In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  Their relationship with their tuan was a special one. The English in Malaya liked to think of themselves as easy-going, but they were completely outclassed in this department by the Malays, who had made indolence into an art form. As a consequence, the English admired the Malays above both the Tamils, who worked too hard, and the Chinese, who were too clever and successful by half. For their part, the Malays preferred to work – if they had to work at all – for the English, who prized nonchalance as much as they did. But the nonchalance had to be the nonchalance of minor gods, ennobled by a sense of honour. And so wise tuans gave their syces all the tasks requiring loyalty and courage, such as carrying the guns on a tiger shoot.

  And then I had come along and spoilt it all.

  ‘Aren’t you coming into the ulu with us?’ I asked with affected surprise.

  Ismail didn’t even bother to turn to me. His answer was an elegant shrug of the shoulders.

  I thought quickly. If we could hire someone in Cameron Highlands to drive the car to Kuala Lipis, Ismail would be able to come with us. I was sure Denis would agree to such a change of plan, and I cleared my throat. ‘Ismail,’ I said sincerely, ‘I would feel much safer if you came into the ulu with us. Is it because you are needed to take the car to Kuala Lipis that you cannot come with us?’

  This time the answer was an eloquent grunt.

  I let some time go by, to suggest I was thinking. ‘If we can arrange for someone from Cameron Highlands to drive the car to Kuala Lipis,’ I finally asked, ‘could you come with us into the ulu?’

  The car’s somewhat erratic course immediately changed to a smooth, sedate progress. ‘I have a cousin in Tanah Rata who used to be syce to a tuan in KL,’ Ismail said. ‘He is a reliable man and would look after the car with great skill and dedication.’

  ‘Then so be it,’ I said. ‘I am glad that you will be beside Tuan, just in case we come unexpectedly across the tiger.’

  Ismail turned to me, his face lit by an almost beatific smile. ‘You have no need to be frightened, Mem. Tuan and I have faced many dangers in the jungle in the past. We have faced not only tigers but other dangerous animals as well. Black leopards. Elephants. Pythons. Poisonous centipedes. And the most dangerous snakes in the world, the banded krait. A krait can kill a man in less time than it takes to say the Prophet’s name.’

  I smiled back, but if Ismail was intending to ease my fear of the jungle he was going about it the wrong way.

  We left Ampang Road more or less on time, Pat sitting in front with Ismail while Denis and I lounged in the back seat. It was a comfortable twohour run to the small town of Tapah at the foot of the Main Range, and I loved every minute of it. We drove through picturesque countryside, made up of paddy fields, lakes and pretty kampongs nestling beneath shady clumps of coconut palm.

  ‘This is just beautiful,’ I sighed at one point. ‘Living in a city, one can so easily forget how lovely Malaya really is.’

  ‘And yet this is not the real Malaya at all,’ Pat said, turning around in his front seat.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘The real Malaya is the Malaya of the jungle. You’ve only got to go back a century or two and none of this scenery would have existed. It was all virgin jungle in those days. Man has only just established himself here, and he’s still just hanging on by his fingernails. There are parts of Malaya where the jungle has actually taken back some of its own.’ He pointed to a section of belukar, or secondary jungle, with many trees already forty feet tall. ‘Look at that, for example. That would have been paddy less than ten years ago. They stopped cultivation for one reason or another, and the original jungle has swept in to reclaim its own.’

  We stopped for a late lunch in Tapah, and then the road clawed upwards into a misty blue haze that covered the Main Range. Within minutes we were in a different world, a savage world of green, and black, and changing inky shadows. Pat craned around again. ‘This is the real Malaya, Nona. This is virgin jungle, untouched since time began, and it stretches all the way down the Malay Peninsula. Effectively, it’s a country within a country. There are no white man’s laws in this part of the world. Just the laws of nature.’

  I shivered despite myself. Huge, creeper-clad trees arched over the road while to our right a vast gorge opened up, surrounded by steep jungle hillsides that reached up into the clouds. The thought that we were going to wander into this nightmare world and spend a few days there suddenly appalled me and I grabbed Denis’s hand.

