The Glorious Face of Sorrow

By Archibald Hobbs

Jack Spalding is a man at his lowest ebb. His wife has imposed a trial separation. His legal career is faltering. Though once he was a prince, his future is bleak. But then, in service of a client he did not want, Jack finds a book of love poems he did not expect. Through Hugh McCauley’s poetry, Jack perceives the love the poet has for his soulmate, Jing Zhao. But what has happened to the young couple? Narrated, in turn, by the three central characters, The Glorious Face of Sorrow, tells the tale of Hugh and Jing’s mixed-race romance in 1990s Sydney, where racial tensions are on the rise in an era of dog-whistle politics. But it also tells the story of Jack’s search for unlikely redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398429321

Archibald Hobbs

Archibald Hobbs is an Australian author and a poet with passion for writing. He has had flash fiction published by The Drabble, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction and Pocket Fiction UK. His short story, From the Darkroom, was highly commended in the Stringybark Short Story Award 2022. When not crafting stories, Archie loves watching cricket and playing with his dogs. But everything Archie does is inspired by his beautiful wife, Mei Li.

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About the Author

Archibald Hobbs is an Australian author and a poet with passion for writing. He has had flash fiction published by The Drabble, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction and Pocket Fiction UK. His short story, From the Darkroom, was highly commended in the Stringybark Short Story Award 2022.

When not crafting stories, Archie loves watching cricket and playing with his dogs.

But everything Archie does is inspired by his beautiful wife, Mei Li.

Dedication

For my darling wife:

Your love is reflected in the words I recite. Your inspiration produces the stories I write. Your wisdom allows my life to progress and your sacrifice is rewarded in my success.

Copyright Information ©

Archibald Hobbs 2022

The right of Archibald Hobbs to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398429314 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398429321 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Prologue

She told me that my heart was cold and hard. And then she walked.

She no longer understood my world. A bleak world. A dismal world. A life without sunshine.

My existence, such as it was, had become a dark legal office and nothing but an endless series of manila folders. I fought the battles of other men. And though the battles were not mine to win, it was always me who was expected to fight. I could have lived with it had the causes been noble. But, sadly, that was rarely the case.

My world was dominated by professional obligation.

A father seeks custody of his child. He instructs me to help. Yet, if the truth were known, neither parent should have been permitted to produce life in the first place. How could my heart not grow cold?

A woman is injured in an accident. She seeks compensation. Yet, truth be told, her life was better than my own. How could my heart not become hard?

And yet my wife walked.

I tried to shield her from the darkness of my world. I did my best. Yet my efforts were in vain. Clearly, she caught a glimpse of the squalid world in which I wallowed. She saw my heart freeze over and she felt it grow hard. She had suffered enough.

And so, she left me.

It was the day after Valentines in 1999. We spent the day together. I tried to be romantic and attentive and whatever else she damned well wanted me to be. But it was not enough. The truth was that my mind was rarely far away from my office. Though I tried, I could not persuade my brain to leave that bleak and dismal place. I was chained to it. There was never any escape.

And so, she walked. Simple as that Mr Spalding!

But she told me that she would come back. It was only to be a trial separation. She just needed time to herself. Time away from me. Time to think. And then she would come back and tell me whether I still had a wife or not. She would come back in two months. Midday on 15 April 1999. On that day, at that hour, she would come back and tell me how I was to spend the remainder of my life.

She would decide. All she required of me was to accept her decision.

Such was my state of mind when Jing Zhao and Hugh Macauley first entered my world. I thought that I would never love or be loved again. It was just ten days before Cassie’s return. Just ten days in which to turn my life around. And I was starting from a long way behind.

This, essentially, is the story of Jing and Hugh. But it is also the tale of my unlikely redemption.

Jack Spalding

15 April 1999

1

Jack Spalding

Monday, 5 April 1999

It had rained for a week and today was no different.

The morning was grey and cold. The kind of morning when the desire to rouse and stumble to the shower meets with the greatest resistance. The kind of morning when your natural inclination to stay in bed and hide from the world inspires resounding support from every damn molecule in your slovenly body.

