In the Mouth of the Tiger Read online

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ I replied.

  Mother’s reaction was extraordinary, even for her. Her face turned bright red. Then she picked up the goblet and threw it, as hard as she could, straight at my face. By the grace of God she missed or I could have been badly hurt. I heard the glass shatter somewhere behind me, and someone screamed.

  ‘Who has been telling you these lies?’ she shouted. ‘Who, Nona? Who? I demand you tell me who!’

  I stared back at her, unable to move, unable to speak, unable even to think. She got up from the table, came round to stand in front of me, and then drew back her arm to strike me. I think it was my stillness, my refusal to defend myself or even to move, that stayed her arm.

  And then she began to cry. Huge, heaving, broken sobs.

  ‘Look what you have done!’ Madam Tanya spat at me as restaurant staff swarmed around us. ‘I hope you are satisfied, you nasty piece of work! Your mother has gone to such trouble for you and all you can do is accuse her of cheating!’

  The major-domo, a tall Indian in a red-trimmed turban, helped Mother to her chair. She sat there without a word, bosom heaving, her face streaked with tears, and stared at me. I hate scenes, and as well as embarrassed I was badly shaken. The whole room was staring at us, and I was about to get up and walk out when I saw something in Mother’s eyes that held me back. Guilt, and a defencelessness I had never seen before. As Mother stared at me she shook her head. Tiny little movements, left and right, with her eyes locked on mine. She was trying to tell me, through the steel curtain she had built around her over the years, that she loved me and had not intended to hurt me.

  I came around the table and put my arms about her.

  In the taxi on the way back to Argyll Street, we sat in the back together, perhaps closer than we had ever been in our lives. Of course, Burnbrae was not mentioned, nor the hairdressing salon. And of course I didn’t have the heart to give her Irma Ulrich’s neatly typed statement of account.

  But Mother indicated that she was well on the way to recovery when she called to me from of the departing taxi: ‘Now, dress properly for tomorrow, Nona. Make your mother proud.’

  The comment stung me into action. When I got back to my room I dug out a partly finished skirt I had been making for Tanya, laid it on the bed, and pondered the possibilities. Tanya was bigger than me, but I decided I could quite easily adapt it to my skinny frame if I shortened the hem a few inches and did a judicious bit of tucking at the waist. The material was good quality gabardine in a pale tan colour, and the more I folded and pinned the more enthusiastic I became. Soon I had the Singer out and was on my way, humming quietly to myself as the skirt took shape. I had it completely finished by midnight, and tried it on with one of my white school blouses. It looked just right for a young lady visiting her solicitor.

  I pressed the skirt in the upstairs laundry, and hung it up in the huge mahogany clothes press, with the comfortable feeling one gets with a job well done. The task had tired me, but it had also calmed me. The thoughts that had been spinning through my mind had quieted to a gentle muzziness, and I felt I would be able to sleep. But before slipping beneath the mosquito net I lit the lamp on the bedside table and turned it down low.

  Again the magic worked. Staring into the pale gold shadows above me, I felt a profound sense of comfort seeping through every fibre of my being. Again the dream-images appeared. This time, Denis and I were living in our home in Happy Valley. There was a deep verandah about the house, full of long chairs and cane tables strewn with English papers and magazines. Denis was reading, his legs propped up, with the book on his lap and one arm hanging loose on the arm of his chair. He looked across at me, a long, thoughtful look.

  ‘Happy?’

  I had never been so happy in my life.

  Chapter Three

  I woke to another glorious tropical morning, and went out into the stillness of the garden to pick frangipani for the small vase on my bedside table. The tension of the previous day had been washed away, leaving me full of energy and enthusiasm. Life was after all just a game, and you lost only if you took it seriously.

  Mayhew, Jones & Tan had an impressive set of offices in the commercial heart of George Town, approached by marble steps leading up from Beach Street. Mother, Tanya and I were escorted to a cluster of comfortable chairs set about a low mahogany table in the spacious waiting room. Fans turned silently above us, and in the distance we could hear the faint clatter of typewriters.

