The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  He shrugged. ‘Some make good, I suppose. They say there are merchants richer than royalty who came here with nothing.’

  She detected a note of bitterness in his voice.

  He looked down at Charlotte. ‘Never fear, you will have little to do with this kind of rabble. We all stay well apart. In Singapore each race has its own living place.’

  She feared he might put a comforting hand upon her shoulder. She was, on this occasion, glad of his loquaciousness and interested in the information he had imparted, but she knew he was as addicted to the sound of his own voice as, apparently, Chinamen were to gambling. This fact, added to the sourness of his breath, made conversation with him more a trial than a pleasure. As he was about to continue, she quickly curtsied, thanked him and, wishing him good night, went below.

  Charlotte turned uncomfortably in the narrow bunk. The proximity of the Chinese ship seemed to have a physical effect on her; the air was stifling and now, so close, she was anxious to see Robert, who she knew would be waiting for her. Abandoning rest, she found her box of lucifers, lit the candle and took out Robbie’s last letter.

  Dearest Kitt,

  I have extraordinary but good news. I have been promoted from my position at Johnstone & Co in a most unexpected manner. Actually promotion is hardly a word for what has happened, as I am no longer employed by Mr Johnstone at all. In the absence of a proper police force, the state of affairs in the settlement has been worsening over the past several months, with gang attacks and robberies becoming so frequent that people dare not sleep at night. So much so that the strongest remonstrance was made to the East India Company’s officials in Calcutta. The government there has been forced to pay attention to this matter, which they’d much rather ignore. They have grudgingly agreed to the permanent appointment of a head of the police force.

  Now, my dearest sister, you must sit down, for have you not guessed it? It is I, your brother, who has been asked to take up this post, to my surprise and, I must say, delight. I had so tired of clerking. I have been told that this unusual step was taken because of the good terms I am on with the mercantile community here, both European and native, and equally because I am not a military man, clanking about in uniform and spurs. Of course, I am also affable and charming, etc., etc.

  The better news is that, while this post is not so well remunerated as I would wish, it comes with a good-sized residence. You are almost nineteen, and your education finished, and so you must come at once to live with me here in Singapore. I have written also to Aunt Jeannie that she is to arrange your passage, to be paid for from father’s inheritance. As you know, I will come into this only when I turn twenty-two, but I cannot think there will be any objection. Grandmère will most assuredly be glad to see the back of both of us, though Aunt Jeannie may be saddened. She has been as much a mother to us as she has been allowed, and I am sorry to grieve her. But there is nothing else for it. I fear to wait. Grandmère has been casting around to marry you off to some oaf or other almost since I left. Out here your prospects will be considerably better, for while your looks, as you are aware, are wanting, women of your age are as rare as hens’ teeth, and there are plenty of up-and-coming and much better oafs to choose from!

  I do not mean to alarm you with talk of gangs and robberies. We shall be entirely safe. Where safer than with the head of the police force! Singapore is a warm and healthy place and now has such elegant buildings, thanks to Mr Coleman’s splendid architecture. From the governor’s mansion on the hill to the streets of the Chinese town, everything here will delight you. Although our group of orang putih (white people) is small, yet we are a jolly band.

  Voyage safely chère soeur.

  Your loving brother, Robert.

  A steward had brought some tea. She opened the box with the robe she had kept for this reunion. After the months of this voyage, her other clothes were now practically in tatters. Everything was so difficult on board a ship, in particular la toilette. She brushed her hair and began to arrange the yellow ribbons.

  Charlotte and her brother had been raised in Madagascar, where her father ran the school and orphanage of the London Missionary Society. When the violence against white men began there, he had sent his children to his mother and sister in Scotland, his homeland. They travelled under the protection of one of the young missionaries, Father Michael, who was carrying reports back to London. He and their mother would follow soon, he had told them. She remembered her parents’ faces as she and Robert left those childhood shores: her father stoic, her mother’s face streaming with tears, too filled with misery even to wave as their tiny figures became mere specks. They had never seen either parent again. On that journey to Scotland, she and Robbie had at first cried but Robbie, bold young boy that he was, soon came to think of this as an adventure, dogging the crew and climbing about in the rigging. He grew tired of her tears. She thought her heart might shatter. Only the presence of Father Michael, endlessly patient and kind, saved her and gave her some peace.

