Di Salis, the sometime Jesuit, gave a dim smile.
“Now, we’d got our kids in from the streets,” he said. “Shanghai was a rare old hotchpotch, I can tell you. We’d everything and everyone. Gangs, corruption, prostitution galore, we’d politics, money and greed and misery. All human life was there, wasn’t it, Doris? She wouldn’t remember, really. We went back after the war, didn’t we, but they soon chucked us out again. She wasn’t above eleven, even then, were you? There weren’t the places left after that—well, not like Shanghai—so we came back here. But we like it, don’t we, Doris?” said Mr. Hibbert, very conscious of speaking for both of them. “We like the air. That’s what we like.”
“Very much,” said Doris, and cleared her throat with a cough into her large fist.
“So we’d fill up with whatever we could get, that’s what it came to,” he resumed. “We had old Miss Fong. Remember Daisy Fong, Doris? ’Course you do—Daisy and her bell? Well, she wouldn’t really. My, how the time goes, though. A Pied Piper, that’s what Daisy was, except it was a bell, and her not a man, and she was doing God’s work even if she did fall later. Best convert I ever had, till the Japs came. She’d go down the streets, Daisy would, ringing the daylights out of that bell. Sometimes old Charlie Wan would go along with her, sometimes I’d go. We’d choose the docks or the night-club areas—behind the Bund maybe—Blood Alley we called that street, remember, Doris?— she wouldn’t really—and old Daisy would ring her bell, ring, ring!”
He burst out laughing at the memory; he saw her before him quite clearly, for his hand was unconsciously making the vigorous movements of the bell. Di Salis and Connie politely joined in his laughter, but Doris only frowned.
“Rue de Jaffe, that was the worst spot. In the French concession, not surprisingly, where the houses of sin were. Well, they were everywhere, really. Shanghai was jam-packed with them. Sin City they called it. And they were right. Then a few kids gathered and she’d ask them, ‘Any of you lost your mothers?’ And you’d get a couple. Not all at once, here one, there one. Some would try it on, like for the rice supper, then get sent home with a cuff. But we’d always a few real ones, hadn’t we, Doris? And bit by bit we got a school going, forty-four we had by the end, hadn’t we? Some boarders, not all. Bible Class, the three Rs, a bit of geography and history. That’s all we could do, really. No, we weren’t a posh place.”
Restraining his impatience, di Salis had fixed his gaze on the grey sea and kept it there. But Connie had arranged her expression in a steady smile of admiration, and her eyes never left the old man’s face.
“That’s how Daisy found the Kos,” he went on, oblivious of his erratic sequence. “Down in the docks, didn’t she, Doris, looking for their mother.
“They’d come up from Swatow, the two of them. When was that? Nineteen thirty-six, I suppose. Young Drake was ten or eleven, and his brother Nelson was eight—thin as wire, they were, hadn’t had a square meal for weeks. They became rice Christians overnight, I can tell you! Mind you, they hadn’t names in those days—not English, naturally. They were boat people, Chiu Chow. We never really found out about the mother, did we, Doris? ‘Killed by the guns,’ they said. ‘Killed by the guns.’ Could have been Japanese guns, could have been Kuomintang. We never got to the bottom of it; why should we? The Lord had her and that was that. Might as well stop all the questions and get on with it.
“Little Nelson had his arm all messed. Shocking, really. Broken bone sticking through his sleeve—I suppose the guns did that as well. Drake, he was holding Nelson’s good hand, and he wouldn’t let it go for love nor money at first, not even for the lad to eat. We used to say they’d one good hand between them— remember, Doris? Drake would sit there at table clutching on to him, shovelling rice into him for all he was worth. We had the doctor in: hecouldn’t separate them. We just had to put up with it. ‘You’ll be Drake,’ I said, ‘and you’ll be Nelson, because you’re both brave sailors, how’s that?’ It was your mother’s idea, wasn’t it, Doris? She’d always wanted boys.”
Doris looked at her father, started to say something, and changed her mind.
“They used to stroke her hair,” the old man said, in a slightly mystified voice. “Stroke your mother’s hair and ring old Daisy’s bell, that’s what they liked. They’d never seen blond hair before.
“Here, Doris, how about a drop more saw? Mine’s run cold, so I’m sure theirs has. Saw is Shanghainese for tea,” he explained. “In Canton they call it cha. We’ve kept some of the old words, I don’t know why.”
