I like to tell others about how my parents were very strict and that not only did they wallop us with a cane, they also bought the cane in a roll rather than by short lengths: when one length wore out, they simply cut a new one.
The truth is that I was never really punished severely. Tony says I was spoilt and to some extent I tend to agree with him - perhaps though, only in comparison with their thrashings.
I was rather afraid of Dad for some reason. He didn’t say very much you see, but in truth he only once raised his voice at me and that was when I was 19 and had been staying out late too much. “You think this is a hotel?!” really was uttered in my home.
Mum, I was closer to and understood better. My interactions with her were more frequent and I kinda knew where I stood with her. And to be honest, though I never knew how to express it, and despite some other issues between us, she was Mummy and I loved her. Still do.
On one particular day though, I don’t think my feelings were quite so affectionate. Fearful, terrified and just about pee-in-my-pants scared would better describe them.
I was quite young then - not even school-going age I think. My sister, Rosemary, was doing some craft at home and messing about with candles and newspapers in the hall. I wandered over and after a while of watching, rolled up a bit of newspaper and lit it from the candle. Fascinated by the flame, I watched as it slowly ate away at the length of tightly rolled paper, consuming print and pictures as it made its way down…down…down… towards my little fingers.
Suddenly aware of the proximity of the flame, I knew I had to do something but what? I went to the window to throw it out but then suddenly thought I might end up burning the house down. That would not do!
So what next?!
How?
What should I do?!
Well, what does a person do with something he doesn’t want anymore?
Throw it in the bin, what else?
And I did and sauntered off to look for something else to amuse myself with.
A minute later, I was in the middle room, still looking for something to do when I heard a scream ‘Ahhhhhhhh!’ then watched as my sister ran screaming past me down the short corridor. A few moments later she ran back in the opposite direction, armed with a pail of water. I knew something was wrong and that I somehow had something to do with it.
I closed the door and locked it. I may have been spoilt but I sure knew when I would be thrashed.
True enough, a few moments later there was a loud banging on the door. My mother pounded on the door Bam Bam Bam and screamed in Cantonese - you knew it was really bad when she screamed in Cantonese - ‘Sui Chai! Hoi Moon!’ “Evil boy! Open the door!”
That was the moment the fear and terror began though fortunately not the pee. I stubbornly refused to unlock the door - the only thing that separated me from the wailing banshee on the other side.
Eventually she wore me down. She was Mummy after all. But I was smart too! I’d let her in alright, but I had a cunning plan! I would hide! And so I unlocked the door then quickly hid behind it. Hey I didn’t say I was that bright then… She rushed in, cane in hand and immediately looked behind the door, pulled me out and that was when she caned me.
I really don’t remember the caning. I do know it didn’t last long and I do know nothing much else caught fire and the water and ash was cleaned up and the fire - including the one in my mother’s body - was quickly put out.
Perhaps this was the only time I was caned. I don’t remember. It wasn’t the only time I was scolded but when I look back on this and other incidents now, I am consumed - slowly but brightly like the fire on the newspaper - by an overwhelming affection and love for my mother and my family. For our shared stories. For the good stuff we did get to enjoy. And even for the house we still have today - despite the best efforts of some - oh, OK ‘one’ - of us to burn down.
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