25

The ferry lumbered across the flat waters of the Malacca Straits towards Georgetown. Laura leaned on the rail, welcoming the salt breeze on her face, a respite from the fierce sun. She watched the other vessels ply to and fro between the island and the mainland, and the deep green hills of Penang drawing closer and closer.

She was tired. Her limbs ached from the twenty-four-hour journey on the train. Even though she’d managed to get some fitful sleep, the steward had woken her at six in the morning, wanting to get the bunks stowed away and set up the carriage for breakfast. She was served with rubbery bacon and eggs, and as she ate she watched her fellow passengers with interest. There were two Malaysian businessmen deep in discussion over charts and graphs, a Thai family with two perfectly behaved little girls, and a German family whose children noisily refused to touch the food. Across the aisle, a couple of backpackers, dressed in shorts and flip flops, were so wrapped up in each other that they hardly looked out of the window or noticed anyone else around them. She thought about Luke, and looked away.

The landscape rolled past her: the craggy limestone outcrops of Southern Thailand, occasional glimpses of a turquoise sea between the jungle-covered hills, the little towns where locals waited for slow trains on crowded platforms with their bundles of wares and luggage tied up with string.

When night fell she stretched out on the bunk. Lying on top of the linen sheets the steward had put on, she read the books she had bought in Kanchanaburi. She stared at the artefacts she had brought from home: the photograph of Joy de Souza, the invitation to High Tops. She felt thwarted by having found out so little in Kanchanaburi. Even finding the book by Arthur Stone had been a false dawn. Perhaps she would discover more in Malaysia? She glanced again at the picture of Joy, at the enigmatic expression in those dark eyes. ‘Are you still there, Joy? Will I find you?’ she whispered.

She scribbled postcards to Ken and Marge, and one to Adam. It was difficult to think of anything meaningful to say to him, and she just trotted out the usual hackneyed phrases. ‘Having a wonderful time in Thailand. Incredibly interesting. Beautiful country, wonderful people, lovely food. Now on night train to Malaysia. See you in a few weeks’ time, Laura.’ She did not want to offer him any encouragement, but she felt a glow of warmth when she thought about his kindness in suggesting she should take time off. This was tinged with a creeping guilt that she was going to repay it by handing in her notice.

The ferry docked in Georgetown, and as the passengers descended the metal ramp onto the quayside, they were surrounded by a clamouring mob of rickshaw drivers, touts and guides. One grabbed Laura’s arm and pulled her aside.

‘You want hotel? I show you good hotel.’

The sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings. She was suddenly apprehensive about being alone.

‘Is it far?’

‘Not far from here, madam. Two streets away only.’

She climbed on board the rickshaw and stowed her rucksack on the seat beside her. The man jumped on the bicycle in front, and for the first time she experienced the odd sensation of being pulled along by another human being. It felt precarious and somehow wrong. She noticed his calf muscles bulge as he strained on the pedals.

‘I’m too heavy,’ she protested. But he flashed a reassuring smile over his shoulder and pulled out into the slow-moving traffic. The hotel was only a couple of blocks from the waterfront, a faded Portuguese-style mansion, its crumbling façade painted pale yellow. Its shuttered windows, grand pillared entrance and an elaborate fountain on the drive proclaimed past glories. ‘Cathay Hotel’ a shabby notice by the front door said.

‘Very good hotel. Very cheap,’ said the rickshaw driver.

This would do for tonight, Laura thought. She paid the man more than he asked and went inside. An old Chinese man behind the counter, dressed in a faded blue tunic, greeted her with a wide smile and a bow. He showed her up the sweeping staircase to a high-ceilinged room on the first floor.

‘Number one room,’ the man announced proudly, switching on the ceiling fan and flinging open louvered shutters and windows with a flourish. Mosquito nets covered the openings.

She looked around. ‘Very nice. Thank you.’ He hovered in the doorway, waiting for a tip. She hastily handed him the few coins she had in her pocket, and he shuffled away.

Laura explored the room. It was huge, with a bare wooden floor and heavy antique furniture. The bathroom was almost as large, with a Victorian bathtub with claws for feet and a constantly dripping tap that ploughed a rusty furrow in the discoloured enamel. She leaned out of the open window. Between the buildings she glimpsed moonshine dancing on the waters of the straits. Exotic smells floated on the steamy air, spices and musk mingling with open drains. The voices of the rickshaw-wallahs waiting for passengers at the gate rose and fell on the evening air.

