‘What will she be trained to do?’ Joe asked.
‘Masseuse. She won’t be much good to start with, but the other girls will soon have her up to scratch. They’re wonderful with their hands these people. So, tell me how Maisie is.’
‘She’s fine. Business seems to be booming for her.’
‘Marvellous. Marvellous.’ Pevensey popped a pastry into his mouth. ‘She does great things for these girls. Arranges for them to get out of this country, where there are so few opportunities for them, and takes them off to the lands of the free. Great work. Funds it all from her own pocket, you know.’
‘Funds what?’
‘Their airfares, whatever paperwork they need. Then they pay her back out of their wages once they’ve found themselves jobs.’
Joe could imagine exactly how that would work, with Maisie refusing to hand any of the girls’ money over to them, forever telling them they still owed her, baffling them with talk of interest still outstanding, keeping them permanently enslaved.
‘How does she get them work permits?’ he asked.
‘God knows,’ Pevensey laughed. ‘The woman’s a miracle worker. I dare say she goes in for all sorts of behind-the-scenes jiggery-pokery. But who cares if she’s helping the poor girls to a better life?’
Pevensey leant forward as if to confide something deeply confidential. ‘She even pays for them to have the odd snip here and there with the plastic surgeons, to help them feel better about themselves.’
‘How long have you known her?’ Joe asked.
‘Oh, a good few years. She wasn’t much older than that young girl you just met when she first came to me. She was a Doris too, but she wanted to be an individual. She had obvious management potential. She was running a couple of the businesses by the time she was twenty and she told me she shouldn’t have to have the same-name as all the ordinary working girls. Always very status conscious was Maisie. She asked me to suggest another name, so I came up with Maisie and she took to it like a duck to water.’
Another pastry disappeared between his permanently masticating jaws.
‘Very ambitious young lady,’ he went on. ‘I introduced her to a chap called Mike Martin who I’d been doing a bit of business with, and she set her sights on him. Poor old bugger didn’t stand a chance. Been trained in the arts of seduction, you see. When a girl like that sets her cap at a chap he might as well kiss goodbye to any hope he might have of a peaceful bachelordom.’
‘Martin was unmarried?’
‘Not sure he was, now that you ask. But it wouldn’t take Maisie long to see off a rival. She’s a character is Maisie.’
‘I’ve never met her husband,’ Joe said. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Mike?’ Pevensey filled his mouth again as if to give himself time to think while he chewed. Eventually, he said. ‘Between you and me, I think he’s a bit of a dangerous character. He was always completely straight with me, always meticulous about paying his bills on time. One of nature’s gentlemen. We did a bit of business together, created some companies, bought and sold a few shares. He made me a lot of money, I have to give him that. But over the years I’ve heard a few stories.’
‘What sort of stories?’ Joe persisted.
‘I don’t know that I would want to repeat them.’ Pevensey was obviously finding it hard to resist the temptation to gossip. ‘Well, I did hear he once executed this chap at a board meeting of one of his companies in the Middle East. Some executive who spoke out of turn. They say he stood up, cool as a cucumber, walked round the back of the chap and slit his throat, in full view of everyone. Blood all over the boardroom table. There are a few tales like that around, but I sometimes think he encourages them himself just to rattle his opponents. I mean, would you cross swords with a man who had a reputation for doing that sort of thing?’
‘No, I guess not. Did you know he was a major fundraiser for the government these days?’
Pevensey let out another joyful bellow. ‘I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t surprise me. He’d fit in well with that lot. All sorts of politicians have been out here on an “educational” at one time or another. They all find their way to me somehow. And they all expect to get services on the house. Makes you weep, doesn’t it? And my father couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to take up my seat in the House of Lords! So,’ Pevensey changed the subject, ‘how long are you in town?’
‘A few days.’
‘You must sample one of our establishments while you’re here. Best in Manila. Everyone says so. Probably the best in the whole of the Far East. Which hotel are you at?’
‘The Manila.’
‘Tell you what we’ll do. Can’t manage tonight, but tomorrow evening I’ll send a car to collect you at, say, seven? The driver will take you to the Golden Heaven. It’s my favourite. Some of the girls there…’ He seemed to go off into a dream for a few seconds. ‘Well, you’ll see for yourself. Then the car will bring you back to the hotel and we can have dinner together. All on the house. Anything for a chum of Maisie’s.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Joe said.
‘Not at all. Will you be staying for lunch?’
‘It’s very tempting,’ Joe said, ‘but I do have an appointment out of town this afternoon. In fact, I really should be going.’
He left Pevensey happily tucking into another pastry and caught a taxi back to the hotel. He had ordered a rental car for two o’clock and he needed to work out exactly where he was going.
The scenery passed in a haze of steam as he drove through the jungle on winding roads which occasionally surprised him by turning into spanking new highways, only to revert to potholed side roads again without warning. The rhythmic sound of the windscreen wipers toned into the roar of the air conditioning and the noise of the water on the surface of the road. It made Joe feel lost even though he could still find his position on the map. As he drove further from Manila the villages became more basic, the scenery more dramatic and overbearing. It was like travelling back in time through a prehistoric landscape of giant leaves and tangled, ancient roots.
