The Administrative Officer clucked under his breath. ‘You really are a proper old washerwoman when it comes to gossip, Percy!’
‘Well, the new lad here needs to know what subjects to avoid in the club – and in the Mess here. It could be embarrassing.’
‘Not only Pete and Diane,’ cut in Alec. ‘Best not to mention Lena Franklin and James Robertson in the same breath, if our gasman is within earshot!’
The new pathologist’s brow wrinkled as he tried to keep track of who they were talking about. A ‘gasman’ was an anaesthetist, so that must be David Meredith, a Short-Service captain like himself. He was a dark, intense Welshman, to whom Tom had also spoken briefly at teatime. Percy continued to develop the theme.
‘Lena’s one of the juiciest QA sisters, if you like the arty, passionate type. Dave Meredith is ass-over-head in love with her and was working himself up to pop the question, but then last month, it suddenly cooled off. The clever money is on James as the cause, so Dave is seriously pissed off!’
He leered at Morris.
‘And that’s not on the list, either, Alf!’
At midnight, the Buick roared up the road to Gunong Besar, its headlights cutting a bright tunnel through the darkness. The pale trunks of young rubber trees flicked reflected light as it passed, until they gave way to elephant grass and crumbling red rock at a cutting where the track sliced between high banks on either side.
The heavy American sedan was even heavier than when it was made in Detroit in 1942, as steel plates had been welded inside all the doors. A metal flap was hinged over the windscreen, a lever inside enabling it to be lowered in an emergency. The glass of the side windows had been replaced by heavy-gauge steel sheets with just a small slot cut in the panes, so that the driver could see a little to the side. The rear window was similarly blanked off, so that the mirrors perched on the fronts of the wings provided the only view backwards. James Robertson had acquired the car seven years ago, as part of the deal when he bought Gunong Besar. The previous owner had had the armour fitted and James thought it added glamour to his image, especially since the attack on the estate a few months back. The police and army patrols along the road had been increased since then and there was little danger during daylight. However, James continued to parade up and down from The Dog in a two-ton saloon that guzzled petrol, as he was loath to give up his pose as the fearless planter, careless of any danger.
The old car seemed to know its own way, helped by the grooves cut by traffic in the soft laterite of the single track road. With a good many beers and whisky chasers inside him, James was sleepy rather than drunk and took little notice of the three miles of gritty track. He certainly had no way of noticing the figure crouching on top of the right-hand side of the cutting, a rifle trailing from one hand, staring intently down at the lone car passing below him.
Half a mile further on, James turned into the short side track leading to his bungalow and noisily revved the engine to climb the slope up the side of the knoll. He swung on to the flat area in front of the verandah in a spray of gravel and hoisted himself unsteadily out of the driving seat. Slamming the car door, he tramped up the steps and clumped across the hollow boards, careless of disturbing anyone. Marching through the bedroom, he jerked open the bathroom door and switched on the light. After tearing off his clothes and throwing them vaguely in the direction of the dhobi basket, he got rid of some of his beer in the toilet, then sluiced cold water over his face at the basin.
Stumping back across the echoing boards of the bedroom floor, he hauled out his side of the mosquito net from under the mattress and crashed naked on to his side of the bed, ignoring the slim figure under the single sheet. Within minutes, he was snoring, but on the other edge of the bed, Diane lay with her eyes open, weighing up the pros and cons of the men currently in her life.
Not far away, the figure with the rifle had come down from the cutting and was loping through the rubber by the light of a pale half moon.
TWO
‘The old man wants to see you before Daily Orders,’ announced Alf Morris, as Tom Howden appeared in the dining room. ‘The colonel’s back from his leave in the Cameron Highlands, so it’s business as usual. Get to his office at eight sharp, OK?’
It was seven fifteen on Friday morning, the new boy’s first full day at BMH. Six other officers were at the table and nodded a greeting, though this early in the day, no one was in much of a mood for conversation. They were all in newly laundered jungle greens in various stages of fading, depending on how long they had been out from home. Some wore a tailored shirt and shorts, others the longer bush jacket and trousers, but all had brass or dark red pips or crowns on their shoulders and the regulation cherry red lanyard around the left armpit. All had the green and purple ribbon of the ‘
Morris filled a bowl with cereal at a side table and went to sit down with the others. As Tom followed his example and spooned up some limp cornflakes, the swing door from the kitchen crashed open and a small tornado emerged, carrying two plates of fry-up which she banged on the table in front of Percy and Alec. On the way back, she planted herself in front of the pathologist and scowled at him ferociously. He looked down at the small, squat Chinese woman, who had a frizz of jet black hair above her round face.
‘You wan’ egg?’ she demanded loudly.
‘Please – and bacon and beans.’
‘OK, I bring! Now siddown!’ She jabbed a finger at the table and marched back to the kitchen, her morning ritual accomplished.
Tom took his bowl and sat opposite Alf Morris, who grinned.
‘I see you’ve made a hit with Meng. She’s as good as gold, really.’
‘What’s this about seeing the colonel? What do I have to do?’
Morris poured more diluted Carnation on to his cornflakes.
‘March smartly into his office and stand in front of his desk. Give him a salute, then stick your hat under your left armpit and stand at attention.’
Tom stopped his spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘Bloody hell! I thought the medics were a bit more relaxed than that?’
‘Dollar in the box, lad,’ said Alf automatically. ‘No, our CO is a bit of a stickler for the traditions, I’m afraid.’
‘Colonel O’Neill thinks he should have been in the Household Cavalry, not the RAMC, old chap.’
Peter Bright, the subject of last night’s gossip, spoke for the first time. Again Tom noticed his aristocratic profile and the immaculate uniform. He never seemed to sweat like the rest of them.
‘Should have been in the Waffen SS, not the Household Cavalry,’ muttered the man next to him, a thin, beetle-browed Welshman. He was so dark that he always looked as if needed a shave, but David Meredith was handsome in a melancholy sort of way.
Tom was rapidly getting the impression that their Commanding Officer was not the flavour of the month in the Mess. As the colonel had been on leave for a few days, the new arrival had not yet met him and looked forward to the event with some unease.
‘What’s wrong with him, then?’
The loyal Administrative Officer, with twenty-six years of unswerving deference to rank behind him, jumped in ahead of any other replies.
‘Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s just a rather strict disciplinarian.’
There were derisory snorts from around the table, but no one ventured to enlarge on the subject, though one or two looked rather uneasily over their shoulders.
Meng smacked a plate in front of him and the others peered at it.
‘Fried bread and a tomato as well, eh?’ observed Percy. ‘She’s taken a real shine to you, Tom.’
At ten to eight, he was out on the road from the Mess to the hospital. It ran all around the site, parallel to
