by Isabelle Li
I put on a pair of protective glasses and a pair of workmen’s gloves, as instructed. ‘Firstly, poke the fire, spread the coal, and then pile three new logs one on top of the other towards the centre, leaving gaps for airflow underneath. Open the vent at the top of the stove for about ten minutes to bring the temperature up, and then close the vent to let the wood slowly combust.’ I am feeling very hot now. There is also central heating. But if I can cope with this fire, I should save electricity. He did not specify whether I need to pay for the utility bills, although I assume I do not need to.
It is so quiet that I can hear the clocks ticking, the fire crackling, and the rumbling of my stomach. I’m hungry now. The kitchen is a separate room next to the living room. The fridge is empty except for some eggs, fresh milk and a packet of tofu. In the pantry, among other things, are noodles and soy milk. Are these foods part of Mr Mortlock’s normal diet? Or had he decided that I was going to be the sitter even before we met? I cannot stop wondering while I eat my bowl of egg noodles on the wooden table, which is covered with books. Actually, there are books and papers everywhere, covering most surfaces. What kind of administrative work is required? I would love to sort out the books. I pick one up. It’s about marine biology. There are also piles of old magazines.
I can imagine Mr Mortlock eating at this table, under this leadlight lamp decorated with stylised green leaves and pink tulips, all the while reading. The surface of the table is not visibly dirty but feels sticky. It could have been occasionally wiped, but certainly not wiped with a soapy sponge after every meal. I open a few drawers. None are dirty, but none clean either. To do a thorough job, I have to clean from the inside out. These are the things to start on early. I am not afraid of cleaning. With modern tools and detergent, cleaning has been made very easy. At my grandparents’ place, every morning we had to roll up the doonas and wipe the coal-dust off the bed.
I go back to the living room. The fire is steady, with occasional hissing and popping. Now that my stomach is full, the warmth is quite soporific. I feel drowsy and the throws on the sofa are quite comfortable. If I look at the fire intently, I can see a miniature world, but my eyelids are missing each other.
The phone wakes me up. I sit up in the sofa and for a moment cannot recall where I am. Then I run to the study with a throw around my shoulders.
‘I know you are quite experienced with housework and gardening. So I won’t say too much. Just do whatever you think is necessary. As for the administrative work, I am referring to all the books and papers in the house. Please sort them into logical categories and order them on the bookshelves in all the rooms. By the way, there is a notebook in the study for recording any encounters with lyrebirds. Do you know what a lyrebird is?’
‘A bird that can camouflage?’
‘No, it is not l-i-a-r but l-y-r-e. It’s a songbird with a long tail like a lyre, which is a U-shaped harp used in ancient Greece. You can find the information at the front of the notebook. Just write it down if you happen to see one, to keep the tradition going.’
‘Have a great trip, Mr Mortlock.’ I hope this is appropriate for someone going to his mother’s funeral.
The bathroom is as big as a bedroom and seems clean. It looks brand new, in contrast to the rest of the house, which looks quite old. The walls and floors are black slate tiles. In front of the floor-to-ceiling window is a white bathtub in the shape of a half eggshell. I pull the blinds down. What is outside the window?
I peel the packaging off a new toothbrush I have found in the cupboard. I will keep the packaging so I know what to buy to replace it.
The phone rings again. Has Mr Mortlock missed the plane or decided not to leave, after all? I run to the study, my hair loose, toothpaste in my mouth.
‘Ivy, is everything okay?’
‘Sam!’
‘I couldn’t get through to your mobile, but I found the number you wrote down.’
‘The owner has left, so I have to stay overnight.’
‘Okay. I’ll leave you to it, then.’
‘Thanks for calling, Sam.’
I look around the study, and suddenly remember the CCTV. ‘Ensure security measures are taken at all times.’ Does it mean I am supposed to check the CCTV before bed?
I turn the monitor on, following the manual. The four windows on the screen are labelled ‘front entrance’, ‘side entrance’, ‘backdoor’ and ‘bathroom window’. All of them are showing darkness. But the darkness seems to be breathing and moving, encroaching upon the house. My heart is beating so fast that I can hear it, and I feel a coldness at the nape of my neck.
