A Different Sky (40 page)

Howard breathed in the wholesome smell of the road again. As he turned away he heard at last the cry he had steeled himself to hear all the while he had been in the building. It came from the depths of the place and floated down upon him, a spasm of tortured sound that carried all the pain of a ravaged humanity. He began to run.

A year had passed since Singapore surrendered to the Japanese. Chinese New Year approached again. Everything was becoming scarce. A place had to be secured in the ration shop queue by 4.30 a.m., otherwise things ran out. Ingenuity was stretched to the limit. Soap, like every other commodity, was hard to come by. Ava announced she was going to make some soap, but produced only a grey pebble that refused to lather and was the consistency of pumice stone.

‘They put lots of ash in it, you know,' Rose told her, turning the misshapen rock in her hand. ‘You don't get soap at the ration shop unless you can give them a bag of ash.' She was aware of Ava's crestfallen expression, and was ashamed at the pleasure this gave her. All she wanted was for the war to end, so that she would be free of life with Ava and Lionel and could return to Belvedere. Even Mavis's continual effort at good spirits now annoyed her.

Singapore had become a vegetable garden: the slogan everywhere was
GROW MORE FOOD
. Every available patch of grass was dug up and in its place tomatoes, cucumber, tapioca, sweet potato and spinach of all varieties were planted. The vegetable of choice was tapioca because it took only three months to grow; no amount of neglect could obliterate it and nothing filled the stomach so quickly,
if tastelessly. It became a wayside crop. Every road was lined with the plant, schools gave part of their playgrounds to the tuber and balconies that had once grown ornamental bamboo or bougainvillaea, now cradled the ubiquitous root.

‘There may be no flour for bread but we grow tapioca. Tapioca bread cannot be hard to make,' Mavis suggested; the ration shop bread for which they queued for hours was stale and weevil ridden. Desperate recipes now circulated for adhesives, soap, hair dye, tapioca cake, tapioca bread, tapioca biscuits, tapioca noodles, tapioca ice cream and tapioca face packs.

Although Mavis's tapioca bread was a trial for bad gums and loose teeth, people still came some distance to buy it. Everyone wanted to know the secret, but Rose kept her tins of condensed milk well hidden. Nothing was allowed to go to waste. When the starchy tapioca tubers had been steamed, the discarded pink under-skin was dried and fried and the crisps sprinkled with chilli and sold in rolled newspaper cones of the
Syonan Times
, a propaganda tabloid extolling everything Japanese. Ava and Mavis began to be known for these products.

Lionel went into business in a bigger way than bread, harvesting his toddy to purpose, buying up empty bottles on the black market in which to distil the liquor. He also set up a makeshift bar beside his distillery at the back of the house. Friends who had been served freely before were now charged for a drink; the bar quickly became an evening gathering place. Lionel was now collecting toddy from other people beyond the estate, and great vats of the alcohol fermented in the house. The place smelled yeasty and Lionel was permanently high on his produce, forced to taste it frequently for professional reasons. At night the loud strumming of his guitar could be heard accompanying his friends' drunken singing. A pub-like atmosphere pervaded the house.

Howard kept clear of the place, continuing to work as a grass cutter and oiler. He volunteered at the hospital each evening. All he could think of was Mei Lan and his inability to help her. His sleep was disturbed by raw images, and that one terrible sound he had heard as he left the YMCA building. He had gone to the East Coast house but they had no news, and the old nursemaid, eyes wild with worry and imaginings, had clung to him, imploring him to find Mei Lan. Behind her he had seen the old grandmother stumbling about upon her canes, vacant eyed from opium and dementia. Of Little Sparrow
there had been no sign. The misery of his powerlessness consumed him afresh.

‘There is nothing more to be done. Communists are not so easily released.' Raj was irritated beyond measure by Howard's constant visits. He was also nervous for himself; Shinozaki's need to keep running around doing good had brought them both under the
kempetai
's eye. The diplomat's own band of spies had now been set to watch their spymaster.

Howard worried about his radio. He no longer felt easy about retrieving it from the space beneath the balcony, to listen to the news on Radio Delhi; he knew he must find a new hiding place for it. Lionel, his mind in free flight on his toddy, did not know what he did half the time. The day before, just as Howard was retrieving the radio from beneath the floorboards, he had stumbled on to the veranda with Ronnie Remedios, who had worked with him before the war in lift repair.

