by Li, Veronica
The Hong Kong stock market was booming at the time. Every day the papers carried headlines on the Hang Seng index setting another record. In teahouses and restaurants, all the conversation was about which stock to buy and which to sell. From servants to their mistresses, coolies to executives, everyone was cashing in on it. All my friends were laughing, with my cousin Helen the loudest. Her husband had started a second family with his nurse, but money was her first love and nothing made her merrier than watching it grow.
Real estate was another fast-growing market. Refugees were swarming over the border to escape communist purges. Every time Mao Tse-Tung launched a "Great Leap Forward" or some such campaign, the size of Hong Kong’s population bounded upward. If I didn’t lay claim to a few square feet of property, very soon there wouldn’t be an inch left. The free housing my family was getting from Southeast Asia Trading couldn’t last forever, for sooner or later Hok-Ching and I would have to retire. Where would we live then? Prices were going up, up, and up. Buildings were sold out the moment the blueprints became public. People were lining up to sign up for flats as if they were free. I had to buy soon if I would be able to afford anything at all.
One Saturday afternoon, after a refreshing nap, I decided I’d done enough homework to broach the subject with my husband. I was brushing my hair at the vanity. The mirror showed Hok-Ching sitting on the bed, putting on his socks. His jaws were relaxed. The morning in the office had been quiet, and now an entire weekend stretched out ahead of him. He especially looked forward to going with Patrick to the tennis club, where they would have a roaring time "creaming" other father-and-son teams.
Talking to his reflection, I said: "I’ve been thinking about what to do with our savings. You know, prices have been going up. I used to give the cook $20 in the morning. It was enough to buy food for three meals. But $20 soon became $25, and now even that is barely covering the costs. I think we should invest our savings, or soon they won’t be worth much."
"Are you sure she’s not padding the books?" he said with a smirk.
"Oh no, not this cook. She doesn’t need to cheat us. She gets her money from the stock market. Haven’t you noticed how her face glows these days?" He was silent. I let the idea sink in for a while before continuing. "The smell of money is everywhere. Just last week my cousin Helen told me that her shares in Hong KongLand went up by $20,000 in one day. Can you imagine? She can make that much money just by sitting and doing nothing!"
"Stocks go up and down. Haven’t you heard about the crash in Shanghai? Do you know how many people jumped off the roof?"
I was ready for that one. "There are stocks that fluctuate, but there are also blue-chip stocks that are more stable than aircraft carriers. It will take an atomic bomb to sink them."
"What if there were an atomic bomb?"
He was standing behind me now, staring at my image, his jaws grinding from side to side. I went on teasing out the kinks at the end of my hair, one resolute stroke after another. "If an atomic bomb goes off, then there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll all go up in smoke." Swinging around to face him, I said with earnestness, "Companies like Hong Kong Electric and Kowloon Bus will never go under. There will always be demand for their services. I’m not asking you to put all our savings into them. We can start with a few shares to see how they do."
He sat back down, staring at the floor like a lost child. I cupped my hand on his fist. "Why don’t we do this," I coaxed. "I’ll invest a small amount, say $10,000, in the safe companies. The shares can be under my name. You don’t have to get involved."
"Just don’t give me any paper to sign!" he said, throwing me an angry glance.
"Oh no, you don’t have to sign anything."
He stared at the floor again, mumbling, "All right."
Afraid that he would see the smile in my heart, I reverted to the mirror and started putting up my hair. He stood up to leave the room.
"Wait, there’s something else," I said, gazing at his profile in the mirror. "The other day, I passed by the sales office of a new apartment building. It’s a good location, just off Nathan Rd., and the price is entirely within our range. The down payment is only $10,000, and the monthly payment is about $1,000. Helen says it’s the best deal in the whole of Hong Kong."
"Helen, Helen, Helen. You only want to do what Helen does! Helen’s husband is a doctor. He makes much more than I do. Why didn’t you marry a doctor?" He was so agitated that he was panting. I turned to face him. His fists were clenched. Sometimes I wished he would go ahead and strike me.
