White Ghost Girls E-Book

Alice Greenway

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Beschreibung

Longlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction A Radio 4 Book at Bedtime Two sisters grow together and apart into their emerging selves. Frankie pulses with curiosity and risk; Kate is watchful, all eyes and ears. Immersed in the heat and colours of Hong Kong in the 1960s, theirs is a world of fishermen and insurgents, temple gods and ghosts, of blinding light and dark, dark waters. As Frankie's behaviour becomes more and more outrageous in her defiant attempt to win her parents' attention, Kate retreats into a quiet desperation, unable to act to save the soul for whom she would sacrifice everything - Frankie.

Leseprobe

WHITE GHOST GIRLS

Alice Greenway is an American who grew up in Hong Kong.As the daughter of a foreign correspondent she also lived inBangkok, Jerusalem and the United States. She later returnedto Hong Kong and now lives in Scotland with her family.

This is her first novel.

From the international reviews:

‘A beautifully written elegy for a lost childhood.’

Rachel Hore, Guardian

‘A haunting and moving read.’

Claudia Webb, Financial Times

‘Hong Kong in the 1960s is beautifully evoked,and the central tragedy gives the story an unforgettableintensity… A real corker of a first novel.’

Kate Saunders, The Times

‘A masterly first novel.’

Simon Button, Sunday Express

‘Her writing is so fresh and sensual that you can almost smell the mud-streaked walls after the tropical downpours or fish drying on concrete slabs, hear the temple bells and the builders’ trucks whine up the hills in low gear, see the junks sailing out like tattered butterflies or the sun shining translucent green through elephant-ear leaves… an entrancing novel.’

David Robinson, Scotsman

‘An assured debut… sensuous, rich with colours and scents of Hong Kong and filled with the poignance of sibling love and forgiveness, memory and loss.’

Ailin Quinlan, Irish Examiner

‘Marvellous… Greenway’s evocation of place and time, as well as her rich, lyrical overlay of Chinese culture, are written in a clean, confident style… Whether you’re a fast reader or like to savour a book, this one gathers momentum as Greenway’s multiple conflicts speed toward the climax. Like a good poem or short story, its brevity compresses ideas and imagery into an elegant, memorable package.’

Irene Wanner, San Francisco Chronicle

‘With its ethereal eye for detail and haunting sense of time and space, White Ghost Girls cloaks and disorientates the reader like a morning mist on The Peak… Greenway manages to paint this complex canvas with an airy deftness of touch that belies the often intense subject matter… such an assured debut.’

Adam Luck, Weekend Standard (Hong Kong)

Copyright

First published in Great Britain in trade paperback in 2006 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.

This paperback edition published in 2006 by Atlantic Books.

Copyright © Alice Greenway 2006

The moral right of Alice Greenway to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Atlantic Books

An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London WC1N 3JZ

First eBook Edition: January 2010

ISBN: 978-1-848-87778-8

Contents

Cover

WHITE GHOST GIRLS

Copyright

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

thirty-two

thirty-three

thirty-four

thirty-five

thirty-six

thirty-seven

thirty-eight

thirty-nine

forty

forty-one

forty-two

forty-three

To Timo, Annie and Eliza,and in memory of Theodore,with great love.

one

What can you give me?

Can you give me a back alley, a smoke-filled temple where white-hooded mourners burn offerings and wail for the dead? The single chime of a high-pitched temple bell? The knocking of a wooden fish?

Can you give me hot rain, mould-streaked walls, a sharpness that creeps into my clothes, infests my books? The smells of dried oysters, clove hair oil, tiger balm, joss burning to Kuan Yin in the back room of a Chinese amah? The feverish shriek of cicadas, the cry of black-eared kites? The translucent green of sun shining through elephant ear leaves?

Can you give me a handful of coloured silk? An empty pack of cigarettes? A tape recorder? Narrow, stepped streets, balconies hung with shop signs, laundry strung on bamboo poles, rattan birdcages? A ripened pomelo split open? The chalky bone of cuttlefish?