‘He's a good friend; won't tell a soul about the radio. Only wants to hear the news,' Lionel spluttered. Ronnie had nodded agreement, drawn a line across his throat and rolled his eyes to heaven.

‘It's broken,' Howard replied hastily, thrusting the radio back into its hiding place. He slept fitfully that night; Ronnie Remedios, with his large soft belly and wide flat nose, loomed ominously in his dreams. However much the man laughed and joked, his eyes remained watchful in his fleshy face.
Kempetai
informers were everywhere, offering the authorities information in return for their own protection. For this reason Rose had begged him to get rid of the radio, always prowling about anxiously while he listened to the news, on the lookout for anyone suspicious.

To Howard's relief Ronnie Remedios did not appear the next evening. Later, as Howard sat on his pallet cleaning his saxophone he heard loud guttural shouting coming from the back of the house where Lionel had his bar. There were often inebriated fights about the toddy bar and Howard leaned over the veranda balustrade, trying to see what was happening. He drew back quickly in alarm. The place was surrounded by
kempei
flashing their bayonets, and Lionel's friends were fleeing in all directions. A tall thin
kempei
had got hold of Lionel and was slapping his face and shaking him. Lionel was sobbing and squealing like an abattoir animal, yelling out Howard's
name and pointing into the house. Howard turned in panic, uncertain what he should do, his heart pounding in his throat, sure that Ronnie Remedios had informed the authorities about his radio. As he looked wildly about, Rose appeared before him in a pink flowered housecoat, Mavis behind her.

‘Run. Go to Cynthia,' Rose hissed, pushing him down the steps.

When Howard reached the Joo Chiat Hospital, breathless from fear and exertion, the Emergency Clinic was almost empty and Cynthia was filling in charts in a far corner. As soon as he told her what had happened, she stood up, took his arm and pulled him after her out of the room.

‘The only reason they didn't arrest me with Mei Lan was because that boy they tortured only knew her name and not mine. We're all being watched now in the hospital, those jungle boys can't come here any more. If your name is on their list, and they know you have a radio, then you have to get away.' Cynthia opened the door of a broom cupboard under some stairs and shoved him into the blackness inside.

‘Stay here until I let you out, however long it takes,' she told him. It seemed hours before the door opened and he saw her face again.

‘Quickly,' Cynthia whispered, thrusting two shoulder bags stuffed with bulky packages into Howard's hands as she led him to the door.

‘It's food and medicines. You know how to use the quinine. Brokentooth will take you into the jungle, to their camp. You'll be safe there. Go quickly.' She pushed Howard out of a side door and on to a narrow path between two buildings. Brokentooth was waiting: he beckoned for Howard to follow.

They kept away from the road, taking well-worn paths through patches of secondary jungle and then crossed a large rubber plantation. The thick leaves of the rubber trees prevented the sun from penetrating, and trapped the stench of latex from the processing huts. Howard knew he would remember the sickening odour for ever as connected to this night. He stumbled behind Brokentooth. The boy was familiar with the path, only occasionally shining his torch, finding the light of the moon enough. Howard's heart beat fast and his thoughts were confused. Every few minutes he glanced over his shoulder, fearing the
kempetai
were following. Possession of a radio was punishable with death: how could he have thought he'd get away
with it? Now he was running for his life, filled with remorse at having taken a risk that endangered everyone. He might have escaped – but what of his mother and Mavis? Would Cynthia now be arrested? Everything was his fault; he gave a groan of anguish. Seeing him lag behind, Brokentooth drew to a halt, waiting for Howard to catch up. They were free of the rubber estate. Now there was the smell of the sea and Howard heard the crash of waves.

‘We must cross the water to mainland Malaya before it is light. The overland route is dangerous, we are safer travelling by sea.' Brokentooth led the way along the beach to a cluster of fishermen's huts built on stilts above the water.

