The Secret Mandarin (19 page)

Along the way we stopped for refreshment at inns, in lieu of which I expect the boatman received some recompense from the landlords. Robert’s assessment of our mandarin friend proved correct and at each of the stops we made he did not rise but ordered his dinner brought to him on the barge. The dishes arrived laden high with exotic-looking vegetables and some pork or duck, which it seemed, were his favourites. I drew him in my notebook, resplendent like some pasha, on a silk-lined couch, his opium pipe in his hand. Robert found this hilarious.

‘His cabin is like our own,’ he scoffed, ‘there are no satin pillows in there. And the man himself is very thin.’

But I liked the idea of the luxuriating mandarin, plump and hidden, puffing away on his
kong see pak.
If his culinary tastes were anything to go by he had an eye for the best in everything.

In the evenings I tutored Robert in Cantonese, helping him with his vowel sounds.

‘Place your tongue here on the roof of your mouth,’ I instructed, showing him what to do by holding my own mouth open wide.

Robert peered vaguely towards my epiglottis.

‘No, no, further forward,’ I corrected him as he tried to copy me, ‘and keep the lips still.’

The man was in the terrible habit of moving his lips too much and it was this, I felt, that was at the heart of his struggle to make his Cantonese more fluent.

It struck me as ironic, I must say, that Robert was the
person I was probably closest to in the world. I had despised him in London and truly loathed him as far as Hong Kong. Now, two fellows facing the world together with a single mission, we had become all but inseparable and I could not imagine my days without him. My life in London felt like a curiosity or a vague memory—like a disturbing dream that was thankfully very, very far away. I dreamt of home still, often surprised in the morning to wake alone in my cabin instead of in the four-poster bed I had in Soho, with the arms of a lover around me. Or scrabbling ever after the cloudy memories of my childhood, as if I could not quite grasp hold of the meaning of what had happened—sure that Jane knew something I didn’t of the winter my mother died or how the house had been when our father drank and there was shouting and I could not remember why.

I did not discuss these matters with Robert. Most of the time our society was fraternal and based around our common interest in the trip. Sometimes, though, he branched out and we had a conversation or two that he would not, I’m sure have generally had with a lady, but then the boundaries were blurring and we had crossed and recrossed many lines.

‘What did you think of the Chartists?’ he asked one evening.

‘William’s father backed them,’ I replied, without a shadow of the old bad feeling at the utterance of my lover’s name, ‘and I think he had good reason.’

‘Here,’ said Robert, as if we were in the club room at the Carlton ‘let me top up your glass. Tell me, Mary, why did you embark on an affair with that man? I have never understood.’

‘It is difficult for me to remember,’ I admitted with a smile. ‘Though ‘tis no terrible thing to be a mistress. No one decried Emma Hamilton for her love of Lord Nelson.’

‘But to be scorned,’ Robert said. ‘Like Byron’s woman. You take a risk. You take a risk with something very precious.’

‘Perhaps in London,’ I admitted, ‘I did not realise its value. I judged William badly—I truly believed he would keep me. I thought we were in love. Though here, Robert, I feel that I have changed. You were right about me. I was both vain and spoilt,’ I laughed. ‘I expect I am vain still.’

Robert chuckled. ‘Well, vanity is a lady’s prerogative, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘And how many would shave their hair, I ask, as you have done?’

I thought of Miss Pottinger in Hong Kong, of Jane, and of Mrs Hunter, no doubt now ensconced in a mansion in Calcutta with her hateful husband. I shrugged my shoulders.

‘They are the ones who have missed out,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world than here.’

‘Honestly?’

I considered a moment. London. With its delicate pastries, smooth burgundy, crisp, lavender-scented linen and hot baths. London with my beautiful baby and even the society of my sister and, for that matter, the acclaim of the critics. I had fought leaving the city for months. Now would I trade it for this adventure?

‘Never,’ I told him. A whole new world had opened up to me. ‘I have changed my mind.’

‘You are quite remarkable,’ he commented, and that made me ape him.

‘Quite remarkable, Miss Penney,’ I teased, ‘Jolly, jolly, jolly remarkable, in fact.’

