Mr Ma and Son (5 page)

M
R WEDDERBURN
had been dead for ten years or more. All that he’d left Mrs Wedderburn was the small house and a few shares.

Mrs Wedderburn could never recall her husband without soaking two or three dainty handkerchiefs with her weeping. Apart from his not dying in battlefield glory or leaving her a fortune, she had no cause to complain of her late husband. But every time she wept over him, those two things would somehow always pop into her thoughts. Had he died in battle for his country, not only would he have been called a hero, but she herself would at least have obtained some financial compensation – not in the realm of millions, but enough for her to buy a few more hats and a few more pairs of silk stockings each year. And on Sundays, when she wasn’t in the mood for going to church, she could buy a bottle of beer or something to drink.

It wasn’t long after her husband’s death that the Great War had broken out in Europe. She went to work, typing for a petrol company. She was patriotic but also pragmatic: they were short of staff everywhere, and she was able to earn some three pounds a week. As she typed, sudden memories of her husband would reawaken her bitter regrets. If only he’d lived long enough to do his utmost bit for the nation! And her tears would patter down in rhythm with her typewriter keys.

Had he still been living, he would have undoubtedly killed at least eight hundred German soldiers. And if he’d actually managed to capture the German Kaiser alive, they’d have promoted him to Field Marshal, wouldn’t they? And then of course she’d be well appointed, wouldn’t she? The more she pursued this train of thought, the more she detested the Germans. It was as though the Germans had purposely waited until her husband had died before starting the war, quite deliberately preventing Mr Wedderburn from earning his rightful heroic status. Kill the Germans! Wipe them out, every one of them!

As she mused along these lines, she bashed her typewriter with extra force, and when she’d finished the typing and took a look through it, she’d sometimes discover she’d punched several holes in the paper . . . and would have to retype the lot.

Young Miss Wedderburn was half her mother’s age. On leaving school, she’d gone to a trade school for six months and learnt how to sell hats, how to display hats in shop windows, and how to put hats on the heads of ladies young and old. On leaving the trade school, she’d found a job in a milliner’s shop in the City, where she earnt sixteen shillings a week.

During the war, Widow Wedderburn saved up a bit of money, and after the war she would only work when the petrol company was short of staff, so more often than not she was at home. While Miss Wedderburn was still at school, mother and daughter got on very well, and the daughter always did what her mother told her. But once Miss Wedderburn went to work in the milliner’s shop, feelings between mother and daughter took a turn for the worse. Often they would argue hammer and tongs with each other.

‘Botheration! Let her do what she likes! The mousy-haired wretch!’ With tears in her eyes, Mrs Wedderburn would confide to her little dog, and, so saying, plant a kiss on the dog’s small pointed ears. And the dog would sometimes spill a tear too, to keep her company.

The problem of mealtimes was the major source of their rows. For the mother, everything had to have its proper order and set time. But for the daughter, in her first job, the City was an exciting place. On the way home she’d look for a few minutes in the sweet-shop window, then stand looking for a few minutes in the dress-shop window, and then into the jeweller’s window for another few minutes.

Just wait!
she’d tell herself as she looked.
Some day I’ll get a pay rise, and then I’ll buy that box of crystallised fruit, and that green satin gown with the embroidered hem.

The more she looked, the more she enjoyed looking and felt disinclined to move on, and she would completely forget about getting home. It wasn’t just that she came back late, either: no sooner had she finished her tea than she’d pop on her hat, and fly out again like some little bird. Her mother knew full well that the girl was off for some fun with her boyfriend. Nothing remarkable about that. What riled her, though, was that when the young lady returned – well into the night – she would launch into an endless account of all that had happened while she’d been out with the boy. Then she’d discuss at length various problems concerning marriage and divorce, without the slightest inhibition.

Once when the Reverend Ely was paying a visit, Miss Wedderburn selected several long passages from a letter that her boyfriend had sent her and read them out to the old clergyman. He had in fact dropped by with the intention of persuading Miss Wedderburn to come to church on Sunday, but as soon as he heard the letter, he departed in haste.

