The Man in the Wooden Hat Read online

  “Edward? Eddie—yes. Thank you. Yes. I will and I will and I will, but could you say something?”

  Some of the older waiters would respond to Elisabeth’s voice in the slow English of before the war. It was beginning to sound Old World. Proud, unflinching, Colonial. Yet the girl did not conform to it. She was bare-legged, in open-toed sandals with clean but unpainted toenails. She was wearing a cotton dress she had had for years and hadn’t thought about changing to meet her future husband. The time in the Shanghai detention centre had arrested her body rather than matured her and she would still have been recognised by her school first-eleven hockey team.

  Edward looked down at the top of her curly head, rather the colour of his own. “Chestnut,” they call it. Conker-colour. Red. Our children are bound to have red hair. Red hair frightens the Chinese. Our children’ll have to go Home to England, if we settle here. If we have any children . . .

  She said, “Edward? Please?”

  At last then he embraced her.

  “We must get back,” he said and on the ferry again across the harbour they sat close together, but not touching, on a slatted seat. Nearby sat a pasty young Englishman who was being stroked and sighed over by a Chinese girl with a yearning face. She was plump and pale, gazing up at him, whispering to him, kissing him all the time below the ear. He flicked at the ear now and then as if there were a fly about, but he was smiling. The ferry chugged and splashed. The Englishman looked proud and content. “She’s a great cook, too,” he called in their direction. “She can do a great mashed potato. It’s not all that rice.”

  At Kowloon-side Edward and Elisabeth walked a foot or so apart to his hotel, climbed the marble steps and passed through the flashing glass doors. Inside among the marble columns and the lilies and the fountains Edward lifted a finger towards the reception desk and his room key was brought to him.

  “There’s a party now.”

  “When? Whose?”

  “Now. Here. It’s tomorrow’s Judge. It’s going to be a long Case and he’s a benevolent old stick. He likes to kick off with a party. Both sides invited. Leaders, juniors, wives, girlfriends, fiancées. And courtesans for flavour.”

  “Must we go?”

  “Yes. I don’t much want to, but you don’t refuse.”

  When he looked down at her she saw how happy he was.

  “Have I time to change?”

  “No. It will have begun. We’ll just show our faces. Your clothes are fine. I have something for you to wear, as it happens. I’ll go up and change my jacket and I’ll bring it down.”

  “Shall I come up to the room with you?”

  The new, easy, happy Edward faltered. “No. I don’t think they care for that here. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I’ll order you some tea.”

  “It’s a strange betrothal,” Betty told the lily-leaf-shaped tray, the shallow cup, the tiny piece of Battenburg cake and the cress sandwich so small that a breeze from the fountains might blow it away. A trio behind her was playing Mozart. Two Chinese, one Japanese, very expert and scornful. She remembered how people in England used to say that no Oriental would ever be able to play Mozart. Just like they used to say that there would never be Japanese pilots because the Japanese are all half blind behind dark glasses. She was all at once overcome by the idiotic nature of mankind and began to laugh. God must feel like me, she thought. Oh, I love Hong Kong. Could we live here? Could Edward?

  Here he came now, washed and shaved in a clean shirt and linen jacket, loping over from the lift, smiling like a boy (I’m going to be with this person all my life!) and he dropped a little cloth bag into her lap and she took out from it the most magnificent string of pearls.

  “Yours,” he said. “They’re old. Someone gave them to me. When I was sixteen. In the war. Just in time. She died a few minutes later. She was lying next to me under a lifeboat on deck. We were limping Home up the Irish Sea—everybody sick and dying. She was very old. Raj spinster. Whiskery. Brave. Type that’s gone. She said, ‘One day you can give them to your sweetheart.’”

  She thought: He’s not cold at all. Then, Oh, OH!! The pearls are wonderful. But they’re not what matters.

  “There’s a condition, Elisabeth.”

  “About the pearls?”

  “Certainly not. They are yours for ever. You are my sweetheart. But this marriage, our marriage . . .”

