First there was Ah Ling.
Perdita came next.
Then Wilma and Anna.
Carman followed.
Next was Shai Lok .
Angelina was after that.
Finally Maria and Theresa.

First there was Ah Ling.

Ah Ling was a traditional Chinese maid. She wore her black hair tied at the nape of her neck and a customary white starched top that was always fastidiously clean, unmarked and unstained. This garment reached to her hips and had bell sleeves, a mandarin collar and Chinese knotted buttons fastened with loops down the front. Below she wore slightly flared black trousers and on her feet, black flat square-toed shoes with a strap that buckled across the top of the foot. Ah Ling was our first amah and did not live in, which was just as well because our flat had no servants' quarters. It was a new flat, with a pretty view over the Happy Valley racetrack, but only space for a mat on a floor for a domestic helper to sleep on. This, too, was customary in Hong Kong in those days.

Ah Ling arrived at mid-morning every day to sweep and dust and wash clothes and dishes. Her first task, however, was to put all our pictures at an angle so that the devil, should he take it into his head to sit on top of scenes of Canterbury cathedral or pictures of dead relatives, would slide off the top frame and no doubt flee the flat in disgust. Ah Ling's next task was to turn the bedspread around so that the design, contrary to the designer's creativity, was horizontal across the bed; leaving too much on the sides and nothing at the end. Having thus saved the flat from invasion by unwanted spirits, Ah Ling set about cleaning everything ¡V floors, windows, walls and furniture with neat bleach. I watched aghast as sturdy fabrics took on the appearance of cabbage leaves, eaten by ravenous caterpillars.

However, in spite of our differences about house cleaning, Ah Ling will always have a place in my heart. She introduced me to horseracing in Hong Kong. Clearly believing that I was inadequate as a "Ma'am", for I was constantly straightening pictures and rearranging bedspreads, she arrived one day carrying a bundle of small white cards and a book. The cards, she explained were for placing bets. I simply had to tick here, and here, and here. She showed me the ¡¥book' and pointed out the importance of jockey, trainer, stable and owner. I looked at photographs of previous races and learnt about form. I was also advised to take note of which wives were looking most glamorous ¡V their attire was an essential clue, and over-rode any opinions formed logically. Owners' wives who looked smart were expecting their horses to win ¡V and they needed to look good for the glossies, the newspapers and television. Soon, I was placing bets at the Royal Hong Kong Jockey Club betting office right below our flat and making a small fortune on complex bets of tierces and quinellas

Ah Ling and I glowed with pride as our savings rose, and I became tolerant of crooked pictures, uncovered bed ends and holey cushion covers. We delighted in our hobby, but needless to say the situation could not go on indefinitely. Soon Ah Ling had won enough money to buy her own flat. She left me as quietly as she had come, and is now presumably happily creating bleach holes around her own home.

Perdita came next.

Ah Ling gave me ample notice so I had time to engage an agency to find a new maid. By this time, we knew that our application for adoption had been approved, so we needed a helper who liked children. I had also been told that Thai maids were the best as they love to cook, love children and are wonderfully serene. I felt I had reached that stage in my life when I was ready for good food, and serenity. I fancied that straight pictures might look good, too. Perdita was duly sought, found and flown to Hong Kong. She cooked the most wonderful dishes. She loved the children. And serene . . .? Well . . . she had left Thailand because her husband was philanderering, and she thought that distance might cause his unfaithful heart to give up its fickleness. But no such repenting change took place. Instead, she discovered that he had emptied her bank account to pay for his extra women and in a blue rage one day, she packed her bags and flew back to Chang Mai to sort him and his lady friends out. Only some fish cakes in the fridge remained to remind us of her brief interlude in our lives.

Then Wilma and Anna.

There followed a period of advertising and interviewing for a new maid. I made out a list of requirements;
could cook, clean, polish and iron,
was happy with straight pictures,
was good with children,
and did not have a philandering husband.

But no-one quite came up to our expectations. Until one Sunday afternoon. On answering a knock at the door of our apartment, I found myself staring into the dark intelligent eyes of a tall Filipina woman dressed from head to toe in a brilliant red. "I know you want maid. I am very good maid. You want interview me?" Taken aback on that hot sultry afternoon in June, my fast response was lacking in originality, "Yes" I stuttered.

