Mr Ma and Son (14 page)

S
OME TIME
after three a.m., Mr Ma came round. He raised a hand and felt the blue spot on his forehead. It was now swollen, blue in the middle and red all round the edge, like a duck’s-egg yolk going bad. He seemed to have a pile of dry tinder burning in his chest, blazing up and threatening to crack his throat, like a newly lit fire roaring up an old chimney. His hands were rather stiff, and one of his thumbs hurt. His head, resting on the pillow, felt suspended in mid-air, wobbling all over the place without any support. His mouth was as parched as his throat, his tongue stuck to the bottom like some bone-dry wooden bung. He opened his mouth, gulped some fresh air and felt much better. But a searing acidity rose in his mouth from deep inside him, making him wonder if he’d got a sour jube in there.

‘Ma Wei! I’m thirsty! Ma Wei, where are you?’

Ma Wei was dozing on the chair, his head floating around as if he were dreaming, though it was no dream. As he heard his father call, his head dropped, then suddenly jerked up, and he opened his eyes. The light was still on. He rubbed his eyes.

‘Are you a bit better now, Dad?’

Mr Ma shut his eyes again, and rubbed his chest with his hand. ‘Thirsty!’

Ma Wei handed him a cup of water. Mr Ma shook his head, and, through parched lips, squeezed out the word, ‘Tea!’

‘There’s nowhere to boil the water, Father.’

For a long time Mr Ma said nothing, resolved to endure his sufferings. But his throat was burning terribly, and he couldn’t hold out. ‘Water’ll do!’

Ma Wei held the cup for him, and Mr Ma bent his body slightly upwards. Eyes staring fixedly ahead, he drank all the water in one draught. Then he licked his lips, and let his head loll back against the pillow.

There was a short pause.

‘Pass me the jug of water, Ma Wei.’

Mr Ma poured three fifths of the jug of water down his throat, until bubbles were popping from his mouth and drops of water were forcing their way out of his nose. His stomach emitted gurgling noises, and he placed his hands back in the middle of his chest.
Haah!
He sucked in a deep breath.

‘Ma Wei, I won’t die, will I?’ Mr Ma grimly twisted his lips under the scrap of moustache. ‘Pass me the mirror,’ he said in strangled tones.

He looked in the mirror and nodded. It wasn’t too bad except for his eyes, which were in poor shape: bleary, with fine streaks of blood across the eyeballs, and large yellowish smudges underneath them. The bad duck’s-egg yolk on his forehead was of no account; a superficial wound. Yes, a superficial wound. But his eyes certainly did tell a tale.

‘Ma Wei, I’m not going to die, am I?’

‘Of course not!’ Ma Wei was on the point of saying something else, but felt it wouldn’t be quite appropriate.

Mr Ma put the mirror down, then picked it up again and stuck out his tongue for examination. It gave him no help in deciding whether or not he would die.

‘Ma Wei, how did I — When did I get back?’ Mr Ma could still vaguely recall Alexander, the pub and the park, but he couldn’t recall how on earth he’d got from the park back home.

‘Miss Wedderburn brought you back in a taxi.’

‘Ah!’ was all that Mr Ma said.

He felt rather inclined to reprove himself inwardly, but saw no need for him to make a public confession. Anyway, a father had no business apologising to his son. As the saying went, ‘When old, one should be impulsive and wild. Youth’s the time for steadiness.’ It was quite in order for an old man to get drunk. Anyhow, he hadn’t done any harm, had he? By this stage, he was feeling much easier in his mind. He put on a deliberate air of concern and generosity.

‘You go to bed, Ma Wei,’ he said. ‘I . . . won’t die.’

‘I’m not tired yet,’ said Ma Wei.

‘Off with you!’

It delighted Mr Ma to see that his son refused to leave him and go to bed, but he felt duty-bound to address him in such a way. Excellent – ‘a kindly father and a loving son’, and no mistake.

Ma Wei pulled the blanket across his father again, wrapped another blanket round himself and sat down on the chair.

