The Russian Concubine

by Kate Furnivall

  For a moment then, he thought she would bite.

  To say Valentina Ivanova Parker was angry was an understatement. Theo was shocked. Never had he heard a woman use such language, and quite obviously neither had Alfred. She poured torrents of Russian and English abuse on her daughter’s head. But the girl stood there and took it. She didn’t cry and she didn’t run. Her hands rubbed the sides of her damp skirt and sometimes her gaze lowered to her wet shoes but most of the time she looked her mother in the eye and said nothing.

  By contrast Alfred’s displeasure was muted. But he was British. Not like these crazy Russians. Theo attempted to leave but Alfred stopped him.

  ‘Hang on a sec, old chap, if you don’t mind. I want to hear the details of what happened, but first I must deal with Lydia.’

  So Theo waited and while he waited he went over to the cocktail cabinet and poured out three large whiskies. He sipped his own.

  ‘Enough, Valentina. That’s enough.’ Alfred spoke sharply and it got through to her.

  She stopped shouting. Glared at both Alfred and Lydia, snapped something more in Russian, and then headed straight for the drink Theo was holding out for her. She knocked it back in one gulp and shuddered.

  ‘I hate whisky,’ she said and filled the glass with vodka.

  Alfred spoke quietly but sternly to his stepdaughter. ‘Lydia, you have only been a member of my family for a week but already you’ve brought disgrace on my name.’

  He paused, in case she had any comment to make, but the girl just scowled at the floor, the way Theo had seen her do a hundred times in class when reprimanded.

  ‘Emotions are running high right now,’ Alfred continued with remarkable calm, ‘and we all risk saying things we may later regret, so I want you to go up to your room and stay there for twenty-four hours. To give you time to reflect on what you’ve done. Your meals will be brought to you. Now go.’

  ‘But I can’t, I have to . . .’

  ‘No buts.’

  ‘Please, he’s ill and . . .’

  ‘Lydia, do not make this harder than it already is.’

  Theo saw the girl glance at her mother, but Valentina had turned her back on her daughter.

  ‘Go,’ Alfred repeated.

  She went. Theo was surprised. He had never found her so biddable himself at school. What special powers did old Alfred possess? Theo drank more of his whisky, though it wasn’t yet noon. It was bloody indecent getting caught up in someone else’s family palaver, even a good egg like Alfred. Damned bad business. He lit one of his Turkish cigarettes and felt the whisky start to dull the edge of the pains in his body. Christ, how long before they passed this time? Alfred was speaking, but Theo had trouble listening. He was thinking about Chang An Lo. And Po Chu.

  ‘Leave it, Tiyo. Let a workman do it.’

  ‘No, it helps me.’

  Theo was sanding down the top of a desk. Two nights ago he had roamed the classrooms in an agony of pain and despair, his whole body shaking with need for the poppy’s peace, unable to sleep, unable to think, unable to listen to Li Mei’s words of comfort. The only thing that filled his mind was his loathing of Christopher Mason. It swelled in his brain until he thought his head would explode with the pressure of it, so he’d taken a sharp knife from the kitchen and carved on Polly Mason’s desk the word HATE in letters six inches high.

  In the morning he’d regretted it. The school Christmas break would end this weekend with the new term about to start, so he set himself this task of repairing the damage to the desk. The repetitive movement of the sandpaper, over and over along the grain of the wood, soothed him in some strange way. To erase hate. To create smoothness. It satisfied something inside him.

  ‘Have you told Chang An Lo?’ he asked Li Mei while his hands continued to move in rhythmic sweeps over the desktop.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘No.’

  The rasping sound of the sandpaper was the only noise in the room. Li Mei perched on one of the other desks, tucked her feet under her, and watched him at work. She was wearing the lilac cheongsam he liked with an amethyst clasp in her black hair, and Theo knew she must be tired from nursing her Chinese patient all night, but still her oval face looked fresh and calm. Even the bruises were fading.

