by Hannah Bent
‘Up!’ I say ‘Up!’
Wài Pó puts the brakes on my wheelchair and runs to him. She is a bit slow, because she is skinny and old, but that is personal private information that I will never say to her face.
Now everyone on the seats next to the windows have their eyes on me. I try to use my hands to tell them to help get Louis off the bus, but they just stare. Then I see Wài Pó get on the bus. She says something to Louis that I cannot hear. He smacks his hands on his head. He does this when he wants to say something like ‘stupid me’. As he walks off the bus I see that the lady next to him takes out a tissue. She bends over and seems to be wiping his empty seat from top to bottom before she moves over to take his place by the window. I am looking at her face while she does this. She has big frown lines on her forehead and her nose is wrinkled up like she has smelled a bad smell. It makes my skin prickly and uncomfortable and my head feels confused. I push my glasses further up the hard part of my nose to make sure I am seeing things in a clear way. After all, she was a lady with a soft, nice-looking face. I had been planning to give her a friendly wave to say thank you for sitting next to my Louis and keeping him company, but I am not so sure I want to now.
‘My sweet and precious flower!’ Louis runs across the road, faster than Wài Pó. ‘I did it! I did it!’ He kisses me, a big fat one, on the lips.
‘Yes! You did it. You are a clever man.’ I am so happy in my heart to see him.
But as he pulls away, I see so many eyes on us at the bus stop. I decide that I do not like these eyes; they are sharp and unfriendly.
As Wài Pó wheels me back to the house, I ask, ‘Louis, were you eating Doritos on the bus? You know you can’t eat on the bus or you might make crumbs.’
‘I was not eating Doritos on the bus. This is the truth because I ate three packets all in one go last night, at nine pm, when I was watching Friends. Now there are no more Doritos left in my house for me to eat.’
‘Aī yā, don’t worry about other people, Míng Huà. Other people shén me dōu bù dǒng.’
Normally, I would tell my Wài Pó not to speak badly of others, but today I didn’t want to. Today, something inside of me has become different and knowing. I think of the time I was craving one of Wài Pó’s egg tarts so bad, but she was too tired to bake, so I went to a shop and bought one with my money. It looked so happy and friendly sitting there in the cafe; so yellow, so buttery, so yummy. But then when I took one single bite, I had to spit it out. It was hard and too eggy and not enough sweet. Even though it looked very delightful, it was not.
Today I think that things are not always as they seem.
Marlowe
The eastern sun was rising chilli red over the South China Sea. I leaned my head against the aeroplane window. Heat prickled my lips, a sensation I didn’t know I had missed until now.
‘Would you like the omelette or the dim sum?’ The flight attendant smiled, revealing a mouth of bleached teeth.
‘Neither, thanks. I’m not hungry.’
My gaze drifted back to the window. The sky was already turning blue – a bright arion blue. I was reminded once more of my grandfather, who had first introduced me to the large blue butterfly on one of my summer visits to the UK. It had been over ten years since the delicate creature became extinct in Britain, but thanks to his long-standing connections in the lepidopterist world, Grandpa was taking me on a journey to a secret site where the butterfly was being reintroduced into the British countryside.
‘Large blue’s are of course known for their drunken flying,’ he said. As we walked among the beeches, he told me about the two scientists, Thomas and Simcox, who had brought the species back from the dead.
‘We all tried hard to understand why the butterfly had suddenly stopped thriving…’ As he spoke, I watched his face light up with excitement. It had been so long since I had seen him this happy. ‘And it all boiled down to the Myrmica sabuleti! Fancy that! The large blue caterpillar depends on the ant in order to survive. It produces a pheromone that makes the ant treat it as one of their own. Effectively, the caterpillar has deceived the ant. The arion larvae even eat the ant grubs until they transform into pupae and leave the underground.’
I pictured the carnivorous behaviour with a strange fascination, only able to utter one word in response.
‘Wow.’
