Sunset (18 page)

He thought suddenly of the lovely girl in the green cheongsam.
Had Jeremy brought her here on his previous visits? The idea angered him and he knew he was being stupid.

‘Oh, there you are!'

Brooke turned and saw his brother sitting in a cane chair. He was wearing his Number Fives, with three bright gold stripes adorning the sleeve, and he seemed strangely at odds with the tropical rig worn by everyone around him.

They shook hands and Jeremy removed his cap from the chair opposite, which he had been reserving for him.

He said, ‘I've checked out. Leaving today. Too bad, really – another week would have been just right.' He gave his brief smile. ‘As you will discover, it's a magical place.'

A waiter hovered nearby and Jeremy said, ‘Scotch?' He did not wait for an answer. ‘Two, boy. Large ones.' He went on, ‘I read your report, or rather, a copy of it. Very interesting.'

Brooke handed him the wallet and watched his brother's eyes skim over it. Blank. He gave nothing away.

The drinks arrived and Brooke let his mind drift to the people and the sounds around him. Cheerful conversation as regulars greeted each other, which became louder as they drank their pink gins and stengahs. There was music too, from one of the balconies above the lobby.

He looked round and was startled by his brother's intense expression.

Jeremy said, ‘Make you sick, don't they? Here we are in Kowloon, under the British flag but in fact part of the mainland. Think of it like that. And just beyond the New Territories, and the rice paddies and the duck farms, is one of the biggest military build-ups the Far East has ever seen.' He drank quickly, angrily. ‘It's as if the bastards don't even want to know about it!'

‘Can you be certain? I thought Winston Churchill said that the Japanese would never risk war out here. “It would be foolish for them even to consider it”, I think were his words.'

Jeremy looked at his glass. It was empty, and he waved it in the air.

Brooke said, ‘Let me get them.'

‘Save your money.' These were obviously not his brother's first drinks of the day. ‘The Japanese have always wanted total power.
But for General Chiang Kai-Shek and the Nationalist army, they would have got it by now. Charles Yeung once said to me that Singapore is the key of the gate, but Hong Kong is the real jewel. He was right. The rest of the world does nothing, and the U.S.A. ignores it. But it's
here,
Esmond – it bloody well won't go away on its own.' He had raised his voice and several people turned to stare.

It disturbed Brooke to see his brother like this. He had always been so cool and calm, so much in control.

‘What will you tell your boss when you get back to London?'

‘Bloody good question! I can save my future and career by telling everyone that Churchill is right. That Hong Kong
is
a fortress if so required. Or I can say that if the Japanese army decided to march down the New Territories to
this
hotel, there's not a damned thing we could do about it.' He paused to drink and realised that the glass was empty. ‘What have we got, for God's sake? Antiquated defences, some outdated ships, and a handful of small aircraft that look like survivors from the Western Front!'

Brooke said, ‘It would be a terrible blow if we abandoned the Colony.'

‘I know. D'you think I haven't thought about it? But I'm a sailor, not a diplomat. General Chiang Kai-Shek's army is the one hope. The Japanese would never be willing to fight on two fronts at once. The Nationalists need guns and all kinds of weapons. It's never easy. Treachery, corruption, incompetence – they put everything at risk.'

Brooke opened the small canvas bag he had brought from the ship.

‘What about this?' He pulled out a metal magazine and laid it on the table between their glasses.

His brother took time to light another cigarette. He did not touch it, but said in a more controlled voice, ‘Twenty-round magazine. From a B.A.R. Where did you get it?'

‘Sub-Lieutenant Kipling found it and handed it to me without telling anybody else. But I think that fishing boat was smuggling arms – to the Nationalists, perhaps?'

Then his brother did pick it up. ‘Browning Automatic Rifle, a
light machine-gun to all intents. Bit dated, but it would tip the balance, for a while anyway. Well, well.'

‘You didn't know about it?'

Jeremy said coolly, ‘No. Not this time, although we know it goes on, of course.'

‘
We?
'

His brother stood up as an army driver walked across the lobby, his boots very loud.

