by Ann Bridge
There was of course a reason for Antony’s absence of mind, which had caused him to miss the junction of the two tracks. To love is an inspiring activity of the soul, much more so than most of its other activities; and the discovery that one loves, however hopeless and difficult the circumstances, has generally something exhilarating about it. No circumstances, Antony felt, could be more hopeless and difficult, indeed impossible, than his—it was not only useless for him to love Rose Pelham, but to mention his love, or even to indulge the thought of it in secret would actually be wrong; it was a thing he must wrestle with and struggle against. But all the same, his spirit tended to soar within him as he strode down the track, even while he told himself that he must stop thinking about it. He experienced that peculiar intensifying of the faculties of awareness and response—though there was a sort of dull pain somewhere in the region of the pit of his stomach, to his eyes the rocks were whiter, the flowers more vivid; the high light of the sun falling at noon on the glossy polished leaves of the shrubs in the gorge gave them a silvery glitter that was brilliant as never before. It was a thing he always noticed, and always delighted in, but today it seemed to him to have a passionate and dazzling quality of beauty. He walked ahead of the rest, to be free to think; he wanted to think out Rose’s problem, and how she could best be helped; but thinking about her problems involved thinking about Rose herself, and a series of pictures of her kept up a running accompaniment to his mind’s inner argument.
Anastasia, who knew how tiresome even a small ailment can be on a trip of this sort, kept a watchful eye on her cousin at first. But apart from the fact that once they had reached the top of the col she rode her ass, Mrs. Pelham showed no signs of discomfort, and protested that she was perfectly all right, only she didn’t want to talk. Anastasia put this down to a desire to avoid Henry—she had an inkling that there was some sort of trouble brewing there; and after a time she ceased to worry about Rose, and watched her distant figure jogging along on her donkey, while she talked to Hargreaves and Hillier.
But Rose was not all right. She had had a bad night, and felt vaguely poorly when they started—but that, she told herself, was only to be expected with one of her hellish colds. Walking in the sun might make her sweat and do it good. But during the long pull up onto the col she found her breath unnaturally short, and breathing made her chest hurt rather; at the top she felt really ill. So she rode her moke, and jolted along in great discomfort. Clearly this cold was going to be a regular beast. Avoiding Henry was the least of her reasons for saying she didn’t want to talk; talking hurt her throat, the air coming in seemed to rasp her chest.
By about three in the afternoon they were down again in the open country at the head of the Ch’ing Shui Valley, and they paused under a walnut tree for a cup of tea while they discussed what they should do next. They had made good time, doing the actual crossing of the pass in seven hours, not counting an hour’s rest at lunch-time, and Antony was rather in favour of pushing on down the valley towards Chai-T’ang; the alternative was to spend the night again at Tu Chia Chuang. It was at this point that Anastasia noticed Rose’s cough. She was sitting a little apart, sipping her tea, eating nothing and saying nothing; but every now and then she gave a little dry, short cough—and each time she coughed, she shut her eyes, as if it hurt her. Anastasia watched her for a little while, and then went over to her.
“Rose, does your cough hurt?” she asked.
“Yes, it does—a little,” said Rose. “It’s only the cold,” she repeated, as if this was an article of faith.
Anastasia took her hand and put her fingers firmly on the wrist, while she looked at her watch. “H’m—it’s a hundred,” she said, after a moment. With equal lack of ceremony she pushed back Rose’s hat and laid her palm across her forehead. It was hot. “Ant!” Anastasia then called.
Lydiard came over to them.
“Tu Chia Chuang has it for tonight, I think,” Anastasia said. “Rose’s cold is pretty heavy. I think we’d better get her to bed and give her a long night.”
Antony had rather avoided even looking at Rose during the day—he now examined her anxiously. She didn’t look at all well—her face was somehow puffy, and there were dark circles round her eyes.
“Right you are,” he said. “How do you feel, Rose?”
“Oh, a bit mouldy,” she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. “I always do, with a cold.”
So they struck across the valley back to Tu Chia Chuang, through golden maize-fields set with the green stately shapes of innumerable walnut trees. While the tents were being set up again under the willows on the green turf in front of the school-house t’ai, Lydiard went off, as usual, to talk to the schoolmaster and the village elders; Anastasia grubbed in her luggage, produced a clinical thermometer, and took Rose’s temperature. When she drew the little glass tube from between Rose’s lips she stared at it in dismay. She had expected something over ninety-nine, perhaps even a hundred—but the quicksilver registered a hundred and two.
“Lawks!” she said. “It’s up. Rose, tell me exactly how you feel?”
Rose coughed again, lightly and as if with precaution, Anastasia noticed; she then admitted that her head ached “fit to split”, that her chest felt as if it were full of red-hot cotton-wool, and that to cough in fact hurt diabolically. Anastasia asked a few more questions, and listened as she coughed again.
