House of Trembling Leaves, The

 

The House of Trembling Leaves

 

The conjuring of period and cultural detail are very impressive. The novel conducts a masterful sweep both historical and geographical, from the 1930s to the 1950s, and from pre-war Cambridge through Malaya and Tibet at pivotal moments in those countries' respective histories. Through it all are woven the compelling stories of two women and a friendship which transcends time and separation, and which survives through war, personal suffering and political division. Their enduring friendship is beautifully depicted – as are their family relationships – and gives the novel a warmth and humour at its core which makes a great counterpoint to the external horrors and hardships of war and hostile occupation.

Rosy Thornton, author of
Ninepins
and
The Tapestry of Love

 

 

The Fan Tan Players

 

‘Satisfaction, even joy, accompanies the discovery of a new author, one previously unfamiliar, who proves his ability within a few pages and then tells an exciting tale. Without hesitation, Lees flexes his impressive storytelling muscles, giving readers and undeniable tingle of anticipation that he may have many more tales to tell.'

Cairns Media Magazine

 

‘Romance, action, suspense.'

O Veu Pintado

 

‘Engaging.'

The Bookbag

 

 

A Winter Beauty

 

‘Opulent family saga, love story and lavish feast for the senses.'

Neues Deutschland
(New Germany)

 

‘A great novel. Colourful and vibrant.'

Altmuhlbote

 

‘The story seems so realistic, exciting, tragic and rich in imagery.'

Sandammeer.at

 

‘The debut of a born storyteller.'

Freis Wort

 

‘His novels are set in a world where East meets West, a cross-cultural paradigm that he captures bewitchingly and dramatically in his fiction.'

Nick Walker, the
Star
(Malaysia)

 

 

Julian Lees
was born and raised in Hong Kong. After attending Cambridge University he returned to live in Asia. He has written two previous novels: A Winter Beauty and The Fan Tan Players, which has been sold into four languages. Julian currently lives in Malaysia with his wife, Ming, and his three young children, Augustus, Amber, and Aisha.

 

Also by Julian Lees

 

The Fan Tan Players

A Winter Beauty
(German publication only)

 

 

 

First published in Great Britain by

Sandstone Press Ltd

One High Street

Dingwall

Ross-shire

IV15 9WJ

Scotland.

 

www.sandstonepress.com

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

 

© Julian Lees 2013

 

The moral right of Julian Lees to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

 

The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

 

 

ISBN e: 978-1-908737-18-2

 

Cover design by River Design, Edinburgh

Ebook by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore

Acknowledgements

Prologue

 

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

 

Part Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

 

Part Three

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

 

Dedication:

 

For my brother Adrian. For what we shared then and for what we share now.

 

I would like to thank my wife Ming and my children Gus, Amber and Aisha for inspiring me to write this book and for putting up with my frequent bouts of grumpiness along the way.

I am also indebted to Ben and Nelly Thomas for their humour and pep. And to Andrew Stephens and Matt Cross for their ceaseless flow of lewd yet inciteful tales.

This novel would not be possible without my agent Kate Hordern. Thank you for your foresight and for giving me the right advice whenever I needed it.

Thanks also to Richenda Todd for putting her invaluable time and expertise into this story.

Lastly, special thanks must go to Jasmine Oh, David and Katherine Lim, Yang Riches, Eddie Chew and Jeremy Cheam for sharing their stories of childhood in Malaysia.

Seen from high ground, amongst the coconut groves and flames-of-the-forests, the Juru River on the Malayan peninsula swelled and rolled through the jungle. The tawny length of water ran for seventy uninterrupted miles from the timber dam to the mouth of the sea, passing monkey colonies, palm frond tangles and longhouses made of cane and thatch.

Despite the Penang to Juru train chugging in from the north once a day, bringing supplies from the world outside, the tributaries remained the main roads through the forest. On the sandy banks splay-footed men with strips of cloth wrapped loosely about their heads traded pineapples. Hens with bold red flashes of feather scuttled about as bare-shouldered women in sarongs pounded
belacan
paste. Old women with white powder on their faces to block out the sun sat on their haunches winnowing rice.

