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Amelia had taken Claire under her wing, introducing her to people, inviting her to lunch, but Claire was often uncomfortable in her company, listening to her sharp observations and often biting innuendo. Still, she clung to her as someone who could help her navigate this strange new world. She knew her mother would approve of someone like Amelia, even be impressed that Claire knew such people.
Outside, the thwack of a tennis ball punctuated the low buzz and tinkle of conversation and cocktails. Claire’s group migrated towards a large tent pitched next to the courtyard.
‘People come and play tennis?’ Claire asked.
‘Yes – in this weather, can you believe it?’
‘I can’t believe they have a tennis court,’ said Claire with wonder.
‘And I can’t believe what you can’t believe,’ Amelia said archly.
Claire blushed. ‘I’ve just never –’
‘I know, darling,’ Amelia said. ‘Just a village girl.’ She winked to take the sting out of her comment.
‘You know what Penelope Davies did the other day?’ Marjorie interrupted. ‘She went to the temple at Wong Tai Sin with an interpreter, and had her fortune told. She said it was remarkable how much the old woman knew!’
‘What fun,’ Amelia said. ‘I’ll take Wing and try it out too. Claire, we should go!’
‘Sounds fun,’ Claire said.
‘Did you hear about the child in Malaya who had hiccups for three months?’ Marjorie was asking Martin, who had joined them with drinks in hand. ‘The Briggs child. His father’s the head of the Electricity over there. His mother almost went mad. They tried a witch doctor but no results. They didn’t know whether to take him back to England or just trust in fate.’
‘Can you imagine having hiccups for more than an hour?’ Claire said. ‘I’d go mad! That poor child.’
Martin knelt down to play with a small boy who had wandered over. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Martin wants children,’ Claire said, sotto voce, to Amelia. Despite herself, she often found herself confiding to Amelia. She had no one else to talk to.
‘All men do, darling,’ Amelia said. ‘You have to negotiate the number before you start popping them out or else they’ll want to keep going. I got Angus down to two before we started.’
‘Oh,’ Claire said, startled. ‘That seems so … unromantic.’
‘What do you think married life is?’ Amelia said. She cocked an eyebrow at Claire. Claire blushed, and excused herself to go to the powder room.
When she returned, Amelia had drifted away and was talking to a tall man Claire had never seen before. She waved her over. He was a man of around forty with a crude cane that looked as if it had been whittled by a child. He had sharp, handsome features and a shock of black hair, run through with strands of grey, ungroomed.
‘Have you met Will Truesdale?’ Amelia said.
‘I haven’t,’ she said, as she put out her hand.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. His hand was dry and cool, almost as if it were made of paper.
‘He’s been in Hong Kong for ages,’ Amelia said. ‘An old-timer, like us.’
‘Quite the experts, we are,’ he said. He suddenly looked alert. ‘I like your scent,’ he said. ‘Jasmine, is it?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Newly arrived?’
‘Yes, just a month.’
‘Like it?’
‘I never imagined living in the Orient, but here I am.’
‘Oh, Claire, you should have had more imagination,’ Amelia said, gesturing to a waiter for another drink.
Claire coloured again. Amelia was in rare form today.
‘I’m delighted to meet someone who’s not so jaded,’ Will said. ‘All you women are so worldly it quite tires me out.’
Amelia had turned away to take her drink and hadn’t heard him. There was a pause, but Claire didn’t mind it.
‘It’s Claire’s birthday,’ Amelia told Will, turning back. She smiled, brittle, red lipstick stained her front tooth. ‘She’s just a baby.’
‘How nice,’ he said. ‘We need more babies around these parts.’
He suddenly reached out his hand and slowly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A possessive gesture, as if he had known her for a long time. ‘Sorry,’ he said. Amelia had not seen; she had been scanning the crowd.
‘Sorry for what?’ Amelia asked, turning back, distracted.
‘Nothing,’ they both said. Claire looked down at the floor. They were joined in their collusive denial; it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly intimate.
‘What?’ Amelia said impatiently. ‘I can’t hear a damn thing above this din.’
‘I’m twenty-eight today,’ Claire said, not knowing why.
‘I’m forty-three.’ He nodded. ‘Very old.’
Claire couldn’t tell if he was joking.
‘I remember the celebration we had for you at Stanley,’ Amelia said. ‘What a fête.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘You’re still with Melody and Victor?’ Amelia enquired of him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It suits me for now.’
‘I’m sure it suits Victor just fine to have an Englishman chauffeuring him around,’ she replied slyly.
‘It seems to work for everyone involved,’ Will said, not taking the bait.
Amelia leaned towards him confidentially. ‘I hear there’s been chatter about the Crown Collection and its disappearance during the war. Angus says it’s starting to come to the boil. People have noticed. Have you heard anything?’
‘I have,’ he said.
‘They want to ferret out the collaborators.’
‘A bit late, don’t you think?’
After a pause, when it became apparent that nothing more was forthcoming from Will, she spoke again: ‘I hope the Chens are treating you well?’
‘I can’t complain,’ he said.
‘A bit odd, though, isn’t it? You working over there?’
‘Amelia,’ he said. ‘You’re boring Claire.’
‘Oh, no,’ Claire protested. ‘I’m just …’
‘Well, you’re boring me,’ he said. ‘And life is too short to be bored. Claire, have you been to the different corners of our fair colony? Which is your favourite?’
