by Clare Flynn
‘That’s not true!’ Jasmine was indignant. ‘I know Mummy was terribly unhappy in London when she found Arthur again and he left her standing in the street. She cried all the way home on the train. Hugh was asleep and I pretended not to notice. But she was really sad.’
Mary sighed. ‘You’re right. I was unhappy too after Reggie and I first got together. But once we were honest about our feelings for each other it was inconceivable we could ever be apart from each other. I think that’s the case for your mother too.’
‘Well that’s how I feel about Bintang.’
Mary gulped, then smiled and reached for Jasmine’s hand. ‘And if he feels that way about you too, he will come back. If he truly loves you, he can’t possibly want to cause you pain.’
‘You don’t think he does?’ Jasmine wasn’t sure whether to be angry at Mary or feel sorry for herself.
Mary looked at Jasmine, her expression compassionate. ‘I am going to be completely honest. I’m not going to patronise you. I hope Bintang does love you. It’s no more than you deserve. I find it hard to imagine how anyone who knows you wouldn’t love you.’ She paused and took a breath. ‘But is Bintang the man you are going to love more than anyone else and spend your life with? I have to say I don’t believe he is. You won’t want to hear that, but eventually you’ll acknowledge it’s true.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘Of course, that’s no comfort whatsoever right now. I am truly sorry, my darling.’
* * *
Mary didn’t wait for Reggie to come in for tiffin. As soon as Jasmine had calmed herself, Mary left the bungalow and went to the estate office to find him.
‘We have a problem.’ Mary told her husband everything Jasmine had revealed about Ellis, Bintang and the latter’s disappearance. She avoided revealing the depth of Jasmine’s feelings for the driver. One step at a time.
‘Let me get this straight. You’re saying old Bintang’s run off to join the commies?’
‘And Jasmine is blaming herself.’
‘But what on earth would make the fellow do that?’
‘Jasmine thinks Ellis has it in for him and is planning to frame him and arrest him for being min yuen.’
‘You have to be Chinese. Doesn’t that fool Ellis know the difference?’
‘Probably not. And apparently Bintang told Jasmine his father is with the communists. I had no idea but apparently he was with the MPAJA in the war and Bintang thinks he stayed with them. With Chin Peng.’
‘Bintang told you that?’ Reggie was astonished.
‘No. He told Jasmine. You remember I mentioned she’d been painting his portrait. They must have become quite close.’
‘Good grief! You’re not saying–’
‘It seems in the heat of the moment last night after what happened with Ellis, they exchanged a kiss.’
‘What the devil? He pounced on her?’ Reggie jumped up from behind his desk and began pacing up and down the small office.
‘Quite the reverse. I rather think Jasmine pounced on him. And now the poor child has convinced herself she’s head over heels in love with him.’
‘What a godawful mess, Mary. Why didn’t we see that coming? I know I’m a bit slow on the uptake but didn’t you notice anything?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Not a thing. Yes, I knew she was painting him, but I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. She painted Jinjiang too – and one of the mothers at the school.’
‘Did she ever talk about him?’
‘Never.’
Reggie sat down again and put his head in his hands. ‘I wish I’d spoken out when Evie asked us to put her up. I should have expressed my misgivings. The child’s only fifteen.’
‘She’s sixteen. Nearly seventeen. She’s a young woman. And it’s not your fault. It’s mine. You have the estate to run. I should have kept a closer eye.’
‘Damn it but I told the lad to stay with her wherever she went. If I hadn’t said that he’d never have been on the beach in the first place.’
‘It might have happened eventually anyway.’ Mary moved behind her husband and put her arms around him. ‘There must have been an attraction there.’
‘But the silly girl couldn’t possibly have thought there was a future in it. He’s a Malay and a servant to boot. She’s Doug Barrington’s daughter.’ He looked up at Mary, spinning round in the chair. ‘You’re not implying that was why, are you? That Bintang saw her as a means of improving his lot? Because I can tell you that’s not him at all. I trust the fellow implicitly.’
