In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  But over the past few decades, a new class of Chinese merchants had arrived on the scene. Chinese-born and Chinese-educated, they spoke only Hokkien, or Cantonese, or sometimes Mandarin, and their prime loyalty was not to Britain or to the Western way, but to the China they had left behind. Their strength was in the support they derived from their respective tangs (their dialect groups) and their kongsis. They also had a freshness and vigour about them that the Peranakans had lost through generations of privilege. They were the ‘wolves from the hills’ who had descended into the rich valley, and they were cutting swathes through the existing Chinese elite. Tan Kah Kee was perhaps the most successful of these robber barons. A member of the Tan kongsi and the Tung Ann tang, he had been born in the Fukien province of China and had arrived in Malaya as a teenager. The Tung Ann are seafaring people, known for their courage, initiative and doggedness, and Kee epitomised all these characteristics. He made his first fortune during the Great War, seizing the opportunity created by escalating shipping costs to build his own shipping company. He had gone on from that to dominate the rubber and palm-oil processing industries in Malaya. When Denis and I met him on that balmy February night in 1937 he was at the peak of his power and influence, a forceful, ruddy-faced man in his sixties with a personal magnetism that crossed the cultural divide.

  Molly was in his immediate entourage and she advanced to grip my hand. ‘You are sitting with me, Nona,’ she said proprietarily. ‘I hope you don’t mind being separated from Denis, but it will not be by far. They will be speaking Hokkien at the head table, and I know you won’t understand a word.’

  I smiled my thanks. Molly was dressed in a midnight-blue cheongsam, and with her lustrous black hair piled on top of her head she looked the very picture of a Manchu princess. I had heard that she was now something of a power in the business world, having become the company secretary of all the Van der Staaten enterprises in Penang and Perak.

  There were about fifty guests present, seated at a series of tables arranged amongst the blossom trees. Denis was placed beside Kee at the top table, both of them ensconced on carved mahogany thrones. There were only two other Europeans at the dinner, honoured guests who also sat at the top table. The elder of the two was Mark Morrison, a swarthy, jovial lawyer who ran one of the biggest law firms in the Far East, while the younger, Donald Hawes, was a good-looking man in his early twenties whom I learnt worked with Denis in Guthries.

  The remainder of the guests were Chinese. I had no real knowledge of the commercial world in Malaya but even I had heard the names of many of them. Chan Kang Swi, the rubber and tin magnate. K. H. Oon, one of the wealthiest men on Penang and a benefactor of my Convent. Cheng Swee, the Singapore trading millionaire. And Lim Nee Soon, a banker so powerful he was reputed to hold half a dozen near-insolvent English companies in the palm of his hand.

  ‘We really are in illustrious company,’ I said to Molly. ‘What on earth could Denis have done for the Kuomintang that has earned him this honour?’

  Molly hesitated for only the barest moment. ‘Denis has done an awful lot for us,’ she said seriously. ‘I assume you know that he works for British Intelligence?’ When I nodded she went on. ‘He organises favours for Kuomintang businessmen. Makes sure that they get bank letters of credit, the appropriate import and export clearances, and so on. The quid pro quo is that we pass on any useful information that comes into our hands. It’s a rather ambiguous relationship, I suppose. British Intelligence think they have “penetrated” the Kuomintang, the Kuomintang think that they are using the British to help make money.’

  ‘What exactly is a bank letter of credit?’ I asked. ‘And what sort of intelligence do you give the British in return?’

  Molly looked at our neighbours at the table before replying. Both gentlemen were deep in conversation, completely indifferent to the two women in their midst. ‘A letter of credit is a piece of paper a bank gives you which you can use to purchase goods. It guarantees that the goods will be paid for. The British get the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank to hand out letters of credit to those they wish to favour. Mark Morrison acts for the bank and fixes up all the paper work. He is also Denis’s lawyer.’

  ‘Who provides the money in the first place?’ I asked. ‘It must come from somewhere.’

