by Dawn Farnham
The boys, all three, came rushing out, excited about the tiger, which had been goaded into action and had roared. They were chattering excitedly. Charles had remounted his horse and quickly cantered away. Charlotte smiled and thanked Abdullah, offering a seat to him and his son. It was all agreed. They would return together. The boys squashed up together, giggling and chattering in an alarming mix of bad Malay and bad English.
As the carriage departed, she opened her fan and cooled her face.
16
Charlotte dressed with particular care. She had chosen a frock of pale green and white cotton, the sleeves of cotton lace falling fetchingly along her arm. Her hat was fine straw weave with a wide, soft ribbon of green falling down the back. It was a spring gown, a young woman’s gown, she knew, and she did not care. This attraction she felt for Charles Maitland was entirely unexpected but somewhat undeniable.
The day seemed suddenly rather lovely. The wind was brisk and cooling. The sky was blue with wisps of small clouds. It was a perfect day for a ride. Today, she decided, she would drive herself. The small gharry trap was brought round. Ravi held the reins and handed them to her with a look of such utter disapproval that Charlotte could not help but smile. Her thoughts flew momentarily to Tigran, who had taught her to drive a carriage. Thank you, she thought, my darling. Can you hear me? These inner dialogues with Tigran had stopped somewhat but occasionally they just bubbled to the surface.
Ravi mounted behind her and she clucked the horses into movement, turned out of the gate and set the carriage towards Kallang. The going was firm for the most part along North Bridge Road. She proceeded along Jalan Chondong and Jalan Trang, where the road was muddy and potholed. To his evident pleasure, Ravi jumped down and guided the horse, turning by the police station onto Jalan Rochor. Here the road went over the Rochor River and turned onto Kallang Road, which was in reasonable repair. It was a short distance to the iron bridge which Coleman had built over the Kallang River. As they approached it, she could see Charles Maitland’s house on the banks of the river.
Charles was waiting by the bridge. He was dressed in fine black cotton breeches and a snow-white shirt, both of which showed his figure to some advantage. He was powerfully built; his shoulders filled the shirt, which was open at the neck, revealing a little of the dark hair on his chest. She knew he had dressed this way for her, as she had for him. He came forward immediately as she pulled to a halt and without a word put out his hands to lift her from the carriage. It was so unexpected that she had no time to protest. Her waist was in his hands and he held her firmly, lowering her slowly to the ground. His grip was so strong he moved her as if she were a mere feather. When her feet met the ground he did not release her. His hands stayed on her waist, almost encompassing it, and she felt that, one moment more and he would have taken her against him and kissed her. She looked down, embarrassed at her own feelings. Ravi had moved forward to take the reins and grunted slightly.
Charles dropped his hands, somewhat shame-faced at his boldness. There was an awkward moment. Then Charles indicated to Ravi where he could tie up the horse and turned. “Welcome to my humble abode, Mrs Manouk.”
“Kitt, please, Charles, if you don’t mind. Everyone calls me Kitt.”
“Kitt, yes, thank you.” He laughed suddenly. “Sorry, I am not much good at small talk. You may have noticed. I am a man of science. We are not very good at that sort of thing. Forgive me.”
Charlotte looked at Charles and opened her fan. A man of science who had the build of a warrior, played women on the stage, and held her in his hands like a feather. He was dangerously intriguing.
“A tour—I was promised a tour, was I not?”
“Yes, of course.” Charles turned now and led her down the path towards his house. It was a simple building, made of brick with an attap roof surrounded by coconut trees. A large verandah encircled it and to the front, brick pillars stood partly in the river, overlooking the expanse of water. Though the day was hot, it was cool, a breeze blowing off the river. Small blue kingfishers flew in and out of the jungle opposite, hovering and plummeting into the river, seeking fish. Tall grey and purple herons picked their way delicately along the far bank.
“My feathered friends,” Charles said. “I also have a family of otters for neighbours, to beguile my working hours. The work of the observatory is rather painstaking and tedious, and they are enjoyable companions.”
