Separation, The (8 page)

They left the village with just a nod to each other, and barely spoke as they picked their way along a tangled pathway. After an hour or so they found a station of sorts: no more than a simple telegraph booth and a small platform at the edge of the jungle. Lydia slumped on to a metal bench. Sticky, tired, and with angry bites on her ankles, she would have given anything for a soak in a bath. The child wrapped an arm around her waist and slept with his head against her chest. A few leaflets flapped about declaring death for those who supplied insiders with food, and on the hoardings two posters advertised Tiger Beer, and the songs of Dinah Shore.

‘You’ll be looking forward to seeing your girls again,’ Adil said.

Lydia frowned. Had she told him about Emma and Fleur? Maybe she had.

‘Nothing more important than family.’ He reached into a pocket hidden in his sarong, and pulled out an orange. ‘Here. Share it with the child.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I love oranges and I am thirsty.’

She peeled off the skin. The citrus scent was mouth wateringly lovely, but when she saw the longing in Maznan’s eyes, she passed the entire orange to him.

Adil said nothing.

Hearing a rattle, she glanced at the rails, and prayed the train would be cool inside. Then, as it passed, her shoulders sagged as she stared at the clouds of dust obscuring its rear.

Unused to being out in the late afternoon, she was melting in the heat, and hoped rain wouldn’t be long. Adil didn’t seem to suffer from humidity the way she did, and had carried her case all the way. He nodded slowly with pursed lips, his brows furrowing.

‘It seems the line is undamaged, at least for part of the way,’ he said. He looked about, then told her he had something to see to and headed for the booth.

While he was gone, she spotted an excitable little spider-hunter bird, angry because she’d sat right beneath its nest. But she was too hot to move, and when Adil came back, she made no attempt at conversation. She sniffed the salty, sticky smell coming from her armpits and cursed Alec. She felt a tap on the arm and glanced down at the child.

‘I am still hungry, Mem,’ he said, rubbing his tummy and looking at her with huge eyes.

She smiled for his sake. ‘What’s your favourite?’

‘
Nasi Dagang
. My mother made.’

It was the first time he’d mentioned his mother. ‘Whereabouts in the jungle is she, Maz? Do you know?’

He shrugged and hung his head.

‘Did your mother buy you that shirt? Is that why you didn’t want me to take it off?’

He sniffed.

She thought for a moment. ‘Tell me about
Nasi Dagang
.’

‘It is coconut rice, with fish.’

She searched her pockets. A mangy dog slunk by, eyeing them hopefully. She had no choice but to speak to Adil, though something about his reserve tied her tongue.

She lowered her voice. ‘What can we do? There’s nothing left.’

His eyes were watchful, intelligent. She became aware they were staring at each other and turned away.

‘If a train comes, we can buy food. Some travel only to sell. You still have money?’

She nodded, then found her voice again. ‘I thought nobody was allowed to travel with food, and isn’t the money they make wasted on the price of their tickets.’

‘They don’t pay. Just jump on and off,’ he said, still looking straight at her.

‘Don’t they get hurt?’

‘They’re only natives,’ he said, with a straight face.

He was teasing her. She observed the weeds growing in dust at the edges of the concrete platform, and thought of another journey. The time she and Alec had smuggled two Siamese kittens through customs at Johore. Somehow it had been all right for
them
to break the rules.

She glanced at the man sitting beside her. She knew nothing about him, but in the minutes that followed, she became intensely aware of hairs beginning to show up on her bare legs. She shuffled them further back under the bench.

When a battered train came to a screeching halt, a distinct scent of ginger and tamarind mingled with smoky engine fumes, and the smell of rain in the air.

They climbed on, found seats, and from a thin-haired woman wearing baggy trousers, they bought guava, and curried rice patties. Lydia saw for herself, despite prohibition, the movement of unofficial food and livestock carried on. The woman had a rucksack full of food, and live chickens in a lidded basket.

‘They find ways to dodge the security forces,’ Adil said.

‘But doesn’t some of the food find its way to the rebels in the jungle?’

‘You must not tell anyone,’ he said, with raised eyebrows, his eyes framed by thick lashes.