Wilma was wonderful. She could clean and cook and didn't like bleach, nor was she married. We came to an understanding about working hours and salary, and I even agreed to partition off half the kitchen so that she could sleep in relative luxury. I ordered a plush armchair that unfolded into a bed, bought a tiny television to fill her empty hours and colour-coordinated everything. The kitchen was now miniscule, but the maid's quarters looked great. I was delighted that Wilma had joined us. Within a few days she had settled in. She cleaned and polished, and cooked and took the children for walks in the park. She was bright and fun to have around. On her first Sunday, however, she returned very early from church. With a friend. "This is Anna," she explained. "Oh, but we can't afford another maid," I explained. "That's OK, she is very kind, she is here only to help me." "But we have no room for a second maid," I went on somewhat sanctimoniously. "That's OK. She will sleep in my bed." I was no match for Wilma. And Anna joined us. Wilma was right. Anna was lovely and gentle and very, very kind. Most of her day was spent walking the dog and playing with our two newly arrived children, both of whom spent much of the first six months screaming. Our relationship with Wilma and Anna progressed. We began to function as a small, compact community with a daily routine that worked. They introduced us to some unusual customs including the eating of small embryonic chicks partially cooked while still in the shell, and we showed them how to make tea, the English way. Meanwhile, we had a silent understanding ¡V none of us visited their sleeping quarters.

One Monday morning, several months later, Wilma emerged from the kitchen with her suitcase packed. Anna was behind her, also with a packed suitcase. "We must go now," said Wilma. "Go where?" I asked. "We must go," she repeated. And with that they left, giving a quick hug to each child, who immediately began howling. I called my husband, Richard. "Wilma and Anna have gone," I said. Shocked, he came home from work to check their bedroom. We felt betrayed. What had we done? Had we offended them?

The next morning Richard phoned me from the office. "Have you seen the South China Morning Post today?" he asked. "No." I replied rather curtly, having more important things on my mind than to browse through a newspaper. "Why?" "There's a photo of Wilma and Anna are on the front page." I sat down. "They appeared in court yesterday. They were caught moonlighting at a hairdresser's a few months ago - and were in hiding ¡V at our place waiting for the court case to come up. They are being extradited back to the Philippines later today." That wasn't easy information for Richard to accept ¡V knowing that he had been harbouring a law-breaker while being a lawyer.

I contacted another agency. We now had two children and a third was promised. We needed a good maid. One who:
could cook, clean, polish and iron,
was happy with straight pictures,
was good with children,
did not have a philandering husband,
would stay with us,
and who wasn't about to be prosecuted.
We were getting picky.

The interviewing process began all over again. An endless stream of ladies passed over the threshold into our flat. "Ah, two children," they said. "With a third on the way," I advised solemnly. "Ah, cooking, cleaning, looking after three children?" ¡V one of whom was usually screaming in the background.

There were others.

Somehow, as a family, we did not appeal. We had a few part-time helpers who came to us between jobs. There was Maybelline from Sri Lanka who could not touch water because of an allergy, Sherry, who made eyes at Richard, Ah So who cooked congee for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and there was Kannie, who found an American husband through the Internet. Although we knew none of them would be with us for long, we were very grateful for their help.

Carman followed.

One other such lady was a tall Amazonian from Brazil ¡V she had the figure of a goddess and liquid brown eyes that sent us to sleep simply by looking at us. She was introduced by a friend and came over for tea one Sunday to meet us. With our lack of appeal, I was determined to make a good impression. I was pouring tea when Richard asked Carman "What do you usually do, when you are not pregnant?" ¡V she was six months gone. "I am a strip tease artiste," she replied. But, being busy with the tea and with creating a good impression, I only heard the word "artiste" and put Richard's frantic hand gestures down to his appreciation of her beauty. I welcomed her into our home as a helper a few moments later whilst sipping recently poured tea. Carmen could not cook, found cleaning a little difficult, and was definitely not going to stay, but we loved her. She was always the greatest of fun, and even persuaded us to watch a show of polar bears ice-skating. Again, this was rather tough on Richard. He was now on the board of the RSPCA. Our tank of piranha fish, a gift form a loving client, Carmen transferred to the kitchen so that they could be "near toa thea fryinga pana," which she thought would encourage then to behave more pleasantly. She was right. The kitchen was a more appropriate location for them than the family room, where occasionally the dismembered corpses of dead prey floating in the water caused the children to focus more on the tank than on the best that television could offer.

