The Hills of Singapore (7 page)

John had shrugged. “Not for religion certainly. Perhaps some abstruse point of East India Company policy lost to reason. The Europeans do not attend church and the natives are all pagans or Mohammedans. Patronage, doubtless then, to the political bench of the bishops in parliament. Who can say? The visible and familiar sign of England, even in a dusty landscape? All I know is that the chaplain is here because he is well paid, and his only thoughts are how to make money and go home.”

She thought of this now and looked around her. No wonder then that the Catholic Church found such fertile ground. It was all but abandoned to them. Good for them then, she thought, if they do some good. She took Evangeline's arm in hers and smiled at her friend.

6

Zhen tossed his head back and swallowed the small cup of rice wine. It tasted good and a feeling of mellowness crept over him. He lay back on the thick cushions on the floor and looked up at the ceiling. He loved to be in this room. This was Qian's inner sanctum. This had been Qian's dead father-in-law's bedroom and strongroom, he knew. When the old miser had been alive, he kept his treasure chests in here and never let anyone enter. Sang had been the most miserly man in Singapore but immensely rich and powerful. He had been head of the
kongsi
, the society which ran everything Chinese here in Singapore, the temples, the coolies, the farms, everything. When he died, ten thousand men had been ordered to his funeral. The British authorities could not believe their eyes. Despite the vast numbers of Chinese pouring, with each monsoon season, into Singapore, the administration never increased. Zhen smiled, nothing had changed much. The
kongsi
still ran almost everything.

Still, Sang had lacked the one thing he craved. He had no son to carry out the rites for him. Two daughters had been born to two wives, but no son had ever survived. So Qian, like Zhen, educated and poor, had been selected to marry the second daughter and despite his personal leanings towards the “pleasures of the bitten peach”, had managed to sire two healthy sons on his young wife, Swan Neo.

Husbands were often selected from the pool of poor coolies that turned up on these shores in their thousands each year: fresh new Chinese blood for the local merchant's daughters, men who spoke the language and understood the ancient rites. Swan Neo spoke Hokkien, a somewhat old-fashioned type of Hokkien, but at least she and Qian could talk. Zhen had been forced to learn Baba Malay to talk to his own wife, for she had been born and raised in a Peranakan family

Qian could not have known his luck. Everyone knew Sang was rich, but how rich he discovered on the second day of his marriage, when he had found the chests of silver and jewels in this room. Qian had taken Sang's name, and now he ran the company and his own sons were the heirs to this vast fortune.

Zhen poured himself another cup of rice wine and drank it down quickly, gazing upwards. The ceiling was decorated with wooden beams painted in gold and black with writhing dragons. Carved folding doors stood back, showing the open inner courtyard into which late golden sunlight was pouring onto a pond filled with flitting gold and red carp and touching the leaves of great pots of bamboo. The floor was made of gleaming, cool, green and white Malacca tiles. It was secluded, opulent and expensive. Here Zhen knew, Qian made love to his young catamite, a half-Chinese half-Malay boy called Salim whom he had rescued from a brothel.

Here Qian and Zhen could be alone in their close friendship, alone to talk and get drunk. Here in this place, Zhen could truly relax. In his own home, the top floor of the shophouse on Circular Road, he could find peace but there was always a servant or someone to bother him. In the house in Market Street he shared with his wife and sister-in-law, there was absolutely no peace. Only here could he truly do as he pleased, for Qian, despite his humble beginnings, now lived like a Mandarin.

He looked up as the subject of his ruminations came and sat down next to him. Zhen punched him lightly on the arm and poured him a drink.

“She is here,” Zhen said.

Qian knew exactly who Zhen was talking about. He contemplated his friend lolling, loose-limbed, half-undressed, beautiful, on the cushions. He recalled the day in the coolie house when they had stripped off their clothing and washed in the streaming rain in the air well courtyard. His first sight of Zhen's body had been his first inkling of his own desires. Now though, he could relax in his friend's company.

“I see. What do you intend to do about it?”

