The Harbour

by Francesca Brill

  ‘No, maybe not. But you can’t run away from me for ever. What did you think, that I’d just go away as if nothing had ever happened?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got me now. What do you want to say?’

  Harry wavered, then he shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Stevie looked at the ground. A trail of ants wove a path through the dust.

  ‘I suppose I’d like to know what you want. I mean – who you want. Or what you want to do.’ He tailed off.

  ‘You can’t possibly imagine that I want you? What in God’s name would make me want a married British soldier –’

  ‘Officer.’

  She glared at him. ‘A married British soldier who just happens to be a drunk?’ She shoved her hands into the pockets of her dress. ‘Just because we’ve – we’ve –’ she faltered, ‘it does not give you any rights over me.’

  This was intended as her parting shot and she took a step away from him. He grabbed her by the elbow.

  ‘All right, I’ve heard what you don’t want. Fair enough. But one thing’s clear and it’s the last thing I expected from you – you’re a coward.’

  Stevie wrenched herself free and stormed back towards Declan, steaming with fury. How dare he? How goddamn dare he? She, a coward? She who lived her life exactly as she chose to, with no thought for custom or niceties or what other people made of her? It was nothing less than an outrage. Of course she thought, sneering, that’s what comes of refusing a man who expects to be loved. He resorts to heinous insults. Pathetic. By the time she reached Declan she felt much better.

  ‘You all right? Got any headlines for me?’

  ‘No. He – we had some unfinished business from a while back. Anything happen while I was gone?’

  Stevie gestured towards the bandage demonstration. The women of the village were still finding much to laugh at and Sylvia was struggling with an explanation of what to do with the brown glass bottle of disinfectant. She narrowly managed to wrest the bottle back when one of the women tried to take a sip.

  Stevie couldn’t resist a glance over her shoulder at Harry. He had withdrawn further into the shadow of the houses and was in intense conversation with two Japanese men in suits. Stevie frowned and Declan followed her gaze.

  ‘Ah, the charming Mr Takeda and the charmless Mr Shigeo, unless I’m much mistaken.’ Stevie looked at him, impressed. ‘They’re unofficially attached to the Japanese consulate and seem to pop up at every opportunity.’ Stevie raised her eyebrows in unspoken understanding.

  ‘And officially?’

  ‘I gather Mr Takeda, the chubby one on the right, represents a Japanese manufacturer of spectacles.’

  ‘Appropriately enough.’

  ‘Quite so. And Mr Shigeo is employed by a canned fruit importer. Or so his business card claims.’ Stevie looked closely at them, the heft of the one and the spareness of the other. ‘They’re perfectly pleasant, apparently, but personally I feel there’s something wrong about socialising with them when I’ve seen what their colleagues are doing elsewhere.’

  Stevie narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t suppose they’re here for a social engagement any more than we are.’ Then, turning to Declan, she batted her eyelashes and trilled in an excruciating Southern accent.

  ‘Oh fiddle-de-dee, Mr McKenna, sir, all this war talk sure spoils the party.’

  And Declan returned in an even worse one, ‘Why, Miss Scarlett, you minx, you.’

  It was their favourite game. They had established it when standing at the back of an endless military briefing a few weeks previously and they could quite easily play it for hours.

  Suddenly there were shouts between the men. The raised voices brought everybody’s attention to the far side of the square. Sylvia hesitated in her demonstration, the safety pins in mid-air. The village women stopped shrieking with laughter. Stevie and Declan headed straight for the scuffle, pushing through the crowd. She could see that Chen, Lily’s young man relative, was landing punches in the direction of the two Japanese men. Harry’s voice could be heard over the yelling, trying to calm things down.

  ‘Gentlemen, please, there’s no need for this.’

