by Betsy Tobin
“My brother, he used to work here,” she explains.
“Oh,” says Adrian, his face paling. “I’m sorry. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.”
“No,” she says quickly. “It’s okay. I wanted to come.”
“Do they have fortune cookies here?” asks May, oblivious to their conversation.
“Sorry?” Lili asks.
“Fortune cookies. You know, little cookies with paper fortunes inside?”
“I don’t know,” she answers. Truly she knows nothing at the moment: the facts of her life keep shifting beneath her. Each time she reaches a place of equilibrium, something happens to upset it. She tries to concentrate on the menu and the prospect of hotpot, one of her favourite dishes at home.
“Is hotpot spicy?” asks May.
“I hope so,” says Adrian.
“But I don’t like spicy!”
“Yes, you do,” says Adrian. “You just think you don’t.”
“No, I don’t! I’ve told you a thousand times!”
Their conversation filters through to Lili. She looks over at May. How can the child be Chinese and not like spicy? Are not such things hard-wired into her genes? A waiter arrives to take their order, and perhaps it is Lili’s imagination, but he seems to glance in her direction one too many times while they are ordering, as if he is expecting her to disclose something startling at any moment. Adrian asks her advice about several dishes, then orders hotpot for the two of them and a dish of stir-fried beef with rice for May.
The hotpot arrives a few minutes later: a large black cauldron filled with steaming soup of a milky colour. May gives a little shriek. They turn to her with alarm. She is pointing at the hotpot. “Look!” She cries.
A dried black seahorse floats disconcertingly on the top of the soup, its tiny eyes and nostrils perfectly visible.
“This is dried,” says Lili quickly. “It gives special flavour to the soup.”
“Daddy!” May pulls a face.
Adrian picks up a spoon and fishes the seahorse out, wrapping it in a napkin and putting it out of sight.
“There,” he says. “All gone.”
“You’re going to eat that now?” asks May.
“May,” he admonishes.
Lili looks over to see the restaurant owner staring at her from the kitchen door. As soon as their eyes meet, he turns and disappears inside. For the rest of the meal, she feels vaguely uneasy, as if her presence is unwanted. They should not have come to Wen’s place of work. What was she thinking? She tries to enjoy the hotpot but it is different from those she has eaten at home: the broth not spicy enough, the meat lacking in flavour. She is relieved when May yawns with tiredness and Adrian calls for the bill. As they rise to go, she sees the owner watching her again, this time from near the door. She walks towards him a little apprehensively, stalling slightly so that the others go ahead of her, and when she is just in front of him he steps forward.
“Forgive me,” he says in Mandarin. “But we don’t want any trouble here.” His tone is grimly apologetic, but when she meets his gaze he shakes his head slowly from side to side. She stares at him for a moment, her face growing hot, remembering his praise for Wen.
“I understand,” she replies. She turns to go and sees that Adrian has stopped to wait for her in the doorway, his face creased with concern.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine.” Her voice wavers oddly.
When they return home, Adrian goes to put May to bed. Once in her room, Lili tries ringing Jin on her mobile, but there is no answer. She contemplates getting a bus to Hounslow, but it is already late and the evening’s events have exhausted her. She turns to the photo of Wen on her dresser, wishing for the hundredth time that it could speak. Perhaps he was in trouble before he died. Perhaps this is what Jin has been hiding from her. She resolves to find Jin tomorrow and confront her over Wen’s death. Lili goes downstairs for a cup of tea, and while she is waiting for the kettle to boil, Adrian comes into the kitchen.
“May’s asleep,” he says. He turns to the cupboard and takes out a bottle of whisky and a glass.
“I need a drink.” He holds up the bottle. “Whisky?” Lili feels her insides dip. She does not know whether she should have a whisky with Adrian.
“Yes, please.”
Adrian pours two half-tumblers of whisky and hands one to her. Lili takes a swallow, feels the heat in the back of her throat.
