The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  On this morning, George had greeted his daughter by pulling her into bed, kissing and tickling her until, laughing, she squirmed and ran away.

  George had turned to Takouhi, kissed her and pulled back the sheet to reveal the black henna tattoo curling sensuously from the triangle of her hair to her breasts, the sight of which always bewitched and aroused him. As she felt George’s mood, Takouhi had risen, naked, calling to one of her Javanese maids to get breakfast for Meda. She locked the door and came back to him very slowly, unbraiding her long black hair.

  Now she was dressed in dark blue velvet à la française, smelling faintly of jasmine and looking happily at Meda Elizabeth, who was standing in a group of little girls by the altar all arrayed in pale blue holding little beribboned baskets full of small silk flowers under Mrs White’s watchful eye. They had rehearsed until they knew every move and, at Mrs White’s command, they would all move towards the portico and wait for the organ to signal the arrival of the bride. Then they would move down the aisle strewing the flowers before the bride as she progressed towards the altar. They were jiggling with excitement, and it was all Mrs White could do to keep them calm.

  Benjamin Sharpe stood amongst a small group of his comrades in regimental red with gold braid. The colonel and other officers occupied several rows, and many of his comrades were at the back of the church waiting to form an honour guard with their swords as the newlyweds emerged. The governor and his men occupied the front seats. George Coleman sat at Takouhi’s side, dressed in a grey suit and cravat. Now and again he would lock eyes with Takouhi. Charlotte felt quite warm by the look that passed between them, instantaneously remembering the kiss in the orchard.

  Then suddenly Mrs White gave the signal and the children walked quickly down the aisle and waited obediently by the door. The grinder began to bring the barrel organ into life, and the voices of the institution boys rose in song.

  ‘Blessed be the tie that binds

  Our hearts in Christian love

  The fellowship of kindred minds

  Is like to that above.’

  The flower girls began a slow progression down the aisle, followed by Jose da Silva and, on his arm, his daughter, Julia, dressed in white muslin, a lacy veil falling from a garland of twisted silken cords covering her chestnut hair. In her hands she carried a bouquet of myrtle with white silken ribbons.

  ‘Before our Father’s throne

  We pour our ardent prayers

  Our fears, our hopes, our aims are one

  Our comforts and our cares.’

  Charlotte craned to see her and was astounded by her beauty and her obvious joy at this moment. She felt a keen envy. If she wished it, she knew that this wonderful ceremony could be in her future. She had merely to accept the hand of John Connolly, and everything she could want would fall into her arms. Husband, home, children.

  She felt Tigran’s eyes on her face and turned to him, smiling. Perhaps, she thought playfully, I should marry the richest man in the South Seas and drive Lilian Aratoun mad. He has certainly become extremely attractive.

  Tigran took her hand and put it to his lips with a look so shyly smouldering that Charlotte was again taken aback. This idea was clearly not as far from his mind as she had imagined. Then thoughts of Zhen filled her head, and she withdrew her hand from his with a small smile.

  ‘We share our mutual woes

  Our mutual burdens bear

  And often for each other flows

  The sympathising tear.’

  Meda Elizabeth passed, her face set, carrying out her duties with great seriousness. Charlotte could not resist a smile and touched Takouhi’s left hand. George had taken her right hand in his.

  ‘When for a while we part

  This thought will soothe our pain

  That we shall still be joined in heart

  And hope to meet again.’

  The girls took their places as the bride arrived at the altar, followed by two of her married sisters as matrons of honour.

  ‘From sorrow, toil and pain

  And sin we shall be free

  In perfect love and friendship reign

  Through all eternity.

  Amen.’

  Despite the cloying sentiments of this hymn, Charlotte was moved listening to the familiar words of the marriage service. When Julia and Benjamin finalised their vows and turned to face the assembled guests, beaming with joy, she felt a small tear come to her eye.

  Then the organ began again, and the newlyweds made their way slowly down the aisle to the door to the booming sounds of ‘Rock of Ages’, sung by all the Europeans in the church. The foreign contingent clapped, pleased with this quaint ceremony of the white people, the prettiness of the couple affirming their own belief in the bonds of marriage and family.