“Bronchitis,” she then said laconically. “Well, we must get you to bed. It often goes off quite fast if one has the right things. I wonder what Ant has got?” She glanced about her. Clouds were gathering down the valley, towering up into the sky, white and golden in the sunlight—to Anastasia they looked uncommonly like the prelude to one of North China’s autumn thunderstorms. “The tent’s not much good for this,” she then observed. “We shall have to try and see about a room. I must get hold of Ant.”
But at that moment Lydiard reappeared through the little door leading into the school-house proper, his face rather preoccupied. With a lift of his eyebrows he summoned his sister to his side.
“Rather a bore,” he said, strolling down the green courtyard out of earshot of the others. “They say that a whole division of Tu Yu Jen’s troops is falling back on the railway, to go down to join in the Hankow campaign—they’ll be coming over that other col to the east of the Hsiao Lung Mên. They expect them here tomorrow. We’d really do better to get on, if we could—we shall be right in their track all down the Ch’ing Shui Valley, and you know what that means.”
Anastasia did know, perfectly well.
“We can’t get on, I’m afraid,” she said. “Rose is a hundred and two. I think she’s got bronchitis.”
Was it her fancy, or did Antony actually turn a little paler at her words? He certainly looked extremely worried.
“Is that high, for bronchitis? I’ve never had anything to do with it.”
“I have. It is a bit high, for so early on, but then she’s been on the road all day, and goodness knows how long she’s had a temperature. I wish I’d thought to take it this morning.”
“I wish to Heaven we’d stayed at La Trappe,” said Lydiard fervently. “We had everything there—doctoring, shelter, and protection. We’re in a proper mess now. Is the tent all right for her?”
“No, I don’t think so—and besides it looks as, if there may be a thunderstorm. We must get her into a room. What is there?”
“The school-house is the only place. I’ll go and fix it up.”
In a very short time the small desks and squares of goat-skin had all been pushed to one side of the single room which constituted the school-house, and Rose’s and Anastasia’s camp beds placed in the space thus left free. Anastasia, briskly unpacking, bustled Rose into bed with a hot bottle. The room had no door, only a swinging curtain of bamboo fringe; but the walls and roof were solid, and the floor was dry. It was much better than the tent. When all was done and Rose, a couple of sweaters over her nightgown, was leaning back against a selection of everyone�
��s green capok pillows, sipping something hot out of a cup, Antony came in, carrying his tin box.
“Now, Tasia, what do you want for this complaint?” he said, setting it down on the other bed.
Anastasia pushed up her hair.
“She’s had three aspirins to bring the temperature down, and she’s drinking hot lemon and honey—that will help the aspirin, and ease her throat. What I want”—she ticked the items off on her fingers—“is camphorated oil to rub her chest, and if possible a belladonna plaster; Friar’s Balsam and menthol to inhale—that’s most important; and either bryonia alba or tartar of antimony to take. And a purge—but I’ve got plenty of senna, so you needn’t worry about that.”
Antony grubbed in his box; Anastasia watched him; Rose sipped painfully, in silence, and then coughed, more painfully still. When she coughed, Antony looked up; the distress in his face was painful to see.
“I’ve not got one of them,” he said wretchedly. “They aren’t the things I bring. What must you have?”
“I must have the inhalants, at least,” said Anastasia firmly. “I nursed Aunt Anna with bronchitis once. We can get steam—the boys are boiling a kettle, now—but I must have menthol somehow, and Friar’s Balsam.”
Rose, with difficulty, now spoke. “Couldn’t we send a boy back to La Trappe? They must have these things there.”
“Yes!” said Anastasia. “That’s a good idea. We could send a note for what we want to the Père Prieur.” She fished in her zip-bag and pulled out a block. “What’s the French for Friar’s Balsam?” she asked, unscrewing her fountain pen.
No one had any idea. Menthol they presumed was the same, huile camphorée was easy, and of the others Anastasia knew the Latin names. But Friar’s Balsam stumped them. At this point Antony said—“Come and do this on the t’ai, Tasia; it’s rather fussing for Rose.” Outside he said, in a lowered tone—“I don’t think it’s the least use trying to send, Tasia. This news about Tu’s division is all over the village, and the donkey-boys have got the wind up completely already. We shall have our work cut out to keep them, as it is, probably—certainly none of them will go off alone to La Trappe.”
“Two together?”
“You couldn’t count on them. You know what they are.”
Anastasia said nothing—she frowned and thought.
“How important is it, actually, to have these things?” Antony asked. He was far more familiar with Chinese complaints than with English ones now, his rather sketchy knowledge of doctoring having all been picked up in the East—and bronchitis left him completely at a loss.
“You can’t tell,” said Anastasia a little impatiently. “She’s quite bad enough now, and we must somehow get her chest clear, or it may turn to pneumonia or anything. I don’t know of any way but inhaling with menthol and Friar’s Balsam to do that. We can give her steam alone, but it’s not so good, and slower. The other things all help, of course—specially camphorated oil or something to rub her chest with, as a counter-irritant; unless we can get a belladonna plaster.”
They were out on the t’ai, now; Hillier and Hargreaves, sitting with gloomy faces, rose when they appeared, but did not interrupt.
