In the Mouth of the Tiger Read online

  I was totally unable to respond, staring back at her with wide, shocked eyes. Molly Tan’s brother was a partner in my mother’s firm of solicitors, Mayhew, Jones & Tan. Peter Mayhew had been the executor of Robbie’s will, a careful old man with thin grey hair who had patiently explained to me why I would not be getting a cent from my bequest of a gold mine in the jungles of Pahang. But he had not mentioned anything about Burnbrae.

  I had loved Burnbrae. We had stayed there once when Robbie had been alive. I had only the vaguest memories of the house itself – a long, low bungalow on a ridge overlooking a broad sweep of hillside covered in tea. Crowded, because Robbie’s manager, George Fortin, had been living there with his Chinese wife and lots of children. But I did remember ‘Happy Valley’ very clearly. Happy Valley was of course a valley, and unsuitable for tea, but it would have made a delightful little farm. Robbie and I had explored it, walking down to the small, green meadow through a gully full of ferns and jungle trees.

  Robbie had suddenly dropped on one knee and turned to me, his hands on my shoulders. ‘Happy?’ he had asked.

  I had nodded solemnly, overcome with happiness.

  ‘Then we will call this our Happy Valley. And when we set up a farm here, we will call it Happy Valley Farm.’

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Irma asked. ‘Or is it that Molly has let the cat out of the bag?’ She laughed unpleasantly at her accidental witticism. ‘I think you and your mother should come clean about your means, don’t you? I’ve been letting you stay here on a charitable rate of board because your mother told me she was in straitened circumstances. Straitened circumstances indeed!’

  Molly loomed up beside me, concern on her face. ‘I don’t think you should be talking to the child like that, Irma,’ she said. ‘You must realise that she is under age and the estate, and everything to do with it, would be in the hands of the trustee. I’m quite sure you didn’t know anything about the sale, did you, Nona?’

  I shook my head, looking down at my hands, clenched in my lap. Molly had meant well, but her sudden demotion of me from an adult amongst adults to a scatterbrained child in need of protection was crushing. What she did not realise, of course, was that it was not just the sale of Burnbrae that had caught me by surprise but the fact that I owned the plantation. It meant that people had lied to me. Not just once, but repeatedly and over many years, because I had often talked about Burnbrae, and about Happy Valley Farm, which had lived on in my imagination.

  This would not do! I suddenly remembered who I now was – a woman loved and believed in by her man – and got up abruptly from the table. ‘I will just go and powder my nose,’ I said. ‘It’s become a little close in here, don’t you think?’

  I liked that. It’s become little close in here, don’t you think? It was just the sort of thing one of Jane Austen’s heroines might have said in the circumstances.

  Up in my room I touched my little tiger talisman, then sat on my bed and breathed deeply. So my mother had deceived me. And so must have Mr Mayhew. Robbie had left Burnbrae to me as well as the worthless gold mine, but nobody had told me. And now they intended to sell Burnbrae – and with it Happy Valley.

  I looked towards the bedside chair. ‘I won’t let them do it,’ I said quietly. ‘I simply won’t. If Robbie gave me Burnbrae, I intend to keep it.’

  ‘Good for you!’ I jumped at Molly’s voice, then smiled a little shamefacedly as she came into the room and sat down in Denis’s chair. ‘I’ve come up to apologise for saying anything, Nona. I really am sorry. But I had no idea you didn’t know they’d found a buyer.’

  ‘It’s not that, Molly,’ I blurted out. ‘I didn’t even know I owned Burnbrae!’

  Molly stared at me for a moment, surprise, then shock, registering in her eyes. ‘Then I really do think you should speak to Mr Mayhew, Nona. And as soon as possible. He is your trustee, of course.’

  I shook my head. ‘Mr Mayhew lied to me too, Molly. Or at least he didn’t tell me that Robbie had left Burnbrae to me. Could I speak to your brother? He’s in the same firm, but I think I could trust your brother to tell me exactly what is happening.’

  Molly frowned thoughtfully. ‘I think professional ethics might not let him talk to you,’ she said. ‘But you do need independent advice, I’m sure of that. Look, let me think about what should be done. I’ll give you a tinkle tomorrow – you are on the telephone here, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But really Molly, you shouldn’t go to any bother . . .’

