IT WAS THE END of the day and he had left the office, pushing his way past the beggars and agitators at the gate. As Howard walked towards the trolley stop he noticed that the crowds of workers who filled the street were all hurrying in one direction. In the distance he heard shouting and cheering. He wondered if another strike was brewing. Following the crowd he turned a corner into a cul-de-sac, and was faced with the unexpected sight of Wee Jack standing on a table haranguing a mass of men. Howard halted in shock. Already, excited workers were pushing up behind him and he found he was trapped in the crowd. Wee Jack was his usual bony self, and Howard knew by the familiar rasp in his voice that he was waiting to cough up a globule of phlegm. Wee Jack punched the air with his fist, shouting out well-worn slogans.
‘Our Imperialist masters have not seen the hovels their workers live in, in which our children must die for want of food and medicine. They know nothing of the wretchedness of their workers’ lives and yet they suck your blood, grind out your lives. Without us to carry their loads, dig their fields, build their mansions, they could not reap their harvests of gold. And for this, what do they pay you? What do they care if tomorrow you die leaving fatherless children?’ Fury erupted in the showers of caustic words and the crowd responded in angry agreement, raising their fists with Wee Jack. Behind Howard the assembly had increased uncomfortably, and he was wedged against a wall. The ragged, malnourished men about him, their faces aflame with emotion, filled him with apprehension even though he understood their need to strike; without work or food he might do the same. When at last it was over and the men began to disperse, he knew he could no longer put off the need to face Wee Jack.
‘You saw the crowd?’ Wee Jack laughed, effusive after his oratory, the blood still high in his face. He had changed only in a sharpening of features, a more concentrated gaze, a receding hairline and a healthier tone to his skin. Howard stared into the same emotionless eyes and was thrown back into a bog of fear from which he thought he had struggled free.
‘There’s a place down here that serves good toddy,’ Wee Jack suggested affably, and Howard followed, unable to protest.
Night was already upon them and the alley full of dark shadows. In a cul-de-sac the liquor stall, stacked with earthenware toddy jars, released the raw smell of spirit. The cart was surrounded by labourers, who turned to observe Howard as he walked up with Wee Jack. When at last they were sitting on a low wall with the toddy, Howard sniffed at the cup apprehensively. The stuff had a strong and foul aroma; it smelled nothing like the toddy Lionel had brewed.
‘Whatever it is, it’s alcohol,’ Wee Jack said impatiently, seeing Howard’s hesitation and tipping up his own glass. ‘There’s to be a general strike; everyone is coming out – firemen, bus drivers, hospital workers, food hawkers, cabaret girls, trishaw riders; every union has given notice to their management. There’s no work, no food, the cost of living is rising and the rice ration has been reduced to three kati a week. How can the people live?’ Wee Jack demanded. He sat now in the office of the General Labour Union, organising its growing following of workers and expanding union power.
‘I’m a member of the Singapore City Committee,’ he told Howard proudly. Any organisation Wee Jack was involved in, Howard was sure, must have communist sympathies.
‘Drink up. We’re going to force constitutional change, bring about a world in which the workers have power,’ Wee Jack picked up his cup and threw back the toddy. Howard too raised the thick glass to his lips and drank down the foul brew, aware of how obediently he followed Wee Jack’s bidding, and he knew he must get away. As he stood up, the alcohol burned through him and his head began to spin.
‘We’ll meet again soon.’ Wee Jack laughed, as Howard took his leave.
The alley was full of potholes and for a while Howard stumbled forward, his head rolling and his innards on fire. Then his knees buckled beneath him and he fell, hitting his head on a stone. Vomit rose on his tongue and spewed out of him as he lay in the gutter unable to move. He heard voices and the passing of feet near his head. Once or twice someone stopped, prodded him with a foot, turning him over, feeling in his pockets, and he knew he was being robbed. These wretched lanes were home to gangsters, hired killers and violent secret societies, besides prostitutes and thieves. He wondered lethargically if he would soon be murdered and, if he was, how long it would take for the news to reach Mei Lan. She had left the week before for England. He had gone to the dock to see her off on a ship that had seen better days. He thought of her now steaming over the ocean, and wondered when, if ever, he would see her again. He closed his eyes and knew nothing more. When he awoke again first light was breaking, and his face lay in a stinking pool of his own stale vomit. He stood up with difficulty, wiped his face with a handkerchief and stumbled on, eventually finding a rickshaw to take him home to Belvedere.
