The Shanghai Wife

by Emma Harcourt

  There is one last moment, tipped into her baby’s birth, the moment when light touches the unopened eyes. Her mind is down with the crowning head in that moment, down feeling the shaft of that light piercing her, the weight of his shoulders ripping, down being the light and the pain, being flushed with the light and the pain of his body as it slips from her. And then gushing, exhausting relief.

  A nurse lifts the newborn clear. Hands rub him over and wash away the birth. Muffled noises of wrapping reach Annie. A glorious feeling of sweet nothing consumes her. No pain, no weight, just her own tired body.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ she hears someone say.

  Then her son cries. It’s shaky and pitchy, demanding and pointed with the first flush of hunger. The sound reaches down and attaches to Annie’s core. It drags her, gasping, out of the exhausted emptiness that has set in. She wants to feed him. This is no small desire. She pulls herself up to sitting.

  Where is he? The nurses have the bundle open, inspecting her son like one of those horrid, mummified museum exhibits. She can see their frowns at his exotic features. How dare they judge her boy. Annie’s body tingles with the overwhelming physical need to feed him. It is utterly unexpected. But the feeling is absolute and intoxicating.

  A nurse looks towards her, frowning. Annie sees a foot, so small it looks like a doll’s, but pink and waxy as a peeled potato. The nurse is putting socks on her baby. They are blue wool, the sort of clothing a mother would knit. He cries again, wailing like the long-arced call of the magpies outside.

  Annie reaches for her son, wrapped in white muslin and blue socks. She ignores the hushed approval at her mothering instincts from the nurses as they fuss about. He is small and light but solid and warm as a newly baked loaf of bread. He smells dusty and sweet, of talcum powder and the fledgling vapour of his very first breath.

  ‘Feed him up,’ the nun says. ‘He’s come a long way to get here. You both have.’

  Molly arrives the following morning, a sheen of sweaty excitement visible on her brow and carrying a bag of newborn clothes she’s been knitting for the past three months. Annie sits up tiredly as her friend enters the room, immediately surprised by how easily she can move now the baby’s bulk has left her.

  ‘How are you?’ Molly looks around the room expectantly, then back to Annie when she can’t see a baby’s bassinet anywhere.

  ‘I’m as well as can be expected. How is one supposed to feel?’

  ‘Like a mother I guess, though you’re the expert in that category now!’

  ‘Honestly, Molly, I’m too tired to care. It was utterly exhausting.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go and see the little man?’

  ‘Of course not, off you go.’

  Molly disappears down the corridor, leaving Annie to look through the bag of knitted gifts. There are three cardigans, in green, cream and red wool, all beautifully finished with matching buttons. There’s a cream cap with silk ribbon ties, soft as new grass, and little grey booties. Hours of careful work have gone into producing these miniature clothes. Annie wonders at Molly’s patience as she holds up the ridiculously small booties, and then remembers the nun putting socks on her son last night and how tiny his feet were. They will fit perfectly.

  Molly returns with the baby bundled in layers of muslin and a shawl. She sways slightly from foot to foot as she holds the boy, rocking him gently to soothe the fretting sounds he makes. The sight is reassuring and Annie feels comfortable watching her friend, shaking her head as Molly motions to hand him over. She’s made the right decision, no turning back now.

  ‘You’re a natural, Molly.’

  ‘This is the easy part. It’s bearing children we can’t seem to master. He’s got your cheekbones Annie, but I’m not sure where the rest of his face comes from?’

  There’s nothing to see of the baby except pale blue cotton and trailings of scallop-edged blanket hanging over Molly’s arms. But Annie knows Molly is referring to Chow’s eyes which her son has inherited. Molly gently places the bundle into Annie’s arms.

  ‘I don’t mean to sound rude—he’s a darling, Annie. Well done.’

  ‘He’s got his father’s eyes, Molly; warm and friendly, alive with light. Just like this little chap looking up at me now.’ Annie unwraps her son and strokes the thick tufts of soft, dark hair. Molly leans over and holds one of his little feet.

  ‘I can’t get over how tiny he is. I’m afraid I might drop him, Molly.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, he’s a perfect size, a cherub if ever I saw one.’

