Shanghai

6

THE DINING ROOM WAS COOL and dim, two large punkahs stirring the limp, moist air beneath the high ceiling. Delicate large-fronded palms, and rubber plants with glossy, thick leaves stood along the walls and between the rattan tables. White-jacketed waiters moved noiselessly about in black cloth slippers. There seemed to be thirty or forty young officers in the mess, drinking and eating in separate groups. Mason took him a table in the corner, introducing him offhandedly to the two officers already sitting there. One was called Jones, a tall, fair-haired man with a downy moustache. Denton didn't catch the other's name, and was too shy to ask.

Mason ordered from the handwritten menu in a disdainful voice that suggested the food couldn't possibly be much good. Denton tamely said he'd have the same. The steward, an old man with a short grey queue, nodded silently. His slippers shuffled away over the tiled floor.

'Where d'you come from?' Jones asked Denton, as they began to eat.

'London,' Mason answered for him, packing his mouth with rice and diced chicken.

'Enfield,' Denton qualified mildly.

'Near enough. Ah Koo!' Mason snapped his fingers, calling out across the room. 'Soya sauce!'

'How did you get into this outfit?' Jones dabbed his downy moustache with his napkin, looking up at him with slightly bloodshot eyes.

'It was an accident,' Mason answered for him again.

'Well, I was going to be a teacher,' Denton spoke quickly and quietly, toying with his rice, 'I'd just done one year in a training college, actually - '

'Ah Koo! Soya sauce!' Mason called out again.

'and then my father had an accident at work, so I had to give it up. And I just saw an advert in the paper and....' He shrugged and sipped some of the beer Mason had insisted he should share with them. It was only the second time in his life that he'd drunk beer, and he shivered at the bitter taste. Jones, losing interest, turned to talk to Mason in a low voice that excluded him.

'What sort of accident was it?' asked the small, dark man, whose name he hadn't caught. He had a mild, even, slightly nasal voice.

'At the small arms factory. He was testing a rifle when the barrel burst.'

'Ah Koo! One piecee soya sauce!' Mason shouted irritably. 'Come along, man! Chop-chop!'

The dark man nodded, scrutinising the moistened point of the tooth-pick he was using. 'I started as a sailor. Strange what brought us all out here in our different ways.'

'Money,' Mason said emphatically.

The dark man inserted his tooth-pick between his teeth without replying, which Mason seemed to take as a tacit denial.

'Cash,' he said belligerently. 'That's what brought us here.' He took the soya bottle from the steward and shook it vigorously over his plate.

The dark man probed the gaps between his teeth reflectively.

'Not that there's much of that by the time you've paid your chits, eh?' Jones said pacifically.

'Anyone can make a pile out here,' Mason asserted through bulging cheeks.

'Do you mean the bonus on contraband seizures?' Denton asked hopefully. He planned to send some of his salary home to his parents each month.

Mason glanced at him under his reddish brows and swallowed deliberately before answering. A thick, blackish trickle of soya sauce ran down from the corner of his mouth and he dabbed it with his napkin. 'That, and other things,' he said, with the same ironic smile that he'd given when he spoke of the sing-song girl's accomplishments. He turned to Jones, who had pushed back his chair. 'Are you doing the auction, Jonesy?'

'Smith's stuff? Yes. Three o'clock in here. Why?'

'Nothing.' Then Mason jerked his head at Denton without looking at him. 'Except he'll want to buy some stuff.'

'I haven't got much money to spare,' Denton began doubtfully.

'Who cares? Pay by chit.' Mason waved his fork grandly. 'Cash is for coolies.'

'Er ... how do you bid?'

'I'll bid for you, if you like,' the dark man said reassuringly as he dropped the broken tooth-pick on his plate. 'You just tell me what you'd like, and I'll do the bidding.' He spoke in a monotonous, lulling tone of bland, sapless benevolence, but Denton was grateful.

'Well, perhaps some chair covers and curtains?' he suggested cautiously. 'Would that cost very much?'

'Depends who's bidding against you, doesn't it?' Mason said, with a mocking flick of scorn in the rising inflection of his voice. 'Come on, let's go to the tailor's first, get you fitted out.'

The tailor's was a dingy narrow room without windows, reaching back from an unpaved street into ever darker and mustier gloom. Six or seven Chinese men bent over sewing machines, working the treadles incessantly with their feet. Scraps of cloth lay scattered on the floor, which looked as though it had never been swept. The walls were grimy. Thick black cobwebs hung down from the ceiling. On a bare round wooden table near the back of the room stood several bowls with greasy chopsticks beside them. The table was littered with grains of rice and what looked like chicken bones, stained with a dark sauce. There was a smell of engrained dirt mingled with the heavy scent of incense which was drifting slowly up from some joss sticks smouldering dimly away at a little smoky red altar against the back wall.

