‘I dunno,’ Locket said. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Locket!’ her mother cried. ‘You said you wanted to learn. That’s why we bought you the new Steinway.’
‘Locket’s a pretty name,’ Claire said. ‘How did you come about it?’
‘Dunno,’ said Locket again. She reached for a glass of iced tea and drank. A small trickle wended its way down her chin. Her mother took a napkin off the silver tray and dabbed it dry.
‘Will Mr Chen be arriving soon?’ Claire asked.
‘Oh, Victor!’ Mrs Chen laughed. ‘He’s far too busy for these household matters. He’s always working.’
‘I see,’ Claire said. She was uncertain as to what came next.
‘Would you play us something?’ Mrs Chen asked. ‘We just got the piano and it would be lovely to hear it played professionally.’
‘Of course,’ Claire said, because she didn’t know what else to say. She felt as if she were being made to perform like a common entertainer – there had been something in the woman’s tone – but she couldn’t think of a gracious way to refuse.
She played a simple étude, which Mrs Chen seemed to enjoy and Locket squirmed through.
‘I think this will be fine,’ Mrs Chen said. ‘Are you available on Thursdays?’
Claire hesitated. She didn’t know whether she was going to take the job.
‘It would have to be Thursdays because Locket has lessons the other days,’ Mrs Chen said.
‘Fine,’ said Claire. ‘I accept.’
Locket’s mother was of a Hong Kong type. Claire saw women like her lunching at Chez Henri, laughing and gossiping with each other. They were called taitais and you could spot them at the smart clothing boutiques, trying on the latest fashions or climbing into their chauffeur-driven cars. Sometimes Mrs Chen would come home and put a slim, perfumed hand on Locket’s shoulder and comment liltingly on the music. And then, Claire couldn’t help it, she really couldn’t, she would think to herself, You people drown your daughters! Her mother had told her about how the Chinese were just a little above animals and that they would drown their daughters because they preferred sons. Once, Mrs Chen had mentioned a function at the Jockey Club that she and her husband were going to. She had been dressed up in diamonds, a flowing black dress and red, red lipstick. She had not looked like an animal.
Bruce Comstock, the head of the water office, had taken Martin and Claire to the club once, with his wife, and they had drunk pink gin while watching the horse races, the stands filled with shouting gamblers.
The week before the figurine fell into Claire’s handbag, she had been leaving the lesson when Victor and Melody Chen came in. It had rung five on the ornate mahogany grandfather clock that had mother-of-pearl Chinese characters inlaid all down the front of it and she had been putting her things away when they walked into the room. They were a tiny couple and they looked like porcelain dolls, with their shiny skin and coal eyes. ‘Out the door already?’ Mr Chen said drily. He was dressed nattily in a navy-blue pinstriped suit with a burgundy handkerchief peeping out of his breast pocket just so. ‘It’s five on the dot!’ He spoke English with the faintest hint of a Chinese accent.
Claire flushed. ‘I was here early. Ten minutes before four, I believe,’ she said. She took pride in her punctuality.
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ Mrs Chen said. ‘Victor is just teasing you. Stop it!’ She swatted her husband with her little hand.
‘The English are so serious all the time,’ he said.
‘Well,’ Claire said uncertainly. ‘Locket and I spent a productive hour together.’
Locket slipped off the piano bench and under her father’s arm. ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said shyly. She looked younger than her ten years.
He patted her shoulder. ‘How’s my little Rachmaninoff?’ he said. Locket giggled delightedly.
Mrs Chen was clattering around in her high heels. ‘Mrs Pendleton,’ she asked, ‘would you like to join us for a drink?’ She had on a suit that looked like it came out of the fashion magazines. It was almost certainly a Paris original. The jacket was made of a golden silk and buttoned smartly up the front and there was a shimmery yellow skirt underneath that flowed and draped like gossamer.
‘Oh, no,’ she answered. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I should go home and start supper.’
‘I insist,’ Mr Chen said. ‘I must hear about my little genius.’ His voice didn’t allow for any disagreement. ‘Run along now, Locket. The adults are having a conversation.’
There was a large velvet divan in the sitting room, and several chairs, upholstered in red silk, along with two matching black lacquered tables. Claire sat down in an armchair that was far more slippery than it looked. She sank too deeply into it, then had to move forward in an ungainly manner until she was perched precariously on the edge. She steadied herself with her arms.
‘How are you finding Hong Kong?’ Mr Chen said. His wife had gone into the kitchen to ask the amah to bring them drinks.
‘Quite well,’ she said. ‘It’s certainly different from England, but it’s an adventure.’ She smiled at him. He was a well-groomed man, in his well-pressed suit and red and black silk tie. Above him, there was an oil of a Chinese man dressed in robes and a black skull cap. ‘What an interesting painting,’ she remarked.
He looked up. ‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘That’s Melody’s grandfather, who had a large dye factory in Shanghai. He was quite famous.’
‘Dyes?’ she said. ‘How fascinating.’
‘Yes, and her father started the First Bank of Shanghai, and did very well indeed.’ He smiled. ‘Melody comes from a family of entrepreneurs. Her family was all educated in the West, England and America.’
Mrs Chen came back into the room. She had taken off her jacket to reveal a pearly blouse underneath. ‘Claire,’ she said. ‘What will you have?’
‘Just soda water for me, please.’
‘And I’ll have a sherry,’ Mr Chen said.
‘I know!’ Mrs Chen said. She left again.
‘And your husband,’ he said. ‘He’s at a bank?’
‘He’s at the Department of Water Services,’ she said. ‘Working on the new reservoir.’ She paused. ‘He’s heading it up.’
‘Oh, very good,’ Mr Chen said carelessly. ‘Water’s certainly important. And the English do a fair job of making sure it’s in the taps when we need it.’ He sat back and crossed one leg over the other. ‘I miss England,’ he said suddenly.
‘Oh, did you spend time there?’ Claire asked politely.
‘I was at Oxford – Balliol,’ he said, flapping his tie at her. Claire felt as if he had been waiting to tell her this fact. ‘And Melody went to Wellesley, so we’re a product of two different systems. I defend England, and Melody just loves the United States.’
‘Indeed,’ Claire murmured.
Mrs Chen came back into the room and sat down next to her husband. The amah appeared next and offered Claire a napkin. It had blue cornflowers on it.
‘These are lovely,’ she said, inspecting the embroidered linen.
‘They’re from Ireland,’ Mrs Chen said. ‘I just got them!’
‘I just bought some lovely Chinese tablecloths at the China Emporium,’ Claire said. ‘Beautiful lace cut work.’
‘You can’t compare them with the Irish