The next few days were spent in inspections of the island with the young engineer who was to hand over, and in meeting the contractors and staff with whom I was to work.

Penang Island possesses everything that could be desired by a young man. The town - Georgetown - has its shops and cinemas and two cabarets. There is a Turf Club and Sports Club, and a Swimming Pool, north of the town. My duties as Assistant Engineer covered the supervision of the road which runs forty six miles round the coast, the roads within the Island, Glugor Seaplane Base, the Aerodrome at Bayan Lepas, Penang Hill - which is the local holiday spot - and all Government buildings and civil engineering works on the Island. Within a few days I had formed the opinion that if this was service in the East I had no desire for anything better.

On the first Saturday night, Grehan and a friend named Wright took me to the Elysee Cabaret. There was no admission charge, and as we entered the huge, softly-lit dance hall, a Chinese ushered us into seats at a vacant table.

The Filipino Band was playing a waltz, and my eyes wandered to the couples on the ball-room floor. Chinese, Malay, and Eurasian girls were dancing with Asiatic and European partners, and a few white women were present. The air was heavy with perfume, the music from the guitars was stirring and strange.

I must have been silent for some moments, for Wright addressed me with a smile.

"Well, what do you think of them?" he asked.

"Think of whom?"

"The Taxi Girls. Like to dance with one?" He called a boy and bought a book of tickets.

The dance was over, and the girls walked back to their tables, set round the edge of the dancing space. I imagined that the lights were dim to add glamour to their dark skins and lustrous black hair. The Chinese wore long, tight-fitting dresses down to the ankles, split at the sides to knee height, whilst the Eurasians wore European-style evening gowns. They glided rather than walked to their seats.

"Not so keen," I said.

Wright laughed. "You will be after you've been here a few months."

The next dance started, and my companions jumped up and hurried to select their partners. I watched them as they moved round the floor, and thought that perhaps I would try the next time.

On their return, I informed them of my intention, and they warned me to be quick off the mark, or I should be left with the stragglers, the new girls or the ugly ones, who either couldn't dance or couldn't speak.

As soon as the music started I made for the floor, and was surprised to find that already half of the dancers had been taken. I must be quicker next time, I thought, as I looked along the line of impassive faces.

I picked a dancer who looked reasonably tall, for I had noticed that the girls were short of stature. I had no need to speak, for as soon as I approached her the Chinese stood up and laid her bag on the table.

She was warm. As I took her right hand I could feel the moisture on her fingers. Her dress was soaked at the back and she reeked of perspisation. There was an even heavier smell hanging about her—a mixture of onions and cheap perfume. I felt sick, but thought that perhaps I was new to the game and would soon enjoy it as much as the others.

The dance ended in a very short time, and I murmured a word of thanks. The girl was not interested, but turned and walked to her place. I fled to the table where my friends were awaiting my return.

They asked me how I had fared, and I complained of the smell. They laughed and sad that I'd have to get used-to it. All the Asiatics ate garlic.

I sat out the next dance, then suddenly realised that I had forgotten to give the girl a ticket. My friends told me that that would lose the girl her commission, and possibly get her into trouble.

"See the fellow sitting at the desk there?" indicated Grehan. I followed his finger to a dark corner at the side of the stage, where a Chinese was scrutinising the dancers and making entries in a book. "He keeps a record of every dance by every taxi-girl, and they have to tally with the tickets."

The next dance was a slow foxtrot, and I resolved to find my partner and have another dance with her so that I could pay her her dues. We took our places on the crowded floor.

I enjoy a slow foxtrot more than any other dance, and this was a very good one indeed. For that reason it may be that I danced better than on my first attempt. My partner danced well, and we had gone perhaps once round the floor when she laid her head on my shoulder and pulled me tighter towards her.

The most uncomfortable experience a man can have when dancing is to be excited. I could feel the girl's thighs against mine, and she was wearing very little. The colour rose in my cheeks; I tried to unclasp her by executing an open step at a corner, but she melted back into my arms as soon as the figure was finished. Not a word was spoken. I had to admit that she knew how to dance, and her knowledge did not stop at dancing.

