The Secret Mandarin by Sara Sheridan Page B

teach,’ said Robert. ‘You may keep books, perhaps. Something will turn up if you are willing.’
    ‘I could perform,’ I countered.
    ‘For God’s sake,’ Robert exploded. ‘Will you never stop?’
    He had done everything he could. I realised I must have tried him horribly. Robert was fulfilling his lifelong desire to make his fortune. I was far from realising any of my dreams. I told myself that I must keep my eyes open. There had to be something—surely the choice was not between a decrepit husband of advancing years or a bookkeeper’s role.
    ‘Is this where I am meant to be?’ I thought to myself. A drawing-room lady in a remote colony. A spinster. As good as invisible.
    ‘What is the point of travelling so far in order to become so small? I am not a teacher, Robert. I am not a convenient wife for some old soul you might meet in planning your excursions. I want to be myself .’
    Robert’s face wore an expression as if he had tasted sour milk.
    ‘Yourself,’ he echoed. ‘There is no place anywhere I know for yourself, Mary. It is pure indulgence.’
    ‘I like Hong Kong,’ I said.
    ‘Good, good.’ He was not listening.
    ‘But I have nothing worthwhile to do here.’
    I had written letters to Jane all the way from Cape Town though I had not included the truth about the cabin boy and Barraclough or, for that matter, her husband. Instead they were full of my observations from the deck of the ship,details of exotic and unusual foodstuffs and lively questions about Henry. I had not dispatched one of them. Robert had forwarded a single short missive telling his wife we were well and had arrived thus far. I found myself unable to communicate with my sister, probably for the first time in my life. The truth was that I was afraid, I missed my son and I felt truly lost to the world. I could not tell her any of that.
    Robert was, as ever, unperturbed. While brief in his writings to the family, he had regularly furnished a gardening journal with his lengthy observations on the plant life wherever we had docked. These were set to appear monthly in the form of a regular column. It irked him that they would be published out of their proper season but there was nothing he could do. The passage west was as irregular as it had proved eastwards and his words would appear in print whenever they happened to arrive in England. Should my sister wish to see what her husband had been occupied with some five months out of time she need only subscribe to the periodical for his views on exotic blooms, ferns, palms and unusual fruits and vegetables.
    It was this that held up Robert’s departure by two days, for he was committed to sending copy and in his rush to prepare for the journey had not done so. Hong Kong had proved a font of horticultural excitement and Robert paced the drawing room as he attempted to edit the weeks’ experiences down to a page or two. Plants were not a subject about which he was naturally abrupt, and he had some difficulty. In the end he settled upon providing material for two columns—one on the subject of Hong Kong’s indigenous flora and fauna and another on the cultivation of imported species. Many of these had been brought recently to the island by our new friends and reared from seed.
    I made myself scarce. The prospect of Robert’s departureunsettled me. He would sail to Amoy first, via Namoa. I had traced his route on the map. I knew the flat paper was deceptive. What was a finger or two’s width could take weeks to traverse and once on the mainland the overland route would be arduous. Robert was not set to return to Hong Kong for at least a year and I would be alone. He was the only person in a thousand miles who knew me or had my interests (or so he thought) to heart. I felt hemmed in by my homesickness and fear—the trepidation of not knowing what was to become of me and the sinking feeling that I was between the devil and the deep blue sea. In all likelihood there was no way forward