The Orchid Tree (22 page)

I was looking for some scissors. Spread out on my desk were the pictures painted by my class of eight-year-olds; I wanted to cut them out and paste them onto a frieze. I’d searched everywhere in my bedroom; I must have left the wretched things at school.
How annoying!
I ran downstairs to Papa’s study and leafed through the papers on the top of the desk. Nothing.

I checked the top drawer. No luck.

Then I tried the bottom one. Locked.

Is it worth all this bother for a pair of scissors? One last try . . .

I opened the top drawer again. A key was sticking out from under Papa’s writing folder. I picked it up and inserted it in the bottom drawer.

Success!

I slid open the drawer and rummaged through it.
Why aren’t there any damn scissors here, for heaven’s sake?
I’d have to try the kitchen. As I began to shut the drawer, I caught sight of envelopes tied up in string.

Sucking in a quick breath, I picked them up and peered at the post-marks. London. I flicked through ten letters sent between October 1945 and October 1946. Someone had scribbled out our address on the Peak and had forwarded them to Sydney.

Charles’ handwriting. I’d know it anywhere.

I struggled with the knot, fingers shaking. Eventually it loosened and the letters spilled out onto the desk. I picked them up and stared at them, one by one. Hands trembling, I opened the first envelope and started to read.

Dearest Kate

I miss you so much, and the past eighteen months have been such hell . . .

***

How could Papa have kept them from me all these years? Didn’t he realise how unhappy I’d been? With heavy arms, I dragged myself up the stairs and flung myself onto the bed, clutching the envelopes to my chest. The front door slammed and I rushed downstairs. Papa had already sat in his armchair, lit his pipe, and unfurled his newspaper. ‘My goodness, you look as if your feathers have been well and truly ruffled, dear girl.’

‘I’ve found Charles’ letters.’ I lifted my chin. ‘That was a bit remiss of you, don’t you think? It would have been safer to have destroyed them.’

Papa was silent for a moment. ‘Would have been against the law,’ he said, sucking on his pipe and putting down
The South China Morning Post.

‘And not giving them to me wasn’t?’

‘I would have given them to you eventually. When you’d settled down with a proper chap.’

‘And Charles Pearce isn’t a “proper chap”? Is that it? How could you?’ I curled my lip. ‘You let me think he was dead.’

‘I believed there could be no future for the two of you in Hong Kong. I didn’t want my daughter excluded by society and made unhappy. Time is a huge healer. I thought you’d forget all about him.’

‘What a horrible cliché! In any case, time hasn’t healed anything,’ I spat. ‘You broke my heart and I’d be grateful if you no longer interfered in my life.’

I turned on my heel and bounded back up to my room. Determinedly ignoring Papa knocking on the door, I read through the other nine letters. Charles wrote about how he’d started a law degree at King’s College. He described his course and his fellow students, his life in London and how Ruth and his parents were getting on. Each letter pleaded for a response until the final one stated he would no longer be writing; it was clearly a useless exercise.

The knocking continued. ‘I’m sorry,’ Papa said. ‘It was wrong of me. Can you forgive me?’

‘It’s not just me who needs to forgive you. Charles and I are in love. If you won’t accept that then I’m afraid you’ll lose me. The truth is, I can’t live without him.’

***

‘Can you do up my buttons, please?’ I asked Ah Ho. She’d come back to work for us after Chun Ming and his wife had left for China yesterday. My amah and I were in the room I’d taken for the night at the Peninsula Hotel, and I was putting on my dress – the
cheongsam
I’d had made at Aunt Julie’s tailor’s.

‘
Aiyah!
Missy, you very beautiful,’ Ah Ho said, smiling her gold-toothed smile.

I glanced down at my figure: the green silk clung to my breasts, my stomach and my hips. ‘Ah Ho, what are you calling me missy for? I’m Katie.’

‘Now you grown up, you missy,’ Ah Ho huffed, folding her arms.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, giving myself a mental kick for making her lose face.

I stole a glance at Ah Ho: her hair was thinning more than ever and there were new wrinkles in her cheeks. The worry about Chun Ming had aged her. Of course Ah Ho would visit her son in China, but she was probably missing him already. It must have been a huge wrench seeing him off at the train station. Everything had happened so quickly. One minute he was in the hospital and the next he was leaving, still on crutches, Li by his side. I’d got there just in time to say goodbye.

Ah Ho fastened my last button. I looked down at myself again and blushed; I should have asked the tailor not to make the slits up the side of my legs so high.

A knock at the door. I slipped on my mask and stared at the apparition in the doorway. Jessica’s face was heavily made up with white powder, thick black eyebrows and ruby red lips; a black wig covered her hair. ‘What a marvellous Empress of China you make, Jessica!’

‘How did you know it was me?’

‘The masks only cover our eyes. It will be easy to recognise people, won’t it?’

