Home to Mother

That we can choose our friends, but not our relatives, is for certain a true fact. Whoever uttered the statement originally had obviously experienced some trying moments with erring members of their own clan.

Perhaps it was Adam, as he had his share of family problems. First off with the wife, Eve and her snakes and apples – (the predecessor to snakes and ladders) - then the children, Cain and Abel having a spot of aggro and going into fratricide mode. Ah, but boys will be boys.

Lot has his marriage annulled in a most spectacular fashion. Within the scrolls of the Torah it is written he interred her remains in a salt cellar, and put her to good use in his kitchen. The daughters gave him quite a time of it too. Got him sodden drunk then played incestuous parlour games with Daddy's crocus while he slept.

Old Job had a few family problems also. But then Job had problems on an epic scale: with omnipotent deities at both ends of the good-evil plane. I doubt Job said it. He wasn't really endowed with friends: just antagonists.

So, who was it? King Harold? Machiavelli? Rodrigo Borgia? Little Anne Mowbray? Lord Byron? Oscar Wilde? Doubtful. Bernard Shaw? Sigmund Freud? Bertram Russell? Jack Russell? Jack Daniels? Danny la Rue?
All manner of people have had cause to say it at sometime during history's passage. Perhaps they all did, at one time or another. But, it remains a fact that it was said. And it's damn true.

Yes, relatives. And blood is not thicker than water, as Moses pointed out when he turned the Nile a funny colour during a fit of pique over Ramses the Second's dogmatic stance on slavery. William Wilberforce had his Pitt. Moses - the staff of God. But abolitionists aren't the subject of this tale: relatives are. Mothers, in fact. My Mother. Mein Mutter. Meus Mater.

You see, I've been quite lacking with the friends-relatives syndrome. A lot of good friends to my credit: vetted carefully over the passing years before I proclaimed them as such. These were cast from the mould which never asks for credit or to borrow money – to borrow anything, in fact. In God we trust: all others cash. A friend in need is a fucking nuisance. These were two of the immutable laws my life was once governed by.

My parents were considerate enough to have only one child: me. No brothers or sisters to share or squabble with. A mite selfish on my part, you may speculate. You're right, it was. But, the name of the game, as I'd been taught it, was look after number one: first and foremost. Obviously my mother was a strict adherent to the same law also.

We had lived all my life in Hong Kong: I was born there in 1949. My father and mother settled from the U.K. two years earlier. He was an executive officer with an international banking group, she taught at the Stanley Infant's School. We owned a nice house up on the Peak: securely insulated from the teeming hordes of scheming Orientals residing below.

No aunts nor uncles. No cousins, nor grand-parents. All were a million miles away, in Mother England, and never came to visit. As the Russians so aptly phrase it: nichevo.

But I did have a father and mother. Never quite the abandoned orphan, and never quite the proverbial bastard. Though I had been called one on several occasions during my life: yet not because of a fault in my genealogy.

My father's heart eventually decided it was time to draw his attention to certain facts. Mainly that he ate too many heavy lunches, drank copious amounts of brandy, smoked endless cigars, and only thought of golf and exercise when rain was forecast. Thus, said cardiac pump rebelled, and went on strike. His secretary summoned a doctor to confirm her suspicions that my father's slumped state at his desk, his pallid complexion, and cold skin, were due to him being dead. The doctor even went as far as to issue a certificate to that effect. "This person has shed his mortal coil, and gone to serve his allotted time in Purgatory."

I returned home from boarding school in England, where most of my educational years were spent, for his funeral. I was never close to my parents: though perhaps closer to father than my mother. She always conveyed the impression that my arrival into her life had interrupted some long-term schedule that she never quite forgave me for. We suffered each other stoically though: with me, in her myopic eyes, as the fledgling that would eventually vacate the nest. She would have certainly been inclined to play the cuckoo, if society had closed its sentinel, reproachful eye for a moment too long.

