The Orchid Tree

by Siobhan Daiko

  ‘What!’ Charles frowned. ‘He was almost civil when I had supper with you the other night, and I’d started to think the letters had simply got lost.’

  ‘He’ll apologise to you in person. It was very wrong of him. I told him that I loved you and wanted to be with you, come what may. He blathered on about how difficult my life would be and I said I didn’t care.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t caused a rift between you,’ Charles said, putting his arms around me again.

  ‘Papa always spoiled me when I was a child.’ I rubbed my cheek against the leather armour of Charles’ costume. ‘It was as if he had to make up for Mama being the way she was, unable to show affection.’ I breathed in Charles’ citrus scent. ‘Papa seemed genuinely sorry about the letters. He loves me and wants me to be happy. Only now does he understand how much my happiness is tied to you.’

  ‘And mine to you,’ Charles said, kissing me again. ‘And mine to you.’

  I kissed him back, drowning in him, melting with love and desire for him. He cupped my breasts and a zing went through me as my nipples hardened. Then footsteps sounded; another couple had come onto the terrace. I shook myself and took Charles’ hand. ‘Let’s see how James and Sofia are getting on,’ I said, leading him back into the ballroom. ‘Everyone seems to be giving them the cold shoulder.’

  40

  James woke early on his first Monday as a married man. He glanced at Sofia, sleeping peacefully next to him, her luxurious hair spread over the pillow. He wrapped a tendril around his finger and lifted it to his lips, inhaling the vanilla scent of the Shalimar perfume she used. God, he was lucky. To think he’d once been ashamed to be seen with her. All because he’d wanted to fit in. He didn’t need to fit in with the expatriates. He didn’t give a flying fuck about the majority of them. He didn’t need anyone or anything but his darling wife.

  Sofia stretched and yawned. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Time to get up and go to work. It’s the tenth of October, the Double Tenth, don’t forget. The nationalists will be celebrating the anniversary of the end of imperial rule. We need to establish our presence at the factory.’

  ‘Are you expecting any trouble?’

  ‘We did have a spot of bother after Mao declared his Republic ten days ago, and our workers flew their flags with communist slogans. They upset the right-wingers next door.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘I’ve got the situation fully under control.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘On Friday, one of the girls told me she’d seen a flag with the slogan Long Live the Chinese Republic flying across the road. Don’t worry! I promptly told the right-wingers there to take it down. The wording was too political, I said, and it would stir up trouble with those who’d been celebrating the foundation of the People’s Republic. I said it was inappropriate for a British colony.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t made things worse,’ Sofia said, pouring him a coffee from the tray by their bed.

  ‘Most of the locals have no interest whatsoever in politics. Their allegiances are more a way of affirming they belong to a specific community. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about, sweetheart.’

  ‘If you say so, James,’ she said. But from her expression and lack of a smile, she appeared unconvinced. Unease spread through him.

  ***

  They arrived at the factory, and James made a tour of the floor. The young single women, the bulk of their labour force, were sitting in rows bent over their looms. They were paid at piece rather than time-rate, so it was in their interests to get on with their work.

  He went to the office and helped Sofia with the correspondence - letters to cotton suppliers in the United States and Mexico.

  The phone rang and Sofia picked up the receiver. She was speaking Chinese, her tone agitated. She put down the receiver. ‘That was my uncle. There’s a rumour you’ve told the nationalists not to celebrate.’

  ‘Not true at all. I just didn’t want them to provoke the communists.’

  Another shrill from the telephone, and Sofia picked up again. She passed the receiver to James.

  It was Special Branch. ‘Gerry. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Word is the Triads are agitating the nationalists next door to your factory. The police are sending backup for you.’

  Shouts, and James went to the window. Below, a crowd of men and women were milling around yelling slogans. His breath caught. ‘Come downstairs,’ he said to Sofia. ‘We’d better make sure all the doors are locked.’

  They rushed to the factory entrance. Too late. The mob was forcing its way inside. The women who worked on the looms cowered on the floor, their arms over their heads.

  James’ ears pounded. If only he’d learnt to speak Cantonese, he would tell the rabble a thing or two. ‘This is outrageous,’ he shouted. ‘Go away! You’ve got no business to be here.’

  Pure hatred shone on their faces. A young woman, black hair in a pigtail, bared her teeth. A burly bald man screamed his rage, spittle flying, the whites of his eyes blazing. The group pushed and shoved their way towards James. He raised his fists to fight them off. More people came up from behind.

  Someone grabbed him and tied his hands behind his back. The mob pushed him down on the floor, and he struggled against the bindings. A skinny young man slapped him on the face, unleashing a stream of foul language; that much he understood. He fought against the cords. The youth slapped him again, harder. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  More rioters burst through the doors and hurled Molotov cocktails into the air. Explosions went off all over the factory. The looms caught fire. The first group appeared distracted by what was going on. Keeping his eye on them, James inched his way over to where Sofia had curled into a ball by the wall. He had to protect her and their child.

  He threw himself over her, covering her body with his. Something struck him below his mouth. A sharp pain pierced his neck. Then he was falling, falling, falling into the darkness . . .