The signposts told him he was heading towards one of the towns on the map Doris had drawn for him, but it never seemed to materialise. The petrol gauge flickered dangerously close to empty and the jungle-covered mountains seemed to stretch in every direction as far as the eye could see. Joe began to panic. What the hell would he do if he ran out of fuel? The number of passing cars had dwindled to the occasional lorry filled with workers sitting in the open, apparently oblivious to the rain which poured down on them. They did not look like the sort of people who would be sympathetic to a stranded tourist. Joe thought of all the stories he had heard about kidnapping and murder in the jungles of the Far East. Who would ever know if he simply vanished out there?
The emergency light started to blink and he lifted his foot off the accelerator to conserve the last few litres, coasting as gently as he could, cursing every incline that forced him to use more valuable fuel. Just when he was about to give up, a side road appeared through the mists. It looked as if it might lead to a village. He turned onto it and the car bumped down a track and finally cut out, coming to a halt beside a plantation.
Joe sat for a few minutes as the windows steamed up around him. He was going to have to do something. He couldn’t just sit there, hoping someone would come to his rescue. He climbed out and was instantly drenched. Opening the boot he found a petrol can and set off down the track.
He must have walked for three or four miles before he came across a clutch of wooden buildings standing out of the mud on stilts. A group of women watched him from the veranda. None of them spoke. He could see an elderly tractor parked at the back of the buildings. Maybe they had some fuel.
‘Petrol?’ he asked hopefully, holding up the can to illustrate his plight.
One of the women rose lazily from her chair and went into the house, shouting for someone. A few minutes later an elderly man came out, blinking, obviously freshly woken from his afte
rnoon sleep. He beckoned Joe over.
‘I’ve run out of petrol,’ Joe said. ‘Do you have some I can buy?’
The man took the can from him and shook it, as if to check Joe was telling the truth.
‘A hundred dollars,’ he said.
‘A hundred dollars?’ Joe realised he was not in a strong bargaining position. ‘For that much?’
‘A hundred dollars,’ the man nodded.
‘Twenty.’ Joe proffered a soggy note. The man shook his head and handed back the can.
Joe pulled out two more notes. ‘Fifty,’ he suggested.
The man stared at the money for a few moments and then took it with a dissatisfied grunt, as if he resented doing this stranger such a favour. He led Joe round to the back of the house and found a large rusty can of fuel. Joe prayed it would be of a high enough octane to make the car run. When the can was full he showed Doris’ map to the man and asked the way to the town he had seen on the signposts.
‘Back to highway,’ the man grinned, happy now the transaction was satisfactorily completed. ‘One kilometre on, turn to left. You’re there.’
Joe thanked him. If the man was telling the truth he had been closer to the town than he had to this place. He cursed himself for choosing the wrong option. He should have stayed on the highway.
He trudged back to the car. The rain had abated and his clothes began steaming in the sun. The tractor fuel made the car cough alarmingly as he pulled back onto the road, but at least he was moving. As soon as he got to the town he would fill up with decent petrol and try to dilute the bad stuff.
Just as the man predicted, a signpost took him to the town on the map within ten minutes and the first thing he saw was a service station. As the garage owner filled up the tank, the sun went in again and the rain became heavier than before. Joe showed him the map and asked for directions to the village nearest to Doris’ mother’s home. The man gave him directions with a broad, gold-toothed smile. Joe drove on for another half hour until he found a settlement, seemingly without a name. The main street was a made-up road, although mined with potholes which had filled with water and gave no clue as to how deep they were until the car had plunged through them. The side streets were dirt tracks. A few locals walked about their normal business in the rain, covering their heads with broken umbrellas or sheets of cardboard. The children didn’t bother to shelter at all. Small boys played football in the mud as if the sun was out.
Following the lines which Doris had drawn, he made his way down a track, past a church. The wheels of the car lurched and bumped through puddles sending sheets of mud up over the windows, which made it impossible to see where the road forked or turned. The clouds had grown so heavy it was starting to feel like night, even though it was still only late afternoon. His relief at finding the fuel was draining away and Joe sensed a new twinge of panic. He did not fancy the idea of having to spend the night in the car, lost in the jungle, or with his wheels stuck in the mud.
He spotted a local shop, with an assortment of plastic basins, brushes and fruit on display at the front, sheltered under a sagging canopy. He pulled up and climbed out of the car, his feet sinking into the soft ground and his shirt immediately soaked as he ran across to the store.
The map was drenched through but he could still just make out the lines Doris had drawn. He pointed them out to the old man who was sitting on a stool inside the shop, listening to the radio. The old man laboriously took out a pair of glasses and placed them on the end of his nose.
‘Ahhh,’ he moaned, as if being asked to cut off his own limbs. ‘Ahhh.’
‘Do you know this village?’ Joe asked.
The old man looked up at him and down at the map again. The rain crashed onto the canopy outside and Joe could feel sweat breaking through inside the shirt which was already sticking to him. The shopkeeper pulled himself up off his stool and walked on crooked legs to the front. He waved the map in the air and pointed to the road ahead.
