containers in a plastic bag. He looks at me and Josh and his mouth drops open.
I am almost weeping with pain. Josh is sprawled in one of the plastic chairs, leaning his head back, a bloody handkerchief over his face.
The old lady says something else in Cantonese, not quite so angry now. The old man looks at us for the first time. “Come,” he tells us.
The old man takes us through a side door next to the steam and clatter of the Shanghai Dragon’s tiny kitchen and up some stairs into a little self-contained flat where a number of Chinese people, big and small, are watching the TV movie about Charles and Diana.
They turn only mildly curious brown eyes our way as the old man leads us into a small bathroom and examines us with cold, expert fingers. My ribs are already turning purple but the old man tells me they are not cracked. But Josh’s nose seems to be growing sideways.
“Broken nose,” the old man says. “Have to go to hospital. But first push back in place.”
“Push what back in place?” Josh says. “You don’t mean my nose, do you?”
“Makes it better later,” the old man says. “Easier to fix for doctors. At hospital.”
Whimpering a bit and going oh-God-oh-God, Josh gingerly straightens his nose. Then the old lady is suddenly in the bathroom with us, almost crying with emotion, angrily ranting in English and Cantonese.
“What do they know?” the old lady says, “Drinking beer. Fighting. Saying dirty words. That’s all they know. These English. For goodness sake. I am at the end of my feather. Eating sweet and sour pork. And chips. Chips and dirty words with everything.”
“Not all English,” the old man says.
The old lady looks at us, not remotely embarrassed.
“I’m talking about bad English, husband,” she mutters. Then she smiles at us. “Want a cup of tea?” she says. “Cup of English tea?”
Her name is Joyce and his name is George. The Changs. He doesn’t say much. She doesn’t stop talking. Joyce is like a force of nature, wreaking havoc on any idiom that stands in her way, taking clichés and making them her very own.
“It’s just a storm in a tea pot … pretending butter wouldn’t melt in his trousers … dead as a yo-yo … I put my feet in it … don’t mince your thoughts … you have hit the nail on the nose … don’t be a silly willy!”
Joyce and George. They are the kind of English names that the Cantonese love to adopt – the names of kings and maiden aunts, the kind of English names that vanished from England decades ago. So far out of fashion that they are in danger of making a comeback.
George patches us up, rubbing Tiger Balm on my sore ribs and gently swabbing most of the dried blood from Josh’s face. Then Joyce, talking all the while, serves us tea and biscuits in the living room.
The room is full of family. There’s George and Joyce themselves and then their son Harold, the plump young man from the kitchen. There’s also Harold’s wife, Doris – another one of those Cantonese names that seems straight from Frinton, 1959 – a young woman in glasses who avoids our eyes. And there are Doris and Harold’s two children, a boy of five and a slightly older girl. We are not introduced to the children, although the old people make a continual fuss of them, George placing the girl on his lap and Joyce cuddling the boy as we all drink our tea – green for them, English for us – and we all watch the TV movie about Charles and Diana for a bit until the silence is broken by Joyce.
“What’s wrong with you?” she suddenly demands, sizing me up over the green tea. “Cat got your mouth?”
She is a strange old lady. And yet this flat full of Cantonese seems oddly familiar to me. Is it the way the television dominates the room? The way that three generations seem perfectly at ease with each other? Or is it just the sweet tea and biscuits happily consumed on a crowded, worn-out old sofa?
There’s something about this room that
I am almost weeping with pain. Josh is sprawled in one of the plastic chairs, leaning his head back, a bloody handkerchief over his face.
The old lady says something else in Cantonese, not quite so angry now. The old man looks at us for the first time. “Come,” he tells us.
The old man takes us through a side door next to the steam and clatter of the Shanghai Dragon’s tiny kitchen and up some stairs into a little self-contained flat where a number of Chinese people, big and small, are watching the TV movie about Charles and Diana.
They turn only mildly curious brown eyes our way as the old man leads us into a small bathroom and examines us with cold, expert fingers. My ribs are already turning purple but the old man tells me they are not cracked. But Josh’s nose seems to be growing sideways.
“Broken nose,” the old man says. “Have to go to hospital. But first push back in place.”
“Push what back in place?” Josh says. “You don’t mean my nose, do you?”
“Makes it better later,” the old man says. “Easier to fix for doctors. At hospital.”
Whimpering a bit and going oh-God-oh-God, Josh gingerly straightens his nose. Then the old lady is suddenly in the bathroom with us, almost crying with emotion, angrily ranting in English and Cantonese.
“What do they know?” the old lady says, “Drinking beer. Fighting. Saying dirty words. That’s all they know. These English. For goodness sake. I am at the end of my feather. Eating sweet and sour pork. And chips. Chips and dirty words with everything.”
“Not all English,” the old man says.
The old lady looks at us, not remotely embarrassed.
“I’m talking about bad English, husband,” she mutters. Then she smiles at us. “Want a cup of tea?” she says. “Cup of English tea?”
Her name is Joyce and his name is George. The Changs. He doesn’t say much. She doesn’t stop talking. Joyce is like a force of nature, wreaking havoc on any idiom that stands in her way, taking clichés and making them her very own.
“It’s just a storm in a tea pot … pretending butter wouldn’t melt in his trousers … dead as a yo-yo … I put my feet in it … don’t mince your thoughts … you have hit the nail on the nose … don’t be a silly willy!”
Joyce and George. They are the kind of English names that the Cantonese love to adopt – the names of kings and maiden aunts, the kind of English names that vanished from England decades ago. So far out of fashion that they are in danger of making a comeback.
George patches us up, rubbing Tiger Balm on my sore ribs and gently swabbing most of the dried blood from Josh’s face. Then Joyce, talking all the while, serves us tea and biscuits in the living room.
The room is full of family. There’s George and Joyce themselves and then their son Harold, the plump young man from the kitchen. There’s also Harold’s wife, Doris – another one of those Cantonese names that seems straight from Frinton, 1959 – a young woman in glasses who avoids our eyes. And there are Doris and Harold’s two children, a boy of five and a slightly older girl. We are not introduced to the children, although the old people make a continual fuss of them, George placing the girl on his lap and Joyce cuddling the boy as we all drink our tea – green for them, English for us – and we all watch the TV movie about Charles and Diana for a bit until the silence is broken by Joyce.
“What’s wrong with you?” she suddenly demands, sizing me up over the green tea. “Cat got your mouth?”
She is a strange old lady. And yet this flat full of Cantonese seems oddly familiar to me. Is it the way the television dominates the room? The way that three generations seem perfectly at ease with each other? Or is it just the sweet tea and biscuits happily consumed on a crowded, worn-out old sofa?
There’s something about this room that
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