I walk to each entrance and check that the doors are securely fastened. Then I get into my bed, feeling the warmth from the electric blanket that I have remembered to turn on. Other than the bed, the guestroom has an old desk, a chair and a wardrobe. Right opposite my bed is a self-portrait—Mr Mortlock painting himself. I am not a good judge of paintings, but his eyes are certainly penetrating. They seem to shine, even in the dark.
Mr Mortlock rings me daily, in the morning or at night, when our days overlap.
‘The roaming cost is probably $3 per minute,’ I cannot help telling him.
‘Really? The telecommunications companies must be making good money.’
‘Would you like me to ring you from my Skype account instead, if you have a local number? It’s much cheaper.’
He gives me a landline number. ‘Make sure you record the costs. I will reimburse you.’
Later, I check on the internet. The number belongs to a self-contained cottage that is part of an estate owned by a Mortlock family on an island off Scotland. The funeral date is listed in the local gazette, and so are the names of the family members, and the obituaries. I ring him in the evening, when his day is about to begin. His voice is usually a bit hoarse to start with and then turns smooth, and his tone is neutral. He tells me about the natural environment, the flora and fauna in the mountains, the local culture and shops, while I look at a slideshow of the castle on the website, the grazing land, the black-headed sheep, and the sunset over the North Sea. He is very knowledgeable and talks in great detail about any topic, but he says nothing about himself.
After finishing the food in the fridge, I venture into the village shops. ‘You are what you eat,’ says my book of English proverbs. I believe in the power of food. When I feel tired, I eat ginger. If my eyes lose their shine, I eat goji berries. If my hair looks dull, I eat seaweed. I tend to myself like a gardener tends a plant, and that is why I named myself Ivy—hoping for low maintenance.
Going to the village may require a little preparation. I am not afraid of rednecks who poke their head and half a shoulder out of the car window to shout incomprehensible words at me. But I hate it when people look at me blankly and silently, waiting for the awkward pronunciation of the Italian cheeses or French bread. There is that critical look in their eyes, as if the cake has gone stale and they have a dilemma as to whether or not they should dispose of it. My way of dealing with such circumstances is to pretend to be a tourist and play dumb. I often carry with me a booklet about Sydney, its cover showing the Opera House sails against a blue sky.
The owner of the vegetable shop is a large woman who addresses most customers by their first names. She beams at me when she sees my tourist book. I nod to all her questions when I pay for the root vegetables. Mr Mortlock also suggested that I try the local delicatessen, which he called ‘the most celebrated deli in the Mountains’. I go in and queue behind a man who has long white hair tied in a ponytail. When it is my turn, I point at the wild olives silently, and gesture for a small container.
The street is empty on a weekday. The weather has turned colder and I can feel on my face the tiny droplets of mist in the air. There are three real estate agents in the village, all showing polished advertisements in their shop windows. So many beautiful properties for sale, and I would be happy with any one of them. Some are vacant blocks, or classified as rural with basic housing, and they a
re cheaper.
I carry my groceries and walk towards the end of the road, fully aware that a man has been tailing me since he came out from the butcher’s.
Once, in an alleyway, on my way home from school I was attacked from behind. I screamed for help but heard only the echo. I found half a brick on the ground and hit the attacker in the face. I must have broken his nose, because there was so much blood on my clothes and it was not mine. Since then, I have got into the habit of collecting knives. Whenever I feel anxious, I sharpen my knives. I have a pocketknife on me now, easily accessible with my right hand.
Halfway on the ascent, I put down my groceries and turn around. The man is twenty metres behind and he slows down. He is carrying a plastic bag, presumably of meat. Around us on both sides of the road are tall conifers, the treetops disappearing in the mist.
‘My car has broken down. Otherwise, I would have given you a lift,’ he says, puffing with white steam.
I eyeball him suspiciously.
‘I saw you pruning the roses. I live in the studio behind the gum trees.’
I nod as an acknowledgment. Mr Mortlock’s garden is on a slope, landscaped with old deciduous trees and flowering shrubs. Behind the garden is a gum forest, and beyond that, the cliffs, the valley and the distant escarpment. I have noticed the shack and have seen smoke coming out of its chimney. Minimise interaction with the neighbours. I pick up my grocery bag and carry on walking.
