Mr Ma and Son (15 page)

W
HEN CITY
life has developed to the level it has in England, time equals money. To waste a quarter of an hour is to lose half a crown, so to speak. Apart from the very wealthy, who can fritter time away as it suits them – dancing, theatre-going, dining out, throwing parties, idle chit-chatting, gossip-spreading, hunting, swimming or playing the invalid at their own sweet leisure – people’s lives in general have to march in step with the clock. Yes, the cornerstone of this terribly busy, terribly chaotic, and terribly noisy society is an icy-cold, cruel, calculating little wretch – the pendulum of the clock. This economy of time has considerably reduced face-to-face communication, making the telephone and the letter the two treasured talismans of these civilised people. When Mrs White’s husband dies, it’s quite normal for Mrs Black to only write her a letter of commiseration, since Mrs Black’s busy. And Mrs White, busy herself, then telephones her thanks to Mrs Black.

The matter gave Mr Ma much food for thought. The postman would make four or five deliveries a day, and he’d knock on virtually every door. Where did so many letters come from? Almost every evening, Mrs Wedderburn would take her little pen, and, with a frown upon her brow, write letters. Who was she writing them to? What had she got to write about? He felt a bit suspicious, and, in spite of himself, somewhat jealous. Holding her pen and frowning like that, she looked very pretty. But she certainly wasn’t writing to him. Foreign women all have illicit affairs . . . Mr Ma wouldn’t go as far as to say that he’d fallen in love with Mrs Wedderburn, but when he saw her writing letters to others, he did feel something of an ache inside. Odd . . .

Since the Mas had come to live with her, Mrs Wedderburn had certainly used more postage stamps than before. With two Chinese men living in her house, she no longer felt comfortable inviting her friends and relatives round to tea. What – have them eat with the Mas? It wouldn’t be fair, making them eat with Chinese people. She could make the Mas eat on their own, she supposed, but that’d mean too much bother for her. Of course the Mas wouldn’t mind where they ate, but why should she be put to such trouble? Just let things be, she thought, and write her friends a letter hoping they were all right. That would save trouble, and still keep her on good terms with everybody.

Since the Mas’ arrival, she’d in fact asked people round twice, but they hadn’t taken up the invitation. Between the lines of their letters of reply she could read, ‘Do you think we’re going to sit down to a meal with two Chinese fellows?’ Of course, they never put it so bluntly, but she wasn’t such a fool that she couldn’t tell what they were implying.

When she wrote letters, she often thought of these snubs, and she reflected that Mary had been absolutely right to say she shouldn’t have let the rooms to the two Chinese. Mary herself hadn’t actually been affected in the slightest by it. Chaps continued to call for her every day, and she went gadding about with them.

But what about me? Mrs Wedderburn asked herself. What a miserable time I have of it! If I don’t invite folks to dinner, I can’t go round to theirs for dinner, can I? I don’t have any social life. I’m sacrificing my social life all for two Chinese fellows.

She found herself spilling a tear. Could she get rid of them? There wasn’t much you could complain about, though, and, anyway, they paid more rent than she could get from anyone else. She’d just have to carry on writing letters with a frown on her face.

Before breakfast, Mary, short hair in a tangle, went to see if there were any letters. There were two: a bill from the gas company, and a letter from the country.

‘Mum, a letter from Aunt Dolly. Just look at the skimpy little envelope!’

Mrs Wedderburn was making breakfast, so she told Mary to read it out to her. Mary slit the envelope with a paperknife.

Mary threw the letter on the table, and gave a huffy puff. ‘Well that’s that, Mum. She’s not coming. “You’ve got two Chinamen living with you.” Pretty clear why she’s not coming.’

‘We’ll go on holiday whether she comes or not!’ As Mrs Wedderburn tipped the eggs into the pan, the oil splashed out and scalded her tiny pale wrist. ‘Damn!’

When breakfast was ready, Mrs Wedderburn put Mr Ma’s on a tray to take upstairs to him. The effects of Mr Ma’s big night had already passed, and the bump on his forehead had healed. But he remained fastidiously alert to the possible after-effects of his drunkenness, which meant he now never rose before eleven in the morning, and he took breakfast in bed.

Just as Mrs Wedderburn was coming out of the kitchen, tray in hand, Napoleon returned from his constitutional in the backyard and leapt up at her suddenly. Her legs gave way and she fell down in the doorway, while the tray changed from
sempre legato
to
fortissimo
in B flat as it crashed to the floor. The fried egg smeared all over the carpet and the toast scored a direct hit on Napoleon’s nose. The little dog took one look at his mistress, sniffed at the toast and then, realising something was amiss, put his tail between his legs, and, eyes rolling with fear, returned to the backyard.

