Chapter Fourteen
Tommy singled Mitchell out as he stepped down from the minibus dressed as a pirate captain. From what Zane had told him, the sight should have been amusing, bordering on hilarious. With time on his hands during the week and apparently settling nicely into Hong Kong life, Zane had picked up their costumes and sent Tommy photos of each component part. Wearing long, black boots, grey-and-black-striped trousers belted in gold, a white silk poet shirt open and loosely laced at the neck, a three-cornered hat and a long black coat with gold trimmings, Mitchell should have looked ridiculous.
What he should not have looked was ridiculously hot.
Even his thunderous expression added an air of brooding sexual magnetism. Visions of unlacing the shirt while unclasping the belt and pulling down those breeches had Tommy forgetting to breathe for a moment. He quickly shook the thought away.
“You say one word, Tommy Chow,” warned Mitchell as he drew near. “Just one word, and I get back on that bus.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
Finally, Mitchell cracked a smile just as Zane stepped off the bus, dressed equally impressively as a version of Sinbad the Sailor, complete with silver hoop earrings and a red and black bandana tied tightly around his head. His darker skin added a swarthiness and an air of authenticity to the costume.
Tommy had opted for a crisp French sailor costume of sleeveless blue-and-white-striped top—to show off his arms— with matching blue neck scarf, white sailor’s cap and tight white shorts.
“Nice outfit,” said Mitchell, raising an eyebrow. “Economical. Popeye?”
“Hilarious. Wait until you see Alec.”
“Alec’s here?”
“I invited him. He was supposed to head back to Singapore Friday, but he agreed to stay on because we’re having a family dinner. And Daley couldn’t be here.”
“Does Sammi know about Daley?”
“I have no idea. And it’s killing me.”
“Let them work things out, Tommy. By the way, someone’s waving at you.”
Tommy turned to where Mitchell pointed.
“Shelly.”
Tommy had been on more junk trips than he cared to remember. Varnished teak structures were a regular sight—usually at weekends—bobbing about in the harbour, taking partygoers to various destinations, including the outlying islands. Somebody, probably one of the show’s producers, had secured a more modern boat. Shelly smiled a little too mischievously as they stepped aboard. Before he had a chance to ask, she began showing them around, starting in the galley below deck, a small room with a fridge and eskies—cooler boxes—full of cold drinks, an adjoining washroom and cooking facilities where the crew would be knocking up a range of food.
Most importantly, she told them, both the main and the upper levels had plenty of cover from the sun, the main deck with fixed bench seating and tables, the upper with foam-filled mats. After the tour, Zane was called away by three of his theatre friends seated in the main deck. Shelly finally led them to the upper deck, where they found Alec standing at the prow, taking a phone call, facing out to sea like a superhero figurehead.
Tommy gaped at his broad, muscular back, down the deep ridge of his spine and to his slim waist. He’d let his blond hair flow out that day, sun-bleached and reaching his shoulders.
“Isn’t he a sight for sore eyes,” said Shelly. “Blond Aquaman. Swims in the hotel pool every morning so he already had those orange budgie-smugglers with him. And I found some accessories buried in the costume and props box at school, dark green gauntlets from a Robin Hood production and that thick black belt. His legs are covered in green body paint and he asked me to brush in lines to represent fish scales. What do you think?”
“Hope you didn’t use a permanent marker,” said Mitchell.
Tommy snorted but then looked quizzically at Mitchell, who had been staring at Alec, unsmiling. Had that been a joke, or was he annoyed? Just then Alec turned and produced an award-winning smile before pointing at his phone to let him know he was busy and giving them a thumbs-up.
“I should have,” sighed Shelly. “Once we reach Sai Kung, he’ll be straight in the sea and all my beautiful handiwork will be washed away. Loving your outfit, by the way. Now, while Alec finishes his call, I have a surprise for Mitchell. This way.”
Shelly led them back down to the main deck, to the back of the boat, the stern, which appeared empty apart from a couple of older people seated on the farthest bench, one in a wheelchair. Tommy wondered what Shelly wanted to show them until, next to him, Mitchell’s voice called out in surprise.
“Harold? William?”
William turned around first and waved them over. Tommy did not appreciate being summoned. Mitchell didn’t hesitate and headed straight across, leaving Tommy with Shelly.
“Why are they here?” he asked, unable to keep the annoyance from this tone. “I thought this was for the theatre group and friends, for them to get to know one another.”
