‘The inappropriate kind. Harassment. Just don’t give him a chance. He got off, but he shouldn’t have.’
I feel my stomach sink. ‘Bloody hell.’
I think of Claire and the way she looked me up and down; also the way she criticised the previous employee for leaving Dale ‘in the lurch’. Didn’t she know the truth?
‘I’ll keep clear. I’m damn grateful to have the job though, I can tell you,’ I say. ‘I’m a single mum.’
‘It’s great to have you,’ Sue says and smiles.
She introduces me to a man who I guess is a couple of years younger than me. He is at work on the opposite lab bench, his face visible through the bottles of reagents on the open shelving between us.
He slips off his glove, and we shake hands through the shelving.
‘Sean.’ He smiles and I know, in that instant, he is someone I will like. What subtle cues faces give away in the small wrinkles around someone’s eyes and mouth that reveal their favourite expressions. I notice that one of his eyes is brown and the other blue. I’ve never seen that before, and it seems a fitting anomaly for a geneticist.
‘Maybe we should all go to lunch later?’ Sue suggests.
‘I would, but I’m on leave from tomorrow and have to get this done,’ Sean answers. ‘Sorry.’ I can see he is being genuine.
‘No drama,’ I say, ‘I’ve got to leave the lab just before three anyway so should probably stay put.’
He nods. ‘School pick-up?’
‘Yep.’ I wonder what that means for getting to know one another. My short work days have always made socialising at work near impossible. I feel a wave of resentment at Ian for his long lawyer lunches and the opportunities they presented.
Less than an hour later, I am loading a sequencing machine and don’t hear Dale’s approach.
‘So, how’s it going?’ he says from behind me, his hand hovering again for a millisecond above my shoulder before his brain kicks in.
I spill some of the DNA sample, ruining the experiment. ‘Shit.’
‘Not so well then,’ he says. I hear his footsteps recede, before his office door clicks shut.
Sean is watching me through the open shelving.
‘Don’t worry about him. I reckon he’s learned his lesson. You’ll be fine.’
I have been longing for someone to tell me those last three words since I returned to Tasmania.
Ellie and I drop into the corner store on the way back from school pick-up and my first day of work. I buy the basics: milk, bread, eggs, and a lettuce, somewhat wilted. The sooner we get the vegetable garden going again, the better. I decide to also get some treats for our Afghan neighbours, and settle on almond biscuits and a bag of pistachios. In truth, I’m the one who needs a cup of tea with them.
I knock on the door and Abdhul answers. He looks tired and grave. He steps back and asks me inside.
I am ushered into the lounge room where Sayed is lying on the couch. He has a cold cloth against his head and when he looks at me I see one of his front teeth is broken and his eye is swollen.
‘Oh, no.’ I hold Ellie’s hand and want to cover her eyes, but of course cannot. ‘Are you okay? Who did this, Sayed?’
‘Some men,’ Abdhul answers. ‘We were coming back late from the party. The others were in front of me. Sayed was the last. He was talking on his phone, to his wife back home. We had been cleaning up.’
‘Has he seen a doctor?’
‘No. No doctor,’ Abdhul says. ‘He doesn’t want.’ He translates for Sayed, who shakes his head and confirms what Abdhul has told me.
‘No doctor.’
‘Are you hurt anywhere else on your body?’ I touch my stomach, my chest.
Abdhul translates for Sayed and then for me. ‘His ribs, too. But mostly they hit his head. His eye. His nose bled. They broke his tooth.’ Sayed runs his tongue over the sharp edge. ‘It was near the bus stop. Near the school. You know where?’ Abdhul asks me.
I remember the blood on the footpath. ‘Yes.’
‘A car came up the road and shone its headlights. The men ran.’
I want to cry. ‘Cowards!’
‘Mummy?’
‘Some people are mean, Ellie. Someone hit Sayed, but he is going to be okay.’
‘He is okay,’ Abdhul says. ‘If it was Pakistan or Afghanistan, he would be dead. He would have his throat cut.’ He runs his finger across his neck.
