As the Earth Turns Silver (13 page)

It was 4.30 when she came in on her way home from work. She said he looked tired. He remembered smiling weakly. He'd been up at six to go to the market, spent all day unloading the cart, washing and trimming vegetables. Another six hours to go, bringing in the cauliflowers, cabbages, onions, shutting the shop, tidying up.

She was surprised. Did he always have to work such long hours? What about his brother? Of course they took turns: he finished early on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, at about seven when they had dinner and his brother took over. And what did he do then? He might have said that he went down
Tongyangai
and met up with friends like Fong-man, occasionally played a game of dominoes or cards, mostly drank tea and argued about politics, but then he looked at her again and remembered Haining Street was a swear word in English, something like bastard or whore, a place that
gweilo
used at night to frighten their children. He remembered she knew nothing of China, or Sun Yat-sen and the Revolution, and maybe – probably – she didn't care. He felt a nervous laugh rising in his throat.

‘Do you like knitting?' she asked. ‘I hear that sea captains enjoy knitting. It's supposed to be good when there's nothing else to do.'

‘Nitting?'

She mimed some kind of action with her hands, but he didn't understand.

‘Don't worry, just kidding.' She saw his bewilderment. ‘Joking. I was only joking.'

He saw the twinkle in her eyes. He was still curious – what was this
nitting
she joked about, and what was the other word, did she say
kidding
? – but he did not ask again. Sometimes he'd sidetrack her with his questions and they'd forget what they'd been talking about. Sometimes he was too plain tired.

‘So what do you do when you're not working?' she asked again.

‘I walk,' he said. Already he'd forgotten the new words. Instead he was swallowed by night, the rocking of one foot in front of the other, everything full of shadow and half-light – moon, star, lamplight – the streets emptied of people and filled with ghosts, dreams, strange possibilities.

‘I like walking too,' she said, and he was surprised, and didn't know what he'd told her and what he'd only thought, because there was always a gap between thought and its expression, especially in another language. ‘It's a good time to think,' he heard her say, and he looked up from the cauliflower he'd chosen because it was the biggest and freshest and whitest, and he asked her where she liked to walk.

‘Sometimes we walk to Oriental Parade or even down to the beach at Island Bay. If it's fine, that is. The children like to play in the water.

‘Robbie kicks a ball or if there are other boys down there he'll join them for cricket . . . Edie makes elaborate – big – sandcastles . . . Sometimes we just go to the Basin. It's so much closer . . .'

She sighed. ‘Sometimes I think I need time to myself. Away from Mrs Newman telling me what to do. Away from the children . . .' She smiled.

He nodded. He needed time away from the shop too. Away from his brother. But perhaps he had too much time. Alone.

There was silence, just the crinkling and rustling of newspaper. As he handed the wrapped cauliflower to her, the small bag of Brussels sprouts, he told her about the place at the Basin, under the cabbage trees, where he liked to lie down and think and look at the night sky.

The next evening, Thursday, he did not go down Haining Street or Frederick or Taranaki. He walked to the Basin. There was no one under the pine or cabbage trees. He walked a circuit, then another, and another. Then he lay down under a tree and looked up at the moonless sky, at the stars shining out of darkness.

It was different here. The stars made unrecognisable pictures; they told other stories.

He could feel the damp coming through his clothes from the grass underneath, even from the air. His mother would scold.
Cold-to-death
, she'd call.
Rice bucket
, is that all you can do? Eat rice and nothing else? Your brother can't read but is he so stupid?

Yung laughed and gazed at the stars, which glowed larger and more wondrously fuzzy because of myopia.

He thought about how far away they were. He thought about the cowherd and spinning-maid, of whom the heavens disapproved because passion interfered with their work – two lovers whom the Jade Emperor turned into stars, whose paths crossed only once every year, on the seventh day of the seventh month.

He sighed. Who could understand women and their complicated thinking – especially a foreign woman. He could feel the damp moving through his clothes, through his skin, even through his flesh to the marrow at the heart of his bones, when he heard her voice.

‘Hello,' she called from a distance.

He lifted his head and saw her silhouette. ‘Hello,' he said, and realising that she might not be sure whether it was him, he stood up and tipped his hat in the manner of a
gweilo
to a lady. ‘Mrs McKechnie,' he said.

He'd looked into her eyes as he told her about moonlight, starlight, the place under the cabbage trees at the Basin. Katherine blushed and left the shop quickly.

But she couldn't stop thinking. As she cooked dinner, as she sent the children to bed. She couldn't sleep.

The next day she gazed at the black typewriter keys and thought of his hair, his eyes, the gentle, husky sound of his voice. What had Mrs Newman just said? What was she supposed to be doing?

She passed by the shop on the way home, saw his brother stacking pumpkins. Did not go in.