Can you give me my father’s hand in mine, Frankie’s in the other? Then take everything and go away?

Because if you can’t, it’s not enough. And if you can, I might leave anyhow. I’ll head for cover. Disappear in jungles of triple canopy.

Out in the harbour, at the end of summer, fishermen feed the hungry ghosts. They float paper boats shaped like junks and steamships. One is double-prowed like the cross-harbour Star Ferry which plies its way back and forth between Hong Kong and Kowloon, never having to turn around. The fishermen load each tiny paper boat with some tea leaves, a drop of cooking oil, a spoonful of rice, a splash of petrol before setting it afloat. Boats for the lost at sea, for the drowned. They hire musicians to clang cymbals. Children throw burning spirit-money into the waves.

This summer, the one I’m going to tell you about, is the only time that matters. It’s the time I’ll think of when I’m dying, just as another might recall a lost lover or regret a love they never had. For me, there is one story. It’s my sister’s – Frankie’s.

‘Touched you last,’ Frankie taunts. She runs out across the beach. Arms waving, shouting Indian war whoops, she plunges into the warm, green waves. Dares me to follow. Shaking off the stupor of the heat, I dash out after her.

Inside our shack, it’s hot and close. Rank smells of sea salt, mould, sand. Air so wet, it trickles down the creases of our skin. Pools collect in the bends of our arms, behind our knees. Waves lap. Cicadas shriek. Barnacles and snails, stranded above the tide line, clamp tightly to rocks.

Frankie feeds me roe she’s extracted from the belly of a purple-spined sea urchin, the way the boatman Ah Wong has taught us. I lick the soft yellow eggs off her finger. The taste is raw and salty-smooth. It’s how explorers, castaways survive: Magellan, Columbus, Crusoe, eating the flesh of wild sea turtles, mangy gulls. Sometimes we dive for rubbery black sea slugs. Frankie squeezes one, shooting me with a film of sticky innards. It’s the creature’s only means of defence. It takes them a full year to rearm.

We’re already too old for this, our games of castaway. We take them up self-consciously. Construct our shacks of flotsam and jetsam: rope, tin, fishing-net, Styrofoam, driftwood. Drag our finds back from rocks along the shore, step barefoot on crusty barnacles, rough granite, through tidal pools harbouring crabs and limpets. At the back of the beach, sharp vines clasp at our skin: vitex, rattlebox, morning glory. They criss-cross our ankles with scratches and scabs. Calluses grow thick on the soles of our feet. Startled, an ungainly coucal crashes through the undergrowth. Its echoing, whooping cry sounds like a monkey rather than a bird.

Then again, it’s in our nature to gather, to scavenge. My mother hoards tubes of paints, charcoal pencils, erasers, inks, pens. Stores them in art boxes and Chinese baskets piled in her room with hard blocks of watercolour paper. My father keeps war relics in his darkroom, treasures my mother doesn’t like to see: slivers of shrapnel he dug out of his leg, a grenade pin, a smuggled AK-47 stashed under the basin. A string of tiny temple bells that jangle on the door so you have to open it slowly, carefully, if you don’t want anyone to hear you. A thin, tattered Vietnamese–English dictionary.

Secretly foraging, Frankie and I discover the Vietnamese words for nationalism and People’s Democratic Revolution, dialectic materialism and exploitation. We find words for blood transfusion, guerrilla warfare and napalm. A bomb exploded and killed many people: Bom nô git cht nhiu ngu’ò’i. Words for utopia, không tu’o’ng, and sexual intercourse, gió’i tính. We pronounce them phonetically, like witches’ spells. We look at the pictures my father’s taken. Photographs of war.

Secret sisters. Shipwrecked sisters. Viet Cong sisters is what we call ourselves.

Frankie’s back is strong and dark. She ties her long brown hair in two braids. Although our mother pleads with her to wear a top, she swims only in cut-off shorts. Maybe she’s not ready to grow up. More likely, she wants to upset our mother. Her breasts are already full and round, like mangosteens. They bounce when she runs. Voluptuous is the word McKenna used when he and my father last came out of Saigon. It made my mother wince.

