“Once again Chan Ling has produced a pacey novel, her fifth, to delight her many fans. Her inventiveness is up there with Dick Francis and Jeffrey Archer, even if the context is totally different. The backdrop is Malaya (where the sunrise can be red) in its twilight years as a British possession, and Malaysia at its dawning, with the cruel Emergency period between as centre ground. As ever, the author tells it how it was, with complete objectivity and fairness where concerns the evanescent expatriate Brits, the aristo Malays and the thrusting Chinese. A tangled web of love stories it may be, yet there is suspense on every page. But whatever else is suspended, it is never our belief in the characters or the action. An excellent, enjoyable read.”
—Bill Jackson,
Editor, The Corporal and the Celestial
“Chan Ling’s latest novel begins in Somerset in 1950 and ends there fifteen years later – with the intervening years taking place in Malaya as it moves towards independence. Although Chinese May and English Ruth become close friends, there were many misunderstandings and intrigues along the way. What at first appears to be a conventional love story soon develops into one of intrigue, sexual tension and tragedy. There are racial and societal differences, with rich and poor all added to the mix. The pace is fast and there is plenty of action to keep you reading. Post-war Malaya is brought to life with its mix of crowded cities, steamy jungles, white sandy beaches, and the heady scents of the flowers and spices. You also get glimpses of a different life in 1960s London. This book enthralled me. I could not put it down.”
—Julia Appleton
President, Princes Risborough Morning WI
© 2018 Chan Ling Yap
Cover designed by Lynn Chin, photo of lady by Skeronov/Shutterstock.
Published by Marshall Cavendish Editions
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While some of the background and characters are based on historical events and figures, this novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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National Library Board Singapore Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Name(s): Chan, Ling Yap.
Title: Where the sunrise is red / Chan Ling Yap.
Description: Singapore : Marshall Cavendish Editions, [2017]
Identifier(s): OCN 1004681154 | eISBN: 978 981 4794 24 4
Subject(s): LCSH: Malaya--History--Fiction. | Malaya--History--Malayan
Emergency, 1948-1960–Fiction.
Classification: DDC M823.92--dc23
Printed in Singapore by Fabulous Printers Pte Ltd
To Tony
I lay my cheek on yours
You were still warm
Tears flowed sealing mine to yours
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Sue Potter, Angela Wall, Bill Jackson and Julia Appleton for reading my draft and giving it their time. Their comments and suggestions were invaluable and much appreciated. Thanks also to all those who have encouraged me to continue writing and the love and support of my children, Lee and Hsu Min.
Chapter 1
RUTH DUG DEEP into her pockets. Her fingers were frozen with cold. She stamped her feet and huddled her slight body further into the sheepskin coat. She loved the coat. Worn and almost bare in patches, it smelt of wood smoke and reminded her of the fire she would light when she returned home that evening. She cast her eyes in search of Buster. She called his name loudly, palms cupped round her lips to give her voice weight. She knew she should hurry, for dark comes suddenly in December. From a distance black clouds loomed; streaks scuttling towards her like a lion’s mane flowing wild. A sudden wind whipped up. She shivered. The air had turned distinctly cold. She reached up to touch her nose. It was numb and she imagined it looking red. Not your best feature, her mother had told her solemnly when she was a child. But her mother was no more. They said that a bomb dropped on Liverpool Station had killed her instantly.
A lump formed in her throat. Ruth swallowed and brushed the damp from her cheeks. She searched in her pocket for the letter. She had used the excuse of walking Buster to leave the house to read it in private. She had read it over and over again, examining each word, each line, in search of a deeper meaning in them. The words seemed distant. Did he not wish her to come, she asked herself. It had been almost a year since Mark left for Malaya. She had wanted to go with him. “No, Ruth,” was his answer, whispered in her ear. He had nuzzled her neck, his breath warm with a hint of tobacco. “Plantation policy does not permit it. I need time to settle and get to know the job. It would not be prudent for you to come. Things don’t look too good over there.” Mark had stopped short then. She could see that he did not wish to talk about his work in Malaya. “Anyway, what about your father?” he had challenged after a moment’s hesitation. “He has not recovered from the loss of your mother. He needs you.” Ruth could still see, in her mind’s eye, the flecks of light in Mark’s hazel eyes; eyes that commanded her to see sense, to yield to her responsibility to her father.
With a sigh, she called out loud for Buster again. He came bounding up the hill wagging his tail. His tongue hung out in breathless pleasure and his eyes were full of joy, the joy of running in the wild and the joy of chasing rabbits. A joy that she could not share.
“Come! Time to go home,” she said, ruffling the hair on his head.
***
“So what did he say?” her father asked the minute she stepped into the kitchen. He was seated hunched by the hearth. His face was wan and his cheeks bristly. The bags under his eyes told of sleepless nights and worry.
