I imagine what sort of scent would remind me of my mother and can think only of disinfectant.
‘You’re mum’s French?’
‘Oui.’ She laughs. ‘My dad’s English. We moved to Australia when I was six.’
She hands me her husband’s business card. ‘He said to drop in any time.’
‘Fabulous,’ I say, sliding the card into my jeans pocket. ‘Thanks for thinking of me.’
Claire smiles and shrugs her shoulders. ‘Hey, how did the weekend go without Ellie?’
‘Fine. Well.’ I hug her again. ‘Thanks.’ It occurs to me I could have phoned Claire over the weekend to suggest a movie night or a breakfast. That would have been a good start to building a friendship. ‘Next time Ellie’s away with Ian, if you’d like to go out …’
‘Sure. Sounds good. It’d do Dale good to babysit.’
It strikes me as an unusual choice of word to describe looking after your own child. ‘How’s your mum doing?’
‘Not flash.’
‘Sorry, Claire.’
‘It’s okay. It’s life, isn’t it. I’m just pleased she’s not in pain and that I can look after her.’
‘Yes, she’s very lucky.’
‘You’d do the same.’
Would I, though? ‘Anyway, thanks again. I’d better go.’
As I walk down the hill to the bus stop, I see Abdhul walking towards me, carrying a package from the post office.
‘Hello,’ I say and he looks up. ‘From home?’ I point at the package.
He nods and opens it in front of me. Inside is a long white shirt, embroidered with flowers and delicate patterns. ‘From my wife,’ he says. He holds it up against himself, and I say how well it suits him. The white against his jet-black hair is striking. He smiles and extracts from the package two drawings, which he says are gifts from his son. The pictures are of four people in a house. Abdhul points each person out to me: himself, his wife and their two children. I expected that his wife would be wearing a headscarf but she is not.
‘You must miss them terribly.’
‘Yes,’ he says, still looking at the picture. He pulls a white embroidered scarf from the packet. ‘From my mother,’ he tells me. ‘She told me she was making it for your grandmother as a gift because I told her how kind she had been. Like an Australian mother. When I told my mother Nina had died, but that I had met you, she said you should have it.’
He hands the scarf to me, and I am overcome by the kindness.
‘Please thank her from me.’
‘You want to come for tea?’ he asks.
I have to go to the university today about a job, but soon, okay?’
‘Yes, please. Thank you, sister.’
Sister. I am touched.
‘Are you working today?’ My voice catches slightly. Sister, I think.
He nods. ‘Later, yes. But this morning I help with my friend’s children. Then I must go to the hospital. There is an old Hazara woman there who I need to translate for.’
‘You are very busy.’
He agrees. ‘If I am busy, I am okay.’ He taps his chest. ‘We have a party tonight. You and your daughter can come?’
‘A party? At your house?’
‘No.’ He points to the community hall on the neighbouring rise. ‘We will dance and eat to welcome the new arrivals.’ He smiles.
‘Okay.’ I tell him, moved to be invited.
‘Half past seven.’
As I make it to the bus stop, I notice I am smiling.
The bus shelter does not block the sharp southerly gale. Turning my back to the barrage of dried leaves, I am again a child, standing here with Nina as my classmates pass us in their cars. Friends wave from the back seats while their parents keep their eyes on the road. How many of them knew of Nina’s rape allegation? Did they think her a liar? A troublemaker?
While I wait for the university bus, I type the number Claire gave me into my mobile phone. If Dale can’t meet me straight away, I’ll visit the university library, or maybe even shout myself a coffee at the cafeteria.
‘Dale Wilcox.’ His voice is brisk.
‘Hello. My name’s Sara … Sara Rose. Your wife said I should call you –’
‘Sara, yes. Claire told me you’d be in touch. You’ve been working with Barry at UQ.’
‘Yes …’ My brain scrambles to work out how many years out-of-date my CV on the University of Queensland’s website is.
‘He gave you a great rap. Listen, we’ve got some samples that have to be sequenced in the next few months, before the grant money runs out.’
