Sunset (24 page)

The commodore nodded ponderously. ‘No more than you deserve.'

Brooke glanced at the empty glass in his hand and was surprised it was so steady, and that someone had refilled it.

A good command for someone in your position
. If they had threatened him physically, it could not have been clearer. He was to make no ripples, cause no friction. Just show the flag. If not, he would lose
Serpent
and be sent home on some pretext or other. Kerr would get the ship and a half-stripe to go with her.

He thought the glass might shatter in his fingers. They could do it, too. A confidential report to Their Lordships.
Under too much pressure. Combat-fatigue
. Anything. He had seen it happen to others.

He tried to think clearly. But all that remained in his mind was the pride in his father's voice when he had given him the photograph.

The commodore glanced at his watch. ‘And don't bother about the Asdic. I shall get the maintenance commander on to it right away.'

Captain Granville said, ‘There's a new brigadier or something out from England to join our chief-of-staffs' committee. Another Whitehall johnnie who's yet to get his knees brown, eh?'

He groped around as if seeking a prompt for his next line. Instead he asked abruptly, ‘Did the coaster's Chinese skipper say anything before he died? You have an interpreter now, I understand.'

‘He said that the S.S.
Kiang Chen
was carrying building-stone, sir.' In his mind he saw the little interpreter facing him over the corpse draped in the White Ensign. A few words in his low singsong voice, a bow, and the waiting seamen tipping up the grating for the lonely journey to the bottom.

All-time darkness . . .

‘No wonder the cargo shifted, eh, Bertie? Charles Yeung took it very well, I thought.'

Granville said to Brooke, ‘You know him, I believe?'

‘A little, sir.'

‘Best to keep it like that, what?'

Brooke stood up carefully, almost fearfully, but his leg did not fail him.

Yes, keep it like that. Take his favours, eat and drink his generosity. But friendship?
Not the done thing, old chap
.

They walked to the quarterdeck together, the beautifully laid planking so clean he could have eaten from it.

Granville saluted and stepped on to the accommodation ladder. The commodore looked down at the immaculate launch waiting below, the crew with raised boat-hooks and a chief petty officer in charge.

Beyond it,
Serpent
's small and functional ‘skimming-dish' with the lump-like Macaskie at the tiller made a stark contrast. Like everything here, Brooke thought.

The commodore touched his cap. ‘See you at the Repulse Bay Hotel on Tuesday, Bertie. Should be a good evening!'

The powerful launch roared into life before speeding amongst the lighters and junks towards the Kowloon side.

Stallybrass was peering across the littered water towards the sleek destroyer alongside the wall.

‘Fine little ship. Wouldn't want to lose her. Or you.'

They saluted one another before Brooke went down the long, varnished ladder.

Between his teeth he said angrily, ‘
Nor will you!
'

Lieutenant Richard Kerr glanced up from the wardroom table where he was leafing through the latest Admiralty Fleet Orders, a coffee cup in one hand.

He stared with surprise, and then apologized. ‘Sorry, Pilot! I didn't recognize you for a minute!'

Calvert walked to a mirror by an open scuttle and rubbed his smooth chin doubtfully.

‘It got so prickly in the heat,' he said. He studied the cluster of small scars down one side of his face. Maybe he should have waited. Against his tanned skin they seemed pale, more noticeable.

Kerr sensed his uncertainty and said kindly, ‘You look fine, Pilot.' When Calvert turned to gauge his sincerity he added, ‘Really you do. They'll heal much better and faster, too. You look almost human at last.'

Calvert forced a smile. ‘It's stupid, I know. A reminder, I suppose.' He glanced around. ‘Skipper aboard?'

Kerr shook his head. ‘Gone for a walk. He saw the Commodore and Chief-of-Staff apparently.'

‘What did
they
say, or shouldn't I ask?'

‘I'm not sure.' He thought of Brooke's tawny eyes, his restlessness. ‘I think he was pretty cheesed off with it, whatever they said.'

Calvert stared at his reflection again. A new face. Someone else.

