by Anne Weale
His glance flickered over her, assessing yet impersonal.
“I had expected you to be much younger.” He did not add that he had not realized that girls of nineteen were so disturbingly feminine. From Edward’s conversation he had conjured a picture of a tousle-headed tomboy whereas this girl—He stopped his thoughts short without defining the difference to himself.
“Didn’t you know I was nearly nineteen?”
“Yes, but I suppose your father’s description dated from the last time he saw you. How did you like England?”
“I hated it.”
It was not, he realized, a youthful exaggeration of speech; she really had hated their distant homeland. It was understandable. He had fallen under the spell of Malaya in the harsh confines of a prison camp. Naturally a child born and bred here would detest the ordered landscape and unwelcoming climate of the British Isles. Yet Edward and Alexandra Murray and their kind were the best ambassadors England could have.
“Have you been out long, Mr. Fraser?”
“Since the war. I think you had better use my Christian name—Jonathan. Mr. Fraser seems unnecessarily formal.”
Mat, the houseboy and cook, appeared with a tray of tea things that he set down on a table beside Alex’s chair, and for the next few minutes conversation lapsed while she poured the tea and Mat brought in plates of sandwiches and iced cakes. He had been trained in a European club and had a great regard for the social proprieties, being in his element on the rare occasions when Jonathan had guests.
“I don’t know what plans you have for the future,” Jonathan said, “whether you intend to get a job in Kuala Lumpur or go in for welfare work, but I think it would be a good thing to rest for a couple of months before deciding anything definite. Coming out by air gives you no chance to get used to the heat that, in any case, is particularly trying for women.”
Alex admitted that she was already feeling limp in the hothouse humidity.
“When we go into town I must have my hair cut. It’s much too thick and heavy at the moment.”
“There are only the Chinese salons,” he said. “You’ll have to be careful they don’t slap a bowl over your head and slice round as they do with their kids.”
For the first time since her arrival she laughed and he saw that she had lovely teeth, white and even.
Presently he excused himself to take a shower and Alex, nibbling a gingerbread, went over to the veranda rail and looked out at the half-strange, half-familiar scene. In spite of the anguish of her father’s death she could not help feeling a deep contentment at being back in her own country.
The bungalow was surrounded by a neat garden, bright with zinnias and spider lilies, the limits of which were marked by a high wire-netting fence. At each corner of the garden, at the top of the concrete fence pole, a powerful spotlight was fixed so that anyone approaching the perimeter wire at night would be shown up in the brilliant glare. Close beyond the fence grew the oldest rubber trees, planted long before the war when much of the present estate was still a tangled labyrinth of jungle. Now, rank upon rank, acre upon acre the trees grew, their foliage obscuring the sunlight, their lean trunks scarred with the tappings of past seasons.
A Tamil kebun in ragged khaki shorts and a grubby headcloth was cutting the lawn with a long-handled knife that he whirled around his head in regular sweeping movements, his dark skin oily with sweat. Once he looked up at Alex and touched his forehead in a respectful salute, grinning, his gums stained crimson with betel juice.
Earlier in the day, Mat had shown her around the bungalow. A broad veranda running the length of the building served as living room, dining room and hall, with three bedrooms opening from it, as well as a butler’s pantry equipped with a sink and kerosene refrigerator. The kitchen and servants’ quarters were built separately some yards behind the bungalow.
For a bachelor establishment it was remarkably homelike, Alex thought. The flowered cretonne cushions on the couch and the bright rugs on the polished floor were probably an inheritance from previous occupants, but several Chinese paintings, a collection of ivory figurines and a fine Bali head suggested that Jonathan paid more attention to his domestic surroundings than many men living alone.
That literature was his panacea for loneliness was evident from the two large bookcases crammed with a diverse selection of reading matter. Beside his cane chair a swivel bookstand was wedged tightly with English and American periodicals, and on top of it lay a pile of new volumes in immaculate dust jackets.
Alex was dipping into these when Jonathan reappeared in clean clothes and a pair of rubber-soled native slippers.
