But he was also thinking of Yeung’s parting remark. It had sounded like a threat.
He pushed through some curtains where a few waiters were grouped to watch and listen, perhaps to discover their own future. The terrace was deserted so that the girl stood out like a statue. Until he drew closer.
She was standing by a balustrade, her hair shining in a solitary light while the sea, shimmering like diamonds, made the perfect backdrop.
She wore a cheongsam again, but of a different colour, and in the single light it seemed to shine, kingfisher blue. It was sleeveless, and the side was slit almost to her hip. All the while he was watching her she was fastening some yellow flower in her hair, but her eyes never left his face.
She lowered her arms so that they hung at her sides and said, ‘You can see, no amah this time.’
He reached down for her hands. ‘You are enchanting, Lian.’
‘Do I enchant you?’ Her voice was low, unemotional. ‘Is that what you are saying?’ She removed one hand from his and placed it on his chest. ‘No closer. I am being a fool.’ She shook her head when he began to interrupt her. ‘No! Soon you will go away. You and my rival.’ She looked at him but the smile would not come. ‘I know it happens when men fight wars. It always will. My father says there must always be wars and brave men like you to be sacrificed because of pride and greed . . .’
He put his arm around her waist and turned her towards the glittering horizon. The feel of her supple body, the way she made no protest, filled him with desire for her, and despair at what she had said.
‘I have seen it in your country, Es-mond. The bravery of ordinary people with their lives and hopes in ruins because of war. But at least they are there. If you leave we will never meet again.’
They looked at one another with dismay. It was as if somebody else had spoken.
‘What could I offer you, Lian? Your life is far above mine, war or no war.’
She studied him, feature by feature, her expression very solemn.
‘You could give me love, and show me how to return it.’
His hands were on her waist, and he wanted to hold her until neither of them could stand it.
‘Your father spoke of your being hurt . . .’
She looked at him directly. ‘I was attracted to your brother. I think it was gratitude. He may have seen it as something else. It was hard to understand his thoughts.’
Brooke waited. He could feel her uncertainty and doubt like something physical. He knew too that she needed to explain.
‘I was in London. I had been helping some diplomatic people and naval officers to learn the languages. It was where I met Jeremy.’
It was the first time he had heard her use his name. It was like reopening an old wound.
‘I was too young, too sheltered by my upbringing to understand.’ She faced him again, her eyes pleading. ‘There was a lot of drinking. Two of the men took me to a garden and tried to make me do things.’ Her eyes flickered as she forced herself to relive the nightmare. ‘I was angry, and they forced me down.’ Brooke watched one of her hands moving about her throat and between her breasts as if it belonged to an attacker. ‘They tore at my clothes and held me down so that . . .’
‘Don’t say any more.’ He put his arms around her very carefully, as if he might break her.
‘Your brother came. I was safe. But I have never forgotten it.’ She was shaking, as though with sudden fever. ‘My father once said England would be invaded, lost. But I have been there.’ She looked into his face; it was like defiance. ‘And I have met you.’ She glanced over the balustrade into the black shadows of the garden below. Like that other one, perhaps? ‘I think, Es-mond, they will come here. And sometimes I am very afraid. Do you think that is the mind of a child?’
He touched her hair with its flowers and waited for her to become calmer.
‘I think it is the mind of a brave, beautiful girl.’ He thought of the speech going on in another part of the hotel. It seemed like a thousand miles away. ‘I do love you, Lian. I want you so much I think I am driving myself mad.’
She nestled herself against him, her face hidden. ‘It is what I want.’ She lifted her chin as he had seen her do before. ‘The Chinese always talk of thousands of years, millions sometimes. For us we must take what we can get, and receive what is offered.’
There was a burst of cheering, and the sound of clapping and feet stamping on the floor. All it needed was Land of Hope and Glory. But it no longer mattered. Nothing did, but what he held in his arms.
Then she asked, ‘Did you like the photograph?’
He nodded. ‘I loved it.’ He looked at her for several seconds. ‘I love you.’
