The camp, as they approached in the gathering darkness, seemed smaller than usual and there was none of the usual bustle associated with the cooking of the evening meal. Gordon’s mind began to twitch with anxiety. ‘Lucy!’ he called.
Two coolies came running, chattering an explanation which he could not understand. They addressed themselves to his companion who nodded but was unable to translate.
Not for the first time, Gordon cursed his inability to speak or understand Tibetan. When preparing in England for the expedition, he had tried to teach himself Mandarin Chinese from a book – but on arrival in China quickly discovered it to have been a waste of time. With no teacher to guide him in the sound of the language, he had failed to master the tones which allowed every word to have several different meanings, and could only with difficulty make himself understood. He could get the gist of what officials asked or ordered; but the poorer people conversed in their local dialects – and Tibetan, of course, was different again. By miming and the use of pidgin he had established sufficient communication with Sati to cover the normal requirements of travel. But without Sati he had suddenly become deaf and dumb.
Gordon needed only a moment to check that Lucy was not in either of the two tents. He returned to the three coolies to struggle with an interrogation. ‘Where missee gone away?’
The question was understood because it was expected, but could be answered only with gestures – vigorous jabbings of fingers in the direction of the village below. Sati, it appeared, had also gone that way. Only as Gordon made a show of losing his temper did one of the men produce an explanation. He had forgotten the word, but remembered the mimed gesture which Gordon himself had earlier used for the expected baby. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and rocked them.
‘Baby?’ checked Gordon. ‘Missee gone baby?’ Unless there had been an accident, no other explanation was possible; he accepted it at once. Striding past the tents, he searched for the continuation of the mountain track which led down to the village.
‘Kabadar, kabadar!’ The coolies ran to tug him back, shouting their warning of danger. Gordon disregarded it at first, but before he had gone a hundred yards was forced to stop. Although the gradient of the descent was less severe here than it had been higher up, the path was still only a corniche – a narrow ledge hacked from the mountainside with a precipitous drop on one side down to the falling river. Even by daylight, care would be needed in following such a track. On a night when there was no moon, only a fool would go further. He would gain little time by groping his way through the darkness, since he could travel at ten times the speed next day. Besides, if Lucy had been taken to some isolated house in the valley, before reaching the village, he might go past it without realizing it was there.
So common sense held him back. He shared the meal which the coolies prepared and then left them to their opium pipes and retired to his tent – too worried to write up his notes; too worried even to sleep. What was happening to Lucy at this moment? Where was she? How was she? He ought to be with her. Even though he could do nothing to help with the birth of the baby, she should have been comforted by the knowledge that he was close at hand. And the villagers would feel no great respect for a foreign woman. He ought to be at her side to provide authority and make decisions.
As he tossed through the night his anxiety increased to a deeper fear. Suppose Lucy should die! In such a remote country area she would be fortunate if there were even a village midwife who could be summoned. Certainly there would be no trained medical help. So many things could go wrong. He could hardly bear to think of the pain which she must be suffering – but when he tried to put that out of his mind it was replaced only with the thought of his own pain if he should lose her. So great was his desolation that it was almost as though the loss had already occurred. Terror froze his body into a tense immobility, while his heart pounded erratically. If he had lost his darling, how could he bear to go on living?
Instead of growing steadily, the love he felt for his wife seemed to have increased in dramatic leaps. At their first meeting he had been instantly attracted by the beauty of her face. Once he was married – almost against his will – her body had aroused his desire, which fed on the adoration with which she gave herself to him. Her courage and cheerfulness throughout their travels – especially during the dangerous Yangtze ascent – had given him a new reason to love her, as a companion. In short, he could have had no complaint about the way everything had turned out, except that it had been as she, not he, had planned. No doubt a good many marriages took shape in very much the same manner. It was only because Gordon so much prided himself on his strength of purpose that a trace of regret had remained to mar his honeymoon delight.
The regret inevitably increased when Lucy’s pregnancy threatened to destroy all his plans. But the excitement of finding the lily had brought him triumphantly to terms with that. Only a few hours ago he had believed himself to be the happiest man in the world. And now, without warning, his happiness was at risk again, threatened by the possibility of Lucy’s death. All his doubts and hesitations were swept away by that danger. He could think of nothing but the fact that without Lucy his life would not be worth living.
The next morning, long before it was fully light, he left two of the coolies behind to pack up the camp and hurried away with the third towards the valley. A three-hour scramble brought them to the edge of the cultivated land. The track broadened and was crossed by what – to judge from the mule trains which were on the move in both directions – was a considerable highway. The route that Gordon had been following for the last three weeks was chosen for its directness rather than for ease of travel – and, in any case, its starting point was in a wild area which no ordinary traveller would have cause to visit. Now they had met the high road along which enterprising traders carried their goods between Tibet and China.
There were no buildings beside the road, so Gordon, crossing it, pressed on towards the village he had first glimpsed from high above. It was walled against dacoits and unfriendly neighbours and all the valley’s inhabitants had chosen to live in security behind the walls, rather than in the countryside around. Only the dead rested outside.
