The Red Thread (3 page)

‘Crimoney!' she whispered.

‘They are magnificent, aren't they?'

The captain had strolled to her side.

‘We call them junks, from the Javanese
djong
, I believe, which the Portuguese turned into
jonc
. The Chinese doubtless call them by some other name. I have seen many but never grow tired of them. For flatness of sail and handiness, their rigs are unsurpassed.'

He traced the outline of the ship with his hand, almost a caress.

‘Do not be fooled by the busy superstructure. Under the water they are very sweet. The deep rudder and forefoot keep the ship windward. In the hell storms of the China Sea and on blue water, they are the finest vessels afloat, I think. But don't tell the Admiralty.'

Charlotte smiled. The old captain was something of a heroic figure, and she had come to admire him immensely over the long months of this voyage. Having discovered that Charlotte knew how to sail small craft, he was delighted to talk to her of nautical things.

‘Her passengers may find you interesting, my dear, so I think we may move a little further inshore.'

He had heard of the incident the previous night. He liked this unusual young woman who, alone, had made the long and occasionally dangerous voyage with a quiet and gritty stoicism. In times of need she had been helpful and unflappably useful to the other passengers. In periods of calm he often found her studying a book of the Malay language and was delighted to help her, for he had spent years in these waters and spoke it fluently.

‘Actually we have been signalled to go in closer and given permission to disembark.' He pointed to the staff in the distance bristling with flags. ‘This Chinese ship will soon move round beyond the fort to unload at Telok Ayer Bay.'

A painted bird with outstretched wings and serpentine tail feathers covered the entire surface of the stern. A fabulous creature with faded plumage of red, black, yellow, green and white, it had a curved back like the crescent of the moon, sharp eyes like the sun; those eyes watched the schooner sail smoothly round the junk.

Now human eyes were watching too and, to her annoyance, she found herself searching to see who had called out, but the faces lining the length of the ship were a mass of brown and black. Modesty, she knew, should have sent her below, but since the schooner was pulling rapidly away, she felt bold enough to withstand the gaze of those alien eyes—even, if she were truthful, to rather enjoy it.

‘Kitt Macleod, you have become a hussy,' she murmured to herself.

The shoreline came clearly into sight. As the sun shot its opal rays over the horizon, she turned and caught her first real view of the settlement. A pang of recognition. Her breath caught in her throat. The green, thickly wooded hills, the low, red-roofed houses, the sandy shoreline and the turquoise waves, reminded her of Toamasina, the island port of Madagascar, her birthplace. She felt the breeze of this eastern isle like a welcoming kiss.

Robert had written her amusing letters about this small settlement. Charlotte had laughed, but in between the lines she read of sad loneliness, of long nights far from her, from their deep affection for each other; she had shed tears for him. Now she smiled. This soft dawn would bring her to him and to her new home. She forgot the Chinese ship and went below to make her final preparations.

The coolies had stirred when the schooner drew anchor, and they moved to see this sleek little ship, with its white sails, move gracefully towards shore. All hoped to catch a glimpse again of this Ch'ang O of the western seas, as she had now been named. Superstitious and afraid, they felt she might be an extra good omen in Si Lat Po, this land of no winters, of tigers, snakes and barbarians. Zhen did not step forward this time, but watched silently as the foreign woman glided past. He could see her quite clearly from his vantage point at the stern. Her dress was white, with a wide, pale gold sash. The top was tight-fitting, with a kind of puffed sleeve. She was slender. The skirts were large and of some gauzy material. She looked as if she was standing in a cloud. Her hair was long, black, like Chinese hair, held back by shining gold ribbons that floated below her waist; her features were delicate. Despite the morning heat, she looked as cool as moonlight on a river. He was surprised; he had heard that people from the Western lands were red and coarse.

He could not make out her eyes. Then she turned and looked to shore. Within a minute she had disappeared, and the schooner grew smaller.

Zhen grinned and turned to Qian.

‘Her robe a cloud, her face a flower …

Meeting on the dew-edged roof of paradise.'

