The Ginger Tree

by Oswald Wynd

  Dearest Mama – I cannot believe that it is more than two weeks since I last wrote to you and promised a description of this house. First, you must not put ‘The House of the Dragon Screen’ on your envelopes; that is not official. To be quite honest it is just a name I started using because I thought it sounded good on a letter to Margaret Blair. The house really has no name, even though it did belong to the high official who lost his head. It is approached down the narrow lane and has a high wall above a drainage ditch. Poor Richard, when we came here from the wedding reception and he wanted everything to seem just right, there was a huge heap of dumped rubbish in the drain, including a dead kitten. I pretended I had not seen it, but he knew I had.

  The gate itself is pretty, with a tiled roof that has a charming curved line. The gates are wide enough (double) to let a carriage through, but are never opened, you go through a smaller door in one that is like a hatch. The woodwork was once bright red, now much faded. The first thing you see inside is our dragon screen, about eight feet high, of stone, on which the dragon’s tail starts up in one corner with body and clawed feet seeming to crawl down it to the bottom through an intricate pattern of carved flowers and leaves. It really was put there to keep out devils because in China devils cannot go around corners so if they come in from the outside world with you that screen stops them. You will think I am living in a really heathen country when I tell you that I am sure our houseboy holds the little hatch door open for half a minute after we have come through it in order to make sure that the thwarted devils have a chance to get out again. I haven’t said anything about this to Richard who seems to have little sympathy for Chinese superstitions, only believing in English ones, like the ghost at Mannington. You must not think me flippant if I say I think I would prefer Chinese devils to a Mannington headless lady.

  Inside I am afraid the house is not what I would like, though it has possibilities. You cross a paved courtyard beyond the screen in which are large ornamental rocks and nothing else, at least in winter. There is a narrow porch, then the front hall, this large and square, with the dining-room on one side and the huge drawing-room on the other. The less said the better about the furnishings: a man’s choice I have no intention of putting up with for long. There are eleven bedrooms, though only two furnished at the moment. Heating is by coal stoves. There is no real garden to this house as such, just a series of courtyards with earth in them and nothing else except two porcelain seats in one, the kind you sometimes see in Edinburgh front halls that have been brought from China. The servants have houses built against the outer wall on the kitchen side, and though I haven’t seen into them I believe they have two rooms each. The cook and his wife have three children (I have never seen Mrs Cook) and the handyman and his wife also have three, so you will see that I am not alone inside these walls when Richard is away, though the whole place sprawls so much I rarely hear a sound from children’s voices or anything like that. There is no back gate, everyone must come by the devil screen, including tradesmen, though there are not many of them, things mostly bought at market and carried home by our servants. There is a ricksha stance not far away from our gate so that we can always have this conveyance available, indeed there is no other in Peking except palanquins, and I don’t really see myself being carried in one of those. The ricksha coolies sit waiting day and night in a little hut which has a charcoal brazier in front of it. I don’t think it is a healthy life, for the man I always get has terrible bouts of coughing sometimes. However, rickshas and their pullers are just accepted as a necessity of life.

  I wonder if I will ever get used to the beggars? There is nothing to fear, really, for they do not approach you, just sit by the ditches, bundles of dirty rags, sometimes silent and motionless, but more often swaying and muttering what sounds like an incantation, though perhaps it is a prayer for alms. I have been told not to notice them, and have never really been in a position to give them anything, passing in a ricksha and so on, but when the opportunity arises I will give some money. What their living must be like I cannot imagine. In China life is cheap. This is something you feel very sharply very soon. For many just to be able to exist seems a privilege.

  If this makes you want to give to foreign missions at church, do so, but as yet I have seen nothing of the work of missionaries. There seems to be little contact between them and the diplomatic services. I would think that only a very brave person could be a missionary in China, for so many of them were killed by the Boxers in remote places. It must be hard to try to love people you know would murder you if there was a change in the wind.

  Dearest Mama – I hope this has not been a depressing letter. I am still getting used to many strange things and seeing them yet with raw eyes. In time I am sure I will not notice. Remember me to Jessie and Cook. Tell them that no Chinese servants could ever make such a comfortable, warm home as they do.

  All my love to you,

  Mary

  The House of the Dragon Screen, Peking

  April 2nd, 1903

  I have just had Marie here almost all afternoon, our first visitor, who came without sending a chitty first to say to expect her. She did not think much of this house, though pretending to for my sake, saying that our dragon screen was the best she had seen, but on the threshold of the drawing-room exclaimed, as though she could not stop herself: ‘Dieu! Un wagon de chemin de fer!’ I know what she means, the room is like an open-style railway carriage, long and quite narrow, and with windows down both sides facing each other, one set looking on to the front court rocks, the other on to an inner court that is quite empty. When Richard opened the door to this room for me for the first time I could scarcely conceal dismay. The furniture left by the German couple is quite dreadful and the huge stove on its zinc base hideous, even if it is a good heater.