‘I’ve certainly done a lot of sequencing …’ I’m slightly put out that my ex-boss has been contacted without my knowledge but am heartened by Dale’s enthusiasm and the apparently good reference.
‘Great. When can you start?’
I can’t believe my luck. ‘Any time. Tomorrow?’ I laugh, half joking.
‘Fabulous.’
‘Oh, okay … I’ll need to pick up my little girl from school by three o’clock each day though.’
‘That’s fine.’ But he sounds irritated. ‘We’ll see how it goes. It’s a part-time appointment. There could be something more permanent at the end. Can you drop by today to meet the team?’ He pauses and I hear some pages turn, perhaps his diary. ‘You could even come in now. I’ve got meetings this afternoon …’
My head is light with the prospect of sliding so easily back into employment. ‘Yes. Great. I’m on the bus now, actually. I was going to check out the library.’
‘Well, we’re right next door. See you soon.’
Sitting by the bus window, I pick balls of pilled wool from my black skivvy and check my worn leather jacket for food stains. I can sense Nina’s disapproving eye. I pull up a map of the campus on my phone.
The bus doors sigh open, and I head in the direction of the genetics building where the receptionist looks me up and down, just as Claire did, as she makes a phone call.
‘He’ll be with you in a moment,’ she tells me, pointing to a chair outside the laboratory. ‘The English lass’s replacement, are you?’
‘I hope so.’ I smile.
I wait for thirty minutes before Dale Wilcox appears. He peels off his latex glove and extends his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ His skin is hot and clammy.
‘Thanks. I’m really grateful,’ I say, though I’m surprised he hasn’t apologised for the wait. I look past him to the laboratory. Through glass doors, I can see the white benches and a team of scientists pipetting solutions and loading gels. ‘It looks like home.’
‘Well, we’ll do our best to make it feel like home.’ He hovers a hand over my shoulder, but takes it away as if thinking better of it. ‘Come in and meet the folks.’
Dale walks me down the aisle between the rows of lab benches, introducing me to his staff, one by one. Each looks up only briefly from what they’re doing and says ‘hi’.
He shows me around the rest of the laboratory, letting me walk in front of him as he points out the latest equipment, the system for storing samples in the freezers, the new fume hoods and office spaces.
‘All good?’ he asks, and I nod.
‘Great, yes. Thanks. It all seems straightforward.’ I hope he doesn’t notice the nervous rash that I can feel rising on my neck.
‘Good. Come by in the morning then and we’ll sign all the relevant papers.’ He shakes my hand. ‘Sorry to run off, but my meeting with the Vice Chancellor has been brought forward. It’ll be boring as bat shit.’ I laugh, but I’m the only one in the lab to do so.
The chemical smell of the laboratory follows me as I descend the spiral staircase – designed to resemble a strand of DNA – to the ground floor.
I text Ian: ‘I’ve got a job at the uni here. Not permanent … yet.’ I want him to know I am succeeding and am in demand. That he has walked away from a clever and capable woman. I press send. A wife is not a pot, she will not break so easily.
16
Ellie and I head to the community hall and the sound of unfamiliar music. If I had known I would be starting a new job in the morning I would have declined the invitation, but I tell myself to lighten up and live a little. I arrange the beautiful white scarf from Abdhul’s mother around my neck. A man addresses us at the door in Hazaragi and I shake my head.
‘Sorry,’ I say, not understanding. ‘Salam. I’m Sara and this is Ellie. We are neighbours of Abdhul. He invited us.’ I hold up the end of the Afghani scarf as proof, and look past the doorman into the crowded room. Ellie tightens her grip on my hand.
‘Ah, Abdhul’s friend. Yes, yes. Please,’ he says in English, welcoming me inside and smiling widely. He calls out and I see Abdhul approaching in his new white shirt and matching trousers from home.
Abdhul gives me a brief hug, which the other man regards curiously. I suspect it is not customary to embrace a female friend and that Abdhul is observing Australian custom. Ellie is still tightly gripping my hand as she looks around her at the unfamiliar clothes and people. The loud music.
