Grace Hardie

by Anne Melville

  What she remembered was not the long period of her married life in England. The years of bringing up children in Greystones seemed dull and easily forgotten in comparison with the great adventure of her honeymoon. Those months were the high point of her life. Nothing before or since had aroused her emotions to such a pitch.

  There had been the excitement of travel. There was sadness, for it was in this wild part of the world that her first baby was born: little Rachel, who had given one cry and then died. But most of all there was joy: the joy of loving Gordon and being loved by him.

  ‘The lilies!’ she exclaimed suddenly, startling Kenneth by the apparent irrelevance of the words. Her memory had reached the moment when Gordon – forced by the news of her pregnancy to divert from his intended route – had glimpsed a valley carpeted with lilies. Back in England he had named his discovery for Grace, the daughter who had not then been born.

  ‘Perhaps your father came again to the valley where he first saw the lilies,’ she explained. ‘Perhaps that was what put the thought of Grace into his mind when he was delirious.’ Ashamed of herself for finding the idea comforting, she stood up, throwing off the rug with which Mrs Mackenzie had covered her. That night, alone in bed, she could weep once more for her husband, but now she must be brave. She walked across the compound to the low, whitewashed room which served as a hospital, to see if she could be of help.

  Dr Mackenzie was giving the day’s instructions to his two nurses, who had their backs to her. Lucy automatically looked first at their shoes. Both had large feet, which could never have been bound. So they were not converts but must have been brought up from babyhood in the Christian faith. As they moved away, Dr Mackenzie turned and smiled to see her.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Lucy, ‘it’s too much to expect that the nurse who cared for my husband is still here?’

  ‘Oh, but she is. You’d like to talk to her, no doubt. I should have thought of that.’ He raised his voice to call. ‘Chung Ru Mai!’

  The taller of the two nurses turned and came towards them. She was a big woman in her thirties, paler in complexion than most of the weather-beaten inhabitants of this district. Much of her hair was tied back in a white cloth, but a straight black fringe covered her forehead and partly obscured her dark eyes. She smiled and nodded as the doctor presumably asked her to describe the last days of her foreign patient.

  Lucy was unable to listen to the translation. Something in the woman’s appearance snatched at her heart, causing it to beat erratically. She could not bring herself to think what it was that upset her, until she heard Kenneth behind her laughing in surprise.

  ‘She reminds me of Grace,’ he said. ‘A Chinese Grace.’

  Chapter Six

  Wide-eyed and pale, Lucy turned to look at Kenneth. He had been joking, but the smile faded from his face as he saw that she was near to fainting. Dr Mackenzie, too, showed alarm at her condition; although the nurse, not understanding English, was merely puzzled.

  With an effort Lucy took a grip on herself.

  ‘I think this explains something,’ she told the doctor. ‘The reason why my husband called the name of our daughter, Grace. Your nurse – there’s a resemblance. If he was delirious at the time, he might well have believed that it was Grace who was nursing him. Tell her from me, if you will, how grateful I am for her care.’

  She listened to the exchange of words and watched intently as the woman smiled and bowed. Not until later that day did she ask Dr Mackenzie if she might have a private word with him.

  ‘Your nurse,’ she said. ‘Chung Ru Mai. Is she Chinese? It seemed to me –’

  ‘You noticed the round eyes? Yes, she must have European blood in her. That’s one reason why she will always stay with us here – not only because she’s a Christian, but because outside she’d be regarded as a freak. In the hospital, though, she’s in her element. An excellent nurse. And married to our porter and odd-job man. A rice Christian he may be, and illiterate, but thoroughly reliable. We’re lucky to have the two of them here.’

  ‘What do you know about her past? Her upbringing?’

  ‘She was brought up in the mission. Before that, I don’t know. She was carried here as a baby. Before my time – more than thirty years ago. As I understand it, she’d been found by a missionary from the China Inland Mission who was touring the country areas. You probably know, Mrs Hardie, of the cruel custom which obtains here, of exposing unwanted female babies outside the towns to die of cold.’

  ‘I’ve heard about it, yes.’

  ‘All of us in the missionary societies, whether or not we have medical training, keep our eyes open for such unfortunate infants. Dr Dennie left Chung Ru Mai here for what I believe he intended to be only a few weeks, whilst he was travelling and unable to care for a small baby. She was suffering from the jaundice of the new-born. It was his intention, I understand, to return and take her to his own mission, where his wife was a trained nurse. But he died in the uprising of ‘88. My predecessor in the hospital here was happy to bring the little girl up and – Mrs Hardie, you are unwell! Have I said something to upset you?’

  ‘Dr Dennie, you said!’ For a second time that day Lucy felt herself near to fainting, and for the second time she held herself in check. ‘Can I speak in confidence, Dr Mackenzie? Until I’ve had time to think.’

  ‘My dear Mrs Hardie, of course.’

