Running on the Cracks Read online

  ‘Never mind. You’re a nice boy – I’m sure you’ll find a good woman.’

  ‘Hang on – what about your grandparents. Did they have a different name from you?’

  ‘My grandparents! My granny would definitely be too old for you. You’re such a funny boy! But I like nosy boys. Yes, my mum’s mum and dad do have a different surname. But why do you want to know?’

  ‘Please just tell me – I’ll explain afterwards.’

  ‘All right. It’s not a secret anyway. They’re called Mr and Mrs Mo.’

  That sick, disappointed feeling again.

  ‘OK. Well, sorry to bother you. The dumpling things are really good anyway.’

  Finlay turned to go.

  ‘No, don’t go yet, you nosy boy. It’s my turn to ask some questions.’

  ‘Well …’ Finlay wasn’t keen on this idea. ‘I can’t stay long.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘It’s Finlay. Anyway, I must go.’

  ‘Wait a minute. What about your cook friend? Is he Chinese?’

  ‘It’s not a he, it’s a she,’ said Finlay and then regretted it. Still, he hadn’t really given anything away. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back to the doughnut van.’

  ‘The doughnut van? So you’re a rival! Maybe a spy! Andy, I’ve caught a spy!’

  The boy who was handing out the flyers turned and grinned. He looked friendly, and Jacqueline was just teasing, but Finlay still felt uncomfortable.

  ‘See you then,’ he said gruffly, and turned back through the rain. He’d been away for longer than his allotted quarter of an hour and he hadn’t even spent Marina’s pound.

  ‘Well then?’ Marina asked him. ‘What’s it to be?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Our new savoury line.’

  ‘Oh yes. Maybe chips,’ mumbled Finlay. ‘But not with curry sauce – someone’s doing that already.’

  ‘Aye, we don’t want to end up knifed by a rival gang,’ said Marina. ‘Maybe chip butties. Or how about deep-fried pizza?’

  ‘Yes, could be good.’ Finlay turned his back and busied himself stirring the doughnut mixture. He wasn’t feeling chatty. He’d been so sure when he tasted that dumpling that he was on the right trail – specially when Jacqueline had said that they were quite a rarity in Glasgow. But he’d just been jumping to conclusions, like his maths teacher said he always did. He was a failure at mathematics, a failure as a detective, a failure as a friend.

  The next couple of hours passed slowly, with only a few doughnut and candyfloss sales. Marina continued to gaze morosely at the thriving hot-dog van, and Finlay brooded about dumplings and Chans.

  Towards noon there was a flurry of customers. ‘Get with it, Finlay. The sugar tray’s empty,’ Marina scolded him as she scooped out some more doughnuts from the hot oil.

  ‘Sorry.’ Finlay shook some sugar out of the canister and rolled the doughnuts in it, then put five of them in a bag. ‘That’s a pound,’ he said, turning round to the customer.

  ‘You see – I’ve tracked you down. I’m a spy too!’ It was the girl from the dumpling stall.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ was all Finlay could find to say.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your pal, Finlay?’ asked Marina.

  ‘This is Jacqueline Yeung, and this is Marina,’ said Finlay awkwardly.

  ‘Are you at Finlay’s school?’ Marina asked Jacqueline.

  ‘No, no, I’ve only just met him. He’s a nice boy, isn’t he, but so nosy! No, I’m at the art school. I’m nearly nineteen. I just look like a tiny kid,’ said Jacqueline. ‘No one ever lets me into clubs or pubs unless I have my passport with me. It makes me sick. Anyway, Finlay, you were going to tell me about your Chinese cook friend. Is she Chinese?’

  ‘Who’s that then, Finlay? I never knew you’d been hobnobbing with Chinese cooks.’

  Talk about being nosy! The pair of them were more than Finlay could take.

  ‘She’s just someone I vaguely know,’ he said.

  ‘And why were you so interested in my grandparents? Did you think they might be relations of your friend or something?’

  Jacqueline was a bit too bright for Finlay’s liking. Fortunately, Marina was now serving another customer, so Finlay didn’t have to worry about her overhearing. Maybe honesty was the best policy. He lowered his voice and said, ‘Yes. My friend’s grandparents run a restaurant too, or they used to do. But their name is Chan.’

