I shake my head. ‘Fine.’
Claire tilts her head to the side and offers a gentle smile. She isn’t convinced.
‘Ellie’s dad, is he still in Brisbane?’
‘He’s arriving Friday to take her for the weekend. It’ll only be the second time I’ve been away from her overnight.’ At the conference in Malaysia I missed her so much I ached.
‘You won’t know yourself.’ She gives me a gentle nudge.
‘He’s never been that interested in parenthood at all, until now. Gives me the shits.’
She smiles, understanding. ‘Might be nice for you to have some time to yourself though. God, it’s a rare thing.’
I return her smile before stretching my arms above my head and turning them in large circles, like I’m swimming butterfly slowly backwards. The muscles of my shoulders and back grind and crackle with disuse.
‘Maybe a weekend off duty is just what I need.’ I shake my head again at the situation I’m in. ‘Sorry, I’m not normally so pathetic. My grandmother just died, too. She raised me.’
‘Yes, you mentioned you’d lost her. I’m so sorry. Sounds like things can only get better. And, God, sorry about Carmen the other day. She can be a real shocker that woman. We’re not that close, to be honest. I mean, she’s good fun, but she’s more Rosie’s friend than mine.’
I nod and laugh a bit, relieved. We reach the end of the beach where a young man in a wetsuit is hauling a sea kayak into the water. He looks up and says hello. Something about him reminds me of a young Ian. As the yellow kayak glides away, Claire and I start the journey back.
‘Anyway, enough of me. Christ, that’ll be the last time you invite me for a walk. Are you from here?’
‘No, we moved down from Sydney.’
‘Oh, sorry. You told me that.’
Claire pushes her hair off her face and smiles forgivingly.
‘So, what brought you to Tassie?’ I ask. ‘Please tell me you haven’t told me that, too.’
Claire laughs. ‘No. Work. Same old story. My husband got a job at the uni here.’
‘What field?’
‘He’s a geneticist.’
‘You’re kidding! That’s what I do.’
‘Well, you guys will have a bit to chat about then.’
I think of asking his name but decide that’s too opportunistic. ‘And you’ve just got the one child?’
‘Yep, Sal was IVF, so who knows if there’ll be a number two. I’m just so grateful we’ve got her. And that Mum got to know her before she got sick.’
I study her face and am struck by her gratitude and the contrasts between us: Claire’s longing for more time with her mother and my determination to block Helena’s access to Ellie.
‘Actually, it’s possible there’s some work going at Dale’s lab,’ Claire tells me.
‘Really?’
‘Someone’s just left. I mean, I don’t know what area you’re in but, well, you could ask Dale. Or I can.’
‘Dale Wilcox?’ I hear my own voice: disbelieving and hopeful. Embarrassingly keen.
‘Yes.’ She seems surprised.
‘I’ve done some job-hunting online. His lab does similar work to what I’ve been doing, so he was on the top of my list to approach. I can’t believe it! It’d be great if you could ask him. Thank you.’ I touch her arm and she looks down at the place my hand is resting.
‘I’ll mention it to him.’
Something has shifted in the atmosphere between us, and I worry she feels I’m using her. She seems suddenly guarded and I try to think of a way to recover our earlier warmth.
‘Must be nice for you to be so close to your mum.’
‘No, she’s from Sydney,’ Claire corrects me. ‘It’s been really hard being so far apart. Particularly since she’s been sick.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. But I actually meant emotionally close. It’s lovely. I’ve never had that.’
Claire looks at me strangely, as if I’ve just landed from Mars.
Back at the cottage, I check the university webpage and read Dale Wilcox’s profile again, confirming my view that his is the pick of the labs in Hobart. As tempted as I am to send him an email, I restrain myself. Claire said she would speak with him.
I change into walking boots and set out up the mountain for a mind-clearing walk, feeling my thighs working as I move quickly up the slope. Half an hour in, I encounter the young man Ellie and I saw on Christmas day, although this time he has a boy with him. The man smiles modestly and I stop. I estimate him to be in his mid- to late twenties. He is handsome, with dark eyes, a chiselled face and high cheekbones. His hair is jet black, a colour unusual here.
