My great grandfather was murdered. The man who had tried so hard to escape his past died on that warm August night right back in the village where he was born. Leung was not discovered the following morning when the first workers arrived at the factory in the early hours. Stepping tentatively through the open door, they were greeted by the sight of their employer’s body lying in a pool of blood. Faced with the shocking sight of Leung’s brutal end and the fact that they may be implicated in the murder in some way, those first workers fled the scene. It took some while until someone senior arrived with the courage to raise the alarm. Not that it mattered; Leung had been dead for hours.
It could not be proved at that point that rival merchants were responsible for sending the intruder to Leung’s factory that night. With no means of forensic evidence being collected, the chances of finding the man were virtually zero. However one thing was certain, the soy sauce business was a cut throat one and Leung’s run of success had been ended by a flash of cold metal in the night. He died, aged 37, leaving a wife and six daughters behind him.
With the village in a state of shock, word of the Leung’s death made its way quickly back to Hong Kong. Tai Po had awoken that morning to find her husband had not returned. She immediately began to worry. While it was not unusual for him to work long into the night or even to sleep at the factory, he was always back in Hong Kong before dawn to begin his sales rounds.
For Tai Po, it was not her husband who came to the door that morning, it was his brother. Barely disguising his own grief, he bowed his head and spoke to her slowly and calmly. When she heard the news her breath became short and her head span. Leung’s brother’s quiet words rang in her ears, mixing with the sounds of the Hong Kong streets outside. The two swirled in her mind, overwhelming her with grief and she collapsed. My grandmother and her sisters had been sleeping. At the first cry of horror from their mother they rushed to the living room and watched the scene. My grandmother crowded with her sisters in the doorway to their living room as they too were told the news by Leung’s brother. My grandmother was inconsolable, howling in pain, and screaming that she wanted to join her father in the grave. I felt so sorry for her. She was no more than 12 years old. At that age, I had just entered secondary school and all I could think about was whether I wanted to be a violinist or a lawyer. There was no comparison between our lives and I realised that my life was so blessed in comparison.My grandmother suffered most of all. Overnight she found Hong Kong had gone from being her playground to becoming a cold and indifferent place. She believed that no one cared whether they lived or died and to a certain extent, she was right.
When I was working in Hong Kong in 2002, my apartment was in Wan Chai. I took a stroll with my grandmother around the block to see what she recognised of her old home. There was not much of the old fishing village left. But we took a shortcut home across Southorn Playground, a major landmark which is usually packed with people picnicking and playing basketball, she stopped and smiled. Southron Playground had been used both as a place of leisure and work. In the morning it served as a labour exchange as labourers (commonly called “coolies”) gathered to wait for employment. In the evening, while by night it was transformed into an open-air, working class “night club” where men were entertained by people by selling food, performing Chinese magic and “kung-fu”. The area was also known for prostitution as young women, probably no older than my grandmother’s oldest sisters, offered ‘special services’. It was here that she and her sisters had come to find work following their father’s death.
They found small odd jobs carrying groceries, delivering parcels, letters or stacks of dirty laundry. They also sewed table cloths for the restaurants. They all worked hard to survive despite their deep sadness. The six had no choice but to adapt to their new life and lowered social status.
I was amazed that we were standing in the same place where my grandmother had once stood almost seventy six years ago now she was watching the guys throw the ball into the net.
Excerpt from Sweet Mandarin by Helen Tse. Published by Random House in 33 countries. Now available on Kindle.