Mr Ma and Son (3 page)

The early tide was rising, the ever-rolling crests of its waves inlaid with gold scales by the sunlight. The waves surged up, hustling each other on and on, rank upon rank, crowding the shining gold to pieces. And as the shattered stars of gilded light fell back again, the next wave stirred up a heap of small white flowers, white as the soft juice new-pressed from a dandelion stem.

The furthest of the boats drifted slowly off, the waves of the river ever surging on in pursuit, writhing and rolling as if some shining dragon were chasing the little butterfly away.

Li Tzu-jung stood staring dumbly at the small boats until they turned the bend in the river, then he finally pulled himself together, walked over to the other window, which faced onto the street, and opened it. Then he got a notion to tidy up the things on his writing table. There was a small bauble on the desk, flashing and sparkling, and under the little object there was a short note. He picked up both at the same time, with a chill feeling inside him. Walking slowly over to the settee, he sat down and carefully scrutinised the note. It was only a few words, written in pencil, the strokes all haywire, showing signs of its having been fumblingly written in the dark,

F
OR OUR
present story, we must now go back a year from the day when Ma Wei slipped away from Li Tzu-jung’s place. The Reverend Ely was an old missionary who’d spread the Word for twenty years in China. He knew everything there was to know about China, from the ancient sage ruler and demigod
Fu-hsi
, who invented the divination hexagrams and Chinese characters, right up to
President Yüan Shih-k’ai
, who’d tried to set himself up as emperor in 1915. The latter endeavour the Reverend Ely greatly approved of.

Leaving aside the fact that he spoke Chinese very poorly, he was a walking Chinese encyclopedia. And yes, he truly loved the Chinese. At midnight, if lying awake unable to sleep, he would invariably pray to God to hurry up and make China a British dominion. Eyes filled with hot tears, he would point out to God that if the Chinese were not taken in hand by the British, that vast mass of yellow-faced black-haired creatures would never achieve their rightful ascent to the pearly gates.

Dawn till midnight, Oxford Street is always packed with women. Nearly all the shops along this central thoroughfare, apart from a few tobacconists, sell things for women, and no matter what urgent business women may have, they never manage to proceed along this street quicker than two steps per minute. On display in the shops are gaudy hats, leather shoes, little gloves, dainty handbags . . . all of which exert a peculiar fascination on the eyes, bodies and souls of women.

In Oxford Street the Reverend Ely’s clerical composure and religious dignity would never fail to suffer a spectacular reduction. With each big stride of his feet onwards, his prominent nose would unerringly clash with some old lady’s umbrella. As he retreated, stepping sharply backwards, his large leather shoes – which for some reason he always refused to sole with rubber – would almost always land squarely on the delicate little toes of some young miss. Then, as his hands clutched for his handkerchief, you can bet your life he’d jam an elbow into some lady’s shopping basket. Every time he made the journey along this street, he’d need to change his shirt and replace a couple of sweat-soaked handkerchiefs when he got home. And during the journey, he’d inevitably utter the words ‘Sorry!’ and ‘How careless of me!’ at least one hundred times.

On this particular occasion, he succeeded at last in squeezing his way into Oxford Circus. There he drew a deep breath, and let out a pious ‘Thank God!’ His pace increased, and he forged ahead in an easterly direction, beads of perspiration drifting down like snowflakes through the white hair at his temples.

Although he was over sixty, the Reverend Ely’s back was as straight as a writing brush. He possessed little hair but what he had was pure white. His cheeks were shaven to a glazed sheen, with no whiskers at all. Indeed, but for the wrinkles, his face would have resembled nothing more than a piece of china. His eyes were large, with a pair of tiny yellowy-brown eyeballs lolling in them, and above them hung two wedges of flesh, where twenty or thirty years earlier eyebrows must once have grown. Under the eyes dangled a little pair of spectacles. Because of his large nose, there was a full two inches between his eyes and the spectacles, which meant he generally looked at things over the top of the frames, rather than through the lenses. His lips were very thin, and dropped slightly at the ends. When he preached, with his eyes aimed unwaveringly across the rims of his glasses and his mouth yanked firmly down, he set the congregation’s hearts trembling without a single word. In general, though, he was exceedingly affable; a missionary who can’t be friendly will never get anywhere in this world. Reaching Museum Street, he veered left, cut across Torrington Square and entered Gordon Street.

