A Painter in Penang: A Gripping Story of the Malayan Emergency

by Clare Flynn

  If she couldn’t be with Bintang, then she would be alone forever. There could be no one else for her now. For the first time since arriving in Penang, she wondered whether she ought to return to Africa. Right now, she desperately wanted to be with Mummy; to fling her arms around Evie and let herself cry her troubles out. But how could she possibly run away when the man she loved was in danger? He may not be with her but he was here in Malaya, so that was where she must be too.

  Jasmine made her mind up. She would go back to the studio. She had the sketch she’d made of Bintang at the school. That could be the basis for another painting. This time for her only. She couldn’t have him, but she must have something to help her feel close to him.

  * * *

  The invitation to Barbara Appleton’s party arrived. Jasmine racked her brains for an excuse not to accept. But she had promised Barbara, and Jasmine hated the idea of breaking a promise. Besides, it would be nice to have someone to confide in – someone her own age to tell how she was feeling.

  She mentioned the invitation to Mary who grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Jasmine. Exactly what you need. A chance to meet some other people your own age.’ She cocked her head on one side and lifted her eyes, thinking. ‘Appleton? Is she the daughter of Sir Percy? The canned fruit king?’

  ‘Gosh, I’ve no idea. Only that her family is frightfully rich. She’s going to be presented at court and she has an account at the E&O and can spend whatever she likes. She says her father spoils her.’

  ‘It must be him. Reggie, you know Sir Percy, don’t you?’

  Reggie looked up from the Straits Times. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. Sir Percy and Lady Appleton. They live in Kuala Lumpur but they have a place up here too. Can’t remember exactly where. Friends of Dorothy and Clifford Rogers. At least they were before the war.’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘Jasmine has become friendly with the daughter. And she’s been invited to a party there.’

  ‘Good show.’

  Mary frowned. ‘We still don’t have a syce to replace Bintang. We’ll need to come and collect you ourselves. I don’t like driving up and down at night. Maybe we could stay in town, Reggie? Or in Butterworth? We could drop Jasmine off then book into a hotel and drive back here in the morning.’

  Reggie grunted.

  ‘Actually, Barbara has invited me to stay. She’d like me to come on the afternoon of the party and stay until late Sunday afternoon. And she says they will send a car for me and bring me home on Sunday.’

  Mary raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, well. You’re the honoured guest. That solves that one then. Now what are you going to wear?’ With a big smile she added, ‘It must be that beautiful blue shot-silk dress. You look stunning in it, Jasmine.’

  * * *

  Sitting in the back of Sir Percy’s sleek black Rolls Royce, Jasmine felt like royalty. The driver was a turbaned Indian so there was no comparison with all the times she had been driven with her eyes on Bintang’s hair. She leaned back against the leather upholstery and tried to put all thoughts of Bintang out of her head.

  Even though she didn’t relish the prospect of a party with guests she didn’t know, Jasmine was glad to be away from Bella Vista and the constant anxiety about the man she was certain she loved. A party would be a distraction and much as she was fond of the Hyde-Underwoods, it would be a refreshing change to be with people her own age.

  The driver drove in silence and reached the car ferry just in time to board. It was a long time since she had taken the ferry across to Butterworth. The last time had been the night they fled Penang for the crowded train to Singapore to escape the advancing Japanese army. Hugh had been a baby and they travelled with Mary and her parents, and Susan Hyde-Underwood with her and Reggie’s baby son, Stanford. The details of that journey were hazy, but Jasmine remembered all too well the fear of everyone in that crowded compartment and the shock that they were having to flee their homes. It made her think again of Bintang – he and his family, like all the non-Europeans, were left behind to fend for themselves, at the mercy of the Japanese invaders.

  * * *

  The grounds of the Appletons’ grand residence, Orchard House, were encircled by barbed wire fencing, reminding Jasmine of the realities of life on the peninsula since the beginning of the Emergency – although Orchard House was close to a major thoroughfare. The Rolls Royce passed through the metal gates, operated by two armed guards, and crunched over the gravel of the long driveway. They drove almost a mile, between avenues of palm trees, until she saw the imposing white house, its porticoed frontage in the classic colonial style. Barbara Appleton was waiting on the steps as the car pulled up. She rushed over and flung her arms around Jasmine as she got out of the Rolls.

