To my late parents

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Celebrating New Writing

Copyright

About the Publisher

‘THE PIG’S LIVER NEVER LIES.’

Her father’s voice thunders in the longhouse. Laila makes a silent prayer. She places her finger on her lips, then on the photo and shoves it back into the bag.

‘Look at your father, Laila. You’re making him upset,’ says her mother.

Veins pulse on her father’s temples, his nostrils flare. Laila keeps silent, as she did the first time she announced her plans, air ticket tucked in her pocket like a good luck charm. I’ll pray for you, Jim had written.

Laila lets out a breath. The end is in sight—she can finally extricate herself.

‘Why can’t you be like the other girls?’ her father says. ‘Gawai time last year, Tuai warned us: “Your oldest child, your oldest child,” he kept saying. He read it in the liver!’

Laila grits her teeth. She pushes the last items into the suitcase. For a moment, it feels as if she’s already arrived and her action is in reverse. Her quick hands are pulling clothes out. Coat hangers, the cushioned kind, in satin, lining the wardrobe are beckoning her to slip her garments over them.

Her father is striding up and down now, staring at the floor. The walls of the bilik vibrate, walls so closed-in even a sneeze would send them rattling.

Laila thinks of all the years of cleaning, ironing, weaving, chopping, cooking, eating, arguing, studying and sleeping in these sixteen square metres of floor space. Night after night, bodies colliding into each other, her mother and father lying against one wall, Jeannie, Krisno and her lined up at another, her parents’ feet brushing her arm, random breathing and her father’s snores swirling over their heads like a jumbled melody.

Next would come an arranged marriage to an Iban boy—at twenty-four, that was always going to be inescapable. But Laila doesn’t care if they can carve the most beautiful masks, plant the best crops, hunt the biggest wild boars. The day Viktor showed up, gifts wrapped in a sarong, among which was a mask carved out of ebony, the most prized wood, certain she would accept his hand in marriage, she refused even to come out of the bilik. She was determined not to end up like the other girls, chained to the longhouse for the rest of their lives.

No more cockroaches scampering over the mengkuang mats, either, and crawling up her neck at night. Their prickly legs on her skin and stench in her palm as she slaps them away nauseate her even now.

‘Australia—the other side of the world. You don’t even know this man.’

Her father’s assaults remind Laila of jungle leeches, latching onto her skin, sucking until they bloat up to twice their size. Her body sinks with heaviness, her mouth dry. Maybe she should just dash out without her things. She suddenly feels drained, she fears she may collapse onto the floor. An inkling of defeat creeps up on her: can she break free? When she rehearsed this scene in her head last night, last week, two weeks ago, she was unflinching. Now she feels herself buckling as her father continues to sap her strength.

Laila takes a deep breath. No room even for sentiment. Events narrow down to a single path, a single point. Like the produce the villagers plant in cleared jungle land, episodes sprout, grow and ripen. This is the fruit of her plotting.

‘I know him well enough.’ She holds her head up high.

‘What? Through letters?’ her father says.

A rattling sound comes from the back window. Birds perched on the corrugated-iron fence scratch on the metal. The sound seems to synchronise with the pulsating beat of her heart. She stiffens, turns towards her father and looks at him. She’s never dared to do this before. The anger scorching his eyes used to send her and her brother and sister dashing to the meat safe, the only furniture in the bilik big enough to hide behind.

‘Yes.’

‘Any decent man would come here to escort you.’

‘He did offer, but I said no.’

A ghostly silence settles on the bilik. Her father sits down on the floor in a corner, his arm dangling over one raised leg, staring ahead. Beside him her mother crouches, fiddling with her sarong, holding back her tears. When will Laila see her mother again after she walks out the door? The redness of her mother’s eyes, the lines long and deep, etching the sides of her mouth, tug at Laila’s heartstrings. Jeannie and Krisno are at school, thank goodness. She had said goodbye to them that morning, Jeannie tearing Krisno away, his gangly arms entwined around her neck, his pimply face laden with sorrow.

‘Why, Laila?’ her mother says, her eyebrows gathered into a frown.

‘I didn’t want him to see this.’

‘This?’

‘Yes, this hell hole.’

‘Laila!’ her mother screams. ‘This is our home. How could you?’ She beats the floor repeatedly with her palms and weeps.

Her wails draw neighbours from the entire longhouse to the gap in the front door. They poke their faces in, pushing the gap wider, straining their torsos, craning their necks. A boy balances on his father’s shoulders. Murmuring voices and scuffing sounds drift into the bilik. Laila wants to comfort her mother but finds herself stilled. She stares at the body huddled on the floor. Her father storms to the front door, slams it shut, then lunges across at her.

The blow of her father’s hand throws Laila off balance. She leans against the wall for support, blinking and widening her eyes, the sting on her cheek burrowing into her brain.

‘Don’t ever, ever say such things about our home!’ Saliva spits out. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and walks away. ‘Leave, and don’t ever come back.’

Laila steadies herself, rubs her palm over her cheek as if rubbing away dirt. No, she will not cry. She zips up the suitcase. Bending over her mother, she pecks her on the cheek and squeezes her shoulder. Then, carrying the suitcase, she opens the door. The crowd backs off. There is a loud gasp at the sight of her mother crouched on the floor. Utterances of shock and disbelief. Hands over mouths. Nudging of elbows.

Laila squeezes past them. The suitcase grates against the planks as she makes her way to the end of the longhouse verandah and struggles down the ladder.

The Rejang River unfolds before her. She breathes in the muddy scent, the familiar earthy odour. The flat expanse of the river spreads out like a lake. She’ll miss the river. She’ll miss the calming effect of lapping water, wind tossing her hair, currents swelling and roaring during monsoons. Shimmering water and wails of hornbills.

Torrents of memories engulf her in big bold strokes. The long froth trailing the speedboat as she goes to school at Nanga Ibau in Kapit each morning. Rainforests set back from the riverbank blurring past. The brrr-brrr of the engine vibrating through her body as the boat rocks from side to side.

In her mind’s eye she sees village folk emerging from boats at the Kapit waterfront, wild boars, chickens and jungle produce straddled on their shoulders. She hears the rafts of logs colliding as they float downstream, their sounds reminding her of gongs at gawai time.

The finality of her departure closes about her. In spite of her hatred for her life in the longhouse, and the sting on her cheek and the chaos of her feelings now, she knows she’ll take the Rejang River with her to Australia.

She takes a last look back at the longhouse, makeshift stilts holding up the structure, walls made of corrugated-metal sheets, flimsy ladder sagging from wear. Children are running along the dirt path, formed by years of trudging down the slope to the Rejang waterfront, where they throw off their clothes and plunge into the water, the same water the villagers use for drinking, washing and bathing.

Village women, elderly ones bare-breasted, are squatting on the riverbank in the distance, hitting clothes with wooden batons, rinsing, wringing, talking among themselves. Starbursts glint on the water. Laila places her suitcase down, opens her palms, and sees herself scrubbing and wringing as an eight-year-old, her mother showing her the correct way to wash clothes. She takes out her air ticket, places it on her chest and closes her eyes. Overhead, hornbills perched on a tree flap their wings. She touches the calluses on her palms, remembers the soreness and redness from washing the family’s clothes, and her eyes brim with tears.

Without turning again, she heads for the speedboat anchored at the waterfront. The attendant, cap worn low, hops off the railing, throws his cigarette into the river and swings into the boat.

1

ALONG THE ARMREST ARE buttons and holes, seven in total. Laila watches her neighbour, a thin Chinese man with thick glasses, pull out the headphones from the plastic wrap, place the arch over his head and plug the cord into one of the holes. He presses a few buttons and an image appears on the mini screen in front of him.

Laila follows what he does. Different sounds cough out of her headphones. She perseveres, her fingers press, twist and turn until the same image appears on her screen. She squeals inwardly with delight.

The aircraft hums. Cool air drifts from the overhead air-conditioning vents. After the meal, after watching Pierce Brosnan perform his antics in Tomorrow Never Dies, she notices passengers getting ready to sleep. They tuck cushions under their heads or blow up curved ones to sling over their shoulders. Some slide on eye patches. Laila tries to shut her eyes but her mind ticks away, absorbing the fresh scent of the cushion and blanket, the trolley of duty-free products, the way the batik uniforms of the Malaysia Airlines stewardesses hug their waistlines, the shimmering green of their eye shadow.

Magazines are bunched in her lap: Marie Claire, Who, House & Garden, Vogue Living, National Geographic. She leafs through the pages quietly, so as not to wake the Chinese man, who’s now fast asleep, his mouth open. Her eyes feast on the images and words: herringbone vests, choc suede pumps, cornflower blue, satin piping, floor-to-ceiling glazing, canopy windows, rectilinear oak cabinets. Glimpses of her new life, her new world.

The trauma of her last moments in the longhouse is already receding in her memory. Discarding her old life the way reptiles shed their skin, she’s about to enter another chapter, and in three hours will be face to face with her future husband. Her Jim, in the flesh, in the here and now. Their worlds will finally converge on this day, 4 March 1996. Changing your life is a matter of catching a plane, taking a long flight.

After what seems like only snatches of just an hour’s sleep, she hears a voice overhead:

‘…we are about to land at Adelaide Airport. The ground temperature is eighteen degrees. For those disembarking at Adelaide, we wish you a pleasant stay and thank you for flying with Malaysia Airlines.’

Laila’s heart leaps into her mouth and does somersaults. Euphoria pelts into her veins. She unbuckles her seatbelt. Press the handle to release the brakes, let it go to brake. The trolley starts and jerks, veering this way and that, seeming to have a mind of its own. So first she has to figure out how to work the luggage trolley. Then the questions from the Immigrations officer: does she have anything to declare; is she carrying any animal or plant products; what’s in that red drawstring pouch; how long is she staying for? After she shoves the contents back into her suitcase, she has difficulty closing it.

The drone of the aircraft continues in her head. Laila forces the suitcase shut, hoping the zip won’t give way. She edges forward, trailing a river of passengers, trolleys loaded with bundles of suitcases, musical instruments, packing boxes, backpacks and folded-up cribs. Her eyes jump ahead, locating the automatic sliding doors. The doors open and shut as each passenger goes through them.

She can see throngs of people choking the entranceway. There are hugs, kisses, laughter, slaps on the back, and bouquets of flowers to greet beaming faces. Laila casts her eyes over the crowd for a sign of Jim. A sea of heads with light-coloured hair—then the doors rumble, closing again.

At last she’s through. Where is he? Maybe he won’t show up. She’s heard of such stories. Shifty characters, no show when it comes to the crunch. But no, her Jim isn’t that sort.

Finally, Jim’s face appears. She recognises his smile immediately—corners of lips upturned, just as in his photo. He is standing in the back row. Over here, he mouths, waving his hand. A big woman with a trolley spilling with luggage in front of her suddenly seems twice as large. Laila lunges sideways to catch his glance. She waves back, her heart fluttering and leaping at the same time.

Then she comes face to face with Jim. All six feet of him.

He’s wearing a denim jacket over a shirt and cotton trousers. The shirt is snug at his midriff. To meet his gaze she stands on her toes. The first thing she notices is the gleam of his bald head. It throws her off. She didn’t realise he was bald on top. Then she remembers. In the photo, he was wearing a cap. What a cheat.

A sinking feeling takes her over. She looks around, bends to check her luggage, to avoid his eyes. Her eyes scan him and she notices the creases on his shirt, and the back hemline is sticking out. She looks around her, hoping the moment will pass. Then he produces a bouquet of light-coloured roses from behind his back. She’s never seen roses this colour or this huge before. He drops the bouquet into her arms. She brings the petals to her nose and sinks into the sweet heady fragrance. The smell floods her nostrils, lingers at the back of her throat. The petals feel soft, like velvet. Through gaps in the bouquet, she sneaks a peek at him and meets his eyes. They are green, soft, liquid, pulling her in. He smiles and the sparkle spreads like a flame, lighting up his cheeks, his jaw, blazing across the space between them. She sees the freckles on his nose, then she hears his voice, warm and luscious, a little hoarse like the sound of one’s first utterance in the morning.

‘Hello, Layla? Liela? Did I pronounce it right?’

No one has pronounced her name like that. She covers her mouth and giggles.

Jim laughs back. ‘Well, you’ll need to teach me.’

‘Later, okay…Jim?’

‘Damn right. Jim, as easy as it comes. Or as they say, as easy as A-B-C.’

‘Very easy…Jim.’

‘You bet.’ He chuckles.

She looks at the floor.

‘Well! Welcome to Australia.’

He gives her a brief hug and kisses her on the cheek. He smells of soap and shaving cream. She sees the buttons on his jacket, fine hairs peeping out from under his top, light brown, his skin a pinkish tinge. So this is what Caucasian men look like.

They manoeuvre through the crowd, stealing glances at one another, turning away when they catch each other at it. In between, more giggles and quick snatches of conversation.

When they step out of the building, a gust of cold wind hits them. Laila shivers. She clutches her clothing, and her hair, which is tossing in every direction. All she has on is a T-shirt and jeans. She knew she’d be arriving in autumn. Mild, Jim said in his letter. In Sarawak it’s hot all year round.

Jim releases his hands from the trolley. ‘Here.’ He removes his jacket.

He drapes it over her shoulders. As he slides her hair out from under the collar, she turns her head and peers at his face. She takes in the curl of his eyelashes, the sharp angle of his nose, the ends of his hair shimmering golden in the sun. And that mouth, those lips, even better than the photo.

At the café he guides her, a hand on the small of her back, to a table next to a window. She tries to take in her surroundings but notices only the outside tables with big umbrellas, Coca-Cola printed on them. Everything else is a blur.

She’s still in a daze, at having made the trip, having crossed ocean and continent, setting foot in Australia. Her Jim has finally materialised. His voice, his smell—bridging the space between them. His hand, resting on the table, is only centimetres from hers. If she reaches out she could touch him. All this is real.

Jim pushes his car keys and wallet to the edge of the table and hands her the menu. She takes it from him and forces herself to centre, to regain her bearings. Her fingers play with the corners of the menu, her eyes dancing over the list of dishes, some in strange words. She has no idea what they are. She looks up to find Jim’s eyes boring into her. When she meets his gaze, he turns away nervously. She looks in the other direction.

Running his hand over his bald head, Jim says, ‘So, what would you like to eat?’

‘Umm…can you order for me?’

It is not lunchtime yet, so he orders scrambled eggs, hash browns, grilled tomato, sautéed mushrooms, bacon, sausages, toast and coffee. As Jim gives their order to the waitress, Laila stares at her, at her black apron branded with the word Coopers, her kohl-lined eyes, her rosy cheeks. The waitress scribbles on her notepad, nose ring glittering, silver bangles on her wrist jangling, then repeats their order and walks away. Laila shifts her eyes back to the table, to find Jim staring at her again.

‘Sorry, I can’t help myself. You’re very pretty.’

‘Really?’

‘You sure are.’ He smiles. ‘I can be such a dingbat, can’t I?’

‘A what?’ she giggles.

‘Idiot, fool, you know.’ He makes a face.

She raises her eyebrows and chuckles. Then they both break into uncontrollable laughter, waves of it, until they clutch their sides. Then, with the floodgates open, an explosion of words follows.

With the aroma of food wafting around them, they talk about the flight, Australian weather, the crazy autumn winds, pictures on the wall, Italian cafés, why wood-oven pizzas taste better than normal ones, Australian slang, horoscope signs. They recount the little stories from their letters. Laila feels her shyness rising off her like steam from a damp garment being ironed. Every now and then, Jim touches her hand or elbow lightly.

‘I can’t believe you’re really here,’ he says finally.

‘I know, I can’t believe it myself. So happy to be in Australia.’

‘You speak English really well. I know you mentioned learning English at school and that, and your written English is perfect, but hearing your voice now, I can’t get over it.’

‘It’s not that good. Only average.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘Everyone speaks English in Malaysia. Some well, some not so well.’

‘I thought Malaysian was the main language.’

‘Yes, Bahasa is, but with friends and at the shops, everywhere, we only speak English.’

Now that they’ve broken the ice she can take in her surroundings. As if awoken, she sees everything with curious eyes: the glitter of the glass cabinet with cakes and ice cream, the row of upside-down wine glasses above the bar, the clean pavement, dogs sitting quietly while their owners sip coffee or read a magazine. The whiteness of people’s skins, multicoloured streaks in hair, exposed midriffs of young women, tattoos peeping up from their buttocks above waistbands. She’s entranced. The meals come. She eats.

‘Food okay?’ Jim asks.

‘Yes, yes.’ She shifts her focus back to him. ‘Everything so new, so different.’

‘A lot to take in, huh? You’ve plenty of time, don’t worry. A whole lifetime to discover your new home.’

Her new home. It still hasn’t sunk in that Australia is now home. But now that Jim has articulated it, the idea winds its way into her consciousness. Goose bumps rise on her skin, then she’s light-headed. She flashes him a smile. He takes her hand and plants a kiss on her fingers. The sensation makes her body tingle. Blood rushes to her face, so she lowers her head hoping he won’t notice.

She does not taste the food; she only sees his face, awash with sunlight streaming in through the window. She imagines him opening the door to his red brick home. Sweet fragrance, like that of the roses sitting on the chair beside her, wafts out from the front door. Music swirls in the air. Jim places her hand gently back on the table. She sees the fine golden hairs on his wrist, gazes at his lips and she wants to explode in happiness.

The red brick exterior will soon come into view, the image already imprinted in her head from his photo. She’ll recognise it at once. The white bay window will leap out first. Patience, she’s waited all these months. The drive to Renmark will be a long one, three hours at least. That’s what Jim said.

It is mid-afternoon and they’re heading out of the city. Buildings and traffic peter out, and vehicles speed along the two-lane highway.

‘Recline your seat if you want, princess,’ Jim says. ‘Press the lever, by the side of your seat.’

She presses the lever. The seat collapses and her body falls flat. ‘Oops.’

Jim pulls the car across, leans over and adjusts the angle for her. ‘There, better now?’

She nods, looks up at him and smiles.

The café meal and the quick drive around Adelaide have overloaded her senses. Less than a day in Australia and already she’s seen and experienced so much. She leans back, feels the softness of the seat, stretches out her legs and lets it all soak in.

Jim drives them through valleys that undulate and fold into expanses of bush scrub, past little towns of a few streets with names she can’t remember. At a roadhouse, he stops for petrol, and she sees massive trucks pumping fuel and people going into the eatery.

With the car still, she can see into the distance and the sprawl of the land over hillocks and rises. The landscape is completely different to Sarawak. So brown, so dry. Grass in shades varying from olive to ochre to golden give way to stretches of land broken by rock outcrops, shrubs and patches of red earth. A stark contrast to the lushness of jungles back home. Is this what wheat looks like? Or is it barley? She thinks hard and tries to recall what she studied in Geography. Soon, endless trees glide past, some with silvery trunks, layers of curling bark hanging off them. Jim tells her they are gum trees, native to Australia. When she catches sight of a leaping creature, she squeals.

‘Is that a kangaroo?’

‘Sure is. Just wait, we might see emus yet.’

‘Ee mews?’

‘Yep, E-M-U-S, also native to Australia. They look like ostriches.’

‘Really? Wow.’

Laila watches the landscape coast by, and catches an occasional view of Jim. She doesn’t notice his baldness anymore. She decides she likes his nose best, more than his mouth. It is the way it slopes, the pointy tip, prominent now from his side profile. It is what she’s always liked about Caucasian men. Unlike her own nose, round and wide.

Jim flicks on the radio. Eighties hits bellow out. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the song ‘Staying Alive’. When country and western tunes come on, he whistles. He looks pensive, the talkativeness at the café gone. Laila hears his steady breathing, notices the coarse skin of his hands. His quietness does not worry her. In fact, after the hours of chatting since they met this morning, it’s relaxing. She has a whole lifetime to exchange words with him. Moments of unease and awkwardness are only to be expected at first.

The car engine drones. Occasionally Jim shifts in his seat, and his joints creak. Minutes tick by. Warm air flows out from the heater, lulling her. She lets her eyes close, in warmth, in pleasure, into the drift of sleep.

‘Nearing Renmark now.’

Jim’s voice awakens her from what feels like a long sleep. The car is slowing down. She pulls the seat lever, sits up and looks out the window. The sun is low in the sky, the colours ahead have changed and deepened, distant valleys and trees darkening.

When they reach the town, Jim points out the main streets to her, the church with the white statue where he and his mum used to go for Christmas mass, the Renmark Hotel with its 1930s architecture. The place is nicer and more modern than she’d imagined for a country town. Old-style buildings look clean and new.

She takes in the pretty gardens and homes with lace curtains and windowsills lined with pots of colourful flowers. Jim drives past orchards, miles and miles of them. She doesn’t recognise the fruit trees. Jim tries to explain but she can’t tell the difference.

‘See that big house?’ Jim points. ‘That’s where my boss lives.’

Laila looks out the window at the majestic-looking mansion perched on a hillock. Surrounding it is a sprawl of fruit trees. It looks like a castle lifted out of a fairy tale.

‘It’s huge.’

‘Yeah, one of the richest men around the place.’

‘Really?’

Fruit-growing must be big business. She’s thankful Jim is in this industry.

About a kilometre out of Renmark, they wind through a quiet street set in leafy surroundings. He slows down as they approach a boom gate, sticks in a card to open the gate and enters a fenced area tucked away from everything.

‘Nearly there,’ he says.

Rows of funny-looking box-like structures sitting on wheels appear. Laila looks around her in amazement. Where are they heading? Things feel a little strange. At the far end of the area, Jim angles the car into a tiny space beside one of the boxes, wheels grinding to a dreadful halt.

She stares at the thing in front of her. Her breath becomes short. She cannot believe her eyes. Her mind starts to spin. She hits her temple with her palm as if to stop her brain from processing what is going on. Where is the red brick house? This is a shoebox on wheels, a tin shed. Tiny holes for windows, a door as makeshift as the ones in the longhouse. Dozens of these box-things sprawled over the place, parked alongside each other. Some hooked to cars, some looking like war tanks. Do people actually live in them? What on earth are they?

‘Well, this is it. My caravan,’ Jim says. ‘Home.’

Laila can’t believe what she’s hearing. She looks out the window and surveys the area. The sun is weakening, the sky deepened into shades of purple, ink-coloured hues flaring out in jagged strokes. A pale eerie light stains the evening air. Not a soul about, endless stretches of gravel and shale, dotted with rows of these dreary structures in various shades of grey. Like a scene in a movie where they’ve reached the end of the journey and find themselves stuck in an unknown and terrifying place.

She stiffens in her seat, wishing she could stop time. Darkness engulfs her as if she’s sliding into a cavity. She is gripping the sides, trying to claw her way out but she slips in deeper and deeper. Then nausea rises in her stomach. She puts her hand to her mouth, tasting the bile at the back of her throat. This is not what she imagined for her first day in Australia. This is not part of the promise, the deal. Things are not going according to plan. Things have derailed. Badly. Something else has taken over, something out of her control.

Her mind leaps back over the past twelve months of planning and scheming. The fluffy towels, the sweet scent of bath gel, the sofa in the living room—all fizzle into the air before her eyes. She has had these images in her head for so long. It started when Jim assured her that life in Australia would be a change from the longhouse. Then the photo. They had percolated in her, burned in her, to materialise into this nightmare.

She turns to Jim. ‘What about the house in the photo?’

A pause. Jim looks down at his hands. ‘It was a friend’s.’

Shock closes her in. And a million questions: Why didn’t you tell me it wasn’t yours? Why did you agree when I said the house in the photo looked nice? Why did you let me imagine all this time that it was yours? Why did you deceive me?

She keeps silent, pulling the jacket close around her. She stays glued to the seat. Like the huge wild boars plying the rainforests of Sarawak, her thoughts lumber.

Beside her, Jim sits quietly, twisting his fingers into a knot.

‘The caravan’s not the best, but a lot of people live in them,’ he says.

Laila stares in horror at the caravan.

Jim gets out and opens the back tray of the ute, and she feels the ground below her cracking, shifting and giving way. Her legs will not move. She hears Jim’s feet scuffing across the gravel, sees him put the suitcase on the ground. He inserts his key into the door, opens it and flicks on a light switch. Bluish fluorescent light floods the caravan inside. Laila catches a glimpse of shabby-looking kitchen cabinets. A lime-green sheet, partly discoloured, covers the floor. She doesn’t need to enter the thing to imagine the rest of it, to size up the shambles of her new home.

She leans her head back, convinced she has ruined her life.

2

HER FACE TORMENTS HIM, the way she looks out the window, clutching the jacket as if she wants to sink into herself. He had expected her to attack him, kick up a fuss about it.

But Laila just sits there as if paralysed. A bitterness creeps into her face, reminding him of the first taste of lemon on your tongue. He turns away, unsure what to do. Something tells him that this time he has dug himself into a hole he can’t get out of. He had, in past moments like this, always lied his way out of trouble or, as he would prefer to put it, bent the truth a little. But he can’t this time. The truth of his life confronts him, here and now, in the caravan, the flimsy door rattling in the wind.

Jim pulls a chair out and sits it in front of the door to stop the rattle. He drags Laila’s suitcase up the two steps into the caravan. He busies himself, shifting things around, avoiding looking her way.

Pinned to the wall is his favourite photo of her, sitting on the grass near the riverbank, the longhouse visible behind her. Swathes of black hair cascading over her shoulders, gleaming where it catches the sun, her neck stem-like, her olive skin luminous. Looking at it, a rush of pleasure always floods his veins, a glow spreading from the pit of his stomach. Laila’s slender waistline and petite form remind him of a tiger lily just bloomed, petals arching and opening out just so.

But now, the last twelve months of exchanging letters go up in smoke. He thinks about the secrets he shared with her in his letters, stories about his childhood that he had never breathed to anyone. And there were times when he felt so close to her his body quivered in anticipation of her letters—but as she sits now, glued to the car seat, Jim realises she is a stranger, and sees how much he still needs to learn about her. He wants to do or say something to ease the tension, but he doesn’t know what. How could they get into something so deep so soon anyway? He is afraid that by talking about the problem he will break the spell.

‘I’m going to get some takeaway for tea,’ he says, when she finally gets out of the car and climbs the steps of the caravan.

‘Tea?’

‘Yeah, something to eat.’

‘You mean dinner?’

‘Of course, dinner. Fish and chips, you like fish and chips?’

From the doorstep she looks blankly in at him. ‘Haven’t had it before.’

‘Well, nothing like the first time. Shop down Renmark Avenue. They make good chips. Won’t be long.’ Jim points at the wardrobe down the end of the caravan. He had cleared some of his stuff before her arrival to make room for her things. ‘If you want to unpack, plenty of room in there.’

Laila steps inside and peers towards her suitcase, cast in shadow by the plywood doors hanging off the wardrobe as if they’re about to fall away from the hinges. He had meant to get them fixed, plus add an extra lamp to the wall, but hadn’t got around to it. He curses himself for his slackness. He takes his things and goes out the door, deciding against giving her a kiss.

The girl lowers the fish fillets into the receptacle, oil crackling like fireworks. Her movements are swift. She lays out the paper, shakes chicken salt from the shaker, wraps up the pack.

He could just run off. Split the scene. Crash at his mate Danny’s tonight. Easy. The possibility reels in his mind. Lots of guys do that. His other mate Tom for one. Tom once told Jim about the time someone set him up with a blind date. He’d come in through the back entrance of the restaurant, checked out the crowd, spotted the woman based on her description. She’d looked ten kilos heavier than what she claimed, and had buckteeth. Tom had exited through the same back door, without a moment’s hesitation.

Even while paying for his order, Jim entertains the idea. After he’d split up with Carol, eighteen months ago, he thought he could survive solely on the company of men. But when he enters his ute, the silence of the night cloaks him. He inserts his key into the ignition and sits there immobilised, the stillness ringing in his ears. Neon lights of the shop frontage flicker every few seconds. Suddenly he sees Laila’s face when she appeared out of the crowd at the airport, excitement bubbling in her eyes, cheeks glowing. He remembers the burn in his heart at the first sign of recognition. He lets out a breath, starts the engine and drives towards the caravan park.

With the packet of fish and chips warm against his arm, he finds her seated, as if frozen, on the bed. She has removed her shoes, and her legs are crossed. At her back a pillow is propped up against the bedhead. She still has the jacket collar tight to her neck, her hands in the pockets. What was she thinking the whole time he was out?

Her face looks pale, her eyes weary, and he swears there and then he will make it up to her, though he doesn’t have a clue how. He notices that the suitcase is still sitting beside the wardrobe, unopened, but does not suggest again that she unpack. Plenty of time for her to do that. She smiles at him but he can tell it is an effort, because the lustre, so obvious at the airport and at the café, has left her eyes. She thanks him for the food, steps towards the kitchen cabinets.

‘How about we just eat out of this, hey? Saves washing up,’ Jim says, placing the packet on the tiny table.

‘Okay.’

He opens their dinner and the crackle of paper echoes in the small confines. From the fridge he takes a bottle of tomato sauce. There’s only an inch of sauce in it, so he tips the bottle over and hits the base with his palm. Droplets of sauce trickle out.

They eat in silence, the TV murmuring right next to them (he has turned the volume down), static ringing and chips crunching.

‘Like it?’ Jim says, dipping chips in the tomato sauce and pushing them into his mouth.

Laila nods her head.

‘Here, have this.’ He places a fish fillet in front of her. ‘Garfish. The best.’

She takes a bite, and nods her head again.

He wishes he could say they’ll soon be able to move to a decent place but that would be misleading her. He can’t bring himself to let her in on the truth—that he’s been trying in vain to save even a small nest egg. That all his life, his best intentions of saving up have come to naught. But his pay is erratic, and that’s not his fault. Sometimes he makes $1500 in one fortnight, and then nothing for the next three weeks. How’s a man to plan anything when things are crazy like this? She won’t understand. She’s probably never worked a day in her life.

Of course there’s Mum’s inheritance, but that’s a different story. The amount had taken him by surprise: $10,000. At first, he was reluctant to touch it. Spending it felt like an act of betrayal, like he had forgotten the pain of her leaving. The first five hundred he spent was out of desperation. He’d lost his job and was down to his last penny. The next few times were also out of dire necessity. The ute packed up, needed an overhaul, then the caravan plumbing gave way and pipes had to be replaced. These things happen, ups and downs of life. Then another thousand for Laila’s airfare and travelling expenses.

Jim keeps silent. She will surely think him worthless if she knows he doesn’t have stacks of money. They do think all white people have loads of money. His mate Peter said Marietta, his wife, told him so. Marietta doesn’t think that, but she knows people back in her country who do. She says it’s from watching the expatriates in Manila or Baguio City, dressed in fine suits and cruising around in chauffeur-driven cars. The expats live in trendy suburbs where only white people live, shopping in supermarkets only expats go to.

The music show is on TV. Laila watches the singers belting out their numbers and stomping around the stage. The audience screams each time a singer reaches a crescendo or drags a note. When a guy with a ponytail appears, she raises her eyebrows.

‘You can turn up the volume, if you want.’ Jim hands her the remote control.

She takes it from him and looks at the buttons.

‘Here, let me show you.’ He presses the volume control and the bar on the screen lengthens. Laila watches the singer pace up and down, his ponytail swaying behind him. The crowd screams again. More singers come on. The camera cuts to three people sitting at a long table, each one taking turns to mumble something.

‘Singing competition?’ she asks.

‘Yeah. Only thing everyone talks about. Not much in the way of talent, if you want my opinion.’

After some time she says, ‘I’m tired, I want to go to bed now.’

Jim looks at his watch. It’s only a quarter to nine. ‘Sure, I’ll get rid of this,’ he says, clearing the table.

He scrunches the paper into a ball. There’s a bin in the cabinet under the sink but tonight he takes the rubbish outside instead, unsure if he should linger. She’ll want to change, so after closing the bin outside, he idles. The air is crisp, but with enough edge to give him goose bumps.

In the distance he sees the blurry contour of the moon, pale light pooling, blending into darkness. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and walks towards the river. The Murray, now a darkish belt, slips between the banks. The chirruping of crickets drifts out from misshapen clumps of shrubs. A dull ache gnaws at him. Has he botched it before they even started?

Things have gone pear-shaped. Again. The familiar feeling of being out of control, a complete loser, creeps over him. Like it always has been with women in his past. Springing up on him unawares. One minute things were great, lovey-dovey, and then, whoosh, the rug got pulled from underneath him. A sour mood would descend. Things would suddenly turn.

How she would react to the caravan was the thing he’d worried about most. While they were writing, many a time he wanted to fess up to her, send her a picture of the caravan even. But anyway, he didn’t have a camera. Plus she hadn’t asked him the dreaded question—if the house was his. Each time he thought about it, though, he broke into a sweat, beads collecting on his forehead, on his upper lip, streaking the pen in his fingers. And, as if having a life of its own, the pen would scratch away and out would pour words he hadn’t even planned—South Australian wine, the wombat, Australiana stuff she needed to see when she got here, shit like that.

It nagged at him for months, but he pushed it out of his mind. After a while, it became easier. The distance between them helped, the thousands of miles of landmass and ocean offering a buffer between the truth and part-truths. No one could fault him for lying—he just hadn’t got around to spelling out the whole picture.

There wasn’t much he could do about it anyway. The caravan was where he’d lived since he moved out of Mum’s. It had been sitting around all those years after Dad died, and Mum said he could live in it for a while. How was he to know ‘a while’ would drag into nine years? She didn’t want him to leave home of course, but he was already thirty then, and the blokes were paying him out all the time. Going back to Mummy’s, are we? Meatballs tonight, right, Mummy’s own? He wanted to punch them in the gut, but he never did, the words just soaked into him.

Then Mum died four years ago, and her rented home had to go. So he became sort of ‘stuck with’ the caravan.

He can’t blame Laila. Sure she would have had expectations. The pictures she sent of the longhouse said enough. Dilapidated, pots and pans lying about in the cooking area, baskets and plastic containers stacked everywhere, walls made of sheets of corrugated metal hammered together, stuff hanging off the ceiling. Jeez. How did these people live? How she turned out so gorgeous is beyond him. No signs of poor hygiene.

He’s right about her skin. Smooth, even-coloured, texture like rose petals. More petite in person, head barely reaching his neck. Tiny wrists, like a child’s. He’d noticed them in the café. As her hands went up and down putting the fork into her mouth, he’d taken a good look. Fingers dainty, nails cut short, no polish. Her face not exactly as he’d fixed it in his mind, paler, not as fine. From the front, her jawline, not obvious in the photos, was prominent. It gave her a feisty look. He couldn’t get over the sheen in her long hair, tinges of blue showing, depending on the angle of the sun. Natural, not coloured or bleached like Australian girls. No make-up. Infectious giggle. Mostly he’d enjoyed making her laugh, it had made him feel ten feet tall. But that was until she saw the caravan. Before and after. Now he’s stuck with the after, her gloomy face churning in his mind as he lingers by the riverbank, kicking gravel and digging his toes into tufts of grass.

A long cool beer. The urge suddenly hits him. Feel the gentle burn of the alcohol in his stomach. Tingling sensation taking over his body, then a light-headedness. A couple of schooners. Bit of a yarn with whoever’s jammed up at the bar. Or with Rodney, the bartender, who always has a good story to tell. He seems to know details about practically everyone’s lives. Listening to Rodney helps him chill out, takes his mind off things.

Still, it’s Laila’s first night in Australia. His life is different now. A small price to pay.

He drops his cigarette onto the gravel, grinds it underfoot and heads back to the caravan.

3

LAILA WAKES UP TO clinking and clanking sounds. When she opens her eyes, she sees unfamiliar surroundings. Her hands race to her clothes, clutching, checking, fingers fumbling the neckline. To her relief the white cotton pyjamas, with tiny teddy bears her mother had sewn especially for her trip, are still on her.

She props herself up on an elbow, rubs her eyes, then looks around. Sees the tiny table jammed up against the bench, the empty bottle of tomato sauce—and it becomes clear, it all comes back. The caravan. Just a tin shed. The same sinking feeling creeps over her. She can’t believe she even slept.

The stench was what hit her first when she stepped into the caravan last night. A mixture of body odour, musty furniture and stale food. Heavy smells that emanated from the walls, reminding her of the bilik, where smells of cooking and overnight sweat hung, day in, day out. Tiny windows. Cheap-looking curtains. Everything scaled down in size. Like the inside of a bus. Sounds booming and clamouring with the slightest movement. The bed was comfortable, she had to admit, flush against a corner, occupying the width of the caravan. The bedcover under which her legs are now tucked feels warm and soft.

Jim is standing over the stove, fiddling with something. She can’t tell what he’s doing.

‘Good morning, princess. Did I wake you?’

Laila pulls the covers up to her neck, stiffening, casting her eyes around, and at the stranger standing in front of her. She doesn’t like being called princess. He’s acting too familiar. She shudders to think what might have happened while she was asleep.

‘No,’ she says.

An awkward silence follows. She shifts her position and the sheets ruffle. She spots something resembling a quilted blanket on the floor. Black on the topside, red checks on the underside.

‘What’s that?’ she asks.

‘My sleeping bag.’

‘You slept in it?’

‘Yes.’

Jim flicks the contents of the frying pan onto a plate, sets it on a tray and brings the tray to her. On it are two fried eggs, two slices of toast, butter, jam and a mug of coffee. The mixture of aromas lifts her out of her sleepiness. Toast was a luxury in the longhouse. Mak used to make it on a wire rack placed over the charcoal stove. Laila always loved the burnt edges, butter soaking into them, sugar granules melting over it.

‘You’re still jetlagged.’ He sets the tray on her lap. He looks shaven, and is wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday.

‘Jet what?’ She stretches her arms.

‘Jetlag. Crossing time zones. Zonks you out.’

‘I feel okay.’

Laila places her hands on her stomach as if to contain the discomfort bubbling inside her like liquid in a cauldron. She didn’t expect Jim to bring her breakfast in bed. With the memory of last night still fresh in her mind, his sweetness seems hollow. Horror and shock are still on the edge of her senses. She doesn’t know what to do, her mind is jammed. She wishes the bed she’s lying on now was in the luxurious bedroom of the red brick house. How’s she going to deal with the next few minutes, let alone the rest of her life, facing the man who robbed her of that?

Time passes and the silence lengthens. Laila looks at the food.

‘Thank you for this,’ she says.

‘I’m not the world’s best cook. But hey, it’s edible.’

‘What about you?’

Jim points to the table. ‘Mine’s over there.’

She hesitates, starts to get out of bed.

‘No, you stay in bed. It’s your first day in Australia.’ He smiles, reaching for the curtains. ‘Do you mind?’

‘No.’

Hooks grate on rods. Shafts of light enter and gather in little pools. Through the tiny window, she sees patches of sky, pale golden rays peeping through gaps between other caravans.

She eats her breakfast. The eggs are delicious and she suddenly realises how hungry she is. In the longhouse they had eggs done this way with rice for dinner, soya sauce drizzled over them. Jim has sprinkled pepper and salt over the eggs. Laila sips her coffee. Energy seeps into her body.

‘Was it cold sleeping in that bag?’ she says, shifting her gaze to the pile on the floor.

‘Nah. Made for minus-five-degree conditions, these.’ He lifts a corner of the sleeping bag and shows it to her. ‘See how thick it is?’

‘Hmm,’ she says, and butters her toast.

She watches Jim eat. He tucks into his food with abandon, biting off his toast in one hand while the other hand scoops the eggs with a fork. He shoves the fork into his mouth quickly but the runny yolk drips. He reminds her of Anjing, the mongrel dog in the longhouse. He would sit on the verandah and bite at flies buzzing around him but would miss them all. Jim cuts a piece of toast and wipes the yolk with it and sticks it into his mouth like a child. Laila stifles her laughter.

Jim grins. ‘Nothing like shortcuts.’

She pretends not to hear him and continues eating. After some time, she says, ‘You needn’t have waited for me for breakfast.’

‘I wanted to.’

She gets out of bed, unsure what to do, where to place her feet in the tiny space, even a slight movement of the arm sending reverberations throughout the caravan. Her uneasiness shows on her face. Jim drags out a chair and motions for her to sit on it. She sits down and looks at the door.

‘Can I?’ She gestures towards the door.

‘Sure.’ He gets up and opens it for her.

She drinks her coffee, trying to get a glimpse of the view outside. She only sees gravel and the side of Jim’s car. Something rustles in the shadows. A scuffing sound drifts in, followed by the sound of steps. A huge elongated bill of a bird appears at the doorway. Laila places her palms on her chest, raises her eyebrows. She opens her mouth and is about to say something when the creature pokes its head into the doorway. Then its full form appears, its white wings tucked under its stout squat body, a splash of jet black feathers on its back. Its legs are short, like a duck’s. The bird stands there looking at her, a massive pouch hanging under its bill. Its round red eyes stare straight at her, then it tilts its head as if surprised.

Laila laughs. ‘What’s that?’

‘A pelican,’ Jim says. ‘Annoying creatures, scavenging for food.’ He shoos it away.

‘Don’t.’ Laila says. ‘It’s so cute. Can I see where it’s going?’

‘Sure.’ He reaches for his jacket draped over the chair and hands it to her. ‘Here, it’s cold out.’

Laila puts on the jacket and steps outside. The pelican is ahead, waddling along paths between caravans. She trails it, snatching glimpses of its feathered behind. It moves fast. When she finally catches up with it, she finds herself on a riverbank. Spreading out before her is a massive waterway, the pelican already swimming away. She hadn’t realised all this was so near. Jim had mentioned that Renmark was located on the bank of the Murray River, but when they arrived yesterday it was already dark.

The sprawl of the river takes her breath away. Bluey grey, water perfectly still. Only the faintest of ripples, the reflection of trees and bushes from the opposite bank blurred. Bands of burnt orange and green repeating in the water but in a softer hue, like the after notes of perfume, so that she almost can’t tell where the bank ends and where the water starts. Puffy white clouds turn into a spray of silver in the water. In front of her a straggly branch protrudes, the dark wood etched in relief by the shimmering water.

A morning chill laces the air. Laila tightens her jacket. The pelican is now far away, paddling downstream, leaving behind a ribbon of the vaguest white. She follows the line of the Murray into the distance. Ahead it turns and the land makes a sudden stark outline against the disappearing glint of the water. She feels a pull, as if the river is taking her along with it, and at once remembers: that was what the Rejang River used to do to her.

Laila covers her face with her hands. A sudden longing wells up, a yearning for the touch of Mak’s hands on her brow, pushing her hair away from her face, a damp cloth patting her forehead. She thinks about her school days, about feigning sickness so she could stay home for this.

Her family will expect a letter, but what will she say? She remembers the day Mak quietly slipped 1500 ringgit into her hand, eyes on the door of the bilik, watching out for Pak. Laila had looked at the wad of notes, her eyebrows arched in shock.

‘Take this, you will need it in Australia,’ Mak had said.

‘No, Mak, so much money. You saved up so long for this.’ Laila knew how difficult it was for Mak to save even 100 ringgit from the little Pak gave her after a trip to Kapit, where he’d sell the sambar deer, the wild boar or the ubi kayu and hill padi from the collective farms across the river.

‘Shhh, just take it. They gave me good money for weaving the puah kumbu and baskets last month.’ Mak clenched both fists and brought them behind her back, refusing to take back the money.

Laila crouches on the riverbank, buries her head in her hands. There’s nothing now to write home about. She recalls her excitement at meeting Jim, the magic starting when he gave her the roses, then burgeoning, moving back and forth between them at the café, and how within the same day it all turned.

She could admit her mistake to her family. Mak would understand—but the memory of Pak lacerates her. She feels once again the blow on her cheek. She has aged ten years in one day, travelled all that distance to return to the same spot, the thrill and adventure all petered out now into flatness.

She stands up, the grass soft and damp under her bare feet, dew collecting on her toes, the coolness rising up her calves. Her situation weighs heavily on her shoulders.

An earthy scent rises from the riverbank. Vaguely familiar but with a different edge, a different texture from the tropical scents she grew up with. Scuffing sounds come from the upper slope of the riverbank. The caw-caw of birds, stark in the stillness of the morning, echoes among the nameless sounds of her new surroundings. She recognises the crows, four of them, big strong bodies, pecking at the ground, then beaks up in the air, squawking. They look like the ones in Sarawak, except they are black and white whereas the ones back home are pure black.

Laila faces the river, tries to locate the pelican, but it is nowhere in sight. The water is now a long flowing mirror. The stillness envelops her, chokes her. She cannot bring herself to move.

4

JIM OPENS HIS LADDER and stands it near a navel orange tree. He looks up into the sky. Thick clouds hover like monsters waiting to pounce. In the distance, expanses of grey cloak the horizon outlined with fruit trees. He yawns and breathes in the fog. Cold air chafes his nostrils. Something tells him his day is buggered even before it has begun. He climbs up the ladder, an effort because of his paunch, and his legs feel like lead.

Seven o’clock on a chilly autumn morning and he is battling the elements for another day’s wages. Today the inertia seems greater than usual. Fruit-picking is part of his life; he neither likes nor dislikes it. It’s just something he has to do. Now that he has a dependant living with him, the pressure to work mounts.

Like most folk around the place, he stumbled into fruit-picking because it was all around him. His earliest memory of orchards is of sitting on his mother’s lap on the verandah after she’d given him his morning bath: while she drank her tea, and rocked him back and forth on the spindle-back chair, he would take in the pear and apricot trees sprawling in front of them.

As he reaches for an orange, that familiar feeling overcomes him. Since his first wet dream at thirteen that sent him lusting after the girls at school through to the years of stammering, fumbling and agonising, women have always proved to be a no-go zone. And yet, he yearns for the feel of feminine fingers, the brush of fine hair against his cheek, being shrouded in a scent of female perfume. After a long day of climbing up and down the ladder, his clothes grubby and his arms sore from thorn pricks, he longs for the comfort of a hot meal in a cosy dining room decorated with trinkets. But the costs have been high. Way too high.

Since Laila arrived, he’s been buying tea to bring home every evening, giving her time before suggesting she cooks the evening meal. He doesn’t care what she cooks, as long as it’s not a hamburger or cold chicken and a bread roll. But his insides coil at the thought of another silent meal in the caravan, the blare of the TV filling the silence.

Jim drops the oranges into the fruit bag looped around his neck and fastened to his waist. Only ten in there. He gazes at the row of empty bins running down the path to the end of the block. Against the lushness of the foliage, they resemble white train carriages. He turns away and ignores the voices emanating from them, ‘fill me, fill me’, each bin more painful to look at than the next. It’ll take him weeks to cover the block. After meeting Laila by mail last year, his motivation picked up, but it’s gone downhill again.

Jim clenches his fingers, then stretches them, hoping heat will mysteriously enter his body and warm him up. The cold has set in much earlier this year. His gloved hands are starting to numb. Suddenly he feels raindrops on his nose, then his face. Fingerprints appear on the rind of the fruit in his hand. Oranges are a pain to pick. Rain makes the cells of the rind burst, causing these unwanted finger marks. The blockies will reject his harvest for sure.

A thunderclap explodes above him. Then rain falls in torrents. Water runs down the rim of his cap in rivulets. He remains on the ladder, not bothering to run for cover.

‘Fuck!’

He removes his drenched cap and chucks the fruit onto the ground. It lands in a puddle with a splat. A sense of uselessness wracks him, like when the kids at school taunted him about not having a father, jeering, laughing, pointing, poking, until he was left with a blackness he couldn’t shake off, one that stayed with him all day like a bad smell.

Weighed down by wet clothes, Jim descends the ladder, feeling for the steps with his feet, aware only of the suspended sensation in his legs between steps, and the sheen of wet leaves dangling before his eyes.

His wet socks squish in his shoes as he climbs into the car. Damp clothes sticking to skin, he opens the glove compartment, gropes for the flannel he normally keeps there. He fishes around, bends down and looks inside. No sign of it. He shuts the door of the compartment and curses.

‘Shit! Shit!’

Wiping his face with his palms, he removes his cap and shakes his head to remove water from his hair. He starts to head in the direction of the caravan park, then something makes him slam on the brakes and pull up by the curb. As he sits in the car, rain pelts down on the road, washing over parked cars. The indicator light ticks, the wipers grind across the windscreen.

