Dangerous Waters

by Rosalind Brett

  Kim Mali said, “Peter Maxwell Sternham, are you willing to take this woman to be your wife?”

  Non-committally, Pete said, “I am.”

  “Teresa Claire Fremont, are you willing to take this man to be your husband?”

  “I am,” she whispered, with her fingers crossed.

  “You will kindly place the ring on the appropriate finger, Mr. Sternham.”

  Pete did so, very easily, because the ring was too large. The imperturbable Kim Mali nodded his head, referred once more to his card and said, “I pronounce you man and wife.”

  It was like acting, rather badly, a scene from comic opera, except that it wasn’t amusing; at least, Terry didn’t find it so. She watched the old man sign a stained parchment certificate which had already been filled in with her own and Pete’s names, slam a heavy seal below his signature and push the paper across the desk for her to sign. She did it shakily, saw Pete add what was presumably his usual firm signature, and the two witnesses fill in the lines below. The certificate was rolled and handed to Pete, with Terry’s passport. Five minutes later he surrendered his permit for one which entitled Mr. and Mrs. P. Sternham to proceed through Vinan territory to their destination, Penghu.

  Kim Mali stood up, bowed graciously and offered his hand across the desk. “I wish you much happiness and many children,” he said. “Believe me, Mr. Sternham, marriage is a good thing, as much for a white man in Malaya as for us who were born here.” He then shook hands with Terry. “I wish you well, mem. May I suggest just one thing? When you arrive at Penghu, find a minister of your church to solemnize the marriage in English fashion. This marriage is a means to an end, but I have strong belief in the religious ceremony. I wish you both a safe journey. Goodbye.”

  The final ten minutes of her stay at Vinan were dreamlike to Terry. She sat on the jetty while the canoe was loaded with food, blankets, a ground-sheet and their luggage. The higher reaches of the river were navigable only in a small craft, so it was impossible to take a boat-boy; there was no room for one. When Pete was satisfied with the loading, he gave a hand to Terry and saw her seated. He pushed away with a paddle, they came into blazing sunshine and then slid forward into the narrower tunnel of river beyond the village. Terry waved to the two policemen, saw the village disappear and turned back, to face Pete across the short length of the canoe.

  Apparently oblivious of her, he pulled off his shirt, settled firmly into his seat and began to wield a pair of paddles with long and seemingly effortless strokes. His muscles rippled under bronze skin, and suddenly she thought of him on holiday in Burma and Siam—just like this, but alone and enjoying himself. He knew there were hazards ahead, but he didn’t care; she wouldn’t mind betting he had never been scared in his life. She began to wonder what sort of home he had come from, whether he had parents still living, what had first attracted him out to Malaya. And presently it occurred to her that his reticence and disinterest in her as a person were premeditated and things to be thankful for. He was in a hurry to get to Penghu and so was she. There would be no complications except those caused by their passage through the green archways of the jungle river. She pushed her left hand into the side pocket of her skirt, dropped the ring from her finger and withdrew the bare hand. That was better.

  They had been moving for two hours when Pete first spoke. “Does your back ache?”

  “It’s not unbearable. If you’d let me use a paddle it wouldn’t ache at all.”

  “But you’d get blistered hands, and they’re the devil to heal out here. As soon as I see a likely spot I’ll pull in for a bite and a drink, and we’ll see if we can fix you up with a back-rest.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m all right.”

  “You’ve a lot of sitting to do during the next few days, and you must be comfortable for it. If you see a clearing—a small one will do—just give a shout.”

  Three-quarters of an hour passed before a likely spot presented itself, and even then it was only a small expanse of low ferns between the clawing roots of mangroves. However, Pete thought it would do, and he drew in and flung a rope round one of the roots. He stepped from the canoe, beat down the ferns with a paddle, dexterously shot a snake into the river and then gave Terry a hand. Somehow, with him she couldn’t be scared of a mere snake. He accepted everything as it appeared, dealt with it and got on with what he had been doing. If, back in Shalak, she had known what was ahead and had to prepare for it, it would have been just such a man as Pete Sternham she would have selected, if she could, as her escort from Vinan to Penghu. Calm and impersonal, resourceful, impervious, he made her feel safe and as normal as it was possible to feel in such circumstances. As a friend he would be annoyingly unimpressionable, but for this trip he was just right.

