The Concubine's Daughter (63 page)

He stood up in a way that said the talk was over. “But I think you know that from the old woman he called the Fish. Ben put a lot of faith in her, and I think what hope he had went with her when she took you. It’s a good thing she lived to see you grown; Ben would be happy about that.”

He cast off the launch’s bowline, watching as Toby put the throttle in reverse to pull slowly away from
China Sky
.

“One more thing you should know,” he called after them. “There was a witness to that wedding … a teacher. She taught Li-Xia how to be a lady. Her name, I think, was Bramble … Winifred Bramble. Englishwoman …”

Indie Da Silva raised a hand, calling loudly as the launch gathered speed and the gap between them widened. “You find what you’re looking for, you let me know.
China Sky
is so full of holes, I won’t be going anywhere… . And you, Toby What everyournameis, you take good care of Ben’s girl, or I’ll come looking for you.”

The taxi had hardly stopped outside the Happy Butterfly before Ruby was at the door. She was pale with terror, her words so wild that Sing had to hold her close before she was calm enough to be understood. “The taipan’s bodyguard, the one who came to Nine Dragons, he came in search of you.” The front door of the bar was locked, the windows boarded up. They entered from the back to find nothing but wreckage—mirrors smashed, chairs and tables overturned, broken bottles and glasses littering the floor.

“He brought
sai-lo
, the younger brothers, with him; they did this. The Forceful One beat Lily. He choked her … but she told him nothing. I hid among the other girls. They have gone now; the bar is closed. I think the Shanghai doctor is trying to help Miss Lily.”

Firecracker Lily lay on the bed in her private room upstairs, which looked even worse than the bar below. Shanghai Smith was mixing a potion, his medical bag open on the bed. Her face was swollen, an eye half closed, the bruises fresh upon her neck.

Lily tried to speak, her words difficult to hear as Toby leaned close. Filled with anger and fear, she pointed at Sing as though she were a ghost. “The Forceful One came looking for this girl. He said her
sung-tip
belonged to the big boss Ching, and anyone who tried to hide her would pay for it. If he returns and finds her here—”

Trembling, Firecracker Lily tried to sit up, but cried out in pain and agitation as Shanghai Smith pushed a needle into her fleshy arm. “Please, take this one and her
chi-chi
girl away. She brings very bad joss to the Happy Butterfly.”

T
he old walled village
of Lok-Choy-Lam was set in a valley at Fanling, on the border between Hong Kong’s New Territories of the Kowloon Peninsula and mainland China. Duck farms and fishponds were scattered among terraces of rice and market gardens as far as the eye could see. An air of tranquility settled over the valley, as though Kowloon and Hong Kong were worlds away instead of an hour by car. Rows of black-clad Hakka women bent over curving furrows, wielding hoes and carrying wooden buckets of water on springy bamboo poles, their wide-brimmed hats fringed with a valance of black gauze to shield them from the sun. Images from a separate world, unchanged by the passing of time, the women plodded serenely behind straining buffalo and wooden plows, chattering like sparrows.

Sing felt a comforting sense of homecoming as the army vehicle bumped along tracks of yellow clay churned by ox carts and working buffalo, with geese scattering from under the lurch of their wheels and dogs barking at the grinding of gears. She was seated in the back with Ruby, while Toby sat beside the smartly turned-out Rajput driver steering skillfully through ruts of yellow mud. The driver’s wide mustache was neatly brushed and clipped, its pointed ends twirled with wax. At every opportunity, Sing noted, his deep-set dark eyes reflected in the rearview mirror seemed to seek those of Ruby, who sat quietly watching the passing countryside.

Hardly anyone had spoken since they had left Kowloon behind.
Finally, Sing felt forced to speak. “I am sorry to have caused such great trouble to your friend Lily.”

Toby turned in his seat with a grin. “Firecracker Lily is no stranger to the ways of the triad enforcer,” he reassured her. “She has protection of her own, and I have taken steps to see there is no further trouble. The Yellow Dragon may terrorize the Chinese, but they avoid any confrontation with British authority that could lead to an investigation.” He paused warily. “This Ah-Keung, however, seems to have a mind and purpose of his own. For a man like that to be chosen as Ching’s personal bodyguard means that he is respected by his kind—and suggests he is also highly dangerous.”

The vehicle pulled to a slithering halt beside a narrow bridge stretched across an irrigation ditch. “This is the farm of Po-Lok and his family, who supply the garrison with fresh produce. These Hakka people have cut themselves off from all but the Tolo Market a few miles farther on. I would trust Po-Lok with my life. You will be safe here for as long as necessary.”

The driver left his place behind the wheel, and with a stiff salute opened the rear door, his dark eyes fixed ahead. “We must walk to the house,” said Toby. “As I’m sure you know, the Hakka rely on the buffalo and the ox cart for transport.”

They had left Hankow Road so hurriedly that there was little to carry; Toby had promised to collect their belongings from the hotel and keep them safely. He had not asked why Sing wore the beaded sling so securely buckled.

He led them across the bridge and onto a well-trodden pathway, among endless rows of cabbage, white radish, and sweet potato. Nearer to the farm house and its outbuildings was a field of ripening barley, the lower slopes terraced with flooded rice paddies glittering in bright sunshine.

“Welcome,” Toby said, “to the Residence of Eternal Peace.” The first to greet them were the dogs, quickly silenced by Toby calling them by name. Po-Lok’s youngest wife, Kam-Yang, a robust woman of indeterminable age, hurried from the main house and bowed to Toby, who delighted her by bowing even lower as he introduced his companions.

