The Hills of Singapore

by Dawn Farnham

  The hill itself was wreathed in myth. She knew that the first Resident, William Farquhar, had taken a party of men and cut a path to its top against all the terrified and tremulous agitation and advice of the Malay inhabitants. Haunted, they said, that was certain: haunted by the ghosts of past kings and no one should set foot on it. The remains had been revealed of the foundations of a large palace and there was a grave. The holy keramat of Iskandar Shah, last Malay king of Temasek, or so it was told, lay on its flanks. A spring that flowed from the southwest corner of the hill, now on River Valley Road, served to supply water for the ships in the harbour but was said to have once been the bathing place of Malayan princesses.

  It had a mysterious, antique quality. To Charlotte it had the most personal attachments. Beloved friends lay in the Christian cemetery on its lower eastern flanks and further round, hidden perhaps by growth and time, was an ancient nutmeg orchard where she had kissed Zhen for the first time. She had never been back. She tried not to allow her mind to run away, to think constantly of Zhen, but now, on this hill, she did. Love for him was still as powerful as ever, flesh speaking to flesh, but that was hidden deep. She could not pretend they were primeval creatures running barefoot in the forest, driven by their urges and instincts. They were this, perhaps, but they were also creatures of society. He had been clear: if she would not accept his terms, which were, in effect, to be his mistress, his English concubine … She stopped thinking about him.

  The reception and dinner were in honour of the Rajah of Sarawak, Sir James Brooke, and his appointment as Governor of Labuan, a barren, coal-rich island off Northern Borneo. Charlotte had met James Brooke briefly once or twice before in Singapore and looked forward to renewing the acquaintance. He was an easy man, an adventurer who had turned fortune his way, it seemed, but there was nothing pretentious about him. He had donated over one hundred volumes to the Singapore library and she was thankful to him that many of the tomes had been novels, for she remembered, he was an admirer, like her, of Miss Austen. It was he too, to whom all Singapore was indebted for the title awarded to the Governor. He had named Colonel Butterworth, Butterpot the Great, to general hilarity and the term, unbeknownst to the Governor, had stuck.

  She had read The Free Press yesterday.

  This appointment, besides the advantages we may expect to derive from the experience and abilities of Sir James Brooke, is satisfactory as marking that the British Government are not disposed to give way to the extravagant and unjust pretensions of the Dutch; but that on the contrary, it is intended to maintain our rights to an equal footing in the Archipelago.

  She had smiled. Nothing had happened to diminish the constant rivalry and dislike of the Dutch and English in this part of the world. Singapore stood constantly she knew, as a thorn in the side of the Dutch East Indies, taking away trade and influence—just as Raffles had intended.

  The Colonel and Mrs Butterworth welcomed their guests inside the main hall. What little she knew of the Colonel was not promising. The kindest comment she’d heard was that he was not liked. The manner of his rise to the Governorship though he knew nothing of the Straits, his patronage by Lord Ellenborough, the Indian Governor-General, his nepotism, his superior attitude, his utter disdain for the old merchants and officials who had brought Singapore to her place in the world. These were dire indeed, but his worst indictment was his obsession in matters of dress. He had ordered black dress, not white, should be worn at official functions and had set out minute regulations. In Government House these dress codes were obeyed, but elsewhere white was worn in petulant disobedience.

  When Charlotte appeared, Butterpot moved forward to welcome her. Everyone knew of her widowhood and the fortune she had inherited. She was easily the wealthiest woman in Singapore, even perhaps in the whole of the East Indies. Doubtless the Governor expected, one day, that a woman of her wealth and beauty would attract the eye of a Baronet, perhaps a Duke, on some voyage back to England. He could not have guessed that Charlotte had not the slightest intention of marrying anyone under English laws, which would immediately deprive her of her fortune and pass it into the hands of her husband to do with what he wished. Were a prince of the realm himself to seek her hand she would refuse him. If she married again it would be in Batavia, under Dutch law, where Tigran’s fortune and his children’s rights were protected.