  Annie smiles at Molly’s compliment, relieved that her friend accepts the baby without judgement. The nurses were right when they said she’d come a long way to get here. A wave of melancholy floods Annie as she looks at her son and remembers Chow in the reeds on the banks of the Yangtze, motioning with outstretched hand for her to join him. How full of hope she was during that final summer in Shanghai; when she moved out of widowhood and into being someone else altogether, living only for that moment, with no past, no tomorrows. The baby cries and squirms about, clinging to the shawl with tiny, firm fingers. She’d thought the version of herself with Chow was truer, more honest, and that a life with him would make her happy. Only now does she see how foolish she was, how cavalier. She can’t escape her past; the loss and the pain will always be a part of her. And who is she if not the failed sister, the broken widow, her father’s disappointment? Together they form the woman she’s become and Annie accepts now she’ll always struggle to settle the failures that haunt her. But she’s stronger than the girl who arrived in Shanghai, and more honest with herself, and that’s what makes Annie able to offer her son the chance of a better future, one of hope. The baby’s fingers are cold so she tucks them into the shawl and tightens the wrap. She was once like this baby, freshly born with no mistakes to count, full of the possibilities of life.

  She must think about the future, even though she can barely face the next days, she knows she must. The only way to move forward now is with no expectations, no hope, and that is the end to it. Her job is simply to keep going.

  Annie waits at the turn-off to the river road. It’s dusty standing in the verge of grass. She rocks her son to keep him quiet. His gummy mouth on her knuckle feels hard and wet but she doesn’t mind him sucking if it keeps him happy. He is only a week old, after all. There is no shade and the small woollen cap propped over his head does little to protect from the morning sun so she slips it into her pocket.

  The pair do not have long to wait. Shortly before five, after the bullock dray passes and upsets the baby with all its grunting beasts and cracking whips, the Lowes arrive. Molly hangs back on the other side of the path up by the line of poplar trees, pressing down her skirts nervously. She grips the high handle of the baby buggy beside her, expectantly. Annie wonders if she will at least wave, as she waits for Mr Lowe to reach her, but Molly doesn’t move. Mr Lowe walks purposefully towards Annie, his large hat pulled down low, fearful of being recognised when there is only the three of them within twenty miles.

  Annie pockets the notes. It will be enough to leave the valley and set up somewhere new. She gently prises her finger from the baby’s mouth. His lips keep moving in that sweet way she’s come to know, sucking on a memory. She kisses his cheek and stays close to him a moment, burying herself in the overwhelmingly good smell of his milky clean skin.

  ‘Take care of him; he’ll be a good son for you.’ She can barely hear her own voice. Her hold tightens around the bundle in her arms. Mr Lowe digs his hands in under where Annie cradles the baby and scoops him up in one swift, firm movement. For a moment he stands there in front of her and Annie has to steady herself. A gentle smile of wonder creases Mr Lowe’s eyes as he looks at his new baby. But it’s not the heart-wrenching decision to give the Lowes her son which makes Annie stumble in that moment, but the resemblance to Chow she sees so clearly in this man’s eyes.

  Then he turns towards his wife. Molly raises her arm, not a wave so much as a request, like she
’s putting her hand up in class to claim her turn, her child. Annie lifts her hand in response, stamping her feet as she watches her friend in the distance. Mr Lowe is already walking back to Molly and the only sign he is carrying her boy is the slight stoop in his back. She waits until the baby is safely in the buggy, watching Mr and Mrs Lowe as they tuck him in; Molly holding firm onto the pram while Mr Lowe locks his arm through hers.

  Then Annie turns away down the dirt road to where it opens out beside the Macleay, unable to watch the new family any longer. She digs her hands deep into her pockets as she walks, looking out across the channel that dips and swells with the current. She feels something soft in her pocket, her son’s cap. The discovery makes Annie catch her breath and stop. The silk ties slip through her fingers as she breathes in his smell. In the quiet she thinks she hears him cry, but it’s only a magpie, calling into the wide-open sky above.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Shanghai in 1925 was divided into three distinct administrative areas: the International Settlement, which was made up of the earlier separate British and American concessions; the French Concession; and the original walled city under Chinese control. The International Settlement was ruled by the Shanghai Municipal Council (SMC), a body of nine men weighted in favour of Britain and without any Chinese members until 1928.

