In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  In retrospect, our adventure did not spoil the evening at all. The whole party sat around on the veranda while Amah fussed with tea and coffee, and talked and talked until what had seemed a nightmare such a short time before began to seem like a dream. A happy, funny dream. My comment about my dress shrinking was embroidered and turned into the wittiest sally imaginable. The sea snake took on titanic proportions, with Denis standing up and fending it off like Captain Nemo fending off the giant squid. The last car didn’t crunch away up our driveway until ‘dawn’s left hand was in the sky’, as Denis quoted.

  And Alec finished for him, also quoting from the first quatrain of the Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam: ‘And lo, the hunter of the East has cast the stone that sets the stars to flight, and caught the Sultan’s turret in a noose of light.’

  The Sultan’s turret was the west tower of Whitelawns, touched by gold and framed by coconut trees.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By the end of 1941, it had become quite apparent to anyone in Malaya who read the papers that Japan was planning to attack British possessions in the Far East, and merely waiting for the right moment. Every morning the Straits Times and the Malay Mail were full of strident calls by the Japanese Government for access to the world’s oil, tin and rubber, and scarcely veiled threats about what it would do if such access was not forthcoming. ‘The people of Japan cannot for ever be prevented by the Imperialists in London and the Capitalists in Washington from taking our rightful place in the world,’ Admiral Tojo was reported as saying. ‘Some day our people will realise that the time for talking has passed and that it is time for action.’

  Singapore had long been earmarked as the linchpin of Britain’s defence against Japan, and every day now we saw fresh evidence that it was being built up for its coming role. British and Indian soldiers were everywhere, their officers made members of the Swimming Club and the Tanglin Club while other ranks had to make do with commercial bars and dance halls. The Signals Intelligence Unit run by Captain Eric Nave and Rob Draper arrived, setting up its sophisticated radio equipment at the Port War Signal Station and establishing its secret decoding rooms deep in the Fort Canning complex. John Galvin’s Far East Mission arrived from Hong Kong, a likeable, thirsty bunch of rascals who immediately began pumping out propaganda from their offices in the Cathay Mansions. I liked John Galvin in particular. He was a chunky, dark-haired ex-Sydneysider who was mad keen on horses and often rode with us at Whitelawns. It is strange how the world works: John Galvin was to play a huge role in our lives but when we first met him I used to think that the only thing we had in common was a love of riding. And perhaps a sense of humour, because John was always laughing.

  The stay-behind parties went into training, being shown the ropes by tough soldiers seconded to Singapore from Colin McKenzie’s people in India. Bob Chrystal was attached to one of them and he dropped in on us after a week-long stint in the jungles of Borneo, his usual easy good humour worn thin by exhaustion and the recurrence of a stomach ulcer he was hiding from the authorities. ‘This is getting serious,’ he said, sipping from a glass of Milk of Magnesia. ‘At this rate there is a risk they’ll find out what an old crock I am before the Japanese even get here.’

  And Denis received his first posting to a ship. To be truthful, His Majesty’s Malay Ship Penghulu wasn’t very much of a ship. She was a makedo minesweeper, a converted trawler that still looked like a trawler because of the untidy tangle of sweeping gear on her decks. Denis’s appointment was as First Officer, which was not quite as impressive as it sounded because he was the only officer on board apart from the skipper. But ‘Jimmy the One’ is a good appointment in naval terms. He has full responsibility for running the ship: a tight ship means a good exec, and a good exec is marked for eventual command.

  The skipper was George Fortesque, a Royal Naval Reserve Lieutenant-Commander. George had been an up-and-coming young sub-lieutenant at the end of the First World War, but naval economies in the nineteen-twenties, and an unfortunate facial tic, had stalled his career. He had been ‘bowler hatted’ and had come out to Malaya with the FMS Police ten years before. I met him when I took Denis over to the Naval Base to join Penghulu for his first patrol. We sat in the tiny wardroom, Denis incredibly smart in his white tropical uniform, George looking rather tired and faded, reclining in his chair with a pink gin in his hand. But I liked George. He had no side to him whatever: for him, being skipper was a responsibility, not a ticket to privilege. That became clear when he gave up his larger cabin to Denis so that he could have a decent desk to work on the ship’s codebooks and papers. ‘Been doing the work myself,’ he said. ‘My previous Number One spent half his time under the table. You don’t look that sort, Denis.’ He glanced at me and held up his small glass of gin. ‘Have no fear, Norma. I never drink at sea. Seen too many good men found out because the gin on board is too damned cheap.’ Then his face gave one of its queer spasms, spoiling the image. I felt sorry for him. What a curse and what a handicap that tic must have been, all his life.

