How he longed to be back in the relative anonymity of that line up, to be amongst them as they collected the tools from behind the guardhouse and began the weary march out of the gates and into the jungle for the day’s work to begin.
When the last of the stragglers had left, the interminable daylight hours, sweltering under the metal roof, would begin. When it wasn’t raining, the officers would sit outside their hut playing bridge or chess. In the afternoons some of the officers, along with the medical orderlies and recovering men from the hospital hut, would take tools and spend a couple of hours digging the latrines.
Once a day a shout would go up, and the camp gates would be dragged aside for the lorry to rumble through, carrying rice and vegetables for the evening meal. The sight of that lorry always sent a shiver through Tom. Ian had been replaced on the truck with another tall prisoner. Tom noticed that he didn’t haul the rice sacks with as much strength or vigour as Ian had done.
In the evening, after the sun had dipped behind the far-off hills, the men would return from the railway, staggering with exhaustion from the day’s work. Tom would watch them make straight for the river to bathe, and he would long to feel the cool water on his own skin, to lie on his back watching the stars, even for a few moments.
A few times, as men queued outside the cookhouse, one or two of them would detach themselves from the crowd and head across the clearing towards the punishment pits. Tom’s heart would leap with anticipation and gratitude each time, and his mouth would water at the thought of the rations they would be bringing him. But each time the guards would rush to surround the men and drag them away, screaming at them and punching them to the ground.
Several times each day Tom would shout out Archie’s name, but there was never any response. On the third day, Tom saw that the guards didn’t bring any food for Archie. A stab of dread went through him.
‘What’s happened to him?’ he asked when a guard pushed a bowl of rice into his own pit. The guard stared at him, frowning. ‘Why aren’t you feeding him?’ Tom pointed in Archie’s direction. The guard yelled something in Japanese and slammed the metal lid down on him.
Tom had no idea how Archie was doing in his pit. Despair threatened to overcome him.
He knew he had to fight it. He forced his mind away from the present and tried to think about something else. About anything else. He had to stop himself from worrying and from going crazy in this hole of hell.
His mind ran back to Penang, and to the leisurely days spent in paradise.
One evening, Tom had been sitting on his porch, pleasantly tired after the day’s work. He had written home and received a terse letter back from his father, telling him that there was little news on their side, but wishing him well. The letter also spoke of the worrying political situation in Germany, of Hitler’s threats against Czechoslovakia and Poland, and the rumblings of war. It all seemed too far away to concern himself about, here on this enchanted island.
As he had been sipping his first gin sling, a burly man in his thirties appeared on the veranda.
‘I’m Henry Martin,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘I live at the bungalow just down the hill. I’m probably your nearest neighbour.’ Tom stood up and shook his hand.
‘Very nice to meet you, Henry. Haven’t I seen you at the plantation headquarters?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I work for the Penang Rubber Association in Georgetown. It’s a trade association. I often have to visit the estates to discuss business.’
‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘That’s kind of you, but I really came to see if you’d like to come to the club for a game of tennis.’
‘Well, I haven’t played since school, so I won’t be able to give you much of a game, I’m afraid.’
‘Never mind that. It’s just a bit of fun. And I’ll show you round the club at the same time.’
‘The club?’
‘The Penang Club. It’s in Georgetown. I’ll sort out your membership. You must join up. All the Europeans are members. It’s where everything happens. Without it, I think we’d all die of boredom here.’
That evening Henry drove him down the winding road through the hills into the town. The Penang Club was in an elegant white building overlooking the sea, with marbled interiors and surrounded by immaculately kept lawns. The club had Malay bearers to open the door for you, to pass you a towel whilst you played tennis, and to help you get dressed after a shower.
As Tom predicted, he was not much of an opponent, and Henry beat him in straight sets. Afterwards, they went into the bar for a drink.
Although still early evening, the bar was already packed. A jazz band was playing on a small stage.
‘Everyone drops in for a sundowner at this time,’ explained Henry, seeing Tom’s surprise. ‘It’s a very sociable place, you’ll see.’
They sat out on the terrace, overlooking the harbour as the huge red sun slipped behind the hills at the back of the town. A boy brought them gin slings and cashew nuts. Henry began to tell Tom anecdotes about some of the people in the bar: planters, civil servants, businessmen.
At the next table sat a group of women, fashionably dressed and smoking slim cigarettes from holders. They were drinking cocktails at an alarming rate, constantly asking for their glasses to be refreshed. One of them, a woman wearing a lot of eye makeup and deep red lipstick, her dark hair cut in a stylish bob, kept glancing in