The thought of returning to the caravan, drenched and irritated, and not sure how Laila’s going to be, makes him anxious. Wind hisses in through the gaps in the window.

It’s worked out for his mate Peter and Marietta, but that doesn’t mean it would work out for everyone else. It was a mistake taking up Peter’s suggestion to get an Asian bride.

Jim recalls the day Peter dished it out. ‘Listen, Jim, if your love life is as I remember it to be, take my advice, check them out.’

Jim didn’t appreciate the air of condescension with which Peter said it. He didn’t need Peter rubbing his history of failed relationships into his face like that, especially in front of everyone at the pub. Peter’s own backyard wasn’t altogether clean either. Jim remembered the whole town talking about Peter having suddenly upped and left Renmark after his first wife left him. The next thing, Peter was back again, flashing a gold band on his wedding ring finger at the pub, saying it was even better second time around.

Peter and his Filipino bride, all rosy and wonderful. Some people are so lucky. Sickening.

Jim looks in the rear-view mirror, checks the road, then swerves the car in a U-turn, heading back to town. He drives around aimlessly for a while, going round and round the same blocks. The rain is every reason to hang out at the pub. By the time he pulls into the car park of Paringa Hotel, the anticipation of a long cool beer is already flowing through his veins.

Three in the afternoon and the pub is nearly full. The rain has drawn in practically the whole town. Smoke gathers in layers at the ceiling, and the sound of balls clacking on the pool table cuts through the laughter and chatter. The pub has a Thursday and Friday night atmosphere.

Across the bar Jim sees faces he knows, someone from the caravan park or the packing shed, a panelbeater he’s seen a few times at the wrecker’s, a ponytailed backpacker who’s just started picking at the block.

Jim likes the familiarity. The place is as it was the first time he stepped in it, when he was in his teens: bar along the length of the room, fridge against the wall, dinner specials scribbled on the blackboard. Stubbies and ashtrays overflowing with butts sit on the tops of upright wooden barrels used as tables. Stools with metal legs swivel or are dragged in and out as people stream in. Tucked away in a corner, the pool table and jukebox throb with life. The musty smell, the stains and holes in the carpet add to his sense of ease. It’s all still the same.

‘Hey, what’s up, mate?’ Jim pushes himself against the bar, smoke curling around him.

‘Like a bloody Friday night this,’ Rodney, the bartender, says. His teeth gleam as they do each time he speaks. He rolls up his sleeves and two tattoos, one of an eagle and another of vine leaves, show.

‘You don’t say.’

‘Freaky weather.’ Wiping the bar, Rodney looks out the door. Shorter than average, he stands on his toes to look over the sea of heads. ‘But it’s all good. Good for business, that’s for sure. The usual?’

‘Yep.’

Rodney holds a glass under the Coopers Pale Ale tap. He sets the glass on a runner on the bar. ‘Here you go, champ.’

Jim fishes out some coins and drops them into Rodney’s palm.

The first drink of the day is always the best. Jim takes a long gulp, feels the liquid sear down his throat. The alcohol burns in his stomach and immediately gives him relief.

By the time he’s on his second, he has forgotten the discomfort of his wet clothes.

‘So how’s your day been, apart from wet?’ Rodney says, rinsing glasses in the sink, grinning. Strands of his long, greased-up fringe fall over his eyes.

Jim hesitates. ‘Crummy, if you want to know the truth.’ ‘You know what they say about asking someone about their day and getting a soapbox?’

‘I’m that sort, huh, pal, you think I’m that sort?’

‘I don’t mind. I’m here all day, if I don’t get hassled by another customer, that is.’

‘So I’m hassling you, am I?’

Rodney heads off to serve someone else. Jim lights a cigarette and puffs away.

‘Hey, got up on the wrong side of the bed or what?’ Rodney says when he returns. ‘Unload if you have to, mate.’

‘Nah, not worth it. It’s nothing anyway.’

‘Nothing’s ever nothing, but suit yourself.’

Jim gives him a glum look, then surveys the place. Nearby the pot-belly heater is giving off warmth. He feels the cold disappearing from his body. One small token pleasure in life.

‘So, what’s the latest? Heard anything lately?’ Jim says.

‘More of the same. Angoves selling up, they say.’

‘No shit. They’re one of the biggest around the place. Can’t imagine. Who to?’

‘Dunno. Won’t be surprised if it’s to some foreigner, some Japanese or Korean. And the next thing you know, a bunch of Asians’ll be running around the place. Bet they’ll bring along their chopsticks.’ Rodney chuckles.

‘Hey, cut out that shit. Asian, Aussie, what’s the difference?’

‘Oh yeah, I remember now. Heard about your Asian lady friend. How’s that going?’

Jim looks away, then says, ‘Fine.’

‘Yeah? Well, it’ll be good for the property market at least, I mean the foreigners buying in. These people need somewhere to live, don’t they?’

The mention of homes raises Jim’s attention.

‘What are rentals like anyway?’ he says.

‘No idea. Why, you wanting to rent?’

‘Nah, just curious.’

‘You know who can advise you? Bloke over there, owns a few homes to my knowledge.’

Rodney points to a tall grey-haired man standing a few feet from them. Before Jim can stop him, Rodney is gesturing.

‘Hey, Paul, come over here.’

Paul walks towards them, bulky, brushing elbows and shoulders. ‘What’s up?’

‘Paul, you’re the rental guru, right? Jim over here wants to know about renting.’

Jim pretends they’re not looking his way.

‘So, what do you wanna know?’ Paul asks, looking directly into Jim’s face.

Jim is now pressed up against the bar, with Paul standing only inches from him.

‘Er…well, just curious you know about how much rents are around the place.’

‘Depends, if it was a house or a unit. And where it’s located. I’ve got a few of each. Rent for the units is ninety dollars a week. The houses, a hundred and fifty for one, one-sixty for another. They’re up that way, you know.’ Paul points his finger in the air.

Jim makes a quick calculation in his head. He only pays thirty dollars a week for space in the caravan park. He feels blood draining from his face. He feigns a blank expression.

‘Ah right. Cheers, I’ll keep that in mind,’ he says.

Then he takes his glass from the bar and slowly inches his way towards the opposite end of the room.

The caravan is dim by the time Jim staggers home. Only the outside light is on. Long shadows linger on the gravel. Laila is already asleep. He’d have to rummage through the wardrobe in the dark for his sleeping bag. Shit. He shouldn’t have stowed it away this morning.

Hunger pangs hit him and he remembers he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunchtime. It’s also the first time he’s missed having tea with Laila. Five days and already it feels like five months. A penance.

He removes his shoes outside the caravan and turns the key. The door creaks open. He takes careful steps but bumps against the chair and loses his balance. Thud. He lands on the floor on all fours. Pain shoots through his knees.

‘Shit,’ he mutters under his breath. His hand flies to his mouth. Then he reaches for the edge of the table. The bed rustles and he sees Laila turning.

‘Sorry, babe,’ he says.

In the darkness, he can only see the outline of her form under the covers. Holding the table, he steadies himself and gets up. He stands still, unsure what to do, waiting for some sign from Laila, but she remains motionless. A stirring suddenly starts and pulsates above the throb of his knees. He imagines what her body looks like under the covers, her stomach flat, her little hips twisted up in the sheets. One leg would be stretched out, the other curled up. He feels blood moving through his body, feels the urge to run his hands over her skin. He walks towards the bed, gently lifts the covers and slides his body beside hers.

‘Sorry for waking you up, Laila,’ he says to the back of her head.

He inches closer, careful not to cause any movement in the bed. His fingers brush her back.

Laila suddenly turns over and says, ‘You smell like Pak after he has drunk all that tuak!’ Then she shifts and turns her back towards him.

He feels as if he has just been struck. He gently draws away from her and steps out of the bed. He staggers to the wardrobe, gropes for his sleeping bag and pulls it out.

5

LAILA SECRETLY LOVES THE common bathroom. Twice the size of the bilik, toilet cubicles on one side, showers on another. Alone, she skips from one end to the other, spins her body in front of the wall-to-wall mirror. She runs her fingers across the glossy white wall tiles, feels the floor tiles with her toes. She basks in her reflection, remembering the tiny mirror hung in the bilik which the whole family used, where she had to move her head upwards and downwards and side to side to catch the image of her whole face.

Now she turns on the hot water tap, then the cold. She’s not getting scalded again like the first time! She lets the water run for a few minutes before adjusting the taps. Then she tests the temperature with her fingers before stepping into the shower.

Water cascades over her body, gliding off her skin along with the grime, everything spiralling down the drain hole. She closes her eyes, stands still. She thinks about how she used to bathe in the Rejang River, wrapping her body in a sarong, discreetly soaping her privates under the folds.

When her troubles seem to have washed clean away, Laila puts on fresh clothes and pads across to the basins. Two women are there, huddled together. They look old, one with a shock of grey hair.

‘Woolworths have them too,’ one says.

‘Yes, but they don’t trap the dirt as well. And they move under your feet,’ says the other.

‘No, you don’t want them shifting around, do you, especially in the small space.’

Laila chooses the basin at the farthest end. She’s squeezing toothpaste on to her toothbrush when the grey-haired woman catches her eye in the mirror, and looks at her. Laila averts her gaze. After brushing her teeth she removes the towel wrapped around her head and dries her hair with it.

‘I’ll get Darryl to have a look at it over the weekend. You know how fussy he is.’

‘Good idea. Better that than having to return it after.’

As Laila is about to brush her hair, the hairbrush slips from her hand. She lunges sideways to retrieve it but the brush tumbles to the floor. The grey-haired woman glances her way again.

‘You alright there, dear?’

Laila picks up the brush. ‘Yes, thanks.’

The lady smiles at her. ‘New to the place?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Sarawak.’

She turns to the other lady. ‘Did you hear that, Gladys? How interesting. Isn’t that on the island of Borneo?’

‘Yes, but it’s part of Malaysia.’

‘Is that right? We’re from Mount Gambier, Gladys and I. Been travelling around, with our husbands.’

‘Mount Gambier?’ Laila asks. She decides that these two are nicer than the others she’s seen.

‘Yes, down in the south-east. Just stopping here for a few weeks. Then up to Darwin. To escape the winter, you know.’

‘I see. You’re having a holiday then?’

‘Kind of. We move all over the place. Our caravans are down that way.’ The grey-haired woman points her arm in a sideways direction.

The other woman angles her head sideways. ‘So what brings you to Australia?’

Laila brings the brush to her hair. She pauses. Her eyes rest on her reflection in the mirror. She takes in a deep breath and faces the women.

‘Just visiting friends,’ she says, then she faces the mirror again and brushes her hair in long bold strokes.

It’s her first venture out of the caravan park on her own. The wind rips into her flesh. ‘Crazy autumn winds,’ Jim had said at the café. Branches sway, leaves rustle.

Laila quickens her step. The road winds between trees and shrubs. The sky peeps through in patches of light. Behind her the river meanders, the glint of water disappearing as she follows the curve of the road. As the gale picks up, she pulls her track top tight over her body and folds her arms. Jim’s track top. He offered to take her shopping for warm clothing but she refused. She won’t let him pay for her clothes, and she won’t buy any herself.

Pockets of shops and houses come into view. She passes a shop selling fruits, crates sitting outside, scribbled signs made of cardboard, ‘Bulk Riverland oranges, $12 per crate’. Sheds appear here and there, people inside working on something or other.

Rows of homes line the road, fronted by large neat gardens, one with an entire wall covered with creepers. She follows the twirl of the branches etched against the white of the wall. Then she catches sight of a red brick house beside it. Her heart skips a beat. It looks exactly like the house in Jim’s photo. Her eyes scan the white window frames, porch held up by fat pillars, the straight lines of the grey roof. It’s only when she scrutinises the front lawn that she realises it’s not the same house: there is no white fence around it.

The front door of the house opens and two women step out. They walk around the side of the house, to the carport. Laila senses from their conversation that one is seeing the other to the car. She crouches behind a bush, hears the murmurs of the two women.

Half of her wants to get up and leave but the other half is glued to the spot. Her eyes fix on the front doorway. She leans forward and cranes her neck. If they catch her, they will suspect she is a burglar but she can’t stop herself. She leaps onto the porch, faces the hallway. The carpet is light green, the pile thick. She imagines how it would feel under her soles. Turning around to check, she steps into the house. It has the stillness and silence of an expensive home. She crouches down, places her palm on the carpet. She closes her eyes. It is as she imagined.

She takes in the sweep of the archway. The antique style of the hallway table is repeated in the furniture inside. Turned legs, ornate handles, richly grained wood, patterns of dark brown. Glass bowls sitting on shelves sparkle like diamonds. There is so much to absorb—paintings, sofa in a rich fabric with a thin cord running along the edges, wall lights with gold fittings.

She inches closer, casting her eyes over the room until they reach the centrepiece, a massive chandelier. Cascades of cut glass shimmer, coloured light rains on her. She is swirling in the light, trance-like, when she catches the heady sweet smell of fresh flowers. She looks around and spots them on a small table, a spray of pinks and yellows, petals like crepe paper, twigs shooting towards the ceiling.

Her surroundings sweep over her like a wave. She could explore the bedrooms—but suddenly she hears a car door shutting. Then, through the windows, the car engine starting. The woman is coming back. Her eyes dart to the front door. She ducks out of the house, races across the front lawn. She sees the woman waving to the car while walking back into the house. A cold chill seizes her. She arranges herself, pulls back her shoulders and walks swiftly away.

Three blocks on, her feet still do not slow down. It is two in the afternoon and there’s hardly anyone around. The quiet disturbs her. Is it like this elsewhere in Australia?

The lights of the chandelier dance and shimmer in her head. Within minutes, she covers the main shopping area, gazing absently at items in Bargain Basement, at Gabby’s Gifts. She walks about aimlessly, trying to shake off the sensation of the soft plush carpet.

She’s sure the owners of the house are rich, although the lady was dressed in ordinary clothes, just like the people who pass her now in the street.

At one shop, posters are plastered on the glass wall. She looks at the sign and recognises that it’s the same newsagency (she’s learnt the word) that Jim had ducked into once to buy something while she sat in the car. She walks in. A sea of magazine covers fill the racks. Her eyes survey the place until they locate a pile of newspapers nearby. She grabs one, pays for it and leaves.

Back in the caravan, she flicks through the paper over a cup of coffee. Her eyes are alert, as they have been over the last week, taking in everything: the fruit and vegetables prices at Woolworths, billboards, signs, notices stuck on the community bulletin board. ‘Lost cocker spaniel’. ‘Houseboat for hire’. ‘Toastmasters Club’. ‘Salsa dancing classes’. Words that don’t mean anything to her. While Jim busied himself in the newsagency, she had checked them out, hawk-eyed. If she keeps her antennae up, something will pop out.

Now she scrutinises the ads in the classifieds. Pets for sale, cars for sale, obituaries, rental accommodation. Her mind darts about. The pages hiss. Her eyes scan the columns, shooting up and down the page until they rest on the travel section. She notes the countless airline ads. London, Paris, Los Angeles, Bangkok, Bali, Auckland, Kuala Lumpur, round the world. Phuket, eight nights from $1099; Bali, four nights from $889. No, she doesn’t want holiday packages, she wants the direct flights. Singapore $899; Kuala Lumpur $999; Kuching $1099. Too expensive. Plus she can’t bear the thought of facing her father again.

She flips the page. Sydney $189; Perth $259; Melbourne $129. She could move to another city. Australia is a big country. She could get a job, explore the place, discover Australia and what it has to offer at her own pace. Get away from this disgusting caravan. Jim would never find her. Wouldn’t even try.

Melbourne is a possibility. She reaches for her bag, pulls out the photocopy of a map of Australia, locates Adelaide, then Melbourne, putting her finger and thumb between the two cities to gauge the distance while checking the scale. About 900 kilometres. That’s about the same distance as Kuching to Kota Kinabalu. Then she takes out her wallet and fishes out the notes, folded neatly and held together with a paperclip. She counts: $600, the money Mak had given her, converted into Australian dollars. She still remembers the look in her mother’s eyes as she handed her the money. After paying for her ticket to Melbourne, she would have $471 left. How long could that last? Weeks? A month? Two months? Where would she live? Where would she go when she got off the plane? How would she find a job? She has no skills apart from cleaning, cooking and doing physical work around the longhouse. She doesn’t know anyone. She doesn’t know anything.

If only she’d been better prepared. The library at Kapit was ill-stocked. There were nice hardcover books with pictures of the Australian scenery, koalas and kangaroos, an issue of the Australian newspaper, which was about a year old, but that was as much information about Australia she could lay her hands on. The Kuching library might have been a better place but there was no way she could have risked another trip to Kuching without her parents becoming suspicious. She recalls her father eyeing her as she made up an excuse for going there that first time. To visit a friend from school who’s moved there, she said, praying her stutter would not give away the fact that she was going to the dating agency.

Laila sits there and contemplates her life. She sees the entire country of Australia spinning around her, orbiting around the miserable little caravan. One person. She only knows one person in this country. And he has let her down.

She flings the paper against the wall. The pages disperse and sprawl on the floor. She gets up and kicks them, sending them flying, then steps on the sheets, grinding and tearing them. She paces around the little space, walls closed in—no different from those of the longhouse.

She hits her fist against the wall. The caravan rattles. Then she slumps to the bed, pushes her head into the pillow and bursts into tears.

6

THE OFFICE IS TUCKED in a corner past the restaurant. Fishing his wallet out of his pocket, Jim walks through the doorway. Geoff is expecting him.

‘Hi there, Jim, how’re you going?’ Geoff says, pointing to the chair in front of him.

‘Yeah, good. Yourself?’

‘Not bad.’

Jim takes a seat, and opens his wallet. He slaps the money on the desk. ‘Consider it paid in full.’

Geoff takes the notes and counts them quickly. ‘Now, let me confirm the date.’ He flicks the pages of a big diary on his desk and traces the details with his finger. ‘Fifth of May, right? Three in the afternoon…Thanks for choosing us, Jim. You’ll not be disappointed.’

‘Renmark Club. You’re the best joint in this place. Why wouldn’t I choose you?’

‘You’re sure the lady doesn’t want to have a say in the decorations?’ Geoff gives him a questioning look.

‘Nah, she said to leave it with you.’

‘Not even the arrangements in the room, choice of flowers?’

‘We’ll be alright, mate.’ Jim’s voice is artificially light and carefree.

All women love a wedding, even if it isn’t their own. He swears when Laila hears his rundown, starting with the limousine, the church, then adjourning here for the reception, when she sees the room decked out, which she will on the eve of the wedding for the trial run, she’ll be thrilled. He might get her feedback on the menu, although he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t kick up a fuss. She hardly knows what’s what anyway. The two times they ate out, she’d asked him to order for her. That was weeks ago now.

Thank God for Mum’s inheritance. The $3500 left over has come in handy. Mum would have approved, anyway—if she was alive now, she would have offered to pay for it. Mum loved weddings. He remembers the times she used to take him to weddings when he was a boy—the neighbour’s daughter’s wedding, her best friend’s niece’s wedding. He couldn’t make out what was what, but he can still see the images in his head: big flouncy white gowns, flowers of different colours, the church music, candles, cakes, drinks.

The preparations for this wedding will lift Laila out of her gloomy mood. At tea in the Club last time, she’d been tongue-tied. He’d tried to make conversation but she responded with one-word answers, playing with her food and tossing the pieces of steak she’d cut up around her plate. She looked everywhere except directly at him.

It’s a waiting game now, only a question of time. Mostly it’d worked in the past, but, as he recalls, sometimes it doesn’t. Sally—was it?—she had the stubbornness of a donkey. Wouldn’t budge for more than three weeks.

‘Okay, you know best.’ Geoff takes out his receipt book from the drawer. ‘It’s an important occasion. You need to be sure everything will turn out well. I’ll put Patsy in charge. You can count on her.’ He writes on a sheet, tears it off and hands it to Jim. ‘Here you go then. I’ll see you on the day.’

Jim takes the receipt, winks at him and sways his head.

‘Cheers, mate.’

As he leaves, Jim checks out the dining room, pictures the tables and chairs arranged and decorated, his mates and their girls all dressed up, the buzz of conversation, of laughter, the clink of glasses, the swish of her gown. What about the speech? At the weddings he’s attended, the groom always made a speech. That will be tough. He’d look ridiculous talking out of a piece of paper.

The reception arrangements out of the way, he now focuses on other details: celebrant, photographer, limousine.

Outside Woolworths, wheeling the trolley, Jim asks Laila if she wants to look around at the shops.

‘What about the stuff?’ Laila says pointing at the trolley.

‘We’ll just dump it in the car,’ he says.

‘Won’t the food go bad?’

‘Nah. It’s cool enough.’

‘In Sarawak, people don’t leave anything in the car. It gets cooked.’

‘This is Australia, sweetheart, not Sarawak.’ He chuckles as he loads his ute with the shopping. Laila doesn’t respond. Her mouth is set into a firm line. She stands by his side and watches. She looks around, her eyes shifting from place to place. A wisp of hair is stuck on her cheek. With measured movements, she smoothes it away.

‘Anywhere in particular you want to go to?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘Alright, we’ll just take a stroll.’ He edges her along towards the shops. It’s the first sunny day in weeks. The air is cool and still, the sun warm on his shoulders. An even blue fills the sky, clouds light and cottony, shifting just perceptibly. Jim loves days like this. It’s the kind of day he’s dreamed about spending with her. It’s the first day of great weather since she arrived. He wants to hold her hand—but she’s shoved both hands in her pockets.

‘Let’s go to Target. I need to check out the price of gloves,’ he says.

Laila follows him silently. He picks up a few different work gloves and peers at their price tags, keeping an eye on Laila. She is lingering around the children’s and baby wear section.

‘Okay, done. They’re cheaper in the hardware store. As I suspected,’ he says when he catches up with her again. ‘Let’s look around. There, women’s clothing.’ He points his finger and guides her by the elbow.

The idea is to get her in the mood for looking at clothes. He is on a mission, so when she takes no interest in the clothes, he says, ‘There’s a nice store round the corner. Wanna go have a look?’ At first he thought about taking her to the local bridal shop. He’d seen plenty of wedding gowns there, but decided against it. Subtlety is the way.

‘Okay.’

The lady’s boutique is about two blocks from Target. From a distance, Jim sees starbursts glittering on the glass front. Two mannequins are in the window, in colourful skirts with frills and gathers. Belts and jewellery hang from everywhere. Jim watches Laila’s eyes light up as they enter the shop. She scans the racks of clothes, arranged by colour. In the middle of the room is a lime-green leather lounge, and beside it a small table on which stands a huge vase with dry twigs, curling up to the ceiling. The shop smells heavenly. He’s brought her to the right place.

Laila holds up clothes and examines them, feels the fabric with her fingers. She brings them to her nose, after checking to see if the salesgirls are watching her. Moving from one rack to another, she pulls out a top that catches her attention. It’s beige, with long sleeves and lace at the hem. As Laila drapes it over her shoulder, the salesgirl approaches them.

‘The mirror’s over there,’ she says, pointing towards the back of the shop. ‘Try it on if you like.’

Jim nods. ‘Go right ahead.’

Laila looks at them both, then at the top. She shakes her head. ‘No, it’s okay.’

She continues browsing.

‘Were you after anything in particular?’ the salesgirl asks.

Jim opens his mouth but Laila cuts in. ‘No, nothing in particular.’

Jim smiles meekly at the salesgirl, shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyebrows. Laila continues lingering. Jim nudges her towards the far end of the shop.

‘How about these, babe?’ he points at some long gowns.

‘They just arrived last week.’ The salesgirl holds out some black gowns with heavy beading and sequins.

‘Got something lighter in colour?’ Jim asks. ‘Like these!’ He reaches over and pulls out an ivory gown with layers falling over the neckline and front. The hem spreads out like a fishtail. In his mind, he sees Laila in the outfit for the occasion.

The salesgirl smiles and nods her head. ‘That’s a beautiful gown. Cowl neck, very much in fashion now. The fabric is from Italy.’

Laila lifts a corner of the hemline and drapes it over her arm. She runs her fingers over the fabric. Her eyes travel across the bodice, the folds. Jim waits, breathless.

‘You like it?’ he says.

Laila looks him in the eyes and says, ‘Where would I wear this to?’

Jim takes a deep breath. He turns to look at the salesgirl then back at Laila. ‘Well, you know…our wedding.’

Laila bites her lip, looks past Jim at the front of the shop, then faces the salesgirl. ‘Thanks, I don’t think I’ll need this.’ She drops the hemline. The fabric swishes to the floor.

Jim feels his throat constricting, then a huge weight pressing on his chest. He tries to catch Laila’s eyes but she has already turned and is heading for the door. He says a quick thank you to the salesgirl and trails Laila.

The shop balloons, the floor space so huge it feels like he can never reach the entrance. It’s as if endless pairs of eyes are glued on him. He keeps his gaze on the floor, wanting only to duck out, never to come back here again.

7

SHE’D PLANNED FOR DAYS, more, to talk to him about it. That she needs more time. Everything is still so new, so strange. People speak funny, using words she’s never heard before. Facial expressions are hard to read. They’ll say something factual then break into laughter. They’re ridiculing her. The shop owners do that all the time.

Names of things overwhelm her: chux, scourer, mould-killer, snap-lock bags, lint remover, garlic press, esky. At the supermarket, a million options and variations line the shelves. The choices make her dizzy. Macleans Ice Whitening Gel Toothpaste, Macleans Detox Toothpaste, Macleans Remineralise Toothpaste, Macleans Toothpaste Freshmint, Macleans Toothpaste Milk Teeth. She could stand as long as ten minutes by a shelf, examining, reading labels and still not be able to decide what to get.

She’s lost in a sea of fair-haired people. Always the odd one out. Not fitting in. Like a tortoise ripped out of its shell. She misses her mother, and her brother, Krisno, and sister, Jeannie. Now even Krisno’s annoying habits, like talking with his mouth full and pulling her by the hair unawares, come back to her as treasured memories. She wishes she could return to the everyday moments with Mak and Jeannie—cutting vegetables and pounding chilli paste in the tiny cooking area, she and Jeannie chatting away while Mak nags at them to get on with the tasks. She misses her girlfriend Rogayah, the only person she had confided in about her plans to escape the longhouse. ‘You are so brave, Laila. I wouldn’t have the guts to do what you’re doing,’ Rogayah had said. Mostly, she misses the Rejang. The countless times she’d crouched in her little refuge tucked away behind the nipah palms, hidden from the longhouse, watching the river from a distance, the movement of the water lulling her, easing out her claustrophobic feeling from the longhouse.

Stuck in the caravan while Jim is at work, she feels the walls closing in on her, the last year folding back on itself. She can’t place her fingers on when her homesickness started. It’s like dusk, the slowly blackening sky. You can’t pin down the transition but you know when darkness has descended.

When she gets used to Renmark, to the strange ways of the people, then she’ll be ready to take the plunge. She doesn’t know how long it’ll take, but she’ll know when she gets there.

Now, outside that shop, Laila notes the dejected look on Jim’s face and feels only repulsion. She can’t bear to be near him. She struts ahead, widening the gap, the tension mounting with every step.

She reaches the car park first. When she locates his car, she anchors herself beside it, her back towards Jim. His feet shuffle, his breath quick and heavy, booming towards her.

‘There you are. What’s going on? Why did you leave so suddenly?’ he says, half-panting.

Laila faces him. ‘I didn’t want to look at the clothes anymore.’

‘But why? I thought you liked some of them.’

She bites her lip, looks sideways.

‘Laila, what is it? What’s the matter?’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Do what?’ Sweat beads on his nose.

‘Tell the girl about the wedding.’

‘What?’ he says, as if not comprehending. ‘What’s there to hide?’

She angles away and fiddles with the side mirror.

‘What, Laila? Is there something to hide?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ There is a sharp pitch to his voice. ‘We agreed in our letters that we’d get married when you got here.’

She pauses. Her fingers twist the corner of her jacket hemline. She turns around. ‘I’m not sure…about going ahead.’

Jim’s jaw drops. ‘What?’ He shakes his head.

She looks at him nervously.

‘Are you saying you don’t want to go ahead with the wedding?’

‘It’s too soon.’

Darkness creeps over his face. His eyes widen in horror. ‘Too soon? We’ve known each other a year.’

‘Only through letters, mostly.’

‘You’re kidding me, right? You have got to be kidding.’ Jim laughs but there is a nervous ring to his voice. He scratches his neck, paces around the car. He reaches for a cigarette, lights it with jerky movements, takes a drag. Facing the open car park he says, ‘Blimey! After all this, after coming all this way, she says it’s too early.’ He looks up into the sky and shakes his head.

‘I didn’t like you showing off to the girl,’ Laila says.

Jim stops walking. ‘What? Showing off?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was trying to help you choose your wedding gown.’

Laila stares at the door handle. Then her fingers leap to her mouth and she starts chewing her fingernails. When she looks up, she sees that Jim’s face has reddened. Even his scalp is scarlet, and there’s a strange flashing in his eyes—it reminds her of the lone kerosene lamp glinting at the far end of the longhouse verandah on nights when she sat out while the family slept. He stands there, his paunch hanging out, hands on his hips. She isn’t sure what to do, hopes people nearby will not hear them. Her hand moves to the door handle, twisting it.

‘Okay, fine, so I butted in. I was only trying to be helpful. So what do you want me to do?’

She stares ahead, silent.

Jim walks around in circles, and lights a cigarette. Suddenly he stops, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

‘Okay, so you want to shop for the gown yourself? I’m cool with that.’ He starts pulling notes from his wallet. ‘Here, take this, go look around the shops and find a gown you like. Go on.’

He approaches her and tries to push the notes into her hand. She moves away, brushes him off, then brings her hands to her sides. He pulls at one hand, now fisted, and starts to prise her fingers open. A struggle follows.

Laila glares at him, drags her hand back and looks away. ‘No.’

I don’t want the stupid gown. I want a house.

Jim continues grabbing at her hands.

She turns to face him, her eyes blazing. ‘I said no!’

Jim raises his arms in the air. ‘Okay, okay.’

The car park is starting to fill up with people. Shoppers come their way, clutching multiple shopping bags or with trolleys veering here and there. In the longhouse there were always crowds, along the verandah, gathered outside by the riverbank, people dropping into the bilik to see what was going on, to chat with whoever was home.

Now the shuffling and murmurs bouncing off the asphalt take her right back to the noise, the intrusions, at the longhouse. She cringes, exhales air and watches a family of four getting into the car next to theirs: father, mother and twin toddlers being bundled out of a double pram. One of the toddlers has three fingers in his mouth, his nose scrunched up, saliva and mucus running down his hands.

‘Don’t want to go home,’ he screams, throwing his head about.

Jim falls into silence. The father looks at the crying child in irritation. The mother ignores the yells and lifts the other child from the pram. The first baby screams again, louder this time. His wails stab the air. Laila glances at the commotion. The mother tosses aside her hair, yanks her sleeves up to her elbow.

Watching the woman’s agitation, Laila feels energy suddenly draining from her own body. She looks at Jim, and sees the same weariness. He gestures towards her, as if attempting to resume their conversation above the child’s yelling. With a wave of her hand, Laila dismisses him.

‘Let me into the car, please,’ she says, edging aside to make way for him.

She checks the stamp in her passport, locates the word Immigration. Placing her elbow on the White Pages to keep it open, she runs her index finger down the list of “I’s” until it comes to the Immigration and Multicultural Affairs Department. She scribbles the phone number on a slip of paper and returns the directory to the shelf, the chain scraping the edge of the wood.

Before slipping the coins into the phone box, Laila looks behind her, to make sure no one is queuing up. She doesn’t want a long line of people hassling her to hurry up. The phone booth is set back from the main road, shielded from the noise of the traffic. She dials.

‘Welcome to the Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs. Please select from the following options. For information about visas, Australian citizenship and Australian passports, press one. If you want to report someone to Immigration or if you are an employer and want help checking work rights, press two. For all interpreting services, press three…’

By the time the recording plays the message for pressing five, she has forgotten the first message. She hangs up, drops another coin in and dials again. Cradling the receiver under her chin, she scribbles the instructions on her scrap of paper, squeezed into a tiny space beside the phone, her elbow jammed up against the glass wall. She hangs up, reads the notes carefully and dials again, pressing the receiver close to her ear so she can catch every detail. After listening to the same drone, she presses ‘one’, certain that it is the option she is after.

‘If you are an Australian citizen and want to apply for a passport, press one. For student visas…’

‘Shit!’

Laila slams down the receiver. She slaps her palm on the wall, leans her forehead against it. Anger pulses in her brain. She takes a deep breath, runs her fingers over her face, and composes herself. Reaching for more coins, she drops them in and dials again. After pressing ‘one’, she strains to listen.

‘If you are an Australian citizen and want to apply for a passport, press one. For student visas, press two. If you are an Australian permanent resident and want to apply for a resident visa to travel overseas, press three. For information on how to support a visitor to Australia, extend a visitor visa in Australia…’

Her head swims with recorded words. She places the receiver back on the phone. She gets out of the phone booth, finds a nearby bench and slumps onto it. Exasperated, she reaches for her bag and takes out her passport. She opens it to the page where her visa is stamped.

Single travel. Temporary entry permit for stay of six months on entry to Australia. Valid until 3 Oct, 1996.

She looks out into the distance, makes the calculation.

Five months. Thoughts rattle in her head. Five months to come up with another strategy.

8

‘YOU DIDN’T TELL HER before she got here?’ Peter says.

‘No,’ Jim says, removing his cap. He plays with the rim, his fingers picking at the stitches.

It is smoko, and he and Peter are sitting on a wooden fence. Earlier Peter had asked Jim about the big day, jabbing his ribs. Since he took up a casual contract with Rick, Jim’s fruit-grower boss, a week ago, Peter has been hassling him for details. Peter knew Laila had arrived in Adelaide, but Jim wouldn’t let him in on any other facts beyond that. Today, cornered by Peter, he’s finally spilled his guts. He’s told Peter everything.

‘Why didn’t you?’ Peter’s eyes widened.

‘She didn’t ask.’

‘She didn’t ask.’ Peter expels air, rolls his eyes. ‘What did you expect her to ask? Do you live in a house with three bedrooms, roller doors and ducted air conditioning?’

‘I know, I know.’ Jim screws up his face, rubs his forehead. ‘I couldn’t exactly advertise the fact that the caravan’s all I got, could I?’

‘Man, you’re in deep shit.’ Peter shakes his head, lights a cigarette. ‘Didn’t the subject of accommodation ever come up?’

‘Nope.’

‘Come on.’

‘I swear.’

‘Maybe not directly. But you must have sent her photos, magazine cut-outs, things like that. That’s what people do in a long-distance relationship.’

Jim looks at the horizon. The orchards spread out before them, trees fringing the horizon, breaking the uniformity of the blocks. A life of wedded bliss with Laila slowly disintegrates before his eyes.

He now regrets having confided in Peter. It’s not like him to talk to his mates about his girlfriend problems, for good reason. This is what happens, more hassling. He wishes Peter would just shut his face and leave him alone.

Jim sucks in air between his teeth. ‘I did. Just the one photo. You know, the one you took of me after your mum’s sixtieth?’

‘Yeah, I remember the one. Amazing you could even stand up straight. The amount of grog you had.’

‘Yeah, I was practically falling over the picket fence.’

Peter swings his leg and kicks his heel against the timber. He looks down at his shoes, then he lifts his head slowly and his eyes widen. ‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t send her that one.’

Jim swallows his saliva. ‘Yeah, I did. It was the only decent photo I had.’

‘Shit, Jim. You standing there in front of Mum’s house. Red bricks, perfect garden, white picket fence. What would she be thinking?’

‘I know. Fuck, don’t I know. You should’ve seen her face when she asked me that the first day she got here.’

‘About the house?’

‘Yeah, after she saw the caravan. I said the house was a friend’s.’

‘Jeez. You’ve really screwed up this time.’

‘Gee, thanks. This is all I needed to hear. Great.’ He raises his hands in the air.

Peter continues kicking his heel against the fence, staring at the grass.

‘This is just as much her fault, you know. I mean, she could have checked with me if the house was mine. She just assumed,’ Jim says.

‘Now that’s not fair. She was just being naïve, that’s all.’ Peter takes his flask and unscrews the cap.

‘I mean, she did mention a couple of times in her letters. About how nice the house was and things, but she never did ask me point blank if it was mine, or even what kind of a house I lived in.’

Peter shakes his head. ‘Jesus.’ He hands Jim a tumbler and fills another for himself. ‘Fact is, if she comes from a poor background, her expectations are going to be that much higher, you know what I mean.’

‘So, what you’re saying is that all she ever wanted from me was a house. Bloody hell. Is this some kind of a barter, a trade or what?’ Jim punches his knee. ‘Fuck!’

Peter rubs him on the shoulder. They both fall silent, sipping their coffee, the steam rising off their tumblers in unison.

‘What’re you going to do now?’ Peter says.

‘You tell me. You’re the one with the experience.’

‘Me and Marietta, we’re in a totally different boat. Marietta would have been happy in a tent.’

‘Aren’t you so lucky.’ Jim purses his lower lip and smirks.

‘I mean, sure Marietta did not kick up a fuss at all when I mentioned the caravan…mind you, it was pretty soon after we met. I don’t believe in hiding these things from someone you care about. I guess I learnt the hard way from my first marriage, about being honest and all. But you know, Marietta’s situation was totally different.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Got caught in some kind of scam. She’d paid her life’s savings to come over here from the Philippines. Ended up in Indonesia. In a brothel.’

Jim raises his eyebrows. ‘Shit.’

Peter grimaces. ‘Shonky agents, operating from Manila. Pretty gruesome stuff. She survived, though. God knows how. Two of them escaped, got their passports back and Marietta made it to Adelaide. When I met her, she was working in a sweatshop.’

‘The bastards. Must have been awful.’

‘Yeah. You hear about these things, on TV and stuff, but to meet someone who’s really been through it. Boy, that’s something else.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘She’s one hell of a woman, Marietta. She doesn’t get into the detail, but you can tell it was horrific. And she’s the stronger for it, and such a big heart.’

‘Well, good for you. Glad one of us is happy.’

‘Hey, come on. You’re not giving up so easily, pal.’

‘Frankly, Peter, I don’t give a shit anymore. Laila doesn’t even want to go through with the wedding.’

‘She said that?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s what they say. But they don’t mean it.’

‘Oh yes, she does. I’m about ready to chuck it in, if you wanna know the truth. Don’t give a rat’s arse. Even happy to pay for her plane ticket back.’

As soon as he says that, he knows he’s kidding himself. He’ll never forget the first day. It was enough for him to base his life on. It wasn’t just her looks, she had a way of looking at him, with a mix of coyness and admiration, hanging off his every word, making him feel like everything he said mattered. He couldn’t get enough of it. The way she walked, a gentle swagger, leaning towards him that day, seeking his protection, her petiteness emphasising his strength.

None of the women in his past had made him feel like that. He had slipped fast, deep, into a zone he couldn’t get out of. Since she arrived, and in spite of her coldness towards him in the last few weeks, he has thought about nothing but marrying her.

Peter hops off the fence. He paces up and down, hands in his pocket. Jim sips his coffee and lights another cigarette. He looks up into the sky. Clouds linger, the white plumes feathering out into expanses of blue.

After a while, Peter comes back and joins him. They sit for a time in silence, the sun on their backs, each immersed in his own thoughts. A faint wind starts, leaves and branches rustle. Jim breathes in the fresh scent of earth. Deep, full, filling his nostrils, throwing him back to the first time his father took him for an ‘outing’. He was four years old, watching his dad wading out into the Murray, yabbie nets in his hands. That year the river water had receded and there were backwaters everywhere. The best time for yabbies, his dad said. Slowly the outgrowth of roots at the bank merged into silhouettes, and sunlight flashing on the water turned gold. Dad came back to the riverbank after positioning the nets, and they sat and waited. All his senses could take in was the sight of the backwaters, the thought of ‘the catch’, although he had no idea what yabbies looked like, what they tasted like. He clung onto his father’s knee, the scent of the river washing over him.

Now, as he watches Peter pack the flask and tumblers back into his bag, a sense of failure overcomes him. He looks at Peter’s face, there’s a glow in it he hasn’t seen before. Certainly not for the entire time he was married to his first wife. What does it take?

Peter throws his cigarette onto the ground and slaps Jim’s knee. ‘I got it. Why don’t we let the two girls meet? You know what it’s like when women get together—especially with both being Asian. Meantime, I’ll let Marietta know what’s going on, and we’ll leave it to her persuasive skills.’

Jim shakes his head. ‘Don’t know. Somehow I get the feeling Laila’s not going to be that easily persuaded.’

‘You never know. And it’d be good for the girls to meet anyway.’

Jim shrugs, makes a face. ‘Blow that.’

‘Stop being so negative.’

Jim keeps silent. Peter slaps him on the back. ‘What do you say, hey?’

‘Whatever.’ Jim’s shoulders droop. ‘Thought she was still in Kapunda.’

‘She is, staying with friends of ours, but it looks like we’re moving back to Renmark. Rick told me yesterday they’re extending my contract. Six months, most likely.’

‘Great, about the contract, that is. Back in the caravan park then?’

‘Sure thing.’ Peter stands up. ‘Tell you what. I’m going to bring Marietta back next week, and we’ll organise a get-together, maybe a day trip to Adelaide or something. Have you taken her into Adelaide yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet?’ Peter kicks him in the feet. ‘Chinatown. That’s the first place you take them to. Let them indulge in all that Asian stuff. Jesus, what have you been doing, Jim?’

‘She hasn’t been in the mood, okay?’

Peter smiles. ‘Well, we’ll get her in the mood, don’t you worry.’

9

SHOPPERS JAM THE AISLES. They gather around stalls, looking, pressing, smelling, then reach for their money. Vendors shout from every corner: ‘Avocados, three for two dollars, the best avocados in the market!’

At the end of an aisle, a balding man in overalls grills sausages for tasting, oil snapping like fireworks. At another end, a lady crouches to console her wailing babies, the double pram choking the passageway. Shoppers wriggle past in a hurry, irritation on their faces.

The pulse and energy of the Central Market has Laila in its grip. Her eyes whizz around and she takes in the various shades of skin colour, the Asian-shaped noses, the full lips of people who look like they have just stepped out of Jogjakarta or Bangkok or even Kuching. Hippies in tie-dyed drawstring pants, dreadlocks pulled up into oversized knots, silver jewellery dangling from strange parts of the body.

At the atrium straddling the market and Chinatown, two Chinese-looking men massage clients’ shoulders while a woman minds a stall displaying jade artefacts, jewellery and oriental knick-knacks.

Entering Chinatown, Laila spots kangkong, choy sum, okra, bean sprouts, their green leaves greeting her like old friends. She hasn’t seen these Asian vegetables since leaving Sarawak. When she catches sight of petite, Chinadoll women with long straight black hair, hand in hand with rugged, blond men in cowboy hats and blue jeans, she looks at Jim, wondering if they look like any of those couples.

Sounds, flavours and colours explode in the air. For the first time since she came to Australia, Laila feels she’s close to being at home. Energy seeps back into her body. It’s here, as little Asia unfolds before her, that she comes to grips with the fact that she’s now truly in Australia—that a place like the Central Market allows her to reconnect with the world she left behind. She finds that here she can relieve, if only temporarily, the ache of missing Sarawak.

When she comes upon sago seeds packed in sealed plastic bags, sitting on the shelf at New Hong Kong Grocer, she squeals. The label reads ‘Product of Vietnam’ but it is the same sago seed that her Mak used to buy in Sarawak. It’s the first thing she sees as they step into the shop. She picks it up from the shelf, presses the pack, feels the seeds between her fingers and thumb, and runs to Jim.

‘Look,’ she says, her face radiant. ‘Sago. Just like back home.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Jim says.

‘I love sago.’

‘How do you cook it?’

‘Boil or steam, with coconut milk and palm sugar…mmm.’ She closes her eyes and the corners of her mouth lift. She brings the pack to her chest and hugs it.

‘Sounds yummy. We’ll get a few packets,’ Jim says.

‘Just one will do.’

‘Nah, we’ll get a couple.’ He takes three packs and puts them into the shopping basket. ‘Now, what else?’

The shop is crowded with Asians, sandwiched along the narrow aisles, poking their way through, shopping baskets slung across their elbows or shoved against other people to make way. She shifts her eyes to another item in the shop, then across countless shelves and counters of coloured tins and packets, and everywhere ordinary details leap out at her—the brightly coloured type on tapioca chips labels, the drawing of an Indian woman on the chilli sauce bottle, dried anchovies, palm sugar, and dried mushrooms pre-packaged instead of being sold loose as they are back home.

The strangeness of living in a foreign country falls away. She feels born again in Australia. Suddenly the door has opened back to a place she thought she would never re-enter. She finds herself smiling. Beside her, Jim is poking or picking up packets of food, smelling them, examining them.

Jim holds four shopping bags in one hand and cradles a five-kilo sack of rice in his other arm. He staggers into Wah Hing, surveying the crowded tables. Beside him, Laila lugs two shopping bags in each hand.

‘Bought the whole of Chinatown, did we?’ Peter calls, standing up to greet them and smiling.

Jim walks towards the table, sets the shopping on the floor and slaps Peter on his shoulder. ‘Hiya, how’re you going?’

‘Yeah, good, good. Grab a seat.’ He gestures towards the chairs, then says, ‘So, you must be Laila. Hi, I’m Peter, and this is my wife, Marietta.’

The background noise disappears. Everything seems to stop. Laila looks at Marietta. The glow of the cheeks, the broadness of the smile. Upper teeth gleaming, full lips. Marietta’s eyes are dark, like hers, eyebrows thin and finely arched, a wisp of hair falling over her right cheekbone. Mane of full black waves resting on her shoulders. Even the hustle and bustle of the restaurant seems to freeze. Laila feels this pull, this energy coming from the woman looking directly at her.

‘Hello.’ Laila smiles at them.

Marietta stands and moves towards Laila, touches her lightly on the upper arm. They are the same height. Marietta’s smile spreads to her eyes, and up close, Laila sees how large they are, even though they look half closed, partially covered by eyelids, dark lashes sweeping above them.

‘So pleased to meet you finally. Heard so much about you,’ Marietta says.

‘Have you?’ Laila shoots a quick glance at Jim standing beside her.

With a sheepish look, Jim extends his hand to Marietta. ‘Hi, I’m Jim.’ As she takes it, he gives her a peck on the cheek.

Marietta looks at the shopping bags in Laila’s hands and points to the trolley standing beside the table.

‘See this? Great for putting your shopping in. We use it every time we come to the market. And Peter gets to push it too.’

‘Yeah, it is my main ambition in life,’ Peter says.

‘You love it. Every time I push it, you grab it from me.’

‘That’s because it gets heavy and you know what the crowd’s like in the market, shoving and pushing like maniacs.’

Everyone laughs, and they all sit down.

‘So, you like Australia?’ Marietta asks. She and Laila are opposite each other.

‘Yeah, it’s okay,’ Laila says, faking enthusiasm.

Marietta rests her palm lightly on Laila’s hand. ‘It takes a while.’

Laila nods. ‘How long did it take you?’

‘Long time.’

‘What, weeks, months?’

‘More like years.’

‘Wow.’

‘But my situation was different.’

Laila looks at Marietta curiously. Then she glances briefly at Peter.

‘How different?’ she says to Marietta. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’

‘No, not at all. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time. Promise.’ Marietta smiles, and pats Laila’s hand.

Marietta has a kind way about her. Besides, they are both Asian. An instant friend. Laila throws Marietta an urging, questioning look, eyebrows arched, mouth half open.

‘So, all ready to order?’ Peter glances their way.

Laila shifts her gaze to the menu. She leafs through the pages, scanning the items. There are countless dishes. She has no idea where to start.

A discussion follows. Names of dishes fly in all directions. They decide that each person should choose a dish. But then Jim wants chicken with plum sauce all to himself.

‘Stop being such an Aussie. When you’re in a Chinese restaurant, eat like the Chinese,’ Peter says.

‘I am Aussie,’ Jim says, ‘and what’s wrong with chicken in plum sauce?’

