by Judy Nunn
‘And if I agree to exchange the locket for your payment, then what lesson will your son have learned?’
‘Humiliation,’ Matthew said triumphantly. ‘The greatest way to teach a man his place. Humiliation! Amongst those closest to him, my son will be perceived as a thief. His friends and his family will know that Tom stole his grandmother’s locket and that I repurchased it to keep it in trust for those who were always intended to inherit it.’
And what will I be perceived as, Foong Lee thought. A receiver of stolen goods. His expression was unreadable, but he was angry. ‘I believe the locket was the personal property of Mrs Sullivan,’ he said, ‘and therefore hers to dispose of as she wished.’
Damn it, the Chink was getting on his nerves. ‘It belonged to the family, Mr Foong.’ Matthew’s voice once again had a threatening edge. ‘As did all of my grandmother’s valuable possessions.’
‘It was given to her by her husband upon their engagement, I’d heard.’
‘Well of course that’s what Tom would have told you,’ Matthew scoffed.
‘He did.’ Foong Lee rose, he’d had enough of the conversation. ‘And I believe him. I’m afraid, Mr Sullivan, that the locket is not for sale.’
Matthew was shocked. The man was not only refusing his offer, but dismissing him from his office. He stood, pushing back his chair so roughly it fell on its side. ‘You’ll pay for this, you dirty little Chink. I’ll take you through the courts. You and my son. You’re an accessory to theft and I’ll make your name mud.’
‘As you wish.’ Foong Lee led the way out of the office. ‘Any such action is your prerogative of course.’
The Sullivans left, Tom following his irate father from the shop, too fearful to do otherwise. At the door, he turned back briefly and Foong Lee gave him a reassuring nod.
When the two of them had gone, however, Foong Lee stood with his elderly father, who had watched the proceedings in a state of utter bewilderment, and he felt his bravado falter. He was in deep trouble and he knew it. Sullivan was not only rich, powerful and respected, he was a gwailo. It would be a gwailo’s word against that of a Chinaman in a gwailo court of law. The odds were severely stacked against him, but Foong Lee knew of one man who could possibly save him.
‘Of course I’ll take on the case,’ Paul Trewinnard agreed having listened to Foong Lee’s account of the events, ‘but it’s a while since I practised, you could perhaps find more experienced representation.’
‘You have the most important credential of all, Paul,’ Foong Lee said, ‘you are a gwailo. No other European solicitor will agree to represent me, I’m convinced of it, not against Matthew Sullivan. And, sad to say, I doubt whether even the most expert of Chinese solicitors would fare very well with such a case. Besides,’ he added realistically, ‘there is a war on. Who will be remotely interested in the honour of a Chinese shopkeeper?’
‘Under the circumstances then, I insist upon taking up your offer.’
Paul knew that Foong Lee was a very worried man. And with just reason. His reputation meant more to him than his very life, and the loss of face he would suffer, particularly in the eyes of the Chinese community in which he was held in such high esteem, would be more than he could bear. Paul determined to do everything within his power to save his friend. After all, Foong Lee had saved his own life, the least he could do was return the favour.
When Paul Trewinnard had arrived in Darwin in April of the preceding year, his first port of call had been Chinatown. Where there were Chinese there was opium and, in Singapore, he had discovered that opium relaxed him. It eased the pain of his memories. Just occasionally, he told himself. He didn’t intend to make it a habit.
‘I’m looking for Foong Shek Mei,’ he said to the young Chinese behind the counter of the shop in Cavenagh Street.
‘May I enquire as to why?’ the young Chinese queried.
‘Personal business,’ Paul brusquely replied. ‘I was told Foong Shek Mei is the proprietor of this shop.’
The young Chinese nodded. ‘He is my father and co-owner indeed, but it is I who conduct all business transactions.’ Foong Lee had a nasty suspicion that the Englishman was seeking opium, why else would he wish to see Foong Shek Mei?
