The Other Side of Paradise (7 page)

‘What is it?’

‘Speciality of the house. One of those made-up things. You’ll love it.’

They stood about drinking the free green drink and smoking the free gold-tipped cigarettes, until somebody started up the gramophone for dancing. Denys’s cheek was pressed against hers as they shuffled slowly round to ‘Time On My Hands’. His moustache brushed her ear.

‘You’re an incredibly beautiful girl, Susan.’

‘So I’ve been told.’

‘There are lots of pretty girls around, but not many beautiful ones. Trust me.’

‘But I don’t trust you, Denys. What was in that drink?’

‘Lime juice, lemonade, a dash of gin.’

‘More than a dash, I’d say.’

‘Very refreshing, though, don’t you think?’

‘No. I don’t feel at all refreshed. I feel rather squiffy.’

‘Must be the heat.’

After more drinks and more dancing there seemed to be a general move towards the door.

Denys said, ‘The others are going for a dip in the pool. Are you game?’

‘I haven’t got a swimming costume with me.’ She had difficulty speaking the words properly.

‘No need to worry about that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well it’s fairly dark, if you see what I mean.’

‘I do see what you mean … and I’m not game.’

‘Tell you what, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a private and personal conducted tour of Government House instead.’

‘I’ve been here before.’

‘Ah, but I’m talking about the parts you won’t have seen. It’s quite a place. Come with me, fair maiden.’

He took her hand and towed her after him down a marble-floored corridor. There was nobody about – no officials or servants, nobody to stop them. Silence except for the humming of ceiling fans. Another corridor, wider and even grander. Then another. Her heart was pounding, but from excitement, not fear: the sort of feeling she’d had when she had deliberately broken some silly rule at the convent.

‘I thought you were supposed to be a policeman, upholding the law, Denys.’

‘Policemen are the worst.’

He opened a door, switching on lights.

‘His Excellency’s study. Snug little den, isn’t it?’

She wandered round the room, inspecting the silver-framed photographs on the desk – including one of the King and Queen – the papers, the books, a leather-bound diary for 1941 left conveniently open for her to read all about the Governor’s engagements: meetings, receptions, luncheons, a dinner held for fifty Australian officers, troop inspections.

‘He’s a very busy man.’

‘Rather.’

‘What happens if someone catches us here?’

‘They cut our heads off.’

They tiptoed on, Denys opening more doors on to more private rooms. They passed display cases filled with silver trophies, jewel-encrusted swords and sabres; official portraits stared down on them with disapproving eyes. Upstairs, they crept along a long dark colonnade.

Denys squeezed her hand. ‘Now for the
pièce de résistance
. The grand finale.’

‘What is it?’

‘You’ll see.’

He opened yet another door, switched on another light.

‘The Gubernatorial Chamber. In other words, Their Excellencies’ bedroom.’

‘Golly … We really
will
get our heads cut off, Denys.’

It was a sumptuous room fit for a king or, in this case, for the King’s representative and his Lady. She wondered what it was like to be the Governor’s wife. To live in such splendour with a hundred servants at her beck and call. To be bowed to and curtseyed to and saluted, just like the real Queen. To give grand balls and dinners and receptions and drive around in open limousines with a flag fluttering regally on the bonnet.

Behind her, Denys whispered, ‘Why don’t you try the bed. See what it’s like.’

She perched on the edge, bounced up and down.

‘That’s no good,’ he said. ‘You have to lie on it properly.’

She kicked off her silver shoes and swung her legs up. ‘Like this?’

‘That’s better. How is it, Goldilocks? Too hard? Or too soft?’

She giggled. ‘Just right.’

‘Let me try …’ He sat down. ‘So it is. Very comfy.’ He leaned over her. ‘You make a gorgeous Goldilocks and I feel like Father Bear.’

‘Whatever would His Excellency say?’

‘He’d think you were gorgeous too.’

When he kissed her his moustache tickled rather pleasantly and they rolled around on the bed. Before long, his hand was sliding under her skirts and wandering up her right leg.

‘What happens if someone comes in, Denys?’

‘They won’t. Trust me.’

‘I’ve already told you – I don’t.’