  “Hush,” she said. “People are listening. Later.”

  “No—NOW,” he roared out in the way he did; and several heads turned. “This marriage is a big thing. I don’t believe in divorce.”

  “You’re talking about divorce before you’ve proposed.”

  Mozart behind them sang out, Aha! Bravo! Goodbye! And the trio stood up and bowed.

  “Elisabeth, you must never leave me. That’s the condition. I’ve been left all my life. From being a baby, I’ve been taken away from people. Raj orphan and so on. Not that I’m unusual there. And it’s supposed to have given us all backbone.”

  “Well, I know all that. I am an orphan, too. My parents suffered.”

  “All our parents suffered for an ideology. They believed it was good for us to be sent Home, while they went on with ruling the Empire. We were all damaged even though we became endurers.”

  (“May I take your tray, madam?”)

  “It did not destroy me but it made me bloody unsure.”

  “I will never leave you, Edward.”

  “I’ll never mention any of this again.” His words began to stumble. “Been sent away all my life. Albert Ross saved me. So sorry. Came through. Bad at sharing feelings.”

  “Which, dear Eddie, if I may say so, must be why you haven’t yet proposed to me.”

  “I thought I had—”

  “No. Your Chambers stationery has. Not you. I want to hear it from you. In your words. From your lips.” (She was happy, though.)

  “Marry me, Elisabeth. Never leave me. I’ll never ask again. But never leave me.”

  “I’ll never leave you, Edward.”

  A waiter swam by and scooped up her tray though she called out, “Oh, no!”

  Bugger, she thought, I’ve had nothing all day but that rice at Amy’s. Then: I shouldn’t be thinking of cake.

  In the lift on the way up to the Judge’s party, her bare toes inside the sandals crunching the sand of the distant sunset harbour, she thought: Well, now I know. It won’t be romantic but who wants that? It won’t be passion, but better without, probably. And there will be children. And he’s remarkable and I’ll grow to love him very much. There’s nothing about him that’s unlovable.

  They stood together now at the far end of the corridor where the Judge had his suite. They could see the open doors, gold and white. The noise of the party inside rose in a subdued roar.

  Edward said, “Unclutch those pearls. I want to put them round your neck.” He took them, heavy and creamy, into both hands and held them to his face. “They still smell of the sea.”

  She said, “Oh, ridiculous,” and laughed, and he at last kissed her very gravely in full view of the waiters round the distant door. She saw that his eyes brimmed with tears.

  Why, the dear old thing, she thought.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Judge was standing just inside the doors of his suite to welcome his guests and ostentatiously waving about a glass of Indian tonic water to make clear to everyone that tomorrow morning he would be in Court. He was a clever, abstracted little man with a complexion pale and freckled like cold porridge. He had been born in the East and his skin still didn’t seem to know what to make of it. His wife, Dulcie, much younger and here with him on a visit, was vague and dumpy in paisley-patterned silk. The arrival of the up-and-coming Edward and the unconventional-looking young woman appeared to mean little to either of them. The Judge was looking everywhere around.

  “Aha, yes. Eddie Feathers,” said the Judge (he was known as Pastry Willy). “Well done. Arrived safely. Good flight? Well, don’t let me monopolise you. We’ll be head-on for mont
hs. Sick of the sight of each other. I’ve said exactly the same to the other side for the same reason. They’re all over there.”

  Gales of laughter were arising from across the room and there was the impression of someone bigger than the rest buffooning about. He had a flap of flaxen hair.

  “I can’t remember how well you know Veneering?”

  “Quite well.”

  Pastry Willy quickly looked away. Something about a mutual and inexplicable loathing.

  “May I introduce Elisabeth Macintosh?” said Edward. “She is about to become my wife.”

  “Delighted, delightful,” said the Judge, and his wife Dulcie blinked at the gingham dress and pearls.

  Elisabeth leaned forward and kissed Pastry Willy on the cheek. “Hello, Uncle Willy. I’m Betty Macintosh.” She kissed him again on the other cheek.

