Chan Conversations
‘Hello, is that Mrs Chan?’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘It’s … my name’s Chan too. Um … I’m trying to do some research into my family tree and …’
‘Where did you get my number?’
‘From the phone book. It’s just that …’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’
*
‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised.’
*
‘Hello, is that Mr Chan?’
‘Chah twing … (crackle crackle) … Chan … tsiu chong (crackle crackle ) not here.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. I’m looking for either Mr or Mrs Chan.’
‘Chah shing help you liu (crackle crackle) chong.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t understand.’
Click.
*
‘Hello, I’m looking for my grandmother or my grandfather. Their surname’s Chan.’
‘I don’t think you’ve got the right number.’
*
‘Hello, is that Mrs Chan?’
‘Mrs Chan, yes.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve got the wrong number. I’m looking for the Mrs Chan who used to own a Chinese restaurant.’
‘This not a restaurant, no.’
‘No, I know it’s not a restaurant, but I wonder if you used to work in a restaurant?’
‘I think you got the wrong number. This not a restaurant.’
Orchestra Orphan
Missing
Leonora Watts-Chan, the fifteen-
Leonora was wearing the
year-old whose musician parents bottle-green school uniform of
were tragically killed in the June Bristol High School. She was
8th ’orchestra crash’, has gone carrying a black and turquoise
missing. Adidas bag containing her school
Leonora had been living in
books, which has not been
Bristol at the home of her found. Leonora is about 5'2"
mother’s sister, Mrs Sarah with short dark hair and oriental
Baldwin. features.
‘She seemed to have settled
Mr Barry Yates, a ticket clerk
in so well, though of course she at Bristol Temple Meads Station,
was devastated about losing both said that a girl answering
her parents,’ said Mrs Baldwin. Leonora’s description bought a
‘She got on fine with my two single ticket for Paddington on
teenage daughters and was due Tuesday morning.
to start school with them on ‘I remember her because she
Tuesday.’ was quite chatty, although she
Leonora set off for the bus
seemed a bit nervous too,’ said
stop on September 10th with her Mr Yates. ‘She said she was
two cousins, but then told them going to visit an art gallery. I
she had forgotten her P.E. kit and didn’t ask why she wasn’t at
was going back to the house to school because I didn’t think it
fetch it. That was the last time was my business.’
anyone in the family saw her. Leonora lived in North
London before her parents were
‘I’ll be fine.’ killed, and it is possible that she
is staying with people she knew
Leonora did not appear at school, there. However, enquiries have
and later Mrs Baldwin found a so far drawn a blank. Anyone
note saying that she was going to who thinks they may have seen
London to see old friends. The Leonora should phone Missing
note ended, ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t People on 0500 700 700.
worry.’
Finlay – The Doughnut Thief
Finlay stirred the doughnut mixture and gazed absently out of the van. The Barras market bustled around him but he barely noticed. He sighed a deep sigh.
‘That’s a long face for a Saturday,’ said Marina, scooping a doughnut out of the hot oil and dumping it on to the sugar tray. ‘Cheer up, it may never happen.’
‘It already has,’ said Finlay.
‘What is it this time? School or Mum and Dad?’
‘Both,’ said Finlay. ‘It’s those bloody N of Ms.’
‘Language, Finlay!’ Marina reproached automatically. She turned the doughnut over in the sugar. ‘I thought N of M was a rock band,’ she said.
‘That’s Eminem and he’s a rapper,’ said Finlay. ‘N of M is short for Notification of Misconduct. They’re these slips of paper the school give you, and your parents have to sign them. Mum said if I got any more she’d stop this week’s pocket money. Then I was late for school on Tuesday and got one. So I forged her signature.’
‘Finlay! This sounds like the slippery downward slope. Did the school swallow it?’
‘Yes, but then on Wednesday one of the other paper boys was off and Rab gave me all these extra houses to do, so I was late again.’
‘And you got another Eminem?’
