The Hills of Singapore

by Dawn Farnham

  Alex watched his mother prepare for the fancy dress ball. She looked beautiful, so much better than she had for a long time. Alex, with his heightened sensibility, had realised that his mother had loved the man who had died, the man, Charles, in Sarawak. Uncle Robert had spoken of this man’s death but said no more.

  He looked with loving eyes on his mother. He had been moody and difficult, he knew. He longed to bring himself under control, but thoughts of Lian occupied his mind from morning to night.

  Charlotte finished her toilette. She had chosen to go as Cleopatra, in gold and black muslin, and the maid was putting the finishing touches to the Egyptian headdress and necklace which Jeanne had brought from her journey. Jeanne had chosen an allegorical theme and was dressed as “Spring”, with a garland of flowers in her hair and a gown of flower-printed organza. Charlotte knew Jeanne had never enjoyed herself more. Singapore offered an infinite variety of amusements amongst its European population, and this chance to meet a Prince of Pirates and the representatives of the Celestial Kingdom was too exciting.

  Charlotte picked up her fan, decorated for the occasion with rather fanciful attempts at Egyptian figures. She went out on the landing, and Alex came up to her and bowed charmingly.

  “The Queen of Egypt. Your majesty.”

  Charlotte smiled, delighted. He was so rarely of good humour lately, and she was grateful he was now. She kissed him. Adam was spending the evening with a group of young boys at the house of the Reverend Dickinson, the new vicar of St. Andrew’s Cathedral. Adam went to church with Jeanne every Sunday and even during the week. He enjoyed it, and Charlotte felt unable to discourage him, despite her own feelings. The two boys had grown apart; their interests were so divergent.

  “Will you be all right, Alex, all alone?” Charlotte asked as Jeanne came out onto the landing.

  Alex smiled and kissed his mother’s hand. “Perfectly. Have a wonderful evening, mother, Aunt Jeanne.”

  As their carriage turned out of the grounds, he went to his room. He had told Malik he would be studying, then would go to bed. He was not to be disturbed. At the first chance, he ran quickly down the stairs, out of the house and through the garden to the back gate. Lian’s aunt had said he could come this evening to talk to Lian for one hour. One hour! His heart was light as air.

  50

  The ball was a great success. The Temenggong came as one of his illustrious ancestors, whose more ancient dress seemed exactly the same as his usual one. Several Chinese merchants were dressed in various sorts of costumes from Chinese opera. The Governor and Jeannette Butterworth came as Sir Stamford and Lady Sophia Raffles, to general applause. Robert came alone as a rather bad imitation of Napoleon.

  She saw Zhen. He was dressed in the military costume of a Chinese general. It suited him. He bowed to her but did not approach.

  As the speeches were made and the champagne flowed, the band struck up, and couples came together in dance. A Staffordshire milkmaid was in the arms of a Chinese emperor, and a Bugis pirate took to the floor with Lady Godiva.

  When John Thomson came up to ask her hand for a dance, Charlotte pleaded the heat and they both sought the freshness of the garden. John had not dressed up other than to wear a rather daring red cravat. She and John were the greatest companions. They both loved to sail and often went together to the surrounding islands. Jeanne was fond of John, and he came frequently to dine and play cards. Charlotte accompanied him on his sketching excursions throughout the island.

  Ordinarily they were completely at ease with each other, but this evening Charlotte detected something uneasy in John’s attitude. He had been working under great strain in terrible conditions finishing the lighthouse on Pedra Branca, a tribute to his patience, fortitude and engineering skill.

  The last thing she had expected was his proposal. When they sat at one of the seats which dotted the garden, he had immediately fallen on one knee, and the words fell so quickly from his lips that she hardly had time to think. He was sweating, shy and filled with anxiety, she saw.

  She fanned herself. “John, you have taken me entirely by surprise,” she said. “I thank you, truly, but you must allow me some time to reflect.”

  He looked embarrassed, and she softened her voice. “Will you do that, John, allow me some time?”

  John rose and took her hand, kissing it. “Of course, dear Kitt. I shall await your answer. But please, do not make me wait too long.”

