The Secret Mandarin (14 page)

‘Well,’ Bertie said, ‘we can’t tarry here all day. We are close to a friend of mine who has an interesting garden. Shall we call?’

It transpired that Bertie’s friend was a mandarin named Dr Chang. It was characteristic of Bertie not to mention this until we were at the door. I think he must have planned it all along.

‘Less of books, Mr Fortune,’ Bertie smirked. ‘Here we are.’

Standing outside, with hardly a moment to consider what we were doing, I found myself both excited and daunted. There was no question that Bertie’s proposition was dangerous. In Chinese law the export of live tea plants is punishable by death. Robert’s proposed journey to Bohea and Hwuy-chow constituted a capital offence. Robert said that in the officers’ mess he had heard men argue over the Chinese tortures for hours—what was easier to endure and what might kill you soonest. There were tales of barbarous penalties. It made my skin crawl to know they hung men and women by the hair or by the thumbs for days, caged them in metal boxes in the dark, with only one tiny air hole or beat their suspects without mercy till their skin was completely raw. The year before, the authorities had found
the body of a man who had died of over three thousand tiny cuts inflicted, they said, over three days and nights. In punishment for treason or murder, as well as this Death of a Thousand Cuts, or
Ling Chi,
there was slow smothering with wet cloths. The prospects at their very worst were terrifying.

While Robert’s mission was, I suppose, fairly widely known in the European community, there was no question of confiding it to a Chinese unless he could, of a certainty, like Wang and Sing Hoo, be paid for his allegiance. Even then, Robert still had not been explicit and continued to tell our men that this mission was to collect a variety of new plants on his journey. From his insistent questioning about tea production they knew that tea plants were included in this, but in the time that had passed since we left London, Robert had sent home seeds and cuttings from over eighty other varieties, so it was not yet clear to them that tea was the prize, the whole point of the journey.

On Dr Chang’s doorstep, I shifted from foot to foot. My hands were clammy. But with the fear there was also excitement. I knew more of China itself than I knew of her people and here was a chance to learn what the famed mandarins were really like. At first a smartly-dressed servant appeared. He peered at us, betraying only the slightest surprise to see three Europeans standing in the entrance, one of them a woman. I steadied myself, taking a deep breath. The man bowed and ushered us in, showing us through the entrance hall and across a courtyard into a pleasant reception room. He then disappeared and we heard shouting from within the compound. Bertie smiled gleefully. Our arrival was causing a small commotion.

‘I do love a rumpus,’ he beamed. ‘Don’t you?’

After a minute or two Dr Chang came. He was a small man with delicate features and was dressed in an embroidered blue robe, which he wore with black shoes and topped
off with a cap. Chang’s face lit with delight at the sight of Bertie and he started into a babble of Mandarin that I could not follow. All my expertise was in the more widely spoken Cantonese.

‘Ah yes, he has heard of you, of course,’ Bertie beamed. ‘Bow, Robert. That is the way.’

Robert complied, bowing low and then, as if out of nowhere, there were servants bearing trays of tea and we all sat down in the garden, Dr Chang’s eyes sparkling as he took in the details of his guests.

It seemed that the Chinese community were as curious about us as I found myself about them. While we were drinking our tea on the terrace, another of the doctor’s friends came to call, and then another. Within half an hour we were seated in a veritable congregation of mandarins who had heard we were there and had consequently paid a social visit immediately. As each new guest arrived, Bertie managed a series of sly, cheeky winks in our direction. This I found comforting and I drew myself up, realising how much my experience at Drury Lane stood me in good stead. I imagined every detail of how I would like to appear in such a company and endeavoured to live up to this impression despite my quickening heartbeat. At once it became as natural as if I was often the only woman in a large company of potentially dangerous foreigners.

Conversation was stilted and slow, requiring copious translation, as the language of the mandarins is complex and difficult. It is so different from at home, where one’s fellow compatriots might have a different accent but at base everyone has the same words. Here, Chinese society fragmented into class groups, each with a language of their own. The sounds of each dialect has little in common with the others and this made communication difficult between the Chinese themselves, let alone with foreigners.
I listened as one man spun my Cantonese words into new phrases while the others nodded, moving elegantly, their skin flawless and their eyes still.

