The Secret Mandarin Read online

  He let me read these notebooks and occasionally, with his permission, I amended or annotated particular entries. We had talked to different people about different matters and therefore sometimes I had details to add to his knowledge. When this was the case Robert leant forward in his chair as I made my comments. Usually it was evening, the lamps were lit, and I was curled up on an upholstered chaise, which Landers had sent along from his cabin for my comfort. It reminded me of nights at Gilston Road, when Jane read by the fire and she and I discussed the passages she had chosen. Robert had never shown an interest then, of course, and invariably retired to the library after dinner. Now he hung on every word of his own manuscript. Going over the diaries made him realise, I think, which details he was missing and what he still had to do.

  At Chusan Island he made the decision to stop for a while and gather more information. In Chusan there was great industry and, in addition to filling in gaps in his knowledge, Robert intended to make further purchases to load off for auction in London. After the down-at-heel ports where we had recently disembarked, Chusan raised my spirits. There was the usual raggle-taggle of pickpockets and ne’er-do-wells and notices had been posted of Europeans accosted and robbed in the surrounding areas. We heard that a Mr Martin had recently been quite severely beaten. However, the port at Tinghae itself heartened me with its well-kept warehouses and orderly accommodation. I did not intend to leave it after our misadventures at Chimoo.

  A flotilla of small boats ferrying travellers and offering services milled here and there across the bay. Landers’ first action at this port was to hop to a barber’s raft and have his hair trimmed and his face shaved. Watching from the deck of our own vessel I spotted three of the barber’s children watching entranced as their father worked upon the ‘white devil’. Most Chinese shave their heads excepting one long ponytail to the rear. To see a full head of hair must have been unusual enough but along with Landers’ light colouring and huge frame the children were fascinated. They skulked in one corner of the raft and when the captain rose from the stool they scattered like buckshot, diving into the water.

  We departed the ship on excellent terms. Robert shook the captain’s hand heartily, commended his courage at the Formosa Channel and gave a present of six bottles of fine port. I had the feeling that, like everything for Landers, we would pass out of his memory immediately he had set sail, or perhaps after the last bottle of our port had been emptied. He waved us off up the dock. The Dundas set sail the next day.

  Winter drew on and it became colder. By now it was October, almost November. I always imagined exotic locations to be at least temperate, but this was clearly not the case. In the humidity of Hong Kong I had wished often for a biting breeze and now I sorely regretted it. Robert found us rooms in accommodation that was to prove draughty. I never saw a building with glass windows in Chusan, other than the church. Elsewhere the windows were small and either open to the elements or shielded with a thick, opaque paper nailed to the frame on the inside and shutters to the exterior. I had not packed for such exigencies and at the earliest opportunity I bought myself a thick scarf, a padded jacket, a woollen skirt and some gloves. I cannot vouch that Robert did not feel the weather but perhaps his childhood in the Scottish cottage had inured him to such adversity for he never complained of it. Not even when we woke to find frost on the floors inside the house. We had a small iron stove in each room and while Robert made friends at the garrison with the officers of the 2nd Madras I stationed myself in the heat of the fire and ventured out rarely. Even on Christmas Day, invited to dine at the mess, I declined. It seemed wrong and I had no wish to go.

  Robert kept to himself and we communicated rarely. I think he came to consider me a strange and solitary creature and I was happy enough with that. I had never spent so much time on my own in my life, and it gave me much cause for reflection. While I was now fascinated by the emerging Chinese world around me and, for that matter, Robert’s mission and the attendant details of horticultural interest, I also had time to think about what had happened at home—to pick apart the seams of my story. When Robert did spend an evening in the little house where we were lodged, I related tales about Jane and me when we were children. The summer day we were caught in a storm and how we sneezed for the rest of June. Or of setting the washing out to air on the lavender Mother had planted, and plaiting the fragrant stems, hanging them up to dry so we could sell them come the autumn. My mother had always farmed a little. I conjured up stories of Christmases in the country, presents from my father—toys he had carved from wood. Of him waiting, smoking by our garden gate in the snow, as we walked back from Church. ‘He’s not a bad man,’ my mother said. I had always loved hugging him, sitting on his knee. There was a singular smell of tobacco as I buried my face in his shoulder and a smell of horses too, I suppose, for that was his trade. It seemed strange to me that Robert had not heard these stories before or at least some of them. Jane, I suppose, had said little because, from her point of view, she had nothing nice to say, especially about our father. I was his favourite, though, and he had never hurt me. And there my memories became patchy for I had been very young and, I expect, had not wanted to think too long on my sister getting a hiding and me getting off scot-free. Now, Robert listened eagerly. Perhaps the time passed slowly for him as much as for me and, for my part, I enjoyed telling the tales. I hardened my resolve to try to accept my fate and Robert’s part in it as best I could. What use is regret? I was stuck with him and he with me.

