In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  That evening, Denis and I took our usual walk to Mata Ikan through the coconut groves, past Wing Lung’s huge, walled-off estate, and then back along the beach. I couldn’t help talking about Catherine and Robert all the way. About what a nice couple they were, how much they were in love, and how I’d like to see them again. ‘I’d like Margaret to meet Catherine,’ I said as the lights of Whitelawns came into sight. ‘I’m sure they would get on. Could we perhaps have them around for dinner one night?’

  Denis smiled. ‘Why don’t we ask them to join us and a few of the others for dinner on the kalang?’ he suggested.

  The kalang was the product of another of Chu Lun’s schemes. About a month before he’d dropped by for a chat, clearly with something on his mind. ‘Tuan, you know I am a cautious man where business is concerned,’ he began.

  Denis said nothing. Nothing was expected of him. Chu Lun had merely articulated the statement to set the scene, to establish his credentials as a man of probity and good sense. It probably meant that Chu Lun was going to try and involve the Three Man Kongsi in something particularly risky or bizarre.

  ‘I have heard from my cousin, Ah Cheng, from Muar,’ Chu Lun proceeded, then sighed deeply. I couldn’t tell whether the sigh implied that Ah Cheng was ill, or in need of money. The second option seemed rather likely.

  But no, I was wrong. ‘That man has so much money, Tuan, that he cannot sleep at night for fear that robbers will ambush him for his wealth, and kill him and his family. What a dreadful thing to have on your mind, day and night, week after week. It would make a man’s life hardly bearable.’

  Denis stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Why doesn’t he put his money in the bank?’ he asked reasonably.

  Chu Lun looked slightly taken aback. ‘It is not the security of the money that has had me thinking, Tuan, but the way my cousin made his money.’ Ah, now we were getting to the point!

  ‘Smuggling?’ Denis asked, again rather reasonably. There was a lot of opium brought in through Muar. The place was quite often in the newspapers, with reports of drug hauls by the police or the occasional drug-related murder.

  Chu Lun shook his head emphatically. ‘Something much more profitable. My cousin has made his money by running a restaurant, Tuan. A very special type of restaurant. It is on a wharf, over the ocean. People come from miles around to sit on my cousin’s wharf and eat fresh seafood and other dishes. His wife’s cousin, Muh Han, has great skill in preparing food. But it is where the restaurant is, on a wharf, that is the real reason for its success. People like to eat over the ocean. It makes the seafood taste better because as you eat you can watch the waves beneath you. And it is cool over the water. Also, no doubt, there are no mosquitos because mosquitos stay away from the sea.’

  We sat on, absorbing this interesting but hardly earth-shattering information. Denis lit another cigarette and offered one to Chu Lun. He was, like me, rather at a loss.

  Chu Lun cleared his throat. ‘As a member of the Three Man Kongsi, I thought I should tell you this, Tuan, because our kongsi could also be making such money.’

  ‘How could we make such money, Chu Lun?’ Denis asked. ‘As far as I am aware, the kongsi owns no wharf.’

  Chu Lun drew on his cigarette appreciatively, allowing the moment to drag on, our interest to mount. ‘We may not have a wharf, Tuan,’ he said finally, with the flourish of a man producing a rabbit from a hat, ‘but we do have a kalang. Or we soon will, for there is one for sale just off Whitelawns, and the owner is asking only a paltry five hundred dollars. It would be the most perfect restaurant in all of Malaya!’ As he finished speaking, Chu Lun stood up and gestured seawards to where the lights of a kalang burned a mile or so offshore.

  Denis smoked on quietly, then stubbed out his second cigarette. ‘It would not work, Chu Lun,’ he said almost regretfully. ‘To run a restaurant you need a licence and all sorts of approvals. Kalangs are dangerous as well as hard to get to. If the sea got up, your guests would be stuck out there. If a storm came and swept away your restaurant, where would you be then? Well and truly in the soup, I’m afraid.’

