My first step was to learn English. I began with the McDonald’s menu in Kim’s drawer, but burgers and milkshakes weren’t going to get me to England. At breakfast, I earwigged conversations and managed to pick up the odd word. Sensing Suzinne was in one of her better moods, I asked if she’d teach me the basics.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Isn’t everyone learning it these days?”
I thought I’d blown my chances, then later, whilst folding sheets, she said, “Pass me the sheet … the sheet,” she repeated, pointing to the pile.
“Seat?”
Suzinne laughed and pulled over a chair. “No, this is seat.” She picked up the linen. “This is sheet.”
For the rest of that week Suzinne spoke only English. Her mouth pouted like the English Queen as she told me off.
“No, Mai Ling, you’re putting too much soap into the washing machine! Clean the sheets! Don’t waste expensive powder!”
Most sentences went over my head, but I could tell when she wasn’t happy with the way I did my chores.
Meanwhile, the couples showed off their new babies at breakfast, lunch and supper. There was a captive audience of hotel staff and guests, even the odd businessmen who stayed a night at The Bluewater cooed at the sight of so many babies. Nancy and Iain stole the show with my twins. ‘Twin eggs,’ as Chef nicknamed them. Of course I was jealous. People are such bloody hypocrites. They couldn’t see they were the same beloved children whose mother had once begged on the street to afford clean water; and that it was only the arms that held them and the clothes they wore that had changed.
My girls yelled a lot. Their front teeth were cutting early as mine had done. I made their congee especially runny. I wanted to tell Nancy she hadn’t wrapped them up warm enough. Our Chinese babies like to feel safe inside plenty of layers, not dressed up in little velvet dresses and bows. These thoughts ate away at me so much that some days I couldn’t bear to serve at Nancy and Iain’s table.
The hotel made a big effort in December to make the place jolly. Management ordered in a fir tree from Xiangshan Forest Park, but by mid-December it drooped pitifully. It was a nightmare for me, crawling under the tree to sweep up all those pine needles, crying because they reminded me of a brother I might never see again and the babies that were so close but so far from me every day. By then, the westerners had grown friendly with one another and some decided to spend Christmas in Nanchang.
Iain organised a group photo of all the new babies and parents. The children were grouped together on a settee in the lobby; some wore Santa outfits that said, ‘My First Christmas’. My girls managed to smile at their new father and, for a brief moment, I persuaded myself I had done the right thing. Iain and Nancy could offer them a much better life, a whole future’s worth of Happy Christmas, fat turkeys and presents enough to fill a room. I emptied the dustpan full of pine needles into a rubbish sack. What right did I have to chase after them?
On Christmas Eve, Nancy and Iain were late down to breakfast and I started to panic they may have checked out early. I was so relieved to see them that I dropped my tray, some teacups smashed across the tiled floor. Iain rushed over to help me pick them up.
“Thank you, you very kind man,” I said in English. He looked impressed because it was the first proper thing I had said in his language.
“We’re leaving for England today,” he smiled.
His words punched through my chest.
“We’ll be home for Christmas.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I was their home. “Mr Milne, I have present. For babies’ Christmas.” I reached urgently into my apron and offered him the wooden figurine Fei Fei had salvaged from Forwood.
He turned Mrs Nie over in his hand and stroked the new slippers I had stitched in red satin.
“Oh my, she’s lovely, did you make this yourself?”
Yes, just as I made your daughters. I nodded.
Nancy was busy settling the twins into their buggy; I gave a polite smile in her direction. It was too hard for me to say goodbye.
Never let you go.
The stairs felt steep as I raced to the third floor. I paused on the stairwell to catch my breath and wait unseen for Nancy and Iain to appear in the street below. They were going to the park, to take photographs before leaving Nanchang. I watched them cross the road with their new double buggy bought from Walmart.
Taking the master key from my apron pocket, I unlocked Room 111. It smelt sweet. They had positioned my babies’ travel cot near the window; I dragged it away, cold air was no good for their qi. I stroked the tiny indentations their bodies had made in the mattresses. Their blankets were still warm as skin against my cheek. Two bottles, half full, rested on the bedside table. How much Nancy expected them to drink! What was she thinking, feeding my babies like they were giants? Their matching green suitcases were packed and ready by the door; their dirty towels strewn over the bidet for me to collect.