‘Hello again,’ I say.
His broad face opens and I see beautiful white teeth. ‘Hi.’
‘Your son?’ I point to the boy.
The man shakes his head. ‘No.’ He rests a hand on the boy’s back. ‘He has just arrived.’
‘Oh, from where?’ As I look at the pair, I already know the answer. I go through the real-life characters I saw in Mary Meets Mohammad and see if I can place either among the cast of Hazara asylum seekers.
‘Pakistan.’ He pauses. ‘But really we are from Afghanistan.’
What can I possibly say that will be enough?
‘Life is difficult in your country,’ I offer.
The man says something to the boy in a language I don’t understand. The boy nods and I see his sadness. ‘Yes,’ the boy tells me.
‘Have you been here long?’ I ask the man.
‘Three years in Tasmania. Before then, Christmas Island.’ He looks down.
He does not match the shadowy images of detainees on Christmas Island broadcast on the nightly news, men moving between tents or standing behind a fence, gripping the wire and looking out like exhibits in a zoo.
‘I am sorry. You’ve had a very difficult time.’
He smiles as he nods, and his body trembles slightly. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m Sara.’ I extend my hand.
‘Abdhul,’ he says, taking my hand in both of his. ‘And Mohammad.’ He taps the boy on the shoulder.
‘Like in the movie,’ I suggest.
Abdhul looks puzzled.
‘Mary Meets Mohammad,’ I say.
‘Oh, yes, yes.’ He smiles. ‘My friends are in that movie. You have seen it?’
‘I have.’ I want to apologise again for my community, for the bitter attitudes some locals voiced at the beginning of the documentary, but he is smiling still.
‘Have you been treated okay here? In the detention centre and so on …?’
‘Yes. They were very kind.’
It is not what I expected to hear. Gratitude for being locked up.
‘And Mohammad? Was he in detention also, to start with?’ The idea is too shocking to let under my skin, and I ask the question without wanting to hear the answer.
‘No. He already has his visa. He is new, so I am showing him around a bit.’
‘His family, where are they?’
‘His mother is taking English classes. Mohammad will start school next week.’
The young man speaks again to the boy in their own language, a mysterious mix of whispery yet strong sounds, formed in the back of the throat.
‘That’s exciting,’ I say, smiling at the boy, but he looks at me blankly. ‘Starting school.’
‘He doesn’t speak English yet.’
‘I speak a little,’ the boy ventures.
The man laughs. ‘Please, join us for a tea?’
‘Tea?’ I look up the mountain at the track, where I was looking forward to walking in the hope of dispelling the nervous energy that has built up in my body over recent months.
‘Yes, at our home.’
‘Do you live close?’
He points down the slope at a house, two doors along from Nina’s cottage.
‘Ah, we are neighbours.’ I point to Nina’s cottage. ‘The one with the big vegetable patch.’
‘You live there?
She was very kind, this old lady.’
‘She was my grandmother. Nina.’
He smiles again, his hands in the air as if I have brought him great news. ‘Your grandmother!’ He places his hand on his heart. ‘I am sad for you that she died. May God look after her soul.’ He is quiet for a moment. ‘She made us meals. Many meals. She talked to us. Invited us for tea.’
I feel warmth rise through me. ‘Yes, that sounds like my grandmother.’
‘I did not know she had died until after the funeral. I would have come, but no one told me. I am sorry.’
‘And I am sorry you didn’t know. I would love to have tea with you.’
We head down the mountain to Abdhul’s rental house, which I have been walking past every day on the way to Ellie’s school, noting the neat arrangement of shoes at the front door. On the front landing, Abdhul takes off his sneakers and I unlace my boots. He lifts the doormat and retrieves a house key. The blue-and-white umbrella stand catches my eye, the chinoiserie pattern of leaves and vines identical to the pattern on Nina’s umbrella stand, which is missing from the cottage.