Howard lay half conscious on a mattress beside his mother’s bed. A few yards away beyond a dividing curtain he could see Wilfred who, still physically weak and emotionally fragile, spent many hours of the day asleep. Rose had wanted to call a doctor when Howard returned, but Cynthia had pronounced that he would live.
‘He drank country liquor; it’s poison. It’s not toddy like Lionel made, but raw methylated spirit with any rotting matter thrown in. Sometimes they add dead rats; he’s lucky to be alive.’ She advised he be left to sleep it off.
Although their electricity was still sporadic, Howard sometimes felt the breeze of the ceiling fan on his face as he drifted in and out of sleep. His mother spooned food into his mouth that he sometimes kept down and sometimes not; he was washed and the functions of his body managed with bedpans and bottles. He was only vaguely aware of these things. In strange dreams he journeyed again through thick jungle. Sometimes through the muted light he saw Wee Jack and turned and fled, or he glimpsed Mei Lan, her back to him, disappearing into the forest, lost to him even as he found her. Yet, when at last the fever broke and he awoke to the soft hum of the turning fan, he knew something he could not name had refocused within him. Through the window he stared at the sun on the leaves of a mango tree and the heavy weight of the green fruit. When he next opened his eyes it was raining and water beat softly on the same green fruit.
Food was scarce and they still lived largely on sweet potatoes and tapioca, and from the ration shop broken rice and dirty sugar, often yellow with insecticide. People’s Kitchens were set up everywhere to feed the starving population, and the Singapore Co-operative Store opened above the Liberty Cabaret on North Bridge Road to provide other necessities. The Co-operative bought cheap goods in bulk from Europe and sold them cheaply to those in need: clothes, household items, shoes, soap, underwear – it could not be predicted what might be on sale at the store. Sometimes Howard went there after work to see what he could find. Once, he bought Polish-made sandals for himself and Wilfred, and at other times a teapot, flannelette knickers for Rose, hairpins, scissors and a saucepan.
Below the Singapore Co-operative Store, the Liberty Cabaret was a cavernous, dingy place on a dark stretch of North Bridge Road where all the street lights had been smashed. Sometimes, if he was early, members of a newly formed political party, the Malayan Democratic Union, were to be found sitting on the dance floor of the cabaret drinking warm Tiger beer. When the girls arrived the men repaired to an office upstairs, a room with a few desks, a variety of worn chairs and a telephone.
Howard had been back at work after his liquor poisoning for more than a week when Rose asked him to go to the Co-operative, to enquire about a promised consignment of soap. The Co-operative was open until late in the evening and when Howard arrived loud music already blared from the dance hall downstairs. During the war, when the Japanese used the cabaret for entertainment, he and Lionel with their band had occasionally played at the Liberty. Curious, he pushed the door open and peered inside, remembering his glimpses of the cabaret at Great World when he visited there with his father. The gloom inside was partially lifted by a few red lights but these could not erase the dispirited atmosphere. In the dimness the bodies of dancing couples glided past, like fish in an aqueous world. A strong smell of beer permeated the place, just as it had when he had played his saxophone there.
Shutting the door, he took the stairs to the upper floor and the Co-operative, its rooms crowded with piles of cardboard boxes and samples of merchandise. The long-promised soap had arrived and after buying some bars, he also took a pair of stout court shoes for his mother on condition they could be changed. There was nothing else he could afford that week and he soon left, making his way back along the corridor towards the stairs. Music from the cabaret drifted up to him.
