Waving, they stood still to watch them pass. Several lifted their rifles in salute. ‘You English?’ one called and when they nodded and waved again they were given a cheer, which in her heart Liz returned with good measure. It felt as if they were seeing them off into battle — ‘Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye’.
Liz noticed one young man sitting right at the back of the last lorry who neither waved nor smiled. He sat quite motionless, the fingers of his right hand curled just sufficiently to keep his rifle steady as it slanted between his legs and across his body. His cheekbones were high, the planes of his cheeks flat, nose well defined — and she itched to put him on paper. She found the pose so poignant, or was it the slight twist of his lips? He made her think of knights of old, of young squires put into the panoply of war, clean, handsome men sent to possible destruction. The intelligent saw the recruitment from the beginning for what it was — and they were the bravest of all. She knew that as soon as she had the chance she would sketch him.
‘Not the only one here who doesn’t want to be,’ Blanche said quietly.
The two stood quite still until the lorries were out of sight. The convoy was a confirmation that this was a war — against terrorists who infested the country like fleas on a hedgehog.
‘I keep remembering that other boy’s face while that Chinese terrorist had hold of him,’ Liz said, wondering where the troops were heading. She hoped nothing the authorities or Sturgess said or did would endanger Anna, her grandson, her village — or the still young man on the back of the lorry.
‘Can you think of anything else we can do?’ Blanche asked.
Liz went over all they had done since arriving at Bukit Kinta. Seen the police, telephoned Raffles, telephoned Josef. The army were already on the move — somewhere. ‘Get back to Rinsey as quickly as possible, I think. If we could find some of the workforce … ’
‘Your father had already made several reasonable rubber returns,’ Blanche confirmed. ‘I found a note of them in a book in the bedside table — he always wrote the day’s yield down when he was in bed.’
Liz was moved by this detail remembered from their former life, and, as if making a concession about Josef, she added, ‘So why aren’t they still working? What, or who, scared them off? We should be able to find out much more about that.’
‘You’re right,’ Blanche agreed, ‘and seeing those young soldiers has given me another idea. One even Mr Sturgess could not object to.’
‘My God! Really?’
‘Liz,’ her mother reprimanded, ‘I wish you wouldn’t blaspheme so much.’
Sometimes she thought her mother’s reprimands were quite endearing, they were so wonderfully normal — and ludicrous, considering the example she set.
‘I thought I might ask Harfield if the army ever billeted any of their men with planters. During the war we had plenty of the armed forces billeted on us at Pearling.’
Liz had uncomfortable recollection of officers’ wives being put into spare bedrooms, and of officers coming on leave to stay with them; she had resented having so many strangers in her home.
Blanche paused outside a store with a good display of tinned foods, beer and spirits. ‘Shall we take some supplies back?’
‘I wonder if there’d be a car for sale in Ipoh?’ Liz said. ‘We can’t keep borrowing vehicles and we shall need more than Daddy’s jeep.’
‘I wouldn’t feel very confident about buying anything like that without a man.’
‘If Mr Harfield has time I’d ask him to give it the once-over — if I found something I liked.’
‘Yes, I’d trust his judgement,’ said Blanche.
*
‘Time is obviously something George Harfield has not much idea of,’ Blanche commented later as they waited to eat with him.
Li Kim, his smiling Chinese cook, came to ask if they would eat on their own, adding with a grin, ‘I can keep hot for tuan. He will not mind.’
‘Is he often late?’ Blanche asked.
‘No, no.’ The smile became a laugh. ‘He likes his food too much.’
‘Oh, we’ll wait, Li Kim,’ Blanche decided.
‘I bring you drink and titbits. Keep you going.’
‘We really shouldn’t talk in clichés to our houseboys,’ Blanche murmured as he left.
Over an hour later they heard George’s jeep. He got out, slammed the door savagely and came in glaring around as if wondering what to bang or destroy next. One thing was certain, he had quite forgotten he had two house guests. He stared at the two women for several seconds before seeming to realise who they were.
‘What is it?’ Liz’s words were automatic, hardly a question, for this was a man in shock.
Blanche went to the drinks cabinet and poured a large brandy. He drained it and looked worse, more vulnerable, more agonised.
‘Is it my father? Have you found — ’
‘No!’ The denial was immediate, emphatic. ‘No, no,’ he repeated apologetically. ‘It’s my headman ... it was my headman.’
‘Dead?’ Blanche queried, taking the glass from his hands and pouring another brandy but adding soda this time.
George stood for a moment, his eyes closed. ‘You never get used to it — not that kind of death.’
‘I think you should sit down and tell us,’ Blanche said.
‘It might relieve my mind, but it’s hardly for ladies’ ears.’
‘Oh, bugger that!’ Blanche admonished. ‘Don’t you think we’re going to hear? You know what this country’s like.’
‘I’d rather hear the truth than rumour.’ Liz remembered a tendency for stories to grow as quickly and as tall as jungle vegetation.
George sat on the edge of a long rattan chair and sipped his second drink. ‘You will know,’ he said grimly, ‘because I shall make sure the Straits Times has the full story. Everyone should know the sort of people we’re up against.’
Blanche poured a modest brandy each for herself and Liz, wondering if Li Kim had already heard the news, for he had not come in again eager to feed them.
Harfield sighed deeply and shook his head as if still disbelieving what he had to tell. ‘Most of my people live in a group of houses, just a little hamlet really, Kampong Kinta we called it. My headman, Rasa, was related to most of the Malays there, and the same families have worked the mine for generations.’
George stopped as he saw Li Kim hovering by the door. He beckoned him in. ‘You’d better hear this,’ he told him. ‘Just before sunset a group of CT’s — communist terrorists — went to the kampong and told Rasa he was to collect one dollar a month from each of the men under him. This would be collected after each payday. He told them he could not do it. They tied him to a tree, and assembled his wife, children, his mother — most of the village, in fact.
‘The leader said his name was Heng Hou and to remember that because when he asked for help next time everyone must be sure to give it. He stood over Rasa with a raised parang all this time, but he said he was feeling generous today so he wouldn’t kill their headman. He’d set him free.’
George drew in a deep breath. ‘He raised his parang higher and sliced it down, cutting off Rasa’s right arm, then his left. By the look on his face the poor bugger died of horror before he bled to death.’
‘Aaaah! Hee!’ The sound like a banshee or courting tomcat came from Li Kim. ‘Tuan!’ he appealed. ‘what will we do?’
Liz would have liked to have joined in the appalling noise as involuntarily she visualised the scene, the man tied to the tree ... ‘Oh, George!’ her mother whispered and lowered herself very carefully into an armchair as the wailing began again.
‘Li Kim!’ George said sternly. ‘Do you want to go back to your village or stay here?’
The Chinese considered. ‘You have guns, tuan? More guns now.’ He looked meaningfully at the two women.