  For a very long time she had been angry at her parents, resentful of her forced exile in this town of granite, her obligatory presence in the cold stone church where she silently cursed the god who had so indifferently robbed her of mother, father, love. Gradually, as she grew up, this feeling had been replaced with sadness and longing for what she and Robbie had missed. She no longer cursed God, for she felt that this meant that she was also cursing her mother and father, and even Michael, who had been her saviour. Though she could not find Him in her heart, she had learned a grudging appreciation for those good souls who did.

  Charlotte put down her brush and took a deep breath. Though perilous, this voyage had been happier than that childhood one so long ago. She smiled. Soon she would be with Robbie.

  The moon was still dropping from the night sky and the sun sitting below the horizon when Charlotte stepped warily onto the deck and opened her parasol. This, she felt, might accord her some measure of privacy from the eyes on the junk, but it seemed the men were still asleep, as there was no movement. She lowered the parasol. Now she could see what a mighty thing this Chinese ship was. The wood glowed red, redder as the dawn crept up the sky. The bow was a little lower than the stern, which stood fifty feet above the sea. The sails were lowered, but she could see they were a faded vermillion. The stern was square and carved with images she did not understand. Two great eyes adorned either side of the bow. An enormous rectangular keel, honeycombed with holes, hung massively in the smooth water, little eddies forming as the ship swung gently. Two anchors, fixed to the sea floor, kept the ship stationary. Pennants with strange symbols fluttered on its masts. Viewed from such close quarters, the ship was overwhelming, dwarfing the schooner on which she stood.

  ‘Crimoney!’ she whispered.

  ‘They are magnificent, aren’t they?’

  The captain had strolled to her side.

  ‘We call them junks, from the Javanese djong, I believe, which the Portuguese turned into jonc. The Chinese doubtless call them by some other name. I have seen many but never grow tired of them. For flatness of sail and handiness, their rigs are unsurpassed.’

  He traced the outline of the ship with his hand, almost a caress.

  ‘Do not be fooled by the busy superstructure. Under the water they are very sweet. The deep rudder and forefoot keep the ship windward. In the hell storms of the China Sea and on blue water, they are the finest vessels afloat, I think. But don’t tell the Admiralty.’

  Charlotte smiled. The old captain was something of a heroic figure, and she had come to admire him immensely over the long months of this voyage. Having discovered that Charlotte knew how to sail small craft, he was delighted to talk to her of nautical things.

  ‘Her passengers may find you interesting, my dear, so I think we may move a little further inshore.’

  He had heard of the incident the previous night. He liked this unusual young woman who, alone, had made the long and occasionally dangerous voyage with a quiet and gritty stoicism. In
times of need she had been helpful and unflappably useful to the other passengers. In periods of calm he often found her studying a book of the Malay language and was delighted to help her, for he had spent years in these waters and spoke it fluently.

  ‘Actually we have been signalled to go in closer and given permission to disembark.’ He pointed to the staff in the distance bristling with flags. ‘This Chinese ship will soon move round beyond the fort to unload at Telok Ayer Bay.’

  A painted bird with outstretched wings and serpentine tail feathers covered the entire surface of the stern. A fabulous creature with faded plumage of red, black, yellow, green and white, it had a curved back like the crescent of the moon, sharp eyes like the sun; those eyes watched the schooner sail smoothly round the junk.

  Now human eyes were watching too and, to her annoyance, she found herself searching to see who had called out, but the faces lining the length of the ship were a mass of brown and black. Modesty, she knew, should have sent her below, but since the schooner was pulling rapidly away, she felt bold enough to withstand the gaze of those alien eyes—even, if she were truthful, to rather enjoy it.

