The Shallow Seas

by Dawn Farnham

  He started towards the stairs, now in a small fury, but he stopped as the door to what had been their bedroom opened and she came out onto the landing and stood looking down at him.

  His heart quieted; his anger dissipated. She had this effect on him. She radiated a calm beauty, like an aura, as if surrounded by light. He smiled up at her, an old thrill coursing. “Come down, my lovely. I must talk to you.”

  Takouhi did not move.

  “Don’t make me come up there, I warn you, Takouhi.” He climbed two steps and saw her start. He smiled. “You are not safe on that floor, outside that room, for if I come there it will be to take what is mine, I assure you.” He moved up two more steps, and she came forward and started to descend.

  He moved back to the hall and waited as she swept past him, not looking at him, and went into the sitting room. He inhaled, with a sublime pleasure, the clean and heady scent of her, the perfume of jasmine which she always wore, on her skin, in her hair.

  She turned to face him as he shut the door. “Take what is yours? Nothing to take in this house.”

  George could see her trembling. He had, perhaps, chosen the wrong words. He knew all of Takouhi’s past, her treatment at the hands of the Dutch pig. Any suggestion of ownership made her sink into a deep stubbornness which even he could not move. Ah, but she was so lovely. She had aged a little; he could see it around her eyes, on her neck, but the difference in their ages had never meant anything to him. She had moved his heart, his body and his soul, and nothing had ever changed that. He wanted her now in his arms, but he stood, instead, behind a chair of green damask silk, leaving a space between them, giving her time to find her temper.

  “You may not be angry at me any more. At first, I understand, there was a shock. I had no idea you had come back to Singapore. But now, that is enough. I had a full expectation that I would never see you again.”

  He moved round the chair, and she took a small step backwards, but he paid no attention. He took both her hands in his and put them to his lips. “Takouhi, how much I longed to see you. How far away you were.”

  Takouhi felt her heart soften, as it always did when George touched her. She looked at his face, his hair, unruly, falling to his shoulders, a little greyer now, but it looked well on him. He had never been conventionally handsome, but his face was that of a man, strong and well made, and his eyes, green eyes like she had never seen before, were filled with the spirit of a land far beyond her comprehension. These still had the power to shake her. The minute she had seen him on the shore, she noticed he had lost some weight, looked lean and strong—younger somehow. She had recently become aware of the passing years on her skin. She was always acutely aware of the difference in age, more than ten years, between herself and George. Now he had a wife half his age. Perhaps this contributed in some measure to his youthful appearance.

  She pulled her hands from his and moved to the long, yellow silk sofa under the window. He watched her walk. She was dressed today in Javanese costume, gauzy and tight, outlining her body, the swish of her sarong sounding around her ankles. He liked to watch her walk, like a reed in water. He saw the outline of brown henna on her feet, vines and flowers rising around her ankles and disappearing under the sarong. She had anticipated his coming. He knew there would be henna too on her body, around her hips and waist, rising on her breasts. Making love to her was always like sipping at a spring filled with waving fronds or ravishing a nymph. In Europe, it was sometimes hard to remember the exquisite grace of Eastern women. All her exotic beauty was still as fresh for him as it had been twenty years before. The upward turn of her dark eyes, like an Egyptian queen, the full lips, so kissable, her supple slenderness. He walked over to her and made to put his hand round her waist. Suddenly, he could not wait to feel her against him. She sat so abruptly, though, that he found himself grasping at air.

  He sat next to her and smiled. “Is it games you want to play, Takouhi?” He reached for her, putting his hand to her back, leaning her breasts against him, putting his face close to hers, waiting for her to close the tiny space between their lips. “Kiss me, my love.”

  Takouhi closed her eyes and moved her lips to his. She could not resist him; he was a force, like the wind. All the years flew away and they were once again in the garden of her house in Nordwijk, where he had kissed her for the first time.

  There had been few men in her life after Pieter. She had taken lovers occasionally from amongst her servants. A Balinese, one of her guards, a Javanese musician from her gamelan orchestra. Others now and again. She had been courted by the English officers and the Dutch merchants for her beauty and wealth, but took little interest in them.