But, of course, with a baby due, Carmen could not stay longer than the remaining three months. We kept in touch. She moved, with baby, to Macau where one of the casinos paid for her flat and a helper so that she could meet all the strip tease engagements they had set up for her. The next time we saw her, she was swimming naked in a huge fish tank ¡V without any piranha - unless, of course, you consider the spectators.

Next was Shai Lok.

With the third of our children about to arrive, we thought that a bigger apartment might be in order. So we bid farewell to Happy Valley and "Hi" to Mid-levels, half way up the Peak. The new flat had a magnificent roof garden, which led me to take an unusual step. I employed a house boy. He came through recommendations so I was confident of his abilities. He could also drive, which I thought a bonus. What I had not appreciated was that Shai Lok's references were glowing because his previous employer had been so eager to get rid of him. Shai Lok, also from Thailand, was a small, wiry man, with monkey like features, a very impressive head of black hair and a tight leather jacket that he wore most of the time. On his first day in our new flat, he went onto the roof to assess the work. While there, he dropped a heavy tub of flowering oleander, smashing the water pipe that served the whole building. No-one had water for two days while this was being repaired, and we had no communication with our neighbours for many months afterwards. In the new apartment, Shai Lok had separate living quarters on the roof, with his own outside door and staircase. On his first night with us, our dog began barking ferociously at mid-night. I got up, shouted at him not to be so sensitive and went back to sleep. The dog barked each night for about two weeks, and each night I wearily told him to shut up.

One of Shai Lok's jobs was to drive the children to school, however, he seemed sleepy in the mornings and frequently bumped the curb, giving us all a jolt. "He's obviously not a morning person," concluded Richard. We were also becoming rather alarmed at our increasingly high petrol bills. Apart from caring for the roof and driving the children to school, Shai Lok's other duty was to keep the windows polished. This, however, seemed beneath his dignity. Until the day I stressed the importance I gave to clean windows. "I cannot risk my life cleaning your windows," he argued. With bars on every pane of glass to prevent the children toppling out, I found his comment rather difficult to assimilate. During the conversation that ensued, Shai Lok, who had been pruning, flourished the knife above his head, then waved it in front of my face. "I do not clean windows." Panic set in. And I called Richard.

Now, Richard is a calm sort of man - except when it comes to his family. Four minutes later, sirens could be heard in the distance. They got closer and closer, till ¡V yes, a knocking on the door, and the arrival of a posse of uniformed policemen. Shai Lok, and I, and the knife, found ourselves sitting intimately together in the back of a black Maria being dashed to the nearest police station. In the meantime, Richard hurried home to pack up Shai Lok's possessions. Leotards, make-up, wigs and a variety of exotically coloured and sequined tops fell out of the cupboards and drawers that he flung open. I never saw Shai Lok after that, but we later learnt that he had been sneaking out at night to transport tourists from club to club all over Hong Kong in the comfort of our car ¡V I don't think he wore a chauffeur's uniform, either.

Angelina was after that.

By this time, I was becoming very concerned about my ability to judge character ¡V even my dog had proved more adept than me. I desperately needed a reliable helper ¡V one who;

was happy with straight pictures,
could cook, clean, polish and iron,
was good with children,
did not have a philandering husband,
would stay with us,
wasn't about to be prosecuted,
would enjoy cleaning windows
and would not cheat us.

Was I looking for the impossible? Rather than go through an agency or through the newspaper and friends I decided that an organization for displaced helpers might be the answer. And indeed it was. Angelina, nineteen, had not had a good experience with her previous employer. She was a Catholic girl from Goa in India with the tattoo of a cross on her hand to remind her of her faith. She was slender, beautiful, and could move in with us almost immediately. The first meal that Angelina ever made was a breakfast of green curry paste sandwiches. However, she learnt quickly and was soon creating exquisite meals that made our friends breathless with envy - although curry sandwiches were banned. But she was young and head-strong. After each day off, she would come home with evidence of her exciting weekend displayed upon her neck. "Why is Angelina always bruised?" the children asked, with thoughts of Dracula playing with their imagination. Things became insidiously more serious as Angelina began to thicken around the waist. Finally, she announced that she was pregnant. She married her man and later gave birth to a bouncing baby girl and later still to an even bigger bouncing baby boy. She now owns a chain of Indian restaurants, but complains that she is having difficulty finding a good maid to help in the house.
I think she's rather picky, though.

