by Dawn Farnham
Their own washing and waste cubicles were situated at the back of the verandah. Washing consisted of a large earthenware pot of water, kept filled by Aman from the bullock carts which plied a constant trade around the town and drew the water from the reservoirs made from the springs on the riverside of Bukit Larangan. The governor’s residence stood low on the top of this hill. The porous earthenware, constantly covered by a wooden lid against mosquitoes and other pests, kept the water cool and fresh. When it rained, they used the water gathered in two large containers beside their quarters. The front verandah extended out on brick posts over the water, which at high tide lapped and gurgled under their feet. A short jetty jutted off the verandah. At the back were two large, handsome angsana trees and a pretty grove of prickly-trunked nibong palms. To the west was the fort, the river and the Chinese town and to the east, a view along the seafront and out over the harbour and the roads. It was not Miss Manouk’s magnificent residence, but Charlotte loved it just as well.
Especially now, as the evening drew in and the sun shot pink and purple hues over the masts of the ships, across the waters of the harbour to the luxuriant hills across the bay. The estuary waters were filled with large rocks, with little rivulets running between the fissures like green snakes. The reefs and rocks made it difficult to enter the mouth of the river, and it took great skill to manoeuvre the boats to and fro.
‘Kitt, I have something to tell you,’ Robert said and stopped.
Charlotte was struggling with her chicken. The fiery sauce it had been cooked in was taking her breath away. After every small mouthful she took a spoonful of rice and a big drink of water.
‘Crimoney, Robbie, do you think we could ask the cook not to make it so spicy? How do you manage it?’
Robert was gazing into the distance. He was not as striking as herself. He had more of their father in him: his brown eyes and sandy-brown hair, which he wore long, gathered in a tail. It was not in the least fashionable, but he did not seem to notice. He was good-looking in a gentle sort of way, taller than her but not tall, compact and strong.
He looked at the spoon that she was waggling up and down. ‘Auch, I have no control over any of that sort of thing. Perhaps you can sort it out, no?’ he trailed off.
He was actually glad she had not heard him. He poured himself a glass of claret, and after Charlotte retired, Robert wrestled with his conscience. He did not like to keep secrets from her but really, what was he to say about Shilah? Sooner or later his sister would find out that he had been living with a woman here until the day before her arrival. The men would not talk, of course; many of them had native nyai companions. Hundreds of slave women and boys from the islands turned up at the Bugis marketplace every season. It wasn’t mentioned. In a place like this, for someone like him there had been, until recently, simply no possibility of marriage. He lacked the means to support a family. The company frowned on it, and the truth was Robert had, at present, no desire to settle down with a da Silva daughter or such like. At least not yet. Shilah was too intoxicating.
She was the unwanted child of an Indian convict woman, dead at an early age, and a white man who had long since left the settlement. As a little girl she had been taken in by George Coleman’s household, cared for and taught to read, cook, sew and clean. When she turned fifteen Coleman offered to find her a husband. By then, however, she had seen Robert, who spent a good deal of time at the Coleman house, and conceived a longing for him. One evening she had stolen into his bed at the riverside bungalow. She was dark-eyed, soft and yielding, and she was a virgin. He had simply been unable to resist her.
Robert had come to the settlement as the lowliest uncovenanted clerk. He had shared a room with two other bachelors on Malacca Street and, being of affable nature, had made friends easily. He enjoyed the society of the European settlement, the occasional amateur dramatics, the cricket games on the plain, the dinners and billiard evenings. The only real problem was female companionship. In the few European or Eurasian families, marriage was the only thing on offer, and not to young agency clerks with no immediate prospects. The Chinese merchants kept their daughters locked away like gold dust. The Malays and Bugis lived in kampongs with their wives and children. The Indians were mostly a floating population of men, soldiers, convicts or moneylenders, just like the thousands of Chinese coolies and, indeed, like the British agency clerks. The Chinese and mixed-blood prostitutes in Chinatown were outnumbered at least ten to one. This mathematical equation and a lecture by Dr Montgomerie on the diseases to be obtained in that quarter had left him dubious as to its pleasures. Privately, he had been advised to get hold of a native bed-servant, a nyai, as it was termed.
