Mr Sun Goes Home
By
Doug Hilditch
The
station was quite crowded when Mr Sun arrived. He paid the taxi driver and
wheeled the large, Samsonite suitcase across the concourse until he was in
front of the huge Arrivals and Departures Information Board. He lowered the end
of the suitcase and placed his small overnight bag beside it on the floor.
Gazing up,
he marvelled at the letters and numbers flashing before him as the board
announced the departure of one train and the arrival of another.
The train
he intended to catch was displayed on the board but there was no platform
number shown. He stood patiently, gazing around and smiling to himself. He was
in a good mood. He had one last job to do and then he was going home.
Despite the
fact that he had lived in London for twenty-seven years, home to Woo Lee Sun
was Kowloon, the seaport and peninsula of Hong Kong, adjoining the Kwangtung
province of South China.
He had
tired of working long hours selling silk cloth and thread to the many clothing
manufacturers throughout kowloon and so, in 1969, he and his wife and son had
come to England and started a Chinese Restaurant.
Situated
not a mile from King’s Cross station, Mr
Sun’s Chinese Restaurant had been a modest affair but was a novelty in the
less-fashionable part of London’s Pentonville district. Seating only thirty
people it had been full most nights and, within three years, Mr Sun’s had moved to bigger and better
premises nearer the West End.
The family
still worked hard but now it was for their own benefit, not some employer’s.
And the benefits were good. So good, in fact, that soon Mr Sun had been able to
purchase a Morris 1000 van. The van enabled him to collect fresh meat and
vegetables direct from the markets instead of buying from a supplier, thereby
saving money and maximising profits.
For a few years they were a happy and contented
family but, in 1974, at the tender age of thirteen, their son Lee Ho was
tragically killed whilst riding his bicycle home from school.
Mr Sun closed the restaurant for a week and
comforted his poor distraught wife. He also felt a great loss but, seeing so
many relatives and friends die at the hands of the Japanese during the war, he
found it hard to grieve.
His wife, Wei-Wei, had spent several months in a
very withdrawn state. She would not eat properly, could not sleep properly and
would not speak to him. It was almost as if she blamed him for the loss of her
precious Lee Ho.
When she did finally finish grieving she was not the
same woman he had married.
Gazing now at the large, black Information Board he
thought about the beautiful, tiny, sixteen-year-old virgin, ten years his
junior, that he had married in 1948. Her family had arranged, with his family,
for the couple to meet, as was customary. They were both very shy and
embarrassed but were given every encouragement to take tea together, but only
at her Aunt Ming’s house, and walk together, but only in Aunt Ming’s garden,
until he plucked up the courage to ask her to marry him.
It later transpired that Wei-Wei’s Aunt Ming was a
great friend of Dr Lo’s wife who lived next door to his grandmother. They had
conspired to bring the couple together and were very pleased with themselves at
the success of their matchmaking.
Snapping back to the present, Mr Sun suddenly
realised that many of the people around him were moving forward. Looking up at
the board he noticed that a large 7 had appeared beneath the word Platform on
the section listing the stations, between London and Edinburgh, to be visited
by the train he was to catch, he also saw that it was to depart in twenty
minutes.
Picking up his overnight bag, he hoisted the corner
strap of the suitcase and wheeled it towards Platform 7. As he trundled along
the platform he passed two uniformed men talking. One, who had been watching Mr
Sun’s progress along the platform, spoke to him as he approached.
“You can stick yer case in the Guard’s Van if yer
like, Mate. It’ll be okay there an’ yer won’t ’ave to lug it around the train
will yer?”
“Oh, fank you verr much,” replied Mr Sun, smiling
and bowing gratefully.
The Guard stepped forward and lifted the case into
the open doorway of the Guard’s Van.
“Cor blimey! What yer got in ’ere, ’arf a ton of
’ouse bricks?”
Mr Sun laughed and nodded.
A little further along the platform, Mr Sun boarded
the train. He walked along the carriages until he found an unoccupied
compartment, which he entered, closing the door silently behind him. Placing
his overnight bag on the luggage rack, he took off his coat and folded it over
the bag. On top of this he placed his hat. Taking the window seat, with his
back to the engine, he sat down and watched the other would-be passengers
milling about on the platform.