To the people of the riverbank the Juru was a wellspring, giving life as a mother gives life; a fount of shrimps and fish, clean clothes and mud-free hair. It irrigated their rubber trees and moistened their cabbage crops; it doused their fires and swept away their night soil. For centuries these people had worshipped its might and treasured its bounty.

And so each year, near the river's crown, the villagers gathered to celebrate.

 

The stringy line of dragon boats bobbed about on the black water, knocking hulls and bumping paddles. Eight boats, made from jungle teak, each representing a nearby village, slowly manoeuvred into position for the start of the race – a two-mile sprint through an artery of the Juru River.

Sinewy, bare-chested oarsmen, sitting two abreast, flexed their muscles. They chatted and waved to the gathered crowd. ‘‘
Mm ho dam sum!
'' they cried. ‘‘For the honour of the kampong!
Gaa dai lik! Gaa dai lik!
'' their supporters bellowed back.

As soon as the
bomoh
, armed with his yellow bag of sparrow nests and animal bones, chanted his blessing, the headman from the local Chinese Association climbed onto a stilted dais and clasped a hornbill's tail feather at arm's length. Two hundred sets of hands drew their paddles out.

In the centre of each boat stood a canopied shrine housing a giant drum, a gong-beater and a cymbal-clanger. With a pair of bamboo sticks poised, the drummer of the closest vessel, the heartbeat of the crew, raised both fists and watched with a sideways squint.

The boats held a line against the current. Their multicoloured banners fluttered from the sterns as village dogs pursued each other along the banks.

Schoolgirls with hibiscus blossoms behind their ears held their breath. The Association headman paused, looked about him and tilted his head. He let the hornbill feather fall.

With a roar all eight dragon boats lurched forward; wooden dragon heads, elaborately carved and painted with red and yellow scales, cut through the water. Firecrackers popped. ‘‘They're off!'' yelled little boys perched on their fathers' shoulders. The schoolgirls squealed and tossed coconut shavings high into the air. ‘‘Come on Po On Village!'' Drums thrummed, gongs sang out and cymbals crashed. Giddy-brained children cheered and stretched their arms. Chickens and geese scattered as bicycles gave chase with sisters riding pillion behind their brothers.

Po On Village was a rural settlement, some ninety miles to the northwest of Kuala Lumpur, made up of mainly rubber tree tappers and timber workers and the odd fisherman. With a population of eight hundred – a lucky number for the Chinese, symbolizing wealth, balance and symmetry – the Chinese and Malays lived side by side in houses made from
attap
thatch and wood. The homes had kitchen gardens at the back and vast communal areas where children could play. There was a noodle vendor, a satay man and for those after a hint of sophistication, a chicken cutlet shop that cooked food ‘Western style'. The kampong had a provision shop, a pith wood store, a toddy shop as well as a small mosque, a Chinese Temple and an Anglican Church built by an Invernesian expatriate in the 1890s. The church was perched on the river's edge, made from local wood and stone, and looked as if it had been transported from the Scottish Highlands.

The Teohs were the principal members of the church. They raised money for its upkeep, they maintained the slate roof, and they financed the installation of the prized pipe organ. Whenever the choir announced itself, Mrs Teoh, sat in the front pew and dressed in the floppy flowered number she wore every Sunday, smiled with reassurance, beaming with pride at the sound of her children's voices, at the roar of the copper pipes. This organ, this ‘king of instruments', was as important to the Teohs as the stretch of prime agricultural land on their doorstep. There were only three other pipe organs in the whole of Malaya and to them it stood for civility, affluence and respectability.

‘‘Come on Po On Village!'' The boats, fronted with ferocious dragon heads, swept along.

In the crowd a young Chinese woman distributed small parcels of glutinous rice and salted chestnuts from a basket. She had an oval face, a high, intelligent forehead and dark, lush hair that jumped along her shoulders as she laughed. ‘‘Happy Dumpling Festival!'' she said, smiling, offering the food to the local fisherfolk and rubber tappers. Each parcel was bound with bamboo leaves and raffia. ‘‘Eat them while they're still warm,'' she insisted. ‘‘Compliments of the Teoh family.''