“Harold stumped up for the boat, the food and the drink. They’ve even provided a small motorboat and one of those inflatable banana thingies. How could I not invite the two of them? If I’m going to be honest, I didn’t think they’d come.”
“In which case,” said Tommy, after an exaggerated sigh, “I suppose I have no choice but to say thank you. Get the pleasantries out of the way.”
Tommy had never warmed to Harold. He’d meant what he’d said about finding Harold and his people judgemental and elitist. And he had never met anyone quite as pessimistic as William. At least his own group of gay friends—however superficial a person might think them—knew how to have fun out there in the world, running around and joining in, rather than sitting and judging or criticising from the sidelines like Harold and his cronies.
“Tommy Chow,” said Harold. As he approached, Tommy realised Harold was seated in his electric wheelchair. He used a lever to turn the chair and assess Tommy. “How are you? I must say, of all the nautical costumes I’ve seen so far, yours gets my vote. Crisp, clean and muscular with a tantalising hint of Querelle .”
Tommy smiled, even though he had no idea what Harold meant. “Thank you, Harold. And I’m doing fine. More to the point, how are you?”
Harold sighed with distaste. “Let’s not talk about me. Mitchell tells me you helped get his nephew involved in this new play with people his own age. That was very kind of you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. He’s helping us out. We need as many hands as possible backstage. And he’s already a hit with the rest of the gang.”
“I noticed that, too,” said Mitchell. “He went straight off with them as soon as we arrived. I’ve no idea why his mother thinks he’s such a loner.”
“Maybe he just found his people,” said Tommy. “I noticed him hanging around the same group at rehearsals this week.”
“Do you think he might be having a little holiday romance?” asked Harold. “How delicious.”
“Oh, heavens,” said Mitchell. “Thanks for putting that thought in my head. As if I don't already have enough to worry about.”
“Bad week, dear?” asked Harold.
“Let’s just enjoy the day,” said Mitchell cryptically.
And the day could not have turned out better. A gentle breeze rolled in from the South China Sea, tempering the heat and humidity. They set sail into the choppy waters of Victoria Harbour and made their way out to sea, following the headland towards Sai Kung Country Park. Only a few of the youngsters attempted to stagger from deck to deck as they left the harbour, the junk tossed around like a toy boat in the wake of larger vessels. At their destination, three similar sized sailboats moored a few hundred feet from the sandy beach. Tommy had visited the location once after a typhoon when the water had been a murky grey peppered with washed-up flotsam. Today, with barely a wave disturbing the surface, the sea sparkled blue, clean and inviting.
Harold had spared no expense with the experience. Once the crew anchored the junk, the kitchen staff served various drinks and barbecued foods, including meats, seafood and vegetarian options. Large trays of garlic bread and assorted salads accompanied the main food. They had even conjured huge aluminium trays of lasagne and stir-fried rice.
After eating and chatting with Shelly, Tommy wandered the decks to find Alec holding court with a group of youngsters that included Zane. Tommy stopped to listen momentarily as Alec captivated his audience with stories about his travel business and his various touch-and-go experiences. When Alec spotted Tommy, he seemed relieved. After a few words, he stood and excused himself from the group. Many seated took this as an opportunity to get up, and the group began to disperse. Alone with Alec, Tommy’s brain went mush before shutting down completely. Alec brought the remainder of his plate of food with him and led them to an empty built-in bench backing onto a window of the galley kitchen. Nobody else was around.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Alec, sitting first and leaving just enough space for Tommy to sit close to him. Alec oozed health and confidence and coconut suntan oil. “Those kids are great, but they ask a shit ton of questions. Usually all at the same time. Thanks for saving me. By the way, I’ve been asked to remind you about the family dinner tonight.”
“Sammi sent me the details,” said Tommy, fighting to get his nervousness under control, the soft Australian accent and mere proximity of Alec making his knee bounce.
“Who’s going to be at this intimate dinner?” asked Alec.
“Around forty-five friends and relatives. They wanted to host a kind of rehearsal dinner.”
“Not so intimate, then?”
Tommy sighed. All week he had wanted to phone his sister and tell her what Alec had told him. But eventually he’d agreed that Daley ought to be the one to explain himself. That decision was his alone.
“How long have you known Mitchell?” asked Alec.
“Not long,” said Tommy, grateful for the change of topic.
