The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham Page B

arcades and columns and elegant central tower with the double cupolas, was a work of some refinement. Its precincts were cool and perfectly adapted to the tropical climate. The company had leased it these last fifteen years or so for the court and government offices, and Mr Church, the resident councillor, was in negotiations to purchase it outright for the administration.
    Nearby, on the riverbank, was the elegant landing stage, with its steps and columned arches and, peeping over that, the inelegant roof of the post office and the master attendant’s office.
    A short walk from the police bungalow would take Robert directly to the offices of the governor and Mr Church for discussions about public safety and policing issues, or just to sit in its shady corridors for a chat with a glass of brandy. This suited Robert, for he was not one for memoranda, and preferred to deal directly on every issue. He was in no doubt that it was as much his easy and amicable relationship with Governor Bonham as his competence that had secured him his present position.
    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.

    â€˜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