Fragrant Haven

by Siobhan Daiko

  FRAGRANT HAVEN

  A Short Story

  SIOBHAN DAIKO

  FRAGRANT BOOKS

  Published by FRAGRANT BOOKS at SMASHWORDS

  The English used in this publication follows the spelling and idiomatic conventions of the United Kingdom.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 Siobhan Daiko

  Smashwords Edition.

  Thank you for downloading this story. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

  FRAGRANT HAVEN

  He heard his father’s words as if they were being spoken right next to him, ‘Join the Navy and see the world, son.’ James had seen a lot of the world since he’d enlisted. And hopefully he’d get to see a lot more of it; that’s if he survived this damn storm . . .

  Mountainous waves hurled themselves against his ocean-going tug. James wiped the spray from his eyes. ‘Full ahead!’

  Wind howled through the open window of the wheelhouse, snatched his words and tossed them into the turmoil of the tempest. Six days since they’d left Singapore and they should have been nearing Hong Kong by now; they were well off course.

  HMS Rockglen plunged and jerked and pitched.

  Petty Officer Briggs hung onto the wheel. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God.’

  James gripped the rail in front so hard his knuckles ached. Christ! A wall of water was coming towards them, high as a two-storey building! His stomach clenched.

  Rockglen hit the wall. Up, up, up she rose.

  Emptiness opened in front of him as the tug crested the wave. His heart nearly thumped out of his chest. Down, down, down she crashed, as if on a roller-coaster, down, down, down into the hollow depths.

  Another wall of water, higher even than the last. Would she make it?

  Rockglen climbed over the top.

  James lurched over to the table, held onto it with one hand, and ran a finger over the charts. ‘According to my reckoning we’re off the coast of French Indochina. Nha Trang looks like a safe haven.’

  A nod from Briggs.

  James set course.

  ***

  The gale bellowed through the night, the world outside a black vortex. Once, Rockglen rolled and fell on her side. The head of the wave covered her; water came into the wheelhouse and James tasted brine. A strange calmness took hold of him. No chance of seeing more of the world now. He and his six-man crew were done for. But Rockglen reeled, and another huge wave righted her. Dawn light streaked the sea with grey; the tug pitched and tumbled, and pitched and tumbled, again and again and again . . .

  ***

  After battling a whole day through the typhoon - a bloody typhoon, no less - James found refuge in the lee of a large island. The sun pinking the evening sky, he gave the order to drop anchor. They’d made it; they were safe.

  The wind was dropping and the sea had lost its fury. James reached into his top pocket, extracted a packet of Navy Cut cigarettes, poked one into his mouth, lit it, and discarded the match.

  A full moon had launched a glimmer of silver across the swell of the waves. The beauty of the hills behind Nha Trang harbour, filled to capacity with boats that had retreated from the typhoon, sent a shiver of delight through him. He took a deep draw of his cigarette. A new part of the world to be seen. Tomorrow he’d go for supplies. Hope the natives are friendly . . .

  ***

  James clambered down to his dinghy. The sea was as smooth as glass this morning and Hon Tre Island lifted against the clear blue sky, the green of its vegetation sloping to a ring of crystal-white sand.

  Gulping hot humid air, James settled into the rhythm of his rowing; sweat ran down his arms. The harbour was full of bobbing sampans, and the smells of civilisation wafted over him: spices, rice cooking, and a hint of sewage. Dogs barked, children cried, the shouts of an alien language echoed. He rowed in a parallel line to the wooden pier, then nosed into a gap between two fishing boats.

  On the barnacle-covered landing, he caught his foot and fell. Bugger! His knee cracked against the step; warm blood trickled into his sock. He struggled to the top, and stretched out his leg.

  A gentle touch on his shoulder. Four women had surrounded him, their long dresses split into front and back panels from the waist down; baggy trousers dragged on the ground. The woman nearest to him handed him a piece of silk. James tied it around his knee. ‘Thank you.’

  The woman giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand. A conical leaf-hat protected her from the fierce sun already burning his own forehead. He was fair, freckled, and probably already lobster red. The woman pointed in the direction of a European soldier, who seemed to be doing some sort of police duty.

  James went over to the man. How to communicate? He should have paid more attention to learning French at school. ‘I’m from the British ship.’ James enunciated every syllable. ‘I wish to buy water and supplies.’

  ‘Quoi? Attendez ici!’ The policeman spun around and marched off.

  Moments later, a truck pulled up. The policeman jumped out and escorted James into it. Had the fellow arrested him? Surely not; he’d be in handcuffs, wouldn’t he? But come what may, he had to get provisions for his ship.

  For half an hour they travelled over dusty, pot-holed roads that shimmered in the heat. A nauseating pong from garbage rotting in the gutters filtered through the open windows of the truck; engines revved and horns tooted as the driver barged his way between cycles, horse-drawn carts and beaten-up vehicles. A narrow muddy river wound its way through the town and wooden houses balanced precariously on its banks. The truck turned up a hill; below them stretched a crescent of stunning white beaches, fringed with palms.