  ‘Chan! Well, maybe they are related then. That’s my great uncle’s name – my granny’s brother. He was the one who started the restaurant, back in the sixties.’

  ‘Do you know if he had a son?’

  ‘Yes, he did. But he doesn’t like to talk about him. There was some family feud or something, and the son moved away.’ Jacqueline obviously noticed the excitement in Finlay’s face. ‘Why, does that fit in with your friend’s story? So maybe she’s related to me! A cousin or something! What’s her name? Does she go to your school?’

  ‘Er …’ Finlay had promised Leo he wouldn’t disclose her name or whereabouts to anyone.

  Marina had finished serving the customer. ‘Tongue-tied, are we, Finlay – that’s not like you. What’s happened to the persistent garrulousness of yours?’

  But Jacqueline sensed that Finlay didn’t want to talk in front of Marina. ‘Have you still got that flyer? Our number’s on it. Give us a ring, or get your friend to.’ And she was off.

  ‘What’s with you and all these Chinese lassies?’ asked Marina. ‘Remember that one you were chasing after? The one that took the doughnuts? And now this one seems to be chasing after you! And what about this Chinese chef – who’s she? Finlay? There you go again – persistent inattention.’

  Finlay said nothing, but his smile was the happiest one Marina had ever seen on his face.

  Chan Jing’s Letter

  64 Burn Street Glasgow

  October 21st

  Dear Mr Baldwin

  Thank you for your letter. A social worker from the Glasgow Centre for the Chinese Elderly is helping me to write this reply, as I am not very good at writing or reading English.

  You are right that my son Matthew stopped being my son when he chose to live together with the English woman you mention in your letter. I did not know they had a child. This child has not been to my house.

  Yours sincerely

  Chan Jing

  Yeung Conversation

  ‘Hello, Kim Yeung speaking.’

  ‘Oh, hi. Um, is Jacqueline there?’

  ‘No, she’s at the art school. I’m her mum. Who’s speaking please?’

  ‘I’m … well, I’m a friend of Finlay’s. He met Jacqueline at the Barras.’

  She’s a devil woman.

  Gonna burn, gonna burn my soul.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you very well. That music is very loud.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Mary, can you turn it down?’

  ‘We can’t turn down the dancing! Only the devil turns down the dancing!’

  ‘Could you tell me when Jacqueline will be in?’

  ‘Some time after four. Shall I give her a message?’

  I thought I was in heaven

  Till I looked into her eyes.

  Found my angel woman

  Was a devil in disguise.

  ‘Well, maybe you could say Finlay’s friend called.’ ‘I know who you are now! You’re the girl Jacqueline has been telling me about. She’s never stopped talking about you. She thinks you’re a cousin or something.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I’ve been trying to …’

  I took my father’s rifle,

  Shot her and she fell.

  Then I knew my devil woman

  Had dragged me down to hell.

  ‘Listen, why don’t we give Jacqueline a surprise? Why don’t you come round tomorrow? Come to 61 Burn Street.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit hard for me to … all right, yes! Yes, thank you very much. What time shall I come?’

  ‘Don’t go,
Leo! She’s at it! She’s devilish! Your woman’s devilish!’

  ‘Come around six. You can eat with us.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. And you can bring that wee boy if you like. Our Jacqueline keeps talking about him too.’

  ‘Thank you very much. That’s so kind of you. I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Don’t ask Sherlock. Sherlock mustnae meet the devil. She’s in with that Lorraine – they’re in it together. They’re at it!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s OK, that was just my friend Mary.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow at six.’

  Devil woman

  Gonna burn, gonna burn my soul.

  Leo – Burn Street

  Here it is – number 61 Burn Street. A red sandstone house, the second to last in a row of no-nonsense tenement buildings.

  There are no front gardens, but at the end of the road is a small grassy square. Through the railings I can see a dog lifting its leg against a tree.

  ‘Look, Finlay, it’s a sycamore!’

  ‘It looks more like an Alsatian to me.’

  ‘Not the dog, the tree, silly!’

  ‘So what? This isn’t a nature ramble.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? Dad said their house was near a big sycamore tree. Finlay, I think this is the right place!’

