Chapter Seven
Mitchell stood at the metal barrier in the familiar arrival hall of Hong Kong’s international airport, staring into the spacious heavens at the wooden replica Farman bi-plane suspended from the ceiling, wondering what the next month would bring. The British Airways flight from London Heathrow carrying his nephew had just landed.
He took a deep, calming breath.
When Zane had emailed his flight details and five ideas for his visit—something he had clearly copied and pasted from an old travel blog—Mitchell had replied with what he hoped were clear instructions to help him navigate the airport. Even in that short communication, with his nephew’s use of lazy abbreviations, he’d sensed the gaping generational chasm between them.
And he only had himself to blame. Every human relationship he had cultivated since arriving in Hong Kong thirteen years ago had been with adults. Ellie had once told him, half-joking, that he might as well be living on the moon. While building his career in Asia he had missed out on the young lives of his niece and nephews and knew little of their triumphs and challenges. Here he stood, welcoming his youngest nephew as a grown adult. Moments like this reminded him of his ineptitude in connecting with people unless explaining policies or procedures, which hardly constituted small talk.
If only he had an ounce of Tommy’s ability to connect with others. Tommy had an uncanny knack for striking up conversations and making people feel at ease, whether he was attending a formal gathering or during a casual hike. Just remembering that fun day made Mitchell smile.
They had ended the hike hobbling back to the minibus, which had dropped them at their starting point in Central. After sharing his packed lunch with Tommy—ciabatta bread filled with Brie and Branston pickle—he had fallen into a delicious sleep. Tommy had nudged him awake as the bus crawled through the Cross Harbour tunnel, informing him that he, Mitchell, would be buying the first round of drinks at a hole-in-the-wall bar opposite one of the piers. Oscar and Devon would be joining them. Mitchell knew better than to argue, although as he’d struggled to stand amid the grunts and groans of others trying to depart the bus, he’d wondered if alcohol might be such a good idea.
Once again, Tommy had been right. Not only had the first plastic cup of chilled red wine relaxed him as they’d sat chatting on stone steps looking out over the harbour, but Oscar had guided them through a series of stretching exercises to ensure they would not wake too sore the following day.
After two drinks, Tommy had helped him to a taxi and had even leant in to buckle his seatbelt. Mitchell had dared to inhale Tommy’s scent, the subtle mandarin and spice smell of shampoo in his hair, then held his breath when the back of Tommy’s hand had brushed against his upper thigh, leaving a tingling sensation. On the way home, he had beaten down his rising attraction, which would only be doomed to failure. A little giveaway remark kept echoing back to Mitchell.
Tommy didn’t find him attractive.
Mitchell scanned the arrivals board again before checking his watch. Passengers from the flight would be collecting their luggage soon and exiting onto the concourse. He would keep an eye out for the distinctive British Airways luggage tags. Hopefully Zane had not been delayed.
He checked his phone and saw the message Ellie had sent overnight, a simple line telling him to take good care of her son, following up with two pieces of advice—Zane was known to wander off sometimes, and was hopeless at remembering to charge his phone.
Not for the first time, Mitchell wondered what he had agreed to.
That morning he had also received another card in the post from his landlady, this one with gold-embossed letters on a red background. With two lines, each bearing four Chinese characters. His neighbour Mrs Lau had read the words aloud for him in Chinese before smiling, humming her approval and translating the slogan as ‘Don’t Miss Opportunities: Time Doesn’t Come Round Again’. His landlady knew about his nephew coming to stay. Was this her subtle way of telling him to make the most of the visit? Or something else?
He spotted Zane immediately. Since their last meeting, he had grown taller. His father, Robert’s, ancestors were natives of Antigua. Zane had inherited his father’s solid frame and masculine good looks, although his skin bore a lighter tone, a warm chestnut hue. Dragging a well-used luggage of pale blue, he looked as though he had just woken. Perhaps he had. His thick hoodie with faux-fur lining and baggie jeans might have been a good choice when boarding at Heathrow, but not in the ninety per cent humidity of Hong Kong. Mitchell decided not to say anything, but to let Zane find out for himself.
When Zane locked eyes with him, Mitchell could see Ellie’s brooding gaze, how she used to single him out when she had something bugging her that needed venting.
Mitchell stepped forward to greet him, then faltered. He had no idea of the familial protocol. Should they hug, or might that be too intimate? But would a handshake be too formal? Fortunately, Zane answered by shuffling to a stop and thrusting out a hand.