  The wedding reception was a lavish affair, held at the da Silva mansion on Beach Road. As the party wound down, the bride changed her dress and prepared to leave for three days to Robert’s house at the beach at Katong. Renting this house for parties and honeymoons had turned into a lucrative prospect for Robert, and he had bought an American four-poster bed from Mr Balestier, and other items of furniture.

  The couple left in a craft bedecked with ferns and garlands as the sun set and the band played the regimental song.

  Tigran had accompanied Takouhi and Meda home long ago, but Coleman, Charlotte and Robert stayed to watch the boat depart and only turned for home when the sky had darkened and the firebrands were lit. Preceded by a running Indian servant holding aloft a flaming brand, they made their way back in Coleman’s carriage along Beach Road to the bungalow. Finally, after a whisky with his friends, Coleman too departed for home, admiring, with a final wink, the lovely jewels on Charlotte’s dress.

  Robert and Charlotte had retired to bed not more than an hour when they were awakened by a banging at the door. The peon on duty admitted Coleman in a state of unusual agitation.

  ‘Come quickly, Kitt. Takouhi needs you. Meda’s taken with fever. At first we thought it was the excitement of the wedding, but she has worsened. Dr Montgomerie is there, but I beg you to come and give comfort to Takouhi.’

  Charlotte dressed quickly, and George swung her up onto his horse. Robert would go too, but Coleman said no, not too many people, just Kitt. Gripping George’s waist, Charlotte held tightly as Coleman spurred his horse home, swinging her down and jumping from his mount in one swift movement.

  Takouhi was with Meda and Dr Montgomerie, who looked up gravely as Charlotte and George entered. Meda’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes glitteringly bright and feverish. Charlotte could not believe the change from that afternoon and let out a small cry, rushing to Takouhi’s side and wrapping her arms around her. Takouhi seemed strangely calm and put a hand over her friend’s. George had dropped into an armchair and sat staring at his daughter.

  Charlotte stayed through the night, helping nurse Meda, talking to Takouhi, trying to comfort George. Dr Montgomerie suspected consumption. Sometime in the early morning Meda began to cough. A servant fanned Meda continually, and Takouhi and Charlotte changed the wet towels on her head and body every few minutes, attempting to lower her fever. George sat slumped. Tigran was downstairs, unable to sleep, pacing the floor.

  By morning they all looked haggard. Dr Montgomerie had to have hard words with George, for all of them getting sick would not help their daughter.

  Coleman began to eat, and Charlotte and Tigran finally prevailed upon Takouhi to take some broth and rice. Meda Elizabeth seemed stable. Dr Montgomerie had given her a mild sleeping draught, and she had fallen into a deep sleep, although her face was still flushed and her breathing shallow.

  Takouhi spoke to her brother. She needed him to take them home to Java, up to the plantation house in the cool air of the hills at Buitenzorg, the place ‘without a care’. This white medicine was useless; she needed to see the dukun, the medicine man. Now Takouhi was far from her Armenian faith, Charlotte realised. She was back in the cradle of her Javanese spirit w
orld. Charlotte understood: in times of trouble she drew comfort from both church and these spirits, but in sickness she believed only in the jamu. Tigran nodded.

  He was holding his white-trimmed, black tricorn hat in one hand, waiting as Charlotte came to say farewell in the hall. Bowing over her hand, he brought it to his lips, touching her skin lightly, the plaited strands of his hair and their jet beads falling around his face. Despite herself, Charlotte felt a frisson.

  ‘I wait to see you again,’ he said quietly and looked directly into her eyes. Placing his hat on his head, he bowed once more, slightly, and dropped her hand before turning to make his ship ready.

  When Takouhi told George of her decision, he wanted to forbid it but knew this would mean nothing to her.

  ‘Yes, go to the hills, see the dukun if you wish, only make me the promise to come back,’ he had agreed.

  Takouhi had looked him in the eyes. ‘Come back when Meda not sick.’

