Bitter Sweet Harvest (26 page)

“Shall I call your husband?”

“I live alone, that is when my aunt is away. She spends half of her time in Singapore. She is due to be back any time soon.” She hesitated and then said, “I don’t have a husband.”

She watched his reaction, expecting some disapproval or contempt, but there was none. Instead he asked if she could get a friend over to be with her.

“Or perhaps you can stay with a friend,” he added.

“Yes, I have friends, but they have just left for a long weekend.” She looked desperate. She was the one who had encouraged Casey and Jeremy to go away for a long weekend. “Go! I’ll be okay. I shall need you when the baby arrives, not now,” she had said to them.

“Take this,” he said thrusting a handkerchief at her. “Sit down and breathe deeply. You need to sit down and take a drink first to calm down. We’ll work something out.” He guided her to a chair and table outside the bar. “I am Mark, Mark Hayes. And you are?”

“An Mei. Ong is my surname,” she replied.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said extending his hand. He clasped hers. She felt the warmth of his hands seeping through her and she felt comforted. Slowly, her tensed shoulders relaxed and she managed a small smile, a little upward quirk of her lips that resulted in two dimples on her cheeks. The rush of emotion that he felt from that one smile shocked him. He relinquished her hand quickly. How could you, he thought to himself; she is expecting. Almost brusquely, to cover his feelings, he said. “You will have to report the incident to the
Carabinieri
.”

“Now?” she asked. She sensed his change of mood; her smile vanished as fast as it came.

“I’ll help you. I do not live in Rome, but I have been here often enough to have experienced some misadventures ... well, my car was vandalised so I know the ropes of reporting incidents to the police. It is almost a fine art. You have first to buy the paper to make the report on from the
tabacchi
.” He smiled. “In Rome, you buy everything from the tobacconist; stamps, bus tickets, even salt in the past.”

She listened, wide-eyed.

“After we’ve been to the
Carabinieri
, I’ll help you change your door locks,” he added and was rewarded with a smile that warmed his heart.

“What do you do? I mean why are you here in Rome?” asked An Mei.

It was their second meeting. Mark had phoned unexpectedly. “It is too hot to cook. Come down and join me for dinner,” he had coaxed. “I am calling you from the
trattoria
opposite your apartment. If you look out of the window, I’ll wave to you.”

She had walked to the window in a state of disbelief and peered out. She saw him. A tallish young man in his late thirties with a grin on his face standing by a table laid out in starched white linen. He waved. She pulled a light cardigan hastily around her. It barely covered her bump. For a minute she hesitated, conscious that she was dressed in an old dress for comfort rather than for dining out. He would have to take me as I am, she decided. She descended the steep stairway from her apartment on the second floor, taking each step carefully.

Seated opposite him, with the table between them, she waited for his answer.

“I am a biologist turned freelance journalist,” he said. “I am doing a piece on food for work and agricultural development for the
Observer
.”

“What’s food for work?” she asked.

“It is something that has proven to work well in many developing countries. Agencies such as the World Food Programme, WFP as it is often called, provide food in exchange for work on development projects. This has made it possible for the poor and hungry to devote energy and time to agriculture. It is a first step out of the hunger trap. And you? How is it that you are living in Rome? Do you work for a living?”

Something about this young beautiful Chinese woman in Rome, alone, pregnant and looking so vulnerable interested him. His heart did silly things even when his face was calm and collected.

She looked away. She took some time before she redirected her gaze at him.

“I came here to have my baby.” She dropped her gaze. She had not wished to say any more than that. Fear that Hussein would discover her deception and would hound her for the baby, played on her mind. But she also felt a sudden urge to unburden herself to this stranger, who had helped her, who she would probably not see again after he had finished his assignment in Rome.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he said, placing his hand on hers. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I want to,” she said. “I want to tell you. I need to talk to someone.” So she told him. He listened in silence and when she had finished, he moved his chair closer to her.