  ‘Kitt Macleod, you have become a hussy,’ she murmured to herself.

  The shoreline came clearly into sight. As the sun shot its opal rays over the horizon, she turned and caught her first real view of the settlement. A pang of recognition. Her breath caught in her throat. The green, thickly wooded hills, the low, red-roofed houses, the sandy shoreline and the turquoise waves, reminded her of Toamasina, the island port of Madagascar, her birthplace. She felt the breeze of this eastern isle like a welcoming kiss.

  Robert had written her amusing letters about this small settlement. Charlotte had laughed, but in between the lines she read of sad loneliness, of long nights far from her, from their deep affection for each other; she had shed tears for him. Now she smiled. This soft dawn would bring her to him and to her new home. She forgot the Chinese ship and went below to make her final preparations.

  The coolies had stirred when the schooner drew anchor, and they moved to see this sleek little ship, with its white sails, move gracefully towards shore. All hoped to catch a glimpse again of this Ch’ang O of the western seas, as she had now been named. Superstitious and afraid, they felt she might be an extra good omen in Si Lat Po, this land of no winters, of tigers, snakes and barbarians. Zhen did not step forward this time, but watched silently as the foreign woman glided past. He could see her quite clearly from his vantage point at the stern. Her dress was white, with a wide, pale gold sash. The top was tight-fitting, with a kind of puffed sleeve. She was slender. The skirts were large and of some gauzy material. She looked as if she was standing in a cloud. Her hair was long, black, like Chinese hair, held back by shining gold ribbons that floated below her waist; her features were delicate. Despite the morning heat, she looked as cool as moonlight on a river. He was surprised; he had heard that people from the Western lands were red and coarse.

  He could not make out her eyes. Then she turned and looked to shore. Within a minute she had disappeared, and the schooner grew smaller.

  Zhen grinned and turned to Qian.

  ‘Her robe a cloud, her face a flower …

  Meeting on the dew-edged roof of paradise.’

  They were lines from Li Bai’s ‘Song of Pure Happiness’. With him, Zhen carried two books. In one he had copied all his favourite poems. Waiting in Amoy for the coolie ship to leave, he and Qian had discovered a mutual love for this ancient, reckless, romantic and drunken poet and his steady and loyal friend, Du Fu. Zhen had deliberately changed ‘moon’ to ‘dew’ to give a sensual liquid overtone. ‘Playing the game of clouds and rain’ had been the poetic allusion to lovemaking between men and women since time immemorial.

  ‘Perhaps Yi will meet Ch’ang O again.’

  ‘Perhaps, but don’t forget how Li Bai ended up. Up ended, trying to capture the moon in the river, poet no more.’

  ‘Yes, but it was a fine death. Drunk on poetry and wine.’

  They both laughed, but a small tic began to twitch alongside Qian’s right eye. He knew from their long conversations that he was the Du Fu to Zhen’s Li Bai. Perhaps that was why they had formed such a strong bond. Surely he would not mix himself up with these ang mo gui, these foreign devils whom no one could understand.

  He sighed. There was always something dangerously Taoist about Zhen. He had grown to love him, though. Despite the miseries of their journey, Zhen stayed resolute and cheerful. At those times, the words of Du Fu’s ode to Li Bai came to him: ‘caught in a net, how is it you still have wings?’ When he had said this, Zhen had told him a story.

  ‘There was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbours came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said. “Maybe,” said the farmer. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbours exclaimed. “Maybe,” replied the old man. The following morning, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown and broke his leg. Again the neighbours came to offer their sympathy for his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbours congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” said the farmer.’

  They turned back into the ship. Like the rest of the poor hopefuls on board, they must ready themselves for the task of survival which loomed precariously ahead. They could see boats of every possible size and shape, flying from the shore like hornets out of a nest and racing towards them.

