Finally they emerged. Astonishingly, Niang smiled and patted me fondly on the head in front of the nuns. This was the first and last time she ever touched me, aside from slaps, during my childhood. ‘How lucky you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mother Mary has agreed to admit you to the boarding school during the middle of the school year!’
When I was enrolled there were sixty-six boarders. Throughout my years there, I never entirely overcame the very real fear of being transferred to the orphanage section. I would then cost my Father nothing.
On admission as boarder, each child was assigned an identification number. From then on, all our belongings were stamped with that number. Our day started at five forty-five. A loud bell aroused us from bed. Daily mass was compulsory. My friend Mary Suen, who was not an early riser, used to complain that it was ‘just like being a nun, whether you wish to be holy or not’. The only legitimate excuse for escaping mass was serious illness, pretended or otherwise. All through mass most of us would have just one thought : getting out of the chapel as soon as possible and rushing into the dining-room for breakfast. Seating was prearranged and could not be altered; they placed us according to our age. Mary sat to my immediate left.
We were each given a pigeonhole in a huge cupboard prominently displayed in the dining-room. Each boarder would store her provisions from home in her allotted space, duly numbered. The abundance or scantiness of your very own food supply was readily visible to all the girls. It was a barometer of the degree of affection accorded to you by your family. During my entire stay at Sacred Heart, my pigeonhole was perpetually empty.
Eggs had special significance. They had to be brought from home and were stored in the refrigerator in the kitchen. Before handing them over, each boarder was required to paint her number in indelible ink on the shells.
For breakfast we each had two slices of bread, a pat of butter and a portion of jam. For those lucky ones whose parents paid an extra fifteen dollars per month, there was hot milk into which you could stir your own supply of chocolate or Ovaltine from your pigeonhole. Some girls brought out anchovy paste, Marmite, chicken liver pâté or canned tuna to spread on their bread. Mother Mary would then bring in a huge vat of piping hot, freshly boiled eggs. She used to pick up the eggs one by one and place them in individual egg cups, reading out the numbers as she worked. You walked up to her when you heard your number and retrieved your egg.
Those eggs became symbols of rare privilege. They were cheap and readily available in the markets, but having your number called by Mother Mary meant that someone from home loved you enough to bring you eggs so that you would eat a nourishing breakfast. Just because your family was rich did not mean that you automatically received an egg. You could not charge eggs to your account like milk or piano lessons. The breakfast egg, more than anything, divided us into two distinct and transparent groups: the loved ones and the unloved ones. Needless to say, I remained eggless throughout my tenure at Sacred Heart.
After breakfast, we rushed to pick up our books from the study room and join the day girls in the playground. Classes started at eight. Lessons were in English but we spoke to each other in Cantonese. To my surprise, the months I had spent at St Joseph’s had given me sufficient grounding to keep up with my studies.
At noon, the school broke for lunch. We boarders were summoned by a bell into the dining-room. There we found a plate of spaghetti and meat balls, or macaroni and cheese. On good days, we were served pork chops and rice, and sautéd vegetables with mashed potatoes. ‘So called western food!’ Mary muttered under her breath. ‘Give me a bowl of wonton soup any day.’
Afternoon school was from one thirty to three thirty. Tea was served in the dining-room at four. It was the only meal you were free to partake of or not. This was the hour when the haves could really show off to the have-nots. Besides the usual bread, butter and jam, out came the goodies brought in during Sunday’s visiting hours: chocolates, biscuits, candies, beef jerky, preserved fruits, assorted nuts. On birthdays, the birthday girl was allowed to change out of her uniform into a pretty dress. Decked out in dainty lace, ribbons and bows she dispensed largesse to the rest of us while parading next to Mother Mary behind an enormous birthday cake ablaze with the appropriate number of candles. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’. The cake was sliced and arranged on a platter. Mother Mary and the birthday girl then went around the room from boarder to boarder, serving or withholding a piece of cake as she wished. After this little game of discrimination, the birthday girl would open her presents while we oohed and aahed over them.
