by Ann Bridge
Voices and steps announced the arrival of more guests in the courtyard. “We may as well go,” said Count Herman, “we’ve been here over an hour. They will be delighted to see you if you come again, but for Heaven’s sake don’t try to come alone, or you may commit some gaffe that it will take me a month to put straight.”
The two girls accompanied them to the outer door and waved after them as they rode off, with repeated cries of “Come tomorrow,” the stock phrase of the sing-song houses for “au revoir.”
“Well, what did you think of it?” Count Herman asked as they drove down the ill-lit lane towards Lantern Street. Rupert considered. For him the most striking feature of the whole evening had been its colossal dullness.
“I am very glad indeed to have seen it,” he said. “I don’t think I should ever care to become an habitué, though I imagine that one misses most of the point unless one is really fluent in Chinese. They wouldn’t talk such bromides all the time with you, would they?”
“No, not quite,” said Herman. Rupert could hear that he was smiling again. As they turned into the glare and the curious harsh noise of voices in Chien-mên Wai, he reflected that the very dullness of the whole thing had been interesting in itself. But the thought just flicked him, as he stepped into his house, that it was perhaps hardly worth having hurt Amber for.
Chapter Twenty-five
THE Minister’s party for the Marshal took place in the middle of April. The races were, as usual, early in May, and during the intervening three weeks Amber actually never saw Rupert alone at all. It is not easy to see anyone alone in a place where (a) you cannot dine at a small restaurant, because there are no restaurants; (b) you cannot go to a theatre, because there are no theatres; (c) you cannot go to a concert, because there are no concerts; (d) it is no good going to the cinema because there is only one, and everyone else will be there too. All the usual resources of the engaged or the would-be engaged being thus denied one, there remains only to walk or to ride. To arrange a walk, where no one does walk, is to make a rather definite démarche, lacking the helpful element of an excuse; while to conduct an emotional crisis when riding a China pony is an experiment which few will attempt twice.
Quite apart from these difficulties, Amber was more occupied than ever then with her griffins. These last weeks were the most crucial ones of the whole training period; and, as luck would have it, Joe could hardly help at all. There was a “hoosh” on in the Legation. The Minister’s party for the Marshal had failed of its object, or rather had succeeded only too well; encouraged by the face there gained, Li had suddenly become more than usually truculent about the revenue; he had sent a defiant message to Wang, his rival, and the city was full of rumours of another attack by this worthy. Everyone in the Legation was working from 9.30 in the morning till 11 at night, and Amber and Mulholland had to manage as best they could. Mulholland, occupied by day in the Bank, could only get out for the early gallops; the general supervision of the feeding and exercising, in fact the whole management of the Portfolio stable devolved on Amber.
It was, then, in no fit of pique that she had gone off to the Temple, but merely in order to be on the scene of her labours. Uncle Bill was there, occupied in the same way—Mulholland slept in the country when he could, more often dashed out in Joe’s car, galloped, and dashed back again. Gin and Ginger were both entered for the Maidens, appearing formally in the lists as Minister of Marine and Minister of Finance respectively. Gin was a form of insurance, a second string; he had come on well in the last few weeks and ran very level. He could not touch Ginger at his best, but the chestnut had developed a temperament, and there were days when Mulholland could get nothing out of him.
One morning a few days before the races Amber walked out into the stable-yard at 6 o’clock, munching a piece of chocolate, swung herself into the saddle, and cantered off down the track towards the racecourse. The Portfolio ponies were there when she arrived, but not Mulholland. Giving Bananas to a mafoo, she strolled about, waiting for him. As last year, the stand and buildings were newly painted, white and fresh; coolies were planting pink geraniums all round the enclosure, and setting tubs of oleanders in position. Leaning on the rails, her thoughts ran first on the ponies, waiting down by the paddock. Her ponies, her grooms, her jockey! It was the most heavenly fun to be running a racing-stable of one’s own! She wondered, for the thousandth time, whether the Ginger Griffin could possibly win. That new white of Mimi’s, St. Jean, had done some terribly good last quarters lately, Joe said. And Fine Champagne, Rothstein’s entry, who was coloured like Bananas, looked very fast. Ee-tzü was a wonder at training—she wished they had a mafoo as good. Oh well, no good worrying—she was certain not to win it, with all these experts to compete with. “Make up your mind to it,” she muttered to herself.
