Homecoming Girls

by Val Wood

  ‘There are lots of Chinese people, have you noticed, Clara?’ Jewel asked. ‘And they’re all heading in the same direction as we are. Perhaps this is the way to Chinatown.’

  Clara had observed the Chinese men, dressed in cotton tunics and trousers and wearing hats shaped like wide lampshades, carrying pliable bamboo poles across their shoulders with a basket at each end filled with such diverse contents as laundry or sacks of peas, beans, rice or sunflowers. Many of these porters wore their black hair in a queue which hung halfway down their backs and sometimes to the tops of their thighs. This, Jewel and Clara had learned, was a symbol of subjugation imposed by the Manchu dynasty in eighteenth-century China, and although many Chinese had rebelled against it, there were still those who retained it in deference to their culture.

  But the Chinese were not the only recipients of the Englishwomen’s curiosity; there were also tall and handsome black-skinned men with their striking exotic wives, and women with honey-coloured complexions dressed in beautiful silk garments, their heads swathed in richly coloured turbans, who were given a second furtive glance. And then Clara gave Jewel a gentle nudge with her elbow to point out a little Chinese girl, as petite as a doll and dressed in gold satin with a wide sash round her waist, her black hair dressed high on the top of her head and adorned by a lily; she was being carried by a man – either her father or her husband, for who could tell in this new and alien country – because her tiny bound feet were too fragile to walk on the cobbled roads.

  There were other people who were given a quick glance before eyes were averted: women with coarse and reddened complexions, who sat on cane chairs outside hostelries with a glass of liquor on the table in front of them, a cheroot between their lips and one leg crossed indelicately over the other, chatting in a free and easy manner to men dressed in rough working clothes sporting large-brimmed hats.

  After walking for half an hour and not seeming to get any closer, Jewel suggested they hail a horse cab and ride for the rest of the journey to the bay. A high-stepping horse drawing an open surrey pulled up almost immediately. It had a fringed canopy over seating for four, but the driver said he would take them wherever they wanted to go.

  ‘Down to the bay, please, if you would be so kind,’ Clara said.

  The driver grinned at her accent. ‘Sure thing, ma’am. Where exactly? Plenty of coves to choose from. You want Steamboat Point if you’re going on a trip. Or Telegraph Hill to see the view, or I can drop you on the corner of Broadway and Montgomery.’

  The two girls looked at each other. ‘The nearest place to Chinatown,’Jewel said. ‘Close to St Mary’s Cathedral.’

  The driver looked at her and his smile faded. He nodded. ‘Montgomery, then. If you’re sure. You gotta be careful down there.’

  ‘We will be,’ Jewel said stiffly.

  Coming from the town of Hull, they had in their naivety thought that the San Francisco wharves would be similar to, though larger than, the docklands adjacent to their homes. They were therefore unprepared for the huge bay full of shipping which shortly confronted them. There were hundreds of tall-masted ships, steamboats, barges, vessels carrying timber and coal and passenger ships sailing to all corners of the world. Other coves they passed by were occupied by numerous shipbuilding yards, lumber yards piled high with timber and a great number of warehouses edging the waterfront.

  They both exhaled a breath. ‘I had no idea,’ Jewel murmured.

  Clara shook her head. ‘Nor I. Shall we ask him to take us straight to St Mary’s?’

  ‘Yes,’Jewel said, and then added in a low voice: ‘Will you ask him, Clara? I don’t care for his attitude.’

  Clara nodded. She too had noticed his change of demeanour when Jewel spoke to him. Was he prejudiced against the Chinese? She had noticed anti-Chinese slogans pinned to hoardings and graffiti written on walls, calling for Chinese immigration to be halted.

  Clara called to him and he changed route and took them to the cathedral. As they paid his fare, he pointed in the direction of Chinatown.

  ‘Careful then, miss, if that’s where you’re heading. Just keep close together and don’t try anything they offer.’ He looked to where Jewel was waiting. ‘And take care of your friend. She’s got Chinese in her, ain’t she?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, pointedly avoiding his question, and turned away.