My habit was to go to tea a little later, wolf down my bread, butter and jam as fast as possible, then bolt out of the door. I knew that there would never be a birthday celebration for me. At no time could I ever reciprocate in kind or buy anyone a birthday present. My friend Mary and I did not speak to each other about any of this, but I often found some treats from her laid out on my plate: a few coconut candies, a packet of preserved plums, a piece of fruit.
Mary was not considered academically clever. She had difficulty with maths and often asked me for help. She used to sit by my side as I worked on her assignments, saying, ‘It’s so obvious now. Why didn’t I think of it?’ I would bask in her admiration and try even harder.
In other ways Mary was wise beyond her years. When Daisy Chen was first admitted as a boarder, I noted that she had a Shanghai accent and was curious about her background. I must have asked a few too many questions. Daisy became vague and evasive. Afterwards Mary said to me, ‘Don’t ask such questions. Girls like us who end up here usually come from unhappy homes. It’s better not to ask. Her story’ll come out in the end anyway.’ I kicked myself for being insensitive and boorish.
After tea, there was an hour of recreation. We were free to play with our dolls, read novels, skip rope, practise the piano, roller skate, compete in softball or shoot a few baskets. I usually visited the library.
It was a large square room tucked away in one corner of the boarders’ wing. Its floor-to-ceiling shelves were lined with books. Most of them were in English. A few were in Italian or Latin. There were no Chinese books.
Oh, what magic it held for me to walk into this treasure trove where the written word was king! The windows were small. The lights were dim. Because of this, the room was dark and forbidding. There was no librarian. Many of the volumes were reference books or magazines which could not be removed. The rest was a kaleidoscope of every subject under the sun. We were allowed to check out as many books as we wished. Mother Louisa was in charge and locked the doors promptly at five. Since tea was from four to five, I was usually the only one there. Often I encountered Mother Louisa on my way out, my arms loaded with the latest batch of reading material. I became such a familiar sight that she often looked out for me before locking up. ‘Is the “scholar” out of her lair?’ she would joke, jangling her keys. ‘Or is she spending the night in here?’
She gave me that nickname because a maths problem I had helped Mary solve proved to be more correct than the one in her textbook. It was probably just a printing error but the story made the rounds and reached the other boarders. Many came to me when they had problems with their homework.
They started to overlook my one and only Sunday dress which was too short, too tight and too small for me, my worn shoes with holes in the soles, my empty pigeonhole and even my egglessness.
Sundays were designated visiting days. Between the hours of ten and twelve in the morning we boarders, dressed in our prettiest street clothes, with hair combed and shoes polished, waited downstairs in the courtyard lobby for our parents. Chairs were placed in clusters for family groupings. We did not intrude on the relatives of our fellow boarders.
In the beginning I used to be caught up in the excitement of the Sunday visit and prepare for my family with as much anticipation as everyone else. Invariably I had no visitors. It was difficult to ignore the scathing comments and pitying glances Sunday after Sunday. Among all the boarders it was clear that I was the on
ly truly unwanted daughter.
Finally I solved the embarrassment by removing myself from the scene. On Sunday mornings, when the girls were prinking themselves in the mirror, I would pick up a pile of books and quietly slip into the lavatory. There I stayed until I heard the steady trickle of chatter and giggles as my friends came back upstairs, laden with edibles and treats, comparing gifts, exchanging food, and trying on new clothes and shoes. After I judged them all to be back I used to tuck my books under my uniform and nonchalantly saunter out. Tactfully, no one ever mentioned my Sunday morning disappearances.
Often, late at night, when everyone was asleep, I would be awakened by an attack of acute anxiety, filled with gloomy thoughts about my future. In winter, when the weather was cold, I burrowed under the blankets and read my favourite books by flashlight so that the nuns could see no shadows flickering on the ceiling. Invariably my inner turmoil would be dispelled by the trials and tribulations of the make-believe characters as I drifted slowly off.
