Chinese Cinderella (23 page)

Two foreign nuns in white habits greeted us. Niang and Fourth Brother followed them into a conference room while I was left outside in the hall. Nobody was around and there was nothing to read except the school brochure lying on the table. Surely they couldn’t fault me for perusing that!

I found out there were 1200 students enrolled at Sacred Heart, of whom sixty‐five were boarders. The rest were day‐girls. More ominously, Sacred Heart also had an orphanage for unwanted daughters abandoned by their parents. I felt my heart pounding as I pondered my fate.

I told myself: the danger is very real. Niang loathes me. As for Father, he doesn’t really care. He hardly knows I exist, remembering neither my name nor my date of birth. To him I don’t matter.

Finally, after one and a half hours, they emerged together. To my astonishment, Niang actually introduced me with a smile to Mother Mary and Mother Louisa. I thought: is this part of her trick to abandon me in the orphanage where I would cost her nothing? I had better concentrate on what she’s saying. Good heavens! She is congratulating me on my good luck because the sisters are making an exception. I am being admitted as a boarder even though it’s the middle of the school year! Did she say
boarder
? My heart is singing and I can hardly believe my good luck. There
is
a God after all!

Chapter Eighteen

Miserable Sunday

Two years later. Summer, 1951.

D
uring mass at the cathedral I kept thinking, It’s Sunday again and I feel so blue. There’s no doubt about it. Sunday is my least favourite day of the week. Just thinking about it makes me cringe! Thank goodness it’s the last Sunday of the summer term.

After mass we dashed into the refectory for breakfast. As usual, Mother Mary wheeled in a huge vat of steaming boiled eggs on a cart. These eggs were precious because you couldn’t just order them from the sisters, no matter how rich your father was. Someone from home had to care enough about you to take the trouble to bring fresh eggs to you personally, carefully wrapped and padded in newspapers, during visiting hours on Sundays. In addition, you had to paint your school‐number in indelible ink on the shell and retrieve your egg when Mother Mary called your number during breakfast. Then you walked back to your seat with your egg perched proudly in your egg cup, showing the whole world that you were cherished and beloved.

Since no one had ever come to visit me (let alone brought me an egg), it was humiliating to sit there morning after morning looking on, knowing my number would never come up. During these sessions, I usually pretended to be deaf and pre‐occupied.

Suddenly, my friend Rachel shoved my elbow, ‘Do you hear what I hear, Adeline? Mother just called your number! 37!’

‘Impossible!’ But sure enough, I heard Mother Mary plainly this time. ‘Number 37!’

I rose with amazed delight. The whole refectory was now silent. All eyes were watching me. Nobody believed my number had been called. Nor did I!

I returned with my prize settled in its very own cup. First time in two years! Finally an egg after 730 eggless mornings! Carefully, I examined its surface. The number 37 was plainly visible, painted in black ink on the smooth, brownish shell. I thought, Who is it from? Do I have a secret admirer? Dare I eat it? Is it really mine to be consumed at will?

I imagined tapping my egg with the back of my spoon, cracking its top, delicately peeling off the broken bits of shell and digging into its white membranous surface. Oh, what bliss to taste that wonderful rich yolk on my tongue and let it slide deliciously down my throat! So very, very tempting! I longed for it. Yet I knew very well it was not mine. It was a mistake. Perhaps a trick or a cruel practical joke. What if the rightful owner came up while I was in the middle of enjoying my egg and claimed it? What should I do then? Once I broke the shell, there was no going back.

I steeled myself and got up from the table. Mother Mary had just handed out the last egg and was about to leave with her empty vat. I approached her hesitantly, feeling confused and defensive, and handed back the egg.

‘Mother Mary! This is not mine.’

Impatiently, she dropped the vat and scrutinised my egg with a sigh. ‘It says 37. What is your number? Are you Number 37?’

‘Yes, Mother!’

‘Then the egg is yours.’

‘No, it can’t be!’

‘Why not? Why can’t it be?’

Everyone had stopped eating and was listening intently. There was not a sound. This is terrible! I thought. I’m drawing attention to myself and broadcasting my state of perpetual egglessness. What can I say that’s logical and convincing and still preserve a bit of dignity?

