Sunset (26 page)

Yeung said, ‘Your Lieutenant Calvert was a good pilot. He must have been. I have taken some pains to discover about him. What he did before the war. I wish to use his knowledge. I have a seaplane here in Hong Kong. I employed a pilot.' He shrugged as if it was of little importance. ‘He died.'

‘If you are asking Calvert to check over your seaplane I must warn you . . .'

‘I know.' He patted his shoulder. ‘I understand. But people can change.' He glanced across at the two figures by the wall. Hemmed in by a noisy crowd of people, and yet somehow completely isolated from them. ‘Everyone has a price. It is the way of things.'

‘Would you like me to mention it, sir?'

Another little pat on the shoulder. ‘My friends call me Charles, you know.' He reached out suddenly and gripped Brooke's arm, his eyes compelling. ‘There will come a time when I will need more than your friendship.' He let his arm drop, the fire gone from him as swiftly as it had risen. ‘Yes, mention it to him. One never can tell.'

Doors were slamming, and feet clicked in the doorway.

Yeung said softly, ‘He is coming. To tell us that Hong Kong is an impregnable fortress. That Winston Churchill has promised never to break faith with us.'

‘You know what the brigadier's going to say?'

Yeung gave a tired smile. ‘I could have written it for him.'

There was a wave of hand-clapping, more uniforms and the red tabs of staff officers.

Yeung said, ‘There is a terrace here. On the other side. Take care of her until we leave.'

Brooke said, ‘You can trust me.'

‘I never doubted it. She has been hurt enough. I would not wish it to happen again.' He turned away and walked towards the small dais which had been erected for the newcomer's speech.

Brooke watched the Royal Marine brigadier's face as he climbed on to the little platform.

Small, neat moustache, thinning fair hair and piercing blue eyes. A military face. Little different from those at the Somme and Passchendaele, perhaps even Waterloo. No sign of doubt. Even less of imagination. Why did they begin wars with senior officers who had learned little from the one before?

But he was also thinking of Yeung's parting remark. It had sounded like a threat.

He pushed through some curtains where a few waiters were grouped to watch and listen, perhaps to discover their own future.
The terrace was deserted so that the girl stood out like a statue. Until he drew closer.

She was standing by a balustrade, her hair shining in a solitary light while the sea, shimmering like diamonds, made the perfect backdrop.

She wore a cheongsam again, but of a different colour, and in the single light it seemed to shine, kingfisher blue. It was sleeveless, and the side was slit almost to her hip. All the while he was watching her she was fastening some yellow flower in her hair, but her eyes never left his face.

She lowered her arms so that they hung at her sides and said, ‘You can see, no amah this time.'

He reached down for her hands. ‘You are enchanting, Lian.'

‘Do I enchant you?' Her voice was low, unemotional. ‘Is that what you are saying?' She removed one hand from his and placed it on his chest. ‘No closer. I am being a fool.' She shook her head when he began to interrupt her. ‘No! Soon you will go away. You and my rival.' She looked at him but the smile would not come. ‘I know it happens when men fight wars. It always will. My father says there must always be wars and brave men like you to be sacrificed because of pride and greed . . .'

He put his arm around her waist and turned her towards the glittering horizon. The feel of her supple body, the way she made no protest, filled him with desire for her, and despair at what she had said.

‘I have seen it in your country, Es-mond. The bravery of ordinary people with their lives and hopes in ruins because of war. But at least they are
there.
If you leave we will never meet again.'

They looked at one another with dismay. It was as if somebody else had spoken.

‘What could I offer you, Lian? Your life is far above mine, war or no war.'

She studied him, feature by feature, her expression very solemn.

‘You could give me love, and show me how to return it.'

His hands were on her waist, and he wanted to hold her until neither of them could stand it.

‘Your father spoke of your being hurt . . .'

She looked at him directly. ‘I was attracted to your brother. I think it was gratitude. He may have seen it as something else. It was hard to understand his thoughts.'

Brooke waited. He could feel her uncertainty and doubt like something physical. He knew too that she needed to explain.

