Free The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham Page B

man examining the paper, then eyeing them both shrewdly. Their first names were made up, of course. He knew this. Almost no one used their given names. Singkeh newcomers often sat around on the junk inventing names for themselves. He had known singkehs who called themselves dog-ugly, donkey, banana-head, stone-balls or monkey’s arse. It had something to do with their feeling of impermanence here. Make money, go home, throw off the name, the temporary identity and, at the same time, jettison the fears and loneliness of this enforced exile.
    â€˜I think we can help you. You can both read and write?’ They nodded. ‘Good, good. First must come the initiation ceremony for your friend, and you must swear again also. Until then nothing can be done for you. Do you agree?’
    He looked at Zhen. Taking back his paper, Zhen looked directly at the man.
    â€˜We are in the coolie house, it is not a clean place, is there no other until this matter is sorted out?’
    The man looked back at him steadily. They were all alike, these bloody singkehs; give them half a chance and they wanted more. Even if this one had interesting credentials, he would have to discuss this with his superiors. But he had to be a little wary. From the paper he had seen that Zhen had been a feared honggun , red rod, chief disciplinarian of his guild, albeit probably a small one if it was in Zhangzhou. The Heaven and Earth Society here was a widespread confederacy of many thousands. It was the only resort for the penniless Chinese workers who turned up each month. The kongsi was like a piece of China far from home. It offered them a temple, comfort and work, medicine when they were sick and assurance of a decent burial. Without it they would perish. It connected them to people who spoke their language, knew their villages. Here in Si Lat Po, the Ghee Hin Kongsi, the main branch of the society, was much more powerful than any local guild. For twenty years it had operated with efficiency and impunity under the headman, Inchek Sang.
    Still, it paid to be careful, and he was a careful man.
    â€˜I am a hujiang , tiger general. You know very well I must speak to my superior. For now the coolie house; maybe in a few days you will go to the plantations, work there until the ceremony, then we see. This is not my decision.’
    He called Pock Face, who came running at a trot, rubbing his eyes, and instructed him, ‘Take good care of our friends.’
    He gave Pock Face some coins. ‘For some food and refreshment. They will stay at the coolie house, but find them cots near the street. Tonight they may go out with you, but do not leave them alone. We do not wish them to get lost.’ He looked fiercely at Pock Face, who shuffled uncomfortably.
    Zhen and Qian bowed and followed Pock Face back to the street. The rain had stopped, and the heat had begun to rise. Pock Face looked at his two companions with renewed respect. Coins for some good grub, out on the town. Whatever this fellow had said had had some amazing effect. Qian, too, couldn’t believe their luck. He wanted to quiz Zhen, but that would wait.
    They wandered along the bayside towards the market area, with its distinctive red double octagonal roof. On its outskirts they stopped an itinerant hawker carrying his stove, bowls and ingredients slung from two poles. Pock Face ordered noodles, and they squatted, eating and looking out over the sea and its continuously moving ships and boats, along the crowded street and into the market building bustling with tradesmen and wares. Qian felt as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders and, as they slurped their noodles, which tasted of home, he realised the extent of his emotion and gratitude towards Zhen. A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman wrapped in a cloth of purple and yellow came sauntering by, carrying a tray of fruit and nuts on her head. They gawped at her. For the first time in many months, they ate their fill. Even Pock Face