The Red Thread (10 page)

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.

‘This is Tanjong Tangkap, it means “capture point”. It is Mr Johnstone's house and godown, and everyone calls it that because it is placed so well to capture all the captains as they come into the river for trade. Mr Johnstone is one of the oldest residents of the settlement and has been a good friend to me. When I worked for him he was fair and hospitable. Now that I do not, he is still gracious and kind.'

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.'

Robert sounded irritated. ‘These royal potentates are absolute rulers in their fiefdoms. They are an indulgent lot, lazy and greedy. They give no benefit to their own people, who are oppressed and taxed into virtual slavery. Even the munshi agrees that this is so. He is harder on them than any of us. Why, the present sultan's run off in disgrace with his catamite or some such.'

Charlotte was dismayed at the storm she had caused and, laying a hand on Robert's arm, said, ‘Crimoney! Forgive me, Robbie; I am very new here. I don't understand everything, but rulers everywhere oppress, do they not? I heard that the Chinese headmen here also use the poor men who come from China in the big ships. Do not we also take advantage of the natives for our benefit throughout the empire? Mr Hume and Monsieur Voltaire—'

‘For heaven's sake, Charlotte.' Robert interrupted her. ‘This is not the place for philosophical discussions.' He softened his voice. ‘This is a frontier town, not Marischal College. My job is to understand and keep the peace as well as I am able.'

Charlotte said no more but thought it rather hypocritical of Robert to criticise the sultan and lay no fault of exploitation at the doors of the other communities. After morning lessons in her grandmother's house, she had often been left to her own devices. Her cousin, Duncan, would come and see her and take her sailing, a pursuit her father had taught his children in Madagascar. She would go for long walks on the hills around Aberdeen. This semi-solitary existence was not unpleasant. She did not care much for the company of the silly Scottish lasses she met at lunches and tea parties, all giggles and gossip. She had also spent hours reading in her grandfather's extensive library, and this had framed ideas she knew few women were privy to. She had thought she might talk of these with Robert. The sudden realisation came to her that there might be few people in Singapore with whom such ideas could be discussed. Robert himself had altered, was more serious, even had a stronger Scottish accent than when he had left Scotland. When she had taxed him on this, he had merely answered,

‘Almost everyone here is Scots. Why, most of India is Scottish; it serves well.'

She thought of her Aunt Jeannie and her cousin, Duncan, with whom she had spent hours in such talk. Even her grandmother, though strictly Kirk, had indulged the family in intellectual debate. Her beloved husband had been a professor of Greek, a scholar and polemicist. Robert, too, when he was down from university, played a central part in these debates. Charlotte realised at that moment, and to her surprise, that she was grateful to her Scottish family for the expansion of her mind. Had they stayed in Madagascar, no matter how hard their father might have tried, they might have been what Robert now despised: ignorant and lazy. Whether they were happier for not being so, she was not sure.

These musings were interrupted by the arrival of the other ladies. Isobel da Silva showed her a pretty muslin, which she had bought. Charlotte realised that she must turn her attention a little to her wardrobe and, as she questioned the girls on materials and tailors, they made their way down by Mr Johnstone's gloomy godown, to Battery Road. The sea on their left was filled with ships and boats transporting goods to the long jetties of the godowns along the seafront.

The sun was, by now, so hot that Robert proposed a short stop at Mr Francis's refreshment rooms, and they made their way along the edge of the elegant little square to a shuttered building on the corner of Kling Street.

Here, in the cool ground floor, they sat as Mr Francis placed orders for lime juice for Charlotte and Mrs Keaseberry, pineapple juices for the girls and a cool India pale ale for Robert. John Francis was a Cockney who had served as a ship's mate for many years, before settling down in Singapore to open the first public house, in Tavern Street. His language was a little rough and ready, but Charlotte liked him. Since his tavern was meant for the ships' crews who ebbed and flowed like the tide, his rough ways did not offend the majority of his clientele. His hotel often took in sick sailors for a pittance which, in the absence of any hospital, was an act of some charity.

Refreshed, they made their way along the north side of Commercial Square towards Malacca Street. Here, Charlotte noted the first women she had seen in the town. Two dark-haired Indian women were sauntering around the square arm in arm, dressed in pretty pink and green saris. As they passed, Isobel giggled and whispered something to her sister. Mrs Keaseberry threw them a hard glance and they stopped.