  The Three Man Kongsi did not buy the kalang, but Denis and I did. Not in order to start a restaurant, but for the sheer fun of owning such an extraordinary thing. We let the men from the kampong fish from the kalang and keep the profits, on the understanding that they supplied Amah with all the fish she needed, and that they cooked us a meal out on the kalang whenever we wished. At first, we would simply paddle out in our canoe across the still, black water, and sit at a makeshift table over the sea while one of the fishermen cooked our curry ikan over a bed of hot coals. But later, when the magic had gripped us, we organised dinner parties on the kalang. Chu Lun would take out a table and chairs during the afternoon, and set up lanterns, and we would have a fairytale evening as the stars rolled above us and the sea sighed against the poles below. During coffee on these occasions we would douse the lights and admire the phosphorescence, writhing and twisting like sheets of glowing green silk just below the surface of the sea.

  I sent off the invitations to our kalang dinner party the next day, writing them out on parchment paper at the desk in my sewing room. It was still unusual for Europeans to invite Chinese to social functions in their homes and so I added a personal note to Catherine. I didn’t want her to think this was a ‘duty’ invitation, something to do with my support for Dalforce. In her acceptance, Catherine added her own little note:

  I am so glad you have made it clear that the dinner has nothing to do with Dalforce. I love Robert dearly and because of that I will always help him in his work with Colonel Dalley. But as you have obviously guessed, I hate him being involved in war work! I am so happy that we will be meeting just as friends at your dinner party.

  Amah and I had tremendous fun planning and arranging the evening. We had a proper table and chairs taken out to the kalang, and rigged a canvas shelter in case of rain. I bought fifty Chinese lanterns, and arranged for one of the fishermen’s daughters to tend them on the night. Finally, we decided on the menu. It was to be based on freshly caught fish, of course, and to make sure it was cooked to perfection we hired one of the Raffles’ seafood chefs for the evening.

  My one great worry was that rain might spoil things for us, and when a sumatra blew up during the afternoon on the day of the party, I almost took to my bed with mortification.

  ‘It is July, darling,’ Denis chided. ‘We have a sumatra most afternoons at this time of year.’ It didn’t help to be told that our kalang plan had probably been a silly idea to begin with.

  But the wind fell, the rain stopped, and by five o’clock the sky was a glorious cobalt dome and the sea a sheet of burnished bronze.

  We met for drinks on the verandah at Whitelawns, then ambled down to the beach where a large motorised sampan waited to take us out to the kalang. Our guests were the Deans, the Kohs, Tanya and Eugene, and the Lyons. Chu Lun had spread cushions in the sampan, and as I reclined in the stern I couldn’t help thinking what a picture we made as we motored out to sea, the men in black bow ties and bum-freezers, the ladies in their dinner gowns. I wore the blue dress I’d bought in Bond Street, the sleeves now removed for coolness.

  The kalang had been transformed, with a forest of paper lanterns swaying in the evening breeze and the table glittering with our best crockery and silver. There was to be no fishing that night so we had the deck to ourselves. It was delightful sitting out in the open, the only sound the soft muttering of the sea amongst the piles and the creak of the bamboo decking as the structure swayed with the tide.

  Margaret and Catherine hit it off immediately. They were both interested in photography and Catherine had brought her camera with her, so the two of them put their heads together planning an exposure shot of the evening shoreline. I took the opportunity to catch up with Tanya.

  ‘Are you happy?’ I asked quietly, and her open smile told me she was very happy indeed.

  ‘I didn’t think life could possibly be like this,’ she sai
d. ‘And I owe it all to Eugene.’ She suddenly looked up into my eyes. ‘Surely there must be a price tag on such happiness?’

  ‘I think there probably is a price,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘But I think – I hope – that one can pay it in small instalments. Perhaps by giving the sort of happiness one has received to someone else.’

  Tanya sighed. ‘I know what would make Eugene happy. If I were to give him a baby. But I still can’t, Nona. I just can’t. Do you think that makes me a selfish beast?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘You can only give what you have to give.’

  ‘You are being far too serious, ladies,’ Ivan interrupted. ‘Denis has opened a very fine bottle of real French champagne. I know it is real French champagne because I had the foresight to bring it along myself. It is my command that you try a glass.’

  The party began to liven up, materially assisted by Ivan’s Bollinger. Someone started telling jokes and laughter rang out over the water. ‘Shush!’ Alec said suddenly, and when we had all shushed he pointed out across the black water. ‘We’ll attract every German U-boat this side of Suez!’