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The Contract

Copyright Julia Courtenay
Number of words 758

They sat at the pine table, its surface scratched and dull from use. The older woman liked to use this room with its beige blinds and neutral furniture for meetings, feeling that it set her interviewees at ease. At their feet, the younger woman's daughter played with polished wooden soldiers of black and red, and multi-coloured shapes that she pushed easily through the correspondingly shaped holes in the lid of a bright blue bucket.

They sat either side of the table, going through the long and wordy contract point by lugubrious point, the older woman explaining, detailing, and supplementing with history and examples. The young mother, with her hair loosely pulled back, became tight-lipped as differing thoughts and feelings flitted across her mind ¡V was she being cheated; had she given up everything just for this, here, in Hong Kong? She had tired of the leaden skies of England even though it provided security for a single mother. On returning to her homeland pregnant and unsure, she had welcomed the attentions of her mother and siblings, and enjoyed the services of the National Health and Social Security. However, after the novelty of the birth of her daughter had worn off, the need to be always at home, with the drizzle of Manchester constantly falling outside, made her feel as dull and downcast as the weather. So she had taken the plunge. She had written to her employer of 6 years ago in the Far East asking for a job. She has been delighted at the response and immediately packed her belongings along with lots of children's toys and boarded a plane for Hong Kong. She'd been met by friends and whisked off to a beach house on Lamma Island where she'd spent a week settling and over-coming jet lag.

But now here she was, in this small room, facing the reality of her decision to leave England. She was young. Not innocent, but young, and her experiences could not meet with those of the woman opposite, pointing to the contract. "This is a defensive contract, not an aggressive one," her potential employer was saying, "each time something goes wrong for us, we add yet another clause for protection."

The words sounded so calm, so logical, so obvious, yet still the young woman with the small sharp eyes, felt uneasy, like a fawn hidden in the grass, fearing every new sound, believing, but not yet knowing, that the forest, and she herself, were her only sure protections. The older woman, recognizing the fear of the young female across the pine table from her, backed off. "Take time to think about it. Get back to me as soon as you can."

The two women stood up. Conversation was over. The younger bent to gather up the toys, while the older tousled the softness of the baby's hair and stroked her cheek. She left the young woman collecting her things, the quiet room, and the contract, and quickly found herself signing letters, making suggestions and asking that the next meeting commence.

The small child and her taut bodied, taut faced, mother emerged from the enigmatic room. The older woman, seeing them, pointed to the sofa in reception, "Don't forget your bag over there," she said, speaking across the gulf that now existed between them. The ordinary, the mundane, captured their thoughts, guiding their words and movements into calmness ¡V the normality of social courtesies returned. "Call me, let me know about the party on Sunday." "Of course. You'll come. You said you would." replied the older woman. "Yes, we'll be there." answered the younger woman. Then, as an afterthought, "I'll call you if we can't make it." The older woman smiled brightly. She noted the young woman's unwillingness to commit, even to a social engagement, but knew it was better to conceal her understanding and keep the conversation light. The distance, however, remained.

The young woman clasped her child's hand in hers, and swung the heavy black bag onto her young bare shoulders. Quickly mother and child passed through the door and were gone.

The older woman sighed. How tedious all this legality was! Yet she knew it was unavoidable. Life had taught her that caution was an invaluable gift - one that was nowadays wrapped up in contractual jargon. She understood the fear of the young woman who dreaded the tethers of signing for she, too, had once been unshackled and had been daunted by responsibility. But she knew the greater fear ¡V that of freedom; of relying on trust alone.

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Copyright Lena Desai
664 words

He bent down to remove his shoes outside the bedroom, waiting for the chimes of the ten o'clock broadcast to cease. As the monotonous voice of the announcer came on, Nandan pressed his fingers down on the door handle, and silently entered. A candle, the only light in the darkened room, shuddered in the draught, casting new shadows on the familiar furniture. In socked feet, he padded to the bed where she lay, sprawled like an infant, her legs opened wide, her nightdress crumpled up around her waist. He knelt on the floor beside her, placing a small porcelain cup next to the candle, whose flame leapt one more.

