Once upon a time in Chinatown

by Robert Ronsson

  This is how it was when, in September 1995, her father called to ask if she would act as guide for another westerner who was asking about Kellie’s Castle.

  ‘The castle is on the tourist trail now, Father. What’s so special about this one?’

  ‘He arrived in KL and yesterday, according to our informant there, he mentioned that he’s coming to visit Ipoh and see the house. His name is Kellie. He told the taxi driver who picked him up this afternoon that he’s related to William Kellie-Smith.’

  10

  After dropping the carton of leaflets in the boot of Nancy’s modest Proton saloon, Mick followed her to the mall entrance where a doorman pressed the button that activated the power-assisted doors. I imagine Mick shaking his head at this example of the country’s full employment policy but being quickly distracted when his gaze homed in on the taut, but not stretched, silver material that encased Nancy’s hips.

  When they were through the door and she turned to him, her face was almost a caricature; flawless skin, razor-sharp cheek bones, large almond eyes and full lips.

  ‘There’s a coffee shop I go to, down there.’ She pointed from the balcony to the floor below. The Windsor Tea Shoppe was guarded by a rank of tables along its frontage, each set with a lace edged white cloth over red and white gingham. ‘I would prefer inside if you don’t mind. It will be cooler,’ she said.

  The air-conditioning in the mall had already forced Mick to don the sweater he had carried during the walk from the hotel. Nancy conjured a cashmere cardigan from her shoulder bag.

  Once inside, she led him past the front ranks of tables to the rear wall where there were four cubicles. She chose the one farthest from the counter and indicated he should sit opposite. It was a bench seat with a cushioned back. A female server came and they ordered cappuccinos. Mick was relieved to see that they were produced from an Italian machine on the other side of the counter.

  He turned back to Nancy sitting opposite, smiling expectantly. He couldn’t quite believe how this had happened. ‘So, you’re a tour guide,’ he said.

  ‘Some of the time, yes. I work in an office but I do some tours to help out a friend. It is sort of part-time.’

  ‘Your English is very good.’ The compliment echoed. ‘Sorry. I’ve said that already.’

  She put a hand up to her cheek. It seemed to be a reflex response; there was no evidence of her blushing. ‘Thank you. I lived in England for three years for my education.’

  ‘Oh? What did you study there?’

  ‘Business Management at Kingston Polytechnic.’

  ‘Kingston in Surrey?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Because I live in Richmond just down the road.’

  ‘Of course. I know it. It is very posh, Richmond. The river there is beautiful. I remember Hampton Court and Richmond Park.’

  Hampton Court was west along the river but he decided it might be bad form to correct her. ‘When were you there?’

  She waited while the waitress served the two coffees. Her eyes reminded him of a fawn and now, perhaps surprised by the directness of his question, they took on a startled look that accentuated their size and the pitch-black, deep pools at their centres. ‘I was at Kingston in the early 1980s’

  He calculated: if she had been in her late teens fifteen years ago, she would be in her early 30s now. He could be as much as ten years older than her.

  ‘Anyway, that’s enough about me,’ she said, smoothing the silk of her cheongsam along her thighs and crossing her legs at the ankle. ‘What brings you to Ipoh?’

  ‘I only arrived yesterday. I want to do a bit of sightseeing. One sight in particular, actually.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Kellie’s Castle. Out on the Batu Gajah road.’

  Nancy nodded. ‘I know it. There is a romantic story attached to it, you know, about the man who built it – William Kellie-Smith.’

  ‘He was my grandfather’s brother.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘William Kellie-Smith. His brother, Kenneth, was my grandfather.’

  ‘Really! You’re a member of the Kellie-Smith family? That’s amazing!’

  ‘Not really. I didn’t know anything about the family’s connection to Malaysia until a few weeks ago. It was a total coincidence. My business partner who’s actually my cousin, had a travel magazine article that mentioned the castle and the romantic story of how it was built but never lived in. I didn’t know of it or the family’s connection to Malaysia until then.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck, Mr Mick Kellie-Smith.’