With an exasperated hiss, Doris bounded from the room, and Connie seized the opportunity to speak.
“Now, Mr. Hibbert, we have no note of a brother till now,” she said, in a slightly reproachful tone. “He was younger, you say. Two years younger? Three?”
“No note of Nelson?” The old man was amazed. “Why, he loved him! Drake’s whole life, Nelson was. Do anything for him. No note of Nelson, Doris?”
But Doris was in the kitchen, fetching saw.
Referring to her notes, Connie gave a strict smile.
“I’m afraid it’s we who are to blame, Mr. Hibbert. I see here that Government House has left a blank against ‘Brothers and sisters.’ There’ll be one or two red faces in Hong Kong quite shortly, I can tell you. You don’t happen to remember Nelson’s date of birth, I suppose? Just to short-cut things?”
“No, my goodness! Daisy Fong would remember, of course, but she’s long gone. Gave them all birthdays, Daisy did, even when they didn’t know them theirselves.”
Di Salis hauled on his ear-lobe, pulling his head down. “Or his Chinese forenames?” he blurted in his high voice. “They might be useful, if one’s checking.”
Mr. Hibbert was shaking his head. “No note of Nelson! Bless my soul! You can’t really think of Drake, not without little Nelson at his side. Went together like bread and cheese, we used to say. Being orphans, naturally.”
From the hall they heard a telephone ringing, and to the secret surprise of both Connie and di Salis a distinct “Oh, hell” from Doris in the kitchen as she dashed to answer it. They heard clippings of angry conversation against the mounting whimper of a tea-kettle: “Well, why isn’t it? Well, if it’s the bloody brakes, why say it’s the clutch? No, we don’t want a new car. We want the old one repaired, for God’s sake.” With a loud “Christ” she rang off and returned to the kitchen and the screaming kettle.
“Nelson’s Chinese forenames,” Connie prompted gently, through her smile, but the old man shook his head.
“You’d have to ask old Daisy that,” he said. “And she’s long in heaven, bless her.” Di Salis seemed about to contest the old man’s claim to ignorance, but Connie shut him up with a look: Let him run, she was urging. Force him and we’ll lose the whole match.
The old man’s chair was on a swivel. Unconsciously, he had worked his way clockwise, and now he was talking to the sea.
“They were like chalk and cheese,” Mr. Hibbert said. “I never saw two brothers so different, nor so faithful, and that’s a fact.”
“Different in what way?” Connie asked invitingly.
“Little Nelson, now, he was frightened of the cockroaches. That was the first thing. We didn’t have your modern sanitation, naturally. We had to send them down to the hut, and—oh, dear, those cockroaches, they flew about that hut like bullets! Nelson wouldn’t go near the place. His arm was mending well enough, he was eating like a fighting cock, but that lad would hold himself in for days on end rather than go inside the hut. Your mother promised him the moon if he’d go. Daisy Fong took a stick to him, and I can see his eyes still. He’d look at you sometimes and clench his one good fist, and you’d think he’d turn you to stone. That Nelson was a rebel from the day he was born.
“Then one day we looked out of the window and there they were. Drake with his arm round little Nelson’s shoulder, leading him down the path to keep him company while he did his business. Notice how they walk different, the boat children?�
�� he asked brightly, as if he saw them now. “Bow-legged from the cramp, they both were.”
The door was barged open and Doris came in with a tray of fresh tea, making a clatter as she set it down.
“Singing was just the same,” he said, and fell silent again, gazing at the sea.
“Singing hymns?” Connie prompted brightly, glancing at the polished piano with its empty candle-holders.
“Drake, he’d belt anything out as long as your mother was at the piano. Carols. ‘There Is a Green Hill.’ Cut his own throat for your mother, Drake would. But young Nelson, I never heard him sing one note.”
“You heard him later all right,” Doris reminded him harshly, but he preferred not to notice her.
“You’d take his lunch away, his supper, but he’d not even say his Amens. He’d a real quarrel with God from the start.” He laughed with sudden freshness. “Well, those are your real believers, I always say. The others are just polite. There’s no true conversion, not without a quarrel.”
“Damn garage,” Doris muttered, still fuming after her telephone call, as she hacked at the seed-cake.