  ‘Mr Mayhew will see Mrs Roberts and Madam Tanya in about ten minutes,’ the receptionist said. Then she turned to me. ‘You will be waiting a little while longer, Miss Roberts. Can I get you a glass of lemonade?’

  I shook my head. Surely I didn’t look so childish that I needed to be bribed to be patient with a glass of lemonade? I thought I looked very grown-up in my loosely cut cream blouse and long, pleated tan skirt. I wore Robbie’s last present to me pinned at my neck – a small gold brooch with a single cultured pearl at its centre.

  Mother had smiled when she and Tanya called to pick me up in a taxi. ‘You look so much better, Nona. I am glad that you sometimes listen to your mother.’ Then her smile had faded. ‘But for why didn’t you wear this dress for me yesterday? To show how little respect you have for me?’

  Mother was back to normal.

  I had taken advantage of the short taxi ride to tell Mother about my visit to Dr Mahmood. I kept it simple, saying that when I had heard that we still owned Burnbrae, I had felt the need for advice and had gone to Dr Mahmood because he had offered to see me without charge. ‘Of course I would have asked you about it, Mother,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t know how I could get in touch.’

  Mother had not commented, and had then abruptly changed the subject. ‘So you wish to spend longer at school, Nona?’ she had asked. ‘You must realise that these are hard times and we cannot all afford the luxury of not working.’

  I flushed slightly. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work,’ I said. ‘But I think that the better educated I am the better I will be able to get on in life.’

  Tanya laughed sardonically. ‘You’ve never done a day’s work in your life, Nona. How do you know you’re not afraid of it?’

  ‘No squabbling, children,’ Mother had said with mock severity. ‘It is too nice a day to spoil with arguments.’

  Precisely ten minutes after our arrival, the receptionist collected Mother and Tanya and took them off to see Mr Mayhew. I couldn’t help feeling put out that I had been relegated to second cab off the rank, but I did my best to dismiss the thought and concentrate on what I was going to say when it was my turn. I prepared a little speech in my mind. I was going to be a little reserved, I thought, perhaps even distant. I would look Mr Mayhew straight in the eye. ‘I am a little disappointed that you thought me too young to be told about Burnbrae,’ I would say. ‘But that is water under the bridge. From now on, though, I expect to be consulted about any decisions affecting my inheritance.’

  It seemed a very mature speech to me. Gently scolding, but understanding. Firm but not arrogant, and focused on the future. I decided that if Mr Mayhew saw things my way, there was no reason to mention Dr Mahmood at all.

  I was basking, just a little, in the feeling that I was an heiress about to take charge of her affairs. I was also utterly determined to cancel the sale of the property, and I even prepared what I would say if Mr Mayhew pressed me on the point. ‘Then I am sorry but we must part company,’ I would say, rising gracefully from my chair and offering a cool hand. ‘But I do thank you for what you have done.’

  The reality was to prove very different.

  Mother and Tanya returned and the receptionist asked me to follow her back to Mr Mayhew’s office. As I got up I glanced at Mother, looking for support or encouragement, but all she did was to straighten her head and tuck her chin in – gestures telling me to correct my posture.

  Mr Mayhew’s desk was bare except for a single thick file – so very different to Dr Mahmood’s which had
groaned with papers and folders. Dr Mahmood had risen to greet me, and had shaken my hand. Mr Mayhew merely gestured to a chair with a tired arm, and then settled back in his own padded leather chair, adjusting his glasses.

  I scrutinised his face, looking for kindness, or at least understanding. But his eyes were cold and empty. He was far older than I remembered, his face grey with age, his skin made paper-thin by repeated bouts of fever. Two bright spots of anger glowed on his sunken cheeks.

  ‘I understand you have seen Lal Mahmood, questioning the way I have administered your stepfather’s estate,’ he began. ‘I would have thought it a matter of courtesy to speak to me about any concerns you had before engaging another firm of solicitors.’

  I was taken aback. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I flustered. ‘But truly, I haven’t engaged another firm of solicitors. Dr Mahmood only gave me some advice about . . . wills and things.’