  ‘In 1888,’ she said, doing her best to keep her voice unemotional, ‘I gave birth to a baby girl in the village of Jinkouhe. There were no Europeans in the village at the time; not even my husband. The baby was born alive. I heard her cry. But by the time my husband joined me, we were told that she was dead and had already been buried. Later, when I was recovering, I stayed with Mrs Dennie at the China Inland Mission in Suifu. When I learned from her that her husband must have been travelling in the area at the time Rachel was born, it made me very upset – I felt that the baby might have been saved if I could have called on his help at the time of the birth. But it never occurred to me to doubt that she did die.’

  ‘And you’re doubting it now? Are you saying that you believe –?’

  ‘I believe that Chung Ru Mai is my daughter Rachel.’ As she heard herself speak the words, Lucy felt suddenly calm. Yes, she did believe it. She was sure. ‘There’s a family resemblance to my other daughter. And the round eyes … How many Europeans, or concubines of Europeans, would have given birth in such a remote area at that time, and then abandoned the child? I believe that if it hadn’t been for the disturbances of that year Dr Dennie would have returned safely to his wife and would at once have been told about the English visitors she had been entertaining, and the misfortune they’d suffered.’

  The thought that a happy solution had been so close brought Lucy once again near to tears. She raised a handkerchief to her eyes.

  ‘So what do you propose to do?’

  ‘I need to think. That’s why I must ask you to respect my confidence.’ She stood up. It had been a harrowing day that had brought her the first sight of both her husband’s grave and her lost child. ‘I’m very tired. Goodnight, Dr Mackenzie.’

  In spite of her exhaustion she was unable to sleep, tossing the night away on the hard, narrow bed. By morning she had made up her mind; but before speaking again to her host she went across to the little hospital and watched her daughter going about her duties. Not until the evening did she request another private conversation.

  ‘Have you come to a conclusion about Chung Ru Mai?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘No. I’d like your advice. I so much want to take her in my arms and tell her that I’m her mother. That she was stolen from me when I was unable to move. That I would never, never have abandoned her if I’d had the slightest idea that she wasn’t buried, as they told me.’

  Lucy could hear the pitch of her voice rising towards hysteria and did her best to control it. ‘But that may not be in her best interest. What do you think? If I were to take her back with me to England –’

 
; ‘You would have to take her husband as well. Theirs is a Christian marriage, and they love each other. They speak no English. They’d find themselves in a strange society with habits and values they wouldn’t understand.’ He threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘If you’d found her when she was still a child, needing care and wanting to understand that she was loved, that would be a different matter.’

  ‘You’re saying that it’s too much to ask that she should uproot herself?’

  ‘It’s not a decision that I have any right to make. But a choice which would be comforting for you might not be kind to her. I’ve no doubt that in the past thirty-odd years you’ve thought many times about your dead baby, and always with sadness. But she can never have thought of you. She’s happy here. Happy in her work and in her marriage.’

  ‘And secure?’ asked Lucy. ‘I mean, the mission will remain?’

  ‘For as long as it’s God’s will. Nothing in China is predictable, Mrs Hardie. But in these country areas it’s change that meets most resistance. We’re an accepted part of the community, although a foreign one. We’re no longer called Child-eaters. Instead, children are brought to us to heal.’

  ‘I saw one carried in today. By your porter. Her husband. They looked at each other – yes, you’re right to say that there’s love between them.’

  For a long time she was silent. What Dr Mackenzie had said was what she had expected to hear, although in her heart she had hoped that he might encourage a reunion between mother and daughter. She knew that he was right, but the knowledge was hard to bear.

  ‘If I’m to leave her again, I suppose I shouldn’t even tell her who I am.’

  ‘I think that must follow. I realize how difficult it is for you, Mrs Hardie.’

  ‘May I send her a little money from time to time? Not as her mother, but in thanks for her care for my husband. Just so that she may have some extra comforts.’

  ‘I doubt whether the word comfort is part of her vocabulary,’ Dr Mackenzie said. ‘The mission provides all her needs – food, clothes, lodging – and it won’t have occurred to her to want anything else. If you feel a need to give money, I’d suggest that it should be to the society. You could request that it should be used specifically for this mission. It would help to make sure that she remained in familiar surroundings.’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘I must have some more personal link than that. Certainly I’ll give money to your society. But – I could ask her to care for my husband’s grave. She won’t think that an out-of-the-way request, since she nursed him and knows that I can’t stay to look after it myself. I’d like to have a proper headstone made. I could ask her to plant flowers round the spot and then I could give her a present. It would comfort me to think of my daughter tending her father’s grave, even though she’ll never know.’

  ‘She’ll do it out of kindness if she realizes what it would mean to you. But of course you may make her a present if you wish. It’s not for me to say what you should do.’

  ‘May I stay here for a few days while the headstone is cut?’

  ‘My dear Mrs Hardie, for as long as you like. Visitors from home are rare birds, and always welcome.’

  Lucy’s mind was set at rest by the definiteness of her decision. In the days which followed she spent much of her time unobtrusively sketching her daughter as she went about her hospital duties and also requested a formal sitting for a watercolour portrait.

  The last painting she did during her stay was of Gordon’s grave. She had drawn out a simple inscription for Kenneth to carve on the headboard, selecting for the man who had never wanted to be a vintner the description he would have chosen for himself:

  GORDON JOHN HARDIE

  explorer

  1860–1915

  While Kenneth, ready for departure, watched their luggage being loaded on to the horses he had hired, Lucy paid one final visit to the spot. Chung Ru Mai and her husband had already planted roses and azaleas and stood nearby, hoping for approval.

