Hothouse Flower

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Perhaps,’ Harry muttered, non-committally. ‘I wonder what happened to Bill?’

  Sebastian frowned at the sudden change of thought. ‘Who on earth’s Bill?’ he enquired.

  ‘He was my sergeant in the battalion. He came from Wharton Park and was with me throughout my captivity. He saved my life during the fall of Singapore and always came to visit me in Changi hospital when I was ill with dengue fever. I’d like to know that he’s safe home. I’ll send a telegram home to ask.’ Harry was fading. ‘Sorry, Sebastian, but I’m bushed, and I must get some sleep.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sebastian said. ‘You take yourself off to your room, dear boy, get a good night’s shut-eye, and my tailor will be with you at ten.’

  Harry stood up, his legs feeling dreadfully shaky. ‘I really am most terribly grateful for everything you’ve done, Sebastian. You must let me know what I owe you for all your trouble. I’ll have the money wired through to you from England.’

  ‘Just call it my contribution to the war effort.’ Sebastian brushed talk of finances away with a dismissive hand. ‘Think nothing of it, glad to be of help.’

  Harry bade him goodnight, then walked slowly back to his room. He was relishing the thought of resting his aching bones in cool, clean white sheets, under the breeze from the ceiling fan. As he climbed into bed, all that concerned him before he drifted off was the whereabouts of his friend, Bill.

  34

  In the following week, Harry had plenty of rest and began to build up his strength, as his beleaguered stomach started coping with the kind of nourishing food he had only been able to dream about in Changi.

  At night he was still plagued by nightmares. He would wake, drenched in sweat, and reach for the light, which often didn’t work, due to the continued blackouts in Bangkok. His heart racing, he would struggle to light a candle, see the sanctuary of his room and convince himself that it was truly over.

  In the mornings he would make his way down to breakfast on the veranda, then take a newspaper into the shade of the large palms in the garden. The river hummed with life, the wooden boats with their diesel engines providing a background noise which lulled him. He watched the activities of other guests from behind his newspaper; some had been POWs on the Burma railway, but he did not indulge in conversation.

  Sebastian often called in from his office nearby and they would lunch together before Harry took himself off for his afternoon nap. He did not venture outside the hotel. The serenity of this spot, and the gentle, courteous Thai staff, who floated gracefully about their business, made him feel safe. He clung to the confines of the Oriental Hotel; it was his safe haven.

  Sebastian asked him every day if he wanted to send a telegram to Wharton Park letting them know when he would return, but Harry was reticent. The thought of the journey home – coupled with the responsibilities he would face on arrival – was too much to cope with. Here, within the tranquillity of the hotel, Harry was healing.

  One searingly hot afternoon, on his way across the lobby after lunch, Harry saw Giselle directing her Thai workers as they carried an old upright piano precariously along the corridor and into a room.

  After his nap, Harry ambled back downstairs and took a look inside. Bamboo fans had been recently fixed on to the ceiling, and tables and chairs arranged around the room. There was a wooden service area still under construction in one corner, and the piano and a drum kit in another. Harry walked over and pulled up the lid. He brought over a chair, sat down and put his fingers to the keys.

  Although he had played in Changi, the Nips had, ironically, only wanted popular American tunes. His fingers felt rusty as he played the opening bars of Chopin’s ‘Grande Polonaise’. He persevered, willing his hands to move across the keys as they used to. Eventually, they seemed to remember, and the familiar notes flowed in a torrent of unexpressed pain. For the first time since his war had begun, Harry found peace in his music.

  When he finished, he sat sweating with exertion and emotion, and heard clapping from the doorway. A young Thai maid was standing shyly by the door, floor-sweeper in hand, a look of wonderment on her face.

  Harry smiled at her, thinking how beautiful she was, even in her drab maid’s uniform.

  ‘I sorry, sir, to disturb you. I hear music when I sweep terrace and I come in to listen.’

