A Different Sky (2 page)

‘Madame, I fear it is a communist demonstration. Today is the second anniversary of Sun Yat-sen's death,' the man explained in a courtly manner. Although he spoke in well-enunciated English the words appeared to be squeezed from a pair of bellows, so bad was his asthmatic wheezing. Overhearing his explanation, a nun at the back of the trolley escorting two schoolgirls from the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus, began to say a loud Hail Mary.

‘What they are wanting? What is this Sun Yat-sen?' an old Indian woman queried, clutching a cloth bag of rice on her lap.

‘Sun Yat-sen is Founding Father of Chinese Republic,' a young Indian, dressed in a limp
dhoti,
spoke up. He sounded pleased with himself for offering this information but Rose regarded him disapprovingly. His mouth was stained red with betel nut juice and she hoped he was not going to spit the stuff at her feet. She judged him to be a clerk or a shopkeeper, and as such found his manner too forward. The Chinese in the boater hat nodded confirmation.

‘They are coming from a celebratory gathering nearby and want the trolleybuses to stop until the procession has passed. Such behaviour does not make them popular, but they will lose face if the trolley proceeds before them.'

‘What are communists? What do they want?' Howard pulled at his
mother's sleeve. His anger had turned to excitement as he sensed the danger of the situation. Someone might get shot, blood would be shed and he could tell about it at school.

‘They are hooligans and gangsters, that's what they are. They want to destroy our way of life,' Rose answered angrily. She feared they could be stuck here for hours and looked anxiously across at the police station where the weathercock gleamed in the sun. Sikh constables with long rifles had now joined the Malay policemen on the steps.

‘What are they shouting?' Howard asked fractiously.

‘They are shouting,
Down with Imperialism
,' the man in the boater hat told him.

‘What is imperialism?' Howard observed the protruding mole on the man's chin from which sprouted several long hairs.

‘Colonial rule; the rule of the White Man over Asiatics,' the Chinese explained in a matter-of-fact way, smiling all the while.

Rose was about to give a tart reply when an Englishman on the stalled trolley behind them decided to exert some authority. Leaving the safety of the vehicle he attempted to force his way through the angry crowd, furiously shouting directions. As he reached Rose's trolley the demonstrators pushed him against the side, shaking clenched fists in his face. Pinned against the hot and dusty metal, the man stood his ground, still barking out orders in the manner of an army commander.

‘He will see that the bus moves soon. He is an Englishman; everything we are proud of in Malaya is because of British rule.' Rose looked defiantly at the dapper Chinese who appeared nonplussed by her sudden outburst.

‘Madame, I am not a communist. I too am an admirer of the British and happy to live peacefully under their excellent rule. I have spent some time in England. I am a Christian like yourself; my name is Joseph Ho.' The man smiled although his tone was defensive and his wheezing deepened as he observed the angry Rose. She was an attractive Eurasian woman, he thought, there was a regal quality about her although, when looked at feature by feature, her nose was too wide, her brow too prominent and her eyes too deeply set. A knot of hair was coiled low on her neck in a matronly fashion; she was one of those women, Mr Ho thought, who from puberty appeared middle aged.

Outside, the Englishman's voice could be heard rising in a hoarse crescendo. He repeatedly demanded a clearing of the road with sweeping
gestures of his arms. The demonstrators, who were mostly hot-blooded Hailams, refused to do as they were asked. Neither side could comprehend the other's language but all understood the gist of the argument. A further procession from the Sun Yat-sen gathering was now arriving at the Kreta Ayer crossroads to join the excited crowd.

In new terror Rose saw that the infuriated mob had no intention of obeying British rule. She kept her eyes on the Englishman, whose face was now purple with anger at the insolence of people who were expected to obey him. The demonstrators continued to press dangerously about him as he edged his way forward along the side of Rose's trolley. Still shouting orders, the man reached the footplate and jumped up to tumble inside. Righting himself, he at once urged the driver to start the bus and force a way through the crowd.

