Dangerous Waters

by Rosalind Brett

  Terry’s head ached, the air grew cool and made her shiver. She slept, and awoke some time later to find herself covered by a blanket. It was still raining, and Pete still lay on the other bed, though his head was turned away from her so that she couldn’t tell if he slept. It was the longest night of her life.

  The dawn was wet and white. The rain had stopped, but trees dripped and parakeets angrily fluffed their wings, impatient for the drying sun. The village woke sluggishly, Pete disappeared, and Terry got up and washed at the tin basin.

  The light had become pearly with struggling sunshine when Pete returned. He brought cooked fish and some coffee, and Terry looked at him with tired eyes. He was brown and cleanly shaven, wore a fresh shirt and clean shorts.

  In businesslike tones, as he placed the breakfast on the table, he said, “We shan’t be able to leave very early—the road will be too muddy and we can’t risk getting stack. Still, if we can get away before noon, you’ll arrive in time for lunch.”

  “How are we travelling?”

  “Rather better than I expected. There’s a coconut plantation owned by a rich old Malay just outside the village. He has a Landrover and has promised to lend it to us, with a driver. If it were my own I’d start out now, and run through bush if we met a lake on the road. Can’t do that with someone else’s bus.”

  “Driving on a road of any kind will be quite civilized, won’t it? Didn’t you say it was an hour’s run?”

  “It’s only twenty miles, but the road is narrow and twisted and you can’t go fast. Come on, eat up.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He looked at her, shoved a browned fish on to a wooden plate for himself and sat down. A little roughly, he said, “You look white and scared. Snap out of it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve a headache—the storm, I suppose.”

  He rose. “I’ll get you some aspirin. Eat a bit of that meal bread before you swallow them. It’s tough, but it’ll help to ward off nausea.” He placed a couple of tablets on the table, poured some coffee into a mug and sweetened it with condensed milk. “I guess you’ve had about as much of this kind of living as you can take.”

  “It isn’t that—just the storm. And perhaps having to wait again this morning.” She drank some of the coffee, broke a piece of the grey bread, and smiled palely. “Seems an odd thing to ask, so much water about, but do you think I could get a bath, so that I can change into something suitable?”

  “Of course. How’s the rash?”

  “Drying up. It doesn’t itch.”

  “It takes some days for the purple to wear off. I’ll see about the bath as soon as we’ve finished the coffee.”

  From then on he was businesslike. The bath was carried into the room—an oblong galvanized container which must have been intended for some other use. A Malay boy brought tepid water and Pete rigged a mat over the doorway and told her he would keep guard to see she was undisturbed.

  An hour later, clean and refreshed, Terry made up her face with the aid of a handbag mirror, and had to rely on the fact that she had worn the frock before in order to be sure it looked right. Actually, the white leaf pattern on hyacinth blue enhanced her coloring. Even the stickiness of the mid-brown hair did not detract from the frock’s simplicity and correctness.

  Perhaps deliberately, Pete neither lifted an eyebrow nor passed any comment when he saw her; she might still have been wearing the thing he had snipped apart at the waist. He packed his goods, had a boy take them out to the Landrover, and when Terry’s luggage was ready he got the same boy to stow them. Then he stunned the boy into heavenly bliss by giving him the canoe he had bought four or five days ago in Vinan.

  The Landrover rocketed out of Tembin to the shouting and waving of the villagers. The driver sat in the back with the luggage while Terry shared the front seat with Pete. The soggy road was so narrow that palms and meranti branches whipped against both sides of the vehicle, and the track had been so tortuously carved out between the giant trees that at the beginning of the journey Terry was convinced every few minutes that they were driving straight into the living jungle.

  “What would happen if we met another car? she asked.

  “We’d have to try and back into the bush. There won’t be any traffic this morning, though, and even when it’s dry few cars come to Tembin. There’s no reason.”

  “I can’t think why they don’t cut the upper growth back a bit. It would help visibility no end.”