“Nothing much,” she replied hiding her face which had turned a deep red. She piled the wood high in the hearth and began twisting and knotting old newspapers to start the fire.
“Nothing much?” John’s voice was gruff in disbelief. “It’s been three months since he last wrote! I see you wring your hands each time the postman comes.”
“The mail is slow,” she replied lamely. “Mark said that security is tightening up in Malaya. It would not be a good time for me to join him.”
“Huh! Excuses! If security is being tightened up, would it not make it safer for you to go? You can’t remain apart forever. Since you married, Mark has been away for most of the time. I won’t be here forever. The f
arm has to be sold. I can’t run it, not even with your help. Labour is difficult to come by. All the lads have left for the city. And, my dear daughter, I don’t want you to waste your life sitting by me when I know you are pining for your husband.”
She knelt down and placed her head on his lap. “I love you Dad. I am not wasting my life. Mark knows best. I am sure he has good reasons for my not joining him.”
John laid a hand on his daughter’s head and ran his fingers through the blond curls that refused to lie flat. He could not bring himself to tell Ruth that the creditors had been. The farm had to be sold sooner than he had anticipated. He knew that he had himself to blame. He had allowed himself to wallow in the loss of his wife and had done little to redeem the situation after the war. First he lost the wheat crop in 1946 as a result of incessant rains. Then the following year, the potato crop had failed because of hard frost and snow. The little he had set aside for rainy days had all vanished. Now, with the farmhands almost all gone and no land girls to call upon, it was mechanisation or sink. Investing in machinery was not an option he could afford.
***
Ruth opened her eyes and pulled the blanket right up to her chin. She wriggled her toes to get some warmth into them. In the silence of the night, an owl screeched. A silvery beam of moonlight peeked through the gap between the curtains. She shivered. A little warmth would be lovely, she thought. Shadows played in the room, shifting with the movement of the curtain. The room was draughty. Mark had told her about the heat in Malaya. She could not imagine such heat. Relentless, he had said. She didn’t quite grasp what that meant. She had never been abroad. The nearest to being hot was that one sunny day they had had in Brighton. Lying on the beach with the pebbles and fine sand round her, it was the nearest thing to heaven. She had been so in love. She remembered licking ice cream from a cone. She could even taste it now. Yes, a little warmth would be wonderful.
Perhaps she had imagined it all. Perhaps she had read into the letter something that was not there. Mark must just be busy. After all, his job was a difficult one. He had hinted at dangers that he might have to encounter but had never elaborated on them. She had tried to find out more about the situation in Malaya, ‘The Emergency’ they called it. She had failed. All news seemed focused on the situation in England itself. The war had virtually bankrupted the country. Just getting bread, meat and enough to eat, became an all-consuming activity. Feelings ran high and people vented their pent-up frustration through strikes and demonstrations. Page after page of news was devoted to the never-ending problems in England. What news they had of the colonies was few and far between and centred mainly on India and Burma. Their demand for independence and subsequent gaining of it caught the attention of the media as did the turmoil and massacre that followed the partition of India. Malayan news seemed, however, to be buried somewhere, inaccessible. Perhaps she just didn’t know how to find it.
Ruth turned on her side dragging the blanket around her shoulder. She wanted desperately to know more; she wished not to show ignorance when she wrote to Mark. She wished he would talk to her, write more. She wished that she was with him.
Chapter 2
Tanjong Malim
SWEAT DRIPPED DOWN his forehead and gathered at his collar, turning it a dirty brown. The shirt clung to his body tenaciously. Mark caught a whiff of himself. With an impatient move of his shoulders, he shrugged his shirt off and threw it into the woven basket in the corner of the bathroom. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a gecko scrabbling on the wall. Mosquitoes buzzed. He leaned forward to look into the mirror. In the harsh neon light, his skin was a deathly pallor despite his dark tan. He turned on the tap. The pipe clanked in protest. A trickle of brown rusty liquid flowed, followed by a gush of clean, clear water. He dipped his head under the tap and allowed water to fall on his head and face. Then abruptly, he turned off the tap and straightened up.
“A clean shirt,” May said handing him a dazzling white shirt starched and ironed. She had come in without his knowing. It always amazed him that she could move so quietly.
May smiled and two tiny dimples deepened on her cheeks. Mark felt his heart skip a beat. He could hardly describe the effect she had on him.
“Let me,” she said. Gently she patted the towel around his head, then face and then his shoulders. He let her, standing mutely, submitting to her ministration. He could smell the scent she used. He had asked her once what it was. She had smiled her enigmatic smile. “A secret handed down from my mother,” and said no more.
He gathered her in his arms, his fingers spanning her waist. He marvelled at her slenderness even as he drew her urgently to him. She let him, her body moulding into his.