  But the atmosphere had changed from festive to sinister faster than it seemed possible. Harry was struggling to keep Chen at arm’s length of the Japanese, but the crowd was threatening now and a few other Chinese men were entering into the fray. The younger, fleshier man, Mr Takeda, was faring badly. A few blows had landed and there was blood on his shirt, which had come untucked from his trousers. Mr Shigeo, older and leaner, was returning the aggression pretty efficiently and had caused some damage. Harry was doing his best in their defence but the fighting was increasingly nasty. There were screams now from the women and some of the British children were crying. Phyllis held her daughter’s face firmly into her skirts, which came as a pleasant surprise to Margaret, who was more used to being pulled off her mother than hugged to her. Margaret made a half-hearted attempt to escape the folds of crisp cotton. A warning ‘Margaret’ reached her muffled ears and she surrendered again to the unfamiliar closeness of her mother.

  Moving on instinct, Stevie pushed deeper into the brawl. She caught sight of Harry shouting for calm but couldn’t hear his words over the scrum. A punch landed hard on her cheek, catching the side of her eye socket. For a moment the world was silent and then the thumping throb of pain bit in. She had been hit by the flailing hand of Mr Shigeo, whose lean sweating face loomed towards her. Her response was immediate. Her open palm swiped him back, an answering sting on her own hand. He stared at her with fury and humiliation in equal measure. In that instant Stevie felt the icy grip of fear but Shigeo was distracted by the pull of another assailant and, as he disappeared from view, Stevie felt herself being dragged backwards. Declan had one arm around her waist and with the other, he pushed a path through the baying crowd.

  When they were clear he let her go.

  ‘War wound, baby,’ he whistled.

  Stevie could feel warm wetness on her face.

  ‘You’ve gone and done it now.’

  He gently dabbed at the cut with his handkerchief, none too clean, but she wasn’t looking.

  ‘I should care? They’re bastards, all of them.’

  ‘Forget the Japanese,’ Declan indicated the horrified face of Phyllis, who was bearing down on them at speed. ‘Much worse – you’ve upset the Charitable Ladies.’

  Stevie smiled and winced. ‘Yep, that is scary, I’ll give you that.’

  Phyllis, with Margaret still clinging on to her, spoke with a very English mix of disapproval and concern. ‘Are you all right, Miss Steiber? Only we have several trained first-aiders with us.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m fine.’

  Margaret released her grip on Phyllis’ skirt long enough to get a good look at Stevie’s face.

  Phyllis was clearly affronted by Stevie’s refusal of help. ‘That’ll be quite some bruise, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘Oh I don’t doubt that. Your resilience has already been noted and is a matter of much admiration.’

  Stevie didn’t have time to fully appreciate the undercurrent of censure because their attention was drawn by Harry, who had jumped on to the low wall behind him. Pushing aside the peony bush that spread across the stones, he raised his voice above the shouts and screams. At first it wasn’t clear what he was doing but gradually people turned to look at him and as the cacophony died down Stevie could hear that he was singing, and badly at that.

  ‘Heaven, I’m in heaven and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak . . .’

  The shaky rasp was bizarre enough to earn a few snorts of laughter.

  ‘And I seem to find the happiness I seek, when we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.’

  Gradually the baffled faces all turned to him. Stevie’s mouth was open. She’d never seen anything like this before and was deeply impressed. There was a moment of silence and then the nervous laughter grew. The will to fight had dissipated an
d under the scattered laughs a low buzz of conversation started up. The young men of the village drew back among themselves. Taking a peremptory bow, like a boy in a school concert, Harry jumped down from the wall. Mr Takeda, clearly still very shaken, shook Harry’s hand, vigorously thanking him.

  Phyllis, joined by her posse of ladies, turned away from Stevie. There was a general sense of disappointment in their long-planned moment of civic glory having been so crassly stolen. They had sat on committees for weeks to organise the day and a public brawl had most certainly not featured on their meticulously typed agenda. Stevie nodded towards the bruised and shaken crowd.

  ‘Good thing they’ve got that first-aid box.’

  Phyllis was in no mood for banter. ‘You may think you’re funny but you’re not, you know. You’re just bad mannered.’

  As the ladies swept on in the direction of the parked cars Stevie heard Sylvia say, ‘Harry says she’s awfully intelligent.’ Only an English woman could imbue the word ‘intelligent’ with quite so much contempt.

