“Perhaps a rusa … oh, that’s just a local name for the sambar deer. Of course, if this was India, they’d be number one on the menu, but they’re nothing like as plentiful here. Then, perhaps a gaur calf, provided he can get it away from the parents without being trampled for his pains. After that … well, tigers are adaptable you know. Monkeys, crabs, fish, frogs, rats … if he’s hungry enough, he’ll eat them. But of course, it’s around about that stage that the local cattle start to look very tempting. And where there are cattle, there are usually people. And the more they see of people, the more they are liable to realize that we’re really a rather vulnerable and puny species. Rubber tappers are often the most likely victims. They work alone and they’re often out at strange hours…”
“Oh yes, I remember one of our coolies being scared by a prowling tiger many years ago. It was difficult getting the men to go back to work after…”
“Coolies?” Harry gazed at her in puzzlement. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”
“My fault, I should explain. That’s what I used to do before I took up journalism, you see. My husband owned a big plantation near Ipoh. Michael Burns, his name was. A Scotsman, naturally. He came out here just after the first war with the object of making his fortune and my goodness, he certainly succeeded. Brought a young and very green wife with him too.” She shook her head and smiled sadly. “Honestly, I didn’t have the first idea what to expect. I’d never been further than the next village up till then. Looking back, I sometimes wonder how I survived. But Michael was an adventurer of the old school, there was nothing too daunting for him. He thrived on difficulties, and we prospered because of it. We came through the second war battered but still intact and that’s when the plantation really began to take off. We had a long and very happy marriage.”
Harry nodded. “Uh … how long ago … did you say…?”
“Oh, there’s no need to be uncomfortable. Michael was always a plain speaker, he’d not be pleased if I were to beat around the bush on his behalf. He died a little over six years ago. He had a private plane and he was making a routine business trip to K.L. His plane exploded shortly after take-off and crashed into the jungle. At least it must have been a quick death. . . . . a search party was sent out to the wreckage, but I knew from the start there could be no hope of survival.”
“I see.… I’m very…”
“Of course you are, but don’t be!” She reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It was all a long time ago, Harry. It’s true what they say about time healing all wounds. Then, of course, I was desolate. I walked around inside my grief for several months, never going out, never seeing friends. It was the most miserable period in what had otherwise been a fairly full and very happy life. Grief is a strange companion, you know. There’s a side of you that loves … really relishes … the awful Shakespearean tragedy of it all. That’s not to say that the grief isn’t real either … it’s just that there’s such an all pervading need to be seen to be suffering. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“Well, I let it ruin my life for quite some time; and then, one morning, it just occurred to me that Michael would have hated to see me that way. You know, he always used to say that the greatest gift I ever gave him was happiness. I could make him laugh any time of the day or night … even in the middle of a terrible row; and lord knows we had enough of those!” She smiled fondly, then shrugged. “So that morning, I took a good long look around the big empty colonial-style house and the big empty gardens beyond and further on, the big empty plantations full of rubber trees that were slowly dripping money drip, drip, drip … into litle tin cups and all for my benefit … and I realized that if I was ever going to pick up some of the pieces of my life, then I’d have to go right away from that place and start afresh. I was safe and secure, I had enough money to keep me in creature comforts for the rest of my life … but where was the challenge? Where was the motivation to carry on? I had no children to hand the estate on to … we’d tried for them, you understand, but I turned out to be absolutely barren I’m afraid. We bought a puppy instead and that seemed to suit us both very well, so we didn’t worry about it unduly … the easy option I suppose, would have been to carry on as the Memsahib, find myself a houseboy who doubled as a lover, consume a bottle of gin a day, and end up thoroughly hating myself. The other option was to find something else to occupy my time. But what to choose? I thought about it very carefully for at least an hour and then I remembered what the green little Scottish girl had been doing when she married her wayfaring husband. Namely, working as a reporter on a tenth-rate local newspaper. I sat myself down there and then and I composed a letter to the Straits Times, explaining that I was the greatest feature writer in Malaya and that they would be totally insane if they didn’t employ me. To my amazement, a few days later, I received a reply, asking me to send some samples of my work. Now, this took me very slightly unawares. I suppose at the back of my mind, had existed the firm conviction that I was just whistling at the moon. Now I had to back up my idle boast with something of substance! I put together an article about the rubber industry … after all I had as much information as I needed for the research side. Of course, I neglected to mention that I was myself a plantation owner of some considerable experience, I wanted them to believe that all that gritty realism came from my sheer journalistic expertise. At any rate, the Times people liked it and used it, and it wasn’t long before I had a politely worded letter offering me more permanent employment. I sold the estate, lock, stock and barrel, moved myself to a little bungalow in K.L., and never regretted it for one instant. And that, in a nutshell, is how I came to be sitting here with you, eating this delicious meal. Would you pass the Satay, please?”
“Uh. . . . . yes, of course.” Harry had become quietly mesmerized by her conversation. He was getting to like and admire this lady more and more by the moment. “Er … another drink?” he asked her.
“Yes, I think that would be very nice,” she replied.
“You’d … never go back to the old way now, if the chance came up? I mean, now that you’ve proved to yourself that you can do it?”
