Vintage - Sunrise in Hong Kong - Denise Emery 1982

8/22/2019 Vintage - Sunrise in Hong Kong - Denise Emery 1982

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Sunrise in Hong

KongBy


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Denise Emery


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SUNRISE IN HONG KONG

'How dare you!' Margaret slapped him. Just once, across theface, as hard as she could. She took several deep breaths beforeshe spoke again, and when she did her voice was low with barely

controlled fury.

'I'll tell you something, Peter Benhurst. You're a bitter, twistedman. And I'll tell you something else. I think you'll live to regret

this conversation and your monstrous assumptions! When thathappens, I'll thank you not to come to me with your apologies,

your, your''Don't worry about it!'

'I won't! But if I live for ever, I will never, ever have anythingfurther to do with you, and that's a promise . .'

SUNRISE IN HONG KONG

ISBN 0600 20266 6

First published in Great Britain 1981

by Severn House Publishers Ltd

Hamlyn Paperbacks edition 1982

Copyright 1980 by Denise Emery


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As a Director of the Barwell College of Business, Charles Beesongave the final lecture of the spring term to those students who had

just completed Barwell's two-year intensive course. His remarks

touched on Determination, and Ambition, and Honourable Business

Ethics.

Over the noise of London traffic which intruded with the breeze

through the open windows of the lecture hall, Mr Beeson wished the

sixty-five hopeful faces in front of him the best of luck in their future

careers. Finally, with measured dignity, he eased his lanky frame out

from behind the oaken lectern, and walked slowly down the neat

rows of chairs, handing out the sealed envelopes which contained the

formal announcement of how well or how badly each student had

done.

Margaret Hamilton, seated at the end of the last row but one at the

back of the room, looked far too fragile to have absorbed four full

terms of the demanding course for which Barwell's was famous.

Her dark hair was brushed into a businesslike coil at the nape of her

neck, but it framed a heart-shaped face in which the features were

both regular and delicate. She was sitting directly in the path of a

shaft of sunlight, and burnished highlights of red-gold appeared in

the curling mass. And although the bottle-green cotton shirtwaist

dress she wore would have been suitable in the most formal office, it

fitted her slender figure as though it had been made for her, and

further emphasized her air of exquisite femininity.


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Yet Margaret Hamilton seemed noticeably more relaxed about her

results than many of the others in the large room, and as Mr Beeson

approached her, she smiled up at him. He smiled back, handing her

the envelope on which her name was written. 'Well done, Margaret,'

he said with quiet approval, as he had to one or two of the others

before her.

Fifteen minutes later, when Margaret emerged from the college into

a cul-de-sac off the Tottenham Court Road, Ralph Nickleby was

waiting for her in their estate car; when he saw her, he leaned out of

the window.

'Thought you'd be ready for a snack, lass!' he shouted cheerfully.

She wrinkled her nose at him as she walked towards the car. When

she'd settled herself into the seat beside him, she looked across in

mock-despair. 'I haven't looked yet, Ralph, but I expect I failed every

course except alphabetical filing. Never mind, you can take me out

to lunch as a consolation!'

Ralph sat patiently while Margaret opened her envelope and

withdrew its contents, read quickly through her examination results

and passed them to him.

'Celebration, more like!' he crowed, beaming. 'What will it be for thelady? Italian, or Greek? Or maybe,' he suggested teasingly, 'you'd

prefer Chinese?' He said that as though it was an afterthought.

It wasn't. It was a reference to the promise Ralph had made to her, on

the raw day late in the previous January when the sombre skies and

frozen ground had so accurately reflected the misery in Margaret's

heart


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Margaret Hamilton's father died in a traffic accident two months

after she was born. Martin Hamilton's only legacy to his daughter,

apart from his name, had been a handful of fading snapshots of his

youthful, smiling face, photographs which Margaret's mother had

carefully preserved. When Margaret was three Dorothy Hamilton

married Ralph Nickleby, and almost from the day she met him

Margaret thought of Ralph as her dad. In his mid-thirties then,

married for the first time, Ralph was delighted with his new status,

with the lovely wife and small daughter who were his 'instant

family'. He was proud of his responsibility for Margaret, too,

determined to look after her in every way as though she was his own.

Ralph Nickleby's profession was the travel business. He had founded

his own agency, Travel Unlimited, Limited, a shoestring operation in

Fulham, the year he and Dorothy met. At first he had worked on his

own to nurse the business into a solidly successful venture. But later,

when he and Dorothy married, she had worked with him, doing most

of the agency book-keeping from home. The business thrived, and

when Ralph opened a second, larger branch in a busy side street just

off Oxford Circus, it became far too much for the two of them to

manage on their own.

That was when Ralph had found the thoroughly capable Phyllis

Gunter, who came to work for him as manageress of the Fulham

branch. 'But not for ever, Ralph,' Phyllis had admitted to him with

cheerful honesty. 'Just until my Bill retires in a few years' time. After

that, we're planning to see a bit of the world for ourselves. By then,


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of course,' she'd added, her eyes twinkling, 'you'll have young

Margaret here, to help you!'

Ever since Margaret had been old enough to go with Ralph to his

office on Saturday mornings, she had seen his work as both exciting

and thoroughly worthwhile; long before she left primary school, she

had decided she wanted to join Ralph in the agency.

Travel Unlimited had not made them rich. But the business had paid

for the tall, spacious house in Notting Hill Gate where Dorothy and

Ralph and Margaret were so happy together, and for a new car

almost every other year. When the time came, Margaret's fees at

Barwell-College of Business were found too. As Dorothy put it, 'If

you're serious about joining Ralph, love, you'd best learn as much

about business procedure as you can before you do it. And then if

you change your mind after a few years, you'll be able to go off and

make a career somewhere else if you want to.'

Margaret was happy enough to do the course, and grateful for the

opportunity. But she knew she wouldn't change her mind about

joining the travel agency. It was something Ralph said, often and

happily, that summed up Margaret's feeling for the business: 'What

better way to earn a living than by bringing pleasure to folks by

sending them off on holiday? Ah, but there's an art to that,' he'd go

on thoughtfully, running his hand through his thick, greying hair.

'The real secret lies in matching the needs and means of each client

to what we've got to offer, even if it means taking less profit than we

might have done. Can't go around bankrupting people just to send

them off on world cruises they won't enjoy for worry.'


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Margaret's first year at Barwell's passed uneventfully, though her

struggles with 'Accounts Procedures in the Modern General Office'

were more than enough of a challenge to convince her that her

mother had been right to suggest she do the course. The first term of

her second and final year included work which was even more

difficult and demanding; by the end of it, shortly before Christmas,

Margaret was exhausted.

Christmas was especially festive that year, deliberately so; Dorothy

planned it that way, determined to give her daughter a real treat

before the beginning of her final months at college. 'An old-

fashioned feast,' Dorothy promised, 'with all the trimmings, and

plenty of people to share it with!'

It was a treat for Margaret. She had celebrated her twenty-first

birthday that autumn; even so, she still loved Christmas with a

child's joy. But as an only child, and well past/the true age of

childhood, Margaret had long since accepted the fact that Christmas

dinner, more often than not, was a meal shared with Ralph and her

mother in a restaurant.

That year, though, the house strained and bulged with people.

Dorothy invited both of Ralph's married sisters and their families

down from Birmingham for Christmas Day and Boxing Day. 'The

more the merrier,' she proclaimed gaily as she baked and cleaned and

laundered in preparation for them all.

Three days after Boxing Day, Ralph had shaken Margaret awake at

five o'clock in the morning, ashen-faced in the shock of having to tell

her that her mother was dead. They found out later that Dorothy

Nickleby had died peacefully in her sleep of a heart attack. Thus it


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was that for a very long time afterwards Margaret brooded on that

special Christmas, and exactly what it had cost her mother to provide

it.

But Margaret's first reaction to her mother's death was stunned, dry-

eyed shock, her mind so filled with the terrible absence that she

couldn't bring herself to weep, not even when the first shovelful of

earth followed Dorothy's simple coffin into the ground. It went on

for many weeks. The college term started, but it started without

Margaret Hamilton.

Finally, as delicately and tactfully as he could, Ralph intruded. 'Ah

Margaret, lass. Charles Beeson's been on to me by telephone, several

times. He's wondering when'

'Tell him never!' Margaret snapped. 'Can't you see it doesn't matter

any more? Can't you simply leave me alone?'

