Other published writing

As the heading suggests here are some of my other writing I’ve published over the years, from poetry to short stories, both for children and adults.

 

Rainy day washaway

 

Glum, drab and gloomy, dribbly and grey,

it looked like rain … again.

If Evie was stuck in the house one more day

she’d be bored right out of her brain!

 

Then all of a sudden, a brainwave struck!

(From where, she wasn’t certain.)

If the sky was a window, with any luck,

the clouds were like dirty curtains.

 

So Evie rang Sophie, then Sophie rang Shay,

and together they hatched a plan.

“Why don’t we just wash all this weather away?

If anyone can, we can!”

 

They fetched a big wash-tub, a ladder and net,

then tied some pegs to a rope.

As the tub filled with water, so hot and so wet,

they squirted in super-suds soap.

 

Then Evie and Sophie climbed up to the sky,

and clipped each peg to a cloud.

They leapt into space as though they could fly

and bungeed back down to the ground.

 

With a HEAVE! and a HO! they hauled the clouds under

and squished them into the tub.

They crackled with lightning and rumbled with thunder

as they all got a jolly good scrub.

 

They hung all the clouds in orderly rows,

from small to middle to big,

Then wound up the hoist as high as it goes,

till it span like a whirligig.

 

Shay pointed his hose at the cloud-stained sun

and turned the tap on fullblast.

It sizzled and steamed but when it was done,

it dried again really fast.

 

Up they all hopped with their buckets and mops

and rags all tied in a bunch.

But what did they do when they reached the top?

They sat down and ate their lunch.

 

They wiped away sunspots and meteor streaks

and melted moon cheese like glue.

Then they scrubbed the sky until it squeaked,

so clear you could see right through.

 

As they wound down the hoist a cloud got snagged

on the man-in-the-moon’s pointy chin.

They sewed it together with fine silver thread

and a shiny gold safety-pin.

 

By now all the clouds were lovely and dry,

fluffy and light as a feather.

Evie cheered as they floated back up to the sky –

“That looks like much better weather.”

 

Out of their houses the children all poured,

shouting Hip Hip Hooray!

Surely Evie couldn’t be bored

with such a glorious day?

 

But cleaning the sky had been so much fun

Evie had a brainwave … again!

One day soon when they’d had enough sun

they could try to make it rain.

 

A treasury of NZ poems for children 2014

(Published by PenguinNZ. Editor Paula Green)

 

I like Ocelots

I really do like ocelots.

’cause ocelots have lots of spots.

But mostly I like ocelots

’cause I like saying ocelot –

Quite. A. Lot.

 

Cloud-shaped sheep

A cloud-shaped sheep

glanced up at the sky,

and saw a sheep-shaped cloud

drifting by.

 

But the sheep-shaped cloud

paid no heed

to the cloud-shaped sheep

far below in the field.

 

Roar, Squeak, Purr. A NZ treasury of animal poems 2022

(Published by PenguinNZ. Editor Paula Green)

 

A bad day out

She wobbled her way along a maze of suburban streets. Her school bag, strapped firmly onto the carrier of her bike with a couple of bungy cords, was unusually bulky this morning. If anyone saw her, they might imagine she was dumping a body. Better that than suspecting the true nature of her secret cargo.

Today was the day. At last, she’d be free.  

            The thought curled her lips into a bitter smile. The local shopping mall wasn’t exactly freedom, was it? But it was anonymous. That was the main thing. She’d be just another face in the crowd there. She could be her true self, wear whatever she liked and nobody  would pay her any attention.

The streets were thankfully empty. School had begun half an hour ago. The rest of her class would be dutifully dissecting a lab rat or learning about mining in Siberia. She wasn’t going to miss much. She was smart enough to catch up by exam time anyway.

Nobody was going to notice her missing.

She wasn’t a rebel. Far from it. In fact, she’d always been one of the good kids. Her grades were always above average. Her attendance exemplary. Neither one of the cool kids, nor one of those poor wretches who seemed to have a target tattooed on their foreheads, she’d largely gone through school unnoticed.

