Just 30 Minutes: Faces on a Crowded Train Are Real People

Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth Ostring.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/08/2013

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CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Chapter 1 ENTRY Central Station

Chapter 2 MARIETTA More Central Station

Chapter 3 SIMON Admiralty Station

Chapter 4 PHOEBE Under The Harbour

Chapter 5 DANIEL YIP Tsim Sha Tsui Station

Chapter 6 SALLY Jordon Station

Chapter 7 EVA Still Jordon Station

Chapter 8 ROBINA Out Of Jordon Station

Chapter 9 ADELE Yau Ma Tei Station

Chapter 10 MAN-CHIU Mong Kok Station

Chapter 11 PALLOR Mong Kok Station Contrasts

Chapter 12 BOBBY Prince Edward Station

Chapter 13 OFFSPRING Sham Sui Po Station

Chapter 14 ER-ER-YAN Cheung Sha Wan Station

Chapter 15 DRAGONS Lai Chi Kok Station

Chapter 16 AH CHING Mei Foo Station

Chapter 17 PETER Lai King Station

Chapter 18 BROTHERS Kwai Fong Station

Chapter 19 WONG TAI TAI Kwai Hing Station

Chapter 20 AH FONG Tai Wo Hau Station

Chapter 21 DAVE Tsuen Wan Station

Chapter 22 EXIT Tsuen Wan Bus Station

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS IS NOT a eulogy of a missionary, or a missionary effort, or a mission institution. Rather this is an attempt to make people, the centre point of Christian mission, appear as intensely interesting and special as they really are. To maintain the privacy of those depicted, this is an unashamed novelization of mission experiences in Hong Kong. All major incidents in this story are true, but all names, and other details, have been changed to protect people. Many of the stories and situations have been combined and/or rounded out by informed knowledge to make disjointed information readable and understandable, as well as, hopefully, fun.

The purpose of these stories is not my reminiscences but the fascinating lives of courageous and interesting people, to whom I owe so much and from whom I have learned even more. Because I believe their lives can enrich many more than myself, I have recorded their stories here. I thank God for all of the people whose lives I was privileged to share in Hong Kong, and I hope you can too. I hope these stories can inspire people everywhere to share the good news of the gospel of Jesus.

CHAPTER 1

ENTRY

CENTRAL STATION

I BACKED UP to the lamppost and pressed against its solid security. I didn’t put my parcels on the ground: they simply collapsed from my exhausted arms. As I straightened up my right cheek collided with a vicious bamboo pole.

Aiyeeah! Ley ho mak faan! exploded from somewhere under the pole, and half a truckload of squashed cardboard cartons cascaded around me.

As the thunder ceased and the dust settled I was aware of a tiny woman furiously gathering her scattered goods into two bundles attached to the end of her long bamboo pole. She was muttering angrily about my having an ancestry connected to a turtle, the ultimate in Cantonese insults.

Doi m’jue! Doi m’jue! I pleaded placatingly, but the little woman hoisted her pole up on to her rusty black shoulders and trudged off without a backward glance in my direction.

But others were certainly glancing. The pole had slashed into my cheek and a warm trickle of blood joined the sweat that dribbled down my scarlet face. I dabbed at the wound with a small damp handkerchief and a couple of Chinese schoolgirls went by giggling and pointing.

Rude brats! I thought, just in time to hear them comment on what a big nose the red-faced gwai-po had. That was me they were talking about! Instinctively I put my hand up to hide the monstrous nose, and instead merely smeared blood further over my face.

Move! Get away! That’s what I must do! I bent to retrieve my packages and found the contents had scattered over the pavement. An embroidered blouse, leather belt, three pairs of cloth slippers, three fabric lengths and boxes containing various oriental handicrafts looked pathetic gathering grime from the pavement. Hastily I began poking them all back into their colourful plastic bags.

I had almost succeeded when suddenly I collected a vicious whack on my behind. My big nose almost hit the pavement but I saved it just in time.

Get out of the way lady! commanded a huge turbaned Sikh swinging an enormous leather briefcase. This is no place to admire your shopping!

Desperation works fast. I gathered my soiled packages and retreated to a side street. I urgently needed fluid and a seat, but only the fire hydrant presented itself to my weary body. I slumped on to its bulging surface. Startled shoppers swerved around me, but by now I had lost all ability to care.

