An outsider, had there been one, would have instantly noticed the resemblance between them. Almost the same colour of eyes and hair, although Jeremy Brooke, crisp and alert in a white uniform, seemed cool and relaxed by comparison, his smile gentle and slightly amused while he waited for his brother to limp over to him.
They shook hands firmly and without warmth.
Jeremy said, ‘You look fine. I thought I’d see some grizzled old veteran from the deep waters! It’ll do some people a bit of good in H.K. to be introduced to a real hero, instead of just reading about them at a safe distance.’
Brooke studied him, wondering what was different. The immediate acknowledgement of their separate paths, perhaps? The brutal realities of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, where ships and men were dying even while they spoke in this remote cog of Empire? Jeremy, as far as he knew, had not served aboard ship since the outbreak of war. There must be a moral in that somewhere.
His brother said, ‘How’s your V.C. settling down? I heard he was a bit bomb-happy.’
Cool, quick, unfeeling. He had always been that way.
He replied, ‘Calvert? He still feels it.’ Defensively he heard himself add, ‘He’ll do me, and the ship.’
Brooke found that he was seated, as was his brother. The latter took a pad from a hovering servant. ‘Gin?’
Instead of refusing he said, ‘Lots of ice. It’s the one thing I envy them out here.’
His brother scribbled on a chit. ‘Bloody hopeless here, in the club I mean. I only use it for meeting people.’
‘Like me?’
The perfect teeth shone in a smile. ‘Like you. Exactly.’ He leaned forward and Brooke wondered how it was that his hair was always so neat, never a strand out of place. He had seen himself in one of the club’s ornate mirrors. Hair too long, uniform jacket too loose. It should be easy to get another one made to measure out here.
His brother took out a cigarette. ‘Won’t offer you one. Smoke your pipe, if you like. Everybody else does. They’ve almost gone native in this place.’
‘Where are you staying?’ From a corner of his eyes he saw the servant put down the tray, heard the tempting tinkle of ice.
Jeremy eyed him curiously. ‘The Pen, of course.’ He smiled gently. ‘The Peninsula Hotel, across the water in Kowloon.’
‘I’ve read about it. Pretty expensive, isn’t it?’
Again the slight, almost pitying smile. ‘They must think I’m worth it.’ He picked up his glass and eyed him through the cigarette smoke. ‘Good to see you. Sorry about the funeral, but there was nothing you could have done. And sailing orders mean just that in this man’s navy.’
‘What exactly are you doing out here, Jeremy? It all seems rather cloak-and-dagger.’
His brother nodded, amused. ‘Yes, I suppose it would seem like that – to you. I’m on D.N.I.’s staff – have been for months.’
‘Director of Naval Intelligence? God, I didn’t know that!’
‘And you don’t now, if anyone mentions it. But I know you, old chap, a clam when you want to be.’ He leaned forward and rested one hand on the table. ‘You’re not like me. Ships, blood and guts, that’s your war. One we must win. But mine is the other side of it. I like to think it’s no less important in the end.’ He did not wait for any comment but continued, ‘I hear you saw the Commodore?’ He looked away, and for once his composure was shaken. ‘People like him make me sick!’
‘I don’t follow.’
Jeremy Brooke picked an invisible hair from his gleaming shoulder strap.
‘You don’t need to.’
Was it a deliberate gesture? Something to remind him that, brothers or not, he was in charge?
He spoke carefully, keeping the bitterness out of his voice. ‘Is Sarah with you?’
For a split second he saw his brother taken off-guard.
‘No. I was in a hurry. Came down via Suez, too dicey to have women dragging along. You know how it is.’
‘Actually, no, I don’t.’
They faced one another, strangers or enemies, it was impossible to tell.
Then Jeremy said very calmly, ‘There are some very important people here, the ones who count – will count, if things go wrong.’
‘Is that what you expect will happen?’ It was so quiet he could hear a clock ticking in the passageway.
