The Secret Mother Read Free Page A

lived there – Nanchang – the very place her daughters were abandoned. Why, in all the years they’d known each other, had May never mentioned that fact?
    She stood in the centre of May’s small, dingy bedsit, sweat rings seeping through the underarms of her silk blouse. That’s when the feeling started – beginning in Nancy’s guts and rising. Six years … six years! May had taught Jen Mandarin; six years she’d fetched tureens of Chinese food to the house, treating Jen with respect, admiration, encouragement. All along … lies.
    Nancy gaped around her in panic.
    Could it really be May’s fingerprints over her precious babies? May’s Chinese blood pumping in their veins? Her Chinese hair on their heads? Her Chinese eyes staring Nancy in the face every day? Mocking her.
    Yes, answered her intuition.
    Why else would she steal photographs from the twins’ adoption album, or take such an interest in their lives? Or lie about never having been to Nanchang? May was no child molester. She was only five feet nothing in her faded, raggedy heels.
    Nancy laughed in horrified hysteria. She had always dreaded this moment. The twins’ past pouncing up on her, devouring the bonds she’d worked so hard to make, the Milne family unit. May the birth mother, the tummy mummy – the person she never wanted to meet.
    The sound of her mobile made Nancy jump. Her hand shook so badly she could hardly pick up.
    “Nancy?”
    “Iain. What do you want?”
    “Where are you?”
    “May’s place.”
    “Are you with anyone?”
    “No.”
    “Are you sitting down?”
    “Look, Iain, now is not a good time. Phone back later can’t you?” Nancy fumbled to disconnect the call.
    “Wait,” said Iain, his voice flat and inert.
    “What?”
    “It’s …”
    “What is it?”
    “It’s May, darling. You’d better get over here.”

Wooden figurines
    A different kind of girl to the one I was back then – a girl like Cousin Zhi – might have seen it coming. A different kind of mother to my own, a kind and gentle mother, might have warned me childhood was about to end.
    Yes, sixteen is an important age for young women like Jen and Ricki. I attend their dreadful birthday party to mark their passing into womanhood, their shedding of years; but my arms come burdened by the past, as well as gifts. Sixteen is an age I cannot easily forget.
    I was swilling out the skillet in the yard when I caught sight of Father, making his way home through the rice fields. His head was bowed as if listening to his own whispers. He was early and there were no other workers to share his flask of tea or cigarettes. He bustled past, his cheeks reddened by the wind.
    “Don’t stand like a gatepost, Mai Ling, come inside and help your mother. Everything must go to plan.”
    I wanted to ask Mother about the plan, but she was busy chopping half moons of garlic. A fresh pot of smoked pork and spices rested on the side. The plan likely concerned Cousin Zhi, who was due to arrive home for Spring Festival. She worked at a car factory in the city and had grown used to luxuries. My parents were keen not to lose face in front of her or Auntie.
    I took my place beside Mother and began peeling the ginger. The work was harder when I couldn’t feel my fingers and I nicked my fingertip with the knife. A sliver of blood rose up instantly. I brought it to my mouth, a small pleasure in the taste. My belly growled with hunger. Outside, the pig scratched the earth for something more nutritious than stones and frosted mud.
    The sound of their voices in the yard caused Father to leap up from the table and hurry to the door. There on our doorstep stood the town’s most prestigious coffin maker, Gao Quifang and his wife, both empty-handed, bringing only the cold winter draft into our home. It was to be a short visit.
    Father bowed and ushered the Quifangs through our dark, smoke-blackened kitchen to the fireside, where three stools had been arranged. I wiped my hands on my trousers