In the Mouth of the Tiger (90 page)

Denis drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Was Chin Peng there today?'

‘Chin Peng is up in Perak. I wanted him to be there, to give me a little support. But he found at the last moment that he had urgent business in Perak. Chin Peng also knows the drill very well.'

‘Chin Peng was doing the right thing,' Denis said. ‘Of course he must distance himself from you. In fact, he will have to lead the pack against you. You realise that, of course? Otherwise there is a chance they will turn on him too. After all, you were his sponsor. You made him your deputy.'

Loi Tak turned to me again. ‘Isn't this a soulless business we are in? Chin Peng, whom I took from obscurity and made the youngest Deputy Secretary-General in the history of our party, must now lead the baying dogs that are on my trail. It may well be that Chin Peng will need to shoot me, to confirm his credentials to the Party ...'

‘How much money can you get your hands on?' Denis interrupted.

‘I am still in charge of the Party's funds,' Loi Tak said a little stiffly. ‘No doubt I could draw those funds out of the bank tomorrow. But I assume that British Intelligence will not force me to do that. It would besmirch my good name for ever. They would think I was a simple crook, using the Party only to feather my own nest. You know better than that of me, Tuan.'

It was the first time I had heard Loi Tak use the word, and I realised that consciously or unconsciously he was already shedding himself of the Communist persona he had worn for so many years.

Denis shook his head. ‘We want them to think of you as a petty crook,' he said unsympathetically. ‘We don't want them to speculate on any other reasons why you might have betrayed the Party. If you want any help from me you'll do exactly as I say and take every cent you can get your hands on. Even the Sick Comrades Fund I know you control.'

Loi Tak gestured helplessly and turned to me yet again. ‘They might let me escape with my life, but British Intelligence will not let me keep even a shred of my dignity. Not much reward for thirty years of loyal and dangerous service.'

Denis wasn't listening. ‘You will have to draw that money out first thing tomorrow, Loi Tak. Not here in Singapore, because they'll have the banks staked out. You'll have run over to Johore Bahru by taxi and do it over there.'

Loi Tak made an expressive gesture and seemed about to say something noble and emphatic. But then he let his hands fall slowly into his lap. What could he say? What could Denis or I say? In that moment I saw the ugly side of our trade. Honour, and loyalty, and gratitude – these things are often the first casualties of the spying game.

Denis had fetched his briefcase from his study and opened it on his lap. ‘You will need this,' he said, tossing across a bundle of notes. ‘Don't go home tonight, Loi Tak. Stay at a hotel. Tomorrow, I will arrange for you to be taken out of Singapore. I don't know how just yet, and it's probably best you don't know anyway. But ring me tomorrow at the office. As close to four o'clock as you can manage. I'll have all the details then.' He was about to hand Loi Tak one of his cards, but instead jotted the telephone number on a scrap of paper. ‘Commit it to memory and then tear it up,' he commanded.

‘Where will you be taking me?' Loi Tak asked.

Denis chewed his lip. ‘Initially, I think you will have to accept whatever we can offer. But I assure you we'll not abandon you to the wolves.'

Denis took Loi Tak back into town by car, shoving his bicycle in the boot and giving me a peck on the cheek before driving off. It was only after the Wolseley's rear light had disappeared around the bend in the drive that I realised what a risk he was taking. There were Communists everywhere in Singapore, and Loi Tak would obviously be a wanted man from now on. Anyone – particularly a European – seen in his company would be under immense suspicion. Too many unusual things were happening for me to be anything but concerned. I went back to bed but lay awake until I heard the car return, and then the comforting creak of the handbrake being applied. I was fast asleep before Denis climbed into bed.

There were a few tantalising reports in the
Straits Times
over the next few days, garbled reports about changes at the top of the MCP and the inevitable purges. But nothing about Loi Tak himself, and after a week or so I assumed he had managed to get clear. I suppose I was glad he'd escaped, but not tremendously so. He had obviously been a ruthless operator, and if he had been caught I don't doubt he would have richly deserved the fate awaiting him. But the talk of purges worried me. Catherine had been a tall poppy in the MCP and the Communists were notoriously ruthless towards tall poppies.