Yet, as a lawyer, my world was ruled, not by any dreams I still retained, but by those who paid me to rouse and stumble to the shower each and every bloody morning. My goddamn clients! Those bastards who expected me to do nothing but their bidding. Those cretins who thought that they always knew better than me. Those snakes that used me for their own sordid means. They were the people who ruled my world whilst sniggering behind my back. If it were not for them, I would have stayed in bed this autumnal morning.

I was still muttering and spluttering expletives as I tramped up the moving walkway from the Domain Carpark, stumbled past the Archibald Fountain in Hyde Park and trudged down Market Street towards my office near the Pitt Street Mall. Those I passed probably heard my every grumbling word, notwithstanding the din of the Monorail which rattled overhead. But I could hardly have cared less, truth be told.

And my mood was not brightened, in the slightest, when the only person I despised more than my clients jumped into the lift just as the doors were closing. My useless, pathetic legal apprentice, Eddie Hastings. He was living testimony to the truism that one is not required to be possessed of even a piddling hint of common sense to obtain a law degree. He proved it was not necessary to even reside on the same planet! God! How I detested him!

As the lift lurched and began to rise, I could not help but wish that those doors had closed a split second earlier. That would have taken care of him. But I suppose the prat would have sued me for not coming to his rescue. The little prick!

Good morning, Mr Spalding! Eddie chirped with that stupid little grin on his face. How was your weekend?

I suggested to Eddie that his immediate well-being would best be served by keeping his sniggering little mouth shut, at least until I had ingested my first mug of coffee.

Oh sorry, Jack! Was I being silly again? Eddie immediately ignored the best advice he would get all day.

I resolved to suffer him in semi-dignified silence. It was going to be a long day.

I talked to my office, praying that Eddie would not follow me. I should have known better. When I prayed, nobody listened.

Do you want me to start working on the Henderson file? The annoying little mosquito buzzed in my ear. I thought of a great way to draft that Notice of Grounds of Defence whilst I was having my shower this morning. I was thinking we should plead a failure to mitigate loss. What you reckon?

I told little Eddie that the best way to mitigate his own loss was to keep out of my way. Eddie appeared to be getting the message. He made a surprisingly astute retreat and I was left to mope in blissful solitude.

However, it was not long before my other tormentor poked her head around my door.

Well, you look as though you’re in a fine mood. A fine mood indeed! My secretary and personal pain in the arse, Samantha Leach, quipped.

I recommended, in the nicest possible terms, that she bugger off.

I was just trying to cheer you up, you grumpy old bastard! Samantha snarled as she hastily withdrew.

Samantha always had a way of giving as good as she got. I could always count on her to put me in my place. Which was just as well, really, because she knew much better than me where my place might be. In a rare candid moment, I might even admit that I could not operate without her.

And so, with the traditional morning greetings concluded for another monotonous day, I was left alone. I sat behind my grey desk and peered around my office through narrowed eyes. Light trickled through a window behind me, casting the bookshelf on the opposite wall in a reasonably attractive light. The area on my left was my favourite part of the room; a large expanse of floorboard upon which a tattered red and blue Persian rug lay. The thing I liked about this area was that it served no useful purpose to the practice of law. It was simply there because it was there. No other reason.

In stark contrast was the long cupboard on my right. It was there where the constant menace of my day lurked; in there with my files. The mere thought of that filing cupboard filed me with an insidious dread.

I decided that I really did not like my office very much. But it was better than going back to my empty home. Whilst it had been hell in the months before she left, it had always been better than the alternative.

Cassie, dear Cassie. Why?

I allowed myself to dwell upon these matters for far too long. I knew that there was work to be done. I could hear the voices of my clients calling from their files. But I found it extremely difficult to motivate any interest in the battles they wanted me to fight for them. How was I expected to champion another man’s cause when I did not even have the energy to lift a gloved fist in my own defence. It was impossible. Well, very difficult at least.

My wanderings were interrupted by the buzz of my intercom. I did my best to politely ask Samantha what the hell she wanted.

