She answered Edward Hong’s question. “I suppose it is better. It’s never easy to discover one’s been taken in.”
Edward Hong nodded. “Then there was my father,” he said. “He was destined for the law, too, but really couldn’t knuckle down to his studies, and so he joined a cousin of his who had a business in Singapore. I was actually born in Singapore, you know, and spent my childhood there. We had a rather nice house just off Orchard Road, which wasn’t so built up in those days. My father chose that in order to be close to the Tanglin Club, where he always went for a whisky after work. They had an arrangement whereby you could leave your own bottle of whisky in the club and be served from that if you wished.
“I felt a bit trapped in Singapore. I did not mind the government there, of course–it wasn’t that. In fact, I rather liked Lee Kuan Yew. He used to come for dinner at the house from time to time and he would talk about things they were proposing to ban. Chewing gum, for example. You did know that chewing gum is illegal in Singapore?
“I must say that I happen to think that that is the most remarkably enlightened bit of legislation. I can’t bear to see people chewing gum–they look so vacant, so bovine. I’m sorry, but when I see somebody chewing gum, I can’t help but think that they look like a cow. It’s such a moronic activity!”
Domenica thought of Edinburgh, and the chewing gum that had disfigured its pavements. In some parts of the city, the pavements had become covered in gum, which was difficult and expensive to remove. There was something to be said for a chewing-gum ban, she thought.
“You can say what you like about Singapore,” went on Edward Hong, “but it’s safe. They don’t tolerate crime, and as a result they have very little. Post hoc, propter hoc. And they don’t tolerate drug addiction, and again they don’t have too much of that. Drug users, you see, are put into an institution at Changi and kept there for six months. They teach them a trade and they wean them off drugs.”
Domenica looked doubtful. “And does it work?”
Edward Hong shrugged. “They claim a reasonable success rate, but…” He paused and looked at Domenica. “But tell me, what do you do for your drug addicts back in Scotland?”
Domenica thought. She was uncertain what was done, but she thought it was very little. Could we say, we leave them to get on with it, or would that imply a lack of concern? Or was the problem simply too big to be dealt with any more, with twelve-year-olds and the like starting drinking, with the connivance of adults? Where did one start?
“I can see that it’s difficult,” said Edward Hong sympathetically. “I understand. You have so much freedom, don’t you, and then you find that freedom leads to complications. Would one rather live in London or Singapore, do you think?”
Domenica was about to laugh, as if the answer were so obvious, but she hesitated.
“Yes,” said Edward Hong, shaking a finger. “You see, it’s not quite as simple as one might imagine. In London, unless you’re very fortunate, or rich, you have to worry a great deal about being mugged, or worse. You have to contend with crowded trains, and a lot of frustration. You have to struggle for everything. In Singapore, everything is tremendously clean. A woman can walk about anywhere in the city, anywhere, without fear of being molested or attacked. Children can play outside, on their own, wherever they like, in perfect safety. And there are no threatening beggars on the streets.”
“But if there are no beggars on the streets,” said Domenica. “Where are they?”
Edward Hong looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “There are no beggars on the streets because nobody is allowed to beg. People can go about their business unmolested–it’s as simple as that.”
“So the beggars are gainfully employed?” asked Domenica. “They aren’t just moved on?”
“Of course,” said Edward Hong. “Besides, there’s nowhere to move them on to. If you moved anybody on from Singapore they’d fall into the sea. So nobody is moved on.”
“How interesting,” said Domenica.
37. Ling’s Story
Both Edward Hong and Domenica were surprised to find out that the young man who was to act as her guide spoke passable English. This surprise, though, was accompanied by a great deal of relief. If Ling, as he was called, spoke English then the prospect of having to communicate in some form of pidgin, or to rely on gestures and body language, receded, and this meant that Domenica’s fieldwork became all the easier. Of course, there was something to be said for studies in which no verbal communication took place between anthropologist and subject–such studies were free of the filtering effect of language and could therefore be more insightful than those in which language was used. There had been several well-known studies which had been completely compromised by the anthropologist’s having accepted explanations given to him by the hardly disinterested subject. In a polygamous society, a man might lie, for example, as to the number of wives he had, a larger number being associated with greater wealth. Or he might exaggerate his position in the village hierarchy, thereby confusing the anthropologist’s understanding of authority within the community. Such dangers disappeared completely if mutual incomprehension was the order of the day.