‘Just a bit of fun. And we’ll be taking them off before supper, won’t we? Come on! Time to get the show on the road, as they say.’

I hugged my amah. ‘Thank you for helping me, Ah Ho. George will take you home now.’

I picked up my evening-bag and made sure my dance card, lipstick and powder were inside. Then I followed Jessica down the corridor to the lift where Tony, dressed as the Emperor of China, was waiting.

All the way down to the mezzanine floor, I worried. What if we didn’t sell enough raffle tickets? And what about Charles? Tonight I would tell him my father had hidden his letters. He’d been right all along . . .

***

The ballroom, capable of seating eight hundred guests, overlooked the harbour. Pillars with Corinthian capitals lined the doors onto what was called the roof terrace. (Not the top of the multi-storey building, but the roof over the hotel’s entrance.) I walked across the parquet floor, glistening after its daily polish, and glanced up at the slightly domed ceiling, painted rain-washed blue. On a podium at the far end, members of the Filipino swing band I’d arranged were tuning their instruments. I checked the table numbers and verified the names of the guests at each table, making sure Charles and I were placed together with Sofia and James. I’d put Papa at the grandees’ table, with Jessica and Tony, the Governor, the
Taipans
of the trading companies and their wives. Everything was ready and, within minutes, people began filing in through the double doors.

‘Isn’t that Charles?’ Jessica pointed towards a tall man next to the bar, he was dressed as an ancient Chinese warrior, knee high boots and leather armour. My heart skipped a beat; I quickly glanced around at the other guests. There were James and Sofia, in People’s Liberation Army uniforms (how on earth?), standing slightly apart from everyone else.

I went up to them. ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ I said, squeezing Sofia’s hand. ‘Let’s get ourselves something to drink then we should fill in our dance cards.’

‘Already done,’ James said. ‘I’m not having my fiancée dance with anyone else.’

I made an effort to stop my mouth from falling open; I didn’t succeed. ‘Congratulations!’ I embraced them both. ‘When’s the happy day?’

‘Pretty soon, actually,’ James grinned. ‘Needs must, as they say.’

I stood back and stared at him. What did he mean? Realisation dawned and I smiled. ‘Then let me congratulate you again.’

‘We were wondering if you and Charles would be witnesses at the civil service,’ James said. ‘We’ve managed to get a special license.’

‘I’d be delighted. But you’ll have to ask Charles yourself.’

‘Ask me what?’ Charles said, coming up and shaking hands with James.

‘We’re tying the knot. Kate has said she’ll be a witness. We’d be honoured if you’d agree to be one as well.’

‘With great pleasure. The City Hall, I presume?’

‘Ten in the morning next Saturday.’ James signalled a passing waiter carrying a tray of champagne cocktails.

I took a glass and lifted it to my lips, my eyes meeting Charles’. ‘Have you got any space on your dance card?’ he asked.

‘I’ve only pencilled in Tony and my father.’

‘Please may I have the honour of dancing with you for all the others? That dress is far too enticing.’

‘Well, my darling, I can’t dance every dance, you know. I have to make sure our volunteers go round and sell all the tickets for the raffles. And I have to sell some myself.’

‘Then let me help you.’

***

During supper Tony performed his role as Master of Ceremonies with aplomb, making the draws for the donated prizes between each course. The meal seemed to go on forever, but money had poured in and there would be enough to begin funding a children’s clinic in one of the squatter areas. It was a small start, but a good one.

Papa, dressed as a Mandarin, joined Tony on the podium. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I would like to propose a toast to my dear daughter, Kate, whose birthday it is tomorrow, and who has organised this marvellous ball with the help of Jessica Chambers who has organised this marvellous ball with the help of Jessica Chambers. And thank-you to all who’ve donated prizes. You’ve been hugely generous and I’m sure you’ll agree a splendid time has been had by everyone. Raise your glasses! To Kate and to Jessica!’

There was a resounding cheer and my cheeks burned. Charles came up. ‘This is my dance, I think. The last waltz.’

He twirled me closer and closer to the double doors until we were standing on the roof terrace - alone the two of us. Then he kissed me. I felt as if I was swimming underwater as the kiss went on and on and on: delicious, sweet, tender and utterly perfect.

‘It’s midnight. Happy Birthday, darling Kate.’

‘Thank you.’ I took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’ The sound of a ship’s horn reverberated in the distance, and I stared at the neon lights reflecting in the harbour. I steeled myself. ‘I found your letters. My father seems to have “forgotten” to give them to me.’

‘What!’ Charles frowned. ‘He was almost civil when I had supper with you the other night, and I’d started to think the letters had simply got lost.’

‘He’ll apologise to you in person. It was very wrong of him. I told him that I loved you and wanted to be with you, come what may. He blathered on about how difficult my life would be and I said I didn’t care.’

