by Dawn Farnham
She gripped his hand a little tighter, and a feeling of weakness flowed, a looseness in her limbs, as if love for him robbed her of energy, permitting a laying-down of her whole being into his hands. Was this the essence of love, this giving-up of one’s self utterly into the hands of another? How much trust there was in this act! Yet she could do it with him, and he with her. There would be no hurry tonight; it would go very slowly, she knew. He would make it slow, waiting, savouring. It was his art, this slowness, his gift to her and himself.
Even as she thought this, she felt the beat of her blood, the sexual longing beginning, the pressing need. Her mind wanted this slowness, but suddenly her body did not. It had been too long. The desires this man had awakened in her she had half-buried for the years of her widowhood, but now, with him here, they flooded her. As they reached the verandah, she ran her hand down his queue, touched his back and he turned. She pulled herself into him, winding her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against his chest. He dropped his lips to her neck, kissing her, small kisses, the length of her shoulder, into her neck, under her ear. She dropped one hand, down, between his legs, feeling for him, wanting to feel this hardness. She groaned, and he stayed her hand, holding it there, not allowing her to move it as he knew she wanted to. He felt her urgency.
He made a decision. She was unprotected, the oil of neem in the boat. He would bring her to orgasm safely and then she would relax. He released the cord and let his pants slither down to the floor. He let her touch him now. He felt her deep arousal in the drooping of her body against him, the weakening of her grip on his neck. He took her waist in his arm, supporting her, and put his hand against her, gripping her, and she moaned a deep moan and began to tremble so much he knew he needed to do this quickly. He picked her up and took her inside the house, through the netting to the bed, pulling off the trousers and throwing them to one side. She took his hand and put it between her thighs, eyes closed, willing him.
She was so ready that the moment his fingers slid inside her she burst, drenching his hand, arching her back and coming again. Even that was not enough, and he knew she was in an unstoppable place; it was out of her control. It was inflaming, and he felt the throb deep inside his own body, overtaking his mind. Every other thought left him but the imperative to be with her. She exploded again as he slid into her, hot liquid gushing from her, her hips grinding against him. He took her body in his arm, pulling her into him, his lips on her throat and mouth, her legs gripping him. Wave on wave came from her. They both moved now, almost unconscious of each other, lost in physical need. Despite all his experience, he knew he would not hold on, her desires too great, his love for her too great, the feel of her against him too great, and as he had that dim thought, he flooded into her, roaring, black as night, head filled with stars, lost to everything but this moment of ecstatic oblivion. He raised his head and drew a great breath of air into his lungs, breaking the surface from the depths, craving air.
Even as the light returned to his brain, he felt her spasm again and heard her fevered moans, his name on her lips. She had waited for him too long. They had both waited such a very long time. He continued to move, his hardness returning almost instantly through this unstoppable desire for her, waiting for her to be sated, and when he felt her tenseness subside, her legs relax round his waist, he withdrew and began to rub her, moving his fingers lightly, bringing her down, kissing her lips softly until she responded, pulling his head to hers, sinking into his kiss. The final orgasm was light, a ripple, a sigh, and he knew it was over.
He pulled her tight against him, moulding his body to hers, wrapping his legs around her. Nothing felt like this. Only she made him feel this way.
He thought it had only been a moment but when he opened his eyes again, the red-gold light had gone and a faint rose hue was beginning to filter through the shutters. She lay against him, entwined in his arms; they had slept all night just like this. He couldn’t believe it. A small panic rose in his chest. They had slept all night. They had wasted this time together. But he did not let her go. He had wanted to take all night, make love to her all night. Now it was almost morning. He looked down at her face, beautiful, resting against his chest, her hair falling wildly around her cheeks and shoulders, and saw the look of pure peace, of quiet repose, and realised that this had been right. The pure spontaneous release of the Tao, the coming together, the letting go.
