The Harbour

by Francesca Brill

  ‘Experience isn’t the same as knowing.’

  Stevie looked up at him. ‘And what makes you so wise?’

  He held her gaze. ‘Why opium?’

  ‘It stops me drinking alcohol, which is a good thing, but it’s time-consuming as a habit, I’ll give you that. I really like the lying down. The lying down is nice.’ She heard the flippancy in her voice and recognised it as another habit that was surprisingly hard to break. ‘What were you really doing there, anyway?’

  Harry didn’t miss a beat. ‘Research.’

  ‘Me too!’

  Harry couldn’t help noticing the curls of shiny hair that fell over the sharpness of her cheekbones, softening them. ‘This research, it can’t possibly be to do with the estimable Madame Kung or even one of the other Soong ladies. Or have we all missed a very big piece of scandalous gossip? Don’t tell me you’re supplying China’s wealthiest woman with drugs? Maybe it’s part of a cunning plot to bring down the Kuomintang leadership. You’re working for the Communists after all!’

  Stevie sat back in admiration of the riff. She waited a moment after he had finished. ‘All done?’ Harry nodded, smiling. ‘Actually, if you really want to know, it’s for a piece I’m doing for –’ She stopped mid-flow. ‘Hey, wait a minute. You’re so clever. You find out for yourself.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I shall. May I ask, though, I’m curious, how have you managed to get such access to the Soongs? They’re a notoriously closed clan. Is Mr Wu in some way related to them?’

  Stevie was instantly on guard again. She had no idea exactly what he was after but he was clearly looking for information and she had no intention of slipping it to him, whatever it might be. Also the mention of Jishang stung her like a slap for more reasons than she was ready to admit. She crossed her arms over the thin cotton of her dress.

  ‘How did I get access? My natural charm, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Harry took a sip of beer straight from the bottle. ‘Look, I’ll get to the point. We need to know what’s happening both in Chungking government circles and also in the Communist hierarchy. Details, no matter how small, would help us put a clear picture together. We do have lines of communication of course but the Kuomintang have their own very particular version of the truth. Perhaps you . . .?’ Harry frowned. Stevie was laughing again. He sat back. ‘You’re unbelievable. You’re laughing at me?’

  ‘Well, you’re hilarious. Ever heard of subtlety? And anyway, the answer is no. I’m not going to betray any confidences and I will not identify my sources.’ A pause. ‘And most certainly not to a Limey.’

  ‘I might begin to wonder whose side you’re on.’

  ‘I’m on my side. Every time.’

  Harry considered this for a moment. He sat forward again. ‘Maybe information isn’t all I want.’

  Stevie’s heart skipped a beat. Her voice was low so as not to betray the shaking.

  ‘My God. You might just be as unscrupulous as I am.’

  ‘How unscrupulous is that, exactly?’

  She held his gaze. ‘Anything for a story. Everything for a good story. The end always justifies the means.’

  ‘Hmm. That doesn’t explain why you’re on the run.’

  Stevie rolled her eyes, mock-exasperated. ‘Hello, Dr Freud, who invited you?’

  ‘We’re all on the run, why else would we be here?’

  Suddenly Stevie felt taut and thin-skinned, inexplicably burdened with honesty. The words came with difficulty, a confession.

  ‘I’m not running. I’m the exception that proves the rule. But –’ a pause ‘– if you must know, I’ve frightened myself. I’m afraid I can’t actually write the book. Maybe I can’t write it.’

  His look of sympathy was too much to bear. She brightened her tone back to brittle.

  ‘God, I can’t wait to get out of here. I’d do anything to get back to Shanghai. It’s heaven there.’

  His gaze didn’t waver. ‘That’s ridiculous. I mean, yes, Shanghai’s marvellous and all that, but the thing about the book, I don’t understand. You could write anything. I know it because I admired your work long before l admired you.’

  She was acutely aware of the burning flesh between them, between their almost touching knees, almost touching hands.