It had all seemed such a sweet idea that morning when I announced to my husband and children that I just wanted to have a little shopping trip on my own so that I could wander down memory lane and savour the delights of Hong Kong in my own time and way.

Are you sure you will be all right? my husband had asked a little anxiously, and in an infuriatingly patronizing voice. Are you sure you can find your way around on our own?

It was rude of him to allude to my notorious lack of a sense of direction, but I was not to be put off by such intimidation tactics. Of course I can find my way around! I assured him loftily. I’ve been shopping in those alleys a great deal more often than you have!

Well, I hope you enjoy yourself, he muttered dubiously.

Of course I will! I declared confidently. This is what I came here for!

You did? To go shopping?"

He was really sticking the knife in now. He, like everyone else, knew that I always loathed shopping. How could I explain that is was not shopping, but just an excuse to go down memory lane? Shopping was merely to give me time to remember.

Oh well, it was a good thing he couldn’t see me now, I thought. And I hope he’s not home when I get there so I have time to clean myself up a bit. I really had wanted to be here in all this turmoil that is called Hong Kong, but somehow I had lost the plot amidst a fever to acquire. Shopping was what had made Hong Kong, its history and its people. But shopping was not what had made it so special for me.

Hong Kong had sparkled like an opal the night we arrived in 1974, despite power cuts due to the OPEC oil crisis. The plane’s wings had given me a huge adrenaline rush as they sliced precariously close through an unbelievable congestion of huge multi-storeyed apartment blocks, a foretaste of the territory’s dominating feature: space always at a premium. After negotiating the interminable immigration officials we had been disgorged out into the cool January night, where a thousand perfumes of the orient confused our senses and an amazing welcoming party of sixteen people from the hospital we had come to work in astonished our expectations.

It was magical.

How we had oohed and aahed!

Next morning we awoke to the monotonous rumble of machinery, the grey view of concrete walls of weaving and spinning factories, and billows of black smoke belching forth from a forest of twisted pipe chimneys. Some magic! That rumble, our new neighbours in the hospital apartment block gloatingly told us, went 24 hours a day, 361 days a year. Oh, how they told the truth! How we yearned for the sounds of silence! And that evil black belching smoke permeated and coated everything; absolutely everything, despite tightly closed windows and daily dustings. But somehow, we learned to love the energy and life of the city. Despite its million faults Hong Kong retained its magic for us.

Leaving had been a very hard decision. Coming back for a holiday seemed the most natural choice for our family. We would all walk down memory lane and savour all the delights. And oh! The past week had been so exciting! We’d been invited out daily for literally breakfast, lunch and tea by a wonderful array of old friends, Chinese and European. Splendid fun, absolutely!

But now, I had managed to wreck the whole thing. The place was just a confusion of self-centred, money-grubbing people after all. And how could I possibly have forgotten how suffocatingly hot it could be?

Ah well, at least I was facing reality.

Exhausted, I clung to my fire hydrant. All around me humanity flowed in a colourful, bustling, swirling river of activity. The entrance to the underground Mass Transit Railway, my means of getting home, was only one hundred metres away around the corner. But it could have been one hundred light years and all the same to my disheartened spirit. A tram bursting with humanity rumbled past down Des Voeux Road. The old transport, and the new, all things worked in Hong Kong. Did make it interesting.

My hydrant was mercifully shaded, but the late afternoon sun still thrust through the cracks in the soaring high rise buildings surrounding me, slicing the streets below into light and dark. Perspiration still trickled down behind one ear and on to my neck. More dripped off my forehead into my eyes, stinging saltily.

A red taxi swung in menacingly beside me, and as I jumped up hastily the driver grinned invitingly. I waved him on wearily, and he shook his fist at me angrily.

Well, well, well, well! And don’t we look professional parked on that stump!

The unexpected English intruded my consciousness most unwelcomely.

Go away, I thought. Leave me alone.

Sawr that taxi! cried another voice beside me. Awl the same these Chings! Rude and money grabbing!

If I start walking they’ll think I didn’t hear them. Maybe they will leave me alone.

