by Lao She
By now, a lot of the flowers in the backyard were covered with buds and blooms. As soon as Napoleon got up, he went into the garden and took a good sniff of the scented air. In passing, he caught two large, half-awake flies to eat.
The street noises startled Mr Ma from his slumber. He still felt a bitter burning inside, his mouth was dry and his tongue was stiff like the new sole on a shoe. His stomach was quite empty but his chest felt frightfully tight, he was constantly on the verge of retching and his mouth was full of saliva he couldn’t swallow. The lump on his forehead wasn’t so prominent any more, but still ached.
‘I’m not dying, I know. But I still feel unwell.’
The realisation that he was an invalid was a considerable consolation to him, since everybody sympathises with an invalid. Even Li Tzu-jung’ll have to come and see me before long, he thought. If a lad eats apples when they’re still ripening, he’s asking for a thrashing. But if he eats so many of them he makes himself ill, he’s in the clear. Nobody can beat a sick child, can they? He not only gets away with it but everybody buys him sweets as well. And his being an elderly man, an elderly invalid would surely guarantee all the more sympathy and affection.
Yes, he was ill. So Mr Ma began to groan again, and most melodiously too. Ma Wei wiped his father’s hands and face with a warm, wet flannel, and asked him what he wanted to eat. Mr Ma just shook his head. He wasn’t going to die, it was true, but he was ill, and that meant he couldn’t talk, could he? So he said nothing.
By this time, Mrs Wedderburn had heard the story of Mr Ma’s adventures, which she found both funny and annoying. When she came upstairs and perceived his state, she at once was filled with motherly compassion, and asked him what he wanted to eat and drink. He just shook his head. She strongly recommended calling a doctor, but he shook his head at that, too, and very fiercely.
When she’d had her breakfast, Miss Wedderburn also put in an appearance upstairs. ‘I say, Mr Ma, are you going out on the booze again today?’
Mr Ma suddenly let out an explosive chuckle, which gave Mrs Wedderburn quite a visible shock. But then he felt it had been rather out of place, so he groaned and said, ‘Aah! I’m very much indebted to you, Miss Mary. When I’m better, I’ll buy you a hat.’
‘All right. Don’t forget, now!’ said Mary, and hurried out.
Mrs Wedderburn did bring up some breakfast in the end, but Mr Ma only drank one cup of tea, and as the tea reached his stomach, it stung quite badly.
Ma Wei went to call on Li Tzu-jung to ask him to go to the shop a bit earlier. Mrs Wedderburn busied herself with her housework downstairs, leaving Napoleon upstairs to keep Mr Ma company. Napoleon leapt onto the bed, sniffed the invalid thoroughly from head to toe, then stealthily drank up all the milk that Mr Ma had left.
Ma Wei came back an hour or so later, and, hearing his father still groaning, suggested calling a doctor. His father would have none of it.
‘What’s there to call a doctor for? Each groan I give cheers me up, and that does me good.’
Mrs Wedderburn brought up a few roses and a bunch of wallflowers from the garden, and put them in a vase, which she placed by the window. Smelling the scent of the flowers gave Mr Ma much pleasure, and as he groaned he said to Napoleon, ‘Just smell those! Just look at them! Is there anything more beautiful in this world than flowers? Who made the flowers so beautiful? I don’t suppose you know. And me . . . I don’t know, either. When flowers come into bloom, they smell so fragrant. Then all of a sudden they fade and disappear. People are like that. And you dogs are, too. No one knows what it’s all about . . . Ah, dear me! Don’t die. You don’t think I’ll die, do you?’
Napoleon wasn’t saying. His eyes were riveted on the lumps of white sugar on the tray. He was licking his lips but didn’t hazard to make a move.
That evening, Li Tzu-jung came round. He’d bought a bunch of bananas and a punnet of strawberries for Mr Ma. Afraid that Li would give him a telling-off, Mr Ma groaned away for all he was worth. Li Tzu-jung said nothing at all, just went and whispered with Ma Wei in the study for a while.
Alexander, too, had learnt from some quarter that Mr Ma was ill, and very proudly turned up with a bottle of brandy that he’d bought for him.
‘Can’t have that, Mr Ma – just a few glasses and you fall flat in the street, eh? Well, here’s a bottle for you.’ He placed the spirits on the table and lit up a cigar. A few puffs were enough to fill the room with smoke.
