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“You do not have any other option now, do you?” he says, posture stiff and ready to argue.
He’s right, of course, for the most part but you know you could find other accommodation if you tried, unpleasant though it may be. Sneaking into France’s hotel room, for example. But seeing his defensive stance, a practiced preparation for yet another rejection, and his still earnest eyes, you can’t bring yourself to refuse. So you smile politely, nod and gesture for him to show you the way. His surprise is bittersweet, like winning a prize in a competition you were involuntarily entered in.
His home hasn't changed. It’s no longer the same building, or even the same layout. Modern technology replaces antiquated appliances. There’s no gramophone perched on the shelf, no golden framed oil-paintings lining the hallway nor fountain pens and ink pots on a rich wooden writing table across from the hearth. And yet with the same tones of cream and beige, the same grandfather clock ticking steadily in the foyer, the same disorderly pile of newspapers and post occupying the counter, it’s all too familiar. Here you are, again, sitting in the heart of England. England, who is serving you tea in what is quite obviously his best set of china, the same from two hundred years ago. It chokes you.
Awkwardly, you turn your attention to the wrinkle-free Chinese community newspaper on the top of the pile. When did things get so awkward between you?
“Since when do you read Chinese?” he asks, eyebrows pinched together. You look up.
“Are you jealous, Mum- ”
“Do not call me that,” he cuts you off sharply, setting the teapot down.
“But it’s true, isn't it? You found us, took us in, raised us, and when you were in trouble we would fight your battles. For our dear Mother Country,” you snipe back. He flinches. You've purposely stepped on a festering sore, one your brothers haven’t let heal. It’s the Centennial this year. A hundred years since you were first sent across the turbulent ocean to a beautiful foreign land under the same blue sky that was sullied so soon by toxic smoke, the miasma of dying, tortured men, your men, and their dark black emotions. Even now, you try your utmost to avoid Turkey during the world conferences.
But anger is always a fleeting feeling for you, like the puarangi, with its smouldering red centre and flashing white petals that blooms and dies within the hour. Guilt, however, sticks to your chest as if it is thick honey, a tenacious gel until stirred runny. It’s not fair to him, to pick on a century old wound when you know the ‘hows’ and the ‘whys’.There’s no blame to put on anyone anymore. But it’s so hard to forget, rather, you don’t want to forget. And that just makes it more difficult to forgive.
You give a quiet sigh, eyes lingering on the window peering into the rose garden.
“I've been learning for the past decade. I got Hong Kong to teach me.” With the drastic increase of business with China in the past twenty years, it was simply easier for you to not need to rely on translators and interpreters.
England cradles his hands together, eyes unseeingly fixed on the newspaper.
“...How is he?” The question is so tentatively soft, the tick-tock-tick of the grandfather clock is almost enough to drown it out. A few seconds pass with England clenching his fingers, thinking you haven’t heard. Slowly, you turn your head back to him. You’re surprised. Not because he cares, but for him to show that he cares. England’s typical stoic facade is crumbling like the many old castles scattered across his land, abandoned in spite of the labour invested in each block of brick.
“He’s doing okay. Doesn't mention you much, though. Sorry,” you eventually say, trying to be flippant.
“Oh, well, that’s good then. That he’s good, I mean.” Startled, he clearly hadn't expected you to reply at all. He picks up his teacup and sips at the tea that has long gone cold.
“He does complain about China a heck of a lot. Bit like Aussie,” you muse, “but Aussie’s definitely more annoying and loud.”
England chuckles stiltedly; the sound could be mistaken for sobs, and you wonder, when was the last time he laughed?
“I am sure they have plenty of reasons to voice their criticisms.” He gives a self-deprecating smile, wonky like his laugh. It’s unnerving to see. Then his expression turns contemplative. He clears his throat, takes a short breath and on the exhale says, “I am sorry.”
If you were surprised before, now you’re utterly astonished! Your mouth gapes open slightly of its own accord and you blink half a dozen times before you shake off the shock.
“I’m not the one you should be saying that to.”
England shakes his head. “You are. Perhaps not the only one, but you are the one who is more likely to accept it.”
Maybe. You can’t yet, not today, or even any day this year, probably.
You look at the time. “It’s getting late. We have another early meeting tomorrow, so I’ll just head to bed.” It’s a glaringly obvious evasion, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Yes, of course. You can take take the room across from the bathroom.” He attempts to rebuild his regal composure, sitting straighter and hiding his face behind his teacup. But you've already caught a glimpse of the man behind the walls he erects. If only your brothers could have the same privilege.
As you walk out, leaving England at the table, you pause by the doorway. “Good night, England.”
He smiles into the teacup. “Good night, New Zealand.”