Whatever brings you here, Liz? continued the unwelcome but familiar voice. I though you left Hong Kong!

There was no escape, not from supposed friends who knew you so little they called you by a name you loathed.

We did, I answered, turning to face Marjory, a well-nourished blond Australian, and Arlene, her carefully preserved American friend. We’re here on holiday.

Holy mackerel! You came back to this hole for a holiday! Gasps of mocking astonishment.

Aha! What she means is catchin’ up on a liddle shoppin’! laughed Arlene in her nasal Californian twang. She’s got more parcels than any million dollar tourist! No wonder the li’l ol’ cabbie thought you were such a good prospect. Fancy disappointin’ him!

You aren’t really here for a holiday, are you? said Marjory conspiratorially. Is it for business? Conference? Or stopover to somewhere more interesting?

Nostalgia. We miss the place.

Nos-what? You gotta be jokin’!

She’s sure gotta be joking Arl! I’ve barely survived this place!

The people. The variety. The Food. The… I began. Oh dear! What’s the use? I’m so tired I hardly know why I am here, so how could I ever explain to these women?

The food! Ha! Ha! The people! Haw! Haw! Oh boy! Arlene threw her head back and roared with mirth. Marj, she needs help urgently!

She was here a long time, said Marjory apologetically, as though discussing a problem child. More than twenty years wasn’t it?

You’re so right! I heard she was an institution! giggled Arlene. She arrived at the end of the Opium War to save the poor addicts! She threw her head back and roared with laughter at her own wittiness.

Arlene made me feel contaminated, connected to do-good-ism on one hand, and purchasing greed on the other. I wiped a trickle of sweat off my nose, stained my hanky redder from my wound, and gave up on a reply. Arlene brushed a fleck of dust from her heavily embroidered pink Filippino-made suit, and stretched elegantly. Marjory was not so elegant but she certainly looked cool and energetic in the short denim shorts and white halter-top that scarcely contained her ample frame. My pale blue linen dress was crushed, damp and frumpy.

Ooh! exclaimed Arlene. Look at her face! Who beat you up?

A cardboard lady.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Isn’t she quaint! Now come on, tell the truth to Auntie Arlene.

OK, so I look a fright. Leave it at that.

Ouch, you are touchy! I was only askin’, complained Arlene.

You’ll look really awful by tomorrow, said Marjory helpfully. Your eye’s already looking dark.

Forget it, I sighed, just don’t worry about me.

The traffic surged around us. We walked three paces and then I stopped and leaned on another post. Actually, I’m not going in your direction, I muttered. I’m on my way home.

You don’t say! mocked Arlene.

Marjory broke the awkwardness. We’re leaving Hong Kong next month.

Oh, really? So soon? Where are you off to? I was trying to be polite.

Back to Sydney and sanity. Mark’s got two part-time jobs with these new clinics where all you have to do is churn through the patients then go home and have a life. I can hardly wait.

And Mark? What about Mark? What does he think?

Not much, but he says if it keeps me happy it will be worth it.

I hope so, I muttered.

We’re looking for Korean furniture for her to take back, said Arlene.

Korean? That will be different.

Yes, Arlene said that everyone comes back from Hong Kong with Chinese things and its really so common. I’d like to be original.

Of course. What about the Swedish shop? With things from there no one would even know you’ve been in Hong Kong.

There was a pregnant silence. You’re right! exclaimed Marjory, suddenly animated and oblivious to my irony. What a good idea! You do have neat thoughts! Now that place is over in the Sheraton shopping complex isn’t it? What’s its name? Ikea, isn’t it? Hey, it’s been awfully nice meeting you, Liz. Let’s go over there right away, Arl!

Yeah, what a swell idea! agreed Arlene, looking at me incredulously. Fancy you thinking of that. It even beats my Korean idea.

Oh, it’s easy for her to think of it because that is her side of the town. Remember she worked for the Chinese charity hospital in the New Territories, explained Marjory. Well, thanks so much for the furniture thought. Come on Arl, let’s go over on the Star Ferry right now!

Great! Let’s go!

Good luck! I called to their disappearing backs.

Oh, thanks, said Arlene, turning round and smiling patronisingly.

