by John Harris
She sniffed and he probed. ‘Gummer?’ he asked. ‘Clerk, was he?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened to the thin pale one with specs?’
Emmeline shrugged. ‘He was no man.’
‘And Russell is?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Why didn’t you bring him with you? Or do you leave him to look after the office in Peking or Shanghai?’
‘He’s here. In Yangpo.’
‘Then what’s he doing allowing his lady wife to visit gentlemen in their hotel rooms?’
‘Because he’s somewhere in the Chinese quarter of the town.’
‘What?’ Willie turned quickly. Despite his experience, Willie wouldn’t have chanced going into the Chinese quarter just then. ‘After business, was he?’
Emmeline’s face grew stiff. ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘He was after a woman.’
Willie’s hands, working at his tie, slowed and came to a stop. ‘A Chinese woman?’
Emmeline frowned. ‘Can I sit down?’
‘If it helps. What happened?’
Emmeline seated herself on the edge of a chair and took out a handkerchief to dab her nose and eyes. He knew she wasn’t crying, because she was too tough for that. ‘I shouldn’t have left him here,’ she said slowly. ‘We set up the business here and had a compradore to look after things while we went to Shanghai. But he said someone ought to be here more often and there was such a lot to do in Shanghai. Things are just beginning to get going, Willie.’
‘You don’t have to tell me.’
‘I stayed in Shanghai and sent him up. He was alone too long.’
Willie finished tying his tie, slipped into his jacket and began buttoning it. He knew what she was saying. Men in hot countries got strange ideas, and he thanked God he had someone as attractive and intelligent as Abigail.
‘Virile sort, was he?’
Emmeline was silent for a second, then she stamped her foot. ‘He couldn’t keep away from women,’ she snapped.
‘Bit different from the chap with specs. He looked as if anything like that would have given him curvature of the spine.’
Emmeline drew a deep breath. ‘He’s a big man,’ she said. ‘Dark. Strong. He’d been a sailor.’
‘Like me.’
Emmeline frowned. ‘He didn’t have your sense, Willie.’
‘He couldn’t have had. He didn’t get away.’
Her head came up. ‘That’s not funny,’ she snapped.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It ain’t.’
‘He was always after girls. Whenever he’d had a few drinks. I knew about it.’
‘Warn him?’
‘I tried to. But I was afraid he’d up and leave me. I needed him.’
‘Good in the counting house, was he?’
‘Not very. But he was able and he could handle the Chinese. They were frightened to death of him. I arrived here two days ago and there was no sign of him. The Chinese clerk said he was out on business. But he didn’t come back. He didn’t come back to the house at night either. I have a house, a new one, along Concession Street. I expect you have, too.’
‘Not yet,’ Willie said. ‘Sleep here or in a camp bed in the godown. Other things to pay for first.’
She drew another deep breath. ‘When he didn’t turn up the next day, I made enquiries. I found out he has a Chinese girl in Flowering Almond Street in the old town. I expect he’s still there.’
Willie eyed her warily. ‘So where do I come into all this?’ he asked.
‘I want you to fetch him back.’
There was a long silence as Willie digested her words. The Chinese quarter was no place to go just at that moment with tension still high and the hatred for foreigners unmuted.
‘I can’t go down there,’ he said.
‘Can’t you get a few men together? Decent men. White men. A few policemen.’
‘It would start the rioting all over again.’
‘I need him, Willie.’
‘In bed or for the counting house?’
She was silent for a second and he knew that neither was half so important as her own respectability. In the gossipy atmosphere of European women Peccadilloes soon surfaced alone in a foreign country with too many servants and not enough to do. It had always been different with Abigail, because she was always in demand for her knowledge of Chinese artifacts. In fact – the thought suddenly occurred to him – some of the smooth bastards from the Legations who came for her advice might well be more interested in Abigail than the artifacts, and he decided he’d better keep his eyes open – not for Abigail, but for the smooth bastards.
‘I can’t do it, Em,’ he said.
‘Willie, you must!’
