‘Where you putting? Don’t you run away, man. You come to lunch. I invite you. We are having a lunch, the Police and Sir Moksa and the other Big Shots. You better come too, give me face, lah.’ And added: ‘Anyway, the makan[1] will be good. My restaurant make it, man.’ He ticked on his fingers. ‘Three kinds of curry we cook. One for Malays, one for Indians, and one for Europeans. You can have all three,’ he added generously. ‘You know my motto: Good food for good men … hahaha.’ And on these mysterious words he rushed off again.

And on the long white-draped trestle tables, under the whirring inevitability of fans sending lukewarm sprays of curry-scented air above our heads, the curries lay in white dishes swimming in their own brown-gold, red-gold, and yellow-gold juices.

Sir Moksa sat next to Mr Stallart and thought the crowd had been quite good. ‘How did you like it?’ he asked me.

‘Very much,’ I replied, ‘everyone had a wonderful time, especially Mr Bee. He was so worried about a hand-grenade being thrown.’

Sir Moksa shook his head with great seriousness. ‘It has happened.’ And went on to speak of another prominent leader who, he asserted, showed his guests a blood-stained garment kept under glass in his living-room, on a table of lacquered wood, beneath a portrait of his grandfather and a representation of Queen Victoria surrounded by her family. This garment was the result of a genuine attack upon his life, but Sir Moksa disagreed violently with the gentleman he talked about. ‘It’s a cheap political trick,’ he said, ‘showing your shirt.’

And Mr Stallart, bright red in the face, half-stifled from having accidentally eaten the Indian curry instead of the European destined one, grunted with superhuman effort: ‘Of course we’ll give you a police escort to go back to Singapore.’

Dear lovable Mr Bee, when the guests left, remained loquacious. His anxiety relieved, he was looking for more. ‘Whew, I’m glad there was no grenade,’ he said regretfully. ‘It’s all due to foresight, of course … I believe in taking all precautions well in time … Next time I’ll arrange a smaller cinema, the empty seats won’t show so much then.’

‘People aren’t really interested in independence,’ said Bob Stewart, who stopped to chat with us and wipe his streaming brow.’ If you ask me, the good honest guy over here doesn’t want to be worried with independence and elections, he just wants his rice bowl full and would be quite happy if we stayed on for ever. I think today’s show proves it.’

Mr Bee bent down to adjust his shoe, and when he lifted his head he was furious. Joviality, bustling eagerness had gone from his dull-red face.