  He spread one of tire blankets over the ferns. “We’ll eat first, and then weave a back-rest for you. You lie flat for an hour. It’ll ease your back.”

  “It’s not that bad. I want to help. What do we eat?”

  “Nothing very appetizing, I’m afraid. We’ll save the eggs till tonight—they won’t keep longer than that. There’s some stewed chicken in the tin, and corn-bread in the packet. We’ll keep off rice as long as we can.”

  “I’m surprised we even have chicken!”

  “It’ll be tough. They don’t kill them in Malaya till they’re a hundred years old. I had this one cooked early this morning.”

  Both chicken and dry, grey bread were wrapped in leaves; the meat was tasteless, the bread smelled of mildew, but Terry was hungry enough to eat almost as well as he did. The usual birds screeched in the branches, a monkey brought his friends and they all sat on high, exchanging comments upon the strange happenings below. The water slapped lazily against the massive tree-tops, the wall of green across the narrow river had a delicate and impenetrable green beauty, while bamboos as thick as a man’s arm rustled their grassy tops nearby in the gentle breeze.

  They drank coconut milk and cold boiled water. Kim Mali had given Pete a packet of coffee, but he thought they must decide to make a fire only in the evening, when they would have plenty of time. During daylight hours he wanted to keep on the move.

  “Then let us leave the back-rest till this evening,” she said. “I can change my position fairly often. And if you’d allow me to paddle I could bind handkerchiefs round my hands to stop the blisters.”

  “You’d still get them, through the heat. Lie down and I’ll fix something temporary for your back. We’ll reinforce it with atap this evening.”

  “I don’t want to lie down.”

  “Well, sit up, then,” he said coolly, and disappeared into the forest.

  She heard the cracking of bamboos, sat forward, with her arms about her knees and watched while he dragged the material he had cut down to the canoe. With a Malay parang, he trimmed a couple of supports which he bound to the back of her seat in the canoe with long tough grasses. Banana leaves were stretched between the supports and fastened, and he threw his shirt over the contraption for comfort.

  “It’ll serve for a few hours,” he said. “Ready?”

  She got up. “You’re already getting angry with me, aren’t you?”

  He looked down at her, dispassionately. “I’ll get you to Penghu, and in return I’d like you to do as you’re told, that’s all.”

  “Even in things that don’t matter? I’m not tired, so why should I lie down?”

  “Because when you’re on this kind of trip you may be called upon for an occasional big effort and it’s best to save yourself in every possible way, to be ready for it. You can be sure I won’t tell you to do things that aren’t for your own good.”

  “I know,” she said contritely, “but how would I feel, lounging about while you work? Don’t treat me as a nitwit. Give me jobs to do.”

  “You can cook, when the time comes. Get into the boat.”

  He put one foot down and steadied the canoe. Terry slipped into her seat and leaned back into the support he had made. It was surprisingly comfo
rtable, and as they skimmed along the river she dozed.

  Late that afternoon they came to the first village. It was a stretch of houses on stilts right at the water’s edge, and the people looked primitive and ragged. But there was an individual in a sarong who demanded to see their permit. He scrutinized it thoroughly, and to show them he understood it he told them in broken English that Tuan Sternham and his mem could stay at the village for the night, or go on, as they wished. Pete chose to proceed.

  He paddled into the dusk, and then suddenly there was no light whatsoever, except the occasional beam from his flashlight. The going was slow and wearisome, and it must have been about seven-thirty when he said,

  “We’ll call it a day. There’s a bit of grass just here, and we’ll camp. Maybe tomorrow night I’ll be able to rig up a lantern and keep going through the dark hours.”

  “But aren’t you tired?”