Her stomach felt tight. At dinner, she could not eat.

‘Are you all right, Mum?' Edie asked.

‘What? Yes, I'm fine. Just got a stomach-ache.' She put down her fork.

‘Brussels sprouts give me stomach-ache too,' Robbie said, pushing his plate away.

Katherine could see him looking at her, waiting for her to argue with him, waiting for her to make him eat, but for once she said nothing.

The children went to bed and the house fell silent.

Katherine opened a book and closed it. She picked up her knitting and put it down again. She looked in at the children. Came back downstairs and paced from room to room. Not a sound from upstairs. Not a sound.

She put on her coat and walked out the back door.

It was a new moon; she could barely make out his silhouette under the cabbage trees. ‘Mrs McKechnie,' he said, as if he'd been waiting.

How did he know it was her? How
could
he be waiting?

She was suddenly afraid. She'd made a terrible mistake with Donald. And now, what in God's name was she doing?

He stood up and walked towards her, and she didn't know what to say. She had to say something.

‘You haven't given me a name,' she blurted out. ‘I asked you over a month ago and you still haven't given me a name.' She wanted to cry. What a stupid thing to say. As if she'd come all this way – as if she'd left her children asleep in bed – just because he'd forgotten. What had come over her? It had been a stupid, stupid thing to ask of him, even then. And now . . .

A tram rattled past, turning out of Adelaide Road, into Rugby and along Sussex; another travelled along Kent Terrace. A drunk called out as he stumbled out of the Caledonian, the clip-clop of a horse-cart, the ragged sound of a motorcar.

What was he saying? Was he laughing? Not his usual gravelly laugh but something quieter, more hesitant.

The leaves of a cabbage tree shook above them.

Her face felt hot. She was shaking. She wanted to run, but her legs felt weak, as if her bones had softened, as if she were falling. ‘I . . . I have to go . . .' she whispered.

But then he moved closer, took her in his arms as if to still her shaking.

He turned her hand and slowly traced onto her palm with his finger. She could hardly see, only movements of darkness within darkness, but she could smell ginger and aniseed, the smell of a man's fresh sweat, and she could feel the shape of her name, the sensation of skin against skin.

‘
Lai
,' he said. ‘This is Chinese family name, not name we give foreigners, not name like English. You put this name with word for bright and this is sun come out of night. You have all these colours.' She could hear his breathing, feel her own short breaths. ‘
Bik-yuk
,' he was saying. ‘This is Christian name. It means jade.' And he was writing again, stroking her palm with her name. ‘
Bik
,' he was saying. ‘This is word for king and this is white. Under is rock.
Yuk.
This is three jades,' he was drawing horizontal lines, ‘and this string hold them together. Many woman have name like beautiful or flower but you are pure and clear . . .'

She heard a tram swing through her silence into Adelaide Road, felt him touch her hair, her cheek, brush her lips, which parted and left a line of moisture on his fingers.

You take one step, two, you open your eyes – and you've travelled a thousand miles.

What is she doing?

She avoided him for days. There were no more vegetables. No bananas or oranges to give the children for their lunches. She wondered about walking further, finding a different fruiterer.

She walked past without turning to look. She could still feel his fingers, his lips . . . She wanted to scream. She wanted the earth to swallow her . . .

She walked but could not enter another greengrocery. She walked. And turned back.

She entered and felt his eyes move over her face, down her body.

‘I need vegetables – and fruit,' she said, her voice quivering. ‘For the children.' She had no strength. She could not choose.

He unhooked a bundle of bananas from above the window, selected oranges and carrots, cauliflower and onions. Potatoes. As he gave them to her, his fingers brushed across her hand.

‘Tonight,' he said softly. ‘Where no one see us.'

Katherine sent the children to bed at nine o'clock. Edie seemed to fall almost immediately into sleep, her face as clear and calm as the moon. Robbie complained. He was twelve, after all, and not a child. Surely he could stay up till at least 9.30. She let him read for fifteen minutes only, then came and turned off the light and went back downstairs. There was mending to do. A sock of Robbie's where his big hungry toe had eaten its way through the wool, a pair of trousers that had split at the knee. He was so hard on his clothes – running around kicking balls, climbing trees, forgetting to cut his toenails; these were only a couple of months old.

She used to grumble at Donald because he never gave enough for housekeeping. Now she had enough and still she was doing the mending. She smiled sadly. Then, unhappiness had coloured everything; now, it was merely the habits of a lifetime. ‘But Katie,' her mother would say, ‘they're perfectly good. All you need to do is apply a little thread and elbow grease.'

Katherine stared at her sewing basket. She did not want to think of her mother. She rose and went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and put it on the range. She walked up and down, her shoes ringing on the wooden floorboards. She made tea and sat at the table, holding the hot cup in her hands. It grew cold and she poured it away. She swept the floor. After ten minutes she realised she had been scattering coal dust, walking through it, spreading dust from one pile into many. She put the broom away. Sat down at the table. Stood up, started pacing again. Stopped. She climbed the stairs quietly and looked in at the children.

