The Red Thread
Page 7
‘Come,’ he commanded. They followed him into a room he used as an office on the side of the entrance hall.
This room contained a desk and several hardwood chairs, elaborately carved and inlaid with veined marble. Sang’s chief clerk was also present.
They sat. Sang did not call for tea, but looked at the two men he had known for years.
‘How many men do you need, sir?’ Guan Soon asked respectfully.
The men talked about labour and numbers; then Guan Soon left, and they turned to filling the captain’s orders for his return journey. Most of the captain’s needs could be filled from Sang’s own warehouse, but some items required negotiation. Opium was controlled by the European houses. This would be no problem as Sang was a man the British trusted to regulate the affairs of the Chinese community. The captain was in no hurry. He would be trading as a chinchew, sailing from port to port in the region, picking up goods from the local Chinese until the trade winds changed to carry him back to China four months from now. There was a woman in Palembang he would like to see again.
Before the captain left he said, ‘Don’t know if it’s of interest, sir, but there are two men on the ship who are hardy-looking and can read and write; they actually sat around spouting nonsense poetry.’
The captain looked as if he wanted to spit, but rapidly thought better of it.
‘In case you’re interested, sir, these are their names.’ He passed a paper across the table.
Sang eyed him, looked at the names and passed the paper to his chief clerk.
‘If they are interesting, you will be paid.’
When the captain had departed, Sang looked at his clerk. Ah Liang was a small, fat man with droopy eyes and crooked yellow teeth. He was the master of the Ghee Hin Kongsi, keeper of the seal and rule book, and collected subscriptions from the large membership. Sang trusted him most of all the brotherhood. He looked after all of Sang’s business and most of his private affairs. Sang had brought him from Malacca; Liang owed his livelihood and his success to Sang, and he’d never forgotten it. Thanks to Sang he had a house, a Balinese wife and two Sumatran concubines, sisters he had bought at the slave market a few years ago. Sang envied him his three sons, all married, and his five grandsons. There had been a time when Sang had thought to marry his young daughter to one of Ah Liang’s sons, but they were all mixed blood, and he wanted a pure Chinese for his daughter, one who could speak the language, fresh blood from home.
After discussing business, Sang tapped the names of the two coolies the captain had written on the paper with his yellowing fingernail.
‘Find these two and look them over. Let me know what you find out.’
He dismissed Ah Liang and, rising, made his way to the garden courtyard.
There he called his old wife, and she came and sat beside him. ‘Second daughter is fifteen,’ he said. ‘It is time to marry her. If something happens to the son, there is no one for the ancestral rites. He must take my family name.’
His wife nodded; she was glad he had raised the subject. She detested the child of the second wife as much as she detested the second wife. But this was an important decision. There had been no sons born alive to either, and her own daughter had married a man who had pocketed anything he could get his hands on: the daughter’s jewellery, two chests of silver and five chests of opium, and run off within a year. Sang had hunted high and low, brought all his money and influence to bear, but the man had either disappeared up some river somewhere or was lying, with his money, on the bottom of the sea. The first daughter had never been able to marry again. It had left an ache in her heart, and her mother took out her anger on the second daughter.
Sex was of little interest to Sang, who had taken no concubines, an expense he deemed unnecessary. He had reluctantly married his second wife when he was fifty-three and she was seventeen. His first wife, a second cousin, he had met as a young man on a visit back to China, through the matchmaker, the usual channels, and he had fallen, he supposed, in love. He had, contrary to custom, brought her from China, for she had no close family living. The second was a mixed-blood daughter of a Chinese headman of the tin mines in Perak and his Malay wife. He did not like her much. She was polluted. But pure-blood Chinese wives were not to be had. There had been the birth of the daughter, then miscarriages and a stillbirth. Finally, out of desperation he had adopted a boy from an impoverished Chinese couple in Batavia, who was now his son. He was twelve, and Sang’s heir, but he was not absolute pure blood either. He hardly knew his adopted father and was terrified of him. As Sang grew older he became more and more obsessed with the duties owed to him in his afterlife. More than ever he wanted a Chinese son-in-law, one who would take his name.