  ‘Of course.’ Harry looked more closely, taking in her tiny child-like body, perfectly proportioned, and then, her lovely face. ‘You like music?’

  ‘Very much,’ she nodded. ‘Before war, I train too.’

  ‘You were at music school?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘No. Only lesson, once a week. But I love, I love Chopin very much,’ she said with passion.

  ‘You want to play?’ Harry offered as he stood up.

  ‘No, Madame would not like. Besides, I am …’ she searched for the right English word and smiled as she found it, ‘amateur. I think you are professional.’

  ‘Hardly,’ muttered Harry. ‘But I too enjoy playing.’

  ‘You play for new bar, yes?’ The girl smiled again, showing Harry a perfect set of pearl white teeth, underneath full pink lips.

  ‘Maybe if Giselle asks me,’ shrugged Harry, ‘but it won’t be Chopin. You are a maid here?’ he asked, rather superfluously, loathe to end the conversation.

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d say it was unusual to find a maid who speaks good English and plays the piano,’ he commented.

  The girl shrugged. ‘Many things change for many during war.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harry agreed with feeling, ‘yes, they do. But you are educated. Why are you working here?’

  Her eyes filled with sadness. ‘My father in Free Thai movement, get taken away by Japanese Army. And disappear a year ago.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Before, he is editor of newspaper here,’ she continued. ‘We have good life. I am educated at British school here in Bangkok. But my mother, she have three young children and cannot leave them alone to earn money. So I work to feed my family.’ She spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, not asking for his sympathy, merely explaining her circumstances.

  ‘And Madame Giselle, she was once a journalist too, I believe?’ recalled Harry.

  ‘Yes,’ the girl agreed. ‘She was French war correspondent. She help me by giving me job, because she know and respect my father.’

  Harry nodded. ‘I understand. Perhaps, when the chaos of the war is over, you can use your education once more.’

  ‘But you, sir, have many worse than me,’ she answered. ‘Madame say you are prisoner in Changi. I hear it very bad place to be.’

  The sympathy in her eyes brought tears to his own. This was a girl who understood the cruelty war could inflict. They both stood for a moment, staring at each other, as an inexplicable feeling passed between them.

  She broke the silence. ‘I must go now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  As if in prayer, she drew her fingers together beneath the tip of her nose and bowed her head towards them, a traditional Thai gesture Harry had come to recognise.

  ‘Kop khun ka, sir. I enjoy your playing very much.’ She began to walk out.

  ‘My name is Harry,’ he called.

  ‘Haree,’ she repeated, and he loved the way she said it.

  ‘And what is yours?’ he asked.

  ‘My name, it is Lidia.’

  ‘Lidia.’ Harry mouthed the name, as she had his.

  ‘Goodbye, Harry, I see you soon.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lidia.’

  After this meeting, Harry watched Lidia every day, enjoying her graceful movements as she went about her tasks. He sat in his favourite spot on the terrace, with Somerset Maugham’s The Gentleman in the Parlour – written in this very hotel some years back – on his lap. Instead of reading, though, he studied Lidia, fascinated by her for reasons he could not explain. Everything about her was delicate, fragile and so terribly feminine. Against Lidia, Olivia would seem like a carthorse, even though she herself
was considered slim.

  He chuckled to himself that he had found his own, real-life Cinderella. Of course, Lidia had no idea he was a prince – or as near as dammit. She smiled up at him occasionally, but never approached him. He did not feel it fitting to approach her.

  Harry had no idea how old she was. From careful observation he could tell that, under her uniform, she had the shape of a woman; but she could have been anything from fourteen to twenty-four. He worried he was becoming obsessed with her, working out when she swept the veranda and the terrace, and making sure he was there so he could watch her. The more he saw her, the more beautiful she became. He spent hours lying on his bed in his room, pondering how he could restart their conversation and get to know her better.

  One morning, as he passed through the lobby, he saw Lidia sitting behind the reception desk. She was no longer in her maid’s uniform, but instead a Western-style blouse and skirt.

