Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I)

by David George Clarke

Chapter 20 : 1880-1900

  Three years after his arrival in Hong Kong in 1877, Stephen Waters’ business as a portrait painter to the colonial dignitaries and their families was flourishing. However, despite his success and his ever-increasing fascination with Chinese culture and traditions, the high-handed attitudes of his clients towards him as an artisan and to the Chinese in general was beginning to wear him down. He had reluctantly moved his studio to a premises near the Anglican cathedral of St. Johns in an area less likely to offend the sensibilities of the colonial wives and daughters than the lower class Western District where, with Johanne’s help, he had initially set up shop in the Hostel Da Rosa where he still lived. But increasingly, his thoughts turned to India and he had started to revisit his plans.

  In the meantime, his escape was to take himself off to the mainland to sketch and paint the dramatic landscapes and rural life whenever he could find the time, his rapidly increasing fluency in Cantonese acting as a passport to the village communities.

  Then he met William Trevelyan and his daughter, Fiona.

  Trevelyan was the founder and head of Trevelyan & Company, a large and successful business that had been trading in India, China and the East Indies for the past twenty-five years. Although he lived in a grand mansion in the Hill District that surrounded the Peak – the imposing two thousand foot mountain that dominated the island of Hong Kong – Trevelyan had none of the haughty cynicism of so many of his peers. The Far East was his adopted home as well as his place of business, and he had absorbed much of its culture as well as its languages – he was fluent in Urdu and Hindi, as well as Cantonese.

  “Trouble with these colonials is they think they’re here to civilise a bunch of natives,” he confided in Stephen once they knew each other better. “Might be the form in Africa, but it won’t wash with the Chinese. They were civilised while we were still painting woad on our faces.”

  Trevelyan had turned up unannounced in Stephen’s studio in the late spring of 1880 to commission a portrait of his daughter.

  “Wilful gell. Absolute mind of her own. Tried to marry her off but she’s having none of it. Twenty-six now and seems to be well settled on the shelf. Thinks of nothing but that damned hospital of hers.”

  “Hospital?” asked Stephen, somewhat taken aback at this man’s forthrightness.

  “Yes, she works voluntarily in one of the disease-ridden hospitals in the town. Insists she wants to help the poor women who pass through its doors. Told her we could build our own hospital, but she insists she wants to work as a nurse, not an administrator. Worries me, all that disease.”

  Fiona Trevelyan proved to be very different from any of the colonial women Stephen had met in Hong Kong. She was lively and engaging and, although not beautiful, she had a grace and charm that made Stephen immediately wonder why she was ‘well settled on the shelf.’

  Three months later he found out. Soon after the portrait William Trevelyan had commissioned was given pride of place in Trevelyan House, William departed to India on business. The morning after his departure, Fiona arrived at Stephen’s studio with a very different commission.

  “As you know, Stephen, I am fascinated by Chinese culture, particularly the costumes and clothing which I often wear in private. What I should love is for you to paint a series of studies of me wearing my collection. Could you do that?”

  “I should be delighted, Fiona,” smiled Stephen.

  “Of course, the sittings will have to be at Trevelyan House. Would that be terribly inconvenient?”

  “Not at all. It will be my pleasure.”

  As he worked on the paintings, Stephen talked to Fiona of his frustrations and his plans to move on to India. He was surprised that instead of appearing enthusiastic, she laughed dismissively.

  “Oh dear, Stephen, if your reason for this move is the hope of finding a more enlightened crowd, I fear you will be disappointed. The British have been in India far longer than they have in Hong Kong and believe me, apart from considering themselves terribly ‘pukka’, they have developed the manners you abhor to an art form. It would be out of the frying pan into the fire.”

  On the day Stephen arrived to put the finishing touches to the final study, Fiona greeted him by taking both his hands, a sparkle of conspiracy in her eyes.

  “Stephen, there is someone I want you to meet, someone very dear to me. Come, he is waiting in the sitting room.”