Once father was buried, and forgotten, mother then decided the house on the Peak was far too big for the two of us. The one of her, really, as I was still attending school in the U.K., and intended to study at university there eventually. However, the house was sold, and the proceeds went to the purchase of a fine condominium apartment on the Peak's mid-levels. It was located on the sixth floor, with a good outlook over the harbour and Kowloon: and the forbidding, austere brown hills that separated the colony from mainland China.

A suitable apartment for the two of us really, although I only stayed there during my holidays from grammar school and university. It had two master bedrooms, with adjoining bathrooms. A large lounge and dining room, a modern, fitted kitchen, the usual pigeon-hole maid's quarters, and a balcony terrace overlooking the harbour and the Marxist utopia beyond.

Mother took our old amah along with her when she moved. Doubtful she could have found anyone to work for as little as she paid Loy in that day and age.

When I finished university, I discovered my degrees were as much use to me in finding lucrative employment as a bike is to a fish. So, languishing in temporary enforced idleness at home in Hong Kong for two months, I grabbed my chance when it reared it's head. A naturalist was needed to go with an expedition down to Antarctica. Was I interested? Was I ever!

Off I went, and enjoyed every freezing moment of the two years I was there. Then it was back to London, to work on the reports and specimens compiled and collected during the expedition. That took six months.

'Interested in an expedition to the headwaters of the Amazon? We need a naturalist.' Away again, this time only a year: plus the four months processing specimens and field reports at the end of it.

'Ever been to the Equatorial belt of Africa?' and so it went on. Borneo, Papua New Guinea, the Pacific Islands, Malaya. Time for a rest. I thought. Get some of my own research and discoveries down on paper. Got to write the book.

Thus I returned home to Honkers - to Mother. We'd kept in frequent touch by letter during the eight years I'd been away. She'd write to say how "simply enthralled" she was with my travels and exploits.

'I saw the B.B.C. film production of your expedition to the Amazon on television. Weren't you awfully hot? You all looked filthy, and like terrorists, with those ghastly beards.'

This was pretty much the general theme and context of all her letters: her dutiful letters. How skinny I looked, or how dirty, or how unshaven. She must have thought we stayed at the nearest Holiday Inn every night. But that was my mother: very naive in certain matters.

I reckoned the book would take four months to compile and write: the photographs and typescript. Then another six months talking with publishers and editors and proofing galley copies. Virtually a full year before I could climb back in the saddle and be away once more. There was an expedition planned for Alaska in twelve months time. My name was down as the team's naturalist. So, I had to have the book completed to the galley proof stages by then. No problems, no worries whatever.

With a suitcase of field reports and photographs, and one hold-all of clothes, I boarded a taxi at Kai Tak, and we drove out to the Island via the harbour tunnel. Light traffic: early evening, an easy trip across the colony I hadn't visited in eight years.

Braking to a screeching halt outside the apartment block on Fulton Road, I alighted the disreputable vehicle then held a three minute argument with the wizened Chinese driver as to why I should pay him two hundred dollars when the meter showed only thirty. We settled at the metered fare, with him wishing me all the bad joss his ancestors could rain down on my gwailow head; and me cursing him in my best Cantonese.

I ferried my luggage into the foyer, and summoned the lift. I held reservations that it could carry myself and the weighty suitcase at the same time, but we reached the sixth floor without the winching gear giving out under the strain.

I'd dug my keys out before leaving the airport, and inserted one, then a second, into their appropriate locks. The carved hardwood door swung open, then came to an abrupt halt as it reached the limit of the inside security chain. Well, at least she's home. I thought, pulling the door closed again, and jabbing the bell-push. From the hallways came a dreadful sounding ding-plunk . . . . . . ding-plunk. The amah had obviously been dusting the door chimes.

'Who is it'? called a shrill, familiar voice.

'It's Phillip, Mother,' I replied to the enquiry.

'Who?' the voice called again.

'Phillip! Your son! Phillip!' I shouted at the anonymous door.

