Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  “I’m still a vigorous man,” continued Nathaniel, “and she’ll be fertile for a long time to come yet. I could spawn five sons before I die.”

  “Father, please,” said Augusta, indicating her son.

  “You’re the one said he was old enough. So let him hear.”

  Peter Curran stopped eating and sat staring at his plate as if he were a rabbit and the fox’s snout was coming through the table.

  “And any son she might drop would be a whole lot better than the one I have.” Nathaniel addressed this remark to Jarius, ignoring Frank, who was leaning on his elbows on the table, toying with his fork.

  “We all know my stepbrother has sowed a lot of wild oats,” said Jarius. “I’m not condoning that, but he has settled down now. Isn’t that so, Frank?”

  Nathaniel didn’t wait to hear a reply.

  “Bollocks. He’s still up to his tricks and you know it. He’s hell-bent on destroying everything I’ve built up.”

  Frank didn’t look up, but began tapping the fork on the side of the dish as if he were about to crack an egg. Nathaniel wouldn’t stop now.

  “This woman can get me children who will have respect. I’ll see to that. They won’t end up scragged like he’s going to. Jarius, I don’t count you in this. You’re not my own flesh and blood, more’s the pity, but you will get a nice bequest, don’t worry about that. And I know you love me like you should.”

  “What about Lewis?” Augusta burst out. “What about your first grandson? He deserves consideration.”

  “Does he? I say let him earn it. Let him earn it the way I had to.”

  Lewis had heard his grandfather’s story many times. How, at the age of fifteen, he’d fled from a poor farm in the north of England, stowed away on a steamer to Canada, and by dint of hard work and a good mind, had established himself in a livery stable, now considered one of the best in Toronto. This history usually took a long time to relate, especially after two jugs of beer, and Lewis hoped Nathaniel wasn’t going to launch into it tonight.

  However, he could see his mother wasn’t going to tolerate storytelling. Her mouth had gone very tight and she spoke as if her jaw were stiff.

  “And what about me? I am your only daughter. Surely I matter?”

  Nathaniel flapped his hand as if she were an irritating fly. “I’ve no time for a woman who’s put a twitch on her husband’s tool the way you have.”

  Curran didn’t respond, except to stuff his hands underneath his thighs out of harm’s way. Nathaniel jabbed his finger in the air.

  “And I’ve told you time and again that you’re turning your lad into a prize Miss Molly. But you, you won’t listen. He’s getting to be more and more soft as he grows.”

  This wasn’t the first time his grandfather had used that term, but when Lewis asked his mother what it meant, she wouldn’t tell him. Uncle Frank said it meant he would turn out like the fat gelding in the stable and Lewis added that to his other pile of worries.

  Suddenly, Frank sat up straight. “Young Nephew, you probably don’t know what the hell we’re all talking about, do you? Concerning your new grandmother, I mean.”

  “No, Uncle,” whispered Lewis.

  “Do you remember how we had to drown Fluffy because she kept getting out and having kittens? She just wouldn’t stop? Always caterwauling and carrying on.”

  “Frank!”

  “Don’t worry, Aggie. I’m only trying to educate the boy. You see, Lew, your uncle Jarius thinks Grandmother Peg should have this special operation. It’s performed on women who’ve lost their slates. They take out their innards, their sex parts. They can’t have children after that but it’s said to work wonders. Dampens them right down.”

  “Frank, stop it. You can’t talk to the boy like that.”

  “Why not? His future is at stake. You see, Lewis, the problem is we’re not just talking about a poor woman who’s gone barmy. It’s worse than that. Your grandfather is in fact married to a whore who is ready to stand for any man that comes knocking.”

  Nathaniel cuffed his son across the side of his mouth. His knuckle caught the top of Frank’s lip, cracking it.

  “You piece of filth. Your mother is crying in heaven over you.”

  Frank touched his finger to his mouth and examined the daub of blood. “She has a lot more to cry over than just me swearing.”

  Nathaniel hit out again but this time Frank was ready and he caught him by the wrist. He pushed back and they locked as if they were in a wrestling contest.

