Dead in the Dog

do!’

They ambled behind him along the shore line to where their accommodation lay. There was no hotel, but a line of small chalets stood under the trees, rather like the bathing huts at an English holiday resort. Each had a verandah with a pair of rattan chairs and inside was a couple of beds and very little else. On the end of the row, a larger hut acted as the Chinese manager’s office, bar and cookhouse, food being eaten at wooden picnic tables under a canvas awning outside. The staple diet was nasi goreng, Malayan fried rice, as well as omelettes, fried chicken and a curry. When the NAAFI beer ran out, there was more Anchor and soft drinks on sale, dispensed by the manager, Lee Hong and his wife.

The party paired off in decorous fashion, the women under the watchful eye of Doris Hawkins, while the men gravitated into amiable partnerships. Tom paired up with Alec Watson and as soon as they had dumped their belongings on the narrow beds, they hauled on their swimming trunks and hurried outside, the pathologist keen to spend as much time with Lynette as possible.

‘Let’s get in the water before eating,’ suggested Alec. ‘Bad to swim on a full stomach, so they say!’

He dashed off down the beach, but Tom hung about waiting for Lynette, though he was still slightly shell- shocked at finding himself in such a beautiful place, which looked as if Man Friday’s footprints would at any moment mark the virgin sand. Soon the others began emerging from their chalets and he noticed that Diane Robertson, looking extremely seductive in a one-piece swimsuit of black satin, came alone from the end chalet, apparently not wanting to share with the military.

The Matron appeared in a voluminous beach-dress, declaring that she was not going to expose herself until the sun went lower in the sky. She plumped herself down at one of the tables with a book and a large gin and tonic, and gazed benignly at her nursing officers, as they prepared to disport themselves.

As everyone gathered at the edge of the beach, various pairings became apparent, almost like blood cells agglutinating! Tom spotted Lynette, looking extremely pretty in a floral swimsuit and gravitated to her side, as Peter Bright marched across to Diane, a little apart from the rest. Joan Parnell made a beeline for Montmorency, but several people noticed the glare that she gave Peter as he commandeered the new widow. David Meredith somewhat hesitantly sidled up to Lena Franklin and though they exchanged a few words, Lena broke away and ran down towards the sea.

This was the signal for everyone to jog down to the water’s edge, where waves just big enough to break over the ankles washed in from the almost tideless Malacca Straits. Heedless of Percy Loosemore’s pessimistic warnings abut sea snakes whose bite could kill in ten minutes, they were soon all frolicking in the warm water. The more adventurous swam out to the coral reef and, with masks and flippers, dived to look at the underwater marvels, but most stayed in the shallows, swimming, splashing and fooling about like children on holiday.

Tom tried not to make his monopolization of Lynette too obvious, but it seemed that she wanted to be monopolized. They swam and dived and splashed. At one point she ducked his head under and kept it there with a foot on his neck, but let him up before he drowned!

Diane was a powerful swimmer and no one was surprised when she and Peter Bright took themselves off further down the beach, well away from the main party. Had anyone had binoculars, they might have seen that the pair spent much of the time standing waist-high in the water, apparently in earnest discussion and sometimes apparently heated argument.

After an hour or so, the sun and the exercise began to take its toll and gradually they left the sea and flopped on to the benches and chairs under the awning, calling to Lee Hong for drinks, before deciding what to choose from the dog-eared cardboard menu pinned above the bar.

After eating, the group split up again, everyone doing their own thing. Some went back into the sea, others wandered down the beach to watch the fishermen hauling in their seine net. A dozen locals, ranging from young boys to wizened old men with sun-blackened skin, chanted rhythmically as they heaved on a great U-shaped rope which dragged a net with a few score fish up on to the beach. Tom Howden was content to lie on the sand under the shade of a coconut palm, with Lynette half asleep alongside him. The afternoon lazed away all too quickly and as the sun slid lower in the sky, they went back down the beach into the warm water for another swim. As twilight approached, Lynette decided to retreat to her chalet to put on some clothing which exposed less skin to the evening mosquitoes.