Foong Lee was angry that his father had been suggested as a contact, and he knew full well who would have made that suggestion. Kwan Man Hop who imported the drug and from whom Foong Lee bought the regular small supply to assuage his father’s addiction. Kwan Man Hop would have been too wary to deal with a gwailo. Perhaps he thought that Foong Lee, with his many European associates, might be prepared to act as a middleman. Foong Lee was insulted and angry, he would have words with Danny Kwan. But he must first ascertain that his suspicions were correct. He walked to the open back door of the shop.
‘Lin Mei,’ he called, and his wife appeared. ‘Lei yiu bo woo po tau,’ he said. It was Foong Shek Mei’s afternoon off and he was playing mah-jong with his friends at a Chinese café. Lin Mei nodded, quite happy to look after the shop, and Foong Lee beckoned to the Englishman.
‘Would you care to come out into the courtyard?’ he said.
Paul followed him through the back door. In the glare of the courtyard he could see that the Chinese was not as young as he’d thought. A man in his thirties, Paul guessed, possibly even close to his own age.
‘I am Foong Lee,’ the Chinese said offering his hand.
‘Paul Trewinnard, how do you do.’ They shook.
‘How may I help you, Mr Trewinnard?’
The Chinese’s gaze was so honest and direct that Paul felt self-conscious, he hoped that the contact he’d been given was correct.
‘I’ve just arrived from Singapore,’ he said, hedging a little.
‘Ah yes,’ Foong Lee smiled, ‘welcome to Darwin.’
‘Thank you.’ The man’s courtesy made him feel even more self-conscious. ‘And I was wondering whether you might perhaps be able to supply me with, um …’ Paul hesitated.
‘Yes?’
Damn it, Paul thought, the helpful look of enquiry on the man’s face was most disconcerting. ‘Just a small quantity, um …’
Foong Lee decided to put the Englishman out of his pain, he looked so distinctly uncomfortable. ‘You wish to purchase a commodity which is easily available in Singapore, but difficult to obtain in Darwin?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Opium is illegal in Darwin, Mr Trewinnard.’ Judging by Trewinnard’s discomfort Foong Lee was sure he was aware of the fact, but it was only fair he be given the benefit of the doubt.
‘Yes, I did know that.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid you’ve been directed to the wrong source. You won’t find what you seek here.’
Paul’s discomfort multiplied tenfold. In the light of the man’s dignity he suddenly felt rather grubby. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘I meant no offence.’
Foong Lee was sorry for Trewinnard, he seemed such a respectable gentleman, and yet there was something very lost about him. Was he an addict? If so, how sad. Foong Lee knew only too well the ravages of opium addiction, he watched it daily with his father. Foong Shek Mei was not yet incapacitated by the drug, but he soon would be. All the signs were there, it was only a matter of time.
‘Would you care for some tea?’ he asked as the Englishman turned to go.
‘No, please, I don’t wish to impose.’
‘It’s no imposition, I’d enjoy the company, we’re not busy today and my wife will look after the shop.’
‘I’d love some tea, Mr Foong. Thank you.’
They chatted quite comfortably as Foong Lee prepared the heung ping. The Chinese was such pleasant company that Paul found himself talking more openly than he had in a very long time. He was a solicitor, he said, but he no longer worked for his family’s business in Singapore. He earned his living as a freelance journalist these days.
‘For the London Times mainly,’ he said. ‘Usually travel, but lately I’ve been covering the situa
tion in the Pacific. Of course with Europe on the threshold of war, I’m hardly front page stuff, but they’re interested in what the Japanese might get up to.’
‘How very interesting.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Australia doesn’t seem to be taking too much notice of the Japs, but they should, I tell you. They should.’
‘Do you know anyone in town, Mr Trewinnard?’
‘The desk clerk at the Hotel Darwin,’ Paul grinned.
‘Then you must allow me to introduce you to my friend Leon at the Northern Standard, I’m quite sure he’d be eager to acquire the services of someone with your wealth of experience.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Foong, I’d be most obliged.’
‘Foong Lee. Please.’
‘Foong Lee,’ Paul nodded, he found the man charming. ‘And I’m Paul.’