‘N of M – no, but I would have. I couldn’t face that, so I wrote a note from Mum saying I’d been to the dentist.’
‘Finlay! I wouldn’t have given you this job if I’d known you were such a hardened criminal.’
‘Only the school went and phoned her,’ said Finlay bitterly.
‘What gave you away? The handwriting, was it?’
‘No, it was the Ps,’ said Finlay. ‘Apparently there’s only one in “apologise” and two in “appointment”. What a bloody stupid language.’
‘Language, Finlay!’
‘That’s what I just said – a bloody stupid one. So now that’s the pocket money gone and Mum’s going to stop me doing the paper round if I’m late again. I’ll never get that guitar, and Ross’ll probably find someone else to be in his band. It’s so unfair.’
Marina just laughed as she picked up some doughnuts with the tongs and transferred them to a polythene bag. ‘Five for a pound!’ she yelled to the world in general, and then said to Finlay, ‘All this talk of Ps has gone to my bladder. Mind the van a minute, can you, son?’
As soon as Marina had gone it got busy. Finlay sold six bags of doughnuts. There was only one left; Marina would have to fry some more when she got back. Finlay was considered too young to be allowed to do the actual frying – another of life’s unfairnesses.
A teenage girl with glossy black hair and a beige anorak was hovering around the van. A bulky navy blue nylon bag was slung over her shoulder. She looked vaguely familiar to Finlay. Where had he seen her before? She backed away when she saw him looking at her, and a man with three runny-nosed kids came up to the van and ordered candyflosses. Whirling the pink fluffy strands round and round the sticks was something Finlay was trusted to do, and it was fun. He took five pounds from the man and turned round to cash it.
When he turned back with the 50p change, he was just in time to see the girl in the beige anorak seize the last bag of doughnuts and run off with it.
‘Hey! Stop!’ In two strides Finlay was at the van door. He jumped down and was after her. Through the candyfloss kids, past a plant stall, round a corner. There she was, diving into a doorway! A second later and he’d have run on past. Instead, he swerved and charged in after her.
He found himself inside a vast low shed full of stalls selling ornaments – the kind of useless things his mother liked to collect. The girl dodged round a table covered in rearing china horses, and past a huge brass gong which dangled from the ceiling. Finlay brushed against the gong and set it swinging gently. A man reached out and grabbed his arm.
‘Slow down, you!’ he said. Finlay wriggled out of his grasp and went on running, his eyes still on the girl. She had stopped by a tall, twisty hatstand and was looking around, searching frantically for a different exit. When her eyes met Finlay’s they filled with panic and she started off again. She ran round the edge of the building, heading for a do
or in the far corner.
‘I’ll get there first,’ thought Finlay, spotting a narrow passageway between stalls which led directly to the door. Old postcards, old prints, old books – Finlay ran past them all, gathering speed and swerving to avoid a fat man who was browsing over some old coins.
What happened next happened very quickly: a bumping of shoulders, a foot on a shoelace, a fall. Finlay was on the hard floor, his hands and knees smarting. A few other things seemed to be on the floor too – china things.
As Finlay scrambled to his feet he caught a glimpse of the girl. She had reached the exit door and was disappearing through it. She was going to get away. But that was the least of Finlay’s problems.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ an angry voice was saying. A woman with spiky orange hair was waving something in his face, or rather two things – two broken halves of a hideous purple seal. The fat man and the coin-seller looked silently on, obviously enjoying the drama.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Finlay. ‘Can you superglue it, maybe?’
It was the wrong thing to say.
‘Superglue! I’ll superglue you to the floor till you cough up thirty pounds for this piece.’
‘Thirty pounds!’ Finlay repeated, aghast.
‘That’s what I said. And if those coronation mugs are broken they’ll cost you an extra twenty-five each.’ She put down the seal and picked up the two mugs, appearing disappointed to find that one was still intact but triumphant when she discovered the severed handle of the other one.
‘Running away from someone, were you?’ She eyed him speculatively, as if uncertain whether to suspect him of theft or mugging.
