In the Mouth of the Tiger by Lynette Silver Page A

And then, quite unfairly, he gave me a quick but emphatic kiss on the lips.
    Tim’s tactics worked almost too well. ‘For why you are home this early?’ Mother demanded, looking at me closely. ‘It has not yet turned ten o’clock! You have had a row, perhaps? The man is a pig not to appreciate a girl like you!’
    I slipped my shoes off and sauntered towards my room, turning round with a cheeky grin. ‘You only have our word for it, Mother, that we went to the cinema at all.’
    My friendship with Tim blossomed over the next few months. He was generally down in KL on the weekends, playing golf, or cricket, or both, and staying at the Dunlops’ chummery in Ampang Road. We went out together most Saturday nights, either to see a film at the Colosseum or the Plaza, or to watch a play at the Prince’s Theatre. On Sundays we usually joined Mother and Tanya for curry tiffin at the Selangor Club, or at the nearby Club Annex because its prices were a little cheaper.
    Little by little, we became accepted by those who knew us as a couple. I rather liked the feeling of being one of a couple. It meant joint invitations to parties at the chummery, and occasionally to one of the formal Dunlops dinners. However, at least as far as I was concerned, there was nothing serious or permanent about our relationship. I think Tim would have liked more, but he was still young and quite prepared to bide his time.
    And then, in the middle of the 1936, I met the man who had visited me in my dream nearly two years before.
    Tim and I were at the Selangor Club, watching a cricket match between Selangor and Perak. Or at least Tim was watching the match – cricket bored me and I had my head in a book by Somerset Maugham. It was a hot, cloudless day, I remember, and from where we sat in the deep shade of the club’s upstairs verandah the padang looked like a bowl of glaring light. A bowl in which tiny white figures dashed to and fro in irrational, spasmodic bursts of activity.
    Tim was a little annoyed that I didn’t appreciate the significance of what was happening before our eyes. ‘You realise, of course, that Selangor are fighting back like tigers?’ he asked. ‘And that what’s happening here today will be talked about up and down the Peninsula for months to come?’
    I looked up into the glare, gave a grunt that I hoped sounded like one of appreciation, and then looked down again into Lisa of Lambeth.
    Tim sighed in exasperation. ‘You realise that the chap doing all the damage for Selangor is Denis Elesmere-Elliott, the chap I told you had gone off shooting seladang for the Sakais?’
    I put my book down and made a determined effort to watch the play. ‘Which one is Denis?’ I asked.
    Tim pointed to a figure who seemed to be doing nothing more exciting than stand nonchalantly beside the pitch, hands on his hips.
    â€˜How is he damaging Perak?’ I asked reasonably.
    â€˜You silly little girl. He’s bowling from this end. Wait until it’s his turn again.’
    I put my dark glasses on and studied the play, trying to get an idea what was happening. After a moment or two somebody threw the ball to Denis. He sauntered back from the wicket, then turned and lined himself up. I couldn’t make out his features but he carried himself with a relaxed, confident grace that rather impressed me. Then he ran in, gathering speed with every step, and released the ball with an athletic flourish.
    From our distance his bowling didn’t seem particularly fast, but he was obviously causing the batsmen a lot of difficulty. Twice the man facing him seemed to flinch as balls caught him by surprise, and then one ball clean bowled him, scattering the stumps. A burst of cheering came from the crowd around the fence beneath us, muted by distance but exciting nevertheless.
    â€˜So you actually saw a wicket fall!’ Tim said with glee. ‘That was Denis’s sixth