'No! No, indeed I can't, love,' Ralph answered firmly. 'Life goes on.

If your mum were here to back me up on that, she'd I'd' He

broke down then, overcome, as tears welled into his eyes and choked

his voice. Seeing it, Margaret at last began weeping too, and after

that some of the tension of her first grief was eased.

Even then, though, Margaret continued in a depression that was sodeep she no longer wanted to do anything at all. Some days she

didn't even bother to get dressed. Instead, she stayed in her bedroom

in her dressing-gown, listening over and over again to the records

which had been her music-loving mother's favourites.

Finally, in desperation, Ralph tried a piece of straightforward bribery

to pull Margaret out of her extended and useless mourning. 'By theway,' he said casually over dinner, one evening near the end of


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January. 'I, ah, don't think I mentioned it to you, but I'm planning a

sort of holiday for next autumn. Iwell, I wondered if you'd like to

come along with me.'

Margaret looked up from her plate, her green eyes alight with

genuine curiosity for the first time since her mother's death. 'What

sort of holiday?'

'Actually, it's a working holiday,' he answered thankfully. 'I was

thinking that if you did want to come, I could take you along as my

assistant. It would be tax-deductible that way.' He thought about that

for a moment, and then shook his head doubtfully. 'Probably couldn't

get away with that, on second thoughts. If I were to do it, I'd have to

be able to prove to the accountant that you really were my assistant.

Fully qualified to take up employment with Travel Unlimited, and so

on'

'This wouldn't be a bribe, would it, Ralph? To get me to finish

college, I mean?' Margaret asked drily.

'Oh, I'd not put it like that, love!' Ralph answered hastily, as though it

was the furthest thing from his mind. 'Of course if you were to finish

your course at Barwell's, and if you were to come into the agency

next summer, then Phyllis and I between us could begin to show you

the ropes, and then, well! Though, of course, once we got out there,

your real job would be to enjoy yourself.'

'Where exactly is "out there"?' Margaret asked quietly, placing her

fork on her plate with great care.

'Hong Kong.'

'Hong Kong, China?' she breathed, hardly daring to believe it.


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'Unless they've moved it,' he answered innocently, trying to keep a

straight face.

Hong Kong had been Margaret's daydream of paradise for as long as

she could remember, and certainly since before she could read. She

couldn't have been much older than four on the Saturday morning

she first gathered a handful of the gawdy, exciting brochures from

the reception area of Ralph's Fulham agency, brochures which had

been placed there to tempt anyone rich enough and adventurous

enough to want to go there.

Margaret had taken the leaflets home with her, and her mother had

helped her to sound out the simple, singsong syllables which were

the city's name. Dorothy had explained patiently that Hong Kong

was an island at the southeastern tip of the Chinese mainland.

But it was the pictures, more than Dorothy's explanations, which had

caught and held Margaret's imagination: Hong Kong's waterfront by

night, shimmering with many-coloured lights; fishing boats at rest in

the dusky waters of Aberdeen Bay, like so many huge birds; double-

decker buses painted in strong, gay colours, announcing their

destinations in familiar English, as well as in inscrutable Chinese

characters; modern office blocks overlooking street markets piled

high with exotic wares; and the whole pulsating, hectic city teeming

with people, a tantalizing mixture of east and west.

Ever since, Margaret had been fascinated by that beautiful island of

so many worlds, nestling in the South China Sea; she wanted to go

there and see it for herself.

Ralph Nickleby knew that very well, had known it for years. 'Oh

dear,' he had said, scratching his head when Margaret asked him


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about it on her fourteenth birthday. Someday, perhaps. But Hong

Kong is a very long way away, and the fares being what they are, it

gets visited most often by folks on their way out to Australia, or the

far east. It's not the sort of holiday we could afford for the odd long

weekend, lass.'

Even then, the return fares between London and Hong Kong had

hovered extravagantly close to the five hundred pound mark, and

Margaret was old enough by then to know that for most people a

visit there was out of the question. Even so, she could dream.

In short, Ralph could hardly have done better than to come up with a

travel convention in Hong Kong, which Margaret could attend with

him, provided she finished her college course, provided she agreed

to start living her life again

Margaret was seated in her less-than-comfortable lecture chair the

very next morning, neatly dressed in a tartan skirt and woollen

jumper, her hair combed and a dash of lipstick brightening her

sorrow-paled face. She listened to her tutor's dry remarks about

profit and loss as though he was the most interesting speaker in the

world.

She was at college every day after that, too, until at last it was late

spring, and she had finished her course with flying colours, and her

stepfather was waiting outside the college, to treat her to a

celebration lunch.

That summer, Margaret divided her days between Phyllis Gunter and

Ralph Nickleby. She sat behind one desk or another, picking up whatBarwell's course hadn't even attempted to teach her: she began to


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learn the day to day, specific practicalities of the travel business at

first hand.

She got into the habit of smiling at people, even when they were hot

and tired and unforgivably rude; she sounded cheerful on the

telephone throughout what Ralph called the 'worst air traffic control

strike in the history of British tourism.'

She was patient while whole families dithered endlessly over the

relative merits of Bournemouth and Bognor Regis. And when Phyllis

decided to take a fortnight's holiday, Margaret pitched in and did her

share of invoice typing, too.

When each busy day was finally over, she was too tired to do more

than go back to the house in Notting Hill Gate, which seemed so

empty still without her mother, and throw together a simple meal for

Ralph and herself before she climbed tiredly up to her room for an

early night.

She hadn't forgotten her mother, or the way Dorothy had been taken

from them so suddenly. Her grief had dulled with time and work, but

it was there all the same. Ralph knew that, for he felt something very

similar. And he never stopped pushing Margaret in every way he

could think of, relentlessly in the direction of life.

Even at weekends, Ralph insisted she go out with the friends she'd

made at college, just as she had done when her mother was alive.

And although there were times when the strobe lights and loud music

of a disco made Margaret feel she was about eighty-seven years old,

she wentjust to please Ralph.


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Summer passed, and the promised trip to Hong Kong beckoned ever

more brightly in Margaret's mind, like a vivid beam of light at the

end of a tunnel. And then, very suddenly, it arrived: the crisp, clear

September day of their departure from London, and with it Ralph's

last-minute doubts about going off to the other side of the world,

leaving Phyllis Gunter in sole charge of Travel Unlimited.

'Now don't you worry about me, Ralph!' Phyllis boomed over her

shoulder as she drove them to Heathrow. 'If I'm going to miss

anybody, it'll be Margaret.' She glanced across at Margaret in the

seat beside her, gave her a quick, affectionate smile. 'She's worked

for two, ever since she joined us. Anyway, it's not the peak season,

so if I divide my days between Fulham and Oxford Street, which I

intend to do, I can't think the business will fall into total ruin in the

short space of three weeks. Furthermore,' she finished, grinning at

Ralph in the rear-view mirror, 'we've been through all this before, so

relax!'

Margaret sat, at Ralph's gallant insistence, in a window seat in the

enormous jet. It was a long flight, but Margaret slept through most of

it, and any tiredness she may have felt vanished as the plane

approached Kai Tak airport.

She stared down, wide-eyed, at the islands, far too many of them to

count, which were flung like an emerald necklace in the blue water

below. She gasped when the harbour came into view, when she

could see Hong Kong Island itself, with Victoria Peak, towering

above the tallest buildings in the heart of the city.


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She turned then to speak to Ralph, to thank him, but she ended up

grinning and shaking her head wordlessly, far too excited to say

anything at all.

'Don't mention it, love,' Ralph said happily. 'A bargain's a bargain,

after all,' he added gruffly, patting her hand, 'and I don't mind telling

you I'm proud of the way you kept your end of it.'

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'What I need is a few hours' kip. You don't mind, do you?' Ralph

stifled a yawn. He hadn't managed any real sleep during the sixteen-

hour flight from London, and their arrival early in the afternoon had

offered more than a taste of the non-stop carnival that is Hong Kong.

Kai Tak airport, on the tip of the Kowloon Peninsula, is separated

from Hong Kong Island by Victoria Harbour; Ralph and Margaret

made the short crossing on a ferry, catching their first close glimpse

of the city's skyline from its deck. Just as they docked, there was a

bit of unscheduled excitement in the busy harbour: Margaret

watched in horrified fascination as a fragile Chinese fishing sampan

risked collision with an oil tanker, missing it by inches. And though

the taxi driver who sped them from the docks to their hotel drove

along the broad main streets of the city, they had only to look out of

the window to see the endlessly intersecting maze of the alleyways

which are .thoroughly Chinese. It was all Margaret could do to keep


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from jumping out of the cab, every time it was halted by the traffic,

so she could begin to explore the city at once.

