The Harbour Read online

  ‘You seem impatient.’

  Stevie, wrong-footed, glanced at Jishang for encouragement but he was no help. His crisp shirt cuffs were apparently in great need of his attention. Madame Kung continued, a steamroller in high heels.

  ‘You need to be patient if you’re going to write the truth.’

  Stevie’s voice was thin and tentative. ‘I’ve been living with Chinese people long enough to –’

  Madame Kung interrupted, eyebrows raised. ‘So I hear.’

  Her eyes flicked to Jishang and her meaning was brazen and clear. Jishang continued to be absorbed in his shirt cuffs. Stevie could not help herself. A perverse laugh forced itself past her parched lips. Immediately she knew it was all over. She had blown it. She had been waiting months for this meeting, pacing the floor of her tiny apartment in Shanghai until finally losing her cool and flying into this crummy colony on the small chance that she and Jishang could make it happen. And now she’d gone and blown it with a stupid, sardonic laugh.

  But to her surprise Madame Kung did not turn on her heel and disappear in a puff of displeasure. Instead, she seemed to be appraising her all over again. Her voice was as tender as a lullaby as she turned back to Jishang.

  ‘Wu Jishang, be a good boy and run along,’ she said. ‘Find something else to do.’

  Ten minutes later, Stevie was perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward, the fabric irritating the back of her knees. Opposite her, Madame Kung was listening with the kind of attentiveness that must have seduced Mr Kung himself. While she talked, Stevie had to fight against the distraction of the older woman’s soft hand, which elegantly waved a feather fan.

  ‘I came to China for a fortnight. That was three years ago.’

  There was no glimmer of a smile from her audience. Stevie understood that her usual breezy tone just might not be the right one. She braced herself and plunged into the frightening territory of sincerity.

  ‘Stop me if I’m telling you things you already know. I’m a freelance reporter based in Shanghai. I write pieces for the American press, newspapers and weeklies and then there’s Direct Debate, the magazine Wu Jishang and I run . . .’

  ‘I hear it’s subversive.’

  ‘No, absolutely not.’ Those exquisitely raised eyebrows again. ‘I mean, I admire political action, the passion of it, but personally I’m more interested in people than ideas.’

  ‘Why should I co-operate with you if indeed you have no political agenda? How can it be to my benefit to be gossiped about?’

  ‘I don’t write gossip, Madame. I’m a journalist. I’ll write a testament to you and your sisters. An unprejudiced testament that will give a fair portrait of your remarkable family for history to read and understand.’

  ‘My sisters are not strangers to the public stage. It seems my youngest sister spends most of her life in front of a microphone on a lawn or waving on steps or perched on armchairs at a convenient angle for the photographers. I see the pictures and her head is always inclined in an attentive listening posture.’ Madame Kung narrowed her eyes. ‘It must be most uncomfortable.’

  ‘Perhaps talking to me was a welcome break.’

  ‘Or perhaps like the rest of the world, you have been seduced by her intensity and passion.’

  ‘Actually, what really impressed me was her constant search for exactly the right word.’ Stevie paused. ‘That and her amazing wardrobe.’

  Madame Kung laughed. Her tiny, even teeth glowed white.

  ‘You couldn’t possibly say the same for Ching-Ling.’

  ‘You’re right. Madame Sun Yat-sen impressed me in quite a different way.’

  ‘And what way would that be?’

  ‘There’s something about her shyness and her low voice. You know, you have to lean quite close to hear what she is saying.’

  ‘All those simple dresses and that under-furnished house – I suppose you would say it reflects her serious-mindedness and dignity, would you?’

  ‘I would. She manages to be both fragile and sturdy at the same time.’

  ‘You think so?’ Stevie felt a trap. She held Madame Kung’s gaze and said nothing. The fan speeded up as Madame Kung sighed. ‘Oh, I couldn’t stand it, myself. All those fervent scholars and radical young men hanging around, waiting to hear her quiet pronouncements.’

  ‘We got along pretty well.’