Ling explained that he was the son of a farmer who had gone bankrupt. Thanks to the efforts of a group of Catholic missionaries, he had received a good education, including a very good grounding in English, and had been planning to pursue a career in the United Bank of Penang, but had been distracted from this by having fallen in love with the daughter of one of the elders in the village towards which they were heading. He had decided to postpone the accountancy course he had enrolled in until his girlfriend was ready to leave her family and marry him. This would not be for a year or two yet, he explained, as a result of the illness of her grandmother, to whom she was particularly attached.
“The old lady does not have long to live,” explained Ling. “The doctors doubt if she will last a year. My fiancée wishes to spend as much time as possible with her, and I support her in this decision.”
“That is very considerate,” said Edward Hong. “You will make a fine son-in-law.” And then he added quietly: “Not for me, of course, but for this chap in the village.”
Ling thanked him for the compliment. He then turned to Domenica. “Mrs Macdonald, may I ask you a question? What exactly do you want to find out in the village?”
“As you know,” said Domenica, “I am an anthropologist. I was thinking of a new project, at the suggestion of my dear friend, Dilly Emslie, a few months ago, and it occurred to me that it would be interesting to do an anthropological study of one of these modern pirate communities. And so that is why I’m here.”
Ling looked thoughtful. “Well, I suppose that you have come to the right place. There certainly are pirates operating in the Malacca Straits. It’s quite dangerous for shipping these days.”
Edward Hong had been studying Ling with care. Now he interrupted. “Tell me, young man,” he asked, “are you involved in piracy yourself?”
Ling looked shocked. “Certainly not! I would never get involved in that sort of thing. It would hardly be a good start for my career, would it?”
“No,” said Edward Hong. “But then you do live amongst these people, don’t you?”
Ling sighed. “Some of us don’t have much of a choice, Mr Hong. The fact of the matter is that my future father-in-law may know these people quite well, might even be slightly involved in their activities–I have no evidence of that, of course–but as far as I am concerned it is nothing whatsoever to do with me.”
Edward Hong nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I understand. But will you be able to ensure that Mrs Macdonald has adequate access to them? Will you be able to do that?”
“Of course I will,” said Ling. “It’s a small village, you know. Everybody knows everybody else’s business.”
Domenica looked reassured.
“I’m sure that Ling will be very good to me,” she said to Edward Hong. Then, turning to Ling,
she said: “And I really am very grateful to you for giving up your time to help me. It’s very generous of you, you know.”
“I have little else to do,” confessed Ling. “Assisting the occasional anthropologist helps pass the time.”
This remark was succeeded by complete silence. Domenica, who had been winding her watch, glanced up quickly. “You’ve had anthropologists before?” she asked.
Ling did not seem to notice the anxiety in her voice. “We’ve only had one.”
Domenica looked at him searchingly. “And who was this person?”
“He was a Belgian,” said Ling. “I never found out his surname. We all just called him André.”
“And what happened?” Domenica pressed. She had visions of her study being rendered completely otiose by the imminent appearance, in one of the prestigious journals, perhaps Mankind Quarterly, of an extensive Belgian study of a pirate community on the Malacca Straits. It would be bitterly disappointing.
And what would they think of her when she returned to Edinburgh after only a few weeks and announced that there had been no point in proceeding? She would be a laughingstock, and everybody who made comments about the foolhardiness of the study would feel vindicated.
Ling, who had been looking out of the window, transferred his gaze to Domenica.
“He is still there,” he said.
Domenica gasped. There was no situation more tense, more fraught with difficulty, than the unexpected encounter by one anthropologist of another–in the field.