But lately…

Lately, she’d begun to feel a growing sense of… of what, exactly? It was difficult to define. Desperation? Futility? Maybe there wasn’t any single word to describe her growing discomfort with the cards Fate had dealt her. She blamed puberty. Every time she glimpsed herself in the mirror, her stomach would knot with despair. Her face was broadening, becoming coarser. Her skin a bubbling Rotorua of weeping spots and craters. And a pale shadow had begun to spill across her chin, staining it with a shameful stigmata. She hardly recognised herself anymore.

She couldn’t stand being in a class awash with hormones. Her stiff school uniform was a chafing reminder of her discomfort. Her mood fluctuating between anger and a bleak depression.

Luckily, her mother had started working part-time, so the house was often empty during the day. It was easy to fake going to school. She’d cycle around the block then wait at the corner for her mother to leave. Once inside, she’d draw all the curtains, put on her mother’s best dress and some lipstick, then spend the day on the couch watchingNetflix. Imagining a different life. A different her.

But lately the house had begun to feel more like a prison.

When her daring plan first started formulating, she’d rejected it. There was no way she was brave enough to see it through. Yet the plan refused to be shaken loose entirely.

In the end, it was desperation that brought her here. To this moment.

As she chained her bike to the stands outside the mall, adrenaline coursed through her body. Determination filled every fibre of her being. Deep down she felt like she was perched on a precipice. It was now or never.

Once inside, doubt began to elbow determination aside. Was she actually going to do this? In front of all these people? Seriously?

Yes, she thought, I am. I have to.

She loitered a while in the game store, rifling through the untrustingly empty cases, getting up the courage to change. She had all day. No need to hurry. A distraction would do her good. Calm her down a bit.

She was studying the back of a game, trying to decipher the rules, when a heavy hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her around. The store manager’s face was a mask of grim satisfaction as he held out an empty box.

“Do you know anything about this?” he said, more statement than question.

Her heart was pounding. Her mouth too dry for words. Her face a burning mosaic of splotchy reds.

“Open your bag.”

She unzipped her school bag. “It’s my mother’s stuff,” she managed to mutter.

The manager rifled through the bag, searching for evidence of her crime. He was sure it was there somewhere. He knew a guilty face when he saw one. He made no comment about the velour jumpsuit or strappy red sandals. He rifled past the curly auburn wig and cherry red lipstick without offering any opinion.

Not finding what he was looking for, he finally withdrew his hand and scowled. “Shouldn’t you be in school, son?”

Reality crashed around him, crushing his foolish fantasy.

He nodded. Dejected. Defeated. Then headed home. Back to his cursed reality. Back to the tiring pretence of being a boy. The boy everyone thought she was.

Everyone but her.

 

School Journal May 2021, Level 4

 

The fold-away boy

Clarence’s itchy nose was driving him crazy. He wished he could scratch it. But with his stitches unpicked and his parts all folded out flat like paper, he couldn’t move a muscle. His hands were trapped behind his back. While his head was somewhere between his feet. At least that’s how it felt. In the darkness it was hard to know for sure where anything was.

“Have I not been punished enough, Father?” he muttered for the hundredth … or maybe the thousandth time. “Had I known it was Lady Carruthers, I would never have attempted to dupe her out of her pearls. No matter how much of a dunderhead she was.”

When the family had been invited to the Manor House for the annual Fox Hunt, his mother had suggested they leave Clarence at home with Nanny. But his father had insisted he attend – “There comes a time when every boy must learn his place if he is ever to be welcome in polite society. That is doubly true for fold-away boys. I am sure Clarence will be on his best behaviour.”

If only they’d listened to his mother.

I’ve learnt my lesson this time, he thought. I will never try to take advantage of dunderheads again.

He wriggled his nose once more. But that just made it worse. The drawer was probably infested with dust and all sorts of creepy-crawlies.

A sudden shudder ran down his spine. What if there were moths in there? Hungry, fold-away-boy-eating moths? If he wasn’t stitched back together soon he was going to – Ahh-ahhh-ahhhhh-CHOOooooooo!

The sneeze echoed dully in the darkness.

“Hey? Is someone there?”

