A Different Sky (6 page)

‘Tomorrow I will do our accounts for this week,' Raj promised as Manikam turned the key of the cash box. Under Manikam's instruction Raj had learned how to add and subtract and balance neat columns in a large ledger. He soon found irregularities in Manikam's account books, careless mistakes that created unnecessary and sometimes shocking deficiencies. Soon, Raj's disciplined management of the business had produced small profits in a pleasing way, and almost imperceptibly control of the shop had passed from employer to
employee. Manikam was happy most of the day to read a newspaper and drink tea. In the beginning Raj had slept in the shop on the counter top but recently, after Manikam had raised his salary by a small amount, he had rented one of the dark tenement cubicles upstairs. Manikam himself rented the entire ground floor of the shophouse for his business premises and living space.

Soon Manikam disappeared into a back room. Raj sat down on the chair behind the counter and, turning the tap in the earthenware water jar, filled a metal glass and drank thirstily. Now the violence of the afternoon was over and he was safely home he felt suddenly weak, as if he had been pummelled all over. In the quiet of the shop with the familiar sights and sounds of the street beyond, the alarming events of the last few hours filled his mind, and his thoughts returned to Mr Ho.

He had helped the Chinese alight from the trolley, increasingly alarmed by the man's huffing and puffing. ‘Uncle, if your house far then we take a rickshaw,' Raj had suggested as the tram drew away.

The man's colour was not good and his breath continued to rattle in his chest like a bag of marbles. Demonstrators still straggled along the road murmuring angrily; outside the Kreta Ayer police station the dead bodies were being dragged to one side and covered with straw mats.

Raj hailed a rickshaw and they climbed in, squashed together on the seat. The Chinese had pushed his boater hat to the back of his head at a rakish angle, and the long hairs sprouting from the raised mole on his chin lifted as they bowled along. Both his wheezing and his courtly manner gave him the appearance of age, yet Raj judged him to be no more than forty-five.

‘I have a biscuit factory near here,' Mr Ho told him, extracting a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. The sun flashed on the long chain across his chest as he noted the time. Raj stared at the watch, at its smooth pebble-like shape, the intricacy of its fine workmanship, and vowed that one day he too would own a similar timepiece. Beneath them the runner flexed stringy muscles and suddenly picked up his pace, throwing them back in the seat.

Soon they reached Pearl's Hill and the demonstrators were left behind. Mr Ho directed the runner towards a dusty compound with a broken gate standing open upon one hinge. Above the gate was a
sign that read
HO PROSPERITY BISCUIT COMPANY
. The rickshaw stopped before a dilapidated house behind which corrugated factory sheds were visible. Tiles were missing from the roof of Mr Ho's bungalow, and the shutters like the gate hung crookedly. A sweet smell of baking pressed about them as the rickshaw drew to a halt. Raj jumped out and helped Mr Ho down.

‘You have been very kind. Have some refreshment before you go. Taste my biscuits,' Mr Ho smiled.

Raj hesitated but the vanilla-edged scent was overwhelming and after the happenings of the afternoon he was both hungry and thirsty. He followed Mr Ho up some steps and on to a veranda stacked with old chairs and wooden crates. Mrs Ho, plump and grey haired, hurried out of the house followed by her pregnant daughter-in-law, Yoshiko. As both women fussed about the breathless Mr Ho, the noise of shouting came to them from the direction of the biscuit factory behind the house. Mr Ho turned in alarm with a wheeze of distress and, ignoring Mrs Ho's pleas, hurried back down the steps and disappeared around the side of the bungalow. Mrs Ho gave a small moan and followed, her daughter-in-law and Raj trailing behind.

‘What is happening?' Raj asked the young woman, from whom he caught the scent of crushed flowers. The loose shift she wore already pulled tightly across her thickening body and he realised her baby must soon be due.

‘Again the workers are troubling us. The communists encourage them to strike,' the daughter-in-law explained as they hurried towards the factory, her eyes fixed on Mr and Mrs Ho a distance ahead.

Raj observed the luxuriance of her hair pulled back into a soft bun and the creamy quality of her skin, like the petals of a magnolia. Another roar from the factory made Yoshiko Ho exclaim in alarm. She broke into an awkward run, her hands supporting her heavy belly, Raj keeping pace beside her. Ragged palms fringed the two factory sheds before which a group of workers were gathered. They shouted, punching the air with a loud chant that was now all too familiar. More men were spilling out of the building to join the agitated assembly.

