Sessions were to be held on Tuesday and Thursday evenings and on Saturday mornings. In charge was a fierce sergeant-major. He was a Scot assigned to the regiment from the Indian Army. He sported a ginger beard and a handlebar moustache and did not take kindly to any light heartedness during training. He was called Charlie Bull, and the men quickly coined the nickname ‘Charging Bull’ because of his quick temper and bombastic manner. He was fond of swearing at the top of his voice at any man he suspected of slacking.
The Volunteers were an unlikely group to make up an army. They came from all walks of life: rubber planters, accountants, office workers, doctors, lawyers. Amongst their numbers there were also Chinese, Tamils and Malays, servants, shopkeepers and taxi drivers. None of them was used to such strenuous physical exercise, especially in the searing heat of the noon-day sun. On the first Saturday they were made to do press-ups and to run round the perimeter of the field. Tom found himself out of breath and sweating in his stiff new uniform and heavy boots.
After that they were sent round a hastily constructed obstacle course, climbing over walls and up ladders, swinging on ropes and walking along logs over a ditch. Most of the men found themselves red faced, sweating and out of breath. Tom was tired, but the hours he had spent pacing the rubber plantation and playing tennis at the club had paid off, and he was not as unfit as some of the others. He and Henry were the first to complete the course.
During the second session they were taught how to handle a rifle. They did not actually have any rifles to practice on, only broom handles, which Tom and Henry found amusing, much to the displeasure of the Bull. But they gradually moved on to handling real rifles. One day a consignment of Lee-Enfields awaited them when they arrived for training, and they were taught to clean and load them. Then they practised firing at a target pinned on a disused hut on the edge of the field.
There was usually a certain kind of bonhomie during training, but the news from Europe and the steady build-up of British forces on the Malay Peninsula tempered their sense that this was all just a jolly jape. Perhaps, they speculated over post-training drinks in a nearby hotel bar, there was an outside chance that they would actually be mobilised and would see active service. But it was scarcely believable, they assured themselves.
Life went on for Tom as before, with his days spent working on the plantation, training with the Volunteers three times a week and going on outings with Joy once or twice a week. He lived for those meetings, so that he could rest his eyes on her perfect face and listen to her gentle voice as she spoke of her childhood, her family, or of her day at school. He found her addictive, and she seemed to genuinely enjoy his company too. They did simple things together: a meal in an Indian café; a walk around the harbour to see the ships; a drive around the island to the beaches of Batu Ferringhi where they watched the sunset and took off their shoes and paddled in the warm lapping waves.
He was becoming obsessed with the thought of her. She occupied his mind all day and every day. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately, to taste those perfect lips and hold her slender body close to his. He was shy with her, though, and in about ten meetings he had only got as far as linking arms with her when they were out walking and kissing her stiffly on the cheek when they said goodbye. He was acutely aware of her strict and religious upbringing, and the importance of high standards of conduct in her community. He was terrified of putting a foot wrong, of making a false move. He dreaded her turning to him with her sweet smile and telling him that he had overstepped some invisible boundary and that it was out of the question for them to continue to see each other.
Looking back, he knew that it was that longing to be with her that was still sustaining him, here in this filthy sewer in the ground years later, when he should really have been dead months ago.
18
Laura’s body was bathed in sweat. Sun slanted through the gaps in the wicker roof, making dancing patterns on the bare floor of the chalet. It was stifling; the tiny electric fan that rotated beside her made no impression on the turgid air. She stretched and glanced over at Luke who was asleep on his front on the low bed next to her. Rivulets of sweat formed on the amber skin of his back and ran down onto the mattress. Watching him, she wondered what it would have been like to slave here building the railway. Even sleeping in this heat was unbearable, let alone working.
Pulling on a T shirt and shorts, she stepped out onto the flimsy platform in front of the hut, which was lapped by the fast-flowing waters of the River Kwai.
She leaned on the wooden rail and stared out over the wide river, at the trees on the far bank and at the distant mountains, towards the Burmese border. Her body was heavy and clumsy with tiredness, but despite that she felt the thrill of anticipation.