Passing through the graveyard, Gordon made for the nearest gate. He was still a little way away when he saw Sati emerge on horseback, coming to look for him. Although the Tibetan put out his tongue in the usual form of greeting, his expression was sombre. Without speaking, he turned his horse round and led the way back through the gate.
The first building inside the wall was an inn. Its public rooms were crowded, but the chatterers fell silent as Gordon followed Sati through. He had become accustomed to a demonstration of curiosity when arriving at such places. Crowds, sometimes hostile, would gather to stare; it was usual for him to be pointed at, touched, questioned. But today, it seemed to him, the polite bows of the inn’s guests expressed not interest but sympathy. A hundred eyes pierced into his back as he approached the door of the inn’s principal guest room. He was the only man there who did not know what he was going to find.
Chapter Fifteen
Tears trickled down Lucy’s face as she lay in the darkened room and waited for Gordon to come. He would not be long; she was sure of that. There had been a moment in the early hours of the morning when, between her pains, she had been afraid – afraid that he would hurry too fast through the darkness to catch her up, and would fall, leaving her alone in this barbaric place, so far from home; and alone in the world, with no one to love her. But then the pain had consumed her, leaving no room in her mind for any other emotion; and now she was too unhappy to feel fear.
She sniffed; but that did nothing to check the flow of tears. It was impossible to dab her eyes dry, because her hands were not free. The old woman brought by the innkeeper’s wife had first of all helped with the birth and then, when it was all over, had strapped her body to a flat wooden board, winding a kind of bandage tightly round and round from shoulders to ankles, as though she were
being prepared for burial. She could move nothing but her head and toes; could hardly even breathe. From time to time she slipped into sleep or faintness. And each time, as she regained consciousness, the first question she asked was the same: ‘Where is the baby?’ But no one understood.
The door opened and closed again. It was too dark to see who had come in, but she recognized the perfume of lilies which she had seen in the gorge only twenty-four hours earlier. ‘Gordon?’ she asked weakly.
In a rush he was beside her, dropping the flowers and kneeling on the floor so that his hands could grip her shoulders.
‘Lucy, darling, how are you? I’ve been so frightened. Oh, my dearest, I love you so much. Dearest, dearest Lucy.’ He pressed his face against hers, and Lucy could feel that he was crying. Their tears mingled, but only Gordon’s were tears of relief.
‘I want to see the baby,’ whispered Lucy. She ought first of all to say how glad she was to see him, and reassure him on her own behalf; but her anxiety about the baby was too great. ‘I heard a cry. Just one. Then they took her away. To wash, I thought. But they won’t bring it back.’
‘I’ll go and see.’ Gordon kissed her all over her face. ‘They have different customs, I expect. And didn’t understand you. But how are you?’
‘I’m tired. But I shall be all right. The baby –’
‘Yes, I’ll go.’
He was away far too long. Lucy tried to comfort herself by imagining possible explanations. Perhaps the new-born baby had been put to a wet nurse and was at this moment being fed. But then, why had Lucy’s own breasts been bound so uncomfortably tightly? Although in England she might not have chosen to feed her own baby, in the present circumstances it was the obvious – the only – thing to do. Although her mind would not accept it, her heart already knew what news Gordon would bring.
When he returned at last he tried to find her hand and hold it, but was frustrated by the bindings.
‘I’m sorry, dearest,’ he said. ‘The baby’s dead.’
‘It can’t be. I heard the cry.’
‘She was born alive. A little girl. But she was very small. Too small to live. I think I was right when I said that September was the earliest time for her to be born safely. This was too soon. It was all my fault. You shouldn’t have had to travel in such a rough way. I should have found somewhere you could rest.’
‘How could you, when I didn’t tell you until we were in the mountains?’ Lucy began to cry again. ‘Oh Gordon, I know you didn’t want the baby. And I didn’t either, not at first, not here. I knew it was spoiling everything for you. But when I felt her move, and when I heard that cry, I wanted her then. I ought to have looked after her better before she was born. I’m not fit to be a mother. It was my fault that she died. She died because she wasn’t wanted enough. But she was, really. It was just, just…’
‘Be quiet,’ said Gordon gently, drying her face. ‘This was an accident of travel, nothing else. No one is to blame. We can feel a little sorry for ourselves, but that’s all. I know that you want to have a family, and I want your babies as well. Nothing has been spoilt. The baby brought good fortune to me, although only pain to you. We shall have more children, Lucy. There’s plenty of time ahead of us. Just as long as you are well. That’s all that matters.’
‘I’d like to see her, Gordon. They took her away so quickly.’
‘I wanted to see her as well. I asked. But she’s been buried already.’
Lucy felt herself becoming upset again. ‘She should have had a Christian burial. She was born alive.’
‘I’ve found out from the innkeeper where the nearest mission house is,’ Gordon said. ‘As soon as you’re fit to travel, we’ll take you there on a litter. The innkeeper’s wife has gone to find a woman who will travel with us, to look after you. You’ll be better cared for at the mission station, and we’ll ask one of the missionaries to say a prayer for the baby. Probably they travel around the area from time to time. When one of them next comes this way, he could say the funeral service over the grave.’