‘They are turning today's Sun Yat-sen anniversary into a communist demonstration wherever they see an opportunity,' Mr Ho gasped as Raj and Yoshiko reached him.

‘What are they saying?' Raj asked.

‘Workers of the World Unite. Stand up to the Imperialist traitor Ho. Down with Ho Biscuits. Down with Imperialism,' Mr Ho replied, passing a hand wearily over his brow. With Mrs Ho hanging on to his arm, trying unsuccessfully to hold him back, he began to walk towards the unruly crowd. Yoshiko gave a groan and crossed her hands protectively over her swollen belly. Raj hurried forward beside Mr Ho who was wheezing alarmingly again.

‘Send Yoshiko back inside – who knows where this may lead!' Mr Ho shouted to his wife before turning an anxious face to Raj.

‘Feelings are high and our daughter-in-law is Japanese. There are always mixed feelings about the Japanese. We have had many boycotts of Japanese goods in the last few years,' Mr Ho explained, squeezing out words between asthmatic rasps.

Work in the factory sheds with their boiling vats of syrup and baking ovens was hot and sweaty labour. The men now facing Mr Ho were stripped to the waist, but the powerful sight of so many gleaming muscular bodies massed together, alert and waiting, did not deter him. He walked forward, hatted and spatted and wheezing, the watch chain across his linen waistcoat gleaming in the sun. From the factory sheds the mouth-watering smell of Ho Biscuits continued to float above the angry men with their loud cries of
Imperialist Ho.

‘Listen to me,' Mr Ho shouted, but his voice quickly sank beneath the din. The workers moved restively, the blood high in their faces, determined to be free of the dark hot shacks where they toiled all day long. A banner of crudely daubed characters was suddenly waved in Mr Ho's face, forcing him to retreat a short distance. Raj watched in alarm as Mr Ho gasped and clutched at his chest, and in sudden concern stepped forward to face the angry men.

‘Listen to him,' Raj roared, and his unfamiliar presence had an instant effect. The workers stopped to stare at his short, burly frame, and the shouting died down. Mr Ho took advantage of the lull to put his case to the men.

‘I am no different from you. We are all Chinese brothers. I am not an Imperialist. This is not the way to improve our lot,' Mr Ho wheezed with as much force as he could muster, but even as he spoke a loud heckling began, drummed up by the two most prominent agitators.

‘Freedom is found in working hard and taking opportunities,' Mr Ho implored, but the shouting continued.

‘Down with Imperialist exploitation! Demand better wages from the dog Ho. He eats pork and duck while we have no money for rice,' a young man shouted. Mr Ho gasped in shock at this new accusation and the cheers that it released.

‘I am not a rich man. You have seen the mansions of rich men. You know I do not live like that. If you have complaints come and talk to me. Let us stop this nonsense and get back to work. The biscuits will burn.' Mr Ho panted, anxious now to get inside the factory for he knew only too well the smell of an over-baked biscuit. At this appeal the men hesitated, allowing Mr Ho to enter the shed. Raj hurried after him.

A fiery, vanilla-scented world enfolded them as they entered the darkness of the sweltering factory. Bare light bulbs dangling on long wires from the corrugated metal roof could not alleviate the gloom. After the brightness outside Raj was momentarily blinded, even as his head reeled with the intoxicating aromas. As sight returned he saw large cauldrons of boiling pineapple jam perched precariously over flaming burners. The syrup bubbled with soft sucking sounds; the scent of scalding sugar ran hotly through him. Long tables of rolled dough cut to the shape of hearts or rabbits were visible, as were battalions of chocolate fingers waiting their turn in the oven. Ancient conveyor belts that appeared to be fashioned from bicycle chains chugged and clanked incessantly around the shed. The angry men now encircled their employer shaking their fists and kicking up dust from the earthen floor that then fell upon the biscuits.

‘Biscuits are burning,' Mr Ho cried in a trembling voice, stepping towards the ovens from which a charred smell was emerging. In desperation he pushed his way into the crowd before him, hitting out to right and left. His watch was knocked from his pocket and flailed about on its long chain, the straw hat was tipped forward and he reached to hold it in place. As he neared the ovens the agitators crowded closer chanting slogans again. A man brandishing a bamboo pole moved forward and, with a loud cry, brought the cane down on Mr Ho's head. The boater fell apart as neatly as a cut sponge cake and blood spurted up from Mr Ho's skull. At the sight of this blood the crowd abruptly fell silent and drew back. Mr Ho staggered and lurched, finally collapsing in the hot space before the oven.