‘Em, I won’t even know where Flowering Almond Street is.’
‘The servant does. He took him there. He’ll lead the way.’
Willie had a feeling he was already neck-deep in trouble, but he couldn’t quite see how he could back out. Emmeline was one of the few European women in Yangpo and he was one of the few white men. And, as he’d already told her, mustering a small army to make the rescue wasn’t the answer. There’d be more rioting and probably more deaths.
‘How far in is it?’
‘Not far, the servant said.’
‘Is this woman a – a – is she a professional, Em?’
‘No. The servant says she’s the daughter of a compradore who worked for the French. He got to know her somehow by just going about his business. The servant says he doesn’t pay her. He just gives her gifts. Rolls of silk. Things like that. I imagine she’s probably quite a decent girl – or was till he got hold of her. It’s Russell who needs watching. Will you fetch him out?’
Willie frowned. ‘You’re better off without him, Emmeline.’
‘No. I need him.’
He wondered why. He knew Emmeline’s appetites only too well and perhaps Russell Gummer was the one man who could satisfy them.
‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll go. Tonight. After dark. Tell your servant to report to my warehouse, I’ll be in the office there, waiting for him.’
Two
‘Willie, you are mad!’
Da Braga stood by the door of the office watching Willie, unable to understand why he was willing to risk his neck in what seemed a wildcat rescue. He, Da Braga, would never have taken such a risk. But, he had to admit, there was something about Willie that was different from other men. He was quick-witted, intelligent and brave, always willing to take a chance for business, never able to miss an opportunity, a merchant adventurer out of his time, willing to go into the vast interior of China in a way few others did.
‘I’ve got to go, Luis.’
It was a matter of honour in a way, because Willie was often assailed by the thought that he had treated Emmeline badly. He hadn’t, he knew, almost the other way round, but it was something that would probably never go away.
‘Are you expecting rewards from this woman?’ This was the only reason Da Braga could think of, because Willie wasn’t in need of money and Emmeline was still good looking. ‘What will she give you in return?’
‘Business.’ Even this wasn’t true because Wishart’s had never pushed trade towards Sarth’s and he didn’t think they ever would, but he had to make some excuse.
‘Are you sure?’ Da Braga asked.
‘I’ll make sure.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It’ll do.’
They were still talking when the scratching came at the door. The servant Emmeline had sent was a small man with a twisted back, a grey wisp of beard and a pigtail. Willie stared at him, wondering if he could be trusted. If he disappeared into the maze of streets in the Chinese City, it wouldn’t be difficult to betray him. Did the old man have strong feelings against the Europeans like the students? Did he resent the way they had taken over his country?
Willie drew a deep breath and pushed a cigarette at the Chinese who bobbed his head, grinned and lit up, puffing quickly and
filling the office with smoke. Taking off his jacket, Willie slipped into a blue coolie’s smock and picked up a wide-brimmed woven hat. Shoving the heavy Russian revolver he carried with him into his belt, he gestured at the Chinese.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
The Chinese bobbed his head again and tossed his cigarette through the door. ‘Can do, Master,’ he said. ‘We makee quick, I think.’
It was bitterly cold, the night brilliant with frost, and they moved along the bund, their heads down so that the flaring torches stuck into the walls would not catch their faces. Yangpo was a strange place. In the spring there was a yellowgreen mist of new leaves along the banks with patches of pink and white flowers whose perfume sometimes even overlaid the smell of the winter’s rubbish, but in the autumn it could be chill and damp and in the winter there were dull skies and misty rain, with the mountains behind black against the steely sky, and the river shrunken to grey channels between the sandbars.
As they moved among the piled refuse, a thin stream of coolies moved past them, one of them carrying two severed heads on a pole, and eventually, by the execution ground, they came on a huddle of wailing women crouched over a group of bodies, engaged in the grisly task of sewing more heads to headless trunks.
‘Cannot meet ancestors without heads,’ the old man said gravely. ‘Very bad loss. Lose face.’ He gave a sudden giggle as if he’d appreciated his unintentional joke.
