The Plantation Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  Di Morrissey is one of Australia’s most successful writers. She began writing as a young woman, training and working as a journalist for Australian Consolidated Press in Sydney and Northcliffe Newspapers in London. She has worked in television in Australia and Hawaii and in the USA as a presenter, reporter, producer and actress. After her marriage to a US diplomat, Peter Morrissey, she lived in Singapore, Japan, Thailand, South America and Washington. Returning to Australia, Di continued to work in television before publishing her first novel in 1991.

  Di has a daughter, Dr Gabrielle Hansen, and her children, Sonoma Grace and Everton Peter, are Di’s first grandchildren. Di’s son, Dr Nicolas Morrissey, is a lecturer in South East Asian Art History and Buddhist Studies at the University of Georgia, USA.

  Di and her partner, Boris Janjic, divide their time between Byron Bay and the Manning Valley in New South Wales when not travelling to research her novels, which are all inspired by a particular landscape.

  www.dimorrissey.com

  Also by Di Morrissey

  in order of publication

  Heart of the Dreaming

  The Last Rose of Summer

  Follow the Morning Star

  The Last Mile Home

  Tears of the Moon

  When the Singing Stops

  The Songmaster

  Scatter the Stars

  Blaze

  The Bay

  Kimberley Sun

  Barra Creek

  The Reef

  The Valley

  Monsoon

  The Islands

  The Silent Country

  First published 2010 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Lady Byron Pty Ltd 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Morrissey, Di

  The plantation / Di Morrissey.

  ISBN 978-1-4050-3998-7 (pbk.)

  A823.3

  Internal illustrations by Yeong Seak Ling

  Typeset in 12.5/15 pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  The Plantation

  Di Morrissey

  Adobe eReader format

  978-1-74262-313-9

  EPub format

  978-1-74262-315-3

  Mobipocket format

  978-1-74198-692-1

  Online format

  978-1-74198-580-1

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  To my late uncles: Jim Revitt, ABC Radio and TV foreign correspondent in Malaysia between 1968 and 1970, who always inspired, mentored and watched over me and hoped I’d write this book. And Ron Revitt, my ‘big brother’, who made me laugh, teased me, shared dreams and taught me to see the world through the eyes of an artist. May they both rest peacefully where we were all born, in the Manning Valley, NSW.

  And to my new grandson, Everton Peter Hansen, who has come into my life to bring us joy.

  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 skyscraper trees, living columns bound in twisted vines, towered above the forest floor. Silence prevailed.

  The woman, dressed in sturdy cotton slacks and shirt 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 tr
ees, 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, pushing 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, shielding 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 shirt 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.

  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 shirt. 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 glass 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.

  Bayview had originally been bought by her great grandparents more than one hundred years ago. Her grandmother, Margaret, had lived here and now her parents. Her mother Caroline said that although old Queenslanders were expensive to maintain, she had no wish to give up the comfortable and gracious home where little had changed since she was a schoolgirl. For Julie, the house had always been a constant in her life and, while she valued her career, social life and independence, the idea of not having this wonderful family home was inconceivable.

  ‘Mum? It’s me.’

  ‘In the kitchen, Jules.’

  ‘Not watching the news?’

  ‘Listening from here. I had to get this out of the oven. Nothing special but as your father is going to be late I’ve indulged myself.’ Caroline Reagan looked at her thirty-two-year-old daughter standing in the doorway and her heart warmed at the sight of her. She saw her regularly but occasionally, like now, she paused and couldn’t help but think of what a lovely looking girl Julie was, with her thick, wavy hair, bright blue eyes, firm square jaw and large, happy mouth. But there was also something else about Julie that Caroline hoped others, meeting her for the first time, would also notice. There was a calmness, strength and warmth that radiated from her even before she spoke.

  Caroline turned her attention to the dinner plates. ‘Do you want to stay and eat?’

  Julie dropped into her family home a couple of times a week and knew that it wasn’t necessary to stand on ceremony, for her mother was always happy to feed her. Her parents’ fridge was always full of tasty leftovers or the makings of a quick meal.

  ‘I wasn’t, but it smells good and that rain is atrocious. So I’ll wait for awhile, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Do stay, sweetie. I’ve been hoping you’d call by.’

  ‘Oh, why is that?’ Julie could tell from her voice that Mother Had News. ‘Heard from Adam and Heather lately?’ Julie’s mother was always hoping that Julie’s married brother in South Australia would announce the imminent arrival of a baby.

  ‘Yes. But nothing really exciting to report. Oh, they’ve found some fabulous old recycled timbers which they’re going to use in their renovations, but no big news to speak of.’

  Julie smiled to herself. It mightn’t be news in big letters to her mother but she could imagine how pleased Adam must have been at finding a treasure for the mud brick home he and Heather were creating in the Adelaide Hills. ‘So what news do you have?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Pour us a small drink. How’s work?’ asked her mother.

  ‘The same. Hectic. Trying to help get some new companies on the map is always hard.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s what a marketing consultant gets paid to do. Give them good advice.’ Her mother wiped her hands on a tea towel and led the way into the living room as Julie followed her with two glasses of chilled white wine.

  Caroline turned off the TV and settled herself on the sofa. ‘We’ll eat in a minute. It’s just macaroni and cheese and a little salad. I want you to read this first.’ She handed Julie a letter from the coffee table.

  Julie put down her glass. ‘Is it from s
omeone you know?’

  ‘No. But it’s an interesting letter.’

  Julie scanned the letterhead of one of Queensland’s universities and noted the signature, Dr David Cooper. Intrigued, she read the letter slowly.

  Dear Mrs Reagan,

  I hope you don’t mind my contacting you, but I am an associate professor in the Department of Anthropology, currently researching the Iban people of Borneo with a special focus on the changes to their methods of agriculture, social structure and lifestyle given their loss of habitat and resettlement from their previous existence as jungle and river dwellers in Sarawak. In the course of my research in Malaysia I came across a small book, My Life with the Headhunters of Borneo by Bette Oldham, which was published in the seventies, and in which she recounts a period of time spent with a local group of Iban in Sarawak. The author was, I believe, your aunt.

  I would, of course, very much like to know more about Bette Oldham and her work. If you can help me at all, I’d very much appreciate it. I can be contacted at the above address or email, or phone.

  Yours sincerely,

  Dr David Cooper

  ‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Julie. ‘Is this the Aunt Bette that Gran was always so critical of? Did you know that Aunt Bette lived with the headhunters of Borneo? It sounds amazing.’

  ‘Mother always said that her sister was wild and had shamed the family,’ said Caroline. ‘But I had no idea that she’d done anything like that.’