In her youth, Mrs Wedderburn too had had boyfriends. But her ideals were vastly different from her daughter’s. The hero she pictured was a man who could slay a tiger with one punch, and knock a wild elephant flat with a couple of kicks, but who, the moment he encountered a woman, would turn infinitely tender, suave and flatteringly attentive. The heroine, for her part, would always have a very slender waist and tiny hands, and be ever ready to swoon, at which time she’d unerringly fall into the hero’s arms. Such a man was only permitted to utter a few fond words beneath the moonlight amid blossomy gardens, or to discreetly request a kiss in some private grove.

Miss Wedderburn’s romantic ideals and experiences had nothing in common with such literary notions. The moment she opened her mouth, it was to tell her mother how, after she was married, she’d go driving with her husband at eighty miles an hour; how, if they didn’t hit it off with one another, they’d go to court and get a divorce; and how she’d like to marry an Italian chef so she could go to Italy and find out for sure whether Mussolini had a moustache or not. Or else she’d marry a Russian, and go to have a look round Moscow, just to see whether Russian women’s skirts went down past their knees, or whether they went bare-legged and didn’t wear skirts at all.

Since Mrs Wedderburn’s husband had died, she had occasionally thought of marrying again. But the greatest obstacle to remarriage was the economic problem. She’d never involve herself with any man who lacked a secure and steady income. She’d never mentioned this to anyone, however, as the notion of love was a private one, to be mused over in secrecy. And even if she thought about the economics of it all, she still wanted to believe in true love.

‘Go on, then! Be off with you and marry your Russian blighter!’ would say Mrs Wedderburn to her daughter, losing patience.

‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do! Furs are bound to be cheap in Moscow. I’ll get him to buy me a dozen fur coats, and I’ll wear a different one each day. Wouldn’t I look beautiful, eh? Eh, Mum?’

Mrs Wedderburn, without a word, would pick up her little dog and go off to bed.

It wasn’t only in the matter of love that Miss Wedderburn’s opinions differed from her mother’s, for the same rift existed with regard to clothes, hats and jewellery. The daughter’s aesthetic viewpoint held that, whatever it was, the newer the better, and that as long as a thing was new, it was good. Any further enquiries as to whether it was beautiful were unnecessary. The shorter the skirt, the more fashionable the hat, the better it was. In her view, at least a foot should be cut off all her mother’s skirts, and not only were the brims of her mother’s hats absurdly broad, but the long-petalled flowers on them were utterly ludicrous. Her mother always talked about the quality of the material, while the daughter was more interested in the latest style that had come out in Paris. They would go at it till they talked themselves to a standstill.

‘If you buy another of those little eggshell hats,’ the mother would say, ‘you needn’t eat at the same table as me any more!’

‘And if you go on wearing that green country-bumpkin coat,’ the daughter would say, ‘I’m not going shopping with you any more!’

Mother and daughter differed in looks as well. Mrs Wedderburn’s face was very long, slipping away as it descended to leave only a tiny triangle when it reached the chin. Her light-brown wavy hair, which already bore a few streaks of white, was curled up into two buns and secured on the top of her head. She had brown eyes, a small pointed nose and a small thin-lipped mouth, which revealed something of the prettiness of her younger days when she smiled. She wasn’t very tall, and when she wore broad-brimmed hats, she looked even shorter.

When Miss Wedderburn stood next to her mother, you could see that she was the taller by a head. And if you compared her large feet with the slim, tapering ones of her mother, you’d think they were unrelated. Because the young lady wanted to make her feet look dainty, she’d always buy shoes that were a size too small, and when she laced them up, two dumplings of flesh would bulge out. The mother walked like a bantam cock pecking at grains of rice, tripping prettily about, whereas the daughter pounded along with a mountainous, booming tread, making even the flesh of her cheeks quiver. Glancing upwards from her feet, you saw a pair of long legs. Her skirt just made it to the top of her knees, so her stockings were on show all year round. As she always wore narrow skirts and walked fast, her gait was invariably a cross between a run and a wriggle. And while her left hand clasped her umbrella and handbag, her right arm was obliged to swing rather stiffly, with the wrist brushing against her hip in little semicircles, to and fro. To make her hat look nice she had to tuck her head in a bit (otherwise her neck would seem too long). The cumulative effect was that she resembled a little round jug with a short neck and a lid on top.

