Kate Furnivall: The Russian Concubine

The Chinese boat woman with her grenade knew that. She had blamed him for the execution of her husband and for the suicide of her daughter in Feng Tu Hong’s bed, and ended by blowing herself up with a second grenade. But that didn’t mean she was no longer a threat. Theo had made Li Mei promise to speak kindly to the cat Yeewai in future, just in case. Spirits were unpredictable.

When the congregation rose to sing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ Theo remained seated and closed his eyes. His hand held Li Mei’s tight.

The funeral reception was worse. But Theo was pleased to see Polly standing firmly beside Lydia the whole time, caring for her friend, warding off well-wishers. Alfred held himself together too well. It was heartbreaking to watch.

‘If I can help out in any way, Alfred…’

‘Thank you, Theo, but no.’

‘Dinner one evening?’

‘That’s kind. Not yet. Maybe later.’

‘Of course.’

‘Theo.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m thinking of applying for a transfer. Can’t stay here. Not now.’

‘Understandable, my dear fellow. Where would you go?’

‘Home.’

‘England?’

‘That’s right. I’m not cut out for these heathen places.’

‘I’ll miss you. And our games of chess.’

‘You must come and visit.’

‘But what about the girl? What will you do with Lydia?’

‘I’ll take her with me. To England. Give her a good education. It’s what Valentina wanted.’

‘That’s quite a responsibility to shoulder. She knows nothing of England, don’t forget. And you can’t say she’s… well… tame enough. To fit in, I mean.’

Alfred removed his spectacles and polished them assiduously. ‘She’s my daughter now.’

Theo wondered whether the girl would see it like that.

‘I’m sorry, Alfred,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I can’t tell you how bad I feel that the hand grenade was meant for me. Not for Valentina.’

Alfred’s mouth went awry. ‘No, it’s not your fault, Theo, don’t blame yourself. It’s this damn country.’

But Theo did blame himself. He couldn’t help it. He chose to walk home instead of hopping into one of the rickshaws that clattered through the streets, though it would certainly have eased the aches in his legs. But he needed to walk. Had to stride out. To drive the demon of guilt from his soul.

He was in no doubt that it would return time and again for years to come, and he would have to learn to find room for it in his heart. But in his clearer moments of mind he knew Alfred was right. It was this country. China had a history of thousands of years of violence, and even now its exquisite beauty was again being trampled underfoot in the stampede for power. They called it justice. A fight for equality and a basic wage. But really it was just another name for the same yoke around the necks of the people of China. They deserved better. It seemed to Theo that even the boat woman who threw the grenade deserved better. What kind of justice system served up freedom in exchange for your daughter’s young body in bed? Or sold children into slavery?

‘Willbee, you will put the other arm in plaster if you do not take more care.’

Theo jerked back from the road where a flurry of wheels was speeding past, a noisy never-ending stream of motorcars and bicycles, rickshaws and wheelbarrows. Even a boy on a scooter hooted a klaxon at him.

‘Good day to you, Feng Tu Hong.’

The black Rolls-Royce was murmuring at the kerbside with the rear window down, but the man inside was not the one who had radiated so much strength and power only days before. One look at Feng Tu Hong’s face and Theo saw the bewildered eyes of a father who has lost his son. He was wearing a white headband.

‘I have been searching for you, Willbee. Please, honour me with a moment of your time. A brief ride in my worthless motorcar might ease the burden of the wounds you bear.’

‘Thank you, Feng. I accept.’

They rode in silence at first, each man too full of his own thoughts to find the words to form a bridge. The streets were thronged with people going about their business in the bright winter sunshine, but the car attracted attention as it passed and several Chinese men lowered their foreheads to the pavement. Feng did not even notice.

‘Feng, I offer you sympathy for your loss. I am sorry I was not able to help the situation, but the farmhouse was already empty when I arrived.’

‘So I learned.’

‘Your daughter also sends her father sympathy for his sorrow.’

‘A dutiful daughter would be at my side.’

‘A dutiful father would not threaten his daughter so savagely.’

Feng refused to look at Theo but stared straight ahead in his own black world, his broad chest expanding as he took a deep breath to hold hard on his temper. It suddenly dawned on Theo that this man wanted something. It was not hard to guess what.

‘Feng Tu Hong, you and I have a history of discord and it saddens me that we cannot put aside our differences for the sake of your daughter whom we both love. At a time like this when you are overflowing with grief for your last son…,’ he lingered on those final two words, ‘… I invite you to my home.’

He heard the big man’s sharp intake of breath.

‘Your daughter will be honoured to serve you tea, though what we offer is meagre compared to your own lavish table. But at this moment of sadness, Feng, there must be no raised voices.’

Feng turned slowly. His bull neck hunched defensively. ‘I thank you, Willbee. It would please my heart to set eyes once more on my daughter. She is my only child now and I wish to cause her no distress.’

‘Then you are welcome.’

Feng leaned forward, pushed the glass partition aside, and gave his driver new instructions. When he slid the glass back into place, he shifted uneasily on the leather seat and gave a deep cough in the back of his throat, preparing himself.

Theo waited. Wary.

‘Tiyo Willbee, I have no son.’

Theo nodded but remained silent.

‘I need a grandson.’

Theo smiled. So that was it. The old devil was begging. It changed everything. Li Mei now held the power.

‘Come,’ Theo said courteously as the car pulled into the Willoughby Academy’s courtyard. ‘Drink tea with us.’

It was a start.

‘Lydia!’

Lydia was in her bedroom. She had been staring out at blackness and rain. In a chasm of loneliness for so many hours, her mind had escaped the present. She was way back on a day when her mother had danced into the attic with a small square loaf of something she called malt bread in one hand and a whole block of bright yellow butter in the other. Lydia had been so excited by the strange new smell and squidgy texture of the loaf that didn’t look a bit like bread, she had scrambled up on a chair to watch as Valentina spread great wedges of the butter on the bread. Then Valentina had fed the fruity slices piece by piece into Lydia’s open mouth. Exactly as if she were a baby bird. They had laughed so hard they cried. And now it twisted something inside her as she recalled how her mother had eaten so little of their meal herself, but licked the last scraps of butter off the knife and rolled her eyes in delicious ecstasy.

‘Lydia! Come quickly.’

Lydia’s instinct for danger was sharp. She snatched up a hairbrush as a weapon, raced onto the landing, and burst into Alfred’s bedroom. She stopped. For one unbearable moment hope reared up inside her. The room was full of people and they were all her mother. Alfred was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the double bed clutching two envelopes in one hand, the other hand twisted up in a hank of sheets as if trying to hang on to reality.

‘Lydia, look at these.’ His voice was breathless. ‘Letters.’