The Red Thread (7 page)

Policing was not on his mind at this moment, however, and with a quick glance at the rows of slumbering godowns and houses on Boat Quay, he turned heel and made his way to Number 3, Coleman Street. George, he knew, was also an early riser, but he had given Aman a note to take to his house last night. Robert was never sure how many nights George spent at Tir Uaidhne, and Coleman could be tetchy about unwanted intrusions, even from his friends.

He strolled behind his bungalow along the beach side road, enjoying the stiff cool breeze and the view. Fishing boats sat on the seabed, and the tangy smell of low tide mingled with the ricy, fishy odours of cooking from the boats. Naked children scuttled about on shore, gathering up driftwood, bare-breasted women suckled their babes. The children waved. Sometimes he envied these sea gypsies with their lives of freedom. When they were hungry, they fished; any surplus they sold for rice or cloth, and for the rest of the day they basked in the sun or under the mangrove trees, or swam like little fish until hunger aroused them to labour again.

‘Obeyed as sovereign by thy subjects be

But know that I alone am king of me

I am as free as Nature first made man

Ere the base laws of servitude began

When wild in woods the noble savage ran.'

These men always won the boat races held every year on New Year's Day. Racing sailors like no one on earth, they were never beaten. They were born, lived and died on the sea. He could think of worse lives.

Their
sampan panjang
were craft of extraordinary elegance and lightness. He had once sailed in one and fallen in love. Nothing equalled the pace they set, each man like a part of the boat itself, the sustained pitch of excitement as they cut the water, waves sweeping over the gunwale and the bodies of the men baling. Ballast was a few bags of stones. The men leaned out windward for balance; the sails boomed with long forked poles. Yet there was hardly a sound of their speed, merely a quivering slithery sensation, as if they were propelled not by wind but by a silent watery hand. It was beyond beauty, the clean-cut rip through the water and the sharp, curling wake behind. Robert, completely overcome, bought one for himself, naming it
Sea Gypsy
, and it was the sleekest, loveliest of boats.

He waved back cheerily then, turning, cut directly across the plain. He could see lights in the three great houses which lay behind low walls and luxuriant gardens.

As he entered Coleman Street, Robert rather envied George the honour of a street named after him, but since the Irishman had laid them all out, he had to admit that it was reasonable. In company George referred to it laughingly as ‘me road', and to his friends it was G.D. Street. Three houses owned by George stood in this street, and, passing the Reverend and Mrs White's and Mr and Mrs Wood's houses, he turned into the open, pillared gate of Number 3, passed under the seven-bayed porte-cochere and over the cool green and white Malacca tiles of the porch and pulled the doorbell. This was a mere formality, as the doors stood open, and he made his way into the entrance hall.

There he stood, waiting, and within a minute, Coleman himself, dressed as he usually was in loose trousers and a
kurta
of soft Indian cotton, emerged from the inner hall.

‘For Gaard's sake, Robert! What on earth can ye be wanting advice for at this time of the morning?'

He ran his hand through thick, wavy brown hair, which he wore longish over his ears, and looked quizzically at his guest. His Irish accent was as strong today as when he had left Drogheda twenty-five years ago.

‘G.D., you must help me, for I have not the faintest idea what to do. This is personal. Policing is no problem but this, really, I've done something— .' He trailed off. He looked as if he might burst into tears at any minute.

George took pity on him and threw an arm round his shoulder. ‘There, there, come on, up we go.'

Coleman smiled and led his young friend across the hall, up the stairs, through the sitting and dining rooms and finally out onto the wide upper verandah, where lounging chairs and tables were in abundance. Calling for coffee, Coleman indicated two high-backed rattan chairs covered in cushions, and they sat.

A platter of fruits, chunks of prickly pineapples, furry mangosteens and juicy pieces of giant pomelo arrived on the table, carried in by a pretty Tamil girl in a soft pink
sari
. Coleman preferred women around him and always tried to employ female servants whenever possible. This girl was the daughter of servants of one of his most important colleagues, Nanda Pillai, one of the most indispensable men in the settlement, in George's opinion, whose brick kilns were his main supplier of building materials.

