by Ellie Dean
Their son, John Angus Charles Fuller, was delivered safely in the cottage hospital overlooking Loch Leven, and eight months later he travelled with his mother back to Kuala Lumpur. Charles’ later letters were full of his son ‘Jock’, and there were grainy photographs of the little family taking tea beneath palm trees, sitting on beaches beneath vast white umbrellas, and attending race meetings in their finery. Life, it seemed, was complete, and they lived like royalty in a big house that overlooked the Strait of Malacca, waited upon by numerous native servants.
Cordelia flicked through the photographs. Charles had grown fat in his later years, but Morag retained her girlish figure, and their son thrived to become a stocky, well-built, handsome young man. But Morag’s sudden death from some dreadful tropical fever had changed everything.
There was only one more letter from that time, and it had arrived long after both their parents were dead. It was a rather sad postscript to the hopes and dreams that Charles and Morag had shared in the tropical heat of Malaya, for Charles had written that Jock had no yearning to be a lawyer, and had taken a lowly post as an apprentice rubber plantation manager. Charles had consequently lost heart in the practice and was planning to retire to a bungalow in Singapore.
Cordelia had written back, but she’d received no reply – and a few short years later the postman had delivered a black-edged envelope to the family home in Havelock Road. The card inside had been a formal notice of Charles’ death. There had been no letter to accompany this announcement, no address to which she could reply – and no explanation as to how he’d died. But from the tone of Charles’ last letter, she could only surmise that he’d found it impossible to carry on without his beloved Morag.
Cordelia sat with the card in her hand as the gas fire popped and hissed in the grate. There had been so few clues in those letters, and as Charles had died some years ago, there was no way of knowing if his son, Jock, was still in Malaya.
She looked at the envelope and the rather gaudy stamp attached to it. He’d still been there in 1924, and by her reckoning, must now be in his mid-forties. Did he have a family? Was he still working on a rubber plantation? Or had he since left Malaya for some other exotic-sounding place?
She put the card back into the envelope, replaced everything in the box and closed the lid. It was all very confusing, and she felt rather foolish to be suddenly concerned about Charles’ son. Her brother had been a stranger, his son merely a smiling face in a photograph – but no matter how distant or estranged he might be, Jock was family, and she could only pray that he was somewhere safe, far from the Japanese invaders.
The girls had gone out, Mrs Finch and Peggy were in bed, and Jim had followed Rita’s advice and gone down to the fire station to see if there were any jobs to be had.
Ron had scrubbed himself clean in the scullery sink before donning his best suit, shirt and tie. Now he placed the dark blue scarf around his neck, eyed his reflection in the mirror above the dresser in the kitchen and winked. ‘To be sure, you still have it, Ronan Reilly. Handsome divil that you are.’
Ron had taken extra care this evening, for he knew it was important that Rosie could see that he meant business. With his hair brushed, chin shaved and best shoes shined to a gleam, he was almost ready to leave for the Anchor. There was just one more thing to complete the look, but it would mean borrowing it from Jim, and as he’d spent the evening ribbing him, he doubted his son would lend him anything.
He eyed Harvey, who was watching him from the rug in front of the range – no doubt expecting a last walk. ‘Not tonight,’ murmured Ron. ‘You’re to stay and look after everyone.’
Harvey thumped his tail, gave a great yawn and sprawled happily back in the glow from the range.
Ron closed the kitchen door behind him and hurried down the concrete steps to the cellar. The scullery was by the back door which led into the garden, and consisted of the large copper boiler, a stone sink and a heavy mangle. The rest of the cellar had been divided into two bedrooms, and he walked past his own to the second where Jim would stay until Peggy let him back into their bed.
Glancing over his shoulder, and alert for the sound of Jim’s footsteps on the kitchen floor above him, Ron opened the door and turned on the light.
It was a fairly large room with a window that looked out onto a very narrow strip of earth which ran between the house and the front garden wall and under the short flight of steps that led from the pavement to the front door. This was where his grandsons Bob and Charlie had slept before they’d been evacuated to Somerset. Ron missed their noisy chatter, but he wasn’t here to go down memory lane – he was here for a specific reason.