  ‘What did he say?’ Jewel asked in a small voice.

  ‘Nothing.’ Clara smiled. ‘Just said he hoped we’d have an enjoyable day.’

  They crossed the road towards the cathedral and Jewel slowed her steps. ‘Just a moment,’ she murmured, and took a shallow breath as she looked about her. ‘There’s something—’

  ‘What?’ Clara asked. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m – I’m remembering something, but I don’t know what.’

  ‘Would you like to go inside and sit down for a moment?’ Clara took Jewel’s arm. She seemed anxious, unsure of herself.

  ‘I think I would,’ Jewel said. ‘There’s some recollection niggling at me; perhaps if I sit somewhere quiet I might remember what it is.’

  They went into the cool dark interior and sat in a pew at the back. They were both glad of the respite as the weather was now very hot and once more they were wilting. Clara said nothing, not wanting to distract Jewel, who was gazing round the old church as if gathering up memories.

  ‘I’ve been here before,’Jewel whispered. ‘But not with Papa.’ She lifted her eyes up beyond the marble altar and the arches which rode above it to the high vaulted ceiling. ‘With Aunt Gianna.’

  Clara stared at her but again said nothing. Jewel’s voice had taken on a childlike quality as she spoke her adoptive mother’s name. The name she had called her before coming to England.

  After about ten minutes, Jewel indicated that they should leave and they stepped outside into brilliant sunshine. She looked about her and then said, ‘This way. This is the way we should go.’

  Clara demurred. ‘But this isn’t towards Chinatown.’

  ‘I know.’ Jewel put up her parasol. It was green, which matched her gown but made her skin look paler and more translucent. ‘But this is the way to Papa’s house.’

  ‘How can you remember?’ Clara was astonished. ‘It’s so long ago.’

  Jewel nodded. ‘I’m almost sure.’ She led the way towards a steep hill. ‘Gianna – Mama – when she first came to visit Papa Edward’ – she added on her real father’s name so as not to confuse him with Wilhelm – ‘used to take me out shopping or looking at places. And one of them was the cathedral. I’d never been before. I suppose my father never thought of taking me. In fact I don’t remember going anywhere very much, only that people came to see us. Like Dolly and Larkin.’

  They continued up the hill, stopping now and again to catch their breath. ‘I hope they put a cable car up here,’ Clara gasped. ‘I think the city needs more than just one.’

  The street was lined on both sides with tall buildings, shops, offices and apartment blocks. Jewel’s steps began to slow, not only because of the steepness of the hill.

  ‘I’m having doubts,’ she said. ‘I don’t recall any of these buildings. They must all be new. I only remember wooden houses and shops. Even Papa’s house – I think it was a wooden cabin.’

  ‘Such a lot has happened since you were here, Jewel, and remember you were seeing everything through a child’s eyes,’ Clara reminded her. ‘It’s a prosperous city now, with so many business people coming here, trading on the back of the gold mining.’

  Clara had done her research on California as soon as Jewel had asked her to accompany her, and had read all she could about its history, particularly regarding San Francisco.

  ‘I know,’ Jewel said. ‘Perhaps it was happening even when I was a child, but I wouldn’t have known about it. And now the city is bigger and wider and taller and unrecognizable. I’m looking at it through the eyes of a stranger.’

  She became pensive, her emotions mixed
. ‘Mama said that my father told her he arrived in San Francisco with nothing; just the clothes on his back and a pack of cards which someone gave him.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘And he finished up with enough money to buy a saloon and a theatre.’

  ‘And sufficient to leave you a legacy,’ Clara interrupted. ‘For you to come back here!’

  ‘Yes.’ Jewel nodded. ‘That too.’ She glanced at her cousin. ‘Do you think he knew that I would come back?’

  Clara took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m certain that it would have been what he hoped for.’