The light fell on his face and she saw real warmth in his eyes. She looked down, but in less than a beat glanced up again. He’d moved, something about his eyes had changed, and the warmth was gone. She swallowed hard, didn’t know how to react. She’d had no casual relationships with non whites before; they were either Alec’s subordinates at work, or worked for her. And you could hardly call the annual dinner at the sultan’s palace casual.

‘Eat up,’ he said. ‘It might be our last for a while.’

As the train picked up speed, rippling oceans of dark green trees flashed by. There was no toilet, and when it slowed again, a flock of people made a dash for the bushes. She smothered a
smile at the sight of men pissing in the rain, and in full view of the windows.

Maz slept between them, head against her arm as she rocked with the movement of the train. From time to time she glanced at the man’s face, at the strong jaw in profile and his closed mouth. Once he opened his eyes and caught her looking. She swallowed her embarrassment and turned away.

After a bit, she was aware of other looks coming her way. A tall military man and his wife, heading down the aisle, stopped in front of her. He was over six foot, well built, and purple-nosed. Clearly a drinker.

He bent his head towards her with a puzzled look. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes thank you. Perfectly fine. I’m travelling up country.’

The woman folded her arms across her chest and pulled a face. ‘But with your gardener, dear?’

Lydia felt embarrassed for Adil. ‘I’m fine. Thank you for asking. Goodbye.’

‘Well!’ the woman said, red-faced. Her husband took her elbow, and pushed her down the aisle in front of him. She could be heard from the next carriage, still protesting.

Lydia sighed and caught Adil grinning.

‘Trim the oleander bush, madam?’

She opened the window on the sweet smell of the jungle after rain, and a delicate scent of wild freesia blew into the carriage. She laughed and everything was all right again.

They were rising now. Half an hour later, with her forehead against the glass she stared out at a ravine with a river at the bottom. The sun slipped out from behind the clouds, to reveal, about halfway up the hill, the ruin of a palace.

‘What’s that,’ she said, turning to Adil.

‘I think it may be the Sultan of Selangor’s palace, which means that is the Klang Valley.’

Lydia frowned. Her geography of England was sketchy, of Malaya she knew even less.

‘We’re not far from Kuala Lumpur.’

Lydia pictured the map hanging on Alec’s office wall behind his desk. He’d pointed vaguely at this place or that, hardly caring if he enlightened her or not. Now it was hard to recall. She knew Johore Bahru, Malacca and the island of Singapore. All in the south. And right at the start, they’d had a short but peaceful holiday up at Kuala Terengganu on the east coast. They had been more or less happy then.

With only a rough idea of where Ipoh was, she had no head for detail, and all she remembered of the map were places she’d been.

‘We’re about halfway.’ Adil said, and produced a stub of pencil and a tattered notebook. ‘I’ll show you.’

Lydia carefully picked up the sleeping child and swopped places with Maz.

Close up, she caught the spicy scent of cedar oil on Adil’s skin.

‘See, Penang, in the west, is almost opposite Kuantan, in the east.’

She nodded as the long shape of Malaya took form. ‘And Ipoh?’

‘Here,’ he said, marking a cross. ‘A little below Penang, and a bit more than halfway from Kuala Lumpur.’

Still such a long way, she thought. ‘How far does this train take us?’

‘Depends on the state of the tracks, but it’s meant to go as far as Tanjung Malim.’

Her breath caught – ‘I know it. A friend manages a plantation near there. Jack. Jack Harding.’

For a moment she allowed herself to think of Jack’s wide grin. Pictured him striding about the plantation, saw his muscular legs, arms swinging, shoulders glistening with sweat. Something Jack had spoken of, soon after they met, came racing back to her. He’d looked her in the eye and, wringing enormous hands, said, ‘God damn it, Lyddy. I don’t want to die in the jungle.’

She’d kissed him hard on the mouth, couldn’t help being drawn to his grin and energy as electric as tropical thunder.

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ she’d said. ‘You won’t. But why did you come here in the first place?’

‘After Burma, I couldn’t stand the thought of an ordinary life,’ he’d said.

In his early forties, Jack came from a good family and was privately educated, but had turned his back on it all. Jack didn’t care for the opinions of others. Let them think what they damn well like, he’d say, spreading his arms in a shrug. Handsome and fair, he stood out in a crowd, like a great golden god she once thought. She hardly dared admit that from the start she’d smelt a bad boy.

