The Hills of Singapore (10 page)

She heard a child cry. It was Lian—Lotus Flower—Zhen's second daughter, her niece. She was five years old and the prettiest little girl. She reminded Lilin of herself, and she had a soft spot for this child. She still thought of her little son, such a lovely boy, though she knew she should not. A dead son was like a curse on a house, forgotten instantly, disposed of quickly and without ceremony. But in her heart she still held him dear and though she knew she should not, she sometimes went to the temple and lit incense and said a prayer for him.

She went along the landing and saw Lian being rocked by the maid. She had fallen and bumped her head. Lilin went up and took Lian into her arms. Her mouth was a little pink bud and her hair a long, black shining tail. Lian hugged her aunt. She rocked Lian and kissed her gently on the cheek.

Noan had come when she heard the cry and now contemplated her sister and her daughter. She was still angry but the sight of Lilin with Lian softened her heart. Lilin had lost her only child, a son. Though the house could not mourn, the women did. Noan, as a mother, had felt the dreadful importance of this loss. Now, she suddenly felt ashamed. She should have been pregnant now with Zhen's son. He was right; she had a duty to her father, to her husband. Only a son could bring posterity and eternity to the family. Only a son could honour Zhen. Her selfishness was unforgiveable. She went up to Lilin and touched her daughter's head. She could see Lilin's love for this particular child.

“Younger sister. Will you not try to have another child? I know you do not care for your husband but perhaps …”

Without answering or even looking at Noan, Lilin passed Lian into her sister's arms and walked quickly from the room.

10

Charlotte sat in the new public library of Singapore in the west wing of the Institution. She was waiting for Alexander's class to finish. She rose and went to the window and looked down over the gardens. The breeze moved the tender leaves of the trees in the garden, flickering sunlight on the ground. She glanced through the book in her hand.
Oliver Twist
, by Mr Dickens, a man she approved of wholeheartedly in his recently reported support for the abolition of slavery.

She heard her name called and turned her head to see a face she cared for very much. It was the Munshi Abdullah and he was grinning from ear to ear. She had been his most enthusiastic pupil, enjoyed learning Malay and talking about poetry. Now she rose, and he took her hand and shook it enthusiastically. She curtsied very low. She was delighted to see him.

He was unchanged: the same coppery skin with the very white teeth. The same kindly eyes with the squint. The same melodious tones. He spoke superb English, was a devout Muslim but worked tirelessly with Benjamin Keaseberry, improving his Malay skills, assisting him at his school by the Rochor River and at the Malay School in Telok Belangah, which his own sons attended. He translated biblical texts and the gospels for Benjamin's Mission Press on Commercial Square. He had been Raffles's scribe and knew everything about the establishment and growth of Singapore.

When she told him she was waiting for her son, he laughed and said he would wait with her. He would like to meet her boy. His own children, four boys, were well, the eldest ones good students. Charlotte knew he had lost his daughter when she was merely eight and his wife, in childbirth, a few years later. He was Malacca born and bred. After the death of his wife and daughter he could not bear to stay in the house, which had too many memories. He had sold up everything and now made his life in Singapore, where he was esteemed and sought after as a teacher and a scholar.

Together he and Charlotte wandered slowly towards the opposite end of the Institution where the boys had their classes. The centre of the building was occupied by a small girls' school. “I have been busy,” he told Charlotte, “on Benjamin's encouragement and John Thomson's, writing my memoirs. I have chosen to write them in the Malay vernacular. Benjamin agrees that is the most lively and I have a certain pretension to be the first such author.”

Charlotte smiled. “How wonderful, Munshi. You have such a lot to tell. The years of Malacca, the life of Raffles and Olivia, the birth of Singapore.” Charlotte could see the pride he had from talking of this work. The Munshi was the most unusual Malay she had ever met. His mind was wide and receptive; he sought the knowledge of the Enlightenment with a thirst that distinguished him utterly from many of his compatriots, at least any that she had ever met. She knew of his critical analysis of the Malay ruling class and its despotic and feudal concept of
kerajaan
, which squashed initiative and concentrated power into the hands of the Rajah. This is what the British called Malay laziness, this keeping down of the people, their lack of schools, which kept the people ignorant and fearful. This the Munshi could not abide.

