Where the Sunrise is Red

by Chan Ling Yap

  For a moment she was speechless. The moment passed. She smiled, delighted to see a familiar face. “How ... why are you here?”

  “Harrisons and Crosfield sent me. It was a last minute decision. I heard about your husband. I am sorry.”

  “I didn’t know that you worked for the same company. You didn’t say,” she accused. She blinked and swallowed hard. Her earlier joy in seeing a familiar face dissipated. Nothing seemed as it was. The truth, it would appear, was a very rare commodity. It was her own naivety. He had volunteered hardly any information about himself, always steering their conversation towards her. She should have shown more interest in him rather than talk about herself. But even so he could have said something.

  “I don’t, not really.” He made a rueful, apologetic face. “I ... am with the Government. I have been sent to Harrisons for the moment to sort out some problems. Until yesterday, I didn’t know that I would be posted here.”

  He saw the doubt in her face and the hesitation that could mean questions, possibly awkward ones. “More importantly, how are you?” he asked quickly. “What are you going to do?”

  “I plan to stay on. I hope that the company will allow me the use of Mark’s bungalow until ... until we find him.” Her voice broke. She didn’t want to contemplate the possibility that Mark could not be found. She found Bill’s penetrating stare too much and looked away to collect herself. “I need a job. Major Hugh, he is Mark’s friend, is going to look into the possibility of my taking a teaching post.” She paused; her cheeks grew a bright red. “I don’t have enough to live on without a job. I can’t access Mark’s bank account.”

  Bill reached out and took her hand in his. “I don’t think it would be safe for you to stay alone in the bungalow.”

  Ruth removed her hand, disconcerted by his familiarity. “I have no choice until I know where things stand and where Mark is. You can hardly expect me to return to England without trying to find my husband.” She bit her lip; she did not wish to break down, not now, not ever.

  “When will you move?”

  “This afternoon,” she replied.

  ***

  Ruth heaved the suitcase on to the bed, Mark’s bed. The sheets had been changed. The room dusted. She could smell polish and the remnant scent of mosquito spray. She opened the drawers. Mark’s shirts remained neatly folded. She took one up and placed it to her nose. There was no trace of Mark there, just a hint of soap. Impatiently she went to the bathroom and flung open the cabinet door. The jar of Pond’s cream had disappeared. She turned round. Fu Yi stood by the door observing her. Taken by surprise, Ruth could only return the stare. The diminutive cook turned and walked away.

  Ruth stood for a moment in the room wondering what to do. Then she hurried out of the bedroom. “Fu Yi,” she called after the cook’s retreating back. Fu Yi stopped. Reluctantly, she turned to face Ruth. Her eyes hooded over like a glaze.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” she replied.

  “Tell me about May. Where is she? When did she leave? Why did she leave?”

  “No speak good English. Sorry, can’t tell you.” She bowed and prepared to turn away.

  “Please,” Ruth pleaded.

  Fu Yi shook her head. She did not look up; instead she stared at the floor. Ruth followed her eyes. The floor was shiny clean. Yet at the corner, where a skirting board met the floor, a swarm of red ants marched in a single file as though in a drill.

  “I know nothing, Ma’am. Sorry. I woke up, she gone. I take orders. I, very low, not important. I take orders from May and May from Master. I stay in kitchen. I see nothing and hear nothing.”

  Ruth watched helplessly as Fu Yi retreated back to the kitchen. Once in the kitchen, Fu Yi heaved a sigh of relief. She was happy that May had gone before dawn, before the madam came. At the market, the rumour was that the Master was probably dead. Insurgents were not known to keep their captives alive, unless they wished to trade them for something. Chun too had disappeared. It appeared that he had been under suspicion for a while. Fu Yi let out another sigh. There was no other way she could reduce the tightness in her chest except to dispel a loud sigh of frustration. She wondered again at May’s guilelessness. How could she have trusted her cousin? She should have gone to the police instead of trying to get her cousin to help even if the police had been unhelpful in the past. It was too late now. “The error of youth!” she muttered in Cantonese. May was inexperienced in life and followed her parents’ instructions as though they were gold, as though whatever they said would be correct. And how could they have such trust in him? Fools! Chun was a troublemaker. He stirred up discontent. Tin mines closed down because of it. People claimed that he always wangled his way out. Not this time. Not when the life of a white man was involved. The disappearance of May and Chun immediately after the capture of Mark made him a wanted man, and her, a wanted woman. When she went to the market, she saw posters with their faces plastered on the walls of the Post office. Fu Yi decided then that she would not get involved any further; she would not try to reach May to warn her about the Mistress taking occupation of the house. May would have to find out for herself.