  With a grateful smile she bowed to the hospital porter, her son-in-law. Unable to restrain herself, she took the nurse into her arms.

  ‘I love you, Rachel,’ she said, knowing that the words would not be understood. Then, sadly, she turned to leave. It was unlikely that she would ever return to China to re-visit her long-lost daughter. She could never see her husband again and before long must say goodbye to Kenneth, her wandering son. This journey had been a strange interlude, which now was coming to an end. Within six months or so she would be back in Greystones with her other daughter, picking up the threads of a familiar life in which nothing would have changed.

  ‘Are you ready to go, Mother?’ called Kenneth from the gate of the compound; and Lucy nodded her head.

  Chapter Seven

  There seemed to be few rules in the community to which Philip had retreated after his discharge from hospital. Nevertheless, his family had been made aware that visits were best confined to certain dates. Boxing Day was one of these, and Easter Monday another; whilst a whole week in late summer was designated Community Week, when personal visitors as well as local villagers were invited to help themselves to fruit and vegetables grown on the estate. Grace, making the journey without appointment on a mild day in November 1920, had no idea whether she would be allowed to see her brother or would be turned away.

  Cabs, like servants, were a luxury which she could no longer afford. She left the railway station on foot, her long legs striding out to cover the six miles as quickly as possible. But she had walked less than a mile when a horse-drawn cart turned out of a side lane and pulled up beside her, its driver indicating that she should climb aboard.

  He was one of the brothers. All the villagers called them that, although the men themselves used only each other’s Christian names. Grace found the word appropriate. Although they did not belong to any religious order, they had discovered – as presumably had the earliest monks and friars – that a habit was comfortable to wear in all weathers and could be sewn by themselves from the wool of their own sheep, spun and dyed and woven on their own premises.

  There was no rule enjoining silence, yet Philip was not the only one of them who avoided speech. Knowing this, Grace made no attempt at conversation, but merely smiled gratefully when they arrived at their destination. She made her way up the steps and under the portico of the Georgian house and sat down to wait on a bench in the hall. The driver of the cart would make her arrival known to someone; or else, sooner or later, she would be noticed.

  Either Andrew or George would appear. They were the only ones who were able to converse in a normal way, without having to force themselves to speak. Had the community recognized any kind of ranking within itself, Andrew and George would have been the heads of staff.

  Andrew, as far as Grace was aware, was the only ordained churchman in the group. He had spent his working life as a medical missionary, coming out of retirement to become the chaplain of a military hospital. It was there, in 1916, that he realized the need for a peaceful retreat in which men whose lives had been shattered could recuperate at their own pace.

  Taking it for granted that the Lord would provide, he had perhaps not been surprised to receive, a few weeks later, a letter from an old friend. Colonel George Trafford, already a widower, had just received news of the death in action of the last of his four sons. With no remaining heir and no further interest in life, he was looking for a worthwhile charity to take over his house and estate while allowing him to live quietly in the lodge until his own death.

  Bereavement was George’s war wound, as debilitating as anything suffered by the men whom Andrew brought to live in his house and work his land; but he continued to administer the estate in the interests of the group, and this work had provided a speedier cure for him than for the others. The two elderly men together shouldered all the responsibilities for which the ex-servicemen did not yet feel ready – and that, today, included dealing with the young woman who was sitting in the hall with her head buri
ed in her hands as though she were on the verge of tears.

  It was Andrew, tall and bearded, who emerged from the office. He smiled and held out both hands in welcome. Grace jumped to her feet.

  ‘I’m Philip’s sister.’

  ‘Yes, of course; I remember you, Miss Hardie.’

  ‘I need him back at home. He has your company here, but I’m all alone.’

  She paused, considering what she had just said. It was the truth, and yet not completely true. Any loneliness she might feel would only be temporary, for sooner or later her mother would return from China. And in fact she was not lonely in an ordinary sense. She would have been content with her own company had she not been confronted with the problem of maintaining Greystones. It was not simply companionship that she was hoping for, but support. Was that too much to expect?

  She looked up at Andrew. ‘Will you let him go?’ she asked.

  Andrew looked at her gravely. ‘We’ve never held him. He’s always been as free to leave as he is today. Tell him your problem and he’ll make his own decision.’

  ‘Yes, but –’ Why was she about to argue against her own interests? It must have been something in Andrew’s calm, sympathetic character which made her wonder whether she was being selfish. ‘I don’t want to say anything that will upset him. I mean, if he feels an obligation to come and yet knows that he isn’t well enough, or ready –’

  Andrew’s eyes approved of her qualms before considering them. ‘He’s well enough to be asked,’ was the verdict. ‘And well enough to judge for himself whether he could cope with any demands you’d be making of him. I wouldn’t like to guess what he’d decide. But this may be the right moment for him to consider whether he should take up his own life again. I ought to add that in my opinion he will always want quietness. A lack of stress. Good air. A country life.’