Early next morning, the car arrived at their door, and they drove out to Woodlands and the causeway. The Singapore checkpoint moved quickly, the Malaysian one only a little slower, and soon they could pick their way through the traffic of Johor Baru. This city ran to a different rhythm. Only a causeway away, Singapore had grown into a modern Chinese city-state. In contrast, Johor Baru was a Malaysian city with a wide country hinterland, and a thriving mix of old fashioned Malay and Chinese businesses crammed into a corner of the jungle peninsula.
Out of the city, Tim took the road to Kota Tinggi and the east coast. Soon the scenery changed to plantations, the heart of Malaysia. The road jinked and turned along plantation boundaries laid out before the motorcar had arrived. The rich soil here supported spreading rubber plantations, the kings of the last era. The spindly trees stretched in arrow straight lines away from the road, their small leaves filtering strong sunlight to a dappled luminous green. They could see occasional figures, Malay and Indian, moving amongst the trees. They were emptying the collecting cups that they had placed at dawn, and returning the cups inverted to the trees. Here and there the road widened into loading areas where the tappers could bring their buckets of raw latex for collection by daily trucks.
Nowadays, rubber had become out-dated. Wherever the soil would support it, rubber plantations were being torn out and replaced with oil palm. Oil palms plantations looked much less welcoming. The palms stood in shaded lines leading into the distance. The gothic curve of the palm branches met in low cathedral aisles, and beneath them dark and silence reigned. Black, oppressive, mosquito-ridden, they swallowed tractors and trailers that penetrated the tunnels to crop the heavy red fruit bunches.
The road narrowed to a single strip of asphalt, just wide enough to accommodate two oil palm trucks. Kota Tinggi behind them, the countryside became more hilly and jungle-covered, and the plantations less frequent. Huge logging trucks, piled with massive tree trunks, replaced the oil palm and rubber collectors. Tall creeper-draped trees towered above them, often touching across the road. Tim drove through pools of jungle light and darkness, and wound up and down steep hills.
The countryside opened out as they approached Mersing. They began to pass villages and dirt roads that led down to the coast. Colourful plantation workers sat on rickety bush platforms and sheltered from the sun while they waited for transport, either back down to their villages or along the main road into town. Houses and gardens began to line the road, first wooden huts and then more substantial buildings with schools and mosques. They pulled into Mersing and went straight to the jetty. It looked busy in the laid-back East Coast way, people everywhere, nobody hurrying, and boats to spare. Tim dumped Sherry and their bags, and went to park the car.
A leisurely negotiation with a fisherman and his mate, and they clambered down from the concrete jetty to a small blue fishing boat. The trip to Pulau Kelapa would take over an hour. Tim pulled his old straw hat firmly over his brow and settled on the deck in front of the wheelhouse. Sherry stood beside him, rubbing sun cream onto her arms and legs. She did not seem to notice her short cotton dress riding high as she smoothed the cream into her thighs. The captain did, and the short, leathery sailor glanced at Tim and exchanged a grin. If only you knew, thought Tim, how disappointed you would be. Finally Sherry put on a cap and sunglasses, pulled a book from her bag and settled her elegant self beside him.
The boat chugged clear of the jetty, weaved between moored boats and settled down to a steady throb as it headed out to sea. The sea wind picked up and gave them some relief from the sun, and slowly the brown water of the estuary gave way to deep blue sea. Tim dozed.
He woke to a dig in the ribs from Sherry’s elbow. “Look!” she whispered. Beside them, riding the bow wave, was a dolphin. So near, two or three metres away and almost at deck level, seeming to watch them with its knowing eye. They crawled to the low rail and rested there, their chins on their hands. The dolphin played, still smiling.
