Sunset (19 page)

He gripped the rail and carried on. Bookshops, stalls of brass ornaments and religious pendants which he did not understand.

The strange thing was that nobody took much notice of him, although if he smiled at a stallholder he received a ready smile in return. There were other contrasts also. The old women, bent double with age and by the burdens they carried on their backs, most of them wearing identical black pyjamas. Faces so lined and wizened that they were like portraits of old China itself. And right amongst them, the chattering children in light cotton school uniforms, all spotlessly clean, even though some of them must
live in the most crowded conditions in the decrepit buildings around him.

He heard the growl of traffic ahead and guessed he was coming to a main road which crossed this almost vertical street at right angles. Civilisation again.

He looked up, startled by the sudden bustle along the lines of stalls. Wares were disappearing, men and women dragging their goods under cover with the practised skill of a ship going to action stations. He glanced up at the sky and understood: the sun was gone and the clouds now sweeping over this bustling place were like dense smoke.

All around him umbrellas popped up like mushrooms and some of the hurrying schoolgirls, laughing and calling to one another as they ran, took off their shoes to protect them from the expected downpour. Brooke had reached the road now and saw people taking cover there as well. A few cars and some very ancient vans crowded one another to mix with rickshaws and bicycles.

A man stood smoking in the door of his shop. The contents looked like dried fish or octopus.

‘You better come in, Captain! Big rain, longtime come!'

Brooke saw the rain sweeping down the road like something solid, lashing over the scurrying figures and vehicles like a steel fence.

‘Thank you!' He felt the rain hit his shoulders, the force of it numbing his body with its onslaught. ‘I should have remembered.' Disturbed now, and somehow unsteady, the din of rain making thought impossible.

But the shopkeeper was gripping his arm as if to drag him into the shop. ‘What is
wrong,
Captain?'

They faced each other, both streaming with rain. Like the cars and rickshaws which had come to a halt in the road, unable to move.

Other people gathered round, pointing, touching him shyly as if they wanted to help.

Brooke tried to protest but when he looked down he almost fell. The right leg of his white trousers was scarlet with blood. It was running over his shoes and on to the pavement itself.

He did not know what to do, and felt only shame at what was happening.

Beyond the crowd he saw the familiar khaki figures of two Hong Kong policemen, those small, formidable officers, efficient and ruthless.

‘I – want . . .' He was going to pass out. The final humiliation.

He became aware of two things. The pale green bonnet of a Rolls-Royce car, which was regarded with immense respect by the two policemen, and the girl's face at the rear window.

It was the same bespectacled chauffeur, assertive and surprisingly strong as he helped the shopkeeper to get him into the sudden peace of the car. Vaguely Brooke heard the rain roaring on the roof, saw someone handing his cap to the chauffeur although he had not felt it fall.

He muttered, ‘Sorry about this. Blood on the carpet. So sorry –'

He watched her hands loosen his collar, her face frowning slightly as she gave instructions to her driver.

‘Be quiet, Commander! You do not look after yourself!' She sounded angry.

Somebody else was binding his leg with great care. A little old lady in black, like the ones he had seen in the street.

The girl sat back in the leather seat and regarded him gravely. She was becoming blurred, but he saw that her black hair was hanging straight down her back, and that she wore a white jacket and skirt.

She said, ‘I will take you to a doctor.' She held up one finger. ‘Please do not argue!'

He heard himself say, ‘I was going to the temple, you see?'

Then he fainted.

When Esmond Brooke opened his eyes, his senses were slow to adjust. It was like being suddenly struck blind, and curiously he felt no panic. Total darkness, while his limbs felt light. Floating.

He swallowed slowly. An unpleasant taste, his mouth dry. As understanding continued to return he was aware of two things: that he was in a bed with cool sheets, and that he was naked. He tried to move his injured leg, dull memories drifting back of the
shopkeeper peering at the flow of blood, and the girl's face staring down at him from the pale green car.

He gritted his teeth as pain probed through his leg. Numbed perhaps by drugs or an injection, but lurking there as before, waiting for the unguarded moment.

