Gai-Jin (155 page)

Signing Angelique Struan pleased her very much. The two names went well together. It was enjoyable to practice the signature, the swirl of the “S” somehow helping her to think.

My scheme with Edward, where on earth did all those lovely ideas come from? It’s excellent—if he does it as I want. That should convince Tess I’m not an enemy. But her son was her son and I wouldn’t forgive, not if he had been my son, I don’t think I would.

The way ahead’s fraught with disaster, so much to go wrong, can go wrong, André’s still a slavering dog waiting to be muzzled, or put down—yet, in truth, so many ways to go right—the correct coffin is en route, Malcolm’s ready and waiting for tomorrow, I can still go to Hong Kong by mail ship if I want, I’m sure Edward wants to marry me and he of all people understands a rich wife is better than a poor one, I have Malcolm’s blank chits and his chop that no one knows about—and twenty-eight days to go and not like last time, Blessed Mother, thanks be to Merciful God—I pray for his child.

Ah, Malcolm, Malcolm, what a good life we would have had, you and I. I would have grown up without all the awfulness, I swear I would have.

Making an effort she shook off her melancholy and rang the bell on the desk. The door opened without a polite knock, any form of knock. “Missee?”

“Tai-tai
, Ah Soh!” she snapped, ready for her.

“Missee-tai-tai?”

“Send Chen here, chop chop.”

“You eat here, down’stair, Missee? Er, Missee-tai-tai?”

Angelique sighed at the permutations Ah Soh could find to avoid calling her tai-tai. “Listen, you piece of donkey dung,” she said to her sweetly, “I’m stronger than you and soon I’ll be paying the bills and then you will sweat,” and was happy to see the dark eyes in the flat face cross. As Malcolm
had explained, speaking directly at Ah Soh in correct English, not pidgin, that the maid could not understand would make her lose face. Such twisted logic these Chinese, Angelique thought. “Chen, chop chop!”

Ah Soh shuffled off sullenly. When Chen came in she told him she wanted a letter delivered to the British Embassy. He nodded without comment. “Chen, Ah Tok sick, not sick, heya?”

“Ah Tok sick. Ah Tok gone Hong Kong.” Chen waved a hand seawards. “All same along Master.”

“Oh!” Angelique was greatly relieved and wished she had thought of that first. Several times she had seen her skulking in the shadows, her black eyes filled with hatred, saliva dribbling from the corner of her mouth. She gave him Ketterer’s letter. “Go Big House, now.”

He glanced at the name, pretending to be able to read the barbarian. “Eat all same this place, heya?”

“Tai-tai eat all same this place, heya?
Tai-tai!”

Chen’s eyes flickered. His mouth smiled. “Tai-tai, eat all same this place, heya? Tai-tai Missee?”

“You’re a piece of donkey dung too. Perhaps I’ll dismiss you—no, that would be too kind. I’ll think about you later.” She smiled. “Eat downstair’. What food have?”

“Wat you wan’, tai-tai Missee, Missee-tai-tai?”

This made her laugh and she felt better for it. “Missee-tai-tai, tai-tai Missee, all same good. What food? Your food, Chinese food,” she said suddenly, not knowing why. “All same you-ah, Chen. China food, Number One food. Best, heya!”

Chen gaped at her. This was most unusual. In the past she would just pick at the dishes the Master enjoyed to please him, and eat European dishes, meats and potatoes and pies and bread that he and all Chinese considered fit only for animals. “Master’s food, heya?” he asked tentatively.

“Tai-pan food for Master’s tai-tai!” Imperiously, aping Malcolm, she waved him away and turned her back.

Chen, unsettled, went off mumbling. “All same tai-pan, have got, yes Missee-tai-tai.”

I must develop a taste for Chinese food and knowledge of it, she thought, grasping a new idea. In case I stay part of the year. Jamie said he likes Chinese cooking occasionally, Phillip’s enthusiastic and Edward eats it all the time …

Ah, Edward, Edward-of-so-many-faces, and possibilities. I’m not sure about him. If …

If I bring forth a son I will be so happy that I’ve part of Malcolm forever. I’ll go back to Paris, for then I’ll have plenty of money, plenty. Tess Struan will be glad to have me leave and our son will be brought up part French, part British, and be worthy of his father. If a daughter, I’ll leave too, with
less, but there will be more than enough. Until I meet a title worthy and a man worthy.

If I’m unlucky and there’s no child, then I may consider Edward, while negotiating with that woman for my widow’s mite, all this subject to Heavenly Skye being wrong.

Wrong about how vindictive and ruthless that woman is.

