The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham Page B

stillbirth. Finally, out of desperation he had adopted a boy from an impoverished Chinese couple in Batavia, who was now his son. He was twelve, and Sang’s heir, but he was not absolute pure blood either. He hardly knew his adopted father and was terrified of him. As Sang grew older he became more and more obsessed with the duties owed to him in his afterlife. More than ever he wanted a Chinese son-in-law, one who would take his name.
    â€˜Husband, remember the first daughter’s man. Choose well.’
    Sang did not like to be reminded of that terrible time, but he knew she meant well. He still cared for her and on rare occasions shared her bed.
    â€˜Yes. Tell second wife.’
    His old wife said nothing but smiled slightly. No matter how much she hated these other women, she longed for grandchildren, which she fully intended to bring up as she saw fit. She would consult the fortune-teller today.

7
    Mrs Keaseberry was in her garden when Charlotte called. She was sweating in her long-sleeved dress and her overly large, floppy-brimmed hat. She rose from the low stool she had been sitting on and, removing her gloves, apologised for her rather dirty state. The house was a pleasant but plain building near the corner of Brass Bassa and North Bridge Road. The garden, however, was like a small corner of paradise. In every space and on every level of the surrounding wall were pots of orchids, small and large, pink, white, orange, long-lipped, spotted and plain. The whole was shaded by the outspread branches of a massive tembusu tree. Orchids scrambled up the trunk of a tall areca palm.
    â€˜My passion,’ Mrs Keaseberry explained unnecessarily. ‘My children, I suppose.’
    They moved into the house, where a punkah immediately began to move to and fro in the ceiling.
    â€˜ Terima kasih, jamu ,’ she called, and a little giggle emanated from the verandah. ‘ The punkah boy is also one of Peach’s pupils.’
    Mrs Keaseberry was referring, Charlotte knew, to her husband, Benjamin Peach Keaseberry, and fleetingly felt the affection reflected in the use of his middle name.
    â€˜He teaches the boys printing and bookbinding. Peach has one of the printing presses here, and we can get quite busy. His office is down on the square. We can visit it later, my deah. Peach is now with the London Missionary Society. We have been learning Malay with the munshi for quite a while. The mission chapel is across the way, a poor building I’m afraid, but it suffices for the moment, and there is a small school.’
    Charlotte told Mrs Keaseberry of her father who, too, had been with the London Missionary Society and had died in its service. Then quickly she changed the subject.
    â€˜Who is the munshi, Mrs Keaseberry? I hear about him from everyone.’
    â€˜Why, my deah, the munshi is the most extraordinary and wonderful man we have in the whole of Singapore. He came with Raffles and Farquhar, knew Crawfurd. He knows everything there is to know about this place. He is a most lovely man. Though he is a devout Muslim he is helping Peach translate the Bible into Malay.’
    â€˜Yes, I want to do that, learn Malay. Also, I think I can be of some use teaching English if it would be permitted. Robert said that Mr Moorehouse and Mr Dickinson at the institution would probably welcome people to help them with the Chinese boys.’
    â€˜Certainly, my deah. It pays to keep busy here, and Peach says there is always so much to do.’
    They were taking some refreshments when the da Silva twins dropped by, calling a loud ‘hello’ and rushing without ceremony into the sitting room. Charlotte was surprised by the way the Europeans were happy to leave their doors open to all and sundry. In the police bungalow, too, there always seemed to be people roaming unannounced. Groups of native people, men and women, sometimes congregated in their pirogues along the sea front to stare at her, but when she