Did I mind being left behind with my grandfather? Of course not! As soon as Niang left, it was as if a heavy weight was lifted off my shoulders. Aside from Ye Ye, me and the maids, even the flat itself seemed to breathe a sigh of deliverance. At once, the whole place became brighter, cosier and friendlier. To the two of us sitting side by side playing Chinese chess or reading the newspaper, the house would gradually transform itself into a happier and more intimate place.
A week went by and it was Sunday again. The sun was shining, everyone was home and excitement was in the air. At breakfast, Niang announced, ‘Today, we’ll all go for a long scenic drive and visit the elegant Repulse Bay hotel on the far side of Hong Kong island. I’ve made lunch reservations at the hotel’s dining‐room where the view is breathtaking and the food delicious. Our car will travel from Kowloon to Hong Kong across the harbour by ferry. After lunch, we’ll go for a swim at the beach, rent a tent and have an afternoon picnic. Won’t that be fun?’
She made it sound so enticing that for once, even Ye Ye agreed to go.
I wondered if I was going to be included in this special outing. Niang had not said I couldn’t go. Nor had she said I could.
One by one, they piled into Father’s large Studebaker while the maids stocked the car boot with picnic hampers, lotion, blankets and towels. Father, Ye Ye and Uncle Jean sat in front. Niang, Aunt Reine, Claudine, Fourth Brother and Little Sister were in the back. Victor and I stood hesitantly next to each other. The car sagged under the weight of its many passengers.
‘Come on, Victor,’ Niang cried out gaily in French. ‘Room for just one more, I think. We can all squeeze in just a little tighter.’
Victor was half in and half out of the car. He turned around and saw me watching him from the kerb. ‘It’s not fair, Maman. What about Adeline?’ he asked Aunt Reine in French. ‘Since Ye Ye is coming with us, she’ll be home by herself. Why don’t we take her along?’
Not understanding French and impatient to depart, Father asked Victor in English, ‘What is it, Victor, do you want to use the bathroom before we start?’
Victor shook his head, ‘No, Uncle Joseph,’ he began in English but Niang interrupted him in French. ‘There is not enough room. You can see how crowded we all are.’
‘Then what about yesterday and the day before and the day before that?’ Victor persisted.
‘Stop dawdling and get in the car!’ Aunt Reine commanded. ‘Everyone is ready to go and you are delaying everything.’
‘It’s so unfair,’ Victor continued. ‘Why doesn’t she get to go anywhere with us?’
‘That’s just the way it is!’ Niang exclaimed sharply. ‘You either get in now and come with us, or you can stay home with her. Suit yourself!’
‘In that case,’ Victor replied gallantly, ‘I think I’ll stay and keep Adeline company.’
He climbed out to stand by my side. Together, we watched the car drive off. I was overwhelmed by his chivalry but could find no words sufficient to express my gratitude. After a painful pause, I ran upstairs, dug out my book Paper Magic, gave it to him and said, ‘This is for you.’
He took the book gingerly, too stunned to say a word, unable to believe his good luck.
Chapter Seventeen
Boarding‐school in Hong Kong
I knew the Schillings were leaving Hong Kong for Geneva on Thursday morning, so I got up early and hovered around the front door, hoping Father would take me along when he left to drive them to the pier. But he was in a rush and I was too shy to say anything. The result was I never got to say goodbye.
Two days later, an hour after lunch on Saturday afternoon, the maid Ah Gum knocked on our door. I opened it softly and placed my finger against my lips because Ye Ye was taking his afternoon nap. She whispered that Niang wanted me to pack my bag immediately because I was being taken away.
Father was at the office and Little Sister was attending a birthday party. Niang, Fourth Brother and I climbed into the back seat of Father’s Studebaker. I didn’t know where they were taking me and dared not ask. In the car, Fourth Brother deliberately snubbed me. He was playing with Niang’s diamond ring, twisting it round and round her finger. I envied his privilege and freedom as he nonchalantly positioned her finger this way and that, trying to catch the sun’s rays. She looked on indulgently while I sat primly in my corner, with my back straight and my skirt pulled down, hoping to be unnoticed. I knew Fourth Brother was angry at me because of what had happened earlier.