After I have passed the gravel access to his shack, he calls out to me, ‘My name is Dan Brown.’
I turn back, surprised.
‘It’s my real name, for God’s sake!’
I nod, holding back a smile.
‘Do you speak English?’
I feel obliged to respond to his question because I would be telling a lie if I remained silent.
‘Ouch!’ Dan is hit on the back of the head. It’s a rubber dolphin, now rolling on the ground.
‘Lazybone! Buy meat take so long.’ From the gravel road emerges a stocky woman of South-East Asian appearance, in pyjamas and slippers. On her hip is a baby sucking a dummy.
‘Give me a break. I’m just talking to our new neighbour.’
‘Hi, I’m Ivy.’ I feel less threatened now, seeing a woman.
‘Hi, my name is Saint.’ She gives me a very friendly smile. ‘Are you from Japan?’
‘No, I’m from China.’
‘Me from Burma, a little bit of Chinese blood.’ She laughs, exposing her sparkling white teeth.
‘I like your name,’ I say.
‘Everyone likes it.’ She stops for a moment to adjust the baby’s position. Dan takes over the baby with one arm. ‘Do you have family here?’ Saint asks.
‘No. I’m by myself.’
‘Come for dinner, then. I cook you lamb.’
‘Saint cooks a mean curry.’ That explains the smell of spices in the air that I have detected on some days. ‘You eat chilli, do you?’ Dan asks.
I agree to come over at 7.30 pm. I have to ring Mr Mortlock at 7 pm, which is 8 am for him, and it is the day of the funeral.
I wonder if I should tell Mr Mortlock about the Browns but decide not to. So, as usual, I tell him the gardening work I have done—plucking the dead flowers from the snowdrops and jonquils; and the housework—sorting out all the kitchen drawers. I also go through the mail that has arrived. ‘There is a blue envelope with no return address. It is satin with hidden patterns, and smells of cinnamon.’ I caress it with my fingers. Is this from the woman with blue eyes? I have seen this woman in a photograph in one of the drawers. I hear a long silence. Is he seeing the same picture in his mind’s eye?
I put on my hat and scarf and the warm coat I bought recently. ‘Minimise contact’ does not mean ‘Do not contact’. And ‘Return to the house before sunset every day’ does not mean I cannot go out afterwards. The night is dark, yet white with mist. I have left the light on in front of the house, but ten metres away it has become a fuzzy yellow ball.
A shaft of light is moving slowly towards me, with a red cigarette butt twinkling on top. ‘Hi Ivy, Saint asked me to pick you up.’ Dan’s voice sounds dampened by the mist. The smell of his cigarette permeates the air. ‘Where’s Ed nowadays?’
‘Mr Mortlock is not at home.’ I feel uncomfortable disclosing his whereabouts.
‘Is that how you call him? It’s bizarre. So you are not lovers?’
‘No. I am living here temporarily.’
‘Hah, old Liz has got it wrong, then. She lives further down the street, the godmother of Judy Lynn.’
‘Who is Judy Lynn?’
‘She owns half of the village. She separated the studio from the main house, so I have a place to rent, for next to nothing.’
‘You mean Mr Mortlock doesn’t own the property?’
‘No, unless he’s bought it from her. They used to be together.’
I think of the photograph in the drawer and the many more in an album on the shelf. In the pictures she is very beautiful, and Mr Mortlock is always slightly behind her, looking at her face. I feel a bit sick. The cold mist is getting inside me.
We sit around a small table in the small kitchen. Dinner consists of a large quantity of lamb curry, vegetable salad with green chilli, fragrant rice and a salty fish paste. Saint tells me where to buy Asian groceries and the price differential, while being distracted by the baby, whose name is Domingo, or Dodo. Dodo is teething. He firmly grips my finger and puts it in his mouth. The food is very tasty and I feel I’m having the biggest meal since I came to Australia.