His hand was over her knee now and moving higher. She thought hazily, I ought to stop him before things go too far but I can’t be bothered. The room seemed to be going round and round and see-sawing up and down. She closed her eyes, which only made it worse. Suddenly,
much
worse. Oh God!

She pushed him off and sat up, hand clapped over her mouth.

‘Get me out of here, Denys.’

‘What’s all the rush?’

‘I’m going to be sick.
Quick!
’

She made it as far as the colonnade and vomited over the balustrade into a flower bed below. Denys mopped her down with his handkerchief.

‘I’m terribly sorry, old thing. I’ll take you home at once.’

Later, in the MG, she said, ‘You’re a louse, Denys. It was that revolting drink you kept giving me. You’re lucky I wasn’t sick all over their Excellencies’ bed.’

‘A thousand pardons, Princess. I humbly crave your forgiveness.’

‘Well, I don’t give it. I still feel dreadful and I expect I’ll have a shocking hangover. You’re an absolute cad. It wasn’t the first time you’ve taken a girl to their bedroom, was it?’

‘I cannot tell a lie.’

‘How many girls?’

‘A few. They seem to get quite a kick out of it.’ He glanced at her wryly. ‘I thought you would, too.’

She might have done: might easily have gone the whole way, like he’d planned, if she hadn’t felt so sick. Denys was nice – a lot nicer than Clive – and she wouldn’t have minded losing her virginity to him. The whole escapade had been a bit of a hoot, except for the being sick part. Next time she saw the Governor passing by with his Lady, it would give her a good laugh to remember rolling around on their bed.

He drove round the corner into Cavenagh Road and pecked her cheek discreetly as Soojal appeared at the front door.

‘Goodnight, Goldilocks. Sleep tight.’

‘Goodnight, Father Bear.’

She stumbled a little over the doorstep.

Soojal said, ‘Everything is all right,
missee
?’

‘Yes, thank you. Perfectly all right.’

‘I fetch something for you?’

‘No, thanks.’

She could feel him watching her anxiously as she steered a careful course for the stairs. For once, she forgot to rub the glass Buddha’s tummy as she passed him by.

Lady Battersby said in frigid tones, ‘Are you criticizing the Governor, Mrs Cotton?’

‘Not exactly. He’s very charming, of course, only I just feel it would be an advantage to have someone a bit more dynamic at the helm in these difficult times.’

‘Difficult times? What is difficult about them?’

‘Well, with the war in Europe and the Japs being such a threat to us.’

‘The European war is being dealt with very competently by our military experts at home. As for Malaya, our troops are standing to arms across the length and breadth of the peninsula and Singapore Island is a fortress. The Japanese are inferior beings, quite incapable of presenting any serious threat to us.’

‘But my husband thinks there’s a danger of them bombing Singapore. He says we should be building air raid shelters and digging trenches. Just in case.’

‘Really? May I ask how long you and your husband have been in the Far East, Mrs Cotton?’

‘About three years.’

‘Most of us have been here for a great deal longer than that. My husband and I have lived in Malaya for nearly thirty and I consider that we are in a rather better position to judge the situation. I might add that the Governor and his wife are personal friends of ours. We find him excellent in every respect.’

Mrs Cotton, flushed with embarrassment, mumbled her apologies.

Susan had enjoyed the exchange. Usually her mother’s ladies’ luncheons were ditchwater dull and she avoided them whenever possible. Lady B. had livened things up.

She listened to Mrs Jennings whose husband was something to do with surveying, grumbling about her cook who had, apparently, walked out on her without a moment’s notice.

‘Mind you,’ Mrs Jennings went on, ‘he was thoroughly lazy and dishonest, so I’m glad to be rid of him. You can never really trust any of the natives, can you?’

Amith was removing her plate as she spoke, his face expressionless.

Lady Battersby stared across the table. ‘We have never had the slightest trouble with any of our servants, Mrs Jennings. It all depends on how one treats them. Ours have been in our employ for many years.’

Three cheers for Lady B. for that put-down, Susan thought. The new
mems
like Mrs Jennings – probably from Surbiton – were always finding fault with their servants.

The lunch dragged on. At the pudding stage she excused herself with a headache and escaped. Her mother would be furious with her, but she didn’t care. Anyway, the headache was real after the evening with Denys.

