In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  Tim and I had arranged to go to the Botanical Gardens on Sunday for afternoon tea at the Lakeside Tea Shop. I had decided that he should be told that things had changed between us, that we would no longer be an ‘item’, as the Hollywood magazines now put it. He had acted magnificently when I had cancelled our date the previous weekend, not asking any questions or making any churlish comments even though he was obviously puzzled and hurt. He deserved better than to learn from a third party that I was going out with Denis.

  We were sitting under a broad canvas sun umbrella on the timber deck beside the lake when I broke the news. I took a deep breath, looked him squarely in the eye, and began my prepared speech. ‘Tim, I feel I should tell you . . .’ But Tim put his hand up with a gentle gesture. ‘You don’t have to say anything, Nona,’ he said so softly I had to lean forward to hear him. ‘It’s been brought home to me pretty clearly that you love Denis, and that won’t leave you much time to tag around with me. I’m not going to make a fuss about it, darling. But can we still be friends? For ever and ever?’

  I just sat there looking at this lovely man who had come into my life when I had so much needed a friend. So solid, and thoughtful, and trustworthy. I didn’t answer his question but grabbed the hand he still held up in the air and squeezed it with all my might. ‘For ever and ever, Tim. I promise.’

  ‘Hey, I still need that hand for golf, you know,’ he grinned, but I noticed the suspicious brightness of his eyes and my answering grin was just as suspect.

  Our tea tray arrived with dainty teacups, a little Royal Albert teapot, a plate of scones and bowls of jam and Devonshire cream.

  ‘Tell me about Denis,’ I said, ‘unless it hurts you to talk about him.’ I knew it was a little insensitive to quiz Tim about the man who had supplanted him but I was desperately curious and Tim knew Denis better than anyone else I knew.

  ‘Of course it doesn’t hurt to talk about Denis,’ Tim said forthrightly. ‘He is one of the finest persons I know, and if I have to lose you, it could not be to a better man.’

  ‘Is he a bounder with women?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Some people have told me he has a bit of a reputation that way.’

  Tim flushed. ‘That is absolute rubbish!’ he said emphatically. ‘Denis is a perfect gentleman, straight out of the top drawer. Good public school – Taunton, I think – and the only reputation he has is as a first-rate sportsman and a fair-minded businessman. He’s captain of both the rugger and cricket teams at the Selangor Club, he’s played wing-forward for Malaya, and he’s a first-rate shot.’

  ‘Has he broken any hearts?’ I persisted.

  Tim looked uncomfortable on such sensitive ground. ‘Oh, one or two ladies, old enough to know better, may have thrown themselves at him over the years,’ he said, blushing slightly. ‘But Denis always behaved impeccably.’ He changed the subject quickly. ‘He’s the darling of the Scots here in KL, you know, which is pretty good evidence that he’s a sound chap. The Scots won’t tolerate a man who’s bent in any way.’

  Endorsement by the Scottish community in Malaya was worth something in the 1930s. The Scots had a fearsome reputation for Presbyterian rectitude. They had carved out a unique niche for themselves in the FMS, dominating both the rubber industry and trade. One in three planters was a Scot, and virtually all the successful trading firms – including Guthries, Dunlops, Swires and Jardines – had been established by dour, upright Scotsmen who had come East to win their fortunes.

  ‘Denis doesn’t strike me as particularly Scottish,’ I said.

  ‘The Elliotts are a Border family. As well as doing his degree up at Aberdeen, Denis played rugger for London Scottish and he’s ridden with the Deeside Hunt.’

  Then I turned a little pink myself. ‘Er . . . Denis has asked me to go up to Kuantan with him next weekend to do some sailing,’ I said, looking intently at my shoes. ‘We’d be in a party staying with some people called the Hornungs. Do you know them at all?’

  ‘Everyone knows Roger and Evelyn. Roger is in the Malayan Civil Service, and virtually runs Pahang single-handed. And Evelyn is the sweetest hostess on the peninsula. There would be nothing underhand, I can assure you.’

  Tim’s endorsement took a load off my mind. Denis had asked me to join him for the Kuantan weekend after our last ride and of course I had accepted without hesitation. But I knew Mother would put the worst possible construction on the outing and I wanted to soften the blow for her as much as I could. ‘Would you tell all that to Mother when we get home?’ I asked. ‘She can get some funny ideas but she trusts your judgement implicitly.’