He had never been to Edinburgh before but it was far
enough away from London for what he had to do.
As a family they had always been too busy with the
restaurant to venture too far from London. In the early years they had not had
too many holidays and after Lee Ho had died Mr Sum found that he could not
stand to be in the sole company of his wife for very long.
He thought again of the young girl he had married
back in the summer of 1958. She had been happy and carefree and every time he
looked into her small, beautiful, smiling face his heart almost stopped. When she
told him she was to have a child he was the happiest man in Kowloon. Their
first child, Ming-Wei, a beautiful baby daughter with her mother’s heart-shaped
face, was born on 10 October 1959 and died on 15 November 1960 of pneumonia.
They were both heart-broken, of course, but by March
1961, Wei-Wei learned that she was expecting again and things looked happier.
Lee Ho’s birth was not without its problems though. Wei-Wei was advised by the
doctors not to try for any more babies, as it would be too dangerous for her.
Lee Ho grew into a very strong, healthy child who
was adored by both his parents.
Since his sad demise Wei-Wei had changed beyond
recognition. She was no longer the dutiful wife. She nagged Mr Sun incessantly
and he could do nothing right, in her eyes. For twenty-two years she moaned and
dominated him and told him how unhappy she was and how he had failed her.
Mr Sun had put up with it, after all she was his
wife and she grieved for their son, he had to make allowances.
Last May, on his sixty-third birthday, he had spent
a particularly miserable evening, in the company of his wife and a few friends,
and it suddenly occurred to him how few real friends he actually had. Apart
from David Chang and the Choi family they didn’t have that many close friends,
they were always too busy with the restaurant.
He was getting too old for all that work. A man in
his position should be thinking of retirement, not working fifteen hours of
every day. The trouble was, apart from Wei-Wei, he had no family in England and
very few friends. He started to think more of his family and friends in Kowloon
and before long decided he wanted to return home. If he sold the restaurant as
a going concern, and he’d had one or two good offers from some of the other
Chinese businessmen in London already, he and Wei-Wei could return to Hong Kong
and live the rest of their days in comfort. Or better still, move over onto the
Chinese mainland to the outskirts of Kwangchow, where it was cheaper, and they
could live in luxury.
Unfortunately, his biggest mistake was to mention
his thoughts to Wei-Wei. He had begun to wonder if she would ever calm down.
How could he think of throwing away all they had built up? How could he
contemplate going back to China, with its communist regime and its narrow-minded
attitudes towards civil liberties? And, worst of all, how could he even think
about moving away from the country where his poor son, Lee Ho, was buried? No,
she was adamant, she would never leave her son.
Suddenly, the door of the compartment opened,
startling Mr Sun from his reverie. He looked up to see a huge woman, wearing a
voluminous red dress, blocking the doorway. She turned sideways to get through
the door and as she turned towards him she smiled.
“Scusi, canna you ’elpa me?” She held forth a
battered green suitcase.
Mr Sun leapt to his feet, bowed and, taking the
proffered suitcase, lifted it up onto the luggage rack next to his own
belongings.
“Tanka you, I amma oblige,” she smiled as she eased
her considerable bulk onto the bench opposite. Mr Sun bowed again and returned
to his seat. As he did so the train gave a lurch and began to slowly move along
the platform.
“Is good we leava London, I don’ta lika London.”
Mr Sun regarded his travelling companion through his
gold-rimmed spectacles. She was a formidable-looking figure. Large, round face,
black curly hair, bright red lipstick, which looked like she had been slashed
across the face, and her extremely fat stature. She was a match for any man.
He smiled and nodded agreement. He didn’t mind
London; he just thought it wise to avoid disagreeing with her.
“You go to Ediburra? Is beautiful, is better than
London.”
“Yes,” he smiled enthusiastically.
“You go thera before?”
“No.”
“My son, he liva dere. I leava Italy two year ago an
com liva wid hima. He has beautiful restaurante, bella. Is verr beatiful,
Ediburra, buta blooda cold ina winter.”