  The Penghulu’s work was to keep the approaches to Singapore and Penang clear of drifting mines. Her patrols usually took a couple of days, and she went out two or three times a month. It was not a strenuous program, and apart from an engine-room artificer and seaman who lived permanently aboard and kept her in trim, Penghulu’s crew were stood down between patrols.

  We may have been in the middle of a World War, and the Japanese storm clouds may have been building on the northern horizon, but Malaya in 1941 was still a pretty peaceful place to be. It was only when the Penghulu was at sea that my stomach churned and I would lie awake at night imagining the worst. A minesweeper’s work might not have been particularly dangerous, but it wasn’t quite the picnic Denis had painted it. There was always the risk of running into a ‘friendly’ mine, and it was known that German surface raiders prowled the Indian Ocean.

  So it was always with relief that I would hear the Navy car crunch to a halt under the coconut palms, and then the shouts of the two boys as they ran to their daddy. Bobby had been walking since eleven months and was now quite a handful, trailing his elder brother in and out of mischief all the livelong day, a cheeky grin on his chubby face. We had a nurse for each the boys at this stage, young graduates from Singapore’s newly-established Institute of Childcare Studies. Agatha and Christine wore crisp white uniforms and kept discipline with patience and good humour.

  On one occasion, the Penghulu remained at sea for an unprecedented three weeks. I had one brief message from HMS Sultan that she was ‘on an extended operation’, then nothing as one day followed another. By the middle of the third week I was convinced something had gone wrong and began to pester anyone I could think of for news. ‘Penghulu?’ Ivan Lyon finally said. ‘I think she’s in company with a couple of Australian sweepers, clearing the Lombok Strait. A German raider seeded the place with magnetic mines. A ferry went down there about a month ago and lots of civilians were drowned.’ He shouldn’t have told me, and in retrospect I wish he hadn’t. It meant sleepless nights and a permanent gnawing pain in the stomach. I realised that I was not cut out to be the wife of a warrior.

  I tried to keep up my morning ride, but couldn’t stand Thor whickering with disappointment when he heard Dame Fashion going off without him, and I gave it away. I missed riding, and I missed Denis, and I found myself at times unaccountably, unreasonably angry with him. ‘You selfish man,’ I once said aloud. ‘You should be here with us, not off somewhere in the wild blue playing toy soldiers!’ And then of course I felt most awfully guilty, and asked God’s forgiveness.

  I was working on the day’s menus with Amah in my sewing room when his car finally crunched up the driveway. There was at first an overwhelming feeling of relief, and then that silly, unreasoning anger rose to the surface. I decided not to rush out. I’d keep on talking to Amah, affect casual indifference to teach him a lesson. It worked until I saw Denis standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips, smiling at me with his eyes, his
lips pressed tight to preserve decorum. And of course the inevitable happened and I was in his arms, babbling my fears, holding him tight to reassure myself he was really home. After that I really did begin to fear the coming Japanese attack. If three weeks of uncertainty had done that to me, what would happen when the bullets were flying, and men were dying?

  In the middle of August 1941 I walked into John Dalley’s office at Dalforce HQ to find Malcolm Bryant sitting at John’s desk, smoking a cheroot and leafing through a pile of papers I knew contained the personal details of Dalforce members.

  ‘You have no right to do that, Malcolm,’ I snapped. ‘Those are private documents. You can’t see them unless you have a search warrant!’ It seemed to me as plain as a pikestaff what Malcolm was doing. The Communist Party was still an illegal organisation in Malaya and Malcolm was gathering incriminating information about a fine bunch of patriots who had volunteered to fight for their country. I strode across the room and reached for the papers in front of him.