“Do you like reading?”
“Yes, very much. Of course at school everything was examined first, which cut out most of the war books and modern fiction. Will it be all right if I read in bed?”
The question, seriously put, made him realize how restricted her life must have been for the past five years.
“Of course. For some extraordinary reason the bedrooms are not mosquito-proofed, so we have to use nets. As long as you don’t set yourself on fire you can read all night.”
Soon after sundown Mat came in with tall glasses of iced tomato juice and began to set the table at the other end of the veranda.
Alex had forgotten how noisy and alive with movement the tropical nights were. Huge moths and cicadas dashed themselves continuously against the fine wire mesh blinds protecting the veranda from this insect onslaught. Little gray lizards flickered up the walls and across the ceiling, and a large praying mantis sat in a bowl of zinnias, turning its triangular head from side to side in an inquiring, uncannily human fashion.
Mat had gone to great pains to prepare an impressive meal and prove his culinary prowess. After years of shepherd’s pie, lumpy custard and tapioca pudding, Alex revelled in the hot spiciness of curry and rice cooked to the almost fluffy consistency that few European cooks ever achieve. After the curry came a delicious sago and gula Malacca, smooth and cool to the palate, with its piquant burnt-sugar sauce.
She savored the last mouthful. “Mmm ... that was lovely.”
The slim, dark-eyed Malay beamed his pleasure and swept away the dishes, exuding gratification.
“You don’t play chess, I suppose?” Jonathan inquired as they went back to their chairs.
“No, I don’t. I can play crib, though.”
“Don’t tell me there was a St. Trinian’s element at your boarding school?”
She laughed. “Unfortunately not. I used to play with father when I was small.”
Jonathan poured a sherry for Alex and a brandy and ginger for himself and they settled down to cribbage. His hands, she noticed during the game, were well kept and shapely. Indeed, in spite of his casual garb there was nothing slovenly about him, rather an air of fastidiousness. His hair was close cut, his chin freshly shaved and although he smoked heavily there were no ugly nicotine stains on his fingers.
Sipping her sherry, Alex felt wonderfully emancipated. At first her father’s death had seemed the end of everything, but already, thanks to the resilience of youth, the future was forming again, an unknown adventure free of petty restrictions and circumscribed routine.
Toward the end of the week, Jonathan took her around the rubber factory. Past the great vat in which the morning’s tapping bubbled like skim milk, past the rolling machines in which the solidified rubber was pressed into finer and finer strips, like giant crepe bandages. Through the drying barns where, yellowing now, it hung in great loops from the rafters, to the shed where Indian girls in vivid saris and tinkling bracelets snipped away rough ends and dirt specks.
As they walked across the compound back to the estate jeep, he said, “Are you managing to amuse yourself?”
“Oh, yes. This morning Rama introduced me to her babies. She looks so young to have three already.”
“She’s a lucky girl to be married to Mat,” Jonathan said. “He prides himself on being highly Westernized, so if she keeps her figure and doesn’t nag him, she won�
��t have any rivals to worry about.”
“It must be awful for them to have to share husbands,” Alex said.
“Not at all. Under the laws of Islam a good Muslim maintains all his women at an equal level. They aren’t brought up on a pack of romantic notions like Europeans, you know.”
She glanced at him, puzzled by his cynicism.
The trip to Taiping was a memorable experience. It was the first time she had chosen her own clothes, since her English wardrobe had been almost entirely composed of regulation school garments, and the few other things she had needed had been selected with an eye for serviceability by the good ladies of the hostel.
While Jonathan went into Kim Seng’s store to order groceries, Alex hurried excitedly along Main Road to Whiteaways, the big European fashion shop that has branches all over Malaya. A new consignment of cotton dresses had arrived the day before and she lavished eighty dollars on two gay sundresses with matching jackets. She also bought her first pair of high heels, some nylon underwear, and, with the advice of the pretty Chinese salesgirl, a selection of cosmetics.