She looked at her watch—6.25—Billy was late. Others, Leicester for one, would be coming presently, and she wanted to be finished first. Thinking of Harry reminded her of Lydia, and the thought of Lydia led on to Rupert. It was horrid, not seeing him all this time, with that quarrel unsettled between them. She had been furiously angry with him at first—how dared he speak like that to her—how could he? But in time her anger had cooled; she was prepared to believe that she had perhaps been tactless, or that something was worrying him that night. As soon as all this was over, she would see him and put everything to rights, she told herself; it was such a small thing, it couldn’t really disturb their happiness for long. “A safe person to love”—he had said once that she would be that. And so she would be—she would make a safety for him, a refuge from his own bitterness, and let his love of “simple things” and of lovely places expand and grow in peace. She would never be a shifting tease. As for his dancing so much that night with Daphne Boggit—she drove the pricking, uncomfortable little thought resolutely away. Surely she could stand up to a little thing like that; she must be prepared for such episodes, lots of them—Rupert being Rupert—if she was to build a haven for his spirit.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she never heard Mulholland approaching. The young man, coming up to the figure by the rails, in the old breeches and pull-over, actually hesitated a moment before he spoke to her, so held was he by the lovely expression on her face. When at length he said “Morning, Amber,” she turned at once, smiling; but the strangely beautiful look of vision and purpose vanished.
“You’re late,” she said.
“Yes, that idiotic chauffeur of Joe’s has ditched the car again—I had to walk from the corner.”
“Oh, poor you! Well, come on; let’s begin.”
Stop-watch in hand, Amber stood at the rails. She knew all about timing now; concentrated, businesslike, she watched every detail of the start, saw just how neatly Mulholland got Ginger away. Billy had come on as a rider since last year. Round the course they went, and Amber took the times. After they passed the post she made some notes on a pad, then walked down to meet Mulholland.
“Well?” he asked.
“Two-twenty. He’ll have to do better than that to win.”
Mulholland grunted. “He wasn’t keen,” he said. “I can’t think what’s wrong. He did better than that three weeks ago.”
“Let’s look at him,” said Amber. Together they studied the pony—he turned his head and talked to them in low confiding little whickers.
“Chatty chap, isn’t he?” said Mulholland, patting the pony’s neck. But Amber continued to look at Ginger with a little puzzled frown.
“I wonder if we’ve trained him a bit too fine,” she said at length. “I’ve known that happen at home. Li!” she called. The head mafoo came up, and waited expectantly. How did one say “trained too fine” in Chinese? She found a round-about formula, and put the point to Li. Rather to her surprise, he pounced on it. Nakö huang ma (the yellow pony) too much gallop, he opined; gallop more less, gallop more better. And eventually it was decided to leave Ginger completely quiet for the few days that remained before the race.
As they left
the course they met Harry Leicester’s ponies coming down. They stopped and talked with him for a moment. He expressed the view that Low, Uncle Bill’s griffin, was going to “scoop the Maidens.” He asked after Gin and Ginger. “We’re rather blighted,” Amber said truthfully, “we think Ginger’s stale.”
“Overdone it a bit?” said Harry. “H’m—pity. Amateurs often do. What does Li say?”
“Li agrees.”
“Well, they don’t know much,” said Harry consolingly. “Good luck!” He raised his hat and went on. A moment later he called after them—“I say!”
Amber turned Bananas round and went back. “What is it?”
“Listen!” said Harry, cocking his head like a clever dog.
Standing on the road in the sunshine, they listened. The air was full of small sounds—a blue magpie was clattering in the willows, making a noise like a bird-scarer’s rattle; kestrels cried overhead, a coolie was hammering at a p’eng behind the palings; down in the paddock a pony whinnied, and a mafoo spoke to it. There was nothing unusual about any of these; they were the common cheerful accompaniment of a morning in the country. Amber stood puzzled, when—“There!” said Leicester, holding up his hand.
A very low faint bumping sound made the air tremble for a few seconds—it seemed to reach them as much through their bodies as through their ears, coming from nowhere in particular.
