The Red Thread (36 page)

‘Hold fast, Kitt.' It was reassuring.

She sat and began to apply the balsam to her swollen skin. She heard the rain begin again heavily.

Then, suddenly, she remembered Meda.

33

Robert returned to the police bungalow in the early afternoon. The house was quiet. He called to Charlotte, but there was no answer. Then, rounding the verandah, he saw her seated, looking out over the harbour towards the distant islands. The vault of the sky was high and blue, with white clouds whispering along the horizon, as if rain had never sullied its perfection. She looked small and vulnerable, and his heart went out to her. He knew she was pained by what he was now certain was love for the young Chinaman, Zhen.

Hearing his footsteps, she turned to greet him with a small smile.

He stopped, rooted to the spot. What he had feared had occurred. He had seen that dreamy smile, those languid eyes, when Shilah had woken in his arms.

She had given herself to Zhen. Nothing he could say could change that. And he had no true right. She had understood him. Now he merely wanted her safe.

He walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead, a long and sweet kiss of brotherly affection. She smelled different. Coconut, sandalwood and some other tangy smell. Charlotte put her hand to his face and smiled at him. Beloved Robbie. Then she looked out over the harbour to Tigran's ship, which was coming closer to shore.

‘Takouhi is leaving, Robbie. Did you know? Taking Meda to Java to get her well.'

Robert sank onto a chair.

‘Auch, I didn't know. When? Oh, poor George.'

Charlotte pointed to the ship. Tigran's launch had set out for shore, its white sails filled with the perfumed breeze, the oars of the men dipping and dripping, dipping and dripping. As it drew closer, she saw it was fitted luxuriously with covers and curtains of dark purple damask, cushions forming a soft bed. It was like a boat from a dream.

‘The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Burned on the water; the poop was beaten gold,

Purple the sail, and so perfumed, that

The winds were love-sick with them, the oars were silver,

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes.'

But not for love this barge. For woe, the oars beating a dirge.

‘I sent Azan to find out. They could not leave while the rain was so heavy. Meda spent an uncomfortable night. She has been coughing. I fear so dreadfully for her. They will be going soon.'

Tears began to run down her cheeks.

‘I forgot, Robbie, for a while. How awful. I was …'

She stopped. Robert said nothing, knowing.

George's majordomo had appeared on the jetty. Chests were loaded into the launch. Charlotte let out a sob and rose, rushing down towards the boat. Robert followed, and they could see George's carriage arriving at the beach side. Then George stepped out, followed by Takouhi. Carrying Meda in his arms, he made his way with the girl's mother across the short stretch of beach and up the steps to the jetty. Two servants arranged Meda on the cushions under the damask roof.

Charlotte went quickly and kissed her. Meda felt so hot.

Takouhi turned to her friend, looked her deeply in the eyes.

‘If you need something, write to me. I think you need me. You love man, I know. Tell me if George all right, not sad. Tell about George.'

Charlotte nodded. She would write every day. ‘Come back,' she said, feeling the tears jump to her eyes, hugging her friend.

George had taken his place in the launch and now helped Takouhi down. He had spoken to Robert briefly. He would go with them to Batavia and see them safely settled, then return.

All too quickly the launch moved away from shore. Charlotte was sad to her bones. She stood with Robert's arm around her until the boat had been winched onto the ship. The sails filled with wind as it turned towards the south.

The next days were a blur. Charlotte did not go to the chapel. She slept like the dead. She did not go to the Chinese town, either, but sat on the verandah waiting, waiting.

‘Like a monumental statue set

In everlasting watch and moveless woe …'

Robert was worried for his sister, but he was busy and had no time to spend in the day. There were patrols at night.

Then one day Charlotte saw Tigran's ship on the horizon. She recognised its black shape, and she rose, half-dreading the news it carried.

When the launch tied up, Charlotte was at George's side in an instant. Before she could open her mouth he said, ‘Tigran has taken them to Buitenzorg. Takouhi has consulted with the
dukun
. She is hopeful, and the air is good up in the hills, not like the air on the coast. It's cool, not hot like here. It will do them good; I'm sure of it.'