Look! If you can’t be civil to me, I’m going home, Sam snarled. And then where would you be?

Alone with bloody Eddie, I wryly observed.

And that’s the last thing you want, right now, isn’t it? Samantha quipped.

I had to admit that she was right and I even managed to make that concession, in my own half-hearted way.

There is a man here who would like to see you, Samantha said curtly. His enquiry relates to a deceased estate, of sorts.

I gently suggested to Sam that an estate was either deceased or it was not. Saying that an estate was deceased ‘of sorts’ was like saying you’ve contracted a venereal disease ‘in a way’.

Don’t get smart with me, buster. Not with me! Now do you want to see him or don’t you? He’s a paying client after all.

Samantha knew that these were the words which caused me the greatest trauma. As a sole legal practitioner, the presentation of any paying customer upon your doorstep was akin to God waking up one morning and deciding to smile upon your existence for once. However, any paying client was, by definition, also a demanding son of a bitch. As soon as they signed their costs agreement, they owned you. You were theirs. It was as simple as that.

After considerable agonised thought, I agreed to see the man who was sitting in the waiting room.

The first time I saw Harold Macauley, I experienced an overwhelming wave of indifference. He sat in his chair as if it would offend somebody if he looked too comfortable. He was perched right at the front of the seat with his back straight and his hands upon his knees. I felt a little sorry for him, if anything. He was obviously ill at ease. Or perhaps it was nervousness. I really was not sure.

I walked over to Harold and mumbled some kind of salutation or another and invited him into my office. He stood up uncertainly and put his hand out for me to shake, presenting an uneasy smile as he did.

Once he had safely navigated his way to my office, I pointed Harold to a chair and asked him what this deceased estate ‘of sorts’ was all about.

Well, ah, Mr Spalding, Harold stuttered. It’s about my son. I think he may be dead. I would like to know what I should do about his, you know, his assets and so on.

I stared blankly at my client and made a mental note to apologise to Samantha. The ‘of sorts’ adjunct was obviously Harold’s and not hers. I should have known better than to accuse Sam of imprecision.

I asked Harold to explain how a father only thinks that his son is dead. Usually, fathers either know that their sons are no longer alive or have not seen them since they were thirteen and didn’t care one way or the other.

Well, Harold squinted from behind his round glasses. I have not heard from him for two weeks. Two whole weeks!

I could not believe what I was hearing. This clown’s son hadn’t called him in two weeks and he was already pronouncing him dead! What kind of morbid son of a bitch was he?

I managed to suppress these unworthy thoughts and may have even succeeded in maintaining the vestiges of a poker face. However, I could not allow my client’s assumptions to pass without comment. I suggested to Mr Macauley, as gently as I could, that many men did not hear from their children for considerably more than two weeks before they started making funeral arrangements.

I’m very close to my son, Mr Spalding, Harold Macauley replied solemnly. We speak almost daily. Certainly, a week never passes without me hearing from him. Certainly not two weeks. Never two weeks, Mr Spalding. Never.

By this stage Harold was shaking his head and I could see tears welling within his tired eyes. However, I maintained a healthy scepticism borne of nearly twenty-five years of dishonest clients.

I asked Harold whether there was a possibility that his son had simply gone away for a period, or been too busy to call perhaps?

Certainly not, Mr Spalding! Harold replied indignantly.

In the heavy silence, I could not think of a single thing to say. I mean, what do you say to a man who is being so irrational? So irrational as to not only assume the ultimate demise in such utterly mundane circumstances, but to even seek legal advice about it. For a moment, I paused to consider whether the man sitting before me was trying to pull off some sort of scam. Maybe he was trying to seize his son’s assets. Maybe it wasn’t even his son!

Suddenly I realised that I must have looked rather silly, sitting there peering at my client and not saying a word.

I realise I must seem strange to you, Mr Spalding, Harold Macauley said sadly. But you have not met my son. He is very special boy, Mr Spalding. A very special boy indeed. And I can feel that he is dead. I can feel it in my bones.