  ‘Our branch of the family dropped the ‘Smith’ part. I’m just a plain ‘Kellie’. What makes you say that – I’m in luck?’

  She spread her arms and sat back, accentuating the line of her body from her ankle to the lotus in her hair. ‘Who better to guide you on a tour of the castle than me? I know its history. I can tell you about the rooms, the secret tunnels, the temple—’

  ‘The statue of William?’

  ‘Of course, the statue. Yes, but it is not exactly a statue. It is more what you’d call a statuette. It is on the temple roof.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I will explain it all when we get there. Now, when do you want to go?’

  ‘I was heading out that way when we bumped into each other…’

  ‘This was very lucky for you, I think. How about this afternoon?’ She consulted her watch. ‘I need to change first, grab a sandwich. We’ll go in my car. I’ll call for you at your hotel at 2.30pm, okay?’

  She was rushing him into a decision that conflicted with his original plan. Would he feel more relaxed on his own, communing with his long-dead relatives? He remembered how he had felt sightseeing in KL. His own company hadn’t been enough. Had he learned nothing from his encounter on the plane?

  Nancy leant back against the cushions and watched him expectantly. There was a secret smile on her lips and her eyes were wide. She was evidently not used to being refused by a man. This woman, incredibly, was trying to persuade him that they should spend more time together. The first opportunity presented by this uncanny trip had slipped by and he wasn’t going to let it happen again. ‘Yes, 2.30pm. I’ll wait in the lobby. Just pull into the forecourt and I’ll join you.’

  ‘Good.’

  The penny dropped. Of course she’d been pushy. She was closing a business deal. She had persuaded him to employ her as his personal tour guide. How had he been so stupid? There was going to be a bill at the end of the excursion. ‘I’m sorry. I should have asked about your rates,’ he said. ‘What does it cost?’

  She dismissed this with a wave of her hand. ‘Fee! No fee. It will be my pleasure to show Mr Mick Kellie-Smith around his ancestral home. It will be my pleasure.’

  Nearly two hours later, Mick waited in the lobby watching the entrance anxiously. She was late. Only ten minutes, but it was enough to make him think that perhaps she had second thoughts. She had said 2.30, he was sure of it.

  Her Proton Mira swept into the forecourt and stopped by the valet parking station. Immediately, one of the attendants stepped forward. Nancy waved him away as she emerged and slid a pair of large-paned sunglasses up over her forehead. The way they tagged in her dark hair and her model’s pose – a vision in black leggings and a white stiff-collared blouse – reminded Mick of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He remembered his argument with Tifanu. He chuckled; his life had taken an unnatural turn.

  He hurried out to meet her, hitting the overpowering wall of hot air. She held the car door open for him and he slid inside. When she had settled into the driver’s seat, he said, ‘Good afternoon. This is very kind of you.’

  ‘It is my pleasure,’ she said, slipping the sun shades back down over her eyes with one hand while the other went to her neck which had started to flush red.

  The car’s interior was cool and he should have been able to relax, but he found that sitting so close to Nancy was unsettling. He was overwhelmed b
y a fog of tension, anticipation and expectation and that, along with the scent of a perfume he didn’t recognise, threatened to smother them both. Yes, it was something to do with their proximity in the jarring mundanity of the car’s plastic-enclosed space but there was more. It reminded him of when he was much younger, on his first date with his wife. He wondered if Nancy felt anything.

  As if to answer, she pushed the gear shift into first and let the clutch in too quickly. The car bounded forward and stalled. She stifled a giggle and turned the ignition again. A crimson tide spread up from the neck of her blouse. This time the car leapt forward and was immediately going too fast in the confined space of the hotel pull-in. She grasped the wheel and swerved to avoid the kerb as the forecourt narrowed. The front tyre clipped the edge and the impact bounced the car to the middle, where it stopped only inches from the give-way line marking the entrance to the main road. A passing Mercedes blared out a long warning.