When the music ceased, I pressed two tickets into the girl's hot hand and hurried away. Grehan and Wright suggested that we might have a look in at the other Cabaret, and I agreed readily.

The Wembley Cabaret was not so attractive a building, but the band was even better than that at the Elysee, and the girls were more beautiful. I had no desire to dance any more, but Grehan and Wright took tickets and picked out their partners. They pointed out to me the choicest of the taxi-girls there, but I was not interested. I was glad when midnight came and the Cabaret closed.

On the following Monday I was introduced to the Malayan system of paying coolies. Early after lunch we returned to the office, and the Chief Clerk handed us two attache cases and their keys. A small detachment of Sikh police met us as we left the building, and the sergeant sat in the front of our car, the remainder following in a police car. The first place for payment was the P.W.D. Workshop, off Brick Kiln Road. We drove into the yard, and opened one bag on a table in an open shed. As we did so, the police fixed bayonets and arranged themselves behind the group of Asiatic Overseers who were to assist in distribution.

The money was in ten-, five-, and one-dollar bills, and coins ranging in value from one cent to fifty. As the name of a coolie was called from the Check Roll, the money was counted out, passed to an Overseer for checking, and handed over. My companion was reading the names, written by the Overseers on the Rolls, and I was baffled at the thought that I should have to carry out payments myself the next time. I could not imagine myself calling with anything like accuracy or confidence such names as Narayanasamy or Ishmael bin Isahak.

Several thousand dollars were paid out in two hours, and at the end of the payment the remainder was checked against the absentees. Any error was to be made good by the Engineer, unless there was a credit balance, when that was to be put into Revenue - a ruling which I always thought was rather hard on the Engineer.

When the day's payment was over the bags were taken to the police station and locked in a special safe pending collection for further payments on the morrow. A very different procedure from the pay envelopes at home.

Three weeks after my arrival in Penang I was taken by my Chief on an inspection of the lighthouses on the Island. The easiest way to reach the points is by launch, and at eight o'clock one Sunday morning a small party boarded the craft hired for the purpose. It was a large house-boat, with four tiny cabins, a covered space for lounging, and a diminutive saloon seating six. We had loaded up with food and drinks and took cameras and swimming costumes so that the day could combine work with pleasure.

We coasted round the Island, stopping at the inspection points and trudging up the steep headland slopes to the lighthouses. The last building had been visited by noon, and the day was ours.

After tiffin and a drowsy hour in the shade, we ordered the Malay skipper to weigh anchor and make for home. We were gliding past the landing-stage at Glugor as darkness fell, and a little later threaded in and out of the ancient junks and tongkangs to the wharf. This, I thought, was the ideal way to do a day's work.

The next two days were a holiday, Chinese New Year. On the Tuesday evening I was to eat Chinese Chow as the guest of Wei Fung Cheong Tim, a wealthy shopkeeper whose manager, Mr. Lee, was friendly with a fellow-boarder at the Guest House where I was staying.

The time appointed was five o'clock, and we entered the large shop to see a circular table set in the middle of the floor. At each of the eight places prepared were two ivory chopsticks, two small, deep bowls, and a moist cloth laid on the edge.

I was introduced to Mr. Lee, who spoke perfect English, and to the other five guests, all Chinese, members of the family or shop staff.

Once seated, I looked at my chopsticks with misgiving: Mr. Lee laughed, and showed me how to use them. The secret is to hold one stick rigid and move the other freely, so that instead of having two points moving erratically around the piece of food, one is stationary whilst the other clamps it. I practised a little on thin wooden toothpicks, and the Chinese rolled with good-natured laughter at my comic efforts.

The first course was shark's fin soup, a thick and glutinous delicacy with a wonderful flavour. This was eaten with china spoons, to my great relief.

The Chinese makes no bones about eating or drinking. If he enjoys the taste of a drink or a soup, he devours with gusto, making great sucking noises and smacking his lips and sighing with pleasure. In eating, he clamps his jaws on the morsel without any attempt to silence the noise of chewing. If by chance the food produces gases during mastication, this is regarded as a very natural thing not requiring camouflage or excuse.