Ye Ye had a habit of going into the living‐room at eight o’clock every morning to read the newspapers before breakfast. His sight was failing and he liked the bright sunlight at that hour. To my surprise, I caught a glimpse of Fourth Brother lurking furtively in the hallway. I thought, ‘It’s Saturday and there’s no school. Besides, Fourth Brother hates to get up early. What is he up to?’
Now Ye Ye was shuffling slowly from the hall towards the half‐open door of the living‐room. I happened to look up and suddenly spotted a pile of thick encyclopedias propped precariously on the door’s upper ledge: lying in wait, like their perpetrator Fourth Brother, to fall on Ye Ye’s shaven head.
I was seized by a sudden rage. It was a sizzling hot day but I felt a chill within. In a flash, I lurched forward, overtook Ye Ye and pushed the door open violently. Three heavy volumes crashed to the floor, narrowly missing our heads and landing with a loud bang!
‘Mind your own business!’ His plans thwarted and beside himself with fury, Fourth Brother was screaming at me at the top of his lungs, ‘Gun dan! (Get lost! Drop dead!).’
‘How mean you are!’ a voice declared. We both turned to see the tiny figure of Little Sister, arms akimbo, glaring at Fourth Brother from the doorway of her room.
Before either of us could react, Father rushed out in his bath‐robe. Grasping the situation at once, he hesitated briefly. I saw his face, half turned towards Fourth Brother and half turned to return to his room. ‘Pick up the books!’ he commanded finally in a stern voice. ‘Such a racket! Don’t you know your mother is still sleeping? Keep your voices down when you play! That goes for all three of you!’
And that was all.
Afterwards, Ye Ye and I sat by ourselves on the long couch not saying a word. I looked at my grandfather, defeated and resigned with a blanket around his drooping shoulders in the blistering heat, his face contorted with sadness and anguish. A tired old man with no one to turn to, imprisoned by his love for his only son, my father.
I closed my eyes and made him a promise. I didn’t dare say it out loud but I wished very hard over and over, ‘It’s bound to get better. One day things will be different. Life won’t go on like this forever. I don’t know when, how or what but I’ll come back and rescue you from this. I promise!’
In the car, Fourth Brother demanded to have afternoon tea at the posh Peninsula Hotel. We stopped there though I felt sick to my stomach, besieged with unknown fears but too afraid to utter a single word. As we approached the grand entrance, I spied a little girl standing forlornly beside a man kneeling on the ground with his head bowed. Both were in rags. On the pavement was a sheet of paper describing their miseries and a plea for help. The child had a large placard hanging around her neck on which was written, ‘My name is Feng San‐San. I am for sale’.
In the cool, luxurious lounge on the ground floor of the hotel, there was a long line of Chinese customers waiting to be seated for afternoon tea. The head waiter was writing down their names in a large leather‐bound appointment book.
Fourth Brother had run ahead and was in the process of giving his name. As I approached with Niang, I heard the head waiter repeating in Chinese, ‘Last name is Yen. Party of three? Looks like half an hour’s wait, I’m afraid.’
Meanwhile, Niang was impatiently checking the time on her gold Rolex watch. Haughtily, she demanded in English to be seated immediately. ‘My name is Prosperi,’ she proclaimed in her best European accent. ‘We are in a great hurry!’
With one sweeping glance,
the head waiter took in Niang’s French designer suit, alligator handbag, matching shoes and seven‐carat diamond ring. ‘Of course, Madam,’ he said, without any change of expression, while leading us past the long queue to sit at a table by the window. After all, Hong Kong was a British Colony. White people took precedence over the native population and went automatically to the head of every line, wherever that might be.
After tea, we crossed the harbour by ferry and drove past an impressive building, Governor’s House, which was surrounded by lush green lawns and guarded by tall, English soldiers. Our car stopped at a large school building perched halfway up a slope. A sign outside said Sacred Heart School and Orphanage.
Two foreign nuns in white habits greeted us. Niang and Fourth Brother followed them into a conference room while I was left outside in the hall. Nobody was around and there was nothing to read except the school brochure lying on the table. Surely they couldn’t fault me for perusing that!
