In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  Denis stood frowning for a moment, and then took me gently by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. ‘I see I’m going to have to tell you a few things, my dear. Perhaps not everything because I simply can’t, but enough to be going on with. I won’t have you scared like this.’

  We sat down before a restocked fire, each with a small glass of Gilby’s gin in our hand. ‘You remember the proposed stay-behind parties I told you about on Palau Orang Rau, don’t you?’ he began. ‘Small bands training to stay behind in the jungle if the Japs overrun the place. Those parties will need to have access to secret re-supply dumps, and a few of us have decided that now is the time to get those dumps in. The earlier the better – it’s no good leaving it until the Japs are on their way. So we’ve been busy putting dumps in at strategic points. North of Kuantan, for example, because Kuantan is where an invading force from the north-east would bring its stuff ashore. And here in Cameron Highlands, because it’s smack in the centre of the ulu. It’s one of my jobs to help get the dumps in and to set up communication networks with trustworthy locals.’

  Denis paused to flick open his silver cigarette case. He offered me a cigarette, then selected one for himself. ‘Well, we’ve been a bit stumped about where to set things up here in Cameron Highlands. Then you jogged my memory by mentioning Burnbrae the other evening. I realised how absolutely perfect it would be for our purposes. It’s got Sakai trails radiating into the Telom where the stay-behind parties would hide, and George Fortin – who I knew was still managing the place – would be perfect as the dump’s custodian. He’s married to a Chinese girl, and well integrated in the local community.’

  ‘So you are a British secret agent?’ I asked. ‘Are you in MI6?’

  Denis shook his head. ‘It doesn’t quite work like that, Nona. The chaps in MI6 and MI5 are essentially desk wallahs. Bureaucrats. They shove bits of paper back and forth. Can you imagine me pushing a pen? My involvement with Intelligence is on a strictly amateur basis. Chaps I know ask me to do things that need doing, and I do my best to give them a hand.’

  I flung my arms around him and gave him a hug. ‘You don’t know how relieved I am,’ I said. ‘I was thinking all sorts of awful thoughts. To be perfectly frank, I rather like the thought that you are a secret agent. It gives you a certain je ne sais quoi.’

  Denis chuckled. ‘I’ve just told you I’m not a secret agent, you goose. I sometimes help out, that’s all.’

  I hitched myself closer on the sofa. ‘How does John Morton fit in?’ I asked curiously. ‘I must say I don’t really like the man. He’s got a cruel streak.’

  Denis gave a wry grin. ‘Morton’s part of the Intelligence bureaucracy. His people know about the project to get a dump into Burnbrae and want to be part of the action. Probably because they don’t quite trust us.’

  Later, I laid my hand on Denis’s chest. ‘So there is to be an arms dump at Burnbrae?’ I asked. ‘When you put it in, tread carefully, darling, because you will be treading on my dreams.’

  He looked at me curiously, so I told him all about Happy Valley, and the dreams I had had of turning it into a farm, and of living there one day with him.

  I slept like a log that night, curled up against Denis with the unfamiliar blanket tickling my chin. When I woke, I lay for long minutes staring up at the Tudor beams above me, replaying in my mind all the things that Denis had said the night before. The awful feeling of confusion and betrayal had evaporated, but I still felt a thin thread of concern.

  I had read Oppenheim’s Spymaster and Somerset Maugham’s Ashenden stories, and I shared every schoolgirl’s admiration for the dangerous, glamorous life of the secret agent. But that was in books, not in real life. In real life, it seemed to me, it was rather different. Banal, perhaps even shoddy. Obviously it involved people like Morton, who lied through their teeth and were paid to do so. And no doubt it was dangerous. Secret agents were fair game for the other side, even in peacetime. I remembered a line in one of the stories I had read: something about secret agents always being in the thick of battle, even when they were taking their dogs for a walk.

  Well, I didn’t want Denis gunned down one day when we were taking our dog for a walk. I shivered at the thought of always having to be on one’s guard, always half expecting a bullet in the back.

  Denis had woken up and he rolled on to his elbow to look at me. ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ he asked. ‘You look awfully serious.’

