A Different Sky Read Free Page A

fear against the amah ’s shoulder. The suffering Mr Ho had collapsed on the floor, his legs stuck out in front of him. Rose surveyed him anxiously as she took hold of the excited Howard. Imprisoned against his mother’s breast, her heart beating wildly in his ear, Howard watched the man weakly roll up his sleeves.
    â€˜Don’t give me trouble now, son,’ Rose hissed as Howard freed himself from her arms.
    Crouched down between the seats, Howard found himself beside a louvred ventilation panel in the side of the bus through which a narrow slice of the world was revealed. Outside, there was renewed activity after the first shots. The agitators were now surging about the police station, attempting to enter the building, all interest in the trolleybus gone. The firing of guns had succeeded only in inflaming them.
    From an upper window of the station a grey-haired Englishman leaned out and shouted an order. The constables levelled their guns once more and released their second volley of shots directly into therioting crowd. Amongst the demonstrators Howard then observed the sort of implosion that occurred when his sister, Cynthia, maliciously moved a wooden brick in one of his elaborate architectural constructions. The mob disintegrated, backing away from the police station. Several bodies pooling blood could be seen lying in the road, limbs flung out at odd angles. Torn banners and bamboo poles littered the street as the demonstrators melted away. Rose turned from the scene with a sob of relief, aware once again of Mr Ho’s struggle to breathe. Looking up, she saw that the young Indian with the red lips was also observing Mr Ho in concern.
    â€˜The uncle is needing only air,’ Raj Sherma informed her, making his way towards Rose and the sick Chinese.
    He gave a wide smile and Rose smelled the aniseed on his breath. She nodded, anxious to be rid of the invalid and the responsibility she would feel if he died. As the traumatised passengers hesitantly returned to their seats, Raj helped Mr Ho to his feet and steered him down the trolley to a vacant place. Outside, the shooting was over, the shouting had ceased and the demonstrators were already disappearing into alleys and side roads.
    As the trolley began to move again Mei Lan knelt up on her seat and stared at Howard. Although her heart was racing with shock, Rose smiled at the child and reached into her bag to find a further sweet. She gave one to the child and another to Howard and also found sweets for herself and the amah.
    â€˜Where are you going?’ she asked the girl, still unable to believe she was safely free of peril.
    â€˜I am going to Ah Siew’s kongsi fong ,’ the child announced in perfect English.
    Rose swallowed the boiled sweet in surprise. She was shocked that a well brought up child should go to a servant’s fong ; she would never let Cynthia or Howard experience the misery of such a place. By the way she was dressed the child appeared to be from the Chinese upper class, and must go to an English mission school to speak so naturally in English. Why was she not riding in a car or even a private rickshaw instead of a common trolleybus? She was a pretty child, Rose observed, but for the birthmark on her jaw and must be about seven or eight years old, a little younger than Howard. The amah continued to smile at Rose, sucking noisily on the sweet. Although she had a pleasantexpression, her weathered skin was pitted from smallpox and her teeth protruded.
    At the back of the trolley the dapper Mr Ho appeared somewhat revived. He had rolled down his shirtsleeves and re-knotted his tie and, although he still wheezed, his smile returned. The young Indian helped him on with his jacket as his stop approached.
    â€˜Uncle, I will accompany you home,’ he offered, seeing how the exertion of even standing up caused the man’s laboured breathing to return. Mr Ho turned to him gratefully.
    â€˜You are a fine young man.