One for My Baby (21 page)

“Why do you live like this?” Jackie asks me.

For a moment I can’t speak.

“Live like what? Jesus. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. What did you say?”

“Why do you hurt these girls?”

Jackie Day and her fat daughter are staring at me. My cheeks are burning.

“I don’t hurt anyone.”

“Oh, but you do,” Jackie Day tells me. “You do.”

twenty-two

The faces are always changing at Churchill’s.

New students are constantly arriving at the school, eager and bewildered, no matter if the part of the world they come from is dirt poor and developing, or affluent and over-developed, while the old students all eventually go back home, transfer to some other college, get married to some love-struck local, get deported for working without a permit or simply disappear into the life of the city.

But many faces remain the same.

I have all of my Advanced Beginners in class today.

There’s Hiroko and Gen, both of them peering up at me through their shimmering, iridescent hair. Imran, looking sleek and quietly studious next to Yumi, her face of delicate Japanese beauty framed by what looks like a cheap blonde halo: Kyoto goes to Hollywood.

There’s Zeng and Witold, both fighting off the exhaustion of long hours slaving in General Lee’s Tasty Tennessee Kitchen and the Pampas Steak Bar. Astrud, who is either piling on the pounds or in the early stages of pregnancy. Olga, sitting right up front, chewing her pen, struggling to keep up with the rest of the class. And finally Vanessa, inspecting her immaculate fingernails as I rabbit on about past perfect forms.

Vanessa has her back to the door so she doesn’t see the man whose face suddenly appears in its little window, scanning the room. He is a good-looking forty-year-old, but seems a bit battered, as though something very bad has happened to him quite recently.

There’s a red mark on his cheek and one arm of his glasses is missing. There’s something wrong with the way his shirt is buttoned. He has made a quick escape from somewhere.

His eyes light up behind those broken spectacles when he sees the back of Vanessa’s golden head and I know immediately who he is, even before he begins to tap on the door’s little window. She turns around, gasps – really gasps – and then stands up, staring at our visitor in wonder.

“We often use the past perfect when we mention two past situations,” I am saying, “and we want to show that one happened before the other. For example –
when he saw the woman, he knew he had been waiting for her all his life
. Get it?
He had been waiting
.”

Nobody is listening to teacher. They are all watching the face at the window.

When the man opens the door, we see that he is carrying a stuffed travelling bag. He comes slowly into the classroom. We all stare at him, waiting to see what happens next.

“I’ve done it,” he tells Vanessa. “I’ve left her.”

Then they embrace, their mouths stuck together, their foreheads bumping awkwardly, his travelling bag hitting the ground with a soft thud, the broken spectacles rising from his face in protest.

I look at my class – Hiroko and Gen, Yumi and Imran, Zeng and Witold, Astrud and Olga – and we exchange self-conscious grins.

We know that we are watching two lives – three lives – no, even more than that, because doesn’t this man have children he has left behind? – being turned upside down and inside out before our eyes. All those lives that will never be the same again after today.

So we smile nervously, a little embarrassed, wanting to look away but unable to quite manage it, uncertain what our reaction should be, undecided if what we are seeing is gloriously romantic or totally ludicrous.

But something about the man’s broken glasses touches my heart –
he had been waiting for her all his life
– and makes me feel like giving them the benefit of the doubt.

30 June 1997. Changeover night. The night that the British gave Hong Kong back to the Chinese when the clock struck midnight. The night that the skies above Victoria Peak opened and it rained as it had never rained before, as if the heavens were heartbroken because this glittering place was being given up.

The nobs were down in the harbour. Prince Charles and the last Governor. The soldiers and the politicians. Watching the bands march and lowering the flag. But we were in Lockhart Road, Wanchai, with what felt like the rest of the ex-pat population.

Rose in a Mao suit. Josh in black tie. Me in a Mandarin number looking like a particularly pasty member of the old Imperial Court. And a crew of boys and girls from Josh and Rose’s shop, all of them either in formal dinner gear or Chinese drag.

We splish-splashed and bar-hopped through the flooded streets of Wanchai, once upon a time the old red light district, now more of a drinking trough for big-nosed pinkies like us.

And we wondered how we should feel.

Were we celebrating or in mourning? Were we meant to be happy or sad? Was this a party or a wake?

There wasn’t much joy in the air. We started drinking early and didn’t know when to stop. We were not the only ones.

Fights were breaking out all over the Wanch. Outside an ex-pat bar called the Fruity Ferret we saw a man in a rain-sodden tuxedo being head-butted by a youth in a torn West Ham away shirt. They were both British. The Chinese were not fighting in the streets of Wanchai. The Chinese had better things to do.

We ducked inside the Fruity Ferret. Josh and I pushed our way to the bar. He had been in a mean mood all evening, muttering about the ingratitude of the People’s Republic of China, getting steadily stewed on shooters and Tsingtao. But as we waited for the Australian prop forward behind the bar to notice us, he seemed suddenly sober.

“Not long to your wedding,” he said.

“Next month.”

“Didn’t fancy getting married back home?”

“Hong Kong is our home.”

“Your folks coming over?”

“That’s right.”

He sighed.

“Before you get married to Rose, there’s something I want to tell you.”

I looked at him to see if he was joking. But he wasn’t. I turned away, shouting at the bartender for service. The big Aussie was busy up the other end of the bar.

“I mean it. There’s something you should know, Alfie.”

“I’m not interested.”

“What?”

“I don’t care. Whatever you’re going to say, I’m not interested. Save it.”