Edie lay, arms tossed up as if softly under arrest, but Robbie looked like he'd been running, fighting; he'd tangled himself in the bedding as if caught in a spider's web. She'd untangled him so many times, ever since he was a wee boy. She picked his pillow up from the floor and placed it under his head, pulled the sheets and eiderdown gently, and tucked him in again as if he were still her baby, as if he were still four years old. She closed the door behind her and did not see his eyes flicker open.

Downstairs, she stared again at the mending. Surely there was more to life than elbow grease.

She put on her coat, pulled her biggest hat – the green one with the orange flowers – well down over her face, and secured it with a hatpin. She put a box of matches in her pocket, picked up the lantern, unlit, then stepped out the back door.

The cool of night enveloped her. A clouded sky. She stood there, almost walked back into the kitchen and closed the door again. Why was she doing this? She was crazy. She knew she was crazy.

She listened. The children were asleep.

She walked down the side of the house, through the gate, then over the road. She turned and stared at the darkness of the upstairs windows. She had to either walk straight back across the road or go on. She could feel his lips on her hair, her throat . . . with every step it seemed to get a little easier, her heart beating in her mouth.

She walked down Adelaide Road towards the shops. Everything was closed – except for the Tramways Hotel, which spilled gloomy yellow light and laughter onto the footpath. And the greengrocery. No, not him, but his brother carrying shelves of fruit and vegetables inside. She walked, holding the unlit lantern, knowing no one in the little wooden cottages saw her in the darkness, hoping no one she knew would stumble across her in the street. Opposite the Basin Reserve she turned right, quickly, away from the pale light of the street lamp, up the driveway to the College. Lights off in the dormitories, all those boys – some not much older than Robbie – lying in their beds whispering, sighing, dreaming. Past the big kitchens where servants still washed supper dishes and prepared the next day's breakfast. Through the grounds of the school, up to the town belt.

Among the trees she hesitated. Long pine trunks, branches swayed and sang above her. She used to play here when she was a girl – as soon as he described it, she knew where he was meaning – but she'd never come at night. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, took a deep breath and walked slowly, feeling each step along the ground before she put her full weight on it. She could see shadows, degrees of black and black. At last, when she thought no one would see her through the pines, she fumbled with the matches and lit the lantern. Light escaped from just one glass side. Now she saw the earth rise and fall away, tree roots, ridges and valleys, carpets of pine needles, broken glass, pine cones, empty bottles. What was more frightening: blindness or the shadows cast by the flame?

She walked tentatively, searching for the tree, the only one half-burnt by lightning . . . there . . . she caught hold of the trunk and walked behind it straight into . . . she gasped and fell back, but hands caught her, pulled her up. She held on as if drowning in air, the lantern swinging, sending light zigzagging over branch and trunk and root. Across his sleeve, collar, face. She could smell him: soap, ginger and garlic, a man smell. Her feet found steady ground; she let go, and then he let go also, their bodies so close she could feel him breathing. She looked up and the brim of her hat swept across his face.

They fell back. She was apologising and he was saying something she could not understand. He was laughing, and laughter rose from her like a small skein of wool unravelling. Then silence: just the rustle of pine needles, the call of a morepork, the distant clatter of trams. ‘I suppose I should take it off,' she said.

He said nothing.

She put down the lantern, suddenly wishing she'd blown out the flame. The hatpin. Her fingers felt thick, clumsy. She was pulling the pin from her hair, feeling that this was an extreme act of intimacy, like taking off one's clothes, petticoat by petticoat, like being caught in moonlight naked. She dropped the hat, her hair falling over the back of her neck, over her face, felt his lips on her forehead, his hand cup and lift her chin, her mouth towards him . . .

Afterwards, she climbed into the coldness of her bed, felt the thin layer of sweat on her skin, stared at the ghost of a street lamp through her window.

She listened to the sounds of darkness, closed her eyes. Her mother's face slipped under her eyelids, her voice through the ears she tried to squeeze shut:
Why do
y
ou always bring home stray dogs and cats? What's wrong with you? People will think I didn't bring you up right.

It hadn't been men. She hadn't had any men before Donald – and anyway, even now her mother was still under Donald's spell. It was Matilda Mulroney, who didn't have any friends because she was dirty and had a vague off-putting smell but whose wicked sense of humour Katherine adored. It was the three-legged dog that followed her home.

If she was honest – and oh, honesty was a taskmaster it was easier to avoid – Katherine had noticed the Chinese.

Why, for instance, were they almost exclusively men? And why did people call them celestials? Because they were aliens? Because no one knew anything about them? Apart from Haining Street, that is. Apart from opium and gambling.

