Free The Silk Merchant's Daughter by Dinah Jefferies Page A

Nicole felt for a pulse, then let go of the woman’s papery-veined hand: still alive, thank goodness, but with a weak, fluttering pulse. But what to do? She knew Kim-Ly had problems with sugar in her blood. Too much was not good, but too little meant she could fall unconscious. She tried to wake the woman but with no success, so went into the kitchen where she found a jar of honey on the counter beside a small bronze Buddha. Shehadn’t thought of O-Lan being a Buddhist, but of course she was, like many Vietnamese. You only had to look at the temples everywhere.
    Nicole had watched O-Lan trying to spoon something sweet into her mother before and so began trying to slip the honey in, little by little. At first nothing happened, and it dribbled down her chin, but then Kim-Ly swallowed, and after a few more swallows she gradually came back to consciousness.
    ‘O-Lan?’ she said.
    ‘O-Lan is coming. I need to keep you moving. Lean on me.’
    Nicole managed to get her out of the chair, but the woman stumbled and cried out for her daughter. Unsure if it was right to help her walk, or if the woman should be lying on the bed, Nicole tried walking her first, but ended up half carrying her through to a chaise longue in the room behind the shop. By now some of the colour had returned to her cheeks and Nicole felt it might be safe to let her rest. While she waited for O-Lan, Nicole chattered on – an attempt to keep Kim-Ly awake – then gave her some more honey. But how much was enough? She had no idea.
    Kim-Ly seemed tired and much more frail than usual and after about half an hour she fell asleep. Nicole had to choose whether it was best to fetch the herbalist in the next street or whether she should call the Duval family doctor. There was no phone at O-Lan’s, so either way she’d have to leave. Mobilized by anxiety, she got up and walked over to the door to see if O-Lan was anywhere near.
    Between the shops and the peeling, painted gates of the temples, men wearing conical bamboo hats stood in knots eating boiled peanuts, out of the rain, but the women remained selling tea and cabbage-noodle soup from the pavement stalls. She spotted O-Lan a little way down the street, shelteringfrom the rain in a doorway. She was talking with the young Vietnamese man. Trần – wasn’t that his name?
    When he saw her he touched O-Lan on the arm, then pointed to Nicole, who was now signalling frantically. They both ran over, dodging the traders and the downpour, then came into the shop, Nicole explaining what had happened and what she’d done.
    O-Lan ran through to her mother and felt her pulse and her forehead. ‘She’s all right.’
    Nicole felt enormously relieved. ‘Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure what to do next.’
    ‘I cannot thank you enough.’
    ‘Should she see a doctor?’
    ‘I will take her to the hospital tomorrow. She needs rest now.’
    Nicole was puzzled when the young man pulled up a chair and began stroking the woman’s hair.
    ‘Trần is my cousin,’ O-Lan explained.
    ‘Well, I’m glad your mother is better. Let me know if I can help.’
    ‘Stay to eat. I’ll show you upstairs.’
    Nicole smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude,’ she said, but she knew it was an honour to be invited into the innermost centre of a Vietnamese home.
    While Trần stayed with Kim-Ly, O-Lan led Nicole upstairs and showed her the family’s ancestral altar, then took her through several interconnecting rooms divided by carved fretwork screens. They stood at the top of the outside staircase, similar to her own. Now the rain had subsided, a million floral scents filled the air. Nicole breathed deeply, wanting to preserve the magic of the moment.
    ‘I hope you like
bánh xèo
,’ O-Lan said.
    ‘I’ve never even heard of it.’
    ‘It is a kind of crispy pancake. We serve it with
rau sống
.’
    ‘And that is?’
    ‘It includes banana flower and guava leaves.’
    ‘Sounds delicious.’
    Nicole decided she would hand her