  Declan grinned at Stevie before heading towards the remaining pack of angry young men.

  ‘Well, I got my headline. “War Skirmish Breaks out at Charitable Ladies Meeting”. It’s a winner, don’t you think?’

  It took Harry a few minutes to find his way to Stevie’s side. He winced at the sight of the rapidly darkening bruise on her cheek.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  To her horror she could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes. He was short-circuiting her defences. Damn him. She was instantly on the offensive.

  ‘How can you cosy up with the Japanese like that, shaking their hands and all?’

  ‘It just so happens we’re old friends. Mr Takeda and I have a shared history.’

  ‘But you’ve seen what they’re doing. It’s not waging war, it’s demonic and merciless. In Shanghai they cut people up just for looking at them: girls, babies, they don’t care. And their favourite weapon? They don’t waste time with bullets and guns, oh no, rape is much more effective. It’s great for morale and saves ammunition too. They just love it.’

  While she spoke Harry looked more closely at the damage to her face.

  ‘Let me look at that. It’s pretty nasty.’

  She shrugged him off.

  ‘I told you, I’m fine. Look, it’s simple, the way I see it, where there’s murder and rape there’s an enemy, not a friend – however far you go back.’

  ‘I’ll take you to a doctor.’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  She glanced at him, catching the depth of concern in his eyes, and softened.

  ‘Nice song, by the way. Do they teach you that at military school?’

  ‘You’re coming with me.’

  Harry called over to the discreetly hovering Ken Ramsay. ‘Be so kind, Sergeant, as to offer your driving services to Mrs Clarke-Russell and the committee members.’

  Turning back to Stevie, he put his hand on her elbow and began guiding her towards the parked cars. Most of the associated ladies were already ensconced in their motor cars and the sound of engines igniting and throttles being pulled drowned out the shuffling of the dispersing crowd.

  Stevie snorted. ‘Is it only in English that you don’t understand the word “no”?’

  His voice was as firm as his grip. ‘I’m taking you back to Hong Kong. You’re a danger to the peace of mainland China.’

  Stevie’s smile lit up. ‘Oh, all right, you sweet talker, you, if you insist.’ And she let herself be steered to the waiting car, only dragging her feet for show.

  They were quiet in the car. Once the doors had been closed and Harry had driven them out of the village, the sudden insulated silence of being inside the car numbed them. The leather of the seat burned through her thin cotton dress. Stevie felt oddly distant from the moment. She watched the wide green fields blur past as if in a dream. The car smelled of oil and something damp as well as the musty memory of Je Reviens. It was an island.

  Stevie was jolted back when Harry swept the car off the main road to the left.

  ‘Surely it would be better to stay on the road through Tuen Mon.’

  ‘Want to drive?’ He was laughing at her.

  ‘Nobody laughs at me. It’s not allowed.’ This in mock indignation. ‘Except when I say something very funny. Then you’re obliged to laugh, preferably a lot.’

  Harry put his foot on the brake and they came to a standstill. The engine crackled as it cooled down. A young girl with a baby in a sling on her back walked past along the narrow unmade road without displaying too much curiosity. But the baby gazed right at Stevie – its tiny hand curled against its cheek. Stevie and Harry did not look at each other. The silence was strange, the clicking engine, the calls of swallows as they swooped over the vivid green fields.

  Harry spoke, his gaze keen on the road ahead. His voice seemed unnaturally loud.

  ‘I just want to say that – my marriage – I –’

  But Stevie interrupted.

  ‘Oh please, let’s not exchange histories. We’re too grown up for that, don’t you think?’

  Harry looked at her for a long moment. He nodded as if to himself and turned the ignition on. The engine coughed and rose. As he shifted the car into gear he said, ‘Whatever happens you’re not to write about me.’

  ‘Are you planning on being particularly interesting?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Stevie laughed. ‘If people don’t want to be used in a writer’s work they should stay away from writers.’

  The car heaved itself into action. Stevie’s gaze rested on a lone water buffalo trampling a path across the plains.

