A Different Sky (17 page)

Each day in the office Howard felt Calthrop's eyes settled upon him and waited for the inevitable explosion. It came early one monsoon morning some days after the printing of Howard's letter.

‘You
natives
can't get anything right,' Calthrop roared at Howard over a small mistake in paperwork listing the cargo of a ship. Howard stood chastised at Calthrop's desk, the man's face incandescent before him. Suddenly, the guilt and anxiety of the past week could not be contained.

‘We're not
natives
, sir, most of us in the office are Eurasian or Chinese.' Howard spoke almost under his breath but was unable to stop the words that were spilling from him.

In the silence that followed his outburst, Howard heard the scratching of pens and the clack of typewriters cease abruptly. He turned his head, expecting support from those behind him, but saw only a room of shocked faces; the people he spoke for looked away. Calthrop pushed back his chair and stood up, his eyes dark as polished flint.

‘We're not
natives
, we're
Eurasian
,' Calthrop mimicked the slight lilt in Howard's voice, his barrel chest and fleshy shoulders assuming Howard's nervous stance. A titter of embarrassed laughter rippled around the room as Calthrop continued speaking.

‘I know you're Eurasian, Mr Burns, just as I know that I'm an Anglo-Saxon. Just because you're taking those exams don't get the idea you're a cut above everyone else. Your Eurasian blood is so mixed up your brains don't know how to function. You'll always be a bit of mixed up
chap cheng
born under a coconut tree.'

Calthrop sat down and after a moment the scratching of pens and the knock of the typewriters began again. No one raised their eyes as Howard returned to his seat. Only Wee Jack, a slight, bespectacled man with a ferrety face who was one of the three Chinese in the
office, gave Howard a discreet thumbs-up as he passed. Howard looked across at Teddy de Souza but the man just shook his head sadly, as if admonishing a naughty schoolboy.

Back at his desk Howard found that his hands were trembling and to steady himself turned to look out of the window. The briny smell of the sea came to him mixed with the scent of coal and oil. The noise of the docks and the shouts of men rose up from the quay below. There was a hammering of metal and the loud bleating of goats that were being unloaded and finding their land legs after days at sea. Howard stared at the stooped and naked backs of coolies on the wharf, hauling sacks of coal like a line of ants. About them the bleating goats were running one against another under the raised stick of a labourer. Howard thought again of his father, thought of him sitting at just such a desk as he did now, ignored even as he died, and vowed his life would take a different curve.

Wilfred Patterson was getting used to everything but the heat. The humidity drained him of energy; he was never free of its insidious presence. On his first morning Mrs Burns had sent for a rickshaw and instructed the runner to take him to the office of
The Straits Times
in Cecil Street, bargaining a monthly price for this service. Wilfred had joined an army of rickshaws and cars, all going in the direction of the Singapore River, Cavenagh Bridge and the business district beyond. He had been pulled past a church set in a grassy compound that could have been part of an English village and seemed only to emphasise how far he had travelled. Then, rounding a corner he had passed the green expanse of the Padang and the steely waters of the harbour.

When he arrived at the office of
The Straits Times
he had been introduced to Patrick Collins, a junior reporter, who was to take Wilfred out and give him a taste of the town and the job. Collins had the pale, etiolated appearance of a plant kept away from the sun; from the back of his sun helmet a flap of white cotton hung down to shade his delicate neck.

Outside the office Collins summoned two rickshaws, giving instructions in rapid Malay. Since shipping was of such importance to the rhythm of the town, they went first to the Shipping Office at the mouth of the Singapore River to collect lists of the vessels arriving and sailing from
port each day. From the Shipping Office they then proceeded to the Supreme Court. This early morning visit was to learn what cases were coming up in the day, and which were worth returning to report on later.

Mopping his perspiring face with a handkerchief, Wilfred stepped gratefully into the cool and echoing building. The place was crowded with people hurrying purposefully about clutching sheaves of paper. He pushed his way up a great flight of stairs behind Collins. European judges in gowns and wigs swept by, Tamil peons in white starched shirts and
dhoti
, Chinese and Eurasians with expressions of importance ascended or descended the main stairs. A bewigged Indian and then a Chinese lawyer passed them.

