Sunset (14 page)

It was time to go. He saw the steward getting ready to fetch his cap. Leaving the headmaster's study after a stern word of advice.

Stallybrass beamed at him. ‘You'll be getting your patrol orders in a day or so, but no rush. Just get your people acclimatised, eh?'

‘Yes, sir. Standards.'

‘That's the idea, old chap!'

On deck it seemed almost cool, and he stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the sprawling, twinkling panorama of lights. Occasionally a black shadow would blot out some of them as a pilot boat or tall junk went about its business.

The commander reappeared, and the side party was assembled as
Serpent
's motor-boat splashed round from the boom leaving a trail of phosphorescence in her wake.

Commander Larkin suggested quietly, ‘A little different from
your
war, I suppose.'

Brooke tightened his jaw. The empty life-boats and blazing merchantmen. People dying, others not wanting to live after what they had suffered. Onslow, Calvert and all the rest. He tested his leg so as not to limp, and answered tersely, ‘Another world, sir.'

‘You'll soon settle in. Get to like the place – you'll see.'

Down the ladder and into the boat. Perhaps he was imagining it. So much folly, so many failures: it had left him bitter and without trust.

Kerr was waiting for him on the quarterdeck and listened without comment to the information about the clothing issue.

‘I asked about the submarine flotilla, Number One . . .'

‘Thank you.' He shrugged. ‘But I just found out. My friend's boat was sunk in the Med a few months ago.'

Brooke watched his shadowed face. ‘Drink, Number One? Not a very decent malt, I'm afraid.'

Kerr did not understand the allusion, but said, ‘Yes – thanks, sir. I'd like that.'

Kingsmill had thoughtfully provided a decanter of Scotch and two glasses.

‘Make a bloody fine butler,' Brooke said wearily. He filled the glasses and realised he had not eaten since noon.

‘Rough, was it, sir?'

‘An insight, more than anything else.' He pushed the mood aside. ‘The others all right?'

Kerr thought of the wardroom as he had left it. The Chief and the Gunner (T) engrossed in a quiet game of crib, Barrington-Purvis and Kipling exchanging insults, while Calvert appeared to be studying a local guidebook although Kerr had noticed that his eyes had hardly moved.

‘Normal, sir.'

Brooke smiled. ‘I shall be meeting my brother shortly. I might find out what's going on.'

‘What's he like, sir?'

Brooke stared at him. It was a shock to discover that he himself did not really know.

‘Good question.' They clinked their glasses together. ‘To standards, Number One!'

Kerr nodded. The skipper was getting pissed. He hadn't any idea what he was talking about.

‘The higher the better, sir!'

Across the water, the Royal Marine stepped carefully on to his little mat and lifted his bugle.

Another day.

Esmond Brooke paused gratefully in the shadows of the imposing Hong Kong Club and plucked at the unfamiliar white uniform, his ‘ice-cream suit', which he had put on for the first time since the Mediterranean. After the fairly normal routine of the destroyer it was almost unnerving to step ashore. He had crossed the
Islip
's deck from his own command, and by the time he had reached the dock area his uniform was clinging to his skin.

But it was not simply the heat. It was the noise, the traffic, and chattering, bustling crowds which had taken him off-guard. Swamped him. Like recovering from a fever or hangover, with nothing familiar to bring him back to his senses.

His brother had sent a message as to where to find him, in a smaller club around the side of this impressive Gothic structure, which would not have looked out of place in Brighton or Mayfair.

It was afternoon, and as he reached out to push open the swing doors he was conscious of the cool air which flowed out to greet him. He almost fell in the club's semi-darkness as two young Chinese servants dragged the doors away from him and offered polite little bows.

The hall porter, a scarlet-faced man with a lick of hair across his forehead, watched him suspiciously.

‘Can I be of 'elp, sir?'

Brooke felt his cap taken from his hand and spirited away by another servant. No ticket was offered in exchange, and he guessed that they had other means of recognition.

‘Commander Brooke, if you please.'

The porter, obviously an ex-soldier or a Royal, pursed his lips. ‘An' who shall I say, sir?'

‘Another Brooke, I'm afraid.'

