Falling Leaves Return to Their Roots, Page 6

  Gregory muttered under his breath. ‘I hate walking! Especially in the early morning. It’s a waste of time.’

  ‘Are you contradicting your father?’ Niang thundered. ‘Your father works day and night to support all of you in this house. If he decides you should walk to school, then you walk to school. Do you hear?’

  Dead silence greeted this outburst. We turned to Ye Ye for support. Finally Lydia said, ‘Ye Ye has been giving us tram fares now for two months. We’re used to going to school that way.’

  ‘How dare you go behind your father’s back and trouble Ye Ye for money?’ Niang demanded. ‘From now on you’re forbidden to go to anyone else for money! All of you! Your father works hard and sends you to expensive schools so that you can have a decent education. He certainly does not want you to grow up to be spoilt kids and good-for-nothings.’

  Even though her critical remarks were addressed to us, we all knew they were meant for Ye Ye and Aunt Baba.

  ‘No one else in my class walks to school,’ Lydia protested. ‘Most of my friends come in chauffeured cars.’

  ‘It’s your father’s wish that you should walk to school! Your father and I want you to know that you will no longer bother Ye Ye or Aunt Baba for money. If you think you need money, come directly to me. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Right now you think all you have to do is to stretch out your palm and money will be placed in your hand. We’re going to teach you some facts of life…’ She paused. ‘We’re not saying we’ll not give you your tram fares. But we want each of you to come to us individually. Apologize for your past behaviour. Admit that you’ve been spoilt. Turn over a new leaf. Come to us and beg for your tram fare and we might give it to you, but you have to learn that a tram fare is not a birthright. We’ll only give it if you show enough repentance.’

  All of us held our breath. The maids busied themselves handing each of us a small hot moist towel to wipe our mouths and hands. Finally it was approaching the end of dinner. We waited expectantly for Ye Ye or Aunt Baba to say something, anything. There was only silence. Was there nothing they could do? Was Ye Ye’s half-foreign daughter-in-law now the matriarch of our family?

  Then Niang added, looking directly at Ye Ye in her sweetest and most cajoling tone. ‘Have you tried these tangerines? They are so juicy! Here, do let me peel one for you.’

  So Aunt Baba began working at the Women’s Bank. And we all started walking to school and back. We were enraged by Niang’s insinuation that Ye Ye was wrong to spoil us by giving us tram money. All of us understood that the whole issue of tram money was a power struggle within the family. By walking, we were pledging our loyalty to Ye Ye whom we still regarded as head and protesting against Niang’s usurpation. (In reality, of course, Niang had wrested command as soon as Grandmother had died. Years later, when I asked my aunt to tell me about my mother, she revealed that shortly after Grandmother’s funeral, Father had had all photographs of my mother destroyed.)

  Lydia was the first to give in. Her classes started and ended one hour later than mine, so we did not leave or return together. Within two weeks, I noticed that she was home only fifteen minutes after me. I knew that she had defected.

  My brothers held out for two months. St John’s was really far away. As winter deepened, they were getting up in the dark to get to school on time. Every afternoon, following soccer practice or basketball, they still had to face the long, exhausting walk home, sometimes in the dusk. One by one, they succumbed.

  Somehow, throughout the years I lived in Shanghai, from 1943 to 1948, I could never make myself go to Niang to beg for my tram fare. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became years.

  From time to time, both Ye Ye and Aunt Baba would urge me to go downstairs to negotiate. I never did.

  Often, on a Sunday afternoon, we would suddenly hear Father or Niang call out: ‘Time for your weekly tram fare distribution! Come and get it!’ On hearing this, I would be gripped by a spasm of acute agony. Aunt Baba would nudge me. ‘Go on! Go get your share! Go downstairs and talk to them. All you have to say is “May I please have my tram fare too?” and you will get your portion just like the rest of them.’

  Occasionally, when Aunt Baba had an early morning business meeting, she would wake me a little later. I would leave the house first, run out of our lane, and wait for my aunt a few yards up the road on Avenue Joffre. She would hail a pedicab from the row for hire parked by our lane, pick me up and drop me off at Sheng Xin.