  ***

  It was almost mid-day when Ruth arrived at the spot where Mark had been taken. The road was deserted. Bill jumped out of the jeep and helped her down, his hands clasping her waist to lift her to the tarmac. They lingered a fraction longer than necessary. Ruth did not notice. She was on edge, eager yet dreading at the same time, to see the place. The soldier that accompanied them stood a short distance behind, his rifle ready at hand. Everyone, including Hugh, had advised against coming but she had been adamant. She wanted to see for herself.

  Ruth walked towards the spot where a big cross had been marked on the tarmac. A stain surrounded it like a flower in bloom; dark, metallic, menacing, bloodstains dried by the sun and wind. There were tyre marks near it. Ruth looked around her. Tall grasses, coconut palms and trees with huge buttress-roots grew on either side of the road.

  She clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms until she felt pain. Somehow, the physical pain helped relieve the pain in her heart.

  “Mark, Mark,” she whispered to herself, “where are you?”

  Bill came up close. “We have to go now. There is nothing to see. Nothing here will give you an inkling of where he has gone or where they have taken him. The police have combed the area. They have found nothing.”

  She turned, her face ashen. A tear spilled out despite her desperate attempt not to cry. Bill drew her to him. She rested her head on his chest. She could feel the thumping of her own heartbeat, a heart that had been pierced a hundred times, a heart filled with pain, pain for the loss of Mark and pain because of her suspicion that Mark had been unfaithful. She was not aware of how tightly Bill held her.

  ***

  In the lounge at the rest house, Hugh was growing impatient. The evening was drawing near. Hugh had been reluctant to come to meet Bill. He did not like Bill’s bullying manner or the way he was summoned. But the instructions from the top were that he was to assist Bill in whatever way he could.

  “Tell me,” Hugh said as soon as they were seated, “why are you here. What do you want from us?”

  Bill cast his eyes around the room before finally resting his gaze on Hugh. The warmth he projected when he was around Ruth was completely gone.

  His cold steely eyes bored into Hugh’s. “I am here to put right what has gone wrong, to do what you people have not been able to do. You should know even without my prompting the worsening situation in Malaya.” He leaned back and tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair.

  Hugh remained silent. He was fuming.

  “Perhaps not,” said Bill. “You are a soldier. Perhaps the wider agenda of our government escapes you. How long have you been here?” he asked, the note of sarcasm deepening in his voice.

  “Since the insurgency,” he continued in the same breath without giving Hugh time to answer, “no new tin mines have been discovered. People are just
too frightened to venture out to the jungle to prospect for tin. New mines are vital as existing ones are used up or on strike. The output of rubber has also fallen. The disruption of these two exports has affected the sterling and Britain’s economy. Britain would not be able to pursue the recovery it sought without these two exports, at least not easily. Yet the army here pussyfoots around the insurgents. You people just don’t understand the importance of getting this country quickly back on even keel.”

  “Why don’t you get to the point?” asked Hugh in exasperation, irritated to be talked down to.

  “Of all the states in Malaya, Perak, your patch, presents the most problems,” Bill continued as though he had not heard. “Two years ago, Harrisons and Crosfield’s manager at the Ephil Estate was murdered. Now the manager sent to replace him disappears, one who has come under our radar of surveillance. I am here to investigate him and others like him; we have to wheedle out the worms amongst us, the traitors. When we find them and dispose of them, we’ll cut off the insurgents blood supply and the economy will return to normality.”