Zhen poured more wine.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Just look at her.”

Qian fell back on the cushions and began to laugh.

“She is here and you will do nothing. Just look at her. This is delightful talk, for I know you are a man of small passions and a soul filled with poetry. Perhaps you will write some for me. I believe it is commonplace to begin by being in the misty mountains, contemplating the moon …”

Zhen smiled.

“Well, nothing for the moment. What can I do? Of course I want to … want her … But you know the situation. Unless she is willing to be my …”

He looked at Qian, whose smile had widened. This subject, Zhen knew, always amused Qian. The mere idea of a white English woman becoming the concubine of a Chinese man in Singapore always put him in high good humour. But it had once terrified him. Zhen had pursued the lovely Xia Lou Mah Crow with a single-mindedness which made Qian fear for his friend's future and her mind. He knew the depth of Zhen's feelings and his resolve. That their love affair had not been detected, that Zhen had married Noan and Miss Mah Crow had gone away, had been a source of the greatest relief.

Now she was back, a widow. Free, he thought. Free and very rich. As rich as himself perhaps. The thought was fascinating. Much richer than Zhen.

“Well, thunderhead, if you ever want to meet her quietly and talk to her—not just look at her and think of the misty mountains—then let me know. I would like to see her again. She is a lady.” His voice softened, and he realised that really he did like her and would like to see her again.

Zhen heard it and stopped being fierce. Yes she was a lady. His lady and yet not his.

He sighed and dropped back on the cushions. Qian poured them both some wine. Zhen changed the subject; this one just went round and round. Qian knew he would come back to it when he was suitably drunk and filled with longing.

Zhen tossed back the cup of rice wine and took up the chopsticks to pick at the food which was spread out on a low table.

Qian turned the subject to business.

“The gambier farmers are moving to Johor. The land survey by this Thomson man has meant that for the first time, there are rents to be paid. The new roads to Kranji and Changi mean the government men can move out and see for themselves. Many of the farmers are getting out. The prices are picking up for the Europeans are becoming interested in gambier also.

Zhen nodded.

“Well, well” he said. “This will sort itself out. I am part of a syndicate which is presently in an interesting position with the Temenggong. He has recognised that the Chinese are now his staircase to wealth and power, not the piratical bunch of
orang laut
he has been controlling. He needs a land base. He is shrewd, the cleverest Malay I've ever met and he knows where his fortunes lie. He is opening up land in Johor for development.”

Qian poured rice wine and nodded.

“My influence in our
kongsi
is useful, for we need to quickly establish ourselves in Johor before the Teochews get involved. The Dutch are kicking them out of Rhio and they are landing up here in Singapore. There will be trouble.”

Qian looked at his friend. They both understood how things stood here in Singapore. The Europeans had no way of controlling the profitable agriculture of the island. Their attempts at spice and sugar plantations had failed for the poor soil. The nutmeg trees had survived for a while but a disease had wiped them out. They were left with no alternative but to cooperate with the Chinese merchants who provided money for the gambier and pepper farmers and vitally, all the Chinese labourers.

The entire source of income for the town of Singapore came from the revenue farms and the taxes on the houses and properties of the town, in particular the opium farm, which supplied over fifty percent of government revenue and depended on the addictions of the labourers themselves. These farms were profitable undertakings, but there was a great rivalry for this profit between the Hokkien and the Teochew which could spill into violence.

“I'm bringing Min back to Singapore. Old Khoo is exchanging two of his brothels for the idiot son's debts. I need you to make it good with the
kongsi
.”

Qian poured more rice wine, and Zhen raised his glass and drank. They trusted each other absolutely and preferred to do business together wherever possible. They had first met on the road to Amoy, on the road to the port and the junk which would take them to Singapore. Qian, physically weak, had found a protector and friend in Zhen, and Zhen had liked Qian for his resemblance to his youngest brother. Zhen's second daughter, Lian, was already promised to Ah Soon, Qian's first son. United, they would have one of the greatest merchant houses in all the South Seas and share grandchildren. These networks of marriages and alliances formed the basis of the Chinese business empires.