If this Belgian were still in residence, then she would have to ask Edward Hong to instruct his driver to turn the car round without delay. There would be no point in proceeding, and they might as well return to Malacca and listen to Edward Hong’s daughter playing Chopin.
Then Ling spoke again. “Yes,” he repeated. “He’s still there. Down by the place where the fishing nets are hung out to dry.”
Then he added: “Still there. In his grave.”
38. At the Queen’s Hall
“Hurry up now, Bertie,” said Irene. “It’s almost ten o’clock, and if we don’t get there in time you may not get your audition. Now, you wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Bertie sighed. To miss the audition was exactly what he would want, but he realised that it was fruitless to protest. Once his mother had seen a notice about the Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra, she had immediately put his name down for an audition.
“Do you realise how exciting this is?” she said to Bertie. “This orchestra is planning to do a concert in Paris in a couple of weeks. Not much rehearsal time, but Paris, Bertie! Wouldn’t you just love that?”
Bertie frowned. The name of the orchestra suggested that it was for teenagers, and he was barely six. “Couldn’t I audition in seven years’ time?” he asked his mother. “I’ll be a teenager then.”
“If you’re worried about being the youngest one there,” said Irene reassuringly, “then you shouldn’t! The fact that it’s called the Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra is neither here nor there. The word “teenage” is there just to indicate what standard is required. That’s all it is!”
“But I’m not a teenager,” protested Bertie, helplessly. “They’ll all be teenagers, Mummy. I promise you. I’ll be the only one in dungarees.”
“There may well be others in dungarees,” said Irene. “And anyway, once you’re sitting down behind your music stand, nobody will notice what you’re wearing.”
Bertie was silent. It was no use; he would be forced to go, just as she had forced him to go to yoga and to Italian lessons and to all the rest of it. There was no use protesting. But he thought he would try one final argument.
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind being in it, Mummy,” he said. “But the saxophone, you know, isn’t an orchestral instrument. They won’t want anybody to play the tenor sax.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Irene. “The tenor sax is in B flat. That’s exactly the same as the clarinet or the euphonium. You see euphonia in orchestras, don’t you? And other B flat instruments. You can just play one of those parts, or Lewis Morrison can arrange a part specially for you.”
Bertie was silent. If he was unable to persuade his mother not to subject him to the humiliation of being the youngest member, by far, of an orchestra, then he would have to find some other means to ensure that he did not get in. He thought for a moment and then realised that there was a very obvious solution.
Irene saw Bertie’s face break into a broad grin. He must have realised, she thought, what fun it would be to go to Paris. These little bursts of resistance were curious things; they could be quite intense and then suddenly evaporate and he would come round. Such a funny little boy, but so appealing!
“Why are you smiling, Bertissimo?” she asked. “Thinking of Paris? The Eiffel Tower–you know you can climb that right up to the top? And then there’s the Louvre with the Mona Lisa. We’ll have such fun in Paris, Bertie!”
Bertie, who had been smiling to himself over the prospects of escape which had just presented themselves, now became grave. We? Had his mother said we’d have such fun in Paris?
His voice was tiny when he asked the question. “Are you coming, too, Mummy? Are you coming to Paris, too?”
Irene laughed. “But of course, Bertie. Remember that you’re only six. Mummy will come to look after you.”
“But the teenagers won’t have their mothers with them,” pleaded Bertie. “I’ll be the only one.”
And it would be worse, he thought; the humiliation would be doubled and redoubled by the fact that Irene was now visibly pregnant. This would mean that the other boys would know what she had been doing. It was just too embarrassing. Tofu had already passed a comment on Irene’s pregnancy when he had raised the subject in the playground.
“Your mum makes me sick,” he said. “Do you know what she’s been doing? It’s gross! Yuk! Disgusting!”
Bertie had said nothing; one cannot defend the indefensible, but he had smarted with shame. And now he was to be subjected to yet further humiliation, unless, unless…
“I haven’t been to Paris for years,” said Irene. “There is really no other city like it.”