An angry tooting erupted from two taxis that screeched to a halt to avoid hitting the two women as they dashed across the road. They were much too preoccupied with their new shopping plans to recognize their danger, and continued their race for the ferry in oblivious and animated conversation.

Poor Marjory. Two years in Hong Kong had been torture for her. But one thing she had to admit, it sold everything, even authentic Scandinavian furniture.

Wearily I turned and began walking towards the MTR entrance. The trains ran every two minutes, and at the other end the buses every five to ten. It would be just thirty minutes before I would be back in Tsuen Wan, our home for almost twenty years.

Ample time to contemplate the value of Hong Kong.

I reached an entrance to the station complex and began my descent into the depths of the earth. It was important not to get disorientated in Central Station. There were numerous entrances and the grey tiled walls and red pillars had a disquieting similarity. But since there were only two destinations I had a simple foolproof method for coping.—follow the crowd. While a few people headed for the Island Line that ran along the northern aspect of Hong Kong Island, the masses shuffled towards the main line going towards Tsuen Wan.

I clomped down the steps, my parcels crashing against my legs and those of the scurrying commuters hurrying past me. The brown leather briefcase of a hustling young man in a smart navy suit almost knocked me off balance as he descended the stairs two at a time. My bundles lurched forward, dragging me dangerously down.

I jerked up, regained equilibrium and collided with another bamboo pole balanced by an elderly hawker woman, a pink plastic bundle dangling from each end of her stick. She glared at me, mumbling in a dialect I could not understand. Her oiled black suit, navy apron and plaited bamboo hat with a wide frill of black cotton fluttering around its broad brim strongly suggested she was a Hakka woman.

Three small boys chased each other down the steps, weaving through the crowd as though they were on a police chase. One sent my bags swinging wildly and five cloth slippers fell out and slithered down the steps. I retrieved them all from under passing feet, miraculously escaping further injury. The boys’ large school bags bounced heavily against their white shirted backs. Astonishingly, white was the favourite school uniform colour in Hong Kong. For the millionth time I marvelled at the diligence that kept it so spotlessly clean, even on small boys. Schools individualised their uniforms with a green bow here, a red monogram there. For these boys, it was an askew brown tie.

We reached the first level of the station and the multitude thronged towards the escalators. A lake of humanity pooled at the entrance to each one, and then flowed down. I tripped when my turn came and lurched clumsily on to a smart pink business suit below. The inhabitant glared at me disdainfully while I clutched at the handrail with my parcel-laden hands, and stared determinedly in the other direction.

We poured out on to the platform below where two trains were parked on either side of the broad pavement. Central Station is the only one in the efficiency of the whole Mass Transit system where you can actually choose your train. One was packed like the proverbial sardines, yet this was the one most of the throng surged towards, certain that it would be the first to depart. Humanity arranged and rearranged itself like a kaleidoscope within the gleaming steel confines, ever squeezing one more body inside. Finally the doors slid shut with a gentle hiss and the train with its bipedal cargo was on its way.

I resisted efficiency and trudged wearily but purposefully towards the empty train. It gives a subtle sense of power to go against the crowd. And at Central Station on the Hong Kong underground it also gave one a seat for the journey, a benefit well worth waiting two minutes till departure. Oh the luxury, to stand in the lustrous steel snake and choose a seat! Which carriage did I want? They all stretched out before me, an integrated continuum of stainless steel benches, posts and beautiful space. Choosing a carriage required knowing where you wanted to be disgorged at the other end of the journey. I liked the third from the front. Being able to choose a seat meant opting for the one thing that gave any chance of privacy: the glass partition that separated the crowded carriage entrance atria from the central crush between the steel benches that ran along each window. I slid into the cold clinical hardness of the bench beside the partition. Soon there was a whole train full of people anchored beside the partitions. Then the middle portions of the benches filled up, and finally came the crowded claustrophobium of the people packed carriages.

As I tucked my parcels in under my seat I wondered how Marjory and Arlene were getting on with their furniture shopping. I could sympathize with Marjory and her homesickness. The nostalgia that brought us back did not erase the memory of our first few months of loneliness and culture shock. Arlene I could not sympathise with, but she had made good use of Hong Kong. Somehow she had penetrated the colony’s wealthy society, and was regularly in receipt of invitations to functions such as Sir Yum Yum’s yacht party, Lady Higginsbottom’s garden afternoon tea, and even the Governor’s annual reception.