"But we can afford it. Listen to me, Hok-Ching. We need to have a home of our own. Even little birds know that. Haven’t you seen a sparrow carry a twig? It’s building a nest for its young. One at a time, the twigs pile up, and soon the bird owns its own home."
"You can’t fool me with this nonsense. I know you. You want to do whatever your friends do. You’re just a copycat. If we sink all our money into a flat, what will we do in an emergency? What will happen when the communists come? Don’t you have any brains to think with? If your friends go to hell, are you going to follow them there? Forget it! I’ll never put my signature on it. You’re always trying to get me into trouble. Do you want to see me in jail? Is that what you want?"
Rage blinded me. With one fling of the arm, I swept the bottles of cosmetics off my dressing table. Red nail polish splashed on the floor. It was the same old story again. Hok-Ching was terrified. He believed that life was one grand conspiracy against him. Everything that could go wrong was bound to, and the only way to counter misfortune was to hide in his cave. He had no faith in himself or others. Optimism was how humans survived holocausts and world wars, but my husband would have none of it. For this reason, I would never own a home.
*
Because my hands were tied, I had to watch the foundation of my future erode away. Hong Kong’s economic boom was leaving me behind. All my friends were swaggering past me, some of them glancing back with eyes filled with pity. More than scorn, loathing, or malice, I found pity the hardest to swallow. It also made me more determined than ever to succeed.
Money was important, but not the most important component in my design. My children’s education was the true cornerstone of my home. This is the only asset that no one can take away. No matter what happens, be it disasters created by the heavens or man, an educated person can always build a good life. To lay such a foundation for my children’s future was my goal.
Having been brought up in Hong Kong, I knew how competitive its schools were. The rapid population growth had only made it cutthroat. To separate the wheat from the chaff, students were made to compete in grueling exams. Those who passed the Primary Six standardized tests, for example, would go on to secondary school, while those who failed would have to drop out. Getting into Hong KongUniversity was about as hard as winning the lottery. A child had to start cramming as early as second or third grade. We call this kind of education "duck-feeding." A tube is rammed into the duckling’s throat and food is pumped in to fatten it for the market. Much as I disliked this force-feeding method, I had to prepare my children for it. University might seem a speck in the distant future, but unless they got a head start they wouldn’t even get close enough to catch a glimpse of the gate.
When we first returned to Hong Kong, I enrolled my children in the parish school at Saint Teresa’s church. It was a good school, but not first-rate, and it only went up to Primary Six. As my children got older, I took the girls to the headmistress of Maryknoll, and the boys to the headmaster of Wah Yan. Both were Catholic schools—one run by American nuns of the Maryknoll order, the other by Jesuit priests. Both were known for their high scores on the standardized exams. As Catholics, my children were given priority in admission.
My daughters did well in school. Agnes, whose spicy temper had brought tears to my eyes many times, was mellowing into a likeable young lady. We became close friends, exchanging confidences and going shopping together. Her school grades were above average,
but what made her stand out was her roles in school plays. After starring as Wendy in Peter Pan, she became known as Wendy to all the girls in the school. Her sister, Veronica, was just the opposite in personality. She wasn’t at all flamboyant, but was quiet, patient, and studious. I thought she had all the attributes to become a doctor or scientist. Chris, the baby, was too young to assess. But already I could tell that she wasn’t lacking in intelligence. She had a sharp tongue that could instantly replay what her siblings had said. With my guidance I was confident that she, too, would perform well in school.
My boys, however, were another story. Patrick, in particular, was a constant source of headaches for me. Physically, he was well developed, excelling in any sport he picked up, but mentally, alas, there were times when I thought he might be retarded.
Once, when Patrick was in Primary Four, I saw Agnes and Joe studying for exams. Patrick had a ball in his hand and was about to go downstairs to play. I asked him, "Don’t you have an exam tomorrow?"