  One day, George had looked up from some plans he was discussing with her father, looked up with his green eyes and stopped talking, abruptly, as if Aphrodite herself had stepped off a cloud and walked into the room, and he had stolen her breath and quickly her will. Without the least expectation she, who had been sure of her mind, her poise, had been thrown off balance by his devilish looks, his Irish charm, his total disregard of their differences in anything, his instant and overpowering passion for her. She had been sure there would never be children. What Pieter had done to her when she was very young had ruined her in some way inside, his evil infecting her from beyond the grave. She would not marry George, though he had asked her, but to not be with him had become instantly impossible.

  Meeting Takouhi had ignited a deep ambition in him, an ambition for success and wealth. He wanted none of her money, he simply wanted her; she gave him peace and pleasure and the courage and space to be bold. When he had heard of Singapore, of the establishment of this new place where there was nothing and which offered opportunities beyond his dreams, he had sought out Raffles and built Maxwell’s house, now the Court House, to impress him. Raffles had trusted him with the construction of the town, and George had done it all. He had built Singapore and turned her into the Queen of the British East. Takouhi had been at his side every step of the way.

  He released her now from the kiss, and she put her head on his shoulder. All her shock and anger had evaporated. “I am sorry, George. I take Meda from you,” she said.

  He let her go suddenly and rose. This act, this death, stood between them like a wall. “Yes, it was a wicked thing to do to us both. Did she ask for me?” He stood, looking down at her. “No, don’t tell me,” he said. “I cannot bear it, to think of her wanting—”

  He began to pace the room.

  “I could not forgive you, Takouhi, for a very long time,” he said, his voice hard.

  Takouhi rose and put her hand on his arm, stopped the pacing. “She die very peacefully, George, in my arms. We talk of you and she say—” Takouhi’s face crumpled, and tears fell on her cheeks. She could not continue, but in a moment drew a great breath as she saw George’s face. She put her hand to her mouth and patted her lips, anxious. “She say, tell Daddy ‘I love you,’ and then she go to sleep.”

  George let out a cry from the bottom of his soul, a loud, heart-rending sound of anguish, like an animal’s wounded cry. He pulled Takouhi into him, crushing her against him. “Dear Lord in heaven, I loved her, that darling girl. I could not hold her as she went. Ah, Takouhi, that was cruel indeed.”

  “I know. Oh, George, I am so sorry. I think that Jawa will cure her.”

  They both stopped talking and cried, holding each other, as they should have done at Meda’s bedside. George ran his fingers into Takouhi’s hair and she clung to him as to a rock in a stormy sea until gradually, slowly, their emotion subsided.

  “I have carried that around inside me these years away from you.” George pulled her head away from his shoulder and looked into her eyes. “You never talk to me of leaving again, you understand.” He shook her head, his hands wound tightly in her hair. “You understand, Takouhi?”

  She nodded, acknowledging her fault and the frightful culpability she had borne.

  They sat, finally, side by side on the long yellow sofa and he
began to tell her of his years in Europe: the pointless, driven travels from capital to capital, each more empty than the last. Hating her and missing her, thinking incessantly of Meda, breaking down at insane moments just when he thought he was recovered. He had gone back to Ireland and found it was cold and no longer a home. Then, when he had almost decided to come back to Singapore, he had called on a very old friend and met this girl, Maria, the old man’s daughter. He had married the girl as a promise to a dying man and because he had been filled with anger and hopelessness.

  He turned and took Takouhi’s hand. He looked at the Claddagh ring which she had moved to her right hand in jealousy and anger, not yet quite resolute enough to remove it entirely. Tutting at her, he shook his head, looked up and smiled. Then he took the ring and put it back onto her left hand, the heart towards hers.

  “She stopped the thoughts. She’s young and filled with adoration for me. I admit it was a way to forget. She looked at me with fresh and tender eyes, and I suppose I basked in that. I am a man, after all, and a bit of an old Irish fool. I had no idea of ever seeing you again, even of wanting to see you again. A new kind of life, I thought—that’s the very thing to chase out apathy, make me want to live again.”