The elite society had not been for me. The only time I had been invited to join a yacht party I had been violently seasick. The sky had been blue, the sea beneath almost without a ripple, but the rolling gait of a Chinese junk had proved too much for me. The fish enjoyed my breakfast, and I received no more invitations.

And yet suddenly, as I looked around the carriage, I realised that I had been far more privileged than Arlene, and knew a wide variety of fascinating people who lived in this densely congested city. Maybe some even on this train!

Beside me sat a young man in a charcoal grey business suit. He pulled a black briefcase on to his knee and extracted a pile of dossiers. I stole a glance at them. Business contracts. Computing business contracts. For China. He moved, and glanced at me. Guiltily I looked at the floor. He looked at me for a long minute. I think it was my bloodied face.

The middle-aged man beside the glass partition opposite me had his eyes closed, wearily blocking us all out while he slept. How I envied the Chinese ability to sleep anywhere, anyhow! He too wore a business suit but carried no case. Did he wisely leave his work where it belonged in an office, or did he have nothing important to bring home?

A young couple wedged themselves beside him. First arrivals on the train always tried to spread themselves as much as possible, but these two just eased themselves into the space for one until those on either side just moved up to make way for them. Her long black tresses flowed over a smart red blouse and hid her face from all but his gaze. He wore navy slacks, white shirt and brightly patterned tie, and clutched her hands nervously. His anxiety was reflected in his hair that bristled uneasily around his earnest young face. Engrossed in themselves they failed to notice that others may not have wanted to be as close as they were.

Scurrying feet heralded the arrival of a young boy in a grey and white uniform. He hoisted his bag off his back and suspended himself from a leather strap hanging from the cross bar above me. Hastily I removed my feet nanoseconds before the bag crashed to the floor. I rearranged my parcels ostentatiously to let him know my feet were tucked in as far as possible, and please be careful of them. He didn’t notice my feet but he did stare at my face.

A woman in the classic floral pyjama suit of Cantonese women, clutching a handful of pink plastic bags and two small boys, shot through the door. She stood breathing heavily for a few moments, looked up and down for a seat, and then guided her boys to the post beside my partition and anchored them firmly to it. Then she grabbed a leather strap for herself and hung there limply, her parcels weighing heavily from her arms. The little boys giggled and pulled funny faces at each other, did a lot of pointing at me, but remained obediently attached to the pole. There was no space for any other option.

Without warning the doors hissed shut, and then suddenly back open again, admitting a fluttering, giggling gaggle of Filippino women. Their entrance was a boisterous contrast to the subdued resignation of the Chinese commuters on the train. The doors hissed together, the train lurched. We were on our way.

The Filipinos fascinated me. Their gaiety was in sharp contrast to what I knew was the reality of their lives. Today being Sunday they were off work, but for the rest of the week they toiled without respite except, if they were lucky, to sleep. More than forty thousand Filipino women drudged as amahs in Hong Kong. Some of these were poorly educated and struggled to cope with the demands of strange culture and language. Many were highly educated, but unable to get better paying employment in their homeland than that of a domestic servant in Hong Kong. Some were philosophic about their lot, glad to be able to earn some extra cash for a project at home, but many resented their lowly status and the lack of respect given by their employers.

Sundays they congregated in vast numbers in the Central Area of Hong Kong, and for a few hours gossiped and visited as women do the world over. Consciously or unconsciously they got their revenge on the city: after cleaning up after others all week, they picnicked in grand style in the parks along the harbour front, leaving a vast mess of discarded fast food packaging for the city cleaners.

On the other side of my glass partition a tiny Filipino woman with deeply bronzed skin, blue-black hair, and a sky blue dress was entertaining her friends.

And Ma’am, she say, Oh missy, missy you no keep your food in fridge. Your food velly smelly. Yes, ma’am, I say, and put it under my bed. A few days later she come to where I sleep with her little horror of a son, and she say, Oh missy, missy, room smell velly terrible. What you do? So I sniff, and she sniffs. I sniff up, I sniff down. Sorry I no smell ma’am.

The little raconteur bowed in mock respect towards my glass partition.