  On the occasions I did leave the house I went alone. The bustling streets fascinated me. The children in Chusan were bound to their mothers by cloth. Any of Henry’s age, that is. On my wanderings I passed many women about their business with a baby clamped tightly to their chest, often as not asleep and always subdued. My son, I knew, was fond of kicking and squirming. He would be walking by now. At home the nanny would have brought him to me daily. I might have told him bedtime stories and visited him at tea. I should have been picking little shoes and caps and robes and buying a bay rocking horse. It seemed so far away now as if I had made it up, a flight of fancy—a little boy made of thin air.

  My favourite places in Tinghae were undoubtedly the establishments attached to clothing factories. These manufactured uniforms of all descriptions that they hung outside on display. It seemed all regiments stationed in the region ordered their clothing supplies from the factories at Chusan, and uniforms for all ranks were readily available, from tartan trousers to elaborately brocaded dress jackets. In addition there were magnificent hats and caps adorned with lustrous feathers and ribbons secured with brass buttons. I often saw junior officers going in and out of these establishments, brusque with the elegant shopkeepers who spoke in what, to the European ear, sounded like riddles. The mechanics of any sale were shrouded, I came to learn, in enquiries over the good health of the commander in charge of the regiment and polite good wishes about success in a recent dog race or at cards. I watched and listened and stayed mostly silent. The shopkeepers became accustomed to seeing me now and again with my padded jacket clasped round my frame and my scarf over my chin as I perused the racks of splendid tailoring.

  One day, down a side street I found a stationery shop. At the rear there was a shrine to Weng Chang Ti Chun, patron saint of paper makers. I recognised the figure immediately from my studies. Beside an image of the saint with his entourage, incense burned. The smoke was an enticing blend of spices. It made me linger. Most of the goods in the shop were for the purpose of Chinese calligraphy and black ink, thick parchments and sculpted brushes of all sizes were on display floor to ceiling. I used my limited Cantonese to wish the shopkeeper good fortune, congratulate him on his beautiful establishment and then, finally, ask about coloured paints. The tiny Chinese man listened carefully. ‘You are welcome to my humble workplace,’ he said. ‘Ah! I know what to put before you for approval…’ He nodded so enthusiastically that I wondered if he had misunderstood my request, but when he returned from his storeroom he
was clutching a small box of watercolours. I bought them.

  I had not painted since I was a child. I purchased a notebook of suitable paper and curled beside the stove in the grey, wintry light, I began to sketch. I chose subject matter from London at first. A blotchy painting of the front door at Gilston Road. A dreadful representation of the children playing in the park and a hobby horse for Henry. Then I took to the swaying outlines of the ships in the bay. British packets and sampans moored side by side, rows of masts like bare winter trees towering over the tiny barks that sold goods between the larger vessels. I showed them about their business, hawking noodles, tea, flowers and haircuts with sailors hanging over the side to buy the wares. Robert, of course, only took an interest when my subject matter moved to his collection of plants. He brought home some small trees with dark green, smooth leaves and tiny, orange fruits that seemed impervious to the cold.

  ‘Kumquats,’ he told me. ‘They are rather sour but will make an excellent preserve, I should think.’