  Encouraged by a smile from her, he walked over and said, ‘Hello there. Have you been promoted?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her huge amber eyes sparkled with pleasure. ‘I am now helping Madame with paperwork and reception. Also, I have new position as guest relations.’

  ‘Good for you!’ said Harry, feeling the kind of pleasure one would associate with something good happening to oneself. ‘I’m glad Madame has recognised your abilities and put them to good use.’

  ‘It is because I speak English and Thai, and Madame speak French. We are good team.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I get pay rise too, so my family very happy. And new bar open tomorrow night. I hope it is okay with you, but I tell Madame we have guest who play piano very well. I think she speak to you about it later.’

  ‘Of course. You will be there?’

  ‘Of course,’ mimicked Lidia. ‘I see you soon, Harry,’ she nodded and went back to her paperwork.

  As he took breakfast on the veranda, Harry smiled in secret delight at this unexpected contact with Lidia. If she was to be there in the bar tomorrow night, he would play. Play for her.

  He realised he felt better physically this morning – as well as he had felt in years. Besides that, an energy vaguely remembered from before the horror of Changi surged through him. Harry thought it might be expectation for the future, a future he had not dared dream he would have.

  The beauty of his tropical surroundings seemed to be more vivid today. Everything he saw and touched had a shine, a lustre to it. He was obviously on the mend. Which meant he must start thinking about returning home.

  Harry lit a cigarette and sipped his coffee. When he’d left Wharton Park over four years ago, he had at least felt comfortable knowing he had righted the wrongs he had committed against Olivia. He believed she fully understood what had happened to him with Archie and that, in the few weeks he and Olivia had together afterwards, they had managed to put that in the past.

  The fact he had left her with their child in her belly was further comfort and physical proof theirs was a normal marriage. That the child had not made it into the world was a sadness for him but, he acknowledged, far more of a sadness for his wife.

  Harry had suffered a surfeit of uncomfortable, humid nights during which to ponder his feelings for Olivia. Some of the other fellows would weep with the pain of missing their wives, talking of them endlessly to anyone who would listen, and keep battered, fading photographs next to their hearts. They would discuss their deep feelings of love, and how much they had enjoyed and now missed the physical side of their relationship. Harry would listen patiently, feeling guilty that he seemed to feel none of these poetically expressed emotions for his own wife.

  He was awfully fond of Olivia. He always had been. He respected her intelligence, her strength and her beauty, and the way she had organised Wharton Park when Adrienne had needed her to. She was the perfect mistress of the estate and a suitable replacement for his mother.

  But …

  Did he love her?

  Harry took another sip of his coffee, still piping hot in the blistering heat, and lit another cigarette. He took a little comfort from the fact that the fellows he had listened to pouring out their hearts, had been able to choose for themselves whom they married. The truth was, he had not. There was no doubt that, without his mother suggesting marriage and pointing out its advantages, Harry would have left for war a single man. The thought of marrying Olivia, or any woman for that matter, would simply not have crossed his mind.

  Yet he knew his situation was far from unusual. Arranged marriages had taken place across the globe for centuries. As always, his own feelings were secondary to his heritage. For some, that was simply the way it was.

  Harry stubbed out his cigarette. Perhaps he was asking too much. Perhaps he did love her … how was he to know what love really was between a man and a woman? He had been a late developer emotionally and sexually unsure of himself. Olivia was the first woman he had ever known. And, once they had got the hang of it, things in that department had gone quite well, he thought.

  And the good news was that any fear he had held about latent tendencies towards his own sex had been proved unfounded in the past three-and-a-half years. He had seen other men in the camp take comfort in each other. Everyone had turned a blind eye to this; whatever got you through hell and kept you alive was acceptable. But not once had he felt the need to turn to another man’s arms, even during his darkest moments.

  Well, Harry thought, there was no fighting it any longer. He had to return home and face the music. Over lunch with Sebastian, he confirmed he felt fit enough to contemplate the journey back to England.

