A matter of time

The clock had stopped and my father was frantic.
The old Kienzle had kept time in our house, chiming every quarter hour, day and night for as long as I can remember. Every Sunday, after his bath and morning prayers, my father will raise himself on a chair to wind the clock; once every year, he will wrap the clock in old rags, put it in an old suitcase and take it to the watch repairer in town to have it serviced. Now my father was holding it as if it were a baby. He was trying to wind it to make it move again but the springs were fully wound and the clock still refused to tick. My father stood the clock on the table and opened the cabinet door to reach the pendulum to try nudging it to move. Nothing happened. He closed the glass door with a sigh.

‘It has been with us for more than forty years and never once did it stop. And now when it is important I know the time …,’ he could not finish what he was about to say.

A few feet away, in the downstairs’ room reserved for guests, my mother lay quarantined, waiting for the birth of her youngest child. Last night the midwife arrived riding a bicycle with smoke trailing from a cheroot held fast between her teeth. She rode with the handle bar raised, sitting erect on the bicycle seat, moving only her legs to push the pedals. Just as the bicycle stopped, she kicked down the stand with one foot and simply walked away from the upright machine. She approached the three of us standing on the verandah of the house. My father, my aunt and I had been watching her pedaling up the long burrowed track that linked the house with the laterite road.

Dusting herself and removing the cheroot from her mouth she spoke to my father in Malay, ’Saya Flores’. I am Flores.

’I am here to deliver the new person. Am I speaking to the father of the new person?’

My father told her that he was indeed the father and thanked her for coming to help with his wife's delivery. ‘I know you live a long way away and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for making the effort to help us.’

'Then I must also tell you Master of the House, that there is a war that is coming this way. Bad times are here, for how long I don’t know. This morning I saw many military trucks on the road, all going south. But that was in the morning. In the afternoon, there were no more vehicles on main road. Not even a car. Empty; only Flores on her bicycle. People say that the Japanese are already in Slim River, fighting the British. Flores saw two of them the other day and they were not good people. We are seeing bad times in this country'.

My father invited her into the house and told her she should rest for a while before doing anything.

’The Master of the House is right. Flores is tired. It is a long ride from her home and the empty roads made the journey seem even longer. Flores will sit on this chair here for a while if no one minds’.

My aunt had run into the kitchen to get her a glass of water which she now placed beside the reclining chair on which Flores sat.

’Can I get you some tea, something to eat?’ my aunt asked.

’Flores has brought her own food’ she said, pointing to a small round bundle that was wrapped with a piece of colourful cloth.

’Flores eats late. As for more water, Flores will not say no’.

When she had rested, the cheroot was back in her mouth. The thick white fumes rose from her as if she was on fire but she sat with the most placid look on her face, indifferent to everything, including the smoke.

My aunt was completely awed by the midwife. She said nothing until my father had shown her into my mother's room. As soon as the door to the room was shut, my aunt whispered to me, 'Did you see that woman? She may have come on a bicycle but she could have been the Governor's wife. So regal, so tall and so slender. Did you see her clothes, the sarong and kebaya she is wearing? They look so grand on her, almost as if they were sewn on her'. As she said this, my aunt ran her hands over her body as if to tighten her own dress.

Rani, my aunt has a pretty face, but she is chubby and not very tall. She is always looking at the mirror and saying how good she would look if she were only a little thinner.

'But she is old', I said.

'Old? Old? Hum! What do you know about these things? She must be a queen from somewhere who married a commoner and that is why she has to be a midwife and ride a bicycle. Look how well she is dressed and how neatly she has groomed her hair. And did you see how the three pins stuck out of her bun?' giggled my aunt, covering her mouth with her hand.
Flores had her hair tied into a bun that angled upward at the back of her head. Three long pins, as long as knitting needles, embellished with wire-spun flowers pierced the bun holding it together. My aunt was also fascinated by Flores’ cheroots and the way she smoked them.
‘You know I can’t stand anyone smoking, not just women, but the way she held the horrible things in her mouth …’ my aunt was lost for words. ‘It looked so natural that she smoked,’ she completed.

We did not see Flores for the rest of the night after she was shown into my mother's room. The arrangement was that the midwife will share the room with my mother until the baby was born and my mother had recovered from the delivery. In the days Flores was with us, she stayed most of the time in the room with my mother. She sat with us at mealtimes but was wary of what she ate and she ate meagerly. We knew that Flores was in my mother’s room by the cheroot she left on an ashtray fashioned out of an old milk tin that she kept by the door to the room. Although we did not see her for the rest of that first night we knew she was up and about from the fresh smell of cheroot that now and then wafted upstairs into our bedrooms during the night.

