James had actually been born near Cork into a Protestant ‘planter’ family. His father had been an Anglicized gentleman farmer and horse-breeder, but dislike of the founding of the Irish Free State had made him move in 1923 to Norfolk, where he established a successful stud farm. James was sent off to a minor public school in Cambridgeshire, then to agricultural college, where he finished in 1937 at the age of twenty-one. He worked for his father for a year, but they failed to get along and he began looking for a farm manager’s post. However, with war imminent, James volunteered for the navy in ’39, spent a year at sea, then was posted to Ceylon and spent the rest of the war as an undistinguished lieutenant at HQ Trincomalee. Demobbed in 1946, he got a job as an estate under-manager in Gloucestershire, but became restless and wanted to emigrate and set up on his own somewhere. His father had died a couple of years earlier and when his mother sold up the stud farm, she funded his purchase of Gunong Besar. Though he would have preferred going back to Ceylon, the place was cheap, having been run down during the war and in 1948 he moved in. Advertising for a manager, he was lucky enough to have got Douglas Mackay up from Johore, who had long experience of the rubber trade, of which James knew little apart from what he had picked up in Ceylon.
Now he sat turning his beer glass around in his fingers, ruminating about the future and wondering if he should pack up and go back to Britain or try Kenya or New Zealand — but whether with or without Diane was the question?
It was beginning to get dusk outside and the manager switched on the lights in the club-room — large, rather dim glass globes hanging from the beams high up in the ceiling, from which also dangled the half-dozen big fans that turned endlessly above them. The nearness of the equator, just south of Singapore, meant that it got dark at about seven o’clock all year round — just as there were no noticeable seasons, as the long, thin peninsula got monsoons from both sides, so it rained at some time on almost every day of the year.
As the lights came on and the darkness deepened outside, so members began to drift into the club, chattering in a variety of accents, from a Home Counties drawl to the abrasive rasp of Alice Springs. Soon the line of stools filled up and Daniel was scurrying back and forth with gin and tonics, stengahs and the ubiquitous Tiger and Anchor beers. Robertson’s mood lightened, as he knew almost everyone and nodded and exchanged greetings in his usual loud and hearty style, concealing his aggrieved chagrin beneath his habitual bonhomie.
Les Arnold, an Australian planter from the next estate beyond Gunong Besar, plumped himself down on one side, giving James a playful punch on the arm in greeting, as he yelled for his beer. A lean, wiry fellow, he was unmarried, as far as anyone knew, and was the ultimate extrovert. Sometimes the suspicious James wondered if his habitual flirting with Diane was a cover for more serious lechery with her, but Les behaved like that with everything in a skirt.
On the other side, an older man with a toothbrush moustache and a bald patch sat himself down more decorously. Alfred Morris, a major in the Medical Corps, was the Administrative Officer from BMH. He was a trim, erect man, who had come up through the ranks and been commissioned from Warrant Officer during the war. A popular figure in TT, he seemed like everyone’s uncle, with his calm, amiable manner and his ability to pour oil on the frequently troubled waters in both the hospital and the club. James knew that this was his last tour before retiring to grow roses at his cottage in Kent. After making signs to the harassed manager for beer, Alfred turned to Robertson.
‘James, let me introduce you to a prospective new member. Just out from home, only arrived today.’
He leaned back to reveal Tom Howden on the next stool and allow the ritual of exchanging of names and handshakes. However surly and objectionable Robertson could be to his family and employees, his public school education and snobbish upbringing had given him an almost exaggerated sense of good manners where new acquaintances of an acceptable social standing were concerned and he greeted the medical man almost effusively.
‘Tom’s our new pathologist,’ explained Alfred Morris. ‘About time, too, as Dickie Freeman was RHE a month ago. Went home on the Empire Fowey.’
Although technically a guest of Major Morris, Tom’s application to join was a formality, the club committee accepting any officer on the nod. A few others gathered around with their drinks to inspect the new member. Though officers came and went fairly frequently, it was always a novelty to meet someone new, especially one fresh from home, who may have actually seen a recent International or who had perhaps been to the races at Kempton Park. Tom could oblige them on the first count, as he was a keen rugby fan, though he had never seen a horse race in his life.
He felt much better this evening, as his earlier bout of acute homesickness had passed. Standing here with a glass of beer amid convivial company in this bizarre kind of pub, he decided that he was going to enjoy his time in Malaya. An ardent devotee of Somerset Maugham, he felt as if he was reliving some of his favourite stories. At the moment, it was an all-male gathering at the bar. Although everyone was in civilian clothes, they were in virtually another kind of uniform. All stood in trousers and white shirts and all wore ties, as it was a club regulation that no shorts were allowed after six o’clock and that ties would be displayed. In fact, Daniel kept a few spares behind the bar for members who turned up without one. Long-sleeved shirts were required — the Army demanded this everywhere after seven o’clock, the rationale being to reduce the area available for malarious mosquitoes to feed on! The only exception to these rules was on Sundays and when there was a fancy-dress dance. Who had made these peculiar demands, no one remembered, just as the origin of the Sussex Club’s nickname was shrouded in mystery. Tom raised this question after a few more beers and James, whose browbeating personality usually monopolized the conversation, delivered his opinion in his loud, plummy voice.
‘Damned club’s been here since the ’twenties! Started by a few chaps most of whom happened to come from Sussex.’
‘But why “The Dog”?’ asked the doctor.
‘I think a couple of the fellows came up from KL and had been members of the Selangor Club on the padang there. Everyone in the bloody world knows that that’s nicknamed “The Dog”, so they borrowed the name to make them feel more at home in this God-forsaken hole.’
No one volunteered any reason why the Kuala Lumpur club should have carried the odd name, but the conversation careered off in a different direction and Tom went with it, enjoying himself more with every glass of cold lager. He was introduced to a dozen more people and promptly forgot every name, though there seemed to be twice as many military as civilians.
The faces along the bar came and went, as some left for their evening meal at home or in the various messes in the Garrison — and others arrived to eat in the club dining room, which lay through a door at the end of the room. At seven thirty, Major Morris tapped his arm and pointed to the big clock above the bar.
‘Time to get back to the Mess, lad. Number One will give us the evil eye if we’re late for his soup.’
Tom had learned a lot in his first few hours at BMH Tanah Timah. ‘Number One’ was the title of the Officers’ Mess Steward — an emaciated Chinese of indeterminate age whose real name was Lim Ah Sok, and who ruled the inmates with a rod of iron concealed behind a deferential manner. He was assisted by his ferocious, if diminutive wife Meng, who wielded her iron rod without any pretence of deference.
The two officers climbed into Morris’s 1939 Hillman Minx and drove the mile back to the hospital. As they crossed the little bridge and came to the junction with the main road, Tom asked about drinking and driving regulations.