Fiction: Group 2
My Pot of Gold
French International School-Primary Section, Deegan, Gabriella - 11, Fiction: Group 2
riendship is a curious thing. Sometimes it creeps up and surprises you when you least expect it. This
is a story that I have never told before, of a friendship that was born in the Pearl River Delta, one of
the richest commercial regions in the world and a melting pot of cultures. My story is also about
wealth and richness, but not of the type you may expect.
I am an old man now, but when I was 13, I was plucked out of my comfort zone in England and forced to
move to Hong Kong. Our home in Hong Kong was nowhere near as big as our home in England. Nothing
was the same. My village in England always smelt of wet grass and cow manure. At my school there were
massive playing fields. We used to wear shorts all year round even when the playing fields were
transformed into blankets of vanilla snow. In Hong Kong it was always blistering hot. Instead of playing
fields, I was surrounded by skyscrapers that stood to attention like soldiers, all geared up with glass and metal
ready to go to war.
A month after our arrival in Hong Kong, my dad went to Mongolia for business. My mum decided to pack
her bags and head off to Shenzhen for weekend trip. I was left at home with our new helper, Jenny. The
day after my parents left, I decided to set out on an adventure. It was all over the news that there was a
protest called Occupy in Central. All roads had been blocked off and people were camping on the streets. I
wanted to see why the protest was so important. I also wanted take photos to send to friends in England, so
I headed to the protest.
All was calm when I first arrived until suddenly the riot police appeared. Everyone was screaming as tear gas
was blasted. I sprinted to safety, but with all the commotion nobody noticed me or that I had slipped silently
into the harbour. I was an excellent swimmer but as I fell, I whacked my head on a quayside tyre. All I
remembered was sinking and being dragged onto a sampan.
I woke up two days later in an unfamiliar room. Out of nowhere an old man appeared. He had a long
straggly moustache that descended to his chest. He placed a bowl of herbs under my nostrils.
“ Hello!” he said. “ I am Joey. My grandson and I were fishing a few days ago when we saw you drowning
so he dived out to save you. We took you back to our home so we could invigorate you with some herbs.”
As I rolled onto my side I saw my mum sitting on the bunk bed. The mascara had run down her face with
her tears. She was enraptured when she realised that I was conscious and could open my eyes. I discovered
later that Joey had noticed a phone number on the label of my wet clothes. He rang the number and it was
my mother’s. She came over as soon as she could.
A small boy, with big black eyes and jet-black hair, loomed above my face. I assumed this was Joey’s
grandson whose laudable courage saved my life. “ Hello! I am Oscar Lee. Christopher, right?” he
questioned.
“Yes!” I whispered gratefully.
After recuperating in their spare bedroom for a week with my mum sleeping on the bunk above me, Oscar
showed me around his small house and I noticed some statues that were as white as ghosts. They were called
Terracotta Warriors. They were carved so perfectly that you could see the creases on their foreheads.
He took me to see his grandma who also lived with them. She was chopping up vegetables in the kitchen as
fast as a Ninja in combat. She told us she was making a very popular Chinese dish with vegetables and pork.
As we sat down to eat I noticed chopsticks were the only utensils available. I knew what they were as I had
seen them in a Japanese restaurant in England but I didn’t know how to use chopsticks as I was always given
a fork. I could feel my face turn bright red every time I dropped the pork.
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