  ‘I’m so glad you were able to come early. My parents agreed not to visit the scene of the crime and they’ve stayed in KL, so we have the run of the place. I thought you and I would have some celebratory fizz by the pool then we can get our frocks on and have an early light supper before the guests arrive. There will be a buffet later and Daddy’s arranged for the chef from the Penang Club to prepare it. Had to pull a lot of strings as Saturday nights are always so popular at the PC. But Daddy always manages to get what he wants.’ She grabbed Jasmine’s hand. ‘Come on! I want to know everything you’ve been up to since we last met.’

  At the rear of the mansion, there was a large swimming pool surrounded by a paved terrace, with lawns beyond that swept away to meet a river, beyond which was the jungle. Barbara flung herself into a cushioned rattan armchair. ‘I’m so excited about tonight.’

  Another turbaned servant approached, wearing a colourful uniform. ‘Daddy used to be in India and he says they make much better servants than Malays or Chinese,’ Barbara said breezily as, without being asked, the man took a bottle from an ice bucket and poured them each a glass of champagne.

  ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’ Jasmine decided it was better to confess now.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jazz, everyone drinks. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve decided to call you Jazz.’

  ‘My stepfather sometimes does.’

  ‘What, drink?’

  Jasmine giggled. ‘No! Well yes, of course he does. But I meant he calls me Jazz.’

  Barbara looked slightly peeved as though her thunder had been stolen, but she raised her glass and chinked it against Jasmine’s. ‘Why don’t you drink?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d like it.’

  Barbara rolled her eyes. ‘You timid creature! You won’t know until you’ve tried. And I promise you’re going to love it. Bottoms up!’

  Jasmine took a tentative sip and felt the bubbles burst on her tongue and a surprisingly sweet taste in her mouth. She took another sip. For the next hour she listened as Barbara kept up her usual monologue. Today it revolved around the identities of the invited guests, none of whom meant anything to Jasmine.

  ‘I plan to have a smooch with someone tonight. Some heavy petting and maybe even go all the way.’

  She giggled and Jasmine wondered how much of her talk was bluster.

  ‘I intend to make the most of my freedom before I have to do all that debutante stuff when I get to London and be on my best behaviour until I’m engaged. Over here, no one is ever going to know. Make hay while the sun shines – that’s my motto. I have several candidates in mind. Godfrey Fairchild is top of my list – but if you take a fancy to him, I’ll let you have first dibs, darling. We absolutely have to get you a boyfriend.’

  ‘I told you before, I don’t want one.’

  ‘Nothing to stop you having a bit of fun. Most of the boys here are more than happy to keep it light-hearted. They’re not looking to find a wife yet, so you’ve no worries on that score.’

  ‘No! I mean it. I don’t want any of that.’ Jasmine was now almost at the end of what she thought must be a second glass of champagne. The turban-wearing servant had a way of topping the glass up so discreetly that she couldn’t
actually keep track of how much she had drunk. It was a relief when Barbara suggested they go upstairs to her bedroom to get ready for the party.

  Walking up the sweeping curve of the marble stairway, Jasmine felt unsteady on her feet. She told her friend she was beginning to get a headache.

  ‘Never mind, there’s plenty of time. You’re probably a bit dehydrated.’ Barbara poured a glass of iced water from a glass on a side table and handed it to Jasmine who drank it greedily and immediately felt better.

  ‘Now, let’s get to the bottom of why you don’t want a boyfriend or even a bit of a pash. Come on, Jazz, spill the beans. There’s already somebody, isn’t there?’ She flung herself dramatically onto the bed, propped herself up against the piled-up pillows and fixed her eyes on Jasmine.

  The champagne had loosened Jasmine’s tongue. It would be a relief to tell Barbara everything. ‘Yes, there is. Well, there was. But he’s gone.’ She hesitated, then decided that Barbara was unshockable. ‘It’s Bintang.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘Who on earth is Bintang? Surely not a native?’ Barbara’s eyes widened.

  Jasmine nodded. ‘Actually you’ve met him. He’s the Hyde-Underwoods’ driver.’

