North Bridge Road, British Singapore, 9 April 1907
The ringing entrance bell lifted Andrew Tong’s spirits more than it should. Still, it was almost closing time.
“Who could be coming in now?” Asked Kean behind him, his sewing machine shuddering down as with the disappearing daylight streaming in through the windows.
Andrew turned around, “Never you mind! Are you finished with that?” As the shop’s proprietor, he didn’t want to say just how precarious they all were, with half their customer base vanishing because of the War. It was a miracle of god the remaining revenues were just enough to pay for the shop’s monthly expenses.
After taking one quick sweep of all the workers and their tasks, he made his way to the front end, passing through racks of unsold undershirts and waistcoats that were once desirable amongst Singapore’s European elite and up-and-coming locals.
Please let this be an unaffected customer, please let this be an unaffected customer…
Donning on his overcoat to further embellish himself, despite the layers of fabric adding to the stifling heat around his body, he pushed any doubts out of his head and voiced out in accented English. “Welcome!”
Immediately, the portly man standing by the entrance looked high-minded and pompous to the proprietor’s eyes, with a look on his mixed visage that expressed a taste for the best and nothing less.
An Anglo-Indian? Oh well. Customers were customers.
“Good evening!” The man said in a cultured British accent. “I was wondering if I can get a good suit done in three days?”
What? “I’m… sorry? What did you say?”
“I said, can you tailor a suit within three days?” Annoyance was seeping into the man’s voice.
Andrew was flummoxed. Suit patrons weren’t usually this bold. “…Well, we have a selection of suits and coats that you can try! You might obtain your selection of choice sooner than you wish!”
And with that, he whisked the Anglo-Indian into a tailoring whirlwind. For the next half-an-hour, Andrew and his backroom assistants made the measurements, fittings, and cuts to an assortment of stored suitwear, all the while making sure the customer’s pomposity was sated with flattery. Every once in a while, the Anglo-Indian would bark out something like, “My father is one of the wealthiest businessman in Rangoon, you know?” Or, “Have you heard what is happening in Indochina? Dreadful. Very bad for business.” By the time Andrew was back on the front end with the finished suits, he wished hard for some cold
baijiu.
But as the final payment was made, he realized he hadn’t asked yet on why the man wanted the clothes. “Is there a function or celebration you need to go?”
The Anglo-Indian only laughed. “Oh, no! Nothing like that! It’s… well, you will see.”
“See?”
“Yes! Don’t worry! You will remember my name soon enough! Everyone will! All the newspapers will say my name! Then everyone would want some suits from your little tailors’!”
Somehow, something of that ‘
little tailors’ pricked Andrew deep.
As the front door opened once more, he made a note to ask around for anything about the Anglo-Indian and for anything odd that is being held in Singapore. After locking the door, Andrew finally made his way back to where all the workers were finishing up.
“Why did the man want the suits for?” asked Kean.
“I don’t know.” Andrew answered, shrugging. “Wonder what he said about remembering his name, too…”
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(Uploaded from the Penang state archives: The Malay Tribune, 10 April 1907)
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After years of planning, it’s FINALLY HAPPENING, FOLKS.
Baijiu: traditional distilled liquor from China, often made using sorghum or barley (in the northern regions especially) or with rice and other grains (with rice being prominent in China’s south).