Gweilo by Martin Booth

budgerigar, a bamboo cage, a porcelain water bowl, a tin seed bowl, a mirror, a bell and two pieces of cuttlefish. These accoutrements cost over three times as much as the bird despite my mother beating Mr Lee down by fifteen dollars.
    'What shall we call him?' my mother suggested as we retraced our steps through the back streets. 'How about Sat Juk ?'
    As this translated as Little Bird, I was not impressed. My mother's desire, which lasted the rest of her life, to give everything – dogs, cats, cars – a Cantonese name did not always show imagination or an extensive vocabulary.
    In the end, we settled for Joey. He was happy in his cage, trilling to the wild birds outside, kissing his image in the mirror, ringing his bell, hopping from perch to perch and nibbling at his cuttlefish to keep his beak sharp. This, my mother deemed, was insufficient exercise, so every afternoon she switched off the fan, closed all the windows, locked the doors and gave Joey the freedom of her hotel room. With a flutter of wings, he darted about the room depositing birdshit wherever he went. This continued for two months until the day my mother omitted to close the fanlight window. Joey hopped out of his cage, chirped once and was out the window like a ballistic missile. My mother was devastated and we returned to Mr Lee bereft of a budgie but the proud owners of a miniature aviary with all mod. cons, except running water.
    Despite being fully equipped, my mother decided not to get another bird because, she declared, 'You can't cuddle a bird or talk to it like you can a cat or dog. And it's cruel to keep them in cages.'
    So she bought a terrapin, a glass tank to keep it in and a stone for it to sit on out of the water.
    About two inches in diameter, its carapace was grey on top with a yellowish-green underside. Its head was yellow and black striped with bright red flashes by the ears. My mother, being new to terrapin ownership, asked Mr Lee what it ate.
    'He eat w'ice, missee.'
    'Rice?'
    'Yes, missee. Plenty w'ice. An' dis one.' He reached under the counter to bring out a container of writhing bloodworms.
    My mother recoiled but it was too late. She had paid for the terrapin.
    On the walk back, we determined to call it Timmy, my mother not knowing the Cantonese for terrapin.
    'It's a shame we couldn't have a puppy,' she mused. 'I don't like to dwell on their fate . . .'
    'They'll be all right,' I said to placate her. 'The Chinese only eat black dogs.'
    My mother stared at me. 'How do you know that?'
    'I just heard it. One of the room boys . . .' I replied innocently. 'Besides, it's against the law in Hong Kong to eat dogs.'
    My mother looked relieved. I did not admit to having seen the black chow.
    Timmy and his tank were delivered an hour later. Convinced that terrapins did not exist on a diet of rice and bloodworms, my mother telephoned the University of Hong Kong Biology Department to get the truth, which was that red-eared terrapins were carnivorous and ate fish. They could also grow to twelve inches in length. Our tank was about fifteen inches by ten. My mother hung up with a thoughtful look on her face. Luckily for us, but unluckily for Timmy, he was dead in three months despite a diet of fresh boiled fish which stank out my mother's room, even when the tank was placed on the balcony so, as my mother put it, he could feel the warmth of the sun on his back. Her reptilian consideration may have been what put paid to him. In the wild, terrapins avoided the sun and took to deep water. Timmy's tank water was barely an inch deep and contained pieces of uneaten fish and terrapin droppings.
    Timmy's death did not, however, occur before my father's first return from Japan and his presence, when discovered, caused ructions.
    On the second morning of his shore leave, my father stepped out on to the balcony of my mother's room to be confronted by Timmy the terrapin.
    'Martin!'
    I came running.
    'What, for Pete's sake, is this ruddy thing?' He pointed at