‘I didn’t drink much,’ said Mr Ma, ceasing his groans and forcing a smile. ‘I’ve never been much of a drinker, and throwing myself into it like that, I hadn’t built up any tolerance. Just you watch next time. You’ll see how much I can take!’
‘Plenty of policemen on the streets, anyway,’ said Alexander, and went off into roars of laughter.
At the sound of his guffawing, Napoleon sneaked up and took a good sniff of Alexander’s large shoes. But he didn’t dare to take a bite of his heel, even though such a fat pair of legs was well worth tasting.
VIII
LONDON’S WEATHER doesn’t vary much, but it changes very quickly. As soon as the sky goes dull, a chill wind at once brings up tiny goosepimples on the bare, pale arms of the young ladies, while the old men and ladies adjust to the change by vying to be the first to catch a cold.
The Reverend Ely had never had much difficulty catching a cold. On the way home from a visit to Mr Ma, he sat for a while under a big tree in the park. As he did so, his nose became a little itchy, then he shivered and gave a sneeze. He hastened home and went straight to bed. Mrs Ely gave him a glass of hot lemon juice, and put a hot water bottle under his bedclothes. His sneezes grew louder and louder, and more and more violent. Had his nose not been so robust, he would several times have sent it flying.
He never fought with Mrs Ely. Only once or twice had he dared to have a row with her, when unwell and out of sorts. He was already rather peeved about how Mr Ma had got drunk, and the cold added fuel to the fires of his wrath. His train of thought became increasingly irate.
At last I managed to get a Chinese Christian shipped here, at long last, then Alexander goes and gets him blind drunk! We have enough trouble trying to convert people to Christianity, then he comes and ruins them for us! It’s all his fault, that blasted Alexander! A-tchoo! If he hadn’t got old Ma drunk, I’d never have got this cold . . . It’s all his doing. A-tchoo! Alexander is her brother! I’ll just have to have it out with her. He should never have taken him boozing, and she should never have invited Alexander to dinner. Just you see, a-a-tchoo! I’ll put her in her place.
At this juncture in his thinking, he pulled the bedclothes aside to march down and confront Mrs Ely. But the instant he raised the blankets, a stream of chill air crept in, then a-tchoo! Take it easy, now, he thought. Main thing’s to survive. Bide your time till tomorrow . . . But when he felt a bit better, would he still be as brave? Hard to tell. Experience told him that the only victories he’d scored in fights with Mrs Ely had all been on occasions when he’d been ill. She would say, ‘Don’t say anything more. You’re right, all right? I’m not squabbling with an invalid!’
No matter if she was cutting him some slack, it was he, all said and done, who came away triumphant on those occasions. If he’d waited till he was better, though . . . you can bet she wouldn’t have cut him any slack. He’d really have to have it out with her this time. He’d absolutely have to! With her? Or with her brother? Take them both on!
I baptised old Ma, and your brother takes him boozing. What’ve you got to say to that, might I ask? Catherine’s sure to stick up for me. Paul’s his mother’s boy – but he’s not home . . . To tell the truth, old Ma’s not worth fighting over, but if I don’t do it, how shall I look the Lord in the eye! And what if Ma Wei tackles me about it? Those Chinese youngsters are much smarter than the old yellow-faced demon horde, blast’em. And what if Mrs Wedderburn asks me awkward questions? Yes, I must give Mrs Ely a dressing-down. Anyway, never could bear the sight of Alexander.
With his feet, he pushed the hot water bottle further down, and the heat of it gave his feet a remarkably pleasant, tingly feeling. He closed his eyes and gradually fell asleep.
He awoke during the night, and it was drizzling outside. More wretched rain. A pure-scented cool breeze blew in through the window, quite chilling his nose. He wriggled down in bed and began to think about tackling Mrs Ely the next day. Instead, he quickly shut his eyes. Don’t think about it. The more you think about it, the more your will weakens. And then what chance have you got of standing your ground in this world? What a world! The neighbour’s dog gave a few barks. What are you shouting about? This world’s not made for cringing curs . . .
The next morning, Catherine brought his breakfast up. He hadn’t intended to have any, but the eggs and bacon smelt remarkably nice. Ah, better eat up. Who in the world can possibly make such a fine breakfast as we English? Not eat breakfast? What leave a crumb. After the meal, his mettle rose. Now he’d simply have to take on Mrs Ely, if only out of due deference to the breakfast.
