Dead in the Dog

Diane was a powerful swimmer and no one was surprised when she and Peter Bright took themselves off further down the beach, well away from the main party. Had anyone had binoculars, they might have seen that the pair spent much of the time standing waist-high in the water, apparently in earnest discussion and sometimes apparently heated argument.

After an hour or so, the sun and the exercise began to take its toll and gradually they left the sea and flopped on to the benches and chairs under the awning, calling to Lee Hong for drinks, before deciding what to choose from the dog-eared cardboard menu pinned above the bar.

After eating, the group split up again, everyone doing their own thing. Some went back into the sea, others wandered down the beach to watch the fishermen hauling in their seine net. A dozen locals, ranging from young boys to wizened old men with sun-blackened skin, chanted rhythmically as they heaved on a great U-shaped rope which dragged a net with a few score fish up on to the beach. Tom Howden was content to lie on the sand under the shade of a coconut palm, with Lynette half asleep alongside him. The afternoon lazed away all too quickly and as the sun slid lower in the sky, they went back down the beach into the warm water for another swim. As twilight approached, Lynette decided to retreat to her chalet to put on some clothing which exposed less skin to the evening mosquitoes.

Left alone, Tom wandered along the top of the beach along the tree-line, watching with wonderment as the sun sank below the horizon in a sky which was a riot of colour, bands of peach and violet climbing up from the sea towards the zenith. After a few hundred yards, he became conscious of voices coming from within the trees and without consciously wishing to eavesdrop, he recognized the deep tones of Peter Bright.

‘It’s not the done thing, you know, Diane!’

‘You don’t damn well own me! I’ll do what I like, thank you!’

Embarrassed, Tom turned and walked quickly away, his feet making no sound in the soft sand. He had no wish to listen to some lover’s tiff, especially as the two people sounded very angry. Obviously the path of true love was not going smoothly. Back at the huts, people were following Lynette’s example and going to get changed, long sleeves and insect repellent becoming the order of the day. The pathologist followed their example and went back to his chalet in the middle of the row, where he found Alec in a clean shirt, carefully combing his fair hair in expectations of impressing his latest target, the Junior Theatre Sister. Perhaps unwisely, given the young Scot’s fondness for gossip, Tom mentioned the spat he had heard between Peter Bright and the new widow.

Alec grinned at the news. ‘Join the club, lad! I was in the bog earlier on and just happened to hear voices passing outside. It was the Welsh wizard and Lena Franklin – she was giving him hell for being so jealous about Jimmy Robertson. Virtually accused him of shooting the poor bugger!’

Tom could not help being intrigued by these local dramas, in spite of his better self telling him to mind his own business.

‘What did our gasman have to say to that?’ he asked.

Alec shrugged forlornly. ‘Dunno, they walked out of earshot straight away. Short of running after them with my pants around my ankles, I couldn’t get the rest of the squabble.’

When they all met half an hour later under the awning to eat, the grouping had changed somewhat. Diane was pointedly sitting with Doris Hawkins, Lena and Alfred Morris, leaving Peter Bright with a sullen-looking David Meredith on another table. Joan Parnell grasped the opportunity to slide next to the surgeon on the picnic benches, with another of the QA captains filling the fourth place. Tom naturally shepherded Lynette to another table, where Alec and Clarence Bottomley were sitting.

The last glow of light reddened the horizon, the palms silhouetted blackly against the sky. With the gentle swish of the sea as a background, and a pretty girl at his side, Tom Howden felt as if the Malayan Emergency had been conjured up merely for his benefit. He found it hard to believe that forty thousand men were engaged in a bloody campaign up and down this lovely country, though at home this was already being called ‘The Forgotten War’.

‘Could have been posted to Catterick – or some gloomy dump in West Germany,’ observed Alec, as if reading his friend’s mind. ‘Not bad this, romantic setting, good beer, plenty of grub and very convivial company!’