‘Of course I’m not. I know he’s not like that.’ She sighed then perched on the edge of the desk. Here’s what I think happened. Jasmine was swept up by her own emotions and Bintang’s plight. He responded in the heat of the moment. He is a sensible young man. He would have known there’s no future so he’s gone away. Whether it was fears about Ellis or the realisation that he’d probably overstepped the mark, he didn’t wait to find out.’
‘And you really think he’s gone to join those bastards in the jungle?’
Mary nodded.
‘It will take him hours to get into town. Probably five. Maybe if I leave now I could catch him.’
‘No point. He has a bicycle so, assuming he left some time last night, he’ll have disappeared across the Strait hours ago.’
‘Where’s Jasmine now?’
‘In her studio.’
Reggie got up. ‘Let’s go and have a word then. She might have some more details as to exactly where he was heading.’
‘I think she’d have told me if she had. She was shocked and upset he’d gone after all. She thought after their romantic interlude he couldn’t possibly leave her.’
‘The poor creature.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘She’s such a sweet little thing. I hate to think of her being disillusioned. I’d like to wring Bintang’s neck. And him being a secret commie.’ He shook his head again. ‘She’s not the only one who’s disillusioned.’
When they reached the studio there was no sign of Jasmine.
27
From the top of the hill, where she had once talked under the trees with Bintang, the kampong where his grandmother lived appeared to be quite close by, and the route down to it straightforward.
But once Jasmine started to descend the hillside, she could no longer see her destination clearly. There was no obvious footpath at all in places, as well as merging and diverging paths. The lower down she got, the hotter it became, particularly in the stretches without much tree cover and sweat poured down her back. The large bag she was carrying on her back was heavy, slowing her progress further. Her only consolation was that she had decided to leave her satchel behind. That had been an easy decision as she had no intention of sketching this morning. In fact she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to pick up a pencil or a paintbrush again.
She was smarting from what Mary had said to her. Mary’s intention was to be kind but that didn’t help at all. Jasmine didn’t want sympathy and she didn’t want someone trying to tell her that the intense feelings she had for Bintang weren’t real. Mary had implied she wasn’t properly in love.
How she hated the way grownups treated her – as though they knew everything and she knew nothing. Just because she wasn’t yet seventeen didn’t mean she was incapable of feeling real love. Juliet Capulet had been even younger and for hundreds of years people had held her and Romeo up as the ideal of true love. A lump formed in her throat. If he joined the communists it would only be a matter of time before he was dead. Or worse, responsible for the deaths of others. How could she bear to go on living?
Distraught, contemplating these horrible eventualities, Jasmine passed through a dense clump of trees and found herself in the native village. She spoke no Malay; how was she to track down Bintang’s grandmother? Would anyone here speak English? They were all presumably uneducated subsistence farmers she imagined. Yet Bintang and Siti had been well educated. His English was good – she suspected he pretended it was more broken than it really was.
> Several people appeared in open doorways and stared at her in surprise, some smiling, but most looking concerned. It must be unusual, to say the least, for an unaccompanied young white woman to come crashing out of the forest. Some small children ran up and surrounded her, chattering away incomprehensibly. She looked about. Who could she ask? And how?
‘Bintang?’ she said, tentatively, to no one in particular. ‘Bintang grandmother?’
A young woman approached. She was wearing a head covering and had enormous, beautiful eyes. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come with me. I take you.’
Relieved, Jasmine followed the woman between the rows of wooden attap-roofed huts. They reached one at the edge of the settlement, next to open fields.
‘This is place.’ The young woman smiled, before turning and walking away.
Nervously, Jasmine called out a greeting at the open doorway. ‘Hello!’ She had no idea how she should address Bintang’s grandmother. He had never mentioned her name.
