Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [280]
‘Sorry, I think you were having a nightmare,’ said a familiar voice. It was the Major. He wanted to say that someone in the Control Room in Hill Street had told him that a Free French ship, the Félix Roussel, was due to sail for Bombay in a few hours and anyone who wanted to sail on her was advised to reserve a passage without delay. The P & O office was already besieged. There was no time to waste.
The following morning a cheerful crowd sat amid the jumble of mattresses and chairs in the Mayfair. Everything had at last been arranged. Matthew, jubilant, sat reading again and again the printed instructions they had been given at the P & O office. Vera was to report to Collyer Quay at eight o’clock that evening, bringing only what luggage she could carry herself. Matthew had been given a pass which would allow him to drive home after seeing her off, which would necessarily be after the curfew. As for Vera, though she smiled from time to time, she said nothing. Matthew was puzzled by her calm. Was she upset by the prospect of finding herself alone in Bombay?
‘A little,’ Vera agreed. ‘But no, not really.’ She had been used to this sort of thing from childhood, being uprooted from one place after another.
‘You’ve got the address of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank, haven’t you?’ Matthew asked anxiously, not for the first time. ‘It’s in Churchgate Street. I’ll write to you there and join you when I can.’ Vera smiled again and squeezed his hand. Matthew suspected that she still did not really believe she would get away from Singapore.
While they sat around talking they were startled by a whirring sound like a great bird passing over the house, followed by an explosion, perhaps a quarter of a mile away.
‘I didn’t hear the sirens, did you?’ They stared at each other in surprise. Only the Major knew immediately what had caused the explosion. He had heard that sort of noise before. He sighed but said nothing, bending his ear politely to listen to what his neighbour was saying. This man, a purple-faced planter from the Kuala Lumpur area, was one of the many refugees who had wandered in unannounced, having heard somewhere that there was shelter to be found at the Mayfair; he had brought several bottles of whisky with which he fortified himself at intervals, waving a roll of paper. On this roll of paper, he said, were the plans of a new type of anti-aircraft gun he had invented in the long evenings on his estate. It would fire twice as high as anything they had at present. He had written to General Percival about it but his letter had gone unanswered. ‘Save the whole of Singapore, old boy,’ he was now explaining huskily to the Major. ‘But the blighters won’t look at it… Save the British Empire, come to that!’ And he waved his blueprint despondently.
Again there came that whirring, whistling sound, followed by another explosion, more distant this time.
‘What on earth is it?’
‘I’m afraid they’ve started shelling us now,’ said the Major. ‘They must have moved up some heavier guns to reach this side of the Island.’ He felt a sudden compulsion to jump to his feet and start walking about, because if you kept on the move … well, more than once in the trenches in the First War a shell had exploded where he had been sitting or standing a moment before. Nevertheless, he obliged himself to sit still, staring somewhat glassily at Matthew and Vera opposite him. He did not want to start all that again at his age! It had taken him years after the war to get over this compulsion to be always on the move. How many years had he not spent with invisible shells exploding in dining-rooms and drawing-rooms he had just vacated!
‘At this range they’ll only be able to send over the small stuff,’ he added, lighting his pipe.
‘The Major means that if you are lucky you will only be hit by a small shell,’ observed Dupigny wryly from the doorway.
‘Ah, François! I suppose you know there’s a French ship sailing tonight for Bombay? Will you