‘Are you all right, Mum?’ asked Mary, helping her mother to her feet and holding her upright. ‘Mum, what’s up?’

Mrs Wedderburn’s face blanched for a moment, then suddenly turned scarlet. Beads of cold perspiration covered her nose and her lips trembled, even more than her hands. She stood there dumbfounded, staring at the things on the floor, and uttering not a sound.

Mary paled too. She helped her mother to a chair and got her to sit down, while she herself then hastened to clear up the things from the floor. Thanks to the carpet none of the plates and cups were broken, the sole damage being a broken milk-jug handle. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’

Mrs Wedderburn’s cheeks grew redder still, and she seemed at that instant to recall all her life’s sufferings. Her lips suddenly stopped quivering, and the grievances inside her came bursting from her lips in one rambling monologue.

‘Oh, Mary, I’ve had enough of this life! I can’t put up with it, living like this! Money, money, it’s all about money. Your dad wore himself to death for money, and I went out to work and drudge for money. And now I’m playing servant to two Chinamen, all for the sake of money. It’s making my friends and family look down on me. Money! Can’t the clever people in this world come up with a better idea? Can’t they find a way of getting rid of money? There’s no fun in life unless you’re rich!’

Having said her piece, Mrs Wedderburn was immensely relieved, and the floodgates opened, string after string of pearly tears. Tears welled up in Mary’s eyes, too, and she didn’t know what to say, so just wiped her mother’s tears with her little handkerchief.

‘Mum, if you don’t want them to stay, you can tell them to leave.’

‘But the money!’

‘If you rented out to others, you’d get money too, Mum.’

‘Always money!’

Unable to understand what her mother was driving at, Mary wiped her own eyes.

‘You have your breakfast, Mary,’ said Mrs Wedderburn. ‘I’m going to look for Napoleon.’

‘What made you collapse, though, Mum?’

‘Napoleon jumped up at me and gave me a fright. I didn’t see him coming.’

Mary called Ma Wei to breakfast. Warned by the expression on her face, he didn’t say anything. First he took up his father’s breakfast, which Mary had done her best to remake, then he ate his own in silence.

After breakfast, Mary went into the backyard to look for her mother. Mrs Wedderburn, with Napoleon in her arms, was standing by the bed of roses. The sun had lit up all the flowers in the garden and a gentle breeze was trembling the petals and leaves, making the air fresh and light. The dandelions by the wall had grown several ‘old men’, their fluffy dandelion-fairy seeds, which were slowly dancing off with the breeze into the sky. Napoleon, one eye on his mistress and the other on the white-whiskered seeds, was crestfallen and ashamed of himself, and didn’t dare utter a peep.

‘Are you all right now, Mum?’

‘Yes, I’m all right. You better head off. It must be quite late by now.’ Mrs Wedderburn’s face wasn’t as red as before, but the sun made her look worn and harassed. She’d been crying again, standing there in the garden with Napoleon in her arms, and the sunshine had dried her tears and left salty marks. Napoleon’s eyes seemed rather moist too, and at the sight of Mary, he feebly wagged his tail.

‘Have you said you’re sorry to Mum, Napoleon? You’re a naughty rascal to knock Mummy over, aren’t you?’ said Mary, speaking to the dog, but looking at her mother.

Mrs Wedderburn gave a wan smile. ‘Off you go to work, Mary. It’s late.’

‘Cheerio, Mum. Cheerio, Napoleon. You go and have some breakfast, Mum. You must.’

Seeing his mistress smile, Napoleon risked a couple of barks, by way of saying cheerio to Mary.

A
FTER MARY
had left, Mrs Wedderburn carried Napoleon into the kitchen and made herself a pot of tea and a boiled egg. She drank a cup of tea then took a mouthful of egg, but, unable to swallow it, gave the rest to Napoleon. She thought of clearing up the dishes, but felt too listless even to stand. She looked out the window and saw the sun still shining brightly.

‘Let’s take a stroll in the park, shall we?’

At the mention of a trip to the park, Napoleon pricked up his ears and saliva ran from the sides of his mouth. Mrs Wedderburn changed her dress, brushed her shoes and put on her hat. It filled her with impatience to do all this, but her innate English sense of propriety compelled her to dress properly when she went out, no matter what. Anyway, she was a woman. And what was woman but the very epitome of beauty? How could she neglect her attire! None of the young girls nowadays, not even Mary, understood the meaning of beauty, with their short skirts that showed their legs, and their itsy-bitsy hats like eggshells. But times had changed, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Just imagine if she were still young herself! She’d be wearing her dresses short and her hats tiny too. Anyway, men love whatever women wear, no matter how short or tiny.