  The boundary between the underworld of Shanghai in the 1920s and the legal activities of the SMC and its police force, the Shanghai Municipal Police, was very grey. The most influential criminal organisation was the Green Gang; a confederation of small bands of gangsters, originally formed by river boatmen. The power of the Green Gang was fuelled by its control over the opium smuggling networks. Green Gang members could be found in the police forces of the French Concession and the International Settlement as well as the Chinese jurisdiction. This was helped by the foreign authorities’ longstanding policy of deliberately recruiting gangsters into their Chinese detective squads. Middle-ranked gang members were officers in the local military garrisons, and minor politicians, factory foremen, labour contractors and merchants. The top ranked members were bankers, rich businessmen and important politicians.

  Labour activism in Shanghai in 1925 was alive and growing. The Chinese Communist Party had been formed in 1922 and it was involved in unionising and educating workers to their rights. In May 1925, a Chinese worker was killed at a Japanese-owned mill in the Pooto Road district of Shanghai during a labour demonstration. At a memorial service for the victim, a group of students was arrested for distributing illegal leaflets and their trial date was set for 30 May.

  A day of action on 30 May was organised by the students’ union and more students were arrested on that day for protesting on Nanking Road, within the International Settlement. They were gaoled together in the Louza police station. By mid-afternoon their number had swelled as the police broke up more impromptu meetings in nearby streets. A huge crowd followed one of these parties back to the station, and forced their way into the charge-room. They were pushed back out onto Nanking Road by Inspector Edward Everson and the small police force manning the station. But within an hour, the crowd had grown and Everson gave the order to fire. Four young men died instantly and another eight died later. Those in the front ranks stood no chance. Everson claimed the station would have fallen to the bloodthirsty anti-foreign mob if he had not given the order to fire. But witnesses agreed the crowd had remained good-humoured almost up to the last. Photographs of the torn white shirts worn by two of the dead were used by the Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs to show they had been shot in the back.

  A day later, on 31 May, the Chinese Communist Party founded a General Labour Union that co-ordinated a triple strike of workers, students and merchants. The strike lasted until September and riots and violence in the streets of Shanghai during this time were common. The Shanghai Municipal Council declared a formal ‘State of Emergency’ and blamed the Bolsheviks for funding the disruption. At least twenty-two Chinese were killed during what became known as the May Thirtieth Movement. It was a major international news story, damaging to the Shanghai Municipal Council, and it resulted in a public exploration of the workings of the International Settlement regime. Membership of the Chinese Communist Party leapt from about 1,000 in May 1925 to 11,250 a year later.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Through the years that it took me to write this, my first novel, I have been blessed with so much support. Thank you to my mentor and teacher at the Faber Academy, Kathryn Heyman, for her invaluable help during the early drafts of this book and her continued faith in my abilities. I was also fortunate to work with Tom Keneally in a masterclass series during which he gave me some gems of writing advice. Claire Corbett, who taught the masterclass with Tom, was a fantastic tutor. Tom Flood of Flood Manuscripts reviewed a later draft and his input was spot-on and a wonderful invigoration at a time when I had flagged. Thanks must go to the other people who gave up their time to read drafts of my novel and offered precious feedback and advice; Petra Fowler, Kevin Ralphs and Will Berryman. This book would not be here if it weren’t for my wonderful agent Pippa Masson at Curtis Brown Australia, who saw the possibilities of my manuscript. I am extremely grateful to my publisher Harlequin, to Jo Mackay and the editorial team who have welcomed me with warm enthusiasm and professionalism. A special thanks to my editor Alex Craig for her marvellous and insightful work.

  To my dear friends who listened to me, who offered me a place to write, sometimes whole houses, and who kept me sane, I say thank you for the distractions of laughter, dinners and wine. I’m especially thankful to Sunara Fernando who listened patiently through endless discussions of plot and character and embraced this story as much as I did.

  Finally my love and gratitude to my mother Karen, my sisters Phoebe and Rebecca and to the big family brood who hold me close. How dearly I wish my father were alive to see this book come into being. Above all, and for always, my love and thanks to my dear children: my son Oliver whose own journey inspires me every day and my daughters Clare and Zoe who ground me with their curiosity and dance with me for pure joy.

  ISBN: 9781489249159

  TITLE: THE SHANGHAI WIFE

  First Australian Publication 2018

  Copyright © 2018 Emma Harcourt

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