A Different Sky
Authors: Meira Chand
Meira Chand
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409000631
Published by Harvill Secker 2010
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Meira Chand 2010
Meira Chand has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by H
ARVILL
S
ECKER
Random House 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London
SW
1
V
2
SA
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN
9781846553431
The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at
www.rbooks.co.uk/environment
Typeset in Sabon by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Grangemouth, Stirlingshire
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
Especially for Mia, who was not here the last time.
And also for Zubin, Natasha and Adi once again.
ALSO BY
Meira Chand
The Gossamer Fly
Last Quadrant
The Bonsai Tree
The Painted Cage
House of the Sun
A Choice of Evils
A Far Horizon
O
N THE JOURNEY THEY
spoke about the island, a pinprick on the great body of Asia. Some now wondered why they journeyed towards it, thought that perhaps they had made a mistake. On the open deck of the ship the travellers sat pressed together, voices low, as if to contain their hopes. By day they watched the horizon and rushed en masse to the rail of the ship at the sight of a passing islet or even the fin of a whale, disappointed that days of sail still remained. They covered their heads against the sun, limbs roasting beneath their rags. Some journeyed from the west across the Indian Ocean, others from the east over the China Sea but, east or west, all remembered impoverished villages, a muddy bullock, an empty stomach, dung-strewn fields. Some said Singapore, the name of the island, was derived from the Malay for lion. There was talk that these creatures roamed the jungle along with tribes of ghosts. It was said the island was a haunted place of ancient executions.
In the silence of night each man, huddled unbearably close upon the open deck yet each separate in his own circle of thought, listened to the ship cutting through the waves, licked the brine from his lips and trembled. A light on the bridge swung loosely above while beneath them the ocean rolled, a great creature upon whose back they rode. Dark thoughts rose up then to shape the future, to clothe it in both terror and hope.
Singapore rested beneath the tongue of Malaya, fabled treasure of crystal seas, the Golden Chersonese. The island was diamond shaped, and its geographical placing at a point pinning down two oceans made it forever a transit stop for travellers and merchants alike. Stamford Raffles had seen the wealth convergent in these things when he took possession of the swampy region. Trade not territory, he famously declared, but these two words could not be parted. The island fulfilled its promise, never faltering in the flowering of prosperity. It became a place of dreams, holding the souls of men to ransom.
1927â1937
1
F
OR SOME MINUTES NOW
the trolley had been stationary at the Kreta Ayer crossroads, the breeze of movement gone. The heat lay thick inside the vehicle and Rose Burns dabbed her neck with a handkerchief. The driver gesticulated angrily, leaning out of a window. Rose wondered if someone had tried to commit suicide by throwing himself before the trolley, or if a rickshaw was in the way. Then she heard shouting and the beating of drums; the sudden crackle of firecrackers sounded although Chinese New Year was long gone.
âI'm hot,' Howard complained, kicking the empty seat in front of him and leaving a dusty footprint.
Rose turned distractedly to her son; if the trolley did not move forward soon she would be late returning to Belvedere. The houseboy Hamzah would supervise the laying of tables for dinner and in the kitchen the cook, Ah Fong, would have the meal under way but her lodgers might wonder what kept their Eurasian landlady. As she did each week, she had been to visit her Aunty May in Queen Street and sent a servant for Kolade Powders to calm the old woman's stomach. Then, Rose had gone into Chinatown, to one of the traditional medicine shops for some roots and herbs to boil with black chicken to improve her own stamina. It had all taken much longer than expected. She thought now of Cynthia, left at home with the
amah
; the child would be fretful and waiting for them.
Howard slouched in his seat. The heat in the bus aggravated the prickly heat under his collar and he stretched his neck in distress. He had not wanted to accompany his mother on her visit to Aunty May. The old woman's home reeked of garlic and drains, and she of sweat and lavender water and something unsavoury besides. Her dark skin was wrinkled as a walnut, and her short white hair grew up from her head like the bristles of a brush. He was afraid he would dream about her. The return to Belvedere weighed upon him; he thought of
impenetrable corners, the movement of shadows and the cold terror of waking at night.
âWhy is the trolley not moving?' Rose demanded of the conductor, raising her voice, fanning herself and Howard with the limp folded square of her handkerchief. She spoke to the man in a manner that brooked no nonsense. It was already March, the rains were long gone and the heat had built up full blast. In the stationary trolley the passengers fretted, feet roasting on hot wooden floorboards, arms branded on molten window frames.
âChinese demonstration.' The conductor shrugged, engrossed in picking his nose with an extra-long fingernail grown especially for this purpose. He made no effort to help the Chinese woman and child who now clambered aboard, taking advantage of the unscheduled stop. They settled into the empty seats in front of Rose with breathless giggles. Howard kicked out again in anger and the girl turned around with a scowl. Rose smiled at the child, giving Howard a light slap on the hand. Sweat gathered uncomfortably in the small of her back, her blouse was stuck to her skin. Passengers were now leaning out of the windows to see what was wrong.
In the street the shouting grew louder and a metallic screech announced the arrival of another trolley drawing to a halt behind them. Rose too now stood up and leaned out of the window for a better view, and saw a crowd of unruly Chinese thick in the road before her. Men were converging on the trolley in a threatening manner waving banners on bamboo poles, craning their necks to peer in at the passengers in a belligerent manner. Heart pounding, Rose drew back in fear but noticed the trolley had stopped near the Kreta Ayer police station. Just the sight of that colonial building topped by a cupola and a weathercock filled Rose with relief. On its veranda Malay constables were already gathering to appraise the crowd, rifles at the ready. Rose knew that inside the building there would be an English police inspector who would soon put an end to the chaos. She placed an arm about Howard and although he resisted, drew him close. In front of her the Chinese woman had also gathered the young girl protectively to her breast. The woman was an
amah
, dressed in the white top and loose black trousers that all the nursemaids wore. Her charge, in a pink dress of drawn thread work with matching hair ribbons, turned her face for comfort into the woman's flat breast. The
amah
looked
anxiously out of the window while the girl twisted around against her shoulder, regarding Howard with curiosity. Rose now noticed that a small but unfortunate birthmark stained the child's jaw.
Outside, the shouting increased as demonstrators beat their poles against the side of the trolley; the thwack of sticks vibrated against Rose's knees. At the Kreta Ayer crossroads traffic had stopped, carts, cars, rickshaws and bicycles all piled up together. A Sikh policeman in turban, shorts and long black socks gestured frantically to the trapped vehicles. His hands were encased in large white gauntlets and white basket traffic wings were strapped to his back. Standing in the middle of the crowded road he resembled an incongruous angel, but his efforts at order were futile.
âWhat's happening?' Rose shouted in panic as the beating of sticks on the trolley intensified; all about her frightened passengers echoed her terror. Across the aisle an elderly Chinese in a boater hat, beige linen suit and a pair of spats over old scuffed shoes nervously stroked his watch chain.