Литагент HarperCollins - The Piano Teacher

The colony is filled with suddenly lonely men without wives; they gather at the Gripps, the Parisian Grill, clamour to be invited to dinner parties at the homes of those few whose wives remain. They form a club, the Bachelors’ Club (‘Why do the British so love to form clubs and societies?’ Trudy asks. ‘No, wait, don’t say, it’s too grim.’) and petition the governor to bring back the women. Others, more intrepid, turn up suddenly with adopted Chinese ‘daughters’ or ‘wards’, dine with them and drink champagne, then disappear into the night. Will finds it amusing, Trudy less so. ‘Wait until I get my hands on them,’ she cries, while Will teases her about which Chinese hostess would soon get her claws into him.

‘You’re like a leper, darling,’ she counters. ‘You British men are going out of fashion. I might have to find myself a Japanese or German beau now.’

Later Will remembers this time so clearly, how it was all so funny and the war was so far away, yet talked about every day, how no one really thought about what might really happen.

Claire was waiting for the bus after Locket’s piano lesson when Will Truesdale drove up in the car. ‘Would you like a lift?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just finished for the day.’

‘Thank you, but I couldn’t put you out,’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘The Chens don’t mind if I take the car home for the night. Most employers want their cars left at home and the chauffeur to take public transport home, so it’s no bother.’

Claire hesitated, then got into the car. It smelled of cigarettes and polished leather. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

‘Did you have a good time at the Arbogasts’ the other day?’ he asked.

‘It was a very nice party,’ she said. She had learned not to be effusive, that it marked her as unsophisticated.

‘Reggie’s a good sort,’ he said. ‘It was nice to meet you there, too. There are too many of those women who add to the din but not to anything else. You shouldn’t lose that quality of seeing everything new for what it is. All the women here …’

He drove well, she thought, steady on the steering-wheel, his movements calm and unhurried.

‘You’re not wearing the perfume you had on the other day,’ he said.

‘No,’ she said, wary. ‘That’s for special occasions.’

‘I was surprised that you had it on. Not many English wear it. It’s more the fashionable Chinese women. They like its heaviness. English women like something lighter, more flowery.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t aware.’ Claire’s hand went unconsciously to her neck, where she usually dabbed it on.

‘But it’s lovely that you wear it,’ he said.

‘You seem to know a lot about women’s scents.’

‘I don’t.’ He glanced over at her, his eyes dark. ‘I used to know someone who wore it.’

They rode in silence until they arrived at her building.

‘You teach the girl,’ he said, as she was reaching for the door, his voice suddenly urgent.

‘Yes, Locket.’ She said, taken aback.

‘Is she a good student?’ he asked. ‘Diligent?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ she said. ‘Her parents don’t give her much of a reason to do anything so she doesn’t. Very typical at that age. Still, she’s a nice enough girl.’

He nodded, his face unreadable in the dark interior of the car.

‘Well, thank you for the lift,’ she said. ‘I’m most grateful.’

He raised a hand, then drove off into the gathering dusk.

And then a bun. A bun with sweetened chestnut paste. That was how they met again. She had been walking up Elgin Street to where there was a bus stop, when it started to pour. The rain – huge, startling plops – fell heavily and she was soaked through in a matter of seconds. Looking up at the sky, she saw it had turned a threatening grey. She ducked into a Chinese bakery to wait out the storm. Inside, she ordered tea and a chestnut bun, and as she turned to sit at a small, circular tables, she spotted Will Truesdale, deliberately eating a red bean pastry, staring at her.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Caught in the rain, too?’

‘Would you like a seat?’

She sat down. In the damp, he smelled of cigarettes and tea. A newspaper was spread in front of him, the crossword half finished. A fan blew at the pages so they ruffled upwards.

‘It’s coming down cats and dogs. And so sudden!’

‘So, how are you?’ he asked.

‘Fine, thank you very much. I’ve just come from the Liggets’, where I borrowed some patterns. Do you know Jasper and Helen? He’s in the police.’

‘Ligget the bigot?’ He wrinkled his forehead.

She laughed, uncomfortable. His hand thrummed the table, though his body was relaxed. ‘Is that what you call him?’ she asked.

‘Why not?’

He did the crossword as she ate her bun and sipped her tea. She was aware of her mouth chewing, swallowing. She sat up straight in her chair.

He hummed a tune, looked up. ‘Hong Kong suits you,’ he said.

She coloured, started to say something about being impertinent but her words came out muddled.

‘Don’t be coy,’ he said. ‘I think …’ he started, as if he were telling her life story. ‘I imagine you’ve always been pretty but you’ve never owned it, never used it to your advantage. You didn’t know what to do about it and your mother never helped you. Perhaps she was jealous, perhaps she, too, was pretty in her youth but is bitter that beauty is so transient.’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,’ she said.

‘I’ve known girls like you for years. You come over from England and don’t know what to do with yourselves. You could be different. You should take the opportunity to become something else.’

She stared at him, then pushed the bun wrapper around on the table. It was slightly damp and stuck to the surface. She was aware of his gaze on her face.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You must be very uncomfortable. My home is just up the way if you want to change into some dry things.’

‘I wouldn’t want to …’

‘Do you want my jacket?’

He was looking at her so intently that she felt undressed. Was there anything more intimate than being truly seen? She looked away. ‘No, I …’

‘No bother at all,’ he said quickly. ‘Come along,’ and she did, pulled helplessly by his suggestion.

They climbed the steps, now damp and glistening, the heat already beginning to evaporate the moisture. Her clothes clung to her, her blouse sodden and uncomfortable against her shoulder-blades. In the quiet after the rain, she could hear his breathing, slow and regular. He used his cane with expertise, hoisting himself up the stairs, whistling slightly under his breath.

‘In good weather, there’s a man who sells crickets made of grass stalks here.’ He gestured to a street corner. ‘I’ve bought dozens. They’re the most amazing things, but they crumble when they dry up, crumble into nothing.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Claire said. ‘I’d like to see them.’

They went into his building, and walked up some grungy, industrial stairs. He stopped in front of a door. ‘I never lock my door,’ he said suddenly.

‘I suppose it’s safe enough in these parts,’ she said.

Inside, his flat was sparsely furnished. She could see only a sofa, a chair, and a table on bare floor. When they stepped in, he took off his soaking shoes. ‘The boss says I can’t wear shoes in the house.’

Just then, a small, wiry woman of around forty came in. She was wearing the amah uniform of a black tunic over trousers.

‘This is the boss, Ah Yik,’ he said. ‘Ah Yik, this is Mrs Pendleton.’

‘So wet,’ the little woman cried. ‘Big rain.’