As for her face, her cheeks were plump, with two dimples in them, and even when she wasn’t smiling the dimples were there, like two bubbles about to burst. Her mousy-brown hair was cut like a man’s, and her blue eyes sparkled merrily, the mischievousness and candour of her whole being radiating from those orbs of blue. With her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, she was a tender, rosy apple new-picked from the tree. Her lips were curled upwards a little at the corners, and forever in motion.

Mrs Wedderburn considered her daughter both lovable and irritating. ‘Look at your legs!’ she’d often say. ‘Just how short are your skirts going to get?’

Her daughter’s dimples would crease as she smoothed her short hair. ‘But Mum,’ she’d say, ‘everyone’s got them like this!’

M
RS WEDDERBURN
was busy all morning, tidying the three upstairs rooms so that everything would be in order. She had a piece of green silk cloth round her head to keep her hair from running wild, and her sleeves were rolled up to above her elbows, revealing the fine blue veins of her arms, like the mountain ranges on old-style Chinese maps. With an apron tied around her waist over her housecoat, she washed all the tables, moved the carpets down into the back garden and gave them a thorough beating, polished the floors, and, after wiping the bulbs of the lights, changed the lampshades for two new, green satin ones.

When she’d finished she stood clasping her hands, and surveyed the scene around her. The pink curtains in the study, she realised, didn’t quite match the blue-patterned wallpaper, so she hurried downstairs to her own room, took down the curtains there, which had fine white patterns on a light-blue background, and put them up in the study instead of the pink ones. The curtains changed, she sat on a chair, placed her hands on her knees and breathed a gentle sigh. Then she called Napoleon – that chubby little white dog – took him on her lap, and rested her delicate pointed nose on Napoleon’s head.

‘Just look!’ she said. ‘Isn’t the floor shiny now I’ve polished it? And don’t the curtains look pretty?’

Napoleon shook his head, from which Mrs Wedderburn immediately deduced that even dogs had an aversion to Chinese people, and she rather regretted what she’d agreed to. Grumbling away to herself, she gathered the little dog in her arms and went downstairs for her lunch.

After eating, Mrs Wedderburn feverishly set about making herself look presentable as she prepared to welcome her guests. She combed her hair again, rubbed some powder into her cheeks and put on her favourite blue crepe-silk jacket with the fox-fur collar – English women wear furs regardless of the season. She despised Chinamen from the depths of her heart, but having consented to rent them her rooms, she had to go through the proper procedures. At last, when she’d finished getting ready, she went and seated herself quietly in the drawing room, taking out a copy of De Quincey’s
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
to read, so that when her Chinese guests arrived, she’d have a suitable topic of conversation ready.

When they were almost at Mrs Wedderburn’s door, the Reverend Ely said to the elder Mr Ma, ‘When you meet the landlady, if she extends her hand to you, you may shake hands. Otherwise it will be quite sufficient to just nod to her. That’s our etiquette. Don’t mind me telling you, eh?’

Mr Ma not only didn’t object to the Reverend Ely’s briefing, but even voiced a ‘thank you’.

Mrs Wedderburn had already seen the trio by the time they came to a halt outside the door. She hastily brought out her little mirror once more and took a look at herself, before gently pressing the hair behind her ears into place with her fingers. Then, after waiting till she heard a knock, she came to the door holding Napoleon, and opened it. Napoleon pricked up his ears at the sight of the visitors and let out two yaps.

‘Naughty! You mustn’t!’ Mrs Wedderburn said, and the little dog rolled its eyes, drooped its ears and fell silent.