George handed her a letter from Takouhi. ‘This is for you. If you want to reply, the brig will wait, for there are some other things I must send to them.' He left her, walking across the plain to his house. His face had not expressed the slightest emotion.

Charlotte went onto the verandah and opened the letter.

Hello Charlotte, lovely sister,

I never write letter in English before so sorry if not good. I am happy to come to Jawa. I meet the dukun and he give jamu medicine to Meda. She improve little bit. Tomorrow we go to hills. Tigran has big house there. George not happy we come but here are spirits of my family, spirits of my land. I think he angry. Please you help him, Charlotte.

You love one man, not white man, I know. George say not my bloody business but sometimes he is silly-billy. This man marry but not matter. You love this man all your heart like I love George. I not marry George but not matter, I in his heart, he in my heart. This not for one day, one year, for all days, all years. Even he marry hundred million women, not matter. For you same. Then when time come you want leave, not regret.

When time come, write. Tigran send ship.

Takouhi

Charlotte kissed the letter. Despite her deepest worry for her child, Takhoui had found the kindness to advise her. Her heart felt suddenly calm. Takouhi was with Meda. She must do everything she could for George.

She sat at her little table and wrote a letter back to Takouhi, thanking her, telling her about Zhen, pouring out her heart, telling her she would care for George, send her news. Then she folded it and sealed it and took it to the launch.

All at once she wanted to see Zhen. It seemed more than a week since they had been together. In her anxiety for Meda, she had lost track of time.

She went along the plain and crossed to the chapel, where Evangeline greeted her with a kiss. Evangeline commented on how thin she looked. She had been worrying too much about Takhoui. Then Charlotte gave her the news, and Evangeline made the sign of the cross, thanking the merciful lord for their safety.

The classes were about to begin. Charlotte waited to see Zhen and Qian arrive, but they did not come. Frowning, she went to consult Father Lee, who was relieved to see her, although he too thought her too thin. ‘No, no,' he said, ‘they have not come. Today is the marriage of little Qian. It will go on for several days.'

34

Zhen had not stopped thinking of Charlotte since he had left her on the river. He knew she had sadness; he had heard through Baba Tan of her friend's departure and the sickness of the child. He should not expect Charlotte's mind to be on him, but after such a night of love, he did. He couldn't help himself.

Qian was busy with preparations for his marriage. The betrothal had taken place. The marriage would be in a few days. Qian had been measured by the tailor; that had supplied a few laughs. They had talked some more about his wedding night, but really there was nothing for him to do about that. Now Zhen was at a loose end. In a return to reasonableness, he decided Charlotte would see him when she was ready and suddenly remembered he had not seen Min since their last, unpleasant encounter.

He made his way to Hokkien Street, stopping only for some food at one of the hawker street stalls. He greeted the old guard at the door of the
ah ku
house and went inside.

The old crone who was the brothel keeper came out from her room to meet him. There had been trouble with the whore he went with, and she wanted to warn him. Zhen's face turned to stone as he listened. Min had been beaten up by a sailor from one of the foreign ships. The policeman had come and arrested him, but Min was not well. The old woman took him down the hall to a room at the back of the building. It was dark and stuffy, and as he opened the door he saw several women lying on cots. The smell was bad, for the buckets were kept in this area, and the odour of opium pervaded the atmosphere. The only window, which gave onto an alley, was shuttered.

He called her name and opened the shutters, throwing a grey light on the interior. What he saw in the light appalled him. Her pretty face was swollen and bruised. He could see marks where the filthy bastard had held her neck. Going to the cot, he took her hand, asking where else she was hurt. She was so glad to see him but could not smile. Her face hurt, and, she showed him, so did her ribs. Opium helped, she tried to tell him.