  “A bit, but you can always go on after a couple of hours’ rest. You can keep up the intensive stuff for about a week. After that you have to camp every other night.”

  “You mean you can,” she commented, as she staggered stiffly on to the bank. “What sort of man are you?”

  She thought he grinned as he replied, “You don’t really want to know, do you? The less you know about me, the safer. Isn’t that what you think?”

  “In a way. I’ve already found out one thing—in your temperate fashion you’re very kind.”

  “Shucks, it’s nothing,” he said modestly.

  She laughed. “I think you could be rather nice, if you bothered. May I insist that you sit down while I get some exercise, bringing the things up from the canoe?”

  “I need the movement or my legs will atrophy. But you can find those eggs and break them into a pot. We’ll have them scrambled with the last of the chicken.”

  It was difficult to find dry twigs among the damp growth, but he managed to get a smoky fire going, and to boil a pot of water. The resultant coffee was unlike any brew Terry had ever tasted, but it was incredibly good; the first coffee she had tasted since the cupful served by the deckhand on the steamer yesterday. Was it only yesterday? The steamer, the argument on the jetty, the restless night with a Malay woman on the floor beside her, this morning’s talk with Pete, that strange little ceremony in the old headman’s house, were things which had happened in another life. This was an unbelievable interlude which came between the journey from England and the hoped-for meeting with Annette. And even Annette seemed remote and not too important. Very odd.

  Pete finished off the bread with the last of his scrambled egg, ate a banana and leaned back on one hand, holding a tin mug of coffee in the other. The fire had almost died, but a faint radiance came from the river, a reflection of a sky which must be lit by at least half a moon.

  “A fortnight ago I was in Bangkok,” he said. “I stayed with friends who run a motor agency. It’s quite a city.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I’d already toured the district, so I settled for a few days of high living. If you’re staying with locals you can be very sophisticated in Bangkok. We had parties and picnics and generally made hay.”

  “Do you carry a dress suit?”

  “A thin white jacket, black trousers and a nylon shirt. They get one through.” He put down his cup and leant right back, with his hands under his head. “What were you doing a fortnight ago?”

  “I was on the sea, also having a gay time.”

  “Did you break any hearts? That’s what girls hope to do on long voyages, isn’t it?”

  “I had fun, but I’m not a heartbreaker.”

  “No? Why is that—because you really do have someone in Penghu you’re hoping to marry?”

  Sitting there, not a yard from him, she looked down at his recumbent figure and said casually, “It hasn’t got that far. We met a few times in England and have corresponded over the past few months.”

  “He works in Penghu? Maybe I know him.”

  “I hope not!”

  He turned his head her way, lazily. She could detect mockery in his tones. “Why? Am I going to be a dark secret in your past?”

  “Well, it may sound ungrateful, but ... I don’t think you and I should know each other in Penghu, do you?”

  “How do you propose explaining the fact that you got there—always supposing you do arrive—with no trains running from Vinan? Of course, you could say you had a canoe-boy and made it all alone, or that some self-effacing chap brought you and disappeared the moment you landed. Take your choice.”

  “I thought it would be better for both of us if we forgot this trip, once it’s over.”

  “You may be right. What’s the name of the cove you know in Penghu?”

  “Roger Payn.”

  “Payns, the importers? I know him by sight—the scion of an old Far East family. He hasn’t got the red blood of his forebears. No offence, of course.”

  “I like him,” she said flatly.

  “Sure you do,” he answered encouragingly. “He’s a very pretty boy.”

  “You like to jeer, don’t you? Roger’s just normally good-looking, and he’s certainly the nicest man I know!”

  “Up the Roger,” he murmured. “Why didn’t he meet you at the coast?”

  “He couldn’t get away, and it wasn’t necessary, anyway. My sister’s fiancé had arranged for me to travel out with Mrs. Pryce, who is the wife of an accountant at the construction company. If she hadn’t had the accident on board I’d have gone the whole way to Penghu with her.”

