For the sake of the child, she tried to keep the lesson going but it was almost impossible. After a door slammed for the third time, she reached over and shut the instruction book.
“Well, Locket, what do you say?” she said.
“About what, Mrs. Pendleton?”
For the first time, Claire felt sorry for Locket. What must it be like to live in a house like this with parents like Melody and Victor? The child’s face was heartbreakingly smooth, the Oriental skin almost glossy, her eyes curious hazel orbs. Claire reached over and tucked a loose strand behind Locket’s ear. The maternal gesture surprised her almost as much as it did the girl herself, who gave a quick, shy smile.
“How about we finish a little early?”
“All right, Mrs. Pendleton.” Locket got up quickly, bumping the piano, and spilled the glass of water that had been sitting on top. “Oops,” she giggled. “Mummy says I’m very clumsy.”
“You just have to be more careful,” Claire said. “All children are careless.”
“Mummy says I give her a headache,” Locket said more somberly. “I’m not to disturb her in the afternoons anymore so that’s why she’s got me signed up for so many lessons.”
“I’m sure she wants you to grow up to be an accomplished lady with many interests.” Claire patted her head.
“We’re having a party!” Locket brightened. “For the queen’s coronation. Daddy got a big honor from the queen, you know.”
“Yes, I heard. You must be very proud.”
“I’m getting a new dress. It’s a tangerine silk taffeta with guipure lace,” the girl recited carefully. “Mummy had the lace flown in from France and it’s the only one of its kind in Hong Kong.”
“That sounds lovely, Locket.” The girl beamed, then looked uncertain.
“Of course,” Locket faltered, confessed, “it’s just the leftover from Mummy’s dress. She had some extra so she gave it to me so I could have it put on mine.”
“I’m sure you’ll both look a treat,” Claire said.
The reason Victor Chen was in such a state, Claire surmised, was what had appeared in the paper today. It had been relegated to page 7, pushed back by the relentless, breathless coverage of Princess Elizabeth and the latest details of her procession to Westminster Abbey, but it was still there—a small column about the formation of a War Crimes Committee, to be headed by a Sir Reginald Lythgoe, based on new information that had come to light. Will had pointed it out to her earlier in the afternoon.
“It’s bloody unfathomable!” she heard Victor shout into the phone. “It’s a witch hunt. The war’s been over for a decade and they want to dredge up this rubbish. You tell Davies I won’t forget this. It’s pure anti-Chinese sentiment. They can’t stand to see someone do well, and the OBE was just the last . . . That wretched old woman was playing Chopin on the Government House piano the entire war, drinking scotch and dining on veal, under my protection! She has no right . . .”
Someone shut a door so his voice was muffled.
Locket smiled.
“So I can go?”
“Yes,” Claire said. “Run along.”
Claire let herself out quietly, without running into Melody or Victor. She had an appointment with Edwina Storch.
The old woman had rung her up last week, asking to get together for a cup of tea. They decided on the Librarians’ Auxiliary in Mid-Levels, and Claire had arranged to meet her on the next Thursday, today.
The bus stopped outside the building on Tregunter Path and Claire got out. Miss Storch was just entering the clubhouse. Claire stopped to watch her. She had on a pink hat, under which her salt-and-pepper bun peeked. Her bottom was wide and encased in a matching pink cotton skirt that went to the knee. Varicose veins trailed down her thick calves, and as she walked with her cane, she swayed ever so slightly from side to side. She stopped to catch her breath outside the door, then stepped up and went inside.
Behind her, Claire waited, then walked to the door and pushed it open herself. Inside, it was dark and cool, fans swaying as they turned, and heavy damask curtains shielding the furniture against the bright sun outside. Claire squinted, trying to make out the shapes in the room.
“Hullo,” said Edwina Storch. Claire jumped. Edwina Storch had taken off her spectacles and was rubbing them with the hem of her jacket. “They steam up in this humidity, you know.”
“Hello, Miss Storch,” she said. “I was right behind you on the path but it was just too hot to rush.”
The old woman did not reiterate her past desire to be addressed by her first name.
“Yes, it’s terrible out there, isn’t it,” she said, pulling out a white handkerchief and wiping her forehead. “Does something to the character but I haven’t pinned it down yet. It’s something that people who live here over twenty years develop but I can’t put a name to it.”
“The heat?” Claire said.
“Yes. Most of your day is spent trying to avoid it. And the endlessness of it. Always at war with the elements, instead of in harmony with them. That’s us, the British colonials, battling against our circumstances, always.” Miss Storch peered at Claire. She was reminded of the first time she had met her and the gaze that had almost made her faint. “Shall we sit?”
“Certainly.”
Claire was unsure as to why Edwina Storch had rung her up. The old woman moved slowly, and was treated with great respect by the staff.
“Lovely to see you again, Miss Storch,” said the manageress, who had come out to greet them. “So nice that you can come into town and see us.”
“Do you know Mrs. Maxwell?” Edwina asked Claire. “She’s been around almost as long as I have.”
They shook hands and were escorted into the dining room—more of the heavy damask curtains, a mix of old, good tables and new chairs, too shiny.
