She began to play a delicate piece, playful and bright, her fingers moving easily over the keyboard. When she finished she turned around and smiled. “That’s one I have learnt recently. Can you guess what it is?”
Mother turned to Johnny. “Do you know what that is?”
He frowned and looked down into his cup of tea.
I said, “Well, I for one do not recognise it.”
Lemon pouted like a girl ten years younger and said, “Oh, Uncle T.K., you know what it is, don’t you?”
Father laughed. “It’s part of the allegro from a piano sonata. I can’t remember which one, but I do know you’ve only played a small part of it, you naughty girl.”
She giggled. “Sorry.”
“As you play so beautifully, we shall forgive you.”
“What next?” she asked.
Father said, “Some Chopin?”
“T.K.,” Mother said, laughing, “are you sure that’s appropriate?”
“Mazurka or waltz?” asked Lemon.
“Johnny?” Father said. “What is your preference?”
Johnny shrugged, head bowed.
“It appears Johnny has no opinion on the subject of music,” said Father.
“Nocturne,” I said. “Johnny would like to hear a nocturne.”
“Oh,” said Lemon, frowning, “I haven’t practised any nocturnes.”
“Can’t you remember anything?” I said.
She began to play something slowly. Her fingers were hesitant, but she produced a pleasant tune nonetheless, one I recognised from Father’s gramophone. Then she stopped. “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t remember the rest.”
“Father,” I said, “why don’t you play? I’m sure you can play this one.”
“T.K.?” his friends chorused. “We didn’t know you played the piano. What a thing! And we thought only the women played musical instruments!”
Father stiffened. “I don’t. My playing days are long over. I never play nowadays.”
When the guests had left and the house was silent again, I remember, I felt a sense of strength. Johnny and I remained in the sitting room, alone, holding hands as we sat in the fading afternoon light. It was as if we had overcome some huge obstacle, crossed an invisible boundary. Now, replaying that day in my head, I can see that it was not strength I felt but something closer to blindness. I had overcome nothing; the obstacles were insurmountable. The boundaries, I have realised, are still there.
THE NEW BISHOP came to dinner tonight. He has recently arrived from Hong Kong, where he was Dean. The detestable Frederick Honey is taking him on a “driving tour” of the Valley. This presumably means showing off to the bishop the extent of the British tin-mining empire, which seems to have grown rapidly since Honey took over as head of the Darby concern. Honey has also acquired a new motorcar, an enormous black creature whose roar can be heard a mile away.
“Climate, churchmanship, lack of spiritual discipline,” the bishop said, counting out his doubts about his new posting by holding up his stubby fingers one by one. He had drunk a considerable amount and his face had become redder and more rotund as the evening progressed. “Responsibility and loneliness. Lack of friends — though I am hoping this will change.”
“Of course it will,” said Honey, without looking up from his plate.
“And obviously,” the bishop continued, “there is the whole question of the children’s education.”
I saw Father stiffen. “I agree, a child’s education is of utmost importance,” Father said.
“A waste,” Mother whispered under her breath. I am certain no one heard it but me.
Father continued, “But I am sure you will find the schools in Singapore more than adequate.”
“But,” the bishop said, as if no one else had spoken, “there is the significance, yes, the significance, of being a bishop. Who knows, I might be offered something more congenial in the future.” He raised his glass and winked.
“So, thinking of leaving before you have even arrived,” Johnny said. Father glared at him, but he continued eating without once looking up, taking great care to hold his knife and fork as I have taught him to.
“I believe,” said Father, smiling kindly, “that you will find Singapore very congenial indeed. I have heard it said that Singapore today is very nearly as entertaining as Hong Kong — though I cannot speak from personal experience.”
There was gentle laughter around the table, Mother’s shrill notes rising above the rest.
Honey leaned sideways and nudged Johnny gently. “Perhaps we should go to Singapore sometime, without the wives, you know — have a bit of fun?” Everything Honey does seems stiff and calculated, as if he has read a book on How to Make Jokes or How to Appear Friendly.
I said, “Frederick, my existence does not depend on my husband. The two of you are free to go wherever you wish.”
“Please, not in front of the bishop,” Father said, smiling in his threatening way. It struck me that he has an extraordinary range of smiles.
Mother said, “Anyone for a cognac?”
I got up and helped clear away some dishes. In the kitchen Mei Li was sitting on a low wooden stool, dipping little pink balls of sweet dough into a bowl of flour.