Men . . . Yes, the only thing that could cheer her up would be having a chat with a man about her troubles. The elder Ma? Never! An old Chinaman. She wondered if he was up yet. Oh well, no matter if he was.

‘Come on, Napoleon. Mummy’ll comb your hair for you. How have you managed to get yourself so dirty?’

Napoleon, his tongue hanging out, let her comb his coat. He raised his left leg and scratched under his chin, as if he had fleas, though whether he actually did, even he wasn’t sure.

On reaching the main road, they took a bus to Regent’s Park. Mrs Wedderburn sat in the open top of the bus, and as the warm wind whistled past her ears, she breathed in deeply. Napoleon sat leaning on the railing of the bus, trying to snap off the large green leaves of the plane trees that lined the roads. But the bus was going too fast, and he never managed it.

The flowerbeds of Regent’s Park were packed with blooms. Deep-red fuchsias, pale-blue hydrangeas, and numerous other shrubs whose names one can never remember all seemed to be laughing in the sun. On the grassy slopes grew daisies, tall-stalked with big round leaves – single ones and double ones, lead-white ones and gosling-yellow ones, all seeming to crinkle their petals in smiles and declare, ‘We are the epitome of nature, the summer’s soul.’ The tall trees on either side of the beds were delicately stirring their verdant leaves, printing ever-changing patterns on the fine gravel of the paths. The girls sitting beneath the trees all had their arms bared, and upon those pale arms, too, the trees cast their shadowy patterns.

Mrs Wedderburn found a bench and sat down, putting Napoleon on the ground. As she breathed the scents of the flowers and plants, and watched the sunbeams coming down through the foliage, she felt much more relaxed. Her mind was a mixture of clarity and confusion, and all kinds of thoughts came to her. The wind whisked her skirt up a little, and a thread of sunlight shone across her legs, sending a warm feeling through her, as if she were being tickled. She hastily pulled her skirt in place, her face rather flushed.

Yes, twenty years ago now. Sitting here with him.
In the distance, she could hear a lion roaring in the zoo. Ah, it was a long time since she’d been to the zoo.
When Mary was little, he used to carry her in his arms while I followed on behind, and we would take some tidbits with us and feed the monkeys together. Oh, we were happy in those days. Even the flowers smelt sweeter then, I know it. What a life . . . Such cruel changes. It’s always changing for the worse. Who’d have thought I’d be waiting on a couple of Chinese? Not me!

I should go home. What’s the point of all this useless thinking? Life . . . Oh, well, everybody’s got to get through it. Am I getting old? Of course not. Just look at those rich ladies over fifty, still in the very bloom of life. Such worries would never occur to Mary . . . Oh dear – if Mary gets married, that’ll leave me on my own, and I’ll be lonelier than ever. Lonely.

The little birds in the trees chimed in with chirrups of ‘Lonely! Lonely!’
I’ll go home; go and see Mr Ma.
Why did he keep on cropping up in her thoughts all the time?
Funny the way it is between men and women. But he’s Chinese – people’d laugh at me. Then again, why bother what other people say?
A tiny sparrow flew past, skimming the brim of her hat.
Poor little bird, having to fly to and fro all day looking for food.

Where’s Napoleon? He’s disappeared!

‘Napoleon!’ She stood up and looked all around, but the little dog was nowhere to be seen.

‘Have you seen Napoleon?’ she asked a small boy. He had a jar in his hand, and was picking up little red seedpods from where they’d fallen under a tree.

‘Napoleon? The French man?’ The small boy’s mouth opened wide as he stared at her with his little brown eyes.

‘No, my Peke,’ she said, laughing. ‘A dog.’

The small boy shook his head, squatted down again, and said, ‘Here’s a big one.’

Anxious and flustered, Mrs Wedderburn walked further in towards the middle of the park. She looked in all the clumps of flowers and behind all the trees, but her beloved pet was in none of these places. Panic-stricken, she became oblivious to everything else except finding Napoleon.

She went through a second gate within the park to a small stream, her eyes roving both banks, but still saw no trace of Napoleon. Two boatloads of boys and girls were rowing out on the water, and the sight of her hat set them all laughing. Ignoring them, she carried on along the bank of the stream, peering into the distance. The little dog was still nowhere to be seen. She was on the brink of tears, and, feeling rather weak at the knees, she flopped down on the grass. The crowd of boys and girls were still laughing. Yes, laughing! Nobody showed her any sympathy.
Just look at them – so scantily clad. Where could Napoleon be?

Two swans, leading a flock of cygnets, came floating beneath a little bridge towards a weeping willow, fragmenting the reflection of the bridge in their rippling wake. On the far side of the bridge stood a policeman, like some implacable bronze statue.
I’ll go and ask him,
thought Mrs Wedderburn. She was on the point of standing up when she heard a call behind her, ‘Mrs Wedderburn!’

