Dry Eyes of Frozen Fishes

by Ngan Nguyen

I think Mei got an A for her poem Frozen Fishes because she writes about the Chinese people who died in October in a lorry in Essex.

‘We have been rowing and rowing for thousands of  years
From the North to the South of our Earth
From Africa to the rest of the world
We call ourselves - human.
But today we are frozen like fishes
 Not in the ocean but a fridge.’

Mei’s cheeks turn a rosy blush as she receives a round of applause. I know her poem is about an awful tragedy but it makes me think about the frozen fish which Mum and Dad usually cook for me yet everybody claps for Mei’s poetry as if they have never seen frozen fish in their fridge. I wish Mrs Lily would ask me to read my essay. I would love some applause too. Mei is my best friend and we are the only pupils who look Asian in Kirkcudbright Academy. ‘You’ve done a great job!’ I stretch forward, whispering to her as she sits down. She flashes a cheerful smile, still beautiful even though it has a big gap.

Not the song from Alan Walker but the bell is the best music in the world. As soon as that wonderful bell rings, everybody hastily puts their notebooks, text books and stationery into their school bag then dashes for the open air, without caring about what Mrs Lily is saying. I follow Mei into the corridor. Mark hurts my left shoulder as he chases after another boy; the strap of his green bag had dropped down his right arm. I am so upset that he doesn’t hear my scream and offer an apology. I want to see his smile, as bright as the sun whenever his lips open.

The late autumn pours its weak light from the sky. Ancient golden leaves are rustling against the wind. There is a huge line of buses and parents’ cars waiting for the pupils. Mei and I leave the crowd, walking slowly to the High Street; it is quieter. Her pink skirt sways around tiny legs. I can count twenty horses on her pink school bag. We stand next to the tolbooth, an old prison opened as a museum, where a middle-aged man is sitting at the table; his job must be very boring, I guess, waiting for tourists in that cramped room. Some older pupils glance at us as they pass. They remind me about the poem which Mei read to the class today. Mei was the only person Mrs Lily asked to read out her homework, and now she is popular in our school. A red Kia arrives, Mei’s mother puts her head out of the window and waves towards us. ‘Bye Lan, see you tomorrow.’ Then Mei dashes to her mother. My mother walks along the pavement in her yellow lemon coat, wearing a broad smile and waving at me.
‘How was school today, darling?’ Her voice is as soft as wool.

I can’t tell her how sad I am as she will think what kind of person can be jealous of her close friend, and I can’t tell her the truth, that I am worried that Mark will like Mei, not me. So I mimic Mei’s high-pitched voice to read her poem.

‘Such a touching poem.  She can become a poet.’

‘Do you think she got an A because she wrote about the Chinese people who died in a lorry recently?’ I try to keep my voice natural but I can hear it is quite strange, too weak and forced.

‘Darling,’ my mother suddenly stops walking and bends over me, ‘she deserved to have an A +. How was your essay?’

‘I got a B.’

‘That’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I love your essay. Dad loves it too. Mei got claps for her poem whilst you got your father’s laughter.’

I keep silent. My mother’s coat is too bright in this grey thin air. She holds my hand gently, and we walk home.

‘What are we having for tea, mum?’

‘I won’t tell you until we are home.’

My house is not far from school so it only takes us fifteen minutes to get there. It is built on the hill, among similar houses with tiny gardens and brown roofs. As soon as my mother opens the gate, I rush to the backyard to look at the pink roses. They are swaying in the breeze. I always check these flowers as I am afraid they will disappear. A slap of wind can blow my beloved roses to the ground.

‘What do you want to drink, darling?’

‘I would like a mug of hot chocolate.’

I climb the stairs, leave my school bag on the table, change my school uniform for jeans and a purple t-shirt with a large Mickey Mouse head. When I walk into the kitchen, my mother has already arranged a dish of four spring rolls on the table. We sit down by the window, looking out at the garden where I can see my neighbours walking their dogs.

‘So delicious, mum.’

She reads my thoughts. That’s why she always surprises me at tea time with British cakes or Vietnamese snacks. Her spring roll is wrapped in rice paper with a half boiled egg, grilled pork with sesame and salad. She never lets me eat more than two so that I can keep my stomach for dinner.

At four, my mother walks me to her private client, George. He lives alone after his wife’s death two years ago and his only son lives in Leeds, very far from here. She has been looking after him for a year and a half following his stroke. In the morning she walks me to school then works with George for three hours, then two more in the afternoon. My mum doesn’t want me to stay at home alone so I follow her to George’s. Actually I like joining her as she makes me feel how supportive I am.

When we arrive, George is sitting on the sofa, watching a comedy. He blinks at me as I greet him.

‘Would you like to have tea now or go for a walk?’ My mum sits next to him, asking him in a gentle voice.

‘How is the weather, Mickey mouse?’

In his raucous voice, George always calls me according to what I am wearing.

‘You can’t miss this sunset.’

‘Ok, let’s go for a walk.’

I stride across the room to the cupboard next to the door to fetch a warm coat, a pair of gloves, a hat and a scarf for him. Mum carefully places a big wool blanket over his legs, then pushes his wheelchair into the open air. The cold air violently rushes to my face, then slowly becomes gentle. We follow the path across the grass to the river path. We slowly head to the bridge, rays of sunlight glittering on the sporadic cloud, dyeing the river in orange. A flock of birds, in a V, fly across the sky, making a huge noise. We walk through the line of trees showing their skeleton branches in miserable movement. There is an old couple walking their two dogs in the opposite direction. When we arrive home, the last ray of sun has already disappeared. 

