The Hills of Singapore

by Dawn Farnham

  He gripped her arms and shook her. Then he saw the look of sexual longing in the droop of her eyes and let her go. Lilin picked up her embroidered bag from the floor and straightened up.

  “Ask Noan why she is not pregnant after three months. Ask her what the herbs are in the old kamcheng pot in the kitchen,” she said as she pushed past him.

  He let her go. He would have to deal with her tomorrow. And he would speak to Ah Teo, this man who could not control his wife. He felt a leaden resentment towards Ah Teo for putting him in this position. Zhen had no desire to be the ruler of this house, though he knew it was his duty. What bad luck had struck him, to have such a fiend under his roof.

  And now Noan. Could it be true, that she was deceiving him? He felt a small pain in his mind. He would have sworn on all the gods that Noan was incapable of deception, of such a dereliction of her duty to bear children, to give him a son, to give her father posterity. These months in her bed, his own wishes put to one side. His bad temper became worse as he thought of it, and he left the room and took the stairs two at a time, back to their bedroom.

  She was still sleeping quietly when he entered the room. He lit a candle and went to the bed. She was curled up towards the wooden wall of the back of the bed and he could not see her face. He knelt next to her and shook her, and she woke suddenly, alarmed and frightened, and looked about her. When she saw him, she laughed in uncomprehending, nervous relief. He could see she was trembling. He had scared her. Zhen felt a cold calmness descend on him.

  “Noan, three months and still no pregnancy. Tell me about the herbs in the kamcheng pot.”

  Noan looked at him, her eyes wide and filled with fear. Her lip began to tremble. “How …?” she stuttered and began to cry.

  “It’s true, eh, you have been deceiving me. Not just me but your father and mother too, to whom you owe everything, every duty.” He put the candle on a small table.

  “I …” she began. He waited. She wanted to tell him of her love for him, this endless desire for his presence, for the passion she had for him. She wanted to tell him that there would be a son, many sons, if only she could have him for a bit longer for herself. She wanted to tell him how she longed to share his life, his secrets, his pain, his desires. She wanted to be his wife in every way. But there were no words. She hung her head.

  He looked down at her. “I will go now. You will destroy these herbs, stop taking them. I will come back in one week, for three nights. If you are not pregnant by the end of this month I will not come again. I will suppose you barren and must think of taking a second wife. Do you understand?”

  Zhen did not wait for her reply. He turned and left, anxious to be gone, away from this house. He felt a moment of sorrow at treating Noan in such a way. She was a sweet, timid woman and he liked her, but he could not put up with this deception. It was impossible. He guessed her reasons. He was well aware of her passion for him. He could not return it nor had he any need to. These were not the requirements of his marriage. He forgave her but he had to scare her. His threat to take a second wife was hollow, for the last thing he wanted was another woman, but he hoped it would shock her.

  Noan turned and buried her face into the bolster. She began to cry. To lose him? The thought was unbearable. He had been so severe. How had he found out? Then she forgot this question as her body shook with sobs. She was guilty—what did it matter how he knew? He was right. She would destroy the herbs. He would come back; he would come back, but only for three nights. She began to tremble. A second wife! Her greatest fear. She must have a son. She turned on her side and pulled her knees to her chest and scratched her arms, which felt suddenly as if they were on fire.

  9

  Lilin looked at her sister over the kitchen table. She could see that Noan was quite miserable this morning. Usually, after a night and morning with Zhen, she was radiant. When she knew Zhen was in the bedroom Lilin listened in the robing room, heard them talking, heard Noan’s moans. It made her half-crazed with desire. She had grown to hate Noan. Lilin could not understand how this plain little toad had got Zhen. Lilin was the beauty; he should always have been hers.

  She rose and went to her sister, patting her on the arm. “What is the matter big sister? You look unwell.”

  Noan did not raise her head. She had, after furious thought and bouts of crying, come to the conclusion that only Lilin could have told Zhen. Only she would dare address Zhen in such a straightforward and bold way. Lilin was out of control; everyone knew it. Noan had been told that Zhen was coming to dinner tonight expressly to speak to Ah Teo.