Charles led Charlotte off the verandah and through a small grove of trees to the observatory. It was a simple but commodious shed containing a variety of brass instruments. To one side stood a tower, some thirty feet high.
“The tower is for observing the direction and velocity of the wind. The rain gauge is there also. I have been taking measurements since I arrived in 1840, so there is a nice amount of information now.”
Charlotte realised that Charles must have arrived just before she had departed for Batavia.
They turned away from the tower and entered the observatory. Charles told her, “The aim of the observatory is magnetic observations. You see, I am but a humble spoke in a vast wheel of observatories stretching around the world. Fifty-three. Major Sabine is the leader in this research and convinced the Royal Society that there was no greater undertaking for maritime people than the measurement and understanding of the magnetism of the earth. Fortunately, the fluctuating and unreliable movements of the maritime compass, and its dangers to ocean navigation convinced the Admiralty that this was so.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Charles smiled. “Well, you see, the magnetic north pole, which the compass detects, seems to be in a constant state of movement. It alters in place and intensity. This has deep consequences on navigation of course, hence the Admiralty’s interest. Some scholars suggest that it is perhaps the earth’s own core which is responsible for this instability. The job of the magnetic observatories is to furnish measurements from all corners of the world to see if this is true. We do not know whether this magnetic variance causes changes in the weather. This would also be very useful to know.”
Charles stopped and turned to Charlotte. She had been looking at his books and charts. “It is complicated,” he said.
“No, no,” Charlotte protested. She did not understand its detail or begin to make sense of his notations, but she could see it was important. He had explained it well. “I understand that it is a great work. It will make the seas safer. It is a laudable aim.”
Charles smiled and they turned back towards the house. “It is rather tedious work sometimes of course, but one must always bear in mind the larger goal. What I record here, what others record all over the world using the same instruments and the same formulae is gathered together, and gradually we begin to understand. What we do today will benefit all future generations. In our humble way we carry on the work of such great men as Halley and Faraday. Already some of the first up-to-date world magnetic charts have been drawn up. It is, for me, a very exciting time.”
Charlotte nodded. His enthusiasm was infectious.
They walked back to the verandah. A canoe suddenly appeared on the water, filled to the brim with Bugis boys. Curious, they had come to see the white man and the woman. Charles called out to them and waved, and they all began laughing. Several jumped out of the boat and began swimming for the far shore and the others paddled madly behind them.
Charles grinned and called for tea. “These boys are the most curious of creatures. Their kampong is just around the turn in the river as you know and they never tire of coming to see me. They bring me fish and shells and all manner of things they think I am interested in. In return I give them tea and sweets and try to explain what I’m doing, which they do not understand in the least. One told me they thought I was trying to catch the moon in my tower and what a fool I must be, for I would most probably need a net.”
The two chatted in the friendliest of manners for some time. She asked Charles about his family and told him of her own life on Madagascar; the ye
ars that she and Robert were orphans in Scotland, how she had learned to sail. Charles too could sail well. Necessary, he added, for any man living in the conditions he had chosen, always in proximity to the sea. Charlotte enjoyed this verandah, with its diving and wading birds. The otter family appeared for their amusement, floating on their backs, clutching fish in their paws like small children playing.
As their conversation progressed she told him of her life in Batavia. Charles had made observations there, and she realised that at one time they had both been in that city together, yet their lives had never crossed. His intensity had floated away, and he told her amusing tales of his time with the Dutch, whose own scientific interests were barely visible.
Suddenly the Malay houseboy appeared with another young man.
“Tuan, I am sorry. Fifteen minutes.”
Charles looked up at the clock on the table opposite. “Oh dear, I am sorry, Kitt. I have to go soon. Duty calls. The time has gone so fast. And I am a man ruled by time.”
He hesitated. “You know, James Brooke is a friend, a great friend. He has asked me to come to Sarawak, to make observations. I wish very much to go.”