'Phillip? I thought you were still in London?' The door opened fully. 'Oh it is you. How wonderful to see you again, darling. When did you arrive? Thank God you've shaved off that awful beard, it looked terrible.' Her sordid-red lipstick adhered to my face like glue as she kissed my undefended cheek. I stacked my suitcase and holdall in the hallway, then responded to her embrace with a kiss on her right cheek: making certain she felt the stubble on my chin acquired during the long flight.

'Hello Mother, how's life treating you?' I asked, releasing her from my intended torture, and gathering up the rest of my luggage.

'Oh, not to complain, Phillip. When did you arrive?'

'Just. Caught a taxi at Kai Tak and came straight here. Pretty good flight, really. No delays at either end. Hang on, I've brought you something from London.' I dug around in my hold-all, and produced a panelled wooden box of dark chocolate liqueurs.
'Oh darling, you remembered! They're still my favourite you know. Good grief, look at the price! Aren't they expensive now?”

'More expensive if I'd bought them in the city. Those came from the duty-free at Heathrow,' I informed her.

'Joan Metcalfe and her husband were in London earlier this year. She told me everything was a shocking price there now. And the quality of goods has fallen drastically too, I believe,' Mother tattled on.

We made our way into the lounge, and relaxed in the leather covered armchairs. I rubbed at the offending lipstick smear on my cheek with a handkerchief as Mother picked up the remote control unit for the television, and extinguished the bright screen, and accompanying sound.

'You didn't want to watch television, did you, Phillip?'

'No, but you carry on. I don't want to interrupt your viewing.'

“Oh, I only switch it on in the evenings for company. I wasn't watching anything of interest. Would you like a drink - tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be fine, thanks.”

She rose, and went into the kitchen. I heard her giving Loy, the amah, orders to make coffee.

'Big pot: chop-chop. Master Phillip home again.'

As my mother returned to her seat in the living room, Loy's head appeared around the kitchen door; and a disjointed hand waved to me from across the room. I surmised it was Loy's hand, and waved back: smiling warmly. The waving hand covered her mouth as her usual giggles began, and the two visible portions of her anatomy disappeared back into the kitchen.

'Have you eaten on the flight, Phillip? Shall I have Loy cook something for you? I ate earlier, you see.'

'No, I'm fine, thanks. I'll grab a sandwich, or whatever, later: if I get peckish.'

'I've so many questions to ask you, Phillip: and so much to tell you also. Do you have lots of photographs for me to look at?'

“My suitcase is crammed full of photos and negatives. I intend to use them for my book: a selection of them, anyway. I'll dig them out for you tomorrow.'

'Yes, you wrote you intended to write a book eventually. Will it be a novel, or factual: concerning your travels?'

'It'll concentrate on the expeditions: with one or two lively anecdotes to deter the reader from falling asleep. Mainly a professional textbook, with a limited sales market, unfortunately,' I related.

'Well, I'll be expecting a dedication in the opening pages, and my autographed copy,' she pronounced.

'What are you doing now you've retired from Stanley Infant's School?' I asked. 'Not taken up professional mahjong, or joined a triad?'

She gave me one of her condescending smiles before replying, 'Helen Chivers and I started a day nursery at the Venebles Road School. It's turned out a great success, and we're inundated with applications. We don't make a great deal of money from it, but I have my pension, and your father left me well cared for financially.'

Loy appeared with a tray. Coffee pot, cups, saucers, milk, sugar and spoons. She placed it on the low table set between the brown leather three-piece suite.
'You get big boy now. Almost man. London good for you. London good for him, Missus Masters, eh?”

“Yes Loy. Thank you Loy, that will be all. Don't forget to finish ironing the laundry, will you?' Mother commanded.