Left alone, Tom wandered along the top of the beach along the tree-line, watching with wonderment as the sun sank below the horizon in a sky which was a riot of colour, bands of peach and violet climbing up from the sea towards the zenith. After a few hundred yards, he became conscious of voices coming from within the trees and without consciously wishing to eavesdrop, he recognized the deep tones of Peter Bright.

‘It’s not the done thing, you know, Diane!’

‘You don’t damn well own me! I’ll do what I like, thank you!’

Embarrassed, Tom turned and walked quickly away, his feet making no sound in the soft sand. He had no wish to listen to some lover’s tiff, especially as the two people sounded very angry. Obviously the path of true love was not going smoothly. Back at the huts, people were following Lynette’s example and going to get changed, long sleeves and insect repellent becoming the order of the day. The pathologist followed their example and went back to his chalet in the middle of the row, where he found Alec in a clean shirt, carefully combing his fair hair in expectations of impressing his latest target, the Junior Theatre Sister. Perhaps unwisely, given the young Scot’s fondness for gossip, Tom mentioned the spat he had heard between Peter Bright and the new widow.

Alec grinned at the news. ‘Join the club, lad! I was in the bog earlier on and just happened to hear voices passing outside. It was the Welsh wizard and Lena Franklin – she was giving him hell for being so jealous about Jimmy Robertson. Virtually accused him of shooting the poor bugger!’

Tom could not help being intrigued by these local dramas, in spite of his better self telling him to mind his own business.

‘What did our gasman have to say to that?’ he asked.

Alec shrugged forlornly. ‘Dunno, they walked out of earshot straight away. Short of running after them with my pants around my ankles, I couldn’t get the rest of the squabble.’

When they all met half an hour later under the awning to eat, the grouping had changed somewhat. Diane was pointedly sitting with Doris Hawkins, Lena and Alfred Morris, leaving Peter Bright with a sullen-looking David Meredith on another table. Joan Parnell grasped the opportunity to slide next to the surgeon on the picnic benches, with another of the QA captains filling the fourth place. Tom naturally shepherded Lynette to another table, where Alec and Clarence Bottomley were sitting.

The last glow of light reddened the horizon, the palms silhouetted blackly against the sky. With the gentle swish of the sea as a background, and a pretty girl at his side, Tom Howden felt as if the Malayan Emergency had been conjured up merely for his benefit. He found it hard to believe that forty thousand men were engaged in a bloody campaign up and down this lovely country, though at home this was already being called ‘The Forgotten War’.

‘Could have been posted to Catterick – or some gloomy dump in West Germany,’ observed Alec, as if reading his friend’s mind. ‘Not bad this, romantic setting, good beer, plenty of grub and very convivial company!’

Tom had to agree, though his ever-present Geordie conscience nagged him later that night, as he lay in the chalet, listening to the chirp of the cicadas and the occasional screech of a monkey. This ‘emergency’ – for the Government stubbornly refused to call it a ‘war’ because of its effect on planter’s insurance premiums – was no fun for a hell of a lot of people. The previous day, he had taken blood samples from three very ill soldiers, young men like himself, called up for National Service, who had come in from a week’s patrol in the jungle. The lads had had to sleep in water in the swamps, contaminated by rat’s urine, which had infected them with the leptospirosis germ. It could be fatal, as could the many cases of malaria which he saw on blood-slides in the laboratory every day. Amoebic dysentery, hepatitis, scrub typhus, encephalitis and a host of other tropical nasties lurked to disable or even kill the vulnerable squaddies. Though the terrorist attacks seemed to have passed their zenith, there was always the danger of a road or rail ambush and the hand-to-hand combats in the ulu and the deep jungle still took its toll of young lives. As he lay listening to Alec snorting in his sleep, Tom thought that only a quirk of fate prevented him from being one of those lads with Weil’s disease. If he had not got his scholarship to medical school, he might well have been on that jungle patrol, instead of living well in an Officers’ Mess, able to have a romantic weekend with attractive nursing officers. With this philosophical guilt revolving in his head, he soon fell asleep, to dream of drizzle-soaked pavements and the corner chip shop in a cold and miserable Gateshead.

On Sunday, they arrived back at the hospital in the early evening, before darkness fell, as part of the road