Dead in the Dog (5 page)

‘That'll cost you a dollar in the box, laddie. You know the rules.'

Their Commanding Officer had instituted a strict no-swearing regime in the Mess, the penalty being putting a Straits dollar in the swear-box for the Red Cross. There was even a faded list of words pinned on the anteroom wall, listing the proscribed oaths. There was also a ‘no-treating' rule, which meant that though a member could invite another to have a drink, each had to sign a chit to go on their own mess bill.

Alec Watson grinned ruefully and promised to fork out later. He was a mere GDMO – a General Duties Medical Officer – which meant that he was too junior to have a speciality and was a medical dogsbody in the hospital. He ran the Casualty Station during the day, as well as the Families Clinic, though there were relatively few of those, apart from the dependants of the Malay-enlisted Other Ranks and some Gurkhas.

They ploughed through the soup course, which came straight out of Campbell's tins, then a tough piece of local chicken that the sardonic Percy claimed must have died of senility. The best part was the dessert, which was a fruit salad of fresh mango, papaya and pineapple, the first two being a totally new experience for Tom Howden.

After the meal, they went through the door at the other end into the anteroom, which like the dining room, was across the width of the long narrow hut, louvred doors running down each side. Most of these were open, letting in the heavy scent of the tropical night, along with the incessant twitter of the cicadas and monotonous burp of a bullfrog lurking in a nearby monsoon drain.

Number One glided in with a tray of coffee which he put on one of the low tables within the rectangle of easy chairs that filled the centre of the room. Another table at one side carried outdated magazines, the
Lancet, British Medical Journal
and a few copies of the airmail edition of the
Daily Telegraph
, as well as the
Straits Times
. Apart from a faded picture of the Queen on one wall, a clock and a shelf of books abandoned by former residents on the other, the room was bare. All the furniture was uniform Barrack Store issue, plain no-nonsense wood with anaemic fabric on the foam cushions.

There was a sleepy silence while they all sipped their coffee, which was blatantly Nescafé with a dash of Carnation tinned milk. When they had finished, Number One came to collect the tray and take orders for drinks. They all ordered a beer, except for Alec Watson who regretfully shook his head.

‘Sorry, I'm OMO tonight, Number One.'

Two days ago, Tom might have thought that the young Scot was confessing to being queer, but now he knew that it stood for ‘Orderly Medical Officer', the doctor permanently on duty overnight – which explained why he was the only one in uniform.

Alec must have read his thoughts.

‘Soon be your turn, Tom! Everyone under field rank has to go on the rota. As there's only five of us lieutenants or captains, it comes round more than once a week.'

Howden grinned. ‘Don't know that I'll be of much use. I haven't seen a live patient for over a year.' After qualifying, he had been able to delay his call-up for National Service by getting deferment for another twelve months. This allowed him to get a pathology training post in Newcastle's Royal Victoria Infirmary and come into the Army as a junior specialist on a Short Service Regular Commission.

When the Tigers arrived, there was another long silence. Percy Loosemore, the wiry Essex man with the long, leathery face, studied the Appointments Vacant section of the
Lancet
, while Alfred Morris dozed in his chair with a handkerchief spread over his upturned face.

The young Scot, who to Tom looked about sixteen, sat immobile, staring out through an open door into the velvet darkness, listening to the cicadas and thinking inscrutable thoughts. The new arrival began to think that the main danger of Active Service was not being shot by terrorists, but dying of boredom. It was hardly eight thirty, but everyone seemed ready for bed. The only socializing influence in TT seemed to be The Dog and in an effort to break the ennui, Tom brought up the subject.

‘Who exactly can be members?' he asked. ‘That chap with the loud voice said it had been there since the nineteen-twenties.'

Alf Morris, who was not asleep after all, gave a snort of amusement.

‘That was James Robertson – self-appointed squire of Tanah Timah! Though at least he's a planter and it was that lot who started the club. But if it wasn't for the Army, it wouldn't have had all those facilities like a swimming pool and squash court. It's only our membership fees that keep it afloat.'

