Summer of the Three Pagodas Page 3

  ‘One more female in a convent? Can’t see it’s a problem.’

  She couldn’t believe how irrepressible he was, determined to persuade her to take up the posting. If he was trying to prove himself patriotic, he was doing a good job.

  ‘I’m not inclined to go. Anyway, I understand the situation there is a little unstable.’

  He shrugged. ‘Some. Not that we’re expecting anything to happen. The North Koreans know better than to defy the United Nations.’

  He sounded pompously sure about this.

  ‘There are other issues…’ she began. ‘I set up Victoria House when there was little else, and even though things are changing—’

  The colonel cut in. ‘Just to clarify my earlier comments regarding the trustees, there’s been talk. They’re a strait-laced lot and you’re unmarried.’ He said it sharply, accusingly. ‘I’m surprised they’ve let you stay on.’

  ‘I set up Victoria House without their help,’ she said, bristling with indignation and not giving him the satisfaction of blushing.

  ‘But they’re in charge now. Even if they let you stay on, they could give you a hard time seeing as you’ve got a kid and no husband.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘I’m paid to dare, but quite frankly your sexual morals are of no importance to me. First priority is to get the job done. Being married or single is of no consequence.’

  ‘I might suddenly get married. Would it bar me from going?’

  He grimaced.

  ‘Not necessarily, unless you decided to start a family on your honeymoon.’

  Again, that forced laugh that didn’t quite make it to his lips and made her shiver.

  She shook her head. ‘I really don’t think—’

  ‘I don’t need an answer pronto. Think about it.’ His tone was dismissive. His pale blue eyes swept over her file to many others. Their interview was over.

  She left, unaware of him watching the door as it closed behind her.

  Once she’d gone his eyes snapped open, looking at the door, his mouth a thin straight line. He was determined to get her there and if he couldn’t persuade her through normal channels, then he’d have to use alternative methods and dubious contacts. Subterfuge was a skill learned over years of worldly turmoil, getting the job done for his country and mankind in general. But not this time. This time he had his own agenda. This time it was for him.

  He picked up the phone and dialled a number in downtown Hong Kong.

  ‘I need a statement from you in writing.’

  ‘Oh, do you now!’

  ‘Don’t play with me, Sister.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want it in writing.’

  ‘I told you. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No. I want it in writing.’

  ‘It’ll cost you.’

  She laughed in a way that made him want to slap her, or at least pin her to the bed and do what he usually did to her.

  ‘No it won’t. A one-way ticket to America. That’s it.’

  ‘And a job there?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘Any other fringe benefits?’

  ‘I’m married.’

  ‘But not happily. She doesn’t give you what I give you. I give you everything.’

  ‘A statement. I want a statement from you. Not for me to use straight away, but just in case.’

  ‘I’ll get it to you.’

  He thought about her firm breasts and the fact that she never refused him anything. Anything!

  ‘No. I’m coming to you.’

  Chapter 2

  The old man’s white beard trailed like a wisp of smoke from his chin. His features were as smooth as a piece of jade moulded by many years of variable weather. It was assumed by those who saw but did not know him that his unflinching gaze saw only shadows of the world he’d once seen so clearly.

  Every day he sat in the doorway of the house opposite Connor’s Bar smoking a long thin pipe that looked as though it might once have been a sinewy rib and thus naturally shaped for its present use.

  At night a woman they assumed to be his daughter, a black-haired woman with a flat face, emerged from the gloom inside the house to fetch him in for his evening meal, heaving him up from his chair as she might a sack of rice.

  No matter the weather, he did not remain inside for long. As darkness fell the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe waxed and waned like a firefly permanently perched in the same place, the same position. They could see him from inside the bar.

  ‘He’s there all night. Nothing else to do, I suppose. Poor old guy; mind you, his daughter takes good care of him. Brings his meals out, fills his pipe with tobacco…’

  ‘Have they lived there long?’

  ‘A few months.’

  Rowena took a sip of her drink, her thoughts her own and far from the scene across the way. The notice from the trustees had been expected. She could cope. Being summoned to Colonel Warrington’s office had been something of a surprise.

  So far, she had kept the meeting to herself, but Connor’s sidelong looks were unsettling. He knew something was troubling her, her speech was clipped, her manner taut, the message that she was loath to share her thoughts abundantly clear. But he wouldn’t press. He would stay patient until she was ready to confide in him.

  She could almost feel his curiosity, seeping out through his clothes just like the warmth of his body. At present he was standing next to her, pretending to be absorbed in tuning his beloved violin, his eyes darting between her and the old guy across the road.

  ‘Do you think he’s watching us?’ he asked in a light, non-confrontational tone.

  ‘He’s blind.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Are you sure he’s not?’

  Connor grinned. ‘Not being a medical man, I haven’t given him a full eye test, but he looks blind to me.’

  ‘I suppose he does.’

  She fingered her glass, tapping the rim in time with her unspoken thoughts. Her hair had fallen forward, her bent head hiding her downcast eyes.

