by Anne Weale
She said hastily, “Peter’s looking rather lost.”
“Snubbed—just as I was getting in my stride.” Tom expelled a long sigh and steered her back to the stereo.
Alex danced with Peter and a second time with Tom before subsiding in a chair to sip iced shandy.
“You must get old Joe to show you some of this abandoned South American stuff,” Tom said. “His tango with Mrs. Chessington-Lawlor at the club ball was the high spot of the Christmas season. They wanted him to do a cabaret season in Singapore, I believe.” He dodged an avenging cuff from Jonathan.
“Reveal the real truth, Fraser,” van Luren said.
Jonathan shrugged. “I fell into the clutches of one of the D.O.’s wives who fancies herself a tempestuous Southern belle.”
“The tango is one of the few really graceful modern dances,” Miss Emmeline said. “A pleasure to watch. Can’t you repeat your exhibition for us, Jonathan?”
He hesitated, then said, “Do you tango, Alex?”
“Not very well,” she said doubtfully.
“Here you are,” Tom said, putting a record on the turntable to squash further argument.
Jonathan crushed out his cigarette, rose to his feet and held a hand to Alex. They had scarcely taken the floor when she realized that in spite of Tom’s raillery, he was an expert. It was the last accomplishment she would have expected in him. At first she danced stiffly—embarrassed by their attentive audience—but gradually the compelling rhythm and Jonathan’s skillful guidance made her relax and, as the beat quickened, surrender to the sensuous mood of the music. She was disturbingly aware of the swift hard pressure of his thighs as they swung into a turn, and of the muscularity of his shoulder under her hand. The tango swelled to a final crescendo and by some communicated sense of humor, Jonathan and Alex whirled into an elaborate posture, rewarded by a burst of clapping from the watchers.
“Charming, charming,” called Miss Emmeline. “Very well done.”
“I’m afraid I’m not up to Fraser’s standard, but would you care to take a turn, Miss Bray?” van Luren asked.
“Why not?” Miss Emmeline heaved herself off the couch.
Jonathan refilled Alex’s glass and offered her his cigarette case.
She said, “I thought you didn’t dance.”
“Do I appear such a decrepit old fogy?”
“Of course not. I thought you would consider it effeminate.”
“You have some peculiar ideas about me,” he said quizzically. “I wonder why?”
She was saved from answering by the reappearance from the pantry of Peter and Tom with glasses of a concoction purporting to be a new cocktail in honor of Alex’s birthday.
“Do you remember the time we played murder over at Colin Porter’s place and you got shut in the wardrobe with Mrs. Frenchay?” Tom said to Peter.
They both guffawed hilariously.
“Mrs. Frenchay,” Tom explained to Alex, “is a Presbyterian minister’s wife and not the sort to enjoy being locked in a wardrobe for twenty minutes with this hound and Lord knows how many cockroaches.”
Glancing at her guardian, Alex caught a curiously bleak expression on his dark face. She wondered suddenly if the frivolous chatter of the two younger men made him feel out of it.
She touched his arm. “Shall we dance again?”
This time the music was a waltz that van Luren and Miss Emmeline were already performing in dashing style.
“It’s been a lovely birthday,” Alex said gratefully.
“Good.” His eyes were still somber.
“When is yours?”
“Oh ... March.” A smile touched his mouth. “However, as you’ll discover, after twenty-five it becomes a rather depressing reminder of approaching senility.”
“But you’re quite young,” she said candidly.
“Thank you, madam. I’m thirty-one. When you were born I was already twelve, think of that.”
She had a swift vision of the young Jonathan—thin, too tall for his age, brusque with strangers, his pockets full of nails and string, a slingshot, a lump of putty, a rag of a handkerchief, stray coins.
“Where were you then?” she said.
The music stopped. He released her and leaned against the veranda rail, feeling for cigarettes.
“At twelve? I was in Norfolk ... the other side of the world. We had a cottage on the coast. Very lonely in winter. Just the sea and the salt marshes and a few houses along the dike.”