Looking round the cluttered room, he eventually found what he was searching for. The grey fedora wasn’t new, but Jim had kept it in excellent condition, and Ron carefully placed it on his head before hastily leaving the cellar and hurrying down the garden path to the gate. There would be ructions if Jim spotted it was missing, but he had the feeling his son was feeling too sorry for himself to even notice.
It was a cold night, and he was glad of the warm scarf as he strode along the twitten and crossed the street which ran up the hill from the seafront. All was quiet as he walked confidently down Camden Road in the pitch dark, yet he had to admit silently that he was feeling a little nervous. What if Rosie refused to talk to him? Or what if she did talk, and the things she said meant that it was over between them? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Ron hesitated outside the Anchor’s sturdy door, his hand hovering over the heavy iron latch. He could hear someone playing the out-of-tune piano and the accompanying chorus of off-key singers as they massacred Vera Lynn’s lovely song, ‘We’ll Meet Again’. Almost too afraid to face Rosie, he was on the point of turning away, but then he berated himself for being such a fool. He’d survived the trenches and getting shot in the arse by the Huns – what harm could a five-foot-two blonde do him?
He lifted the latch and went down the single step and into the fug of cigarette smoke, spilled beer and the press of too many people in a small room with low ceilings. He raised his hat to two young girls as he pushed past them and through the crush to the equally crowded bar, where he eagerly sought the first sight of his darling Rosie.
But there was no sign of her – just the two middle-aged women she’d taken on part-time. He stood there waiting for one of them to finish serving so he could ask if Rosie was upstairs, or if she was unwell – it was most unusual for her not to be in the bar at this time of night. Then the thought struck him that she might be out – with someone else – and he felt a terrible clench about his heart.
Ron anxiously willed Brenda to hurry up and finish serving the man further along so he could talk to her. Then he heard the latch on the door behind the bar and looked eagerly towards it, expecting to see the lovely Rosie come sashaying in, in her frilly blouse and neat black skirt and high-heeled shoes.
But it wasn’t Rosie who came into the bar, and Ron stiffened with shock.
‘Well, well,’ said Tommy Findlay with a smirk. ‘It’s my old mate, Ron. What can I get you? Pot of bitter, isn’t it?’
Ron eyed the expensive sports jacket and neatly pressed twill trousers, the oiled hair and flaring moustache, and the bright blue eyes that missed nothing. ‘What are you doing here?’ he growled.
Tommy winked as he pulled on the beer pump. ‘That would be telling, Ron, and if you don’t mind me saying, it’s not really any of your business, is it?’ He set the pewter pot on the bar. ‘That’s eightpence ha’penny to you, Ron.’
Ron eyed the smeary pot and the short measure with a grimace. ‘I’ll have a full measure in a clean pot for me money,’ he rumbled. ‘Where’s Rosie?’
Tommy grudgingly poured the beer into a cleaner pot and topped it up before placing it too firmly back on the bar. ‘Rosie’s away for a while,’ he said, the smirk returning. ‘I don’t reckon she’ll be back before Christmas, so if you don’t approve of the beer or the way it’s served, I sugges
t you drink in another pub.’
‘Where’s she gone?’ Ron asked anxiously.
Tommy wiped the spill with a cloth and leaned forward, his voice low beneath the hubbub of surrounding chatter. ‘She’s where she should have been instead of down here serving the likes of you,’ he said, his blue eyes like narrow shards of flint. ‘The pub will probably be sold, ’cos she won’t be able to look after her husband and this place.’
Ron stared at him in confusion. ‘But her husband’s in St Mary’s hospital,’ he breathed.
‘Not any more,’ replied Tommy with a malign grin. ‘Never mind, Ron. I’ll send your regards next time I write to her.’
