Литагент HarperCollins - The Piano Teacher

‘I’m sure it suits Victor just fine to have an Englishman chauffeuring him around,’ she replied slyly.

‘It seems to work for everyone involved,’ Will said, not taking the bait.

Amelia leaned towards him confidentially. ‘I hear there’s been chatter about the Crown Collection and its disappearance during the war. Angus says it’s starting to come to the boil. People have noticed. Have you heard anything?’

‘I have,’ he said.

‘They want to ferret out the collaborators.’

‘A bit late, don’t you think?’

After a pause, when it became apparent that nothing more was forthcoming from Will, she spoke again: ‘I hope the Chens are treating you well?’

‘I can’t complain,’ he said.

‘A bit odd, though, isn’t it? You working over there?’

‘Amelia,’ he said. ‘You’re boring Claire.’

‘Oh, no,’ Claire protested. ‘I’m just …’

‘Well, you’re boring me,’ he said. ‘And life is too short to be bored. Claire, have you been to the different corners of our fair colony? Which is your favourite?’

‘Well, I have been exploring a little. Sheung Wan is lovely – I do like the markets – and I’ve been over to Kowloon, Tsim Sha Tsui on the Star Ferry, of course, and seen all the shops there. It’s very lively, isn’t it?’

‘See, Amelia?’ Will said. ‘An Englishwoman who ventures outside of Central and the Peak. You would do well to learn from this newcomer.’

Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘She’ll grow tired of it soon enough. I’ve seen so many of these bright-eyed new arrivals, and they all end up having tea with me at the Helena May and complaining about their amahs.’

‘Well, don’t let Amelia’s rosy attitude affect you too much, Claire,’ Will said. ‘At any rate, it was a pleasure to meet you. Best of luck in Hong Kong.’ He nodded to them politely and left. She felt the heat of his body as he passed her.

Claire felt bereft. He had assumed they would not meet again. ‘Odd man?’ she said. It was more of a statement.

‘You’ve no idea, dear,’ Amelia said.

Claire peeked after him. He had floated over to the side of the tennis court, although he had some sort of limp, and was watching Peter Wickham and his son hit the ball at each other.

‘He’s also very serious now,’ Amelia said. ‘Can’t have a proper conversation with him. He was quite sociable before the war, you know, you saw him at all the parties, had the most glamorous girl in town, quite high up at Asiatic Petrol, but he never really recovered after the victory. He’s a chauffeur, now.’ Her voice dropped. ‘For the Chens, actually, do you know who they are?’

‘Amelia!’ Claire said. ‘I give their daughter piano lessons! You helped me arrange it!’

‘Oh dear. The memory goes first, they say. You’ve never run into him there?’

‘Never,’ Claire said. ‘Although the Chens once suggested he might give me a lift home.’

‘Poor Melody,’ said Amelia. ‘She’s very fragile. ’ The word said delicately.

‘Indeed,’ Claire said, remembering the way Melody had sipped her drink, quickly, urgently.

‘The thing with Will is …’ Amelia hesitated. ‘I’m quite certain he doesn’t need to work at all.’

‘How do you mean?’ Claire asked.

‘I just know certain things,’ Amelia said mysteriously.

Claire didn’t ask. She wouldn’t give Amelia the satisfaction.

Trudy is dressing for dinner while he watches from the bed. She has finished her mysterious bathing ritual, with its oils and unguents, and now she smells marvellous, like a valley in spring. She is sitting at her dressing-table in a long peach satin robe, wrapped silkily round her waist, applying fragrant creams to her face.

‘Do you like this one?’ She gets up and holds a long black dress in front of her.

‘It’s fine.’ He can’t concentrate on the clothes when her face is so vibrant.

‘Or this one?’ A knee-length dress the colour of orange sherbet.

‘Fine.’

She pouts. Her skin gleams. ‘You’re so unhelpful.’

She tells him Manley Haverford is having a party, an end-of-summer party at his country house this weekend and that she wants to go. Manley is an old bigot who used to have a radio talk show before he married a rich but ugly Portuguese woman who conveniently died two years later whereupon he retired to live the life of a country squire in Saikung.

‘Desperately,’ she says. ‘I want to go desperately.’

‘You loathe Manley,’ he says. ‘You told me so last week.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘But his parties are fun and he’s very generous with the drinks. Let’s go and talk about how awful he is right in front of him. Can we go? Can we? Can we?’ She wears him down. They will go.

So on Friday, late afternoon, he plays truant from work and they spend the twilight hours bathing in the ocean by Manley’s house. To get there, they drive narrow, winding roads carved out of the green mountain, blue water on their right, verdant hillside on their left. His house is through a dilapidated wooden gate and at the end of a long driveway, beside the sea, with a porch that juts out, and rough stone steps leading down to the beach. He’s had coolers filled with ice and drinks and sandwiches brought down to the sandy inlet. The still-hot sun and the water make them ravenous and they eat and eat and eat and curse their host for not bringing enough.

‘Me?’ he asks. ‘I assumed I had invited civilized people, who ate three meals a day.’

Victor and Melody Chen, Trudy’s cousins, wander down from the house, where they had been resting.

‘What are we doing now?’ Melody asks. Will likes her, thinks she’s nice, when she’s not with her husband.

A woman they have never met before, newly arrived from Singapore, suggests they play Charades. They all moan but acquiesce.

Trudy is one team’s leader, the Singapore woman the other. The groups huddle together, write words on scraps of damp paper. They put them into the empty sandwich basket.

Trudy goes first. She looks at her paper, dimples. ‘Easy peasy,’ she says encouragingly to her group. She makes the film sign, one hand rotating an imaginary camera lever.

‘Film!’ shouts an American.

She puts up four fingers, then suddenly ducks her head, puts her arms in front of her and whooshes through the air.

‘ Gone With the Wind ,’ Will says. Trudy curtsies.

‘Unfair,’ says someone from the other team. ‘Pet’s advantage.’

Trudy comes over and plants a kiss on his forehead. ‘Clever boy,’ she says, and sinks down next to him.

Singapore gets up.

‘She’s your nemesis,’ Will tells Trudy.

‘Don’t worry,’ Trudy says. ‘She’s idiotic.’

The afternoon passes pleasantly, with them shouting insults and drinking and generally being stupid. Some people talk about the government and how it’s organizing different Volunteer Corps.

‘It’s not volunteering,’ Will says. ‘It’s mandatory. It’s the Compulsory Service Act, for heaven’s sake. Why don’t they just call a spade a spade? Dowbiggin is being ridiculous about it.’

‘Don’t be such a grump,’ Trudy says. ‘Do your duty.’

‘I guess so,’ he says. ‘Must fight the good fight, I suppose.’ He thinks the organization is being handled in an absurd fashion.

‘Is there one for cricketers?’ someone asks, as if to prove his point.

‘Why not?’ somebody else says. ‘You can make up one however you want.’

‘I hardly think that’s true,’ Manley says. ‘But I’m joining one that’s training out here at weekends, on the Club grounds. Policemen, although I’d think they’d be rather busy if there was an attack.’