  Still holding his hands, Fiona led Stephen through. To his surprise, waiting for them was a young Chinese man in his mid-twenties. He was tall for a southern Chinese, as tall as Stephen, and he had a proud bearing. He was plainly dressed in a long silk coat buttoned to the neck over a pair of baggy silk pantaloons. He had white silk socks and black soft slippers on his feet. A round silk cap hid the front of his head, which was shaven, while his hair was worn in the queue all Chinese men were required by royal decree to wear, regardless of their social status. From the style and quality of his clothes, Stephen could see he was from a wealthy family.

  “Stephen, I should like you to meet Kwok Fu-keung. Ah Keung, this is Waters Sin Saang – Mr Stephen Waters.”

  The young man half crossed his arms and bowed to Stephen.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr Waters. Fiona has shown me your work. It is truly remarkable.”

  Stephen was surprised by the man’s rich deep voice and excellent English.

  He bowed his head in return and replied using the Cantonese ‘Sin Saang’ for ‘Mr’.

  “I am honoured to meet you, Kwok Sin Saang. You are too kind about my paintings.”

  “It is not kindness, Mr Waters; it is admiration. I doubt a skill such as yours has been matched in China by more than a very small number of artists over the centuries.” He smiled, his face relaxing to reveal fine, handsome features, his jet eyes warm and intelligent.

  Fiona walked up to him and took his hands. She turned to Stephen. “Keung is my secret, Stephen. My oh-so-special, wonderful secret.”

  She turned and leaned up to kiss Keung on the lips, holding the kiss for a few seconds.

  Looking back to Stephen, she smiled and said, “Do I shock you, Mr Waters?”

  “You delight me, Miss Trevelyan,” laughed Stephen, “you absolutely delight me.”

  Keung was the fourth of six sons of a wealthy Chinese merchant, Kwok Fu-ming. Although a traditionalist, Kwok senior was far-sighted enough to understand the value of trading with the foreign devils and had insisted all his sons become fluent in English and conversant with the Western ways of business. However, a liaison such as Keung’s with Fiona could only ever be that; marriage was unthinkable.

  “So you see, Stephen,” smiled Fiona wickedly, “I am a concubine, and a secret one at that.”

  Keung’s father’s concubines were another matter: they were all Chinese and it was perfectly acceptable that he should have them, although naturally they were kept separate from the family, as were the numerous children he had with them. However, he was a good father and none of his illegitimate children wanted for much. He had a particular love of music and painting and any talents his offspring showed in either direction were actively encouraged.

  Learning of Stephen’s skills, he commissioned him for a series of portraits of various members of his legitimate and illegitimate family. While negotiating the terms of these with Stephen, he told him that one of his illegitimate daughters, Ho Mei-ling, was talented in Chinese painting.

  “She is only a child, Waters Sin Saang, just sixteen, but I think she has promise. I was wondering, would it be too much of an imposition to request she observe you while you are painting the various studies of my family?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Kwok Sin Saang. If she has talent, with your approval, I could give her some instruction in the techniques of Western art.”

  The arrangements were made. As the eldest of Kwok Fu-ming’s concubines was arranging herself and her six daughters in Stephen’s studio, Ho Mei-ling and her two servants were standing quietly in the
corner. As a daughter of Kwok’s third concubine, she had to remain subservient.

  Stephen walked over to where she was standing and smiled at her. “Siu-je,” he said to her, using the Cantonese for ‘Miss’, “you must be number four daughter of Honourable Kwok’s number three concubine.”

  Mei-ling bowed her head deferentially to him.

  He said nothing, waiting for this diminutive girl to look up. As she turned her face upwards to his, he caught his breath – Mei-ling was stunningly beautiful. Her face was oval with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, her hair drawn back into a single plait that hung down her back, emphasising her long, slender neck. She wore no make-up on her flawless skin while her mouth was a small rosebud that needed no rouge or lipstick to enhance it. She stood before him, holding his eyes with hers and willing him to say something. Anything.

