‘What’s all that about?’
The driver shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Going off on a sweep of the “ulu” to chase out some of the little yellow sods. Some of those in the TCVs were Aussies.’
The Tynesider knew what Aussies were, but it was another day or so before he added ‘Troop Carrying Vehicle’ to his list of acronyms. ‘God knows what “ulu” might be,’ he muttered to himself.
As they approached some buildings, the corporal pointed ahead.
‘Here’s the town, sir. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it!’
Tanah Timah was about four hundred yards long, a straight wide road lined on each side by ‘shophouses’, two-storied terraces of sun-bleached cement. The upper floors overhung a continuous arcade supported by pillars, known as the ‘five-foot way’ behind which were a multitude of colourful shops, selling everything from refrigerators to Nescafe, from paraffin stoves to rolls of silk brocade. Some were workshops and the glare of welding and the hammering of bicycle repairs spilled out into the arcades and across the ramps that crossed the deep monsoon drains that fronted the buildings.
There were people everywhere — old ladies squatting behind piles of fruit for sale, men chopping firewood, girls selling fried rice from huge woks, cobblers sitting cross-legged at their lasts and shoppers and loungers wandering across the road, oblivious of the traffic. Bicycle trishaws carried gaily dressed Malay women holding up paper umbrellas against the sun and barefoot labourers pushed bikes piled high with green fodder or crates of live ducks. Ungainly local trucks belched fumes, competing in noise and pollution with the battered bus that came up from Sungei Siput three times a day. An occasional green Army vehicle passed through, but the town seemed to be ignoring the fact that they were on the edge of a vicious terrorist war that had been going on for years.
As his driver had warned, they passed through the town in less than two minutes and as the shops ended, the new arrival saw the side turning off to the left, leading towards the bridge and the mysterious ‘Dog’. Facing the road junction was a solid-looking building, freshly painted in white, with radio aerials on the roof. It was set in a compound behind a high perimeter wall topped by a barbed-wire fence. A barrier at the entrance was guarded by a Malay in a smart khaki uniform, with a black peaked cap and a pistol holstered on his belt.
‘That’s the Police Circle HQ — dunno why they call it a Circle, but they always do,’ volunteered his oracle.
Another half mile along the dead flat road brought them alongside what seemed to be a huge Mississippi riverboat made from rusted corrugated iron. It was sitting forlornly in a few feet of dirty water, which appeared to be the remnants of a dried-up lake.
‘What the hell’s that?’ asked Howden.
‘The old tin dredge, that is. Abandoned after the Japs came. Like I said, the garrison and hospital are built on the old tin tailings. And here we are, sir.’
Not far beyond the dredge, on the left side of the dead straight road, Tom saw the corner of a formidable fence. A double line of ten-foot high chain-link formed two barriers, with coiled barbed wire in the space between. A large square of about fifty acres was filled with barrack huts, low brick buildings, workshops, vehicle shelters and at the back, some houses and a few bungalows. As they drove along the front, separated from the road only by a deep monsoon drain, they passed the main gate, made of steel bars. It was open, but a counter-weighted pole barred the entrance, outside a fortified guardroom where two red-capped Military Police stood scowling at the world.
‘Bastards, they are!’ muttered the corporal under his breath, obviously giving vent to some private hatred. Things were much more relaxed at the next gate, another three hundred yards down the road. The double fence continued around the smaller hospital compound and a similar gate stood open in the centre, also with a striped pole across the entrance. A lance corporal in a navy-blue beret and white-Blancoed belt stood outside a small guardroom, a rifle clutched in one hand, the stock resting on his boot. Tom half-expected a challenge, with a ‘Halt, who goes there?’ and a demand for their identity cards. Instead, the sentinel leaned on the counterweight, lifted the pole and as the Land Rover passed, raised a derisory two fingers at the driver.
‘Up yours, Fred!’ yelled the cockney and accelerated into the front vehicle park, turned right in front of the Admin huts and then sharp left on to the perimeter road that ran all around the hospital compound. The new doctor had a blurred view of a series of long huts that seemed to come off a central open corridor, like ribs from a spine. On the other side of the road, next to the outer fence, was a barrack block, then a series of smaller buildings before an open space appeared where a camouflaged Whirlwind helicopter was waiting. Some distance beyond this, standing lonely and isolated in the furthest corner of the compound, were two parallel asbestos-roofed huts, joined at the near end by a short open corridor, forming a ‘U’. Wide eaves projected from each building, supported on wooden pillars to form austere verandahs. A series of louvred doors down the sides of the huts had been painted green, now bleached by the sun. Some sparse grass formed a central lawn between the two buildings and, around the entrance, some scraggy flowering plants tried to survive amongst the gravel of the tin tailings. A short path led from the road to the concrete strip beneath the cross-corridor and alongside it was a faded wooden sign bearing the legend ‘RAMC OFFICERS’ MESS’ in the Corps colours of blue, yellow and cherry red.
The Land Rover jerked to a stop.
‘Here we are, sir. Home sweet home!’ sang out the driver.
He hopped around to the back and took out the officer’s two bags which he dumped on the concrete. Tom Howden climbed out more slowly and looked with dismay at his new domicile. It looked more like a chicken farm set down in a desert, than the residence of holders of the Queen’s Commission. As the corporal passed him on the path, he gave a salute worthy of the Grenadier Guards.
‘Best of luck, sir!’
As the doctor hesitantly touched his cap in return, he was conscious of the sweat-blackened areas of fabric under his arms and over the whole of his back. He heard the vehicle roar away behind him, but kept his eyes fixed on the deserted huts, a feeling of almost desperate loneliness engulfing him.
As Tom Howden was staring despondently at his new home, Diane Robertson sat alone in hers, the late afternoon sun striking through the open doors. The silence was broken only by her sniffs of petulant self-pity, until a small voice asked, ‘Mem want anything now?’
The face of her amah, Lee Mei Mei, appeared timorously around the door to the dining room, half scared, half intrigued by the domestic dramas that were becoming more frequent in the Robertson household. Mei was a slight, fragile Chinese girl of twenty, with an elfin face that always looked slightly startled. Her glossy black hair was pulled back into a ponytail held with a rubber band, the end hanging down the back of her blue floral pyjama suit.
‘Yes, May. Tell Siva to bring me a stinger, will you? A large one.’
Diane sat alone in the wide, lofty room, the big brass fan whirling slowly over her head, trying to waft the cloying air into a draught. She thought of Norfolk now, at the beginning of December, cold and perhaps wet, but not with the all-pervading dampness they had here, where there was an electric light bulb in every wardrobe to keep the mould off the shoes and where the camera had to be kept in a sealed biscuit tin with a bag of silica gel.
She wished to God she had stayed in England and not been seduced by both James’s body and his glowing descriptions of life on a Malayan rubber estate. Twenty-six years old, she was the third daughter of a minor squire from Norfolk, rejoicing in the name of Henry Blessington-Luke. After an expensive and largely wasted education at Cheltenham, she had done little but ride, party and hunt for both foxes and a husband. Three years earlier, at a Hunt Ball near Newmarket, she had met James Robertson, home on leave — and three months later, had married him in the cathedral in Singapore.