  Noan was pounding lemongrass, shallots and chillies in a large stone pestle and mortar, and the smell of bruised and pungent spices filled the air. She was making a favourite of Zhen’s: belachan clams. She would add galangal, blue ginger and much less belachan shrimp paste than for her father, for Zhen liked it less sour. Both sisters should be enjoying this time together, cooking for their husbands. Lilin was supposed to make a favourite dish of Ah Teo’s, but she had not bothered with any of this for years. Occasionally Lilin supervised the maids as they cooked dishes she liked, but other than that she rarely set foot in the kitchen. She liked to be out of the house and would disappear for hours to the market. The maid often came home with the shopping alone, though, and Noan had long since stopped thinking about what her sister could be up to. But now Lilin had interfered in Noan’s business, in her husband’s.

  “Leave me alone,” she said and continued pounding. This morning she had burnt the herbs in the kamcheng pot.

  Lilin sat down again. “What is the matter, what have I done?”

  Noan looked up from her task, stopped pounding and gripped the pestle. She threw a look of such dislike at Lilin that Lilin was taken aback and rose quickly and left the kitchen. Noan returned to pounding, taking her anger out on the chillies.

  Lilin went through the central courtyard and glanced into the pond where goldfish were flitting. The mid-morning sun was slanting into the open-air well. She loved this place, with its cool tiles and great pots of bamboo and plum. She had been born in this house, her father’s, confined here at twelve to prepare herself for a husband. She had studied the cooking, the beading and embroidery just like Noan. Everyone had remarked on her sewing skills. Everyone had said how lovely she was. She had made herself ready and then she had seen Zhen go not to her but to her drab sister. And she had been served up with Ah Teo, clever and thin. His legs were like spindles, his shoulders bony, his chin sharp and pointy. He had terrible skin and was useless in bed. Every day Zhen was before her eyes, tall, muscled and handsome, prodigious, she knew, sexually prodigious.

  Ah Teo had produced a pillow book. Even now she could find delight in the ridiculous sight of him in his nightgown with his stick legs emerging, clutching a book of sexual positions which, she supposed, she was meant to assume. Unfortunately, his member was not up to the task and she had laughed until tears streamed down her face. He had not returned for many weeks. Eventually, she knew, they must do it, and she had let him plant his disgusting seed inside her. She had become pregnant. For months she had found a great and unexpected happiness. And she had given birth to a son, the first grandson of the Tan family. She had outdone her sister, who had only been able to manage two girls. This boy, this son and grandson, what happiness had this event caused. She had been feted, praised and adored. She had even found a momentary affection for Ah Teo.

  And then, at three months, he had fallen ill, this tiny boy, and died. The world of the household came crashing down. A pall had lain over the family for a long time. In the wake of her grief, Lilin had simply thrown caution to the wind.

  Ah Teo had ceased to come to her and soon she had met the English trader in the market place. One day she had sent the maid home with the shopping and gone with him to his house. She couldn’t speak a word of English nor he a word of Chinese, but he was big, well-built and knew what he was doing—speech was unnecessary. He treated her like a whore, and she liked it, couldn
’t wait for the feel of his rough hands on her skin, holding her, making her do things she hardly knew she liked. Threats and money had kept her maid silent, and she had met him on and off until he left Singapore. She had had one abortion and had got a disease from him, lin bing, a yellow pus disease. She had been terrified, but her maid had got herbs from the medicine shop, and it had gone away eventually. She knew she was probably scarred inside and there would never be any children.

  Through the trader and others after him, she had learned English. This knowledge she kept secret, but she could easily understand when Zhen and Ah Teo spoke together in English which they sometimes did.

  The lack of sons had been a subject of enormous discussion. Noan seemed to have difficulty conceiving and Lilin knew the reason. Her father had recently proposed adoption of a boy for both Zhen and Ah Teo, so anxious was he for the matter of posterity to be settled. That or take on new wives. There was no need for Noan to be so annoyed. She was breaking all the rules. She well knew her only job was to bring forth sons. As for Ah Teo, if he wanted a second wife, good luck to him.