  Stephen bowed his head to her. “Mei-ling, I am honoured to meet you,” he said, and heard a faint titter of amusement from the maids. “I have been told much about your gifts as an artist and I should very much like to see your work.”

  Stephen pointed to Mei-ling’s portfolio. “May I?”

  She took it from the maid holding it and handed it to him. Placing it on a table, he untied the strings. Taking out the top paintings, he nodded in approval at the quality of the work.

  He smiled. “You have a remarkable talent, Mei-ling. What I should like you to do this morning is take your sketchpad and a charcoal stick and watch me sketch these charming ladies and their elegant mother. When you are ready to copy my strokes, start your own drawing.”

  Pulling up a stool, Stephen sat in front of the group of women and started to sketch. He worked fast as usual, all his concentration going into the drawings.

  After an hour, he sat back and congratulated them all on their patience. He turned to Mei-ling. “May I see?” he asked holding out his hand for the sketchpad. She turned it towards him and he saw that she had only drawn a few lines.

  “I am sorry, master,” she said, bowing her head. “I have failed to draw anything. I shall leave now and not waste your time.”

  “There is nothing to be sorry about,” smiled Stephen, “take all the time you need.”

  “I started to draw,” she explained, “but I was enthralled by the speed with which you work, the confidence of your strokes. I have never seen a true artist at work before. My tutors were always so hesitant. I do not think I could ever approach a drawing with such confidence.”

  He smiled in reassurance at her. “You underestimate your ability, Mei-ling; I can see from your portfolio that you have great potential. Confidence will come with time.”

  Stephen sent a note to Kwok Fu-ming to request she be allowed to attend his studio every day so he could develop her skills. The request was granted and Mei-ling quickly became a permanent fixture, her confidence growing around Stephen’s natural informality.

  Neither Mei-ling nor any of her sisters or their mothers had been subject to the crippling practice of foot binding. Kwok Fu-ming was very much against it and had deliberately chosen concubines whose feet had been left to develop normally. Mei-ling was as light and agile on her feet as she was graceful and elegant in her movements, and Stephen took every opportunity to watch her.

  Gradually, over the next three years, the two became very close. Hidden under the veneer of subservience and humility convention insisted she maintain, Mei-ling had a lively sense of humour. Whenever he was sketching or painting one of his European clients, she would take every opportunity to reach across Stephen to fetch some paint or distract him by asking him something about a sketch. At the same time, she would whisper quietly in the Cantonese she knew the foreign devil facing her would not understand, passing comments on their looks, smell or clothes. Stephen had to work hard to keep a straight face and not to incorporate into his paintings some of the uglier features Mei-ling would point out and put in her own sketches.

  In the early autumn of 1883, after a difficult day’s work with a spluttering, florid-faced captain from the garrison who, despite the relatively cool day, had produced pools of sweat that soaked visibly into his thick uniform, the pair were alone in the studio, Mei-ling having sent both her maids out on errands.

  They had been laughing about the man’s digestion – he seemed incapable of uttering a word without belching.

  “When you mimicked him behind your hand, Ling, I thought I was going to burst. You are very naughty and will get me into trouble with my clients,” chuckled Stephen.

  He paused as she handed him some brushes to clean, noticing she was studying his features.

  “What is it, Ling?”

  She smiled. “You are not like the other gwai lo, Stephen; you do not pour with sweat or smell like rancid meat. You are kind and gentle, polite and considerate. And you do not order me about like Chinese men.”

  “That’s because I respect you as an equal. You are not my inferior; you are a beautiful and talented young woman whom I admire more than any other woman in Hong Kong.”

  “More than Fiona?” she asked coyly.

  “More than anyone, Ling.”

  He took her hands in his. “You, Mei-ling, are not like your sisters, half sisters nor most of the Chinese women I meet. You have an independent spirit; you are witty, clever and …”

  As he spoke, she had inched closer to him, her eyes burning deeply into his. He could hear her breathing faster.

