The Scarlet Macaw. S.P. Hozy

      It’s not often that I’m invited to attend a wedding on my travels, but, occasionally, if I’m in the right place at the right time, an invitation is graciously extended and I usually accept. Weddings are, as a rule, happy occasions and they give one a chance to eat and drink and converse with people who are in a mood to celebrate. And I, once it is revealed that I am a writer, have often been the recipient of a story or two, sometimes divulged after much drink, but usually freely given in conversation by someone who is forced, because of the nature of their occupation, to spend many lonely hours away from the company of people, so talk is a welcome, dare I say it, yearned for pastime.

      This particular wedding was, in fact, a very small affair, consisting of the bride (recently out from England), the groom, their two attendants (both male, as it happened), and about a half dozen “guests,” including myself. Although it took place in a chapel attached to the Anglican church, there were no flowers and the bride was dressed in a dark blue woolen suit — a bit warm for the intense, steamy climate, but she had only just arrived from England and, I suspect, had nothing else to wear — and a black felt hat pulled down over her hair and framing her face, as was the style au courant in the 1920s. I said there were no flowers, but I do recall that she had a small bunch of white jasmine pinned to her jacket that made a simple but attractive complement to her plain white silk blouse.

      The groom was someone I had previously met in England, an aspiring writer who had come out to Singapore with his savings in order to produce a book — something he claimed he could not afford to do in England. He had very little money and, as a result, the wedding ring he put on his bride’s finger was made of brass. The ring was as shiny and yellow as gold, but before the party celebrating their nuptials ended, it had turned her finger green because of the excessive humidity that is common in that part of the world. I believe shortly thereafter she took to wearing the ring on a gold chain around her neck, the chain having been a gift from her parents on her eighteenth birthday. I felt a little sorry for the poor girl that day. She clearly had not yet adjusted to the heat, nor the exotic surroundings and alien customs of her new life. She seemed nervous and uncomfortable, but now, as I look back these many years later, I realize with some disconsolation that it was the happiest she would be for the rest of her life.

      But on that day, when anything was possible, including living blissfully ever after, we were all in a mood to celebrate, so after the formalities were done, we went off to the Raffles Hotel and had a party. The Raffles was the hotel I always stayed at when I was in Singapore. It was opened by the Sarkies brothers from Armenia in the late 1880s. I was also fond of staying at two other Sarkies hotels when I was in Asia, the Eastern & Oriental in Penang and the Strand in Rangoon. They are handsome buildings with well-appointed rooms where one is always made to feel at home. The staff I have found to be exceedingly helpful and polite, and one never has to ask twice for anything.

      The two attending witnesses had made arrangements earlier with the hotel staff to discreetly present them with the bill, so as not to stint on the celebrations and not to embarrass the groom. They were both bachelors in the employ of Guthrie and Co., the trading company started by a Scotsman, Alexander Guthrie, around 1821. I had noticed that one of them, Rodney, seemed more than a little fond of the bride. He had been unable to take his eyes off her during the brief marriage ceremony. I was intrigued by this and decided to have a word with him at some point during the festivities. Maybe there would be an appealing story in it.

      As the party progressed, and much food was eaten and much beer and whisky drunk, I was able to glean certain facts about the couple from the various guests, none of whom knew them well, but each of whom seemed to have a piece of the story, as it were. The groom, Thomas Noble, had come out from England about six months earlier, with the grand dream of becoming a famous author. I knew something about the difficulties involved in this kind of endeavour, having once been an aspiring author myself. Being a few years older than the groom, I had already established myself as a writer whose books and stories found a market among the literate and semi-literate of England and those parts of Europe where English books are sought after and read. I wished him well and hoped that he had enough money to support himself for at least five years. Publishing is a hit-and-miss business, and not everyone who writes a book will see it in print, let alone see it sell.

      The bride, Adele Simpkins (or Adele Noble, as she would now be known), was no more than twenty-five years of age I was sure, a pretty girl in that classic English way, with a lovely clear complexion, eyes the colour of cornflowers, and soft brown hair that fell in natural waves around her heart-shaped face. Thomas and Adele made an attractive couple. He was several inches taller than her, with wheat-coloured hair and hazel eyes that promised an interesting variety in their children, should they have any. They appeared to be very much in love, but I sensed a degree of self-absorption, common to writers, in Thomas that Adele would have to learn to put up with. Writing is a solitary pursuit, and even though writers want a wife and family like everybody else, they are inclined to live apart from them in some ways. Because they more often inhabit the places of the mind rather than the body, it can be discouraging for those who have to live with them.

      I managed to catch up with the young man from Guthrie’s who had acted as one of the witnesses to the marriage of Thomas and Adele, and we sat together with a bottle of whisky and swapped stories. He was an intelligent chap, handsome and athletic like most of the young men who came out to that part of the world in those days. A love of competitive sport and a cheerful (verging on jovial) disposition were almost prerequisites for employment with the trading companies and the Malayan Civil Service (or the M.C.S. as it was then called). The workday was long and demanding, the weather often boiling hot, and the climate, to say the least, unhealthy. Marriage was discouraged, in fact often prohibited, by the company for a number of years. Sports and games were considered a healthy outlet for young men’s energy. It was also a widely held belief that a man who participated in competitive games was a man you could count on to do a good, honest day’s work, and who would do his best for the “team.”

      Rodney Sewell was just that sort of man. He immediately impressed me as the kind of chap who would lay down his life for king and country if called upon. He was very good looking but in a casual, even indifferent way, and he seemed unaware of his effect on women. His hair was fair and sun-bleached, and his skin was tanned to an agreeable shade that was one part coffee to three parts cream. He sported a handsome blond moustache that precisely framed his top lip.

      We sat at a small table in the Long Bar and watched as the wedding guests mixed with the bar’s regular patrons. Rodney’s arm was casually draped across the back of the unoccupied chair next to him. The afternoon was hot but he looked cool in his white linen suit. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped my brow. I wanted to ask him how he did it, but instead I thanked him for his generosity to the young couple and offered to

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