  “I doubt that. They might have let her through, but not you. Roger would kick himself black and blue if he could see you now. You see, if he’d got through to Shalak and met you, you could have married him at Vinan.”

  “Very funny,” she said unsmilingly. “How soon shall we be through Vinan territory?”

  “If we could carry on at the rate we’ve moved today, we’d be through by tomorrow evening, or even earlier. But I’ve an idea that round about midday we’ll meet the swamps. They’ll slow us down, but if it doesn’t rain we’ll get into Penghu three nights from now.”

  “I thought it rained every day.”

  “Not at this season—the average is every other day, but we sometimes go a week without a shower. Let’s hope this is one of those weeks. Like a cigarette?”

  “Thanks.”

  She took one and placed it between her lips, had to lean a long way over him to the flame he held. Just as her cigarette tip met the flame he drew it back, and she couldn’t help but look down into his face. It was dark and mocking, the teeth very white. She stared and slowly sat back, the cigarette unlighted.

  “Here,” he said negligently, “have the lighter yourself.” She took it from him and used it, found that she puffed rather fast until her breathing evened out. The beast was enjoying some joke of his own. For two pins she’d jam her cigarette tip down on to his hand. Even in the darkness she must have exuded vexation, for he said.

  “I’ve a hunch we’re going to be very glad to part from each other at Penghu. You don’t care for men like me, and I find girls of your sort extraordinarily irritating. I haven’t met one for some time, but I seem to remember all the signs. You want to marry Roger Payn and settle down to life with plenty of servants, bridge parties and discreet gossip. You’ll have your sister for a neighbor and a few spare men to admire you. Too bad I shall be living only a few miles out of Penghu, but I’ll try not to haunt you.”

  “Shut up,” she said crossly, and turned her back to him. There was silence for a long time, a jungle silence that teemed with chirping and the drone of insects, the little noises of the river, the whispering of leaves. The moon had risen higher, dappling the river with silver coins, and from the undergrowth came the scent of damp earth, forest flowers and decaying vegetation. It was cooler.

  Terry flicked her cigarette butt down into the river, heard the tiny hiss as it died. She said, “I’m sorry I’ve made such a poor impression. I didn’t mean to, but yesterday
and last night must have unnerved me a little. I’m really very grateful for what you did for me in Vinan.”

  “Forget it,” he said carelessly. “Your chief trouble is that you’re a bit young.” A pause. “What do your parents think of your sister marrying out here?”

  “My father was a little disappointed; Annette has always been his favorite—not in a bad way. He’s fond of us both.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She’s a stepmother, but not the traditional kind. She’s businesslike and loyal, and she’s been good to us, though Annette has never liked her very much. Mother helps to run the shop—a book and gift shop at Henton, not far from London. Annette broke away. She helped at rush periods, but she had her own job; she was a model.”

  “Good lord, is she one of those? She could have married well in England, surely?”

  “Yes, except that it was Vic Hilton she wanted, and he was dead keen to take this job in Malaya.”

  “She’ll be out of her element here, love or no love. In any case, the emotions either fade or get swamped in this climate.”

  “Do they?” She was still half-turned from him. “I find it easier to get angry, so I should think the other emotions are equally near the surface.”

  “Oh, they flare up occasionally, just to break the monotony, but after one’s lived here for a while there’s not much risk of leaping passion. You get so that you can handle things before they reach that pitch.”

  “You’re talking as a bachelor with lots of experience,” she said. “Annette’s known dozens of men, but she fell really hard for Vic, even though, you might say he’s not her type. Surely you don’t think the climate can kill what they feel for each other?”

  “Not knowing them, I can’t say. What sort of man is this Vic Hilton?”

  “He’s rugged, twenty-eight, a bit old in his ways and a very good engineer.”

  “And your sister—is her temperament anything at all like yours?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s a dual character, really; the poised and sophisticated model, calm and assured—and underneath she’s uncertain of herself as a wife for Vic. If they’d married in England she’d have been as happy and confident as a lark.”