The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham Page B

ran gaily into a handsome shophouse directly across from the mission press, which was the dispensary of Dr da Silva and the place of work for his mercantile interests, as well as of Thomas Crane, his son-in-law by marriage to Maria, one of his many daughters. They occupied the upper rooms.
    Dr Jose da Silva was a man of some sixty years, tall and slender with thick silver hair and a patrician face. Charlotte could see that he was attractive and was no longer surprised at the remarkable number of wives he had possessed. He greeted them distractedly. Although he cared for all his children, since there were some twenty of them, he often had trouble with their names.
    He had been a ship’s surgeon on board a Portuguese man-of-war and had fallen, by chance, into the merchant business when an enforced stopover in Singapore had turned his language skills into an opportunity he could not afford to miss.
    In the face of the north-east monsoon, a Portuguese and a Spanish vessel, bound for Macao and Manila respectively, could not proceed with their voyage and were detained in the harbour for four months. Wishing to sell their cargoes to meet expenses, they consulted Dr da Silva and he agreed to act as their agent and help sell the cargoes at auction. This proved so successful that some fifteen years on Dr da Silva was a very wealthy man.
    Maria Crane had come down to greet them and invited them to lunch after their visit to the Chinese town. She was a pretty dark-haired, almond-eyed woman, a daughter of her father’s second wife, a Portuguese Chinese whom Dr da Silva had taken as a wife in Macao. Her motive in extending this invitation was not entirely altruistic. She had several unmarried brothers for whom Charlotte was entirely suitable. Since he had taken up his post of police chief, she had also had her eye on Robert as a potential match for one of her daughters, sixteen-year-old Teresa. Though she had not wished to extend the invitation to her twin stepsisters, she could see no way of avoiding it.
    When they departed, the small party headed towards Telok Ayer Street, where Robert had arranged to meet Baba Tan outside the Chinese temple.
    As they went along, Charlotte could only wonder at the extraordinary variety of goods on offer at the small shophouses. Each shop they passed held a powerful appeal: the boot makers, oil shops, locksmiths, ivory carvers and jewellers as fascinating as the ship’s chandlers and the paper lantern seller. Down side streets, Charlotte could see carpenters and coffin makers, soap sellers and opium shops. Every tiny space along the side roads contained stalls as well, with men selling vegetables and dried fish, small goods, thread, pickled plums, kajang mats and baskets. The speed of fingers on the clacking abacuses was mesmerising, the noise of it like the incessant chirping of crickets in the jungle. She saw a man writing the picture language with a black brush on white paper. The streets rang with hammering and calls, everywhere around her the incessant clatter and chatter of these wondrously industrious people.
    The clamour died down as they went along the bay but, suddenly, a clear strong voice rang out into the air.
    â€˜ Allah O Akhbar ! The call to prayer,’ said Robert, ‘from the mosque in South Bridge Road.’
    He led her to the shrine built by the Chulias from south India, traders and money changers, who were Mohammedans and followed a god called Allah. This building was small but exquisite, rising like a lacy green multi-tiered miniature palace, surrounded by pierced balustrades, topped by tall minarets. He greeted the guard outside, who rose in salaam , and they moved past and stopped in front of the Chinese temple.
    As they stood waiting, Charlotte took in the lovely curve of the bay and its occupants. Here were some women, at least, Malays, around the fishing boats. Children, too. She had seen the Malay women in the market and noticed that they and their men alike