  He squeezed my hand and grinned. ‘Don’t let Pat’s talk scare you, darling. It might look forbidding but once you’re inside it’s just a lot of trees. And safer than Tooting High Street on a Saturday morning.’

  I grinned back but hung on to his hand like mad.

  We arrived at Tanah Rata at about four o’clock on a cool, misty afternoon, and I could not believe the contrast between this microcosm of England and the savage jungle around it. Established as a cool-weather resort at the turn of the century, Cameron Highlands existed to provide the social elite of Malaya with a refuge from the heat and humidity of the lowlands. An immaculately kept golf course lay at the heart of the resort, and all around it English-style bungalows nestled in idyllic English country gardens. Roses climbed over trellised walls, hollyhocks, delphiniums and foxgloves jostled in the manicured garden beds, and weeping willows trailed their feathery leaves into lily-choked garden ponds.

  ‘It’s pure magic!’ I breathed. ‘I was here once as a child but I was far too young to appreciate it.’

  We were booked into the Smoke House Inn, a half-timbered place every bit as Olde England as Denis had promised, and while he went over to the reception desk I wandered into the oak-beamed Den. A fire crackled in the grate, the tables were covered with back copies of Country Life, Tatler and the Illustrated London News, and through the mullioned window I could hear wood-pigeons cooing softly.

  ‘I’m afraid they’ve put us in the same room,’ Denis said, rejoining me. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Only if you snore,’ I said. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’

  Afternoon tea was served in front of the fire, and several of the other guests joined us. A retired army officer and his pretty little wife, a planter called Jock, and two sisters of a certain age who both brought their knitting. We all introduced ourselves, and the army officer’s petite little wife poured the tea.

  ‘I don’t mean to intrude, but are you two just married?’ the officer asked, cocking a friendly eyebrow at me. ‘One can generally tell, y’know. You two smile too much. In a year or so the smiles between a couple tend to stop.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever stop smiling,’ Denis said, avoiding the question neatly. ‘It’ll be a pretty wry smile at times, no doubt, but I suppose that comes with the territory.’

  It was a delightful tea, with scones and cream, and shortbread biscuits, and a plateful of hot crumpets running with butter. Pat was going down into the Telom the next morning, a day ahead of Denis and me, and he had gone into Tanah Rata to sort out his departure. He joined us halfway through tea, and immediately added to the party spirit by flirting outrageously with the maiden sisters. With his good looks and raffish sense of humour he had them choking with laughter and pink with happiness in no time.

  Denis touched my arm and we both rose together. It was nice and snug and friendly in the oak-beamed Den, but we had better things to do.

  Our room was lovely. It was at the front of the house with a bay window overlooking the golf course, a four-poster bed, a couple of armchairs in front of an open fire, and a low coffee table covered with the inevitable English magazines. Denis lit the fire and we sat in front of it, Denis’s arm comfortably around my shoulder.

  ‘This is very much like being married,’ Denis said. ‘I almost feel like asking you where the children are.’

  ‘Oh, they’re in the nursery with their ayah,’ I said promptly. ‘Cook is making them their favourite dinner. Bangers and mash, of course.’

  ‘Proper
little terrors, are they?’ Denis asked.

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘The twins? I wouldn’t call them terrors. The boy is a bit dreamy, and he’s always reading. The girl is quite different. She really is a tomboy, but I’m sure she’ll settle down.’

  ‘You can’t have twins of different sexes,’ Denis said. ‘You’d better call for a recount.’

  ‘You can have twins of different sexes,’ I said fiercely, punching his arm. ‘Of course you can. They’re not identical twins.’

  Denis still looked dubious but didn’t press the point. ‘So we have a daughter. Often quite a handful, daughters. And damned expensive when they get married.’ He suddenly squeezed my hand. ‘But if she’s anything at all like you she’s worth the effort.’

  ‘Oh, she’s nothing like me,’ I said. ‘She’s blonde and beautiful for a start, and full of confidence, and she’s got a ton of brains. I’d like her to go up to Oxford. There’s a new college there, you know, just for women.’