‘She should have a name,’ said Lucy.
Gordon nodded. ‘We could call her Lily, and remember her by the valley of lilies.’
‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘I want your lily to be a happy memory for you, not a sad one.’
‘Then I tell you what,’ said Gordon. ‘I shall name the lily after our next daughter. The beautiful, golden-haired girl who is going to be born in England in two or three years’ time and who will grow up to be as tall and slender and lovely as her mother. I would like to call that daughter Grace – and give the name to the lily at once. So I’ll leave you to christen your first-born.’
‘Rachel,’ said Lucy. Rachel had been the name of her mother, who had also died too young.
‘Rachel,’ agreed Gordon.
Named, the baby seemed to become a person instead of only a ghostly cry in the night. Lucy struggled to bring her unhappiness under control and put everything that had happened behind her. ‘I want to leave now,’ she said. ‘Straight away. As soon as you’ve found a nurse.’ She could feel that she was bleeding, but was too embarrassed to mention this to Gordon. ‘First of all, I need to get out of all this strapping and have my arms free. And I’d like something to eat.’
‘That’s my brave darling.’ Once again, Gordon covered Lucy’s face with kisses. ‘I love you,’ he said.
The journey to Suifu, the nearest settlement of any size, was smooth and comfortable. There was a well-made stone road for the first section, and the last day was spent aboard a river boat. Lucy felt her strength returning with every hour that passed. She was young and healthy; and the baby had been small. At first she had to force herself to put on a show of cheerfulness; but by the time they arrived at the compound of the China Inland Mission her smiles had become sincere.
The English missionary, Mrs Dennie, welcomed her compatriots with delight. The prospect of company was especially welcome because her husband, a doctor, was away on a three-month tour of the frontier villages, she told them. When Lucy learned that he would probably have been not too far from the village of Jinkouhe at the time when her baby was born, it was hard not to wish that she had known this in time to send for his help. With more expert care, perhaps even a premature baby might have survived. But she had promised herself that she was not going to make Gordon unhappy by any signs of mourning for her little Rachel.
‘I act as a teacher here,’ Mrs Dennie said. ‘But I used to be a nurse. You must stay as long as you need. I shall be so pleased to have someone to talk to.’
Safe and comfortable at last, Lucy allowed her mind and her body to relax. Gordon too, after so many months on the move, was in need of a rest. Although July and August were hot months, the river breeze made the heat bearable, contrasting with the scorching winds of the high mountain valleys. He and Lucy engaged a teacher to help them with their Chinese, and delighted the small boys of the mission school by joining in the daily practice of the tones needed to make their vocabulary intelligible.
Lucy spent another part of each day with the class of girls. There were fewer of these. They were all foundlings, Mrs Dennie told her. Some, wrapped in brown paper, had been left as babies outside the door of the mission once the townsfolk had come to believe that the foreigners did not live up to their reputation of eating children.
Others had been found naked, lying exposed to the elements amongst the graves outside the city wall. Dr Dennie, when he was at home, explored the area at first light each morning in case there was a living child there to be saved. Lucy remembered how shocked she had been on board the Parramatta when she first heard Miss Fawcett describe the ruthlessness with which Chinese parents rejected girl-babies as useless and unwanted. She was glad that these bright-eyed girls, with their unbound feet, had been saved to grow up as Christians.
The room provided for the visitors at the mission was barely furnished, but whitewashed and clean. Lucy herself was able to feel clean for the first time in many weeks. She ate regula
r meals, including the fresh fruit and vegetables which had not been obtainable in the mountains. For a second time within a few months her clothes began to feel tight round her waist – but by now she had had a woman-to-woman talk with Mrs Dennie. The information which her own mother had not lived to give her, Lucy acquired from the motherly missionary. So instead of wondering whether another baby might already be on the way, she unpacked the bag in which her corsets had been stowed away and enlisted Mrs Dennie’s help in lacing them for the first time.
Even after a great struggle it was clear that she had lost her eighteen-inch waist. Lucy was panting and Mrs Dennie was laughing when at last the fastening was secure.
‘What would the Chinese think of this!’ exclaimed the missionary. ‘We upbraid them for deforming their daughters’ feet by binding the bones tightly, yet we are doing much the same to our own rib-cages.’
‘With less success,’ laughed Lucy, hardly able to breathe in her strait-jacket after so many weeks in which her body had been unrestrained. Yet she took it as a sign that her recovery was complete. That evening, tentatively, she broached the subject of the future to her husband.
‘We agreed that you would go back alone to the mountains when the time came to dig up the bulbs and plants that you’ve marked,’ she reminded him. ‘When we made that plan, of course, it was with the thought that my confinement would be in September – and that afterwards I should have to care for a baby.’
Gordon took her hand in his. ‘And now you are thinking that you are well and free and would like to accompany me.’
‘I don’t want to hold you back in any way,’ Lucy said. ‘If I make you slow, or worried, or make it necessary to take too many men or mules, or if you think there are climbs too steep for me …’
The House of Hardie Page 25