Suddenly, Grandpa stopped and, very slowly, crouched down. I followed his gaze to a thyme leaf near his feet. He was still. I couldn’t hear the sound of his breath. The muscles in his face didn’t move an inch, but I saw his eyes were brimming. Here she was – the Maculinea arion. She was tiny. Her outer wings were greyish blue and a shimmering aqua grew upwards from the base of her body. She fluttered and her wings blossomed to reveal a darker, more brilliant shade of blue inside. I blinked, and in an instant the butterfly was gone.
He had devoted his life to the study of the beautiful, rare butterfly, while I chose to study conservation through researching its carnivorous caterpillar.
The captain announced our descent into Hong Kong International Airport, Chek Lap Kok. I tightened the strap of my belt so that it was taut around my hips. The first of nine dragon backs came into view; long, luxuriant spines of mountains undulating into the waking day. I pressed my nose up against the glass. The glittering city caught the morning light. Different shades of metallic blue danced along the periphery of land like jewels on fire. The wheels hit the tarmac with a thud and I was home.
Harper
The sun rises fat and round like a tasty egg yolk. As I am watching it from my bed, I hear someone singing. It sounds like Mum. Has her spirit come to visit me?
Using all my strength, I get up and follow her sound. It takes me to Wài Pó’s room. Her head is sticking out of the window. She is wearing a long, white nightgown and her hair is puffy from the sea salt wind. Her voice grows stronger and stronger. It is low and wild from her belly and heavy from her bones, high from in her nose and soft on her lips. I feel a shock to my breath. She is making a masterpiece – but I did not know Wài Pó was an artist. She has sung to me many times before, but never like this.
It is as if she is calling all those things that are humming around her and drawing them into the space between us.
She is singing in Chinese and in English. I do not understand it all but I know it is something like poetry because of the rhythm, sound and the pictures they make in my mind. Her story is about home: ‘the home we find in country… the home we find in others… the home we find in ourselves’.
Listening, I feel like I am floating below the sun.
I do not know that Wài Pó is finished until she turns and a surprised sound comes out of her mouth.
‘Míng Huà, what are you doing here?’
Even though she is old, I think she looks like a child.
‘You normally knock before you come in,’ she reminds me.
I don’t know why she says this. I never knock, even though I know that is a polite thing to do.
‘Why did you never tell me about your music?’ I ask.
She takes my hand. We sit on her bed that smells like the minty oil she puts on her knees.
‘You know, when I was young, I loved to write my own songs and sing them.’
She is smiling now. I like that.
‘I would sing in the shower, in the car, on my way to school. My parents would fight and I would sing.’
Her smiling stops and her face becomes tight. All her wrinkles come out like the shell of a walnut.
‘And then one day my mother stopped me. The back of her left hand landed on my cheek. “Singing is not for people of our class,” she scolded me.’
I hold her hand as tight as I can. I do not understand what her mum meant by ‘people of our class’, but I know this is upsetting because of the way Wài Pó said it.
‘My mother was hurting. You see, she found out my father was in love with someone else.’
My body feels jumpy.
‘But, Wài Pó, when peo
ple marry, they do it because they love each other and no one else.’
‘My dear Míng Huà, love is not always that simple.’
I have seen this kind of thing in movies but I always press the stop button when it happens, because that is not what love is. Love is loyal, kind and full of romance.
‘After we fled Shanghai for Hong Kong, I found out my country had banned its people from singing these kinds of songs too.’
That is a strange thing, I think to myself. China is a fun place. It is where cousin Bì Yù lives, and Uncle Bĭng Wén and Aunt Lĭ Nà. I always eat good food and have a good time with family when we are there. China is the country of Mum’s birth and therefore it is a special place. We all used to sing in the car when we went there on holidays and no one stopped us.
‘Why did they stop the singing?’ I ask.
But she doesn’t reply. Her eyes seem like they are lost somewhere, and even when I squeeze her hand again she doesn’t come back.
‘Why?’ I say it louder now and it lands in the air like a full stop.
She looks at me. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’
I think that she looks very tired indeed.
‘At least your mā ma got to make her music. I made sure of it.’
