by Carol Jones
‘Miss Hartley, isn’t it? Mr Wallace told us to expect you,’ said Mrs Brewer, examining Violet’s costume with a raised eyebrow. ‘I hope you’ve brought an apron with you.’
Violet nodded. ‘I’m ready to roll up my sleeves.’ In fact, she had purposely left off her fine linen undersleeves that morning, well aware of the nature of the work to come. Although not without a sigh of regret, for her purple taffeta did not look half so well without them.
‘You must call me Eleanor, my dear, since we are to work together. And here is my great friend, Mrs Margaret MacDonald.’
‘How do you do, Mrs MacDonald,’ said Violet, extending a gloved hand. ‘Please do call me Violet.’
‘Forgive me, dear, but are you certain that you’re prepared for this work?’ Mrs Brewer’s scepticism was camouflaged by a kindly smile. ‘You’re young and the work won’t be pleasant.’
‘Don’t worry, ma’am, I can assure you that I have nursed all the usual childhood illnesses, including, on several occasions, far too much bread and butter pudding, and some unfortunate instances of diarrhoea.’ Violet punctuated her list of qualifications with a conspiratorial smile.
‘I’m sure you know your remedies, but these are grown men we’re treating. Strangers, whose customs we cannot always understand.’
‘I’ve encountered my share of unpleasantness before, and the men are ill and in need of care. We are all the same in that.’
‘Well then, if you’re certain, I expect you’ll do nicely.’
‘And beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Mrs MacDonald.
‘Some of the ladies are reluctant to tend the Celestials,’ Mrs Brewer added by way of explanation. ‘They worry about catching some unknown disease or other. But from what I’ve experienced so far, it is just the usual shipboard ailments. And we’ve all seen those before. Dysentery, catarrhus, constipation, malnourishment…’ She paused to check Violet’s reaction. ‘Our most pressing worry is the possibility of typhoid fever, although Dr Penny assures me that none of these men are afflicted.’
Typhoid fever. Mrs Wallace would not be impressed. She had only agreed to Violet volunteering under pressure from her husband and daughter.
‘So we must be especially careful not to contaminate the water,’ Mrs Brewer continued, noticing Violet’s glance at the jug and ewer sitting on a nearby stool.
‘There’s been talk in London that the sewers running into the Thames are to blame for much of the city’s illness,’ said Violet. In fact, her previous employer, the earl’s daughter, had become so particular about water that she would not drink anything other than tea or wine – preferably wine – and consequently blamed all of London’s ills upon the Band of Hope and their temperance brethren.
‘Yes, we’ve read the reports.’
‘But none of this helps us fathom what is wrong with this fellow,’ said Mrs MacDonald, indicating the moaning man.
‘He has none of the usual symptoms?’
The man in question lay upon a stretcher made from rough-hewn branches and a length of hessian. He tossed his head from side to side, whether in delirium or pain, Violet could not say, for the ragged sounds issuing from his throat were as impenetrable to her as the cries of a raucous gull. ‘Ngah… ngah… ngah,’ was the nearest she could approximate the sounds.
‘May I?’ asked Violet. Approaching the stretcher, she crouched low over the man so that curling locks of gold escaped her bonnet. His eyes widened and he reached out a hand as if to touch Violet’s hair. ‘Si…’ he breathed, his mouth agape. Had the man never seen a blonde-haired woman? she wondered. But before she could ponder this thought further, she was struck by the sight of his open mouth and the foul stench issuing from it. At the rear of his mouth a swollen mass enveloped one of his molars, a pea-sized eruption oozing pus. The tooth surrounded by this evil matter was blackened with decay and the gum flamed an angry red. No wonder the poor man squawked so loudly.
Standing with not a little relief, she fanned her face with a gloved hand, and turned to face the other women. ‘I think I may know what the trouble is,’ she said. ‘I think this man may be suffering toothache.’
‘Ngah… ngah…’ The Chinaman resumed his refrain and Violet wondered whether he had been telling them what ailed him all the while.
‘Quite bad toothache from the sound of him.’