“I know I should not be doing this, but I am going to.” He took her face in both his hands and kissed her forehead. She felt her heart lift, a burden removed from her. Nearby a band of singers strummed their guitars and crooned. The waiter who had been hovering to take their orders and who had departed with disgust after several attempts to interrupt their conversation, returned with alacrity. He had seen the kiss.

“
Bene! Tutto a posto! Che volete?
Everything is okay now. What do you want?” He asked, fishing out his note pad. He reeled out his list:
Proscuitto melone, pasta e ceci, spaghetti alla vongole
...”

They looked at him and smiled.

M
ark sat with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. The long corridor smelt of polish; each square floor tile a rich coppery red. He looked up at the cross on the white wall opposite him and then at the clock at the end of the hall. As though on cue, it struck 6 o’clock. The first stream of sunlight was beginning to peep through the windows. Almost three hours had passed since their arrival in the early hours of the morning. Sisters rushed past him, their starched white pinafores over grey habits competing with starched white headdresses. They steadfastly ignored him. If they did deign to look at him, it was with dislike. They had asked if he was the husband. He had answered no and had explained that he was a friend. From there on they had looked at him frostily and then dismissed him completely, directing him to the hallway. Only immediate members of the family were allowed, they had decreed.

It had been 2 o’clock in the morning when he was woken up by the ringing telephone. He was cat-sitting for a friend who was away on holiday. It was a distraught An Mei asking for his help. Her labour pains had come unexpectedly early. She had thought that she had over two weeks to go.

“You don’t have to explain,” he had replied. “I’ll come straight away. Just have your bag ready and call the hospital.”

The sound of hurried footsteps came from one end of the corridor. He looked up. He saw a lady, plump, grey-haired with spectacles, panting as she walked and half-ran towards him. Two other people followed her, a tall man and a statuesque young woman. He waved. They must be Nelly, Jeremy and Casey, he thought. An Mei had told him that all three would be coming from Rome’s Fumicino airport. Nelly was arriving from Singapore and Jeremy and Casey had gone to meet her. The plane had been delayed. That was why she had no one to turn to. “Please tell them that I am at the Salvator Mundi.”

It took him the best part of two hours to get a Fumicino airport official to agree to search for them.

“Are you Mark? How is she?” Casey asked immediately. She had an arm round the breathless Nelly. Nelly’s chest was heaving, her knees looked as though they were buckling from her exertion.

He nodded. “I don’t know. The nuns have not told me a thing. Maybe you will have better luck. I think they disapprove of me; they think I am the errant father.”

Nelly looked alarmed and turned immediately to Casey. “
Hui gong meh?
What did he say?” English was not her
forte
at the best of times, but she was completely confused by his accent.

Casey explained. She chuckled, amused by the nun’s treatment of Mark, but it did nothing to relieve Nelly’s anxiety.

“Sorry, so sorry,” she blustered in Cantonese. “I should not have left her, but I had an urgent matter to attend to, we finally managed to sell off our business. I couldn’t return any earlier because there were so many fiddly little details to complete.”

“Calm down, calm down,” said the man next to her, placing an arm round her. Turning to Mark, he introduced himself as Jeremy. “And this is Casey and this is Nelly, my mother,” he added. “Thank you so much for helping out. We will ask the nurse if we can see her. If you want to, you can go. You must be tired.”

“I’ll stay,” Mark replied. They looked at each other, measuring one another up.

Casey saw the look that passed between the men. She liked the look of Mark. Tall, well built, a solid, dependable sort of person, she concluded. Good looking too but not in the way Hussein had been. This chap looked like someone you could lean on. He had the weight of age on him. She saw how Jeremy was looking at Mark and it worried her. Was he jealous, she wondered? She turned to Mark and said deliberately. “Come with us. We’ll ask the sister over there and then wait together.”

Timothy was born two hours later. They trooped into the room to see An Mei and the baby. Mark excused himself and ran out to the bar a couple of hundred yards along the road. He ran back to join them, holding a bottle of
spumante
to celebrate. All eyes turned to look at him when he entered the room with the bottle held high in the air, a wide smile and eyes that held so much joy that Nelly was to say in later years, you would have thought he was the father. But Mark had no eyes for anyone. He looked at An Mei, her face flushed, happy, and the baby in her arms.

