“How far did you go?” I asked.
She looked first at me, and then at Thomas, with the utmost seriousness. “All the way to Singapore.” Then she started laughing, amused to have fooled us.
“I spent some time in India,” Thomas said. “Mainly in New Delhi. I loved the architecture.”
She nodded in agreement. “The British plans for New Delhi have been superb, mixing Indian influences with English. The buildings rival any in the world.”
They continued to share their experiences on the subcontinent from Calcutta to New Delhi, from mountains to sea. The conversation wandered from religions to regions, castes to coasts, and history to hierarchies.
I watched as they chatted, having little to contribute even though they made efforts to include me. Curiously, I felt a tinge of jealousy; I was annoyed that they seemed to have so much in common and that they chatted so effortlessly, moving from one topic to the next. But soon my journalistic tendencies overrode my desire to participate in the conversation, and I found myself analyzing them, dissecting the personalities of these two unusual people that I had been so fortunate to meet.
Every inch of Lady Jane Carrington Smythe, every breath she took, symbolized the British aristocracy of the Indian subcontinent. But only when she wanted it to. She was far more adept at seeming ordinary, blending in, and using a dry sense of humor to keep anyone from getting too close to her. Nevertheless, her intelligence, her eloquence, and her sharp wit personified years of education and training and managed to seep into any conversation she had.
I easily visualized her in an English riding uniform, demonstrating her equestrian skills, or seated before a piano, her fingers traveling the keyboard with an ease that would amaze the less talented. But just as easily, I imagined her downing shots of tequila in a back street bar, personally offending the king, or racing a horse amidst a dozen mounted men.
Familiar with the poets of the nineteenth century, I’m sure she could quote both verse and interpretation, speaking comfortably with academics who had made those topics their lives and then a minute later read a murder mystery or a romance novel that’s forgotten as soon as it’s finished.
But even with all of her culture and education, I saw her rebellious side, her desire to be unconventional and innovative, and there was little doubt that Lady Jane Carrington Smythe would say or do whatever she pleased, insuring she had fun as she did so.
She was everything that Maggie wasn’t.
Thomas was a mystery that left no clues, no pieces offered to complete the puzzle. A world traveler who spoke five languages, a man of French ancestry who didn’t seem French, he offered just enough insight into his personal life to be interesting but not enough to understand him. A man with no obvious means of support, he lived comfortably in one of the world’s most luxurious hotels, enjoying each minute life offered.
Clearly not born to wealth, Thomas still had enough intelligence and poise to mingle with those who were. Friend to princes and paupers alike, he conversed with each on a level they understood, and he relished in learning the ways of their world. Willing to help when he had no vested interest in the outcome, he seemed to skip through life, telling stories and quoting people from every layer of society, usually to provide an escape from reality for those who needed it most.
I wondered, as I watched him chat so freely with Lady Jane, what it was that motivated him. What created his obvious zest for life and his apparent love for the human race? I needed to know.
After I had dissected my companions, I thought it only fair that I examine myself. I took a swig of soda and pretended to look in the mirror.
I was a man who grew from a sickly boy, overcoming rejection, disappointment, failure, and heartache. I never gave up or considered surrender and always tried harder than everyone else just to be ordinary. I loved rugby and cricket, but would never be gifted enough to play either. I admired great literature, Shakespeare and Tennyson and Dickens, yet I would never be more than a mediocre journalist. The entire world was at war, but I was too inadequate to be a soldier. I was a lover of London, yet I felt compelled to leave. I was quiet, but inquisitive, friendly but reserved, respectful yet curious. I was loyal to friends and dedicated to family.
And I was responsible for Maggie’s death.
CHAPTER 8
My thoughts, and the dialogue enjoyed by Thomas and Lady Jane, were suddenly interrupted by the hotel registration clerk. He burst into the ballroom, his face flush with excitement, his half-glasses still perched on the edge of his nose. He yelled to quiet the murmurs, waving his arms until he had everyone’s attention.
“The Japanese have invaded the island!” he shouted.
The room erupted in gasps, garbled conversation, and hollered questions. I think we all had hoped the attack would never come, that it would be thwarted by the Allies before it was ever launched. Some patrons rose from their chairs, trying to get the clerk’s attention, while others talked among themselves, anxious and fearful. All hoped the invasion had been halted on the beaches and that the long road to victory had begun.
“Let the man speak!” a husky voice in the back of the room bellowed. “Quiet!”
Gradually the noise subsided and the clerk continued. “The Japanese have crossed the Strait of Johore and landed on the northwest coast. The Australians are resisting fiercely, but the enemy has established a beach head. They could threaten the airport, but... ”
“The airport!” gasped Charlie Li, a local real estate developer. “How will anyone escape?”
“Wait! Listen!” the spokesman said. “The commander of the British forces said the city will be held at all costs.”
I realized then that the city would not be held. If the Japanese had gained a foothold on the island and were already threatening the airport, the invasion was going badly for the Allies. I thought of Thomas’s warning, now an hour old. Somehow, he always seemed to know what was coming next.