"Yes, I do."
"In what subject?"
He blinked several times, but try as he might he couldn’t jumpstart his brain motor. "I don’t know. I didn’t copy the schedule."
I was flabbergasted. He was having an exam the next day and he didn’t even know in what subject. I rushed to the school to look for the teacher. Fortunately, she was still there. After getting the schedule from her, I went to the playground to haul Patrick home.
"Your test tomorrow is in Chinese!" I yelled to him. "Come home right now!"
If he heard me, he didn’t show it. He went on running, as if that were his sole purpose in life. I was about to yell again when my annoyance turned to amazement. The white shirt on his back was fluttering like wings. A plume of smoke and dust billowed out of his feet. My son was flying! The ball spun alongside him. I could have sworn that it was tied to his ankle by a fine thread. How else could it jerk to the left and right in a zigzag path between the other boys? Suddenly the ball blasted off. The goalie leaped and grabbed an armful of air. If he weren’t my son, I would have shouted Bravo! But he was my son, and his test score was more important than his soccer score. I grabbed his sweaty arm and dragged him home.
When Patrick reached Primary Six, the year of the colony-wide exam, I hired a niece of Sam-Koo’s to coach him. The subject I asked her to focus on was arithmetic, his weakest. She drilled him twice a week for many months, but all she could say about his progress was, "His brain doesn’t seem to have opened yet." The day he came home from the exam, my first question to him was how he did in arithmetic. "I finished all the problems," he said. I took him at his word, thinking that the tutoring had helped, but when the results came out, was I in for a surprise! His score was zero! A goose egg, a big "0," nothing! I never thought such a score was possible, but there it was next to my son’s name. That was when I realized that if Patrick were to continue with his education, I couldn’t rely on anyone but myself to coach him.
I begged the fathers of Wah Yan not to expel him. Seeing that he came from a good Catholic family, they allowed him to repeat the grade. Every evening after I came home from work, I sat him down and drilled him in arithmetic. I had to brush up on my own skills, as it had been years since I’d tackled such problems. Some questions were tricky too, as if the examiners were playing a joke on the poor kids. For example, one problem was: (256 x 45 + 36/6 - 29) x 0. Of course, the answer is 0, since any number multiplied by 0 is 0. A student who didn’t know the trick, however, would go through the calculation step-by-step to end up with an answer of 0. Precious time would be wasted, at the sacrifice of other questions in the test.
I tried to reason with Patrick. "Listen! You have to pass this time. If you don’t, you can’t even go on to secondary school. You’ll have to go out and work. You know what kind of job you can get at your age? A coolie, that’s what you’re going to be. Day in, day out, rain or shine, you’ll be carrying heavy burdens on your back. You’ll be poor all your life. Do you understand why studying is so important? Do you?" A blank stare was his reply.
Other times I got so exasperated that I resorted to insulting him, hoping that it would goad him to prove me wrong. "I’ve never seen anyone as stupid as you. You’ll never pass the test." I wished he would cry, argue with me, or resolve to succeed, but all he could do was blink his beady eyes.
Once again, my heart was in my mouth when I searched for his name in the newspaper. The local dailies published the rank and scores of every examinee. From this list the reputable secondary schools would have the pick of the oranges on top, while the rotten ones at the bottom of the basket would be tossed aside. Every year a number of children jumped off buildings because of failing marks. Patrick wouldn’t go to that extreme, but I would be sorely tempted. My hand was shaking when I fingered down the column in search of my eldest son’s name. I wasn’t ambitious. Some mothers prayed that their children ranked within the first hundred, but all I wanted was the minimal score to keep my son in Wah Yan. My ears were ringing when I found Patrick’s name. The numbers next to it rippled as if they were under water. He’d passed!
Joe was also a laggard in his early years. When he arrived in Hong Kong, I thought that as he’d already had a year of schooling in Bangkok, he was ready for Kindergarten 2. But the teacher interviewed him and discovered he didn’t know anything. It was partly because he spoke only Thai, and partly because I’d miscalculated his age and put him in school a year earlier than I should have. The teacher put him back in K1.
