My mother married at age sixteen, had her first child at seventeen, and didn’t stop till she was forty one, producing a total of fourteen children—four sons and ten daughters. In those days, of course, the family size didn’t provoke the reaction of astonishment it does today, as for instance from my audience when I reveal the fact. (I smile at the collective gasp)

All of us were born at home, delivered by a midwife, except the last two who were born in the local hospital. I remember, as a little girl, being led by the older siblings into Mother’s confinement room to look at the new baby; I was Child Number 8 and hence welcomed a total of 6 siblings.

I remember, even more vividly, the sights and smells of a traditional Chinese confinement: my mother, clad in sarong, and two long-sleeved blouses, one buttoned over the other, her head sometimes wrapped in a towel, lying in bed in the darkened room, the midwife, emerging from the confinement room to empty the contents of a chamber pot, (in one of my novels, I was able to describe in detail the reeking smells of the after-birth), or entering the room with a tray of the special confinement food of steamed rice and pork fried with sliced ginger and sesame seed oil, and a special drink of roasted rice grains in hot water. It was a treat to eat whatever Mother couldn’t finish.

I remember hearing the neighbours tease Mother: ‘Why, you give birth so easily! Pok! Like a hen laying eggs! Pok! Like the rubber seeds.’

The second analogy requires some explanation. There were rubber plantations surrounding our little town, and children often went there to look for the smooth, shiny rubber seeds lying on the ground, that had fallen out, with a sharp popping sound, from the suggestively shaped, ripened pod clefts.

Mother was a beauty in her youth. I have a large framed portrait of her, when she was about twenty. It shows a remarkable resemblance to the Chinese actress Gong Li. The many years of childbearing had an inevitable toll on her looks, but she was vain enough to sometimes draw attention to her still bright eyes, her firm jawline, her smile. Her vanity was part of her exuberance, vitality and sense of humour, which she showed till the last years of her life (she died at age ninety, some years ago) when, to our great dismay and sadness, she slipped into a listless, disoriented state.

One of my happiest recollections of Mother was of a brief period of lucidity during that state, when she showed the old, vibrant vanity about the good looks of her youth. I was showing her a photograph of her self (the same one that I later asked an artistic member of the family to use for the portrait earlier described) and remarking to her, ‘You know, Mum, you have ten daughters, and none of them comes anywhere near you in your beauty!’

She must have been extremely pleased by the complimentary remark, for she resorted to a stratagem to hear it continuously repeated. ‘What did you say? I didn’t hear. Could you say it again?’ I did. Then a short while later, she said again, ‘What did you say just now? This old memory is not very good.’ In this way, she made me repeat the compliment four times, the glow of pleasure on her face increasing with each repetition.

One of my pleasantest experiences when my novel ‘The Bondmaid’ came out, had nothing to do with the thrill of being published by an international publishing house for the first time, nor with the warm reviews. The cover for the novel showed an exquisitely beautiful young Chinese woman, that the design artist in Orion Publishers, London, must have carefully selected. My family, when they saw the cover, immediately asked, ‘Did you give Mum’s picture to be used for your cover? How come you didn’t tell us?’

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About Vignettes...

A continuing flow of little, readable pieces that will constitute what I feel is an important 'legacy of values' to leave behind. Read more about Vignettes...