FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Elma, allow me. It’s been a most instructive lunch and I’ve loved it and come away a lot wiser. The least I can do. Besides, I owe Raffles for the Mrs Sidebottom con.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon, jolly nice of you, must be off. Farnsworth is probably in the boardroom, tapping his watch.’ She imitated a carping male voice, which for Elma meant softening her usual basso profundo. ‘Elma, I’ve flown 4000 miles to be on time and you’re the one who’s late!’ She left the Tiffin Room with all the grace of a battleship ploughing through a big sea.

  ‘The Opium Wars! We didn’t get to them!’ I shouted after her.

  ‘Britain’s abiding shame! Next time, old boy!’ she shouted back, and she was gone in a clatter of heavy footsteps.

  PART TWO

  Thursday Girl

  CHAPTER TEN

  HAD IT NOT BEEN for my love for Mercy B. Lord, which at times seemed to completely overwhelm my judgement, I guess I would have served out my contract with Samuel Oswald Wing and left the odious bully Sidney Wing and his misanthropic brother Johnny and the nice but inconsequential Ronnie and gone home to Australia. Ostensibly I’d have been a success, with Big Lather, Texas Tiger, Citizen watches and the Singapore Tourist Promotions Board to my credit, but if the truth be known, I’d have returned with my tail between my legs. I’d made the Wing brothers more money, and hadn’t done too badly myself, thanks to my contract, and the Americans were happy enough, but I hadn’t managed to establish a permanent, working creative department or even the real beginnings of one.

  If I chose to remain in Singapore, I almost had sufficient money of my own to start two projects. The first was a market-research company that would use the methodology we’d developed with Henry, now Professor, Kwan, in which I hoped to eventually involve Mercy B. Lord. The other was to develop a film company with Harry ‘Three Thumbs’ Poon and Willy Wonka that would specialise in advertising commercials. There would be opportunities for both market research and TV commercials in all of neighbouring Asia – Malaysia, Indonesia, Hong Kong, Thailand, the Philippines and even Taiwan. All lacked decent film facilities and market-research organisations that truly understood and could interpret the Asian way of thinking. Both ideas would involve, in addition to my own money, a loan, though not a huge one, from my dad and Chairman Meow.

  On the other hand, I could simply take up Elma Kelly’s generous offer to join Cathay as creative director, and there attempt to influence the local advertising scene in the way I’d imagined I was going to do when I’d originally left Australia. This seemed unlikely, though. I’d had my fill of Asian advertising agencies, and while I had grown hugely fond of Elma, I could see she wouldn’t be all that easy to work under. If I was going to stay, I resolved to work for myself.

  Whatever I chose to do, it would thankfully be the end of my time at Samuel Oswald Wing, and while I’d miss some of my clients, I’d had more than enough of the Three Wing Circus. Of course, the very best decision would have been to call it quits in Singapore and head back home, but my love for Mercy B. Lord made me incapable of any sort of intelligent reasoning.

  Dansford had long since guessed that I wouldn’t require a renewal offer from New York, but I thought I should make it formal so that they could set about the process of appointing a new creative director when the time came. So I delivered a handwritten letter to him one morning only minutes after he’d arrived at work, starched and spruced up by Chicken Wing.

  He sighed, wordlessly accepted the envelope and used it to indicate I should take a seat, then, without opening it, began to tap the corner of the envelope on the edge of his desk. I usually waited an hour or so in the morning before entering Dansford’s office, to give him a chance to recover from the previous night, but I wanted to be rid of the resignation letter. Now, with only the tap-tap of the envelope breaking the silence, I saw that there were still faint traces of pink in his hair and that his features, clean-shaven with several razor nicks, were deathly pale from his early morning gastric ritual in which he rid his stomach of the results of the previous night’s carousing. Dansford possessed an amazing ability to recover and by mid-morning he would be going full throttle. He’d usually done a good day’s work by the time he escaped to lunch. But now, first thing, he looked vulnerable and a little beaten, even woebegone, as if life were steadily getting the better of him.

  He lifted the envelope and said, ‘The time has come, the walrus said …’

  ‘… to talk of many things,’ I added, smiling.