  ‘If I tell him,’ she said at last, ‘that I am the sister of Po Chu, he will wish to leave.’

  ‘Yes, I can see why he would want to. Would that matter?’

  ‘It would. My brother has wounded him and it is my duty to make amends. If I can.’

  Theo glanced up at her, his hands still at work. ‘You’ve been reading the Analects again?’

  She smiled. ‘In the Lun Yu Confucius says much that is true.’

  ‘Po Chu will be angry if he finds out Chang is here.’

  ‘He won’t find out.’ She paused. ‘Will he, Tiyo?’

  Theo said nothing, concentrating on ridding himself and the desk of HATE.

  ‘Will he?’ Li Mei asked again.

  Theo stopped, put down the sandpaper, and brushed the wood dust from his hands. ‘My love, after the brutal way Po Chu beat you, it pleases me to do anything that will hurt your brother. If Po Chu were to find out that Chang is here, he would come and have the satisfaction of killing him, but if he never learns what happened to the one who escaped from his clutches, it will always gall him. So no, he won’t find out from me.’

  ‘Thank you, Tiyo.’

  He returned to the sanding once more.

  ‘Tiyo?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We both know you could use him to bargain. With my father. To make him stop Mason accusing you to Sir Edward.’

  ‘Yes. We both know that.’

  ‘Will you? Use him?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it.’ For a moment he didn’t know whether the rasping noise was inside or outside his head. ‘Which matters more to us, Li Mei? That I go to prison or that this young man dies? What does your Confucius say about that moral dilemma?’

  Tears slid down Li Mei’s pale cheeks.

  He placed a hand on Chang’s forehead. It was hot. Instantly the black eyes opened and stared up at Theo with a wary expression.

  ‘I am better,’ he mumbled thickly.

  ‘I think not,’ Theo said.

  ‘Lydia?’

  ‘She’s fine. But she can’t come to see you. Her parents won’t let her.’

  The young man’s face tightened. He looked in pain. But Theo had a feeling it wasn’t physical. He took pity on him. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be here tomorrow because our school term starts. So I’ll make sure you get to speak to her in her morning break.’

  The black eyes relaxed a little. ‘Xie xie. Thank you.’

  Theo nodded and started to move away.

  ‘Why do you do this?’ Chang asked.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Help me.’

  ‘Ah, why do you think?’

  Chang’s gaze was harsh. Theo felt it scour through him. ‘Because you need help. For yourself,’ the young man said in a low voice. ‘You help me and maybe someone will help you. It is about balance.’

  Theo found the comment unnervingly accurate. It was the same reason he’d taken Yeewai, the cat, from the woman on the junk. You reap what you sow. The gods of all religions seemed to agree on that.

  He changed the subject. ‘Would you like something stronger for the pain?’

  Chang shook his head on the pillow.

  ‘Opium perhaps?’ Theo offered.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good man.’

  47

  Was he dead?

  Or in a police cell?

  Did he miss her?

  Was he smiling at the lovely Li Mei the way he’d smiled at her?

  No answers. Just questions.

  If only she hadn’t given her word to Alfred Parker in Tuson’s Tearoom. She had promised to obey him in exchange for the money, but she’d lied to him before. Stolen from him. Thought nothing of deceiving hi
m. So why did she feel so bound by this absurd promise? Why?

  She was lying on her bed exactly where Chang An Lo had lain, her head where his had rested on the pillow, but she hadn’t slept. As the night hours crawled by, she had time and again buried her face in the white Egyptian cotton of the sheets and pillowcase and tried to breathe in the essence of him. But it was too faint. Just the smell of herbs. She had risen from her bed as a dull dawn turned the sky from black to silvery grey, the clouds so heavy and low she could almost touch them. But it had stopped snowing. From her window just the sight of the shed sent a spasm of longing through her, and she stared for a long time at the flimsy wooden frame cocooned in white. The spindly claw prints of a bird trailed across the crisp crust of snow around it. Eventually she had retreated to her bed again and wrapped her arms around the pillow.

