Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [173]
She looked up at the wall clock. It was a quarter to three. She had plenty of time to take a short nap on a chair before going upstairs to dress for dinner. She put down the cake tin she had prepared, and suddenly felt searing pain biting into her knees. The pain was so savage that she slumped to the ground before she even had time to cry out. Kam Ho ran over to her. Drops of moisture squeezed out from between tight frown lines on Mrs.
Henderson’s face, whether tears or sweat he could not tell. Blood welled up—she had jabbed her fingernails into her temples.
Kam Ho stood frozen to the spot, then suddenly dropped to his knees, pulled her hands away from her face, and pinched the fleshy Tiger’s Mouth acupressure point between her thumb and index finger. Mrs. Henderson’s eyes widened in surprise as the pains in her knees gradually eased. Kam Ho pressed his lips together until they went white and his wrist trembled as if from cold. His whole circulation seemed concentrated in his pincer-like fingers, turning them into two livid sausages. Mrs. Henderson remained completely still; she was afraid that the slightest sound or movement on her part might call the pain back again.
After a while Kam Ho finally gave a sigh and released her hand. She stood up shakily, aware that the burn was still in her knees but was no longer so raw and painful. She looked up with an expression of relief to see Kam Ho’s face slowly cracking into a smile—his first since coming to her house.
“My mum … I …,” he stammered, gesturing into the far distance, then to his hand.
He was speaking in English.
She was so overcome by the pain, and then the relief, that at first she did not understand. It was only as she was limping up the stairs that she realized the boy must have been trying to tell her that his mother in faraway China had taught him how to soothe pain.
Mr. Henderson did not get home at six o’clock that day. In fact, it was a quarter to eight by the time he walked in. The dining room was in darkness, lit only by two red candles on the table. They had burned low and tears of melted wax poured down the silver candle holders. The candles formed hazy rings of light in which Mr. Henderson could make out two long-stemmed wineglasses.
“Phyllis, why are all the lights off?” he called out, flipping the switches on. In the electric light, the two candles were reduced to dim fireflies. Mr. Henderson saw that the table was laid for two: silver cutlery, gold-rimmed English bone china, monogrammed linen napkins and a lace tablecloth. His wife normally kept them in the display cabinet and rarely took them out for use; his mother-in-law had sent them from Yorkshire as wedding presents. In the corner between the kitchen and the dining room, a dark shape rustled. It was Kam Ho. He had been dozing on a footstool when the lights came on, dreaming some dream about his village and the river.
Kam Ho rubbed his eyes and stood up to take Mr. Henderson’s coat and hat. A smell hung around the garments. Mr. Henderson was snorting a bit like a water buffalo and his breath was heavy with alcohol. “What’s my wife got all this stuff out for?” he asked. Kam Ho did not know what to say and stood looking at his master mutely. Mr. Henderson took out his handkerchief and wiped a drop of spittle from the corner of Kam Ho’s mouth. “Where’s my wife?” he asked thickly. Kam Ho understood these words and he pointed upstairs.
They heard a rustling on the stairs, like the sound of locusts jumping from leaf to leaf. Mr. Henderson knew without looking round that this was the sound of his wife’s skirts brushing the floorboards.
“Why are you so late, Rick?”
Mr. Henderson glanced at his wife but was overtaken by a loud belch before he had had time to say anything. It was quite clear that this was not just a single solitary belch, but the standard-bearer for a multitude of others just waiting behind. There was no time to waste. He rushed to the toilet and shut the door firmly behind him.
Mrs. Henderson stood outside the toilet