He closed his eyes and went to sleep. When next he opened them, she was not in his arms. She was on the verandah, talking to the Malay woman from the kampong. He lay, waiting for her, cool in the strong, salty morning breeze which came through the shutters standing ajar and through the open door. Xia Lou, Xia Lou; it was like the soft swishing of the waves on the shore. He knew how to say her hard English name, this “Charlotte”, but he did not like it and never used it. He heard the gulls wheeling and calling and then the sound of her feet softly on the creaky wooden planks. He pretended to be asleep, waiting for her to approach, his eyes closed, the anticipation of it suffusing him with pleasure. He knew she had stopped at the bedside, gazing at him. Her long black hair hung tangled around her ivory shoulders, over the slope of her breasts. Her lips were parted, her white teeth showing slightly, her eyes like an evening sky, languid. He did not have to open his eyes to know the look in hers; he had dreamed her too often. He lazily opened his hand, and she realised and laughed. She moved onto the bed, into his arms, better than a dream.
“The old woman is here. She is making breakfast. Coffee and tea, fried fish and rice, coconuts, papaya and mangoes.” She caressed his cheek and kissed his ear, softly, whispering. “She will leave it in the kitchen. She will be gone in fifteen minutes.”
She saw him smile, eyes closed, the faintest smile, a mere turning-up of the corner of his mouth, and snuggled against him, her arm across his waist, holding his queue in her hand, his hand in her hair. They had one day and one more night. Last night had released all the tension coiled deeply inside her for years. Now they could go slowly.
Time flies, wasn’t that what was said? “Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.” She forgot the words exactly. But it wasn’t like that. It was as if time slowed. Every moment, every gesture, slowed down so that she could record it clearly on her mind. Not all of it, just tiny moments, captured. The drip of the mango juice from his lips, kissing those lips covered in the juice, unable to stop herself rising from the table and going to him, he taking her on his lap and covering them both with sweetness, releasing her sarong, dripping mango on her breasts, moving his lips over her, down her body. And later, all the stickiness from the fruit, from their own juices, rinsed away in the sea. Sleeping then together, in the hammock, under the coconut palms.
Walking, there was a walk, along the beach, but she could not remember much of that, only holding his hand. They bathed in the freshwater stream which fell from a high, steep cleft in the hill, a clear and cooling waterfall, washing each other free of salt and sand, kissing, unable to stop kissing, as water tumbled around them.
Then, suddenly, it was night and they made a fire on the shore. The Malay couple came with fat, freshly caught fish and rice, spiced crabs, pickled vegetables, sambal, water and lemon oil to burn. They all sat for a while and talked as the fish cooked on the fire, inhaling this delicious aroma, she translating for Zhen from time to time, her Malay better than his, the sparks of the fire cracking, shooting small red fireworks into the dark night air.
She was not sure what this Malay couple thought of them, a white woman and a Chinese man. They made no sign that it was even unusual, but she knew the Malay nature a little, its quiet grace, its circumspection. The old woman had smiled, her teeth gapped and brown, her mouth red with the betel chewing. We grew up here, she said, pointing at the old man, wiry and fit-looking, but with a bent back and blind in one eye. Charlotte knew Robert had engaged them to care for the cottage for they were too old for anything else.
We grew up and married here, she said. So long ago we ma
rried. Long before the white men came. When the island was ours. Her mother and father were orang suku laut—sea tribe people. She had been married to this man at thirteen, when he was fourteen. He was from the land people at Kampong Siglap. They had ten children and too many grandchildren to count. Young then, old now, she said and looked at the old man, and they both laughed.
Before they moved off down the beach, the old woman said,
“Asam di gunung, garam di laut,
bertemu dalam satu belangah.”
“Spice of the mountain, salt of the sea,
meet in one cooking pot.”
Charlotte understood. It was a kind thing to say and she knew the old woman at least sympathised with them, with their youth, their love. She saluted her, both hands raised to her forehead. Zhen too had understood and came and curled her into his arms to watch the embers die, swirling in the sea breeze.