  Conversation turned to the war, as it was bound to, and I turned to Catherine. ‘I know you hate Robert being tied up with the army, but surely you feel proud as well? He looks awfully dashing in that uniform of his with the red flashes on his shoulders and the Tikus badge.’

  ‘To tell the truth, if I had half a chance I’d get all his army stuff – his uniform and his silly tin hat – and I’d burn the lot in our compound,’ Catherine said. ‘And then I’d tell him to grow up and stop playing soldiers, and be a good architect instead. You know that he is a very good architect? But he doesn’t have time to finish his exams because of all the time he spends at Holland Road.’

  ‘Before I can concentrate on being an architect, I need to help build a new Singapore,’ Robert said. ‘And if that means fighting, then of course I must do my share of fighting. Not for glory, Cath. Because it’s my duty.’ Catherine didn’t answer him but I saw her bite her lip so hard one could see the mark she made.

  ‘I tried to join up,’ Eugene put in quietly. ‘The Territorials. Just as a lowly private. But they wouldn’t have me. They said I had flat feet, of all things! I told them I didn’t want to fight with my feet but it didn’t do any good.’ Despite the lightness of his tone the rejection had clearly hurt him badly, and he helped himself to a long drink of Bollinger.

  ‘They also serve who stand and wait,’ Alec said helpfully, but Eugene shook his head.

  ‘I don’t want to stand and wait,’ he said forcefully. ‘I’m as much a man as the next fellow, and I’d just like a chance to prove it. It is humiliating to walk around town in civvies when all the decent chaps are in uniforms.’ I saw Tanya looking at him, her eyes sharp with concern.

  Ivan Lyon saved the day. He leaned over towards Eugene and punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘Good for you, old man. I like your spirit. We need chaps like you with fire in their bellies. If you’ll give me your telephone number in Penang I’ll make sure someone contacts you about some work my people are doing. Can’t promise you a uniform but I can promise you a mansize job if the Japs do attack.’

  Eugene squared his shoulders, visibly happier. ‘You can count on me, old man.’ I saw the quick exchange of glances with Tanya, the flash of pride in her eyes.

  Tanya is falling in love, I thought to myself. Despite herself, she is falling in love.

  The main course arrived and we all tucked in. The Raffles’ chef had outdone himself. There was seafood cocktail entree, then a choice between curried fish soup or crab salad printanier. The main course was lobster mornay, so fresh and cooked so delicately that it melted in the mouth.

  After coffee, we put on the gramophone and danced under the combined glow of the lanterns and a quarter moon. Catherine was clearly the star. She danced with indescribable grace, flickering across the tiny rattan dance space with the ease of a spirit. There was something about her that night that impressed us all, an inner radiance, a sense of boundless joy. She surprised even Robert, because I saw him looking at her more than once

  with puzzled wonder as well as tenderness in his eyes.

  She whispered her secret to me as we took a quick breather by the rail. ‘I’m going to have a baby in December,’ she said. ‘I thought I was pregnant, and the doctor confirmed it this afternoon. I’m going to tell Robert tonight.’ And then she was gone, racing back into Robert’s arms, her face alive with happiness.

  Denis and Alec put on an impromptu floorshow. It was a sketch, allegedly written for the English comedy duo Flanagan and Allen, involving two Spaniards. Two wide-brimmed Chinese fishermen’s hats had been requisitioned to add colour to the performance, and both men looked so absurd in their hats, and fluffed their lines so badly, that we were all in stitches in no time.

  ‘Oh where is my poor senorita?’ Alec kept bellowing. ‘She has left you for a better man’, Denis was supposed to reply, with a knowing wink towards the audience. But each time he tried to say his line his ridiculous hat would flop over his face and we’d again stop the show with our laughter. Eventually Catherine, who had been trying to photograph proceedings, stalked up to Denis and grabbed his shirtfront. ‘For heaven’s sake give the man his senorita back,’ she demanded. ‘And keep still for a second. I can’t change the shutter speed.’ More laughter, and then Ivan got into the act and was chasing Denis around the dance floor for no earthly reason anyone could work out. I was laughing so hard my sides ached.

