The Harbour

by Francesca Brill

  ‘You’re not shocked?’

  ‘No. It’s your business.’ She shrugged. ‘And his.’

  Stevie looked at the floor. There were track marks dug into the wood by the filing cabinet. Lily’s voice sang, glad to talk about it at last.

  ‘My mother had eight of us and my sister had her first last year, a little girl. She called her Lily after me, isn’t that sweet? I was there with her, it was very exciting. The doctor said he’d never pull her through, but it wasn’t so bad really.’ Lily laid the brown-paper packets of food on to the table one by one. ‘I do remember her saying to the nurse “Kill me, kill me I want to die . . .” ’

  Stevie almost laughed as she put her head in her hands.

  As the days passed Stevie was alternately either muted and listless or bursting with manic energy. The only event that penetrated her daze was Lily’s despair at discovering that she wasn’t in fact British.

  When the government had announced on the radio that all British women and children were obliged to register for the evacuation, Lily had been ferocious in her denouncement of this measure. Why should she leave her home town when the war wasn’t even upon them? Since the British government had made it quite clear Hong Kong was in no real danger, surely it was unnecessary? But in the end, being an upstanding citizen, she had done as instructed.

  When she came home from the government building it was the first time Stevie had seen Lily cry. Apparently, she had been British enough to be a taxpayer but she wasn’t British enough to be evacuated. This was exactly the kind of political hypocrisy that would normally have roused Stevie into a storming rage but there was no energy to spare. Lily’s upset did penetrate a little, though. She sat her down at the dining table and made her tea, watching while she sipped it between sobs.

  Later she held her hand as another bout of furious crying took hold of her. She stroked her damp hair, the strands falling like wild brushstrokes over Lily’s temples, and ran a silk scarf under the cold tap before tying it round her head.

  When she had recovered enough to talk, Lily looked at Stevie, very grave in her unlikely silk turban.

  ‘From now on my name is Lei-Ling.’

  Stevie stroked her hand again.

  ‘It’s very pretty,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the name my mother gave me. It means I will make a big noise in the world.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a minute. Your mother is a very wise woman.’

  Lily nodded, then tilted her chin defiantly even higher and took another sip of the cold tea.

  There was a wild wind and she was neck-deep in the turbulent water. She fought for breath. Her eyes sprang open. A glass of water had spilled from the side table. It dripped on to her naked arm. Harry was sprawled asleep beside her. She got up and made her way to the window. It had thick iron bars on it. Panicking, she pulled on them, she had to get out. There was the unearthly sound of screaming.

  Stevie sat bolt upright, shaking with fear. Daylight streamed into the room through the part-open window, on which there were no iron bars. Victor was leaping up and down at the end of the bed, in which there was no Harry. She must have fallen asleep fully clothed. Her hands rested on the neat swell of her stomach. How the hell could this be happening to her?

  After waking from the dream she ran into Lily’s room and insisted that they go immediately to the market. When Lily wondered what it was they were going for, Stevie explained that she absolutely must have some lychees as a matter of great urgency. Lily didn’t bother to argue.

  The market was a screaming collision of languages and conflicting selling techniques, both Chinese and Western, and the jumble of overloaded wicker stalls didn’t acknowledge the shadow of an invasion. A man squatted behind his rickety stall, which displayed a precariously piled abundance of sweets in jars. Next to him there was a hoarding which exhorted the passer-by to ‘Drink Johnnie Walker Red Label Whisky’. A handwritten poster outside a narrow shop proudly declared a ‘Fresh Shipment of American Honeydew Melons and Manila Watermelons’. Hanging from the awning of another shop were twisted ribbons of dried meat in layer upon layer. Stevie and Lily passed the shoemaker, the stamp-maker and the tea stall with its ornately decorated urn. They were accosted by shrill shouts for their custom, which they ignored.