With her parcels under her arm, she crossed the street and made her way to the Golden Butterfly Salon, recommended by the beauty counter assistant. When she emerged into the glare of the midaftemoon sun, her hair was reduced to a close-fitting feathery cap that felt luxuriously light and cool.
She was disappointed on returning to the car that Jonathan appeared not to notice any change.
The following afternoon after her nap, Alex prepared to complete her transformation to maturity. She took a leisurely shower in the tiled bathroom adjoining her bedroom, wrapped herself in a towel and sat down at the dressing table to experiment with makeup.
The result, after a quarter of an hour, was very satisfactory. Instead of a prim, pale-faced schoolgirl, the mirror reflected a stranger with peony-pink lips and eyes enhanced by mascara and a faint touch of green eye shadow. Realizing that heavy creams would only irritate her skin in the tropics, she had contented herself with a light dusting of powder, and the effect was far less masklike than many youthful attempts at a sophisticated maquillage.
Of the two new dresses, the one she liked best was of crisp white poplin patterned with clusters of strawberries and their dark green leaves. The bodice was cleverly shaped and the full skirt swung out in a graceful bell. Alex slipped the dress over her head and zipped up the fastener. After the childish school dresses with their Peter Pan collars and puff sleeves, she felt daringly naked and decided to wear the jacket until she was used to this new décolleté state. Then, walking carefully in the high-heeled sandals, she went onto the veranda and arranged herself in an elegant pose to await her guardian’s return.
Jonathan had had an exasperating day. He had been obliged to fire a tapper for persistent drunkenness, some invoices had been mislaid and one of the machines had broken down. To crown his annoyance a neighboring planter whom he heartily disliked had called over and made several suggestive digs about Jonathan’s enlarged household. An aspect of his guardianship that had not previously occurred to him was the possibility, the extreme likelihood in fact, of scandal. He realized now, thinking over Carter’s sly innuendoes, that the situation was ripe for gossip. It was possible that in a week or two the local grapevines would be alive with speculation on his relationship with Alex Murray. He could hear it now.
“Have you heard, my dear, the Murray child is living at Jonathan Fraser’s bungalow now ... quite alone ... rather unconventional to say the least. Of course I’m not suggesting he is the type of man to take advantage ... her father was a friend of his ... they say she’s a pretty creature.”
“Heard about Fraser, old boy? Fixed himself up with a filly straight out from U.K. Passes himself off as her guardian. I always thought he was a dark horse.”
There was only one way to avoid the possibility of talk. A chaperon. But where the blazes was he to find one, Jonathan thought savagely. At that moment he wished Alex at the bottom of the Indian Ocean.
In this mood he returned to the bungalow, longing for his lost solitude when he might have flung himself on his bed and slept until Mat shook him awake for supper. For a second or two, coming wearily up the veranda steps, he did not recognize the charming cool-looking vision smiling at him from the swing couch. Then the irritations of the whole day came to a head.
“Where the devil do you think you are?” he snapped. “At Ascot? Go and wash your face and take off that dress. I won’t have you lolling about like a ... a debutante.”
CHAPTER THREE
For a full minute, Alex was too outraged to speak. How dare he order her around as if she were some submissive servant? She fumbled for a crushing retort, but before she could think of one, Jonathan said, “Apparently it hasn’t occurred to you that even in Malaya it is hardly conventional for a girl of your age to live unchaperoned in a bachelor establishment. Gossip is a most popular pastime out here, and if anyone dropped over and found you dressed up like a vamp, lolling around on couches, it would be all over the neighborhood in a couple of days. If you intend to find a husband and settle down here that sort of notoriety won’t help you.”
“Oh!” Alex trembled with anger. “I am not dressed up like a vamp and I was not lolling. As for gossip, if you are so worried about my reputation, I wonder why you didn’t find a chaperon the minute I arrived, or did you expect me to run around in pigtails and a gym tunic until I’m twenty-one? Just because you’re my legal guardian, Mr. Fraser, it doesn’t give you the right to dictate what I shall wear.”
