You don’t know me but …
I’m so sorry, Yifan. May’s been in an accident …
The only place left to search for his number was the closet. It smelled musty, like a long vacant holiday home.
May didn’t own many clothes: the few dresses she wore for teaching, jeans and a neat pile of sweaters folded on the top shelf. There was nothing glamorous or sexy, nothing bold or unruly – only what was necessary. May didn’t wear hats, or keep outfits that didn’t fit her; there were no flowery smocks or tie-dye, no high heels or power suits – apart from an old skirt and blazer which looked a decade out of date. She hadn’t imagined May to live so frugally.
A tin box was her last hope; tucked at the bottom of the closet, behind a mud-crusted pair of trainers, its lid emblazoned with a Chinese logo.
She paused, then opened the lid.
A photograph of Jen on the beach in Nice! Nancy had spent the best part of a week searching for this photo, hoping to stitch it into a memory quilt for her daughters’ sixteenth birthday. What was May doing with it? As she lifted it to the light, Nancy uncovered photos of Jen riding her bike. Jen on summer camp in the Lake District. Jen in the school play. Jen eating ice-cream under the plum tree. She flicked faster through. Every single one was of her daughter. And not only Jen. There were photographs of Ricki on family holidays, birthdays, days out … What the hell were they doing in May’s closet? The rational part of Nancy said they had something to do with Jen’s studies. A project on the family. Yes, Jen’s essay was on that very subject.
“Stop being a ninny,” Nancy said out loud.
But why had Jen never asked to take the photographs? She knew they were Nancy’s treasured possessions. And why hadn’t May mentioned them? It was practically the twins’ entire childhood.
She knelt amongst the scattered pictures of her girls and held one up to the garish light. Immediately, she wished she hadn’t. It was the photograph of the twins in the People’s Park hours after their arrival. In the original, Nancy and Iain’s faces were like sunshine – delighted to be parents after years of waiting. But someone had cut them out, leaving two holes, two dismembered bodies.
She stumbled to the sink, fearing she might wretch.
Did May know about the mutilated photograph lurking in the bottom of her closet? No – no – she couldn’t believe it of her. It must have found its way there by mistake. But how could a whole album find its way into someone else’s closet by accident?
What if … Oh God … what if May was a psychopath? A pervert? A child molester? She’d been coming to the house every week to teach Jen. What if she’d been preening her in secret or …
Nancy lunged towards the desk, flung open the middle drawer and scrutinised the photograph of the ferris wheel. She’d missed it at first: a sign in bold neon letters, Welcome to Nanchang, suspended across the centre of the wheel. May had lived there – Nanchang – the very place her daughters were abandoned. Why, in all the years they’d known each other, had May never mentioned that fact?
She stood in the centre of May’s small, dingy bedsit, sweat rings seeping through the underarms of her silk blouse. That’s when the feeling started – beginning in Nancy’s guts and rising. Six years … six years! May had taught Jen Mandarin; six years she’d fetched tureens of Chinese food to the house, treating Jen with respect, admiration, encouragement. All along … lies.
Nancy gaped around her in panic.
Could it really be May’s fingerprints over her precious babies? May’s Chinese blood pumping in their veins? Her Chinese hair on their heads? Her Chinese eyes staring Nancy in the face every day? Mocking her.
Yes, answered her intuition.
Why else would she steal photographs from the twins’ adoption album, or take such an interest in their lives? Or lie about never having been to Nanchang? May was no child molester. She was only five feet nothing in her faded, raggedy heels.
Nancy laughed in horrified hysteria. She had always dreaded this moment. The twins’ past pouncing up on her, devouring the bonds she’d worked so hard to make, the Milne family unit. May the birth mother, the tummy mummy – the person she never wanted to meet.
The sound of her mobile made Nancy jump. Her hand shook so badly she could hardly pick up.
“Nancy?”
“Iain. What do you want?”
“Where are you?”
“May’s place.”
“Are you with anyone?”
“No.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Look, Iain, now is not a good time. Phone back later can’t you?” Nancy fumbled to disconnect the call.
“Wait,” said Iain, his voice flat and inert.
“What?”
“It’s …”
“What is it?”
“It’s May, darling. You’d better get over here.”
Wooden figurines
A different kind of girl to the one I was back then – a girl like Cousin Zhi – might have seen it coming. A different kind of mother to my own, a kind and gentle mother, might have warned me childhood was about to end.
Yes, sixteen is an important age for young women like Jen and Ricki. I attend their dreadful birthday party to mark their passing into womanhood, their shedding of years; but my arms come burdened by the past, as well as gifts. Sixteen is an age I cannot easily forget.
I was swilling out the skillet in the yard when I caught sight of Father, making his way home through the rice fields. His head was bowed as if listening to his own whispers. He was early and there were no other workers to share his flask of tea or cigarettes. He bustled past, his cheeks reddened by the wind.
“Don’t stand like a gatepost, Mai Ling, come inside and help your mother. Everything must go to plan.”
