Despite his evident change of heart since the previous night, Douglas had resorted to his usual silence. Evie was nervous about speaking up again and risking his anger once more. Eventually, unable to stand the silence any longer, she told herself that he was her husband and she had to focus on the fact that last night he had spoken more to her than ever before. Surely that was something to build upon?
‘The island here’s very steep,’ she said, thinking she must sound fatuous.
‘Bellavista’s on an escarpment so it’s terraced and that means a lot more maintenance and effort. That’s why I bought the estate near Butterworth. There was jungle to be cleared there – still is – we’ve barely touched the reserves – but the land is lower and flatter and easier to work and there’s more of it.’ His sounded relaxed, friendly even.
‘You expanded onto the mainland since coming to Penang?’
‘Yes. The previous owner wanted to return to England and I believed I’d got it for a good price.’ His voice lowered and the enthusiasm was suddenly absent. ‘Then the price of rubber collapsed and soon hit rock bottom. The big producers started laying men off right, left and centre. I thought I was going to lose everything. I couldn’t have got out even if I’d tried. But I didn’t try. I was determined to hang in and make a go of it. I knew things would eventually get better.’
‘And have they?’
‘Things are better. But it’s taken years. The reason it’s improved is because of the likelihood of war. Every country wants rubber for aircraft and lorries. But we’ve got a damned quota system now. They’re trying to keep the prices high by keeping supply low. It’s like trying to run a business with your hands tied behind your back.’
‘Who’re “they”?’
‘All the rubber producers.’
‘Why do you have to take notice of them? Aren’t they your competitors?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘That’s just how it works. You have to join the industry body if you want to sell anything. You have to abide by the rules. And like most rules, they’re dreamed up by a committee. If you want to trade, you have to go along with it. Simple as that. But you can’t possibly be interested in any of this?’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I want to know all about it. You obviously work very hard.’ She wasn’t going to admit that her assumption had been that as plantation owner, all he did was stroll through the ranks of trees, nodding sagely, while once a year, at a mythical harvest time, the workers leapt into action to collect the rubber. On the other hand, if she were truly honest, she had to admit to herself that she hadn’t actually thought about it at all.
Douglas had warmed to his subject. ‘It’s the hardest, but most rewarding work I’ve done in my life.’ His voice was full of rare enthusiasm. ‘Each day brings a new challenge. Problems among the coolies, cyclones destroying nursery crops, a tiger prowling around the lines, machinery failures. So many things. In the City, I had to wear a suit and be shut inside an office all day. Here, I’m out on the estate, walking the divisions, talking to the men, solving problems, taking decisions all the time.’
His voice was animated and Evie felt a rush of pleasure. The conversation was cut short when they pulled onto a track between two crumbling brick pillars, one carved with the name Bellavista.
The bungalow was surprisingly grand for such an isolated dwelling in the highlands. Built by Douglas’s grandfather in the first half of the last century, it was constructed from brick and half-timbered so it had a Mock Tudor appearance that made it look more appropriate to Surrey than the Tropics. Back in England, Evie had understood the word bungalow to denote a single-storey dwelling, but here in Malaya it appeared to mean any white man’s home. Surrounded by a wide veranda on three sides, the interior was cool and dark, the house being overshadowed by tall rubber trees. They went into a central wood-panelled hall, hung with incongruous oil paintings of stags and Scottish highland scenes, as well as an imposing portrait of what must have been Douglas’s grandfather. Her own great-grandfather she wondered? Or was it the other side of Douglas’s family? She was about to ask, when a fair-haired, florid-faced man in his early thirties burst into the hallway and pumped Douglas’s hand in greeting. ‘Good to see you, sir. If I’d known you were coming and bringing a visitor we’d have rolled out the red carpet. Afraid you’ll have to take pot luck today.’ He glanced at Evie quizzically.
Douglas introduced him as Reggie Hyde-Underwood, the estate manager. When the manager found out Evie was the new Mrs Barrington, he pumped Doug’s hand, shook Evie’s more gently and called into the interior of the house. A few minutes later, a young woman appeared and was introduced as his wife, Susan. She was small, heavily pregnant and her face had a damp sheen of perspiration.
‘So sorry, Mrs Barrington, I had no idea we were expecting company today.’ She threw a look of irritation at her husband and wiped a hand over her brow.
‘It was a last-minute thing,’ said Douglas. ‘My wife was keen to see a rubber estate.’
The couple exchanged glances, then Mrs Hyde-Underwood said, ‘Well it’s an unexpected pleasure.’ She turned to Evie. ‘I can’t remember the last time Mr Barrington came up here.’
A look of annoyance flickered across Douglas’s face. ‘That’s because I know the place is in good hands with Reggie here.’
Hyde-Underwood glanced at his wife again. They appeared to have a means of communicating without speech. He said, ‘Why don’t I give Mrs Barrington a tour of the estate while you find out what Cook can rustle up for us, darling. After tiffin you can show her round the