“Uncle Mitchell.”
Mitchell shook hands and tried to lighten the mood.
“Do you think we could drop the uncle moniker while you’re here?”
At least the remark raised a slight smirk and got a nod.
“Come on,” said Mitchell. “I’m splashing out on a taxi.”
“Thought you had a motorbike.”
“I do, but you have luggage. We’d normally take the Airport Express train into Central but I’m sure you’re tired, so we’ll cab it home. Is that okay?”
Zane shrugged. Mitchell did his best to engage him but, after a while, began to question whether the passage from the concourse to the Hong Kong island taxi rank had always taken so long.
“You might want to lose the jacket. It’ll be hot outside.”
“S’fine.”
“How was the flight?”
“Cool.”
“Any turbulence?”
“Some.”
“Did you manage to get any sleep?”
“Not much.”
“How did you find the instructions I gave you for the airport?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Mitchell decided the curt responses were a result of tiredness and deferred to silence after attempting a few more questions and getting abrupt responses. When the doors to the climate-controlled airport slid closed behind them and they strolled out into the sunlight and stifling heat, he noticed Zane unzipping his jacket. Zane waited until they had settled in the back of the air- conditioned taxi and Mitchell had rattled off his home address in Cantonese using words and tones Mrs Lau had taught him.
“Look, I know why I’m here. Mum and Dad need to sort out Gran and the last thing they want is me tagging along, getting in the way. And they don’t trust me to stay home and look after the house. So here I am. I don’t want to be here, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want me here either—”
“Hold on a minute. That’s not true—”
“Uncle—Mitchell. I’m young but I’m not stupid. Mum never stops talking about your high-powered bank job that keeps you busy all year round. I wouldn’t want me here either. Aunt Pat—Dad’s sister—is taking Jules to Spain. Nobody asked me if I wanted to go. Probably because they thought I’d be in the way. And they’re probably right. They’ve got young kids and don’t want to have to fret about me, too.”
“Hang on. Would you have gone to Spain?”
“I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. Would have been nice to have been asked.”
“Did you say anything to your mother?”
“She’s got enough on her plate, hasn’t she?”
Mitchell had only ever heard his sister’s perspective of her family. Maybe their time together would prove insightful. At nineteen, Zane seemed to be on the verge of resigning himself to people not wanting to engage him.
“Mum probably told you I don’t have friends. I do. Plenty. Other gamers. We chat regularly, almost every night.”
Mitchell did not consider online friends real friends, but kept that judgement to himself. Instead, he chose to give Zane some local facts.
“Fair enough. But if you want to continue gaming here, or whatever you call it, remember we’re eight hours ahead of the UK.”
When Mitchell turned to him Zane was frowning, appearing to process what had been said. Eventually he emitted an exaggerated sigh, as though Mitchell had delivered yet another death blow.
“You mean it’s one o’clock in the morning right now?”
“It’s nine in the morning here in Hong Kong. Get your head around that first. You may experience jet lag, which is quite natural. But I find it’s best not to keep converting back.”
“My friends are online from eight or nine at night. At home.”
“Which will be four or five in the morning here. You get to have a good night’s sleep before you join them.”
The lighthearted comment fell on deaf ears.
“Look, Zane, try to relax. You’ll figure things out and adjust like I had to when I got here. As for Spain… When you’ve finished your studies, you’ll have plenty of chances to visit Europe. You’re out here now, on the other side of the world. Not many youngsters get to experience this, so I suggest you make the most of it. Let's get you settled back at my place. Then, if you’re up to it, we’ll go meet some of my friends for lunch. Okay?”
Next to him, Zane said nothing.
“Zane?”
“I suppose.”
“Fine, then.”
One thing in Zane’s favour—he didn’t seem fazed at all about lugging his case up multiple flights of stairs to Mitchell’s apartment despite the heat and humidity flooding the stairwells. He seemed more put out by Mitchell’s rule that shoes were not to be worn in the flat. Showing Zane around the tiny apartment took no time, with Mitchell saving Zane’s room for last.
“This will be yours for the duration. Not much, I know, but you should have everything you need. There’s a bath towel at the foot of the bed. There’s also an Octopus card with two hundred dollars loaded. Keep that in your wallet. You can use it on buses and trains—”
“I know the deal. We have Oyster cards back home.”
