soon.
For all their meticulous planning, T.K. and Patti’s first proper meeting with Johnny was precipitated by events beyond their control. It so happened that a new man was appointed as head of the British mining concern in the Valley, a fine young gentleman called Frederick Honey. He arrived with impeccable credentials, having gained a rugger Blue at Oxford and a keen grasp of tropical hygiene and colonial law from the School of Oriental Studies. His reign over the British tin-mining enterprise was, ultimately, short-lived, for he was lost to a boating accident in 1941, when he drowned in the waters off Pangkor Island in a treacherous monsoon storm; his body was never found. It is clear, however, that during his short tenure in the Valley, he was much admired. T. K. Soong was, as you can imagine, quick to see the value of having Mr. Honey as an ally, and eager to make an impression on this formidable new tuan besar as soon as possible. It was decided in the Soong household that a gift should be sent to Mr. Honey, something instantly suggestive of the Soongs’ status and influence in the Valley; something unusual and beyond the reach of an Englishman newly arrived in the country. But what? A whole roast pig, perhaps? No—too ostentatious. A scroll of the finest Chinese calligraphic paintings? No—not grand enough.
“How about some textiles?” Patti said in desperation to her husband. “From that man, what’s his name—Johnny Lim?”
T.K. paused. He was inclined to dismiss the idea at once, but the paucity of previous suggestions persuaded him to consider for a moment. He paused for quite some time. “It’ll be fruitless,” he said, but nonetheless he decided to summon Johnny to the house.
Johnny had long since ceased to tour the countryside by bicycle, but the call of T. K. Soong was one he could not resist. He arrived at the house and found himself seated in the enormous room in which the Soongs received their visitors. Its vastness amazed him; his eyes could barely take in the details of its space: the rattan ceiling fans rotating slowly, arrogantly, barely stirring the air; the softness of the light through the louvred shutters; above all, the books, which lined an entire wall, row after perfect row.
“We have heard many good things about you,” T.K. said as Johnny began to unpack his bags on the table which had been specially set up for him.
“Thank you,” he said, still marvelling at the books.
Behind his back Patti tugged at T.K.’s sleeve. “How old is he?” she whispered. She had heard that Johnny Lim was a young man, and in her mind’s eye had pictured a wild-haired, loudmouthed tearaway with dirty fingernails. Yet before her stood someone neat and compact, who seemed almost middle-aged, whose movements were laborious and heavy with experience. A fleeting image tickled her imagination: Johnny and Snow seated on bridal thrones of the type that perished with the death of nineteenth-century China. “I must say, Mr. Lim,” she said as she fingered a piece of English chintz, “now that I see your wares, I can understand why people are so complimentary about you. About your shop, I mean.”
Johnny lowered his head and did not answer. He unfolded a length of songket, its gold threads shining and stiff and stitched into an intricate pattern.
“This piece of cloth, for example,” Patti continued, running her hand over a piece of brocade, “is very beautiful. Very fitting for a woman, wouldn’t you say?”
Johnny nodded.
“Not for an old woman like me, of course, but for a younger woman. Do you agree, Mr. Lim? It must be very popular with fashionable ladies.”
“No, not really,” he said truthfully. “It’s too expensive.”
“Ohh, Mr. Lim.” Patti laughed. “Truthfully, do you think it would suit a young woman? No one very special or very beautiful, of course.”
Johnny half-shrugged, half-nodded.
“Would you mind if I asked my daughter to see this? I’m sure you’re too
For all their meticulous planning, T.K. and Patti’s first proper meeting with Johnny was precipitated by events beyond their control. It so happened that a new man was appointed as head of the British mining concern in the Valley, a fine young gentleman called Frederick Honey. He arrived with impeccable credentials, having gained a rugger Blue at Oxford and a keen grasp of tropical hygiene and colonial law from the School of Oriental Studies. His reign over the British tin-mining enterprise was, ultimately, short-lived, for he was lost to a boating accident in 1941, when he drowned in the waters off Pangkor Island in a treacherous monsoon storm; his body was never found. It is clear, however, that during his short tenure in the Valley, he was much admired. T. K. Soong was, as you can imagine, quick to see the value of having Mr. Honey as an ally, and eager to make an impression on this formidable new tuan besar as soon as possible. It was decided in the Soong household that a gift should be sent to Mr. Honey, something instantly suggestive of the Soongs’ status and influence in the Valley; something unusual and beyond the reach of an Englishman newly arrived in the country. But what? A whole roast pig, perhaps? No—too ostentatious. A scroll of the finest Chinese calligraphic paintings? No—not grand enough.
“How about some textiles?” Patti said in desperation to her husband. “From that man, what’s his name—Johnny Lim?”
T.K. paused. He was inclined to dismiss the idea at once, but the paucity of previous suggestions persuaded him to consider for a moment. He paused for quite some time. “It’ll be fruitless,” he said, but nonetheless he decided to summon Johnny to the house.
Johnny had long since ceased to tour the countryside by bicycle, but the call of T. K. Soong was one he could not resist. He arrived at the house and found himself seated in the enormous room in which the Soongs received their visitors. Its vastness amazed him; his eyes could barely take in the details of its space: the rattan ceiling fans rotating slowly, arrogantly, barely stirring the air; the softness of the light through the louvred shutters; above all, the books, which lined an entire wall, row after perfect row.
“We have heard many good things about you,” T.K. said as Johnny began to unpack his bags on the table which had been specially set up for him.
“Thank you,” he said, still marvelling at the books.
Behind his back Patti tugged at T.K.’s sleeve. “How old is he?” she whispered. She had heard that Johnny Lim was a young man, and in her mind’s eye had pictured a wild-haired, loudmouthed tearaway with dirty fingernails. Yet before her stood someone neat and compact, who seemed almost middle-aged, whose movements were laborious and heavy with experience. A fleeting image tickled her imagination: Johnny and Snow seated on bridal thrones of the type that perished with the death of nineteenth-century China. “I must say, Mr. Lim,” she said as she fingered a piece of English chintz, “now that I see your wares, I can understand why people are so complimentary about you. About your shop, I mean.”
Johnny lowered his head and did not answer. He unfolded a length of songket, its gold threads shining and stiff and stitched into an intricate pattern.
“This piece of cloth, for example,” Patti continued, running her hand over a piece of brocade, “is very beautiful. Very fitting for a woman, wouldn’t you say?”
Johnny nodded.
“Not for an old woman like me, of course, but for a younger woman. Do you agree, Mr. Lim? It must be very popular with fashionable ladies.”
“No, not really,” he said truthfully. “It’s too expensive.”
“Ohh, Mr. Lim.” Patti laughed. “Truthfully, do you think it would suit a young woman? No one very special or very beautiful, of course.”
Johnny half-shrugged, half-nodded.
“Would you mind if I asked my daughter to see this? I’m sure you’re too
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