Vivian lugged the copious fabric of her skirt carefully down the steps as her Mama paid the wallah. A turbaned Sikh dressed in a tunic and white gloves conducted them, with courtly decorum, towards a magnificent garden bathed in the bitter fragrance of nutmeg and mangosteen.
The garden was styled in the English fashion: manicured hedges, palms, wild almonds, fruit trees wreathed in flowering shrubs and creepers, heliotropes in all kinds of vivid colours and plaster Doric columns tipped with bowls of rare orchids. There was even a pond with duckweed and giant specimens of Victoria regias.
Ning Yan made her way across the lawn in brisk, elegant strides, her porcelain skin and her beauty at once commanding the attention of many European men who sat in chairs drinking port in their tutups and sunhats. The ladies preferred to roam the lawns in their Edwardian wardrobe and silk parasols, and Ning Yan headed for them. Vivian kept alongside her Mama, capering at the thrill of the occasion.
Along the terraces that skirted the bungalow, guests lunched on rice and curried fish in the breeze of punkah fans pulled by dark-skinned peons. Here and there maidservants in white tops and black silk trousers hustled, ferrying dishes and pouring wine. An eight-member brass band sweltered in a Victorian gazebo and played See-Saw Waltz.
It was a Saturday—the perfect excuse to hold a business luncheon instead of having to work till noon. The Europeans on this island generally profited from lives of excess, many of whom needing to work no more than five hours a day. Tennis, cricket, tea dances and garden parties occupied the rest of their time.
Ning Yan arrived at the luncheon table and presented herself to a group of ladies. The spread of delicacies did not interest her at all. Vivian, on the other hand, was already goggling at the food. A lady in a lavender summer dress strutted up to them.
“You must be from the Society,” she said.
Being well-versed in the European etiquette, Ning Yan performed a commendable curtsy and displayed the propriety required of the occasion with remarkable aplomb. “It is such honour, Mrs Langfield. The Straits Welfare Society sends its regards and gratitude for your generous contribution.” She took the lady’s hand daintily and their fingers touched. “I am Lucy, the Society’s administrator.”
Mrs Langfield tucked in her chin. “You speak very good English.”
“And also Latin, to the credit of Jesuit missionaries,” said Ning Yan. She nudged Vivian and got her to perform a curtsy.
“Your daughter, I presume?” said Mrs Langfield.
“Foster daughter,” said Ning Yan. “As you are aware, we run an orphanage.”
“Of course,” Mrs Langfield smiled in passing and did a quick examination of Vivian in her dress. “She looks almost a lady.”
Almost? Ning Yan curtsied graciously nonetheless. “Forgive me for taking the liberty of bringing her along. Today is her fifteenth birthday and she has never been to a luncheon of such status.”
“Oh, Lucy.” Mrs Langfield touched Ning Yan on her elbow. “You should’ve told me!” She turned to Vivian. “Come then! No need to be bashful. Fill your plate with the finest.”
Vivian sought out her Mama’s approval with an abashed, dimpled grin and, when she had obtained it, proceeded forth. As Vivian dissected the spread, a tall, grey-haired man sporting a bristly moustache and a sunhat came over to Mrs Langfield. Behind him trailed four younger gentlemen.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” said he to Ning Yan.
Mrs Langfield introduced them. “Lucy, meet Robert Langfield, my husband and Chairman of the company.”
“An honour, Mr Langfield.” Ning Yan curtsied and offered her hand for a kiss that lingered a little too long for comfort.
Langfield surveyed Ning Yan from top to toe with a sweep of his eyes. “What a splendid vagary of life.”
Ning Yan smiled thinly in response, uncertain of what to make of the remark.
After lunch a photographer arrived and gathered them before the portico. A bursting flash captured their smiles in a collodion print, and Vivian was delighted to be standing in the front row. It was to be her first photographic portrait.
In time they sat down near the pond to a round of port. Under normal circumstances the men would have retired to the smoking room for an exchange of politics and business. It was to the suspicion of the ladies that the men stayed on account of Ning Yan’s presence.
“And I say, ingenuity is survival.” So said a young, suave gentleman who looked too eager to impress. “An old policy it was, some thirty years ago. Then it was a cent for three rats. Now the Straits Government pays them three cents for a single dead rat and the downtrodden coolies made a business out of it!” He leaned back and took a draw from his pipe. “By which one coolie earned himself a small fortune. Astounding but true.”
“An expensive solution to the rat problem,” said an older gentleman, belching on his port. “We overpay coolies and turn them into rat-catchers.”
“Not a small problem, Edward,” said a plump, tight-lipped lady, his wife perhaps. “I’ve seen them. Those rats are large as cats!”
Ning Yan stretched her lips politely when the lady looked at her as if seeking validation for her claim. She couldn’t help noticing that most of the ladies appeared somewhat haggard and blowsy compared to the men.
Young Vivian, having eaten her fill of honeyed hams, olives, greens, figs and an assortment of tarts, cakes and sweetmeats, began to drowse while sitting upright on the chair beside her Mama. As the conversation staled Ning Yan was introduced to another dashing young man who sat beside her and appeared somewhat embarrassed by her beauty.
“William here just got off the steamer two days ago,” said a man, presumably a friend. He was wearing a woven country hat and squeezing the young man named William on the shoulders. “Tell us your opinion of this place, William.”
“Well,” he began, stealing a diffident sidelong glance at Ning Yan. “I find it a rather—handy city.”
“A very apt description, William.” A slightly tipsy Langfield remarked agreeably.
Ning Yan forced a smile. The heat was getting to her.
“Speaking of coolies,” the man named Edward said, plucking the pipe from his lips. “I’ve heard of another tiger attack last week at a place called Passier Rice—somewhere east, I believe. Yet we’ve heard no attacks on European hunters however plump and well-fed they are. It appears that the tigers here have acquired quite a penchant for the leaner flesh of coolies!”
“Flavoursome,” the eager young man offered. “Like salted dried fish.”
The remark roused a round of laughter. And when it died away Langfield smiled dreamily at Ning Yan and asked her opinion on that matter.
“Well.” Ning Yan surveyed the anticipation in her audience that would’ve intimidated any common guest. “If only Europeans would labour in the jungles the tigers would have developed a greater penchant for European fat. Wouldn’t you agree?”
From the unsettling silence rose a faint chuckle. The ladies began smiling nervously at one another and a large-bellied man shoved a quid of tobacco between his molars and began chewing it avidly.
“You mentioned Latin,” came Mrs Langfield’s tentative and genteel voice. “Would you care to recite some?”