  Just then a board creaked in the passage. Betrayed by the noise, Irma swept into the room. ‘What are you girls plotting up here?’ she said, only half jokingly. Her mean little eyes flicked over us, and before I could stop myself I had risen guiltily to my feet.

  ‘Nothing at all, Irma . . .’ I stammered.

  ‘We’ve been plotting the overthrow of the government, Irma,’ Molly said with complete composure. ‘So I hope you are not a government spy.’ Then her voice dropped a tone. ‘Actually, I would like to talk to Nona in private for a moment. Do you mind?’

  A little taken aback, Irma backed from the room. ‘Well, please don’t be too long. Ahmet is just about to bring in the coffee.’

  Molly rose from her chair and looked out into the passage. ‘Not a very nice woman. I half expected her to be hanging about trying to overhear what we were saying.’ She came and sat down, this time beside me on the bed.

  ‘I’ve rather put my foot into it,’ she said seriously. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything about your private affairs in public like that, and you would be quite justified if you reported my indiscretion to Mr Mayhew. I really am sorry, Nona. But I had absolutely no idea you didn’t know you were your stepfather’s sole heir. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said.

  We sat in silence for a moment as Molly took a cigarette from a small brass case, fitting it into an amber cigarette holder before taking a long, deep draw. A small frown lined her forehead.

  ‘I think I owe you as much help as I can give you,’ she said finally. ‘But I can’t involve Paul – it would be impossible for him to help you without telling Mr Mayhew. Perhaps, though, I could introduce you to someone who might be able to check that . . . well, that things are as they should be with your trust.’

  ‘Thank you, Molly,’ I said sincerely. ‘You are being a brick.’ I sounded so much like one of my heroes from English literature that I had the grace to blush. ‘I mean, you are being very nice to me.’

  We descended to the dining room arm in arm. ‘Just a little something we had to talk about,’ Molly said in response to Jack’s questioning look. Then quietly to me: ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow afternoon.’

  I don’t remember much about the remainder of the evening, except that both Molly and Jack were very kind to me, intervening whenever Irma threatened to renew her interrogation about Burnbrae. In fact, I was so impressed by Jack’s change of behaviour that I mentioned the matter to John when we were all outside seeing them into their car. Jack had been an embittered man over the past year or so, affected by both his wife’s death and the Depression, and the last couple of times I had seen him he had been drunk as a lord and almost abusive.

  ‘Oh, we have a word for Pater’s change in our family,’ John had said. ‘We say that he has been “Molly-fied”. You know, as in mollified.’

  I lay in bed that night with my head full of tumbling thoughts. About Denis, whom I now thought of as a real person involved in my life. About Burnbrae and Happy Valley. And about Molly, who had become my first grown-up woman friend.

  As I slipped into slumber, I solemnly resolved to myself that Burnbrae would not be sold, and that I would one day develop a lovely model farm in Happy Valley. I imagined myself casually handing the title deeds to Denis on our wedding day. Proving to him that his wife was not just a penniless Russian émigré but a woman of property.

  An appropriate wife who would face the future with him as an equal.

  Chapter Two
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  Molly did not ring me the next afternoon. It was a Sunday, I remember, and the Ulrichs and I had spent the morning attending mass at the Cathedral. After tiffin I had kept close to the telephone in the hallway, willing it to ring, but the instrument remained stubbornly silent. Eventually, about three o’clock, I had taken a book outside to one of the rickety cane chairs set up in the shade and tried to read. But it was impossible to concentrate and I began restlessly prowling the large, overgrown garden, always keeping within earshot of the telephone.

  It was the Christmas holidays and the handful of children who lodged with the Ulrichs during term time had dispersed to their homes up and down Malaya. I hated being alone with the Ulrichs. I felt vulnerable, and I missed the companionship of the other children. We may have all been rather quiet, cowed by our circumstances, but when we were together we could at least pretend that everything was normal and act as children should.

  At half-past four there was afternoon tea on the upstairs front verandah. Both the Ulrichs were irritable, as they always were after their afternoon rest, and the new boy (it was Ahmet’s day off ) was having a hard time of it.

