The Secret Mother (18 page)

“I heard you burnt Mum’s lucky fan,” said Ricki after a while.

A smile curled at the corner of Jen’s mouth. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“Cold.”

“But alive.”

“Jen … Did you ever think May was … you know … the one?”

“Never.”

“What about Mum. D’you think she knew?”

“She did a pretty good job of hiding the truth, if she did, Rick.”

“Mum said she was going to tell us, remember? It was the morning after our party, before Dr Emery arrived,” said Ricki.

“Oh, I’d forgotten.”

“I can’t stand her.”

“Mum?”

“Both of them, I suppose.”

Jen rolled the duvet back. “I’ve told her I want to go to China,” she said suddenly. “I need to find stuff out.”

“What’s to know? May’s our birth mum. The secret’s out – what more do you expect to find? It’s not like she’s going to wake up and spill the beans, is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Face it, May will probably die anyway.”

“There’s a chance that if we go to China, we’d feel better.”

“And what if we don’t, Jen? What if we go there and feel worse? I don’t think I can take much more.” Ricki rolled onto her back. “Besides, there’s other stuff to think about.”

“Like what?”

“Like living! You’ve got exams, I’ve got my photography. There’s a unit coming up at Afflecks that could be mine. It’s the best chance I’ve got if I want to make a name for myself.”

“Yeah.”

“You could sound more pleased.”

“I don’t think this is going to just blow over. Not for me at least …” said Jen. She reached out for Ricki’s hand. “But I won’t go without you.”

Her sister was pale in the early morning light; her face washed in fear. Jen wanted to say it was just a bad dream, everything would be okay, their mum and dad were safe. But how could she?

Into the gloom rattled an Intercity on its way to …? Glasgow, Edinburgh, Birmingham, London … And from there a plane could fly them both away. To China. Maybe even home? Maybe.

Sunday. Finally a day off after weeks of mind-numbing work on the line and our pay overdue by a fortnight. Workers grumbled that their families relied on money to buy fertilisers or support siblings through school. I felt smug with Manager He’s money tucked safely into my trousers and left Fatty, Fei Fei and the others window shopping.

A pineapple-coloured haze hung over the newly-built dual carriageway, where early morning traffic zipped over the river. Nanchang was an unfinished city, its maps continually rewritten. The weather was getting warmer, and I decided to take a stroll through the People’s Park to breathe in some fresh air. The park’s magnolia trees had blossomed early. I wandered in the direction of the panda enclosure, where the zoo keeper shovelled bamboo from his wheelbarrow.

A young couple caught my eye. The boy was taking a photograph of his girlfriend. I followed them to the bridge, feeling unbearably envious, and dropped back a few paces, concealed by an overhanging willow. They kissed for a long time on the bridge and eventually drifted off, unhurried – the boy’s arm flung loosely around her shoulders. I guessed they were part of the city’s floating population; workers, like me, enjoying a rare day off.

Since my intimate encounter with Manager He, I had received no special attention: no glances down the line or requests for help with Schnelleck’s letters. I missed him and slept hugging my pillow lengthways down the bunk, pretending it was him.

Feeling even more lonely, I abandoned the park and its peeling pergolas, and headed back to Women’s Street where I lingered around the teahouses, observing the clothes of urban women: suits with shoulder pads and shiny patent ankle boots. I tried on a few outfits in the Pacific Department Store; they made me look like an auntie. What would the others call me,
Hong Kong cat
or
bossy mei
? A beauty assistant asked me if I had considered hair extensions, fake hair glued to my own messy tufts. Manager He was wrong, women were easier to fix than machines.

By midday I felt tired and deflated. I couldn’t find French perfume or English underwear and had spent barely half of Manager He’s money on a new suit. I left Women’s Street and took to the back streets in search of The Blue Banana, the bar I had seen on my first visit, telling myself the visit was ‘research’ ahead of meeting Schnelleck.

Away from the main drag, the city was a confusing grid of alleyways, the names of which sounded modern and reminded me of Manager He: Merchant’s Way, Street of the Free Thinker, We Seek to Prosper Place and New Era Street. I turned right and an unpromising narrow alley gave way to a mixture of high-rise office buildings, restaurants and bars. Mixed into this were several shops with blackened windows.
For the Discerning Businessman of Tomorrow,
said one sign.

