“It’s her first job,” Zhi interrupted, “We’re Hunanese. She wants to know everything about everything.”
“Ah, so she’s sky eyes.”
Sky Eyes. The name fit me well, like a new winter coat.
I was about to ask where she was from when the bus swung into the factory compound. A group of women were already gathered at the factory’s metal gates. A uniformed guard blared into a megaphone, “Get off the bus, get into line!”
We surged towards the gates and I squeezed my way as far forwards as possible, thinking Zhi would follow, but when I glanced round she was gone.
Two women in suits were checking everyone’s documents. They let a few pass through the gates, but more were turned away. One woman refused to go.
An official yelled at her. “You think I care? You’re wrong,” He pointed, “Look around you. Many women want these jobs. Why should I care about you?”
She held onto the gate. “My husband, my husband,” wailed the woman.
“Go, before the guard removes you.”
“My husband can’t work. His legs are withered. I beg you, give me a job.” She sobbed. A guard pulled her away, avoiding her kicks and claws. He was tall with an ox-like physique and bundled her swiftly to the edge. Even above the chatter of the crowd, I could still hear the woman crying, “My husband, my husband!”
My heart thumped as I pulled out my fake documents. The details were as requested: I was now a twenty year old graduate of Zhushan Number One School. The sixteen year old nobody from Hunan was gone.
For the next hour, I scanned the faces of those around me. One young woman’s two front teeth were missing; I was close enough to see her tonsils as she laughed. Others looked as if they had been in the city longer; their appearance was more up to date: denim jackets, lipstick. Their elbows dug into my sides. The ones directly ahead spoke a dialect I didn’t recognise. Their clothes were shabby. They couldn’t understand a word of Cantonese when presenting their documents.
“How did you expect to find work if you cannot speak the language of your bosses? Answer me, can’t you even tell me the year you were born?” asked the official. “Get away you stupid women and stop wasting my time.”
I felt so thankful to Zhi, who’d taught me some stock Cantonese phrases over Spring Festival.
“Who’s next? Show me your ID.”
I elbowed forwards until I was standing in front of the gates, bearing my documents.
“Hunanese?” she said, rifling through them.
“Yes.” I lowered my head respectfully.
“And you are twenty?”
“Yes, born year of the pig. Whatever I do, I do it with all my strength and that includes working for your great corporation.”
I half expected her to inspect me the way Madam Quifang had. But there was no prodding of my abdomen this time – only sharp eyes, obedience and nimble hands counted.
“Go through,” she declared.
My fake documents had worked! I slipped through the gate and walked calmly to the side entrance with the other hopefuls, my eyes fixed on the path.
Inside, I was ushered up a flight of stairs and into a vast room, where about fifty young women waited to be interviewed. The room was frigid. Its walls were white brick, peeling in places. Waist-high metal containers lined one wall of the room to create a counter. Two slogans on the walls read: “Don’t eat excessive food, don’t talk excessive talk” and “A little dirt is good for your system.” Through a hatch, I could see a boy scraping vegetables into a vat – perhaps the cook responsible for the awful smell?
I wondered what kind of food the workers ate and whether the dishes would be spicy like they were back home. Zhi hadn’t talked much about the meals, only that workers gulped it down in fifteen minutes and hurried to their desks for a nap.
There was so much still to know about the salary, my hours, time off, the bosses. She gave me the impression factory life was hard, but that there were prospects for someone like me, a girl with ambition.
The grey-haired woman handed me a form. “Sit there and fill this in,” she said, pointing to a nearby table. One girl struggled to write using her Forwood Motor Corporation pen and I wasn’t sure whether her fingers were numb with cold or if she’d never been taught. At least Little Brother had shared his school books with me and I wasn’t a complete dumb ox.
I sat down next to a young woman whose application form was almost complete. The first few questions were easy. I copied the details of my fake identity, but struggled when it came to the question about my previous experience. Should I mention jia? I’d only fed animals, washed clothes, planted seeds, chopped wood, made food – and run away from home. I must not forget that. I must not forget the courage it took to find my own way in the world. I leant over to see the paperwork of the woman next to me; she’d written nothing about her parents or farm work, simply: Toy Factory, Shenzen. Two years.
The official hovered behind me. “You have ten minutes to complete the form, there must be no errors.” She gave no guidance as to what I should write in any of the boxes.
I left a blank and moved onto the questions about my health. Did I have poor eyesight? Did I lack energy? Did I have any physical deformities? Any tattoos? Was I pregnant? I stifled a giggle and filled in the form as best I could, then waited to be called up.
It was impossible to tell just by looking at a girl whether she’d be accepted or rejected. I earwigged as the young woman who’d worked at the Shenzen Toy Factory was interviewed.
“What did you do in Shenzen?” said the interviewer.
“I was on the assembly line for one year.”
“Was your residence permit renewed?”
“Yes.”
“What were your hours?”
“Six to six, with one hour break for meals. Overtime six to ten.”
“So what was your reason for leaving?” said the male official, tapping his factory pen impatiently on her form.