  Connor could barely take his eyes off her, wanted her just as much now as he had done the moment she’d entered his bar back in 1941.

  He reckoned he knew every inch of her better than anyone, both what was on the surface as well as the more intimate zones. Today he was settling for what everyone else could see, though reckoned he appreciated it far more than they ever could.

  Tendrils of fine dark hair lay slightly damp on the nape of her neck, tempting him to reach across and stroke each tress in turn. He held back as he always did when he sensed her retreating into herself.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts, me darling.’

  She smiled. He’d purposely put on a deeper Irish brogue than normal.

  ‘They’ll cost you more than that.’

  His eyebrows arched. ‘Will they now!’

  She pressed her empty glass against his chest. ‘Another Singapore Sling.’

  ‘Your wish is my command.’ He took the glass from her, passing it to the part-time barman he’d recently hired.

  ‘How was Dawn?’

  ‘She was well.’

  ‘Enjoying school?’

  ‘Queen Alexandra’s was a good choice.’

  ‘But missing her mother?’

  Rowena took a sip of her drink pulling in her lips behind it.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  Dawn was Rowena’s daughter and one of twins, fathered by a Japanese whose name she did not know in circumstances she preferred not to remember. The war had been over for some years. What had happened could not be reversed and despite everything, Rowena had learned to love her daughter, though God knows she didn’t always show it. The pressures of her work with refugees meant she had little family time, so even though Dawn was only seven years old, Rowena had opted for a school where she could board five days of the week and have her home at weekends.

  After passing her the fresh drink, Connor reached for his fiddle. ‘You need cheering up. A
nd don’t tell me there’s nothing wrong. You’ve got a face like a rhubarb crumble.’

  ‘What?’ For the first time this evening, her voice gurgled with laughter.

  He winked suggestively. ‘Don’t worry. I like a good rhubarb crumble meself. The custard takes away the sourness of the rhubarb and makes it taste sweeter.’

  She flipped his shoulder in mock condemnation when in fact she knew there was serious sincerity in the saucy comparison.

  Connor’s wily hands enticed an energetic jig that had her tapping her feet despite herself.

  ‘Whiskey in the Jar’.

  She hummed along. Neither of them seemed to have the strength or inclination to sing tonight.

  Once the notes had died away and the night deepened, the bar got busier, regular drinkers mixing with regular gamblers sidling quietly towards the door that led to the room where chairs crowded around roulette and poker. The door to the ad hoc casino was firmly closed once they’d entered.

  His eyes were on her. He hadn’t asked how her day was and unless he did she would keep the details to herself. The details of Colonel Warrington’s offer could wait to be aired another day.

  ‘Are you staying tonight?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’ve an early start in the morning. A late one too, no doubt.’

  ‘Me darling, you work too hard,’ he said, passing his arm around her shoulder before his fingers found her neck, massaging and fingering the soft fronds of hair that he’d wanted to stroke earlier.

  ‘I like my job.’

  ‘I know you do. You’re a veritable Florence Nightingale. And the flood of refugees goes on. Like a tide they are. Have you seen the walled city? The buildings are getting higher and higher – skyscraper hovels.’

  ‘Yes. I have. The war’s long been over, but the repercussions are still with us, God knows for how many years.’

  ‘The tide won’t be stemmed. Anyway, it doesn’t mean you have to wear yourself out trying to make things right.’

  ‘But I do,’ she responded, her eyes flashing. ‘I do. I think of all those who died before my eyes and at times – I know it sounds crazy – but I can’t help feeling guilty that I’m still alive. I survived against all the odds. And now I have to make amends. I thought you of all people understood that.’

  There was pleading in her eyes and despite it being an inappropriate moment he was stirred with a sudden longing to take her to bed, and it wasn’t entirely due to a need to reaffirm that he was still alive.

  Connor’s face clouded over. ‘I understand that. Harry died and I lived.’

  Harry had been his best friend. Even after all this time he still thought of him, how he’d died, how much they’d loved one another – not in the physical sense though Harry would have welcomed that. Not as lovers, but brothers. We happy few, we band of brothers…

  She looked up at him. ‘“We happy few, we band of brothers.” Shakespeare certainly got that one right.’

  He blinked. At first he’d put the way she could read what he was thinking down to pure coincidence. Now he understood it was because the two of them were almost melded together, no longer two people but one – joined at the hip – whatever that might mean. His mother would have known.

  ‘I’ve got time off at the end of the week – my first weekend in ages.’

  ‘Just the two of us then.’

  ‘Three actually. Dawn will be home.’

  ‘Family outings then.’

  ‘You were hoping it was just going to be the two of us.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We’ll only bore each other, longstanding as we are. The child keeps us young. Gives us something to talk about.’

  ‘We’ve always got something to talk about.’

  ‘This is true.’

  It was indeed, but no matter the light-hearted banter between them, there was something she wasn’t saying and it irked him. It wasn’t like her to hold back, not this woman who so easily read his thoughts, almost word for word at times.