“Hear it?” said Harry.
Mulholland nodded. “What can it be?” Amber asked.
“It’s guns,” said Harry. “I heard last night that Wang was going to get a move on. Seems to be true.”
“Where is he?” Mulholland asked.
“Somewhere down the Hankow line. He’s got three or four heavy howitzers on trucks. I suppose he’s having a stab at Li’s positions down there—I heard he was going to.”
“Who from?” Mulholland asked.
“As a matter of fact it was Stefany,” said Harry. “He’s generally pretty well informed, too, though I never ask where he gets his stuff. Well, I must get on.” He rejoined his ponies.
Amber and Mulholland went on their way; they were both stirred by the indefinable excitement which any sight or sound of war arouses. “Will it upset the races?” Amber asked, a little anxiously.
“The races! Good Lord no!” said Mulholland, so emphatically that Amber felt slightly foolish. She had not been long enough in China to realise how incredibly trivial war is out there, to Europeans at any rate. At the corner they found Joe’s car, which had been released from the ditch with the aid of several farm teams and a number of coolies with spades. Mulholland drove off, but Amber, finding herself near the Portfolio stable, decided to go on there and have a last word with Li about Ginger before returning to breakfast. The stables lay just behind the vacant villa, which usually stood, blank and shuttered, a weather-stained Union Jack drooping from its gable. Today, however, she noticed with surprise that the back door was open, and a ricksha standing in the yard; as she rode up two Chinese popped out, and seeing her, popped in again. Wondering what was going on, she called for a mafoo, and dismounting, walked into the house.
A most peculiar scene met her eyes. The villa had been left partly furnished, curtains and carpets rolled up and piled on the scanty furniture. But these remnants of European occupation were now almost hidden under a mass of strange objects, most of them manifestly Chinese—lacquer chests for clothes, cloth bundles which she guessed to contain ivories or porcelain, clothes themselves, lamps and bath-tubs, the long wooden cases of scroll-pictures, all heaped up in indescribable confusion. In every room it was the same. She ran the two Chinese to earth in the bathroom, which was stuffed almost to the ceiling with baskets of pea-nuts and sweet potatoes, and asked them what they were doing. They grinned sheepishly, muttered something about “Ping” and escaped. Puzzled by this extraordinary phenomenon, Amber went across to the stable and questioned Li. Li put on an expression of studied vacancy. He knew nothing at all; he knew not what men come; he knew not what plan. More puzzled than ever, Amber gave her final directions, and returned to the Temple, where over breakfast she recounted these events to Uncle Bill.
To Uncle Bill the connection between the sound of guns and the accumulation of Chinese possessions in the villa was as clear as daylight. “Oh Lord yes, they’re putting their stuff there for safety,” he said—“they always do that if they can when there are troops about.”
“But the house is empty—it isn’t a bit safe,” Amber objected.
“Oh yes it is—far safer than their houses,” boomed Uncle Bill. “It’s got a foreign flag over it—it won’t be touched. Leave ‘em alone—they’ll do no harm. When the fuss is over they’ll cart it all away again, and leave everything tidy.” After breakfast he went out with Amber on to the manege and stood listening. Yes—remote and faint, hitting their senses all over like light muffled blows, came that distant reverberation.
“H’m,” said Uncle Bill. He appeared to consider. “You say Leicester got this from Stefany? Then it’s pretty sure to be right—if he can, Wang’ll come on up. He’s wanted to for months, and he got those extra Hupei troops a time back. Now look here—there are several things to be done. It’s always well to be prepared.”
“Yes?” said Amber. She expected to be bundled off into the city, where Aunt Bessie had remained the previous night for bridge, and waited in docile dismay.
“Have you got all the frocks and things you’ll want for the races out here?” Uncle Bill asked.
“No,” said Amber, astonished.
“Well, you’d better take the car and go in and get them,” said Bill. “If the gates are shut later we may have a job to get in and out. And tell Bessie to get her things too, and to come out after lunch. I shall want—” he recited a list of his requirements. As, a little later, Amber drove off—“Remember to tell Bessie we’re nearly out of gin,” he shouted after her. In the car Amber giggled to herself. Blessed Uncle Bill! Enchanting China! Where else in the world, with a possible siege impending, would one carefully arrange to assemble oneself and one’s drinks outside the city, so as not to miss a race-meeting? It occurred to her that she ought to tell Joe, and when she got to the Hei Lung Hu-t’ung she rang up the Chancery. Rupert answered the telephone. “Yes? Oh, it’s you. How are you? All right?” He sounded hurried and affairé.