An hour later, as they sat in the courtyard with their second pot of tea, Paul found himself talking, for some unknown reason, about the death of his wife and child. He had spoken to no-one about the accident for years. Not because the subject was too painful, he had learned to accept his loss and the inevitable emptiness of his days. But he had admitted no-one into his life on a personal basis. He didn’t question now the fact that he was conversing intimately with a man he’d just met, it somehow seemed quite natural.
Paul was unaware that putting people at their ease and extracting their life story was a particular talent, only one of many, which Foong Lee possessed.
‘So this is why you seek opium?’ Foong Lee finally took the plunge. He had been working towards it for the past half hour, and he felt now was the time to risk it.
Paul was shocked. Shocked at the fact that he had spoken so intimately to a virtual stranger, and shocked that Foong Lee should think him an addict. His guard was up immediately.
‘Perhaps,’ he said stiffly. ‘It’s a distraction certainly, but I only “seek it” as you say on the odd occasion.’ He was as defensive as Foong Lee had expected him to be. ‘I’m moderate in my use, I don’t overindulge, and I’m most certainly not an addict as you seem to imply.’
‘There is no such thing as the “moderate” use of opium,’ Foong Lee replied, the reasonable tone of his voice only adding to the condemnation of his words. ‘You are already overindulging and you are most certainly on the road to addiction. That is, if you have not already arrived there.’
Paul rose from the table. ‘Thank you very much for the tea.’
‘I mean no offence, Paul. Sit down, please, I beg you. Just for a moment.’
Not wishing to be rude, Paul sat. But he had closed off his mind, Foong Lee could tell. For the moment he was unapproachable. It was to be expected.
‘I sound as harsh as I do, because I wish to help you. I wish to be your friend.’
‘I’d rather not speak anymore on the subject.’ Paul cursed his own stupidity for having revealed himself, for having walked into the trap which the Chinese had obviously set for him. He was certainly not prepared to listen to a lecture on the evils of his occasional dalliance with opium. He wished he could just get up and walk out, but having accepted the man’s hospitality it would be unspeakably rude.
‘Of course,’ Foong Lee said, ‘as you wish. I could, however, obtain opium for you.’ Paul’s reaction was instinctive and just as Foong Lee had anticipated. He could not disguise his immediate interest.
‘You could?’
‘Yes. I didn’t lie earlier, I do not deal in the drug, but I know where I could acquire opium if you really wished for it. However, I have a proposition, will you hear it?’
‘Yes.’
Foong Lee’s proposition was that Paul visit him several times a week. They would talk and drink tea, just as they had that afternoon, ‘And there will be opium here should you need it,’ he said.
The offer was genuine, and it was that simple. But Paul was given no time to reply.
‘Now do you have a pen and paper?’ Foong Lee’s query was brisk and efficient.
‘Yes.’ A little bewildered, Paul obediently fumbled in his coat pocket for the notebook which he always carried.
‘You must take down the telephone number of my friend Leon at the Northern Standard,’ Foong Lee said, and he dictated it to Paul, he knew all of his contacts’ numbers by heart and rarely referred to address books. ‘I shall telephone him as soon as you leave and he’ll be expecting your call.’ Foong Lee rose and extended his hand. ‘Why don’t you come around on Friday, about the same time, mid-afternoon, we’re not busy mid-afternoons, then you can let me know how you went with Leon.’
‘Right.’
They shook hands and Foong Lee led the way through the shop.
‘I’ll see you Friday then,’ Paul said at the front doors.
‘I look forward to it.’
Suddenly Paul found himself out in Cavenagh Street a little dazed by the speed of events. There had been no further mention of opium, but he knew the offer was genuine. Each time he called upon his new-found friend, opium would be available for purchase, Foong Lee had been quite clear.
Paul couldn’t sleep that night. Over and over, he analysed his reaction to Foong Lee’s words. He had most certainly been defensive. Was Foong Lee right? Did he have a problem? No, bloody ridiculous, he told himself, of course he didn’t. He vacillated. One minute he was angry at Foong Lee’s interference, the next he recalled the concern and the wisdom in the eyes of the Chinese and again he questioned himself.