Mr Sun beamed across at the woman.
“I too have restaurant. In London, Chinese
restaurant.”
“Eh, una coincidenza. Maria Francesca Ruffini,” she
thrust out her right hand by way of introduction.
“Woo Lee Sun,” he grinned and bowed his head as her
huge fat hand engulfed his own small delicate fingers.
Where she had sat down her dress had ridden up over
her knees and as Mr Sun bowed his head he could not help noticing how slim her
legs were. It was a very strange phenomenon that extremely obese women often
had slender andsometimes, shapely legs. Mr Sun permitted himself a small giggle
at the thought. Maria Francesca Ruffini took this as an invitation and laughed
heartily with him. The thought that she did not know what he was laughing at
made it all the more funny so he allowed himself another small giggle.
“Why you go Ediburra den?” suddenly she was serious
again.
“I go on business.”
“You go start restaurante in Ediburra?”
“No,” he laughed, “I have sold restaurant in London.
I go back home to Kowloon, Hong Kong.”
“Whya you go backa China?”
“I retire. I am too old to run a restaurant. I want
to go home to family and friends and live quietly.”
“Huh, Mena! Alla you mena wanta to do isa retire.
Women, we don retire. We still hava to cookina, washa da clothes, fixa da
housa. We donna geta no retire. You marry? Chillren?”
“No,” his smile faded and he gazed out of the
window.
Signora Ruffini realised she had hit on a touchy
subject so brought the conversation to a close.
“Oh well, I sleepa now. Is a longa way, Ediburra,”
and with that she laid down, as best she could, across the seat.
The train sped on past allotments, sewerage works,
all through the seedier parts of towns and villages seen only by rail
passengers, and on out into the Hertfordshire countryside. Mr Sun looked at it
all without taking any of it in.
He was thinking about home, Kowloon. How he longed
to get back amongst his own people, speaking his own language. Wei-Wei and he
had always spoken to each other in Cantonese but, apart from the two older
members of the Choi family, they had had to speak in English to everyone else.
Even David Chang was second-generation English-Chinese and could only speak
English and that with a north London accent.
He looked across at the sleeping woman opposite and
wondered if she wished she could return to Italy.
Wei-Wei had been adamant that she would not leave
England. He tried to reason with her but to no avail. He painted a wonderful
picture to show how, with all their money, they could live like royalty,
but she would not listen and when he told her he intended putting the
restaurant up for sale she told him she would do everything she could to stop
him.
The restaurant had been sold a week ago and
yesterday all the appropriate forms had been signed and witnessed. He did not
need Wei-Wei’s signature as the property was solely in his name, which was
right and proper. After the formal exchange of contracts and keys Mr Sun had
gone around to bid his farewells to the Choi family. They had enquired after
Wei-Wei and he had explained that she had departed some days earlier while he
stayed behind to tidy up his business affairs. He had apologised for the fact
that she had not said goodbye as she was upset about leaving and did not want
to make it harder. They understood and told him that Wei-Wei and he would be
sorely missed.
Mr Sun looked at his watch, a present from his
employees on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday. He was booked on to the
19:27 hours flight from Heathrow to Kai Tak International Airport, on the
northern shore of Kowloon Bay, the following evening. He had just enough time
to do what he needed to do and return to London in time to check in.
Signora Ruffini snored gently as her great bulk
spilled across the bench seat like a partly deflated hot-air balloon. Her
immense bosom making her face play peek-a-boo as she breathed.
Before he knew it Mr Sun too had fallen asleep,
dreaming of his childhood in Hong Kong.
The family was originally from Kwangchow but, in the
late ’30s, his father, an ex-mineworker for a mineral company in Kwangtung
province, moved his family to Hong Kong, in the belief that things would be
more prosperous in the British colony.
He had died a few years later at the
hands of the Japanese, but the family had stayed and prospered. They had rented
a large apartment in Kowloon where Woo Lee, his mother and two sisters had
lived happily for many years.