‘Husband, remember the first daughter’s man. Choose well.’
Sang did not like to be reminded of that terrible time, but he knew she meant well. He still cared for her and on rare occasions shared her bed.
‘Yes. Tell second wife.’
His old wife said nothing but smiled slightly. No matter how much she hated these other women, she longed for grandchildren, which she fully intended to bring up as she saw fit. She would consult the fortune-teller today.
7
Mrs Keaseberry was in her garden when Charlotte called. She was sweating in her long-sleeved dress and her overly large, floppy-brimmed hat. She rose from the low stool she had been sitting on and, removing her gloves, apologised for her rather dirty state. The house was a pleasant but plain building near the corner of Brass Bassa and North Bridge Road. The garden, however, was like a small corner of paradise. In every space and on every level of the surrounding wall were pots of orchids, small and large, pink, white, orange, long-lipped, spotted and plain. The whole was shaded by the outspread branches of a massive tembusu tree. Orchids scrambled up the trunk of a tall areca palm.
‘My passion,’ Mrs Keaseberry explained unnecessarily. ‘My children, I suppose.’
They moved into the house, where a punkah immediately began to move to and fro in the ceiling.
‘Terima kasih, jamu,’ she called, and a little giggle emanated from the verandah. ‘The punkah boy is also one of Peach’s pupils.’
Mrs Keaseberry was referring, Charlotte knew, to her husband, Benjamin Peach Keaseberry, and fleetingly felt the affection reflected in the use of his middle name.
‘He teaches the boys printing and bookbinding. Peach has one of the printing presses here, and we can get quite busy. His office is down on the square. We can visit it later, my deah. Peach is now with the London Missionary Society. We have been learning Malay with the munshi for quite a while. The mission chapel is across the way, a poor building I’m afraid, but it suffices for the moment, and there is a small school.’
Charlotte told Mrs Keaseberry of her father who, too, had been with the London Missionary Society and had died in its service. Then quickly she changed the subject.
‘Who is the munshi, Mrs Keaseberry? I hear about him from everyone.’
‘Why, my deah, the munshi is the most extraordinary and wonderful man we have in the whole of Singapore. He came with Raffles and Farquhar, knew Crawfurd. He knows everything there is to know about this place. He is a most lovely man. Though he is a devout Muslim he is helping Peach translate the Bible into Malay.’
‘Yes, I want to do that, learn Malay. Also, I think I can be of some use teaching English if it would be permitted. Robert said that Mr Moorehouse and Mr Dickinson at the institution would probably welcome people to help them with the Chinese boys.’
‘Certainly, my deah. It pays to keep busy here, and Peach says there is always so much to do.’
They were taking some refreshments when the da Silva twins dropped by, calling a loud ‘hello’ and rushing without ceremony into the sitting room. Charlotte was surprised by the way the Europeans were happy to leave their doors open to all and sundry. In the police bungalow, too, there always seemed to be people roaming unannounced. Groups of native people, men and women, sometimes congreg
ated in their pirogues along the sea front to stare at her, but when she waved to them, they fled. Robert called them orang laut, sea gypsies, people who had lived here hundreds of years before Raffles and Farquhar set foot on the island. They fished and lived around the mouth of the river, over on the Rochor and Kallang rivers, the unexplored backwaters of the interior, on the islands of Brani and Blakang Mati and around the temenggong’s village at Telok Blangah, west of the town. Robert showed her his boat, Sea Gypsy, and she had been thrilled. Sailing was a pastime they both shared.
The Misses da Silva had somehow learned that Charlotte was here and had walked over from their large house on Beach Road. They were keen to accompany the two ladies on their tour of the town. There had been talk of visiting the new Chinese temple at Telok Ayer. They were as happy as puppies, and Charlotte was delighted to have such gay company.