  She said this calmly and with absolute decision, and George was overcome. He knew if Meda died, Takouhi would almost certainly never come back to him. There would be too many spirits in Java holding her there.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ George began, but Takouhi put her fingers to his lips.

  ‘Cannot. Do not cry. If I can I come back to you. Not worry. Gods decide. Not you, not me.’

  Charlotte was by Meda’s bedside when George told her the news. ‘God save me, Charlotte, but, if this sweet lass must die, I almost wish she would die here. Then I could bury her with my hands, and Takouhi would stay.’

  Charlotte felt his utter anguish. She did not know how to comfort him and stood in the darkened room until she felt Takouhi arrive at her side.

  ‘Go home, Charlotte, thanks to you. Nothing more to do for us. I take Meda to Jawa, make well. Before go tell you. Not worry.’

  Takouhi took Charlotte’s face in her hands and kissed her on the cheek. Then she stood next to George and took his head in her arms, pressing him to her heart.

  Charlotte had never seen her friend so calm, as if all the distress of the last hours had departed and peace had come upon her with this final decision.

  It was early morning and raining, the rain of the tropics, dropping straight from the sky like a waterfall, noisy and heavy. Takouhi’s carriage arrived under the portico, and Charlotte dropped into its dark interior. She was exhausted, and the thought of this imminent departure caused tears to well. She sobbed for her friend, for Meda, for George, for all the heartache which was to befall them. She could not stop weeping, even when the carriage arrived at the bungalow. She did not wait for the driver to get down with the umbrella, and walked the short distance to the door in the pouring rain, glad of its feel on her face. She waved the driver away and went up onto the verandah of the bungalow.

  Azan came out with a sheet, smiling, not understanding, thinking Charlotte had merely got wet. Charlotte was glad. Somewhere life had to be normal.

  She changed in her room, listening to the sound of the rain falling on the roof tiles, gurgling off the verandah and swirling furiously round the pylons of the house. From the verandah nothing could be seen. The town, river, islands, jungle, all had disappeared. The harbour was one with the rain, the entire visible world wrapped in a grey watery sheet. She slept, and when she awoke hours later it was still raining.

  She thought of him, Zhen, missing him suddenly as if this wall of water might separate them forever.

  This thought immediately filled her mind. She cast around for a cloak and a hat. She would have to find him at the godown. He would be there at this hour.

  Then one of Robert’s peon’s came towards her. She hardly recognised him. He held out a note from Robert. Her brother had sent the peon to warn her he was detained. The rain had flooded Kampong Glam by the river, and Robert was needed. He did not know when he would return. She should stay with Takouhi.

  Charlotte made up her mind. She went out the back corridor and called Azan over the drumming rain.

  ‘Azan, I go to Mr Coleman’s house tonight but first go to Boat Quay. Get a sampan to go to godown of Baba Tan. Understand?’

  Azan understood. In this drenching rain most of the sampans were crowded together on the far side of the river, but he knew that there were always a few tied up by the landing stage. Why on earth the police chief’s sister wanted to go over the river in this weather was beyond him, but he was now so used to the comings and goings of the household he gave it no further thought.

  By the time the sampan arrived at the police jetty, the rain had lessened slightly and, under the big umbrella, Charlotte got into it, the boat rocking violently. The Indian boatman ferried her quickly through the choppy waters of the estuary into the mouth of the river, where the swells died down. Yelling at the other boatman to get out of the way, he pushed his way through the crowded boats to the steps. The river was high, so it was easy for Charlotte to step up to the quay. The rain had stopped but the low clouds meant that more was to come.

  She carefully went under the verandah of the godown and looked inside. It was as dark as a cave, the small glow of oil lamps visible at the back and in the room immediately to the left, where she knew the baba looked over the accounts. He was not in there. There was a young boy crouched inside the door fast asleep, some sort of messenger, she supposed. He was Chinese. How could she make him understand who she wanted? Then, as if by a miracle, she saw Zhen coming through, out of the penumbra into the front of the godown.