  Stevie saw that Madame Kung was looking at her, stern and forbidding. She knew that she was being tested – but would she pass? Without Madame Kung agreeing to talk to her further, the book idea was useless. The project pointless. She was overcome with a feeling of hopelessness. It was only because of Jishang’s stupid faith in her that they were stagnating in Hong Kong. It didn’t matter that the other two sisters had already, miraculously, agreed to the book, Stevie was suddenly sure that Madame Kung, the eldest and most stubborn of the fabulous Soong sisters, would not. How much longer were they going to have to play out this charade? Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind. ‘You’re no great shakes, Stephanie, not when all’s said and done.’

  Madame Kung’s expression wavered; her gaze glided away from Stevie and out of the window towards the extravagantly irrigated green of the lawn. Stevie could feel all she had worked for slipping away from her.

  She leaned further towards Madame Kung, her voice suddenly thick with passion and urgency.

  ‘Madame, I really want to write this book.’

  Madame Kung’s eyes drifted back to her.

  ‘Look, actually, I need to write it. I need to show I can. I want to be taken seriously, I want to be more than just –’ the weight of sincerity felt heavy on her tongue.

  ‘More than just?’

  ‘More than just a columnist. I’m a good writer, I’ll do your story justice.’

  The fragrant stateswoman scrutinised Stevie’s uncharacteristically vulnerable expression. The fronds of her feather fan stirred in the breeze.

  ‘And don’t be too concerned about the magazine.’ Stevie smiled apologetically. ‘Honestly. Nobody reads it anyway.’

  Chapter Two

  The thin paper, slightly damp like everything else, stuck to his fingertips. The rangy Englishman, languid in shirtsleeves, laughed out loud as he read. He rocked back even further in his chair, counterbalanced by his legs resting on the neat desk top in front of him.

  A flustered, red-faced young man pushed the door open. ‘Bollocks to this heat.’

  Harry spoke without looking up from the magazine. ‘You’re in the presence of a senior officer.’

  The younger man, Sergeant Ken Ramsay, saluted sarcastically. Harry still didn’t look up. ‘We’re late, sir.’ No response. Ken tried again. ‘Lunch, sir. With Mr Takeda, Japanese Board of Trade.’

  Harry, still deep in the magazine, laughed his generous laugh. He glanced in Ken’s direction, tapping the article he was reading. ‘You should read this. It’ll lighten the burden of your ignorance.’ And he chucked the magazine at him.

  Ken, too late, fumbled for it. The unbound sheets of Direct Debate, covered in tightly printed text in English and on alternate pages in Chinese, fluttered to the floor.

  Harry snorted, not too unkindly. ‘Not in the First Eleven, I take it?’

  Ken, cursed with an easy blush, bent down to gather the papers.

  Harry continued. ‘That Steiber’s always worth reading. Funny too.’

  ‘It’s not a he, you know, sir, it’s a she, a Yank journalist.’ Ken reached for the stragglers. ‘The S stands for Sally or Sophie or something.’

  ‘You don’t say?’

  ‘I do, actually.’ Ken was clearly very pleased to be able to offer this information. It wasn’t often he had the opportunity to tell Harry something he didn’t already know. On his secondment to Intelligence the year before he’d been sanguine about the many jokes from his fellow soldiers referencing his lack of qualifications for the job, but once he had got to know Harry he thought his mates might just have been right. Major Field had a way of being one step ahead wit
hout apparently making any effort to be so. The day-to-day work was far from glamorous, consisting mainly of reading transcripts of as many of the hundreds of printed pamphlets that came in and out of the Colony as humanly possible. They had to respond to the day’s news from the mainland and brief the top brass on anything considered significant. They had recently been involved in the discussion about whether the censor should allow the children of Hong Kong to see the animated film of Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs in case it was some kind of dangerous political metaphor.

  Ken’s finest hour had been in his first month. Major Field and he had been involved in a case that was both civil and military. A chap had arrived from England to be Director of Air-Raid Precautions; a sop to those who were already sabotaging economic morale by predicting a Japanese invasion. He was an airman sent as an expert on civil defence. Unfortunately, he became rather too friendly with a certain Mimi who was secretary to the civilian supplier of concrete blocks for the construction of the air-raid shelters. It turned out that not only had he been persuaded to spend government money on buying concrete at a hugely inflated price but the blocks were also severely sub-standard and would not have endured a hammer blow let alone a bomb. Consequently, the shelters were useless. Ken had assisted Harry in pursuit of missing documents which incriminated the airman and he had tracked down Mimi, who had conveniently vanished as soon as the game was up.