  Her thoughts flew to Batavia, to her home, the grandest estate in the city, but not for long. Charlotte was happy, in so many ways, to be back here, to be surrounded by her native language, to understand her acquaintance. She embraced Jeanette Butterworth warmly. The Colonel had been fortunate, Charlotte thought, in his choice of wife for where he was pettifogging and pretentious, Jeanette was broad-minded and down- to-earth. How the conversations ran in the privacy of their sitting room Charlotte could not imagine.

  Standing at Jeanette’s side were her sister and her brother-in-law, Captain and Mrs Charles Faber. Captain Faber was the object of the accusations of nepotism since his appointment as Superintending Engineer of Singapore, a task for which, the entire town agreed, he was entirely unsuited. He was a thin and faded man but with the same supercilious air of self-aggrandisement that so marked his illustrious brother-in-law. His wife was simply mousy and quiet. He fawned over Charlotte’s hand and Charlotte disliked him immediately.

  As drinks were served, she was joined by Robert and introduced to a variety of men and women whose names she immediately forgot, all but Captain Charles Maitland, who she was surprised to find, made a strong first impression.

  Captain Maitland was of medium height, powerfully built, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and brown eyes. She knew he was an engineer but he looked like a fighter. It was an intriguing combination, and she found herself observing him in conversation with Colonel Butterworth. He spoke very little though this was, of course, the normal state of affairs with the Colonel, who would rather hear his own voice than any other. Butterworth’s interest in Captain Maitland was aided doubtless by the fact that he was the younger brother of Sir Henry Maitland, the Foreign Secretary to the Government of India.

  He was neither interested in nor perturbed by the Colonel and stood politely, simply waiting, she thought, for the right moment to move away. Self-contained, she thought. He was a self-contained man; his thoughts elsewhere. And this elsewhere, Charlotte thought, was the most interesting thing about a man who looked built for audacious and soldierly deeds of derring-do, for it was amongst the glass containers, dials, charts, logs and needles of the Magnetic Observatory at Kallang that his mind dwelt.

  They had been introduced briefly and Charlotte recognised that her gaze had been drawn to him because, beyond the usual politesse, he had paid not the slightest bit of attention to her. It was a rare occurrence as the press of young officers and midshipmen around her confirmed. She fanned herself and smiled at them and continued to covertly assess Captain Maitland.

  He was not handsome of face particularly, his nose rather broad and his chin too square. Despite the attitude of ease he adopted, standing, his hands clasped behind his back, she felt he had enormous constrained vitality. Then some couples moved between them, blocking her view, and she joined Robert and his wife, Teresa, standing with Charles and Eliza Dyce.

  Robert patted Charles lightly on the arm. “It is the most terrific thing. Can you believe Charles has been made Sheriff of the Straits Settlements?”

  “Sheriff?” Charlotte smiled at Charles. “Is that something like the Sheriff of Nottingham, Charles? Will you prevent the rich from being robbed to help the poor?”

  Charles smiled. “Indeed, madam, I shall, though our local Chinese Robin Hoods are more inclined to keep their ill-gotten gains to themselves.”

  “Not so romantic, Kitt,” Robert said. “More like the local magistrate.”

  He turned to Charles. “But not unworthy for all that, eh? Considering what a lazy devil he was in college, dreaming and sketching, totally lacking ambition—the despair of his good father.”

&
nbsp; Charles laughed, and they talked of their days at Marischal College in Aberdeen, which both acknowledged had not been onerous. Charlotte smiled and linked arms with her brother. He and Charles Dyce were great friends and shared a love for amateur theatricals.

  “The most important subject was ‘regular attendance’, although I occasionally enjoyed Virgil,” Robert said.

  Charles laughed. “I spent most of my time drawing. It is fortunate indeed that the same examination questions appeared year after year else neither of us should ever have graduated.”

  Robert grinned and turned to Charlotte. “You must send Alex and Adam when they are old enough. What it lacks in rigour it makes up for in social enjoyment and useful introductions.”