  “And?” she said softly.

  “And I have fallen in love with you.”

  She reached up and, standing on tiptoes, kissed him gently on the lips.

  “I have loved you for a long time, honourable master,” she whispered.

  When Stephen told Fiona about his feelings for Mei-ling, she took him in her arms and kissed him.

  He smiled at her. “Do I not shock you, Miss Trevelyan?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Do you think you are telling me something I didn’t know, Waters Sin Saang?”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “I’m a woman, Stephen, and I’m also in love myself.”

  “And in the same forbidden way.”

  “Not at all. Mei-ling would not be forbidden to you. She is the daughter of a concubine; she doesn’t count for much. I doubt that old man Kwok would have any objections to your marrying her if you wanted to. Of course, the European community would look down their noses, but who cares about them? You have the upper hand with them, Stephen. They want your work and I have no doubt they would accept a certain amount of eccentricity in you. Just don’t expect to be invited to too many more of their dreary parties.”

  They were married in the spring of 1884. Mei-ling was twenty years old and, as far as she knew, her husband was thirty-four. Stephen thought long and hard about whether to tell Mei-ling his secret, trying to assess how she would react. He remembered Henri and Michel’s admonishments, and Gisèle’s, and how he had been determined thereafter to tell everything to any woman he was asking to share his life. But for Mei-ling, there were complicating factors. She was Chinese and despite having a distinctly free spirit, her character and beliefs were firmly based in the traditions of Chinese culture and philosophy. She believed strongly in the spirit world, in the existence of multiple gods, of good luck, bad luck, omens and superstitions. He respected all of these and he loved her for it. And he knew she loved him, but he was worried she might consider his tale simply too hard to believe, or, if she did believe it, that he was cursed in some way, possessed by devils.

  When a year after their marriage, she delivered him a baby daughter, she cried because it wasn’t a son. She felt ashamed that she had let him down. She simply could not accept that for him it made no difference whether a child was a son or a daughter, that the only matter of importance was that the child was alive and healthy. When Stephen looked into the little girl’s eyes, he was pleased that he had held back. Lei-li had pale grey eyes, exactly the same as his. Mei-ling thought this was a wonderful sign, that their daughter had strength and visio
n like her wise husband. Stephen wondered what she would have thought if she knew what other rare traits the child had inherited from her father. He wasn’t prepared to risk finding out.

  As Lei-li grew, Mei-ling felt truly blessed that she had produced such a healthy daughter. The child was simply never ill, not even contracting any colds when all around her, apart from Stephen, were suffering from them. Mei-ling had noticed this robust healthiness in Stephen and marvelled at it. It was also clear that Lei-li not only had her father’s good health, but also his artistic talents. By the age of nine, she was producing paintings that showed a remarkable skill in capturing form and colour on her canvasses or paper.

  In May 1894, there was an outbreak of bubonic plague in Hong Kong. The authorities attempted to control its spread by rapid removal of the dead and dying, by disinfection of houses where infected people had lived and by isolation of the sick in temporary hospitals. The Chinese community, resentful and suspicious of Western approaches to medical treatment, responded by hiding their dead or dumping them away from their houses and by leaving the Colony in droves, bringing commerce to a virtual standstill. Of those admitted to a hospital, most would eventually die, but this did not stop many futile attempts at treating them.

  Knowing he was under no personal risk from infection, Stephen offered his help in disinfecting houses. At other times he would help either Fiona or Kwok Fu-keung, who was skilled in traditional Chinese medicine and worked voluntarily at the Tung Wah hospital. Initially it was thought that the disease only affected the Chinese – there had been no European deaths in the early days of the plague. But when deaths started to occur in June among members of the garrison involved in disinfection duties, panic spread among the European community and people were desperate to leave.