  Just for a second Tim looked annoyed. ‘I know we’re only friends, Nona, but I did once have my hopes. You’re asking me to help Denis in his campaign for your heart. I think that’s a little unfair.’

  Of course it was unfair and I grabbed his hand again. ‘I was making use of you, Tim. I’m terribly sorry. I won’t do it again.’ I got up and dragged Tim up with me. ‘Let me take you to my special place.’

  We stood holding hands in the centre of my little patch of jungle. It was silent, full of mystery, and as gloomy as twilight even though it was still the middle of the afternoon. ‘I love it here, Tim,’ I said, ‘but I’m frightened, too. How can I love it and be frightened at the same time?’

  Tim looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I think the thought of danger excites you, Nona. That’s probably why you are so attracted to Denis. He has that aura, hasn’t he? That’s why you asked all those questions about him – because you’re just a little frightened.’ A trace of bitterness entered his voice. ‘He’s the tiger and I’m the tabby cat.’

  ‘I love tabby cats,’ I said. ‘But just while we’re in here, pretend to be a tiger.’

  He wrapped me in his arms and kissed me comprehensively. It was easily the best kiss we had ever shared.

  Tim did raise the Kuantan trip with Mother when we got back home, despite his earlier comment. Or perhaps because of it. ‘Mrs Roberts,’ he said as we were all seated in cane chairs on the verandah, ‘I think Nona is very lucky to be invited to stay with the Hornungs.’

  ‘Why do you tell me this?’ Mother asked quickly. ‘I know nothing of any such invitation. Why doesn’t my little girl tell me these things?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve only just been invited,’ I said airily. ‘It’s a house party over at Kuantan.’

  ‘Over at Kuantan? On the other side of Malaya? Why go so far for a house party? What is wrong with a house party in KL?’

  ‘We’ll be sailing out to the islands,’ I said. ‘And anyway, Kuantan is where the Hornungs live.’

  ‘They’re the nicest people,’ Tim cut in breezily. ‘Roger is the civil administrator in that part of the world, and Evelyn is the best hostess outside of Parry Drive.’

  ‘How do you know these people?’ Mother asked suspiciously, and I sighed. It wasn’t going to be as easy as I had hoped, even with Tim’s help.

  But in fact it was as easy as I could have hoped, because Tanya, who was now thoroughly my friend, stepped in on my side. ‘Julia,’ she said severely, ‘you must accept that your little girl has grown up. Tim would not approve anything that was not – how do you put it? – above board.’

  That’s not to say that she didn’t explode when it came out – as it had to – that Denis was driving me over to Kuantan. But it was a rather dispirited explosion, muted by Tim’s presence, and afterwards she made my favourite biscuits, cheese straws, as a peace offering.

  The following day a bulky letter from the Convent was waiting for me when I arrived home. I knew that it was bad news even before I opened it, and my heart sank when I saw my own letter to Sister Felice enclosed. The covering letter from Mother Superior was short and to the point. Sister Felice had died in her sleep a few months after I had left the school, and was ‘at peace with God, her earthly remains interred in the place reserved for Sisters of the Order of the Holy Infant Jesus in the Cathedral cemetery’.

  I had told Sister Felice that I would write regularly to her fr
om KL, even touching my heart as I had made the promise. But I hadn’t, and as a result she had died without knowing anything of my life in KL, or of my continuing love for her.

  I cried, sitting quietly in my room and trying to stifle the sobs. We didn’t have a piano at Parry Drive, so I couldn’t ease my guilt by playing her favourite tunes for her. So I made a promise to myself instead. Never again would I leave someone behind in my journey through life as I had left her behind. I would always find some way to carry them forward with me, even if it was only in a symbolic sense. How I could do that for Sister Felice I did not know, but I had a vague idea I might study and write about French history and her beloved Cardinal Richelieu, and dedicate my work to her.

  Sister Felice’s death cast a shadow that lasted all week, and I was still a little melancholy on Friday morning, the day of our trip. The run to Kuantan, over the mountainous spine of Malaya and through the jungles of Pahang, would take four or five hours and Denis had arranged to collect me from the salon about midday so that we would arrive in daylight. He could see I was a little down as I came out to the car with my overnight bag over my shoulder, and put an arm around me. ‘Not in the mood for a silly jaunt?’ he asked quietly. ‘It’s a jolly long way and if you’d prefer I could phone Roger and tell him we’ve had to stay in KL for the weekend.’

