‘Come in, sweetheart,’ I said softly. ‘Sweetheart’ is a cautious endearment that can swing from casual to meaningful, and I waited for her body language to tell me if it was the first step in a reconciliation or whether I’d overstepped the mark.
Mercy B. Lord hesitated only a moment, then rushed forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. If I hadn’t been a tree stump, she would have bowled me over as she planted a kiss on my mouth, forcing my lips open with her tongue, then moving deeply inside.
They say reconciliations are among the best moments in lovemaking, perhaps because there is a second agenda. As you make love, you confront the agony of separation and exchange it for the ecstasy of renewal, until you finally rise and rise and explode, and crash exhausted. You have scrubbed all the hurt and anxiety and the dark corners of recrimination clean, and you end up with an empty space you can proceed to repaint and decorate. There may well be an equally important role for talking in reconciliation, two lovers regaining the closeness they’ve lost, making promises and sharing expectations, then solemnly signing the bottom line of a contract for future behaviour. But until the emotional spring cleaning is complete, there is no real platform for getting together again. Maybe there is a more lyrical and romantic way of putting it, a better analogy, but to me separation is an abandoned space that was once an intimate room. That is why there is such a feeling of emptiness when it happens. The shutters are pulled down on a dark place gathering emotional dust. Until the heart is satisfied, the head can make little sense of things. By morning light, Mercy B. Lord and the human tree stump had scrubbed the room we’d re-entered four glorious times, and fresh air and sunlight now streamed through the brightly polished windows.
We showered together and then I percolated coffee while Mercy B. Lord, wearing my terry-towelling dressing-gown, hair not yet blow-dried and Sassooned, drank a cup of hot water – a Chinese dietary habit that probably makes a lot of sense – then made scrambled eggs and toast. Barely a word other than morning pleasantries had escaped through our frequent smiles – a love requited; silence – content and happy.
Of course, I knew we had a lot to talk about. Obviously, things had changed or she wouldn’t be with me now, but even though I was anxious to know what had transpired, there seemed no point in trying to push it. The woman I loved would tell me in her own good time, or perhaps not at all. Maybe it sounds weak but what I’d said to Molly I meant: I was willing to have her back on almost any terms, with no questions asked.
Then she changed into fresh panties she’d taken from her handbag, a bra that came from the same source, her jeans and one of my shirts that could comfortably contain two of her. I dressed for work, though I’d considered calling the agency to say I wouldn’t be in after asking Mercy B. Lord if she could take the day off. But, turning off the hairdryer she’d left behind when we’d parted, she said, ‘Darling, I have to go home and change and then open the office. At eleven I’m meeting the president of a Pittsburgh steel company, who is flying in unannounced to take a look around and doesn’t want to be bothered with the usual government meeting and greeting contingent. I have to arrange a limo. Mohammed is in Kuala Lumpur with Beatrice.’
‘Kuala Lumpur?’ I asked. She’d told me once that Beatrice arrived at the office at six every morning to pray at her shrine and to make international phone calls, and never went anywhere in public. Mercy B. Lord opening the office was therefore a rare occurence.
‘Beatrice has gone to KL to check on various business interests,’ she explained.
‘Isn’t that unusual?’ I asked.
Mercy B. Lord laughed. ‘You’re digging, aren’t you, Simon?’
‘No, no,’ I returned hastily. ‘It’s just that you told me she gets to work early and never leaves the office.’
She walked up to me, eyes shining. ‘And for two weeks!’
‘Does that mean what I think it means?’
‘If you’ll have me?’ she laughed.
My heart suddenly sank. ‘Oh, shit!’
‘What?’
‘My mum’s coming on Thursday to stay the two nights before the dinner. God, how stupid!’
Mercy B. Lord suddenly looked uncertain. ‘You don’t want me to meet her?’ she said in a hurt voice.
I grabbed her and hugged her. ‘You mean you will?’ I cried excitedly.
Mercy B. Lord pulled back slightly and looked up at me. ‘Oh, Simon, what if she hates me?’