A diminutive old woman, wearing a black baju kurung, her head covered by a black scarf, her face lined and wrinkled, emerged from the door of the hut.
‘Bintang Grandmother?’
The woman said nothing, frowning.
‘Is Bintang here?’
‘Bintang gone.’ She turned to walk back inside the hut.
‘Wait please. I am his friend. My name is Jasmine. I’ve brought something for you.’ She jerked the heavy bag off her shoulder and pulled out the portrait of Bintang. ‘I painted this for him to give to you. A gift from him. It’s not quite finished–’
Her voice stumbled at the thought that it would never be finished now. She held it up, resting the top under her chin. It was unframed but then she didn’t imagine there was anywhere for the old lady to hang it, as the interior of the hut would be dark. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Then she remembered how the prospect of giving this painting to his grandmother had caused Bintang to agree to sit for her in the first place.
The old woman stepped forward and took the picture from Jasmine. She propped it against the outside of the hut and stepped back to inspect it.
Jasmine waited nervously for her reaction. As she studied the picture now, the sunlight falling across it, she acknowledged to herself that she had captured the essence of him. She choked back incipient tears.
‘Bintang,’ said the woman at last. She turned to face Jasmine, joined her hands together and bowed her head in thanks.
‘There’s something else.’ Jasmine reached inside the bag and carefully drew out the heavy piece of hardwood. It was intricately decorated with shells, dried fruits, spices and casuarina cones, which she had varnished and stuck to the wood. At the top she had painted the name, Siti. She had planned to do it in Malay characters but had not had the chance to ask what they were and had hastily added the name this morning. ‘Siti was at school with me. I was sad there is no marker for her grave.’
‘You put flowers there?’
‘Yes. That was me.’
The old lady said nothing. Perhaps she didn’t like the marker – or that it might be inappropriate to her faith or custom. Wishing she had been able to show it to Bintang, Jasmine regretted the decision to bring it today.
She was about to put it back in the bag, when the woman said, ‘Come.’ She started to walk along a path at the edge of the adjoining field. Jasmine could see the clump of trees where Siti was buried on the far side.
Together they made a hole, using their hands and some stout sticks. The ground was damp from overnight rain and the earth easily handled. They inserted the memorial and filled in the soil around the base, then stood back to see how it looked.
The grandmother smiled and closed her eyes. ‘I thank you, Missee. You kind lady. Now Siti has good grave. Siti with Allah and she smile today.’
‘Oh, I hope so.’
‘Come. I give you fruit and water.’
Realising she was parched with thirst after her long hot walk and their exertions erecting the grave post, Jasmine nodded gratefully.
They sat on low wooden chairs under a tree close to the hut and Jasmine drank the water and ate sweet and refreshing strips of mango. She imagined Bintang sitting here beside his beloved grandmother and felt close to him.
‘Do you know where he is?’ she asked. ‘Where Bintang has gone.’
Knowing it was futile didn’t stop her hoping that the old woman would tell her he was here in the kampong.
‘Gone to jungle. He go to my son.’
‘Bintang’s father is still alive? He didn’t die in the war? Have you seen him?’
‘After Japanese war he visit. But not come back for long time. Not since war against British begin. Too much danger.’
‘Does Bintang know where he is?’ She bit her lip, wanting to ask where exactly he was so she could try to find him, but the old woman would be unlikely to know and even if she did, she wouldn’t tell.
‘He find him. He know.’ The woman’s eyes welled up with tears.
Jasmine wanted to put her arms around the frail old lady but didn’t wish to cause offence. Instead she reached for her bony hand and clasped it between hers.
As she was about to confess her feelings for Bintang the sound of a motorcar cut through the quiet. Jasmine could see between the neighbouring huts that it was a jeep. A stab of terror ran through her. Ellis. In search of Bintang. Grateful he wasn’t here to be dragged away into the jeep and locked away in prison, she didn’t want Ellis to see her either. She wondered whether to run into the jungle or hide in the grandmother’s hut.
