The Secret Mother

by Victoria Delderfield

  “What a shame. I was just fancying something tasty and exotic.”

  “Are you ready to order?”

  He reached over and toyed with her apron. “I’d have thought that was obvious, wouldn’t you?”

  She flinched, knocking into Michael, a waiter. Jen hurried to the kitchen where the smell of chilli soothed her.

  Later that afternoon, her shift over, she gulped a glass of lemonade on the back doorstep.

  “Are you alright?” asked Michael. “I’m sorry those idiots tried it on with you.”

  “I’m fine, honestly.”

  Michael was in his second year at Manchester Uni. His grandparents were from Hong Kong.

  “So you’re okay then?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?”

  She hadn’t meant to snap. He wasn’t to blame for May, or Ricki, or the idiots on table eight. “I’m sorry. There’s a lot going on at home, that’s all.”

  “Another time maybe?” he said and put on his coat to leave.

  Jen pulled her jacket tighter. If only time could go in circles rather than straight lines. If only May hadn’t come to her birthday party, or they had danced a minute longer. If only she’d wake up and explain why she had tracked them down in Manchester. Life felt so tangled, Jen couldn’t find the ends.

  She checked her mobile, still nothing from Ricki. Her only text message was from Stuart.

  Meet me outside mcdonalds after yr shift. Please?

  Maybe she’d got him wrong? He wasn’t all bad.

  She texted back, Cu half hour.

  Jen finished her shift and slipped away without phoning her parents as she’d promised.

  Stuart tucked into a Big Mac outside McDonalds. He offered to go back in and get her something.

  She refused, “I can’t eat when my sister’s missing.”

  A woman with a bucket of roses asked Stuart if he wanted one for the lady. To her surprise, he fished out some loose change.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

  “I’ve been an idiot, I owe you an apology.”

  They drifted across St Ann’s Square and perched on an oversized pebble near the Royal Exchange Theatre. Stuart wrapped Jen in his leather jacket to shield her from the wind. A quartet in evening dresses and dinner jackets shivered as they played The Four Seasons. The air smelt of fried onion from the hot dog stand on the corner of Cross Street. It reminded Jen of good times, trips on the tram into town with her sister. Now Ricki hung out with a different crowd.

  Stuart’s biker boots padded the pavement. He lit a roll-up. “About your birthday, Jen … I’m sorry I didn’t stay when your parents were at the hospital. And sorry things have been getting a bit heated about, y’know, sex and everything. I don’t mind waiting if that’s what you prefer.”

  “You don’t? But I thought …”

  “It’s your choice, I shouldn’t have been so pushy.”

  He kissed her forehead.

  “Where were you that night? I called your mobile like a million times.”

  Stuart dragged on the roll-up. “With the lads. I’m sorry. Like I said, I’ve been an idiot. What can I do to make it up to you?” He held her face in his hands and brushed back the hair that had blown into her mouth.

  She had longed for tenderness. The next thing she knew, she was tugging on his arm, beckoning him away from the square.

  Lots of people passed by, all too busy thinking about parcels, passports, pensions to look down the Post Office alleyway. She silenced the voice in her head which said STOP. NO. DON’T. Instead, she put her hand up the back of his shirt and clawed her nails into his cold skin. He pressed her to the wall, his kisses little wounds. She fumbled for the zip on his jeans and felt him already hard.

  “Wait,” said Stuart, taking a condom from his jacket pocket.

  Jen pulled down her tights, then her knickers, enough to guide him inside her. He was eager and cumbersome; she clutched a nearby window ledge to stop herself falling. Just as Stuart was getting close to coming, a voice bellowed down the alley.

  “Oi, you!”

  He shouted something about calling the police.

  She pushed Stuart off and hitched up her tights. He discarded the condom in the alley and made a run for it, fastening his trousers as they ran. They spilled out onto Spring Gardens, breathless and exhilarated.

  “Shit,” said Jen outside HMV. “I left my rose.”

  They laughed and hugged each other. Jen nestled against his beaten leather jacket.

  “You’re fearless. I love you,” said Stuart.

  The skin on her back felt raw where it had scraped against the wall. There’d be other times, other men. The right one. At least now she knew how it felt.

  “I need to ask you something, Stuart. I want you to tell me the truth,” she said, suddenly serious.

  “Sshh, let’s hold each other like this. Don’t talk.”

  “We have to. I want you to tell me.”

  “Babe, it’s cold. You’re acting strange. What is it?”

  “I know about her.”

  “Who?” His laugh sounded fragile. “You’re starting to freak me out a little here, Jen. I don’t see you for days, you tell me you’re not interested in sex, then we go at it like rabbits in an alleyway. Who are you talking about?”

  She kissed his wind-chapped lips and pushed her tongue into his mouth – their last kiss.

  Jen broke off. “I know about the petrol head friend you’ve been screwing behind my back. Don’t pretend. I’ve worked it out. I just need you to admit it.”

  He shook his head. “Jen, you’re losing it. I haven’t done anything. I mean … what gave you that idea?”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “I can’t … Jen, you don’t need to ask me that … Let’s just get in a taxi and you can come back to mine. My flatmate’s out. We can put the heating on. I’ll make you some pasta.”

  “Admit it.”

  She forced herself not to be swayed by the mournful look in his eyes. It wasn’t his mother in a coma, his sister who’d run away from home.

  “Admit it, Stuart.”

  He shook his head. “She means nothing to me.”

  “How long have you been seeing her?”

  “A couple of months.” He wiped the snot on his sleeve. “This is the end isn’t it? I’ve been so fucking stupid, Jen. She’s a mistake.”

  “Mistakes are one-offs. What you’ve made is a complete balls-up of everything.”

  “I can make it up to you. I’ll never see her again, ever.”

  “You know what?” said Jen.

  His bloodshot eyes were suddenly hopeful.

  “Everyone’s lied to me: my mum, May, even Ricki covers her tracks, but I don’t need to take it from you, Stuart.”

  “Then why did we just do it if you hate my guts?”

  Because she could, because there was a pain inside that needed to come out, because she was sick of being clever Jen, top of the class, Little Miss Perfect – so studious, so Chinese.

  She left him in the doorway of HMV and hurried towards Piccadilly Gardens. The mobile in her pocket was vibrating. From now on, Jen would be in charge of who came and went in her life.

  When they were little, Ricki would come running through to Jen’s bedroom in the middle of the night, caught in a reoccurring nightmare about the house burning to the ground. The house was big, Ricki said, like a warehouse, with more rooms than she could count. Jen’s job was to check all the rooms to make sure there was no fire; sometimes they even stood barefoot in the garden which backed onto the railway line. Eventually Ricki accepted it was just a dream and would fall asleep, warm in the nook of her twin’s arm.

  So when Jen saw Ricki standing in her bedroom doorway the night she came home it was only natural that she should say, “It’s okay, Sis. Just a bad dream. Everything’s all right now.”

  She pulled back the duvet and Ricki climbed in, her knee a small cold slab sliding between hers.

  “Everyone
’s okay.”

  “Yeah,” said Ricki, dragging the duvet around their ears. She snuggled deeper. Inside it they were safe together. Jen held Ricki until the air grew moist beneath the duvet. She had never felt so glad to hold her twin. There had been no asthma attacks, no disasters.

  “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.

  Book of traditional tales

  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 yo
ung 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.