Time inevitably takes its toll. I had hung on to the old house as long as possible, but eventually had to recognise that it was physically and financially too much for me, and I should have to move. At least for the time being I was spared the indignity of a care home, but it was still a wrench; not only that, there was a lifetime’s accumulation of junk to clear. Most of it had no doubt lost any value it ever possessed, but some things were surely worth passing on even if I no longer wished to keep them myself.

Sorting out the collection would have been a daunting prospect but for one of my cousins - goodness knows how many times removed, in both senses of the word - who was used to the job and volunteered to help. She was one of the more sensible members in a generally scatty family, years earlier I had helped her husband to set up in business, and she was not one to forget a favour. She was also congenial company, and since Gordon’s death had visited fairly often.

This time she brought along one of her grandchildren, a bright and lively girl of about eight left in her care to allow the parents a well-earned holiday by themselves. While Daphne and I fetched down a packing case that had been too awkward for me to manage alone, young Sarah amused herself with the contents of a smaller box that I had previously moved out of the way without particular attention. As we manoeuvred the case through a doorway barely wide enough to take it, she looked up holding a clear plastic object about a couple of inches high, rather like a chess pawn. "Uncle Henry, what’s this?"

It was something that with bitter regret I had previously given up for lost. How it came to be in the box was a mystery, but such things happen all too often and simply have to be accepted. As Sarah wiped away a speck of grime, a stream of coloured lights like a miniature firework display streaked away from that point and bounced around the interior, gradually fading. Wherever she rubbed, much the same would happen except that the colours and pathways changed, the brilliance varying with the degree of friction. She was fascinated, and spent the next three hours investigating the possibilities without exhausting them, so it was quite obvious how that little toy would have to be disposed.

Seeing it took me back a good many years. In the early twenty-teens, the government of China had decided that the country’s enormous wealth, power and influence warranted a return to an imperial constitution. In view of the outcry among the remaining independent states in eastern Asia, this was emphasised to be a purely symbolic change, in that the emperor would have little more than decorative functions. He would therefore not be from the world of politics at all, but internationally distinguished in some other way, and after much discussion the choice fell upon a concert pianist who like several of his kind had achieved great success in the west - that is, until his hands were mangled in a motor accident, and surgical repairs were not quite good enough for continuing performances. To give the position some substance he was in effect put in charge of official patronage in the arts and sciences, with considerable latitude in dispensing it.

Political fashions changed, as they do, and when the emperor died from residual complications of his accident while still relatively young and without issue, the appointment was not repeated. Cynics suggested that the possibility had been a consideration from the start. Nevertheless his widow, a capable and widely respected woman, took over his work to rather better effect, and in his memory set up a series of scholarships in the arts and awards for promising scientific developments. Some of these were open to international competition.

A few years later I was running a small contract research laboratory, and during a slack period had an idea of my own that seemed worth pursuing, only none of my usual customers would take it on. Someone pointed out an advertisement inviting applications for the next round of Imperial China awards, and it seemed interesting. I was vaguely aware of the scheme from odd items in the news, there was nothing to lose by trying, at least in the first instance, so I sent in an application. Evidently it passed successfully through the early documentary stages of selection, as I was invited to Beijing to present my proposals in more detail.

The less said of the journey the better. Still, I got there, and despite the jet lag and anxiety managed a few hours' sleep. Formalities at the palace seemed interminable, but I supposed security was as much an issue there as anywhere else, and although the invitation and evidence of identity were scrutinised in more than usual detail it was all done with perfect courtesy. Eventually I was shown to a waiting room that was comfortable if no better equipped with reading matter than the usual dentist’s, a book bought in the departure lounge failed to hold my attention, and I had a horrible dread of falling asleep at the crucial time. Fortunately the fear itself probably kept me awake.

Besides the usual opportunist insertions by the tourist boards, hotel associations and so on, the invitation had included the procedure for candidates who reached this stage: there would be a technical presentation to a panel of experts, followed by a more general interview possibly with the Empress herself to discuss what might follow a successful award. The presentation held only familiar terrors, but the other puzzled me. Would it be a mere formality, or did more hang upon it - whether my face fitted, or not? There was no telling. What really interested me just then was whether it would be with the Empress, as I hadn’t had the nerve to ask, and if so what she might be like.

I hadn’t thought to look up anything particular about her, but as the wife of an international performer she would probably have visited the west at least occasionally, or so I thought. Presumably, too, she spoke some English, or this interview wouldn’t take place, though it might be only a few phrases learned parrot-fashion. I didn’t even know what she really looked like, as the pictures I’d seen were in full ceremonial rig and gave hardly any impression of the person inside.

I was evidently almost the last of the applicants to be considered that day, and the one before me took a little more than the allotted time; I was kept twiddling my thumbs and wondering about the prospects, as the panel had been studiously non-committal. About a quarter of an hour passed, so there was clearly more than formality involved. An assistant then appeared with "The Empress will see you now, Doctor Latimer" and ushered me into the presence.

