“Agreed.”
“There is one other thing. To hide an enemy of the Japanese is dangerous. You must know that when the time comes for me to choose between you and my people to protect my village, I will choose my village.”
“I understand. Thank you, sir.”
“Swear by your God — ” a flicker of a smile swept the features of the old man — “swear by God that you will obey and agree to these conditions.”
“I swear by God I agree and will obey. And I’ll do nothing to harm you while I’m here.”
“You harm us by your very presence, my son,” the old man replied.
After Peter Marlowe had had the food and drink, the headman said, “Now you will speak no more English. Only Malay. From this moment on. It is the only way for you to learn quickly.”
“All right. But first may I ask you one thing?”
“Yes.”
“What is the significance of the toilet bowl? I mean, it hasn’t any pipes attached to it.”
“It has no significance, other than that it pleases me to watch the faces of my guests and hear them thinking, ‘What a ridiculous thing to have as an ornament in a house.’”
And huge waves of laughter engulfed the old man and the tears ran down his cheeks and his whole household was in an uproar and his wives came in to succor him and rub his back and stomach, and then they too were shrieking and so was Peter Marlowe.
Peter Marlowe smiled again, remembering. Now that was a man! Tuan Abu. But I won’t think any more today about my village, or my friends of the village, or N’ai, the daughter of the village they gave me to touch. Today I’ll think about the wireless and how I’m going to get the condenser and sharpen my wits for the village tonight.
He unwound himself from the lotus seat, then waited patiently till the blood began to flow in his veins once more. Around him was the sweet gasoline smell, carried by a breeze. Also on the breeze came voices raised in hymn. They came from the open air theater, which today was the Church of England. Last week it was a Catholic Church, the week before the Seventh-day Adventist, the week before another denomination. They were tolerant in Changi.
There were many parishioners crowding the rough seats. Some were there because of a faith, some were there for lack of a faith. Some were there for something to do, some were there because there was nothing else to do. Today Chaplain Drinkwater was conducting the service.
Chaplain Drinkwater’s voice was rich and round. His sincerity poured from him and the words of the Bible sprang to life, and gave you hope, and made you forget that Changi was fact, that there was no food in your belly.
Rotten hypocrite, Peter Marlowe thought, despising Drinkwater, remembering once again…
“Hey, Peter,” Dave Daven had whispered that day, “look over there.”
Peter Marlowe saw Drinkwater talking with a withered RAF corporal called Blodger. Drinkwater’s bunk had a favored spot near the door of Hut Sixteen.
“That must be his new batman,” Daven said. Even in the camp the age-old tradition was kept.
“What happened to the other one?”
“Lyles? My man told me he was up in hospital. Ward Six.”
Peter Marlowe got to his feet. “Drinkwater can do what he likes with Army types, but he’s not getting one of mine.”
He walked the four bunk lengths. “Blodger!”
“What do you want, Marlowe?” Drinkwater said.
Peter Marlowe ignored him. “What’re you doing here, Blodger?”
“I was just seeing the chaplain, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” he said moving closer, “I don’t see you too well.”
“Flight Lieutenant Marlowe.”
“Oh. How’re you, sir? I’m the chaplain’s new batman, sir.”
“You get out of here, and before you take a job as a batman, you come and ask me first!”
“But sir — ”
“Who do you think you are, Marlowe?” Drinkwater snapped. “You’ve no jurisdiction over him.”
“He’s not going to be your batman.”
“Why?”
“Because I say so. You’re dismissed, Blodger.”
“But sir, I’ll look after the chaplain fine, I really will. I’ll work hard — ”
“Where’d you get that cigarette?”
“Now look here, Marlowe — ” Drinkwater began.
Peter Marlowe whirled on him. “Shut up!” Others in the hut stopped what they were doing and began to collect.
“Where did you get that cigarette, Blodger?”
“The chaplain gave it to me,” whimpered Blodger, backing away, frightened by the edge to Peter Marlowe’s voice. “I gave him my egg. He promised me tobacco in exchange for my daily egg. I want the tobacco and he can have the egg.”
“There’s no harm in that,” Drinkwater blustered, “no harm in giving the boy some tobacco. He asked me for it. In exchange for an egg.”
“You been up to Ward Six recently?” Peter Marlowe asked. “Did you help them admit Lyles? Your last batman? He’s got no eyes now.”
“That’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything about him.”
“How many of his eggs did you have?”
“None. I had none.”
Peter Marlowe snatched a Bible and thrust it into Drinkwater’s hands. “Swear it, then I’ll believe you. Swear it or by God I’ll do you!”
“I swear it!” Drinkwater moaned.
“You lying bastard,” Daven shouted, “I’ve seen you take Lyles’ eggs. We all have.”
Peter Marlowe grabbed Drinkwater’s mess can and found the egg. Then he smashed it against Drinkwater’s face, cramming the egg shell into his mouth. Drinkwater fainted.
Peter Marlowe dashed a bowl of water in his face, and he came to.
“Bless you, Marlowe,” he had whispered. “Bless you for showing me the error of my ways.” He had knelt beside the bunk. “Oh God, forgive this unworthy sinner. Forgive me my sins…”
Mrs. Alicia Drinkwater plodded ponderously into the little Rectory and closed the door and went into the kitchen. She began to make a cup of tea and heavily set the table for herself and the Reverend Webster Trout whom she had allowed to look after the flock while the Reverend was away at war.
She knew that Reverend Trout had none of the qualities of her husband, dear Theo, none of his richness of voice or his Godliness or his humility or his saintliness. But in war times, one cannot be too choosey. And though Reverend Trout was nearly seventy and his sermons long and droning and his theories on how the flock should be looked after were immoral and lax, he was the best she could find. After all, she told herself, it was her parish. And the parish had been in her family for generations, the Rectory, the Church, the surrounding lands, and the village of Tuncliffe, and Tuncliffe Manor where her brother was Squire.
She could just see Reverend Trout standing at the Church door — and such a lovely Church, built by Roger, Ninth Squire of Tuncliffe in Elizabethan times — old and bent and droning to the flock as they left to go home, precious few now that the villagers had gone to war and the girls had gone to the factories, to the hotbeds of sin in the cities and towns. Disgusting.