Ron turned his back on him and pushed through the crush until he reached the pavement. Gulping in the cold air, he had to lean against a lamp post for a few minutes before he could find the strength to walk. ‘Oh, Rosie,’ he breathed. ‘My darling Rosie. Why did you not tell me? I would have understood.’
As the bell clanged for last orders, Ron pushed away from the lamp post and staggered back to Beach View. She had gone – without a word or a backward glance. Had she ever really loved him, or had he simply been an old fool to believe that she ever could? He would probably never get the chance to ask her now.
Chapter Seven
Malaya
Two weeks had passed since the Japanese had first landed in Malaya, and the horrifying news that both the Prince of Wales and the Repulse had been sunk by Japanese torpedo bombers had left everyone reeling. This disaster was followed by the appalling realisation that now that they had no battleships to safeguard the peninsula, and their air force had been all but wiped out in the enemy air raids, Malaya had only the land-based Army to beat back the invaders. And those Allied forces were mostly fresh-faced recruits with no experience of war, let alone fighting in swamps and jungles.
The Japanese invaders seemed to be unstoppable as they continued their onslaught through the peninsula with a shocking speed and ferocity that didn’t allow the Allied forces to regroup. It soon became clear that their mode of transport, the humble bicycle, was ideal for manoeuvrability through the jungles and swamps, and by the twenty-second of December, the three main arteries of the invasion had reached Kuala Kangsar in the west, Kuala Dungun in the east and, from Kota Bharu, they had headed deep into the very heartland of the peninsula, towards Kuala Lipis.
With all the big guns pointed out to sea, this land invasion had the Allied forces in disarray and retreat. As stories of Japanese brutality, and the torture and murder of the injured and those who’d surrendered or helped the Allies, filtered down through the peninsula, the trickle of terrified refugees racing for the safety of Singapore became a flood.
Sarah was in the estate office with her father, who now always wore a pistol in his belt and had a rifle close to hand. Since Philip had driven north to bring his father down from the Cameron Highlands and away from the fighting, Sarah had found it hard to concentrate on anything, and the sight of that pistol didn’t make it any easier.
She eyed the pile of paperwork that had yet to be dealt with, and the long list of coolies, servants and tappers which had been heavily scored through. ‘Another twenty disappeared last night,’ she said, ‘and I suspect it won’t be long before the rest follow.’
‘One can’t really blame them, especially if the rumours of torture and murder are true – which I suspect they are.’ He pushed back from his desk, blew the dust from a glass and filled it with whisky. ‘I think it’s time for us to think about leaving for Singapore as well.’
‘But we can’t go before Philip gets back,’ she protested.
‘Knowing your mother, it will take at least a week to pack, and by that time he’ll probably be back anyway.’ He took a hefty gulp of whisky and stared through the wire screens to the dappled light beneath the rows of rubber trees. ‘I’ve already made arrangements to take over the Bristows’ bungalow – Elsa and her daughters sailed for Sydney last week, and the Brigadier has sold the horses to the military and moved into army accommodation for the duration. Once we’re there, then I’ll see about getting you all on a boat to England.’
She stared at him. ‘But you’ve said constantly that Singapore is an impregnable fortress – surely you don’t think the Japs …?’
‘I don’t know anything any more,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘But with the situation the way it is, I’d prefer to have you and your mother and sister safely shipped out of here.’
‘But Mother can’t travel all that way – not in her condition.’
‘She’s tougher than you think,’ he muttered. ‘And I’m sure there will be doctors on board should she need one.’
Sarah bit her lip. ‘The ships leaving Singapore are troopships, Pops, not luxury cruise liners. I really don’t think Mother—’
‘Your mother will do as I tell her, and so will you,’ he barked. ‘I can’t possibly risk you staying here.’
Sarah eyed him warily. It was rare for him to snap at her – but then she could understand that he was deeply worried, not only for the safety of his family, but for the future of Malaya and his lifetime’s work. ‘I didn’t realise we had any relatives still in Scotland,’ she said.
‘We don’t,’ he said brusquely. ‘My mother was an only child, and apart from a couple of very distant cousins who I’ve never met or corresponded with, there’s no one to take you in.’
