A Painter in Penang: A Gripping Story of the Malayan Emergency

by Clare Flynn

  Evie glanced at her daughter, who said, ‘Come on then, let’s get some lunch. I’m starving.’ Evie couldn’t put her finger on exactly what, but something about what had just happened made her feel inexplicably anxious.

  8

  The door closed as Jasmine left the room, and Mary looked across at her husband, who put down his copy of the Straits Times and moved to join her on the sofa. He was a tall man, who before the war had carried too many pounds, but his years of near- starvation in Changi had melted away the weight and he hadn’t regained it. While no one would describe him as handsome, unlike his late RAF pilot brother, Reggie had an interesting face, characterful, kind. He was the sort of man you didn’t notice – until you did.

  ‘Is the lass going to be all right?’ he asked. ‘You don’t think she’s regretting all this, do you? She was very quiet over dinner.’

  ‘It’s been a long day for her and it was obviously painful saying goodbye to Evie this morning. But I’m sure she’ll settle soon enough. Coming here was her own decision.’

  ‘I know, but mightn’t a short holiday have been better?’

  ‘If she wants to go home sooner than planned, then obviously she can. But I don’t think she will.’ Mary rested her head against Reggie’s shoulder. ‘And I was sad today too. It was awful standing on Swettenham Quay watching Evie’s ship disappear into the distance.’

  ‘It will be good for you to have some female company and Jasmine is a sweet girl. I only hope she won’t get dreadfully homesick.’

  Mary moved her head back so she could look up at Reggie’s face. ‘Jasmine thinks of Penang as home. Evie told me the poor girl’s been utterly miserable in Kenya. Absconding from school, not eating properly. At least spending some time here will either work out for her or she’ll get Penang out of her system and will be able to settle into life in Nairobi – or even go to London.’ She reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘Evie says Jasmine’s a talented artist and may want to go to art school eventually.’

  'Art school?' Reggie looked dubious. ‘Really?’

  ‘If she's talented, it will help her get even better. Maybe she could become a famous painter one day. Have exhibitions and things.'

  Reggie laughed. ‘What’s the point of that? She's a pretty girl. She'll probably get married.’

  Mary pulled away from him in surprise. 'You might as well ask what was the point of me training to be a teacher.'

  'That's different.'

  'How?'

  'I suppose because teaching is useful. Essential even. But art is a waste of time, in my opinion. And more suited to men. Men who aren’t good at doing anything else.'

  Mary stared at him. 'I can't believe you're saying that, Reggie. Don't you like art at all? And why shouldn’t women be as good as men at it?’

  He shrugged. 'I've never really thought about it to be honest.'

  'I'm shocked. I hope Jasmine will be able to change your point of view, which quite frankly strikes me as being an extremely narrow one.'

  'Look, I've nothing against art. It's just that I've never really seen the point of it. Why bother to stare at pictures? Much better to read a book or listen to the wireless.'

  'If I'd known you were such a Philistine I'd never have married you.'

  Reggie pulled her back into his arms. 'Then it's a damn good job the subject never came up, isn't it? Think what you'd have missed out on.'

  Mary laughed. 'I suppose you're right. But how odd that we've never spoken about it before.'

  'I certainly had no idea that you were a great art connoisseur, my darling. If I'd known, I'd have found something else to hang on the walls of this place.' He swept an arm around the room, where a series of large, dark, Victorian portraits hung. 'Who are these people? Do you know, Mary, I don't think I've ever looked at them properly before.'

  'I imagine they're Douglas Barrington's ancestors.'

  Reggie got up and walked across the room to stand in front of a picture of a stern man with a handlebar moustache. 'He looks a bit of a tyrant. Must be the chap who built this place. I wouldn't fancy crossing swords with him if the rubber quotas were missed.'

  Mary moved across the room to join him and studied the portrait hanging beside it – a regal woman in a ruby-red gown. 'She looks more fun. She isn’t smiling but you can see a spark of amusement in her eyes. As if she’s only going through with the ordeal of having her portrait painted because it’s expected of her, and she’s been having a chuckle with the painter.’