The conference was to be based at the Star of the Orient Hotel, one

of the most elegant along the beach at Repulse Bay; office space had

been provided there for the participants. Ralph had booked their

accommodation there as well. He and Margaret agreed to meet in the

hotel lobby after they'd been shown to their rooms. When Ralph

hailed her from a chair near the reception desk, Margaret walked

quickly towards him, smiling broadly, quite charmingly unaware of

how fresh and pretty she looked in her new blue cotton dress.

'Did you realize my room overlooks the bay?' she asked excitedly.

'Good grief, Ralph, this must be costing you a small fortune!'

He waved that aside. 'Don't worry about it, love. We're getting the

trade discount, after all, so I thought we may as well be comfortable

while we're about it.'

Comfortable, at least as that word applied to Margaret's room, and

the gleaming bathroom which adjoined it, was an understatement. It

was simply furnished, and decorated in tones of beige and off-white,

a colour-scheme favoured by hotel owners everywhere as being least

likely to offend any particular guest. But the coverlet on the bed, of

palest green, was made of pure silk, as were the lampshades on the

tables at either side of it. A wide-screen television had been built into

the wall opposite the bed, and its remote-control tuning device had

been placed on one of the bedside tables. With it were instructions,

in English, Chinese and French, informing Margaret how to use it

along with a current programme for each of the five channels

available (in colour) for her entertainment. Best of all, tall French


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windows opened out of the bedroom on to a wide balcony from

which Margaret could enjoy the entire white sweep of the beach

below, and the sparkling water of Repulse Bay beyond it.

'There's a telephone too, of course,' she finished, laughing. 'I've only

to dial out for anything I fancy, from high-speed dry-cleaning

services to an eight-course meal for six. I could have a glorious time

here without ever stirring out of bed!'

'Not much danger of that, though, is there?' Ralph asked mildly,

winking at her.

Margaret shook her head. 'In fact, while you're napping, I thought I'd

go out. I suppose I'll get well and truly lost, but'

Ralph chuckled. 'I wouldn't worry over it. Getting lost here is said to

be part of the fun. Just take your street map along, and if all else

fails, find yourself a taxi driver who understands enough English to

get you back to the Star of the Orient. Oh, and be sure to be back in

plenty of time for the reception banquet at seven. They've promised

us a real slap-up Chinese nosh, so don't forget.'

Margaret walked for miles that afternoon, and it never even occurred

to her to join any kind of organized sightseeing tour. It was enough,

once she found her way to the oldest part of Hong Kong, to venture

into the narrow, twisting side streets which she felt certain were

among the most exciting places the city had to offer.

These streets are tightly packed with flimsy two- and three-storeyed

wooden structures, jerry-built to serve as houses as well as shops in

which the counters are piled high with jade rings and bolts of silk,


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dolls and cameras and watches, and fruits and vegetables which

Margaret had never seen in her life before that afternoon. Much

more than mere commerce goes on there, too, of course. When so

many people live and work so closely together, whole lives are lived

as much as possible in the open air.

Margaret listened, entranced, to the constant, ceaseless chattering of

Chinese voices; background music to her, since she could understand

none of it. She watched, from what she hoped was a polite distance,

as gossiping and trading and scolding surged all around her, as

children laughed and played and quarrelled, as dice games were

conducted with furious intensity in the middle of the street.

When she realized she was hungry, she approached a stall where a

young woman was selling bowls full of spiced noodles, tempting

passers-by with a smiling, singsong sales pitch. Margaret was shy at

first about making the purchase, but when the girl behind the counter

spoke to her in careful, correct English, Margaret was both pleased

and relieved. And the Chinese girl, who looked far too young to be

the mother of the cheerful, gurgling baby who was strapped to her

back, grinned her approval as Margaret ate the fragrant snack with

chopsticks, in the proper Chinese manner.

At five o'clock or so, Margaret made her way back to a main avenue

very staid and British-looking after all she had seen and heard

and she was enormously pleased with herself when she was able to

identify and board a riotously-painted green and yellow double-

decker bus which delivered her, safe and sound, at the front entrance

to the hotel.


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As Margaret showered and dressed for dinner that evening, she

wasn't even remotely aware of feeling tired. The prospect of the

festive evening stretching ahead seemed to her a perfect way to end

what had been a very satisfying day.

She was glad, too, that she'd followed Ralph's advice about what to

pack for the trip. She had planned to bring the clothes she had

bought in the July sales for wear in the London autumn, but Ralph

had talked her out of that, persuading her to bring instead the

lightest, most summery clothes she owned, plus perhaps a cardigan

in case the nights turned cool.

At six-thirty on that clear, September evening, the temperature in

Hong Kong hovered somewhere in the seventies, so Margaret chose

the coolest of the outfits she had brought specially for evening wear

during her holiday. A low-necked orange linen which skimmed the

tips of her evening sandals, the dress was stunning in its simplicity.

She arranged her dark hair in a sleek, shining coil, more because the

style was deliciously cool than for the way it flattered her delicate

features. And when she had applied the lightest possible make-up,

and fastened the pair of silver filigree ear-rings which had belonged

to her mother, Margaret hurried downstairs to join Ralph for a pre-

dinner sherry.

'Now where would you be with your woollen frocks?' he teased, after

he told her how nice she looked. As they sipped their drinks,

Margaret told him of the excitement of her afternoon. With no little

pride, she made a point of telling him how she had come back to the

hotel at the end of it, using public transport.


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The Star of the Orient Hotel had been chosen as the site of the

tourism conference because its owners, the Pan Orient Company,

had organized the convention. The Star of the Orient was their

showpiece, being the newest and most luxurious hotel in their large

chain.

As the dinner which marked the beginning of three weeks of

business talks was, as Ralph had put it, 'a real slap-up Chinese nosh',

forty round tables had been set up in the hotel's largest dining-room

to accommodate the two hundred travel agents and hotel owners who

had come to Hong Kong to participate. Friendliness and happy talk

are an important part of Chinese eating tradition; this had been

explained in one of the convention pamphlets. Round tables made it

easier for the five or six people seated at each to get to know one

another, and to share and sample each course as it came. To make

the visitors feel even more welcome, a Pan Orient representative was

seated at each table.

The organization of that sort of dinner for so many people can be

quite a headache. Margaret remarked on this when she and Ralph sat

down to dinner, along with two travel agents from New York and

Linda Peterson, the smiling blonde girl who introduced herself as a

member of Pan Orient's public relations department.

'Oh yes, you're right!' Linda answered, her brown eyes crinkling with

laughter. 'But I must say it was good practice. We run conventions

for other people all the time, but somehow it's quite another matter

when you do it for your own company I blush to admit it, but I was

personally responsible for one of the worst of the near-disasters. Our

invitations were printed in five languages, and I came very close to


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sending the Japanese lot off to Italy. You should have seen me

belting along to the post office in time to get them back before it was

too late!'

That broke the ice nicely, and Margaret decided on the spot that if

every host or hostess at the dinner was half as good as Linda at

putting people at their ease, then the whole thing would turn out to

be a roaring success. The five of them laughed together at the

charming, unaffected way in which Linda admitted her very human

mistake, and Ralph chimed in with the loyal remark that only a lass

from Birmingham could be counted on to catch that sort of thing in

time.

'How did you know I was a Brummie?' Linda asked, astonished.

'Oh, it was easy,' Ralph answered. 'All you had to do was say a few

words. I was born there myself.'

After such a promising beginning to break it, the ice positively

melted a few minutes later when Ralph looked down at the pair of

bamboo chopsticks beside his plate in honest bewilderment.

'Ah, er, Linda,' he stammered, 'I wonder if we could ask a waiter to

bring me a fork before they start serving?' He coughed sheepishly

into his hand, glancing at the others in embarrassment.

But the New Yorkers smiled across at him in sympathy, and relief

too, as it turned out: neither of them had ever used chopsticks either.

Margaret gave in to a fit of giggles, and so, before she could stop

herself, did Linda. Linda recovered first, saying soothingly, 'If you

can use a pencil, you'll get the hang of chopsticks quickly enough.

