The coastal road tracing the northern shoreline of the island was narrow and twisting, stretches of it tunnelling through high, overhanging tree branches. Thick ferns and shrubs covered the steep slopes on their left; to their right the road was sheared off by a sharp drop into the rocky sea. Lesley drove, Willie sitting beside her; Robert and Gerald were wedged into the seats behind. Willie was comfortable with her driving. Her fingers – long and slender in their red calfskin driving gloves – trimmed the steering wheel with an assured touch. And, unlike women drivers he knew, she never glanced at him or the other two in the rear-view mirror when she was talking or directing their attention to a fishing kampong or a temple by the sea. Traffic was sparse, but she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Now and again he stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Just another unhappily married woman in the tropics. His instincts told him she had had an affair with the Chinaman revolutionary, but then he would have heard about it – something like that would never have stayed a secret, and mauvaise langue, he had discovered, afflicted many people in the FMS. No blade is as sharp as a man’s tongue.
Two or three miles past the Penang Swimming Club, Lesley slowed down and made a sharp right turn into an imposing entrance. A barrel-chested Sikh guard saluted them through the granite gateposts and onto a long driveway that inclined gently past expansive lawns to the mansion at the top of the rise. Istana was painted entirely white, its façade barricaded by a Doric colonnade with an imposing pediment. To Willie it looked more like the Parthenon than a Malay palace.
They relinquished the motor car to a valet beneath the porte-cochère and a houseboy escorted them into a vestibule. The chequered marble floor made Willie feel they were the remaining pieces of an abandoned chess game. Faint jazz music drifted in from somewhere deep within the house. Willie rotated slowly on his heels, taking in the paintings on the oak-panelled walls rising up the cavernous stairwell to the square gallery – tapestries of medieval hunting scenes and portraits of venerable old men seated in leather armchairs gazing confidently into some distant horizon. He couldn’t help but feel let down – Lesley’s fervid praise-singing had led him to expect something much more, instead he could have been in any grand country house in England. He was about to say this to Lesley when a tall and well-built man strode into the foyer, his footsteps clipping off the marble floor. He was in his late forties, with blue eyes and short, greying hair. The set of his features seemed oddly familiar to Willie, then he realised they echoed the faces on the walls.
‘Welcome, Willie, welcome. I’m Noel.’ The man shook Willie’s hand. ‘Robert, how good of you to come. Marvellous to see you, marvellous. Welcome, Gerald.’ He kissed Lesley on her cheeks fondly. ‘Looking splendid as ever, my darling.’ He stepped back. ‘I’ll give you a tour of the house later, Willie, and introduce my children to you, but right now everyone’s dying to meet you.’
He guided them along a series of teak-panelled corridors and they emerged onto the terrace behind the house. Willie made appreciative murmurs as he took in the unobstructed view of the sea.
The jazz band on the low wooden stage dribbled off into silence; the raucous chatter and laughter subsided. There must have been close to a hundred people milling on the lawn, Willie estimated, Europeans and a fair scattering of Asiatics, the women shimmering in their silk and velvet evening dresses while the men, like himself and Gerald and Robert, were anonymous in black tie. Waiters bearing trays of drinks patrolled the lawn; servants filled plates with food on the long tables. In a corner of the garden a team of perspiring Malay men were squatting over a long brazier, grilling hundreds of sticks of satay over the charcoals, basting the meat frequently with stalks of lemongrass soaked in oil. The sweet fragrant smoke drifted across the lawn, twisting the insides of Willie’s belly.
‘The whole of Penang’s come to kowtow to you, Willie,’ Robert murmured into his ear.
‘My dearest friends,’ Noel proclaimed to the crowd with the gravitas of a Roman senator, ‘our guest of honour – Mr Somerset Maugham!’
Cheers and applause gusted across the lawn. Willie smiled, pressed his palm on his stomach and offered a short bow. Noel herded them down the steps onto the lawn where they were immediately surrounded by the guests. Robert beamed each time Willie told people that they were old friends. Men and women swarmed around him, telling him how much they liked his books. Many of them also took pains to inform him how scandalised they were by his story “Rain”. At least his latest book was selling, even out here in the East.
At some point in the evening Willie realised that Lesley was no longer with their little group. He scanned the crowd around them, but there was no sign of her anywhere.
The currents of the party eddied him across the garden. When he noticed Robert beginning to flag, he whispered to Gerald, ‘Sit him down somewhere and get him a drink.’
The effort of being charming and witty was wearying. His stammer grew more pronounced. He made an excuse to Noel about needing to use the bathroom. Noel clicked his fingers at a passing houseboy and instructed him to show Willie into the house.
Emerging from the bathroom, he wandered through the house, admiring the paintings on the walls. Female laughter pealing down a passageway diverted him into the nearest open doorway. He shut the doors stealthily and, when he turned around, couldn’t help letting out a quiet chuckle at the sight of the walls of bookshelves – by some homing instinct he had found refuge in the library.