Do not mistake me: the gentlemen dining at that Chinese New Year meal were quite a good class of Chinese, respectable men, well-behaved and sober, well dressed and extremely pleasant in conversation. But food prepared by the Chinese is so much superior to ours, so delicious and tasty, that it is no wonder that they have no desire to hide their appreciation behind murmured apology and discreetly sealed lips.

The soup was polished off amid sighs and smacking noises and great gurgles of intake. The success of the meal was assured.

The second course was a mould of dried oysters with a seaweed garnish. The reader is advised to try eating oysters with chopsticks; it is a trial of one's patience and a feat of endurance.

Course after course followed, each served in one central bowl, which was left on the table so that the guest could revert to a previous course at will. There were fried prawns with sliced cucumber, a whole filleted duck covered with finely mashed vegetables, a complete fish, head and tail intact, fried in tomato sauce, chopped chicken and ham, and Shanghai sausage, which is a mixture of all manner of cooked meats - fowl and liver and beef - cut into strips.

The rice course was the last. Boiled rice was brought on, and it was possible to pick it from the bowl grain by grain, so well cooked and drained that it had retained its granular shape and lost none of its flavour. We picked some scraps of fish and duck and oysters from the by now large collection of bowls placed in the centre of the table.

A cup of China tea, unsweetened and without milk, concluded the meal. We returned home feeling that we had learnt a good deal about the Chinese, and would not hesitate at any invitation to partake of their hospitality again.

Within a month I had settled down to the life and customs, and steady drilling by my Malay munshi three evenings a week widened my knowledge of the tongue. I was able to give orders to the boys, to buy in the shops, and talk in a limited way to the contractors and mandores on my jobs.

I had bought a car, and was advised to engage a sais until I had become familiar with the lay-out of the island and the traffic regulations. One day a small, erect figure strutted into my office, saluted smartly, with a respectful " Tabek, tuan ", and handed me his credentials. He was a Javanese, about twenty-four years of age, and gloried in the name of Hussein bin Amin.

After a few moments questioning, when I had to call on outside help to interpret for us, the lad was engaged. A few days later he reported for duty, and a little later I met his wife, a beautiful girl of eighteen, small and well-formed, with a flawless complexion, perfect teeth, and jet black hair which she dressed in a bun in the nape of her neck.

Hussein bin Amin remained with me for almost a year, and the circumstances of our parting were painful and unforgettable. Perhaps one day I shall be able to find him, and we shall start again.

The Europeans in Penang were friendly and hospitable, and very soon the Swimming Club became my favourite rendezvous. Three or four times each week I swam in the warm salt water, sometimes staying for a drink and perhaps a snack with the men in the lounge. I joined a Badminton Club, and played once a week at the house of some member of the Club. Invitations to tennis parties were numerous, and occasionally I dined with engineers or friends from the Swimming Club. The days passed quickly, and I was very contented, thankful also that my first station should be Penang, where the mosquito is almost unknown, and the Sumatra springs up to fan the heat away and bring the cooling rain.

Monday, 10th February, was a holiday, the occasion being the Hindu Feast of Thai Pusam. I had been told of the sights I might expect, so I went early to witness the celebrations.

Thai Pusam is the day when Hindus pay homage to their gods, performing the most incredible acts of sacrifice and endurance. On the previous night the golden god was carried in great procession from the Temple in the town to that at Waterfall Road. On Monday morning began the ceremony.

At the main Temple was collected a crowd of Tamils and their followers, and the priests presided over the ritual of the knives. Tiny knives and spikes were heated to a dull red and driven through the lips and cheeks of the men who volunteered to undergo the ordeal for the sake of their gods. A large bed of glowing coals burned fiercely on the Temple floor, and the worshippers ran barefoot across the fire to the accompaniment of ritual songs.