Me, I am thinner, leaner. Miró or Giacometti, my mother calls me. My hair is fair and cropped like a boy. It mats to my head with sea salt. I wear a threadbare blue-and-white bikini, hiding pointy, childish nipples. My skin is sunburned. When my father takes photos of me, I stare straight at the camera. I am twelve, nearly thirteen.

‘Come, Kate,’ Frankie calls me from the sea. I sprint. Feet, knees, legs fly across the sand, batter through the warm water. A wave rises up and slaps hard against my chest, then sweeps back, scratching my ankles with island sand, pulls as if to drag me down. I dive.

Underwater, it’s cooler, quieter, green-blue. Purple-black sea urchins cling to rocks. Rough-skinned starfish stretch their arms in every direction. Fish dart past, swept along by the wash of waves. A pink sea anemone shudders fleshy tentacles. I hear the throbbing whine of a boat engine, an ancient kaido ferrying passengers to Yung Shue Wan, on the opposite end of Lamma Island.

Frankie grins, swims off; her arms pull broad, strong strokes, skimming the sandy bottom. I swim as fast as I can, knowing I won’t beat her. Hold my breath until my chest aches, then kick to the surface, gasp in air. Frankie is faster, bigger, stronger. But she’s also more needy. She needs my participation, my surrender in order to assert herself.

Breathless, I flip over. Floating upward, I dip my head back so the water licks my forehead. My eyes squint in the sun. From here, our shack looks like one of the squatter huts that catch fire or collapse down the muddy slopes of Hong Kong in sudden landslips.

Or maybe it’s a Cubist painting in one of my mother’s art books: a collage of forgotten items tacked on a cork-board.

The Chinese believe dragons lie curled asleep under these hills. Construction of new roads, the digging of foundations for apartment buildings can cut into the creatures’ flesh. The earth bleeds red ochre. Then the great beasts must be appeased, offerings made, to avoid disease, bankruptcy or sudden, unexplained death. These bare, knobby hills are a dragon’s vertebrae, spinal humps that might plunge under at any time, sucking us down with them.

All Hong Kong’s islands look this way. Their forests cut down for firewood and shipbuilding. Their fertile valleys flooded at the end of the Ice Age, leaving steep mountains jutting out of the sea.

two

‘Kate. Frances,’ my mother calls our names from the stern of the junk. I roll over in the water and watch her stand up under the shade of the boat’s canvas awning. She slips an elastic band around her watercolour pad, gathers her paints and tucks them into a big rattan bag. Her blonde hair is clipped back with a tortoiseshell pin to keep it off her neck. She wears a light Indian cloth tied modestly over her bathing suit, like a sarong. It puzzles me how she can sit so long without jumping into the sea. How, when she swims, she keeps her head above water, to keep her hair dry, rather than diving into the deep.

Ah Wong, in full sun, winds his fishing-line around a hand-held wooden frame. We could swim back to the junk perfectly well but Ah Wong always brings the dinghy out to fetch us. Squatting at the bow, he rows with a single oar, swivelling it along one side of the boat, then the other.

I swim, slowly at first so Frankie won’t notice, then faster. Now’s my chance to beat her because I’m closer and Frankie has caught a ride with Ah Wong. Hitching her arms over the dinghy’s transom, she lets her brown legs trail heavily through the water behind. She’s pretending not to notice me or maybe she doesn’t. I know it’s silly but I’m choking with triumph as I pull myself up the anchor line, launch my body on to the hot deck. My toes stretch wide over the rough, thick rope. Sea water streams down my face into my mouth, drips from my legs making rivulets in the dry, sun-baked wood. When I stand, my stomach leaves a dark curved stain between the prow and anchor chock.

At first I am the only one who sees it. A dark spot deep in the water, hidden by twinkling waves. The sun’s reflection searing a momentary speck on my retina. Only when I blink, it’s still there.