She stroked the skin near his eyes, her fingers so light that he could barely feel them.
‘Your eyes. Like a tiger.’ She nodded, suddenly sure. ‘My tiger.’
Someone was whistling softly below the balustrade.
She pulled away. ‘William. His signal. We will be leaving now.’ Then she changed her mind and put her arms around his neck so that he could feel her body against his. Like a touch of fire.
‘Kiss,’ she said.
Then she slipped from his arms and walked swiftly to the passageway.
One of the yellow flowers had fallen from her hair, and with great care he put it inside his handkerchief.
He thought of his father. What would he have said?
Brooke touched his face where she had caressed it, and smiled. He knew exactly what his father would have said.
The overworked and dust-smeared Ford rattled to a halt outside some tall gates.
Brooke released his grip on a strap and gave a sigh of relief. ‘Not exactly like the Rolls, eh?’ He glanced at Calvert, who had remained almost silent since the car had picked them up at the dockyard; deep in thought, perhaps, like their inscrutable Chinese driver.
They passed through Repulse Bay, a different scene again in the bright sunshine, the lush trees and shrubs glistening from a sudden overnight downpour.
Brooke said quietly, ‘Look, Toby, you don’t have to do this just because I passed on Charles Yeung’s message.’
Calvert smiled. ‘Maybe I’m curious, that’s all.’
‘About the seaplane?’
He replied, ‘No, about me. How I shall react.’
Brooke had been tied up on board Serpent for three days after the reception for the visiting brigadier, studying new patrol areas and various instructions from the far-off Admiralty. There was a rumour, too, that Serpent might be going home to be fitted with radar. Active duty again.
When the car had lurched past the Repulse Bay Hotel he had remembered it all with a kind of pain and despair, mingled with intense happiness. The feel of her body against his. The impossibility of it.
They got out of the car. Perhaps Charles Yeung had chosen to use it because it was less noticeable than the big Phantom. Or were the mysteries only in his mind? Perhaps Hong Kong changed you like that.
He looked at the gates, daubed with Chinese characters and an uncompromising notice that said: KEEP OUT. NO ENTRANCE WITHOUT PERMISSION.
Above the gates on a sun-flaked sign it said, Property of Coutts Steamship Packet Company.
The driver had curled up in his seat and was reading a newspaper. Brooke said, ‘We’d better announce ourselves.’
But it was unnecessary. A small wicket-gate opened silently and a bowing figure in a rough leather jerkin beamed at them.
The place was larger than Brooke had expected. Rather like part of a naval dockyard, with rusting cable, pieces of old engines, packing-crates and every kind of gash scattered around in piles. His heart gave a leap as he saw the green Rolls-Royce standing near a jetty, a symbol of success set against decay.
He said, ‘Charles Yeung is already here.’
But Calvert was staring at a broad, corrugated-iron building like a hangar, which seemed to perch above the water itself. Brooke thought of the pretty girl he had seen with him at the receptio
n. When he had mentioned her Calvert had been reluctant to speak of her, evasive even. Third Officer Yorke. It had sounded so formal, unlike the man himself.
Charles Yeung appeared from a small shack-like office, cigarette smoke trailing behind him.
He shook hands. ‘Good of you to come.’ He glanced at Brooke, his eyes shrewd. ‘Both of you.’
He had some keys in his hand. ‘Are you ready?’ Briefly, he sounded uncertain. Impatient.
‘May I come too?’
They turned as Lian came out of the office. All in white, one hand over her eyes in the glare reflected from the water.
It was perfect timing. Especially for Calvert.
He forced a smile. ‘It’s all right by me, Miss Yeung.’
They waited while various keys were used before a side door squeaked inwards.
Brooke offered his hand as she stepped lightly over a rusty coaming and felt her squeeze it very gently. As they bowed through the small door she whispered, ‘I have missed you. I worried about it.’
Charles Yeung closed the door and said sharply, ‘The lights are not working.’