Here, let me show you'


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She proceeded to do so, with Margaret's help. Or rather, Linda

instructed Ralph while Margaret volunteered to show the New

Yorkers exactly how the eating implements should be used. It was a

skill Margaret had mastered in early adolescence, at about the same

time she had first asked Ralph about the possibility of visiting her

dream city.

By the time dinner began to arrive, borne to their table by Chinese

waiters in spotless white coats, Ralph and the two Americans were

plying their chopsticks almost as skilfully as their teachers. But then,

as the first courses were see-before them, Ralph's doubtful glances at

the contents of the silver serving platters sent Margaret into another

fit of giggling.

She was extremely fond of Chinese food, the more authentic the

better. That had been part and parcel of her long love affair with

China. Even when she was still at secondary school, Margaret had

been known to squirrel away her pocket money so she could treat

herself and any willing, adventurous school friend to Saturday lunch

in Soho's Chinatown.

But Ralph's only exposure to the most ancient and varied cuisine in

the world had been the 'sweet and sour' take-away sort, and that is a

very tame imitation of the style of food served in just one of the

provinces of China: Canton, where sugar cane and oranges and

pineapples grow in abundance, where fish is plentiful, and rice is

very cheap.

The menu that evening owed nothing to Cantonese cooking,

delicious though that can be at its best. Instead, the banquet was a

masterful display of the very finest of northern Chinese cookery,


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from the province of Peking. It featured many courses which were

lovingly faithful duplications of dishes once enjoyed by the

Emperors of China in their long-vanished royal households.

Ralph had never even heard of paper-wrapped chicken, or Peking

Duck with pancakes, or stir-fried mushrooms lightly cooked with

beancurd. But by the time chiaotzu appeared on their table (and

Margaret and Linda between them had a fine time teaching the three

men how to pronounce it properly: 'jowtsa'), Ralph had become an

enthusiastic convert, ready to try anything.

Chiaotzu are delicious: wafer-thin dumplings with fillings of finely-

chopped prawns and spring onions and bamboo shoots, delicately

seasoned with soy, sesame and ginger. They are steamed first and

then fried, and at table they are dipped into an utterly irresistible

sauce. Ralph alone ate seven of them.

There was a party planned after dinner that evening, but it hadn't

been organized by Pan Orient as a convention activity.

'And I suppose it's only fair to tell you,' Linda added, grinning, 'that

the hosts are among Pan Orient's most successful rivals. Actually,

the rivalry's pretty friendly, so there'll be lots of Pan Orient people

there, including me. I'm sure you'd all be very welcome, if you'd like

to come. It's only a few minutes' walk along the beach.'

The American travel agents pleaded exhaustion, but Margaret smiled

delightedly. She was about to accept Linda's invitation when she

glanced over at Ralph; he looked so tired that she hesitated. But he

shook his head.

'Don't let me stop you, love! Go ahead with Linda and have a goodtime. See you in the morning!'


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The Chungking Towers, less than half a mile from the Star of the

Orient, was a much older hotel older, but nearly as elegant,

though in a more ornate and formal style.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of its penthouse ballroom overlooked

Deep Water Bay, and miles of very lovely beach and water That

view was one reason why the Chungking Towers had become

something of a Hong Kong landmark. Not that it was possible for

Margaret and Linda to get anywhere near the windows through the

crush of people who had gathered there that night for the party.

Shouting over the music of the rock group who were stationed on the

bandstand, Linda introduced Margaret to several of the guests. Just

as Linda turned away to hail yet another of her friends, someone

thrust a glass of wine into Margaret's hand. She glanced up to thank

whoever had given it to her, and a large, bejewelled woman chose

that moment to jostle her elbow. Margaret's glass tipped wildly, and

she was horrified when its red contents splashed on to the darker red

velvet sleeve of the dinner jacket being worn by a man who was

standing beside her.

'Oh, I'm so sorry!' she shouted over the music, only to blush almost

the colour of his stained jacket when the music stopped very

suddenly. 'Sorry' seemed to ring out in the room like a shriek, turning

several curious heads in their direction.

Margaret looked around desperately for Linda, but Linda had

vanished, at least for the moment. So she soldiered on with as much

dignity as she could muster, still far too flustered to register the fact

that the man was smiling down at her in genuine amusement.


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'I really am terribly sorry,' she said quietly. 'My name is Margaret

Hamilton, and I'll be very happy to have your jacket cleaned. My

hotel'

'I really can't think why you should be so worried about it, Margaret

Hamilton,' he said softly, 'though it's nice to know your name. Mine's

Peter Benhurst, and I assure you that if a wine stain is the worst thing

you ever do to me, I shall count myself a very lucky man.'

He held her eyes with his own as he said that, and Margaret was at

last aware that his eyes were quite startlingly blue in his tanned,

handsome face, and that his hair was as dark as her own. The thought

flickered into her mind that he was quite the most attractive man she

had ever seen. He was probably in his early thirties, she thought, and

his voice betrayed that he had been born and raised in England, and

that he was well-educated. Peter Benhurst was a man who exuded

total confidence, from the toes of his polished evening shoes to the

tips of his fingers.

But, as swiftly, Margaret decided that she wasn't at all sure she liked

him very much. He was a man to whom the cost of cleaning a jacket

meant less than nothing. That was fair enough, and it was obvious.

But he needn't have laughed at her for offering it.

'Well then,' Margaret said firmly, or as firmly as she could, for he

was still appraising her with a lingering glance so frank she felt a

flush rise again to her face, and hated herself for it. 'I, ah, won't.

Worry about it, I mean. Now, if you'll excuse me'

But before Margaret could move off, lose herself in the party in the

hope of bumping into Linda (and suddenly the company of the

friendly girl she'd known mere hours seemed like a haven of safety),


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a tall slender woman of quite amazing beauty appeared at Peter's

side, linked arms with him, and cooed into his ear. 'Oh, here you are,

darling! Oh, I thought I'd lost my pet in this rotten crush!'

That rather silly speech took the space of seconds, and then the

woman fixed Margaret with a glance which would have kept the

polar ice cap nicely frozen, and asked flatly (and with no trace at all

of her previous coyness): 'Who's this?'

'Oh, this is Margaret Hamilton,' Peter answered easily. 'We've

become friends now because she ruined my jacket. Margaret, this is

Susanna Baker-Leigh.'

Susanna Baker-Leigh was silver-blonde, and her straight, shining

hair hung to her shoulders. She had the colouring to match it, too; the

delicately pale skin, and smoky grey eyes.

She wore black silk that night, a floor-length gown which left one

lovely, tanned shoulder exposed: a dress of such clean, simple lines

that it could only have cost the earth.

The woman could hardly have doubted her own attractiveness, and

yet the brittle smile of greeting she bestowed on Margaret seemed to

sour the beauty which the high, fine bones of her face and her

flawless make-up should have guaranteed.

'Really?' Susanna sounded slightly bored. Her accent had no doubt

been acquired at some exclusive boarding school, the sort of school

that always seems to go with English country houses and real ponies

to ride in the holidays. 'Did you really ruin his jacket? How?'

'Oh, I'


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'She spilled, wine all down my sleeve,' Peter supplied happily,

winking at Margaret; winking, she was certain, to let her know he

was enjoying her squirming humiliation.

Susanna sighed. 'How tiresome,' she said languidly. 'But really,

darling, the others are waiting for us.' With that, she pulled lightly at

Peter's arm and bore him off like a tugboat, aiming a triumphant

smirk over her bare shoulder at Margaret as they went.

For a moment Margaret simply stood where she was, staring after the

pair of them, not at all sure how she felt about her encounter with

Peter Benhurst and his possessive girlfriend. Susanna was his

girlfriend, surely. Wasn't she?

Well yes, of course she was. She must be. And if she wasn't, going

by all the evidence she was very much determined to stake her claim

to him. Oh, but so what? They probably deserved each other,

Susanna with her icy little smiles and Peter with his gleeful, teasing

account of the way Margaret had 'ruined' his jacket. Oh well, in

fairness, it wasn't as though he'dbeen really unkind, but still

The half-formed thought that he'd actually been flirting with her did

occur to Margaret. It was the remark he'd made about 'if a wine stain

is the worst you ever do to me' when she'd apologized. And that had

been before Susanna Baker-Leigh came floating up to them

Oh, no. No way was Peter Benhurst going to be allowed to flit

around in Margaret's head for another moment. This was a party, she

reminded herself sternly. She had come to enjoy herself.