  Alexander and Adam? To Scotland? Charlotte had not thought about this. It was commonplace enough to send one’s children home for their later schooling. She supposed that was the right thing to do.

  Charlotte suddenly and deeply missed Tigran standing by her side, so solid and loving, supporting her in everything, adoring their children. She could have consulted him. He would have known what to do. She felt a great loneliness descend on her and pleading the heat, walked quickly out onto the verandah and looked down to the town.

  From Government House atop the hill, at night the European town was all but invisible. Lights traced the long, dark curve of the river in the Chinese town; brightness came from the lanterns of the boats huddled together in the middle of the river. From here it was easy to see why the Chinese called this part “the belly of the carp”, for it swelled plumply. On the harbour, the lamps of the night watch, like glinting sparks, bobbed on the ships at anchor. She took her handkerchief and pinched it into her eyes, breathing deeply, the effort not to sob taking all her will. It took her like this, in the most unexpected moments.

  In the distance, on the edge of the world, a sheet of blue lightning burst silently across the sky, illuminating briefly the forest of masts on the water. She stopped crying. Was it a sign? Charlotte knew she was becoming obsessed with signs but she could not quite help herself. Every natural manifestation seemed a signal from him sent to comfort her: a swift breeze on a windless day, the end of a rainstorm, a bird’s passage. She smiled, knowing he would have laughed at her. She wanted to feel his arms around her, lean her head back against his chest, holding her secure. Oh, Tigran, she thought, why?

  “Mrs Manouk?” A voice spoke from the darkness of the verandah, and she started and turned.

  “It is John Thomson. I am sorry to have startled you.”

  Charlotte shook her head.

  “No, Mr Thomson, not at all. I was taking some air, waiting for our illustrious guests to arrive.”

  Thomson came up next to her.

  “May I …? Would it be all right to say how sorry I am about …?”

  Charlotte put her hand on his arm, stopping him. John Thomson was an architect and the Government Surveyor of the Straits Settlements, and Charlotte liked him very much. He was slim and pale, with short, dark, wavy hair, a long face, a long nose and soulful eyes. He was young, she knew, twenty-two, yet he had a grave earnestness which made him seem older.

  John thought that Charlotte Manouk was the loveliest woman he had ever met. She was dressed in sombre half mourning, a deep purple dress with black trim and a black shawl. Her only jewellery was a silver and pearl locket and pearl earrings. He could see she was still grieving. He was very sensitive to such matters and thought women the most spiritual of creatures. These widow’s weeds could not disguise her beauty though—the lustre of her black hair, the depth of her violet eyes, her grace. John had had experiences in the jungles of Malaya when he was a mere lad in his teens, surveying plantations in Penang and on the mainland. He had been offered young girls, the custom shocking but commonplace. He was not tempted. When the time was right he would marry, and the native women held no charms for him at all.

  He gazed at Charlotte with feelings of profound respect for her widowhood, but stirrings also of something else. She had taken a mirror from her purse and was wiping the corners of her eyes. She had been crying, he saw, and his heart went to her. The stirrings turned into a tiny trickle.

  “Mrs Manouk,” he began and she smiled.

  “John, call me Charlotte, or Kitt, everyone does who knows me. We are almost the same age and cannot be so formal, surely.”

  He bowed, disarmed. “Thank you. Charlotte, er … Kitt, would it interest you to accompany me on some of my outings? I sketch a great deal and move about the island continually. I have a sailboat. If one day …”

  Charlotte turned to face him.

  “Yes, John, I would like that. Thank you.”

  She smiled at him and he felt enveloped in radiance. The mere trickle of a moment before turned into a stream, and he felt a rush of warm happiness enfold him.

  The band suddenly struck up, announcing the arrival of the guest of honour and John offered Charlotte his arm to return to the ballroom.