Eyes ablaze, he bid me goodnight.

At length we reached Che Kieng. Robert checked his notes and declared that by all accounts the place was very heavily fortified.

‘It is a stronghold,’ he pronounced.’there is a huge garrison. I’d like to get a look at it if I can.’

He paced the cabin, checking and re-checking his outfit and glancing out of the window restlessly. The dangers were always on his mind.

As the canal was the main thoroughfare for all goods, most settlements were nearby and on our way into the city we passed what was clearly the main military site for the area. Perched on an embankment to one side, with its own small canal off the main waterway, it was a town in itself. Robert stood on the deck and surveyed the barracks in the distance. They were a good half mile off and were larger, I think, than he had anticipated. He put upon the boatman to draw up under the excuse that he had seen some plants that interested him, and the man, as ever, complied. Like many people we met, the money blinded him, and he was eager to keep in Sing Wa’s favour.

Wang fetched the vasculum case and, always patient, the boatman waited. There was clearly no change in the scenery that merited such a stop and I paced the cabin as Robert sallied out, climbing a small hill to one side of the barracks while directing Wang to stop and take cuttings here and there. From my vantage point I noticed Wang pulling the roots of the plants Robert pointed out and Robert ignoring him doing so. They moved out of sight, gone for a good twenty minutes, that frankly felt more like an hour or two to me. Any Chinaman, mandarin or not, caught poking around a barracks might be questioned and this place was large and probably heavily fortified. I paced the barge praying, I admit, for Robert’s safe return in short order and I felt a wave of relief when I saw him appear again over the top of the hill, cheerfully making his way down towards us—in fact, I don’t believe I have ever been so glad to see
anyone in my life. There was a nonchalant look on his face as he strolled towards us. There would, I guessed, be more strange orders for goods going to the Chinese merchants in Ning-po.

In Che Kieng City we docked overnight and, inspired by our mandarin friend, we thought to order a meal to be delivered to our cabin that evening as a treat. There were many hostelries nearby. It was as a result of this that we discovered Sing Hoo’s delinquency had taken a turn for the worse and Robert, of course, had to deal with it.

Our money was carried on strings, being minted with a hole in the middle for the purpose. We kept mostly silver dollars that were concealed in our luggage and on Robert’s person. However, we had some strings of bronze
cash
for making small purchases and these coins were stowed in a box in the cabin. That afternoon Robert ventured to take a string of
cash
to order our meal and buy provisions. When he opened the box, however, he saw the strings were not equal and that two or three had been ‘clipped’. This was a thinning of the metal at the edges and resulted in an uneven string of coins that any merchant would notice immediately. The clipped metal could be fashioned into new, whole coins but what was left behind was almost worthless. Both Wang and Sing Hoo knew where the strings of
cash
were stowed and, as it was clear that this operation must have been undertaken over several days, it was only our own servants who would have the necessary access to perpetuate such a fraud. We discussed this and then summoned the men to the cabin, leaving the money box open on the table.

Wang stood upright, his chest out and his eyes clear. Sing Hoo behaved like a dog, his eyes cast low and his back bent. It was clear where the guilt lay. It was one thing to steal a
few provisions, quite another to progress onto
cash
and Robert took it as a grave matter.

‘There is money missing,’ he said and Sing Hoo sealed his guilt by babbling, ‘But I have not been in the box to damage it.’ Robert had not yet mentioned any damage, only the theft.

To make matters worse, we were not the only ones checking our money as we came into town. At that very moment our boatman knocked on the door and on entry he furiously swung into the room and grabbed Sing Hoo by the throat. This caused such a commotion that everyone nearby rushed to find out what was afoot (except our opium smoker, of course) and in no time the cabin was crowded with babbling passengers and crew. Upon Robert disentangling the two of them, the boatman claimed that Sing Hoo had asked him to change a silver dollar for
cash
earlier in the day and that, trying to spend it, he then discovered the dollar to be bad. Sing Hoo maintained, screaming, that the bad dollar was not his and the boatman was blaming him, having discovered counterfeit elsewhere in his money. It seemed unlikely.

