by John Harris
Five
He was still finding it hard to accept, especially after holding Abigail in his arms so short a time before she had died. He had met her twenty-seven years before and he had literally grown to maturity with her. They had made a fortune together. Abigail’s extra years giving him steadiness and strength, his own drive pushing her into using her undoubted but hidden talents. She had calmed him when he was afire with eagerness, held him back when he was being too precipitate, and he had jockeyed her into seeing a fine future for them which, with her training and her background of humility at the Mission, she had not been able to visualise.
In recent years, however, though they had by no means drifted apart, somehow they had gone their separate ways, each pursuing their own methods of making money. Had they forgotten each other in their anxiety to become wealthy? He didn’t think so. It was simply that they had become too absorbed in what they were doing, so that they had failed to notice each other as much as they had, failed to be aware that they were each managing to live long periods without the other close at hand. He suspected that they’d never even considered the financial aspect of what they were doing – simply that they had become too involved, Abigail with her antiquities, Willie with his ships. The truth, of course – and he had to admit it to himself – was that the fault really lay with him, and that Abigail would have abandoned everything for him if he’d wanted it that way. Perhaps, even, her activities in buying and selling had been a refuge for her. He had had an itching foot and had found settling down to a staid married life too difficult when the width of the sea, the width of the world, continued to call to him.
Yet, despite all this – despite Nadya – they had always needed each other, both mentally and physically, had always been glad to see each other again, eager for each other’s arms. And though there had been many occasions when he had been alone in the house when Abigail had been away, it had always been different from now. Though Abigail had sometimes not been there, there had always been the feeling that her presence was about him. Now, because he had seen her die, it was no longer like that. There was no longer the sense that, despite the silence in the house, she was only in the next room, in the next town, the next province, the next country. The silence now was the silence of death. There was nothing beyond it and it left him empty and bewildered.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said.
Nadya listened quietly as he spoke. He had been able to think of nowhere else to turn but to her and she had responded at once to his telegram and turned up at the house near the Bubbling Well Road, quiet, dignified, gentle. With the funeral over, the family were still at home and eyeing her with suspicion.
There was a marked hostility in Polly’s manner, but Edward and Thomas were merely curious. Both of them, despite their different characters and environments, had always got on well with their father, despite the occasional disagreements that arose. As children, they had regarded him as a sort of modern-day pirate – indeed, the first thing Edward remembered of him, with his crisp dark hair, strong black eyebrows and fierce eyes was how much, even then, he had resembled the gasconading heroes of their boyhood stories. He hadn’t changed much even now. His hair still hadn’t turned grey and the deepening lines on his face served only to add to the illusion. Now, the presence of this woman, beautiful in anybody’s view with her huge eyes and reddish-brown hair, enhanced the feeling, because they had always been aware of his occasional never-explained jaunts when he disappeared into the blue, either for himself or for the lanky British Foreign Office official who had turned up from time to time. Was she part of it? Where had he found her?
‘Who is that?’ Edward asked when Willie returned from seeing her to the Lady Roberts to be taken back to Hong Kong, and he told them everything in the need to purge his soul.
‘Do you love her?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Mother?’
‘Curiously enough, I loved her too.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Is it impossible? Nadya and your mother had met and there was a mutual respect between them. I think Nadya understood that I still needed your mother. I suspect your mother guessed about Nadya and she understood, too.’
Neither Edward nor Tom seemed to mind. Only Polly was unable to reconcile herself to the fact that her father had had a mistress.
‘I don’t know how you could have done it,’ she said bitterly.
‘But I did.’
‘What about Mother? I suppose you tired of her and this one was younger?’
‘I never tired of your mother and she was exactly the same age.’
‘It didn’t stop you giving her the things you ought to have been giving Mother.’
‘I gave her nothing. I never supported her or paid for anything because she wouldn’t let me. Until the revolution in Russia she was far wealthier than I was. Perhaps your mother was wealthier, too, come to that.’
‘Well, I shall never accept her. She’ll never come into my house.’
‘Dammit,’ Willie snapped. ‘She hasn’t asked to!’
Polly’s eyes flashed. ‘It’s a good job, because I’d have refused if she had. And I’d be just as pleased if you didn’t, too.’
It meant virtual estrangement, but, Willie supposed, it was a price he had to pay. You never got anything for nothing in life and this, he supposed, was payment for his deceit. He tried hard to understand Polly’s attitude. She was a wife and would soon be a mother, and under those circumstances, he supposed, women probably thought differently.
Slowly the extremes of unexpressed grief and rage began to moderate with the passing days, as Willie began to realise he was not the only one who had been injured or bereaved. But though the pain went, the guilt remained, and with it came the strange idea that Nadya was somehow to blame. For a while he shunned her, writing no letters, making no attempt to go to Hong Kong. But, apart from her and Abigail, on the whole he’d not been interested in women and he began to find he knew no others and that he needed her.
