Chinese Cinderella (11 page)

One week later, Shanghai was gripped by a relentless, blistering heatwave. Finally, Sunday came and there was no school. Ye Ye and Aunt Baba had gone to the Buddhist Temple. It was early afternoon and a heavy drowsiness shrouded the entire house. I had just completed my homework and was rereading my latest report card while relaxing on my bed under the mosquito net. Though the windows were wide open, there was no breeze.

I was recalling the excitement in my classroom two days before, when the half‐term exam marks were read out. My classmates sat in rapt attention as Teacher Lin rustled some papers and looked for her glasses. I relived the triumph of hearing Teacher Lin announce, ‘Yen Jun‐ling
*
has topped the class again in every subject except art. I commend her for her hard work. Earlier this year the school submitted one of her compositions to the Children’s Writing Competition held by the Shanghai Newspaper Association. I am glad to report that she has won first prize for her age group among all the primary school students in Shanghai. Yen Jun‐ling has brought recognition to our Sacred Heart School.’

Amidst loud clapping and the admiration of my peers, I stepped forward to shake hands with Teacher Lin. She handed me a special gold star to paste on my report card, as well as a copy of the newspaper in which my composition had been published.

To everyone’s surprise and my delight, my ping‐pong partner Wu Chun‐mei received two special prizes: a medal for being the outstanding athlete of the whole school and a certificate for showing the most improvement in arithmetic. Wu Chun‐mei blushed with pleasure when Teacher Lin pinned the medal on her uniform. I whispered ‘champion’ and patted her on the back when she returned to her seat.

‘How wonderful life is at this moment!’ I thought as I fanned myself and wriggled my toes. With Father and Niang gone, the whole house seemed relaxed and carefree. If only it weren’t so hot!

I was scanning the other children’s winning entries in the newspaper when the maid came in and announced, ‘Your brothers want you to go downstairs and play with them in the dining‐room. They have a treat for you!’

I was dizzy with excitement as I crawled out from under my mosquito net and slipped on my shoes. ‘Are all three of my brothers playing in the dining‐room? Is Third Brother down there too?’

‘Yes, they’re all there.’

How mysterious and delightful! My three big brothers beckoning me to join them! I ran downstairs eagerly, taking the steps two at a time, then sliding down the banister from the first floor to the ground floor. I burst in panting for breath.

They had been drinking orange juice and put their glasses down when I entered. On the large, oval dining‐table was a large jug of juice and four glasses. Three were empty and one was full.

‘What a hot day!’ Second Brother began, bubbling with laughter. ‘I see you’re sweating! We thought you’d like a glass of juice to cool you down. Here, this one’s for you!’

Something in his manner caused me to hesitate. To be summoned by Second Brother out of the blue and be treated so royally was cause for suspicion. ‘Why are you so nice to me all of a sudden?’ I asked.

At this he took offence. Moving closer he jostled me. ‘It’s because you are again top of your class. In addition, you won that writing competition held by the Shanghai Newspaper Association. Seeing Father isn’t here, we decided to reward you ourselves.’

‘I don’t want it!’ I cried as I pushed the glass away.

‘We even put ice in it so you’ll cool down at once.’ He picked up the glass and the ice‐cubes tinkled. A film of moisture had condensed on the glass’s cool surface.

Tempted, I turned to Big Brother. ‘Did you make it specially for me?’

‘We mixed it from this bottle of orange concentrate here. This is your prize for topping your class. Custom‐made just for you!’ My three brothers could hardly contain themselves with suppressed merriment.

I could feel the humid, oppressive heat seeping through the walls. I eyed the cool glass of juice with its ice‐cubes rapidly melting in a shaft of sunlight slanting across the table. I lifted the glass and turned to Third Brother, my ally, knowing that
he
would never fail me. ‘Can I drink this?’ I asked, confident he could be relied upon.

‘Of course! Congratulations! We’re proud of you!’ Convinced, I took a generous sip of the ice‐cold drink. The disgusting smell of urine hit me like a mighty blow. My brothers had mixed their urine with the juice. Through the mirror hanging on the wall, I could see them rolling on the floor with hysterical laughter.

I ran upstairs to the bathroom to wash out my mouth, knowing I had been duped. Sweat poured down my face and mingled with my tears as I sobbed quietly into the sink. In the suffocating heat, I was shivering.

Meanwhile, my brothers had already forgotten all about me. I could hear them in the garden playing with Jackie and kicking a ball against the wall. Pong! Pong! Pong! Woof! Woof! The raucous sound of their laughter came drifting up through the window.

Why was I crying? Surely, I was inured by now to their malice. What was it that really bothered me? Their treachery and betrayal of my trust? No, not quite, it was more complicated. Did Third Brother truly understand what he was up against? By wanting to have things both ways and straddling the fence, was he aware that each compromise would chip away at his integrity? Yes! It was the loss of the nicest parts of Third Brother which saddened me.

Next morning, on my way to school, Wu Chun‐mei came out of her garden as soon as she saw me. She challenged me to a numbers game played with our fingers as we walked along, trailed as usual by her chauffeured car.

At a red light, an American jeep stopped beside us. Two tall blond US sailors in smart, white, sharply creased uniforms shouted out in English, ‘Little girls, do you know how to get to Avenue Joffre?’

I said nothing because my English was poor and I was shy. But Wu Chun‐mei answered in her best American English, ‘Actually, you’re on Avenue Joffre. It’s a very long street which goes on and on.’

They were delighted and astonished. ‘Gee, thanks!’ One of them said, ‘Here, you two, take this!’ And he handed Wu Chun‐mei a large basket of luscious red persimmons.

