Sunset (15 page)

Calvert sighed. ‘Damn. No rickshaw after all.'

Islip
's O.O.D. saluted as they trooped across the ship's deck. Brooke had been pleased to hear that her captain, Commander Tufnell, had also been invited to the party. There would be at least one familiar face. Apart, he thought sarcastically, from brother Jeremy.

At the gates a small crowd of sailor and idlers had gathered to stare.

Kipling exclaimed with rare admiration, ‘That's no
car
, sir!' With the others he ran his eyes over the long Rolls-Royce that blocked the whole of the entrance.

It was pale green with a shining black top, which, with all the dust in the air, must have been a full-time job to keep so immaculate. The front seats had an open roof and Brooke shook his head as a small Chinese in a dove-grey uniform and black
gaiters sprang smartly into the road. He threw up a salute which even a Royal Marine drill-sergeant would find faultless.

‘Commander Brooke, sir?' He beamed. ‘At your service, sir!'

Calvert said, ‘What a car. I'd be terrified to drive it in London, never mind here!'

Kipling said, ‘A Phantom II. Beautiful motor. We often had one call at the garage for petrol before the war.'

Brooke noticed that he had not called it
garridge
. That was obviously only for Barrington-Purvis's benefit.

They climbed into the car and were greeted by the smell of leather and fresh flowers in a little silver vase.

The driver was watching them in one of his mirrors.

‘We go, Captain-sir?'

Brooke nodded. ‘We go.' He found time to wonder how the chauffeur's feet could reach the pedals.

The car glided through the traffic and chattering traders and as it began to climb a zig-zagging road towards the Peak so, correspondingly, did the sun dip down into the sea.

Nobody spoke. Higher and higher, the massive headlights sweeping this way and that, and once, when the road was particularly steep, all that Brooke could see was the car's famous mascot, the
Spirit of Ecstasy
and nothing beyond, as if they were poised on the edge of a cliff.

He glanced down, fascinated, at the glittering harbour, the anchor lights, the tiny boats moving like fireflies, the tramp steamers still loading and unloading, their holds gaping open beneath clusters of cargo lamps. A living place, one that was never still by day or by night.

There would be a few sore heads at the defaulters' table when the libertymen returned to the ship, he thought wryly.

‘Almost come, Captain-sir!'

Calvert murmured, ‘It's like Hollywood!'

Kipling chuckled. ‘I could live with it! Just give me the chance!'

Brooke watched two white-jacketed servants padding out of the house to greet the car's arrival.

He climbed down on to the drive and saw his brother on the front stairs which led up to a pillared entrance. He was looking pointedly at his watch.

Brooke nodded to the little chauffeur, then handed him some money as he had seen Jeremy do.
Squeeze
, they called it. He never even felt the cash leave his hand.

The chauffeur reached into the car for a polishing cloth.

‘I wait here for you, Captain-sir!' He showed his teeth in a wide grin. ‘More exciting going back downhill!'

The war seemed a very, very long way off.

Commander Jeremy Brooke smiled and glanced briefly at Calvert and Kipling.

‘A word before you go in, Esmond.' He took his brother's arm and guided him away from the others. ‘The Commodore's here, thought I should warn you, and quite a few of the top brass.' He gave him a piercing stare. ‘Don't talk too much about why you came out here.
Operation Boomerang
is supposed to be secret, although knowing this place I imagine that half the island has heard about it already!'

He turned to the others. ‘And I want a word with you too, Kipling, before you vanish for the evening!'

Brooke had the peculiar impression that his brother and the unlikely sub-lieutenant already knew each other.

He tried to shake off the strange sense of foreboding and turned his attention to the huge reception hall. There was an archway at the far end, which from the angle he assumed opened on to a terrace with a view of the harbour. He would go and look at it before he left.

His brother said, ‘Come and meet your host, before the pack closes in on him.'

