‘Hal all right?
Stevie dressed her face in a smile. ‘Oh, yes.’ She hadn’t thought about him since she had left the compound decades ago. ‘Yes, he’s having a fine time.’
By the time she had reached the bed, his eyes were closed against her again. Stevie dropped into the chair and dared to take his hand. No response. Her head sank into his broad, familiar palm.
Later, Harry opened his eyes. Stevie felt his grip tighten on her hand and she sat up. He was staring at her, wild with fury.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
She blinked, trying to grasp the meaning of his question and struggled for an answer. Nothing seemed immediately appropriate.
‘Nothing that a long hot bath wouldn’t fix.’
He pulled his good hand away from her and for a moment his face was contorted in pain as the sudden movement vibrated through his damaged body.
‘You make me sick, you know that? This isn’t a fucking game. You may as well put a pillow over Hal’s face right now and be done with it.’
Stevie recoiled. The mention of Hal frightened her. He was far away in another universe and she couldn’t let herself think about him. Her teeth ached.
‘What are you saying?’
‘You should have gone when you had the chance. You promised. But no, you knew best. You just couldn’t resist, could you? Well, congratulations you’ve signed a death warrant for both of you. This is a war, you stupid woman. Not a stinking parlour game.’
The rant was causing him too much effort. He was hyperventilating and spots of colour spread like a rash over his face and neck.
Stevie felt each word like a blow. Harry sank back on his pillow. She spoke without looking at him, her voice low so as not to betray the hurt.
‘We went to the harbour but Yang had gone. His boat wasn’t there.’
‘Those boats never go anywhere.’
‘Well, his has.’
She glanced at him. His eyelids were shuttered again. Her eyes burned with the acid of tears. Thank God, he was all right.
The December afternoon light was gentle. The trees shivered slightly, small patches of silver shining like sequins on the thinly veined leaves. Stevie’s forehead was going numb with the cold where she was leaning against the window glass. Harry’s voice startled her upright.
‘Where’s Hal?’
She turned to look at him, still pale as tissue paper. ‘He’s with Lily. We’re staying with her family. It didn’t seem safe in the apartment and they’ve been very kind.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Two days.’
‘What’s the damage?’
Stevie took a step towards the bed. Before she could answer he said, ‘Just tell me what it is.’
‘Your arm. They think it’ll be fine.’
‘But they don’t know?’
‘No. They don’t know.’
Harry nodded. ‘Thank you.’
She held herself very still, afraid of her own collapse.
‘Ramsay?’
Stevie glanced across at the other bed. Harry’s eyes followed hers.
His voice was full of admiration. ‘Tough little bugger.’
Stevie chose not to answer.
‘I’ll find out what’s going on.’ Harry’s voice was surprisingly firm. ‘There should be a network in place to get people off the island. Yang wasn’t the only one.’ A pause. ‘What a bastard.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my saying, but one might have guessed an opium dealer just might not be the most trustworthy of chaps.’
They caught each other’s eyes and he smiled. She thought for a moment that the joy of that small smile might choke her.
‘We made plans for a line of escape with the Communists. Do you remember that young man you rescued so heroically from prison?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Of course. Chen, Lily’s brother. He brought the news about you being hurt. If it wasn’t for him I might not have found you.’ Her voice faltered.
‘He will know. Ask him. They’ll be aiming for Macau in the first instance.’
‘Maybe I should send Hal with him. He might –’
Harry’s interruption was freighted with fear. ‘Are you mad? You think he’d survive without you?’
She shocked herself with the realisation of what she was saying. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t really thinking.’
‘Promise me you’ll never do anything like that.’
Stevie came to him, wanting to soothe. ‘Is that what you think of me? That I’d do that?’
‘Promise me.’
‘All right. All right. Promise. I promise.’
Stevie knew that somewhere not too far away from this new life was the shadow life that she’d been living before she met Harry; a shadow life in which she might well have been able to send her baby boy away in the belief it was better for him, and in the conviction that it was better for her. With a degree of shame she took Harry’s hand again.