“You picked a right good bloke there.”
“No. I mean, yes,” said Tommy, chuckling nervously. “He is a good guy. But, you know, we’re just friends. Nothing more.”
“Friends? You two aren’t intimate? Daley seems to think he’s your boyfriend.”
“I might have slightly misled people. He’s a gay friend who’s a boy. Mitchell’s not really my type. I mean, you saw him at the café. Look at that hair and the way he dresses. One of our friends jokes that he stands out like bad shoes.”
Tommy had been babbling, trying to make light of the observation, but Alec didn’t smile. Tommy began to regret having said anything and backtracked.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, lowering his voice at a sudden clatter from the galley. “Mitchell’s a really great guy, and a good friend. He’s just not—you know—”
“Your type. I get it. Funny, I got the impression…”
Alec’s handsome profile peered out to sea as his words trailed off. Eventually, he brought his gaze back to Tommy, his expression serious, his eyes alight. For one heart-stopping moment, Tommy wondered if he was about to snag his man.
“Look—and you can say no if you want—but a colleague of mine who’s moving to Hong Kong in August is going to be at the wedding. Gerry’s a decent bloke, nice-looking enough, but hasn’t had much luck finding a fella. Well, not one that isn’t an asshole. And I reckon Mitchell would be right up his street. Could you maybe give me a hand hooking them up?”
Tommy gawked at the decking between his flip-flops, trying to catch up. What had just happened? Alec wanted to pair Mitchell off with someone? But that was good, wasn’t it? They needed to be apart if Tommy was going to have any chance with Alec. Except he had begun to wonder if Alec was even interested. And, for some strange reason, he wasn’t sure how he felt about Mitchell being fixed up with a stranger.
“I’m not sure Mitchell’s ready,” he said before melting into Alec’s beautiful blue gaze. How could anyone ever refuse him? “Let me think about it.”
“Good man,” said Alec before patting Tommy on the shoulder and handing him his empty plate. “Mind dumping this for me? I need to dive in and take a leak in that beautiful ocean.”
Tommy tried not to overthink the dismissal. After disposing of their paper plates, he strolled to the rear of the main deck, where he was surprised to find Zane and a small cluster of his new friends with Harold and William.
Mitchell handed out drinks and glanced up for a moment, but then quickly looked away, barely acknowledging Tommy's friendly smile. His usually warm demeanour appeared rigid and cold, as if something had angered him. Harold sat at the centre of the group, his voice commanding everyone’s attention. Perhaps one of his preachings had struck a nerve with Mitchell, causing this change of attitude.
“… and in 1997, the British returned the territory to China,” said Harold. “I’m sure you must have seen television coverage of Chris Patten and Prince Charles in the pouring rain, waving from the deck of the HMY Britannia. From then on, Hong Kong became a special administrative region, a governance referred to as one country, two systems.”
“What does that mean?” asked Zane.
“Harold. Please . Enough with the history lesson, I beg you,” said Mitchell.
Harold chuckled.
“I’ll make it brief. China, as in one country which includes Hong Kong. Two systems, as in China with its huge one-party socialist system ruled by the Chinese Communist Party, allowing Hong Kong to continue operating with reasonable autonomy under its established capitalist system. Until 2047, at least. Simple.”
“Simple? If only that were true,” said William, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“And everybody knew this was going to happen?” asked Zane.
“Of course.”
“I don’t understand, then. Why the protests? That’s what your friends were arguing about in the restaurant, wasn’t it? I mean, sure, protest if soldiers are threatening to march through the city, but not if it’s something they’ve known about for years. I remember seeing pictures in the media of people running through streets fogged with tear gas. Mum wanted Mitchell to get on the first flight out.”
“I like your nephew, Mitchell. We think alike,” said William, his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “The problem, Zane, is that like any other major city in the world, ours too has its faction of idealistic troublemakers.”
“That’s not the whole story,” said Harold, gently clasping William’s wrist. “The answer to your question is one of political ideology, I believe, and down to a divide between those who desire a self-governing Hong Kong with a democratically elected government, and those who are content to have Hong Kong fully integrated into China as another mainland city.”
“Which is what the Chinese and British governments agreed to and what the people of Hong Kong knew was going to happen,” said William.