“We have your favorite currant scones today,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “And the good Chinese oolong.”
“Splendid,” Edwina said as she lowered herself carefully into a chair. “You’re too kind, Harriet. We’ll both have the high tea, please.”
“It’s very pleasant here,” Claire said. “It’s my first time.”
“Not too bad,” Edwina said. “During the war, I spent a few nights here.”
“Yes,” Claire said.
The waitress came over and poured water for them into faded, scratched glasses.
“There’s something sad about the Eurasian, isn’t there?”Edwina Storch said, looking after the girl as she left. “Something incomplete, something wanting in them. I always feel they are searching for something to make them whole.”
“Do you think so?” Claire said politely. “I find them very attractive, actually, with their beautiful skin and golden eyes and hair. When I first was in Hong Kong, I did find them odd-looking, but now I think they are just splendid.”
“Hmph,” snorted the old woman. “You’re young and romantic. The children feel dreadful because they are not accepted by either race.”
Claire had not thought Miss Storch to be so narrow-minded when her own lifestyle was not at all conventional.
As if she could sense what Claire was thinking, Miss Storch drew herself up slightly. “Mary and I have always led our lives with good Christian values!” she said. “We love all of God’s creatures, even the less fortunate.”
“Of course,” said Claire.
The Eurasian girl came over again with a pot of tea. She set down the cups and put a strainer on each of them. Her eyes were downcast, steady on the table.
“I’ll pour,” said Miss Storch, dismissing her.
“You don’t think she’s attractive?” Claire asked. She felt an obstinate urge to pursue the matter.
“Claire,” Miss Storch said. “I do not. She is unfortunate. She is lucky to have a respectable job because I am sure that her father left her mother after he had his fun with her. You know, that’s how most of these situations are.” She poured the hot tea into Claire’s cup. Claire lifted up the milk pitche
r.
“You don’t pour milk into this sort of tea!” Miss Storch barked. Claire’s hand hung suspended in the air, frozen. “The whole point of this tea is to have it unadulterated. Put that milk down. I don’t know why they even give us milk.”
Claire paused and then poured the milk into her tea.
“I prefer my tea with milk,” she said.
Miss Storch stared at her, then took off her spectacles and started rubbing them again.
“So you’ve got some spunk,” she said, inspecting her glasses. “Glad to see that.”
Claire was silent.
“You’re going to need it,” Edwina Storch said. “There’s a pretty kettle of fish going on, and from what I understand, you are in the middle of it.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Oh, I think you understand more than you let on.” Miss Storch sipped her tea, made a grimace. “Too strong. They let it steep too long.”
“I’ll call for hot water,” Claire said, and raised her hand.
“Don’t bother. I’ve better things to talk about.” She sighed. “You have a fondness for the Eurasian race.”
“Hardly,” Claire protested. “I just . . .”
“And I am sure you know of Trudy Liang, then.” She peered intently at Claire over her glasses. “She was one of the better-known Eurasians in Hong Kong when she was alive. She was from a very wealthy family and so escaped much of the prejudice that comes from being mixed.” Edwina Storch said this with a complete lack of irony. “You know who I’m talking about?”
“Yes,” Claire allowed. “I have heard of her.”
“And that whole business during the war. She was out of the camps because she was Portuguese and Chinese, and I was out of the camps because I thought it better, and I had a Finnish mother and I was able to work it out. If you were persuasive in the early days, these things could happen. It was very confusing and the rules changed every day.” Her eyes shifted, became wistful. “Of course, I couldn’t get Mary out, but I was able to provide for her when I was outside, and brought her packages and all that. It was for the best.
“You know, Claire,” she said suddenly. “You have a face for listening. People must always confide in you. Do you find that to be the case?”
“Not really,” Claire demurred. She thought to herself that Edwina Storch’s face resembled a large, fleshy reptile now. It had shrewd opportunism and greed written all over it.
“You know about Trudy and Will Truesdale, then?”
“I’ve just heard stories, like everyone else,” Claire said. “But it has nothing to do with me.”
“It doesn’t!” Miss Storch laughed, a harsh chuckle. “Oh, I imagine you would like everyone to believe that. But yes, the two of them were thick as thieves. Everyone thought they would marry. If you ask me, he got the short end of the stick. He could have done much better. But no, he was with her, and then the war happened, and a lot more.” She paused. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here today, or why I asked you to lunch the other week. I wanted to get a good look at you, at your face. But it is a long story. You should eat while I talk.”
The woman looked suddenly very serious.
“You must be different now,” she said. “You must rise to the occasion. And you must be strong. Now is the time for you to make a difference.”
In the late afternoon light, the door to the Librarian’s Auxiliary opened. Claire stood, blinking even in the fading light. She was saying good-bye to Edwina Storch.
“Thank you very much for the tea,” she said.
“You’re quite welcome, my dear,” said Miss Storch. “I hope I have been enlightening.”
“Yes,” Claire started. Then, “No. Actually . . . I don’t know.” She stumbled over her words.
“Not the way, dear,” Miss Storch said. There was exasperation in her voice.