I listened intently to the words Harold spoke and I weighed them carefully. Even allowing for a father’s favouritism for his son, the words rang true. I decided that Harold Macauley was genuine. A little bit unbalanced perhaps, but genuine nonetheless. It occurred to me to ask for his son’s name.

Hugh, Harold said simply. Hugh Macauley.

I made a big show of writing the name down on the writing pad in front of me. Clients were always impressed by that. I looked up uncertainly and inspected the boy’s father. His bottom lip was trembling and I could see that his eyes were red.

I asked Harold when he had last seen or heard from Hugh.

Well, Harold shifted uncomfortably once more in his chair and looked intently at the wall over my shoulder. As I said, it was two weeks ago. Towards the end of March. Probably Wednesday, I think. Yes, it was a Wednesday night. I was working late at the office and Hugh called me there. He was excited. He told me that he was planning to take his wife out to lunch on the following Saturday. In fact, he said he had planned a whole day for her. He had some kind of surprise to give her. He would not tell me what the surprise was. He just said that he knew that she would be thrilled.

Harold’s casual disclosure that Hugh was married caused me to ask him the obvious question as to whether his wife might know where her husband may be.

What? Harold reacted with surprise. Oh sorry! She’s missing too!

My grave concerns for my client’s mental health were heightened. However, I made allowances for the fact that he was clearly in mourning and contented myself in asking for Hugh’s wife’s name.

Jing, Harold replied simply. Jing Zhao.…Chinese? I felt immediately uneasy. I had seen white men around town with Asian women and had always felt a sense of pity for them. They looked so silly together. As if the match was not quite right. I always thought that when a man wakes in the morning, he prefers to see a face like his own.

Don’t worry, Harold had obviously seen my furrowed brow. She’s a wonderful girl. They were very good for each other.

As Harold had seen my prejudiced underbelly, I decided to be honest with him. I asked how his son got on with his wife, given that their experiences must have been so different.

Oh, Hugh adored her! Harold’s face lit up for the first time since he had arrived. He absolutely adored her! With all his heart. She was his whole world.

I asked Harold whether he got on with her as well.

Well, yes, Harold smile prevailed. I confess to being a little uncertain at first. I’m sure you can understand. But as I got to know her, the more I began to like her. She was a funny little thing. Very considerate. Very thoughtful. And Hugh just loved her to death.

I asked Harold which moniker was the girl’s Christian name. As he answered a strange sensation flowed through my body. It was nothing dramatic. It was not as though my breath was taken away or the earth began to shake. It was just a feeling of warmth. And it only lasted for a moment. But I noticed it.

I looked up at Harold to see his reaction, but he was just staring sadly at the floor with his shoulders slightly hunched. I raised my eyebrows and shook my head a little. There was very little else I could do, truth be told. Eventually I decided to press on with the matter at hand. I asked Harold what enquiries he had made about the whereabouts of the couple. In response, he gave me a long list of places he had called. Perhaps they were dead after all. But what had happened to them? I asked Harold whether he had any ideas.

No. I’m afraid not, Harold hung his head. I have racked my brain and I can’t think of anything. There’s no reason why anybody would harm them. Everybody loved them.

I peered into the distance and tried to think of some ideas myself. Eventually, an idea occurred to me. Perhaps they had been involved in a car crash?

No, it couldn’t be, Harold responded quickly. I considered that possibility too. But their car is still in their garage. I really have no idea what has happened to them. No idea at all.

I made some notes on my yellow writing pad. I frowned as I did so. It was a trick I had learnt many years ago. A Solicitor gained credibility in the eyes of his client when he did that.

But, at the end of the day, I knew there was very little I could do for Harold. I explained that I could not do anything vis-a-vis the couple’s assets until there was proof of death. Their death could not be presupposed. Or at least not yet, in any event. I told Harold that I thought that somebody had to be missing for seven years before the Law presumes death. I was not sure of the period, but I told Harold that I would check it for him.

