Sunset

by Douglas Reeman

  ‘He called the Commodore?’

  ‘Too much questions!’ She frowned. ‘Camille will see you when she leaves the hospital.’ She dabbed his forehead with a small damp towel.

  Brooke stared up at her, and wanted to touch her, and wondered if she knew what he was thinking.

  ‘What did the doctor – er, Camille say?’

  She looked into his eyes. ‘She say you bloody mess!’ Then she threw back her head and laughed. ‘But she will fix!’

  She was serious again. As she folded the little towel before placing it on a dish, she said, ‘Your brother left the island. I went to say good-bye.’ She walked suddenly to the window and opened the shutters. Her voice was muffled as she added over her shoulder, ‘But he was already gone.’

  There were stars visible beyond her head and shoulders. A balmy night, the monsoon rain past, for the moment.

  Brooke said, ‘I saw him.’

  She turned lightly. ‘Did he speak of me?’ Then she shook her head, so that the black hair swirled around her like a silk cape. ‘No, do not speak of it. I know it would be a lie!’

  He replied, ‘I will never lie to you, Lian.’

  She folded her hands, losing her composure, surprised by the tone of his voice.

  ‘I think I believe you.’

  More lights came on outside the room and Brooke saw another figure standing by the door. It was the girl’s father. They spoke briefly in Cantonese and when she nodded Yeung seemed satisfied.

  ‘You are welcome here, Commander Brooke.’ He smiled. ‘It is difficult to use the same name for a different person, you understand?’

  Brooke saw the quick exchange of glances, and was troubled by it. ‘But we shall become accustomed to it.’

  ‘I haven’t thanked you, sir. For telling the Commodore about my trouble.’

  Yeung looked momentarily surprised. ‘The commodore. No, it was the Assistant Governor. Never require a mouse to squeak when you can obtain a roar from a tiger!’

  There were more voices and the valet entered with a medical bag, followed by a woman who was pulling on her white coat to put an official seal on her visit.

  She was like her younger sister in many ways: the eyes, the air of confidence. But when she spoke, first in Cantonese to the others and then to her new patient in English, the difference between them was overwhelming.

  She had a curt, forthright manner: down-to-earth, as his father would have described it.

  ‘You’ve had a bad time, Mr Brooke.’ She took his temperature without waiting for him to answer. ‘Whoever cut your leg did a lousy job, you know that?’ After Lian’s gentle, almost caressing voice she sounded abrasive, and her accent was very American.

  Brooke watched her peering at the thermometer. ‘It was at Malta. When we got back.’

  ‘Hmm. Lucky to get that far, if you ask me!’

  She washed her hands in a bowl which Robert Tan had provided. While she dried them, finger by finger as if they were medical instruments, she said, ‘Are you staying, little sister?’

  Charles Yeung frowned at her. ‘Do not provoke, Shan-Cha!’ He put his arm around the girl’s shoulders and guided her to the door.

  The doctor smiled and switched on more lights. ‘Your brother has a lot to answer for!’ Then she gripped the sheet and dragged it from the bed, leaving him naked under her searching glare.

  She held some scissors up to the light and clicked them open and shut.

  ‘Sunstroke, fever, and bad surgery. Strong stuff.’ She began to snip at the bandages. ‘You’ll never lose the limp.’ She glanced up at him, and only for a few seconds she was very like her sister. ‘But you won’t lose your leg either.’

  Brooke gasped as the last piece of dressing tore away and he knew the wound was bleeding again, then fresh dressings were bound in place, and Robert Tan washed away the blood and collected the stained bandages. His face was a mask of disapproval. He probably saw it as a breach of all he believed in that a woman, even one posing as a doctor, should see and touch an unknown man’s nakedness.

  She bent over Brooke and lifted each eyelid. ‘I shall see you again.’ She gripped his arm, her small hand like steel as she rubbed it with some cotton wool before picking up a hypodermic syringe from the table.

  Brooke felt the prick of the needle and instantly his mind seemed to succumb.