  Molly shook her head with a smile. ‘There is no real money involved, Nona. Once you’ve got a letter of credit in your hand you can buy the goods you want – for import or for export – and pay for them after you have sold them at a profit. I suppose the bank carries the risk that your deal might fall through, but it’s a pretty small risk. We’re all pretty good businessmen, you know.’

  ‘And what sort of information do you give in return?’ I pursued. I was determined to find out as much about Denis’s world as I could while I had the chance.

  ‘Oh, who is doing what. Who has been approached by whoever to do whatever. I can’t be more specific than that.’

  Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the first dish – the first of many dishes, each one appearing to out-rival its predecessor in taste and in the beauty of its presentation. There was birds’ nest soup, served in elegant china tureens shaped like plump pheasants. There were hundred-year-old eggs sitting on nests of seaweed and surmounted by carved jade representations of the birds which had laid them. One dish – it was poultry of some kind – came in the form of a complete peacock, with reassembled feathers and with its glorious fan tail displayed. Between courses, the waiters circulated with hot napkins, bowls of iced water, and bottle after bottle of chilled white wine. I tried to stay clear of the wine but Molly laughingly insisted and I did perhaps drink a little more than I would have wished.

  ‘I’m trying to keep a clear head,’ I complained to Molly. ‘I’m in Denis’s secret world tonight, and I do so want to learn what sort of world it is. I’d like to live in it with him one day.’

  Molly leaned across and laid a cool hand against my cheek. ‘Poor Nona. I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid you will never know all of his world. There will be some things he simply won’t be able to tell you. Not because he won’t trust you, but for your own good. You see, if you don’t know a secret there’s no way you will ever let it slip, even by accident. And there is another reason. Denis wouldn’t want you to know some of his secrets because they would be just too painful.’

  ‘Do you know any painful secrets?’ I asked. I think the wine must have addled me a little to ask such a silly question but Molly took it quite seriously.

  ‘I do, Nona,’ she said after a moment or two. ‘My painful secrets are mostly business secrets. Like knowing that a company I work closely with, and which I can’t betray, is going to bankrupt one of my friends.’ I saw her look across the room at someone at another table, and I realised in that moment just how easily one could let a secret slip.

  A gong sounded and it was time for the speeches to begin. The master of ceremonies was a cheerful, round-faced man called Hua Huan, who Molly told me was Kee’s business manager. He welcomed the guests with a short, witty speech in Chinese and then in English, and then Kee himself rose ponderously to his feet.

  To my bitter disappointment Kee spoke only in Hokkien, which I don’t understand at all. Molly saw my disappointment, and moved her chair closer to mine in order to translate. She obviously couldn’t give me his speech word for word, but she gave me the gist of what had been said every time Kee paused. In essence, Kee told the gathering that Denis was to be awarded the honour of ‘Knight on a White Celestial Charger’ for his work for the ‘Supporting Chiang Kai-shek in his Noble Work Fund’. Denis had apparently initiated a rather imaginative scheme that had raised a small fortune for the Fund over the past two years. Under the scheme, the screw-top of every bottle of Gilby’s gin sold by Guthries had carried on its inside a picture of Chiang Kai-shek. Guthries promised to pay ten cents into the Fund for every bottle top returned to it. It seemed to me a beautiful scheme, and I imagined all the Kuomintang towkeys surreptitiously che
cking each other’s drinking habits to make sure they were loyal in their choice of spirits. I also imagined the enthusiasm with which the canny Scots on the Guthries’ Board would have viewed the scheme. It was precisely what the Scots liked most: altruism wedded to a dash of sound good business.

  Rotund towkeys, dour Scots businessmen, screw-tops on gin bottles with Chiang Kai-shek’s face on them – suddenly (blame the confounded wine) the whole thing seemed so funny to me that I couldn’t help bursting into laughter. There was a horrid moment when our entire table seemed to be staring at me with scandalised eyes – and then Molly saved the day. She leapt to my side with a handkerchief, explaining that I had been overcome with emotion. The table broke into restrained, sympathetic applause.

  But Denis had not been fooled. I looked across to see him grinning at me like a schoolboy sharing a secret joke.

  Happy, silly moment.

