by Clare Flynn
Exhausted, and stressed from so many introductions to people whose names she would never remember, Evie ached to leave. Like a butterfly pinned to a specimen tray, she was being passed around for inspection and approval. If she had hoped to be welcomed warmly and enthusiastically into their inner circle, she was to be disappointed. The ladies appeared to operate as a clique, slow to accept outsiders or newcomers. Her nerves raw and her head throbbing from too much champagne and a vain effort to remember names, she escaped to the ladies’ powder room.
Once inside a cubicle, she told herself to calm down. These people would eventually accept her and possibly even become her friends. It was only natural that at the beginning they would be cautious about her and she would feel like an outsider. She remembered her first term at boarding school and how different it was from what followed. Girls who had cold-shouldered her had become firm friends and alliances inevitably changed as time went on. That was what she needed to do. Give it time.
As she sat in a stall, treasuring this quiet moment away from the intimidating throng, she heard the door to the Powder Room open and two or three people came in.
‘You’re not serious, Vronnie!’ The speaker had a drawling tone that made her sound bored.
‘I told you. I’m absolutely certain. He mistook her for another woman. It has to be that. He’s been propping up the bar ever since he got here, getting absolutely sozzled.’ Veronica’s voice was unmistakable. ‘Dougie would never have chosen to get hitched to someone like her. Remember they’d only ever met once and that was years ago. He obviously muddled her up with someone else.’
A third voice chipped in. ‘You can’t seriously be suggesting he went ahead and married her knowing she was the wrong woman?’
‘Once she’d trekked all the way to Malaya he could hardly send her back again, could he? Parcel her up to return to sender!’
Evie winced as she listened to the ripples of laughter but Veronica wasn’t done. ‘Besides, Dougie only cares about what will happen to his damned rubber estates. As long as she can give him a couple of brats why should he be bothered? What’s that expression? You don’t look at the mantelpiece when you’re poking the fire.’
More gales of laughter. ‘Really, Vronnie. You are the giddy limit!’
Evie was humiliated. She could hear the sound of handbags opening and closing and a tap running. The women seemed to be repairing their makeup. No one had gone near the cubicles.
The woman with the drawling voice spoke again. ‘The girl does seem gawky. Not fat exactly, but very big-boned. Not at all like Felicity who was such a delicate, pretty little thing.’
Veronica’s voice cut through the air again. ‘But Felicity didn’t cope well with being here, did she? Dougie’s not daft. He probably decided that it was better this time to pick someone made of sturdier stuff. Evie definitely has child-bearing hips and appears to have the constitution of an ox.’
‘The body of one too.’ Gales of laughter followed.
‘You two are awful. Her face is actually quite attractive – she has great big eyes and lovely skin. And her hair’s a lovely colour.’
Veronica snorted. ‘Her skin will be like leather after a few months here. She spent hours sitting out on deck on the ship out here. I’d be amazed if Dougie can manage to get it up for her.’
Evie was shaking with anger. What should she do? Stay hidden and hope they hadn’t noticed that one of the cubicles was occupied? Or brave it out and shame them? On a sudden impulse, and unable to stand the sniggering, she flushed the lavatory and pushed the door open. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Better to face down the three witches than cower in a corner herself.
Veronica was sitting on a chintz-covered armchair, her cigarette holder in one hand. Her eyebrows rose a fraction as she registered Evie’s presence but she made no other sign of acknowledgement. The drawling woman, a redhead, whom Evie remembered was called Dolly something, was perched on top of the dressing-table unit that ran along one wall, her legs swinging like a pendulum. The third woman, who’d been introduced as Flora Davenport, a petite blonde with narrow cat-like eyes and a tiny mouth, was standing in front of the mirrors, applying lipstick.
Evie could hear their collective intake of breath. Saying nothing, she moved over to the basins and washed her hands, taking her time and relishing the embarrassed silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dolly slither down from her perch while Flora appeared frozen in front of the mirror, the application of her lipstick forgotten.
From her corner seat, Veronica was the first to speak. ‘As I was just saying, Evie, you must come and join us in our next tennis game. Rowena’s ankle won’t be mended for some time yet so you could make up our four for doubles. You do play don’t you?’ Her tone conveyed the impression that she thought it unlikely.
Evie had been captain of the school tennis team and was a frequent winner of house and school tournaments. ‘Tennis isn’t my cup of tea,’ she lied. Without a backward glance she left the room.
Avoiding the gathering in what was designated the Small Drawing Room, Evie slipped through an open full-length window into the garden. Apart from a few people playing croquet on the lawns at the side of the building, there was no one outside in the grounds of the club. Brimming with hurt pride and suppressed rage, she settled herself on a wooden bench under a palm tree.
She must be the laughing stock of the club and probably half of George Town. It was obvious that in this narrow expatriate society, rumour and gossip spread like sparks in a tinder pile. Were the women right about her? Was she so unappealing that her new husband would probably have to shut his eyes and think of England in order to fulfil his marital obligations? Even here, alone and unobserved, her face still burned and her eyes stung with tears she was determined not to shed.