She felt excited at the thought that tomorrow she would begin her search for Joy. She lay down on the bed. Exhausted from the journey, she fell asleep straight away.

As she walked into the reception the next morning, the Chinese man greeted her with a warm smile.

‘You want rickshaw? You want tour of city?’

‘I’m looking for someone,’ she said tentatively. ‘Someone who lived in Penang during the war. Do you know how I might find her?’

The old man shrugged.

‘Many, many people in Penang,’ he said. ‘She Chinese?’

‘Wait. I have a picture.’ She showed him Joy’s photograph. He put on a pair of thick glasses and peered at it.

‘Pretty lady. She Eurasian. Many Eurasian families lived in Farquhar Street area before war. Many died. Many vanished or move away.’

‘Died?’

‘Killed. In bombing raids. Many people die. My uncle and cousin die in bombings at dock.’

‘I’m sorry. You were here then?”

The old man nodded, and for the first time he wasn’t smiling. He hung his head in sorrow. The folds of his old face sagged, and the shadows of memories crossed his eyes.

‘Let me look again.’ The man took the photograph, turned it over and peered at the writing on the back.

‘De Souza. Many, many people have that name. Very common. Look.’ He produced a telephone directory from under the desk and thumped it on the counter. It was battered and grubby and was dated 1979. Laura thumbed through to the page showing ‘de Souza’. There were several columns of that name. Her heart sank.

‘Is there somewhere I could find out more? A public records office perhaps?’

‘Record?’ he peered at her, frowning.

‘You know? Where they keep details of people, lists of residents.’

The old man shrugged again. ‘There is post office. Maybe they know. There is also museum. You go there. Rickshaw-wallah take you. I tell him what you want. He speak good English.’

The rickshaw-wallah pedalled her through steamy streets lined with Chinese shop houses and food stalls, buzzing with colour and life. At the general post office she waited for a long time in a slow moving queue. When she reached the front she could not make the friendly woman behind the grille understand what she was looking for.

The woman just shook her head and said, ‘No information here. You go to Kuala Lumpur. You try there.’

She returned to the rickshaw; the man was waiting under a tree, dozing, his feet propped up on the rickshaw’s handle bars.

‘No find lady?’ he asked, waking up and seeing her face. She shook her head.

At Central Museum the woman behind the reception desk took the photograph and studied it carefully.

‘I’m sorry, I do not know this lady,’ she said smiling, handing the photo back to Laura.

‘No, but do you have any records of residents in the town that I could look at.’

She shook her head. ‘Public records in Kuala Lumpur. The lady must be very old now. Maybe dead?’

‘I hope not,’ said Laura, a shudder passing through her.

She wandered around, looking at the displays. A statue of Sir Francis Light dominated the lower hall. Sketches of the history of the island were displayed on the walls, charting the rise and decline of British rule. There was even a section devoted to the bombing raids and the Japanese Occupation in the war. She stared at pictures of civilians running for their lives, their faces masks of terror, as buildings around them crumbled and burned.

It was late afternoon as the rickshaw made its way back through the streets to Cathay Hotel. Laura closed her eyes and absorbed the sounds and smells of this exotic town as it wound down for the evening: the cries of street hawkers, the aroma of cooking over open fires, the salty tang of the sea floating on the breeze.

She stopped at a small café near the hotel and ordered some satay. It was a canteen-style establishment crowded with locals taking an early evening meal. She sat alone at a table on the pavement. Next to her, a couple of men in suits conferred with each other. Each time she glanced at them, she noticed them staring at her. They were leering openly, and then conferring together, clearly discussing her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable, being the lone female in the place. She quickly paid the bill and left.

The old man at the reception desk handed her the key and asked, ‘You find lady?’

‘Not yet. I’ll try again tomorrow.’

‘Maybe tomorrow you go sight-seeing instead. You must see Penang Hill, all the temples. Very beautiful. Look, take map. I arrange tour for you.’

He thrust an old, folded map into her hands. It was printed with garish adverts for restaurants, clubs and tourist attractions. Back in her room, as she sat on the bed, a mouse scuttled out and ran across the floorboards. She stifled a scream.

Opening the map on the bed, she studied the streets, hoping that there might be something that would lead her to Joy de Souza.

She searched the map for clues. On the outskirts of the town she noticed a building marked ‘High Tops Hotel’. She stared at it. Was this the place from Dad’s invitation? She looked closely at the map. There was a crude sketch of a grand house, with pillars and tall windows.

