The Hills of Singapore by Dawn Farnham Page A

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.
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œTomorrow, 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.
    â€œThank 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.
    But she would like to have a few words with this brother of hers.

11
    Boat Quay was teeming with its usual crowded and noisy bustle. John Thomson’s bridge felt sturdy underfoot. It had replaced the Monkey Bridge built over twenty years before, which had become so shaky, worm-ridden and unsafe that it had been demolished, leaving Coleman’s seven-arched brick span as the only means to go, by foot or carriage, from one side of the river to the other. The walk was longer and since most people went on foot, there was a great brouhaha. Butterworth had gotten into a tussle with the merchants; it was not the government’s business to replace the bridge and they might as well get used to it for he would not change his mind. The Free Press had been full of the business and the matter was resolved, ultimately, when someone had searched the records and found that indeed, the government had engaged to maintain a bridge at this place. With a great deal of annoyed mutterings, Butterworth had been forced to find funds and Thomson had been engaged.
    The bridge was a simple wooden construction joining North and South Bridge Roads. A footbridge on one side allowed a view down over the town and river. Charlotte stopped and gazed on the town. Adam, at her side, knelt, holding the railings and peering down at the mass of