  In June or September, when rain cascaded down and wind howled through the streets, I would curse Niang as I struggled along the seemingly endless Avenue Joffre, carrying my heavy book bag and sloshing through water at times ankle deep, clinging desperately to a wind-blown umbrella. I also endured the mocking taunts of schoolmates as they gingerly picked their steps along puddle-avoiding wooden planks into waiting cars and whispered among themselves that I boarded my own private ‘number eleven tram’ daily to school, meaning that my legs carried me.

  Day after day, twice a day, morning and afternoon, walking to and from school, I chased my shadow in the sun and steadfastly avoided cracks in the pavement. I also made up fairytales and indulged in an imaginary wonderland. It was one way of passing the time. In my serialized stories which continued from one day to the next, I was really a little princess in disguise, thrust into this cruel Shanghai household by accident. If I was truly good and studied very hard, one day my own mother would come out of the sky to rescue me and take me to live in her enchanted castle. Eventually I became so absorbed in these fantasies that I actually began to look forward to my obligatory walks. I confided to my Aunt Baba that I held a key in my head which enabled me to enter a magic land. Nothing in Shanghai was so mysterious and exciting as this secret kingdom which I could visit at any time. High up in the mountains amidst the clouds, this place was full of tall bamboos, twisted pines, odd-shaped rocks, wild flowers and colourful birds. Best of all, my mother also lived there and every little child was wanted and welcomed. On evenings when I had no homework I used to scribble it all down on paper in my room. Back at school it thrilled me to show my stories to my giggling classmates and watch them pass my attempts at creative writing illicitly from desk to desk.

  Once, one of the girls objected to my using her surname to portray a villain. She crossed it out and replaced it with my surname, Yen. When I indignantly reinserted her name back, she started to cry. Telling her it was only make-believe while writing down an entirely different name, I began to recognize the awesome power and responsibility of the pen.

  On my way home, I was always specially glad as I approached Do Yuen Gardens. In a large plaza outside the park, hawkers assembled on fine days to market their wares. Among the regulars was an elderly, scholarly-looking man who staked out his portable bookstall at the far end. His booth resembled a set of wooden shutters which could be unfolded, displaying rack upon rack of dogeared, tattered, paperback Kung Fu novels for sale or loan. For fifty fen, paid in advance by Aunt Baba, I was allowed to borrow up to five books per week. These were printed in black and white on cheap paper and much loved by Chinese schoolchildren. Each book related tales of heroes and heroines skilled in martial arts, fighting battles on behalf of the weak and oppressed. Many stories were based on fables as pivotal to Chinese culture as the legends of King Arthur and Robin Hood are to western culture. After desperate struggles, right would triumph over might, and victory invariably went to the champions of the underdog. These books gave me hope.

  Father’s austerity programme extended to every aspect of our daily existence. Lydia and I were not allowed to have long hair or perms, only sensible, clean, old-fashioned haircuts. For the three boys it was much worse. They were forced to have their heads shaved completely bald. This was Father’s idea, to impress upon us that life was not a frivolous affair. My brothers became the laughing stock of their entire school, nicknamed (after each fresh head shave) ‘the three light bulbs’ because of their shiny scalps.

  Lunch was the cheape
st canteen meal we could get at school. When America won the war against Japan in 1945, we at Sheng Xin were given US army surplus C-rations for our noonday meal. We ate tinned ham, beef stew, hard biscuits, cheese and chocolate until the rations ran out. Before every meal we prayed and thanked our American allies for winning the war and giving us C-rations.

  Dinner was our only decent meal, and was a formidable affair. Promptly at seven thirty the dinner bell would sound and we would file downstairs to the dining-room. There, around an oval table, we settled into our assigned seats. Ye Ye, token master of the house, presided at the head facing the garden, with Aunt Baba to his right, and Father and Niang to his left. Gregory and Edgar sat next to Aunt Baba. James and I were relegated to the foot of the table. In those Shanghai days, Franklin and Susan did not eat with us.

  We presented ourselves nightly in our school uniforms with our hair combed, bladders emptied and hands washed. We sat upright in our seats: anxious and stiff, hoping to be unnoticed. We, the stepchildren, never spoke at the dinner table, not even to each other. Whenever my name was called, an oppressive fear invariably gripped my whole being and my appetite would vanish. Without fail, an unpleasant scene would follow.