The band took its place again, and Margaret spotted Linda on the

dance floor, performing the energetic steps of one of Margaret'sfavourite golden-oldies. She caught Linda's eye, smiled and waved,


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and immediately felt better. She found herself another glass of wine,

and when a tall young man named Phil, or maybe it was Bill, asked

her to dance with him, Margaret accepted.

By the time the party was over, Margaret had nearly forgotten about

Peter Benhurst and his friend. Well, she did remember how attractive

Peter had seemed, smiling down at her. Once or twice, as she was

falling asleep that night, she wondered idly if she'd see him again

during her holiday. Not that she cared, one way or the other.

3

She saw him again two days later. Or rather, he saw her.

Margaret got off a bus outside the Kowloon ferry terminal, and just

as she turned to walk to the docks Peter tapped her lightly on the

shoulder. 'Hello there, Margaret Hamilton,' he said.

Startled, Margaret wheeled around to face him. 'Oh, hello, Peter

and Susanna,' she added quickly, for the girl was with him, clinging

to his arm.

'Fancy meeting you here,' he quipped, smiling down at her with those

disturbing eyes. 'Off to Kowloon, are you? We've just come from

there. It's'

'It's crowded, and hot, and I'm gasping for a cup of tea,' Susanna

interrupted impatiently. 'Come along, Peter.' To soften her

brusqueness a little, Susanna treated Margaret to a brief smile.


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That morning Susanna was wearing a pair of white cotton shorts with

a gaily-striped halter-neck top, an outfit which displayed her

marvellous tan and her figure to maximum advantage.

Margaret felt downright dowdy by comparison. Her glazed-cotton

sundress, with its flounced, flowered border at the hem, was at least

two years old. Teamed as it was with stout, sensible walking shoes,

with street maps and bus timetables poking higgledy-piggledy from

the top of her shoulder bag, Margaret thought she probably looked

like a cartoon lady-tourist.

'Yes, well' she stammered. 'I'd best be off now.'

'Why?' Peter asked. 'If you're only going across to Kowloon, there's a

ferry every five minutes or so. You could join us for'

'No, really I couldn't. I'm, er, eager to see as much as I possibly can

today,' Margaret answered quickly. One glance at Susanna's storm-

cloud pout had left her in little doubt about exactly how welcome

she'd be to join them for anything at all. She hurried off abruptly into

the harbour crowd, paid her fare, and concentrated on the traffic in

the bay anything at all to take her thoughts away from Peter

Benhurst.

But it wasn't twenty minutes later, in an open market on the

Kowloon side, when she hesitated in front of a stall where an elderly

Chinese woman was telling fortunes, using cards selected for her by

a brightly-plumed bird in a bamboo cage. Margaret swallowed hard

and stepped forward, and when the woman told her, in very halting

English, to expect 'large happiness with good man, very dark, and

many prosperous children,' Margaret blushed. The image of Peter

Benhurst rushed back into her mind, and she paid the woman twice


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the sum requested. Only then (rather strangely, too, it seemed to her

at the time) was she able to banish Peter firmly from her thoughts so

she was free to concentrate on the colourful reality in which she

found herself.

There was one thing Ralph Nickleby had said over and over again

about travelling, in the years he'd been talking 'shop' around the

dinner table: the sure way to ruin a dream holiday was to cram it so

full of famous fountains and quaint little villages, and 'must see,

must do', that the visitor ends up with a packet of blurred snapshots

of sights he never really saw properly, and sore feet into the bargain.

Remembering that, Margaret had kept her sightseeing plans as

flexible as possible, and it was just as well: the British Crown

Colony of Hong Kong is enormous. Not only does it include the twin

cities of Hong Kong and Kowloon, separated by the short ferry ride

across Victoria Harbour which is a tourist attraction in itself, but it

also includes the sprawling New Territories north of Kowloon

farming country, where towns are few and far between, where

country people in their flat straw hats walk behind the water buffalo

which plough the rice fields. In addition there are the more than two

hundred islands off the South China coast. Taken together, the New

Territories and the islands cover an area which is more than ten

times the size of the twin cities put together.

No one could really take all that in properly in three weeks. Margaret

was determined to see what little she could as thoroughly as

possible, and to savour each new experience as it came. That clear,

hot morning was the third of her holiday; she had decided to use the


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entire day to explore the countless, nameless little back streets of

Kowloon.

She smiled at fruit peelers who offered deft slices of bright, yellow

pineapple from their lacquered stalls. She paused, wide-eyed and

curious, outside snake shops though she declined to sample

snakes' venom mixed with Chinese wine when it was offered to her

against 'winter chill'. She stopped at several paper shops to buy gay,

pretty lanterns in the shapes of butterflies (for longevity), and

lobsters (for mirth), and strange household gods (for happiness), and

others for no special reason that she knew of, except that they were

lovely.

And everywhere Margaret walked that day, she was accompanied by

the increasingly familiar music of stall-holders' cries, and craftsmen's

hammering, and the click-click-click of dice games an

atmosphere she came to think of as the world's largest fun fair, and

typically Chinese, and which she never afterwards forgot.

By lunchtime, Margaret had wandered so far off the beaten track that

she was obliged to point to the dishes she wanted to order. The

grinning young Cantonese behind the food stall knew only the

English word 'tasty' to describe the steamed vegetables and rice he

offered, and Margaret had nothing more than the simple phrase do

jye with which to thank him for it. Even so, that simple exchange

boosted Margaret's confidence, and after lunch she wandered even

further away from the broad main streets she knew would lead her to

the harbour.


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By late afternoon, she hadn't a clue where she was. Worse than that,

she approached four taxi drivers before at last she came to one who

said 'Sure, lady, hop in!' when she asked him if he could speak

English. Shortly afterwards she was wishing she'd taken her chances

on foot. The drive through the tangle of tiny twisting streets was

conducted at speed. That in itself was hair-raising, but it was made

all the more so by the fact that the streets were packed at that hour

with so much traffic (both motorized and human) that they made

Oxford Street at Christmas seem like a deserted village.

'But finally,' she said, laughing as she told Ralph about it over

dinner, 'the driver was whistled to a screeching halt by a policeman,

though that didn't happen until we'd come into a main road'

'Quite right, too!' Ralph interrupted, with all the pious indignation of

a careful, British driver.

'Oh, but wait for it! This policeman was perched right at the top of a

red and gilt pagoda, smack in the middle of a major intersection! I

didn't understand what they said to each other, but at one point I was

certain they were headed for a punch-up. They were shaking their

fists and hollering, and all the while the rest of the traffic whizzed

past like billy-ho in all directions. Anyway, I got back to the ferry in

one piece, as you can see.'

Ralph smiled fondly. Big as life! And I take it you're enjoying

yourself.'

Margaret nodded happily. 'What about you, though? I'll bet you

haven't been free long enough to go swimming since we got here,

much less to see anything of the sights. And so far I haven't so much

as typed an envelope.'


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'Now, now,' Ralph said soothingly, 'remember what I told you before

we came? Your job out here is to have yourself a good time. Why, I

can already see the roses coming back into your cheeks. And

besides,' he added, stabbing the air with his fork for emphasis, 'most

of these talks are so confidential and top-secret and what-not that

your presence would only arouse suspicion, even though you are my

assistant. Top-level management-only sort of thing. Why, one Italian

travel agent was politely requested to send his under-manager out of

one session. So don't let it worry you, eh? Incidentally, I think you'llbe surprised when you realize how much you'll learn from this trip

that'll come in useful at the agency once we're home again.'

Ralph insisted he was tired that evening, and no doubt he was.

Nevertheless, Margaret insisted on dragging him out with her to the

jumbled riot of colour and music of a night market.

They didn't stay long, but at least Ralph entered very fully into the

spirit of the thing: he bargained happily, half in English and half in

gestures, for a delicately carved ivory rose which Margaret

pronounced the perfect souvenir for Phyllis Gunter.

When Margaret returned to her room that evening to hear the

telephone ringing inside, there was no good reason why her heart

started thumping wildly as she fumbled for her key, or why

disappointment mixed with her relief when Linda Peterson's voice

greeted her breathless 'Hello?'

Linda had been in touch with her before, on the morning after the

Chungking Towers party. She'd left a breezy note at the reception

desk for Margaret, saying how much she'd enjoyed their evening

together, and that she would ring later in the week.


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Margaret said hello again, deliberately injecting warmth into the

word so that Linda wouldn't feel slighted, as though Margaret had

hoped to hear from someone else.