‘My parents know I
hate
boiled eggs. That’s why they never bring me any,’ I blurted out, my face burning with shame at the lie. ‘So there is no possibility this egg can be mine!’

Behind me, I heard someone (probably Monica) snickering and saying in a loud stage‐whisper, ‘I suppose she hates chocolates and mangoes too. That’s why no one ever comes on Sundays to bring her any goodies at all.’

Sixteen‐year‐old Monica Lim was three years older than I and the daughter of one of the richest tycoons in Hong Kong. She was tall, pretty and well groomed. Her nickname was ‘Brains’ because she routinely topped her class. Rumours were she’d be head girl next year.

Every Sunday, Monica dressed in the latest European fashion to greet her mother, who reputedly was not her illustrious father’s real wife but merely a concubine and a former bar‐girl. During visiting hours on Sundays, the only day we boarders were allowed to dress in street clothes, Monica and her mother looked like models as they strutted around the school yard in fashionable costumes, embellished with padded bras, silk stockings, tailored qipaos and imported high‐heeled shoes. Besides eggs, her mother brought Monica soda crackers, Maltesers, Cadbury chocolate bars, beef jerky, seasonal fresh fruits and Dairy Farm ice‐cream. On her birthday, Monica traditionally got a giant cream cake covered with luscious strawberries which she shared only with certain hand‐picked, chosen ‘friends’. Because of her father’s fabulous wealth, she was much pampered by the nuns and received many special privileges.

For a long time, Monica had ignored me. She was one of the elite group of beautiful ‘big girls’ whom we plain ‘little ones’ were supposed to admire and worship from afar. Then we both got picked to write for the school magazine. In three successive issues, my essays were selected over hers by Mother Agnes, our editor. At the end of my first year at Sacred Heart, I skipped a grade and the girls started calling me ‘scholar’. They began comparing my writing to Monica’s. One day, I accidentally bumped into her in the library and she said resentfully, ‘Instead of trying to memorise every book in here, you’d be more popular if you got yourself some pretty dresses instead.’

I felt my face go hot because I knew I looked terrible. Having no money and not knowing where to buy a bra I tried to hide my budding breasts by wearing two sets of shrunken underwear to flatten my chest. Besides my uniforms, I possessed only one old‐fashioned plain brown Sunday dress which was too small, too short and too tight. I always wore tennis shoes because those were the only shoes available for sale in the school gym and Mother Mary had permission to charge them to Father’s account at her discretion. As for my hair, well, I knew I’d better not even think about it! So I swallowed my anger and walked away. In spite of Monica’s unkind remark, the girls ignored her and nobody else made fun of me.

Towards the end of breakfast, Mother Mary announced that because it was the last Sunday before the beginning of summer holidays, visiting hours were being extended from two to three hours. Everyone cheered, but I felt jittery. When I’m nervous I always have to go to the bathroom. It was crowded with everyone preparing to meet their parents. They were preening themselves in front of the mirror and arranging their hair. Not yet! Better wait another half hour. I sauntered into the library and picked out a few books. What a beautiful room! Away from all the noise, giggles and excitement. My haven. My sanctuary. The place where I belonged! My real world!

But even here, I didn’t feel entirely safe on Sunday mornings. It was okay for a temporary respite, but girls sometimes brought their parents in for a tour of the premises. When they saw me they felt obliged to make polite conversation, though I’d much rather they ignored me and treated me as part of the furniture. Sure enough, my classmate Irene Tan walked in with her mother.

‘This is our library, Mother. Oh hello, Adeline. Let me introduce you to my mother! This is Adeline Yen, top student of our class. She skipped two grades and will be going into Form 5 after the holidays, at 13!’

‘Studying so hard even on a Sunday!’ Mrs Tan exclaimed, turning to her daughter. ‘Now, why can’t
you
be like that?’

I felt like a freak and looked enviously at Irene’s elegant new sandals and matching dress. ‘No! No! I’m not studying. This is purely for pleasure and recreation.’

Mrs Tan came over and glanced at my book. ‘What are you reading?
King Lear!
My! My! You say
this
is for pleasure?’