  “Oh, my goodness! Little Betty! Joseph’s girl!”

  “Father died,” she said and disappeared into the crowd.

  “But this is splendid! Splendid, Feathers! I used to read fairy tales to her on my knee.” Edward was hurrying after her. “In Tiensin!”

  “Elisabeth!” He caught up with her. “You kissed Willy?”

  “Well, I knew him when I was seven,” she said.

  In the heart of the throng Edward, looking joyous, began to declare to left and right, “Hello, my—my fiancée.”

  The room became more crowded still, the talk all London Inns of Court and how the Colony was awash this month with English lawyers. A drift of excited wives just off the plane surged by in new silk dresses they’d already had time to buy, their hair and lipstick all in place and shiny. A lovely Chinese woman in pale yellow with chandelier earrings was reclining on a chaise longue. She had a face of perpetual ennui. From the corner of the room where the noise was wildest the flaxen-headed man separated himself from his friends, roaring with laughter. He was wearing khaki shorts and a khaki shirt, which made him seem not eccentric but ahead of fashion and in the sartorial know. “No, not that way,” Edward commanded Elisabeth, and the man with the bright hair cried out, “Oh, God! It’s Old Filth!” Then he saw Elisabeth in the pearls and gingham and stood perfectly still.

  “I’m Veneering,” he said to her, “Terry Veneering.” His eyes were bright light blue.

  Elisabeth thought: And it is just one hour too late.

  “Come and meet—” Edward was steering her away. “You must meet my clerk and—I don’t see Ross anywhere yet. I hope you’re going to like him. I’ll tell you—oh, hello! Hello! Tony, Desmond. Safe here, all of us. This is—”

  But Elisabeth had slid away. Through some glass doors on to an airy balcony she had spotted a glitter of dishes. Her holiday money she’d used up in Australia, and for the past week she and Lizzie had been eating nothing much except noodles and deep-fried prawns off the market stalls. At the end of this frugal day of celebration (when she’d thought there’d be a feast, looking out over the sunset harbour), she was ravenous and—with a percipience she would keep and be thankful for throughout her coming life—she’d noticed that Edward hadn’t mentioned dinner. And she knew that after the party he would find urgent work to do for the next day.

  Belshazzar’s feast was laid out on white cloths on the balcony, a row of robotic waiters standing behind.

  “I’m your first customer,” she said, and with faint disapproval one of them handed her a plate and she passed down the buffet alone, helping herself hugely to crab and lobster mayonnaise. Oh, glory!

  She sat down alone at an empty side table with a long white cloth to the floor, stretched her sandy feet beneath it and touched something that squeaked.

  Putting her chopsticks neatly down, she lifted a corner of the tablecloth and saw a boy cross-legged on the marble, crunching a lobster. He had black Chinese hair that stood up spikily in an un-Oriental way. His eyes were blue.

  “Good evening,” said Elisabeth. “Do you usually eat underneath tables?”

  “Sometimes they let me in ahead of time. I get hungry at my father’s parties, too.”

  “Oh, I’m always hungry,” she said. “But I’ll stay in the open tonight. Who are you? I’m Betty Macintosh.”

  “Like a raincoat?” He licked each finger thoroughly before holding out his hand. “I’m Harry Veneering. I’m an only child. My father is a very famous barrister. He works out here a lot of the time but I’m at school in England. I’m flying back to school tonight.”

  “Is the lobster then altogether wise? Do you think?”

  “Oh, yes, thanks. I’m never sick. I can eat anything. I’m like my father. My mother eats just about nothing, ever.”

  “Where are you at school in England?”

  “Near London. It’s a prep school. For Eton, of course. My father being who he is.”

  “Is he the one in the shorts?”

  “Yes. He says if you are anybody you can wear what you like anywhere. Some lord or duke told him. Or maybe it was a prime minister. He’s a terrible, terrible inside-out snob, my dad, and he’s very, very funny.”

  “Ought you to discuss your father with a stranger?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s fun. He’s just a joke. And very, very brilliant.”