After all, whom else did Margaret-know in Hong Kong? If she had

been half-wishing it might be Peter Benhurst well, that was out of

the question, she told herself impatiently. She had never quite got

round to telling him where she was staying, had she? And

furthermore, even if she had, there was no reason for him to ring.

None whatsoever.

Meanwhile Linda was saying she was free the following day, all

unaware of the turmoil in Margaret's head. Would Margaret like to

spend the day with her?

'Oh! Why, yes, of course!' Margaret said almost at once, shaking

herself back into the present. 'Except you'll probably laugh at some

of the touristy things I've been up to since we last met. Not to

mention the list I hope to work through before I leave.'

'No,' Linda said, laughing. 'Not at all. I adore sightseeing myself.

Say, I'll tell you what let's go out to Lantau Island tomorrow. We

can look at the golden statue of Buddha with the rest of the tourists,

and afterwards we can have a picnic in the hills. It's lovely there,

unspoiled. It'll make a nice change from all the bustle and bright

lights around here.'

It did. Once they'd admired the temples, gaily painted and exotic

with incense, and the great, golden Buddha, and the monks of Po-Lin

Monastery in their saffron robes, there was little else to do but walk


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in the wild, rocky hills, and to share their lunch on Sunset Peak while

they admired the superb view of Kowloon it offered them.

'You must love it, living here,' Margaret said almost wistfully, as

they sat there together.

Linda shrugged lightly. 'I've enjoyed it very much,' she answered

quietly, 'and in some ways, yes, I have grown to love it the

excitement, the constant contrast of east and west. But just now I'm

counting the days until I go home, back to England. It won't be long

now.'

Linda smiled softly, and when she spoke again her face was radiant

and her voice held unmistakable excitement. 'I'm engaged,' she

confided, liking the sound of it. 'His name's Richard Naylor, and

we've known each other nearly all our lives. Actually, I doubt if

either of us has ever really been out with anybody else' Linda

sighed, and shrugged again. 'My parents persuaded us to wait,

although we've known for nearly two years now that we want to

marry. They said we should put off any serious plans, at least long

enough for Richard to finish law school and get himself established

somewhere. When well, when I was offered this job in Hong

Kong with Pan Orient'

'Your parents persuaded you to take it?' Margaret prompted quietly,

sensing Linda's need to talk about it.

'Yes. Not that I regret it, not at all. In fact, I can quite see it now, how

right they were. If anything, this separation's brought Richard and

me even closer together.

'He's working now, in London. And by a handy coincidence, PanOrient have offered me a job in London too. I won't bore you with


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the technical details of that, but it works out really well for Richard

and me.'

'And your parents? Are they reconciled to the idea of you and

Richard getting back together?'

'Oh, heavens, yes! It wasn't as though they didn't like him, or

anything like that. They were just afraid we were rushing things a

bit. Now that they realize we're perfectly serious they're pleased

about it. We'll set a wedding date soon, probably for early May next

year, and with their blessings. Oh Margaret,' she finished

impulsively, her eyes shining. 'Say you'll be there!'

Margaret laughed, delighted with Linda's obvious happiness, very

pleased to be included in it. 'Of course I shall,' she promised gaily. I

wouldn't miss it for the world!'

After that, Linda turned the conversation round to Margaret. She

listened very quietly while Margaret told her of the shock of her

mother's sudden death, and the way her stepfather had pulled her out

of the numb depression which had followed it; she even explained

how her trip to Hong Kong had come about.

'And is there anyone special in your life?' Linda asked.

'Romantically, I mean' She clapped her hand across her mouth,embarrassed. 'Forgive my asking that! For a girl who plans to make a

serious career in public relations, I do put my foot into it

sometimes'

'No, no, don't worry,' Margaret reassured her, smiling. 'There isn't

anybody, anyway. There never really has been. Not anyone I cared

about the way you care for Richard' She allowed her sentence to


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trail off there, as the image of Peter Benhurst floated once more into

her mind.

She very nearly mentioned him to Linda, told her about the way

they'd met at the party, how he had looked at her, and the possessive

way Susanna Baker-Leigh had carted him off. But she changed her

mind before she began. What would be the point? Peter Benhurst

was a very unlikely candidate for a romance with Margaret, and no

one knew that better than she did. It was high time she refused to

allow him to wander in and out of her thoughts. Anyway, Linda had

probably never met the man, nor was she likely to be very impressed

with him if she had done.

'Oh, you know,' she finished vaguely, 'I've been out with the odd

bloke to a disco, and to the films and parties and so on. But I don't

think I've ever really been in love.'

'Never fear,' Linda warned her, mock-solemn. 'Your turn will come.'

Margaret had already told Ralph not to expect her to join him for

dinner that evening, and as she and Linda prepared a simple meal in

Linda's compact, comfortable flat, the two girls found they had a lot

in common, a lot to talk about. By the time Margaret left, shortlyafter nine, she and Linda had made firm plans to meet again,

convinced that they had begun a lasting friendship which would

grow nicely after Linda came back to live in London.

Linda offered her a lift home in her Mini, but when Margaret

realized that her hotel was less than a mile from Linda's flat, and that

she could walk most of the distance along the beach, she declined theoffer. She was pleasantly tired, but she wanted to walk for a while.


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When she reached the shore, she eased off her shoes, delighted with

the scene before her. The lights of the grand hotels along the Bay

made a glowing pathway for her in the soft sand.

She was within a few hundred yards of the Star of the Orient when

she was nearly jolted out of her skin.

'Isn't it a small world, Margaret Hamilton?' asked a deep, teasing,

masculine voice behind her.

She turned to face Peter Benhurst and Susanna Baker-Leigh, and her

first reaction was the dismayed realization that she had been caught

out again. She had worn jeans to rugged Lantau Island. Jeans, and

a halter top she'd picked up in the Portobello Road the previous

summer for fifteen pence.

Susanna Baker-Leigh was dressed in filmy white chiffon harem

trousers and a wisp of a blouse which made her fragile figure seem

almost insubstantial. She might have been floating a few inches

above the gleaming beach. Oh, she was barefoot, just like Margaret.

But Susanna's strappy evening sandals dangled gracefully from one

hand, and they shone silver in the moonlight.

'Hello there,' this vision said indifferently to Margaret.

'Oh, hello, both of you. Nice evening!'

Peter laughed softly at that, shaking his head as though something

puzzled him. 'A very nice evening, I should say,' he murmured.

'Well, good night!' Margaret said, a trifle too loudly, painfully aware

of the idiotic grin she wore as she hurried away from them.

It wasn't until she had reached the safety of the beach entrance to the

Star of the Orient that Margaret realized Peter had probably watched


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her straight-backed strides, that he'd doubtless seen where she was

going when she walked away from him. Him and his constant

companion! Still, there wasn't very much she could do about that.

She could hardly avoid the beach which stretched so invitingly in

front of her own hotel, not for the entire three weeks of her holiday,

surely! It was sheer bliss to swim there after an exhausting day of

sightseeing, or to stand quietly in the softness of night, gazing

dreamily at the twinkling lights of a passing pleasure boat. And why

on earth shouldn't she do these things? If she ran into the coupleagain, she could simply nod and smile and go her own way.

The following evening, when Peter Benhurst came up behind her on

the beach and took her arm, Margaret did no such thing. She simply

stared up into his face in astonishment.

'Where's Susanna?' she asked, before she could stop herself. In the

shock of seeing him there beside her, and feeling the touch of his

hand on her arm, the question came out on a hoarse croak.

He grinned. 'Shall we go and look for her together?' he teased.

'Well, I only meant'

'Umm. If I bought you a drink, would you promise not to spill it all

over me?'

Margaret frowned angrily, and straightened away from his grip to

look directly into his eyes. 'I think that joke is wearing rather thin,

don't you?' she asked coolly.

Quite suddenly, Peter's expression changed; he looked exactly like a

small boy who's been caught out putting frogs in people's beds. 'I'm


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sorry,' he said, gazing at his shoes. 'I think you're perfectly right,' he

added humbly. 'Let me put it politely, Margaret, Please may I buy

you a drink?'

Peter Benhurst was without a doubt a practised and accomplished

flirt, and his about-face had instant effect. Once Margaret had put

him firmly in his place, she felt sorry for the sharpish way she'd

spoken to him. Or, if she hadn't exactly melted totally, she had

certainly thawed a bit. 'Oh, it's all right! I didn't mean to sound so

harsh.'