I wanted to ask Mother about the plan, but she was busy chopping half moons of garlic. A fresh pot of smoked pork and spices rested on the side. The plan likely concerned Cousin Zhi, who was due to arrive home for Spring Festival. She worked at a car factory in the city and had grown used to luxuries. My parents were keen not to lose face in front of her or Auntie.
I took my place beside Mother and began peeling the ginger. The work was harder when I couldn’t feel my fingers and I nicked my fingertip with the knife. A sliver of blood rose up instantly. I brought it to my mouth, a small pleasure in the taste. My belly growled with hunger. Outside, the pig scratched the earth for something more nutritious than stones and frosted mud.
The sound of their voices in the yard caused Father to leap up from the table and hurry to the door. There on our doorstep stood the town’s most prestigious coffin maker, Gao Quifang and his wife, both empty-handed, bringing only the cold winter draft into our home. It was to be a short visit.
Father bowed and ushered the Quifangs through our dark, smoke-blackened kitchen to the fireside, where three stools had been arranged. I wiped my hands on my trousers and followed Mother, who carried a bowl of dates and peanut candies. The room seemed suddenly too small for us all and I wondered if we still owed them for Grandmother’s funeral.
Mr Quifang’s skin was pallid, his eyes serious. I remembered how gently he’d laid Grandmother out, arranging her white burial robes so as to disguise the thinness of her frame. The same couldn’t be said of his son and apprentice, Li Quifang, who teased the old women of the village by pretending to be their husbands back form the dead.
Father instructed me to sit next to Madam Quifang who squinted in my direction and then kicked the chicken pecking by her feet until it flapped away.
“Is this the girl?” she asked abruptly.
Father bowed again. “Yes, Madam, this is our daughter Mai Ling.”
“She looks reasonably fed and not altogether ugly, a little unfinished, but is she strong?”
“Yes, very strong; she works with my wife.”
“So you can cook?” asked Mr Quifang.
I was unsure whether or not to speak. Father had not yet introduced us.
“She cooks w
ell and knows many local dishes; she can also grow vegetables and understands how to care for animals,” Mother said, proffering candies.
Mr Quifang took one and rolled it slowly, thoughtfully, around his mouth.
“Well I hope the pig I can smell cooking is better than the skeletal beast you have squealing outside,” declared Madam Quifang.
I began to fidget with a loose thread on my cuff. Father filled some cups of baijiu.
“A toast! Let’s make a toast to warm us.”
“I’m afraid that my wife does not drink.”
“Surely a little on such an important day?”
“No.”
“But it is so cold out there,” added Mother.
“No.”
“Perhaps you would prefer wine?” Father fussed.
“I am allergic to both baijiu and wine.”
“Please – do not ask my wife again.”
I gulped back the fragrant, honeyed liquor and hoped they would soon go. Mother had laid out our finest bowls – the hand-painted ones with blue jasmine flowers along the inner rim. They had belonged to Grandmother, who kept them hidden in the ground during the Cultural Revolution.
“Your wife should not have gone to so much effort,” said Mr Quifang.
Madam Quifang shuffled her stool closer to mine, so that our knees brushed.
“We cannot stay long, winter is a very busy time. Besides, we have not come for a banquet.” She nodded in my direction. “Girl, I will start with your feet; take off your boots.”
Mother gave a solemn, approving nod.
“Come now,” said Madam Quifang, “no need for shyness, it is important we make doubly sure.”
A sudden wind brayed at the door as if Nian, the beast, had come early. I unlaced my boots and removed the newly darned socks. My toes were the colour of frosted violets and I recoiled as her icy fingers prodded the bones in my outstretched foot.
“Hm, as I feared.”
“What is it?” Mother asked.
Madam Quifang stiffened. “The girl’s feet are broad. A narrow foot shows wealth, a broad foot is … I cannot allow a peasant’s foot to rest under my table. I’m sorry husband, but our family doors must be of equal size.”
She sat up quickly and jerked my head to one side so that I yelped. “Here, look at this nose! How can I trust my wealth to a girl with such a nose?”
Mother stooped to tend the fire. “But Madam Quifang, you’re overlooking something important.” She nudged a large log in the grate with the poker. “Surely the matchmaker told you?”
Madam Quifang let go of my chin and I felt the blood return. “Told me what?”
“About my daughter’s forehead; see for yourself how high her brow is, how good she is at hard labour? Surely this is what’s required of a daughter-in-law?”
Daughter-in-law!
“Stand up, girl, I can’t inspect you sitting down.”
My legs felt weak. Madam Quifang clapped her hands across my apron and pawed at the place where babies grow – the place Mother called an ‘infant’s palace’. Recoiling, I realised she was assessing its proportion to my hips; my potential to produce a grandson.
The soup bubbled noisily on the stove – wild garlic and ginger. It reminded me of the woods above the farm where I liked to play with Little Brother. It was four o’clock, he was late home from school – where was he? I wanted to give him the family of figurines I had finished that morning. Had he been instructed to stay away?
Mr Quifang signalled for his wife to stop. “Child, I want you to answer me this: what is your opinion of marriage?”
What was I supposed to say? My daydreams of falling in love were the fairytale my life could never be.