Catherine came in again to ask if he’d had enough to eat, and he had a word with her.
‘Where’s your mother, Kay?’
‘In the kitchen. Why?’ asked Miss Ely with a smile as she picked up the tray. She hadn’t combed her hair yet, and it was tangled in an unruly mass on her snow-white neck.
‘Her brother got old Mr Ma drunk.’ Without his spectacles, the Reverend Ely didn’t know where to focus, and his eyes were moving frantically.
Miss Ely gave a smile, and said nothing.
‘I put all I had into converting Ma to Christianity, and now in one go Alexander’s swept it away.’ He stopped speaking and stared hard at her.
She gave another smile. In reality she moved her lips only very slightly, but the smile was there, and a very pretty one it was, too.
‘Give me a hand, will you, Kay?’
Miss Ely put the tray down again, sat herself on the edge of the bed and gently patted his hand. ‘I’ll help you, Daddy. I’m always on your side. But why do you have to have a go at Mummy? Next time you see Uncle Alexander, just have a word with him.’
‘He’d take no notice of me. He always laughs at me.’ The Reverend Ely wondered why he was speaking so forcefully and frankly today. ‘Your mother will have to talk to him. And unless I kick up a fuss with her, she’s not going to say anything to him.’
It seemed he was in a right mood today.
Noticing her father’s nose thrust forwards and the veins on his temples pulsing, Miss Ely had no doubt: he was well and truly worked up.
‘First get better, Daddy. Wait a couple of days,’ she said slowly and calmly.
‘I can’t let it wait.’ He knew that if he waited, he’d lose his chance of a victorious encounter. Then, afraid his daughter might see through him, he added hastily, ‘I’m not afraid of her. I’m the head of the family. This is my household.’
‘I’ll mention it to Mummy. You can trust me, can’t you, Daddy?’
The Reverend Ely said nothing, just moved his hand to wipe off the egg yolk from the sides of his mouth. With a smaller mouth, he’d have looked like a baby sparrow in the nest.
‘Don’t you want another cup of tea, Daddy?’ Catherine picked up the tray once more.
‘I’ve had enough. Go and tell your mother, do you hear?’ Reverend Ely knew that he was speaking rather wildly, but he was an invalid – it was only to be expected. ‘Go and tell your mother!’
‘Very well, I’ll go and tell her straight away.’ Smiling, Catherine nodded and tiptoed out, bearing the tray.
After his daughter had left the room, the Reverend Ely fumed to himself. Yes, you go and tell her. If that has no effect, then we’ll see what I can do. What’ll she say? Ah, I forgot to ask Catherine to pass me my pipe. He leant forwards to look, but couldn’t locate his pipe. Yes, that Alexander . . . Gave me a cigar that day. Still haven’t smoked it. That Alexander! His cigar! Why, the very thought of him makes my blood boil!
After lunch Paul arrived home. He was twenty-three or twenty-four, even taller than his mother, and with a head full of thin brown hair, which was parted very neatly and combed very carefully. His hazel eyes glinted as they roamed about, but you couldn’t be sure he was really looking at anything. He wore a sky-blue blazer above a pair of flannel trousers, with a soft-collared shirt and a red- and yellow-striped tie. Both hands were stuck in his pockets as if permanently fixed there. His mouth held a pipe, long since gone out.
As he entered, he removed one hand from his pocket, pulled the pipe from mouth, and casually kissed his mother and elder sister. Mrs Ely and Catherine had been discussing Mr Ma’s drunken episode.
‘Hello, Paul, what have you been up to these last few days?’ At the sight of her son back home again, Mrs Ely flushed, a definite hint of pink spreading across her arid cheeks, and she very nearly smiled.
‘Oh, just the same old.’ Paul squeezed the words through his teeth as he sat down, put his pipe back in his mouth and jammed one hand back in his pocket.
His remark sent Mrs Ely off into peals of appreciative laughter. He was such a man! The less he said the more male he seemed. To tell the truth, though, Paul really hadn’t been up to anything new. There wasn’t much to be said about a few lads going to the countryside and pitching a tent for a few days’ larking about.
‘Will you have a word with Daddy in a bit, Mummy? His cold’s affected his temper.’Catherine was anxious to convey her message and be done with the matter.