“Yes, rather. Could I speak to Joe?” said Amber, anxious to make it clear that it was not Rupert she wanted.
“He’s with the Minister, I’m afraid. Any message?”
“Yes. Tell him——” She paused to arrange her message.
“Well?” said Rupert, rather impatiently.
“We think Wang’s probably coming up.”
“My dear child, we’ve had nothing but rumours about Wang all this week,” Rupert interrupted. “That’s nothing new.”
“Oh, all right! Only you can hear the guns, out there. Tell Joe to ring me up—I won’t keep you!” said Amber.
“What’s that?” Rupert began, but Amber rang off. Tiresome, irritable creature he was! Five minutes later Joe rang up.
“I say, what’s all this you’ve been telling Rupert about guns?”
“Oh, nothing—only Harry says he heard from Count Stefany that Wang is really on the move, and you can hear the guns clearly out at P.M.C. Look here, Joe——” She told him their plans. “Can we take anything out for you?”
Joe was rather upset. “I say, do you think that’s really wise? I mean, if anything’s going on, I should have thought you’d have done better to be in the city, you and Auntie, anyhow.”
“Mind the women and children!” Amber mocked. “Don’t fuss, Joe!”
“I’d come out myself, only we’re so damned busy,” grumbled Joe. “Rupert and I were working till midnight last night. And if this old Methodist brute really comes up, there’ll be more telegrams than ever. How loud were the guns?”
“Not loud—sort of hitting you,” Amber replied. “And the Chinese are cramming Miles’s villa full of stuff—I saw
them.”
“Hern Jé! That looks like business,” said Joe, and went off to spread the news in the Chancery, while Amber and Aunt Bessie packed their race frocks, collected plenty of gin, and drove out to the temple.
For the next four or five days gossip in the Club was fairly evenly divided between the prospects of a siege and the prospects of the various ponies for the Maidens, including Ginger. There had been a good deal of speculation among the regular race-owners in Peking about Miss Harrison’s griffins, after it became known that she was starting a stable; the fact that she had got them through Johansen leaked out, and Mr. Hawtrey’s secrecy fanned curiosity. Rumours had gone round that the chestnut really was something out of the way. During the next day or so, however, it became widely known that the Portfolio pony was overtrained and stale, and might be discounted. Gossip to this effect depressed Mulholland rather, but Joe took it very cheerfully. “Nonsense, my dear chap. Club chat won’t affect the pony’s form, and we shall all get a longer price. Excellent thing.”
Out in the country, that mutter of guns to the South continued, always getting a little louder and clearer; small parties of soldiers, wearing the Marshal’s pink armlets, appeared in the villages, and presently wandered on again, weary and inconsequent. In the City it was reported officially that Li was maintaining his positions by the railway and had repulsed Wang, but old hands like Uncle Bill, seeing these parties, drew their own conclusions. Without doubt a retreat was in progress. For one panicky day the city gates were shut, but on Wednesday, two days before the races, they were opened again. Bill went in to Peking to glance at his neglected office, and Amber begged a lift too—she wanted to cash a cheque, for betting purposes.
Amber’s financial arrangements were a little on her mind. The stable had worked out rather more expensive than she had anticipated. The two griffins, at $160 each, had mopped up over three hundred of her five hundred dollars; her share of running costs for the six months had been another three hundred—she was now down on the thing. For the moment she was all right, and if Ginger had won, as she had half hoped he might, she would have recouped herself. As it was, he probably wouldn’t. She sat in her ricksha in frowning calculation as she drove to Legation Street. Should she put her shirt on Ginger, or not? She couldn’t afford to lose a lot more; but unless she put on a good lump, she wouldn’t cover her losses if he did, improbably, win. Entering the bank, something caught her eye which for the moment drove her problem out of her head. It was a printed notice, standing at intervals along the counter, and ornamenting the walls: