Kim: I was fifteen when I came to Britain – the same age as you, Leo. It was autumn, and the leaves were falling off the trees. Even now, every autumn when I see those falling leaves I think of that time.
What a different life! We came from the countryside where we knew everyone, into a big city with lots of people, and all of them speaking a foreign language.
Leo: Had you learnt any English at school?
Kim: Only things like A is for Apple, B is for Book. And sometimes I didn’t go to school. If Mum was ill I had to do the farm work instead. Well, maybe farm is not the right
word. It was just a small field, just like every family had, for growing rice and vegetables.
Jacqueline: And the cow, Mum! Tell her about the cow!
Kim: Jacqueline is so keen on that cow! Everyone had a cow which lived in the house and was set free each day to eat the grass on the hill. After school the children would go out and fetch the cows. We all had sticks to guide the cows, or for hitting their bums if they stood still, but mostly I didn’t need to use my stick. Our cow was happy to come home. But one time I couldn’t find her. I looked and I looked and I called and I called, but she didn’t come. I felt like crying, but I tried not to, because people would just laugh at me and think I was weak. When it was nearly dark I decided I would have to go back down and tell my mum. I was nearly home when I heard a mooing sound. I looked round and saw that she was following me. My mum said she had just got lost but I had a feeling that the cow
wanted to give me a surprise.
Jacqueline: Maybe that’s how you learnt to play tricks, Mum.
Kim: Not tricks – surprises!
Leo: Now I understand the first picture, Jacqueline. That hill is the one behind your mum’s house, isn’t it?
Jacqueline: Yes, and the children are all leading the cows home. All except one. Can you see the girl without the cow?
Leo: Yes, there she is – she’s got a stick but no cow. And there’s the cow, hiding behind that tree!
Jacqueline: Well spotted!
Leo: There aren’t any men in the picture – it’s all women and children.
Kim: That’s what it was like. There were hardly any men in the village, just a few old ones who sat outside their houses.
Leo: Where were the young ones then?
Kim: All away in western countries. My father went to Britain when I was just a baby.
Leo: By himself?
Kim: Yes. Most of the men went on their own to start off with, without the family. The plan was to get work and start saving, until they had made enough money for the family to come over and join them. They would send money back home – some of them did, anyway. Others forgot about their home, but my dad wasn’t like that.
Leo: So didn’t you ever see him?
Kim: Only every four years, when he came back for a visit. That’s how I got two younger brothers! I remember the first time he came back. He was just this strange man to me, and I was upset and angry because he slept in my mother’s bed. I used to sleep there and cuddle her every night, but when Dad came back he told me to go to the other bedroom and sleep on my own. I was glad when it was time for him to go back to Britain.
Leo: What did he do there?
Kim: He worked in a restaurant – well, lots of
restaurants, mainly as a chef. He kept moving around till he got quite a good job helping to run a takeaway restaurant in Leeds. He used to send us letters and we would collect them from the village shop. Then one day he wrote and said it was time for us all to join him. He sent us the money for our plane tickets.
Leo: Now I understand the second picture – it’s the aeroplane you came on, isn’t it?
Kim: Yes, and one of those faces at the windows is me, isn’t it, Jacqueline?
Jacqueline: Yes, that one in the middle.
Leo: The one with closed eyes?
Jacqueline: Yes. I painted Mum like that because she kept dropping asleep on the journey.
Kim: That’s true. I had no idea it would be so long. Every time I woke up I asked, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ but it seemed to last forever.
Leo: So many windows, and so many faces.
Kim: My dad came to meet us at Heathrow. He knew we wouldn’t have a clue how to change planes.
Leo: I suppose he was really good at English?
Kim: No, he wasn’t. Actually, he could hardly speak it at all.
Leo: What, after fifteen years?
Kim: Well, you see, he only really mixed with other Chinese people. He was a chef so he was hidden away in a kitchen, not meeting the customers. And he had to work long shifts, and different ones each week, so it would have been hard for him to go to evening classes, even if he had wanted to. But he did very well. He saved up enough money to buy a flat above the takeaway shop. At first we stayed inside that flat all day. My mum was too shy to go out, and because of his job Dad brought us all the food we needed, so we didn’t have to go shopping.