There were quite a few Chinese people living in this street. The Chinese living in London can be divided into two classes: workmen and students. The workmen mostly live in East London, in the Chinatown that brings so much ignominy to who lack the money for a journey to the Orient always nose around Chinatown in quest of material for novels, travelogues or news articles. Chinatown has no outstanding tourist spots; nor is there anything of note to be observed in the behaviour of the workmen living there. The mere fact that And all because China’s a weak nation, every crime under the sun is attributed to this community of hard-working Chinese, who are simply seeking their living in a strange and foreign land. If there were no more than twenty Chinese people dwelling in Chinatown, the accounts of the sensation-seekers would without fail magnify their number to five thousand. And every one of those five thousand yellow-faced demons will smoke opium, smuggle arms, commit murder – hiding the corpses under their bed – rape women – regardless of age – and commit an endless amount of crimes, all deserving, at the very least, gradual dismemberment and death by ten thousand slices of the sword. Authors, playwrights and screenwriters are prompt to base their all who see the play, watch the film or read the novel – the young girls, the old ladies, the little children and the King of England – firmly imprint these quite unfounded pictures upon their memories.

Thus are the Chinese transformed into the most sinister, most foul, most loathsome and most degraded two-legged beasts on earth. In this twentieth century, people are judged according to their nation. The people of a powerful nation are people; the people of a weak nation are dogs.

People of China, open your eyes and take a look around. Yes, it’s time you opened your eyes and straightened your backs. Unless, that is, you wish to be dogs forever.

The fine reputation enjoyed by Chinatown is quite naturally not very beneficial to the Chinese students in London. The bigger hotels, let alone respectable individual householders, just won’t let rooms to Chinese people. Only the homes and small boarding houses behind the British Museum are prepared to. It’s not that the people there have uncommonly kind hearts, I don’t think. Rather, they realise there’s money to be made, and so bring themselves to put on a good face and make the best of dealing with a bunch of yellow-faced monsters. A poultry merchant doesn’t have to be a lover of chickens; when did English people ever let rooms to Chinese people out of a love for the Chinese?

Number 35, Gordon Street was the widowed Mrs Wedderburn’s house. It wasn’t very big, just a small three-storied building with a row of green railings at the front. Three white stone steps were scrubbed spotless, and the brass knocker on the red-painted door was polished sparkling-bright. On entering the house, you came first to the drawing room, behind which was a small dining room. If you passed through the dining room, took a turn, and descended some stairs, you’d come to a further three small rooms. Upstairs there were just another three rooms: one facing onto the street, and two at the back.

While still a good way off from the little red door, the Reverend Ely removed his hat. He wiped the perspiration from his face, adjusted his tie, and assured himself that he was all in order, before at last gingerly mounting the steps. He stood for a few moments at the top, then finally, with the delicate touch of a musical maestro playing a note on the piano, gave two or three raps on the door with the knocker.

A series of sharp, pattering footsteps fussed down hurriedly from upstairs, then the door opened a little gap, and half of Mrs Wedderburn’s face revealed itself.

‘Oh, Reverend Ely! How are you?’

She opened the door a little wider, and stretched out one of her small white hands to lightly brush the minister’s arm. He allowed her to lead him in, hung his hat and overcoat on the hatstand in the hall, and followed her into the drawing room.

This room was kept very spick and span. Even the little brass nails on which the pictures hung seemed to wear a smile. A green carpet was spread across the centre of the room, bearing two rather narrow armchairs. By the window stood a small table, crowned with a Chinese porcelain vase containing two small white roses. Two oak chairs flanked the table, each set with a green velvet cushion. An oil painting hung on the wall, with a pair of matching plates on either side. Underneath the painting there was a small bookcase holding a few anthologies of poetry, a few novels and the like. Against the opposite wall there was a small piano with two or three photographs on its lid, and on its varnished stool lay a fat white Pekingese dog. As the dog saw the Reverend Ely come in, it swiftly leapt from its perch, and, shaking its head and wagging its tail, bounded wildly around in between the old clergyman’s legs.

Mrs Wedderburn seated herself on the piano stool, and the little white dog jumped up into her lap. From there, head cocked to one side, it challenged the Reverend Ely to play. He sat down in an armchair, pushed his glasses higher, and launched into praises of the dog. This went on for some time before he at last dared broach the subject of his visit.

‘Mrs Wedderburn,’ he began diffidently, ‘are the rooms upstairs still vacant?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ she said, one hand securing the dog, and the other passing an ashtray to her visitor.

‘Are you still of a mind to rent them out?’ he asked, filling his pipe.