They were lines from Li Bai's ‘Song of Pure Happiness'. With him, Zhen carried two books. In one he had copied all his favourite poems. Waiting in Amoy for the coolie ship to leave, he and Qian had discovered a mutual love for this ancient, reckless, romantic and drunken poet and his steady and loyal friend, Du Fu. Zhen had deliberately changed ‘moon' to ‘dew' to give a sensual liquid overtone. ‘Playing the game of clouds and rain' had been the poetic allusion to lovemaking between men and women since time immemorial.

‘Perhaps Yi will meet Ch'ang O again.'

‘Perhaps, but don't forget how Li Bai ended up. Up ended, trying to capture the moon in the river, poet no more.'

‘Yes, but it was a fine death. Drunk on poetry and wine.'

They both laughed, but a small tic began to twitch alongside Qian's right eye. He knew from their long conversations that he was the Du Fu to Zhen's Li Bai. Perhaps that was why they had formed such a strong bond. Surely he would not mix himself up with these
ang mo gui
, these foreign devils whom no one could understand.

He sighed. There was always something dangerously Taoist about Zhen. He had grown to love him, though. Despite the miseries of their journey, Zhen stayed resolute and cheerful. At those times, the words of Du Fu's ode to Li Bai came to him: ‘caught in a net, how is it you still have wings?' When he had said this, Zhen had told him a story.

‘There was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbours came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said. “Maybe,” said the farmer. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbours exclaimed. “Maybe,” replied the old man. The following morning, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown and broke his leg. Again the neighbours came to offer their sympathy for his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son's leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbours congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” said the farmer.'

They turned back into the ship. Like the rest of the poor hopefuls on board, they must ready themselves for the task of survival which loomed precariously ahead. They could see boats of every possible size and shape, flying from the shore like hornets out of a nest and racing towards them.

Almond eyes bobbed along the water line as the
sampan
cut swiftly across the harbour. Charlotte's hair was full of the wind. A mist of salty spray flew up from the bow, showering her face. She did not care. She could see the rim of low bungalows along the beach front and the big trees on the plain; the governor's residence on the hill; the fluttering of flags on the flagstaff. The fort stood low on the opposite side of the riverbank. Then she saw Robbie, standing on the jetty and her heart leapt. She waved and Robert waved.

In a flash she had arrived. A journey of 10,000 miles had ended in a minute. Robert pulled her from the boat and hugged her tightly, trembling from this feeling of profound happiness. Charlotte, overcome, held him too, smelling him, filling her empty places up with him, this brother she loved so well. Finally he released her, and they began to laugh. Arm in arm, they made their way into the bungalow. The rest of the day passed in a whirl of news of Scotland and the voyage, Robert's unusual appointment and the discovery of her future home. As evening drew in, Charlotte, exhausted, prepared for bed. She went out onto the verandah, which faced the sea. A pleasant breeze cooled her face. She looked out over the roads, but the great junk had disappeared.

1

I found out I was a half-breed bastard when I was ten,' Charlotte said. ‘Before that I lived in Madagascar, where I suppose everyone was a half-breed bastard of one sort or another and no one had the slightest idea.' She laughed lightly. ‘What a lovely house you have, Miss Manouk.'

Charlotte's hostess smiled.

‘
Alamah
, for goo'ness sake, don' be silly-billy, my name is Takouhi. I too am so-called half-breed, although no one can call me bastard, since my father and mother marry. He, Armenian Dutchman. She, Javanese. It is like this in the world, I think, but George tell me not like that in England. George say maybe no half-breeds in England, but lot of bastards. He is Irishman, so I think he know this. Sometimes I don' understand what George say.'

She pronounced his name softly, like the French. This was said in the gravest of tones but broadest of smiles. English was not her favourite language, though she enjoyed some of its colourful expressions.

‘My parents, too, were married,' Charlotte went on, ‘but that did not make any difference to my Scottish grandmother. My mother was mixed blood. A pirate father, French, and a Creole mother from Mauritius, so she told us. Everybody was so mixed up on the island. My grandmother was ashamed of us, it was as simple as that.'