  Nancy took a deep breath and wiped her hands on her ski-pants. She turned the rear-view mirror towards her and checked her make-up, running her tongue across the front of her teeth.

  ’Are you okay? Mick asked.

  She turned to face him. ‘Sorry, I am not used to this car.’

  ‘We’re not in any hurry.’

  ‘I know.’ She pulled her blouse down so that it pleated over the waistband of her trousers. Now in control, she drove with fluid movements. She focused on the traffic around them and Mick, remembering how he had felt driving in the city, knew not to distract her. It gave him the opportunity to study her profile. It was her lips that commanded his attention. They were parted slightly in concentration. Her back was straight, her head held imperiously. Her torso had a slightness that intrigued him. There was something intoxicating in the contrast between the immodesty of women’s clothing at home and Nancy’s understated elegance.

  They left the city limits and she turned briefly. ‘It won’t be long. Are you excited?’

  He thought about it. He had come half way round the world to see this. He should be excited. But any anticipation of visiting his supposed ancestral home had been overtaken by another more urgent, animal excitement. He tried to rekindle his enthusiasm for the quest but the embers had cooled. Should he confide in her? Should he tell her he that she was the object of his interest now? That he wanted to spend time with her. That their destination was an irrelevance. ‘Yes,’ he said, disappointing himself as the word emerged. ‘Excited!’

  The land around them was flat and rows of palm trees marched off in every direction as far as he could see. The sun was still high and, in the cool of the car, he had to remind himself how hot it would be when they stepped out.

  They turned off the main road following a sign for Batu Raja. This was now a single carriageway and the jungle lined it menacingly. He recalled his night at the restaurant when the animals closed in as soon as the humans departed. It would only take a few months of neglect for this road to be obliterated by creeping vines, advancing stands of bamboo and the accompanying fauna.

  ‘That’s it.’ She pointed to the right.

  Ahead of them, the top of a square turret peaked out over the trees in the same way as it did in the photograph folded into his wallet. He could make out the tops of window openings that bore carved stone lintels. The car followed a bend round to the right and there it was. The house stood in a clearing. The earth had been banked up to create a platform for its footings. On the front of the embankment the words ‘Kellie’s Castle’ had been picked out in white stones.

  The red sandstone absorbed the sun’s rays rather than reflected them and this gave the frontage a baleful look not leavened by the two rows of unglazed windows that stared back blankly. He shivered. Had Nancy turned up the Proton’s air-conditioning?

  She steered the car into an opening in the fence and pulled to a halt by a signboard. In front of them, a small bridge traversed a shallow fast-flowing stream that twinkled in the sunlight. There were no other cars. They were alone.

  11

  Mick’s realisation that the visit to the house was now of secondary importance was confirmed as he stood waiting for Nancy to prepare for her guiding duties. She opened the rear door, reached in and picked up a hat and shoes. She leaned on the car to change her shoes, stretched, as if aware that he was watching her, and put on the bamboo Chinese sunhat that tied beneath her chin with a black ribbon. Large Ray-Ban sunglasses hid her eyes so he couldn’t tell whether she was watching him watch her, but he didn’t care; he couldn’t drag his eyes away.

  She smiled broadly, dragging his attention back to her eminently kissable mouth. ‘Shall we?’

  He nodded.

  She led the way along a gravel path. He was mesmerised by the swing of her slim hips as she climbed the steps up to the base of the wall that radiated heat from the day’s sun. She turned to face him. ‘This is actually the back of the house. If you look behind you, all you can see is the Kellas Estate plantation. This is the best view. Let’s go this way.’

  He followed her to the left beneath the square tower and in through a narrow entrance. It became clear that this wing was only one room deep and all the rooms enjoyed the plantation view. An open-sided passage extended ahead of them.