  We made love in front of the fire, and then sat in companionable silence watching the flicker of the flames. It was getting dark outside our window, the soft, cool darkness of the highlands. I had my head on Denis’s shoulder, and I must have fallen asleep because I woke to find myself in bed, with a blanket, a real woollen blanket, tucked around me.

  ‘Denis!’ I called, but he had gone. I don’t know why, but the fact that he wasn’t there quite threw me. The fire was nearly out, throwing an eerie glow around the room, and I was suddenly, unaccountably afraid. I got up and pulled on my clothes, breathing hard as I fumbled with the buttons and the zippers in the darkness. For some reason it was vital to find Denis as quickly as I could. I couldn’t find the switch to turn on the lights and bumped my shin heavily on the edge of the coffee table. I had to get out and blundered towards the doorway.

  The corridor was carpeted and well lit, and I stood for a moment outside our door feeling an absolute idiot. I had been hyperventilating and my head was spinning, so I stood there for a moment concentrating on slowing my breathing and settling my racing pulse. Why on earth had I panicked, I asked myself. Denis had simply gone out to see about dinner, or perhaps to talk to Pat about tomorrow.

  I had just decided to pull my socks up and go back into our room when I heard Denis’s voice. It was coming from the room immediately across the corridor. He must be in with Pat, I thought, and decided to join them. I had just put my hand on the door-handle when I heard the voice of the man with whom Denis had been speaking. It wasn’t Pat’s voice at all, and what the man was saying caused me to pause.

  ‘George Fortin is a sound enough chap but there is no point in letting him know everything,’ the man said. ‘We’ll just tell him what he absolutely needs to know. By the way, does Nona know anything at all?’

  ‘No,’ Denis said brusquely. ‘And I don’t want her to know anything.’

  ‘Good.’ The man sounded satisfied. His voice was tantalisingly familiar but I just couldn’t place it. ‘Now, as far as tomorrow goes, I’ll leave the detail to you but you’ll need to arrange some way for me to see the place and meet George Fortin. I’ll need to know the man if we go ahead.’

  Denis suddenly chuckled. ‘Poor old Pat would have a fit if he knew we’d left him out this time. I should buy him a stengah or two.’

  ‘I daresay you should,’ the man said dryly.

  I hurried back to our room, my mind spinning. That last phrase, delivered in a fruity upper-crust accent, had given me the clue I needed to place the voice. It was the retired army officer we’d just met. The man with the pretty little wife. He and Denis had acted like perfect strangers in the Den but clearly they were not. In fact, they were involved in some sort of business together – some secret business that involved George Fortin, the man who had managed the Burnbrae tea plantation before its sale.

  I changed into my nightie and climbed into bed. Why didn’t Denis want me to know what was going on? Even Pat was to be kept out. All the stories Mother had told me about Denis surfaced in my mind. It did sound awfully much as though he was involved in something illegal. But the army officer had appeared so British, so straightforward. It seemed inconceivable that he could be associated with the tongs. And Cameron Highlands hardly seemed a place where smugglers would be active.

  I heard the door creak as Denis came in. He turned on a lamp by the door and tiptoed across to the bed. I had shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep, but my heart was pounding so much I was sure he would hear it. He sat on the edge of the bed and just for a second I hoped he wouldn’t touch me. I was confused and worried, and more than a little frightened. But when he did touch me, gently on the cheek, everything seemed immediately all right again.

  I pretended to yawn, and as soon as Denis knew I was awake he threw the covers back. ‘Come on and get up, you lazy devil! It’s time to get into those glad rags of yours – we’re going to a dinner party.’

  We dined at the Cameron Highlands Hotel, and it was not a brilliant affair. Pat was there, being his normal charming self, but so were the army officer and his petite wife, and their presence made me tense and uncomfortable. I kept trying to reconcile this very ordinary little man with the voice I had heard plotting something secret. His name was John Morton, and he seemed every bit the age-retired army officer he said he was. His wife Annabel seemed equally transparent. She was almost twee, full of frivolous passions for things like bone china and miniature dogs.

  To associate either of them with conspiracy or dark, hidden secrets seemed utterly absurd, and yet something was obviously terribly wrong because they continued to treat Denis as a complete stranger even though I knew they must have been friends or colleagues.

  We had just been served our dessert when Denis turned to me casually. ‘By the way, I phoned Burnbrae to see if they’d mind us dropping in tomorrow. Do you know who’s managing the place? George Fortin! He said he’d be delighted if we called.’

  ‘But an Englishman bought the place,’ I said. ‘I was told he fell in love with it at first sight and was going to make it his home.’

  ‘He must have changed his mind,’ Denis said easily. ‘Decided to keep Fortin on as manager.’ He turned to the Mortons. ‘Nona and I are going to drop in on a working tea plantation tomorrow afternoon. Would you two care to tag along? It’ll be a good chance to see a well-run plantation in full swing.’

  I stared at Denis. In the conversation I had overheard, Morton had asked Denis to arrange some way for him to ‘see the place and meet George Fortin’. The ‘place’ was obviously Burnbrae, and Denis was doing precisely what he had been asked to do. I felt suddenly physically sick. It was partly shock at this confirmation that something underhand really was going on, but it was also bitter disappointment that Denis was capable of deceiving me.

  ‘You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost,’ Pat said. He had been passing me the cream jug, and paused with it in mid-air. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  ‘I think it must be the altitude,’ I said quickly. ‘I do feel a bit odd. I’d better pass on the pavlova.’

  ‘We’d love to come along tomorrow,’ John Morton boomed cheerfully. ‘They might even sell us some of their famous tea. I understand Cameron Highlands’ tea is every bit as good as the stuff they grow in Ceylon.’

  I sat there, poking at my pavlova, unable to eat a spoonful. I was terribly aware how vulnerable my love for Denis had made me. If he were stringing me along, playing me for an idiot, I was well and truly a lamb in the maw of a tiger.

  Denis must have known that something was wrong because he suddenly announced that I was tired and needed an early night. It was while he was away phoning for a taxi that John turned to me with what was meant to be a sly smile. ‘Early night, eh?’ he said, just loud enough for the rest of the table to hear. ‘I think this confirms my hypothesis that you two are newly married. My own guess is you’re on your honeymoon. Now, the truth: am I right or not?’

  John Morton must have known that I wasn’t married to Deni
s, so his comment could only have been a deliberate attempt to hurt me. I felt the colour draining from my face and put my knife and fork down carefully. ‘You know perfectly well we’re not married,’ I said levelly. ‘So why did you say that? To make some point or just to stick the knife in?’

  Denis had just returned and was standing behind my chair with my silk wrap. ‘Serves you right, John,’ he said quietly. ‘Come on, Nona, I think we’ll wait out in the hall.’

  John rose at the same moment I did, his face pink. ‘Here, I say,’ he blustered. ‘What on earth d’you mean? How could I know you’re not married?’

  ‘Sit down, John,’ Denis snapped. ‘You know that we’re only engaged. I told you that earlier this evening.’

  John gaped, and then sat down. ‘So you did, old boy,’ he said slowly. ‘So you did. Nona, I know this must sound lame but I honestly forgot. I meant no harm by my remark, I promise you.’

  Denis turned to me as soon as we had climbed into the taxi. ‘How did you know John knew we weren’t married?’ he asked.

  ‘I heard you two talking in John’s room,’ I said. ‘You obviously know each other pretty well. Certainly well enough to know whether we were married. And inviting him to Burnbrae was a charade, wasn’t it? I heard him ask you to take him along and introduce you to George Fortin.’

  Denis had been holding my hand but he dropped it and turned away, and we sat in silence with our backs to each other for the five-minute drive. Every minute felt like an aeon, with my heart falling steadily lower. When I finally got out of the taxi I think I was on the brink of tears.

  We went straight up to our room, and Denis closed the door behind us and turned to me. ‘Please tell me everything that you heard,’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I woke up and you were gone,’ I said. ‘The lights were out and I was disoriented. So I went looking for you. I heard your voice when I was in the corridor, and I thought you must be in Pat’s room. I was just about to go in when I heard John’s voice. He was saying something about George Fortin, and that George wasn’t to know too much. And then you said you didn’t want me to know anything either. I ran back here, scared to death. I’m so dreadfully confused, Denis. And a bit frightened. What is going on?’