'I knew you didn't!' he crowed victoriously, all traces of little-boy-

scolded gone from his tone. Margaret frowned again, and turned to

go.

'Oh, come on, Margaret Hamilton, this is silly!' he said quickly. He

laughed down at her and took her arm again. 'We're wasting valuable

drinking time!'

The bar they walked to was just off the beach, festive with strings of

multi-coloured fairy lights which framed the open terrace where they

sat.

Margaret was wearing a blue-green sarong dress that evening, not

real silk though it may as well have been for the way it skimmed andrevealed her slim curves. She had taken pains with her make-up too,

almost as if she'd had a premonition of Peter Benhurst's sudden

appearance on the beach, though she would have denied that, even to

herself, if. anyone had suggested it to her.

Over iced vermouth and lemon, Margaret relaxed very quickly in

Peter's company. He listened so intently as she told him her firstimpressions of Hong Kong that before she realized quite what was


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happening, she had decided that he really was a whole lot nicer than

she'd thought.

'How do you happen to be out here just now?' he asked.

'Well, officially I'm with the convention. But in fact, my dad brought

me our here as a way of rewarding me for finishing at college. My

mother died, you see, last Christmas'

'I am sorry,' he said quietly. 'Please, go on.'

'Well, that was very sudden, and afterwards I didn't see the point ofgoing on with anything. The promise of this trip was a simple bribe,

to get me going again. I've wanted to come to Hong Kong ever since

I can remember, though I must admit I've done nothing at all in the

way of work since I arrived. Too busy sightseeing.'

Peter grinned at that. 'That's the way to do it! The trouble with me is

that I've thought of nothing but the damned convention for months

on end. As Managing Director of Pan Orient'

'You're not!' she breathed, utterly amazed. If Margaret had given the

matter any thought at all, which she had not, she would have

assumed the MD of Pan Orient to be a white-haired, elderly tycoon.

'Oh yes I am.' Peter sighed wearily, running one slim hand through

his thick dark hair. 'Though I try very hard not to take it too

seriously, and I am learning to leave it behind me once in a while.

Like tonight, for example.'

He changed the subject then, and for the rest of the evening the two

of them talked about everything under the sun except Pan Orient and

the convention.


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It was very late by the time Peter walked Margaret back to the Star

of the Orient. As he took leave of her, he said, 'I'll see you soon,

Margaret. At least, I hope so.'

And she answered, 'Yes, I'd like that. Thanks for a wonderful time.'

It was long after midnight before Margaret slept that night. She spent

a couple of restless hours debating whether Peter Benhurst's parting

speech had been made out of mere politeness, or whether she really

would be seeing him again. Alone, just the two of them.

And if so, how soon.

4

'Will Miss Margaret Hamilton please come to the desk in the

reception area Miss Margaret Hamilton'

'I'm Margaret Hamilton,' she announced politely to the reception

clerk, moments after she'd scraped back her chair in the coffee shop

and come through into the lobby.

'Oh, good morning. There's a telephone call for you. We tried to put

it through to your room, and when there was no reply the gentleman

suggested we page you in the restaurant. You can take it over there.

Booth number three, please. Oh, and Miss Hamilton, there's a note

here for you as well.'

Margaret accepted the plain white envelope on which her name had

been scrawled in Ralph's familiar handwriting. She pocketed that,


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and then she walked to the row of carpeted glass boxes in which

telephones and comfortable armchairs had been installed for the

convenience of the hotel's guests.

A gentleman, the smiling clerk had said. It could, of course, be

Ralph, but that was unlikely. Margaret slowed her steps across the

broad lobby to a casual saunter which belied the sudden, intense

excitement she was feeling.

'Hello?'

'Hello, Margaret. I hope you slept well.'

'Peter?'

'Who else?' he answered, chuckling.

For a fleeting instant, Margaret felt irritation prickle at the back of

her throat at the arrogance of that; it helped to steady her voice.

'Good morning, Peter. I hope you slept well too,' she said briskly,

ignoring his sarcasm.

'Thank you. I was wondering could you join me for dinner this

evening? That is, if you haven't already made firm plans?'

Margaret hesitated. She might have made plans, mightn't she? People

did, all the time, even while they were on holiday. She decided togive Peter full marks for the courtesy of allowing for the possibility.

'Why yes, thank you. I'd like that very much,' she said.

Margaret had lingered over a solitary late breakfast, and she had

finished all but the last few sips of her second cup of tea before she'd

been called to the phone. When the brief conversation was finished,

she went directly back to her room.


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She waited until she got there, with the door firmly closed behind

her, before she hugged herself with glee. Then she performed a few

jigging dance steps to the tall wardrobe, flung open the doors, and

began the serious decision-making process over what to wear that

evening.

She'd been wearing the orange linen on the night they met. And the

sarong-type dress, which .had been bought to wear to a cousin's

wedding reception the previous June, was what she'd had on when he

took her for a drink.

It wasn't that she had an exceptionally large wardrobe from which to

choose, or that she never wore the same thing twice. Nor was she

above haunting street markets for really cheap tops, or anything else

she could find. But she did like nice clothes, and since she'd been

working in the agency, she'd been able to indulge her fashion-

consciousness even more fully than Ralph and her mother had

indulged it for her while she was still at school.

For the most part, though, she was fairly conservative in the way she

dressed, and a lot of her purchases were made with the office in

mind. What few outfits she owned for evening wear would take her,

in their season, to almost any festive occasion.

There was one outfit, however, which she had acquired for its sheer

razzle-dazzle. It was what Margaret thought of as 'fun' fashion, the

sort of thing she might just work up enough courage to wear to one

of the more sophisticated London discotheques (though she hadn't,

yet) but which no girl in her right mind could regard as an 'enduring

classic'.


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She decided it was just the thing to wear for an evening out with

Peter Benhurst.

The satin trousers were toffee-apple red, as were the 'glass' slippers

she had bought to go with them. The silk top, sprinkled with red

sequins, was hot-pink; on a hanger it looked shapeless, and much too

large for her.

But when the long top was gathered at the bottom into a loose,

careless knot on one hip, no girl with a figure like Margaret's needed

to fear the competition, if glamour was at issue. And it seemed,

judging by the way Susanna Baker-Leigh managed to out-sizzle

everyone in sight, that it was.

It was nearly an hour before Margaret got round to reading the note

Ralph had left for her at the desk. At first she stared numbly at the

message, and then she shook her head. She sat down in an armchair

by the French windows, and read it through again, brushing away a

tear that threatened to blot the paper in her lap. One thing was

certain. When Ralph set out to treat her to a dream holiday, he didn't

go by halves. The note read:

Dear Margaret,

I was going to tell you about this at breakfast this morning, but it's as

well to write it down. That way you can't argue me out of it, or even

try. You may know already that Hong Kong is famous for the fact

that people who come here can have clothes tailor-made to order,


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quickly and at knock-down prices. I decided months ago and

budgeted accordingly, by the way -that no visit would be complete

for a young lady unless she went home afterwards with some new

gear, or whatever it is you call clothes these days. I want you to have

at least one suit, a couple of daytime dresses, and something to wear

when you go out in the evenings. But exactly what you order is up to

you, love

The note went on to give her the address of Mr Li Hsu's shop in

central Hong Kong (which had, Ralph added, been very highly

recommended) and rough directions on how to get there. He added

that he would try to 'pop into the coffee shop for a cuppa' around

five, and he finished with a PS: 'Now do you know why I lied to you

about the baggage allowance?' Beside that, he had drawn a rough

sketch of a stout, middle-aged man, carrying two full armloads of

cases.

Margaret had suspected something of the kind before they left

London, when Ralph went into a flap over the weight of the second

of the two cases she had packed. She hadn't argued when he insisted

she leave it more than half empty; she had simply accepted his

statement that she'd soon fill it up with 'gimcracks and souvenirs'

once she got to Hong Kong. She knew about the world-famous

Chinese tailors of Hong Kong, but she hadn't mentioned them to

Ralph: if he was planning a surprise of handmade clothes for her, she

certainly didn't want to spoil his fun by guessing it in advance.

The rest of that day was so full of tape measurements and hem-

length discussions, and fabrics and colours and style choices, that


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Margaret had very little time in which to be jittery about seeing Peter

Benhurst again not twenty-four hours after he'd left her in the Star of

the Orient lobby the previous evening.

She didn't forget about it, of course, though she did very nearly

forget to mention her date to Ralph when they met for tea at five.

