Pauline Kam
There were many eccentric characters living in Liverpool’s Chinatown during the 1960s. It was a thriving community based mainly around Nelson Street, crammed with bustling shops and small restaurants.
I first met Mr Lee at one such restaurant. It was a typically run family business where everyone knew everyone and would shout pleasantries and greetings as if they had not seen each other for months, rather than the week before.
The front was chock-full of tables. It was the New Year festivities and we were lucky to get a place. Families crowded together: mothers admonishing children and scrubbing food stains off faces with red napkins. Babies were rocked and the elderly fed, while all the time people chitter-chattered like noisy starlings, punctuating their talk with raucous bursts of laughter.
On my way to the small toilet in the yard, I was distracted by puffs of smoke billowing out like steam from train funnels from the kitchen’s open windows. I peeped in, enticed by the wonderful smells. Bam! Bam! Cooks in stained aprons slammed cleavers into crispy pork crackling. Waitresses piled their trolleys with bamboo steamers and hot plates of sliced duck. Overhead, dead flies glued to brown paper strips twirled in the breeze, like ghastly decorative trophies.
In the back room, glimpsed through a half-open doorway, the lazy noon sun filtered through dusty blinds and cigarette smoke, highlighting the mah-jong players and giving the illusion of warmth. The elderly men laughed and swore and clashed their bricks.
Mr Lee came from the same village in China as my father, so he was considered family. He ambled through from the back, tucking a thick wad of notes into his wallet. This he placed in the inner pocket of his well-pressed suit. He was unusually tall and slightly stooped. I noticed his left leg dragged.
My father invited him to join us and we all squeezed up to make room. ‘Eat up, eat up!’ My mother exclaimed, thrusting food at him – sticky rice wrapped in vine leaves, barbecued spare ribs, pork buns. I eyed the last dim sum but she offered it to Mr Lee, the guest. He offered it back to my father and he pushed it back to Mr Lee. It was considered polite not to take the last piece. After much protestation, Mr Lee capitulated and, deftly picking up the dumpling with his chopsticks, he ceremoniously placed it on my plate.
‘Here,’ he said, smiling. ‘Eat up, little one.’ And everyone watched indulgently as, scarlet with embarrassment, I ate the treat. Instead of gulping it whole, as usual, I hid my greed behind delicate nibbles, savouring the succulent meat.
After the meal, the adults drank clear jasmine tea to refresh the palate. Mr Lee politely handed around the jar of toothpicks before taking one himself. He held one hand in front of his mouth as a shield while using the other hand to manipulate the stick. Even so, I caught a glimpse of gold-capped teeth. I was fascinated by such elegance.
Over the years, I learned a little more about him. He’d worked as a cook on the ships for the Blue Funnel Shipping Line, before marrying a Liverpool lass and settling down. After three years of struggling against public prejudice his wife left, unable to cope any longer with her family’s censure. If mixed marriages were frowned upon in the 1940s, divorce was even more shameful. Mr Lee was damned by society either way. He never remarried, although he was considered a hard worker and therefore a good catch.
People talked about him. When he stayed at a boarding house, he kept the occupants awake by flashing his torch into the corners of the dormitory every hour. If he entered a strange building, he’d freeze at the door and scan inside until he was sure it was safe. It caused chaos in department stores.
He became a frequent visitor to our house. After my initial shyness, I was always by his side, waiting patiently until the adults had finished their conversation.
I never realized how poor we were, just that my mother shouted and cried when I pestered her for the toy cars and trains that the other children boasted about in school. One particular day after another scolding, I crept behind the sofa and eased my sore heart by picking at the mouse holes in the material.
I heard Mr Lee arrive but I was still too aggrieved to venture out, even when he called for me. The sofa moved as he sat down and I shuffled closer to the wall to make room. A few minutes later a bag of mixed sweets dropped on my head. It had my favourites: pineapple chunks.