It was a shock. Thinking back to the Moguls I had half-imagined a vast audience chamber with a throne on a towering pedestal and a figure of oriental magnificence - pure fantasy, of course, as I fully realised. It was still surprising, however, to find instead a rather small, ordinary office with a plain desk, and at it a middle-aged, grey-haired woman of obviously European descent, in a simple blue-grey business suit, greeting me with a smile of kindly amusement. "You seem surprised, Dr. Latimer." That was the greatest shock of all: the last thing I might have expected was the distinct Lancashire accent. "Well, yes," I stuttered. "Don’t worry, everyone is. Don’t let it distract you. Just to save your wondering, I was a music teacher in Manchester when Chang gave a recital and needed a page-turner, and we clicked. Now, to business ..."

It had been stressed that candidates selected to present their case to the Empress or her personal representative should avoid technical detail and concentrate on more general issues, so I had prepared accordingly. We were well into my spiel when the assistant reappeared, apologised and whispered a message that evidently disturbed the routine. "Is he still there?" "Yes, but he has to go very soon if he’s to catch his plane." "Hmm." She consulted a document. "Well, it shouldn’t take long ... Get a taxi to stand by for him. Dr. Latimer, there’s a young man outside who’s suddenly been called home to a family emergency - would you mind waiting for another few minutes while I deal with him?" You don’t refuse an empress, however humble her origins, so I waited. The other man looked really distressed when we passed on his way in, and I suppressed suspicions of mere queue-jumping.

Afterwards, the rest of my interview went without further interruption. Then the Empress sat back and pondered a while in silence. Eventually, "I’m sorry to keep you on tenterhooks, Dr. Latimer, but you’ve presented me with a difficulty. You’ll realise, I’m sure, that I know very little about any of the subjects involved in these awards, and for that I have to rely on my advisers. It’s always a difficult task to rank such different topics, and this year they find it quite impossible to break a tie on merit between your application and another. So the decision has to be my own. And it has to be essentially based on judgements of personality and circumstance. On this very slight acquaintance, my impression - right or wrong - is that you are the more likely to succeed without my help. So the award goes to your rival. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there it is."

I mumbled something about appreciating her consideration, and expected a conventional form of dismissal, but instead she then turned to a box that had appeared on her desk during my temporary absence. It held half a dozen objects of the kind that long afterwards intrigued Sarah, and the Empress took one out, stroking it in various places and gravely contemplating the display within. Then with a smile, "The young man you so kindly allowed to come in just now left these behind as examples of his work. Maybe to save having to pack them for his flight home, but let’s not be too cynical. Would you like to have this - as a memento?" "Well, yes - and thank you very much!" "Good. Now, I wish you a good journey - and do be sure to vindicate my judgement!"

Back home over the next few months, I looked out for any signs that Mathers (I got the name from the appointments timetable) had had any success with his triboluminescent baubles, and in November advertisements appeared for Christmas tree decorations of that kind. They apparently sold quite well for several years until some other novelty displaced them in the public fancy. In pantomime the material seemed an obvious choice for Aladdin’s lamp, although it was found to be rather too sensitive and unless very carefully handled could be a troublesome distraction. As a more serious application, it was promoted in the form of self-illuminating handrails for public stairways, but proved too expensive for the rather limited benefit. In time it became little more than a historical curiosity.

In later life I met Mathers occasionally and found him a decent sort. He had just about broken even overall on that project, but did better with others and ended up with a fairly profitable business. He had modest tastes so that was all he wanted, and at least it didn’t attract takeover sharks. Anyway, having one way or another given much innocent pleasure to a whole generation of children was cause for satisfaction in itself; few people could claim so much.

I also kept an eye open more intently for news about the Empress, whose personality had deeply impressed me. Odd items appeared about her opening an institution here or addressing a conference there. Otherwise not much of substance came up until the 2040s. Then there was a great deal about relief operations after the disasters that struck China in that decade - the terrible flu epidemic of ’41, the earthquakes that devastated Chengdu and Chongqing in ’44, and the collapse of the Three Gorges dam soon afterwards with appalling destruction downstream. Hints between the lines suggested strongly that in such emergencies, the politicians’ response had been hopelessly bungled and inadequate, crippled by bureaucracy and corruption, until she took over and swept obstacles aside. By the time discontent in the provinces broke out into open civil war in 2047, she was evidently the only one with prestige enough to deal effectively with the warlords for humanitarian purposes.

She was visiting an orphanage in Xian to supervise evacuation from the battle zone during a truce she had negotiated for the purpose, when someone - accidentally, it was claimed, but the man thought responsible was lynched - let off an artillery shell that set the building alight. She organised the terrified staff, some to shepherd the children, some to delay the advance of the fire if they couldn’t actually stop it. Most of them got out eventually, and so did all but one of the children, but she didn’t. According to one report, she was last seen searching for the stray.

All this passed through my mind as Daphne and I laboured over the contents of my loft, and I told it to her when we took a break. Sarah meanwhile listened, goggle-eyed at the climax, clutching the bauble; I’d never known her so quiet for so long. Daphne had evidently read my intentions and protested that I couldn’t possibly part with so precious a souvenir, but at that Sarah looked so downcast that it would have been a crime to deprive her of it. Daphne reluctantly agreed, contenting herself with insisting that it should be kept in a sturdy presentation box with a copy of the story, that Mummy and Daddy should always take care of it and that it should be a family secret - no lending to friends on any account. "And," I added, "whenever you look at it, spare a thought for a very great and gracious lady."

Peter D. Wilson

February 2007.

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