Unable to locate The Blue Banana, I stopped instead at The Agile Rabbit. Inside, TVs lined the bar. A few worn-out westerners were reading newspapers. The barman was ultra-moody and reminded me of Kwo, the canteen cook. Unlike Kwo, he was also ultra-cool in his black shirt and thin white tie.

“Can I get a baijiu?” I asked him.

“We don’t serve that during happy hour. It’s cocktails only. Look outside, on the board.”

At the far end of the bar, a big nose westerner sipped a glass of bright pink liquid through a straw.

“I’ll have whatever he’s drinking.”

The moody barman set my glass on a beer mat that said
Club Tropicana.
He decorated the drink with a parasol and some fancy ribbons; lit a sparkler. It tasted cold and fruity. I stayed on to drink more. When I got up to go to the toilet, my legs felt unsteady and I had to hold onto the columns of mirrored glass.

When I returned, a crowd of young Chinese had congregated at my end of the bar.

They chanted. “Who’s the man? He’s the man! Who’s the man? He’s the man!”

I loped to the other end of the bar and resumed drinking courtesy of Manager He’s money. The big nose lit a Marlboro. It hung off his wide, fishy lips.

“Let me try one of your American cigarettes?” I said, bold with drink.

“Sure, take the packet.” His Chinese was near-perfect, with a Hong Kong accent. “And while you smoke, you can tell me all about yourself.” He took a long, slow drag on his cigarette.

What did he want to know? I could tell him about my job, the 4x4s we made for people like him. Yes, he liked that, the big nose.

His fat white fingers inched across to my knee.

The moody barman turned up the moody music to drown out the rowdy drinkers. The atmosphere was anything but happy.

“Who’s the man? He’s the man! Who’s the man? He’s the man!”

“Stop, put me down!” protested the skinny fellow as they flipped him easily into the air.

“I feel sick. You’re going to break my glasses.”

He landed on the floor. They clamoured to pour cocktails over him, and then the barman screamed at them to get out. They scattered, laughing, and staggered into the street. The big nose was distracted by the young men. I swiped his Marlboros and made for the door, figuring they might earn me a few favours back in the dorm.

I was halfway down New Era Street, when someone grabbed my arm. I spun round ready for confrontation. But it was the skinny Chinese fellow from the bar.

“Mai Ling. That’s right, isn’t it?” He smiled as if I should know his name. “Don’t you recognise me?”

I shook my head.

“We met on the train from Hunan. It’s Yifan. How are you? You still look a little pale.”

The young medical student! His hair had grown longer and flopped over his glasses, but his gentle eyes were unchanged. I recalled how he’d revived me with green tea.

“I’m fine now, how are you? I thought you were going to land on the bar.”

He rubbed his back. “Silly games … It’s my birthday. They always do that, I don’t know why. You’d think us medics would know better.”

“Um … Happy birthday!”

“So, how’s it going?”

“Good.”

“I bet those 4x4s are rolling off the line?”

“Sort of.”

“New designs take time, I suppose. Not much margin for error.”

“No.”

“It’s good that you get time off – everyone here seems to work twenty-four seven.”

“Yes.”

“Stress does terrible things to a person’s health. Neck pain, back pain, tension headaches, high blood pressure, blurred vision …”

He should see the way
dagongmei
work like mutts.

“So …”

“So …”

“So … there is a nice teahouse not far from here. Would you like to come with me? I think I need to sober up a little. If you have time, that is, I don’t want to keep you from your business.”

I glanced over his shoulder to make sure the big nose wasn’t following me.

“I’d like that,” I said, pleased to leave New Era Street.

The Suseng Teahouse was very traditional, its décor shabby. We sat on a bench by the window. I waffled about the factory’s vision, our eagerness to enter global-markets. The plans could have been my own.

Yifan nodded in silence.

“Is everything alright?” I asked after a while. “Has your tea gone cold? The hostess will bring you some more water. I’ll ask.”

He covered the tea pot, “No, my tea’s fine, it’s delicious, thank you. I was listening intently to everything you were saying. I’m sorry if I seemed a little distant.”