‘And this is Ellie,’ I tell him. ‘You saw each other on the mountain walk.’ I say it mostly for Ellie’s sake, to help orient her.
‘Hello.’ Abdhul extends his hand and Ellie shakes it. ‘I knew your grandmother. There are lots of girls here who will love to meet you.’
Ellie’s grip on my hand relaxes somewhat and her shoulders drop. I had explained all of this to her already, but it is the mention of other girls that does the trick.
‘Come in. Come in,’ Abdhul says, hastily now, moving us closer to the sound of the crowd, who are through the interior doors in the main hall. ‘Yes, please. Thank you.’ He leads the way.
The hall has been transformed from the times I came here with Nina to see craft fairs. There are two long dining tables on either side. At the front is another table with a jug of water and glasses, several platters, still to be filled, and large serving spoons. In the centre is an open space, dividing the room along gender lines. To the left are the men, in dark jackets and with freshly combed hair; and to the right, the women, in long elaborate dresses and veils. The children are also split according to their gender. The music is coming from a large speaker in the corner.
‘Come, come. Please, sister.’ Abdhul points to the women’s table, and I smile and nod at the women, conscious of my tight-fitting jeans.
The young woman Abdhul seats me beside smiles. Ellie backs up and sits on my lap.
‘This is Farzhana,’ Abdhul says, holding his hand out to the woman beside me. ‘And her younger sister.’ The girl, whose name I don’t catch, pays immediate attention to Ellie. I say our names.
I turn to say ‘thank you’, but Abdhul is on his way back to his side of the room, an arm around Mohammad’s shoulders. A few of the men begin dancing with one another in the centre of the hall and the women watch, some with scarves pulled across their mouths as they talk to the women beside them. The young woman I was first introduced to is not speaking with the others.
‘Farzhana?’ I ask, unsure if I have her name correct, and she nods. Her face is open and kind, and I try to guess her age. Early twenties? ‘Have you been in Australia long?’
‘Two weeks. But we are leaving to go to Melbourne soon. I am studying to become doctor.’
‘Great.’ I have no doubt that this young, determined-looking woman will do exactly that.
‘This is my mother,’ she says, her hand on the woman beside her who looks to be in her late sixties. The woman acknowledges me with her eyes but Farzhana explains that she does not yet speak English.
‘How old are you?’ the young woman asks me, and I am amused by the straightforward question.
‘Forty-seven,’ I tell her.
She looks surprised. ‘No. Really?’
I laugh. ‘Yes. Why? How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Only sixteen!’ I say, then worry I have offended her.
‘And my mother, she is forty-five. She looks much older, no?’
I smile, not wanting to respond. ‘Well …’ What has this woman seen to have aged her so quickly?
‘That man over there, he is my brother,’ Farzhana says.
She is looking at one of the young men dancing. He is smiling and laughing and inviting another young man up to dance.
‘Your father. Is he here, too?’ I try to pick him from the men at the table.
‘No. My father was killed.’
I want to kick myself. Abdhul told me that women who have lost husbands are given priority for visas.
‘I am sorry,’ I say. I look around the room again, realising everyone here has probably lost at least one family member to violence.
I feel Ellie slip off my knee and see that she has taken the challenge of an arm wrestle with Farzhana’s sister. The girl is strong and rough and I worry for Ellie, but she holds her own.
I spot Abdhul, who is heading to the dance floor, and I find myself smiling at the freedom he displays as he begins to dance. His exuberance and utter joy. The almost flirtatious way he dances with the other men. No one else seems to regard it as noteworthy, although everyone, men and women alike, seem to enjoy watching the performance.
The music changes and the men take their seats while some of the women stand up to dance. Ellie is transfixed by their beautiful, ornate dresses.
‘Do you dance?’ Farzhana asks me.
‘I haven’t danced for a long time.’
‘Why not?’
I laugh. ‘I don’t know. Life.’ It is a poor excuse and it is clear Farzhana doesn’t understand it.