Ellie tucks in closer and I feel guilty for exposing her to this. Nina left Russia to raise her family in peace.
‘I am so sorry,’ I tell Sayed and Abdhul. I want to get Ellie out of the men’s house and am angry at Abdhul for speaking of such violence in front of her. It is the first time she has heard of such things. ‘I will come back tomorrow, but, just quickly, did you see them, the men? Could you describe them to police?’
Abdhul shakes his head. ‘Not well. It was too dark. They were behind us. I didn’t see them coming. They pushed –’
‘Actually, Abdhul,’ I start. ‘With Ellie here, can you be a bit careful about –’
He continues as if he has not heard me. ‘They pushed Sayed forwards, into the ground. When he turned around, that’s when they hit him. Kicked him. “Go home.” They say, “Go home.”’
Ellie is squeezing my hand. ‘We should go,’ I say. ‘But what can I get for you? For Sayed?’
‘Nothing,’ Abdhul says. The oldest of the Afghani men living here, the grandfather, enters the room, and Abdhul points at him. ‘He made him a special tea. But Sayed’s head still aches.’
I reach into my handbag and extract a packet of Panadol. ‘Here. Give him two of these.’ I ask where the kitchen is and go there myself. As I fill a glass with water, I look around the immaculate space.
Back in the lounge room, I say, ‘So, he takes these two now with water, then two more tablets at eight o’clock tonight. Not before. Every four hours. If his head or side get worse, you call me. Okay?’ I give Abdhul my phone number. ‘Or knock on my door. He might need to see a doctor.’
‘Thank you,’ Abdhul says.
‘I will leave you to rest,’ I say, handing him the biscuits and nuts that I’d nearly forgotten about. ‘We should report this to the police.’
‘No police,’ Abdhul says firmly.
Outside, Ellie looks at me with tears in her eyes. ‘Why did they hurt him, Mummy?’
‘Because some people are scared of what they don’t understand.’
She shakes her head, crying now. ‘What?’
‘Some people are stupid bullies.’
She nods. ‘Yes.’
Back at the cottage, I telephone the police to report the bashing.
‘What is the victim’s name?’ the officer asks.
‘Sayed … I’m sorry I don’t know his second name.’
‘And it was where?’
I give the name of the street.
‘Did he see the perpetrators? Were there any witnesses?’
‘Yes, but it was dark. One of his friends saw a bit, but he doesn’t want to tell the police.’
‘They never do.’ The officer laughs, but sounds frustrated. ‘Has the injured person been to hospital?’
‘No. He doesn’t want to see a doctor.’
‘Does he know the attacker?’
‘No. A car came and the men, the perpetrators, took off. It’s normally a quiet street. They were leaving a party. It was late.’
‘Was he drunk?’
‘He’s Muslim. He doesn’t drink. I’m sure the incident was racially motivated.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘They told him to “Go home.”’
‘That doesn’t prove anything, of course. With no witnesses willing to testify, no statement from the victim … Well, I don’t think there is much we can do. He is welcome to come and talk to us.’
‘He is scared of the police, like I said.’
I hear the man sigh out. ‘Well, tell him not to walk around in the dark is my best advice.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Unless he is willing to make a statement. Yes.’
After dinner, I tuck Ellie into bed and walk down the street to Abdhul’s rental house where the lounge-room light is on. Through the window, I see Abdhul bent forwards on his prayer mat. Sayed is beside him, head bowed, praying.
The television news is wall-to-wall election coverage. The federal opposition leader is speaking, and I drink my wine quickly as I listen to him drone on, my finger hovering over the ‘off’ button on the remote. He speaks of boosting the economy, of scrapping the carbon tax and, finally, of ‘stopping the boats’.
‘Bloody hell.’ I turn off the television. Ellie calls out to me from her bedroom.
‘Can’t get to sleep,’ she yells.
I go to her room.
‘I miss my old friends and Daddy.’
‘Of course. But it will get easier. And Daddy will visit again.’ I suspect she is also rattled after seeing Sayed hurt the other night, but I don’t want to raise that again in case I’m wrong. With any luck she will soon forget.
