The trees were still gauzed in mists when the syce drove Robert and Willie to the Botanic Gardens. The outing was too early for Gerald’s liking, and Lesley had elected not to join them. ‘You two old friends should have some time together,’ she said when she saw them off from the porch.
The bearers were sitting on their haunches at the bottom of a jungle track that climbed to the summit of Penang Hill two thousand feet above. Willie felt a twinge of doubt when he saw the dhoolies that would convey them to the top: two spindly bamboo poles approximately ten feet long threaded through a wicker armchair in the centre.
They settled into their dhoolies, and with whoops and cries the bearers – four Tamils assigned to each dhoolie – hoisted their load onto their shoulders and embarked on the long, steep slog up the hill. Willie held on tightly to the armrests, fearful of being tipped out of his seat, but soon he began to relax and enjoy the bouncing, swaying ride.
‘The funicular will be completed in a year’s time,’ Robert said, twisting around in his dhoolie to look back at him. ‘If you come to Penang again you can go up the hill in that.’
‘We’ll do that with you and Lesley, but I doubt it’ll be … as thrilling as this.’
They were carried ever upwards, through patches of sunlight and tunnels of dappled green shadows thick with ferns and orchids and bromeliads. Broad-girthed trees pressed in on them, their wrinkled trunks soaring hundreds of feet skywards to spread their branches into the canopy far above. Willie thought there was something crotch-like about the lush and unruly clumps of epiphytes spilling from the forks of the trees. At various points the bearers were forced to squeeze past huge overhanging boulders. The jungle flared with birdsong, and the air was occasionally gashed by the manic screeching of monkeys.
The clammy heat of the lowlands had given way to chilly air by the time they reached the summit just over an hour later. The bearers carried them along quiet leafy lanes lined with brownstone cottages. Willie felt he could have been back in a village somewhere in England.
At the Crag Hotel they climbed out of their dhoolies. Willie shook the stiffness from his limbs as he looked around him. The main bungalow of the hotel was built on the crest of a high rocky ridge surrounded by tall trees, and was connected to a cluster of smaller guest bungalows on the lower slopes by narrow steps and walkways.
It was the quiet season, the manager apologised as he led the way through the airy, empty lobby to the viewing platform at the end of the terrace lawn. A massive angsana tree, its trunk bristling with ferns, thrust out from the centre of the platform, ringed by a circle of benches. A table had been laid out for them by the wooden railings, a waiter standing attentively by. George Town lay sprawled in the morning light far below. Squinting his eyes, Willie made out the godowns lining the harbour. Ships and countless minuscule vessels criss-crossed the channel, like water skimmers skating over a pond’s surface. Over on the mainland he recognised the mountains that greeted him every morning from the beach at Cassowary House, and behind them, more mountains, stretching away into the haze.
The journey and the crisp fresh air had sharpened their appetite, and they ate a hearty breakfast.
‘I’m enjoying Chinese Screen,’ Robert said when they were drinking their tea. ‘I feel quite privileged, getting my paws on it before it’s even on the shelves.’
‘I’ll send you an inscribed copy.’ Willie pushed aside his cup and leaned forward, pressing his palms on the table. ‘The other night, just before you fell asleep, you said something … about Ethel Proudlock, about what her husband and … her father did to her. Something terrible. What was it, Robert? What did … they do?’
Robert scratched his cheek, frowning. ‘I can’t remember saying anything of the sort.’
‘You did.’
‘Well, I have no idea what I said or meant, old chap.’
If he was lying, Willie thought, it was very convincing.
Robert pointed to the houses on the nearby ridge. ‘That’s the governor’s residence. And that one there – that’s Noel Hutton’s. We’ve stayed there a few times. Most of the houses up here are holiday homes or government rest houses.’ He pointed to a temple at the foot of the mountains. ‘That’s the Temple of Supreme Joy. You see that structure on the slope just above it? They’re building a pagoda.’
The octagonal stump of the unfinished pagoda was still only three or four storeys high, its sides perforated by rows of tall, narrow windows. Surrounded by the hills and the lush jungle, it looked like a ruin of a forgotten civilisation.
‘I won’t see it completed, Willie, just like I won’t be riding the funicular up here with you.’ Robert glanced at him over the rim of his teacup. ‘Lesley’s told you, I’m sure.’
‘She mentioned that you’re planning to move to the Karoo.’
‘I suppose you think I’m barmy too?’
On the temple’s roof a vermilion and yellow banner flapped from a pole, like a flickering flame on a candle. ‘When we were being … carried up here,’ Willie said, looking at the banner, ‘I was reminded of a tale I had heard in Hong Kong.’
‘Oh? Do tell.’
‘This took place about eight or nine years ago. A middle-aged doctor, English and newly married, found out that his young … wife had taken a lover. So he decided to accept a posting as a District … Medical Officer in a cholera-stricken village high in the mountains of China.’
‘A rather puerile way to numb his pain, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Actually, he wanted to punish his … wife. He ordered her to accompany him, but she refused, so he gave her an ultimatum: either she went with him, or he would divorce her and send her … back to her parents in England.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She went with him, of course. What other choice did she have? It took them … five weeks to reach the village. The journey was arduous and perilous. For the last stretch up to the mountains they had to be carried in sedan chairs – that’s what made me think of the story when we were riding in our … dhoolies up here.’ Willie cradled his teacup in his palm. ‘Three months after they arrived at the village, this doctor was struck down by cholera. She buried … him there.’
‘What happened to her – the doctor’s wife?’
Willie had to think for a moment or two. The woman had left the village and gone back to Hong Kong, he recalled. She had married her lover, and by all accounts they were still happily together.
‘She’s still there, in that village in the mountains,’ he said. ‘She never went home.’
A cool breeze passed by, moulting the leaves from the trees. Robert pointed to the slabs of grey clouds lying above the mountains on the mainland. ‘Won’t be long till the monsoon,’ he said. ‘Day after day it rains, for weeks on end. I feel as if I’m drowning. You have no idea what that’s like. Of course it’s a drastic step, moving to the Karoo,’ he continued. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ His voice, when he spoke again, was jagged at the edges. ‘But it’s the only alternative left for me.’
Looking at his friend, Willie felt a deep sadness for him. ‘I’m glad you invited me to stay, Robert.’
‘You’ll come and visit me in the Karoo?’
‘I’ll even bring a big … box of the latest … books for you.’
‘Don’t you ever get tired of travelling?’
‘Never. I enjoy the … freedom it gives me. I feel that when I travel I can change … myself a little, and I return from a journey not quite the same … self I was.’
‘“Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt”,’ said Robert. He smiled when he saw Willie’s blank look. ‘Horace.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course.’
Dragonflies with stained-glass wings stitched invisible threads in the air. The two friends gazed down at the land below, watching the cloud shadows bruise the earth.