Between April and September the weather was oppressively hot and humid. During the turgid summer vacations I was one of the very few boarders left behind; sometimes the only one. In the dead of night, I developed a technique of rolling myself under the empty beds and emerging silently on the other side, where French windows opened on to a balcony overlooking the harbour. There I used to creep on to the cool balustrade lining the verandah under a star-studded dark blue sky, and gaze out at the giant ships dotting the bay. I loved to sit hugging my knees and staring at the vision below, my dreams floating miles and miles into the distance.
Sometimes, one of the ocean liners would emit a low-pitched hoot signalling its departure. How magical it was for me to listen to that evocative sound! Longingly my eyes would follow the receding vessel as it faded quietly into darkness. I saw myself standing at the bow of the giant ship gliding through still, dark waters, carrying me on an entrancing journey to those fabulous lands: Ying Guo (Heroic Country) and Mei Guo (Beautiful Country) ! These words, meaning England and America, conjured up vistas of ivy-covered college buildings, citadels of learning in the shape of baronial castles and holy cathedrals. As described by the Tang dynasty poet, Wang Bo, these were the mythical places I truly longed to visit and be transformed into an ren jie di ling (inspired scholar in an enchanting land).
For ever afterwards, whenever I hear the forlorn hoot of a foghorn at night, I feel once more the poignancy of those late-night hours, the sound haunting me like a call from an oracle across the ocean of time, beckoning towards a land of dreams.
CHAPTER 10
Du Ri Ru Nian
Each Day Passes Like a Year
Ye Ye’s long Chinese gowns, embroidered jackets and shaven scalp appeared even more old-fashioned in Hong Kong than they had been in Shanghai. He remained a strict Buddhist. He spoke neither English nor Cantonese and felt totally alien in this southern city. He had no friends and could hardly communicate with the maids. His only pleasures were his daily meals, his after-dinner cigar, and writing and receiving letters from Aunt Baba. Of his remaining grandchildren, Franklin was insolent and Susan was too young to interest him. So he turned more and more to James and me. On the three occasions I was allowed to go home (twice for Chinese New Year and once to recuperate from pneumonia), a cot was placed in Ye Ye’s twin-bedded room which he shared with James.
In order to make small purchases such as cigars or stamps, he had to ask for money from Father. I remember Ye Ye looking old and sad, quietly reading the morning papers in the living-room.
In his last years Ye Ye developed diabetes. He had a sweet tooth, so it was a great hardship to be deprived of one of his few pleasures. Father administered his insulin injections daily. From time to time Ye Ye helped himself to an occasional chocolate or biscuit. Niang always found out about these small infractions. When Father came home, there was invariably a yelling session. Ye Ye would be reduced to a cowering, shrunken old man, confessing that yes, he did eat the chocolate. Yes, he knew that it was forbidden and bad for his health. No, he did not wish to die. It usually ended humiliatingly with Father administering an insulin shot.
Father decided to change Ye Ye’s diet. He cut out the rice wine, the roast pork, the fried yellow fish in sweet and sour sauce, the salted vegetables, the fermented bean curd. On some English doctor’s recommendation, Ye Ye was given a single plate of food. Each item was carefully weighed out by the maids. There were some carrots, a piece of boiled fish, a pile of boiled potatoes and a small mound of steamed rice. The same food was laid out for him three times a day, seven days a week. He no longer ate with us. His repasts were served punctually at eight, noon and six. He was not allowed to snack on anything in between.
When Ye Ye protested, he was told that these were ‘doctor’s orders’. During my rare visits home I remember sitting with him as he ate. It was painful to see his anguish as he swallowed his monotonous diet, obviously loathing every mouthful.
Father probably believed that this deprivation was in Ye Ye’s best interests. Otherwise, how could he have withstood the despair in Ye Ye’s very posture at those awful meals? Lydia told me years later that Ye Ye rebelled and demanded to move out and live on his own. He announced one day that he intended to remarry and wished to consult a marriage broker. They categorically refused. There was nothing Ye Ye could do. A deep depression settled over him. He wrote to Aunt Baba that he wanted to return to Shanghai and spend his last years with her (though he knew this was impossible because of his capitalist past); that life was so unhappy in Hong Kong that he could see no way out but suicide. Aunt Baba showed these letters to Lydia before they were destroyed by the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution.