‘I hope I haven’t caused a rift between you,’ Charles said, putting his arms around me again.

‘Papa always spoiled me when I was a child.’ I rubbed my cheek against the leather armour of Charles’ costume. ‘It was as if he had to make up for Mama being the way she was, unable to show affection.’ I breathed in Charles’ citrus scent. ‘Papa seemed genuinely sorry about the letters. He loves me and wants me to be happy. Only now does he understand how much my happiness is tied to you.’

‘And mine to you,’ Charles said, kissing me again. ‘And mine to you.’

I kissed him back, drowning in him, melting with love and desire for him. He cupped my breasts and a zing went through me as my nipples hardened. Then footsteps sounded; another couple had come onto the terrace. I shook myself and took Charles’ hand. ‘Let’s see how James and Sofia are getting on,’ I said, leading him back into the ballroom. ‘Everyone seems to be giving them the cold shoulder.’

James woke early on his first Monday as a married man. He glanced at Sofia, sleeping peacefully next to him, her luxurious hair spread over the pillow. He wrapped a tendril around his finger and lifted it to his lips, inhaling the vanilla scent of the
Shalimar
perfume she used. God, he was lucky. To think he’d once been ashamed to be seen with her. All because he’d wanted to fit in. He didn’t need to fit in with the expatriates. He didn’t give a flying fuck about the majority of them. He didn’t need anyone or anything but his darling wife.

Sofia stretched and yawned. ‘What time is it?’

‘Time to get up and go to work. It’s the tenth of October, the Double Tenth, don’t forget. The nationalists will be celebrating the anniversary of the end of imperial rule. We need to establish our presence at the factory.’

‘Are you expecting any trouble?’

‘We did have a spot of bother after Mao declared his Republic ten days ago, and our workers flew their flags with communist slogans. They upset the right-wingers next door.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I’ve got the situation fully under control.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘On Friday, one of the girls told me she’d seen a flag with the slogan
Long Live the Chinese Republic
flying across the road. Don’t worry! I promptly told the right-wingers there to take it down. The wording was too political, I said, and it would stir up trouble with those who’d been celebrating the foundation of the People’s Republic. I said it was inappropriate for a British colony.’

‘I hope you haven’t made things worse,’ Sofia said, pouring him a coffee from the tray by their bed.

‘Most of the locals have no interest whatsoever in politics. Their allegiances are more a way of affirming they belong to a specific community. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about, sweetheart.’

‘If you say so, James,’ she said. But from her expression and lack of a smile, she appeared unconvinced. Unease spread through him.

***

They arrived at the factory, and James made a tour of the floor. The young single women, the bulk of their labour force, were sitting in rows bent over their looms. They were paid at piece rather than time-rate, so it was in their interests to get on with their work.

He went to the office and helped Sofia with the correspondence - letters to cotton suppliers in the United States and Mexico.

The phone rang and Sofia picked up the receiver. She was speaking Chinese, her tone agitated. She put down the receiver. ‘That was my uncle. There’s a rumour you’ve told the nationalists not to celebrate.’

‘Not true at all. I just didn’t want them to provoke the communists.’

Another shrill from the telephone, and Sofia picked up again. She passed the receiver to James.

It was Special Branch. ‘Gerry. What can I do for you?’

‘Word is the Triads are agitating the nationalists next door to your factory. The police are sending backup for you.’

Shouts, and James went to the window. Below, a crowd of men and women were milling around yelling slogans. His breath caught. ‘Come downstairs,’ he said to Sofia. ‘We’d better make sure all the doors are locked.’

They rushed to the factory entrance. Too late. The mob was forcing its way inside. The women who worked on the looms cowered on the floor, their arms over their heads.

James’ ears pounded. If only he’d learnt to speak Cantonese, he would tell the rabble a thing or two. ‘This is outrageous,’ he shouted. ‘Go away! You’ve got no business to be here.’

Pure hatred shone on their faces. A young woman, black hair in a pigtail, bared her teeth. A burly bald man screamed his rage, spittle flying, the whites of his eyes blazing. The group pushed and shoved their way towards James. He raised his fists to fight them off. More people came up from behind.

Someone grabbed him and tied his hands behind his back. The mob pushed him down on the floor, and he struggled against the bindings. A skinny young man slapped him on the face, unleashing a stream of foul language; that much he understood. He fought against the cords. The youth slapped him again, harder. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

More rioters burst through the doors and hurled Molotov cocktails into the air. Explosions went off all over the factory. The looms caught fire. The first group appeared distracted by what was going on. Keeping his eye on them, James inched his way over to where Sofia had curled into a ball by the wall. He had to protect her and their child.

He threw himself over her, covering her body with his. Something struck him below his mouth. A sharp pain pierced his neck. Then he was falling, falling, falling into the darkness . . .