‘These young Indian lasses, they're quiet and loyal. As they grow older, I always try to find them husbands from the convict lines. The Indian convicts are the most reliable men in the entire settlement,' he explained when asked.

George Dromgold Coleman was not only the surveyor and architect of Singapore; he was Superintendent of Public Works and Overseer of Convicts, thousands of whom formed the cheap labour pool needed to carry out the East India Company's road and building contracts, as well as his own private commissions.

He also had the best coffee in Singapore, which he got directly from Sumatra, Toraja and Java through Tigran Manouk, Takouhi's brother. George raised his cup. ‘To Baba Budan who stole the bean that so many fortunes are built on.' This morning he had asked for beans from the high fields of Mandheling, in western Sumatra.

George was always full of stories. He was very well read, had a personal library, was a frequent contributor to John Armstrong's library and reading rooms on Commercial Square as well as a patron of the library at the institute and part-owner of the only newspaper in Singapore. Robert, who would rather do anything than read, nevertheless liked to listen to what Coleman called ‘tales of woe and wonder'. The story of how an Indian holy man smuggled the fiercely protected coffee beans out of Arabia was one of them. For a moment they both sat, silently savouring its richness and breathing in the aroma; then he addressed his friend.

‘Well, Robert, what seems to be the trouble?'

‘I think I've done something you won't be pleased with.'

Coleman raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Robert swallowed another gulp of coffee and in a strangulated voice began. ‘About two months ago I came home one evening, and when I got into bed there was a young native woman already there. She's young and lovely, and I'm afraid I was unable to resist. She apparently has feelings for me, and I like her a great deal, but I think any kind of marriage would be out of the question. Since Charlotte has come, she can no longer visit me and, really, I've come to you for some advice.'

The words tripped over each other as they fell off his tongue, and when he stopped, he felt drained.

Coleman looked at him sardonically. ‘Well, now, that's an unusual case, is it not? Can't think of any of the other bachelors in the settlement who are sleeping with young native women, can you?'

Robert said in a small voice, ‘No, I know, but George, this girl, it's … Shilah.'

Coleman put down his cup with a bang.

‘Shilah? Our Shilah, here in the house? Two months, by the saints, and you haven't been to tell me! Why, she could be pregnant by now. Did you think of that?' His voice had risen.

Robert stood up and looked out in the half light over the balcony, past Tir Uaidhne and towards St Andrew's Church.

‘Auch, George, don't yell at me I beg of yer, for I want to do the right thing. She came to me. I know that's no excuse, but I'm a young man, and really that sort of thing has been sorely lacking. You know I don't like to go to the
ah ku
women.'

He turned and faced Coleman dolefully. George shook his head.

‘Well, sit down. We'll discuss this calmly. What's done is done. The girl's as much to blame; I offered to find her a decent husband.'

He poured them both some more coffee and sat in thought. Robert, relieved, said nothing and watched him warily.

‘She'll stay here with me for the moment,' Coleman said finally. ‘I'll speak to her and get Dr Montgomerie to look her over. If she's pregnant, then you have to decide what you want to do about it. Takouhi knows someone who can fix that. After that, if you still want to continue in this, then I think, if you want to be fair, you have to set her up somewhere. Does your salary run to a small place? I've almost finished a nice row of houses on Middle Street, on a plot of land I've leased. Perhaps I could let you rent one of the upper rooms cheaply. But think this out carefully. If you want to get married in a few years, better think what you'll do then.'

Robert was glad he had come. Coleman was always a reasonable and pragmatic man. At the moment he could not think of giving up Shilah, and to establish her in Kampong Glam was a good idea. His inheritance was but a few weeks away, and, while it was not large, money would not be wanting. Any child could be got rid of. Shilah was young, only sixteen; there was plenty of time for that if they were still together later on. He looked over at George with gratitude.

‘George, how can I thank you?'

