Mr Ma and Son (11 page)

W
HAT EXPERIENCE
Mr Ma had gained from his three or four months in London didn’t amount to much. He’d managed to find three or four little Chinese restaurants, and went to one of them every day for his lunch. He was by now able to reach home from the shop without needing Ma Wei to guide him. His English had made fair progress, but he’d forgotten quite a bit of grammar in the process, since a lot of working-class English people don’t bother about proper grammar when they speak.

There were no fixed rules to his days. Sometimes he would hurry to the shop at nine o’clock in the morning, and on his own and at leisure rearrange the antiques in the window, as he always thought that Li Tzu-jung had set them out in a tasteless, incorrect manner. Li Tzu-jung had tried lots of times to demonstrate how things should best be displayed and how colours should be matched, so as to attract the attention of passers-by. Mr Ma would give a slight shake of his head, and pretend he hadn’t heard him.

The first time Mr Ma set out the items on display, he held each in both hands as if he was bearing a funeral slab, with his tongue stuck slightly out, holding his breath, not daring to breathe again until he’d set the object down in its place. After he’d done the window a few times, he grew emboldened, and would sometimes deliberately test his own dexterity. He’d pick things up, purposely averting his eyes, just like some airily blasé waiter serving food in a restaurant. Once, when Li Tzu-jung was also in the shop, Mr Ma got even more caught up in his display of nonchalance, and, not content with carrying things in his hands, held a small teapot in his mouth. Twitching his little moustache in a superior smile, he sneaked a sidelong glance at Tzu-jung, thinking,
Oh I despise businessmen, of course. But when it comes to business, I’m up there with the best of them!

At this point, just when he was feeling so pleased with himself, his mouth suddenly felt dry and he had to cough. Gravity took its toll on the little teapot and it was smashed to smithereens. In his anxiety to save it he panicked, and the small vase and two plates he was holding became extraordinarily slippery. Li Tzu-jung ran over to relieve him of the two plates, but the neck of the vase was delicate and broke as it hit the floor.

When he’d finished with his window-dressing, Mr Ma went out and took a surreptitious look at the window of the antiques shop next door. Twirling his scrappy string of a moustache, he nodded approvingly in the direction of his own newly arranged window, and confirmed that the other shop had laid out its windows in a most tasteless manner. Yet he had to admit that his neighbour did better trade than him. Unable to divine the reason why, he could only condemn all the English as vulgar and lacking in taste.

The managers of the shop next door were a big, fat old fellow with no hair on his head, and an old woman, also big and fat but with hair on her head, a considerable quantity of it. A number of times they’d chatted to Mr Ma in an attempt to get on familiar terms with him, but he would sharply turn his head away, delivering a considerable snub, after which he would sit in his little chair and reflect upon the matter with a quiet smile.
Your business may be doing well, but that doesn’t entitle you to my attention. What rudeness!

Li Tzu-jung advised him time and again to add to his stock, to print a few pamphlets and catalogues of his wares, and to broaden his range to include things other than Chinese curios.

Mr Ma put him in his place with a few acid remarks. ‘Increase our stock? What we have already takes forever to display, doesn’t it? There’s enough here to make your eyes dizzy as it is!’

Sometimes, as the mood took Mr Ma, he’d stay away from the shop the whole day, and plant flowers and so on for Mrs Wedderburn. When the Mas had first arrived in London, the small patch of garden behind her house had nothing growing in it but a strip of grass and two half-dead dogrose bushes. She was very fond of flowers, but had no time to plant and tend them. Nor could she bear to part with the money to buy seedlings. Her daughter was forever buying cut flowers in town, but likewise professed little interest in growing flowers.

One day, without mentioning it to Mrs Wedderburn, Mr Ma bought a bunch of young plants in town: five or six rosebushes, fifteen or so wallflower seedlings, a heap of dahlia tubers which had just started sprouting, and a few rather unpromising chrysanthemums with very straggly stems and leaves, not looking very green.