  He sent my sketches of the plants home to the nursery in Wiltshire along with a large consignment of the seeds. And he commissioned me to do more. One of the poederia and another of some palms. I was not permitted to initial the drawings but toyed with the idea of scribbling some little sign in the corner as my mark. A star? A circle, like a penny? In the end I dared not risk it; still it was the first time since our embarkation that I felt truly useful. This was something I could do which could not be taken on by anyone else. It was good to be occupied.

  I also helped to pick out some clothes to send home. We chose a boxful for Gilston Road. Bolts of satin and splendid brocade. Chinese-style jackets for the children and some lovely blue breeches for Henry and a rather smart cap. (I bought these in several sizes, to see him through.) For Jane I fancied an evening bag of thick silk and a fur muffler. I hoped they would make her happy. I pictured her opening the box and pulling out the items one by one. I could see Helen trying the caps on Henry and holding him up to the mirror so he could see himself as her brother was parading up and down in his smart new jacket and Jane was drawing the rich, dark fur to her cheek, happy with its quality and imagining herself already in her winter coat, her hands safely stowed.

  ‘She will like that,’ I thought, as I packed the items, one by one into the wooden cases and slipped in some of my drawings on top, signed with a kiss.

  To the auction houses on the Strand we sent boxes of mother-of-pearl buttons, bolts of silk and of satin, beautiful lacquered fans that reflected the light as they moved and intricate ivory fascinators. While Robert could pick and choose for the nurseries and had passable taste in furniture, he had no idea what shades of silk would tempt a lady, and again I found myself competent to help. As I watched the boxes loaded I imagined next season’s evening gowns, cut to perfection from the shimmering shades I had chosen. Smooth, white necks arrayed with pearls. The dining rooms of Mayfair lit up.

  We rested three months in Chusan and I scarcely saw a soul from England all that time. I cannot remember feeling lonely. The sound of Cantonese with its stretched vowels and subtlety of tone came to rest in my ear. It was as if I was learning a script with its own rhythms and nuances. I dreamt one night, swaddled in quilted satin, of an officer coming to call. I thought of him first as a Hong-mou-jin, a red-haired man, what the Chinese call all Europeans. In the half-light, waking to my nose cold and my ears biting, I looked back on the dream and realised I could think in Cantonese. I said nothing to my brother-in-law, for it would only have alarmed him. The barracks were his home as much as our lodging house and I knew he could not read the expressions on Chinese faces or understand the half-caught conversations we passed in the street between the merchants and their customers. His Cantonese was still halting. As far as I could ascertain, he had not bought anything Chinese to wear and only now and again availed himself of the steaming hot food stalls dotted around the town, where gleaming noodles and fried apple dumplings rolled in sesame tempted the passersby.

  ‘Damned odd fare,’ he would exclaim, as if he was the colonel of the regiment.

  I found it all delicious.

  One evening at the end of February I was beside the stove when Robert came back from supper in the mess. I was thinking of a garden. I had read in one of my books that in India there are night-time retreats planted with shimmering white flowers, translucent in the moonlight. They give fragrance in the cool of the evening. A meeting place for lovers. I had been daydreaming of late about the sensation of being held—a woman in a man’s arms. I missed that closeness and the feeling, fleeting though it had been in the past, of being treasured. Now I sketched plants around a pond in my love garden. Orange jessamine, star jasmine and seaside daisies. Robert peered over my shoulder raising a lamp to see.

  ‘Trachelospermum jasminoides,’ he commented.

  Why he must always name things in Latin when flowers sound so much prettier in English, I did not know.

  ‘These thrive at home already,’ he said. ‘The trick is to send back the rare.’

  ‘You are on a mission, Robert. I am not,’ I said firmly. ‘I may not be fond of plants in general but I like flowers.’

  Robert shrugged. Leaving me to my representation of the moonlight on the water he took out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. He smoked less and less frequently as nothing he could find measured up to the tobacco from Christie’s that I had scattered about his cabin aboard the Braganza the first day of our voyage.