In the large, cool room kept for special occasions, they were received as honored guests. There were no telephones in the little valley and no other way of announcing their arrival but barking dogs, yet Po-Lok quickly presented himself, dressed in his best shirt and jacket of a Western style long forgotten. Tea and mooncakes were fetched for Sing and her companion, with bottles of cold Tsingtao beer for Toby. The host offered his deepest apologies for such miserable fare in such unworthy surroundings. The
siu-jeh
, his “younger sister,” and her worthy companion were welcome for as long as they cared to suffer the inferior hospitality of Po-Lok.

There was a mill house, half hidden in a grove of citrus trees, well apart from the main buildings. Used as a store for winter rice, it could soon be cleared out and made comfortable. If the
siu-jeh
could suffer such humble accommodations, she and Ruby would be assured of their privacy. In return, Sing protested their unworthiness of such generosity in this place clearly blessed by heaven itself. With everyone’s honor satisfied and all face intact, Toby thanked Po-Lok and Kam-Yang and took his leave.

“I wish I could stay longer,” he told Sing quietly, “but there is too much work to be done in these uncertain times. I think you will find it pleasant here. Meanwhile, I will follow up on our inquiries with my contacts in Shanghai and see if the teacher Da Silva mentioned is registered with the Ministry of Education. I will be back as often as I can.”

As Toby started back along the pathway to the road, Sing had to stop herself from running after him.

The small, two-story mill house was very old and a little tumbledown, but had a sound roof and thick walls. Downstairs, an old table and four stools had been hurriedly placed under a window looking out to the millpond. The room above held two small wooden beds and clean bedding, cooking pots, and candles, delivered by Kam-Yang and her giggling granddaughters.

In contrast to the island of blue water hyacinth that bloomed in the
pond, the walls and roof were overgrown with a tangle of wild honeysuckle. Tiny, heavily scented flowers framed the windows and door with a creamy, luster, drawing hosts of pale yellow butterflies. The tangy perfume of citrus blossom seemed trapped in the stillness of this quiet corner of the valley. So exquisite was this secret haven that it brought tears to Ruby’s eyes.

Sing and Ruby were each given field hats and the short, wide-legged pants and jacket of waterproofed cotton worn by the Hakka. Invited to join the family for meals or to make their own in the makeshift kitchen of the mill, they preferred solitude to endless exchanges with their attentive hosts. There was little Sing could talk or think about but Toby and the discovery of her father’s fate.

In her quietly contented manner, Ruby turned the little stone house into a home, sweeping the flagstone floors and shining the windows. She picked sprigs of orange blossom, placing them in jars on the window-sills. She made sure there was always a pot of tea at hand.

As she went about her tasks, Ruby sang songs from the land she was born in, soft and melodic, in her own language. In the evenings, by the light of an oil lamp, she worked with scraps of cloth in many colors and designs collected from the kindly Kam-Yang, stitching them with great skill and patience to make a
mien-toi
, a patchwork quilt for Sing’s bed.

Nights in the Residence of Eternal Peace passed in the deep sleep that comes with the finding of sanctuary. Hard work, plain and plentiful food, and the absence of malice had brought a kind of comfort Sing had almost forgotten. If she and Ruby both knew this could only be temporary, they did not speak of it.

On their third night, after a long walk exploring the slopes, they washed naked in the millpond, and enjoyed a supper of chicken dumpling soup. It was still early as they lay in their separate beds. Pleasantly tired but unable to sleep, Sing watched the rising moon through the open window; an owl hooted in the orchard and the far-off yap of a fox was lost in the distance. Sensing that Ruby too was awake, Sing said at last, “I am sorry that I have placed you in danger. Ah-Keung has hated
me since I was two years old, even in my crib. I believe it is written somewhere that we are destined to face each other … I do not know when.”

Ruby answered without hesitation. “I have spent my life in danger. But I am no longer afraid to see myself in the mirror, or ashamed to smile—and you have given me freedom. For that I will always love you.”

Sing was thankful for her words, yet unable to shed the creeping burden of guilt. “So much has happened so suddenly, there has not been time for us to talk as we once did… . Is there room for me beside you?”

A pause made her wonder if Ruby had fallen asleep, or had not heard the quiet words in the dark. This time when she answered it was not without an edge of sadness. “We shared a bed because that was the way to survive … it was expected of us. If we discovered pleasure and kept loneliness away, it was because we had no one else to turn to and nowhere else to go.”

Before Sing could reply, Ruby spoke again, the sadness gone. “Things are different now. I think you have no need of me nor I of you. The young lord looks at you with tenderness; there is love in his eyes and a place for you in his heart. He longs for you to lie beside him. I think you long for this too.” She sighed playfully. “He will teach you more of love than I ever could.”

Sing could not argue with Ruby’s words, but felt their loneliness. “The driver looked at you in such a way,” she said with a touch of laughter. “Did you not feel it?”

“I have had my chance at such a wonderful thing, but it was taken from me. It will never come again.” There was a long moment of silence as the owl’s shadow crossed the window. “I think of love as the rarest, most beautiful bird … wonderful to see and sweet to listen to, but always out of reach. From the time we are born, if we are allowed to live, our only value is our virtue. It is traded and bargained for like a yard of silk or a jar of wine. While we are untouched, they will not leave us alone until a man old and unpleasant but rich enough to pay takes us painfully and without thought, to give him strength … and then we are forgotten.”