility of casualties at home. I didn’t have to worry – I didn’t know of a single relative in Europe – but Denis did, and I felt for him after each military setback. ‘One can feel such a heel,’ he would say, ‘enjoying dog days out here while those at home are facing shortages and danger.’

  We thought things would get better but they didn’t. As 1940 rolled on into 1941, things actually got worse. Firstly, the German U-boats gained the upper hand in the Battle of the Atlantic, putting a stranglehold on vital supply routes to England. And then, in June 1941, Hitler invaded Russia and the airwaves were swamped by stories of crushing German victories. I think the ease of the German advance into Russia had a particularly bitter sting: many of us had had a perverse hope that if Hitler did attack the Red Army, the two great forces for evil in the world would cancel themselves out. But no – Nazism marched on triumphantly, sending a cold shiver around the world The defeats in Europe had a particularly depressing effect in Malaya.

  The realists knew that the Britain’s total preoccupation with national survival meant a tenfold increase in the threat of Japanese invasion. Leaders of the Japanese War Party in Tokyo were openly calling for an attack while Britain was so weak. ‘We will never have such a chance again,’ the Straits Times quoted one of them as saying. ‘The trunk of the British tree is cut through and its fruit ready to be picked from the dying branches.’

  Malaya and the Straits Settlements were choice pieces of fruit, and one section of the local community particularly keen to see that they did not fall into Japanese hands was the Chinese. For a start, they had good reason to hate the Japanese. Japan had been at war with their country for years, killing soldiers and civilians with savage indiscrimination. They also knew that if Japan ever took control of Malaya there would be terrible reprisals against the Chinese community because of the support they had given their countrymen back home.