by Clare Flynn
A large low bed stood in the centre of the room, draped with mosquito nets. Something else to get used to. There was a ceiling fan above the bed, but it was motionless. Aunty Mimi pointed to the bathroom beyond, where, as well as a ’thunder box’ raised up on a shallow platform like a throne, there was a bath tub and a separate shower area, with a tall Shanghai jar, filled with water to flush the toilet and dip into for cold showers. Fresh towels were laid out on a wooden table beside a dish of soap. Someone had placed a hibiscus flower on top of the towels. Smiling at this touch, Evie noticed a huge centipede scuttling across the floor and shuddered.
The woman placed her palms together and bowed solemnly over her hands, then turned to leave.
‘Wait a moment! When do you expect Mr Barrington to come home?’
Aunty Mimi shook her head. ‘Tuan not come here many time. He live in other place.’
‘Do you know when I will go to this other place?’
The old lady with the smallest movement of her head indicated it was a question she couldn’t answer. ‘Benny bring up bags. When you ready I make tea.’ With that, she left the room.
Torn between the need for a cup of tea, a good sleep – and possibly a good cry – Evie chose to have a shower first. She stepped out of her damp cotton frock, rolled down her stockings – she certainly wasn’t going to be wearing stockings again, unless she absolutely had to – and peeled off her soaking wet underwear. Pouring the cool water over her hot skin was a shock, but also a blessed relief, and the soap was scented with what she thought was jasmine. When she’d finished her ablutions, she returned to the bedroom, noticing her suitcase and holdall had been placed on top of the wardrobe and, while she’d been taking her shower, someone, presumably Aunty Mimi, had unpacked her clothes and put them away.
Her spirits low, she went downstairs, hoping a cup of tea might revive them. So far everything was telling her she had made a terrible mistake.
3
It was three days before Douglas Barrington turned up.
Evie passed the time exploring the streets of George Town in the early mornings, before it became too hot to venture out. Even in the cooler part of the day, it was stifling, and she had failed to understand how much the humidity affected the body. Penang was like living in a Turkish bath with no reprieve. As she gradually began to acclimatise, she took increasing pleasure in the novelty of being on this sub-tropical island, with its crowded streets, colourful fruits and spices and exotic smells. It was impossible not to be intoxicated by the sweet fragrance of hibiscus, frangipani, sandalwood and ylang-ylang, the whiff of salt from the sea mingling with the smell of fish, the heady scent of incense which caught the back of her throat as she walked past the many small temples, the aroma of nutmeg and cardamon and the unspeakably foul stench of durian fruit. Passing the Chinese shop houses, the smell of food cooking pervaded the air, as meat was stirred into smoking hot coconut oil or mingled with sesame and soy. She marvelled at how the cooks were able to stand beside steaming vats of noodles and rice, rapidly stirring the food in their woks, in this oppressive heat.
In the afternoons, Evie sat in the relative cool of the garden reading a book. Even under the shade of the tall hardwood trees, it was hot. There was little or no breeze to cool her, and the air hung heavy and damp, wrapping her in a suffocating blanket. No wonder Felicity Barrington had hated the climate.
She supposed she ought to write to her mother and fill her in on her new location and circumstances, but decided to put it off until she had something concrete to report. She could hardly tell her she’d travelled all the way to Malaya to get married, only to find her husband-to-be had yet to put in an appearance. As to how Mrs Barbara Winchgate would react to her daughter marrying her cousin, she couldn’t imagine. Douglas’s age fell between the two of theirs, and neither mother nor daughter had known him well. No. It was better to wait until the deed was done. There was something appealing about the prospect of, for once in her life, astonishing her mother.
Late on the third afternoon, as Evie sipped iced water and tried to concentrate on the collection of poetry she was reading, she sensed a presence in the garden. She put down her book and looked up. A sleek black dog with a white flash on his head ran across the sun-dappled lawn and came over to sniff her. Evie reached a hand out to pat him. ‘Well, hello there, fellow, what’s your name?’ As her hand moved to stroke the dog’s head, he curled back his lips, bared his teeth and growled at her.
‘Here, Badger.’