He listened for several minutes while pictures formed and faded in his mind.

She had brought him somewhere. He imagined he could hear music and a kind of rushing sound. It must be the rain. Had it not stopped at all while he had been here?

He moved again. How long had he been here? Where was
here?
Certainly no hospital.

More thoughts flooded through him. What would Kerr do? Had he reported his captain as missing?

His mind strayed back to when he had been given command of the old
Serpent.
His father had been delighted, but nobody had really understood what it had meant. After the disappointments, the deaf ears turned to all his pleas for re-employment in the only life he understood, the destroyer had been like a recognition. And now this. He let his head fall back on the pillow. They would probably put him in front of some medical board.

Sorry, old chap. Too much of a risk. I'm sure you understand?
And for a moment he thought the voices were real.

He felt the air move across his face and knew that a door had been opened.

‘Who is it?' Even his voice sounded different. Like a croak.

A pale shadow moved beside the bed, and he heard a man say, ‘Close eyes. Put on light.'

It was only a small bedside light, the base resembling a Chinese vase adorned with blue and green peacocks.

The man peering down at him was neither young nor old. He wore a plain black coat, almost like a uniform. A servant, perhaps.

But he spoke with dignity and quiet authority.

‘My name Robert Tan.' There was pride too. Like the Chief speaking about his engines. ‘Mr Yeung valet.' He faltered and added, ‘Friend also.'

Brooke stared around the room. Plain, almost spartan, with a shuttered window where he had heard the downpour.

‘How long have I been here?'

Robert Tan shrugged. ‘Day time.'

Then he bent down and uncovered a jug of juice. He held a glass to Brooke's lips and watched him swallow slowly.

It was cool, almost like barley-water. It could have been anything.

Robert Tan nodded, satisfied. ‘I fetch Missy. She worry.'

One second he was alone and the next she was beside the bed. Like a dream: an appearance from nowhere.

She stood quite still, looking down at him, some of her long hair hanging over one shoulder. He was struck by her total composure, the calm appraisal of her dark eyes.

‘Are you feeling better, Commander Brooke?'

He swallowed hard. ‘What happened? My uniform?'

She moved a pace closer and he could smell her perfume. Like flowers.

‘All is taken care of. Not to worry. Your uniform will be clean and pressed when you need it. Your hat also. It fell in the rain.' She toyed with the carved wooden bed-post by his feet and he saw the dark jade ring on one finger, a necklace of jade and silver which barely showed above the neck of her blouse. ‘My father insisted that you were brought here. When I told him what you were doing, how sick you were, and yet you walked in such heat he shook his head. “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun,” he said.'

Brooke smiled, and winced as the pain touched his leg once more. She watched him, waiting for him to settle again.

‘I called a doctor. It was best.' She seemed to sense his uncertainty. Perhaps even what troubled him. ‘It was more private.'

Beneath the sheet he touched his skin. It felt cooler, less feverish.

She said gently, ‘Robert and William undressed you. You were in good hands. Shan-Cha took care of everything.'

‘The doctor?'

‘Yes. My sister – she is called Camille.' She watched his surprise. ‘She is a good doctor, married to a surgeon. He is an
American.' She put her hands on her hips and mimicked, ‘Harry's a great guy!'

‘I must tell somebody . . .'

‘All done. My father has telephoned the head man, all fixed.'

‘He called the Commodore?'

‘Too much questions!' She frowned. ‘Camille will see you when she leaves the hospital.' She dabbed his forehead with a small damp towel.

Brooke stared up at her, and wanted to touch her, and wondered if she knew what he was thinking.

‘What did the doctor – er, Camille say?'

She looked into his eyes. ‘She say you bloody mess!' Then she threw back her head and laughed. ‘But she will fix!'

She was serious again. As she folded the little towel before placing it on a dish, she said, ‘Your brother left the island. I went to say good-bye.' She walked suddenly to the window and opened the shutters. Her voice was muffled as she added over her shoulder, ‘But he was already gone.'