Loy and I smiled at each other then she turned and shuffled back to her domain: the kitchen, and parts beyond. While my mother had grown more wrinkled and gray, Loy still affected a look of timeless middle-age. As a boy, I remembered her having a fine figure and smooth skin: her complexion unusually clear for a Chinese. She had worked for my parents since they arrived in 1947, and acted as my nursemaid when I was born. Old pals, Loy and myself. Confidants. In certain matters, at least.

I remember when I was eight years old. Mother had gone over to the U.K. to attend Aunt Valerie's wedding. Dad couldn't, or wouldn't, take time off from the bank, so Mother had flown across on her own. Every morning, for the first few days of her enjoyable absence, I would go into Dad's bedroom to wake him, but his bed hadn't been slept in. I eventually discovered he was sharing the bed in Loy's room. My secret. Their secret. From Mother.

'Do you still take sugar and milk, Phillip?' Her voice shook my mind from its reminiscences. She hovered over me alike a praying a mantis: coffee pot in one hand, cup and saucer in the other.

“Just milk, thanks.'”

She poured, and handed me the coffee, then rose and walked to the wall cabinet, returning with two oversized cotton coasters on which to set the cups.

I rooted in the jumble of my jacket's side pockets until I located a cigarette pack and lighter. Mother looked at me as though I'd just unzipped my trouser fly, but said nothing. Again she rose from her chair, and produced from the wall cabinet this time an ashtray that could have served as a banquet platter. A veritable dust-pin lid. I lit up my cigarette.

'That's what killed your father, you know, Phillip.' she admonished.

'This, and other vices: yes. Don't worry, Mother, if I smoke half a pack a day, it's unusual.'

'Well, you're old enough now to decide your own fate, I suppose.' She rose again, this time to slide back the glass doors leading onto the terrace.

No, she hadn't changed that much. Definitely not for the better. Still powered by nervous energy. A type of controlled St. Vitus Dance. Honestly, what with her cautions and reproachful looks, you'd think I'd just produced a syringe full of heroin from my pocket, and injected it into my arm. Then the act with opening the terrace doors to let the smoke out. Christ mother, it's a cigarette, not a smoke grenade. Post-menopausal histrionics.

'Are you going to have Peter Crumlin's house publish your book?' She inquired, returning to her seat.

I noticed a fresh, salt breeze filling the room from the opened terrace doors as I answered, 'Haven't decided yet. Might approach one of the American publishers. Better chances of a college market in the States with their methods of advertising.'
'Oh really, Phillip, I feel you should have a British house publish for you. American publishers will alter all the spelling. You know what they're like.'

'Well, we'll have to see yet: early days. I'm still undecided on whom to approach with the finished manuscript. But I'll be talking to likely publishers while I work on the book. Perhaps I'll give Peter Crumlin a ring this next week or so, see what he has on his lists for the coming year.'

'Should I have Loy make a bed for you tonight, Phillip, or are you staying with friends?'

'No, I'm staying here. I assume I am welcome?'

'Of course you are. I use your old bedroom as a study nowadays, but you won't be in my way for a day or so.'

I was a little taken aback, but pushed on regardless. 'What I was planning, if you're agreeable, is to stay here while I prepare the book, and until the galleys are ready for proofing. About a year in all. Then I'll be off to Alaska, and out from under your feet again.'

'Really Phillip, you're welcome to stay for a day or so. But I've lived by myself for so long now, since you left, that I doubt I could ever grow used to having another person living here again. I'll ask at the school tomorrow and inquire if anyone has an apartment for rent.'

'Mother, I'm no millionaire. I can't afford Hong Kong apartment rents. What do you expect me to do, lease a shanty on the roof of one of the buildings on Johnson Road? My salaries, while I've been away on expeditions, are no more than pocket money really. I don't earn a fantastic sum of money.'

'Surely you must have something saved after eight years Phillip? You can't have spent all your money?'

'I have got money saved, but it isn't a tremendous amount. Definitely not enough to lease an apartment here for twelve months: while I see the book written and published. What's more, even if it is well accepted by the scientific world, and achieves decent sales, there's very little chance it will earn me a fortune.'