Bertie nodded grimly. “Should I go and put my saxophone in its case?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Irene, looking at her watch. “We will probably need to take a taxi now, as we’ll never get up to the Queen’s Hall in time if we have to wait for a bus.”
They were soon in a taxi, rattling their way up Dundas Street and the Mound. Princes Street was en fête, with its lines of fluttering flags and its flowers. Bertie liked Princes Street Gardens, and had gone there once with his father, when they had climbed the hill beneath the Castle and watched the Glasgow train emerging from its tunnel beneath the gallery. He had also gone to the Gardens several times with his mother, but they had not climbed the hill. On the last occasion, she had insisted that they watch a display of Scottish country dancing at the Ross Bandstand.
“Why do people dance?” he had asked his mother.
“It’s a form of deflection of the sexual impulse,” explained Irene.
“Even at the Ross Bandstand?” asked Bertie.
Irene laughed. “Oh my goodness no, Bertie! Scottish country dancing is not like that at all. It’s an expression of bourgeois obsession with time and order. That’s what’s going on there. Look at it! Absurd!”
Bertie looked at the dancers, who appeared to be enjoying themselves greatly. He did not understand why they should be absurd. “But aren’t we bourgeois, Mummy?” asked Bertie.
Irene laughed. “Most certainly not,” she said.
The journey to the Queen’s Hall passed largely in silence, or at least on Bertie’s part. Irene had various bits of advice for him, though, including tips on how to present himself at the audition.
“Don’t feel nervous,” she said.
“Remind yourself that there are not only strangers there–I’ll be sitting there, too! Keep that in mind, Bertie.”
Bertie reeled
under the fresh blow. He had been hoping that his mother would wait outside. Now she was coming in! And that, he realised, would make his plan much more difficult to put into effect.
39. Bertie’s Agony
The Queen’s Hall was thronged that morning with a large crowd of ambitious parents and children. Bertie followed his mother down the corridor that led to the coffee room and bar at the end. He was aware of the fact that there were many people about, but he hardly dared look up to see who they were. His eyes were fixed on the floor, hoping to locate the geological flaw which would swallow him up and save him from his current embarrassment. But of course there was none; at no time is the earth more firm than when we wish that it were not.
Irene cast her eye about the room like a combatant assessing the field before joining the fray. Such gatherings held no terrors for her; this was the opposition of course, the other parents, but she knew that she had little to fear from any of them. In fact, she felt slightly sorry for them as she surveyed their offspring; that bespectacled teenage boy in the corner of the room, for example, standing with his mother–what an unhealthy specimen, with his sallow complexion and his jeans with holes in the knees. Irene knew how expensive such jeans could be. That boy, she thought, is a fashion victim and that mother of his does nothing to prevent it. Sad.
Her gaze moved on to the rather prim young girl seated at one of the tables, her oboe case balanced on her knee and her mother proudly sitting opposite her. Such a consummately middle-class pair, thought Irene: the daughter at St Margaret’s, perhaps; the father–at the office, probably–a lawyer of some sort; their Volvo parked somewhere on the edge of the Meadows. Irene stopped. She had a Volvo, too, of course, or used to have one. Let those without Volvos make the first social judgment, she told herself, and smiled at her wit.
“You can sit down here, Bertie,” she said, pointing to a chair beside one of the tables. “I shall go and get some coffee. But I won’t get you a cup, Bertie, as we don’t want you wanting to rush off to the little boys’ room for a tinkle in the middle of the audition, do we?” Bertie felt his heart stop with embarrassment. It was bad enough for his mother to say such things in any circumstances, but for her to say it here, in the middle of the Queen’s Hall, with the eyes of the world upon him, was horror itself. His face burning red, he looked about him quickly. A girl at a neighbouring table had clearly heard, and was giggling and whispering to her friend. And there, on the other side of their very table, was a boy who had also heard and was now staring at him.