  He turned and left, anxious to be gone. This question: marriage. Again she was faced with a choice. John was a loving and wonderful man. That he would make a devoted and adoring husband was evident. That she felt nothing more than friendship for him was also not in question. Only her surprise and a desire not to hurt him had stayed her response. She would tell him tomorrow that such a marriage was impossible.

  She retreated further into the side garden of the Assembly Rooms. The night was warm, but here a pleasant breeze wafted from the river and played gently in the trees.

  “Xia Lou.”

  She turned, knowing who it was. She was glad he had come.

  “Zhen,” she said.

  “I must speak to you of Ah Rex.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Yes. Alex has been a difficult boy lately.”

  “Yes,” Zhen said and moved towards her. She retreated a step, without thinking.

  He stopped and gazed at her. She looked so well. Her health had returned. The costume she was wearing was enticing, her white bosom covered in a strange necklace. Her hair under the gold and turquoise headdress flowed over her shoulders, black as night.

  “What is this dress?” he asked, his train of thought diverted.

  Charlotte smiled. He was clearly perplexed.

  “Much like yours,” she said. “A strange copy of ancient things half-imagined. The Queen of a country called Egypt which ruled the world thousands of years ago.”

  Zhen frowned. “E-jipt,” he said. “And you are the beautiful Queen.”

  “And you a handsome and valiant general of China.”

  They both smiled, and their eyes met in a long moment of quiet tenderness.

  Zhen broke the silence. “Ah Rex is talking of marrying my daughter, Lian.”

  Charlotte stared at him. “What?” she said finally.

  “He believes he is in love with Lian. He has talked to me of this.”

  Charlotte frowned. “My son, Alex, has talked to you of marrying your daughter?”

  “Our son, Xia Lou. It is child’s talk, but he thinks he loves her. I think we must tell him that Lian is his sister. This is dangerous.”

  Charlotte said nothing.

  “Well?” he said.

  “No,” she said and looked up at him.

  “Zhen, listen. I am going to send Alex and Adam to Scotland. I have spoken of this to my aunt, and she agrees that this is the right thing to do. They will leave within a month.”

  Zhen reflected on her words. Ah Rex was an English boy, no matter how well he spoke Chinese. Perhaps this was the right thing to do. He would receive a good education. And this would surely put an end to these thoughts of Lian.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Three years,” she said. “Until after his seventeenth birthday. Then he will come back to learn the family business. In Batavia,” she said.

  Zhen dropped his head. His sadness was so palpable, she rose and went to him, forgetting everything else. Zhen loved Alex, and Alex was his son.

  She put out her hand to his arm and he took it in his. “Xia Lou, I will agree. Ah Rex is a passionate boy. I have …” Zhen hesitated. He could not tell her everything.

  “I have talked to him of these matters,” he said.

  Charlotte nodded. She suspected as much. He was a good father.

  “I am glad. He needs a guiding hand. I am quite incapable of the task.” She smiled at him in gratitude and felt the old yearning. Sense and passion, the perfect complement for a marriage. But all so impossible.

  Zhen too felt the pull to her.
He had to agree to this departure. It was wise. But he feared, suddenly, that she might go too.

  “You will stay, Xia Lou? You will not go.”

  “I …” she said “… don’t know.”

  “You must stay.” He had increased his grip on her hand. She let out a small cry, and he released her.

  “Are you not tired of this?” he said, his voice low.

  She felt the same old sensations. As if they had merely interrupted a conversation which took place not many years ago but yesterday. “I am tired of many things, Zhen. I am tired of being a widow.”

  She hesitated. “I have received a proposal of marriage.”

  To her surprise Zhen merely sighed. “I, too, am chased morning to night, to marry young girls, take wives, two or three. What can I do with them?”

  She laughed. He had said this with an air of studious annoyance.

  “Yes, two or three wives is rather a lot. We are permitted only one husband, thank goodness.”

  He smiled. He knew she was joking. He missed her, longed for her.

  “Marry me,” he said suddenly.

  She stared at him, struck momentarily dumb.

  “What, Zhen? What do you mean?”