  They were in Li-Yuen alley, walking on the shady side, when Stevie noticed that something had shifted in the air, as if an invisible mist had unfurled. The market was still crowded and busy but the atmosphere was muted. As they reached the end of the alley they passed a woman she recognised, the wife of a British embassy man, and the extraordinary thing was that she was crying. In public. Right there on the street. Her two small children clung to her legs. There were suitcases by their side, a battlement. The world swirled past them, eddying, but they stood firm. The evacuation became a sharp reality and with a jolt Stevie felt the shadow of the war fall and darken the street.

  Lily tugged at Stevie’s sleeve, urging her on. Stevie glanced back at the evacuees.

  ‘Bet you’re happy not to be British now.’

  ‘You may laugh but it’s confusing. I’ve always thought of myself as British.’

  ‘Take my advice – thank the good Lord for this stroke of luck and get on with your shiny new Chinese life.’

  Lily neatly sidestepped a pile of sand being shovelled into sandbags by a team of sunburned, bare-chested Chinese men, and drew Stevie on into the next market alley and towards the fruit stalls. Stevie caught sight of an opium pipe set out on a stall and her gaze rested longingly on it. She felt the frightening and sudden prick of desire. She tore her eyes away from the pipe and a now familiar wave of clammy nausea rose in her. She stopped walking and held herself still, concentrating on not actually throwing up. Lily put her hand gently on Stevie’s arm, frowning with concern.

  ‘When does he get back?’

  Stevie shrugged. She didn’t know.

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  Stevie turned away from her, towards the stall where they were standing. She picked up a small jade figure, not really seeing it. She was fighting her own tears. This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman and there had been quite enough crying already for one day. But the mention of him, unexpected, had ambushed her. She shook her head.

  ‘I can’t. How can I? I don’t even know what I’m going to do about it.’

  The jade was cool and smooth in her hand. Lily took it out of her hand and scratched at it absent-mindedly, leaving a thin scar of even paler green across it.

  ‘Do you know who that is? Kuan Ti. He’s the god of literature and warfare.’

  The stallholder shrieked indignantly and gestured to Lily to put the god down. Stevie felt the wave of nausea recede. She raised her eyebrows, examining the figure closer, seeing it now.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And pawnshops.’ Lily passed the pale-green ornament back to her. ‘It’s not jade, though. Soapstone.’

  Stevie laughed and as she did so a voice cut through the hubbub of the market like a machete. It came from right behind her.

  ‘That’s very pretty.’

  Stevie knew who it was before she turned round. The pale-blue eyes were too close to escape and gave nothing away. Stevie stiffened in a combination of guilt and fear. Sylvia went on without missing a beat.

  ‘Your dress is rather lovely too. European, it must be?’ Smart in her little cream suit, Sylvia gestured to the immaculate skirt. ‘Local tailor, I’m afraid,’ she said self-deprecatingly.

  Stevie could feel Lily’s disapproving frown and she took a step away as if to excuse herself, but Sylvia was still talking.

  ‘I’m looking for a memento to take to Melbourne with me. Something small.’

  Stevie’s voice seemed unnaturally bright.

  ‘Yes, I heard you were leaving,’ she said.

  A tight smile. ‘I’m sure you did.’

  ‘It must be very difficult for you. Going away.’

  ‘Not really. To be honest I haven’t bee
n well since my marriage. The air here doesn’t suit me. The humidity.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ She swivelled away, hesitated and turned back to face Stevie again. She was so close Stevie could feel the slightly sweet warmth of her breath on her face.

  ‘Look after him, Miss Steiber.’

  She stepped neatly away, melting into the crowd of jostling shoppers. Stevie couldn’t bear the ferocity of Lily’s glare. She felt immensely alert and her bones ached. Chastened, she put the small god back on to the stall.

  Chapter Twelve

  September 1940

  He came back unannounced. Stevie only knew he was there when she woke up, her heart sparked with adrenalin, a noise having penetrated her dreams. He was standing, already naked, in a shaft of neon-tinged moonlight, and she had the briefest feeling that he was a visitor from another time, another place. She called out his name and he came to her. Kneeling by the bed he took her hand and kissed it, holding it as if he’d never seen it before. Feeling her fingers one by one, each one a revelation. Everything else was darkness but his touch was a fine wakening. She pulled him on to the bed. They lay for a moment, their two bodies still, held at full length, skin to skin.