After he had married, Mr Sun moved, with his new bride,
to a smaller apartment of their own. It was more customary for newly-weds to
live with, either the groom’s or bride’s, parents, at least for the first few
years, but Mr Sun decided he wanted to start his new life with just his
beautiful Wei-Wei, at least for the time being.
Life had been good but they had worked very hard
and, at the first opportunity, they had come to England to start a business
venture of their own.
And now, he was going home.
Mr Sun was unaware of how long he slept on that
train journey. All he knew was that when he awoke the train had already crossed
the border into Scotland and that Signora Ruffini was no longer in the
carriage. Her suitcase was still on the luggage rack though, which meant she
could not be far away.
He looked out of the window but saw only the
reflection of the interior of the compartment. Outside it was pitch dark and
all intelligent beings had long since taken to their beds.
In the reflection he saw a large, red shape
materialise behind him and turned to see Signora Ruffini easing her way,
sideways, into the compartment, her stomach and backside touching the doorframe
on either side as she did so. In each hand she carried a small, brown
carrierbag with the word Buffet emblazoned across the sides.
With a huge expulsion of air she flopped onto the
seat opposite him.
“I not know you is awaking, or I geta somthin’ for
you too,” she smiled.
“No matter,” Mr Sun returned her smile.
Despite owning a restaurant, Mr Sun was not a big
eater, as was evident by his small frame, but he could not help thinking that
he would have retired, a multi-millionaire, years ago if all his customers had
been blessed with Signora Ruffini’s capacity for food.
He watched in sheer admiration as she munched her
way through three packs of sandwiches, an apple turnover and a slice of fruit
cake, all helped down with a large, cardboard cup of hot, black coffee.
“Thas better,” she sighed, taking a Mars bar from
one of the bags and tearing the end off the wrapper with her teeth.
Taking an enormous bite and wiping the back of her
hand across her mouth, to remove a strand of caramel that dangled from her
bottom lip, she looked up at Mr Sun.
“Scusi, I nota think. Woulda you lika. I hava
another chocolate in ’era.” She reached again for the little carrierbag.
“No, no. It is all right. I am not hungry. Thank
you,” Mr Sun protested.
“When you in Ediburra you musta come to my son’sa
restaurante. Is call Paolo’s, is ina
Rosa Street. Is verra good fooda. You lika verra much.”
“Yes, thankyou. I will try to do that.”
“How longa you hava restaurante ina London.”
“Twenty-seven years,” he replied.
“Blooda hell. Thas long time. My Paolo, he have
restaurante only six year.”
She looked seriously at the little Chinaman in front
of her.
“If you liva so longa ina London, how come you wanna
go backa China?”
“I miss my family and friends, my culture, my
language. I miss my own people.”
Signora Ruffini looked at the wall above his head
and nodded slowly.
“I know whata you saya. Is verra difficul for a me
hera. I coma because I ama neara my Paolo. He’sa my onaly boy an a boy needsa
his mama. He coma hera for a the university buta, he wanna stay. I missa my
peoples too. I no lika speaka this Ingliss. Is too blooda difficul.”
They sat in silence for a while, each in their own
thoughts.
The compartment door slid open with a bang, making
them both jump. The Guard stood in the doorway looking down at them both.
“We’ll be arrivin’ in Edinburgh in firty-five
minutes folks,” he announced cheerily. “Don’t fergit to collect yer case Mate.”
“Yes, thank you,” Mr Sun smiled up at him.
The Guard made his exit, closing the door behind
him.
Half an hour later, as predicted, the train started
to slow down for it’s approach to Waverley Station. Mr Sun took this as his cue
and rose to his feet.
“I must go and retrieve my luggage,” he smiled,
lifting down his coat and overnight bag. He also lifted down Signora Ruffini’s
case, placing it on the seat he had just vacated. Putting on his coat, he
picked up his bag and held out his hand to Signora Ruffini.
“I have very much enjoyed our meeting,” he said
affably, as she grasped his hand firmly, “I hope it will not be long before you
too can return to be with your own people again.”
Signora Ruffini looked into his eyes and the scarlet
gash across her face widened as she sensed his sincerity.