Ma Wei! And holding Napoleon!

‘Oh, Ma Wei! You! Where did you find him?’ She grabbed the dog, and gave it two kisses. ‘What are you doing here? Have a sit down and rest for a while, and we’ll go home together.’ In her delight, she forgot everything, even that Ma Wei was Chinese.

‘I was watching the children catch fish over there,’ said Ma Wei, pointing northwards, ‘and suddenly something bumped against my legs. And I looked down and saw him!’

‘You naughty thing! Worrying your mummy like that! Just you say thank you to Ma Wei.’

Napoleon gave Ma Wei two barks.

With the dog in her arms, everything looked rosy as Mrs Wedderburn now contemplated the stream. ‘Just look at those boys and girls; they do look healthy. And look at that group of cygnets. Oh, how sweet! Do you row, Ma Wei?’

Ma Wei shook his head.

‘Rowing’s a first-class sport. Do you swim?’

‘I can a bit.’ Ma Wei gave a smile. He sat beside her, and watched the oily-looking water of the stream drift along with the swans.

‘You’ve lost weight recently, Ma Wei, you know.’

‘You’re right, I have. My father – you understand —’

‘Oh yes, I understand,’ said Mrs Wedderburn, nodding, actually expressing sympathy for Ma Wei even though he was Chinese.

‘Yes, my father . . . Oh dear.’ Ma Wei stopped himself and instead shook his head.

‘Have you settled yet where you’ll be going for your summer holiday?’

‘No. I intended to —’ Ma Wei stopped himself once more. Inwardly he was saying,
I’ve fallen for your daughter. Did you know?

The small boy who’d been collecting red seeds came by, and seeing Mrs Wedderburn holding the dog, wiped the sweat from his brow with his hand. ‘Is that your Napoleon, miss?’ he asked.

Hearing the boy call her ‘miss’, Mrs Wedderburn smiled.

‘Hey, miss, what you doing sitting with a Chinaman?’

‘Him? He found my dog for me,’ said Mrs Wedderburn, still with a smile.

‘Huh!’ Without another word, the boy ran into the trees, a cheeky look on his face and mischief on his mind. Then suddenly he noticed the policeman by the bridge, and, losing his courage, picked up the little jar and ran off.

‘He’s only a child, Ma Wei,’ said Mrs Wedderburn. ‘Don’t take any notice of him.’

‘I won’t,’ said Ma Wei.

I don’t hate you Chinese, anyway.
The words were on the tip of Mrs Wedderburn’s tongue, but she didn’t utter them.
As long as you behave yourselves. Others may make fun of the Chinese, but I’m not one of them.

Once again, Mrs Wedderburn’s contrary disposition came to the fore, and these thoughts ran through her head while her eyes followed the white swans along the stream.

‘Mary’s holiday starts next week,’ she said, ‘and we want to go away for a few days. Would it be all right for you to eat out?’

‘Oh! Oh yes, that’d be all right. Is Mary going with you, then, Mrs Wedderburn?’ Ma Wei tore a tuft of grass from the ground.

‘Yes, she is. You see, I was going to find someone to cook for you —’

‘But nobody wants to wait on Chinese people?’ Ma Wei gave a laugh. Mrs Wedderburn nodded. She felt quite surprised that Ma Wei should have guessed the reason. As the English see it, all others – apart from the French, who are sometimes slightly smarter than the English – are fools. In the eyes of the English, only the English are correct in their assumptions, and they alone are capable of understanding their own thinking. If outsiders manage to correctly divine matters preoccupying an English mind, that’s not merely strange, it’s downright astonishing.

‘Ma Wei, whose is the prettiest hat, do you think: mine or Mary’s?’ Having new insight into Ma Wei’s astuteness, Mrs Wedderburn now wanted to test the Chinese concept of beauty, if of course the Chinese had any such notion.

‘I think they’re both nice.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘Well, yours is the prettiest.’

‘And when you see Mary, will you tell her that hers is the prettiest?’

‘Honestly, Mrs Wedderburn, your hat’s very nice indeed. My father says so, too.’

‘Oh!’ Mrs Wedderburn took off her hat, and dusted it with her dainty handkerchief.

‘I’d better be going.’ Ma Wei took a look at his watch. ‘Miss Ely’s calling round today for a bit of studying. Are you leaving now too, Mrs Wedderburn?’

‘I am. We’ll go together,’ said Mrs Wedderburn, and then she thought to herself,
Let anybody make fun of me if they want. I don’t care. I’m going to walk with a Chinaman, whatever they think!