However, Robert had not tried to find a nyai in his first years in Singapore. Though widespread, the practice was distasteful to him, perhaps because his own mother had been a so-called ‘native’ woman. Somewhat drunk, and anxious to be rid of his nineteen-year-old virginity, in the company of his friends, he had let himself be led to the room of an ah ku, a Chinese prostitute. She spoke no English, and his Malay at that time had been rudimentary. They had barely been able to communicate, and later, whilst certainly relieved, he had felt somewhat grubby. Since then he had thrown himself into the life of the community, taken up the study of Malay with the munshi and, apart from the very occasional transgression, had not returned to Chinatown.
Shilah was something entirely different. She spoke English, she was untouched and obviously in love with him. As soon as he put his hand to her soft breasts and kissed her lips, he was lost.
This had been going on for months and he had said nothing to George, to whose home she disappeared after each encounter. Well, tomorrow he would have to find his courage and speak to George. Coleman was not a disapproving man, and honesty was the best policy with him. Nevertheless, Robert was nervous.
He poured himself another glass of claret, looked out over the twinkling lights on the darkened bay to vague firelight at Tanjong Rhu and felt a headache coming on.
4
Early the following morning, before the gun, Robert dressed and left the bungalow. The steps to the street gave a view over the river to the town. He stood briefly and contemplated the boats, so closely packed they looked like a swarm of beetles. The tide was out, and many of them sat crookedly on the gravelly bank at the centre of the river. On the north bank, close by, was a low building used for government business, a fives court attached to its western side. Beyond and above that rose the classical lines of the courthouse, with its wide space leading to the quayside. This had been one of George’s first commissions, illegal as it turned out. A private house, unsanctioned by Raffles, who had reserved this bank of the river for official buildings, it had been so splendid that it had been allowed to stand. Robert knew little of architecture, but even he could see that this building, with its deep eaves and shady verandahs, its arcades and columns and elegant central tower with the double cupolas, was a work of some refinement. Its precincts were cool and perfectly adapted to the tropical climate. The company had leased it these last fifteen years or so for the court and government offices, and Mr Church, the resident councillor, was in negotiations to purchase it outright for the administration.
Nearby, on the riverbank, was the elegant landing stage, with its steps and columned arches and, peeping over that, the inelegant roof of the post office and the master attendant’s office.
A short walk from the police bungalow would take Robert directly to the offices of the governor and Mr Church for discussions about public safety and policing issues, or just to sit in its shady corridors for a chat with a glass of brandy. This suited Robert, for he was not one for memoranda, and preferred to deal directly on every issue. He was in no doubt that it was as much his easy and amicable relationship with Governor Bonham as his competence that had secured him his present position.
Policing was not on his mind at this moment, however, and with a quick glance at the rows of slumbering godowns and houses on Boat Quay, he turned he
el and made his way to Number 3, Coleman Street. George, he knew, was also an early riser, but he had given Aman a note to take to his house last night. Robert was never sure how many nights George spent at Tir Uaidhne, and Coleman could be tetchy about unwanted intrusions, even from his friends.
He strolled behind his bungalow along the beach side road, enjoying the stiff cool breeze and the view. Fishing boats sat on the seabed, and the tangy smell of low tide mingled with the ricy, fishy odours of cooking from the boats. Naked children scuttled about on shore, gathering up driftwood, bare-breasted women suckled their babes. The children waved. Sometimes he envied these sea gypsies with their lives of freedom. When they were hungry, they fished; any surplus they sold for rice or cloth, and for the rest of the day they basked in the sun or under the mangrove trees, or swam like little fish until hunger aroused them to labour again.
‘Obeyed as sovereign by thy subjects be
But know that I alone am king of me
I am as free as Nature first made man
Ere the base laws of servitude began
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.’