‘So, why England and not Australia? At least there we’d be with our grandparents.’
‘The Japs are too close to Australia and I have two aunts in England,’ he explained, slumping into his chair. ‘Amelia and Cordelia – they were a lot younger than Dad, so hopefully they’re still alive.’
‘And what if they aren’t?’ she dared ask.
Jock gave an impatient grunt before finishing his whisky. ‘Questions, questions,’ he grumbled. ‘It may never come to that, but if it does, I will send a telegram to the last addresses I had for them, asking for an immediate reply. Should there be no response, then I will have to think of something else – but you will leave here, Sarah, I’m determined about that.’
Sarah shivered as a sudden thought chilled her. ‘You’ll be coming with us, though, won’t you, Pops?’
‘To Singapore, yes, but I have responsibilities here, so I won’t be able to be with you all the time – and certainly won’t be travelling to England. One must do one’s duty at a time like this, Sarah. Mine is to help defend Malaya, and yours is to watch over your mother and sister should you have to leave.’
Sarah could see the logic in his plans, but the thought of travelling so far to a strange country with a pregnant mother and an immature sister, made Sarah’s pulse flutter. ‘But,’ she ventured carefully, ‘England is being bombed, and Hitler is threatening to invade. How can it possibly be any safer there?’
Jock reached for the jar of pipe tobacco that always stood on his desk. But his hand was shaking, and he almost knocked it over. ‘Damn and blast it,’ he muttered, his voice breaking with raw emotion. ‘I don’t know, Sarah. I can’t answer all your questions.’ He sat there, tears glistening in his eyes, his jaw working as he fought to keep calm. ‘I just know that I have to make sure you’re all out of harm’s way,’ he finally managed.
Sarah felt a great swell of love for him as she rounded the desk and put her arms about his neck. She adored her father, and to see him like this was agony, for it was clear that he was torn between the need to keep everyone safe, and the knowledge that they might be parted for months before the situation here was resolved.
She rested her cheek against his and felt the bristles where he’d forgotten to shave that morning. ‘I’ll look after them, Pops,’ she murmured.
He patted her hand and nodded before he turned to filling his pipe. ‘I know you will,’ he said eventually.
‘Let’s go up to the house and have some tea,’ she suggested. ‘With so many plans to make, we need to discuss things as a family.’
‘I still have a great many things to d
eal with here before I can sit about drinking tea,’ he said gruffly. ‘And I have already spoken to your mother, and she agrees with me that Jane shouldn’t be told too much. We don’t wish to frighten her, so we’ve decided to tell her that Sybil needs to be near her doctor in Singapore until the birth.’
‘Jane and I had a long talk yesterday,’ Sarah said quietly, ‘and she knows there’s a war on, and that the Japanese are fighting our soldiers in the north. She can see for herself that the country club is almost deserted, that the school has closed down and a good many of her friends have gone down to Singapore or taken boats to Australia or England.’
Jock’s fist hit the desk, making everything shudder. ‘You had no right to talk to her about any of it without my express permission,’ he barked, his eyes now sparking with fury.
Sarah flinched, but knew she had to make her father understand that he was making a terrible mistake by not being honest with Jane. ‘She asked me question after question – and they were very telling. She knows far more than you think, Pops, because she hears things, sees things, and can put two and two together. I can’t see how not being honest with her would help. She needs to know what’s happening, Pops,’ she said firmly, ‘especially if we have to leave for England.’
He looked at her squarely for a long moment, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘It seems you know her better than I,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your mother and I have made the mistake of thinking of her as a child, and treating her as such. But we are only trying to protect her.’
‘I know, Pops,’ she replied softly. ‘But surely she’s better protected if she knows exactly what’s happening and can be prepared?’
‘You’re right,’ he conceded. He looked back at her then and smiled. ‘Thank you, Sarah – for everything.’
‘Let’s lock the office and have that tea,’ she coaxed. ‘Then we can all sit down and make plans.’