  ‘You call this tea?’ Captain Ulrich had said peevishly, pouring the insipid liquid from his cup onto the timber floor. ‘That’s not tea, boy, it’s piss-water! Now go and brew another pot, chop chop!’

  ‘Not worth the trouble training them,’ Irma complained, clicking her tongue. ‘Simply not worth the trouble. What is the world coming to?’

  I sat quietly, listening for the telephone, willing it to ring. The afternoon was ticking away and with it my confidence that Molly would keep her word.

  We had high tea on Sundays, an early meal served again on the upstairs verandah. By now I had despaired of Molly ringing. It was no longer afternoon. It was evening, and the shadows were lengthening in Argyll Street as I pretended to enjoy anchovy paste on dry bread. About half-past six a Chinese funeral procession passed the front gate, with whistles blowing, drums beating, and small boys running to and fro dispensing coloured pieces of paper. The paper represented money and its distribution was supposed to prove the deceased’s generosity to the gods. I remembered my mother telling me that some Chinese spent their entire lives saving up for their funerals.

  Irma interrupted my reverie. ‘There is a telephone call for you, Nona,’ she said rather resentfully. ‘It’s that Molly Tan woman.’ I was off, bounding down the stairs two at a time, wondering how I could ever have doubted that she would ring.

  ‘My dear Nona,’ Molly began. ‘Pin your ears back because now I probably know more about the sale of Burnbrae than anyone else in Malaya. I found out through my kongsi.’

  Almost every Chinese family in Malaya belonged to a kongsi, an association based on the family clans that had come out from China in the early nineteenth century. The Tan kongsi was one of the largest, with contacts up and down the Peninsula, and Molly had used them to discover a wealth of information. ‘The sale is to a rich Englishman,’ she said. ‘And it’s for a pretty good price – fourteen thousand Straits dollars. The buyer is very keen. He didn’t even wait for the accountant’s figures, and he wants to settle next week. That is probably why your Mother has an appointment to see Peter Mayhew next Wednesday.’

  ‘I thought my mother was travelling overseas,’ I said a little helplessly.

  ‘She is due back on Tuesday,’ Molly said. And then, realising how hurt I’d be that Mother hadn’t bothered to tell me her movements: ‘I’m sure your mother will send you a cable. It’s all been rather rushed. Oh, and the appointment with Peter Mayhew includes you, so they’re probably going to ask you to sign some documents.’

  ‘I’m not going to sign anything!’ I almost shouted. ‘I’m not going to sell Burnbrae!’ As I said it I saw Irma standing in the hallway, clearly intent on listening to what I was saying. But I had learnt something from Molly the previous night and I breathed deeply, put the mouthpiece to my body to block the sound, and turned purposefully towards her. ‘If you don’t mind,’ I said rather tremulously, ‘I’m having a private conversation.’

  Irma actually stamped her foot. ‘Well I never! And in my own home, too!’ But she turned on her heel and stalked back up the stairs.

  ‘I’ve just got rid of Irma,’ I boasted to Molly. ‘She was standing there, listening to me.’

  ‘Good for you, Nona. Now, if you really don’t want to sell Burnbrae you should be properly prepared before your appointment. My brother can’t get involved, but I do think that you should speak to a lawyer – your own lawyer – before you see Mr Mayhew. Jack has suggested someone who is prepared to talk to you without a fee, at least initially. Dr Mahmood. He’s a criminal lawyer but he’s also had a lot of experience with probate matters and trusts.’

  An Indian lawyer. My initial reaction was disappointment that Molly might be trying to give Dr Mahmood some European business rather than putting my interests first. It was a little unusual for a European to have his or her affairs handled by a ‘local’ lawyer, and it would certainly be a cachet for Dr Mahmood to have a European client in a matter involving the prestigious firm of Mayhew, Jones & Tan. But then reality reasserted itself: it would have to be Dr Mahmood or nobody. I was virtually penniless, a minor, and an alien to boot. No established firm would want to have anything to do with me. Particularly if it meant going up against Mr Mayhew, the doyen of the Penang legal profession.

