The Orchid House (36 page)

‘Of course. You will be there?’

‘Of course,’ mimicked Lidia. ‘I see you soon, Harry,’ she nodded and went back to her paperwork.

As he took breakfast on the veranda, Harry smiled in secret delight at this unexpected contact with Lidia. If she was to be there in the bar tomorrow night, he would play. Play for her.

He realised he felt better physically this morning – as well as he had felt in years. Besides that, an energy vaguely remembered from before the horror of Changi surged through him. Harry thought it might be expectation for the future, a future he had not dared dream he would have.

The beauty of his tropical surroundings seemed to be more vivid today. Everything he saw and touched had a shine, a lustre to it. He was obviously on the mend. Which meant he must start thinking about returning home.

Harry lit a cigarette and sipped his coffee. When he’d left Wharton Park over four years ago, he had at least felt comfortable knowing he had righted the wrongs he had committed against Olivia. He believed she fully understood what had happened to him with Archie and that, in the few weeks he and Olivia had together afterwards, they had managed to put that in the past.

The fact he had left her with their child in her belly was further comfort and physical proof theirs was a normal marriage. That the child had not made it into the world was a sadness for him but, he acknowledged, far more of a sadness for his wife.

Harry had suffered a surfeit of uncomfortable, humid nights during which to ponder his feelings for Olivia. Some of the other fellows would weep with the pain of missing their wives, talking of them endlessly to anyone who would listen, and keep battered, fading photographs next to their hearts. They would discuss their deep feelings of love, and how much they had enjoyed and now missed the physical side of their relationship. Harry would listen patiently, feeling guilty that he seemed to feel none of these poetically expressed emotions for his own wife.

He was awfully fond of Olivia. He always had been. He respected her intelligence, her strength and her beauty, and the way she had organised Wharton Park when Adrienne had needed her to. She was the perfect mistress of the estate and a suitable replacement for his mother.

But …

Did he love her?

Harry took another sip of his coffee, still piping hot in the blistering heat, and lit another cigarette. He took a little comfort from the fact that the fellows he had listened to pouring out their hearts, had been able to choose for themselves whom they married. The truth was, he had not. There was no doubt that, without his mother suggesting marriage and pointing out its advantages, Harry would have left for war a single man. The thought of marrying Olivia, or any woman for that matter, would simply not have crossed his mind.

Yet he knew his situation was far from unusual. Arranged marriages had taken place across the globe for centuries. As always, his own feelings were secondary to his heritage. For some, that was simply the way it was.

Harry stubbed out his cigarette. Perhaps he was asking too much. Perhaps he did love her … how was he to know what love really was between a man and a woman? He had been a late developer emotionally and sexually unsure of himself. Olivia was the first woman he had ever known. And, once they had got the hang of it, things in that department had gone quite well, he thought.

And the good news was that any fear he had held about latent tendencies towards his own sex had been proved unfounded in the past three-and-a-half years. He had seen other men in the camp take comfort in each other. Everyone had turned a blind eye to this; whatever got you through hell and kept you alive was acceptable. But not once had he felt the need to turn to another man’s arms, even during his darkest moments.

Well, Harry thought, there was no fighting it any longer. He had to return home and face the music. Over lunch with Sebastian, he confirmed he felt fit enough to contemplate the journey back to England.

‘Jolly good, dear boy. I know there’s a ship leaving at the start of next week. Let me see what strings I can pull, and try and get you on board. Sooner the better now, I should think, eh, what?’

Unable to join in Sebastian’s enthusiasm for stepping back on to the green, green grass of England, Harry drowned his sorrows and drank far more than he normally would. After lunch, as he headed rather unsteadily back to his room, he resolved he should enjoy the short time he had left in Bangkok. To that end, and with alcohol fuelling his courage, he took a deep breath and walked across to the reception desk. Lidia smiled up at him.

‘Yes please, how can I help you?’

‘Well …’ Harry cleared his throat, ‘I was thinking, Lidia, that I should be seeing a little of the city before I leave for England. As you are now in charge of guest relations, I was wondering whether accompanying me on a river tour might be included in your remit?’

‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ Lidia looked confused, ‘what is the word “remit”?’

