by Alison Wong
The comet had come a year too soon. He thought of words he’d looked up in his Chinese-English dictionary and on nights when he’d lain alone spoken into darkness, practising the feel on his tongue, the sound of a foreign language.
‘Liberty, equality, fraternity,’ he said. And he knew she didn’t understand.
Months later bombs exploded in Hankow. In Wuchang a soldier killed his commanding officer. The Revolution had begun.
Yung could not help but laugh, words of explanation spilling out, drenching Katherine with a heady mix of English and Cantonese.
Province after province declared its independence from Manchu rule. Negotiations began. Finally the Empress Dowager abdicated and Sun Yat-sen was declared the first President.
In Wellington, in Sydney, around the world there were fireworks, banquets, myriad celebrations. Yung gave a rousing speech and raised his glass to the new Republic; he cracked jokes and told long and twisted tales that had everyone holding their bellies in raucous laughter. And yet something, someone, was missing.
They had come to send remittances home. To return as wealthy men. Yet always wealth eluded them. Now, back home, there was so much to be done. Hung-seng had died for this, but what had he done except debate with his countrymen and raise money for Sun and the Revolution?
Wasn’t this the time to go home?
Shun Goh would not understand. How could they go home? he’d say. Where was the money? There were carrots to be washed, cauliflowers to be trimmed, debts to be repaid.
When she came to his door, he pulled her into his body, his face in her hair. He knew Chinese hair – smooth and black and strong – its gift for spiking the eye at intimate moments, but even now Katherine’s surprised him – soft baby hair tickling his nose, so full of air.
He knew he loved her. Though he could never utter that word. It was not that Tongyan didn’t feel affection, need, desire – something more than duty, which seemed to flow with the breast milk. But love was a word that only gweilo spoke. Something you might feel but never utter.
As he held her in his arms, he did not know what to choose – the homeland he had waited for, worked for, prayed for; or this never-ending ache, this last sigh of breath at the end of the world.
A Chíldren’s Atlas
‘You know where she goes, don’t you?’
Robbie looked up, stared at Edie in the doorway and went back to writing.
‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell Mum who you’re writing to.’
‘So who am I writing to?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
Robbie stabbed at the letter with his pen, swore under his breath. The nib had gone through the paper, and now a blot of ink seeped into the cover of the book underneath: Whitcombe & Tombs’ Children’s Atlas. His mother would be furious.
‘If you’re so smart, then why don’t you know where she goes at night? Isn’t it obvious?’
‘She visits someone, doesn’t she?’
Robbie stared at her.
‘But why does it have to be a secret?’
‘Because it’s disgusting, that’s why!’
In one movement he hurled the book, letter, pen – an arc of ink drops – through the air. The book smashed against the wall and slumped to the floor, the pen left an ink stain on the wallpaper, rolled back and hit the mat. A torn sheet of paper drifted down.
‘If Dad was here this would never have happened!’ Robbie burst into tears.
The only time Edie remembered him crying was when their father died. If he was still here . . . if their father was still here, how different would it be?
Edie felt the urge to stroke Robbie’s back, his hair, but he seemed so far away, so very far away, the distance between them unsurpassable.
She stared at his shaking body, felt tears form in her own eyes. She did not know who she was crying for. She turned and walked into their mother’s room, looked out the window at the street below. She should start dinner. Peel potatoes and carrots, chop cabbage. Their mother would be home.
Soon.
The Future of Humankínd
Edie did not remember raised voices, just as she did not remember small signs of tenderness. Even as a six-year-old she noticed the tension in her mother’s face, the way she’d held herself separate from her father.
Every time Mrs Newman opened a newspaper, pointed out interesting articles and encouraged her to read them, even when she heard a paper boy standing on a street corner calling out his wares, Edie remembered her father: the smells of whisky, tobacco, ink, the smudgy shadows on his hands and once-white cuffs, on his cheek or jaw or the side of his nose, his inky hands thrown in the air in the midst of heated conversation. Her father. A man who could have devised some of the problems she faced at school:
A man leaves £4000 to each of three sons and £1500 to each of two daughters, what is his estate? Or: Divide £100 between two men and two women so that each man may get twice the share of a woman.