  There were always six or seven tasty dishes. Two maids brought in the food: pork loin, roasted chicken, steamed fish, Shanghai crabs, sautéed vegetables, ending with a steaming tureen of hot soup. Father genuinely loved to see his children eat during dinner. We were encouraged to have as many bowls of rice as we wished. It was frowned upon to leave behind any scrap of food, even one grain of rice, in our bowls.

  James and I both had an aversion to fatty meat. We were forced to eat it and soon developed ingenious methods of hoarding chunks of it in our pockets, socks, trouser cuffs, or sticking it to the bottom of the table. Sometimes we would make a dash for the bathroom with our cheeks bulging with fatty meat which would be flushed down the toilet. When all else failed, we swallowed it whole.

  Fresh fruit was always served after dinner. When Father had guests, we ate the leftovers. Though there was less food, we liked to eat by ourselves. It reminded us of the good old days in Tianjin. We did not have to hide the fatty meat. We were free to laugh and talk and be ourselves again.

  A governess was engaged to look after Franklin and Susan, a supposedly educated woman called Miss Chien. Their meals were served separately in their room, and they ordered what they fancied from the kitchen. Austerity apparently ceased on the first floor. They were served bacon and eggs, toast and cereal, fresh strawberries and melons for breakfast. Franklin’s hair was fashionably cut by the best children’s hair stylist in Shanghai. Susan wore brightly coloured dresses trimmed with lace and ribbons. They often outgrew their elaborate costumes before they had a chance to wear them. They received lots of toys and played on their own private balcony. Every afternoon they had tea with finger sandwiches, chocolate biscuits, sweet buns, cakes and pastries.

  Though she was ostensibly Franklin’s tutor, Miss Chien also acted as a spy and informer, reporting back the activities and conversations of those from the second floor. Ingratiating and obliging, Miss Chien never overstepped her boundaries. She and Lydia became friends. Lydia was the only one of us ever to have afternoon tea with them, on the first floor in the antechamber.

  We resented the double standards. Lydia held a series of meetings on the second floor. Various strategies were proposed. Hunger strike? Rebellion? An interview with Father alone? An anonymous letter pointing out the injustices? We whispered and complained and felt very conspiratorial. There were many plans. None was carried out. One Sunday afternoon, James got up to go to the bathroom in the midst of a fantasy plot and found Niang eavesdropping outside the slightly open door. They stared at each other for a few dreadful seconds. Then Niang placed her fingers on her lips and waved him on. James realized that the game was up. He stayed in the bathroom for a long time, fearing the showdown. Finally he returned. Niang had gone. The door remained ajar. Lydia was still plotting. There was a stunned silence when James revealed his discovery. We were terrified. When the dinner bell sounded, the meeting ended abruptly and we filed down to the dining-room in silence. But dinner came and went and nothing was mentioned. We began to doubt James’s story and his sanity, but not for long.

  Niang’s new strategy was to divide and rule. A few days later Lydia was summoned down to the Holy of Holies (Father and Niang’s bedroom), and told to move to a spare room on the first floor. She was given her very own writing desk, a chest of drawers and a brand-new lacy white bedspread with matching curtains. We had to knock on her door before we could enter her domain. We were full of envy.

  From then on Lydia straddled the two floors and the two sides of our lives. Like Miss Chien, she too carried tales back to Father and Niang. She gossiped not only about the three boys and me but also about Ye Ye and Aunt Baba. She was rewarded with special favours: candies, treats, pocket money, new clothes, outings with her friends. In time, she developed an air which distinguished her from the rest of us, making us constantly aware of her ‘special’ status.

  Sometimes, when going up or down stairs, I would catch a glimpse of Lydia at the doorway of Franklin’s and Susan’s room, begging for a slice of chestnut cream cake or a sandwich. Her wheedling posture invariably made me cringe with revulsion. I could hardly bear to listen to her whiny voice, beseeching and badgering the wily Franklin for the ‘smallest little taste’ of goodies. I would bounce past her with averted eyes wishing that I could become invisible. James once commented that he would rather starve to death than plead for food from Franklin.

  At school Lydia excelled in English but performed poorly in maths and science. Father asked her to help Gregory with his English homework. Armed with the authority of a teacher, she became increasingly domineering. Uncowed, Gregory fought back. Their English lessons quickly deteriorated into shouting matches.