It was easy to pick out Charles Yeung, even without an introduction. Tall for a Chinese, with straight silver hair in marked contrast with his fine-boned, mobile features: the face of a much younger man. At a guess he must be in his late fifties, but he appeared ageless. He turned as they approached and Brooke felt his gaze sweep over him, interested, polite, guarded. He was dressed in a perfectly fitting silk suit, the same colour as his hair. A man you could not imagine losing his temper under any circumstances, Brooke thought. He would regard it as a
weakness. He would make a bad enemy. As a friend? That was much harder to tell.

Charles Yeung said, ‘My friend's brother. How do you do? You are welcome in my humble house.'

Brooke shook his hand. Hard and dry, like leather.

Humble? Hardly that if the rest of the house and grounds matched this reception hall. Long and pillared, discreetly lit to show a tiled floor with several intricate designs, every alcove held a huge Chinese vase containing so many chrysanthemums and gladioli that every cluster must have cost a small fortune.

Yeung was saying, ‘You command the destroyer
Serpent
? I hope your ship carries a good sting!'

Jeremy said, ‘Just the sort of ship we need in these coastal waters.' He and Yeung exchanged quick glances. ‘And the right sort of captain too.' He seemed glad of the interruption as a servant with a tray of drinks approached and gave a slight bow.

Yeung was watching. ‘Champagne, Commander? Anything you like. If there is nothing to your taste I will send for what you wish.' His English was flawless.

Brooke smiled. ‘Champagne will be just fine, sir.' He looked around at the throng of guests. Quite a few officers, army and navy, some Chinese civilians with their demure little wives, and the Commodore in the midst of it, his face already bright red.

Another servant came up to their host and whispered something. Charles Yeung said apologetically, ‘I must leave you, gentlemen. Another guest has arrived. We shall speak further.'

Jeremy remarked, ‘Assistant Governor.'

‘Do you speak Cantonese?'

‘Enough.'

‘You're full of surprises, Jeremy.'

Jeremy put down his glass. ‘He wants me there with him. I'll be back.'

Brooke saw him start with unusual surprise. ‘I shall leave you in good hands. This is Lian Yeung, our host's daughter.' He looked vaguely ill at ease.

Brooke turned and held out his hand. She made him feel clumsy, and he knew he was staring but he could not help it.

Lian Yeung was not merely striking: she was lovely. Quite tall
like her father, her hair shining like jet and piled above her ears. She was dressed from neck to toe in a dark green cheongsam, her feet in small gold sandals just showing beneath the hem.

He heard his brother say, ‘I didn't know you were coming this evening, Lian.'

She did not look at him but smiled gently at Brooke. ‘You will know me again when we meet, I think.'

Brooke murmured, ‘I beg your pardon. I wasn't expecting . . .'

‘Obviously.' She glanced past him. ‘
I
shall take care of your brother, Jeremy.'

Brooke glanced between them. He could sense the tension, and in her case something else, some deep reserve or unhappiness.

She slipped one hand through his arm and gracefully indicated the buffet table which stretched almost the full length of the hall.

‘You are familiar with Chinese food, Commander?'

‘No. I've never been here before.'

She turned towards him without seeming to move, her eyes very grave as she studied him impassively.

‘You have been many places. And you have seen too many bad things.' Her English was easy to listen to, but not so practised as her father's.

Brooke said, ‘It's something we have to do.' Even that sounded awkward and trite. ‘Have you been to England?'

‘Yes. I finished my education there.' She paused. ‘Where I met your brother. He was training to be an interpreter.' She shrugged. ‘No matter. But I did see something of the war in England until my father insisted I should return home.'

Brooke's mind was still grappling with her unemotional comment. Jeremy must have been seeing her in England after he had married Sarah. Perhaps even out here . . .

She said, ‘I will help you to choose. The servants will bring you each dish.' She gestured towards another table with finger-bowls and small towels, each with an orchid resting on it. ‘Use your fingers. It avoids the embarrassment of not being able to use chopsticks.' She smiled at him. ‘You are staring again.'

‘Sorry. All I do is apologise. I've never met anyone like you.'

‘Some people never apologise.' Her eyes were so dark that it was impossible to read her thoughts.