  I changed to lemonade after that and the evening proceeded much more sensibly. Kee finished his speech and presented Denis with a framed, gold-coloured scroll inscribed in flowing Mandarin (‘The Order of the White Celestial Stallion,’ Molly whispered). There were other speeches, one or two in English, all on the theme of Denis’s providence, Denis’s wisdom, and Denis’s courage. I knew Denis was looking in my direction with his mock serious ‘I told you so’ look on his face, but I had learnt my lesson and studiously avoided his eye. Then attention turned to Donald Hawes and Mark Morrison. Donald received a smaller, less flamboyant scroll than Denis’s – perhaps the Order of the Celestial Piebald Pony or some such, I thought irreverently – and Mark Morrison received a Chinese vase. Donald had apparently been the Guthries man in charge of the Chiang Kai-shek fund-raising scheme, and Mark’s gift was for ‘kindness and magnanimity’.

  Well, I suppose that sounded better than giving him an award for being Mr Moneybags.

  Denis made the last speech of the night. He spoke confidently and easily in Hokkien, which surprised me greatly as I hadn’t known he was good at languages. Of course, I had judged him only on his Malay, which was the stilted ‘Tuans’ Malay’ he’d learnt from the Dunlops tutors. I wondered where on earth he had picked up his Chinese. There was a saying in Malaya that the only way to learn conversational Chinese was by taking a Chinese mistress, and I am ashamed to say I actually felt a stab of jealousy at the thought.

  Denis’s speech was well received, with lots of clapping and laughter. Molly translated again, but the chilled white wine was having an effect on her too and after she had laughed herself silly once or twice she lost the thread. ‘It’s all about the need to stay cheerful in the face of the Japanese attack on China,’ she summarised at the end. ‘A serious subject. But Denis says it with such lightness, such humour. He is a clever man, Nona, and you are a very lucky woman.’

  At the end of the evening banners were unfurled behind Tan Kah Kee and Denis, and professional photographers took a series of flash photographs. ‘For the Chinese papers,’ Molly explained. The banner behind Denis was a quote from Chiang Kai-shek: ‘The Japanese are but lice nibbling at the skin of China. The Communists are germs inside the body of China and must be resisted or China will surely die.’

  Then the music began. It was a Chinese band and many of the tunes were unmusical to my Western-trained ear, but every so often they played a popular English or American song. When they did, the effect was extraordinarily touching, like recognising a dear friend in a foreign country, dressed in exotic clothes but familiar for all that. At the conclusion of the evening they played the Nationalist Government’s anthem, and then ‘God Save the King’.

  As Denis and I walked back over the willow-pattern bridge, I glanced back at the pretend island that we had inhabited, and thought what an illusion the whole world really was. Only the people in it are real, even if they are at times playing parts they have been given, and I squeezed my beloved’s arm.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was just after Easter in 1937 that Dr Lowe confirmed that I was pregnant. I had suspected as much and took the news calmly, sitting in his sunny little surgery in the centre of KL with my hands folded demurely on my lap.

  ‘I assume your friend Denis is the father?’ Dr Lowe asked with a kindly smile. He was an old-fashioned doctor, who felt it his business to know as much as he could about the lives of his patients. ‘Denis is a sound chap. You must tell him as soon as possible. The baby is due in November, so you haven’t very long to sort things out.’

  He took it for granted that we would be getting married immediately. It was the done thing, with no real stigma attached to those couples whose babies arrived ‘early’. In fact it was almost fashionable in a certain strata of society, in Malaya as well as the rest of the world.

  I smiled non-committally. ‘Should I give up riding?’ I asked. I hated the thought of missing my early morning rides with Denis. The feel of clean, cool air on my face, and the rush of adrenaline as we kicked our horses into a gallop for the home leg.

  Dr Lowe pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘Oh, I rather think so. Immediately. And if I may give you a word of advice, don’t recommence the sport afterwards. It’s not the right sort of exercise for a woman at all.’ He jotted some notes on a piece of paper and then swivelled his chair around to face me. ‘In fact I want you to give up a lot of things, my dear. Smoking for a start – it’ll stunt the baby’s growth. No drinking, either, I’m afraid: there’s evidence that alcohol in the foetal blood can predispose a child to alcoholism. Now, as for yourself, I don’t want you to do any lifting or excessive bending or twisting, and I want you to take plenty of rest. I’ve jotted down some notes on the diet that I’d like you to follow . . .’

