Australia Day

by Melanie Cheng

  Praise for Australia Day

  WINNER OF THE VICTORIAN PREMIER’S LITERARY

  AWARD FOR AN UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT, 2016

  ‘Melanie Cheng is an astonishingly deft and incisive writer. With economy and elegance, she creates a dazzling mosaic of contemporary life, of how we live now. Hers is a compelling new voice in Australian literature.’ CHRISTOS TSIOLKAS

  ‘What a wonderful book, a book with bite.

  These stories have a real edge to them. They are complex without being contrived, humanising, but never sentimental or cloying—and, ultimately, very moving.’ ALICE PUNG

  ‘In each story, Melanie Cheng creates an entire microcosm, peeling back the superficial to expose the raw nerves of contemporary Australian society. Her eye is sharp and sympathetic, her characters flawed and funny and utterly believable.’ JENNIFER DOWN

  ‘Melanie Cheng’s stories are a deep dive into the diversity of humanity. They lead you into lives, into hearts, into unexplored places, and bring you back transformed.’

  MICHELLE WRIGHT

  ‘The characters stay in the mind, their lives and experiences mirroring many of our own, challenging us to think how we might respond in their place. An insightful, sometimes uncomfortable portrayal of multicultural Australia from an observant and talented writer.’ RANJANA SRIVASTAVA

  ‘A bittersweet, beautifully crafted collection.’

  BOOKS+PUBLISHING

  Melanie Cheng is a writer and general practitioner. She was born in Adelaide, grew up in Hong Kong and now lives in Melbourne. In 2016 she won the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for an Unpublished Manuscript. Australia Day is her first book.

  ‘There has never been a more

  exciting time to be an Australian.’

  Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull

  To Mum, for feeding me books,

  and Dad, for setting the bar high

  Contents

  Australia Day

  Big Problems

  Macca

  Clear Blue Seas

  Ticket-holder Number 5

  Hotel Cambodia

  Things That Grow

  Fracture

  Toy Town

  Doughnuts

  Allomother

  White Sparrow

  Muse

  A Good and Pleasant Thing

  Acknowledgements

  Australia Day

  The M1 is busy. Some vehicles—four-wheel drives and utes mainly—have Australian flags flying from their windows. Jess sits perfectly erect at the wheel, the same way she sits in lectures. A lamenting electropop hit is on the radio. The singer’s howl cuts through the rattle of the 1987 Toyota Celica.

  ‘Did you know that forty per cent of people who fly Australian flags would still support the White Australia policy?’ Stanley asks when the song has finished.

  The air conditioner is broken and beads of sweat catch in the hairs on Jessica’s upper lip.

  ‘Did you know that ninety per cent of statistics are made up on the spot?’ she says.

  ‘Saw it on the ABC.’

  ‘Then it must be true.’ Jess laughs. Her flaxen hair flaps against her cheeks. ‘My dad has an Australian flag bumper sticker. What does that say about him?’

  ‘The research looked at flags, not stickers. It would be wrong for me to extrapolate.’

  A moth meets its messy demise on the windscreen. Powdered wings smear the glass.

  ‘You’re one of us now, remember? Got the native plant and everything.’

  Stanley thinks of the once scarlet banksia plant, now draped in cobwebs on his balcony. Jess had come along for the citizenship ceremony. She’d worn a tangerine dress and dangly earrings.

  ‘He’s going to hate me, isn’t he?’ Stanley asks.

  Jess waves a finger at the glove box. ‘Pass me my sunnies.’

  Stanley finds the glasses case beneath a packet of ribbed-for-her-pleasure condoms. Another one of Eddie’s relics—lately Stanley has been unearthing them everywhere.

  ‘Well?’ he says.

  Jess clears her throat. It is the first time, in two hours of driving, that Stanley has heard her cough.

  ‘Deep down, Dad’s just a big cuddly teddy bear.’

  Eddie Mitchell studies medicine, like the rest of them. He is smart—he made the dean’s honours list three years in a row—and good-looking (in a goofy, barefoot, Queensland kind of way). Everybody loves him. Even Stanley, who is no match for that easy Sunshine Coast smile. If it weren’t for Eddie, Stanley tells himself, he never would have found Jess that day at the anatomical pathology lab, bent over a glass box of dissected hands.