Lady Jane was startled. “Will we still be able to get off the island?”
“I hope so,” Thomas said, although his face showed no confidence. “Lady Jane, it may be easier for you to escape to India. There are transport vessels in the harbor now. I have some friends at the port. I can get you passage.”
She looked at him for a moment, and sadness crossed her face. “I’m afraid I don’t have that option,” she said softly. “I think I’ll go with you and George. Someday, I may return to India. But it can’t be now.”
I wondered what had happened. What had she done that made her unwelcome? There was the connection with Balraj Patel, a commoner from a different culture, a different race, and probably a different religion. Was he more than a friend? That much was likely. She wouldn’t have come to Singapore just to meet him. They had to be in love. It was the only thing that would make her aristocratic family disown her. I could imagine her father’s reaction.
“Then I must get our fake identities quickly,” he said. “I think we’re going to need them.”
He didn’t react to her reluctance to return to India. He probably shared the same thoughts I did. But he didn’t show it. It wasn’t like him.
The next morning at 10 a.m. we met outside the lobby. Guests were scattered about, carrying luggage and waiting for taxis or rickshaws to take them to the harbor. Although the flight for safety had started, it was still controlled and disciplined and not yet widespread. Most were cautiously observing the military situation. Waiting. Still hopeful.
We heard distant sounds of battle, the earth rumbling gently as cannons relentlessly tossed shells. The Singapore defenses responded; large guns designed to fire over the ocean now aimed at the Malay Peninsula. The Allies faced a dilemma. Even though the attack had come from the northwest, the enemy was also entrenched on Ubin Island to the northeast; it was not known if a two-pronged attack was imminent. In any event, the enemy presence pinned British troops on the eastern coast.
Thomas managed to borrow the same roadster, although now the convertible top
was up. Lady Jane sat beside him while I climbed in the back. He guided the automobile through the streets of Singapore in an easterly direction, avoiding throngs of pedestrians merging onto the boulevards and competing with cars, bicycles, and trucks for the same real estate. I was perplexed by all the activity. Residents continued with their daily lives, yet the Japanese army was twenty miles away.
We traveled farther from the city’s center, past the school and the park, the golf course and knitting mill, and the buildings grew sparser. Scenery transitioned to small farms, nestled in a landscape bathed in various shades of green. Thomas guided the car down a little-used lane, hidden by weeds and strewn with small rocks, which probably once formed a road. We traveled a hundred yards more and halted beside an old barn, its slate roof scarred with patches and its weathered siding missing some of its clapboards.
“We’re here,” Thomas said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my friend.”
As we exited the car, he went to the trunk and removed a small wooden crate; it was about a foot square and only a few inches wide. Although its contents were unknown, it appeared to be heavy. Thomas strained to carry it.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Some cargo for a delivery later today,” he said.
“It looks heavy,” I said. “It must be lead. Or gold.” He ignored me, and led us to a door at the side of the barn and rapped on it loudly. A distant voice called from within. He glanced furtively in all directions. When satisfied no one observed him, he entered.
We crossed the threshold, and took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The barn contained a small airplane, its tail closest to us. It was a bi-wing bathed in a rich varnish and used to transport cargo. Although it was several years old and a bit weathered, it appeared well maintained.
There was a tiny office at the rear of the barn tucked beside a room that contained shelves filled with parts and tools. Thomas walked to it, knocked on the door, and then entered, carrying the crate. He emerged a minute later without it, followed by a young Chinese man.
“This is Chin, a good friend of mine,” he said. “Lady Jane Carrington Smythe and George Adams.”
Chin was slender and of average height, his black hair long and draping his forehead. A broad smile consumed his face, but his black eyes didn’t twinkle to match it; they were dull and sad. He looked to be about twenty years old but was probably older. He wore a small gold cross around his neck.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Chin said with a slight bow of respect. “Thomas tells me that you want to leave the island.” I thought his statement curious. I wondered when they had communicated. We had just discussed leaving the prior evening. Thomas might have telephoned, informing his friend that we were coming, but then why was the visit needed? Maybe he was here only to deliver the package.
“Yes, we do,” Lady Jane said. “And we expect to have another gentleman with us.”
“That’s fine,” Chin said. “I was planning to leave for Batavia in two days, just after dusk. I don’t think we should wait much longer. The Japanese could advance rapidly. This may be our only chance.”
“What if the military situation deteriorates?” I asked.
“Then we’ll leave tomorrow night,” Chin replied. “I was waiting for some cargo. But I’ll leave without it if I have to.”
“Have you made this journey often?” Lady Jane asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Many times. I don’t foresee any problems. It’s about six hundred miles. But we’ll stop about halfway on the island of Sumatra. I have some crates to deliver, and we can refuel there. Why? Is something wrong?”
She was hesitant, but finally expressed her concern. “You look so young.”
He laughed. “I’m not as young as you think. Nowhere near.”
“Chin is one of the most experienced aviators on Singapore,” Thomas said. “I wouldn’t trust our lives with anyone else.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Chin said. “Who is the other person joining us?”