  She could break her word. Creep out of the house before Alfred and Valentina woke. Though not that for one minute did she think her mother was asleep; no, she would be tossing and turning, listening and watching the light grow paler. Lydia was seriously worried about her mother. She’d never seen her so angry, so out of control. It made Lydia’s chest hurt to think about it, so she concentrated on Alfred.

  She could break her word to him.

  She could.

  She closed her eyes and tried to do deep breathing the way she’d seen Chang An Lo do when the pain was bad. In through the nose, out long and slow through the mouth. But her thoughts kept getting in the way.

  She could break her word. She’d done so before.

  No. No.

  This was different. This was . . . she sought for the word . . . this was . . . fundamental.

  In desperation she rolled onto her side and instead let her mind return like a homing pigeon to the feel of Chang An Lo’s body next to hers, inside hers, on top of hers. The taste of his skin on her tongue. The look in his eyes when he said he loved her. He loved her.

  But underneath it all she was aware of a deep swirling anger in her stomach. An acid. Burning her. Alexei Serov. He had betrayed her.

  ‘Good morning, Lydia.’

  She didn’t feel like speaking.

  ‘I said good morning, Lydia.’

  She sighed. ‘Good morning, Alfred.’

  ‘That’s better. Here, coffee.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took the cup from him but placed it on her bedside table. Sitting cross-legged and fully clothed on the bed, she made no effort to stand up or be courteous.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘We all have to be very adult about this situation.’

  ‘Tell my mother that.’

  He looked at her sharply and removed his spectacles, polished them on his clean white handkerchief, and replaced them in a precise manner. He folded the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

  She was surprised he even asked. She nodded at the chair.

  ‘Thank you.’ He sat down and folded his arms across his chest. Now they were on the same level.

  She waited. He took his time.

  ‘Lydia, what you did last week was very wrong and your mother and I are deeply upset about your behaviour. You should be ashamed.’ His brown eyes studied her. ‘But I don’t think you are. I have spoken to Wai and he tells me he hardly saw you all week and that you were always in the shed or in your room.’ He glanced around him as if he might yet find Chang behind the door. ‘Clearly you were with your Chinese friend. Is that correct?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And your friend is a fugitive Communist?’

  She was more wary now.

  ‘I do not intend to ask about the degree of . . . intimacy between you,’ a red flush of embarrassment made him pause, ‘ . . . but I trust you sufficiently to know that you . . . well . . . that you would not do anything unwise. Immoral or unchristian,’ he added with sudden intensity.

  ‘Alfred, he was ill. I nursed him. Is that unchristian?’

  ‘Of course not, my dear. It is to be commended. The Good Samaritan, eh?’

  ‘The Good Russian.’

  It made him smile. ‘Exactly.’

  He was showing signs of beginning to relax. Only a little, but it was something. She picked up the coffee.

  ‘Mmm, it’s good,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  He leaned back in the chair and unfolded his arms. ‘What we have to discuss is where we go from here. I don’t want to cause any of us unnecessary grief.’

  She controlled her relief, keeping it from her eyes and her face. He was coming around.

  ‘So I feel I must remind you of the promise you gave me in the teashop. Our bargain.’

  Her relief ebbed away. She brushed a hand across her face to hide her disappointment. ‘So what orders are you giving me?’

  ‘Lydia, I don’t like that tone of voice. I do not consider the word orders to be appropriate, but I am saying that you must not see this Chinese Communist again. It is too dangerous for you.’

  ‘No. Please.’

  ‘I insist.’

  Lydia could feel her face slowly fall apart. She hid it in her hands.

  There was a long silence in the room. Then he was on the bed beside her. ‘There, there, my dear. It’s for the best. Don’t cry.’ He patted her shoulder.

  She wasn’t crying. Just dying.