‘Well, yes. But only to the right kind of person,’ she replied in a measured tone.

‘I have two friends who urgently require accommodation. I can vouch for their absolute respectability.’ He peered at her over the top of his spectacles, and pronounced the word ‘absolute’ with great clarity and vehemence. Then he paused a while, lowered his voice, and allowed himself a small smile. ‘Two Chinese fellows.’ As he said ‘Chinese’, his voice was barely audible. ‘Two extremely nice Chinese fellows.’

‘Chinese?’ said Mrs Wedderburn, her expression suddenly stiffening.

‘Extremely nice Chinese,’ he repeated, stealing a glance at her.

‘I’m sorr—’

‘I vouch for them! If anything goes amiss concerning them, you can refer it directly to me.’ He didn’t give Mrs Wedderburn time to finish, but continued quickly. ‘I simply must find them some rooms, and there’s no one else I can turn to. You must help me, Mrs Wedderburn. It’s a young boy and his father. And the father, you will be glad to know, is a Christian. For the sake of our dear Lord, you must . . .’He deliberately let his words trail short, waiting to see whether the mention of our dear Lord would have any effect.

‘But —’ Mrs Wedderburn didn’t seem overly concerned about the Lord, and her face showed signs of impatience.

Again he granted her no leeway to expand upon her protests. ‘You see, there’s nothing to stop you asking them for a somewhat higher rent. And should you find that they don’t fit in, you can turn them out to look for lodgings elsewhere, and I won’t give a —’ Feeling that he was on the point of adding something not quite in accord with the spirit of the Holy Scripture, he took a puff of his pipe, and swallowed his words along with his smoke.

‘My dear Reverend Ely,’ said Mrs Wedderburn, rising to her feet, ‘You know my feelings. There are quite a number of people in this street who make their fortunes by renting to foreigners, and I am almost the only one left who would rather earn less than do such a thing. I think I may justifiably feel proud of myself in that respect. Don’t you think you could find a room elsewhere for them?’

‘Don’t you think I haven’t looked?’ said the Reverend Ely, looking most distressed. ‘I have asked from door to door in Torrington Square and Gower Street, but none of the accommodation offered was suitable. I feel that your three nice little rooms would be ideal, most adequate for their purposes. Two of the rooms could serve as bedrooms, and the other as their study. It would be an excellent arrangement.’

She pulled out a dainty handkerchief from her pocket, and, quite unnecessarily, dabbed her lips. ‘You can’t imagine that I would allow two Chinese men to cook rats in my house?’

‘The Chinese do not —’ He was on the point of averring that the Chinese don’t eat rats, but realised that to argue the toss would only further upset her, and might well jeopardise his chances of getting the rooms at all. So he hastily changed tack.

‘Of course I shall enjoin them not to eat rats. Well, Mrs Wedderburn, I shan’t waste any more of your time. Let us settle the matter like this: rent the rooms to them for a week, and if you don’t approve of the way they conduct themselves, have them out. As for the rent, you charge whatever you deem fit. They couldn’t go to a hotel. You never know with hotel people – most unreliable. You and I are both Christians, and we must fortify ourselves with the true spirit of Christian humility in our efforts to provide some succour for this Chinaman and his son.’

Mrs Wedderburn stroked the long hair under the little dog’s neck, and said nothing for a long while. In her mind she was feverishly working out exactly how much rent she could charge, or whether she should put her foot down and refuse to accommodate two murderous, fire-raising, rat-eating Chinamen. Anxious not to leave the Reverend Ely just hanging there frozen in silence, she could only prevaricate, ‘And they don’t smoke opium?’

‘No, no,’ the Reverend Ely assured her.

She proceeded to pose countless questions based on the Chinese things she’d learnt from novels, films, plays and missionaries. She left no stone unturned. But when she’d exhausted all her questions, she suddenly regretted ever having asked them. Didn’t her questions show quite clearly that she already intended letting the rooms to them?

‘Thank you, Mrs Wedderburn,’ said the Reverend Ely with a smile. ‘We’ll leave it at that then. Four pounds five shillings a week, and you’ll see to their breakfast.’

‘I can’t allow them to use my bath.’

‘No, of course not. I’ll tell them they must go out for their baths.’

With these words, and without any further effort to entertain the little dog, the Reverend Ely snatched up his hat and coat, and hastened off. He rushed along the street, and when he found himself in a secluded spot, exclaimed in pent-up tones, ‘Bloody hell! All for two Chinese chaps!’