  Malcolm did not resist. He sat back in his chair and puffed his cheroot. ‘We seem destined to always meet at cross purposes,’ he said mildly. ‘I assure you that I have every right to do what I’m doing. Why don’t you ask John himself?’ Someone had come into the room and I spun around to see John Dalley with another pile of personnel files in his arms.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, letting a policeman read our people’s files?’ I asked angrily. ‘You know Malcolm is a policeman, don’t you? No doubt he’s chasing after Communists.’

  John kicked the door shut behind him and put the pile of files down on his desk. ‘Don’t forget that I am a policeman too, Norma,’ he said. ‘Outside of Dalforce, I’m the Director of the Police Intelligence Bureau. Malcolm has just joined my unit and I’m briefing him on some of the people we have to keep an eye on.’

  I felt as if I had been kicked in the solar plexus, and stared from one man to another, the colour draining from my cheeks. ‘If this is some awful police scheme to trap Communists you can count me out,’ I said furiously. I thought of Robert, and Gordon Tang. And Catherine. And how Denis and I had been used. Curry tiffin with an understanding Governor, indeed! It had been an almighty confidence trick. I needed fresh air and spun on my heel, but Dalley’s bulk barred me from the door. He was suddenly a sinister figure in his khaki uniform and with a pistol at his belt.

  ‘Don’t go off half-cocked, Norma,’ he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. ‘Let me explain. If you still want to walk out after I’ve explained I won’t stop you. But hear me out first.’

  We sat in John’s cane visitor’s chairs, Malcolm leaning back puffing at his cheroot, John leaning forward earnestly, doing all the talking. He had pleaded for, and been given, permission to organise Dalforce and recruit its members from the Chinese community in Malaya. He’d done it because unlike most FMS police officers – in fact unlike most British officials in Malaya – he trusted the Chinese more than the Malays. The English had an affinity with the Malays. Their nonchalance, their sense of honour, their casual approach to work and money appealed to the upper-crust Englishmen who tended to fill the top ranks of the Malay Civil Service. John had experienced the other side of the equation. He’d investigated and exposed a Malay political association – the Perisoc Association – as a dangerous and subversive organisation plotting to overthrow the FMS Government. There had been an attempt on his life, a drugged Malay assassin running at him after a polo match with a pistol in one hand and a kris in the other. John’s Chinese clerk had saved his life. After that, John Dalley had fought to redress the official view of the Chinese as too-clever-by-half businessmen or cunning Communists and criminals. He had received permission to form Dalforce and been given the rank of colonel only on the condition that his Intelligence Bureau was fully integrated into the unit. Chinese joining the unit, John said, knew this perfectly well and accepted the arrangement.

  ‘They know that if they join Dalforce they must desist from any activity against the Government,’ he said. ‘Surely you can see that is only reasonable. What Malcolm is doing is to check that none of our people are stirring up trouble. The fact that they may be Communists isn’t relevant.’

  ‘I’ll believe what you say if Robert Koh tells me it’s true,’ I said, and John immediately pushed the buzzer on his desk.

  ‘It is all perfectly true, Norma,’ Robert said. ‘Embarrassing but true. You see, we are at the best only half trusted by the British. But we trust Colonel Dalley. He won’t let us down.’ He paused, thinking. ‘To be frank we would join Dalforce even if we didn’t trust Colonel Dalley, simply because there is no alternative. We want a crack at the Japanese when they come, and we need British guns and ammunition. It’s not a loyal-to-the-Sahib thing. It’s practical politics.’

  We lunched in the newly decorated ‘officers’ mess’ with Robert as a guest. Afterwards, Malcolm and I sat on alone, sipping coffee as a single superannuated fan flapped inefficiently at the turgid air above us.

  ‘Thank you for not dashing off after lunch as if I were some kind of leper,’ Malcolm said quietly. ‘I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I really would like to try and make amends.’ He looked fitter than I remembered and somehow more mature, more comfortable with himself. He had a Malacca cane with a silver handle propped by his side. He clearly did not need it but it gave him an air of casual elegance.