  They were generally charged with checking up on the finances of fellow officers in case one of them suddenly became inexplicably flush, but overall the cloak and dagger stuff was disappointingly mundane and not nearly as exciting nor clandestine as Ken had hoped. They arranged for various suspect characters to be followed, they read transcripts of telephone calls, they monitored the arrival and departure lists to keep an eye on the comings and goings, but Major Field somehow always seemed to know more than anyone else, and certainly more than his sergeant.

  Ken attempted to add a suave note to his tone, but it was marred somewhat by the bending over and the fading blush. ‘She’s a leftie, got a Chinese boyfriend and everything. Came in from Shanghai, the pair of them, no doubt looking for trouble. Might even be a real threat. Worth keeping an eye on, I’d say.’

  Ken caught the laugh in Harry’s eyes and sighed. ‘Ah, one of yours already. Of course.’ He was deeply disappointed and the shadow of the blush threatened again.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. God save me from dangerously misguided American women, especially ones who are good at their jobs.’ Harry dropped his feet to the floor and pulled his lean frame up to sitting. Glancing again at Ken’s disappointed face, he couldn’t resist another dig. ‘Which is more than can be said for some around here.’

  The ribbing landed, shame flashing across poor Ken’s plump cheeks, and Harry, a little sorry now, consoled himself with the fact that Ken made it too easy.

  ‘It just so happens that the Chinese boyfriend is a rather interesting chap too. I did mention him in the last briefing but no doubt you had more thrilling things on your mind at the time.’ He did up the top buttons on his shirt, slid his jacket off the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder. ‘He’s a puzzle. Seems to be connected to just about every faction in the country but I can’t quite work out where his loyalties lie. He’s a writer too. Brilliant in my humble opinion. I’m looking forward to meeting him.’

  He headed for the door.

  ‘Come on then, Sergeant. Tokyo’s finest awaits.’

  ‘So?’ Jishang asked as soon as they were in the car again.

  Stevie shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes. At least she didn’t say no.’

  Stevie sighed. Damn the Chinese and their damn Chinese contrariness, she thought. But he was right, Madame Kung had not said no. Stevie glanced over at Jishang’s fine profile. His high cheekbones like ski slopes under his pale, glowing skin and the deep black of his hair were so extremely contrasted he looked like an ink engraving.

  Halfway down the perilously steep road she asked if they could stop the car. She needed to walk. Nothing in this world would have persuaded Jishang to take unnecessary exercise so she stepped down on to the melting tarmac alone. As soon as she was out in the damp hot air she felt a little better. She waited a moment as the car disappeared around the bend, its brakes protesting the gradient. The view from up there was spectacular. Stevie felt she had joined the swooping birds looping the loop in the heavy air over the buzz of earth-bound humanity. The huge, hilariously self-important mansions of the Peak, built in every style known to man, and some that were not, stood their ground among the fragrant shrubbery of the pine-scented mountainside. The sheer cliffs and the pockets of exotic overhanging flowers and stunted trees were still as curious to her as they must have been to the land-starved and exhausted drug-smuggling British sailors who first occupied the harbour in their floating worlds. So very far from home. The scenery around her was a sweet-smelling clarification of exactly why they had smothered this exotic island with comfortingly poignant names: Victoria Park, Port Stanley, Gloucester Road, Queen’s Road and, most inappropriately, Aberdeen.

  Directly below the mansions were the sturdy apartment buildings where the civil servants and the secretaries and the optimistically middle-class Chinese families lived. She could just about make out the building in which she and Jishang were renting a few rooms, just beyond the curve of the bay, half-hidden by a sharp cliff. Below it climbed the dank alleys of Central, where the real business of the colony was conducted at high speed and in several languages. This intense activity contrasted with the empty expanse of Victoria Square with its stolid unconvincing statues and its grand overweening Palladian buildings, thrown up to impress any passing visitor with the permanency of the British Empire and the gravity of its intent. Despite the best intentions of the empire-builders, however, it still seemed to Stevie that Hong Kong amounted to nothing more than a parasite irritating the furthest reaches of the underbelly of the giant China.