SATURDAY, 13TH DECEMBER
:

The next day the sea was the same grey, the sky the same grey but the storm had blown itself out. Rain had stopped. Angelique, Skye and Hoag were waiting in the cabin of the cutter, still moored to the Struan jetty and long overdue to leave for Kanagawa. Beyond the bay they could see white-caps. Gloom, fed by the sharp wet wind, made waiting harder. Jamie and the Reverend Tweet were half an hour late.

“I wish they’d hurry,” she said, nervousness creeping into her resolve. “What’s keeping them?”

“We won’t have to go too far out so we should still be all right,” Skye said queasily, the cutter heaving gently. The men wore top hats and sweaters and heavy topcoats—Angelique her dark green riding clothes and boots as more suitable for shipboard travel.

Above the cabin was the small, glassed-in wheelhouse. Bosun Tinker leant on the sill of one of the opened windows, puffing a pipe, too seawise to ask questions. Jamie McFay had simply said, “Have the cutter at the wharf early with a full load of coal, just you and a dependable stoker.” That was enough for him. The rest would come soon enough, like why sensible people wanted to put to sea on a day when sensible seafarers were best ashore.

“Look, there he is!” Skye said, and cursed without noticing he had done so.

Jamie was alone, hurrying along High Street towards them. Passersby greeted him, frowned and went about their business. He jumped aboard and closed the cabin door. “Tweet’s changed his mind,” he said, his chest heaving like the deck.

“God damn the fellow, why? He agreed.” Skye was disgusted. With Jamie they had decided the best story was to say that a Christian fisherman had died in Kanagawa and had begged to have a sea burial, would he officiate, the rest could come later. There would be a contribution for his trouble.

“He said not in this weather,” Jamie said, panting from his haste and frustration. “I tried every way to convince him but he only said, ‘The fellow’s dead, tomorrow or the next day will be just as good, weather’s dicey, we probably wouldn’t be back before dark—I’d forgotten Lunkchurch’s dinner party. After service tomorrow, or even better Monday.’ Rotten bastard!” He took another breath. “Rotten after he’d agreed.”

Angelique felt sick with disappointment. “Father Lee! I’ll go and ask him. He will do it.”

“There’s no time, not now, Angelique, and anyway Malcolm wasn’t Catholic, that wouldn’t be proper.”

“Damn Tweet,” Hoag said, fuming. “We’ll have to postpone. Sea’s not the best, perhaps it’s just as well. I suppose we have to try tomorrow?” They all looked at her.

Jamie said, “Tweet’s not dependable, he may want to put it off till Monday—either way there’s the problem of the mail ship, she won’t wait beyond noon.” He had asked her skipper to delay but, already behind schedule, the man had said that was the best he could do.

Hoag said, “We absolutely should go aboard, no doubt about that. Angelique should absolutely be at the Hong Kong funeral.”

“I’m opposed,” Heavenly said. “But if she goes, I’ll go.”

“Father Leo,” Angelique persisted. “I’ll ask him.”

Jamie said, “It wouldn’t be proper. Listen, there’s one solution, Angelique. A sea burial doesn’t require a chaplain, a ship’s captain can do it just as Marlowe marr—”

Her hope soared. “We’ll ask John! Quick, let’s—”

“Not possible, I’ve already checked, he’s aboard the flagship and busy with Ketterer.” Jamie continued in a run, “Angelique, I’m captain of this craft, I’ve a mariner’s ticket, albeit an old one, I’ve seen enough sea burials to know what to do, I’ve never done it before but that doesn’t matter. We have witnesses. If you like I can officiate … it’d be legal.” He saw her confusion and looked at Skye. “Heavenly, legally that’s right? Well, isn’t it, for God’s sake?”

“It’d be legal.” Skye’s nervousness increased as a larger than usual wave slapped the side of the boat, Hoag also feeling squeamish.

Jamie took another deep breath. “Angelique, this whole idea, the whole burial is bizarre to say the least, a little more won’t harm Malcolm. I brought a Bible and Naval Regs, I had to fetch them, that’s why I was late. What do you say?”

In answer she put her arms around him, the tears wetting her cheeks. “Let’s begin. Please, Jamie, quickly.”

Jamie McFay held her and found the closeness pleasing.

Skye said, “What about the Bosun and stoker?”

Jamie snapped, “I already told you I’ll deal with them.” Gently he loosed himself and slid the door back. “Bosun,” he called out. “Cast off! Head for Kanagawa.”

“Aye, aye, sorr.” Glad that some decision had been made, Tinker took the craft to sea and turned northwards for the far shore. Waves made her bob and weave but not too badly, wind still well within limits, the sky promising no worse than before. Humming a sea chanty made him feel better.