  ‘Alfred,’ she said through her fingers, ‘how would you feel if I said you must never see my mother again?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Oh Lydia, my dear girl. You are too young to be going through such despair.’

  ‘Please, Alfred. Let me see him.’

  He stroked her head, and she knew by the touch of his hand he was going to say no. She sat up and suddenly smiled at him.

  ‘Mama told me you want a baby.’

  He blushed fiercely and looked away, at the snow on the sill outside where a sparrow was fluttering, its feathers ruffled against the cold.

  ‘I think it’s wonderful, Alfred.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  He was delighted. She could see it in his eyes, and it touched her that he should care what she thought.

  ‘So how about another bargain?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A bargain again. I’ll do everything I can to persuade Mama to come around to the idea of having a baby, if you . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Let me say it. If you let me visit Chang An Lo while he’s at Mr Theo’s house.’

  ‘Look, Lydia, I . . .’

  ‘Mr Theo can always be in the room. We’d never be alone, I promise. Please. I need to see that he’s getting better and is still safe.’

  ‘I’m not happy about it.’ He frowned at her, but his eyes were softer.

  ‘It matters to me so much,’ she said quietly.

  He took a deep breath. Teetered on the edge.

  ‘A baby would be lovely,’ she urged.

  His mouth widened into a smile, despite himself. ‘You are a very persuasive young lady, you know.’

  ‘So I can see him?’

  ‘Oh, very well, Lydia. You can see him. No, don’t look so elated. I will permit you only one visit and not until tomorrow when you are at school. To say good-bye.’

  Lydia said nothing.

  ‘I will speak to Willoughby and arrange it,’ Alfred continued. ‘Now, let that be an end to the matter.’

  Lydia reached out and gently touched his hand on the eiderdown. ‘Two visits, Alfred. Please let it be two visits?’

  He surprised her by laughing. ‘You are a strong-minded miss, aren’t you? Very well. Two visits. Under Willoughby’s strict supervision.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He kissed the side of her head, less awkward than before. ‘Right.’ He stood up.

  ‘And you’ll speak to Mama? Make her say yes to my visits?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’r />
  ‘And I’ll get her to agree to the baby. If you bought her a piano it would help.’

  For a moment their eyes met, and both knew a bond had been formed. Alfred nodded to her, not quite certain what to say.

  ‘Alfred,’ Lydia said, ‘for someone who has never been a father, you are very good at it.’

  He blushed again and rubbed his chin self-consciously, but he was smiling as he left.

  ‘Mama.’

  No answer.

  Valentina was holding a newspaper up in front of her face, but Lydia doubted that she was reading. It was her way of finding privacy. At intervals her foot in its velvet slipper would tap impatiently. Supper had been a stiff and stilted affair, but in the drawing room afterward Alfred had asked, ‘Lydia, do you play chess?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like a game?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good show.’

  He’d brought out a superb set of ancient ivory figures and proceeded to outmanoeuvre her with ease, but she learned from it. About the game. About him. And about herself. His patience was impressive but his mental discipline was too rigid, whereas she was impetuous. It was both her strength and her weakness. She needed to slow down.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said when her king lay flat on the board.

  ‘You’ve the making of a good player, my dear, if only you would . . .’

  ‘Think more before I move. I know.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He smiled at her, his brown eyes warm behind his gold spectacles. ‘Exactly.’ He left the room to put away the box of chess pieces.

  ‘Mama.’

  Slowly Valentina lowered the newspaper and looked coolly at her daughter.

  ‘Did Liev Popkov know your family in Russia?’

  Valentina’s expression did not change, but Lydia could tell she was not pleased.

  ‘He worked for my father. A long time ago,’ Valentina said shortly and raised the paper again. Subject closed.

  48

  Chang An Lo opened his eyes and saw her face. For a second he was sure it was another of the dreams of her that the gods granted him in his sleep, but he could feel her hand firm on his wrist and the tickle of her hair brushing the skin of his cheek as she bent over him.