I laughed. ‘No chance of that. She told me over the phone that she’d stood for an hour looking at your portrait, looking into your eyes, then she said, “That’s not something you can paint if it isn’t there.” ’
‘If what isn’t there?’ Mercy B. Lord asked.
‘That’s what I said. Then she said, “Simon, that beautiful young woman has Koo – I mean you – written all over her.” ’ I kissed Mercy B. Lord. ‘I know my mother. It wasn’t a slip of the tongue. She is going to be the second-most excited member of the Koo family to know you.’
Mercy B. Lord pushed out of my embrace then, eyes averted, said, ‘Please, Simon, let’s not look beyond the awards dinner. I just don’t know what’s going to happen. Beatrice has never been away before. It’s all very strange.’
Steady, Simon, don’t react. ‘I’ll book you a seat on the plane. We can all go to Hong Kong together.’ Then, trying to remain casual, I said, ‘By the way, Sidney left for the States on Sunday or perhaps Monday – I’m not sure which – but Ronnie made a point of telling me, even though I hadn’t asked.’
‘Simon, are you sure you don’t know any more than that?’
‘Scout’s honour. Molly only intimated that a couple of phone calls had been made.’
‘By her?’
‘I don’t know. But I shouldn’t think so. She’s well connected but she isn’t heavy duty.’
‘Who then?’
‘Mercy B. Lord, now you’re the one who’s digging. I simply don’t know, I promise you.’
‘But you named Beatrice and Sidney?’
‘Yes, but I told you that last night.’
‘Simon, listen to me. You have to call Molly and tell her to get whoever called to make a second phone call to Beatrice or to Sidney to say you’re protected.’
‘Huh? You can’t mean that!’
‘Oh, but I do. You must! Either that or hire a kung fu master from Hong Kong, like the tai-pans.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Come on, you can’t be serious. I couldn’t possibly do either of those things.’ But I recalled Molly’s remark about Singapore’s upper-middles being a nosy lot and I wondered momentarily whether Mercy B. Lord had heard anything about my family.
Her eyes suddenly welled. ‘Then I must. I shall call Molly,’ she choked. ‘Simon, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.’
‘Hire a kung fu master for protection? It’d cost a fortune. But come on … really?’
Mercy B. Lord was back in control. ‘Yes, and of course you couldn’t afford it, so call Molly.’
‘Hey, wait on. If being the Singapore Girl protects you, surely the portrait, you know, all the publicity from the win, should protect me?’
‘In the short run, yes,’ she replied, ‘but the Chinese have long memories.’
‘What could possibly be the point?’
‘Face.’
‘Face? I know it’s important, but c’mon …’
‘Important? Simon, when will you understand – it’s everything!’
‘Can I think about it?’
Mercy B. Lord glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I’ve got to be going.’
‘Wait, I’ll call a taxi.’
‘No, I’ll get one on the street.’ She kissed me, a nice kiss, if a little hurried, moved to the door then propped. ‘Simon, you said your mother’s arriving on Thursday?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
Mercy B. Lord tossed her head. ‘Don’t book me a ticket. I’ll see you both in Kowloon, the Peninsula Hotel, Friday evening. See you tonight, darling. Maybe w
e can have dinner somewhere.’
On Thursday, she’d be gone as usual and would meet us in Hong Kong on Friday. Mercy B. Lord was letting me know that, in this one respect, nothing had changed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HOW DO I EVEN begin to talk about the awards dinner? Four feisty females – five with Mercy B. Lord. Chairman Meow, Mrs Sidebottom, Molly and Elma were all primed to enjoy themselves, although possibly all were a tad wary, too, as women of character sometimes are when suddenly mixed together. To this coterie were added four males: Long Me Saw, who could bring a room to instant and obedient silence merely by clearing his throat, Dansford Drocker, whose exuberance and unpredictability made him a figure not easily ignored, and while the power of these two men was somewhat counterbalanced by Cecil Sidebottom and myself, the sum was still a potentially explosive mix.
