Chapter Seventeen

Dressed in a richly embroidered red silk skirt, red undershirt and loose, sleeveless jacket, Mai stood beside Yan Gar Chan. The silk of her wedding costume felt clammy against her skin, and despite the warmth she shivered, willing the day to be over. Charleston and Henry were only a dream now.

The ceremony was a mixture of east and west. After pronouncing them man and wife, the visiting minister, lips pursed with disapproval, looked away as Mai and Yan Gar Chan made their three kowtows to Heaven and Earth, three to the elders, then kowtowed to each other.

Mai could hear the explosions of fireworks outside the church, lit to celebrate their new beginning as man and wife. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Yan Gar Chan. Not because he was ugly; his high, strong cheekbones and full, sensuous mouth lent him an arrogance some would have considered handsome.

An ache lingered in her heart. It was the tall, red-headed European’s face she longed to see, not Yan Gar Chan’s cold features. But Henry was lost to her and Yan Gar Chan was one of her own. She would be a good, dutiful wife to him.

Guests observing Mai’s downcast eyes nodded their approval at her respect and subservience to her husband.

The wedding banquet was held in the open air at the Fongs’ market garden, but Mai had no appetite for the food or festivities. Listlessly, she watched as the guests feasted on spit-roasted pork and drank copious amounts of brandy, every now and then discreetly belching their appreciation of their hosts’ fine hospitality.

Before their guests left, they filed past Mai, some dropping a tiny nugget of gold, others a few sovereigns, onto her lap.

Mai walked slowly back to the shanty to wait for her husband. To ensure Yan Gar Chan would not guess at her lack of purity, she would pretend to feel pain when they consummated the marriage. Such a deception would normally have eaten away at her honest nature, but she had given up so much, and so much more was to be endured, she felt only a small qualm of conscience.

As the hours passed with no sign of her husband, her anxiety increased, but the long, sad day had taken its toll on her energy and she drifted off to sleep.

She woke with a start, shrinking from the pungent stench of alcohol and vomit as Yan Gar Chan stumbled into the room. Cursing loudly, he fell on the bed and pulled Mai roughly to him.

Impatient to consummate the marriage, Yan Gar Chan made no attempt to coax her to desire. Rolling on top of Mai, he tried to insert his partly flaccid penis into her unprepared body. His hands rough and callused from the work in the gardens, he pawed and pushed insensitively at her tender flesh. She gasped aloud as he thrust a knee against her thigh, parting her legs further. His movements quickened and he suddenly bit hard on one of her breasts.

Mai was sickened to realise that her pain was exciting him, and clenched her jaw to prevent herself from crying out as Yan Gar Chan finally pushed inside. His cruel thrusting seemed endless, but finally he grunted and dropped, a dead weight, on top of her. Terrified to move lest he wake and continue his savage assault, she lay still until his snores assured her she was safe from further abuse. She inched her bruised body out from underneath him.

In the darkness Mai thought how different the act had been with Henry. It had hurt at first, but never like tonight. Henry’s gentleness and patience had prepared her body, and she had been eager for him to enter her. Shivering, she thought how much more painful Yan Gar Chan’s brutal act would have been if she had still been pure. With a sob of irony, she recalled how she had worried about having to pretend pain.

 

Working alongside Fong Hoy and Yan Gar Chan the next day became a test of Mai’s endurance, every movement irritating the tender and swollen flesh between her thighs. Crouching to gather some weeds, she gasped in pain.

Fong Hoy looked up from his work. ‘You are not well?’

‘A spell of giddiness. I need to sit a little.’ The lie came easily to Mai’s lips. She couldn’t bear Grandfather to know her shame.

‘If you are not well, you should rest,’ said Fong Hoy.

Yan Gar Chan glowered. ‘She is perfectly well; there is no reason for her to rest.’

When they had finished work for the day Mai hurried down to the bush bordering the end of the fields. Carefully stepping around and over the strong black supplejack vines coiling their way about the forest floor, she made her way along the track to the creek that meandered through the bush. She slipped off her loose calico trousers and waded into the creek, gritting her teeth as her raw flesh came in contact with the cool water. She splashed it over her body until she felt cleansed.

Yan Gar Chan had disappeared by the time she got back to the shanty. Exhausted, Mai fell asleep long before the sun set. Waking some time later to the sound of Yan Gar Chan’s shambling footsteps, she rolled on her side, hugging her knees to her chin as he pulled back the blanket.