  I smiled at him. ‘If you are a British secret agent, why did you help Nathan Srinivasan to escape?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t you sworn to uphold the law or something?’

  Denis gave me a playful punch. ‘How often must I tell you that I’m not a secret agent?’ he said.

  I reached out and smoothed an unruly strand of hair from his eyes. ‘You will always take care of yourself, won’t you, Denis?’ I asked seriously. ‘Please don’t let someone shoot you in the back while you’re taking the dog for a walk.’

  We had breakfast down in the oak-beamed dining room, and I was pleased to see John Morton looking suitably contrite. He and Annabel finished their eggs and bacon before us and came across to our table on the way out.

  ‘I really am sorry about my stupid comments last night,’ John said. ‘I was a silly ass. Too much whisky and soda.’ He offered a hand. ‘Can we start afresh?’

  I took his hand with cool self-possession. ‘Why don’t we?’

  Pat didn’t join us for breakfast but popped in to chat over coffee. He was leaving for the Telom about mid-morning, and he explained to Denis the arrangements he had made about our guides. We were to meet them on the Brinchang road at dawn the next day, and start our walk while it was still cool.

  Then Pat turned to me. ‘I will have a little house built for you and Denis,’ he said. ‘All made of bamboo cut from the jungle. Until you’ve slept on a split-bamboo floor, you don’t know what a truly comfortable bed feels like.’ With a belt of ammunition across his shoulder and his pipe sticking out of his breast pocket he looked like a cross between a pirate and an Oxford don.

  I noticed that the two spinster sisters couldn’t keep their eyes off him, and one of them blew him a kiss. And blushed scarlet when he solemnly returned it.

  Denis and I played golf that morning. The course at Cameron Highlands is a beautiful one, with lush emerald fairways and velvet greens shaded by giant jungle trees, and though I was a rank beginner I didn’t disgrace myself. In fact, I matched Denis stroke for stroke on the final hole and when I sank the ball to tie it with him he wanted to swing me into the air in celebration. I laid a restraining hand on his chest: ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘They’re watching us from the clubhouse and I want them to think that’s how I always play.’ Life was a game again, and a lovely game.

  After lunch, pleasantly tired by our round, we rested in our room, reading as a honeysuckle-scented breeze drifted in through the wide-flung window. After a while I put my book down and just lay there, listening to the pigeons until I drifted into sleep.

  I dreamt of Happy Valley. I was walking down the ferny gully with Robbie. When we arrived at the edge of the meadow I saw a lovely toy tiger stretched out on the grass. It was one of the cuddly Chad Valley tigers I had often seen in the toy section of Robinsons Department Store. It was almost life size and made of soft fur with a lugubrious, friendly face and button eyes. I thought Robbie must have bought it for me as a surprise and ran towards it gleefully. Robbie shouted something and I turned to look back at him but he was gone. When I turned back to the tiger I had the shock of my life. It had become real: a huge beast, walking slowly towards me with its tail flicking from side to side and the sunlight dancing on its rippling coat. I particularly noticed its eyes, glittering amber discs staring deep into my soul. For a second or two I stood petrified, then turned and tried to run. I sensed rather than saw the tiger spring and a scream choked in my throat.

  ‘Nona!’ Denis was hugging me, nestling my face against his shoulder to muffle my cries. ‘What on earth is wrong? Are yo
u having a nightmare?’

  I lay in his arms, my thoughts all jumbled and disordered, the perspiration drying on my forehead. I didn’t want to tell Denis about my dream. The symbolism seemed quite clear to me. The tiger represented my fear of the coming trip into the ulu, and if Denis guessed that he would blame himself and cancel the trip. And I would have failed to be the person I wanted to become. So I just shook my head and smiled.

  ‘I would kill for a cup of tea,’ I said.

  We were due at Burnbrae at four, and before we went I asked Denis how I should behave. ‘I mean, I know why we’re visiting,’ I said. ‘To see if it’s a good place to have your arms dump. Should I pretend I don’t know about all that?’