When Mrs Keaseberry had donned her hat and raised her parasol, they set off on foot along North Bridge Road. Charlotte, too, had opened a parasol, welcoming the shade. The twins paid no attention to the sun and went bareheaded, although Mrs Keaseberry tutted.
Their path took them along the edge of the former institution gardens to the building works of Mr Caldwell’s house, which Coleman was completing; the site was full of half-naked Malay and Indian labourers. Mrs Keaseberry told Charlotte that the trustees of the institution had recently disposed of a large parcel of land in nine lots between North Bridge Road and Victoria Street.
They turned into Victoria Street, crossed the small bridge onto Hill Street, then walked along the edge of the stream down to North Bridge Road. The water of the stream was clear, and the sound of water over rocks was pleasant and, somehow, cooling. Through the big trees they could see St Andrew’s Church. Occasionally they passed Chinese men holding up umbrellas or carrying goods on long poles. Charlotte noticed their unusual dress: loose-fitting trousers and jackets which fastened with a kind of toggle to the neck.
They passed Tir Uaidhne, where small groups of men worked in the garden, crossed over Coleman Street and walked along the side of a series of buildings with unusual, curved roofs, which Charlotte Keaseberry told her belonged to Inchek Sang, the most miserly and godforsaken man in Singapore. Arriving at the river, they made their way over Monkey Bridge. It creaked and groaned, and its wooden planks rattled as they went gingerly across.
‘It should be demolished. Some fellow called Jackson built it years ago. It wasn’t much good then and it’s a good deal worse now.’ Mrs Keaseberry spoke with annoyance. ‘Peach says it will collapse at any moment. Thanks be that George Coleman has almost completed his new bridge up the river by Hill Street. You can see it from here. You would think all these rich merchants in town could have long since afforded a decent bridge, since it benefits the whole community but they and the government are close to their silver when it comes to the common good. Every man for himself here, my deah.’
All the ladies, including Charlotte, looked wary and were glad when the short distance was negotiated.
Charlotte contemplated the river, which now stood open to her gaze. The southern side was fully built with godowns and long corridors on the quayside; she saw merchandise and men in unceasing motion. For its entire length, Charlotte could see not one woman. Tongkangs, sampans, sailboats, rowboats and pirogues filled the river idly, waiting for the tide to turn, for it was low, and a large, gravelly bank showed at its centre. The activity was less evident on the north side. After the Chinese compound, Charlotte could see Mr Hallpike’s shipyard and blacksmith’s, with its anchor poles in the river. Sounds of sawing and banging emanated from this untidy collection of wooden buildings. The riverside here was hardly contained, and muddy-banked. Next to this was the customs house and post office. Stone banking began again at the steps of the arched, covered landing stage. Behind rose the roof of Mr Coleman’s courthouse. The police bungalow was hidden by trees and the curve of the river. The noise and bustle of the tight-knit town here stood in the starkest contrast to the quiet, rural peace of the European side.
Negotiating several steps, they moved onto Boat Quay, where they saw Robert and Mr Francis, proprietor of the local public house and hotel on Commercial Square, as well as an inn in Tavern Street. He invited them to join him later in the refreshment hall of the hotel and took his leave. They moved along the bustling curve of the river, skirting bales and baskets filled with cloths, fruits, squawking ducks and turkeys, iron goods and guns, greeted by most of the merchants. With a dignified tilt of the head, Abraham Solomon was introduced to Charlotte. She thought him quite magnificent in his Old Testament turban and robes and his great white beard. He was a Jew who had but shortly arrived from Baghdad. Mr Duthie, owner of one of the biggest agency houses in Singapore, together with Dr Mongomerie, were also strolling along the quay and stopped to be introduced to Charlotte. Around them milled sellers of vegetables, soup, a strange jelly made of seaweed which the da Silva girls called agar-agar, long-poled food hawkers, buffaloes and water carts. There were coolies and boatmen waiting to be hired. All this assortment of males stared and gawped at the women as they passed. Charlotte felt uncomfortable, but it seemed to have no effect at all on her companions.