Kerr said, ‘If you want to shove off ashore, then do it. I'm duty boy, and I've got to see another joker from the dockyard.' He glanced at the pantry hatch, which was tightly sealed. The gossip-gate to the messdecks. ‘Did hear a rumour we might be getting radar. Keep it to yourself. But you know what that would mean.'

‘Back to the Atlantic. The real war.'

‘Yes.' Kerr looked at the litter of paper. ‘You know, I could get to like this place quite a lot. Your predecessor in
Serpent
. . .' He paused, hardly able to believe it. So short a time ago, and he had momentarily forgotten the other navigator's name. The navy's way. Faces came and left: a few months and you were forgotten. Only those around you and the ship that held you all were real.

‘What about him?'

‘I forgot what I was going to say.'

‘You must have it bad!' He did not see Kerr's surprise at his casual remark. He said, ‘I think I
will
go ashore. Everybody else is.'

They chorused, ‘
Except the Chief!
'

Calvert picked up his cap. ‘I'll probably get as far as the first bar. That'll do me!'

He walked to the companion ladder and up to the quartermaster's lobby, and saw the bright rectangle of blue sky through the screen door. The heat haze was making the waterfront buildings shiver like a
Fantasia
ballet.

The duty quartermaster called out, ‘Shore telephone call, sir.'

‘Who for, Monk?'

‘Well, she
wants
the commanding officer, sir, but he's ashore.'

‘I'll take it.'

It was as if she was right here beside him, her soft voice exactly how he remembered it.

‘I'm sorry, Miss Yeung, but he's in Victoria somewhere.'

A pause. ‘I wanted to speak with him. I knew the ship was returned. Is he all right, please?'

Calvert thought of Kerr's remark. ‘I think he needs cheering up, Miss.'

A longer pause. ‘Cheering-up? I do not understand.'

He could picture her frowning. ‘In his work there's always something to worry about.'

How could he tell her that they had been narrowly missed by a torpedo, when one of her father's ships had been destroyed and her crew killed for no apparent reason?

‘Will you leave a message? Lieutenant Kerr will make sure he gets it when he returns.'

‘No.' She must have thought it was too abrupt. ‘That is Lieutenant Calvert, yes? I thought I knew your voice.'

He imagined her in that great house, the harbour laid out below the windows like a tapestry.

She said, ‘I will find him.' The line went dead.

The quartermaster said cheerfully, ‘I'm afraid you've missed the dockyard bus, sir.'

Calvert shrugged. ‘Should have given the phone call to Number One!'

The quartermaster walked out into the sunshine and stood at the salute beside the sentry as Calvert walked down the brow. He waved several ancient-looking rickshaws aside and kept carefully within the shadows of the buildings. At least there were no clouds and no waterfall of rain in the offing.

Was it the girl who was getting the Skipper down, or the thought of having to leave her? Not that there would be anything between them. He stared at a shop window, at the reflection of an unknown flier who, in turn, was acting another role.

And why not?
When Calvert had been flying day trips and instructing young men and women with too much money for their own good, he had had his chances. He had explored a few of them, too. But nothing had lasted. Brooke was different. Anyone should be able to see that.

Horns hooted, and someone shouted, ‘What side of the bloody road do you think you're on?'

Calvert walked on. A drink, one of those gin slings, and a pipe of tobacco. After that . . .

‘Lieutenant Calvert!
Please
, not so fast!'

He swung round, startled by the use of his name. It was a young girl, all in white, with the single blue stripe of a junior Wren officer on her shoulder. She too had come to a halt, her body heaving with exertion and dismay.

Beyond her, a khaki car with some sort of badge painted on it was half on the pavement, one door still hanging open and watched with a mixture of rage and amusement by the other drivers.

‘I thought, I – thought . . .' Then she recovered herself. ‘
It is you
. But the beard – you see . . .'

He said quietly, ‘I missed the bus just now. But for that, I wouldn't have seen you.' He reached out and took both of her hands in his. It was impossible. It was sheer lunacy. ‘It must be fate.'

She searched his face. ‘I – I wrote to you. I had no idea where you were. It was a terrible cheek . . .'