  Anxiety prickled James’ spine. Where the hell was he being taken? They stopped at a building with elegant high portals overlooking the bay, and the policeman indicated that James should follow him inside. Halfway down a long corridor they halted. ‘Un moment, s’il vous plaît.’

  A door opened and a tall man emerged, a white kepi on his head and red epaulettes on his shoulders. He smoothed his pencil-thin Clark Gable moustache, his smile friendly. ‘Colonel Arnaud de Montreuil.’

  ‘Lieutenant James Stevens.’ He saluted. ‘Erm, do you speak English by any chance?’

  ‘Of course. I’m the Colonel Commandant of the Second Battalion of La Légion Etrangère. How can I help you? And, more to the point, what have you done to your knee?’

  ***

  An hour later, James had purchased his supplies and arranged for them to be dispatched to the Rockglen. By now he was on first name terms with the Frenchman, who’d proved to be as charming as his English was fluent.

  After James’ knee had been bathed and bandaged in the infirmary, Arnaud led him to the officers’ mess. ‘How about some lunch?’

  The food didn’t disappoint; the coq au vin was delicious. James took a sip of Bordeaux. ‘What’s the French Foreign Legion doing in Nha Trang, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Arnaud put his fork down. ‘La Légion has been in Indochina since 1883, but the Japs got the better of us during the war. Now we’re back again. Trouble is the damned communists want independence.’

  ‘Another question. Sorry, can’t help being curious. Why did you join the Foreign Legion? Were you influenced by Beau Geste?’

  ‘The movie did have some effect on me, I suppose. I’d always dreamt of adventure and living in exotic places. What about you? Where are you from?’

  ‘London,’ James said, not
wanting to elaborate. He’d lost his working-class accent while undergoing officer training in South Africa, and made sure he pronounced his aitches these days. The Navy was a class-ridden institution; he’d found that out to his cost. No doubt the French Foreign Legion was the same. The past was in the past and he avoided speaking of it. ‘I find the Far East more fascinating than Blighty,’ he said.

  Arnaud lifted his glass. ‘Certainement.’

  James chewed his lip. Last week, a signal had come through from Admiralty to say he was to be returned to the UK for reappointment. “Reappointment” meant “demobilisation”. He’d read in the newspapers that ex-officers found it difficult to obtain work. ‘I’m considering looking for a haven in Singapore or Hong Kong.’

  ‘I’ve un ami in Hong Kong. Went to boarding school with him in England. He’s with The Chinese Maritime Customs and they’re on the lookout for smart chaps like you. I could give you a reference, if you like.’

  So that’s where Arnaud had learnt such good English. ‘Very grateful to you.’

  ‘I’m about to join the Diplomatic Service, myself. My fiancée is the daughter of the French Ambassador in London. Our families are close friends and I’ll be starting my career in Kensington. It’s time for me to get out of Indochina before the merde really hits the fan.’

  James sipped his drink. ‘I don’t know much about South East Asian politics.’

  ‘The Viet Minh have begun a revolt against French rule. It’s only a low-level rural insurgency at present. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it escalates.’

  ‘London is a pretty miserable place these days. I don’t envy you.’

  ‘It won’t be for long. I intend to get posted back to Asia as soon as I can.’ Arnaud knocked back the last of his wine. ‘There’s a thought. Why don’t we pay the local Madam a visit?’

  James gulped. He’d never visited a brothel before, but it wouldn’t do to be prudish. He had to show he was a man of the world; he needed that reference . . .

  ***

  The women were young, pretty, elfin, with black hair and eyes. They paraded in front of him, and he didn’t know which one to choose. ‘You want jig jig?’ asked the girl nearest to him. James looked around for Arnaud, but the Frenchman had disappeared.

  The girl, dressed in what looked like pyjamas, led James into a room divided by wooden partitions into small cubicles. After negotiating a price using sign language, he sat on a large bed covered by a square of linoleum instead of sheets. In the corner a rusty tap dripped water into a basin, and the sour smell of sweat mixed with the musky fragrance of fornication.

  Music came from a wireless - a crooner singing Prisoner of Love. James undid the top button of his shirt, his mouth dry. The girl took over, undressing him slowly, raining butterfly kisses down his cheeks and the side of his neck, cupping his cock with her hand. She slipped off her trousers and straddled him.

  It was over almost before it had begun. James couldn’t contain himself; he hadn’t been with a woman since South Africa, and the war had put an end to that relationship. He’d never had to pay for sex before, though. Sickened, he gave the girl the rest of the US dollars in his wallet, dressed and left the room. He was sorry for her and wished there was more he could have done. What a desperately sad life . . .

  Where was Arnaud? James took a seat in the foyer and waited. And waited. And waited.

  The brothel owner, a fat woman with pillow-like breasts bulging over the top of her blouse, came up to him. ‘It is time you leave. We close now.’

  ‘Were is the Colonel?’

  ‘He gone.’

  James shrugged and got to his feet. Damn rude of the Frenchman to have left him in the lurch like this. He’d have to walk through the sweltering heat back to the harbour. And he’d never get that reference; he had to leave in the morning.