‘Only Aussies order that crap. Besides, we should order dishes to share.’

Marietta cuts in. ‘Let him order what he likes, dear.’

‘No, we get better value sharing dishes,’ Peter says.

‘Alright, alright…’ Jim says. He turns to Laila. ‘Anything in particular you’d like?’

‘Still trying to decide,’ Laila says, studying the menu.

Marietta throws her a smile and Laila feels warmth enveloping her. ‘Let me help you choose, Laila. Do you like squid?’

They finally settle for Drunken Chicken, kangkong with belacan, stir-fried beef with ginger and black bean sauce, and clay pot tow foo. Laila sits back and watches. At the stalls in Kapit and even in Kuching, you just ordered what you knew, no menu needed.

The dishes arrive, aromas wafting around them. The men pour beer into glasses and take large gulps, wiping away froth from their lips. They tuck into the food. When Marietta talks, Laila takes in the rise and fall of her eyebrows, the excited tones in her voice. Watches the way she flicks back the strand of hair falling over her eye. When Marietta describes her village in Baybay on the island of Leyte, Laila listens with awe and imagines her in the thatched-roof hut.

‘Your hometown sounds just like my village in Kapit,’ she says. ‘The only difference is that we live in longhouses.’

‘Longhouses?’

‘Yes.’ Laila stretches out her arms. ‘A long house with a row of many houses within it. Ours had over thirty families.’

‘Wow. Have you got photos? I’ve got plenty of photos of my village. You must come over to our place one day and I’ll show you my albums.’

‘Yes, that will be nice,’ Laila says.

‘I’m a fifteen-minute walk from you, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, our caravan park is on the other side of Renmark.’

‘You live in a caravan too?’

‘Yes, all the time we’ve been married.’

‘And how long is that?’

‘Two years.’

‘How come Jim didn’t bring me to meet you earlier?’

‘We’ve only just moved back from Kapunda. About 150 kilometres away. We were in Waikerie before then, after we got married. Peter does all kinds of work and we move where work takes him.’

Laila lowers her voice and angles her body away from Jim. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘No, not at all. We don’t move that often. The caravan’s comfortable and I get to see different places.’

Laila pictures Marietta doing her chores in the tiny space of a caravan.

‘Girls getting along just great, as we expected,’ Peter says, looking their way, grinning.

Jim shoots them a quick look, the smile never leaving his face. ‘Enjoying the meal, sweets?’ he asks Laila, touching her elbow lightly.

Laila takes a bite of the chicken, and the flavour of Chinese wine and ginger explodes in her mouth. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, leaning towards him.

She continues sampling the other dishes, tow foo swimming in a thick sauce, slivers of succulent and tender beef, steamed rice done just right. Beside her, Jim is in his element, drinking beer, slapping his knees and breaking into laughter every now and again.

‘Nothing like an authentic Chinese meal. You’re right, Peter, this beats chicken in plum sauce,’ he says.

‘Now we’re talking. You got loads more to sample, mate.’ Peter picks up a serve of kangkong with his chopsticks.

As Laila chats with Marietta, her landscape shifts. She’s found an ally, and they can talk about their villages, the caravans.

After the meal, while sipping jasmine tea from little teacups, Marietta reaches into her handbag and takes out a notepad and pen. She scribbles on it and hands a sheet of paper to Laila.

‘Here, this is a map to the caravan park.’ She marks a cross on it. ‘And this is where our caravan is. No need to make an appointment. Just call over, okay?’

Laila takes the piece of paper and studies it. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

Leaving the restaurant, she slides her hand into Jim’s. Surprised, Jim looks at her. When he sees the smile on her face, he laces his fingers through hers. Laila leans against his shoulder.

Laila peers through the windows of the caravan to see if anyone is home but the curtains are drawn. She knocks. Patter of footsteps, the door creaks open and Marietta greets her with a smile.

‘Hi, what a lovely surprise. Come on in.’

Marietta draws the curtain and light floods the caravan.

‘I was changing earlier and forgot to open the curtains.’

Marietta’s caravan is slightly larger than Jim’s, and in much better condition. The kitchen cabinets are light blue and newer. The sink is shiny, benchtops uncluttered and clean. Pictures hang on the walls, little ink sketches of a Filipino village, people in traditional outfits. A multicoloured quilt with floral motifs is draped over the bed. Laila’s eyes rest on two framed photos of Marietta and Peter, one on the bedside table and another on the wall above the two-seater. She touches the wooden frame of the wall photo, takes in the elaborate lace on the bodice of Marietta’s wedding gown. Peter’s face is angled towards her, eyes half-closed and dreamy. Sunlight falls on their hair.

‘You look beautiful there, Marietta.’

‘Oh thanks. I was a bit thinner then.’ She pinches her waistline and makes a face. ‘Let me finish with this and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’

Marietta quickly folds the last of some tops and underwear. Laila watches her, looks at the stack of garments sitting on the chair, the mix of male and female clothing. Her eyes scan the little postcards and cut-outs stuck on the fridge. A note, hand-written with a thick red felt pen, jumps out.

Will be home latish tonight, darling. Don’t forget your appointment with the hairdressers. I love you, P.

‘Peter at work?’ Laila asks.

‘Yes, he leaves real early in the morning, especially in summer, sometimes before I even wake up.’

Laila quickly shifts her eyes to other items stuck on the fridge so as to appear as if she hasn’t read the note. The kettle hisses. Marietta spoons coffee powder and sugar into two mugs. Then she takes Laila by the hands and sits her down on the bed.

With her hands still clasping Laila’s, she says, ‘Now, how are you?’

‘I’m well.’ Laila smiles.

‘I’m so glad we met. There are so few of us around here, we must stick together.’

‘How many Asian people are there here?’

‘Not sure, but Peter tells me there’s a few of them. One of them apparently is married to the butcher in town and is a seamstress. I’m sure we’ll get to meet them one day.’

Marietta lightly touches Laila’s hair. ‘You have beautiful hair. I hate my waves, I wish my hair was straight like yours.’

Laila grimaces. ‘Urgh, I hate my straight hair.’

‘Typical. We women are never happy with what we have.’ Marietta laughs, gets up and pours hot water into the mugs. ‘Want to see my photos?’

‘Yes, sure.’

As Marietta bends and pulls out the albums from the drawer under the bed, Laila breathes in the sweet fragrance of the potpourri sitting in a bowl by the bedside. Leaning back, she floats in the radiance exuding from the four walls of the caravan.

‘Wow, look at that candlestick.’ Laila pushes her nose against the glass.

Teddy bears, fake sunflowers, vases, wooden trays with painted roosters and an array of gifts and crafts adorn the four-panelled glass shopfront of Country Delight.

Marietta pulls Laila by the hand. ‘This shop is expensive. I’ll take you to Bargain Basement. They have similar things that cost half the price.’

It is their fifth rendezvous since meeting in Adelaide two weeks ago. Laila tells herself she should give Marietta some breathing space, that she too has a life and can’t devote all her free time to her. But each time they say goodbye, she can’t help but suggest another meeting soon after.

It is around three in the afternoon and they are walking along Lefty’s Mall. After turning a corner they approach a row of shops. Laila gazes at the front of a dress shop. Something about it is vaguely familiar. She stares at the mannequins, checks out the clothes and immediately remembers the blonde wigs. She stops, pauses for a few seconds, then attempts to make a turn. A frown passes over her face.

‘What’s the matter, Laila?’

Laila looks at the shop, then faces Marietta. ‘The shop. That was where it happened.’

‘What happened? Tell me.’ Marietta looks puzzled.

Laila takes her friend by the hand and walks ahead. ‘Let’s go somewhere where we can sit down.’

They head towards Renmark Avenue, cross the road to the wide, lawned median strip and find a park bench. They sit facing each other.

‘Marietta, promise you won’t tell Peter what I’m going to tell you.’

‘You know you can trust me,’ Marietta says.

Laila swallows. ‘I told Jim I’m not ready to marry him.’

Marietta’s eyebrows gather. She remains quiet.

‘That shop there? He took me there to get a wedding gown. That was when I told him I didn’t want to marry him,’ Laila continues.

‘What’s your reason?’

Laila bites her lower lip. ‘The caravan. I can’t live in it. It’s worse than the bilik in my longhouse. Like a chicken coop.’

Marietta nods. ‘I can understand how you feel.’

‘He cheated me, Marietta. He didn’t tell me he didn’t have a house. Brought me all the way here to find out he lives in that caravan. It’s horrible. I was so disappointed, so angry.’

‘How do you feel now?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Jim is really sweet and he tries hard to please me, but…’

‘What would make you want to marry him?’

‘I don’t know.’ Laila turns away.

Marietta rubs Laila’s shoulder. ‘I know the caravan is small, but it can still be a home.’

‘I know…I guess I wouldn’t mind if it was only for a little while.’

Marietta leans back. ‘There you go, you’ve found the answer yourself.’

Laila shakes her head. ‘I’m still not sure.’

‘Things don’t stay the same forever. Things get better. Did Jim pay for your airfare here?’

‘Yes, he did. And there was some money left over for the suitcase and some clothes as well.’

‘Well, if Jim can afford to bring you over here, it means he must have been able to save. It’s a question of making sure he continues saving so eventually he can afford to get a house.’

Laila keeps silent. Nearby, church bells ring. She looks in the direction of the church, sees the bell above the statue of Saint Teresa swinging back and forth, notices the sharp slope of the roof above the brick façade, and her thoughts return to that first day she arrived in Renmark when Jim pointed out the church to her.

She faces Marietta again. Marietta gives her a hug.

‘Why don’t you give him a chance, Laila?’

10

‘LAI-LA,’ SHE SAYS, DRAGGING both syllables, mouth open, curling her tongue.

Jim imitates her. ‘Lie ler.’

‘No, no, not LER. It’s LAH. I’ll say it again—LIE LAH.’ She shifts her position on the bench so they are sitting face to face, knees almost touching. ‘LAH as in lah lah lah, you know.’

‘Okay, I’ll try again—LIE LER, I mean LIE LAH.’ He drags the ‘lah’.

‘Yes, you got it.’ She claps her hands like a child.

‘Lie lah, lie lah,’ Jim repeats over and over, grinning. ‘I keep saying Layla, from the song, you know. Hey, maybe I could learn to speak Aiban, huh?’

‘No, no.’ She waves her index finger at his nose. ‘Iban, not Aiban. Say, ee-bahn.’

‘Right, ee-bahn. Cool.’ He clutches both her knees with his hands. ‘So, what do you reckon. You think I could speak Iban?’

She mocks a thoughtful look. ‘Maybe. But you will still sound very Australian.’

‘What do you expect? I’m Aussie.’ He raises one eyebrow, curls his lips and grimaces in a laid-back manner. ‘As Aussie as you get them, mate.’ Then he gestures with his arms, resting his hands on his waist in a tough-guy posture. Laila giggles.

From where they are sitting, at the end of the jetty at Glenelg, they have a sweeping view of the sea, clouds lingering on the horizon, pinks deepening to warm orange. The wind is light and the smell of the sea has crept across the shore, veiling the jetty in salty mist. Speckles of light fall on the water, the sun a shimmering golden ball.

It is Laila’s second trip to Adelaide. Her rice vermicelli from last time has run out. They’ve spent the afternoon shopping and lunching in Chinatown, followed by a quick visit to Rundle Mall, the main shopping hub of Adelaide.

Jim breathes in the saltish sticky odour, feels his body relax in a way it hasn’t done in weeks. The pleasure of lunch lingers on his taste buds. He turns and looks at Laila, notes the glow of the first day returning to her face. Golden light bounces off her hair and cheeks. She looks more gorgeous now than he’s ever seen her.

He stands up and gestures towards the railing of the jetty. ‘Let’s go over there. We can catch a better view of the sunset.’

Laila follows him and they stand side by side facing the horizon, bodies leaning against the railing. The upper levels of clouds have turned a hard pink, small white plumes feathering out as the colours merge with the grey-blue of the sky.

‘This is so beautiful,’ Laila says.

‘Isn’t it just,’ Jim says, feeling the openness on his face. The wind sings in his ears.

She stretches her torso outwards, bends down and gazes at the legs of the jetty, gentle waves lapping against them. The sound echoes, travels upwards.

Pointing her fingers, Laila says, ‘What are those things stuck there?’

Jim looks down. ‘Barnacles. They feed on little creatures in the water.’

‘Really? Can they be eaten? In Sarawak, we have a lot of shellfish, like clams, cockles. These things remind me of our shellfish.’

‘Oh yeah. People collect them to make burley.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Burley. Fish bait. Made from breadcrumbs and shellfish. They slowly break up and float away with the current so fish will follow the stream back to the bait on the hook.’

‘Burley,’ Laila repeats after him, pronouncing the syllables carefully.

The wind picks up. Laila’s hair tosses in Jim’s direction, strands brushing his chin, his neck, but he makes no attempt to sweep them away. He catches a whiff of her skin, and stands perfectly still.

Laila turns towards him. ‘Sorry.’ She tames her hair by bunching it up in her hands.

‘No worries, sweets.’ He smiles, fakes a straight face and looks out into the distance, resisting the urge to pull her against him, to wrap his arms around her and sink into her hair.

‘Jim…’

‘Yes, babe.’

‘I haven’t actually thanked you for paying for my airfare here.’

‘Yes, you did, in your letter.’

‘It’s not the same.’ She pauses. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ah, no worries.’

‘It was a lot of money.’

‘Nah, chicken feed.’

‘What?’

‘It means no big deal…not a big thing…’

‘It was. I also bought the bag and the jeans and the red skirt with the money.’

Jim shrugs his shoulders and waves his hand in a dismissing way.

‘It must have taken you a long time to save that money.’

Jim thinks for a few seconds before shrugging his shoulders. ‘Nah…’

Laila looks closely at him. She is about to say something, then she turns away and brings her lips together.

‘Hey, you got to watch this. It takes split seconds,’ Jim says.

The sun is about to lower itself into the horizon. Jim shields his eyes with his palm and looks ahead, focusing intently on the view. Laila follows his line of vision. The moment the sun touches the silvery horizontal strip, Jim makes a sizzling sound with his mouth.

‘Sszzsszz…’

Laila turns to look at him, raises her eyebrows.

‘Jim!’ She bursts into laughter. She is so tickled she covers her mouth with one hand and slaps his arm with the other.

‘My dad used to do that when we watched the sun set into the river.’

She laughs some more, continuing to hit him.

‘More, more, don’t stop,’ he says, offering his other arm, grinning.

‘Your father was a funny man, just like you.’

‘Sure was. The local comedian. Bless his soul.’

‘You remember? You were seven when he died, right?’

‘Eight. Yeah, I remember. All those years. Imprinted in my mind. He used to take me to see the sunsets from the time I was three or four. Mum would be washing up after tea, and he’d say, “River time, Jim?” I’d jump up and be by his side in secs. No matter what was on TV.’

‘That’s so nice.’

‘Yeah, great times those. I wanted Mum to come along as well but she’d always have stuff to do around the house.’

‘You are so lucky,’ she says, a pensive look spreading over her face.

‘What do you mean?’

‘To have a father who loves you so much.’

‘Yeah, he was a good fella, Dad. Always making people laugh. The whole town loved him. I remember following him to the butcher shop, the mechanic, everywhere, and he’d have a funny word to say to everyone.’

‘It would be so good if I could meet him.’

‘Damn right. Too bad he kicked the bucket so soon, poor bugger.’

Laila looks at him in a curious way, her head angled.

‘Died, you know—kicked the bucket.’

‘Oh.’ Laila sighs knowingly.

‘I never did get a chance to ask you. How did your old man react the day you left?’

‘Bad,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Really bad.’

‘Cracked a fit, did he?’

‘He went crazy. And my mother was very sad. But that’s all finished now. I don’t have to think about it anymore.’

She lifts her head up and her face takes on a steely expression, something Jim has, in their short time, learnt to read as ‘subject closed’.

‘So, what other funny things did your father do?’ she asks.

‘Gee, it’d take days, Laila, to relate them all to you.’

‘I have time.’

It is music to his ears. Jim tries to stop himself from grinning.

The sun has set. Last traces of light linger above the horizon as a deep violet band. Jim watches the definitions on Laila’s face disappear as darkness falls over them, notes her hair picking up the odd streak of light from buildings and street lamps.

‘Okay, how about we get some ice cream from the shop and I can start telling you.’

They make their way towards the shore. The click clack of their steps echoes along the jetty. Laila keeps turning around to look at the sea.

‘We’ll come back to watch many more sunsets, hon, don’t you worry,’ Jim says.

‘Can we?’

‘Of course.’

She looks down at the wooden planks as she walks. ‘I can see the sea below us.’

Jim looks downwards and catches glimpses of the shimmering water in gaps between the planks. ‘Yeah.’

Bursts of lights and the sprawl of buildings appear in front of them. People mingle around Moseley Square, the tram visible at one end. Adjacent to the square are restaurants and shops teeming with life. To the right, the Stamford Grand is an imposing sight, the rooms of its twelve floors sporadically lit, conifer trees lining the frontage. Pink and orange hues bounce off the walls and reflect on the water at the foot of the building like brush strokes. Jim watches Laila take in the view, hears her gasp.

‘Nice, huh?’

‘Hmm.’

Their hands brush occasionally. Jim is dying to grasp her fingers but checks himself. His breath quickens.

‘Talking about Dad, he used to give me piggyback rides all the time.’

‘Piggy what?’

‘Piggyback rides.’ He pats his shoulders. ‘He’d wade out to the river in his gumboots to fish or whatever, and because I was only little, there was no way I could walk beside him without the water coming up to my chest.’ He gestures, arms spread out like a person about to drown, eyes rolling, imitating a choking sound.

Laila looks at him in amusement, but continues to listen intently.

‘So what he did was give me piggyback rides the whole time. I used to love them, watching the whole world from a high spot.’

She smiles. A couple walks past them, the sound of their footsteps synchronising with Jim and Laila’s. They inch aside to make way.

‘Want me to give you a piggyback ride?’ Jim says.

Laila looks surprised. ‘Now?’

‘Yeah, right now, all the way to the ice-cream shop.’

‘People around.’

‘Screw them. Who cares?’

She hesitates, then says, ‘Okay.’

Jim crouches in front of her and pats his back. ‘Alright, hop on then.’

She drops her arms over his neck and carefully rests her body on his back. Jim hooks his elbows under her knees and stands up, lifting her. She feels as light as a feather. He may as well have been carrying a child.

‘Woo…’ she squeals.

As he begins to walk, she tightens her arms round his neck. Then she giggles uncontrollably.

‘Comfy?’

‘What?’

‘Comfortable?’

‘Yes! Very.’

She continues laughing. ‘You are so tall.’

‘Hey sister, some people are just naturally well endowed.’ He laughs.

When there is no response from her, he gathers it is because she doesn’t understand him. He whistles, then pretends to slip, dropping one knee down. The sudden jerk makes her scream.

‘Oops,’ he says.

‘Jim!’ She slaps him on the shoulder and giggles.

He walks on, feeling her hair falling over his head and neck, her breath on his ear.

‘Tired?’ she asks.

‘You’ve got to be joking. You’re no Amazon woman, kiddo.’

People passing by stare, but Jim ignores them.

After some time, she says, ‘Jim, what is Marietta’s surname?’

‘Jeez, buggered if I know. I never did ask her. Some Filipino surname I guess. Why?’

A few moments of silence.

‘Well, I just want to know if she has changed her surname. After marrying.’

‘You mean like taken on Peter’s name.’

‘Yes.’

He wants to shrug his shoulders but can’t with her weight on him.

‘Dunno.’

‘Do Australian women do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Change their surname to their husbands’?’

‘Aw, some do, some don’t. Depends on what she wants, what they want, what they agree on.’

‘Hmm.’

‘My mum took Dad’s surname, but hey, that’s Mum, you know.’

They are now at the start of the jetty, the ice-cream shop about fifty metres away. He struts towards it.

‘Jim, do you want me to change my surname to yours after we get married?’

Jim almost loses balance. He only just avoids stumbling on the curb. His jaw drops, he becomes tongue-tied.

‘Jim?’ Laila shakes his shoulder lightly.

‘Yep, yep, I heard you,’ he says, swallowing his saliva. ‘Well, I think it would be nice, but it’s really up to you.’

They have reached the ice-cream shop. He gently lowers his body and Laila slides off his back. She arranges herself and smiles at him.

‘Thanks for the piggyback ride.’ She neatens her hair. ‘I’ve decided, I will change my surname to yours.’

‘Okay,’ Jim says and quickly turns to head towards the ice-cream shop in case she catches the Cheshire smile on his face. As he opens the door and lets Laila through, he feels his heart leaping inside his chest. He wants to kiss everyone in the shop including a weird-looking man at the doorway, his eyes bulging, his mouth looking as if it has been twisted in a fist fight. Jim reaches into his pocket for his wallet, secretly thanking Marietta for whatever she has done to Laila in such a short space of time.

Bloody hell. Miracle-worker or what!

11

LAILA LOOKS ACROSS THE river and rests her eyes on the ribbons of burnt orange and green above the water’s edge. Trees merge into earth, the water mirroring the parallel bands of colour. The river is so still today it resembles a photograph. Only the faintest of movements, a tiny bubble caused by an underwater creature feeding on something, a faint ripple trailing a duck.

She stretches her arms and lies down. The background music suddenly plays in her head. When she thinks back on her wedding, the same images repeat themselves. The spray of pink, yellow and white blooms in her bouquet, long tables covered with white tablecloths, the glitter of sequins on her neckline, her body floating as Jim whisked her around to chat with small groups of guests, the unbelievable variety of foods on platters the waiters brought around. The church ceremony remains a blur. All she remembers is the high ceiling, the candles, faces along the aisle staring at her. The rest, what the priest looked like, what he said, what was behind him, is all hazy.

Laila looks up at the sky. Solid blue and cloudless. Tonight will be dead cold. Lack of clouds means there’s nothing to act as a blanket to retain the heat of the day in the atmosphere. Jim said that.

Jim tells her lots of things. At night, if they’re not watching TV, they’ll lie in bed and talk. Laila loves listening to the stories, enjoys the fond way he talks about his mother.

He told her once he could remember the precise moment his love for his mother became clear to him. He was three years old and a couple had come to visit them. They were chatting in the hallway. Being shy, he had clung to his mother. As she told the visitors stories about Baby Jim, he’d felt heat flooding his face. The couple would not stop looking at him, reaching down to stroke his cheek, cajoling him to come forward. He looked around for a place to hide, thought of the trunk in his bedroom, the broom cupboard—but any attempt to get there would only draw more attention. So he crouched, lifted his mother’s long skirt and crawled under. There he stood, clutching his mother’s leg, safe, warm and protected. His mother continued talking, letting him hide there, and in those few moments his love for her surged and swelled.

‘It was as if I was in a cocoon.’

‘Oh, that is so sweet,’ Laila said.

His simplicity touches her, the way he views things in a straightforward, uncomplicated manner. Happiness to Jim is getting up in the morning, going to work, having a few laughs and spending the evening with her.

Last night, he mentioned that when daylight saving begins, they’ll be able to sit outside and have their yarn. She’d thought about the old people who stare at her. They stare at her all the time, at the laundromat, the boom gate, when she walks past them to get to the river. She hates the way they fix their eyes on her as if they question her being there. She scurries past, pretending not to notice. It’s her brown skin, her black hair, her wide nose. They stare at her because she’s different. But she didn’t say this to Jim.

She’s married now. She recalls her Mak, while pounding chillies in the mortar, her voice quivering with the vibrations, telling her a married woman must behave like one, a wife must know her place. She misses her Mak. She pictures her mother bending over the pua kumbu loom, which she’d borrow from the neighbour. The loom would occupy the entire depth of the verandah, reels of hand-dyed yarn looping over the spools. Having use of the loom for a limited time, Mak would burn midnight oil and toil away. As a child, Laila would sit and watch her, amazed at how quickly and meticulously Mak’s fingers moved, at how fabric materialised from raw yarn like magic.

Having Jim means she’s safe, protected. She imagines him physically lifting her into the car in a flood or earthquake, throwing their important things into a backpack, hurling it into the ute and driving off to safety. While he isn’t rich and can’t provide a good life for her, she has a husband and they’re living in Australia. Jim does love her, she knows. He pays for everything and he takes her out to dinner often. Most evenings, after she’s done the dishes, he gives her a foot massage. He sits her on the bed, rubs fragrant oil on her feet and works away, avoiding the arches where she’s most ticklish.

‘Hey, Mrs Treloar,’ a voice calls out from behind her.

Laila turns around and breaks into a smile.

‘Marietta, hi.’

She wasn’t expecting to catch up with Marietta today. Marietta had told her she was going to Adelaide with Peter for a few days. Laila holds out her arms.

‘Back so soon?’

‘Peter got called back. One of the pickers fell sick and they needed him to fill in.’

‘How was Adelaide?’

‘Good. Even though it was raining quite a bit. Winter, typical.’

Laila pulls her jacket close around her neck. ‘Is it always this cold in winter?’

‘This year especially. All I remember is that after Easter, it suddenly turns into winter.’

Marietta sits down beside her. ‘Close your eyes.’

‘Why?’ Laila looks surprised.

‘Just close your eyes.’

Laila does as she is told. She feels Marietta taking her hands and placing them on her lap. She thinks maybe Marietta bought a dress for herself and wants her to look at it and comment. She stretches out her palms. A plastic bag crackles, a weight goes into her palms, more crackling. Familiar scents rise and envelop her.

‘Okay, open your eyes now.’

Laila sees a plastic package. ‘Oh, what is this?’

She opens the bag to find an assortment of food: glutinous rice, palm sugar, sago, dried prawns, coconut and red bean pudding, and chilli paste. She undoes some of the packets, fingers the food, brings it to her nose and sniffs it.

‘Oh, Marietta, do you know how much I was missing this pudding? A few nights ago, I dreamt that my mother was making this and I went crazy eating it.’

‘Did you?’

‘How did you guess what sort of foods I like?’

‘It’s not hard.’ Marietta hugs her knees. ‘Each time we go to Adelaide, I check out different Asian grocery shops.’

‘But Malaysian food is quite different from other Asian food.’

‘Easy, I just ask the shopkeepers. They know everything about what they have in their shops—Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Indian, Chinese. Some Filipino foods are similar.’ Marietta picks up the packet of palm sugar. ‘See this? We use this for a lot of our desserts.’

‘Thanks so much. Let me give you some money tomorrow. I haven’t got my purse with me now.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘But you’re always giving me things. What about the wedding present?’

The cooking set—three stainless steel pots and a frying pan, expensive looking—now sits in her cupboard. Laila had never seen utensils of that quality before. She remembers opening the box after the wedding reception and catching a distorted reflection of herself on the gleaming surfaces.

‘That’s nothing. A great way to get you started on some serious cooking.’

‘Yes.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘But I haven’t used the set yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s too precious. Jim keeps asking me to use it but I refuse. His old pots and pans are still okay. Why waste?’

Laila had stowed them away after the wedding. New items at the longhouse were kept aside, preserved, packed away in their wrapping for as long as possible. At the back of her mind, Laila is saving the utensils for when they move into a real house.

‘I’m not so fond of cooking. The longhouse I grew up in put me off cooking for life. We didn’t have a kitchen. Everything was done in the same room.’

‘Really? Hmm, sometimes it is amazing to think how far we have come. Australia is a truly amazing country.’ Marietta lies down on the grass. ‘So, how’s married life?’

‘Yes, it’s good. Jim, he is affectionate. But—’ She scrunches up her nose.

Marietta props herself up on her elbows and looks at Laila. ‘What?’

Laila waves her hands in front of her nose and makes a face.

‘I know, they don’t wash as often as we do,’ Marietta says.

‘Yeah,’ Laila echoes. ‘He gets lazy. He says in winter he can’t be bothered to walk that distance to have a shower. He only washes once every two days.’ Then she winces. ‘Must be all that milk and cheese they eat, too.’

‘And meat,’ Marietta adds. ‘These whites can’t get away from meat.’

‘Yes, sausages and chops and steak.’ Laila shakes her head.

‘My Peter is exactly the same. Once, last summer it was, he came home from a long day’s work. He was not feeling that well. Had a bit of a cold and, I swear, he smelled like the rotting lizard stuck between the cupboard and the wall back in my classroom.’

They both burst out laughing.

Laila lies down beside Marietta. ‘Do you think about your schooldays, your life back in the Philippines?’

‘Of course I do. No matter how long you’ve lived in Australia, you never forget your home country.’

‘I want to forget them. I want to wipe out that part of my life.’

‘Why?’

‘My father—he was an animal. He was always angry, always shouting. We fought all the time. He hated me and I hated him. It was okay when I was little. I was stupid then, that’s why. When I turned fifteen, it started. I couldn’t say anything that was different to what he thought. Every day we argued.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I’ll probably never see him again. He hit me when I left, said not to ever go back there. But I love my Mak. She is so sweet. Always rescuing me from him. She would comfort me and tell me not to let my father get to me. I miss her so much.’

‘Some men can get really angry.’

‘What about you? What’s your family like?’

‘I really can’t remember. My parents died when I was little. I grew up in an orphanage.’

‘Really, what was that like?’

‘Awful. The nuns were strange. Had a certain way of looking at things and no other way could fit in with that.’

‘Were they cruel?’

‘Not cruel as in cruel, but strict and inflexible. One of them was a witch. She always picked on my clothes, saying they were too tight and so on.’

‘Typical.’

‘I avoided her like the plague. But I was without my parents, and that alone made it hard for me to cope.’

Laila sits up. ‘Marietta, remember the first day we met, you said you would tell me about your situation, you know, about how you came to Adelaide? You never did.’

‘I know, I know, I wanted to, but you had the wedding to prepare and we were having such a great time choosing your gown, the cake, discussing your hairdo—I didn’t want to spoil the mood.’

‘Oh, Marietta, it would have been okay. Tell me, tell me now.’

‘Let’s go back to my caravan and I’ll tell you over coffee.’

‘Is this new?’ Laila asks, pointing to an ink drawing of a possum hung on the wall of Marietta’s caravan. ‘Love the frame.’

Laila now recognises all of Marietta’s hand-drawn pictures.

‘Yes, finished that two weeks ago.’

‘Did you get it framed at the shop in town, you know the one behind Fred’s mini-market?’

‘Yes, nice, isn’t it? And not too expensive either.’

Marietta pours hot water into the mugs and brings them to the bedside table. Laila is already plonked on the bed. Somehow it’s always more comfy to talk here.

After leaving the orphanage, Marietta begins, she got a scholarship to study in a teacher’s college. When she graduated, she found a job as a teacher in Manila. The job was interesting but the pay miserable. Still, she saved ruthlessly, wouldn’t spend a cent on anything unless it was really necessary. She’d learnt that from the years of being deprived in the orphanage. It was as if she knew trouble was just around the corner.

A year into the job, her nightmare began. The assistant school principal started making advances towards her. She resisted and shunned him, to no avail.

‘He was lecherous. Out-of-shape body, balding, skinny legs. Yuk!’ Marietta winces.

As he occupied a senior position, nobody believed her side of the story. It escalated and became such a scandal that her only recourse was to resign.

It was during this time that she learnt about an agency that purported to assist Filipinos to migrate to Australia. Desperate, depressed and frightened, she signed up with the agency without checking them out. Things happened at lightning speed after that. She had just enough time to go home to Baybay to say goodbye to her relatives before returning to Manila and boarding the ship. She had put her entire savings towards the agency fees.

But instead of arriving in Australia, they ended up in Jogjakarta in Indonesia.

‘Oh my God,’ Laila says. ‘You must have been terrified.’

‘We freaked,’ Marietta says. ‘We were expecting to see Australian faces speaking English—instead we heard these strange-looking people speak another language.’

The agent took their passports, blindfolded her and Rose, another Filipino girl she had made friends with on the ship, and took them to various places in a van. They didn’t know where they were, who their captors were or what lay ahead. They eventually found themselves locked up in a tiny room with no windows.

Laila covers her mouth with her hand.

‘It started then. The pimp who’d bought us forced us to have sex with him. Then, after that, we had to work as prostitutes. He took all our wages, just gave us food and shelter.’

Laila grabs Marietta’s hands. ‘Oh God.’

Marietta looks out the window. ‘It was horrible. I thought about killing myself several times. But something gave me the strength to endure it and go on.’

Three months into the ordeal, Rose and Marietta started planning their escape. They did as they were told and did not cause problems, and the pimp eventually put them on ‘good behaviour’ and gave them a small cut of their earnings. Over time, he gave them other privileges—time out, small outings for meals, shopping, and so on.

‘We saved every penny. I only had three tops and two skirts and wore them for the whole year.’

They were seriously plotting by then. Rose found people in Jogjakarta who had contacts in the Australian High Commission, who were able to help them with their migration applications to Australia. By various manoeuvres, they recovered their passports after six months and escaped the brothel soon after.

Laila sits up, gives Marietta a big hug. ‘You’re an amazing woman.’

Marietta wipes away her tears. ‘Sometimes I can’t believe how we survived it.’

‘So what happened to Rose?’

‘Rose went to Darwin. She’s got relatives there. She’d planned to go there in the first place.’

‘You still in touch with her?’

‘Yes. We write to each other lots. She’s working as a nanny now.’

‘Why did you choose Adelaide?’

‘I didn’t. The Indonesian friend who helped us escape knew the owners of a sweatshop in Adelaide, and they could give me work immediately. I took it.’

‘What you must have been thinking when you arrived in Adelaide! Another scam maybe.’

‘Yeah, I was holding my breath. My God! The big difference was that I had my passport in my own hands throughout the flight to Australia.’ Marietta clenches her fists.

Laila stays silent.

‘The sweatshop was awful too, but nothing compared with the brothel.’

‘Sewing clothes? I’ve heard some awful stories.’

‘Yes, sports clothing. God, my hands, my back. In Wingfield.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘The north-western part of Adelaide.’

‘Was that where you met Peter?’

‘Yes. It was our lunch break. I was at the deli buying my iced coffee. I was queuing up behind him, and he dropped his food on my skirt.’

‘Hah.’ Laila laughs.

‘I took one look at him and knew he was the one.’

‘Aww…’ Laila smiles. She hugs Marietta again.

12

EVERYONE AT THE PUB is talking about the match this Saturday. Adelaide Crows play the Brisbane Bears. It’s been a wretched season for the Crows, one thrashing after another. The prediction is that it will be yet another walkover. But Jim is hopeful. Things can turn around, the way his life has.

Jim walks towards the row of fruit bins, undoes his fruit bag, unloops it from his neck and empties the navel oranges into the bin. Half full now. Since the wedding, it’s taken him much less time to fill one bin that it did in the past. By the end of the week, he should be able to move on to the adjacent bin.

After lunch, he picks for another three hours before calling it a day. As he puts his ladder into his ute, he thanks his lucky stars. Two months into the marriage and he’s as content as a cat in a basket parked in front of a fire.

Jim starts his car engine and as the car speeds off, he recalls Peter’s speech as Best Man at the wedding reception. That Young Jim had done well for himself. Everyone had clapped and whistled. Jim followed with a toast to Laila. To my beautiful bride from across the seas.

Laila had looked stunning in her gown, her black hair standing out against the white of the fabric. He remembers the flush on her cheeks, the radiance on her face illuminating the entire room, glasses clinking like musical notes.

‘Yes!’ Jim screams. Adelaide Crows have struck a goal. He jumps up, punches his fist into the air, roars in excitement. ‘That’s the way, you bastards.’ The caravan vibrates.

When the ads come on, he peers at Laila who is clearing the table. ‘Hey, honey, come sit down and watch this with me.’

‘I want to clear the table first,’ she says.

‘Need a hand?’ he says, but stays seated.

‘It’s okay, I’ll be finished soon.’

‘Grab me another beer, will you, hon?’

Laila turns sideways and looks at him before setting down the dirty dishes in the sink and going to the fridge. Without saying a word, she hands him a can.

‘Cheers,’ Jim says, his eyes back on the TV.

He tries to calm down. Clinking and clanking sounds boom in the caravan. Laila is washing the dishes. He’s now on the edge of his seat. His belly jiggles each time he cheers.

‘Go Crows! You ripper!’

It is the second quarter and Adelaide Crows have outscored Brisbane Bears to set up a good lead. Things are looking promising.

He’s drinking his beer when Laila says, ‘Jim, I can’t get the stains out.’

‘Ah, look at that. Shocking. Settle down, settle down.’

‘Jim?’

‘Yep, what stains?’ He turns back to the TV. ‘Yes! You beauty! You ripper!’

‘These, on the frying pan.’ She continues scrubbing. Her hair falls over her face.

They had fried sausages for tea and she may have burned them on the pan. Oily things, sausages.

‘Try using some Jif.’

‘What?’

‘Jif, the cleaning detergent. Look under the sink. Bottle should be in there.’

He hears doors opening and shuffling sounds. Laila waves a yellow bottle in his face. ‘Is this the one?’

‘Yep.’

A Crows player hangs on to the ball, resulting in a free kick for the Bears. Simultaneous jeers and sighs explode from the crowd.

‘Shit, why did you do that? Giving them a free point. Bloody idiot.’

‘Jim, I still can’t get them off.’

Frustration still on his face, he says, ‘What, hon?’

‘The stains, on the pan.’

Jim tears his eyes away from the TV. ‘Try using the steel wool. Check under the sink.’

More shuffling sounds. After some time, he hears Laila dropping the pan on the drain board. She wipes her hands on the tea towel and slumps into the chair.

‘I give up. The pan is so hard to clean.’ She looks at Jim and then at the TV.

‘Go, Crows you can do it. Oh no, another fumble…he’s got it. He needs that!’ Jim tells the TV, then turns to Laila. ‘What?’

A beep sounds. The ads come on. One more quarter to go and Jim is on the edge of his seat. The Bears have come back and outscored the Crows in the third quarter but the Crows have managed to inch ahead by a small margin. Jim is sick with worry that the Bears might overtake the Crows.

‘The pan.’ She exhales air, points at the sink.

Jim goes to the sink and picks up the pan. The base looks stained and smudged. He brings it close to his face and scrutinises, rubs his index finger on it.

He shakes his head. ‘Honey, this is a non-stick pan. You’re not supposed to scrub off the black surface. That’s the non-stick part.’

Laila goes towards him and takes the pan from him. She rubs the surface, then lets out a sigh. ‘Oh no, I have ruined it.’ She goes back to the chair and sits down, near tears. ‘What am I going to do?’

Jim goes to her side and hugs her. ‘It’s okay, we’ll get another one.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

‘I had no idea what you were doing.’

‘I told you, Jim.’

‘I know, sorry. I just wasn’t looking at what you were doing.’

Laila places her face in her palms and sobs.

‘Hey…’

‘I can’t do anything right.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘No, it’s not. It is a wedding present from Marietta and Peter.’

‘Big deal. It’s just a pan.’

‘It wasn’t just a pan. It was special. It was from Marietta.’ She glares at him.

‘Anyway, didn’t you say that the pan was too precious to use, that you were going to keep it?’

‘I know, I know. I was planning to but after a while I thought, might as well use it now. Oh no, what am I going to do?’

‘Plenty of similar pans at Woolworths. I’ll get one tomorrow.’

‘No, I don’t want another pan.’

Jim rubs her back, but he can’t tear his eyes from the TV. Laila buries her face in his shoulder, clings to his collar.

‘I feel so stupid. How was I to know? I’ve never used a no-stick pan before,’ Laila says, frustrated.

‘It’s non-stick, hon, not no-stick,’ Jim says, peering at the TV.

‘See,’ she says, lifting her head, ‘even you think I am stupid.’ She kicks the legs of the table.

The last quarter ends with Crows winning.

‘Yes, you ripper. I knew you could do it.’ Jim screams, stands up, punches his fist, then immediately sits down again, trying to subdue his elation. ‘What? What?’ he says, forcing himself to calm down. ‘Oh, babe. Of course I don’t. It will take time for you to learn these things. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay,’ he says, excitement still racing in his eyes.

‘Everything is so different in Australia. So many new things to know, to remember. Seems like I’ll never be able to learn.’

‘You will, hon, you will. Just a matter of time.’

Jim pulls the quilt up to his neck and tightens his arm over Laila. Her eyes are closed and he can tell from her heavy breathing she’s drifting off to sleep.

Crows winning was such a treat. They have broken their losing streak, just as he’d predicted. The match plays over and over in his head, the good moves, the unforgettable moments, the final thrill of the win.

What seems like hours later, he falls asleep. Within moments, he hears a gasp. He opens his eyes to find Laila rubbing her neck and tossing her head from side to side.

‘No, no, don’t please,’ she cries, her eyes closed but eyebrows puckered, her voice shrill. ‘Please, please!’

Jim gently nudges her on the shoulder. ‘Laila, what is it? What’s the matter?’

Laila opens her eyes, her face contorted, mouth open as if she is about to say something but can’t find her voice. She looks at him, then around the caravan. She leans towards him and clutches his arm. ‘Oh Jim, I had such a terrible dream.’

‘What? What did you dream?’

She brushes her hair from her face. ‘It was horrible. I dreamt I was working in the kitchen in a restaurant and I had to wash a huge pile of dishes. I kept on scrubbing the frying pan with the non-stick thing, you know. I scrubbed until the black surface was gone. When the manager came and saw me doing it, she was so angry, she took the pan and hit it against the wall. Again and again. The sound was so loud and frightening. Then she lifted the pan and came after me, wanting to hit me with it. Her eyes, they were evil. I tried to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. That was when you woke me up.’ She tightens her grip on his arm and sobs. ‘Oh Jim, it was so horrible.’

‘It’s okay, babe, it’s just a dream.’ He nuzzles her hair until her chokes subside. His hand still in her hair, he hears the first twitter of birds outside. Through the little window facing the bed comes the early shades of dawn, washing the caravan in pearly tones. He imagines the sky outside lightening, colour and definition slowly forming on the riverbank, the waters, the plants in front of his caravan.

Soon, the outlines of the caravans and the office will be visible as another day breaks. A faint smell of shampoo wafts in through the window, followed by the patter of footsteps. It must be his neighbour Greg whose early rises and trips to the showers are a permanent feature of the mornings.

Jim looks at Laila, plants a kiss on her eyebrow. Then he turns over and shuts his eyes to try to squeeze in another twenty minutes of sleep.

13

AGAIN AND AGAIN THE frying pan invades her sleep. In her dreams, black stains blind her vision or rain down on her. The clanking of the pan as it hits the wall, the shrieks of the restaurant manager, boom in her sleep. She moans and groans, tossing and stirring, drifting in and out of consciousness. Half asleep, Jim will reach over and rub her back, sometimes for minutes until his hand falls limp and sleep takes him over.

Four months of living in Australia and she is still as ignorant as the first day she stepped into Adelaide Airport. The more time passes, the bigger the world of the unknown becomes.

‘Take it step by step, you can’t expect to know everything overnight,’ Marietta has said.

‘It’s just a matter of time,’ Jim says one evening.

‘When am I going to learn? I’m so stupid, I don’t know anything,’ Laila says.

‘You need to be patient, honey. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

Package tucked under her arm, Laila walks towards the post office. In the package is a book on flower-pressing for Jeannie, a T-shirt with an Aboriginal motif for Krisno and a packet of potpourri for Mak. When Jim is able to save more and give some to her, she will send money to Mak. For now, she can only afford little gifts.

‘Hi, how are you?’ the man behind the counter says.

‘Fine, thank you. I would like to post this to Malaysia.’ She shows the man the package.

‘Okay, you’d need to use one of those packs. Over there.’ He points.

Laila walks to a wall of shelves. There is a dizzying array of postpaks, satchels, padded bags, tough bags, expandable tough bags, mailing boxes, mailing tubes, CD cases, winepaks, special-purpose products. Under each item is a label with a description and price. She scans the items trying to locate what she needs. She doesn’t know where to start. After some time, she picks up a postpak that’s about the size of her package. She returns to the counter. The man shakes his head.

‘Get one of those pre-paid international ones, love.’ ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you,’ she says.

‘Pre-paid.’

‘Pre what?’ she says.

‘Pre-paid satchels, at the far corner.’

She still can’t make out what he’s saying but she returns to the shelves anyway, too embarrassed to ask again. She stands there trying to figure out what the man meant, looks at the far corner but can’t find whatever it is he was referring to. Ten minutes later, she leaves, the gifts still in her hand.

Jim chuckles when she tells him her ordeal that evening and offers to mail the parcel the next day.

After completing her morning chores, Laila runs to the shop to buy a notebook. She starts with random jottings of names and things. Pergola, Weet-Bix, secateurs, placemats, plunger, fly swat, infuser, cask, spatula, blood and bone, sachet, squeegee. She makes little drawings so she can remember what the item looks like.

After about eight pages, she finds them too randomly listed, making it hard to refer to them. So she re-lists them under categories she indexes alphabetically, such as Home, Outdoor, and so on. Soon she runs out of pages, so she goes out and gets another, bigger notebook and re-enters them all. She lists ‘them’s the breaks’ and ‘beaut’ under S for ‘Speech’, and ‘budgie’ and ‘chook’ under A for ‘Animals’. When she shows Jim her OZ book, he laughs.

‘Honey, you don’t need a notebook. Plenty of dictionaries around.’

‘Dictionaries are not the same. It doesn’t have words like chux,’ Laila says.

‘You’ll remember these words in no time at all.’

‘No, I won’t. How long did it take you?’

‘Me? I never had to learn. Everyone here just knows these words.’

‘No, Jim, you did learn, your whole life. Forty years.’

‘Hey, not quite, thirty-nine, okay? Haven’t hit the Big Four-O yet.’

‘You know what I’m saying. You were born here and grew up listening to these words and learnt from the time you started talking.’ She flicks through her book ‘Me? It’s only been four months. I will need another forty years to be able to know everything like you. I will be sixty-four then.’

‘Still a damn good-looking sixty-four-year-old, I bet.’ He chuckles.

Laila walks away and plonks herself on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. ‘Jim, you are making fun of me.’

‘Oh babe, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to.’ He joins her on the bed. The mattress creaks under his weight. ‘I think it’s great that you’re taking such pains. If it was me, I wouldn’t bother. I’d just stumble along until I got it. Guess I can’t know how difficult it is. Haven’t travelled, haven’t been overseas.’

‘If you ever go to Malaysia you will love it, I know. You will eat like crazy.’

‘Yeah, pig out. Doesn’t sound like hard work.’

‘Pig out.’ She props herself up on her elbows, opens the book at Speech and pens in the words. ‘Pig out,’ she verbalises and writes out the meaning beside it, ‘eat like crazy’.

‘Why do you Australians call everything a pig?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was at the hairdresser’s the other day and overheard two women talking. One of them, she was so angry and her face was so red, she said her husband was a pig. She said she had enough of him spending all their money at the—the pockies?’

‘Ha-ha-ha…’ Jim cackles. ‘Oh Laila, you can be so funny. There’s another one for you—pokies. Poker machines, you know, at the hotels, those rooms with gambling machines.’

She grabs her pen and flicks the pages.

‘And her husband is a pig because he is one.’ He lifts his head, slaps his knee and cracks up. Then he drops back onto the bed, laughing up at the ceiling.

‘But pigs are such cute animals. Why would anyone refer to them when they want to say that someone is bad or horrible?’

‘It’s just an expression, honey. People talk in a particular way because it’s easily understood. So instead of saying he’s a bloody inconsiderate and selfish arsehole, she just calls him a pig. Plain and simple, and everyone knows what she means.’

‘Jim, don’t use that word. It is not nice.’

‘Arsehole?’

‘Don’t.’ She continues writing. ‘In Sarawak, we have really big wild pigs. They are very dangerous animals.’

‘Oh yeah? I know a few people I’d like to feed to the wild pigs.’

She eyes him. ‘Don’t be mean, Jim.’

‘Me?’ He feigns an innocent look.

After she finishes, Jim takes the book from her and leafs through it, reading aloud here and there.

‘Pack the shits: scare you. Yakka: work…Pass the buck: give responsibility to someone else. Pooch: dog…Moggie: mongrel. Hit the jackpot: win a big prize.’ At some points, he raises his eyebrows and cracks up. ‘Dunny: toilet. Hah! Didn’t think that would be so hard.’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Jim.’ Laila goes to the cupboard to get her nail polish. She sits on the bed and paints her toenails.