  He did not feel the needle withdraw, nor the rub of the wool on his skin. But the pain was going, along with his senses.

  But not before he heard her voice, which seemed to be coming down a long tunnel.

  ‘Do not hurt my sister. There are ways . . .’ The rest was lost. But it stayed in his drowning mind like a threat.

  10

  Friends

  The strident south-westerly monsoons that swept the New Territories and Hong Kong were interspersed with periods of intense heat and humidity. When the torrential rain passed on and the sun broke through again to reveal flooded storm-drains, landsides and choked ditches, the steam rose over every town and village like smoke.

  But the July monsoon brought something else: Serpent’s ship’s company received their first mail from home.

  Some of it had reached Hong Kong quickly, but much had been redirected from port to port by an overworked Fleet Mail Office. During stand-easy when even the dockyard workers were silent the letters were devoured by the lucky ones, and watched with envy and disappointment by the others.

  There were brave letters from mothers and wives, although many of Serpent’s company were too young to be married.

  Carefully worded, and full of concern for their men on the other side of the world. Little was said about the daily and nightly air-raids, of streets wiped out, of families torn apart by war. Compared with Hong Kong it was a living hell for those who had to grin and bear it.

  There was always news of neighbours and friends who had lost someone at sea or in the air. The latter was happening more frequently now, as for the first time the Royal Air Force was taking the war into occupied Europe and over the enemy bases there. Rations, black-out, shortages, all were briefly mentioned, but in most of the letters there was only love. The yearning, sometimes never expressed in words, to see a particular face again.

  A few of the envelopes were sealed with lipstick kisses. Fewer still had precious photographs inside to pass around. There was every sort of bad news too. A death in the family: enemy action or natural causes, it made little difference when half the world separated them.

  And then, of course, there were the hated letters from friends.

  Thought you should know, it seems only right with you out there fighting the war and risking your life. We’ve seen your wife out with so-and-so. Didn’t get home until morning . . .

  Or, I’m not one to interfere, but your girl’s having it off with a bloody conchie of all people, he works on the farm . . . There were always a few anxious faces at the requestmen’s table the next day.

  Even the wardroom was not immune.

  It was quiet with most of the officers ashore, and the captain at the naval hospital to see the P.M.Q. Lieutenant Toby Calvert had the place to himself.

  With a glass of fruit juice at his elbow while he thumbed through an ageing copy of Picture Post, he was half thinking of the mansion on the Peak where he had taken the signals file for Brooke’s approval.

  Calvert had dealt with rich people several times and had been hired on occasion to fly their private aircraft to the south of France. The plummy jobs as he called them.

  He had been greeted by the same lovely girl he had seen at the buffet party. She had been nice enough, but wary. No, protective: that was the word for it.

  Brooke had been out of bed and wearing a silk dressing-gown, and he had looked better than Calvert had ever seen him. There had been a kind of boyishness in his face which he had probably believed would never be his again.

  Calvert still didn’t know how it was between him and the girl. He had heard about Brooke’s brother. Maybe it was a rebound. He had
seen it often enough.

  Charles Yeung had come to see him out when he had been ready to leave.

  ‘I will have you driven, Mr Calvert.’

  Calvert had the impression that he had been waiting for him.

  ‘Your captain is much improved, eh?’ He had looked at Calvert with those steady, penetrating eyes. ‘I have a favour to ask of you, Mr Calvert.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Yeung had smiled wryly. ‘So typical. A Chinese would first ask what it was, and then if there was money in it!’

  The small chauffeur, whose name was apparently William, had entered at that moment. He, too, had been waiting.

  Yeung had led Calvert to the front steps. ‘Later we will talk.’

  Calvert still could not imagine what favour he could possibly want from a mere lieutenant, when he had most of the top brass in his pocket to all accounts.

  Petty Officer Bert Kingsmill came into the wardroom wearing his familiar white jacket.

  He said in his usual mournful tone, ‘Thought you might be here, sir. The dockyard men are aboard to make a last adjustment to the machine-gun mountings.’