These are the things she remembered later, after Mrs Newman had held out an envelope and asked her, ‘What does this say, Edie?’
Edie was puzzled. ‘Mrs Alexander Newman, 215 . . .’
‘Yes, yes. Now tell me, what’s wrong with it?’ Mrs Newman had looked at her intently, peering over the top of her spectacles.
Edie stared at the plain white envelope, postmarked Wellington. Nothing especially interesting about the handwriting. No spelling mistakes. ‘Um . . . I don’t know,’ she said at last.
‘What is my name, Edie? Is it Alexander? What does this say about the standing – or not – of the married woman? Do I belong to my husband like his Ford, for instance? Something to be cranked up to do his bidding?’
Edie wanted to laugh. She couldn’t imagine Mr Newman having much success. Mrs Newman could crank herself up on her own, thank you very much. Or did he delight in provoking her?
‘Can you imagine my husband being addressed as Mr Margaret Newman or even Mr Margaret Salmond?’ she was saying, and Edie mused about Mr Newman. Was he like a certain Mr Bennet she’d read of and loved? A man who could laugh at his wife without her even knowing?
But Mrs Newman had moved on. Had Edie met Dr Bennett? she asked, and for a moment Edie was confused, lost in the connection between a Jane Austen novel and a pioneer of women in medicine.
‘A remarkable woman,’ Mrs Newman was saying. What would she do without the likes of Dr Agnes Bennett and Mrs Grace Neill. Standing up to the likes of Ferdinand Batchelor and Truby King.
‘Surely you’ve heard of Dr Bennett? I met her years ago in Sydney when she came to attend my sister. It’s a crying shame. Did you know, before she came to New Zealand no one wanted a lady doctor? And look at her now – superintendent of St Helen’s. Who would have dreamed even ten years ago – a woman in charge of a hospital!’
Mrs Newman smiled at Edie. ‘I really must introduce you to Dr Bennett, my dear. Doctors hold lives, destinies, the future of humankind in their hands. And our Dr Bennett is at the forefront.’
*
The first time Edie saw the pulleys attached to the roof in the garage, she laughed out loud. Dr Bennett was using them to raise the huge cover on her motorcar.
‘Yes, it is a bit of a rigmarole, isn’t it? But being prone to catarrh makes travelling in an open motorcar quite inadvisable, and of course you should always, always take the advice of your doctor.’ Dr Bennett glanced at Edie and grinned. ‘Especially when that doctor happens to be yourself.’
Edie laughed again. The motorcar, with its high removable roof and sides, had been specially built for Dr Bennett. It was nicknamed the ‘Pill-box’ and was almost as famous as the good doctor herself. Dr Bennett was the first woman to drive a motorcar in Wellington; she was entirely self-taught. Edie noticed that everyone always gave the Pill-box a very wide berth.
They went into the house, where Dr Bennett made tea. ‘I hear from Mrs Newman that you have a curious mind.
‘Not many people understand this in a girl. They say la
dies shouldn’t ask too many questions. They think we want to know too much.’ Dr Bennett smiled – a small, sad smile. She poured boiling water over the leaves in the teapot and carried the laden tray out to the parlour. ‘Don’t let this dampen your spirits,’ she said.
Dr Bennett offered shortbread. ‘I hear you aren’t especially close to your brother. When I was a girl I played with my brothers all the time. I was what you might call a tomboy, romping about in the paddocks and the bush and the beach. I think those were the happiest days of my life.’
She was quiet for a while, and Edie wondered about Dr Bennett’s life in Australia and England. Mrs Newman had told her Dr Bennett’s mother died when she was very young.
They drank tea, discussed sedimentary rocks, Lister’s discovery of antiseptics, Dr Bennett’s days at Sydney University and at Medical School in Edinburgh. Late afternoon light faded.
‘I’ll drive you home, Edie. Your mother must be wondering what has happened to you.’