Mr Ma went off once more into a fitful doze, and when he woke, he ached terribly. Of course his thumb and forehead ached – that was to be expected – but the back of his knees, his elbows and his back all hurt too, with a twisting, wrenching pain. He felt himself all over, expecting to find some broken and splintered bones. There were none. No injuries anywhere; only the pain. He knew Ma Wei was in the room, so he was reluctant to groan. But it was no good – he just had to groan. And groaning with his parched throat felt singularly disagreeable. When he had a headache or fever, his groaning was usually as melodious as if he were reciting poetry. But not today, oh no. Each time he stretched his legs, he groaned before he’d had time to get in tune. But once he had groaned, he felt much better. That was all that mattered; never mind whether he was in tune today!

After one series of groans, he filled in the interval by contemplating death. People always groan when they’re about to die. The one thing he mustn’t do was die. Our Father who art in Heaven! Lord God above! Having never enjoyed good fortune in his life, it would be too unjust were he to die like this . . . He mustn’t drink so much next time. It was no fun. But if you were with someone, you couldn’t avoid keeping pace with them. It was a matter of social etiquette – as long as he didn’t die, that’s all.
Don’t groan, groaning’s a bad sign.
He drew his head back down into the pillow, and slowly drifted off to sleep again.

The dew-moist air was warmed by the rosy breath of the sun. London began to busy itself for the day. The milkmen and greengrocers hurried round, clattering their trolleys and barrows. Workmen came bobbing along, little pipes in their mouths, pack after pack on their way to work.

By now, a lot of the flowers in the backyard were covered with buds and blooms. As soon as Napoleon got up, he went into the garden and took a good sniff of the scented air. In passing, he caught two large, half-awake flies to eat.

The street noises startled Mr Ma from his slumber. He still felt a bitter burning inside, his mouth was dry and his tongue was stiff like the new sole on a shoe. His stomach was quite empty but his chest felt frightfully tight, he was constantly on the verge of retching and his mouth was full of saliva he couldn’t swallow. The lump on his forehead wasn’t so prominent any more, but still ached.

‘I’m not dying, I know. But I still feel unwell.’

The realisation that he was an invalid was a considerable consolation to him, since everybody sympathises with an invalid.
Even Li Tzu-jung’ll have to come and see me before long,
he thought.
If a lad eats apples when they’re still ripening, he’s asking for a thrashing. But if he eats so many of them he makes himself ill, he’s in the clear. Nobody can beat a sick child, can they? He not only gets away with it but everybody buys him sweets as well.
And his being an elderly man, an elderly invalid would surely guarantee all the more sympathy and affection.

Yes, he was ill. So Mr Ma began to groan again, and most melodiously too. Ma Wei wiped his father’s hands and face with a warm, wet flannel, and asked him what he wanted to eat. Mr Ma just shook his head. He wasn’t going to die, it was true, but he was ill, and that meant he couldn’t talk, could he? So he said nothing.

By this time, Mrs Wedderburn had heard the story of Mr Ma’s adventures, which she found both funny and annoying. When she came upstairs and perceived his state, she at once was filled with motherly compassion, and asked him what he wanted to eat and drink. He just shook his head. She strongly recommended calling a doctor, but he shook his head at that, too, and very fiercely.

When she’d had her breakfast, Miss Wedderburn also put in an appearance upstairs. ‘I say, Mr Ma, are you going out on the booze again today?’

Mr Ma suddenly let out an explosive chuckle, which gave Mrs Wedderburn quite a visible shock. But then he felt it had been rather out of place, so he groaned and said, ‘Aah! I’m very much indebted to you, Miss Mary. When I’m better, I’ll buy you a hat.’

‘All right. Don’t forget, now!’ said Mary, and hurried out.

Mrs Wedderburn did bring up some breakfast in the end, but Mr Ma only drank one cup of tea, and as the tea reached his stomach, it stung quite badly.

Ma Wei went to call on Li Tzu-jung to ask him to go to the shop a bit earlier. Mrs Wedderburn busied herself with her housework downstairs, leaving Napoleon upstairs to keep Mr Ma company. Napoleon leapt onto the bed, sniffed the invalid thoroughly from head to toe, then stealthily drank up all the milk that Mr Ma had left.