  ‘Well, I’m not the O.O.D.’ Calvert put down the magazine. ‘Where’s Barrington-Purvis?’

  Kingsmill gave what might have been a smirk. ‘Mr Barrington-Purvis is ashore.’ He sniffed. ‘Playin’ tennis.’ He made it sound obscene.

  ‘Then tell Mr Kipling. He’s on duty.’ He smiled. ‘I believe he’s quite a good hand with guns.’

  Kingsmill turned to depart, working out what he was going to say. Then he turned and stopped. ‘Almost forgot, sir. Letter for you.’

  Calvert took it, thinking it must be a mistake.

  It bore his name and rank, complete with V.C., and a whole mixture of blue-pencilled instructions and crossings-out. He did not recognise either the postmark or the handwriting, and he felt himself trembling as he stared at it. Maybe it was from some crew member’s relative or girlfriend, trying to track him down ever since it happened, and wanting to know how it had been.

  He swore and tore open the envelope.

  It was a Hampshire address. He turned it over. The last line said, I hope you will forgive my writing to you like this out of the blue. But you were so kind to me on the train. It was signed Sue Yorke.

  The hammers and drills started up again, and the tannoy droned, ‘Out pipes! Hands carry on with your work!’ Calvert heard none of it.

  He spread the letter on the table and stared at it.

  You may not even remember me but I felt I wanted to write to you after what happened. If this letter finds you I shall quite understand if you do not reply. I do not know your circumstances, where you are or what you are doing.

  You will know about the terrible tragedy with my husband’s ship. She had omitted the ship’s name, probably for fear of the censor. Bob did not survive. I think I knew before it happened. My parents were a great help and it was when I mentioned you to Dad that he got all excited. He keeps a book of cuttings about the war. There were two about you. The handwriting was slightly smudged. Tears? You never said a word about it to me, what you did, and the Victoria Cross.

  I decided to write to you because I knew you would understand. Nobody else does. Sympathy is not always enough. It’s like an ache, a void. Like a part of you taken away.

  I hope you are keeping well. You are not to worry about those little scars on your face. They will go away, Dad says. They are honourable scars, and you must never forget it.

  There was a different ink, as if she had changed pens while trying to make up her mind whether to finish or destroy the letter.

  Calvert found he was touching his beard. Was it so obvious?

  If you write to me, my Dad will forward it to me. I am using my unmarried name and hope to be going back into uniform. It might help.

  He studied her signature. Round and neat, like a schoolgirl’s. He tried to remember her. In that murky first-class compartment it hadn’t been easy to see her. Small, pretty, and he thought probably dark, although the hat had covered her hair. A wedding ring and a naval brooch. It was little enough.

  He stood up and walked to an open scuttle. Kowloon was fast disappearing again under a fresh onslaught of rain.

  He would not answer her letter. What was the point? Another rebound perhaps, except that this girl had nothing left.

  She must feel bitter. Cheated. There would be many more like her before this war ended, either way.

  He returned to the table and looked at the address again. Winchester. Not all that far from where he had learned to fly.

  Strange how an unknown girl had allowed that memory to return.

  Back into uniform. The Wrens? He frowned. No, she had not known very much about ships, even the Hood.

  He patted his pocket but remembered that his tobacco pouch was empty: he had taken all his stock to the house on the Peak for the skipper. He smiled. The Old Man. They were the same age.

  He would ask Kingsmill to get some.

  But instead he found himself at the wardroom desk, pulling open the drawer and taking out some writing paper with the ship’s fierce crest at the top. Hostibus Nocens, Innocens Amicus.

  He sat down and took the cap off his pen.

  When Kingsmill bustled in, tutting to himself, to close the scuttle as the rain splashed unheeded over the curtains. Lieutenant Toby Calvert, Victoria Cross, was still writing.

  Kingsmill departed, glaring.

  Bloody officers, never thought of anyone but themselves!

