A week later, after quite a traipse through some stiff country, he was told ‘tomorrow is your turn. We believe that you should get to the labour lines after work has finished, say by 4 o’clock. Be with them till six and, excusing yourself in the twilight, you will be picked up and escorted back to us. You will change into plain clothes, oh yes, we have a spare set handy, before you approach the lines. We will give you a piece of the deer we caught to throw at any barking dogs.’
‘Yes, I will put my thoughts together and hope for success. What is the estate’s name?’
‘Lavender Estate.’
Unseen by his Chinese comrades, he wrote a note to Ismail Mubarak, c/o his father, the comprador, as the chief on an Indian labour estate, which he would drop inconspicuously and hope it would find its way back to Seremban.
He was guided to the labourers’ quarters and told that his escort would be waiting for him at the jungle edge. ‘We expect you not to be more than an hour,’ he was told.
When Vinod Vellu lived with his parents he never visited the lines so the labourers were initially underwhelmed at seeing a stranger but, on giving a ‘red salute’ with one arm and fingers to the lips with the other, the atmosphere quickly changed. Beckoning them to close round him, he told them that he had heard they had grievances and, if these were not met, ‘I will bring the comrades to persuade’ – said with irony – ‘the manager to attend to them. They are also relying on you to supply them with some rice. If you can they can guarantee their support.’
Well within the hour they had told him they wanted better quarters, more pay and better rations, otherwise they would go on strike. ‘The comrades will accept that, I know,’ he told them encouragingly. ‘I will return after reporting to the comrades how to set about your demands.’ Once outside their lines he unobtrusively dropped his message, met his escort and they went back to base slowly, blessing an old timber track to help them.
The next morning a meeting was called. Vinod Vellu addressed them: ‘That was an excellent idea of yours. I had a really satisfactory talk with the labour force. They were so keen on what I said they told me they would discuss the idea among themselves and let me know their answer.’
‘What is their idea?’ he was asked.
‘Their spokesman’s tentative plan is to tell the manager that if he did not double their pay, they would walk out and leave him. I said that if they could get rice for you that would guarantee your support. Once that is confirmed, all that is needed is a date for their coup, as they called it.’
The reaction was better than he had anticipated. He was warmly congratulated. ‘We will discuss this in detail and, once our firm date has been decided, escort you back to Lavender Estate so you can fix it up that end’.
The comprador was an astute man. Tall, with thinning hair, he had been an athlete when young and although now in his fifties, he was alert and adept as any man half his age. He had been on that rubber estate for many years and was on good terms with the European manager, a Mr Evan Jones, an ex-officer of the wartime Indian Army, who, most unusually, was fluent in Tamil. Not far from being pensioned, he felt that by keeping in the manager’s good graces, it could only redound in his favour. From his separate quarter he had sensed, rather than heard, an unusual amount of conversation the evening before, almost as though someone – but who could it be? – was giving a lecture. He had slipped on his flip-flops and quietly, quietly gone over to where he heard a voice that sounded like his son’s and, peering through one of the slats of a window frame, saw it was he. My son! Can he be in this for real or is he trying to get his own back? He felt it was the latter but … He nearly called out to ask him who he was but decided against it. After a while, being bitten by mosquitoes for almost as long as he could bear and not hearing any noise or hint of discontent, he had slipped back to his quarter. He rehearsed the main points he had heard, rather disturbingly anti-British and pro-Communist.
‘What was all that about?’ his wife asked him. ‘You don’t often bother to go and listen to the coolies’ claptrap.’ Being the comprador’s wife, she knew she was superior.
He didn’t answer her but quietened her down by snuggling up to her. However, both were beyond their prime and the warm night would make them sweaty, so, separated, they went to sleep, unexercised.
Next morning the comprador casually wandered around the block where his son had been and saw a piece of paper on the ground. Normally he didn’t bother to pick up any dropped piece of paper but this time he did. It was a cheap envelope and the address on it read, Mr Ismail Mubarak, c/o the Comprador, Lavender Estate, Police HQ, Seremban. That really intrigued him. He recognised his son’s writing. He had heard of a ‘Moby’ but had never met him. Momentarily he was tempted to open the envelope but prudence won: I’ll give it to the manager when I go to the office and make my report. Let him do any skulduggery if he wants to. I’ll keep quiet about who wrote it.
And so, later on in the morning, he went to the manager’s office and told him what he had learnt the previous night, what he had found earlier on. ‘Sir, here is the envelope I picked up,’ and he handed the cheap-looking envelope over and waited to be questioned.
‘Can you give me a description of the man giving the lecture and what was he talking about?’ Mr Jones, a tall, gaunt man, asked him.
The comprador told him as much as he thought was prudent, was thanked and dismissed. The manager had been in the Intelligence Department during the war and ‘knew’ such things happened although this was the first time he had come across such a case during the Emergency. He thought it over: either the letter was meant for ‘posting’ and the stranger’s visit was the way he wanted it posted or, perhaps, it was dropped by mistake. Probably the former, otherwise why the address on the outside? He reached for his phone book and looked up the number of Seremban Police HQ.
The exchange answered, ‘Police HQ, Seremban speaking. Can I help you?’ in Malay.
The manager also spoke Malay but he chose to speak in English. ‘I am Mr Jones, the manager of Lavender Estate. May I speak to Mr Ismail Mubarak please?’
‘Hold on, sir, I’ll put you through.’ The Malay exchange operator’s tone was good.
A ringing tone was heard and ‘Ismail Mubarak speaking. Can I help you?’
The manager introduced himself first and said, ‘Can I come and see you about something that I can’t talk to you about on the phone?’
‘Sounds exciting. Yes, any time. Come to Police HQ and we can go into a huddle over a beer in my quarter.’ Although a Moslem, Moby felt he would be forgiven taking alcohol in the line of duty.
Later that same day Evan Jones met Moby in his office and they introduced themselves. ‘Come into our visitors’ room. Beer or tea?’
‘Beer, my syce is driving.’
Moby gave his orders and they talked about nothing in particular till ‘Cheers and what can I do for you?’
Moby asked.
Evan Jones took the letter out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘I’ll tell you what my comprador told me,’ – and, to Moby’s intense interest, the story came out – ‘… and this morning, this is what he gave to me,’ he said as he handed the envelope over. Moby took it and Jones noticed that he did not open it to read it.
‘I thank you warmly,’ Moby said. ‘I can’t give you any details, I’m afraid …’
‘Don’t worry, old boy, I was in Int during the war,’ he answered, a touch patronisingly.
‘… but what I must ask is, is there any bodily description of the man who left the letter behind when he left and also what he was talking about?’
Evan Jones came into his own and told Moby as much as he knew. Moby lapped it up. It has to be my Dover, just has to be, he inwardly chortled.
After finishing their beer the manager was once more thanked. Moby took a gamble. ‘Mr Jones, as a responsible army officer …’
‘Ex-army, please. I’m a civvy now.’
Moby, versed in British secret necessities, said, ‘Mr Jones, you signed the Official Secrets Act, surely?’
‘But of course I did. Most essential it was, I can tell you.’
‘Have you unsigned it?’
Jones did a ‘double take’ and suddenly realised that Moby was being dead serious. ‘Please elucidate.’
‘I ask you to do two things for me, for Malaya, for everyone who is against Communism. Are you prepared for that?’