It was easier lying to Yifan than I remembered. In fact, the more we talked, the more I revelled in the possibility of leading my own department. I began to believe it. Alcohol helped the lies flow readily. I told Yifan that in the near future I had an important business meeting with a German investor named Herr Schnelleck, whom I planned to impress with extravagant gifts and shows of Chinese wealth and hospitality.

Yifan spluttered into his tea. “Your plans are very grandiose indeed!”

“You have to think big, Yifan.”

“That’s quite a liberalist bourgeois mentality you’ve developed since we met on the train. It shocks me coming from a girl who lived in Hunan, Mao’s own land.”

What was he talking about? Yifan was too smart for me. But I did know Chairman Mao was from Hunan. No-one in China, not even the stupidest peasant, could fail to know Mao was born in Hunan.

“Perhaps you’ve left behind more than your village in coming to the city,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “If you mean I’m not the girl I used to be, then you’re right and perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.”

“I’m not talking about the status of women in our society, Mai Ling, or about education. Clearly, you are very educated indeed. I am talking about your loyalty to the past and the true Chinese way of life – not this fake modernity occurring all around us.”

My head hurt. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered coming to the teahouse. It was nearly four o’clock and I still had to buy French perfume.

Yifan reached into his satchel and handed me a battered book, not the
Little Red Book.
It was called
Traditional Tales and Other Stories from our Great Past.
I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to read, my comprehension was still only average.

“I want you to have this,” he said, “I think it will help.”

He was right, if my literacy improved, Manager He and Schnelleck might think better of me. I took the book and opened it at the first page. The inscription read:
To our pride and joy, our dear son, on the occasion of your graduation with distinction and successful completion of your high school education. May you live a long and happy life, working your hardest for the good people of China.
It was signed by his parents and grandparents.

“I can’t take this.”

“I want you to hang onto it for a while”

“But I hardly know you and this must be very precious.”

“It is.”

“Well then, you keep it. Really, Yifan, I’ve done nothing to deserve this gift.”

Yifan shook his head, insistent, and I slipped it inside my shopping bag.

Manager He would never read such a book. For him, there was nothing great about China’s past. There was only the death of his family, the starvation of his fellow villagers. I would have to hide the book under the loose floorboard in the dorm.

As I thanked Yifan, the feeling of being watched returned. I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone had entered the teahouse – a quick movement, a swish of hair! It was so sudden I couldn’t tell exactly. When I looked again, there was no-one. I hurried my tea, unnerved, and made my excuses to Yifan.

“So soon? But there’s more tea in the pot.”

I didn’t want to hear about how wonderful Hunan was and how I should treasure the place above all else. Where I’d come from was becoming less and less to me. I said my polite goodbyes and was almost to the door when he caught up with me and put a hand out to bar the exit.

“Mai Ling, wait. I don’t want you to go like this. I’m sorry if I said too much. I didn’t mean to upset you. I can see how seriously you take your work. It’s not my place to tell you what to think … At least say you’ll meet me again. A new ferris wheel is coming to town. A group of us from the university are going. Please, come with us.”

“Maybe. I need to get back to work.”

“Very well, I must let you. But here’s my dorm number, take it and call me if you’re able to.”

He passed me a page ripped from his notebook. I buried it inside my trouser pocket.

“Take care of yourself, Mai Ling. It’s easy to get carried away. Even with the best intentions, you might find yourself in a situation you can’t –”

“Let me go.”

Yifan stepped aside and whispered, “Just don’t forget: there are people, forces, in this city who wouldn’t be so tolerant if they were to hear you speak. Nanchang’s heartbeat remains strongly traditional.” He glanced over his shoulder at the cast of ageing men, some playing cards, others puffing Red Double Happiness cigarettes.

I forced a smile and flung open the door, desperate to get away from the small, old-fashioned teahouse that stank of smoke and incense. As I hurried away, eager to find a shop that would sell perfume, the alcohol still sloshed in my stomach and I felt queasy. I couldn’t wait to get back to the factory and the safety of Manager He. The yellowing sky had turned dark amber. Unexpected hailstones began to beat against my Western-white face.