  ‘If you cancel this trip on me, Denis, I’ll have you chucked into the Klang River with concrete boots,’ I said in my best American gangster voice. ‘So let’s hit the gas.’

  We roared up and over the Main Range with the Alvis growling like a well-bred tiger and were soon descending into Pahang, with the rich green jungle of the lowlands crowding the road and the air full of butterflies. We stopped for a late picnic lunch just before Mentekab, and then pushed on. As we approached the East Coast the steamy air grew cooler, and the wall of jungle gave way to open paddy fields and graceful rows of nipah palms.

  We picked up some fruit at the Cold Storage shop at Kuantan before taking the Coast Road north to Berserah where the Hornungs lived. Denis felt that fresh European fruit – apples and oranges – were more appreciated as an arrival gift than flowers in a country where flowers were ten a penny and English-style fruit as scarce as hens’ teeth.

  The Hornungs’ home was right on the beach, a large, double-storeyed structure with a pillared porch out the front and surrounded by wellmanicured gardens. The magnificence of the place made me catch my breath, and I was so nervous getting out of the car that I spilled the bag of fruit I’d been carrying on my lap. It was a dreadful moment, with the houseboy scrabbling about at my feet collecting apples and oranges as Denis introduced me to our hosts. Roger and Evelyn looked like a couple out of the Tatler, Roger tall and elegant in a white sharkskin suit, Evelyn slim and dainty in an expensive-looking creation made up of different coloured silks.

  ‘We’ve been so anxious to meet you,’ Evelyn said looking me up and down with wide-open, appraising eyes. ‘Denis has been broadcasting your charms up and down Malaya. He’s made me feel quite jealous.’

  I smiled back uncertainly, then nearly stumbled on an orange.

  Roger steadied me firmly. ‘Welcome to Berserah, my dear. We’ve put you in a room overlooking the sea. You’ve had a long drive so why don’t you go and get freshened up? We’ll be having makan kechil on the front patio at about seven.’ I liked him immediately, a quiet, shy, steady man with a suggestion of fussiness that was reassuring.

  Denis gave my hand a squeeze as we parted, and I followed the boy up to my room. As we were mounting the broad marble staircase there was a peal of laughter from Evelyn and I looked back to see her hanging round Denis’s neck, her face tilted extravagantly up to his, laughing into his eyes.

  My room was small but comfortable, with French doors opening to a balcony. I stepped outside, breathing deeply to steady myself. I had been ruffled by the stupid accident with the fruit, and perhaps even more by Evelyn’s intimate laughter with Denis. A pearl-grey dusk had fallen, lending an opalescent, fairytale aspect to the scene. Smooth lawns swept down from the house to a beach that curved away on either side, while about a mile away to the right the lights of a small kampong glittered from behind a screen of coconut palms. The sea was flat calm, a milky expanse that stretched away into infinity.

  Even during the few minutes I stood out on the balcony the scene darkened perceptibly, so that the bushes and trees of the garden became dark mysterious shapes, and the coconut palms along the waterfront black cut-outs against the lighter sky. I shivered slightly, suddenly feeling alone and vulnerable, then hurried inside, closing the glass doors against the gathering night.

  The plan was for us all to gather at dinner, and then to make a foray to the Kuantan Club to enjoy its Friday night dance, famous throughout Malaya. There were eight of us in the party: Roger and Evelyn, Denis and me, Mac and a tow-headed young nurse from the KL General Hospital called Fiona, and Malcolm Bryant and his sister Dorothy. Dorothy was the oldest woman in the group, a ‘Fishing Fleeter’ in her thirties who had come out from England five years before in a so-far unsuccessful search for a husband.

  Dinner in the Hornungs’ huge, formal dining room was not a success, at least as far as I was concerned. In fact for me it was a disaster. To start with I’d dressed for dancing while everyone else had dressed formally. ‘Oh, we always change before going into Kuantan,’ Evelyn had said airily when I stuttered my apologies. ‘I should have told you but I quite forgot.’