‘Yes. Yes she did,’ I say.
‘Music is in our blood.’ Her voice is not soft and thin like it usually is; now it is young and full and reminds me of stamping feet.
I hear my own sound now, loud and clear. It goes: da dum da dum da dum.
I close my eyes and see red blood, swimming around my body.
Red blood, red music.
Marlowe
My family home – a two-storey, renovated village house – had deteriorated in the years I had been gone. Its crumbling white exterior was marked with thick strokes of browning magenta from a decaying bougainvillea vine. Mould speckled the wooden window frames. The water feature in the centre of the driveway was covered in moss and the statue of a Greek goddess was missing her left finger.
‘Simply the Best’ sounded from a nearby radio, interrupting the morning stillness. I stood on the gravel driveway, suitcases by my side as the taxi drove off in the distance. A wind chime sounded, interfering with the beat of Tina Turner’s song. I looked up. A radio sat by Harper’s open window.
I pressed the doorbell. No response. I tried a second time, then a third, until finally Irene, Dad’s girlfriend, opened the door. The scent of Chanel No. 5 and Silk Cut cigarettes wafted out. Irene leaned in to kiss the air above my cheeks.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask.
‘At work.’
‘On a Saturday?’ Owning a successful business making leather shoes meant Dad could choose his own hours.
‘There’s something he needs to sort out. We thought you were getting the later flight.’ Her shiny, expressionless face was framed by an immaculate bob. ‘Your sister and grandmother don’t know you’re coming.’ Her right hand rested on her hip, her curves snug in one of the red mini dresses she always had in stock at her boutique. ‘We thought it would be best not to cause Harper any unnecessary emotional stress. Anticipation can take its toll on the body and we couldn’t be sure you would actually come.’ She turned her back and swanned into the house, her snakeskin stilettos loud on the marble tiles of the foyer.
My suitcases were heavy. Too heavy. I dumped them next to Wài Pó’s antique table which, instead of a bouquet of fresh flowers and a tray of her assorted Chinese sweets, was now cluttered with Irene’s ashtrays. Beneath it were a couple of pairs of Irene’s designer shoes. She lives here now? My stomach did a somersault. Although Dad and Irene had been dating since I was a young teen, he had never let her move in. This was Mum’s house. In the corner, next to the umbrella stand, was a wheelchair. It looked lonely and smelled of hospital disinfectant.
I removed my shoes. The floor was cool beneath my feet. I walked past the kitchen – it smelled sweetly of Wài Pó’s egg tarts – to the living room. Following the sounds of the radio, I climbed the staircase. From above, I saw that Wài Pó’s treasured display of Ming dynasty vases was missing from the living room. I stopped abruptly. Mum’s grand piano was missing too. Panic quickened my breath.
‘Irene?’ I called.
She moved into my line of view from the foyer below.
‘Where’s Mum’s piano?’ I knew this had to be her doing.
Irene glanced at the vacant space where the piano used to be. ‘We can talk about this when your father gets home.’ She turned to walk away, then stopped and turned. ‘I presume you’ll want to come in the car with us to the hospital?’
What kind of question was that? Why else had I come?
Stay cool.
‘Yes.’
Stay calm.
She looked at her watch. ‘You won’t have a luxurious amount of time to unpack and get ready. We’re leaving at one thirty.’
I fantasised about releasing my frustration with a loud howl before running out of the house, hailing a taxi to take me to the airport and boarding the next plane back to London. Instead I continued up the stairs.
On the second floor, facing the hallway that led to our bedrooms, I saw that in the place of family photographs which had once adorned the magnolia-white walls was a selection of contemporary paintings in shades of purple, green and grey. It didn’t matter how much she insinuated herself into Dad’s life, Irene Gresham would never be Mrs Irene Eve, I reminded myself. Dad would never marry again. This wasn’t a promise he had made aloud, but I saw him make it silently the moment Mum died. His fingertips had gently closed her eyes and his lips lightly brushed her forehead.
‘Goodnight,’ he whispered.