Now she stood waiting, cheroot back in her mouth to speak to my father who was still trying to revive the clock.

‘You want something?’ My father asked.

‘Yes, she said, ‘Flores needs a few things but Flores also wants to say something’.

‘Yes?’

‘Flores wishes to inform the Master of the House that the new person will arrive in about two hours, may be earlier’.

‘Is everything alright? Do you see any difficulties?’

‘Everything is fine and God is with us. The infant is well placed to make the final journey into the world and Flores will guide him safely.’
‘What are the things you need? I have kept all the things you will need in the room on the trolley that is there.’

My father was the dresser in the rubber plantation we lived. Several days earlier he had wheeled in a stainless steel trolley borrowed from the estate hospital into the guest room. He then unpacked on to the trolley instruments pans and trays whose purpose was a mystery to me. I was fourteen and childbirth will remain a mystery for a long time yet.

‘Flores needs just a few more things. A small blanket for the new person is important. I need the blanket as a wrap. Flores also needs a tray to burn incense when the time for birth is near. An earthen one is best. I also need a large kettle of hot water that has been boiled. But Flores cannot leave the room, so the Master of the House will have to bear the kettle into the room when the time comes.’

‘I will get you the things you want and bring in the hot water when it is needed. Do you need anything else?’

‘No, Flores found all the other things she needs.’
Just as she was about to leave, my father raised his hands to stop her.

‘Madam, may I ask you something?’
Flores stood where she was and removed the cheroot from her mouth.

‘Yes?’ She said puzzled.

‘Do you have a clock or a watch with you?’ my father asked.

Flores looked at the clock standing on the table.
‘Ha, Master of the House, you may well ask if Flores has a watch. Yes by the will of God, Flores has a watch. Good watch. Gold, leather strap. Very pretty. Flores’ husband got it as a present. Husband gave it to Flores. Flores hung watch on chain.’ With her hand she marked the circle around her neck. There was neither chain nor watch round her neck.

My father’s confusion was clearly seen on his face.

‘Where is the watch now Flores?’ he asked.

‘Where it is now I can't tell you because Flores has no idea where the watch is’.

‘Did you lose it?’

‘No, the watch was very precious to Flores. It was a present from husband. Flores took much care with the watch. Flores did not lose it. If you lose something you are careless. Nothing is lost if you care for it.’ She sighed, ‘Not lose.’ Another sigh, ‘Not sell’.

‘What happened to the watch then?’

‘I placed the watch in my bag, wrapped in a fine silk cloth so that it won't scratch.’

‘Is the watch in your bag?’

‘I don't know. The soldiers took my bag.’

‘Your bag was stolen?’

‘No, the soldiers say, “Hey woman give us the bag” and they pulled it away from me.’
My father could not say anything but turned again to the clock standing on the table; then lifting it gently, he stood on a chair to carefully hook it on the wall from where it was taken.

I could not understand my father’s agitation. Why was a clock so important at this time, I asked.

‘When the baby is born, I must get the exact time of birth’, he replied, still distracted and looking at the clock. ‘Otherwise the birth chart and the horoscope will not be accurate. Everything will go wrong, even choosing the name for the child. I must get the exact time of delivery.’

There was a phone in the house that was connected to the hospital in the estate. My father tried to crank the phone to call someone from the estate office but without success.

My father tried to phone the estate to get someone from there to bring a small clock or watch but again the line did not connect. The invasion had already begun to create chaos with the telephone lines.

Our house some distance away from the centre of the estate where all the staff quarters, the office and the factory were located. My father, when he joined the estate as the dresser in the estate hospital, chose a house that was located in an isolated part of the estate. He was attracted to the land around the house that gave him the space to raise poultry and plant his vegetables and fruit trees.

When the war came and the news reached us of the Japanese army landing in Southern Thailand and a few months later of the sinking of the two great British warships in the east coast of the peninsula, my father decided that it would be far safer to move into the community of the estate and the safety it provided. But there were no houses vacant and that decision had to be postponed until a house fell vacant.

My mother’s pregnancy had been another matter on my father’s mind in the past few months. He had planned on delivering my mother at the estate hospital where the visiting doctor had promised to attend personally to the delivery when the time arrived. Those decisions and solutions made months ago changed with the news of the Japanese invasion of the peninsula. With the sinking of the Repulse and the Prince of Wales, the north eastern part of the country that bordered with Thailand became completely vulnerable to a landing by the Japanese army which had so far not seen any real impediment to its advance into the region. The invaders were now already half way down the peninsula facing little resistance from a retreating British army that had all along reckoned the invasion to come from the south through their main fortress in the region – Singapore. Many people living in towns on the path of the invasion left for the safety of villages or simply left the country. The visiting doctor who was to have attended to my mother managed to secure a ticket on a ship that sailed to India and left the country without informing anyone.