Heavy burdens were then fixed over the heads of the central figures in the ceremony. These weighed probably fifty pounds each, and were heavily carved models of temples or gods, executed in wood and painted with silver. Iron struts rested on the shoulders, and the burden was held in position by a hundred or more thin wire guys, the ends of which were pointed and hooked, and dug into the flesh of the breast and back.

As each burden was fixed, the perfomer was dusted with lime, and left the Temple with a priest and his followers. He began to dance erratically and unsteadily to the accompaniment of chanting and handclapping, jogging the burden up and down, turning round in mad circles, perspiration pouring from his face and back, his bare feet kicking up the dust of the street. There were about fifty of these men, and the procession moved towards Waterfall Temple, some four or five miles away.

There was no rest. The man must not sit down or lean against anyone for support. Sometimes I saw an exhausted Tamil stand swaying on his feet, with the teacher chanting madly at him, and his relations shouting words of encouragement.

We followed the crowd to the second Temple, as they turned to the left towards the hill. At the top of the hill, reached by two or three hundred very steep steps, was the Temple where the knives would be removed.

We ascended the slope leading to the steps, and saw a crowd round one of the Tamil bearers, gathered near a small shrine. The man was almost unable to stand. His eyes were closed, and the burden waved above his head so unsteadily that I thought it must surely fall. His face was streaked with perspiration, and saliva dripped from the sides of his mouth. He could not so much as moisten his lips, for a small brass knife skewered them together. The lime on his back and chest was smeared and lined with the sweat which poured relentlessly down from his neck and weary shoulders. The priest was shouting and chanting, dancers were working up into a mad fervour, and women were throwing lime dust on the suffering face and heaving chest.

For fully five minutes the crowd stood before the shrine. If the man were to fail at this stage, so near to the end of his ordeal, he would be in disgrace. At last his eyes opened, and he turned, very slowly and unsteadily, towards the steps. A great cheer rose in the air as he tottered and staggered for the last stage of his cruel journey.

The ceremony at the Temple on the hilltop was simple and brief. The knives and pins were removed carefully, the wound dusted with lime powder; then the worshippers were given a little coconut milk with which to anoint themselves. No blood flowed from the points where the knives had entered, a significant thing to the worshippers. As a point of fact, the red-hot blades cauterized where they pierced, and the lime kept the cuts dry and clean.

We descended the steps, stopping at times to give a cent to one or other of the hundreds of lame and blind who lay calling " Tuan, tuan ", until we at last reached the road. We entered the Temple and visited the shrine where the golden god was set in state.

It was a pitiful scene. A Tamil stood guard over the image, and a priest was praying. The worshippers crept up towards the shrine with downcast eyes and hands clasped before their lips, backs bent in submission. As they reached the arch through which the small golden figure could be seen, they stretched out nervous fingers and dropped money into an earthenware jar, the top of which was covered with a slit leather sheet. Silent words moved their lips as they passed before their god, and more money was given to the priest if they desired a prayer to be delivered in their names.

We passed into the courtyard where the poor were being fed. They squatted - men, women, and children - on the paved surface, with part of a banana leaf spread before them. The food was brought in. First the rice, in a huge wooden bucket, then a sickly yellow mess of curry, dished out on to the leaf with wooden ladles.

Outside, the throng of women and children were washing their feet and faces in the stream which passed the Temple. Small boys bathed naked in the yellow water. The atmosphere here was more jubilant, something of the atmosphere of a Sunday School bun-fight.

In the wood behind the Temple were entertainers, salesmen, and beggars. Tamil families sat in the kindly shade watching the show, and we watched the Tamil families. An unfortunate man was sitting with his two wives, one on either side of him. One was young and gay, the other probably did the housework. As we passed, the older woman made a comment to her husband. The young woman interrupted with a few sharp words, and laughed. The man sat for a moment, and neither woman spoke. Suddenly he swung round and knocked the younger wife flat on her face, at the same time pouring out a savage stream of what we imagined was invective. The old wife said nothing, made no sign; she was the wiser of the two. The younger woman sat up again, set her hair straight, and stroked the back of her neck where the cuff had made contact. A few more years of that, thought I, and you will be as wise as the older.