Evie looked up to see a man standing hands on hips, studying her. The late afternoon sun was behind him and the light too strong for her to see more than his shadowed outline but she knew at once it was Douglas Barrington. The dog trotted over to him obediently and lay down at his feet.
‘He doesn’t like strangers. He’s a working dog. Better keep your distance until he gets used to you.’ His voice was deep and sonorous.
Blinking, Evie jumped to her feet and moved towards him. As she got closer, she realised he was frowning, looking at her as if trying to work something out. The years had greyed his wavy brown hair at the temples, his skin was a dark mahogany with spidery white lines radiating from his eyes, between his brows and round his mouth and nose, where wrinkles had blocked the reach of the sun. He was wearing the white man’s uniform – knee-length khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. Despite the signs of age, he was still a handsome man, and she felt a ripple running deep inside her.
‘You’re Evelyn?’ He gave his head a little sideways shake as if he’d just woken up. ‘You seem different from how I remembered you.’ He was still looking her up and down.
Stomach churning, throat dry, Evie moved towards him. She’d hoped for a different kind of welcome. They were, after all, distant cousins. Why not an embrace? A warm and friendly hug, even a peck on the cheek. Instead, Barrington proffered his hand, shook hers briefly, and jerked his head in the direction of the open French window. ‘Benny’s mixing some sharpeners.’ He turned and walked back inside the house, his dog at his heels. Evie followed them inside, her heart sinking.
‘I’m having a stengah, but I know most ladies prefer pahits.’
She looked at him blankly.
‘Stengah is whisky and soda and pahit is gin and bitters – pink gin.’
She didn’t really want a drink at all, but told itself it would steady her nerves. ‘Thank you. Gin please.’
Douglas sprawled in one of the heavy teak chairs and polished off his whisky and soda in a few gulps, as if it were water. He held out the empty glass for Benny to replenish. Evie took a small sip of her gin, grateful for the sharpness of the alcohol opening her parched throat.
‘Did you have urgent business in Singapore?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’ He took another gulp of his drink, avoiding her gaze.
‘I… er…I had thought…that you’d be here in George Town when I arrived.’ The sound of her own voice was thin, barely a whisper. Get a grip of yourself, Evie.
‘I’ve a business to run. It’s a full-time job.’ He pulled a pipe from the pocket of his shorts, tamped the tobacco down and lit it. Puffing on it, he stroked the dog which lay stretched out at his feet.
The tension in the room was palpable. The ceiling fan whirred slowly above them, the clock ticked loudly and the dog’s breathing was soft but audible. Evie could feel her heart hammering inside her chest. What was going on? She was certain he’d been surprised when he’d seen her. Shocked even.
Then it hit her. He’d thought she was someone else. That afternoon of his wedding he’d danced with several of the young women present. Had he mixed her up with a different girl? Someone more beautiful? Someone more interesting?
Douglas continued to puff on his pipe and drink his scotch, now at a more respectable pace. He was behaving as if she were invisible. She wished she was – she’d have liked to float away and disappear for ever. The utter humiliation of it.
As though endowed with a sixth sense, Benny appeared and
refilled his employer’s glass. Evie had barely touched hers.
Douglas looked up from his stengah and studied her. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d show up,’ he said at last. ‘Thought you might get cold feet at the last minute and not get on the ship.’ He closed his eyes momentarily. ‘I’ll say one thing for you, Evelyn Fraser, you’re a brave woman.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Or possibly a foolhardy one.’
She said nothing, conscious that he was watching her. But at least he was speaking.
‘It must have taken courage to agree to throw your lot in with a man you barely know. I take my hat off to you.’ He turned his attention back to the whisky in his hand, swirling it around so the ice chinked. ‘But now that you’re here, do you still intend to go ahead with the plan?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you want to back out I’ll understand. No hard feelings. I can sort out a passage back to Blighty for you. Now that you’ve experienced something of the Straits and realise what you’d be letting yourself in for.’
A shiver ran over Evie’s skin, despite the heat of the early evening.
He was trying to back out. He didn’t want to go through with the marriage. Indignant, she decided she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. Not after she’d travelled all this way, given up her home and a perfectly good job, built up her hopes and readied herself for a new future. The gall of the man was breathtaking. She’d come here to marry him and she was jolly well going to do it.