Ma Wei came back an hour or so later, and, hearing his father still groaning, suggested calling a doctor. His father would have none of it.

‘What’s there to call a doctor for? Each groan I give cheers me up, and that does me good.’

Mrs Wedderburn brought up a few roses and a bunch of wallflowers from the garden, and put them in a vase, which she placed by the window. Smelling the scent of the flowers gave Mr Ma much pleasure, and as he groaned he said to Napoleon, ‘Just smell those! Just look at them! Is there anything more beautiful in this world than flowers? Who made the flowers so beautiful? I don’t suppose you know. And me . . . I don’t know, either. When flowers come into bloom, they smell so fragrant. Then all of a sudden they fade and disappear. People are like that. And you dogs are, too. No one knows what it’s all about . . . Ah, dear me! Don’t die. You don’t think I’ll die, do you?’

Napoleon wasn’t saying. His eyes were riveted on the lumps of white sugar on the tray. He was licking his lips but didn’t hazard to make a move.

That evening, Li Tzu-jung came round. He’d bought a bunch of bananas and a punnet of strawberries for Mr Ma. Afraid that Li would give him a telling-off, Mr Ma groaned away for all he was worth. Li Tzu-jung said nothing at all, just went and whispered with Ma Wei in the study for a while.

Alexander, too, had learnt from some quarter that Mr Ma was ill, and very proudly turned up with a bottle of brandy that he’d bought for him.

‘Can’t have that, Mr Ma – just a few glasses and you fall flat in the street, eh? Well, here’s a bottle for you.’ He placed the spirits on the table and lit up a cigar. A few puffs were enough to fill the room with smoke.

‘I didn’t drink much,’ said Mr Ma, ceasing his groans and forcing a smile. ‘I’ve never been much of a drinker, and throwing myself into it like that, I hadn’t built up any tolerance. Just you watch next time. You’ll see how much I can take!’

‘Plenty of policemen on the streets, anyway,’ said Alexander, and went off into roars of laughter.

At the sound of his guffawing, Napoleon sneaked up and took a good sniff of Alexander’s large shoes. But he didn’t dare to take a bite of his heel, even though such a fat pair of legs was well worth tasting.

L
ONDON’S WEATHER
doesn’t vary much, but it changes very quickly. As soon as the sky goes dull, a chill wind at once brings up tiny goosepimples on the bare, pale arms of the young ladies, while the old men and ladies adjust to the change by vying to be the first to catch a cold.

The Reverend Ely had never had much difficulty catching a cold. On the way home from a visit to Mr Ma, he sat for a while under a big tree in the park. As he did so, his nose became a little itchy, then he shivered and gave a sneeze. He hastened home and went straight to bed. Mrs Ely gave him a glass of hot lemon juice, and put a hot water bottle under his bedclothes. His sneezes grew louder and louder, and more and more violent. Had his nose not been so robust, he would several times have sent it flying.

He never fought with Mrs Ely. Only once or twice had he dared to have a row with her, when unwell and out of sorts. He was already rather peeved about how Mr Ma had got drunk, and the cold added fuel to the fires of his wrath. His train of thought became increasingly irate.

At last I managed to get a Chinese Christian shipped here, at long last, then Alexander goes and gets him blind drunk! We have enough trouble trying to convert people to Christianity, then he comes and ruins them for us! It’s all his fault, that blasted Alexander!
A-tchoo!
If he hadn’t got old Ma drunk, I’d never have got this cold . . . It’s all his doing.
A-tchoo!
Alexander is her brother! I’ll just have to have it out with her. He should never have taken him boozing, and she should never have invited Alexander to dinner. Just you see,
a-a-tchoo!
I’ll put her in her place.

At this juncture in his thinking, he pulled the bedclothes aside to march down and confront Mrs Ely. But the instant he raised the blankets, a stream of chill air crept in, then
a-tchoo
!
Take it easy, now,
he thought.
Main thing’s to survive. Bide your time till tomorrow . . .
But when he felt a bit better, would he still be as brave? Hard to tell. Experience told him that the only victories he’d scored in fights with Mrs Ely had all been on occasions when he’d been ill. She would say, ‘Don’t say anything more. You’re right, all right? I’m not squabbling with an invalid!’