She slept until nearly dinnertime, missing tea on the lawn, showered, dressed and went downstairs. There had been another monsoon downpour while she’d been asleep and the air felt beautifully fresh and cool. Her parents were having drinks out on the west verandah and her father had brought two men back for dinner. She had already met fat Mr Forster many times. He was also in the rubber business. His wife had gone to England, taking their son to school, and he was one of Singapore’s grass widowers – the
tuans
left alone consoling themselves with drink and native mistresses. The other man was unknown to her.

‘Lawrence Trent,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘Your father and I met in England many years ago.’ He was a thin man with a beaky nose and sharp eyes.

Her father said, ‘Mr Trent arrived in Singapore recently. He’s a correspondent for a London newspaper.’

She gave him an arch smile. ‘Have you come to report on us?’

He smiled in return. ‘Something like that.’

Her mother said, ‘Do tell us all about London, Mr Trent. How are things there?’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs Roper, but I’m afraid I haven’t been in London for a long time. I’ve spent the past three years in China. In Shanghai and, lately, Chunking – being bombed by the Japanese.’

‘Goodness! You must find Singapore rather dull.’

‘On the contrary, I’m finding it fascinating.’

‘Really? In what way exactly?’

‘Well, it’s remarkable how calm and confident everyone appears. How completely certain of Singapore’s military strength. I’ve been very struck by that. It’s very different in China where nobody feels safe at all, and quite unique in the Far East as things are today.’

Mr Forster growled, ‘Of course we’re confident. The island’s like a fortress. Nobody’s going to get near us.’ His face was flushed as he drained the remains of what was probably his second or third four-finger
stengah
. ‘Damned Nips! I’d like to get my bare hands on them if they ever had the cheek to try anything on. Why the hell we let any of the bastards go on living in Singapore, I’ll never know. They ought to be rounded up and thrown out on their ears. Put in an open boat and sent back where they belong.’

Her father said soothingly, ‘Another drink, Bill?’ He signed to Soojal. ‘Tell me, how did that cricket match go today?’

‘We lost, dammit. By one wicket.’

‘Bad luck. Still, there’s always the next time.’

During dinner, the Japs weren’t mentioned again. Afterwards her mother went to bed early and her father took Mr Forster and Mr Trent out on to the verandah again where they would drink more
stengahs
or brandies and smoke and talk about politics and the economy and other equally boring subjects. Susan trailed upstairs. It was very hot in her room and she felt too wide awake to sleep, so she went out on the upper verandah and listened to the bullfrogs croaking and watched the fireflies flickering in the dark like Tinker Bell.
Clap your hands if you believe in fairies
. She’d always clapped loudly when Nana had read the story. Fairies, though, belonged to England – to English woods and English glades, not to tropical jungles. One thing in England’s favour.

After the rain, the scent of flowers was heavy and honey-sweet. Cigar smoke drifted up from the west verandah below and pipe smoke, which must belong to the newspaper man. She moved further along the rail and leaned over so that she could eavesdrop. Mr Forster was sounding off again about the Japs.

‘They don’t know the first thing about fighting. Weedy little types with rotten eyesight. Can’t see in the dark. Wouldn’t stand a chance against our chaps.’

Lawrence Trent’s voice said mildly, ‘That’s the general opinion, I know, but I’m afraid it’s rather a misconception. The Japs know how to fight very well – I’ve been on the receiving end myself – and I’d be very surprised if they weren’t being given special training for jungle warfare. Whereas our troops have received practically none.’

‘Rubbish! Our men are trained for anything.’

‘Not specifically for fighting in a jungle. The Japs have already learned how to exploit difficult terrain and climate extremes. And they’re infinitely adaptable. Their soldiers dress simply and can subsist on small rations they carry with them – not much more than a ball of rice and a canister of water. Supplying and deploying
our
troops is a much more complicated affair altogether … traditional uniform, large quantities of tinned food, and so on.’

‘Well, of course it is. Dammit, we’re not bloody orientals. Our men dress properly, eat proper rations and fight the better for it. And we’ve proper guns, too – we don’t just brandish knives.’

‘That’s another misconception. The Japanese are very well armed – with tommy guns and two-inch mortars. Light, mobile and very accurate. The British in Malaya have rifles and not many automatic weapons.’