Pelangi Haven Read online

  everything—love, patience, tolerance. She'd tried talking to him to

  convince him to find help, but he had laughed at her worries and

  refused. He was always sorry after he'd come out of one of his awful

  moods. Still, he would unleash his frustration on her more frequently

  all the time. He was unhappy with his work, frustrated by the lack of

  talent in his students, by the lack of recognition of his own work. His

  aspirations went far beyond being the Head of the Art Department of

  a small college in rural Pennsylvania, but he seemed incapable of

  doing anything about breaking out and doing what he wanted to do.

  Sitting in the train staring out at the Malaysian countryside, Linden

  involuntarily gritted her teeth. I can't take anymore, she thought. He

  refused to get help and I couldn't do anything for him. I have to think

  of myself now—I did all I could. I did all I could! But tears blinded

  her eyes and the ache in her chest was still there.

  She was hungry when she arrived at Butterworth and while she

  waited for the ferry she had a bowl of Chinese noodle soup with

  shrimp and snowpeas which she bought from a food cart by the road.

  Across the water she could see Penang and the ferry slowly making

  its way to the shore.

  Once on the ferry, it didn't take long to cross to the island. The

  waterfront was still as she remembered, with the Clan Piers jutting

  out far into the sea— boatmen and fishermen's villages built on stilts

  over the water. George Town, the one real town on the island, bustled

  with colourful life. Everywhere the shops carried vertical signs with

  large Chinese characters. Foodstalls by the road offered all manner of

  exotic foods—Malay, Chinese, Indian. Linden could feel excitement

  rise warm inside her. Oh, it was good to be back! She'd stay here the

  rest of the day, explore the markets and shops and stay at a small

  hotel tonight. Tomorrow morning, early, she'd take a taxi to the

  village of Telok Bahang and find a fisherman willing to take her

  across to Pelangi in his boat. If the house was uninhabitable, she'd

  have plenty of time to get back to the main island for the night.

  She exhausted herself walking along Jalan Penang, through the Pasar

  Malam and the Art Gallery, where she looked with longing at the

  batek paintings and the Chinese ink drawings. Waite would like this,

  she thought, and the pain was back deep and sharp, and the loneliness

  faded the colours and the life around her.

  She did not stop for a proper dinner, but bought a spring roll at a

  roadside foodstall and later a hot steambun with a filling of meat,

  practising her rusty Malay on the vendors, who were amused and

  impressed at the same time. She bought a couple of oranges to take

  back with her to the hotel, where she slept fitfully despite her fatigue,

  troubled by dreams of Waite, who looked thin and haggard and swore

  never to hit her again.

  He'd made too many promises, broken them too many times. Next

  time he might knock her teeth out, break her arm. How could she live

  with the fear?

  'No!' she cried out. 'No! No!' But she was in his arms and he was

  kissing her and she was kissing him back, wanting him, needing him.

  She awoke sobbing. She sat up and pressed her fists into her eyes.

  'Oh, damn,' she groaned. 'Oh, damn, damn, damn!'

  The taxi drove her out of town, past the State Mosque and Kangaroo

  Town, the residential area for Australian Air Force people, past

  sweeping stretches of sandy beaches with waving palm trees and

  colourful fishing boats.

  'What hotel do you want to go to in Batu Ferringhi?' the taxi driver

  asked. 'Golden Sands? Rasa Sayang? Casuarina?'

  Linden shook her head. 'I'm not staying in a hotel. I want to go to the

  pier in Telok Bahang. I'm going to Pelangi.'

  For a moment the Chinese driver took his eyes off the road and gave

  her a quizzical look. 'Not many people go there. There is no hotel. It's

  very small.'

  'I know.' One sprawling fishing village and some countryside with

  rice paddies, coconut groves, spice and fruit trees. That was about all.

  Less than a thousand people on the island. No cars, no electricity. At

  least there had not been eight years ago and probably wouldn't be

  now.

  The driver let her off at the fishing wharf of Telok Bahang.

  Fishermen looked curiously at her suitcase. Tourists brought their

  cameras to photograph the colourful boats, the baskets of fish, the

  shaky wooden pier, the fishermen. They didn't often bring their

  suitcases. She walked up to the closest one and smiled.

  'Selamat paoi,' she said, and he gave her a big grin.

  'You speak Malay!' he said in English.

  She held her thumb and index finger half-an-inch apart. 'Sedikit

  sahaja.'

  He pointed to her suitcase. 'Where are you going?'

  'Mau pergi ke pilau Pelangi.' She pointed across the sea where the

  small island faintly showed on the horizon. 'You think somebody can

  take me there?'

  He nodded. 'Bisa.' He looked at her curiously. 'You're going to see

  your friend?'

  'Friend? Yes, sure. I'm going to see my friend.' She didn't know what

  he meant, but was willing to go along just so she wouldn't spend the

  rest of the morning talking and explaining. But she knew what he had

  meant when she arrived at the island forty-five minutes later and

  found the white man on the wharf watching her climb out of the old

  blue fishing boat that had brought her there.