“Back in the eighties. Without consulting the people. And China’s agreement to allow Hong Kong reasonable autonomy didn’t last long, did it? Introducing a national security law that essentially restricts freedom of speech. In history, it’s all too often that sense of futility that gives rise to protest,” said Harold before releasing a heavy sigh. “But I do think there’s something more fundamental. I believe Hongkongers consider themselves different from their mainland compatriots, see themselves as more independent and cosmopolitan. And I don’t mean that to be insulting to their hard-working brothers and sisters. But they’ve experienced over a hundred years of trading freely and successfully on the international stage, building Hong Kong into a financial powerhouse and a world-class city. And I fear the generations who will inherit this metropolis believe that’s likely to change for the worse. That means all of you sitting here. Let’s hear what you think?”
Nobody volunteered to speak. Tommy wasn’t surprised. He had seen the same thing repeatedly. Youngsters who were worried about voicing their opinions, fearing they might be ridiculed or, worse still, reported to the authorities.
“How about you, Zane?” asked Harold. “It’s often difficult to get your head around something happening across the other side of the planet.”
“I understand people falling out over politics. I couldn’t vote, but I wasn’t asleep when the Brexit referendum happened.”
“But at least people got to vote,” said Harold.
“Yes, and look at the mess that created,” said William.
“My parents and their friends fell out big-time,” said Zane. “Some still don’t talk. But I guess what you’re saying about Hong Kong is something only someone who lives here can truly understand.”
Tommy watched as Harold, somewhat affectedly, clasped his hands in his lap on the red-and-black-tartan blanket and studied the horizon.
“You, of all people, might enjoy this, Tommy,” he said, staring into the distance. “A retired teacher friend of mine back in England, who openly admits to oversimplifying things to get her point across, gave her class an analogy to try to help them understand why many Hong Kong people might be feeling the way they do. Imagine that, while imperial China was signing away the lease to Hong Kong back in 1842, a legal inclusion in the agreement—let’s call it a legal cock-up or a loophole overlooked by the British—offered a reciprocal leasing to China of the Isle of Wight off the south coast of England.”
Zane joined in the laughter. “Have you been there? The Chinese are welcome to it. Talk about snoresville. Except for the music festival, of course.”
“You clearly haven’t been there recently,” said an Asian lad in Zane’s group. “I visited with my parents last year. The place is way cool. Even without the attractions of Carisbrooke Castle and Blackgang Chine, there are some amazing restaurants and beaches.”
“And before being colonised,” continued Harold, “Hong Kong was little more than a fishing village. As I said, you need to be imaginative and consider what kind of a trading post the Isle of Wight might have become for the Chinese, and how the world might have changed, had they taken up the leasing agreement and put their stamp on the island.”
This time, everyone fell silent.
“Let’s pretend that what happened in Hong Kong in terms of administration, growth and expansion also happened on the Isle of Wight, an island overseen by a China-appointed administrator. Children taught both English and Chinese in schools. Streets filled with Chinese merchant houses, hawker stalls with regional Chinese shops and restaurants. The island also known as San Kong, or New Harbour in Cantonese, named after the town of Newport. Shang Lin adopted as a loanword for Shanklin, and the same principle for other island towns. Shrewd and affluent businessmen from Canton and Shanghai seeing the opportunity for profit and pumping money into the island, building impressive structures and seaports to facilitate trading routes between Asian and European nations. Road signs erected in Traditional Chinese as well as English. Colourful Buddhist and Taoist temples springing up in towns and along sandy beachfronts. Streets hung at various times of the year with vibrant scarlet-and-glittering-golden lanterns. Let’s also assume there would have been significant land reclamation on the sea-facing south side of the island and even a new international airport constructed. All the things we’ve seen developed in Hong Kong over the years happening on your doorstep back home. Culturally, I wonder if the people of the Isle of Wight might have ended up becoming something quite new and—to borrow a modern word—a hybrid Briton proud of both their Western and their Eastern heritages. Now fast-forward to current times, when new generations who have known no different, who have accepted life on the Isle of Wight as their norm, are hearing rumours about the UK government’s plans to integrate them back into the English mainland and erase elements of their history. How do you think they might be feeling?”
“Pissed off,” said Zane.
