train pulled in to Shanghai’s main station. He walked out across the wideforecourt to the tram stop on Boundary Road, where a huge crowd of Chinese people were willing a tram to appear around the corner of Cunningham Road. Three or four trams would be required to carry so many, and even then oxygen would be in short supply. And he felt impatient after so much sitting on trains. Deciding to cut his losses, he checked the change in his pocket. The meal on the train had cost him his taxi fare, but a rickshaw was still within reach. He hailed one of the hovering coolies and called out “the Palace Hotel” as he stepped up into the seat.
They set off, the coolie jogging along beside the new tram tracks for a few hundred yards before veering south onto North Honan Road. The smell of horse dung was strong in the air, the piles of manure awaiting collection by the night-soil teams. All the shops and cafés were still open, lit by the yellow glow of their paraffin lamps, and despite the evening chill many owners were sitting outside, blankly watching the world go by.
The coolie turned off the main road and hurried down an alley, the rickshaw bumping on the uneven surface, causing McColl to grip the sides. They were still in the International Settlement, but these back streets were Chinese territory in all but name, lined with vegetable and fruit sellers, cobblers and barbers and letter writers, fortune-tellers and tea traders. A succession of aromas teased McColl’s appetite—clove-scented rice, roasting chestnuts, egg foo yong. Every now and then, a beggar’s arm reached hopefully out and just as swiftly disappeared.
There were people everywhere, and at first sight all of them seemed to be arguing, haranguing one another in that barking tone some Europeans found so offensive. But look a little closer and there were smiles on many faces, especially the children’s. Family life often seemed a happier affair here than it did in London or Glasgow, and even the dogs seemed less aggressive.
The rickshaw emerged from the maze of allies, turning onto North Szechuan Road just up from the General Hospital andcrossing the Soochow Creek with its myriad sampans and dreadful smell. The coolie was panting a little now, sending yellow gusts of breath out into the cold air, but his pace showed no sign of slackening, and soon they were passing the Chinese post office. Another two blocks and they took the last turn onto Nanking Road. Here, outside the big stores, the faces on the sidewalk were mostly European, and the Chinese people packed in the passing trams looked like tourists in a foreign town.
The coolie stopped as close to the hotel’s front door as the line of automobiles would let him and carefully counted the coins McColl handed over. “
Cumshaw
,” he demanded, holding out an upturned palm.
McColl had included a tip but added another. Why argue over a farthing?
Inside, the Chinese desk clerk informed him that Jed and Mac had taken Room 501 but were currently out. Despite a careful perusal of McColl’s passport, he refused to relinquish the room key until the English night manager had been summoned from wherever it was he lurked. The latter accompanied McColl up in the brand-new elevator and opened the door on what turned out to be a suite—the others had somewhat exceeded their instructions. It was at the back of the hotel, which McColl hoped had lowered the cost.
Once the manager had left, he took a look around. A Chinese variant on the British army’s camp bed had been erected in the lounge, and Mac’s belongings were neatly stacked alongside it. Jed’s were liberally scattered on either side of the double bed in the adjoining room, which the two of them would presumably be sharing. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
The bathroom contained a large iron bath, and the hot-water tap was actually that. For Shanghai this was luxury. He started the water running in earnest, and by the time he’d come up with a fresh
They set off, the coolie jogging along beside the new tram tracks for a few hundred yards before veering south onto North Honan Road. The smell of horse dung was strong in the air, the piles of manure awaiting collection by the night-soil teams. All the shops and cafés were still open, lit by the yellow glow of their paraffin lamps, and despite the evening chill many owners were sitting outside, blankly watching the world go by.
The coolie turned off the main road and hurried down an alley, the rickshaw bumping on the uneven surface, causing McColl to grip the sides. They were still in the International Settlement, but these back streets were Chinese territory in all but name, lined with vegetable and fruit sellers, cobblers and barbers and letter writers, fortune-tellers and tea traders. A succession of aromas teased McColl’s appetite—clove-scented rice, roasting chestnuts, egg foo yong. Every now and then, a beggar’s arm reached hopefully out and just as swiftly disappeared.
There were people everywhere, and at first sight all of them seemed to be arguing, haranguing one another in that barking tone some Europeans found so offensive. But look a little closer and there were smiles on many faces, especially the children’s. Family life often seemed a happier affair here than it did in London or Glasgow, and even the dogs seemed less aggressive.
The rickshaw emerged from the maze of allies, turning onto North Szechuan Road just up from the General Hospital andcrossing the Soochow Creek with its myriad sampans and dreadful smell. The coolie was panting a little now, sending yellow gusts of breath out into the cold air, but his pace showed no sign of slackening, and soon they were passing the Chinese post office. Another two blocks and they took the last turn onto Nanking Road. Here, outside the big stores, the faces on the sidewalk were mostly European, and the Chinese people packed in the passing trams looked like tourists in a foreign town.
The coolie stopped as close to the hotel’s front door as the line of automobiles would let him and carefully counted the coins McColl handed over. “
Cumshaw
,” he demanded, holding out an upturned palm.
McColl had included a tip but added another. Why argue over a farthing?
Inside, the Chinese desk clerk informed him that Jed and Mac had taken Room 501 but were currently out. Despite a careful perusal of McColl’s passport, he refused to relinquish the room key until the English night manager had been summoned from wherever it was he lurked. The latter accompanied McColl up in the brand-new elevator and opened the door on what turned out to be a suite—the others had somewhat exceeded their instructions. It was at the back of the hotel, which McColl hoped had lowered the cost.
Once the manager had left, he took a look around. A Chinese variant on the British army’s camp bed had been erected in the lounge, and Mac’s belongings were neatly stacked alongside it. Jed’s were liberally scattered on either side of the double bed in the adjoining room, which the two of them would presumably be sharing. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
The bathroom contained a large iron bath, and the hot-water tap was actually that. For Shanghai this was luxury. He started the water running in earnest, and by the time he’d come up with a fresh
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