  The street outside Stevie’s apartment building was relatively quiet. The afternoon pause before the onslaught of the evening. The car hummed as it pulled up by the kerb. They had barely spoken for the rest of the journey. Sitting next to each other on the ferry, the disturbed water of the harbour beyond the railings, their awareness of each other was so sharp that words seemed intrusive. Negotiating the streets of the city, Stevie hadn’t questioned where they were going and Harry didn’t suggest the doctor again.

  Stevie looked up at the limp banner that hung on the building. ‘Thirst Stops Here’, followed by the red and white Coca-Cola logo. She put her hand on the metal door handle and was surprised by how cool it felt to the touch. A moment of clarity made her look over her shoulder at Harry. His head was bent forward, giving him the earnest look of a man much older.

  ‘You’re not going all British and gentlemanly on me, are you?’

  She turned back to the door and opened it cleanly, fast. The heat of late afternoon struck her as she stepped out on to the pavement. All her senses heightened, she heard rather than saw that he was following her.

  Sunlight streamed into the room. They stood at the door. The gleam of the metal bedstead. Reflections from the water in the glass on the bedside table played over the pale-green walls.

  Stevie felt the heat of him.

  ‘This thing that’s happening –’ She stopped, her words as insubstantial as a mist.

  And Harry gently covered her mouth with his hand. Slowly, slowly he pulled her deeper into the room. Dropping his hand from her he closed the door. The click of the lock was soft. She stood, shaking slightly with each beat of her heart. Turning back to her, he walked around her in a circle. Looking at her throat, the back of her neck, her elbows. The street sounds filtered through the window. But only they existed, he and she. In that limpid moment.

  At last Harry laid his hand on the small of her back and then they were kissing, licking, biting. Coming home.

  Later. Stevie opened her eyes. She was on the floor and Harry was asleep next to her. She pulled herself up very quietly and began to gather her clothes. Her bruised eye throbbed and her arm felt heavy and numb from where she had lain on it. As she bent to pick up one of her stockings, she glanced at him. And she was transfixed. The skin on his face was clear except for whe
re the day’s stubble was already pushing through. But instead of making a shadow the hair was so fair that it made him glow. He sighed a long sigh but did not wake. She let the stocking slip out of her hands. Dropping back to the floor, she sat cross-legged by him and holding her fingers a small distance from his face, she traced his features in the air.

  Later again. The room was darkening. Harry opened his eyes with a start. Alarmed for a moment he sat up and looked around the room. Stevie was in the wicker armchair, asleep, her head at an awkward angle to her neck. He could see her pulse. She looked more fragile than he could bear. The shadow of guilt caught him unawares. What was he doing? For God’s sake, he was not only breaking his marriage vows but he was sleeping with someone he was charged with watching. This was wrong every way one looked at it. Morally and professionally, he was compromised. There was nothing right with it. Except, as he looked at her, everything seemed right. This was a looking-glass world. He quietly pulled himself to standing, his legs reluctant with sleep. As he stretched, his eye was caught by her desk under the window. Stepping towards it, he idly glanced at the books and papers strewn across it. Slightly concealed by a list (biscuits, whisky, lemons, paper, eggs, fix Victor’s lead) was an airline ticket. He picked it up – a flight to Shanghai this very weekend.

  Her voice made him jump.

  ‘Spying on me?’

  Harry didn’t turn to her. His eyes were fixed on the thin paper in his hand. His voice was low and unsteady. ‘Stay. Don’t go. Not now. Please.’

  Night had fallen. Muted blue and red light sidled in through the slats of the blind. They had found their way on to the bed. He was deep inside her and had begun to pull away. She drew him back to her and, not reasoning, she whispered, ‘Stay.’

  Not long after that they lay silently, limbs laced round and over each other. The miracle of fitting had numbed their thoughts for a while longer. Neither wanted to move because the world would rush in and this would be lost. Maybe for ever. For now this was enough. Stevie sighed and Harry felt her hot breath on his shoulder and thought it might actually have burned him.