Nearby, a group of coolies waited with coffins, but nobody had eyes for the two figures shuffling past. The executions had taken place that afternoon, the dead men lined up in a row on the edge of the river by the Chinese soldiers to be examined by the headsman. Willie had watched it all through the window of Da Braga’s office. Eventually, the men had been led to a line of white stones by the road and made to kneel, then, one by one, a soldier had reached over them from the front, grasping the pigtail to drag the head down and forward. As the executioner had leapt forward with a shout and the huge shining blade had come down, the snick had been audible even in Da Braga’s office, the severed heads rolling across the road.
Now and again, they passed a huddled figure, asleep or dead – it was hard to tell which, and nobody cared much – sometimes a coolie with his carrying pole still on his shoulder. They entered the city through the great studded gate in the river wall and, groping their way by the faint light of hanging lanterns, the dim bulk of the city black against the sky, they stumbled in and out of crooked streets.
They could hear the remnants of the mob baying a few streets away, a few high-pitched shouts and once the crash of glass. Willie’s eyes were everywhere, on the look out for treachery. He still didn’t trust the old man, but so far he had given no indication of hostility. Several times he heard rats squeaking and once several of them ran across his feet. The place was ominously quiet, with every door and window shuttered and barred after the rioting. There were puddles filmed with ice and the smell of drains, ordure and rotting rubbish.
The Chinese turned into a street that was wider than the rest and gestured ahead. ‘Master come,’ he said. ‘The Street of Flowering Almond.’
He stopped at a plank door and began to scratch at it. It was opened almost at once by a young man in a quilted coat. Behind him was a girl, small and pretty, her jetty hair done in wings on either side of her face.
‘You come for Mastah Gummer?’ the young man said.
Willie nodded and, as the door opened wider, they pushed inside.
‘Where is he?’
The Chinese gestured towards a plank door. Gummer was in the room beyond, sprawled on a string bed, stark naked, his mouth wide open, his eyes closed, stinking of whisky. Willie stared at him furiously.
How in the name of God, he thought, was he going to get such a man to safety? Gummer was strong, muscled and powerful, his big dark-skinned body covered with black hair. No wonder he had suited Emmeline. No wonder she wanted him back.
‘I shall need help,’ he said. ‘You have brothers?’
The Chinese nodded.
‘Fetch them.’
The Chinese shook his head. ‘No come.’ He was obviously terrified.
‘This is your sister?’
‘My sister, Mastah.’
‘If he’s found here, it’ll be death for her. You too. The students will kill you. Fetch brothers. Plenty money. I give.’ He showed the money in his hand. ‘For Chinaman. For helpee.’
The Chinese stared at Gummer’s big body in terror, unable to see how he could be smuggled away.
‘Coffin,’ Willie said. ‘Buy coffin. Plenty coffin on bund. Bring here. Understand? Old uncle dies. Must be buried. Got it?’
The Chinese nodded.
‘Right. Chop chop. Quick. Go.’
As the Chinese disappeared, the door closing softly behind him, Willie stared at Gummer, hating him for the trouble he was causing him. The girl, standing in a corner, her arms round herself, hugging herself as if she were cold, watched him, her eyes fearful.
‘You love?’
She shook her head and gestured with her fingers to indicate that the affair between them had been one of money only. For a moment, Willie sympathised with Gummer because the girl was delicate-looking, frail, gentle and very feminine. Perhaps she supplied what Emmeline failed to supply. From his own experience, he knew Emmeline was a domineering lover, and perhaps Gummer had decided that what he got from her wasn’t worth the security of being her husband with a business behind him.
Eventually, the young Chinese returned. There were four men with him and they were carrying a coffin.
‘Tell Chinamen uncle die,’ he said.
‘Good. Shovel him in.’
Holes were bored in the coffin lid and it was unscrewed and Gummer stuffed inside, wrapped in a blanket, his clothes packed around him. It was Willie who crossed his hands on his chest.
‘Screw him down,’ he said.
