‘You didn’t know about it?’
Jeremy said coolly, ‘No. Not this time, although we know it goes on, of course.’
‘We?’
His brother stood up as an army driver walked across the lobby, his boots very loud.
‘Must go, old chap. By the way, keep in touch with Charles Yeung. Useful fellow. Very influential too.’
Brooke watched the porters gathering up his brother’s luggage.
‘How influential?’
‘Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank, and he owns the Coutts Steamship Packet Company. He’s in everything.’
‘What happened to his wife? Someone told me she’d been killed.’
‘She was very beautiful apparently.’ He waved to the driver. ‘Made the mistake of visiting friends in Canton. There was a Japanese bombing attack.’ He shrugged. ‘She didn’t make it.’
They walked towards the glass doors and Brooke asked suddenly, ‘His daughter . . .’
‘Lian?’ Jeremy looked surprised. ‘What about her?’
‘She was in love with you, right?’
He smiled. ‘Look, I must go.’ He held out his hand. ‘We did have a thing going in London, but nothing serious.’
He pressed some notes into the duty manager’s hand and walked out into the blazing sunshine.
Brooke found that he was clenching his fists. Nothing serious. Not to Jeremy Brooke anyway.
He called after him, ‘Give my love to Sarah!’
Jeremy tilted his gleaming oak-leaved cap to shade his eyes while the soldier held the car door for him.
He gave him a searching look, perhaps aware of the sarcasm, and replied, ‘Will do. Sarah’s having a baby – didn’t I tell you?’
‘No.’ The word dropped like a leaf as the car sped past the fountain. ‘Neither did she.’
Three days after Serpent’s return to Hong Kong and his brother’s departure for England, Brooke had still heard nothing more about his report.
The Chief-of-Staff had merely touched on it when he had telephoned about certain dockyard work which was to be carried out on Brooke’s ship. He had said everything was being investigated by the Hong Kong police, and that it seemed likely that the fishing boat’s master and his family had been murdered by pirates. There was also the possibility that, as the boat had been so far from the fishing grounds, the murders had been the result of a clash between rival smugglers.
As his brother had so angrily exclaimed in the Pen, ‘It’s as if they don’t want to know about it!’
The flotilla leader Islip had put to sea on some mission or other, but her captain had hinted that it was more for the entertainment of a trade commission than for any warlike purpose.
‘The bloody mess bills will be enormous for the wardroom, I can tell you that!’
It was strange being alongside the wall without Islip’s grey hull to provide a sort of privacy. Here, they were observed by everyone, Chinese dockyard workers, British advisers who came and went by the dozen, although the work only entailed the construction of some new mountings for light machine-guns.
Kipling, scruffier than ever, was in charge of them and kept a watchful eye on everything and everyone. Brooke had heard him telling some serious-faced Chinese with welding equipment where to mount a guard-rail to prevent the machine-guns swinging round under the hands of an excited seaman, and possibly raking the whole bridge by mistake.
There was quite a lot to Kipling, he thought.
He envied his men their comfortable shorts and white tops, and knew that some of them must wonder why he persisted in dressing in a full white uniform. It might look cool, but in this intense heat and humidity it felt clammy and airless.
His injured leg had been troubling him more than usual as well, and he was barely able to conceal it.
One of the dockyard workers had left two steel plates to be ready for the welders and Brooke had walked right into them. The deck had become so familiar to him, and the sun was so bright that it had been entirely his own fault.
He had to be alone. To think out what was happening, rather than sit back without questioning.
It was halfway through the forenoon when he decided to go ashore. It might help to get away from the din of machinery and welders and the unmoving heat throughout the ship, which even the new fans were unable to dispel.
Most of the hands were ashore anyway. He saw Kerr discussing the work with Cusack, the gnome-like Chief, and said, ‘I’m off, Number One. Stretch my legs. We’re not on standby.’
Kerr eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Is there a number where I can reach you, sir?’