Brooke felt her move against him and sensed the tension like something alive.
After the sunshine it was like a black cave, but more than that it had a dead coldness, with a smell of wet metal and fuel. As the seconds passed he saw a vertical line of blurred gold, like a hanging thread, where two doors blocked off the hangar’s entrance.
Calvert was standing a little apart from them, his mouth quite dry whilst he braced himself, facing up to something fearful. But familiar.
He had to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘Ready.’
Charles Yeung was talking on a telephone, and then first one and then the other big door began to swing open. Nobody spoke or moved while the doors continued to sweep aside, the sunlight spilling across the oily water and then on to the plane itself. Like a great bird of prey, swaying slightly on the current as if awakening, disturbed by a possible enemy.
Calvert stood quite upright, his knuckles pressing into the seams of his trousers until the pain helped to steady him. More and more light, the seaplane appearing to grow, to rise towards the roof.
He forced his mind to take each moment at a time. A big, powerful, twin-engined aircraft, its twin floats moored and padded to wooden stages to prevent any risk of damage. He wanted to shut it out, close his eyes and hide from it. To explain for Brooke’s sake, to plead with the men who had died on that June day so long ago. Yesterday.
Instead he heard himself say, ‘I used to fly a Fairey Seafox when I was in training. Smaller, single-engined, not like this brute.’ A casual, professional remark. No emotion in his tone. Nothing.
Charles Yeung said, ‘Have a closer look. I am sorry about the lighting.’
Brooke felt the girl’s fingers gripping his arm but doubted if she knew what she was doing. She too was watching Calvert’s pale figure, the sudden disturbance beneath one of the floats as he stepped on to it and reached for a handhold.
Calvert could feel his heart pounding so loudly he was surprised the others could not hear it. He touched the cowl behind one of the triple-bladed props. An elegant, stylish plane in its day. It still was. He recalled his father describing the famous Schneider Trophy Race after the Great War. Seaplanes all. The sport and luxury of the few set against the unemployment and the unemployable, whose minds had been shattered in the mud and butchery of Flanders.
He touched the metal, smooth and surprisingly cool. Docile. At a guess it could carry four people and a small cargo.
His voice echoed around the hangar. ‘Italian, Mr Yeung. Seven-hundred-and-fifty horsepower Alfa Romeo radials.’
Charles Yeung nodded. ‘That is so.’
Brooke tensed as Calvert’s hand stilled in mid–air near the perspex-covered cockpit. Did he expect something evil? A reminder, perhaps, of his own experiences?
Charles Yeung sounded preoccupied. ‘I have had men looking after it, you understand? But a pilot’s knowledge is what I need now.’
Brooke looked beyond the crouching aircraft and watched the sparkling water, a few tiny junks and sampans. It was like being perched on the edge of a continent instead of a small corner of the same island.
‘It looks beautiful from here.’ He barely knew he had spoken until she gripped his arm again and answered, ‘The feng shui man chose it well. The sea-dragons can reach their palaces directly from this place.’
He glanced at her and saw that she was quite serious, and yet somehow pleased by his remark.
There was a click and when they turned back to the seaplane again they saw Calvert’s vague outline inside the cockpit, groping around while he closed the cover behind him.
Charles Yeung said, ‘Good, good.’ He did not conceal his relief.
Within the damp silence of the covered cockpit Calvert eased himself into the pilot’s seat. A ray of misty sunlight played across the instruments and controls and a bright silver plate with the maker’s name engraved on it. Cantieri Ruinti dell’ Adriatico. He guessed someone had polished it quite recently. Maybe just for his visit.
He reached down to find the log compartment and gasped with shock. How could he possibly have known where it was? It was nothing like the old Swordfish, and the Seafox he could scarcely remember.
He found he was shaking badly. Like those other times. When he had been released from care. The screaming memories, wide-eyed horror when young men had died without knowing why. He covered his face with his hands, surprised that his skin was so cold, that he was not wearing his old leather flying gloves. The two great battle-cruisers firing salvo after salvo, the shattered carrier ablaze and capsizing, her toy-like aircraft tumbling off the flight-deck into the sea. Then the lithe destroyer swinging round in a great creaming wash which he could almost feel.