‘Life? You dance because you are alive.’
Ellie and Farzhana’s sister are naming different things on the table, alternately in Hazaragi and English. Plates, forks, knives, spoons. As each tries out the words, the other laughs.
‘Come,’ Farzhana says to me, taking my hand. ‘Dance with me.’
Ellie looks wary as I move away, but I can tell she is excited. She cups her hands over her mouth. Has she ever seen me dance? Did Nina sometimes come to these gatherings, I wonder. Did she dance?
I start to move to the music, holding Farzhana’s hand as I look across to Ellie, who is giggling at me. Other women join in the dancing, their colourful dresses flashing with tiny sequins and small pieces of mirrored glass. They have long gold earrings and some are wearing dark eyeliner, more seductive in their modest way than the young local women who go out on Friday nights wearing next-to-nothing. In my jeans I feel a frump. Still, it’s fun and liberating and I don’t mind the laughter. I drape the scarf around my shoulders and hold the ends of it out to my sides as I spin faster. From the corner of my eye, I can see Ellie gleefully clapping along.
When I look at my watch again, it is already half past eight. Ellie should be in bed, but the meal has just been served and she appears to be really enjoying herself. People rush at the food tables and the platters of rice and spiced chicken. An elderly woman wielding a tray of hot potato chips barrels through, and someone cheers as she sets the tray on the table.
‘A quick bite and then bed, Elliekins,’ I tell her, giving her a plate and lining up.
The chicken dish is delicious and we eat ravenously. Ellie exhibits none of her usual fussiness and finishes her meal surprisingly quickly.
I see Abdhul on the other side of the room smiling at me. His plate, too, is already empty, and I signal for him to come over.
‘I should take her home now,’ I tell him.
‘It is early! Are you not having fun?’ He looks concerned, possibly offended.
‘I am. I really am, but Ellie is very tired and I have to work tomorrow. A new job. But thank you so much for inviting us.’
He looks at his watch and then at Ellie who is bright-eyed beside me. ‘There is much more dancing to come.’
I can see everyone is just warming up and am tempted to stay, but talk myself out of it. ‘You have fun. I’ll see you again very soon. Maybe on the weekend. For some more English classes,
if you like.’
He flashes his beautiful white teeth at me, and Ellie and I leave, my head full of music and my body feeling lighter and looser than it has for years.
On the way to drop Ellie at school the next day, we pass a sticky mess on the ground. It looks like blood.
‘Watch out there, Ellie. Step around that.’
She does as I ask.
‘What is it?’
‘Tomato sauce,’ I say, although I am not convinced. ‘Someone must have spilled some.’
We walk on and, as we reach Ellie’s classroom, I spot Claire and go to say thank you. ‘It was so kind of you to mention me to your husband. I’m really grateful for the job.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she says. ‘You’re doing him a favour. He was left in the lurch quite suddenly by the previous employee. She was … Well, it’s over now.’
I’m curious, but don’t probe. ‘I’d better head in. I don’t want to be late on my first day.’ I wink at her.
‘Good luck.’
On the bus ride to the university, I reflect on the night before and note again that I am feeling joyful. I text Jude:
‘I’ve got a new job at the uni here. Dale Wilcox’s lab. How quickly life can change.’
She replies straight away: ‘Congrats! Great news. Dale’s a top scientist but, from what I’ve heard, can be a bit of an … arse. Just so you know.’
I text back: ‘How so?’
Jude replies: ‘I don’t know the details. Just take care.’
I look out the bus window. Jude is not one to gossip and I suspect she knows more than she is letting on.
I’m met by the lab manager, Sue, who is in charge of showing me where everything is kept and talking me through the samples that need to be sequenced.
‘I understand the previous employee left in a hurry …’ I say.
‘Anna, yes.’ She looks at me. ‘You could say that. Dale was stupid, that’s about the size of it. I’m hoping he’s learned his lesson. You don’t have to put up with any shit. Make sure you don’t.’ She looks at me directly.
‘No. I won’t … What kind of “shit”, exactly?’
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