  ‘Dr Mahmood may be quite a good criminal lawyer,’ Mr Mayhew said. ‘But he knows absolutely nothing about probate law or the law of trusts. May I ask precisely what you discussed with him?’

  ‘I told him I had heard that Robbie – my stepfather – had left the Burnbrae Tea Plantation to me in his will, and that it was to be sold. I hadn’t heard anything about that, and so I asked what I should do to find out what was happening.’

  ‘And what advice did Dr Mahmood give you?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘He told me to see you. And to ask you to give me a letter explaining everything.’

  Mr Mayhew steepled his fingers. ‘I am quite prepared to explain to you the terms of Mr Robert’s will, and to tell you how I have administered the trust established under that will. But as far as a letter of account goes, I see absolutely no point. Unless I sought to have myself released from my obligations as trustee – which I hasten to say would not be a matter for you to decide but for the Probate Court.’

  I swallowed. This was not at all how things were supposed to proceed. ‘Did Robbie – Mr Roberts – leave me the Burnbrae Tea Plantation?’ I asked bluntly.

  ‘Mr Roberts’ affairs at his death were very precarious indeed, Nona. The Depression had been very unkind to him. His tea business in London – T’eas – was in receivership. Kuala Rau – the gold mine – was worked out, and the concessions it held virtually worthless. His one viable asset, the Burnbrae Tea Plantation, was heavily mortgaged and just about breaking even.’

  ‘Did Robbie leave me Burnbrae?’ I persisted.

  Mr Mayhew drummed his fingers angrily on his desk. ‘Ernest Roberts left his entire estate to you in trust, and appointed me his executor and trustee.’

  ‘Then why wasn’t I told?’ I asked with spirit. My heart was beating like a sledgehammer in my breast, but I was being true to my resolution to stand up for myself.

  Mr Mayhew frowned at me ominously. ‘I don’t think you fully appreciate the situation that had occurred,’ he said. ‘Your mother was Roberts’ wife and naturally expected to be looked after in his will. Instead, Roberts left everything to you, a twelve-year-old girl.’

  ‘Robbie and I were good friends,’ I said. ‘He and Mother had fallen out. But he still loved me.’

  ‘He must have loved you a great deal,’ Mr Mayhew said dryly.

  The way he said it made me suddenly blush. ‘What exactly do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Roberts became very close to you at the end of his life, to the exclusion of his own wife. He gave you valuable gifts. He left you his entire estate.’

  ‘We were father and daughter,’ I said angrily. ‘How can . . .’

  ‘You were not his daughter,’ Mr Mayhew interrupted. ‘You were a rather pretty pubescent girl living in close proximity to him, alone, in the isolation of Kuala Rau.’

  Mr Mayhew’s insinuation shocked me, and I stood up angrily. How dare this awful, dried-up insect say such terrible things about Robbie, the kindest, truest, gentlest of men? I decided to walk out, and turned blindly towards the door.

  ‘I’m making no judgement, Nona,’ Mr Mayhew said to my back. ‘I’m simply telling you what the public perception would have been if it had been widely known that your mother had been excluded from Roberts’ will, and that you had inherited everything. Think of it from your mother’s viewpoint.’

  I paused. I had not given any thought to how Mother must have felt. She had been distraught after Robbie’s death, even though she had left him, walking out of our small, isolated bungalow at Kuala Rau after weeks of rows about money. The Depression had hit hard, and Mother had been unable to cope with the sudden plunge into penury. One day, Dr Macleod had driven up from Ipoh to see Robbie, who was down with one of his recurrent bouts of malaria. Dr Macleod had once been a suitor of Mother’s, and she had left with him in his big black American car and not come back, leaving me to look after Robbie on my own.

  I returned to my chair and sat down. ‘Wasn’t it . . . illegal . . . not to tell me that I had inherited Robbie’s estate?’ I asked.

  ‘Your mother was tempted to fight the will, partly as a matter of pride. As a dependent wife, she would quite likely have won such a fight. But it would have eroded what little value there was in the estate. So I made an arrangement with her. Part of that arrangement was that you not be told, until your majority, that you had inherited the whole of Roberts’ estate. Your mother felt that such knowledge would have ruined her relationship with you. No, Nona, it was not illegal of me to keep the terms of Roberts’ will from you.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I have heard that Burnbrae is up for sale,’ I said. ‘Burnbrae is mine, and I don’t want it sold. I forbid the sale.’