  ‘After William Kellie-Smith died the old house and the construction site were looted for materials and only the shells of the rooms remain. In the war, during the Japanese occupation, stonework from the original house was taken and used to build blockhouses and such-like.’

  He looked around. ‘Which original house?’

  She pointed out of the first opening to their left. ‘There, across what was going to be a courtyard. The intention was to link the two houses with a single storey building. After the war, the new owners made what was left of the old house safe and preserved as much of the new house as was left. All the rooms were probably wood-panelled. There was a magnificent staircase in the reception hall behind us. All gone.’

  Mick nodded. He was reminded again of the greedy jungle devouring anything in its path. ‘Who are the owners? Who maintains what’s left?’

  ‘One of the local plantation companies – it owns all this…’ she waved her arms expansively ‘… the Kellas Estate.’

  ‘Kellas – the village in Scotland where my grandfather was born.’

  ‘Exactly. Also the name of the first house – Kellas House.’

  Mick followed Nancy along the corridors on both floors, dutifully peering into the empty rooms as she described their proposed functions. At the far end on the first floor they came to the stairway that took them through a doorway onto the roof. Mick followed her to the edge where the view looked over the car park with her solitary car, the stream and the ranks of trees stretching beyond towards the distant hills and the afternoon sun.

  She put out a warning hand. ‘Don’t go too close to the edge.’

  ‘It’s strange there are no barriers.’

  ‘Many people come here but there’s only ever been one accident.’ Her voice wavered. ‘A man slipped and fell from here five years ago.’

  ‘Was he okay?’

  Nancy’s face was shielded by the wide brim of her hat. Behind her sunshades, she seemed to be seeking something on the horizon as though her thoughts were elsewhere. Her face was a beautiful, oriental mask; serene and unattainable. ‘No. He died.’ She bowed her head for a moment, sighed and turned away.

  Mick followed her to look out over what would have been the courtyard. It was a scrubland of impacted soil, with, to the left, the ruins of the Kellas House. The outer faces of its pale, stone blocks had been polished to a matt sheen that glowed orange. There was a fence bearing a sign in English warning visitors not to trespass because of the danger of falling ‘masonary’.

  Nancy moved closer and her left shoulder touched his arm. ‘It was a much prettier house, the first one.’

  ‘But it didn’t make the same statement as this. It wasn’t a work of love.’

  ‘I like to think this castle was mea
nt to be a declaration of love for the country as well,’ Nancy said. ‘It was a promise to his wife: we’re going to be here permanently. This is where our children will grow up. I will be able take my son to the top of the tower and tell him that one day all this will be his. These people will be your family.’

  He should have been moved by his great-uncle’s folly, but her eloquence affected him more. ‘I hadn’t thought about that aspect. How he must have fallen in love with your country. It makes it all the more poignant. All those hopes dashed when he died in Portugal.’

  She stepped away. ‘Would you like to see the basement?’ Without waiting for an answer, she retraced their steps to the staircase and at the ground floor she took him along the cloister to the round tower where an open doorway led to stone steps going down.

  The room was illuminated only by small openings set into window wells outside and they had to wait until their eyes adjusted to the comparative dark. The basement extended a short way under the length of the house. The back wall comprised a series of vaulted alcoves, presumably for wine and other provisions that needed to be kept cool. The floor here was loose sand. Their arms touched and Mick was profoundly aware that they were alone.

  How could he take advantage of the situation? There was a cultural chasm between them. How would she react if he tried to… to profess his attraction towards her? Could he act as if they were in a film and take her in his arms and kiss her? Even with the supposed magic that accompanied his trip, he had no licence to act precipitously. Given their different cultures, probably less.

  He cursed himself for his inaction as he feigned interest in a part of the wall that was roughly bricked over. ‘What’s there?’ he asked.

  ‘It was the start of a tunnel that led alongside the stream all the way to the temple. Nobody knows how long it’s been bricked up. Whoever owned it after the war must have done it because of safety. There is a rumour that Kellie-Smith’s Rolls Royce is still down there.’