When Lady Jane seemed hesitant to speak, I replied for her. “He’s a close friend. He’s with the Twelfth Infantry Brigade. We’ve been unable to locate him. Even though we’ve searched much of the island.”
Chin looked at me strangely. “The Twelfth Infantry Brigade?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Why?”
“You drove right past them to get here,” he said. “They’re stationed on the outskirts of the city.”
CHAPTER 9
“That doesn’t make sense,” Lady Jane said. “Unless...” She paused and her complexion paled. “Is there a hospital nearby?”
“The British Military Hospital is about four miles west of the city,” Chin said. “But those not seriously wounded are treated at field hospitals near their units.”
“We can search on the return trip,” Thomas offered. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”
“I’m afraid something happened to him,” Lady Jane said.
“Then let’s go look,” Thomas said. “Chin, we’ll see you at dusk the day after tomorrow.”
We got back in the car and Thomas turned the ignition. “I’ve known Chin for years,” he said as he guided the vehicle down the lane. “He was an orphan. His parents died in some sort of accident, I forget what it was. But he ended up in the streets. I think he was about fourteen years old at the time.”
“Why didn’t someone take him in?” Lady Jane asked. “He must have had friends or relatives.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“How did he survive?” I asked.
“He did some odd jobs, but mostly he stole. Picked pockets and the like. And he lived in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the city. Eventually he met a young woman of the Christian faith, the daughter of missionaries, and, even though they were both teenagers, they fell in love. He adopted her faith, and they married. They were expecting a child when her parents left them for a temporary assignment on the mainland. They were never seen again.”
“How did the youngsters ever raise a child?” Lady Jane asked.
“They didn’t,” Thomas said. “Chin went to the hospital after the birth, and his wife had vanished and left the baby behind. He thinks his wife’s relatives were somehow involved. The nurse told him his son would be sent to an orphanage unless Chin took him, so he did. He searched for his wife for months but she had disappeared, just like her parents had. Her relatives weren’t talking, nor could he trace his wife’s whereabouts through them. It’s a mystery to this day.”
“What did he do?” I asked.
“He raised the child.”
“In an abandoned building?” Lady Jane asked.
“That doesn’t make much sense at all. The authorities didn’t prevent him from taking the baby?”
“They didn’t,” Thomas said. “And initially he went to the abandoned house. But a stranger heard the story, and through the friend of a friend, he got Chin a job at the airport cleaning out hangers. The stranger also found a retired lady to help with the baby. Chin worked hard, earned enough for an apartment. Then one of the pilots took a liking to him and taught him how to fly. Eventually he saved enough money to buy a plane, and he started his own cargo route.”
“That’s a remarkable story,” I said, already making a mental note to develop it into an article. Readers liked success stories, especially when people overcame so many obstacles.
“Chin is an amazing person,” Thomas said. “He would do anything for you. He has for me. He’s the closest to family that I have.”
“Where is his son?” Lady Jane asked.
“They were inseparable,” Thomas said. “And then a year or two ago, the boy got sick. The doctors said it was some sort of cancer. But he died shortly after that. A young boy still. Maybe nine or ten. Chin has never been the same.”
Lady Jane’s eyes grew moist, and a tear slowly dripped down her cheek. “I had a cousin who died as a child,” she said softly. “It was horrible. He was only five years
old.”
I didn’t know how to console her. She looked so sad, as if her whole world had come to an end. Another tear dripped down.
“Disease can be horrible,” I said.
“It wasn’t disease,” she said, a vacant, faraway look in her eye. “He drowned. We were swimming in the pond by his house. I was seven at the time. He went under the water and didn’t come up. I screamed, yelling for help and crying uncontrollably.”
Neither Thomas nor I spoke.
After a short pause, she went on, her voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to pull him out. I never in all my life ever tried that hard. But I just wasn’t strong enough.”
“Which is why you’re so strong now,” I said quietly. “I’m sure that your cousin is in the arms of Jesus, and that he is at peace.”
She was silent; she nodded and then answered. “I have to be strong. I can never let anything like that happen again. Not ever.”
I knew what it was like to feel responsible for someone’s death. I knew the pain that lives inside you, never escaping, always a reminder of those few fragile minutes when life is unalterably changed. I wanted to make her feel better, to know that she wasn’t the only one who shouldered such a tragedy. But I couldn’t tell her about Maggie.
I also knew what it was like to not have the strength to overcome obstacles or adversity, to not be able to continue when every cell in your body wants to and needs to.
“I’ll never be strong,” I said quietly.
I then told her the story of my sickly childhood and the impact it had had on me as an adult. “It started when I was seven years old. All I ever wanted was to be able to walk and breathe and run and play. My father was a minister. He’d told me if I prayed hard enough I would be able to walk. So I started praying every hour. Just for a few minutes. I realized that it was working. So I tried to stand. Every day I prayed and tried again. And finally, I was able to stand, wobbling like a new-born colt.
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