Pulau Kelapa was Tim’s kind of place. Not a large island, only three kilometers from end to end and less than one across, it turned its rocky back to the South China Sea. On the western side facing the mainland, lay a strip of flat ground, covered in jungle and the remains of an informal coconut plantation. Here, under the trees and with the beach only metres away, a clever businessman had built the first resort of the Mersing area. Perhaps built was too grand a word. A collection of small shacks spread along the beach and clustered around the restaurant, and that was no more than a large roof covering a raised floor. A kitchen, a small office and a bar crowded together under one edge of the roof, and the rest had tables around a dancing area. Comfortable armchairs sat off to one side, with a bookshelf of dog-eared leftovers.
They checked in with a smiling girl at the office and carried their bags and key off to their hut. It was no more than a verandah and single room on low stilts, twin beds, ceiling fan, shower and toilet at ground level at the back. Simplicity and sufficiency, what more could you need? Tim stripped off his clothes and put on his swimming shorts. He waited on the verandah for Sherry. She emerged wearing a shy smile and a tiny black bikini, held together with strings tied in bows at each hip. The sexy creation shocked Tim. “Wow, Sherry! That’s fantastic! Where did you find that?”
“You like it?” she asked twirling round for him. She found herself enjoying his simple admiration. She would certainly not tell him that it had come from the boutique in the Shangri La Hotel. Or that it originally came from Brazil at a totally extravagant price. Or who had paid for it when he wanted to show her off at the hotel swimming pool after a successful flute-playing lesson. She wrapped a batik sarong around her lower half and followed him to the restaurant.
They sat looking over the beach, savouring their chilli prawns and Tiger beer. Sherry knew what Tim was thinking – that this simple place lay close to paradise. He went crazy for tropical beaches and coconut palms. It had taken Sherry a little longer to learn to love them. At first she had been put off by the untidiness of it all, the driftwood and debris that lay thick on remote beaches, the rivers and beaches that looked steamy and muddy brown instead of cool and clear. Even coconut palms themselves had shaggy and disreputable crowns and she had disliked their untidiness. Still, the combination of jungle and beach grew on her. Now she too loved coconut palms, along with the smells, and the intense colours. Europe could offer nothing like this.
They had gone to Pulau Kelapa in mid-week, a quiet time for the island resort. The beach lay empty. A few Europeans had come to the island to dive, or perhaps just to drink and lounge. A quiet old Chinese couple sat at the bar, fully dressed and looking a little out of place.
Sherry watched a small group of Malay men, sitting at one of the tables. They had beer glasses in front of them. Perhaps they felt they were in a ‘foreign’ environment here and could drink without criticism. Or perhaps they belonged to the rich and educated classes and drank anyway. In their centre, a slim Malay man with mixed features held court, smiling and leading the discussion. He looked important.
A chatter of girls’ voices, and two young Indonesian women came into the restaurant. The other guests stared as they tapped up to the men’s table. They were twins, and very beautiful. Wrapped tightly in traditional and matching batik sarongs and short kebayas, they swayed as they walked. The men made space for them and welcomed them into the conversation.
After they had eaten, Sherry returned to their balcony to read, but Tim felt restless. He scrounged an old windsurfing board and a canoe paddle, and went off to visit the reef. Laying her book face down on the table, Sherry sat back and watched as he paddled to board out to the reef. He sat up to fit his mask and snorkel, then lay with his face in the sea. He could drift for hours over the reef. Tim never seemed to tire of watching the fish and the coral, just below in all their glory.
He returned in time to call Sherry for volleyball. Every evening the resort staff set up a volleyball game on the sand under the coconut palms, yielding places
to the guests if they had to, but enjoying the game themselves whenever they could. They also enjoyed socializing with foreigners, especially attractive, glamorous blondes like Sherry. They cared for her, gave her easy passes and clapped when she scored. She knew she should feel scornful, but they were only trying to be kind. Beautiful girls in sexy bikinis have an obligation to be gracious.
They slept a little and went late to dinner. It felt very pleasant to eat well, drink a little and chat with other lazy people, all with the moonlight bathing the sea just over the beach. Tim was fading fast and wanted to return to their hut; Sherry decided she would walk alone on the beach for a while before turning in.