‘I was in London. I had been helping some diplomatic people and naval officers to learn the languages. It was where I met Jeremy.'

It was the first time he had heard her use his name. It was like reopening an old wound.

‘I was too young, too sheltered by my upbringing to understand.' She faced him again, her eyes pleading. ‘There was a lot of drinking. Two of the men took me to a garden and tried to make me do things.' Her eyes flickered as she forced herself to relive the nightmare. ‘I was angry, and they forced me down.' Brooke watched one of her hands moving about her throat and between her breasts as if it belonged to an attacker. ‘They tore at my clothes and held me down so that . . .'

‘Don't say any more.' He put his arms around her very carefully, as if he might break her.

‘Your brother came. I was safe. But I have never forgotten it.' She was shaking, as though with sudden fever. ‘My father once said England would be invaded, lost. But I have been there.' She looked into his face; it was like defiance. ‘And I have met you.' She glanced over the balustrade into the black shadows of the garden below. Like that other one, perhaps? ‘I think, Es-mond, they will come here. And sometimes I am very afraid. Do you think that is the mind of a child?'

He touched her hair with its flowers and waited for her to become calmer.

‘I think it is the mind of a brave, beautiful girl.' He thought of the speech going on in another part of the hotel. It seemed like a thousand miles away. ‘I do love you, Lian. I want you so much I think I am driving myself mad.'

She nestled herself against him, her face hidden. ‘It is what I want.' She lifted her chin as he had seen her do before.
‘The Chinese always talk of thousands of years, millions sometimes. For us we must take what we can get, and receive what is offered.'

There was a burst of cheering, and the sound of clapping and feet stamping on the floor. All it needed was
Land of Hope and Glory
. But it no longer mattered. Nothing did, but what he held in his arms.

Then she asked, ‘Did you like the photograph?'

He nodded. ‘I loved it.' He looked at her for several seconds. ‘I love you.'

She stroked the skin near his eyes, her fingers so light that he could barely feel them.

‘Your eyes. Like a tiger.' She nodded, suddenly sure. ‘
My
tiger.'

Someone was whistling softly below the balustrade.

She pulled away. ‘William. His signal. We will be leaving now.' Then she changed her mind and put her arms around his neck so that he could feel her body against his. Like a touch of fire.

‘Kiss,' she said.

Then she slipped from his arms and walked swiftly to the passageway.

One of the yellow flowers had fallen from her hair, and with great care he put it inside his handkerchief.

He thought of his father. What would he have said?

Brooke touched his face where she had caressed it, and smiled. He knew exactly what his father would have said.

The overworked and dust-smeared Ford rattled to a halt outside some tall gates.

Brooke released his grip on a strap and gave a sigh of relief. ‘Not exactly like the Rolls, eh?' He glanced at Calvert, who had remained almost silent since the car had picked them up at the dockyard; deep in thought, perhaps, like their inscrutable Chinese driver.

They passed through Repulse Bay, a different scene again in the bright sunshine, the lush trees and shrubs glistening from a sudden overnight downpour.

Brooke said quietly, ‘Look, Toby, you don't have to do this just because I passed on Charles Yeung's message.'

Calvert smiled. ‘Maybe I'm curious, that's all.'

‘About the seaplane?'

He replied, ‘No, about me. How I shall react.'

Brooke had been tied up on board
Serpent
for three days after the reception for the visiting brigadier, studying new patrol areas and various instructions from the far-off Admiralty. There was a rumour, too, that
Serpent
might be going home to be fitted with radar. Active duty again.

When the car had lurched past the Repulse Bay Hotel he had remembered it all with a kind of pain and despair, mingled with intense happiness. The feel of her body against his. The impossibility of it.

They got out of the car. Perhaps Charles Yeung had chosen to use it because it was less noticeable than the big Phantom. Or were the mysteries only in his mind? Perhaps Hong Kong changed you like that.

He looked at the gates, daubed with Chinese characters and an uncompromising notice that said: KEEP OUT. NO ENTRANCE WITHOUT PERMISSION.