‘Are you hungry?’
Harry shook his head. Gripping her hand hard enough to hurt, he searched for words. ‘Bloody hell, old girl, bloody hell.’
Night had fallen. It was silent in the huge old building but for the occasional moan rolling along the corridor like a gust of wind. Ken lay still on the other side of the room, his breathing shallow in spite of the morphine a harried nurse had re-administered just before dusk. Stevie was lying next to Harry on his bed. It was not comfortable. She was clinging on to the metal side bar under the mattress so as not to fall off. But she wouldn’t have moved for the world. There was a pale glow as the restless clouds drew veils back and forth over the moon.
Her own voice, like ripples of water, ebbed and flowed. ‘What about Madame Kung’s house on the Peak? It’s empty now and the air is better there and Hal can roll around in the dirt as much as he wants to. And I’ll cook –’
Harry snorted an interruption. ‘Now that really is going too far.’
Stevie frowned in the darkness. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I won’t cook. But I might sweep occasionally.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t be so surprised. The war’s having a big effect on all of us, you know. For instance –.’ This time she interrupted herself.
‘For instance?’
She spoke slowly, unsure how he would take it. ‘For instance I can be officially Chinese which might protect Hal and me. As Jishang’s wife they can’t argue with the paperwork. The papers have even got a nice red wax seal on them. The Japanese like things like that, don’t they? And they’ll be busy with the Brits and the Yanks. It’ll be ages before they get round to the Chinese.’ Her tone changed, losing its forced, bantering note and becoming solemn. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’ She turned to him, her face a reflection of moonlight. ‘Don’t ever, ever do that again. Just be with me. Always. Please.’
‘Won’t that inhibit your freedom?’
Stevie leaned into him, holding him tight. He cried out in pain. Pulling back, she apologised, alarm like an electric shock running through her. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Are you all right?’
He grimaced. ‘What’s love without a little pain?’
Later still. They were lying next to each other again. Dawn unfolding. Stevie kept the murmured conversation going.
‘So the house is big, right? Huge, even. And you’re cooking a pasta dish in the lovely kitchen.’
‘Fish pie. I’m cooking fish pie. With fresh salmon and the vegetables are . . .’
‘. . . .the vegetables are still in the ground because I’m on my way through the garden to pick them, no, Hal’s going to pick them.’
‘You’re not in the garden, silly. I know where you are. You’re in your God-awful messy study, writing. Writing about how dull country life is and how you wish you were in New York.’
‘Ah, yes. New York. I’m on my way to my desk at the paper and I’m just stopping at the deli to pick up a couple of bagels and coffee.’
‘Yes, a coff
ee.’ They both were silent for a moment, relishing that coffee, smelling the lush dark beans. ‘And I’m in our apartment with Hal trying to teach him to speak with a proper English accent.’
Stevie reached out and touched Harry’s lips with her fingertips. ‘I love you.’ And this time there was a different silence between them.
They must have slept at last because Stevie opened her eyes into full daylight. She turned on her side towards Harry, aching all over. He opened his eyes. ‘You all right?’
‘I think so.’ She yawned. ‘Though I’ve scared myself sick by writing poetry. Things can’t get much worse than that.’
‘As long as it’s not about me.’
‘Just get fit and quit fretting over my writing.’
‘I am fit.’
Stevie raised her eyebrows.
Harry widened his eyes in mock protest. ‘Want me to prove it?’
Their kiss, raw and inappropriate, fell victim to a commotion in the corridor. Separated by raised voices and running feet, Stevie murmured ‘Next time’ close to his ear and their complicit smiles warmed the space between them.
The door burst open. A young nurse, not yet twenty, stood there. Fear brought her straight to the point, sheer disbelief in her voice. ‘We’ve surrendered. There’s a white flag on the police station. What are we going to do? It’s Christmas.’
Stevie shook her head, the clammy blast of terror gripping her again. It was Harry who spoke.
‘No more jokes about the Italians, then.’