Sherry strolled at the water’s edge. The moon gave light enough to glaze the white coral sand, and the water felt warm over her toes. Every now and then she would start a beach crab that made a dash for the sea and safety. She reached the far end of the beach and looked back. The blackness of the jungle behind the beach was solid below its palm fringe. The restaurant made a beacon of bright orange light flaring onto the sea, but either side of it the huts sat in darkness. Beyond the restaurant, where Tim waited in their hut, the coconut palms came down to the water and the beach turned away from her out of sight. She made her way slowly back.
When she reached the coconut palms near the water’s edge, she left the beach to walk behind them and heard a strange noise. An animal crying perhaps? It was coming from the sea beyond the palms. She crept quietly through the darkness.
She could just make out the beach and, as she moved nearer, a group of people at the water’s edge. The noise, a rhythmic moaning, came from them. She stopped still and let her eyes adjust. Men, in swimming trunks she supposed, although the water was too deep to be sure. Then one of them moved and the moonlight picked out a girl, one of the Indonesian girls from the restaurant, with her hair wet and slicked back. She moved again and the moon shone on her naked breasts. She was looking down, at the water, into the cluster of men. From where the moaning came.
A shock hit Sherry. The moaning came from a woman. The men were doing something to a woman, presumably the other twin. Something good, because these were moans of pleasure. Her stomach dropped. She tried to peer through the darkness and make out exactly what was happening. The moaning accelerated and the water around the group became broken. They spoke in low voices, sharing the occasion.
Watching secretly was exciting and Sherry felt guilty. She moved closer to the nearest palm but did not take her eyes from the group. She thought they held the girl just afloat and someone stood between her legs. She could imagine the man thrusting into the floating girl while his friends supported her and enjoyed her excitement, and in a moment another would take his turn. And another, and perhaps her sister would be pulled down to assist. A figure moved to obscure her view and the noise sounded stifled. The moaning came now from a woman with her mouth full. How exciting, how lucky the girl was. Sherry felt her own excitement rising.
Suddenly she decided to go home. She would hurry back to their hut and make Tim do the same to her. She would show him what she had learnt. She would surprise him and make him a present of her body.
Their bedroom light was off. Tim lay naked on his bed, asleep, his body all soft light and shadows from the moon. Under his tousled hair, he looked sweet. She felt her excitement ebb out of her, and she lay down to sleep on her own bed.
Chapter 7
Tim left the hut early next morning and dragged the old windsurfer down to the water. The sun had just crested the rocky spine of the island and gilded the heads of the coconut palms along the beach. The sea lay glassy and inviting, glinting clear gold and blue. Another day in paradise. He pushed the board out and paddled to the reef.
It was busy down there. Perhaps the fish had stayed up late, before the sun drove most of them under cover. They darted or dawdled, dabs of unlikely colours over the pastels of the coral garden. No wind pushed him along this morning so without lifting his head he lazily paddled with his hands and the garden drifted slowly beneath him. In the corner of his vision a small black-tipped reef shark arrowed purposefully past, its military sleekness hinting at danger.
An opalescent cuttlefish caught his eye, hanging in the water just out of reach. Amazement held him as he watched the opal lustre ripple over the creature’s fat body. It did not move. It just hung in space and flexed its colours. He quietly slid off the board. He reached down with a foot to prod it but as his toe approached, the animal flashed into action. A cloud of sepia filled the space where it had been, and it disappeared, leaving only the impression of flurried movement. He had not seen how it had performed its vanishing trick or where it had gone. It had been there, and then it was not. He clambered back on to his board feeling privileged to have seen it, and drifted on.