‘No, after someone. I do a Saturday job in the doughnut van, and this girl stole a bag of …’
But the woman didn’t really want to know about any crime other than Finlay’s. She thrust the broken china into a carrier bag. ‘Keep an eye on my stuff, will you – what’s left of it,’ she said to the coin-seller. Then, seizing Finlay’s arm, she marched him back along the narrow passageway, towards daylight and doughnuts and Marina.
Marina. Finlay realised he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her. But perhaps she would still be in the toilet … Or perhaps she’d understand …
She wasn’t, and she didn’t.
‘There you are,’ she said. ‘This gentleman says you ran off with his change.’ The man who had bought the candyfloss was standing there with his three kids. Their snot was now bright pink.
‘Oh no! Sorry. I didn’t mean to.’ What had he done with the 50p? It had been in his hand when he saw the girl take the doughnuts. ‘I must have dropped it when I fell. I was trying to catch this thief, you see.’ But again no one seemed interested in his story.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve given the gentleman his money, but it’s coming off today’s wages – and they’re the last wages you’re getting,’ said Marina grimly. ‘Running off like that! Supposing someone had robbed the till while you were gone!’
‘I knew he was up to no good,’ said the china-seller, triumphant once again, and proceeded to tell Marina about the breakages. She produced the broken seal and mug. ‘If you’re his mum, you owe me fifty-five pounds,’ she said.
‘I’m not his mum – heaven forbid,’ said Marina, but surprisingly she put an arm round Finlay almost as if she were. ‘But fifty-five quid sounds a bit steep to me. I’d have thought you’d keep your valuable pieces locked up or at the back of the stall.’ She seemed to have taken against the other woman. Finlay listened to them haggling and waited in resignation for the moment when Marina would tell her his name and address.
But to his surprise, Marina was handing the woman a twenty-pound note. ‘That’s for the mug,’ she said. ‘The seal looks like something left behind at a jumble sale, but I’ll give you a pound for it.’
The woman protested loudly but disappeared quite quickly with the money.
‘Thanks, Marina – I’ll pay it back out of my pocket money,’ said Finlay.
‘I somehow doubt you’ll be getting much pocket money with all these Eminems you keep getting,’ said Marina. ‘I’ll take it out of the next couple of weeks’ wages.’
‘But … I thought you said …’
‘Aye, but I’m giving you another chance.’ The battle with the china-seller seemed to have softened Marina’s attitude to Finlay. ‘Now, tell me what happened, you daft wee bugger.’
Finlay resisted the temptation to say, ‘Language, Marina!’ and started to tell her about the girl with the glossy black hair and the beige anorak. And as he relived the moment when he’d noticed her hovering outside the van he suddenly knew where he’d seen her before. It was in yesterday’s Sun. ORCHESTRA ORPHAN MISSING.
Leo – Hobnobbing
I can’t get the swans quite right. This is my third sketch and they still look more like geese. And of course they won’t keep still. Now one of them is out of the water and is waddling right up to me.
No, you’re not having one of my doughnuts, you greedy thing. I’m nearer to starving than you are. People are always feeding you – look at that old lady with all the shopping bags; I bet one of them has got some crusts in it for you. What’s she taking out? A whole loaf, it looks like. And another one! And all I’ve got is two measly doughnuts.
Yes, I know they’re not my doughnuts, strictly speaking. I shouldn’t have taken them, and I felt sorry for that kid running after me. He was just a kid, in spite of his tough-looking Goth gear. Probably doing a Saturday job, and he’ll get into trouble now because of me. But my money’s run out, and I was so hungry! Midnight Oil tea gets you through the night but it’s not exactly filling.
This bench by the pond has become a kind of home. I’ve only been in Glasgow four days but I’m losing track of the number of naps I’ve had on it.
The swan is back with the others, gobbling up the old lady’s bread. There must be about a hundred slices in the water. She’s turned her back on them now, and she’s walking towards me. No, don’t come and sit on this bench – it’s mine! Why can’t you find another one?