There was a hiss and some clicks as the electric wires connected above the vehicle. Incensed by this show of defiance, the communists threw themselves anew at the trolley. Stones were hurled, one hitting the driver on the cheek. With a yelp of pain he abandoned the levers and the engine fell silent again. The demonstrators gave a roar of triumph and began to rock the bus to the accompaniment of rhythmic chanting. The trolley swayed violently from side to side. Rose gave a sob and began to pray, clinging tightly to Howard as she was tossed about upon her seat. Men around her shouted; women began to scream. Within a few moments the trolley steadied as the demonstrators tired of the effort to overturn it.

‘Hooligans!' Rose glared accusingly at the asthmatic Mr Ho who now wheezed like a clogged up pipe. Then, taking in the full extent of his distress, she leaned forward to speak more kindly.

‘Lean back. Loosen your tie,' she advised, alarmed by the man's ashen colour and his struggle to breathe.

The demonstrators were now attempting to board the trolley. A pole was pushed inside, catching the Englishman on his chest as he stood beside the conductor. Losing his balance, he keeled backwards to land in the driver's lap. Demonstrators swarmed forward to board the bus, but the driver and conductor parried their moves with the umbrellas carried on the trolley in case of rain. After much diligent thrusting and flailing, the assailants were prised off the vehicle.

A siege mentality had now overtaken the trolley; passengers huddled together in the centre isle. Rose looked across at the Kreta Ayer police
station and saw that the Chief Inspector, a tall blustery-faced Englishman with a ginger moustache, straight-backed beneath a sun helmet, was coming down the steps and making his way towards the bus. Behind him Malay constables with raised rifles stood ready for trouble. Rose was dripping with sweat; outside the shouting grew louder. She marvelled how a day begun so blandly could sink abruptly into nightmare. At Belvedere now the cook, Ah Fong, would be dancing about in a pre-dinner ballet of anxiety, the lodgers would be pacing up and down near the dining room and complaining in low voices. Her mind filled with thoughts of her daughter. The
amah
would see to Cynthia's dinner and put the child to bed, but what if she and Howard were stuck all night in the bus, what if the rioters turned upon them? No one knew where she was.

‘I'm hot, Mummy. I'm thirsty. Will the policemen kill the communists?' Howard asked. Rose drew him to her breast again but he pushed her away, fractious at the touch of her hot, damp flesh, avid to see what was happening.

‘They will listen to the power of a gun,' Mr Ho wheezed from across the aisle; he had loosened his necktie and taken off his jacket, revealing braces and an open waistcoat.

‘Soon now the trolley will move,' the young Indian, Raj Sherma, predicted with a red-lipped smile; his eyes were bright and his manner more ebullient than fearful.

Howard kicked the seat in front of him again and the Chinese girl turned to frown at him. He stared at the birthmark on her jaw, at the delicate tracery of red lines and small blotches, and decided it resembled a gecko.

‘Children thirsty,' the
amah
worried, speaking anxiously to Rose in broken Malay.

Rose suddenly remembered that in the bottom of her handbag there were a few boiled sweets a stallholder had given her in the Beach Road market the day before. She opened the bag and extracted the sweets, giving one to the girl and another to Howard. The children cheered up immediately.

‘This is Howard. What is your name?' Rose asked the girl.

‘Name, Mei Lan,' the
amah
answered for the child. Sucking silently on her sweet, Mei Lan stared at Howard while he crunched noisily upon the hard sugar. Although he returned her gaze, his eyes kept slipping to
the mottling on her jaw. Aware of his interest the girl obligingly stuck out her chin, moving her lips to make the mark dance for him. Impressed but disappointed he could not compete, Howard scowled thunderously.

Outside, the Chief Inspector appeared to be making no progress. A new burst of shouting began and the bamboo poles were raised angrily once more. The demonstrators poked savagely at the inspector's chest as if they were sticking a pig. Throwing up his hands in surrender, the Chief Inspector backed away in the careful manner of a man retreating from a snarling animal. To the sudden shout of
pah pah
the bamboo poles came down upon him in a rain of heavy blows. One thick staff smashed through the crown of his sun helmet; the hat fell off and rolled away, blood poured down his face. Two Malay constables ran forward. Supporting the injured man between them, they dragged him up the steps of the Kreta Ayer police station and into the building, pursued by the angry rioters. Then, the crack of rifles filled the air as policemen fired shots in quick succession over the heads of the demonstrators.