  They were almost at the top now and slowed their steps, both feeling very hot. The hill levelled out and the tall buildings were replaced by single-storeyed ones, some built of timber. They walked on, passing a row of stores and then a plot of land which had been marked out as if to be built on. Next to it was a long low restaurant and simultaneously they drew in their breath as a rich aroma assailed their nostrils.

  ‘Food!’ Clara said.

  ‘Tomatoes! Onions,’ Jewel added. ‘Fresh bread! Is it lunch-time already?’ She paused for a moment, gazing at the closed door and the windows, where the blinds were pulled down. Her forehead creased slightly in concentration and she pressed her lips together before moving on.

  At the side of the restaurant and set slightly back from it was a timbered cabin. There were clean curtains at the window, though it appeared to be unlived in. In front of it was a small overgrown garden with a neglected flower bed and parched grass in need of cutting.

  Jewel stopped and stared and felt a whole range of sensations engulfing her. A pulse in her throat began to throb and she swallowed and licked her lips.

  ‘Clara,’ she whispered. ‘This is it. I’m sure of it.’

  Clara gazed at her, but before she could speak they heard someone singing. It was a loud joyous sound, untrained but melodic, and they both turned their heads towards the restaurant, which now had its door open. Writing on the window in white chalk as he sang was a young thickset man with dark hair loose on his neck.

  Jewel walked back towards him. She felt as if she were floating, trancelike, in a dream. Her childish memories battled with present-day reality and her breath quickened as she stood watching him. His profile was familiar. She saw a gleaming white shirt on broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and as he lifted his arms to write she saw that they were muscular.

  Clara stood beside her, wondering why her cousin was watching this man but remaining silent.

  He either sensed their presence or saw their reflection in the glass because his singing ceased and he turned sideways to look at the two young women. It seemed as if he was about to give a merry quip and invite them into the restaurant; but he paused. Their faces were shaded by their bonnets and the parasols which they carried over their heads, but he saw that one was very fair. An Englishwoman, he thought; his mother always said that you could tell an Englishwoman by her skin: like apple blossom, she said. Delicate pink and white.

  But the other one was different; not Chinese, at least not like Pinyin, who helped them in the kitchen. Pinyin had a round, moonlike face, with dark slanting eyes which twinkled constantly because of his sense of his good fortune in working for them; this small and petite goddess had sleek black hair coiled behind a slender neck, high cheekbones, wide dark impenetrable eyes and soft lips which parted softly as she spoke almost in a whisper.

  ‘Renzo?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There was only one person who had ever called him Renzo. But he scarcely remembered her. She had been his childhood friend and they had spent every day of their young lives together. She had eaten at his home – the two rooms behind the bakery which his parents had run – and they had played in her garden next door. He had been devastated when she went away and had cried for days, until his father had said in his strong Italian accent, ‘Enough! Be a man. There will be many other girls to weep over in your life.’

  But he had remembered his mother crying too, and not just on the day that Jewel . . . that was her name . . . had gone away, but on another day some weeks later.

  Lorenzo took a step towards them. Bemused, he looked from one to the other, and then his gaze settled on the dark-haired girl and he said softly, ‘Jewel? Is it you?’

  She smiled. ‘You remember me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘I do.’

  He took another step forward and put out both his hands for hers. She slipped them into his. Such small fragile hands, he thought, and her face – yes, a hint of the Orient. Had he ever known that?

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he whispered and kissed her gently on her cheek and then on her hands. ‘You went away. Where did you go?’

  Jewel could hardly speak and then only to murmur. ‘To England; with Gianna, who adopted me. My father was dying, although I didn’t know it then.’

  He nodded. Yes. That was why his mother had cried the second time, because the man next door had died.

  ‘Lorenzo,’ Jewel said, ‘I’d like to introduce you to my cousin Clara. Clara, this is my friend Lorenzo, from my childhood.’

  Clara dipped her knee and put out her hand, and Lorenzo reluctantly let go of Jewel’s in order to clasp it and say how pleased he was to meet her.

  ‘Come inside, please,’ he said. ‘It’s too hot outside for English ladies. You’re not used to such temperatures, I’m sure.’