‘Must go, old chap. By the way, keep in touch with Charles Yeung. Useful fellow. Very influential too.'

Brooke watched the porters gathering up his brother's luggage.

‘How influential?'

‘Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank, and he owns the Coutts Steamship Packet Company. He's in everything.'

‘What happened to his wife? Someone told me she'd been killed.'

‘She was very beautiful apparently.' He waved to the driver. ‘Made the mistake of visiting friends in Canton. There was a Japanese bombing attack.' He shrugged. ‘She didn't make it.'

They walked towards the glass doors and Brooke asked suddenly, ‘His daughter . . .'

‘Lian?' Jeremy looked surprised. ‘What about her?'

‘She was in love with you, right?'

He smiled. ‘Look,
I must go
.' He held out his hand. ‘We did have a thing going in London, but nothing serious.'

He pressed some notes into the duty manager's hand and walked out into the blazing sunshine.

Brooke found that he was clenching his fists.
Nothing serious
. Not to Jeremy Brooke anyway.

He called after him, ‘Give my love to Sarah!'

Jeremy tilted his gleaming oak-leaved cap to shade his eyes while the soldier held the car door for him.

He gave him a searching look, perhaps aware of the sarcasm, and replied, ‘Will do. Sarah's having a baby – didn't I tell you?'

‘No.' The word dropped like a leaf as the car sped past the fountain. ‘Neither did she.'

Three days after
Serpent
's return to Hong Kong and his brother's departure for England, Brooke had still heard nothing more about his report.

The Chief-of-Staff had merely touched on it when he had telephoned about certain dockyard work which was to be carried out on Brooke's ship. He had said everything was being investigated by the Hong Kong police, and that it seemed likely that the fishing boat's master and his family had been murdered by pirates. There was also the possibility that, as the boat had been so far from the fishing grounds, the murders had been the result of a clash between rival smugglers.

As his brother had so angrily exclaimed in
the Pen,
‘It's as if they don't want to know about it!'

The flotilla leader
Islip
had put to sea on some mission or other, but her captain had hinted that it was more for the entertainment of a trade commission than for any warlike purpose.

‘The bloody mess bills will be enormous for the wardroom, I can tell you that!'

It was strange being alongside the wall without
Islip
's grey hull to provide a sort of privacy. Here, they were observed by everyone, Chinese dockyard workers, British advisers who came and went by the dozen, although the work only entailed the construction of some new mountings for light machine-guns.

Kipling, scruffier than ever, was in charge of them and kept a watchful eye on everything and everyone. Brooke had heard him telling some serious-faced Chinese with welding equipment where to mount a guard-rail to prevent the machine-guns swinging round under the hands of an excited seaman, and possibly raking the whole bridge by mistake.

There was quite a lot to Kipling, he thought.

He envied his men their comfortable shorts and white tops, and knew that some of them must wonder why he persisted in dressing in a full white uniform. It might look cool, but in this intense heat and humidity it felt clammy and airless.

His injured leg had been troubling him more than usual as well, and he was barely able to conceal it.

One of the dockyard workers had left two steel plates to be
ready for the welders and Brooke had walked right into them. The deck had become so familiar to him, and the sun was so bright that it had been entirely his own fault.

He had to be alone. To think out what was happening, rather than sit back without questioning.

It was halfway through the forenoon when he decided to go ashore. It might help to get away from the din of machinery and welders and the unmoving heat throughout the ship, which even the new fans were unable to dispel.

Most of the hands were ashore anyway. He saw Kerr discussing the work with Cusack, the gnome-like Chief, and said, ‘I'm off, Number One. Stretch my legs. We're not on standby.'

Kerr eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Is there a number where I can reach you, sir?'

‘No, there isn't!' It came out sharply and he touched his arm. ‘I apologise for that, Dick. Bit under the weather. Sorry.'

They all stiffened and saluted as Brooke went down the side.

Calvert appeared, a signal pad in one hand. ‘Was that the Old Man?'