“Then one of us must go, that’s all,” said Antony.
“What’s the idea?” Hargreaves asked.
The position was explained to him.
“I don’t mind going,” Hillier said immediately. “Without the asinine contingent, one could bat back in no time. We were only seven hours actually walking today, donkeys and all.”
Anastasia looked at him gratefully, but before she could speak Antony said—
“I think whoever goes must be someone who speaks Chinese. If the hills are crawling with troops you’ve no idea what complications you may meet, and it might need a lot of explaining to get through.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Anastasia. “Well, that rules out everyone but Ant and me.”
“Surely, my dear Asta, you’d obviously better stay and nurse Rose,” Henry said.
For a second Asta glanced at her brother, but Antony showed no sign of speaking.
“Not absolutely obviously, H.H.,” she said then. “Ant would be faster than I should, of course. But I think in some ways it would be better if he stayed.”
“Why on earth?” Hillier interjected rather sharply.
“Because whoever goes over the pass may or may not meet Tu’s men, but whoever stays here is bound to,” Anastasia said. “And I think Ant would cope with that part better than I should. What do you say, Ant?”
“I was thinking of that,” he said. “I’m not sure that that wouldn’t be the best plan, really. You can tell me what to do for Rose.”
“Surely the troops won’t interfere with us? It’s not, as if they were t’ao-pings,” Hillier said.
“Oh, won’t they? They’ll try to collar your donkeys, for one thing, for a cert,” said Hargreaves. “No, I hadn’t thought of that—I fancy that is the solution, my dear Asta.”
“Whoever goes had better start as soon as possible, anyhow,” said Antony briefly.
“But she can’t go alone!” said Hillier, for once outraged.
Anastasia looked at her watch.
“Of course not,” she said. “You and Henry can toss up as to which of you comes too—and bring a revolver, whichever it is.” All her usual vagueness and gentle manner had disappeared; in this emergency she was self-possessed, decided, and brisk. “It’s a quarter-past four now,” she went on—“that gives us just over four hours of daylight. With any luck we should be over the col and on the good track by dark. I’ll bring a torch. And we’ll start in five minutes. Come on, Ant—I’ll tell Rose and show you what to do.” She went out, followed by Antony.
Hillier went over and rummaged in his valise—he stood up with Rose’s revolver in his hand.
“You going, my dear fellow?” said Henry.
“Yes, I’m going,” said Hillier shortly. “Can you ask that Wu person for some chocolate?” he added, as he filled a cigarette case.
“O.K. by me. Lai!” said Henry.
In the school-house Anastasia, very gently but matter-of-factly, was explaining the position to Rose—or as much of it as she thought fit. “We think I’d better go, with Roy or Henry—I can explain to the Père Prieur what we want better than writing.”
“Oh, that’s such a trail for you!” protested Rose weakly.
“No—it’s really not far. We ought to be back by ten tomorrow. And Ant will look after you—I’m going to tell him what to do.”
“You talked about camphorated oil—I’ve got some carbolated vaseline here,” said Lydiard, who was discouragedly examining the contents of his medicine-box.
“Have you? Good. Rub her chest with that—hard, till it’s red. And then put a hot vest on it. Now look—when Wu brings the kettle, put these towels over her head and fill a big jug with the water, and let her inhale for ten minutes or so.”
“How often?”
“Every two hours, unless she’s asleep. Hang a blanket over that door—it’ll keep the steam in and the night air out. And rub her before you steam her—then it will all hot up together! And mix the juice of a lemon and the same amount of honey in a cup, and let her have little spoonfuls of that—it’ll help her throat.” While she spoke Anastasia was moving round the room, putting things in the pockets of her drill jacket. She sat down on the other bed and began to change from her slippers back into her white walking-shoes.
“Now listen,” she said. “I’ve put a spare nightie round her bottle—Rose, when you sweat, you must lie quiet till you’ve done sweating, and then change. Ant, you must keep the bottle hot. And make her a good brew of senna”—she tossed a packet over to him. “She can have three more aspirins at nine if she hasn’t sweated by then—but I expect she will. Is that all clear?”
“Yes,” said Antony.
Anastasia stood up and went over to Rose. “All right, Ant—I’ll come in a minute,” she said. Antony obediently went out.
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br /> “Goodbye, you poor darling. I hate leaving you,” she said, kissing the hot face.
“I wish you weren’t going,” said Rose faintly.
“So do I. But Ant will look after you—he’s as good as gold! Don’t fuss about him—ask him for whatever you want. He’ll sit up with you, and I daresay you’ll sleep most of the night. Now I’m off—the sooner we go, the sooner we shall be back. Bless you,” and with another kiss she was gone.
A few moments later Antony came back into the room where Rose lay, followed by one boy carrying a rookhi chair and another with a small packing-case; the chair was set by the bed, and he spread a clean towel on the packing-case, on which he proceeded to set out jugs, a bottle of boiled water, tumblers, the thermometer, and the rest of their modest apparatus.