  The sound of the doorbell finally stung Stevie awake. As she opened her eyes and saw Harry flung wide across the bed on his stomach next to her, she assumed it was another of those vivid dreams. Singularly vivid in fact, since she thought she could actually feel the soft skin of his forearm. The bell was ringing again but she basked for another moment in the idea of him being there. He stirred. He really was there. She remembered the night. Her hands flew to her slightly rounded belly. Still the bell rang.

  Pulling her faded cotton dressing gown from the floor, she wrapped it tight around her. As she got near to the front door she could hear Declan’s voice calling from the other side.

  ‘Coffee. I need coffee.’

  His tall, bulky body had been leaning against the door so, as she opened it, he almost fell on to her. He obviously hadn’t slept.

  ‘Just don’t talk too loudly and be very very nice to me and I’ll be all right.’

  She walked into the living room and he followed, his loping walk exaggerated by the lack of sleep. Victor looked up from his corner and in one or two leaps was hanging from the central light fitting. He swung there, keeping a wary eye on Declan. Stevie noticed that Lily had left the teapot on the table. She checked to see if it was still warm. Her voice was creaky with sleep.

  ‘You can’t stay long, I’m busy.’

  Declan stretched his long body out on the chaise, making himself comfortable.

  ‘Maybe if I swung from the chandelier you’d be more pleased to see me.’

  Stevie poured the lukewarm tea into Lily’s already used cup.

  ‘Don’t count on it.’ She handed the cup to Declan. ‘So, what’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking for days and I’ve got something to say so don’t stop me. Sit down.’

  Stevie sat on the edge of the table. Declan always cheered her up. He was funny, unpredictable and earnest in equal measure. He had a huge capacity for partying but somehow never lost sight of his ambition for a moment. He was, she thought, alert even when semi-conscious from over-indulgence. Best of all he was never boring. She waited, and he didn’t disappoint.

  ‘Harry is clearly completely immoral and not good enough for you. So here’s what I think. You should marry me.’

  Stevie opened her mouth to laugh but Declan swung himself forward. He held his hand up to stop her, and leaning towards her and holding her gaze with absolute sincerity, he went on.

  ‘I’ve thought it through. You need somebody who’s free to love you, i.e. not married, and I need somebody to take care of me and my work, i.e. you. Perfect match, you see? And I don’t mind a bit that you’re older. I quite like it actually.’

  Stevie sighed. ‘Oh, Declan.’

  ‘Is that a “yes”?’

  ‘Is it?’ Harry’s voice came from the bedroom door behind them. They both turned to see him standing there. He looked from one to the other. His voice was polite. ‘Well, is it?’

  Stevie turned back to Declan.

  ‘I can’t just look after your work. What about mine? And that nice girlfriend of yours, what would she think?’

  Crushed, Declan mustered his courage.

  ‘Damn. You’re turning me down. I can’t believe it. I had it all worked out.’ He shook his head, recovering himself. Then he stood up, brushed his trousers down, pointlessly, as they were beyond repair, and threw his shoulders back. ‘Right.’ He gave a mock salute to Harry. ‘I’m off to get myself a uniform, maybe that’ll do the trick.’ Letting his shoulders sag into their usual slight stoop, he turned to Stevie. ‘Can I still call for you tonight? The hacks meeting needs you.’

  Stevie smiled, she couldn’t help it. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Awful coffee, by the way. You need a new supplier.’

  As the door closed behind Declan, Harry’s casual tone, as usual, belied his feelings.

  ‘Well, that’s good. I’m glad you’re not going to marry him.’

  Stevie looked at the floor.

  He continued, his voice lower. ‘It means you can marry me. Before she left, I asked Sylvia to give me a divorce.’

  Stevie shivered. Now what? She walked to the window. Outside, the ideograph banner fluttered. A bird swooped along the street and away.

  ‘That’s meant to be a good thing, by the way.’ His voice was nervous now.

  In return Stevie could hear herself, brittle with false brightness. ‘I’m not going to marry you. You’re not my type.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You think you’re my type?’