Nandan gazed at the woman at whose side he had been sleeping for half a century. He put out his hand and felt Shareen's warmth welcome him. With a small sigh, he stroked her ankle, feeling the small lump caused a year before by a broken ankle. He recalled the fun of taking her about in a rickety wheelchair through the little town of Sholapur in northern Rajastan. His hand moved over her calf, touching the indentation left by a bad fall from an over-laden bicycle. His fingers passed over her knees, which were not really hers any more, but rods of metal, and up along the soft smooth flesh of her thighs. Here, with the gentleness of an autumn breeze through the bulrushes nearby, Nandan entwined his fingers among the soft down of his wife. His hand lingered, as emotions, so close to the surface, threatened to overwhelm him. He bent across, nestling his head where his hand had been, feeling his tears wetting him, wetting her. He wept silently, fearing to wake her with a start should he begin sobbing. Here, at this small, yet most intimate and most familiar part of her body, they had shared their inner most thoughts, their fears and frustrations and hopes, sorrows and passions, their hates, their bewilderment, their love. Shared their feelings till they dissolved in an explosion of emotions that were thrown out like petals on the wind, leaving them together on the edge of nothingness.

The light from the candle dimmed as the minutes passed. Almost imperceptibly, he felt her frail, bird hand stretch down to stroke his head. He stayed still. Was she awaking, or was it a dream making her stir? "Jaanam? Darling?" her voice floated down to him and he raised his head to look at her face. In the subdued light it was the fresh young face of his bride.

Her eye lids, like the candle flickered. Slowly they opened, revealing sleepy eyes not accustomed to the muted light. Her hand reached out to caress his cheek, "I've brought your medicine," he said, half turning to the low table beside him. He leant over for the cup and held it carefully to her lips, watching like a mother to make sure she swallowed all the contents. He saw her grimace as she always did, and saw, too, the small, child-like smile that caught at the corners of her mouth. The bitterness of the drink had washed the sleepiness from her eyes and now she was alert, "Are you coming to bed?" She half-whispered. It was an invitation that he had never before declined, but he knew, just as she did, that now each moment together was the bitter sweet mingling of fear and love. Sometimes, like tonight, he almost wanted to refuse in the hope that by doing so, he might postpone that inevitable moment when she was no longer there.

He eased himself forward on bended knee to embrace her tenderly, and she felt his tears, knew his terror. She held him close, felt his warmth, felt his fear. She knew, too, that in spite of their fear, they must share this journey, perhaps their last, once again. They had to savour one more time the balming joy of being together as one on the edge of nothingness.

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Eloquence of Hands

I remember tiny fingers curling around my thumb; of being astonished that they should be so small yet so perfect; so strong. The woman in white laughed at my surprise; I heard the sound, yet pushed it away to focus on the warmth of that hand holding mine - I felt apart, elevated, as I gazed down on my finger hidden in that tight clutch.

Now I remember so many hands; pulpy, weak, eerie, bony, lingering, dying, comforting, forgiving; hands that stroke, caress, explain, deny. Beautiful hands that fly across a keyboard; scaly hands, red, raw and swollen with eczema that deny the youth of a child.

The gnarled and knobbled fingers of my mother's hands that became hazy in the speed of her knitting, as she created yet another garment for one of us. The square hands of a guard, waving the green flag proudly as the train began to pull away from the country platform.

I remember the gentle exploring fingers of my baby daughter on my cheek. The swift hands of the bus conductor on a red London bus, rapidly and repeatedly turning the handle of the ticket machine hung round his neck as he shouted "Any more fares, any more fares?" The large hands of a black worker that lifted the frail old lady with silver hair and placed her on the seat beside me ¡V her eyes shone and she felt young at his touch. I remember the almost thumbless, lineless hands of inmates at a home for the mentally damaged, and I remember, also, the hands of the nuns who watched over them, earthy and practical with the emphatic cross of mysticism.

I see my father's hand raised as he lay tiny between white sheets bidding me "Good night, God bless" in a moment of perfect lucidity hours before his death. And the hands of my children as they hold me close, before letting me go in search of their own lives.

Fleetingly, profoundly, intuitively, hands speak of feelings, deep and light, that seek to remain hidden in a nebulousness of words.

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Blue

Blue; the dull shade of a cold slender young girl sprawled over a dingy bed in a filthy, dank room, piled high with cartons of drinks, old magazines and worn clothes. Cockroaches on the grimy floor feel comfortable in this atmosphere of dirty gloom and peer up at her. The girl's large brown eyes stare out from the squalidness. A deep royal blue sheet, draped over the boxes behind her, is a stark backcloth to her thin, pallid nakedness; her chilled nipples of purple blue, stand erect upon her childishly small smooth breasts.