  The beauty of the harbour, though, was astonishing. The turquoise water, criss-crossed by numerous sampans and ships and dotted with emerald-green islands, was one of the most remarkable things she had ever seen. The overbearing humidity was the only element that she imagined would not be present in paradise. The small paths that wound through the orchid-strewn bushes were a deep pleasure. Stevie stopped to undo the buttons on the front of her dress. The air was so hot it hardly registered on her bare skin and, with a glance around to make sure she was really alone, Stevie undid the whole of the bodice. The silk of her slip stuck damply to her chest. She looked down and noticed to her surprise that there was a distinct line where the sun-darkened skin of her upper chest met the pale rest of her. A butterfly whispered past her hand like a moving flower, a short-lived brushstroke. For a moment she abandoned her cynicism towards this colonial backwater and let go of her singular passion for bawdy and gaudy Shanghai. This, right here, was the best of Hong Kong. It was about as far as she could have travelled from the small town of her birth in upstate New York.

  Her early life in the big old house in Utica seemed to belong to someone else. It hadn’t exactly been an unhappy childhood – just a dull one. Stevie had wanted to be different from the very beginning. It was she who had insisted on shortening her name. Her mother had been bemused and then gratifyingly annoyed. ‘It’s a boy’s name. Why would you do that?’ and she had steadfastly gone on addressing her as Stephanie. Stevie didn’t actually want to be a boy but it seemed so clear that the boys had all the fun. The boys didn’t have to tread carefully and endlessly brush their hair and play with paper dolls. They were allowed to run and shout and swim. They were free in the world in a different way. It was the freedom she had really longed for, rather than the boyishness. Her sisters seemed to accept their lot with the barest of shrugs. Her father, distant in his domain in the bank building on Genesee Street under the arching elms, found her amusing and encouraged her tomboy
ambitions partly, it was now clear to her, to agitate the calm waters of his marriage. Soon enough, Mrs Steiber accepted defeat, stepped back and shared her passion for amateur theatricals and art galleries with the other two girls, leaving Stevie at relative liberty to roam. And Mr Steiber, when not managing the small Utica branch of the bank, took Stevie to the races and taught her how to paddle a canoe. By the age of fourteen Stevie had so thoroughly embraced her inner boy that the onset of her period had traumatised her for weeks.

  She continued the descent, deep in thought, but her restlessness returned as soon as she remembered her intense disappointment at Madame Kung’s apparent indifference to her approach. The anticipation of a possible meeting with her had built up to such a pitch that Stevie had thought she might go mad with it. And when the moment had finally come she had messed it up. She was sure the whole project was over. She felt ridiculous as well as a failure. The most infuriating thing was that she knew she had only herself to blame for the whole misconceived exercise. She came to a standstill. Here she was, fired up and feeling like a fool, half-naked on a mountainside at the very edge of the known world. She pulled the bodice of her dress round her again and did up the slippery little buttons. Oh, it was all too upsetting.

  Then she had a thought and suddenly she was very clear about where she was going next. This fresh clarity of purpose mingled thrillingly with a familiar cocktail of anticipation and shame as she set off again down the mountain.

  They sat on the veranda of the Hong Kong Club as the late afternoon sun began its descent. Harry stretched out his legs, the very picture of a relaxed Englishman downing his first serious drink of the day. But his posture belied the alertness of his gaze. The remains of a light lunch disturbed the white linen-clad table: cold chicken, slices of ham and a potato salad. Below them, heavy-bodied wolesleys and Austins vied with rickshaws, bicycles and bony, bare-chested men, sweating as they pushed carts laden with everything from pomegranates to coal, and wheelbarrows with apples and baskets of squawking chickens suffocating in the damp heat. Up here in the club all was quiet and orderly.