  Although Stephen was not among those panicking, he worried about Mei-ling, insisting that she and all other members of the household remain behind its closed walls, maintaining minimal contact with the outside world. He was therefore shocked one afternoon at the height of the plague to see Mei-ling walk into the ward at the Tung Wah hospital where he was helping Kwok Fu-keung remove the bodies of five victims who had died earlier that day.

  “Mei-ling, what are you doing here? I left strict instructions that you remain at the house; you are putting yourself at great risk.”

  “No more than you, husband,” she replied, looking in horror around the ward at the pitiful state of the victims lying on flimsy matting on the floor. “I had to come at once. Lei-li is ill and I fear that it is this pestilence. I do not want the authorities finding out and taking her to one of these dreadful places where she will surely die.”

  Stephen stopped in his tracks.

  “That’s impossible, Mei-ling. Lei-li cannot possibly be ill.”

  “Why not, husband? She’s the same as us all.”

  “No, she cannot be ill. What are her symptoms? Does she have a fever? Is she sweating?”

  “No, she has no fever. She is vomiting and she has pains in her stomach. She has been clutching her body with the pain.”

  “I will come at once,” replied Stephen, in panic. This went against everything he had assumed about Lei-li; everything he knew about himself. Was this plague so virulent that it might defeat even him?

  He went to a table to pour water from a jug to wash his hands. As he did, an elderly female patient called out, delirious with pain from the swollen glands in her body as the disease devoured her. Mei-ling walked over to her. The woman’s mouth was frothing, her eyes staring starkly at Mei-ling in terror. Mei-ling poured her a glass of water and put it to her mouth, lifting her head slightly to help her swallow it.

  “No Mei-ling!” cried Stephen, as he turned to look for her. “Get away from her! It isn’t safe!”

  Mei-ling was confused. She opened her mouth to speak, but as she did, the woman’s body convulsed, sputum spraying from her mouth onto Mei-ling’s face.

  Mei-ling dropped the glass of water and wiped her face with her sleeve. Stephen rushed to her and pulled her away. He grabbed a jug of water and threw it onto her face. Then he wiped her face in a cloth soaked in disinfectant.

  “You didn’t swallow anything, did you?” he asked, his concerned eyes studying her face for any remnants of spittle from the woman.

  “No, husband, I spat it out, do not worry. You are here every day and have suffered no ill effects; one small incident cannot hurt me.”

  They rushed back to the house, where, even given the urgent need Stephen felt to see his daughter, he insisted that they remove their clothes, dropping them in a tub of disinfectant. Wearing clean clothes, they ran to Lei-li’s bedroom to find her groaning and clutching her stomach.

  “Lei-li, what is it?” cried Stephen, his hand checking her forehead. He was relieved to find that she had none of the normal plague symptoms, but he was still confused that she should have anything wrong.

  He sat down on the bed. “Tell me when this started, Lei-li.”

  She told him, in between spasms of pain, that it had started that morning after her breakfast, which had included a special broth her amah, Ah Ho, had prepared for her.

  “Special broth?” Stephen turned to Mei-ling. “Fetch Ah Ho immediately, Ling. We must find out what it was.”

  Two minutes later, he heard a shuffling outside as Mei-ling returned with the maid. “Tell me what was in the broth!” he shouted at her as she entered the room.

  Normally, he would never raise his voice to any of the servants; it was unseemly and showed them great disrespect. However, he was in a panic as he saw the pain on his daughter’s face.

  “It was a preparation my brother obtained for me, honourable master,” stuttered the maid in fright. “He said it would prevent the young mistress from catching the disease, that it would strengthen her body.”

  “Prevent her from catching it by poisoning her!” yelled Stephen, furious at the maid for giving anything he or Mei-ling hadn’t sanctioned.

  “Do you have any left?” he yelled again, ignoring the fear on the maid’s face.

  “Yes, honourable master.”

  “Then fetch it at once!”

  She returned a few minutes later with a pouch of herbal material. There was a label tied round the neck with minute, handwritten Chinese characters written on it.