In the summer of 1951 I developed pneumonia and was admitted to hospital. James, who had recently come out of Shanghai, recalled how Ye Ye became extremely concerned when he heard the news and decided to visit me. Niang was using the car for her weekly bridge game. She told him not to go because it was inconvenient and futile since I was already being treated by the ‘best doctors that money could buy’. But this time Ye Ye insisted. He asked James to accompany him because he was unfamiliar with the roads, the buses and the ferry from Kowloon to Hong Kong.
Ye Ye changed into his best Chinese gown. It started to rain. He could not wear his comfortable cloth-soled shoes from Shanghai. He was unable to locate his leather-soled loafers. Finally, after much searching, Franklin found them. Apparently they had been in the hallway closet all along, even though both James and Ye Ye had looked for them there. They set out in the pouring rain, with James holding the umbrella and Ye Ye leaning heavily on his arm. The pavements were wet and slippery. As they left, Franklin said, ‘Niang told you not to go. Don’t blame me if you slip and fall in the rain.’
Ye Ye fell with a heavy thud even before they turned the corner from Boundary Street to Waterloo Road to catch the bus. They had to abandon the trip. Ye Ye was slipping and sliding with every step. As they approached the apartment, Ye Ye could see Franklin prancing and gesticulating on the balcony in the rain, shouting with laughter and excitement. ‘See, I told you that you would fall! I was right! I was right! Niang told you not to go. She told you not to go.’
Ye Ye recounted all this to me when I was discharged from hospital and allowed to convalesce for a few days at home… quietly, sadly, apologizing for his failure to visit me during my illness. ‘The frightening thing,’ Ye Ye related, ‘was the complete absence of filial piety in Franklin’s demeanour. When I fell, my loafer came off. I picked it up from the gutter and noticed that the sole was greasy. When I went home, I examined my shoes. The soles were covered with a whitish greasy substance which smelled like Darkie toothpaste.’ (Darkie toothpaste was a well-known brand of toothpaste made in Hong Kong. The owners of the company lived below us in the Boundary Street apartments. They generously supplied us with samples.) Ye Ye was too gracious to accuse Franklin directly. He could sense my sorrow and rage. ‘You have your whole life ahead of you. Be smart. Study hard and be
independent. I’m afraid the chances of your getting a dowry are slim.’ I nodded. ‘Don’t end up married off like Lydia. You must rely on yourself. No matter what else people may steal from you, they will never be able to take away your knowledge. The world is changing. You must make your own life outside this home.’
Towards the end of 1951 Father moved his family into a secluded villa on Stubbs Road at Mid-levels on Hong Kong Island. Stubbs Road was a major highway with cars hurtling down at breakneck speed. There were no shops within the vicinity and walking was hazardous. A car was needed for the simplest purchase. Ye Ye’s letters to Aunt Baba became more and more despondent. ‘All of us cling so tenaciously to life,’ Ye Ye wrote, ‘but there are fates worse than death: loneliness, boredom, insomnia, physical pain. I have worked hard all my life and saved every cent. Now I wonder what it was all about. The agony and fear of dying, surely that is worse than death itself. The absence of respect around me. The dearth of hope. In this house where I count for nothing, du ri ru nian (each day passes like a year). Could death really be worse? Tell me, daughter, what is there left for me to look forward to?’
Ye Ye died on 27 March 1952 from the complications of his diabetes. In the last three months of his life, he wrote to Aunt Baba mainly about the past. The ten-course feasts prepared by his own father for Chinese New Year at their tea-house in the old, walled city of Nantao; horseback riding with Grand Aunt as a boy when much of Shanghai was still rural; watching his sampans as they sailed up and down the Huangpu River; the many happy days he spent with Grandmother when Aunt Baba and Father were little. He apologized for not having arranged a suitable marriage for Aunt Baba. ‘If I erred, I erred because I cared too much,’ he wrote. ‘Somehow, no one was ever quite good enough for you. I felt you needed someone special to look after you. Perhaps no such person exists, except in my mind.’