Mrs Ho, who was hovering nervously about the factory door, gave
a shriek and ran forward and dropped to her knees, cushioning her husband's head in her lap. Mr Ho's crushed and battered boater lay a short distance away and Raj stared at the hat in shock, remembering the Chief Inspector's sun helmet in the road at Kreta Ayer. For the second time that day he had watched a man swatted like a fly by an angry mob.

The communist agitators began shouting again but Mr Ho's workers, observing their injured employer, appeared confused. There was a sudden move towards the ovens and the doors were pulled open. Immediately, a cloud of black smoke billowed out like fire from a belching dragon. Mr Ho's nose twitched, he opened his eyes and groaned. Seeing that all momentum was gone, the two main agitators, professional men sent to work up the crowd, disappeared as innocuously as they had come. At their departure Mr Ho's employees carried him out of the shed and back into the house.

He was placed upon a rattan couch and cushions were stacked behind him. A servant brought water and first aid, and Mrs Ho bandaged her husband's head with enough wadding to make a turban. Yoshiko poured jasmine tea into a tall mug and Mr Ho was persuaded to take a sip. Slowly, he revived and turned to Raj who sat nervously on the edge of a chair.

‘My son Luke went to Ipoh yesterday. If he had been here he would have stood up to those ruffians. It is a sign of the times we now live in that such a thing could happen. I came to this place on the deck of a ship, just like my workers. In my village in China I tilled the land with my father, just as they did. At ten I left school to help my illiterate parents. I became a hawker selling vegetables my father grew and the oysters and crabs I collected each day.' Mr Ho's eyes grew moist and Mrs Ho begged him to put a stop to remembering.

Yoshiko refilled the cups and offered Raj a plate of Ho biscuits. As she stood before him he caught her light flowery scent again and glanced up into her face. She nodded her head and gave a slight smile; he looked away quickly, disturbed by the fullness of her lips. Staring down at the assortment of crisply baked shapes, he chose one with a bright red centre. As he picked it up he remembered a packet of similar biscuits his father had bought from a salesman who came to his stall on the road into Naganagar, near Raj's village in India. The stall sold rice and wheat, betel nut and gram, chillies, sherbet powder, nails and
soap, tin buckets, brooms and sugar; everyday things needed in the village. His father had done some favour for the salesman and in return was given the biscuits. The packet was wrapped in pink waxy paper and the biscuits inside were encrusted with ants. Raj and his sister Leila had brushed the insects from the pastry, savouring the sweet taste, chewing slowly. He saw again the crumbs about his sister's lips and the red stain of the jam on her tongue.

‘Everyone has come to this place with hope in his heart.' Mr Ho sighed and sipped his tea.

‘I too came here to Singapore on the deck of a ship, sun on my head all day. I was twelve years old,' Raj remembered.

‘We dreamed of a better place and followed that dream, and many have found it,' Mr Ho nodded agreement.

‘But you are such an educated man, a rich man.' Raj was surprised when Mr Ho shook his head.

‘When I arrived here I found a job in a biscuit factory. That is how I came to know about biscuits. One day I got into a fight and was left for dead. An English missionary, Reverend Luke Bartholomew, found me and nursed me back to health. He was a great man and took a liking to me and paid for me to go to a mission school here in Singapore. I studied hard and passed all the exams, and I converted also to Christianity for it was this faith that changed my life. Reverend Bartholomew gave me the name of Joseph when I was baptised. He persuaded his mission to send me to England for further study. I stayed there three years and learned many things.' Mr Ho leaned back against the cushions, exhausted.

‘He needs to sleep now,' Mrs Ho said; she bustled forward, impatient for Raj to be gone.

‘Come back and see me again. You are a good boy,' Mr Ho mumbled sleepily as Raj stood up.

His thirst quenched, Raj placed the tall metal glass on the counter in Manikam's shop and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. In his mind the smell of burning biscuits lingered as he puzzled over Mr Ho and the many events of the afternoon. That a man who came from such frugal beginnings could now own a biscuit factory and be called an Imperialist seemed a strange achievement. Raj thought with trepidation about his own life and what the future
might hold. Although so much was already behind him, the way ahead lay uncharted. The events of the afternoon reminded him that life was precarious. He knew then that he must always keep small goals before him, like stepping stones stretching into the distance to whatever destination awaited him.