living standards. I propose a toast. To Detective Pang and his efforts in the war against Communism!’
‘Hear, hear!’ I cheered.
We lifted our glasses up to the burning kerosene lamp, and the whisky shone copper and gold. We clinked glasses and a tide of nausea rose within me.
‘Thank you,’ said Detective Pang. ‘I am proud to be a Running Dog of Imperialism.’ We all guffawed at this. ‘Seriously,’ the detective went on, ‘I cannot bear to see Malaya – my Malaya – being torn apart by this foolish Communist agenda. It was bad enough when the Japanese were here.’
‘I know how you feel, old chap.’ Charles sighed. ‘I was born here too. When I think of the golden, carefree days before the war I could weep …’
The detective was silent. He had nothing to say about the golden, carefree days before the war. Perhaps he was too young to remember. Spencer was slumped in his chair, eyelids flaccid and shreds of tobacco stuck to his chin. It was gone midnight and the suffocating heat was finally borne away by breezes, perspiration cooling against our skin. The booze had taken its toll on me as well as the lieutenant. Nausea came on like seasickness, and in a fanciful mood I imagined that the officers’ hut was a ship tossed about on a stormy sea (the nautical illusion wasn’t hard to establish, as the walls swayed and waves crashed in my ears). I imagined that Charles was the ship’s captain, and Detective Pang his first mate.
‘The trouble with Malaya,’ said Captain Dulwich, ‘is that she has no Nehru or Gandhi to guide her to Independence. The Malays are lazy. Their patriotism is disorganized and they’re not united enough against us. They’re content to be cogs in our system. If the British leave they will flail and founder and the Communists will rush to the fore – just like when the Japs left. The British have no choice but to stay, or else the Communists will have you singing “Raise The Red Flag”.’
The detective bit into a sunflower seed. He removed the husk from his mouth and let it fall among the other carcasses on the table.
‘To defeat the Communists,’ he said, ‘we must turn around the minds of the immigrant Chinese so they are no longer loyal to Red China. Citizenship is the key. Otherwise they are against us. Their collective silence protects the enemy. How else can eight thousand bandits hold the country to ransom? This war will not be won by bullets and bombs, but by the conversion of hearts and minds.’
‘Bollocks to the Communists,’ jeered Spencer, snapping awake. ‘Wait until Operation Starvation kicks in and the Reds come crawling out of the jungle for some grub. Me and my men are going to the Batu Caves next week. We’ve got the map coordinates for a bandit camp there. See if I don’t bring back another sack of heads!’
‘Not to belittle your efforts, Spencer old boy,’ said Charles, ‘but even if you wiped out every last Communist, Malaya is doomed. The British are leaving and she doesn’t stand a chance without us. There’s no hope of us staying either, for the Empire is rotting, and the rot is incurable and has spread to the bone.’
Independence, Empire, Communists, Emergency. The words shuffled meaninglessly in my head. I was too drunk to venture any opinions (though I wondered what became of this famous British loyalty when the Japs invaded – we certainly scarpered quickly enough then). Charles was born in British Malaya, and died in British Malaya, five years before Merdeka, with the conviction in his heart that the country was damned without Englishmen. Sometimes, when Charles’s spirit comes to pester me, I try to correct this misconception.
‘Your predictions about the departure of the British were wrong,’ I tell him. ‘Malaya gained her independence in ’fifty-seven and she’s been managing jolly well ever since. You wouldn’t recognize Kuala Lumpur today, Charles. It’s a world-class metropolis with skyscrapers and stunning
‘Hear, hear!’ I cheered.
We lifted our glasses up to the burning kerosene lamp, and the whisky shone copper and gold. We clinked glasses and a tide of nausea rose within me.
‘Thank you,’ said Detective Pang. ‘I am proud to be a Running Dog of Imperialism.’ We all guffawed at this. ‘Seriously,’ the detective went on, ‘I cannot bear to see Malaya – my Malaya – being torn apart by this foolish Communist agenda. It was bad enough when the Japanese were here.’
‘I know how you feel, old chap.’ Charles sighed. ‘I was born here too. When I think of the golden, carefree days before the war I could weep …’
The detective was silent. He had nothing to say about the golden, carefree days before the war. Perhaps he was too young to remember. Spencer was slumped in his chair, eyelids flaccid and shreds of tobacco stuck to his chin. It was gone midnight and the suffocating heat was finally borne away by breezes, perspiration cooling against our skin. The booze had taken its toll on me as well as the lieutenant. Nausea came on like seasickness, and in a fanciful mood I imagined that the officers’ hut was a ship tossed about on a stormy sea (the nautical illusion wasn’t hard to establish, as the walls swayed and waves crashed in my ears). I imagined that Charles was the ship’s captain, and Detective Pang his first mate.
‘The trouble with Malaya,’ said Captain Dulwich, ‘is that she has no Nehru or Gandhi to guide her to Independence. The Malays are lazy. Their patriotism is disorganized and they’re not united enough against us. They’re content to be cogs in our system. If the British leave they will flail and founder and the Communists will rush to the fore – just like when the Japs left. The British have no choice but to stay, or else the Communists will have you singing “Raise The Red Flag”.’
The detective bit into a sunflower seed. He removed the husk from his mouth and let it fall among the other carcasses on the table.
‘To defeat the Communists,’ he said, ‘we must turn around the minds of the immigrant Chinese so they are no longer loyal to Red China. Citizenship is the key. Otherwise they are against us. Their collective silence protects the enemy. How else can eight thousand bandits hold the country to ransom? This war will not be won by bullets and bombs, but by the conversion of hearts and minds.’
‘Bollocks to the Communists,’ jeered Spencer, snapping awake. ‘Wait until Operation Starvation kicks in and the Reds come crawling out of the jungle for some grub. Me and my men are going to the Batu Caves next week. We’ve got the map coordinates for a bandit camp there. See if I don’t bring back another sack of heads!’
‘Not to belittle your efforts, Spencer old boy,’ said Charles, ‘but even if you wiped out every last Communist, Malaya is doomed. The British are leaving and she doesn’t stand a chance without us. There’s no hope of us staying either, for the Empire is rotting, and the rot is incurable and has spread to the bone.’
Independence, Empire, Communists, Emergency. The words shuffled meaninglessly in my head. I was too drunk to venture any opinions (though I wondered what became of this famous British loyalty when the Japs invaded – we certainly scarpered quickly enough then). Charles was born in British Malaya, and died in British Malaya, five years before Merdeka, with the conviction in his heart that the country was damned without Englishmen. Sometimes, when Charles’s spirit comes to pester me, I try to correct this misconception.
‘Your predictions about the departure of the British were wrong,’ I tell him. ‘Malaya gained her independence in ’fifty-seven and she’s been managing jolly well ever since. You wouldn’t recognize Kuala Lumpur today, Charles. It’s a world-class metropolis with skyscrapers and stunning
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