The eyes darted to his shoulder straps and he nodded sagely. ‘Welcome to Hong Kong, sir.' He raised the flap in his little counter. ‘Follow me, sir.'

Revolving fans escorted them along a passageway and Brooke was reminded of the sweating staff officer at Gibraltar with his walking stick. There were several lounges where members lay in cane chairs, legs thrust out, eyes closed. Empty glasses stood near to hand, and there was a faint smell of curry.

Although it was a club for naval and military people, Brooke guessed it had become a haven to the many expatriate Britons in business in the colony.

‘In here, sir.' Then he boomed, ‘Lieutenant-Commander Brooke, sir!'

Jeremy Brooke was standing beside a window observing the street. He turned lightly, like an athlete: he had always prided himself on his physical prowess and general excellence at sports.

An outsider, had there been one, would have instantly noticed the resemblance between them. Almost the same colour of eyes and hair, although Jeremy Brooke, crisp and alert in a white uniform, seemed cool and relaxed by comparison, his smile gentle and slightly amused while he waited for his brother to limp over to him.

They shook hands firmly and without warmth.

Jeremy said, ‘You look fine. I thought I'd see some grizzled old veteran from the deep waters! It'll do some people a bit of good in H.K. to be introduced to a real hero, instead of just reading about them at a safe distance.'

Brooke studied him, wondering what was different. The immediate acknowledgement of their separate paths, perhaps? The brutal realities of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, where ships and men were dying even while they spoke in this remote cog of Empire? Jeremy, as far as he knew, had not served aboard ship since the outbreak of war. There must be a moral in that somewhere.

His brother said, ‘How's your V.C. settling down? I heard he was a bit bomb-happy.'

Cool, quick, unfeeling. He had always been that way.

He replied, ‘Calvert? He still feels it.' Defensively he heard himself add, ‘He'll do me, and the ship.'

Brooke found that he was seated, as was his brother. The latter took a pad from a hovering servant. ‘Gin?'

Instead of refusing he said, ‘Lots of ice. It's the one thing I envy them out here.'

His brother scribbled on a chit. ‘Bloody hopeless here, in the club I mean. I only use it for meeting people.'

‘Like me?'

The perfect teeth shone in a smile. ‘Like you. Exactly.' He leaned forward and Brooke wondered how it was that his hair was always so neat, never a strand out of place. He had seen himself in one of the club's ornate mirrors. Hair too long, uniform jacket too loose. It should be easy to get another one made to measure out here.

His brother took out a cigarette. ‘Won't offer you one. Smoke your pipe, if you like. Everybody else does. They've almost gone native in this place.'

‘Where are you staying?' From a corner of his eyes he saw the servant put down the tray, heard the tempting tinkle of ice.

Jeremy eyed him curiously. ‘The Pen, of course.' He smiled gently. ‘The Peninsula Hotel, across the water in Kowloon.'

‘I've read about it. Pretty expensive, isn't it?'

Again the slight, almost pitying smile. ‘They must think I'm worth it.' He picked up his glass and eyed him through the cigarette smoke. ‘Good to see you. Sorry about the funeral, but there was nothing you could have done. And sailing orders mean just that in this man's navy.'

‘What exactly are you doing out here, Jeremy? It all seems rather cloak-and-dagger.'

His brother nodded, amused. ‘Yes, I suppose it would seem like that – to you. I'm on D.N.I.'s staff – have been for months.'

‘Director of Naval Intelligence? God, I didn't know that!'

‘And you don't now, if anyone mentions it. But I know you, old chap, a clam when you want to be.' He leaned forward and
rested one hand on the table. ‘You're not like me. Ships, blood and guts, that's your war. One we must win. But mine is the other side of it. I like to think it's no less important in the end.' He did not wait for any comment but continued, ‘I hear you saw the Commodore?' He looked away, and for once his composure was shaken. ‘People like him make me sick!'

‘I don't follow.'

Jeremy Brooke picked an invisible hair from his gleaming shoulder strap.

‘You don't need to.'

Was it a deliberate gesture? Something to remind him that, brothers or not, he was in charge?

He spoke carefully, keeping the bitterness out of his voice. ‘Is Sarah with you?'

