Then An, Kai-hui's daughter, sauntered in. Her eyes widened, she bowed briefly towards Mae. 'Children,' said An, newly graduated. 'You should be in school.'

More giggles.

Mae reached up, to find some way to turn it off, to hoard the fashion information. How had Young Mr Doh done it? Mae touched something and another screenful of words appeared. 'Main menu, 'said the screen. Were they in a restaurant?

An said, 'No, no, don't change it for my sake.' Then she used a new word. 'Undo,' she said, and they went back to the fashion show.

The sun kept rising, the courtyard kept filling. An's friend Ling-so walked in as well. Ling-so said that she had preferred the Singapore fashion show last week. But then she said, 'Eastern couture suits our tastes better.'

Mae felt like she had swallowed an ice cube whole. While she had been ill and wasting time, all the village had been watching television. Mae felt a kind of hungry panic. She had fallen so far behind!

In desperation she turned around. 'What do the children want?' she asked.

She knew the answer: kung fu. She knew also that the children would run forward and push the button for themselves.

The children sat open-mouthed as the kung fu hero met a man whom they all knew was a dragon in disguise. The secret dragon breathed out fire. For some reason he could fly, with a sound like a sliding whistle. Even An and Ling appeared to be content. This confirmed Mae's suspicion that people would watch anything so long as it was on TV.

Mae didn't watch. She sat thinking over and over, What do I do? What can I do?

At high noon, Mr Shen arrived from the school.

He was shaking with rage. 'All of you, back into class. All of you, what are you doing, when you should be at your lessons!' He cuffed the boys about the head. They ran off giggling.

Mr Shen glared at Mae. 'You have let this sickness take you over!'

Mae was shocked to have Teacher Shen, of all people, be angry with her.

'I was trying to use it for information…' she began. Her voice sounded weak, even to her.

'Oh, yes, it looks like it! Hong Kong indulgence. This whole country is sinking into it.' He spun on his heel and marched to the television set. He pulled out its plug. In a fury, he pulled at the plug until, by adrenaline strength, he succeeded in hauling the wires free from their screws.

'There,' he said, shaking the naked wires at Mae. Then he walked away, taking the plug with him. He stopped at the foot of the stone staircase leading up to the Wing house.

'Mrs Wing-ma'am!' Shen shouted. 'I have taken the liberty of turning off your machine. Perhaps I can advise you to keep it inside your house and away from my students.'

The children were gone, still giggling, like laughing leaves blown in the wind. Shen marched off, through the dust, without a further word to Mae. She looked up and saw Kwan already descending the stairs to the courtyard. She had a screwdriver and a replacement plug.

The village was a boat that had come free from its anchor. Mae shook her head.

An was elegantly scornful. 'He's scared because he is Teacher and he knows nothing about all this.'

'Tub. My parents pretend nothing has happened,' said Ling-so, even more beautifully turning away. Her lipstick was perfect.

Kwan knelt beside the TV, quietly replacing the plug.

'Why don't you take it inside?' Mae asked.

'Because we want the village to have it,' said Kwan, still kneeling.

'At least now we can look at fashion in peace,' said An.

On came Paris again. Kwan walked back up the stairs to her laundry or her sweeping. The Paris show ended, and the two girls changed to the Vogue Channel. More ghosts, in silver fabric, and Mae found that she had nothing to say that was any different from what the two girls said. Finally, when a shadow had crept across the wall and touched the screen, it was like a sorrowful spell. Quietly she bid the girls farewell. Young, poised, beautiful. They could read. They had no dinners to cook. This new world was theirs.

When Mae got home, Joe was waiting with Mr Haseem.

Joe did not look like a dolt now. He looked very upright and angry. 'You will apologize to Mr Haseem,' he demanded.

Mr Haseem's face seemed to be made of old porridge – heavy, dour, unmoving – and he looked without blinking at Mae. She looked back. She calculated quickly, knowing what had happened. Someone had told Joe about the attack, and honest Joe, moral Joe, was appalled. He had no understanding that sometimes morality was not enough. There was one quick way out.

'I'm very sorry, Mr Haseem,' Mae said coolly. 'I have not been myself lately.'

Joe nodded once, abruptly. Quite right and proper, the nod said. 'To chase a guest with knives from our house!' Joe murmured.

You have to cling to something, if all the world is changing. Joe clung to rules. He was stiff, formal, but dignified. Mae's heart wanted to break for him; he just did not understand.

'Mr Haseem-sir,' said Joe, 'please accept an invitation to dinner.'

Haseem was as slow as a frog on a lily-pad, with its sticky tongue curled up, waiting to lunge. 'I am afraid, Mr Chung-sir, that my wife would not consent. She is too upset by the events of last night.'

'Oh!' said Joe, in shock. He turned and glared at his wife.

'Things were said to her that cannot be easily forgiven.' Mr Haseem pressed his advantage. 'I accept the apology for your good sake, Mr Chung. I have to say that nothing in your wife's manner makes me think her apology is genuine.'

He was trying to enlist Joe, force more out of her. No, thought Mae. You will not humiliate me further. Mae said, 'It was genuine enough, Mr Haseem-sir, when I got down to you on my knees and begged you to take back the money. If you are so insulted, perhaps you will withdraw your generous loan.'

She held out the money again.

Sunni's-man leapt to his feet. 'Really, this is too much. You let your wife drive you, Joe. She has no place in interfering with our business! You and I are friends, but I want no dealings with her.'

That's because, thought Mae, I am a match for you.

'Any further business will be conducted in my house. She is not welcome there.' Mr Haseem stalked out.

Joe blinked at her in fury, speechless. He was not used to scenes of any sort, least of all in his own kitchen.

Mae felt detached. It was strange, the mix of feelings. She thought of Joe in a kindly, distanced way. It was part of the beauty of their way of life that he should be so small, so constrained, and so insistent on good behaviour. That way of life was dead.

'What is the interest rate?' Mae asked Joe, in a small, clear voice.

'What?' He clamped a hand on his forehead. His head shook in disbelief. 'Do you care only for money?'

She stayed in the same mode, still and cool. 'Is anything in writing?'

'Yes,' he said fiercely, proudly thinking: See how businesslike I am? Her heart sank for him.

'So. I ask again. What is the interest rate?'

'Two per cent,' he said, with a diagonal jerk of the head that seemed to say: See how unfounded were your fears?

'A month?' she asked.

He blinked at her. Poor Joe.

'That means that in a year's time, we not only have to pay him back the hundred, but also find a further twenty-four riels.' A quarter of a year's income. 'And that is only if he does not compound it monthly.'

She let the roll of notes fall like leaves onto the table. 'There is your money, Joe. I suggest that you do not spend one riel of it. It will be hard enough for us to find the extra twenty-four.'

She turned and began to cook supper: the blackened pot, the single electric ring. She looked at him, and he was looking at the money. 'Make no mistake, Joe. I will not work for Mr Haseem.' Her voice was cool with promise. She cooked. Joe drank.