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.
There were brave letters from mothers and wives, although many of Serpent’s company were too young to be married.
Carefully worded, and full of concern for their men on the other side of the world. Little was said about the daily and nightly air-raids, of streets wiped out, of families torn apart by war. Compared with Hong Kong it was a living hell for those who had to grin and bear it.
There was always news of neighbours and friends who had lost someone at sea or in the air. The latter was happening more frequently now, as for the first time the Royal Air Force was taking the war into occupied Europe and over the enemy bases there. Rations, black-out, shortages, all were briefly mentioned, but in most of the letters there was only love. The yearning, sometimes never expressed in words, to see a particular face again.
A few of the envelopes were sealed with lipstick kisses. Fewer still had precious photographs inside to pass around. There was every sort of bad news too. A death in the family: enemy action or natural causes, it made little difference when half the world separated them.
And then, of course, there were the hated letters from friends.
Thought you should know, it seems only right with you out there fighting the war and risking your life. We’ve seen your wife out with so-and-so. Didn’t get home until morning . . .
Or, I’m not one to interfere, but your girl’s having it off with a bloody conchie of all people, he works on the farm . . . There were always a few anxious faces at the requestmen’s table the next day.
Even the wardroom was not immune.
It was quiet with most of the officers ashore, and the captain at the naval hospital to see the P.M.Q. Lieutenant Toby Calvert had the place to himself.
With a glass of fruit juice at his elbow while he thumbed through an ageing copy of Picture Post, he was half thinking of the mansion on the Peak where he had taken the signals file for Brooke’s approval.
Calvert had dealt with rich people several times and had been hired on occasion to fly their private aircraft to the south of France. The plummy jobs as he called them.
He had been greeted by the same lovely girl he had seen at the buffet party. She had been nice enough, but wary. No, protective: that was the word for it.
Brooke had been out of bed and wearing a silk dressing-gown, and he had looked better than Calvert had ever seen him. There had been a kind of boyishness in his face which he had probably believed would never be his again.
Calvert still didn’t know how it was between him and the girl. He had heard about Brooke’s brother. Maybe it was a rebound. He had seen it often enough.
Charles Yeung had come to see him out when he had been ready to leave.
‘I will have you driven, Mr Calvert.’
Calvert had the impression that he had been waiting for him.
‘Your captain is much improved, eh?’ He had looked at Calvert with those steady, penetrating eyes. ‘I have a favour to ask of you, Mr Calvert.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Yeung had smiled wryly. ‘So typical. A Chinese would first ask what it was, and then if there was money in it!’
The small chauffeur, whose name was apparently William, had entered at that moment. He, too, had been waiting.
Yeung had led Calvert to the front steps. ‘Later we will talk.’
Calvert still could not imagine what favour he could possibly want from a mere lieutenant, when he had most of the top brass in his pocket to all accounts.
Petty Officer Bert Kingsmill came into the wardroom wearing his familiar white jacket.
He said in his usual mournful tone, ‘Thought you might be here, sir. The dockyard men are aboard to make a last adjustment to the machine-gun mountings.’
‘Well, I’m not the O.O.D.’ Calvert put down the magazine. ‘Where’s Barrington-Purvis?’
Kingsmill gave what might have been a smirk. ‘Mr Barrington-Purvis is ashore.’ He sniffed. ‘Playin’ tennis.’ He made it sound obscene.
‘Then tell Mr Kipling. He’s on duty.’ He smiled. ‘I believe he’s quite a good hand with guns.’
Kingsmill turned to depart, working out what he was going to say. Then he turned and stopped. ‘Almost forgot, sir. Letter for you.’
Calvert took it, thinking it must be a mistake.
It bore his name and rank, complete with V.C., and a whole mixture of blue-pencilled instructions and crossings-out. He did not recognise either the postmark or the handwriting, and he felt himself trembling as he stared at it. Maybe it was from some crew member’s relative or girlfriend, trying to track him down ever since it happened, and wanting to know how it had been.
He swore and tore open the envelope.