The three da Silva girls sat, wide-eyed, silently listening to this conversation. They did not know where this Madablasta place was, but it didn't matter. They had no idea where America was, or England. India, Java, China: all mysteries. Mr Coleman had told them that Ireland was the biggest country in the world, inhabited by green folk, that he himself had been green but had faded after a long absence from those shores. Their exasperated father had assured them that this was just one of Mr Coleman's jokes. Everyone in Singapore was from somewhere beyond their horizon. They were used to it.

Boldly, the youngest, Isabel, ventured, ‘How is that possible, Miss Macleod? Since you are her granddaughter, she must love you, surely?'

For the Misses da Silva, any new addition to their meagre acquaintance was welcome, and Charlotte, freshly arrived from Europe, was an object of benign curiosity. Gossip formed the central pillar of their lives in this small settlement, and a fresh source was too good to resist. Their own father had been widowed often, and their lives in a house full of brothers and sisters from several mothers were full of occasional rancour but more often of raucous ‘ affection. Isabel and her twin sister, Isobel, whose mother was English, were light-skinned, light-haired and blue-eyed. The elder sister, Julia, was a shade darker in every way: skin, hair and deep brown eyes. Her mother, a mixture of Portuguese and Indian blood, had died when she was five.

Charlotte smiled at the three girls. Julia was twenty, pretty and quiet. She was soon to be married to Lieutenant Sharpe of the Madras Native Infantry, which was permanently billeted in Singapore. Isobel and Isabel had had the bad luck to resemble their mother, who sat, rather squatly, by their side on the wide sofa. Charlotte could not know it then, but almost no sign of the aquiline good looks of da Silva
père
had been passed on to them. They were all, however, so friendly and agreeable, and Charlotte was happy to like them all very much.

‘Well, Miss da Silva, perhaps she did, in her way. It was just that she was so intent in knocking out of us what she called our “island ways”. You know—speaking native and being lazy. She made us learn proper English and French and go to church. Robert, my brother, had to go off to school. We had never been separated. It was hard for a time.'

Her voice broke slightly, but she quickly recovered.

‘But we had a lovely aunt, Aunty Jeannie, who had never married, and she cared for us so it was not so bad,' she abruptly finished.

Takouhi, alive to changes in feeling, quickly changed the subject. They had been chatting for hours, and she now offered to show her companions over her house. This proved the ideal suggestion, and with general assent, they prepared to set off. Few of the ladies present had had the opportunity to see this magnificent residence, and they attributed this visit to Takouhi's brief but growing affection for Charlotte.

‘Takouhi Manouk is George Coleman's friend,' Robbie had told her at breakfast that morning. ‘I wrote to you about him. He does all the architectural work and building here, makes the roads, builds the bridges, drains the swamps. Not much he doesn't do, really, when you think of it. I think you could say that this is Coleman's town. He's Irish, but I suppose it's not his fault, ha ha. Anyway, he has built a beautiful house for Takouhi, and you should meet her. Her name means “queen”, I think, in Armenian. They are Armenians, the Manouks, from Batavia. Her brother is immoderately rich.'

With this abbreviated introduction, Robert had placed her in a smart two-seater open carriage with great wheels, pulled by a little Sumatran horse, and sent her off. She had protested that she had hardly seen him, it was too soon, but Robert was adamant. He was busy today. Tomorrow he would show her the town. She needed to meet people, have friends. There were not many women of her sort in Singapore.

She wondered what ‘sort' that was: young or poor or unattached? Perhaps all three.

So off went the carriage, away from the bungalow on the sea side and up High Street. The driver was a wiry Indian with skin the colour of deep mahogany. He wore a blue-and-red turban, pushed jauntily back off his brow. His lower regions were clothed in a white dhoti, but he was bare-chested except for a sash thrown over one shoulder. He smelled vaguely of cloves. She felt strange but not uneasy about being in such proximity to naked male flesh and shot glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked straight ahead, impassive. At the courthouse they turned right and passed in front of three large, elegant white houses with green shutters and red roofs surrounded by luxuriant gardens. In one rose the crimson-crowned head of the flame of the forest. Charlotte recalled playing in the dense shade among the grey buttress roots of this lacy-leafed plant in Madagascar. This road ran along the edge of the plain, and beyond its expanse she could see the sapphire blue of the sea and the masts of the ships.