‘I’ve seen very little of Penang so far, but it is a beautiful place. Yes, the heat and humidity have been a shock but I’m sure I’ll get used to it eventually. Even after a few days it’s already a bit easier.’
He looked at her. His eyes were an intense blue. When he frowned, as he was doing now, they narrowed and his face took on an aspect that bordered on cruel. Cold, hard, almost ruthless. It didn’t stop her being attracted to him though. She told herself she was as bad as the heroines in Mrs Shipley-Thomas’s romance novels, but couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be kissed passionately by such a man. To be desired by him. Would she ever find out?
‘My late wife found the climate here unbearable. Most Brits do. Especially the women. Maybe you’re made of sterner stuff.’ His expression implied his doubt about that.
‘I hope so. I’ll try to adapt.’
He gave a little snort of disbelief. ‘Perhaps.’
Dispirited, she wanted to run away. To rush through those French doors, out into the garden and from there into the street. To get away from the rejection. But she stayed where she was, clutching the glass of gin in which the ice had melted.
They fell into a silence that was far from companionable. To break the tension, Evie spoke again. ‘The Leightons told me you have a daughter, Jasmine. Will she be living with us? After the wedding, I mean.’
It sounded presumptuous to refer to their marriage when he had only just offered to arrange her return home, but Evie was both confused and angry. Did he want to wait, to see how they got on before making the commitment to marriage? Yet he had made a clear offer – surely he didn’t expect to back out now. Having come this far she wan’t going to let him wriggle out of it.
Evie realised she wanted to stay, in spite of Douglas’s coldness and his evident lack of any feeling for her. She was attracted to him and would move heaven and earth to make him feel something for her. It might take years, it might not happen at all, but she’d do her damnedest to make him care for her, or at least to win his respect and possibly some affection. Anything was better than the dead-end she was stuck in back in England. The future was what she would make of it. She would have to be brave. Her only chance was to speak up.
Suppressing her wounded pride, she pressed on. ‘Will I meet Jasmine soon?’ she asked, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in her voice.
‘My daughter is in a convent school. She’s settled down well. I don’t want her education adversely affected. She’s gone through a lot, losing her mother so young. The last thing she needs is constant change and disruption.’
‘But I thought you wanted to have her at home? I got the impression from the Leightons that–’
‘The Leightons don’t know everything. Even if they might think they do.’ He put his pipe down.
The third whisky was dangerously close to being finished. Douglas Barrington clearly had a great tolerance for alcohol. Evie remembered the words she’d overheard Veronica saying, about him writing the letter while the worse for drink. Maybe there was truth in that? Maybe his proposal had been a joke he hadn’t expected to result in an acceptance.
Taking a deep breath, Evie clasped her hands together and leaned forward. ‘I think we need to get a few things straight. You made me an offer of marriage and I accepted. Your proposal was unusual, but that was part of its appeal. My circumstances have been straitened since the death of my father. I have no qualifications. I have no money.’ She was conscious that she was talking at a rapid speed but wanted to get it all out before she lost her nerve. ‘Living in the countryside as a companion to an elderly lady, my horizons were narrow, and my opportunities to meet people extremely limited. Marrying you opens a door to something different in my life.’
Evie took another gulp of air. ‘We barely know each other, but I promise you, I will do my utmost not to disappoint you as a wife. Now that we’ve met again, if you want to back out of this arrangement, that’s your prerogative, but if not, I’m ready to throw in my lot with yours.’ She took a large gulp of her drink.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite a speech.’ He got up and walked over to the French windows and stood looking through the mosquito screen.
It had turned dark outside and Evie could smell the cloying scent of flowers. Douglas stood there for several minutes with his back towards her, gazing into the starlit garden.
Just as she was about to break the tension, he turned back to face her, and said, ‘Forgive me for putting it this way, but as far as I’m concerned, this is a business transaction. You appear to be a strong and healthy woman and you certainly have plenty of courage, so yes, my offer still stands. For my part, I will provide you with a home, a generous allowance, anything material you need. For your part, I will expect you to run this household and, assuming my daughter takes to you, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t live here under your care.’ He looked away. ’The offer is made in the expectation that eventually you will bear my children. I am the last of the Barringtons and I want to pass on the family name and the rubber business to my sons.