  Stephen looked at it, but it made little sense: his knowledge of traditional medicines was limited. “How much of it did you give her?” he said sternly to the cowering maid.

  “Only one dose, as it says on the label, honourable master,” she replied.

  Stephen took the pouch and ran from the room. It had crossed his mind to send a runner but he decided that it would be quicker to go himself.

  Within ten minutes, he arrived back at the Tung Wah hospital where he quickly located Kwok Fu-keung and breathlessly explained what had happened.

  Keung took the pouch to the pharmacy where he consulted an ancient handwritten book, leafing through it rapidly.

  He went to the medicine cupboard, removing several bottles containing powders. He weighed different amounts from each bottle and ground them together.

  “Don’t worry, Stephen, she will be fine. The stupid maid must have given her quite a dose, but it is not enough to cause her any permanent harm. Dissolve this in water and let Lei-li drink it. It will ease the pain. Tomorrow she should be fully recovered.”

  The crisis over, the next day Stephen returned to the hospital to continue with the gruesome duties of dealing with the dead and dying. He was later home than usual that evening and, having changed his clothes at the entrance, he walked into the main courtyard of the house expecting to find Mei-ling waiting for him. However, the courtyard was deserted apart from two servants skulking in the shadows.

  “Where is the mistress?” he called, seeing them whispering quietly to each other.

  “In her room, master,” one of them replied.

  Puzzled, Stephen went to their bedroom to find the gaslight turned down and Mei-ling stretched out on the
bed.

  “Mei-ling, what is it?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking her hand. Her hand was cold and clammy. He felt her forehead; she had a fever.

  She opened her eyes to look at him. “I am sorry, honourable husband, not to meet you downstairs. I have not been feeling well today. It will pass, I am sure. I shall be fine tomorrow.”

  She told him that her body had been aching, that she’d had a severe headache all day and that in the last hour she had developed pains in her groin.

  He gently placed his hand at the top of her legs and found the glands there were starting to swell. A shiver of fear passed through his body: Mei-ling had all the classic symptoms of the plague.

  He stared at her, remembering her visit to the hospital the previous day when the old woman had coughed in her face. He chewed his lip, trying to remain calm, not wanting to panic Mei-ling, his sweet, young, beautiful wife. He had been around the plague for two months now and had seen its mercilessness. Almost everyone who contracted it succumbed, and he knew that anyone in whom it had advanced as rapidly as it had in Mei-ling stood no chance. His only course of action was to try to make her remaining hours as peaceful as possible.

  He heard a gentle knock at the door. It was Lei-li.

  “How is mother, Papa? I left her sleeping earlier.”

  When he didn’t answer, Lei-li looked into his eyes. When she saw the look of helplessness there, she knew at once what was wrong.

  “Oh, Papa, is there nothing we can do?”

  “I fear there is not, Lei-li,” he whispered. “I will send for Kwok Fu-keung. He has medicines that ease the pain and the fever.”

  An hour later, Keung arrived with Fiona. They both examined Mei-ling and shook their heads.

  “It is out of our hands, Stephen,” said Fiona, swallowing back her tears. “We can only pray that she might be spared.”

  Keung had brought a number of potions. He took Stephen aside and passed one packet to him.

  “Towards the end, Stephen, when the other potions will lose the battle at controlling the pain, there is this one that will deny the pestilence the satisfaction of inflicting its final fearful torture on Mei-ling. You must be brave when that moment comes; giving her this potion will be the only humane thing to do.”

  Stephen slipped the packet into his pocket and returned to the bedside.

  When Stephen told Lei-li that they were going to look after Mei-ling together, that none of the servants would be placed at risk, Lei-li misunderstood his intentions. “I understand, Papa,” she replied, trying to sound brave. “If we all die from this disease, we shall be in heaven together. We shall remain with mama.”

  He held her tight, trying to fight back the tears.