“Congratulations!” he said.

“Would you like to hold him?” asked An Mei.

Mark leaned over and took the baby in his arms. He felt the smallness of the baby in his arms. He had never held a baby that small. He was perfectly formed. Mark smiled and then gently returned him to his mother. His hand lingered on the baby, stroking his head,

From the foot of the bed, Nelly watched with keen interest. She saw how comfortable An Mei was with Mark and he with her. She felt gladdened, glad that at last An Mei had made a new friend. She had kept too much to herself, carrying her loneliness like armour. Casey nudged Jeremy and threaded her arms around his waist, her fingers made a cross for luck. Jeremy caught hold of her hand and whispered. “Don’t presume. Don’t meddle.”

By the third day, An Mei was well enough to return home. Mark was a regular visitor. He went to see her every day after work and during weekends, he was almost a permanent feature in the household.

It was the weekend following the completion of Mark’s assignment in Rome. He had arrived late morning. Nelly said she needed to give the flat a good clean and asked if they would take the baby out for a walk. They manhandled the pram down the narrow stairway.

“Be careful,” directed Nelly from the top of the steps, “don’t drop the pram. Take care that Tim doesn’t get bitten or stung by insects. There are loads in the park, especially bees at this time of the year. Insect bite-bite,” she added the last words of warning in English for the benefit of Mark. “Lunch will be ready in two hours.”

“Yes, we will be careful,” replied An Mei smiling at Mark. Together they carried the pram outside and set it on the pavement.

“Let’s go to that small garden over there by the monument,” suggested Mark. “It is not too far to walk. These cobbled roads are not made for prams and are dangerous. At this time of the day, when the road is almost empty, it should be okay.”

A
motorino
whizzed passed them.

“Perhaps I had better walk in front and you follow behind,” said Mark changing his mind.

They walked single file, attracting the attention of passers-by. Women stopped to peer into the pram exclaiming “
Che bello il piccolo! Complimenti!
How beautiful the little one! Congratulations!” they said to Mark and An Mei mistaking them as husband and wife. He smiled, accepting their greetings, stepping into the role.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” he whispered turning to look at An Mei pushing the pram behind him. She blushed.

They came to the entrance of the garden, marked by a solitary statue. A tree lined pebbled path skirted its circumference. Wooden benches stood at intervals along the path. In the middle of the garden was a raised pond and around it were large terracotta urns. Flowers cascaded from them spilling on to the ground.

“So different from English gardens! But utterly charming!” Mark observed. “What makes it different is not so much the flowers, the trees and the structure and layout, but the light; the sheer brightness of the Mediterranean sun and the absence of grey clouds. I’ll miss this,” he said.

“Are you leaving?” Her voice shook.

“Yes! I have to go home to England. My assignment is completed. I took a week’s leave to stay on, but now I have to go.”

She looked away. She had expected it, but she had willed thoughts of his departure away.

“I want to tell you something; ask you.”

Her eyes were moist as she looked at him. She steeled herself for the worst.

“I have applied for a post with the World Food Programme, the UN agency that I do a lot of work for here. In fact, that is why I was asked to do the piece for the
Observer
. I am not sure if I will get it, but what I really want to know is would you mind? That is, would you mind if I am around?”

For a moment she was speechless. Then she found her tongue.

“Mind?” she asked, her hand grasped a bunch of lavender seed heads, bobbing by the side of the path. She needed to do something. She crushed the seeds rubbing them between her fingers to release its heady perfume. Her eyes shone. “Mind?” she asked again, looking up at him. Unabashed, she said. “These past few weeks have been my happiest weeks in Rome, the happiest, in fact, for a long, long time.”

He gathered her into his arms, burying his face into her neck, lifting her off her feet. A chuckle of delight broke from him and he whirled her around. “Marry me!”