He could not take his eyes from hers. ‘I wrote to you, too. You
may be able to read it one day.' He smiled for the first time. ‘That was a terrible cheek, too.'

She said, ‘Only arrived here two days ago. Even then I never dreamed . . .'

The car moved slightly and a tall uniformed figure stepped out into the sunshine. Calvert could tell he was pretty senior, but not a soldier. He was a Royal Marine.

The man said patiently, ‘When you're ready, Sue, I have work to do.' He smiled at Calvert's astonishment. ‘Otherwise, old chap, I'd let her go with you.' He got back into the car.

Calvert said quickly, ‘I must see you, Sue.'

‘You remembered my name . . .'

The girl on the train. Her husband Bob had gone down in the
Hood
. . . He touched his face and was still surprised that the beard was gone.

She said, ‘That was Brigadier Sexton. I'm his secretary.' She shook her head. ‘I can't
believe
this is happening!'

She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. ‘You can call me here.' She was retreating slowly towards the car, her eyes misty as she called, ‘It can't be happening!'

There was a big khaki lorry pushing slowly through the crowds.

A red-faced soldier leaned from the car and said loudly, ‘Very nice, too, Miss, but can you move the car so I can pass?'

Calvert followed her to the car and held the door for her. Two Chinese clapped their hands, and someone gave a weary cheer.

Calvert heard none of it. ‘Sorry, sir.'

The brigadier touched his neat moustache with one knuckle.

‘I
do
understand, Lieutenant. I'm not that bloody old!'

Calvert watched the car jolt from the pavement and carry on towards the harbour. He saw her look back at him; she might have waved.

Would he ever have recognised her, and why had she seen through his disguise? A dark, dingy train. Rain slashing the windows.

She was younger than he had remembered. Very young. She must have been newly commissioned as a third officer in the W.R.N.S. when she had been married. Her hair was dark and
curly, but shorter than he had believed. Her eyes? He was still not certain.

He walked almost unseeingly up a narrow passageway to where some old men were looking at one another's caged birds and listening to their song.

And now she was here
. He leaned suddenly against the wall and rubbed his eyes with his hand. They were stinging, and he was unable to stop it.

A woman emerged from a dark doorway and touched his sleeve. She could have been almost any age, and still had an almost mask-like beauty.

‘Come into my shop, sir.'

He realised that some passing soldiers were staring at him, probably imagining he was drunk.

It was cool in the little shop, with the fragrance of camphor and incense. As his eyes grew accustomed to the interior he realised that it was full of jewellery.

She said quietly, ‘I saw the lovely English lady. You buy a nice present for her, yes?' She guided him to a chair. ‘But first we take tea.' She busied herself behind the counter and added, ‘No shame in tears. No man is too strong for them.' She handed him a cup of tea with great care.

Calvert cleared his throat. ‘What would you suggest?'

‘Jade, of course. Jade right for pretty lady. Bring good luck all-time.'

He wanted to thank her, but did not know how.

Instead, all he could think of was one word.
Fate
.

Esmond Brooke stopped and looked up at the old temple's imposing entrance. He still did not really know why he had come, nor did he recall much of his journey from the harbour. He had been careful not to overdo it, because when he had left the dockyard he had been reminded of the last time, the breathtaking humidity of the monsoon and the heat across his shoulders in each airless street.

Dusk had fallen early as usual, and although the cooler breeze from Victoria Harbour brought some relief he was taking no chances. And now he was here. He tested his injured leg on the
first step. It was still sore, but the girl's sister had given him more ease than he could remember since the explosion.

He removed his cap and stepped through the great doors. Apart from some dusty lanterns and a few small coloured electric bulbs near the gilded statues, the interior was almost dark: But it all came back immediately: her hand on his arm in case he stumbled and injured his leg, the scent of her perfume mingling with the stranger smells of burning prayer-papers, joss-sticks and the overhead coils of incense.

Shadows moved around the statues, and joss-sticks glowed like red fireflies as the worshippers waved them back and forth while they knelt at the feet of the gods.