It was a Hampshire address. He turned it over. The last line said, I hope you will forgive my writing to you like this out of the blue. But you were so kind to me on the train. It was signed Sue Yorke.
The hammers and drills started up again, and the tannoy droned, ‘Out pipes! Hands carry on with your work!’ Calvert heard none of it.
He spread the letter on the table and stared at it.
You may not even remember me but I felt I wanted to write to you after what happened. If this letter finds you I shall quite understand if you do not reply. I do not know your circumstances, where you are or what you are doing.
You will know about the terrible tragedy with my husband’s ship. She had omitted the ship’s name, probably for fear of the censor. Bob did not survive. I think I knew before it happened. My parents were a great help and it was when I mentioned you to Dad that he got all excited. He keeps a book of cuttings about the war. There were two about you. The handwriting was slightly smudged. Tears? You never said a word about it to me, what you did, and the Victoria Cross.
I decided to write to you because I knew you would understand. Nobody else does. Sympathy is not always enough. It’s like an ache, a void. Like a part of you taken away.
I hope you are keeping well. You are not to worry about those little scars on your face. They will go away, Dad says. They are honourable scars, and you must never forget it.
There was a different ink, as if she had changed pens while trying to make up her mind whether to finish or destroy the letter.
Calvert found he was touching his beard. Was it so obvious?
If you write to me, my Dad will forward it to me. I am using my unmarried name and hope to be going back into uniform. It might help.
He studied her signature. Round and neat, like a schoolgirl’s. He tried to remember her. In that murky first-class compartment it hadn’t been easy to see her. Small, pretty, and he thought probably dark, although the hat had covered her hair. A wedding ring and a naval brooch. It was little enough.
He stood up and walked to an open scuttle. Kowloon was fast disappearing again under a fresh onslaught of rain.
He would not answer her letter. What was the point? Another rebound perhaps, except that this girl had nothing left.
She must feel bitter. Cheated. There would be many more like her before this war ended, either way.
He returned to the table and looked at the address again. Winchester. Not all that far from where he had learned to fly.
Strange how an unknown girl had allowed that memory to return.
Back into uniform. The Wrens? He frowned. No, she had not known very much about ships, even the Hood.
He patted his pocket but remembered that his tobacco pouch was empty: he had taken all his stock to the house on the Peak for the skipper. He smiled. The Old Man. They were the same age.
He would ask Kingsmill to get some.
But instead he found himself at the wardroom desk, pulling open the drawer and taking out some writing paper with the ship’s fierce crest at the top. Hostibus Nocens, Innocens Amicus.
He sat down and took the cap off his pen.
When Kingsmill bustled in, tutting to himself, to close the scuttle as the rain splashed unheeded over the curtains. Lieutenant Toby Calvert, Victoria Cross, was still writing.
Kingsmill departed, glaring.
Bloody officers, never thought of anyone but themselves!
The big Rolls-Royce moved smoothly along a narrow street, untroubled by the uneven surface and the crowds of Chinese and occasional soldier or sailor.
Esmond Brooke was very conscious of the girl’s nearness in the other rear seat, of her perfume, and one hand which lay on a cushion close to his.
She touched his sleeve. ‘There it is. Where we found you.’
Brooke stared at the untidy corner shop with its array of dried fish, the owner still standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette as if he had not moved. He was astonished to realise he could barely remember anything about it. Almost guiltily he glanced down at the car’s carpet, but, like his freshly-pressed uniform, there was no trace of blood.
‘More comfortable than walking, yes?’
He turned and looked at her: all in white again, with a pale green blouse showing beneath her jacket. Her hair was piled on her head as when he had first seen her and she wore long, ornate jade earrings, which he found himself wanting to touch.
‘You are staring again, Commander Brooke!’
He smiled. ‘It is a pleasure for me – ’ he hesitated over her name, ‘Lian.’
‘We are coming to the temple that you wished to see.’
Brooke looked between the chauffeur, William, and the tiny black-clad figure of Lian’s companion: she had once been amah to Lian and her sister and had stayed on with the family. Her name was Nina Poon, a very grim-faced little woman whose features were covered with lines and wrinkles.