“Wait a moment,” interjected William. “Apart from being total fantasy, Harold does tend to sugarcoat. Let’s look at the other side of the coin. First of all, in all of history, China has never shown any appetite for colonising overseas territories, so the likelihood they would have acted upon this overlooked option would have been less than remote. Secondly, imagine the embarrassment to multiple British governments across the years, having this independent colony on their doorstep, ruled over by a nation often perceived as hostile. Which, admittedly might have done the British some good. Maybe they would have finally begun to understand how Spain and Argentina feel about Gibraltar and the Falklands. And how might the British government react if, as the lease draws to a close, these islanders begin protesting and demanding self-rule as an independent one-party communist state? Do you want me to go on?”
“As you can see,” said Harold, “William loves to play devil’s advocate.”
“Somebody has to, dear.”
“Maybe the answer lies in the uncertainty of change,” said Mitchell. “Not knowing what the future holds.”
Something in Mitchell’s sullen tone struck a sad chord. Once again, Tommy peered quizzically across at him but Mitchell would not meet his gaze.
“Hear, hear,” said Harold, clapping his hands together. “Now that we’ve put the world to rights, let’s lighten the mood. Can somebody get me a top-up of that wonderful bright pink cocktail that I believe they call Seabreeze?”
With Harold no longer the focal point, individual conversations started up. Tommy noticed Zane’s small group moving off past him. But not before Mitchell caught up.
“Okay, Zane,” said Mitchell, holding him back. “Who’s that local girl who has not left your side since you got on the boat?”
Zane’s expression softened, blood rushing to his cheeks. Tommy said nothing, even though he had seen them seeking each other out at rehearsals.
“Her name’s Emily. Mitchell, she is totally peng.”
“Peng?” asked Mitchell, visibly surprised.
“Beautiful.”
As soon as Harold and William snorted, Tommy understood why.
“Do me a favour,” said Mitchell, grinning. “Don’t use that expression in front of her. In Cantonese, the word peng means cheap.”
“It does not!” said Zane, his expression one of mortification.
“Actually, your uncle’s right,” said Harold. “Although in context, you wouldn’t normally use the word in connection with a person.”
Tommy stuck around with Mitchell, Harold and William. Interestingly, he found Harold’s company and conversation enjoyable even though he chose not to join. They had picked a nice spot shaded from the fierce sun, and Tommy nodded off for a few moments until he was woken by shrieks of laughter and cold droplets of water on his forearm. When he turned, Alec appeared before them like a bronze statue. Just as Shelly had said, the body paint had washed off his skin, and he stood in just his Speedo, a towel draped around his shoulders.
“What’s all the excitement coming from the front of the boat?” asked Mitchell.
“They’re playing silly-buggers,” said Alec. “The way kids do. Singling out one of the group, pouncing on them and throwing them into the sea.”
Mitchell looked up, and Tommy understood instantly.
“Is Zane with them?”
“I think he was the next victim.”
Before Mitchell could say anything, Tommy was on his feet and running to the front of the junk. Only distantly did he hear Mitchell’s panicked words to Alec.
“Zane can’t swim!”
Tommy rushed forward and grabbed an armful of brightly coloured swimming noodles lying on a bench. Pushing through the group of youngsters standing at the prow, he jumped into the sea. Children’s safety had been drilled into him at school for physical activities, and apart from being a first aider, he had been trained over the years to think quickly in emergencies.
From the amount of thrashing about, Zane had hit the water only seconds ago and remained on the surface. Emily swam nearby but appeared frightened, clearly not a strong enough swimmer to help. Those on deck had only begun to realise what had happened, and a few loud splashes followed Tommy into the water. Fortunately, other recreational flotation devices lay scattered around in the water. Tommy thrust a giant rubber ring at Zane and shouted for him to grab hold, grasping firmly as Zane clamped his arms onto the device. Although shock and fear filled his eyes, he stopped struggling and his panic began to subside.
“Are you okay?” called Tommy. He noticed Emily had swum over and trod water next to Zane while placing a hand on his shoulder. The poor kid looked more embarrassed than anything.
“I’m—I’m cool.”
“It’s okay, everyone,” Tommy shouted to the watchers as he swam the ring and Zane towards the junk steps. In Hong Kong they had a saying about saving face, and Tommy decided to tell a white lie to explain away what had happened. “Zane’s fine. He suffers from leg cramps. Best he stays out of the water for the rest of the trip.”
“Thanks, man,” muttered Zane.
When Tommy looked up, he saw Mitchell craning over the railings. His face had gone deathly pale, and, in truth, he looked more terrified than Zane.