It was his image that stayed with her now, the memory soothing.

The rhythm and heat of the train made everyone drowsy. Maz, curled up against her, seemed to be asleep, but when she glanced down, his little hand reached out and tapped her thigh.

‘Now my mother is in the inside, I do not see her,’ he said.

She pulled him close. Poor little thing, she thought, as someone brushed her arm, while moving quickly past.

A Malay woman, her baby snug inside a cotton shawl tied to her chest, was in a rush to get to the door. At the opposite end of the corridor, an approaching ticket collector called out for tickets. As Lydia glanced back, she felt Adil jump to his feet.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

He didn’t answer, just pushed his way through the melee of standing passengers, and followed the woman. Lydia craned her neck to see. At the door, the woman stretched out an arm, and began to turn the handle. By now the entire carriage was aware and everyone turned to watch.

The door opened. Lydia gasped and stood up, a hand covering her mouth. The train had not slowed, was not approaching a station. But the woman, one arm round the baby, already had one foot out. She leant forward, ready to jump. Just in time, Adil caught her shawl, and dragged her back inside, then held her firmly by the arms.

Lydia saw the concern on his face, watched him shake his head, saw the woman bend her head as he spoke, and her tearstained face when she looked up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet, pointed at the ticket collector, and handed the woman some coins and a five-dollar bill.

The collector shrugged as he reached their seats, and Adil paid for all their tickets.

‘That was good of you,’ Lydia said.

He frowned. ‘The tickets?’

‘That yes, thank you, but I meant the woman. How did you know she was going to jump? She might have been killed.’

‘I’ve seen it before. It was nothing,’ he said, dismissing her approval, as if embarrassed.

But Lydia was impressed, not just by his kindness, but also by his quick reaction.

Outside, the wind was blowing the dirt about in billowing clouds. As the train came to a halt at a tiny station, Lydia saw a small bus waiting. Doors slammed, birds scattered, and people lugged their packages in a mass of movement. A swarm of lucky ones headed for the bus. A priest, waiting in the crowd as they approached, turned to her with a smile, a pistol snug in its holster at his waist. Once the sight of it would have made her shudder, now everyone had a gun and she hardly raised an eyebrow. The dusty air, and how they’d breathe if the bus didn’t take them, were far more of a worry.

Adil found them places halfway down.

She sighed and wiped away the line of sweat that constantly formed at her hairline. Maz noticed her dejection. ‘I think you are beautiful, Mem,’ he said.

Tears came to her eyes. Once she might have been, now she just felt tired and dirty.

There was a sound of rumbling. She craned her neck to look, and on the road, escorted by police, a dozen lorries were snaking by.

Adil glanced out. ‘They’re transporting Chinese settlers from the edges of the jungle to a new resettlement village.’

She listened to the wail of a loudspeaker as the wind blew their way.

‘There’s nothing left for the Chinese in Malaya,’ he said. ‘Only the camps or the horror of living on the inside.’

Lydia knew from Alec that the police and even the military were involved in the resettlement programme.

‘Aren’t most people turning in favour of the government?’

‘Well, wouldn’t you? It doesn’t mean they support the British. They’re just sick of the violence.’

Lydia’s head ached and her shoulders felt rigid from the struggles of the day. She closed her eyes and slept, this time with Maz on her lap, but maintaining a small gap between her and the man. Troubled by dreams of her childhood at the convent, and the ever constant yearning for the mother she’d never known, she was deep in the past when the bus came to a sudden halt. Her eyes flicked open and the woman in the blue dress rapidly faded. The bus was at a standstill.

She shook herself awake and sighed deeply. What now? She wiped her cracked lips with the back of her hand, then licked them to bring back some moisture. It only made them sting even more.

Adil was stumbling up the aisle. People stood, stretched, murmured questions to each other. The boy hadn’t stirred. In the growing darkness, streaks of silver patterned the deep blue skyline, but she couldn’t see the road ahead. She waited, learning the Malayan way. Alec would have embarrassed her with his stiff-backed British insistence. Her patience was rewarded when Adil struggled back.