  ‘You are still on probation,’ I said, but smiled as I said it. To tell the truth I was glad of the chance to say some things to him. A lot had changed since we had last met, and I wanted to put the record straight. I was now legally married. I was a wealthy woman in my own right. I had travelled. I had a handsome and well-regarded husband and two bonny children. I had Whitelawns. I was no longer an alien but an Englishwoman, a British subject by birth.

  ‘You seem very happy,’ Malcolm said, and I smiled again. ‘I am very happy,’ I said. ‘We were married, you know. At St Andrew’s Cathedral, as Denis promised.’

  Malcolm tipped his head. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I saw the photograph in the Straits Times. Congratulations.’

  ‘And I’ve met his people in England,’ I lied. ‘His sister in Taunton is a lovely person.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘I had tea with Maxine Elliott,’ I went on. ‘She was not exactly the blowsy Hollywood actress you described. She was a woman of great charm and influence. Before she died she gave me a priceless piece of silver. She said she would have given it to her daughter if she had had one.’

  Malcolm bobbed his head again.

  ‘So you were wrong on every count,’ I said. ‘Denis has married me. He is not a charlatan. He comes from a respected family. He was not Maxine’s gigolo, but a dear friend and protégé. I would like you to apologise for the things you said, and the hurt you caused me.’

  ‘I apologise,’ Malcolm said. ‘I was wrong on every count, and your trust in Denis completely justified.’

  I took a long, deep breath. All the painful ghosts had been exorcised. I looked at Malcolm through fresh, candid eyes. He no longer had any power over me, never would have again.

  I considered for a while, quite cold-bloodedly, whether or not I wanted him as a friend. I knew that I could walk out of the room and never see him again, and it wouldn’t matter tuppence to me. I had no anger, no resentment, no concern that he could hurt me if he wished. He’d been a silly boy but I had forgiven him.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘I was wondering if we should stay friends,’ I said quite frankly. Malcolm didn’t say anything, but lit another cheroot and puffed on it quietly.

  ‘It is for you to say, Nona.’

  ‘Norma,’ I corrected absently. Then I shook my head. I was being deliberately cruel, and that wasn’t my normal nature. ‘Of course we should be friends,’ I said. ‘Denis told me that you kept an eye on me as a child. That must count for something in the scheme of things.’

  We talked on for a while, inconsequential stuff, just fe
eling each other out. He told me that his sister had gone down to Sydney, partly to get away from the possibility of a Japanese attack, partly in pursuit of some man. He was worried for her. She wasn’t getting any younger and her years in the Far East had not been kind.

  I talked about my children, about life at Whitelawns, about going riding with Denis when the morning dew was still on the grass, and about how happy I was.

  ‘I’m glad for you, Nona,’ he said, and I thought at the time that he meant it.

  Sunday, 7 December 1941 was a particularly hot day. I remember the day so clearly that if you were to name an hour I could tell you precisely what we were all doing at that time. I remember the day so clearly because it was the last day of peace before war finally caught up with Malaya, and everything changed forever.

  I remember that we got up at our traditional hour, and had our traditional ride. Even at seven in the morning it was unbearably hot, and afterwards Denis and I went down to the beach and took a long, leisurely swim. I remember lying on my back in the comparative cool of the water and looking up at Whitelawns, the green terraces rising from the white sand of the beach, the tall roofs of the bungalow framed by coconut palms. We breakfasted with the boys on the verandah. They were both rather fretful after a hot night, and I recall that Christine told us we needed calamine lotion for a heat rash Tony had developed. At about ten we drove down to the Swimming Club for a splash and some ice cream, and then drove home, stopping on the way to pick up the calamine lotion from the clinic in Changi.

  Sunday was curry tiffin day, and this Sunday was no exception. All morning preparations had been under way: the scrawny Malayan chickens caught and beheaded, the grey-green curry paste pounded and mixed in its stone crucible, the various sambals prepared, and the sago and palm sugar made ready for our traditional dessert of gula malacca. I recall that the dining room at Whitelawns, usually cooled by the afternoon sea breeze, remained stubbornly hot and airless that day, and that after lunch we dragged mattresses and cushions out to the loggia for our siesta.