  Takouhi had put her hand to his cheek. She understood everything. Every ounce of annoyance and jealousy had drained away. He had survived, and this young woman had helped him to survive. She kissed him gently and put her head on his shoulder, and he pulled her against him. “What’s to become of this I don’t know, darling girl, but you must stay here, that is all,” he told her.

  Takouhi nodded.

  Takouhi had shown Charlotte the invitation days ago. Mr and Mrs Tigran Manouk and Miss Takouhi Manouk were cordially invited to dinner at the residence of Mr and Mrs George Coleman. Takouhi had shaken her head. George had left her arms and her bed only the evening before, for this discovery of each other had brought a renewal of passions which were as powerful as when they were much younger. Perhaps more so, tinged as they were with bitter-sweetness and intensity.

  “I cannot go. Can George even know of it?”

  Charlotte had taken the invitation and stared at it, hardly taking it in. A short hour ago, he had gone for a walk along Hill Street, over Coleman Bridge and onto Boat Quay and passed the Tan godown, hoping to see Zhen. Tigran was away, negotiating the leases on several properties in the town. He had recently talked to her of this, but she had hardly taken it in. Talks with Robert and the Armenian merchants had convinced him of the potential for growth here. The new steamers, he was certain, would only add to Singapore’s prosperity. With Hong Kong established off the China coast, this port would be a vital coaling link in the chain of English trade which, he could see, was circling the world.

  Zhen had sent a note to her by a young Chinese boy, asking her to come to him at his house at Circular Road. Since then, she had been in a state of emotional upheaval. Now this walk had calmed her, and when she saw him, she stopped to greet him and smile. He understood. They hardly exchanged two words, but she drank him in with her eyes, every inch of his body, in anticipation.

  Now Charlotte put these thoughts aside and looked again at the card which Takouhi was shaking in agitation. Of course, Takouhi could not go to this dinner, but Tigran and Charlotte must attend. Charlotte paid attention now and nodded. She, too, was not sure if George liked this idea, but how could he refuse? After a week, it was natural that his friends should be invited to see his new wife.

  Tigran had returned, pleased with his day’s business. He went up to the bedroom and found Charlotte at her toilette. As the maid powdered and dressed her, he talked to her of the new houses he had bought on Queen Street. One, in particular, built after one of George’s designs, was very fine. Perhaps Charlotte would like to furnish it, for it could be their house here in Singapore. Really, this was an interesting town, with such potential. The new law on land leases outside the town was encouraging. Now that perpetual land holdings had been granted, he had almost decided to buy a large property at Tanglin or Claymore, or perhaps out near Robert at Katong.

  As he chatted, Charlotte’s maid finished putting the final touches to her hair. Tigran stopped talking, signalled the maid to leave, and came to her, standing behind her chair and looking in the mirror. He thought she looked radiant, her skin a rose blush against her black hair, and he stooped and put his lips to her neck. They had not made love recently. She had been unwell with the pregnancy and tired since she had come to Singapore. As she rose, he turned her to face him.

  “Tigran,” she began, but he cut her off, putting his lips to hers. As he felt her respond, almost against her will, he wished they did not have to leave this room tonight. When he released her, she sank again to her chair, chiding him playfully for messing her. He smiled, for he could see that she was in good humour and hoped that the evening would end with them in each other’s arms.

  George owned three houses in Coleman Street. No. 1 was leased by the Reverend White, pastor of Saint Andrews. His former home, No. 3, was directly opposite Tir Uaidhne, a much larger, handsome building with bayed verandahs, standing in great grounds. When he had left, he had leased it to Gaston Dutronquoy, who had turned it into the Hotel London. Charlotte had asked George what he felt about No. 3 being turned into a commercial establishment with, of all things, a skittles alley. He had merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “It is not important anymore,” he had replied. “I plan to build a villa, a great villa in the Italianate style, out on Duxton Plain.”