Holding the dog in one arm, she used her free arm to shake hands with the Reverend Ely. He introduced the Mas to her, and, head held stiffly erect, she merely let her eyebrows and chin dip by way of greeting. The elder Mr Ma gave her a profound bow, but before he’d straightened up, she’d already marched into the drawing room. Ma Wei, carrying the valise, glared at her from behind the Reverend Ely’s back. The three visitors put their hats and things in the hall, then together entered the drawing room. With her little finger, Mrs Wedderburn indicated the two armchairs, inviting the Reverend Ely and Mr Ma to sit down. Then she told Ma Wei to sit on the chair next to the small table, while she herself sat on the stool in front of the piano.

Not waiting for anyone else to open the conversation, the Reverend Ely launched into praises of Napoleon. Mrs Wedderburn began to narrate the dog’s life story. The clergyman greeted with approval every sentence that she uttered, although he’d heard the story more than twenty times before.

While she was telling the dog’s history, Mrs Wedderburn was watching father and son from the corners of her eyes.
These two Chinamen don’t look as ugly as they do in the films,
she thought. And she couldn’t help feeling rather suspicious; perhaps they weren’t real Chinese? If they weren’t Chinese, then what . . . ?

The elder Mr Ma was sitting with all the formal correctness of a minor government official in the presence of his superior mandarin. His back formed a right angle with the cushion of his chair, and his two hands were placed firmly upon his knees. Young Ma, in imitation of the Reverend Ely, had his legs crossed, and his left hand stuck in his trouser pocket. Already Ma Wei had taken in all the objects around him in the room. And when the Reverend Ely smiled, he likewise pursed his lips in the motions of a smile.

‘Shall we go and have a look upstairs, Reverend Ely?’ asked Mrs Wedderburn, having at last come to a point of conclusion in her dog story. ‘Mr Ma?’

Seeing the Reverend Ely stand up, the elder Ma rose stiffly to his feet. Young Mr Ma, not waiting for any social awkwardness, quickly got up and opened the door for Mrs Wedderburn.

When they arrived upstairs, Mrs Wedderburn showed them each room and where they might put their things.After everything she said, the Reverend Ely exclaimed ‘Splendid!’All the elder Mr Ma wanted to do was lie down and have a rest. He nodded at the landlady every time the Reverend Ely said ‘Splendid!’, but in actual fact took in not a word of what she said. Nor did he spare a glance for any of the rooms, just telling himself,
Anyway, all that matter’s is there’s somewhere for us to sleep. Why bother about anything else?

One thing rather disturbed him: there seemed to be too few blankets on the beds. He went over and felt them. There were only two.
Surely that’ll be too cold!
he said to himself. When in Peking he always had two thick quilts, and wore a fur jacket and cotton-wadded trousers on top of that.

After they’d looked at all the rooms, the Reverend Ely, realising that Mr Ma hadn’t said a thing, hurriedly told Mrs Wedderburn, ‘Splendid! I was telling them on the way here, “You’ll see that you couldn’t have found rooms to match Mrs Wedderburn’s in the whole of London, take my word!” Eh, Mr Ma?’ His fawny-brown eyes riveted themselves on Mr Ma. ‘Now d’you believe me?’

Mr Ma gave a smile and said nothing. Ma Wei got the Reverend Ely’s message, and hastily assured Mrs Wedderburn, ‘The rooms are excellent. Thank you.’

They all went downstairs, and seated themselves in the drawing room once more. While she still had the Reverend Ely present, Mrs Wedderburn clarified all matters concerning rent, mealtimes, when the door was locked in the evening and all the other rules, stipulating everything very precisely. Whenever she paused or took a breath, and whether he’d heard what she’d been saying or not, the Reverend Ely would chime in with a ‘Splendid!’, like the drummer in a band coming in with a roll on his snare when the trumpets pause. The elder Mr Ma uttered not a peep, and was saying to himself,
What a mass of rules! Marry a foreign woman and I bet she’d be on your tail all the time, like a cat after a mouse.

When Mrs Wedderburn had finished, the Reverend Ely stood up. ‘Mrs Wedderburn,’ he said, ‘we can’t thank you enough. You must come round to my house some day for tea, and have a good long chat with Mrs Ely. Can you manage it?’

