Kuala Lumpur
IT WAS ALMOST nightfall when the bus approached Kuala Lumpur. “Go to the hotel opposite the railway station. It is called The Majestic,” Bill had advised. “It is better than the Station Hotel. Planters go there. You are bound to meet someone who might help.”
“Very good hotel,” the Indian lady said flashing a bright smile when Ruth mentioned it. “For white people, rich people,” she added wagging her head, like a doll’s head pivoting on its neck, tilting to the right and then left and back again. “Other hotels not good, too low class for a lady like you.” She looked Ruth up and down. “Maybe dangerous even.”
The Indian lady draped the end of her sari around her head and whispered conspiratorially. “Not many hotels in town. Nice ladies stay with friends or relatives. No stay in hotels.” She looked pityingly at Ruth, her gaze on Ruth’s ring on her fourth finger. “Where is your husband? No meet you?”
Ruth pretended not to hear. Well the Majestic it has to be, she thought. She just needed to have sufficient money left over to go to Mark.
“Don’t worry, Ma’am. I show you the way. Not far from bus stop. We get there before dark. Everyone knows the railway station. It’s beautiful like a palace.” She rolled her kohl-lined eyes in an exaggerated fashion.
Ruth thanked her. She looked across. The man was not there. A woman sat where he had been.
***
It was half past nine in the morning when Ruth arrived at Mark’s firm in a trishaw.
A group of young women giggled and spoke amongst themselves the minute she stepped out of the vehicle. Some eyed her with open astonishment. Blood rushed to Ruth’s cheeks turning it an even brighter red. She should have expected that. The hotel footman had tried to persuade her against the use of a trishaw. “No, Madam, no good. Trishaws not for you.” His eyes darted to the left and to the right and his voice dropped to a whisper. Apparently no self-respecting women, certainly not a European woman, used trishaws to travel, a privilege reserved principally for ladies of the night.
Ruth had refused to budge from her decision. She thought of the bill she would have to pay staying at the Majestic. She had to make economies. Now, confronted by smirks, she was not sure she had taken the right decision. She put on a brave face and hoped that her nervousness was not obvious. She had travelled all that distance to be with Mark. She was not going to be defeated by a bunch of ridiculous young women. With a pounding heart, she climbed up the flight of steps into the reception area and declared her desire to see Mark. “I am his wife, Ruth Lampard,” she added.
Behind the thick black spectacle frames, the receptionist’s eyes widened in shock. “Wait please,” she said and rushed out from behind the desk. Within minutes she was back with a grey haired gentleman in a dark suit.
“Mrs Lampard? I did not expect you. Welcome to Harrison and Crosfield. I am Andrew Clark, the Manager.”
Ruth took his extended hand. It was clammy. She noticed the nervous tick at the corner of one of his eyes. “I am sorry. I didn’t call. I wanted to be here first thing in the morning.”
“Come with me to my office. This way.” Ruth felt his hand on her elbow, urging her along the narrow corridor. They went into a large room with maps and photographs on all four walls; he motioned her to take a seat. They sat facing each other, he behind his desk, she in a high backed chair. Between them stretched a vast expanse of dark wood. A young attendant brought tea. Ruth wondered at his agitation. She waited impatiently for the girl to set the cups in place. The process seemed to take an infinitely long time. The manager coughed discreetly and waved the girl away. Once she left the room, he began rubbing his temple. He wouldn’t meet Ruth’s eye. His reticence alarmed her.
“Is anything wrong? Where is my husband? Can I go to him? Today if possible.”
“Umm!” His eyes met Ruth’s for the first time since they entered the room. “You should stay in Kuala Lumpur for a few days. It can be arranged.” His voice was grave. His eyes darted to the door as though he wished to make his escape. Andrew Clark was sure that Ruth would not last in the heat and certainly not out in the remote area of Tanjong Malim. He thought her completely unsuitable for a life in the tropics: her slenderness, her paleness with the dusting of freckles across her nose and total naivety. The receptionist had told him about Ruth’s mode of transport. Certain standards of decorum had to be maintained as a planter’s wife and she had shown her total ignorance of it. There was no way he could tell her that, not with the bad news he was about to deliver.
Through the gap of the slightly open door, Ruth saw the receptionist pass by.
“But I am not interested in staying in Kuala Lumpur,” she said. Her voice cracked and she crinkled her forehead in exasperation.
“You must. Rather you should. The Majestic is a pleasant retreat for most of our staff. Planters and their families use it. You will be comfortable there.”
“Why can’t I go to my husband? I was told that he is in a place called Tanjong Malim. You mean he is here in Kuala Lumpur?”
Ruth recalled the anxious looks of people at the hotel when she mentioned Tanjong Malim. She hadn’t given it much heed then. She had been too awed and surprised by the hotel the previous evening after the uncomfortable bus ride. She had never come across anything like The Majestic before. In the dining room, white-uniformed waiters scurried between potted ferns and tables laid out splendidly with silver cutlery, fine porcelain and crystal glasses. She had never seen so many starched white tablecloths. Suspended from high ceilings, fans whirled slowly forming a backdrop to the clinking of glasses. Piano music floated across the room to mingle with the modulated voices of well-dressed women and men in evening attire. The scene dispersed the sense of danger she had gathered from fellow travellers on the ship. Bathed and changed from her travel-worn clothes she had felt a new person last night. Her sense of well being, however, was now fast dissipating. She watched the beads of perspiration gather on Andrew Clark’s brows.
“Is something wrong?” she repeated.
He took both her hands in his. “The telegram we sent you obviously did not reach you before you left. I am sorry,” he said, his eyes looking right into hers. “You have to be strong. Mark is missing.”