A Different Sky Read online

  Meira Chand

  A Different Sky

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by Meira Chand

  Prologue

  Part One 1927–1937

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part Two 1940–1941

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part Three 1941–1946

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part Four 1946–1956

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Epub ISBN 9781409000631

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  Published by Harvill Secker 2010

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  Copyright © Meira Chand 2010

  Meira Chand has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by HARVILL SECKER Random House 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London SW1V 2SA

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  ISBN 9781846553431

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  Especially for Mia, who was not here the last time.

  And also for Zubin, Natasha and Adi once again.

  ALSO BY

  Meira Chand

  The Gossamer Fly

  Last Quadrant

  The Bonsai Tree

  The Painted Cage

  House of the Sun

  A Choice of Evils

  A Far Horizon

  PROLOGUE

  ON THE JOURNEY THEY spoke about the island, a pinprick on the great body of Asia. Some now wondered why they journeyed towards it, thought that perhaps they had made a mistake. On the open deck of the ship the travellers sat pressed together, voices low, as if to contain their hopes. By day they watched the horizon and rushed en masse to the rail of the ship at the sight of a passing islet or even the fin of a whale, disappointed that days of sail still remained. They covered their heads against the sun, limbs roasting beneath their rags. Some journeyed from the west across the Indian Ocean, others from the east over the China Sea but, east or west, all remembered impoverished villages, a muddy bullock, an empty stomach, dung-strewn fields. Some said Singapore, the name of the island, was derived from the Malay for lion. There was talk that these creatures roamed the jungle along with tribes of ghosts. It was said the island was a haunted place of ancient executions.

  In the silence of night each man, huddled unbearably close upon the open deck yet each separate in his own circle of thought, listened to the ship cutting through the waves, licked the brine from his lips and trembled. A light on the bridge swung loosely above while beneath them the ocean rolled, a great creature upon whose back they rode. Dark thoughts rose up then to shape the future, to clothe it in both terror and hope.

  Singapore rested beneath the tongue of Malaya, fabled treasure of crystal seas, the Golden Chersonese. The island was diamond shaped, and its geographical placing at a point pinning down two oceans made it forever a transit stop for travellers and merchants alike. Stamford Raffles had seen the wealth convergent in these things when he took possession of the swampy region. Trade not territory, he famously declared, but these two words could not be parted. The island fulfilled its promise, never faltering in the flowering of prosperity. It became a place of dreams, holding the souls of men to ransom.

  PART ONE

  1927–1937

  1

  FOR SOME MINUTES NOW the trolley had been stationary at the Kreta Ayer crossroads, the breeze of movement gone. The heat lay thick inside the vehicle and Rose Burns dabbed her neck with a handkerchief. The driver gesticulated angrily, leaning out of a window. Rose wondered if someone had tried to commit suicide by throwing himself before the trolley, or if a rickshaw was in the way. Then she heard shouting and the beating of drums; the sudden crackle of firecrackers sounded although Chinese New Year was long gone.

  ‘I’m hot,’ Howard complained, kicking the empty seat in front of him and leaving a dusty footprint.

  Rose turned distractedly to her son; if the trolley did not move forward soon she would be late returning to Belvedere. The houseboy Hamzah would supervise the laying of tables for dinner and in the kitchen the cook, Ah Fong, would have the meal under way but her lodgers might wonder what kept their Eurasian landlady. As she did each week, she had been to visit her Aunty May in Queen Street and sent a servant for Kolade Powders to calm the old woman’s stomach. Then, Rose had gone into Chinatown, to one of the traditional medicine shops for some roots and herbs to boil with black chicken to improve her own stamina. It had all taken much longer than expected. She thought now of Cynthia, left at home with the amah; the child would be fretful and waiting for them.

  Howard slouched in his seat. The heat in the bus aggravated the prickly heat under his collar and he stretched his neck in distress. He had not wanted to accompany his mother on her visit to Aunty May. The old woman’s home reeked of garlic and drains, and she of sweat and lavender water and something unsavoury besides. Her dark skin was wrinkled as a walnut, and her short white hair grew up from her head like the bristles of a brush. He was afraid he would dream about her. The return to Belvedere weighed upon him; he thought of impenetrable corners, the movement of shadows and the col
d terror of waking at night.

  ‘Why is the trolley not moving?’ Rose demanded of the conductor, raising her voice, fanning herself and Howard with the limp folded square of her handkerchief. She spoke to the man in a manner that brooked no nonsense. It was already March, the rains were long gone and the heat had built up full blast. In the stationary trolley the passengers fretted, feet roasting on hot wooden floorboards, arms branded on molten window frames.