‘No, there isn’t!’ It came out sharply and he touched his arm. ‘I apologise for that, Dick. Bit under the weather. Sorry.’
They all stiffened and saluted as Brooke went down the side.
Calvert appeared, a signal pad in one hand. ‘Was that the Old Man?’
They all grinned. The term seemed absurd. Then Kerr said seriously, ‘I think his leg’s getting worse. Gave it a bash too, on some gear from the yard.’
Calvert shrugged. ‘There’s a monsoon report, that’s all. I thought he should know.’
‘It’s all right, Pilot. We and the duty part of the watch can deal with the moorings if it blows up.’ He stared across the yard but Brooke’s figure had already disappeared.
Calvert touched his beard. ‘Spanish Civil War, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. We should have guessed what was coming after that.’
Calvert tugged at his open-necked shirt. ‘I think you should open the bar, Number One.’ He looked away. ‘I like him, by the way.’
Kerr thought about it. ‘When he took command, I wasn’t sure. Then, on that damned patrol, I could see the steel in the man. When I came back aboard I nearly broke down in front of him.’ He was surprised that he could speak so freely to someone else about what he considered a weakness. ‘Some skippers would have skinned me alive!’
Calvert smiled gravely. ‘Some.’
Kerr squinted at the sun. ‘Well, it’s almost over the yardarm, Pilot. A gin it is!’
Unaware of his officers’ exchange of views, Brooke walked away from the naval base, putting the harbour and the brooding mainland across the water further and further behind him. He found himself walking against a constant throng of people, all of whom seemed to be pushing in the opposite direction, and he was soon swallowed up in the central district, with its narrow alleys and banner-decked stalls stretching away from the main roads where he was constantly returning salutes from wandering servicemen, some of whom he recognised from his own ship.
He was glad he had come ashore. He was wringing wet under his white tunic, and his leg felt as if he had burned it, but the life and movement all around him held him like a drug.
There was a very old temple somewhere in this district: he had heard Vicary, the torpedo gunner’s mate, talking about it. He had served on the China Station before the war.
He saw an ancient Chinese man with a tiny wisp of beard sitting cross-legged beside a makeshift newspaper and magazine stall.
‘The temple. Can you direct me, please?’
The black eyes barely moved, and yet they seemed to take in all about him. His rank, his face, and perhaps the pain he saw there.
‘Pottinger Street, Captain.’ A claw-like hand darted out. ‘Big hill. Very tiring. Temple is called Man Mo.’
Brooke nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it!’ He wondered if he should offer the little man some money, but he seemed too dignified.
The man leaned forward confidently. ‘If Captain has much pain, I have friend . . .’ Then he shrugged as Brooke shook his head.
‘It’s nothing, but thank you very much.’
It was not much further to the street and Brooke paused, staring along, or rather up it. The Chinese man had been right: it was very narrow and extremely steep. There were no vehicles except for a few handcarts at the bottom displaying their wares, and a metal handrail ran down the middle of the street, without which many older fol
k would never have managed. Each side of the street was lined with stalls.
An old woman sat balancing a yoke over her shoulders, with a beautifully arranged basket of fruit at either end. It must weigh a ton, Brooke thought. He gripped the handrail and flinched. It felt like a furnace bar.
He began to climb, fascinated by the sights around him as Hong Kong went about its daily business. There were stalls selling bolts of cloth, and dazzling cards of buttons of every kind, and he passed a man standing nonchalantly with one arm bent while a street tailor measured him for a handmade shirt. Behind the stalls were small dark shops, like caves, and he saw a herbalist’s display of strange-looking roots, while next door a merchant was selling flour from huge open tubs, and great mounds of rice in hat-shaped baskets. A small, pretty girl was kneeling on the pavement fashioning beautiful table decorations, and there were orchids everywhere, standing in jars and lying on a cloth beside her. She did not look up when he passed.