“Because … because … I wanted to progress. I had set up a company magazine full of stories about the best workers. I wanted to inspire people and give workers a good feeling. But there was no opportunity for me to use my skills, nothing in the clerical department, and so I left.”
The man looked up and nodded. “You have the right attitude. Go back to your seat and wait.”
Her feet were restless. She looked older than most of us, in her mid-twenties, but there was a spark in her I admired.
Soon after, a young man in his late thirties entered the canteen. He strode over to the desk, flicked through the interview forms and gave a deep sigh.
“Are there no perfect candidates here today?” As he spoke the muscles rippled beneath the skin of his temples. He had a very square jaw. “You,” he pointed straight at me, “let me read your form.”
I stepped up to the desk. His eyes darted over my paperwork. He stroked his jaw thoughtfully. His hands looked soft and veined, reminding me of a cow’s udder.
“According to this, you have no previous experience. How can I employ someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing? Tell me, where have you worked since graduating from high school?”
“I worked for jia.”
“Peasants?”
“Yes, Manager. I come from Hunan.”
He frowned. “The home of Chairman Mao.”
“I have completed middle high school,” I added boldly, sensing I must pen my own destiny.
“Really? Then you should be able to write the English word open as in open door policy.” He handed me a factory pen.
I stared at it blankly.
“What’s the matter?” he laughed. “Has your education deserted you?”
“No, Manager …! …”
“Then show me some other skill.”
The room was silent as snowfall. I reached into my pocket for my wooden figurines. “I carved these over Spring Festival. My hands are very nimble, Manager. I will use them to work hard for you.”
He raised an eye
brow and examined the delicate flower pattern I’d carved into Mrs Nie’s ch’ang-p’ao. A long time seemed to pass before he responded.
“Show me your hands,” he said.
My cheeks flushed at his request. They were farm worker’s hands: rough and calloused. I hid them behind my back. It was not proper for a man to look so closely at a young woman’s hands.
“Very well.” He set Mrs Nie on the desk. Her face was serene; her silk shoes seemed to glow a deep lucky red. He flicked back over my application form.
Was he going to shout at me? Call for a guard? Have me thrown out? “You have no experience … But the work of your hands is …”
Tell me quickly, I wanted to say.
“Very fine.”
Excitement pumped into my veins. The Manager reached for his rubber stamp. My eyes fixed on a grain of black rice on the floor.
“Take your belongings,” he said, “leave via the door on your left.”
There on my form, was the word EMPLOY. My peasant hands were to be put to work once more.
ID
I was photographed in the central courtyard of the Forwood factory compound. My new fringe fell unevenly across my forehead, the face beneath now flat and featureless after Zhi’s haircut.
A young woman seated at a desk beneath the mei trees copied my details onto an ID badge. “Carry this at all times,” she said. “You are now officially a worker at the Forwood Motor Corporation. Your worker number is 2204, you have been allocated to Electronic Circuitry under the control of Manager He. You are to be monitored by Line Leader Zhen Zhi.”
“Cousin!”
The woman shook her head. “Kin relationships are discouraged at Forwood, Worker 2204. You’ll do well to remember that. Now take this and read it in the waiting room.” She passed me a document several inches thick, entitled Forwood Motor Corporation: Official Rules and Regulations Manual.
There were no windows in the waiting room and the lighting was poor. The manual began with a list of production regulations covering several sides. Arriving late, leaving the line without permission or punching someone else’s timecard were all punishable offences that carried fines. A second set of rules read,
Daily Behaviour
1. No talking, eating or playing at work.
2. Anyone caught stealing will be dismissed on the spot.
3. Hair must be tied back and overalls cleaned weekly.
4. No spitting.
5. One day’s holiday per month, to be taken on a Sunday.
I was a few pages into reading the resignation regulations when someone called out my number.
“Yes?” I spoke into the gloom.
“Your time is up. Proceed to the door.”
I looked towards the halo of light coming from the small glass panel in the outer door. Figures moved in silhouette.
“Did you not hear me?”
I shifted in my seat, apparently alone in the waiting room. “Yes, but I can’t see you. Where are you?”
“Worker 2204, I’m not here to make idle conversation! To your right, you’ll find a door. Tap in your worker number. The door will open onto a corridor. Follow it.”
“To my dormitory?”
“No, it leads to the workwear room, where you will be provided with overalls.”
“How will I find my dorm?”
The voice cut out.
Where were the other girls? They had already passed through. I was the last, I reasoned. I stumbled towards the machine and entered my worker number. The door clicked open and I followed a dingy passageway leading to a dead end.
“Is there anybody there?” I banged on the far wall.
No-one answered.
I banged again. “Hello. Can you hear me? Did I turn the wrong way?” This was silly. “I need you to direct me,” I called out.
I slumped against the damp wall and closed my eyes. Within seconds a white light filled the room and a jet of icy water fired down on me.
A voice called out from above, “Worker 2204, do not scream in the showers. Do not scream in the showers! Can you hear me? I said do not scream.”
“What’s going on?” I cried, my clothes sopping.
“Calm down Worker 2204. You must get undressed and wash, before receiving your overalls. Can you hear me? Undress immediately.”
