Sunrise in Hong Kong

by Denise Emery

  Margaret sat, at Ralph's gallant insistence, in a window seat in the enormous jet. It was a long flight, but Margaret slept through most of it, and any tiredness she may have felt vanished as the plane approached Kai Tak airport.

  She stared down, wide-eyed, at the islands, far too many of them to count, which were flung like an emerald necklace in the blue water below. She gasped when the harbour came into view, when she could see Hong Kong Island itself, with Victoria Peak, towering above the tallest buildings in the heart of the city.

  She turned then to speak to Ralph, to thank him, but she ended up grinning and shaking her head wordlessly, far too excited to say anything at all.

  'Don't mention it, love,' Ralph said happily. 'A bargain's a bargain, after all,' he added gruffly, patting her hand, 'and I don't mind telling you I'm proud of the way you kept your end of it.'

  2

  'What I need is a few hours' kip. You don't mind, do you?' Ralph stifled a yawn. He hadn't managed any real sleep during the sixteen-hour flight from London, and their arrival early in the afternoon had offered more than a taste of the non-stop carnival that is Hong Kong.

  Kai Tak airport, on the tip of the Kowloon Peninsula, is separated from Hong Kong Island by Victoria Harbour; Ralph and Margaret made the short crossing on a ferry, catching their first close glimpse of the city's skyline from its deck. Just as they docked, there was a bit of unscheduled excitement in the busy harbour: Margaret watched in horrified fascination as a fragile Chinese fishing sampan risked collision with an oil tanker, missing it by inches. And though the taxi driver who sped them from the docks to their hotel drove along the broad main streets of the city, they had only to look out of the window to see the endlessly intersecting maze of the alleyways which are .thoroughly Chinese. It was all Margaret could do to keep from jumping out of the cab, every time it was halted by the traffic, so she could begin to explore the city at once.

  The conference was to be based at the Star of the Orient Hotel, one of the most elegant along the beach at Repulse Bay; office space had been provided there for the participants. Ralph had booked their accommodation there as well. He and Margaret agreed to meet in the hotel lobby after they'd been shown to their rooms. When Ralph hailed her from a chair near the reception desk, Margaret walked quickly towards him, smiling broadly, quite charmingly unaware of how fresh and pretty she looked in her new blue cotton dress.

  'Did you realize my room overlooks the bay?' she asked excitedly. 'Good grief, Ralph, this must be costing you a small fortune!'

  He waved that aside. 'Don't worry about it, love. We're getting the trade discount, after all, so I thought we may as well be comfortable while we're about it.'

  Comfortable, at least as that word applied to Margaret's room, and the gleaming bathroom which adjoined it, was an understatement. It was simply furnished, and decorated in tones of beige and off-white, a colour-scheme favoured by hotel owners everywhere as being least likely to offend any particular guest. But the coverlet on the bed, of palest green, was made of pure silk, as were the lampshades on the tables at either side of it. A wide-screen television had been built into the wall opposite the bed, and its remote-control tuning device had been placed on one of the bedside tables. With it were instructions, in English, Chinese and French, informing Margaret how to use it — along with a current programme for each of the five channels available (in colour) for her entertainment. Best of all, tall French windows opened out of the bedroom on to a wide balcony from which Margaret could enjoy the entire white sweep of the beach below, and the sparkling water of Repulse Bay beyond it.

  'There's a telephone too, of course,' she finished, laughing. 'I've only to dial out for anything I fancy, from high-speed dry-cleaning services to an eight-course meal for six. I could have a glorious time here without ever stirring out of bed!'

  'Not much danger of that, though, is there?' Ralph asked mildly, winking at her.

  Margaret shook her head. 'In fact, while you're napping, I thought I'd go out. I suppose I'll get well and truly lost, but—'

  Ralph chuckled. 'I wouldn't worry over it. Getting lost here is said to be part of the fun. Just take your street map along, and if all else fails, find yourself a taxi driver who understands enough English to get you back to the Star of the Orient. Oh, and be sure to be back in plenty of time for the reception banquet at seven. They've promised us a real slap-up Chinese nosh, so don't forget.'