We left the pagan scene, wondering at the strength of the Faith, the power of the religion on these people, and the effect that could be produced by a golden image with a few diamonds studded in it, tawdry trappings and a bit of burning sandalwood.

On the following evening my munshi, a schoolmaster named Isahak, took me to the Malay Borea. This curious festival consisted of a series of competitions, which commenced at eight-thirty each night and finished at five in the morning, running for a week.

We entered the open-air theatre and sat on the front row amongst Malays and Chinese. The concert opened with an item by an amateur troupe playing guitars and ukuleles, dancing, and singing. That was followed by a sketch in Malay, and I was able to follow parts of the dialogue with the help of my teacher.

By midnight I was feeling tired, and still the concert went on, party after party of young Malays giving turns and sketches. I had a shock when one troupe played and sang 'The Siegfried Line' in their own style, with words in Malay. I was reminded of the early popularity of the song in 1939, and its sudden disappearance when France collapsed. Perhaps these young people had not heard of that, I mused.

There was a crack at the Nazis in one item. A Malay delicacy, pisang goreng, was worked into a joke on Hitler's fat friend, Hermann. The Malay words mean 'fried banana', and a few days later Isahak brought me a few of these titbits as a special treat.

In the course of time, with the characteristic slowness of the English, the boarders at the Guest House thawed out, and I became acquainted with Mr. Yell, an elderly man of fine physique and abounding energy; with two officers of the Indian Army Service Corps, and a young bachelor who was head tailor at Pritchard's, a European-owned store. Still I felt lonely, restless, a stranger in a strange land, and my hostess's gushing sympathy did little to settle my mind.

Then one evening I walked into the dining-room to my accustomed table and met a new arrival. He was a black-haired, slight-built Scot, a little older than myself. After the overdone introductions by the hostess, we edged our way into conversation. I was at a loss, because the Englishman's safety-valve - the weather - is not considered a relevant topic in a country where the climate varies little between the extremes of burning sunshine and pouring rain. But my new acquaintance, being a Scot, maintained a steady flow of conversation, and soon we were talking freely.

"You're new here, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes, came a few days ago only," I replied, knowing that he knew by my fresh red face and the hints the landlady had dropped during introductions.

"Ah, well, you'll get used to it," he assured me; "I've been here three years. Due for leave soon."

The evening passed quickly, and my new friend, Alec Cockburn, offered to show me a few of his photographs and souvenirs. I followed him into his bedroom and spent an hour admiring a fine collection of carved ivory figures, silver ornaments, and hand-worked silks and laces.

"For my little girl," he ventured timidly, and pointed to a photograph standing on his dressing-table.

I knew then why I had felt so lonely, so restless, so strange in that quiet place. For I had left a girl behind me, wearing a ring and bearing a promise. But so far I had met no friend who would invite confidence, and listen as I talked of home.

From that night onwards, slowly but very firmly, grew a friendship based on mutual sympathy. Alec and I swam, and danced, bargained with souvenir sellers, saw the shows, compared the mails, exchanged photographs and stories from home, and lived our lives together.

He was busy opening a new branch of Grafton Laboratories, large manufacturing and wholesale chemists of Singapore. I could not help thinking that the job was too heavy for a single man to do, assisted only by an Asiatic clerk and an indifferent Malay errand-boy. Three years in Malay had affected his constitution, and he was due for a rest. But he was always cheerful, cracking jokes in his soft Scottish accent, calling me 'Doog' and jabbing my ribs as we shared a laugh.

One evening, as we sat in the lounge of the Guest House enjoying the cool of a Sumatra breeze which rustled the palms in the compound, Alec turned to me with an idea.

"Have you ever thought of moving into a Mess?" he asked.

"I only wish I could,' I replied. "This place is costing too much. All Government places are full up."

Alec was silent for a moment, then spoke in a voice of hesitation.

"I know a place where we could get in next week," he ventured, "but I'm not sure you'd like it. There are three chaps in there now. One of them has been keeping a Siamese, and wants her to live with him, so the other two are throwing him out. He's going in a few days."

