In the Mouth of the Tiger (44 page)

Denis sat down on the low wall of the porch, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, then called Ismail back. ‘Allah may well have decreed that we part,' he said in his rather stilted Dunlops' Malay. ‘But he has not decreed that we cannot remain business partners. I need a good man to run a taxi here in KL while I am away, and I can think of nobody whom I could trust as much as you.'

Ismail sat down gracefully beside Denis, the wet chamois still in his hand. ‘It is true that I would look after your taxi with great loyalty and skill,' he said conversationally. ‘But would it not be better to invest in two taxis
rather than one? If one taxi can earn a profit, two can earn twice that amount. And I have a cousin who would be an ideal taxi driver. His name is Ibrahim, named after the follower of the Prophet, and he is a reliable and honest man. He is also very interested in my widowed sister.'

Denis dug out a flat yellow tin of Players cigarettes and offered one to Ismail before lighting up. ‘I would want both of our taxis registered in your name, Ismail,' he said quietly. ‘No man can properly manage a small taxi company with another man always looking over his shoulder.'

Ismail nodded thoughtfully. ‘That would be a very wise thing to do, Tuan,' he said. ‘But in the eyes of your God and in the eyes of the True God, we would be partners.'

It was only later, after he had dropped Denis off at the office and returned to take me shopping that Ismail allowed his emotions to get the better of him. ‘My heart breaks that you and Tuan are leaving,' he said thickly as we set off. ‘Tuan's offer to make me the owner of two fine taxis is no consolation for the pain I feel.'

Soon we were in the heavy traffic of Batu Road, with Ismail still deeply upset. ‘I would have stood against the black leopard for him,' he said turning to me earnestly. ‘I would have stood against the charge of an elephant . . .' The Alvis weaved dangerously under the pressure of Ismail's emotion and I saw a truck driver's startled face as we missed him by inches.

‘I know of your loyalty, Ismail,' I said urgently. ‘You have also stood beside me in my time of danger. But please slow down. Your worthy tears cloud your vision, and it would be sad if Tuan were to lose both his wife and his syce in a single day.'

Denis brought home two bulky envelopes from the World Travel Service that night, and I opened them with the excitement of a child opening Christmas presents. We had first class tickets to Marseilles on the
Cathay
, an overnight rail ticket from Nice to Cherbourg, ferry tickets to Dover (oh, what echoes of Sir Percy Blakeney those tickets had for me!), and then tickets on the
Queen Mary
from Southampton to New York. ‘I've left open the dates of our return from America,' Denis explained. ‘Just in case we decide to go up to Canada. I don't know why but I've long had a yen to visit Ottawa.'

‘We are going to visit Hollywood?' I asked. ‘You did promise.'

‘Hollywood if you must,' Denis said tolerantly. ‘But I do think you will be disappointed. The place is riddled with loud-mouthed Yanks and ruthless Armenian Jews who buy up human beings for the fun of it.'

It was unusual for Denis to generalise an entire people. ‘Eugene is an Armenian Jew,' I reminded him. ‘And he is one of the most decent men I know.'

Denis was immediately contrite. ‘A friend of mine once had a bad experience in Hollywood,' he said thoughtfully. ‘It rather stuck with me. She was very badly let down by a wealthy Armenian Jew, and she never lets me forget it. But you are quite right, Nona. It's quite wrong to condemn a whole people because there's one bad apple in the barrel.'

‘Was your friend called Maxine Elliott?' I asked innocently. It was a shot in the dark but Malcolm had described Maxine as a ‘tarty American film star' and I didn't think Denis would have known anyone else who might have been in Hollywood.

Denis paused, a sheaf of luggage labels suspended in mid-air. ‘Where on earth did you get that name from?' he asked.

‘And is that why we're getting off the
Cathay
in Marseilles?', I followed up, my voice tightening just a little. ‘So that you can visit her?'

Denis put the luggage labels down carefully. ‘I
was
talking about Maxine,' he said evenly. ‘She had a horrid experience during one of her last films. Her producer cheated her of nearly half a million American dollars.'

‘And are you going to visit her in the South of France?'

‘Probably.'