  ‘Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax …’ Dansford continued, waiting for me to come in.

  ‘Of cabbages – and kings …’

  ‘And why the sea is boiling hot …’

  ‘And whether pigs have wings,’ I concluded.

  Dansford sighed. ‘I take it this is what I think it is?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Ah, Simon, I shall miss you so very much.’

  ‘And I you, mate, but it was pretty inevitable.’

  ‘Yes, I guess so. The Three Wing Circus is going to lose its main attraction. New York will not be at all pleased. Colgate-Palmolive will not be happy either. As you know, their entry into Asia with Big Lather has been spectacular and they rightly give you the credit.’

  I laughed. ‘The credit’s not really all mine. Had you not decided to fake the market research, it would never have happened.’

  ‘You’ve achieved a lot, Simon. The Tiger campaign put Texas Oil back into profit; the ice block sold a squillion Japanese watches; the big screens in the town hall gave us the tourism win.’

  ‘Kind of you, Dansford, but you brought in the Texas Oil account with your Chinese chicks in hotpants and heels, which turned on Michael Johns, aka Big Loud Mike; Willy Wonka produced his dad’s beer fridge at lunch to give me the watch idea, and Mrs Sidebottom came up with the screens. Besides, if you hadn’t persisted with Sidney, he’d have put the kibosh on financing them.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mrs Sidebottom. You just reminded me – she’s had an accident! A call came through yesterday just as I was leaving for lunch. You were at the printers so the switch put it through to me.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Can’t say – it was her husband … Percy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Cecil.’

  ‘Cecil, that’s it. Said she was doing something for you but now couldn’t.’

  ‘That’s okay. It was only brochure copy, it’s not urgent.’

  Dansford looked upset. ‘Very careless of me. I should have left a note for you – damn stupid.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be okay, but I’d better make a call.’

  When I phoned her home, the maid answered and I asked her rapidly in Cantonese about her mistress. She answered in English and told me the madam was in hospital. ‘And Mr Sidebottom?’ I asked.

  ‘Master, he also,’ she replied.

  ‘He was in the accident?’

  ‘No. He go to see her, he stay by there, not come back. Also the night, he not come back, go work.’

  I called the hospital but they wouldn’t give any details except to confirm that she was there. ‘Is there a ward phone?’ Of course there must be. Not waiting for an answer, I said sharply, ‘Put me through to Mr Sidebottom. It’s very important.’ I’d long since learned that with working-class Chinese, being assertive worked better than being polite. With the Baba, or wealthy, it was the opposite; everyone knew their place in the social structure. When I’d referred to Sidney Wing’s contemptuous attitude to staff at one of my monthly lunches with Elma Kelly, she’d replied, ‘My dear boy, haven’t you understood yet? This is a tone-of-voice society.’

  But my demanding tone didn’t work this time. ‘I’m very sorry, sir. We are not allowed to put a call through to the emergency unit on that floor,’ came the reply.

  ‘What floor is that?’ I demanded.

  The switch operator refused to be bullied. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ came the reply. So now I knew
Mrs Sidebottom must be in a pretty bad way.

  Half an hour later I arrived at the Singapore General Hospital in Outram Road and entered the emergency reception area, where I waited until the lift opened and an orderly stepped in. I followed. ‘The serious traffic accident ward,’ I demanded in Cantonese and watched as the preoccupied orderly silently pressed the button for level three. But then my luck ran out. As I stepped from the lift, a large European nursing sister glanced up from writing at a desk directly facing the lift – no sign of the Chinese nurse I had hoped to bully. After a noticeable double-take, her incurious glance changed into a fully fledged imperious glare.

  Fountain pen poised, she demanded, ‘And who may you be?’ It was a question asked without the courtesy of an added ‘sir’. I was completely taken by surprise by this very large, well-corseted virago in white with her many-pointed starched veil, which, with her long pinched nose and sharp eyes, gave her the appearance of a bird of prey coming in to land. She looked as if she could take on Elma Kelly in an arm-wrestling contest and possibly win.

  ‘Ah … er, Simon Koo,’ I offered, too surprised and tongue-tied to add any further explanation.

