House of Trembling Leaves, The
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The House of Trembling Leaves
The conjuring of period and cultural detail are very impressive. The novel conducts a masterful sweep both historical and geographical, from the 1930s to the 1950s, and from pre-war Cambridge through Malaya and Tibet at pivotal moments in those countries’ respective histories. Through it all are woven the compelling stories of two women and a friendship which transcends time and separation, and which survives through war, personal suffering and political division. Their enduring friendship is beautifully depicted – as are their family relationships – and gives the novel a warmth and humour at its core which makes a great counterpoint to the external horrors and hardships of war and hostile occupation.
Rosy Thornton, author of Ninepins and The Tapestry of Love
The Fan Tan Players
‘Satisfaction, even joy, accompanies the discovery of a new author, one previously unfamiliar, who proves his ability within a few pages and then tells an exciting tale. Without hesitation, Lees flexes his impressive storytelling muscles, giving readers and undeniable tingle of anticipation that he may have many more tales to tell.’
Cairns Media Magazine
‘Romance, action, suspense.’
O Veu Pintado
‘Engaging.’
The Bookbag
A Winter Beauty
‘Opulent family saga, love story and lavish feast for the senses.’
Neues Deutschland (New Germany)
‘A great novel. Colourful and vibrant.’
Altmuhlbote
‘The story seems so realistic, exciting, tragic and rich in imagery.’
Sandammeer.at
‘The debut of a born storyteller.’
Freis Wort
‘His novels are set in a world where East meets West, a cross-cultural paradigm that he captures bewitchingly and dramatically in his fiction.’
Nick Walker, the Star (Malaysia)
Julian Lees was born and raised in Hong Kong. After attending Cambridge University he returned to live in Asia. He has written two previous novels: A Winter Beauty and The Fan Tan Players, which has been sold into four languages. Julian currently lives in Malaysia with his wife, Ming, and his three young children, Augustus, Amber, and Aisha.
Also by Julian Lees
The Fan Tan Players
A Winter Beauty (German publication only)
THE HOUSE OF TREMBLING LEAVES
Julian Lees
First published in Great Britain by
Sandstone Press Ltd
One High Street
Dingwall
Ross-shire
IV15 9WJ
Scotland.
www.sandstonepress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
© Julian Lees 2013
The moral right of Julian Lees to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.
The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.
ISBN e: 978-1-908737-18-2
Cover design by River Design, Edinburgh
Ebook by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore
Contents
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Three
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Dedication:
For my brother Adrian. For what we shared then and for what we share now.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my wife Ming and my children Gus, Amber and Aisha for inspiring me to write this book and for putting up with my frequent bouts of grumpiness along the way.
I am also indebted to Ben and Nelly Thomas for their humour and pep. And to Andrew Stephens and Matt Cross for their ceaseless flow of lewd yet inciteful tales.
This novel would not be possible without my agent Kate Hordern. Thank you for your foresight and for giving me the right advice whenever I needed it.
Thanks also to Richenda Todd for putting her invaluable time and expertise into this story.
Lastly, special thanks must go to Jasmine Oh, David and Katherine Lim, Yang Riches, Eddie Chew and Jeremy Cheam for sharing their stories of childhood in Malaysia.
Prologue
Seen from high ground, amongst the coconut groves and flames-of-the-forests, the Juru River on the Malayan peninsula swelled and rolled through the jungle. The tawny length of water ran for seventy uninterrupted miles from the timber dam to the mouth of the sea, passing monkey colonies, palm frond tangles and longhouses made of cane and thatch.
Despite the Penang to Juru train chugging in from the north once a day, bringing supplies from the world outside, the tributaries remained the main roads through the forest. On the sandy banks splay-footed men with strips of cloth wrapped loosely about their heads traded pineapples. Hens with bold red flashes of feather scuttled about as bare-shouldered women in sarongs pounded belacan paste. Old women with white powder on their faces to block out the sun sat on their haunches winnowing rice.
To the people of the riverbank the Juru was a wellspring, giving life as a mother gives life; a fount of shrimps and fish, clean clothes and mud-free hair. It irrigated their rubber trees and moistened their cabbage crops; it doused their fires and swept away their night soil. For centuries these people had worshipped its might and treasured its bounty.
And so each year, near the river’s crown, the villagers gathered to celebrate.
The stringy line of dragon boats bobbed about on the black water, knocking hulls and bumping paddles. Eight boats, made from jungle teak, each representing a nearby village, slowly manoeuvred into position for the start of the race – a two-mile sprint through an artery of the Juru River.
Sinewy, bare-chested oarsmen, sitting two abreast, flexed their muscles. They chatted and waved to the gathered crowd. ‘‘Mm ho dam sum!’’ they cried. ‘‘For the honour of the kampong! Gaa dai lik! Gaa dai lik!’’ their supporters bellowed back.