If only she could walk out and go back to the house. But she hadn’t a clue how to get there. She had lost her bearings during the five-minute motorcar trip from St George’s. The cruel words of Veronica and her cronies whirled around her brain, a constant repetition like a phonograph with its needle stuck in the groove. They thought her an unattractive woman whose husband had only married her because he couldn’t be bothered to ‘send her back’ like an unwanted parcel. Their words cut her to the quick – particularly because she recognised some truth in them. Cruel, but possibly accurate. How could she have even entertained the possibility that one day Douglas Barrington might come to care for her? How could she even have any feelings for him herself if this was how he thought of her? She couldn’t possibly love a man who was physically repelled by her. Why hadn’t she overheard their poisonous chatter a day or so sooner, when there had still been a possibility of calling off the wedding? Evie slumped forward, her head in her hands and her heart despairing. The person she missed most right now was her father and, not for the first time, she cursed him for what he’d done to destroy the family, her future and her sense of self.
‘So tell me why the bride is lurking alone in the shrubbery?’
Evie nearly jumped out of her skin.
Arthur Leighton gestured towards the bench. ‘Do you mind if I join you? You look as though you could do with cheering up.’
His kindly tone of voice was too much for her and she felt the tears spring up. She pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry. I’m feeling a bit low.’ She looked up at him, and tried to force a smile to her face. ‘Just wedding jitters.’
‘I think it’s a bit more than that isn’t it, Evie?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I happened to hear Veronica and her pals talking. Soon after you apparently overheard them yourself. Knowing that little coven of–’ He hesitated. ‘Well, I can imagine they were doling out some less than complimentary comments.’ He placed one hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry you were subjected to it. Don’t listen to them, Evie. They’re like that about everyone – even each other. Speaking ill of people is a sport to them – but it’s completely meaningless.’
; ‘It’s very hurtful actually.’
‘I’ve no idea what you heard them saying but whatever it was it wasn’t true. They make up for their own inadequacies by tearing others apart. You’re just the latest in a long line. I’m ashamed that my wife is one of the culprits, and I’ve long since given up trying to understand why.’
Evie wanted to say that Veronica was not just a culprit, she was the ringleader. But she realised Arthur must be only too aware of that.
He sat with his hands on his knees and she felt calmed and comforted by his proximity. He had nice hands. There was something solid and dependable about Arthur. Straightforward – what you saw and heard was what he meant – no double talking.
‘Do you think I’ll ever fit in here?’ Before he could answer she added, ‘But I’m not sure I even want to.’
‘I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I often feel that way myself. I sometimes think I’m only accepted because they all feel they have to keep on the right side of me.’ He brushed an insect off his trouser leg. ‘And as they’re all terrified of my formidable wife that’s another reason they want to keep me onside.’ He gave a hollow laugh.
Evie wanted to ask him how he had come to be married to Veronica when they were so very different, but despite his warmth and his being the only person in Penang that she felt comfortable with, she hesitated to broach the topic. Instead she asked him about Douglas.
‘You and Douglas are awfully different and yet you’re his best friend.’
‘Doug doesn’t really do friendship. I suppose, if I’m being generous, I’m the person he trusts most – but if I’m being honest, I’d say it was more that I’m the person he dislikes least.’
She looked up at him, puzzled. ‘Are you saying my husband isn’t a very nice person?’
His mouth twitched at the corners. ’I’m merely saying that he’s a hard man to get to know. He’s very much a loner. Doesn’t open up to anyone.’ With a dry laugh he added, ‘Mind you, none of us men are very hot on revealing what we think or feel. One thing a public school education provides is an unsurpassed ability to suppress one’s emotions.’
‘You don’t seem at all like that.’
‘That’s probably because I didn’t go to public school. I’m a grammar school boy. It made it damned hard to rise even to the far from heady levels I have achieved in the civil service. I’m not one of them.’
‘And is Douglas?’
‘No. He’s different altogether. He went to Eton but he doesn’t behave like the rest of them. He’s very much his own man. Doug prefers his own company. He’s passionate about rubber and everything to do with his estate. Shows up at the club on the rare occasions he’s in town but the rest of the time we never see him.’
‘Is that why Felicity preferred living in George Town? Did she like the club and everything that comes with it?’
‘Felicity hated Penang. Full stop. She wanted to be back in England. There was no way that Doug would ever agree to moving back there. She found the rubber estate isolated and missed her old social life and her family. When he wouldn’t sell up and move back to England she felt he’d let her down.’ He leaned back, stretching his long legs. ‘According to Veronica, Doug had promised Felicity when he persuaded her to move out here that it would only be for a few months, a year at most, until he could find a buyer for the place. But he fell in love with the rubber business, with the countryside, with Malaya, with being a planter. That’s why they got the house in George Town – he thought if she was here in town it would give her some companionship and interests, but all Felicity wanted was to be back home.’
‘Golly. Life must have been very difficult for them.’
Arthur shrugged. ‘You could say that.’