‘What I am asking, Lidia, is whether you would be my guide for the day?’ Harry explained, his heart pounding.

Lidia looked doubtful. ‘I would have to ask Madame.’

‘Madame is right behind you. What would you like to ask her?’ said a heavily accented voice, as Giselle appeared from the office.

Harry repeated his request to her. ‘I’d appreciate awfully someone with local knowledge and, of course, good English,’ he added, feeling rather a heel, but determined to get his way.

Giselle thought about it for a while, then said: ‘Well, Captain Crawford, I think we might be able to reach a mutually convenient agreement,
n’est-ce pas
? Lidia and Monsieur Ainsley have both told me you play the piano very well. You might have heard that tomorrow night is the opening of my bar here at the hotel? I am in need of a pianist. If you will play for me, I will allow Lidia to take you out on the river and show you Bangkok.’

Harry put out his hand, delighted. ‘Deal,’ he said.

‘
C’est parfait
, Captain Crawford,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I have a saxophonist and a drummer. They will be in the bar at six tomorrow evening. Perhaps you can make yourself available at that time for a rehearsal with them. I will leave the arrangements for you to make for your tour with the young lady.’

‘Of course
. Merci
, Madame,’ he replied.

When she had disappeared into her office, Harry leant contentedly over the desk, stared into Lidia’s beautiful amber eyes and said, ‘Right, that is settled. Now, where do you suggest you take me?’

35

The opening of the newly named Bamboo Bar was well attended by the ex-pat community who, after years of suffering under Japanese rule, were glad to have something to celebrate. They arrived in their droves, knocking back the local Maekong whisky and making
sanuk
, the Thai word for ‘fun’.

With less than an hour’s rehearsal, Harry was glad of his skills as a pianist and the practice he had had playing jazz to the Nips in Changi. He was teamed with a Dutch drummer – an ex-POW like himself – and a Russian saxophonist, who’d tipped up in Bangkok for reasons unknown. Between them, they managed to make a list of tunes all three of them knew.

The atmosphere was vibrant, smoky and sweaty. Having never played with other musicians, Harry enjoyed the camaraderie enormously. The enthusiastic applause as his fingers flew across the keys in a virtuoso solo, gave Harry a thrill of joy he had seldom felt. He glanced at Lidia, looking wonderful in a silk sarong and gliding about the room with a tray of drinks.

When all three musicians declared there could be no more encores, as they were dripping with sweat and exhausted, Harry walked out of the bar and across the terrace to the lawn, which led directly down to the river below. Due to the blackout, the last part of the evening had been conducted by candlelight, and the only light on the river was the full moon above him.

Harry lit a cigarette and sighed heavily. Tonight, just for those few hours, he’d felt he belonged. Never mind that he was a stray amongst strays, a disparate ragbag of people collected together from the four corners of the earth, through unknown tragedy. He had not been a captain in the army, or a hereditary peer of the British realm with a vast estate to inherit. He had been nothing more than a pianist, and his talent had entertained and bought pleasure to others.

He had loved it because he had simply been himself.

The following day, as arranged, Lidia met him in the lobby of the hotel.

‘Madame’ had acquired a wooden boat for them, complete with a boatman who would take them wherever Lidia suggested. As Harry stepped in, his legs felt more jelly-like than they had in the past few days, thanks to the late night and four whiskies.

‘Captain Crawford, I think we go up-river and pass Grand Temple first,’ said Lidia, sitting on the wooden bench opposite him. ‘Then we go on to floating market, okay?’

It seemed odd to hear the American expression coming from her Oriental lips.

‘Okay,’ he agreed, finding the word strange on his own lips too. ‘And for goodness’ sake, call me Harry.’

‘Okay, Harry,’ she smiled.

They set off from the hotel pier and joined the traffic. The Chaopraya River acted as a thoroughfare for the entire city and Harry was amazed there weren’t more collisions, as drivers expertly steered away from on-coming boats with inches to spare. Huge black barges, sometimes four or five in a row, held together with bits of rope, and pulled by tiny craft at the front, would appear on the horizon like menacing whales. After a couple of near misses, Harry found his hands were shaking.

