by Meira Chand
‘You see that little one with the red curls? That’s Alice Crossly’s youngest. Don’t you think he’s the image of Arthur Carlyle, who danced such attendance on her all last year? Just look at that red hair. There’s nothing of Robert Crossly there. They say poor Alice is working out a tardy redemption on the hospital committees.’ Mabel laughed until Amy joined in, and the dreadfulness of it all seemed suddenly to vanish. The Yokohama Mabel knew was smooth as a reflective surface, its navigation no more than the practised manoeuvres of the skaters at Honmoku. There appeared no way to learn but to draw breath and push off from all upright surroundings.
Sometimes Amy reviled herself for not rejecting Mabel. She felt contaminated by a life she was innocent of, but these feelings passed before the necessity of Mabel’s patronage. The day was dull without her elegant, dissolute intrigues. She thought of the time when she too would sample Yokohama, close to Mabel’s side, and was filled by excitement. It was as if some strange, dark force gathered about her, waiting.
*
Eventually, on a windy night at the end of February, Cathy Redmore made a safe appearance. Dr Charles placed the swaddled bundle in Amy’s arms and she looked at the child in wonder. Amazement, terror and the exhaustion of pain seemed no less an experience for the baby. Her lips quivered pathetically in her small crimson face. It was clear at once that Cathy Redmore was a personage in her own right and not the indivisible flesh and blood Amy had passively harboured. She held the child close, aware suddenly of its vulnerability before a cruel world. Love made her strong in a new way.
Apart from some croup and occasional colic, Cathy grew robust and knowing. However late Reggie returned from the club, unless too inebriated he insisted on seeing the baby. ‘She recognizes me,’ said Reggie proudly one day in the nursery. ‘She has smiled at me twice, I swear.’ He doted on his daughter, although he had hoped for a son.
‘It’s only wind,’ Amy told him. ‘It’s too early yet for smiles.’ But when later Cathy greeted her in the same manner she hugged the child in excitement. She had kept Cathy close since birth, reluctant to relinquish her to the young amah, Rachel, sent on the recommendation of Mrs Easely to take charge of the baby.
‘Preserve me from motherhood,’ said Mabel when she visited. ‘Why don’t you get a wet nurse? It’s time you returned to the world. Of course, she’s very sweet and I’m happy to be godmother, but there’s a limit people should go to in the business of maternal sacrifice.’ Mabel stroked the baby’s cheek but did not pick her up. ‘Life is waiting for you in Yokohama.’
‘All in good time,’ laughed Amy, rocking Cathy contentedly.
In her preoccupation with the baby Amy hardly noticed Reggie’s comings and goings. The presence of the child excluded the need in her life for anybody else. Reggie hovered upon the periphery of her days. She remembered him happily when he was there and forgot him as happily when he was not. Cathy involved her totally; she could ignore the sinuous strategy of an adult world, full with her own perfection.
‘Seems to me I’d be a peculiar friend if I didn’t draw your attention to a few things, though likely as not you won’t heed them,’ Mabel said at last in exasperation.
Amy looked up from where she played with Cathy, dangling a toy above her.
‘Did you notice anything about your Reggie?’ Mabel asked.
‘Not that I can think of,’ Amy replied. ‘He’s busy at the club as usual and comes home late, but that’s nothing new, especially in his kind of work.’
‘You didn’t notice anything more particularly?’ Mabel said. Amy shook her head, so Mabel tried again. ‘Did he not happen to mention a Mrs Bolithero?’
‘That actress with the San Francisco Touring Company? What about her?’ Amy asked, involved again with Cathy.
‘You may well ask “What about her?” soon, if you don’t take your attention off that sweet baby,’ Mabel said. ‘She has her eye upon your Reggie, and he’s not offering much resistance according to all I hear.’
Amy drew away from Cathy and looked at Mabel. She felt suddenly hollow, the fullness of the weeks behind diminished in a moment. She had been catapulted back into a world she had forgotten. Mabel observed her return to reality with a nod of satisfaction.
‘I’m just warning you,’ she counselled. ‘There is no need yet for alarm, but you should know the way things are going.’
‘How do you always know everything?’ Amy said angrily, handing Cathy to Rachel whom she had quickly called.
‘Everybody is talking and God was good enough to give me ears,’ snapped Mabel.