There were stars visible beyond her head and shoulders. A balmy night, the monsoon rain past, for the moment.

Brooke said, ‘I saw him.'

She turned lightly. ‘Did he speak of me?' Then she shook her head, so that the black hair swirled around her like a silk cape. ‘No, do not speak of it. I know it would be a lie!'

He replied, ‘I will never lie to you, Lian.'

She folded her hands, losing her composure, surprised by the tone of his voice.

‘I think I believe you.'

More lights came on outside the room and Brooke saw another figure standing by the door. It was the girl's father. They spoke briefly in Cantonese and when she nodded Yeung seemed satisfied.

‘You are welcome here, Commander Brooke.' He smiled. ‘It is difficult to use the same name for a different person, you understand?'

Brooke saw the quick exchange of glances, and was troubled by it. ‘But we shall become accustomed to it.'

‘I haven't thanked you, sir. For telling the Commodore about my trouble.'

Yeung looked momentarily surprised. ‘The commodore. No, it was the Assistant Governor. Never require a mouse to squeak when you can obtain a roar from a tiger!'

There were more voices and the valet entered with a medical bag, followed by a woman who was pulling on her white coat to put an official seal on her visit.

She was like her younger sister in many ways: the eyes, the air of confidence. But when she spoke, first in Cantonese to the others and then to her new patient in English, the difference between them was overwhelming.

She had a curt, forthright manner: down-to-earth, as his father would have described it.

‘You've had a bad time, Mr Brooke.' She took his temperature without waiting for him to answer. ‘Whoever cut your leg did a lousy job, you know that?' After Lian's gentle, almost caressing voice she sounded abrasive, and her accent was very American.

Brooke watched her peering at the thermometer. ‘It was at Malta. When we got back.'

‘Hmm. Lucky to get that far, if you ask me!'

She washed her hands in a bowl which Robert Tan had provided. While she dried them, finger by finger as if they were medical instruments, she said, ‘Are you staying, little sister?'

Charles Yeung frowned at her. ‘Do not provoke, Shan-Cha!' He put his arm around the girl's shoulders and guided her to the door.

The doctor smiled and switched on more lights. ‘Your brother has a lot to answer for!' Then she gripped the sheet and dragged it from the bed, leaving him naked under her searching glare.

She held some scissors up to the light and clicked them open and shut.

‘Sunstroke, fever, and bad surgery. Strong stuff.' She began to snip at the bandages. ‘You'll never lose the limp.' She glanced up at him, and only for a few seconds she was very like her sister. ‘But you won't lose your leg either.'

Brooke gasped as the last piece of dressing tore away and he knew the wound was bleeding again, then fresh dressings were
bound in place, and Robert Tan washed away the blood and collected the stained bandages. His face was a mask of disapproval. He probably saw it as a breach of all he believed in that a woman, even one posing as a doctor, should see and touch an unknown man's nakedness.

She bent over Brooke and lifted each eyelid. ‘I shall see you again.' She gripped his arm, her small hand like steel as she rubbed it with some cotton wool before picking up a hypodermic syringe from the table.

Brooke felt the prick of the needle and instantly his mind seemed to succumb.

He did not feel the needle withdraw, nor the rub of the wool on his skin. But the pain was going, along with his senses.

But not before he heard her voice, which seemed to be coming down a long tunnel.

‘Do not hurt my sister. There are ways . . .' The rest was lost. But it stayed in his drowning mind like a threat.

The strident south-westerly monsoons that swept the New Territories and Hong Kong were interspersed with periods of intense heat and humidity. When the torrential rain passed on and the sun broke through again to reveal flooded storm-drains, landsides and choked ditches, the steam rose over every town and village like smoke.

But the July monsoon brought something else:
Serpent
's ship's company received their first mail from home.

Some of it had reached Hong Kong quickly, but much had been redirected from port to port by an overworked Fleet Mail Office. During stand-easy when even the dockyard workers were silent the letters were devoured by the lucky ones, and watched with envy and disappointment by the others.