  Barbara clasped her hands together. ‘Good grief, girl, you’re a dark horse. I suppose I should have realised when I saw how distressed you were when that horrid little soldier arrested him. How frightfully exciting. Do you know, I’ve never tried that. Having a thing with one of the servants. It would drive Daddy absolutely nuts if I were to do it.’ She started to giggle. ‘Very tempting for that reason alone…’ She pouted. ‘But all our servants are decidedly unattractive. Unlike your handsome driver.’ She gave a long sigh. ‘So, what have you done with him? Did you, you know…?’ She gave Jasmine a salacious look.

  ‘Of course not! But that night…after we were with you…we kissed. In the car.’

  ‘The cheeky devil. How did he come to kiss you? Did you give him a good slap round the chops then melt into his arms like butter?’ Barbara clutched a hand to her breast in an exaggerated gesture.

  ‘No! It wasn’t like that at all. I kissed him.’

  Barbara clapped her hands. ‘You little devil, you, Jazz Barrington! And there was you being all coy when I suggested taking handsome French lovers in Paris. Was he shocked? Did he kiss you back?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jasmine was starting to wish she hadn’t revealed any of this.

  ‘Did you let him touch your breasts? Was it nice? Do Malays kiss the same as white boys? I bet they’re better. Was it full tongues?’

  A beautiful romantic moment was transforming into something sleazy under Barbara’s questioning. Jasmine decided to say nothing more. Why had she drunk all that champagne? It had dulled her judgement.

  ‘Awfully clever of you to choose a local, as there’s no risk of falling in love with them when they’re servants. Come on. What happened next?’

  ‘Nothing. And you’re quite wrong.’ Jasmine felt defiant. She didn’t want the love of her life described as a furtive fumble and herself as a predatory female. ‘Bintang and I are in love.’ There. It was out.

  Barbara gasped. ‘Did he tell you that? Did he actually say he’s in love with you? And what does he propose to do about it? Marry you and have you live in his poky old hut in a native village bearing a tribe of little Malayan children with him? Don’t be daft, Jasmine.’

  Tears pricked the back of Jasmine’s eyes. She took another gulp of water. Barbara had made it all sound foolish. And for the first time it occurred to her that the idea of living in a windowless hut in the kampong where his grandmother lived was nonsensical. How would she fulfil her dream of becoming a serious painter?

  ‘He could have got a different job.’ Her argument sounded feeble, even to herself. ‘He could have gone to college to get qualifications. He’s a clever man. He could have worked for the government.’ Then she remembered how he had derided her when she’d suggested that. But that was before The Kiss.

  ‘You’re talking about him in the past tense. Has he dumped you already? Or did the Hyde-Underwoods find out and send him packing?’

  ‘He had to go. He had to leave Penang. Because of Lieutenant Ellis.’ She was determined she wasn’t going to tell Barbara about his intention to join the CTs. ‘Ellis hates him because Bintang stopped him trying to kiss me. He was trying to make out Bintang was in the min yuen.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Barbara yawned, already bored.

  ‘Spies for the communists.’

  ‘Well he probably is. Look, Jazz. If you take my advice, you’ll forget all about him. He was obviously taking advantage. And why wouldn’t he, when a beautiful girl like you throws herself at him? You’re well rid of him. Imagine if he’d stuck around! You’d soon have gone off him and then you’d have had him staring at you with those big beautiful brown eyes and following you round like a lost dog.’

  ‘Bintang would never have done that. And I would never go off him. I wish I hadn’t told you.’ Jasmine wanted to get away. Out of the palatial mansion. Out of the extremely pink bedroom and back in her own one at Bella Vista. But she was stuck here with no means of getting back to Penang tonight. She would have to grin and bear it.

  The two girls changed into their outfits for the party, Jasmine wearing the blue shot silk dress and Barbara in a plunge-necked, blood red gown with voluminous underskirts that made her look as though she’d invaded a dressing-up box. She looked Jasmine up and down, eying the simple blue silk dress critically. ‘Where did you get that dress?’

  ‘In Columbo. Our ship stopped there on the way here. Do you like it?’ Jasmine did a twirl.

  ‘No, no. That simply won’t do. You look like a country bumpkin. I’m going to lend you something of mine.’ Barbara marched up to her enormous lacquered wardrobe and shuffled between the garments on the rack. Eventually she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a vivid pink satin gown and told Jasmine to try it on.