  ‘Really?’ Reggie stepped closer and studied the picture. ‘Maybe you’re right. She does seem to be suppressing her amusement.’

  ‘I hope Old Handlebar Moustache treated her well. Mind you, she looks as though she could give him as good as she got if he didn't.'

  ‘They must be Jasmine's great grandparents. Can you see any likeness?' Reggie peered more closely at the two paintings. ‘I can’t believe I’ve never really looked at them before.’

  Mary linked her arm through Reggie’s as they gazed at the portraits.

  'I suppose there's something of Doug about the old boy. Both of them look pretty scary.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘But old Doug was a damn handsome fellow. And Jasmine is far better looking than either of these two. Mind you, her mother was a pretty woman too.’ He frowned before saying, with satisfaction, ‘Felicity. That was her name, wasn’t it?’ He shook his head, his face now solemn. ‘Good man, Doug. Always knew where you were with him. Even though he sometimes had a short fuse. Died far too young.'

  Mary stiffened.

  Reggie looked sheepish. 'Sorry, Mary, he's one of many who went too soon, as we both know only too well.'

  Mary felt the familiar wave of sadness engulf her as, despite her happiness with Reggie, it sometimes did when she thought of the war and her experience as a prisoner of the Japanese. Then she told herself that she owed it to her mother, her father, and to all the others who had died, not to dwell on the past. As a survivor it was her duty to look forward not back, to make her life worthwhile and justify the fact that she had been spared when so many others had not.

  Reggie put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Shall we turn in? It’s past ten.’

  She never needed to explain to Reggie. While she knew none of the details about his wartime experiences as he too chose not to speak of them, she was certain he must have suffered too and seen things he’d rather forget. At least he no longer experienced night terrors and most of her own dreams were now devoid of the images that had haunted her in the year after she was freed from the camps.

  Perhaps it was the gift of Frances. Every time Mary looked at her baby daughter she was filled with a fierce surge of love and a desire to protect her. Like a tiger with her cubs. She’d take on anyone or anything that threatened the wellbeing of the child.

  Mary went into her daughter’s bedroom and stood beside the cot, looking down at the sleeping baby, her face like a cherub’s, all soft puffy cheeks and tiny rosebud lips. The child made a snuffling sound like a small animal. There was a movement beside her and Mary turned her head as Reggie approached. They stood silently together, hand-in-hand, for several minutes watching their daughter sleep. Then they moved, as one, to the door and their own bedroom.

  9

  Walking with Mary in the early morning through the fringe of uncultivated jungle beyond the plantation, Jasmine’s heart lightened with every step. Her sense of liberation grew. Those last weeks in Nairobi had been like wading through a sea of sludge, every day dragging her down, threatening to submerge and suffocate her.

  It was not because of her family. She loved them all dearly. Her adored little brother, Hugh, her only living blood relative, Mummy, whom she loved more than anyone else in her life, and Arthur, who had become a steady presence in a world in which Jasmine felt increasingly disorientated. No, it was not any failing in her family. Jasmine knew she was loved and she loved them in return, all too aware she was fortunate. Yet she still had an uncomfortable feeling of being an outsider, a misfit, a cuck
oo in the nest.

  The time they’d spent together on the voyage out to Penang had brought Jasmine closer to Evie, enhancing her guilt about the decision to leave Kenya. Saying goodbye in George Town yesterday had been painful. More painful than she had ever imagined. They had never been separated since Mummy had come to Penang and married Daddy when Jasmine was a small child. They had gone through the war years in Australia, cut off from everything they’d known – even though for Jasmine those four years in Perth, swimming in the Indian Ocean every day, going to school, making new friends, had been a carefree, happy time.

  She hadn’t enjoyed Mummy dragging her and Hugh to London, even though she’d understood why her mother had done it. She’d never complained, and had tried to be as supportive as possible to Evie. Her mother had been so brave then, coping alone with two children after Daddy had died, trying to build a new life for them all. Now, walking in the cool of the early morning air, Jasmine shivered at the memory of England. Those ugly, dirty, litter-strewn streets. The bomb sites on every corner, the choking smog, the dreary suburban house they’d rented in Surrey. It had all been so unremittingly dull and grey.