It was as if Amy had been hurtled from a warm room into a cold one. She was sucked back into a disturbance of emotion that was horribly familiar. She wished she could escape again with Cathy. But that, she knew now, could never be. She had returned to the world, thanks to Mabel. She stared at her in hate.
‘If looks could kill, I do declare I’d be dead where I’m standing now. You’ve only yourself to blame,’ Mabel told her. ‘You’ve been too wrapped up in that baby. I know it’s only natural, but no woman can take her eyes off a man for as long as you have. It’s a matter of commonsense.’
‘What do you want me to do, then?’ Amy asked.
‘Why, nothing but open up your own sweet eyes and step into the world that’s waiting. If you hurry you’ll catch the end of the season before the summer begins and everyone rushes up to the hills. It’s nearly time for the spring races at Negishi.’
Amy watched Cathy retreat on Rachel’s shoulder up the stairs to the nursery, her little bonneted head with its few soft curls bobbing gently, like a flower. Then she turned back to Mabel.
‘I’m not the kind of woman to desert my baby,’ she threatened.
‘I have not asked you to,’ said Mabel.
*
There was nothing to compare in Yokohama with the spring and autumn meetings at the Negishi Race Club. The town rose to fever pitch and in the high-ceilinged rooms of the Yokohama United Club there was talk of little else. Crowds came up from Tokyo, missionaries and whole legations. The Emperor himself graced the occasion to present the trophies. With him the cream of Japan crossed the canals and ascended the Bluff to enter a culture that the rest of the year rejected intrusions upon its privacy. In Tokyo there was polite and interested social intercourse between Japanese nobles and foreign legations, between missionaries and the proletariat. Upon this trend Yokohama looked down with distaste from the elevated beauty of the Bluff. Money, arrogance and destinies that inflicted upon the inadequate the eroding alienation of a life abroad – to these grievances the Bluff gave salve in fantasy and pleasure. Balls, sports and merriments rained down upon them all. Pursuits of the mind and the study of Japan Yokohama left gladly to the Tokyo crowd. But the poison of boredom ran like a tatty ribbon around the perimeter of the town, gnawing at the roots of the Bluff until it cast off, adrift and alone upon the waters of Japan.
Amy awoke on the morning of the spring races alive with energy. It was warm. She wore a new hat and an outfit in purple faille that Mabel had helped choose. Beneath it a new corset from Lane Crawford’s swung her in and out in a shape Mabel insisted was appropriate. She trembled as each layer was buttoned and laced. It was the first time since the birth of Cathy she had been out like this.
Negishi was magnificent, a sweep of green beneath the clouds, like an offering to the elements upon a lofty mountaintop, hammered by the wind. Carriages and rikishas clogged the narrow roads of the Bluff. Dr Charles was in charge of the weighing room; Reggie was to help him, and they were to get there early. Amy’s hands were cold and trembled. She wanted to seek reassurance from Reggie, but she knew he would laugh and not understand why such nervousness should afflict her.
The racecourse was a battle of sound, neighing horses, shouting men and the music of the band, brassy with trumpets and trombones reflecting in the sun. Directions boomed from a megaphone. A frightened pony reared to the screams of excited women, a rikisha overturned. The vivacity of it all
stirred Amy like the white, bright morning. Reggie was welcomed, people pumped his hand, slapped his back, middle-aged women smiled coyly at him. Reggie did not look round for Amy, instead Mr Cooper-Hewitt came forward in welcome. She could see now where all the months locked up on the Bluff had placed her in Reggie’s orbit. She made the most of Mr Cooper-Hewitt, although she disliked him. His hips were wider than his shoulders, his lip curled sarcastically upon protruding teeth, he spoke incessantly. Everything was grist to his mill, everybody a joke. He stirred a brew in the constant hope of seeing trouble spill. He was not a man to trust, thought Amy, yet he was Reggie’s friend.
There was laughter at Reggie’s jokes and the recalling of hilarious moments at dinner parties or cards. Amy stood amongst Reggie’s friends, ignorant of details they shared. The membrane of experience separated her, as did the distance of a generation. Mrs Ewart, Mrs Figdor and Mrs Cooper-Hewitt had made courtesy calls before and after the baby. Amy had felt their condescension; she was young compared to themselves or Reggie. She had seen wariness in their eyes, as if they must guard against her. They had sipped tea, admired the furniture and her watercolours of Mabel’s orchids. She had caught the glances they exchanged and read the distance there. They turned to her now to inquire about the baby, about amahs and the precautions to be taken against colic and ringworm and croup.