  He was tall and lean, wearing old jeans and an open- necked batek

  shirt. He was in his early thirties, she guessed. His hair was very dark

  and wind blown, and his brown eyes looked at her calmly as she

  approached him. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she didn't know

  why.

  Her hair was a mess and she probably smelled like fish, but then,

  neither of these would surprise him, she imagined.

  'Good morning,' she greeted him, meeting the watchful dark eyes.

  'Good morning.' He didn't smile, but looked at her intently as he

  extended his hand. 'Justin Parker.'

  'Justin Parker,' she echoed, putting her hand in his. 'Oh, I remember

  now! I know you!' His hand was hard and firm and held hers only for

  a moment before releasing it.

  He nodded slowly, frowning as if trying to remember too. 'Yes, yes .

  . .'

  'I'm Linden Mitchell.'

  He smiled, a funny crooked little smile as if he wasn't used to smiling

  much. 'Yes, of course, Linden.'

  They'd met once before, right here on this little island. One Christmas

  vacation he'd been on Penang with his father and had come to

  Pelangi to have Christmas dinner with her family. They'd stayed the

  night, sleeping on mats on the floor in the living room. It had been a

  hilarious time. Cooking a Christmas dinner without an oven was a

  challenge. There was only the smallest of kerosene refrigerators

  (shipped over on a rickety fishing boat) without a freezer

  compartment. They'd eaten chicken roasted on charcoal and stove-top

  stuffing and canned cranberry jelly. The kampung chicken
had been

  tough as uncured buffalo hide. The wine they'd brought had been off,

  a big disappointment for Linden. The first time her parents let her

  have wine, and it was bad. Some luck.

  Justin's father had worked in Malaysia for three years. Justin had

  been at university in the States and had come to see his father only

  once. They'd spent a week in a luxury hotel on Penang, and two days

  on Pelangi. After that she'd never seen him again.

  'I hadn't expected to see you here,' she said, feeling awkward.

  He looked at her suitcase. 'You've come back to the house?'

  She nodded. 'If it's still there.'

  'It's still there.'

  A thought occurred to her. 'Are you staying there?'

  He shook his head. 'No. I have my own place.'

  'Oh.'

  He bent to pick up her suitcases. The muscles of his arms rippled

  under the brown skin. 'Come, I'll walk you over.'

  She followed him along the beach, away from the village, past the

  fishing boats and the small open air restaurant where some men sat

  drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. The beach was strewn with old

  coconut husks, pieces of driftwood and shells.

  Then she noticed the houses on the edge of the beach. Where once

  had only stood her family's house among the coconut palms, now

  were three others. All were typical Malay fishermen's houses, built

  up on poles with thatched roofs and wooden steps leading up to the

  front door. Potted plants stood around the yards and chickens pecked

  around searching for food.

  'Well, look at this!' she said in amazement. 'They built a village

  around me.'

  They walked up to her house and he put the suitcase down. 'It's not a'

  kampung,' he said levelly. 'The houses are mine.'

  She stared at him. 'They're yours? What do you mean?'

  'I had them built. I own them.'

  'What do you do with the other houses?'

  'I rent them out.' He took her arm. 'Come, let's have something cold

  to drink.'

  She looked at the house carefully for the first time. It looked in fine

  shape. Obviously someone had been taking care of it.

  'Let me put the case inside first.' She took the key from her bag.

  'It won't fit,' he said. 'I had the locks changed. The keys are at my

  house.'

  'You've been taking care of the house all this time?'

  He nodded. 'I couldn't just let it sit there and get into disrepair. I've

  tried to contact your father several times, but without success.'

  'He died three years ago.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that.'

  She looked away, trying not to remember. 'I haven't had a chance to

  come over here and do something about the house. It's an expensive

  trip. Thank you for taking care of it. Let me know what I owe you,

  please.'

  He waved a hand in dismissal. 'It was nothing major. Forget it.'

  Well, she'd have to see about that.

  They'd started walking again and he led her to his house, not far, and

  they went up the steps and inside the door.

  The inside was cool, with a breeze coming in through the open

  windows. There were coconut fibre mats on the floor, simple rattan

  furniture with kapok cushions, several bookshelves along the wall,

  and a couple of kerosene lamps on a small table in the corner. A large

  wooden desk with a typewriter and piles of paper was positioned in

  front of the windows. She wondered what he was doing here on the

  island.

  'Do you work?' she asked impulsively, gesturing at the desk.

  'It keeps me from starving,' he said drily.

  'What do you do? Write?'

  He nodded. 'Spy novels.' There was no expression :n his face.

  'Oh.' Somehow she had not expected that.

  'Sit down.' He waved at a chair. 'What can I get you? A Coke? Seven-

  Up? Beer? Juice?'

  'Juice, please.'

  'Mango all right?'

  'Great.'

