Enchanted Evening by M. M. Kaye Page B

it. This was the sand of the great Gobi Desert, which bit and stung as it filled the air with tiny sharp-edged particles that laid a thin, gritty blanket over every surface in the city, including, of course, the ice. There were no more skaters to be seen on the Pei-hai or the canals, and although there must have been periods when the grit sank a little way into the ice so that the surface was temporarily smooth again, they never lasted long, for the wind seemed always to blow in from the Gobi, and the dust-storms were many.
    Not that it worried the foreign population much, for the members of the Peking Club had learned long ago how to deal with this, and no sooner had ‘Come Winter’ set in than the entire space taken up during the greater part of the year by tennis courts was flooded, and protected from the winds by a vast canvas enclosure so closely fitted that only the occasional draught managed to creep in. The result was an admirable rink. But oh, was it cold! It might have been a giant freezer, and about twenty minutes was the longest I ever lasted on it. By the end of that my feet were like solid blocks of ice, and the bitter temperature outside felt almost warm by contrast – though that must have been imagination, for there were days when even the canvas was not proof against the worst of the dust-storms, and the rink would be unusable for a day or two while the surface melted just enough to let the dust sink before it froze again.
    Later during that same winter, while driving along the canal road to Pa-Ta-Ch’u to watch a point-to-point, we passed a part of the canal where gangs of coolies were cutting out the ice in large chunks, which they wrapped in coarse sacking before carrying it up to the road and stacking it into a number of carts that were waiting for them. We stopped for a moment or two to watch, and I asked our driver, a friend of Tacklow’s who was something to do with the British Embassy, what they were doing that for. He replied casually that the ice they were collecting would be stored in deep pits to be used for cooling all forms of cold food and drinks in the summer. And when I exclaimed in horror that all the drains of the city ran into the canal, he laughed and admitted that was so, adding cheerfully that what made it worse was the fact that the high ground overlooking the place where they were cutting the ice happened to be the Criminals’ Graveyard, which drained into that part of the canal. Ugh! I may say that I never touched any iced fruit or drink during the rest of the time that I was in North China.
    The point-to-points across the open country and the racecourse at Pa-Ta-Ch’u were a popular form of amusement throughout the winter, and despite the fact that anything to do with horses bores me rigid, I would always accept an invitation to attend them, merely because ‘ tout Peking’ turned out for them: the foreign contingent to participate or watch, and the indigenous to bet. Lacking the courage to admit to my unfashionable dislike, I would roll myself up like a sausage in winter woollies and spend hours out in the freezing (and totally uninteresting) countryside – clutching a muff. My nose and toes blue with cold, my teeth gritted together to prevent them from chattering, I pretended an interest in watching relays of tough little ponies from Outer Mongolia scuttling over the banks and ditches and artificial jumps with what seemed to me hulking, oversized riders on their backs. Looking back on those hours of self-inflicted purgatory, I can’t think how I can have been so wimpish. But since the winter point-to-points were as much a part of expatriate life in Peking as the dust-storms, they deserve a mention. Especially as I wrote them down, most unjustly, as another black mark against life in China.
    The plus marks were the art classes and some of the more exotic parties. There was the one given by a rich and flamboyant character who had fallen in