  ‘You are ignorant, lazy and dumb. I told you to study these English verbs last week!’

  ‘And you’re an idiot! Imagine not knowing how to do fractions and getting a zero on your maths test! ! Da ling dan (Big fat zero egg!) That’s what you got!’

  Enraged, Lydia gave Gregory a resounding slap, forgetting that Gregory had grown taller and stronger. Gregory stood up and gripped her healthy right arm. ‘If you do that again, I’m going to knock you down with my fist. Now get out of my room.’

  Lydia went to report to Niang. When Father came home, Gregory was reprimanded and told to stand in a corner with his face to the wall for thirty minutes. Gregory muttered that he was doing better in English than she was doing in maths. Besides, anyone could see that his face was all swollen from Lydia’s slap. Gregory claimed that she packed a right as powerful as the American champion boxer Joe Louis, the strength in her right compensating for the weakness in her left.

  After this incident, there were no more English lessons. Lydia’s maths did not improve. When report cards were handed out at the end of each term, her average often hovered dangerously close to a fail. The only one of us who scored lower was Franklin, but Father considered his brain not yet mature enough for serious study. Lydia was reprimanded by Father in the Holy of Holies and told to concentrate on her maths. She came out with red eyes and a streaming nose and loudly wailed to the world at large that she had tried her best, but maths was so much more difficult at Aurora than it had been at St Joseph’s in Tianjin.

  At St John’s the boys learned to play bridge from their schoolfriends and they taught me the game because they needed a fourth, though I was only seven years old. One Sunday, Lydia found the four of us playing bridge. After watching for a while, she became resentful and felt ignored because we were so absorbed in the game. Suddenly she ordered me off my stool because she wished to play. The score was close and competition was keen. Gregory, by far the best bridge player, had chivalrously chosen me as his partner. He took his bridge seriously and would rant and rave whenever I played the wrong card or wasted a trump. Though I disliked being called dumb and ign
orant, I accepted the abuse because Gregory’s reasoning was always logical and his skills superior. Now Lydia became Gregory’s partner. The game was more complicated than she had bargained for. Quick mathematical calculation and assessment of probabilities were not her forte. To the delight of Edgar and James, the new partners began to lose hand after hand.

  Unwilling to accept Gregory’s criticisms delivered in ever higher decibels, Lydia threw down her cards in a huff and stomped downstairs, swearing that she never wished to play with Gregory again. To this Gregory replied that he would rather take me, Franklin or even three-year-old Susan as his partner than Lydia. That evening at dinner, Father reprimanded Gregory for being disrespectful to his older sister.

  The special treatment of Lydia grew apace. One of my vivid memories is Lydia bounding up the stairs one Sunday afternoon, dressed in a pretty pink western dress and matching shoes, singing snatches of a song from the latest Hollywood movie, jingling some loose change in her pocket. Without breaking her stride, she disdainfully placed the exact tram fare for the week in front of each of my brothers, carefully avoided my gaze and hurried back downstairs. Silently the boys counted their coins while her song receded into the background: ‘You are my sunshine…’

  She entered the antechamber; the door banged shut behind her, and silence filled the hallway. Finally Gregory growled contemptuously, ‘Showing off!’

  Undeniably she had become a member of Niang’s élite world.

  In Shanghai, Aunt Baba was not having an easy time. She no longer enjoyed the informal yet respected place she held in Tianjin. Niang had demoted her, making her feel like a superflous spinster.

  Aunt Baba was always like a mother to me. Now we drew even closer. She paid the greatest attention to everything about me: my appearance, my health and my personality. Most of all, she cared about my education, probably mindful of the fact that her own had been curtailed. She checked my homework every evening. On days when I had a test, she woke me at five so that I could set off for school with my head crammed with last-minute revisions. She was determined that I should eventually gain a college degree… the ticket to escape, independence and limitless achievement. Some things she did not say but I understood. I knew that I was the least-loved child because I was a girl and because my mother had died giving birth to me. Nothing I did ever seemed to please Father, Niang or any of my siblings. But I never ceased to believe that if I tried hard enough, one day Father, Niang and everyone in my family would be proud of me.