  The big Rolls-Royce moved smoothly along a narrow street, untroubled by the uneven surface and the crowds of Chinese and occasional soldier or sailor.

  Esmond Brooke was very conscious of the girl’s nearness in the other rear seat, of her perfume, and one hand which lay on a cushion close to his.

  She touched his sleeve. ‘There it is. Where we found you.’

  Brooke stared at the untidy corner shop with its array of dried fish, the owner still standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette as if he had not moved. He was astonished to realise he could barely remember anything about it. Almost guiltily he glanced down at the car’s carpet, but, like his freshly-pressed uniform, there was no trace of blood.

  ‘More comfortable than walking, yes?’

  He turned and looked at her: all in white again, with a pale green blouse showing beneath her jacket. Her hair was piled on her head as when he had first seen her and she wore long, ornate jade earrings, which he found himself wanting to touch.

  ‘You are staring again, Commander Brooke!’

  He smiled. ‘It is a pleasure for me – ’ he hesitated over her name, ‘Lian.’

  ‘We are coming to the temple that you wished to see.’

  Brooke looked between the chauffeur, William, and the tiny black-clad figure of Lian’s companion: she had once been amah to Lian and her sister and had stayed on with the family. Her name was Nina Poon, a very grim-faced little woman whose features were covered with lines and wrinkles.

  When they had got into the car Lian had remarked, ‘We take Nina. Otherwise it is not proper for well brought-up Chinese girl to be seen alone with male person.’

  Brooke never knew if she was being serious or whether she was making a private joke.

  William opened the sliding glass panel that separated him from his passengers.

  ‘Man Mo Temple, Captain!’

  Brooke peered at heavy railings and gates as the car glided to a halt. He pulled himself to the edge of the deep seat and knew she was watching him.

  She asked, ‘Still hurt?’

  He shook his head. ‘Much better. Your sister knows her profession.’

  She shrugged. ‘My father thinks differently. He does not approve. She should be married into a proper life with her husband, have children.’

  ‘Is that what he wants of you?’

  The door was opened for them and the car’s cool interior admitted the furnace heat of the street. She did not answer him, or perhaps she had
not heard.

  A chattering crocodile of small Chinese schoolgirls parted to let them through. The old amah followed at a discreet distance.

  William saluted and said for Brooke’s benefit, ‘Be here when you want, Missy. No hurry.’

  Through the entrance and Brooke had to pause to allow his eyes to accustom themselves to the near darkness of the temple. Then he gazed around, aware for the first time that there were several people already here. A woman with a shopping basket knelt before one of the gods, bowing several times with her eyes closed, while the pair of joss-sticks she held up to the god made trails of smoke and incense. Overhead hung faded red silk lanterns, decorated with long black tassels, and cone-shaped coils of incense which Brooke thought must burn for days. It all seemed very casual. A couple of attendants in singlets and shorts were burning prayer papers in a great iron censer, while they smoked their cigarettes and chatted to one another. A thin cat slept, curled up on one of the rosewood chairs arranged along the two outer walls; and an old man in a black skull cap was making notes in a newspaper.

  She whispered, ‘Picking horses for Happy Valley!’

  The woman had finished her prayers and left the smouldering joss-sticks in a brazier on the altar before the god.

  Lian asked, ‘What do you think?’

  Brooke hesitated, then whispered, ‘I think it’s wonderful. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  She watched his profile against the lights and the gifts waiting for the gods’ attention. Fruit, little cakes, even cigarettes. No pomp. No attempt to impress or awe. It was all the more inspiring, he thought.

  She said quietly, ‘There are many gods here. But the temple was built for two of them, nobody really knows how long ago. Some say there has always been a temple here. The King-Emperor Man, and the holy King-Emperor Kwan. Many people come here for help and guidance.’ She watched the old man frowning over his newspaper. ‘And for matters of joy and entertainment.’

  A chair scraped and Brooke saw the old amah sitting down. But her bright eyes, which shone in the lanterns like red stones, never left him.

  ‘May we sit down a moment, please?’ He did not know why he had said it.