A small man in a long grey gown shuffled towards them, bowing and hissing through his teeth. His face looked old, the skin thin and taut over his cheekbones.

'One piecee uniform for my friend, same same me.' Mason ordered. 'You makee one day fitting how muchee?'

The tailor glanced at Denton with a momentary gleam in his brown eyes. 'Today very busy,' he said impassively, gesturing to the hunched backs of his workers.

'Never mind busy. How muchee?' Mason demanded curtly.

The tailor's eyelids flickered. 'Forty dollar.'

'Forty? You must be mad! You before makee for me twenty-five dollar!'

The tailor smiled faintly. 'Long time makee for you. Now more dear.'

Denton, standing self-consciously beside Mason, grew aware of the workers' faces half-turned to listen while they sewed on at the same busy speed, pulling the cloth this way and that beneath the stabbing needles. There were smiles on their pale faces. One of them coughed and spat nonchalantly into a spittoon.

Mason damned the tailor, expostulated, threatened to walk out, and finally grudgingly offered thirty after the tailor had crept down to thirty-five. 'You makee chop-chop tomorrow night finish. Fitting morning time. Otherwise no pay.'

The tailor inclined his head a fraction and took a tape measure out of his sleeve. He hadn't raised his voice once in response to Mason's blustering. He'd bowed often and folded his hands courteously in front of him, yet his face had been unmoved, almost as though he hadn't even been listening. Denton sensed that he'd got the price he wanted and that Mason was put out. It was the first inkling he had that the Chinese were not all servile.

'Well, he knows your uniform allowance is forty dollars,' Mason muttered as the tailor's light, bony hands deftly measured Denton. 'Artful blighter knows how much you'll have to spend on shoes and a hat. He knows how much he can squeeze you for.'

The tailor called out the measurements to one of the workers, who jotted them down on a scrap of paper. Denton wondered how the tailor could measure him without even seeming to touch him, his hands were so light and nimble.

'Tell him which side you hang 'em,' Mason grunted as the tailor measured his inside leg.

'Sorry?'

'Oh never mind.'

Denton blushed, thinking that after all perhaps he had understood. 'Er, didn't you say I ought to get a stomacher as well?'

'Right, one piecee stomacher,' Mason patted his paunch. 'How muchee?'

'Five dollar.'

'Three.'

The tailor was measuring the width of Denton's trousers. 'Four-fifty. Special for you.'

Mason was evidently losing interest. 'Four,' he said, taking out a cigar.

The tailor stood up shaking his head mildly. 'No can do. Too muchee workee.'

'Oh all right then you blasted robber. Finish tomorrow, all right?' He bit his cigar and turned to Denton. 'That leaves you just enough for the hat and shoes. They've got it worked out to a tee.'

'Well it is much cheaper than in England,' Denton murmured. 'And I suppose he's got to pay all these workers here....'

Mason surveyed them indifferently, breathing out a blue curl of cigar smoke. 'You can bet he doesn't pay them much, if he pays 'em at all. Food and lodging probably, that's all. It's dog eat dog out here you know.'

'Lodging? Where?'

Mason snorted. 'On the floor. Where d'you think?'

7

NOW WHAT AM I BID for these curtains?' asked Jones, leaning forward over the table, resting his weight on his spreading finger-tips. 'Beautiful floral pattern, almost unused. Hold 'em up, Ah Koo. Up! Up! That's right. Shall we start at five dollars? Who'll start us off at five dollars?'

Ah Koo, barefooted, stood on the table, holding the curtains up one after another, his arms trembling with the strain. His wrinkled face smiled self-consciously, as if he were both embarrassed and proud of his prominence.

'These curtains graced our departed friend's sitting room and bed-room,' Jones was saying. He paused to glance round the room with an anticipatory leer. 'Eight lovely drapes from Whiteaway and Laidlaw's. And when they were drawn, who knows what sights they saw?'

A loud suggestive laugh from Mason led a snigger round the room. One of the stewards snaked his way between the tables, balancing a tea-tray on his hand. He set it down by the dark man, whose name Denton still didn't know. Denton glanced over his shoulder as he signed the chit. R Johnson.

'Six dollars I hear,' Jones called out. Ah Koo's arms quivered more and more unsteadily as he struggled to hold the curtains up, fold after fold. The smile on his face was growing fixed with the effort.

'Seven,' Johnson said.

'Eight,' called Mason. 'Why not?'

'Why not indeed? Eight I am bid.'