  Margaret walked for miles that afternoon, and it never even occurred to her to join any kind of organized sightseeing tour. It was enough, once she found her way to the oldest part of Hong Kong, to venture into the narrow, twisting side streets which she felt certain were among the most exciting places the city had to offer.

  These streets are tightly packed with flimsy two- and three-storeyed wooden structures, jerry-built to serve as houses as well as shops in which the counters are piled high with jade rings and bolts of silk, dolls and cameras and watches, and fruits and vegetables which Margaret had never seen in her life before that afternoon. Much more than mere commerce goes on there, too, of course. When so many people live and work so closely together, whole lives are lived as much as possible in the open air.

  Margaret listened, entranced, to the constant, ceaseless chattering of Chinese voices; background music to her, since she could understand none of it. She watched, from what she hoped was a polite distance, as gossiping and trading and scolding surged all around her, as children laughed and played and quarrelled, as dice games were conducted with furious intensity in the middle of the street.

  When she realized she was hungry, she approached a stall where a young woman was selling bowls full of spiced noodles, tempting passers-by with a smiling, singsong sales pitch. Margaret was shy at first about making the purchase, but when the girl behind the counter spoke to her in careful, correct English, Margaret was both pleased and relieved. And the Chinese girl, who looked far too young to be the mother of the cheerful, gurgling baby who was strapped to her back, grinned her approval as Margaret ate the fragrant snack with chopsticks, in the proper Chinese manner.

  At five o'clock or so, Margaret made her way back to a main avenue — very staid and British-looking after all she had seen and heard—and she was enormously pleased with herself when she was able to identify and board a riotously-painted green and yellow double-decker bus which delivered her, safe and sound, at the front entrance to the hotel.

  As Margaret showered and dressed for dinner that evening, she wasn't even remotely aware of feeling tired. The prospect of the festive evening stretching ahead seemed to her a perfect way to end what had been a very satisfying day.

  She was glad, too, that she'd followed Ralph's advice about what to pack for the trip. She had planned to bring the clothes she had bought in the July sales for wear in the London autumn, but Ralph had talked her out of that, persuading her to bring instead the lightest, most summery clothes she owned, plus perhaps a cardigan in case the nights turned cool.

  At six-thirty on that clear, September evening, the temperature in Hong Kong hovered somewhere in the seventies, so Margaret chose the coolest of the outfits she had brought specially for evening wear during her holiday. A low-necked orange linen which skimmed the tips of her evening sandals, the dress was stunning in its simplicity.

  She arranged her dark hair in a sleek, shining coil, more because the style was deliciously cool than for the way it flattered her delicate features. And when she had applied the lightest possible make-up, and fastened the pair of silver filigree ear-rings which had belonged to her mother, Margaret hurried downstairs to join Ralph for a pre-dinner sherry.

  'Now where would you be with your woollen frocks?' he teased, after he told her how nice she looked. As they sipped their drinks, Margaret told him of the excitement of her afternoon. With no little pride, she made a point of telling him how she had come back to the hotel at the end of it, using public transport.

  The Star of the Orient Hotel had been chosen as the site of the
tourism conference because its owners, the Pan Orient Company, had organized the convention. The Star of the Orient was their showpiece, being the newest and most luxurious hotel in their large chain.

  As the dinner which marked the beginning of three weeks of business talks was, as Ralph had put it, 'a real slap-up Chinese nosh', forty round tables had been set up in the hotel's largest dining-room to accommodate the two hundred travel agents and hotel owners who had come to Hong Kong to participate. Friendliness and happy talk are an important part of Chinese eating tradition; this had been explained in one of the convention pamphlets. Round tables made it easier for the five or six people seated at each to get to know one another, and to share and sample each course as it came. To make the visitors feel even more welcome, a Pan Orient representative was seated at each table.