These were ideas her own mind had grappled with in Java. The Munshi admired the English for their organisation and their liberalism. Not for their power, but for the way they administered power. His admiration stemmed from what he perceived as their rational thinking, purged of religious superstition. He sought for his own people those fruits, but she was certain he was a man ahead of his age. To speak to her, a woman, of these things: this alone set him apart.

As they talked, a bell rang, and within a few minutes Charlotte saw Alexander, wandering along the corridor, chattering gaily to a very slight Chinese boy. Alex was so well built and tall for his age that the Chinese child looked tiny. When Alex saw her, he smiled, a light in his eyes, and her heart constricted. She loved him so much. He came up to her and put his hand in hers. Then, with all the dignity of his seven years, he bowed to the man his mother was talking to and introduced his small friend, Sang Ah Soon, asking to be introduced to the Munshi. Abdullah was delighted and smiled at the boy. When he found the Munshi was a Malay gentleman and an English scholar, he composed himself very tightly and said,

“
Selamat tengahari, nama saya Iskandar
.”

Abdullah beamed and Charlotte laughed. Zan had Malay and Hokkien classes and he was learning very quickly.

“Iskandar,” the Munshi turned to Charlotte. “A noble name and one well suited to our world. In a few years I will be his tutor, if you agree.”

Charlotte looked at him. To have such a man tutor her son as he had herself! To have him spend the pleasant hours discussing language and literature with Zan, opening Zan's mind, this fatherless boy, now Tigran was gone, expanding his world view, his whole being. She felt, she knew absurdly, that he was as Aristotle to the ancient Alexander, and she felt a tear come to her eye.

The Munshi saw her face and was touched. He very quickly said, “Will you join me soon to visit Kampong Glam and the Sultan's Palace? There are stories I can tell and a tiger to see.”

He looked at Zan and saw the boy's eyes gleam, and felt the same attraction and liking he had for his mother. He turned his gaze to the small Chinese boy. “And Ah Soon too, if his father agrees. You know the boy's father very well, Charlotte,” he said, smiling conspiratorially.

Ah Soon looked down shyly and said nothing, and Charlotte looked quizzically at the Munshi. Zan tugged at her hand and she could see a friendship had formed. But who was the child's mysterious father that she knew so well? Not Zhen—he had girls.

The Munshi smiled even wider. “This is your pupil, Qian's, first-born son.”

Qian's son! She looked at him intently and now saw a certain likeness in the pointy ears and the shape of his jaw.

The Munshi departed with promises as yet uncertain to be fulfilled and Ah Soon joined his amah, who was waiting with the carriage to take him home to High Street.

They went outside into the afternoon sunshine. The day was hot but the wind from the sea cooled them, and Charlotte had chosen to walk home. They wandered through the shady gardens of the Institution slowly, Charlotte asking Zan questions about his day, Zan filled with the excitement of school and learning and friends.

Then there was a small squeal behind them, a girlish squeal, and they stopped and turned. A pretty little girl, brown-eyed with dark ringlets shining and jumping round her face, came running down the path, followed by a young woman. Charlotte's eyes were taking in the girl, pretty now of course, but whom she could see would be a great beauty, so it was some moments before she looked up and with a certain shock, recognised the face of Shilah, Robert's
nyai
.

Shilah too, was in a state of some confusion. The children had quickly joined hands and gone to chase some squirrels which were racing around the big trees. It was obvious that they knew each other. Charlotte remembered that there was a girl's school in the central part of the building. There were only eleven students, six boarders and five day students. This girl was a day student, obviously.

Charlotte had not seen Shilah for years. A silence developed, unbidden, as they watched the children. “Her name is Amber,” Shilah said finally.

Charlotte opened her eyes very wide. Amber! It was an unusual name, so very unusual, yet it was the English way of saying the name of her own mother, Ambre, the Mauritian Creole woman who had married her Scottish father. Amber! How could she be called Amber … unless … She looked intently at Shilah and Shilah nodded.