  “Jarius, stop them,” Augusta cried.

  Gibb jumped up and came around the table. He gripped Frank’s shoulder.

  “Let him go.”

  Eakin did, at the same time pushing back from his chair so he was out of harm’s way.

  “I believe your father is owed an apology.”

  “Is he? All I’m doing is telling the truth … You say you’d like more sons but how could you ever be certain of her offspring?”

  “Hold your tongue.”

  “Look at me, Father! I’m flesh of your flesh. You look into a mirror when you see me. There is no doubt who fathered me.”

  Nathaniel stared at him, then he said, “Don’t you think I regret that every day? What I see when I look at you disgusts me.”

  Frank flinched and Lewis could see the movement of his Adam’s apple in his throat. Jarius was still standing close to him and he stepped forward.

  “Stepfather, I am afraid in the interest of truth I must take Frank’s side in this matter. He did not want to tell you but she went to him as well as myself. On Friday.” He looked over at Curran. “I regret to say she approached both of them.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Jarius frowned. “How can you say that to me? We were trying to spare you.”

  “Is it true?” Nathaniel asked his son. His voice was quieter but to Lewis he sounded even more terrifying.

  Frank reverted to studying his plate. “Yes, Father.”

  “Like she did with Jarius?”

  “Yes, the same.”

  “And you, Peter?”

  “Er, yes, sir.” He glanced quickly at his wife.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Augusta.

  Curran stared at a point over her right shoulder. “No point really.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Nathaniel roared and slammed his fist on the table. Lewis was afraid he would hit Frank again. Jarius bent over him.

  “It is true, Stepfather. I saw them bringing her back. I did not want to tell you. You had enough to contend with. And you can see how upset you are.”

  All eyes were on Nathaniel. Finally he spoke.

  “The woman is a whore, that is clear. I must apologise to you, Frank.” He held out his hand, palm down, to his son.

  Frank took it in his and kissed the fingers.

  Lewis saw that he left behind a smudge of blood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SAM LEE AND HIS SON LIVED IN A ROOM to the rear of the laundry. No Westerner had ever entered this place, and, if they had, it would have fulfilled all their most riotous fantasies about Chinamen. Earlier the two had lit incense sticks and the smell was dense and pungent in the air. The light was a soft bluish red. Lee had draped scarves of violet-coloured silk over the two lamps, which were turned down low. There was little furniture and all of it Lee had made himself. He was a talented wood-carver, but it would have been impossible for him to find work other than in the expected laundry. However, he had built a massive hinged panel that covered one side of the room, and slowly, over the lonely years, he’d covered it with carvings of flowers, birds, and bats. The entire work was painted with gilt. In front of this panel was a red lacquered table on which stood the kitchen altar, three porcelain cups, and rice-filled bowls with their chopsticks. A brightly coloured picture of Choi Sun, the god of wealth, was propped beside these items, and tucked slightly to the back was a more subdued painting of Jesus ascending to heaven.

  Against the opposite wall was a s
ingle wooden couch covered with a thin, padded mattress and a blue quilt. The evidence of Western life was an ugly iron range that served as cooker and heater. Foon had prepared boiled rice and greens for their dinner and they were having it, seated cross-legged on the floor. He finished eating, served his father the remaining rice, and sat quietly, waiting.

  Sam gave a soft belch in a sign of appreciation of the meal his son had prepared.

  “Shall I get your pipe, baba?”

  The older man nodded and Foon got up, crossed to a cupboard beside the range, and took out a brown leather sack. He returned to his father, who had stretched out on the wooden couch.

  “Baba, with your permission, I have a question I would like to present to you.”

  Lee was lying with his head on the pillow roll and his eyes were closed. “What is your question, laoerh?” He addressed his son in the traditional Chinese manner, according to his birth order, number-two son. Sam’s oldest child had remained in Hong Kong to help support his mother and sister. Sam intended to send for them when the law changed, or smuggle them in if it didn’t.

