At cocktail hour, there was a small celebration, not in the men-only upstairs bar, which was reserved for presidential speeches and the like, but in the everyday ground-floor bar, still an attractive place with its dark wooden counter, little tables, and red velvet chairs. There, they said farewell and bon voyage to Martin Colville, and sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” to Cheung. They congratulated him on his promotion. Selby Hancock, temporarily sober, even apologized to him for his bad behaviour. Pressured by his wife and uncle, he had to, or else it was a loss of face, something the British cared about too.

“I behaved badly yesterday, Cook Cheung. I’m sorry,” he said.

Cheung flushed. “Never mind, never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“He really is sorry, Cookie,” Elizabeth Hancock said. “He’s just not very good at expressing himself.”

“I said I was sorry,” Selby said to his wife, peeved.

“Stop behaving like such a bore, Selby,” said Mrs Hancock. She turned to Cheung. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hancock. I’m very happy.”

Mrs Hancock brought Cheung a glass of syllabub to celebrate—a frothy white concoction that smelled unpleasantly boozy and animal to Cheung. He took a sip and made a face before he could stop himself. The drink was creamy and oversweet—not a Chinese taste at all.

The cricketers roared with laughter.

Mrs Hancock laughed too. “I don’t like it either, Cookie. Would you prefer a beer?”

Cheung nodded gratefully.

“You’ll get Colville’s flat too, if you want it,” said Richard Hancock. “You’ll be the club’s first Chinese steward, and the first Chinese person to live in that flat. I hope you’ll find it comfortable and to your taste.”

This was very welcome news indeed, given the loss of the Tai Hang house to that bastard Mah. The steward’s flat had two bedrooms and a parlour.

Talk turned to the recent invasion of Manchuria by the Japanese, and rumours of concentration camps being built in Germany. David Edmonston thought that Colville was a fool to go back to Australia. “There’s going to be a war in Europe. You’ll be drafted and shot. You’d be much safer staying here in Hong Kong.”

“I’m not a coward,” said Colville. “It would be an honour to fight for my country. I just don’t want the wife and kids caught in the crossfire. Because, mark my words, something terrible is going to happen here in Hong Kong.”

The toffs began to argue about the likelihood of the war spilling over from China and forgot about Cookie Cheung.