For a split second he saw his brother taken off-guard.

‘No. I was in a hurry. Came down via Suez, too dicey to have women dragging along. You know how it is.'

‘Actually, no, I don't.'

They faced one another, strangers or enemies, it was impossible to tell.

Then Jeremy said very calmly, ‘There are some very important people here, the ones who count – will count, if things go wrong.'

‘Is that what you expect will happen?' It was so quiet he could hear a clock ticking in the passageway.

Jeremy shrugged; he even did that elegantly. ‘Winston Churchill has said it plainly enough. No matter what happens in the Far East, Hong Kong will remain under our flag. We have enough ships and men in Singapore and Malaya if we should need them. The rest is purely hypothetical.' He tapped his silver cigarette case with his fingers. ‘We have our guidelines.' He smiled briefly. ‘But their lordships are not content to sit at Lords and watch the cricket. Those days are over, I hope.'

‘And these very important people?'

‘One in particular: Charles Yeung. A very influential businessman. Even the Governor tips his hat to him, in a manner of speaking.'

The servant came back but Jeremy shook his head. He did not ask his brother if he wanted a second drink.

Instead he said, ‘There's to be a party at Charles Yeung's house. It's up on the Peak, quite spectacular.'

Brooke thought of the great houses he had seen from
Serpent
's bridge when they had entered harbour. Was that really only yesterday?

His brother was saying, ‘There will be all the usual people, of course. Showering praise and secretly sneering at their host.'

Brooke said, ‘What's he like?'

‘Rich.
Very
rich. Has business connections everywhere – here, the U.S.A., just about anywhere he chooses. He's important to us.' He gently raised one hand. ‘Just leave it at that for now. Day after tomorrow. I'll send word. Bring Calvert – a V.C. might make everyone feel less remote and insular.'

Brooke said carefully, ‘I don't think he'll come.'

Jeremy was on his feet and like magic a youth darted forward with his fine gold-leaved cap. For a moment longer he glanced at himself in a mirror, while he adjusted his cap at a slight angle and composed his parting shot.

Their eyes met in the mirror and Jeremy's voice was suddenly cold as he said, ‘I am not asking. It is an order.' Then he slipped some coins to the porter and strode out into the sunlight. Brooke found, very much to his surprise, that he could smile about it, even as he was handed his own cap.

Aloud he murmured softly, ‘I wasn't wrong after all. You really are an arrogant bastard!'

Lieuenant Kerr slipped into the cabin.

‘All ready for the party, sir?'

Brooke grimaced and toyed with the idea of having a drink before he left, but decided against it. It might, after all, be fun.

‘Sorry about you, Number One, but I need you on board to deal with the dockyard people.'

Kerr shrugged. ‘I don't mind, sir. I'm just glad Toby Calvert's going ashore with you. He'll take root if he stays on board much longer.'

If you only knew, he thought, recalling his brother's blunt comment. Calvert had had no choice in the matter.

He walked to an open scuttle and shaded his eyes against the
early sunset to look over at a light cruiser which had entered harbour that morning and moored astern of Commodore Stallybrass's
Dumbarton
. She was a Dutch warship named
Ariadne
. How did her people feel, he wondered. Carrying on out here with their own country under the jackboot.

He said, ‘I'm taking Kipling, by the way. Show him how the other half lives.'

There was a tap at the door and Calvert stepped into the cabin. Brooke saw it all. Self-conscious, defiant, resentful, the solitary crimson ribbon beneath his pilot's wings like a patch of blood.

The white uniform suited him, Brooke thought, and his beard added just the right touch. He would turn any girl's head.

He almost laughed.
You're a fine one to talk
.

Calvert said tonelessly, ‘How do we get there, sir? Rickshaw?'

‘Well, we're not walking, that I do know!' He looked round as the third member of the party, Sub-Lieutenant Kipling, peered in and gave them an untroubled grin.

‘All set, sir!'

Kerr eyed him gravely. ‘Even the Commodore would be satisfied with you, Sub!'

A telephone buzzed and then Kingsmill appeared from his pantry.

‘Main gate, sir. The car's here for you.'