It was probably a combination no sensible or sensitive host would have thought to bring together at one table, but then, of course, I was thinking like a man and naturally got it all wrong. While men immediately sniff and circle each other to establish who is top dog, women seem able to cooperate and conjoin, absorbing, matching, surmising and deciding, all somehow simultaneously. I watched in amazement as they began this process. While all this happened as if by some form of osmosis, we four men waited for each to assume their preordained roles.
Seemingly within minutes, the women began to share quite intimate details and to decide that they were well matched, settling down to enjoy the evening and each other’s company. While I have no doubt that they may have passed the odd remark about each other at home, they seemed to really enjoy the opportunity to compare notes with women they regarded as their equals. Chairman Meow, as used to commanding respect as Elma, clearly recognised at once that this wasn’t a group she could hope to dominate, and quickly relaxed and enjoyed being Phyllis Koo, the artist’s mother and an intelligent woman in her own right.
We, the males, having sniffed and circled as a matter of form, immediately assumed our roles. Long Me was, by wealth, importance and social standing, top dog; Dansford was resident wit or clown; Cecil was the Mr Nobody every male group requires; and I, for the duration of the evening anyway, was the boy hero. We would all be expected to play our parts accordingly, but our first joint activity was to get stuck into the grog as a sign of mutual acceptance.
Top dog Long Me Saw hadn’t brought his eponymous mastication minder, Miss Chew, which meant he wasn’t going to eat but would instead drink brandy all evening. A bottle of Hennessy XO cognac and a brandy balloon had been placed beside his place card at the table. However, he’d arrived accompanied by two black-suited, very dangerous-looking Chinese minders walking three steps behind him. One of them had a dragon’s head tattooed on the back of his left hand, its body and tail disappearing into the cuff of his jacket. Both men, while no taller than me, possessed physiques that made mine look positively puny. At the cocktail party they positioned themselves so that they could see anyone approaching, and later, at dinner in the ballroom, they stood at what I presumed was within kung fu striking distance of Long Me’s chair, just in case some Triad gang happened to stroll into the Peninsula ballroom with hostages on their minds. Our two unarmed combat goons were not alone: the ballroom contained several black-suited lookalikes obviously on duty for some of the other wealthy members of the Chinese community. The interesting thing was that nobody seemed to take any notice.
Dansford had arrived in full dinner suit but without shoes. This wasn’t because Chicken Wing had neglected to pack them but because he’d left home fully dressed, lest he lose his portmanteau. Losing this ancient leather bag was not an infrequent occurrence, but because it was such an old-fashioned and distinctive piece of crocodile-skin luggage, it somehow always turned up again, though often days after his return to Singapore. He referred to it fondly as ABTATS, a mnemonic for ‘A Bag Too Awful To Steal’. In the very likely event that he would leave his portmanteau of evening clothes behind in a bar somewhere, Chicken Wing knew to dress him for an event that involved travel, the awards dinner being a perfect example.
Predictably, on his way to the airport Dansford had stopped off at Bill Bailey’s for a steadier, no doubt topped up several times on the flight to Hong Kong, then, upon arrival, he’d paid a flying visit to the bar at Kai Tak Airport. Finally, he’d taken one of the famous Peninsula Hotel’s ‘Lollysy Loisy’, the Chinese pronunciation for the several Rolls-Royce Phantoms the hotel sent to meet guests. However, approximately a mile from the hotel, the Rolls got stuck in traffic coming in to Tsim Sha Tsui, so he’d abandoned it, deciding to walk the remainder of the way to sober up. Within a block he discovered that his new evening shoes pinched him badly, so he’d dropped them into a rubbish bin to arrive finally with his black silk hose worn through and both his big toes exposed. The Rolls arrived at precisely the same time as Dansford limped into the driveway of the Pen, as the hotel was fondly known. He tipped the chauffeur, who handed a bellboy his precious ABTATS, then sat on the top step leading to the front doors. Much to the chagrin of the rigid chief bellman, an impressive display of service medals the only colour on his immaculate white uniform, Dansford proceeded to remove his socks. With the socks held in his left hand and his right hand flat on the marble step to steady himself, he got to his feet, but then momentarily lost his balance and quickly reached out to grab the bellman’s arm. Misjudging the distance, he grabbed a handful of medals, which, fortunately, but for two that clattered to the steps, held tight to the bellman’s chest, allowing Dansford to regain his balance.