Brooke said, ‘Why did your father tell you to return here?' He expected a quick rebuff. It was none of his business.

Instead he felt her hand tighten on his arm. ‘Because he believes that England will be invaded. He was afraid for me.'

She turned away and raised her free hand. A servant hurried across instantly, avoiding the jostling throng which had by now surrounded the table.

The tempting dishes were another glimpse of this exotic, incomparable world. Suckling pig and crisp seaweed, roast duck both sliced and wrapped in tiny pancakes, and a lobster salad that must have been designed by a genius, with the shell and claws replaced after each serving. The line of lobsters seemed endless.

The girl took very little but seemed content to explain each dish to him, as if the other guests did not exist.

‘Your ship will be here for sometime, Commander?' She smiled gravely and repeated, ‘ – for
some time
?'

‘So I understand.' He hesitated. ‘We shall at least be based at
Tamar
.'

‘I hope you enjoy your stay.' Her eyes flashed. ‘I must go. I am expected to mingle with the guests.' She held out her hand. ‘It had been good to speak.'

He took her hand in his and knew he was being stupid. Their first meeting and probably the last, and he was behaving like a pink-faced midshipman.

She released her hand from his grip and he almost apologised again. Instead he asked, ‘May I call you when my ship comes in?'

‘I shall know when that is.' She studied him as if searching for something. ‘Perhaps.' She gave a little shrug. ‘I am not sure.'

Then she waved to somebody and moved slowly away from him.

‘Lian has been taking good care of you?'

Brooke turned and saw Charles Yeung watching him impassively. How long had he been there? Was he protecting her again, and from what?

‘None better, sir. You are a lucky man to have such a daughter.'

Yeung's eyes were distant. ‘So I believe.'

‘Lian. What does it mean?' He saw the eyes snap into focus like a gunsight. ‘I'm trying to learn, you see?'

‘Yes.' He nodded slowly. ‘I do see. Her name means Lotus. It is one of the eight Buddhist precious things, you understand? Purity rising unsullied from the mire. So, too, the woman who bears that name shall be pure and unsullied.'

Brooke watched him. There was no sarcasm, no cheap amusement on his face or in his voice.

‘Thank you, sir. This has been quite an evening. I can't remember when I've enjoyed one more.'

Yeung did not smile but said, ‘You are welcome here. We have very little time.' He did not explain but walked away as the commodore's massive bulk emerged from the crowd.

Brooke turned towards a long mirror so that the commodore should not see him, and reflected in it he saw his brother speaking intently to the tall slim girl in the green cheongsam. She appeared to say nothing, and when he reached out to touch her wrist she pulled it away.

Brooke stared at his reflection, angry, defensive, and strangely jealous.
What is the matter with me?
Her father was a multimillionaire who would certainly not welcome or tolerate any unwanted attention towards his daughter, especially from a lowly lieutenant-commander whose only assets lay in the old house his father had made into a country hotel. If he outlived the war, there would be little worth selling after the army had done with it.

Surprisingly, the reflection smiled back at him.

It was like hearing her name.

Lieutenant Richard Kerr leaned under the chart table's hood and switched on the small light. It was all so different after the Atlantic and Western Approaches, where a casual match or uncovered light could bring the hidden periscope swinging in your direction.

He peered at the chart and checked his watch. Five in the morning, the ship plunging and gently rolling in a slow quartersea. Kerr had been on watch for an hour.

Serpent
had been at sea for three days, patrolling a huge rectangle one hundred miles long and fifty wide. A place without danger, or what they considered danger, and the work was boring and monotonous after the first thrill of excitement when they had entered Hong Kong. Back and forth, up and down. Showing the flag, warning off pirates and smugglers; part of Britain's naval presence here, as it had been since the 1840s.

Like some of the others, Kerr had been shocked by the run-down in naval strength at Hong Kong. A few old destroyers, some equally ancient gunboats and a flotilla of M.T.B.s. Submarines, the aircraft carrier, even the crack Fifth Cruiser Squadron had been sent elsewhere, or sunk in the fiercely contested waters of the Mediterranean.