Mr Lee listened as I poured out my woes. Instead of telling me toys were useless, as I’d expected, he showed me how to make windmills, boats and fortunetellers out of paper. He mixed boiled rice and water to glue planes together. In return, I astonished him with my prowess at the times table and spelling ‘a-p-p-1-e’.
He was astounded at my cleverness but insisted I remember my native tongue. ‘Speak in Cantonese,’ he said, ‘or you’ll forget who you are.’
I ignored his advice. I thought I knew best and, most importantly, I wanted to fit in. Foreign syllables crowded out my infant language. Now I struggle to understand my parents.
At that time though, I was content to perch on the table – cross-legged like a sticky Buddha – and relive Mr Lee’s childhood through his tales.
Together, we meditated as the sun rose over the misty Guilin Mountains. I, too, tied glowing lanterns to kites and watched them soar across the night sky like shooting stars. During the Dragon Boat Festival, I leapt and slithered on muddy banks with the other urchins, all hoarse from screaming while urging on our favourite teams. When the snows fell, we celebrated the Winter Solstice. The whole village gorged on wonton soup, nine-layer cakes, toasted sesame seeds and savoury pork buns the size of spinning plates used by jugglers.
Then life changed.
Mr Lee seldom talked about the Japanese occupation but opened up when I told him how the other boys sometimes bullied me. ‘I fled to Malaya during the night, straight into the arms of the invading Japanese. They were like locusts, stripping the land bare. People hid in the woods and starved when winter came. The babies had matchstick arms and legs, with swollen bellies. They were too weak even to cry properly. We knew that the army, stationed in the next village, had many animals: pigs and chickens stolen from the peasants. One of us would have to steal some food and make it look like they had escaped. Now, the penalty for stealing was harsh. A thief would have his or her hand chopped off. We decided to draw straws and the one who had the short straw would have to go.’
Mr Lee paused, as if he could still see the wartime scene again. ‘I looked around. I could see everyone was scared but determined. The men were either old or lads like myself. I chose the short straw on purpose.’
He smiled. ‘I was always quick with my eyes and hands. Ai-ya, we ate well that night.’ He sucked his false front teeth appreciatively. ‘Yet one time I was not quick enough. The youngsters were rounded up and forced to cook for the army. The Japanese had captured some British soldiers, who were made to work on the railways. They called them evil names and had them tied, beaten and starved. I think, deep down, they were frightened of the white men and believed swift, brutal treatment would break them.’
Secretly, each day, Mr Lee would sneak some rice from his meagre portion to the poor white men, but one afternoon he was caught and beaten until he resembled raw meat. ‘I was not killed – I was too useful – but beaten savagely and paraded as an example to others. It was not personal; the guards were following orders. They knew the consequences of disobeying. That is why I am deaf in one ear. One leg healed badly, but I am alive and that is what counts. Even then, I did not regret. I was not beaten inside and that is important.’
He stretched out his hands, turning them to show his work-worn palms and scarred, tanned backs: badges of courage.
‘So I should let them hit me?’ I asked, puzzled.
Mr Lee laughed so much he started hiccuping and I ran for a glass of water.
‘You accept what you cannot change,’ he said, when he had recovered, ‘but you do not let it kill your spirit. As for the boys, they follow one leader, and if you challenge his position and win, they will not bully you any more.’
He then taught me several moves that my parents would have disapproved of. When the older boys picked on me again, I stood up to the biggest and floored him. Mr Lee was right; they backed down and even asked if I wanted to join their gang.
Mr Lee was a popular player, gracious in defeat or victory. When it was my parents’ turn to host the mah-jong evenings, I’d scuttle under the plastic tablecloth before the guests arrived. Nestling between the carved barley-twist legs, I was content to draw spit patterns in the worn lino with grubby fingers and lay claim to any stray coins that dropped from above. There was always quite a hoard around Mr Lee’s chair.
I fell asleep during one of these marathon gambling sessions and woke up with a start. Woodbine smoke drifted in front of the coal fire. Occasionally, the embers would splutter and explode like mini firecrackers, shooting hot cinders through the grate.