  Almond eyes bobbed along the water line as the sampan cut swiftly across the harbour. Charlotte’s hair was full of the wind. A mist of salty spray flew up from the bow, showering her face. She did not care. She could see the rim of low bungalows along the beach front and the big trees on the plain; the governor’s residence on the hill; the fluttering of flags on the flagstaff. The fort stood low on the opposite side of the riverbank. Then she saw Robbie, standing on the jetty and her heart leapt. She waved and Robert waved.

  In a flash she had arrived. A journey of 10,000 miles had ended in a minute. Robert pulled her from the boat and hugged her tightly, trembling from this feeling of profound happiness. Charlotte, overcome, held him too, smelling him, filling her empty places up with him, this brother she loved so well. Finally he released her, and they began to laugh. Arm in arm, they made their way into the bungalow. The rest of the day passed in a whirl of news of Scotland and the voyage, Robert’s unusual appointment and the discovery of her future home. As evening drew in, Charlotte, exhausted, prepared for bed. She went out onto the verandah, which faced the sea. A pleasant breeze cooled her face. She looked out over the roads, but the great junk had disappeared.

  1

  I found out I was a half-breed bastard when I was ten,’ Charlotte said. ‘Before that I lived in Madagascar, where I suppose everyone was a half-breed bastard of one sort or another and no one had the slightest idea.’ She laughed lightly. ‘What a lovely house you have, Miss Manouk.’

  Charlotte’s hostess smiled.

  ‘Alamah, for goo’ness sake, don’ be silly-billy, my name is Takouhi. I too am so-called half-breed, although no one can call me bastard, since my father and mother marry. He, Armenian Dutchman. She, Javanese. It is like this in the world, I think, but George tell me not like that in England. George say maybe no half-breeds in England, but lot of bastards. He is Irishman, so I think he know this. Sometimes I don’ understand what George say.’

  She pronounced his name softly, like the French. This was said in the gravest of tones but broadest of smiles. English was not her favourite language, though she enjoyed some of its colourful expressions.

  ‘My parents, too, were married,’ Charlotte went on, ‘but that did not make any difference to my Scottish grandmother. My mother was mixed blood. A pirate father, French, and a
Creole mother from Mauritius, so she told us. Everybody was so mixed up on the island. My grandmother was ashamed of us, it was as simple as that.’

  The three da Silva girls sat, wide-eyed, silently listening to this conversation. They did not know where this Madablasta place was, but it didn’t matter. They had no idea where America was, or England. India, Java, China: all mysteries. Mr Coleman had told them that Ireland was the biggest country in the world, inhabited by green folk, that he himself had been green but had faded after a long absence from those shores. Their exasperated father had assured them that this was just one of Mr Coleman’s jokes. Everyone in Singapore was from somewhere beyond their horizon. They were used to it.

  Boldly, the youngest, Isabel, ventured, ‘How is that possible, Miss Macleod? Since you are her granddaughter, she must love you, surely?’

  For the Misses da Silva, any new addition to their meagre acquaintance was welcome, and Charlotte, freshly arrived from Europe, was an object of benign curiosity. Gossip formed the central pillar of their lives in this small settlement, and a fresh source was too good to resist. Their own father had been widowed often, and their lives in a house full of brothers and sisters from several mothers were full of occasional rancour but more often of raucous ‘ affection. Isabel and her twin sister, Isobel, whose mother was English, were light-skinned, light-haired and blue-eyed. The elder sister, Julia, was a shade darker in every way: skin, hair and deep brown eyes. Her mother, a mixture of Portuguese and Indian blood, had died when she was five.

  Charlotte smiled at the three girls. Julia was twenty, pretty and quiet. She was soon to be married to Lieutenant Sharpe of the Madras Native Infantry, which was permanently billeted in Singapore. Isobel and Isabel had had the bad luck to resemble their mother, who sat, rather squatly, by their side on the wide sofa. Charlotte could not know it then, but almost no sign of the aquiline good looks of da Silva père had been passed on to them. They were all, however, so friendly and agreeable, and Charlotte was happy to like them all very much.