With the visiting doctor gone, my father’s only solution was to have a midwife move into the house and attend to my mother when her fourth child arrived. The guest room downstairs was cleared for that purpose and all of us were told to sleep in one of the upstairs room far from the room reserved for the delivery. Flores’ arrival was a great relief to my father. Last night I heard him assuring my mother and aunt that there was nothing to worry about, that everything was going to plan.
Now, standing beside me, beneath the unmoving clock, my father’s anxieties had taken a new turn.

‘I need a clock or a watch to record the time of birth. The only place I’ll find one now is from someone in the estate quarters. You should be able to get a watch or an alarm clock from one of the staff. I’d cycle there myself, but your mother’s gone into labour and I have to be here to help the Flores. Son, do you know what I am saying?’ He looked at me to see if I understood.

‘Father, I can cycle there and get the clock for you. I have done it many times. You stay with mother.’

‘You must be very careful’, my father said gripping my hand. ‘You heard what Flores said. The Japanese army may be on the main road’.

‘I’ll be careful.’

‘No, listen to me. You must not cross the main road if you see any vehicles passing on it. You know you can see the main road from the bridge that crosses the small stream. Wait there on the bridge for a while to see if the road is clear. If you see any trucks or anything that looks like a military vehicle, turn back. You understand, you must not go to the main road if you are not sure. When you have found a clock ask the conductor to have someone drive you back on a lorry.’

‘I’ll be careful’, I said. ‘I’ll do as you say. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time.’

I got on to my bicycle and paddled as fast as I could on the laterite road towards the estate quarters. It would take about 10 minutes to the main road and another ten minutes on the estate road that branched off the main road to the quarters. My father estimated I should be back in about 40 minutes which should be enough time to have the clock ready for the birth. If there was a lorry that could bring me back, it would be even faster.

I stopped at the bridge as my father had instructed, but there were no signs of anything moving on the main road. I waited a moment and sped down to the intersection and crossed it in a flash. I was too scared to look down on either side of the main road but heard no sounds of any vehicles.

When I reached the estate quarters I had no difficulty in securing the loan of a small clock. I asked the conductor about a lorry but he said that both lorries that belonged to the estate had departed late last night for the railway station in Kuala Lumpur with the manager’s belongings.
I took the smallest clock that was offered and placed it inside my shirt and got on to my bicycle again, paddling as fast as the laterite road would permit. There is a gentle incline towards the main road which made my journey back to the intersection with the main road easier and quicker.

Just as I reached the intersection with the main road I became aware of a strange noise that seemed to fill the estate. I stopped afraid that the noise had something to do with the Japanese army. I listened carefully to the noise.

The rubber plantation is full of noises; of exploding rubber pods, of the wind rushing through the leaves of the rubber trees, the crackling of branches, the call of birds and in the background of all those noises, the incessant, unending screech of the tireless cicadas. I know these noises, they are part of the estate and I hear them every day. What I was hearing was not those familiar sounds but something that covered all the other noises. It was like the noise of rain sweeping across the canopy of the rubber trees except that it was a sunny day with no sign of rain. The noise I heard was more mechanical; something that came out of an engine or a machine. Remembering what my father had said, I thought it was the sound of a vehicle on the main road, I waited some distance away from where the laterite met the tarred main road for whatever it was that was approaching to pass. Nothing came on the highway but the sound was still there and approaching; not receding. The noise continued but no vehicle appeared from either side of the main road. Because the intersection was on a slight bend on the road, you saw only a few yards of the main road as you came upon it on the laterite road. The rest of the road was hidden by the rubber trees that were planted to the edge of the road on both sides.

I stayed put where I was, afraid to cross the main road to the laterite road on the other side because the noise was getting louder. I strained to see beyond the bend but there was no noise or sight of any vehicles on either side, just that unidentifiable sound that appeared to be getting louder.

Then, just as I gathered enough courage to cross the main road into the estate road on the other side, they came upon me, over a hundred men on bicycles. They appeared altogether on the bend in the road like a large vehicle with many wheels. Each man had on a green uniform, a soft cloth cap of the same colour and a long rifle slung across his back. One or two of the men wore helmets instead of caps with leaves stuck on them. They chattered loudly to be heard over the ticking noise of the bicycles. Most of the men rode one man to a bicycle, but on some machines there were two, the second sitting on the cross bar in front of the rider or at the back, on the carrier with legs splayed to avoid hitting the road. They were not travelling fast but as they were synchronized by their speed as birds flying in a flock, they were unable to stop when they saw me. Instead, they cycled on past the intersection then slowed down gradually, one by one and swerved back to where I stood. The chattering continued and did not stop as some dismounted to stretch themselves whilst others remained on their bicycles. They could see how terrified I was and this amused them. They were not hostile or as disorderly as they appeared to be; some of them with their rifles in hand had taken up positions of vigilance circling the others.