I found out there were 1200 students enrolled at Sacred Heart, of whom sixty‐five were boarders. The rest were day‐girls. More ominously, Sacred Heart also had an orphanage for unwanted daughters abandoned by their parents. I felt my heart pounding as I pondered my fate.
I told myself: the danger is very real. Niang loathes me. As for Father, he doesn’t really care. He hardly knows I exist, remembering neither my name nor my date of birth. To him I don’t matter.
Finally, after one and a half hours, they emerged together. To my astonishment, Niang actually introduced me with a smile to Mother Mary and Mother Louisa. I thought: is this part of her trick to abandon me in the orphanage where I would cost her nothing? I had better concentrate on what she’s saying. Good heavens! She is congratulating me on my good luck because the sisters are making an exception. I am being admitted as a boarder even though it’s the middle of the school year! Did she say boarder? My heart is singing and I can hardly believe my good luck. There is a God after all!
Chapter Eighteen
Miserable Sunday
Two years later. Summer, 1951.
During mass at the cathedral I kept thinking, It’s Sunday again and I feel so blue. There’s no doubt about it. Sunday is my least favourite day of the week. Just thinking about it makes me cringe! Thank goodness it’s the last Sunday of the summer term.
After mass we dashed into the refectory for breakfast. As usual, Mother Mary wheeled in a huge vat of steaming boiled eggs on a cart. These eggs were precious because you couldn’t just order them from the sisters, no matter how rich your father was. Someone from home had to care enough about you to take the trouble to bring fresh eggs to you personally, carefully wrapped and padded in newspapers, during visiting hours on Sundays. In addition, you had to paint your school‐number in indelible ink on the shell and retrieve your egg when Mother Mary called your number during breakfast. Then you walked back to your seat with your egg perched proudly in your egg cup, showing the whole world that you were cherished and beloved.
Since no one had ever come to visit me (let alone brought me an egg), it was humiliating to sit there morning after morning looking on, knowing my number would never come up. During these sessions, I usually pretended to be deaf and pre‐occupied.
Suddenly, my friend Rachel shoved my elbow, ‘Do you hear what I hear, Adeline? Mother just called your number! 37!’
‘Impossible!’ But sure enough, I heard Mother Mary plainly this time. ‘Number 37!’
I rose with amazed delight. The whole refectory was now silent. All eyes were watching me. Nobody believed my number had been called. Nor did I!
I returned with my prize settled in its very own cup. First time in two years! Finally an egg after 730 eggless mornings! Carefully, I examined its surface. The number 37 was plainly visible, painted in black ink on the smooth, brownish shell. I thought, Who is it from? Do I have a secret admirer? Dare I eat it? Is it really mine to be consumed at will?
I imagined tapping my egg with the back of my spoon, cracking its top, delicately peeling off the broken bits of shell and digging into its white membranous surface. Oh, what bliss to taste that wonderful rich yolk on my tongue and let it slide deliciously down my throat! So very, very tempting! I longed for it. Yet I knew very well it was not mine. It was a mistake. Perhaps a trick or a cruel practical joke. What if the rightful owner came up while I was in the middle of enjoying my egg and claimed it? What should I do then? Once I broke the shell, there was no going back.
I steeled myself and got up from the table. Mother Mary had just handed out the last egg and was about to leave with her empty vat. I approached her hesitantly, feeling confused and defensive, and handed back the egg.
‘Mother Mary! This is not mine.’
Impatiently, she dropped the vat and scrutinised my egg with a sigh. ‘It says 37. What is your number? Are you Number 37?’
‘Yes, Mother!’
‘Then the egg is yours.’
‘No, it can’t be!’
‘Why not? Why can’t it be?’
Everyone had stopped eating and was listening intently. There was not a sound. This is terrible! I thought. I’m drawing attention to myself and broadcasting my state of perpetual egglessness. What can I say that’s logical and convincing and still preserve a bit of dignity?
‘My parents know I hate boiled eggs. That’s why they never bring me any,’ I blurted out, my face burning with shame at the lie. ‘So there is no possibility this egg can be mine!’
Behind me, I heard someone (probably Monica) snickering and saying in a loud stage‐whisper, ‘I suppose she hates chocolates and mangoes too. That’s why no one ever comes on Sundays to bring her any goodies at all.’