  “They do it every few months but it grows back. This is still the edge of the rain forest.”

  A black cobra slid across the road, and presently a wild pig, looking very cross, darted from the tangled undergrowth and back again to cover. They came to a frail-looking log bridge which was set up on supports that appeared no more substantial than bamboos. It swayed as they crossed, and Terry saw that the river underneath it swirled like whipped mud.

  “Is this the same river?” she asked.

  “The very same,” he said laconically.

  “Where does it go?”

  “Close to Penghu and then straight on through the jungle to its source, in a mountainside. It joins the main river at Shalak, and runs on to the sea.”

  “What are those things growing there?”

  “Durians. They smell frightful, but the Malays eat them with great relish. I’ve never got down to it yet.”

  And that was how the miles passed. She asked questions and received polite answers. There was no attempt at banter or even sarcasm, and when they came to a deep waterhole that spread right across the road he handled it in the same non-committal manner—merely leaned over her and drew up her storm shield and drove straight in and up the other side.

  There were almost in Penghu before there was a view of any kind, and when it came it was disappointing. Bamboo one-roomed houses at each side of an earth track, a slight upward slope to where two or three fairly new stucco buildings were placed opposite a row of bamboo shelters which served as shops. There came a bend in the road, and then better-class houses, where well-dressed Malay women sat in their verandas and smilingly viewed the world. The sprawling houses of the few white people were set round a vast beaten earth square. They had no enclosed gardens, but a wide border of exotic flowers spread from each side of the wooden veranda steps and round to the back of the house. In the centre of the main square stood a giant meranti redwood with a few palms and thickets about its roots. In the shade of the palms sat two ayahs with two white children. They and a young brown boy who mooned about with a twig broom were the only signs of life. Pete stopped the Landrover and called the boy. “Where is the house of Tuan Winchester?” he asked.

  The boy engagingly scratched his ear and pointed. The big one, tuan.”

  Terry looked at the house, and small nerves jumped in her body. The dwelling rambled a little farther than the others, and two sides of the veranda were enclosed by beautifully patterned woven grass, while the front was wide open and furnished in bamboo, like an open-air lounge. The main door of the house stood wide, but there was no one in sight.

  Pete was instructing the driver. “Take the mem’s luggage up into the veranda—those two cases, the bag and the coat. We’re going on now to the rubber estate.”

  Pete then extended a hand to help Terry down to the path. She stilled her quivering and lifted a bright smile. “Well, it’s been very nice to know you, Pete.”

  His own smile was narrow and unrevealing. “Thanks. Think you’ll be all right?”

  “Yes, of course. I can’t wait to see my sister!”

  “Good. You’re a bit late, but you’re here in time. If there’s nothing else...”

  “There is ... something, Pete.” She took a hand from the pocket of her dress and a little shakily said, “There’s this—your ring. Please take it.”

  Coolly he looked down at the small ornamental gold band. “Keep it as a souvenir. One of these days you can show it to your children—yours and Roger’s—and tell them what you went through to get to him.
Once you’ve nailed the chap you won’t mind his knowing all about you.”

  He hadn’t lifted a hand to take the ring, and for a moment she thought he was going to turn away without another word. Quickly she reached up and dropped it into his shirt pocket. He stared at her sardonically, then shrugged.

  “Well, it’s goodbye.”

  “Yes.”

  With hard but impersonal hands he held her shoulders as he bent to plant a firm kiss on her mouth. “Less lasting than a ring,” he said. And without another glance he swung up into the Landrover and set it moving.

  The vehicle had disappeared before Terry turned and moved draggingly up the veranda steps and across the wooden flooring to the open door of the house.

  It was anti-climax to find the house empty, except for two servants. Terry walked into a long sitting-room which was dim and cool and seemed ultra-luxurious after the devious voyage from the coast. A Malay in a white sarong and a white linen jacket came softly from some inner room and bowed, a politely enquiring smile on his brown, triangular face.

  “Mem?” he murmured.

