‘He sounds a marvellous man,’ said Arthur.
‘Oh, he is, he is,’ said Brown. ‘He’s a saint, a living saint, as I’ve said. Not an ounce of bitterness in him, which you might have expected considering he was here right through the madness, and saw many of his friends put to death. In fact, you’d think it might never have happened the way he treats everyone—anyone—just the same. There’s one man in our hospital, Zhang Erhao, who helps with the administration. He really was a Boxer, and by all accounts betrayed the Airtons. Well, this man came on bended knees shortly after the Airtons arrived back here, weeping and saying he was a Christian now, and Airton just raised him up, tears running down his own cheeks, and gave him his old job back. Oh, yes, Airton’s a saint all right. The local people think so too. That’s good for us. The Catholics haven’t got anyone like him, you see. I say,’ he said, a look of concern on his face, ‘you’re not Roman Catholic by any chance, are you?’
‘No, I’m Church of England,’ said Arthur.
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ laughed Brown. ‘Thought I might have put my foot in it, for a moment. Not that I’ve anything against the Catholics, of course, but it’s good to have another member of the home team on board.’
‘I’ll—I’d be delighted to come to your service,’ said Arthur, thinking that that was what was expected of him.
‘Excellent. Excellent,’ said Brown, puffing on his pipe.
‘Are the Russian soldiers still here?’ asked Arthur.
‘Not in such numbers as before,’ said Brown. ‘There’s a troop of cavalry in the barracks—not Cossacks any more, thank goodness. Their colonel, Tubaichev, sometimes comes round to dine with Dr Airton. Officially the Chinese are back in power. A new mandarin arrived at the end of last year and is ensconced in the yamen, but I don’t know what he does. It’s Tubaichev who calls the shots. Effectively he rules the place. He’s not a bad sort—unlike his officers.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘Bunch of godless reprobates,’ said Brown. ‘Spend their time whoring and carousing in the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Arthur.
‘The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure?’ He laughed. ‘You’d better ask old Lu here. It’s not a place I’ve been near, I can tell you. Den of sin, run by a fearsome madam who might have stepped out of the pages of a penny dreadful. But Lu loves the place, the old rogue. He’s probably itching to take you there. Mr Lu,’ he said, switching to Chinese, ‘do you plan to corrupt the morals of Mr Topps by taking him to the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure?’
Lu Jincai laughed politely. ‘If Tuopasi Xiansheng wishes,’ he said. ‘The baked crab is excellent, and it is a place where we merchants gather from time to time.’
‘Well, you make sure you stick to the baked crab, is my advice,’ said Brown. ‘Leave the after-dinner entertainments to the Russian officers.’
Arthur looked from one smiling face to another. He was not sure how to respond. ‘Well, it sounds as if an interesting experience is in store for me,’ he said.
Brown laughed. ‘Well done, Topps,’ he said. ‘You experience everything. It’s the only way. And remember, our church is always open to you if you find yourself tempted to stray off the straight and narrow. Seriously,’ he added, ‘you have to be broad-minded to get on here. China is still seething with every sin under the sun. We’re doing our bit, quite a lot now, as I’ve said, to introduce these pagans to the True Path, but Airton—yes, it was actually Airton, one of the only times that I recall he spoke about the Boxer episode—said something to me that I’ve never forgotten. “We brought the madness down on our own heads,” he told me, “because we had forgotten how to be humble.” I spent a long time racking my brains to understand what he meant. And I think it’s this. You’re not going to change anyone by trying to make them into you. We know that the Christian path is the right one, but a Chinaman has his own way of looking at the world. We’ve got to find a means to cut our cloth to fit his. You won’t get anywhere by judging too harshly, or forcing our superior knowledge down his throat. Best way to convert someone in fact is by not converting them at all. There’s a conundrum for you, isn’t it? Airton used a Chinese expression, which he said he’d got from the old Mandarin who lived here: “wu wei.”’
‘Yes, it’s from Lao Tse. The Tao Te Ching,’ murmured Arthur.
‘Oh, you know it, then?’ said Brown, looking slightly disgruntled. ‘Well, you probably understand what Airton was on about, then. Confess it’s a bit deep for me, but I think it means something like “Everything good will happen in its own good time if you let it, and don’t worry yourself in the meanwhile.”’