“Yes, Robert's daughter. He did not tell you.” She smiled ruefully. “They are cousins.”

Charlotte was astounded, absolutely. A daughter! Robbie had a child, and he had not told her. She could not believe it. Since his marriage Robert had not talked of Shilah. But not to reveal this! It was incredible.

Charlotte looked again at Shilah. She was unchanged, still a very lovely woman, but something different about her eyes. Charlotte knew she had seen sadness. Robert's marriage, of course, it must have caused profound pain. She felt her heart go to this woman but Shilah was guarded and showed no emotion.

“I …” Charlotte faltered, feeling the injustice of this relationship which Robbie had begun, feeling the guilt of a sister. Shilah said nothing, watching her, watching with one eye the children playing.

“I am sorry,” Charlotte said finally. “Sorry for this trouble Robert has caused you.”

Shilah did not move. It was some minutes until she spoke, “I would like the children to be friends, cousins, to know each other. Robert has recognised her legally, you know.” Shilah looked up, into Charlotte's eyes. “He has recognised her as his daughter. She has his name and he supports us. He is a good man. His wife will soon have her baby but she too knows about Amber. Do not blame him. My life is of my making, I wanted your brother.”

Charlotte looked down at her shoes. Shilah took a step forward and put her hand onto Charlotte's. “Do not blame him please,” Shilah said. “He loves Amber, remembers your mother in her name. It pleases him I think; he does what he can. This is the world we live in. I would ask only that Amber, Alexander and Adam can be friends, cousins. Is that possible?”

Charlotte looked at Shilah's hand on hers. She remembered everything Robbie had told her of this woman. Shilah had been the illegitimate and unwanted result of a momentary encounter between an English soldier and an Indian convict woman, both gone or dead before she was six months old. George Coleman had taken her into his house and given her an education, taught her English and to read and write, but she had known no true mother or father. He had sought a husband for her, but she had fallen in love with Robert, and that had been that. She had been Robbie's
nyai
for years, until he had contracted to marry Teresa. Charlotte had met her only once before, years ago, and her abiding memory of Shilah had been her quiet assurance and her confidence in Robert.

Shilah had not changed though her life had obviously been turned upside down. And she still loved Robert, Charlotte could see that. It was something that always shook Charlotte's heart, a love for her brother, for she too loved Robert unconditionally, unreservedly, utterly. Their life since they had been no more than ten and eleven had been together: parentless, alone, transported by strife from the warmth of climate and family in Madagascar to Scotland and the chilly embrace of their widowed grandmother. Their Aunt Jeanne and their cousin Duncan had loved them, though, and this—and more than this, their own closeness and devotion—had got them through childhood and beyond. Charlotte must love anyone who loved Robert; she covered Shilah's hand with hers.

“Yes, that is right. They are cousins, she is Robbie's daughter. They must be friends. And we must be friends.” She looked into Shilah's eyes and smiled. Shilah too, smiled, and they recognised something within the other: a love unacknowledged perhaps, by any but themselves. Emotionally, how was she different to Shilah? Silently, secretly and hopelessly loving one man. Charlotte looked over at these two children who could never know their fathers properly and felt a deep sadness.

Shilah could not know any of this, of course, but Charlotte admired as she had years before, this woman's smart and deep resourcefulness. She would abide and deal with her life as it came. It was an admirable quality. Charlotte would only learn later the price Shilah had paid for this calm and accepting nature.

“Tomorrow, after school, let us take the children to my home on North Bridge Road. They can play in the garden and we can talk,” she offered. Charlotte thought at first Shilah was going to refuse but the other woman's body suddenly lost its tension and she smiled and nodded, withdrawing her hand.

“Thank you, yes.”

Now Shilah called to Amber and the girl came running, flushed and pretty. Zan followed her, his long hair flowing around his face, sweating, and Charlotte bent and kissed his damp, salty cheek. Tomorrow she would make sure he knew that Amber was his blood and he should love her as she loved Robbie. And Amber too, would know Charlotte was her aunt. Charlotte smiled suddenly, happy to have this niece, to be as kind and loving to her as Aunt Jeanne had been to Robert and herself.