Sixteen‐year‐old Monica Lim was three years older than I and the daughter of one of the richest tycoons in Hong Kong. She was tall, pretty and well groomed. Her nickname was ‘Brains’ because she routinely topped her class. Rumours were she’d be head girl next year.
Every Sunday, Monica dressed in the latest European fashion to greet her mother, who reputedly was not her illustrious father’s real wife but merely a concubine and a former bar‐girl. During visiting hours on Sundays, the only day we boarders were allowed to dress in street clothes, Monica and her mother looked like models as they strutted around the school yard in fashionable costumes, embellished with padded bras, silk stockings, tailored qipaos and imported high‐heeled shoes. Besides eggs, her mother brought Monica soda crackers, Maltesers, Cadbury chocolate bars, beef jerky, seasonal fresh fruits and Dairy Farm ice‐cream. On her birthday, Monica traditionally got a giant cream cake covered with luscious strawberries which she shared only with certain hand‐picked, chosen ‘friends’. Because of her father’s fabulous wealth, she was much pampered by the nuns and received many special privileges.
For a long time, Monica had ignored me. She was one of the elite group of beautiful ‘big girls’ whom we plain ‘little ones’ were supposed to admire and worship from afar. Then we both got picked to write for the school magazine. In three successive issues, my essays were selected over hers by Mother Agnes, our editor. At the end of my first year at Sacred Heart, I skipped a grade and the girls started calling me ‘scholar’. They began comparing my writing to Monica’s. One day, I accidentally bumped into her in the library and she said resentfully, ‘Instead of trying to memorise every book in here, you’d be more popular if you got yourself some pretty dresses instead.’
I felt my face go hot because I knew I looked terrible. Having no money and not knowing where to buy a bra I tried to hide my budding breasts by wearing two sets of shrunken underwear to flatten my chest. Besides my uniforms, I possessed only one old‐fashioned plain brown Sunday dress which was too small, too short and too tight. I always wore tennis shoes because those were the only shoes available for sale in the school gym and Mother Mary had permission to charge them to Father’s account at her discretion. As for my hair, well, I knew I’d better not even think about it! So I swallowed my anger and walked away. In spite of Monica’s unk
ind remark, the girls ignored her and nobody else made fun of me.
Towards the end of breakfast, Mother Mary announced that because it was the last Sunday before the beginning of summer holidays, visiting hours were being extended from two to three hours. Everyone cheered, but I felt jittery. When I’m nervous I always have to go to the bathroom. It was crowded with everyone preparing to meet their parents. They were preening themselves in front of the mirror and arranging their hair. Not yet! Better wait another half hour. I sauntered into the library and picked out a few books. What a beautiful room! Away from all the noise, giggles and excitement. My haven. My sanctuary. The place where I belonged! My real world!
But even here, I didn’t feel entirely safe on Sunday mornings. It was okay for a temporary respite, but girls sometimes brought their parents in for a tour of the premises. When they saw me they felt obliged to make polite conversation, though I’d much rather they ignored me and treated me as part of the furniture. Sure enough, my classmate Irene Tan walked in with her mother.
‘This is our library, Mother. Oh hello, Adeline. Let me introduce you to my mother! This is Adeline Yen, top student of our class. She skipped two grades and will be going into Form 5 after the holidays, at 13!’
‘Studying so hard even on a Sunday!’ Mrs Tan exclaimed, turning to her daughter. ‘Now, why can’t you be like that?’
I felt like a freak and looked enviously at Irene’s elegant new sandals and matching dress. ‘No! No! I’m not studying. This is purely for pleasure and recreation.’
Mrs Tan came over and glanced at my book. ‘What are you reading? King Lear! My! My! You say this is for pleasure?’
I hung my head and saw my worn tennis shoes with the hole at the side and wrinkled stockings with the elastic washed away, knowing I must appear very odd indeed in my old‐fashioned, tight, shabby brown dress next to Irene’s stylish elegance. Hanging about in the library and reading King Lear from choice simply rounded out the whole dismal picture. A special sort of idiot savant found in Hong Kong Catholic convent schools. I was wishing fervently I could disappear when I heard Irene say, ‘Last Friday we were reading King Lear out loud in class and Adeline suddenly burst out crying.’