“Similar concept, except you can use this one in convenience stores to buy drinks or snacks. For the record, all forms of public transport, including taxis, are fairly inexpensive. And most taxi drivers speak a degree of English. But just in case, I’ve got a laminated card—business-card size—for you to keep in your wallet, which has our address in English and Chinese. If the driver doesn’t understand you, just show them the card.”
Mitchell had adopted a work colleague’s tip a few weeks after arriving in Hong Kong. Flashing the card had gotten him home on numerous occasions. There were also phone apps that did the same thing, but Mitchell preferred the card version.
“Now, I’m not sure what your mum does for you back home, but I won’t disturb you in your room unless you’re screaming for help. You can keep it as clean or as messy as you like. I won’t be making your bed or doing any tidying for you. I machine wash clothes on Saturday so leave anything out you need cleaning. A lovely Filipino lady called Grace—a domestic helper employed by my landlady—comes in once a week, every Wednesday. She vacuums, mops and cleans the flat from top to bottom, as well as ironing any clothes and changing the bedlinen. She’ll go through this place like a mini typhoon, so don’t get in her way. But I suggest you let her tidy your room. She has her own set of keys, and if you’re in at the time, best to make yourself comfy on the living room sofa while she does your room. You’ll probably be treated to her wonderful laugh and, if you’re really lucky, to her mezzo-soprano rendition of Mariah Carey’s greatest hits with her own interpretation of the lyrics.”
“I’ll go out.”
“If you want. But she’s really nice. Speaks English, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No, it’s cool.”
“The controls for the air-conditioning unit are on your bedside cabinet. It’s a super quiet unit, barely makes a hum. At the moment you’ll probably need to keep it going at night. Do you want to grab a shower and change?”
“I’m good.”
Mitchell pushed out an exhausted sigh.
“Zane, you’ve just travelled halfway around the world. Do your uncle this one favour, will you? Go shower and change into something more comfortable. I promise you will feel infinitely better.”
Although Zane did not appear to be entirely happy, he nodded his agreement.
“Is this restaurant posh? Can I wear shorts?”
“I’d say shorts are a good choice. And as long as you’re wearing a shirt with sleeves, long or short, most restaurants here are fine with shorts.”
* * * *
They arrived at the venue just after midday. Mitchell’s first experience of local dim sum restaurants had been a mix of shock and awe. Chipped bowls and saucers, chopsticks and china spoons tossed carelessly onto the table, and a server spilling tea onto the starched tablecloth were all part of the experience. More importantly, his usually polite and subdued work colleagues came to life. Once seated, conversation dialled up a couple of notches, everyone speaking excitedly and simultaneously. From early on, he had learnt to sit back and enjoy the Cantonese banter at his own table and across the restaurant floor. He didn’t care that he couldn’t understand a word. The sound was pure joy. Laughter punctuated conversations. Working in London he would have been hard-pressed to find a colleague who wanted to leave their desk at lunchtime. Not so in Hong Kong. He likened the experience to the excited buzz of after-work Friday night drinks with colleagues back home.
Harold preferred more upmarket establishments. Crisp white tablecloths, spotless cutlery and obsequious waiting staff were a bare minimum. Mitchell half suspected accessibility was also a concern. Not all smaller eateries had a serviceable lift big enough to house a wheelchair. When they approached the round table, Mitchell noticed Harold and William had invited along a couple he had not met before, who were already in a heated conversation with William.
“—naive stupidity,” barked William. “Running through the streets waving the British flag. What were they thinking? Blatant provocation. No wonder the police came down hard.”
“What do you think, Harold?” asked one of the guests as Mitchell ushered Zane to take the seat between himself and Harold.
“They were voicing their desire for self-governance,” said Harold in his usual calm way. “Nobody was advocating that Hong Kong would be better back under British rule, God forbid. One would hope those days of tyranny and suppression are well and truly behind us.”
“Then why not hold up something meaningful? A symbol that represents the birthplace of democracy?” asked William.
“Forgive me, dear, but I believe the subtlety of waving the flag of Greece might be lost on the authorities and most definitely on your average Hong Kong policeman.”
Seeing they had a full table, a server came to take their order, and the subject was dropped. Mitchell took a moment to introduce himself and his nephew.
“Are you okay with chopsticks, young man?” asked Harold to Zane.
“Yes,” answered Zane, a little brusquely.