Joe’s report cards in the first few years were below average. In a class of thirty- something, he usually ranked in the upper twenties. One day in third grade he brought home a report card that had the number "1" in the upper right-hand corner. My immediate reaction was, there must be a mistake. I called the school, and the teacher confirmed that Joe was indeed first in his class. According to a piece of gossip that Number Five picked up from the other amahs, the child who’d been bumped from first to second place got a thrashing from his mother. What a crazy woman!
For some reason, Joe had been inspired to study that term. He’d never cared before, but now that he’d climbed to the top of the class he could see that the view was worthwhile. He kept his axe to the grindstone and sweated to keep it sharp. He memorized everything, even the answers to arithmetic problems. For example, once he’d figured that 16 x 32 = 512, he would recognize the problem in any test and write down 512 without having to do the calculation. Joe is like that. When he sets his mind on something, he’ll pursue it with a do-or-die intensity.
*
Another area I devoted myself to was my children’s health. From my own painful experience I’d learned that without good health, there was nothing else. Thus when any of them got sick, I sought out the best doctors, most of whom were my fellow Hong Kong University alumni.
When Veronica was around seven, she contracted a cough that wouldn’t go away. Our family doctor at the time was Dr. Tang, Cousin Helen’s husband. The children were in mortal fear of him because his remedy for any illness was always a shot in the rump. His syringes were bigger than other doctors’, and he had a torturous habit of prolonging the anticipation. First he would swab a large area of the patient’s behind with alcohol. Next he would fan the wet spot with his hand. When it was good and dry, he would hold up the giant syringe in his shaky hands and tap it with a finger to check the fluid in it. All this time, the poor patient would be dreading what was coming. My children cried at the mention of Dr. Tang. At first, I didn’t want to switch doctors for fear of offending Helen,, but after giving the matter some thought, I decided my children were more important.
Peter Fok, one of the "boys" who had traveled with me to Chungking, was practicing as an internist. I took Veronica to him and told him, "You better cure her, or I’ll never talk to you again." "You’re unreasonable!" he said. "Is this the gratitude I get for protecting you from the Japanese?"
He gave Veronica a battery of tests that day. She was very brave and didn’t even wince
when the nurse poked a needle into her finger to draw blood. Peter diagnosed her ailment as something called "hundred-day cough." We went home with a couple of bottles of awful-looking medicines, one pink and the other baby blue, to be taken three times a day. Since I was working, I couldn’t be home to make sure that Veronica took it at regular intervals. Number Five was busy taking care of Chris. I looked into my cash flow and did a quick calculation—yes, I could afford to hire a nanny for Veronica. Sam-Koo suggested a relative of hers who was an ex-nurse and the daughter of the people we stayed with in Macao during the war. I thought I remembered her, but when she came to see me, I didn’t recognize her at all. She’d gained at least a hundred pounds since our last encounter. Because she was Sam-Koo’s relative and not an ordinary servant, I instructed Veronica to address her as Auntie. She took one look at her future nanny and called her Auntie Fatty.
Aside from the medicines, I also ordered Veronica be given the traditional tonics to boost her immune system. Several times a week, Auntie Fatty picked the feathers off a swallow’s nest, stewed it in chicken broth, and fed it to Veronica. At night I rubbed her chest with a mixture of oil and ginger. The heat generated was to keep her from coughing in her sleep. This was an old remedy that my mother had used on us.
Weeks went by and she was still coughing. Finally, I decided to get a second opinion. The doctor with the highest medical degree was a pediatrician trained in England and married to an Englishwoman. I didn’t know him personally, although we were students at Hong KongUniversity around the same time. Again he ran a gamut of tests on Veronica and sent us home with a hodgepodge of medicines. I don’t know whether his potions worked or the hundred days were over, for Veronica’s cough went away.
