The Secret Mother

by Victoria Delderfield

  “Watch it, mister,” I called.

  The black fabric of his bomber jacket was heading straight for Madam Feng’s.

  “Look!” shouted one of the young guys at the bar. “The woman up there’s going to jump!”

  The crowd blurred and a sudden pain in my haunches stapled me to the street. There were shouts from the bar; a shrill cry from the balcony.

  “She’s jumped!”

  “The woman’s jumped.”

  “She’s killed herself.”

  “Mind the body!”

  Whose body? What body?

  A sudden flow of water issued from me. The melon seller dropped his crate. Rain grizzled down. Melons, fat and round and ready to burst, rolled into the gutter. People scrambled to see what was happening. The melon seller started to run.

  “Call the police.”

  “It’s too late for a doctor!”

  Water everywhere.

  This is it, baby, hold on tight.

  There in the road, where the crowd now gathered, was a twisted body and a head smashed against a crimson pool of blood. One leg straight as a stork’s, another tucked beneath her chest, exactly as she slept. Her arm not where an arm should naturally be, angled behind her neck.

  I couldn’t run. The baby wouldn’t wait. There in the street, baby tells me it can’t hold on.

  “We should call the ambulance!”

  “Look at her!”

  I dug Manager He’s envelope from my bra and looked again at the name and address of the doctor he had given me.

  Doctor Quo, you’d better be ready.

  All was unexpected. All premature, like a downpour blighting summer.

  Yifan was their only footnote to the past. There had to be another meeting, thought Jen as she texted him three, four even five times. Eventually he acquiesced and agreed to meet them at the Suseng Teahouse off Middle Road in the old town. It was a dark, traditional building smelling of jasmine and half full of ageing men playing mahjong. Yifan arrived late, delayed by his rounds at the hospital.

  “I’m so sorry about last time, rushing you out of my bureau. It was such a shock for me.” His eyes were earnest behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

  “You’re not kidding,” said Ricki.

  “I never imagined I’d see you again after all these years. I can hardly take it all in.”

  “We appreciate you meeting with us,” said Jen. “It’s a great comfort to know a piece of the puzzle exists.”

  “A puzzle indeed,” said Yifan.

  Ricki fiddled with the strap on her Nikon.

  “I see you like photography, Ricki. My son has – what’s the word? An exhibit with the School of Art. Perhaps while you are in Nanchang you would like to see his work?”

  Jen glanced at Yifan’s wedding ring – sign of his life after May.

  “He’s working on it today; he would be pleased to explain his material to you.”

  “Sure,” Ricki said.

  A waiter, wearing a gown and traditional cap, bowed and poured the tea. Yifan tapped his finger against the cup to thank him.

  “Your mother and I met here once. You see that table?” He signalled towards the window where two men sat in companionable silence, smoking.

  “I know this story,” said Jen, reaching into her rucksack for the book of traditional tales. “You were sitting by the window. You gave May this.”

  Yifan blanched.

  “She held onto your book all these years, Yifan. Look, here’s the inscription from your grandparents.”

  His hand brushed the cover, as though brushing away the dust that settles on memory, and he leafed silently through its pages.

  “Why did you give her a book?” asked Ricki. “Maybe if you’d given her something more romantic you could have been our dad.”

  “Ricki!”

  “Perhaps you’re sister’s right, perhaps not. I suspect, however, that Mai Ling’s heart already belonged to someone else and I was a poor suitor in comparison. In my country, we have a saying: ‘a broken heart has never been cured by medicine’. You know, our nation is very wise if we would listen to our ancestors.”

  “May taught me some of these stories during our lessons,” said Jen. “She said I would never understand China unless I looked to the past. That all seems so ironic now.”

  Yifan closed the book. “I’m afraid Mai was never so interested in the past when I knew her. Perhaps when she left China, she could finally value our country, even with its flaws. Although, forgive me, England is also to be admired: Shakespeare, the Queen …”

  May had once compared England and its language to a postage stamp – small but necessary to communicate with the rest of the world, Jen remembered.