He indicated that Joe should turn right and then left and pointed at the map once more. Joe picked up a packet of biscuits and gave him far too much money for them, waving aside any suggestions that he should receive change.
The old man bowed his thanks, repeatedly, and went over the directions one more time. Joe splashed his way back to the car, which had now misted up so much he could see nothing through the windows at all. He opened the packet of biscuits and pushed one into his mouth while he waited for the windows to clear and then moved cautiously off.
The old man’s instructions gave him confidence that he was heading in the right direction, but he was still very unsure exactly where the tracks were actually leading him. Then he spotted a church and knew that Doris had drawn one on her map. He stopped the car and realigned himself. If this was the right church then he was very close to Doris’ mother’s house. The map was now almost unreadable, the ink having spread into multi-shaded stains either side of each road. Joe let the car crawl forward.
As he came round behind the church he saw a row of shacks and, at the end of the row, a bungalow that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Cape Cod, or in an old-fashioned English fishing village, complete with clapperboard walls and window boxes.
Joe stopped the car and checked the map one more time. This had to be the house. He ran across, with his head down, and huddled in the narrow porch, pressing on the bell. He heard musical chimes coming from inside the house and, a few moments later, the door opened.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘Tikki?’
The woman standing in front of him didn’t look much older than Doris. She was wearing what looked like a cocktail dress and rather more make-up than he would have expected in the middle of the jungle. She clutched a can of Diet Coke in her hand. Her feet were bare and she was very small. She looked at him with no particular expression on her face.
‘I’m a friend of Tikki’s daughter, Doris,’ he went on, speaking extremely slowly as he had no idea how much English this woman would understand – if any. ‘I’ve come from England and Doris asked me to come and visit Tikki. Is this the right house?’
‘Sure,’ the woman shrugged but made no attempt to invite him in.
‘Are you Tikki?’
‘Yeah. You American?’
‘Yes.’ Joe held out his hand. ‘My name is Joe.’
‘Oh yeah. I know plenty of American Joes.’ She laughed and it sounded as if she was genuinely amused by the memory. She didn’t bother to shake his hand. ‘Not so many Americans here now.’
‘No,’ Joe said. ‘I guess not. May I come in for a moment? I’m kinda wet.’
‘Sure.’ She stood back to let him past.
There was a wide-screen television on in the corner of the room, showing what looked like a Mexican soap opera. The house was pristinely clean compared to the mudbath outside the front door, and filled with possessions. There was a large stereo system and a bar stacked with bottles. There were shelves of dolls in national costumes from around the world. A giant air-conditioning system hummed monotonously in the corner of the room.
‘Don’t wet the carpet,’ Tikki snapped. ‘Stand there. I get a towel.’
He stood, dripping on the lino, until she returned with a towel covered in pictures of Mickey Mouse. He gave his hair a rub and dabbed inadequately at his clothes. She stood watching with an amused expression.
‘You a big guy, Joe,’ she said, flirtatiously. ‘You a good friend to Doris? You know what I mean?’
‘Just good friends.’ Joe found himself blushing and tried to laugh it off. ‘Doris is a very nice, hard-working girl.’
‘Oh, sure.’ Tikki gave another attractive laugh. ‘I taught her to work hard. Lazy girls end up with nothing in life. I always work hard.’ She gestured around the room as if to prove her point. ‘Take off wet clothes. I find you robe and dry them for you.’
She disappeared again. As he started to undo his shirt, he remembered the envelope of money which he had changed into American dollars at the hotel, and which
was still in his bag.
‘Doris asked me to give you this,’ he said, handing it over when she came back with a dressing-gown displaying the Manila Hilton’s logo on the breast pocket.
She opened the envelope and flicked through the notes inside. Satisfied, she opened a drawer in an ornate, Italian-style chest, and dropped it in without a word.
‘You want a Coke?’ she asked as he changed.
‘Please.’
‘Okay. Give me clothes and I’ll dry them. Take Coke from the bar.’
She disappeared through another door, and he wandered across to the bar to find a drink. It looked as well stocked as any hotel bar.
‘So, Doris says “hi”, yeah?’ she said as she came back in.
‘Yeah. Actually, I have another reason for coming to see you.’ He sat on one of the leather sofas, crossing his bare legs and trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.
‘Oh yeah?’ She laughed again and he blushed.
‘I’m a writer and I’m sort of writing a book about Doris.’
‘Doris is famous? What she done to become famous?’ Tikki was suddenly shrill. ‘Has she been stupid girl and made trouble?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. I just think that it’s an interesting story, a girl who starts life in the Philippines and ends up in London. I thought it would make a good book. So I wanted to ask you a bit about her early years. Background colour. That kind of thing.’
‘Will Doris be paid for this book?’
‘Yes. That was some of the money, there.’ He nodded towards the chest of drawers.
‘How much will she get?’
‘It depends how successful the book is. The more information I can get about her the more money she’s likely to earn.’
Tikki appeared to be thinking this one through. ‘Okay,’ she said, eventually. ‘Ask me questions.’
‘So, when Doris was born, did you live in this house?’
Pretty Little Packages Page 15