She was far too busy thanking him for his generous surprise.

'I'm glad you're pleased,' he said happily. 'It seemed to me that

visiting Hong Kong without buying a frock or two would be like

going to Brighton and coming back without a stick of rock, if you

see what I mean.'

'Sort of,' Margaret agreed doubtfully, stirring sugar into her tea,

'except I can't remember being quite so thrilled with boiled sweets as

I am with Mr Li Hsu's handiwork!'

Ralph chortled at that, smiling at a memory. 'Well, you were, lass.

Take my word for that.'

It wasn't until they'd nearly finished their tea, and Ralph had glanced

at his watch and asked, 'Are you joining me tonight for dinner?' that

she remembered.

'I I know it's the second evening in a row,' she began guiltily,

'but'

'But you've been invited out,' he finished for her matter-of-factly.

'Doesn't surprise me one bit. And it'll give me a chance for a swim

and a light snack and another very welcome early night. You have a

good time, you hear?'


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Even after she had showered and made up her face and brushed her

hair into a dark, burnished cloud around her shoulders, Margaret had

plenty of time left in which to dither about whether she really dared

to wear the outfit she'd chosen that morning. But the longer she

looked at her own reflection in the full-length mirror, the more she

realized just how glamorous and confident the daring combination of

red and pink and glitter made her feel, and how very flattering it was

against her wealth of long dark hair.

Linda rang just as Margaret was debating whether or not to wear

diamante ear-rings.

'I know it's short notice,' Linda said, 'but if you're free this evening, I

thought you might like to go out somewhere with me.'

'Any other time, Linda,' Margaret answered happily, smiling at the

phone. 'But I've got a date tonight.'

'Ah ha! Anyone I know?' Linda teased.

Margaret was about to say no, she didn't think so, but then she

remembered about Peter being MD of Pan Orient. Linda worked for

his company. She couldn't fail to know him, at least by sight.

'Actually, I'm sure you do,' Margaret answered. 'It's Peter Benhurst.'

There was a momentary pause on the other end, caused apparently

by Linda's sudden need to cough. 'Where did you meet him,

Margaret?' she asked, when she had recovered.

'At the party. You weren't there at the time, but I managed to spill a

glass of wine all down the sleeve of his dinner jacket. After that, I

bumped into him a couple of times, and the result is he's asked me

out to dinner.'


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'Oh, well, that's really nice!' Linda said, perhaps a shade too heartily.

Peter and I will be working together in London, you know, though I

don't suppose I mentioned that to you before. I didn't realize you'd

met him'

'You mean he's going back to London too?' Margaret asked,

trying hard to keep her voice as even and chatty as Linda's.

'Well, he'll have to, won't he? If we're going to work together?' Linda

said, laughing.

Margaret laughed back, grateful for the chance to cover her reaction.

'Hmm. Wish I'd thought of that!'

The importance of Linda's news dawned on Margaret so suddenly

that she felt her pulses racing. She felt sure Linda could hear the

thudding of her heart through the telephone receiver. Why, she and

Peter might go on seeing one another, perhaps might grow very fond

of one another, perhaps

'Oh, nonsense!' Margaret said, to stop herself. Unfortunately she said

it rather loudly, and Linda heard it too.

'Sorry?' Linda asked, startled.

'Oh! Nothing, Linda. I I didn't mean to say that to you. I've, urn,

I've just smeared my nail varnish on the table top, that's all. I am

sorry. Now, what were you saying? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you

properly.'

Linda had been saying that she'd got a letter from Richard that

morning, and he missed her as much as she missed him, and there

was a possibility that he might get a flat quite near Notting Hill Gate,

and wasn't that where Margaret lived?


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Margaret was silent as Linda said all of it over again, and lots of

other things besides, except when she made encouraging noises to

indicate she was glad to listen (which she was) and that she was

paying full attention to what Linda was telling her (which she was

not).

But Linda would have been the first person to understand and forgive

that, had she realized a fraction of the turmoil in Margaret

Hamilton's normally tranquil heart.

5

In the elegant, oak-panelled bar of the Cote d'Medici, several heads

turned as Margaret Hamilton was escorted to a table. The men

admired while the women appraised, and Peter Benhurst looked

pleased.

'I wanted to show you off,' he confided as they sipped their drinks. 'It

isn't every evening I get to be seen around town with a beautiful

woman.'

'You exaggerate,' Margaret answered lightly, 'but thank you, kind

sir.' Privately she was thinking that if anything, Peter was more than

likely spoiled for choice when it came to women, beautiful or

otherwise. One must not forget the cool, confident Miss Baker-

Leigh, who up till the previous evening had been very much in

evidence by his side.


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The maitre d'hotel came through from the dining room just as they

finished their sherries, offering a large, tasselled menu to Peter with

a deft flourish and the suggestion of a bow. But Peter merely smiled

at the man and shook his head. Moments later, he whisked Margaret

out through the foyer and back into the street.

'Where are we going now?' she asked, laughing up at him.

'Ah! That would be telling,' he answered.

Peter hailed a passing taxi, but Margaret was no wiser about their

destination after he spoke to the driver. Once they were under way,

Peter looked at Margaret, about to say something. When he saw her

expression of wide-eyed astonishment, he laughed.

'What's the matter?'

'Well you spoke to the driver in what sounded like Chinese,

and'

'And why not? Apart from the years I spent at school' in England,

and occasional visits to my grandmother, this is my home town. I

began learning Cantonese almost before I could speak English

properly. It was something my parents were determined I should

learn, particularly my father. He had nothing but contempt for the

high-handedness of the worst of British colonial attitudes.'

Margaret listened thoughtfully to that, her respect for him growing. It

was one of her own regrets, that in all the years she'd wanted to visit

Hong Kong, she'd barely managed to master a handful of polite

phrases in the Cantonese dialect spoken there by most of the Chinese

population. She said so to Peter.


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'Don't be so hard on yourself,' he answered. 'No Chinese dialect is

easy to learn, and it certainly wouldn't be worth the effort for the

occasional brief visit. I think you've done well to get as far as polite

phrases.'

She remembered then what Linda had said about Peter's plans to

work in London. She very nearly .mentioned it, but she checked

herself just in time. After all, she barely knew him! He was

attractive, and he'd asked her out, but it wasn't the first time that had

ever happened to her, and it undoubtedly wouldn't be the last. It

wouldn't do at all to seem super-keen just because he'd shown an

interest.

The restaurant where they'd begun the evening was famed for its

superb French food, the superior quality of its wine cellar, and the

very high standard of service it offered to its well-heeled patrons.

The destination of their short taxi ride away from it was a sharp

contrast to all that. The driver pulled up beside a decaying wooden

quay which jutted into the typhoon shelter at Causeway Bay. The

sun was just setting, and one after another, lanterns winked and

glowed from the swaying little boats which were moored there,

chock-a-block in the water.

'I think,' Peter said as he helped Margaret out of the cab, 'you'll be a

lot better off if you take your shoes off. If you don't mind, that is.'

'I don't mind in the least. But why?'

'You'll soon see,' he answered cryptically, and then he turned his full

attention to a rapid-fire negotiation with the Chinese on the quay

who appeared to be in charge of several empty boats.


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Dancing slippers are a distinct handicap when one is boarding a

sampan. Margaret saw that, even before they scrambled into the one

Peter hired for the evening. When he'd sorted out the bamboo oar he

acquired with it, he sat down beside her on the crude, wooden bench

in the aft of the tiny boat.

'I very nearly suggested eating at the Medici,' he said, grinning at

her. 'But then it occurred to me that we could have a lot more fun if

we came out here instead. Apart from anything else, the food is

marvellous.'

'I've always wanted a go in a sampan,' Margaret answered happily.

'The only thing is'

'You don't mind, do you?' he asked anxiously. 'I mean, you do like

Chinese food, don't you? You did mention something last night,

about stopping at street stalls'

'Oh yes, I love it!' Margaret answered quickly. 'It's only well,

where is the food?'

Peter laughed aloud at that, clapping one hand to his forehead in a

theatrical gesture of astonishment. 'You don't mean to tell me I've hit

upon an adventure you haven't heard about!' He looked extremely

pleased with himself.

'I have heard about floating restaurants'

'This is even more fun,' he announced with authority, gesturing round

the inlet with a wide sweep of one arm. 'Quite a few of the boats you

see around

Documents

Vintage - Sunrise in Hong Kong - Denise Emery 1982