  Mr Mayhew sighed. ‘Burnbrae is not for sale. It has already been sold. That is why I have asked you here today, to explain what I intend to do with the proceeds of that sale.’

  I stamped my foot. ‘How can you sell what isn’t yours?’ I asked. ‘I will complain to . . . to the Probate Court about what you have done!’ Tears of frustration and disappointment started in my eyes and I fought desperately to keep them contained.

  ‘The terms of the trust empower me to call in and convert – that is, to sell – any property subject to the trust. It is my judgement that the sale of Burnbrae at this time is in your interests, whatever your thoughts on the matter may be.’

  So the dream was over. The game was lost. I was so shocked that I felt literally winded, and sat gulping air while the tears that I had fought to contain rolled down my face. Mr Mayhew sat unmoved for a minute, then took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and tossed it across to me.

  ‘May I ask how you got your black eye?’ he asked.

  I don’t know why I told him the story of Captain Ulrich and of our confrontation over breakfast. If I thought it might soften his attitude to me I was badly mistaken.

  ‘You certainly do attract the wrong sort of attention,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Your mother told me about your flaunting yourself at the Palm Court last night in a school-girl uniform. You are mature for your age, Nona, and it behoves you to start acting like a lady.’

  This attack was so unfair that I passed beyond anger and upset into ice-cold rage. I took a deep breath and leaned back in my chair. ‘Your preoccupation with everything seamy and underhand tells me more about you than you realise,’ I said coolly. It was a line straight out of a novel I had read and memorised for use in the Convent schoolyard, but Mr Mayhew wouldn’t know that.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ he replied equally coolly, but I saw that the shaft had gone home by the sudden appearance of dull red spots on his cheeks.

  There was a short silence.

  ‘How much money do I get from the sale of Burnbrae, and what is going to happen to it?’ I asked.

  Mr Mayhew sat up abruptly and opened the file in front of him. ‘The sale price is thirteen thousand nine hundred and fifty Straits dollars,’ he said. ‘From that figure there are a number of legal disbursements to be made, including this firm’s fee on the conveyance. These disbursements will total just over a thousan
d dollars. From the balance, approximately eight thousand dollars is required to pay off the existing mortgage to the Hong Kong & Shanghai Banking Corporation. That will leave us with a little less than five thousand dollars on settlement.’

  ‘Then I want that money paid into an account in my name,’ I said. ‘As soon as possible. And then I never, ever want to see you again.’

  Mr Mayhew actually chuckled. ‘It doesn’t quite work that way, Nona. You are only fourteen and still under age. Those moneys are trust moneys, for me to use in your best interests. I need to pay out an overdraft account that has been used to pay for your schooling over the past few years. I also need to pay for your accommodation with the Ulrichs, and for piano lessons and so on. Those amounts total about a thousand dollars. The balance – about four thousand Straits dollars – I might have invested in trust securities, to be released to you on your twenty-first birthday. But that would have meant that you would have virtually no income whatever for the next seven years or so. I have been asked to give my approval to a more reasonable use for those funds, and I intend to give that approval.’

  Kuala Lumpur. It all fitted into place now. Mother’s attempts to charm me yesterday, the talk of my working in the proposed salon, Mr Aubrey’s references to my need to discuss the proposal with my advisers. Even the suggestion that I would have an interest in the salon.

  ‘You want to give the money to Mother so that she can buy a hairdressing salon in KL,’ I said abruptly. ‘I think that’s . . . that’s . . . terribly wrong of you. How can you possibly say that giving my money to my mother is in my interests?’

  ‘It will not be a gift to your mother. It will be a business investment aimed at keeping your family together and giving your mother the means to earn a living for you both. At the end of the day, you will part own the business – if it survives and prospers. And that will be a matter partly in your own hands, as I understand that you will be working in the salon.’