Zhen knew he needed to get Min out of there. He went quickly back down the corridor and told the old woman to find the
kongsi
man she dealt with, and inform him the
honggun
needed to speak to him. Zhen thought he knew who the man was; he usually hung around the two brothels he was in charge of, gathering a percentage of the girls' wages as protection money. Some protection.

The fellow came at a trot, warily looking inside the door. Zhen grabbed him by the neck, pulled him into the room and slammed him against the wall. The old crone and two customers fled.

‘Fucking pig, where were you when the girl was being beaten?'

The man was terrified. He knew who Zhen was, and he started to babble. ‘I came as quick as I could. The sailor had already done his work. You can't tell when one of the white men is going to go crazy, especially if they're drunk.'

Keeping him pinned, Zhen put his face up close. The man smelled of grog, opium and sweat.

‘Well, I'm taking her out of here. Understand? She's no use to you as a whore, and she's badly hurt. Were you just going to leave her there to rot, pig?'

Zhen wanted to punch the fellow but it wouldn't help Min. The man was nodding wildly.

‘Get two men and a litter to carry her. Explain to your bosses what's happened. There's to be no trouble. If they want, they can come and see me, if they fucking dare.'

Zhen knew that taking a woman from the
ah ku
house was risky. Retaliation was usually swift. He could not take her to his house; it would be an affront to the
kongsi
protection men. The only alternative was to take her to the dying house on Chinchew Street. If they thought she was dying, they might let the matter go without too much fuss. No Chinese wanted a dying whore on his hands. Dead souls were better all together in the dying house, where they could be placated during the Festival of Hungry Ghosts, not hanging around seeking revenge and bringing bad luck.

He let the man go to do his bidding and went back to Min, calling the old crone for water. Min managed to drink a little and began to cry. Zhen did not dare pick her up. She needed a doctor; he feared she had broken bones. He told the old crone to go to the Chinese medicine shop nearby and get the herbalist. This man he knew very well, for they often talked about medicine together. By the time she returned with him, the litter had arrived, and the two men lifted Min gently onto it.

The old crone spat on the ground as they left the house. She was glad to be rid of that little bitch, especially if she was dying. Saved her the trouble of getting her moved.

The dying house was overcrowded, and it, too, was pervaded by the familiar smell of opium fumes. Min was one of only five women in the place. The four others were
ah ku as
well, and one was giving birth to a baby, which she intended to drown as soon as it was born. The old
ah ku
birthing woman was with her.

Zhen's woman could have her cubicle when she had got the job done or when one of the others died, the guardian told him laconically. Min's litter was placed on the floor, and, amid the pregnant woman's groans, the herbalist examined her. She had at least two broken ribs, he told Zhen. Her face was bad, but it would heal. He would make a paste for the face and bind the ribs. Other than that, there was little he could do. She should take opium for the pain. He could send his daughter to take care of her, bring food.

Zhen was grateful and passed him some coins, which he waved away. He did not think, in any case, that this woman had long for the world. He could see by her breathing that there was some internal damage for which he could do nothing. To Zhen's offer of money he said, ‘You have given me some good advice from your honourable father's knowledge. We are colleagues.'

The herbalist took a quick look at the pregnant woman; he could see the head of the baby emerging.

‘Don't kill it,' the herbalist said. ‘I will take it. You nurse for one month. My woman will bring the baby to the brothel for feeding. I will send her to help you.'

The herbalist, Zhen knew, was a devout Buddhist who had at one time been a monk in China.

The old woman looked at him, mouth open.

The
ah ku
, however, did not seem surprised, and even in her pain managed to squeeze out a few words of negotiation between pushes. She'd already done this twice before, both infants dead. With every pregnancy it got easier. What did she want with the filthy coolie pigs' spawn? She had had abortions, but sometimes they didn't work. Fortunately she could keep clients happy right up to the end. Even her belly didn't bother most of the pigs.

‘You want, you pay,' she gasped, knowing she would lose income if she must nurse the baby. Men didn't usually like leaky breasts and milky smells. Not that she cared about the men. She and the old mistress would want compensation for the trouble.