  Ricki cradled her tea cup. “So what was she like when you knew her?”

  “Very beautiful, to me at least. A real sense of adventure; she was a survivor – plucky I think you say in English? She lived to work and was so stubborn, dogged at times,” he smiled fleetingly, forgiving now of her faults.

  Ricki stiffened in self-recognition. “Did you love her?” she said.

  Yifan glanced towards the door. “In truth, I would have loved her all my life if she had agreed to be my wife. She was all I could think about for years after we parted. Sometimes, even now, I wake up next to my wife and believe, for the briefest of moments, that it is Mai Ling beside me. I can’t tell you what it means to see you both sitting here – you look so like her, especially you Ricki. It is as though, when I came into the teahouse, it was her back turned to me, her shoulders stooped over the table, and then when I saw your face in the light …” He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. “My wife makes me happy; she would be devastated to hear me talk this way. She doesn’t even know I am here. I hate to deceive her.”

  “Perhaps if May had married you, we might never have been abandoned – perhaps you would have taken care of her?” said Jen. “And us?”

  “Of course I would have loved you as I do my son.” He shook his head. “But that was never meant to be, Jen. Life cannot be relived. It is a bitter truth I am telling you because I don’t want you to live as I have done, regretting everything that has gone before. We must accept May’s choices. As for what happened, I’ve told you everything I know. After leaving God’s Help, I never saw her again.”

  Ricki set her cup down. “I think May didn’t make choices, so much as mistakes.”

  “No, Yifan’s right,” Jen said, “May chose her own destiny. She knew exactly what she was doing when she left us behind and when she came to find us. We can’t pity her for that.”

  “But you’re a doctor,” said Ricki, “you must see all sorts of women – women like May who can’t cope. How can you say abandoning your child is a choice?”

  “What do you want from me?” He pleaded in a whisper.

  The men in the window sat motionless, pinned in time like subjects inside a painting. The muted patter of rain sounded above the noise of the radio. Yifan checked his watch and slid the book inside his attaché case. Jen sensed he had not told them everything.

  “Are you going so soon?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so, my first lecture is at ten.”

  “What about your son’s exhibition?”

  “I can walk that way with you a little. He will explain it far better than me, I’m afraid my brain is scientific in nature and I admit to not knowing a great deal about the way artists think. My son and I are very different; he is the new generation.” Yifan put on his rain coat and plumped the cushion where he had been sitting. He paid and left a customary half cup of tea.

  The exhibition was housed in an unassuming building in a run-down part of Nanchang, not far from the old town. Yifan called up a narrow, badly lit staircase. A tall, handsome figure appeared, his hair shaved. Yifan introduced him to Jen and Ricki.

  “Son, these two young ladies have come all the way from England. They wish to see your exhibition. I told them you would be happy to show them around. They are special visitors
, Guan, I want you to take good care of them.”

  He gave a small bow. “Hi there,” he said in impeccable English.

  “Son, you look very pale, have you been working through the night again? I’ve warned you not to, stress plays havoc with the immune system.”

  “Dad.”

  Yifan brushed the rain from his overcoat. In the half-light, his forehead looked more furrowed; Jen noticed his black hair was flecked through with white. He cradled his attaché case close to his chest as though reticent to leave. She went over and hugged him tightly, breaking the unwritten rules of formality.

  “I’ll remember you,” Jen whispered, “the way May remembered you.”

  She could feel Yifan trembling beneath his raincoat. He broke away and held a hand out to Ricki. “I’m very glad you came, Ricki.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “It has helped seeing you again.”

  “I’m sorry to rush, but I must go if I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “Go!” shouted Guan. “Before the dean sends out his search party.”

  They followed Guan upstairs to the exhibition and sat down on a battered velvet settee next to a coffee machine, the weight of unresolved questions bearing down on them.

  “So you’re English … What brings you to Nanchang?” he asked. “You look young to be travelling alone.”