  Then Harry’s wrist was in the grip of an old woman, so twisted in the spine that she was almost doubled over. The world crashed in on them again. The noise, the penetrating smells of cabbage and sharp sauces seemed even more overwhelming than before. Her skin was thin as rice paper. Harry had swivelled towards the old woman, whose fingers traced the lines on his palm. The bony fingers of her other hand grasped his wrist. He tried to pull away. Her voice was a gravelly whisper, caught in her twisted trunk.

  Harry looked to Stevie. ‘What did she say?’

  She translated from the whispered Cantonese. ‘She said, are you afraid?’

  The old woman was still muttering as she looked at his hand. ‘Much trouble. Great love. Separation. Hard life.’

  She released him. He pulled a coin out of his pocket. She took it and shuffled away to accost the people at the next table.

  ‘So?’ Harry asked.

  ‘She said great love and long life. Much joss – luck.’

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of, then.’

  Stevie shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘What does frighten you? Apart from writing your book.’

  ‘Nothing much. But sometimes I’m afraid of myself.’ She felt his scrutiny and, alert again to the heat of his leg so close to hers, she felt an urge to get away. She stood up, uncomfortable between the table and the wall, and reached for her jacket, which was over the back of the chair. Harry also stood and helped her with the jacket. She was suddenly struck by something.

  ‘You don’t speak Chinese?’

  Harry shrugged slightly, apologetically. ‘Japanese and Portuguese.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that explains why the British Army posted you to China.’

  ‘Quite.’ Harry had stood back to allow her to squeeze out from the table. Now he spoke formally, the intimacy banished. ‘In fact, I wonder if you’ve got a moment? There’s something I was going to ask. Sergeant Ramsay and I could do with your translation skills.’

  Stevie hesitated, disappointment rising. Maybe this was only a professional dig for information after all. He was frustratingly hard to read and she was wrong-footed, used to being one step ahead.

  ‘His Majesty’s Government would be most grateful.’

  She glanced at him, relieved to hear the playful tone again and gratified to see the amused creases next to his eyes.

  ‘Oh, well in that case . . .’ she said.

  The office was on the third floor of an undistinguished administration building in the business district. They had walked there, Stevie conscious of him reining in his long strides so they could stay shoulder to shoulder. Afterwards she thought that she knew even then that they were walking towards their future and that nothing would be the same again. That afternoon they looked like a handsome pair of colleagues making their way in a fairly leisurely fashion back to work, not speaking much but pleased with each other’s company.

  As Harry closed the door behind them Stevie cast her eyes around the office. On his desk, among the debris of his working life, was a framed formal studio photo of Sylvia and her grim little smile.

  Stevie turned abruptly away. ‘I can give you half an hour. I’m going to the movies with Lily this afternoon. She wants to see the Olivier film but quite honestly the thought of him doing another buttoned-up Brit in breeches routine doesn’t appeal to me much.’

  Harry closed the blinds on the window. For maybe the first time in his life he wasn’t thinking beyond the next moment. He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be doing or where he was. He forgot about his pale, distant wife. He was intent only on Stevie. The room darkened and Stevie almost swayed with the intensity of the atmosphere.

  ‘There is no translation, is there?’
/>   He turned to look at her, saying nothing. She held his gaze.

  ‘Are you going to lie to me often?’

  ‘No. I try to stick to the things I do well.’

  ‘Like seduction?’ Stevie could feel her own surrender. But she also felt an incredible charge of energy fuelling every nerve-ending in her body. ‘Be careful. I may just call your bluff and then you’d be sorry. I’ve never had much of a conscience where married men are concerned.’

  Now Harry was there in front of her. So close. His mouth. His eyes. She was drowning. His voice a whisper.

  ‘How sorry do you think I’d be?’

  ‘Very.’

  And his mouth was on hers. She felt him pick her up and she was weightless. He pushed the papers off his desk to clear space for her and she was sitting on the desk. The blunt edge of the wood dug into the top of her thighs. All the time he was kissing her, urgent and abandoned. Sylvia slipped face-down on to the floor. And all was sensation. Her legs around his waist. Hungry and fast. Their faces very close, breathing each other’s breath.