I didn’t have much time. Iain had left his wallet out on the dressing table. Silly man, he was far too trusting. I rifled through it in search of his business cards, taking only one, so as not to rouse any suspicions.
Iain Milne, Portrait Photographer.
It even gave me the name and the address of his studio, ‘Fleeting Moment,’ including a telephone number. His hometown was Manchester. I slipped the card inside my apron and went to collect some of the dirty towels, in case Suzinne caught me out.
The corridor was empty apart from an elderly couple doddering in the opposite direction. I bowed and hurried to the laundry room with the bundle.
Manchester … I said the word quietly under my breath as I raced down the stairs.
Manchester, I go live … The words were like salty food in my Chinese mouth. I thirsted to be there.
Man-chest-er … I loved the way that English city tasted on my tongue.
The nurse at Hope didn’t warn Ricki that May looked like modern art: wires strapped to her head, tubes sunk from her nose, tape on her hands, pads on her chest – what the hell were they all for? Ricki perched at the foot of her bed. After a while, she edged closer, checking May’s face for any movement.
I see your eyes and nose. I feel your tears …
Ricki had memorised whole sections of May’s letter. She didn’t need a translator to figure out that May loved her, that she hadn’t just dumped her and Jen without giving a shit as she had believed before China, before Jinsong, before everything.
A small grain of goodness in my bitter agony of a life.
This woman in a coma loved her.
I will guard you with my life.
May’s choice – no choice at all.
The doctors at Hope had transferred May from Intensive Care to a private room attached to their high dependency ward. The perfect place for a life to slip away unnoticed, without any fuss, without trauma. Ricki gazed at the tube which disappeared into May’s nose and wondered what they fed her on – was it the same watery stuff they served in The Bluewater for breakfast? Or full English?
It’s true, May: I think of you all the time, from the start to the end of the day as well as all through the night.
A voice from behind startled Ricki. “You can stay, we won’t be long,” said a nurse. She was accompanied by a younger nurse holding fresh sheets. “It’s important we keep her moving,”
“It’s okay. I’ll go buy a Coke,” said Ricki.
When she returned, May looked the same, but the clean sheets were smoothed down, the window opened a crack. A box of tissues sat on her bedside cabinet, along with a fresh jug of water.
“May,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”
Thoughts of you burn like a fire over wild plains.
“I read your letter … Jen gave it to me in Hunan. She translated it into English so I could understand. What a brain box, huh? I wanted to come and see you … I wanted to say sorry, for not letting you be part of me … I didn’t realise. I pushed you so far away …. I thought
my tummy mummy hated us. I didn’t believe Mum and Dad’s stories – I thought they only told us you loved us to make us feel wanted … But now I’ve read your letter.”
How long will it be before you arrive and these arms hold you?
“They don’t know I’m here – Mum, Jen, the social worker, any of them … I wasn’t going to come. I wanted to leave you in China … I even went back to the institute, thinking I could say goodbye to you there. I left your photograph on the steps - the one from the birthday party, do you remember, May? Shit you looked frightened, like you were out of control. I guess you were. What did it feel like seeing me turn sixteen? I thought of you, you know … that day. I thought about my real mum and wondered if … Shit, May, you kept a good secret.”
If I cannot keep you here, then I’ll find a better place and a way out for us.
“Do you think you found that place, May? Did you do the right thing coming here to find us? I dunno, really I don’t … You did what you had to do. You were a shit hot sleuth, May, I’ll give you that.”
They cannot take you from me.