Edie didn’t say she didn’t want to go home.
As Dr Bennett drove, she said, ‘Books can be very good friends, Edie, especially when you are lonely. But don’t neglect physical exercise. Learn to walk – and to run – not just with the intellect but also with the heart and the body. Social interaction, fresh air and physical activity will sustain you through many a trial and tribulation.’
Edie watched Dr Bennett drive away. She watched street lamps blink into life. She opened the gate and walked up to the door.
The New Freckled Wonder
Edie was supposed to be so smart, but for all her highfalutin talk a train could run over her and she’d have no blinking idea. How could she be so stupid! Robbie scowled and bowled yet another wide.
‘What’s yer problem, dolt?’ Billy called. ‘Wal, get that ball!’
‘Who’re ya calling dolt? Ya idiot!’
‘Whoa. What’s going on?’
‘Where’d the ball go?’ Wally called.
‘Under that tree, dolt!’
Robbie broke into a grin. ‘Yeah, under the tree, dolt!’
He ran forward, put out his hand and the ball landed clean in his palm. He polished it on his trousers as he walked back, took a run up and bowled. The ball slipped between bat and thigh, sliced through the stumps. Robbie threw his hands in the air. ‘Hooya!’
Billy smiled. ‘Your bat.’
Billy was all right. Not as good as Robbie’s dad, of course, but all right. Robbie stood in the crease, thumping his bat against the summer-scorched grass. His dad had always told him to take his time when he first went out. Get your eye in, he’d say. Don’t go for the big shot and get out for a duck.
But today he didn’t care. He cut the ball on the offside and sent it past Wally for a four.
‘Crikey Rob, I’m doggo!’
‘If you were a decent keeper . . .’
‘Who’re you calling indecent?’
Robbie laughed. ‘Do you good to go for a run, mate.’
Wally straightened his shoulders, sucked in his belly. ‘They say I’m not half the man I was.’
‘Wal, you’re a real ladies’ man.’
Wally blew on his fingers. ‘Like to think so.’
Billy laughed. ‘You should both come down to the gym sometime. That’ll sort you out, Wal. Went with me cousin the other day and we joined up. Charlie O’Donnell, he trained with the Great Sandow. He’s marvellous.’
‘Why don’t we go down now?’ Robbie said. ‘Have a look around.’
As they walked out onto Buckle Street, he asked, ‘You got my ball, Wal?’
Wally was still breathing heavily. He pulled the ball out of his pocket, tossed it over.
Robbie heard steel wheels on the track, the sound of a bell. A Toast Rack was rounding the bend. ‘Let’s get a tram,’ he yelled. He tucked his bat under his arm, threw the ball in the air, caught it as he ran.
They climbed aboard and sat open to the weather, the blast of the northerly shaking out their hair. Toast Rack made sense, but why did people call them Hong Kong cars?
‘Because they originally came from Hong Kong, dolt!’ said Billy.
Robbie grinned. As the trammie swung along the outer footboards collecting fares and Wal wiped sweat from his face with a handkerchief, he nudged Billy. ‘What d’ya reckon are the chances of him hitting the centre pole? Or falling off and killing himself like that poor blighter in Oriental Bay?’
He laughed. He wouldn’t mind a bit of excitement. Mac was all right, and Robbie had moved on now from butcher boy delivering meat to apprentice. It wasn’t so bad, learning how to chop carcasses, cut chops and steaks and all that, but the danger of swinging along the footboards or, even better, driving a tram – now that would be the life.
As if he’d read his mind, Billy said, ‘You know, after that poor blighter maybe they’re down on numbers. Maybe I can con my way into a job, eh?’
Robbie glanced at Billy. That was the one thing he hated about Billy. He was only eighteen months older, but he looked like he was three or even four. He got away with all kinds of things Robbie could only dream of.
‘We’re there!’ Billy rang the bell and they leapt off in Cuba Street.
Even before they entered, they heard skipping ropes whipping the air, hitting the floorboards, the sound of leather against leather. As the door swung open, they were hit with the stink of horse liniment and sweat.