Robert took charge immediately. I must say he presented a fine figure, barring everyone from our cabin and, saying he would pronounce his judgement from the only area large enough for everyone to witness it, he shepherded the assembled throng out onto the deck. Sitting on a barrel while he pondered, Robert questioned each of the parties like a seasoned judge.

‘Sing Hoo is my servant, and I will punish him,’ he proclaimed, refunding the boatman’s money and telling Sing Hoo that this repayment would be taken over time from his wages.

Robert himself was to flog the man.

I don’t blame Robert for deciding on drastic action.
Sing Hoo could have jeopardised our whole expedition with the sheer bad will that his thieving brought. In such circumstances Robert could not let it pass, though the punishment he settled on was too medieval for my blood.

Sing Hoo stood with the crowd around him as Robert readied himself, steely eyed and taut. Then, with Sing Hoo tied in place, he lashed two dozen vicious blows to the man’s bare back with a makeshift whip. There was blood running down Sing Hoo’s legs and his cries were pitiful. A crowd of passersby gathered beside the boat, anxious to find out what was going on. Afterwards, Robert flung salt on the raw skin to stop any infection and, of course, Sing Hoo wailed even more. The blood dripped dirty onto the wooden deck and Sing Hoo’s face twisted with pain. I could smell him—the stench of sweat and blood and acrid fear. And piss too, for when Sing Hoo was let down he fell over and lost all control. The crowd seemed vindicated and almost pleased at what they witnessed—justice done—and people started to disperse. For my part, I felt my stomach turn, my grasp on the rail weaken, and I thought I might be sick before finally everything went black and I was gone. ‘What will they all think of me?’ the only words that passed through my mind as I tumbled.

When I came to I was lying on the bed. Robert sat beside me. The barge was moving and we had left the town. I cursed my squeamishness and immediately measured myself against my sister. Jane was so stoic, she never would have wilted. I must try harder.

‘I did not think myself so weak,’ I said, finding my throat dry.

Robert passed me a small cup of tea and I sat up to drink it.

‘I forget you are a lady,’ he said. ‘I should have asked you to leave.’

‘Is Sing Hoo all right?’

Robert nodded. ‘I had to take a firm hand,’ he started as if to justify his actions, but I waved him to stop.

‘You did right,’ I said. ‘You always do.’

That night, I had a dream. I was a child again. I was hidden, for I had been playing a game and was stowed in my mother’s crockery cabinet. I could taste bread and lard in my mouth as if I had just had breakfast and it lingered on my tongue. Peering out, I could see that my father was in the kitchen, Jane over his knee as he beat her hard. Her skin was raw pink but she was silent as his hand came down sharply again and again. Her eyes were alight with fury, staring right at the cabinet as if she knew I was there. What did she want of me? What? I woke in a sweat, unable to tell whether it was a true memory or only fantasy. I never remembered Da hurting Jane, though I know he picked on her for half nothing, while I got away with blue murder. I felt horribly guilty. I had a feeling that it was my fault, that Jane was protecting me by taking the beating. I was only a child and she’d been so brave, so silent. If she had cried I would have tried to protect her, I’m sure of it.

The further I got from home the more I realised that I did not remember Da so very much. It vexed me. If he was so vicious, how could Mother have loved him and still been happy that he was gone? Losing a parent is hardly unusual and yet, it seemed to me, I had missed out on something intriguing by simply being so young that I could not quite remember it. People who inspire such contradictory emotions must be worthwhile, I reasoned. Jane, I knew, loved me very much. In adulthood she had protected me when she could have turned her back and yet she found me difficult and frustrating too. What would my son think of me? Poor Henry. No mother nearby and William as good
as absent, no doubt. I could not help feeling that both Henry and I deserved better than we had got. And Jane too, perhaps. He had formed us, our father, I realised. He had been the key to our closeness and the source of our differences.

I lit the tallow beside my bed and pulled out a notebook, ripping a page.

Dear Jane,

I am writing to you from inside China. I want you to know that I think of you often. I want you to know, though we are not in the habit of saying such things, I love you very much. You have stood by me always.

Thank you.

Mary.

I blotted the ink and folded the paper. I would ask Robert to dispatch it at the next opportunity.