  “I’m Miss Fremont’s sister,” she told him. “I was expected four days ago.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, turning the smile into a delighted one. “I can show the mem her room and bring the luggage.”

  “Where is Miss Fremont?”

  “With Mrs. Winchester. They visit other mems. Please ... will you come this way?”

  There was nothing remarkable about the bedroom except the big circular fan in the ceiling. The bed was of some dark wood and appeared to be fairly old, the bedspread was an ordinary rose pink, and the white mosquito-net was draped from its framework and tied back with pink ribbon. A long bamboo chair upholstered in chintz stood near the closed french window and a plain dressing table, a wardrobe that reeked of DDT and a bright grass mat completed the furnishing.

  Feeling oddly lightheaded, Terry opened her case and disposed of the things she had recently been using. The other case had not been opened since she had left the ship at the coast, and now she felt curiously reluctant to turn the key. Inside it were wedding gifts for Annette, one from her parents and her own, as well as the dainty pale turquoise frock she herself was to wear as Annette’s bridesmaid. The whole contents of the case might have been ruined by water, but somehow she couldn’t investigate. She left it, and walked back into the sitting-room, looked through an archway into a small dining-room, where a servant was placing mats and cutlery on the table.

  She felt as if she had suddenly been dropped here and was now suspended in time. Pete was gone—her heart plunged—and she had to begin something new, something that she didn’t feel quite up to. She looked about her at the rattan chairs with their gay cushions, the small tables which appeared to have seen much use, the hand-made rugs. No curtains, it seemed; only reed blinds of a rather better make than those she had met in the jungle.

  She wandered into the doorway, saw that the ayahs and their charges had disappeared, and that a sandy-haired man was walking across the square towards her. Vic Hilton!

  She reached the foot of the steps as he did, felt both her hands grasped in his hot ones.

  “Terry! By all that’s unbelievable! We’ve been moving heaven and earth to find you. How did you get here?”

  “It’s a longish story. Tell me about Annette!”

  He slapped a fist into the palm of his other hand. “It’s too bad—you weren’t even welcomed. Annette and Vida Winchester are due back any time now—been bridge-playing with the other women. Annette’s taken to bridge, thank goodness.”

  “Good lord, do they even play in the mornings?”

  He nodded, and his rugged features looked humorously long-suffering. “Twice a week. Come on inside. Have you had a drink?”

  “No, but I can wait.” She mounted the steps at his side and preceded him into the house. Then she turned and surveyed him. “Well, how are you both?”

  “Pretty good, considering. Annette’s only broken our engagement twice and at the moment we’re tied.”

  She searched his face, saw something dark in his eyes and a frank smile on his lips. “You’ll be darned glad when you’re married, won’t you?” she said soberly. “Well, it won’t be long now.”

  “Longer than you think. It’s postponed for a week.”

  “Through me?”

  He lifted his shoulders and sighed. “That’s what she said.” Digging his hands into his pockets he turned towards the window. “Are you on my side, Terry?”

  “If you’re on the same side as Annette, yes.”

  “Do you want her to marry me?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then I’m going to ask you to promise me something, before she takes the floor. Promise you won’t let her postpone the wedding again!”

  “I can’t promise that without even seeing her first, but I’ll do my best for you, Vic.”

  He turned, looked at her pale face and said quickly, “I’m as bad as the rest—putting myself first. I just had to get it said at the very beginning.” He paused. “You’re an odd color, young Terry—sunburned and yet pale, and you look appallingly tired. What in the world have you been doing?”

  “Just getting here. I’m perfectly well.”

  “You’re not waiting any longer for that drink, anyway. I’ll give you gin and ginger, with ice. You’ll like it. Sit down.”

  He had given her the drink and mixed one for himself when a small mud-splattered car pulled up in the square and two women emerged from it. Terry jumped up and gazed, walked quickly into the veranda.

