‘I don’t know that it is such a good idea, Mae, dear. Besides, the ladies of the American Women’s Club in Shanghai were looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Oh, Mrs R. There’ll be other occasions. It’s not every day one has the chance to visit the Chinese quarter in the company of such an eminent expert in Chinese ways as Dr Morrison.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Ragsdale agreed, her voice seesawing between anxiety and deference. ‘I didn’t mean to imply…But I worry.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Mae responded breezily.
‘My dear,’ said Mrs Ragsdale, searching without luck for back-up in Morrison’s neutral expression, ‘I should hardly call smallpox and other such maladies “nothing to worry about”.’ Mrs Ragsdale pressed her lips together so tightly she appeared to have swallowed them. ‘Even if, praise God, you are not infected with something fatal, there is always the likelihood of being rudely…jostled. The Chinese mob is not well-disposed to those of the fairer races, not to mention the weaker sex. Anything could happen.’ Sweat beaded her forehead. ‘And the smells are reputed to be quite overwhelming. Mrs Clarkson said that her son went there one afternoon and came back smelling like a stable; it took days to wash the stench of garlic and joss and who knows what else out of his clothing.’
It would be a most unusual stable that stank of garlic and joss, Morrison thought. Growing impatient, he said, ‘I’ll look after Miss Perkins.’
‘Oh, bless you, Dr Morrison,’ Mrs Ragsdale replied. ‘I know you will. I never meant to imply otherwise. It’s just that—’
‘The great traveller and author Isabella Bird did it some years ago,’ Mae interjected. ‘She wrote that she was similarly warned but, in fact, was allowed to explore the streets unmolested. She wrote that the smells were no worse than anywhere else in China.’
‘Isabella Bird is an adventuress.’ Mrs Ragsdale’s enunciation of the word suggested that it signified an entirely alien life-form.
‘Really?’ Morrison affected a scandalised tone of voice. ‘I had no idea. On the occasions I’ve met Miss Bird, I’ve always found her to behave most modestly.’
Mae giggled and Mrs Ragsdale blanched. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to insinuate…’
‘Ah,’ Morrison said with an amiable air, ‘of course not. That’s all very well then.’
Mae stood up. ‘We should probably be off.’
Mrs Ragsdale bit her lip. ‘What will I tell your father…?’
‘My dear papa is busy in Washington making laws for the United States of America. I’d imagine that he would be most astonished, if not displeased, to be told anything at all about some innocent excursion. Mrs Ragsdale, please don’t worry. I’m a big girl.’
The previous day, Morrison had departed with decidedly mixed feelings. He had, in truth, misgivings about the wisdom of continuing the relationship with Mae at all. But her spirit of fun and adventure was too adorable, not to mention contagious. He recalled how it had drawn him to her in the first place. By the time they said goodbye to the fretful Mrs Ragsdale, he was quite looking forward to the outing.
‘I would hate to go through life so fearful of everything,’ Mae said as they set out in a hired two-in-hand. ‘I am certain that you could not be so fearful of anything if you tried.’
‘You may find this odd,’ Morrison replied, ‘and I don’t always confess this, but I understand timidity more than you might think. My saintly mother has expended much ink over the years beseeching me not to seek out unnecessary danger. Every instinct tells me that her worry is neither misplaced nor foolish. Indeed, I have very nearly come to grief a dozen times in as many countries. It is an effort of will not to become a cautious man as a result. You could say that my whole life has been a combat against a natural shrinking from danger. I might not have attempted half the feats I did had it not occurred to me that running from them was the more sensible option. If I may be so bold as to say so, one of the greatest of your myriad charms, dear Maysie, is what I perceive as your native, unabashed and unaffected courage.’
‘Thank you for saying so. But we are not so dissimilar. It has also often struck me that when we think of soldiers valiantly charging the frontline, we don’t always remember that something else may be in pursuit from behind. We all have our demons.’
‘And what demons could possibly be in pursuit of you?’
‘I have told you about George Bew, my three-time fiancé. I don’t believe I mentioned his mother, Mattie. For years, Mattie Bew wrote the dearest, most heartbreaking letters to me. She traced them in faint blue pencil on nearly transparent paper, as though trepidatious of leaving any bold mark on the world. She was almost pathetically keen to hear of my adventures, even when they might have been prejudicial to the interests of her own son. Once, I asked her what she wanted for herself. She baulked, as though it had never occurred to her to think about it. This vision of life lived meekly and through the agency of others—for she was in thrall to both husband and son—has never left me. It chills my blood. It is this demon that makes me run, and run fast.’
Ever a mystery, the alchemy of love. With Mae, Morrison had quickly progressed from lustful curiosity and delight to obsession. Then his passion had begun to gutter, the flame burning less hotly as more and more contenders appeared to steal its oxygen. The day before, he’d nearly walked away from her entirely. But for whatever reason, and despite his most rational intentions, Morrison now felt his heart clench around a stronger emotion. He saw in that instant that he and Mae were kindred spirits, fellow adventurers who shared a secret about courage and a fierce commitment to it. The tide of affection swept away all consciousness of rivals past and present as effectively as if they had gone down together with all the warships, Russian and Japanese, sunk to date in the Yellow Sea.
By now they had reached the Chinese City’s distinctive curved walls. Instructing the driver to wait for them, they dismounted and walked through the city gate.
Inside the walls, the brackish tang of the Whampoa River was complicated by wafts of pork, joss and tobacco, as well as less salubrious vapours rising off the foul drift of sewage, horse droppings and raw humanity. It was a far worse concoction than even Mrs Ragsdale had imagined but, to Morrison’s delight, Mae did not appear at all fazed by it. A coolie pushed past, on his bent back the jiggling corpse of a fat sow bound for a restaurant. Everywhere was activity, industry, hubbub. Mae wanted to sample it all. The joss houses where the air hummed with the monks’ sonorous chanting and where the fragrance of sandalwood incense clung to one’s hair. An opium den where men lay on hard beds in soft dreams, the sickly sweet smoke curling around their heads. Above the laneways, a tassel of freshly laundered footbinding bandages, quilt covers, silk trousers—‘the flags of a hundred nations’—fluttering from a horizontal forest of bamboo. Ahead, a wedding procession led by blustering brass horns and spanking cymbals, red on red; behind, a funeral with its wailing trumpets and sackcloth mourners, white on white. Shanghai’s seductive world of sensation. Everything interested her. Everything delighted her.
When travelling with other Westerners, Morrison had frequently noticed the odd phenomenon of China—so alive to him when he was on his own or with Chinese people—appearing to flatten out like wallpaper. Mae, in her sparking excitement, caused everything to quicken and appear more vivid. It had been some time since Morrison had experienced the heart-stopping wonderment that China in all of its teeming life, art and invention could induce. Around Mae, he experienced everything as freshly as when he had first landed. It occurred to him now that this was due to her astonishing, albeit confronting, honesty. Most people held between themselves and the world a shield of deception, little lies, social poses, self-delusions, pretend responses and rank hypocrisies, himself included. She, miraculously, had retained the openness and directness of a child. As he’d said to Molyneux, if there was a more lovable quality than such honesty, he did not know what it could possibly be.