“Here! Is your driver all right?” Mr. Hibbert cried. “Shall Doris take out to him? He must be freezing to death out there! Bring him in, go on!” But before either of them could answer, Mr. Hibbert had started talking about his war. Not Drake’s war, or Nelson’s, but his own, in unjoined scraps of graphic memory.
“Funny thing, there was a lot who thought the Japs were just the ticket. Teach those upstart Chinese Nationalists where to get off. Let alone the Communists, of course. Oh, it took quite a while for the scales to fall, I can tell you. Even after the bombardments started. European shops closed. Taipans evacuated their families, Country Club became a hospital. But there were still the ones who said ‘Don’t worry.’ Then one day, bang, they’d locked us up, hadn’t they, Doris? And killed your mother into the bargain. She’d not the stamina, had she, not after her tuberculosis. Still, those Ko brothers were better off than most, for all that.”
“Oh. Why was that?” Connie enquired, all interest.
“They’d the knowledge of Jesus to guide and comfort them, hadn’t they?”
“Of course,” said Connie.
“Naturally,” di Salis chimed, linking his fingers and hauling at them. “Indeed they had,” he said unctuously.
So with the Japs, as he called them, the mission closed and Daisy Fong with her handbell led the children to join the stream of refugees, who by cart, bus, or train, but mostly on foot, were taking the trail to Shangjao and finally to Chungking, where Chiang’s Nationalists had set up their temporary capital.
“He can’t go on too long,” Doris warned at one point, in an aside to Connie. “He gets gaga.”
“Oh, yes, I can, dear,” Mr. Hibbert corrected her, with a fond smile. “I’ve had my share of life now. I can do what I like.”
With his wife’s death, he somehow said, his own life had ended too; he was marking time until he joined her. He had had a living in the North of England for a while. After that he’d done a bit of work in London, propagating the Bible.
“Then we came south, didn’t we, Doris? I don’t know why.”
“For the air,” she said.
“There’ll be a party, will there, at the Palace?” Mr. Hibbert asked. “I suppose Drake might even put us down for invites. Think of that, Doris. You’d like that: a Royal Garden Party. Hats.”
“But you did return to Shanghai,” Connie reminded him eventually, shuffling her notes to call him back. “The Japanese were defeated, Shanghai was reopened, and back you went. Without your wife, of course, but you returned all the same.”
“Oh, ay, we went.”
“So you saw the Kos again. You all met up and you had a marvellous old natter, I’m sure. Is that what happened, Mr. Hibbert?”
For a moment it seemed he hadn’t taken in the question, but suddenly with a delayed action he laughed. “By Jove and weren’t they real little men by then, too! Fly as fly they were! And after the girls, saving your presence, Doris. I always say Drake would have married you, dear, if you’d given him any hope.”
“Oh, honestly, Dad,” Doris muttered, and scowled at the floor.
“And Nelson—on, my, he was the firebrand!” He drank his tea with the spoon, carefully, as if he were feeding a bird. “ ‘Where Missie?’ His first question that was, Drake’s. He wanted your mother. ‘Where Missie?’ He’d forgotten all his English, so’d Nelson. I’d to give them lessons later. So I told him. He’d seen enough of death by then, that was for sure. Wasn’t as if he didn’t believe in it.
“ ‘Missie dead,’ I said. Nothing else to say. ‘She’s dead, Drake, and she’s with God.’ I never saw him weep before or since, but he wept then and I loved him for it. ‘I lose two mothers,’ he says to me. ‘Mother dead, now Missie dead.’ We prayed for her, what else can you do? Little Nelson, now he didn’t cry or pray. Not him. He never took to her the way Drake did. Nothing personal. She was enemy. We all were.”
“We being who precisely, Mr. Hibbert?” di Salis asked coaxingly.
“Europeans, capitalists, missionaries: all of us exploiters who were there for their souls, or their labour, or their silver. All of us,” Mr. Hibbert repeated, without the least hint of rancour. “Exploiters. That’s how he saw us. Right, in a way too.” The conversation hung awkwardly for a moment till Connie carefully retrieved it.
“So, anyway,” she said, “you reopened the mission, and you stayed till the Communist take-over of ’forty-nine, I assume, and for those four years at least you were able to keep a fatherly eye on Drake and Nelson. Is that how it went, Mr. Hibbert?” she asked, pen poised.
