the men began to kneel down in a long line, she turned away abruptly.
Hwai-Yang was a rural city and its smells were those of a great feudal village. Outside the gates were a row of hovels of dried mud, so dilapidated they looked as though a good shove would lay the lot flat. The walls themselves, old, crenelated, twelve feet thick and covered at the top with weeds and nettles, overhung the Yangtze, wide enough for carts and barrows to move along them, and beyond them the refuse of the coolies’ huts was dumped along the river bank in a humming cloud of flies.
The streets inside the city, however, were full of elegant lattice work--red and gold and elaborately carved, and decrepit with disrepair. They were ear-splitting with the cries of street hawkers and coolies shouting a way for their loads, and jammed with people surging along the narrow uneven footwalks round the deep stagnant green pools that filled the holes where paving blocks had been stolen to make bases for clay household stoves.
The hotel where Lao had reserved rooms for them turned out to be a drab dusty building stinking of drains, with a fly-spotted picture of Calvin Coolidge over the desk to indicate its Westernisation and chickens scratching outside the entrance, for scraps thrown out from the dining room. Though he’d felt at the airfield that he’d reached the very limit of disappointment, Ira, holding his bag in the hall and staring round at the dusty interior with its wilting palms and fading gilt and the fawning and not very clean Chinese kow-towing in front of him, felt his heart sink.
None of them fancied staying and they turned on Lao in a body and insisted on searching for a house to rent. With his none-too-willing help, two small furnished bungalows, full of Chinese perfectionism and exquisite nothings, were eventually discovered in a large garden full of flame trees and red jasmine by the city walls. Between them there was a low grey-roofed pavilion and an ornamental zigzag bridge over a lily pond that contained huge black and silver fish. It was only later that they discovered the owners and their families had been thrown out neck and crop to make room for them.
By the evening, they had established themselves inside, Ira and Sammy sharing one and Fagan and Ellie the other, Ellie enchanted with the Chinese bric-a-brac, her grave unsmiling face suffused with pleasure as she moved through the rooms touching things with her finger-tips, her eyes bright, her expression warm and soft.
As they stood on the verandah, the anger over the method of their arrival subsiding in thoughts of a settled existence, a cart appeared with an assortment of house-servants, all carrying their own pots and pans, their shaven heads polished like ancient stones, their smiles wide and friendly. They were still establishing themselves at the back of the houses when a palanquin with silk curtains also stopped outside. Ira and Sammy stared at it with interest. It seemed to indicate all kinds of Oriental mysteries.
‘What do you reckon this is, Sammy?’ Ira asked.
Sammy grinned. ‘Tsu’s missis come to make the beds,’ he suggested.
As the curtains were pulled aside, a Chinese girl, small, dainty and attractive, stepped down, carrying a cage containing two bright birds. She paused, looked round, spoke to one of the servants and promptly headed for the bungalow.
‘Well, she seems to belong to us, not to Fagan,’ Ira pointed out.
They met the girl as she entered the house. She had sloe eyes with lashes like fans, and a peach colour whipped into her cheeks by the boisterous breeze. Her possessions seemed to consist of the caged birds and one small bundle tied up in a silk shawl.
She bobbed her head, smiled to show teeth that were startlingly white and made a delicate gesture with a long thin hand. ‘Mei-Mei.’ she said. ‘Mei-Mei.’
The words sounded vaguely like an incantation, and Ira and Sammy stared at each other.
‘Perhaps it’s her name,’
Hwai-Yang was a rural city and its smells were those of a great feudal village. Outside the gates were a row of hovels of dried mud, so dilapidated they looked as though a good shove would lay the lot flat. The walls themselves, old, crenelated, twelve feet thick and covered at the top with weeds and nettles, overhung the Yangtze, wide enough for carts and barrows to move along them, and beyond them the refuse of the coolies’ huts was dumped along the river bank in a humming cloud of flies.
The streets inside the city, however, were full of elegant lattice work--red and gold and elaborately carved, and decrepit with disrepair. They were ear-splitting with the cries of street hawkers and coolies shouting a way for their loads, and jammed with people surging along the narrow uneven footwalks round the deep stagnant green pools that filled the holes where paving blocks had been stolen to make bases for clay household stoves.
The hotel where Lao had reserved rooms for them turned out to be a drab dusty building stinking of drains, with a fly-spotted picture of Calvin Coolidge over the desk to indicate its Westernisation and chickens scratching outside the entrance, for scraps thrown out from the dining room. Though he’d felt at the airfield that he’d reached the very limit of disappointment, Ira, holding his bag in the hall and staring round at the dusty interior with its wilting palms and fading gilt and the fawning and not very clean Chinese kow-towing in front of him, felt his heart sink.
None of them fancied staying and they turned on Lao in a body and insisted on searching for a house to rent. With his none-too-willing help, two small furnished bungalows, full of Chinese perfectionism and exquisite nothings, were eventually discovered in a large garden full of flame trees and red jasmine by the city walls. Between them there was a low grey-roofed pavilion and an ornamental zigzag bridge over a lily pond that contained huge black and silver fish. It was only later that they discovered the owners and their families had been thrown out neck and crop to make room for them.
By the evening, they had established themselves inside, Ira and Sammy sharing one and Fagan and Ellie the other, Ellie enchanted with the Chinese bric-a-brac, her grave unsmiling face suffused with pleasure as she moved through the rooms touching things with her finger-tips, her eyes bright, her expression warm and soft.
As they stood on the verandah, the anger over the method of their arrival subsiding in thoughts of a settled existence, a cart appeared with an assortment of house-servants, all carrying their own pots and pans, their shaven heads polished like ancient stones, their smiles wide and friendly. They were still establishing themselves at the back of the houses when a palanquin with silk curtains also stopped outside. Ira and Sammy stared at it with interest. It seemed to indicate all kinds of Oriental mysteries.
‘What do you reckon this is, Sammy?’ Ira asked.
Sammy grinned. ‘Tsu’s missis come to make the beds,’ he suggested.
As the curtains were pulled aside, a Chinese girl, small, dainty and attractive, stepped down, carrying a cage containing two bright birds. She paused, looked round, spoke to one of the servants and promptly headed for the bungalow.
‘Well, she seems to belong to us, not to Fagan,’ Ira pointed out.
They met the girl as she entered the house. She had sloe eyes with lashes like fans, and a peach colour whipped into her cheeks by the boisterous breeze. Her possessions seemed to consist of the caged birds and one small bundle tied up in a silk shawl.
She bobbed her head, smiled to show teeth that were startlingly white and made a delicate gesture with a long thin hand. ‘Mei-Mei.’ she said. ‘Mei-Mei.’
The words sounded vaguely like an incantation, and Ira and Sammy stared at each other.
‘Perhaps it’s her name,’
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