‘Yes, it was your grandmother’s.’ Abdhul rests his hand on the stand. ‘She gave it to me.’ He moves his hand to his chest again, before calling out something in his own tongue. From a back room, three more men arrive, seeming surprised but pleased to welcome a stranger. Abdhul holds out his arm to a room to the right of the central hallway and offers me a seat on the couch there before speaking firmly to one of the men, who disappears again to the rear of the house as if on a boss’s instruction. The lounge room is sparsely furnished with four chairs, a coffee table and four rolled-up mats arranged neatly on the mantelpiece. On the wall is a framed wedding photo of Abdhul and, I presume, his bride. She is wearing a long intricate wedding gown and gold jewellery. Her eyes are dark and intelligent and her face exquisite. I imagine Nina also seeing this picture and remarking on the handmade wedding dress. ‘I made the frame,’ Abdhul tells me.
‘You’ve done a lovely job,’ I say, admiring the simple but cleverly crafted wooden frame. ‘Your wife is very beautiful.’
The man Abdhul sent to the back of the house arrives with a tray bearing a teapot, six glasses and a bowl of lollies. The other men, including Abdhul, hurry to clear a scatter of letters from the coffee table. It is the only mess in the room, if it could even be called mess. Their housekeeping standards put mine to shame.
‘Please,’ Abdhul says, passing me a tea.
One of the other men hands me the bowl of lollies.
‘Thank you.’ I take a sweet and sip the black tea, slightly nervous in the face of so much courtesy.
‘Are you all from Afghanistan?’
Abdhul’s housemates look at Abdhul, who turns to me. ‘They don’t speak much English.’ He translates my question and the men nod. ‘We are all Hazara,’ Abdhul says.
‘That must be difficult for them, not speaking English here.’
‘You are right,’ Abdhul says. He sips his tea while sucking on a sweet, which makes a small bulge in his cheek. The other men are doing the same. ‘Your grandmother gave us some English lessons.’
Again, the rising warmth. Nina’s English was good but not perfect. I am proud of her. I put the boiled sweet I am still holding into my mouth and drink my tea through it, discovering I can choose how sugary to make each mouthful by where I position the sweet.
‘Are you having any lessons now?’ I ask.
Abdhul shakes his head.
‘I am not a teacher but if you want some help …?’
‘Yes, please. When?’
I laugh. ‘Well, I’m not working at the moment so …’
Abdhul hands me another boiled sweet. ‘Tomorrow?’
I laugh again at his directness. ‘Sure. I think that’ll be fine.’
He shows me the pile of letters, flicking through them one by one. He reads out the various names, none of which corresponds to any of the men living here. The address, however, is correct. ‘Please, what do we do with these?’
I take the mail and go through it. Some is junk mail, but even that has been carefully kept.
‘I think these letters were for former tenants,’ I say.
‘Tenants?’
‘For the people who lived here before.’
‘Yes. So …’
‘Have you got a pen?’ I ask, making a hand signal to indicate writing.
Abdhul instructs one of his housemates, who leaves the room hastily and returns with a pen. I write, ‘Not at this address’ on the envelopes and explain that the post office will, I hope, register to stop sending them letters addressed to former tenants.
‘Thank you,’ Abdhul says and the men nod, almost bow, their gratitude.
‘So, you don’t have families?’ I ask the men and, from the look on Abdhul’s face, I see it was an ignorant question. I should have known better. Abdhul draws breath before answering.
‘We do. Yes. Of course. I have a wife and two children.’ He takes his wallet from his jeans pocket and flashes small photographs of sweet-faced, black-haired children. He tells me their names. The girl looks to be about three, and the boy is just a baby. I suppose the photographs are old, given that Abdhul left home over three years ago.
‘And this is my dear mummy.’ He shows me another photograph. A couple dressed in white, the man significantly older than the woman. ‘And Daddy. He is very old. One hundred and four.’
‘Really?’ I ask, wondering if it was Nina who taught Abdhul to call his parents ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’. As a child, I used to call Nina ‘Mama’ until the other children’s laughter made me switch to ‘Mum’, then, as a teenager, I changed again and called her Nina.
He laughs. ‘Very old, yes.’
‘What’s his secret?’ I joke.
‘He had a goat farm. The milk fat is very healthy,’ he tells me, serious again.