She glanced at him slyly.
“Why, Mr. Sullivan! Is this some kind of proposal?” she murmured.
Harry reddened.
“Good heavens, no! That is … I mean … I didn’t—”
“Relax,” she chuckled. “I was pulling your leg. No, I wouldn’t dream of leaving journalism. It’s my life now and a very full and rewarding one, I might add; also, taking it on taught me a very important lesson in life, one that I wish a few more people would get into their heads.”
“Indeed? And what’s that?”
“Simply that a person isn’t automatically finished once they pass their fiftieth birthday. It’s a widely held belief that such is the case, I’m afraid … and if others let you know it often enough, it’s possible to get yourself into the state where you begin to believe it also. Hence, you end up doing nothing. You vegetate. But there’s no reason … no reason in the world, why this should be the case. I, for instance, have produced the best, most fulfilling work of my life in the last few years. I may have grey hair, a weight problem and a slight case of deafness in one ear, but it doesn’t mean I’m ready for the scrapheap yet.”
“Bravo! I’ll drink to that,” said Harry, raising his glass.
The conversation continued late into the night. The bottles of Tiger beer were drained and as much of the food that could possibly be eaten was consumed. For Harry, the time passed all too quickly. He couldn’t remember when he had last enjoyed female company so much; when Meg was still alive, he supposed. Ah, such a long, lonely eternity ago. Thinking of her made him lapse momentarily into a melancholic silence, and Marion took the opportunity to observe that it was really high time she went to bed. Harry nodded and getting up from the table, he escorted her politely down the hallway and showed her where the bathroom was located. Then, bidding her goodnight, he str
olled back to carry out his nightly routine of securing the doors and windows, switching off the fans. Before locking the front door, he strolled out onto the verandah for a few moments. The insects had long since fallen silent and the night air was warm and fragrant with the smell of frangipani blossoms. Harry took a deep breath, let the air out in a long slow sigh. He felt rather sad now that the conversation was over. It had taken the presence of someone like Marion to make him realize how desperately lonely his life had been, for such a very long time. He shook his head, went back into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him. As he walked slowly out of the room, he switched off the fan and the lights. The big-bladed fan creaked gradually to a halt in the darkness. Harry moved on, along the hallway. The bathroom was empty now and he went in. While he was washing, he noticed several unfamiliar objects by the basin; a green toothbrush, a bottle of skin-lotion, and a smaller one of perfume. He picked them up, examined them thoughtfully and then placed them down again, with great care. He dried himself, glanced critically at his reflection in the mirror. His hair needed cutting before too long, he decided. He went out of the bathroom, switching off the light. He was surprised to see that his bedroom door was ajar and that the light was on within. He hurried to it, peered inside.
Marion was standing beside the dressing table, wearing a white cotton nightdress. She was gazing thoughtfully at the framed photograph of Meg. She glanced up as Harry entered.
“Your wife?” she enquired softly.
Harry nodded.
“She was a beauty,” observed Marion. Then she put the portrait face-down upon the top of the dressing table and turned to look searchingly at Harry. “The way I see it,” she murmured, “there are two things we can do. We can be terribly British and go to our own beds and pretend that the interest we have in each other doesn’t exist … but that would be a lie. I am attracted to you, Harry Sullivan and, from observing you this evening, I know that you are also attracted to me.… On the other hand, we could, the two of us, have this night together with no ties and no expectations of any further developments. After all, we are two unattached, responsible, and fairly mature people.…” She smiled wickedly. “… and it could be great fun,” she concluded.
Harry scratched his head.
“But—” he began and then broke off, smiling sheepishly.
“Finish what you were going to say,” she told him.
“Well … I was just about to tell you … I’m sixty-seven years old.”
“And I’m fifty-nine, but does it really matter? I’m still a woman, you’re still a man. You see, you’ve let yourself get brainwashed Harry. You’re well past fifty, but you look just fine to me.”
Harry frowned, glanced at the floor.
“It’s been such a long time,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want to fail you.…”
“Can you ride a bicycle?” she asked him unexpectedly.
“Why . . . . . yes? But what.…?”
“There are two things in life that you never forget how to do. That’s the other one!”
Harry felt the corners of his mouth lifting into a grin. He shook his head in undisguised admiration.
“You make everything seem so easy … so right,” he said.
“I try to,” she replied. “Anyway, what do you think?”
Harry thought for a moment. He gazed at Marion and he glanced at the overturned photograph on the dressing table and then he stared up at the restless circling fan suspended from the ceiling.
“Let’s try,” he said simply. He closed the door behind him and reaching out, he killed the lights with a stroke of his hand.
CHAPTER 25
HARRY WOKE abruptly from a deep, dreamless sleep. He lay for several moments, gazing up at the ceiling above his head. Then recollections of the previous night filtered back into his mind and he turned his head slightly to one side, but the bed next to him was empty. Marion had already risen.
