by Debbie Rix
Miranda had a sudden frisson of anxiety that she had yet again revealed far too much about herself. She didn’t want to give the impression that she had no social life.
‘I mean, I do go out, obviously – to yoga and a book club. It’s just that I didn’t tell G I’d be late.’
‘It’s fine. Let me drop you off anyway.’
‘You don’t have to. I have my car.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘Well perhaps we could have dinner another night, maybe next week?’
‘That would be lovely. I’d like that. Thank you.’
They stood up and an awkwardness descended, as each tried to decide if it was ‘too soon’ to kiss the other goodbye. Finally, he leant down and kissed her fleetingly on the cheek.
‘Look,’ she said as she turned to walk back to her car. ‘Why don’t you come to me next week for supper? It won’t be anything special and Georgie will be around, but…’
‘Thanks… I’d love to.’
‘Great. Well, shall we say Wednesday? I don’t work in the shop that day, so you might actually get something worth eating. I’ll text you my address, shall I?’
He smiled in acknowledgement.
‘Seven-thirty? ‘
‘Perfect.’
* * *
As soon as Charles’s cheque for the book had cleared safely through Jeremy’s account, he generously gave Miranda seventy-five percent of their finder’s fee.
‘Oh Jeremy, that’s so kind of you. You’re such a pal. That will be over £100!’
‘I know. Well you deserve it Manda. It was all your idea – the second hand area; and it’s turning out to be rather a good one. Enjoy it; fill the fridge for that starving daughter of yours.’
The following Wednesday, Miranda drove Georgie to her bus stop.
‘G, darling, I’ve got a friend coming to dinner tonight, just thought I’d mention it.’
She tried to sound as casual as she could.
‘Who?’ Georgie asked, ‘one of your yoga people? Oh God, it will be veggie hell for supper.’
‘No G, not one of my yoga friends. It’s a man if you must know.’
‘A man!’ Georgie spat the words at her mother. ‘What man? God, Mother… Do you have a boyfriend?’ This was hurled at her mother with such an air of disdain that Miranda felt quite hurt.
‘No G, he is not my boyfriend. Just a good customer and I like him, that’s all. But if he were my ‘boyfriend’ would that be so terrible?’
Georgie fiddled with the buttons on her army coat and stared sullenly out of the window, avoiding her mother’s gaze.
‘Oh G, darling, don’t worry! He’s just a friend. Now get out of the car and go to school. I’ll see you later.’
Miranda's ‘share’ of the book deal was undoubtedly a boon to her finances, but she still had bills to pay and so was careful, as always, when purchasing food. She bought a whole frozen chicken, the cheapest she could find. Once defrosted and jointed she would use it to make her ‘chicken with tarragon and bacon,’ one of her most reliable supper dishes. If she were careful when serving it, there would be enough for the next night too. She bought lemons to make a tart and a small pot of double cream for pudding. At the cheese counter she anguished over a piece of Stilton, before finally giving in and buying a slim piece – just enough for two people to share.
When she got home, she went out into the wintry garden and picked a few late dahlias for the table. She looked around for a vase before remembering that Georgie had broken her only glass one. She wandered into the hall and removed the dusty hydrangeas from the blue and white vase on the hall table. She took it into the kitchen and ran it under the tap to remove the dust, knocking it slightly against the side of the stone sink as she did so. She dried it carefully before filling it with fresh water and arranging the dahlias in it, and set it in the middle of the kitchen table. She had already decided to feed Georgie early, as a treat in front of the television, and so laid the table carefully for two. She put out some blue and white napkins that she’d had since the Guy days, and set out two of her four crystal wine glasses – another thing she had rescued from their wedding presents.
Then she set about making her chicken tarragon and the lemon tart. It had been quite a while since she had cooked a meal for someone other than Georgie and Jeremy, and it felt good to be chopping and frying and grating.
At four-thirty, she drove to the bus stop to collect Georgie, who threw her bag into the back of the car as she leapt into the passenger seat.
‘God I’m starving,’ said her daughter.
