In the Mouth of the Tiger (93 page)

‘I love her,' Eugene said simply. ‘If we have to sell Argyle, we'll sell Argyle like a shot and find something else to have a go at. Tanya's happiness is my only concern.'

On the way to KL we dropped in on the Featherstones. The Dunlops plantation at Bentong was a different world to Argyle, with the palatial manager's bungalow set in manicured lawns and surrounded by all the trappings of a substantial and well-established estate. There was a dressing station large enough to be called a hospital, a pitch-roofed schoolhouse, a range of assistant manager's bungalows, and coolie lines so substantial that they looked almost like a village in their own right.

Tim and Jan were playing tennis on their private court, but chucked their racquets aside and insisted on us staying for dinner. ‘Your train's not leaving until nine o'clock tomorrow morning,' Tim insisted. ‘So who cares what time you get to bed? And you're in the Railway Hotel, for heaven's sake!'

I was glad we stayed. The Featherstone twins – identical girls with Tim's red hair in curly mops on their heads – were shy at first but Frances soon had them running at her beck and call. They played on the wide lawns, and given what was to happen at Bentong later my memories of that afternoon are amongst the most precious I have. Frances tossing her golden head imperiously as she set the rules of the game, then reset them on a cheerful whim. Jenny and Rachel, their red-gold mops catching the sunshine as they ran, and jumped, and crawled and shouted, enthusiastically playing parts in a glorious game that had taken over their entire universe. Tim and Jan chatting with drinks in their hands, their eyes straying constantly and with joy to their children.

If happiness is sitting back and seeing your children transported by delight, then Tim and Jan were certainly happy that afternoon. I am so glad they were, and I hang on to the thought of their happiness with grim determination.

‘Are the Communists still a problem for you?' Denis asked, and Tim chuckled.

‘I think the boot is a little bit on the other foot,' he said. ‘The local branch of the MCP is frightened of
me
. Remember the little plan I told you about down at the Aubreys' farewell? Well, I've put it in place and it's worked quite a treat. I pay my chaps in strict accordance with the award, but I give them things they couldn't possibly buy. I send all the older children into trade school in KL. Pay for their education out of the incidentals account. I'm also giving every family a two-week holiday at our rest bungalows in Kuantan.
I call it a training camp, and we do give'em a bit of training: we teach the kids to swim. There are other things, too. I reckon the local MCP Secretary is frightened to death of me. If I can keep on going as I am, he'll have to close his unit down for lack of business.'

Denis frowned slightly. ‘Don't underestimate them, Tim,' he said seriously. ‘It's when the Communists are frightened that they are at their most dangerous.'

‘There have been the odd incidents,' Jan put in. ‘One or two of our people have been bashed by louts while visiting Bentong. And some crazy young idiot set fire to the smokehouse. Luckily one of the estate guards caught him at it, and he'll spend the next twelve months in gaol.'

We dined early and set off for KL just after dark. The lights blazed in the bungalow behind us, the children screamed their goodbyes to each other, and Denis and I waved carelessly out of the car windows.

Another silly, happy, normal farewell.

Chapter Thirty-Three

O
ne evening in early September Denis and I were sitting under the casuarina trees with our pre-dinner drinks when I noticed an unfamiliar ship out in the Straits. She was moving slowly westward through the evening light, bathed in pink from the setting sun and obviously headed for Keppel Harbour. She was a freighter, but one of unusual beauty, painted all white with a red star on her superstructure and a red hammer-and-sickle on her funnel.

Even Frances, playing with her dolls on the grass at our feet, was moved to stand and stare, a chubby arm thrown up to shield the sun's reflection on the placid sea. Denis got out his binoculars and we read her name: the
Borodino
, home port Vladivostok.

‘I thought she had to be the
Borodino
,' he said in a rather resigned voice.

While he was dressing the next morning, Denis paused as he was knotting his tie. ‘You might get a call today,' he said in the casual voice he used when he was talking about something important. ‘It'll be from a chap called Sokolov, who's on the
Borodino
. He's the Political Commissar for this part of the world, and he wants to give you something. A reward for what we did in Melbourne during the war. You know, the cables business.'