Charles looked at Charlotte, who was toying with her teacup, adding sugar. Really the tea was terrible, she thought. The man lived too much alone, it was obvious. No one but a Malay servant to care for him. She had not been paying attention.
“An assistant has finally arrived to continue the work here until my return. I am planning to leave in the next week.”
Charlotte looked up now. Leave, next week? she thought. When I have just met you?
“Oh, really? I see. How long will you be away?” she asked. She put the cup to her lips distractedly, then remembered and put it down on the saucer.
“Several months. There is a great deal to observe.”
“Yes, of course. Pulled thither by magnetic attraction.” Charlotte laughed lightly though she felt a constriction in her throat.
Charles looked up and smiled. He had a lovely smile, the more so because he used it so little and obviously only on those he cared for. Charlotte rose quickly. She had wanted to reach out to him, touch his hand. No. More than this, she had wanted to walk into his arms, feel them around her. Now such thoughts felt foolish.
She moved towards the door, reaching for her hat. “Thank you, Charles, for a delightful and informative visit.”
Charles bowed, suddenly distant. Charlotte turned, frowning. His attitude, so warm, even passionate, on her arrival, had cooled. She did not understand. She made her way to the carriage and climbed up, picking up the reins. Ravi, who had been half slumbering in the shade of a tree, jumped up and scrambled onto the carriage.
“Goodbye, Captain, and bon voyage.”
“Kitt,” said Charles, but she had jigged the horses into movement and before he could say anything more she set off down the road.
Charles turned and went to the verandah where her cup lay. When the Malay boy came to clean the table, Charles waved him away. What are you doing, Charles Maitland? he thought. In his mind he saw her lips on the cup and he rested his head against the back of the chair. Not again. He had been quite wrong to be so forward. What on earth did he intend by it? And now he had hurt her.
“Damn,” he said loudly and got up. He had let his heart rule him once before. It was so easy to be swept away. And what did he have to offer a woman of such beauty and wealth? He rose and walked towards the observatory.
17
Alexander ran over Thomson Bridge. This was his favourite part of the day. He was accompanied by Tarun, his syce. Tarun was an Indian-Malay man of about twenty years of age. Tarun’s job was to watch him, take him places, keep him safe and bring him home. Luckily, Alexander thought, Tarun had many friends among the boatmen on the river and in Serangoon, also in Telok Ayer, around Boat Quay and seemingly everywhere. Tarun had been born in Singapore to a former Indian convict turned boatman and his Malay wife. His mother had died of fever when Tarun was the same age as Alexander, and he had been raised by his father on the river and in Kampong Kerbau, where his father’s new woman lived, raising buffalo. His mother tongue was Tamil but he spoke fluent Malay.
Charlotte had engaged him to improve Zan’s Malay, for with the babu Zan only spoke Javanese—and not even good Javanese, but baby Javanese. It would not do here. Tarun took him to school, picked him up and together Charlotte let them wander around Singapore from two until five in the afternoon. Tarun knew that he and Alex must return home to North Bridge Road by five o’clock. That was the rule.
Charlotte had investigated Tarun carefully. He was a pleasant young man. He had married at sixteen and already had two children of his own. His father had crushed an arm in a boating accident, for the river was a dangerous place, with tongkangs and sampans constantly smashing against each other in the crush of the boats. Tarun’s father could no longer work; the woman in Kampong Kerbau had deserted him and this, the accident and the hardship, had made him old before his time. Tarun had been a boatman for a time but was very grateful that Charlotte had taken them all into her compound.
Tarun’s wife cared for his father, who could sit under the mango tree with their children, and she helped in the laundry of the house. Tarun’s own duties were not onerous, and he was paid quite generously, and his shelter and food were supplied. He had arrived in a kind of heaven and he liked Alexander very much. He took care of him as he would his own sons. When they were older, they would all roam around Singapore. This roaming was a source of hilarity in his family. The idea of paying someone to wander about was at first a source of wonder and then amusement. Of course he must also take care of the horses and the carriages and carry out gardening duties in the morning. Alex and Adam played with his sons under the mango tree and Adam too, could chatter in Malay with these boys.
