Chinese Cinderella Read Online Free Page B

than mine. The chauffeur had already left to drive my brothers to St John’s Academy, which was in the opposite direction.
    I saw Cook wheeling his bicycle through the hallway to go to market. Now he spotted me watching him.
    ‘Who is taking you to school?’ he asked.
    ‘I don’t know.’ I was nervous and couldn’t help shooting a wistful glance at the big clock ticking away on the wall. It was getting late and everyone had forgotten about me. What should I do? I was becoming panic‐stricken and felt tears rolling down my cheeks.
    Cook shrugged. ‘It’s certainly not my job. No one mentioned anything to me about you.’ He was about to mount his bike and ride away when he noticed my tears. ‘Now, now! Don’t cry! Being late for school isn’t the end of the world . . . oh, all right! Come along then!’ he mumbled gruffly as he lifted me onto the handlebar of his bicycle. ‘Your Sheng Xin Primary School happens to be right next to the market. Sit here quietly and don’t squirm. We’ll be there in no time at all.’
    After school was let out in the early afternoon, I waited with all the other first‐graders by the school gate. One by one they were greeted and led away by their anxiously hovering mothers. Eventually, I was the only one left. Nobody had come for me. The metal gate slowly clanged shut behind me as I watched my classmates disperse, each clutching her mother’s hand and eagerly recounting the adventures of her first day at school. After a long time, I peered through a crack into the deserted playground. Not a person was in sight. Cautiously, I pushed against the massive iron gate. It was firmly locked. Trembling with fear, I realised that nobody was coming to pick me up. Too embarrassed to knock or draw attention to myself, I walked out tentatively into the Shanghai streets. Surely, if I tried hard enough, I would remember the way home.
    It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon. At first I wandered along a wide, straight road lined with tall, leafy trees. Motor cars, trams, rickshaws, pedicabs and bicycles whizzed by. I kept walking but dared not cross the road, glancing briefly at the open‐fronted stores overhung with colourful, upright, bilingual signboards. I turned a corner and now the pavements seethed with people and noise and commotion: coolies shouldering heavy loads on bamboo poles; hawkers selling toys, crickets in cages, fans, cold tea, candies, meat‐filled buns, spring rolls, tea‐eggs and fermented bean curd; stalls and booths offering services such as hair‐cuts, shaves, dental care, letter‐writing, extraction of ear wax; beggars banging tin cups and chanting for a handout. Except for me, everyone was striding along purposefully, going somewhere. Everyone had a destination. I must have walked for miles and miles. But where was I?
    Should I enter a shop and ask for directions? But I didn’t know my home address. What should I say? Should I approach that kindly old storekeeper smiling at me from the doorway of his antique shop and tell him, ‘Please, sir, I want to go home.’ But, where was my home?
    It was getting dark. Bright neon signs in blue, yellow, red and orange came on and were blinking at me. Had anyone at home missed me? Did they think I was still at school? Were they looking for me? What should I do?
    I walked past a bustling, brightly lit dim sum shop. Such a wonderful aroma was wafting through the door! Through the plate‐glass window, I saw roast ducks, soya‐sauce chickens, and hunks of glistening roast pork hanging from hooks. There was a young chef wielding his cleaver and deftly chopping a duck into bite‐sized pieces on a wooden block. Wouldn’t it be heavenly to be given a slice of meat? But that might be too much to hope for. I would be quite content with a piece of bone to chew on. As I salivated, I imagined the taste of the food sliding down my throat. Breakfast seemed such a long time ago!
    Someone was touching my shoulder. I started and looked up. A