“I have a wife.” Mark could feel May stiffen at this reminder. He knew he was at fault by not telling her earlier. “You must understand that I love her and that when she comes, this cannot continue.” He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face to him, forcing her to look him in the eye and understand what he was trying to say to her.
“Yes,” her voice almost a whisper. He had to bend low to hear her. She looked away. “I understand. I now know that is how it would be. My friend Su Yin said the same. When her master’s wife came, she became once more the maid, no longer mistress in her master’s bed. Ah Lan fared even worse. When her master’s wife came, they threw her out. She had nowhere to go. Now she works in knock-knock shop, so many men. She cried so hard.”
A glimmer of tears threatened in the corner of her eyes. She buried her face in his chest. He could feel the dampness. She had not reproached him for not telling her earlier that he had a wife and he was filled with guilt.
“But must it be so for me, for us?” she asked.
Mark took some time to answer. The silence hung over them like a hot cocoon. He had never planned this to happen, never planned to have a mistress. He had not wanted to take advantage of May. Beneath his breath, he cursed the loneliness of his posting in this god-forsaken part of the country. Stuck out in the sticks with no one to talk to and with nothing to divert his attention, all he had was the all-embracing heat, the jungle, the flies and mosquitoes, the noise of feral beasts, of wild boars snorting and monkeys cackling, and rubber. Rows and rows of the dratted tree, that white gold that had once attracted him to the country now bound him like a snake, choking the life out of him. When May took on the job as his housekeeper, it was like a godsend. The Office had sent her over; they had said that they had vetted her and she was clean. Her Chinese name was Ling Mei, a mouthful, so they shortened it and anglicised the spelling. “She has,” they said, “no connections whatsoever with the insurgents.” Within days he was smitten. She was beautiful, young and gentle. She spoke English. He began to stay at home more and more. He looked forward to the evenings when he could be with her. He wooed her; it was not his intention to do so. He just did; it seemed the most natural thing to do. Young, innocent and pliable, May responded. He could tell that she liked him and was flattered by the attention he showered on her. He remembered the first night when they came together. It was a hot sultry night. He had gone to her bed and lifted the thin cotton sheet that covered her. Slipping beside her he drew her close to him. He told her that he just wanted to hold her. He had convinced himself that that would suffice. She had been frightened and had tried to push him away. But the contact had been electrical. It opened up in him a torrent of passion that he had never felt before. He had drowned in it. Tormented afterwards, he tried to explain over and over again that it should not have happened; that it could not and would not continue. Yet it did. Each time he was filled with remorse. He could not write to Ruth and explain. All he could do to postpone the separation from May was to remain separate from Ruth.
“No,” he whispered back in reply, “no knock-knock shop of course.” He mustered a confidence he did not feel and laughed aloud as though amused. “Perish the thought. I’ll think of something. I’ll ask the others what they do.” After all, he was not the only one. There were other
s who successfully kept separate their wives and mistresses.
***
May folded the last of the shirts and placed them in the drawer. She had lined the drawer with paper and had wanted to place sachets of dried jasmine in them. She hadn’t. She had grown to love the way Mark smelt even when he was musty and sweaty. Just thinking about him made her tingle with expectation. She had never fallen in love before. She didn’t have a boyfriend. Her parents’ marriage had been arranged. She had not thought it possible to fall in love with someone so totally. It consumed her. Her mother had warned her about the dangers of being isolated from the outside world with a total stranger, a qwei loh at that. “Remember child,” her mother warned, “you are only sixteen. Do not let him touch you. You have no future if that happens. No man will want you.”
May smiled. How could she explain to her mother that she had fallen in love with Mark?
Unwilling to let May take the job, her mother had spoken of the danger of being alone in a house situated right in the middle of a rubber plantation, edged all round by the jungle where communist insurgents hid. “You know you can be killed by one, or even worse, bombed by the British. Many innocent people have been killed despite not being communists. If you must work in that place,” her mother finally relented, “at least stay away from the jungle and remain in the house. Even then, you may not be safe.”
May knew it was not safe. She had no choice but to take the job. They had no money. Now, she also had no option but to stay. How could she leave Mark? He was everything to her. She loved him. No place was safe. Being Chinese was perhaps the most dangerous, and how could she help being born as one? Every Chinese was a suspect insurgent. She recalled the searching each time she visited the New Village where her family had been recently confined along with hundreds and thousands from other areas. The village was fenced with triple rows of barbed wire. Guards searched her each time she entered. They searched when she left. She retched the first time. The probing and touching of her most intimate places made her skin crawl. She was allowed only a couple of hours to see her parents. The New Village was under perpetual curfew. To call it a village was abomination. People were confined under inhuman conditions. They were allowed to leave the compound in the day to work in plantations, paddy fields or tin mines; each movement out was monitored; each movement in was similarly checked. No, she counted herself lucky to be here with Mark.
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