Leo: Didn’t you go to school?
Kim: Not for a week or even longer, but then this English lady from the flat upstairs came and knocked at the door. She was a nice lady but very bossy. She took my brothers off to
the local primary school and me to the secondary. The head teacher wasn’t too keen to have me – he said it would be hard to teach someone who didn’t speak English – but the lady just said, ‘That’s your problem, headmaster’ and she left me there. It was awful. I just sat in the classroom and I couldn’t understand a word. In the playground it was even worse. At the end of the day the lady came back to collect me. She saw how unhappy I was and she said she was very sorry. After that she found out about an English Language Teaching Centre and I went there for two years.
Leo: Did you learn quite quickly?
Kim: Not as quickly as my brothers! I found it hard to understand what people were saying. For a little while I had a job in a restaurant. I was a waitress, but I couldn’t understand the customers. All the words sounded the same. One time I brought someone a glass of milk when he had asked for the bill. After that
they moved me to the kitchen to wash up, but when my father heard that he was angry because he said I wouldn’t learn any English. He was very keen for me to learn English, even though he could hardly speak it himself. He made me leave that job, and after that I worked part-time in his takeaway shop.
Leo: Did you get on with your father?
Kim: So-so. Not so much at first, because he never let me do anything. He always said I was ‘too young’ and made me come home at nine o’clock. That made me cross because back home I’d had a lot of responsibilities – I was more like an adult. I was a good girl, and I didn’t want to run wild or anything. It was funny, really, because Dad didn’t realise that the real danger was under his nose.
Leo: How do you mean?
Kim: I got very friendly with his partner in the shop – a man called Tony Yeung. Tony was eight years older than me and I don’t think Dad thought he could be a possible boyfriend.
But we used to chat behind the counter, flirting really, and sometimes after the shop closed I would sneak out and meet him when my parents were playing a game of mah-jong. Those games went on for ages sometimes.
Jacqueline: You never told me that, Mum. I can’t believe you were so sneaky! And when I think what you and Dad were like when I was fifteen! Breathing down my neck all the time.
Kim: All parents are the same. You’ll be just like that when you’re a parent, wait and see. Anyway, I was seventeen by this time, and we weren’t just fooling around. By the time my parents found out, we were engaged.
Leo: What did they say about that?
Kim: Actually, they were OK about it. They liked Tony. We got married when I was nineteen, and soon afterwards all of us moved to Glasgow. That’s where Jacqueline and the others were born.
Leo: And that’s the third picture, isn’t it? That red house and the tree – is that the
sycamore tree in the square?
Jacqueline: Well, partly. But it’s also the Glasgow tree – ‘the tree that never grew’.
Leo: How do you mean?
Jacqueline: It’s part of the coat of arms of St Mungo – Glasgow’s saint. Along with the bird that never flew, the fish that never swam and the bell that never rang. They’ve all got legends about them.
Kim: But I don’t think Leo needs to hear those legends yet – she’s looking tired. I’m sorry, Leo, has my story gone on too long for you?
Leo: No, not at all. And I’d love to hear the legends some time, but what I really want to know is why you moved to Glasgow.
Kim: Ah. That’s where your grandfather comes into the story. My Uncle Jing. He was my mother’s brother, and he came from the same village as us. He moved to the UK about four years after my father went there, and his wife went with him.
Leo: My grandmother.
Kim: Yes. They didn’t have any children then. It was before your dad was born.
Leo: Did you meet them when you moved?
Kim: No. Not for a while. They were already in Glasgow and of course it was quite a journey from Leeds. But soon after Tony and I got married, your grandparents opened a second restaurant in Glasgow and they invited us up to help them run it. Our takeaway shop wasn’t doing that well any more – so many others had opened up – so we agreed to go.
Leo: And did you meet my father?
Kim: No, I never did. By that stage the quarrel had happened, and Uncle Jing and Auntie Mei didn’t like to talk about him. I gathered he had gone off with some woman they disapproved of.
