her belongings towards the smoking section of the plane at the back.
I flopped into the saggy loose-covered seat and clipped on my belt. I was leaving. I’d said my goodbyes, had my banquets, drunk my toasts to mutual friendship and was now free to be a tourist with the rest of them. We soared into the sky, and the city, still grey in summer brightness with patches of dusty green where there were parks, receded.
I didn’t look back.
Martin would be waiting in Peking and after a lot of hanging about waiting for bags to appear, I spotted him beyond the barrier and waved. I was more glad to see him than I thought I would be. I felt a bit like a soldier coming home after an arduous campaign. I had survived. I was comforted by his familiar brown tweed jacket and looked forward to his tobacco smell.
Emerging from behind him was a man that looked exactly like Liang. He had much shorter hair and was wearing a rather baggy Western-style suit. It was Liang – I recognized the tie I had bought him at the Friendship Store. Why was he here? How could he have known I would be on this plane? I was too noticeable to hide myself. I would have to brazen it out.
‘Hello,’ I said, smiling.
‘Hello, darling,’ Martin said, leaning forward to peck my cheek. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’
I looked away from him to see what had happened to Liang. He was standing there next to Martin, the same grin on his face as when we had first met so many months before.
‘How are you, Miss Alison? It’s a pleasure to see you.’
He was like a stranger.
‘Mr Liang, my painting teacher. Mr Roberts, a friend from England.’
They greeted each other formally, Martin towering like a bear a foot over Liang and leaning slightly to reach his outstretched hand. I noticed Liang’s dirty fingernails. Then Liang’s grin changed focus and became a distant stare, his eyes seeking someone in the crowd.
‘Excuse me, I’m meeting my wife. We’re being briefed for our trip to the States.’
And Liang wandered off into the throng. A few minutes later he emerged carrying suitcases, baskets, nylon holdalls and string bags, followed by the doll in the pink silk jacket. She was exquisite: three inches shorter than Liang, carrying the beaming child.
He did not bring her over to be introduced, but as they walked away he looked smugly over his shoulder at me, as if he was carrying away the spoils of the campaign.
Jude Jones
Jude Jones is a native of Hampshire and studied singing at the Guildhall School of Music. An assortment of careers followed, including opera, music-theatre, archaeology, stage-management, acting, busking, script-writing and an unsuccessful attempt at shop assisting. In the eighties, she was artistic director, actress and writer for a small-scale touring theatre company based in the East Midlands. Now equipped with two small sons, she is back in Hampshire where she started out and is completing her third unpublished novel.
My mum never knows when I skive now since I met the old girl up at Hob’s Lane. Makes me laugh the things I get to do these days and mostly everyone leaves me be which is dead ace. I’d say bugger them all but I ain’t allowed to. The old girl stop me from swearing, see? Though I does when she ain’t around.
You have to go past the old mill to get to Hob’s Lane. It ain’t a proper road though. It’s a kind of track with this stream by it and you get the cars go along it every now and then but only if they’re coming up to the cottages there. It’s a ‘No Through Road’ and it don’t even go where it was supposed to go now they built the big motorway past it. No Through is right. There’s this high fence at the end and then you turns and has to go back so the folks what walk their dogs there goes mainly round by the woods now and leave the Hob to me.
The old girl told me her name once but it was funny. I mean it weren’t the kind of old-fashioned name your mum might have or your gran even. So I lets it go. I calls her Missis and she calls me Nipper and that’s OK. We don’t like fuss, me and her.
We does chatting mostly. She knows how to gab, she does. Not that she’s particular lonesome for all she lives in the water. She got her mates same as me. I know most of them. There’s Foreman, he’s a slippery old sod. Pretends he’s a fish. And Longman, he’s the big oak. Then there’s Ringman and I tell you about him in a bit. The old girl says he’s shy. I ain’t seen Littleman yet. Littleman’s whatsit – invisible.
My mum used to bawl me out when I went up the Hob but she’s quieter now because we done the change.
When I first seen the Missis I thought it was some bored old wrinkly what topped herself in the stream. I went close to look because I ain’t never seen no corpse. Then she sits up, like she was finishing off a sunbathe and I wet me knickers. ’Course she ain’t real old. Not underneath. Not like my mum.
‘What them chaps doing over there?’
‘They’re building the new motorway, Missis.’
‘A road? They’re building a bloody road near my stream?’
‘Yeah. Why you lying in the water?’
‘A bloody road! If that don’t beat all!’
‘I thought you was dead.’
‘Well, I ain’t. A bleeding road! You know how noisy them things are?’
‘Yeah. You’ll get rheumatics, sitting in there. My gran has rheumatics every time she goes out in the rain.’
‘Your gran’s a wanker, Nipper, and no mistake. Why’d they build here? Why can’t they go and mess up some other place?’
‘My mum says it’ll make getting over to Langley real quick.’
‘Your mum’s a wanker. Why’d she want to go to Langley to start off with? Bloody awful town.’
‘Everyone’s a wanker to you, Missis. I reckons as you’re a wanker yourself.’
‘You hold your tongue, smart arse. And don’t swear. ’S’not becoming in a young girl.’
‘You swear. You’re swearing like buggery.’
‘I’m allowed. You’re not. You hear me?’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause I says so.’
‘I’m fourteen. I’m big enough to swear