As soon as the bomoh, armed with his yellow bag of sparrow nests and animal bones, chanted his blessing, the headman from the local Chinese Association climbed onto a stilted dais and clasped a hornbill’s tail feather at arm’s length. Two hundred sets of hands drew their paddles out.
In the centre of each boat stood a canopied shrine housing a giant drum, a gong-beater and a cymbal-clanger. With a pair of bamboo sticks poised, the drummer of the closest vessel, the heartbeat of the crew, raised both fists and watched with a sideways squ
int.
The boats held a line against the current. Their multicoloured banners fluttered from the sterns as village dogs pursued each other along the banks.
Schoolgirls with hibiscus blossoms behind their ears held their breath. The Association headman paused, looked about him and tilted his head. He let the hornbill feather fall.
With a roar all eight dragon boats lurched forward; wooden dragon heads, elaborately carved and painted with red and yellow scales, cut through the water. Firecrackers popped. ‘‘They’re off!’’ yelled little boys perched on their fathers’ shoulders. The schoolgirls squealed and tossed coconut shavings high into the air. ‘‘Come on Po On Village!’’ Drums thrummed, gongs sang out and cymbals crashed. Giddy-brained children cheered and stretched their arms. Chickens and geese scattered as bicycles gave chase with sisters riding pillion behind their brothers.
Po On Village was a rural settlement, some ninety miles to the northwest of Kuala Lumpur, made up of mainly rubber tree tappers and timber workers and the odd fisherman. With a population of eight hundred – a lucky number for the Chinese, symbolizing wealth, balance and symmetry – the Chinese and Malays lived side by side in houses made from attap thatch and wood. The homes had kitchen gardens at the back and vast communal areas where children could play. There was a noodle vendor, a satay man and for those after a hint of sophistication, a chicken cutlet shop that cooked food ‘Western style’. The kampong had a provision shop, a pith wood store, a toddy shop as well as a small mosque, a Chinese Temple and an Anglican Church built by an Invernesian expatriate in the 1890s. The church was perched on the river’s edge, made from local wood and stone, and looked as if it had been transported from the Scottish Highlands.
The Teohs were the principal members of the church. They raised money for its upkeep, they maintained the slate roof, and they financed the installation of the prized pipe organ. Whenever the choir announced itself, Mrs Teoh, sat in the front pew and dressed in the floppy flowered number she wore every Sunday, smiled with reassurance, beaming with pride at the sound of her children’s voices, at the roar of the copper pipes. This organ, this ‘king of instruments’, was as important to the Teohs as the stretch of prime agricultural land on their doorstep. There were only three other pipe organs in the whole of Malaya and to them it stood for civility, affluence and respectability.
‘‘Come on Po On Village!’’ The boats, fronted with ferocious dragon heads, swept along.
In the crowd a young Chinese woman distributed small parcels of glutinous rice and salted chestnuts from a basket. She had an oval face, a high, intelligent forehead and dark, lush hair that jumped along her shoulders as she laughed. ‘‘Happy Dumpling Festival!’’ she said, smiling, offering the food to the local fisherfolk and rubber tappers. Each parcel was bound with bamboo leaves and raffia. ‘‘Eat them while they’re still warm,’’ she insisted. ‘‘Compliments of the Teoh family.’’
‘‘Thank you, First-daughter Teoh!’’ a tree tapper replied. ‘‘Your family’s kindness overwhelms us. And good luck to your brothers. I hope they win today’s race.’’
The young woman thought of her brothers, James and Peter Teoh, frantically paddling, eyes out on stalks; the image made her smile.
Not far behind her, a maidservant dressed in a white tunic and loose dark trousers, traced her every step. The servant girl carried a Kodak Retina in her hands and every once in a while she paused, thrust her elbows out like chicken wings and took a photograph.
‘‘Hurry up, pumpkin-head,’’ urged her mistress, ‘‘and whatever you do don’t drop the camera. Ah Ba will kill us if we damage it.’’ Ignoring her, the maidservant wound the film with the crank pin and took another shot of the crowd, snapping images of Woos and Teohs together.
The annual Dumpling Festival was one of only a handful of days in the year when the settlement of debts took place amongst the villagers. It was also one of the few occasions when the Teohs and the Woos intermingled peaceably. There’d been a feud going on between the two families for as long as anyone could remember.
Mud-slinging, territorial conflicts and threats were common; sometimes a roadside scuffle broke out, sometimes a parang was wielded; only occasionally did bloodshed raise the stakes to such a degree that the council of kampong elders were called in to resolve the issue. And it all stemmed from a dispute over water. The great Juru River was their lifeblood and it ran through their individual lands. The Teohs owned 27,000 acres on the upper reaches of the river; the Woos controlled 30,000 acres along the valley floor. If a Teoh got the opportunity to cheat a Woo he would; if a Woo could outsmart and trounce a Teoh the whole of the lower valley rejoiced.
