The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham Page A

by George Coleman’s household, cared for and taught to read, cook, sew and clean. When she turned fifteen Coleman offered to find her a husband. By then, however, she had seen Robert, who spent a good deal of time at the Coleman house, and conceived a longing for him. One evening she had stolen into his bed at the riverside bungalow. She was dark-eyed, soft and yielding, and she was a virgin. He had simply been unable to resist her.
    Robert had come to the settlement as the lowliest uncovenanted clerk. He had shared a room with two other bachelors on Malacca Street and, being of affable nature, had made friends easily. He enjoyed the society of the European settlement, the occasional amateur dramatics, the cricket games on the plain, the dinners and billiard evenings. The only real problem was female companionship. In the few European or Eurasian families, marriage was the only thing on offer, and not to young agency clerks with no immediate prospects. The Chinese merchants kept their daughters locked away like gold dust. The Malays and Bugis lived in kampongs with their wives and children. The Indians were mostly a floating population of men, soldiers, convicts or moneylenders, just like the thousands of Chinese coolies and, indeed, like the British agency clerks. The Chinese and mixed-blood prostitutes in Chinatown were outnumbered at least ten to one. This mathematical equation and a lecture by Dr Montgomerie on the diseases to be obtained in that quarter had left him dubious as to its pleasures. Privately, he had been advised to get hold of a native bed-servant, a nyai , as it was termed.
    However, Robert had not tried to find a nyai in his first years in Singapore. Though widespread, the practice was distasteful to him, perhaps because his own mother had been a so-called ‘native’ woman. Somewhat drunk, and anxious to be rid of his nineteen-year-old virginity, in the company of his friends, he had let himself be led to the room of an ah ku , a Chinese prostitute. She spoke no English, and his Malay at that time had been rudimentary. They had barely been able to communicate, and later, whilst certainly relieved, he had felt somewhat grubby. Since then he had thrown himself into the life of the community, taken up the study of Malay with the munshi and, apart from the very occasional transgression, had not returned to Chinatown.
    Shilah was something entirely different. She spoke English, she was untouched and obviously in love with him. As soon as he put his hand to her soft breasts and kissed her lips, he was lost.
    This had been going on for months and he had said nothing to George, to whose home she disappeared after each encounter. Well, tomorrow he would have to find his courage and speak to George. Coleman was not a disapproving man, and honesty was the best policy with him. Nevertheless, Robert was nervous.
    He poured himself another glass of claret, looked out over the twinkling lights on the darkened bay to vague firelight at Tanjong Rhu and felt a headache coming on.

4
    Early the following morning, before the gun, Robert dressed and left the bungalow. The steps to the street gave a view over the river to the town. He stood briefly and contemplated the boats, so closely packed they looked like a swarm of beetles. The tide was out, and many of them sat crookedly on the gravelly bank at the centre of the river. On the north bank, close by, was a low building used for government business, a fives court attached to its western side. Beyond and above that rose the classical lines of the courthouse, with its wide space leading to the quayside. This had been one of George’s first commissions, illegal as it turned out. A private house, unsanctioned by Raffles, who had reserved this bank of the river for official buildings, it had been so splendid that it had been allowed to stand. Robert knew little of architecture, but even he could see that this building, with its deep eaves and shady verandahs, its