Through the grimy window, level with the roaring concrete flyover that stretches into central Hong Kong, she glimpses the oppressive sky, filled with heavy thick grey clouds. From her crouched position on the bed, she covertly watches the merest shining speck of a plane heading west, towards Thailand.

She begins to shiver. The aircon, as always, is turned up too high. Clenching her fists tightly behind her, out of sight of the clicking lens, she tries to instill warmth through her body, through the marrow of her bones. If she can press her hands together tightly enough, she knows that a warmth, then later, a numbness, will spread over her.

Blue; the colour of her mother's gipsy ear-rings swinging rhythmically as her squatting body, clad in a loose sarong, moves evenly back and forth. Her small rapid hands pass the thin carved shuttle quickly over the long colourful threads of the wooden loom to weave swathes of silk that later adorn the homes and bodies of the rich and glamorous.

She remembers, too, the dull blue of her father's veins as they pulsed furiously on his forehead. He did not hate her, any more than he loved her - he cared only for the poppy seed. That black obsequious seed found nestling so patiently, so potently, in the folds of the deceptively sullen mauve poppy flower. Walking over the rugged hills of her homeland, she passed through fields of that illicit love plant swaying gently, beckoning to those who passed. Her father, like the Siren's lost sailors, had been one who could not resist the charm of their enticing entreaty.

Once gathered, he crushed them between two rugged stones till they became a dusty, white powder. Then, carrying his love gently to the long brass instrument balanced on a tiny wooden stand, placed in the farthest corner of the low dark hut, he pressed it into the bowl. He lay, almost reverently beside the pipe, on the wooden slatted bed and gazed in hypnotized awe at the long conduit, as a lover might first look on the body of his enchantress. He then lit the small charcoal fire beneath it and, in a reclining position, almost foetal, he sucked long and slowly on the pipe, staring vacantly at the hazy blue smoke that rose from it.

She has trouble imagining that he once had another passion; a passion for the woman with blue earrings; a passion, now forgotten, that had created her. She knows only the meager, fleeting passion of the aroused men that enter this fourth floor flat in Wanchai.

The plane, continuing its journey, moves out of her line of vision. Yet, still the camera clicks, capturing her blue despondency. Unresistingly, she moves her legs, her arms, her buttocks. She twists and contorts herself as commanded, feeling the scratchy blanket beneath her scraping like rock against seed at her cold flesh. The breeze from the air conditioner strikes a different part of her body each time she turns, chilling her still more.

Blue; the colour of the notes that passed between her father, lying on his bed, and the Chinese visitor who had arrived early one morning in her tribal village near Chang Mai. The blue of her hands that were bound by thick tight ropes to the rusting metal bar fixed half way up the sides of the truck. Tethered among twenty-one other girls from the north, she sat in stupefied silence throughout the long, rattling journey to Bangkok, that distant city of ancient, exotic beauty. Huddled, she watched as her companions' brown hands, also tied tautly to the bar, became a dark dull blue - the blue of death, she thought. The colour of her father's face.

The camera goes on clicking. Soon, the session will be over. The sky outside the dirty window is opening its arms to night. The neon lights of the clubs and bars are beginning to shine limply in the tepid twilight. Twilight, that elusive blue grey moment that links death to life.

The cars on the concrete flyover beyond the smeared panes become shadows; an endless trail of shadow. She, too, is a shadow; a nebulous, twilight shadow. The clicking stops. She waits. Nothing happens. Nothing is said. The aircon continues its relentless cycle. Reaching beneath her, she pulls the grey blanket up and around herself. Modesty is incongruous in a prostitute; yet she is a child; used, abused, innocent - dreaming still of obsessive love found among the swaying mountain fields, of draped silk and of blue gypsy ear-rings.

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Distance Between

Soft baby hands stroked her face, his tiny fingers curling slightly towards the palm. Her small boy, enveloped in a bright blue grow-suit, was also wrapped in a white shawl that almost reached the floor. Little arms and a head, naked but for the merest covering of hair, as wispy and feathery as the black down of a goose, peeped out. The small round-cheeked face gazed up at Yi Ling with the wondering, innocent expression of the recently born.

