She wasn’t, not about May at least, maybe she should have been – poor cow had just been run over, but it wasn’t like the woman actually meant anything to her. No, Jen was the bilingual prodigy of the Milne family.
Jen poured her mum a glass of water from the jug on her bedside table. “I’m trying to stay positive. Where there’s life there’s hope, right Mum?”
“Yes, she’s in good hands, the staff at Hope are …”
“Did you want me for something, cos I’m kind of dripping here?” said Ricki. She didn’t have long if she was going to catch the tram into town.
“Sorry, Ricki, it’s just … May cared a lot about you both … she really loved coming here.”
“She gave me fifty quid,” said Ricki.
“I know, and she had so little. I think … I think she cared more than we realised.”
“That’s nice, now can I go get dressed?”
“Do you have to be such a cow?” said Jen.
Her mum slumped back into the pillows and gave a small moan. “Girls, don’t fight. There’s something I have to tell you both.”
“Mum, don’t get upset. Do you want me to get Dad?”
“No.”
“He said to call him.”
“I don’t want your father, sweetheart, I want you … I want you to know that May … that she –”
Ricki was never so pleased to hear a doorbell. She rushed downstairs to find Doctor Emery on the doorstep, wearing ear muffs like the nineties had passed her by. She showed her upstairs then slinked away to her bedroom to get ready for Lowrie.
Jen stopped Ricki in the hallway. “Don’t you think you should stay here with us after what happened yesterday? We could at least go and visit May in hospital.”
“Why would I waste a day off school with someone who doesn’t even know I’m there? Come on, Jen, get real.” She swung her new Nikon over her shoulder and checked inside her hoodie for May’s birthday money.
“I can’t believe you sometimes. You only ever please yourself. You never think about other people.”
“There’s nothing I can do. You heard what Dad said last night, Mum needs sleep. I’ll only be gone a few hours.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“Yeah, well.”
“What am I going to do all afternoon?”
“Ring Stuart, swat up on your irregular Chinese verbs, administer Mum’s drugs … it’s not my problem.” Ricki zipped her hoodie and threw on a scarf. Seeing her sister on the verge of tears, she softened. “Look, I’ll be back before Dad gets home. There’s something I need to do that’s all.”
“Can’t it wait? Mum needs you,” called Jen. “I need you.”
No you don’t, thought Ricki as her boots crunched down the driveway. Jen, the brain of Britain, is an island and an island needs no-one.
She cut across Piccadilly Gardens, over the footbridge surrounded by geysers that sprouted cold water from the concrete when people least expected it. No kids played there in winter, only a handful of skateboarders, whipping onto the low wall, jumping freestyle off the steps and sometimes tripping uncoolly over their boards.
The woman giving away newspapers from a yellow booth next to Primark was blowing into her cupped hands; her sawn-off mittens unthreaded with age, her fingers blue-cold with December’s dirty news. Ricki reached for the new Nikon her parents had bought for her birthday and took a few shots of the vendor before crossing over the tram tracks onto Tib Street. On the street corner: the whistle of tram wheels, the smell of candy floss, hot dogs, shop doors too heavy for bag-laden women with bronzed, unseasonable faces to open. The winter sun had disappeared behind the back of Debenhams where the silhouetted pigeons roosted. She felt an overwhelming urge to be some place warm.
Top Café, part of Affleck’s Palace Emporium, was her spiritual home. She loved its easy, ‘stay all day drinking a can of coke’ feel, the comers and goers, the students, the grungy entrepreneurs and dealers in junk; its Budweiser bar stools, with split open seat wounds, the brown HP sauce bottles and the chalkboard menu whose contents were grouped according to Good Stuff, Bad Stuff and Snax. Top Café was on the third floor, near the bead factory and the shop unit which sold leather clubbing gear.
“Hi,” said Jules, as Ricki approached the counter. “How’s it going?”
“I’ll take a mug of coffee, please Jules. Oh and beanz on toast, with plenty of real butter.” Ricki took a plastic spoon from a wicker bowl on the counter.
“It’s not often we see you here on a Monday.”
Ricki shrugged, like the woman of mystery she wasn’t. Jules knew as well as anyone the reason she hung out in Afflecks.