Jeremy shrugged; he even did that elegantly. ‘Winston Churchill has said it plainly enough. No matter what happens in the Far East, Hong Kong will remain under our flag. We have enough ships and men in Singapore and Malaya if we should need them. The rest is purely hypothetical.’ He tapped his silver cigarette case with his fingers. ‘We have our guidelines.’ He smiled briefly. ‘But their lordships are not content to sit at Lords and watch the cricket. Those days are over, I hope.’
‘And these very important people?’
‘One in particular: Charles Yeung. A very influential businessman. Even the Governor tips his hat to him, in a manner of speaking.’
The servant came back but Jeremy shook his head. He did not ask his brother if he wanted a second drink.
Instead he said, ‘There’s to be a party at Charles Yeung’s house. It’s up on the Peak, quite spectacular.’
Brooke thought of the great houses he had seen from Serpent’s bridge when they had entered harbour. Was that really only yesterday?
His brother was saying, ‘There will be all the usual people, of course. Showering praise and secretly sneering at their host.’
Brooke said, ‘What’s he like?’
‘Rich. Very rich. Has business connections everywhere – here, the U.S.A., just about anywhere he chooses. He’s important to us.’ He gently raised one hand. ‘Just leave it at that for now. Day after tomorrow. I’ll send word. Bring Calvert – a V.C. might make everyone feel less remote and insular.’
Brooke said carefully, ‘I don’t think he’ll come.’
Jeremy was on his feet and like magic a youth darted forward with his fine gold-leaved cap. For a moment longer he glanced at himself in a mirror, while he adjusted his cap at a slight angle and composed his parting shot.
Their eyes met in the mirror and Jeremy’s voice was suddenly cold as he said, ‘I am not asking. It is an order.’ Then he slipped some coins to the porter and strode out into the sunlight. Brooke found, very much to his surprise, that he could smile about it, even as he was handed his own cap.
Aloud he murmured softly, ‘I wasn’t wrong after all. You really are an arrogant bastard!’
Lieuenant Kerr slipped into the cabin.
‘All ready for the party, sir?’
Brooke grimaced and toyed with the idea of having a drink before he left, but decided against it. It might, after all, be fun.
‘Sorry about you, Number One, but I need you on board to deal with the dockyard people.’
Kerr shrugged. ‘I don’t mind, sir. I’m just glad Toby Calvert’s going ashore with you. He’ll take root if he stays on board much longer.’
If you only knew, he thought, recalling his brother’s blunt comment. Calvert had had no choice in the matter.
He walked to an open scuttle and shaded his eyes against the early sunset to look over at a light cruiser which had entered harbour that morning and moored astern of Commodore Stallybrass’s Dumbarton. She was a Dutch warship named Ariadne. How did her people feel, he wondered. Carrying on out here with their own country under the jackboot.
He said, ‘I’m taking Kipling, by the way. Show him how the other half lives.’
There was a tap at the door and Calvert stepped into the cabin. Brooke saw it all. Self-conscious, defiant, resentful, the solitary crimson ribbon beneath his pilot’s wings like a patch of blood.
The white uniform suited him, Brooke thought, and his beard added just the right touch. He would turn any girl’s head.
He almost laughed. You’re a fine one to talk.
Calvert said tonelessly, ‘How do we get there, sir? Rickshaw?’
‘Well, we’re
not walking, that I do know!’ He looked round as the third member of the party, Sub-Lieutenant Kipling, peered in and gave them an untroubled grin.
‘All set, sir!’
Kerr eyed him gravely. ‘Even the Commodore would be satisfied with you, Sub!’
A telephone buzzed and then Kingsmill appeared from his pantry.
‘Main gate, sir. The car’s here for you.’
Calvert sighed. ‘Damn. No rickshaw after all.’
Islip’s O.O.D. saluted as they trooped across the ship’s deck. Brooke had been pleased to hear that her captain, Commander Tufnell, had also been invited to the party. There would be at least one familiar face. Apart, he thought sarcastically, from brother Jeremy.
At the gates a small crowd of sailor and idlers had gathered to stare.
Kipling exclaimed with rare admiration, ‘That’s no car, sir!’ With the others he ran his eyes over the long Rolls-Royce that blocked the whole of the entrance.