‘I want Daddy.’ She throws the toys out of the bed, one after the other, crying. I curl up beside her, feeling my own heart race at what I am putting her through.
‘Close your eyes. Think of something nice. Think of dancing that night at the party with Abdhul and his friends.’
‘Why didn’t you used to dance with Daddy?’
‘Good question. We probably should have danced more.’
Morning. I am afraid to turn on the radio but can’t help myself. The election results are in, and the conservative candidate has won. He again is launching into his refrain about stopping the boats, which seems to have won him the election. I think of Sayed nursing his bruised skull. In the new prime minister’s narrative, Sayed is the villain.
I take Nina’s orange-squeezer from the cupboard and an orange from the fruit bowl. I cut the orange in half and press it over the squeezer with all my weight, twisting the hemisphere of fruit aggressively back and forth. I dry my hands and text Jude, an early riser, before Ellie is awake: CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? HE WON! I DON’T GET IT?!
She phones me back. I can hear her cat trying to get her attention in the background.
‘Can’t say I’m that surprised, to be honest,’ she says.
‘How can people have fallen for the “stop the boats” crap? There’s not even many coming. Not relative to other countries. I mean I don’t want to see more drownings, but …’
‘It’s not about the boats. He’s using that to tap into what people are really afraid of: competition for jobs, longer hospital queues, less pension money –’
‘But it costs more to lock them up like they’re doing now!’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s fear. He’s appealing to base human fear.’
‘Well I’m afraid now. He’s drumming up such hatred. An Afghani neighbour of mine was beaten up recently. He’s such a sweet man. Ellie saw him hurt and I had to explain.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘And I can’t even turn on the television without her seeing asylum seekers with their lips sewn together.’ I pin the mobile phone between my shoulder and ear, and squeeze the other half of the orange. ‘Christ, my grandparents fled a regime where people were locked up in camps. I can’t believe it’s happening here.’
‘No, and history won’t look kindly on us either.’
I pour out the pulpy juice, splitting it between two glasses.
‘Has your neighbour got his visa yet?’ Jude asks.
‘Neighbours plural. There are four of them, and no they haven’t. God knows what’ll happen now.’
SPRING
17
It’s Saturday, two months after the election, and the turbulent spring weather is colder than winter. Ellie, Abdhul and I are in Nina’s back garden in down jackets.
‘Can we make a girl out of snow? Like in that story Nina used to tell?’ Ellie asks me, watching the large white flakes sail down onto the garden where they form a carpet of miniature dissolving shrouds.
‘Of course. But Abdhul might have other things he needs to do …’
He shakes his head. ‘No. I want to help.’
‘How is Sayed? Ribs can take a while to heal. Sorry I haven’t visited much lately. With the new job and –’
‘He is much better. He is all good again.’
Ellie explains the project, and Abdhul works conscientiously alongside her, soon taking over and crafting an entirely realistic girl in the snow. As he works, he says it is his daughter, and I can see that the emerging girl with the almond eyes and high cheekbones does look like the girl in the photograph Abdhul showed me. Ellie sits back on her heels and watches with an expression of awe while I recite the Russian fairy tale of the Snow Maiden that Nina used to tell.
‘Deep in the heart of a forest lived an old man and woman. They were sad, because they did not have a child. One day, when it was very cold, they built a girl out of snow. Moments after they had finished, the girl’s lips turned red and her dark eyes opened. She smiled at them and changed into a real child.’
I pause, watching Ellie’s face light up with the retelling and remembering making snow maidens myself as a girl.
‘Go on, Mummy.’
‘Yes, sister, go on, please.’
‘But as winter passed and the snow began to melt, the old man and woman grew sad. They knew their Snow Maiden would soon lose her strength.’
I remember covering my own Snow Maiden in bracken fronds, and fanning her with the branches of pepperberry bushes, sheltering her from the broad light of summer.