Outside the office of the Malayan Democratic Union the corridor narrowed uncomfortably around a table tennis table by the door. A coffee stall had been set up a short distance away and this, together with the table tennis, gave the MDU premises the atmosphere of a clubhouse. One of the reasons Howard looked forward to visiting the Singapore Co-operative Store was its proximity to the MDU. The new political party had been formed by a multicultural group of English-speaking intellectuals who were vehemently opposed to the continuation of colonial rule.
As he drew level with the MDU office, the door swung open and ten or twelve men spilt out into the corridor. Howard stepped aside to let them pass, happy for a chance to observe first hand these curious political animals. As he waited for the corridor to clear, he was taken aback to see Raj Sherma’s brother-in-law, the schoolteacher Krishna, emerge from the room with other MDU members. The sight of Krishna was so unexpected that Howard thought at first he might have made a mistake, but Krishna stepped forward to greet him in equal surprise.
‘The Liberty Cabaret is having very much diverse activity,’ Krishna agreed as Howard explained his visit to the Co-operative. ‘Some of the trade unions also have their offices up here; Singapore Teachers’ Union and the Army Civil Service besides some others.’ Krishna pointed down the corridor to a row of closed doors.
‘Have a coffee,’ he offered, leading Howard towards the knot of MDU men crowding about the refreshment table.
‘India is to get her independence soon,’ Krishna told him as they found a corner to drink their coffee, his voice full of pride. Howard remembered the schoolteacher’s impassioned lecture at the Indian Youth League, and wondered at the distance of that time. Krishna had not aged well, Howard observed; his thick halo of hair had receded dramatically and his face was stern, with deep lines about his mouth and brow.
‘Stay for a meeting; always interesting debate to hear,’ Krishna suggested, having observed the way Howard was trying surreptitiously to listen to the discussion of the men standing nearby.
‘I have only recently joined the MDU,’ Krishna admitted. ‘Now with India’s independence soon coming, I am finding new ways to direct my energy.’ He did not explain the personal sense of looming irrelevance the news of India’s imminent independence had brought him.
The MDU had been formed some months after the Japanese left Singapore, and was whispered by some to be an open front for the Malayan Communist Party, a hotbed of communist sympathisers. This was disputed by MDU leaders, all well-educated, English-speaking men of assorted multiracial origin, some of whom had even been to university in London, Oxford or Cambridge. They were socialists, they insisted, united by their impatient desire to be rid of colonial rule. These sentiments suited Krishna admirably, one set of convictions melting seamlessly into another.
When the meeting started again, Howard took a seat beside Krishna. Full of anticipation, he had the feeling it was not pure coincidence that he had stumbled into this. Looking about the room, absorbing not only the sight of the faces around him but the charged atmosphere of debate, he knew he had waited for such a moment, waited to be amazed; to be politically awakened. Wee Jack’s haranguing dogma, coupled with the fear it produced in him, had constricted Howard’s ability to find his own political direction.
Before the coffee break there had been discussion about a proposed Malayan Union, a British idea to give the Malayan states self-rule, and the argument continued as the meeting was called to order. ‘It’s a bungled scheme hatched by the British to produce a mirage of independence,’ a stocky Indian with heavy spectacles exploded.
‘Also, Singapore is to be excluded from the Union and will remain a colony under British rule. It’s unacceptable. Singapore must be merged with the peninsula, and independence given to a united Malaya,’ a lanky Chinese protested.
‘The Malay States won’t agree to that because immigrants would have equal status and Chinese would then outnumber Malays. And in this plan the Malay sultans will no longer hold power,’ the Indian pointed out.
As the debate raged, the floorboards trembled beneath their feet with the thump of the music below. Howard had listened to Krishna’s angry rhetoric at the Indian Youth League as well as to Wee Jack, but the high stepping debate that now unfolded was new to him. What excited him most was that the issues discussed all centred on Singapore; a place he had given little thought to before. Why think of the freedom of the world, of China or India, he suddenly thought, when he was imprisoned in his own home?
‘British rule is over. Now we must fight for self-government. Our future lies under a different sky,’ the lanky Chinese shouted.