  Marie was very gay about the stove. She said that it defeats the mind to imagine anyone importing such a thing from Europe, and that it must have been set dead centre in the hold of the ship that brought it, otherwise it would have caused a list that could have been quite fatal in a typhoon. She believes that since the stove reached China it must not be neglected, but featured in our room, though on a new base of pale green tiles she knows where to get. According to her, that stove could do wonderful work as a social ice-breaker, and redecoration and refurnishing should seem to be completely deferential to the monster, everything else in exquisite good taste to point up the joke. She was quite sure that soft green is the colour I want, starting with specially woven Tientsin carpet, the curtains to be hand-woven brocade. Richard would be horrified by the estimates for what Marie thinks is necessary.

  She insisted on seeing the whole house before tea was brought in, though with so many empty rooms the tour did not take long. Marie tested the mattress in my room and said that the hardness might not matter now but it soon would. I think I prefer the way Mrs Brinkhill dealt with delicate matters, head on, not flirting with them. Richard’s room seemed a total surprise to her, perhaps because it is almost entirely furnished with his regimental officer’s equipment, folding camp bed, canvas washing basin and chair, plus a card table pushed against one wall, a small hanging mirror above it. There are no curtains at the window, which is of a Chinese lattice type opening in, and no stove either, the hole for the pipe blocked up. Though the weather has been bitter since we came here he sleeps with his window open always, the draught swirling down the passage to me. Marie said who would have believed the beautiful Richard was at heart an ascetic? I said nothing.

  Yao’s shaking hands set the teacups rattling as he carried in the tray and Marie thinks he has some disease of the nerves which would make it foolish of us to keep him because there is no greater nuisance in China than unwell servants who feel they have a family claim on you. If we got rid of him quickly he would not have any right to feel this. Her advice may be sound enough but already I have a kind of affection for Yao.

  The cakes were not very good and Marie asked about our cook. I had to tell her that I have ha
d practically no dealings with the man and had only been in the kitchen twice, and that really only to look in from the door. Somewhat to my surprise she did not approve of this. Having seen her in her boudoir, I would have thought that kitchens would be the last thing to interest her, but it must be her French instincts, for she insists on going down to prepare certain sauces and even some dishes from family recipes which she says she is not giving to any cook, so while she is there he is not even permitted to watch. Also, she taught the man how to make proper bread. She could not stand what she calls Peking bread, of the kind I had at the Hardings’ and have here, too, which tastes as though the dough had been artificially soured during the kneading. Before the Boxer Troubles there was a good French bakery in Peking, but that has not opened again. Another thing that Marie says I must insist on is seeing that all salad ingredients are immersed in a solution of potassium permanganate before serving and this will not be done in a Chinese-managed kitchen unless it is made quite clear that instant dismissal will result from any failure to observe this rule. From untreated raw vegetables you can get cholera and intestinal worms, to mention just two of the possibilities.

  After tea, at which she drank many cups, she excused herself and I had to show her down the corridor to the little room and also our bathroom next to it, both missed on our earlier tour. She came back to me with an expression which said she had not liked what she had just experienced, no surprise really, but I did not expect any comment. However, she said at once that our sanitary arrangements were a horror, to which I agreed, but pointed out that they were quite as bad at the Hardings’ so that this was what I had come to expect in China. Marie announced that this was not to be expected in China, and that Edith Harding, like all the truly rich, was totally mean about spending money, even on essentials. If Richard and I were to entertain, as we must soon do, it was quite impossible that we show our guests to such facilities. In the first place what was essential was a chemical closet of the kind with which her house was equipped and which could be ordered from a shop in Tientsin. She also said that to have water heated by a stove built on to the outside of the house was something from the eighteenth century and that even in Peking one could have taps to a basin and a paraffin heater.

  By this time I had heard rather too much of Marie’s suggested improvements and said that we did not wish to do too much to the house since we didn’t know how long we would be in Peking. To this her reply was that one must live in a decently civilised manner wherever one was and why should I not do what she had done when she was first married, which was to demand from her husband that he take the equipping and furnishing of their first home from the money she had brought him as a dowry? It was quite wrong to let a new husband think this money was simply his to do with what he wanted, it had been paid by the bride’s parents to secure the complete comfort of their daughter. I must have been staring at her, for she asked what was the matter?

  What I said then was rather awkward, something about the practice of dowries having more or less died out in Britain. It was she who stared then, before bursting out laughing. According to what she calls her certain knowledge, there is not one man in the British Legation in Peking, with the possible exception of Sir Claude himself, who had not most carefully married for money. Marie said that there might not be with us, as in France, precise rules any more for these marriage settlements, but they were settlements none the less, and absolutely vital to young men making a career in diplomacy because nearly all of them were the younger sons of good families who had only their names to offer the world, no financial backing. Mr Harding was an example of this, a distinguished Essex family, his brother a baronet, but penniless, so he had been obliged to fend for himself, searching for and finding Edith. Who would have had Edith if she had been without a fortune? Madame Harding might attempt the grand manner now she was on the road to becoming a Lady when her husband, in old age, was knighted, but she was actually nothing but the daughter of a Midlands manufacturer of iron bolts, and quite without any social standing in English society.