  Kenya was different. Maybe it was because as soon as they joined Arthur, Mummy and Hugh immediately and obviously were enchanted by the country. But the vastness of Africa overwhelmed Jasmine, making her feel insignificant. There was also the air of self-satisfied smugness among the girls at school and their parents. Their sense of superiority and entitlement. The way they looked down on the indigenous Kenyan people.

  Of course, the expats in Malaya all had servants but it didn’t feel the same. Take Mary – she even dressed like a Malayan woman, wearing the baju kurung or the Chinese cheongsam. Imagine in Nairobi a white woman wearing a kitenge, the vibrantly colourful sarong worn throughout east Africa. It was unthinkable. Here in Penang, the white people got along well with the Malays and Chinese for the most part, whereas in Africa there was a chasm between the whites and the indigenous tribes. The girls at school were all white and British, and all of them behaved as though they were God’s chosen people and black people uncivilised savages. Only Katie had been different and felt the same as Jasmine.

  On the ship, Mummy had suggested that perhaps Jasmine’s feelings were less about dislike of these other girls specifically, and more about the changes she was going through growing up. Jasmine hated that idea. She hated the thought of growing up anyway. It was impossible to understand why the other girls were always giggling and talking about boys. They were all desperate to get married and have babies. Jasmine could think of nothing worse. It would be exchanging the prison of school for the prison of marriage.

  She had nothing against marriage itself. After all, Mummy and Arthur were happy together and clearly Mary and Reggie were devoted to each other. But she couldn’t imagine that for herself. Being stuck in a house all day. Having to live forever with one man. Having to sleep in the same bed with him and do the thing you had to do to have babies.

  The two women walked on, Mary carrying her sleeping baby in a cloth sling, tied across her breast. The forest floor beneath their feet was soft and springy, carpeted with layers of damp leaves. Dramatic, dark grey clouds hung low among the treetops, resembling smoke. The cloudscape, together with damp vegetation hanging down from the branches like casually discarded green cloaks, gave the rain forest an ethereal ghostly air. Jasmine looked up at the tall thin trees stretching skywards, the trunks bare until the highest sections near the light, where the foliage was delicate, like fronds of parsley. Through the gloom all around them they could hear choruses of whooping and whistling, chirping and tweeting. She wondered what the birdsong was about. It had to be a conversation. What were these birds saying? They sounded happy. Could birds think? Were their lives as complicated as humans’ were?

  ‘I feel so alive here,’ Jasmine whispered. ‘It’s a magic forest.’

  Mary adjusted the sleeping Frances as she nuzzled against her shoulder. ‘Magic? Perhaps. It does sometimes feel full of ghosts and spirits.’

  Jasmine detected a note of sadness in the voice of her former teacher. ‘Yes. That’s exactly how it feels. As if we’re not alone.’ She paused. ‘But it’s not scary. Not at all.’

  Mary glanced at her but said nothing.

  ‘How far is the kampong?’

  ‘We’re almost there.’ Mary pointed ahead. ‘See where the sunlight is? That’s the end of this part of the forest. About another quarter mile. The whole trip is only a mile and a half. It’s twice the distance by the road.’

  ‘How long has the school been going?’

  ‘A couple of years. Reggie built it as soon as he returned to Bella Vista after the war. There was no teacher then. I tease him that he only married me because he couldn’t persuade another teacher to move up here.’ She smiled – it was a smile that lit up her whole face. ‘But honestly, Jasmine, I think something made Reggie build it. He didn’t have to. He told me it was a compulsion. Something made him believe that it was the right thing to do. Even though at the time there seemed little point.’

  Jasmine frowned. ‘Do you think it was God?’ Then quickly she added, ‘I mean maybe God guided him to build it knowing that you would come along in the end. Maybe God sent you to him.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe in God, Jasmine.’

  Jasmine’s eyes widened. ‘Really? You don’t believe in God?’

  ‘I said I wasn’t sure.’