As she settled down for the night there was a soft knock at the door. She pulled on a shirt and opened it a fraction. A middle-aged man stood outside, short and stout and dressed in a suit. She recognised him as one of the businessmen at the restaurant where she had eaten her supper.

He said something to her in Malay.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, moving to shut the door.

He stuck his foot in the gap before the door and tried to grab her arm. She pulled away and slammed the door in his face, then rammed the bolt across it.

She sat down on the bed, shaking all over, waiting for his footsteps to go away, but there was no sound. The shadow of his shoes remained under the crack of the door, motionless; she stayed frozen on the bed, still shivering in shock, her eyes fixed on them. Her breathing seemed noisy in the silence. After a few minutes, there was movement under the door and the footsteps finally retreated. She heard him walk down the stairs. Still rooted to the spot, she couldn’t get up and go to the window, but she heard his footsteps on the front steps and crossing the drive.

She lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, still shaking.

‘What am I doing here alone? I must be mad.’

In the sunshine of the morning, it seemed hard to believe this had happened. Even so, she packed her bag and asked the old man to give her the bill and call her a taxi. He was perturbed, wringing his hands.

‘You not leave Penang?’

‘Oh, I thought I’d explore the island. Perhaps stay on the beach for a couple of nights.’

But as soon as they had turned out on to the street she asked the taxi driver to take her to High Tops Hotel.

The driver shook his head and said, ‘I not know that hotel. Not famous. You go my brother hotel. Very close.’

‘Pull over. I’ll show you the map.’

The battered taxi squealed to a halt. The driver scrutinised the map she passed him. Then with much tutting and sighing, he set off again.

‘That bad place. That not good like other hotel in Penang.’

She ignored him and stared out of the window at the shops and houses flashing past her.

He drove recklessly, blasting his horn at rickshaws and taking bends too quickly.

As they got further out from the town centre, the buildings began to thin out. The road began to rise into the hills. They squealed round a bend in the road, and the taxi turned in between some scabbed white pillars and moved on to a wide drive, spraying gravel as it came to a halt. The grand porticoed entrance to the house lay at the top of a flight of sweeping steps.

Laura paid the taxi and walked up the steps. A couple of large dogs of indeterminate breed got up and came up to her, sniffing her legs and wagging their tails in greeting. Like the Cathay Hotel, this place was fading. But more gracefully somehow, and it looked cared for. There were potted plants on the terrace, and the lawns were mowed in perfect stripes.

The reception area was in a tiled hallway, with a grand staircase leading up to a galleried area and panelled doors opening off it.

An immaculately dressed young Malaysian woman greeted Laura at the hotel’s reception desk. Laura enquired about rooms, feeling self-conscious in her creased clothes.

‘Many rooms available, madam,’ said the young woman ‘We only have three other guests, and one of them is leaving today. The price is all-inclusive. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, at seven o’clock.’

As the receptionist handed her the large metal key to her room, Laura asked, ‘I was wondering if you know anything about the history of this house?’

The receptionist shook her head with an apologetic smile.

‘I’m sorry. But you could ask the owner. He will be back later today. He has been away in Kuala Lumpur for a business meeting. I’ll let him know you asked.’

The room was on the first floor, at the front of the house, overlooking the town. It was larger than the one at Cathay Hotel, and more welcoming, with an old-fashioned wooden dressing table, floral bedcovers and curtains, and flowers placed on a marble washstand. It looked like a down-at-heel country-house hotel in England. It felt safe here, away from the town. She lifted the Bakelite telephone receiver and asked the receptionist for an international line. Ken answered after several rings.

‘I thought I’d let you know that I’m in Penang now.’

‘Well, that’s a relief. I’ve been worried about you.’

‘I stayed at a dodgy hotel for a couple of nights. But I’ve moved now. I’ll probably be here for a few days. It’s called “High Tops Hotel” if you need to get in touch. In fact, I think Dad might have been to a party here before the war. How are things with you?’

‘Not too bad. Oh, by the way, that boy came round yesterday.’

‘Boy?’

‘Yes, the one who’s been trying to get hold of you. Rory, with the curly blond hair. He seemed pretty agitated. Asked when you’d be back.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘The day after you called from Bangkok.’

‘Did he leave a message or anything?’

‘No, nothing. Left a bit abruptly when I told him I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.’

‘Well, if he comes round again, try and get him to leave a number or something, so I can give him a call.’