Soon Jamie joined him. “You head for the Legation jetty. We’re going to take a coffin aboard …” He saw the Bosun’s bite harder on his pipe. “A coffin. Then we’re going out to sea a league to deep water and we’re going to bury him. We’ll have a ceremony and you’ll be part of it, you and our stoker.” Jamie looked at him. “Any questions?”

“Me, sorr? No, sorr.”

Jamie nodded tautly and went below again. The others said nothing, watching the coastline and Kanagawa, dead ahead.

In the wheelhouse, the Bosun picked up the metal voice tube, beside the helm, unhooked it and bellowed to his stoker down in the engine room. “Get the lead out, Percy!”

The warehouse shed was where Hoag had said, within easy distance of the jetty. The coffin was on a wooden bench. Skye, Hoag, the Bosun and stoker each took a corner and lifted it easily. After they left, Jamie closed the door, following them. He had thought it best for Angelique to stay in the cabin. A few fisher folk and villagers passed by, bowed and hurried away, not wanting to be anywhere near gai-jin.

To maneuver the coffin aboard was more difficult. The rise and fall of the deck, slippery with salt water, was hazardous. “Wait a sec,” the stoker gasped, “lemme get aboard.”

He was a short man wearing a tattered woolen skullcap, with heavy shoulders and immense forearms. Once on the deck he spread his feet wide and grasped the coffin midcenter and heaved it aboard and partway into the cabin, almost by himself. The vein-stretching effort made him fart involuntarily and loudly. “Pardon, all,” he said gruffly, then hauled the box farther to safety. One end was in the cabin, the other projecting aft onto the poop.

“We’ll lash it there,” Jamie said.

“Aye, aye, sorr.”

“Afternoon, Doctor Hoag.” The voice was dour.

Startled, they all looked around. Sergeant Towery and another soldier were watching them balefully.

“Oh! Oh, good aft—hello, Sergeant,” Hoag said, his voice strangled.
With the others he stood stock-still. Towery came closer and looked at the coffin. “Well, now, what have we ’ere? Taking the bugger, begging your pardon, Ma’am, taking the coffin to Yokohama, eh?”

“We—we … he asked to be buried at sea, Sergeant,” Hoag said. “He, Mr. McFay kindly loaned his cutter, so here we are.”

“At sea, eh?” Sergeant Towery looked at them, one at a time, as though wanting to etch their faces on his memory. “Very commendable, I’ll be bound.” Another wait while they died a little more. Then he said, “At sea, eh? Best not waste time or you’ll be feeding fishes too. Ma’am.” Politely he saluted her and marched off, the soldier falling into step.

They did not move for a moment. “Christ,” Hoag muttered.

“What do you make of that?” Jamie asked.

“Trouble, sorr.” Shakily, the Bosun took a swig of rum from his hip flask, passed it to Jamie who took a swig, Hoag shook his head, so did Angelique. The stoker was last. To Tinker’s disgust, he swallowed most of it, belched. “Pardon.”

Jamie’s stomach was churning. “Bugger appeared from nowhere, as though he was waiting for us. Did you see him walking up?” They all shook their heads. “We’d best be going.”

While they secured the coffin, the Bosun conned the cutter out to sea. She rode the waves well with only spray coming aboard, just enough to be irritating to those on deck. Below, the cabin was noisy but snug, the air clean and well ventilated, keeping out the smell of smoke from the coal-fired engine. Ahead, eastwards, where the deep was, the sky appeared meaner—and nothing beyond, between here and America.

“Best be fast, sorr,” Tinker said quietly to Jamie in the wheelhouse. “We’ve no more than an hour or two of light.”

“You sense something, Bosun?”

“Best be fast, sorr.”

Jamie looked eastwards again. The sky seemed darker. “I agree. Hold your course.” He turned to go.

“Sorr, that Sergeant, he’s bound to snitch, right?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve to make a funeral, right?”

“Yes.”

“What’s so important about this ’ere?” Tinker jerked his callused thumb at the coffin, “to risk all that there?” He pointed at the weather.

“We’re burying the tai-pan, Malcolm Struan.”

The old man laughed. “His coffin’s aboard
Prancing Cloud
, sorr, we both knows that.”

“Yes, we both know that. This is, well, a symbolic, a token, a make-believe burial to conform with his wishes—and his widow’s wishes—to be buried at sea. She doesn’t think that will happen in Hong Kong.” Jamie
knew the risk he was taking but there was no other way. So far he had been able to tell the truth.

“Make-believe, sorr?”

“Yes. That’s all. There’s nothing to hide and nothing to be afraid of.”