  Finlay rings the bell. I feel shaky, just like when I was changing in the station loo – that fear of the unknown.

  ‘I’ll buzz you up,’ comes a voice.

  A door on the first landing is opened by a pretty Chinese girl with her hair in a ponytail. Her eyes light on Finlay. ‘It’s you! My little spy. I should have guessed! Mum’s been playing one of her tricks on me – she said it was … oh, never mind. What a nice surprise anyway! Come in.’

  Inside the little hallway, she turns to me. ‘Sorry, I’m Jacqueline. I’m always gabbling away and forgetting to tell people the basic things. And you’re Finlay’s cook friend, but I haven’t even asked you your name.’

  Before I have time to answer, an older plumper version of Jacqueline appears and says, ‘Welcome, Finlay! Welcome, Finlay’s friend!’

  I hesitate a second. I’m so used to hiding my real name that I nearly say, ‘I’m Emma.’ But if these people are really my relations, it’s time to drop the paper-round disguise. ‘I’m Leonora,’ I say, ‘but everyone calls me Leo for short.’

  The name doesn’t seem to ring a bell with her. She replies, ‘And I’m Kim, Jacqueline’s mum.’

  ‘My trick-playing mum. She said you were going to be some boring old people from the community centre.’

  ‘Not a trick – a surprise.’ Kim looks pleased with herself. ‘Like I always say, surprise is the spice of the dumplings of life.’

  ‘Mum, don’t start up on the Chinese proverbs. In any case, Leo knows all there is to know about dumplings already, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘No, I don’t …’ I start to protest, but it’s difficult to get a word in edgeways with these two.

  ‘I am being so rude, not offering you tea straight away. I will go and make some. Jacqueline – you introduce our guests.’

  Kim disappears through one door off the hallway, and Jacqueline opens another. ‘The clan is in here,’ she says. ‘Well, most of them. Gran is in the kitchen and Dad works late on Tuesdays.’

  Two boys and a girl are sitting in front of a large television. They get up as we come in, and grin shyly. The girl looks about twelve, and the boys are maybe fourteen and sixteen.

  I feel shy too. So many new people, and I didn’t even know they existed. How are they related to me? And what about my grandparents – where are they?

  ‘Andy and Finlay, you met at the Barras, didn’t you. This is Leo, everyone. She’s a kind of cousin but I expect she’ll tell us all about that. Oh, and this is Suzanne, and this is Jonathan. Of course that’s just their English names. We’ve all got Chinese names too. I suppose you must have a Chinese name as well, Leo?’

  ‘My Chinese name is nearly the same as my English one – it’s Liu, but no one ever calls me that. Well, my dad used to …’

  They’re all looking at me expectantly, but I can’t bring myself to talk about Dad just now. How silly, when that’s why I’m here.

  ‘Cool pictures,’ says Finlay. Feeling grateful to him I turn and look at the wall behind the sofa.

  ‘Those are Jacqueline’s masterpieces,’ says the boy called Andy.

  There are three of them, and they are more like banners or painted silk shawls than straightforward pictures. The middle one shows a very long aeroplane with a face at every window. The two at each side are tall rather than long: the left-hand one is of a green hill covered in people and cows; on the right is a red house overhung by a tree with a bird perched on it and a fish and bell dangling from two of its branches.

  ‘They’re lovely. Do they tell a story?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jacqueline looks pleased to be asked, but Andy groans. ‘Oh no, now we’re going to get the running commentary.’

  ‘It’s my mum’s story really,’ says Jacqueline. ‘Maybe she’ll tell you later.’

  And here is Kim, with a lacquered tray of tiny dainty teacups. She turns off the television and pours out tea from a china pot with a bamboo handle. It’s Chinese tea, like Dad used to make, pale greenish yellow, with no milk or sugar. Finlay winces as he sips his. The younger boy, Jonathan, notices. ‘We’ve got some Irn Bru if you’d rather,’ he says, and now he and Finlay are drinking the disgusting fizzy stuff from orange-coloured cans and talking about hip hop and heavy metal. The ice is beginning to break.