  Lilin looked at herself in the mirror. She was just twenty-one years old but she felt, sometimes, like an old woman. She was still lovely, her skin fine and fair as a candle, for which she had been nicknamed. She applied the faintest touch of rouge. Last night she had been with the Frenchman who was, she could see, rather in love with her. He was a romantic, this Gaston, old and wealthy. When she was available, she sent a note with her maid and they walked to Commercial Square, where he had a covered carriage waiting to take her over into the European town, to his hotel, The London Hotel, which stood on the corner of High Street and the Plain.

  Mrs Gaston and his children were in France for a year at least, if they returned at all. Lilin knew that some European women could not stand the sun and heat and left. At the hotel she had her own room furnished in French style. Gaston gave her European gowns, make-up and jewellery, and she was his jewel. She could speak English and nobody in the Chinese town, least of all her father, suspected her of being there. Gaston had no inkling whose daughter she was. Her father and mother were far away on River Valley road. Usually, Ah Teo and Zhen came to the house in Market Street only to eat.

  She had quickly discovered the separation of the two towns. Chinese merchants might meet up occasionally with English merchants at balls and dinners but otherwise never came to this side of the river. All Gaston’s staff were Indian or Malay, even the cooks. If Gaston expected Mr Whampoa or a party of Chinese, she simply did not come. She knew everyone there thought she was a common whore, like the other Chinese girls who came to the men at the hotel, but she did not mind in the least. After all, in most senses she was. But Gaston knew she was not like them, attached to an ah ku house. He knew she was different, but he asked no questions and protected her.

  With Gaston she was free. She learned to drink French wine and smoke a cigarette. She could do what she wanted. His body on hers later was a small price to pay, for she liked him. He was a tender man. He had been an actor, sang French songs and made her laugh.

  Now she was idle. She was slightly anxious at Zhen’s discovery of her last night. But, after all, what could Zhen and Ah Teo do? What possible course of action was open to them? She speculated that they would try to bully and intimidate her, but what did she care? Ah Teo was never at home to watch what she did. It would be horribly inconvenient for him when he’d rather be with his whore. Zhen too could not watch her every moment. Would they lock her up? The idea was ludicrous. Lilin knew that her father and mother would not want her in the house at River Valley Road, where there would be bad feeling and arguments. Her father was busy with his new concubine and second family. No, they would do better just to leave her alone. She rather wished now that she had not told Zhen. What did she care if Noan never got pregnant? It had been impulsive—but she had done it to get revenge on him, to shock him. And she had. She shook her head and smiled. No, there was nothing they could do.

  She heard a child cry. It was Lian—Lotus Flower—Zhen’s second daughter, her niece. She was five years old and the prettiest little girl. She reminded Lilin of herself, and she had a soft spot for this child. She still thought of her little son, such a lovely boy, though she knew she should not. A dead son was like a curse on a house, forgotten instantly, disposed of quickly and without ceremony. But in her heart she still held him dear and though she knew she should not, she sometimes went to the temple and lit incense and said a prayer for him.

  She went along the landing and saw Lian being rocked by the maid. She had fallen and bumped her head. Lilin went up and took Lian into her arms. Her mouth was a little pink bud and her hair a long, black shining tail. Lian hugged her aunt. She rocked Lian and kissed her gently on the cheek.

  Noan had come when she heard the cry and now contemplated her sister and her daughter. She was still angry but the sight of Lilin with Lian softened her heart. Lilin had lost her only child, a son. Though the house could not mourn, the women did. Noan, as a mother, had felt the dreadful importance of this loss. Now, she suddenly felt ashamed. She should have been pregnant now with Zhen’s son. He was right; she had a duty to her father, to her husband. Only a son could bring posterity and eternity to the family. Only a son could honour Zhen. Her selfishness was unforgiveable. She went up to Lilin and touched her daughter’s head. She could see Lilin’s love for this particular child.