Again and again he found himself thinking of Emmeline. All his life she had plagued him in one way or another and now she had deprived him of the one person he had always leaned on, because, but for her stubbornness, Abigail would have been safely aboard a ship before the shooting had started. He could never forgive her for what had happened. For that matter, he couldn’t forgive Zychov. Somehow he felt that, because Zychov was involved with Yip and because Yip’s attempt on the Tien Quan had delayed him reaching Shanghai in time to stop Abigail going to Yangpo, he was to blame, too. He knew in his heart of hearts it wasn’t so, because nothing in the world would have stopped Abigail going upriver to look after her pregnant daughter, but, somehow, it eased his conscience to think that way.
But he was determined not to be sorry for himself. There were too many in Shanghai at that moment bewailing the loss of their possessions at the treaty ports up the Yangtze, among them old Honeyford, whose overconfidence had led him to invest too heavily. Willie had never been a moaner and had always regarded himself as a survivor and now he felt he could see the writing on the wall and the need to readjust.
The hatred of the Chinese was still directed chiefly at the Japanese, but it was obvious the Nationalist movement was going to affect all foreigners and foreign-owned businesses in the future, particularly British and American interests. Eventually they were all going to be thrown out and, though Shanghai didn’t believe her turn was near just yet, the city waited with baited breath for the arrival of the Nationalist armies. So far the European casualties had remained few, but the strikes kept occurring and banners were paraded and slogans chanted. Agitators whispered in the teashops, along the wharves and among the godowns, and orators ranted on every street corner. The malice was always there, with the bitter feeling that Shanghai was not China at all but belonged to the Europeans who ran it.
The tension remained marked, like a coiled spring, with more trouble clearly brewing. Troopships arrived from India and British b
attalions clanked through the town to the relieved cheers of the British population and the muttered resentment of the Chinese. A Punjabi battalion followed, brawny men, heavily bearded and with dark gleaming eyes, and immediately the strikes grew worse. One day it was the dock labourers, next day the rickshaw men, the following day the taxi drivers or the tramway workers. Even the prostitutes went on strike. The actions were clearly well organised so that the city could never function efficiently.
Many of the gunboats lost their Chinese cooks and dhobi boys and their makee-learns. Idle labourers from the docks hung about the street corners in threatening crowds, staring bitterly as the troops began to man the essential services. Houses were broken into and bodies of loyal Chinese left in doorways. Even the missionaries found they could no longer exist, because whenever one of their Chinese patients died they were accused of poisoning them.
There were riots in the Nanking Road and the Shanghai Volunteer Force, raised among the foreigners, even the White Russians, was called out. Outside the International Settlement, the city was run by a group of ex-warlords, who had held control for two years, and the Shanghai Municipal Council had kept well out of the way, anxious to avoid trouble. But, with the city bowed down under a massive crime wave brought on by the strikes, when the warlord in charge decided to put an end to it with a series of public executions, the authorities nervously decided he had better have his head with a couple of dozen men from the city jail.
‘They’re nothing but the victims of capitalist persecution,’ Thomas said bitterly. ‘What a lot of cowards you all are, Father.’
Willie gave a grim smile. ‘You should get your facts right, son,’ he said. ‘There isn’t one of these men who isn’t a murderer. Three of them at least were from the Tien Quan and they’d happily have sunk the ship and left everybody on board to drown. And, as it happens, I have nothing to do with it. I’ve never been part of the city authority and I don’t ever want to be.’
It shut Thomas up but it didn’t stop the executions.
Twenty-five thousand gaping spectators lined the pavements as the condemned men passed through the streets, even those of the International Settlement and the French Concession, followed by cars, carriages, carts, bicycles, small boys and dogs by the dozen. The condemned men had been crammed into open-sided buses specially hired for the occasion and still carrying the advertisements of the Grand Garage Français, the Oriental Luggage Factory and a few others, their guards and executioners in Model T Fords. To make an occasion of it, two film units had their cameras set up on the execution ground and the condemned men, each one secured by wrists and ankles and with a placard proclaiming his misdeeds strapped to his back, were forced to kneel six at a time to be shot at point blank range with rifles which scattered fragments of skull and warm brains over the spectators.
‘It was barbaric,’ Thomas insisted.
‘But you went to see it,’ Willie pointed out.
‘To protest.’
‘And did you protest, lad? Or hadn’t you the courage? I don’t see you in prison.’
Thomas dissolved into muttered objections, but it was true that the executions had not caused any rioting. Rather they had stopped it. But Willie was by no means convinced of the efficacy of the example, and the municipal authorities were as shocked by the barbarity of the killings as the students.
Somehow, somewhere in the future, Willie suspected, Shanghai was going to receive a terrible shock. The place was full of people who had come to assume it was their home, that this corner of China was European. Determined not to dwell on his loss, however, determined not to show his unhappiness over the death of his wife, he involved himself more deeply in his business. He had often been told by associates that he was too involved, but, just then, he wished to be involved. He saw his business as one of being involved. He couldn’t afford not to be involved because – he had to admit – being involved was business, and business was money.
Then one night Thomas turned up with two of his Chinese friends. One of them was Chou, the young man he had brought before, bearded now and tired-looking, the other a plump, bespectacled man, slightly older. As he stood with Thomas by the dresser mixing drinks, Willie spoke quietly.