  ‘Zhen,’ she called, and he looked over to the door. He knew her voice.

  Coming onto the verandah, he moved her into the shadows.

  ‘What, why come, you hurt?’ His voice filled with alarm, but he was still angry with her.

  ‘See you. I must see you.’ Charlotte burst into tears.

  Zhen assessed the situation quickly. She had risked the river in this weather. She needed to see him. What for he was not sure, but she was distressed. His fury at her disappeared. They could not talk here; he would take her to his house. It was only a few minutes away. The rain would begin again any minute.

  Turning into the doorway, he shook the messenger boy awake.

  ‘Tell the master and the old man I have been called away on kongsi business. You understand, blockhead? Kongsi business. Be back tomorrow.’

  Zhen knew no one would questions this, for Baba Tan had avoided any contact with Chen Long since Chen had become head of the kongsi and especially since the attacks on the Catholic Chinese.

  Zhen took Charlotte by the hand and led her quickly to his house, hoping Ah Pok was not at home. It was about two o’clock. What was he doing at that time usually? Zhen racked his brains but couldn’t remember. He took so little interest in Ah Pok’s comings and goings, only grateful to have a servant who did everything for him—including spying, of course.

  The bolt was not on the door, but that meant nothing; the bolt was only used at night. At any other time the door was open to all the sundry tailors, knife sharpeners, noodle sellers, pot repairers, dhobi wallahs, delivery men and others who seemed to come and go at all hours of the day.

  He opened the door and looked inside, could detect no movement and led Charlotte inside and onto the stairs. If Ah Pok was here, he was probably in the kitchen. Quickly he led her up the stairs and peered into the front sitting room. No one. He took her to a chair and motioned her to be quiet, fingers to lips. He ran lightly downstairs and into the kitchen. Then he heard Ah Pok and smiled. He was straining away in the dirt box. Zhen went back down the hall and slammed the front door, walking loudly along the corridor calling his name.

  Ah Pok answered from inside the box.

  ‘Listen. There is a meeting here later, people from the kongsi. You are a kongsi man; you know this will be a private matter. When you’ve finished up in there, make some tea and noodles for four, and then make yourself scarce. And don’t come back until after sun-up tomorrow. Get it?’

  Ah Pok made a muffled sound of agreement. He knew better than to argue w
ith Zhen when he had his honggun hat on. The fire was stoked and hot water boiling.

  Zhen left the kitchen and returned to Charlotte, who now looked calm. She had taken off her cloak and hat and was looking out the window, down to the street, the shutters half-closed. The rain suddenly began again as he went to her side and whispered,

  ‘Not speak. Man here. Go soon.’

  They both stood quietly, looking out at the rain. Zhen was puzzled by this meeting. He hoped it meant what he thought, but with Xia Lou he could not be sure. He had never been so hesitant with a woman before.

  They watched as Ah Pok hailed the ever-present noodle hawker, who made constant rounds. He came under the verandah, and then there were some footsteps and they heard the door slam. Ah Pok was hurrying up the street towards Kampong Malacca; he had a woman up that way somewhere. Apparently Ah Pok, despite his middle age and his paunch, was something of a ladies’ man. Zhen smiled at this thought; he liked Ah Pok.

  Charlotte looked at his face and saw him smile. She never quite knew what he was thinking. She was suddenly angry at herself for coming like this, yet at the same time so very glad she was here. This was his house. She looked around.

  The furniture was an odd mixture of English and Chinese. The tables and chairs were hard, unyielding, inlaid with marble. He noticed her gaze, shrugged.

  ‘Baba Tan give this. I not care.’

  ‘Show me the house?’

  He nodded. She had gone from distressed to curious, but he did not mind. She was here, in his house. Cut off by the rain, entirely alone.

  He took her downstairs, showed her the kitchen, the red altar of the Kitchen God, the wok and bowls, the chopsticks. Ah Pok had left tea and steaming bowls of noodles. He motioned her to sit at the small table and stools where he ate when he was home with Ah Pok. They were like an old married couple.