‘Nowadays they're bringing in some local-born members of the Bar who have qualified at the Inns of Court or Oxford or Cambridge. However, as locals, they can never get appointed to the Bench.' Collins took off his gold-rimmed spectacles and applied a monogrammed handkerchief to them, polishing studiously as he spoke.

Eventually, when they returned to Cecil Street, Simmons the editor summoned Wilfred. He entered a room stacked to the ceiling with listing piles of yellowing newspapers and the sweet odour of Simmons's pipe. The editor was a stocky man with a quiet and determined manner, a man with his eye on the future.

‘We live in a new age of journalism. There's no place any longer in this town for a ten-cent paper. We'll soon be dropping our price to five cents; we have to do this to survive. We need to increase circulation.
The Malaya Tribune
is a local English-language paper but it's winning the price war hands down. It's read by the growing middle class educated in English-medium schools that is suddenly emerging here in Malaya. They want news in English but they're not prepared to pay more than five cents.' Simmons's eyes were sharp behind his spectacles, assessing Wilfred before continuing.

‘Now, I need a new crime reporter. Jenkins, who was handling crime has fallen ill and been shipped home. I intend to include more local reports to give a broader flavour to the paper. By crime I mean our local Singapore crime in Chinatown, the Triad wars, opium smoking, drug smuggling, gang shootings, etcetera. We need a series of investigative reports on these things, and I've a feeling you're the man for the job,' Simmons announced as Wilfred stared at him in surprise.

Later, Collins suggested they have a drink at the Cricket Club after
work.
The Straits Times
had already put Wilfred's name up for membership of the Cricket Club and the Swimming Club. It appeared that membership of these organisations were essential to effect any form of social survival. Already, under Collins's tutelage Wilfred had learned he need not attend the King's Birthday Garden Party held each year in the grounds of Government House as all and sundry were invited. The event of the year was the King's Birthday Ball where invitations were restricted to an elite circle of Europeans. Listening to Collins's high voice already defining the shape of his life, Wilfred silently decided to attend neither event.

Collins led the way into the Cricket Club and climbed the stairs to the upper floor; Boys in white uniforms bowed as they passed. He pointed out a green baize noticeboard. ‘You need to leave your visiting card on here so the
tuan
s' wives know of your arrival in town. You'll be showered with dinner invitations; best way to get a good meal and fill up the evenings.'

The thought of leaving himself vulnerable to society matrons waving dinner invitations did not appeal to Wilfred, and he made no effort to extract the obligatory card from his pocket. Collins walked out on to a wide and shady veranda and they settled into basket chairs. Before them in the mellow light of the late afternoon the glossy green lake of the Padang stretched away. Collins called for beer and when it arrived gave a small sigh of contentment.

‘You can almost forget where you are in here,' he chuckled.

A game of cricket was in progress on the Padang. To Wilfred, the hard crack of ball against bat and the shouts of ‘well done' as a six was scored were redolent of familiarity. It was almost possible, as Collins suggested, to believe that an English village green on a hot summer afternoon had suddenly materialised before them. Wilfred saw now that two games of cricket were in progress, one before the spreading veranda of the Cricket Club, and another before a smaller construction at the far end of the Padang, one game seeming to mirror the other.

‘What's that building?' he asked, squinting against the sun at what appeared to be a small but untidy replica of the Cricket Club. As he focused his eyes on the distant game and the moving figures in white flannels, Wilfred realised that the players were all dark skinned.

‘That's the Singapore Recreation Club, the Eurasians' club. We play cricket with them regularly, although of course they can't enter our
Club. Eurasians are jolly good at sports, you know. Somewhere along the way they inherited something positive from us, although not the qualities that founded an empire.' Simmons laughed, lifting the beer glass to his lips.