“Your brother misses you … We went to find him. It was Jen’s idea, she talked Guan into going – he’s Yifan’s son. I’m guessing you don’t know about him? He’s really cool, his exhibition was awesome, it’s given me loads of ideas. I’ve decided not to bother with the unit at Afflecks, I’m going to use part of Dad’s studio instead. I can even sell some of my work … I don’t know whether people will get it, but it’s a start … I’ve promised Mum and Dad I’ll take up a place at Queen Elizabeth’s … It’s not Oxford but, hey, they have some pretty good dark rooms and one of the tutors seemed cool, Dad and I went to meet them … It feels right, May. I’m gonna give Afflecks a miss for a while … No point hanging round where you’re not wanted. You know what I mean, don’t you May? Oh, and something else, Jen got her A*s – nine of them, and one for Chinese … you must have done a good job with her, May. She got all the brains, huh? But then we’re not stupid, you and me, are we?”
No harm will ever reach you.
“It’s weird, but since coming back from China I feel safer, like I can breathe again. Like a big stone’s been rolled away … I had to go back and see it, didn’t I? China … couldn’t avoid the place forever. Boy, do they like cycling! I nearly got mowed down in Nanchang.”
Ricki reached out and nudged May’s hand. “May … pssst, May, can you hear me beneath all that wire and shit? You do know how weird you look lying there? I keep thinking you’re going to wake up and say “Surprise!” … Maybe not, hey … I think somewhere you can hear me though? Maybe I could hear you too, if I’m honest. You were always telling me you were my mum. May … May? You used to look right through me sometimes, like you had x-ray vision … don’t think I didn’t notice.”
May’s lips looked dry where they hung slack around the tube. Ricki rubbed them with some of her lip balm. Melon flavour, she would like that, there were loads of melons in Nanchang.
Whatever they say, we’ll never be parted – not even for a second.
“I’m shit at goodbyes,” Ricki whispered. “So I won’t say it … I’m just gonna turn round and walk out that door … but I’ll take you with me, May … I’ll take you … Shit, Mum, I’ve got to go now. It’s getting late. I’ve got to go home …”
She waited a second, in case May’s eyes opened, her hand twitched, her tongue lapped against the tube in gratitude for the lip balm.
She reached out and laid the bag of red soil from Hunan at May’s feet.
The September air felt warm and fresh inside her room, as though it was spring and not the beginning of autumn when everything starts to die. Summer’s effects lingered on – perhaps May would feel the sunshine behind her eyelids?
Ricki squeezed one last time on the hand that had rocked her as a baby; then let go gently, sensing the right time would never come.
Portrait of a young woman
Woman at Piccadilly bus stop say, “Typical bloody weather!”
She say it at no-one, so I not answering.
On bus, I check Pocket Collins English Dictionary which tell me weather is tiānqì, sky breath. Today weather is white sky, feeble rain. Bones, they ache. March in England not like March in China, where sky sometimes yellow and fierce and rain feel ancient, like is falling for centuries.
Woman from bus stop she sit next to me.
“Chinese?” she ask and lights up cigarette. Her fingers yellow from love of smoking. She want sell me something? I think.
Chance to practise English. “Yes, I’m Chinese.”
Simple! Phew! English not so hard after all. Ten years of Suzinne’s lessons are not waste.
Then she say, “Student?”
I say, “No. Teacher.”
The law is no smoking on English bus. I keep my gob shut. Stranger tell her off anyway.
“Typical bloody buses,” she moan. “Typical bloody government, no pleasure in anything these days.”
No-one on bus care she insult government. I terrified. Rest of journey I wait for cadre to appear, but only more little English grandmothers get on with bags on wheels. Eventually I take giant breath.
Woman, she talk to herself. She lonely like me? No man at home? She ask where I live. I tell her home no place for me right now, and she offer cheap room in bedsit. Woman’s name is Mrs Eva.
Mrs Eva bedsit nowhere near middle of Manchester, nowhere near Iain and Nancy. I will hunt long and hard for find New Street, where Iain work. For that, I am needing better map.