  “We’re here with our parents. They’re back at the hotel,” said Jen.

  “The hotel where we were born,” Ricki added.

  Guan gave a puzzled expression.

  “We’re adopted,” said Ricki. “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve come here to find out more about our birth mum.”

  “Ah, so that’s how you know Dad?”

  Ricki shot Guan a questioning glance. “What do you mean?”

  “He can be so modest at times; people don’t know what an amazing job he does, with young women especially. Do you guys drink coffee? I imagine you’re pretty fed up of all the tea we drink here.”

  “Caffeine would be good. It’s been a nightmare so far,” said Ricki, her eyes darting all over the random collection of junk around her.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” said Guan. “I’ve called it Go.”

  “This is your exhibition? All this?” said Jen.

  “I wanted it to feel like you’re entering someone’s house. This place used to belong to a prostitute who committed suicide. Straight off the balcony in broad daylight. A real tragedy. No-one came forwards to claim her stuff and over the last sixteen years or so her apartment sat empty until I was able to rent it. The State doesn’t know I’m using it for an exhibition – not yet, anyway. Although word will spread pretty fast once it gets online.”

  Guan rummaged through a cardboard box and pulled out a photograph. “Here she is – Madam Feng.”

  “A drag queen?” Ricki asked.

  “I don’t think so. She worked in a karaoke bar not far from here; her regulars were mainly local businessmen. She kept their business cards – I tried phoning one; he was a senior guy, Head of Production in the car industry, but the number didn’t exist after all these years. I gave up trying to trace him or the others.”

  Guan put the photograph in the bottom of a chest of drawers to make it look as if it had been carelessly shoved away.

  “So why do you call it Go?” asked Ricki.

  “We all have our comings and goings – the shift of life and death; it washes up personal stuff. It would have eventually been thrown in a dumpster if I hadn’t salvaged it, gone forever. No family you see, the woman never had any children, no-one to inherit her belongings. I’m interested in the way objects outlive people. Freaks me out, to be honest.”

  “Why?” said Ricki. “That’s what happens. People die all the time.”

  “We all like to think we’re immortal, especially artists.”

  “Art makes you immortal,” said Ricki.

  “Yeah, but what if you’re not an artist? What if you’re just a normal, everyday person? Or a woman like Madam Feng who everyone wanted, lusted over, but no-one loved or properly knew? Your stuff is what’s left of you. It can’t sum you up, or tell the truth. It doesn’t reveal your inner life, the parts we keep hidden, even from ourselves. But objects tell stories and can become art – even if the State forbids it.” He gave a dry laugh.

  Listening to Guan, Jen was reminded of the chess piece in her pocket. May’s Queen. She had intended to give it to Yifan.

  “Guan, do you think you could give this to your dad for me?”

  He looked at it carefully, turning it over in his hand. “That’s funny, Dad has a set just like it. The double happiness symbol is carved into the base, right? It’s his lucky set.”

  She nodded. “I figured it might belong to him. Tell him it was tucked inside her pillow will you, he’ll know who I’m talking about.”

  “A pillow? I love a good mystery. I won’t ask who it belonged to – we’ve learnt not to quiz each other too much.”

  Guan poured espressos, black and intense. The smell revived Jen and she asked about his family.

  “I’m an only child. After my first dad died, Mum and Yifan decided to play by the rules. He sacrificed a lot. Yifan’s a good man. Listen, will you come with me for a walk? I should really get some fresh air; I’ve been sifting through this stuff all day. I can give you a quick tour of the streets around here and tell you more about my shy father.”

  They finished their coffee. Guan put on a baseball cap and a scarf. He stopped to buy sliced melon from a man on the corner and passed them a carton each. It tasted deliciously sweet after coffee.

  They walked past the Suseng Teahouse, in the direction of the banks and office blocks. Old and new buildings jumbled together like photos in a drawer, flashes of the city’s different eras. Guan took an unexpected turning and they entered a grubby residential area.