‘Yes, it’s something like that,’ said Arthur, blushing in case Brown felt he had been showing off.
The pony-cart trundled on in silence. Brown puffed on his pipe, his chatter interrupted—perhaps because Topps’s knowledge of the Chinese classics had taken the wind out of his sails—but his was not a temperament to remain abashed for long. ‘Well, Topps, what’s the news from the big wide world?’ he asked cheerily. ‘What are they saying in Peking?’
‘About politics, you mean?’ asked Arthur. ‘The Empress Dowager returned from exile in January. Most of the foreign troops are returning home. The Chinese government is working out how they are ever to pay the enormous indemnity that has been agreed. I—I think it’s going to be difficult for them.’
‘Serves them right,’ muttered Brown, chewing his pipe. ‘Hope some of the money comes our way. We’ve done well out of donations, and have rebuilt the hospital and put up a church, but there’s a lot more we could be doing. Airton’s set his heart on building a medical training school here. What else is going on?’
‘There was a lot of talk about the deteriorating situation between Russia and Japan over this part of the world, Manchuria,’ said Arthur. ‘Rumours that one day there might be war between them.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ snorted Brown.
‘I hope you’re right. I had a conversation with a strange man in the British Legation who wanted to see me when he heard I was coming up here. A Mr Pritchett. Have you heard of him?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Well, he was anxious for me to write and tell him if I should ever come across any signs of the Japanese doing anything suspicious up here.’
‘That’s the trouble with diplomats,’ said Brown. ‘They live in a fantasy world. See conspiracies in the most innocent things. I’d forget about them if I were you.’
‘There—there aren’t any signs of Japanese here, then?’ asked Arthur.
‘Japanese? No, I’ve not heard of anything they’re doing here. Well, there’s a Japanese barber’s shop in the high street. Funny little fellow who gives a good haircut. The Russian officers use him. And there was a Japanese officer who came through here on his way to a hunting trip in the Black Hills some while ago. Most sophisticated sort of cove for an Oriental. Dressed in tweeds. It was about the same time as that Manners fellow I was telling you about was here. In fact, I’m not sure if they didn’t know each other. Yes, I think they did know each other, come to think of it. They both went to dinner with Colonel Tubaichev. Might have arranged to hunt together too. But that just goes to show you, doesn’t it? Your Pritchard, or whatever you said his name was, would have woven a fantastic piece of skulduggery out of all that. And what could be more innocent than an officer taking his leave and hunting in the Black Hills? There are bears and even tigers up there. Some of the best hunting in Asia. And if Tubaichev thought there was anything odd in it, he wouldn’t have invited them to supper, would he?’
‘I daresay you’re right,’ said Arthur.
‘No, it’s not the Japanese,’ continued Brown. ‘It’s the homegrown brew of bandits we have to worry about. There’s one particular gang of disaffected Chinese army officers who were giving the garrison some bother in the Black Hills last Christmas. Preyed on the merchant caravans going up to Tsitsihar. Very well armed by a
ll accounts, with modern rifles and howitzers and field guns and you name it. Tubaichev had to call for reinforcements and he himself led an expedition into the Black Hills. But they didn’t find them. They’d dribbled off through the woods and are probably in Mongolia now. It’s been quieter lately.’
As he was speaking he was peering ahead of him. He turned to Arthur with a happy smile on his face. ‘There, ahead of us. Do you see it?’
Through the trees, Arthur saw a small hill, and on top of it green-tiled roofs gleaming in the sunshine. There was a square steeple on the crest, which looked as out of place in the Chinese countryside as a pagoda in an English village.
‘That’s our mission,’ said Brown proudly. ‘See the church? Gothic. Designed it myself. It’s lovely, isn’t it? We’ll stop off at the hospital if Mr Lu doesn’t mind and I’ll introduce you to the Airtons. Don’t worry. I’ll come with you into town afterwards and see you settled into your hotel.’
The Airtons were not in the hospital. Zhang Erhao, the man whom Brown had said had been a Boxer, met them at the gate of the neat brick complex of two-storey buildings—the roof tiles might have been Chinese but the squat, purpose-built houses reminded Arthur of tenements he had known in Bradford. Arthur was a little nervous of this grey-pigtailed man who smiled ingratiatingly. He wondered what he had done to betray the Airtons—but Brown treated him casually enough. They were told that Ai Dun Daifu had gone to Shishan to visit the Catholic orphanage, and that Ai Dun Taitai was in the church at the top of the hill.