‘Well, I have been exploring a little. Sheung Wan is lovely – I do like the markets – and I’ve been over to Kowloon, Tsim Sha Tsui on the Star Ferry, of course, and seen all the shops there. It’s very lively, isn’t it?’
‘See, Amelia?’ Will said. ‘An Englishwoman who ventures outside of Central and the Peak. You would do well to learn from this newcomer.’
Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘She’ll grow tired of it soon enough. I’ve seen so many of these bright-eyed new arrivals, and they all end up having tea with me at the Helena May and complaining about their amahs.’
‘Well, don’t let Amelia’s rosy attitude affect you too much, Claire,’ Will said. ‘At any rate, it was a pleasure to meet you. Best of luck in Hong Kong.’ He nodded to them politely and left. She felt the heat of his body as he passed her.
Claire felt bereft. He had assumed they would not meet again. ‘Odd man?’ she said. It was more of a statement.
‘You’ve no idea, dear,’ Amelia said.
Claire peeked after him. He had floated over to the side of the tennis court, although he had some sort of limp, and was watching Peter Wickham and his son hit the ball at each other.
‘He’s also very serious now,’ Amelia said. ‘Can’t have a proper conversation with him. He was quite sociable before the war, you know, you saw him at all the parties, had the most glamorous girl in town, quite high up at Asiatic Petrol, but he never really recovered after the victory. He’s a chauffeur, now.’ Her voice dropped. ‘For the Chens, actually, do you know who they are?’
‘Amelia!’ Claire said. ‘I give their daughter piano lessons! You helped me arrange it!’
‘Oh dear. The memory goes first, they say. You’ve never run into him there?’
‘Never,’ Claire said. ‘Although the Chens once suggested he might give me a lift home.’
‘Poor Melody,’ said Amelia. ‘She’s very fragile.’ The word said delicately.
‘Indeed,’ Claire said, remembering the way Melody had sipped her drink, quickly, urgently.
‘The thing with Will is …’ Amelia hesitated. ‘I’m quite certain he doesn’t need to work at all.’
‘How do you mean?’ Claire asked.
‘I just know certain things,’ Amelia said mysteriously.
Claire didn’t ask. She wouldn’t give Amelia the satisfaction.
September 1941 (#ulink_47a468da-f6e5-5064-9bf5-523236925aa1)
Trudy is dressing for dinner while he watches from the bed. She has finished her mysterious bathing ritual, with its oils and unguents, and now she smells marvellous, like a valley in spring. She is sitting at her dressing-table in a long peach satin robe, wrapped silkily round her waist, applying fragrant creams to her face.
‘Do you like this one?’ She gets up and holds a long black dress in front of her.
‘It’s fine.’ He can’t concentrate on the clothes when her face is so vibrant.
‘Or this one?’ A knee-length dress the colour of orange sherbet.
‘Fine.’
She pouts. Her skin gleams. ‘You’re so unhelpful.’
She tells him Manley Haverford is having a party, an end-of-summer party at his country house this weekend and that she wants to go. Manley is an old bigot who used to have a radio talk show before he married a rich but ugly Portuguese woman who conveniently died two years later whereupon he retired to live the life of a country squire in Saikung.
‘Desperately,’ she says. ‘I want to go desperately.’
‘You loathe Manley,’ he says. ‘You told me so last week.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘But his parties are fun and he’s very generous with the drinks. Let’s go and talk about how awful he is right in front of him. Can we go? Can we? Can we?’ She wears him down. They will go.
So on Friday, late afternoon, he plays truant from work and they spend the twilight hours bathing in the ocean by Manley’s house. To get there, they drive narrow, winding roads carved out of the green mountain, blue water on their right, verdant hillside on their left. His house is through a dilapidated wooden gate and at the end of a long driveway, beside the sea, with a porch that juts out, and rough stone steps leading down to the beach. He’s had coolers filled with ice and drinks and sandwiches brought down to the sandy inlet. The still-hot sun and the water make them ravenous and they eat and eat and eat and curse their host for not bringing enough.
‘Me?’ he asks. ‘I assumed I had invited civilized people, who ate three meals a day.’
Victor and Melody Chen, Trudy’s cousins, wander down from the house, where they had been resting.
‘What are we doing now?’ Melody asks. Will likes her, thinks she’s nice, when she’s not with her husband.
A woman they have never met before, newly arrived from Singapore, suggests they play Charades. They all moan but acquiesce.
Trudy is one team’s leader, the Singapore woman the other. The groups huddle together, write words on scraps of damp paper. They put them into the empty sandwich basket.
Trudy goes first. She looks at her paper, dimples. ‘Easy peasy,’ she says encouragingly to her group. She makes the film sign, one hand rotating an imaginary camera lever.
‘Film!’ shouts an American.
She puts up four fingers, then suddenly ducks her head, puts her arms in front of her and whooshes through the air.
‘Gone With the Wind,’ Will says. Trudy curtsies.
‘Unfair,’ says someone from the other team. ‘Pet’s advantage.’
Trudy comes over and plants a kiss on his forehead. ‘Clever boy,’ she says, and sinks down next to him.
Singapore gets up.
‘She’s your nemesis,’ Will tells Trudy.