Harry smiled. She had been right, of course, a man never really forgot how to make love and it had been so good, so fine, the soft reassuring warmth of another body pressed against his. But afterwards he had cried, sobbed like a child, feelings of guilt mingling with the powerful if temporary release from his years of loneliness. He had not cried like that since his father died, no, not even for Meg, though he had wanted to. It was plain that Marion Burns was to be a special influence on his life. He could scarcely believe that he had met her only a day ago and now, here he was, jumping into bed like some promiscuous teenager. He chuckled to himself, wondering just exactly what the neighbours would have to say about the goings-on of the previous night were they to find out about them; no doubt tongues were already wagging over the mere presence of a woman in the house. Well, let them talk. Harry didn’t give a damn for their opinions anyway.
He climbed out of bed, slipped into his bathrobe, and went out of the room into the hallway. Pawn’s dusky little face popped out from the kitchen doorway.
“Good morning, Tuan!” she called with a knowing grin. Harry coughed uncomfortably. He hadn’t realized how late it was.
“Good morning, Pawn,” he replied stiffly. “Good meal last night. Excellent.” He coughed again and slipped into the bathroom, where he showered and shaved, humming tunelessly to himself. As always, he examined his reflection critically in the mirror and this morning, decided that he had the kind of face that a woman could possibly bring herself to love. He went back to his room, changed into his clothes and feeling ready to meet the world, went out to face the heat of the day.
He found Marion on the verandah. She had placed a battered portable typewriter on the rattan table in front of her and was pounding away on it, her eyes screwed up tightly against the blaze of sunlight streaming in over the porch, a half-smoked cigar clenched determinedly in her mouth. She had reverted back to more practical dress, a loose khaki bush jacket and a large pair of knee-length shorts. She looked so unprepossessing that Harry was momentarily struck by the thought that this was the creature with whom he had just spent the night. It seemed somehow rather unlikely. He gave a loud “ahem” to announce his presence but she was seemingly too intent on her work to give him any attention. He strolled nearer and glanced over her shoulder. The title of the article was, “The Hunter and the Hunted.”
“Which is which?” enquired Harry politely.
Marion glanced up.
“Oh, good morning!” she exclaimed. “It was such a lovely day, I thought I’d get up early and make a start … and as for the title, that’s just the idea! From one point of view it’s the tiger who’s the hunter and the people from the kampong, the hunted … but then one could just as easily say that it’s the big property developers and highway builders who are the real hunters and our old tiger, just another victim. It’s that kind of double-edged view that I want to develop through the article.”
Harry nodded gravely.
“Well, I shall certainly be interested to read it when it’s finished. Have you had any breakfast yet?”
“No, I thought I’d wait for you. Besides, after last night’s feast, a cup of tea is about all I can manage.”
“Hmm. I’ll second that. I’m sorry I slept so late.…”
“Late nothing! It’s barely nine o’clock. A man should be allowed the luxury of a good long snooze now and then, it does no harm whatsoever.”
Harry slipped into the chair next to her.
“It is a beautiful day, though,” he observed. “Anything in particular you’d like to do?”
“Just get down several thousand words onto paper. I’m afraid I’m terrible company when the writing bug gets me.”
“Not a bit of it. You carry on and I’ll order up some tea for us. Then I might just have that snooze you mentioned, right here on the porch.…” He frowned. “Marion, about last night. I want to … I … hardly know what to say.…”
“Then don’t say anything,” she announced brightly. “Last night was last night. This morning is this morning. Where’s the sense in harping on
about the past?” She smiled, reached out and squeezed his hand gently. She was about to release her hold but Harry retained it, lifted the two hands up into the air, above the level of the rattan table.
“What are you doing?” asked Marion, puzzled.
“I just wanted to give the neighbours something to talk about,” replied Harry, with a merry chuckle.
The morning passed pleasantly enough, while Marion continued with her typing and Harry alternated between chatting, sipping tea, smoking cigars, and having forty winks. It was nice to wake up to the realization that for the moment at least, he was not alone. The day was imbued with the brilliant clarity that was so much a feature of the later months of the Malay year. High up above jungle-clad hills, solitary fishing eagles drifted effortlessly on the air currents that would carry them out over the glittering sea to where their dinner waited. Harry sighed. To exchange these noble birds for a handful of dowdy sparrows shivering in the rain of Britain seemed to him to be the poorest trade he could imagine. He began to drift in the direction of sleep again but was interrupted prematurely by the puttering of a car exhaust. Opening his eyes, he recognized Dennis’ car, easing to a halt by the garden gate, but it was actually Melissa who got out of the car and came strolling purposefully along the driveway. She hesitated a few moments when she saw an unfamiliar figure on the porch; but then she continued, no doubt intrigued by having stumbled onto something new.
“Good morning, Uncle Harry,” she called, well before she reached the porch.
“Good morning, Melissa. Isn’t your father coming in?”
“No, we can’t stop, we’re on our way to the amah’s market to get some provisions. I was hoping I’d catch you in. I didn’t know you had company though.…” She glanced at Marion in silence, obviously waiting for an introduction.
“Ah … yes, well, Melissa, let me introduce Mrs. Marion Burns. She’s a journalist, she writes features for the Straits Times. She’s going to be staying here for a few days. I’m er … helping her with the research.…”
Tiger, Tiger Page 32
