by Di Morrissey
‘Oh, Mother, are you sure you’ll be all right here on your own?’ asked Margaret, as she embraced Winifred.
Dr Hamilton took Winifred’s arm. ‘She’ll be right as rain, dear girl. We’re all off to a splendid dinner and during the next week I shall escort her anywhere she wishes, around the city,’ he said.
‘Oh, that won’t be necessary,’ began Winifred.
‘Nonsense. The DO’s wife has invited us all over for luncheon tomorrow. I shall collect you at noon,’ said the kindly doctor.
‘And we’ll be back in time to drive you to Port Swettenham for the boat home,’ Margaret assured her mother.
Dr Hamilton turned to the newlyweds and gave Margaret a comforting smile. ‘Now, off you two go.’
Margaret kissed her mother and in a shower of coloured rice and flower petals she and Roland got into the gleaming Studebaker that Roland had borrowed from a friend and they drove away. The wedding guests then adjourned to the long bar of the nearby Selangor Club.
Roland took Margaret’s hand. ‘Just the two of us. You looked so beautiful at the wedding. I was proud of you.’
Margaret leaned her head against the back of the car seat and smiled contentedly.
In the still, burning light that marked the end of her wedding day, Margaret gazed at the passing scenes of rural simplicity as they left the city behind and entered the lush countryside on the way to the dark, steep hills of their destination. In kampongs, she glimpsed children playing in a river where women washed their long black hair, the coloured fabric of their sarongs clinging wetly to their lithe frames. An unattended fruit stall, a bicycle lying on its side beneath trees, the lazy smoke of a cooking fire indicated the slowing of the day. Preparations for evening were unfolding. The long fingers of slanting rays were reflected in the still pools of the rice paddies, which were neatly dissected by mounds of raised red soil lying in mathematical precision.
The car began to climb the hills, though it seemed briefly to Margaret that they were sinking, shrinking into night, flattened by a sky alight with the glowing first stars. The trees reached upwards, dark fingers pointed to the heavens, and the headlights of the car danced from side to side as they curved their way up the steepening mountain.
Margaret sat in silence, her eyes closed, holding her husband’s hand.
‘Here we are. The Gap,’ said Roland. ‘Did you sleep, Margaret?’
‘No. I think I’m overexcited, it’s been a big day.’
He kissed her quickly, murmuring, ‘And it’s not over yet.’ Then added as he opened the door, ‘A relaxing drink, a small snack. I’m peckish. I didn’t eat enough today. Too busy socialising. Come along, Margaret.’
The sprawling government rest house was welcoming, but scarcely what Margaret considered to be elegant. Then she realised that it was simply a stopover that supplied basic accommodation, a dining room, a verandah and a bar.
‘We could spend the night here if you’re not feeling up to any more travel,’ said Roland looking at her pale face. ‘It isn’t particularly smart but it’s comfortable and hospitable. We have to wait here for the road ahead to open. There’s only a single lane into the hills and this is the changeover point.’
‘You mean cars can travel only in one direction on the road?’ asked Margaret.
‘Yes, this final ascent to the peak is narrow so there’s a timetable to allow cars to go up or cars to go down. But not at the same time.’ He laughed.
Margaret decided that she didn’t want to spend her honeymoon night here as it was not at all romantic. So she sipped her tea as Roland hugged a brandy and chatted with several other travellers who were also heading to Fraser’s Hill.
And then the road was opened, and they were back in the car as part of a small procession making its way in single file to the popular hill town. The road was narrow and dark. Margaret saw lights from scattered bungalows, an illuminated sign here and there and a small village square surrounded by solid buildings. Then she sighed with relief as finally the car tyres crunched on the gravel driveway under the portico of Ye Olde Smokehouse Hotel.
A servant opened the car door and Margaret shivered in the surprisingly chill air. The mock Tudor building had ivy climbing the walls and boxes beneath its diamond-paned windows were filled with flowers. Mr MacAllister, the manager, welcomed them effusively and showed them into a small lounge room where the décor was a homage to bonnie Scotland – the cushions and a sofa were upholstered in the Fraser tartan. A fire burned and Margaret suddenly felt as though she was in the Scottish Highlands again.
