Comparing stories

 

Compare the life of Anna in this story with that of lan French in " Feuille d'Album". They are both English people living in Paris. What similarities and differences do you see in their lives? Your teacher may ask you to do this task as homework and discuss your comparisons in one of the next lessons.

Mei Chi Chan

 

Mei Chi Chan belongs to the Chinese ethnic minority living in Britain. This story is a good example of modern short-story writing outside the normal ethnic background of English literature.

 

 

Snowdrop[1050]

 

She had come to tell them of her decision. Standing by the door of the kitchen in the semi-darkness, a faint odour of bleach[1051] and onions greeted her like an old and comfortable companion. Silence, condensed by the hum[1052] of the refrigerators, echoed through and drew her in.

The fluorescent[1053] strips flickered before exploding off the hard, sharp surfaces, pricking out the edges, threatening the shadows. This was a kitchen that spoke not of home and its comforts but of forges[1054], armoury[1055] and battle. For now, the steel rested. The oil in the deep fryer was cool, brown and thick as treacle[1056]. The heavy iron range[1057] stood dominating the room like an altar; the four holes cut side by side into its black metal looked curiously vulnerable to her, and she resisted the temptatin to cover them up with the woks[1058] that huddled[1059] upside down like turtles beneath the range.

She walked across the room to the chopping board that stood on its own. Knives and choppers of different shapes and sizes hung from one of its edges, resembling a set of monstrous teeth. She could almost hear the thud[1060] of a heavy blade cleaving[1061] through flesh and bone onto the wood below. Delicately, she traced the scars on the surface. Tiny fragments of wood tickled her fingertips. In two hours her mother would come down the stairs and enter this arena. The fires would be lit, the oil would begin to bubble and steam and the steel would start to clash[1062]. She remembered Friday nights when she was a child. Friday was the busiest night of the week. People invaded the takeaway in hordes after the pubs had closed. Reeking[1063] of cigarette smoke and with the sour smell of drink on their breath, they demanded to be fed. Inside the kitchen she would sit, unable to help: the still centre in the madly spinning wheel of movement around her. She would look backwards and forwards between her father and her mother. Their faces frightened her, she could not recognize them. They were not their daytime selves, they became something impersonal, mechanical, and even monstrous. They were like the knives, slashing[1064], paring[1065], chopping, slicing, dividing. Moving through the thick greasy white smoke like the warriors[1066] of old, advancing in the mists of dawn; they looked inivncible[1067]. Every ounce[1068] of being was consumed in the task of making food. It could not be called 'cooking'. Cooking sounded too homely. No, like alchemists[1069], they brought forth food out of steel and fire. Their creations subdued[1070] and sated[1071] the hungry hordes that bayed[1072] impatiently outside.

She walked over and bent down to pick up one of the steel woks beneath the range. She tested it for its weight, savouring[1073] the way it felt to grip the wooden handle in her hand and the tension stretching her wrist. She dropped it onto one of the holes and it made a dull clunk[1074] as it landed. She walked round and round the kitchen, circling the aluminium worktop that was the centrepiece of the room. At times, she would stride[1075], eyes wide and blazing. Then at other times her steps turned into a shuffle[1076]. She sighed and muttered, shaking her head: I can't, I can't do it, I can't, I really can't. They can. But not me. I'm too soft, too weak, too split. I don't have it-what it takes. I-will -fail.

But there was another voice in her head, saying: you can, you can do it. Of course you can. You have had the training. You have the guts[1077]. You have stamina. That's all you need. The rest will take care of itself. She heard footsteps. She felt a shaking in the depths of her stomach. They would ask her and she would not know what to say...

'Snowdrop. That's a snowdrop.' The little girl listened deeply to the world. Gem-like, it sank into her heart and made it glow. A blue-green stem, a slender[1078] arch over virginal[1079] snow, and a white pendant flower dangling[1080] like an echo over it. 'A snowdrop.' That first, never-ending winter in England. Frosted air that bit her lungs, toes that never thawed[1081], strangers made stranger still, wrapped and hunched[1082] and invisible in their layers, voices that blew like gusts into her ears, sound without meaning - until the word 'snowdrop'. Something melted. It was the feeling that she could not express then, the feeling of a fragile white flower rising over the snow. Now she would call it 'hope'. How thankful she was not to have known the word then. They would ask her and she would say 'snowdrop' and they would understand. The word would turn like a key in their hearts. Snowdrop, snow-drop, a flower, a drop of...

Her mother and father broke into the space and light. She looked at them for a moment and there was confusion. In her mind they had been giants. Had they always been so small? How sallow[1083] and faded[1084] they looked, like parchment[1085]. In an instant, doubt vanished, and the two voices in her head united: They cannot win. I will not be able to win here either. It is the wood, the metal, the blades, the oil, the flames - that last. It is the flesh and the spirit that are bowed[1086] and twisted for their purpose. Those warriors of myth and legend were invincible only in stories. Blood is spilt, flesh and bone are torn and shattered and burnt. Only the weapons remain unharmed: wood and metal gleaming[1087] as though smiling. The victory belongs to them. All the while we feared the hordes beyond; all the while they were among us here. And my parents, what is left of them?

When she spoke, her voice was steady and clear. And when she told them that she would not stay and work in the kitchen they did not try to persuade her. Her father turned on the fryer and her mother lit the range.