The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  The words ran out. This letter Ah Liang also pocketed.

  Gingerly raising Sang’s head, he removed the silk cord which held the keys to his strong room and chests and took a last look round. Standing over Sang’s body, he bowed, made the peace sign of the brotherhood and then went out quietly and closed the door behind him.

  19

  The group of Europeans filed silently into the Christian cemetery on the low slope of Bukit Larangan. Cholera had come to Singapore. Many of the children at Mrs Whittle’s school in the European settlement had fallen ill in the last month. It had been a source of great distress and no little surprise, for illness here was relatively rare. The climate was remarkably healthy for the tropics, and mosquitoes were not such a problem as in Penang or Malacca.

  The causes of this particular disease were still a mystery to medical men throughout the Empire, but Dr Montgomerie was amongst those who favoured a theory of waterborne rather than airborne transmission. He had tended cholera victims in India and never caught it himself and, on the basis of what he knew was rather flimsy science, he advocated absolute cleanliness and boiling of water rather than confinement of patients to airless and darkened rooms. He ordered the schools closed and the children kept at home. He suspected contaminated water at the school to be the source and had given Mrs Whittle a stern talking-to about hygiene. She swore that she followed all his instructions.

  Young Thomas Hallpike had died yesterday. Mrs Hallpike had taken to her bed. Meda Elizabeth was also ill, but not with cholera. Dr Montgomerie at first suspected malaria, for she had succumbed to severe fever, chills, headache and pain in her legs and joints. But a rash had appeared on her face, and her neck glands were swollen. The doctor was bewildered, but after five days her temperature dropped; she began to sweat profusely, and the crisis seemed to be over. Takouhi had prayed to the Lord at the Armenian church, made offerings to the Javanese gods and somehow they had answered.

  Two days later, Meda relapsed. Her temperature rose again and the rash reappeared, not on her face but covering the rest of her body. The soles of her feet and the palms of her hand were bright red and swollen. Dr Oxford and Dr Montgomerie consulted and concurred that they could do nothing more than note the symptoms. Takouhi talked of taking Meda to Java to consult the dukun, the medicine man. Then, suddenly, it was over. Meda’s temperature returned to normal, the rash disappeared again and she began to take soup and rice.

  Charlotte had spent hours at Meda’s bedside, urging Takouhi to take some sleep. Eventually they had slept, exhausted, as Charlotte and Takouhi’s Javanese maids nursed the child. The following day Thomas Hallpike had died, and now the small community was mourning the loss of this innocent soul.

  The service had been held in St Andrew’s Church. Charlotte barely took in the words. She knew Thomas; she thought of his shy smile and his plump little arms around her neck, of him sitting on her lap.

  ‘The Lord is my shepherd

  I shall not want

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures

  And leads me by still waters …

  I shall fear no evil

  For you are with me …

  My cup runneth over …

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life

  And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’

  Charlotte now walked with Takouhi and George as they followed the little coffin, carried in the arms of his father and his uncle, away from the church, along Coleman Street, around the Armenian church and up past the old botanical garden into the grounds of the small cemetery. The bell in the cupola of the Armenian church tolled sadly, and rain clouds gathered as if in sympathy with this passing. Crowds of Chinese, Malay and Indians gathered curiously but silently at the crossroads to watch the spectacle of this European ceremony as it passed slowly across Hill Street.

  ‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day

  The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea

  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way

  And leaves the world to darkness and to me …

  Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

  The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;

  Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

  And waste its sweetness on the desert air …

  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

  And all that beauty and all that wealth e’er gave

  Awaits alike the inevitable hour

  The paths of glory lead but to the grave …’

  The mourners watched as young Thomas was lowered into the ground and the last prayers intoned.

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord …

  Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’

  Charlotte shivered, and her tears began to fall. Coleman put a gentle hand on her arm and held tightly to Takouhi’s hand. Every family there knew that it could just as easily be one of their own children. Meda’s escape filled his mind.

  He looked around at the other headstones. They would all be buried here, he was sure, and a feeling of peace descended on him. All together here in the grove of tamalan and banyan trees, it wasn’t so bad. He would build their memorials in this place on this lovely island where they had all found such happiness.

  He looked down at the woman by his side. An overwhelming feeling of love came over him, and she, as if sensing his emotion, looked into his eyes. Only the propriety and sadness of this occasion stopped him sweeping her into his arms.

  As rain began to fall, the mourners dispersed, each throwing a small handful of earth onto the coffin, and Thomas’ uncle joined the undertaker in completing the burial. Coleman took Hallpike’s arm and, holding an umbrella over him, accompanied the grieving father back to his home on High Street. Takouhi turned to Charlotte.

  ‘Come to my church with me, yes. I say words for little Thomas and all children. Also special words for Meda Elizabeth.’

  Charlotte, despite her sadness, was very pleased to be asked. She had yet to go inside the beautiful little church which George had built for the tiny Armenian community.

  As they made their way down the hill, Takouhi was silent, but as they entered the grounds of the church, she suddenly began to cry.

  ‘I feel bad thing today. George says I am … gloomy. Strange word but maybe true. George is not gloomy. He only see light, but I see dark sometimes.’