‘Welcome, Mr Elliott and Mrs Elliott. Please enjoy a drink while your luggage is taken to your room. Would you like a bath drawn, sir?’
Roland turned to Margaret. ‘Would you care for a relaxing bath, my dear? I will be up shortly. Unless you care to join me here for a nightcap?’
‘A hot bath sounds wonderful. You won’t be long, Roland?’
‘Not at all. I’ll let you settle while I catch up on the district news with Mr MacAllister.’
Their host bowed slightly. ‘This is my wife, Janet. She will show to you to your room and provide anything you need. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Mrs Elliott.’
‘Thank you.’ Margaret followed Mrs MacAllister up the stairs feeling incredibly pleased at being called Mrs Elliott.
The time at Fraser’s Hill passed too quickly for Margaret. It took a little while to adjust to the lack of privacy caused by living with a man and being together twenty-four hours a day. But Roland was kind and attentive and obviously very pleased with his young and attractive wife. Margaret was glad she’d been a virgin on her wedding night but, while Roland was a considerate and gentle lover, Margaret was yet to really experience the wild, passionate elation from sex that she’d read about in novels. She responded with what she hoped was satisfactory ardour to Roland’s lovemaking but couldn’t help feeling relieved when it was over.
Margaret revelled in the cool climate. Roland was an early riser, so, before breakfast, they took a walk around the grounds of the hotel while the mist still shrouded the thickly wooded hillsides. After a traditional English breakfast they went out into the bright morning armed with binoculars and a field guide to watch birds.
‘The highlands are famous for the birdlife,’ said Roland. ‘The hornbill, an extraordinary looking bird, is quite something. Magnificent colours and a huge curved beak. Supposed to be good luck if we spot one.’
Margaret had never been particularly interested in birds but found she quite enjoyed the meandering walks along the tiny trails in the forest. Sometimes they passed Indian girls carrying produce or clean laundry up to the other hotels and occasionally they came upon a neat bungalow that was both fenced and guarded.
‘A lot of banks, companies and wealthy business people have bungalows up here. It gets very busy and very social as people come up from the coast to escape the heat,’ said Roland. ‘Cameron Highlands is becoming popular too. It’s bigger and has tea plantations in the area.’
On their walks they sometimes came across a group of English schoolgirls who attended St Margaret’s Anglican Boarding School at Fraser’s Hill and they would exchange pleasantries with their teacher. Margaret thought it must be a lovely place to go to school and the girls would have the benefit of being close to their families. Better, she thought, than being sent to school in England.
After their post-luncheon nap, they took tea with scones and strawberry jam on the terrace each afternoon. Their cosy room was furnished with rattan chairs and chintz curtains. There was a small fireplace in their sitting room, which they found blazing each night when they came up after dinner.
They met several other couples and played cards and joined in a games night, but Roland preferred to have his pre-dinner stengah by the fire and talk local politics and business with the other men. Margaret read the women’s magazines that had been sent out from London and thought perhaps she’d better purchase some books to take to the plantation. When she mentioned th
at to Roland he nodded.
‘Yes, we already have an arrangement with the KL Book Club. When we next get to KL, you should pop in and introduce yourself to Mrs Nicky. She’s the new secretary.’
‘A library? But how often will I be able to visit it?’ said Margaret.
‘The Kuala Lumpur Book Club was set up thirty or more years ago for planters in remote outstations and books are mailed to them. Mrs Nixon, that’s her proper name, will send you books so you should chat to her about what you like.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Margaret, knowing that she would have lots of time on her hands. Roland had told her that there was house staff at the plantation. The routine had already been established by Eugene and Charlotte, Roland’s mother, so Margaret would need to do little to maintain her new home.