A muffled voice drifted into the drawer. It wasn’t one he recognised. “C’mon. Stop messin’ round.”

Whoever was poking around outside didn’t sound very intelligent. It was probably one of the gardener’s boys up to mischief.

Clarence remained silent. The last thing he wanted was some young ruffian unfolding him.

Another sneeze began tickling his nostrils. There was no way to stop it.

“Ahh-ahhh-ahhhhh-CHOOooooooo!”

He clamped his mouth shut and held his breath. Hopefully whoever was snooping around out there would go away and …

The drawer shook lightly then slid outwards. Blinding light poured inside. Clarence squeezed his eyes together and commanded in his sternest voice – “What in blazes do you think you’re doing! Close this drawer immediately.”

Instead of obeying, the intruder just laughed.

“Awesome!” he said. “A talking sheet.”

Clarence forced his eyes open. The light was painfully bright. It took several seconds before the face looming above him blinked into focus.  It was a boy about Clarence’s age. At least Clarence thought it was a boy. It wasn’t any kind of boy he’d seen before, with a wild mass of sticking-up hair and an earring dangling from one ear. Perhaps he was a pirate’s apprentice or a circus performer?

“Close this drawer at once,” Clarence barked. “Or I shall …”

The boy interrupted with a laugh. “You talk funny.”

Clarence scowled. Of all the people to open the drawer, it was just his misfortune to get some dunderhead who couldn’t even speak prop …

His thought jolted to a halt as his lips twitched into a smirk.

“I say,” he said in his friendliest voice, “congratulations! You’ve found me. What splendid fun. Now if you’d be a good chap and sew me back together, I’ll fetch your prize.”

“Prize?” the boy replied, scratching his head. “I dunno. Mum said I could only come to the garage sale if I promised not to break anything. I’m kinda clumsy sometimes.”

“But you won’t be breaking anything,” Clarence argued. “Quite the contrary.” He paused. “You do want a prize, don’t you?”

The boy glanced around, licking his lips.

“I guess,” he said. “What do I have to do?”

“Find some needle and thread,” said Clarence. “Any thread will do. Then simply follow my stitches. It’s child’s play.”

After a moment’s pause, the boy dashed off leaving Clarence holding his breath. He could only pray the boy didn’t fetch his mother. To distract himself, Clarence tried to make sense of his strange surroundings. This obviously wasn’t a room in the Manor House. Or his home. It looked like a tent made of folded iron. There was an orchestra playing on the roof too. Though it sounded more like chimpanzees had broken into the music room.

“Will this do?” The boy returned holding a ball of bright red yarn and a darning needle for Clarence’s inspection.

“Perfect,” Clarence chirped, although it was far from perfect. Never mind, he’d replace it as soon as he was sewn together and far away.

Clarence gritted his teeth as the boy clumsily sewed him back together. Every few seconds he’d mutter – “sorry” – as he missed yet another stitch.

Clarence didn’t complain. Not even when the dunderhead sewed his legs the wrong way around.

When his last piece was stitched together, Clarence sat up and swung himself out of the drawer. It was good to feel solid ground under his feet again. Smiling, he glanced around.

“So where’s my prize?” the boy asked.

Clarence bowed once … then sprinted towards the exit.

“Here’s your prize,” he chuckled. “Your sur-prise!”

As Clarence burst into the sunshine, he knew right away he wasn’t in his village. Or his valley. He wasn’t even in England. There were no cobbled streets. No church steeples. Not a single properly dressed gentleman. But he’d figure out where he was later. Right now he just needed to get as far away as possible.

He fled down the street, dodging shiny roaring wagons. He didn’t notice the loosely-tied thread snagged on a post until his legs came loose. He tried to turn back, but the wind caught him like a kite. He spiralled skywards. The single thread holding him together unravelled below.

As the final stitch pulled loose, he sighed – “What a dunderhead.”

Then his pieces fluttered away like seagulls across the still, blue sea.

 

The Curioseum – Collected stories of the odd and marvelous 2014

(Te Papa Press, Adrienne Jansen)

 

The boat in the shed

Everyone thinks he’s dead. Every day they expect his body to be washed up along the coast. Most likely up Karitane way, the way the tide’s running.