Charlotte knew that Tarun did not fully understand. Charlotte wanted a man to be around Zan. His true father could not show him how to be a man, and Tigran, who would have been wonderful, was gone. She needed a man who was already a father, had fatherly instincts but was young enough to be his friend too. Zan’s Malay had become very fluent, and he had become strong and smart and independent, qualities she desired for him. She wanted him in the company of men.
When he was in the town too, he spoke to the Chinese and his Hokkien had become very good, the natural chattering abilities of a child, for he translated for Tarun who spoke no Chinese. Tarun did not trust the Chinese workers and shopkeepers in the narrow streets of the town. He knew the Indian boatmen well but even as a young child had stayed away from the Chinese.
But his orders were clear. Alexander must go everywhere in the town. One day to the Chinese quarter, one day to the Indians in Serangoon, one day to Kampong Glam and one day to Kampong Bugis by the Kallang river. On the fifth day Charlotte took both her sons out on Robert’s boat, teaching them to sail on the quiet waters around Pulau Brani.
Alexander jumped round a post and onto Boat Quay. He loved the river, loved the day spent here. Tarun would josh with the Indian boatmen. He knew them all and Alexander was deeply impressed. To know every man on the river! Such a thing. Tarun showed him how to steer the sampan, and the other boatmen encouraged him and laughed, slapping him on the shoulder till he hurt. Alexander shared their food, this spicy stuff of southern India, and chattered to them in terrible Tamil.
When he first came here he had wanted to be a boatman, to take the big tongkangs out to the ships on the harbour. Of course when he was in Serangoon, he wanted to raise buffalo, and in Kampong Glam he yearned to make boats.
But eventually it became clear to him that it was Kampong Bugis on the Kallang River that he loved most. There he wanted to be Bugis, a Rajah Laut, the king of the sea, a pirate if need be, a man who ruled the waves. Yes his favourite was the Bugis village. The men were hard and copper skinned. They handled boats like no one; they owned the sea. He loved them and strangely, they took him in and even his Indian guard.
Tarun was even more wary of
the Bugis than of the Chinese, for they were warriors. But they liked this English boy who came and sailed their boats with their own boys, who was brave and willing. And Tarun, too, was clever with boats. They had not seen this before. And the boy understood them. The Bugis language was a mix of Malay and Javanese, and here in Singapore more Malay than Javanese, and he found he could talk to them. This ability, above all, had amazed and endeared him to them. The women gave him lepat loi, glutinous rice cooked in coconut milk and wrapped in banana leaves. The men gave him a small kris which he kept concealed from his mother but which he loved like life itself.
Today Tarun had stopped to talk to a boatman, and Zan ran off to the Malay boys and their cockle-shell boats. For two doits they carried passengers across the river, and they shouted to him as he arrived, pulling him into the boat and showing him how to steer what was really nothing more than a large basket. All he could do was make it go round and round in circles, and they laughed and joshed him. Finally some customers arrived, and the boys loaded up and moved their boats swiftly away from shore.
Alex began to wander along the quay. He loved the godowns and shops here. He wished Ah Soon was here, but today his friend could not come. Each shop was a wonderland of stuffs from everywhere in the whole world. He knew geography now, knew about Scotland and Armenia and Java. And Singapore stood in the centre of his world, on the trade routes of the English ships, standing on the lip of the Straits of Malacca, of travel from India and the West, from China to the East and guardian of English trade in Southeast Asia. This town was important and he was proud to live here. He knew he had a home in Batavia but he never gave that place a thought. He had vague memories of speaking Dutch with his father but they had mostly faded.
He knew very well Mr Whampoa’s godown, an emporium of everything naval. He turned briefly to seek Tarun and saw him still talking. He knew he must not lose sight of Tarun in the busy Chinese town. Not because he was fearful but because he knew Tarun would be anxious and his mother would be angry.