These men always won the boat races held every year on New Year’s Day. Racing sailors like no one on earth, they were never beaten. They were born, lived and died on the sea. He could think of worse lives.
Their sampan panjang were craft of extraordinary elegance and lightness. He had once sailed in one and fallen in love. Nothing equalled the pace they set, each man like a part of the boat itself, the sustained pitch of excitement as they cut the water, waves sweeping over the gunwale and the bodies of the men baling. Ballast was a few bags of stones. The men leaned out windward for balance; the sails boomed with long forked poles. Yet there was hardly a sound of their speed, merely a quivering slithery sensation, as if they were propelled not by wind but by a silent watery hand. It was beyond beauty, the clean-cut rip through the water and the sharp, curling wake behind. Robert, completely overcome, bought one for himself, naming it Sea Gypsy, and it was the sleekest, loveliest of boats.
He waved back cheerily then, turning, cut directly across the plain. He could see lights in the three great houses which lay behind low walls and luxuriant gardens.
As he entered Coleman Street, Robert rather envied George the honour of a street named after him, but since the Irishman had laid them all out, he had to admit that it was reasonable. In company George referred to it laughingly as ‘me road’, and to his friends it was G.D. Street. Three houses owned by George stood in this street, and, passing the Reverend and Mrs White’s and Mr and Mrs Wood’s houses, he turned into the open, pillared gate of Number 3, passed under the seven-bayed porte-cochere and over the cool green and white Malacca tiles of the porch and pulled the doorbell. This was a mere formality, as the doors stood open, and he made his way into the entrance hall.
There he stood, waiting, and within a minute, Coleman himself, dressed as he usually was in loose trousers and a kurta of soft Indian cotton, emerged from the inner hall.
‘For Gaard’s sake, Robert! What on earth can ye be wanting advice for at this time of the morning?’
He ran his hand through thick, wavy brown hair, which he wore longish over his ears, and looked quizzically at his guest. His Irish accent was as strong today as when he had left Drogheda twenty-five years ago.
‘G.D., you must help me, for I have not the faintest idea what to do. This is personal. Policing is no problem but this, really, I’ve done something— .’ He trailed off. He looked as if he might burst into tears at any minute.
George took pity on him and threw an arm round his shoulder. ‘There, there, come on, up we go.’
Coleman smiled and led his young friend across the hall, up the stairs, through the sitting and dining rooms and finally out onto the wide upper verandah, where lounging chairs and tables were in abundance. Calling for coffee, Coleman indicated two high-backed rattan chairs covered in cushions, and they sat.
A platter of fruits, chunks of prickly pineapples, furry mangosteens and juicy pieces of giant pomelo arrived on the table, carried in by a pretty Tamil girl in a soft pink sari. Coleman preferred women around him and always tried to employ female servants whenever possible. This girl was the daughter of servants of one of his most important colleagues, Nanda Pillai, one of the most indispensable men in the settlement, in George’s opinion, whose brick kilns were his main supplier of building materials.
‘These young Indian lasses, they’re quiet and loyal. As they grow older, I always try to find them husbands from the convict lines. The Indian convicts are the most reliable men in the entire settlement,’ he explained when asked.
George Dromgold Coleman was not only the surveyor and architect of Singapore; he was Superintendent of Public Works and Overseer of Convicts, thousands of whom formed the cheap labour pool needed to carry out the East India Company’s road and building contracts, as well as his own private commissions.
He also had the best coffee in Singapore, which he got directly from Sumatra, Toraja and Java through Tigran Manouk, Takouhi’s brother. George raised his cup. ‘To Baba Budan who stole the bean that so many fortunes are built on.’ This morning he had asked for beans from the high fields of Mandheling, in western Sumatra.