Mother’s hand pecked behind my back for the correct answer.
“An affectionate couple cannot live together to the end of their lives,” I blurted.
“Do you mean to say that a man and wife should not be affectionate?” said Mr Quifang.
I nodded unconvincingly.
Madam Quifang clapped. “It is a wise child that knows marriage is a duty.”
“Our daughter has been raised correctly,” said Father.
“She will bring your family honour,” praised Mother.
As they talked I withdrew to the sink with the empty baijiu cups and stared into the thickening snow.
Mr Quifang followed, wanting a light for his cigarette. “I see some of the logs are set aside,” he said. “Why is this?”
I lit his cigarette from the stove and passed it to him. “I save the smaller logs for Spring Festival,” I said.
“For fuel?”
“No. Little Brother and I make figurines. I make up stories for him.”
“Stories about dutiful marriages?”
I slipped my hand inside my pocket and clenched the figurines. I wouldn’t let him take them away.
Mr Quifang’s tobacco smelt rich and smooth compared to Father’s. “Child, my son needs a sincere and loving wife if he’s to become an honourable man. So many girls have left to work in the city. They know nothing of its dangers, nor do they understand they will be tricked into brothels and never heard of again. You are one of the wise girls to have stayed home, and we do not want a bare branch on the Quifang family tree.”
I shuddered. What would it be like marrying a coffin maker? I imagined Li Quifang’s hands would smell of embalming fluid as he touched me, the smell of rotting flowers. A tight bud of desperation formed in my throat.
Madam Quifang unfolded a large sheet of paper over Grandmother’s bowls on the table. “It is time to consult the astrology chart – let us see what Gaotang says of the union,” she said.
My name was scrawled next to Li Quifang’s. The matchmaker’s calligraphy was rushed and had smudged.
Madam Quifang ran a neat, clean finger down the chart. “Let’s see … here we have it … the Goddess of Love predicts the marriage should fall after the Spring Festival, on the second day of the second month in the lunar year and not a moment later. It is all here. She is to come to me.”
Mother nodded.
“It is so,” said Father.
“Mai Ling?” said Mr Quifang. “Do you accept the will of your mother and father, the will of my son and of our family?”
“Speak child,” said Madam Quifang. “To marry my son is the greatest opportunity of your life.”
But I could no more speak than marry their awful son. I pushed past Madam Quifang and rushed out of the kitchen, brimming with tears.
Outside, the sky was a shiver of ivory. I ran past the old sow tethered miserably to her post, her husband dead in the deep pit upstairs, and down the frozen path which led out of the gate. No, no, no my heart beat out. The astrology chart is wrong; the matchmaker is a silly crow. I could never love Li Quifang or live in a house of souls. I would run to the woods where the garlic grows and when I reached the clearing – keep on running.
The red envelope
Benny’s motorbike headlights flickered through the black palings of the trees.
Cousin Zhi hugged herself. “About bloody time.”
It was well after midnight. We’d been waiting in the lane for more than an hour. Sharp air needled my ears. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, wriggled my toes. The ground was hard with frost. I checked the farm in case a light came on and Mother charged out to find me wriggling away from my destiny. She was always the first to rise; at five o’clock her sock-feet would tramp downstairs to make Father’s flask of tea. She’d notice straight away: I was missing from my k’ang.
However, the longer we waited in the freezing cold, the more I thought: running away stinks, marrying Li Quifang (and his mother) wasn’t so bad. I would be free from the boring chores on the farm and the drudgery of housework. My husband, Li Quifang, would inherit his father’s wealth and I could have new clothes and a comfy bed. Then I remembered the time I saw Li Quifang tormenting a chicken by tying its legs as he prodded it with a stick all the way to school. I did not want to be
his chicken.
Benny’s engine growled. “What are you waiting for, babe? Climb on.”
And there was no more time for thinking. I perched behind Zhi and slipped my hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. Her hair whistled in my face as we sped through the dark valley, so fast it felt like holding the corners of the wind.
I was travelling light: my newly carved wooden figurines, a few jumpers and clothes. I wore everything I owned in layers. My feet bulged with woollen socks, some stolen from Mother.
By dawn, the station was rammed with students and workers returning to the city after Spring Festival. Most were in their late teens and early twenties. By thirty a girl was too old for the factory, Zhi said. Around every corner I saw Li Quifang and his mother, but of course they were not there; no-one from the valley would make an insane train journey to the city at this time of year, unless it was to work.
Zhi gave Benny a lingering kiss and we squeezed through a horde of men. Someone grabbed me by the arm and I spun round, my coat zipper caught in the electric fan heater he carried. The men sniggered and I pulled free. I clutched Zhi’s hand until we were safely inside the station foyer where the air was humid and the high glass dome dripped like a peasant’s brow. At least seven rows of people queued at the ticket booths, many stooped hunch-backed, burdened with cubes of clothing, portable radios and rucksacks. One man bore a yoke of vacuum cleaners across his shoulders.
“You have got the money I gave you, haven’t you Cousin?” said Zhi as we joined the queue.
The Secret Mother Page 2