His voice, usually so clipped, had a new cadence, almost a tender quality as if, across the hard years of maturity, he remembered the careless happiness of boyhood in an isolated village on the edge of the gray North Sea.
“I got a dinghy for my twelfth birthday,” he said. “The Dolphin. I practically lived in it that summer.”
“Had you any brothers or sisters?”
“No. Only my parents. They were killed in London at the beginning of the war, just before I was sent out here.” His tone was abrupt again, as if the past were a dead thing, best forgotten.
Presently the party broke up and Jonathan went down into the compound to see the guests into their jeeps.
“Good night, my dear. I really can’t keep my eyes open another moment.” Miss Emmeline patted her charge’s shoulder affectionately.
“Good night. Thank you again for the fan.”
Alex felt wide awake with the renewed vitality that comes in the small hours of the morning. Plumping cushions, emptying ashtrays and collecting glasses together, she wondered where she would be on her next birthday. In Ipoh or Kuala Lumpur probably, since she could not impose on Jonathan’s hospitality forever. Very soon definite plans for the future would have to be made.
Mat had gone to bed an hour before, and when the jeep had roared away deep silence fell over the bungalow. Jonathan, coming back up the steps and bolting the mosquito door, found Alex curled in a corner of the swing couch, eating up the last few chips that lay forlornly on painted chili dishes.
“Not tired?”
“Not at the moment. I shall probably crawl around on all fours tomorrow.”
He looked at his watch. “After three. It hardly seems worth going to bed.”
He ran a hand over his jaw, grimacing at the audible rasp of a three o’clock chin.
“If Mat didn’t religiously lock the larder at night we might have had an early bacon-and-egg breakfast.”
Alex said, “I like Mr. van Luren.”
“Yes, he’s a good chap. He’ll probably be useful if you want to get a job later on. He has a lot of contacts in Ipoh and Penang,”
“Oh, yes.” She wondered if Jonathan was anxious to be rid of her.
“Alex...” He paused, looking around for his lighter. “You know you don’t have to go to one of the towns if you don’t want to. It’s unlikely you’ll be obliged to earn your living, because as far as I know your father will have left a small but quite adequate income, and apart from that aspect, if you like estate life you’d be much happier here. Town life is a bit of a mix-up these days.”
“Thank you. I’m afraid I haven’t really thought it all out yet.”
“No, I know. But when you do, remember that if you decide to stay there are plenty of useful jobs you can do here—among them, keeping the grouchy old planter in a good mood.”
He grinned. “Now hop off to bed and sleep in if you want to. Good night.”
CHAPTER FIVE
At the end of the month Jonathan had to go to Penang on business and he suggested that the two women might like to accompany him for a few days’ break.
“You had better have an evening dress made,” he said to Alex when they were discussing the trip. “Penang is hardly up to the West End of London, but it does offer rather more night life than Taiping, and as I shan’t be able to get away for some time after this, we may as well paint the town a moderate pink while we’re there.”
Ah Bee’s selection of pastel tulles and demure taffetas did not come up to Alex’s ideas for her first
evening gown, and Miss Bray suggested that they should try the Indian silk bazaar across the road. The proprietor, a burly Sikh with a scented beard and fat, beringed fingers, welcomed them effusively, ordering his assistant to fetch chairs and glasses of cooling orange squash for the gracious memsahibs.
Sari after sari he flung over his counter and Alex bit back an exclamation of delight when finally from the recesses of his shelves he produced a length of gauzy Benares silk, a deep rose pink color, with a wide border of fern leaves embroidered in shimmering silver thread. She knew better than to show her approval, for the wily tradesman would promptly put up his price. Discreetly she made her choice clear to Miss Bray, who then conducted a prolonged haggling session until a price suiting both parties was agreed upon.
It was evident that Ah Bee considered wearing a sari far below the dignity of an English madam, but he agreed to make it up with an underslip of blush-pink satin.