In the centre of the room stood a large round walnut table, mellowing in a strip of evening sun coming in through the tall windows. His own books were laid out in two orderly piles upon the table. No doubt he would be asked to scratch his name in them before the night was over.
He orbited the table to the windows. Peering through the glass down onto the lawn, he sought out Gerald and Robert in the crowd and found them drinking at the bar, his old friend flinging his head back and roaring with laughter at something Gerald said, no doubt one of his endless store of smutty jokes.
The sounds from the party seemed to float in from far out at sea. Willie’s gaze skimmed over the little groups of guests and came to rest upon Lesley. She was standing by the stone balustrade at the far end of the garden. She held her champagne flute to her lips, but she was not sipping from it. Her body was completely still.
Her attention was fixed on an elderly Chinaman making his stiff and tentative way down a flight of granite steps. The moment the man disappeared from view she put her champagne flute down on the balustrade and squeezed her way through the crowd. Reaching the top of the steps, she hesitated, her hand stroking the stone finial. Then, gathering up the hem of her dress by an inch or two at her hips, she descended the steps.
‘There you are, Willie!’ Noel called from behind him. ‘I thought you’d got lost.’
Willie turned away from the windows. ‘Those steps at the end of the lawn – do they go down to the … beach?’
‘There’s a path halfway down there that goes around the cliff to another set of steps. Those’ll take you all the way down to our little bay. You’re most welcome to come and swim there any time, Willie. The water’s clear as gin.’ He curved out his arm. ‘Come on, old chap – don’t hide yourself away now – everyone’s keen to talk to you.’
Arranging his face into an expression of polite interest, Willie allowed his host to reel him back into the party.
He managed to slip away again when Noel was distracted by one of his friends. He crossed the lawn, nodding to the people who wanted to talk to him but never allowing himself to be detained. He went down the same granite steps he had seen Lesley taking and continued along the narrow path. He soon came to a small wooden deck. Lesley was leaning against the railing. She glanced at him when he went to stand beside her.
‘Your legion of admirers released you from their clutches? Where’s Robert?’
‘Sinking a few down the … hatch with his friends. Don’t worry – Gerald has strict orders to look after him.’
‘Since you’re here – will you sign this?’ She handed him the book in her hands.
It was, he saw, a copy of The Trembling of a Leaf. ‘For that venerable Chinaman you followed down here just now?’
She gave him a steady look. ‘It’s for his son. You’re his favourite writer.’
Willie took out his fountain pen and unscrewed its cap. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Make it out to …’ Her voice tapered off. ‘I didn’t ask his name. Oh, just write “Welcome home”.’
His pen hovered above the page, its nib a golden beak in the sun. ‘And from where is he coming home?’
‘He’s in China.’
‘Big place, China.’
‘Just sign the bloody book, Willie.’
He looked at her. She gazed coolly back at him.
He scrawled the inscription and signed his name. He blew tenderly on the page before returning the book to her. She checked his signature and closed the book.
‘His son left Penang many years ago to fight for Sun Yat Sen,’ she said.
Curious, Willie thought, how the Chinaman’s name kept bobbing up from her lips.
‘You remind me of him, you know,’ Lesley went on. ‘I thought so the first time I saw you.’
‘In what way?’
‘Your fastidiousness over your clothes.’ She tapped the skin above her lips. ‘Your perfectly groomed moustache. The deceptively disinterested air you give off when you observe people from the corner of your eye.’ She leaned back at a slight angle, taking the measure of him from head to toe. ‘And you’re about the same build.’ A new thought struck her. ‘And you were both doctors too. Fancy that.’
‘First time I’ve ever been likened to a Chinaman.’
They watched the waves scrolling across the sea. He was beginning to understand her refusal to leave the island.
‘I’ve always dreamed of getting a place with a view like this someday,’ Willie said. ‘A small villa overlooking the sea. Somewhere in the south of France, or one of the … Greek islands. With a sparkling swimming pool and gardens fragrant with herbs and … lemon trees.’
‘A nice holiday home.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll move there permanently. I’ll write, and grow old and cantankerous in that villa, surrounded by my books and my … paintings.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll invite you and Robert to come and stay.’
‘What’s stopping you from buying it? You’re already one of the wealthiest writers in the world, aren’t you?’
He was conscious of his smile unstitching itself from his face. He peered over the railings. Far below them creamy white waves were lathering the beach. He pointed to an islet half a mile or so from the shore, deserted but for a cluster of wind-contorted trees clinging to it.
‘Looks close enough to swim out to, doesn’t it? Anyone staying there?’
‘You should ask Noel,’ she said. ‘He owns it. Perhaps you could build a hut there. It’d be the perfect place to write, wouldn’t it? Cut off from the world, with only your own words and thoughts to keep you company.’