“Excellent. Do you mind if I order?”
“Fine.”
Having lunched with his friends many times, Mitchell was familiar with Harold’s choices, a selection of popular steamed and fried dishes and including some Mitchell had sampled but did not particularly care for—steamed chickens’ feet and tripe served in bamboo steamers. He loved other items like sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaf and steamed pork ribs. And he had instantly relished the local green vegetables, particularly seasonal dao miu stir-fried snow pea shoots served plain or with crabmeat. Growing up in England, his mother had boiled green vegetables into a soggy mulch.
Mitchell noticed Zane eyeing nearby dishes with suspicion. He glowered at Mitchell when Harold plucked a dumpling from a steamer and dropped the item into Zane’s bowl, like a parent feeding a child. But such was the custom in Hong Kong. Mitchell realised too late that he should have warned Zane. While conversation continued around the table, Zane picked at his food, pushing a few of the things Harold had served him onto his side plate.
“Have you had dim sum before?” asked Harold during a lull.
“Course I have,” said Zane. “Many times. Chinatown in London. Just not like this.”
“I admit, some of these more local dishes are an acquired taste. Tell us then, what’s your favourite dim sum dish back home?”
“Satay chicken.”
William laughed aloud.
“What?” asked Zane, glaring daggers at him.
“Satay is Indonesian,” said William, as blunt as ever. “Dim sum is Chinese. We don’t mix and match here. No curry and chips in Hong Kong.”
The two other friends at the table had the decency to laugh behind their napkins.
“William,” said Mitchell, “lay off. He’s just arrived—”
“Don’t apologise for me, Uncle Mitchell. I know what fucking dim sum is.”
“Ooh, feisty,” said William.
“William, hush, dearest. How about I order us some stir-fried chicken with cashew nuts? And something sweet and sour?” asked Harold, trying to soften the mood.
Harold flashed Mitchell a sympathetic smile before diverting the conversation to something he had read in a media magazine about a closeted celebrity. While waiting for the extra dishes to arrive, Zane pushed half a fried spring roll around his plate but refused prawn dumplings, fried turnip cake or green vegetables. Even with Harold’s extra choices getting Zane’s grumbled approval, the meal ended on a frosty note, with Zane ignoring Harold and his guests as they left the restaurant.
“Is everybody in Hong Kong gay?” asked Zane, the only words he spoke in the taxi on the way back home.
Mitchell didn’t dignify the question with an answer. As soon as they arrived home, Zane went straight to his room and closed the door. Seconds later, the air conditioner started running. Mitchell lay back on the settee and sent a text message to let Ellie know Zane had arrived safely, then stared up at the ceiling fan, taking a few breaths. Maybe introducing Harold and William immediately had been a mistake. However much he enjoyed their company, he realised they were a bit like the exotic dim sum—an acquired taste.
He had planned to take Zane to a restaurant famous for Peking duck that evening but wondered if Zane might be put off by too much Chinese cuisine. Ellie had informed him that her son had no food allergies, but he had not asked her about his preferences. If they were going to survive the month, Mitchell would need reinforcements. He pulled the phone display to his face and tapped out a text message. Around fifteen minutes later, instead of getting a return text, his phone rang.
“I take it your nephew’s arrived?” came Tommy’s voice.
“That’s why I messaged you. Sorry, I didn’t want to take up your time. But I could do with your advice. Any suggestions for where I can take him to dinner tonight?”
Tommy’s laughter broke the tension inside Mitchell.
“Surely someone like you has a plan?”
“I do. Well, I did. Beijing Garden. But now I’m not so sure. Where would you suggest taking a nineteen-year-old English kid who just turned his nose up at authentic dim sum?”
The line went quiet for a few seconds.
“I’ll answer that question,” said Tommy. “If you answer one of mine first.”
“Go on.”
“What beats a gay ménage à trois?”
“I’m being serious, Tommy.”
“So am I. Answer the question.”
“I have no idea. What beats a gay ménage à trois?”
“Five Guys.”
“Huh? Oh. Yes, of course.”
“Johnston Road, Wanchai. See you outside at six-thirty. After which we can show him the dubious delights of the Wanchai bar scene.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to. I don’t want to hijack your evening.”
“Please. You’ve done me a favour. My sister is taking her bridesmaids dress shopping and I do not want to be there to clean up the mess after they’ve finished.”