Above the gates on a sun-flaked sign it said,
Property of Coutts Steamship Packet Company
.

The driver had curled up in his seat and was reading a newspaper. Brooke said, ‘We'd better announce ourselves.'

But it was unnecessary. A small wicket-gate opened silently and a bowing figure in a rough leather jerkin beamed at them.

The place was larger than Brooke had expected. Rather like part of a naval dockyard, with rusting cable, pieces of old engines, packing-crates and every kind of gash scattered around in piles. His heart gave a leap as he saw the green Rolls-Royce standing near a jetty, a symbol of success set against decay.

He said, ‘Charles Yeung is already here.'

But Calvert was staring at a broad, corrugated-iron building like a hangar, which seemed to perch above the water itself. Brooke thought of the pretty girl he had seen with him at the reception. When he had mentioned her Calvert had been reluctant to speak of her, evasive even.
Third Officer Yorke
. It had sounded so formal, unlike the man himself.

Charles Yeung appeared from a small shack-like office, cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

He shook hands. ‘Good of you to come.' He glanced at Brooke, his eyes shrewd. ‘Both of you.'

He had some keys in his hand. ‘Are you ready?' Briefly, he sounded uncertain. Impatient.

‘May I come too?'

They turned as Lian came out of the office. All in white, one hand over her eyes in the glare reflected from the water.

It was perfect timing. Especially for Calvert.

He forced a smile. ‘It's all right by me, Miss Yeung.'

They waited while various keys were used before a side door squeaked inwards.

Brooke offered his hand as she stepped lightly over a rusty coaming and felt her squeeze it very gently. As they bowed through the small door she whispered, ‘I have missed you. I worried about it.'

Charles Yeung closed the door and said sharply, ‘The lights are not working.'

Brooke felt her move against him and sensed the tension like something alive.

After the sunshine it was like a black cave, but more than that it had a dead coldness, with a smell of wet metal and fuel. As the seconds passed he saw a vertical line of blurred gold, like a hanging thread, where two doors blocked off the hangar's entrance.

Calvert was standing a little apart from them, his mouth quite dry whilst he braced himself, facing up to something fearful. But familiar.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘Ready.'

Charles Yeung was talking on a telephone, and then first one and then the other big door began to swing open. Nobody spoke or moved while the doors continued to sweep aside, the sunlight spilling across the oily water and then on to the plane itself. Like a great bird of prey, swaying slightly on the current as if awakening, disturbed by a possible enemy.

Calvert stood quite upright, his knuckles pressing into the seams of his trousers until the pain helped to steady him. More
and more light, the seaplane appearing to grow, to rise towards the roof.

He forced his mind to take each moment at a time. A big, powerful, twin-engined aircraft, its twin floats moored and padded to wooden stages to prevent any risk of damage. He wanted to shut it out, close his eyes and hide from it. To explain for Brooke's sake, to plead with the men who had died on that June day so long ago.
Yesterday
.

Instead he heard himself say, ‘I used to fly a Fairey Seafox when I was in training. Smaller, single-engined, not like this brute.' A casual, professional remark. No emotion in his tone. Nothing.

Charles Yeung said, ‘Have a closer look. I am sorry about the lighting.'

Brooke felt the girl's fingers gripping his arm but doubted if she knew what she was doing. She too was watching Calvert's pale figure, the sudden disturbance beneath one of the floats as he stepped on to it and reached for a handhold.

Calvert could feel his heart pounding so loudly he was surprised the others could not hear it. He touched the cowl behind one of the triple-bladed props. An elegant, stylish plane in its day. It still was. He recalled his father describing the famous Schneider Trophy Race after the Great War. Seaplanes all. The sport and luxury of the few set against the unemployment and the unemployable, whose minds had been shattered in the mud and butchery of Flanders.

He touched the metal, smooth and surprisingly cool. Docile. At a guess it could carry four people and a small cargo.

His voice echoed around the hangar. ‘Italian, Mr Yeung. Seven-hundred-and-fifty horsepower Alfa Romeo radials.'