I hung my head and saw my worn tennis shoes with the hole at the side and wrinkled stockings with the elastic washed away, knowing I must appear very odd indeed in my old‐fashioned, tight, shabby brown dress next to Irene’s stylish elegance. Hanging about in the library and reading
King Lear
from choice simply rounded out the whole dismal picture. A special sort of idiot
savant
found in Hong Kong Catholic convent schools. I was wishing fervently I could disappear when I heard Irene say, ‘Last Friday we were reading
King Lear
out loud in class and Adeline suddenly burst out crying.’

I felt an intense heat spreading upwards from my neck. What she reported was true but I had no words to explain it away. The poetry and pathos of
Lear
had moved me so profoundly I simply couldn’t control myself. So much of his plight seemed to mirror that of my grandfather’s at home. Contrary to all logic, I had the uncanny sensation that Shakespeare had actually had my Ye Ye in mind when he wrote his immortal play four hundred years earlier.

When Lear knelt in front of his evil daughter Regan to plead for his food and lodging I saw my Ye Ye dropping to his knees to say the same terrible words to my stepmother,

Dear daughter, I confess that I am old

Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg

That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed and food . . .

However, Mrs Tan was looking at me with an odd expression on her face: halfway between pity and curiosity. It made me acutely uncomfortable. All I wanted was to make a quick getaway.

I glanced at the clock and feigned surprise. ‘Oh! Excuse me! Is it 10.15 already? I’d better go get ready. Otherwise I’ll be late!’

I strode out purposefully with an armful of books though I didn’t know where to head for, hating myself for my pretence. Why couldn’t I tell Mrs Tan candidly, ‘I hide out and read in the library because my parents never come to visit me. And I don’t like everyone to notice I’m the only one always left out. It’s easier to make myself invisible. I wish I had someone like you. Irene is very lucky.’

Tentatively I circled the bathroom. In American magazines, they described it as ‘casing the joint’. Thank goodness it was now deserted. Furtively, I walked away at first, then retraced my steps and quickly slipped into the last, most unobtrusive lavatory cubicle. I locked the door and carefully placed my stack of books on a ledge by the window, so that nobody would see them should anyone peek under the gap beneath the door. I ensconced myself on the toilet seat with a sigh of relief. It was smelly and damp but I felt safe. No one could get at me. Privacy at last! No prying eyes, spiteful remarks, pitying glances. I was alone with my beloved books. What bliss! To be left in peace with Cordelia, Regan, Goneril and Lear himself – characters more real than my family back home or my schoolmates downstairs. The rhythm! The story! The magical words! What happiness! What comfort!

All too soon, I heard a smattering of footsteps approaching. Were visiting hours over? Surely, it couldn’t be one o’clock already!

I heard the voices of Irene Tan and Eleanor Lui. They were trying on new dresses, hairbands and ribbons, chuckling at their reflections in the full‐length bathroom mirror.

‘What a stunning outfit!’ Irene was exclaiming. ‘Do you dare go into lunch wearing this skimpy little number after what happened this morning at breakfast?’

‘That was almost too close for comfort!’ Eleanor replied.

‘Why did you do it anyway?’

‘I thought Adeline might
like
an egg for breakfast once in a while. My number is 31 and hers is 37. Mama is always bringing me eggs on Sundays even though I tell her not to. I can’t
stand
eating them, especially the way they soft‐boil them here, with the yolk all runny. Reminds me of snot. Yesterday I wrapped a half‐eaten egg in my paper napkin and trashed it in the wastebasket in the study when no one was looking. Unfortunately Ma‐Mien (Horse‐face) Mother Valentino came across it and fished it out. At first I denied it was mine, but she merely pointed to the number on the shell. “It’s a
sin
to waste food like this when so many of your country‐men are starving to death!” she screamed. Then she forced me to get a spoon and eat it. Later in the day, I sneaked into the kitchen and changed the number on my egg from one to seven. Thought Adeline might get a kick out of having her number called for a change! How was
I
to know she hates eggs? All I’m aware of is that she gets neither eggs nor visitors on Sundays.’