Alongside Violet, Mrs Brewer leaned forward as if to inspect his mouth for herself but Violet placed a gentle hand upon her arm with a warning smile. ‘I would not recommend it without a dose of the strongest cologne.’
‘Well, my dear, welcome to the team,’ said Mrs Brewer. ‘Let’s put you to work then and hope you don’t regret it. And we had better send for Dr Penny to extract that tooth or we shall all be deaf by tomorrow.’
*
Violet exited the tent, worn out from traipsing to and from the creek and lifting men too ill to move weak limbs. Being younger than her fellow nurses, she had volunteered to do most of the heavy work. What had she been thinking? Her back ached, her neck hurt and her corset was chafing her ribcage, yet she could not contain a smile. Mrs Brewer said that she hoped Violet would be free tomorrow for another few hours and Mrs MacDonald had deigned to enquire after her recipe for peppermint water. It had been a long time since Violet basked in matronly approval, and not at all since she had grown to womanhood. It was an unexpected feeling.
Around her the Chinese camp seemed as busy as Covent Garden market, with blue-clad men going about the business of cooking, washing and scouring the locality for food and firewood, all the while shouting to each other in their indecipherable language. A few heads turned to stare as Violet threaded her way through the camp, but most kept their eyes to the ground, not wishing to cause inadvertent offence, she warranted. She wondered what it would be like to arrive in a foreign country, not knowing what small act might be considered offensive by its inhabitants. What habitual custom might be thought rude, if not abhorrent.
‘Miss Hartley, how goes the nursing?’
Thomas appeared from behind her, his voice sending ripples of surprise along the skin of her arms, and she realised that she was yet to set her sleeves to rights. Her hair too was a sticky mess, she was still wearing her apron, and the hem of her gown was crusted with mud. Damn the man, a lady liked a little warning. There was a world of difference between artful déshabillé and slovenliness.
‘Very well, thank you, Mr Thomas. As you can see, my ankle is fully recovered.’
‘And you don’t appear too much the worse for wear.’
‘A lady never admits to wear,’ she said, a smile twitching her lips, ‘but I will admit to tiredness. I’m afraid I don’t have quite the robust constitution of a bullock driver.’
‘For which we gentlemen can all be thankful.’ He grinned so that the late afternoon sun caught a flash of white teeth. ‘I was surprised that you volunteered to nurse the Chinamen. You appear too… ah… delicate for such work.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive. And volunteer is not the word I would have chosen,’ she laughed.
‘Alice did throw you to the wolves. But I’m sure Mrs Brewer is grateful for your help.’
‘Yes, she is. And I am happy to help,’ she said, surprised to find that it was true.
There was silence between them for a few moments before Violet broke it by saying, ‘I suppose you’ll be leaving soon?’
‘As soon as the Celestials are rested. Their legs won’t take them far after so long at sea, but they’re keen to reach the goldfields. They seem to think that gold is there for the taking.’ He scratched his head so that his hat slipped back, revealing thick tufts of black hair curling upon his forehead.
‘I hope they won’t be disappointed.’
‘I have no doubt they’ll be disappointed. But they’re industrious fellows, and will soon set to work digging it up.’
‘And what of you… you’re not tempted to join them? It seems half the country is looking to strike gold.’ She was surprised to find she w
as holding her breath, waiting for his answer.
‘Not me, Miss Hartley. I’m not a gambling man. I’d rather invest in hard work and land.’ He held her eyes a moment longer than courtesy dictated. ‘Gold can be a fickle mistress.’
Ten minutes later, she was still pondering his words as she set out once more for Noorla, footsore and weary, but with her heart floating light in her chest. Despite her tiredness, it had been a good day. Perhaps there were opportunities here if one was prepared to take a risk. Perhaps she could make a life here, at least for the present. Mr Thomas might believe that gold was an uncertain mistress, but Violet knew from experience that Love was far more fickle.
Gold, however, might just make for the perfect marriage.
11
Pearl River Delta, China, 1856
Young Wu was whistling as he arrived at the Wu lineage silk filature. Pausing a short distance from the open door, he inspected the building as he did every morning, from its beaten earth floor to its clay-tiled roof, admiring its construction. His father would have been content with thatch, but he had argued for tiles, as thatch would foul the fine silk fibres and lower their quality. From the outset he had been building for the future.