‘Good; I’ve made a nice supper of chicken tarragon; you can have yours in front of the TV if you want?’
‘What?’ her daughter exclaimed. ‘You never let me do that. What’s going on?’
‘My friend is coming to supper and I thought it would be better if you were banished,’ Miranda said with a smile.
With Georgie settled happily with a tray on her lap, Miranda went upstairs to change. Not wishing to appear to have made too much of an effort, she put on a pair of clean jeans and a black t-shirt. But she also put on a little make up and brushed her hair up into a chignon. She hoped Georgie wouldn’t notice and make something out of nothing. She had a bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge and at seven-fifteen opened the bottle and poured herself a glass.
The doorbell rang at seven thirty-five. Georgie beat her to the door, and yanked it open to reveal Charles Davenport, wearing a dark suit and brandishing a bottle of wine and a bunch of peach-coloured roses.
‘Charles!’ exclaimed Miranda as she shepherded Georgie out of the way. ‘Georgie, this is Charles Davenport – the gentleman who bought that beautiful book about Alice that I mentioned the other day; Charles, this is my daughter, Georgina.’
Georgie, who had been scowling at Charles, guffawed as her mother introduced her. ‘Georgina! Since when do you call me that?’
‘Very funny G, now toddle off and let me get Charles a glass of wine. Oh, you brought some, how kind, and flowers too; that’s so thoughtful!’ Taking his gifts, she led the way to the kitchen.
‘I’d better put these in water,’ Miranda said, frantically opening cupboards in search of another vase. ‘My daughter broke one the other day. I’ll put them into the one on the table. It’s not really a vase, but it’s all I have.’ She unwrapped the roses and cut the stems before laying them on the draining board and bashing the bottoms with a rolling pin. She arranged the roses in the vase; their colours blended well with the dark reds and oranges of the dahlias. ‘I’m never sure that roses mix with other flowers really,’ she muttered, ‘but they look rather jolly all mixed in together.’
Charles smiled and offered to open the wine.
‘Let’s have that with dinner, I’ve got some white already open in the fridge, will that do?’
She poured and they clinked the crystal glasses.
They made small talk, about the house, the kitchen, the garden, what they were having for supper, but Miranda was aware that Charles seemed slightly distracted. As they sat down at the table and she ladled out the chicken tarragon he said casually, ‘The vase here, that’s rather nice, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, that, yes, my aunt left it to me. It’s just some replica or other that I suspect she picked up in Hong Kong. She and her husband were there for twenty or thirty years. Georgie absolutely hates it.’
At the mention of her name Georgie appeared at the kitchen door, carrying her empty plate. ‘Thanks Mum, that was nice. Is there pudding?’
‘Yes, lemon tart; but can you wait till we’ve finished this first?’
‘OK, and what do I hate?’
‘The vase. You say it scares you, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I think it’s spooky.’
Charles smiled. ‘Well, I could take it off your hands if you wanted?’
‘Really? Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I know G hates it, but Aunt Celia left it to me and I’d feel a bit guilty really. Why? Do you think i
t’s worth something? I’m sure I saw one very like it in a car boot sale the other week.’
‘Well, I’d have to take a closer look, but it’s a very nice copy. Nicely painted and fired, you know. We’ve got a sale of porcelain coming up at the auction house soon. It could be worth as much as a hundred pounds if you’re lucky, maybe more.’
‘Gosh! Well that is tempting, I must say.’ Miranda refilled their glasses.
‘Well,’ said Charles, ‘think about it. The offer is there. But don’t wait too long – the sale is at the end of January.’
‘Yes, well, thank you; I will think about it.’ She touched the petals of the peachy rose that stood in the vase. A thorn pricked her finger and a small drop of blood dripped onto the pale white porcelain. It ran down the vase, colouring the fiery breath of the dragon that circled its centre.
‘Ow,’ she said licking her finger. She looked at Charles and followed his grey gaze. He was transfixed by the dragon.
* * *
High in the mountains of Ching-te-Chen white clay is dug from the ground. The clay is not clay as you or I would know it – sticky, heavy and malleable – but solid, hard stone that has to be hacked from the earth. It is backbreaking work. Relays of men carry the stones down the mountain in panniers – baskets hanging on either side of a long stick that rests across their shoulders. The stick digs deeply into their flesh leaving permanent wounds. The men vary in age; some as young as fourteen or fifteen, others grey-haired, bearded, and weary from years of carrying the heavy loads. They form a human chain of misery. Their clothes – short tunics, knee-length breeches – tattered. Their feet are protected only by sandals laced around their stocky shins with leather bindings. On their heads they wear straw hats to protect them against the fierce sun in the summer months. In the winter the work is indescribably brutal, as the workers battle against the frost and snow.
Chapter Four
The Adriatic, off the coast of Venice, 1441
Maria dei Conte struggled up the ladder of the galley, her skirts caught up between her legs in a practised fashion to make the climb easier. The storm of the previous night had departed as swiftly as it had arrived, and with the dawn had come a stillness that left the ship almost becalmed. Well used to ocean travel, she rarely suffered any form of seasickness, but had succumbed the previous night. As the ship heeled and tossed, she had several times been thrown bodily up into the air, her nose almost colliding with the cabin’s low ceiling. Now, as she hauled herself up the ladder, the muscles in her stomach ached from retching and her mouth tasted sour.
Up on deck all was quiet. The sun was just beginning its ascent on the horizon and a gentle breeze blew in off the sea. She reached into the bucket of fresh water that was kept on deck and ladled some into her hand, sipping it gently. The sun warmed her face as she sat, her mouth a little refreshed, her stomach settling, gazing across the water.
Up above, on the bridge, the captain, Marco, shouted instructions to one of the crew.
‘Throw up that mainsail; the wind’s coming up behind us.’
The young sailor paid out lengths of rope and the huge mainsail began to flap feebly as it unfurled. It continued its pointless dance with the wind until a sudden gust filled the sail, causing it to bloom outwards like a belly filled with child. Two crewmen formed a tug of war with the sail’s ‘sheet’ – the rope that would be used to make the sail fast. The sheet tied in securely, Maria felt the change of speed instantly as the boat began to crest across the waves.
‘When do we make land?’ she yelled up to Marco.
‘Not long now,’ he replied. ‘Keep your eye on the horizon over there; we should see a first sight of Venice anytime.’
Maria felt excited at the prospect of finally, aged seventeen, seeing the place of her father’s birth. Niccolò dei Conti had left his home twenty-five years before. He had travelled far and wide – all through the Middle East, as far as India and further east still to the land of ‘further India’, as China was known. And now he was to return, at last, to the land of his fathers. He had left as a twenty-one–year-old with a thirst for knowledge and adventure. And adventures he had had, aplenty. Now, aged forty-six, he had decided that his duty lay in Italy. He would write of his adventures, and his experiences would serve as a vital tool for future travellers. He brought with him a precious cargo to trade on his return – spices, silver, and other precious metals from India; carpets from Damascus, and lengths of silk and damask from the lands east of India. And porcelain – buried deep in the ship’s hold – the palest, most translucent porcelain that dei Conti had ever seen. Some pieces were in delicate shades of pale celadon, their glaze crackled, like the veins of a leaf. But most were pure white, their surfaces painted in bright cobalt blue with flowers, fruit and courtly scenes, or with dragons – the symbols of good fortune. He had watched as these pots and plates were decorated in the porcelain workshops on the banks of the Yangtze River; he had witnessed the delicate hands of the artists who created such beauty.
He had purchased much of what lay now in vast wooden barrels in the bowels of the Venetian government ship. But one or two pieces had been gifts, presented several years before by Admiral Zheng He, the military leader and favourite of the Emperor of China himself, Emperor Xuande.