'Phillip, you should have written and asked before you invited yourself here for a protracted stay. Perhaps it would have been better if you had stayed in London and talked to publishers there.'

'What do you expect me to do: jump on tomorrow's flight back to the U.K.?'

'That is entirely up to you, but I can't be expected to feed and clothe you for a year while you write a book about your adventures with your hippie friends.'

'Two points Mother. First, I don't expect you to feed and clothe me for a year: I can afford that myself. All I want is my old bedroom back again. Second: the people on the expeditions with me weren't hippies, they were all professional academics. Surely you don't expect them to traipse around the backwater's of the globe wearing tweed suits and dickey bows?'

'You all looked filthy and needed haircuts and shaves when I saw the B.B.C. film on television. I don't think it's too much trouble to shave in a morning.'

My blood was coming to the boil nicely by this time. God, what an annoying piece of work she could be when the mood took her. Her eccentricities compounded by her distaste for anything she deemed not clean, nor prim, nor proper. How in hell's name she was ever able to fulfil her duties as a school teacher to a satisfactory degree was beyond my comprehension.

I would never have allowed her to teach any child of mine, nor have extended access to a child's developing mind. In my opinion, she wasn't fit to be in charge of a tank of goldfish.

'From your narrow-minded point of view that is an understandable comment Mother. But in the rain forests you daren't risk shaving as the slightest cut turns septic very easily. Hence the experts advised us not to shave. If you take a bath in the rivers, you end up covered in leeches, or eaten by piranhas. When we did find clean pools to bathe in, then we ended up soaked with sweat again five minutes later. That's why we always looked filthy.'

Why my Father stayed married to her for over thirty years was a bloody mystery to me.

'That's beside the point Phillip. I'm not having you staying here with hair down to your shoulders and growing beards. And smoking those awful cigarettes too. You'll simply have to find other accommodation here, or go back to London.'

'Mother, I don't intend to grow a beard, and my hair's above my ears: if you look closely.' Yes, the blood was starting to bubble.

'I really don't care. I live a very orderly, organised life here now, and I have no desire for a permanent house guest. Even it is my own son.'

'I'm just bloody glad my father's not alive to listen in on this conversation. I'd hate to hear his reaction to your selfish attitude.'

'I don't want to listen to that kind of language from you, young man. Nor do I wish to listen to speculations of what your Father might have thought. This is my home, and I decide who stays here and who doesn't.'

Then I totally .ost it and spit the proverbial dummy.
“Fuck you Mother, and your fucking apartment!' Her mouth dropped open, and she sat back hard in the chair. "I'll make out in this world with or without your assistance. What pisses me off is your selfish attitude, but then you always were a self-centered cow, as everyone said behind your back.”

“When Dad died, he left no will, so the estate went to probate, and then automatically to you. But the house and all his stocks and insurance money were meant for us both: not just for you. When you sold the house that was a reasonable decision. This apartment became our home: our home, not just yours!'

Now the tears came, but not the regrets. Crocodile tears from an egocentric reptile.

'What you've just said is unforgivable Phillip. All the money your father left is still invested. It all would have gone to you when I died, and the apartment too. But you've hurt me deeply tonight. I don't care where you go, I don't want you here one second longer. Tomorrow, I intend to go to Stanton’s solicitors, and change my will. You'll never see a dollar of the money now.”

“Go back to your dirty, hippie friends, Phillip, in the jungle. It's where you belong with that kind of ungrateful outlook and barrack room language. I've tried to be a good mother to you, but obviously I've failed somewhere. There isn't one ounce of gratitude or decency in you. And certainly a lack of respect for me.”

'You don't deserve my respect, woman. How you can have the gall to judge yourself a good mother is beyond me too. Refusing your own son the use of his bedroom because he's been working away for a few years. God, you really amaze me at times!'
I pocketed my cigarettes and lighter, then rose to leave. She rose too, and strode self-righteously towards her bedroom.