  Later in the night, when Lei-li was fast asleep in a chair, Mei-ling awoke from her fever and called softly to Stephen for some water.

  After a few sips, she leaned her head back against the pillow. “Husband,” she whispered, “do not look so sad. You will have a good life with Lei-li. She is a wonderful child and she will learn so much from you. I am sure the gods will let me watch you from time to time until you both join me in Heaven.”

  “Mei-ling,” he stuttered, “there is something I should … something that I have meant…” He couldn’t go on. It was too late for her to know the truth about him.

  He stared into the eyes of this woman he loved, remembering the other women like her he had also loved, wondering how much longer his heart could stand the torment. Then he thought of Lei-li, and he knew that his life was now with her. She was like him and when she was old enough, he would tell her everything.

  The medicines Keung had given Stephen for Mei-ling were good, natural sedatives that left her sleeping through her remaining hours. She died in her sleep the following evening with both Stephen and Lei-li holding her hands. The final preparation Keung had given Stephen had sat like a lead weight in his pocket; he didn’t know if he would have had the courage to use it.

  Two hours after Mei-ling died, Kwok Fu-ming’s eldest son, Kwok Fu-on, arrived at the house to talk to Stephen. Fu-on had taken over most of the everyday running of the family business from his ageing father.

  “Waters Sin Saang, my father wishes, and I am sure you will agree, that Mei-ling’s body should not be subjected to the indignity of being disposed of in one of the mass, limed graves that the authorities insist on for plague victims. She is worthy of more respectful treatment. We still have boats sailing along the coast. Some fifty miles east of Hong Kong, there is a family property where many of my ancestors are buried. The graves are on a hill facing the sea, as is only proper. It will be easy to arrange for Mei-ling’s body to be transferred to a boat. My father is too frail to accompany us, but he would like you to know that arrangements can also be made for you and Lei-li to attend. You will have to be in disguise, naturally.”

  It was some months before Stephen could summon the enthusiasm to resume painting. He had stopped during the plague because he was too occupied at the hospitals or helping out with disinfection, and now, with many of his Chinese clients having disappeared into China in the vain hope of escaping the plague and many families of European clients fleeing anywhere they could, the demand for his work had decreased. Following Mei-ling’s death, he and Lei-li clung to each other for support. Lei-li missed her mother terribly. They had been very close, particularly since she had no siblings. Mei-ling had adopted the traditional maternal Chinese role of advising her daughter on everything she could about the world, even things she knew nothing about. She had understood that life wouldn’t necessarily be easy for Lei-li: she was a half-caste in societies that tended to subordinate anyone of mixed blood. She had hoped that one day, for her daughter’s sake, Stephen would agree to move somewhere else in the world where their marriage would be more readily accepted and their mixed-blood daughter would be treated more fairly.

  Stephen was also aware that the years were passing and before long, both he and Lei-li would have to move on. Before that happened, he would have to tell Lei-li the truth about himself and about how he was sure she was the same. It was a difficult subject. He had broached it before with Henri and Michel when they were that age. The memory of that, coloured with the memory of Gisèle, caused him to hesitate – it would be better, easier, for Lei-li to accept if she were older.

  As Lei-li moved into her teenage years, her talents as an artist blossomed, encouraging Stephen to spend more time coaching her and honing her skills. By her fifteenth birthday, a few months into the new century, she had developed a maturity in her art well beyond her years.

  Lei-li also became very close to Fiona, who would call almost daily to see her, becoming in many ways a substitute for the mother she had lost. The three were in Stephen’s Hollywood Road studio late one morning in May 1900 when a messenger arrived with a note from the Hostel Da Rosa. The note respectfully asked if Mr Stephen Waters was available to receive four Dutchmen. No litter would be required – they would prefer to take the air by walking along the Queen’s Road.

  “Four Dutchmen!” exclaimed Stephen. “I hope the two extras aren’t as big as Lars, they will never fit in the studio.”