‘Hey, you could put the same word in more than one listing, you know,’ Jim says.

‘How?’

‘See, you’ve got “drop the bundle” under “Speech”? That really is slang.’

She looks at him questioningly.

‘Slang means expressions used in a certain place or by some people, say Australia. So you could start a new list called “Slang” and put some words you’ve got under “Speech” there as well. That way, it’ll be easier to find them.’

Laila thinks for a moment, then her face lights up.

‘You are right. You are so clever.’

‘Not bad for a fruit-picker, hey?’

Laila follows Jim up the stairs. Her shoes clank on the metal steps. The wind gets stronger the higher they climb, cutting into her skin. She pulls the parka right up to her chin, buries her hands in her pockets. When they reach the top of Headings Cliffs lookout, 360 degrees of panoramic riverland scenery surrounds them. Laila moves from corner to corner on the platform, her hands clinging onto the railing like a child.

‘Oh, Jim, this is so beautiful,’ she says.

‘This is the reason why I live here. Can views get better than this?’

‘Also, your parents and grandparents lived here, that’s why.’

‘Damn right. Hard to remove your roots, if you know what I mean.’

To their left is the River Murray, its waters the deepest blue she’s ever seen, darkening where shadows of gum trees linger. On their side of the bank, a sharp drop of red earth, craggy, dotted with clumps of bush scrub. Where the drop plunges into the water, fringes of reeds sway in the wind.

Down towards the river she hears the cry of kookaburras but she can’t spot them anywhere. At such a height, sounds emerge from unknown places, travelling in surround-sound. Out in the distance, the spread of orange and mandarin trees. Yet further out, clumps of she-oaks cover the hillocks, blending with the stubble and fallow of the land.

The spread of the landscape reminds Laila of Sarawak. She sees her brother Krisno swinging on the longhouse verandah, his hands gripping the wooden railing, and before Laila could say, you know Mak says not to do that, you’ll break your neck, Krisno has already let go his hands. Sticking his tongue out, Krisno is grinning at her as he lands on his backside on the grass, then his body is rolling down the slope, his shrieks of delight echoing along the river.

Rumah Busang suddenly appears in front of her, and she and her sister Jeannie are huddled in a corner of the bilik. Laila is showing Jeannie magazine cut-outs of Richard Gere and Mel Gibson, for which she’d swapped her own cut-outs with her girlfriends at school.

‘Happy birthday, darling,’ Jim says.

Laila is suddenly brought back to Australia. Jim gathers her into his arms, then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a present. He takes her hand and places the present in her palm.

‘Just a little something.’

‘Oh, Jim, thank you. I wasn’t expecting anything.’ She looks down at the present in surprise. It is clumsily wrapped in brightly coloured paper with smiling crescent moon and sun motifs, corners uneven and edges crooked.

‘Go on, open it.’

Laila opens the package carefully. She peels the paper away to reveal a perfume box. The label reads Red Door by Elizabeth Arden. She opens the box and takes out the bottle, brings it close to her nose.

‘Spray it on, go on,’ Jim says.

She fiddles with the lid. Jim helps her. The lid comes off and he holds out her wrist and sprays the perfume on her pulse point. Laila lifts her arm and smells her wrist.

‘Mmm…very nice,’ she says.

She returns the bottle to the box, puts it in her pocket and wraps her arms round his neck.

‘Thanks so much, Jim.’ She kisses him.

Dearest Jeannie and Krisno,

Sorry I have not written for so long. I was busy preparing for the wedding. As you can tell from the photos, it went smoothly. It was held in the local church. About thirty people attended, mostly Jim’s friends. After the ceremony, we had a reception at a hotel in town. There were all kinds of food, music and everyone had a good time. See the flowers in the photo? I chose them for decorating the room. There were speeches as well. Everyone kept looking at me. As you see, an Australian wedding is very different from an Iban wedding. Jeannie, do you like my wedding gown? Jim bought it for me from the bridal shop in town. I wasn’t sure about the veil but Jim said it looked nice.

I’m writing in English so Pak can’t read this, okay? But, to be on the safe side, try not to read it in his presence.

Jim is a wonderful husband. He is kind to me and always giving me little gifts. We do a lot of things together and he cheers me up when I get homesick. He will make faces or act in a silly way, like a clown, and that always makes me laugh. For my birthday he gave me a bottle of perfume.

I have made a very close friend. She is Filipino and her name is Marietta. She is like my half sister. We see each other nearly every day and go to town together. Through her, I see this country in a different way. She has taught me a lot of things that have helped me get used to life in Australia—for example, how to use the barbecue, how to pick out sale items in the supermarket, how to tell when someone is making a joke. Even though she is Filipino, she is just like a Sarawakian. She thinks like us, acts like us, and she truly understands me. We both love noodles, sticky rice and anything made with coconut milk.

Yes, I don’t need to wash the clothes by hand anymore. What a relief.

You won’t believe what the shops are like in Australia. Supermarkets are not just supermarkets. They have clothes, blankets, slippers, socks, vases, greeting cards, picture frames, novels, candles and home decoration items as well. You can’t imagine this, can you? If you were here, you’d love looking at the things in the shops. Jeannie, you’d love the craft shops, and there are so many of them. I know you’d go crazy with the patchwork. I still remember the colourful one you made for Mak with leftover pieces of cloth. The word they use is ‘haberdashery’ (think I got the spelling right). I am thinking of doing some craft to pass time. Might as well put my skills to work—remember how I won the sewing prize for my smocked baby dress?

Even though Renmark is a country town, the shops are all nice, new and clean. Totally different from the shops in Kapit and Belaga. Australians really know how to decorate their shops. They have nice names too, like Patisserie, Gabbie’s Gifts, Bargain Basement, Vaughan’s Shoes, Cinnamon Grove Gifts and Crafts. There is no dirt on the streets, no open drains and all public toilets are clean and have toilet paper!

My life is simple. Jim goes to work in the morning and I stay at home to do housework. I cook him dinner every evening. If I have time, I’ll walk into town. Most afternoons, I meet Marietta by the river. Did I tell you, our place is near the River Murray? It is so beautiful. I cannot take my eyes off it each time I walk past.

I miss Sarawak food so badly. The food we eat at home is boring. Every time I think about pansoh manok, daun paku, ikan terupok and kuih celolot, I feel myself going mad. I cooked noodle soup once for Jim and even though he ate it, I know he didn’t really like it.

Australian people are not very friendly. The shopkeepers, they don’t recognise you no matter how many times you visit their shop. The say hello, how are you, but it is just for show, not really to find out how you are. Not like the shopkeepers in Kapit. Remember the butcher Mak used to take us to? How he would always ask us about things in the family? Not here. People are not really interested in your life. But that’s OK, I have Marietta and Jim.

Well, that’s all for now. Don’t forget to translate this letter to Mak. And give her my love. I miss you all very much.

Love,

Laila

The bell dangling from the top of the door rings as she enters Craft Corner in Lefty’s Mall. The attendant is serving two women so Laila browses. In one large box are packages with different pictures showing through the plastic. Across the other side of the shop are shelves of rag dolls, stuffed animal toys and rolls of fabric. Sewing machines and sewing tools are displayed in a corner.

As soon as the two women leave, the shop attendant walks over to her.

‘Hello, can I help you there?’

Laila smiles and points at the packages. ‘What are these?’

The shop assistant runs her hands lightly over them. ‘These? They’re cross-stitch kits.’

Laila picks up a kit and looks at it closely. Then she scans the kits. There are patterns of teddy bears, vases of flowers, seaside scenery, old-fashioned cars, sailing boats, with names such as Fairy Princess, Little Bunnies, Let There Be Peace, Australian Animals, Little Beehive, Bear Hugs.

One of a mother cat and three kittens catches her eye.

She’s always loved cats. Mak used to secretly feed the cats that would wander from one bilik to another in the longhouse. When Pak wasn’t looking she’d feed them rice mixed with food scraps. Tails upright, the cats would crisscross around her and as soon as Mak placed the bowl on the floor, they would stick their heads into the bowl. Mak would move quickly so the meows of the cats wouldn’t have the chance to drift into the bilik. Once Pak caught her at it. He yelled obscenities, threw his slipper at the cats. ‘Pests. Stupid creatures!’ He kicked the bowl and it flew across the verandah, the rice scattering over the earth.

Laila lifts the cat pattern off its hook and checks the price. Twelve dollars. She makes the usual quick calculation—twelve times two and half equals approximately thirty ringgit. She’ll check with Jim tonight. While she’s reading the details of the packaging, the sales assistant takes another kit from the wall above and shows it to her.

‘How about this one? It’s popular and sells well.’

Laila looks at the kit named Our House. A frontal view of a brick house stares at her. White window frames, white fence. The only difference is that the wall is made of cream brick. Her heart leaps for a split second. She takes the kit and looks closely at it.

‘I like both of these but I need to think about it,’ she says.

‘Sure. You know where we are.’

Laila hands back the kits and heads for the door.

After Jim says, sure, honey, go right ahead and buy it, Laila races back to town the following day. When she enters the shop, no one is around. She lingers at the entrance, looking at the cross-stitch kits from a distance. After waiting for a few minutes, she’s about to leave the shop when she hears shuffling from a doorway. Then footsteps. An old woman wearing a floral frock and a light green cardigan appears.

‘Well, hello there. Hope you haven’t been waiting around for long. Can I help you?’ The woman comes towards Laila.

‘Those.’ She approaches the kits.

‘Was there any one in particular you were after?’

‘Yes. There was one of a house I saw yesterday.’

‘Now let me have a look.’ The woman goes through each one slowly.

Laila watches her, tries to locate it herself.

‘I don’t seem to see it anywhere here,’ the woman says.

‘The lady who was here yesterday showed it to me.’

‘Ah, my daughter. She owns the shop. Let me look again. Sorry, I’m not familiar with things here. I’m only minding the shop for her today.’

The kits rustle as the old woman wades through each one of them again, bending over to take a closer look. Laila waits anxiously. After some time, the old woman straightens up with difficulty, rubbing her back. She shakes her head. ‘Strange. I can’t seem to find it.’

Laila casts her eyes around the shop, hoping to spot the mislaid kit. But everything is neatly stowed away.

‘Would you like to choose something else? Plenty of other patterns here.’

But Laila is making her way to the door. The old woman heads back to the counter, a weak smile across her face.

‘Why don’t you come again next week? My daughter should be back in the shop by—’

Laila is already opening the door, the bell muffling the words of the old woman.

‘That’s okay, thanks,’ she says as she leaves the shop.

A few metres on, Laila hears a sound behind her. She looks around. The door is open and the old woman is waving frantically and calling.

‘I found it, I found it,’ she’s saying, her eyes excited.

Laila turns back towards the shop.

‘It was hidden beneath the piles of fabric under the counter.’

As Laila walks back into the shop, her eyes are fixed on the packet in the old woman’s hands, taking in the outline of the flower pots in the front of the house. Her heart leaping, she reaches for her wallet and pulls out her notes.

Soon she’s walking out of the shop, Our House clutched snugly against her chest.

14

AS JIM SETS DOWN his beer on the bar, he feels a slap on the shoulder. He turns to find Peter pulling up a stool. It is four-thirty in the afternoon and the pub is starting to fill.

‘So, how’s married life?’ Peter says.

Tom, standing next to Jim, puts his hands over his face and says, ‘Oh no, please, spare me.’

‘Shut your face, you idiot,’ Peter says. ‘Just because you want to stay a bachelor doesn’t mean you have to be a deadshit.’

‘Much more fun, I can tell ya.’ Tom smirks.

‘Shaddup, wanker. And grow up,’ Jim says.

‘Look who’s talking.’ Tom giggles. He signals for Rodney. ‘Another round?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ Jim says.

Peter turns back to Jim. ‘So, Laila going well?’

‘Yeah, yeah, great,’ Jim says. ‘Tell you what, nothing beats Asian.’ He pats his gut and drools. ‘Cooking may not be gourmet, but it sure is regular.’

‘You’d eat bat poo, if I remember rightly,’ Tom says, chuckling.

‘Shut your face, I’m warning you,’ Jim says.

‘Pay up, drink up and go for a hike, Tom,’ Peter says. Tom ignores them and looks around the pub, checking out the door each time it swings open.

‘So, as I was saying,’ Jim continues, ‘nothing like a warm meal every evening. The caravan’s so tidy I can’t recognise it. Launders and folds all my clothes. Wanted to iron my underwear at first but I said it wasn’t necessary.’

‘Get out,’ Peter says, laughing.

‘How’s Marietta going?’

‘She doesn’t iron my underpants, that’s for sure.’

Rodney brings them a jug of beer and an empty glass for Peter. Tom drops a note into Rodney’s hand.

‘Cheers to my married mates—oops, I mean happily married mates,’ Tom says.

Jim and Peter jab Tom in his ribs. Their glasses clink.

While drinking, Tom’s eyes travel over the pub and focus on something. Jim and Peter follow his line of vision and spot a blonde woman with a cowgirl hat striding into the pub with two other women. She’s wearing a pink knitted top, tight jeans and high-heeled black boots. Tom narrows his eyes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Well, guys, I’ll leave you to your talk about marital bliss.’ He takes his beer with him and heads in the direction of the women.

Jim and Peter gaze after him, shaking their heads.

Then Peter says, ‘Marietta’s good, but we had a bit of a domestic last night.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Nothing major, was about money.’

Jim winces. ‘Always about money, ain’t it?’

‘Nah, not like what you think. Marietta’s generally really good with money, but lately she’s been spending a lot on phone calls to Rose.’

‘Who’s Rose?’

‘This other girl who was in the brothel with her in Jogjakarta. Remember I told you about her ordeal?’

‘Yep, yep.’

‘They escaped together and they’re real close. Rose lives in Darwin.’ Peter drinks his beer. ‘Marietta gets into these funny moments, you know, which mind you I can understand, having gone through what she has. And when she gets like that, she needs to talk to Rose.’

‘Blimey, yeah, heavy stuff. Can’t imagine.’

‘It’s just that she hadn’t told me beforehand about spending that money and when the bill came in the mail yesterday, I got a bit of a shock.’

‘Phew! Thank God my Laila hasn’t been through shit like that.’

‘It’ll blow over, I just need to be more aware. Last year, I had to put her on a plane to Darwin. She was strung out, started talking about her life not being worth living, that kind of thing.’

‘Hell, gets expensive, doesn’t it?’ Jim scratches his neck.

‘Don’t mind, though.’ Peter looks across the room. He laughs and shakes his head when he sees Tom, gesticulating as he speaks, his body arched towards the blonde woman. ‘In the end, what’s a few hundred bucks? You can earn that money back in no time. And Marietta is worth every penny, believe me.’

‘Onya, mate.’

On his way home, Jim goes over his conversation with Peter, grateful that Laila doesn’t have any psychological problems. Most days she appears stable and content.

He owes Peter one—Marietta, rather. He thinks about Laila, about the pleasure of snuggling up to her petite form last thing at night. Her soft and smooth skin under the covers, their moments together in their little space stretching and swelling like a balloon. And the gushing, that huge rushing sensation each time he’s intimate with her. Happy as Larry, he really is. Could he have predicted that happiness would drop into his life unawares like this?

As he makes a turn at the intersection near the caravan park, he decides he’ll take her on a trip somewhere, maybe Sydney or Melbourne. She hasn’t seen much of Australia except Adelaide and Renmark. She’s as precious to him as gold, and he wants her to know that.

15

‘WOW, THIS IS BEAUTIFUL,’ Marietta says. She takes Laila’s cross-stitch work from the table and holds it up. ‘You really are good with your hands.’

‘It’s nothing. Anyone can do it,’ Laila says.

She doesn’t tell Marietta the frenzy with which she’s been stitching. The moment she got home from the craft shop, she’d ripped the package apart and poured the contents onto the table. While eating her two-minute noodles, she’d read the instructions, blowing the steam from the soup to clear her view.

Now, only a week later, she’s completed the wall hanging. Each day as the house took shape, as the slate grey of the roof came into form, as the pots of red tulips in the front garden burst into life on the canvas, her excitement escalated. While Jim sat watching TV, she sewed, unable to tear herself away from it. Don’t stay up too late, honey, Jim would say as he lifted the covers of the bed. Plenty of time to finish it, why the rush? Bent over the tiny Formica-top table, she would ignore him, fingers holding down the canvas, needle going up and down, up and down.

‘Not me. Last time I sewed was at the sweatshop,’ Marietta says, studying the cross-stitches. ‘Didn’t need any creativity, just sweat.’

‘Ah! That’s why it’s called a “sweat” shop, hey.’

‘Yeah. How long did it take you to sew this?’

Laila ignores the question. ‘Should the frame be wooden or gold?’

‘Wooden I think, to go with the cottagey look.’

Laila prances around the caravan, holding the wall hanging against the wall in various spots, stretching the top two corners. Up down, up down, she holds the piece of fabric. The caravan shudders. Marietta watches her.

‘Want me to hold it up for you so you can see it from a distance?’ Marietta says.

‘Good idea.’

Marietta holds it up.

‘I think better over there. No, there. No, it’s not good there either.’ Laila sighs. She sits down. Then she gets up again, walks up and down. ‘This stupid caravan is too small. There’s not enough space to hang anything.’

‘How about there? By the fridge?’

‘No, too squashy.’

‘Or there?’ Marietta points at a section of wall above the foot of the bed.

‘No, no.’ Laila shakes her head, pouts her lips.

‘Hey, it’s just a wall hanging.’

‘It’s not just a wall hanging.’ Laila’s voice is shrill. She frowns.

‘What’s the matter, Laila?’ Marietta takes a close look at the wall hanging. ‘You’re obsessing about the house again?’

Laila slumps into the chair. ‘I’m tired. Can we call it a day? I think I should have a nap.’

‘Sure, sweetie.’

‘No, Jim, I don’t want to go to Sydney or Melbourne.’

‘It’ll be fun. Those cities are beautiful, much better than Adelaide.’

‘I haven’t even seen much of Adelaide. Don’t need to see those cities.’

‘It’s a holiday both of us need.’

‘I don’t need a holiday. I have so much free time already.’

‘Oh honey, come on.’

‘No, Jim, we need to save.’

‘Plenty of time for that.’

‘No, Jim, we must save now, my Mak says everyone must save.’

‘We have a whole lifetime to save. Jesus, give me a break.’

Laila gets out of bed, turns off the TV and checks that the door is locked. Then she gets into bed again, turns the bedside lamp off, pulls up the covers and rolls over. The bed rocks.

The stench of meat hangs in the caravan. Last night they had grilled sausages for tea. She’d cleaned the tray as well as the inside of the grill. With the soapy scourer she’d scrubbed at streaks of coagulated grease. They were stubborn but after some time she was able to get most of them off.

But still this morning she wakes up to a lingering meaty odour. She sniffs to try to trace the source but it seems to be suspended in the air. The grill looks clean so she checks the kitchen benchtop. Except for discolouration at the centre and chipped edges that have permanently trapped dirt, it looks clean. She checks the cupboard doors and finds the top of the doors coated with layers of grease. She immediately fills the sink with soapy water and starts cleaning. She scrubs, rubs, rinses and wipes. Where grease is trapped in gaps and crevices, she uses a toothbrush to scrub it off. Finally, with even more stubborn dirt, she uses a butter knife, scraping, digging, poking until all traces are gone. The water in the sink turns a cloudy brown.

Then she cleans the Formica table and the vinyl chairs. Throwing her hair back, she pulls up her sleeves, crouches and works away. The caravan rattles with her vigorous movements. After she finishes, she takes a deep breath to check.

The smell of meat still lingers.

It reminds her of wild boar meat her mother forced them to eat as children. The thought of it still makes her want to gag.

She thinks maybe the smell is trapped in the lino floor. So she fills a bucket with soapy water, gets down on all fours and works the scrubbing brush over the entire floor, wiping with a chux as she goes along. It is only after she has cleaned every bit of floor that the smell dissipates a little.

That night she dreams about Sarawak. In the dream she’s suffocating from the stench of rotting, clogged-up rubbish on the Rejang. It is pungent and sharp, rising above the river, where branches and debris have caught some outgrowths and blocked the water flow. The water is a murky brown.

In another dream, she steps on bloodstains dotted along the verandah of the longhouse. It is gawai time and menfolk are slaughtering wild boars and chickens for the gods, swinging the dead animals around in a spinning circle while chanting an incantation, droplets of blood flying in all directions. She tries to tiptoe along little stain-free trails on the planks but it’s impossible. Blood and slime coat her soles.

Children’s voices travel along the riverbank. Squeals of joy, shrieks of laughter, the tapping of their feet.

Someone calls out, ‘Don’t wander too far, kids.’

Laila raises herself on her elbow and looks in the direction of the sounds. She was about to doze off, lying on the grass in her favourite spot by the riverbank. It’s unusual to find children here, as most residents in the caravan park are middle aged or older. She peers across at the woman, who’s busy taking things out of her basket and laying them on a picnic table. Laila doesn’t recognise her. She must be here on a holiday.

‘Mummy, Mummy, look at the ducks!’ one of the boys screams. His eyes light up in excitement.

Laila has the urge to go to the boy and talk to him but checks herself. Since she got married, the idea of having children has sometimes risen in her mind but each time she considers it, she tosses it out. She can’t imagine bringing up a family in the small caravan. There isn’t even enough space for the two of them. No child of hers is going to grow up in a suffocating environment. The disease has to stop at her generation. The only option is to wait until Jim can afford to move them into a proper house. The red brick house.

The boys are now circling their mother at the table, eager hands reaching out to receive doughnuts and rolls she’s doling out. One of them has climbed onto a chair and is rummaging in the basket.

Laila shifts her gaze back to the riverbank, lies down and closes her eyes.

Jim switches off the light and crawls into bed. He reaches out and pulls her towards him. His arms encircle her tummy. He nuzzles her hair, sinks his nose into the familiar hollow of her nape.

‘Thanks for mending my socks, babe.’

‘That’s okay.’ She angles her head towards him.

‘You seemed quiet tonight. Are you okay?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘It’s your first winter. Can’t blame you if you feel a little gloomy. I’ve lived through thirty-nine winters here and it still gives me the shits.’

Laila musses his hair, smiles in the dimness.

‘You know, I’m not a romantic man and I have difficulty saying these sorts of things, but I want you to know you mean the world to me.’

‘Oh thanks, Jim.’

‘Next Wednesday, for my birthday, how about we go to the Club and have a nice meal there?’

‘Okay, that will be nice. What do you want for your birthday, Jim?’

‘Nothing, just you.’

‘But you already have me.’

‘I know, only kidding. Just be there with me, that’s all I want.’

‘Sure.’

‘You make me very happy, sweetheart.’

He kisses her on the cheek, then on her neck. Laila turns over and offers her lips to him. They kiss. There is no sound except their breathing. Jim sits up, places his hand on her back and lifts her. He moves her to the middle of the bed, his hand gentle on her back. It’s one of his pet habits, making love right smack in the centre of the mattress. Laila remembers how she felt the first time he lifted her this way on their wedding night. The feeling of being totally in his space, of yielding and receiving. It made her feel fragile and feminine.

Jim looks at her face, the darkness of her lashes, her almond-shaped eyes, the shimmer of her skin only just visible in the dim light from the streetlamp outside.

It starts to rain. Lightly at first and then, within a few minutes, a steady downpour. They hear the pitter-patter on the roof. Laila closes her eyes, imagines the raindrops hitting the surface, bouncing off and washing down the sides.

‘Just what the blocks need,’ Jim says.

He runs his hands under her pyjama top, over her stomach, her ribs. They find her nipples and he works them in a way that sends her whimpering. He unbuttons her top, pulls it over her head. He peels off her pyjama bottoms and knickers. The feel of his hands on her bare skin makes her body tingle. He covers her with kisses, starting at the toes.

Pulling herself away momentarily, Laila reaches for the bedside drawer and takes out the packet. With quick fingers, she rips it open, pulls out the rubber sheath and hands it to Jim. Then she holds his head, guides him to the dark secret places of her body. She plucks at his hair, his arms, rocks her hips in rhythm with his movements.

Then as her breathing peaks, as he enters her, she looks in the direction of the drawer where the wall hanging is kept. The brick house flashes and explodes in her head, porch, door, windows, flowers, fence all colliding into one another. The image flares and booms, flares and booms.

Jim lets out a moan, slumps onto her. Just before he turns over, Laila grabs her pyjama top and wipes away her tears.

16

‘HI STRANGER,’ DANNY SAYS, approaching Jim, his feet shuffling through grass and dried leaves.

‘Hey, long time. Where’ve you been?’ Jim says, climbing down the ladder. He removes his fruit bag and empties the oranges into the bin.

Danny loops his own fruit bag over his neck. ‘Aw, tried a hand at spraying for a while.’

‘Yeah, Rodney was saying that. Not doing that anymore?’

‘Nah, couldn’t stand driving that big monster.’

‘The spray plant?’

‘Yeah, clutch as heavy as a tonne of bricks. Plus, boring as fuck. Hours on your own in that stupid machine.’

‘So, picking now, are you?’

‘For a bit. Wayne says he’ll give me a month at the cutting shed when December comes. He’s pretty sure his apricot harvest is going to be a good one.’

‘Good-oh,’ Jim says.

‘So I’m just picking a bit here and there for Rick in the meantime. Casual.’

‘Rick’s good like that. He’s good with the casuals. Treats them like the rest of us.’

They both prop up their ladders. It is a mild day and they pick at a good speed. The sun streams down through gaps between the branches. Jim whistles, savouring the warmth, going up and down the ladder. After some time, he removes his parka.

‘Wanna come around tonight? Tom’s bringing over some beer and a couple of videos,’ Danny asks a bit later.

‘What kind of videos?’

Danny grins. ‘Need you ask?’

Jim gives him a half-smile.

‘So coming or not?’

Jim hesitates. ‘Hmm…dunno.’

‘Why, clamping on the brakes, is she?’

‘Umm, not really. She hasn’t actually complained. But mate, I feel sometimes I need to be doing the right thing, you know.’

‘You chose to get married, buddy. Wouldn’t catch me doing it, you can be sure of that.’ Danny whistles out air through his clenched teeth, shakes his head.

‘I know, I know. It’s just that she gets into these moods sometimes. Won’t say a thing, stares into space. Just don’t want to do anything to aggravate it.’

‘Jesus.’ Danny shakes his head.

‘Bloody women. Like, what can you do, man?’ Jim says.

‘You’re asking me?’

‘Right. What can you do?’

‘PMS or PMT or shit like that?’

‘Whatever. Mate, sometimes it lasts for days.’

‘Jeez. Glad I’m not there.’ Danny makes a face.

‘It’s all part of married life, I suppose.’ Jim shrugs his shoulders.

Danny gives him a cheeky look. ‘Well, you win some, you lose some. Sex on tap can’t be bad.’

Jim picks an orange and throws it at Danny. Danny ducks and the orange hits the branches and bounces to the ground.

‘Good shot, trimmer,’ Danny says, laughing.

Jim shoots Danny a half grin. ‘Okay, count me in for tonight. What seven, seven-thirty? I’ll come around after tea.’

‘That’s the way. You gotta live, mate.’

The pull of slumber is strong, his body is lulled. But Jim stirs, drifting in the space between wakefulness and sleep. In his drowsy state, he catches the sound of soft, punctuated breaths. He strains to listen. The breaths give way to drawn-out sighs. They stop and start, stop and start, each breath lurching him into wakefulness. He tries to open his eyes, forgetting for a moment where he is, whether it is night or day, which day of the week it is.

He had fallen asleep the instant his head hit the pillow. Early, at nine, after watching Pacific Drive on TV. A typical winter night’s slumber, deep, capping a long hard day of non-stop picking. The mandarins were full and swollen, littering the trees, hanging off branches, the orange luminous against the sun. He’d worked from seven in the morning to five in the afternoon and filled nearly a whole bin.

In the darkness, he rolls over to Laila’s side, his legs intertwining with hers. Since their wedding night, he’s developed this habit: he places his thigh snug against her buttocks, the warmth and softness of her sex next to him. But tonight he opens his eyes and realises Laila’s head is tucked under his chin. Her arms are folded and pressed firmly against his torso, her body stiff and still. He slides his arm over her waist and pulls her closer to him. Her sighs intensify even though her eyes remain shut.

‘Hey, babe, what’s the matter?’ he says.

She curls up closer, draws her hands to her chest.

He feels her body trembling. ‘Honey, what is it? Are you okay?’

Laila opens her eyes. ‘Cold,’ she says.

She pulls the covers up to her neck, closes her eyes again, her eyebrows gathered into a frown.

Jim reaches for her hands. Her fingers are icy cold. He squeezes and rubs them but the cold seems to be trapped under the skin. He lifts the covers and finds her clothed in fleecy trackies. He, on the other hand, is down to his singlet and underpants which he wears to bed all seasons of the year. He half considers turning on the radiant heater beside the fridge. It’d take the chill off her, but he has this thing about not leaving the heater on all night. One time he did that, the corner of his bedsheet touched the heater. He’d woken to the smell of smoke, rushed out of bed and tossed the smouldering sheet into the sink.

In the darkness, he tries to locate the thermometer on the wall. The metal glints in the pale light from the window. He gets up, takes the thermometer and checks the reading. It is too dark to make out anything so he moves to the window. Minus four degrees Celsius. He shakes his head and looks again, tilting the instrument towards the full glare of the light. Poking his nose to the window, he peers outside. Clumps of frost on the ground. Edges of lawns fringed in white. Crikey. He hasn’t experienced a winter this cold in ages. Rubbing his arms, he tiptoes back towards the bed.

Laila’s sighs have given way to a soft whimper.

‘It’s so cold, Jim.’

‘I know, I know, babe. Crazy winter.’

Jim cuddles her and rubs his hands over her back to warm her up. Her whimpers continue. After some time, he gets out of bed again. He stumbles to the kitchen sink, fills the kettle with water. Reaching for the torch, he opens the wardrobe and shines it at the top shelf. He rummages through his things and fishes out the hot-water bottle. He hasn’t used the bottle since his mum was alive. He slides the bottle out of the furry pouch, catches a whiff of moth balls.

After pouring in hot water, he returns the bottle to the pouch and crawls back into bed. Gently untangling Laila’s arms, he places the bottle in the curve of her stomach. Then he pulls the covers right up to her chin. It is about ten minutes later that he dozes, after he checks that her arms and lips are no longer quivering.

The next day watching the Channel Ten news, they learn that it was minus five in Renmark the night before. Jim has just stepped into the caravan. Laila is folding a pile of clothes from the laundry basket.

‘Unbelievable,’ Jim says, throwing his jacket on the bed.

‘The Weather Bureau confirmed that last night was the coldest night in thirty-five years in South Australia,’ the newsreader says.

Laila stares at the TV screen. ‘That’s below freezing point.’

‘Sure is. Bloody hell, and it’s supposed to be the end of winter. Did you see the frost this morning?’

She nods, continuing to fold the clothes, her eyes still on the TV. Then she takes the folded clothes and puts them away in the wardrobe. She returns and sits down.

‘Jim,’ she says.

‘Yes, hon?’ He slouches into his favourite chair, feet up on the bench.

‘Marietta says there are women who work as fruit-pickers.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘She knows one of them.’

‘Haven’t seen many.’

‘Marietta just met this girl. She’s from Sierra Leone. Peter introduced them when she went to give him his lunch at the block.’

‘Hmm.’

Jim reaches for the fridge and pulls out a can of beer. Laila gets up, takes the dishcloth and sweeps crumbs from the table into her palm. After dusting the crumbs into the sink, she pulls out a chair and places it directly in front of Jim.

Sitting before him she says, ‘Jim, I want to work in the orchard.’

Jim takes a swig of beer, studies the label, turning the can round and round in his hand. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘I can help earn money for us.’

‘No, you don’t need to do that.’

‘I do, Jim.’

‘Why? Don’t I give you enough to spend?’

Since they got married, Jim has been giving her about half of what he makes, regardless of how much or little he takes home.

‘You give me enough but we need to save.’

‘Save? What for?’

‘Well, it’s good to save. You never know when you might need money.’

His stomach starts to churn. He sees in his head Laila climbing up the ladder, struggling to hold up the fruit bag, losing balance as she steps down. He sees her nursing the thorn pricks on her hands at night after tea.

‘Work’s too tough. You won’t be able to handle it.’

‘Who says?’

‘You’ve never worked before. What makes you think you can hack this kind of work?’

‘I can. I know I can. At the longhouse, I worked everyday. I cleaned, cooked and washed clothes.’

‘That ain’t work, babe.’

‘I used to slaughter the chickens, and sometimes I would help Pak chop wood. Remember, I wrote in my letters? About that time Mak and I had to skin the wild boar because Pak was sick?’

‘Yeah, sure you did. But that doesn’t mean you need to work now.’

‘Jim, you’re not listening to me.’

‘Sure I am. I just don’t happen to agree that you need to work.’

Laila looks at him as if she can’t believe what he’s saying. She starts to open her mouth, then pauses as if her tongue is unable to form the words. She gets up, walks to the bed and lies down on her side, looking out the window.

Jim turns up the TV volume. Ads scream out. The Cunninghams ad man curls his two fingers at the camera, screaming, ‘Two dollars, all this for two dollars each!’ Jim tries to ignore the sight of Laila’s still body on the bed. He wants to continue drinking, to ignore his anxiety, which grows more nagging by the minute, mounting with each ad, but his eyes keep being drawn to her. Thoughts clamour in his head.

Lots of women work at the cutting shed. They slice apricots into halves, remove the pips and lay the halves onto trays. While the men do the heavier work such as wheeling the trays into sulphur kilns, driving the forklifts, pressure hosing the trays, the women do the bulk of the menial work. But that’s in summer and Laila wouldn’t have seen them yet. A few women even pick in the blocks, the big strong ones, they go up on the cherry pickers and toil like the men, but he won’t disclose this to Laila.

He puts his beer down, walks towards the bed.

Resting his hand on her shoulder, he says, ‘Want me to get some takeaway? You don’t have to cook if you don’t want to, babe.’

Laila turns over to face him. ‘That’s okay. I’ll cook. I’ve already taken the pork chops out.’

Gently brushing his hand away, she goes to the sink. She removes the plastic wrap from the meat and is about to reach for the fridge when she bends over and crouches on the floor. Then she brings her hands to her face and she weeps, softly.

Jim has never seen her cry before. He looks at her crouched on the floor, hair tumbling over her shoulders, her body shaking, and while his instincts tell him to go and comfort her, something makes him hesitate. He stands by the bed, the sound of her tears reverberating in the tiny space.

The sight of a woman crying takes him back to his childhood, to the long nights after his father died. His mother’s wails, seeping through the wall separating his bedroom and hers, now rush back to him. He remembers the times when they would be chatting at tea, and suddenly the mention of something, wood needing to be chopped for winter, an unexpected letter with Dad’s name on it, and Mum would lower her head, turn her face away, her mouth quivering. Then she would cover her eyes with her hands and weep.

‘I can’t take the cold anymore. This caravan,’ Laila says amidst her sobs, ‘it’s so cold.’

Jim remains silent. He stares at the floor.

Laila gets up and rushes to his side, tears streaking her cheeks. ‘Jim, let me work so I can help save some money.’

He rubs his forehead.

‘Please Jim, please. Between us we can save up. I don’t care how long it takes, we can save up to buy a house.’

The dreaded word. Jim looks out the window. He shakes his head.

‘Why? Why can’t I work?’

‘No wife of mine is going to work.’

Laila holds his arm and gently shakes him. ‘Please, Jim, if you let me work, I can help you save. Like the way you saved up to pay for my airfare and for the wedding.’

Jim shakes his head. ‘No, no, it’s not as easy as that.’

‘Why? What are you saying?’

‘Laila, that money wasn’t from my savings.’

‘But you said…’ Laila pulls back and looks at him. ‘If it wasn’t from your savings, where did the money come from?’

Jim walks around the caravan then sits down. ‘When Mum died, she left behind some money. I used that for your airfare and the wedding.’

Laila stares into space. ‘So it wasn’t from your savings.’ She frowns and shakes her head in disbelief. ‘It wasn’t from your savings.’

‘Wasn’t a huge amount but it was enough for our expenses at the time.’

She stares into space. ‘Remember that day in Adelaide, when we went to the jetty? I asked how long you took to save for the airfare and you said it didn’t take long.’ There’s a shrill edge to her voice. Her face has turned red, anger is brewing in her eyes.

‘Did I say that?’

‘Yes, you did.’ Her eyes are accusing.

‘Oh, that was such a long time ago, I can’t remember exactly what I said.’ He can’t understand why the inheritance is now a big deal.

Laila hits her head with her hands. Almost hysterical, she paces round the caravan. ‘Shit, shit,’ she mutters to herself. ‘Then you are saying we will always live here?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

Laila stops short, gathers herself. Then she throws herself at Jim, wraps her arms around his knees. She turns her face up to his, her eyes pleading. ‘So when, when can we move into a house?’

Jim remains glued to the chair. Laila’s words echo in his head. A tightness grows in his chest. Slowly, he disengages himself from her arms, gets up and walks to the door. Then he goes out and sits on the steps. The screen door slams shut behind him. He looks at his shoes, at the ends of the shoelaces, brown and soiled from being trudged on. Leather once-white, edges of the heels dirty and cracked from wear. He half expects the door to creak open and Laila to rush out, to continue her pleading with him. But not a stir comes from the caravan. He doesn’t want to look in, he doesn’t want to know what she’s doing.

Ahead, the darkening sky spreads out, greys flaring, wiping away pinks, the onset of the night imminent, inevitable. A stirring emerges from somewhere in the distance. Then silence. Then another sound, a creaking, sliding past from an unknown place.

Jim takes a breath and sighs. He thinks about his mother, about the last days before she died. It was enough for him to just be by her side. The hospital walls cold and silent. No place for words. Only the stillness, their sharing of last moments. Both of them, only them.

Where is she now? If she were still alive, what would she say to him? What would she tell him to do?

17

THE LAUNDROMAT IS EMPTY. It is two in the afternoon, long past washing time. Laila lets out a sigh of relief. She opens the lid of the machine, drops the clothes in, checking the pockets of Jim’s trousers and shirts. She finds a soiled handkerchief and some coins.

While the machine runs, she sits in her usual spot by the window and leafs through New Idea.

What is your PMS personality? Lip gloss to bring out the animal in him. She scans over the before and after photos of film stars. Miracle diet that helped Kirstie Alley shed 20 kg.

She’s pulling out the washed clothes from the machine when Marietta scurries in, a little out of breath.

‘There you are. I was looking for you at the riverbank,’ Marietta says.

‘Oh sorry, Marietta,’ Laila says. ‘I woke up late this morning and it threw everything off.’

‘You okay? You look pale.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I’ve something to tell you, Laila.’

‘What? Something bad?’

‘I’ll help you hang these up and we can talk at the riverbank.’

Outside, they hang the clothes in silence. Then they take their usual spot under the eucalyptus tree by the river. Spring wild flowers dot the opposite bank, bursts of yellow and white. Near the office, visible from where they are, lavenders spring forth from shrubs.

‘Laila, there’s been a change of plans. Peter and I won’t be attending the Christmas party.’

Laila’s heart drops. ‘What? Christmas is over two months away. Why are you making plans so early?’

Marietta hugs her. ‘I know you’re disappointed, sweetie.’

‘But why?’

‘Peter wants to get away. Christmas is not a good time for him. Family members get together, old issues flare up. Every year he’s around because he doesn’t want to upset his mum. But he says this year he’s not going to try to please anyone anymore.’

‘I won’t know anyone at the party. What am I going to do?’ She shakes her head.

‘Sweetie, I’m so sorry.’

Laila stares into the river. Two birds dive towards the water, peck at the surface. One sweeps up into the air, something wriggling in its beak, triumphant. The other flaps its wings, screeches and squawks. Her loneliness balloons.

It’s the thick of spring, the sun is up earlier every day, and soon the cold weather will be truly behind her. She was looking forward to spending summer with Marietta. But now she sees herself sitting here on her own, the river her only companion. The afternoons will drag, she’ll wrack her brain trying to think of things to do to kill her boredom. She won’t have Marietta to talk to about the latest guests on the Oprah Winfrey Show, nor to go to Bargain Basement with, their regular fortnightly haunt. And when she cooks special Iban meals, she won’t have Marietta sampling them and saying how delicious they taste.

‘How am I going to spend the afternoons? It’s going to be so boring,’ Laila says, her face gloomy.

‘What about the girl who works at Bargain Basement? What’s her name?’

‘Corinne.’

‘That’s right, Corinne. Remember you said you were starting to like her, that she’s one of the few Australians who takes an interest in you?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘What? Gone?’

‘Moved to Mildura. Followed her boyfriend, he found a job there.’

Marietta sighs. ‘When did she leave?’

Laila shrugs. ‘Don’t know. She told me last week she was working till Friday. She might have already left.’

Marietta holds Laila’s hand.

‘Where will you be going?’ Laila says after some time.

‘Flinders Ranges. Peter’s always wanted to go there but never found the time. We’re taking the caravan.’

‘How long?’

‘A month and a half.’

‘A month and a half? Six weeks.’ She stares ahead. She sighs. ‘When do you leave?’

‘Two weeks before Christmas. We’ve still got the next couple of months together, Laila. Besides, our holiday will pass so quickly, before you know it, I’ll be back. You’ll see.’

‘No, it won’t. Summer will be gone by then.’

Laila rests her chin on her knuckles. Darkness creeps into her vision.

She wakes up with the sensation of something pressing on her chest. Her arms fling out, then she realises it’s the hot heavy air seeping into the caravan. She parts the curtains and sees the first signs. Cars speckled by starbursts. Light pooling on caravan tops. Her first real taste of hot weather in Australia. Forty-five degrees today, the weather forecast said on TV last night. Summer is truly here.

Spring had been unbearable as well. In the caravan, icy plumes had vibrated out from the walls. She wore two pairs of socks to bed, a parka indoors all the time. In the bathroom, for the few seconds between removing her clothes and stepping into the warm shower, a thousand pins pricked her body. Immediately after the shower, she would bundle herself up again, and soon she forgot what her skin felt like. The cold was permanently embedded there. She couldn’t move. It turned into a physical pain.

Surely things will be better now. The heat will ease her loneliness, take her back to Sarawak. Stop her from agonising about the house, about Marietta going away. She places her palm on the window and feels the warmth breathing life into her.

Jim has already gone to work. These days she cannot bring herself to wake up early. Jim hasn’t complained, hasn’t insisted that she get him breakfast and prepare his packed lunch. She can’t remember when she let that slide. She doesn’t know when he has breakfast, what he has for breakfast. She doesn’t hear him leave the caravan.

Once she slept until midday. When she woke up, she didn’t know where she was. She jumped out of bed, her head throbbing, and started talking in Iban:

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll be good from now on, I promise.’

With Marietta’s Christmas gift to her tucked under her arm, Laila clings to her friend. Marietta strokes her cheeks.

‘Have a lovely Christmas and New Year’s,’ Marietta says.

‘You too,’ Laila says.

‘Before you know it, we’ll be back.’

Their caravan is hooked onto the towbar. The car door is open. Peter is standing by the car, holding a satchel, looking on. There is pity on his face.

Don’t go, please don’t go.

Jim pulls them apart. Laila sniffs and tries to hide her tears. Jim puts his arm around her shoulders.

‘Only six weeks, Laila. She’ll be back in no time,’ Jim says.

They wave as Peter and Marietta get in.

Laila stares after the car until it disappears from view. She feels as if someone has just gouged out the contents of her heart.

Laila puts the recipe cut from Woman’s Day back into her scrap folder. The two plates of spaghetti bolognaise sit on the Formica-top table. She snips a few sprigs of parsley and places them on each plate, proud of her culinary experiment, a new activity to kill time now that Marietta’s gone.

Jim should walk in any minute now. She turns on the TV. Today Tonight is on. A landlord evicts his tenants when he finds the house infested with cockroaches. They hadn’t thrown out their rubbish for the six months they’d been living there. Every room in the house is littered with rubbish. ‘Tenants from hell,’ the anchor woman says.

Laila’s stomach growls. She only had soup for lunch. Looking at the spaghetti makes her hungrier. Outside the sky is turning grey, washes of pink lingering. She draws the curtains and turns on the lights. She flicks the channels and watches more TV. The time passes a little quicker. When the clock clicks to nine-thirty, she starts eating. The spaghetti is cold and feels dry and tough. She pours on some water from the kettle to moisten it.

After finishing the meal, she idles around the caravan, tidying things up and clearing away clutter. She folds her tops hung over backs of chairs to dry. As she opens the drawer, her shoebox where she keeps important items peeps out. Placing her tops on the bed she takes the box out. The stack of letters sits in the middle of the box. She remembers how she’d sorted them all out with care, arranged them chronologically before tying them with a rubber band and packing them away in the suitcase. That period in her life now seems a lifetime ago. She randomly pulls out one of the letters and scans the contents.

…sure it’ll take you a while to get used to life in Australia, I mean, gee, you’re crossing continents, but I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re happy here, my darling. I want so much for you to be happy as you’re taking a big step leaving the country of your birth. Not long now, four more months and you’ll be hopping off the plane and straight into my loving arms…

Laila reads the lines again before folding the letter and slipping it back into the envelope. She looks at the stack of letters, forty-three all up, including the cards and little notes that came with the gifts. What value do words have over actions? What does it take for things to become right? Why do things work out for some and not for others?

By eleven, after having watched the late night news on TV, she gets up and covers the other plate. The spaghetti won’t taste half decent now. She turns out the light and climbs into bed, the taste of the bolognaise sauce no longer in her mouth.

The song plays over and over in her head. On countless afternoons, they had sung local songs to each other, taking turns, the other humming along. Now on her own, Laila hums the Visayan tune, imagines Marietta’s voice, sees in her head the lift in Marietta’s eyebrows as the notes peak. Sunlight blinds her vision as she lies down, face up to the sky, the grass soft under her body. Her aching for Marietta turns into a dull pain in her temples. She can’t even bring herself to sing ‘Geylang Si Paku Geylang’.

She rubs her forehead with the tips of her fingers to ease the ache, shifts to another position nearer the gum tree where it is shaded. Turning towards the river, she takes in the flowing waters. Summer rolling away before her eyes. Her life slipping by.

The pale blue linen dress has a slit on one side. It rides all the way up to her mid-thigh, revealing only glimpses of flesh when she walks. Jim had bought her the dress despite her protestations. It cost $89, enough money to feed her family for a whole month.

This is the first time Laila has stepped into Jim’s boss’s house. It looks even more imposing close up than it does from a distance. The big pillars holding up the porch remind her of a fortress.

‘Hello, there. Rick’s my name.’ He motions for them to enter.

‘This is Laila, my wife,’ Jim says to Rick, squeezing past a bunch of people who have arrived at the same time.

‘Pleased to meet you, finally.’ Rick offers his hand, which Laila shakes timidly. ‘Come on in.’

The size of the hallway astounds her. It is only slightly narrower than the bilik back in the longhouse. Two statuettes stand at each side of an elaborately carved table, on which is a huge vase of flowers. A full-length mirror framed in gold graces another wall. Before Laila can take in the lounge room, a tall woman with orange hair ushers everyone into the backyard. Laila sneaks a peek at the two sofas in a creamy colour with gold patterns before being led past the sliding doors.

The barbecue is twice the size of the coin-operated one in the caravan park. Jim and Laila sit with a group of people next to a water feature with a statue of a naked boy holding a jug. Water flows out of the jug into a pond.

People have already started to eat, pouring wine into glasses. Others are mingling around the table, spooning food onto their plates. Laila notices that she is the only Asian person there.

‘So, how’s it going, Jim?’ a tall thin man sitting two seats from them asks.

‘Yeah, yeah, getting there…’ Jim says.

‘Another Christmas, another year older.’

‘What’s it? Nine years now you’ve been with Rick?’ Jim asks.

‘Shy of. Can’t believe how time has flown by.’

Laila listens to the conversation, her eyes jumping from face to face.

‘Adelaide Crows have switched coaches. Again,’ someone says.