  The organization of that sort of dinner for so many people can be quite a headache. Margaret remarked on this when she and Ralph sat down to dinner, along with two travel agents from New York and Linda Peterson, the smiling blonde girl who introduced herself as a member of Pan Orient's public relations department.

  'Oh yes, you're right!' Linda answered, her brown eyes crinkling with laughter. 'But I must say it was good practice. We run conventions for other people all the time, but somehow it's quite another matter when you do it for your own company I blush to admit it, but I was personally responsible for one of the worst of the near-disasters. Our invitations were printed in five languages, and I came very close to sending the Japanese lot off to Italy. You should have seen me belting along to the post office in time to get them back before it was too late!'

  That broke the ice nicely, and Margaret decided on the spot that if every host or hostess at the dinner was half as good as Linda at putting people at their ease, then the whole thing would turn out to be a roaring success. The five of them laughed together at the charming, unaffected way in which Linda admitted her very human mistake, and Ralph chimed in with the loyal remark that only a lass from Birmingham could be counted on to catch that sort of thing in time.

  'How did you know I was a Brummie?' Linda asked, astonished.

  'Oh, it was easy,' Ralph answered. 'All you had to do was say a few words. I was born there myself.'

  After such a promising beginning to break it, the ice positively melted a few minutes later when Ralph looked down at the pair of bamboo chopsticks beside his plate in honest bewilderment.

  'Ah, er, Linda,' he stammered, 'I wonder if we could ask a waiter to bring me a fork before they start serving?' He coughed sheepishly into his hand, glancing at the others in embarrassment.

  But the New Yorkers smiled across at him in sympathy, and relief too, as it turned out: neither of them had ever used chopsticks either.

  Margaret gave in to a fit of giggles, and so, before she could stop herself, did Linda. Linda recovered first, saying soothingly, 'If you can use a pencil, you'll get the hang of chopsticks quickly enough. Here, let me show you…'

  She proceeded to do so, with Margaret's help. Or rather, Linda instructed Ralph while Margaret volunteered to show the New Yorkers exactly how the eating implements should be used. It was a skill Margaret had mastered in early adolescence, at about the same time she had first asked Ralph about the possibility of visiting her dream city.

  By the time dinner began to arrive, borne to their table by Chinese waiters in spotless white coats, Ralph and the two Americans were plying their chopsticks almost as skilfully as their teachers. But then, as the first courses were see-before them, Ralph's doubtful glances at the contents of the silver serving platters sent Margaret into another fit of giggling.

  She was extremely fond of Chinese food, the more authentic the better. That had been part and parcel of her long love affair with China. Even when she was still at secondary school, Margaret had been known to squirrel away her pocket money so she could treat herself and any willing, adventurous school friend to Saturday lunch in Soho's Chinatown.

  But Ralph's only exposure to the most ancient and varied cuisine in the world had been the 'sweet and sour' take-away sort, and that is a very tame imitation of the style of food served in just one of the provinces of China: Canton, where sugar cane and oranges and pineapples grow in abundance, where fish is plentiful, and rice is very cheap.

  The menu that evening owed nothing to Cantonese cooking, delicious though that can be at its best. Instead, the banquet was a masterful display of the very finest of northern Chinese cookery, from the province of Peking. It featured many courses which were lovingly faithful duplications of dishes once enjoyed by the Emperors of China in their long-vanished royal households.

  Ralph had never even heard of paper-wrapped chicken, or Peking Duck with pancakes, or stir-fried mushrooms lightly cooked with beancurd. But by the time chiaotzu appeared on their table (and Margaret and Linda between them had a fine time teaching the three men how to pronounce it properly: 'jowtsa'), Ralph had become an enthusiastic convert, ready to try anything.

  Chiaotzu are delicious: wafer-thin dumplings with fillings of finely-chopped prawns and spring onions and bamboo shoots, delicately seasoned with soy, sesame and ginger. They are steamed first and then fried, and at table they are dipped into an utterly irresistible sauce. Ralph alone ate seven of them.

  There was a party planned after dinner that evening, but it hadn't been organized by Pan Orient as a convention activity.