But nobody’ll be too surprised if his body’s never found. Even in death he wouldn’t have wished for such attention. He would have gone to great pains to end his life as discretely as he’d lived it, and as tidily as he’d ended Trudy’s. (His only indiscretion, as far as we know.)

It must be frustrating for the police, I imagine, to be faced with a community so implacably convinced of his death. Last week they even turned up at the Film Society, turning a blind eye to the lingering pall of sweet-scented smoke in the interest of furthering their enquiries. What kind of man, they wondered, could plan such a meticulous murder, yet make no effort to conceal his guilt (not even to wipe his prints from the hammer), then quietly vanish without a trace.

So we told them everything there was to tell about Len. How he’d been coming for twelve years, every Tuesday without fail — including the night of the murder. As usual, he’d bought a single jug of home-brew and had sat in the same chair in the same corner, quietly sipping his beer. As soon as the credits began to roll, he’d downed the last of his beer, then walked out into the night. There was nothing unusual about his coming alone. Trudy never came with him. And there was nothing in the movie to inspire his later actions.

‘Nothing else?’ they asked, implications curling their eyebrows.

‘He had a small aura,’ someone suggested helpfully.

They closed their notebooks with a sigh.

‘And the reason you’re all so damn sure he’s dead is because his boat’s still in his shed?’

By now, all that’s left to us is a shrug. I guess it’s only natural they don’t understand. They haven’t been here these last seven years to see his boat grow out of nothing more than wishful thinking, have they? That boat was his single passion — or at least the only one he might give occasional voice to . . .  if Trudy ever let him get a word in edge-wise.

‘What good’s a bloody boat when we’re living in a dump?’ Trudy would scoff each time the subject was broached. ‘It’s not like he’s ever going to use the bloody thing.’

Trudy was never what you might call a genteel woman. I guess that’s even what attracted him to her . . .  once upon a time. Nobody ever questioned the size of her aura.

‘It’s an Aleutian sea kayak,’ Len would mumble as his face reddened beneath the spotlight glare of sympathetic eyes.

‘Bugger fixing the leaks in the roof or finishing the bathroom!’ Trudy would continue with a gaoler’s disdain. ‘What we really need is a bloody boat!’

There was a lot of interest in Len’s boat in the beginning. People were always popping by to check on progress as Len translated the plan’s hieroglyph swirls into forms, and the boat began to take shape. It was like being at an archaeological dig, watching the bones of some ancient aquatic creature being painstakingly revealed. About as exciting, too.

Interest petered out as soon as progress stalled. In its place came a gentle, grinning mockery. ‘Plannin’ on paddling to South America, are ya Len?’ A wink never quite softening the blow.

Len took all the ribbing with a good-natured smile. He wasn’t in a hurry. And the boat gave him an excuse to escape to his shed. Not that Trudy let him escape too often. She was always giving him jobs to do. Everything, it seemed, was more important than Len’s boat.

But he never once complained. He’d finish whatever chore Trudy gave him, and only when she’d run out of ideas, or the energy to pursue him further, he’d slip away to the shed. Sometimes, during one of Trudy’s infamous pot-lucks I’d suddenly notice Len wasn’t there. When I went outside for a pee, I’d see the light burning in the shed. I seldom had the heart to interrupt him.

For three years his boat was little more than a skeleton as he spent untold hundreds of hours cutting a beam of knot-free cedar into centimetre-wide strips. Untold hours more feeding each one through a thicknessing machine. Turning a single length into so many hundred chopsticks. Then he repeated the process with the poplar he’d had to get milled specially by a bloke near Lismore. Nobody milled poplar commercially anymore.

‘No wonder,’ I snorted, remembering long sweaty afternoons topping a row of poplars, then chain-sawing them into lengths. I thought I’d solved my firewood problems for that year. But it went up in weeks like so many rolled up newspapers.

‘It’s a very under-rated timber,’ Len disagreed in that earnest way of his. Without another word he slid a three metre length from the pile, and began waving it about, sending ECG oscillations whipping along its length. ‘See, it’s very light, and very flexible.’