Cooker in my room it have no fire. I light with switch. Shop on street corner are Indians and I buy 5kg of rice in plastic bag, enough for strangers in bedsit. Then I go big store that smell of bread in some place and sick in other. Spend two hungry hour looking for food, trying to understand label, with English nonsense music sounding in my ears. I buy ginger, chilli, onion, garlic, noodle and some other vegetable called daffodil which I not know, but it look like chive. I also buy ‘Wide-rule Notebook,’ pen and ‘A-Z of Greater Manchester’. Manchester, it not seem that great so far, but maybe tomorrow it will be better … the ASDA good place for learning new words. It smell also of dog. Dog belong to man with magazine, The Big Issue. He standing on pavement outside. But I walk by, pretend like I invisible magic paintbrush in tale of Ma Liang.
There are five New Streets in Greater Manchester: New Street Swinton, New Street Eccles, New Street Droylsden, New Street Radcliffe and New Street Altrincham. In words of Mrs Eva, search for daughters is piece of cake. I have Iain’s business card, but what if Iain not photographer no more? What if, ten years pass, ‘Fleeting Moments Photographic Studio’ not exist? Maybe he become ancient and stop working? Maybe so many things … I have to try. I have to look.
Feeble rain all April.
May. I new woman – new woman called May. Cut and finish from ‘Kayz Cutz,’ give me curls for first time my whole life. I wear respectable teacher clothes from BHS. Everything ready. So why not I feel ready? I journey long way to find what belongs me and today sky breath is smiling, good sign. Happiness in the air down New Street Altrincham.
I turn a corner and see ‘Fleeting Moment Photographic Studio’!
Relief. It feel like sunshine after storm. I walk past the shop on different side of street: one time, two, three time, I walk by. It definitely Iain shop. I re-born on New Street Altrincham.
Open door and enter. Suddenly Iain, he right there in front of me! He same face of English Prince Charles. Ha! My English go and I say “nĭ hăo” by mistake. Iain is proud because he know two words in Chinese.
“Nĭ hăo.” He even bow.
I am like shy English raspberry.
He quickly run out of words. His Chinese, not so good. “How can I be of help?” he ask.
I need him to do portrait, a gift for my fiancé back home in China.
He seem very interested in me; it definitely same Iain I remember from Bluewater Hotel. He fussy and polite. Iain also very productive worker – so many h
appy, foreign faces staring at me from his walls! Like ancestral shrine. All smiles on Iain’s photos. All happy families, babies, pretty women and many, many grandparent who should really be dead.
Emotions, they get the better of me. I start to cry, ready for seeing my daughters after all the lost years spent waiting.
He pass me a Kleenex from box on reception desk. “Oh dearie me.”
I blow my nose so loud. “Sorry.”
“Take a seat. I’ll fetch you a glass of water? My name’s Iain Milne, by the way.”
“Thank you. My name’s May.”
I sit in the corner where cool airs from fan. It all very nice ‘Fleeting Moment,’ no wonder photos they all smiling. Even water tasting clean and chilli. I hold my knees still when they are shaking.
Iain say, “Pardon me for asking, but I feel like I know you from somewhere. Have we met before?”
His sentence long and hard for me to understand. I prefer he speak slow.
He repeat, “Do we know each other?”
Best answer I have is, “No, I don’t think so.” I am good liar after years. Quickly, I tell him about my job as Chinese teacher in Altrincham. He swallow down all my story.
Iain gets his diary and ask me what date would suit me for the portrait. I say Saturday 10 o’clock. Enough time for getting two bus to Altrincham from Mrs Eva bedsit. Altrincham nothing like where I live with Mrs Eva. People here they taste tea in street cafe. Where I live, man he sit outside the ASDA with dog and Big Issue and taste tea on street. Easy to believe why man like Iain work in a place like Altrincham where there is happy, smiling, rich.
Portrait, it cost a hundred quid. About 1,000 yuan! I think how much of my daughters that buy me back? One hand? Two eye? Another beautiful black hair to match the one in my pocket?
Three days I wait. I buy new outfit from the ASDA. I choose a dress that make me look and feel more British – but I know my place: a person who not belong. Foreigner. I see myself from outside, like window shopper. Way other see me: getting on the Stagecoach buses and asking direction, walking here and there in town, always a little lost. Is like watching myself in movie. My head, it still in China, thinking different way about how to do things like eat, talk, get up early for work and follow rules.
The Secret Mother Page 29