“She’s been talking about you all week.”
“Yeah?” said Ricki.
The coffee machine steamed in Jules’ pierced face. “Yup. Seems like you’ve wowed her with those photos.”
She let the possibility sink in and it felt sweet. “They were just pictures I had on my camera.”
“That’s not what Lowrie says. She thinks you’re a visionary. I heard she’s put in a good word for you with Noel.”
“Really?”
Noel was like God around Afflecks, he decided which artists would make it and which got relegated to bum fluff.
Ricki took a seat by the window, overlooking the multi-storey car park and pretended to read her library copy of Ariel. The sun was weak, the window grubby with fingerprints. The sound of cutlery and mugs, a dishwasher being unloaded in the afternoon felt comforting; a good background vibe. Her shoulders loosened. On the wall-mounted TV a guy in a tweed jacket droned on about an old pot found in someone’s attic, it was exactly the kind of rubbish her mum liked to watch when she was ‘working’ from home.
Lowrie struck an entry like Shock and Awe.
“Well hi there, Lady Lazarus.” Lowrie flicked her hair. “I didn’t know you were into Plath.”
“I … she … her poetry’s kind of cool.” She’d only borrowed the book because she knew Lowrie was a fan.
“Well, don’t stick your head in any ovens, kid, I hate to see talent ruined.” She slid into the booth and swiped up a menu, her purple talons pristine against the coffee-stained paper.
Jules set down Ricki’s plate of beanz. “Speak of the devil. I was just telling Ricki about Noel.”
Lowrie rapped her chunky ring against the table. “I can’t think without caffeine, Jules. Make it large and black will you. Me and the kid have to talk.”
Jules ran a cloth over the table. “Sure.”
“So, would you be up for it if Noel gave you a unit?” said Lowrie.
“Are you kidding?”
“Listen, Noel isn’t the kind of guy to be easily impressed and believe me, he loved your stuff.”
Lowrie wore a lacy top and long velvet gloves. Tattoos budded on her upper arms; a tiger crouched on the branch of a bonsai tree, its tail curled seductively above the glove like a beckoning finger. Two eyes wrapped around her other arm. Lowrie once told her they were the eyes of Hathor, an Egyptian Goddess. Ricki looked it up on the Net and found Hathor was lady of love, music and intoxication, as well as the patron-goddess of unmarried women, which figured. Lowrie never talked about boyfriends, except the ones from ‘before’ - by which she meant before prison - and it was usually dissing.
“But I’d better ask my dad first.”
“Sure, your dad, you ask away. Ask your dad. You know sometimes, kid, I forget you’re only fifteen.”
“Sixteen,” Ricki corrected.
The coffee arrived and Lowrie gulped it down. “So, business over, are you going to tell me why you’re here, or what? I figured it was urgent.”
“I needed to get out of the house. We’ve had some family stuff going on. It was my birthday at the weekend. My sister’s teacher got mowed down. She’s in intensive care. Looks like she might snuff it.”
“Shit, kid. I’m sorry.”
“I need your help.” Ricki reached into the pocket of her hoodie and took
out the red envelope from May. She slid it across the table as if planning a heist, same seriousness. “Open it,” she said.
“Fifty quid?” whispered Lowrie. “You should be more careful, kid. This is Afflecks not John freakin’ Lewis.”
“I want to get a tattoo at Slither.” Ricki held her gaze. “Lisa’s a friend of yours. If you’re there she’ll do it.”
“No way. I can’t ask her that.”
Ricki stared at the congealed heap of beanz, feeling suddenly small and stupid and desperately hungry for more than the cold carbs on her plate.
“Look kid, I see you’re disappointed. All I’m saying is think about it. If you still want one in a year or two there’s nothing to stop you.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“It’s breaking the law.”
“And? You were sixteen when you had yours.”
Lowrie rubbed her forehead. “So what design were you thinking of?”
The studio was quiet. Lisa, the owner, sat on a stool behind the counter, reading Total Tattoo and eating noodles. She was one of a handful of Chinese with units at Afflecks, along with Tony and Steph who owned Kin-ki.