“So what happened tonight?” Adrian asks, leaning back against the counter.
“I’m sorry?”
“At the restaurant. You looked upset.”
Lili’s stomach tightens with apprehension. She is not prepared to answer questions about Wen.
“My brother…” She falters, uncertain how to continue.
“The one who died?”
“Yes. He was twin with me.”
“Oh. I didn’t realise. I’m sorry. How did he die?”
“He drowned,” she says.
Lili takes another swallow of whisky. She feels a hot tear well, did not realise she was close to crying. She turns away quickly and wipes at the tear with the back of her hand.
“When did it happen?”
“In February.”
“Not long then,” says Adrian.
“It feels like… much longer.”
“Grief takes time. I’m afraid I’m a bit of an expert.”
Lili wants to ask about his wife, but doesn’t know how.
“The first six months were the hardest,” Adrian continues. “I used to dread this time of day. The evenings, after May was asleep. I guess it was the silence I hated. And the solitude.” Adrian is staring down into the amber liquid, his tone softened by memory. “She was gone, but I felt her presence everywhere.”
“Yes,” Lili murmurs. “I feel this too.”
“In the end I had to change things. The food we ate. The clothes we wore. The colour of the walls. Even the sheets we slept on. I changed it all. I guess that’s how I put her to rest.” Adrian’s voice fades slightly on this last word, and he turns abruptly and reaches for the whisky bottle, refilling his glass.
“But I felt disloyal,” he says with a shrug.
Lili realises she has stopped breathing. His candour has taken her by surprise. But she wishes he would continue. Adrian suddenly shakes his head, remembering himself. He runs a hand through his hair.
“Sorry,” he says awkwardly.
“Please. No.”
“It was a long time ago.” He gives a small smile. She feels a pang of jealousy for his wife. To be the cause of a grief that envelopes him even now, after all these years.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he says. “It must be very difficult when you’re so far from home.”
Lili nods. It is difficult, but not for the reasons he assumes. She realises that her grief for Wen is completely different from his own: that as much as she misses Wen, his absence has not greatly altered the circumstances of her life. For though he was her twin, Wen was not her partner: they had not built a life together. As much as anything, she relied on the idea of him; on the knowledge that he was there. Now the fact of this makes her feel very much alone. Adrian drains his glass and puts it into the dishwasher. She watches as he fills the machine with detergent and turns it on. She sees the muscles of his shoulders move beneath his shirt, and for the first time wonders what his lips would feel like on hers. When he has finished, Adrian straightens and turns to her.
“We should get to bed,” he says.
Lili cannot speak. She does not want him to leave. He senses her reluctance, and she sees a shadow of uncertainty pass across his face. Can he tell what she is thinking?
“Good night,” she says finally, releasing him. He nods to her a little uneasily and turns to go. She stands there for a long time after, listening to the hum of the dishwasher.
July 2004
It is not until Wen’s third visit that the old woman finally tells him her name. He had wanted to ask
more than once but hadn’t known how. But on this day, after he has pruned her hedges, she serves him lemonade at the wooden table in her garden, and sits down opposite him with a sigh.
“My name is Miriam,” she says with a smile.
Wen repeats it twice, but cannot master the second syllable. She frowns.
“Why don’t you call me Mim? My late husband was fond of this name.”
“Mim,” says Wen.
“Exactly.”
“I am Wen,” he says, patting his chest with his hand.
“Wen,” she repeats. “A little unusual. But easy to remember. And at my age that counts for everything.” She smiles at him.
In truth he would be happier to call her Auntie, or Old Wife, terms of respect reserved for elders in his culture. It feels strange to him, this use of her given name, as if they had been classmates.
“Do you have family, Wen?” She asks.
“Yes. I have sister. She is twin.”
“How remarkable,” she says. “I too was a twin. But my sister died just after birth. I was the strong twin, you see. The one who survived. But as a child, I always felt that she was there, watching over me.”