He left the flowers in a corner of the garden by the wall, and first watered them with a couple of buckets of water. Then he went into the kitchen, got out the spade and trowel and made a little mound of earth in the middle of the grass, around the edge of which he planted the roses. In the middle he planted the wallflowers in a cross formation. The dahlias he planted at the foot of the walls, and he stuck in all the hopeless chrysanthemums along both sides of the little path leading to the back door.

When he’d planted all the flowers, he put away the spade and trowel, collecting a bucket of water on the way, and gave everything a good watering. Then he washed his hands and went to the drawing room to smoke a pipe. After that, he hurried off to the shop, tracked down some small sticks and some string and came rushing back, puffing and panting, to give all the flowers some support by securing them to the sticks with the string. No sooner had he finished tying them than it began to rain softly. He stood in a dreamy daze, watching the flowers gently nod in the rain, and not till the drops had drenched his hair and he was dripping with water did it occur to him to get indoors.

That afternoon, after Mrs Wedderburn had let the dog out for a play in the garden, she came rushing upstairs with wide eyes and mouth agape.

‘Mr Ma! Did you plant the flowers in the garden?’

Mr Ma shifted his pipe to the side of his mouth and gave a small smile.

‘Oh, Mr Ma! It’s so good of you! And very naughty too. Without saying a word! How much did the flowers cost?’

‘I didn’t spend a lot. It’s nice to have a few flowers to look at,’ said Mr Ma, smiling.

‘Are the Chinese fond of flowers then?’ asked Mrs Wedderburn. It would never ever occur to the English that there might be other flower lovers in the world besides themselves.

‘Yes, of course they are!’ Mr Ma caught the implication of her words, but, disinclined to argue, simply emphasised his words and squeezed out a rather pallid half-smile. He paused vacantly for a moment, then said, ‘After my wife died, I used to amuse myself planting flowers when I’d nothing else to do.’

At the thought of his wife, Mr Ma’s eyes moistened somewhat. Mrs Wedderburn nodded, recalling her husband. When he was alive, that little garden had been full of blooms all year round.

Mr Ma stood up and invited her to sit down, and the two of them chatted for more than an hour. She asked what sort of clothes Mrs Ma had liked wearing, and what sort of hats. He asked her what her husband’s favourite tobacco had been, and what government post he’d held. They chatted on with ever-decreasing understanding but ever-increasing warmth and amity. He told her that Mrs Ma used to wear a long sleeveless jacket of purple
Chiang-ning silk
. She’d never seen one of those. She told him that Mr Wedderburn had never been in the civil service. Mr Ma couldn’t for the life of him imagine why anyone should by choice have failed to become a government official . . .

That evening when Miss Wedderburn came home, her mother, without giving her any time even to take off her hat, rushed her into the back garden.

‘Come here, Mary, hurry. I’ve got something new to show you.’

‘Oh, Mummy, what’ve you been doing, spending money on flowers like this?’ said Mary, bending down and sniffing at a flower.

‘Me? Mr Ma bought and planted them. You’re always on about how bad the Chinese are, but now look!’

Mary hastily straightened up and stopped smelling them. ‘Nothing particularly amazing about planting a few flowers.’

‘I’m just trying to show you that the Chinese appreciate flowers like civilised people do . . .’

‘If you like flowers that doesn’t mean you don’t also like murdering people and setting places on fire! It’s true, Mum! I saw three photos in today’s paper, all taken in Shanghai. It looked awful, Mum. They chop off people’s heads and hang them on telegraph poles. And that’s not all – in the photo there was a crowd of people – men and women, all ages – watching it just as if they were watching a film.’As she said this, Mary’s face went very pale, her lips trembled uncontrollably and she fled back into the house.

After planting the flowers in the back garden, Mr Ma acquired a new duty: whenever Mrs Wedderburn was too busy, he took Napoleon out into the street for a stroll and some recreation. The little garden had originally been Napoleon’s playground, but the dog, seeing an insect, would bound high into the air to try to catch it. And as he jumped, the insect would fly away but the flowers would get knocked over. So he just had to be taken out for a stroll each day, and consequently Mr Ma acquired the noble task of doing so.

Miss Mary tried again and again to dissuade her mother from letting the elder Ma take the dog out. She’d heard that the Chinese ate dog meat. What if it just so happened that the elder Ma got peckish on the walk, and cut Napoleon to bits with his penknife? What on earth would she do then?

‘I’ve asked Mr Ma, and he says the Chinese don’t eat dogs,’ said Mrs Wedderburn, her face stubbornly set.

‘I’ve got it! Now I know what’s got you, Mum!’ said Mary, deliberately teasing her mother. ‘He’s fond of flowers. He’s fond of dogs. All he needs now is to be fond of babies!’ (The English assumption is that a man who likes flowers, dogs and little children makes a good husband.)

Mrs Wedderburn said nothing, just glared at her daughter, half frowning, half smiling.

Ma Wei tried to persuade his father not to take the dog out, as he’d seen the crowd of children who would follow Mr Ma, jeering and hooting, when he led the dog along the streets or strolled with it around some vacant site.

‘Look at old yellow face! Look at his face – all yellow and puffed up . . .’

One time a little mousy-haired boy with no front teeth even ran up and tugged at Mr Ma’s coat. Another one, a miserable little waif, picked Napoleon up and ran off with him, to make Mr Ma chase him. And once Mr Ma started pursuing him, all the other children lifted their heads and shouted, ‘Look at his legs! Just like a Pekingese! Tommy!’ – the urchin must have been called Tommy – ‘Hurry! Don’t let him catch you!’

‘Tommy!’ shouted a shrill-voiced little girl, with hair nearly as red as her cheeks. ‘Hold onto the dog. Don’t let it drop!’

When they teach history at the average school in England, they don’t teach anything about China. The only people who know anything Chinese are those who’ve been to China as merchants or as missionaries. These two types of people are usually not well disposed towards the Chinese, and when they return to England and talk about China, they don’t talk about its better aspects. And since China’s not a strong nation, and has no navy or army worth the name, how can it possibly avoid being an object of scorn for Europeans, who judge a nation’s civilisation solely on the quality of its military? What’s more, China still hasn’t produced any trailblazing scientists, literary figures or explorers. It doesn’t even send a team to the Olympics. Remember all that, and it’s not hard to see why Chinese aren’t held in high regard.

Ma Wei tried to talk his father out of his daily walk with Napoleon, but his father wouldn’t listen. Mr Ma collected a large number of cigarette cards, intending to try to bribe that crowd of little mischief-makers with them. In the event, it only made the children enjoy their mischief all the more.

‘Call him “Chink”! Call him “Chink”! When you call him that, he gives you fag cards!’

‘Tommy! Grab his dog!’

I
N THE
small red house in Lancaster Road, Mrs Ely issued her command: the two Mas, Mrs Wedderburn and daughter, and her own elder brother were to be invited round for a meal. The first to jump to attention in response was of course the Reverend Ely.

Madam Ely held absolute power within the household. Her son and husband didn’t question her. Her daughter, now grown up, wasn’t quite as obedient as she had once been. Children get more and more difficult to deal with as they grow up, whereas husbands become easier to control as they grow old. Why otherwise would so many Western women choose to marry old fellows?

Mrs Ely didn’t issue commands with her voice alone – frankly, her whole being was a command. She had only to widen her eyes – big fawny-brown orbs, at least three times the size of her husband’s, and with permanently puffy eyelids – and husband, daughter and son would all shut their mouths, while the atmosphere would become as stern and solemn as in a court of law.

She had a little black moustache – very soft, very black and very heavy. That, surely, was the reason why the Reverend Ely had never grown a moustache? He didn’t dare compete with her. She was a head taller than him too, tall, big, and strong to boot. Her face was gaunt, and her skin looked as tough as cement and chopped-hemp plaster. On either side of her nose ran a deep, narrow furrow, right down to her mouth. When she wept – even Mrs Ely occasionally wept! – her tears had these handy channels down which to flow, but, drying almost as soon as they left her eyes, they never made it far. Her hair was a dirty white, and tied very loosely in a bun at the back of her head. If you looked at it absent-mindedly, you’d imagine you were looking at the torn-up
kapok
stuffing of a padded slipper.

The Reverend Ely had met her in
Tientsin
. In those days, the furrows on either side of her nose were already deep but her bun didn’t quite look like kapok. He’d been very impatient to have a family, and she’d no objection to having a husband, so they agreed to marry each other. Her elder brother, Alexander, hadn’t been very happy about the match. Being a merchant, he naturally had little regard for a petty, moralising pastor of poor financial prospects. But he’d said nothing.

Lucky to get married at all,
he’d told himself, as he looked at the furrows on her face and that nondescript head of hair.
So who cares if it’s a clergyman? Another few years, and those ditches on her face’ll be bloody riverbeds, and she won’t be able to snag herself even a clergyman.

This thought had sent him off into fits of private laughter. He’d said nothing to his sister, though, and on the day of the wedding he even bought her a pair of
Fukien lacquer
vases.

What good taste and discernment my brother has,
Mrs Ely would think whenever she looked at that pair of vases. They must surely be worth at least five or six pounds.

Oh, and besides the vases, Alexander had given his little sister a cheque for forty pounds as a wedding present.

The Elys’ children – the perfect combination, one daughter and one son – were both born in China, but neither could speak Chinese. Mrs Ely’s fundamental pedagogic principle dictated that inferior languages bred an inferior mind. If children learnt languages such as Chinese and Hindi from the moment they opened their mouths, you could be certain they wouldn’t grow up with a good character. (But if, for instance, a Chinese child spoke English from infancy, it could never grow up to be as loathsome as the average Chinese person.) If you watered English tomatoes with Chinese water they’d never grow big and juicy, would they? On no account would Mrs Ely permit her children to play with Chinese children, and she only allowed them to speak the absolute minimum of indispensable Chinese words, such as those for ‘Bring tea!’, ‘Go!’, ‘One chicken!’, with the exclamation mark denoting the imperative of every such command.

The Reverend Ely didn’t exactly favour this approach. With his traditional English utilitarianism, he was very willing for his children to learn a bit of Chinese. When some day they returned to England, it might provide them with the means to earn some money. But he didn’t dare openly challenge his wife. In any case, Mrs Ely was well versed in the value of utilitarianism. It’s true she wouldn’t let her children learn Chinese, but she’d no objections to their learning French. Not that she’d ever thought highly of French, either – what finer language was there in the world than English? But even English aristocrats and scholars had to learn French, so she wasn’t going to be outdone in that respect.

Her son was called Paul, and her daughter Catherine. When Paul had reached the age of twelve, he’d gone back to England for his schooling, and, once in England, had forgotten any scraps of Chinese he’d learnt, except for a few swearwords. Catherine, however, had gone to an international school in China, and had learnt a fair amount of Chinese behind her mother’s back. She was even able, with the help of a dictionary, to read easy Chinese books.

‘Kay!’ commanded Mrs Ely from the kitchen, ‘Prepare a rice pudding. The Chinese are fond of rice.’

‘But they’re not fond of having it with milk and sugar, Mum,’ said Miss Catherine.

‘What do you know about China? Do you know more than I do?’ said Mrs Ely, holding her head stiffly erect. She didn’t believe there was anyone else in the world who knew as much about China as she did. No British ambassador to China, no English professor of Chinese would show her up. She’d often say to the Reverend Ely – to others she might have expressed it rather less bluntly – ‘What does Mr Manning the ambassador understand about such things! Or Professor Price either? Perhaps they know a few bits and pieces about China, but it is only we who are truly able to understand the Chinese, the Chinese soul!’

Aware of her mother’s disposition, Catherine said nothing, just lowered her head and went off to prepare the rice pudding.

Mrs Ely’s elder brother arrived. ‘What? The two Chinamen not here yet?’ Alexander found a small space between his sister’s haywire hair and her nose, and gave her a kiss.

‘No. Go in and sit down, will you?’ said Mrs Ely, and went back to the kitchen to keep preparing the food.

The object of Alexander’s visit was a free meal, and certainly not a chat with the Reverend Ely. There was nothing you could talk about with a missionary.

The Reverend Ely passed his tobacco pouch to Alexander in silence.

‘No, thanks. Got some.’ Alexander pulled out a six-inch gold case, selected a Manila cigar and handed it to the Reverend Ely. Then he took one himself, stuck it in his mouth, smartly struck a match, sucked his cheeks in and inhaled a mouthful as he lit it. Then, with an almighty puff of his cheeks, he sent smoke shooting out into the distance. He contemplated the smoke with a smile, and in the same casual way tossed the matchstick into the ashtray.

Alexander was as tall as his sister, broad-shouldered, bullnecked, bald-headed and with a mouthful of false teeth. His cheeks were forever bright crimson, as if he’d just been on the wrong end of two violent slaps. He dressed very smartly and was invariably immaculate from head to toe.

Cigar in one hand, the other pressed against his forehead, he seemed to be thinking something over. ‘I say,’ he said after quite some time, ‘what was the name of that Chinaman? That commercial traveller from the Handsome Profit Company in Tientsin. A dumb-looking little fellow. Know who I mean?’

‘Chang Yüan.’ The Reverend Ely was still holding the unlit cigar. He didn’t feel he could put it down, for fear of disclosing his ineptitude in smoking cigars.

‘That’s him. Chang Yüan. I was fond of the little beggar. Tell you what, though,’ Alexander inhaled another mouthful of smoke, and made a magnificent show of it as he puffed it out, ‘don’t think he was a fool! Oh, no, he was sharp. You see, my Chinese wasn’t up to much, and he hadn’t a word of English, but businesswise we got on like a house on fire. He’d come and say, in Chinese, “Two thousand dollars.” I’d nod, and he’d pass me the invoice for the goods straight away. Then I’d say in Chinese, “Write name?” He’d nod his head, and I’d sign the invoice. See, all tied up, neat as you like!’

And having said this, Alexander clutched his belly and roared with laughter. Countless layers of ash from his cigar dropped onto the carpet as he went on and on, his scalp soon matching his cheeks for redness, before he finally stopped, in a high state of hilarity.

The Reverend Ely, unable to detect anything that merited laughter, pushed his spectacles up, and, grim-lipped, stared at the ash on the carpet.

The two Mas arrived with Mrs Wedderburn. She wore a taupe dress and a broad-brimmed straw hat, and the instant she set foot in the house, the cigar set her coughing. Mr Ma was clasping a black trilby, at a loss as to where to deposit it. Ma Wei took it and hung it on the hatstand, much to Mr Ma’s relief.

‘Hello, Mrs Wedderburn!’ exclaimed Alexander in gruff, hearty tones, standing up with cigar at the ready. ‘Haven’t seen you for years. Mr Wedderburn all right? What’s his line these days?’

At that point Mrs Ely came in with Catherine and hastily interrupted her brother. ‘Alec! Mr Wedderburn is no longer with us. I’m so glad you’ve come, Mrs Wedderburn. Where’s Miss Wedderburn?’

‘Hello, Mr Ma!’ Ignoring his sister, Alexander pounced on the elder Ma and shook his hand. ‘Often heard my sister talk of you. From Shanghai, aren’t you? How’s trade in Shanghai? Been a lot of trouble there lately, eh? Has
old Chang
still got Peking firmly in hand? There’s a splendid chap for you, now! I tell you, if he’d been in charge of Manchuria all these years, there’d never have been any trouble. I can tell you that when I was in Tientsin, we never had a spot of bother with —’

‘Alec! Dinner’s ready. Will you all please come into the dining room?’ shouted Mrs Ely at the top of her voice, knowing that otherwise she’d never make herself heard over her brother.

‘Eh? What? Dinner ready? Got any drink?’ Alexander threw his cigar down and followed everyone out of the drawing room.

‘Ginger beer,’ replied Mrs Ely, stiff-necked. She was somewhat in awe of her brother, otherwise she wouldn’t even have provided ginger beer.