When Saint goes inside their bedroom to breastfeed, Dan shows me his studio. It is a large room. The floor is nearly covered with paint, and thicker in the middle, where an easel stands. There must be hundreds of paintings: framed, unframed, hanging, stacking, lying. Dan turns the halogen lights on, and I am dazzled by the explosion of brilliant colours all around me.
He shuts the entrance door from the living area and opens the sliding glass door facing the direction of the valley and escarpment. He sits in an armchair near the door, mixing tobacco to roll a cigarette. My eyes are attracted by a large painting on the wall behind him. It is a sunrise scene through a eucalyptus forest. The upper part of the trees is lit by the sun as if it is on fire against a bright blue sky, and the lower part is still submerged in a dense green shadow. I feel that I am pulled off my feet into the painting, through the trees into the morning air. There is no heating in the studio and neither of us notices the mist flooding in.
Dan walks me home.
‘Were you smoking marijuana?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, to find my mojo. I’ve halved the antidepressants.’ When we reach the stairs to the house, he says, ‘I should get back to my brush. Haven’t painted for a year, with my ex-wife on my back, and the baby, and Saint nagging me to go back to carpentry …’
The phone rings.
‘Ivy, we need to talk.’ Sam’s voice is dry and formal.
‘Have you met someone?’ I know Sam has been on Love@1stSite.
‘Yes,’ Sam says, ‘and her landlord wants to sell her place.’
‘When is she moving in?’
‘Next week. But we can still share. Anyway, you are not at home very often.’
I ring my parents on Skype. My mother picks it up. They are both fine. My father is studying Buddhism and my mother is studying Chinese medicine. I do not get in touch with my parents very often. In the years we lived together, they were so preoccupied with guilt that they forgot to love me. My mother had cancer in her womb last year and she had it removed. All the places I once called home have disappeared now, leaving me completely free. She used to say to me that two-thirds of the infants born in the Tibetan camp died, half of them immediately after birth, and the other half later during the first year. She said she knew I was passed around among the relatives, but she did not have a choice. I nodded and turned away. Mum, it was I who did not have a choice.
The eggshell bath looks enormous. I turn on the tap, conscious of the
waste of water. But I need something warm and comforting, somewhere inside an egg, to think about things. I find some matches in a drawer and light the crystal-like candles. In the flickering orange light, I undress, slip into the bathtub and close my eyes, feeling the luxury of floating in clean, silky warmth.
I stopped crying when I was old enough to start remembering things. I had a sore on my scalp in those days, which was tender and oozed pus. If anyone abused me, I would charge forward with a head butt. The pain from the impact was so intense that it fired me up like a torch. I still avoid hair salons. I keep my hair long enough so I can cut it myself with my own scissors.
‘You could be poor due to misfortune, but if you are dirty, it is entirely your own fault.’ These were the first words my grandfather said to me when I was finally passed on to them at the age of six. He was re-potting bonsai and did not look up. My grandmother took me to the public shower. Under the filthy clothes, my skin was covered with a layer of dirt, like the black scales of a fish. I walked into the steamy shower room, under the curious eyes of the many naked women and girls. Someone moved away and I took the spot. I lathered a cube of soap all over myself and rinsed the bubbles off. My grandmother told me to hunch over a wooden bench, and she used a handtowel to scour the grime off me. It was painful at times, and I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, pretending it was just water.
My grandmother was a streetsweeper. Every morning at dawn, she dressed herself in a blue overcoat and a blue scarf, her nose and mouth covered in a blue mask tied at the back of her head. She carried a broom made from willow branches and a dustpan with a long handle. She swept, stirring up a smog of fine golden dust, which settled slowly onto the newly cleaned road. I followed her blue silhouette, breathing in the fresh, dusty smell, my heart filled with the wild dream of becoming a streetsweeper one day. But my grandpa caught me. He thought I craved for earth because I had worms in my bowel. I was fed some tablets which promptly eradicated the worms.
I still got into fights. If someone hit me, I hit them back. If they had stronger fists, I had sharper teeth. My grandparents told me I should protect myself, and the best way to do that was to run away. So I started running. I ran so fast that the school always wanted me to participate in the sports carnival. But I refused. I did not want to run for other people’s entertainment.