“But Miss Storch,” Claire said hurriedly. “Miss Storch, I do feel . . . There is something that I would like to say. When I met you at your garden party some weeks ago, you said that I reminded you of a young you. I just want to tell you that I think that is not at all correct. You and I are as different as can be.” Then she turned and walked away quickly, not looking back.
The sun was setting and Claire could not imagine that it had been an ordinary day outside, before she had entered the dark rooms and into an afternoon of storytelling by a vicious old woman with an ax to wield.
1943
THERE WAS A BABY.
There was a man with eleven fingers. Now ten. Now eleven again. The finger always grew back, taking one year, exactly. A good measure of time.
There were good men.
There were bad men.
There were dead men.
There was a woman, disappeared.
There was a baby.
Trudy, her slim figure enveloped in looser and looser tunics. Her face growing rounder, her skin mottled with the mask of pregnancy. When had he noticed? It came upon him, like so many revelations, when he was about to drift off to sleep, after another furloughed weekend. He jerked, realized: a baby. He could not sleep after that, turning on his thin mattress, restless and wild, his mind aflame.
She had not told him. He had not noticed. It had been so gradual.
His thoughts like an old woman’s. What sort of world is this to bring a child into. How was she going to have a baby during a war. And then the other thought, the one he pushed down, but kept surfacing into his consciousness.
Did those things even matter anymore at a time like this?
Then one day, another weekend, Trudy saying abruptly, “I always knew I’d be one of those women who grew enormous during pregnancy.” The first time she had acknowledged her condition. She said it gamely, over a breakfast of noodles and roast pork, shoveling the long noodles into her mouth like a street hawker, not caring what she looked like. If she had told him a few weeks earlier, before he had noticed himself, he would have been more generous, said it suited her, but he kept quiet. His small, petty revenge. But against what, whom? Not the woman. The war. The unfairness of it all.
And then it grew obvious, suddenly, in that way women look pregnant overnight. Her growth accelerated. She was still small, but her belly swelled and spilled out of whatever loose dress she was wearing. It looked like a tumor to him. He was ashamed he felt that way.
She never said anything else about it.
There was a man with eleven fingers.
Dominick. His face grown sharp with his newly acquired cunning, his body gone soft with indulgence. Trudy, saying, sotto voce, “Dominick has changed. He’s with that odious Victor Chen all the time. They’re trying to get my father to go in on some Macau company they’re setting up that’s doing a lot of trading with the Japanese. I don’t want my father involved in any of that—he’s not well—but Dommie won’t listen. He’s gone over to Victor’s side.” And in that statement, her profound disappointment. Her best friend, gone. A loneliness. Will was inside. Dominick was changed. Trudy didn’t have anyone anymore.
There were good men.
When Will went back to camp, after the first furlough, eager faces greeted him, hungry for news and hope. He distributed what he had brought back—the guards left him alone now, as news had spread that he had a connection outside—and went back to his room.
Johnnie Sandler appeared at the doorway.
“You prefer to be alone?”
“No, it’s all right.” He waved him in.
“So, how was your furlough? Lots of jealous people back here at home base, you know. The news spread like wildfire. You’re either a scoundrel or a hero. Lots of divided opinion.”
“Johnnie . . .” he started. He didn’t know where to begin.
“Anyone still out there that we know?”
“Yes, but . . . They say that two hundred Chinese die every day on the streets. Brutally. Anonymously. Half the hospitals are still closed.”
Johnnie studied his face.
“You loo
k a bit shell-shocked. Is there anything else going on?”
“Too much, my friend. Too much.”
“Trudy doing all right out there?”
Will nodded.
“You don’t know her that well, do you?”
“Just from around,” Johnnie said. “As well as I knew you, I suppose.”
“And what did you think of her?”
Johnnie hesitated.
“That’s a rum thing to ask. She’s your girl.”
“No, really. I want to know.”
“I liked her. What I knew of her. There was always the noise about her, I know, but I’ve learned that most of that is just that—noise. She seems a good sort, just had a lot of attention on her all the time, and I thought that must be hard.”
“Very diplomatic,” Will said.
Johnnie grinned. “What do you expect, old man?”
“Why did you never find someone? I always saw you around with a few girls, never one, never for a long time.”
“Never found anyone who’d have me,” Johnnie said lightly. “Once they’d spent enough time with me, they’d be off like a rocket.”
They sat together for a while. Johnnie brought out some homemade cigarettes.
“The good stuff, rolled from native Stanley grass.” He offered one to Will.
Will shook his head.
“What am I thinking?” He produced two packs of Red Sun cigarettes from his bag under the bed. “I brought these back for you. Japanese, of course, but the real thing, nonetheless. I don’t know if your scruples will allow it.”
Johnnie laughed with delight.
“That’s very good of you, sir!”
They smoked for a while, enjoying the small pleasure of nicotine.
“There’s a few men in C Block who’ve rigged up another shortwave,” Johnnie said. “They haven’t gotten anything interesting, but they’re trying.”
“Trudy’s got in with a bad sort,” Will said.
Johnnie looked at him. “I’d figured as much.”
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