Something clicked in Mr Ma’s mind as he heard the clergyman mention tea. ‘What about our tea?’ he asked Ma Wei in an undertone. Ma Wei replied that there were only two canisters in the valise, and that the rest were all in the big trunks.

‘Well, you’ve got the valise with you, haven’t you?’ asked Mr Ma.

Ma Wei assured him it was in the hallway.

‘Go and fetch it!’ said Mr Ma softly. Excusing himself, Ma Wei stepped into the hall, returning quickly with the valise. He opened it and handed the two canisters of tea to his father. Mr Ma, a canister in each hand, addressed the rest of the company. ‘Some tea we’ve brought with us from Peking. One canister for the Reverend Ely, and one for Mrs Wedderburn, as small tokens of our respect.’

He handed one canister to the Reverend Ely, and placed the other on the piano. The Confucian philosopher Mencius says that ‘Men and women should not touch when giving or receiving’, so there was no question of his personally placing it in Mrs Wedderburn’s hands.

The Reverend Ely, having been in China for many years, knew the ways of the Chinese, so as he took the canister he said to Mrs Wedderburn, ‘Here’s some good tea, I’ll be bound!’

Mrs Wedderburn hurriedly deposited Napoleon on the stool, and picked up her own canister. Her dainty mouth opening slightly, she peered closely at the tiny Chinese letters on the canister, with its trademark phrase,
‘The Moon Fairy Flees to the Moon’
.

‘How quaint! How quaint!’ she said, for the first time looking directly at Mr Ma and not from the corners of her eyes. ‘Can I take something so nice without paying you anything for it? Is it really for me, Mr Ma?’

‘Of course it is!’ said Mr Ma, twitching his scrap of moustache.

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Ma!’

The Reverend Ely asked her for a piece of paper to wrap his canister of tea in. ‘Mrs Wedderburn’s frightfully fond of China tea,’ he said as he wrapped it. ‘After drinking your tea, Mr Ma, I feel sure that she will include you in her prayers to our Lord.’

As he finished wrapping, he suddenly froze, his fawny-brown eyes slowly widening. To accept the tea, he thought to himself, and not take the Mas out for a spot of sightseeing . . . Well, it didn’t seem very nice. He really ought to put on a good show in front of Mrs Wedderburn, let her see what a uniquely virtuous lot missionaries are. Nonetheless, he didn’t relish the idea of walking around town with two Chinamen.

‘Mr Ma,’ said the Reverend Ely, ‘I shall see you tomorrow. I’ll take you to have a look at London. Get up early in the morning.’

With those words, he left the room, sticking the canister inside his coat and holding it wedged under his arm. If he walked along carrying a round, wrapped object in his hand, people might suspect it to be a bottle of beer. In every aspect of his conduct, a clergyman had to live up to the Lord’s expectations.

Mr Ma wanted to see him off, but the Reverend Ely shook his head at him over Mrs Wedderburn’s shoulder.

Mrs Wedderburn saw the Reverend Ely out, and the two of them remained standing an age, talking outside the door. Now Mr Ma realised what the Reverend Ely had meant by shaking his head.

These foreign devils are subtle, and no mistake!
he said to himself.
You have to watch for their tricks.

‘What do you think of the two Chinamen then?’ asked the Reverend Ely at the door.

‘Quite all right, really,’ replied Mrs Wedderburn. ‘The elder one’s very presentable. And to think of it, all that tea!’

Meanwhile, indoors, Ma Wei was saying to his father, ‘Just now when the Reverend Ely was praising the rooms, why didn’t you say a thing? Haven’t you noticed that with foreigners, especially with women, you have to flatter them? If you don’t say nice things about them, they don’t take it at all well.’

‘If one knows inside one’s heart whether something is good or not, that’s quite sufficient! What’s the point of mentioning it?’ The elder Ma put Ma Wei sharply in his place, then pulled out a
Szechwan-silk
handkerchief, and, with the air of one dusting a mandarin’s green leather boots, gave his shoes a polish.