I took a deep breath. ‘Malcolm said some pretty rotten things about Maxine Elliott. He said she was a tarty American film star and he implied you were her gigolo.'

Denis laughed. It was a healthy, honest laugh and I felt my heart lifting at the sound of it. ‘When I last saw Maxine – it would have been ten years ago – she was a very respectable and rather substantial middle-aged lady. Tarty American film star with a gigolo, indeed! I'm not sure whether Maxine would have slapped Malcolm's face for his impertinence or thanked him for his flattery.'

‘Tell me about her, Denis,' I pleaded. ‘How did you meet her?'

‘I met Maxine some time in 1927,' he said. ‘I was sculling around the Côte d'Azur with some fellows in a sports car – my brother Laurie and a chap called Joe Schilling. We'd come for the Monte Carlo rally and stayed on to do some sailing for the English Yacht Club in Cannes. Maxine was nice enough to sponsor us, and to cut a long story short I ended up as a houseguest. One amongst many, I assure you. I like to think that she was kind to me because
she thought of me as the son she never had. She helped me get out to Malaya, and made sure I landed a decent job. She likes helping people, you know.'

I went over and put my arm around him. ‘She sounds like a very nice person,' I said, sitting on the arm of his chair. ‘And it was good of you to arrange to see her.'

We left KL for Singapore and our great adventure on a dull, overcast morning spotting with rain. I remember we loaded up the Alvis under the porch, and then I had a last look around the house that had been my first real home. Our lease had another six months to run, so that although we would not be coming back we had been able to leave most of our things behind. As a consequence the house did not look desolate and empty, but almost as if it were waiting cheerfully for our return. The impression was reinforced by little things: an unread copy of the
Malay Mail
propped on the sideboard, a half bottle of whisky and a soda siphon on the drinks trolley, my gardening gloves still in their place beside the back door. This is the best way to leave a house that has been your home, I thought. While it is still a living entity. It is awful to have to see somewhere you have been happy reduced to its bare bones, empty and forlorn.

I stood for a while by the nursery door and blew a kiss at the Bobbie Shafto wallpaper, then went out on the patio to farewell my beloved pool. I thought I might have been sad, but a stray memory made me laugh instead. We'd been having a swimming party and one of our guests had begun diving into the pool and staying down, swimming around the bottom like an agitated eel. The afternoon cooled into evening but he kept up his diving routine, causing more than a few raised eyebrows at his persistence. The rest of us drifted inside but our guest had kept on diving manfully into the darkening waters, occasionally flashing a grin towards the house to show us he was enjoying himself. Finally, as darkness made his behaviour downright dangerous, Denis went out and dragged him out of the water by main force. Seated in the bright lights of the lounge, our guest had no option but to own up: he had lost his false teeth early in the day and had been desperately trying to find them without giving the game away.

The teeth had never been found, and as I stood on the pool's edge I looked down, my eyes searching the bottom out of habit, a smile still on my face. ‘Come on, Little Mermaid,' Denis chuckled, grabbing me from behind and frogmarching me to the car. ‘Drag yourself away, can't you? I promise I will find you a better pool in Singapore.'

We spent four days in Singapore before the
Cathay
sailed, staying at the Sea View Hotel. It gave us a chance to catch up with the Deans and for Denis to show me the island that would soon be our home. Singapore was quite an eye-opener. The city centre was much bigger than George Town in Penang, and much more sophisticated. It was crowded and cosmopolitan, and boasting a forest of tall, modern buildings including the Cathay Building, the only true skyscraper in Malaya. But it was the older buildings that gave the city its character, particularly the gracious older buildings around Raffles Place: the Law Courts, the Stock Exchange, and of course the superb cathedrals . . . including St Andrew's, which I saw on our first afternoon, glowing creamy-white on the vivid green of the esplanade, and which I had to look away from quickly before Denis caught the wistfulness in my eyes.

The Sea View Hotel had a well-regarded formal dining room, but its most famous contribution to Singapore's culinary landscape was the Chicken Grill, a casual, modern-style bistro overlooking the dappled waters of the Singapore Straits. We always dined there, not only for its simple, tasty food but also because of the incomparable view at night. The Singapore Straits were thickly dotted with
kalangs
, native-built fishing platforms where they hang out lanterns to attract the fish, so that after sunset the flat black sea turns into a galaxy of flickering, ephemeral light.