‘Aren’t you getting too involved with the Communists, Tom?’ he asked.
‘I’m not involved, Father,’ Thomas said. ‘Just friendly.’
‘The Nationalists could consider you’re involved and they’ll be here soon.’
As they drank, Willie questioned Chou about Chinese aims. The young man was polite but not in the slightest inclined to deviate from his views.
‘Why?’ Willie asked.
Chou shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘China has a lot of sorrows, not all of them of her own making. She doesn’t even rule over her own land. Shanghai doesn’t belong to us. It seems to belong to the council and all of them are Europeans.’
Willie had to agree. ‘Who’s your leader?’ he asked. ‘Chiang?’
‘At the moment.’
‘And after Chiang! You?’
‘No.’ Chou smiled. ‘Not me. But there are others.’
By this time, Shanghai was so crowded with foreign troops it was difficult to move for them. There were eight British battalions, Italians, French, Japanese and Americans. Though there was no unified command, the French had agreed to act with the British in the event of trouble.
The retreating Chinese northern army passed alongside the cordon that had been formed round the International Settlement. The soldiers were jaded and often bootless, their clothes hanging off them in rags. Their horses were skeletal, their guns old, battered and dusty. As they vanished, it was clear that Chiang’s Nationalist troops would be close behind and, watching the reports, reading the newspapers, Willie wondered again and again what he should do. He had been busy transferring his capital to British-owned Hong Kong for some time, because he was well aware that if the Nationalists decided to wreak their vengeance on all those nations who had humiliated them his business would inevitably be hit.
Then he hit on the idea of making his firm non-British. ‘Da Braga,’ he said. ‘By God, Da Braga!’
Stumping around on crutches, determined to be mobile, Da Braga had set up his home in a house to the north of the Bubbling Well Road with his plump wife and sons. There had been no suggestion that he should return upriver and he now had a room alongside Willie’s in Sarth’s office block on the bund. Since his interests had always been in Yangpo, he was having to learn the business afresh. Sitting down at the other side of his desk, Willie offered him a cigar and in return Da Braga placed a brandy bottle on the tab as usual. ‘Luis,’ he said. ‘How much was your interest in Sarth’s in Yangpo?’
Da Braga leaned back in his chair and studied Willie with his dark spaniel’s eyes. ‘You know very well what it was. One half.’
Willie smiled. ‘How would you like to be part of Sarth’s, Shanghai?’
Da Braga smiled. ‘Of course I would. I’ve lost something but, thanks to your suggestion that we move everything downriver, not all by a long way.’
‘I’m thinking of changing the name of the firm.’
Da Braga smiled. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to think of that,’ he said.
Willie smiled back. ‘How about making it Da Braga-Kee?’
‘George Kee?’
‘Why not? He has a little money put by. He’s invested well and he’d love to have his name on the list of directors.’
‘It sounds sense. What’s behind it? What I suspect?’
Willie grinned. ‘I imagine so, Luis. Da Braga-Kee’s would be a different firm – Chinese and Portuguese. Nothing to do with me.’
‘Except that your money would be behind it and you’d expect a share of the profits.’
‘It wouldn’t be a British firm, Luis. That’s the important thing.’
‘You’re thinking of when the Nationalists come, of course?’
‘Further than that, Luis. I suspect the Nationalists will leave u
s alone. But if the Communists get into power, they won’t. I saw Communism in action in Russia. They’ll want to take over, and everything belonging to the British, the Americans, the French, the Japanese will disappear. I’d bet on that. Because they have no concessions in China, the Portuguese might be acceptable. So would George Kee, so long as we’re careful that we don’t trade with any of the concessionaires. How do you feel about trading with the Chinese and only with the Chinese?’
‘If it means that I’m not kicked out of China, I’m very much in favour.’
‘The price needn’t be known. I’m looking elsewhere for profits.’
‘For instance?’
‘South, Luis. Malaya. Indo-China. Dutch Indies. Why not Australia? You know the joke: It’s there but nobody’s ever seen it. Why not us? New Zealand? The Philippines?’
‘Profits will fall.’
‘Security will rise. What do you say?’
Da Braga studied Willie for some time, his dark eyes shining. ‘I think you’re going to have to put up with a few sneers from your British business associates.’
Willie shrugged. ‘They’ve always sneered at me. It won’t be very different.’
‘Then, yes, Willie. I will come in, especially if George Kee will too.’
Willie grinned back at him. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s have him in and pop the question.’
Shanghai waited, the foreigners with some unease, the Chinese working class with their never-ending patience. They had never changed, their sinewy backs bent, their properties destroyed by typhoons or floods, their families wiped out by drought or famine, their very lives crumbled by all the plagues and wars that passed over them, always on the verge of starvation but always surviving to rebuild and start again. They had suffered centuries of domination by the Manchus and their predecessors, centuries of cruelty that had bred in them a humility that had never changed until now, when they seemed to he waiting with bated breath for something which they felt would give them not only freedom but hope.