  Bill settled back in his armchair. He raised one eyebrow. The look he gave Hugh was pitying, scornful even. “I hope this is a sufficient answer to your question. I called you here this evening to demand your full cooperation and support. Obviously I need your promise not to divulge my role here to Mrs Lampard.”

  Hugh was startled by Bill’s pronouncement that Mark was under surveillance. He didn’t believe a word of it. His dislike of the man deepened. His insolence aside, there was something about Bill that aroused in Hugh a deep sense of distrust. The man was too sure of himself. Hugh did not like the way he was always around Mark’s wife.

  “I am surprised that you were chosen to investigate when you have never been to Malaya before,” he said bluntly, casting caution to the wind.

  “I served in Kenya. I don’t have to know Malaya. I know how insurgents operate. Blacks, browns, they are all the same. One has to counter insurgency simply with a terror that they understand. And this is what I am here to advocate. We’ll bomb them out of existence. I think the army here is too soft.”

  Hugh quelled the desire to explode. He was irritated to the core by Bill’s smugness, his disdain for the Malayan people and his assumption that one size fits all. He could hardly credit what he was hearing. He took his time to respond. He faced a dangerous man, a chameleon, changing to whatever suited his purpose. He had observed how gentle Bill had been with Ruth and the kindness he seemed to radiate when she was around. Hugh acknowledged that he too had been taken in initially. Not now.

  “Did you know,” Hugh said in a quiet voice, “that we had trained these same insurgents to let them fight our war against the Japanese when we ourselves were routed? Did you know,” he said quickly before Bill could respond, “that we had promised them citizenship after the war? Did you also know that under the new legislation of 1948, most of the people who fought on our account have not been given citizenship and are unable to own land? Many were forced to become squatters. It is these people, caught in the middle and who are not insurgents that I am concerned about. We should not tar everyone with the same brush.”

  A glimmer crossed Bill’s eyes. “I see. You sympathise with them. You too! We have a name for sympathisers.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Hugh shook his head. “No! Not for insurgents. Just the innocent caught in the middle. I don’t think atrocity against atrocity works. I believe one should also look at the causes for dissatisfaction and address them.”

  “Well, I have another theory. These yellow bastards are not working on their own. They have connections and carry out orders from China, their motherland. And some of our own people are helping them.”

  Hugh did not respond. It would be useless, he thought. Dangerous, even to expand on what he had said. He had already said too much. He would dig a deeper hole for himself. He should bide his time before saying anything more. In any event, what Bill said had an element of truth. Hugh’s quarrel was that all were made to suffer similarly even when they were not involved. He picked up his tumbler and gulped down the liquor. With a curt nod, he stood up and left the room.

  Chapter 8

  RUTH WOKE UP very early the next morning. She lay quietly on the reclining chair listening to the morning sounds: a cacophony of frogs croaking, cocks crowing, dogs barking and then, from a distance, the Adhan, the Mosque’s call for prayer. Inch by inch light began to filter through the thin curtains. She wasn’t going to get much sleep. She got up and walked to the back of the house. She could hear faint sounds from the kitchen. Fu Yi was up. Ruth stood outside the kitchen for a moment and then pushed open the door. Fu Yi was squatting down in front of a pestle and mortar, pounding. The smell of onions, chillies and the strong aroma of belachan hit Ruth’s nose. “Fermented prawn paste,” Fu Yi had explained the previous evening, “a local ingredient added to most Malay cooking. Master likes it very much. I cook it for you too?” she had asked.

  Quelling her initial reaction to the pungent fumes, Ruth decided there and then that she would like it as well. “Let’s have it tomorrow,” she had said.

  The sight of Fu Yi bent over a mortar and pestle so early in the morning touched her. “I didn’t expect that you would have to wake up so early to prepare this,” Ruth apologised, stricken that once again she had made a faux pas.

  “No Ma’am. I do everything early before sunrise. It is not so hot. Breakfast?” she asked, rising to her feet. She took the bowl of chilli mixture that she had scraped from the mortar and placed it on the wooden counter. Then she grabbed a papaya from a basket nearby. “Papayas and lime from the garden. If you wish, also toast with kaya. It is a jam made with eggs, sugar and coconut cream. Master likes it too.”