  They weren’t as big as Lars; they were bigger.

  When the men arrived, Johanne came in first and threw his arms around Stephen. “Englishman! It has been so long. My wife refused to allow me to come to Hong Kong when the plague was at its height and–”

  “Your wife, Johanne? You are married at last?”

  Johanne grinned. “Well, when a man gets to my age, he starts to need a few home comforts. After my dear mother passed away ten years ago now, I became lonely. Brigitta is a wonderful woman, but she orders me about and boxes my ears if I fall out of line. It is wonderful, Englishman.”

  “Have you a photograph of her, Johanne?” asked Fiona. “We must see her.”

  He pulled a small sepia-toned photograph from his wallet and passed it proudly to them.

  “She is very beautiful, Johanne,” s
aid Stephen, “you are a lucky man.”

  “Thank you, I am indeed. This is to be my last trip and I can look forward to settling down on dry land with great anticipation. But Englishman, I am rude. I have only just heard about Mei-ling. I am so sorry. I should have written to you if I had known.”

  “Thank you, Johanne,” replied Stephen, hugging him again.

  Johanne looked around the studio and saw Lei-li for the first time – she had been busying herself in a side room when he first arrived.

  “This must be Lei-li. My heavens, how can such a miserable Englishman have so beautiful a daughter?”

  “I am delighted to meet you, Johanne,” smiled Lei-li. “Papa has told me so much about you and Lars.”

  “Talking of Lars,” said Stephen, “where is he? I assume he is one of the four Dutchmen. Who are the other two?”

  “You shall see,” replied Johanne. “They are trying to get through the doorway without knocking the building down.”

  “Lars!” he called. “Come in and bring your boys. And try not to break the place!”

  There was deep rumbling from outside that grew louder as Lars came into the room. He was as huge as ever, but at sixty-five, his face was deeply lined, his skin a deep weather-beaten brown. The rumbling continued after him as he walked in, coming from two giants behind him who were even taller than he was.

  “Stephen,” growled Lars, holding out his arms. As he enveloped Stephen, Lei-li was convinced her father would disappear entirely. Lars let go and turned, holding out a huge forearm.

  “May I introduce my boys?”

  The boys, who were the twenty-seven-year-old identical twins, Otto and Pieter, ducked through the doorway. They were Lars of forty years before – shaven-headed, massive men packed with muscle. Suddenly the room seemed full of people. Having introduced everyone, Lars told his boys to sit on the floor since he was concerned they might break any chairs that were offered. They sat meekly like a couple of obedient puppies.

  It was Lars’ final voyage as well. He and Johanne had decided that they had to visit one last time to introduce his boys to their Hong Kong friends.

  Later, after they had swapped stories and Lei-li had prepared them all some tea, Johanne turned to Stephen.

  “You are looking very well, Englishman,” he said. “Do you remember that crazy trip we made when you made me look like an old man?”

  “I do indeed, Ernest Waters,” laughed Stephen.

  “I wondered at the time about those skills of yours. Have you been applying them to your own hair? There is something about it that reminds me of that trip.”

  “I don’t need to apply anything to my hair,” smiled Stephen, “nature does her work perfectly well on her own.”

  Johanne persisted. “I thought perhaps you had made that trip to India you were so intent on and picked up an elixir of youth. You really don’t look much different from when we first met.”

  “It’s the company of beautiful women, Johanne,” declared Stephen. “Look at you, sixty-nine, but now you’ve got yourself a wife, you don’t look a day over forty!”

  Stephen told his Dutch friends that he hoped to take a trip to Europe when Lei-li was a little older – he wanted to show her the galleries in London and Paris and to take her to Italy, where she could immerse herself in the world of the Renaissance. He promised that the trip would naturally include Holland, where they would visit their Dutch friends and meet their families.

  It was with these happy prospects for the future that the friends all parted at a landing stage in Central District two weeks later, not knowing that circumstances would prevent them from ever meeting again.