  The house between, No. 2, was his new home. As they arrived, Charlotte could see that it had been completely refurbished, with many new additions. It seemed that Maria and George must have sought out the antiquities of England and Europe, for there were statues by John Gibson and Giovanni Benzoni, alongside the items George had placed in storage. Charlotte always thought George’s eclectic personality was amply and openly displayed in his choice of art. Statues of Psyche were his favourite: Psyche with Dove, with Cupid; then the Bacchante; but also busts of Augustus and Raphael. George had always been a generous man, and she could see, in the new vases and hangings, that he had indulged his wife. It spoke of a happiness which he must have found with her, at least until his arrival on these shores. Perhaps, thought Charlotte, with a small sense of unease, they should not have come back.

  George was not in the hall when they arrived, but Maria came out, fanning herself. It was a humid night, and for a newly arrived young lady from England’s temperate climes who was fully eight months pregnant at least, the climate, Charlotte could see, was a trial. She had a delicate lace handkerchief with which she attempted discreetly to dab her forehead and cheeks. Nevertheless, she put on a brave face and greeted her guests with smiles.

  “Welcome, dear Charlotte and Tigran. I am so happy to meet you finally.”

  Charlotte embraced her, could feel her discomfort, and felt a great sympathy for her. Her first child, in such a heat! Charlotte’s mind went immediately to the cool hills of Buitenzorg and Tigran’s comforting and adoring attentions. After Tigran had bowed over Maria’s hand, Charlotte put her hand in his and he looked down at her with a small, crooked smile of pleasure and they passed into the sitting room.

  Several acquaintances were there, among them the Churches and the Whites, John and Billy, more than twenty couples. Charlotte thought of the work this young woman had had to do to put together such an event so soon after her arrival on these shores.

  George was talking to a crowd gathered round him, and as she drew near, Charlotte realised to her consternation that he had been drinking. Generally when he had downed a few porters or whiskies, he became quite gay, and his Irish accent became even stronger, but that was usually when the evening was far advanced. Now Maria went and spoke to him. He turned as she came, and now looked up and came forward to greet Charlotte.

  “My lovely Kitt,” he said and bowed extravagantly over her hand.

  Robert came up to his sister, greeting them all.
George went back to the group, and Charlotte turned to Robert.

  “What’s going on, Robbie? George is half-drunk, and it is not yet half-past seven.”

  Robert shrugged, Tigran frowned, and Charlotte bit her lip.

  At dinner, George poured wine, toasting and thanking his friends and recounting tall tales of the decadent European gentry. The meal was extravagant, with soups, meats, fowls, curried vegetables, puddings and fruits. At the end, George rose, taking Maria’s hand and kissing it.

  “A toast, ladies and gentlemen, to my lovely young wife.”

  Maria, Charlotte could see, was a little bewildered at his mildly sarcastic tone, and she flushed, but he put her hand to his lips in gallant manner and bowed to her. She flushed more deeply and gazed at him with eyes of such evident adoration that Charlotte had to look down, ashamed that at least half the guests in this room knew that George had renewed his acquaintance on one level or another with his former mistress.

  After dinner, the band struck up, and the dancing began. Charlotte urged Tigran to waltz with some of the ladies, for she, too, was beginning to feel tired and a little short of breath. The pregnancy was beginning to take a toll on her in the night heat. She joined Maria on the verandah, where the punkah moved the air into some semblance of coolness.

  Maria turned to Charlotte. “I am so very happy you have come. I hope we shall be friends.”

  Charlotte smiled at her, and Maria took her hand.

  “You are George’s friend. He told me about you and Robert. Now you are married to Mr Manouk. He is older than you—forgive me for being so forward—much as George is older than I. Are you happy, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte was taken aback at this directness. “Yes, of course, Maria. Perfectly happy.” And she was, wasn’t she? Perfectly happy with Tigran? But for this one thing, this one man.

  The conversation made her uncomfortable. She made to rise, but Maria held on to her hand.

  “Forgive me. Sometimes I am too direct, my sisters have often told me. But you and I are the same age, almost. I am twenty-one. And Charlotte, oh forgive me again, but I am bursting to tell you, his friend, my soon-to-be friend, I hope. I love him so very much. He is every good thing.”