Compton nodded proudly and added that it was his practice to revise and enlarge the booklet every year, thus ensuring its continuing sale.
Thinking about this later, in the privacy of his cubicle, Neel realized that there was something providential about his meeting with Compton: it was as if Fate had conspired to bring him into the orbit of a kindred spirit, a man who valued words just as much as he did himself. Looking through Ghost-People-Talk it occurred to him to wonder why no glossary of pidgin existed for the benefit of people who spoke English. Or for that matter Hindusthani? Surely the foreigners who sojourned in Fanqui-town needed to understand the enclave’s lingua franca just as much as their hosts did? And if an English version of Ghost-People-Talk could be produced, surely it would also command a substantial market?
In the middle of the night, he sat up in his bed. Of course such a book had to be written – and who better to do it than he himself, in collaboration with Compton?
The next day, as soon as his duties in the daftar were done, he went hurrying over to Thirteen Hong Street. On reaching Compton’s shop he announced: ‘I have a proposal.’
‘Ngo? What is it then?’
‘Listen, Compton…’
It turned out that the idea of producing an English version of ‘Devil-Talk’ had already occurred to Compton. Looking for a collaborator, he had approached several Englishmen and Americans. They had all laughed at him, contemptuously dismissing the idea.
‘They think-la, pidgin is just broken English, like words of a baby. They do not understand. Is not so simple bo.’
‘So will you let me do it?’
Yat-dihng! Yat dihng!
‘What does that mean?’ Neel inquired a little nervously.
‘Yes. Certainly.’
Do-jeh Compton.
M’ouh hak hei.
Neel could already see the cover: it would feature a richly caparisoned mandarin. As for the title, that too had already come to him. He would call it: The Celestial Chrestomathy, Comprising A Complete Guide To And Glossary Of The Language Of Commerce In Southern China.
*
Collecting plants on Hong Kong proved to be more of a challenge than either Fitcher or Paulette had expected. The island’s slopes were precipitous on every side and the ridge that ran along most of its eight-mile length was nowhere less than five hundred feet in height: it was topped with several peaks that rose to over a thousand feet, and the tallest of them, in Fitcher’s estimation, was perhaps only a little under two thousand feet. The soil was granitic and glinted underfoot with quartz, mica and felspar; on steep slopes it had a way of slipping and sliding so that a slightly misplaced shoe could send an avalanche roaring down a treeless gully. In some stretches the decomposed granite was covered with mould and ferns, which gave it a deceptive look of solidity; a moment’s carelessness could lead to a nasty slip or a fall.
The steep gradients and rocky slopes were hard on Fitcher’s ageing joints and at the end of a day’s collecting he was often in pain. By refusing to acknowledge the physical toll of his advancing years he frequently made matters worse for himself: he would plan miles-long expeditions, insisting that he was accustomed to walking such distances on the Cornish moors and making no allowances for the difference in terrain. Having once set off he would soldier on to the very end, despite Paulette’s remonstrances, earning himself hours of agony afterwards.
As the weather turned colder, Fitcher’s hips and knees grew still stiffer and his pains worsened to the point where even he had to accept that if he was going to continue collecting on the island, it would not be on foot. But there were no vehicles on Hong Kong and no roads either; even paths were few, for the island’s villages and hamlets were dotted along the shoreline and their inhabitants travelled between them mainly by boat.
Horses would have provided an easy solution to their predicament, but there were none on the island – at least not to their knowledge: the only draught animals on the fields were bullocks and buffaloes. A sedan chair might also have provided a solution, but Fitcher would not hear of it: ‘Botanizing in a carry-cart? I hope eer funning, Miss Paulette…’
The answer arrived with Robin’s next letter: the courier was a louh-daaih or ‘laodah’- the master of a junk, and not much different in appearance from the other leathery Cantonese seamen who skippered the vessels of those waters. Sturdy of build, he had the bow-legged gait and weather-sharpened gaze of an experienced sailor. He was dressed in the usual boatman’s pyjamas and quilted tunic. His queue was short and flecked with grey, and his head was topped with a conical sun hat of the kind that was to be seen on every boatman’s head.
But when he began to speak Paulette was struck dumb. Nomoshkar, he said in Bengali, joining his hands together. Are you Miss Paulette? Your friend, Mr Chinnery, has sent you a letter, from Canton.
It took Paulette a few seconds to recover from her surprise. Then, after thanking him profusely, she said: Apni ke? Who are you? Where did you learn to speak Bangla?
I lived in Calcutta for a long time, he said with a smile. I went there as a sailor and jumped ship, to get married. Over there people called me Baburao.
And now you live in Canton, do you, Baburao-da?
Yes; when I’m not out on my boat that is.
He turned to point to his vessel, which was anchored nearby, and explained that he travelled regularly between Canton and Macau and frequently acted as a courier, dropping off letters and packages at various points along the way.
If you need anything let me know; I may be able to help.
Paulette could tell, from his demeanour, that this was not an idle boast: he looked like the kind of man who was spoken of, in Bengali, as jogare – a resourceful improviser, with his ears close to the ground.
Tell me, Baburao-da, she said, do you think it might be possible to find a couple of horses here, on the island?
Baburao scratched his head and thought a little. Then his face brightened: Why yes! he said. I know a man who lives on the island. He has some horses. Would you like to meet him?
So it was arranged: the next day Baburao came by in a sampan and rowed Paulette and Fitcher to a picturesque little village on the shores of an inlet. The horse-owner was duly found, the horses were examined and a reasonable price was quickly arrived at. But when everything was almost settled an unforeseen problem arose: the owner possessed only two saddles and both were of the Chinese type, with a high pommel and cantle.
Fitcher took one glance and shook his head: ‘Ee’ll never be able to manage that in eer skirts, Miss Paulette.’
Paulette had already thought of a solution but she knew she had to be careful about how she put it across.
‘Well sir,’ she said, ‘skirts are not the only clothes in my possession.’
‘Eh?’ Fitcher frowned.
‘You will remember, sir, that when we met at Pamplemousses, I was wearing a shirt and a pantalon. Mr Reid had lent them to me and I still have them.’
‘What?’ barked Fitcher. ‘Dress up as a man? Is that what ee’ve got in mind?’
‘Please sir, it is the only sensible thing. Is it not?’
Fitcher’s face went into a deep scowl, tying itself into so tight a knot that the tip of his beard came within a few inches of touching the twitching tips of his eyebrows. But then, having thought the matter through, he unclenched his jaws.
‘Since ee’ve set eer mind on it – we’ll try it tomorrow.’
So they returned the next day, with Paulette dressed, once again, in Zachary’s clothes, and even Fitcher had to concede that it was a happy solution. The horses carried them to a height of over a thousand feet, where they came upon more orchids: pale rose ‘bamboo orchids’, Arundina chinensis, and a small primrose-yellow epiphyte, growing in a nullah – the first was already familiar to Fitcher, but not the second.
‘Why Miss Paulette, I think ee may have found something new there. What’d ee like to call it?’
‘If it were up to me, sir,’ she said, ‘I would call it Diploprora penrosii.’