No matter if she was cutting him some slack, it was he, all said and done, who came away triumphant on those occasions. If he’d waited till he was better, though . . . you can bet she wouldn’t have cut him any slack. He’d really have to have it out with her this time. He’d absolutely have to! With her? Or with her brother? Take them both on!

I baptised old Ma, and your brother takes him boozing. What’ve you got to say to that, might I ask? Catherine’s sure to stick up for me. Paul’s his mother’s boy – but he’s not home . . . To tell the truth, old Ma’s not worth fighting over, but if I don’t do it, how shall I look the Lord in the eye! And what if Ma Wei tackles me about it? Those Chinese youngsters are much smarter than the old yellow-faced demon horde, blast’em. And what if Mrs Wedderburn asks me awkward questions? Yes, I must give Mrs Ely a dressing-down. Anyway, never could bear the sight of Alexander.

With his feet, he pushed the hot water bottle further down, and the heat of it gave his feet a remarkably pleasant, tingly feeling. He closed his eyes and gradually fell asleep.

He awoke during the night, and it was drizzling outside.
More wretched rain.
A pure-scented cool breeze blew in through the window, quite chilling his nose. He wriggled down in bed and began to think about tackling Mrs Ely the next day. Instead, he quickly shut his eyes.
Don’t think about it. The more you think about it, the more your will weakens. And then what chance have you got of standing your ground in this world? What a world!
The neighbour’s dog gave a few barks.
What are you shouting about? This world’s not made for cringing curs . . .

The next morning, Catherine brought his breakfast up. He hadn’t intended to have any, but the eggs and bacon smelt remarkably nice.
Ah, better eat up. Who in the world can possibly make such a fine breakfast as we English? Not eat breakfast? What leave a crumb.
After the meal, his mettle rose. Now he’d simply have to take on Mrs Ely, if only out of due deference to the breakfast.

Catherine came in again to ask if he’d had enough to eat, and he had a word with her.

‘Where’s your mother, Kay?’

‘In the kitchen. Why?’ asked Miss Ely with a smile as she picked up the tray. She hadn’t combed her hair yet, and it was tangled in an unruly mass on her snow-white neck.

‘Her brother got old Mr Ma drunk.’ Without his spectacles, the Reverend Ely didn’t know where to focus, and his eyes were moving frantically.

Miss Ely gave a smile, and said nothing.

‘I put all I had into converting Ma to Christianity, and now in one go Alexander’s swept it away.’ He stopped speaking and stared hard at her.

She gave another smile. In reality she moved her lips only very slightly, but the smile was there, and a very pretty one it was, too.

‘Give me a hand, will you, Kay?’

Miss Ely put the tray down again, sat herself on the edge of the bed and gently patted his hand. ‘I’ll help you, Daddy. I’m always on your side. But why do you have to have a go at Mummy? Next time you see Uncle Alexander, just have a word with him.’

‘He’d take no notice of me. He always laughs at me.’ The Reverend Ely wondered why he was speaking so forcefully and frankly today. ‘Your mother will have to talk to him. And unless I kick up a fuss with her, she’s not going to say anything to him.’

It seemed he was in a right mood today.

Noticing her father’s nose thrust forwards and the veins on his temples pulsing, Miss Ely had no doubt: he was well and truly worked up.

‘First get better, Daddy. Wait a couple of days,’ she said slowly and calmly.

‘I can’t let it wait.’ He knew that if he waited, he’d lose his chance of a victorious encounter. Then, afraid his daughter might see through him, he added hastily, ‘I’m not afraid of her. I’m the head of the family. This is my household.’

‘I’ll mention it to Mummy. You can trust me, can’t you, Daddy?’

The Reverend Ely said nothing, just moved his hand to wipe off the egg yolk from the sides of his mouth. With a smaller mouth, he’d have looked like a baby sparrow in the nest.

‘Don’t you want another cup of tea, Daddy?’ Catherine picked up the tray once more.