But the woman didn’t share her concern. Turning to Jasmine, she said, ‘Tuan come to find you.’
Relief surged through Jasmine as Reggie jumped out of the jeep and she heard his voice asking questions in Malay. Several people pointed in her direction. She thanked the old woman for her hospitality and said, ‘I will pray Bintang is safe.’
The woman smiled. It was the same rarely offered fleeting smile Jasmine recognised from her grandson. Then the woman went back inside her hut and shut the door.
Jasmine ran to greet Reggie. At least she wouldn’t have that steep climb back up the hillside in the midday sun.
28
Her pilgrimage to meet Bintang’s grandmother, and the acceptance and kindness of the elderly woman, had made Jasmine feel calmer. She still longed for Bintang to return and was riven with guilt at being the cause of his defection, but the near hysteria she’d suffered when she found out he had left was gone. What remained was a hollow ache, an abiding sadness and a desperate longing to be in his arms.
When she and Reggie returned from Bintang’s kampong, Mary greeted her with relief, and made no criticism of her visit there, accepting that she’d wished to pay her respects to Bintang’s grandmother.
‘When you didn’t appear for tiffin I went to look for you in the studio,’ Mary said. ‘I noticed the portrait of Bintang was missing and guessed where you might have gone.’
‘He agreed to me painting him so he could give the picture to his grandmother. It was the least I could do to let her have it. Particularly as I don’t know how long it will be until she sees him again.’ Her voice trembled and she looked away, reluctant to let the Hyde-Underwoods see her grief.
Jasmine didn’t mention the memorial marker for Siti. No one, not even Bintang had known she had made it. Now it would remain a secret between herself and Bintang’s grandmother.
Although neither Mary nor Reggie had said anything critical about her feelings for their driver, Jasmine sensed their unspoken disapproval. Mary looked at her with a sad expression and Reggie avoided looking at her at all.
Now that the exams were over and the native school was closed for a week for the end of the second term holiday, Jasmine found herself with time on her hands. Normally she would have exulted in being able to spend hours on end wandering around with her sketch pad or standing painting at her easel in the studio, but instead she spent hours lying on her bed with the shutters closed, thinking a
bout Bintang.
Her feelings for him had been so unexpected. They had crept up on her and surprised her with their sudden force. Until she had been swept up in her emotions for him, Jasmine had found the very idea of a romantic relationship with anyone distasteful. It had seemed furtive, dirty, unpleasant. But now she knew that was just what her experiences in Nairobi had made it.
Memories of seeing the mother of her Nairobi schoolfriend, Katy, cavorting around the pool with young men, had convinced her that intimacy was something crude and shameful that she herself would never want to do. The fact that there were positive examples to the contrary in her stepparents and the Hyde-Underwoods had failed to eradicate the shock of wandering back to the ladies’ changing room at the Nairobi Sports Club to collect a forgotten towel and witnessing Mrs Granville with the pool boy.
Katy’s mother had been groaning, and at first Jasmine had thought the young man was attacking her. Then hearing his grunts and seeing the rapid thrusts of his buttocks, the realisation dawned. Jasmine had been frozen to the spot, the lovers too preoccupied to see her. She’d run back outside. The near-violence and angry movements of the copulating couple had frightened her. It had been ugly, primitive, undignified, like animals. She’d never want to do that herself.
But now she found herself imagining doing it with Bintang. Not in that angry violent way, but slowly, gently, tenderly, like their kiss. Lieutenant Ellis and her own stupidity had intervened to ensure that would now never happen. She shuddered at the thought of Bintang’s face adorning wanted posters, him being dragged off, handcuffed and thrown into a prison cell, shot dead, or worst of all, captured and sentenced to death. The punishment for anyone found in possession of weapons was a mandatory death sentence. Jasmine’s fists pounded the pillows.