  He disappeared into the kitchen and she stared after him. There was

  something strange about him. He was so cool and aloof. Not

  unfriendly or hostile, just lacking in ... in what? Warmth, life. That

  was it.

  It was not the way she remembered him at all. That Christmas day

  ten years ago came back in vivid detail. Sixteen she was, and quite

  impressed by Justin, this college man with his laughing mouth and

  warm brown eyes and his vast store of interesting stories about

  university life. She couldn't wait to go to college herself.

  The atrocious Christmas dinner over, she'd taken him on a walk

  around the island, and had shown him her favourite spot near the

  waterfalls. It had been a half-hour hike in the hills and afterwards

  they'd sat down on the rocks and cooled their feet in the water.

  In her girlish way she had flirted with him and the surroundings

  certainly had been idyllic enough for romance. He had kissed her

  there near the waterfalls, but he had been teasing her, and she'd

  known it. She was too young for him, and she'd known that too. But

  she'd dreamed about that kiss for weeks afterwards and weaved

  romantic reveries, fantasising about a passionate love between them.

  All of that had no link with reality and she wasn't fooling herself with

  impossible hopes and expectations. It was just so nice to dream about

  love and to have someone to dream about.

  The fantasies about Justin had died an unglorious death not so much

  later, when she'd fallen in love with a warm-blooded French boy at

  the International School in Kuala Lumpur. Bertrand stuck around

  longer than two days and when he kissed her he wasn't teasing.

  Justin came back into the room and handed her a glass of juice. He

  had beer for himself and he settled down in a chair across from her.

  'Are you on vacation?' he asked, his eyes surveying her face intently.

  She shrugged lightly. 'I suppose you could call it that. I just quit my

  job.'

  'What did you do?'

  'I taught art at a small college in Pennsylvania.'

  He looked at her shrewdly. 'A man?'

  'What makes you think that?'

  He shrugged. 'The look in your eyes. Your face. You don't give the

  impression of having had a lot of fun lately.'

  Neither do you, she was tempted to say, but didn't. She only nodded.

  She sipped her mango juice. 'And why are you here? Hiding from the

  world on a miniscule island in the Indian Ocean? A woman?'

  One corner of his mouth turned down in a crooked smile. 'Among

  other things.'

  'How long have you been here?'

  'Three years.'

  She groaned and he gave her a funny look. 'What's that supposed to

  mean?'

  'I hope it won't take me that long to get over it. Hell and death must

  be more fun than a broken heart.'

  He smiled again, but this time it reached his eyes. 'Welcome to

  Rainbow Island,' he said.

  The house looked like it always had. There was a sitting room, two

  small bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small outhouse

  building in the yard. The bathroom had a sink, but no taps with

  running water. Water was carried up in buckets from the well. Her

  father had rigged up some sort of primitive sh
ower—a small tank

  with holes in the bottom that could be closed and opened by pulling a

  chain. It was still there. The kitchen had a sink, counter and cabinets,

  two gas rings to cook on, and the tiny kerosene refrigerator they'd

  brought out on a fishing boat.

  The mattresses on the wooden cots had disappeared.

  'They were so mouldy, I had to throw them out,'

  Justin said. 'Nobody had been in the house for I don't know how long

  and they hadn't been aired in the sun.'

  There had always been a caretaker, a village girl, while her father

  was still alive. Linden grimaced. 'Yuk, nothing worse than the smell

  of mouldy kapok. I'll buy a new one in the village.'

  Linden went into the village and purchased a new kapok mattress, the

  cotton covering a bright pink with white roses. She bought kerosene

  for the refrigerator and the lamps, some candles and matches and a

  tank of gas for the cooking rings. It was all bundled up in a bicycle

  cart and transported to her house, where she found a teenaged Malay

  girl waiting for her. She wore a pink, shortsleeved shirt and a batek

  print sarong around her waist. She had short, shiny black hair, that

  curled around her ears and over her forehead. She looked at Linden

  shyly.

  'Mr Justin sent me to help you. I will clean the house for and bring

  you water.'

  'Wonderful! Thank you. What is your name?'

  'Nazirah.'

  'You may-call me Linden. Let's get this stuff inside first. Then I'll

  give you money and you can buy a broom and a bucket and soap and

  whatever else you need. I'm going over to Mr Justin's house for lunch

  and I'll be back later.'

  He had invited her to have lunch with him so she would have time to

  get organised. For dinner she intended to get some food from one of

  the foodstalls in the village. When she'd stayed here with her family

  they had often 'dined out' at the small open restaurants or the

  moveable stalls by the road, standing up or sitting at rickety tables.

  The food was plentiful, cheap and delicious—fried rice, skewered

  meat, noodle soup, spring rolls, dumplings, curry puffs, fried fish and

  shrimp. She was looking forward to it already.

  'There's no water at my house yet and I'm filthy,' she said to Justin

  when she arrived at his house. 'Do you mind if I wash in your

  bathroom?'

  'Sure, right here. Did Nazirah come?'

  'Yes, thank you very much. Is she available for employment on a