  Jacqueline is perched beside me, on the arm of the sofa. ‘So, Leo, Finlay seems to think you’re a twig on our family tree. How come we’ve never known about you? Have you always lived in Glasgow? You don’t sound Scottish.’

  ‘How do you know what the poor girl sounds like?’ says Andy. ‘You ask her all these questions, but you never give her a chance to open her mouth.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. Embarrassingly, I can feel tears pricking my eyes. I’ve waited so long to meet these people and now I should be getting down to the nitty-gritty of working out who they are, and how they’re related to me. But I just feel so overwhelmed.

  Jacqueline must see the budding tears. She pats my arm. ‘Sorry, Leo, I forgot – you really want to hear Mum’s story, don’t you?’

  ‘I think there is a lot of storytelling to be done,’ says Kim. ‘But remember the proverb – “The one who talks too much will have to eat cold food.” ’

  Jacqueline rolls her eyes. ‘Why don’t you just lead us to the hot food then, Mum, instead of talking in ancient Chinese proverbs?’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have a proper dining room,’ Kim apologises, as we follow her across the hallway towards some wonderful smells.

  Inside the large kitchen/dining room, an elderly lady is bowing and smiling. My heart gives a sudden jump – can this be her? Granny, Grandma, whatever I’m supposed to call her?

  But, ‘This is my mother,’ says Kim. ‘I think she is maybe a kind of aunt for you. You can call her Auntie Luli.’

  The old lady smiles again, and gestures towards a table in an alcove.

  A sumptuous spread of food is laid out. In the centre is a whole chicken, complete with beak and claws. Actually, it’s not really a whole chicken – when you look closely you can see it’s been chopped into pieces and then reassembled.

  ‘Leo, you sit next to Suzanne, then you can do some eating, not just talking,’ says Kim. Suzanne smiles shyly as she sits down beside me. On my other side is Finlay, and next to him sits Jacqueline.

  Around the chicken are six or seven dishes of food, and every place has its own little bowl of rice and pair of chopsticks.

  ‘Maybe you would like a knife and fork?’ suggests Suzanne in a whispery voice.

  ‘No, I’m used to chopsticks,’ I say.

  ‘Please help yoursel
ves,’ says Kim.

  I can see that Finlay is scanning the table for something familiar-looking.

  ‘If it moves, eat it!’ says Jacqueline with a laugh. When Finlay tries unsuccessfully to laugh along, she pats his arm and says, ‘I’m only teasing you. There are no sea slugs or beetles here! I’ll tell you what everything is.’ She rattles off the names of the dishes but I only take in a few of them: tofu with pickled cabbage, shredded pork with Chinese radish, and steamed eggs with dried scallops.

  This definitely beats Mary’s banquet; it looks more like the food Dad used to cook, but there’s so much of it! And Auntie Luli keeps bringing more dishes: a salad of lotus roots, some pieces of spicy lamb on the bone.

  If only I felt hungrier! If only my ridiculous nerves would stop gnawing at my stomach!

  The chicken disappears quite quickly, but now an enormous boiled fish has replaced it as the centrepiece.

  ‘Have an eye, Finlay!’ says Jacqueline. ‘They’re the best part – they’ll make you such a clever boy at school.’ She laughs when he looks horrified. Instead, she gouges out one of the fish eyes and passes it to Auntie Luli, who is at last sitting down with us. The old lady pops it in her mouth, then smiles and points to her own eyes. ‘Good for see,’ she says.

  ‘My mother doesn’t speak much English, sorry,’ Kim says. She says something in Chinese to the old lady, who shakes her head and replies.

  ‘I was asking if she had made any dumplings – but she said no, because she is scared they would not be good enough for you. Jacqueline has told us all that you are a great dumpling chef, Leo.’

  ‘I’m not!’ I protest. ‘I just used to help Dad sometimes. They were his favourite food, ever since he was a little boy.’ And now it feels easier to talk about home, I don’t know why. ‘Dad always called them village dumplings. They were the kind his mum and dad used to have in their village before they came to Scotland.’

  Kim is nodding, and I find myself telling them all I know about Dad’s childhood, which isn’t much. I don’t get up to the plane crash, but I tell them how he met Mum and quarrelled with his parents.