Lidia read his tension. ‘Do not worry, Harry. Our driver, Sing-tu, he been steering this boat for thirty years. And he never have accident, okay?’

She leant forward and patted his hand.

The gentle gesture, he was sure, meant nothing to Lidia, but for a man starved of affection for years, it was a moment to treasure.

‘Harry, look.’

He followed her delicate outstretched hand and saw a building he could truly say warranted the word ‘palace’. With its Thai-style inverted ‘V’ roofs, clad in gold and covered with what resembled huge emeralds and rubies glinting in the sunlight, it was like a picture from one of the storybooks his mother had read to him as a child.

‘This is home of our King and Queen. We have new King now, because old one got shot.’

Harry laughed out loud at Lidia’s bluntness. He was sure her way of speaking to the point was much more to do with a lack of English vocabulary than a reflection of her personality, and it endeared her to him even more.

‘You want to go in and see Emerald Buddha in
wat
? He is very beautiful and very famous. He is looked after by many monk.’

‘Why not?’ agreed Harry. ‘What, may I ask, is a
wat
?’ he chuckled, as the driver steered the boat and hooked a rope over a wooden post by the pier.

‘You would say a temple,’ Lidia clarified, stepping out expertly and hauling Harry after her.

The gardens surrounding the Palace and the Temple of the Emerald Buddha were spectacularly beautiful, full of vibrant colours, the smell of jasmine pervading everything.

Harry stopped in front of an exquisite flowering plant with delicate blooms of soft pink and white. ‘Orchids,’ he stated. ‘They grew in the foliage around Changi and I’ve seen them everywhere since I arrived in Bangkok. They are rare in England.’

‘They are like weeds here,’ said Lidia.

‘Golly! I wish we had weeds at home like this,’ Harry said, thinking he must take some back to his mother.

He followed Lidia up the steps to the temple and removed his shoes as she did. Inside it was dark and airy, the monks in their saffron robes kneeling in prayer in front of the exquisite and surprisingly small Emerald Buddha. Lidia knelt too, with her hands in the prayer position, head bowed. Harry did the same.

After a few moments, he lifted his head and stayed there for a while, enjoying the peace and tranquillity of the temple. During his time in Changi, for want of anything better to do, he had attended a couple of lectures on religion. One of them had been on Buddhism, and he remembered thinking that its ethos came closer than others to his own feelings and thoughts on the world.

Eventually they left the temple and went back into the bright sunshine.

‘You want to go to floating market now?’ Lidia asked, as they stepped back on to the boat. ‘It is long boat journey, but I think you will enjoy.’

‘Whatever you suggest,’ said Harry.

‘Okay, I suggest this.’ Lidia spoke to the driver in fast Thai and they took off at top speed along the river. Harry lay back in the stern and watched as Bangkok floated past him. The day was very hot, despite the cool river breeze, and he wished he had bought a hat to protect his head.

After a while, the driver turned off into a narrow
klong
and navigated his way along the crowded waterway. As they reached the floating market, they came to a halt, for they were surrounded by wooden boats filled with merchandise and people shouting prices at their customers, who shouted back from their own boats.

The scene was delightful; colourful silks, ground spices tumbling out of hessian sacks, the smell of chicken roasting on spits, mingling with the scent of freshly cut flowers all added to the exotic atmosphere of the place.

‘You want to eat, Harry?’ Lidia asked.

‘Yes,’ Harry managed, although he was feeling very peculiar. Perhaps it was the sun, but he was dizzy and rather nauseous. Lidia stood up and shouted to a boatman selling chicken on sticks and they struck a deal. Harry closed his eyes, sweat breaking out on his forehead as the noise in his ears became overwhelming. The clamouring, high-pitched voices, the strong smells and the heat … good God, the heat! He needed some water urgently …

‘Harry, Harry, wake up.’

He opened his eyes and saw Lidia looking down at him; she was holding a cool cloth to his forehead. They were in a darkened room and he was lying on a narrow pallet on the floor. ‘Where am I?’ he asked. ‘What … happened?’

‘You faint in boat and you fall back and hit your head on wood. Are you okay?’ Lidia’s huge eyes were full of concern.