Tony Parsons - One For My Baby

“We often use the past perfect when we mention two past situations,” I am saying, “and we want to show that one happened before the other. For example-when he saw the woman, he knew he had been waiting for her all his life. Get it? He had been waiting.”

Nobody is listening to teacher. They are all watching the face at the window.

When the man opens the door, we see that he is carrying a stuffed traveling bag. He comes slowly into the classroom. We all stare at him, waiting to see what happens next.

“I’ve done it,” he tells Vanessa. “I’ve left her.”

Then they embrace, their mouths stuck together, their foreheads bumping awkwardly, his traveling bag hitting the ground with a soft thud, the broken spectacles rising from his face in protest.

I look at my class-Hiroko and Gen, Yumi and Imran, Zeng and Witold, Astrud and Olga-and we exchange self-conscious grins.

We know that we are watching two lives-three lives-no, even more than that, because doesn’t this man have children he has left behind?-being turned upside down and inside out before our eyes. All those lives that will never be the same again after today.

So we smile nervously, a little embarrassed, wanting to look away but unable to quite manage it, uncertain what our reaction should be, undecided if what we are seeing is gloriously romantic or totally ludicrous.

But something about the man’s broken glasses touches my heart-he had been waiting for her all his life-and makes me feel like giving them the benefit of the doubt.

June 30, 1997. Changeover night. The night that the British gave Hong Kong back to the Chinese when the clock struck midnight. The night that the skies above Victoria Peak opened and it rained as it had never rained before, as if the heavens were heartbroken because this glittering place was being given up.

The nobs were down in the harbor. Prince Charles and the last governor. The soldiers and the politicians. Watching the bands march and lowering the flag. But we were in Lockhart Road, Wanchai, with what felt like the rest of the expat population.

Rose in a Mao suit. Josh in black tie. Me in a Mandarin number looking like a particularly pasty member of the old Imperial Court. And a crew of boys and girls from Josh and Rose’s shop, all of them either in formal dinner gear or Chinese drag.

We splish-splashed and bar hopped through the flooded streets of Wanchai, once upon a time the old red-light district, now more of a drinking trough for big-nosed pinkies like us.

And we wondered how we should feel.

Were we celebrating or in mourning? Were we meant to be happy or sad? Was this a party or a wake?

There wasn’t much joy in the air. We started drinking early and didn’t know when to stop. We were not the only ones.

Fights were breaking out all over the Wanch. Outside an expat bar called the Fruity Ferret we saw a man in a rain-sodden tuxedo being head butted by a youth in a torn soccer shirt. They were both British. The Chinese were not fighting in the streets of Wanchai. The Chinese had better things to do.

We ducked inside the Fruity Ferret. Josh and I pushed our way to the bar. He had been in a mean mood all evening, muttering about the ingratitude of the People’s Republic of China, getting steadily stewed on shooters and Tsingtao. But as we waited for the Australian rugby player behind the bar to notice us, he seemed suddenly sober.

“Not long to your wedding,” he said.

“Next month.”

“Didn’t fancy getting married back home?”

“Hong Kong is our home.”

“Your folks coming over?”

“That’s right.”

He sighed.

“Before you get married to Rose, there’s something I want to tell you.”

I looked at him to see if he was joking. But he wasn’t. I turned away, shouting at the bartender for service. The big Aussie was busy up at the other end of the bar.

“I mean it. There’s something you should know, Alfie.”

“I’m not interested.”

“What?”

“I don’t care. Whatever you’re going to say, I’m not interested. Save it.”

“It’s about Rose.”

“Fuck off, Josh.”

“You need to hear this.”

I shoved him away and although the Fruity Ferret was packed to the rafters, he still went flying. Glass smashed and someone cursed in a London accent, but I was already gone, pushing my way through the mob, past a bewildered-looking Rose and the crew from the shop, all of them in their rain-soaked fancy dress.

“Alfie?”

But I was out of the bar and into the street, a red-and-white cab swerving to miss me as I walked into the middle of Lockhart Road and all the beautiful fireworks suddenly started to explode over the harbor.

Midnight. The night that everything was supposed to change forever. The night when they expected us to believe that the dream was finally over. As if it’s so easy to stop dreaming.

Then Josh was standing by my side, pulling my arm, the rain flattening and darkening his nice yellow hair, his dinner jacket sopping wet, his bow tie askew.

“You stupid bastard,” he said. “She’s just another girl. Are you such a soft head that you can’t see that? Rose is just another girl.”

I shook him off and went back inside the Fruity Ferret. Somebody from the shop had got a round in. Rose handed me a Tsingtao and I kissed her face. I loved her so much.

“What was all that about?”

“Nothing. He’s had a few too many. Come on. Dance with me.”

She laughed. “But there’s no dance floor. And no music.”

“Dance with me anyway.”

And she did.

A couple of months later my father gave us a video of our wedding day. And, as is the nature of all wedding videos, my dad wasn’t quite sure who was important to the happy bride and groom and who was more of a casual acquaintance. So he tried to film everyone.

The image that sticks in my mind from that wedding video is the slow, panning shot of the guests outside the Happy Valley church as Rose and I posed for our wedding photographs.

In the middle of all those aunts and uncles, those college friends and work colleagues, there is old Josh, a big handsome fellow in his morning suit, his arms folded across his chest.

He is watching the bride and groom.

And he is very slowly shaking his head.

I’m waiting for Jackie Day when she comes out of the Connell Gallery in Cork Street.

There’s some kind of launch party going on in there tonight. A mob of casually well-dressed people are all talking at once. Glasses of wine in their hands, ignoring the paintings behind them.

I say her name and she sees me, nowhere near as surprised as I thought she would be. I hand her the envelope.

“What’s this?” she says.

“That’s your money back. I’m sorry, Jackie, I really am. But I can’t teach you anymore.”

She looks at the envelope. Then at me.

“Why did you change your mind?”

“It’s just not going to work out. I’ve already got too much on my plate. You’d be better off at night school. I’m sorry.”

“I told you. I need to be flexible. For personal reasons.”

“I understand. I know it must be difficult. Working, bringing up a child alone.”

“You probably think I’m stupid. The Essex girl who wants to go to university. Sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? It really does. It is a joke. Oh, I’ve heard all the jokes. And not just from your friend Lenny the Lech.”

“He’s not exactly-”

“There are a million like him out there. And you’re one of them. That’s fine. It’s okay if you think it’s a joke. It’s okay if you think I’m stupid.”

“Jackie, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“People have been telling me I’m stupid all my life.”

“I don’t-”