  “Marry me. We are married by all the natural laws. But is clear that I must marry you by your English laws.” He took a step closer to her.

  “I will become a Christian and we will marry in your church. Lots of Chinese become Christians. Then I can have only one wife. You.”

  Charlotte felt the power of his will. He would do it. She had only to say yes, and he would set the wheels in motion. He was true to his word.

  Charlotte took him by the hand and led him to a seat. She was desperately trying to think. The thought of marrying him was thrilling, the first, best wish of her heart. She would have him every day and every night, companion, friend, lover. But the thought was hedged with fear. They would be considered bizarre and disgusting by some. Not, perhaps, by those she cared about. But the fear was not for herself. It was for her sons. What would be their future if their mother took this step?

  She thought of life in Batavia. The Dutch men married their native women and their offspring went to Holland and married into the great families. The English lords took their half-breed daughters from India, married them to members of the aristocracy and put their sons in Eton. Alexander and Adam were the sons of a great colonial family. They would have wealth, education and breeding. They would make their way, perhaps. But what of their marriages, and what of Robert? His sister the wife of a Chinese man. It would ruin him, bring shame on her children and his. She shook her head slightly.

  But she loved him for it. She gave up all pretence. It was the most tremendous relief, and she put his hand to her lips, thanking him. He moved closer to her, putting his arms around her, and with a deep sigh she rested her head against his chest.

  “Oh, Zhen. We cannot decide now. It is too big.”

  She felt him nod, his head on hers.

  “Sunday,” she said. The boys were going with Robert and some other men to hunt birds out at Bukit Timah. She would ask him to keep them for two days. Amber would be delighted, and Shilah would not mind.

  A group of merry revellers burst into the garden, singing. Zhen rose and stepped away from her.

  “Sunday,” he said.

  51

  They met by the shipyards on Beach Road. She had borrowed Robert’s little boat, Sea Gypsy. He had sent his pony trap to take her there and given her the seaside cottage at beautiful Katong.

  The tide was up; it was six o’clock, and they would have daylight for the trip to Katong. She had made this voyage so many times it was easy; she could have done it at night. It took only about half an hour. They would arrive at sunset. This was what she wanted: to watch the sun go down over the beach at Katong with him. She was wearing her sailing clothes—loose trousers, a shirt, leather sandals, a hat to restrain her hair. She knew she looked like a boy dressed like this. He would never have seen her like this, and the thought excited her. The driver put the boxes in the boat, provisions for the two days and two nights they would be together. She paced a little, impatient for him.

  She recognised him by his size only. He too was dressed differently, in a plain Malay baju and trousers, loose shoes, his queue wound round his head underneath a hat. She smiled as he looked around. He was nervous, she realised. Nervous about meeting her? That was not possible. Nervous about the sea? Yes, she knew he did not like boats.

  She went up behind him and put her hand quietly into his. He turned and looked down at her and forgot his nervousness at the odd sight of her, dressed like that, standing close to him. They looked like a couple of coolies, and he smiled slightly at this thought.

  They got into the boat, and two young Malay boys pushed them off. She raised the sail and caught the land wind immediately. Within a moment they were away from shore heading for Tanjong Rhu. Zhen held on to the sides grimly. This was not enjoyable. But as he saw how sure she was, how quickly she handled the sail, how smoothly the little boat skimmed across the calm sea, he relaxed and found her more than admirable. She was brave and clever, quick and lovely. Arousing, too, out of the ordinary way, in these boyish clothes. Charlotte saw him watching her, no longer nervous of the water. She smiled, a slow smile of complicity, and he looked at her, impassive as always. She knew, though, the depths of his emotions and took off her hat, letting her long black hair blow in the wind. He did not move, but she felt the intensity of his gaze like heat. Sometimes he frightened her with this gaze, and now, feeling uncomfortable, she put her hat back on her head, containing her hair.