One morning in the breakfast room, as Roland heaped marmalade on to his toast, he said, ‘I’ve made plans to play golf today with a few chaps, so I’m afraid you’ll be on your own for a bit. Do you mind?’
Margaret tried not to show her disappointment. ‘Oh. Of course not, Roland. Who are you playing with? Maybe I could get together with their wives.’ She didn’t really want him to go off and leave her, but she knew they were probably influential people.
‘Ah, mmm, perhaps. I think two of them have their wives with them, and the other fellow is unmarried. I only met them briefly, though we have mutual acquaintances, as one does out here.’
‘Quite,’ said Margaret, who’d already been impressed with the important people that Roland knew and, indeed, had invited to their wedding. How easily he befriended people who seemed to be in high positions. ‘Are they staying here at the Smokehouse?’
‘No. One is at Maxwell’s, the others are in a company bungalow. You saw the chaps in here having dinner last night. They’re high up in the Civil Service.’
‘Oh. The ones you had a drink with after I went upstairs to bed,’ said Margaret pointedly.
‘You didn’t mind, old girl, did you? It’s rather how it is, we fellows learn an awful lot about things on these social occasions.’
‘As women do, too, when they get together,’ said Margaret. While she might be impressed by the important people Roland associated with, she didn’t want to be dismissed as a frivolous young bride who didn’t know how to mingle.
‘Ah yes, but we men talk about important matters. It pays to keep a handle on people’s movements, plantings, prices, what the locals are up to in various districts.’ He cut the last of his toast into neat squares, popped them into his mouth and looked at his wife. ‘If you’d rather I didn’t go, tell me now and we’ll plan our day.’ He looked as though he had suddenly realised that it might not be the done thing to abandon his new wife on their honeymoon.
Margaret didn’t want to upset him but neither did she want him slipping back into his old bachelor habits of doing as he pleased with friends and acquaintances. ‘No, really, Roland. I want you to play golf. I’m sure you don’t have the opportunity very often. This is your time to relax as well,’ said Margaret in a tone of voice designed to show Roland that she was miffed by his plans, which would cause him to cancel the game and spend the day with her.
Roland, however, took her words at face value.
‘Excellent, then. I’ll chat to the fellows and see what their wives are up to during the day.’
‘Please, don’t force my company on them if they have other plans,’ said Margaret quickly. ‘I’m quite sure I can entertain myself. Or I’ll read a book and relax.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ He leaned over and took her hand. ‘Margaret, you do understand, when we get to Utopia I will be returning to my work and all that that entails. I want you to be part of it but I can’t be at your side all the time as we are now. The women, the mems, they have to fend for themselves a lot of the time. Of course you’ll have house staff, but you will be left on your own a lot. It will be a different life for you.’
‘Roland! I understand that,’ said Margaret lightly. ‘Which is why I want to make the most of our honeymoon. While I have you all to myself,’ she added coquettishly.
He gave a big smile. ‘Is that an invitation?’ He kissed her hand. ‘Tonight. A romantic dinner and time to ourselves in our room, in front of the fire, a bottle of MacAllister’s best champagne. How does that sound?’
‘Lovely.’
‘Right. I’d better get going and find the set of clubs MacAllister promised me. Are you coming or do you want something else?’
‘I might have another pot of tea,’ said Margaret. Roland signalled to the waiter, who hurried to the table. ‘Another tea for memsahib.’
Then he was gone and Margaret was left alone feeling faintly irritated.
‘Earl Grey?’ enquired the waiter.
‘No, English Breakfast,’ said Margaret, sounding quite waspish.
Shortly afterwards, Margaret received a message from the two wives of Roland’s golfing partners to say that they would like her to join them for luncheon at the Broadstairs’ bungalow. A driver would be sent to fetch her from the Smokehouse at noon.
Before getting ready for lunch and with time to kill, Margaret decided to go for a walk by herself in the woods surrounding the nearby golf course. Armed with Roland’s binoculars and a walking stick she borrowed from the hotel, she set out. It was a longish walk but she found a small trail and saw it heading up toward a peak that she thought would give her an expansive view of the area.