‘Now why aren’t I surprised?’ someone else says.

The inevitable, football talk. It’s so predictable. When Jim’s friends come over to the caravan park for a barbecue, it is the same. Once she tried joining in. She sat beside a man called Danny. In between footy talk, they exchanged about ten words, something about where she was from, then silence. Danny kept turning his body away from her and talking with Jim and the other men. The conversation went back to football.

Laila switches off. She studies the elaborate pattern of pavers, the beds of roses and flowers she doesn’t know the names of, the manicured lawns, edges perfectly trimmed. The surroundings make her uncomfortable. She feels she needs to stay still or she’ll break or wreck something.

Beyond the laughter and clink of glasses, she aches for Marietta. She pictures Marietta in their caravan, parked in a scenic spot in the imaginary Flinders Ranges. Peter would be hooking up the cables and things while Marietta would busy herself preparing the evening meal.

Laila looks in Jim’s direction and finds him chatting with his friends. Three of them have moved to the barbecue, beer cans in hand, laughing, poking each other in the arm. One of them reaches for the long metal tongs, waving them around as he speaks. Another arranges slices of meat and sausages on the hotplate.

‘Woah…’ Jim stands back, shielding his face with his hand as the meat sizzles and crackles.

She looks around to see if there is anyone she vaguely knows, maybe someone who works in one of the shops in town. Then she looks down at her dress and feels the urge to spill her orange juice on it, watch the colour spread over the fabric into a big round patch.

After fidgeting in her seat for some time, she decides to get something to eat. She peers across the backyard. Jim is now in his element. His face is bright red, and he is gesturing and making funny sounds, swinging his beer can around. When ‘Jailhouse Rock’ blares out from the speakers, he does a jig, swaying his hips and jiggling his knees. The others cheer him on, clapping and nudging with their elbows. She gets up and heads for the table of food.

A large array of dishes is spread out there, foods that look strange and foreign. She has never seen so much food in her life. Four types of salads, bowls of what looks like blended baby food, cold meats, chicken wings, different types of bread, a platter of tiny foods in various shapes and colours. At the far end of the table, cheeses, nuts, strawberries, grapes, cakes, jellies and desserts in bright colours. She stands gazing, overwhelmed.

‘I’d start with the dips, if I were you,’ a voice behind her says.

She turns around and finds herself face to face with a man with a lean build and angular face. He has the most exquisite blue eyes she has ever seen. The man gives her a smile.

‘Dips?’ she says.

‘Yes, these.’ He points at them. ‘You have a choice of hommous, tzatziki, and this one I suspect could be either sun-dried tomato or roasted capsicum—oh, and this, judging from the colour, could be pink salmon.’

Laila raises her eyebrows.

‘And you’d want to dip them with either those celery or carrot sticks or this Mediterranean dipping bread.’

‘Oh,’ she says.

He places two triangular pieces of dipping bread on her plate. Then he spoons some hommous next to the bread. He is standing so close to her she catches a whiff of his scent—a mix of aftershave and a faint trace of sweat. As he moves, his shirt collar opens out, and she notices a gold chain round his neck, a pendant in the shape of an ‘S’ sitting among fine brown hairs. Laila shifts her gaze back to the table, to force herself not to look at him. He spoons food onto his plate, circling the table, taking his time.

‘Friend of Rick’s?’ he asks, his eyes alternating between her and the table.

She looks at him blankly.

‘The host, Rick?’

‘Oh yes…I mean, no. I came with my husband. He works for Rick.’

‘Uh huh.’

He is now at the opposite side of the table and Laila has a full view of him. He’s better looking than she thought. Slightly shorter than Jim, short-cropped brown hair, head held up with poise. Laila’s eyes fly over the contours of his chest, over his short-sleeved white shirt. His jeans, she notices, are well cut.

‘He throws great parties, Rick. Always a sumptuous spread. Never any shortage of booze.’

‘This is my first time.’

‘So I noticed.’ He gives her a sideways glance, eyes holding her gaze. ‘I’m Sean.’

‘Hello.’

‘And you are…?’

‘Laila. My name is Laila.’

‘Laila. Pretty name. Spelt L-E-I-L-A?’

‘No, L-A-I-L-A.’

‘Ahh.’

Blood rushes to her face. She is suddenly conscious of how she looks in the dress, wonders if her hair is falling in the right way over her shoulder. She wants to run back to her seat, to end the conversation, but she finds herself lingering.

Sean sets his plate down, ambles to the side table and reaches for a bottle of wine. He studies the label, puts it down, takes another bottle.

‘Care for some wine?’

‘Uh…I’ve never had wine before.’

‘Well, there’s always a first time. And what better occasion than at Christmas and with South Australian wine.’ He fetches two glasses and hands one to her. ‘You do know, don’t you, that we make the best wine in all of Australia?’ He arches one eyebrow.

‘Yes, I have heard.’

‘Well, there you go.’ He hands her a glass. ‘Chardonnay. Goes well with this food.’

Laila takes the glass from him, notices that his eyes drift over the slit in her dress. She wants to pull the seam, to hide her thigh, but her other hand is holding the plate.

‘Cheers.’ He clinks his glass with hers, his eyes never leaving her face.

Laila sips the wine, feels the citrusy taste on her tongue. The alcohol infuses her nasal cavities. It reminds her of tuak, but with a strong fruity flavour. She likes the taste of it.

‘Well?’ he says.

‘It is nice.’

‘Good. Glad I’ve been able to assist with your initiation.’

Laila doesn’t know what he means so she keeps quiet. She looks around, trying to locate Jim. He is still by the barbecue with his friends.

‘Been in Australia long?’ Sean asks.

‘I came in March this year.’

‘Ah, still early days.’

‘It will be a year soon.’

‘Where from?’

‘Malaysia.’

‘Aah, your prime minister and ours, our former one rather, have exchanged some very intimate words.’ A half grin spreads over his face.

She doesn’t know what he’s talking about but she can’t take her eyes off him. She struggles for something to say, conscious that he must think her socially inept.

Finally she manages, ‘Do you work for Rick as well?’

‘Hell no, I only do business with him. I’m sales manager for Sungold Fruit Juices.’

The name of the company does not ring a bell.

‘You know the people who make Merrigold Juice?’

The labels come flying back into her memory—she has seen them in the Woolworths fresh juice section.

‘Yes, yes,’ she says.

‘Now we’re talking.’

She looks in Jim’s direction. He is no longer at the barbecue. She is about to ask Sean more, when she spots Jim returning to their table carrying his can of beer.

‘Well, I have to go now,’ she says abruptly.

And before Sean has a chance to reply, she rushes away, almost tripping on her dress. She doesn’t look back. Her eyes are on the ground, hoping that Jim has not seen her.

‘Hi honey, got yourself some food, did you? Great, I was worried you’d be hungry,’ Jim says.

Saturday afternoon and Laila is at the checkout in Woolworths, her trolley laden with groceries. Jim has dropped her off and is coming back to pick her up later.

‘That will be fifty-eight dollars, thanks,’ the checkout girl says.

After taking her change, Laila wheels the trolley past the cigarette and fresh flowers section. She’s about to head through the automatic doors when a man speaks to her. He has sunglasses on, and is wearing a black T-shirt with the word ‘JAG’ in white on it, and long cargo shorts in khaki.

‘Well, hello,’ he says. ‘The girl in the blue dress.’

He flashes her a smile, removes his sunglasses and Laila recognises him immediately. His hair looks lighter in the daytime. She wants to backtrack, or swing past Sean’s handsome face, but she stays rooted to the spot. She meets his gaze.

‘Oh, hi,’ she says.

‘Weekly chores, hey?’

‘Yes.’ Her hands fly to her hair and arrange it. She’s embarrassed by the Home Brand labels visible from her shopping bags. She wishes she could hide them.

‘Well, someone’s got to do it. I do it too, but not weekly. I shop whenever my fridge gets empty, which can vary from two days to two weeks!’

She smiles. He looks so sophisticated, so rich, she fears anything she says will give away her peasant origins.

‘The good thing,’ he says, leaning against the cigarette counter, ‘is that the supermarket near me opens seven days a week, till late.’

‘Really? Where’s that?’

‘Henley Beach.’

‘So you live in…Adelaide?’

‘Yes, but my work brings me to Renmark quite often.’ He puts his hands in his pocket. ‘Listen, I got to run.’ He slides a business card from his wallet. ‘Call me when you’re next in Adelaide. We could catch up for a coffee.’

She starts to mumble something, her eyes darting here and there, her hands flying in awkward directions, but he is already slipping his card into her hand. His fingers brush hers lightly.

‘Actually, call me any time you like.’

18

THE TV BLARES. JIM drinks his coffee, leans back in his seat. It doesn’t feel like a Sunday at all. He’s dog tired, had a dreadful night’s sleep. Greg, their neighbour, had a party last night. What a racket! Laughter, jeering, music, chairs being dragged in and out, beer cans being opened. People didn’t start leaving till at least one in the morning. He really could have done with another hour’s sleep, but Laila was up at eight, climbing over him, the whole bed rocking. Then clinks, clanks and rustling sounds.

She comes in from the shower. Puts her soiled clothes in the hamper, hangs up her towel and reaches for her cosmetics bag. She walks back and forth in the caravan, doing her face, washing the breakfast dishes. At last she wipes the last of the plates, and turns to Jim.

‘What time are we leaving?’

Jim tears his gaze from the TV, rubs his eyes. ‘What?’

‘What time are we going?’

‘Going where?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Remember what?’

Laila throws her handbag on the floor, sits on the bed and looks out the window. Her chest heaves, her shoulders move up and down.

‘What, honey?’ Jim says.

She goes to the wardrobe, opens the door and pokes around for something. Then she shuts the doors with a thump. ‘Rushton’s Rose Garden. You were going to take me to look at the roses.’

Jim sits up, scratches his head. ‘Shit, I forgot.’

Laila throws her hands up in the air. ‘Again. Forgot. Again. We discussed this on Thursday and you said we would go today.’

Jim drinks up his coffee. ‘Let’s go then. Let’s go, okay?’

She looks him up and down, points at his body. ‘Like that?’

‘Okay, I’ll get dressed.’

He is wearing only his underpants.

‘You haven’t even showered.’

‘That’s fine. I’ll just put something on.’

‘You can’t go out without showering.’

‘Sure I can.’ Jim gets up and pulls out a T-shirt from a drawer.

‘No, we are not going with you like this.’

‘Oh for crying out loud, it’s only bloody Rushton’s. It’s not like it’s the Queen’s palace.’

Laila stares at him in disgust. ‘I don’t want to go anymore.’ She takes his mug, throws it in the sink and storms out the door.

He looks at his watch. Nine forty-five. He hadn’t expected to stay that long at the pub. But Tom had rocked up out of the blue (back from Mildura early) and was telling everyone about the new motorbike he’d bought there and ridden back on. Then Rodney joined them. The next thing, five people were bunched together, talking about horse racing and organising a trip to the Outback Racing Carnival. That’s how it always is at the pub. He goes with the intention of drinking for an hour, an hour and a half tops, and then winds up staying for much longer.

Jim turns the key in the lock and opens the door. Laila is seated on the bench, facing the TV. She doesn’t look up at him.

‘Hi there…’ he mumbles.

No reply. The TV hisses—she has muted the volume. He senses trouble, he can almost smell it in the air. But the alcohol has dulled his senses. His stomach growls.

Tea, where is his tea? He stumbles to the oven where she usually puts it to keep it warm. He bends down and opens the door. He peers inside. Nothing. He looks again, dives his hand in and feels around as if it might mysteriously appear from a corner.

‘I threw it away. No point keeping it,’ Laila says.

He pauses for a moment, scratches his stomach. Beside him Laila sits completely still, her eyes burrowing into the TV. He hears her breathing, imagines fumes of anger surging out of her nostrils. He looks away. He suddenly feels breathless. The place is suffocating.

There may be some leftover food in the fridge. He struggles to remember, tries to visualise the inside of the fridge from the last time he opened it, which was last night. He decides against looking. The clinking and clanking of plates and cutlery would only stir things up more. Times like this, he should minimise any movement in the caravan. Lie low, as they say in the battlefield. In the brittleness of the night, the slightest movement will be amplified, turn into an incident.

A beer. He could use another beer. That would fill him up at least. He opens the fridge quickly, grabs a can of beer. He staggers towards the bed, places the beer on the bedside table. After removing his shoes, he lies back and pulls the ring tab. The creak of metal thunders in the small space. Laila shoots him a look then turns back to face the TV. Jim brings the can to his mouth.

‘You’ve had enough to drink,’ she says, still looking at the TV.

He raises his eyebrows, then ignores her. The alcohol spins in his head. He folds his legs, takes another gulp. Suddenly a funny remark Rodney made at the pub comes tumbling into his head. He laughs.

‘Enough, Jim.’

‘Hey?’ he says, feigning ignorance and laughs some more.

‘I’m sick of making you tea and you don’t come home.’

‘I’m home now, aren’t I?’

‘Look at the time, it is ten-thirty.’

‘Oh, is it?’

‘Yes, ten-thirty. I’m sick of you coming home late.’

He continues drinking, purses his mouth into an ‘o’ as if whistling.

‘Do you know what it is like? Cooking for you, then waiting and waiting?’

It’s the same old story. Nag. That’s all they do. Nag, nag, nag. He says nothing.

‘Jim!’ Laila screams. ‘Why don’t you answer me?’

‘Fine. Answer you, yeah, sure I’ll answer you.’ He sits up. ‘I’ve had it with your pouting, your whines. You want to know why I don’t come home? You know why? So I don’t have to look at the sour puss in front of the TV.’

An agonised look creeps over Laila’s face. She brings her hand to her cheek as if she has been struck.

‘How dare you? How dare you? Whose fault is it I’m so miserable? This stupid caravan, this shit box. How can you expect me to live in this shit?’

‘Yeah, yeah, here we go again.’ Jim lifts his hand and rolls his eyes.

Laila gets up and lunges across at him. She grabs the can of beer from his hand and throws it against the wall. The liquid foams out, splatters all over the bed.

‘All you do is drink! You think you can solve your problems by drinking? You promised me a happy life. Look at this, look at this dump I’m living in!’

Somewhere inside of himself Jim feels his soul receding. He just wants to continue lying on the bed. He doesn’t care that the mattress is soaking up beer. He doesn’t care that the bed will be cold to sleep on. Laila walks up and down the small space, as she does when she’s angry. Thump. Thump. Thump. Her feet stomp the floor.

‘I hate this caravan, do you hear me? I hate this stupid caravan!’ Her voice is shrill.

Jim sits up. ‘Yeah, right, yeah, so damned right. You know what? Had I known you were going to be such a princess, I wouldn’t even have considered going through with the whole thing.’

‘Damn you. You’ve cheated me, you’ve deceived me!’ She prances around the caravan, then slumps into a corner and hits her head against the wall, crying.

‘Dramas. Bloody dramas. I don’t need this, you know, I really don’t need this.’

She cries louder and continues yelling at him. ‘Damn you! Damn you!’

He puts on his shoes, grabs his jacket and goes out the door.

Nearly tea time, and darkness in the caravan. Two evenings in a row.

Last night the caravan was empty when he got home too. Fear had gripped him. He’d immediately hopped back into the car. He drove around the caravan park, and the streets nearby. He refused to speculate, ponder on why she might be gone. She could be anywhere. After fifteen minutes of not locating her anywhere, he returned to the caravan. At the boom gate, he fumbled for his swipe card, dropped it twice on the ground. As he got out of the car to retrieve the card, he fought to steady himself and calm his mind. It was only when he spotted the light on in the caravan that his heartbeat started to stabilise.

Laila was cutting vegetables when he stepped inside. She muttered hello to him and continued cutting. He was so relieved at the sight of her that he decided against asking where she’d been.

Now, opening the door to the empty caravan, fear pulses through his veins again. What if she’s gone, packed up, left for good? Would she run off just because of a fight? Where could she go? She doesn’t know anyone except Marietta and Peter. He might be able to track her down at their caravan anyway. He immediately drives there.

‘Nope, haven’t seen her,’ Peter says at the door. ‘But let me check with Marietta. Honey, did you catch up with Laila today?’

Marietta pops her head over Peter’s shoulder. ‘No, Jim, we were going to catch up but I had to go to town to do some errands. In fact, I’ve only seen her once since we came back from the Flinders.’

‘Did you check the caravan park? Maybe she’s gone walkabout,’ Peter says.

‘No, not yet,’ Jim says.

‘We’ll let you know if she does show up here, okay?’ Marietta says.

‘Everything alright?’ Peter asks.

‘Yep, yep,’ he says, avoiding their eyes.

Panic seizes him as he drives home. He pictures her run over by a car, lost in the bush, maybe drowned in the river. Images swirl in his head. He doesn’t like this one bit. If it’s a game she’s playing, he’ll soon show her it isn’t working.

His heart sinks when he arrives back and finds the caravan still dim. He flicks on the TV and sits down. The evening news comes on. The Palestinians have planted another bomb. Silent pandemonium, bloodstained bodies being rushed away on stretchers, soundless cries of women. He flicks through the channels, looks at his watch, flicks through the channels again.

Which direction should he head? He has no idea. In fact, he has little knowledge of what Laila does in the daytime while he’s at work. In the beginning, she used to tell him what she did every day. Checked out the butcher shop; saw four white puppies in the pet shop; went to the movies with Marietta. He can’t remember when she stopped telling him about her day, and vice versa; the accounts just became shorter and shorter until they fizzled out. He thinks back on the last couple of months and struggles to recall a decent conversation, apart from exchanges about chores, grocery shopping—and the escalating fights.

He follows the course of the river. Laila loves the Murray. That much he knows about his wife. The river is awash with colours of dusk. In no time it will be completely dark. He makes a turn and heads back the other way, via the caravan to get a torch. The furrow of light from the torch zigzags in front of him as he walks. The waterway is now a long pitch-black presence. Scents of earth and ripening fruit surround him. He shines the torch at clumps and shrubs.

After about fifteen minutes he’s approaching Lennie’s Landing. From a distance he can see the outline of the weir joining the opposite banks of the river, straddling its full width, a large expanse of water held back by it. Further down is the outline of the pumphouse.

When Jim reaches the pumphouse, he turns off his torch. This is as far as he will search. He looks up at the sky and back at the water, a black mass. A last look at the jagged shapes in the distance and he decides to call it a night.

He’s about to head off when he hears a stirring. It’s coming from the pumphouse. He switches on the torch again and follows the direction of the sound—steps over pipes and pumps, and walks towards the shed. He can make out faint shuffling sounds. He shines his torch at the shed. A black figure stirs, the blur of a human form. He directs the torch at the form and recognises Laila immediately. Long black hair obvious even in the dark. She’s leaning against the wall of the pumphouse, side-on to him.

‘Laila, that you there?’

Laila shields her face from the light with her hands.

Jim hurries towards her. Her body is trembling and her cheeks wet.

‘Hey, what are you doing here?’ he says.

Laila wipes her face with the back of her hand. She takes a deep breath, tries to stifle her cries but fails. She bends, brings both hands to her face and sobs.

‘Oh, babe.’ Jim pulls her towards him and enfolds her in his arms.

She sinks into his chest, her body shaking. Then she raises her hands and pounds his chest repeatedly, her cries high-pitched and sharp.

19

‘JIM CAME LOOKING FOR you the other night,’ Marietta says.

‘I know,’ Laila says.

Marietta looks at Laila, waiting. Her eyes are intent. Laila avoids her gaze. She lowers her head, studies the floral motifs on her skirt, the blades of grass flattened by the weight of her legs.

She recalls the day Marietta returned from her holiday. She was sitting at this same spot when she caught sight of Marietta appearing from out of the blue, hands flying in the air. She’d leapt up at once and almost tripped as she ran towards Marietta. The words spilled out of her mouth when they hugged: ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re back.’ They couldn’t stop talking. Marietta rattled on about Wilpena Pound, the Flinders Ranges being really blue, the stunning views, the bush walks, the people they met and how relaxed Peter was the whole time. It was enough for her to just let Marietta’s voice, absent for so long, drench her like syrup over waffle.

Now the happiness of their reunion seems so distant. The chaos of her thoughts, momentarily lifted with Marietta’s return, revisits her.

Shadows of leaves flicker on her face. The water ebbs and flows. Laila listens to the swishing sounds, wishes the ebbing waters could unclog all that’s going on inside her. Her jumbled thoughts remind her of things piled up in messy heaps in people’s backyard sheds. Walking past, she’s caught quick glimpses: crates, tools, instruments, boxes, bottles, jars, containers, ladders, wheelbarrows, things jammed up against each other.

She turns to Marietta. ‘Sing me that song, please.’

Marietta runs her fingers over Laila’s cheek. ‘Sure.’

Marietta takes a deep breath and sings:

‘Usahay magadamgo ako,

Nga ikaw ug ako nagkahigug-maay

Nganong damguhon ko ikaw,

Damguhon sa karunay sa akong kamingaw…’

Laila lies back. Marietta’s notes float above her, resonating with the movement of the shadows. At the chorus, Laila hums along, having memorised the tune, if not the words, meaningless to her in Visayan. She watches Marietta, notices the calmness with which she delivers the notes, the contentment radiating from her eyes. Would anything ever faze her friend? Laila closes her eyes. Perhaps just being in Marietta’s fold will help her to centre. Sunlight dazzling the back of her eyelids, she wills Marietta’s inner peace to flow into her.

Back in the longhouse, long before she met Jim, she used to think that somewhere out there was the perfect man waiting for her. He wouldn’t have a particular appearance or face. He’d just be there for her, to care for her when things got rough. Ensure she would not go hungry, that she was comfortable and not lacking for anything she needed. Their paths would cross, she was positive. She’d fall for him and he for her, and he’d come to rescue her from the longhouse.

‘Okay, your turn now,’ Marietta says.

Laila looks up. ‘Another day?’

‘That’s not fair. We always take turns to sing.’

‘My throat’s a bit sore.’

‘Okay, next time you have to sing twice as long.’

Laila is silent.

Marietta removes her shoes and lies down beside Laila. ‘Tell me what’s really bothering you.’

‘Nothing.’

Marietta gives her a look. ‘I know something’s bothering you, Laila.’

Laila doesn’t reply.

‘Okay, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel like it.’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. It just seems pointless.’

‘Try me.’

‘We’ve talked about it before. So many times. Same old story, Marietta.’

‘The caravan?’

‘Yes, it’s so miserable.’

‘Laila, look at me.’ Marietta forces Laila to hold eye contact with her. ‘You are unhappy. Terribly unhappy. Is it just about wanting to move into a house?’

‘Marietta! How can you stand living in a caravan?’

‘I know the caravan is small and cramped, but compared to the suffering I went through in Jogjakarta, my life here is a haven.’

Laila sighs. ‘God, I can’t believe you sometimes.’

Marietta places her palm on Laila’s hand. ‘It’s hard for you to understand. If Peter could afford it, we would be living in a better place. But he can’t just yet. He’s still recovering from his divorce. Lost his home to his ex-wife.’

‘How can you be so patient?’

‘He loves me and treats me well. That is enough for me.’

‘That’s where we are different, Marietta. If Jim truly loves me, he’ll try to make me happy—and he knows a house would make me happy.’

‘You are testing his love. It never works.’

Laila looks away. ‘Anyway, I don’t know him anymore. He has changed. He is no more the loving man I know.’ ‘Have you tried talking to him?’

‘We end up fighting. All the time.’

‘Marriage takes work. I know you probably think things are easy and perfect between Peter and me. They aren’t.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Peter has this arrogant side that used to annoy me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, he has a way of never admitting he’s wrong, no matter how obvious it is. And then he will turn things around so the problem becomes mine, not his.’

‘So you argue with him too?’

‘Of course. In the beginning it used to upset me. One time I didn’t talk to him for a week. But I’ve found a way of dealing with it. I don’t even argue with him anymore. I just agree with him, and if he’s been really unreasonable he’ll apologise later.’ Marietta sits up. ‘It evens out in the end, considering what Peter puts up with when I get depressed.’

‘Depressed? I can’t imagine you depressed.’ Laila looks at Marietta.

‘I get into lapses. Some days, I’ll get like flashbacks of my time in Jogjakarta. I feel so horrible about myself and give Peter a hard time.’

‘Really?’

‘I yell at him and he’ll yell back. Sometimes I feel as if I’m choking. I become so full of self-hatred, I feel as if I’ll explode if anyone comes near me. The only way out of that is to be on my own.’

‘What does Peter do when that happens?’

‘He’ll go stay with his mates.’

‘For how long?’

‘Oh, sometimes for as long as three days.’

‘What do you do then, on your own?’

‘I keep occupied, do things. I also go to church for long hours and pray.’

‘That’s very understanding of Peter.’

‘Yes, Peter is a sweetheart. But thank goodness those episodes don’t happen that often.’

‘Since I’ve known you, I haven’t seen you get like that.’

‘It’s got better. What I’m saying, Laila, is that there’s no perfect marriage. There’ll always be problems, but it’s up to the couple to work out a way of getting along. It may take a while, but it can be done.’

‘I can’t see a way out of my situation. I cannot bear to live in the caravan anymore. And besides…’ The word Sean dangles on the edge of her tongue.

A group of birds screeches past and heads for a nearby tree. They both look in the direction of the tree. The birds flap their wings and peck at the leaves.

The people come in drifts and droves. Each day as she takes her afternoon walk along the River Murray Houseboats walkway, she sees them arriving in fancy cars, cars that look like mini-trucks, cars with jet skis or bicycles attached to the backs or tops. They file through and park in front of the houseboats moored at the waterfront. Throughout winter she had walked past the rows of dark empty boats lying idle, curtains and blinds drawn, barbecues covered with plastic covers, and wondered what they were. Now they tumble into life, the sun beating down on the roofs.

Instead of catching up with Marietta at the riverbank, Laila has been taking afternoon walks by herself. She’s starting to tire of the stories about Peter doing the dishes, giving Marietta back rubs, their happy conversations sitting outside the caravan. She’s sick of hearing how happy they are.

A houseboat embarks from the waterfront. Laila watches it move away, hears the brr-brr of the paddle steamer. The boat coasts down the river, leaving behind ribbons of froth. Memories of the speedboats on the Rejang River spring back—but instead of villagers clad in sarongs, old T-shirts and open-toed slippers, carrying jungle produce, foodstuffs and slaughtered animals, here she sees four occupants in the houseboat, dressed in checked shirts, halter-neck tops and cargo shorts.

Elsewhere, glasses clink as people gather at the front decks, talking, laughing. Scents of barbecued meat waft out. In one boat, Laila notices a blonde-haired woman flinging her head back—her mane of curls cascading over her shoulder—laughing, her teeth showing, her hand, bedecked with gold rings and bracelets, flinging in the air. The man standing beside her leans in, chuckles, then brings a glass of wine to his mouth. Then he encircles her waist with his arm, pulls her towards him and plants a kiss on her neck. She laughs even more loudly.

Every houseboat is occupied, everyone’s having a whale of a time. They look and dress differently from the people in Renmark. They are probably from Adelaide, the type Sean would hang out with. Her loneliness swells.

Jim had wanted to hire a riverboat for their honeymoon. ‘You’ll love it, honey. If you love the river, you’ll love the riverboat, miles and miles of this beautiful water,’ he’d said. It was going to cost $1000 to hire for a week.

‘No, Jim, too expensive, you need to save that money.’

‘Nah,’ Jim had said, ‘plenty of time for that later.’

His mother’s inheritance again. Foolish to think he was ever going to be able to save. She’d married a child, a slacker. The things he’s been wasting his money on—movies, eating out, the blue dress that she didn’t even want, the yellow skirt from Myer in Adelaide that cost $69 that she didn’t really like, a brand new TV to replace the old one that was still working fine, his cases and cases of beer. If only she could turn the clock back, read more into his letters, dissect his words better. She remembers his skill at distorting reality when she asked how he was going to support her.

No problems, honey, we’ll sort all that out when you get here. My boss Rick has been renewing my contract for donkey’s years. Unless an earthquake happens and all the orchards in the Riverland go cactus, I’ll have a job till the cows come home. Hah hah…bet you’re going to ask me what ‘till the cows come home’ means.

Laila kicks the gravel and scurries past the houseboats, turning her face away, shutting out her emotions. At the end of the walkway, loud music thumps from one of the last houseboats. Three men with beer cans in hand are gyrating to the beat of drums. They sing at the tops of their voices, throwing nuts at each other. One of them with a coloured cloth tied round his head notices her. He stops dancing, lurches to the railing of the front deck.

‘Hey, check this out, Luke, an Asian babe.’

His two friends stop dancing and join him. ‘Tight little pussy, I bet,’ one of them shouts, then bursts into laughter.

‘Think you can find out?’

Laila quickens her pace, staring at the ground.

The first guy waves a hand at her and says, ‘Wanna have some fun, babe? We’ll show you what real Aussie fun is.’

The others jeer and clap.

Laila runs ahead, stomping past clumps of bushes, ignoring the twigs and branches scraping her legs.

She angles her body away from a couple standing on the opposite side of the road. She’s now a long distance from the boisterous men in the houseboat. She opens the door of the telephone booth, her heart pounding.

Taking a deep breath, Laila pulls out the business card from her wallet. She stares at the words and numbers for a few seconds before lifting the receiver. She slides in some coins, punches in the number. The ringing tone booms in her ear. Her fingers clutch the receiver. The ringing seems to go on forever. Please don’t answer, please don’t answer. Click, the sound of someone picking up the phone.

‘Hello, Sean Timmerman here.’

Laila presses her finger on the lever. The phone goes dead, static hisses in her ear. With the receiver cradled in her elbow, she crouches, chews her fingernails. Oh my God, what am I doing? Her heart hammers in her ribcage. The husky tone of his voice, the self-assured way he smiles, the intoxicating mix of the scent of his skin and his aftershave burn in her memory.

20

TWO QUEUES LEAD TO the counters, and people are milling about in the job notices area. The dole office is more crowded than he remembers it. The last time he stepped in here was four years ago, shortly after his mum died.

That was a period he doesn’t want to think about. The dole queue, filling out the forms, making up employer names and efforts at contacting them to look for work. And the fat lady at the counter who always wore that crummy green cardigan, no matter what the season, and who looked at him like he was worse than scum. Just because he was temporarily out of work. She had glared at him as if she knew why his last employer hadn’t renewed his contract. He’d tried hard to keep the details to himself, about not showing up for work for five, six days (he can’t remember exactly) over a three-week period, and how that had not impressed his boss, Kevin. But in a small town like Renmark, stories have a way of leaking out.

At first, when Kevin had learnt of Jim’s mother’s illness, he’d been sympathetic. Told him to take as much time off as he needed. Contract staff weren’t eligible for compassionate leave but even after Jim’s mum finally died, Kevin told him to take a week off for the funeral. It was only when he started not showing up for work much later that it all caved in.

Jim remembers the day Kevin called him into his office.

‘Mate, I do want to help, but it’s become a little out of control, if you know what I mean,’ Kevin had said. ‘It’s been months, yeah, since your mum passed on, but it seems to be dragging on and on for you.’

Jim looked at him blankly. ‘Yeah, okay, I know what you’re saying.’

‘I’ve given you plenty of chances, but it just doesn’t seem to be getting any better.’

Jim ran his hand over his bald head, sucked in air through his teeth.

‘I was thinking of extending your contract for another year but your no-shows, and the excuses you give…’ He paused then shook his head. ‘Well, I’m afraid they just don’t cut the mustard. We have a business to run here and it won’t do if we can’t rely on our pickers.’

It wasn’t as if he’d cut work to hit the pub. Jim can’t recall what he did during the days he skipped work. He only knows that a few times he just couldn’t get out of bed. He’d felt drugged, as if a force outside himself was pinning him to the bed. He would open his eyes and, no matter how hard he tried, his limbs wouldn’t move. The feeling that he was all alone, the sense of not being connected to anyone or anything stripped him of energy. His body felt weighed down, and falling to pieces. Sometimes he couldn’t even push himself to eat—shocking, considering how he loved his food.

The regular pattern before Mum was admitted to hospital simply slipped away. Knocking off after work, calling past Mum’s to have tea, chatting with her about this and that…He remembers thinking how transient life is, you never know what you’re going to find around the corner. One day, she was fine and they were cracking up about how she’d walk to the kitchen and not remember what she was there for, the next day she got the stroke, fell into a coma, regained consciousness, and a few days later was gone. Overnight the structure that had propped up his life gave way.

When Dad died, his world had shrunk. Although he was just a little boy then, he can still remember waking up the day after the funeral—relatives gone, pandemonium settled—and finding the walls giving out a silence he’d never experienced before. And as he got out of bed and walked to his mother’s room, as he creaked open the door to find her lying under the quilt, staring up at the ceiling, tears sliding down her cheeks, as he ran towards her and shook her by the shoulder until she finally tore her eyes from the ceiling and lifted him into the bed with her, the silence had seemed to crystallise. Cuddling up to his mother, that silence continued to swallow him. He felt there were only two people left in the world. Mum and him. Mum and him. She was all he had and he was all she had. For twenty-eight years after that, it had been that way. And then it all disappeared overnight.

How was he to explain to Kevin that these things took time to get used to? That he needed time to come to terms with Mum’s death. You had to experience this yourself. How could he tell Kevin that spinning around in his head every day were images that would not go away: Mum tying his shoelaces in the morning; packing mettwurst rolls with gherkins, and chocolate doughnuts, for a picnic by the river; slipping fifty dollars into his hand after he’d blown his first pay in less than a week?

So he stood up, shook Kevin’s hand, and muttered that it was okay, no worries. No point trying to persuade Kevin. It would be, as his mum used to say, tantamount to rowing a boat upstream.

The visits to the dole office had followed. At first he went once every two weeks to submit his forms. Occasionally he would check out the positions vacant. This went on for about three months, and no jobs jumped out at him. After a few months, when his bank account started drying up, he increased his frequency to twice a week. He still couldn’t bear to touch Mum’s money.

It was a good two months more before he landed himself his present job, but not through the dole office. Someone who knew someone who was a friend of his present boss, Rick, had mentioned it. Jim had gotten the job instantly. But the months of visiting the place had taken their toll. The fat lady for one, and the unsavoury characters, with their tattoos and unkempt clothes, for another.

Today Jim ambles to the job notices area, scans through the boards. Panelbeater, chef, kitchen hand, butcher. His eyes land on an ad for sales representatives. No experience needed. Training will be provided. Jim has encountered many a sales rep and often thought he could make a sales person, someday. All you needed was the gift of the gab, and he’d been known to be able to talk in his time. He scribbles down the vacancy number and joins the queue.

‘Next please!’

Jim approaches the counter and comes face to face with Green Cardigan.

‘How can I help?’ She looks at him, face glum.

Layers of fat sit under her chin and huge plasticrimmed glasses cover half her face. Her eyes are too close together.

‘Hi, I was just wanting to know more about a job,’ he says.

‘Which one?’

‘This one.’ He shows her the note paper.

Green Cardigan takes the paper from him. ‘LK89012C.’ She punches in the code on her keyboard. Minutes tick by. She looks at the screen, making whistling sounds with her lips. ‘Tee tee tee tee…’ She taps her fingers. ‘Right-tee-oo, here we go. Sales representative for a large South Australian company based in Berri. Training provided to familiarise with qualities of product but sales experience preferred. Some sales qualifications an advantage.’

‘Does it say what company, and what product?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It just doesn’t.’ She shrugs her shoulders.

‘How can someone advertise a job and not mention the company or the product?’

‘Not all employers advertise their names, okay?’

‘You sure you read it through?’

She looks him squarely in the eye. ‘Yes, I am sure.’

‘Which company would want to advertise a job and not do that?’

She pulls the cardigan across her chest and glares at him. ‘They just don’t.’

Jim purses his lips and makes a face.

‘Well! Interested or not?’

‘What were you saying again about experience?’

She exhales air and her curly fringe moves. She places a hand on the mouse and studies the screen, moving her eyes up and down. After some time, she says, ‘Here we go again. Sales experience preferred, sales qualifications an advantage.’

Jim bites his lips, fidgets around. ‘It says no experience needed on the notice.’

‘So?’ she says.

‘Jeez, I haven’t got either.’

‘Well, bad luck.’ She looks back at the screen, and her index finger clicks a few times on the mouse, closing the page. Without looking at him she says, ‘Try looking for something you have qualifications for. Plenty of other jobs on the notice board.’ She points.

Rolls of fat on her arms spill onto the desk as she leans forward. Her bosom brushes the edge of the desk. Jim has the urge to slap her. His body shakes. He takes deep breaths. The queue behind him lengthens, faces irritated, some staring up at the ceiling, some standing on tiptoes to catch a view of the counter.

Jim turns on his heels, pads across the foyer and goes out the door.

Lately he’s got used to sitting out on his own after tea, watching people having a cuppa, smoking a cigar or having a conversation. Mildred is not outside with her husband today. They live a few caravans away. She has a habit of walking past to visit the bathroom exactly five minutes after Jim appears, and it didn’t take long for Jim to discover her real intentions.

‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ she’d say, followed by, ‘Missus not with you today?’ Without waiting for his reply, she’d peer into the caravan.

Jim has devised a way of sipping his coffee, swigging at his beer or lighting a cigarette, timing it for the precise moment the question is asked, smiling and nodding, his mouth so occupied that no one could fault him for not answering her.

This evening he’s staring absently at the neighbour’s car when the door of the caravan creaks open. Laila walks out with a cup of coffee in her hand.

Jim looks up at her, surprised.

‘Want another beer?’ she asks.

He swivels his can. ‘I’m alright, thanks.’

Laila pulls out the chair next to him and sits down. She drinks her coffee, gazes into the distance.

‘So, what’s up?’ Jim says.

Laila shrugs her shoulders.

‘What did you do today?’ he asks. They had not exchanged one word at tea.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You can’t have spent the whole day doing nothing.’

She shifts in her seat and looks in the opposite direction, face sullen.

‘So, it’s another one of those talk-to-yourself-Jim moments,’ he says. ‘How did I guess?’

Laila locks her fingers around her cup.

Jim looks into the distance, at the drab view of rows of caravans in front of him. To his right, a sliver of the Murray.

‘Thank God it’s Friday. You’ve no idea what a week it’s been.’

She looks him up and down and then turns away. ‘What happened?’

‘Oh you know, same shit, different day.’ Flies buzz around his face. He shoos them away with his hand, slaps his neck. ‘Bloody flies.’

Mildred walks past. She flings her head across at them, eyes wide open, peering with interest.

‘Hello there,’ she says.

‘Hiya,’ Jim says, a fake smile on his face, teeth clenched. ‘And thank you, goodbye…stupid old bag,’ he mutters under his breath. He sticks his middle finger up underneath the table in Mildred’s direction.

Laila gazes after Mildred. Turning back to Jim, she says, ‘Any news yet?’

‘News?’

‘The contract. You said, the contract for a better job.’

Jim scratches his head. Then it clicks.

‘Oh, that contract.’

‘Well?’

He shifts in his seat, scratches his temples. His stomach jiggles. ‘Man’s been dragging his feet. Promised me something weeks ago, then nothing.’

Laila lets out a breath. ‘Can’t you do something?’

‘Been trying. Can’t get him on the phone. I can leave a message but it’s not like I can get him to call me back.’ He looks in the direction of the caravan door and waves his hand in the air.

‘You can. The office takes messages.’

‘Oh, they do, do they? And how come you know so much?’

‘Of course I know. Everyone here knows.’

‘Whoopie-doo. Smartypants knows all.’

His trick might work yet. Detract from the main issue, that there is no contract and that the ‘better job’ is his concoction, that he’s banking on getting a new job on his own steam, in his own time.

‘So, will you call him and ask him to call back at the office?’ Laila says.

‘Sure, sure.’

‘Are you just saying that?’

‘I said I was going to call, didn’t I? Quit hounding me.’

‘I don’t believe you. You always say you will do something and then you don’t do it.’

‘Always. I always never do what I say I’ll do. This is simply magnificent.’

‘Remember that time—’

‘So it’s book-keeping time now, right? All the fifty zillion and one times I’ve been a bastard…’

‘But it’s true. I’m sick of having to remind you over and over again.’

‘Great.’ He flings his hand in the air. ‘Character assassination at its best. Sorry I’m not perfect, miss.’

‘Just promise me you will do it!’ she yells.

‘So, you want it in blood? Gash my wrist and have it in writing with my blood. Will that be good enough for you, huh, huh?’ He leans forward, thrusts his chest towards her, eyes enlarged, threatening.

Laila flinches, stares at him in disgust. Her jaw drops and hot angry tears gush out. She slams her cup on the table and rushes into the caravan.

‘Yeah, yeah, here we go again.’ Jim slumps back into his chair, squeezes the empty can in his hand and throws it against the caravan. The metal clinks, then it hits the ground.

As Jim angles his car into the gravel, he senses negative energy flowing out of his caravan. After killing the engine, he takes careful steps towards the door. The shuffle of his feet booms twice as loud in the night. Morning rather. He turns the face of his watch towards the streetlamp. Two-thirty, is it? He peers intently. Is it two-thirty or one-thirty? Digits blur into one another. Alcohol swims in his head.

Tiptoeing up the steps, he turns the key in the lock. As he pushes open the door, he feels a resistance, something is jammed up against the door. He forces the door open. A sliding sound. His eyes drop to the floor. To the blackish clump near his feet. It’s too dark to make out what it is.

He shuts the door, crouches and reaches for the object. In the darkness, he makes out the shape and form of his sleeping bag.

21

LAILA PICTURES PURPLE FLOWERS throughout her walk to the houseboat. The last one in the row, called Cocktails and Dreams. ‘You won’t miss it, anchored at the riverbank, near the jacaranda tree with purple flowers,’ Sean had said. Laila relives their conversation on the phone, blood starting to pulsate in her senses. All over again.

‘Lovely to hear from you,’ Sean had said.

Her hand was shaking so hard she had to push her knuckle against the wall of the phone booth to stop it from trembling, and struggle to keep her voice from quivering, her legs from turning to jelly.

But relief overcame her as the conversation unfolded more smoothly than she’d expected. She’d clicked the phone dead the first time, and sat on the floor of the booth for a good five minutes before plucking up the courage to dial his number again. This time Sean picked up the phone after eight rings, compared with four the first time. He was casual and chatty, going over what he’d been doing since the Christmas party, the additions to his portfolio at work, the pain of dealing with tradesmen for the new water feature in his backyard, all of which she heard but did not take in. Though she’d strained to listen, with the receiver pressed close to her ear, all she heard were the notes in his voice, the breaths, the inflections. He sounded different on the phone, gentler, his in-person confidence tempered by softness. How that conversation, running for seventeen minutes (she’d timed it), eventually came around to her meeting him at his houseboat, she cannot recall. She only remembers feeling as if she was on a slide, her body zipping down, the ground approaching at breakneck speed.

‘Look out for the big white sailcloth over the top deck,’ Sean had said.

Laila steps onto the Murray River Houseboats walkway. Gum trees on the left, river on the right. Not far away, the row of houseboats is visible. She quickens her pace, but then slows down.

Nearing the houseboats, she stops. Her heart pounds. She edges towards a huge gum tree, pulls out a mirror from her handbag. Quickly arranging her hair, she reapplies lipstick, smears it by putting her lips together. She avoids the reflection of her eyes. The glazed look, a mix of excitement and terror shooting from her pupils.

She could stop right now, make a turn and head back, think of some way to kill the next three hours before starting to prepare tea. Tea for Jim. Images of her husband whiz through her mind. Their latest argument. It wasn’t their worst, but the poison in his eyes, the words! It was as if she could hear the tear done to their marriage—a sharp scheek sound. She’d wanted to throw hurtful words back, the way she’d done before, one sentence escalating over the next, and the next. But tears were her only shield.

She arranges her clothes, the new top she bought at Target during their specials—twenty per cent off all women’s clothing, white linen, sleeveless, wide V-neck—and a pencil skirt with navy print on a cream background. She sweeps her hair to one side, runs her fingers through it to untangle the knots, and throws it back over her shoulder. Keeps walking. Houseboats glide past, some berths empty. The purple flowers appear, then the sharp lines of the white sailcloth. Her heart freezes.

Cocktails and Dreams appears in big navy letters along the side of a houseboat, painted in white. The front deck looks serene and breezy. Timber decking. Two comfortable-looking chairs face the railing. The main door is dark blue, gleaming where it catches the sun. Over the upper deck the white sailcloth forms a huge canopy.

Laila steps aboard, approaches the door and knocks. She hears footsteps.

‘Hi!’ Sean looks fresh, as if he’s just had a shower.

He is wearing a pale lime-green polo top, with Calvin Klein embroidered in tiny lettering on the upper left-hand side, and long beige shorts. Laila catches a whiff of cologne, a fresh tangy scent. His skin looks more tanned than she remembers. The blue of his eyes reminds her of waves lapping on the shore.

‘Come on in. Good to see you.’

He makes way for her, gives her a peck on the cheek. The sensation of his lips lingers. She enters, stands beyond the door, arms hanging awkwardly.

Suddenly, she’s in a spacious lounge room, fully carpeted, with big windows along each side and lovely views of the river. At right angles are two sofas upholstered in cream leather. She inhales the leather scent. She can’t help absorbing everything, the polished counter tops, cabinets in timber, stools at the bar, flat screen TV, stereo, tall rack packed with CDs. It’s as if she has been dropped into another world.

‘Care for a drink?’ Sean asks.

‘Wh…what?’

‘A drink?’

‘Okay.’

‘You have a choice of wine, beer, spirits or fruit juice. Or how about tea or coffee? And oh, stout too.’ He smiles. ‘I do believe I have stout.’

‘Uhh…anything.’

‘I haven’t got a drink called anything, but I’ll get you a wine—I’m having one.’

He goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle of white wine. Laila watches him twist a gadget and two pieces of metal rise from the bottle like wings. He pours the wine into glasses and whips out a wine cooler, a tray, and a packet of nuts from the cupboard. Then he stands the bottle in the cooler, rips the wrapper open and pours the nuts into a bowl.

‘Let’s go to the upper deck. Lovely day, mustn’t waste it.’ Laila follows him along a narrow hallway. Bedrooms and bathrooms on each side, expensive-looking bedcovers. They climb the spiral staircase at the end of the hallway.

From the top deck there’s a panoramic view of the Murray. Sean leads the way to an outdoor table and two sun lounges in white and green stripes facing the railing, light playing on the metal. He sits down, pats the chair near him. Laila glides into it. Then she sits, mesmerised, the wind hissing in her ears.

Sean leans back with his glass. ‘Ahh…this is what life is all about.’

Laila takes a sip of the wine, feels it searing down her throat. She still has not got used to alcohol, to what it does to her head. ‘This is nice.’

‘Glad you like it. Knappstein TK Sauvignon Blanc, one of my favourites.’

The words roll off his tongue like a melody. She has no idea what they mean. She smiles.

‘That’s right, we were talking about South Australian wines last time,’ he says.

‘I haven’t tasted that many.’

‘You will in time, I’m sure.’

His eyes rest on her face for a moment longer than is necessary. A smile plays on his lips. Laila feels a rush of warmth. She turns away and looks up at the sailcloth, hears it flapping gently in the wind.

‘This houseboat is very beautiful.’

‘Glad you like it. Got it for a song, actually. Friend of mine was moving overseas and had to get rid of it real quick.’

‘You own it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow.’

Sean shifts in his seat, raising one foot to rest on his other knee. ‘So, what have you been up to since I last spoke to you?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘Whereabouts do you live, anyway? I haven’t even had a chance to ask you.’

Laila feels the blood drain from her face.

‘Hey, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Sorry for being nosey.’

‘It’s not that.’ Laila bites her lips, knowing she looks nervous.

‘Okay, tell me about your typical day then.’

‘It’s boring.’

‘What makes you so sure it’s going to bore me? When you have to attend as many meetings and run as many sales seminars as I do, listening to the typical day of a gorgeous Malaysian girl can be a refreshing change.’

Her cheeks are now hot. She wishes she could do something—throw water on her face, anything—to relieve her blushing. She plays with her glass.

He watches her. ‘So, you going to enlighten me?’