  ‘Thank you, Molly,’ I said sincerely. ‘How can I get to see Dr Mahmood?’

  ‘I’ve made an appointment for you to see him tomorrow,’ Molly said. ‘He has an office in Chulia Street, just around from the Police Courts. Number 126. He is upstairs, on the second floor. He will be expecting you at two o’clock.’

  I wrote the details on a piece of paper lying on the telephone table and tucked it into the pocket of my school blouse. I wore my school uniform on Sundays because it was the only decent set of day clothes I possessed.

  ‘Do you know exactly when my mother is coming back, Molly?’ I asked, feeling the familiar mix of anticipation and trepidation churn in my breast. Anticipation because I loved my mother, trepidation because I needed her love and she so often withheld it.

  ‘Next Tuesday,’ Molly said. ‘The Gorgon disembarks about midday. I understand she and Tanya are booked into the E&O Hotel.’

  I sighed. The Eastern & Oriental was the most expensive hotel in Penang. It was exactly like my mother to arrive in style, whether she could afford to or not. I could imagine the satisfaction she would have had in cabling Mr Mayhew: ‘Arriving Tuesday and staying at the E&O.’ The reality was that she was at the moment as penniless as I was. Her passage on the Gorgon, and Tanya’s as well, had been paid for by an Ipoh doctor, Dr Macleod, as a form of pay-off for his failure to marry her. Breach of promise was a serious matter in Malaya in the 1930s.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Molly asked.

  I sighed again. I thought I could see where all this was leading. My mother had become accustomed to the shipboard lifestyle and was counting on the sale of Burnbrae for its continuance. ‘Yes, Molly,’ I said finally. And then, with determination, ‘I’ll be at Dr Mahmood’s office at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. And thank you so much for helping me.’

  Dr Mahmood’s office was a large, busy suite of rooms overlooking Chulia Street. The waiting room was crowded with Tamils, presumably all members of one family from the way they pressed around a tall, fierce-looking young man with a bandaged head. I gathered, as I sat there waiting, that he was on bail for a terrorist act. The Depression had hit the rubber industry in Malaya particularly hard, and over three-quarters of all rubber estates had laid off their Tamil workforces, often evicting them from their ‘lines’ as well. This meant that many thousands of Tamil families roamed Malaya as virtual vagabonds, all bearing a grudge against a system which had imported them in the first place to tap rubber and then abandoned them. Many had ended up in Singapore or Penang, dependent on the charity of relatives who had migrated earlier and made places
for themselves as servants, doormen, gardeners and cleaners to the city people.

  Occasionally, a Tamil hothead took matters into his own hands and struck back, usually ending up, as this poor fellow obviously had, as fodder for the overworked Police Courts.

  ‘I will be with you very soon, Miss Roberts,’ Dr Mahmood said from his doorway. ‘As you can well see, I am absolutely flat out at the moment looking after an emergency case. Unless I can do something by the resumption of the Police Court this afternoon, this poor fellow may well be behind bars.’

  The matter dragged on for most of the afternoon, with much coming and going accompanied by a voluble running commentary from an apparently inexhaustible supply of family members. There was one brief moment, however, when I was sitting alone with the young man who was the focus of the confusion and had a chance to talk to him. He spoke surprisingly good English.

  ‘I am no firebrand,’ he said, looking at me steadily. ‘But I cannot just stand by and see injustice done to one of my people. There was a widow, you see, who they were trying to remove from her house because she could not pay the rent. I stood beside her and tried to resist the bailiff’s men at her request. Surely, any English gentleman would have done exactly the same?’

  I thought about that and then nodded slowly. ‘It is what I hope an English gentlemen would have done,’ I said with sincerity. And then I had held out my hand. ‘Good luck, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Srinivasan,’ the young man said, taking my hand. ‘Rajeev Srinivasan.’

  The first thing I asked Dr Mahmood when I was finally admitted to his office was what had happened to Rajeev in court.

  ‘Remanded in custody until the hearing, Miss Roberts,’ Dr Mahmood said, shaking his head. ‘The police magistrate indicated that he would have given bail, but Rajeev has of course no funds.’