'You've just got some new ones,' Johnson murmured, pausing with his hand on the tea pot.

'And why shouldn't I get some more?' Mason asked provocatively. He glanced at Denton. 'Can't let 'em go too cheap, can we?'

'Any advance on eight?'

Denton hesitated as Johnson looked at him with raised, inquiring brows. Surely he could do without curtains? After all there were shutters. But impulsively, vertiginously, he nodded to Johnson.

'Nine dollars.' Johnson said, scarcely raising his voice.

'Nine fifty.'

'Only one dollar bids, Mr Mason,' Jones licked his lips. 'We're going up by single dollars only.'

'Ten, then,' Mason shrugged carelessly.

Johnson glanced inquiringlyly at Denton again. Denton rubbed his chin, blushing. Everyone was looking at him. He knew Mason was bidding against him on purpose, and he felt challenged. But he couldn't afford to spend much.

'Any advance on ten over there?' Jones asked hopefully.

Denton recalled the gleam in Mason's eyes at the execution that morning, and some small corner of his mind hardened. He nodded to Johnson.

'Eleven.'

'Eleven dollars? Mr Mason? Any advance? No? Sold for eleven dollars.'

Mason laughed loudly, looking round with eyes that sneered and yet at the same time seemed to seek approval. 'Well, that'll help pay old Smithy's bar debts, anyway.' he said.

Johnson leant closer to Denton. 'I knew he wouldn't go higher, once he'd bid nine fifty,' he murmured placidly. 'He was getting careful.'

'Next item, chair covers. Same design as the curtains, excellent condition, look. With antimacassars thrown in.'

Mason didn't bid again, and Johnson got the chair covers for Denton at six dollars. 'He's a funny fellow, old Mason,' Johnson whispered. 'He was just trying it on, to see what you'd do. He does that with everyone, he doesn't really mean any harm.'

'And last but not least,' Jones called out, 'a solid teak desk, which you see in front of me. Three drawers, top one lockable. Our departed colleague penned his billydoos on this desk. And if you're lucky you may find one inside still.'

'Get on with it Jonesy,' a voice called out in weary encouragement.

'You can sign a chit and give it to Jones, he's the mess treasurer anyway,' Johnson was saying to Denton.

'I'm trying to work out what it comes to in English money.'

'About two pounds altogether.' Johnson stirred his tea rhythmically, round and round, the spoon clinking against the same place on the cup each time.

'No offers for this beautiful solid teak desk?' Jones asked plaintively, with a show of incredulity, over the rising sound of inattentive voices. People had begun to leave the room. 'No offers at all?'

Denton gulped. 'Ten dollars,' he called out in a high, unsteady voice.

'Ten dollars?' Jones cupped his ear. 'Did I hear ten dollars?'

Denton nodded.

The desk was his.

'Well you soon got the hang of it, didn't you?' Johnson said encouragingly. He drank his tea down and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'Tibby Mason must've put you on your mettle. Did you really want that?'

'I suppose I'll want to write letters and things in my room sometimes,' Denton replied unsteadily. He felt his heart thumping slightly with surprise at his own audacity.

8

HE SAT IN HIS NIGHTSHIRT at his new desk, stroking the thick yellow varnish with his finger-tips. The curtains and covers lay neatly folded on the armchair. He glanced round at them once more, then dipped his pen in the ink bottle and began to write.

Dear Mother and Father. Arrived safely today, after hot but interesting voyage. Keeping well, hope you are too. Also hope you got the letters I have been sending. Weather here is very hot and sticky. Was met off the boat and shown - paused, thinking of the severed head swinging round on its queue, then went on - a few sights on the way to the above address where I am now settling in. Picture on other side shows Customs Headquarters. Have been measured for my uniform already, which they can make in one day. Long letter follows soon. Love, John.

He left the postcard on the desk and went to the bathroom. Dipping his toothbrush into the round, silvery tin of Dr Mill's Dental Powder, he started brushing his teeth. He had opened all the windows and shutters. Though it was after eleven o'clock, the street below was just as noisy as it had been in the morning. He listened to the hoarse, outlandish cries and shouts as he contemplated the white foam round his lips in the mirror. Would he ever get used to them, understand them? Darkness had fallen suddenly at seven o'clock, as he had come to expect on the ship, and the steward, whom everyone addressed as 'boy,' and whose silent presence still made him uncomfortable, had come and lit the gas lamps with a gentle plop that reminded him of home.

