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they turn on the whites. They will, you know, quite soon. Presently they hate each other more than they hate Europeans, but it will take just one excuse for them to begin a general massacre. We’ll all go, then. Technically, you see, the sisters and myself are regarded as Europeans.”
    “And you’re prepared to stay until that happens?”
    “Should I go back to Ceylon and care for our Japanese conquerors?”
    “You could go to Australia or even England. There must be need of doctors everywhere.”
    “I should have made it plain.” Hira opened the door for me. “I have a couple of principles. One of them is that I refuse to work for Europeans. It’s the reason I came to Rowe Island in the first place. Until the evacuation this hospital was for coloured people only, Mr. Bastable.”
    As I left the hospital I adjusted my hat and paused to watch the dhow easing its way past the wreck of the steamer. Every inch of its deck was covered with brown-skinned men, women and children. It brought back the terrible image of the doomed hospital ship and I could hardly bear to think what would become of them all. Slowly I started to walk along the weed-grown quay, beside deserted hotels, offices and warehouses outside which were parked the useless cars, lorries and buses.
    A few disconsolate Malays were dragging their bundles back down the jetty, having failed to squeeze themselves aboard the boat. The lucky ones, I thought.
    I reached a corner and turned into a narrow, silent side street lined with grey-and-brown featureless workers’ houses and a few boarded-up shops. The street rose quite steeply and I realized how weak I still was, for I had to labour the last few paces until I reached a small square dominated by a battered statue of Edward VIII which somewhat incongruously decorated a dried-up ornamental fountain. The concrete bowl of the fountain was full of empty bottles, torn newspapers and other, less savoury, refuse. There were a few Chinese children playing around it while their mothers sat blank-faced in their doorways, staring into space. Gratefully, I sat on the edge of the fountain’s bowl, ignoring the smell which came from it and smiling at the undernourished children. They at once stopped playing and looked warily up at me.
    “Tso sun ,” I said gravely, using Cantonese. “Good morning.”
    Not one of them replied. A bit nonplussed, I wished I had something to offer them. Some sweets, perhaps, for money was worthless on Rowe Island.
    I removed my hat and wiped my forehead. It was growing very hot and I had become wary of the sun. I had better get on to the hotel while I could.
    Then I heard the sound of hoof beats and turned in astonishment to see a rider enter the square. He looked distinctly out of place as he sat stiff-backed and arrogant in the saddle of his well-groomed cob. A tall, fair-haired Englishman of about thirty, he wore a gleaming white coat and jodhpurs with his military insignia on the jacket. His boots, belt, shoulder strap and holster were as highly polished as the badge on his solar topee. He saw me at once, but pretended that he hadn’t. He stroked his blond moustache with his baton and brought his horse to a halt on the other side of the square.
    I looked around at the empty, silent windows, wondering what he could be doing here.
    “Get these children out of the way, sergeant!” His voice was sharp, commanding.
    At this order six crisply turned-out little Ghoorkas led by a sergeant emerged from another side street and waved the children back with their rifles. Their bayonets were fixed. They wore dark green uniforms with scarlet facings and they had their long, curved knives at their belts. The women needed no warnings but dragged the children inside and slammed their doors. Now I was the only civilian in the square.
    “What’s going on here, lieutenant?” I asked.
    The lieutenant turned cold, blue eyes on me. “I would suggest, sir, that you get away from here at once. It’s a