One would have imagined that such sworn enemies might choose to live as far away as possible from each other, yet their compounds stood a mere mile and a half apart, on the peripheries of their respective estates, separated by the watercourse and near enough to observe one another through a spyglass. It was as though they needed to keep a close eye for fear of attack.
The Teohs named their house Tamarind Hill after the massive trees that flanked their drive; the Woos called their property Swettenham Lodge in honour of Malaya’s first Resident General. Both buildings scrutinized their rival with snake-eyed suspicion. Like twin jousters in some grim medieval fable, they kept sullen watch, monitoring every movement through the armoured slits of their helmets.
‘‘Come get your rice dumplings while they’re hot!’’ the girl sang. ‘‘Compliments of the Teoh clan!’’ She glanced towards the Woo camp where a troop of men were busy spit-roasting suckling pigs over hot coals. The rich caramelized glaze of the pork skin made her mouth water. ‘‘Much tastier than the rubbish those people are trying to peddle!’’
She felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘‘Who are you calling rubbish?’’
The girl spun around and looked the Chinese man sharply in the eyes. He was dressed in white linen, his hair was oiled and neatly parted to the left and he smelled as crisp and clean as sandalwood. ‘‘Well, well, if it isn’t Number One Son Woo,’’ she said. ‘‘Dai-yee-jee. Old egghead, look-how-important-I-am, Mr Brainbox from Cambridge University, himself!’’
‘‘I asked you a question. Who are you calling rubbish?’’
‘‘Who do you think?’’
The maidservant took a picture of them quarrelling.
‘‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t refer to my family that way, especially on such a festive occasion.’’
The girl pursed her lips. ‘‘Oh dear, I am sorry. What was I thinking? Let me rephrase. How about thickheaded good-for-nothing halfwits instead? Is that more polite? Or gormless monkey-face.’’
The man grasped her by the wrist. ‘‘You’re coming with me!’’
She dropped her basket and felt herself being dragged through the throng, through a line of chickens scratching the ground, away from the river’s edge. She glanced about for her maidservant but she was nowhere to be seen. They swept through the village square, past the toddy sugar shop, the pith wood store and the mosquito-net maker, and rushed towards the hillside path. The old men playing Chinese dominoes by the walls of the village temple, shaded by its overhanging eaves, looked up, as did widow Ping, kneeling in prayer by a tin of joss sticks and an offering of fruit.
‘‘Let me go!’’ the girl hissed.
‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘You’re coming with me!’’
A train of firecrackers exploded, crackling the air and making people gasp and stare into the sky. ‘‘You’re hurting!’’ she warned.
The sounds of the crowd receded as he pulled her into the bush, climbing the steep hillside path fringed with tall weeds and elephant grass. Surrounded by tropical foliage they stopped to catch their breath. Looking over his shoulder, he checked they weren’t being followed and then pressed her against the trunk of a rambutan tree. His eyes shone like wet bronze. ‘‘Thickheaded, good-for-nothing halfwits?’’
‘‘Don’t talk. Don’t say anything.’’ She clasped his face
and kissed him hard on the mouth. His lips tasted like sweetened tea. She ran her fingers though his hair and down along his back, hitching up one thigh to allow his hand to move freely between her legs.
‘‘Not here,’’ he said, catching his breath. ‘‘Not in this undergrowth. There might be centipedes.’’
‘‘Where then?
He looked up.
At first she didn’t see a thing, but then as the wind shifted and sunshine poured through the canopy she saw a tiny bamboo and rattan tree house with a palm frond sunshade. ‘‘Where did that come from?’
‘‘It took me all of last week to finish. I swept it clean of cobwebs this morning. There’s a rope tucked away …’’ He reached behind her. ‘‘… just here.’’
She whispered a series of curses. ‘‘You know I hate climbing.’’
‘‘Nonsense, it’ll be fun. Besides, if us Woos and Teohs are going to get up to a bit of clandestine’’ – he slewed his eyes left and right comically – ‘‘sooky-sooky, we better do it in complete privacy, don’t you think?’’
‘‘Are you sure we weren’t seen?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ He gripped her by the waist and guided her up the tree.
Five miles upstream, amongst a wasteland of dead trees, dark shapes materialized from out of the jungle; their outlines silhouetted against the fading evening light; their clothes the colour of ash. The brush and timber dam appeared before them, entombed in shadow. As they approached they saw that the logs, piled up high, lay lengthwise side by side; some as thick as three feet in diameter, they extended from one bank to the other.
The men exchanged looks and nodded to one another.