On the morning of the trip Mat packed their luggage in the car trunk, and with Rama and the children waving energetically from the veranda, they set off. The road to Butterworth where they would cross by ferry to Penang island was straight and newly surfaced and the Humber roared along, its passengers enjoying the unaccustomed breeze. From time to time they passed an army truck on its way back to Ipoh and the soldiers, seeing a pretty girl, would wave and cheer.
They reached Butterworth by noon and drove down the ramp onto the great tiered ferry barge that plied back and forth between the mainland and Georgetown quay. The sea rippled gently in the hot white sunlight and the tang of salt and seaweed blew over the water. Chinese sampans, freighters from Java and Sumatra, motor launches, a passenger steamer from Hong Kong and a score of sailing dinghies tossed and bobbed in the channel.
Jonathan and Alex got out of the car and stood against the rail watching the gray green water heaving against the side of the barge, fanning out into a broad foaming wake beyond the stem. The surface of the water was clear and Alex leaned over to watch a rambutan husk, flung from the upper deck, sink swiftly down into the shadowed depths.
“Hey! Don’t fall in!”
Jonathan grabbed her as she seemed in danger of losing her balance. She straightened up but he kept his arm around her shoulders.
The breeze ruffled her hair and a sparkling veil of spray tossed into the air and left cool specks of water on her bare arms. Jonathan shifted his arm slightly, his fingers tightening on the curve of her shoulder.
Alex closed her eyes. This moment, fleeting, trivial, without significance, was happiness.
“What are you daydreaming about?” Jonathan said softly.
She looked up at him. “I was thinking what a perfect morning it is.”
He smiled. “What it is to be nineteen.”
“Does age make any difference?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps not. But as you get older it takes more than a sea breeze to make you feel on top of the world.”
“Don’t you ever feel like that?”
“Why yes, sometimes. When there is a sea breeze and I have my arm around a pretty girl.” He laughed, teasing her.
Alex looked down at the churning water. When Tom Major said such things it was amusing but somehow, with Jonathan, she felt a strange pang of heartache.
“Don’t you think you’re pretty?” he asked quizzically.
She flushed. “I don’t know. Am I?”
“Alex dear, have you a handkerchief you could lend me until we unpack? I seem to have mislaid mine.” Miss Emmeline leaned out of the car.
“Yes, of course.” Alex went over to the car and took a clean handkerchief out of her bag.
“Thank you, dear. I seem to have a speck of dust in my eye. Ah, that’s better. It is extraordinary how painful the least thing can be under one’s eyelid.”
“Nearly there now. Hop in, Alex.” Jonathan held open the door for her.
“I wonder if I packed my eye lotion,” Miss Emmeline said. “I remember my brother had a very bad eye some years ago. He had a particle of stone under his upper lid and eventually he had to go to the doctor.”
“How nasty for him,” Alex said. Oh why did it have to happen then, she thought. She had wanted so much to hear Jonathan saying he thought her pretty. It wasn’t only vanity. It was a longing to hear him say something that acknowledged her as a woman, not merely his ward.
She glanced at him, and in the act of lighting a cigarette he raised his eyes.
He knew, she thought. He knew that she had been angry at the interruption.
“Personally I think a daily eye bath is as essential as cleaning one’s teeth,” Miss Emmeline said from the backseat. “Don’t you, Jonathan?”
“Yes.” He was still looking at Alex, a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Quite definitely.”
The slight emphasis was unmistakable. Alex turned her head so that he would not see the quick color in her cheeks. A bubble of elation rose in her.
Some minutes later the ferry lurched against the pier and they drove through the customs shed and out into the narrow, odorous, noisy streets of Georgetown.
The E. & O. Hotel where Jonathan had booked rooms was luxuriously appointed in European style, with whirling electric fans suspended from the ceiling to keep the air cool and porters in starched white jackets to attend to visitors’ needs. After lunch Miss Bray said she would rest as usual, but Alex was eager to explore the town and Jonathan agreed to accompany her. Outside the hotel he hailed a trishaw to take them to the main shopping center where Alex wanted to buy a bathing suit.
The worn leather seat shaded from the sun by a tarpaulin hood was narrow for two people of European proportions to share, and she was sharply aware of his arm pressing against hers.
“I can’t think how the Chinese manage to pile into these things,” she said. “Look at that trishaw over there with two grown-ups and three children in it. They ought to give the poor man double fare.”
“This is not such hard work as pulling the old rickshaws,” Jonathan said. “Here, you’ll have more room like this.”
He lifted the arm nearest to her and laid it along the back of the seat, twisting sideways to make more space. Now, with his arm almost around her shoulders, she was even more conscious of their closeness. She felt an uncontrollable blush stealing up her throat and hastily pointed out a particularly ragged beggar squatting at the roadside. Just then the trishaw man swung to one side to avoid a cyclist and Alex, thrown off balance, fell against Jonathan. Instinctively he dropped his arm around her waist to steady her and for a few seconds she lay against his chest, close enough to hear the even beating of his heart under the immaculate white shirt.
Flaming scarlet, she pulled herself upright. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that swerve.”
He smiled at her, a mocking tilt to his dark eyebrows. His eyes held hers and then, briefly, traveled to her mouth. Then the incident was over and he was feeling for cigarettes and lighter and talking about some Snake Temple she must see while they were on the island. Alex sat listening to him without making sense of what he said. In the few seconds that those steel-gray eyes had rested on her mouth, she had experienced an uprush of excitement frightening in its force.
The trishaw man poked his head under the flap of tarpaulin behind them and asked a question. Jonathan replied affirmatively and they pulled in beside the five-foot way and scrambled out.
Alex had never seen so many exquisite wares as the shops of Georgetown had to offer. Gossamer nylons with diamante butterflies embroidered on the heels, filmy American lingerie, jade figurines, carved ivory tusks, lacquer cabinets, painted porcelain and beautifully inlaid teak chests lined with aromatic camphorwood. In Whiteaways she bought herself a scanty yellow swimsuit to replace the misshapen black wool garment that had been regulation wear at school.
Jonathan, complaining that so much window shopping had worn him out, suggested that they should rest for half an hour in the restaurant.
He watched her tackle a tall pineapple sundae, amused at her
concentration, wondering how long she would remain innocently unaware of her own attractions.
In a country where even plain girls were in demand it would not be long, he thought. Her body under the thin cotton dress was as free and supple as a child’s, yet far from childish in its delicate contours. Did she know that her clear satiny skin was an invitation to caresses?
He put a sharp brake on this train of thought. Because they were on holiday he must not forget that she was his ward.
When they got back to the hotel Miss Bray was having tea in the palm lounge with an elderly white-haired man of unmistakably military appearance. She introduced him as Colonel Liskard, and since it was clear that they were enjoying a chat about the old days, Jonathan asked Alex if she would care to go swimming.
When Alex walked over the hot sand in the new swimsuit she expected to see that disturbing gleam in Jonathan’s eyes again, but he was chasing a large white crab and scarcely glanced at her. Piqued, she ran down to the sparkling white breakers and plunged into the warm sea.
Forgetting Jonathan, she swam and floated and dived, lost in wordless contentment, feeling completely alive.
There was a raft moored a short distance out and she swam out to it and hauled herself onto the hot, wet coconut matting. A moment later Jonathan swung up beside her, shaking the water out of his eyes. There was a waterproof pocket in his swimming trunks and he lit a cigarette and lay down.
Alex sat cross-legged, thinking how beautiful the island was with its slender palm trees and massive gray boulders intersecting the white beaches. A little farther along the coast a house had been built on a great crag of rock, its windows looking directly down to the water.
“Imagine living there,” she said. “You could dive straight into the sea from your bedroom.”
Jonathan rolled over and followed the direction of her pointing arm. “Built a la Hollywood by a Chinese millionaire, I would think. Not for the likes of us, my girl.”