Yi Ling felt the aura of warmth embrace her as her eyes stared into his. This was the longed-for moment; the moment she had dreamt of, waited for; the moment she and Robert had planned eons ago, when, as newly weds, they had decided to begin a family. They talked of gender, colouring and characteristics, wondering if their child would have her black hair and almond eyes, or his blond, Nordic looks, her oriental tranquility and his Western passions; they mused on the fun and the anguish of having children, and idealized, ridiculed and rationalized their thoughts of parenthood, of two nations truly united in one small being, each contemplating the other in a role unknown.

Conversation of cotton wool lightness filled the flat as they prepared for their anticipated life-style change...

...but, after eighteen months of planning and fantasising, it became clear that they needed help. Yi Ling, with a sense of mission-to-be-accomplished, arranged an appointment with one of Hong Kong's eminent gynecologists. She, with her mother at her side dressed in her favourite mauve cheong sam, sat in a white waiting room, its comfortable, pastel-shaded armchairs surrounded by photographs of the great man shot with beaming parents. "He must be good," Yi Ling consoled herself as she nestled into a corner of a sofa with one of the many baby books that littered the table in the middle of the room. Her mother looked through a Western book of traditional Chinese dishes and chuckled to herself at the writer's audacity.

The brisk, taught-to-be-compassionate receptionist ushered Yi Ling through a heavy door, that led off the waiting area, into a consulting room where, at a solid oak desk, sat the man whom she hoped would quickly unravel the mystery of her barrenness. Her mother remained outside, looking at pictures of noodles and rice, but thinking about her daughter. The doctor stared at Yi Ling for a moment before launching into a catechism of questions; "How long have you been trying for a baby? How often do you have sex? Do you enjoy sex? How many partners have you had? Have you ever been pregnant?" On and on the questions went till the beauty and fantasy that had filled Yi Ling's mind for so many months were swept away; the harsh reality of facts erased all other thoughts. Talk of temperature charts, calendars, examinations, fallopian tubes, sperm count and ovulation trampled her last ideals of romance.

Yi Ling left the consultant shaken by the practicalities of aided conception. Her mother looked up from the noodles and smiled encouragement as they walked out of the surgery and into a new life.

Such a quick succession of events followed her visit to the doctor, that Yi Ling and Robert had time only to do as they were told. They were the honoured recipients of all that modern technology had to give; x-rays, tests, hormone injections, ultra-sound monitoring, extraction, implantation.

Meanwhile, Yi Ling's mother smiled benevolently as she made special teas and traditional soups that she persuaded Yi Ling to take. Robert's mother, in America, believed more in the medicines than in the folk-lore recipes of an old Chinese woman, but she could knit well and soon had a wardrobe of clothes of all colours for the soon-to-be conceived child.

The weeks rapidly began to stretch into months. And then, the months became years. Robert and Yi Ling, the doctor, his receptionist, the various medics at the hospital, and the two mothers, all became intimately attuned to Yi Ling's body's rhythms and messages, even sensing when ovulation was occurring. The thermometers and charts became unnecessary as time went on. As soon as Yi Ling knew, she or Robert made a call to the specialist, and to her mother. No matter what the time was, their reactions were always comfortingly the same. The doctor would race to the hospital, calling for necessary help on the way. Once there, he donned the standard dull green gown and set about preparation for Yi Ling's arrival. With the fervour of a pilgrim soon to leave the shores of his home country to seek happiness in an unexplored land, he hurried into the specially equipped room to give orders and make everything ready. Meanwhile, Yi Ling's mother sat beside the phone, waiting for their call from the hospital. She would listen carefully as Robert explained what had happened. Then, she dialed Robert's mother in the States and in broken English, relayed the news. Maureen replied in short slow sentences, with the pile of lovingly knitted baby clothes beside her.

They were always solicitous in the hospital. As Yi Ling hurried through the door of the ante-room, a cup of tea would be handed to her. Speedily her clothes were removed and replaced with a white, starched gown before she was led to the immaculate white bed. As soon as she lay down, her stomach was smeared with gel and the detector was guided across her body. All eyes focused on the ultra-sound monitor at her side. The eggs were identified. Their size was gauged. A long, extracting needle pierced the flesh of Yi Ling's round, replete stomach, and then pushed through its wall to the inner sanctum. The grey-white screen showed the needle's progress towards the larger of the eggs, and slowly, very slowly, the sharp implement was edged near enough to capture the egg. Once this first extraction was successfully executed, the tiny potential human was placed in the safe controlled environment of a glass dish. Here, it was later fertilized. The same extraction process was repeated several times within the space of an hour, each withdrawn egg slightly smaller and more vulnerable than its predecessor.

