The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham

taught his children in Madagascar. She would go for long walks on the hills around Aberdeen. This semi-solitary existence was not unpleasant. She did not care much for the company of the silly Scottish lasses she met at lunches and tea parties, all giggles and gossip. She had also spent hours reading in her grandfather’s extensive library, and this had framed ideas she knew few women were privy to. She had thought she might talk of these with Robert. The sudden realisation came to her that there might be few people in Singapore with whom such ideas could be discussed. Robert himself had altered, was more serious, even had a stronger Scottish accent than when he had left Scotland. When she had taxed him on this, he had merely answered,
    â€˜Almost everyone here is Scots. Why, most of India is Scottish; it serves well.’
    She thought of her Aunt Jeannie and her cousin, Duncan, with whom she had spent hours in such talk. Even her grandmother, though strictly Kirk, had indulged the family in intellectual debate. Her beloved husband had been a professor of Greek, a scholar and polemicist. Robert, too, when he was down from university, played a central part in these debates. Charlotte realised at that moment, and to her surprise, that she was grateful to her Scottish family for the expansion of her mind. Had they stayed in Madagascar, no matter how hard their father might have tried, they might have been what Robert now despised: ignorant and lazy. Whether they were happier for not being so, she was not sure.
    These musings were interrupted by the arrival of the other ladies. Isobel da Silva showed her a pretty muslin, which she had bought. Charlotte realised that she must turn her attention a little to her wardrobe and, as she questioned the girls on materials and tailors, they made their way down by Mr Johnstone’s gloomy godown, to Battery Road. The sea on their left was filled with ships and boats transporting goods to the long jetties of the godowns along the seafront.
    The sun was, by now, so hot that Robert proposed a short stop at Mr Francis’s refreshment rooms, and they made their way along the edge of the elegant little square to a shuttered building on the corner of Kling Street.
    Here, in the cool ground floor, they sat as Mr Francis placed orders for lime juice for Charlotte and Mrs Keaseberry, pineapple juices for the girls and a cool India pale ale for Robert. John Francis was a Cockney who had served as a ship’s mate for many years, before settling down in Singapore to open the first public house, in Tavern Street. His language was a little rough and ready, but Charlotte liked him. Since his tavern was meant for the ships’ crews who ebbed and flowed like the tide, his rough ways did not offend the majority of his clientele. His hotel often took in sick sailors for a pittance which, in the absence of any hospital, was an act of some charity.
    Refreshed, they made their way along the north side of Commercial Square towards Malacca Street. Here, Charlotte noted the first women she had seen in the town. Two dark-haired Indian women were sauntering around the square arm in arm, dressed in pretty pink and green saris. As they passed, Isobel giggled and whispered something to her sister. Mrs Keaseberry threw them a hard glance and they stopped.
    â€˜Ladies of the night, my deah,’ she said with a moue.
    Of course, thought Charlotte. This is a port.
    Charlotte found much to admire in the interesting architecture of the square. Most of the houses were three-storey buildings ornately decorated with shutters, porcelain tiles and painted eaves. The architecture of the town was unusual, and she had asked Robert about it. He had merely said that, as far as he knew, it was Raffles who had decreed that all the buildings should be uniform and ordered Coleman to ensure that they all be fronted by a five-foot way to allow shelter from the sun and the rain. ‘Proper smart chap, that Raffles.’