‘What are you smiling about, Goh Go?’
‘Uh? I wasn’t smiling,’ he said, frowning down at his third sister, Mei Ying, who accompanied him to the filature most mornings, at the order of his mother who didn’t like her youngest wandering the fields alone with her nose for trouble.
‘Your lips were turned up at the corners.’
‘I was stretching my face,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Don’t you stretch your face in the mornings?’
‘My face is fine. It doesn’t need stretching,’ she said, giggling behind her sleeve.
He stretched his face once more to prove his point before continuing on to the filature. Although its establishment had been his father’s idea, the clan elders had agreed that the son should supervise. ‘See how much damage you can do,’ if he recalled his father’s words correctly. The venture was small, with only ten basins so far, but Young Wu had plans for expansion. One day he hoped that the Wu filature would purchase all but a fraction of the cocoons grown in Sandy Bottom Village and perhaps from as far away as Small Mountain Mo village at the foot of the distant purple hills. News from Kwangchow was that the silkworms faraway in the West were diseased. In the land known as Faat Gwok the worms were dying, and the outside barbarians were hungry for silk from the Middle Kingdom.
‘Little Cat is starting here today,’ announced his sister, peering up at him closely. ‘Perhaps I will be the one to teach her how to work the treadle. She will not like that.’
‘Ga Jie will teach her how to work the treadle. She is eldest.’
Mei Ying screwed up her nose saying, ‘But our cousin is also the fastest. If she teaches Little Cat it will slow down production. It won’t matter if I stop reeling for a day.’
He wasn’t sure whether his sister was more interested in showing up Little Cat or taking a day off from reeling, but he wasn’t about to go along with her plan. She had too many plans for a girl of fifteen and was far too attached to them. Neither his mother nor his elder sisters had succeeded in curtailing Mei Mei’s plans. Girls needed to learn early to ‘eat bitterness’, for if they didn’t they would become unhappy wives with even unhappier husbands. Unfortunately, his mother had indulged his youngest sister too much, in his opinion, and as her elder brother, it was his duty to rectify the matter. Their father was too busy with clan business to pay much attention to his younger daughter. And once she was married she would no longer be his problem. Unfortunately, Big Wu reserved most of his notice for his son.
‘If you teach her she will learn poorly,’ he pronounced. ‘That is all I have to say.’
The clack of treadles and whirr of cogs announced that most of the girls were already at work, and the large room steamed with the basins of simmering cocoons. In setting up the filature, the Wu clan had imported five cumbersome treadle machines from the north. Young Wu had travelled to Kwangchow himself to take delivery of the machines, along with a man who would reassemble them and instruct the reelers in their use. For it was men who most often operated these silk reeling machines in the north, a fact that Young Wu found astonishing. How could men, with their large, clumsy hands, spin gossamer fine silk? Little Cat would be the first of his reelers who wasn’t a Wu. The first girl who wasn’t a relative.
Ga Jie was seated in the airiest position closest to the open door where she would benefit from any stray breeze. Her younger sister assisted her by adding and subtracting cocoons to the simmering basin and keeping the charcoal stove burning. His cousin was twenty-five years old, long past the age when a woman should be married and gone to live in her husband’s village, but she remained steadfastly single. There was nothing wrong with her that he could see; she had four sound limbs, her face was clear of birthmarks and she wasn’t at all feeble minded, yet she had combed up her own hair and remained a spinster. These sou hei were becoming more numerous in the surrounding villages. In fact, the practice was turning into something of a fashion, to the horror of the clan elders and all right-minded men. For how would men get wives if women refused to marry? And what would they do if this aberrant behaviour became an epidemic? Young Wu blamed the parents for not raising more filial children. Such a thing would not be countenanced in his father’s house.
A cough sounded behind him and he turned to see Little Cat standing in the entrance, bouncing up and down on her toes as if to spring away at any moment. Her hair hung in a shiny black rope to her waist and Young Wu had a sudden impulse to reach out, tug her towards him and make her stop bouncing. Her bounciness distracted him from the introduction he had rehearsed all evening. Her hair distracted him too. He wondered whether it would feel soft as the skeins of silk draped like curtains about the filature. He wondered if her skin would be as smooth to the touch as it looked.