  Denis was putting on a clean shirt and he paused for a moment, one arm in its sleeve, one arm out. ‘I’ve told John Morton that you know all about what we’re doing,’ he said. ‘He’s a fussy little man and he’s a quite upset, but he’s just going to have to lump it.’

  ‘You didn’t have to tell him for my sake,’ I said. ‘Now that I know what’s going on I’m quite prepared to pretend complete ignorance.’

  Denis finished putting his shirt on and began buttoning it up. ‘You are one of us now, Nona. Unless there is a damned good reason to keep something from you, you have every right to know what I’m doing.’

  ‘I’ll never let you down,’ I said. ‘They’d have to stick burning matches under my nails to get a word out of me.’

  Annabel didn’t come with us to Burnbrae, complaining of a sudden headache. I didn’t blame her in the least. She would know that I was now aware she’d been acting the night before, and it would obviously be a strain to continue the charade. So she waved a limp hand from the hotel porch as we set off, one arm theatrically across her brow like an actress in a B grade movie.

  The short drive to the plantation was completely strange to me, and even when we arrived I didn’t recognise the manager’s bungalow. In my memory it had been a cramped, crowded and rather dark house, but we drove up to a long, ranch-style home set in a spacious, well-kept compound. George and his Chinese wife met us on the verandah. George was a short, balding man with tanned, rather saturnine features while Li was a tiny woman with wispy white hair. They were both friendly, though Li’s complete lack of English made conversation a little difficult.

  Tea had been set on the verandah, and we sat around a lacquered Chinese table while a boy hovered with the teapot and a tray of biscuits. ‘I remember you well, Nona,’ George said. ‘You look very much the same. Even though you were only . . . what, six or seven when I last saw you? You’ve just grown taller.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember you at all, Mr Fortin,’ I said, ‘though I do remember lots and lots of children being here. Where are they all?’

  George laughed. ‘Please call me George. Children grow up, Nona. It’s been ten years since you and Robbie visited. All our children have flown the coop, except for the youngest two. They’re with an aunt over in Ringlet for the day.’

  ‘Where are the older ones?’ I asked. ‘Are they still in Cameron Highlands?’

  ‘All studying at the Technical School in KL,’ George said rather proudly. ‘They’re aiming for jobs as clerks, either in the Administration or in businesses. Nothing here for them, Nona. The plantation may be going well just now, but that won’t last. I’ve seen these cycles too often in the past to be fooled. There will be another downturn in a year or so.’

  ‘In a year or so there will be a world war,’ Denis said quietly.

  John Morton leaned forward and replaced his teacup on the lacquered tabletop. ‘I agree. There will be a world war and Japan will be in it. We’re letting them get away with Manchuria just as we let Hitler and Mussolini get away with blue murder. So they’ll reach for more and more until someone cries halt – and then they’ll trot out their army.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll get this far?’ George asked, gesturing to the peaceful tea-clad hillsides beyond the verandah railings.

  ‘No doubt about it, I’m afraid,’ John said. ‘Which reminds me – what do you intend doing if the Japs come to Cameron Highlands?’

  George didn’t hesitate. ‘I wouldn’t run away, that’s for sure. This is my country now. Everything I have on earth is here. My living, my wife, my family.’

  ‘They’d intern you,’ John said abruptly. ‘No two ways about it. If they didn’t kill you first. Look how they’ve treated everyone else they’ve conquered. It’s in their nature to despise anyone they can beat, and treat them accordingly.’

  George smiled complacently. ‘I’d melt into the countryside,’ he said. ‘Wear local clothes, live in an atap hut, speak Cantonese. Sieg Heil them if it saved my skin.’ He turned serious. ‘I have a score of relatives around these parts. Or at least Li has, which means I do too. I have – let us say – contingency plans.’

  ‘Just what I was hoping to hear,’ John said rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. ‘Now we’d better get down to business.’ He shot me a quick, rather irritated glance. ‘Nona is completely in the picture, George, so we can talk freely. Have you any idea where we might bury this stuff for the stay-behind people?’

  ‘I know the perfect place,’ George said. ‘It’s a small valley, surrounded by jungle and with an access track running straight past my office window, which will let me keep an eye on anyone going in or out. And the Sakai trails run right up to the valley floor.’

  I was quite sure he was talking about Happy Valley.

  We finished tea, then George pulled on mosquito boots and took us to have a look at his ‘perfect place’. At first I had difficulty working out where we were going as everything looked bigger and wilder than I remembered. But once we got into the ferny gully I knew exactly where we were. It was cool under the shade of the trees, almost cold, and I took Denis’s hand and held it tightly.

  Then the meadow opened up below us, as vividly green and beautiful as I had remembered. It was nearly five o’clock and the shadows of the forest stretched across the grass, making it look like manicured parkland. This was supposed to be where I was going to establish Happy Valley farm, and all of a sudden I felt dreadfully sad.

  ‘Perfect’, I heard John say quietly. Denis had said that Morton was an Intelligence bureaucrat, and that the bureaucrats were not entirely happy with the plan to put in supply dumps. That may have been so but it was clear that John now had the bit well and truly between his teeth. ‘It’s absolutely perfect, don’t you agree, Denis?’ he asked again.

  But Denis had been studying my face and he didn’t answer immediately. My lip was trembling and though I tried hard to prevent it tears had gathered on my eyelids. It should not have been like this. It shouldn’t have been like this at all. Denis and I should have been standing here alone, with no talk of guns or war, looking at the site of our future home.

  ‘It’s your Happy Valley, isn’t it Nona?’ he asked. ‘The place you told me about. Is it that you don’t want us to put our guns in here?’

  I didn’t answer but looked away, across the golden meadow to the green wall of the jungle.

  ‘I say, it’s perfect, isn’t it, Denis?’ John insisted. ‘Absolutely perfect.’

  But Denis shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s not, John. It won’t do at all. There are lots of reasons and I’ll explain some of them to you later.’

  John’s face suffused angrily. ‘Here, I say . . .’ he began, but Denis had already taken my arm and started back up the gully.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pat Noone had said that the ulu was a country within a country. If that is so, we entered that other country early the next morning as mist still shrouded the tops of the jungle trees and birds filled the air with their dawn chorus.

  The relief syce had dropped us at the five-mile peg on the Brinchung road where two Temiar waited for us at the jungle edge. They were fine, healthy-looking young men clothed only in loincloths and carrying their long blowpipes with easy grace. Both had wicked-
looking parangs hanging at their waists. Denis already knew them – Uda, the chief guide, had been one of Pat’s first contacts with the Temiar, while Busu was one of Anjang’s brothers.

  We set off without ceremony, Uda leading, with Denis and me in the middle of the group and Ismail and Busu bringing up the rear. Busu had been given the task of carrying most of the gear and had grumbled at first, but there is an order of seniority in all societies and the Temiar are no exception.

  The first half-mile was horrible. The Temiar like to hide their jungle trails from the outside world and they do this by the simple expedient of making the first part of every trail something of an obstacle course. We clambered over damp, slippery rocks, plunged into fern-choked gullies, and forced our way through patches of chest-high lallang, the razor-edged native grass of Malaya. But after this torrid baptism of fire we came to the Sakai trail proper – a real pathway through the forest, firm-footed and almost free of undergrowth.

  ‘This path looks as though it’s been regularly maintained,’ I puffed gratefully, then saw the reason why. Uda and Busu had their parangs out and both slashed regularly at any encroaching vegetation.

  ‘Their paths through the jungle are their lifelines,’ Denis said, gesturing to the Temiar. ‘They ascribe almost religious significance to them. Pat once told me that if a Temiar dreams that a particular pathway is overgrown, it is seen as a warning from the gods and the whole community turns out to do penance by clearing it.’

  We were high above the Telom Valley now, walking easily through tall, cool jungle. In the distance there was a sound for all the world like the sound of naughty schoolchildren on a lark, and I asked Denis what it was. ‘Monkeys,’ he said. ‘They sound like schoolchildren and they often act like them. If they take it into their heads to have a little fun they’ll pelt anyone below with nuts and fruit and kick up the dickens of a row.’