When they had got into the car Lian had remarked, ‘We take Nina. Otherwise it is not proper for well brought-up Chinese girl to be seen alone with male person.’
Brooke never knew if she was being serious or whether she was making a private joke.
William opened the sliding glass panel that separated him from his passengers.
‘Man Mo Temple, Captain!’
Brooke peered at heavy railings and gates as the car glided to a halt. He pulled himself to the edge of the deep seat and knew she was watching him.
She asked, ‘Still hurt?’
He shook his head. ‘Much better. Your sister knows her profession.’
She shrugged. ‘My father thinks differently. He does not approve. She should be married into a proper life with her husband, have children.’
‘Is that what he wants of you?’
The door was opened for them and the car’s cool interior admitted the furnace heat of the street. She did not answer him, or perhaps she had not heard.
A chattering crocodile of small Chinese schoolgirls parted to let them through. The old amah followed at a discreet distance.
William saluted and said for Brooke’s benefit, ‘Be here when you want, Missy. No hurry.’
Through the entrance and Brooke had to pause to allow his eyes to accustom themselves to the near darkness of the temple. Then he gazed around, aware for the first time that there were several people already here. A woman with a shopping basket knelt before one of the gods, bowing several times with her eyes closed, while the pair of joss-sticks she held up to the god made trails of smoke and incense. Overhead hung faded red silk lanterns, decorated with long black tassels, and cone-shaped coils of incense which Brooke thought must burn for days. It all seemed very casual. A couple of attendants in singlets and shorts were burning prayer papers in a great iron censer, while they smoked their cigarettes and chatted to one another. A thin cat slept, curled up on one of the rosewood chairs arranged along the two outer walls; and an old man in a black skull cap was making notes in a newspaper.
She whispered, ‘Picking horses for Happy Valley!’
The woman had finished her prayers and left the smouldering joss-sticks in a brazier on the altar before the god.
Lian asked, ‘What do you think?’
Brooke hesitated, then whispered, ‘I think it’s wonderful. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
She watched his profile against the lights and the gifts waiting for the gods’ attention. Fruit, little cakes, even cigarettes. No pomp. No attempt to impress or awe. It was all the more inspiring, he thought.
She said quietly, ‘There are many gods here. But the temple was built for two of them, nobody really knows how long ago. Some say there has always been a temple here. The King-Emperor Man, and the holy King-Emperor Kwan. Many people come here for help and guidance.’ She watched the old man frowning over his newspaper. ‘And for matters of joy and entertainment.’
A chair scraped and Brooke saw the old amah sitting down. But her bright eyes, which shone in the lanterns like red stones, never left him.
‘May we sit down a moment, please?’ He did not know why he had said it.
She took his arm and guided him up the steps, closer to the statues. A dog dozed by one of the altars, glad to be out of the heat.
‘Here.’ They sat side by side, and then she said, ‘What did your navy doctor have to say?’
‘He was very impressed. I will still have trouble with it. There are some metal fragments left there. Very small.’
She said, ‘I saw the wounds.’
He stared at her. ‘You what?’
She did not turn. ‘Do not be angry. The gods will not like it.’ Then she said, ‘I wanted to help. I know how important your ship is to you. My father told me some of it . . . I think I saw the rest in your eyes. When your officer came to the house I could understand how he felt about you. It is something men share sometimes, women only rarely.’
More people entered the smoky and dusty temple and they watched them kneel and worship as the others had done.
She looked at him in her very direct way. ‘When you fell that day,’ she grappled with it for several seconds, ‘you dropped a wallet. It was all wet when William picked it up.’
She reached out and grasped his wrist, her fingers surprisingly cold. ‘There was a picture. I tried to dry it for you. Of a girl. You love her?’
Brooke laid his hand on hers, holding her fingers between them.
‘I thought I did.’
‘But you do not . . . ?’
He knew it was suddenly important. ‘She married my brother.’
‘I see.’ She was pulling her hand away. ‘I did not know about her until afterwards.’