  “Thank you. That would be lovely.” Ruth was beginning to see Mark through these small domestic arrangements. It would appear, as Hugh said, that Mark was truly adapted to the local way of living. She must do the same. He would expect it when he returned. She had always thought of her husband as a quintessential Englishman. She was being proved wrong. She sat on a wooden stool to watch the cook. Fu Yi was beginning to open up. There was so much Ruth wanted to ask. She refrained; she shouldn’t force the momentum by pressing for information as she had done the first evening. She bottled her impatience. The sound of cabinets opening and cups clinking floated around her. Gradually, her mind turned once more to her worries. Her resolution to be positive fell by the wayside. Where was Mark? How was she going to find him? What if he could not be found? She took a deep breath and forced herself to push aside these thoughts. She tried to focus on problems that she could and should address. How was she going to pay Fu Yi’s wages at the end of the month? Could she ask for help from the Company? Almost a week had passed and she had not been able to find a job. “Not here in Tanjong Malim,” she was told, “perhaps in Kuala Lumpur and other bigger cities. No schools here would be able to afford to employ a white school teacher.” She might have to let Fu Yi go. She might not be able to stay on in this house for much longer. Her head grew heavy. She did not notice the sliced papayas set before her.

  “Ma’am, eat! Don’t worry,” said Fu Yi setting a steaming cup of black coffee and a small tin of condensed milk on the table.

  Ruth realised that she had been frowning and that her jaws were hurting from being clenched tight.

  Fu Yi went back to the washbasin. She pitied the young mistress. It couldn’t be easy to be alone in a strange land and to find her husband vanished into thin air. No wonder she did not sleep night after night. She could hear her prowling around the house and pacing up and down in her bedroom. What good would it do to tell her about May? Fu Yi shook her head. She shouldn’t load her young mistress with more worries.

  ***

  People were queuing up to leave the New Settlement. Rolls of barbed wire rose six feet high, isolating the camp from the outside world. May crouched down behind a bush. She waited to catch a glimpse of her parents and to see if Chun w
ould be amongst those lining up to leave for work. She would plead with him again to release Mark. This time, she would go to the police if he were to refuse.

  Four armed guards stood at the gate. A wooden sentry box rose high above the barbed wire fencing with another armed guard within it. The workers were meticulously searched. They thrust their hands up in the air as guards groped through their clothes and belongings. No food was allowed out of the camp or into it. To stop food finding its way to insurgents, rice rations for New Settlements had been reduced by forty per cent. Who, May asked herself silently as the gaunt half-starved faces of her parents came to mind, would have any food to give to others? The thought of food brought her own hunger pangs to the fore. She had not eaten since leaving Mark’s house; she wanted to go back to Fu Yi but the sight of a white woman stopped her. Instinctively she knew it was Ruth. So she stayed on the fringe of the estate, hiding her face from the world with a scarf tied round her head and a wide coolie hat, just like those worn by other coolies. She became one of the faceless people in the rubber estate.

  The queue moved slowly; people shuffled forward with faces devoid of expression. All emotions had to be curbed, resentment bottled inwards and tempers held. The sun rose high up in the sky. A warm breeze stirred up leaves and yellow dust from the dirt road. There were still no sign of her parents. Suddenly she spotted Bee Ying. She was hunched forward with the baby strapped behind her back and a basket of laundry in each hand. Guards began to rifle through her laundry, crushing the freshly ironed sheets. May saw Bee Ying open her mouth to protest only to close it immediately when the guard scowled at her and pushed her back into the compound. “Go back! You can’t leave,” he shouted as he shoved her once again.

  May shifted on her haunches. Her legs were sore and she was thirsty. People were passing her now. They whispered amongst themselves. May stood up and joined them, shuffling forward like they did. No one looked at her; they did not wish to see anything. She heard a couple whisper. “They won’t let her come out of the camp now. Her husband is wanted. Soon they will cart her away for questioning. What will become of the baby? The whole family will be arrested. That young woman May who worked for the estate manager is also wanted. I saw her picture on the Post Office wall.”