  He lit a cigarette. “This is where Dad spends most of his spare time. I’ve taken photographs around here, but I don’t store them on my laptop – the authorities wouldn’t be too happy if they thought I was making any kind of political point. One must always be patriotic.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ricki.

  “The Party doesn’t believe in creative freedom. But if you stay safe there are still ways to bend the rules. My dad’s a lecturer by day and by night he comes here, looking for women to help.”

  “Prostitutes, you mean?”

  “Sometimes, not always. They’re in a bad shape for all sorts of reasons – homelessness, unwanted pregnancy, sometimes addicts … Mum doesn’t approve, she worries all the time about his safety, but he’s stubborn and comes anyway. I think she’s accepted it now. She’s stopped nagging him to quit.”

  “So he’s like a street doctor?” Jen cut in.

  “Exactly. He gives women on the spot treatment, whatever he can, and makes sure they know where to find a bed for the night. He tries to get them into God’s Help, but they don’t always want to go there. They don’t want anyone finding out they exist – the State, I mean. It would create hassle. They’ve not always lived by the rules. There’s plenty of people lining up to punish them.”

  “What sort of punishment?” said Jen.

  “Prison, forced sterilisation, fines, sometimes the women just vanish. They’re pretty dispensable, in some people’s eyes.”

  “That’s sick,” Ricki added.

  “That’s what dad thinks, but it’s not every man who has his guts. Especially not a man like him with a good job, a loving wife and apartment sorted. He’s far braver than me; I’m just a dreamer, I want art to change the world.”

  “And can it?” said Ricki.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “I hope so.”

  “It looks pretty deprived around here,” said Jen. “It’s a side you don’t see in the guidebooks. Who lives here?”

  “Poor families as you’d expect, then there are the widows, the dealers, the abortionists. The State know they’re here but they let them get on with it – so lon
g as they stay in their bubble. I guess the abortionists are doing them a service; less mouths to feed. Believe me, your mother could have chosen differently when she abandoned you.”

  Jen shivered and rubbed her arms, but the chill remained.

  “Come on, guys, we’d better hurry. I’ve probably already shown you too much. It’s a shame we don’t have more time, I could have taken you to see a film. There’s a new indie feature out by Gao Wendong, I’m surprised it got past the censors.”

  “Wait,” said Ricki. “Before you go marching off, there’s somewhere I need to go. Please? Come with me, it won’t take long.”

  They followed Ricki through the People’s Park. Guan lit another cigarette from the packet in his top pocket. The smell reminded Jen of Stuart’s kisses; Stuart who belonged to a different life.

  “Are you going to tell us where we’re going?” said Jen.

  Ricki stopped dead.

  “Don’t tell me you’re lost?”

  It’s over there. If I don’t go now I never will. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

  Jen had never seen her sister look so scared. She realised, suddenly, where they were heading.

  “You don’t have to do this …”

  But Ricki was already walking.

  A flight of eighteen steps led to a first-floor entrance. The steps. The ones. Shit, they looked steep, thought Jen, as she approached the welfare institute.

  There was also a ground floor entrance. A large porch supported by six columns, three on either side, painted red. Four-storeys, fifteen windows to every floor. Four bands of colour painted on the central windows marked out each floor; the colours had faded: white, pink, pale blue and red in ascending order. There were also six circular windows at the front of the building. It reminded Jen of something Blue Peter might make. She stared long and hard until she could remember every detail with her eyes closed. It was the least she could do – the only thing – to remember it properly and precisely.

  “Be careful,” Guan smiled. “If they catch you, they’ll take you back in.”

  They crossed over to a bench shaded by overhanging trees and sat unseen. The scene played on in Jen’s imagination, of May hurrying away from the steps. She pictured it to be a cold morning, frosty, her sister turning blue. Ricki’s early medical records reported ‘mild hypothermia’, Jen’s dental records said ‘malnutrition’ and ‘bleeding gums’. They must have been half starved when May left them.