Naturally, this required a gratuity, so Dansford slapped the warm socks into the doorman’s white-gloved hand and reached for his wallet, handing the speechless and dishevelled chief bellman a mollifyingly large note in exchange for the return of his worn hosiery. He then deposited the socks in the hotel umbrella stand and proceeded to march through the swing doors, across the vast hotel foyer into the cocktail party. Seemingly unconcerned, he approached me, arms flung wide. ‘Say, Simon, this is bigger than the fourth of July,’ he pronounced happily. ‘Ah, waiter!’ he called then, as the man came over, lifted a glass of champagne from his tray.
‘Dansford, what happened?’ I asked, pointing to his naked feet.
‘Blisters, severe, agonising, couldn’t walk, either this or no show, couldn’t possibly miss your moment of glory, old buddy.’
‘But what about the hotel car?’
‘Stuck.’
‘What, the Rolls broke down?’
‘In traffic, walked.’
You could usually tell how far gone Dansford was by his speech. He never seemed to slur his words and was quite capable of conducting a conversation even when completely stonkered. The one way you knew he’d had a few was by his truncated sentences. He’d answer in single words or short, clipped phrases, never rudely, but perhaps, conscious of being drunk, he concentrated on being precise. On the occasions I’d had too much to drink, I usually had some trouble recalling the details of the previous night when I woke up the following morning. Dansford, on the other hand, remembered everything, chapter and verse. You couldn’t claim inebriation sharpened his mind – it was pretty sharp anyway – but unlike most of ours, his seemed to remain reasonably clear, which gave him a distinct advantage in avoiding the in vino veritas moments we’ve all been guilty of during the course of a heavy night’s drinking. Dansford, sober as a judge or gone with the wind, never gave anything away.
The evening began with cocktails in the foyer leading into the ballroom, where anyone who was anyone in Hong Kong – Brits and wealthy Chinese – mingled in a twittering and chattering of elegant evening-gowned women and dinner-suited men. The occasion presented two opportunities for the glitterati: to be seen as patrons of the arts, and to visit the new Hong Kong Museum of Art, recently opened by the governor.
There is something to be said for British aplomb. Unbeknownst to me, the governor, Sir David Clive Crosbie Trench, knew Dansford and came over to us, pumping his hand and warm
ly welcoming him, completely ignoring the fact that he wore no shoes. Dansford introduced me and Sir David offered his congratulations, then added very kindly, ‘Simon, the committee is particularly pleased that the winner’s subject is an Asian, and such a very beautiful gal. Alas, the winner is usually some craggy old crone or doddering chap, the conventional belief being that such subjects have more character etched into their faces and are more challenging.’ He smiled. ‘Absolute poppycock, if you ask me. A glorious-looking woman seems to be a far greater challenge than half a hundred wrinkles, a tuft of white hair and weepy bloodshot eyes.’
Later, after the governor had left, I questioned Dansford. ‘Well, that was a surprise. How do you know each other?’ I asked.
He laughed, deftly lifting another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. ‘Surprised he remembered. Goes back a ways – 1949 Joint Services Command and Staff College in England. I was seconded from the US army. Communications course. Regular guy. Good soldier. Likes a glass or two of scotch and honky tonk music. Hank Williams “Lovesick Blues”.’ It was all he said and I knew it would be pointless asking him anything more. Drunk or sober, Dansford seldom talked about his past, and when he did it was cryptic and revealed little or nothing, particularly about himself. He had a prodigious memory, being able to recall facts as he’d just demonstrated. It was not the first time I’d speculated about why Dansford wouldn’t or couldn’t return to the States, and what the hell he was doing in London in the US army four years after the war. I knew I’d almost certainly never know the answer.
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