‘What’s going on?’ Paul asked his sister, with the manner of a judge.
‘Mr Ma got himself drunk!’ Mrs Ely answered for Catherine. ‘What’s that got to do with us?’
The bridge of Paul’s nose crinkled in response.
‘I invited them to dinner, and Mr Ma went out with Alexander.’ Mrs Ely glanced at Catherine.
Paul pulled out a match and flicked it with his fingernail, lighting it first go. ‘Tell Dad not to bring’em here again. He’s got no business letting Chinamen run around our house. It’s just not decent.’
‘Now Paul, don’t look at me like that. We’re true Christians, and not . . . Your uncle took the elder Ma for a little drink, and —’
‘Did both of them get drunk?’
‘Alexander didn’t, but Mr Ma collapsed in the street.’
‘Knew it! Fine chap, Alexander. I’m very fond of the old fellow; he’s got what it takes.’ Paul withdrew his pipe, which had gone out again, and sniffed it. Then he turned to his sister, and said, ‘Are you blaming Uncle for this, old girl? Trust you to back the Chinamen. Remember when we were kids how we used to flick clay pellets at their heads, and make’em yell like mad?’
‘No, I do not remember,’ said Catherine very coolly.
All of a sudden, the door burst open and in came the Reverend Ely, pale and frowning, wrapped in a dressing-gown like a rather mundane ghost.
‘Get back to bed at once! Just when you were on the mend! I won’t have you coming down here.’ Mrs Ely barred his way.
‘Hello, old chap!’ said Paul. ‘Another cold, eh? Off to bed with you straight away. Come on, I’ll give you a piggyback.’ Paul threw down his pipe, and, by hauling and hoisting his father, got him upstairs.
It made the Reverend Ely all the more furious that he’d been carted back to bed by his son, unable to vent his mighty wrath. He lay in bed and smoked the cigar from Alexander in one go, all the while cursing his brother-in-law.
IX
WHEN CITY life has developed to the level it has in England, time equals money. To waste a quarter of an hour is to lose half a crown, so to speak. Apart from the very wealthy, who can fritter time away as it suits them – dancing, theatre-going, dining out, throwing parties, idle chit-chatting, gossip-spreading, hunting, swimming or playing the invalid at their own sweet leisure – people’s lives in general have to march in step with the clock. Yes, the cornerstone of this terribly busy, terribly chaotic, and terribly noisy society is an icy-cold
, cruel, calculating little wretch – the pendulum of the clock. This economy of time has considerably reduced face-to-face communication, making the telephone and the letter the two treasured talismans of these civilised people. When Mrs White’s husband dies, it’s quite normal for Mrs Black to only write her a letter of commiseration, since Mrs Black’s busy. And Mrs White, busy herself, then telephones her thanks to Mrs Black.
The matter gave Mr Ma much food for thought. The postman would make four or five deliveries a day, and he’d knock on virtually every door. Where did so many letters come from? Almost every evening, Mrs Wedderburn would take her little pen, and, with a frown upon her brow, write letters. Who was she writing them to? What had she got to write about? He felt a bit suspicious, and, in spite of himself, somewhat jealous. Holding her pen and frowning like that, she looked very pretty. But she certainly wasn’t writing to him. Foreign women all have illicit affairs . . . Mr Ma wouldn’t go as far as to say that he’d fallen in love with Mrs Wedderburn, but when he saw her writing letters to others, he did feel something of an ache inside. Odd . . .
Since the Mas had come to live with her, Mrs Wedderburn had certainly used more postage stamps than before. With two Chinese men living in her house, she no longer felt comfortable inviting her friends and relatives round to tea. What – have them eat with the Mas? It wouldn’t be fair, making them eat with Chinese people. She could make the Mas eat on their own, she supposed, but that’d mean too much bother for her. Of course the Mas wouldn’t mind where they ate, but why should she be put to such trouble? Just let things be, she thought, and write her friends a letter hoping they were all right. That would save trouble, and still keep her on good terms with everybody.
Since the Mas’ arrival, she’d in fact asked people round twice, but they hadn’t taken up the invitation. Between the lines of their letters of reply she could read, ‘Do you think we’re going to sit down to a meal with two Chinese fellows?’ Of course, they never put it so bluntly, but she wasn’t such a fool that she couldn’t tell what they were implying.