‘Who was it?’
‘I couldn’t possibly tell you that. Suffice it to say that it was one of our most respected and influential members.’
As he passed the lounge on his way out, he caught a glimpse of Millie standing at the bar. She smiled at him, and it was a malicious, triumphant smile.
‘James Atherton forced me out, of course,’ said Tom, when he told Henry about what had happened. ‘Not that I’d set foot in that damned place again after the way they treated Joy.’
‘I’m frightfully sorry, old chap. It’ll be Millie’s doing of course. She’s never forgiven you, you know. She’s never been thrown over before. I’ll miss our games of tennis, I must say.’
But there were to be no more games of tennis anyway. One evening, a few days later, a Chinese boy from the post office in Georgetown brought a telegram by bicycle. Tom’s heart stood still; he immediately thought of his parents, and of the bombs falling in Britain. When he opened the envelope, what it actually said shocked him as much.
Tom stared at the words in disbelief. It was from the Volunteer Force. He was to report in two days’ time to the docks in Georgetown to join the Regiment. He was to wear full uniform, bring his kit and military papers. Tom stared at the words for a long time. He realised that this almost certainly spelled the end of this delicious interlude in his life. One way or another it was certain to be over for good.
His first thought was that he needed to say goodbye to Joy. He would try to meet her one last time. The next morning he scribbled a note and drove into town. He knew she would be teaching, so he went straight to the mission school. The woman in the office looked at him with suspicion.
‘Could I possibly speak to Miss de Souza, please? It is urgent.’
‘Well, I am afraid she is teaching at this moment, sir.’
‘Please. It is very important.’
She sighed loudly, but got up from her chair and disappeared in the direction of the classrooms. He waited in the echoing corridor. The earthy smells and the sound of children chanting in the classrooms reminded him of his own school, and took him straight back to his childhood.
The receptionist came back in a few moments. She was alone.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but Miss de Souza is unable to meet you,’ the woman said in a firm voice, returning to her desk. ‘I suggest that you leave now.’
He swallowed. ‘Would you be kind enough to hand this note to her? Please.’
The woman sighed with displeasure, but nodded.
‘Thank you for this.’ He handed over the note to the receptionist. She turned and headed back towards the classroom. He waited for a few moments, hoping that Joy would come out, that he would see her one last time before he left Penang. When the receptionist returned alone and stared at him, he turned and went out into the blazing sunshine, feeling as though his whole world had collapsed.
Tom spent the rest of the day with a heavy heart, packing his belongings and clearing the paperwork in his office. He stowed his few possessions from the bungalow into his trunk: the dinner jacket he’d worn to the dinner at High Tops, his shirts, his precious linen suit, the photograph of his mother and father, the one of himself and Joy, taken on Penang Hill on their first outing together. Staring at it, he wondered whether to take it with him, but the frame was too large to fit in the kit bag. Closing the lid, he buckled the leather strap, thinking as he did so that he might never see the contents again. He marked the trunk with the address in Gordon Square. There was nowhere else to send it.
The next morning, he went down to the workers’ quarters beyond the plantation headquarters, where they lived with their families, and said goodbye to his team of tappers. He gave them each a few Malay dollars as a parting gift and felt a pang of sadness as he trudged back to the bungalow. He had grown attached to them. They had a hard existence, up before dawn and toiling day after day in the intolerable heat for a meagre wage, but they never complained. What would become of them if the Japanese did invade?
Sleep hardly came that night. He tossed and turned, his heart filled with regret for what had happened with Joy, and with apprehension for what the future might hold for him. He didn’t feel ready to go to war; he had never wanted to be a soldier. He realised, with shame, that he was afraid.
Jones, the manager, had offered to take Henry and Tom down to Georgetown in the morning. They had to be at the docks by eight in the morning. As they drew up on the quayside in his old Ford at ten to eight, crowds of men in uniform were already milling about beside the boats.
A passenger liner was moored up, and crowds of civilians were boarding it, dragging bags and trunks and all their worldly possessions with them. Panic had set in and everyone who could was taking a passage back to England or to Australia. Tom thought he spotted Sir James and Millicent elbowing their way on board, a turbaned coolie carrying a large leather trunk behind them. He turned away.
Tom’s stomach was churning with nerves. As he got out of the car and swung his pack on his
