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table. I began to eat, but became
     aware that she was watching my every move, which made me feel awkward and clumsy. Though I tried to remember everything I
     had been told about good table manners, I failed to stop a dribble of soup stealing down my chin. I wiped it as furtively
     as I could on the back of my hand, only to glance up and see that Mrs Chen’s lips had pursed briefly with disapproval before
     settling again into their charitable smile. When I helped myself to rice, a cluster of grains fell on to the table. The lips
     pursed again. I wished she would say something, anything, rather than just sit there watching.
    All pleasure in the meal evaporated under Mrs Chen’s critical eye. I had never eaten better, but I had never enjoyed a meal
     less. I ate as much as I was able, not daring to leave too much in case it was taken as an insult, then smiled timidly and
     said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Chen. That was delicious.’
    ‘We’ll soon tidy up your manners,’ Mrs Chen replied, smiling back. ‘Now, when you’ve finished washing up, I’ll take you to
     have your hair cut and buy you some new clothes.’
    With that, she sailed out of the kitchen, leaving me to discover for myself the sink piled high with dirty pans and dishes.
    I wasn’t used to a tap that delivered hot water, so immediately scalded myself, nor had I come across something called ‘washing-up
     liquid’, which I found by the sink. I read the label and, as directed, squirted some into the running water, then I gave a
     few extra squirts in case I hadn’t put in enough. I watched with amusement as the bubbles appeared, then horror as they frothed
     over the side of the sink on to the floor. I grabbed a cloth and tried to wipe up the mess, but water began to overflow as
     well because I had forgotten to turn off the tap. Some of the pans were very sticky. I scrubbed them hard, then left them
     to drain while I attacked the dishes which, when clean, I balanced on top of the pans. One of them slid to the floor with
     a resounding crash, which summoned Mrs Chen.
    She found me rooted panic-stricken to the spot, surrounded by hundreds of pieces of broken porcelain and rivulets of water.
     She looked at me, at the porcelain scattered all over the floor, and beyond me to the pile of dishes and pans. She picked
     up a pan, inspected it, put it down, picked up the cloth which I had used to wipe the floor, inspected it, put it down.
    ‘The cloth is for drying dishes,’ she said.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered.
    ‘There is a broom in the cupboard. Be sure you sweep up every last splinter. We wouldn’t want to cut ourselves, would we?’
    ‘No, Mrs Chen,’ I mumbled.
    ‘The pans will need washing again,’ she continued. ‘It’s early days. I’m sure you will do better next time.’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Chen.’
    I swept and swept the floor, every last millimetre of it, until I was sure Mrs Chen could not possibly detect even the smallest
     fragment of porcelain. Then I scoured and scraped and scrubbed the pans, before drying them carefully on a clean cloth. When
     Mrs Chen reappeared, she didn’t look at the floor or the pans, simply glanced at the table, pointed out a grain of rice, and
     asked me to wipe it up before we went out.
    As I stood beside her in the lift, smothered by the strength of her perfume, I felt thoroughly confused. I was in the most
     beautiful apartment, with a room of my own, eating the most delicious food I had ever tasted, going out to buy the first new
     clothes I had had in years. Things could have been a million times worse, yet I was full of foreboding. It seemed I was there
     to do exactly as Mrs Chen wished, to be shaped and moulded in whatever way she saw fit. I didn’t want to have my hair cut.
     Why should I have my hair cut just because Mrs Chen said I had to? But I didn’t dare defy her. Her smile was barbed. It failed
     to touch her eyes, where I sensed pitilessness lurking not far below the surface.

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