“Your father left you in my care until you are of age, and among my responsibilities I include seeing that you don’t make a fool of yourself. Now run along and clean your face.”
He turned away and Alex, although determined not to touch her makeup, decided that the most dignified tactics would be to retire to her room until dinner time.
When she had gone, Jonathan lighted a cigarette and reviewed the stormy encounter. He was aware he had been unjustly stern with her. Far from looking cheap, she had looked delightful, and he, with a lack of control for which he had no better reason than tiredness, had lost his temper.
But how could he have told her the truth—have said, “Look, I’ve lived alone here for three years. It’s months since I last spoke to an Englishwoman who wasn’t married or engaged. Dressed up like this you’re much too attractive for my peace of mind. I’m likely to forget I’m your guardian and the result will be a hell of a situation for both of us.”
Even if he had told her the truth, it was likely she was too young to understand, or else she would have thought him a lecherous character not to be trusted. My God, he thought, a week here and already complications are setting in.
He flopped into a chair and sat frowning, his long legs stretched out, his fists thrust deep into his pockets. It was imperative to find someone to join the ménage. Even in England it would be hard to find a professional chaperon nowadays; in Malaya probably impossible. Who did he know who was respectable, likely to enjoy living on a remote plantation and free to do so? Suddenly he had an idea. Miss Emmeline Bray!
Miss Bray was an elderly maiden lady, the sister of a late Methodist missionary in Kuala Lumpur, whom Jonathan had met at an oddly assorted party on one of his rare visits to the capital. Since then he had visited her several times while in Kuala Lumpur and he knew that since her brother’s death, life had not been easy for her. She had been obliged to vacate the mission house for a room in a second-rate Chinese hotel and relinquish most of her welfare work to the new missionary’s wife. If only she would come, Miss Bray would be an ideal chaperon, for she was eminently respectable, resourceful without being militant, and possessed a rollicking sense of humor.
He wrote immediately explaining the whole situation to her, and having sealed the envelope felt in a much better temper.
Alex had spent the hour fuming in her bedroom and when Mat beat the Balinese gong she reappeared with an expression of cold hauteur and a second application of li
pstick. Jonathan, noting the icy dignity and the defiant brilliance of her lips, suppressed a grin.
Conversation was stilted during the meal, but they were just finishing the iced banana mousse when the sound of an approaching motor distracted them. Presently a jeep roared up to the house and a young man sprang out and came leaping up the veranda steps, shouting greetings to Jonathan and Mat and stopping short at the sight of Alex.
“Alex, this is Tom Major. Tom, Miss Murray.”
Tom Major swept an elaborate bow that went incongruously with his crew cut and Palm Beach shirt and then seized Alex’s hand in a hearty grip.
“I can’t tell you how happy this makes me, Miss Murray. Joe here is the youngest member of our little community next to me, and as you see, he’s no spring chicken. The arrival of a contemporary—and a feminine one at that—is the best news I’ve had in months.”
“Tom is assistant on the estate north of us,” Jonathan explained to Alex, who had forgotten her anger in laughter at the visitor’s exaggerated gallantry. He was a big, muscular, fair-skinned, freckled fellow who bounced through life with such irrepressible high spirits that nobody could fail to like him.
“I take it you intend to inflict yourself on us for the rest of the evening,” Jonathan said with mock resignation.
“Certainly.” The lad beamed at Alex and sat down beside her on the swing couch, leaving Jonathan to pour drinks.
“You’re a native of this country, I believe.”
“Yes. Have you been here long?”
“A year. You can see I’m already a physical wreck. If it weren’t for a couple of bottles of whiskey a day and my harem of luscious native girls I don’t think I’d stick another year, Miss M. We planters are a wild crowd, y’know.”
His nonsense was infectious and they were soon on first-name terms and teasing each other delightedly. Jonathan sat smoking quietly, smiling at their absurdities. He was glad young Tom had come over. With company of her own age Alex would forget her father’s death more quickly.