“Hi stranger.” Lowrie leant over the counter and they kissed briefly near the mouth.
“Good to see you, tiger,” Lisa said.
“I’ve brought a friend. This is Ricki.”
“Another BBC thank God, I was beginning to think they’d gone all moral about inking,” said Lisa.
“A what?” said Lowrie.
“A banana like me. Yellow on the outside, white inside.”
“She means I’m British Born Chinese,” said Ricki, “which I’m not.”
“What, you don’t like being half and half?” she said resuming her noodles. “How old are you anyway, kid?”
Lowrie shot Ricki a quick sideways glance. “Eighteen,” she said.
She eyed Ricki with suspicion. “You don’t expect me to believe that. Come on, guys, I’ve got my licence to think about. Imagine what Noel would say.”
“He’ll be sweet, Lisa. You can’t ID everyone; most of them are fake anyway.”
Ricki handed over her design folder. “I’ve been sketching out some ideas.”
Lowrie flicked through, pointing to the double happiness couplet. “I like the way the little people are joined. Are they screwing or what?”
“The frig, they’re not screwing, it’s double happiness,” said Lisa.
“Well I like it.”
“Me too,” said Ricki.
“Lao Lao, that’s my grandma, she lived through such shit under Mao. She used to tell me about the student and the village girl when I was little. It’s a cool love story, all that dreamy destiny shit.”
“So that’s a yes? You’ll do me that tattoo?”
Lisa sighed. “Okay, but I don’t do faces, necks, hands or sleeves.”
Lowrie laughed. “You’ll do anything with a pulse, you old slag.”
Ricki emerged from the room at the back of the shop feeling elated. The skin on her upper arm felt raw, but reborn.
“It looks really distinctive,” said Lowrie.
Distinctive meaning interesting, unique; distinctive in a good way, not a Chinese freak in a class of white kids. Lisa strapped it up, neat and secure. The ointment and tape, the care and cleanliness were reassuringly clinical.
“How long should I wear the bandage?”
“Twenty four hours. If it sticks to your skin, don’t yank it away. Make sure you soak it in warm water and peel it off gently. Wash it and leave it to breathe, okay kid? I’ll give you some Tattoo Goo.”
“And it will be okay?”
“You know where I am if there’s a problem – just make sure your parents don’t look me up.” Lisa snapped off the gloves and tossed them in the waste bin.
Ricki’s hoodie rubbed against her bandage. “You’ve done an awesome job. I’m really pleased, how much do I owe you?” she said, unsticking the red envelope containing her birthday money.”
Lisa stared at May’s Chinese handwriting. “Listen, kid, I don’t want any trouble, I’ve got my licence to think about.”
Ricki took out May’s tenners and fanned them across the counter. “They’re not fake or anything, it’s my birthday money. I promise I won’t tell anyone you did it.”
“Not even your mum?”
Ricki had a sudden vision of her mum crying her eyes out at the sight of it. “Especially not my mum.”
“Won’t she wonder what you’ve done with the money?”
Ricki laughed. “I know how to lie.”
“Lie to the one who wrote a note like this?” said Lisa, pointing to the envelope.
“What does it say? I can’t read Chinese.”
“It says, ‘To my precious daughter who I wish long life. I am sorry this gift is so poor and I have cost you dearly.’ I think she’ll want to know how you spent her gift. The last thing I need is an irate Chinese ma in my shop, losing me my licence.”
Ricki pulled back the envelope. “You’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “The woman who gave me the money wasn’t my mother. She’s a friend of the family; she teaches my brainy sister Mandarin on a Saturday.”
Lisa shook her head. “No, no, it’s definitely from your mum. Look at the way she’s signed it.”
Ricki stared blankly at the characters. “Why would she call me her daughter?”
“I’m only telling you what it says.”
“That she’s my fucking mother?” Ricki yelled. “My mother’s British, alright!”
“Hey kid, calm down,” said Lowrie.
“She lives in fucking Altrincham and has just been made redundant and likes sewing and watching The Weakest Link. I haven’t even met my real mother. I don’t know her. She left me in fucking China, alright? So there’s no way my real mother is ever going to know about my stupid tattoo or your stupid shop so why don’t you … Just shut up.” Ricki snivelled into the sleeve of her hoodie, feeling like a proper lunatic in front of Lowrie.