‘The Malayan Democratic Union is the first real political party here, and what we want is Independence, freedom from colonial rule and a socialist state,’ the bespectacled Indian said, turning to speak directly to Howard. With a start, Howard realised he had already been taken as a new recruit.
As Krishna walked with Howard to the trolley stop they discussed the meeting. ‘They’re men who want to change the past; they are not people like you and me. We are small time socialists, they are big time men; highly educated men – men who can make a difference.’ Krishna spoke admiringly, enthusing through a cloud of cigarette smoke as they waited for the trolley to arrive.
‘A socialist party such as the Malayan Democratic Union could not have been formed before the war; then it would have been seen as treason to speak out like this against British rule and we would all have been put in jail.’ Krishna continued to ruminate as the trolley arrived. Howard climbed aboard and Krishna turned to find his own way home.
As the trolley moved forward Howard took a seat and through the window watched Krishna walk away. His pulse beat fast and his mind churned with the new ideas he had heard. He thought of the men of the MDU, lawyers and teachers and intellectuals, all men with special skills. They are men who can make a difference, men who want to change the past; they are not like you and me. Krishna’s words echoed in his head and, as the euphoria left him, he began to feel depressed. He looked down at the string bag on his lap with the shoes for his mother and the bars of soap from the Co-operative Store. The future lies under a different sky, one of the MDU men had said. More than anything he wanted to be part of what lay ahead. The talk he had heard was exciting, and the men he had met inspiring, but one clear, cold strand of reasoning stood out in his fevered thoughts. What difference could he make to the world without higher education, without a special skill?
He mentioned something of this to Teddy de Souza, who listened with sympathy as they shared a plate of shaved ice and strawberry syrup bought from a hawker on the wharf. ‘Skills are only things you acquire. Where would those men be if they didn’t have their university education? They’d be just the same as you and me. You could easily get yourself skills, boy. Get yourself a degree in something; you’re still a young man. This war has delayed many people’s education and they are all going off to do it now,’ Teddy said.
‘I didn’t get a Queen’s Scholarship, and I don’t have the money to go privately to England,’ Howard replied in a low voice.
‘Australia is right there in our own backyard. The education is cheaper, not quite the prestige of England of course, but you come out with the same degrees, and in the end that’s all that matters.’ Teddy crunched the crimson ice between his dentures, his tongue stained shockingly pink.
‘There is still the question of money,’ Howard replied, staring beyond the wharf to the limitless expanse of the sea. Teddy sighed, unable to offer a solution to a problem that plagued them all.
As the weeks went by the idea that he must seek a shift in his life grew stronger. Howard stared morosely at the restless labourers assembling each day in the cul-de-sac to listen to Wee Jack and other union leaders. Strikes came and went to a regular rhythm, work was sabotaged and life interrupted in ways never known before. Communists, backed up by vicious gangs from the secret societies, controlled the picket lines at the dockyard gates, and men could not work if they wanted to. Everything was changing.
Some months later Howard was walking to the trolley stop with Krishna after an MDU meeting when Raj, passing the Liberty Cabaret by chance in his chauffeur-driven car, stopped at the crossroads beside them. Raj was effusive in his greeting, but Howard could see by Krishna’s surly expression that he was not pleased to see his brother-in-law. Raj insisted on giving Howard a lift home, accepting no excuse.
‘Only one condition: you must first see my new place which is nearby, then the driver will drop you back to Belvedere,’ Raj insisted affably.
The Waterloo Street home had cool tiled floors and high airy ceilings with electric fans speeding around in each room. Except for the rushing of fans, the house lay empty and silent. Howard learned that Krishna and his wife lived on the upper floor, while Raj was the sole occupant of the ground floor. After Belvedere’s many squatters, and the homeless who thronged every available space in the city, there was something obscene in the vacant essence of the house. A smell of Indian spices permeated everything, and gave the impression that food was plentiful here.