‘Ladies of the night, my deah,' she said with a moue.

Of course, thought Charlotte. This is a port.

Charlotte found much to admire in the interesting architecture of the square. Most of the houses were three-storey buildings ornately decorated with shutters, porcelain tiles and painted eaves. The architecture of the town was unusual, and she had asked Robert about it. He had merely said that, as far as he knew, it was Raffles who had decreed that all the buildings should be uniform and ordered Coleman to ensure that they all be fronted by a five-foot way to allow shelter from the sun and the rain. ‘Proper smart chap, that Raffles.' For the rest she should speak to George Coleman, who ‘knew bally everything about architecture and much else besides'.

Just beyond the auction rooms they stepped into the building which housed Mr Keaseberry's mission press. A dull thump-thump could be heard coming from a back room.

Robert hailed Benjamin Keaseberry—a tall, thin man with a slightly florid complexion—and his companion with a loud ‘Greetings, gentlemen.' Mrs Keaseberry went up to her husband, who took her hand, and greeted the other man somewhat coldly, Charlotte thought. Having curtsied to Mr Keaseberry she was introduced to Mr Coleman.

So this is the man who knows bally everything and has the heart of Takouhi Manouk, thought Charlotte. He took her hand lightly and bowed slightly.

‘Miss Charlotte Macleod, by the saints, Robert has not been telling lies.'

He had a way of looking directly into her eyes which was very seductive.

‘Welcome to our little world. As sure as the Pope's a Catholic, we shall be best friends.'

The da Silva girls both kissed him warmly on his cheek, for they had known him all their lives. He was a favourite at their musical soirées, where he sang Irish songs in a pleasant baritone.

Mr Coleman was at the mission press to pick up personal items of printing and, when pressed by the da Silva girls, revealed that they were invitations to a ball that he would be giving in honour of a visit by Takouhi's brother and to which, they, much too young, were not invited. After a great deal of pouting they convinced him to relent, and he confessed that they might be on the guest list.

He explained to Charlotte that he was interested in the printing process as part-founder of the settlement's newspaper, the
Singapore Free Press
, although this journal was printed on its own presses in Battery Road.

‘It's only four pages long, and there's some rather drear commercial stuff which the others insist on. But it gives the settlement a voice in a time when the lordships in Calcutta pay little interest to what goes on here. I fear there is not profit enough for them in Singapore. Only the Chinese and Arab merchants make the fortunes. So they rather see Singapore as a glorified fishing village or a repository of convicts. Yet we are frugal. The government lives off the vices of the population, taxes only the gambling, liquor and opium farms. There are no port duties, no tax on trade. We have a chamber of commerce but no hospital. We have crime aplenty but no one willing to subsidise the police force. So we rail and bemoan our sorry lot. Directly beside a letter groaning about the state of our thoroughfares, there's an editorial against the imposition of carriage taxes, which are to go to improve them. Free trade, that's the clarion call. So the lord must take care of the rest. Is it not delightful, Miss Macleod?'

Mrs Keaseberry looked on disapprovingly at this bantering tirade for although she agreed with the sentiments, she had never warmed to Mr Coleman's sense of humour, nor could she countenance his habit of dressing like the natives. She had even seen him in a turban. It was too much.

Coleman smiled wryly, took possession of his bundle and departed with a wave.

They made a tour of the premises, and Mr Keaseberry explained enthusiastically and somewhat at length the working of the press and the merits of Koenig and Bauer's steam-powered single machine and Applegarth and Cowper's four-cylinder machine versus the older Stanhope iron-frame lever press. When they took their leave. Charlotte's head was spinning and the da Silva girls looked as if they might cry. Mrs Keaseberry had declined the remainder of the tour and stayed to help her husband.

Stepping outside into the sunshine, the three women looked at each other and suppressed a desire to laugh until they had moved very quickly across the pretty leafy square. The girls then ran gaily into a handsome shophouse directly across from the mission press, which was the dispensary of Dr da Silva and the place of work for his mercantile interests, as well as of Thomas Crane, his son-in-law by marriage to Maria, one of his many daughters. They occupied the upper rooms.

Dr Jose da Silva was a man of some sixty years, tall and slender with thick silver hair and a patrician face. Charlotte could see that he was attractive and was no longer surprised at the remarkable number of wives he had possessed. He greeted them distractedly. Although he cared for all his children, since there were some twenty of them, he often had trouble with their names.