  All too soon Chu Lun started the engine on the sampan, the signal that it was time to go home. There was a last round of toasts, photographs taken under the lanterns, and we were all trooping down the stairs to the little jetty. I don’t quite know how it happened, but suddenly four of us had decided to eschew the sampan and paddle back by canoe. ‘Anything to get away from the racket of Chu Lun’s diesel,’ Denis said, helping me into the smaller of the two canoes available. ‘But stay close,’ he called to Catherine and Robert. ‘We don’t want you running into that German submarine of Ivan’s.’ Within seconds both canoes had pushed off from the kalang and were sliding through the glossy black sea towards the shore.

  The kalang was not much more than a mile offshore, and of course Denis and I had done the trip several times before. It was an easy fifteen- or twenty-minute paddle, an interlude of peace and tranquillity made even more pleasant by the sense of adventure as one sped across a black void towards the welcoming lights of Whitelawns. But in retrospect I suppose it was a rather harebrained thing to do, unprepared as we were and after so many glasses of Bollinger.

  I realised that there was something wrong when we were about a third of the way back. There seemed to be a lot of water sloshing around in the bilge, and when I put an exploratory foot down I realised that we had about six inches of water on board.

  ‘We seem to be making a bit of water,’ I said quietly. Denis didn’t answer for a moment, then I heard him feeling around beneath us. ‘We are not making a bit of water,’ he said. ‘We’re making a thundering lot of water.’

  We increased our rate of paddling, but it quickly became apparent that water was pouring in from somewhere, making the canoe more and more sluggish by the second.

  ‘This won’t do,’ Denis said, putting his paddle down. He sounded suddenly serious. ‘Feel the hull under your feet, darling. Let’s see if we can discover where the water’s coming from.’

  My hand closed over something bobbing in the bilge and I held it up. It was a cork. ‘I think one of the drainage corks has come out,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘Is that bad?’

  ‘Not if we can find the drainage hole,’ Denis sounded almost relieved. ‘Then we can just stuff the cork back in. For heaven’s sake don’t tell anyone what chumps we’ve been, will you? The damned bung must have been out when we put the boat in the water.’

  ‘If we get to shore,’ I said rather sharply. ‘We’ve got to find that hole first!’

  We coul
dn’t find the bung-hole at all. It sounds funny in retrospect, because there we were, an apparently sane, respectable couple, thrashing around in a sinking canoe in the middle of the Singapore Strait in our evening clothes. In the midst of the confusion I saw a huge sea snake, glowing with phosphorescence, writhing in the water so close alongside that Denis smacked at it with his paddle. We also knew there were sharks about – they caught one or two daily from the kalang.

  Abruptly it was quite clear to me that we were going to sink and I felt tears in my eyes. There was a very real risk that we were going to die. It seemed absurd. There in front of us were the lights of Whitelawns, always kept burning by Amah when we were out at the kalang. Behind us we could see the lanterns on the kalang, festive pinks, and greens and gold. And yet here we were, alone in the blackness, about to die and leave our babies alone in the world. I fought a huge sob, choking it down, trying to think of something light and funny to say, as was our creed.

  ‘You know this dress is going to shrink,’ I scolded. ‘So you had better promise to buy me a new one . . .’

  The water was up to our waists, surprisingly cold, infinitely threatening. ‘I’m sorry, Nona,’ Denis said quietly. ‘I’ve rather put us in the stew, I’m afraid. Perhaps it’s not quite as bad as it seems. The canoe shouldn’t sink because it’s made of wood. When we go down we’ll hang on and swim the damned thing to the beach.’

  It was then that I heard the tinkle of Catherine’s laughter close by, and Robert calling out: ‘What’s keeping you two? We were almost at the beach!’

  The sense of relief was palpable, a warm, glowing globe in my chest that made me want to laugh. ‘Denis has sunk our canoe!’ I called back. ‘The idiot left the bung out! Any chance of a lift?’

  We clambered carefully into the other canoe, and then the men started fussing with painters, tying the sinking canoe behind us while all I wanted to do was to get my feet on dry land. ‘You’re shaking,’ Catherine said, wrapping her stole around me. ‘You need a big hot cup of tea.’