Part 1 (1/2)
The plantation.
by Di Morrissey.
Acknowledgments.
THANKS TO ... ...
My darling Boris who shares my life and whom I love so much.
My daughter, Dr Gabrielle (Morrissey) Hansen, for her advice and love and the gift of her growing family, especially the precious Sonoma.
My son, Dr Nick Morrissey (and his beautiful Mimi), who first suggested I write about Malaysia. Congratulations on your appointment to the faculty of the University of Georgia, I'm very proud of you.
Josephine De Freitas (and the wonderful Philip) for her memories of growing up on a plantation in Malaysia.
Huge thanks to Martin Bek-Nielsen for his time and hospitality at United Plantation.
To Liz Adams, my incomparable editor, who is more friend as well as advisor and life coach!
Liz Foster for her calm efficiency. And to copy editor Rowena Lennox for her unerring eye.
To Christopher Jonach, pilot extraordinaire!
To my publisher, James Fraser, and everyone at Pan Macmillan, love and thanks.
To my lawyer Ian Robertson with affection and admiration.
And to all those friends and advisors in Australia and Malaysia, including: James Ritchie, Dato' Wong Sulong, Harold Speldewinde, PT (Puvi) Singam, Aidi Bin Abdullah, Lawrence Cheah, Barry Wain, Alison Fraser and Narelle McMurtrie at the Bon Ton Resort, Langkawi Island.
Prologue.
Sarawak, 1960.
IT WAS THE DUSTED light, sifting from the rainforest canopy that captivated her. In the green illumination the skysc.r.a.per trees, living columns bound in twisted vines, towered above the forest floor. Silence prevailed. light, sifting from the rainforest canopy that captivated her. In the green illumination the skysc.r.a.per trees, living columns bound in twisted vines, towered above the forest floor. Silence prevailed.
The woman, dressed in st.u.r.dy cotton slacks and s.h.i.+rt with camera and notebook at the ready, sat comfortably on the layer of rotting leaves where a seed sprouted at the base of a venerable tree. She no longer felt a stranger in this jungle nor was she afraid of being here alone.
She stared upwards to where, far above the floor of the forest, giant ferns, orchids and lichen proliferated on the trees, seeking a place in the sunlight. She still marvelled at the hundred shades of green; the variations of leaf shapes; fruits and seeds ripening to the moment of bursting; and the platoons of insects, birds and animals, small and large, busy at their daily task of survival.
She waited and listened for the faint shudder of branches, the rustle of leaves, the cracking of a small branch high above, that would announce the arrival of those she hoped to see. But the sounds that came to her were unexpected. They came from closer to the river, near the small trail that lead from the camp of tents and palm huts. She waited, holding her breath, thinking perhaps that it was one of the creatures she was yet to see, or perhaps a wandering pygmy rhino, a sun bear or a wild boar.
Then, through the trees, she saw silent movement and glimpsed the shape of two men. One was European, the other a shorter, darker man with the distinctive hair and profile that signalled that he was indigenous, but he was no one she recognised from the local Iban tribe.
She was about to rise to her feet when her attention was caught by the rattling of swaying treetops.
The two men also stopped, startled by the sound, and gazed upwards as a female orangutan, an infant clinging to her, swung to the next tree.
Thrilled by their arrival, the woman jumped to her feet, but then she stopped in horror.
The European was lifting a rifle, looking through its sights as he aimed skywards. The other man lifted the blow pipe he was carrying, ready to let loose a poison dart.
In Malay she shouted, 'Stop! What are you doing?'
The men spun in shock and the orangutan and infant crashed through the trees out of sight.
The European, startled and angry, shouted at her. 'Get away. What are you doing here?'
The woman strode forward, avoiding roots, pus.h.i.+ng vines and branches aside as she made her way towards the men. 'I am from Camp Salang. Who are you? You can't shoot orangutans! They're such beautiful creatures.'
'Who said we are shooting apes? We are hunting for food. Mind your own business, lady.'
She stopped, unnerved by his hostile, threatening manner. She saw the local man moving away, and in seconds he was out of sight. The European moved his rifle menacingly while he stared at her, before he quickly followed his companion into the jungle.
Feeling shaken, the peace and solitude of her surroundings broken by the presence of the two men, she began to retrace her steps. As she approached the small jungle camp carved from the forest at the edge of the river, she saw activity on the tiny landing as the klotok, the village longboat, prepared to head downriver to trade for supplies. Behind it was moored the motor boat she and her husband had travelled in to reach this remote place. She walked on to where he was talking with the village headman. She spoke quietly to her husband, and his reaction was one of surprise and worry.
As soon as he could politely conclude his business, the two of them set off with one of the Iban from the long-house to the place where she had confronted the two men. The tribesman, so at home in this jungle, moved easily, but the husband and wife soon became breathless as they struggled to keep up. The young man quickly lengthened the distance between them. Through the trees in the dim light they saw that he had stopped and had bent down.
The woman reached him first and let out a cry. Stumbling, her hand to her mouth, she turned away to her husband. He reached the scene and opened his arms to his stricken wife, s.h.i.+elding her from the terrible sight before them.
A tangled pile of matted orange fur was covered in blood. The stomach of the creature had been gutted but what distressed them even more was that her head, feet and hands had been roughly hacked off.
'Where's her baby?' whispered the woman.
The young man lifted his shoulders and, looking at her husband, said, 'Gone, tuan. Sold for money.'
'Poachers. How utterly senseless.'
His wife buried her face in his s.h.i.+rt as he stroked her hair. 'You start back, dear. Leonard and I will bury the poor creature,' he said.
'How I wish we could catch these people. It's too distressing,' said his wife through her tears. 'It's just too hard. I want to leave here.'
1.
Brisbane, 2009.
THE RAIN FELL IN sheets that sliced across the windscreen and shone in the lights of oncoming cars. Julie Reagan was glad she had known these suburban streets all her life as she turned into a driveway which ran with the deluge from the summer storm. She pulled up in front of a beautiful big old house, set high on stumps to allow the cooling air to flow beneath the solid wooden floors. The house was encircled by a wide verandah accessed by sandstone steps and atop its pitched roof sat a small, ornate turret. The old Queenslander had an imperious air, perched above the other nearby homes, with its sweeping views from the verandah, the colonnades of which were smothered in the bright yellow flowers of an alamanda vine. sheets that sliced across the windscreen and shone in the lights of oncoming cars. Julie Reagan was glad she had known these suburban streets all her life as she turned into a driveway which ran with the deluge from the summer storm. She pulled up in front of a beautiful big old house, set high on stumps to allow the cooling air to flow beneath the solid wooden floors. The house was encircled by a wide verandah accessed by sandstone steps and atop its pitched roof sat a small, ornate turret. The old Queenslander had an imperious air, perched above the other nearby homes, with its sweeping views from the verandah, the colonnades of which were smothered in the bright yellow flowers of an alamanda vine.
The young woman turned up the collar of her cotton jacket before racing across the sodden lawn, under a dripping poinciana tree, up the steps and onto the front verandah. She stepped out of her shoes and shook the drips from her hair and s.h.i.+rt. She knew her shoulder-length brown hair was starting to curl in the warm dampness.
Julie opened the carved white front door with its panels of stained gla.s.s and paused to hear the news on the TV in the sitting room and inhale the toasty, cheesy smell of something that her mother was cooking. The long, airy hallway with its polished wooden floor, the white wooden fretwork, the floral pattern in the pressed-metal ceilings and the carpet runner that had belonged to her great grandmother everything was familiar to her.