Литагент HarperCollins - The Piano Teacher

‘I’ve been thinking about getting a butler,’ Mrs Pinter was saying. ‘One of those Chinese fellows would do all right with a bit of training.’

‘Are you going to teach him Esperanto?’ Amelia asked, teasing.

‘We have to teach everyone but the Communists,’ Mrs Pinter said placidly.

‘Isn’t the refugee problem alarming?’ Marjorie Winter said, ignoring all of them. She was fanning herself with a napkin. She was a fat, kindly woman, with very small sausage-like curls around her face.

‘They’re coming in by the thousands, I hear,’ Claire said.

‘I’m starting a new league,’ said Marjorie. ‘To help them. Those poor Chinese streaming across the border like herded animals, running away from that dreadful government. They live in the most frightful conditions. You must volunteer! I’ve rented space for an office and everything.’

‘You remember in 1950,’ Amelia said, ‘when some of the locals were practically running hotels, taking care of all their family and friends who had fled? And these were the well-off ones, who were able to book passage. It was quite something.’

‘Why are they leaving China?’ Claire said. ‘Where do they expect to go from here?’

‘Well, that’s the thing, dear,’ Marjorie said. ‘They don’t have anywhere to go. Imagine that. That’s why my league is so important.’

Amelia sat down. ‘The Chinese come down during war, they go back up, then come down again. It’s dizzying. They are these giant waves of displacement. And their different dialects. I do think Mandarin is the ugliest, with its wer and its er and those strange noises.’ She fanned herself. ‘It’s far too hot to talk about a league,’ she said. ‘Your energy always astounds me, Marjorie.’

‘Amelia,’ Marjorie said unsympathetically, ‘you’re always hot.’

Indeed Amelia was always hot, or cold, or vaguely out of sorts. She was not physically suited to life outside of England, which was ironic since she had not lived there for some three decades. She needed her creature comforts and suffered mightily, and not silently, without them. They had been in Hong Kong since before the war. Her husband, Angus, had brought her from India, which she had loathed, to Hong Kong in 1938 when he had become under-secretary at the Department of Finance. She was opinionated, railing against what she saw as the unbearable English ladies who wanted to become Chinese, who wore their hair in chignons with ivory chopsticks, too-tight cheongsams to every event and employed local tutors so they could speak to the servants in their atrocious Cantonese. She did not understand such women and constantly warned Claire against becoming one of such a breed.

Amelia had taken Claire under her wing, introducing her to people, inviting her to lunch, but Claire was often uncomfortable in her company, listening to her sharp observations and often biting innuendo. Still, she clung to her as someone who could help her navigate this strange new world. She knew her mother would approve of someone like Amelia, even be impressed that Claire knew such people.

Outside, the thwack of a tennis ball punctuated the low buzz and tinkle of conversation and cocktails. Claire’s group migrated towards a large tent pitched next to the courtyard.

‘People come and play tennis?’ Claire asked.

‘Yes – in this weather, can you believe it?’

‘I can’t believe they have a tennis court,’ said Claire with wonder.

‘And I can’t believe what you can’t believe,’ Amelia said archly.

Claire blushed. ‘I’ve just never –’

‘I know, darling,’ Amelia said. ‘Just a village girl.’ She winked to take the sting out of her comment.

‘You know what Penelope Davies did the other day?’ Marjorie interrupted. ‘She went to the temple at Wong Tai Sin with an interpreter, and had her fortune told. She said it was remarkable how much the old woman knew!’

‘What fun,’ Amelia said. ‘I’ll take Wing and try it out too. Claire, we should go!’

‘Sounds fun,’ Claire said.

‘Did you hear about the child in Malaya who had hiccups for three months?’ Marjorie was asking Martin, who had joined them with drinks in hand. ‘The Briggs child. His father’s the head of the Electricity over there. His mother almost went mad. They tried a witch doctor but no results. They didn’t know whether to take him back to England or just trust in fate.’

‘Can you imagine having hiccups for more than an hour?’ Claire said. ‘I’d go mad! That poor child.’

Martin knelt down to play with a small boy who had wandered over. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

‘Martin wants children,’ Claire said, sotto voce , to Amelia. Despite herself, she often found herself confiding to Amelia. She had no one else to talk to.

‘All men do, darling,’ Amelia said. ‘You have to negotiate the number before you start popping them out or else they’ll want to keep going. I got Angus down to two before we started.’

‘Oh,’ Claire said, startled. ‘That seems so … unromantic.’

‘What do you think married life is?’ Amelia said. She cocked an eyebrow at Claire. Claire blushed, and excused herself to go to the powder room.

When she returned, Amelia had drifted away and was talking to a tall man Claire had never seen before. She waved her over. He was a man of around forty with a crude cane that looked as if it had been whittled by a child. He had sharp, handsome features and a shock of black hair, run through with strands of grey, ungroomed.

‘Have you met Will Truesdale?’ Amelia said.

‘I haven’t,’ she said, as she put out her hand.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. His hand was dry and cool, almost as if it were made of paper.

‘He’s been in Hong Kong for ages,’ Amelia said. ‘An old-timer, like us.’

‘Quite the experts, we are,’ he said. He suddenly looked alert. ‘I like your scent,’ he said. ‘Jasmine, is it?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Newly arrived?’

‘Yes, just a month.’

‘Like it?’

‘I never imagined living in the Orient, but here I am.’

‘Oh, Claire, you should have had more imagination,’ Amelia said, gesturing to a waiter for another drink.

Claire coloured again. Amelia was in rare form today.

‘I’m delighted to meet someone who’s not so jaded,’ Will said. ‘All you women are so worldly it quite tires me out.’

Amelia had turned away to take her drink and hadn’t heard him. There was a pause, but Claire didn’t mind it.

‘It’s Claire’s birthday,’ Amelia told Will, turning back. She smiled, brittle, red lipstick stained her front tooth. ‘She’s just a baby.’

‘How nice,’ he said. ‘We need more babies around these parts.’

He suddenly reached out his hand and slowly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A possessive gesture, as if he had known her for a long time. ‘Sorry,’ he said. Amelia had not seen; she had been scanning the crowd.

‘Sorry for what?’ Amelia asked, turning back, distracted.

‘Nothing,’ they both said. Claire looked down at the floor. They were joined in their collusive denial; it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly intimate.

‘What?’ Amelia said impatiently. ‘I can’t hear a damn thing above this din.’

‘I’m twenty-eight today,’ Claire said, not knowing why.

‘I’m forty-three.’ He nodded. ‘Very old.’

Claire couldn’t tell if he was joking.

‘I remember the celebration we had for you at Stanley,’ Amelia said. ‘What a fête.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘You’re still with Melody and Victor?’ Amelia enquired of him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It suits me for now.’