  8

  Zhen rose in frustration. Noan was asleep and the night was hot. He went to the window to catch a breath of air from the air well. This irksome presence every night made him short-tempered. He longed for his freedom. The arrival of Noan’s period yet again had given him some relief though it was a deep disappointment. He had stayed away for eight days. Eight precious days, spent with Qian. Now, again, he had made love to his wife. He strove to please her, making a link between joy and fruitfulness. The rashes she had sometimes had disappeared, and she seemed fresh and happy; her balance had returned. But his seemed increasingly out of alignment.

  He leaned his arms against the sides of the window and stared down into the well. The moon was full, he had just realised, and was reflected like a silver orb in the water which lay on the stone floor. He looked up, and it was overhead, and the moonshine was so bright it illuminated everything around him. A faint smell of sandalwood floated on the air. Its odour kept off mosquitos and the servants burnt it in the courtyard.

  His thoughts turned as always to her, to Xia Lou. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, though it was impossible. He had bitten back these desires for months and now the heat and this frustration and his annoyance with Noan put him in a black temper. He decided to leave, to go to his home on Circular Road.

  He dressed quickly and went out into the corridor. As he went down the stairs he heard a noise, a door opening somewhere. He stopped briefly then went on. A candle was burning in the courtyard and the moon was so bright it was like a dusky evening. Then he saw Lilin entering the courtyard from the kitchen and stopped. She looked up and started, giving a small cry, seeing his shape standing there in the moonlight. She had not been sure if he would be here tonight, for Noan’s period had just finished. Her heart gave a painful leap. The sight of him—just this—made her pulse race. She could not help it. She had wanted him since the first moment she had seen him at her sister’s wedding. In the moonlight, in silhouette, his physical presence made her weak.

  All but stunned that she was here, at this hour, Zhen went up to her and without a word took her by the arm and half dragged her through the courtyard. The noise, small though it was, roused a servant from the kitchen and Zhen waved him away. Damn it, there would be servant gossip tomorrow. Taking up a night lamp from a table, he pulled Lilin into a small room near the side of the building which was used for stores and shut the door.

  “It is two o’clock in the morning. What are you doing, where have you been?”

  Zhen was seething. The words escaped from his lips in a half-whispered fury of Baba Malay. This was too much. He was in charge of this household and here was this woman, against everything decent, coming and going as she pleased. If Tan were to find out … Zhen felt keenly Tan’s censure, his own loss of dignity. He almost flushed with shame.

  Lilin was silent. His physical proximity had made her weak at the knees. His grip on her arm was painful, yet it filled her with excruciating pleasure. She put out her hand and touched his cheek and he sprang away,
dropping her arm, as if he had been stung. He had never hit a woman in his life, but his hand trembled with fury, and he controlled himself with difficulty.

  She stopped moving and looked at him in the flicker of the candlelight. “I do what I want.” She made to move past him and he barred her way with his arm.

  “I do what I want, as you do.” She whispered it, looking up into his face. “As you do with your white whore.”

  Zhen could not believe her boldness; she had no shame. That she should compare her actions, a woman, with his. To call Xia Lou a whore! Momentarily he could find no words.

  Lilin looked into his eyes and her gaze held them. Her tone changed, her face softened.

  “But I will stop. I will stop if you will be my lover. I will obey you, worship you.” She sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around his legs.

  “Please, Zhen.”

  Zhen felt such a confusion in his brain that he could not think how to respond, what to do. This woman, this sister-in-law, this wife of Ah Teo, was proposing that, in return for her obedience, he should sleep with her. She must be deranged. He was still at a loss, his mind racing, when suddenly her hands moved between his legs and she put her mouth against him. He jerked backwards quickly, away from her.

  “Get up Lilin and stop this. You bring shame on your parents, your husband and your sister.”

  He went to the door but before he could open it, she said very quietly, “You think your dear wife, my dear sister, is so pure, eh?”

  Zhen rounded on her. “What?” he hissed.

  “Before you demand obedience from your sister-in-law, you should perhaps first see if your wife is so very obedient and compliant.”

  Zhen could not fully grasp what she was saying. His Baba Malay was much improved, but some things he did not follow. However, he understood she was accusing Noan of something.