Leo: That was my mother.
Kim: I’m sorry, Leo. Am I upsetting you? It must be sad that your granny has died.
Leo: It’s not just my granny.
What’s the matter? We’re all ruffled. We’re all upset. Is it because Daddy’s going away again? Don’t worry. That lady from upstairs is going to give you your seeds. Daddy won’t be gone for long. This is the last time. I know the address now. He says she’s not there but Daddy doesn’t believe him. I’ll find her. I’m going to find her before they find her. She won’t say what they tell her, she’ll say what I tell her. Yes, you’re pretty. On you hop. You love your daddy, don’t you?
Finlay sat in his bedroom and opened his English file. He stared at the heading on the otherwise blank sheet of paper: ‘What does the sleepwalking scene reveal about Lady Macbeth’s character?’
Leo would know; she was the expert on the Macbeth household, and would be only too happy to pass on her expertise to Finlay. But if he went round to find her at Mary’s he would only have to lie to his mum about where he was going, and Finlay was sick of that. No, it was time for an evening in – a lie-free evening.
He tried to concentrate on reading through the scene. They’d read it out in class that day,
and Miss Cottrell had chosen Finlay to act the doctor who got called in by a serving maid because Lady Macbeth was wandering about the battlements in the middle of the night, washing her hands and coming out with all this dead give-away stuff about the murders. Finlay found himself wondering if he ever talked in his sleep, and if so whether he came out with anything revealing. Maybe that was how his parents were so good at spotting his deceptions.
‘Finlay!’ The door opened. Why couldn’t Mum ever knock? And why did she have that unnaturally sweet smile on her face? ‘What was that film called – the one you saw last night with Ross?’
‘I already told you –
Black and White
. Look, Mum, I’ve got to do my homework.’
‘What was it about?’
‘It was … er, about a penguin with superpowers. I don’t know why Ross was so keen to see it. It was rubbish.’
‘I think it sounds good. What sort of superpowers did this penguin have?’
‘You know, like … well, stopping global warming and things.’
‘That sounds interesting. How did he do that?’
‘He kind of flapped his flippers and … well, it was a bit complicated, I can’t really describe it. Anyway, Mum, I can’t talk now. I’m trying to write this essay.’
‘You don’t know, do you? You didn’t even see the film.’
‘We did! Well, we saw the beginning, but like I said, it was rubbish, so we went and got a Chinese takeaway instead.’
‘That’s strange, because according to his mother, Ross didn’t go out last night.’
‘Mum! You’ve been spying on me again!’
‘And what am I supposed to do when you won’t ever tell me the truth?’
‘I’m thirteen. I’m not a baby. I can’t tell you every little thing.’
‘That doesn’t mean you have to tell me a pack of lies.’
‘They’re not really lies … anyway, what do you expect when you’re always interrogating me and trying to catch me out? You’re like the Spanish Inquisition, you and Dad.’
‘Finlay, are you hiding something?’
‘There you go again. Just lay off !’
‘Listen, Finlay, we’re worried about you. And so is the school. At that parents’ evening at least three of the teachers said you were having difficulty concentrating.’
‘Well, you’re the one who’s stopping me concentrating now. Just let me get on with my homework!’
‘Can’t you see that we care about you?’
‘You
don’t
care about me – you just want to meddle into everything and give me a bad name with all my friends.’
‘Just tell me, Finlay. Tell me where you were last night. Tell me the truth for once.’
‘I
did
have a Chinese meal.’
‘I said the truth.’
‘See! You don’t believe me when I
do
tell the truth. You’re always like that! You always think the worst of me!’ Finlay jumped up and dodged past Mum, who was standing in the doorway.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to see a Chinese girl and a mad old lady,’ shouted Finlay. ‘But of course you won’t believe me!’ And he slammed the front door behind him.
The last time I was in a café it was the middle of the night. Now it’s the middle of the day. I felt jittery then, and if anything I feel even more jittery now.