‘And the bar profits!' said Percy. ‘Very exclusive, The Dog – only officers and white men, very pukka!' Tom wondered if dealing every day with scores of men with the clap had made him cynical about human nature.

‘What about women?'

The magic word brought Alec out of his trance. ‘Women? Well, the QA sisters are officers, so they qualify, but not their Other Ranks, of course. The only others are the wives of the members, though there's a civilian English teacher seconded to the Garrison who they let in as a special favour.'

Tom thought that the GDMO had picked up a lot of local gossip in the few months that he had been here – though he supposed there was little else to do except absorb all the tittle-tattle.

‘That James Robertson – he seems a pretty forceful chap.'

‘He's full of bullshit!' snapped Alec. ‘And that's not on the swear-word list, Alf, so don't look at me like that!'

‘A colourful character, James,' mused Percy Loosemore. ‘We could tell you a lot about him.'

Alf Morris pulled off his handkerchief and sat up.

‘Now watch what you say, Percy, especially around here.'

Intrigued, Tom's jug-handle ears almost wagged in anticipation.

‘Tom should know the basics of the situation, Alf,' said Percy. ‘It might stop him innocently putting his foot in it.'

‘And now's as good a time as any, when the other fellows aren't here,' suggested Alec Watson. With Morris still looking uneasy, Percy, the venereologist, launched into a tutorial on the local scandals.

‘The plain fact is that our beloved senior surgeon, Peter Bright, has had a bit of a thing going with Robertson's wife. A real cracker, is Diane, a blonde gorgeous enough to make your eyes water! Everyone seems to know about it except the damned husband.'

‘I'm not so sure about that, Percy,' grunted Alf Morris. ‘So don't go mouthing it about or there'll be hell to pay.'

Alec Watson seemed to be looking forward to some High Noon drama in TT.

‘If Jimmy Robertson does find out, there'll be a shoot-out. Plenty of guns up at Gunong Besar, I'll bet!'

‘There'll be a shoot-out if he hears you calling him “Jimmy”, my lad,' snapped Alfred. ‘Our James is very touchy on that point – even “Jim” isn't posh enough for him.'

There was a pause while Percy rang a small brass bell that stood on the table. Number One padded in to take orders for more beer, offering his pad of chits and a pen for the drinkers to sign their pay away. As they waited, Tom recalled the object of the gossip, whom he had met briefly over a cup of tea that afternoon. Peter Bright was a Major, the senior of the two surgeons at BMH. A tall, good-looking man in his mid-thirties, Tom felt he was the sort of man that appeared on the covers of Mills & Boon hospital romances. Swept-back fair hair, blue eyes and an aristocratic nose gave him a head start in the lady-chasing stakes, to say nothing of his Oxbridge accent.

After the drinks had materialized, Percy Loosemore was off again.

‘Our Peter got divorced a couple of years ago, when his missus did a runner with some German chap at BMH Munster, so now he's casting around for a new wife. And as the Robertsons are having a stormy passage these days, maybe he'll get lucky.'

The Administrative Officer clucked under his breath. ‘You really are a proper old washerwoman when it comes to gossip, Percy!'

‘Well, the new lad here needs to know what subjects to avoid in the club – and in the Mess here. It could be embarrassing.'

‘Not only Pete and Diane,' cut in Alec. ‘Best not to mention Lena Franklin and James Robertson in the same breath, if our gasman is within earshot!'

The new pathologist's brow wrinkled as he tried to keep track of who they were talking about. A ‘gasman' was an anaesthetist, so that must be David Meredith, a Short-Service captain like himself. He was a dark, intense Welshman, to whom Tom had also spoken briefly at teatime. Percy continued to develop the theme.

‘Lena's one of the juiciest QA sisters, if you like the arty, passionate type. Dave Meredith is ass-over-head in love with her and was working himself up to pop the question, but then last month, it suddenly cooled off. The clever money is on James as the cause, so Dave is seriously pissed off!'

He leered at Morris.

‘And that's not on the list, either, Alf!'