  “Younger sister. Will you not try to have another child? I know you do not care for your husband but perhaps …”

  Without answering or even looking at Noan, Lilin passed Lian into her sister’s arms and walked quickly from the room.

  10

  Charlotte sat in the new public library of Singapore in the west wing of the Institution. She was waiting for Alexander’s class to finish. She rose and went to the window and looked down over the gardens. The breeze moved the tender leaves of the trees in the garden, flickering sunlight on the ground. She glanced through the book in her hand. Oliver Twist, by Mr Dickens, a man she approved of wholeheartedly in his recently reported support for the abolition of slavery.

  She heard her name called and turned her head to see a face she cared for very much. It was the Munshi Abdullah and he was grinning from ear to ear. She had been his most enthusiastic pupil, enjoyed learning Malay and talking about poetry. Now she rose, and he took her hand and shook it enthusiastically. She curtsied very low. She was delighted to see him.

  He was unchanged: the same coppery skin with the very white teeth. The same kindly eyes with the squint. The same melodious tones. He spoke superb English, was a devout Muslim but worked tirelessly with Benjamin Keaseberry, improving his Malay skills, assisting him at his school by the Rochor River and at the Malay School in Telok Belangah, which his own sons attended. He translated biblical texts and the gospels for Benjamin’s Mission Press on Commercial Square. He had been Raffles’s scribe and knew everything about the establishment and growth of Singapore.

  When she told him she was waiting for her son, he laughed and said he would wait with her. He would like to meet her boy. His own children, four boys, were well, the eldest ones good students. Charlotte knew he had lost his daughter when she was merely eight and his wife, in childbirth, a few years later. He was Malacca born and bred. After the death of his wife and daughter he could not bear to stay in the house, which had too many memories. He had sold up everything and now made his life in Singapore, where he was esteemed and sought after as a teacher and a scholar.

  Together he and Charlotte wandered slowly towards the opposite end of the Institution where the boys had their classes. The centre of the building was occupied by a small girls’ school. “I have been busy,” he told Charlotte, “on Benjamin’s encouragement and John Thomson’s, writing my memoirs. I have chosen to write them in the Malay vernacular. Benjamin agrees that is the most lively and I have a certain pretension to be the first such author.”

  Charlotte smiled. “How wonderful, Munshi. You have such
a lot to tell. The years of Malacca, the life of Raffles and Olivia, the birth of Singapore.” Charlotte could see the pride he had from talking of this work. The Munshi was the most unusual Malay she had ever met. His mind was wide and receptive; he sought the knowledge of the Enlightenment with a thirst that distinguished him utterly from many of his compatriots, at least any that she had ever met. She knew of his critical analysis of the Malay ruling class and its despotic and feudal concept of kerajaan, which squashed initiative and concentrated power into the hands of the Rajah. This is what the British called Malay laziness, this keeping down of the people, their lack of schools, which kept the people ignorant and fearful. This the Munshi could not abide.

  These were ideas her own mind had grappled with in Java. The Munshi admired the English for their organisation and their liberalism. Not for their power, but for the way they administered power. His admiration stemmed from what he perceived as their rational thinking, purged of religious superstition. He sought for his own people those fruits, but she was certain he was a man ahead of his age. To speak to her, a woman, of these things: this alone set him apart.

  As they talked, a bell rang, and within a few minutes Charlotte saw Alexander, wandering along the corridor, chattering gaily to a very slight Chinese boy. Alex was so well built and tall for his age that the Chinese child looked tiny. When Alex saw her, he smiled, a light in his eyes, and her heart constricted. She loved him so much. He came up to her and put his hand in hers. Then, with all the dignity of his seven years, he bowed to the man his mother was talking to and introduced his small friend, Sang Ah Soon, asking to be introduced to the Munshi. Abdullah was delighted and smiled at the boy. When he found the Munshi was a Malay gentleman and an English scholar, he composed himself very tightly and said,

  “Selamat tengahari, nama saya Iskandar.”

  Abdullah beamed and Charlotte laughed. Zan had Malay and Hokkien classes and he was learning very quickly.