The Red Thread Read Online Free Page A

farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” said the farmer.’
    They turned back into the ship. Like the rest of the poor hopefuls on board, they must ready themselves for the task of survival which loomed precariously ahead. They could see boats of every possible size and shape, flying from the shore like hornets out of a nest and racing towards them.
    Almond eyes bobbed along the water line as the sampan cut swiftly across the harbour. Charlotte’s hair was full of the wind. A mist of salty spray flew up from the bow, showering her face. She did not care. She could see the rim of low bungalows along the beach front and the big trees on the plain; the governor’s residence on the hill; the fluttering of flags on the flagstaff. The fort stood low on the opposite side of the riverbank. Then she saw Robbie, standing on the jetty and her heart leapt. She waved and Robert waved.
    In a flash she had arrived. A journey of 10,000 miles had ended in a minute. Robert pulled her from the boat and hugged her tightly, trembling from this feeling of profound happiness. Charlotte, overcome, held him too, smelling him, filling her empty places up with him, this brother she loved so well. Finally he released her, and they began to laugh. Arm in arm, they made their way into the bungalow. The rest of the day passed in a whirl of news of Scotland and the voyage, Robert’s unusual appointment and the discovery of her future home. As evening drew in, Charlotte, exhausted, prepared for bed. She went out onto the verandah, which faced the sea. A pleasant breeze cooled her face. She looked out over the roads, but the great junk had disappeared.

1
    I found out I was a half-breed bastard when I was ten,’ Charlotte said. ‘Before that I lived in Madagascar, where I suppose everyone was a half-breed bastard of one sort or another and no one had the slightest idea.’ She laughed lightly. ‘What a lovely house you have, Miss Manouk.’
    Charlotte’s hostess smiled.
    â€˜ Alamah , for goo’ness sake, don’ be silly-billy, my name is Takouhi. I too am so-called half-breed, although no one can call me bastard, since my father and mother marry. He, Armenian Dutchman. She, Javanese. It is like this in the world, I think, but George tell me not like that in England. George say maybe no half-breeds in England, but lot of bastards. He is Irishman, so I think he know this. Sometimes I don’ understand what George say.’
    She pronounced his name softly, like the French. This was said in the gravest of tones but broadest of smiles. English was not her favourite language, though she enjoyed some of its colourful expressions.
    â€˜My parents, too, were married,’ Charlotte went on, ‘but that did not make any difference to my Scottish grandmother. My mother was mixed blood. A pirate father, French, and a Creole mother from Mauritius, so she told us. Everybody was so mixed up on the island. My grandmother was ashamed of us, it was as simple as that.’
    The three da Silva girls sat, wide-eyed, silently listening to this conversation. They did not know where this Madablasta place was, but it didn’t matter. They had no idea where America was, or England. India, Java, China: all mysteries. Mr Coleman had told them that Ireland was the biggest country in the world, inhabited by green folk, that he himself had been green but had faded after a long absence from those shores. Their exasperated father had assured them that this was just one of Mr Coleman’s jokes. Everyone in Singapore was from somewhere beyond their horizon. They were used to it.
    Boldly, the youngest, Isabel, ventured, ‘How is that possible, Miss Macleod? Since you are her granddaughter, she must love you, surely?’
    For the Misses da Silva, any new addition to their meagre acquaintance was welcome, and Charlotte, freshly arrived from Europe, was an object of benign curiosity. Gossip formed the central