As she wandered along the path, the trees became denser, blocking the sunlight. An occasional side trail led away from the track she was on. She assumed they led to private bungalows or were short cuts used by the hotel staff. Everything was quiet, save for the swishing flight of an occasional bird.
She stopped to gaze up into the trees when she heard a rustling in the treetops and to her surprise saw through the binoculars, a round-faced monkey staring at her as curiously as she was looking at it. As she put the binoculars down, the monkey swung away with a high-pitched shriek that startled dozens of other monkeys, and all of them raced and called through the trees.
Margaret was quite elated by the sight, and continued on along the path, which was now less well marked as it dipped down before curving upwards again, towards the peak.
It was like being in a dark-green cavern, and she was glad when she found herself in a small clearing where a break in the trees gave a full vista of the hills on the other side. This seemed to be far more rugged country and, while she assumed there must be some small villages hidden away somewhere, she could see nothing but jungle. These were not the benign slopes accommodating the bungalows, hotels, shops and landscaped gardens planted with familiar trees, where she and Roland had walked. Through the binoculars she could see, stretched out before her, an endless tangle of tall trees, choked with vines and ferns. Suddenly the talk she had heard about tigers and wild animals became very real. Here was a different part of the country. It was untamed and appeared suddenly threatening. She felt a long way from the suburbs of Brisbane.
She turned and walked back the way she’d come, hurrying slightly. But as she came to where a small track branched away from the main one, she stopped in shock. Straddling her path was a giant lizard, scaly, prehistoric, stone-cold eyes observing her, tongue flicking. Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. She’d seen small lizards in her mother’s garden, but this was a monster and it did not appear to want to move. It continued to block her way.
Margaret was not going to go near the creature. Its claws splayed from it’s gnarled feet making it look dangerous. Swiftly she glanced around and took another side path, thinking that it would either join the main trail or end up at someone’s bungalow, or at one of the scattered clusters of houses where the locals lived. But after following this narrow track for some time and not finding her way back to the golf course, Margaret realised she was lost. Where this path went, she had no idea.
She was hot, perspiring with fear as much as from the claustrophobic heat. She imagined that she could he
ar rustling and noises in the undergrowth and the more she hurried the more she stumbled over roots and stones, her breath coming in short gasps. She glanced at her watch and realised that it was already noon and the car would be at the hotel to take her to the pre-arranged luncheon.
She stopped to catch her breath, her hand on her heaving chest, trying to think calmly. No one would know where she was, but her disappearance would certainly raise the alarm. Roland could be gone till late afternoon, playing golf, and not give her a thought. These scenarios played out in her mind, although she was more overwhelmed by the embarrassment of her misadventure than anything else.
She set off again and couldn’t stop the tears that flowed down her face. She had a terrible feeling she was walking in circles, for everything looked the same. To her eyes there were no identifiable landmarks. Then she heard a movement behind her. She stopped, closing her eyes, not daring to look, waiting for whatever creature that was there to pounce on her.
‘Mem?’
She spun around to see a barefoot Malay wearing a checked sarong topped with a khaki jumper and carrying a long knife.
‘Oh. Oh dear,’ said Margaret recalling how Malays could sometimes run amok.
The man looked puzzled. ‘Mem, kamu sesat?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Margaret fearfully. ‘I was near the golf club, but I changed trails and . . .’ Seeing his uncomprehending expression, she used her walking stick as a golf club and swung it awkwardly.
On her second swing there was a flicker in the man’s eyes. He pointed in the direction opposite to the way she was headed. ‘Nanti saya tunjuk jalan.’ He turned and trotted away from her, signalling her to follow.
For a moment she hesitated, wondering if she should trust the short, brown-skinned man with the large bush knife. Then, drawing herself up, Margaret strode after him, even though he was going in the opposite direction to where she thought they should go. Suddenly she recognised where she was. She saw in the distance a green fairway and a fluttering flag on a green.