  ‘Would dancing be all right, Doctor?’ I asked. I was teasing, but Dr Lowe took me perfectly seriously.

  ‘None of this modern stuff,’ he said firmly. ‘Gives me quite a pain to think of the harm the new dances must be doing to young women. If you must dance, my dear, take an old fogy’s advice and stick to a gentle waltz.’

  I walked home, partly to break the spell he had cast that I was some kind of invalid, partly to clear my thoughts. How to tell Denis was one question, how to tell my mother quite another. I thought I knew more or less how Denis would react, but I had no idea what my mother would say or what she would do. Probably chuck me out ‘bag and baggage’, whatever that meant.

  Mother’s moods had become very difficult to cope with since Tanya had left. She was becoming more bitter and suspicious by the day. As well as being personally hurt at Tanya’s ‘betrayal’, she was feeling the financial pinch caused by her departure. Our reputation had been built on Tanya’s skill and her reputation as a hairdresser, and our customers were leaving in droves. To make matters worse, well-equipped Japanese salons were invading our turf. A new-fangled Japanese beauty salon had opened up virtually next door, a place called Madam Butterfly, which undercut our prices almost by half and which offered a far more comprehensive service than we ever could.

  Of course, Mother put all the blame on Tanya. She was developing quite a mania about the poor girl. When a customer mentioned that Tanya and Eugene had moved to Penang, Mother had rounded on her, quite red-faced with anger. ‘You think I am interested in that silly, stupid girl? She is dirt from the gutter and I don’t want her name mentioned in my hearing.’

  It was almost frightening, and gave me a glimpse of how she would react if she ever felt that I had let her down. Which was, of course, precisely what she would feel as soon as she heard about my pregnancy. I sighed deeply.

  I told Denis about the baby at the Selangor Club later that day. We had looked in on a rather indifferent tea dance and cabaret, and had escaped to the verandah to enjoy the early evening air. Denis reached for his cigarettes and selected one, frowning down at his silver cigarette case as he did so. Just for a second, for a heartbeat, I thought he was angry, but then he looked up, a smile in his vivid blue eyes. ‘I suppose we could have managed things a wee bit better,’ he said quietly. ‘But there’s no real p
roblem, is there? We were going to have children, after all.’

  ‘People will expect us to get married,’ I said.

  ‘Of course we’ll get married.’ He tapped his cigarette on the back of his hand before lighting it. ‘But we’ll do that in our own time. I want to marry you properly, Nona. In St Andrew’s Cathedral in Singapore. But there’ll be no time for that before the baby.’

  I didn’t quite know what he was getting at. ‘I wouldn’t mind a registry marriage,’ I said. ‘It’s only a piece of paper, after all.’

  Only a piece of paper. I rather liked that bit.

  ‘We’ll do it properly, in St Andrew’s,’ Denis said firmly. ‘In the meantime, as far as everyone else is concerned, we are already married. If anyone is illmannered enough to pry as to where and when we tied the knot, we’ll tell the blighters we married up country. That’ll stop any rumour-mongering in its tracks.’ He got up, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked around to my chair. ‘In the meantime, Mrs Elesmere-Elliott, I want the pleasure of this dance. We have rather a lot to celebrate.’

  The band was playing the Blue Danube waltz, the last dance on the card, and as we whirled around the floor I found that my head was spinning. Things were happening far too fast, and I felt befuddled and out of my depth. If we were supposed to be married, surely I would have to move in to Ampang Road? And where exactly were we supposed to have been married up country? Malaya was not a very big country.

  I steered Denis off the floor. ‘We need to talk,’ I said breathlessly. ‘What do you mean, we’ll simply say we’re already married? Do you want me to leave home and live with you? And will we really get married one day?’ I could feel something like panic gripping me, and held on to his arm tightly. My breath was coming too fast and I felt light-headed.