When he paused for breath he looked down to where he had started: the ascent seemed even steeper from up here. The occasional stairs across the street and the stones themselves were polished, not by thousands but by millions of feet.
He shaded his eyes to stare up at the rickety buildings that stood starkly against the blazing sky. No wonder it was so hot, so breathless: the houses and the shops that crowded on either side held out the air completely. Balcony above balcony, tiny apartments, but many with masses of flowers in tubs and hanging baskets, and some displaying little bamboo cages of singing birds.
He gripped the rail and carried on. Bookshops, stalls of brass ornaments and religious pendants which he did not understand.
The strange thing was that nobody took much notice of him, although if he smiled at a stallholder he received a ready smile in return. There were other contrasts also. The old women, bent double with age and by the burdens they carried on their backs, most of them wearing identical black pyjamas. Faces so lined and wizened that they were like portraits of old China itself. And right amongst them, the chattering children in light cotton school uniforms, all spotlessly clean, even though some of them must live in the most crowded conditions in the decrepit buildings around him.
He heard the growl of traffic ahead and guessed he was coming to a main road which crossed this almost vertical street at right angles. Civilisation again.
He looked up, startled by the sudden bustle along the lines of stalls. Wares were disappearing, men and women dragging their goods under cover with the practised skill of a ship going to action stations. He glanced up at the sky and understood: the sun was gone and the clouds now sweeping over this bustling place were like dense smoke.
All around him umbrellas popped up like mushrooms and some of the hurrying schoolgirls, laughing and calling to one another as they ran, took off their shoes to protect them from the expected downpour. Brooke had reached the road now and saw people taking cover there as well. A few cars and some very ancient vans crowded one another to mix with rickshaws and bicycles.
A man stood smoking in the door of his shop. The contents looked like dried fish or octopus.
‘You better come in, Captain! Big rain, longtime come!’
Brooke saw the rain sweeping down the road like something solid, lashing over the scurrying figures and vehicles like a steel fence.
‘Thank you!’ He felt the rain hit his shoulders, the force of it numbing his body with its onslaught. ‘I should have remembered.’ Disturbed now, and somehow unsteady, the din of rain making thought impossible.
But the shopkeeper was gripping his arm as if to drag him into the shop. ‘What is wrong, Captain?’
They faced each other, both streaming with rain. Like the cars and rickshaws which had come to a halt in the road, unable to move.
Other people gathered round, pointing, touching him shyly as if they wanted to help.
Brooke tried to protest but when he looked down he almost fell. The right leg of his white trousers was scarlet with blood. It was running over his shoes and on to the pavement itself.
He did not know what to do, and felt only shame at what was happening.
Beyond the crowd he saw the familiar khaki figures of two Hong Kong policemen, those small, formidable officers, efficient and ruthless.
‘I – want . . .’ He was going to pass out. The final humiliation.
He became aware of two things. The pale green bonnet of a Rolls-Royce car, which was regarded with immense respect by the two policemen, and the girl’s face at the rear window.
It was the same bespectacled chauffeur, assertive and surprisingly strong as he helped the shopkeeper to get him into the sudden peace of the car. Vaguely Brooke heard the rain roaring on the roof, saw someone handing his cap to the chauffeur although he had not felt it fall.
He muttered, ‘Sorry about this. Blood on the carpet. So sorry –’
He watched her hands loosen his collar, her face frowning slightly as she gave instructions to her driver.
‘Be quiet, Commander! You do not look after yourself!’ She sounded angry.
Somebody else was binding his leg with great care. A little old lady in black, like the ones he had seen in the street.
The girl sat back in the leather seat and regarded him gravely. She was becoming blurred, but he saw that her black hair was hanging straight down her back, and that she wore a white jacket and skirt.
She said, ‘I will take you to a doctor.’ She held up one finger. ‘Please do not argue!’
He heard himself say, ‘I was going to the temple, you see?’
Then he fainted.