  Foon opened the sack and removed the yangqiang, the opium pipe. It was made of bamboo with a tortoise-shell overlay. The tips were ivory and the saddle, where the bowl sat, was pewter and copper latticework studded with semi-precious stones of red and green. It was the most expensive object they owned, passed down to Lee from his uncle on his mother’s side and already promised to the eldest son. Foon placed it carefully beside him and lifted the cloth that covered their eating table. Tucked underneath was a low stand of black lacquer inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which he pulled out. Resting in shallow holes were four small bowls, each a different shape and material. He slid open the drawer and took out a long steel bodkin and a tiny polished wooden box. He placed them beside the pipe.

  “Do you have a preference tonight, baba?”

  Sam studied the dampers for a moment, then lazily indicated an onion-shaped one made of jade with a carved dragon design around the edge.

  Foon picked it up and snapped the stem securely onto the pipe. Next he unscrewed the top of the little box and dipped the end of the bodkin into the opium paste it contained. He had turned up the wick of the lamp and he held the blob of dark, treacly paste in the flame. As soon as it caught fire, he blew it out and rolled it in the pipe bowl, twirling the bodkin between his fingers and thumb. He repeated this procedure twice more, then handed the pipe to his father. Sam took in a deep breath, exhaled completely, then drew in the aromatic opium smoke, holding it in his lungs as long as possible. He let go of the smoke through his nostrils. Foon watched him for a moment, until he could see the pipe was to his satisfaction.

  “At the inquest this morning, you instructed me to tell them that the young woman who claimed to be Mr. Wicken’s fiancée was the same one that you had seen with the constable.”

  Sam was holding the bowl of the pipe over the lamp to heat it. He nodded an acknowledgment.

  “Forgive me, baba, but obviously this was not the case. I too saw the woman who was walking with the constable and they were not at all alike. This first one was tall as any man. Would it not have been better to tell the truth?”

  His father repeated his ritual of drawing in the smoke, then he said, “Why should I give them something they do not want? If I had said no, it is not she, that is not the one I saw, they would have continued to question me, implying I am a stupid foreigner who does not know what he is talking about. It was much simpler to agree.”

  “Do you think then that the young constable had two concubines?”

  Sam smiled slyly. “No, I do not think so. This one we saw today is a liar.”

  “How do you know that, with respect, my father?”

  “Chinese intuition.”

  Foon smiled also. “Of course. But why do you think she was prepared to risk damnation by lying with God’s book in her hand?”

  “I do not have an answer. Frankly, I do not wish to know. It is no concern of ours. Let them kill each other for all I care. As far as they are concerned, we are ignorant savages with squirrel brains. Let them continue to believe so.”

  He passed over the pipe to Foon. “Here, my son, there is one draw left at least.”

  Foon hesitated. His missionary upbringing was at odds with his culture. His father was being generous and it was disrespectful to refuse, but he knew how the pastor had disapproved of opium smoking. He took the pipe while Sam watched him.

  “All that nonsense about breaking a saucer. My soul will be cracked like this vessel if I lie. They treat us like foolish children.”

  Foon drew in a small amount of the smoke, retained it briefly, and returned the pipe to his father. Lee smoked in silence for about twenty minutes more, then he turned onto his side and stretched out his legs. Foon picked up the pipe, scraped out the bowl, and returned it to the stand. The yangqiang he placed back in the leather sack. Sam seemed to have drifted off into sleep and he looked peaceful. Sometimes the opium brought with it fearful visions that caused him to cry out in fear, but tonight the sensations were obviously pleasurable. Foon bent over him and gently lifted up the thick queue, untied the black silk cord that was braided into it, and loosened the hair completely. He drew his fingers like a comb from the base of Sam’s skull, up to the crown, and out to the ends of the hair. His father sighed with sleepy pleasure.

  “With respect to Chinese intuition, baba, would there be another reason you are so certain the young woman was lying?”

  Sam grunted; his words were almost unintelligible with sleep. “I have seen her before. At her place of employment, a brothel on King Street.”

  Foon’s soothing actions stopped.