‘Come on, let’s go up there,’ said Brown. ‘She’ll be tending the cemetery. She likes doing that. She’s made a sort of martyrs’ memorial out of it.’
‘Martyrs’ memorial?’
‘Yes, didn’t I tell you? That’s where all the victims of the Shishan massacre are buried, what we found of them. Come on. I’ll show you. You’ll find your lot are up there as well—Delamere and Cabot, I mean.’
Nervously, Arthur followed Brown up the stone path that led to the top of the hill.
‘Oh, I should warn you about Mrs Airton—Nellie, I mean,’ said Brown, over his shoulder. ‘On first acquaintance she might appear a bit fierce. It’s her manner—but don’t take any notice of it. Heart of gold, really. Heart of gold. We’re great friends, Nellie and I,’ he added. ‘Great friends.’
Next to the church, behind a metal fence, was a little garden surrounded by newly planted yew trees. Inside, Arthur could see neat lines of gravestones to either side of a trim path. Daffodils were growing in profusion on the turf between the graves. The flowerbeds, which bordered the path, still consisted of bare earth. Spring, he realised, came later in these northern parts. There was an atmosphere of calm and repose, as one might find in an English country churchyard.
The garden seemed to be empty, but after a moment he saw a tall, grey-haired woman wearing a straw sun-hat, stand up from where she had been kneeling behind one of the gravestones. In one hand she held some gardening scissors and in the other a bunch of freshly cut weeds.
‘Well, well, Dr Brown,’ she said, in a severe Scottish accent. ‘So there you are. And where have you been all morning, may I ask? The wards in the hospital have been crying out for you.’
‘Ah,’ said Brown, a little taken aback. ‘I’ve—I’ve been to the station to collect Mr Topps.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Airton. ‘And is Mr Topps—this young fellow here, I take it—incapable of getting here from the station by himself? I thought that it was arranged for Mr Lu Jincai to go there to meet him.’
‘Well, to be sure, Mrs Airton,’ muttered Brown, ‘but I—I thought it might be hospitable, if I—if I…’
‘Temporarily abandoned your duties to your patients, Dr Brown?’
‘N-no, certainly not, Mrs Airton,’ stuttered Brown. ‘I—I…’
‘Intended to return to your duties immediately? Was that what you were going to say?’
‘Yes, of course. I—I’ll go immediately, Mrs Airton. Um, Topps, I’m, er, sorry. I can’t come into town with you now. We’re rather busy here. I—I’ll leave you. Yes. I’ll call on you at your hotel—later.’
He backed out of the garden, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A moment later they heard the click of his boots as he descended the steps with some speed.
The grey-haired woman threw back her head, letting out a tinkling, rather attractive laugh. She walked forward with her hand outstretched to Arthur. ‘I’m Nellie Airton,’ she said. ‘Welcome to Shishan, Mr Topps. Our young Dr Brown has no doubt been warning you about the dragon lady you would find here.’
‘Not in so many words, Mrs Airton,’ said Arthur, also smiling.
‘He’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘Very conscientious, but rather absent-minded and, goodness, what a chatterbox, as you’ve no doubt already discovered. From time to time the dragon lady has to take him in hand.’
‘I’m sure he’s very fond of you,’ said Arthur, immediately comfortable in her warm presence. ‘He spoke to me kindly of you, and of your husband.’
Nellie laughed again. ‘Fond of me?’ she said. ‘He’s scared to death of me. Well, never mind him. I am extremely pleased to meet you. Mr Dawson wrote to me about you, singing your praises. Now, let’s take first things first. Have you eaten? Are you hungry? Have you a place to stay?’
‘I believe that Mr Lu has booked me into a hotel in the town. Mrs Airton, I have a letter for you from Mrs Cabot.’