  “I’ve seen him. Yellow hair?”

  “Yes. It’s gross. But it’s not dyed. I’ve got my mother’s hair. She’s the one with the long earrings.”

  “You have your father’s eyes.”

  “Yes.” He looked at her from across the small table where he was now attacking the crabmeat. “He’s a hypnotist. That’s why he wins absolutely every one of his Cases.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, “Oh, no. I am about to be married to another barrister and he wins Cases too and some of them against your father. And he never boasts. And he wasn’t at Eton. And he’s not a snob of any kind, ever. How old are you and why are you arguing about matters beyond your understanding?”

  “I’m nine. I’m small, but I expect to grow. My dad says boys grow to their feet and my feet—look at them—they’re vast. I suppose you’re going to marry Mr. Feathers. Did you know he’s called Old Filth? It’s because he’s so clean and so clever. Well, of course he is fairly clever.”

  “You don’t need to tell me about my future husband. It’s pert. Now then, come over here and bring that big table napkin with you. I’ll clean you up. And remember you are talking to the new Mrs. Edward Feathers.”

  “‘Mrs. Feathers’ sounds like a hen.” And the child came over and shut his eyes, presenting his silky Chinese face to her as she dipped the dinner napkin in cold water and mopped up the mayonnaise from round his mouth. He opened his blue eyes and said, “I know, I absolutely know I’ve seen you before. I didn’t mean to be rude. I love hens.”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

  “If you’re ever back in England,” he said, “would you like to come to my school sports days? I’m very good. I win everything and there’s never anybody to see me because my parents are always somewhere else. Such as out here.”

  “I should have to ask their permission.”

  “Oh, it’ll be all right. The school won’t mind. I could say you’re my nanny.”

  She looked at him.

  “What’s the matter? You’d look exactly right. My mother’s supposed to be the most beautiful woman in Hong Kong, you know.”

  “That must be very difficult for her,” said Elisabeth.

  The languid Chinese woman of the chaise longue was all at once standing behind them, holding a champagne glass round its rim in the tips of her fingers. The fingers of her other hand balanced her against the wall.

  People were now crowding in for the buffet and the waiters were coming to life. Behind Elsie Veneering stood Veneering. Veneering was looking at Elisabeth’s unlined face, his wife at Elisabeth’s unpainted sandy toenails.

  “Harry,” said Elsie. “It’s time to go. Introduce me to your friend.”

  “She’s Miss Macintosh, she belongs to Mr. Feathers. She’s going to m
arry him. This is my mother.”

  “Marrying?” Elsie’s eyes were black and still. “What secrets! We all rather suspected . . . How kind of you to talk to Harry. Have you children already? Grandchildren?”

  “Oh yes,” said Elisabeth. “I have twenty-seven grandchildren and I’m only twenty-eight years old.”

  Elsie looked out of her depth but Harry laughed and fell on Elisabeth like a puppy. “You will come, won’t you? Come to my school? On sports day?”

  “Only if your mother and father will let me.”

  “There’ll be no sports days at all if you don’t tuck your shirt in your shorts and get smartened up. We’ve not finished your packing yet and the plane goes at midnight. Your mother needs a rest.” Veneering’s voice was all right. O.K. Just a trace of elocution lessons, maybe?

  “Aren’t you taking me? Dad? You always take me to the airport.” The boy who had looked as if he could outface a battalion crumpled into a baby and began to cry.

  “Can’t this time,” said Veneering, “Work to be done for tomorrow. Sorry, guv’nor.”

  “Why didn’t you do the bloody work instead of coming to this awful party?” And biffing everyone out of his way, the child kicked out at his yellow-headed father and ran from the Judge’s apartment.

  Veneering stood looking at Elisabeth and Elsie drifted away.

  “He must learn to travel alone,” said Veneering. “Hundreds of them still do. Hardens them up. It’s in the British genes.”

  “What rubbish you talk,” said Elisabeth.

  “They travel first class. Well looked-after. Met at the other end. We take a lot of trouble. Not like in your old man’s time.”