A huge muffled explosion shook the glass in the windows. The nurse screamed and held on to the door handle for support. Harry was serious now. ‘They’re blowing up our big guns.’ The nurse began to sob, her hands to her face. Five or so of the walking wounded and a couple more nurses jostled into the doorway. One of the men, leaning on crutches, shouted louder than necessary in a voice stiff with fear. ‘Major Field, is it true? Do you think it’s true?’
Over him, she could hear the shrill, angry tones of an older nurse. ‘I don’t understand. It’s impossible. How can we have surrendered?’
The small group had made its way into the room. In the other bed Ken shouted out, unconscious but disturbed. The angry nurse was at the window. Her scream cut through the rest of the noise like a razor. ‘Oh my God.’
There was a rush for the window. Stevie stayed right where she was, sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed, her legs somehow useless, her mind back in the slow motion place of those hours before she found him. The bundle of nurses and soldiers at the window murmured among themselves, holding on to each other. Stevie felt Harry’s hand on her back. He was encouraging her to stand up. At first this seemed impossible but soon she found she was on her feet and had taken the three steps to the window. Over and around the heads of the others she saw nothing out of the ordinary. But then down the hillside, as if in a children’s game, she spied the tiny, distant figures slowly making their way up the road. Infinitely slowly. And behind them the military trucks. It took a moment for her to register that they were Japanese. From a distance all soldiers look the same.
Hollow with disbelief, she turned back to Harry. He knew what she had seen without her saying a word. Leaving the huddle at the window, she went to him.
His voice was clear over the throbbing in her head. ‘You must find Li Chen. He’ll know what to do.’ Then he frowned. ‘By the way, how exactly did you know where I was?’
‘Doctor Clarke-Russell knew where you were. The Red Cross lists.’
He nodded. They didn’t touch.
Later, in another time and place, when she thought about those twenty-four hours they seemed to exist in a quite different dimension. They were suspended hanging in the white space between what had been and what was to come. Heavy with poignancy and longing, they were visible through a smoky veil of hope and delusion, which in this case was almost the same thing. The tumult of a broken world brought them crashing back into reality but even then she clung on to their shared refuge in that hospital room until the very last moment.
It was the arrival of Clarke-Russell that blew away the last wisp of curtain and everything became horribly hyper-real and crisply in focus. The huddle of nurses and patients had moved on, looking for comfort elsewhere, and maybe an hour had passed since Stevie had seen the reality of the invasion. They heard Clarke-Russell’s voice, oh so reasonable and measured from the corridor.
‘The food supplies are adequate for the time being.’
And in a flurry of activity he pushed open the door and was in the room followed by three Japanese officers and the familiar rotund figure of Takeda. Stevie had time to stand. Harry tried but failed to sit up.
Clarke-Russell held his hands up in dismay, his bedside manner immaculate. ‘No, no, my dear chap, stay quite still. No sense in undoing all our good work, is there.’
He indicated Stevie, sweating through her already days-old shirt. ‘This is my colleague Miss Steiber.’ Not allowing room for any awkward questions from his military escort, he turned back to Harry. ‘These gentlemen asked most particularly to meet you.’
Stevie had to swallow a spasm of laughter. It was as if they were in a drawing room in Suffolk or Mayfair. It was only later that she understood that Dr Clarke-Russell’s manners were saving their lives, that it was for just such a situation that those manners had been invented and refined over the conquering centuries.
The Japanese men bowed. One set of manners meeting another. Which was more powerful? Who could say, but it was the bowing men who had the upper hand in that room on that day. Takeda said something in Japanese to his military colleagues in which Stevie recognised the words ‘Major’ and ‘Field’. They bowed again. Harry replied in grave tones. There was more bowing and Clarke-Russell began to usher them out of the room.
‘There are sixty-four men here in the hospital at the moment and twenty-five medical staff. Shall we?’ He went to the door and held it open for them. The officers followed. As Clarke-Russell led them away, Stevie could hear him, efficient and dignified. ‘The main thing, as I see it, is that it’s imperative to keep the island free of epidemics such as cholera.’