He saw her staring around the temple as if she did not know where she was. Afterwards? It might mean anything.
She continued in the same low voice, ‘It seems we were both mistaken, Commander Brooke.’
She stood up quickly and for a moment he imagined she was going to leave him.
Instead, she walked to one of the attendants and took four joss-sticks from him.
‘Come.’ She held them over a candle until all four were smoking. ‘We pray now.’
He knelt stiffly on one of the well-used cushions and stared up at the images of Man and Mo. They gazed back at him while the incense curled around them from the many smouldering sticks.
She glanced at him, her eyes in shadow; but her jade necklace was moving to reveal the intensity of her emotion.
She said simply, ‘Say nothing. They will unroll your thoughts.’
So he thought: of his father, his jokes and his memories of so many places. Hong Kong had been one of them. Had he ever come here?
He thought of Sarah, who was expecting a baby. In other circumstances, it might have been his. Perhaps she had not realised that Jeremy had no use for sentiment. He might display some counterfeit of it if he thought it might help his progress, but it went no deeper. Maybe, after all, she was like him.
And he thought of Lian. Did the gods, who were sharing these thoughts, find nothing strange in this unsettling situation? That this lovely Chinese girl, about whom he knew almost nothing, had helped dress his wounded and, in his eyes, obscene leg? Sarah had been repelled by it.
Did the gods know the future?
He helped her to her feet and together they planted their josssticks side by side.
She bowed towards the nearest altar and said, ‘We can only hope.’
Then she said in a different voice, ‘You will come back to the house for some tea?’
‘I have to go to the ship.’
She nodded. ‘I will take you to the dockyard.’
He heard the old amah shuffling after them and saw William standing on the pavement, dwarfed by the car he drove with such pride.
She asked directly, ‘Will you be sailing for England soon?’
Again, he knew it was important. ‘I think it unlikely.’ He watched her face but it gave nothing away.
She said, ‘I could not rescue the photograph. I am very afraid it had been spoiled.’
They faced one another, and again he was very aware of her, and wanted to tell her so.
‘That is all right, Lian.’
Then she smiled for the first time since they had come to the temple.
‘I hoped it would be,’ she said.
They drove back slowly towards the harbour, along Connaught Road and past the piers and busy shipping.
At the gateway to the little naval dockyard a sentry snapped to attention as the car rolled impressively to a halt; but the sailor showed no surprise or curiosity. Charles Yeung was obviously very well known in Victoria.
Brooke got out and looked at her. ‘I would like to see you again.’
He heard voices and glanced round in time to see Pike, the coxswain, and his friend Andy Laird the chief stoker, with their arms around the shoulders of Onslow, the yeoman of signals. All disentangled themselves and saluted.
Brooke saw that Onslow wore his new petty officer’s peaked cap and shirt with blue badges pinned in place. He had heard that as soon as Onslow had his proper rate confirmed the chief and petty officers’ mess were going to pay for a completely new, made-to-measure fore-and-aft uniform. They had obviously been celebrating.
Pike grinned hugely. ‘Takin’ Yeo ashore for a spot of sightseein’, sir!’
They all chuckled but their eyes were on the girl inside the splendid car.
Brooke smiled. ‘Get along with you! And congratulations, Yeo!’
Andy Laird nodded. ‘All right for some, eh, Swain?’
But Pike knew exactly how far he could go. ‘Beats the Smoke any time, don’t it, sir?’
They all tottered away, set on a good time.
He explained quietly, ‘My yeoman of signals lost his wife and child just before we came here.’
He turned back to her and saw her watching his mouth as if to read each word.
‘They like you.’ She looked suddenly sad. ‘I must be careful, or I might like you also. That would never do, I think.’
He lifted her hand off the lowered window and kissed it. People hurried past and neither stared nor made any obvious comment.
He said, ‘I will call you, Lian.’
She held her hand to her cheek, her eyes very bright.
‘Good-bye, Es-mond.’
The car moved away and Brooke stared after it, but she did not look back.
Es-mond. He had never cared for his first name. Like everything else, the girl had given it a new value.