  'And I suppose it's only fair to tell you,' Linda added, grinning, 'that the hosts are among Pan Orient's most successful rivals. Actually, the rivalry's pretty friendly, so there'll be lots of Pan Orient people there, including me. I'm sure you'd all be very welcome, if you'd like to come. It's only a few minutes' walk along the beach.'

  The American travel agents pleaded exhaustion, but Margaret smiled delightedly. She was about to accept Linda's invitation when she glanced over at Ralph; he looked so tired that she hesitated. But he shook his head.

  'Don't let me stop you, love! Go ahead with Linda and have a good time. See you in the morning!'

  The Chungking Towers, less than half a mile from the Star of the Orient, was a much older hotel — older, but nearly as elegant, though in a more ornate and formal style.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows of its penthouse ballroom overlooked Deep Water Bay, and miles of very lovely beach and water That view was one reason why the Chungking Towers had become something of a Hong Kong landmark. Not that it was possible for Margaret and Linda to get anywhere near the windows through the crush of people who had gathered there that night for the party.

  Shouting over the music of the rock group who were stationed on the bandstand, Linda introduced Margaret to several of the guests. Just as Linda turned away to hail yet another of her friends, someone thrust a glass of wine into Margaret's hand. She glanced up to thank whoever had given it to her, and a large, bejewelled woman chose that moment to jostle her elbow. Margaret's glass tipped wildly, and she was horrified when its red contents splashed on to the darker red velvet sleeve of the dinner jacket being worn by a man who was standing beside her.

  'Oh, I'm so sorry!' she shouted over the music, only to blush almost the colour of his stained jacket when the music stopped very suddenly. 'Sorry' seemed to ring out in the room like a shriek, turning several curious heads in their direction.

  Margaret looked around desperately for Linda, but Linda had vanished, at least for the moment. So she soldiered on with as much dignity as she could muster, still far too flustered to register the fact that the man was smiling down at her in genuine amusement.

  'I really am terribly sorry,' she said quietly. 'My name is Margaret Hamilton, and I'll be very happy to have your jacket cleaned. My hotel—'

  'I really can't think why you should be so worried about it, Margaret Hamilton,' he said softly, 'though it's nice to know your name. Mine's Peter Benhurst, and I assure you that if a wine stain is the worst thing you ever do to me, I shall count myself a very lucky man.'

  He held her eyes with his own as he said that, an
d Margaret was at last aware that his eyes were quite startlingly blue in his tanned, handsome face, and that his hair was as dark as her own. The thought flickered into her mind that he was quite the most attractive man she had ever seen. He was probably in his early thirties, she thought, and his voice betrayed that he had been born and raised in England, and that he was well-educated. Peter Benhurst was a man who exuded total confidence, from the toes of his polished evening shoes to the tips of his fingers.

  But, as swiftly, Margaret decided that she wasn't at all sure she liked him very much. He was a man to whom the cost of cleaning a jacket meant less than nothing. That was fair enough, and it was obvious. But he needn't have laughed at her for offering it.

  'Well then,' Margaret said firmly, or as firmly as she could, for he was still appraising her with a lingering glance so frank she felt a flush rise again to her face, and hated herself for it. 'I, ah, won't. Worry about it, I mean. Now, if you'll excuse me…'

  But before Margaret could move off, lose herself in the party in the hope of bumping into Linda (and suddenly the company of the friendly girl she'd known mere hours seemed like a haven of safety), a tall slender woman of quite amazing beauty appeared at Peter's side, linked arms with him, and cooed into his ear. 'Oh, here you are, darling! Oh, I thought I'd lost my pet in this rotten crush!'

  That rather silly speech took the space of seconds, and then the woman fixed Margaret with a glance which would have kept the polar ice cap nicely frozen, and asked flatly (and with no trace at all of her previous coyness): 'Who's this?'

  'Oh, this is Margaret Hamilton,' Peter answered easily. 'We've become friends now because she ruined my jacket. Margaret, this is Susanna Baker-Leigh.'