‘That’s a nice picture,’ she says as she sits down beside me.
I smile and close the sketchbook. I don’t want to get into a conversation with her.
‘Have you got the time, hen?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’ (But glancing at my watch the thought crosses my mind that I should sell it, or pawn it, to raise some extra cash.) ‘It’s twenty-five past two.’
She nods, pleased by my answer. ‘Ronnie’ll be out for his Accompanied at half past.’
‘Oh.’ I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about.
‘They willnae give him Unaccompanied. The Godfather gets Unaccompanied, but Ronnie jist gets Accompanied.’
If I look baffled she doesn’t notice. The words keep coming, non-stop like the slices of bread she’s just been throwing into the pond.
‘Aye, the Godfather gets Unaccompanied, but no Ronnie – he’d do a runner if they gave him Unaccompanied. There’s that many pubs round here. It’s alcohol-induced wi’ Ronnie. If Ronnie could stay off the bevvy he’d be as right as you are, hen.’
She rummages in one of her bags and holds out a packet of biscuits to me. I take one and try to hand the packet back but she waves it away.
‘Keep it, hen. I’ve got another one for Ronnie, and one for the Godfather. Jim disnae like biscuits. I’ve got some crisps and juice for Jim. Whit’s your name then?’
‘Leo,’ I reply automatically, and then wish I hadn’t. I’m not supposed to be Leo Watts-Chan any more. Specially not since yesterday’s papers and that picture of me with ‘Leo, the Orchestra Orphan’ underneath. Just when I was beginning to think I’d escaped the papers. Just when I was telling myself that there are dozens of runaway homeless teenagers; no one wants to read about yet another one. But the plane crash is still fresh in people’s minds, so I’m News.
The name doesn’t seem to ring a bell with this lady, thank goodness – or rather, it does, but a different one.
>
‘I’m a Leo,’ she says. ‘Fiery and generous, that’s me.’ She rummages again, and produces a newspaper. My heart stops for a second. Maybe she has recognised me.
But it’s a local paper, with a headline about a corrupt councillor. In any case, she’s not interested in the news; she flicks through to the horoscope page and reads out, ‘Leo. A chance encounter can affect your home life.’
She nudges me. ‘A chance encounter. That willnae be Ronnie. Ronnie’s planned. It must be you, pal!’ She laughs, then points at two men, one small and one burly, coming along the path towards us. ‘Here’s Ronnie! Here he comes! And that’s Jim Docherty with him.’ She waves at them wildly.
‘Move up, hen.’ She squeezes up to me and pats at the empty space on the bench.
‘Hiya, Mary,’ says the burly man. The small one smiles and says nothing, but it is into his hands that Mary thrusts the packet of biscuits. He must be Ronnie.
‘Chocolate HobNobs – your favourite, Ronnie,’ says the burly man. Ronnie’s smile widens but he still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t sit down on the bench either, but shuffles from foot to foot. There is a glazed look in his eyes.
‘This is my new wee friend,’ says Mary, indicating me. ‘She’s a Leo like me. Fiery and generous, aren’t we, hen?’ As if to prove her own generosity she picks up a bag and holds it out to big Jim.
‘Biscuits fur the Godfather, Irn Bru and crisps fur you, Jim,’ she says. Jim shakes his head and sighs, but takes the bag.
‘You’re spoiling us, Mary,’ he says.
‘Aye, but I can afford to – I didnae spend my DLA all at once – not like last time.’
Jim rolls his eyes at me. Then he glances at my sketchbook. ‘Are you from Mary’s painting class?’ he asks.
I am saved from answering by Mary. ‘I’ve stopped going to that painting class, Jim. I didnae like it. There was a wumman there kept giving me looks.’
‘You should go, Mary. You don’t want to hang around here all day. Why don’t you ask your CPN if there’s any other classes?’
Running on the Cracks Page 2