It was pale green with a shining black top, which, with all the dust in the air, must have been a full-time job to keep so immaculate. The front seats had an open roof and Brooke shook his head as a small Chinese in a dove-grey uniform and black gaiters sprang smartly into the road. He threw up a salute which even a Royal Marine drill-sergeant would find faultless.
‘Commander Brooke, sir?’ He beamed. ‘At your service, sir!’
Calvert said, ‘What a car. I’d be terrified to drive it in London, never mind here!’
Kipling said, ‘A Phantom II. Beautiful motor. We often had one call at the garage for petrol before the war.’
Brooke noticed that he had not called it garridge. That was obviously only for Barrington-Purvis’s benefit.
They climbed into the car and were greeted by the smell of leather and fresh flowers in a little silver vase.
The driver was watching them in one of his mirrors.
‘We go, Captain-sir?’
Brooke nodded. ‘We go.’ He found time to wonder how the chauffeur’s feet could reach the pedals.
The car glided through the traffic and chattering traders and as it began to climb a zig-zagging road towards the Peak so, correspondingly, did the sun dip down into the sea.
Nobody spoke. Higher and higher, the massive headlights sweeping this way and that, and once, when the road was particularly steep, all that Brooke could see was the car’s famous mascot, the Spirit of Ecstasy and nothing beyond, as if they were poised on the edge of a cliff.
He glanced down, fascinated, at the glittering harbour, the anchor lights, the tiny boats moving like fireflies, the tramp steamers still loading and unloading, their holds gaping open beneath clusters of cargo lamps. A living place, one that was never still by day or by night.
There would be a few sore heads at the defaulters’ table when the libertymen returned to the ship, he thought wryly.
‘Almost come, Captain-sir!’
Calvert murmured, ‘It’s like Hollywood!’
Kipling chuckled. ‘I could live with it! Just give me the chance!’
Brooke watched two white-jacketed servants padding out of the house to greet the car’s arrival.
He climbed down on to the drive and saw his brother on the front stairs which led up to a pillared entrance. He was looking pointedly at his watch.
Brooke nodded to the little chauffeur, then handed him some money as he had seen Jeremy do. Squeeze, they called it. He never even felt the cash leave his hand.
The chauffeur reached into the car for a polishing cloth.
‘I wait here for you, Captain-sir!’ He showed his teeth in a wide grin. ‘More exciting going back downhill!’
The war seemed a very, very long way off.
Commander Jeremy Brooke smiled and glanced briefly at Calvert and Kipling.
‘A word before you go in, Esmond.’ He took his brother’s arm and guided him away from the others. ‘The Commodore’s here, thought I should warn you, and quite a few of the top brass.’ He gave him a piercing stare. ‘Don’t talk too much about why you came out here. Operation Boomerang is supposed to be secret, although knowing this place I imagine that half the island has heard about it already!’
He turned to the others. ‘And I want a word with you too, Kipling, before you vanish for the evening!’
Brooke had the peculiar impression that his brother and the unlikely sub-lieutenant already knew each other.
He tried to shake off the strange sense of foreboding and turned his attention to the huge reception hall. There was an archway at the far end, which from the angle he assumed opened on to a terrace with a view of the harbour. He would go and look at it before he left.
His brother said, ‘Come and meet your host, before the pack closes in on him.’
It was easy to pick out Charles Yeung, even without an introduction. Tall for a Chinese, with straight silver hair in marked contrast with his fine-boned, mobile features: the face of a much younger man. At a guess he must be in his late fifties, but he appeared ageless. He turned as they approached and Brooke felt his gaze sweep over him, interested, polite, guarded. He was dressed in a perfectly fitting silk suit, the same colour as his hair. A man you could not imagine losing his temper under any circumstances, Brooke thought. He would regard it as a weakness. He would make a bad enemy. As a friend? That was much harder to tell.
Charles Yeung said, ‘My friend’s brother. How do you do? You are welcome in my humble house.’
Brooke shook his hand. Hard and dry, like leather.