It was little wonder, really, that local interest waned so quickly. I would have lost interest too, if Len hadn’t taken time to explain its appeal.

‘It’s an eighteen foot Aleutian sea kayak with a beam just under three feet,’ he whispered with a weighty solemnity, the plans unfurled before him like a treasure map. ‘It only weighs forty-eight pounds but can carry more than three hundred. It’s got a high volume bow and radically cambered foredecks, and the stern’s shape means train-like tracking and minimal weathercocking . . .’ As he paused for breath, he gave a self-effacing smile. ‘Basically it means it’ll keep going in a straight line no matter how rough the seas or how bad the weather.’

The boat’s beauty was an elusive thing. It had as much to do with personality as an accumulation of curves and sleek lines. If you didn’t take the time, you’d miss it. Like watching an ostensibly plain woman unfold her beauty before you like a peacock. Suddenly you can imagine falling in love.

Len certainly loved his boat. Sometimes he must have just stood there watching it for hours, enamoured by a vision none of us shared.

As the years passed, the boat slowly took shape. Until all that was left was the fibreglassing. I suggested the moment warranted some kind of celebration. But Len shook his head at my naïve presumptions. The fibreglassing could, it turned out, also take years. It needed just the right temperature held constant for four days. The first coat was critical. If the temperature altered more than a few degrees, the hull would be irretrievably rippled. You only got one go to get it right.

‘It’s not often we get four perfect days in a row,’ I said.

Len just shrugged. Always patient with things he had no control over.

So he waited. Waited for four days of stable, warm weather.

I remember vividly the day I dropped by and found him caressing the upturned hull, looking happier than I’d ever seen him. He looked almost guilty when I coughed. At the time I put it down to embarrassment.

‘So it went well, did it?’ I asked as my hand slid along a hull as smooth and shiny as a mirror.

Len dragged a tarpaulin over the boat. ‘To keep the dust off,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Coffee?’

I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Len was always a little secretive about his boat. I imagined he didn’t want anyone to know it was virtually finished. Especially not Trudy. But now Trudy’s dead and Len’s missing. And his boat’s still in the shed. Finished at last. With the paddle nestled carefully inside the cockpit.

The police are starting to come round to the notion he might be dead after all. The car’s still where he left it and the bank account hasn’t been touched. They’re confident they’ll find him one day – dead or alive.

They asked me to come around to Len’s house the other day to see if there was anything missing. Turns out I was his most frequent visitor. So I told them everything I knew about Len and Trudy and Len’s boat.

At least I thought I did. Until the detectives departed and I was left standing in the shed with the constable who’d stayed behind to lock up behind us.

‘Nice boat,’ the constable said.

‘It’s an Aleutian sea kayak,’ I said. ‘Eighteen foot long with a high volume bow and radically cambered foredecks.’ Surprising how much information I’d soaked up over the years.

‘The guy must’ve cracked, I reckon,’ the constable said. I think he might have said something else, but I can’t be sure anymore, because as I withdrew the paddle, memories of my final visit came flooding back. It had been only a week or so before the murder, but for some reason I hadn’t thought to tell the police about it. Guess it must have slipped my mind.

I’d popped by to return a tool I’d borrowed. Len obviously hadn’t heard my call, because when I pushed open the door his head jerked up like a deer hearing a hunter’s crackling footfall, already realising it was too late. He’d been lovingly polishing the paddle with long, fluid strokes. That was all. There was no reason his eyes should be prised so wide by fear and guilt. No reason as far as I knew.

‘Strange paddle,’ I said.

He looked at it, then at me. Finally he nodded.

‘It’s an Inuit paddle,’ he explained. ‘The blades are flat, not curved, and they’re set perpendicular to the shaft. You lose a little power, but you don’t have to twist your wrists between strokes. So you can paddle a long way without getting tired.’

I could tell he was still feeling uncomfortable, so I’d left.

‘Nice paddle,’ the constable commented, interrupting my reverie.