* * *
Admiral Zheng He was a eunuch, and as such had been promoted by his master to a position of absolute trust. He was free to enter the private quarters of the Emperor, to mix amongst his many wives and concubines. He was also a brave and adventurous explorer and military leader. Since the age of ten, he had been in the employ of successive Chinese Emperors, and at the impressive age of sixty-two was in charge of his seventh and what was to be his final expedition, travelling as far as the eastern coast of Africa, commanding a vast fleet of two hundred and fifty ships and twenty-seven thousand men. Sixty vast treasure ships, supplied by one hundred and ninety ‘support’ ships, carrying horses, troops and a month’s supply of fresh water.
Like many of his Mongol forebears, Zheng He was an exceptionally tall man, measuring almost seven feet in height; he sported long moustaches, and was resplendent in silken robes decorated with the Chinese dragon motif, with a jewelled belt wrapped round his vast stomach. He had arranged to meet dei Conti during his final expedition, on the island of Sumatra. There, they had feasted on board Admiral He’s ship. Dei Conti liked and admired the Admiral.
‘We dined in some style with the Admiral,’ he wrote in his diary late that night. ‘The people of further India lead cultivated lives, far from all barbarity and savagery; for they are courteous people and extremely rich merchants. We ate at a table laid with a fine cloth, on plates and dishes made of silver.’
The Admiral returned dei Conti’s admiration. He recognised a fellow adventurer and enjoyed dei Conti’s educated mind, acquired through years of study, travel and careful observation. They shared an interest in religion and other cultures too. The Admiral, who had been born in Yunnan province, was of Mongol and Arab ancestry, and as such had been born into the Islamic religion. In his later life, he had embraced other religions – especially Buddhism – but he nevertheless worked hard to develop relations between China and Islamic countries. Dei Conti had been brought up as a Catholic, but he had huge respect for the customs of other religions and in all the years he had travelled through the Middle East and India, he had often taken the disguise of a Persian merchant, concealing his true faith and embracing Muslim customs. So, the two men had much in common, but with one obvious difference: Niccolò was free to enjoy a loving relationship with his Indian wife Roshinara, and the Admiral was not.
The Italian had married whilst travelling through India. He and Roshinara had four children, Maria, Daniele, Dario and Magdalena. The family travelled together at all times, with the parents educating their children along the way. As a eunuch, Zheng He could only dream of such private fulfilment, but he also knew that it was his status as a eunuch that had enabled him to have such a privileged life, and he di
d not regret the sacrifice. Nevertheless, he was intrigued by the Italian’s easy and loving relationship with his wife and young family, for it was in stark contrast to the marriages of his own acquaintance, in particular those of the Emperors he had served. His most recent master, Emperor Xuande, had three wives. The first, Empress Shunde, was deposed from her position when the Emperor elevated his favourite and most senior concubine to the role and created her Empress Xiao Gong Zhang. They were soon joined by a third wife, Empress Xiao Yi. In addition, the Emperor had thirteen concubines, all meticulously arranged in order of significance from Imperial concubine through to noble consort and down to ordinary consort level. These relationships were based on subservience and control. The concubines in particular were destined to die alongside their Emperor so they could be buried with him in his tomb.
The dei Conti’s marriage, by contrast, appeared to be based on a sense of equality and mutual respect. The Admiral was in no doubt that it was also a relationship filled with love; for the couple were scarcely ever apart and when together found opportunities to touch hands, or stroke the other’s cheek, or embrace. Born in the north of India, near the border with Persia, Roshinara (which means bright dawn light), had long dark hair and extraordinary turquoise eyes that wavered between blue and green depending on the sari she wore, or the colour of her surroundings. Her eldest daughter Maria had inherited these beautiful eyes – although hers had a translucent quality that reminded the Admiral of the sea in mid-summer – changeable from the brightest blue to the darkest green when storms threatened. The sea was the foundation of the Admiral’s existence. He was a believer in Mazu, the Goddess of the Sea who protected sailors. He had asked Emperor Xuande to build a temple to her, and his emperor had been happy to indulge his favourite admiral. Zheng He would pray to Mazu faithfully before and after each sea voyage to protect him.