  Sam rolled onto his back and looked at his son. “Every man has needs of the flesh, laoerh. Except you, who have the mind and will of a monk. I have discovered a place where a man can find comfort. They accept a Chinaman’s money with quite a good grace.” He chuckled. “The whores were intrigued by me. They said they had never seen a Chinese before and they insisted I display my member to the entire band of them. I think they were a little disappointed it was not so very different from the fangui. The girl, Mary Ann, was one of the whores. Today I gave her thanks.”

  He rolled back to his side and waved at Foon to continue his stroking. “Your mother would understand. I am a man.” Within a few minutes he had fallen asleep. Foon rebraided his hair and tied the ribbon.

  He covered Sam with another padded quilt and went to extinguish the lamps. Then, quietly, he slipped in beside him. The opium had made him sleepy too, but he did not fall into dreams immediately. His thoughts were agitating to him. Lee was wrong about his son. Foon dreamed constantly of mating with a young woman and despaired of the possibility. The missionary teaching had gone deep into his soul and he was determined to remain chaste until he could find a wife and marry in the eyes of God. As this meant returning to China, he knew it would be a long time before they had enough money. He could feel a little bubble of resentment floating to the surface of his mind. His father had committed adultery and dishonoured his mother. That was sinful.

  Chapter Twenty

  AFTER NATHANIEL HAD GONE TO BED, Frank had come over to the stable, taken out a bottle of gin that he kept hidden in a box under his bed, and slowly and steadily drunk himself into unconsciousness. He had paid the price today.

  “What time’s the green arse coming?” he called over to his brother-in-law, who was in the adjoining stall working on the mare they intended to sell.

  “I told you, he said he’d be here by four.”

  Frank took the jar of ginger, a tin of aniseed, and a bottle of turpentine from the shelf in the tack room. He carried them over to the bench where he’d already placed the measuring cup and an enamel bowl. Without thinking, he brushed his hand across his mouth and winced as he touched his lip. But he shrugged it off. He’d had worse.

  He could remember the first whipping but not the reason for it and not the actual pain, although it had hurt him so
badly he lost his breath. He must have been four years old, although that was hazy too. He may have been younger.

  Jarius had brought him into the stable. It was winter time, he knew, because he had been outside in the yard making snowballs with Augusta. Had he thrown one at Jarius? Was that his misdemeanour? He still puzzled over it, as if knowing the transgression would make sense of the punishment. There had been many more after that, many of them severe, but it was the first one that had left the deepest scars, both physical and emotional. He had two long white marks on his right buttock where the skin had broken down.

  Jarius, his stepbrother, was nineteen years his elder and Frank had always been afraid of him – his seriousness, his dark hair and skin, unlike his fairness and Augusta’s, who followed after their father in looks. He didn’t understand why Jarius was so different but his mother finally answered his questions.

  “Your father was married before to a widow lady. She already had a son of her own – Jarius. Not too long after the marriage, the poor woman died, but Jarius was raised like his own by your father. He was thirteen years of age when I married Mr. Eakin. A sombre boy even then.”

  Frank remembered she had sighed when she said that.

  The second Mrs. Eakin always spoke in a soft, anxious voice, as if she were perpetually afraid of being overheard. Her name was Harmony and she said many times how she loved to think that she lived up to her name. Much later, with some bitterness, Frank realised what this really meant: she strove to say nothing that would offend and avoided conflict at all costs. She never interceded when Jarius took him over to the stable and even when she was forced to put ointment on his bleeding buttocks, she only whispered to him to try to be a good boy in future and not cause trouble.

  Nathaniel also beat him, but not as frequently and never in such a sustained way. He said Jarius was his lieutenant and ignored any protests. Not that Frank tried for very long. He soon learned that to cry to his father was to make matters worse with Jarius when they were alone. He also learned to read his stepbrother’s mood the way a dog will immediately assess a potential threat. Woe betide Frank if Jarius was in a temper about something else. He would always find some excuse to vent that anger on the boy. The hardest thing was that Frank never knew how to react. Sometimes if he screamed, Jarius would stop sooner. At other times, the crying only seemed to incense him more. Similarly, if Frank bit his lip and choked back his pain, Jarius sometimes gave up in disgust; at others times, he went on until Frank begged for mercy.