They all grinned. The term seemed absurd. Then Kerr said seriously, ‘I think his leg's getting worse. Gave it a bash too, on some gear from the yard.'

Calvert shrugged. ‘There's a monsoon report, that's all. I thought he should know.'

‘It's all right, Pilot. We and the duty part of the watch can deal with the moorings if it blows up.' He stared across the yard but Brooke's figure had already disappeared.

Calvert touched his beard. ‘Spanish Civil War, wasn't it?'

‘Yes. We should have guessed what was coming after that.'

Calvert tugged at his open-necked shirt. ‘I think you should open the bar, Number One.' He looked away. ‘I like him, by the way.'

Kerr thought about it. ‘When he took command, I wasn't sure. Then, on that damned patrol, I could see the steel in the man. When I came back aboard I nearly broke down in front of him.' He was surprised that he could speak so freely to someone else about what he considered a weakness. ‘Some skippers would have skinned me alive!'

Calvert smiled gravely. ‘Some.'

Kerr squinted at the sun. ‘Well, it's
almost
over the yardarm, Pilot. A gin it is!'

Unaware of his officers' exchange of views, Brooke walked away from the naval base, putting the harbour and the brooding mainland across the water further and further behind him. He found himself walking against a constant throng of people, all of whom seemed to be pushing in the opposite direction, and he was soon swallowed up in the central district, with its narrow alleys and banner-decked stalls stretching away from the main roads where he was constantly returning salutes from wandering servicemen, some of whom he recognised from his own ship.

He was glad he had come ashore. He was wringing wet under his white tunic, and his leg felt as if he had burned it, but the life and movement all around him held him like a drug.

There was a very old temple somewhere in this district: he had heard Vicary, the torpedo gunner's mate, talking about it. He had served on the China Station before the war.

He saw an ancient Chinese man with a tiny wisp of beard sitting cross-legged beside a makeshift newspaper and magazine stall.

‘The temple. Can you direct me, please?'

The black eyes barely moved, and yet they seemed to take in all about him. His rank, his face, and perhaps the pain he saw there.

‘Pottinger Street, Captain.' A claw-like hand darted out. ‘Big hill. Very tiring. Temple is called Man Mo.'

Brooke nodded. ‘Yes, that's it!' He wondered if he should offer the little man some money, but he seemed too dignified.

The man leaned forward confidently. ‘If Captain has much pain, I have friend . . .' Then he shrugged as Brooke shook his head.

‘It's nothing, but thank you very much.'

It was not much further to the street and Brooke paused, staring along, or rather up it. The Chinese man had been right: it was very narrow and extremely steep. There were no vehicles except for a few handcarts at the bottom displaying their wares, and a metal handrail ran down the middle of the street, without
which many older folk would never have managed. Each side of the street was lined with stalls.

An old woman sat balancing a yoke over her shoulders, with a beautifully arranged basket of fruit at either end. It must weigh a ton, Brooke thought. He gripped the handrail and flinched. It felt like a furnace bar.

He began to climb, fascinated by the sights around him as Hong Kong went about its daily business. There were stalls selling bolts of cloth, and dazzling cards of buttons of every kind, and he passed a man standing nonchalantly with one arm bent while a street tailor measured him for a handmade shirt. Behind the stalls were small dark shops, like caves, and he saw a herbalist's display of strange-looking roots, while next door a merchant was selling flour from huge open tubs, and great mounds of rice in hat-shaped baskets. A small, pretty girl was kneeling on the pavement fashioning beautiful table decorations, and there were orchids everywhere, standing in jars and lying on a cloth beside her. She did not look up when he passed.

When he paused for breath he looked down to where he had started: the ascent seemed even steeper from up here. The occasional stairs across the street and the stones themselves were polished, not by thousands but by millions of feet.

He shaded his eyes to stare up at the rickety buildings that stood starkly against the blazing sky. No wonder it was so hot, so breathless: the houses and the shops that crowded on either side held out the air completely. Balcony above balcony, tiny apartments, but many with masses of flowers in tubs and hanging baskets, and some displaying little bamboo cages of singing birds.