  ‘Hi,’ he’d said, all casual, as if sidling up to her at a bar.

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Stanley Chu. Nice to meet you.’

  Jess ignored him. She examined the pool of mucus—a mixture of tears and snot—on the toilet paper in her palm. Stanley pulled up a stool. The metal legs made a grating noise across the linoleum floor. He sat down, and together they stared at the bodiless forearms, waving up at them from the box.

  ‘Flexor pollicis longus,’ Stanley said, pointing at a label pinned to one of the specimens. ‘It should be flexor pollicis longus, not flexor carpi radialis.’

  In tutes they were studying the neck and thorax. Jess had no idea about the upper limb.

  ‘I’ve taken it up with my anatomy tutor,’ he said. ‘She’s going to relabel it on Monday.’

  Jess looked at Stanley’s poreless skin and shiny almond-shaped eyes.

  ‘Aren’t you in my anatomy class?’ she asked.

  He blushed.

  ‘You jiggle your leg on the stool.’

  Stanley steadied his knee.

  ‘It’s annoying.’ Jess shivered. Sun was pouring through the windows, but the laboratory felt unnaturally cool. ‘How come you know upper limb already?’

  ‘I got bored and read ahead.’

  ‘Seriously? When I get bored I go for a coffee, or a bike ride. Something fun.’

  ‘The brachial plexus is pretty extraordinary,’ Stanley said, and his black eyes flashed wide. ‘I could teach you about it sometime.’ Stanley had memorised Jessica’s student number. He knew that last semester, in anatomy, she had scraped by with 55. It was a passing grade, but only just.

  Jessica said nothing.

  ‘Red tits don’t come back,’ he said, and then, seeing the bewildered expression on her face, explained, ‘It’s a mnemonic: roots, trunks, divisions, cords, branches.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I wasn’t sure what kind of tits you were talking about.’

  They laughed. Stanley looked down at the macerated tissue in Jessica’s hand.

  ‘Why were you crying before?’

  Jessica’s smile evaporated. Everybody, including Stanley, knew that Eddie Mitchell had cheated on her with Stephanie Hubbard.

  ‘It’s not important.’

  And in this cold glass room of formaldehyde-infused body parts where a tit was a bird and nothing more, it wasn’t.

  A couple of heifers look up with mild interest as the crimson Celica rattles past. When the car reaches a letterbox fashioned from a milk can, Jess takes a sharp left turn. The hatchback splutters up the gravel driveway.

  ‘I told you to get rid of that shitbox years ago!’ Jessica’s father bellows when they park in front of the house.

  ‘Stanley,’ Jess says, jumping out of the car, ‘meet my dad. Dairy farmer and Ford Falcon tragic, Neville Cook.’

  Neville sticks his pink, large-pored face up against the dusty glass. He grins. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Behind him stands an older version of Jessica—shorter and rounder but with the same broad, gap-toothed smile. She wears an apron, which reads This hen cooks from scratch, and has one arm around
a long-haired teen.

  Stanley gets out of the car as Jess slams her door shut.

  ‘Let me look at you,’ the woman says, letting go of the boy to grab her daughter with floury hands. She holds Jess at an arm’s length and then, as if unable to bear the distance, pulls her into a tight embrace. ‘Don’t they feed you at these residential colleges? Never mind. We’ll fatten you up. I’ve got your favourite, tuna casserole, in the oven. And apple pie for dessert.’

  Stanley shifts his feet. His bladder is ready to burst. He’d looked respectable when they left Melbourne, but now his clothes are wet with sweat. Thankfully, nobody—except, perhaps, the oily teenager—takes much notice of him. They are too busy retrieving Jessica’s duffel bag from the car and marvelling at the latest—What is that? Strawberry blond?—colour of her hair. It is really only when the family sits down to dinner that anybody remembers Stanley is there.

  ‘When did the First Fleet arrive in Australia?’

  ‘Twenty-sixth of January, seventeen eighty-eight.’

  They were in Stanley’s studio apartment on Spencer Street, swotting up for his citizenship test.

  ‘I bet most Australians,’ Jessica said, making quotation marks with her fingers, ‘don’t even know that.’