Howard followed him up a ladder into one of the huts. He had thought Brokentooth was taking him to a hideout somewhere on the island: he had not expected a journey over the sea. Confusion and panic raced through him; he was not thinking properly but just stumbling blindly after a stranger who was a known communist. In the hut a woman crouched over a paraffin stove and heated rice porridge for them by the light of an oil lamp; two children slept in a corner, oblivious to their presence. They ate quickly, listening to the slop of water below the house as the woman's husband prepared the boat; from the beach came the stink of drying fish. Everything had happened too quickly. How deep in the Malayan jungle was the camp? How long was he to remain in it? When would it be safe to return home? All Howard had were questions, and without answers his anxiety grew. The only thing that kept him following Brokentooth was the thought of the
kempetai
if he now returned home.

Soon, they clambered into the boat, helping the fisherman to push it from the beach out into the open sea. The boatman took an oar and gave one to Howard and they rowed silently towards the dark coastline of Malaya, Brokentooth sitting in the back of the boat, waiting his turn with the oar. The moon hung low, lighting a narrow path of silver over the dark oily skin of the sea. Howard gripped the paddle, pushing it deep into the water so that a spray sprang up and stung his face and he tasted the brine on his lips. They seemed to row for hours, his body part of the endless rocking rhythm. Only the boat ploughing the water broke the silence of the vast and empty darkness, with the moon their only light. The night swallowed everything, and he felt his smallness on the limitless ocean. Here, existence and death seemed of
no more consequence than the breaking of a wave upon the shore and he shivered with new terror. His mother, Mei Lan, Cynthia . . . everyone was far away now. He wondered if Mei Lan shared this feeling in whatever conditions she now lived. If there was a God, he thought bitterly, it must be like the sea, impervious to man's small trickle of emotion, immune to love or hate, moved only by the laws of its own ceaseless and measureless swell. In that moment, he knew for the first time he would never share his mother's deep faith in her god.

He had no idea how far they had travelled or for how long. Time had lost dimension. Shadowy inlets, rocky islets and sweeping bays passed, lit faintly by the moon. Then, unexpectedly, the boatman was turning towards the shore. They must be along the coast of Johore, Howard reckoned. Day was already breaking when the boatman left them on the sandy beach of a small cove, and then rowed quickly away. Howard looked back into the emptiness behind him. The first pincers of light were needling open the sky and he wondered when, if ever, he would cross this ocean again. In the course of a night his life had changed.

T
HEY BEGAN THE TREK
through the jungle. At first the land was open, with patches of tapioca and sweet potato, and Howard saw butterflies of brilliant colour. Kingfishers streaked across a stream, the warbling of a bird and the constant crackle of crickets were heard. Then, abruptly, the jungle closed upon them and the way forward was dense with vegetation. He was sweating profusely and his limbs, covered by insect bites, itched unbearably. After a while Brokentooth stopped before a tall tree and pointed to markings on the trunk. Clearing damp leaves away from the roots he pulled a loaded sack out of a hole.

‘Rice and salted fish for the camp,' Brokentooth said, heaving the bundle on to his shoulders along with his own load. Howard wondered how a man could carry such a weight; after the trauma of flight and a night of rowing, all he wanted to do was sleep. Instead, he felt he was floundering helplessly through a dream, enclosed inescapably in its weird universe. A wave of desperation swept through him again.

Unhooking the
parang
from his waist, Brokentooth slashed at vines and hanging branches as the jungle thickened about them. The light was suffused and gloomy; mist rose from the thick mulch of rotting leaves, fallen trees and branches that covered the jungle floor. Creeping plants wound up to the glow of light, so far above it seemed to be another world. At times the forest canopy fused above them and light almost disappeared, as if they had entered a cave. Then, the sun when glimpsed around the edge of the jungle, appeared like the distant glow of a lamp and the shrieks of birds took on a menacing edge. There were sounds all around them in this primordial forest: the crash of a broken branch, the calls of animals or birds or the knocking of a wood-pecker. Squirrel, wild boar and mouse deer were seen, and once a jungle cat; monkeys swung in the trees. Everything in the jungle lived for centuries, Brokentooth told him. The boy's resourcefulness and stamina made Howard ashamed of his own weak limbs and thimbleful
of energy. The paltry packs Cynthia had given him weighed him down and Brokentooth laughed.