“Yes, thanka you. Is nice. Don forget. You coma
visit Paolo’s restaurante.”
“Yes, I will try.” Of course, Mr Sun had no
intention of visiting Paolo’s and,
deep down, Signora Ruffini knew he wouldn’t. She watched as he turned and left
the compartment. There was an air of sadness about the little man.
Mr Sun reached the Guard’s Van just as the train
came to a halt. The Guard had already opened the doors to the carriage and was
sliding Mr Sun’s suitcase towards the opening when he looked up and saw the
Chinaman.
“There yer go Mate, one case of bricks.”
“Sorry?” Mr Sun looked puzzled and then remembered
the man’s joke earlier.
“Oh, yes. Very good,” he laughed.
The Guard lifted the case down onto the platform and
Mr Sun climbed down after it. He thanked the man once more and wheeled his
luggage towards the ticket office.
Further along the train he looked up to see Signora
Ruffini, who had struggled down the steps with her suitcase, rudely pushed to
one side by a young man who ran off up the platform, in pursuit of a beautiful
blonde girl, dressed in black.
Signora Ruffini sent the young man on his way with a
stream of Italian which, even though he could not speak a word of the language,
Mr Sun knew would not be complimentary. He smiled to himself.
Slowing down, he allowed Signora Ruffini to compose
herself and followed at a discrete distance as she waddled up the platform.
He emerged from the station foyer in
time to see Signora Ruffini vigarously embracing a slim effeminate-looking
young man, whom Mr Sun took to be her beloved Paolo. He watched as she squeezed
her bulk into the back of an ageing Ford Escort, her son taking his place
behind the wheel. Only after they had turned the corner and disappeared from
view did he look around.
The young man who had pushed Signora Ruffini was
standing a few yards away from him, looking rather forlorn. Mr Sun thought that
pushing the woman was out of character, he seemed quite a presentable chap. He
supposed that the young woman had been his girlfriend and that they had had a
disagreement, which would account for his sadness.
At last, three taxis arrived at the same time and
pulled to a halt in front of the station. The young man climbed into the first
and Mr Sun approached the second. The driver got out to put his customer’s
suitcase in the boot.
“Christ,” he exclaimed, “wa’ ya got in here?”
Mr Sun said nothing as he climbed into the back of
the cab.
“Where to?” asked the driver as he got in.
“The airport please.”
It took twenty minutes to reach the airport and the
driver spent the whole trip telling his passenger about the sights and
pleasures of Edinburgh. Mr Sun said nothing for the duration of the journey, he
had other things on his mind.
At the airport terminal Mr Sun paid the driver and
wheeled his heavy suitcase through the automatic entrance doors. Once inside,
he walked purposefully to the information desk.
The pretty redhead smiled as he approached.
“Can I help you?” she asked brightly.
Mr Sun was surprised that anyone could be so sparkly
at this time of the morning. He smiled back.
“Can you tell me where the lockers are, please?” he
enquired.
“Just down there, to your right,” she had a
soft-spoken Scottish accent that complimented her looks.
Thanking her, he set off in the direction she had
indicated.
He found the rank of left-luggage lockers, just as
she had said, and walked along to the farthest row. Choosing one of the big
lockers on the bottom row, he opened the metal door.
It took him a little while to manoeuvre the large
Samsonite suitcase into the locker, but it fitted with hardly any room to
spare. He read the instructions, on the inside of the door, carefully before
inserting a pound coin, closing the door and withdrawing the key. He rattled
the door twice, just to make sure it was locked, and put the key into his
pocket.
With a big sigh, he picked up his overnight bag and
headed for the Gents cloakroom.
At this time of the day he had the room to himself
so, hanging his coat on a peg just inside one of the cubicles, he went to the
nearest sink and ran the taps.
After a wash and shave he felt refreshed so,
gathering up his belongings once more, went in search of somewhere where he
could get a cup of tea.
The cardboard cup of vending-machine tea did not
taste much like tea to him but at least it was drinkable. He looked at his
watch, he had another four hours to wait and was beginning to wish he had
booked a room in an hotel.