What does he mean by ‘enlighten’? She takes a guess. ‘My day is very ordinary. After I wake up in the morning, I prepare lunch for my husband and make sure he eats his breakfast.’

‘Lucky man.’

‘It’s only sandwich.’

‘Nobody’s ever made me a sandwich, I can tell you that.’ He chuckles. ‘So, what happens after sandwich?’

‘I’ll think about what to cook for dinner and take out the meat from the freezer, to defrost. About once a week, I clean the place. After that I may do some sewing or craftwork. If I feel like it, I may walk into town.’

Sean listens intently.

‘Sometimes, I meet my friend, Marietta, by the river.’

‘Ah, a fellow Malaysian lass.’

‘No, she’s Filipino.’

‘Okay.’

‘So, as you can see, my life is very boring.’

‘All relative. It doesn’t sound boring to me.’

‘Believe me, it is boring.’

‘Free time is a gift. You can do as much or as little as you like. Your day can pan out in whatever way you wish. That to me is liberation.’

‘Liberation?’

‘Freedom.’

Laila shakes her head. ‘No, no freedom at all. Sometimes I feel as if I am in a prison.’

‘That’s no good. Why do you feel that?’

She lowers her face. ‘I cannot say now.’

‘That’s fine.’ His eyes bore into her face. ‘No worries at all.’

Laila looks at the river. An awkward silence follows.

Sean slaps his palms on his knees. ‘I was actually going to have lunch. Would you like to join me?’

She wasn’t expecting a meal. ‘Uh…okay.’

He stands up. ‘Some cold cuts, antipasto, a bit of cheese. No objections to that?’

Laila is certain it’ll be good, even though she has no idea what antipasto is. Any food he lays out couldn’t be short of perfect.

‘Want me to help?’ She sits up.

‘No, not at all. You sit pretty and enjoy the view.’

After Sean leaves, Laila drinks her wine and leans back. The plush surroundings envelop her. Her head feels light, and for the first time since she arrived, she’s able to relax. She takes in the span of the Murray, the opposite riverbank more lush than the one facing the caravan park. Clumps of vegetation outline the horizon. The river has a surreal quality, seen from this raised level, from the back of this beautiful houseboat she’s only ever viewed from the shore.

She’s glad of these few moments without Sean. The nearness of his body, his long lean legs, the contours of his chest, so pronounced today under the polo top, and his scent, more overpowering than she remembers from the Christmas party—it’s all too much for her. With him gone, she can quell the breathless sensation, calm the twisted feeling in her stomach. She holds her body still. Alcohol rushes through her bloodstream. She welcomes the feeling—she doesn’t need to worry about Jim, about where he is, what he would do if he knew where she was right now. But then, at the thought of her husband, panic suddenly seizes her.

She should leave. Race down the spiral staircase and duck out before Sean has a chance to catch her.

Sean reappears, carrying the tray. At the sight of him, Laila is immobilised, her hands tucked under her legs. His footsteps thunder in her ears.

‘Perfect day for an alfresco lunch.’ He looks up. ‘Ever seen skies as blue as this?’ He sets down the tray and transfers the dishes of food onto the table. He hands her a plate and fork. ‘Tuck in.’

With the wind teasing her hair, she eats the marinated octopus, artichokes, mushrooms, triangular pastries with curried vegetables, olives coated with herbs—foods she’s only ever seen in magazines. The foreign aromas thrill her, and his foreignness, his accent, his smell, his physique, take her breath away.

‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘how are Australian men different from Malaysian men?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh you know, personality, orientation, habits. Met an Asian woman once, she told me she’d never go out with Asian men.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘Oh, the way they look, their lack of humour. Said they were geeky and chauvinistic, total pigs in fact, at least the ones she knew. Had a list a mile long.’

She thinks about her comment about pigs to Jim ages ago, but doesn’t repeat it. Instead she says, ‘I have not been with an Asian man, so I wouldn’t know.’

‘Is that right? Your husband…’

‘Yes, he was my first.’

‘Ahh, now I see.’

‘What do you see?’

‘Never mind. It’s not important.’ He slices some cheese, places it on a cracker and hands it to her. ‘Try some Tasmanian blue.’

The cheese tastes weird. The pungent edge stings and curdles on her tongue. She wants to spit it out but swallows it instead, washing it down with wine.

‘Takes a bit of getting used to, blue cheese. Sorry, should have warned you.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Come, let’s go over there. The view is even more spectacular.’

They get up and he steers her by the small of her back, his fingers brushing her clothing. The sweep of the river is breathtaking. They lean against the railing. In the distance, a flock of birds creates a wave of slow circular motion. Faint cries drift in with the wind.

‘This is the reason people own houseboats,’ Sean says, taking in a deep breath, resting his hands on the railing.

‘The river is really beautiful.’

‘Absolutely.’

His hand moves to her waist and lingers there. He angles his head and leans towards her. Laila stays still. The wind suddenly picks up. Her hair flies in all directions and strands fall over her eyes. Sean brushes it aside. His face is now inches from hers. Slowly, he edges closer and his lips come into contact with her mouth, with the fullness of her lower lip. Laila gasps but she doesn’t pull away. His lips are soft against hers, the pressure of his hand on her back increasing ever so slightly. She hears his breathing. His scent, more intoxicating up close, is making her dizzy. Just as his mouth starts to close about hers, she quickly draws away.

‘No, no, please.’ She puts her hand on his chest. ‘I have to go.’

She rushes down the spiral staircase, grabs her handbag and dashes out the door.

22

HER THREE DRAWERS ARE crammed with clothes. Visible from above are tops, skirts and jumpers. On first opening the drawers, he thinks it is a pointless exercise. He opens and closes the drawers one after another anyway, taking a squiz. It’s worth a shot. Laila has been acting weird the last few weeks.

Laila is over at the bathroom. Today being Saturday, which is the other day in the week she washes her hair, she’ll take about twenty minutes, from the time she steps out of the caravan until she returns, hair blow-dried and combed, fresh clothes on, sweet smell lingering around her.

Jim checks his watch. He has eighteen minutes left to fish around. His hands move fast. He tugs at the clothes, lifts each layer, feeling between the layers for anything foreign. He presses, probes, pokes at corners, feeling for any texture other than fabric. Nothing.

The second drawer feels the same.

Third drawer, the deepest one. His fingers now move at lightning speed. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven layers —then he feels something solid. He digs his hand deeper and peers under the layers. A wooden box? He shifts his head aside to allow light in from the window. No, a shoe box. He lifts out the top layers of clothes and places them on the bed. He takes the box, fumbles for the lid, lifts it, and finds an assortment of things inside—hair clips, scrunchies, brooches, a pair of fake turquoise earrings he’d given her, bookmarks made with pressed flowers and silver glitter, a stack of letters held together with a rubber band. He takes the stack out, fans them and recognises his own handwriting on the envelopes. He rummages through the rest of the box: knitting needles, empty plastic containers, a fold of magazine- and junk-mail cut-outs held together with a paperclip. He flicks through them: kitchens, bedrooms, lounge suites, vases, glassware, candlesticks, outdoor settings. Jesus. Even a stranger would not have a hard time guessing her ambition in life. He returns the items to the box and shuts the lid.

Straightening up, he checks the door and scans the view through the window. All clear. She must be towelling herself dry by now.

His hands flick through the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, gliding through gaps between each garment. Then he locates her handbag, at the side of the bed. He drops it on the bed. Quickly checking again to see if the coast is clear, he empties the contents of the bag onto the bed. Alternating his gaze between the window and the bed, he scrutinises each item as he puts it back into the handbag: the powder compact, two lipsticks, tissues folded in a small plastic bag, keys dangling off the koala keyring he’d sent her while they were corresponding, fake pearl bracelet, receipts from the butcher shop, haberdashery shop, perfume samples, tea bags. Nothing of significance. A momentary surge of fondness overcomes him as he fingers the keyring.

He takes a deep breath, then snatches up the wallet last. Fingers trembling now, he opens it. Cash, more receipts, a note with directions to a caravan park, recipes scribbled on pieces of paper, pizza vouchers. He locates the zipped compartment, feels the slight contour of the fabric and unzips it.

Two items slide out. A voucher for a fifteen per cent discount off the next appointment at Hair-Tex 15. Jim slips this back in, picks up the other item—a card, a business card. The corporate logo Sungold Fruit Juices jumps out at him. His eyes are scanning the type below the logo when through the window he catches sight of Laila walking back. His eyes take in fragments of the words—Sean something…sales manager…—before he pushes the card frantically back into the compartment. Sweat drips down his forehead. He shoves the wallet into the handbag. Has just enough time to throw the bag back to its original position and race to his chair before the door creaks open.

Jim brings his empty coffee mug to his lips as Laila enters. His heart is beating madly.

‘Good shower?’

‘Yes.’

She doesn’t look at him. She puts her soiled clothes in the hamper, then she picks up Jim’s empty mug, takes it to the sink and starts doing the dishes.

‘Hey buddy, don’t mean to intrude in your private affairs, but thought I should tell you something,’ Rodney says.

It is especially noisy tonight in the pub. The day has unfolded like any other, thinning the apricots, picking nectarines, his output no more or less than normal. Jim leans forward, drinks his beer. His heart starts beating a tad faster but he keeps a straight face.

Looking uncomfortable, Rodney wipes the bar over and over even after all traces of spills are gone. His normal laid-back demeanour is absent.

‘Shoot,’ Jim says, keeping his voice cool.

‘It could be anything, I mean people hang out as they please. Doesn’t have to mean a thing,’ Rodney says.

‘Go on.’

‘In a place like Renmark, things get around, blown out of proportion, you know.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Rod, stop beating around the bush.’

‘Okay, okay, I saw something the other day I should tell you.’

‘Well, pra-a-a-y tell.’

‘She looked like your wife—long black hair, olive skin, small frame?’

‘There’s not too many around the place that fit that description.’

‘Yes. Your wife. I saw her getting into a car, with a bloke.’

‘A bloke?’

‘Yeah, but I mean he could be anyone.’

‘Do you know who he is?’

‘Nope. Can’t even say I’ve seen him in here. My guess is that he’s not local.’

Doomp, doomp, doomp. Jim’s heart starts raging inside his ribcage. He tries to keep his voice even.

‘So what were they doing?’

‘Nothing. Just getting into his car, as I said. A pretty smart car, have to admit…’

Jim isn’t hearing properly. The noise, the laughter, the chatter, glasses clanking, chair legs grating across the floor, all suddenly balloon.

‘…looked like one of those fancy European cars. Was in a bit of a hurry, mind you, so didn’t get time to check out the make, but from a distance it looked like a Saab or a Merc.’

‘So they were getting into the car?’

‘Yep. Was all, getting into the car. They weren’t doing nothing. Just getting into the car.’

‘Hmm. Where was this?’

‘Up Ral-Ral Avenue, in front of the pizza bar.

‘When?’

‘Four five days ago? And that was the only time. Never saw them again. So, there you go. Thought I should let you know.’

Were they holding hands? Was he touching her? Did he look rich? Was she smiling with her face slightly tilted to the left? Did she sweep her hair to one side and play with the ends the way she does when she feels amorous?

‘Yep. Thanks, buddy.’

Rodney’s words bubble in his head, like a cauldron. Jim pulls up at Sixty Foot, kills the engine. He stares ahead. The sting of jealousy gashes at his throat.

Prick. ‘Doing nothing’? No woman enters a fancy car—some Saab shit—of some rich prick and does nothing with them. Rodney must have been hallucinating. Saab or Merc!

Jim thumps the window with his fist. The ute wobbles. Empty cartons of Farmers Union Iced Coffee roll on the floor, and he looks at the rust collecting at the window frames, the food stains on the seats. He clenches his fist and hits again, this time the steering wheel. Dust puffs out of the dashboard.

Bet he’s got a big fat dick too. What’s his name again? Some Sam, Sean, Simon or something…he can’t remember. Yep, that would’ve been his business card. Prick!

The field of dumped navels sprawls orange in front of him. Laila had sobbed when he brought her here once. He’d stopped to make a U-ee. They were on their way to visit a friend and he’d driven too far off the track, he’d been daydreaming or something.

‘What are they?’ Laila had asked, pointing at the field.

‘Oranges. Dumped.’

‘Dumped? But why?’

‘Too many. Can’t sell ’em.’

‘What? And you throw them away?’ Horror had spread over her face.

‘Can’t help that. Look, I ain’t part of that, babe. It’s all above me, decisions those higher-ups make. I’m just a picker.’

‘Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t believe this. All these oranges. So many of them. What a waste. They could feed all the poor people in Sarawak.’ She’d started crying then. Shaking her head and crying. ‘I can’t believe anyone can do that. Surely they can think of something better than throwing them here like this.’

‘Yeah, I know, babe. But storage. No place to keep ’em.’ He rubbed her shoulder gently. ‘Sometimes I can’t understand it myself. Sometimes I think there’s many things in life I can’t understand. But that’s just the way it is.’

Jim remembers how touched he was by her compassion. That she cared enough about wastage to be brought to tears.

That sweet, compassionate woman can’t be the same one who’s gone and fucked another man behind her husband’s back. No, it’s not the same woman.

He pictures her taking his dick in her hands, her hair falling over his pubic area, bringing it into her mouth. He recalls the times when he wanted her to take him in her mouth and she’d muttered some excuse, about an ulcer in her mouth or some bullshit like that. Bitch. Bet he fucks arse too.

Mother-fucking, filthy, sleazy maggot!

23

HE SWITCHES OFF THE car engine, eases back into the seat. She tucks her hands under her thighs. The view of Lake Bonney spreads before them. The water is calm, a light bluey-aqua, deepening at the edges. Laila thinks it looks like the sea but says nothing. Words do not have a place.

They are in Barmera, about thirty kilometres from Renmark. Theirs is the only car parked here. No one is around, park benches are empty, the barbecue area near the rotunda deserted. Laila looks at the strip of lawn between the car park and the lake, then at the water’s edge. Perfectly still. Not a single ebb.

Her breathing booms amidst the silence of the afternoon. Somewhere in the distance comes a bird’s cry, then a creak here and a creak there. The massive expanse of water angles into the waterfront in an easy sweep.

Not a soul would catch them here.

Sean turns to face her. ‘Can’t believe I’m with you now, especially after the way you ran off so suddenly that first time.’

Laila looks out the window. How can she tell him what was going on inside her that day? The way she ached for his touch yet feared it. The way images of Jim exploded in her head while Sean’s hand travelled up her back. Even at their second meeting the week before, when they had lunch in a little café tucked away in a side alley in Renmark, the sparks racing between them, she still had second thoughts, guilt flaring up in her conscience.

Pushing the memories aside, Laila gives him a sidelong glance. She doesn’t look at his eyes. They would simply draw her in. She peers instead at his nose, at the gentle taper of his upper lip, the strong angle of his jawline.

Sean lifts his hand and strokes her chin. His fingers go to her hair; he plays with it. He parts the strands, then lets them tumble over her shoulders. Her tresses tickle her bare arms. That touch. Oh God, that touch. She wants to scream out loud.

He brings her face towards him. Again, his nearness, his scent. Her head swims, her breath escapes her. His fingers glide over her lips. She parts them. The soft ends of his fingertips find her teeth, her tongue, then his mouth covers hers.

Sunlight gushes into the caravan. Laila opens her eyes. The sleeping bag is empty, strewn across the back of the chair. Not a sound can be heard. The air in the caravan is hot and still.

Her hand goes to her neck, drenched in sweat. She runs her fingers over her arms, her shoulders, her breasts. She relives the sensations pulsing under her skin at his touch, their last visit to Barmera playing over and over in her mind.

Sean. Sean. Sean.

The overnight bag feels heavy in her hand. Laila clutches the handle as she lines up for the bus. Behind her a group of teenagers pushes up against her, screaming among themselves. A boy accidentally shoves his elbow into her back as he turns to talk to his friends. Laila quickens her step, enters the bus and slides into the first empty space. She shifts across to the window hoping no one will occupy the aisle seat. The group of teenagers troop past her to the back of the bus. Their noise echoes along the aisle like dust stirred up by a truck on a dirt track.

Outside, she sees the church with its steep corrugated-iron roof, sandstone wall and white arched window frames. She remembers the day two weeks ago when she’d been inside to pray. Seated on the wooden pew, hands clasped, she’d told Him she felt as if her heart was being chopped into pieces, that she was about to enter a dark tunnel she didn’t know the length of. She asked Him to show her how she could stop herself. And please, please, tell her what to do with the churning deep inside her. And with the guilt that would not go away.

Laila turns her face away. The hum and vibration of the big coach runs up the length of her arm. She pulls her bag close to her chest. Her gaze flits from one thing to another—the back of the driver’s head, patterns of the upholstered seat—but her eyes twitch and she doesn’t take in anything.

She checks her tank top, sleeveless, black, sitting over the top of her jeans, and the string of faux black pearls round her neck. Exactly the way they were put together on the mannequin in Zeenaz Fashions in town. She wants to match Sean in looks and grooming. She bites her lower lip to contain the excitement rippling inside her.

It was a lucky escape. She’d told Jim she was spending a couple of nights at a new girlfriend’s house in Adelaide. A girl Marietta had introduced her to last time they went to Adelaide, she lied. Fellow Filipino. So friendly and warm. They’d bonded immediately. Another Marietta! She was so grateful she’d found another friend. It gets lonely being a migrant, she told Jim. She needed to widen her social circle. Three days, she’d be back in no time. Jim had not said a word. While she packed, he’d just sat there, watching her. His eyes bored holes in her back.

This is just going to be an exploratory trip to Sean’s. Nothing concrete or definite. If things don’t work out, if she finds she doesn’t like Sean in his own environment, she’ll just hop on the next bus back to Renmark.

No, she’s not leaving Jim.

The bus eases out of Renmark, hits the Sturt Highway and passes through Berri, Barmera and Blanchetown. Summer landscape in the Riverland. Bales of hay dotting the spread of paddocks, sheep grazing. Hillocks rise in the distance, white silos sticking out of the monotony of mallee bushes, gum trees, reeds and bullrushes.

She’s only ever seen this scenery through the window of Jim’s ute. The elevated view from the bus helps her remove herself from what she’s embarking on. Cool air from the overhead air-conditioning vent brushes her face. When the bus passes the turn-off to Nuriootpa, her throat feels constricted, parched like the scenery around her. She wishes she’d brought a bottle of water. In her haste to leave the caravan, she’d forgotten.

She’s about to clock a year living in Australia. The last eleven months flick by—a jumbled picture in her head, irregular parts strewn about. Nothing fits together. Everything is out of sync. Thoughts of Jim force their way into her mind. His smile, his laughter, his clownish acts.

In three-quarters of an hour, she’ll be in Adelaide. Her wedding ring lacerates her left hand. Her thumb and index finger find the gold band, twist it round and round. She remembers the first time Jim slid the ring onto her finger at the church.

The priest had finished his speech. After exchanging vows, Jim placed the ring over her fingertip. The metal pushed against a joint but it wouldn’t slide right on. Jim tried again, struggling, twisting the band round and round. Laila could sense the audience holding their breath. She helped him squeeze the band round her finger, pushing this way and that. Finally the ring slid on. The crowd let out a breath, followed by a few giggles. Jim grinned. The priest said, ‘You may now kiss the bride.’

The bus passes a sign: Adelaide 16 km. Laila coolly pushes the memories aside. Without a moment’s hesitation, she slides the gold band off her left hand and drops it into the zipped compartment of her handbag.

A strange energy wells up inside her. She zips up the compartment and succumbs to it. She counts the minutes.

The sea is choppy. Waves gush in and out, in and out.

‘Unusual for a summer evening,’ Sean says.

He is explaining the workings of the land and ocean, and the effect of the sun on the currents at different times of the year. Laila listens but she only sees the way his collar hugs his neck, the perfect size and position of his eyes, the strong mouth, shaped like the ones carved on busts in famous museums that she’s seen in magazines.

After arriving at his house she’d showered and changed into the same blue linen dress she’d worn at the Christmas party. It’s the only dress she owns. She was embarrassed to think he might remember it. But when she emerged from the room he gave her a smile and said she looked gorgeous.

Dinner at Estia, the Greek Restaurant at Henley Square, had been like a scene from a romance film. A musician had walked around the tables playing the violin. When he came to their table, he looked at them as if dedicating the music to them.

Now Sean laces his fingers through hers and pulls her closer to his side.

‘Is it the reflection of the moon on your hair or is it naturally this shiny and black?’ His voice is like warm honey slipping down her spine.

‘All Asians have black hair.’ It’s the only response she can manage.

‘Which never seems to turn grey.’

‘That’s not true. My father has lots of grey hair.’

‘Probably one in a thousand.’ He gazes up at the moon. ‘I was in Hong Kong last year for a conference. I didn’t see one person with grey hair.’

‘Hong Kong is not Sarawak.’

‘I must brush up on my geography. And stop thinking of you as Asian instead of Malaysian.’

‘Iban Malaysian.’

‘Iban? You never mentioned it before. You only said you were from Malaysia.’

‘I am from Sarawak, which is part of Malaysia but it is on the island of Borneo.’

‘Ahh. Capital Kuching, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve seen pictures of holiday packages to Kuching and they look terrific.’

‘Yes, Kuching is nice. It has a lot of history and old buildings. Kuching means cat in Bahasa Malaysia.’

‘Is that right?’ He laughs. ‘So, you’re my cat woman.’

She smiles. Hearing him say ‘my’ sends ripples through her.

From the beach they can see the lights of Henley Square, alive with Saturday night revelry. Cool weather doesn’t stop people from hanging out in the Square, sitting on benches, wine glasses in hand, smoking, laughing. Beautiful people, trendy designer clothes, teeth shining in the outdoor lights. Already the memory of what she ate, what they said at dinner is fading. The whole experience is like skating. The hiss of the skate wheels, air swishing in your face. The thrill and terror of slicing over the road.

Music from live musicians drifts across the shore, to be swallowed by the boom of the waves. Laila rubs her hand over her arm.

‘Getting chilly?’

‘A little.’ Her teeth chatter.

‘Cool change, totally. The weather gets unpredictable like that.’

‘Yes, it was very hot this afternoon.’

‘Let’s head back, and weird as it sounds, I’m going to light the fire.’

‘The fire?’

‘I have a fireplace. Didn’t you see it earlier?’

‘No.’

She’d imagined his house to be beautiful, but what she had found this afternoon astounded her. It was like a palace, lifted from a magazine. Two storeys, set high on the block, with unimpeded views of the ocean—nothing but waves, gulls, clouds. Exterior with intricate columns, mouldings and architectural details, a majestic porch, a predominance of cream colours inside. Expanses of glass. Windows, sliding doors, bricks. Everything sparkled.

‘Tell you what, before we do that, let’s go dip our feet in the water. I’ve got this thing about having to wet some part of my body each time I come down here.’

‘Okay.’

He crouches and undoes the straps on her shoes. Laila stands still. The sensation of his fingers on her ankles makes her tingle. She looks down at his head, clenches her fingers to stop herself from running them through his hair.

They wade out with each outgoing wave, running back in when the sea rolls back onto the shore. The chill of the water creeps up her calves. She holds her hem with one hand, clings to Sean with the other.

On their way back to his house, he slides his arm around her waist. She pretends to resist him, brushing his hand away, running ahead of him. He quickens his pace and races after her. When he catches up with her, he draws her towards him forcefully. She giggles. They climb up the trail running through beach scrub, shoes in their hands, their legs and feet coated with sand, bodies soaked with the dampness of the sea.

After lighting the fire, Sean pulls a shaggy rug towards the fireplace. He throws two large cushions down and pads to the kitchen.

‘Go on, warm yourself up.’

The rug is soft under her feet. Laila stretches out, looks at the glow of the fire. The flames crackle to life, licking the wood. Sean brings two sherry glasses and a warm damp flannel. A bottle is tucked under his arm. He uncorks it, and tilts it over the glasses. Thick golden liquid flows out.

‘Frangelico. Hazelnut liqueur. Simply the best.’

The liquid tastes like nectar, it coats her tongue. She has never tasted anything so delicious. The sweet nutty aroma lingers in her mouth as she feels the alcohol bursting in her stomach.

‘I like this,’ she says.

‘Good.’

Setting his glass down, Sean straightens out her legs and sponges off the salty dampness with the flannel. His movements are slow. He starts at the knees and runs the flannel up and down in even strokes. Laila winces.

‘Am I hurting you?’

She shakes her head.

His hands move to her feet. He tucks the flannel between her toes, parts them with his fingers, then glides the flannel over the arch of her feet. Laila feels her body floating.

Then he slides his hand to her back and unzips her dress, his eyes never leaving her face. He pulls it down to her waist. Laila is suddenly embarrassed, conscious of her white cotton underwear, the plain unsexy style of her bra. She lowers her face.

‘Feel that liqueur warming up your stomach?’ He takes a sip of his own drink, watching her reaction from the corner of his eyes.

‘Yes.’ She turns her face away.

‘Just what you need.’

Sean sets his glass down. With both hands, he unhooks her bra and gently removes it. Laila closes her eyes, throws her head back. Her body quivers. She’s never felt so naked before. She hears the roar of the waves all over again, as if they are back on the beach. The pounding. The spray of the vapours. The swell of the crests. Waves sucking the sand as they recede into the sea.

She opens her eyes. The flame flickers in Sean’s eyes. He pulls her down with him. She feels his hands running over her breasts, encircling their mounds, then going for her nipples. He strokes them, plays with them. She gasps, she is overcome. His breath is hot in her ear. She sniffs his skin, breathes in the scent of his aftershave. Her body tingles. He kisses her, slowly at first, teasing with his lips, then his mouth covers hers and he kisses her hard, his body rocking against hers.

His hands and lips explore her all over, the tender spot on her nape, the depression of her tummy, the curve of her buttocks. They approach her legs, glide over her inner thighs. He is pulling her dress away, then sliding her underwear down.

‘Oh God, you’re gorgeous,’ he groans.

She runs her fingers along the undulations of his arms and chest. His fingers are edging nearer and nearer, to that zone, that place from where she knows she won’t turn back. Then he touches her there. She whimpers, closes her eyes. There is that gushing, that pulling. His hardness against her body. Sliding into that space. She is suddenly aware of the softness of the rug on her bare skin, the smell of burning wood. The fire, crackling, hissing. She moans.

The wind has picked up, it is whipping the windows. The frames rattle. As Sean enters her, Laila sees shadows moving on the window. Shadows of the unknown. With each thrust, she imagines the waves rolling in, striking the coastline. Again and again and again.

24

FRIDAY NIGHT AND JIM is leaning against the bar. He looks at his watch. Twelve-fifteen. He orders his last schooner, and his heart folds back into itself at the thought of going home. Since Laila returned from Adelaide last week, things had gotten worse—her silences extending to days, iciness permanently etched on her face, and, he admits with shame, his piss-ups at the pub becoming a nightly feature.

After giving Jim his drink, Rodney busies himself washing glasses and putting things away. The crowd is thinning. Jim peers across at Sharon the cashier, bending over the till, her face in deep concentration. Coins clink as she tallies up the day’s takings. People say cheerio and part ways, chairs grating on the floor.

The pub is now empty.

‘Getting ready to hit the sack, are we?’ he yells across the bar.

Sharon is a largish woman with thick curly red hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her heavily made-up face gives her a harsh look. Married twice, divorced twice, one kid from each man. Like Jim, she was born and grew up in Renmark and knows the Riverland like the back of her hand. Tonight, she’s had it rough, filling in for Susan, the waitress, who rang in sick at the last moment, and doubling as cashier as well.

Without looking up, Sharon says, ‘About time, after today.’

‘Want someone to walk you home?’

‘You referring to me?’

‘Sure am.’

‘Ha-ha-ha…’ Sharon cackles. ‘Go home, Jim.’

Jim moves a couple of stools nearer to her. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘One of the first things a woman like me can tell is when it’s real talk and when it’s beer talk.’

‘Just trying to be kind.’

‘Sure. You’ve been coming here for yonks, never paid me any attention so how come you suddenly want to be kind to me?’

‘Can’t a man be nice?’

‘What’s the deal? No such thing as a free lunch, eh?’ She raises an eyebrow and a smirk passes over her face.

Something about the tone of her voice arouses a remote part of Jim. He gulps down his beer, wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Keeping his eyes on her, he edges even closer to the till. Her red ponytail flares out behind her, bouncing up and down as she busies herself counting the cash. Her bosom spills forward. Jim takes in the wideness of her hips under the Tooheys navy-blue polo top, the pronounced rise of her buttocks.

‘So, you want me to drive you home?’

‘Come off it.’

‘You wanna play games with me, is that it?’

‘Jim, I’ve been walking home five nights a week for the last five years. Just up Thompson Road, not as if it were Lyrup or anything.’

Jim purses his lips, lifts his chin as if he thinks she’s talking crap.

‘Go choose another damsel. I’m not exactly in distress. Besides, what will the little Asian miss think? She might get the wrong idea.’

At the mention of Laila, Jim’s hackles are raised. ‘What’s she got to do with this?’

‘Whoa, trod on a sensitive spot, looks like.’

‘What do you know about us anyway?’

‘Not a lot, apart from what goes around.’

Jim shoots an accusing look at Rodney, who’s now drying the glasses.

‘Don’t look at me,’ Rodney says.

Jim turns back to Sharon.

‘You’ve had too much to drink. Go home and let her tuck you into bed,’ Sharon says.

‘Get off your high horse, woman. Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘Geez, Rod, you feed this guy drinks and see what happens.’ Sharon looks at Rodney.

‘Shut the fuck up, Sharon,’ Rodney says.

Sharon makes a face at him, exhales air. Then she hits her palm on her forehead and shakes her head.

Jim gets off the stool. When he passes Rodney, he shows him his fist.

‘You spread the word around and you’re fucking dead,’ he growls under his breath.

He is heading for the door when Rodney leans across the bar, gestures for Jim to come back. ‘You’re getting paranoid, trimmer,’ he whispers. ‘Didn’t I say I wasn’t going to tell anyone?’

‘Then what’s she on about?’ Jim angles his head towards Sharon.

‘Fucked if I know.’ Rodney shrugs his shoulders.

‘Crazy bitch.’ Jim strides off. ‘Bloody Peyton Place. Can’t sneeze without the whole fucking town knowing.’

The sleeping bag is permanently left out now, strewn over the chair. When he opens the door, he expects to make out the heap of it in the darkness. But the chair is empty. In his intoxicated state, he looks again. Then he locates the pouch, sleeping bag neatly tucked inside it, sitting on the floor against the kitchen cupboard. Her kind act for the day.

Jim looks over to the bed, expecting to see her form, sleeping on her side, face away from the door. The bed looks empty. He looks again, squints in the darkness. No one. He reaches for the light switch. Click. There’s no one in the bed. In fact, the bed is made, ends of the blanket folded neatly under the mattress, pillows plumped and propped up.

A chill runs down his spine. He rubs his eyes, shakes his head to try to sober up. His head still feels heavy. He rushes to the bed, yanks off the covers as if expecting to find something underneath. Cold air rises from the sheet even though it’s a warm night. His legs start to lose balance as if they’re about to buckle. He hangs onto the edge of the bed, steadies himself and surveys the place. Everything looks normal. Sink, benchtops, cupboards. He checks the windows, the ceiling, takes in the built-in wardrobe, broom in the corner, chairs, table. In the middle of the table is an envelope.

He walks towards it, the hammering amplifying in his head. On the envelope is his name.

Jim, this is a very difficult letter for me to write. My life with you in Australia has given me a lot of pain. Things have not turned out as they should. We have both been unhappy for a long time and I cannot take it anymore. I appreciate all that you have done for me but it is time for me to leave. Thank you for everything. Please do not look for me. Laila. 21 Feb 1997

Jim drops the letter on the floor. He stares at the sleeping bag. The pain begins with a popping sound. It goes off somewhere in the bridge of his nose, then spreads like an ink blot, down his neck, his shoulders, his chest, down his back along the spine, trickling down to his legs.

When he was about ten, one of the boys at school punched him in the nose. It happened on the oval. It was recess. He’d refused to let the boy borrow the new Frisbee his mum had bought him; the boy had seen Jim and his friends playing with it the day before. Next morning he marched over to Jim, demanding the Frisbee. Jim said no, and the boy said, ‘Why not?’ Jim turned and walked away, clutching his bag. ‘Hey, you, come back here!’ the boy said. Jim quickened his pace. Tall and longlegged, the boy chased him, grabbed the bag and started rummaging through it. ‘Give that back to me,’ Jim said, pulling at the bag. ‘Nobody says no to me, you get that?’ the boy said, yanking the bag from Jim. His eyes looked mean, his mouth curled into a nasty snarl. When Jim tried again to get his bag, the boy socked him one. Straight in the nose. The blood was immediate. Jim put both hands over his nose. He could feel the sticky red fluid drip down his upper lip, his mouth, his chin, coating his palms. He crouched, saw at the corner of his vision the boy pulling the Frisbee out and sauntering away, a smug expression on his face.

The popping in his nose. Amplified twenty times.

Laila has left me. Laila has left me.

He can’t remember how long he’s stayed in this spot. He must have fallen asleep. When he tries to lift his head, he finds it jammed between the legs of the chair. Slowly he drags his body backwards, eases his head out from under the chair. The caravan starts to spin. His head pounds, the throbbing escalating with every movement. The alcohol feels solidified in his veins. He swears he’ll never drink to such a stupor again. Water. He needs a drink of water.

He crawls to the sink, grabs a tumbler and fills it with water. While drinking, he catches sight of the crumpled letter on the floor. He staggers to it, steps on it. Thump thump thump. He grinds it until it tears.

Bitch. How can you do this to me?

The thumping worsens his headache. He lurches around, cradling his head, stumbling against the table, bumping into the kitchen cupboards. He hobbles to the wardrobe, swings open both doors. Her clothes are gone. He crouches, pulls out the drawers, the same drawers he checked a couple of weeks ago. Empty boxes, plastic bags, hair clips, used lipsticks, an old pencil case. In the second drawer, some old towels, various disused items. Last drawer, two old tops she’d not worn in ages. He runs his fingers over the fabric, brings it to his nose. He breathes in her scent.

‘Oh babe.’

He collapses on the floor. He takes the other top and locates something underneath it. A pouch. It looks familiar. He grabs it, fingers the maroon felt fabric, the gold drawstring cord. Then he remembers. The drawstring cord is tied in a knot. He struggles to undo it. Giving up, he reaches for a pair of scissors and snips the cord. He dives his fingers into the pouch and takes it out: a gold-tone bracelet he had given her for Christmas. The sight of it gashes his heart.

He sees the smile on her face as she opens the pouch with her dainty fingers, the little Christmas tree sitting on the table beside her. Her eyes widen when she slides the bracelet out, draping it immediately over her wrist. Then, after he has fastened it for her, she runs to the mirror and poses with her hand this way and that. It’s beautiful, Jim, she squeals in delight. He remembers pulling her to him, squeezing them as close together as possible under the little Christmas tree, planting a kiss on her lips and whispering in her ear, ‘Let’s kiss under the mistletoe.’

Jim throws the bracelet against the wall. It clinks on the floor. Shrieking uncontrollably, he balls his fist and punches the wall.

Bitch, bitch, bitch.

Nausea churns in his stomach. He feels bile collecting in his throat. The room is now spinning as if it’s about to take off. His head throbs. He staggers to the door, attempts to run to the toilets. But it’s too late. He crouches at the doorway, one hand swinging the door open. His stomach does a somersault, he doubles over and the vomit spews out, splattering over his chest, the steps. The smell of sick engulfs him. He curls up on the floor, clutching his stomach.

25

Dearest Jeannie and Krisno,

I hope this letter finds all of you in good health. Jeannie, you must have finished high school by now. How were the exams? I meant to send you a good luck card but didn’t get the time to. If my memory is right, you should have already got your results. Let me know how you went and if you are applying for a place at university (I am assuming you passed with flying colours).

Thanks, Krisno, for your letter although it was a little short. I was expecting to hear more news about the longhouse.

My life has improved such a lot since I last wrote. We are now living in Adelaide, by the beach!! Things are finally coming together. I knew I had to be patient and it is paying off. The house is beautiful. Two storeys—Krisno, you will love it as I know you have this thing about staircases. Well, the staircase of this house is fully carpeted, as is the rest of the top floor. I wake up to stunning views of the sea every morning. You should start saving up so you can come and visit me soon. There are three bedrooms in the house so no problem with accommodation.

There is so much to discover about Australia. Just when you think things are out of your reach, you turn a corner and they are staring you in the face. Of course there are still so many things I have yet to find out, such as unexplored parts of Adelaide, the different cultures of all kinds of people who live here. You won’t believe it, but there are Croatians, Ukrainians, Greeks, Italians, Vietnamese and Indians. Adelaide is really colourful. There is always a surprise round the corner, and so many tall buildings, big shopping centres, restaurants and parks.

The shops here are much, much better than those in Renmark. Imagine, I was going crazy over the shops in Renmark thinking they were fantastic. They are nothing now compared with the ones in Adelaide, especially the dress shops. Jeannie, you’ll love them. I wish I could take you shopping here.

So you see the move to Adelaide has opened up my eyes. I am glad to be not living in the country anymore. Adelaide is so much more fun than Renmark, which thinking back now was only special because of the river. The place was filled with not much else besides orchards, orchards and more orchards.

I forgot to ask you in my last letter but has Pak extended the cooking area yet? Remember he was talking about it months before I left? About breaking down the back wall and adding more space plus the window? I hope he has done it. I think about Mak so much squatting over the charcoal stove in that cramped area to try to cook. If he hasn’t, Jeannie, can you drop hints for him to do it?

So, Viktor finally got married, huh? You didn’t say to whom, Krisno. Make sure you tell me in your next letter. Thank God I put my foot down and did not let Pak bully me into marrying him.

And did you translate my last letter to Mak? Please do, and translate this one too. I’ll try to send photos of my new place in my next letter, okay?

I have to go now but please tell Mak I love her very much. I am seriously considering saving enough money for either me to go back for a visit, or to send her a ticket for her to come visit Australia. But don’t tell her that yet as I need to save up first. All my best wishes. Miss you very much.

Love,

Laila

PS: note my new address. Don’t send letters to my old address anymore.

The coffee machine looks like a gadget lifted from a science-fiction movie. Its stainless steel gleams in the morning sun, streaming in through a large picture window. Eight buttons, a tray with space for four cups. Laila runs a finger over the streamlined surface, then casts her eyes over the other items on the benchtop—wooden knife block, white utensils jar, tall wooden salt and pepper shakers. She places her hands on the marble surface, the rich green sparkling, reminding her of jade. It feels cool and smooth.

She makes a cup of tea, taking the tea bag and crockery out of the cupboards with care, returning the jars of tea and sugar to their original spots. While the kettle hisses, she takes in the view through the window. The open spaces, the sea, a pale silvery blue, make her think of birds in flight, free and uninhibited.

Cup and saucer in hand, Laila returns to the bedroom. Sean said she could take her time to unpack, pointing at the empty space in the walk-in wardrobe. Laila has never seen a walk-in wardrobe. It is about a quarter of the entire living space of her family’s bilik in Sarawak.

She checks out Sean’s neatly hung clothes, sorted by type—suits, shirts, trousers, polo tops, jeans and casual pants—and ordered by colour. Rows of shoes sit on a rack, polished and held in shape by curved gadgets made of wood and metal. Everything looks expensive. She runs her hands lightly over the shirts, crisp and perfectly ironed. She pulls out a sleeve and smells the freshly laundered scent.

After hanging up her own clothes, which take up only a tenth of the space, she finds a huge storage cupboard for her unsightly cheap suitcase. Her personal things—make-up, costume jewellery and accessories—she puts either in the vanity cabinet in the ensuite bathroom or in her bedside cupboard.

By late afternoon, she has had three cups of tea, a turkey sandwich for lunch, a peach and a nectarine, which she takes from the fruit bowl, and yoghurt. She relaxes with a Mango and Macadamia ice-cream bar in the family room, feet up on the coffee table, watching The Bold and the Beautiful.

‘What you’re trying to make me do goes completely against my conscience,’ Ridge says.

‘If you have any in the first instance,’ Brooke says.

‘You can insult me for all I care, but you know as sure as you are standing there that what happened all those years ago was totally out of my control.’

Laila’s eyes are fixed on the life-size faces on the huge TV screen. The dialogue fascinates her. She loves the intrigue, the web of deceit, the way emotions bubble to the surface like suds in a bath, the conviction of their words.

And the pain—how well she relates to it! The turmoil, the heartache, the anguish. It thrills her the way The Bold and the Beautiful takes viewers right into the core of the characters’ lives. She’s riding a journey with them, there and then in the comfort of her living room. She loses herself in the intensity.

It’s behind her now. The pain of her own marriage. She’s careful to make the distinction clear: it’s the marriage she’s run away from, not her husband. Jim is not a bad person. He’s just not able to make her happy. Her marriage is a past chapter. She’s moved into a new phase, a new life. Like the storms in the characters’ lives in the show, the break-ups featured in Women’s Weekly, the trauma that Sidney Sheldon’s heroines experience, what she’s going through is part of the cycle of life. She’ll be the stronger for it.

Sean. The perfect lover. His wealth is there for her to share. He implied that, when they discussed her moving in with him, that she could treat his house as if it were her own. His kindness touched her.

Now she’s torn between picking up the latest issue of Vogue Living peeping at her from the magazine rack or going on to watch Wheel of Fortune on TV.

She takes a sip of her tea. Outside, clouds are moving imperceptibly. The sun, starting to come down low, casts a silvery tinge on the water. Light blue deepens into aqua at the horizon. The curtain billows. She decides to just be for the rest of the afternoon, recalling the real estate ads in the liftout of the Saturday paper. Views, views, views, they screamed. She’d scrutinised the ads, mulled over the spectacular photos. The price tags had blown her away—$1.3 million, $900,000. Mansions with unimaginable views. She’s living in one now. Her fairytale is finally coming together.

She slides her legs over the sofa, rolls her head back. The smell of leather envelops her.

By the time Sean comes home in the evenings, Laila has dinner laid out. At around three in the afternoon, she sets the table, which is placed at a perfect angle to capture optimum views of the sea. She selects from a range of different settings kept in the sideboard, colour-matching the napkins with the placemats. Scented candles—strawberry, sandalwood, vanilla, honeysuckle—add the finishing touch.

Sean likes steak, lamb and chicken, in that order, and he prefers steamed vegetables over salads. He has a martini first thing when he gets home, which Laila has learnt how to prepare, and a few glasses of wine with his meal. In her free time, she labours over his collection of recipe books and experiments with dishes. She has learnt to make pasta with carbonara sauce, Hungarian goulash, lamb korma, tabouleh, bacon the way he likes it, crisp at the edges but succulent in the middle, and scrambled eggs with the right amount of milk so it’s not too runny.

She’s relieved she no longer needs to grill sausages. When she sees packets of them lining the shelves at Coles, she walks in the opposite direction. She now buys her meats from the butcher’s located five shops away from Coles. Much fresher, Sean says.

The first time she saw the walk-in pantry, she nearly fell over. Half the size of the floor space Jeannie, Krisno and she slept in, it is stocked with a dizzying array of foods. Labels of cans, jars, bottles and packs dance like menfolk doing a ngajat during Gawai Dayak at the longhouse.

Saturday evenings they go out to dinner, usually at the Square or Glenelg. Her favourite restaurant is the Promenade at the Stamford Grand, with its magnificent sea views. The restaurant makes her think of resort destinations on Getaway on TV. Sometimes they drive into the city to dine at the smart restaurants in Rundle Street or North Adelaide. Sean likes Greek food, Eros in Rundle Street being his favourite restaurant. When Laila thinks about Eros, she remembers the classical music that lends the place an expensive feel, the starched napkins slung over the waiters’ arms, breads that remind her of roti canai served with dhal curry from the mamak stalls in Kuching. At one of their dinners there, Sean told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Laila still finds it hard to imagine that someone as good-looking and rich as him could think that about her, a mere peasant girl from a tribal village in Sarawak. Her skin tingles, remembering the look in his eyes.

That night, she dreamt that Sean bought her a car, a silver-coloured one with a short back, the sort she’d seen young women drive. The back of the car opened out to the boot. In the dream, Sean taught her how to drive and she passed the test no problem. When the alarm rang next morning, she was hanging a ball of crystal on the rear-view mirror as decoration, the same crystal she’d seen in a gift shop at Glenelg.

Sean lets her do the grocery shopping on her own. She takes a taxi to and from Coles and sticks to Sean’s shopping list religiously. It takes her two hours to complete her shopping. She moves from aisle to aisle, checking the labels to make sure she picks the right items. The difference between Sanitarium Soya Bean Milk Regular and Sanitarium Soya Bean Milk Lite may not mean much to her but she wants to be sure she gets the right things.

In the kitchen she discovers all kinds of electrical appliances. She knows their names—fruit juicer, mixer, rice cooker, coffee maker, sandwich toaster, blender, waffle maker, microwave oven—but she doesn’t use them. It takes her two weeks to figure out how the frontloader washing machine works, the different washing detergent it requires. The ones in the caravan park used to be so easy; insert some coins and off it goes. And even though Sean has shown her how the dishwasher works she still does the dishes by hand.

When she irons Sean’s shirts, she brings the ironing board to the family room and places it in front of the TV. Compared to jamming it in the tiny space between the bed and the kitchen cupboards in the caravan, she now has space for the ironing board, the laundry basket and the clothes rack on wheels. She loves the feel of Sean’s expensive clothes, and watching bundles of wrinkled cloth transform into finely tailored garments slung over wooden hangers.

Laila takes secret pleasure in playing wife. She can’t believe Sean is not married. Alone at home, she looks out for signs—photos, women’s clothing tucked in corners of drawers, jewellery, notes—but finds nothing. She floats around basking in her happiness and good fortune.

26

TWICE JIM GOES TO Peter and Marietta’s, approaches the caravan then ducks behind their car parked out the front. He tries to decipher from the shuffling sounds and noises the activities going on in the caravan, to see if there’s a second female voice. When Marietta speaks, he strains to listen, to detect if it could be Laila, but recognises immediately that it is Marietta.

He can’t bring himself to knock at the door. What would they think of him?

Once he was crouching behind a bush when a woman walked past. She looked like a carbon copy of Mildred from his caravan park. His first instinct was to make a quick exit but it was too late. She had slowed down and was glaring at him in that what-are-you-doing-there-creep kind of way. Jim fidgeted and tried to act normal but she kept staring. After a while, he stood up, lit a cigarette, blew smoke towards her face and asked, ‘What are you looking at?’ Mildred Look-Alike raised her eyebrows, huffed and walked on.

In his caravan he rummages through everything, looking for her craft needles, balls of wool, women’s magazines, photos of her family in Kapit, stray lipstick or eyeshadow, anything she might come back for. But she has taken them all.

Each evening, while the TV hisses (he keeps it permanently on mute), he imagines her turning up unannounced. They could talk then, get into how he could be a better husband, love her the way she needs to be loved. He would not tell her to quit bothering him about his money problems anymore, he promises himself. He replays the arguments in his head, edits them as one would a home video, minimising his nasty remarks or cutting them out altogether. Scenes rehashed, conversations filtered. He replaces ill will with largeheartedness, hidden agendas with openness.

He’d get a second job, there are plenty advertised at the dole office. Or through Rodney. Rodney would know if vacancies came up. He would even consider letting her work at the blocks, or at least in the cutting sheds. He would not give in to his compulsion to hit the pub, his binge drinking, his nasty remarks when he got angry.

But the realisation continues to plague him, gnawing into him over and over again. He takes in a deep breath to ease the tightness in his chest. It is too late.

When he enters the caravan, darkness presses against him. He turns on the light, flooding the caravan with bluish fluorescence. The place is a mess. Empty beer bottles piled in a corner, dirty clothes strewn on the floor, ashtray spilling with butts, empty takeaway packs littering the table and benchtop. The stench of stale sweat and rot clings to everything.

He goes to the wardrobe and opens it, as if expecting to find something different. The empty section where Laila’s clothes used to be stares back at him. When he opens the fridge, he finds some shrivelled-up carrots, mouldy cheese, a half-eaten pie that’s gone off, still in its paper bag, near-empty sauce bottles. The freezer door is jammed from clogged-up ice.