A shout and a threshing in the water broke his peace, and he looked up quickly. A few meters away, someone was in trouble. He could see a black head struggling in white water. He rolled off the board and swam into the turmoil. With his face under the water he could the man’s legs kicking frantically. He came up to the man and made a grab for his hair. A flailing arm struck him and knocked his mask down around his neck. He used the man’s weight to push himself down to safety underwater. Hands gripped his neck and shoulder and he pushed himself down further until they released him. Shooting back to the surface, he grabbed a big breath and seized a reaching arm. Kicking hard, he pulled the man in the direction of the board. At last some sanity penetrated the panic and the man allowed himself to be pulled. It was only seconds to the board.
The rescued man threw himself in one movement onto the board. “Shark!” he spluttered. “There was a shark.”
Tim hurried to replace his mask and dipped below the board. Looking around, the reef no longer seemed kind and friendly. The shadows at his vision’s limit looked frightening. He could feel his heart beating. As he looked around, he slowly became aware that nothing had changed. The fish were still going about their business. Directly below him a large green parrot fish browsed unconcernedly. Flat silver fish played in the sun over a sand patch, fluttering in a swirl like dry leaves caught by the wind. He surfaced again.
The man on the board looked tense and frightened. “It was there,” he insisted.
Tim pushed his snorkel aside. “What did it look like?”
“Grey, with black bits on its tail. Be careful!”
“How big was it?”
“Big. Like me, or more. I thought it would attack. I lost my mask.”
He smiled inwardly. A black-tip had probably surprised the man, and his mask had magnified the fish. “Well, it’s gone now. Let’s go and look for your mask.” He pulled the board over to where the man had been struggling. His yellow mask and snorkel lay three metres down and it took only a moment to retrieve them.
“Here, put this back on and watch. I’ll push us in. It’s time for breakfast anyway.” Together they watched with the sun on their backs as the board left the coral and crossed white sand to the beach. He smiled at the man. “That must have been quite a fright. You’re still shaking.”
“My God yes! It was horrible, but you weren’t worried.”
“Well, I expect it was just a black-tip, and a lot smaller than you thought. Do you snorkel much?”
“No, I never did it much and then I went to England for school when I was eight. Too cold there.”
Tim was surprised. The man was clearly Malay and, wearing only loose black shorts, he looked just like any other beach user or fisherman, but if he had attended school in England, he must come from a wealthy background.
“Ah. I thought your English sounded very clear.”
The man drew himself up and smiled. “I’m sorry, let me introduce myself. Alistair,” and he held out his hand.
“Tim. Come on, take the paddle and let’s go for breakfast.”
In the restaurant Alistair ordered bacon, eggs and fried rice. Surprised at the bacon, Tim joined him.
Alistair sipped at his coffee. “Oh, t
hat’s good. I love breakfast after a swim.”
“I love breakfast in a place like this.” The sun come up fully now and gentle ripples sparkled beyond the beach.
Their food came and they ate in silence. The Indonesian twins tapped across the restaurant floor towards them. “Selemat pagi!” they called and went to sit at a neighbouring table. Two Malay men joined them, and Tim started to recognise Alistair as the man at the centre of the group in the restaurant the day before.
“Do you know those girls?” he asked.
“They work for me. Nice, aren’t they?”
“Beautiful! I like Indonesian girls. I work out of Balikpapan.”
“You have a beautiful blonde wife and you are looking at little brown Indonesian girls?” Alistair teased him.
“Well, they’re different. They’re so, I don’t know, enthusiastic, I suppose, and good to look at.”
“I’ll have to introduce you. When your wife’s not looking, of course. I call them Faith and Hope. They’re only twins so there’s no Charity.”
Again, Tim was surprised. “Are you Christian?”
“Oh no. Staunchly Muslim, but my mother was Scottish and I went to a Christian school. That’s why I’m Alistair. My mother called me Alistair but my father would call me Ali, and everyone could be happy.”
“But you’re eating bacon.”
“Yes, I’m terrible, aren’t I? You know, there’s something about bacon in the fresh air. When you’re camping, or like this. At school it was bacon or nothing, so I got to like it. Remind me to tell you the joke about the imam and the priest sometime. Look, here’s your wife.”
Her Master's Voice Page 5