We were finishing our coffee there one evening, talking idly and looking out at the view, when Denis suddenly paused as if remembering something and then dug a flat brown envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘By the way, I picked up your passport this afternoon,' he said casually. ‘Have a look and see if you approve.'

I picked up the envelope curiously and took out the dark blue passport, embossed in gold with the lion and unicorn coat of arms. ‘I'm not entitled to a British passport, am I?' I asked, surprised.

‘You are now,' Denis said. I opened the passport to see a photograph of myself staring up at me, and underneath it the name ‘Norma Felice Elesmere-Elliott'. My eyes flicked to the other details: ‘Born in Taunton, Somerset, 8th August 1919. British Subject by Birth'.

I looked up at Denis, my eyes wide with surprise. ‘Where did you get Felice from?' It was the only thought that came into my head.

‘You've always said how important Sister Felice was to you,' Denis said quietly. ‘You
should
have a middle name and I thought you'd like that one.
I suppose I should have discussed it with you but I wanted to give you a surprise.'

‘I love the name,' I said. ‘All of it.' As I smiled at Denis my eyes filled with tears. I don't know why, except that I felt that I had somehow crossed a watershed and reached the goal promised to me in my dream so many years before. I was no longer the unwanted little Russian girl living a hurly-burly life in an indifferent and foreign land. I was precisely who I wanted to be.

‘Is it . . . legal?' I asked, a sudden doubt making my voice dry.

‘It was issued by the British Passport Control Officer,' Denis said. ‘At the express request of the British Government. Oh yes, it is quite legal.'

‘How on earth did you manage it?' I asked. ‘No, don't tell me. It might spoil the magic.'

The Deans gave us a farewell dinner at Raffles, but I was far too excited to appreciate the evening. We were boarding the
Cathay
at ten the next morning, and all I could think about was the ship, whose lights we had seen in Keppel Harbour earlier in the evening, and of Europe, and England, and America. I would be visiting places that I had known all my life but had never dreamed I would actually see: the Roman Forum, the white cliffs of Dover, the Tower of London, the skyscrapers of New York. Even tacky, tinselly Hollywood, the place they called the dream factory. Margaret saw the state I was in and didn't prolong the evening. Quite early she lifted her champagne glass. ‘To our dear friends Norma and Denis,' she smiled. ‘May you have a lovely time, but come back soon to Singapore, where the friends who love you most will be waiting.'

We sailed precisely on time, the deep rumble of the
Cathay
's siren echoing off the tall buildings behind Collier Quay. Denis, Tony and I stood together at the rail as the coloured streamers linking us to the Deans parted one by one. As the last one parted and floated gently into the sea, Tony buried his face in his chubby hands. I knew precisely the feelings he was experiencing. The mingled sorrow and joy of departure, and a voyage started.

Chapter Seventeen

T
he
Cathay
was one of the older P&O liners – a gracious vessel with a high, straight bow and two tall funnels towering into the sky. Passenger accommodation was lavish, with a minstrel's gallery above the dining room and ornate marble pillars in the lounge. Our cabin was on ‘B' deck – a three-berth cabin with two large portholes and plenty of space for Tony to play. After exploring the ship we arranged for a stewardess to look after Tony and went down arm in arm to dinner.

We were not on the Captain's Table – that privilege was reserved for passengers in the luxury suites – but we did have a happy and diverse collection of dining companions. One was a mild-looking, pink-cheeked clergyman who told extraordinary stories of his efforts to convert the hill tribes of Indo-China. Another was an ex-District Commissioner from Borneo, a dried-up little man with twinkling blue eyes who was for me the very reincarnation of Sanders of the River. The final two at our table were an Indian Army couple on a post-retirement world cruise.

‘Do you come here often?' Colonel Freddie Burton asked me with a confidential wink while the others at the table were busy ordering. He had challenging blue eyes, and not yet being used to his irreverent style I was momentarily nonplussed. But I recovered quickly.