  Indeed we’re not, Clara thought, as gratefully she sat down inside at a table spread with a white cloth, and mopped her forehead, whilst Lorenzo went off to bring a jug of cold water.

  He poured two glasses and then sat across from them. He put his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands and shook his head, looking at Jewel. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he repeated. ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’

  ‘I have been back to America,’ she told him. ‘But not to California. My adoptive father, Wilhelm Dreumel, is American and has property in Dreumel’s Creek.’ When he shook his head as if he didn’t know, she added, ‘Above Duquesne? Mountain country.’

  He still didn’t know and she went on to explain some of Wilhelm’s background and how he and Gianna had decided to live in England so that she could grow up with her cousins, Clara and Elizabeth, and get to know her English grandmother.

  ‘But,’ she went on, ‘when I came of age, I decided I wanted to come here, to visit the place where I was born and where my real father had lived . . . and,’ she hesitated, ‘try to find out more about my birth mother.’

  Lorenzo pursed his lips. ‘I don’t remember her. I can just remember your father, but only vaguely, and there’s another man who comes here sometimes. Larkin,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know the connection. Perhaps my mother knows. She seems to know most of what goes on around here.’

  ‘Your mother!’Jewel said. ‘Oh yes!’ She gave a sudden smile. ‘She used to feed me with pasta!’

  Lorenzo laughed. ‘She feeds everybody with pasta. Would you like to eat? We shall get busy in about an hour, so . . .’

  ‘Yes, please,’ they chorused. ‘And some of that lovely bread we can smell,’ Jewel added.

  His dark eyes twinkled humorously. ‘Her speciality! People come from miles around to buy her pane. She’s almost finished baking now. Just putting in the last batch of the day, then I’ll fetch her to meet you.’

  Lorenzo went off to the kitchen to prepare some food for them, and Jewel looked at Clara. She could barely suppress her excitement and felt all of a quiver. Although she had wanted to find the place where she had lived with her father, she hadn’t dreamed that she would meet up with Lorenzo. He was a half-forgotten memory. Now she was buzzing with anticipation of what else might be in store for her.

  ‘He’s very handsome, isn’t he?’ Clara whispered. ‘And so – so amiable!’

  Jewel nodded in agreement. He was indeed. The dark-haired, chubby little boy had grown into a handsome young man and she felt very strange when he gazed at her from his smiling eyes.

  They heard hi
m calling ‘Madre’, and a woman’s voice calling back to him. Presently he emerged again, bringing with him a short, stout, dark-haired woman, who was wiping floury hands on a cloth and speaking excitedly in Italian.

  Jewel stood up. ‘Madre!’ she exclaimed. She had always called her that, following Lorenzo’s example and not knowing then, when she was a child, that it meant Mother.

  Signora Maria Galli flung out her arms and embraced Jewel in a warm hug. She smelled of yeast and dough, of garlic and tomatoes, and as Jewel breathed in her scent so many memories came flooding back.

  ‘It ees so good to see you again.’ Maria laughed and cried and dried her tears on the cloth, spreading flour over her cheeks. ‘Your poor papa! I ask him, please let you stay with me, but then the English lady come and he say that you go to England with her.’

  Jewel wiped her own tears and said in a choked voice, ‘I did. I went to England to see my relatives and Mama – Gianna – decided that we would stay.’ She introduced Clara and she too was given a bear hug.

  ‘And now you ’ave come back,’ Maria said. ‘It ees good! Very good! Now you will eat some pasta and tell me everything.’

  Lorenzo brought them each a plate of antipasti: ham, beef and salami, grilled artichokes, pungent and sweet red peppers, tomatoes with garlic cloves and fresh bread with a bowl of olive oil with basil. ‘Eat,’ he urged them, as they waited for their pasta to be cooked.

  The restaurant began to fill up with customers and Lorenzo was kept busy attending them, although most seemed to be old friends who slapped him on the back, laughing and chatting as they drank wine poured from a carafe and rubbed garlic on their bread and dipped it into bowls of oil.