  Jasmine thought about that for a moment. ‘I’m not sure either.’

  ‘Then that must make us both agnostics.’ Mary gave her another of her sad smiles.

  ‘What does that mean exactly? What was the word again?’

  ‘An agnostic is someone who is uncertain about the existence of God. Not to the point of not believing at all, as that would make you an atheist. But more someone who believes that it is impossible to ever know that God exists. That there’s simply no means of proving whether He does, or He doesn’t.’

  ‘Agnostic.’ Jasmine repeated the word, testing it on her tongue and liking the sound of it. ‘Yes, that’s what I am. An agnostic. Do you think you can be agnostic about other things as well as religion?’

  ‘Like what?’ Mary tilted her head, her expression quizzical.

  ‘Life, everything.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Although there’s plenty of concrete evidence around us to indicate that we exist.’

  ‘I don’t mean the world, people, nature, that kind of thing. I mean believing in things in life that are expected of you. Like falling in love and getting married. That kind of stuff.’

  ‘I see.’ Mary nodded, thought for a moment then said, ‘I think that’s different. An agnostic might want to prove the existence of God but can’t, whereas what you’re talking about is surely a matter of choices or circumstances. I mean many people do fall in love, others don’t. As to marriage, some choose it, others don’t. Some seek love but don’t find it. Others find it but don’t believe in it.’

  Jasmine frowned. She wasn’t sure what Mary was trying to say.

  ‘I didn’t believe in love when it found me. I’d turned my back on it.’ Mary’s lips tightened. ‘It’s thanks to your mother that I finally admitted to myself that I loved Reggie.’

  ‘Really?’ Jasmine’s eyes widened. ‘Mummy brought you two together?’

  Mary nodded. ‘I used to think love was too painful. Everything and everyone I ever loved was taken from me, so I tried to push it away so I couldn’t get hurt again. It felt like standing on top of a cliff but being too terrified to jump. Instead, I clung to the edge in a state of abject fear and misery. Once Evie convinced me to let go, it was like flying. That dive off the cliff was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done but believe me, Jasmine, soaring through the air is so much better than cowering in fear. It’s about letting go and believing.’

  Jasmine was about to reply, but they had now reached an open space, beyond the jungle. Ahead of them was a line of wooden huts wit
h thatched attap roofs. Mary pointed to the largest building, a few yards away from the others: a wooden hut with a wide veranda. A group of Tamil women were sitting on the steps, feeding babies and watching over their children, while others, clearly Malays, sat on the veranda doing the same. ‘That’s the school. Come on, Jasmine. I’ll introduce you to the children.’

  They moved between the two separate groups, each group chatting in their own language. All of them broke off their chatter to greet Mary and smile in welcome to Jasmine. Mary unstrapped the still-sleeping Frances and handed the baby to one of the mothers. Turning to Jasmine, she said, ‘The ladies take it in turns to look after Frances. I didn’t want to leave her at home all the time with the amah. Poor Jinjiang would never get any work done. This arrangement works really well as I’m on hand when she needs me. She’s weaned now but it meant I used to be able to feed her.’ Lowering her voice, she said conspiratorially, ‘And it means there’s no risk of her getting more attached to her amah than me.’

  The interior of the schoolroom was cool. Shafts of light came in from tall windows at the rear, the shade of trees protecting them from the extremes of the sun. There were neat rows of desks facing towards a blackboard at one end and, at the other end, a cluster of smaller chairs grouped in a circle. A little girl was standing on a stool writing the date on the top of the board in chalk. Three or four other children had already taken up positions at the desks. All of them chorused their good mornings and all were wearing crisp white shirts over their shorts or skirts.

  ‘I’ll introduce you once everyone’s here.’ Mary indicated the circle of chairs at the rear of the class. ‘I wonder if you might read to the children while I teach their mums? Some of them are keen to learn to read and write too. Then later on you can help the older children with their reading.’ She looked around. ‘The classroom’s rather basic but it does us well enough. We have a mixture of Tamil children from the rubber estate, and local Malays from this kampong.’