Under the Hawthorn Tree by Ai Mi, Anna Holmwood Page A

rice over a low heat until it was fragrant and crisp. Jingqiu adored it. She could eat just this for dinner and be satisfied. Indeed her fondness for this dish amazed people – give her the option of fresh white rice or Old Third’s crispy rice and she would, without fail, choose the latter. City people were odd.
    Fen took the opportunity to bring her boyfriend back for dinner. Jingqiu had heard Auntie say of this young man that he was ‘all face’, untrustworthy and a fly-by-night. He didn’t do his farming work in the village but was always running around making small business deals. Auntie and Mr Zhang didn’t like him and forbade Fen from bringing him to the house. Fen would sneak off to see him, but now her parents weren’t at home she made a show of bringing ‘the face’ back with her.
    Jingqiu thought that ‘the face’ was all right. He was tall, knowledgeable, and good to Fen. He also brought Jingqiu some hair bands with flowers on them, which he normally went from house to house selling, so she could put her hair in plaits. Fen held out her arm to show Jingqiu her new watch. ‘Nice, isn’t it? He bought it for me. It cost one hundred and twenty yuan.’
    One hundred and twenty yuan! That was the equivalent of nearly three months of her mother’s wages. Fen refused to wash any vegetables or dishes while wearing it in case it got splashed with water.
    As they ate, Old Third used his chopsticks to place food into Jingqiu’s bowl, and ‘the face’ did the same for Fen. Lin, partnerless, was left to scoop up a bowl of rice, take some vegetables, and disappear off on his own. Once he’d finished he would come back to leave his bowl and then slink off somewhere – no one knew where – returning only to go to bed.
    In the evenings Fen and ‘the face’ would shut themselves up in the room next door to do goodness knows what. Fen and Fang’s rooms were only divided by a wall of about their own height, leaving an opening up to the roof. Needless to say, it was not soundproof. When Jingqiu was in her room, writing, she could hear Fen giggling as if she were being tickled.
    Old Third sat in Jingqiu’s bedroom helping her with the textbook. Occasionally she would knit while he sat opposite, feeding her the yarn. But sometimes she could see his mind wandering, his eyes still and fixed on her, and in this state he would forget to unravel the wool until she tugged at the other end of it. Pulled awake, his focus would return and he would apologise before letting out a long length of wool.
    Jingqiu asked in a low voice, ‘That day, you weren’t just being contrary when you said you wanted me to knit you a jumper, were you? How come you haven’t bought any wool?’
    â€˜I bought some. I just didn’t know if I should bring it over.’
    He must have seen how busy I’ve been these last days, and didn’t want to trouble me, she realised. His kindness touched her, but this was a problem; whenever she was affected by someone’s kindness she would make promises she shouldn’t. ‘Bring the wool over, and once I finish this one I’ll start yours.’
    The next day Old Third brought the wool in a big bag – there was a lot of it. It was red; not vermilion but more of a rose-red, almost pink, and the same colour as azaleas. This was her favourite kind of red, but very few men wore this colour.
    â€˜It’s the same colour as the flowers of the hawthorn tree. Didn’t you say you wanted to see them?’
    â€˜Are you going to show me those flowers by wearing this jumper?’ she laughed.
    He didn’t reply, but rather looked down at the collar of her jumper poking up over her cotton padded jacket. He must have bought the wool for me.
    â€˜Promise you won’t get angry?’ he said. ‘I bought it for you.’
    But she was angry. He must have taken a close look at her on