Takeda had hung back. He took a step towards them and looked from one to the other.
‘I’ll do anything I can,’ he said, fast and low. He was gone in a shuffle of grey suit.
Stevie shifted the weight on her feet, her muscles taut as high wires.
‘What did they say?’
‘They said they were bowing in respect of my injuries.’
‘And you, what did you say?’
‘I accepted their respect.’
‘What the hell does it mean? What does it mean?’ Stevie could feel her voice rising as hysteria began to overcome her. ‘And that bastard Clarke-Russell, collaborating before the surrender is even recognised. At the first sign of danger there he is cosying up to the enemy, all pals, and giving them a fucking tour of their new territory. What happened to putting up a fight? It’s unbelievable.’ She was shaking with indignation.
Harry had closed his eyes but his voice was firm. ‘He is the Chief Medical Officer. His duty is to the entire population regardless of their ethnic origins – and that duty is to keep them as healthy as possible. He will continue to do his duty as long as it’s permitted.’ He opened his eyes. ‘And so shall I.’
As the scale of the catastrophe that was befalling them rolled out before her like a landscape of grey ash, she heard Clarke-Russell’s voice from the door.
‘There’s an ambulance going back into town now. You’d better get in.’
Stevie didn’t move, frozen in the present and unable to take a step into the future.
Clarke-Russell’s voice was sharp, the tones of crisis management. ‘Now.’
Harry nodded at her, an encouraging brightness in his expression as if she were a little girl hanging back, being coaxed reluctantly to go through the door into a party. She went to him and, leaning over his body, she brushed her lips against the pin-sharp stubble of his
face. The sickening smell of antiseptic and decay lingered in her hair for days. She was quite distraught when she could no longer smell it, pulling strands to her nose and inhaling over and over to no avail. But there in their sacred white room she breathed his stale breath and he said, ‘Don’t forget, I’m on a promise.’
It was with a soon-to-be familiar heavy feeling of dread that she followed Clarke-Russell’s urgently beckoning hand into the new world order.
Chapter Eighteen
Nobody had thought to cut his body down. He hung from the twisted tree as if delivered there by a gust of wind. But it was not by natural means that his neck had been bound by the pale rope knotted around the branch, nor was it the wind that caused him to swing. It was the invisible ripples of air that came with each explosion no matter how far away.
The ambulance had brought her to the gate and she would not have recognised the courtyard but for Victor hanging there. The compound had been ransacked. The remains of furniture littered the yard and roaming sheets of newspapers skittered around them like demented farmyard animals. She stood for minutes; it took a very long time for her mind to compute what she was seeing: the poor little creature, grotesque, his tongue swollen and blue, lolling out of his whiskery mouth.
She didn’t have time in that moment to register any grief. Lily was rushing towards her and she could hear the small noises of Hal buried deep in the cotton scarf in her arms. She felt the skin of him and the warm wash of tears on her own face. Lily was talking very fast. Stevie couldn’t understand what she was saying, just the rush of words in her ears. The surreality of it all became even more absurd when she saw Phyllis Clarke-Russell, tall and gaunt, walk out of the house followed by her daughter Margaret.
Phyllis’ dress was ripped right across the front. Her slip was also torn and Stevie noticed her underwear and automatically assessed it as expensive. Possibly French. Now Phyllis was talking.
‘They took our house. I didn’t know where to go. They were so rude, shouting, shouting and they threw my things down the staircase. Just took them and threw them – you can’t imagine. Some people, the Evans and others, wanted to stay on the Peak, but I didn’t want Margaret anywhere near those –’ she struggled for an appropriate term but her education defeated her ‘– those terrible men. Thank God the boys are away at school. I don’t know how I’m going to send them their tuck parcels, though, the post offices are all closed. I just don’t understand what happened. We were supposed to hold out against a siege for three months. My husband told me everything, it was all planned down to the smallest detail, you know.’
The Harbour Page 16