  ‘Oh my God, Stevie.’

  ‘You’ll have to make up your own lie. She’s your wife.’

  And they were on each other again. Lost.

  Chapter Seven

  August 1940

  On a clear day in early August, heavy with damp heat, a convoy of cars raced through the emerald-green landscape of the New Territories, the land between the island of Hong Kong and China. The paddy fields were bordered by little clay paths and the shallow water channels sparkled like broken glass. A farmer looked up from under his wide hat at the unusually large number of cars and narrowed his eyes in concern. Having ascertained that they weren’t stopping, he relaxed a little. But he kept his eyes on them until they were out of sight. On the other side of the world the battle for the skies of Britain was being fought but there was no echo of those blood-drenched encounters in the wide cloudless grey of the horizon.

  The cars stopped outside the walls of Kun Lung Wai, a small traditional village which had not seen so much action since the Boxer Rebellion in 1900. Stretching their limbs and desperate to cool their hot, damp skin, a motley collection of Europeans climbed wearily out of the broad-beamed black cars. The women steamed with a great sense of purpose, the few reporters who had come along for the ride exchanged amused glances.

  A little while later in the central square, a large crowd for such a small town had gathered. Curious villagers and a few European women and children took stock of each other whilst keeping a polite distance. On an improvised platform, a couple of planks of wood balanced on oil drums, the statuesque Phyllis Clarke-Russell talked into a microphone. She seemed not to understand that her voice was thereby magnified and so she was shouting. Very slowly.

  ‘As the Chairman of the Hong Kong branch of the British Ladies’ Charitable Association it gives me great pleasure to present this first-aid box to you, the people of Kun Lung Wai.’

  A bemused man, representing the equally bemused people of Kun Lung Wai, approached the fragile platform and, reaching up, accepted the tin box from Phyllis. There was muted applause initiated by Sylvia, who fervently admired Phyllis, as she had fervently admired the head girl at school in Surrey.

  Standing to one side, Declan McKenna, at twenty-five already more cynical than he was born to be, leaned slightly towards Stevie.

  ‘When the Ladies’ Charitable Association has been evacuated to the parched fields of Australia, who’ll be left to patronise the natives?’

  Stevie laughed. She had last seen him a few weeks before at a military press conference. He had been there on behalf of the good people of Ireland as the foreign correspondent of the Irish Times; she, to report on what the foreign correspondents were wearing for a flippant little piece to be syndicated across the States. She liked his intensity and the fact that he was incapable of hiding his innate optimism. She felt protective of his Tigger-like energy and enthusiasm.

  ‘God, Declan, doesn’t Hong Kong make you nostalgic for China?’

  ‘This is China. We’re on the mainland, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He clutched his chest in mock horror. ‘You mean there is a part of China where the British Ladies’ Association doesn’t reach?’

  Stevie nudged him and he pretended to fall so that she had to put out her hand and pull him back to standing. Her gaze drifted across the square. Under the eaves of a traditional red-painted house she caught a glimpse of Harry in deep discussion with a skinny, high-cheekboned youth wearing the loose pyjama-like shirt and trousers of the local peasants.

  The sight of him shook her. Something rose in her throat. It had only been a week since he had gallantly opened the front door of his office building to see her out, but it may as well have been a year. He had thanked her for her help. She hadn’t looked at him for fear of giving everything away and had lost herself as fast as possible in the crowded street. She had not answered the telephone since.

  The unexpected image of him, leaning earnestly and sympathetically towards the intense young man, took her right back there. Instantly, she was in that office again. The blinds down, the air hot but not as hot as his breath on her skin. Her limbs had felt heavy and the grip of wanting him had completely taken her by surprise. She was used to being the object of desire. She was used to accepting homage and to the pleasure that men’s passion gave her. But this desperation she did not recognise. Afterwards, it frightened her.