He wandered to the window, still brushing vigorously. Oil lamps flared over fruit stalls in the street below and glimmered in the poky little shops that crammed cheek by jowl against each other. Rickshaw coolies shouted their way raucously through the crowd, and a sedan chair floated past, preceded by a man with a lamp. The stall lights flickered over the chair, and through the uncurtained window he glimpsed a woman's face peering out with gleaming eyes. Further along, two British soldiers were strolling in their new khaki uniforms. Denton turned away, suddenly remembering his brother dead at Mafeking. If he'd had a khaki uniform there, instead of that proud scarlet one, the Boer sharpshooters might never have got him.

He had taken a mouthful of water from the tumbler and spat it out into the enamel pail below the marble wash-stand, before he realised that the water might not have been boiled. He brushed his teeth again fiercely, with a big cake of dental powder on the brush, and spat once more into the pail, this time without rinsing. A faint unease stirred in his stomach. Could Smith's cholera germs still be in the room?

The steward had replaced the bucket in the toilet box when he made the bed, and Denton sat on the seat, enjoying the freshness. His stomach was what his mother would have called loose. He got up and washed his hands, brushing his nails thoroughly.

Reaching up to the lamp, he pulled the lever down, avoiding the sticky brown flypaper hanging from it, on which several small black flies were hopelessly mired, feebly wriggling their legs and flapping their wings. The light faded; a blue flame licked round the mantle, then went out with a terminal plop. He walked barefoot to the bedroom, draped the mosquito curtain round the bed and turned the light out there too. Ducking under the curtain, he lay down.

The air was still and heavy, pressing warmly down on him. He was sweating under his nightshirt. He pushed the sheet down to his feet and lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, watching the dim shadows from the passing lights in the street below flickering across the ceiling.

Closing his eyes, he clasped his hands over his chest and whispered a prayer, as he had done, secretly, every night in his berth on the Orcades. He remembered to add a prayer for the executed pirates. His eyes opened again on the flickering shadows. His arms beneath the nightshirt were sweaty. So were his chest and neck. He undid all the buttons down to his waist and pulled the nightshirt open. Forlorn images of home came straying through his mind: his mother in her apron, cooking at the large black grate in the kitchen; his father with his scarred hands crossed in his lap, seated immovably in the corner, silent and brooding. He saw Emily with her parents at the Easter service, her wavy brown hair falling loose beneath her wide-brimmed hat, the soft curls round her neck as she knelt to pray. He stirred despite himself and his fingers brushed the bare skin of his chest as if he were stroking her arm, her shoulder, her throat. To punish himself for his impurity, he forced himself to recall the horror of the execution that morning. But somehow praying for the dead men's souls had dulled the frightfulness, moved their deaths to a different plane, more distant, less disturbing. And it was Emily's lips that came into his mind now, fresher and more vivid than the ritual cruelty that had stunned and sickened him only a few hours before.

He turned onto his side and thought determinedly of the things that had happened to him since he left the Orcades, of the new curtains and chair covers and desk, of the pamphlets he would begin studying tomorrow. Soon he was thinking only of his temerity in bidding at the auction, of the Orcades sailing on to Japan, of the weird sing-song sound of the Chinese language.... A mosquito was whining somewhere near his ear. His watch was hanging by its chain from the brass bedrail, which gleamed softly in the dimness and he wondered whether he'd wound it properly, willing himself to reach up and check. But his lids were heavy now and it seemed such a big, tiring effort.... That mosquito was whining by his ear again and he must check his watch, in a minute he would reach up for it....

He woke up with a jolt, his eyes wide and fearful. He was lying on his back, the filmy gauze of the mosquito net veiling the menacing shadows that lurked and shifted round about him. For a moment he wondered why the ship wasn't rocking, where the other berths in the cabin had got to, but then he heard the raucous voices outside laughing and shouting, and something that sounded like a violin only it made weird, screeching, endlessly undulating sounds, not like music at all really, just a continuously repeated wailing. He remembered with a sudden, hopeless, forlorn drop in his stomach that he was not safe on the boat, he was alone in China, in Shanghai. He must think of something nice and peaceful. Like the ship when he left England for instance: the band playing at Tilbury Dock, the people shouting and waving, the paper streamers whirring through the drizzly air. He'd kissed Emily on the cheek, stiffly and shyly in front of his parents, and she'd turned her face away blushing, her fair skin glowing right down to her throat. Perhaps further - no, he mustn't think of that. He thought instead of his father gripping his hat with one clawed, mottled hand and waving with the other, unsmiling; while his mother fluttered her handkerchief briefly then turned jerkily away. The coal black smoke had bellied up from the funnels and, as the gap between the quayside and the sliding vessel widened, their faces, then their whole bodies, had slowly blurred. The deck had begun to creak in the estuary as the level banks of the Thames slowly receded, dimmed, became a faint grey smudge merging with the clouds. And then England was gone.