During recess, we examined our windfall and shared the fruits among our friends. Though my classmates often brought snacks, I never dared accept because I knew I could never reciprocate in kind. This time, however, things were different. Half the fruit had been given to me.

Though bright red and perfectly formed, the persimmons felt hard and unripe. ‘Maybe we should keep them in our desks and let them ripen before we eat them,’ I advised. ‘Raw persimmons are so puckery on the tongue . . .’

‘You’re too cautious!’ Wu Chun‐mei said. ‘There are two types of persimmons. The Fuyu persimmon is supposed to be eaten when it’s like this. They’re crispy and sweet, just like apples.’

‘All right!’ Lin Tao‐tao said. ‘You take a bite first, Wu Chun‐mei!’

Wu Chun‐mei took a big bite. ‘Delicious!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just as I thought!’

Reassured, we each bit into our fruit – only to pucker up in total disgust. But Wu Chun‐mei looked so impish and mischievous that we soon all burst out laughing.

During English class later that afternoon, we had a special visitor. An impressive‐looking middle‐aged American officer came in uniform to give us a talk on Pearl Harbor. He was a chain‐smoker and our whole class was fascinated as we watched him. While his sentences were being translated by our English teacher, he would take a deep drag on his cigarette and, after an interval, let the smoke slowly escape from his nostrils.

At the end of his speech, we clapped politely. He then asked if there were any questions. There was a pause.

‘Surely,’ he coaxed, ‘one of you young ladies must be curious about something!’ He took another drag on his cigarette. We stared at the tendrils of smoke coming out of his nose.

Finally, after another embarrassing lull, Wu Chun‐mei raised her hand.

‘Now, here is a brave young girl!’ he exclaimed. ‘What is your question, my dear?’

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Wu Chun‐mei asked in her flawless English. ‘But can you make the smoke come out of your ears too?’

Chapter Eleven

PLT

N
ot long after Father and Niang returned from Tianjin, Mr and Mrs Huang came to visit. They brought gifts for all seven of us children in a large cardboard box with several holes punched in the lid. Before her marriage, Mrs Huang had worked for a few years at Grand Aunt’s bank, sharing a booth with Aunt Baba and our real mama. The Huangs therefore knew of Father’s first marriage and the existence of all seven children.

This was highly unusual. Most of Niang’s friends were unaware that she had five stepchildren. Being only eleven years older than Big Sister, Niang was reluctant to admit she was a stepmother. When asked, she often gave the impression that Father had only two children – Fourth Brother and Little Sister.

When we opened the gift box from the Huangs, we were delighted to find seven little baby ducklings. As usual, Fourth Brother picked first, followed by Little Sister, Big Sister, Big Brother, Second Brother and Third Brother. By the time my turn arrived, I was left with the tiniest, scrawniest baby bird. I picked her up, cupped her in my hand and carried her gingerly into my room. The little duckling cocked her head to one side and looked at me with dark dewy round eyes. She waddled unsteadily and pecked the floor, looking for worms and seeds. She seemed so helpless with her soft yellow feathers, slender twiggy legs and small webbed feet. One gust of wind and she would be blown away. I felt very protective.

From that moment, I took the duckling to my heart. For the first time, I had a pet of my very own. At school, I proudly described my duckling to my classmates. As I spoke, I felt a warm, tender glow spreading all through me. I named my duckling Precious Little Treasure (Xiao Bao‐bei (
). Wu Chun‐mei advised me to call it PLT for short. I couldn’t wait to rush home from school, carry PLT to my room, bathe and feed her, and do my homework with PLT wandering between the beds and my desk. It comforted me to know I was needed.

I told Wu Chun‐mei, ‘When I pick PLT up from her pen on the roof terrace, she cocks her head to one side and chirps as if she recognises me. As soon as she sees me, she hurries over. I speak to her all the time and I think she’s beginning to understand. Can ducklings learn to quack in the Shanghai dialect? Would that sound different from Mandarin quacks or English quacks?’

Wu Chun‐mei laughed. ‘I believe animals do understand us,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps not exactly your words but a special language not made of words. Maybe it’s the way you stand or how you hold her. She knows she belongs to you and you’ll look after her.’

As time went on, the friendship between PLT and me deepened. When Aunt Baba came home from the bank one Friday, she overheard me talking. ‘Here are two worms I dug up from the garden! Risked my life and limb for you, my friend! Jackie barked at me but I didn’t stop. You’d better eat it all!’

Aunt Baba was both startled and amused. ‘I just heard you speaking to PLT as if she were your baby sister, in a tone both proud and loving. Do you think PLT understands what you’re saying?’ she asked.

I nodded solemnly. ‘She likes me to talk to her and feed her worms. She knows I dug them up specially for her. When she hears Jackie barking, she scampers away from the window as if she is afraid. When I get involved with homework and ignore her, she comes over to see what I’m doing. She knows a lot! See, she is gazing at me now, wanting to find out what we’re talking about. She is a very curious bird indeed!’

I crouched down and faced my pet. PLT’s body twittered and she chirped as if she were chatting to a playmate. She looked up and two round dark eyes gazed out at me from her small, yellow head. ‘Look! Look! Aunt Baba! She has eaten the worms! She lets me come so close! Do you think she likes me too? She senses she is safe and I’ll never frighten her. She’s all mine. Tomorrow is Saturday and I can dig for worms all afternoon. Hooray!’

It was a glorious Saturday afternoon when I set foot in the garden. A faint cool breeze was blowing in from the river, sweeping away the mist and clouds. Magnolia blossoms were in full bloom, dotting the tree like giant white ribbon‐bows fringed by dark‐green leaves, scenting the air with a fresh, delightful fragrance. Never had the sky looked so blue.