I peeled off the layers of wet, smelly clothes. Minutes later, the water cut out. The shower door opened and a familiar figure emerged carrying a towel and a pile of overalls, folded neatly into a square.
“Zhi!”
“Put these on.”
Her face was stripped of warmth. She dropped the pile of clothes and pushed it towards me with her foot. “My name is Line Leader Zhen. Now get dressed, you’re the last one. Bring your wet clothes and follow me.”
“I don’t understand, Zhi. Why aren’t you looking after me? Why am I being humiliated?” I said dressing hurriedly.
But Zhi’s back was already turned.
I collected my belongings and stepped into an adjoining room where a group of girls had gathered in dazed silence.
Zhi began doling out papers. “Everyone, get into line and sit down. There’s work to do.”
Music crackled all around. The noise of it grew louder with each line. I looked down at my sheet and realised they were song lyrics.
Arise!
You workers of our nation
Fresh as morning sun
Full of vigour and vitality.
Forward!
Goes our nation,
From the factory lines
It’s you who drive the world.
Toil!
For today is the day
You make the cars,
Faster, better, stronger.
I sang through tears. No-one even heard me cry. At the end of the song, Zhi instructed us to leave via a thick, green-glass door. I scrambled to my feet with the others, more uncertain than ever as to whether the door was a wall, a tunnel or a trap. Surely nothing could ever be what it seemed again. I pulled my work cap down, wanting only to disappear like the magical paintbrush in Ma Liang’s tale.
Ricki closed her eyes. She liked the pattern of the water: the teeny pinpricks coming from the shower head and the hissssss that drowned out everything. She was a tribal leader, surrounded by women with udder-breasts in a remote lagoon. She lathered her scalp with acacia shampoo and enjoyed the soft slide of suds down her back. Her open mouth engorged with water; she gargled and squeezed it out through the irritating gap in her two front teeth.
Why didn’t any part of her look right? Her hair was limp and fine. Her tits, small. Her whole body was square, short, Chinese. Pink highlights would bring it together.
“But, sweetheart! You can’t ruin your beautiful hair …” Her mum was so chronic. Thankfully she didn’t know about her eyebrow piercing. One teeny hole, one act of rebellion. One mark of distinction from Jen, her twin.
She stepped onto the bathmat and wiped the steam from the mirror. Her chest was pink where the blood had levitated to the surface. If I was a vampire, there’d be no reflection. No boxy Chinese kid in the mirror.
She pictured Lowrie: her long purple hair and brooding eyes, ringed in black kohl, her cobweb look. She wouldn’t have taken any shit from a hit-and-run driver – she would have got up like The Terminator, chased after the bastard and made him suffer. She wished she had Lowrie’s guts. Wished she was her.
A primitive feeling clawed inside her belly. Ricki sat down cross-legged on the bathroom carpet and explored between her legs. She pictured Lowrie on her stool in the garage workshop, wearing a black top, her shoulders exposed and edible, her tattoo flowering between the shoulder blades, the boned fabric of her corset open like a wing and beneath her skin, the frame of her back. Her breasts, she imagined how they would be larger than hers, cool like the skin of a melon. Ricki wanted to. Explode. Wham!
The door handle rattled. “Are you going to be much longer?”
Fuckistre.
“Give me a minute
, will you.” She lay still. Her voice breathless. Her heart thudding. The image of Lowrie zapped by annoying relative numero two.
“I need to come in,” said Jen.
“You’ll have to wait.”
Jen scratched on the bathroom door. “What are you doing in there, anyway? You’ve been ages.”
She splashed cold water on her face and rubbed away the imprint of her damp, charged body from the bathroom carpet – because Jen, as everyone liked to remind her, was no half-brain.
Ricki opened the door wide and stood to one side. “What’s the great rush for the bathroom?” she said “Stuart’s not coming today is he?”
“Your face looks red,” said Jen.
“Does it?”
“Like a lobster.”
“Let me past will you, I need to get my clothes.”
“Sshhh.” Jen pointed to their mum’s bedroom. “She’s catching up on sleep.”
A voice croaked, “Girls, are you there?”
“Sorry Mum,” said Jen.
“It’s alright, come in both of you, I want to see you.”
Ricki rolled her eyes.
Nancy lay beneath the huge duvet. The heating was on at its highest setting and the bedroom smelled kind of rank.
“What is it Mum, do you need more painkillers?” said Nurse Jennifer Milne.
Ricki stayed by the door. Her sister could be such an arse-licker at times.
“I wanted to make sure you were both alright after yesterday. I’m so sorry your party was ruined.”
“It was your birthday too, Mum. Besides, it wasn’t your fault.” Jen held her hand. “Dad says Doctor Emery’s calling by after surgery.”
“Thank you, darling.”
Why did Jen do that? thought Ricki. It would take more than her sister’s goody-goody routine to butter their mum up. It would take drugs, a large quantity poured down her throat, before Jen’s boyfriend, Stuart, was ever allowed to watch the ten o’clock news in their house – let alone sleep over.
“Tell me how you’re feeling, Jen? Are you worrying about May? Ricki, you must feel sad too?”
The Secret Mother Page 5