‘Get down, son. Do you want to be shot?' Rose tugged frantically at Howard as he leant out of the trolley to follow events, pulling him down on the floor beside her.

Looking around, Howard saw that all the passengers were similarly positioned away from ill-directed shots. Mei Lan had begun to sob in fear against the
amah
's shoulder. The suffering Mr Ho had collapsed on the floor, his legs stuck out in front of him. Rose surveyed him anxiously as she took hold of the excited Howard. Imprisoned against his mother's breast, her heart beating wildly in his ear, Howard watched the man weakly roll up his sleeves.

‘Don't give me trouble now, son,' Rose hissed as Howard freed himself from her arms.

Crouched down between the seats, Howard found himself beside a louvred ventilation panel in the side of the bus through which a narrow slice of the world was revealed. Outside, there was renewed activity after the first shots. The agitators were now surging about the police station, attempting to enter the building, all interest in the trolleybus gone. The firing of guns had succeeded only in inflaming them.

From an upper window of the station a grey-haired Englishman leaned out and shouted an order. The constables levelled their guns once more and released their second volley of shots directly into the
rioting crowd. Amongst the demonstrators Howard then observed the sort of implosion that occurred when his sister, Cynthia, maliciously moved a wooden brick in one of his elaborate architectural constructions. The mob disintegrated, backing away from the police station. Several bodies pooling blood could be seen lying in the road, limbs flung out at odd angles. Torn banners and bamboo poles littered the street as the demonstrators melted away. Rose turned from the scene with a sob of relief, aware once again of Mr Ho's struggle to breathe. Looking up, she saw that the young Indian with the red lips was also observing Mr Ho in concern.

‘The uncle is needing only air,' Raj Sherma informed her, making his way towards Rose and the sick Chinese.

He gave a wide smile and Rose smelled the aniseed on his breath. She nodded, anxious to be rid of the invalid and the responsibility she would feel if he died. As the traumatised passengers hesitantly returned to their seats, Raj helped Mr Ho to his feet and steered him down the trolley to a vacant place. Outside, the shooting was over, the shouting had ceased and the demonstrators were already disappearing into alleys and side roads.

As the trolley began to move again Mei Lan knelt up on her seat and stared at Howard. Although her heart was racing with shock, Rose smiled at the child and reached into her bag to find a further sweet. She gave one to the child and another to Howard and also found sweets for herself and the
amah.

‘Where are you going?' she asked the girl, still unable to believe she was safely free of peril.

‘I am going to Ah Siew's
kongsi fong
,' the child announced in perfect English.

Rose swallowed the boiled sweet in surprise. She was shocked that a well brought up child should go to a servant's
fong
; she would never let Cynthia or Howard experience the misery of such a place. By the way she was dressed the child appeared to be from the Chinese upper class, and must go to an English mission school to speak so naturally in English. Why was she not riding in a car or even a private rickshaw instead of a common trolleybus? She was a pretty child, Rose observed, but for the birthmark on her jaw and must be about seven or eight years old, a little younger than Howard. The
amah
continued to smile at Rose, sucking noisily on the sweet. Although she had a pleasant
expression, her weathered skin was pitted from smallpox and her teeth protruded.

At the back of the trolley the dapper Mr Ho appeared somewhat revived. He had rolled down his shirtsleeves and re-knotted his tie and, although he still wheezed, his smile returned. The young Indian helped him on with his jacket as his stop approached.

‘Uncle, I will accompany you home,' he offered, seeing how the exertion of even standing up caused the man's laboured breathing to return. Mr Ho turned to him gratefully.

‘You are a fine young man. What is your name?' the Chinese wheezed, lurching forward on trembling legs and tipping his boater to Rose.

‘My name is Raj Sherma,' the young Indian replied as he steered Mr Ho down the bus.

Rose watched them alight with a pang of regret. To have survived together such an ordeal made the men in some way her compatriots, and now they were gone from her life. The moment passed as the trolley travelled on towards Rose's own destination. Soon, she tucked Howard's shirt into his shorts, slicked down the damp curly hair that would never lie flat and, taking his hand, stood up and smiled at the Chinese girl and her
amah.