  I had seen Robert’s notebook. I read it every few days. The pages were thick now with details of Hwuy-chow—all its mountain ranges, villages and tea factories. He had gleaned all these details in Chusan with the aid of the regiment who had provided a translator whenever he found a Chinaman who came from the region. Bohea, apart from Wang’s descriptions, which were mostly of his village, remained a mystery. But there was yet time for that.

  ‘We will leave here soon, will we not?’ I ventured.

  Robert lit up and licked his lips.

  ‘Too bitter,’ he commented.

  ‘It is not long now,’ I drew his attention back.

  Robert stubbed out the tobacco. He sat forwards, his elbows on his knees.

  ‘How do you know?’ he said. ‘We might stay longer.’

  ‘They have three harvests a year, Robert. I cannot imagine you will miss them.’

  Robert nodded. He seemed amused. It did not occur to him that he might need to tell me of his plans.

  ‘You do know me, Mary. There is no denying it.’

  ‘I like green tea,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Miss Penney, you shall have it.’ Robert bowed. ‘Before Hwuy-chow we shall visit Ning-po. There will be an abundance there. And besides, there is a man I must meet.’

  I pulled out our map and laid it in front of me. Ning-po was not far—another British trading port further along the Straits. Robert regarded me from his chair.

  ‘Two weeks, if that, Mary,’ he said. ‘I have taken our cabins.’

  Chapter Six

  When Robert and I arrived in Ning-po we were to report to the British Consul, Mr Thom, but he had been borne away on important business. We hovered near his residence unsure what to do. We had no other friendly name to hand and no recommendation to secure us lodgings. Mr Thom’s Chinese housekeeper, apparently left alone in the Consulate, did not know when her master might return and had the surly manner of one haughty from being left in charge. Then Wang brought us news of another European who lived in the town’s Catholic Mission and we decided to call upon him for advice. It was not far away.

  When we arrived at the address we found a rather grand house with a European-style front gate, clustered around which there was a crowd, highly charged with anticipation. We pushed our way through, struck the huge, brass knocker and were welcomed inside by a servant. He showed us into a large, pleasant drawing room. After a minute or two a figure appeared in the doorway. Father Allan was clearly an eccentric. A small man, he had adopted the Chinese way, or so it seem
ed at first, though quickly I realised that his outfit was, in fact, highly comical. He wore a coolie’s hat with a mandarin’s robe—something akin to dressing a drayman with a fine top hat. Instantly I understood the reason for the crowd at his front door. If an eccentric such as this lived nearby I would hope to catch sight of him by lingering. Father Allan was unperturbed. His accent was American and his hand movements expansive.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he greeted us. ‘I am Father Allan, but you must call me Bertie.’ He bowed. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

  I liked him immediately, while Robert squirmed uncomfortably at the priest’s open manner. We were in a fix, however, with nowhere else to go and Bertie was well informed and willing to have us.

  ‘You must be the charming Miss Penney.’ He kissed my hand. ‘And Mr Fortune, of course. News travels here at lightning speeds. Come, have some tea and we will walk in the garden. I have an orchard, you know. It will be quite up your street. You are welcome to stay until Mr Thom returns. We have far too many rooms and I will relish the company. Did you come from Chusan?’

  In the end, despite Robert’s initial insistence that we take lodgings, we stayed for several weeks in the house and it turned out that Bertie, while audacious in sartorial matters, was a font of knowledge on the subject of the interior. His open manner belied a sharp mind and over the weeks both Robert and I found him an extraordinarily surprising individual. As some kind of hub for the missions Bertie was in correspondence with every Catholic priest inside China’s borders. There were communities everywhere, from Hong Kong to locations so deep in the interior that no white man had ever been there. Unlike the Anglicans, the papists encouraged their emissaries to take to the local customs and this secured excellent inside knowledge. Bertie had details of the location of mountain passes and border crossings between provinces in the Bohea Mountains. He had precious news of jurisdictions five hundred miles inland, of local customs and practices that varied from region to region, of Buddhist monasteries offering shelter to travellers and of areas blighted by disease. In the library Bertie would sit and talk for hours with Robert taking notes all the while.