  As she gathered up her things, preparing to leave him – at least for the night – he got out his accounts book, running his finger down a column of figures he should have checked weeks ago. Accounts were not his strong point though he could be quite creative when he wanted to be.

  The night air was crisp with the smell of things sizzling in soy and oil, crisp leaves curling in a pool of spiced heat.

  They were close enough to breathe each other’s breath and he was about to kiss her but suddenly looked up and down the alley.

  ‘You do realise I have nosy neighbours, waiting for us to kiss and squeeze the life out of each other.’

  She laughed and shook her head.

  ‘When has that ever stopped you? Us,’ she added, correcting herself.

  She saw the twinkle in his eyes replaced by a more searching look. There was humour but also concern.

  She opted to match his humour.

  ‘We’re not going to make love in the street. At least not right now.’

  ‘Being a bit of a show-off, I’m disappointed.’

  ‘You’ll have to stay that way.’

  He was compensated with a peck on the cheek, then a more lingering kiss on his mouth.

  The smell of tobacco smoke came from across the road. A yellow flame flashed into existence, the pipe being relit. The smoke increased in volume and pungency.

  ‘We are being watched,’ he said, his chin almost resting on her head, his eyes catching the small happenings across the road.

  ‘Then you’d better make it look obvious than I’m going home.’ She chucked him under the chin. ‘We don’t want to ruin your reputation, do we, darling.’

  He laughed, put his arm around her and opened the car door.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  One more kiss. Her hands were on the wheel. She switched on the engine.

  ‘A big improvement on that old starting handle you had with the other car.’

  ‘I loved that other car. Though not the starting handle.’

  Accompanied by a puff of exhaust smoke she was off.

  Without even a backward glance, he thought dismally. That was before she raised her hand in a static wave. Then she was gone.

  Back in the bar he played a sad song because that’s how he was feeling. ‘Plaisir d’amour’.

  A sad song about the pains of love, but any music gave him pleasure. His mood faded along with the music and soon he was feeling his old self again.

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ he said to Yang who smiled cheerfully at first. The smile faded when he saw the look on Connor’s face.

  ‘Dr RoRo upset you?’

  Connor frowned. ‘Not really. She just didn’t seem her normal self.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Yang. ‘Women are not normal like men are normal. Their mood is either up in the sky or deep in the water, upsetting the balance that is within all men but not in women.’

  ‘So, as a man of the world, what do you suggest I do about it, Yang?’

  Yang shook his head soulfully.

  ‘There is nothing you can do. Women have been that way since the day they fell from heaven.’

  *

  She was in time to catch the last ferry. The dark water was peppered with lights from swinging lanterns on fishing boats and sampans. The latter were bundled together forming a causeway from the furthest out to those nudging the land.

  As far as she could see, Hong Kong had not changed very much since the first time she’d set foot here just before the outbreak of war. She’d entertained the option to go home, but seeing as the war seemed confined to Europe, she’d stayed put. It had proved to be her downfall.

  How many times, she wondered, have I used this ferry?

  Memories burst into her mind. Foremost amongst them was the night she’d met Connor on what had been planned as a fun night in Kowloon.

  Back then in 1941 she had driven aboard in a car lent to her by an admirer who had gone on to leave it to her in his will. Unwilling to continue using its
cantankerous starting handle, she had long since got rid of it and bought a new one. Much easier to drive, not that she was thinking about cars as the ferry headed towards the blinking and ever increasing light of Hong Kong Island.

  You should have told him about your meeting with the colonel, so why didn’t you?

  The answer came like a page that suddenly turns in a book and reveals the interior thought that points to an instinctive feeling about somebody’s motive. Colonel Warrington was not a charming man. His abrupt speech, his curt manner declared a man of black and white views. There were no grey areas, no leeway given for making the wrong decision or wrong move. In effect, he had his own set of rules and something, something she couldn’t quite work out, was behind this trip to Korea.

  ‘Never mind,’ she whispered as she watched luminescence stream along the side of the ferry. ‘You’ve no intention of going, so it really doesn’t matter.’

  In fact, she thought, something pretty drastic would have to happen to change your mind. Your home is in Hong Kong with Dawn and with Connor and something pretty big would have to happen to change that.

  Chapter 3

  Noon the next day was hot and humid which was only to be expected. What happened next was not expected.

  Connor heard the grinding gears of a Land Rover before the brakes were put on and knew even before he ventured out that the Hong Kong police were in the neighbourhood. Land Rovers were robust vehicles and as a consequence their engines were built to last and not to be silent. The Hong Kong police had a whole fleet of them and could be heard coming long before they actually appeared.

  Brandon McCloud, a look of disdain on his rugged face, raised his hand in Connor’s direction and when Connor crossed the street, filled him in on his reason for this morning visit.

  ‘A woman came screaming into my office to say that the djinns had come in the middle of the night and killed her father. I asked her for a description of these djinns and had she seen them in the act of killing her father, but you know how it is.’

  ‘Djinns are shifting, shapeless things that disguise themselves as anything they want to be.’

  ‘Correct. Having nothing much else to do, I’ve come to investigate. The doctor’s with me.’