A little bridge spanned a slightly smelly canal, where rubbish had gathered. The backs of the houses which curved along this waterway looked rickety, with numbers of sooty spaces, giving the whole area the appearance of a mouth filled with decaying and stumpy teeth. Robert explained that there had been a fire, and a lot of the wooden buildings had disappeared. George was gradually replacing them with brick.
A Chinese man of medium height and a pleasant demeanor was sitting outside his godown and rose as soon as he saw them. He was dressed much like the coolies she saw around her, but his clothes were finer. The short dark blue jacket was fastened to the neck with toggles of knotted silk. Instead of trousers he wore a skirt, and on his feet, not sandals, but high-soled shoes. If this were not extraordinary enough, on his head and over his queue he wore a tall, black shiny top hat. As he moved from the shade he opened a yellow, oiled-paper umbrella against the sun. Her companions did not seem in the least amazed at this sight, and Charlotte quickly presumed that this was his standard dress.
‘Come, you must meet Baba Tan. After Incheck Sang, he is the most influential man in the Chinese community, and he speaks English uncommonly well.’
Charlotte curtsied charmingly and Baba Tan, in the best English manner, shook hands with Robert, raised his hat to Charlotte and, looking exceedingly pleased, greeted them all warmly. His English was very good, and Charlotte would have liked to speak more to him. She was delighted when he offered to take them all on a tour of the new Chinese temple at Telok Ayer Street, which he and other rich towkays in the town had helped finance. The da Silva girls were not very interested in ancient Jews or old Chinamen. They were keeping their eyes peeled for some of the regiment officers or the more handsome young agency house clerks who might be in the town. Both girls, despite their commonplace looks, were well aware of how much their rarity was worth, for their mother had discussed it at length. She was looking out for men with prospects, they knew, but with the choice so wide, both hoped to get the best-looking man they could find.
‘How fascinating everyone here is, Mrs Keaseberry, don’t you think?’
Mrs Keaseberry looked surprised. ‘Fascinating? Yes, I suppose so. It is so difficult to understand the Chinese mind, though. Even when we can speak English to them, it is another world, my deah. Well we have so little to do with them really. The Malays are different; they have a soul.’
This statement interested Charlotte. Did the Chinese not have a soul? What could she mean? She wanted to pursue the subject, but Robert had stopped in front of a big old house, somewhat dilapidated, which stood next to the fort. Mrs Keaseberry and the girls had disappeared into a shop selling Chinese silk, Indian cotton, English cloth and fine ribbons. Charlotte, too, would have liked to go in, but Robert, rather boringly she thought, insisted on his lecture.
Charlotte eyed the musty, dilapidated building with a jaundiced eye.
While they waited for the others, Robert told Charlotte of Raffles’ and Farquhar’s landing and the establishment of the colony, the first agreements and finally the purchase from the previous fat old sultan and the temenggong, his chief minister; he spoke also of the way clever Crawfurd, the second governor, had managed to get them to agree to it.
‘As Munshi Abdullah tells it, Crawfurd wanted to fix the colony for the company once and for all. The previous agreements had meant that the place could not grow, for it was not secure, and people were reluctant to take out land leases when it might revert, at any moment, back to the sultan. So Crawfurd held back the stipends which they were paid as compensation for the island and told them the money had not arrived from Calcutta. Finally they were so desperate that they agreed to sign the document of permanent sale. Was that not clever of Crawfurd?’
‘I’d say it was rather underhanded.’ Charlotte was quite annoyed by this story.
‘Well my dear sister, that is business in this part of the world. Neither the sultan nor the temenggong would indulge in trade which is beneath them, yet they are not above the piracy which takes the lives of many good men and makes the seas even more dangerous.’