The mandarins warmed to Robert’s occupation with plants. Most of them seemed to have a deep interest in their gardens and one or two had country estates where they grew food for their family’s use. The mention of a particular variety of plum, a drawing of baskets of peach blossom and even the cultivation of garden greens sparked animated discussions. At one point, during a heated conversation about the cropping of fruit trees, I realised that the hubbub was almost comical, given the subject of our discussions were so mundane. I swear, these men were as passionate about gardening as Robert!

‘You see?’ Bertie whispered to me. ‘They are just like our own, dear middle classes at home.’

‘They’d kill us if they knew, Bertie,’ I whispered back.

He eyed me as if I was a child.

‘Mary,’ he chided, ‘and would our own, loyal, white men not kill a foreigner who had come to steal their secrets? Come, come. We have enforced our trade upon them. We have taken their ports under our own protectorate. It is to their credit they are receiving us at all.’

He was right, of course. The men were not evil, only dangerous. If we were ever to understand what was around us we must be more open to it. Bertie was giving us practice, that was all, and making our enemies into real men.

After we had said our long, formal goodbyes we jammed into separate rickshaws. Robert handed me up.

‘Well done. Very good, Mary,’ he whispered.

‘Nothing at all.’ I smiled down from my seat. ‘Thank Bertie,’ I said. ‘It was his idea.’

The bearers ran side by side. Many of the stalls in the
marketplace were being packed away as we sped past and animals were scavenging for remains on the dusty ground. There were pools of spilled blood amid the discarded cabbage leaves and slivers of fish skin, but, I noticed, no smell, other than that of cooking in the nearby hostelries. I glanced back but Dr Chang had not followed us.

‘This place fascinates me. We must delve into it!’ I called over to Robert.

It seemed strange now that all our conversations about the mandarins to date had been on the subject of how to avoid them.

Then, one by one, we were funnelled into a high-sided alleyway where the road was uneven, and I found that I had my head back and I was laughing, exhilarated, walloping along and delighted as I caught sight now and again of a thin stream of blue sky between the high buildings.

Over the weeks, while we waited for Mr Thom to return, I stayed in town while Robert made several forays to the hills. I liked Ning-po and found that my time passed easily.

I had taken each evening to watching the crowd at the back door that assembled for a cup of Bertie’s soup. It occurred to me that I rarely saw a woman among them. Usually there were fifty men and always ten ragged children, but hardly ever a woman. When I pointed this out, Bertie explained that for a Chinese lady to be beholden was considered shameful and, it seemed, even the gift of a cup of soup marked an indebtedness considered inappropriate.

‘Well then, Bertie, why not let them sing for their supper?’ I suggested.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, they can pay by sweeping the floor or polishing a brass,’ I replied. ‘As if you require assistance and are only paying them in kind.’

The light dawned on Bertie’s face.

‘That is inspired, my dear,’ he smiled slowly. ‘I am only sorry I had not thought of it before. We shall start with them at the Church Hall then. It is far more fitting there, I think, and there is more to do.’

Within the week a ladies’ soup kitchen was set up where the women could come and pay for their meal by offering some small service to the Church. Bertie took to the task with gusto. He supplied squares of paper so the women could fashion pretty flowers from them, and a sewing box so that small repairs might be made to the linen. Robert took no real interest in this, of course, but he smiled indulgently when I was discussing the matter.

‘Mary notices everything,’ he said.

The soup kitchen flourished and soon was catering for almost a hundred. Many evenings I went to help. Most of the women were very poor. Some toothless. Some balding. Their clothes were worn and grimy. However, I noticed one who was none of these things and I felt for her in particular. She was of my own age. Her feet had been bound so she moved very slowly, and her bearing was that of a fine Han lady. What marked her out were her beautiful eyes. They were deep as dark pools, bright and clear and, however worn the old dress she wore, they showed her as special. Her name was Ling. Unlike many of those who came for free soup, she did not sit ragged on the streets of Ning-po. I never saw her anywhere except each evening at the Church Hall.