  Charlotte knew that her friend suffered from inexplicable moments of deep sadness and at such times, she would sit with her, reading articles to her from the Godey’s Ladies Book which Charlotte Keaseberry received from Boston, or light-hearted stories from the newspaper. She had also begun reading to Takouhi from her own small store of novels. They had recently finished Robinson Crusoe. Now she was reading one of her own favourites, Miss Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, which Takouhi also liked better than the one about the men on the island. In this way, reading slowly and explaining words her friend did not understand, she could cause the black mood to eventually dissipate, and Takouhi would find her peaceful and sunny nature again.

  Charlotte took her friend’s hand, and they entered the church. It was a revelation, small and white, with the doors to each of the three deep porticos thrown open, letting in the rainy air. Charlotte sat in a pew just inside the door and waited whilst Takouhi went before the altar and began quietly to say her prayers. With her exotic looks she might have made a strange sight in a Christian church, even though today she was dressed somberly in European style, her hair drawn back and covered by a lace mantilla. Several gentlemen in white robes were also seated. Charlotte recognised Mr Ingergolie, a man she knew from his business in Market Street. She looked around this quiet building.

  The outside of the church was a square, but the interior was a complete circle with a semicircular chancel and four small chambers at each corner. Some fifty feet or so above her, she guessed, rose the sloping roof upon which were elevated the eight elegant arches of the bell turret. It wa
s not so grand as Coleman’s design for St Andrew’s on the plain, but she felt here that it had been a work of particular and purer significance.

  As Takouhi rose and made her obeisance to the altar, Charlotte was overwhelmed with the feeling that Coleman had taken most particular care in the design and construction of this church. Then Takouhi joined her, and they sat silently for a moment. Charlotte said a quiet prayer for the soul of poor little Thomas, wherever it might be.

  One by one, the men left, nodding to the two women. The rain suddenly began to beat down relentlessly on the roof of the church, falling so thickly beyond the open doors that a curtain of water cut them off from the garden. Only the candles on the altar and around the walls illuminated the interior, but the walls of white chunam plaster were so bright that the feeling inside was of glow rather than gloom.

  Alone now, and remembering Takouhi’s words, Charlotte put her hand on her friend’s arm, but Takouhi’s mood seemed to have changed. It was clear that, whilst she might find a place for Javanese goddesses in her home, this church nevertheless brought comfort to her, and she smiled at Charlotte.

  The Armenian church tolled its bell for the poor little soul of a Protestant boy. It did not seem unfitting, here. Charlotte had even gone once to the sultan mosque in Kampong Glam with Peach and Charlotte Keaseberry, accompanied by the munshi, who was busy translating the Gospels into Malay. It was a bewildering and miraculous tolerance, which Charlotte thought perfectly suited this raw port city, with its bustling and multifarious population.

  The rain had almost stopped, and now there fell only the slow drip, drip from the church verandah. The sky had lightened, and shafts of light from the bell turret lent brilliance to the dewy air. Takouhi had taken her to the big Bible in front of the altar, with its strange writing.

  ‘I do not understand this, but I know words of the service in Armenian language. The priest always kind when I come. Priest want me to marry George here, but I think this will not be good idea.’

  She stopped, and Charlotte did not press her.

  Takouhi looked around the church. ‘Armenia merchants and other kind people get money and ask George to build this church. This like home maybe for poor Armenian people who have no country. Here there are not many, but people work hard. This is lovely place. George is very clever man to make so beautiful building.’

  Charlotte heard the tenderness in her voice.

  ‘Yes, George is a very clever man, and I think he put a lot of love into this building. Perhaps he did so out of sympathy for the suffering of an oppressed people. I think it was perhaps for love of you.’

  Takouhi looked at her and smiled, but said nothing.

  20

  Inchek Sang’s body had been placed in the coffin. Two Buddhist monks kept the night vigil, and the house resounded with constant chanting. Sang’s son, looking sickly and tired, also obliged to keep vigil, looked as if he were going to collapse at any minute. The first and second wives and their daughters, dressed in black, were seated, their heads covered with sackcloth, wailing loudly and continuously. As soon as Ah Liang had learned of his master’s death he had informed the kongsi, and notes had immediately been printed and sent to every member ordering them to appear on the day of the funeral to follow the cortège; disobedience would be severely punished. Undoubtedly the mourners would number in the thousands; it would show the ang mo what power Incheck Sang had exerted and continued to exert even in death.

  Baba Tan greeted the news with undisguised shock. He had known the old boy wasn’t so well, but Sang had looked in good health the last time they had met. He and the other Peranakan merchants had put on their mourning clothes and gone to pay their respects to the corpse. As he banged the gong and entered Sang’s house, Baba Tan wondered what had been said of their agreement, if anything. After the funeral he would broach the subject delicately with Ah Liang. In the outer courtyard Tan saw that groups of men were gambling. This did not surprise him, for the corpse had to be guarded from evil spirits for several days, and gambling kept everyone awake. Tan entered the courtyard and saw the coffin in the centre, with a huge portrait of Sang to one side. It didn’t look much like Sang, Tan thought. It was an ancestor portrait painted many years before, depicting Sang in Ming dynasty robes with a badge of impossibly high rank in the centre of his chest.