‘And if she is too quiet, or sleeps too much, beware,’ said Mrs Russell, the wife of the barrister. She looked down upon Amy from an exceptional height, like a tapeworm stood on end. ‘Many amahs, especially if they are Chinese, carry opium upon them. They smear some on the babies’ lips to keep them quiet. In India, too, the practice is common.’ Her eyes were as cold as her husband’s, who stood silently behind.
‘India!’ snorted Mrs Cooper-Hewitt and shook a double chin.
‘You mustn’t frighten her.’ Mrs Figdor passed off Mrs Russell’s remark whilst examining Amy’s dress.
‘But she’s such a good baby. I’ve enjoyed doing all I can myself. I’ve given her as little as possible to the amah,’ Amy told them.
‘That explains why we’ve seen nothing of you, then. We have all remarked upon it and how much Mr Redmore is alone.’ Mrs Figdor laughed, her teeth breaking open her face.
‘What a good little mother you’ve been,’ Mrs Cooper-Hewitt added.
‘I’m not inclined to ignore my child,’ Amy replied.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Cooper-Hewitt hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’ Beside her Mrs Figdor smothered a giggle.
The men listened to their wives, their gaze upon Amy Redmore. Robert Russell’s eyes, filmy as a fish, surveyed her unrelentingly. Mr Figdor, plump and sweating, smiled wetly beside his wife, while behind his joviality Mr Cooper-Hewitt had a cool, assessing stare. Amy was forced to observe her feet, trapped amongst them all. She thought of the Yokohama Mabel spoke of, and knew she would not find it here. The men, their eyes already clouding with age, their girth shrinking or expanding, their joints gouty or calcifying, continued to observe her. After a while Reggie left them and went over to a fashionably dressed woman near the paddock surrounded by a crowd. He greeted her familiarly and was soon immersed in conversation.
At that moment Mabel drew up in a small trap. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said to Amy. ‘Dicky Huckle and Henry Corodale won’t be pacified until they’ve met you. Wait here, I’ll be back.’ She drove off with only a courtesy nod at Reggie’s friends. Amy wanted to giggle; their displeasure was apparent. It was like fresh air at last.
The women drew closer when Mabel had gone, pointing to Reggie and his companion. ‘That is Mrs Bolithero,’ said Mrs Cooper-Hewitt, a note of triumph in her voice. Their eyes anticipated a reaction. Amy did not oblige.
‘She is a widow and an actress,’ Mrs Russell hissed.
‘Reggie has told me about her. Is she not touring with that American company performing at the Gaiety?’ Amy lied before Mrs Cooper-Hewitt could enlighten her further.
‘Oh, so you know about her?’ Mrs Cooper-Hewitt said coyly. Mr Figdor returned to join his wife from the group about Mrs Bolithero.
‘Mr Redmore has been most chivalrous in escorting the lady about Yokohama. We’re all envious of his task.’ Mr Figdor winked. Amy forced herself to laugh.
‘I’m glad Reggie can help her,’ she replied.
‘I wish we all had understanding wives,’ Mr Figdor chuckled. Mrs Figdor compressed her lips upon her rebellious teeth. Mrs Cooper-Hewitt drew in her chins. It seemed to Amy that the women enclosed her in their stiff silks of magenta, blue and green, breasts encrusted with lace and pearls, like a flock of carnivorous birds. She wanted to push them away.
‘It would be best, dear, if you don’t mind my saying so, if you were to come out a bit more. It would be best for you and certainly best for Mr Redmore in a place like Yokohama.’ Mrs Figdor gave an insinuating laugh.
‘But am I not already out?’ Amy questioned.
‘We only speak in your interest,’ said Mrs Cooper-Hewitt. Across the crowd Amy caught Reggie’s eyes and stared at him defiantly. He steered Mrs Bolithero hurriedly across.
Mrs Bolithero wore a feathered hat and a suit trimmed lavishly with buttons in a style new to Yokohama. She said it came from Paris. ‘I was there in the autumn, you know. We took the town by storm, they’d never seen the likes of us,’ Mrs Bolithero gushed. Although she toured with an American company she was originally from England.
‘What part, north or south?’ Mrs Ewart inquired.