  Stanley stood up and walked four paces to the kitchen—a corner with a hotplate and a couple of chipboard shelves.

  ‘Tea?’ he said as he flicked the switch on the kettle.

  Jessica nodded.

  He didn’t understand the way Australians drank tea—the nurses in the hospital seemed to have made a religion of it, retreating every three hours to a dedicated ‘tearoom’ to cradle World’s Best Mum mugs to their breasts. For Stanley, drinking tea was something done from porcelain cups, in restaurants, with family and friends.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Jessica asked, pointing to a framed photo of him with his mother in the Tiger Balm gardens.

  It was the wrong question. She should have asked: What do you miss about it? And then he would have answered: The lights and the noise and the crowds and the chaos. As it was, he only mumbled, ‘Not really.’

  ‘Beer?’ Neville offers, pointing a crooked finger at Stanley.

  Stanley nods. He has yet to develop a taste for beer—preferring spirits on the rare occasions that he does drink—but he doesn’t want to appear rude.

  ‘Would you like a glass?’ Jessica’s mother asks, pulling a tumbler from the dishwasher. Stanley looks around the table. Everybody is drinking beer, but not one of them is drinking from a glass.

  ‘No thank you.’

  Jessica’s mother places a large ceramic dish in the middle of the table. Jessica’s brother, who has not uttered a word since Stanley arrived, whispers, ‘I hope you like tuna.’

  ‘The British have a saying,’ Stanley says, loudly, so everybody can hear, ‘Chinese people eat everything with four legs…except the table.’

  They all laugh, apart from the teenager, who points out that tuna fish don’t have legs.

  ‘Is that where you’re from?’ Mrs Cook asks, spooning a clump of macaroni and bechamel sauce onto Stanley’s plate. ‘China?’

  ‘Hong Kong.’

  Neville jumps in, his mouth bursting with pasta. ‘Island or peninsula?’

  Stanley wonders if he has underestimated Mr Cook. ‘You know Hong Kong?’

  ‘Pam and I paid a visit once,’ Neville replies, clearly pleased with Stanley’s reaction. ‘Before we had kids.’

  Pam wipes her hands on her apron. ‘I bought a fake Rolex watch that still keeps perfect time.’

  Stanley feels irrationally proud, as if he had assembled the cheap knock-off himself.

  ‘They love all that stuff, don’t they?’ Neville goes on. ‘Watches and cars and handbags.’

  Stanley thinks of his cousin, Mei, who worked her summer holidays to buy a Chanel clutch.

  ‘Stanley doesn’t care about those things,’ Jessica declares. ‘Do you, Stanley.’

  The entire family turns to look at him. Even Jessica’s brother peeks through a gap in his fringe.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Another one, please, Pammy,’ Neville says and bangs the butt of his beer bottle on the table. He turns to Stanley. ‘They all want their kids to be doctors. The hotel doormen. The waiters. The taxi drivers. Everyone.’

  Jessica locks eyes with Stanley, mouths an apology.

  ‘I never pushed my kids into anything,’ Neville says. ‘I was hoping that one of them would want to take over the farm one day. But none of them did.’ Pam replaces Neville’s empty bottle with a fresh one. ‘And look, that’s okay. That’s their choice in the end. And things change. I mean, who knows who Jess’ll marry.’ He takes a swig of his beer. ‘If I’m lucky, he’ll be an agriculture student with an interest in dairy farming. Stranger things have happened. And Rhys, well, when he grows up and realises art doesn’t pay shit until you’re dead—’

  ‘Neville.’ Pam shoots her husband a look. She turns to Stanley. ‘Rhys did that beautiful landscape on the wall over there.’

  A picture of the family home. The paint is laid on thick. Stanley knows nothing about art, but he likes the painting. He says so.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my husband,’ Pam says as she clears the plates. ‘He’s been in a foul mood ever since the Swans lost the grand final. Four months ago.’

  ‘Dad’s family were big South Melbourne fans,’ Jess explains.

  ‘And who do you barrack for, Stanley?’ Pam asks.

  Jessica beams. ‘Stan’s a North Melbourne man.’

  Stanley freezes. He has never watched a game of football. He and his ex-housemate had only chosen the Kangaroos—for situations like this—back when they shared a townhouse in North Melbourne. Doesn’t matter which one you say, his friend had said at the time, as long as it’s not Collingwood.