  When they rounded the cape, they followed the coast. The sailing was easy; the sun was sinking slowly behind them; the wind was warm as breath on their skin. He looked around. He had not seen the coast of this island since the day he had arrived, years before, and he could not remember it like this. It was a rainbow, the intense turquoise of the sea, shot now with purple and pink, the white sand turning pale orange as the sun sank, the coconut palms leaning out to sea, the green jungle beyond, and then the high red cliffs hovering above, made vibrant by the sun, filled with small, high streams flowing out of the earth where deep clefts formed in the rocks. He watched the day begin to fade, fire into water, golden light into purple dusk. This time was when the earth was most in balance: sunrise and sunset—when the brightness of Yang and the dark night of Yin mingled most sweetly, transforming each into the other.

  She pointed to the shore, and he turned his head and saw a wooden cottage on stilts hiding back amongst the coconut palms. Charlotte turned the boat towards shore and lowered the sail as the boat slid silently onto the sand. Zhen leapt into the water, glad the journey was over. He pulled it higher up the sand as a small wave picked it up and beached it. He looked at Charlotte, making the boat safe, throwing out the rope to him.

  “Wait,” he said. “Wait, do not leave the boat. I want to carry you.”

  She watched him, and an old poem sang in her head from long ago, a Malay pantun she had learned when she first met him and when she had first come to this place.

  “Last night, about the moon

  I dreamt And tumbling nuts of coco palm

  Last night with you in dreams I spent

  And pillowed lay upon your arm”

  Now it was true. Charlotte felt the thrill. It was always there, even after all the time that had rolled between them—the profound thrill of waiting for his arms. He tied the boat firmly to a coconut palm. Then he took off his hat and let his queue fall. She knew he was proud of his queue. They preened themselves, these Chinese men, like cats, and loved the queues which fell, some, to their ankles. His fell almost to his knees, and he took prodigious care of it. He sometimes carried the faintest scent of some exotic pomade he used on it. He had shaved his head freshly too, she could see. What she had first thought of as odd, this half-naked head and long tail, she now found exquisitely beautiful, perfectly suited to his smooth Chinese face, revea
ling the high bone structure, his black almond eyes, his full lips.

  He took off his coat and dropped it in the sand grass. He stood in the glow of the sun, a golden god, half-naked like the idols were in the East. The tattooed god on his chest emphasised his muscled torso, the flatness of his abdomen, the narrowness of his waist. She smiled. He always knew how well he looked, but it was not vanity, or perhaps it was a little, but, more, it was to excite her, to entice her, and it did. She sat on the edge of the boat, and she put out her arms to him and he lifted her into his, wanting to feel her in them, hold her tight against him, remind her of his strength, his youthful power. She dropped her head against his shoulder, buried her face into the silky skin of his neck. Love and desire for him flooded her. How could she ever have wanted another? She took his queue in her hand, his head in her arms, kissing his neck, his cheek. He walked up the beach to the house and waited with her in his arms, savouring her, allowing his skin to remember the way it was for them, feeling the response of his body to her lips.

  He dropped her feet in the sand by the steps of the house, and they stood a moment, watching the sun fall into the embrace of the sea. Then they kicked off their sandals. There was a water jar with a ladle, and he threw water over their sandy feet. The dying sun cast a dull, ruby glow inside the house. The wind from the sea was brisk, and the verandah was cool. Mosquitos should not be a cause for anxiety, Robert had told her. Too much wind. Nevertheless the old Malay keeper had lit the sandalwood incense which wafted on the breeze.

  Charlotte followed him, her hand in his, their fingers entwined. He gripped her firmly, not wanting to let go, she knew, feeling the emotion in this grip of their hands. She knew he loved her with every part of his being the way she loved him. The way their hands felt together told her this without any words. There were rarely words.

  She had come to understand that the Chinese, like the English, simply did not speak such things. He showed her in the poetry he sent her, in the touch of his hand, in his constancy. Once she had said, “I love you”, in his language and he had looked quizzical and said, “I love you” back to her, but it was a gesture, she felt, to please her, as if the words meant nothing. The depth was in the unsaid. What had he told her about Taoism? The Tao that can be spoken is not the true Tao. It was mysterious and incomprehensible to her, but she saw it a little in this non-voicing of their feelings. “The love that can be voiced is not the true love.”