Jim keeps silent. She will surely think him worthless if she knows he doesn’t have stacks of money. They do think all white people have loads of money. His mate Peter said Marietta, his wife, told him so. Marietta doesn’t think that, but she knows people back in her country who do. She says it’s from watching the expatriates in Manila or Baguio City, dressed in fine suits and cruising around in chauffeur-driven cars. The expats live in trendy suburbs where only white people live, shopping in supermarkets only expats go to.
The music show is on TV. Laila watches the singers belting out their numbers and stomping around the stage. The audience screams each time a singer reaches a crescendo or drags a note. When a guy with a ponytail appears, she raises her eyebrows.
‘You can turn up the volume, if you want.’ Jim hands her the remote control.
She takes it from him and looks at the buttons.
‘Here, let me show you.’ He presses the volume control and the bar on the screen lengthens. Laila watches the singer pace up and down, his ponytail swaying behind him. The crowd screams again. More singers come on. The camera cuts to three people sitting at a long table, each one taking turns to mumble something.
‘Singing competition?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. Only thing everyone talks about. Not much in the way of talent, if you want my opinion.’
After some time she says, ‘I’m tired, I want to go to bed now.’
Jim looks at his watch. It’s only a quarter to nine. ‘Sure, I’ll get rid of this,’ he says, clearing the table.
He scrunches the paper into a ball. There’s a bin in the cabinet under the sink but tonight he takes the rubbish outside instead, unsure if he should linger. She’ll want to change, so after closing the bin outside, he idles. The air is crisp, but with enough edge to give him goose bumps.
In the distance he sees the blurry contour of the moon, pale light pooling, blending into darkness. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and walks towards the river. The Murray, now a darkish belt, slips between the banks. The chirruping of crickets drifts out from misshapen clumps of shrubs. A dull ache gnaws at him. Has he botched it before they even started?
Things have gone pear-shaped. Again. The familiar feeling of being out of control, a complete loser, creeps over him. Like it always has been with women in his past. Springing up on him unawares. One minute things were great, lovey-dovey, and then, whoosh, the rug got pulled from underneath him. A sour mood would descend. Things would suddenly turn.
How she would react to the caravan was the thing he’d worried about most. While they were writing, many a time he wanted to fess up to her, send her a picture of the caravan even. But anyway, he didn’t have a camera. Plus she hadn’t asked him the dreaded question—if the house was his. Each time he thought about it, though, he broke into a sweat, beads collecting on his forehead, on his upper lip, streaking the pen in his fingers. And, as if having a life of its own, the pen would scratch away and out would pour words he hadn’t even planned—South Australian wine, the wombat, Australiana stuff she needed to see when she got here, shit like that.
It nagged at him for months, but he pushed it out of his mind. After a while, it became easier. The distance between them helped, the thousands of miles of landmass and ocean offering a buffer between the truth and part-truths. No one could fault him for lying—he just hadn’t got around to spelling out the whole picture.
There wasn’t much he could do about it anyway. The caravan was where he’d lived since he moved out of Mum’s. It had been sitting around all those years after Dad died, and Mum said he could live in it for a while. How was he to know ‘a while’ would drag into nine years? She didn’t want him to leave home of course, but he was already thirty then, and the blokes were paying him out all the time. Going back to Mummy’s, are we? Meatballs tonight, right, Mummy’s own? He wanted to punch them in the gut, but he never did, the words just soaked into him.
Then Mum died four years ago, and her rented home had to go. So he became sort of ‘stuck with’ the caravan.
He can’t blame Laila. Sure she would have had expectations. The pictures she sent of the longhouse said enough. Dilapidated, pots and pans lying about in the cooking area, baskets and plastic containers stacked everywhere, walls made of sheets of corrugated metal hammered together, stuff hanging off the ceiling. Jeez. How did these people live? How she turned out so gorgeous is beyond him. No signs of poor hygiene.