Once all were seated, Alexander renewed his bellowing. ‘We ought to at least have a bottle of champagne!’

The English actually give a great deal of attention to manners, and as a young man Alexander had possessed flawless manners and etiquette. But when he went to China, he felt that being polite to the Chinese wasn’t worth the bother, and was forever bawling and glaring at the Chinese working under him, with the result that he was now past changing even if he’d wanted to. Because of his wild bellowing and general rudeness, many of his former friends had cut him off, which accounted for his having agreed to come to dinner at the Reverend Ely’s house. Had he had plenty of friends, his brother-in-law, the Mas and the ginger beer could all go and jump in a lake.

‘Where’s Paul, Mrs Ely?’ asked Mrs Wedderburn.

‘He’s not yet back from a trip to the countryside,’ said Mrs Ely, then, aiming her nose in her husband’s direction, added, ‘Reverend Ely, say grace!’

The Reverend Ely had up to this point suffered Alexander in silence, but now he had the chance, he began an interminable prayer, perfectly aware that this irked Alexander, and deliberately letting him go hungry for as long as he could.

Alexander kept on opening his eyes to look at the ginger beer on the table, inwardly cursing the Reverend Ely. The moment the clergyman had uttered his ‘Amen’, Alec grabbed a bottle and began pouring it out for everyone.

‘How do you like England?’ he asked Mr Ma as he did so.

‘Most beautiful!’ Of late, Mr Ma had been learning with Mrs Wedderburn to answer every question with a ‘Splendid!’, ‘Most beautiful!’ or ‘You’re absolutely right!’

‘What d’you mean, “beautiful”?’ Alexander looked somewhat bemused, unable to comprehend the meaning of the word unless he knew how much “beauty” was worth per pound. He knew that the big coloured vases in the antiques shops were beautiful, and that the paintings in the art exhibitions were beautiful, because they all had price tags on them.

‘Er . . .’ Not knowing what to say, Mr Ma just rolled his eyes helplessly.

‘Alec!’ said Mrs Ely. ‘Pass the salt to Mrs Wedderburn.’

Alexander grabbed the salt shaker and handed it to Mrs Wedderburn, knocking over the pepper pot in the process.

‘Do you like fat or lean meat, Ma Wei?’ asked Miss Ely.

Giving Ma Wei no time to reply, Mrs Ely jerked her head up stiffly and declared, ‘The Chinese always prefer the fat!’ Then, securing the meat with a fork in one hand, she carved with the knife in her other. Her lips were pursed grimly and one eyebrow was cocked, her expression implying that she was about to kill someone.

‘Splendid!’ Mr Ma suddenly put Mrs Wedderburn’s term to use. Nobody knew why he’d said it.

When they’d eaten the beef, the rice pudding was brought out.

‘Can you eat this?’ Miss Ely asked Ma Wei.

‘Yes, all right,’ said Ma Wei, giving her a smile.

‘All Chinese like rice. Is that not so, Mr Ma?’ asked Mrs Ely, of Mr Ma but looking straight at Catherine.

‘You’re absolutely right!’ said Mr Ma, nodding his head.

Alexander went off into hoots of laughter until his cheeks were purple. No one took the slightest notice of him, not even his sister, and he carried on laughing till his mouth ached, at which point he automatically ground to a halt.

Ma Wei took a spoonful of rice pudding and brought it to his lips, not daring for ages to put it into his mouth. The elder Mr Ma swallowed a mouthful of the pudding and stiffened at the neck, his eyes fixed and frozen for a long while, as if he were about to pass out.

‘Would you like some water?’ Miss Ely asked Ma Wei.

Ma Wei nodded.

‘Would you like some water, too?’ Mrs Wedderburn inquired warmly of Mr Ma.

Mr Ma’s neck was still craned rigidly forwards, and the smile he gave Mrs Wedderburn was strained. Alexander went off into peals of laughter once more.

‘Alec! Another helping of pudding?’ asked Mrs Ely, shooting him a sidelong glare.