  ‘It’s not really my colour, Barbara. And it’s very bright.’ She was feeling wounded by the country bumpkin comment.

  ‘Nonsense! It’s a genuine Schiaparelli. Shocking pink is her signature colour. You’ll look wonderful. Trust me.’ She whipped the garment off its hanger and flung it on the bed. ‘Come on. Slip it on. I have the perfect lipstick to match it.’

  Beyond caring, Jasmine put on the dress and stood like a mannequin in a shop window while Barbara fiddled about, adjusting the layers of fabric and smoothing down the enormous bow that sat low on her back and from which folds of fabric cascaded down into a train. She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The bodice was sculpted over the bust and was strapless. She didn’t recognise the woman who stared back at her – a large pink lobster with an overlong tail.

  ‘Barbara, I don’t think this is me. It’s far too grown up. I can’t carry off a dress like this.’

  ‘Don’t be such a silly! You look stunning. Sophisticated. Elegant. A woman of the world!’

  ‘But I’m not any of those things.’

  ‘Well, no one will know that. Now hurry up. The guests will be here any minute.’

  * * *

  The guests all arrived in a rush, a constant stream of motorcars pulling up in front of the house to disgorge their passengers. Barbara kept a proprietorial arm through Jasmine’s, wheeling her between groups, parading her around like the winning dog at Cruft’s.

  ‘This is my wonderful new friend, Jasmine, who is quite the nicest, most lovely creature, and you’re going to absolutely adore her.’ Barbara spoke emphatically and unequivocally.

  Jasmine felt self-conscious in the shocking-pink gown. Most of the other women were dressed to the nines, but her blue shot-silk would have not been as out of place as this over-elaborate construction. She kept glancing down nervously, terrified that the bodice might be gaping and revealing more than she cared to display. She was less well endowed than Barbara and the décolletage had been supplemented by deftly added padding which her hostess had insert
ed into Jasmine’s brassiere.

  Forcefully declining another glass of champagne, Jasmine accepted an orange juice instead. Barbara’s grip on her elbow tightened. ‘Here he is. Godfrey Fairchild. Mmm… and he has an even better-looking friend with him. I’m going to be spoilt for choice.’ She nudged Jasmine in the ribs. ‘But I did promise you first dibs, didn’t I? Come on, let’s find out who the handsome stranger is. What’s wrong, Jasmine?’

  But Jasmine was rooted to the spot, wishing she had never agreed to come. The young man accompanying Godfrey Fairchild was Howard Baxter. And he had seen her, so she had no chance to hide.

  The two men crossed the room to greet their hostess. Barbara air-kissed Godfrey then turned her attention on Howard. ‘Who are you?’ she said, flirtatiously, ‘and why have we never met before? Godfrey where have you been hiding this handsome hunk?’ Remembering her guest of honour, she stretched an arm out and hooked Jasmine’s, drawing her into the group. ‘I suppose that makes us even, Godders, as I have someone utterly gorgeous to present to you. Meet Jazz!’ Then she pushed Jasmine towards Godfrey and grabbed Howard’s arm and steered him away.

  Howard looked back over his shoulder at Jasmine, his eyebrows raised, mouthing the word Jazz in silent query. She wished she could melt away and simply disappear. Godfrey Fairchild introduced himself and told her that he, like Howard, worked for Guthries and was the number two at Batu Lembah. Jasmine tried to look interested as, yet again, she was treated to an explanation of the workings of the rubber industry. Godfrey lacked Howard’s enthusiasm though and seemed as bored as she was. In the end she put him out of his misery by telling him that she knew all about rubber cultivation as her late father was the previous owner of the Batu Lembah estate. Then she made her excuses and headed outside.

  Several guests were dotted around the terrace and the surrounding lawns, so she wandered off towards a quiet spot under some trees where there was a stone bench, overlooking the river. Walking was something of a challenge in her couture gown, her movements more akin to scuttling, as the fishtail train dragged behind her. If it became grubby then it was Barbara’s fault for pressurising her into wearing it. She wondered whether she might slip back upstairs and change into her blue dress, but she was wary of offending Barbara.