Abdhul points across the room to the older man. ‘He is a grandfather.’ Abdhul laughs, teasingly. ‘Three children. Six grandchildren.’ He points to the two younger men in turn. ‘Sayed has a wife and two children. Ali, there, has one child. A boy.’
‘They are still in Pakistan? Or Afghanistan?’
‘In Pakistan. Yes.’
‘I see.’
Abdhul looks at his photographs again and shakes his head, and I glean just how hard it is for him to be separated.
‘Yes, but my mother is happy I am here. She is so happy I am safe.’
‘Your family. Wife and children. Can they come here soon?’
‘No. Not allow.’
‘Oh.’ I turn the pen I am holding around in my hand, searching for something to say. ‘I really hope that changes soon for you. Do you have other siblings?’
‘Sib …’
‘Brothers or sisters?’
‘I had a brother. But he died by the Taliban, so I send money to his family now. He was killed at bazaar.’ He puts two fingers to his chest and quickly retracts his thumb, a trigger, and pulls his hand away. He tilts his head to the side as if to say, ‘What could I do?’
‘I am so sorry,’ I repeat. I don’t know what else to say. I feel like a broken record.
‘You? Children?’ he asks.
‘A daughter, yes. Ellie. She is at school.’
‘Ah,’ he says, bringing his hands into a prayer position. ‘Thanks to God. And your husband. He is well?’
‘Yes, he is well. But we are divorced.’ I hold up my index fingers and pull them apart.
Abdhul shakes his head and I think I hear him tisk his tongue. ‘Mummy, Daddy?’
Hearing such diminutive expressions again, this time for my own parents, is amusing but I don’t want to laugh or make him feel foolish.
‘Yes. I have a mother.’ I don’t know where to start with my father.
‘She lives here?’
I shake my head. ‘We are not close.’ I leave it at that, allowing him to interpret my words as he wishes.
He looks confused and tisks again. ‘Why?’
/>
‘Long story …’
The men wait patiently.
‘It is not important,’ I say, but I’m immediately struck by the irony of my statement.
‘And your daddy?’
So, I am not off the hook yet. Any answer that I give will certainly be received with another click of disapproval and look of sadness. I shake my head.
The boy, Mohammad, offers me another sweet.
‘Thank you.’ I ask Abdhul, ‘And where do Mohammad’s family live?’
‘His mother lives in Glenorchy. Lots of Hazara live there. Maybe twenty. They already have their visas. They came on one of those beautiful things in the sky …’ Abdhul looks up and gives a single laugh.
‘A plane?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He laughs at me for not understanding his joke, and pats the boy on the back. ‘Lucky boy.’
‘And you? Did you come by boat?’ Should I be asking these things? Is it upsetting for him? Is this what he wants to talk about? I watch his expression closely, prepared to change course.
He nods. ‘Yes. And these men. We are all still waiting for visas.’
‘So what visas do you have now?’
‘Temporary visas still. But better than before.’ He tries to look optimistic. ‘We can work now.’
‘And Mohammad’s father is also in Pakistan?’
‘No.’ Abdhul shakes his head. ‘But I do my best to be like a father to him. His real father, he died. Killed.’ He holds his fingers to his chest again and pulls an imaginary trigger.
I look at the boy, who is colouring in, using a small pack of scratchy airline pencils, and I wonder if he understands the conversation.
Abdhul continues. ‘Taliban.’
The boy looks up and a wave of fear crosses his face.
13
Ian arrives an hour early in a hired convertible BMW, the top concertinaed back. I look down at my jeans, grubby from hauling compost from the back garden and digging it into the soil around the roses by the front gate. A woman I assume to be Sylvia gives me a faint smile from the front seat, her teeth white against her tan. She pushes her sunglasses back over her boyish blond hair, revealing intensely blue eyes. A pastel floral scarf floats about her neck, matching her pale lipstick. She reminds me of a good friend I went to university with, but this woman is not my friend. I imagine her kissing the man who was my husband. I imagine her head leaning back, her eyes shut in orgasm. A boy in the seat behind her is waving at Ellie, who I turn to see hanging out of her bedroom window, letting in the cold air and hollering, ‘Hello!’
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