  I felt myself becoming very warm and knew that my face was colouring up in the way it had done at that concert on the Mooldera. Marie noticed, of course, her tone changed, becoming quiet, as though she was suddenly worried: ‘Surely, ma chère, your mother must have discussed such things at the time when your marriage to Richard was arranged?’ I said the marriage had not been arranged and no dowry talked about because there couldn’t be one from my family, which is poor.

  Marie looked really astounded, clearly finding it difficult to say anything, though what she did manage was a considerable shock: ‘Mary, what of your family factory?’ I had to draw in a deep breath then. I knew very well indeed that I had certainly not spoken of that factory to her or anyone else in Peking, and the only one who could have done so was Richard. After having been so very hot I felt suddenly as though there was a frozen lump in my stomach.

  I wanted her to go and she sensed this, rising, talking about other things as we waited for Yao to bring in her coat, saying that from the first time we met she had wanted us to be as sisters because at once she had felt real sympathy between us, even our names being almost the same. Her coat was brought and I helped her into it, beautiful matched leopard skins to almost floor length trimmed with silver fox at hem, neck and cuffs. Her hat, which she had not taken off, was a small round pillbox, also leopard, worn tilted down on to her forehead. Even with the sick feeling I had then I could appreciate how elegant she always is, of course at great cost. Perhaps her wardrobe is also paid for from her dowry?

  Near the door Marie paused to pick up the purple dish Richard says he had found in a bazaar. The dish is translucent like a cake of Pears Soap, with a dragon curving around it. I said something about the plate having to go if we decided on Marie’s green colour scheme. She said it was priceless. I didn’t see how that could be since it had been bought in a bazaar. Marie looked at me, rather hard I thought, then said that it was of a type only done on Imperial Court order or, by special permission, for the very highest princely families. I then asked how she thought Richard could possibly have come by such a piece and she said: ‘Loot from the Winter Palace.’ She laughed and added: ‘He probably won it at cards from another officer. One who had helped at the sacking of Peking. Richard is very good at cards. Didn’t you know?’

  Marie has been very kind to me, but I came back from seeing her off at the gate with the feeling of having been pulled about like some article in the January bargain sales.

  The House of the Dragon Screen

  April 5th, 1903

  I had been expecting signs of spring in April, but it has been snowing all night, and is still doing it, the frost hard. It is so quiet one might be in the country, not a sound coming in from our lane. Until a short time ago there was the noise of our handyman sweeping snow from the path to the gate. He was heaping it up against those rocks that are supposed to be ornamental, a broom and a shovel his tools, but not working very hard with either, stopping often to blow on his hands, which were bare, though the rest of his body was covered by a long padded robe and a cap with earflaps lowered which didn’t leave much of his face exposed. He was using the shovel when he looked up suddenly and saw me at the drawing-room window. I raised my hand in a sort of wave, but he must have taken this as a signal to go away, for at once he picked up his tools and disappeared behind the dragon screen, beyond which is a door to the servants’ courtyard.

  All I know about him is that his name is Ching Hen. I haven’t even seen Mrs Ching Hen because the dragon screen hides all the comings and goings from the servants’ side of the compound to the lane. I am beginning to see that the huge piece of stone has more uses than just keeping the devils at bay.

  I am writing this by the crackling stove. Though I can’t hear any sounds of it, there must be a wind for there is a huge draught in the iron chimney and this is red hot where it leaves the stove. Quite often I look at that pipe and think how easily it could glow right up to the
wooden ceiling and set it alight. This house, behind its high walls and built almost up to them, would burn like paper and sticks in a grate the moment you set a match to them.

  Richard does not like seeing me at breakfast, so Yao brings a tray to my room. Already we have contrived a system of not meeting before Richard leaves for the Legation, though this is sometimes quite trying for me if he leaves later than usual and spends too long in the bathroom. Richard has the kind of nature which brightens as the day goes on but is very dark in the morning. The trouble is I am quite cheerful then and in Edinburgh was often an early riser, even as early as the servants, sometimes helping with the housework, dusting and so on. Here I am not supposed to do anything, at least while Richard is about, so I tidy my room. It is not a room I would ever become fond of, even if a great deal of money was spent on it. The two windows face a brick wall just ten feet away and the only sun that comes in, at least in winter, is if I open the door to the passage which runs alongside the courtyard and has windows to the floor. Later, when there are flowers out there, it may be quite attractive, but I wonder if I will ever get away from the feeling that the house is like a prison? Or perhaps a fort in enemy territory.

  If I have become fond of anything in these rooms it is this huge, ugly stove. It has isinglass windows on the fuelling door which put a patch of colour on the carpet the Germans left, and when that door is opened for coals the whole stove roars: ‘Yes, feed me and I’ll do my job!’ It does that, too. Within an hour of its ventilators being opened in the morning this big room is warm.

  I have been thinking about friendship, how it is usually an accident. Marie is becoming my friend because we are both here in Peking and most of the Legation ladies are slightly suspicious of her. I think this is partly because she is too clever for them, but more because she is popular with their husbands. She is taking me up because she cannot be entertaining to men all the time. If she and her husband had been living in London, and we had met there, she would not have looked at me twice in a place so full of interesting distractions.