The art school eatery is very different from Midnight Oil with its baths and mirrors. Loud music with a growly bass washes over the students, who are playing pool, eating macaroni cheese off paper plates or drinking at the bar. It’s quite dark, which is reassuring, and I’m sitting on a bench opposite Jacqueline, with my back to the wall so no one can sneak up on me. All the same, it feels so public! I can’t help trying to hide behind the plasticated menu.
Jacqueline laughs. ‘Talk about drawing attention to yourself !’ she says. ‘Remember, you’re with me – I’m a kind of camouflage; no one’s going to be looking for
two
Chinese girls. So stop looking like an escaped convict!’
I try to laugh too. ‘Well, I feel like one. I’ve been cooped up for nearly six weeks – till last night, that is.’
‘Haven’t you been out at all?’
‘Only to do my paper round, but it’s not properly light then. Oh, and I did used to get up early and sketch by the canal. But I gave that up after I was in the
Big Issue
.’
‘You never told me about that!’
‘What, the
Big Issue
?’
‘No, the sketching.’
‘Well, I’ve only known you for a day – less than a day!’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it – I feel we’ve known each other for ages. So you’re an artist like me? A budding Picasso?’
‘Not really. I just do these pastel sketches.
Actually, I’ve brought my sketchbook to show you.’ I take it out of my faithful hold-all.
‘Great!’ Jacqueline wipes her hands on her paper napkin and then opens the book. Suddenly I feel shy.
‘I can tell who this is,’ she says. She’s looking at the one of Dad playing the flute. ‘And this must be your mum.’
‘Yes. Her hair didn’t really look like that. She used to wear it loose but I’d been plaiting it just for fun.’
Jacqueline reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. She doesn’t say any more about those pictures, but flicks through till she reaches the Glasgow ones.
Then, ‘What a fat cat!’ she says.
‘That’s Midget, Mary’s cat. And that next one is the bridge over the canal near her house.’
Jacqueline turns the page. ‘I really like the reflections of those clouds and berries.’
‘That was when I was sitting on the bridge.’
She studies one of the pictures for longer.
‘Is this one
your
reflection?’
‘It was going to be, but then Finlay appeared and gave me a fright. I never finished that picture.’
‘Finlay!’ Jacqueline laughs. ‘I really like that boy. He’s so funny – clever too.’ She turns another page. ‘Hey, here he is!’
‘Yes, I did that one at Mary’s.’
‘What a scowl! And look at that devil pendant.’
‘That was when he was really into being a Goth. I think that’s wearing off a bit now.’
‘Who’s this dog?’
‘Zigger – he’s one of Mary’s waifs and strays, like me.’
‘What about Mary? I can’t see any of her.’
‘That’s because she never keeps still long enough. She doesn’t even sleep.’
‘That must be tiring for you.’
‘Yes, it is.’ I take a sip of my coffee. I could say more – I could tell her how much I long to move out – but I don’t. Nor do I admit that the main
reason for tracking down my long-lost relations was the hope that they would give me a home. That seems impossible now. The Yeungs’ flat isn’t very big and it’s clearly bursting at the seams. And from what they’ve told me about my grandfather it doesn’t sound as if he welcomes visitors, let alone a live-in granddaughter.
‘I’m quite nervous about meeting him,’ I say, as Jacqueline hands me back the sketchbook.
‘Who, Uncle Jing? Don’t be. Your granddad can be a bit gruff, but he’s more sociable when he’s at the Elderly Centre. But listen, we can always go there another day if you don’t feel ready.’
‘No, let’s go now. Let’s stick to the plan.’
Jacqueline grins, then squeezes my hand again. ‘I tell you what – would you like a quick look round the art school first? It’s quite a famous building, actually. It was designed by this brilliant architect called Rennie Mackintosh. They do guided tours, but I can whisk you round for free.’
The art school is across the road from the café. Above two huge windows with curved iron brackets, an iron bird sits on top of a turret, like a weather vane.
‘Look! It’s like the one in your picture.’
‘Yes, it’s one of the Glasgow signs.’
‘And I like those iron leaves and roses on the railings.’
‘If you like the outside I bet you’ll love the inside.’