  ‘You’re a soldier.’

  Harry took a step towards her. ‘Not for ever. I’m going to be a charismatic university professor whose students are all the more in love with him because of how besotted he is with his wife.’

  Stevie turned back into the room. ‘I can’t marry you. I’m married already.’

  Harry was shocked into silence. He blinked a few times. This was the first he’d heard of it. Finally he shrugged.

  ‘So, get a divorce.’ Stevie felt the nausea rise. Harry went on, as casually as he could. ‘By the way, is it anyone I know?’

  Stevie sat down. The chaise was still warm from Declan’s prone body. She took a moment to compose herself.

  ‘Jishang. We got married last year in Shanghai to keep the Japanese from shutting down Direct Debate. They were closing all the printing presses owned by Chinese people. By being married to a foreigner Jishang could continue to run the magazine. And anyway I don’t believe in marriage and all that stupid pointless public anointing, so it made sense to do it. Pragmatic. Public. And his real wife didn’t mind. She knew it was for legal reasons only. I don’t think it even threatened her once. She’s always been perfectly charming to me.’

  Sensing his eyes on her she glanced at him. ‘Exactly what type am I, anyway?’

  ‘You’re the exasperating, drug-taking, sharp-tongued, difficult type who thinks love will limit her freedom.’

  Stevie spoke more passionately than she intended. Protesting too much. ‘Love is limiting. If I loved you I’d have to stay with you through thick and thin and feel guilty if I ever liked anyone else and be nice to you all the time. Or not. Which would be worse.’

  There was a silence. Harry shook his head. ‘If you push people away often enough, they go.’

  Stevie looked at him, long and searching. Then she stood up, walked over to him, took his hand and put it on her belly.

  ‘This is why I can’t marry you, if you must know. It would be just too much of a cliché apart from anything else.’

  Harry steadied himself as he began to understand.

  She spoke fast, the words had been waiting to be spoken for weeks. ‘I haven’t decided what to do about it yet but don’t think I’m going to be all noble and deny myself the baby just because it wou
ld be proper and would avoid the scandal and it might destroy your army career.’

  Harry’s voice cracked, his hand still on her. ‘My God, Stevie –’

  Her voice was calm and gentle. ‘It’s all right. Don’t panic. Whatever happens I won’t make any demands on you.’

  Harry, equally gentle, covered her mouth with his hand. He was shaken but clear. Happiness focussed him utterly. It seemed to him that they shone with it, the two of them standing there. ‘Shut up. Shut up, you impossible bloody person. Of course you don’t have to marry me if you don’t want to. But I want this baby.’

  Stevie had no words as the tears came.

  ‘We were made for each other, you for me, I for you. And I don’t care about anything else. We can do this however you like, married, not married, living on different bloody continents but you can’t stop me loving you.’

  He dropped his hand, which was wet with her tears. She saw his eyes, wide with amazement, and something collapsed inside her. A sea wall of defence wearing out under the onslaught of the ocean.

  Chapter Thirteen

  January 1941

  The jail was on the far side of the island. They had been made to wait outside the gates and an hour had passed. Though it was fairly cool when they first arrived at seven, and despite the fact that it was midwinter, the morning was getting more oppressive by the minute. Stevie had found a mound of gravel waiting to be spread on the perimeter path of the compound and was perched on it in the shade of the wall. The weight of her belly was now a burden.

  Lily was too agitated to sit. She paced the minutes in a neat circle, never too far from the gate itself. A few military vehicles had come and gone. The soldiers who got out or in were focussed and, unusually, not distracted by the sight of the two women. There was a sense of controlled urgency.

  When the gate finally opened and Lily saw him she cried his name out loud. Stevie drew herself to her feet while Lily threw herself on her brother with tears of relief and exclamations of happiness. Chen was even thinner than before, his adolescent awkwardness exaggerated by the scrappy state of his hair and his clothes. Where before he had the standard veneer of youthful rebellion, Stevie could see when he turned to look at her a new set of conviction in his eyes. For a moment the sharpness chilled her.