When Esmond Brooke opened his eyes, his senses were slow to adjust. It was like being suddenly struck blind, and curiously he felt no panic. Total darkness, while his limbs felt light. Floating.
He swallowed slowly. An unpleasant taste, his mouth dry. As understanding continued to return he was aware of two things: that he was in a bed with cool sheets, and that he was naked. He tried to move his injured leg, dull memories drifting back of the shopkeeper peering at the flow of blood, and the girl’s face staring down at him from the pale green car.
He gritted his teeth as pain probed through his leg. Numbed perhaps by drugs or an injection, but lurking there as before, waiting for the unguarded moment.
He listened for several minutes while pictures formed and faded in his mind.
She had brought him somewhere. He imagined he could hear music and a kind of rushing sound. It must be the rain. Had it not stopped at all while he had been here?
He moved again. How long had he been here? Where was here? Certainly no hospital.
More thoughts flooded through him. What would Kerr do? Had he reported his captain as missing?
His mind strayed back to when he had been given command of the old Serpent. His father had been delighted, but nobody had really understood what it had meant. After the disappointments, the deaf ears turned to all his pleas for re-employment in the only life he understood, the destroyer had been like a recognition. And now this. He let his head fall back on the pillow. They would probably put him in front of some medical board.
Sorry, old chap. Too much of a risk. I’m sure you understand? And for a moment he thought the voices were real.
He felt the air move across his face and knew that a door had been opened.
‘Who is it?’ Even his voice sounded different. Like a croak.
A pale shadow moved beside the bed, and he heard a man say, ‘Close eyes. Put on light.’
It was only a small bedside light, the base resembling a Chinese vase adorned with blue and green peacocks.
The man peering down at him was neither young nor old. He wore a plain black coat, almost like a uniform. A servant, perhaps.
But he spoke with dignity and quiet authority.
‘My name Robert Tan.’ There was pride too. Like the Chief speaking about his engines. ‘Mr Yeung valet.’ He faltered and added, ‘Friend also.’
Brooke stared around the room. Plain, almost
spartan, with a shuttered window where he had heard the downpour.
‘How long have I been here?’
Robert Tan shrugged. ‘Day time.’
Then he bent down and uncovered a jug of juice. He held a glass to Brooke’s lips and watched him swallow slowly.
It was cool, almost like barley-water. It could have been anything.
Robert Tan nodded, satisfied. ‘I fetch Missy. She worry.’
One second he was alone and the next she was beside the bed. Like a dream: an appearance from nowhere.
She stood quite still, looking down at him, some of her long hair hanging over one shoulder. He was struck by her total composure, the calm appraisal of her dark eyes.
‘Are you feeling better, Commander Brooke?’
He swallowed hard. ‘What happened? My uniform?’
She moved a pace closer and he could smell her perfume. Like flowers.
‘All is taken care of. Not to worry. Your uniform will be clean and pressed when you need it. Your hat also. It fell in the rain.’ She toyed with the carved wooden bed-post by his feet and he saw the dark jade ring on one finger, a necklace of jade and silver which barely showed above the neck of her blouse. ‘My father insisted that you were brought here. When I told him what you were doing, how sick you were, and yet you walked in such heat he shook his head. “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun,” he said.’
Brooke smiled, and winced as the pain touched his leg once more. She watched him, waiting for him to settle again.
‘I called a doctor. It was best.’ She seemed to sense his uncertainty. Perhaps even what troubled him. ‘It was more private.’
Beneath the sheet he touched his skin. It felt cooler, less feverish.
She said gently, ‘Robert and William undressed you. You were in good hands. Shan-Cha took care of everything.’
‘The doctor?’
‘Yes. My sister – she is called Camille.’ She watched his surprise. ‘She is a good doctor, married to a surgeon. He is an American.’ She put her hands on her hips and mimicked, ‘Harry’s a great guy!’
‘I must tell somebody . . .’
‘All done. My father has telephoned the head man, all fixed.’
Sunset Page 14