  ‘Jolly good, dear boy. I know there’s a ship leaving at the start of next week. Let me see what strings I can pull, and try and get you on board. Sooner the better now, I should think, eh, what?’

  Unable to join in Sebastian’s enthusiasm for stepping back on to the green, green grass of England, Harry drowned his sorrows and drank far more than he normally would. After lunch, as he headed rather unsteadily back to his room, he resolved he should enjoy the short time he had left in Bangkok. To that end, and with alcohol fuelling his courage, he took a deep breath and walked across to the reception desk. Lidia smiled up at him.

  ‘Yes please, how can I help you?’

  ‘Well …’ Harry cleared his throat, ‘I was thinking, Lidia, that I should be seeing a little of the city before I leave for England. As you are now in charge of guest relations, I was wondering whether accompanying me on a river tour might be included in your remit?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ Lidia looked confused, ‘what is the word “remit”?’

  ‘What I am asking, Lidia, is whether you would be my guide for the day?’ Harry explained, his heart pounding.

  Lidia looked doubtful. ‘I would have to ask Madame.’

  ‘Madame is right behind you. What would you like to ask her?’ said a heavily accented voice, as Giselle appeared from the office.

  Harry repeated his request to her. ‘I’d appreciate awfully someone with local knowledge and, of course, good English,’ he added, feeling rather a heel, but determined to get his way.

  Giselle thought about it for a while, then said: ‘Well, Captain Crawford, I think we might be able to reach a mutually convenient agreement, n’est-ce pas? Lidia and Monsieur Ainsley have both told me you play the piano very well. You might have heard that tomorrow night is the opening of my bar here at the hotel? I am in need of a pianist. If you will play for me, I will allow Lidia to take you out on the river and show you Bangkok.’

  Harry put out his hand, delighted. ‘Deal,’ he said.

  ‘C’est parfait, Captain Crawford,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I have a saxophonist and a drummer. They will be in the bar at six tomorrow evening. Perhaps you can make yourself available at that time for a rehearsal with them. I will leave the arrangements for you to make for your tour with the young lady.’

  ‘Of course. Merci, Madame,’ he replied.

  When she had disappeared into her office, Harry leant contentedly over the
desk, stared into Lidia’s beautiful amber eyes and said, ‘Right, that is settled. Now, where do you suggest you take me?’

  35

  The opening of the newly named Bamboo Bar was well attended by the ex-pat community who, after years of suffering under Japanese rule, were glad to have something to celebrate. They arrived in their droves, knocking back the local Maekong whisky and making sanuk, the Thai word for ‘fun’.

  With less than an hour’s rehearsal, Harry was glad of his skills as a pianist and the practice he had had playing jazz to the Nips in Changi. He was teamed with a Dutch drummer – an ex-POW like himself – and a Russian saxophonist, who’d tipped up in Bangkok for reasons unknown. Between them, they managed to make a list of tunes all three of them knew.

  The atmosphere was vibrant, smoky and sweaty. Having never played with other musicians, Harry enjoyed the camaraderie enormously. The enthusiastic applause as his fingers flew across the keys in a virtuoso solo, gave Harry a thrill of joy he had seldom felt. He glanced at Lidia, looking wonderful in a silk sarong and gliding about the room with a tray of drinks.

  When all three musicians declared there could be no more encores, as they were dripping with sweat and exhausted, Harry walked out of the bar and across the terrace to the lawn, which led directly down to the river below. Due to the blackout, the last part of the evening had been conducted by candlelight, and the only light on the river was the full moon above him.

  Harry lit a cigarette and sighed heavily. Tonight, just for those few hours, he’d felt he belonged. Never mind that he was a stray amongst strays, a disparate ragbag of people collected together from the four corners of the earth, through unknown tragedy. He had not been a captain in the army, or a hereditary peer of the British realm with a vast estate to inherit. He had been nothing more than a pianist, and his talent had entertained and bought pleasure to others.