I felt my heart beating with sudden alarm. ‘Isn't that rather silly of them? Handing out presents for no apparent reason? People will wonder what is going on.' I had thought the cables business was well and truly behind us.

‘I think it's damned stupid, and I've told them so,' Denis said. ‘But once the Communists get something into their thick skulls, you need a jackhammer to get it out. I'm sure they will be discreet, but it's a risk nobody had to take.'

‘What should I do?' I asked.

‘Go along with it. Accept the blasted thing with as much good grace as you can muster. But don't get involved in conversation with them. That's important, darling. Don't talk to them about
anything
.'

The call came about mid-morning, a strongly accented voice asking me if I would mind if Mr Sokolov called on me during the afternoon. He wanted to return something of mine. We arranged three o'clock, and I asked Amah to prepare tea and biscuits for us in the lounge.

The Russians came in style, without any attempt at discretion whatsoever. A large black hire car pulled up and a Russian sailor leapt out to open the rear door. Chu Lun had sensed that something was up and had stationed himself by the porch, pretending to weed the garden bed. I knew he was pretending because Chu Lun never, ever did any real gardening.

Two men emerged from the back of the car. One was a small man in an immaculate white uniform with lots of medals on his breast. He introduced himself as Captain Rogov, clicking his heels together and giving me a small bob of the head as he shook my hand. ‘May I present Commissar Ivan Sokolov,' he said, stepping aside.

I thought political commissars were small men with bitter mouths and insipid handshakes, but Sokolov did not fit that mould at all. He was a huge man with a round, jolly face and a firm, friendly handshake. ‘It is an honour to meet you, Madam,' he boomed cheerfully in Russian. Then, coming straight to the point: ‘I am here on behalf of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, and I wish to present you with an award on behalf of the Communist Party and the people of Russia.'

I glanced around nervously. ‘Then you had better come inside,' I said in English. ‘Amah has provided us with some tea.' I knew it was a pretty inadequate response, but I was far too worried to think of any grand phrases.

We sat in the lounge, Captain Rogov and I sitting stiff and uncomfortable, Sokolov lounging back so expansively in his cane chair that I felt the rattan might give way at any moment. ‘I am new to the tropics,' he said, this time speaking in unaccented English and fanning his face with his hat. ‘My area of responsibility is Hong Kong to Colombo. The area that I think used to be called the Far East. I am visiting the area to meet people and to learn as much as I can. It is a fascinating corner of the world, is it not?'

I stared at Sokolov curiously. I couldn't help it. This man, an avowed Communist and a Commissar of the People to boot, should have been the physical embodiment of evil. ‘Soldiers of Satan', my mother had called the
Communists. ‘Monsters', Tanya still called them. And yet there he was, lounging back in our cane chair, his eyes smiling into mine, looking for all the world like a perfectly normal human being. Even a rather likeable human being.

I realised I was staring and got up hurriedly to pour the tea. ‘How long are you staying in Singapore?' I asked politely.

‘It depends on Captain Rogov. When he sails I suppose I will have to sail with him.' He glanced at Rogov. ‘But if I have time I would like to see the Tiger Balm Gardens, and have a meal at Raffles. And perhaps attend a race meeting at the Singapore Turf Club.' He winked at Rogov. ‘If the Comrade Captain had similar tastes to mine I think we would be here for at least a fortnight.'

Rogov moved uncomfortably. ‘We need only remain two days in Singapore. To take on some cargo, and to take on some fuel.' Rogov fitted my picture of a Communist Commissar far better than Sokolov did.

Sokolov sighed. ‘Comrade Captain is a harsh taskmaster,' he said. He suddenly sat up straight, fishing a small red box from the breast pocket of his light cotton suit. ‘But he reminds me of my duty. Madam, I have been authorised to present you with one of the Soviet Union's highest awards for services to the Party and the State.'

I think I actually gasped. Certainly I felt the blood run from my face. This is absolutely dreadful, I thought. The Communists are our sworn enemies, destined to fight us in the final battle between Good and Evil. And here I am being awarded a medal for services to the Communist State.

It seemed the ultimate seal of treachery.