Goodnight – not goodbye.
Turning away, I saw that my sister’s bedroom door was ajar. Wài Pó, dressed in smart navy pants and a chiffon blouse, sat with her back to the door, facing Harper’s bed. Her body appeared smaller, yet she still looked good for a seventy-seven-year-old.
‘I made your favourite. Eat, please, you’re far too skinny.’ She extended her hand and I saw she was holding a plate of egg tarts. I moved forward to get a closer look at my sister.
Harper was in bed, tucked beneath a thick golden quilt. Her long mane of cocoa hair had thinned dramatically and her cheekbones protruded beneath sallow skin. One leg stuck out from beneath the quilt, and I saw that it was swollen and discoloured. I gripped the doorframe tightly. This was not the sister I’d left a year ago.
‘Not hungry.’ Harper shook her head. ‘No thank you, Wài Pó.’
My sister never refused food.
How had things got so bad? I never should have left.
‘Do you want siu mai?’ Wài Pó offered.
‘No.’
‘Fried rice?’
Silence.
Come on, Harper.
‘Congee with scallops?’
My sister shook her head.
Seriously?
Wài Pó bowed her head. ‘You must eat, Míng Huà.’
‘I said I am not hungry, Wài Pó.’ Harper coughed. It sounded deep and sticky, and her lips, I noticed, were tinged with purple. It was unbearable.
I strode into the room. ‘Harper you have to eat!’
Wài Pó screamed and whipped around. Harper rolled over in her bed. They both looked at me wide-eyed, as if they were seeing a ghost.
I drew Wài Pó into my arms. She felt so light and small.
‘Am I dreaming?’ Harper asked.
Wài Pó pulled away. Her eyes were watery and pink. She took an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her cheeks.
‘Hěn piào liàng.’ She cupped my face in her palms. ‘So beautiful, like your mā ma.’
Harper held out her hand and I took it. ‘Is it really, really you, Marlowe?’ Her skin was cold. ‘I need to touch you.’ She reached for my face, and like she used to do when she was small, closed her eyes and traced my features with her fingertips. ‘You’re home.’
My heart skipped a beat; the abnorm
al rhythm shuddered through my body. I listened to her rasping breath and felt my own lungs tighten. Was this my body I was feeling or hers? My top lip quivered. I began to count silently, until I felt the tide of emotion recede. I opened my eyes and gave my sister a kiss on the forehead.
‘I’m home, Harper. I’m here to look after you.’
As her hand nestled into mine, I pictured myself in London. I hated myself for the longing I felt, but I couldn’t help it. I closed my eyes and imagined riding on the bus in the morning, watching flakes of snow spiral to the ground – much like the white feathers of a dove in the mouth of a fox.
Harper
‘Tell me a story.’ I want to listen to Marlowe’s voice and feel her close to me.
Her body becomes very stiff and still. Her long arms and legs do not move, not even a little bit. Her face is like an empty piece of paper with no writing on it.
‘Maybe Wài Pó can tell you a story?’ She sits on my bed. I think that Marlowe might be a little bit scared of telling stories. This could be because she reads the words with her eyes and her quick brain but does not want to feel them inside of her heart.
‘The story about the flower spirits?’ Wài Pó asks.
I love that one, I really do. My Wài Pó has been good at telling it ever since I was a young and sweet girl.
‘Once there was a scholar who lived alone in a small house. He loved flowers very much and spent all his days in the garden…’ Wài Pó touches the jade ring on her finger as she talks. I think that she gets her magic storytelling powers from this special green ring.
‘One day, four beautiful ladies arrived on his doorstep. Their names were Salix, Prunophora, Persica and Punica. They came asking for help. “In your garden, please put up a scarlet flag with the sun, moon and all the planets painted on it so that when the evil east wind blows, we will be protected.” The scholar obliged and that night, when there was a storm, he noticed that the flowers in his garden remained unaffected by the wind. He realised that Salix was the willow, Prunophora the plum, Punica the pomegranate and Persica the peach.’