Whilst mum is making dinner, I tell George about Mei’s poem and my essay. He asks me to read them for him. I can quote Mei’s poem as I have learnt it by heart now.  I feel happy as he especially cares about my essay.

‘I love these sentences, Lan. ‘A petal of a rose is as soft as a cloud, as red as a cherry, as gentle as wool. And my rose drink is more delicious than my father’s whisky. It makes me taller and stronger whilst a glass of whisky makes my dad’s belly bigger and bigger. When he is old and cannot walk like Mr George, my mother’s private customer, I will just offer him my rose drink to make him stronger and younger.’

‘Do you think I deserve an A instead of a B?’

‘A or B are just letters of the alphabet. Don’t let them make you unhappy. I’ll tell you a secret. I never cared about my grades, Lan. School is the place to enjoy your happy time for digging up knowledge because you’re a hungry child. Mei has the ability of a poet but you are very good at beverages. Everybody has their own ability, am I right?’
He smiles, more lines on his face like threads and his left eye closes. Whilst he drinks his tea, I continue reading for him Red Dust Road, an autobiography by Jackie Kay. He pays me a pound for my reading which makes me extremely happy. My mum earns eleven pounds an hour. Kay’s story reminds me of travelling to Vietnam with my parents when I was six. I had no feelings for anybody there, even my mother’s parents. They are strangers to me, not like my father’s parents whom I meet every year and who give me gifts for my birthday and Christmas. But I remember how I liked the rice fields, their fragrance was so special and there is no perfume in Scotland to compare.

‘Dinner is ready!’

I hear my mum’s call to let me know that I should stop reading. So I quickly set the table and get a glass of water. A dish of fried noodles, mushrooms, red chillies and some cashews. Back on the sofa, I watch my favorite cartoon. But I can still hear my mum and George speaking.

‘Such a tragedy. Did you know that those people in the truck were Vietnamese not Chinese?’

‘Yes, just today.’

‘Why did people have to risk their lives to come here?’

‘In Vietnam, country people can have three proper meals a day for only one pound. They work hard to save money for their old age and sickness. People abroad never tell the truth about their lives and people at home imagine they have the life that they want because films have poisoned their imagination. I am not in their shoes to know about their motivation but I’m sure everybody has their own reason for leaving their families behind. We can’t blame anyone, just the wars.’

‘It’s sad. Do you miss your family in Vietnam?  Is your father better now?’

‘Not really my family, but I know how much I miss my country when I am in Scotland. He is in hospital now. Very bad. But I can’t go home.’

At seven, mum helps George to bed, leaving water and pills on the table, then we leave. Darkness embraces the houses. The sign of life comes from the pale lights from the windows and the murmuring sound from the televisions. My shoes keep making a noise on the gravel whilst I count my steps in Vietnamese, một, hai, ba.... Mum says that a person who can’t speak her mother tongue will never truly find peace in her life.  I wish my mum’s father was George, so we could look after him here. I haven’t met him for four years, so I don’t really remember him. Whenever my mum asks me to speak to him on WhatsApp, I always try to find an excuse. He bores me. I had no feelings when I knew he must go into hospital, but I feel sad whenever we leave George alone in his house.

Dad is making dinner for us when we get home. He has a dental clinic in the town, only five minutes walk away. This is a small town so I guess there are not many people with dental problems so that my father can earn lots of money from them. I take a quick shower, then go down to the kitchen.

‘Do you need a hand Dad?’

‘Oh yes, my treasure.  Can you check what we need?’

I examine the table, three dishes of smoked salmon and steamed broccoli. I open the cupboard to get glasses. Dad and mum always drink whisky at dinner.

‘Did you call your brother today?’ my father clears his voice.

‘Yes, he asked for more money. I didn’t tell him that I work as a carer and don’t earn much. But if I don’t send him money, he will borrow from other people and pay high interest.’ I can hear my mother’s voice. She seems a bit nervous. I wonder if my mother knows that her sigh is louder than thunder.

‘Don’t worry about money my love. I’m happy to help your father.’ My father always stresses the final word in his speech, as if he wants to say more but doesn’t know what else to say. He must have been trying to cheer my mother up.

‘There’s something I want to say...’ My mother hesitates for a moment then continues, ‘My second cousin is planning to travel to England illegally. His father is borrowing money from any source he can. I refused to lend him money with the excuse that my father is in hospital. I tried to stop the boy but he still insists on leaving Vietnam. People don’t abandon their plan after the truck accident in England.’ My mother’s voice breaks then she manages to finish what she is saying with a great effort.
 Dad holds my mum gently in his arms, resting his chin on her head. I walk towards the fridge to get ice. The fridge is bigger and higher than me. I could turn into a snowgirl if I stayed in there for a while. As soon as I open the freezer, the raging cold rushes into my face. I see the fishes staring at me. A tray of ice sits next to the fishes. I remember we bought them in Glasgow two months ago. I don’t know why my parents haven’t cooked them yet. My fingers tremble as I take out the ice tray. The cubes freeze my fingers as I hold them for a while. I can’t imagine how those Vietnamese people stayed in that refrigerated truck. Did their eyes open like these fishes when they lost their breath? Their eyes must be as dry as those of these fishes.

I close my eyes, feeling my painful fingers with melting ice on them.

‘What keeps you so long, my darling?’

My mum approaches behind me. I can’t let her see my teary eyes; they should be as dry as those of these fishes.

Author’s note: In fact, the Vietnamese travellers suffocated and died from the heat in a refrigerated lorry.