That night was surprising in many ways. In her wish to please him, she asked him to tell her how. There were many things that, for love and fear of losing her, he did not dare raise with Xia Lou, but now, he saw her sensuality was completely open, and he showed her the ways of love learned from the old pillow books.
It was a night of revelation, a deeper discovery of each other after so many years of knowing each other, sometime humorous, for she occasionally found his Chinese application to the task and air of seriousness amusing, and he was infected by her lightness and laughed too, and the sea wind blew across their skin.
When they arrived back at the beach at Kampong Glam, she did not know what to say to him. As she tied up, he got out of the boat and waited for her. They had kissed goodbye before they left, a lingering kiss, soft and deep. She was enclosed in his arms, the sure hardness of him, protective, loving, soon to be lost, and she had trembled. She had felt him trembling too. It was so unusual that she had pulled him to her, hard, trying to get inside him and make it go away.
Then she had sailed the boat with his arms around her, neither able to abandon the other for the few moments left to them. He had forgotten any fear, his trust in her complete, and enclosed her waist in his arm, holding her tight against him as she raised the sail, so tight she had to protest, but loving his hold on her, winding her arm behind her, round his neck pulling him close. The whole journey he kept his arm around her waist, his hand on hers on the tiller, his lips on her neck as the sun rose slowly behind them. They sat quietly together, cheek to cheek, skimming over the rose-hued waves. They had agreed not to meet again, not for a while. It was too dangerous.
They gazed a moment at each other, and then he turned and walked away quickly up Sultan Road, leaving her to go to Robert’s house, which stood on the corner of Middle Road and Beach Road. It was not far. She did not care who saw her dressed this way, alone. She sailed often—let them think what they wished.
She changed in the bedroom there, which Robert kept for her and the children. Shilah was not here. She had timed her arrival knowing that Shilah was teaching at Miss Grant’s school. She knew very well that Shilah would not have made the slightest comment—Shilah herself had endured much. Still, Charlotte was not yet ready to share this. Her Chinese lover. A lover she now knew, that she could not ever give up, for their bodies and souls fitted together.
She fixed her hair in the mirror and put a little colour to her lips and saw him reflected back in the eye of her mind. She knew she had to make a decision.
She left, putting up her parasol, and walked slowly back to her home on North Bridge Road.
52
The next month was full of drama. Jeanne received a proposal of marriage from Martin Macallister and after due consideration refused him. When Alex had heard of the voyage to Scotland, he had retreated into silence. Adam was delighted and could not wait to go. And Charlotte found she was pregnant.
She stood before the mirror, her hand on her waist. Inside lay Zhen’s child, another child of his. But this one she could not, would not, hide from him or the world.
Jeanne was standing at the window of the bedroom, gazing down at the street. Charlotte knocked lightly, and her aunt turned and smiled. She wiped her brow with her handkerchief. Charlotte knew that Jeanne suffered from the heat.
“Aunt, will you not regret your decision?” Charlotte asked.
Jeanne held out her hands to her niece and smiled broadly. “Nay, lass. The whole matter was rather outlandish, I’m sure you agree. And what could be the purpose of such a union? No children of course at our age, and him bound to live in Asia. I confess I find it too hot, my dearest child. I could not abide it. The attachment is not deep. We shall both survive it.”
Jeanne put her head to one side and raised her eyebrows slightly. “It was flattering though, I must confess. I had forgotten how giddy a man’s attentions can make us.”
Charlotte laughed.
“I shall miss you, but I shall be glad to entrust Alexander and Adam to you. They shall be no trouble.”
“Nay, nay, of course. No trouble. Your wee lads are angels, aye they are. You’ve given me a great gift, a great trust. To see them both safely back to Scotland and in college, that’s a joy. They remind me of Robbie when he was a lad.”
Jeanne stood up and went to her drawer and began removing some garments, laying them on the bed. The maid was to pack her trunk later in the afternoon.