  41

  Sofia opened her eyes; there was blood everywhere. Blood covered her face, her arms and her chest.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God!

  James lay slumped to the side, a gurgling sound coming from him.

  Sweet Jesus!

  A glass shard stuck out of his neck. Blood spurted from the wound.

  Please God, let him be all right!

  Hands shaking, she pulled off her blouse and clasped it around the glass. Must stem the flow. Her fingers were cold... so, so cold. James’ eyes were closed and his face had gone white. She looked around for help. The rioters had already run off.

  Cowards!

  Smoke billowed from the looms. The factory girls were still cowering with their arms over their heads. The sound of sirens, and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  Four policemen burst through the door - a European and three Chinese. The gwailo came up and lifted James’ wrist, then shook his head slowly. Sofia sat back and let out a keening wail.

  ‘No no no!’

  The policeman barked orders to his men to help the girls leave the factory. He handed Sofia his jacket, then lifted James. She glanced down; she was only wearing her bra. She quickly covered herself.

  ‘We have to leave the building,’ the policeman said. ‘The fire’s taking hold, but we’ve radioed for assistance. Where’s the cotton stored? That stuff is extremely flammable.’

  The policeman’s words seemed to be coming from the end of a long tunnel. What was he asking her? She couldn’t think . . .

  Outside, a crowd had gathered and the policemen were setting up a safety cordon. Sofia staggered to the pavement.

  Where was James?

  More sirens. An ambulance and two fire engines pulled up. Sofia stared around. She couldn’t see James. ‘Where’s my husband?’ she cried out, clutching at her blood-stained skirt.

  A nurse draped a blanket around her shoulders, led her to the ambulance, and sat her down. Then she
went to a water boiler and came back to Sofia with a cup of hot sweet tea. Sofia swallowed the warm liquid and her tears, frozen until then, gushed freely. She cried for the brave man who’d died saving her and their child. She cried for a life cut short in its prime. She cried for her baby who wouldn’t know its father. And she cried for herself.

  The nurse spoke to her in Cantonese and patted her back. Sofia sobbed until she had no tears left. Lifting her chin, she could see the stretcher at the side of the ambulance holding a body wrapped in a sheet. James.

  ‘We’ll take you to Kowloon Hospital,’ the nurse said. ‘When the doctor has examined you, you’ll need somewhere to rest and someone to look after you. Do you have anyone who can take care of you while you get over the shock?’

  Sofia thought for a moment. Uncle? She would phone him from the hospital, but she wouldn’t go to his flat. He’d installed his mistress there and she wouldn’t be welcome. And some of this was Uncle’s fault. If James hadn’t got involved with him, he’d still be alive. Guilt flooded through her; James had died because he loved her, not because of Uncle.

  There was only one person Sofia could call on. A most unlikely person, but something told her that person would comfort her and make her feel safe.

  ***

  It was early evening by the time she rang the bell at Kate’s home. She’d gone back to the hotel to change and had cried again when she’d caught sight of James’ comb by the side of the basin, with a few of his hairs still in it. She’d lain on his side of the bed and had hugged his pillow, which still had the scent of Old Spice. If she’d stayed there she’d have gone mad.

  A servant opened the gate and ushered her into the Wolseleys’ sitting room. Within minutes, Kate was by her side. ‘I’m so relieved to see you,’ Kate said, leading her to the sofa and sitting her down. ‘I heard the news on the radio and I’ve been trying to find out how to locate you. Please stay here. My father and I rattle around in this big old place. I’m so sorry, Sofia. I can’t begin to imagine what you must be going through.’

  ‘What about your father? Won’t he mind?’

  ‘Leave him to me. He’s out tonight at a dinner party, so it’s just the two of us. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Oh dear, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Here, have my handkerchief . . .’

  Sofia described the assault on the factory, and Kate listened quietly. Then she told Kate about the hospital. Kate asked about the baby, and she said her child wasn’t in any danger. She was grateful Kate didn’t question her about her future plans. She needed time to think. In the meantime, she was secure in this sumptuous mansion. Leo wouldn’t be able to get at her here.

  ***

  Two days later Sofia stood in the visitation room of the funeral parlour. James was laid out in front of her. Had he known, at that last moment of consciousness, he was going to die? One life given for two saved. James wouldn’t have thought twice.

  Tears streaming, she shivered in the air-conditioned atmosphere. It was freezing, of course; it needed to be. No stinking corpses in this sanitary place. She took her gloves from her handbag, but they made little difference.

  James was covered in a white silk sheet that had been pulled up to his ears, to hide his mortal wound and the signs of an autopsy carried out under police orders. His fine-looking face was almost unscathed, just a small cut above the left eye. The glass shard from the Molotov cocktail had shattered on his chin and had severed the jugular vein in his neck. She reached down and touched his icy cheek, kissed him on the forehead, and whispered, ‘Goodbye, my one and only love.’

  It was hard to shake off the feeling of unreality. How could this be James lying there? James had been so full of life, so wonderful and so, so gallant. How could fate have dealt him such a blow? It wasn’t fair. He was in his mid-twenties - far too young to die.