  A mangy dog barked as James stepped onto the pavement. Bloody hell! The Colonel’s jeep was still parked where they’d left it. Where the heck was he?

  ***

  James shaded his eyes. Maybe Arnaud had gone for a drink in one of those bars at the end of the road? Striding past a fruit and vegetable shop, the aroma of fresh ginger teasing his nostrils, he felt a tug at his sleeve. Good grief! The girl from the brothel. She was no longer wearing pyjamas, but the traditional long baggy pants and tunic with splits up the sides.

  Glancing from left to right, she pointed towards a dark alleyway. Unease spread through James.

  What was it Arnaud had said about the insurgents? A low-level revolt against French rule. Could Arnaud have been nabbed by some of them? And, if so, had they killed him? Fear twisted James’ gut. Perhaps he should turn around, head back to his ship, and get the hell out of here.

  The girl was pulling him towards a rickety staircase. He followed her to a door at the top. She turned to him and, placing her two hands together, gave a half-bow. Then she spun on her heel and ran back down the stairs.

  Wishing he’d thought to bring his gun, James peered through the keyhole. There was Arnaud, trussed up like a chicken ready for the pot with a gag around his face. On his own, thank God. The girl must have known he would be, otherwise why would she have led James here? He rubbed his chin. How to rescue Arnaud? The door seemed flimsy enough. He stood back, then ran at it, using his weight and strength as a battering ram.

  Within minutes he’d untied Arnaud and they were legging it back down the alleyway to the jeep. The Frenchman got behind the wheel and switched on the ignition. Tyres squealing, the vehicle shot up the road.

  James hung onto his seat. ‘What the bloody hell happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure. One minute I was fucking for France, the next I blanked out then found myself in that room. Don’t know how I got there or who did it to me. How did you find me?’

  ‘The girl I was with. God knows why she decided to help us.’

  ‘Might be a useful contact,’ Arnaud said. ‘She’ll be richly rewarded.’

  ‘Do you think it was the insurgents?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. They were probably going to hold me to ransom. Thanks for rescuing me, by the way. Merci infiniment. When we get back to Headquarters, I’ll write you that reference. Judging by your actions this afternoon, you’ll be an asset to the Customs Service.’

  ***

  Back on his ship, James’ mind whirled with plans for the future. He would hand over the tug to the Hong Kong authorities. Then he’d see about that job. James didn’t want to return to what he’d been brought up to believe was his proper place in society. He’d travelled too far, both physically and psychologically, to be the same eighteen year old lad who’d enlisted in 1941. Out here in the Orient, thousands of miles from dreary, class-conscious Britain, he could be an entirely different person.

  ***

  The hills of Kowloon rose from the early morning mist. Looking out of his hotel window on the island side of the harbour, James felt a rush of anticipation. He ate a hearty breakfast – bacon and eggs with sausages, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms – before taking a rickshaw to the Star Ferry.

  He’d heard that Hong Kong meant “fragrant harbour” in Chinese. The port was filled with cargo ships, tugs, junks and sampans, and it wasn’t particularly fragrant. (He caught the heady whiff of bilge.) The colony was clearly thriving, judging by the amount of activity around him. He’d love to live and work here. It seemed the perfect place for an ambitious young man like him . . . a haven. And a peaceful one at that.

  James thought about the girl in Nah Trang. She seemed to have her wits about her. If she became an informant for the French, she might be able to get herself out of prostitution.

  Half an hour later, James was seated in front of a mahogany desk answering questions about his war service. He spoke at length to avoid any enquiries into his pre-war background. He’d been an apprenticed plumber, but that was in another life.

  A burly man, with greying hair and beard, beamed at him. ‘How are your surveying skills?’

  ‘Pretty precise, actually. A
nd I’m a top-notch navigator.’

  ‘Excellent! During the seven years of war between Japan and China, surveying of the coastline has been completely ignored. There’s a tremendous job to be done to get it up to date.’

  ‘What exactly will be my job?’

  ‘You’ll conduct surveys up and down the coast, and then return to Hong Kong to make charts. Occasionally I’ll expect you to accompany me on the more important anti-smuggling operations. Are you up to that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  ‘You’ll be employed as a second officer class A. The salary will be £32, in the bank, plus nine hundred and sixty-five Hong Kong dollars per month.’

  James grinned. That was about ninety-five pounds: a great deal more than he could possibly earn back in England.

  ‘Of course we’ll have to wait for the final decision of the Inspector General, but, as far as I’m concerned, welcome aboard!’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘I’m Tony Chambers by the way. Call me Tony.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  ‘And enough of the bloody Sir shit: I prefer to keep things informal. Had all that stuff and nonsense knocked out of me in Stanley Camp.’

  ‘Stanley?’

  ‘That’s where the Japs interned us for over three and a half years. Nearly starved us to death.’

  ‘God! How awful!’

  ‘My wife, Jessica, and I survived, that’s the main thing.’ Tony heaved a sigh. ‘Others didn’t, though. Where are you staying?’

  James gave his address.

  ‘I’ll cable the Inspector General. Should be able to give you an answer tomorrow.’