about Malaya,’ Aritomo said, ‘it is full of stories like this.’
‘I often saw Old Mr Ong in his garden, dressed like a coolie in a tatty white vest and loose blue cotton shorts, carrying his songbird in a cage. He always spoke to the bird with more tenderness than I had ever seen him show any of his wives.’
Aritomo pointed to the pediment. ‘Athelstane. That was Swettenham’s middle name.’
I glanced at him in surprise, then remembered the first Resident General’s books on his shelf. ‘That’s what my grandfather called it. A silly, pretentious name for a house,’ I said. ‘I’m sure the neighbours laughed at my grandfather, and us.’
‘I will look for it, next time I am in Penang.’
‘It was destroyed when Jap planes bombed the island.’ Aritomo’s face showed no reaction. ‘We had moved out only a few days earlier. We left everything behind – all our photographs. All of Yun Hong’s paintings too.’
It unsettled me that I should see one of her paintings here; I felt she was still alive, about to appear at the door of my bedroom to tell me some gossip she had heard from her friends. I reached out my hand and touched the painting. The smudge of condensation I made on the glass disappeared a second later, as though it had found a way to enter the watercolour painting.
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