"Well, we could meet the other two," I suggested, and it was agreed.

On the following evening we inspected the Mess, a large Chinese owned house in Burmah Lane, with cream walls and red-tiled roof, standing in spacious, ill-kept grounds, its kitchen and servants' quarters connecting with the main building by means of a covered way.

A Lancashire man of thirty and a young Scot of twenty-three were sipping whisky-sodas when we entered the lounge. The room was furnished with rotan chairs and tables; a single large fan swirled silently overhead, and a wireless set crackled noisily against a background of dance music.

The Lancashire man, a cotton agent, furnished us with details as to the rent, average monthly costs, and general details regarding the house. We asked about the staff, and the cook was summoned.

He was a fat Chinese, the fattest I have ever seen. His thinly-clad belly shook as he pattered in on small, lightly shod feet. He smiled. I never saw his face in any other expression save that bland, meaningless but mirth-provoking smile. Behind that perpetual smile his small, dark, almond eyes twinkled with the roguery of youth. I think he would be over forty, but his smooth fat face and his gleaming teeth, his jovial figure and carefree style made accurate estimates impossible.

Alec and I agreed to move in after a week, and gave our notice to the Guest House landlady that evening.

The following Saturday afternoon was spent in ordering furniture, bedding, and odds and ends to fill our bedroom and spaces in the house created by the removal of the former occupant. We called on a Chinese cabinet-maker named Yoong Fatt, who promised to make a bedroom suite to my own design within a fortnight, and to provide temporary furniture in the meantime.

We moved in one rainy evening, and spent the next few days in sorting our belongings, settling down for a long stay. Alec had little time to spare, as he was due to report for two months' full-time training with the Straits Settlements Volunteers at the week-end, and his work made even heavier demands on his time than before.

The week-end came, and my three messmates left for the Camp. I was alone, in charge of the Mess and the staff, knowing but a handful of Malay words and having no knowledge of the cost of food or the shortcomings of the Chinese cook. I was soon to learn by hard experience.

On the first evening the fat Chinese rolled in with a kira - a small pocket-book in which he had entered his purchases daily. With the perpetual smile, which I was soon to recognize as part of his stock-in-trade, he handed the book to me for inspection.

I was flustered, nervous, apprehensive, as I tried to read the items written in Romanized Malay. Each day showed ten cents for a rickshaw, and varying amounts for firewood. Items there were for meat, eggs, vegetables, and seaweed, their prices impossible to check, but all adding to an appreciable daily sum, never less than three dollars.

I handed back the book, not knowing what to say. But the smiling Chinese remained. Heavens, I thought, he wants some money. I ventured the query: " Berapa wang ?" ("How much money?") and he replied in Malay. I was not sure whether he said twenty or thirty dollars, for the words rolled out with a sound like soapy bubbles bursting in a wash-boiler. I produced two ten-dollar bills, and he accepted them with the same inscrutable smile, booked the amount in his kira , and withdrew.

When Alec called in after a week I poured out my troubles, and he gave me a number of practical hints to help me check the accounts.

"Don't worry, Doog," he laughed; "if you catch him out one way he'll swindle you another. If he can't get the satisfaction of making a dollar or two a month that way, he'll ask for more gaji ."

I began to understand one of the many little things which, added together in one's daily life, made a weighty whole, that sum of worries and minor tribulations known, though not appreciated, by the stay-at-homes as 'The White Man's Burden'.

At the office I was asked to prepare designs for Air Raid Shelters, and an organisation for Rescue and Demolition parties for the Department. On 6th March a trial black-out was held - the first of its kind in Penang. I rushed around blacking-out the Mess, an almost hopeless task in a building with open walls and airy rooms. Lights were dimmed, and the closed chick-blinds created an atmosphere of oppression and deadness as I sat alone in the lounge wondering if the black out would ever be necessary and if my shelters would be put to use.

I went to the office on the following day, to find a letter awaiting me. It was an instruction from Head Office, Singapore, to the effect that I was to report to the Senior Executive Engineer, Kuala Kangsar, in the State of Perak, on the 13th of March.