“I love you both, you know it, aye? You and Robbie, like my own.”
Charlotte went to Jeanne and put her arms around her aunt’s shoulders, resting her cheek against hers.
“We are your own, Jeanne. Without you we should have perished. Oh, not bodily perhaps, but in every other way that matters. You were the rock we clung to, and you never let us go, not once.” Charlotte felt tears rise and hugged her aunt to her.
Jeanne released Charlotte slowly. “Aye, aye, there. We shall be very fine. ’Tis a pity you’ll not come with us, but never mind. Alex has already told me exactly how he is to take care of me and Adam during the voyage. We shall have the protection of Frank and Harriette McDougall, who are returning home for leave. They shall be excellent companions. And I have to confess, my sweet Charlotte, I shall not miss this heat.”
Charlotte wiped her eyes. She smiled, but somewhat ruefully. She had lied to her aunt. There was no reasonable reason why she should not go with them all back to Scotland. No reasonable reason, only the exigency of this pregnancy and its secrecy, her own desire not to leave Zhen. She was very glad that the McDougalls would accompany Jeanne and the children. Harriette was the most excellent of women and a loving mother, and Frank the bravest and most chivalrous of men.
Jeanne could see Charlotte was affected and touched her niece’s arm reassuringly. “The boys shall be great companions. We shall see the pyramids together and ride a camel and travel like the pashas of Egypt in the luxury you’ve paid for. Are you sure you can afford it, Charlotte?”
Charlotte laughed a long peal of delight. “Afford it? Oh Aunt, that is quite enough. Have you not understood that I am the richest woman in the Indies?”
“So you say, so you say. But first-class berths on the steamers cost a pretty penny, eh? And private carriages and accommodations for everyone.”
Charlotte put her arm through her aunt’s and led her towards the door. “Come and have some lunch.”
At lunch, Alex contemplated this new situation. He must go to Scotland. He saw the reason of it. He wanted to go to college. He wanted to become a man, able to fend for himself and care for a family. In a way, he wanted to see the world. The great world outside Singapore. And Lian would not be married until she was sixteen. She would be free when he returned to claim her, no longer a boy.
He had spoken to Lian and her aunt. Lilin had not been pleased, but she had encouraged them to write to each other. When he returned, he would claim her.
Lilin had left them alone. He had taken Lian’s young, sweet body in his arms and held her, and she had put her arms around his neck and put her cheek on his, and they had not moved, imprinting this memo
ry in their minds. Then he had kissed the palm of her hand and promised to return to claim her. He had brushed the tears from her lovely cheeks and put his lips to hers. A chaste kiss, but filled with promise. A kiss he could dream about for three years.
53
“Well, sister, so we shall both be a disgrace, the scandalous Macleods of Singapore.” Robert smiled at Charlotte, and she laughed.
“So it would appear. But happy, Robbie, at least.”
Robert nodded. Charlotte had told him of her pregnancy and her decision. She poured Robert more tea. They were in the garden of her house, under the deep shade of the tembusu tree. They were waiting for Zhen. Charlotte was determined, now that her decision was made, that Robert, at least, must acknowledge Zhen. Neither she nor Robert could mix socially when they were with Shilah or Zhen; they were very much in the same boat. But they could all be with each other, enjoy each other.
“I like him, Kitt, you know. Always have. He is a good fellow, his dealings with the kongsi notwithstanding.”
Charlotte put down her cup. There was one more thing Robbie must know, and she steeled herself to tell him.
“Robbie?” she began and hesitated.
Robert looked at his sister. Her lip was trembling slightly, and he frowned.
“What, Kitt? What is it? Are you unwell?”
Charlotte smiled and took his hand. “No, no,” she reassured him. “I have something difficult to tell you.”
Robert laughed and ran his hand through his sandy hair. “Something more difficult than the fact that you are pregnant by a Chinese man and plan to live with him openly before the eyes of his community and ours? What on earth could be more difficult than that?”