‘Sort of in between, as a matter of fact, but I don’t put much store in places myself, nor in a lot of lah-di-dah manners. It’s the heart that matters, I always say.’
‘I’m in absolute agreement with you,’ Amy said pleasantly. Mrs Bolithero’s face was covered with powder, like pollen. Years of shabby experience had thickened her magnolia flesh. She bloomed flamboyantly now with paint like an exotic flower. Her voice was coarse as blotting paper, worn out by over-use. Reggie did not take his eyes off her; his grin stretched his face apart. Mrs Bolithero bestowed a glazed smile upon Amy but attempted no conversation.
‘I can’t for the life of me decide whether to put my money on Sunlight or Cockchafer in the Shanghai Stakes. Mr Redmore here swears by Sunlight, but I’m not green enough to trust him,’ she announced to them all in general, giving Reggie a coquettish glance. Reggie’s grin spread. Amy observed them in fury.
‘Reggie has a good nose for a wager. I would trust him implicitly,’ Amy remarked, to establish herself between them. Mrs Bolithero looked at her curiously from beneath her hat, as if seeing her for the first time.
‘Would you really now? I wouldn’t trust any man implicitly.’ Mrs Bolithero gave a malicious chuckle and everybody laughed. Amy blushed in rage.
Soon Mrs Bolithero departed and Reggie turned to Amy, remembering his duties in the weighing room where Dr Charles was struggling single-handed. ‘I’ll be back when I can. I’ve arranged for us to sit with the Cooper-Hewitts, so just you keep with them. And Mrs Bolithero might join us. She put me in a spot and I was forced to ask her,’ Reggie added hurriedly, seeing Amy’s expression. As he walked away Amy stared after him. Suddenly the day, which had been white and full of promise, was ready to consume her.
‘I couldn’t find you. Oh, what a crowd!’ Mabel said loudly, drawing up with a spurt of turf. There was a man in the trap beside her. ‘I’ve brought you Dicky,’ she said as if he was some sort of gift. ‘He’s English too.’
‘I’m not a commodity, Mabel,’ the man retorted, jumping from the trap to take Amy’s hand. ‘She’s just like you told me. Beautiful.’ He laughed, and the blood rushed to Amy’s cheeks. The regal matrons looked on like sour plums, their faces flat before Mabel Rice. She was smartly dressed and wore at her breast Douglas Roseberry’s racing colours. Patrick Rice was not in sight.
‘We have seats for you and Reggie in the grandstand,’ said Mabel. She nodded to the women, who nodded silently in return. ‘Patrick will be along soon. He’s g
one for a last look at Diplomat. The lotteries have established him as favourite in the Welter Stakes.’
‘Oh, but Reggie already has seats elsewhere,’ Amy said in disappointment. She would much rather sit with Mabel.
‘Well, I’m sure he can change them,’ Mabel replied.
‘We won’t hear of you not sitting with us,’ Dicky Huckle insisted. He still held Amy’s hand. Embarrassed, she withdrew it. A humorous, good-natured expression filled his face; it was difficult to object. ‘We can walk across to the grandstand via the paddock. They’ll be calling the horses out soon. Do you have a pony? Are you going to join Mabel when we ride together?’ Dicky Huckle’s questions pressed spiritedly upon her.
‘I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I shall. In fact I’d love to, but I’ve not been long in Yokohama,’ Amy answered, confused. His breath held the odour of beer and pickled onions. She tried to step back, but there were people behind her. Mrs Figdor and Mrs Cooper-Hewitt observed her silently. Mrs Russell leaned forward to say something to them. Mabel laughed in satisfaction. She drove off, leaving Amy with Dicky. There was no way to escape him. He swept her off upon his arm.
‘Do you see how everyone is looking at us? Will I ruin your reputation?’ he whispered wickedly. ‘I shall disappear at once if you want.’
‘Oh no, don’t do that,’ Amy laughed. ‘As for my reputation, just look at the faces of those old matrons. They’re only waiting to condemn me.’
‘They’re absolute harridans,’ Dicky said. ‘They wouldn’t give an angel a chance. That Mrs Figdor has a smile like the keyboard of a piano, but don’t be taken in. And if only Mrs Ewart wore stays she might have had more chance of a lover. At least she’d have had something around her waist.’
Amy laughed. ‘How can I forgive you for being so rude. They’re the wives of my husband’s friends,’ she admonished. It was a relief to be light-hearted; she was in the mood for revenge.