“Min still loves you, you know,” Qian said.

Zhen shrugged. “What can I answer? Whores love anyone who is kind to them.” He poured more wine.

Qian frowned. Zhen was being unkind. He did not think of Min like that. She had been sold into prostitution as a child. Zhen had been her patron in his early days in Singapore. When she had been beaten and left for dead by an English sailor, Zhen had saved her life, seen her cared for and placed in the care of Qian when he had become a wealthy man overnight. Qian had bought her out of the whorehouse in Singapore and set her up in business in Malacca.

In a hard world, she had been lucky; she knew it and so did they. They had fallen together and now she was able, at least, to live a life over which she had some control. Zhen's words had been thoughtless. He did not want anyone to love him but Xia Lou Mah Crow, that was the truth. Not his own wife, not Min. Qian knew that Zhen would like all these other women to leave him alone.

And now she was here in Singapore, this woman he loved to desperation, wanting the impossible. Wanting, in effect, for her to agree to be his concubine. Qian despaired for his friend. He no longer felt like laughing. They both drank, and Qian brought out the
wei qi
board and began to talk of home.

7

Government House had not changed. It stood square and solid on Bukit Larangan, looking down benevolently on the town, as it always had. The original building had been made of rough planks, Venetian shutters and an attap roof. Over the years it had been rebuilt in hardier materials, brick and tile, and this was the building before whose portals her phaeton now drew to a halt. Charlotte thought this house reflected in every way the unpretentious and simple origins of the town itself. It seemed to grow as the town grew, improving in construction and size to reflect the energy of the spreading streets around its feet.

The hill itself was wreathed in myth. She knew that the first Resident, William Farquhar, had taken a party of men and cut a path to its top against all the terrified and tremulous agitation and advice of the Malay inhabitants. Haunted, they said, that was certain: haunted by the ghosts of past kings and no one should set foot on it. The remains had been revealed of the foundations of a large palace and there was a grave. The holy
keramat
of Iskandar Shah, last Malay king of Temasek, or so it was told, lay on its flanks. A spring that flowed from the southwest corner of the hill, now on River Valley Road, served to supply water for the ships in the harbour but was said to have once been the bathing place of Malayan princesses.

It had a mysterious, antique quality. To Charlotte it had the most personal attachments. Beloved friends lay in the Christian cemetery on its lower eastern flanks and further round, hidden perhaps by growth and time, was an ancient nutmeg orchard where she had kissed Zhen for the first time. She had never been back. She tried not to allow her mind to run away, to think constantly of Zhen, but now, on this hill, she did. Love for him was still as powerful as ever, flesh speaking to flesh, but that was hidden deep. She could not pretend they were primeval creatures running barefoot in the forest, driven by their urges and instincts. They were this, perhaps, but they were also creatures of society. He had been clear: if she would not accept his terms, which were, in effect, to be his mistress, his English concubine … She stopped thinking about him.

The reception and dinner were in honour of the Rajah of Sarawak, Sir James Brooke, and his appointment as Governor of Labuan, a barren, coal-rich island off Northern Borneo. Charlotte had met James Brooke briefly once or twice before in Singapore and looked forward to renewing the acquaintance. He was an easy man, an adventurer who had turned fortune his way, it seemed, but there was nothing pretentious about him. He had donated over one hundred volumes to the Singapore library and she was thankful to him that many of the tomes had been novels, for she remembered, he was an admirer, like her, of Miss Austen. It was he too, to whom all Singapore was indebted for the title awarded to the Governor. He had named Colonel Butterworth,
Butterpot the Great
, to general hilarity and the term, unbeknownst to the Governor, had stuck.

She had read
The Free Press
yesterday.

This appointment, besides the advantages we may expect to derive from the experience and abilities of Sir James Brooke, is satisfactory as marking that the British Government are not disposed to give way to the extravagant and unjust pretensions of the Dutch; but that on the contrary, it is intended to maintain our rights to an equal footing in the Archipelago
.