‘He made it all by hand,’ I explained distractedly. ‘Hollowed out the shaft, laminated the timber together, carved it then polished it.’

‘Fancy piece of work,’ the constable said.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, sliding my hand gingerly along the elegant curve of the blade before returning it to its gleaming scabbard, ‘very fancy.’

Frowning, I climbed up onto the stool in the corner, grabbed the loop embedded in the ceiling, and pulled. I can’t say I was too surprised when what I’d always imagined as a trapdoor noiselessly unfolded into a doorway and a staircase slipped down. I’d never been in the roofspace before. It was bigger than I’d imagined. Big enough to store anything.

‘We’ve already looked up there,’ the constable called up after me. ‘There’s nothing but an old set of trestles and a tarpaulin.

He was right, of course. There wasn’t anything up there. Not anymore.

‘How long did you say he’d been building his boat?’ the constable asked as I rejoined him.

‘Seven years,’ I said.

‘Long time to build a boat,’ the constable whistled.

‘That’s what I used to think,’ I said, as I caressed the hull with an affectionate hand. It was a beautiful boat, despite the ripples creasing its skin. It was rare having a run of four days of stable weather, I thought. Eight days had obviously been impossible.

‘What a waste, eh?’ the constable said, shaking his head.

Depends on how you look at it, I thought. But I didn’t say so.

As I headed home, I thought how easy it would be to slip a kayak into the river at the back of Len’s section and glide silently past the row of sleeping houses out into the estuary. The boat’s high volume bow would cruise through the breakers. And suddenly there’d be nothing but open sea between you and Chile.

Newsroom 2024

 

Nanjing Serenade

He shuffled along the pavement, head bowed, woollen cap pulled low over his ears. The weather had turned cold again. A biting wind swept a flurry of sycamore leaves swirling around his feet. The sky roiled with sickly clouds, pregnant with snow.

Another journey around the sun almost over, he thought. The words tinged with bitterness. He glanced at Qing, perched on the lip of the plastic feeder clamped between the bamboo bars of her cage. She cocked her head, as though reading his thoughts, but remained silent.

‘Don’t worry, little one,’ he said. ‘I’ll have us both home safe and warm before the snow comes.’

He almost stepped off the pavement without thinking. But jerked his leg back as a scooter swept past. So close it set his heart racing.

Or maybe not, he thought. Nothing was certain any more. Each step could no longer be taken for granted. Or at least that’s how it felt. Diu had been his anchor, tethering him to the days. Now she was gone, he felt adrift. An empty husk at the whims of the wind. With only his daily routines keeping him from being swept down a drain.

Turning, he spotted an empty seat. He shuffled over and sank onto it with relief.

His doctor always claimed he’d live to a hundred. As though that was something to look forward to. He only carried on because he’d promised Diu he wouldn’t let himself go. That he’d try to stay fit and healthy. She knew him too well to leave without a vow, written in love.

So every morning and every evening, without fail, he completed his slow circumnavigation of the bustling tapestry of streets they’d called home these last fifty years. And, once a week, he went through the taijiquan movements with all the other old people in the park. Surprised, each time, not to hear his joints creaking.

His routines were all he had now. A relentless moon pushing and drawing him through the days.

He lifted up the cage and peered inside.

Qing fluttered onto her perch and eyed him quizzically.

‘Do you have a song for me, yet?’ he asked gently.

The bird dipped its beak into its bowl of sugar water and shook its head.

He’d bought the bird in spring, drawn to its quiet dignity. Its unwillingness to bend to expectations. Its stoic silence reminded him of Diu.

She’d always had a strong voice. When she was young, her singing had been renowned through the region. She might have been a professional had it not been for Chang, and love, and a child that demanded all the energy they could muster.

Her singing had always been the soundtrack to their lives. Whether soothing a child who would never understand a word, or know how much his mother loved him. Or crooning softly as she prepared their meals. Until the cancer had robbed her of her gift. Robbed them both. He’d always encouraged her to sing, despite her ravaged voice. Insisting her songs were a gift worthy of Fung-si. She would accept his compliment with a smile, before silently resuming her tasks.