Yes, yes, say Ma’am. Velly bad smell. I know, she shout, and dives under the bed. Aieeyah! Aieeyah! Aieeyah! She screams. Oh you wicked bad evil naughty horrible nasty wicked terrible girl! She screams more. Food under the bed! She pulls my fish and my garlic and some red bananas. Disgusting! Filthy! Terrible! Ghastly! My oh my, so many words pour from her mouth! She hold her nose. She point to the food. Throw it away! She yells. You are a very dirty person.

The group of Filipinos giggled nervously.

But please Ma’am, I say, if I no keep food in fridge, where can I keep it? And she say, You, the likes of you don’t deserve to eat!

Ooh! gasped her companions. Ooh that’s terrible!

Nah! laughed the little storyteller. I just say, Ma’am, I no eat, I no work!

Did you really! gasped her friends.

Yes, I did. So she hit me, then she say she talk to master when he come home. But that is a joke, because master he never comes home!

She hit you!

The group broke into murmurs and mumbles of sympathy.

Oh, look! cried one, suddenly pointing at me. Look at that woman’s face! She’s been hit too!

Mumma mia, how could she go out like that!

No choice, I mouthed through the glass partition, and they all collapsed into giggles.

The sleeping man opposite opened his eyes and gazed at us disdainfully, then went back to his slumbers. The couple cuddled closer. The brothers played touch-me round their pole. The young man beside me turned over his dossier and began reading the next page. The schoolboy swung on his strap. The tired mother swayed limply to the rhythm of the train.

I began to relax. I was even beginning to enjoy myself. And suddenly I knew! People. All sorts of people. This was the Hong Kong I knew and loved. This, at last, was why I had come back.

I closed my eyes, and drifted into dreamland…

CHAPTER 2

MARIETTA

MORE CENTRAL STATION

THE TRAIN JOLTED and we all swayed to its rhythm. Filipino women adjusted and readjusted themselves before me, and a vaguely familiar face slid into view.

Her face lit up in recognition, and I smiled feebly, trying to remember who she was. Embarrassed I studied my hands, hoping to think of something to help identify her. Again I looked at her and was greeted with another beaming grin. I gave another apologetic smile and hoped she would melt into the crowd. Instead, she thrust her head round my protective barricade and blurted:

Hi! You don’t remember me, but I’m Mr Stapleton’s secretary!

Of course, I said, trying to look intelligent. I’ve seen you recently.

Yes, two days ago.

Ah, yes. Yes. But what was her name?

Been shopping I see, she said sociably, gazing at the disorderly pile of pink plastic bags encircling my feet. That would be fun. Every body likes to shop in Hong Kong.

Er-um-yes. Yes, I’ve been shopping.

You look tired, she said after a weary silence. It’s been a hot day, and you must be tired. I must let you rest. But it was so nice to see you.

Finally, I remembered. Yes, Marietta, it is nice to see you. Perhaps I will see you again next weekend.

She smiled in delight. That would be nice! Good-bye till then.

She merged back into the crowd of Filipinos and I began to remember what Roger Stapleton had told me a few days earlier. It was hard to match this smiling, thoughtful, and elegant woman with the story he had shared. She had the dogged determination that matched this ruthless city. Roger was a precise, meticulous man, but he slipped into superlatives as he discussed his secretary.

She’s an excellent secretary, a really superb performer. But it’s quite astonishing the chaos she’s generated in her life. A lovely girl, nearly ruined by Hong Kong.

Oh, really?

Yes, she should have been left where she belonged. I am sure she would have been happy then. But… ! Roger’s voice trailed away in a bleak contemplation of his fantastic secretary’s plight.

What do you mean?

Let me tell you her story, then you will understand. Hong Kong can be a dreadfully destructive place.

Roger leaned back in his chair, and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. He had a neatly trimmed sandy-coloured moustache, and a small goatee beard that he stroked pensively. She has quite a story, quite a story.

*     *     *

Marietta de la Cruz was born in Cebu City in the Philippines, he began, the fourth child (and daughter) in a family of nine children. She enjoyed a simple and carefree childhood despite the poverty of her parents.

Her father Milo was a public jeepney driver, and from babyhood Marietta had delighted in the colourful paintwork