  Food and offerings had been placed in front of the coffin. The courtyard was thick with incense. Bundles of paper money and ingots were being constantly thrown into the fire contained in a large bronze urn, and smoke swirled thickly. A huge paper palace, complete with models of furniture, servants, horses and carriages awaited its turn. Tan and the others were received by the miserable, dishevelled-looking eldest son, who was lamenting as loudly as he could, though it came out rather as a squeaky whimper. Tan peered quickly into the coffin and bowed to the corpse, which was dressed in robes similar to those in the portrait. A piece of money had been placed between Sang’s teeth, as custom decreed. In his right hand there was a willow twig to sweep demons from his path, in his left a fan and a handkerchief. Tan and the others joined briefly in the lamentations.

  Tan eyed the son, who looked as if he would be following his father rather quickly. Still, at this moment, he was the eldest son, and as such the heir to Sang’s vast fortune. He was about the age of Tan’s youngest daughter. An interesting proposition in a couple of years, Tan thought, if the youth lived long enough. He certainly knew absolutely nothing about business and would need a guiding hand.

  Ah, but that was all speculation. First things first. The smoke, incense, chanting and wailing all together were starting to give Tan a headache. He quickly lit his bundle of incense offering, placed an envelope of money in the chest watched over by a guard, bowed to the family and withdrew.

  Robert was in Governor Bonham’s office at the courthouse. They had been informed that Inchek Sang’s funeral would take place directly after the Ching Ming Festival and that they should expect large numbers to attend. Ah Liang had smiled when he had spoken to Robert about it: more than ten thousand, he had said. Robert had not believed his ears. Now he and the governor were discussing with Ah Liang how they would deploy their meagre force to keep some sort of order. The cortège would leave from the house in High Street, go right through the town and up to the temple at Tang Heng. There would be fireworks and gongs. As the most important merchant in the settlement, Inchek Sang was to be given a fitting send off, but the governor requested sternly that order be maintained. Ah Liang bowed slightly. Of course, he said, though it might be as well if the police maintained a very low profile.

  Leaving the courthouse, Ah Liang hailed a sampan and crossed the river to Boat Quay. He made his way through the wares lining the quay and jumbled around the five-foot ways. Having arrived at Baba Tan’s godown, he entered into the darkened interior. He saw the old clerk and two other men. The man Zhen was helping stack chests of tea. Ah Liang passed into the back, but Tan was not there. He exited and, speaking quickly to the old man, moved out of the store. Zhen watched him head off in the direction of Baba Tan’s mansion on Market Street. He felt a sense of excitement. He knew of Inchek Sang’s death; in fact, he had received his summons from the kongsi to attend the funeral.

  A few days ago, Zhen had spoken to the baba about taking English lessons. The old clerk who was translating looked amazed, but Zhen just prodded him to continue. Ordinarily Baba Tan would have boxed someone’s ears for such insolence, but on this occasion he had simply looked thoughtful. He had waved Zhen away and told the clerk to go about his work. Zhen had realised that something was wrong and had said nothing more.

  Now Ah Liang knocked on Baba Tan’s door and waited on the verandah. Tan arrived a short while later, clearly having woken from a nap. He did not invite Ah Liang inside. It was quite irregular that this underling, no matter who his master was, should bother him at home. He had opened his mouth to tell him off, when suddenly Ah Liang produced a letter from his pocket. He excused himself politely, and Tan, mollifie
d, took the letter and began to read.

  It was addressed to him, and Ah Liang explained that it had been in Incheck Sang’s hands when he died. Tan’s face revealed nothing, but he quickly saw with relief that the matter had not been written down definitively. Thank the great gods, Sang had died before he could write out the agreement.

  He looked at Ah Liang. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘What does this mean? Did my master mean for this Qian or Zhen to be a husband for his second daughter? I must be the one to fulfill his wishes. His own son is so young. Did you and he have an agreement?’

  Baba Tan looked at the letter fixedly for a moment, then at Ah Liang.

  ‘Yes, we had a verbal agreement. He must have been drawing up the written agreement when he died. Blessings be on his soul.’

  ‘Which one did he choose for his daughter, Qian or Zhen?’

  Tan did not hesitate for an instant. ‘Why, Qian, of course. He is obedient and reliable. Your master preferred him.’

  Ah Liang smiled, relieved.

  ‘Yes, of course, he would have chosen that one. The other was too much like the first son-in-law. I must act for him in settling this last matter. I will consult with the matchmaker tomorrow.’

  After bowing to Baba Tan, he took his leave.

  Tan smiled and went back inside his house. He, too, would act quickly to secure Zhen. He would speak to him today.

  21

  The memory of the attacks on the Chinese Christians had faded. The two men had recovered and were now put to work at the chapel. Charlotte had been asked to help them to learn some English and now devoted two hours a day in the later afternoon at the chapel schoolhouse to teaching them letters and words with some teaching materials prepared by Father Lee. She found she enjoyed this, and within a few days, two older Chinese boys whom Father Baudrel wished to bring on had also joined the class.