One night my curiosity got the better of me and I resolved to follow Ling when she left. The evening streets were busy and it was not difficult to fall in behind her at a distance. Ning-po at night became a bustle of stalls and the town centre smelled of frying fish and steaming tea kettles. As we moved through the alleyways I was aware that I drew far
more attention than my quarry. White women did not walk alone, and certainly not in the dark. I ignored the glances and walked very deliberately, as if I knew exactly what I was doing and was meant to be there. Ling continued as far as the riverbank. She intended to sleep there. This shocked me and in all good conscience I could not leave her for the night, but I hesitated a moment, for I was not sure how to approach a lady of honour with my proposition. If the language of Chinese commerce is flowery, the comings and goings in society are even more so. In my moment of hesitation, a Chinaman passed. The man kicked poor Ling—an urchin, only in his way. He walked on. Such unkindness was not uncommon. I rushed forward, words forming in my mind. I hoped I could get them right.

‘Please,’ I said, ‘I have seen your needlework at the Mission and if you might be kind enough to help with the household linen then my friend, Bertie Allan, would be honoured to have you stay. It would be a great help to us all. I hope I do not disturb you.’

‘I could not accept such charity,’ Ling said as she struggled to her feet.

The man had hurt her leg and she was limping.

‘No charity,’ I reassured her. ‘Your stitching is so beautiful. We beg you to come and help us.’

Ling regarded me slowly. For a moment I wasn’t sure what she might do. She was a proud woman, clearly, and my proposition left her torn. There was no question of her accepting charity and, I realised, she was considering staying where she was.

‘Please,’ I said in a rush, ‘the linen is in a terrible state and I cannot manage it alone.’

And then, thank heavens, she relented.

‘I will help if I can,’ she said.

Ling followed me back to the house with her eyes low to
the ground. Inside, the housekeeper furnished an ointment for her leg. I had one of my Chinese jackets brought down for I noticed despite the mild weather she seemed cold. I picked a bloom from the garden, a Chinese rose, and gestured for her to fix it in her hair. Chinese noblewomen dress their hair beautifully and I thought it might cheer her.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You are safe here.’

And then we sat in silence and ate peaches on the terrace.

When he came back that evening and saw my refugee, Bertie said he would make arrangements. There was a nunnery at Shanghae if Ling was prepared to go. He would put it to her that the nuns had much good to do and not enough hands to do it, which he promised me ‘was not a lie—not even an exaggeration.’

‘You have found a favourite, then, Mary,’ he said.

My feeling seemed reciprocated, for Ling favoured me too. For three days she stayed at the mission and followed me silently almost everywhere I went.

‘What do you think happened to her?’ I asked Bertie, when we were alone.

He looked sad but as ever Bertie understood the ways and means of all around him. ‘Her feet have been bound—perhaps to assure her a good marriage. Sometimes families do that to their daughters to try to elevate their status. If a marriage doesn’t transpire it’s difficult. The girl has been brought up above her station and she’s crippled, in effect.’

It was true. Ling couldn’t do much manual work.

‘What happens to those women?’ I asked.

Bertie shrugged. ‘Sometimes they are deliberately abandoned. That might not be what happened to Ling, of course. Perhaps there was a downturn in the family fortunes—a death or dishonour, and she was left defenceless and alone. She will not talk of it, Mary. Of that I have no doubt.’

I didn’t ask. Instead, Ling and I arranged flowers for the hallway, darned Bertie’s linen and walked in the garden—such as her bound feet would allow. The maid helped to change her bandages, bathing the tiny, broken stumps at the end of her leg in warm water and herbs. Bertie said that to unbind her feet now would only cause poor Ling more pain and leave her open to infection. Her feet already smelt rotten but when I asked to see them Ling blushed and I did not like to push her. It was plain to see that huge damage had been done, from which she would never recover. Of all the harsh behaviour I had been subjected to, I realised that I had never been so roughly treated as this poor Chinese rose or indeed the millions like her, for foot binding was commonplace among Han women.