Remembering how her cries of pain and fear had added to his pleasure, Mai resolved to endure his attentions in stoical silence, hoping he would quickly finish and fall asleep. But he became angry, cursing her for his impotence. To punish her, he put a hand around each of Mai’s small breasts and squeezed. A yelp rose from the back of her throat but she held a hand against her mouth, gagging it.

Grunting, Yan Gar Chan mounted her. Plunging inside her already bruised and inflamed flesh, he thrust once, grunted, rolled off her and was asleep in seconds.

May lay awake for hours, finally falling into a fitful sleep shortly before daybreak. When Yan Gar Chan shook her awake, her eyes were swollen from tears and her body felt as if a crazed animal had trampled on it. Which indeed, she thought with a wry sob, was not far from the truth.

 

Days and nights passed, hardly varying in their pattern. Yan Gar Chan continued to drink himself senseless at nights and, blaming Mai for his impotence, began to beat her. Work was Mai’s only escape. Ignoring the bruises that covered so much of her body, she toiled endlessly, shutting out the agony of her thoughts. In the evenings, after Yan Gar Chan disappeared to indulge his drinking and gambling habits, Mai helped her grandfather as he made a rough floor for the shanty from scraps of wood foraged and accumulated over the years.

And Mai was not the only focus of Yan Gar Char’s anger.

‘Do you think I have all day to wait while you shuffle about, old man?’ he said one day to Fong Hoy. ‘Hurry your creaking bones. I need these picked before you shrivel and die of old age.’

Her stomach knotting in fear, Mai watched as her husband stood over Fong Hoy, his face vicious with anger. He pulled a pak choi from the ground.

‘These should all have been picked by now, ready to take to town.’ Yan Gar Chan looked up at the sun breaking through the early morning mist. ‘The sun will wilt them. Who will want to pay a good price for them now, you stupid old turtle’s egg? We will have to give them away.’ Without warning, he slapped Fong Hoy’s cheek, sending the old man toppling to the ground.

‘Stop, Yan Gar Chan! What do you think you are doing?’ Mai ran to Fong Hoy, gasping as a blow to her back knocked her breath from her.

‘Why am I burdened with two such lazy people?’ Yan Gar Chan sneered, picking up a basket of pak choi and stalking off.

Mai helped Fong Hoy to his feet.

‘He has a devil in him,’ Fong Hoy said, his face troubled. ‘But he is only speaking the truth. I am a stupid old turtle’s egg.’ He shook his head, eyes haunted and sad. ‘I knew you had feelings for your white friend that were better not encouraged. That is why I insisted on a marriage with Yan Gar Chan. I saw how hard he worked and thought he would take care of you. But I have seen the joy leave your spirit. He has been beating you too?’

‘Yes,’ said Mai, her worried gaze resting on Fong Hoy, his face now so lined it resembled parchment, his shoulders stooped more with worry and care than age.

Yan Gar Chan had continued to beat her, but until today he’d never touched Fong Hoy and Mai had been careful to hide her bruises from him. Although aware of Yan Gar Chan’s caustic tongue, until now Grandfather had not known of the man’s physical abuse.

Fong Hoy clung to Mai’s arm while he gathered his strength. What was to become of them? Mai wondered. If Yan Gar Chan should beat Fong Hoy as he did her, she feared for his life. One weak old man and a woman were no match for her husband’s foul temper.

She recalled, almost with disbelief now, how pleased she and Grandfather had been when Yan Gar Chan had first arrived from the diggings in Otago. The future of the market garden had been in doubt because of Fong Hoy’s blindness and increasing fragility. Yan Gar Chan’s offer of help had seemed a gift from heaven. She and Grandfather had burned extra joss-sticks for Hou-chi, the God of Harvest, thanking him for his favour.

Strong and healthy, Yan Gar Chan had worked tirelessly from daylight till dark in the gardens. His labour had increased their earnings, and Mai had been delighted when he had convinced Fong Hoy to buy a cart to take the vegetables and fruit to town, instead of their yokes and baskets. It would save time, and therefore money, he had insisted.

In those days, save for his surliness, there had been no hint of his bullying ways or savage temper. Grandfather had been happy to leave the gardens in his care while they journeyed to Charleston.

‘There is nothing to be done now. We must be careful not to anger him in future,’ Mai said, brushing dirt from her tunic. Inwardly, she despaired at Yan Gar Chan’s treatment of Fong Hoy. Grandfather had done nothing to incur his anger. But then, she thought with a helpless shrug, what had she ever done to deserve his beatings?