Mrs Burns had mentioned her husband's love of cricket to him Wilfred now remembered, and he wondered if this was where the man had played. The thought of Mrs Burns led him immediately to the thought of Cynthia and the blood quickened in his veins. She had taken the initiative the evening before and sought him out, making the meeting appear accidental. In the dining room of Belvedere Wilfred stole surreptitious glances at her each evening, aware of Boffort's watchful face across the table, its plump undulations damp with perspiration, polished by the candlelight. He knew Boffort sensed his attraction to Cynthia. Each meal was now beset by strategy, with Wilfred waiting for Boffort to be involved with his food, concentrating on cutting up his dinner, before he would look across the room to Cynthia. Each time without fail Cynthia met his eyes; each time, for as long as Boffort was busy, Wilfred held her gaze. Usually, it was he who was obliged to look away to relieve the intensity of what passed between them.

The evening before, Wilfred had gone to sit in the Lodgers' Lounge after dinner; the pleasant airy terrace room due to its elevation caught each stray breeze. It was simply furnished with potted plants and climbing vines, comfortable rattan furniture with colourful chintz cushions, and a table on which were newspapers and periodicals. Cynthia had used the excuse of adding some extra magazines to those on the table to come up to the lounge. Absorbed in his book, he had not heard her come in.

‘What are you reading?' Cynthia asked, after silently appearing beside Wilfred's chair.

Her voice was conspiratorial; it was as if they had agreed to this meeting. At the sound of her voice he looked up in shock, his pulse suddenly erratic. Closing the book, he held it up to show her the dust jacket with its sketch of Einstein and a spinning universe.

‘Relativity. It's difficult to grasp, but amazing.' Wilfred marked his page and shut the book, trying not to reveal his confusion. The knowledge that she had known he was sitting here, had noticed that he had taken his book to dinner in order to read in the lounge after the meal, flooded through him.

‘Mummy saw Einstein,' Cynthia announced unexpectedly. Wilfred could not hide his surprise; the thought of Rose and Einstein seemed incredible.

‘Apparently Einstein stopped for a day or two in Singapore; he was travelling about trying to raise funds for a Jewish university. There was a reception for him in the house of a rich Jewish family here. Mummy was invited to help out with the organisation, provide some of the cakes,' Cynthia explained with a laugh, sitting down on the edge of the empty chair beside him.

Wilfred could not hide his agitation at her close proximity. The low lamp by which he had been trying to read illuminated her face. Her eyes locked on to him and words fell away between them so that they sat in an awkward silence for some moments. The sound of Howard practising his saxophone rose up from below, the notes sailing and spinning about them.

‘What was Einstein like?' Wilfred asked at last, clearing his throat, pushing the words into the space between them. The sound of the saxophone rose gustily again, ending in a sudden shriek.

‘She said he was nice, not like the other people at the reception. She said there were soup stains on his tie and a button was loose on his waistcoat. His hair stuck up in a frizzy mass.' A patchy vision of the scientist came back to her from a photograph her mother had kept of the event.

Wilfred laughed, breaking the tension between them. Downstairs the notes of Howard's saxophone collapsed one upon another, trailing off in a squawk of discord as if a bird were being throttled. Wilfred leaned forward, offering his book for inspection and felt the brush of her hand. At once everything was heightened and expanded within him: the dark lush green of the garden
,
the clink of glasses as the tables were cleared in the dining room, the sound of a buzzing fly. Howard ended his saxophone practice with another angry shriek of notes. In the unexpected silence the disconsolate croaking of bullfrogs in the garden filled the night. Wilfred watched a moth blunder against the globe of a lamp and knew his life had changed. Now, sitting with Collins on the veranda of the Cricket Club he knew he had already placed himself apart from society in the very way Boffort had warned him about only days before.

As Wilfred sat in the Lodgers' Lounge, talking of Einstein to Cynthia, Howard watched his sister from the garden. He often played his saxophone under the trees, savouring the peace of night settling about him. The distance from Belvedere removed him from the lodgers' inevitable complaints if he blew too loudly in the house. From the garden he watched the lighted square of the Lodgers' Lounge where he could just see Wilfred Patterson's head and the tawny hair of his sister. He had noticed the glances that passed between them each dinnertime and did not approve. Local women like Cynthia were prey to European men needing comfort during their stay in Singapore. Such liaisons were plentiful, but few became permanent as most men returned home to marry. Against his will a memory swam up to fill Howard's mind like sediment loosened from the floor of a well.