As can sometimes happen when you have someone on your mind, I ran into the subject of my concern almost immediately. I was coming out of the Singapore Library, a bundle of books under my arm, when I literally bumped into her. Or rather she bumped into me, because she had been walking along quite oblivious to where she was going, deep in conversation with Wu Sing, the man she had taken to the Alexandra Hospital.

One of my books had tumbled to the pavement and Catherine picked it up, glancing at the title before handing it back to me with a smile. It was something light and fluffy and I felt an absurd moment of embarrassment. ‘Hullo, Catherine,' I said, then pretended to look at the book with disdain. ‘I was told this was rather good but I have my doubts.' I read the title out aloud:
For the Love of my Corsair
. It does sound rather silly.'

Catherine's smile was real and warm. ‘It looks to me like a typical piece of bourgeois escapism,' she said. ‘But all literature is escapism, is it not? So if you want to escape to the Spanish Main with a handsome pirate, why not?'

Catherine looked completely different to the girl I'd met in Robinsons. Her eyes were steady and direct, and her smile the smile I remembered. Almost unconsciously I glanced at the man by her side. Wu Sing was tall and slim, with a sensitive face made almost scholarly by heavy, horn-rimmed glasses. He
put out his hand solemnly and I shook it with equal solemnity.

‘Norma Elesmere-Elliott,' I said.

My name had an extraordinary effect on him. He stiffened, and his face was suddenly suffused by something that I can only describe as awe. He took my hand again, and this time shook it firmly and with feeling.

‘This is an honour,' he said. And then, suddenly and unaccountably, he dropped my hand, cleared his throat, and pretended to be studying something on the other side of the street. A flush mounted up his neck like a pink tide, and then filled his cheeks. He looked like a schoolboy caught out in some embarrassing mistake.

Catherine burst into laughter and gripped my hand. ‘Poor Sing! I promise you he is a very clever man, but he can be so transparent! He could never, ever be a secret agent!'

I stood there staring at the two of them, totally at a loss.

‘Come and have a cup of tea with us,' Catherine said. ‘Not your fancy English tea but the sort of tea the real people of Malaya drink. Have you ever tried
teh halia tarik
?'

Catherine led us to a tiny Indian tea-shop, no more than a shanty stuck between two substantial European buildings, and we sat at a rickety little table while the proprietor mixed and poured a fragrant brew behind his counter. It felt strange sitting there, surrounded by Malays in their sarongs and a couple of elderly Chinese women in what looked like dark blue pyjamas. There was a distinctly exotic smell in the air, a mixture of sweat and patchouli oil, and the atmosphere was thick with pipe smoke. Through the open doorway I could see well-dressed men and women passing, quite oblivious of the ‘native' teashop on their doorstep. It brought home to me with a jolt just how much we Europeans lived in our own separate world in Malaya, quite divorced from those who Catherine had called the ‘real' people.

‘You look uncomfortable, Norma,' Catherine said almost severely. ‘I hope you don't feel you are slumming. You know, if you are going to continue to live in Malaya you will have to get used to mixing with us in our own setting. We are the real rulers of this country, after all: the British are only here as our trustees, waiting until we come of age.'

I made an effort to relax, and smiled back at Catherine. ‘I have lived in Malaya since I was a baby,' I said. ‘I have the same right to call Malaya home as you have.' But I didn't really believe what I was saying. Europeans in Malaya
were
divorced from the throbbing reality of the country. We may have
elected
to divorce ourselves, but we were divorced all the same.

The tea when it came was frothy and strange, and full of ginger, but it tasted delicious and refreshing. I raised my cup. ‘To a future Malaya that is broad and compassionate enough to let us all feel at home,' I said.

Wu Sing clapped silently. ‘If only it could be so, Mrs Elesmere-Elliott,' he said, looking at me seriously over the top of his glasses. ‘But I think that when Malaya does change, it will be a change brought about by the power of the gun. And so there will be a residue of hate and anger in the breasts of those who have lost out in the struggle.' He had completely recovered from his earlier embarrassment, and looked wise and composed.

‘That is a rather frightening thing to say,' I said. ‘Surely, the new Federation of Malaya will be supported by enough of the real people to make sure that guns won't be needed.'