His own voice, a stranger’s as he had screamed, ‘I’ll get those bloody bastards! Hold on, Muffin! Here we go, Bob!’
The last name helped to pull him out of his terror. Her husband’s name. The one who had bought it in the Hood. He felt the seaplane move slightly and knew somebody had stepped on to a float.
He slid from his seat and opened the curved hatch below the cockpit cover.
Brooke looked up at him. ‘You OK, Toby?’ His voice was so calm.
Calvert took a deep breath. His fingers tingled as if he had been flying, weaving in and out of the bursting flak.
He found he could smile. The Skipper was concerned, genuinely so. A really nice bloke. Not like some.
He said, ‘Right as ninepence, sir!’
They studied each other for several more seconds. Two young men who had already seen and done too much, and would be expected to go on doing it at the gates of hell.
Brooke turned and saw the girl watching him, her hands clasped.
He said, ‘I think a large drink is indicated.’
Charles Yeung watched the secret embrace as Brooke greeted his daughter by the landing-stage, but ignored it and asked, ‘Can you help me, Lieutenant Calvert?’
Calvert grinned and wondered where the hidden madness had gone. Gone, until the next time.
‘You’ll have to find a pilot, sir.’ He nodded, stunned by his sudden confidence. ‘But, sure, I’ll put her to rights!’
Charles Yeung touched his arm. ‘You are a brave man. Do not think I do not know!’
Calvert looked back only once as the men began to close the doors again.
Like a big, black bird. No accident. It had been waiting for him.
The small, two-storeyed block of apartments had been built originally for those passing through Kowloon on their way to other parts of Empire. Officers’ wives, naval and military officials; simply a bed and somewhere to break the journey.
The occupants of the six apartments now were mostly permanent residents: some senior nurses from the military sick quarters, and on the ground floor, an army chaplain. One apartment was still reserved for its original purpose. Like the others, it had a tiny balcon
y that looked out across the glittering water of Victoria Harbour, with its unending movement and countless moored ships, towards the notorious district of Wanchai.
The girl named Sue Yorke lay on her side, the shoulder straps of her swimsuit dropped from her shoulders, and watched the busy scene through the veranda rails. She was lying on what looked like a much-used sun-bed, her hair sticking to her forehead while her legs and shoulders burned.
She levered herself on to one elbow and shaded her eyes to stare at the naval dockyard and anchorage, which seemed to lie directly opposite her apartment. Grey ships and spartan buildings, White Ensigns lifting and curling only occasionally in the hot breeze. Which one was his ship, the Serpent, she wondered. Perhaps she could borrow some binoculars. It would be lovely to go over there to Hong Kong again, to meet him, perhaps to fight the feelings which would not be resisted.
What she was doing seemed pointless. The brigadier was always busy, seeing people, making statements, but mostly playing golf.
It was so unfair. ‘Just hold the fort, Sue. Shan’t be long.’ It was wasting time, when otherwise she might . . .
She lay back again and stared at the awning overhead. She might what?
Sometimes she awoke in the night and wondered what had happened; how it could have happened. Bob carrying his sword and smiling outside the old cathedral at Winchester, brother officers making an arch of blades, the photographs and the hotel for the reception. A few weeks later Bob had gone, as if he had never been. She had tried to remember their intimacy, their brief love, and she had felt shame when she could think only of the man on the train who had written to her. A letter to England which she had never received.
She rolled over on to her stomach again, her eyes smarting from perspiration, like tears.
It might not last, even if they let it happen. Serpent could be returned to convoy duty; Toby had told her as much. She smiled and dabbed her mouth. Such a friendly name. Intimate.
On the other hand the brigadier might pack his bags, a fine jobdone, whatever it was, and she would be sent back to some naval base or barracks.
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