  The Wolseleys’ driver took her to the Victoria business district. The Daimler meandered through the usual motley collection of trams, cars and rickshaws and pulled up outside Alexandra House. She got out and rode up to the fifth floor in the lift, then strode down the hallway. The receptionist showed her to a meeting room where Charles Pearce, James’ recently appointed solicitor, was waiting for her.

  ‘It’s really quite simple,’ Charles said. ‘James has left you his stake in Leung’s Textiles and all his chattels. He has also willed you his yacht, Jade Princess.’

  Everything was exactly as he’d said it would be when Uncle had handed over his shares in the business. Could it only have been last month? All had been done according to the book; she would have security for herself and the child.

  ‘I’ve started the insurance claim,’ Charles said. ‘Thankfully, the fire brigade managed to save the building. It’s just the looms that need replacing.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you see the newspapers this morning? The Government is launching a full investigation.’ He picked up the paper and read, ‘It is clear that the tragedy isn’t attributable primarily to the crowd excitement which might have been engendered by the Double Tenth celebrations. The attack was clearly fomented by criminals.’

  ‘My half-brother is linked to the Triads, you know. I strongly suspect him of being behind James’ death, but I won’t be able to prove it.’

  ‘The police will find out something that can be proved, surely?’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. Leo is very clever. He’ll have covered his tracks.’

  ‘You know him better than anyone, of course.’

  ‘And I hope I’ll be able to live in peace from him.’

  ***

  James’ funeral was held the next day at St John’s Cathedral; the church was almost full. Dressed in black with a veil over her face, she sat next to Uncle and Kate. James’ catafalque appeared, covered in white orchids, with Tony Chambers, Arnaud de Montreuil, Charles Pearce and Henry Wolseley walking alongside. Everyone got to their feet and the men placed James’ coffin before the altar.

  Sofia stood as straight as a reed, her head upright, keeping a tight rein on her emotions. She wouldn’t let her grief show; if she did, she wouldn’t be able to control herself. She could feel James’ spirit watching her; he would know how she felt as he lingered between this world and the next. She wanted him to be proud of her.

  It was cool in the church, the air stirred by fans attached to long poles hanging from the ceiling. Their whirring almost drowned out the sound of the traffic, changing gear to climb the steep road outside. She looked up at the stained glass windows that had replaced those removed by the Japanese during the war. The window in the east showed Christ on the cross with his mother and Mary gazing up at him, placed there as a memorial to those who had suffered during the occupation and to those who had given their lives.

  Everyone got to their feet and she picked up her hymn book. The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want; she joined in, clasping the back of the pew in front of her. The singing finished. Sofia kneeled and prayed. She was out of practice and could only think of the Lord’s Prayer. The service continued, and she went through the mechanical responses she’d practised in her childhood; they came back to her like an often-repeated rhyme, the Anglican Service remarkably like the Roman Catholic, although the latter had usually been in Latin.

  The dean said a prayer of farewell, entrusting James to God. ‘We will now proceed in cortege to Happy Valley.’

  An hour later, Sofia stood in front of the group of people gathered around the open grave. She’d deliberately distanced herself from Kate and Charles. This was her cross to bear and she’d do so with dignity. James’ spirit was fading into the next world now; she could sense it.

  The dean’s cassock swayed gently in the breeze. ‘We therefore commit James’ body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.’

  Sofia stuffed the corner of her handkerchief into her mouth to stop herself from wailing.

  ***

  The next day, s
he visited the factory and surveyed the destruction. Her workforce was sweeping up the mess made by the damaged looms. The girls came up and commiserated with her.

  In the office she sat in front of her desk and determination surged through her. She would build the business up again as a memorial to James. Leo would have to hand over her inheritance next week, and she would use some of it to buy a flat. She couldn’t presume on the Wolseleys any longer, nor did she want to; she valued her independence.

  Kate had battled her father to let her stay with them, reminding him she was James’ wife and he couldn’t turn his back on her. Mr Wolseley had been stiff and resistant at first, but he’d mellowed as the days had gone by and now it seemed he couldn’t do enough for her. As for Kate, Sofia had come to realise the Englishwoman had an inner strength that would help her overcome the obstacles to her happiness. It was obvious Kate and Charles belonged together, and the sooner Henry Wolseley got used to the idea the better.

  42

  I hugged Sofia. ‘I’ll miss you terribly,’ I said. And I would. I’d grown really fond of her. ‘Make sure you keep in touch.’

  ‘I will.’ Sofia got into her taxi. ‘You must come and visit soon.’ Through her uncle’s connections, Sofia had managed to find a flat in the mid-levels. She’d told me that she would apply for a British passport as soon as possible. Her marriage to James meant that she could claim nationality. She wanted to sever all ties with her family in Macau.

  As I stepped into the hall, the telephone shrilled. I picked up the receiver.

  ‘How do you fancy a spin out to Stanley?’ Charles said. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

  I still hadn’t visited the cemetery; I’d told Charles at James’ funeral that I hadn’t been able to face it, and he’d squeezed my hand in sympathy. ‘I don’t know if I’m ready to go back there yet.’