One of them, who appeared to be the leader, ambled up to me, removing his wet cap to wipe his brow. It was a hot day and they were all sweating. The man who approached me was looking at me but I could see his wariness to the surrounding, especially to the laterite road behind me.

‘You boy, you Hindu?’

‘Yes.’

‘You speak Inggeris?’

'Yes'

‘This red road, where this road go?

‘To the factory’, I stammered.

‘Factory? How far?’

I was too nervous to guess the distance, so I just pointed in the direction I had come from.

‘Where you go?’

‘Home’, I said pointing across the road to where the laterite road started.

‘What do you home?’

‘There’, I said, pointing again in the direction of where our house was.

‘Not where boy. What do you home?’

I could not understand his question so I blinked in confusion. I was still terrified at the sight of so many soldiers all lining up as an audience to the interrogation. I just blinked.

‘Why boy you make eyes like this?’ he said blinking his own eyes.

Someone was obviously translating what was being said because they all laughed.

I think it was their laughter, but for a moment I realized that the fear had saturated in me and they could not frighten me anymore.

‘I don’t know what you are saying’, I replied loudly and without any nervousness.

He caught the defiance in my tone, as did some of his comrades behind him. The language was strange but the meaning of their exclamations was universal. I stood expecting my interrogator’s retribution.

It came as a slap on my left cheek. Not hard, but not a friendly pat either. I began to cry, not because of the pain but the humiliation.

‘Stupid boy! No understand Inggeris? Why you not say? Chakap Malay’.

I wiped my eyes but said nothing.

He looked at me for a while, then patted my cheeks and said something to the others which made them laugh again.

‘I take you bicycle’, he said, grabbing the handle of my bicycle.

‘No’, I said, ‘I must go home. I have to take this to my father’, I said placing my hand on the clock inside my shirt.

It was a foolish thing to have done because he now noticed the clock hidden in my shirt. He pulled out my shirt and grabbed the clock. ‘You steal this?’

Before I could answer, he turned round and tossed the clock to one his men and said something which made them all bend with laughter. The man caught the clock and stuffed it in his satchel that was strapped on the crossbar of his bike.

‘No’ I said. ‘Please don’t take the clock. My mother is about to have baby, I need the clock. Please’. No one listened because they were all still laughing.

‘You liar boy’ the soldier in front of me said. ‘You steal clock. I take you bike’, and he pushed me away, grabbing my bicycle. He then shouted an order which made one of the pair that was sharing a bicycle to come forward. The soldier pushed me gently away and took my bicycle, grinning meekly and mouthing some word that I could not make out. I was surprised at how young he was. He gave me a slight salute before riding to his mates on my bicycle. Another order was shouted and they all took off in the way they were originally headed.

As the group departed round the bend, one of them looked back and seeing me standing there next to the broken bike, rode back to me. He took out a small cloth bundle from the bag that was strapped to the back of his bicycle and held it out to me. I thought it was some form of food offered as a token in consolation for what they did. I looked at it but refused to take it. He smiled, grunted, said something that I did not understand and walked up to me from his bicycle; then lifting up my shirt he thrust the bundle against my body as I had done with the clock. As he paddled off, he looked back briefly, gave a salute and said something that sounded like “Marama Gandhi”’.

Sobbing, I ran all the way back to the house, hurt, humiliated and bitterly disappointed that I could not complete the simple task that was given by my father. My father who had been waiting for me on the verandah ran up the road to meet me. I was still panting and sobbing and unable to say anything when I fell into his arms. My father just held me close to him and partly carrying partly dragging, took me to the house and sat me on the chair on the verandah. My aunt brought me a glass of water.

A long time must have passed on the verandah before I was able to speak and tell the others about how I had lost the bicycle and the clock. My father kept saying it was all his fault, that he should have known better than to risk my life.

‘Where are all those people now? Are they at the main road?’

‘No, they pedalled away after taking my bicycle.’ It was then that I remembered the bundle under my shirt. My father took it and was prepared to throw it away, when my aunt implored him to see what it was. My father tossed it to my aunt, ‘You open it. I don’t wish to touch anything from those pigs.’
My aunt unknotted the bundle. Inside, wrapped with several more layers of cloth was a package wrapped in a page of a Japanese newspaper. Inside that wrapping in a slim box was a watch with leather straps. My aunt grabbed the watch and showed it my father. ‘It is ticking’, she said, ‘look the second hand is moving’.

From inside the house we heard the cry of a baby. The first cry of my brother.