  There was Annette, a sheer beauty from the sheen of her red-gold hair to the tips of her coral-tinted toenails. She wore a white frock and green blobs in her ears, and though she had never tanned very well, the tan make-up was even more effective than the real thing might have been; it was so delicate, so very much Annette. She was an inch or two taller than Terry and had the gentle, unpronounced carves of the true model. She had a model’s walk, too, though she forgot that when she saw her sister standing in the veranda. She ran up the steps, flung her arms about Terry and kissed her.

  “Why, you old so-and-so!” she exclaimed. “How dare you arrive when my back is turned! What’s been happening to you? How did you make it? Did Roger catch up with you?” She paused and gave a sigh of satisfaction. “You don’t know how great it is to have you here. I was saying to Vida only this morning...”

  The sleek and graceful Vida Winchester had paused beside them, smiling, and Annette at once made the introduction.

  “Vida’s been charming and kept me sane. She insisted you couldn’t possibly come to harm, but I kicked myself for not arranging that you come right up the East Coast by air. It seems that Penghu has never been very important—apart from rubber—and that’s why we haven’t the normal means of transport. The company is going to change all that.” She saw Vic then, and added, “Hallo, darling. Have you been taking care of Terry?”

  “Let’s go indoors and have a drink,” said Mrs. Winchester. “I expect lunch is almost ready. Terry looks whacked. Let her relax a little before you ask too many questions.”

  Terry recalled that Mrs. Lunn had described Mrs. Winchester as a striking-looking woman. She was, of course—regular-featured, an attractive smile—but Mrs. Lunn could never have seen her with Annette alongside. Annette always stole the limelight, and somehow it hadn’t spoiled her. Or perhaps Vic might say it had.

  Terry drank her gin and ginger, was glad that Vic had remembered to make the drink mild and icy-cold. Annette went off to wash her hands, and by the time she returned Mr. Winchester had arrived for lunch. He was a good-looking man of about forty-eight, spare of frame, square-jawed with just the right degree of grey in the black at his temples. He was Vic’s boss, Terry recalled; part of his equipment for a responsible job seemed to be friendliness and tact.

  They took places at the dining table, ate jellied soup and helped themselves from dishes of cold chicken, tinned tongue and salads. Annet
te, seated next to Vic, reached past him and squeezed her sister’s hand on to the table.

  “It’s marvellous to have you here at last. I’m just bursting to know how you got through. That beastly train business at Vinan! What was it like there?

  Vic said, “Give her time, Annette. She must be worn out.”

  “Yes, you do look it, rather, Terry,” Annette said anxiously. “Why didn’t we arrange for you to come by air?”

  There had been the best of reasons, but Terry did not mention them just now. “It was a lovely journey,” she said. “I wouldn’t have missed any of it.” It was true, she told herself firmly; she wouldn’t have missed even the painful moments.

  “Mrs. Pryce and I had lots of fun on the ship, right until she had the accident. The ship’s doctor advised her to stop in Penang for X-rays, and so on, and I couldn’t very well stay with her in case I missed connections. So I travelled on. A rather sweet Army type put me on the train for Shalak, and we did that trip in about twelve hours. There weren’t more than half a dozen white people on the train, and the others disappeared at Shalak, in jeeps and things.”

  “But you got the steamer to Vinan, didn’t you?” asked Vic. “Or did the news about the derailment filter through in time to stop you?”

  “No, it didn’t. The steamer was loaded with freight, and the only passengers were a few Chinese and Malays, a Dutch doctor and his wife and one other white man.” She paused and broke a surprisingly white bread roll. “The goods were discharged at points along the river, and by the end of the second day only the white passengers were left on board. When we reached Vinan, the Dutch couple went off to a jungle hospital, and I was stranded.”

  “Five days ago?”

  She nodded. “I spent a night in a rest-house at Vinan, and next morning came on here by canoe.”

  “Canoe!” Mr. Winchester made the exclamation. “But you can’t get through. There’s what’s known as the Witch’s Tunnel and the waterfall.”

  “Well,” Terry said, moving things about on her plate with a fork and taking an interest in them, “we did get through. I’m here to prove it.”