‘I’ve had enough. Go and tell your mother, do you hear?’ Reverend Ely knew that he was speaking rather wildly, but he was an invalid – it was only to be expected. ‘Go and tell your mother!’

‘Very well, I’ll go and tell her straight away.’ Smiling, Catherine nodded and tiptoed out, bearing the tray.

After his daughter had left the room, the Reverend Ely fumed to himself.
Yes, you go and tell her. If that has no effect, then we’ll see what I can do. What’ll she say? Ah, I forgot to ask Catherine to pass me my pipe.
He leant forwards to look, but couldn’t locate his pipe
. Yes, that Alexander . . . Gave me a cigar that day. Still haven’t smoked it. That Alexander! His cigar! Why, the very thought of him makes my blood boil!

After lunch Paul arrived home. He was twenty-three or twenty-four, even taller than his mother, and with a head full of thin brown hair, which was parted very neatly and combed very carefully. His hazel eyes glinted as they roamed about, but you couldn’t be sure he was really looking at anything. He wore a sky-blue blazer above a pair of flannel trousers, with a soft-collared shirt and a red- and yellow-striped tie. Both hands were stuck in his pockets as if permanently fixed there. His mouth held a pipe, long since gone out.

As he entered, he removed one hand from his pocket, pulled the pipe from mouth, and casually kissed his mother and elder sister. Mrs Ely and Catherine had been discussing Mr Ma’s drunken episode.

‘Hello, Paul, what have you been up to these last few days?’ At the sight of her son back home again, Mrs Ely flushed, a definite hint of pink spreading across her arid cheeks, and she very nearly smiled.

‘Oh, just the same old.’ Paul squeezed the words through his teeth as he sat down, put his pipe back in his mouth and jammed one hand back in his pocket.

His remark sent Mrs Ely off into peals of appreciative laughter. He was such a man! The less he said the more male he seemed. To tell the truth, though, Paul really hadn’t been up to anything new. There wasn’t much to be said about a few lads going to the countryside and pitching a tent for a few days’ larking about.

‘Will you have a word with Daddy in a bit, Mummy? His cold’s affected his temper.’Catherine was anxious to convey her message and be done with the matter.

‘What’s going on?’ Paul asked his sister, with the manner of a judge.

‘Mr Ma got himself drunk!’ Mrs Ely answered for Catherine. ‘What’s that got to do with us?’

The bridge of Paul’s nose crinkled in response.

‘I invited them to dinner, and Mr Ma went out with Alexander.’ Mrs Ely glanced at Catherine.

Paul pulled out a match and flicked it with his fingernail, lighting it first go. ‘Tell Dad not to bring’em here again. He’s got no business letting Chinamen run around our house. It’s just not decent.’

‘Now Paul, don’t look at me like that. We’re true Christians, and not . . . Your uncle took the elder Ma for a little drink, and —’

‘Did both of them get drunk?’

‘Alexander didn’t, but Mr Ma collapsed in the street.’

‘Knew it! Fine chap, Alexander. I’m very fond of the old fellow; he’s got what it takes.’ Paul withdrew his pipe, which had gone out again, and sniffed it. Then he turned to his sister, and said, ‘Are you blaming Uncle for this, old girl? Trust you to back the Chinamen. Remember when we were kids how we used to flick clay pellets at their heads, and make’em yell like mad?’

‘No, I do not remember,’ said Catherine very coolly.

All of a sudden, the door burst open and in came the Reverend Ely, pale and frowning, wrapped in a dressing-gown like a rather mundane ghost.

‘Get back to bed at once! Just when you were on the mend! I won’t have you coming down here.’ Mrs Ely barred his way.

‘Hello, old chap!’ said Paul. ‘Another cold, eh? Off to bed with you straight away. Come on, I’ll give you a piggyback.’ Paul threw down his pipe, and, by hauling and hoisting his father, got him upstairs.

It made the Reverend Ely all the more furious that he’d been carted back to bed by his son, unable to vent his mighty wrath. He lay in bed and smoked the cigar from Alexander in one go, all the while cursing his brother-in-law.