He kicks off his shoes and gets into bed. The sheets reek. He hasn’t changed them since she left. He huddles under the covers, his back to the light, legs curled to his chest.

One of their happy moments drifts into his mind. They’re coming out of Chapman Mall. It is a cold Sunday afternoon. They’re crossing the street to get to the fish-and-chip shop. He’s wrapped in his parka, collar pulled up to his chin. Her hand, icy-cold, is seeking his in the warmth of his pocket. He wraps her tiny fingers in his hand, lowers his head and kisses her.

A sudden chill overcomes him. He pulls the covers up to his neck but within seconds he’s burning up, then he throws the covers off. He reaches for the bedside drawer, pulls out a photo of Laila. He runs his fingers over her mouth, her eyes, her hair. Her touch. He would give anything to feel her touch again.

In his mind he sees the birthmark on her right buttock, the inoculation scar on her left shoulder, he smells her skin, a mix of talcum powder and traces of garlic. He closes his eyes and visualises her fingers bouncing over the taut sheets in the morning, tucking in the corners, plumping up the pillows, and her hands reaching up to pull back the curtains from the window.

‘Must wash these, Jim. Really dirty.’

The rapid movement of her lips as she describes the possum she sees outside the bathroom, her accent thick and language unadorned.

‘It was just standing there, Jim. You should have seen it. Its eyes, looking at me. Soooo cute.’

His wife is out there, somewhere in Adelaide. If he could just hear her voice. Just her voice. Just a few words. Then he’ll leave her alone.

He buries the photo in his chest, stares ahead. He traces the outlines of water stains on the ceiling, the chipped louvre, the chair discoloured and cracked in the seat.

Outside, a car pulls up. He hears the engine die, car door opening and shutting. There are murmurs, shuffles, the squeak of a fly screen being held ajar, followed by footsteps, and someone yelling, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Then the door slamming shut. Then silence. Silence that swells into a solid block.

There is a knock at the door. Jim opens his eyes. Light floods his view. He has gone to bed without turning off the lights. He looks at the time—ten-fifteen.

Bang bang bang. The door rattles again. He throws off the covers, hobbles from the bed. His pulse races. He breathes in, breathes out, then takes slow measured steps towards the door. If it’s her, if it’s really her, what will he say—can we talk about how our marriage crumbled before my eyes? Will you give me another chance?

A frail-looking woman with permed grey hair stands at the door. He recognises her immediately. Mildred.

‘Excuse me, sorry to bother you. Your car lights are on. You wouldn’t want a flat battery tomorrow morning, I was thinkin’.’ She gives him a broad smile, her eyes distorted through her glasses.

Eight weeks pass. There is no sign of Laila.

27

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON SHE’S sorting out the contents of her wallet: old receipts, discount vouchers, notes of interesting places to check out, good wines to buy. Her wallet fills up so much quicker these days. A sign that life is full. Finally, she’s living as she ought to as a migrant.

When she contemplates her history, she divides it into three phases: Kapit, Renmark, Adelaide. She plots the improvement in her quality of life over the phases, allocating points for each. By far Adelaide scores the highest. Secretly she wonders if she could climb another step. But when she looks around, when her toes dig into the plush pile of the carpet, when she lowers her body into the bath, lavender scent embracing her, she thinks she doesn’t need anything else to make her happy.

While throwing out unwanted receipts, she finds, sandwiched between her Medicare card (she applied for one in her own name) and the business card of her hairdresser at Glenelg, a photo of Jim and her taken a few months before Christmas. Jim had his arm around her waist; their faces are close together, cheeks almost touching. From the left came sunlight. Their smiles matched the brightness. She’d kept the photo in her wallet, meaning to get a nice frame from Gabbie’s Gifts to put the photo in. Weeks went by and she’d forgotten about it. Then she met Sean.

Laila takes the photo and walks to the bin. She’s about to drop it in but something makes her look at the photo again, at the way her body is angled towards Jim. She looks at his hand resting on her hip, and she remembers for an instant the precise shape and texture of each one of his fingers. She returns the photo to her wallet, focusing quickly on the water out the front, the stillness, the lack of current, the sea a sheet of palest blue.

The doorbell rings. Her heart misses a beat. She did ask Jim not to look for her. She checks the peephole with care, and sees two men and one woman, all dressed in suits. She lets out a breath and opens the door.

‘Good afternoon, madam, we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses and were wondering if you could spare five minutes of your time. We’d like to share with you the good news of the kingdom.’

Sean is seated on the sofa, filling his pipe with tobacco. It is Friday night, Blue Heelers is on TV and he’s unwinding after dinner. Laila had made Chicken Schnitzel from a recipe out of Woman’s Day. He ate without commenting on the meal. Laila wanted to say something but decided against it. She knows that Friday nights he wants to chill out after his long and stressful week.

Laila doesn’t like the smell of burning tobacco. It reminds her of her father who used to sit on the verandah and smoke his rolled cigarettes. This too she doesn’t tell Sean. She knows that his smoky breath will be all over her when he makes love to her later.

She busies herself in the kitchen, drying the dishes and putting them away. Plates and bowls back in the cupboard, knives back in the block, ladle and spatula back in the utensils jar, dessert spoons back in the cutlery drawer, face down, so dust doesn’t collect in the depression of the spoons.

The rangehood filter is the last item on the rack. She’d taken out the filter and washed it earlier, though it was a struggle trying to remove it. There was a catch she’d had difficulty undoing, to release the filter. After fiddling with it for ten minutes, she finally managed to get it off. And yes—the filter was covered with a thick film of grease.

Now she takes the clean filter and gives it a once-over with the tea towel, shaking it to get rid of all traces of water. Then she tries to insert the filter back up into the rangehood. She pushes, slides and pulls but the filter refuses to fit into the cavity, the same way it refused to come undone this afternoon. She knows that once it slides in past the catches, it will stay in place.

Click, clack. She struggles for a good fifteen minutes. In between she peers over at Sean, sunk back in the sofa. He puffs away, throwing his head back. The TV blares, police inspectors are now pulling a white cloth over a dead body, a woman, face and arms splattered with fresh blood. The conversations boom over the sounds in the kitchen.

Sweat is beading on her neck. She tries to remember the movement of the filter as it slid out earlier and to replicate it in reverse. She places the filter in what she’s sure is the right position and gives it a firm push with the base of her palm. Finally the filter slides in—but the pressure from the push dislocates the glass panel above it. The piece of glass tumbles down, hits the floor and shatters.

Shards of glass shoot in all directions.

Laila stands there shocked, looking at the mess on the floor. Sean jumps up from the sofa and flies to the kitchen.

‘What the…!’ Shock creeps into his face too, followed by a frown. Then a look of disgust. ‘Stupid woman! What do you think you’re doing? You’ve wrecked my kitchen!’

The words hit Laila like bullets from a machine gun. She places her hands on her face, mouth open.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she says.

‘Can’t rely on you to do anything right!’ He turns and stomps back to the sofa.

The air stirs from his movements. Sweat drips down Laila’s temples as she stares at the shattered pieces of glass strewn around her feet.

28

CRADLING THE RECEIVER BETWEEN his ear and shoulder, Jim flattens the spine of the White Pages. His index finger locates the name of the company. He punches in the number. The ringing tone pulsates in his ear.

‘Sungold Fruit Juices, good afternoon, can I help you?’

‘Oh, hi. I was wanting to speak to someone by the name of Sam or Sean?’

‘What’s the surname please?’

‘Er, I’m not sure. Well, I don’t know actually.’

‘We have over a thousand staff here and it would be quite hard to identify who you want to speak to without a surname. Do you know which department he’s in?’

Jim scratches his head. That morning months ago, him hunched over the bed, racing through the small print on the business card, comes back to him. He tries his best to recollect details of the surname and position on the card, but they are a blur.

‘Well, no, I don’t.’

‘That’s going to be a bit hard.’

‘How about looking up anyone with the name Sam or Sean?’

‘Okay, I can try. Can you hold please?’

‘Yep.’

A pause.

‘Hello, you there? Okay, we have Sam Anderson, Sam Poteralski and Sam Reid.’

Jim winces. ‘How about trying Sean?’

‘Mmm…okay. Please hold.’

After about ten seconds, she comes on again. ‘You there? I have a Sean Goldsworthy, a Sean Taylor, a Sean Timmerman and a Sean Nardelli.’

The phone booth shrinks. Jim drops his head against the glass, looks ahead. Across the road, children are playing in their front yard, throwing a ball, mouths opening in silent laughs.

It could be any of those seven or so fucking arseholes.

‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll call back again.’ He thumps his fist on the receiver hook.

A large crowd has gathered by the water. Unusual for autumn. People are rugged up in parkas and thick jackets.

Jim finds a park on the Esplanade and walks towards the shore. The cold sea air cuts into his skin. He pulls up his collar and scrutinises everyone like a hawk. He hones in on women with dark hair, dismissing the blondes and brunettes. That much he will give her; her Asian looks make his task of searching ten times easier. He casts his eyes like a net over the throngs of people heading out to the end of the jetty, then joins them.

Midway, a mane of long black hair catches his attention. Seemingly by herself, she’s walking a few paces ahead of him. Slight in build, blue jeans, mock suede jacket. She’s walking fast. The wind whips her hair. Jim increases his pace and trails her.

Finally he catches up with the woman. He keeps pace with her, glancing sideways to get a look at her face. It is a Caucasian woman with dyed black hair, a nose ring and three eyebrow rings. Jim sighs, then walks ahead.

After checking out everyone on the jetty, he returns to his car. This is his last destination. All day he has been driving around Adelaide in search of her. Last week it was Renmark, Berri, Monash, Barmera and Loxton. Driving around the streets at different times of the day, checking out the crowds, keeping an eye out for petite-looking women with dark hair. He checked the little streets as well, went on foot as far as his energy could take him.

Earlier today he’d covered the Central Market and Chinatown. That was challenging, as every other woman had black hair. He’d bought a coffee and sat at a table in the atrium outside the Central Market Shopping Arcade, placing himself strategically so as to have a commanding view of the crowds flowing past. He’d nursed his coffee for an hour and a half. But no luck.

Though the jetty was no good either, Jim knows she likes the sea, so there’s still a chance he might find her somewhere around here. He cruises the little streets at a snail’s pace and then rolls along the Esplanade, craning his neck, checking out everyone. Cars toot behind him, flashing their lights, the drivers mouthing obscenities. As soon as the road is clear, they overtake him, revving their engines loudly, their tyres screeching. When they make hand signs at him while overtaking, he sticks his arm out the window and returns the gesture.

‘Same to you, arsehole.’

Across the sea front, the sun blazes into his windscreen. Blinding orange light. In an hour or so it will be dusk. He flaps down his visor, toys with the idea of checking into a cheap hotel and continuing his search into the evening. He thinks about tactics police officers and private investigators use to find someone. Sniffer dogs, newspaper reports, interviews. What else? He could hire a private investigator but he doesn’t have the money. He punches his steering wheel.

Shit. Everything ultimately comes down to money.

Fatigue suddenly hits him at the thought of looking for her in the darkness and the neon-lit streets, fatigue accumulated from days, weeks, months of poor or no sleep. He knows he should grab a bite to eat but his stomach feels bloated. All day, he’s eaten nothing but a hamburger, but the thought of food repulses him.

Another fruitless trip.

It’s been nine weeks since Laila left. Practically the whole town knows by now. He goes through the moments when he could have turned things around, points in the marriage where he could have made it good. Like the time Laila asked if he would let her work in the blocks. Or the day she was writing to her folks back home, and asked if there was going to be good news to announce to them. The moments reel over and over in his head. He tries to push them away but like tiny plastic sheets stuck to your finger by static, they stick with him. It’s like a sickness. When night falls, the symptoms worsen and won’t let up.

He looks at his watch. Five-fifty. If he hits the Sturt Highway in the next half-hour, he should be back in Renmark by nine. He could grab something from the pub then. At the traffic lights, he makes a right turn to head in a northerly direction. A continuous stream of traffic grinds on the three-lane Main North Road. He passes Pooraka, Parafield, Brahma Lodge, Salisbury, Elizabeth, Smithfield.

A few kilometres after he glimpses the Elizabeth Shopping Centre tower, he starts to question his reason for the trip to Adelaide. But suddenly the floodgates open. Her almond-shaped eyes, the black tresses framing her face, the tiny round tips of her fingers—his vision kaleidoscopes. He blinks, shakes his head, hits his forehead, but the images are relentless.

Shit.

Emotions well up in him and he slips fast into a physical aching for her. On the left of the road, he spots the yellow and blue neon lights of the Munno Para Hotel sign, blinking away. He slams on his brakes, veers the car into the left lane, signals and pulls into the car park.

He steps blindly into the pub. Several groups of men are hovering around the open fire, some standing, some sitting on stools. They turn to look at him, then go back to their talk.

The first gulp of beer gives him instant relief. By the time he’s on his third, the alcohol is quelling the hollow ache inside him. Below the mantelpiece, the flames flicker. Jim watches the fire curl around the wood, hears the mini-explosions underneath the logs as they crackle.

In the darkness he stumbles to his car. Once inside, he realises the time: the display on the dashboard says nine-thirty. He can’t remember how many drinks he’s had, who he chatted with (he does remember there were three men, one of them wearing a maroon jumper), what they talked about, what the pub looked like. His mind numb, he starts the engine.

About ten minutes after he leaves Munno Para Hotel, it starts to rain. Showers give way to a steady downpour. His wipers screech from side to side, spewing out water. The darkness of the large open spaces zooms past, the black forms of hillocks, trees and paddocks barely discernible. With the rain pouring down, Jim drives and the drone of the car engine feeds the steady humming in his head.

The car eases into Truro. With difficulty, Jim brings the speed down to sixty, cruises through the one-street town. The alcohol feels embedded under his skin. Outside, everything is dark and hazy, a place gone to sleep. He can barely make out the dimly lit shops, a sign that reads something like community centre. When he sees the road signs for 80 and then 110, he steps on the accelerator. A little way from the town, the road starts to descend Truro Hill.

In the darkness, wind whistling in through gaps in the window, thoughts of Laila creep up on him again. He tries to push them out of his mind but, like fireworks, they keep exploding into his vision. He pictures her lover, sees a big expensive house, the two of them having an elaborate meal in his plush dining room. He imagines them having sex and he winces as if a knife is twisting in his stomach. Images of this man kissing Laila’s lips, her neck, her breasts, the hollow of her pelvic area, flood his mind. He’s thinking of him touching her sex, the precise contours and feel of which he knows like the back of his hand—when a flash of something appears in front of him. It looks like a small animal, a possum or some other marsupial. Its movement is swift and it is jetting across the road.

Jim slams on his brakes. The car swerves and skids, and the tyres screech. The road is at its steepest, the dark outline of the scrubland fanning out below. He manoeuvres the steering wheel to stop the car from skidding but it continues veering wildly. One, two, three. The car spins like a top. Headlights flash in mad circles. The ute reels, lurches then grinds over gravel at the side of the road, speeding towards a blackish form.

He can’t make out what it is. He squints and it suddenly occurs to him: a huge tree. His feet hit the brakes, he wrenches the steering wheel to the left, but it’s too late. The side of the car collides with the tree. The impact throws Jim forward. His head hits the steering wheel. He passes out.

29

‘SO THERE WE WERE trying the shiraz. Mind you it was a good drop, but the girl kept talking to the other customer as if we didn’t exist,’ Sean is saying.

They are having dinner at Amarin Thai Restaurant in North Adelaide, with Sean’s friends, Mark and Donna. The restaurant is full. Waiters are pacing up and down, balancing plates on their forearms, uncorking wine bottles. The coffee machine behind the bar grinds.

‘So what did you do?’ Mark asks.

‘Nothing at first. I mean, look, if the bottles had been within my reach, I would’ve poured myself some. Was interested in the cab-merlot, had won some award or something. But the bottles are always at the back of the bar.’

Mark and Donna shake their heads. Laila sits quietly and listens to the conversation. She doesn’t contribute. She remembers the incident clearly. It was one of their Sunday outings, a visit to McLaren Vale wineries.

‘Now where has customer service gone to?’ Sean cocks his head, opens both palms up in the air.

‘Was it Eden Creek again?’ Donna asks.

‘Yep,’ Sean says. ‘Call themselves a boutique winery!’

‘Sounds like they were cutting costs, hiring just one sales girl for wine tasting,’ Donna says.

‘And on a Sunday, Jesus. Sounds like el cheapo, if you ask me,’ Sean says.

Laila prays Sean doesn’t go into the details.

‘The problem was,’ Sean says, spooning rice noodle salad onto his plate, ‘the wine was really good. So after standing there and not getting served, we walked off with the display bottle out the front.’

‘Blimey!’ Mark says, laughing.

‘Only the shiraz, mind you. I was waiting to taste the cab-merlot, remember, which the stupid girl wouldn’t serve me because she was busy gasbagging. I would have been happy to buy both.’

Donna covers her mouth, eyebrows arched. ‘And no one stopped you?’

‘Nah,’ Sean says smugly.

Laila looks down at her plate, hoping no one is looking at her.

‘Except little Goody Two Shoes here.’ Sean looks to his side, angles his eyes towards her.

Laila feels blood drain from her body. She hears the thud-thud of her heart. The restaurant, with the white walls and embroidered wall hangings, swallows her.

‘She starts telling me I can’t do something like that. Causes a bloody stir. And of course,’ Sean says, eyes piercing, throwing his hands up in the air, ‘guess what happens? Everyone turns to look at us. That’s when the stupid sales girl comes out and pulls the rug from under our feet.’ He rolls his eyes.

Mark and Donna wince.

‘No. What did she do?’

‘She insisted we pay for the bottle.’

Laila wants to get up, go to the ladies, anywhere, but she stays glued to her seat. She imagines herself liquefying and seeping away.

‘Asian superstition or what, God knows,’ Sean presses on.

‘Oh, poor Laila.’ Donna looks at her. ‘I’m sure she was only thinking about what would happen had they found out.’

‘Had they found out? Hello? They wouldn’t have found out had Goody Two Shoes here just kept her mouth shut.’ Sean rolls his eyes again, makes a face, shifts his gaze from Donna to Mark to Laila, then back to Donna.

Laila bites back her tears.

‘Let’s eat, shall we? Food’s getting cold,’ Mark says.

Before the door is closed, Sean grabs Laila from behind. He pulls her towards him, leans back. The door clicks shut. His fingers grope her skirt. He pulls up the hem, gathering the folds, wildly searching for flesh. He licks the lobes of her ear, diving his tongue in. His breath reeks of alcohol.

‘Go get me some port and come to bed.’

Laila brings the port to the doorway of the bedroom. Sean is lying in bed, his eyes glued to the TV. Laila follows his line of vision. On the screen, limbs, torsos and hair are tangled together. In the foreground, a naked woman is sitting on the floor, her legs spread. Fingers dig into her dark triangular area. A man approaches, straddles her and feeds his stiff penis into her mouth. She sucks it with an animal-like intensity.

Laila stands still. The starkness of the scene makes her dizzy. Sean turns, motioning for her to join him. She goes to the side of the bed.

‘Only one glass?’ Sean says.

‘I’m not drinking any more.’

‘Okay, suit yourself.’

Laila stares at the screen. She swallows her saliva, stands still.

‘Hey, come on, life gets boring otherwise, huh?’ Sean says.

Laila remains quiet but discomfort shows on her face.

‘A bit of entertainment, that’s all. Alright, how about something a bit more tame?’ He gets up, switches videos, presses buttons on the remote control. A soft-focus scene plays. A couple is kissing and the man is lowering himself into her. Pink roses cover the curtain behind them.

‘Now, that’s not so bad, is it?’

Laila doesn’t answer him. She changes into her pyjamas and gets into bed. She turns to her side, pulls the covers up to her neck. Light from the screen flickers on the wall.

She hears buttons clicking, the sound of the tape fast forwarding, music, more moans, then silence. The TV clicks off. Moments later she feels Sean’s hand on her buttocks. The sensation makes her want to throw up. In her mind, she’s playing back the evening, the caustic tone of his voice, his head cocked sideways, pity in Donna’s eyes. She pushes his hand away.

‘Whoa, sulking, are we?’ Sean says.

Laila remains silent. Outside a car swishes past, rock music blasting out, bass thumping. She turns to face him.

‘Why did you embarrass me at the restaurant?’

Sean looks surprised, then his expression changes. ‘For crying out loud, I was just relating the story.’ He takes a sip of his port.

She turns her face away. With her back towards him, she says, ‘You were making fun of me.’

‘Oh, getting sensitive now, eh?’

She faces him again. ‘You were. There was no need to give them all those details.’

‘Since when do you get to vet my conversations?’

‘You wouldn’t like it if I did that to you.’

‘Cut the crap, Laila. I haven’t got the inclination to put up with overly sensitive girls.’

He drinks some more.

‘Now come over here and let’s have some fun. Life’s too short.’

When Laila doesn’t respond, he rolls to her side and gropes. His hand finds her breast and starts kneading. She tries to get into it, fearing what might happen if she doesn’t, but repulsion brews in her. Sean is now climbing on top of her. His breath is heavy and hot on her skin, his moans become louder. He fondles her everywhere, pulling at her pyjamas, impatiently undoing buttons. With all her strength, she pushes him away.

Sean recoils, holds his head back. ‘So, you want to play games.’

He starts to touch her again. She pushes his hands away but he shoves her arms aside. He grabs her jaw, turns her face towards him and covers her mouth with his. His tongue is forceful and ruthless. Laila moves her face from side to side to avoid his kisses.

‘Stay still, I say.’

‘No, please.’

He ignores her and drags down her pyjama pants. She pulls them up again.

‘No, Sean, please.’

He pins her body down and starts to grind his pelvic area against hers. She tries to struggle free.

‘No!’

Sean sits up and glares at her. ‘Nobody says no to me, do—you—hear?’ He articulates the words menacingly.

She flinches. She stares at him, at the anger burning in his eyes. With his legs still straddling her, he anchors her by lowering his body onto her hips. He rams his knees close to her sides to lock her in position. She struggles, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. Then the blows begin, on her upper arms, her thighs. His hands strike her with force. Slaps boom in the air. She feels the sting, sharp and acute.

‘Bitch! That’ll teach you.’

Sean lifts his leg over her, gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom.

Laila rolls to her side, curls her legs up to her chest and pulls the covers up again. She rubs her arms, nurses the pain. The bruises throb, growing larger and larger as her mind tries to make sense of what has just happened. When she hears his footsteps approaching the bed, she stuffs the sheet into her mouth to stifle her sobs.

30

THE FIRST SENSATION HE feels is a whopping pain. Jim opens his eyes, and finds himself cloaked in darkness, his head wedged between the steering wheel and the window. He sits up and feels queasy. He tries to gather his bearings, but can’t make out much detail except for the outline of the dashboard. In the dimness, he feels for the overhead light and flicks it on. Dull light bathes the interior of the car. His hand goes to his hair and he feels a sticky wetness dripping down his temple. Blood on his fingertips. He angles the rear-view mirror and catches a reflection of himself. There is a tear in the skin at the top of his forehead. He moves his face towards to the mirror to take a closer look, relieved to find no other wounds.

Squinting, he peers out the window to check out his surroundings. He grabs the torch from the glove compartment and shines it outside. Tree trunk against the side of the car, and the front of the vehicle caught in a cluster of branches and leaves at the side of the tree. He gets out to size up the damage. The beam from his torch illuminates the crushed bumper, dislocated and poking out from the car. He examines the rest of the exterior. Other than the bumper, not too much damage.

His mouth feels parched, his lips dry and flaky. He flashes his torch quickly around. He is in the middle of bushland, dotted with black masses and blurry forms of what look like shrubs and trees—the car, thank goodness, is not too far from the road. He shines the torch on the ground, traces the skid marks back to the edge of the road.

Then he gets into the driver’s seat again, checks the time. Twelve thirty-five. He starts the engine. After a few coughs and splutters, the car starts. Reversing, he hears metal buckling, surfaces scraping against each other. The car jerks and coughs again. Just as he’s about to swing it back onto the road, flashing lights appear in the rear-view mirror. He focuses. A car is coming towards him. He looks closer and his heart sinks.

A police car signals left and pulls up in front of him. Wheels screech to a halt.

Jim lets out a breath.

The police officer, a youngish-looking man, approaches, face tinged red from the vehicle lights. He’s wearing a luminescent vest with wide orange and grey stripes.

Jim winds down his window, widening his eyes to alert his senses.

‘Good evening,’ the officer says.

‘Hi, how’re you going?’

The officer peers at Jim’s right temple, then shines his torch right onto the wound. Trust his luck to be injured on the right temple instead of the left! Then the policeman takes a few steps back, directing the light of his torch to the whole car. When he sees the front section of the ute, he approaches it and examines the damage. He returns to Jim, pulls out a notebook and pen from his back trouser pocket.

‘Had a bit of a crash, I see,’ he says

‘Nah, nothing major,’ Jim says.

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, scraped a tree, no big deal.’

The officer looks at the nearby tree. He goes towards it, looks at the tree from different angles, runs his hand over the area of impact, then strolls back to the car. Jim’s eyes follow his movements.

‘When did this happen?’

‘Dunno, an hour ago…something like that.’

‘You passed out?’ The officer starts scribbling in his book.

‘Yeah.’

‘Your driver’s licence, please.’

Jim hands it to him.

The officer scans it. ‘Coming from Adelaide?’

‘Yep.’

‘Heading for?’

‘Renmark.’

More scribbles.

‘I’ll have to get you to step out of the car, sir.’

The officer goes to his car and returns with something in his hand. When he gets closer, Jim sees immediately that it is a breathalyser.

‘I’m going to get you to face me and breathe into this.’

Jim does as he is told.

‘Just breathe once, hard.’

The minute Jim lets out the breath, he knows he’s fucked. The officer shines the torch at the breathalyser, takes the reading, writes something in his notebook. Then he goes back to his car to take out a folder. He pulls out a pad, scribbles some notes on it for what seems like minutes. Jim’s heart beats wildly. Finally the officer tears the sheet from the pad and walks back to Jim. His shoes scuff the gravel, his face is devoid of any expression.

‘I’m afraid you’re over the limit, sir. Point o-nine. This means your driver’s licence will be suspended immediately for a period of six months.’ He looks at Jim. ‘If you’d like to challenge the accuracy of the breathalyser reading, I can provide you with a blood kit, but you’ll need to make your own way to a doctor and have the blood tested at your own expense.’

Jim leans back against his ute and huffs.

‘So, would you like the blood kit?’ the officer asks.

‘No, thanks.’ Jim stares at the ground.

He hands Jim his licence and the piece of paper. ‘Here’s the notice. Would you like me to organise a taxi to take you back to, what was it, Renmark, right? And of course, a tow truck for your vehicle?’

The walls close in on Jim. In his mind, he does a quick calculation of the taxi fare and the tow truck charges. Images of what it will be like to be without a car for six months flash through his head. He feels as if his whole life is compressed into this moment—and all of a sudden, the wheels have fallen off.

‘Well?’ the officer says.

Jim stares at the blinking lights of the police car. ‘Yeah, yeah, okay.’

The officer presses a button on his walkie-talkie. As he speaks, Jim gets back into his ute. The officer’s voice drones on. In the car, the darkness balloons, swallows him.

The officer bends down and faces Jim. ‘All arranged. They should be here fairly soon.’ The officer rubs his own temple. ‘And I’d get that treated quick if I were you. Close shave.’

31

LIGHT DAZZLES IN UNDER her eyelids. She opens her eyes, squints. Then she peers at the alarm clock. Nine-fifty. She turns to Sean’s side of the bed. It is empty. Since she moved in, this is the first time she’s slept in. She looks towards the door, strains to listen for sounds of his presence. It is silent, he’s gone to work.

She drags herself out of bed. Her head throbs with every movement. In the bathroom mirror, she checks her reflection. Angles her arm towards the mirror. The bruises are a light bluey-black. Pressure from her fingers intensifies the pain. She pulls down her pyjama pants and checks her legs. No bruises, only a dull ache where he’d hit her, on the thigh, just above the knee. She takes two painkillers from the vanity and swallows them.

Downstairs there is a ghostly silence. Laila looks around, just to be sure Sean has left. The family room looks twice as large. Light gushes in through the windows, blinding her. She goes to the kitchen, reaches for the kettle. She’s filling it from the tap when something on the dining table catches her eye. It is a bouquet of white tiger lilies. She turns on the kettle and goes towards the table. The bouquet is huge, green stems visible through the glass vase. A note sits beside it. She picks it up.

I’m sorry, darling. I shouldn’t have done what I did last night. Will you forgive me? Love, Sean.

The kettle hisses, then clicks. She pours hot water into the mug, brings her drink to the table. Steam rises from the liquid. She reads the note again, places it down and looks out the window. A flock of seagulls circles in the sky. They descend to the sea, flap their wings and take off again. Laila drinks her tea. She thinks about the sparrows walking on the corrugated-iron fence of her longhouse.

32

JIM DISCONNECTS THE BATTERY from his ute and throws a tarp over it. He gets around without a car as best he can. When Peter and Danny’s shifts coincide with his, he hitches a ride with them. Other times, Jim walks, huffing and puffing, cursing and complaining.

Three weeks after the accident, he receives another notice in the mail, this time directing him to attend the Central Court at Berri to receive notification about his fine. Berri, fifteen kilometres away. How is he going to get there without a car, for God’s sake? He ends up taking a taxi, too embarrassed to ask his mates for transport.

The magistrate, whom Jim swears wears a toupee (the shade is a tad darker than the light brown hair on the rest of his head), tells Jim he has to pay $600, his solemn eyes peering over gold-framed reading glasses.

‘Not quite the maximum of seven hundred,’ the bald son-of-a-bitch reminds Jim, not once, but twice.

Jim felt the hairs on his neck rise like the hackles of dogs during a fight.

Set back by a total of $1100 (including the $300 for the towing and the $200 taxi fare), Jim becomes desperate for any transport kindness that comes his way.

Occasionally Tom obliges, but after two months things get a bit tricky. Tom comes up with all sorts of excuses why he can’t.

‘Are you mad? I’m up Lyrup way, in the opposite direction. Go take a hike. And I mean literally.’ Tom sneers, then breaks into uncontrollable laughter.

‘Come on, chump. You know I’d do the same for you,’ Jim pleads.

‘Piss off,’ Tom says.

It’s only when Jim offers to pay for petrol that Tom relents.

To reduce the weight of the bundles of food and groceries he has to lug home on foot, Jim does his shopping at Woolworths twice a week instead of weekly. Not being able to drive, however, does not stop him from hitting the pub. He just doesn’t go as frequently.

‘If you try to hit on me again, I’ll get you thrown out,’ Sharon says.

‘Sure, babe,’ Jim says.

It is nine-thirty. Jim has been drinking since two in the afternoon, when he’d called it a day. He has lost count of how many beers he’s had. The room hasn’t started spinning yet so he still has a way to go.

‘I mean it.’ Sharon walks to the till, drops in some money, takes out some change and closes it again.

‘What makes you so sure I’m hitting on you?’

‘Hello? This isn’t the first time. And the more you drink, the more ridiculous you get.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, woman. Was only talking. The way I’m talking to these people around me.’ He waves his hand in the air and looks around. There’s Tom, about a metre away.

Sharon looks at them. ‘Yeah, like who wants to listen to your drivel.’

‘Who’s going to throw me out anyway? Rodney’s my mate and he won’t do no such thing, will you, Rod?’ He turns his head and talks to air.

‘Oh, don’t you worry, we’ve got people who can take care of business.’ Sharon turns on her heel and walks to the far end of the bar.

‘Yeah, yeah. Bitch.’

Tom, who’s been drinking since five, joins in. ‘Yeah, Sharon, Jim’s only being sociable.’

‘That’s the way, mate. We’re all just talking, aren’t we?’ Jim says.

Tom pulls Jim aside, puts his hand over his mouth and whispers. ‘The problem with Sharon is that each time a man speaks more than three sentences with her, she thinks they want to get into her pants.’

‘With an arse like that, I’d worry too.’

Tom peers over at Sharon, checks out her body. Then he downs his beer and waves his hand, palm down. ‘Hmm, so-so. Not my type. Too old, besides.’

‘She ain’t bad, to me.’

‘What’s with you, Jim? Noodle boxing ain’t happening at home, huh?’ Tom slaps his hands on the bar and cackles.

Jim feels a stinging sharp pain inside his belly. He takes a swig of his beer. ‘Cut it out.’

‘Or maybe you’re getting withdrawals from lamb chops? Or was it meatballs?’

It’s obvious Tom has not heard of the separation. Or maybe he has and is just being a shit-head.

‘It’s not funny, Tom.’ Jim feels the booze coursing through his veins.

‘Mate, since when was it supposed to be funny? I’m talking about something really serious here—’ He hiccups.

Jim walks away and looks for Rodney, who is at the other end of the bar serving customers. Tom trails him.

‘…so serious, Jim, you wouldn’t want to miss any fucking minute of it.’ Tom continues laughing.

‘What the hell are you on about?’

‘Come on, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

‘Shut your face, Tom. I don’t want to hear another bloody word from you.’

‘Guess what? Chap down at the Parade Mart, he tells me he can line up some Asian babes. That’s what I’m fucking talking about.’

‘You’re feral. Get lost.’

Tom is so drunk he’s starting to slur. ‘Aww, I w…was hoping I’d be able to get some t…tips from you.’

Jim faces the bar and gestures to Rodney. ‘Hey, Rod, get me another, will yer?’

Tom continues. ‘Like, mate, is it true—’ he hiccups—‘that they give good head?’

Jim feels anger racing through him. His head is starting to pulsate.

‘I mean reeaal good head,’ Tom says.

Jim remains silent.

‘And they moan real funny when they come, like so—’

Tom starts to curl his mouth in an exaggerated manner and is about to imitate the sounds when Jim feels something popping in his head. Fury.

He pulls back his hand, balls it into a fist and punches Tom in the gut.

Tom winces, doubles over and lands on the bar. Nearby glasses go flying and shatter on the floor.

Jim stares at him, the impact of his own movement making his head spin.

‘Fuck you! What did you do that for?’ Tom strangles out.

He straightens up and swings a fist in Jim’s direction, but misses. Quickly he gathers himself and throws another punch, this time landing it at Jim’s eyebrow, near the wound from the car accident. The area swells up immediately, the old wound throbs. Jim brings both arms up to shield himself, but Tom lands another punch, this time in the stomach, followed by another, to his eyebrow again. This one draws blood. Jim is infuriated. All he wants to do is beat the crap out of Tom for saying what he did.

‘Someone, get Bruce to come fix him up.’ It’s a female voice, possibly Sharon’s.

Jim ignores it, charges towards Tom—

But suddenly, two pairs of arms hold him back.

He struggles, but is pinned down. His vision is now blurred, he can’t make out who they are. He only feels the pressure of their hands on him. He tries to kick but there is resistance. Now he can’t even bring his knees back.

What about Tom? Why don’t they get him too? Dickheads.

The bar is spinning madly. Faces he recognises—Rodney, Sharon, Tom, Alex, the guy three caravans from him—peer down at him, then spin away. Huge commotion, voices buzzing, feet shuffling, oohs and aahs. The smell of alcohol. The start of the stench of sick.

Jim feels himself being lifted. There’s swift movement. His legs are being dragged across the floor. Cool air brushes past. Doors open. He’s past the doors and he feels his body being thrown.

He lands on his elbows with a thud. Skin grazes on pavement. He rolls over, clutching his stomach. Then he lies still, head throbbing, blood oozing from his eyebrow.

There are voices above him. Murmurs—a woman’s voice, then a man’s. Someone is shaking his shoulder.

‘Jim, Jim, are you okay?’

Jim brings his hands to his eyes, rubs them, then squints to get a better look.

It is Marietta. She’s crouched beside him, touching his cheek. He lifts his head.

‘Hey…’ He struggles up to say, then drops his head again.

‘You passed out. Thank God Peter and I spotted you. Are you okay?’

He’s barely able to answer. Lying on his side, he attempts to move, but finds that his left leg has gone to sleep. He tries to focus, and the view around him starts to become clearer. It’s the side alley, and he sees bins, a row of them, rubbish spilling out, the stench of rot whirling around him. Flies buzz.

‘Jesus, let’s get him out of here,’ a man says.

Jim makes an effort to lift his head and sees Peter staring down at him. Peter. A few seconds of relief. But his head starts pounding hard, and he can no longer focus. His stomach churns.

‘Hang in there, buddy. We’re getting you out of here,’ Peter says.

Jim feels arms propping him up by the elbows, then his body being lifted. Peter drags Jim’s arm over his shoulder. Then Marietta pulls his other arm over her shoulder. He struggles to take steps but his feet feel like jelly. They drag him slowly round the corner from the alley, but he only sees the ground sliding below him; his feet are barely able to move. Hobbling along with their arms holding him up, he finally sees their blue four-wheel-drive, his vision spinning.

The air is fat with the aroma of coffee. Jim opens his eyes and recognises the interior of Peter’s caravan. It is morning. Blades of light slant in through the windows. He’s lying on his back on a small couch, knees bent, legs bunched up. A checked woollen blanket covers his body. He is warm but a morning chill brushes his face.

Marietta is standing by the stove, frying eggs. Clink clank, her spatula hits the pan. The sounds and smells remind him of the first time Laila slept in his caravan and he made her breakfast. He rolls over to his side and his eyes brim with tears. He wipes them away with his palms.

‘How are you feeling, Jim?’ Marietta asks.

Jim sits up, rubs his eyes. ‘Like death warmed up.’ He shakes his head. The pounding and throbbing are still present.

Peter steps through the door. He has been sitting outside, reading the paper.

‘Hey, big fella. How’s it going?’ Peter says.

Jim tries to be cheery. ‘I sure did it, didn’t I?’

‘Got to, sometime, right?’ Peter chuckles, pulls a chair up beside him. He slaps Jim on the shoulder.

‘Sure do…’

Marietta brings him a tray with fried eggs, toast and coffee. ‘Here you are. This will make you feel better.’

Jim looks at the tray then he bends his head. Tears stream down his face now. He chokes.

‘Oh God,’ he says, covering his eyes with his hands.

Marietta leans over and hugs him. Peter touches him on the shoulder. Jim cries for a long while. Eventually he composes himself. He eats his breakfast, slurps his coffee.

‘Why, why did she have to be so cruel?’ he says.

Marietta takes a seat at the foot of the couch. ‘She was in a lot of pain, Jim.’

‘I know, I know, but surely she didn’t have to end it like that. I mean, we could have tried to find a way round the problem.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Peter says. ‘You know what it’s like with couples. You go round and round in circles and in the end, things are still the same.’

‘I never knew what I had until I lost it. Shit, I swear I’ve never loved any woman as much as I loved her.’

Jim stares out the window, mug in hand.

‘You need to understand where she’s coming from, Jim,’ Marietta says. ‘All her life, she’s lived in squalor. She only wanted something a little better than a caravan. She wasn’t expecting a palace or anything like that.’

‘A house. Yeah. And I couldn’t give that to her.’ Jim punches the pillow. ‘Shit.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up about it,’ Peter says.

‘And that bastard,’ Jim says. ‘Fucking bastard, opportunist.’

Peter and Marietta sigh.

‘Any idea who he is?’ Jim says.

They shake their heads. Marietta stands up.

‘Finished with breakfast?’ she says.

Jim nods. She takes away the tray.

‘Appreciate your help, guys. Last night was real rough.’

‘Good thing we found you, otherwise the garbage truck would have picked you up,’ Peter says, smiling.

‘I wouldn’t have fitted in the receptacle,’ Jim says, pointing at his paunch.

‘They’ve got grinders in there, I hear.’

Marietta brings Jim a wet flannel. ‘Here, this will help you freshen up.’

‘You are a gem, Marietta. Peter has no idea how lucky he is.’

Marietta winks at Peter. ‘I think he does.’

‘I’m out of here. Got work to do.’ Peter approaches the door. ‘Stay as long as you like, pal.’

‘Nah, gotta get back. The caravan’s a pigsty. Need to get that in order.’

Marietta takes the flannel from Jim. ‘Sing out if you need help, okay. We’re only five minutes away.’ She gives him a hug. ‘And, I wouldn’t give up that easily if I were you.’

33

LAILA IS ABOUT TO enter Hong Kong Grocer when she notices a woman across the road. Something about the way she carries herself makes Laila look twice. The woman stops, reaches into her handbag and, looking up, catches Laila’s gaze. Laila races across the road.

‘Marietta!’

‘Laila, oh my God, I can’t believe it.’

They hug and kiss each other on the cheek. She has not seen Marietta in nearly six months.

‘Marietta, you have no idea how happy I am to see you,’ Laila says.

‘Same here. I have been thinking so much about you.’

‘What are you doing in Adelaide?’

‘Peter’s visiting his uncle, discussing a possible business deal. He dropped me off here to do some shopping.’

‘Listen, I have about an hour. Let’s go have coffee.’

‘Okay. Zuma’s? They have good coffee there.’

At Zuma’s, they find a corner table away from the crowd. Laila orders black coffee, Marietta flat white. Laila tears open a tube of sugar and pours it into her cup.

‘I still like my coffee like this, just the way Mak made it in the longhouse.’

‘I can imagine. You know I never drank coffee until I came to Australia?’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, my first cup of coffee was with Kate, this friend of mine from the sweatshop. Remember I mentioned her?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was a carton of iced coffee that we bought from the deli in Wingfield. Took one sip and I was hooked.’

They drink.

‘So, how are you?’ Laila asks.

‘Good, good.’

‘Still in the caravan park?’

Marietta nods. ‘Yes, same one. Peter’s still at the blocks. And oh, I’ve started helping out at the child-care centre.’

‘Wow, that’s great. So you like it?’

‘Love it. Only doing about twelve hours a week, but it keeps me busy. I started with cleaning the place. After a few months, one of their staff fell sick and they asked if I wanted to fill in for her.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Children. They teach you so much. Sometimes I get really impatient with them, but that’s usually when things are not that great inside me. You know how it is.’

‘Yes.’ Laila nods. ‘The money helps too, huh?’

‘Definitely.’ Marietta sips her coffee, then gives Laila a serious look. ‘How are you, Laila?’

Laila turns away, stares at the tables on the footpath. Only one person is seated outside, rugged up in a parka.

‘I’m okay.’

‘Are you sure?’

Laila forces a smile and nods.

‘No, you’re not, Laila. I can tell.’

Laila looks down at her lap. Then she looks up again, reaches for Marietta’s hand and squeezes it. ‘I am so glad to see you.’

Marietta squeezes her hand back. ‘What is it like living with the new man?’

‘You heard.’

Marietta nods.

‘He’s got a lovely big house by the beach. And he’s very good-looking.’

‘Hmm. Everything you ever wanted?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Grange?’

‘No. Henley Beach.’

‘The romance started when I was on holidays?’

‘Yes. After you left, things got worse between me and Jim. I was so lonely, so lonely, you wouldn’t believe. I met Sean at the Christmas party.’

‘Do you love each other?’

‘What is love, Marietta? I don’t understand the word anymore. I thought I loved Jim, but look what happened.’

‘What’s he like? Does he treat you well?’

The dreaded question.

‘He’s okay.’

Marietta gives her a sideways look. ‘You sure?’

Pause. Laila looks up into the ceiling then away to the side, and the tears well up. ‘He beats me.’

Marietta puts her hand to her mouth. Her eyes widen in horror. She holds Laila’s hand again, tight. ‘Oh God.’

Laila dabs her eyes with a tissue. ‘Nothing I ever do is right. Sean is that sort of person. You can’t go against him. He has to be right all the time. And he gets angry easily and becomes nasty.’

‘Oh Laila. When did it start? How long has this been going on?’

‘Three and a half months after I moved in with him.’

‘You can’t go on like this.’

‘He always says sorry after. Buys me gifts and things like that.’

Marietta shakes her head. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘God. There must be something you can do.’ Marietta looks at the coffee machine located behind the bar. ‘Why do some men act like brutes? What is it that makes them cross the line?’

Laila shrugs her shoulders.

‘The police,’ Marietta says.

‘No, I can’t do that. We can work it out.’

‘Why didn’t you contact me?’

‘I wanted to, I thought about it so many times, but I was so ashamed.’

‘Laila, I’m your friend, will always be your friend. You don’t have to be ashamed to tell me anything.’

‘Remember in the beginning you asked me to give Jim a chance and I did? But now, how can I face you after what I have done to my marriage?’

‘Hey, hey, listen, nothing fazes me anymore.’

‘And I lied to you, Marietta, I lied to you about my first trip here to visit Sean. Remember, I said I had to go see a special doctor for my headaches? How could I face you again?’

Marietta cups her hands around Laila’s face. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. What personal decisions you make doesn’t affect our friendship. You’ve always known that, haven’t you?’

Marietta gives Laila a smile. Those moments again. The feeling of being inside each other’s space, invisible cords flowing back and forth between them.

‘Yes.’ Laila smiles back. ‘I know things are in a mess right now…but I’m sure they’ll work out.’

‘I’m not so sure, Laila. I have no time for men who beat their women.’

‘Do you see Jim?’

‘Not that often.’

‘How is he?’

‘Do you really want to know, Laila?’

Laila shrugs her shoulders.

‘He’s having a hard time, Laila. A really hard time. What did you expect?’ Marietta is about to continue but she hesitates.

Laila looks away. A couple is coming in the door, arm in arm, laughing. Laila looks at her watch. ‘Have to go. Sean’s picking me up in five minutes.’

Marietta quickly pulls a notebook from her handbag and scribbles on a piece of paper. ‘Here, this is the number at the caravan park office. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.’

‘I’ve got the number.’

‘Take it again, just in case.’ Marietta shoves the paper into Laila’s hand. ‘Are you going to give me your phone number?’

Laila pauses. ‘Sean wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t like me having friends. There was a girl I got to know at the nearby deli. She invited me to her place for lunch and Sean wasn’t happy with that.’

‘Alright then, I’ll depend on you to call me. Call me, okay?’ Marietta gives her a smile.

‘Okay.’

Laila’s eyes mist. She feels as if someone is squeezing her heart. They both get up, hug and kiss hurriedly.

‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ Laila says.

‘Promise.’

‘I’m serious. Especially Jim.’

‘Sure. Take care. Love you lots. Remember, be strong.’

‘I will. Love you too.’

34

WEEDS HAVE GROWN INTO the concrete. Mostly kikuyu, strong as wire, and some straggly vines. Cracks gape.

Jim places the bouquet on the ground, puts on his gardening gloves and starts to rip out the weeds. Loose earth falls on the concrete. He sweeps it away with his palms. The tombstone looks much better cleared of weeds.

He puts the bouquet at the top end, near the headstone. His mother’s picture in the headstone is a little discoloured. Jim runs his finger over her face, leans forward and gives the picture a peck. Then he kneels beside the tombstone. The grass feels soft through his trousers. Above him the Moreton Bay fig tree fans out, light filtering through. The air has a definite bite to it. It’s been nearly two months since Peter and Marietta rescued him from the street. How long will it take for the pain to ease? There’s something about the cold and the dampness that makes it seem as if the gates are shutting. When the wind hits you, it gets right into your bones, your depths.

Jim pulls up his collar and buttons his jacket.

‘Well, Mum, it’s me again. How’s it going? Hope you’re doing okay. Been a while. Sorry, I’ve been busy—well, stuffed rather.’ He pauses, looks to the side. A sea of tombstones spreads out, different shades of grey and white. In the distance, dark shapes of trees move.

‘Things haven’t turned out that great, to be honest. Again. Yeah, again. Hmm.’

He stands up, then walks around the tombstone. He slips his hands into his pockets. Loneliness sweeps over him like a tsunami. The air is still. Birds sing in the distance. He stares at the grass, watches ants crawling around, making their way up his boots. He stomps his feet to stop the ants getting to him. He walks around a little longer and returns to his mother’s tombstone.

