‘Yes, of course.’

‘And I’ll get her to agree to the baby. If you bought her a piano it would help.’

For a moment their eyes met, and both knew a bond had been formed. Alfred nodded to her, not quite certain what to say.

‘Alfred,’ Lydia said, ‘for someone who has never been a father, you are very good at it.’

He blushed again and rubbed his chin self-consciously, but he was smiling as he left.

‘Mama.’

No answer.

Valentina was holding a newspaper up in front of her face, but Lydia doubted that she was reading. It was her way of finding privacy. At intervals her foot in its velvet slipper would tap impatiently. Supper had been a stiff and stilted affair, but in the drawing room afterward Alfred had asked, ‘Lydia, do you play chess?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like a game?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good show.’

He’d brought out a superb set of ancient ivory figures and proceeded to outmanoeuvre her with ease, but she learned from it. About the game. About him. And about herself. His patience was impressive but his mental discipline was too rigid, whereas she was impetuous. It was both her strength and her weakness. She needed to slow down.

‘Thank you,’ she said when her king lay flat on the board.

‘You’ve the making of a good player, my dear, if only you would…’

‘Think more before I move. I know.’

‘Exactly.’ He smiled at her, his brown eyes warm behind his gold spectacles. ‘Exactly.’ He left the room to put away the box of chess pieces.

‘Mama.’

Slowly Valentina lowered the newspaper and looked coolly at her daughter.

‘Did Liev Popkov know your family in Russia?’

Valentina’s expression did not change, but Lydia could tell she was not pleased.

‘He worked for my father. A long time ago,’ Valentina said shortly and raised the paper again. Subject closed.

48

Chang An Lo opened his eyes and saw her face. For a second he was sure it was another of the dreams of her that the gods granted him in his sleep, but he could feel her hand firm on his wrist and the tickle of her hair brushing the skin of his cheek as she bent over him.

‘You are real,’ he whispered.

She smiled, that wide wonderful smile that stole his heart from his chest, and instantly he knew this was no dream. She bent closer and kissed his mouth, her lips soft and inviting.

‘That’s to prove I’m real,’ she murmured.

He held her close for a moment, felt her cool cheek against his hot face, breathed in the fresh outdoor smell of her hair and her skin, heard her blood pounding in his ears. So alive. So full of flames. To lose her would be like drowning in mud.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better.’

‘You look feverish.’

‘Inside I am better.’ He reached out and touched the fires in her hair. ‘The sight of you drives away the fever.’

She laughed and laid her head lightly on his chest. She kept it there. His fingers stroked the silky, unruly hair that any Chinese girl would have oiled and fixed flat with clasps or bound into tight knots. He loved the freedom of her hair.

‘Lydia,’ he said softly.

She lifted her head. ‘We don’t have long,’ she murmured and glanced over her shoulder at the door.

It was open and the tall elegant figure of the schoolmaster in his black academic gown was leaning against it, but he was standing with his back to them, one of his foul-smelling cigarettes in his hand, a student’s exercise book in the other. He made a point of reading it intently to indicate his ears were closed. Nonetheless they spoke in low voices.

‘Your parents?’

‘They have forbidden me to see you more than twice while you are here. But I didn’t mention what might happen when you leave.’ Her amber eyes were full of light. ‘I have a suggestion.’ Suddenly she was shy. But excited.

A little of her bright light lifted the edge of the darkness inside him. He knew there could be no suggestions. He touched her eyebrow and her ear.

‘What is it that puts a strong heartbeat into your words?’

She leaned closer, eyes fixed on his. ‘We could leave together.’

‘You are taunting me.’ But hope leaped unbidden into his throat and breathed life into his limbs.

‘No, no, I mean it.’ She spoke in a whisper. ‘I’ve worked it all out. You said you must leave Junchow. I will leave with you. I have some money still and maybe I can get hold of more. It would be enough to hire a boat to row us across the river in the dark and then we could…’

‘No.’

‘Yes, we’d be safe if we travelled by night and slept by day. It would take time, I know, but we could go far away from here to a remote village somewhere and I would wear a Chinese tunic and wide hat like at the funeral, so no one would notice and I’d learn Mandarin and…’

‘No.’

‘Listen to me, my sweet love, it is our only answer. I’ve thought it through. You can’t stay here, so there’s no other way.’

‘Lydia. Don’t, Lydia.’

‘I’m not foolish. It wouldn’t be forever. I know that when you’re better and strong again, you’ll want to return to one of the Communist camps and continue to fight against Chiang Kai-shek. Of course I know that. But,’ he watched a soft pink flutter to her cheek like the shimmer of a flamingo’s wing, ‘I will come too. I know women train and fight in Mao Tse-tung’s army, so there’s no reason why I can’t become a Communist freedom fighter. Is there?’

After school there was a lot to do. First, the dress. Lydia hurried right across town to Madame Camellia’s salon.

‘Thank you, Madame Camellia, it looks like new again.’

The dressmaker bowed, a graceful dip of her groomed head. ‘You are welcome. Try not to let it get wet again.’

‘Please put the cost on my stepfather’s account.’

‘Certainly, Miss Parker.’

Miss Parker? Miss Parker? Lydia laughed and shook her head as she shot off toward the Masons’ house on Walnut Road. Polly hadn’t turned up for school today, so Lydia wanted to make sure her friend wasn’t sick. The awkwardness between them last time over Chang An Lo still rankled and made it even more important to check that she wasn’t just hiding at home because she couldn’t bear to face Lydia. That would be awful. It was a long way to Walnut Road but at least it was a crisp bright afternoon. The sky was a rich clear blue that made the world feel bigger and though the wind was cold, the sun gave Junchow a glow that turned Lydia’s usual disgust with the town to an amiable affection. Maybe it was the thought of leaving it.

As a Communist supporter. Lydia Ivanova, freedom fighter. She tried it on her tongue out loud and liked it. She even let her mind hold for just a brief second the sound of Lydia Chang, or Chang Lydia, as they would say in China. She let it reverberate around her thought waves, but that was a step too far into the unknown. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Chang An Lo had said no. Of course he did. She knew he would. He was worried about her safety. But she’d seen the expression on his face. His mouth held tight in case it let out words that would betray him. The huge pupils dilated in astonishment. She saw something deep within him burst, and when she held his body tight in her arms she could feel the rapid beating of his heart.

He said no. But he meant yes.

She took a shortcut through one of the poorer districts of the International Settlement, down a snowy pathway behind St Saviour’s Church and across a small park. It was more a patch of scrubland than a park, with a few creaky swings for children and too many overgrown bushes. It was as she was following the footpath that she saw the car. Parked under a low bank of trees that ran along the far side, away from the grimy terrace of nearby houses. Lydia recognised it immediately. A big flashy Buick. It was Polly’s father’s car. A cream and black sedan with wide running boards, which in the late afternoon sun glinted above the dirty grey snow in the gutters.