“It’s about Rose.”

“Fuck off, Josh.”

“You need to hear this.”

I shoved him away and although the Fruity Ferret was packed to the rafters, he still went flying. Glass smashed and someone cursed in a London accent, but I was already gone, pushing my way through the mob, past a bewildered-looking Rose and the crew from the shop, all of them in their rain-soaked fancy dress.

“Alfie?”

But I was out of the bar and into the street, a red-and-white cab swerving to miss me as I walked into the middle of Lockhart Road and all the beautiful fireworks suddenly started to explode over the harbour.

Midnight. The night that everything was supposed to change forever. The night when they expected us to believe that the dream was finally over. As if it’s so easy to stop dreaming.

Then Josh was standing by my side, pulling my arm, the rain flattening and darkening his nice yellow hair, his dinner jacket sopping wet, his bow tie skewwhiff.

“You stupid bastard,” he said. “She’s just another girl. Are you such a soft-head that you can’t see that? Rose is just another girl.”

I shook him off and went back inside the Fruity Ferret. Somebody from the shop had got a round in. Rose handed me a Tsingtao and I kissed her face. I loved her so much.

“What was all that about?”

“Nothing. He’s had a few too many. Come on. Dance with me.”

She laughed. “But there’s no dance floor. And no music”

“Dance with me anyway.”

And she did.

A couple of months later my father gave us a video of our wedding day. And, as is the nature of all wedding videos, my dad wasn’t quite sure who was important to the happy bride and groom and who was more of a casual acquaintance. So he tried to film everyone.

The image that sticks in my mind from that wedding video is the slow, panning shot of the guests outside the Happy Valley church as Rose and I posed for our wedding photographs.

In the middle of all those aunts and uncles, those college friends and work colleagues, there is old Josh, a big handsome fellow in his morning suit, his arms folded across his chest.

He is watching the bride and groom.

And he is very slowly shaking his head.

I’m waiting for Jackie Day when she comes out of the Connell Gallery in Cork Street.

There’s some kind of launch party going on in there tonight. A mob of casually well-dressed people are all talking at once. Glasses of wine in their hands, ignoring the paintings behind them.

I say her name and she sees me, nowhere near as surprised as I thought she would be. I hand her the envelope.

“What’s this?” she says.

“That’s your money back. I’m sorry, Jackie, I really am. But I can’t teach you any more.”

She looks at the envelope. Then at me.

“Why did you change your mind?”

“It’s just not going to work out. I’ve already got too much on my plate. You’d be better off at night school. I’m sorry.”

“I told you. I need to be flexible. For personal reasons.”

“I understand. I know it must be difficult. Working, bringing up a child alone.”

“You probably think I’m stupid. The Essex girl who wants to go to university. Sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? It really does. It is a joke. Oh, I’ve heard all the jokes. And not just from your friend Lenny the Lech.”

“He’s not exactly –”

“There are a million like him out there. And you’re one of them. That’s fine. It’s okay if you think it’s a joke. It’s okay if you think I’m stupid.”

“Jackie, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“People have been telling me I’m stupid all my life.”

“I don’t –”

“My parents. My teachers. My ex-husband. That bastard. But I thought you were going to be different.” She looks at me carefully. “I don’t know why. I thought I saw something in you. Some spark of decency. Or something.”

I find myself hoping that she’s right. “Jackie –”

“You don’t like the way I dress.”

“The way you dress has got nothing to do with me.”

“I’ve seen you looking at me. Down your nose. The Essex girl. I know.”

“I couldn’t care less how you dress. You can paint yourself with woad for all I care. Okay?”

“Well, I’ll tell you something, mister.” Her voice is shaking now. “I think the way I dress is
pretty
. I think the way I dress is
nice
. What’s so great about the way you dress? Like some old tramp, you are.”

“I’ve never been much of a snappy dresser.”

“No kidding. You look like you should be sleeping in a doorway. You know what your problem is, Alfie? You think you’re the only person that anything bad ever happened to.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m sorry your wife died. Rose. I really am. But don’t blame me.”

“I don’t blame you. I don’t blame anybody.”

“You blame the world. I know all about your hard life. You want to hear about my hard life? You want to hear about a man who got me pregnant when I was doing really well at school? The same man who knocked me around every time he got pissed for the next ten rotten years? You want to hear about any of that?”

I don’t say a word. There’s nothing I can say. There are tears of defiance in her eyes.

“I’m going to get this exam, mate. With or without you. I’m going to put it with the two I’ve got already and I’m going to the University of Greenwich to get my BA. It’s not Oxford or Cambridge, you’re right. But that’s my dream. You can sneer at it if you want. It’s still my dream.”

“I’m not sneering.”

“And when I’ve got my degree, my daughter and I are going to have a better life than the one we’ve got at the moment. That’s my plan. If you can’t help me – if going around breaking some poor foreign girl’s heart is more important than that – then I don’t know what you are, but you’re certainly not much of a teacher. And not much of a man.”

We stare at each other for a long time. Behind her, the launch party is in full swing. All those overpaid, over-educated people talking too loudly. And I realise that what she thinks matters to me.

“I wish I could help, Jackie. I really do.”

“But you
can
. You
can
make a difference. You don’t believe it, do you? You think the world is out of your control. You can’t imagine the changes you can make in someone’s life. It’s not too late for you, Alfie. You can still be one of the good guys.”

I don’t know what comes over me.

“I’ll see you Tuesday night then,” I say.

Now how did that happen?