Page 19 of Companion Required

Chapter Nine

Kennedy

Climbing the slow rise of oak stairs to his room, Kennedy remembered the sounds and smells of the old house with mixed feelings. Even though he had only lived there until the age of ten—after that, he had been packed off to boarding school in England—he recalled the pungent smell of pine floor polish and camphor, shuttered windows diffusing the fierce daylight, the constant thrum of ceiling fans running throughout the house, now replaced by almost silent air conditioners, the unique heat of each day except when the respite of cooling monsoon rains hit, and the sound of geckos chit-chatting and toads croaking throughout the night. As memories went, they were not bad ones. But this was no longer his world and never really had been.

Matius, the Indonesian housekeeper, walked ahead of him, insisting on carrying his bags. Before his death, Matius’ father, Agus, had run the household. Matius would have been only twenty-five when Kennedy was bundled off to England. Now married with his own son and daughter in their twenties, he and his wife, Maya, continued to work for the family.

Live-in domestic help had been a way of life in Singapore—in many Asian countries—for many years with the huge disparity in wealth between the rich and poor, and high unemployment forcing people to seek overseas jobs simply to survive. Although many of Matius’ relatives still lived in Bandung—south of Jakarta—for over two generations, his family had resided in the two-bedroom apartment above the kitchen in the outbuilding at the side of the house. Many houses and apartments in the region came with a wet and a dry kitchen. Usually the wet room stood unenclosed by walls, open to the elements, where wok cooking happened, allowing the potent Asian spices to dissipate into the air. Dry kitchens were used primarily to prepare food for cooking and, in the case of the Kennedys, to house a large oven, fridge and other electrical appliances.

“My wife, Maya, cook for you tonight, sir,” said Matius—Matty—turning in to Kennedy’s room and dropping the bags at the foot of the bed. Apart from the squeals of Kennedy’s nephews playing in the swimming pool coming through the half-open bedroom window, Kennedy could already smell the delicious aroma of cooking from somewhere outside. Matty had his trademark cheeky smile on his face as he spoke. “As you know, she is very good cook—only reason why I marry her. She cook your favourites. Satay chicken, chilli crab, tiger prawn, beef rendang, gado-gado. She even has cendol for dessert. Hope your friend will like, too. Or is he like your other guest?”

Kennedy couldn’t help smiling. During the two times Patrick had visited, he’d been singularly unadventurous with food, often requesting a simple omelette or sandwich for dinner. Local food had been a staple of Kennedy’s childhood, and chilled cendol—green rice flour jelly, red beans, coconut milk and palm sugar syrup—had been a true luxury after a sweltering cycle ride home from school.

“I’m sure my friend will be fine, thanks, Matty,” said Kennedy, holding out a hand. Polite as ever, Matty shook his hand and bowed a couple of times. Years ago, Kennedy had given up asking Matty to call him by his given name. Being called ‘sir’ made Kennedy feel like his father, or an employer—when Matty was more like a friend. But Matty had once confided how his father had drilled in him to address male adult guests as ‘‘sir’’ and female adult guests as ‘‘mam’’, and how this had proven much easier than trying to remember names. “By the way, I’m sorry I couldn’t get back for your father’s funeral.”

“That’s okay, sir. I know you are busy man.”

“It’s not really okay. Your father was very special, a kind and caring man. Especially to me. I’m honoured to have known him.”

The sort of man a father ought to be, thought Kennedy.

Agus had been his go-to whenever his own father had ridiculed or scolded him. After dinner, on the night Jeff had casually thrown into the conversation that Kennedy would be going to boarding school in England that autumn term, ten-year-old Kennedy had listened without speaking or reacting—a rule of the house for children at the dinner table—but as soon as they had been excused, he had gone straight to Agus and cried. Kennedy remembered his words well, about being strong and the importance of honouring a father’s wishes, but he’d known Agus was just as upset, could not understand why a father would want to send his only son away. Kennedy missed his simple kindness.

“Thank you, sir. He was very happy here.”

Once Matty had left, Kennedy sat on the edge of the bed and looked around his old room. Nothing remained of his childhood except for the view from the window, showcasing the old mango tree. Many years ago, Agus had hung a swing from a lower bough for him, his sister and Matty—until a few weeks later, Kennedy’s father had demanded he take the eyesore down. Now his room stood unrecognizable, completely redecorated since his last visit, a guest room with the addition of a double bed and stylish antique furniture. But then Kennedy spotted a painting of his on the wall, a watercolour of his old dog Chester, a black Labrador they’d had as children. He’d been eight when he’d painted the picture, something Agus had helped frame and hang on his bedroom wall. His mother must have decided to keep that particular memory.

Showered and changed, he stood outside Kieran’s room at the far end of the corridor, at the back of the house overlooking the pool, and knocked lightly on the door.

“Come on in.”

Kennedy turned the handle and stood just inside the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Are you decent?”

“Never have been, not going to start now,” quipped Kieran, coming out of the bathroom smiling, wearing a white cotton shirt and khaki chino shorts. As looks went, this one suited Kieran well.

“Best behaviour,” said Kennedy, suppressing a smile.

“Yes, sergeant major. I can’t believe your family house. Not only do I have my own bedroom, but it comes with an en suite bathroom and a huge bed. Hey, I’ve got my swimmers on under my shorts. Do you think your dad’ll let me have a dip a bit later on?”

“After dinner, maybe. By the way, are you okay with Indonesian food?”

“I—uh—I don’t think I’ve ever eaten it before. But if that’s what I can smell cooking, then count me in.”

They found his mother, father and sister sitting at the back of the house, next to the swimming pool, in a horseshoe arrangement of comfortable sofas around a Thai-style coffee table. His nephews played happily in the shallows. Beneath the back porch, Kennedy spotted the large dining table that had already been set up. Kieran wisely stood behind Kennedy, while he got his hugs and hellos out of the way with his sister and already squiffy mother. After that, Kennedy introduced Kieran, who charmed them both the way he had done with his father. Once seated, they shared a few pleasantries about various general subjects—the flight over, Reagan’s boys, life of retirement in Singapore—until the inevitable fun and games began.

“When’s the last time you were home, darling?” asked Claire, pouring them both a long, tall glass of something opaque. When Kennedy held the glass away from him quizzically, Reagan mouthed the word ‘mojito’.

“That would have been the day before yesterday. The day before I flew here.”

“Don’t be smart with your mother,” said Claire, curtly, over the rim of her glass. “You know what I mean.”

“Five years ago,” said Reagan. “The same year misery left him.”

Kennedy flashed her a warning glare. None of his family had warmed to Patrick. Even though his parents had said nothing, Reagan had labelled him precious and standoffish. But he didn’t want the conversation to focus on his ex.

“Where’s Bernie?” he asked.

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