  ‘And what are you doing in my ward, Mr Koo?’

  ‘Oh, yes, ah … Mrs Sidebottom … I’ve come to see Mrs Sidebottom.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘No, no, a friend … a concerned friend. I heard she’s been in an accident and I’d like very much to see her … please?’

  The ward sister, or matron, gave me a withering look. ‘No! The patient is in a coma.’

  Her refusal brooked no discussion and, ignoring me, she returned to her writing. I stood my ground, less out of stubbornness than from an inability to decide what to do next. She glanced up and jabbed her gold nib in the direction of the lift behind me. ‘Press the down button!’ she commanded.

  ‘Mr Sidebottom … is he here? May I talk to him?’

  ‘No, you may not!’

  Keep your cool, Simon. A sign on the wall behind her read: Strictly No Smoking, the ‘Strictly’ printed in red. I recalled Mrs Sidebottom once mentioning that Cecil was a three-pack-a-day man. I’d wondered at the time whether tobacco smoke helped to lessen the effect of her halitosis. ‘Will you please tell him I’ll be waiting in reception downstairs?’ I asked.

  She gave an impatient cluck of her tongue. ‘Would you be good enough to leave at once?’

  I had been waiting less than twenty minutes when a bleary-eyed Cecil Sidebottom entered the hospital visitors’ reception room. ‘Simon, old chap, how very good of you to come!’ he exclaimed, his hand extended in a welcoming gesture.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I was at the printers all yesterday afternoon. I only got your message this morning. I would have come sooner.’

  ‘Good of you to come,’ he repeated. ‘You’re the nearest thing she has to a friend here. Can’t tell you how chuffed she was with the French drop. Jolly decent.’

  I immediately felt guilty. The champagne had been Dansford’s idea. Apart from our initial curry tiffin lunch at Raffles, we hadn’t socialised and had communicated by telephone; I’d sent her my layouts by taxi. I told myself I couldn’t go through the spiral-bound notepad routine again, not to mention the halitosis. But, of course, I had been remiss and should have made the effort. Her copywriting for the Tourist Promotion Board had proved almost as invaluable as her suggestion to use the giant screens. ‘How bad is she?’ I asked tentatively.

  He tapped a cigarette from a Camel soft pack and I waited as he lit up, took a puff and exhaled. Then, as if it had all been bottled up inside him, he burst out with, ‘She’s in a coma, a bit beaten about the face, both eyes black as a nig-nog’s bottom, internal injuries, broken collarbone, cracked ribs, could be a lung puncture, breathing complications, tracheotomy. Otherwise she’s fine; it’ll take time, that’s all.’ He paused and sighed, seemingly grateful that he’d got it all off his chest. In the familiar manner of a heavy smoker – slightly stooped, chin on chest – he took a deep drag on his cigarette, its tip flaring noticeably, then almost immediately blew the smoke out in a steady stream and turned his head towards me, eyes blinking. When he spoke again his voice was calm. ‘Simon, would you mind if we went outside … a rather tricky question’s come up.’

  He moved towards the door and I followed. ‘What exactly happened?’ I asked as we reached the front steps.

  ‘Taxi. Driver swerved to avoid hitting a rickshaw, hit the gutter, vehicle spun almost precisely 360 degrees and sideswiped a telegraph pole. The driver was killed – his door took the impact and flattened him – top of his head missing, upper window frame caught him, acted like a can opener, brains everywhere.’ It was a civil engineer’s answer and a lot more than I needed to know.

  ‘Poor bugger. Probably left a wife and kids behind.’

  ‘No, no, much too old for that! Shouldn’t have been allowed behind the wheel. Undoubtedly paid a bribe to keep his licence. Bloody disgrace, can’t be trusted, shouldn’t be allowed, sticky fingers, the temptation’s too much for them.’

  From the way he’d described his wife’s black eyes, Cecil Sidebottom was an old-style colonial. There wasn’t any point in suggesting that Lee’s government had pretty well cleaned up corruption among minor officials, or that bribery carried a heavy penalty for both parties.