  ‘Chinese demonstration.’ The conductor shrugged, engrossed in picking his nose with an extra-long fingernail grown especially for this purpose. He made no effort to help the Chinese woman and child who now clambered aboard, taking advantage of the unscheduled stop. They settled into the empty seats in front of Rose with breathless giggles. Howard kicked out again in anger and the girl turned around with a scowl. Rose smiled at the child, giving Howard a light slap on the hand. Sweat gathered uncomfortably in the small of her back, her blouse was stuck to her skin. Passengers were now leaning out of the windows to see what was wrong.

  In the street the shouting grew louder and a metallic screech announced the arrival of another trolley drawing to a halt behind them. Rose too now stood up and leaned out of the window for a better view, and saw a crowd of unruly Chinese thick in the road before her. Men were converging on the trolley in a threatening manner waving banners on bamboo poles, craning their necks to peer in at the passengers in a belligerent manner. Heart pounding, Rose drew back in fear but noticed the trolley had stopped near the Kreta Ayer police station. Just the sight of that colonial building topped by a cupola and a weathercock filled Rose with relief. On its veranda Malay constables were already gathering to appraise the crowd, rifles at the ready. Rose knew that inside the building there would be an English police inspector who would soon put an end to the chaos. She placed an arm about Howard and although he resisted, drew him close. In front of her the Chinese woman had also gathered the young girl protectively to her breast. The woman was an amah, dressed in the white top and loose black trousers that all the nursemaids wore. Her charge, in a pink dress of drawn thread work with matching hair ribbons, turned her face for comfort into the woman’s flat breast. The amah looked anxiously out of the window while the girl twisted around against her shoulder, regarding Howard with curiosity. Rose now noticed that a small but unfortunate birthmark stained the child’s jaw.

  Outside, the shouting increased as demonstrators beat their poles against the side of the trolley; the thwack of sticks vibrated against Rose’s knees. At the Kreta Ayer crossroads traffic had stopped, carts, cars, rickshaws and bicycles all piled up together. A Sikh policeman in turban, shorts and long black socks gestured frantically to the trapped vehicles. His hands were encased in large white gauntlets and white basket traffic wings were strapped to his back. Standing in the middle of the crowded road he resembled an incongruous angel, but his efforts at order were futile.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Rose shouted in panic as the beating of sticks on the trolley intensified; all about her frightened passengers echoed her terror. Across the aisle an elderly Chinese in a boater hat, beige linen suit and a pair of spats over old scuffed shoes nervously stroked his watch chain.

  ‘Madame, I fear it is a communist demonstration. Today is the second anniversary of Sun Yat-sen’s death,’ the man explained in a courtly manner. Although he spoke in well-enunciated English the words appeared to be squeezed from a pair of bellows, so bad was his asthmatic wheezing. Overhearing his explanation, a nun at the back of the trolley escorting two schoolgirls from the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus, began to say a loud Hail Mary.

  ‘What they are wanting? What is this Sun Yat-sen?’ an old Indian woman queried, clutching a cloth bag of rice on her lap.

  ‘Sun Yat-sen is Founding Father of Chinese Republic,’ a young Indian, dressed in a limp dhoti, spoke up. He sounded pleased with himself for offering this information but Rose regarded him disapprovingly. His mouth was stained red with betel nut juice and she hoped he was not going to spit the stuff at her feet. She judged him to be a clerk or a shopkeeper, and as such found his manner too forward. The Chinese in the boater hat nodded confirmation.

  ‘They are coming from a celebratory gathering nearby and want the trolleybuses to stop until the procession has passed. Such behaviour does not make them popular, but they will lose face if the trolley proceeds before them.’

  ‘What are communists? What do they want?’ Howard pulled at his mother’s sleeve. His anger had turned to excitement as he sensed the danger of the situation. Someone might get shot, blood would be shed and he could tell about it at school.

  ‘They are hooligans and gangsters, that’s what they are. They want to destroy our way of life,’ Rose answered angrily. She feared they could be stuck here for hours and looked anxiously across at the police station where the weathercock gleamed in the sun. Sikh constables with long rifles had now joined the Malay policemen on the steps.

  ‘What are they shouting?’ Howard asked fractiously.

  ‘They are shouting, Down with Imperialism,’ the man in the boater hat told him.