  It was Harry who had heard the footsteps immediately outside the office door. It took all his strength to pull away from her, to take his hands from her body and help her down from the desk. By the time Ken opened the door they were still in disarray and Stevie could not have spoken if her life had depended on it. Ken had understood in a flash of recognition. The papers on the floor, the figures in the dim light, Major Field, his shirt loose with his hand protectively on the back of a girl. He coughed and backed off, deeply embarrassed. He closed the door and stepped back into the corridor. He had been at a loss as to what he should do next. He saw the blinds being opened and walked away as fast as he could down the corridor, as embarrassed as if he himself had been disgraced. There was nothing in his emotional vocabulary to express the shame he felt.

  Somehow Stevie had left Harry, the room, the building. She had done her utmost not to think about it since. And as the minutes, hours, days had passed she persuaded herself that it had been a surprising encounter, yes, but nothing more nor less. From the distance of a whole week it seemed more like a dream. She was practised at brief affairs. It was her area of expertise and it suited her. Wilfully unmarried, she considered it a badge of honour that she hadn’t been trapped in the shadow of a man. When asked, she had often quipped that she wasn’t married because she hadn’t yet found a good enough wife.

  Stevie glanced back across the square. Harry was still there, leaning his long body against the wall of a house, listening intently to the boy, who suddenly she felt sure she’d seen somewhere before. That brush of hair, those arched eyebrows, were familiar. Then she remembered – the boy she and Lily had bumped into in the market one day. Lily had been flustered, so had he, and after Lily had introduced him as her relative he had scurried away. It was then that Stevie had learned that it was useless to try and get information out of Lily if she didn’t want to give it. She had definitely not wanted to talk about the boy. Stevie had the impression she was afraid. In any case, it was family business and she had backed off.

  Declan followed her gaze. ‘Business or pleasure?’

  Stevie shrugged. ‘I know that boy, I think his name is Chen. He’s Lily’s cousin or brother or something.’

  ‘Looks like one of the Communist lads to me.’

  The boy slipped away between the houses. Harry looked up and, extremely unconvincingly, appeared to notice Stevie’s presence as if for the first time. He strode across the dusty square towards them. Stevie held herself very still.

  Harry nodded a cool
hello to her and shook Declan’s hand.

  ‘Got anything for me?’ Declan asked.

  ‘Nothing the readers of The Times would appreciate hearing.’

  ‘All good news, then.’

  ‘Good for the Japanese, certainly.’

  ‘You know what I like about being briefed by you, Major, it’s your marked optimism.’

  Harry laughed. ‘When there’s good news, Mr McKenna, you’ll be the first to hear.’

  He turned to Stevie and said, with breathtaking nonchalance:

  ‘Miss Steiber, I have something to ask you.’

  Declan, young but not stupid, butted in.

  ‘Favouring the American press now, Major?’

  He understood exactly what the nature of the enquiry was. And he couldn’t help his momentary disappointment. Stevie was the best-looking girl in the place as well as possessing the sharpest wit.

  Harry stepped away. Stevie shrugged at Declan as if to show ignorance of what this could possibly be about and followed. Declan was not fooled for a moment.

  They reached the edge of the square and stood in the shade of the banyan tree. Stevie’s dress stuck to her as if she had been swimming in it. A slightly fetid smell drifted from the paddy fields and her skin was itchy from the heavy heat. Under the umbrella spread of branches, his voice was urgent.

  ‘Yes, all right, so I’m married, and you and Wu Jishang are engaged in a spectacular love affair. But you could bloody well be polite enough to return my calls.’

  Stevie was acutely aware of the curious and disapproving eyes on them. This was very public. Was he going to cause a scene? She glanced nervously towards Sylvia. At some distance away she was engaged in demonstrating how to apply a bandage on to a willing village woman. The woman found the whole thing absolutely hilarious and was shrieking with laughter, as were her friends. Sylvia forged determinedly ahead with her task. Stevie couldn’t restrain her anger.

  ‘Why are you doing this? Everyone can see.’

  ‘If you’d answered my calls like a normal person, I wouldn’t have to, would I?’

  ‘You have no right to talk to me like this.’