  But Neville isn’t interested. Minutes pass. Stanley listens to the clink of forks on ceramic plates, the whirr of the fan in the oven. Jessica nudges his foot beneath the table. Pam stands up and walks to the stove. Finally Neville licks the last drop of beer from the mouth of his bottle.

  ‘Hit me again, Pam.’

  ‘How about dessert? I made Jess’s favourite. Apple pie.’ They all watch Pam pull the pastry from the oven. The smell of cooked apples and cinnamon fills the air.

  Neville leans back in his chair. ‘How about a drink with my slice of pie?’

  Mrs Cook looks imploringly at Jess.

  ‘How’s the farm going, Dad?’

  Neville keeps his flint-grey eyes firmly locked on his wife. ‘Three dead from bloat last month.’

  Stanley scrapes at his macaroni, which has hardened like industrial glue to his plate.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ A timorous voice echoes down the hall.

  ‘That’ll be Linda,’ Rhys says. ‘Can I go?’

  Mr Cook shifts his gaze to his son. ‘Go on then.’

  Rhys scrambles from the room.

  ‘At least it’s a girl,’ Neville says when they hear Linda’s car rumble down the hill.

  *

  After apple pie, Neville goes for a smoke. His large frame cuts an imposing silhouette against the battered flyscreen and purple sky.

  ‘Jess, honey, why don’t you take Stanley to his room?’ Pam says. ‘Let him settle in.’

  Stanley follows Jessica down a long, dimly lit corridor. They pass a toilet that smells of lavender, and then Rhys’s room with its hanging yellow road sign, before Jess throws open the door to her old bedroom.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ she says.

  Stanley doesn’t mind—it is spacious and clean—but he is a little surprised. The Jessica he knows doesn’t quite match the rose-coloured quilt and neat row of teddy bears propped against the pillow.

  ‘Mum’s a hoarder,’ Jess explains. ‘She keeps absolutely everything.’

  Stanley kicks off his shoes and throws his backpack onto the mattress. A yellow bear in a waistcoat falls onto the floor at Jessica’s feet.

 
‘It’s perfect,’ Stanley says.

  Jessica picks up the bear and straightens its vest before placing it on the dresser. ‘There’s a fresh towel on the chair.’

  Stanley collapses onto the bed. Springs, arthritic from disuse, groan beneath his bottom. Jessica puts her hand on the brass doorknob. Without turning around, she says, ‘I’m really sorry, Stanley. About Dad.’

  She never calls him Stanley. He is, and always has been, Stan. Sometimes even Stan the man.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he says, his thoughts turning, for some reason, to the citizenship test. He thinks how much better it would be if it included scenarios just like this one.

  When faced with an awkward situation while visiting the parents of your Australian friend (who is not yet your girlfriend but who you hope, some day, might be), the most appropriate response would be:

  A) Apologise—because, after all, it is always your fault.

  B) Empathise—e.g., ‘This must be really hard for you.’

  C) Stand up for yourself—e.g., ‘I don’t have to put up with this.’

  D) Brush it off—e.g., ‘No worries, mate.’

  After a moment of deep thought, Stanley opts for D.

  The room smells of dust and mildew and naphthalene balls. Around eleven, Stanley hears whispers in the hall.

  ‘So?’

  Jess.

  ‘He’s sweet.’

  And Mrs Cook.

  ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘But—’

  A groan of pipes. Rushing water.

  ‘But what?’

  Buzz of an electric toothbrush. Spitting. Squeak of a rusty tap.

  ‘He’s no Eddie.’

  A patter of slippered feet. Click of a light switch. The thump of doors being pulled firmly closed.

  Stanley had tried to talk to his mother about Jess, once. It was a Sunday night and she’d called him at the usual time of eight o’clock—in the half-hour window between dinner and the start of her favourite soap opera.

  ‘Have you eaten yet?’ she said. A standard Cantonese greeting.

  ‘Yes.’ He could hear the tinny sound of the TV, ads for watches and anti-dandruff shampoo. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Out.’ His mother’s euphemism for gambling. She would wait up for him tonight, on the couch, as she munched on dried watermelon seeds.