The time passed slowly but Mr Sun did not mind, he
was a patient man. When three hours were up he put his coat back on, picked up
his bag and walked briskly to the check-in desk. He took his ticket out of his
coat pocket and handed it to the check-in girl. She tapped the keys on her
computer and printed out some sticky labels that she stuck to his ticket and a
boarding card. She handed both cards back to him.
“Have a pleasant fight, Sir,” she smiled.
Mr Sun smiled and nodded and picking up his bag
walked into the departure lounge.
Forty-five minutes late he looking down over the
Scottish countryside on his way to London’s City Airport.
Back at his house, in London, he collected together
what other belongings he planned to take with him and called for a taxi. He had
already taken two suitcases of old clothes, mostly Wei-Wei’s, and one or two
other bits and pieces, to the local charity shop. This meant he only had his
briefcase, overnight bag, a small flight bag and two suitcases.
The taxi took him first to his landlord’s house,
where he handed over the keys and thanked the man profusely, for allowing him
to rent the house. The landlord assured him that the Suns had been his best
tenants and hoped they would have a long and happy retirement.
His next stop was at his solicitor’s office to sign
one or two last documents, regarding the sale of the restaurant and stock. The new
owners had even bought the rights to keep the name Mr Sun’s as it was so well known. He then went on to David Chang’s.
He spent an hour with his oldest friend and was very
sorry that he would probably never see him again. He felt he had to say goodbye
properly, so they spent the time reminiscing as they walked around the park.
Then, returning to Chang’s house, where he had left his luggage, he ordered
another taxi.
A short distance from Chang’s, Mr Sun asked the
driver to stop for a moment outside the florist’s, where he bought a large
bunch of Lilies. They then continued on to the cemetery.
Kneeling beside the grave of his son, Mr Sun gently
laid the flowers on the chippings beneath the headstone. Sitting back on his
heels, he took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes.
“Goodbye my son. I shall never forget you. Even
though I shall be many miles away, you will be forever in my heart.”
Kneeling in silence for a minute, he then got up and
returned to his waiting taxi.
“Heathrow,” he said as he climbed into the cab.
As usual the airport was busy and Mr Sun had to wait
before he could check in his luggage. At last his bags were sent on their way
and he returned to the lounge to continue waiting. An hour later he was
summoned to the departure lounge and, after twenty minutes, his flight was
called.
“Flight BA417, the 19:27 service to Kai Tak
International is now boarding at Gate number three. Passengers are requested to
have their boarding cards ready.” The mysterious girl on the intercom system
sounded as bored out of her brains as most of the waiting passengers were,
which was in sharp contrast to the excitement Mr Sun was presently
experiencing.
His heart pounded hard as he walked along the
corridor which projected over the tarmac and took him right to the door of the
aircraft.
“Good evening, Sir,” a pretty young stewardess
beamed at him, “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” he beamed back, giving her a little
bow.
Checking the number on his ticket, he made his way
down the gangway until he found his seat. He stowed his coat, briefcase and
flight bag in the overhead locker and took his seat next to the window.
It was already dark and he could see people, lining
the windows of the terminal building, watching the arrivals and departures of
the aeroplanes.
Within a short time they were taxiing along the
tarmac and, whilst the stewardesses demonstrated the oxygen masks and emergency
procedures, the flight crew manoeuvred the plane into its place at the head of
the runway awaiting clearance from Air Traffic Control.
The high-pitched whine of the four enormous jet
engines increased in volume as the pilots prepared for take-off.
At last, permission was granted and the huge jet
leaped forward, gathering speed as it raced down the runway. After, what seemed
like, only seconds, the nose of the aircraft lifted and the noise level dropped
slightly, they were airborne.
At an alarming angle, the plane banked slowly to the
left until it took up its allotted course, where it straightened up but
continued to climb.
Mr Sun took the locker key from his pocket and
looked at it for a moment before turning his gaze to the window where he saw,
for the last time, London, spread out below him.
“Goodbye, Wei-Wei,” he whispered, “I am so sorry.
Please take care of our son.”
And as he leaned back in his seat and closed his
eyes, a tear rolled slowly down his cheek.