It wasn’t going to be easy because, if Gummer recovered his senses he’d wonder where he was and it wouldn’t do to be found carrying a coffin with the body inside pounding on the lid to be let out. At least Gummer wouldn’t suffocate.
‘Right. Let’s go.’
Money was distributed and they made ready to leave. Hoisting the coffin up was difficult because Gummer was heavy, but they got it on their shoulders and began to march solemnly down the narrow street. A coolie coming towards them flattened against the wall and bent his head in respect for the dead as they passed. Returning to the bund, they arrived at the place of execution just as the women finished their grisly task and began to stuff the bodies into the coffins the coolie’s had brought. Solemnly, they waited in the shadows until they could join the little procession and move off after them. A few coolies and students watched silently.
The last of the unrest was dying away. Hardly daring to breathe at the front of the coffin, Willie pushed stolidly ahead. Behind him the Chinese muttered, terrified of being found out. At one point, above the yelling in the town, he thought he could hear muffled thumps and scratches near his ear and wondered if Gummer had recovered consciousness and was trying to fight his way out. Praying he wouldn’t start yelling, he continued to plod forward and eventually the imagined bumps and shuffles died away and he decided he’d gone to sleep again.
At the end of the bund, while the little procession went one way, Willie’s group went the other. Nobody seemed to notice and they passed on towards the European quarter. As they reached it, a Sikh policeman stepped forward, his hand raised.
‘Get out of the way, you fool,’ Willie snarled at him.
‘You cannot come here, Chinaman.’
‘Yes, I can, you bloody idiot,’ Willie snapped. ‘This is a rescue. There’s a white man in here. I’ve fetched him out of the Chinese City. If we don’t get him somewhere safe and open him up, he’ll suffocate.’
The Sikh was obdurate and, desperate, Willie wrenched off his hat and stared at him. ‘I’m Sarth,’ he said. ‘William Sarth. That’s my godown there. Let
me past.’
The policeman was finally convinced and they covered the last few hundred yards in a hurried shuffle. Da Braga was waiting as they appeared, and he opened the wide door so that they entered almost at a run. Panting, their breath hanging in little steamy puffs on the cold air, they put the coffin on a pile of crates and Willie sent the hat skimming out of sight.
‘Screwdriver, Luis.’
As they lifted the lid, the stench rocked them back. Gummer had obviously recovered consciousness and been sick.
‘Get him out.’
They lifted the fouled naked shape out and laid it on the crates. ‘Fetch a bucket of water.’
Disgusted with Gummer, hating the trouble he had caused, Willie was not in the mood to be gentle. Taking the bucket from Da Braga, he sloshed it over the naked body, fully expecting Gummer to sit up spluttering, swearing and offering to knock somebody’s head off. He didn’t move.
‘Willie–’ Da Braga’s eyes widened. ‘–I think–’
Willie stared at him, then at the Chinese standing round him, their mouths open. Then he grabbed for Gummer’s wrist and felt it. There was no pulse.
‘Willie,’ Da Braga muttered, ‘he is dead.’
‘He was alive when we shoved him in,’ Willie said.
‘He is not alive now.’ Da Braga put his hand out to feel for a pulse in Gummer’s neck. He turned to Willie and shook his head.
‘He couldn’t have suffocated in that time,’ Willie said. ‘There were plenty of breathing holes.’
Da Braga leaned forward and, forcing open Gummer’s mouth, put his finger in and hooked out a set of false teeth.
‘He didn’t suffocate, Willie,’ he said. ‘He was sick and he choked on vomit and his own false teeth.’
Because of the heat, they buried Gummer the same afternoon, in the same coffin in which he had been rescued from Flowering Almond Street.
They carried the body in a horse-drawn cart to a small strip of ground at the back of a mission church near the Chinese cemetery, run by Pastor McEwan, the man who had married Willie and Abigail. He wanted to know what denomination Gummer belonged to, arguing that he couldn’t be buried by him if he were not a Presbyterian. His shock of grey hair made him look fanatic and a little mad.