I see, Harold bowed his head sadly. Seven years…

I could see that Harold was upset. Not that it took a bloody genius. His head hung listlessly to one side. It was as though he had the greatest difficulty in understanding the tragedy which he believed had befallen him. I suddenly felt intensely sorry for the old bloke. He was obviously a man not without intelligence. Yet the enormity of his son’s loss had left him completely and utterly bewildered.

After a few more minutes of silent examination of my client, I heroically resolved to help him.

Speaking in the softest voice I could muster, I told Harold that I felt for his loss and that I would do what I could. However, I repeated that my hands were tied to a large extent if we could not prove Hugh’s death.

I understand, Harold looked up and locked eyes with mine. I understand, Mr Spalding. I am sorry to have wasted your time.

I immediately waved my right hand and assured Harold that I was glad to help in any way I could. Although, if the truth were known, I had not the slightest idea how.

Is there anything at all I can do myself? Harold’s asked with a quivering voice, his thin eyebrows raised.

I momentarily cursed my client. How dare he put me on the spot like that! As my mind raced, I hoped that my facial expression had not given away my annoyance. Not that it mattered much. Harold was staring at the carpet again.

Finally, an idea located an undefended crack in my cortex. I told Harold that I could ask a former detective friend of mine to make some enquiries. If he was right, and Hugh was dead, my friend may be able to prove his demise and we could move forward. In the meantime, I suggested to Harold that he could assist me by preparing an inventory of Hugh’s assets, as well as those of Jing.

Okay, Harold sighed. What does that involve?

I told Harold that he should go to Hugh and Jing’s home and prepare a list of all the assets in the house. Frankly, I was certain that Harold was wasting his time, but it would, at least, give him something to do. It may even allow him to feel as though he was achieving something.

Would you be able to come with me? Harold whispered.

I recoiled in surprise. Why on earth would he want me to hold his hand? It was not as though we were great mates or anything like that. I could not help but voice these reactions.

I just do not feel comfortable going there myself, Harold grumbled. I am not all together sure that I could cope with that. You seem to understand my plight, Mr Spalding. I would be greatly appreciative if you came with me.

My chest puffed out in pride. I had never been accused of understanding another man’s plight before! Well, not for a long time, anyway.

Would that be all right, Mr Spalding?

I nodded my head. I felt great reluctance welling in my gut. But Harold Macauley’s heartfelt appeal was very difficult to resist. We agreed to go to the apartment the next day. Harold gave me an address near Bondi Beach.

With that, Harold Macauley left the room. I watched him as he looked over his shoulder and nodded a forlorn farewell. The poor man was certainly suffering. His shoulders were still hunched and he walked in a peculiar, deliberate fashion. It was as though he had to concentrate upon placing one foot in front of the other.

Life had taken a sad twist for the old fellow.

But I could not help but wonder whether he had assumed the termination of his son’s life a little too prematurely. I mean, it had only been two weeks, for God’s sake!

Mr Weinberg called again, Samantha’s irritating voice intruded into my musings.

I turned to face Samantha’s desk. She sat there with a cheeky grin and knowing eyes. I told her that I would call Sebastian Weinberg when I was damn well good and ready.

You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later, Samantha called after me as I retreated to my office. You know that, don’t you?

I shut the door so that I did not have to hear my living, breathing conscience any longer. Life was always so much simpler when it wasn’t yapping into my ear. However, my solitude did not last long before Eddie Hastings exploded its fragile unreality.

Mr Spalding, Eddie stammered. I would like to ask you something if I may.

I immediately responded that he may not. However, as usual, my words disappeared somewhere into the vortex which existed between my mouth and his ears.

I have a theory which I would like to sound out on you, Eddie clapped his hands and took the seat which had not been offered to him. I have told some of my friends about it, but they are not, like, as old and wise as you. So, I would like to hear what you thought about it.

As the spoken word was clearly useless in conveying my disinterest, I resorted to staring into the distance behind Eddie’s empty head.

Here it is, Eddie sat perched on the edge of his seat as I slumped as deep as I could into mine. You know how you hear little voices…

Suddenly, my interest in the conversation was raised. Here was Eddie admitting to hearing voices. Perhaps this was my