After helping Yan Gar Chan to load the cart, she watched him drive off. She missed taking the vegetables to town herself, though several hours of her husband’s absence more than made up for it. It was sad for Fong Hoy, too: even when he’d no longer been able to see, he’d enjoyed the trip to Stafford, listening avidly to Mai’s descriptions of events and scenery. Since their marriage, Yan Gar Chan had taken over the deliveries and always travelled to Stafford on his own.

‘After all,’ he’d said with a contemptuous shrug, ‘what use are an old man and a weak woman to me there? Better you should stay and make yourself useful in the gardens.’

Mai was becoming resigned to the fact that while Grandfather might be the owner of the gardens, Yan Gar Chan was rapidly becoming the true proprietor.

Yan Gar Chan returned home in an almost cheerful mood this time. ‘A good day,’ he said, favouring them with a smug smile, though Mai noticed he didn’t put any money on the table. She looked on, uneasy, as Fong Hoy frowned and waited for his son-in-law to produce the money he’d received for their produce. Ignoring Fong Hoy’s pointed look, Yan Gar Chan ordered Mai to fetch him a bowl of water so he could wash. She hesitated, reluctant to turn her back on the two of them.

‘Fetch me the water! I don’t have all night to wait while you dither, you stupid woman!’ her husband snapped.

About to do as he’d ordered, Mai froze as Fong Hoy calmly put out his hand, palm uppermost, in front of Yan Gar Chan. ‘I am pleased you have had a good day, Yan Gar Chan, but I will be better pleased when you give me the money so I can count it and put it away.’

Yan Gar Chan’s eyes narrowed. He grasped Fong Hoy’s shirt under his collar, ripping it in the process, and shook his fist in the old man’s face.

Mai rushed to shelter Fong Hoy by pushing herself between him and her husband.

‘Do you not trust me, you old fool of a turtle’s egg?’ Yan Gar Chan growled, shaking Fong Hoy and shoving Mai so hard she fell to the floor. She expected her grandfather to plead with Yan Gar Chan to let him go. Instead, he faced him, his jaw set and stubborn.

‘My money, please,’ said Fong Hoy, hoarse as the younger man’s fist pressed against his neck.

Scowling, Yan Gar Chan released his hold and pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. He threw them on the table so they rolled across the surface and onto the floor.

Mai suppressed her urge to cheer out loud at her grandfather’s victory.

Yan Gar Chan stalked to the door, his hand clenched by his side. Mai guessed he still had some coins tucked in his fist, but at least they now had most of the money, because of Fong Hoy’s brave stand.

‘I feared for your life, Grandfather,’ she said after her husband had gone. ‘He is so crazed at times it’s as if he is possessed by demons.’ She helped the shaken Fong Hoy to a chair.

‘My neck feels like it has been wrung like a chicken’s, and my heart is in danger of beating itself to death,’ Fong Hoy said, rubbing his neck. ‘But my soul is singing. I stood up to the bully and won.’

‘So you did,’ Mai said, a hint of sadness in her smile. If she, too, had had the courage to stand up to Yan Gar Chan at the beginning, perhaps she might have been spared some of the worst beatings.

Fong Hoy stood and limped across the room. Kneeling in front of the camp oven he pulled up three floorboards, reached down and lifted out a tin that was dented and battered, its once bold red and gold pattern faded with age and use. Mai recognised it as the tin in which Fong Hoy kept their money. He had always kept it under his bed. She was surprised to see him take it from under the floor.

‘Money was going missing so I have changed the hiding place. It is not wise to leave this where Yan Gar Chan find it,’ said Fong Hoy. Placing the tin back under the floor, he carefully replaced the boards.

Mai smiled. She’d wondered at her grandfather’s sudden desire for flooring, when the caked-mud floor of the shanty had always suited him well enough before. The floorboards were all odd lengths, and pieced together like an ill-fitting jigsaw puzzle. No one would guess what they concealed.

‘Yan Gar Chan must never find out, or he will steal the money and waste it on fan-tan and brandy. Our money is to be saved for you to go to China. You will be able to buy land there. Life will be easier for you.’

China. The thought of travelling to her ancestral home no longer excited Mai as it had in the past. She now felt depressed at the thought of living in a land she had never known. A sudden nausea washed over her. She gripped the table as the strength flowed out of her legs and the floorboards began a gentle undulation before her eyes.

‘He has hurt you again?’ Fong Hoy asked, limping to her side.

‘No more than usual. It is only the shock of seeing him threatening you. I truly believed he was going to kill you,’ she said.

The giddiness reminded her that she hadn’t bled for some time. It seemed their household was to be enlarged. She should have been overjoyed at the discovery; instead, she was filled with despair. To be born into the care of a brute like Yan Gar Chan seemed a cruel fate for an innocent child.