Sokolov mistook my horror for awe, and got to his feet with an encouraging smile. ‘Dear lady,' he said, ‘you have well and truly earned the Order of Lenin. Your courage, and that of your husband, helped change the course of the war. We owe you far more than a mere trinket.' He saw me staring back at him, numb with shock, and must have decided that he had better get on with the little ceremony. He helped me to my feet and then cleared his throat.

‘On behalf of Comrade N. Shvernik, Secretary of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, I hereby award you the Order of Lenin.' He had taken the medal from its box and now pinned it rather clumsily to my cream cotton blouse. Captain Rogov had stood up with us and he clapped, a soft, dry sound in the empty house.

Somewhere outside, I heard Chu Lun laugh. It had nothing to do with
what was going on in our lounge, but the peal of laughter seemed curiously appropriate and I found myself blushing furiously.

‘It is usual at this point to drink something a little stronger than tea,' Sokolov said. ‘And if you will excuse me for saying so, I think you
need
something a little stronger than tea, Madam.'

The dreadful feeling of disloyalty had gone, and I was suddenly myself again. ‘We have something appropriate for such an occasion as this,' I said. ‘Allow me to offer you both a glass of Tiger beer.'

Sokolov's face fell. ‘A very fine drink indeed,' he said. ‘Ideal for the English. But – excuse me – I had in mind something a little more Russian. You don't have any vodka on hand by any chance?'

I did, but I certainly wasn't going to bring it out now and end up with a tipsy Political Commissar on my hands. We settled for a bottle of French champagne, and sat toasting each other as the usual afternoon sea breeze came in and rattled the rattan blinds.

‘I really am indebted to you,' I said as sincerely as I could, trying to atone for my earlier lack of appreciation.

Sokolov downed his second glass. ‘It is not me that you should thank,' he said. ‘It was the wish of Comrade Stalin himself. He has a personal interest in what you did for us during the war.' He looked at the medal, dangling rather awkwardly over my left breast. ‘The need for discretion is very much appreciated in Moscow,' he said. ‘Your name is not on the formal list of recipients of the order, and of course there is no obligation on you to wear it openly. The Roman Catholic Pope sometimes makes a Cardinal secretly, “in the breast”, as they say. You are the recipient of an Order of Lenin “in the breast”. There are others of you in the West. One day – perhaps, here in Malaya, one day very soon – you will be able to wear it openly and with pride.'

After they had gone I sat down and looked at my little medal. It was a pretty thing if you didn't look too closely at its symbolism. A circle of golden rye sheaves draped with a red banner and bearing a profile of Lenin. I balanced the tiny bauble in my hand, half inclined to chuck it far out into the sea. But I had got over my earlier shock, and saw it for what it was. A bit of tin on the end of a red and gold ribbon, signifying only that Denis and I had duped everyone and probably shortened the war. Perhaps, I thought idly, I will keep it in my jewellery box, and show it to my grandchildren one day, and tell them the story with a small wry smile.

The last few months of 1947 saw an escalation in the violence that was breaking out all over Malaya. Towards the end of September, the Wessyngton Rubber Estate in central Johore was taken over. It was almost a copybook military operation, with armed and uniformed men appearing out of the jungle and rounding up the estate workers as they were eating their evening meal. The raiders had cut the telephone line into the estate so that when Bob Pratt, the manager, tried to phone for help all he got was a guttural voice telling him to stay in his house or he would be killed. The bandits methodically ransacked the homes of the Tamil workforce, taking money and any useful items that caught their attention. Two headmen who had been unwise enough to protest were beaten, but nobody was killed or even badly hurt. The attack on Mr and Mrs Archibald Nicholson less than a week later did not end so happily. Archie and Laura were driving home to the Gunong Pulai Estate in South Johore after a weekend in Singapore when they were ambushed on a lonely corner of the Pulai Road. A bullet punctured a tyre and the car overturned, Archie being knocked unconscious when he was thrown through the driver's door. Laura was crouching beside him in the lallang when armed Chinese emerged from the jungle. She pleaded for help but one of the raiders simply walked over and clubbed her insensible with a blow from his rifle butt. When she came to she found Archie dead from a bullet in the side of his head and the car a burnt-out wreck.