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 the 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,