Both Catherine and Wu Sing looked at me. ‘So we hope, of course,' Catherine said, ‘but no one would know better than you do, Norma, how important it is that we be prepared to use guns in the coming struggle. Malaya is not going to fall into our hands like a ripe durian falling from a tree.'

I experienced a sudden dizzy feeling of disorientation, aware that something important was happening, but also aware that I had no idea what it was. Why
would
I know better than anyone how important it was to be prepared to use guns? And why was Wu Sing treating me the way he was – almost with reverence? I'd been in this sort of territory before, and I reacted the way I always did. With a sweet but enigmatic smile.

‘I had better go,' I said collecting my books. ‘Catherine, please ring me. You and Wu Sing must come out to Casuarinas. It's almost like Whitelawns. We are on the beach . . .'

‘No!' Catherine banged the table with the palm of her hand. ‘You do not understand, Norma. I do not want to be drawn into your world again. I want to make a go of it in my own world. If we meet again it will be to drink teh halia tarik, or to play mah jong on a mat in my uncle's house at Katong.' Her voice softened. ‘I know you and Denis are on our side. You are comrades, and I respect you for the risks you are taking on our behalf. But I can never again play the English lady. It cost me too much the last time I played that game.'

I stood up and shook her hand, and then Wu Sing's. As we separated, Wu Sing gave me a quick, almost furtive salute. And then I was walking briskly towards Raffles Place, my mind in a whirl.

Unconsciously I was breathing deeply, getting the cloying aromas of the Indian teashop out of my nostrils. Returning to my own world.

What had Catherine meant about Denis and me taking risks on their behalf? And we were
comrades
, for heaven's sake? Halfway to Raffles Place a dreadful thought struck me, and I abruptly changed direction, turning left towards Collier Quay. What Catherine had said would make complete sense if Elesmere-Elliott & Co. were selling war surplus arms to the Communists. I knew we had been selling arms to the various factions in Indonesia, but it horrified me to think we might also be selling them to the MCP. The only people those guns might ever be turned against would be our friends.

Elesmere-Elliott & Co., East India Merchants, now had substantial offices on Collier Quay. We had taken over another two floors of the Union Building and our ground floor entrance, flanked by marble pillars, looked more like the doorway to a bank than a trading concern. Anthony Pang, our chief clerk, rushed out of his glass-walled office when I appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mem,' he said politely. ‘You should visit us more often. But I am afraid that Tuan is not here right now. He is visiting our godown in Anson Road. But he will be back very shortly – perhaps you would like to wait in our new waiting room?'

‘I'll wait in Tuan's office,' I said. Anthony hesitated, spreading his hands, obviously trying to think of a reason why I should not sit in my husband's office. So I smiled sweetly and swept past him. But I had another barrier to pass. A man leapt in front of me just as I reached Denis's door, a sinisterlooking Hakka who literally barred my progress with outstretched arms. ‘Off limits!' he said loudly. ‘Tuan has ordered nobody enter his office while he is away.'

Fury took me in its hand and I flung myself past him and yanked the door open. Anthony Pang was shouting in Cantonese and the other man backed off, his face stiff with concern, and then I was in the room, slamming the door behind me.

It had all happened so quickly that all I could do was to lean weakly against the doorjamb, my head spinning, my breath coming in gulps. What in God's name had possessed me to act as I had? The answer came to mind the instant I framed the question: I was frightened to death that Denis had crossed the line between good and evil, and was selling arms to the Communists.

Anthony Pang tapped on the door politely. ‘I am so sorry, Mem. Mr
Soong did not know who you were. He – we – all of us apologise profusely. I am personally so very sorry . . .' I didn't answer and his voice trailed off. Then the door opened cautiously, his face appearing in the crack with a concerned frown. By now I had recovered my poise and smiled back at him as if nothing had happened.

‘I will wait here until Tuan comes back,' I said lazily. ‘Please shut the door.'

Denis's room looked as it had always looked. A big teak desk in front of the window, empty except for a telephone and a bare white blotter. A wall of grey steel filing cabinets. Two comfortable cane chairs for visitors. Immaculately clean and tidy, completely impersonal.