“I am sorry,” he says.
She gives a dismissive wave.
“Oh it was a very long time ago. I haven’t thought of her in ages. What of your parents? Are they back in China?”
“My parents are dead. When I am… small baby,” he adds, holding up his hands close together.
“How dreadful! Was it an accident?”
Wen hesitates, his English failing him. He clutches the edge of the old wooden table and wobbles it to and fro.
“The ground… like this,” he says.
Her eyes grow round.
“An earthquake?”
“Yes,” he says. Earthquake. It is a word he must remember, for it forms so much a part of his history.
“What happened to you and your sister?”
“We live with new family. So okay.”
“I see. And where is she now?”
Wen feels a knot form in the pit of his stomach. He has not even told Angie of his sister, so he does not know why he has chosen to disclose Lili’s existence now.
“She is in China,” he says.
Though in truth, he is not entirely certain of her whereabouts. He has not been in touch with Jin for two months, not since she emailed him to say that she had managed to obtain his new passport, and asking for an address she should post it to. He had been reluctant to send the address at first, but in the end was forced to. The new passport arrived two days later in a plain brown envelope. He was startled to see that it was Korean. Inside was his photo, together with the name and details of a complete stranger. His new name was Soong. He felt a pang of guilt stealing the name of another man, and wondered how this man Soong came to lose himself, and whether he was dead or alive. But given the circumstances he could not afford to be sentimental.
Over the following weeks, Wen takes to visiting Miriam most afternoons for an hour or two. There is always something for him to do, a broken shelf or a wobbly railing that needs mending, or a tree that needs pruning. She enjoys his company – he can see this – and his visits punctuate both their days, lending them structure and purpose. She continues to pay him small amounts of money at odd moments, usually when he least expects it. One day while he is working in her garden, he hears her call his name. She has spent the morning cleaning out an old shed at the back of the property, and now the ground around the shed is littered with rusty tools, dirty rags and stacks of old plant pots. As he approaches the shed, he hears her call to him from inside.
“I found something you might like,” she says. In the next instant she appears in the doorway, clutching the handlebars of an old bicycle. He smiles and his heart leaps a little. He has not ridden a bicycle since he left China. He walks forward and takes the bicycle from her, carrying it onto the grass. It is badly rusted and one of the tires is punctured, but with a bit of work he could certainly get it moving once again.
“Thank you,” he says, smiling.
“My pleasure,” she replies, brushing the dirt from her hands. “I’d quite forgotten it was there.”
•
One Sunday in late August Angie is sitting in the garden with a newspaper while Wen is crouched on all fours weeding a flowerbed nearby. He hears her exclaim suddenly. He looks up and sees her face drain of colour.
“What’s wrong?”
“Last night… on the bay,” she says.
She hesitates and he can tell from her tone that something is not right. He rises and walks over to where she sits.
“Chinese cocklers… they rescued more than a hundred this time.”
Wen feels his mouth go dry. He tries to read the article but the letters swim before his eyes. Angie quietly lays a hand upon his forearm.
“It’s all right. No one died.”
Wen nods, a lump rising in his throat, and turns back to the flower bed.
He had seen them only a few days before. He had been cycling home along the coastal road from a garden centre just north of town when he passed an enormous trailer loaded with Chinese cocklers. He stopped as the tractor dragged the trailer out onto the sands, watching as they receded in the distance. He had wanted to shout something, to wave his arms and warn them away. But he did nothing, realising it would be pointless to try. There was little he could say to dissuade them from earning a livelihood. These people were surely aware of the dangers – news travels fast, and they would certainly have heard of the tragedy in February. But they wanted an honest day’s work and were prepared to face enormous risks to get it. As he stood watching them, he had wondered whether they were frightened at that moment. Whether they were thinking of loved ones at home, or of the dangers that awaited them out on the sands. It was impossible to know.
Wen rocks backwards on his heels. He calls over to where Angie is sitting. “What is day today?”