Mr Lee was speaking softly. The older generation were very superstitious and enjoyed telling ghost stories around the table, comfortably sipping rice wine from thimble-sized cups.
‘Ai-ya, listen to this. After the war, I lied about my age and joined the shipping line. A handful of us had to cook for hundreds. On my first voyage, I felt drunk. My head whirled and throbbed and my stomach yo-yoed while we sweated in the steaming galley. After each shift, exhausted and bilious, I collapsed into a heavy sleep – no dreams, just blessed peace.
‘One sweltering mid-afternoon, the older men invited me to play cards in the stores cupboard, but I craved sleep. I could always lose my wages in another break.
‘I dozed on and off, my leg cramped and stiff. Suddenly, a child giggled.
‘ “Strange,” I thought, “no child should be on board and certainly not down here. Perhaps it is an officer’s child.” And I looked up and saw with my very own eyes a little boy scamper past the bunks – a bright lad with round cheeks and eyes like berries. By the time I’d woken up properly and got to my feet, he had disappeared. I asked around, but no one else had seen this little boy. They laughed at me and said I must have dreamt it. When I asked the ship’s main cook, he went very pale – which is difficult for a Chinese man. He made this sign.’
From under the table, I heard a collective gasp as Mr Lee demonstrated. I think it must have been a protective gesture to ward off evil. (My parents would not tell me afterwards, but berated me for listening.)
‘The cook was reluctant to talk, but I persisted and he gave in. “Some years ago,” he whispered, “there was a family travelling on board the ship: mother, father and son. He was a friendly child, always chatting to the sailors and showing them his wooden doll. Only one of the deck hands ignored him, but he was a surly man and didn’t like anyone.
‘ “One stormy day, the little boy disappeared. His doll was found tangled up in ropes by the rails. The waves must have swept him overboard. The mother went mad with grief and ripped out whole handfuls of hair like this.” ’
Mr Lee suddenly wailed: an unearthly banshee wail that made me jump and shiver. I could almost see the poor woman clutching bloodied clumps.
‘The cook leaned closer. I smelled garlic and rum on his breath. He said, “The deck hand was blamed for not tying up the ropes properly. He took to drink and eventually hanged himself. Since then, those who have seen this child running through the ship are cursed. Evil spirits are said to follow…” Here, the old chef paused, visibly quaking.
‘ “Yes,” I urged, “follow what?”
‘The cook gulped. I could barely hear his whisper. “Spirits follow them – even those who listen to this tale.” ’
The coals spat and crackled, shifting in a flurry of ash. A flame devil leered at me from the charred embers. Fiery claws lashed out. My heart stopped and I edged away from Mr Lee’s chair. There was a horror-struck silence, broken only by a guffaw from Mr Lee. ‘That was over twenty years ago and I am still waiting for the spirits to appear. Perhaps it is the English rain that is the bad thing, for it certainly punishes my aching leg!’
Everyone laughed and the delicious fear faded away in the refilling of glasses and cups.
Like his contemporaries, Mr Lee had a fund of stories about his rich and varied history, but these are the ones that stay in my heart. Isn’t it strange how childhood memories are so vivid: clearer, indeed, than the blurred years that follow? The past sticks, like the rice glue.
I moved away and, as teenagers often do in their frantic desire to seek new experiences and meet different people, I eagerly shook off the past and quickly lost touch with my roots. What could the old possibly have to teach us?
A few years ago, my mother happened to mention that Mr Lee had died. I had not seen or heard of him for a long time, but the news, so casually included with other snippets of gossip, gave me a pang of sorrow and a strange forlorn sense of something precious lost.
Perhaps, in these present days of commercialism, hatred and haste I finally appreciate the old values of honour, patience and courage. I’m not quite sure if it’s as simple as that. I just know that, even now, I can taste that last dim sum and still feel warmed by Mr Lee’s kindness and generosity of spirit.