‘Ah, yes, it’ll be in answer to mine. Thank you,’ she said, taking the envelope, and putting it into the pocket of her apron. ‘Kind of you to carry it all this way. I’ll read it when I have my spectacles. You know, Mr Topps, we would welcome you to stay with us here until you are settled. No? I understand. You wish to go ahead and explore this new world around you all on your own. You do remind me of young Tom when he first came to Shishan. You young things, you’re all the same.’
‘Tom?’ asked Arthur. ‘You mean…?’
‘Yes, I mean Tom Cabot.’ She pointed at one of the graves. ‘He’s lying over there, poor boy. In peace, I hope.’
Arthur’s glance followed her pointing finger to a small, square stone on which were inscribed the simple words, Thomas Charles Edgar Cabot, 1876– 1900.
‘I didn’t put any mottoes on the gravestones,’ said Nellie. ‘I thought that the names alone would speak for themselves. They are remembered in the hearts of those who loved them.’
‘May I? May I…?’
‘Walk around? Of course, take your time,’ said Nellie. ‘I have one or two things to finish off here. Then we’ll give you and Mr Lu a bite to eat and see you on your way.’
As Nellie went back to her weeding, Arthur walked slowly down the path looking at the graves. Many of the names he did not recognise: Frederick John Bowers, 1867–1900, Emil Hermann Fischer, 1850–1900, the Reverend Burton Elijah Fielding, 1852–1900, Sister Caterina Pozzi, 1873–1900, Sister Elena Giubilani, 1874–1900. There were innumerable Millwards, most of whom had been so young, just babes. Babes! 1894–1900, 1895–1900, 1897–1900. That final, emphatic 1900, the year in which all those young lives had been extinguished—in the most brutal, brutal way. A sensitive man, he felt tears rising behind his eyes. He had, of course, read the accounts of what had happened in Shishan, but the reality of these graves was shocking in the extreme.
He felt Nellie’s presence beside him.
‘The youngest was only three years old,’ she said quietly. ‘Come, let me show you Frank’s grave,’ she said, ‘and then we’ll go down to lunch.’
He followed her along the path. On one of the two end stones was engraved simply ‘Ah Lee,’ and the other ‘Ah Sun’.
‘They were our servants,’ said Nellie. ‘We couldn’t find their bodies, but we wanted to remember them. They were very dear to us.’
He stood for a long time in front of the stone cross that marked Frank Delamere’s grave, slightly separated from the others, next to a much older stone, which was the grave of Nellie’s own infant son, who ha
d died in childbirth in 1897.
‘How—how could you bear to come back here?’ he asked, after a while. ‘With these memories?’
‘Life must go on,’ said Nellie simply. ‘We must believe in better times to come. That there is purpose in the madness that humankind inflicts on itself. Otherwise, Mr Topps, there would be little point in going on living, would there?’
* * *
They had a simple lunch together in the hospital refectory. Towards the end of the meal the door opened and a bowed, white-haired man entered the room, supporting himself on a stick. Nellie introduced him to Arthur Topps as her husband. Dr Airton smiled kindly at Topps, but did not attempt to enter into conversation, quietly sitting down to his bowl of soup.
‘Mr Topps has brought a letter to us from Helen Frances, dear,’ said Nellie, speaking rather loudly. Apparently the doctor was a little deaf.
‘Ah,’ said the doctor.
‘Yes, she’s decided not to marry that man after all.’
‘Oh. What a shame,’ said Dr Airton.
Nellie chuckled. ‘Well, my dear, can you imagine Helen Frances in the home counties? Playing croquet with the bank manager’s wife and having the vicar to tea to discuss the next village fête?’
‘No, it’s difficult to envisage,’ said Airton, finishing his soup. His pale eyes looked up at her over his spectacles; there was a hint of a smile on his red cheeks. ‘I thought that I was supposed to be the busybody in the family, my dear,’ he said quietly, glancing over the letter Nellie had passed to him.
Nellie’s expression was one of pure innocence. ‘I only wrote to tell her that a mutual friend had been to see us, and I may have mentioned that he was going on to Japan. I don’t see what in the world is so busybody about that.’
‘Well, you know what you’re doing,’ said the doctor, handing Nellie back the letter. ‘I hope the poor girl doesn’t have a wasted journey, and that she finds what she is looking for.’
‘Oh, Edward,’ said Nellie, seriously, ‘let us pray she does. Do let us pray so.’
The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure Page 84