Finally, an optimum number of eggs had been removed. Sighs of relief, giggles of suppressed anxiety, and words of congratulations filled the small room as euphoria set in. "Maybe this time...", "It looks good...". Everyone was smiling. It was over. Perhaps this time really was the last time. Instruments were put away, gowns were removed, and Yi Ling and Robert left on a cloud of optimism and achievement. Yi Ling's mother called Maureen once more.

After each such occasion, Yi Ling and Robert returned to the hubbub of Sha Tin, driving along the cluttered streets filled with people busy with the everyday tasks of the afternoon. They stopped at red traffic lights, and waited behind bent women refuse collectors struggling with trolleys laden with used or broken goods. They saw vendors at open fronted shops selling rattan chairs and baskets, plastic sheeting and woks, pans and hot pot containers. But none of this mattered - their only concern was the possible new baby. Talking increasingly knowingly about the recently passed events, they used the impersonal language that reflected their phlegmatic medical helpers.

Not till much later did they realize they were merely guinea-pigs; appreciated perhaps but, guinea-pigs nevertheless in the cage of medical research.

On arriving home, Yi Ling and Robert stood on their balcony and gazed in the direction of the hospital. "How's he doing?" they asked each other. "Is he growing strong?" They held each other tenderly, each knowing that this baby was not just for them, but for their mothers - a longed grandson with a mass of black hair.

Most often "he" didn't grow at all. Occasionally, fertilization took place, but "he" only lived for a day or two before dying quietly in the sterilized conditions of a laboratory, on a sanitised plate in a modern Hong Kong hospital.

Then, unexpectedly, four years after that first exhilarating ovulation-day race to the hospital, "he" didn't die. "He" lived and grew. Grew to a size that made implantation possible. The adventure, the sheer joy of the implantation overwhelmed everyone present in the small white room. It was time to celebrate. The moment had come. It was more difficult than usual for Yi Ling's mother to find the right words in English to explain this new, joyful situation to Maureen in America.

Snuggled up in bed that night, Yi Ling knew it would work. She felt the egg nestling into her womb, felt her womb enfold it lovingly, and understood that her body was welcoming the newcomer. She and Robert lay awake that night, in their compact bedroom with fitted furniture designed to make it seem larger than it was. The curtains were open and the gentle moonlight caressed them both. They talked once more of the future, of beauty, and of their roles as parents-to-be. They fell asleep, their hearts full of child-like wonder.

Some weeks later, Yi Ling, with stomach smooth and round, sat beside Robert driving slowly along a twisting lane that skirts the Peak, catching glimpses of the South China Sea through the trees. The colder months of winter had passed, and in their place was the humidity of spring. Sunday walkers wedged themselves tightly against the stone sides of the road as Robert eased slowly past. Thick ferns littered the banks and lichen covered branches hung above them. Overhead, wisps of clouds swept the dull grey-blue sky.

At the speed of a tortoise, they moved along the road. Yi Ling, feeling uncomfortable with the seat belt strapped around her, removed it. The relief was so great that she let out a sigh. Robert smiled. Yi Ling's capacity to be calm never ceased to amaze him. The road became narrower at the bend, but Robert kept close to the bank as they curled round the rock.

A child ran towards them. Robert swung the steering wheel. The car jerked away from the bank. The child ran on, oblivious to all as it raced by. The front wheel of the vehicle hit the curb on the cliff side. Yi Ling was thrown against the dashboard. She was thrown back against her seat again. The car came to an abrupt halt. She felt a pain. Sharp. Unforgiving. It came again. She let out a shriek; a cry of pain, muffled by the sound of the air-con and her mother's agitated sounds coming from the back seat.

Two hours later, Mother sat at her phone and called Maureen - she could not find the English words, but that did not matter. Maureen, so far away, could feel her anguish - and cried with her for the loss of their grandchild.

Yi Ling lay upon the bed in their small bedroom. The room was dark. The curtains were pulled shut. She closed her eyes and felt soft baby hands stroking her face, his tiny fingers curling slightly towards the palm - the fingers of her bonnie black haired child; the child she would never have.

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