At midnight, the Buick roared up the road to Gunong Besar, its headlights cutting a bright tunnel through the darkness. The pale trunks of young rubber trees flicked reflected light as it passed, until they gave way to elephant grass and crumbling red rock at a cutting where the track sliced between high banks on either side.

The heavy American sedan was even heavier than when it was made in Detroit in 1942, as steel plates had been welded inside all the doors. A metal flap was hinged over the windscreen, a lever inside enabling it to be lowered in an emergency. The glass of the side windows had been replaced by heavy-gauge steel sheets with just a small slot cut in the panes, so that the driver could see a little to the side. The rear window was similarly blanked off, so that the mirrors perched on the fronts of the wings provided the only view backwards. James Robertson had acquired the car seven years ago, as part of the deal when he bought Gunong Besar. The previous owner had had the armour fitted and James thought it added glamour to his image, especially since the attack on the estate a few months back. The police and army patrols along the road had been increased since then and there was little danger during daylight. However, James continued to parade up and down from The Dog in a two-ton saloon that guzzled petrol, as he was loath to give up his pose as the fearless planter, careless of any danger.

The old car seemed to know its own way, helped by the grooves cut by traffic in the soft laterite of the single track road. With a good many beers and whisky chasers inside him, James was sleepy rather than drunk and took little notice of the three miles of gritty track. He certainly had no way of noticing the figure crouching on top of the right-hand side of the cutting, a rifle trailing from one hand, staring intently down at the lone car passing below him.

Half a mile further on, James turned into the short side track leading to his bungalow and noisily revved the engine to climb the slope up the side of the knoll. He swung on to the flat area in front of the verandah in a spray of gravel and hoisted himself unsteadily out of the driving seat. Slamming the car door, he tramped up the steps and clumped across the hollow boards, careless of disturbing anyone. Marching through the bedroom, he jerked open the bathroom door and switched on the light. After tearing off his clothes and throwing them vaguely in the direction of the dhobi basket, he got rid of some of his beer in the toilet, then sluiced cold water over his face at the basin.

Stumping back across the echoing boards of the bedroom floor, he hauled out his side of the mosquito net from under the mattress and crashed naked on to his side of the bed, ignoring the slim figure under the single sheet. Within minutes, he was snoring, but on the other edge of the bed, Diane lay with her eyes open, weighing up the pros and cons of the men currently in her life.

Not far away, the figure with the rifle had come down from the cutting and was loping through the rubber by the light of a pale half moon.

‘T
he old man wants to see you before Daily Orders,' announced Alf Morris, as Tom Howden appeared in the dining room. ‘The colonel's back from his leave in the Cameron Highlands, so it's business as usual. Get to his office at eight sharp, OK?'

It was seven fifteen on Friday morning, the new boy's first full day at BMH. Six other officers were at the table and nodded a greeting, though this early in the day, no one was in much of a mood for conversation. They were all in newly laundered jungle greens in various stages of fading, depending on how long they had been out from home. Some wore a tailored shirt and shorts, others the longer bush jacket and trousers, but all had brass or dark red pips or crowns on their shoulders and the regulation cherry red lanyard around the left armpit. All had the green and purple ribbon of the ‘
General Service Medal with clasp Malaya
' on their breasts, though some like Alf Morris, had a few more campaign markers alongside. Even Tom had his GSM ribbon, as they were issued within two days of arrival in FARELF. It was claimed that some chaps in Hong Kong had the Malaya Medal, because their troop plane had been delayed in Singapore by engine trouble for twenty-four hours, which qualified them for being on active service!

Morris filled a bowl with cereal at a side table and went to sit down with the others. As Tom followed his example and spooned up some limp cornflakes, the swing door from the kitchen crashed open and a small tornado emerged, carrying two plates of fry-up which she banged on the table in front of Percy and Alec. On the way back, she planted herself in front of the pathologist and scowled at him ferociously. He looked down at the small, squat Chinese woman, who had a frizz of jet black hair above her round face.

‘You wan' egg?' she demanded loudly.

‘Please – and bacon and beans.'

‘OK, I bring! Now siddown!' She jabbed a finger at the table and marched back to the kitchen, her morning ritual accomplished.