Within the enclave there are only three streets and one of them is actually a tiny gali, like you might see in Kidderpore. It is called Hog Lane and it is so narrow that two men can scarcely pass abreast without rubbing up against each other – and I must say Puggly dear that one is sometimes witness there to the most unseemly sights. The passageway is lined with ill-lit dens and foul-smelling shacks: they serve brews that go by such names as ‘hocksaw’ and ‘shamshoo’ (the latter, I am told, is doctored with opium and flavoured with the tails of certain lizards). These dens are very popular among the sailors and lascars who come up to Fanqui-town on their shore-leave days. Having spent weeks at anchor in Whampoa the poor fellows are half crazed with boredom and so eager to spend their drink-penny that they do not even take the trouble to sit down while they imbibe. Indeed no chairs or benches are provided for them, but only ropes, strung up at the height of a man’s chest. The function of these peculiar articles of furniture (for such indeed they are) was revealed to me when I saw a half-dozen seafarers hanging from them, with their arms flung over, dribbling vomit from their mouths. The ropes serve to keep them upright after they have cast up their accounts – should they fall on the floor they would probably drown in their own regurgitated swill. Some of these liberty-men spend the whole of their shore-leave in this fashion, swaying on their feet, their bodies slumped over the ropes and unconscious to the world.
I need scarcely add that drink is not all that is offered in these dens. One has only to step into the Lane to be besieged by ponce-shicers. ‘Wanchi gai? Wanchi jai? What kind chicken wanchi? You talkee my. My savvy allo thing; allo thing have got.’
You must not imagine, my dear Miss Pugglemore, that your poor Robin would ever dream of availing of these offerings. Yet it would be idle to deny that there is something strangely thrilling about a place where every desire can be provided for and every want met (though not perhaps always to complete satisfaction: just yesterday, as I was walking by, a sailor disappeared into the shadows of Hog Lane with a creature that looked like a painted hag. A moment later the nautical knight let out a dreadful yelclass="underline" ‘God help me shippies! A travesty has me in hand, and it’ll be down the chute with my fore-tackle if I’m not cut loose!).’
New China Street is positively genteel in comparison to Hog Lane, although it is only a clamorous, crowded gali, like those around Calcutta’s Bow Bazaar: here too shops are stacked upon shops; here too touts will tug at your clothes until you begin to wonder what their intentions are. The older fanquis are not daunted by this and will clear a path by laying about with their whangees – but since I cannot conceive of carrying one I generally try to stay clear of this street.
By comparison with our other roadways Old China Street is a haven of cleanliness and quiet: it is in fact more an arcade than a roadway, being lined with shophouses. Some of the shophouses are quite tall but they are dwarfed by the walls of the factories that flank the street. The gap overhead is covered with a kind of matting, which is laid down so artfully that below, at the level of the street, it is always cool and shady, like a pathway in a forest. As for the shops, they are utterly beguiling and their wares are laid out in the most charming fashion, on shelves and in glass-topped cases. There are shops for lacquerware, pewterware, silk and souvenirs of all kinds (the most ingenious of these are some amazing multi-layered balls, carved out of whole blocks of ivory, with the outer shell enclosing others of diminishing size). The name of every merchant is written above the door, in English and Chinese, and there is always a sign to mark his calling: ‘Lacquer merchant’, ‘Pewter Seller’, ‘Ivory Carver’ and the like. Many other banners, pennants and painted signs are strung above the shops and when there is a breeze the whole street shimmers and flutters with colour. It is quite wonderfully picturesque.
The shopkeepers are, to my mind, even more diverting than their shops. One of my favourites is Mr Wong, the tailor; he is so friendly, and so eager to show off his wares that it seems cruel to go by without stopping for a cup of tea. He is a most antic creature: this morning, while I was sitting there he rushed out to wave to a group of sailors. ‘Hi! You there Jack!’ he shouted. ‘You there Tar! Damn my eyes! What thing wanchi buy?’
The sailors were several sheets to the wind and one of them shouted back: ‘What do I want to buy? Why you mallet-headed porpoise, I want to buy a Welsh wig with sleeves on it.’
Mr Wong never doubts that he has every article of clothing a fanqui could possibly want, so he pointed at once to a green gown. ‘Can do, can do! Look-see here,’ he cried. ‘Have got what-thing Mister Tar wanchi.’
At this the sailors went into convulsions of laughter and one of them cried out: ‘Damn my eyes! That thing is no more a Welsh wig than you are the Queen of England!’
Mr Wong, I need hardly say, was quite crushed.
At the far end of Old China Street, on the other side of Thirteen Hong Street, is the Consoo – or ‘Council House’. It is built in the style of a mandarin’s ‘yamen’ which is an elaborate kind of daftar. It is surrounded by a high wall, beyond which rise the upswept roofs of many halls and pavilions. The buildings are graceful in appearance, yet most fanquis regard the Consoo House with an apprehension that borders on dread – for that is where they are summoned when the mandarins wish to call them to account!
But why, in heaven’s name, am I rattling on about the streets and the Consoo House when I meant to tell you about Markwick’s Hotel? Well, it is not too late! Without another word I shall seize you by the hand – there! – and lead you towards my room.
Mr Markwick’s Hotel is in the Imperial Factory which is one of the most interesting of the Thirteen Hongs. It is so called because it was once linked to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and even though there are few Austrians to be seen in it now, the double-headed eagle of the Hapsburgs is still affixed to the gateway (for which reason the factory is known to locals as the ‘Twin-Eagle Hong’).
Mr Markwick runs his hotel in partnership with his Friend, Mr Lane. They both came out to China as boys, to work for the East India Company (Mr Markwick was a steward and Mr Lane a butler) and they have been Friends forever. They are a curious couple and look as though they belong in some childish ditty, for Mr Lane is short and fat and rather jolly, while Mr Markwick is tall and lugubrious and seems always to be sniffing, even when he is not. On the ground floor of their premises they run a shop where they sell all kinds of European goods and products: Hodgson’s ale, Johannisberger wines, Rhenish clarets, umbrellas, watches, sextants and such like. They also run a coffee room, which is considered a great curiosity by the enclave’s Chinese visitors; and of course there is a dining room too, and the fare it provides is most interesting, for Mr Markwick is a dab hand at adapting Chinese dishes for European tastes. One of his offerings is called ‘chop-shui’ and it is so popular amongst the seafaring tribe that he has been offered vast sums of money for the recipe, but he will not, on any account, part with it. He also sells a delicious sauce of his own invention, flavoured with Chinese condiments: it is known as Markwick’s ketjup and old China hands cannot live without it.