Humble? Hardly that if the rest of the house and grounds matched this reception hall. Long and pillared, discreetly lit to show a tiled floor with several intricate designs, every alcove held a huge Chinese vase containing so many chrysanthemums and gladioli that every cluster must have cost a small fortune.
Yeung was saying, ‘You command the destroyer Serpent? I hope your ship carries a good sting!’
Jeremy said, ‘Just the sort of ship we need in these coastal waters.’ He and Yeung exchanged quick glances. ‘And the right sort of captain too.’ He seemed glad of the interruption as a servant with a tray of drinks approached and gave a slight bow.
Yeung was watching. ‘Champagne, Commander? Anything you like. If there is nothing to your taste I will send for what you wish.’ His English was flawless.
Brooke smiled. ‘Champagne will be just fine, sir.’ He looked around at the throng of guests. Quite a few officers, army and navy, some Chinese civilians with their demure little wives, and the Commodore in the midst of it, his face already bright red.
Another servant came up to their host and whispered something. Charles Yeung said apologetically, ‘I must leave you, gentlemen. Another guest has arrived. We shall speak further.’
Jeremy remarked, ‘Assistant Governor.’
‘Do you speak Cantonese?’
‘Enough.’
‘You’re full of surprises, Jeremy.’
Jeremy put down his glass. ‘He wants me there with him. I’ll be back.’
Brooke saw him start with unusual surprise. ‘I shall leave you in good hands. This is Lian Yeung, our host’s daughter.’ He looked vaguely ill at ease.
Brooke turned and held out his hand. She made him feel clumsy, and he knew he was staring but he could not help it.
Lian Yeung was not merely striking: she was lovely. Quite tall like her father, her hair shining like jet and piled above her ears. She was dressed from neck to toe in a dark green cheongsam, her feet in small gold sandals just showing beneath the hem.
He heard his brother say, ‘I didn’t know you were coming this evening, Lian.’
She did not look at him but smiled gently at Brooke. ‘You will know me again when we meet, I think.’
Brooke murmured, ‘I beg your pardon. I wasn’t expecting . . .’
‘Obviously.’ She glanced past him. ‘I shall take care of your brother, Jeremy.’
Brooke glanced between them. He could sense the tension, and in her case something else, some deep reserve or unhappin
ess.
She slipped one hand through his arm and gracefully indicated the buffet table which stretched almost the full length of the hall.
‘You are familiar with Chinese food, Commander?’
‘No. I’ve never been here before.’
She turned towards him without seeming to move, her eyes very grave as she studied him impassively.
‘You have been many places. And you have seen too many bad things.’ Her English was easy to listen to, but not so practised as her father’s.
Brooke said, ‘It’s something we have to do.’ Even that sounded awkward and trite. ‘Have you been to England?’
‘Yes. I finished my education there.’ She paused. ‘Where I met your brother. He was training to be an interpreter.’ She shrugged. ‘No matter. But I did see something of the war in England until my father insisted I should return home.’
Brooke’s mind was still grappling with her unemotional comment. Jeremy must have been seeing her in England after he had married Sarah. Perhaps even out here . . .
She said, ‘I will help you to choose. The servants will bring you each dish.’ She gestured towards another table with finger-bowls and small towels, each with an orchid resting on it. ‘Use your fingers. It avoids the embarrassment of not being able to use chopsticks.’ She smiled at him. ‘You are staring again.’
‘Sorry. All I do is apologise. I’ve never met anyone like you.’
‘Some people never apologise.’ Her eyes were so dark that it was impossible to read her thoughts.
Brooke said, ‘Why did your father tell you to return here?’ He expected a quick rebuff. It was none of his business.
Instead he felt her hand tighten on his arm. ‘Because he believes that England will be invaded. He was afraid for me.’
She turned away and raised her free hand. A servant hurried across instantly, avoiding the jostling throng which had by now surrounded the table.
The tempting dishes were another glimpse of this exotic, incomparable world. Suckling pig and crisp seaweed, roast duck both sliced and wrapped in tiny pancakes, and a lobster salad that must have been designed by a genius, with the shell and claws replaced after each serving. The line of lobsters seemed endless.
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