George was always full of stories. He was very well read, had a personal library, was a frequent contributor to John Armstrong’s library and reading rooms on Commercial Square as well as a patron of the library at the institute and part-owner of the only newspaper in Singapore. Robert, who would rather do anything than read, nevertheless liked to listen to what Coleman called ‘tales of woe and wonder’. The story of how an Indian holy man smuggled the fiercely protected coffee beans out of Arabia was one of them. For a moment they both sat, silently savouring its richness and breathing in the aroma; then he addressed his friend.
‘Well, Robert, what seems to be the trouble?’
‘I think I’ve done something you won’t be pleased with.’
Coleman raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Robert swallowed another gulp of coffee and in a strangulated voice began. ‘About two months ago I came home one evening, and when I got into bed there was a young native woman already there. She’s young and lovely, and I’m afraid I was unable to resist. She apparently has feelings for me, and I like her a great deal, but I think any kind of marriage would be out of the question. Since Charlotte has come, she can no longer visit me and, really, I’ve come to you for some advice.’
The words tripped over each other as they fell off his tongue, and when he stopped, he felt drained.
Coleman looked at him sardonically. ‘Well, now, that’s an unusual case, is it not? Can’t think of any of the other bachelors in the settlement who are sleeping with young native women, can you?’
Robert said in a small voice, ‘No, I know, but George, this girl, it’s … Shilah.’
Coleman put down his cup with a bang.
‘Shilah? Our Shilah, here in the house? Two months, by the saints, and you haven’t been to tell me! Why, she could be pregnant by now. Did you think of that?’ His voice had risen.
Robert stood up and looked out in the half light over the balcony, past Tir Uaidhne and towards St Andrew’s Church.
‘Auch, George, don’t yell at me I beg of yer, for I want to do the right thing. She came to me. I know that’s no excuse, but I’m a young man, and really that sort of thing has been sorely lacking. You know I don’t like to go to the ah ku women.’
He turned and faced Coleman dolefully. George shook his head.
‘Well, sit down. We’ll discuss this calmly. What’s done is done. The girl’s as much to blame; I offered to find her a decent husband.’
He poured them both some more coffee and sat in thought. Robert, relieved, said nothing and watched him warily.
‘She’ll stay here with me for the moment,’ Coleman said finally. ‘I’ll speak to her and get Dr Montgomerie to look her over. If she’s pregnant, then you have to decide what you want to do about it. T
akouhi knows someone who can fix that. After that, if you still want to continue in this, then I think, if you want to be fair, you have to set her up somewhere. Does your salary run to a small place? I’ve almost finished a nice row of houses on Middle Street, on a plot of land I’ve leased. Perhaps I could let you rent one of the upper rooms cheaply. But think this out carefully. If you want to get married in a few years, better think what you’ll do then.’
Robert was glad he had come. Coleman was always a reasonable and pragmatic man. At the moment he could not think of giving up Shilah, and to establish her in Kampong Glam was a good idea. His inheritance was but a few weeks away, and, while it was not large, money would not be wanting. Any child could be got rid of. Shilah was young, only sixteen; there was plenty of time for that if they were still together later on. He looked over at George with gratitude.
‘George, how can I thank you?’
Coleman looked at him severely. ‘You can thank me by making this unfortunate young woman happy. She was raised with no parents and doubtless has a large store of love to offer you, the lord knows why. This is the only home she has ever known. At the moment you are crazy to get your hands on her, but life has a way of setting traps. Don’t let her down when you no longer have any use for her. Yer know, Robert, just because she’s a parentless half-blood doesn’t mean she doesn’t aspire to marry you or that you should reject it out of hand. But that is up to you.’
George suddenly rose and approached the edge of the verandah. Robert looked over and saw Takouhi at the upper window of the house opposite. The dawn was almost upon them, and birds were busily twittering and flitting amongst the trees and shrubs and in and out of the pagoda-like birdhouse. Her black hair fell over her shoulders, and she waved and smiled at them. At her side was a young girl, pretty, with shoulder-length brown hair. This was Meda Elizabeth, George’s daughter. Coleman blew them a kiss. Not for the first time, Robert was struck with how strong and affectionate this relationship was.