  And then I nearly choked on a piece of lamb. My throat was dry from nerves when Mac had called on me to propose a toast (‘You’re the youngest here, my dear – Vice President of the Mess’) and I’d tried to swallow the meat I’d been chewing too quickly. I’d turned beetroot red before Denis cleared the problem with a whack on the back, and I sat there for the rest of the meal as quietly as a mouse.

  ‘Can you dance?’ Evelyn called out to me across the table over coffee. ‘I hope you can, darling, because our crowd has got a bit of a reputation to uphold.’

  ‘Not terribly well,’ I said weakly. I loved dancing, and had done rather well in the Convent dance classes, but the Sisters’ repertoire was rather dated and I feared I wouldn’t be up to the latest steps. I looked across to Denis for support, but he had turned to Evelyn and was saying something to her quietly. By the delighted look on Evelyn’s face, and the way she covered her smile with her hand, I guessed it was something private and funny.

  So I looked at Malcolm for support instead, and found it. He smiled reassuringly at me, shaking his head gently as if to say it was not important how I danced.

  At about nine o’clock we packed ourselves into the Alvis and Malcolm’s Morris Cowley, and sped the ten miles or so into Kuantan. The club was a grand affair, the biggest in Pahang, and it was crowded as we made our way to the ballroom.

  My debut on the dance floor with Denis was a nightmare. I was so tense that I could hardly move one foot after the other, and then I lost track of the rhythm altogether and stepped heavily on his foot. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ Denis said kindly as if it were his fault, which made things worse. Finally the bracket came to an end and we retreated to our table, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

  ‘What a lovely pair,’ Evelyn said lifting a champagne glass. ‘Where did you learn such skill, Nona?’ Then she pounced and whisked Denis onto the floor.

  I sat there, trying not to see how well the two of them danced together and feeling absolutely awful. This was the worst possible start to the weekend. I knew that from now on I would be angry and upset: angry with myself for being such a broken reed, and upset that Denis appeared to have fallen for Evelyn’s wiles so completely.

  ‘Don’t worry, Nona,’ Malcolm said quietly into my ear. ‘This modern stuff has the best of us beaten at times. What say we wait until they play something worth getting up for, and then you and I will show them how it’s really done?’

  ‘You’re still looking out for me, aren’t you, Malcolm?’ I said, touching his hand. He looke
d a little nonplussed so I went on. ‘Denis told me that you kept a bit of an eye out for me after Robbie died. It’s nice to know that someone cared.’

  Malcolm smiled. ‘You’re very much worth looking after, Nona,’ he said. ‘You were always pretty but you have grown into a very lovely young woman indeed. You’re going to make someone extremely happy one day.’

  ‘You’re embarrassing me,’ I said. ‘Not that I really mind. I need a little bit of morale-building.’ I picked up my glass of champagne and held it up to him. ‘To my guardian angel.’ Then I gulped down the whole glass in one go, keeping my eyes fixed on Malcolm’s as I did so.

  I decided that if Denis was going to flirt with Evelyn, I was going to flirt with Malcolm.

  The band struck up ‘Pride of Erin’, a peace offering to the older generation present. The Sisters had not only known ‘Pride of Erin’, it had been their clear favourite. I knew I could dance it beautifully, and stood up with my hands extended towards Malcolm.

  Malcolm was very good, light on his feet and with a magnificent sense of rhythm. We danced beautifully together, quickly earning pride of place in our particular circle of dancers. I kept looking for Denis, hoping he was watching us, but when I did spot him he was back at our table with Evelyn, his head down and close to hers.

  So I danced on. The music changed tempo to the jitterbug songs of the twenties, then to the very latest airs, but my blood was up and I danced on as if my life depended on it. Soon my enthusiasm, and Malcolm’s skill, had cleared a space for us and we danced alone in the middle of the floor to the heady sound of people clapping us in tune with the music.

  ‘Enough!’ Malcolm cried finally. We were both streaming with perspiration and he led me straight out onto the club’s open verandah. It was dark, and a cool breeze came in off the sea.

  ‘Stay here and I’ll get us a drink,’ Malcolm said proprietarily. I stood in the dark, my heart beating with a heady mixture of triumph and excitement, until he returned with two long glasses of champagne. ‘To us,’ he said. ‘Whae’s like us? Naebody!’