  It was stinking hot outside and we’d reached the shade of a large banyan tree. Cecil Sidebottom killed the butt of his cigarette by dropping it to the ground and extinguishing it with a twist of his shoe. I wondered briefly if a butt being dropped in a public hospital’s garden carried the same penalty as one being dropped on a city pavement. I was becoming conditioned to the new squeaky-clean Singapore and its profusion of petty laws. We like to think of ourselves as mavericks but my observation is that most people quite enjoy a set of rules, a bit of conspicuous law and order, providing always that it doesn’t impinge on their lives or threaten their livelihood.

  Bringing me outside in the heat when the reception area was airconditioned seemed a strange thing to do, and I wondered what Cecil Sidebottom could possibly tell me that was meant for my ears only.

  He lit a second cigarette. ‘Tricky, very tricky,’ he said again, squinting at me as the smoke from the cigarette curled around his head.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes. Be most obliged, Simon. Teeth.’

  ‘Teeth?’

  ‘Yes, the old girl’s. You may not have noticed, but they’re in rather bad shape.’

  ‘Well… er … perhaps, yes.’ There seemed nothing else to say.

  ‘Oh, good, I thought perhaps you might advise? I can’t ask her, she’s unconscious.’

  ‘Advise?’ I was beginning to feel rather foolish, as if I’d missed something obvious.

  ‘The doctor says they’re badly infected and this could lead to complications. Very dicky position, what. He wants them removed … wants to remove them,’ he corrected. ‘She’s always been very conscious of her teeth. Afraid …’ He looked at me and shrugged, his expression an appeal for help. ‘I’m not sure I know what to do.’ The courage had gone from his voice.

  I knew from what Elma Kelly had told me that Mrs Sidebottom was mortally afraid of undergoing dental work. ‘She’s afraid of the dentist?’ It was an obvious but necessary question.

  ‘Oh, yes, I see, you do understand,’ he exclaimed, relieved. ‘You see, I know she wouldn’t agree.’

  ‘If they’re not removed, then what?’

  ‘Possibly septicaemia.’

  ‘Blood poisoning!’ I felt a twinge of anger. ‘Cecil, mate, you have no choice. Out! Out, while she’s unconscious.’

  ‘Yes, yes! You’re right! Thank you!’ he exclaimed, beaming. ‘Oh, dear, I do feel so much better. Silly, silly, of course!’

  Mrs Sidebottom remained in hospital for six weeks, so that her gums and other parts of her body could heal properly. I swamped her with Singapore orchids and visited on several occasions, during which
our conversations would take place with her holding a book over her toothless mouth.

  Once she’d recovered, we celebrated with a small dinner party in a private room at Raffles, with Mercy B. Lord acting as hostess. The guests were Dansford Drocker (Chicken Wing was invited, but declined); Peter and Professor Henry Kwan; Elma Kelly, who’d flown in from Hong Kong to be there; Willy Wonka, on weekend leave from the army; and, finally, Cecil and Mrs Sidebottom.

  It was as if she’d undergone a transformation: Mrs Sidebottom looked decidedly different. Her incredible arctic-blue eyes now danced within a face no longer powdered into a matt, white, clown-like mask, her complexion was what is traditionally referred to as that of an English rose, and while her lipstick was still Rita Hayworth red, it didn’t trespass beyond the boundaries of her lips. Best of all, she now wore a dazzling new smile, and her breath was peppermint-free and fresh as a field of summer daisies, except perhaps for the tiniest hint of gin suffused with angelica, coriander and juniper berry.

  Between the main meal and dessert I had excused myself to go to the toilet and was just about to enter when I heard my name. I turned to see Cecil Sidebottom had followed me. ‘Great men think alike,’ he laughed as we went in. Standing side by side in front of the two urinals, he said, ‘Simon, old chap, wasn’t sure when I’d catch you alone again. Just wanted to thank you for restoring my bride to me. Damned decent of you.’

  ‘Thanks, Cecil, but not necessary. I did nothing.’

  ‘Oh, but you did, old boy! Could never have made the teeth decision on my own. Owe it all to you.’

  ‘Well, thanks, but like I said, unnecessary.’

  ‘We’re spring chickens! She’s lost twenty years, looks like the young gal I married.’ To my surprise he began to cry.