Coleman looked at him severely. ‘You can thank me by making this unfortunate young woman happy. She was raised with no parents and doubtless has a large store of love to offer you, the lord knows why. This is the only home she has ever known. At the moment you are crazy to get your hands on her, but life has a way of setting traps. Don't let her down when you no longer have any use for her. Yer know, Robert, just because she's a parentless half-blood doesn't mean she doesn't aspire to marry you or that you should reject it out of hand. But that is up to you.'

George suddenly rose and approached the edge of the verandah. Robert looked over and saw Takouhi at the upper window of the house opposite. The dawn was almost upon them, and birds were busily twittering and flitting amongst the trees and shrubs and in and out of the pagoda-like birdhouse. Her black hair fell over her shoulders, and she waved and smiled at them. At her side was a young girl, pretty, with shoulder-length brown hair. This was Meda Elizabeth, George's daughter. Coleman blew them a kiss. Not for the first time, Robert was struck with how strong and affectionate this relationship was.

Coleman was not conventionally handsome, but he was a manly figure, tallish and broad in the shoulders. His nose was somewhat long and his lips thin, but that did not matter much. Everything was in his eyes, which were a hazel–green, surrounded by deep wrinkles. They seemed in perpetual good humour, even when he was not. He delighted in the ridiculous and had a love of wit and repartee. He was a great favourite with almost all the Europeans, young and old, and the English-speaking Chinese. His thorough knowledge of Bengali, Tamil, Hindustani and Malay gave him an easy relationship with those communities as well. He had built virtually every road, quay and canal in the town. He had surveyed the island and drawn up its first accurate map. He had filled in the swamps and opened up the jungle. He had almost finished construction of the only two solid bridges in the town: one over the Singapore River and the other on the Rochor. He had built the houses of almost every important European, Peranakan, Malay and Chinese family, the rows of shophouses, the princely mansions and the godowns of the rich merchants. Over fifteen years, his tireless industry had made Singapore the most elegant town in the British East.

Only once had Coleman talked to Robert of his relationship with Takouhi. She had been ill with fever, and while Dr Montgomerie and Mrs White had attended her, he had sat with George in the drawing room of Tir Uaidhne.

‘She is a woman full of grace and passion, Robert. I have no idea what I should do without her.' He had sat slumped on a chair, his head in his hands.

‘I've offered marriage, you know, but she will not. Just says, today we are together. It is wonderful. Gets these dark moods, you know. It's the marriage to that old Dutch pig when she was just a girl. By the saints, a bad man can ruin a good woman, crush the trust and love out of her. He was a brute. She wasn't to blame.'

Coleman stopped abruptly and looked quickly at Robert. By the time Dr Montgomerie descended the marble staircase with good news, he had pulled himself together. Robert had not known what to make of this or what to say, and the subject had never come up again.

Now Robert thanked his friend and left. He was grateful. On his walk back to the bungalow he went over Coleman's words about marriage in his head.

‘Really, George is not thinking straight on that score,' he said to himself.

‘Why, there's no comparison between George's situation and mine. Shilah's a simple servant girl, and Takouhi Manouk is the educated and cultivated sister of the wealthiest man in the East Indies. George is rich and powerful, a man who does as he pleases. I'm a policeman, serving the government. My conduct is constantly under scrutiny. And what about Charlotte? What would her prospects be with a native sister-in-law. No, it's impossible.'

At heart, Robert was a simple soul and with this issue settled in his mind, he felt better than he had for days. He was looking forward to taking Charlotte on a visit to the town. There was no reason to trouble her with this matter, which, after all, was his personal business.

As he arrived back at the bungalow, fat drops of rain began to fall.

5

The men in the coolie house had passed an uncomfortable night. The perpetual comings and goings, the sounds of sickness, coughing and moaning were all interminable. The fetid smell of the toilet buckets hung chokingly in the air. Qian couldn't wait for the night to end. In his exhaustion he had slept but he woke constantly, dripping with sweat in the humid atmosphere. He would rather have slept outside, but the doors were barred. Thank all the gods, Zhen had spoken to the pock-faced guard, and they had some kind of agreement that they could go to the temple tomorrow.