“Oh, we hung the lamp on the door again, yes. In ’forty-five, we were jubilant, same as anyone else. The fighting had stopped, the Japs were beaten, the refugees could come home. Hugging in the street, there was, the usual. We’d money—reparation, I suppose, a grant. Daisy Fong came back, but not for long. For the first year or two the surface held, but not really, even then. We were there as long as Chiang Kai-shek could govern—well, he was never much of a one for that, was he? By ’forty-seven we’d the Communism out on the streets—and by ’forty-nine it was there to stay. International Settlement long gone, of course— concessions, too, and a good thing. The rest went slowly.
“You got the blind ones, as usual, who said the old Shanghai would go on forever, same as you did with the Japs. Shanghai had corrupted the Manchus, they said; the war-lords, the Kuomintang, the Japanese, the British. Now she’d corrupt the Communists. They were wrong, of course. Doris and me—well, we didn’t believe in corruption, did we, not as a solution to China’s problems—nor did your mother. So we came home.”
“And the Kos?” Connie reminded him, while Doris noisily hauled some knitting out of a brown-paper bag.
The old man hesitated, and this time it was not senility, perhaps, which slowed his narrative, but doubt. “Well, yes,” he conceded, after an awkward gap. “Yes, rare adventures those two had, I can tell you.”
“Adventures,” Doris echoed angrily as she clicked her knitting needles. “Rampages, more like.”
The light was clinging to the sea, but inside the room it was dying and the gas fire puttered like a distant motor.
Several times, escaping from Shanghai, Drake and Nelson were separated, the old man said. When they couldn’t find each other, they ate their hearts out till they did. Nelson, the young one, got all the way to Chungking without a scratch, surviving starvation, exhaustion, and hellish air bombardments which killed thousands of civilians. But Drake, being older, was drafted into Chiang’s army, though Chiang did nothing but run away, hoping that the Communists and the Japanese would kill each other.
“Charged all over the shop, Drake did, trying to find the front and worrying himself to death about Nelson. And, of course, Nelson—well, he was twiddling his thumbs in Chungking, wasn’t he, boning up on his ideological reading. They’d even the New China Daily there, he to
ld me afterwards, and published with Chiang’s agreement. Fancy that! There was a few others of his mind around, and in Chungking they got their heads together rebuilding the world for when the war ended, and one day, thank God, it did.”
In 1945, said Mr. Hibbert simply, their separation was ended by a miracle. “One chance in thousands, it was—millions. That road back littered with streams of lorries, carts, troops, guns all pouring toward the coast, and there was Drake running up and down like a madman: ‘Have you seen my brother?’ ”
The drama of the instant touched the preacher in him, and his voice lifted: “And one little dirty fellow put his arm on Drake’s elbow. ‘Here. You. Ko.’ Like he’s asking for a light. ‘Your brother’s two trucks back, talking the hind legs off a bunch of Hakka Communists.’ Next thing, they’re in each other’s arms and Drake won’t let Nelson out of his sight till they’re back in Shanghai and then not!”
“So they came to see you,” Connie suggested cosily.
“When Drake got back to Shanghai, he’d one thing in his mind and one only. Brother Nelson should have a formal education. Nothing else on God’s good earth mattered to Drake except Nelson’s schooling. Nothing. Nelson must go to school.” The old man’s hand thudded on the chair arm. “One of the brothers at least would make the grade. Oh, he was adamant, Drake was! And he did it,” said the old man. “Drake swung it. He would. He was a real fixer by then. Drake was nineteen years of age, odd, when he came back from the war. Nelson, he was going on seventeen, and worked night and day, too—on his studies, of course. Same as Drake did, but Drake worked with his body.”
“He was bent,” Doris said under her breath. “He joined a gang and stole. When he wasn’t pawing me.”
Whether Mr. Hibbert heard her or whether he was simply answering a standard objection in her was not clear. “Now, Doris, you must see those triads in perspective,” he corrected her. “Shanghai was a city-state. It was run by a bunch of merchant princes, robber barons, and worse. There were no unions, no law and order, life was cheap and hard, and I doubt Hong Kong’s that different today once you scratch the surface. Some of those so-called English gentlemen would have made your Lancashire mill-owner into a shining example of Christian charity by comparison.”
The Honorable Schoolboy Page 29