'Mother,' I called. She turned to face me, and I pointed to the box of liqueur chocolates sitting on the coffee table. 'I hope they choke you.'

More tears, and the bedroom door slammed in her wake. I picked up my hold-all. Fuck the suitcase, I'd call round for that tomorrow. While my darling mother was away at her nursery school, playing Lady Bountiful to a captive and more appreciative audience. An audience who never saw the unedited script.

As I opened the hallway door, Loy appeared from the kitchen. She came to me, and spoke quietly, holding my arms.

'I listen to all you say tonight Phillip. Bad words. But what she say is wrong. Your home here: always here. Where you go now?'

'I'll go and check in at the Furama tonight, then look around tomorrow to see if any of my old pals have a place they want a room-mate for. I want to leave the other bag here tonight, Loy, and pick it up tomorrow while she's out. That okay with you?'

'No problem with me Phillip, I be here all day. You come anytime, she out all day. You got money to pay hotel?'

I put my hold-all down and held her shoulders, kissing her bare forehead. 'Loy, I'm fine for money just now. But many thanks for the offer. Still love me a little bit?'

She nodded, and smiled. 'Always love you little bit Phillip, since you baby. Always pray at temple for you: that you have good joss.'

I bade her goodnight, and she closed the door behind me. Out on Fulton Road there was a cool breeze blowing across the Peak, and my walk to the hotel was all downhill. Checking in at the Furama, I went to my room and showered. Fifteen minutes later I was downstairs in the lobby bar listening to the pianist, and sipping a gin and tonic.

Fuck the old bitch, I thought to myself, may God strike her down dead. I'd no regrets over what I'd said to her. I fact, I was still fuming over her refusing to let use my old bedroom. I had been told, in recent years, that I too was a selfish bastard.

Perhaps that's where I got it from: her. My mother, I made a mental note to alter my ways. Not just jotted down, but deeply engraved in the inner psyche. I sat there for an hour, then went to my room and slept.

I dreamed someone was knocking on the door. Persistently. Opening my eyes, I looked at the bedside clock: nine-fifteen in the morning. My ears were still dreaming: the knocking continued unabated. I got out of bed, and walked to the door.

'Yes, who is it?'

'Police, Mr. Masters. May we have a word with you, please?' Came the official-sounding reply.

'Hang on one second while I get some clothes on.' I hurriedly slid into a pair of slacks, and opened the door. Both men were in plain clothes, one Brit' and one Chinese.

'Can I see some I/D please?' I requested. Hong Kong is not unknown for bogus policemen. The Brit' produced his warrant card: Detective-Sergeant Brewer, C.I.D.

'Come on in. What's the problem?' I enquired.

'You are Mr. Phillip Masters? Son of Mrs. Harriet Masters?' Sergeant Brewers asked.
'Yes, that's correct.' I replied slightly pensive of the question. I wondered if the old cow had filed charges against me for breaking the Fifth Commandment?

'I'm afraid I have some bad news for you sir. Your mother was found dead this morning,' he related.

Now, regardless of my feelings towards her concerning the previous night's episode, I was still shocked to hear this revelation.

'Dead? What do you mean dead? She was all-right last night when I left the apartment.'

'The amah found her dead this morning when she took her tea at seven o'clock. She called an ambulance and ourselves. In fact, it was she who advised us we might find you here,' the sergeant informed me.

I sat on the bed, and lighted a cigarette.

'The doctor's preliminary report states she died of a stroke during the early hours of this morning. This will be verified by a post-mortem later today. I believe your mother and yourself had quite an argument yesterday evening. May I inquire what it was concerning?'

I looked up at the sergeant, and then at his silent Chinese subordinate. 'Sit down, for Christ's sake, will you Sergeant, and your associate too. You make me nervous hovering around like that.' He seemed quite taken aback at the commanding authority of my tone, but complied with my request.