‘Hey, Mum, remember that time in the hospital, when you came to for a day or so? Your voice was real frail and I almost couldn’t hear what you were saying, remember? You said life is what you make of it. I remember thinking at the time, yeah right. Sorry, Mum, you know how I get that way, smartypants and that, not wanting to really hear what you were saying.’

He stops, closes his eyes.

‘Well, guess what? It’s just dawned on me I haven’t made anything of my life. Nothing. Zilch. No career to speak of. No house. No possessions. Doing bloody nothing you could be proud of. And now I’ve stuffed up my marriage, to boot. Gone down the gurgler. Yeah, drove her completely round the bend. She couldn’t take another day of being with me and my smelly caravan. Yep, up and left. Finito. Pssshh.’ He made an explosive gesture with his hand. ‘For another man. Yep, another bloke who’s richer and more successful.

‘So, there you go, Mum. Thought I’d let you know. I’m a complete failure. Even Rick doesn’t want a bar of me. Told me last week if I don’t increase my output, he’ll have second thoughts about renewing my contract.’

He pauses.

‘And you also said to go with the wave, right? “Don’t fight it,” you said. Maybe you were just referring to your own situation. Well, I’ve been trying to go with the wave. But you know what, I’m still stuffing up. Big time. I can’t even hold myself together anymore. I can hardly function. My life is a complete mess.

‘So, surprise, surprise, Mum, I’ve turned out to be a complete and utter loser.’

He runs his fingers over the concrete.

‘If you’re here, show me how I can pull myself together. Oh God, please, please help me.’

He puts his face in his hands. Then he sprawls out on the tombstone and hugs the concrete. He weeps. His body shakes.

35

SEAN WAVES HIS HAND at the waiter. ‘Can you bring us the dessert menu please?’

Laila reads the choice of five dishes. The dessert menu looks as exquisite as the main one. Gold embossed lettering, smooth finish. She doesn’t feel like having sweets. The grilled chicken with avocado sauce she had for a main was filling, but she orders a lemon soufflé anyway. She’s best off agreeing with him. It will be light at least. Sean orders a pecan tart with rhubarb sauce.

‘Having a good time?’ he asks, dipping a piece of tart in sauce.

The last two days at the Royal Pines Resort have taken her mind off things. Queensland is so different from South Australia. Much warmer and greener. A welcome break from Adelaide. Her second spring in Australia, and she’s left one husband, is in a second, difficult relationship with another man, and the future is as blurred as the view through the frosted-glass brick wall of the restaurant.

The lush sub-tropical vegetation here reminds her of Sarawak. She can’t believe she actually swam today. The water was warm and relaxing. Palm trees surrounding the pool reminded her of scenes from a James Bond movie set on a tropical island.

Last night they had dinner at the Conrad Jupiters Hotel after which Sean spent about an hour at the casino.

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘We’ll do Sea World and Dreamworld tomorrow. If there’s time, we’ll throw in some shopping. There’s this cool boutique in Surfers Paradise I want to show you. How does that sound?’

‘Great.’

Sean takes a sip of his dessert wine. ‘What did you do today?’

‘Swam in the pool. I took a walk around the hotel after lunch.’

‘Good. The drinks after the plenary sessions tend to drag on. Otherwise I would have come straight back here.’

‘That’s okay.’

The lemon soufflé melts in her mouth. Its texture makes her think of clouds. Laila watches the woman next to them getting up and leaving. She’s wearing an orange dress with no back. Her shoulder blades move when she swings her handbag over her arm. Her perfume, a sweet floral scent, wafts to their table. Light bounces off her hair, a mane of blonde curls. Behind her, the hotel lobby fans out from the entrance to the restaurant. A crystal chandelier glitters above a round sofa. People are mingling in the lobby: bellboys push huge trolleys laden with luggage and suits dangling from the top railing, women and men in elegant clothes approach the concierge, a man leaves car keys in the hands of a hotel valet.

‘Thought a change of scenery would do you good. Been pretty rotten weather in Adelaide,’ Sean is saying.

She turns back to face him. ‘Yes, it’s September and still so cold.’

‘We’ll just have to brace ourselves when we get back.’

Back in the hotel room, Sean has a shower before bed. Laila lies down and watches the late night news on Channel 9. Fresh and fragrant, Sean slides in beside her and places an arm around her waist. His breathing evens out after some time. Laila flicks off the TV and the table lamp. She lowers herself, pulls up the covers and cuddles in to Sean.

‘Thanks for bringing me here, Sean. I’m having a wonderful time.’

‘That’s okay, darling. My pleasure.’ His voice is almost a whisper, trailing off. Laila gives him a peck on the lips before he falls asleep.

The skin throbs. She runs her fingers over the welt, dabs it with tissue, then covers it with a piece of gauze and a bandaid. She brushes her hair carefully and brings a strand to the side of her face to cover the wound on her forehead—but the bandaid is still visible. Only a fringe would hide it. She’s not going to be able to cover it with her hair.

She rummages through her cupboard and pulls out a cap. Worn low, the cap hides most of the wound. Putting on a jacket, she leaves the house. She shuts the door hurriedly and rushes to the phone booth. She’s not using the phone at home. The bills list all calls made and Sean could trace the number.

Since returning from the Gold Coast a month ago, she’s been trying doubly hard not to do anything to annoy Sean. The holiday seemed to have put their relationship back on track. The first week back, Sean bought her a white leather handbag, kissed her goodbye in the mornings in the way she loved, hand on the back of her head, tilting her face at a slight angle. But then things quickly spiralled back down to how they were before the holiday.

With trembling fingers, Laila dials the caravan park number. She leaves a message for Marietta. She stands in a side lane to wait. When pedestrians walk past, she retreats into the shadows, head low. Time stands still. She looks at her watch every five minutes, her head continuing to throb. She waits.

After nearly an hour, she strides away. A few steps on, she hears the phone ring. Turning on her heel, she dashes back to the phone booth. Her voice is croaky from anxiety when she picks up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Laila, it’s me. Just got your message.’

‘Oh I’m so glad you rang. I’ve been waiting here on the street.’

‘Oh no, sorry, I was in town. Are you okay, sweetie?’

‘Marietta, it was so horrible…’

‘What? What happened?’

‘I was so sure after he took me to the Gold Coast, it wouldn’t happen again.’

‘Oh sweetie…’

‘Marietta, I can’t bear it anymore. Last night…There was blood.’

‘Where?’

‘On my forehead.’

‘Oh my God.’ A gasp. ‘Go to the police.’

‘No, I can’t. I told him I was going to do it last time. He said in a sarcastic way that he wouldn’t think about it if he was me. He had such a mean look in his eyes.’

‘What was the cause?’

‘Oh, something ridiculous. We had an argument about what I had cooked. He criticised me, and I said something about us not going out to dinner anymore. Then he went crazy, called me a bitch and told me not to nag. We started shouting and then he hit me, over and over.’

The memory of Sean’s voice bellowing through the house. The flaring of his nostrils. Jumping up from his seat and banging the kitchen cupboards with his fists, then the wall. And his blows. Terror pulsing through her veins. Then running into the bedroom. Him racing after her, hitting her, punching her. The pain. The blood.

‘What about the neighbours?’ Marietta asks.

‘We never mix. The houses near us are all big mansions. Nobody ever comes out. I’m scared, Marietta.’ She weeps. ‘Oh God, what have I done with my life?’

‘Laila, I want you to listen to me carefully, okay?’ Marietta’s voice sounds serious.

‘Okay.’

‘I’ve done some homework. There’s a phone number you can ring. It’s a shelter. They help women who have partners like Sean.’

‘Oh no.’

‘Listen to me. You have to leave the house. It’s for your safety.’

Laila bursts into tears.

‘You must, Laila. Got a pen handy?’

Laila shoves her hand into her handbag, gropes for her notebook and pen. She writes down the phone number and address.

‘Ask for a lady called Helen. I’ve spoken to her and she’ll know who you are.’

‘Oh no, Marietta.’

‘You must. It never gets better. He’ll sweet talk you into believing he’ll never hit you again. But it’s never the case. That’s what Helen said.’

Laila sighs. ‘I can’t understand. He says he loves me, then why does he hit me?’

‘Shows you. It’s not love, is it?’

Laila chokes on her cries, clutches her stomach.

‘Oh Laila, I wish I was there to give you a hug.’

Laila hears Marietta’s breathing.

‘And—oh, very important—Peter’s just bought a mobile phone. He takes it with him everywhere, Laila, he can make calls and take calls anywhere.’

‘Oh.’

Marietta gives Laila the number.

‘You can call this number anytime.’

‘Marietta, I’m scared.’

‘Laila, just call Helen.’

‘How will I get there?’

‘Taxi. You’ve got money?’

‘Yes.’

‘Always keep some notes handy which you can just grab and run.’

Laila looks at her watch. The digits click to four-forty. Sean will be home at about six. She’ll need an hour’s grace to settle down and put on her best behaviour.

‘I have to go.’

‘Big hug from me. I’ll pray for you.’

After Laila hangs up, she cradles the phone, blinking back her tears. The sound of traffic hums through the glass. She pictures the shelter, occupied by scores of other battered women. Battered. Such a terrible word. She’s read articles about it, in magazines, the papers. There was a movie she saw on TV about a woman who couldn’t leave her violent husband. Farah Fawcett Majors played the role of the wife. Laila had cried throughout the movie.

The first time Sean hit her, she couldn’t see herself as a victim. It felt like a one-off incident. Something she could brush off as being a nasty fight. All couples fight, she knew that too well from her marriage. No, it would surely not happen again. How can one inflict such pain on another, a person whom they love?

That was four months ago. Six incidents ago.

It is ten past five when she reaches the front door. She creeps in and to her relief, the house is empty. She races upstairs, grabs an overnight bag and starts to throw things in: tops, jeans, skirts, a jacket, underwear, towel, toiletries.

On the bedside table is a framed photo of Sean and her, taken at a charity dinner. They were at the Hyatt Ballroom. Sean’s handsome face blazes across the room. She was wearing a red halter-dress he’d bought her from David Jones, and a diamanté choker, also a gift from him. The photographer had taken the photo early in the evening, during the entrée, and produced the cardboard-framed photo by the end of the night. Laila looks at the picture and feels her heart being shredded into pieces.

While she’s zipping up the bag, the phone rings. She sits on the bed, picks it up.

‘Laila, it’s me.’ Sean’s voice sounds light.

‘Hi.’

‘Had a good day?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Folks here have been talking about a new Korean restaurant that’s just opened in Unley. Put on something nice. We’re going there for dinner.’

She says nothing. She fingers the swelling on her forehead.

‘Laila? You there?’

She pauses. After a few seconds, she says, ‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘I’ve already taken meat out to defrost.’

‘Stuff the meat. Just put it in the fridge. It’ll keep for a day.’

‘My forehead.’

‘Look, darling, I’m really sorry.’

Laila weeps silently.

‘Can you cover it with some foundation?’

Pause. She looks out the window.

‘Laila?’

‘Yes?’

‘Foundation?’

Another pause.

‘Okay.’

‘Great. I’ll pick you up in about an hour, okay?’

‘Okay.’

Click.

36

SUNDAY MORNING. THERE’S A loud knock at the door. Jim staggers out of bed, rubs his eyes. He peers through the window. Peter is standing outside. He opens the door.

‘Hey, sorry to wake you up.’

‘That’s okay. What’s up?’

‘Listen.’ Peter fishes in his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘Chap who owns a few houseboats. He’s looking for someone to clean them.’

Jim takes the note. ‘David Mansfield. What does the work involve?’

‘Dunno. Basic cleaning, I guess—vacuuming, toilets.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘Marietta met his wife at the hairdressers. Interested?’

‘Yeah, could give it a shot, I guess.’ Jim rubs his eyes. ‘Wait, hang on.’ He makes a quick count with his fingers—‘August, September, October—what’s today, twenty-first, right…yeah, cool, I should get my licence back in a week.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yep, I’ll need to re-apply for my licence, and they’ll put me on probation, shit like that, but yeah, should be fine.’

‘Great. Call him. He’ll have the details.’

‘Appreciate it, Peter. And say thanks to Marietta.’

‘No worries.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Can’t. Gotta run. My uncle’s here, and we’re meeting for breakfast.’

‘Yeah, heard you mention him the other day. You’re seeing a lot of him these days.’

‘Yeah, looks like we might strike out together. The business could just work.’

‘Oh yeah? What kind?’

‘Can’t say right now. Still early days. But you’ll be one of the first to know, once it gets off the ground.’

‘Sounds good. At the blocks tomorrow?’

‘Yep, early start. Want a ride?’

‘That’d be great, Peter. Not long now. Will get my licence back soon and I’ll be out of your hair.’

‘No worries, mate. Sevenish?’

‘Sure thing. Cheers, owe you one.’

After Peter leaves, Jim thinks about Peter’s business deal with his uncle, wondering what they’re up to. It is right up Peter’s alley to toy around with all kinds of ways of making a living: shearing, fruit-picking, driving trucks. At one time, years back, he remembers, Peter was even doing a bit of building work. Peter’s range extends beyond the blocks. Jim tries to stretch his imagination to see himself doing other things besides fruit-picking. He shrugs his shoulders. Possible. Once he gets his licence back and he’s mobile again, he could give it more serious thought and set his sights on something more adventurous. For now, his immediate goal is whipping up some over-easy fried eggs and bacon. His mouth waters.

37

‘DON’T PUSH MY BUTTONS, I SAID.’

The evil in his eyes. Laila turns her face away, grabs the pillow, the sheets, anything within reach. She crawls towards the end of the king-size bed. Sean pulls her by the legs and pins them down. Her dress rides up her thighs. She struggles against his brute strength.

‘He was just telling a joke,’ she says with her head pinned against the mattress.

‘Oh yeah? A joke. Just a joke, hey? But enough for you to make eyes at him.’

‘I wasn’t making eyes at him.’

‘Sure. And what about that laugh, cackling away like a chicken. Jesus, I heard it a mile away. At one point I even saw you touching his arm.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Bet you were dying to check out the size of his dick too, weren’t you?’ He digs his knees into her buttocks. ‘Weren’t you?’

She says nothing. She knows it’s pointless. When Sean gets into his rages, it’s like a typhoon, destroying everything in its wake.

At the cocktail party, she and Tony were simply chatting. A colleague of Sean’s, he was the only person she’d spoken to, after standing around on her own for about half an hour feeling like a lost puppy. Sean had been mingling with a group of important-looking men in suits from the moment they got there.

Laila starts to sob, knowing what’s to come. She buries her head in the bedcover to stifle her cries.

‘Now, don’t start on me.’ He grabs her hands and pins them behind her back. ‘Poor little me!’ He imitates her crying. ‘Those tears, they could move mountains.’

Suddenly he breaks into laughter. Loud thundering laughs. Laila flinches.

‘Just behave like a good girl and there won’t be any trouble.’

He releases her hands to undo his belt and fly. He starts to pull down his trousers and in doing so releases the pressure on her legs. Laila wriggles out of his grasp, jumps off the bed and heads for the door. Sean leaps out of bed and runs after her. At the landing, he reaches out and grabs her by the hair.

‘Ouch!’

‘Trying to escape, are we?’

He pins her to the floor, face down. His movements are rough. Her knees graze the carpet.

‘Nobody escapes from Sean. Least of all you. Have you forgotten? I’ve told you many times. Tsk, tsk, tsk.’ He shakes his head. ‘Many times, Laila. You are mine. Mine! And no girl of mine looks at another man.’

She sobs.

He plays with her hair, strokes her cheek, becoming suddenly tender. He smiles. ‘Didn’t I say to behave like a good girl? Hmm? You know how to be a good girl, don’t you, darling?’

Suddenly he grabs a bunch of her hair and pulls her head back. Her neck arches. The pain is excruciating.

‘Please, please.’

‘Please what? Please fuck me so I can imagine it’s Tony’s cock in me?’ He laughs uncontrollably. ‘Or please fuck me so I can show you how sorry I am?’

Laila shuts her eyes. Her body trembles with fear.

‘So which will it be, miss?’

He pulls down his trousers. Then he rips off her underwear.

Terror seizes her. She tries to struggle free, hands flying everywhere.

‘No, no, please.’

‘Yes, yes.’ He strikes her on the shoulder, the arm, then on the buttocks.

Laila yells in agony. He presses his palm on her back to render her immobile. Then he rams his penis into her from behind. His thrusts are hard and brutal. Her body jiggles. She shrieks and screams, loud piercing screams. The pain tears through her. The last five months of terror peak at this moment. His breathing, heavy and punctuated, thumps in her ears. He grunts and his body arches over her back. After he comes, he stands up and walks away. Laila whimpers, curls up on the floor. She wishes she was dead.

38

THE EXTENSION CORD CURLS around the legs of the table. Jim switches off the vacuum cleaner, untangles the cord and turns the machine on again. Grrr, grrrr, grrr. It rumbles and groans across the entire floor of the houseboat, sucking up food crumbs, dirt and small bits of rubbish. Jim points the hose up in the air to make it swallow the larger pieces.

After wiping down all the surfaces, he goes to the bedrooms and removes the sheets and pillow cases. He folds the blankets and returns them to the linen cupboard. Soiled sheets, towels and bathmats go into a garbage bag.

The bathroom is next and is usually his last task. He keeps telling himself he should do it first as it’s the most unpleasant part, but he always ends up doing it last. This is opposite to his childhood habit of saving the good bits of food, such as the chunkiest part of the pork chop, for last. The next time he cleans, which is the day after tomorrow, he will think of pork chops when he starts his routine. Hopefully that will get him into the swing of his strategy.

Now, he squeezes Jif from the bottle into the toilet bowl and basin and starts running the scourer over the surfaces. He rubs and scrubs the basin, then rinses it with water. He avoids looking at the toilet bowl. Sprays window-cleaner on the mirror instead and begins wiping the surface. When he finishes with that, he takes a deep breath, plunges the brush into the toilet and starts scrubbing. Before long he is putting the cleaning items away and locking up the houseboat.

‘What’s with the long face?’ Rodney asks.

‘Nah, nothing,’ Jim says.

‘Here we go again. Either you tell me or you don’t tell me. It’s so bloody obvious something’s bothering you, so why pretend?’ Rodney dips the glasses into the sink of soapy water and starts washing them. The water swishes. ‘Something’s got up your nose, that’s for sure.’

Jim ignores him, looks sideways. It is early afternoon and there are only a handful of people at the pub. Christmas is just a week away and the whole town has practically wound down. The pub has a quiet, lazy feel about it. Pickers at Rick’s blocks started taking leave from two weeks ago.

Jim gets off his stool, goes to the jukebox, checks out the titles. After putting in some coins, he presses a button. He watches the record sliding onto the turntable before hopping back onto his stool. As ‘You’re so Vain’ drifts into the air, he lights up, curling the smoke and watching it rise to the ceiling. He takes his time, singing along.

‘Some people can be so fussy,’ he says finally.

‘Who?’ Rodney doesn’t look up from the sink.

‘Anal bastard.’

Rodney looks up then and stares at Jim, but doesn’t say anything.

‘Like, who cares if there’re water marks on the fucking sink?’ Jim makes a face. ‘Tells me, sink needs to be wiped down, glass shelves need a chamois, blah blah blah…’

Jim squints and sings along with the Carly Simon song. He swivels the stool one full circle, stops, flicks his cigarette ash into the ashtray and says, ‘And then he tells me all the bins need to be lined, including the crummy waste-paper baskets in the bedrooms. Like some bloody woman.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Jim, who are you talking about?’

Jim blows out smoke. ‘The wanker. David.’

‘Who?’

‘My boss, the one with the riverboats.’

‘Oh, him. Your second job, right?’

‘Yep.’

Rodney wipes the glasses and places them on the shelf. ‘Thought you said he was a great guy.’

‘Yeah, I know, I mean he is, he was. But lately he’s been a pain.’

‘How long have you been working for him?’

‘Oh, about six weeks. At first it was all cool, then he comes down on me like a tonne of bricks.’

Rodney cocks his head and looks at Jim with doubtful eyes. ‘Anything you’ve been doing differently?’

‘Nah.’

‘Come on, Jim, if you’ve been doing the same thing and he’s been cool about it, how come he suddenly turns on you?’

‘Fucked if I know.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Nothing worse than some arsehole breathing down your neck.’

‘Me. I know what my boss is like. If I do the same thing, he’s cool. If I take shortcuts, won’t take long, he spots it and I cop it there and then.’

Jim looks at Rodney, shifts his gaze, then faces him again. ‘Yeah, I know what you’re saying. But man, what’s a few fucking water marks? Was in a hurry that day, okay. Not like I planned to do it again—’

‘Hey, look who’s here?’ Rodney says, looking past Jim.

Peter walks towards them and pulls out a stool. ‘Hiya, guys.’

Jim turns around and waves.

‘How’re you going?’

‘Yeah, good.’

‘So, what’s up?’

Jim quickly straightens up. ‘Aw, just the usual. Block’s pretty much vacated, yeah? Was up there this morning. Not a ghost around.’

‘Yeah, most guys have taken leave.’

‘You wrapping up too?’

‘Yeah, today’s my last day. Drove the cherry picker back to the yard. You know how hard it is to steer that big monster. Just finished cleaning the sulphur houses.’

‘Bloody Christmas. Who needs Christmas?’ Jim says.

Marietta sets down the tray of raw lamb chops, sausages and chicken shashliks. Peter begins arranging the chops on the barbecue. Oil snaps like fireworks and the scent of grilled meat, a typical summer smell, permeates the air.

Jim gets up from his chair. ‘Got another pair of tongs?’ he asks.

‘Here.’ Peter picks up tongs from a basket and hands them to Jim.

Jim lines the sausages in neat rows beside the chops, and before long the hotplate is full. He looks across at Marietta, watches her slice the onions, potatoes and zucchinis.

She brings the bowls of cut vegetables to them. ‘Here, throw these on after the meat’s done.’

‘Who needs vegies?’ Jim says.

‘Come on, Jim, don’t tell me you’re going back to your old ways,’ Marietta says.

‘Hey, what choice do I have? Laila spoiled me rotten. Cooked me all those yummy stir-fries. Like as if I can whip them up myself.’

‘It’s not that hard. Stir-fries are dead easy. You could do them blindfolded,’ she says.

‘Yeah right.’ Jim makes a face.

‘Well, you’ll just have to come around to our place more often,’ she says.

‘Jim’s fine,’ Peter says, looking Jim’s way, ‘aren’t you?’

‘Yep, yep, one day at a time,’ Jim says.

‘Say, after all this Christmas shit dies down, how about we go to Adelaide one weekend? My uncle’s got a big house. Said I could bring guests anytime,’ Peter says.

‘Sounds good to me!’

Marietta puts the knife and chopping board back into the basket and moves towards the barbecue. Jim inches to his right to make way for her.

‘No, you’re alright, Jim.’

Jim moves anyway. He picks up a can of beer and offers it to her. ‘Or would you prefer some wine? I’ve got a good merlot I got as a Christmas gift sitting in my caravan. I could go grab it.’ He drops his tongs.

‘No, no, beer’s fine.’ She opens the can and takes a sip. She looks at Jim. ‘Still missing Laila?’

Jim looks ahead at the river. He sees birds circling the gum trees on the opposite bank. ‘Sometimes. But hey, you know, I think I’m on the way up. I can think about her now and not have that yearning, you know what I mean.’

‘That’s great, Jim.’

‘The only thing I do think about quite a lot is, how she’s going. I mean, fine, she left me and that—best man wins, what can you do—but I still want her to be okay, you know.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Marietta nods, looks over at Peter, who is now picking up pieces of cooked meat, putting them on a platter, and spreading the vegetables across the grill.

Jim and Marietta slowly stroll a little way towards the river, beers in hand. The sun is hovering just above the gum trees. Shifting golden rays dance on their faces. Jim lowers his cap to shade more of his face.

Marietta sips her beer. ‘Ever thought about meeting someone else?’

Jim puts his hand in his pocket, looks across at the Christmas lights along the eaves of the caravan park office. This time last year, he was totally oblivious, had no idea that Laila would leave him soon after.

‘Maybe. Dunno. Just want to let things lie for the moment. We’ll see.’

‘Well, you never know what’s around the corner.’

‘Yeah, damn right.’

‘I mean, you really don’t know where she is and what she’s up to. Might be wise not to jump into something so soon.’

‘Yeah, like there’s much in the way of pickings here in Renmark.’ Jim laughs.

‘True. Who knows? She may be somewhere in Adelaide thinking what a big mistake she made leaving you.’

Jim shakes his head. ‘Mmm…don’t know, she sounded pretty certain in her letter.’

‘That was then, Jim. You know things never stay the same…’

‘You two hungry yet?’ They hear Peter calling out from the barbecue area. ‘It’s all done.’

They turn to face him.

‘Yep, coming…’ Jim says, seeing the platter of food. His stomach growls.

39

LAILA SITS IN HER favourite spot under the gum tree, mug in hand. She sips her coffee, takes in the backyard, the birdbath to her right, the stone path leading to the cluster of shrubs and lemon tree, the vegetable patch at the far corner. Tomatoes hang from the vines like shiny bright faces in the sun. The view is predictable but she still goes through all the items in the backyard as if it’s her first time. There’s something soothing about the ritual. She leans back on the bench, closes her eyes.

It’s Friday afternoon and the other girls are busy making banana cream-caramel pies in the kitchen. She can hear their murmurs from where she is. Helen is telling them the right way to prepare short-crust pastry.

‘Rub the butter in and let the flour fall over your fingers like so. Yes, that’s right.’

It’s been more than two months since she arrived at ‘Magpie’s Nest’. She remembers the day clearly—21 November 1997, nine months after she moved in with Sean. With a small bag of clothes and a few important documents she’d packed and hidden the day before, she scooted out the door half an hour after Sean left for work. In the taxi, she kept her eyes shut, not daring to look behind her in case she should see Sean trailing her. She still quivers when she hears a car pulling up in the driveway, starts when someone shuts the door too loudly. She still has to remind herself, on waking up each morning, that she’s safe, that terror will not be around the corner with the sound of his voice.

For the first week, she hadn’t been able to have her back to anyone. She’d only sit with her spine against a wall, face forward in a defence position. Now and again, the visions will still pulse in her head—Sean’s piercing eyes, the deafening tone of his voice, the walls vibrating with his anger. Even now, she sleeps with the night light on, near her bed. The nightmares have lessened. In nearly all of them, parts of her body are being hacked away. By human hands, animals, machinery. There are pools of blood, mangled remains of human parts.

Last night she had one of her first nightmare-free sleeps. A lightness fills her today. She breathes in the scent of the gum leaves. It reminds her of her first day in Australia, her first view of the bush, the scrubland. Jim beside her, steering the ute, whistling country-and-western tunes. Big open spaces, big open dreams, heading for Renmark. Huge, stretching forever.

‘It will take a long time for the psychological scars to heal,’ Helen has told her.

She removes her shoes and brings her knees up to her chin. She thinks about Marietta, about the countless rapes she must have experienced in that one year in Jogjakarta. Laila returns to the night of the rape, tries to recapture the anatomy of her suffering, and multiplies it by 365. She shudders.

‘The caravan is like heaven after what I’ve been through,’ Marietta’s words reverberate in her thoughts.

She thinks about the little trinkets she used to buy from Bargain Basement, that she placed on the narrow windowsill in the caravan. Bits of junk: a miniature cat sleeping in a basket, little spoons with elaborate handles, even their little gift boxes she couldn’t bear to throw out. They were her treasures. Each time she picked one up at the shop and asked Marietta what she thought of it, Marietta would nod and smile. But while Laila would part with her carefully saved money for these useless items, Marietta would never buy them herself.

Laila pictures Sean sitting in his mansion, surrounded by his wealth. She sees him gathering the clothes and accessories that she’d left behind, and chucking them into the bin.

The next day, Laila takes a walk to the nearby Junction Markets. She heads straight for stall number fifteen, run by a Vietnamese woman. Her peacharines are the juiciest and usually cost a dollar less a kilogram. After grabbing a few and paying for them, she heads to a phone booth two streets from the market.

Marietta picks up the mobile after five rings.

‘Laila, how are you? So good to hear from you.’

‘Hello, Marietta. I’m well. Thought I’d give you a ring to find out how you are.’

‘Lucky you got me, Peter happened to leave his mobile behind. He’s gone to the deli to get the newspaper.’

‘Are you still in Renmark?’

‘No. We’re in Kapunda. Moved back here mid-January. Can you believe, it’s already the New Year? Talking about which, belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.’

‘Same to you.’

‘Did you have a good Christmas?’

‘I just stayed here. Didn’t go out, didn’t do much. And you?’

‘Spent it at Renmark. The normal thing with Peter’s family, you know. Couldn’t escape it this time.’

‘Gee, is that how long it is since I’ve spoken to you?’

‘Looks like. They still won’t allow you to receive calls there?’

‘No, they won’t. I can understand why. One of the girls, her husband tried to find her. He came to the centre, all crazed, smashed a window. We were so scared. They had to call the police and now she has a restraining order against him.’

‘Gee, that’s scary. Are you okay?’

‘I’m getting better. It takes time, Marietta. That’s what the counsellors say…So why did you move back to Kapunda?’

‘Oh, remember I told you about the business thing Peter was trying to work out with his uncle? It’s finally happening and they’re selling wine from wineries in the Barossa, and Kapunda is a lot closer.’

‘Still in the caravan?’

Laila hears Marietta laughing. ‘Yes, still in the caravan.’

‘You’re well?’ Laila asks.

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m good. But I miss Renmark. Miss the river. And I miss you.’

‘I miss you too, Marietta. So much. It gets lonely in the centre. I think about our days together in Renmark so much.’

‘Those were good days, huh? It’s not the same in Kapunda. I know a few women here, but we’re not that close.’

‘Oh Marietta, I wish I could see you again.’

‘Me too.’ Pause. ‘Do you think about Sean?’

‘Sometimes. Not that often. I try not to think about the past.’

‘Yeah, wise.’

‘I actually feel quite numb now. But sometimes I get up in the morning and I hate myself, I hate the mistakes I’ve made.’

‘Oh Laila. We all go through that. Everyone makes mistakes.’

‘Yes, but I was really stupid. I did things and because of those things, my life is now a mess.’

‘You’re getting your life back together, though. You are, right?’

‘I hope so. I won’t know till I leave this place. And that’s the scary part.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Don’t know. I’ll have to look for a job or something. For the first time in my life I have to earn money to feed myself. It’s frightening.’

‘Oh, sweetie. I remember how it was at the sweatshop. You just need to take whatever comes your way, no matter how awful the work is. Register yourself with Centrelink, that’s a start. Have you done that yet?’

‘Tomorrow, I’m going there tomorrow. Every time I feel scared, I think about you, Marietta, about what you went through.’

‘Oh, sweetie.’

A beep, then a recorded voice tells her she needs to top up.

‘Hold on a while. I have to put in more money.’

She slips in some coins.

‘You’re okay with money?’ Marietta asks.

‘Yes, I’ve got the money my Mak gave me before I came to Australia. It’s not a lot but I was careful not to use it, just in case. Thank goodness.’

‘I really hope something comes your way.’

‘Thanks, Marietta.’

A motorcycle whizzes past. Laila looks in the direction of the vehicle, sees a bearded man in a black leather jacket with studs and chains, his helmet covered with all sorts of stickers.

‘How’s Jim?’ she asks. ‘You wouldn’t have seen him lately, huh, now that you’re in Kapunda.’

‘Saw him just before we moved. The three of us went out for a meal. A kind of farewell for us, you know.’

‘Oh, that’s nice. Where?’

‘The Renmark Club of course.’

‘Yes, that’s Jim’s favourite.’

‘Mmm, he likes the sticky date pudding there. It was a lovely evening.’

‘Is he okay?’

‘Yeah. He seems to be doing okay.’

‘That’s good. He’s a good man.’

Laila hears Marietta’s breathing.

‘Do you miss him?’ Marietta asks.

‘Sometimes. I miss how he makes me laugh. And his silly ways.’

‘Laila, I’m sorry things have turned out this way. Sometimes, when I think about you, I feel so guilty—I did persuade you to marry Jim right at the start, remember?’

‘It’s okay, don’t worry about it—’

‘Really, Laila, I need to say this, as I have felt so horrible about it. If I hadn’t asked you to give him a chance, who knows what might have happened to your life? You might have met someone else and you wouldn’t have gone through all that suffering. I am so sorry.’

Laila sighs. ‘It’s not your fault, Marietta. You know, my Mak used to tell me, some things are meant to be. I was meant to live in that smelly caravan.’ She laughs.

‘All I want to say now is that I know for sure Jim loved you.’

‘I know he did. But I’ve told myself not to make any decisions yet. I want to think some more. I’m so afraid of making big decisions now. Since I left the longhouse, all the decisions I made have been wrong, so I want to think really carefully. First thing is for me to take care of myself after leaving this place.’

‘Sounds like a good thing.’

‘I used to think all women need a husband to look after them, they are helpless and, without a man, their life is useless.’

‘Don’t we all think that?’

‘Not anymore. I really have no choice now. I’m on my own and there’s no one I can depend on to look after me.’

‘You can count on me to be your friend always, you know that, right?’

Another beep.

‘Have to go, Marietta.’

‘Okay, next time you ring me, give me the number of the phone booth and I’ll ring you right back.’

‘Okay. Bye for now. Love you.’

‘Love you, too, Laila. Big hug.’

40

AFTER HE FINISHES CLEANING the houseboat Jim gives it a quick glance to check if everything is back in place. He goes to the kitchen sink, runs his finger over the dry surface and bends over to have a closer look. No water marks. He checks the tap as well, angling goose-necked into the sink. Under his breath, he mouths a curse. Then he chuckles to himself.

‘Bloody water marks.’

How he’d bitched about it to Rodney last year.

In the bathroom, he checks the gleaming surfaces. He takes a whiff of the scent of lemon detergent. A quick squeak-test with his index finger to the basin and bath taps, before he gives them a once-over with a fresh rag.

Back in the living area, he sprays air freshener in a circular wave, packs up his cleaning kit, and shuts the door behind him.

Tonight, he drives his normal route to the KFC outlet to get his Two Piece Feed. At the intersection, as he waits while an elderly couple crosses the road, he thinks about rewarding himself with a nice hot meal at the Club. At the Renmark Drive-in opposite KFC, he makes his usual U-turn. But instead of flicking his indicator to the left, he drives straight, to head back into town. Next thing, he is pulling into a parking lot outside Renmark Club.

The waiters greet him in the cheery way they always do. He takes his favourite spot at a table by the window overlooking the river, and orders a T-bone steak and a beer. The meal has never tasted better. Every mouthful eases the soreness in his back. When his meal is finished he downs the last mouthful of beer. The waiter immediately approaches him.

‘Another drink, sir?’

Jim looks at his glass, swivels it around in his hands. ‘Yes, sure.’

When the waiter brings him his drink, he waits a few minutes before taking a sip. Thinking back on the day he ran his ute into the tree at Truro Hill, he shudders. He isn’t going to risk losing his licence again. Pain in the backside having to depend on others for transport. Begging like a dog.

Two is the most he’ll allow himself on any day and tonight is no different. A good meal, a long day behind him. In the end he downs a whole glass of water as well, and leans back, lifts his arms above his head and stretches them. He thinks of his new electric blanket, and feels like curling up like a python after its feed and drifting off to sleep.

Having paid for his meal, he gets into the car. As he turns the key in the ignition, the only thought in his mind is of throwing off his clothes, lifting the covers and sliding into the soft warm bed.

Jim angles into the 45-degree parking lot outside Woolworths, kills the engine and climbs out of his ute. He rubs the back of his neck and stretches his arms. Tequila Sunrise was exceptionally filthy. The occupants must have had an orgy. Thirty-eight empty schooners and twelve empty wine bottles in the recycling crate. And in July, the thick of winter. Imagine anyone partying like that on a riverboat, even in the height of summer! He’d counted them just for the record. The bin was spilling over, carpet littered with food crumbs, sheets looking like they’d not been changed for months. Oh well. Good on them. At least they had fun. It’d taken him only an extra half-hour to get the place back in order.

He pulls his shopping list out of his pocket and heads towards the shops. He’ll need to get some cash, as he’s planning to get some Vienna loaves from the deli after Woolworths and they don’t take EFTPOS.

He likes his Vienna bread, a taste he’s acquired in the last year. He loves the crust, the softness of the insides, the way it soaks up soup. Last week, he cooked shepherd’s pie. He made it from what he recalled of his mother’s recipe, and was rapt with the way it turned out. Soaked with the sauces, the crusty bread melted in his mouth. Next week, he’ll try tuna mornay. Couldn’t be too hard, if his memory of how Mum used to make it doesn’t fail him.

He crosses the road and ambles to the autobank. He inserts his card, enters his pin number, clicks on cash withdrawal. When the machine prompts him about a balance enquiry, he pauses. The last time he checked his balance was about nine days ago. Might as well. He clicks yes.

The machine issues his money. He takes the cash, slides it into his wallet. Then he takes the receipt. He peers at the digits at the bottom—$3,072.00. His heart lifts. Amazing. A few hundred here, a couple of hundred there. It’s added up so quickly in the last eight months. David has had nearly ninety per cent occupancy of his houseboats in the whole time Jim’s been cleaning for him. Sure he’s dug his fingers into it a few times, like when the cavities in his teeth needed filling, but his account’s nowhere near how it was in the past.

He folds the piece of paper and puts it in the zip compartment of his wallet. Before heading for Woolworths, he stops at the real estate office. He scans the ads, as he usually does when he gets a chance. A few leap out at him. He picks up a brochure from the rack. He’ll browse through it over a cup of coffee at home. He heads back to Woolworths with a lift to his stride.

41

A BREEZE STARTS TO BLOW, giving way to chilly winter winds. It is August and she’s hanging out for spring to arrive. Laila shifts on the bench, pulls her cardigan tight around her. The park is her regular haunt. Straight after work, instead of going home, she takes a walk and heads for her favourite spot near the little stream, or creek, as Australians call it. It’s nothing like the Murray or the Rejang but there’s some water running through and it’s enough for her. These days she still enters new words into her Australian Words notebook. Yesterday’s entry was work your butt off. It came from her friend Mary.

Mary and she have been meeting for lunch nearly every day since she started work six months ago. Sometimes they even swap their packed lunches. Laila likes Mary. Mary was the one who told her on her first day to watch out for Pamela, the supervisor at Quick Fix who gives everyone a hard time.

‘Depends,’ Mary had said, ‘if she’s had luck with the guys. You can tell because she’ll wear that extra red lipstick the next day. Otherwise, whoosh, duck for cover.’

Mary made a swishing sound and ducked her head as if avoiding a torpedo. Laila laughed.

Laila is amazed at the number of ‘errata’ jobs that come through Quick Fix. Spelling errors for minister names, wrong amounts of money for annual reports. There is always some mistake or another that needs fixing. Peel stick, peel stick. Occasionally, if the item is a T-shirt or some attire, it’s peel stick iron, peel stick iron.

Mind-numbing work, but it pays the rent and bills. Getting the job was a pure stroke of luck. The advertisement at Centrelink, the interview, starting work a week later. Her flat was also a godsend—$75 a week rent, no references—although she had to visit a few places and applied for three before she was finally accepted. It is a simple one-bedroom unit on the top floor of a block of cream-brick units, nothing pretty, bathroom in need of some repair, but it’s her own. A few days ago she found out that her neighbour, an Australian girl who’s about her age and lives on the ground floor, is paying $90 a week for hers. She’d made a silent prayer of thanks.

Last weekend she checked out the video store near her place, where you can rent five weekly videos for seven dollars, something she’s not contemplated before, thinking she couldn’t afford it. After making a quick calculation, she worked out that it wouldn’t drain her budget. Mary has a player and has been suggesting that they get together at her place to watch movies. Shared, it would cost them only three-fifty each. And last week she came across the Salvos Community Store three blocks away from work, where she’d spotted some tops and skirts she liked. They were about three dollars each. When she gets her next pay, she’ll go pick them up.

Laila thinks back on her time in Australia, punctured with peaks and troughs, emotional roller-coaster rides. The last six months plateau off. There’s a small pleasure in waking up in the morning and being able to count on her day panning out in a predictable way.

Ducks are washing themselves in the creek. They flap their wings, duck their heads in the water then lift them and shake off the water. The ducks on the Murray River seemed larger than these. Or is it her imagination? Images of the river meander through her mind. She sees Jim locking the ute, pulling up his trousers, which have slid down his belly, and hears his feet scuffing the gravel. His bulky form moves about in the caravan, each step he takes making the caravan wobble. She smells his cigarette smoke wafting in through the flyscreen as she does the dishes, his voice thundering through the doorway, ‘Come have a look at the sunset, honey. Just beautiful.’

She remembers the way Jim would produce a present for her from behind his back, wanting to surprise her but his clumsy gestures giving him away. And his awkward manner when he said, ‘A little something for you, babe,’ the corner of his mouth twitching slightly from nervousness. Even when things started to go bad in their marriage he never stopped giving her little gifts.

One time, in winter, Jim had dropped her off on a Saturday for her appointment with the hairdresser. He offered to pick her up. There were four people waiting in line, sitting side by side on the couch. I’ll come back in an hour, Jim said. Laila looked at the queue and said she’d walk home instead, unsure how long it was going to take. When the hairdresser was drying her freshly cut hair, it started to rain. Her first thought was of her hair getting soaked on the way home. Paying at the counter, she resigned herself to the idea of wrecked hair. But when she opened the door, she saw Jim, sitting in the ute across the road. He’d waved to her through the window, signalling.

The wind makes a whirring in her ears, the kind that sounds as if someone is whispering something to you. Laila looks at the leaves of the gum trees nearby. They rustle and move like little fairies. The familiarity enwraps her like a warm glove. She walks towards the tree, picks a leaf, and returns to the creek. She looks at her arms and legs, takes a deep breath. The gift of sight, smell and hearing. She’s found a job, a place to live. She brings the leaf to her nose and sniffs it. The smell of Australia. Gratitude wells up in her.

42

THE FIRST DAY OF SEPTEMBER. Spring, finally. Hints of blue creep into the sky, promising a bright, crisp day.

Laila clicks the door shut. The morning air is chilly but she knows by midday it’ll warm up a little. After two and a half years she’s finally got the hang of the idiosyncrasies of Australian weather. She gives the door a shake to be sure it’s secure. She’s not left her flat vacant overnight since she started renting it.

Laila checks her watch. Seven-thirty. She’s catching the seven-forty into town. From there she’ll walk to the Greyhound bus terminus. She’s only packed an overnight bag, unsure how long she’s going to stay.

Last night Mary had asked her to come for Friday night drinks after work, but Laila had said no. She wanted an early night.

The sound of air brakes, followed by the rumble of a huge vehicle. The bus approaches. Laila waves her hand, the bus pulls up and she hops into it.

Glimpses of the Murray. Laila peers out the window, cranes her neck. She’s not seen the river in eighteen months. Snatches of blue, water perfectly still, hues echoing the sky. She looks at the riverbank, the red earth and swaying reeds exactly as she remembers them.

The bus lurches over a stretch of bumpy road then makes a slow meander into Renmark. The river view slips away as the bus pulls into the bus terminus. It is around one in the afternoon. Except for a new shop called ‘Big River Furniture’ and a new hairdressers, the place looks the same. Rows of motorcycles, as she remembers them, are parked outside Paul Dempsey Motorcycles.

Laila gets down from the bus and takes in the look of the place. She breathes in the country air, pulls her cardigan tight over her chest. The wind whips her hair. Crazy spring winds in the Riverland, she remembers them from the year before last. Images shower on her like confetti—the lull of lapping water, the changing colours of the seasons at her doorstep, the wind rattling against the windows of the caravan.

The humming of the bus lingers in her head. She goes into the deli, buys a ham sandwich and eats it while walking. The route is exactly as she remembers it, white house with the brown- and cream-striped awning, green wrought-iron table setting at the house with the big palm tree, the dip of the road near the row of pencil pines.

At the boom gate of the caravan park, she stops. She looks around her, gazes at the scenery fanning out ahead, picks up the scent of the gum trees. A few feet away, there is a rustling, then the sound of a tiny creature scampering under the bushes. She arranges her hair and squeezes past the gap at the side. The bag is starting to feel heavy. She changes it to her other hand and walks on.

The caravan comes into view, located next to the riverfront cabins. She remembers the height and shape of every single gum tree near the caravan. From this direction, she can’t see if his ute is parked out the front. She drops her bag on the ground and, with slow careful steps, she approaches the caravan. The Murray on her left. She turns to steal a quick glance at it, keeping the caravan in sight. Flashes of blue, red and green blaze into her vision.

There are shuffling sounds, the scraping of metal, a cough. She sees the vehicle first, then she sees him. He stands, bending over the engine of his ute, spanner in hand, tinkering with something.

She edges closer. Her feet scuff the gravel. Jim looks up. His eyes widen. The spanner slips from his fingers. It hits the steps of the front door and bounces to the gravel. Clink clank.

‘Blimey, look who’s here.’

His face breaks into a smile, his eyes light up. He opens his arms.

Acknowledgements

MY DEEPEST THANKS GO to Peter Bishop, creative director of Varuna, The Writers’ House, for his belief in me; Linda Funnell, HarperCollins Publishers, for selecting my work; Andrea Rankin for her critique and support; Colin and Margot Roy whose orchards in Renmark and help with research provided the setting for my novel; Judith Lukin-Amundsen, my editor, who made my work shine; Jamie Langley, Subhadra Devan, Diane Beer and Rob Bruin for their assistance and support; Rosaliah Clements, Adam Barclay and Doreen Salon for help with research on things Filipino; Lydia Papandrea and the team at HarperCollins for turning the book into a reality; and lastly, Varuna, The Writers’ House, Macquarie Group Foundation, SA Writers’ Centre and SA Arts Council for their sponsorship.

About the Author

SIEW SIANG TAY was born in Malacca, Malaysia, to second-generation Chinese parents. After working for eleven years in the petroleum industry in Malaysia, she left the corporate world and emigrated to Australia in 1992 with her daughter. She currently works at the University of South Australia. Her short stories have been published in literary magazines worldwide, including Meanjin and Dimsum. In 2007 she was one of the winners of the HarperCollins Varuna Awards for Manuscript Development, which led to the publication of Handpicked, her first novel. She lives in Adelaide.

Visit Siew Siang Tay’s website:
www.siewsiangtay.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Celebrating New Writing

The HarperCollins Varuna Awards for
Manuscript Development

These unique awards are for new or emerging writers of prose fiction or narrative non-fiction.

Each year the HarperCollins Varuna Awards offer five writers the opportunity to develop their work with a HarperCollins senior editor at Varuna—the Writers’ House in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. The awards aim to give practical assistance to new writers to bring their work to publication.

Applications close at the end of October each year, and the residential intensive takes place the following April.

For more information visit:
www.varuna.com.au/harpercollinspathways.html

Past winners include:

Katherine Johnson Pescador’s Wake

Kim Huynh Where the Sea Takes Us

Pip Newling Knockabout Girl

Ian Townsend Affection

Mark O’Flynn Grassdogs

Denise Young The Last Ride

Rebecca Burton Leaving Jetty Road

Robbi Neal Sunday Best

Penelope Sell A Secret Burial

Copyright

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

First published in Australia in 2009

This edition published in 2010

by HarperCollinsPublishers Pty Limited

ABN 36 009 913 517

A member of the HarperCollinsPublishers (Australia) Pty Limited Group

www.harpercollins.com.au

Copyright © Siew Siang Tay 2009

The right of Siew Siang Tay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

HarperCollinsPublishers

25 Ryde Road, Pymble, Sydney, NSW 2073, Australia

31 View Road, Glenfield, Auckland 0627, New Zealand

A 53, Sector 57, Noida, UP, India

77-85 Fulham Palace Road, London, W6 8JB, United Kingdom

2 Bloor Street East, 20th floor, Toronto, Ontario M4W 1A8, Canada

10 East 53rd Street, New York NY 10022, USA

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Tay, Siew Siang.

Handpicked / Siew Siang Tay.

ISBN 978 0 7322 8792 4 (pbk.)

ISBN 978 0 7304 0013 4 (ePub)

A823.4

About the Publisher

Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au

Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca

New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz

United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk

United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com