They lapsed into silence. After a few minutes he leaned forward. ‘Evie, I may be speaking out of turn but you’re so different from Felicity and I’m sure you will adapt well to life here. You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who wants to spend her time playing bridge, gossiping and hanging round the tennis club. But you have to be aware that living on a rubber estate can be very lonely.’
‘I’m used to being on my own,’ she said brightly. ‘As long as I have books to read I can keep myself occupied. And there’ll be a house to run, Jasmine to care for and maybe, God willing, in time some children of my own.’
He looked away, then nodded. ’Doug is very much a free spirit. You’ll need to be patient. He’s not the easiest of men to get along with. And…’
‘And what?’
‘Nothing. I’m sure it will all be fine.’
Evie glanced at her wristwatch. It was already almost six. ‘She jumped up. ‘Aunty Mimi is preparing dinner for seven o’clock. Any chance of you rousing Douglas from the bar? I’m not allowed in there.’
Arthur’s lips stretched into a tight line. ‘I’ll do my best. Wait here. No need for you to face the rabble again tonight.’ He went into the building.
Evie could still hear the buzz of conversation and laughter, but now there were also the strains of jazz music coming from a gramophone somewhere inside. Light spilled out from the tall open windows onto the darkening lawns.
Arthur emerged after a few minutes. ‘I’m sorry, Evie. Doug says he’s going to be a while. He wants you to take the car back with Benny and he’ll see you at the house later.’ His face was solemn and he looked as mortified as she felt.
It was like a punch in the stomach. Evie slumped back onto the wooden bench and looked up at Arthur. ‘Is he really going to leave me alone while he stands at a bar and drinks himself insensible? Does he expect me to go home and have dinner alone yet again? On my wedding day.’ She could barely get the words out, she was so choked with emotion.
‘I’m so sorry. It’s unforgivable, but it’s how Doug is. You need to give him time.’
‘Time for what? I’ve barely shared more than a few sentences with him. He drank his way through half a bottle of scotch on the first night, before walking out on me to come here. Since then he’s failed to show up for dinner at all. What have I done? Why did I ever agree to go through with this?’
Arthur said nothing but she could see his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
‘I thought at least today of all days he’d deign to break bread with me. After we stood there side-by-side and made those vows.’ At last she could hold back no longer and began to cry. Tears of anger, frustration, loneliness and fear.
‘I don’t know what to say, Evie. He’s behaving like an absolute cad. I can only think that he’s afraid.’
‘Afraid?’ She could hear the pitch of her voice rising. ‘Afraid of what?’
‘You, I expect. Strange as that may seem. He’s been through a lot with Felicity dying. Maybe he’s anxious about spending time alone with you. He’s not a sociable man. He’s used to his own company.’
Evie wiped her eyes but more tears were coming. Her lace-edged handkerchief was already sodden.
‘Come on. Let’s get you in the car. Benny’s parked at the front.’ He handed her his own handkerchief. ‘Dry your eyes. I’m going to head back to the bar when you’ve gone. I’m going to try and talk some sense into the man. Don’t worry, Evie. I’m sure things will soon settle down. Just give it time.’
5
Jasmine had already eaten and gone to bed when Evie sat down to her solitary dinner. She shuffled the food around her plate unable to eat. Afterwards, too angry even to read a book, she retired early to bed in the guest room as usual.
Under the flimsy sheet and shrouded by the mosquito nets, she struggled to sleep. She longed for oblivion – a few hours where she could escape into dreams, hopefully ones unpopulated by Douglas Barrington. She didn’t want to think about him, about this godforsaken country or the loathsome people at the club. The dreams she craved were of the English countryside, of leafy lanes dappled with sunshine, cows and sheep grazing in green fields, the sound of woodpeckers, the pealing of bells for the Sunday service. Not this infernal heat an
d not the horrible events of this, her wedding day.
But sleep evaded her. Evie lay awake, rolling from one side to the other, sheets damp with her perspiration, mind racing. Her heart hammered in her chest and her nerves were so raw that her skin felt tight and her pulse throbbed at her temples. All the time she saw Douglas Barrington’s face. Her husband’s face. The face of the man who had stood beside her repeating the marriage vows, before abandoning her in search of comfort from a bottle, rather than from her.
She punched the pillow. Why, why, why had she ever agreed to go through with this horrible loveless marriage? It couldn’t even be described as a marriage of convenience when it clearly was anything but convenient to the groom. What had Douglas hoped to gain from it? If he wanted children, standing around in a bar pouring whisky down his throat was hardly the way to conceive them. Was she so horrible, so unappealing that he couldn’t even bear to be in her company on their wedding day? How did he think all those mean-minded people at the Penang Club would react to knowing he was getting drunk while his new bride was alone at home? She had never been so utterly humiliated in her entire life. Surely he too would be the subject of inevitable gossip.
Arthur Leighton, when he’d returned from the bar, had looked embarrassed on her behalf. Those kind eyes had been full of pity for her and she didn’t want his pity. No. She didn’t want it at all.