'I only arrived from the U.K. on yesterday's B.A. flight. I went straight over to the apartment from the airport. That would be early evening: around seven. We got to talking, glad to see each other, I suppose. I've been away for almost eight years and it was our first get-together since I left. I'm home again at the moment to write a book, you see: and intended to take up residence at the apartment again.”
“However, Mother objected to my staying there for a long period. Apparently she valued her privacy more than my continued devotions. So, we argued, and I left, after informing her I didn't think much of her motherly instincts. She shed a few meaningless tears, and asked me to leave. I left. In fact, Loy . . . . the amah . . . . . saw me out.'

'Yes, she did explain all that to us, sir. Was it a violent quarrel, in any way?'

'If you mean were punches thrown: no. The argument got heated on my side, but nothing more than that. Why? Do you suspect foul play concerning her death?"

"No, not at all. I'm quite satisfied with the doctor's opinion of a stroke during her sleep. We have no reason to suspect anything untoward took place. From what your Mother's amah told us, and from your statement, I think that concludes our inquiry. You will be requested to attend the coroner's hearing, I should imagine sir. Will you be staying in Hong Kong for some time?'

'Oh . . . yes. Yes, I'll be here for quite a while yet. Probably about twelve months.'

'Here, at the Furama, or do you have another intended address?' he pressed.

'Well, my luggage is still at the apartment, so I think I'll move over there later today. You see, the property is legally mine now,' I answered with a slight smile. The sergeant smiled a little too, perhaps he also could understand the irony of the situation.

'Yes, quite,' he replied. 'No doubt you'll be in touch with your late mother's solicitors, sir?'

'I'll be giving them a call sometime today. Get all the legalities and funeral organised.'

'Thank you for your time, and candid co-operation, Mr. Masters, it is appreciated. We'll leave you to your erm – grief – and other arrangements. I'm sure you have a lot to do. And you can be contacted at the apartment on Fulton Road, if your presence is required at the inquest?'

'Yes, Sergeant. You can contact me there,' I answered closing the door as he and his silent colleague left.

Damn, I thought, I must have upset the old girl for more than I imagined. Perhaps God heard my plea of the previous evening, sympathised with my point, and did strike her down dead. Hopefully she didn't choke on one of the liqueur chocolates.

I checked out of the Furama before noon, and took a taxi to the apartment block. Loy was busy washing the bed sheets of the recently deceased now Mother’s body had been taken to the funeral parlour, and gave me her tearful condolences. I looked her sternly in the eyes: a reproving look. Loy and I knew each other too well. Neither of us would mourn my mother's passing with much heart-felt conviction.

The Coroner's report at the conclusion of the inquest stated mother died of a cerebral embolus - a stroke - during her sleep. I had informed Stanton, Denby, and Hardcastle, the family solicitors, of Mother's death, and they acted accordingly. Her body was cremated, and the ashes were interred at Stanley Cemetery. Not next to my Father's, but on the far side of the lawn’s expanse. I didn't wish to disturb his eternal peace with uninvited relations being buried alongside him. She was, after all, only related by marriage.

Her last will and testament left the apartment, et al, to her only son: her beloved Phillip. Thank Christ she hadn't rung her solicitors and made another will after I left that fateful night. Are not the ways of Heaven truly beyond mortal mans’ comprehension?

During the months that followed her death, I wrote my book. An American house published it for me. It became quite a success world-wide, and a standard college text book in several countries too. Yes, it made money for me. Not that I needed it, I was left well provided for. Before I departed for Alaska the following year, I asked Loy to hire another amah to help her with the apartment. Even given the added incentive of my trebling her meagre salary, it was still too much work for her to cope with on her own really.

So, she hired her niece, Leung, who looked very much like Loy did when I was a child. Exceptionally clear complexion for a Chinese girl and a fine, sensual figure for an eighteen year old. She keeps my bed beautifully warm during the sporadic visits I make to the Hong Kong apartment. Between expeditions, when there's a book to be written.