Dead in the Dog

When she had finished, Diane put on a light dressing gown from one of the wardrobes and went to get another drink. She flopped back on to the settee to sulk and wonder if that bastard would come home in time for dinner that evening.

Sometime after six o’clock, that particular bastard was sitting on a bar stool in the Sussex Club, drinking his fourth Tiger beer and reading yesterday’s Straits Times. He concentrated on the rubber prices and the reports of CT activity, topics which were studied here as seriously as the football results and weather forecast were in Britain. Turning back a page from the commercial news, he read that two days ago there had been an abortive attack on a train down south in Johore which had been fought off by the escorts, but thankfully there had been no incidents up here in Perak for over a week. Maybe Chin Peng was getting the message, thought James, as the supply lines of the terrorist chief were being progressively strangled by General Sir Gerald Templer’s policy of fencing-in all the villages in the Black Areas, depriving the CTs of food and local aid.

James Robertson folded his paper and stared at his tall glass, the condensation running down the sides on to the polished teak of the bar. He was trying to decide whether or not to stay here all evening and get blind drunk – or to go home and read the Riot Act to that stupid bitch of a wife. Just because she suspected him of getting his leg over another woman, gave her no right to throw things at him – even if her suspicions were correct.

James was not a very intelligent man, using bluster and his powerful physical presence to swagger his way through life. He depended heavily on his manager, Douglas Mackay, to keep the business solvent. After four Tigers, he was feeling rather sorry for himself and the nagging suspicion that Diane was also playing away did nothing to put him in the mood for reconciliation.

He gulped down the ice-cold lager and slid the glass across the wide bar, rapping with his knuckles for service. A short, chubby Eurasian hurried over, wearing a black bow tie on his white shirt.

‘Another beer, Daniel,’ demanded James. ‘Where’s your barman tonight?’

‘His day off, Mister Robertson. The other silly fellow, who should stand in, fell off his bicycle today, so I have to be bloody barman.’

The manager of the Sussex Club was the son of an Indian mother and a British sergeant, who had been posted home in 1922 and had not been heard of since. Though he had mid-brown hair and fairly pale skin, he had been brought up by his mother and had the sing-song accent of that side of the family. He had worked in a large hotel in Penang for some years and had landed the job of running The Dog when it reopened after the war.

After getting his new beer, James swivelled round on the high stool to look around the club. It was early and almost deserted. A fat Education Corps captain was fast asleep in one of the big armchairs that were dotted around the large room like islands in a lake. The doors to the terrace were open and under a Coca-Cola umbrella at one of the white tables outside, a young man was almost nose to nose with a pretty girl. James recognized her as one of the sisters from the military hospital. The only other patrons were a bridge four, playing with grim determination in a distant corner.

‘Damned quiet in here tonight,’ complained the planter, as if it was a personal insult to him not to have company in his hour of need.

‘Thursday always quiet, Mister Robertson. But later, we get more from garrison, after the officers have eaten their makan.’

Daniel spoke good English, but had the habit of throwing in words of Malay, Hindi and even Hakka or Cantonese, which annoyed James – though almost everything annoyed James, apart from alcohol and an attractive woman.

He began to wonder how long he would stick it out here in Malaya. Though in some ways he enjoyed himself, with this superficially superior lifestyle that suited his snobbish upbringing, the place was beginning to pall, especially since his three-year-old marriage was beginning to crumble. He ate well enough, drank plenty and enjoyed a succession of sexual adventures – but he was beginning to miss English county society, with its pubs and golf and upper-class gossip.