Raj offered a choice of whisky or beer, and his sister Leila appeared with snacks of things Howard had not tasted for years. The hardship they experienced at Belvedere did not seem to exist in this house, and Howard realised with a shock how extensive Raj’s black market dealings must be, and also how much he had profited by his association with the Japanese.
‘That Lim woman has gone to England. It was in the newspaper,’ Raj said, pouring himself another whisky. ‘Very terrible, all the things she suffered. Is the man who tortured her hanged yet?’ He threw a mouthful of cashew nuts into his mouth and offered the bowl to Howard. It was so long since he had eaten a cashew that Howard had difficulty adjusting to the unexpected taste. Raj’s lack of interest was understandable, but his casual reference to the brutality Mei Lan had endured resonated painfully with Howard. As they talked Krishna hovered uneasily in the background, ignored by both his wife and brother-in-law. Unlike his loquaciousness at the MDU, at home Krishna sank into silence and Howard began to feel uncomfortable.
‘I hope Krishna is not pulling you into his mad politics?’ Raj warned as he sipped his whisky, turning suddenly upon his brother-in-law.
‘All he is wanting is to get back to some studies,’ Krishna retorted, the sharpness of his tone revealing the antagonism between himself and Raj.
‘Study? Why do you want to go back to studies? You have a good job at the Harbour Board,’ Raj replied testily, staring at Howard over the raised rim of his glass. The subject of education made him nervous; he was always afraid it would be found that he had none.
‘I’m not a businessman. It’s difficult to get far in the world without qualifications.’ Howard defended himself before the intensity of Raj’s gaze.
‘You seem educated enough. You have more education than me, so why are you now wanting more?’ Raj spoke fiercely, and Howard felt bound to explain himself.
‘If I could get to a university, perhaps in Australia . . . but of course there’s no money just now . . . men who have education can make a difference in the world . . .’ Howard broke off, embarrassed, prepared to be ridiculed by the worldly, wealthy Raj who continued to stare at him intently, saying not a word. Then, with a shrug of his heavy shoulders, Raj took another mouthful of whisky and spoke almost angrily.
‘Education. You want education? You have developed ambition, that’s why you want education.’ He gave a sceptical snort and fell silent again, peering down into his glass. He understood only too well Howard’s sudden interest in further education. The man was bright, very bright. He might easily have been a Queen’s Scholar and done what he wished with his life many years before, but luck had been against him. If he, Raj, had had even half Howard’s education, he too would be looking at more. Raj remembered Manikam, and the investment the man had made in his own education, meagre as that had been; he remembered his early admiration for Krishna, who had taught him all he knew. He remembered crouching down beside his brother-in-law, dictating those long-ago letters to Leila, and for a moment the smell of jasmine from the garland shop came to him over the years. He sighed and began to speak again.
‘What little education I have, I owe to Krishna. Even now, it takes me so long to read a newspaper, and many words I still do not yet know. I am like a child in that way, but I can read, and that is the important thing. I too had much ambition, but instead of education God gave me good wits and I used them. And there were men who helped me from the goodness of their hearts, like Krishna.’ Raj threw his brother-in-law a look of sudden, grudging gratitude. He remembered his other mentors, Mr Ho and Mr Yamaguchi and Mr Shinozaki, whose assistance had brought him to this Waterloo Street house.
‘Such education as helps men fly high is not my destiny. Indians with that kind of education are few and far between here; mostly here in Singapore we Indians are lowly merchants. Long ago I decided my ambition would be always to have money, and this I have achieved. Money can be made with no education.’ Raj gave a smile, and for a moment his face lost its shrewd, impenetrable guard. His voice was filled with new depth when he spoke again to Howard.
‘Perhaps, at last, through you I can repay a debt to the men who helped me. Tell me what it is you are needing, and perhaps I can help you.’ He held a hand up to silence Howard, who had started in surprise.
‘This is just a further investment for me, but as on all my investments, I expect a good return.’ Raj raised his whisky glass in a toast to Howard, but his eyes rested on Krishna, who at last gave a slow smile and a nod of approval.