Dead in the Dog

Although technically a guest of Major Morris, Tom’s application to join was a formality, the club committee accepting any officer on the nod. A few others gathered around with their drinks to inspect the new member. Though officers came and went fairly frequently, it was always a novelty to meet someone new, especially one fresh from home, who may have actually seen a recent International or who had perhaps been to the races at Kempton Park. Tom could oblige them on the first count, as he was a keen rugby fan, though he had never seen a horse race in his life.

He felt much better this evening, as his earlier bout of acute homesickness had passed. Standing here with a glass of beer amid convivial company in this bizarre kind of pub, he decided that he was going to enjoy his time in Malaya. An ardent devotee of Somerset Maugham, he felt as if he was reliving some of his favourite stories. At the moment, it was an all-male gathering at the bar. Although everyone was in civilian clothes, they were in virtually another kind of uniform. All stood in trousers and white shirts and all wore ties, as it was a club regulation that no shorts were allowed after six o’clock and that ties would be displayed. In fact, Daniel kept a few spares behind the bar for members who turned up without one. Long-sleeved shirts were required – the Army demanded this everywhere after seven o’clock, the rationale being to reduce the area available for malarious mosquitoes to feed on! The only exception to these rules was on Sundays and when there was a fancy-dress dance. Who had made these peculiar demands, no one remembered, just as the origin of the Sussex Club’s nickname was shrouded in mystery. Tom raised this question after a few more beers and James, whose browbeating personality usually monopolized the conversation, delivered his opinion in his loud, plummy voice.

‘Damned club’s been here since the ’twenties! Started by a few chaps most of whom happened to come from Sussex.’

‘But why “The Dog”?’ asked the doctor.

‘I think a couple of the fellows came up from KL and had been members of the Selangor Club on the padang there. Everyone in the bloody world knows that that’s nicknamed “The Dog”, so they borrowed the name to make them feel more at home in this God-forsaken hole.’

No one volunteered any reason why the Kuala Lumpur club should have carried the odd name, but the conversation careered off in a different direction and Tom went with it, enjoying himself more with every glass of cold lager. He was introduced to a dozen more people and promptly forgot every name, though there seemed to be twice as many military as civilians.

The faces along the bar came and went, as some left for their evening meal at home or in the various messes in the Garrison – and others arrived to eat in the club dining room, which lay through a door at the end of the room. At seven thirty, Major Morris tapped his arm and pointed to the big clock above the bar.

‘Time to get back to the Mess, lad. Number One will give us the evil eye if we’re late for his soup.’

Tom had learned a lot in his first few hours at BMH Tanah Timah. ‘Number One’ was the title of the Officers’ Mess Steward – an emaciated Chinese of indeterminate age whose real name was Lim Ah Sok, and who ruled the inmates with a rod of iron concealed behind a deferential manner. He was assisted by his ferocious, if diminutive wife Meng, who wielded her iron rod without any pretence of deference.

The two officers climbed into Morris’s 1939 Hillman Minx and drove the mile back to the hospital. As they crossed the little bridge and came to the junction with the main road, Tom asked about drinking and driving regulations.

‘Good God, lad, the way the locals drive here, the coppers could never spot a drunk driver, unless they noticed he was doing better than the others!’

As the old car ground its way past the ghostly bulk of the old tin dredge, the major offered some further advice.

‘When you get a car – and you can’t get anywhere without one – take my tip. If you hit anyone, for God’s sake don’t stop or the locals will beat you half to death! Just drive like hell to the next village with a police station and report it.’

As Tom silently digested this new variation on the Highway Code, the Hillman turned in through the gates of BMH, the driver getting a ragged salute from the sentry, who sprang erect from his habitual slouch when he saw his Admin Officer behind the wheel.