Robert the Westie. My life. By me.

10. It's a family affair.

I mentioned earlier that I would dwell on my first, formative years in some detail. I'm hoping you've stayed awake through this long recitation. I'm also hoping that the relatively languid discourse has allowed the main themes of my life on earth to emerge at a comfortable pace. The truth is that many of them came to an even greater fruition after my death in 2000. I may even feel obliged to shed light on events posthumously. Well let's see how I go on. But, for now, I am planning to accelerate a bit.  

We're starting with Christmas 1991 but not staying there long. To be honest, it didn't mean a lot to me. Mainly, it meant a lot to Jason. His father, mother, youngest sister and her three children would join us in the Surrey country cottage that Steve had rented for the seasonal Eve, Day and some Boxing event that I didn't understand. For the first time, Jason's parents would meet Steve. Both men showed some apprehension. But the presence of Ivy, the sister, and her children would hopefully keep any tensions below the surface.  

They all arrived in a big van-like vehicle called an 'Espace' on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. The word is French for 'space.' Well, maybe you knew that. I'm just doing my best to keep you up to speed. With seven occupants, there didn't seem a lot of space as the car slithered to a halt on the frosty leaves embedded in the driveway. Steve waited in the house. I was all for rushing out and giving them a welcoming bark.  

"Stay, Robert," Jason insisted. I retired to the warmth of the log fire in the living room and awaited developments. 

First to enter was an elderly woman, very short and slim, almost completely hidden in a wrapping of fur. Except it wasn't. Had it been real fur, the skin of a furry animal, I would have enjoyed an arriving sensation of delicious aromas. Instead, there was nothing, a complete absence of organic scents. I have to admit to some disappointment. I gave a little bark, just to register my presence. The woman flinched and moved back a step. I was not impressed. 

"Don't mind Robert, Mum," Jason propelled her forward towards Steve whose bemused expression told me that he shared my opinion. At least, I thought so.  

Over the next few days, I was proved wrong. He and Kuen Yin were never going to be friends. But they found common ground and mutual respect in their interest in language. Steve's lay in the use of words to intrigue and inspire, not just in his chosen advertising milieu, but also in the work of playwrights, novelists and screenwriters. Kuen Yin's field was academic, the world of linguistics in which she lectured at a university in Quebec. There was no doubting her intellect. Of her warmth and charm, however there was less evidence. 

The other members of the family, Jason's Dad, Ivy and her husband, the twin sons and the young daughter all embraced the Christmas mood, sharing reminiscences of their earlier lives and recent excitements, often with Jason featuring in a leading role. Mother, however, held her emotions in check, happy to discuss her subject, or politics, or economics with Steve or her husband, unwilling to drift into personal matters and inclined to close down any conversation that seemed likely to reach out and touch her son and his life. Instinctively, I knew why. His relationship with Steve did not have her approval. 

"She won't address it," Jason confirmed later that first night, wrapped around Steve in bed, me on the floor hanging onto his every word.  

"Unlike my Dad who had to travel on business and see the world, or a version of it, she has spent all her life in academic institutions. She clings to the traditional Chinese concept of respect  

for the family as the ultimate institution. She also elevates face to an art form. Always has done." 

"And that means?" Steve enquired. 

"Chinese society frowns on public expressions of emotion; anger, regret and disappointment in particular. She has probably guessed for years that her only son might not be seeking his kicks in the arms of a woman. She might have feared that her son would never call her with the news of a birth of a grandson. But never would she confront those suspicions publically, not even to my father. That would be the moment when she lost face. Her rigid self-control would never let that happen. So, right now, here she is, surrounded by my family members happily endorsing my relationship while she can't bring herself to acknowledge its existence. Actually, I feel quite sorry for her."