She replaced the receiver, wondering what could be so important. Was it something to do with her flat? It was strange the way he had left so suddenly with his parents when he’d seemed so committed to the protest. Her mind wandered to Luke, and she surprised herself with a pang of regret at the way she’d walked out on him. Perhaps she’d been too hasty running away from him in Thailand? Perhaps she should have given him a bit more of a chance. She stared out of the window at the lush garden bathed in sunlight.. The sun was almost directly overhead. It would soon be time to go down for lunch.

The peace outside was broken by the sound of an engine, and a car appeared on the road, swung in between the gateposts. An old Bentley drew up on the gravel drive with the blast of its horn. The dogs that had been lazing on the top step bounded down to greet the car, barking, their tails wagging. The receptionist appeared at the top of the steps, smiling. An old Sikh man in a turban got out of the driver’s side and went round to open the other door. But before he could do so, the door swung open and a tall man dressed in a crumpled white suit clambered out. The dogs bounded to him, and he greeted them as they jumped up to lick his face.

‘Get down, you silly idiots,’ he said in an English accent. He then turned to the driver, ‘Don’t worry about that bag, Adesh. I can carry that.’

‘Oh, I’m so pleased you’re back,’ the receptionist began.

‘Me too. The bloody train from KL was murder.’

They went inside, followed by the dogs.

Laura turned back into the bedroom. She’d been drawn in by the scene. She wondered what it must be like to live here in these beautiful surroundings, in this place so far from home, to own this great shambling mansion. What sort of man was the owner?

Lunch was served in a great sunlit dining room. Laura was waited on by Adesh. She was starting on her first course when a voice surprised her.

‘Miss Ellis?’

She looked up. The owner was standing beside the table. He had changed out of his white suit for another pair of crumpled trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt. He was tanned, and close up she could see that his face bore the lines of age.

She stood up and shook his hand.

‘David Atherton. Welcome to High Tops. They told me you were asking about the house. If you come along to the reception after you’ve finished, I’ll show you around.’

‘That’s very kind of you. There’s no hurry, though.’ Where had she heard that name before?

‘I’d be delighted. It’s not often I get the chance to show off the old place.’

After she’d finished she went up to her room to fetch the invitation she had found in her father’s trunk and then returned to the desk. The owner was poring over some columns of figures. As he looked up, she caught a glimpse of anxiety in his expression before a smile banished it.

‘Great. Let’s make a start on our tour.’ He came out from behind the desk.

‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked. Then she glanced down at the invitation and realised where she had seen the name.

‘All my life, practically. I grew up here.’

‘Really? You see, I have this. It was in my father’s belongings. He died recently.’

She showed him the invitation.

‘I’m so sorry to hear about your father,’ he said. Then he took the printed card and smiled. ‘How interesting. This must have been an invitation to one of my parents’ house parties. I know they used to give a lot of them before the war. My mother was quite a socialite. Did your father live in Penang?’

‘Yes. He worked for United Rubber for a few years. I’ve been trying to find out a bit about his time in the Far East.’

‘I’ve got a collection of photos from around that time in the ballroom. If you’d like to come along I’ll show you. I had them framed and hung on the wall after my mother died.’

He showed her upstairs and down a dimly lit corridor at the front of the house. It smelt of polish and citronella. He proudly opened door after door off a long corridor on the first floor. The large rooms must once have been grand. Now they had a forlorn look, smelled of moth-balls, had their furniture covered in dust sheets.

‘These rooms only get used in high season,’ he explained, slightly apologetic.

Then he threw open a set of double doors at the end of the corridor and took her into a vast empty room, with a double height ceiling and dusty chandeliers hanging from the rafters.

On the walls were dozens of framed photographs of groups of people in evening wear, holding up glasses, or in fancy dress, standing under the chandeliers. There was something eerie about all these faces frozen in time, people who had once lived here and danced in this empty room and filled it with laughter and life.

‘Take your time. I know there are lots of them.’

The guests were not named, but the year in which they were taken was printed beneath each photograph.

She came to a photograph dated 1938 and stopped. She looked closely, and her heart missed a beat. There he was in the back row, standing between a stout lady with a pince-nez and a burly man with a jocular smile. He was smiling and holding up his glass, looking handsome in a bow tie and starched white shirt, his dark hair swept back from his face.

She turned to her host. She pointed to the photograph with tears in her eyes.

‘This is him,’ she smiled. ‘This is my father!’