He kept his appointment on Friday, determined to make the visit short and to purchase a supply of opium.
‘Leon tells me you had a most successful meeting,’ Foong Lee said as he poured the tea.
‘Yes.’ Paul had been surprised when the editor had suggested they meet at the Northern Standard offices upon the very afternoon of his phone call. ‘He’s interested in my writing a series of articles.’
‘Excellent.’
They discussed the situation in Europe, most particularly Italy’s recent invasion of Albania.
‘Only a month after Hitler’s invasion of Czechoslovakia,’ Foong Lee remarked. He had the major newspapers sent up to him from Adelaide and he read them from cover to cover, following the state of affairs in Europe with avid interest.
‘Yes,’ Paul said. ‘There are many who believe it’s only a matter of time before Britain declares war on Germany.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘These are bad times, Foong Lee, the world is about to go mad.’
‘We are a little complacent in Australia,’ Foong Lee said, ‘it all seems so far away from us here.’
‘It isn’t. Australia can ill afford complacency. In the event of war the British fleet will be deployed in Europe and Australia will be at the mercy of the Japanese.’
Foong Lee nodded. ‘Your fellow countryman H.G. Wells said as much when he visited this country recently. “The British fleet is no longer your fleet.” Those were his exact words, it was in the newspapers. And then when he warned Australia that the Japanese menace was “no bogey”, as he put it, they howled him down. The Australian press are short-sighted fools with regard to the Japanese.’ There was a touch of uncharacteristic contempt in Foong Lee’s voice. Since the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of Chinese during the invasion and occupation of Shanghai and Nanking the previous year, Foong Lee, like most of his countrymen, detested the Japanese. ‘They called Wells’s remarks “deplorable”,’ he scoffed.
‘Then I agree with you,’ Paul said, ‘they’re short-sighted fools. Wells was right. Without the protection of the British, Australia’s a sitting duck.’
The conversation was stimulating and the afternoon passed quickly. Suddenly Foong Shek Mei was at the door to the courtyard announcing that it was after five o’clock and the shop was getting busy.
It was only as he said goodbye, that Paul realised he had forgotten to purchase the opium.
‘Shall we say Monday, mid-afternoon, around three?’ Foong Lee asked.
‘Yes, Monday would be fine.’ He would purchase t
he opium on Monday, Paul thought.
But he didn’t. He didn’t forget, but after another session with Foong Lee, which Paul found both stimulating and relaxing, he somehow didn’t want to ask for the opium. Was it because he didn’t wish to lose face with the Chinese, he wondered.
And so it went on. Each time Paul visited Foong Lee he knew the opium was there if he wished, but he never mentioned the subject. He briefly contemplated finding another source of supply, but he told himself no, that would be reneging on their arrangement.
Sometimes they would talk very little. Foong Lee would burn incense and they would sit in contemplative silence. Meditation was good for mind, body and soul, Foong Lee said. Paul hadn’t realised he’d been meditating, he’d simply found the process relaxing. He was sleeping much better these days, he told Foong Lee a week or so later, perhaps it was the meditation. Foong Lee remarked that there was much to be said for the Eastern ways, perhaps Paul would like to learn the art of tai chi?
Paul had always felt very ‘foreign’ when he’d witnessed the scores of Chinese in Singapore performing the gentle movements in unison. Tai chi seemed to epitomise the difference between East and West, surely there was little a ‘gwailo’ could learn from practising such an art. But he didn’t wish to be hurtful or rude.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that would be very interesting.’
The weeks became months and the two men continued to enjoy each other’s company. Slowly, and without realising the fact, Paul Trewinnard had found, possibly for the first time in his entire life, a true friend. They practised tai chi, they meditated, and they talked. Endlessly. And always they drank tea, copious amounts of tea.
One day Paul arrived with a bottle of Scotch under his arm. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Foong Lee,’ he said. ‘Please don’t take offence, but I’m sick to death of jasmine tea.’