  ‘What is imperialism?’ Howard observed the protruding mole on the man’s chin from which sprouted several long hairs.

  ‘Colonial rule; the rule of the White Man over Asiatics,’ the Chinese explained in a matter-of-fact way, smiling all the while.

  Rose was about to give a tart reply when an Englishman on the stalled trolley behind them decided to exert some authority. Leaving the safety of the vehicle he attempted to force his way through the angry crowd, furiously shouting directions. As he reached Rose’s trolley the demonstrators pushed him against the side, shaking clenched fists in his face. Pinned against the hot and dusty metal, the man stood his ground, still barking out orders in the manner of an army commander.

  ‘He will see that the bus moves soon. He is an Englishman; everything we are proud of in Malaya is because of British rule.’ Rose looked defiantly at the dapper Chinese who appeared nonplussed by her sudden outburst.

  ‘Madame, I am not a communist. I too am an admirer of the British and happy to live peacefully under their excellent rule. I have spent some time in England. I am a Christian like yourself; my name is Joseph Ho.’ The man smiled although his tone was defensive and his wheezing deepened as he observed the angry Rose. She was an attractive Eurasian woman, he thought, there was a regal quality about her although, when looked at feature by feature, her nose was too wide, her brow too prominent and her eyes too deeply set. A knot of hair was coiled low on her neck in a matronly fashion; she was one of those women, Mr Ho thought, who from puberty appeared middle aged.

  Outside, the Englishman’s voice could be heard rising in a hoarse crescendo. He repeatedly demanded a clearing of the road with sweeping gestures of his arms. The demonstrators, who were mostly hot-blooded Hailams, refused to do as they were asked. Neither side could comprehend the other’s language but all understood the gist of the argument. A further procession from the Sun Yat-sen gathering was now arriving at the Kreta Ayer crossroads to join the excited crowd.

  In new terror Rose saw that the infuriated mob had no intention of obeying British rule. She kept her eyes on the Englishman, whose face was now purple with anger at the insolence of people who were expected to obey him. The demonstrators continued to press dangerously about him as he edged his way forward along the side of Rose’s trolley. Still shouting orders, the man reached the footplate and jumped up to tumble inside. Righting himself, he at once urged the driver to start the bus and force a way through the crowd.

  There was a hiss and some clicks as the electric wires connected above the vehicle. Incensed by this show of defiance, the communists threw themselves anew at the trolley. Stones were hurled, one hitting the driver on the cheek. With a yelp of pain he abandoned the levers and the engine fell silent again. The demonstrators gave a roar of triumph and began to rock the bus to the accompaniment of rhythmic chanting. The trolley swayed violently from side to side. Rose gave a sob and beg
an to pray, clinging tightly to Howard as she was tossed about upon her seat. Men around her shouted; women began to scream. Within a few moments the trolley steadied as the demonstrators tired of the effort to overturn it.

  ‘Hooligans!’ Rose glared accusingly at the asthmatic Mr Ho who now wheezed like a clogged up pipe. Then, taking in the full extent of his distress, she leaned forward to speak more kindly.

  ‘Lean back. Loosen your tie,’ she advised, alarmed by the man’s ashen colour and his struggle to breathe.

  The demonstrators were now attempting to board the trolley. A pole was pushed inside, catching the Englishman on his chest as he stood beside the conductor. Losing his balance, he keeled backwards to land in the driver’s lap. Demonstrators swarmed forward to board the bus, but the driver and conductor parried their moves with the umbrellas carried on the trolley in case of rain. After much diligent thrusting and flailing, the assailants were prised off the vehicle.

  A siege mentality had now overtaken the trolley; passengers huddled together in the centre isle. Rose looked across at the Kreta Ayer police station and saw that the Chief Inspector, a tall blustery-faced Englishman with a ginger moustache, straight-backed beneath a sun helmet, was coming down the steps and making his way towards the bus. Behind him Malay constables with raised rifles stood ready for trouble. Rose was dripping with sweat; outside the shouting grew louder. She marvelled how a day begun so blandly could sink abruptly into nightmare. At Belvedere now the cook, Ah Fong, would be dancing about in a pre-dinner ballet of anxiety, the lodgers would be pacing up and down near the dining room and complaining in low voices. Her mind filled with thoughts of her daughter. The amah would see to Cynthia’s dinner and put the child to bed, but what if she and Howard were stuck all night in the bus, what if the rioters turned upon them? No one knew where she was.