“Now look what you’ve done,” said Lowrie.
Lisa scowled. “Eighteen my arse.”
Lowrie pushed the cash across the counter. “Come on, kid, let’s go. And I’ll see you later.”
They picked their way towards the stairway.
Ricki tried to stay composed. Man, did her mum have some answering to do. She would make her talk about it all: China, May, all the messy adoption shit. Nikon or no Nikon, flu or no flu, coma or no fucking coma.
The invitation
Clang-a-lang-a-lang-a-lang-a-lang-
I am running down a corridor whose walls drip with sap, the sap of poison ivy. It oozes from my skin. The poison is within.
A-clang-a-lang-a-lang-lang-a-lang-
Ivy curls around my ankles, tangles me up inside. It will smother me bone by bone if I don’t escape. I can’t find a door. There’s no-one to help, not even Zhi. I’m alone in the dark. I trip and fall and … A noise shakes the walls, roars, sprints through my blood.
Clang-a-lang-a-lang-a-clang-clang-a-
The corridor, the shower, my Cousin …
I was awake, screaming into my pillow. Someone took it away steadily, calmly and rocked me until I quietened. Her face as narrow as a sunflower seed. Her eyes, so hauntingly hollow. Had she touched my cheek? Did that grey hand stroking my forehead belong to her or was it the roots of poison ivy retreating beneath the blanket as daylight chased away the nightmare?
“Sky Eyes,” she said. “It was just a dream. Wake up now and eat. Work starts soon.”
This wasn’t my k’ang. The room was too gloomy and cold. I heard strange voices – accents different to my own.
“Who are you?”
“Don’t you remember? We met on the bus. I’m Ren.”
I wiped my eyes and spat. There were four bunks besides mine. The windows were shuttered. Wires hung from the ceiling, draped with washing. Sets of blue overalls – one, different to the rest, was an-off white blouse and grey skirt. A pipe jutted from
the wall and out of it spewed something sludgy. Girls hurried, jostling to fill their bowls.
Ren took my bowl. “Wait there, I’ll get you some congee.”
Someone shouted, “Stop her! She’s taking double!”
Ren was pushed aside. The pipe spat and puttered out. The small, dingy dorm reverberated with barely satisfied murmurings.
“Thanks,” I said and spooned up the little congee she’d managed to collect in my bowl.
“This shit doesn’t get any better does it?” protested a girl, half-dressed inside the bunk opposite. Her skin was the colour of candle wax, translucent and taut across her chest cavity. Her ribs stuck out in rows like a fire grate. She pulled her blouse down from the wire and her casket black eyes met mine.
“Only slugs can eat that shit, y’know. It’s like slug shit. It’s like eating your own shit.” She pulled her blouse over her shoulders. “What are you looking at?”
I pulled my blanket up under my chin. “Nothing. I …”
“Take your nosy, creeping eyes off me. What are you, some kind of spy?”
The girl’s arms seemed thin as kindling. “New ones are such weirdos these days. Where did they find you two – the Security Bureau? You both act like you’ve got hang ups.”
Ren scraped the last congee from her bowl.
“Stop scraping, slug, it’s getting on my nerves.”
“You heard,” said another, concealed behind a dirty rag of curtain. “We don’t scrape our bowls, OK?”
“I never read any rule,” said Ren, climbing down from our bunk. We watched her limp to the window and pull on the shutters. Light from the courtyard streaked in. The bully shielded her eyes, like a bat blinded by daylight.
“You think you’re so smart,” she said. “I don’t know where you’ve crawled from, slug, but believe me, a few weeks in this shit hole and you aren’t going to think you’re so smart.”
“We’ll see,” said Ren.
The bully laughed. “Stupid as well as ugly. Where are you from?”
“Hubei.”
“Hubei mei – so you’re a drudge worker. They must be desperate if they’re hiring cripples.”
“Forward! Goes the cripple with her little slug …” the bully changed the company song and mimicked Ren’s limp. “Crawling on the earth, begging to be crushed.”
The Secret Mother Page 6
