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to be friends with arseholes like Yao Qi.’

    ‘Yao Qi's a bad man, Dieh,’ I said. ‘He called you names when you were away.’

    ‘Xiaotong, stay out of adults’ affairs,’ Father said gently.

    ‘I think Xiaotong's got better sense than you.’ Now Mother was angry. ‘After you left, Lao Lan was the only one who treated us well. Yao Qi and the others got a kick out of watching bad things happen to us. It's times like that when you can tell who's good and who's bad.’

    ‘I'm going, too, Dieh,’ Jiaojiao said.

    Father heaved a sigh. ‘All right, have it your way. I'll go.’

    Mother went to the wardrobe and took out a blue wool tunic.

    ‘Wear this,’ she said in a tone that permitted no objection.

    Father decided to say nothing. Instead, he dutifully took off his greasy, tattered jacket and put on the tunic. Mother tried to button it up for him; he pushed her hand away. But he didn't resist when she went round and straightened the back.

    As a family we walked out of the house and onto Hanlin Avenue. The streetlights that had been installed shortly before New Year's were already lit. Children were out playing chase; a youngster was reading a book under one of the lights; some men were loitering under another, arms crossed, engaged in idle talk. Four young men were showing off their riding skills on brand new motorbikes, revving them up to make as much noise as possible. There was the occasional burst of firecrackers in front of houses that sported a pair of red lanterns in the doorway and a carpet of red confetti on the ground. ‘All those firecrackers,’ Father had muttered on New Year's Eve, ‘you'd think it was the beginning of World War III.’

    ‘More firecrackers means more money,’ Mother said, ‘and shows how effective Lao Lan's leadership has been.’

    That's exactly how we felt as we walked down Hanlin Avenue. Within the confines of a hundred square li , Slaughterhouse was the only village in the area in which the roads had been paved and streetlights installed. Nearly every family lived in multistoreyed, tile-roofed houses; many even had modern interiors.

    Hand in hand, our little family of four proceeded down Hanlin Avenue. It was the first time we'd appeared in public as a family. It was also the last. But I felt both proud and contented. Jiaojiao walked along happily. Father seemed less than natural. Mother was calm and unperturbed. Passers-by greeted us—Father barely mumbled a response but Mother heartily returned their greetings. When we turned into Lan Clan Lane, which led to the Hanlin Bridge, Father grew increasingly uneasy. The lane also boasted a dozen or so streetlights, which shone on the black gates and the bright red couplets pasted on them. Coloured lights on the distant Hanlin Bridge put the arch in relief. The largest village compounds were on the other side of the river, lit up holiday-bright.

    I knew what was bothering Father—the bright lights. If he'd had his way, the lane would have been pitch black to hide us from view. He'd have been happiest if we'd delivered our New Year's greetings in complete darkness, hidden from public view. I also knew that Mother's feelings were the exact opposite. She wanted people to bear witness to the fact that we were bringing New Year's greetings to Lao Lan, that close bonds of friendship had developed between us, which in turn was a sign that her husband, my father, had turned over a new leaf, transforming himself from a disreputable vagrant into a respectable family man. I knew that the village was alive with talk about us, talk that centred on the virtues of my mother. ‘Yang Yuzhen,’ they said, ‘is quite a woman. She can bear hardships, she has endurance, patience and foresight, and she's eminently sensible, all in all not one to be taken lightly. As I well knew,’ they went so far as to say, ‘Just watch, it won't be long before that family flourishes.’

    There was nothing out of the ordinary about the gate to Lao Lan's house; if anything, it was shabbier than his neighbours’. In fact, it did poorly in comparison even with ours. We stood on the steps and banged the knocker against the gate and immediately heard the frantic barks and threatening growls of the wolfhounds on the other side.

    Jiaojiao pressed up against me.

    ‘Don't be scared, Jiaojiao,’ I comforted her. ‘Their dogs don't bite.’

    Mother knocked again, but drew no response, except from the dogs.

    ‘Let's go,’ Father urged.