And I do. I’ve never been to school, and I always picture schools and colleges as dull institutional buildings with dozens of identical doors leading off dozens of identical corridors. But this building doesn’t feel like an institution. The walls are of dark wood, yet light is everywhere. It streams through windows and skylights. It glints on dainty pink and purple glass hearts embedded in hanging lamps and in squirly iron rafters.
Jacqueline takes me along a corridor lined
with statues – a Madonna and child, a winged headless angel, a warrior with a serpent twining round his muscular legs. ‘They were put there for students to draw, but most students today aren’t that interested – they’re too busy making what they call personal statements. I’ll show you.’ She opens a door into a room full of pictures. ‘This is the student exhibition gallery.’
‘I see what you mean. That one’s a bit strange.’
Someone has torn up a lot of holiday postcards and has glued the fragments on to a life-size photograph of a fridge, like fridge magnets. The picture is entitled ‘Wish You’.
Another one is of a massive scarlet scaffold with a jumble of cryptic symbols below it, as if two ancient Egyptian giants had been interrupted in a game of Hangman. It’s hard to see why this one is called ‘Self Portrait’.
But I like three pictures of a path, disappearing into a wood, overshadowed by trees, and then emerging from the wood and branching in two. And there’s another one of a woman with wild
hair and a sad moon-like face which somehow makes me think of Mary in one of her rare quiet moments.
‘It’s all so exciting! I wish I could come here.’
‘Well, why shouldn’t you? You could apply in a couple of years.’
‘But don’t you need to have A-Levels, or Highers, or something?’
‘If they really like your work then they only ask for Standard Grade Art and English.’
I don’t see how I could get those. Missing people can’t sit exams.
Jacqueline is obviously a mind-reader. ‘We’ll find a way,’ she says. ‘But now I think we’d better go and see your granddad.’
The Chinese Elderly Centre is just round the corner from the Art School but it’s a different world. The smell is the first thing that hits me – a foody smell, warm, salty and spicy, familiar and somehow comforting. A smell can bring back so much. It brings back our kitchen at
home, with Dad cooking noodles in black bean sauce, and Mum’s cello practice floating through from the next room.
A smiling young man sits at the reception desk behind a china Buddha. He says something to Jacqueline in Chinese. She replies, then he glances at me, nods and gestures towards the stairs. He’s still smiling, but did I detect a flicker of something? Puzzlement – suspicion, even? No, I’m being paranoid again.
‘Uncle Jing is in the common room upstairs,’ says Jacqueline. ‘Shall we go and see him?’
I nod and swallow.
‘Did you say who I was?’ I whisper as we round the bend in the stairs.
‘No, I just said you were a friend.’
The smell is fading, but now there are sounds: soft jabbering voices, and the irregular rhythm of a ping-pong ball. A door on the landing is open. Jacqueline smiles at me encouragingly and we go in.
Four squat women look up from a card game
and beam at us. Two agile men carry on with the ping-pong game. A few people are reading newspapers attached to bamboo sticks, and there is a cluster watching a Chinese television channel.
Which one is he?
Jacqueline looks round swiftly, then approaches one of the newspaper readers. He looks up, and I see Dad’s face.
Older, lined, but still Dad. And I was expecting a stranger.
He nods at Jacqueline and smiles vaguely. He looks the way Dad looked when he was interrupted in the middle of a detective story – as if he was still in another world.
Jacqueline speaks to him in Chinese. This is it. She’s telling him. Her voice seems to halt and falter. Either she’s not fluent in the language or it’s difficult to say what she has to say.
He’s not smiling any more. He looks perplexed. His eyes dart to my face and then away. Jacqueline is looking at me; I sense that
she is willing me to speak.
I say, ‘Hello, Grandfather.’
He won’t meet my eye. The perplexed expression has gone now. He just looks … blank. He’s shaking his head. Now he’s saying something, slowly, five or six words. He says them twice, I think.
Jacqueline turns to me again, as if she’s about to speak, but she says nothing. I’ve never seen her at a loss for words like this.
I say the words for her. ‘He doesn’t want to know me, does he?’