Katherine noticed as they walked down the street or when she went into their greengroceries. Once, almost all of them had a long plait that fell down their back, that they sometimes coiled up under their hats, their foreheads shaved right up the scalp. But more and more were cutting their hair.

There were stories of danger and iniquity that seemed ludicrous if compelling. Yet most Chinamen seemed so thin and small. So polite and unassuming.

If they had not spoken such halting English, if their accent had not been so difficult, if they had not looked so out of place, so very foreign, perhaps she would not have noticed the Chinese at all.

It reminded her of the way she had been with Donald . . .

Yet this Chinaman was different. Chinamen were aberrations, and he, an aberration amongst them . . . She smiled. He had, she realised, Matilda's mischievous grin.

She knew it was madness.

She would not go to him again. He would wait and wait and she would not come.

It was a dream – a beautiful, discomfortable dream. She would wake up. Of course, it was only a dream.

But she could still feel him inside her, the ache of him like a bruise.

It hadn't been like this with Donald.

It was the tenderness.

He entered and she wept. Silently. She was not crying. It's just that tears slipped from her eyes and she did not know why.

When he touched her it felt like wholeness. She forgot who he was. He was a man, he was
this
man, and now there was no other reason for being. Except for him to fill her. And fill her.

The intensity of their bodies filling the world.

*

Yung rose early. He could not keep still. He felt as if he had boundless energy. He walked to the markets composing short poems in his head, reciting them to himself, whistling old love ballads. His body no longer belonged to himself; it seemed so light, he felt like he could run up walls, perform miraculous feats of endurance.

Bidding hadn't started yet. He walked through the cavernous buildings, past the auctioneers with their clipboards; through the throng of other buyers; past the huge concrete pillars and the timber-painted signs nailed to the walls or hanging from the ceiling – Sandy Pope, George Thomas, Leary, Thompson Bros, Townsend & Paul, D. Bowie, Market Gardeners; past the lines of produce, here a line of cauliflowers, there a line of cabbages, here lettuces, there apples or pears; past the stacks of wooden cases and jute super-sacks with the name of the grower written on paper tags. He hummed as he walked, only after some time realising what he was humming – a bawdy folk song about a bridegroom waiting with his friends for the bride. He laughed and kept humming, hunting out the produce from the best growers, calling out to his fellow clansmen, ‘Have you eaten yet?' then smiling, ‘Yes, yes, I have eaten,' even though he had eaten nothing since the night before; his shoes sounding out on the damp wooden floorboards, somewhere just above the hum of excited conversation, the yelling, the banging of wooden boxes, the clip-clop of horses on the road outside. Jonquils. He stood in Market Gardeners, smelling jonquils. He laughed. Today he would buy flowers.

*

Why did she meet him? Why? She knew she had to save herself.

She wanted to bury her face in his skin. She longed for his caresses, his fullness, his hardness pushing into her, through her. She longed for his desperation, the shudder of him, the gentleness of their fall into sleep.

She could not sleep. She could not eat.

‘Are you all right?' Mrs Newman asked. ‘You look so tired and pale. Take the day off and go to bed. And don't come back till you're feeling better.'

She met him, fell into his arms. He entered and she cried out. She wanted to cry out
I love you
.

*

Sometimes in the early hours while the city slept and the only sounds were those of the lion and monkeys carried on the night air from the zoo, he accompanied her along the darkest side streets towards home, picking up and handing to her small mementos – a fragrant rambling rose stolen from Mrs Farrell's garden, its colour only truly known once she'd brought it home and examined it in the light of her hallway. It was a game they played – pink, yellow, orange, red: ‘You say pink, I say yellow, no tricking, tomorrow you tell me yellow, yes?'

Once she plucked from the gutter a broken stone shaped like a heart and gave it to him. He turned it in his fingers, looked at her sideways, one eyebrow raised. ‘It's a heart,' she exclaimed, but still he did not understand. ‘Heart,' she said, making a fist with her hand, beating her chest. Did he not know about the heart? About love?

‘Heart,' he said, the word blooming in his mind.
Sum
,
sum gon
, my heart and liver. He held the stone in his palm, placed it his breast pocket. In truth, it looked nothing like a heart, nothing like two love knots intertwined, but now he understood what she was giving him.

He reached into a mass of foliage tumbling from a wooden fence. ‘In China,' he said, ‘we have
fa cha
, flower tea. It tastes like this.' He held the tiny flowers to her face and she inhaled deeply. Star-flowers, she thought, as if intoxicated.

Katherine examined the flowers in the light of her bedroom. A few were still slender pink buds, but others had opened delicate creamy petals. She laid them beside her pillow, and all night, and for several nights after, the fragrance filled the dark air and coloured the world of her dreams.