“The twenty-ninth. Why?”
He does a rapid calculation in his head. It is the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month in the Chinese calendar. The day when the spirits of the dead are free to roam the earth and visit the living.
“We must go to sea,” he says.
She raises an eyebrow, then nods. “Okay.”
They wait until nightfall, and walk to the shore nearest Angie’s house. He would prefer to go to Hest Bank, to the scene of the accident, but he cannot risk being recognised, especially after the events of last night. For all he knows, there will be teams of Chinese cocklers out again tonight. When they reach the shore, he walks out on the sand and lights a long taper of newspaper. He falls to his knees, facing the ocean, and bows three times, resting his forehead against the cool sand each time, until the flame has nearly reached his fingers. Eventually he drops the taper in the sand. He sits back on his haunches and stares out at the ocean, wondering where the ghosts of his comrades now reside: with their loved ones at home? Or here, hovering over the waters of Morecambe Bay?
Angie shifts behind him in the darkness.
“Are you all right?”
She lays a hand upon his shoulder. He nods, unable to speak. He thinks of Lin’s widow and his son, at home lighting incense in his memory. Perhaps one day he will return to China and find them, reassure them that Lin remained a devoted father and husband to the end. But surely they would ask the obvious: why had Lin died, when he himself had survived? He could not face them with the answer, for he had not been strong enough to save the others, only himself. Wen rises to his feet, overcome with emotion, and turns his back on the sea.
On the way home he is quiet, his thoughts still turning to Lin. He remembers the month they spent picking apples in the countryside. Though he’d not realised it at the time, they had been happy during those few weeks. Their life had been simple; unmarred by tragedy. At night, when the day’s work was done, they would lie on their backs in the grass smoking cigarettes and staring up into the sky. Lin dreamed aloud of the ho
use he would build upon his return, plotted out the dimensions of each room and the colours he would paint them. Wen too thought about home, though more often than not his thoughts ran to memories. He and Lin were different in that respect: Lin’s life was built almost entirely on anticipation, while Wen tended to dwell in the past. Neither gave much thought to the present, but now he sees the error in this. For one should never ignore the moment.
•
The weeks pass and Wen wakes one morning to realise that summer is gone. His English has improved steadily. He no longer studies in the mornings, having exhausted the language CDs some time ago, but continues to do odd jobs for Miriam, and gradually begins to help several of her neighbours as well. Soon he is trimming hedges for a small group of elderly people in the area, fixing broken guttering, scraping chipped paint from worn window sills and digging out tree stumps from their gardens. Miriam acts as a sort of benevolent gangmaster, introducing him to each of them in turn and quietly advising them on how much to compensate him. They pay him by the job or by the hour, according to her suggestions, and Wen gratefully accepts their folded banknotes. By late October, he is working almost full-time.
One afternoon he cycles into town to collect a prescription for Miriam at the chemist. He leaves the bicycle leaning against the front of the shop, and when he emerges, a dark-haired man is standing next to it smoking. The man turns to him and in a flash Wen recognises one of Little Dog’s men. He freezes. The man has evidently been waiting for him. He drops the cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with his shoe, then exhales.
“Back from the dead?”
Wen stares at him, for a moment unable to think or even move. His eyes slide briefly to the bicycle and back to the man’s face. Then he turns on his heels and runs. From somewhere behind him he hears a car start and gun its engine after him. He turns down the first street he comes to, pitching straight into a woman with a toddler in a pushchair. The woman screams and Wen leaps to one side, falling sideways.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees a small blue hatchback pull round the corner, coming to a halt not ten feet ahead of him with a screech of its tyres. At once the driver’s door opens and Little Dog steps out. Wen turns and nearly collides with the man from outside the chemist, who has come up just behind the woman with the pushchair. The man throws a punch that clips Wen on the right side of his head and the woman screams again, dragging the pushchair backwards into the road in an effort to get out of the way.