Evie blushed, but relief ran through her. ‘When will we be married?’
‘Whenever you want. In the next few days if you wish.’ He sounded as if he were discussing a trip to the bank, not the arrangements for a life-changing ceremony. ‘But I don’t want a fuss. Not a big affair. I haven’t the time. I did the big wedding thing when I married Felicity. I don’t want to go through all that again.’
Swallowing her disappointment at his dismissive and unsentimental approach to matrimony, Evie nodded. It wasn’t as if she wanted a big fancy wedding herself. After all, apart from the Leightons and the servants, she knew no one in Malaya. There were no friends and family to invite – she had none. Her mother’s absence wouldn’t be a cause to mourn.
Forcing a smile, she said, ‘It’s a deal!’ and held her hand out for him to shake.
That evening, after her conversation with Douglas Barrington, Evie dined alone. As soon as they had concluded their deal, he went off to meet someone at a place he referred to as The Club, making it clear the invitation didn’t extend to her. As he left, Badger going with him, he called back over his shoulder. ’Oh, and call me Doug. Everyone else does.’ The irritable tone indicated it was less an invitation than an order. ‘No one’s called me Douglas since my mother died.’
Was this what Evie could expect – lonely dinners alone? It wasn’t her idea of marital bliss. Even suppers with Mrs Shipley-Thomas seemed a more appealing alternative. And she didn’t like
the idea of calling him by a name that everybody else used. She was jolly well going to stick with Douglas.
Over a mostly silent breakfast the following morning, Douglas announced he was going to the mainland and would be back that evening.
‘May I come with you?’
‘No. Not a good idea. I’m going to the convent to bring Jasmine home. Better that I do it alone so I can explain what’s happening. I don’t want her upset. She’ll need a bit of time to get used to the idea of you being around. If she takes to you, she can stay, otherwise I’ll take her back after a few days.’ He finished his tea, got up from the table and left, his dog padding along behind him. He had made no eye contact with her during the entire exchange.
Evie wanted to cry with frustration. He was so closed-up, so cold, so unfeeling. The way he talked of his own daughter, of returning her to the nuns if she didn’t settle – as if she were an unwanted library book. He seemed to lack even the slightest capacity for empathy, for any appreciation of how difficult this was for her – let alone how Jasmine might feel. Pushing away the surge of self-pity welling inside her, she decided she needed to distract herself. Since Douglas had made it clear that he expected her to run the household, she might as well start there. She would ask Aunty Mimi to show her round the entire house and explain everything involved in its running.
This plan was more straightforward in its intent than its realisation. Aunty Mimi was occupied in the kitchen, ironing while Cookie was preparing vegetables, and her puzzled expression and monosyllabic responses signalled that she was less than impressed by Evie’s desire to understand the workings of the household. Retiring from the kitchen abashed, Evie concluded that perhaps her initiative had been premature. Aunty Mimi could well be unaware of her impending marriage to the head of the house. Better to wait until the deed was done and any ambiguity removed. Meanwhile, she could easily explore the rest of the house on her own.
She began downstairs. There was only one room she hadn’t yet seen. She eased open the door to find that it was a study. Dominated by a lacquered wood desk inlaid with mother of pearl, it was a beautiful room. A rich brocaded upright chair stood in front of the desk, a chaise longue, piled with linen cushions, was in front of the window, and one wall was lined with bookshelves that reached almost to the ceiling. Evie ran her fingers along the spines of the books as she read the titles. Among others, she found a full collection of Dickens, Hardy, the Brontes, Robert Louis Stevenson, George Elliot, Walter Scott, some more recent books including several Agatha Christies and a few by Somerset Maugham, as well as English translations of Victor Hugo, Tolstoy and Chekhov. Better than the fare she’d had to read to Mrs Shipley-Thomas. There was enough to keep her occupied for years. Judging by the condition of the spines and the pristine dust jackets, no one had yet got around to reading them.