‘Good. You are here. Come this way.’ He schooled his features into the stern expression required of a supervisor of the illustrious Wu clan’s filature, pulling his shoulders back to stand even taller than usual. The Mos were a tall family and the top of Little Cat’s head reached to his hairline. He wanted her to look up to him. He wanted her to admire this splendid thing that he, Young Wu, scion of the Wu clan, had created.
‘It smells like wet dog in here,’ she said, wrinkling her nose at the damp animal smell rising from pan after pan of simmering cocoons.
‘You would do well to get used to it.’ He ushered her to the treadle where his elder cousin sat, expertly plying her chopsticks with one hand and guiding the silk filaments with the other, while her foot pedalled rhythmically. ‘Ga Jie will teach you how to operate the treadle.’ He referred to his cousin by her relationship name rather than her given name, for Little Cat knew that already, just as she knew everyone in the village.
‘Good morning, Ah Wei,’ she greeted the older girl, before tipping her head to one side with a frown and saying to him, ‘But I already know how to reel silk. I am the fastest reeler of silk in the girls’ house.’
It occurred to him then that nothing with Little Cat was ever straightforward. If you expected her to be amenable, she became hard and uncompromising and tried to kick your shins. But when you expected her to be hard, she confounded you by showing her softer side, revealing a girl who hugged her friends and rescued them from fast-flowing rivers. He never knew which girl he would meet on any given day. She was nothing like his sisters. He always knew what to expect from them.
Folding his arms across his chest, he said, ‘As you see, we have a new and faster way of reeling, which my father desires you to learn.’ Aiya! Why did he have to go and mention his father? As if Big Wu’s words carried weight where his own were feeble puffs of air. ‘I have transported these machines all the way from Shanghai. On one of these machines, a skilled reeler can spin twelve taels of silk each day.’
He paused for her exclamation of surprise, bu
t he waited in vain. For now, rather than bouncing on her toes, she began tapping one foot impatiently, stirring up dust that lifted in the breeze to hover near his cousin’s machine.
‘Stop that tapping!’ he ordered. ‘You will dirty the silk.’
‘Stopped,’ she said, mirroring him by folding her arms across her chest and standing rigid as a stone lion guarding a temple. ‘Except how will I pedal this machine without tapping my foot?’
*
There was little doubt that the silk filature was a house of Wu. Under its tiled roof, Wu girls surrounded Little Cat. She felt them at her back, with the tappety-tap-tap of feet on treadles. She spied them from the corner of her eye, with the whirr of hands spinning reels. And she heard the eldest of them at her shoulder, issuing reminders and corrections and the occasional exclamation of dismay.
‘Wah, you do not do it this way. See how you have the fibres all tangled. You must twist them just so.’ The older girl reached around her to adjust her hand as it fed silk filaments through the guide to the reel.
She breathed Wu air. And all the time, she was conscious of that boy pacing the floor, sticking his nose into everyone’s business. He had grown taller this last year and his shoulders had filled out so that they strained at the seams of his tunic. He must have called on the barber that morning too, for his chin and the front and sides of his scalp shone smooth and pale, his long queue hanging past his waist and tied with a twist of cotton. She wondered how that hair would look, set free of its braid. But only rebel longhairs and bandits wore their hair loose – in defiance of the Qing emperors – and only Taoist priests were allowed their topknots. All other men complied with the edicts of the Qing.
The boy walked with a swagger, in a wide-legged gait. She wondered whether this was intentional, designed to take up more than his share of space, just as his lineage took up more than their share of land in Sandy Bottom Village. So many of the villagers had sold their land to the Wus in times of trouble and were forced to lease it back. Or perhaps he had grown accustomed to claiming space in a house full of sisters. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Young Wu had become conscious of his own importance of late. Yet strangely, although they were age mates, he still trailed after her twin. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he merely searched for a brother, someone with whom he could share an allegiance, a boy he could look up to. Goh Go was the nearest thing he could find.