It was appealing – how he longed to flee from the financial quagmire waiting for him back home! – but Gerald would loathe every second of it.
‘It comes with breathtaking views of sunsets too,’ Lesley went on. ‘You’ll have endless inspiration to describe it.’
Brahminy kites wheeled above the islet. ‘I’ll let you in on something I’ve never told anyone before – and I’ll deny it if you ever … spread it around.’
She leaned slightly into him. ‘I’m good at keeping secrets.’
He kept his gaze on her face, then nodded slowly. ‘This was, oh, eight, nine years ago,’ he said. ‘I was strolling down a street one autumn evening – I had just lunched with my agent at the Garrick, a very long and boozy lunch during which he informed me that my first three plays had been so successful that I didn’t have to worry about money ever again.’ He paused, sensing a stammer waiting in ambush. ‘I was strolling down the street,’ he repeated, ‘the sun was setting, and the colours in the sky were just extraordinary. I stopped and stared at the sky. Just stared at it. And all I could think of at that moment—’ He broke off, smiling at the memory.
‘For God’s sake, Willie, don’t be such a tease.’
‘I thought,’ he said, laying out each word carefully in a clear, precise line, ‘“Thank God I don’t have to describe another pretty sunset ever again.”’
She stared at him, a shallow groove etched between her eyebrows. And then a luxuriant laugh gushed from her throat. Perhaps it was only the light gilding her face and firing up her eyes, but to Willie she suddenly looked vividly alive. For the first time since he arrived in Penang, he could see why she had caught Robert’s eye.
‘I vowed to myself at that moment: I would never write another book again,’ he went on, ‘I would … devote myself for the rest of my life to writing plays.’
Her laughter ebbed into a smile. She crooked an eyebrow and held up The Trembling of a Leaf.
‘Ah yes, well … Writing stories still calls to me.’
‘No to mention the wealth it showers on you.’
‘You know what … money really is? Money’s the sixth sense. If you don’t have it, you can’t make … the most of the other five.’
He lit a cigarette for himself and gave one to her. She took the silver cigarette case from him and turned it over in her hand, stroking the red precious stones embedded in its lid. She examined them more closely. ‘My goodness, these aren’t rubies, are they?’
‘I should bloody … well hope so. Sylvia – the Rani Brooke – gave it to me before we left Kuching.’ He hefted the case in his palm, wondering how much it would fetch at Sotheby’s. It pained him that he might have to part with it. ‘It used to … belong to James Brooke.’
‘Now there’s one man you should write about – the Rajah Brooke and his whole mad family,’ said Lesley.
‘It wouldn’t make for an interesting story.’
‘Wouldn’t make for—’ Her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘James Brooke founded the only European royal family in the East, and that family’s still on the throne today, seventy years later. Why, his life must’ve been chock-full of adventures and escapades.’
‘It was an eventful life – but it lacked one essential element.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Simple, really. There’s no love interest in his life. And a story without love … well, it just wouldn’t work.’
‘He never married, did he?’ A sly, knowing smile curled her lips. ‘And I’ve never heard any mention of a woman in his life.’
He never married, and the throne, Willie recalled, had passed to Brooke’s nephew after he died.
‘So all the stories that’ve been written,’ said Lesley, ‘they have to be about love?’
‘Think of the books you remember, the stories that have lodged … themselves in your heart – aren’t they all, ultimately, about love?’
She let his words steep in her thoughts for a while. ‘So,’ she said eventually, ‘a life without love is a life not worth writing about? I don’t know whether that makes you a cynic or a romantic.’
He flicked his cigarette over the railing. ‘I’ve never been … accused of being the latter.’
‘Perhaps he had loved someone, but he couldn’t tell anyone about it,’ she said. ‘To love, and to be loved, and yet not be able to let anyone know about it. And every trace of that love obliterated when you’re gone.’ Willie was struck by the pain in her eyes. ‘No one would ever know it had ever existed, that it had given you great joy,’ she said, ‘perhaps the only joy you’d ever experienced in your life.’
Her melancholy mood affected him. Would anyone ever know how much Gerald meant to him? Did it matter?
Her eyes dropped to the book in her hand. ‘You say you write about love, Willie, yet so many of your stories are about unhappy marriages and adulterous affairs.’
She had spoken quietly, but her words stung him nevertheless. ‘I don’t just write about adultery – I write about the human weaknesses that create these unhappy marriages – cowardice, fear, selfishness, pride, hypocrisy … All these emotions are … found within love too, you know.’
‘Well, you must feel godlike, sitting in judgement over the people you put in your books.’
‘I’m the last person in the world to judge anyone, Lesley,’ he said quietly.
The brahminy kites were still circling above the islet. The sea was creped in a million ever-shifting creases. In silence they watched the sun slip away, two people bearing witness to the last light of the day depleting from the sky, from the world.