He pushed himself to his feet. His body felt like a heavy burden, one he was forced to drag around each day. His doctor always said he had the heart of an ox. As though a heart was mere muscle, requiring only oxygen. Most days it seemed more curse than blessing.

He stopped to buy oranges.

Shī Yún greeted him warmly. ‘The oranges are very sweet today. I will put in an extra one for your sweet Qing. Perhaps it will loosen her tongue.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the bag. ‘Very kind.’

After several paces, he paused to hook the bag on his free arm. Glancing along the street, he noted the bare branches reaching like skeletal arms to snatch at the clouds. Their sleeves cloaked in fire. Yellow, red and umber. The pavement painted in cold shadow.

He quickened his pace as the wind reddened his cheeks.

‘Chang!’ a voice called from behind.

By the time he’d turned, a scooter had pulled to a halt beside him. The yellow-bedecked driver proffering a plastic bag.

He studied the offering suspiciously. His mind awhirl with questions. Had he ordered something for dinner and forgotten about it?

The driver flipped back his visor, revealing a familiar grinning face.

‘Ahh! Huimu!’ he said, a question furling his brow.

‘Someone mixed up an order,’ Huimu explained. ‘I can’t take it back. So I thought you might like to have it.’ His grin widened. ‘They’re Yǒng Lè’s dumplings. Your favourite. Right?’

‘Thank you,’ he said, accepting the offering. ‘Very kind.’

Huimu bent forward to peer in the cage. ‘Has your bird sung yet?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not yet.’

‘You should take it back,’ Huimu said. ‘It must be broken.’

‘Even birds need a reason to sing,’ he said.

Huimu shook his head in bewilderment. Then swept away without another word.

He turned down the narrow alley towards home. The apartment buildings rising up around him like canyon walls, each balcony festooned with drying laundry, fluttering like prayer flags.

The lift was broken again. He trudged up the stairs, pausing at each level to catch his breath. Three children sprinted past, charging upwards without effort. A young couple strolled down, offering a courteous nod, their eyes absent of recognition.

Once he’d known every family in the building. Or, rather, Diu had. She’d always been there for family emergencies, offering food or words of comfort and wisdom. She’d always known what to say. Or do. Which dish might return a smile or glimmer of hope to others’ faces. Sometimes he’d begrudged the time they were stealing from him. It was pure foolishness, of course. Her heart was always with him, even during her absences.

Home, at last, he deposited his bags on the kitchen bench and carefully placed the cage on the table beside his favourite chair.

Qing fluttered to the floor of her cage and performed an excited dance.

‘Maybe you’re a dancer, not a singer,’ he said, chuckling.

He felt his heart slowing again. His cheeks glowing with warmth.

As he sat his chair, studying the bird in silence, bitter memories seeped from the shadows. All his life, people had tried to impose their own expectations on him. Like his parents, who insisted he be an engineer, not an artist. He’d been too weak, or too respectful, to rebel. And by the time he met Diu, he’d lost the secret of flight — his wings clipped and his soul manacled to the earth.

Diu was made of sterner stuff. It was something else he always admired. Sometimes he wondered what she saw in him. When her family became convinced their son should be put in care, it was him they turned to. Pulling his strings with consummate ease. But Diu knew better. Their son had been given so little. The least he deserved was his freedom. And their love.

He felt an uncommon swell of resolve rising.

Heaving himself from his chair, he carried the cage to the window. Placed it carefully on the sill. Swung open the window. Then lifted the cage gate.

Qing hopped onto the cage floor, then through the open gate.

He pulled up a chair and sat down to watch from a safe distance.

The bird danced across the sill, its head cocking one way, then the other, before jumping onto the rail. Spinning round to face him, it lifted its head and began to trill. A song of beauty, joy and wonder. A song as light as hope.

He felt his heart swelling. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear Diu’s voice woven through the fabric of the song’s cadences. As words of a long-forgotten song rose in his mind, he began to hum along.

The bird’s voice continued rising, as though it might serenade the entire city.

His lips curled into a smile.

As the bird fluttered through the window to freedom, he closed his eyes. His final breath escaping in a contented sigh.