Two men danced and dodged and threw punches in the ring. A man shadow-boxed in front of an enormous mirror. Others pounded heavy bags, pummelled speed balls, lifted dumb-bells. Two boys wrestled on a canvas mat. Others did press-ups or sit-ups or chin-ups from a bar.
The words BREATHE MORE AIR AND HAVE RICHER BLOOD were painted on the wall, alongside posters of Eugen Sandow flexing his muscles. What I wouldn’t give to look like that! Robbie thought.
‘What d’ya reckon Edie’d think of this?’ Billy yelled. He leapt and grabbed rings hanging from the ceiling, pulled himself up shakily.
‘You’ve got to be joking, mate! You’ve got to do better than that!’ Robbie eyed his friend. ‘What’re you saying, anyway? Are you keen on my sister?’
Billy jumped down. ‘Dunno, Rob. She can be a bit weird, but you’ve got to admit she’s cute.’
‘Edie?’ Wally laughed. ‘You’re interested in that stuck-up bitch?’
Robbie turned and slammed his fist into Wally’s face.
‘Ow. What’d you do that for?’
Robbie shook out his hand, stared embarrassed at Wal on the floor. ‘Look, mate,’ he said at last, ‘I can say what I like – she’s my sister after all – but that doesn’t give you the right.’
‘We get real bad press for our tempers, don’t we?’
Robbie turned.
A man with thinning red hair and a broken nose grinned at him. ‘No need to fuel the flames, eh?’ The man winked. ‘What’s your name, son? Rob, eh? My name’s Charlie. Charlie O’Donnell. For a skinny fella you sure have a fine right hook. A young Ruby Robert, if I say so myself.’ The man laughed. ‘Billy, show our new Freckled Wonder the ropes. See what we can do with him.’
Sílence
Edie often came after school to Mrs Newman’s, but Katherine hardly saw Robbie. Every afternoon when she arrived home from work he was at the gym. He’d come home for dinner and then go straight back out with Billy again. It made her wonder about this Charlie O’Donnell. Still it kept Robbie off the streets and out of trouble, and it stopped him talking endlessly about Donald. Dad this and Dad that. Not that she could blame him. A boy needed a man in his life – Charlie O’Donnell would do just fine.
‘Robbie is hardly ever home these days,’ she said as she climbed into Yung’s bed. ‘I don’t know who he is any more.’
Yung didn’t answer. He held her in his arms but did not want to make love.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s the matter?’
He was silent, and when she kissed his cheek it was wet.
Wong Chung-yung
; Melon Rídge
There are no hills, no mountainous ridges in Melon Ridge, only the round tombs of generations lying stretched to the east, their faces looking out over the water. Over the river that winds through a thousand villages on its way from the Pearl, past ten thousand villages on its way to the sea. There are no melons in Melon Ridge, only long leaves of rice that ruffle fields green in spring and autumn, and lush groves of lychees yielding their fruit in summer.
This is our village, famous throughout all of Kwangtung. They say the lychees of Melon Ridge are the best in China. Just break the crisp, red shell and inside the membrane is dry – a translucent skin filled with green-white flesh, juicy and sweet, fragrant of flowers and full of meat, and at its heart the smallest brown stone, smooth as jade flicked by the tongue. This is the story we tell, the story we have told for generations.
I still remember the flowers, the small cream heads among the dark green leaves. In springtime you can smell them everywhere, and in summer when the fruit is ripening on the branches the gau pei dan come – the dog fart bullets – red insects like cockroaches, with their brown spots and their stinking beating wings. I used to sit in the trees eating the smooth white fruit, and they would be there also, sucking out the juice and biting young boys. My mother would scold me for the pain – rice bucket, is that all you can eat, rice and lychees? – as she spread knobs of ointment as long as her uncut thumbnails on the great red swellings.
They say the ‘dog farts’ like the taste of men who have been away – the sojourners whose blood is sweet and foreign. But I have never been back.
These are the things I remember: the lychee trees, the gau pei dan, the grassy smell of rice when it is ready to harvest.