‘A group of girls came up onto the mountain and asked to play with the girl of snow. Fearing she might melt in the sun, the Snow Maiden hesitated, but her parents, with tears in their eyes, urged her out to enjoy herself. They knew they could not shield her from life forever …’
Abdhul nods gravely. It occurs to me that this might not be the right story to be telling him, a man fearing for his own family’s safety. A man who has just sculpted his daughter out of snow. He looks up at me expectantly. I cannot stop now.
‘They told her to be careful and to stay under the cover of vegetation for as long as she could, but the other girls enticed the Snow Maiden out of the shadows by building a fire, which they took turns to jump over. The Snow Maiden joined in the game, but as soon as she leapt free of the ground, her body began to melt with the heat of the flames. Before their eyes she disappeared, until the only sign that she ever existed was a rising white cloud.’
Abdhul seems unsurprised by the ending and studies the child he is making. He brushes her cheek with his fingers, then looks at the sky.
‘Thank you. That is a very good story.’ He touches his heart and looks back at the sculpture, the perfect face that belongs in an art gallery. Only the body needs work now, but the afternoon is cold, and I see Ellie shiver. She blows on her bare hands.
‘Go and grab your gloves and beanie,’ I tell her. ‘Abdhul, I think there’s another beanie inside that you can use.’ I point for him to go inside and realise that, although I have been into his house many times, I’ve not invited him into ours.
‘Did you visit Nina here sometimes?’
‘Yes,’ he says. He dips his head, a gesture I read as gratitude.
‘Why don’t you stay for dinner later?’
‘Thank you. Yes.’
Outside again, Ellie stands back to admire Abdhul’s work, declaring that it is the best day of her life.
‘Yes, it is a very good day,’ Abdhul says. He pulls out his mobile phone, which has on its protective case an image of the Australian flag, and takes a photograph of the Snow Maiden.
The home phone rings in the kitchen, and I run up the back stairs to answer it. It’s Helena.
‘Sara, hello. I’m coming to Hobart for a few days next week, to give a talk. I thought maybe I could visit … It’s been so long.’
As she speaks, I see her at the door already, saying hello
to Ellie, remarking on how much her granddaughter has grown. Not that they have ever met in person, but I have sent the occasional photograph. Beyond this initial greeting, I see nothing. I can’t find the next frame.
‘You don’t have to decide now. Just let me know within the next few days so I can book my meetings around it … Just for a cuppa or something. No pressure. Just to see you both.’
‘Okay. Sure. See you then.’ I still can’t bring myself to call her ‘Mum’. I hang up.
‘It was my mother. She is coming to visit,’ I tell Abdhul, who has come into the kitchen and is taking a container from the cupboard. He knows his way around the house.
Abdhul beams at me. ‘That is very good news. We should celebrate.’
‘Yes.’ I chuckle, seeing it from his perspective. If he, of all people, has the capacity for joy and gratitude, then so should I. ‘Yes, I suppose it is good.’
‘That is a lovely photo,’ Abdhul says, looking at Ellie’s school picture propped on the kitchen windowsill. ‘She’s a lucky girl.’
‘She is. Let’s go and see what she’s up to.’
Outside, I can’t see Ellie in the garden or down by the fast-flowing stream. The Snow Maiden stares back at me blankly.
‘Ellie?’ I shout over the sound of the rushing water. ‘Ellie?’ She doesn’t answer. I see a shadow in the trees on the other side of the rivulet and a branch shakes. Oh God. This is Helena’s fault. I feel ill and run towards the back gate, following Ellie’s footprints. A man’s footprints are in the snow, too. Abdhul’s? I turn to face him.
‘Was someone else here? One of your friends?’ What am I thinking?
‘She’s up there,’ Abdhul says calmly, confused by my concern. ‘We were picking pepper leaves.’ He holds up the container and points at a mountain pepper plant. ‘Nina showed me.’
‘Ellie?’ I call again.
‘Yes,’ she answers. I see a flash of her red coat through the trees, coming towards us. ‘Look!’ She is clutching the gathered leaves in the skirt of her dress.
Abdhul is beside me, laughing at Ellie’s plentiful haul. He looks at me and sees my relief. ‘She’s okay,’ he says.
He knows what it is like to be afraid but must wonder what I can possibly be frightened of here.
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