He’s right about her skin. Smooth, even-coloured, texture like rose petals. More petite in person, head barely reaching his neck. Tiny wrists, like a child’s. He’d noticed them in the café. As her hands went up and down putting the fork into her mouth, he’d taken a good look. Fingers dainty, nails cut short, no polish. Her face not exactly as he’d fixed it in his mind, paler, not as fine. From the front, her jawline, not obvious in the photos, was prominent. It gave her a feisty look. He couldn’t get over the sheen in her long hair, tinges of blue showing, depending on the angle of the sun. Natural, not coloured or bleached like Australian girls. No make-up. Infectious giggle. Mostly he’d enjoyed making her laugh, it had made him feel ten feet tall. But that was until she saw the caravan. Before and after. Now he’s stuck with the after, her gloomy face churning in his mind as he lingers by the riverbank, kicking gravel and digging his toes into tufts of grass.
A long cool beer. The urge suddenly hits him. Feel the gentle burn of the alcohol in his stomach. Tingling sensation taking over his body, then a light-headedness. A couple of schooners. Bit of a yarn with whoever’s jammed up at the bar. Or with Rodney, the bartender, who always has a good story to tell. He seems to know details about practically everyone’s lives. Listening to Rodney helps him chill out, takes his mind off things.
Still, it’s Laila’s first night in Australia. His life is different now. A small price to pay.
He drops his cigarette onto the gravel, grinds it underfoot and heads back to the caravan.
3
LAILA WAKES UP TO clinking and clanking sounds. When she opens her eyes, she sees unfamiliar surroundings. Her hands race to her clothes, clutching, checking, fingers fumbling the neckline. To her relief the white cotton pyjamas, with tiny teddy bears her mother had sewn especially for her trip, are still on her.
She props herself up on an elbow, rubs her eyes, then looks around. Sees the tiny table jammed up against the bench, the empty bottle of tomato sauce—and it becomes clear, it all comes back. The caravan. Just a tin shed. The same sinking feeling creeps over her. She can’t believe she even slept.
The stench was what hit her first when she stepped into the caravan last night. A mixture of body odour, musty furniture and stale food. Heavy smells that emanated from the walls, reminding her of the bilik, where smells of cooking and overnight sweat hung, day in, day out. Tiny windows. Cheap-looking curtains. Everything scaled down in size. Like the inside of a bus. Sounds booming and clamouring with the slightest movement. The bed was comfortable, she had to admit, flush against a corner, occupying the width of the caravan. The bedcover under which her legs are now tucked feels warm and soft.
Jim is standing over the stove, fiddling with something. She can’t tell what he’s doing.
‘Good morning, princess. Did I wake you?’
Laila pulls the covers up to her neck, stiffening, casting her eyes around, and at the stranger standing in front of her. She doesn’t like being called princess. He’s acting too familiar. She shudders to think what might have happened while she was asleep.
‘No,’ she says.
An awkward silence follows. She shifts her position and the sheets ruffle. She spots something resembling a quilted blanket on the floor. Black on the topside, red checks on the underside.
‘What’s that?’ she asks.
‘My sleeping bag.’
‘You slept in it?’
‘Yes.’
Jim flicks the contents of the frying pan onto a plate, sets it on a tray and brings the tray to her. On it are two fried eggs, two slices
of toast, butter, jam and a mug of coffee. The mixture of aromas lifts her out of her sleepiness. Toast was a luxury in the longhouse. Mak used to make it on a wire rack placed over the charcoal stove. Laila always loved the burnt edges, butter soaking into them, sugar granules melting over it.
‘You’re still jetlagged.’ He sets the tray on her lap. He looks shaven, and is wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday.
‘Jet what?’ She stretches her arms.
‘Jetlag. Crossing time zones. Zonks you out.’
‘I feel okay.’
Laila places her hands on her stomach as if to contain the discomfort bubbling inside her like liquid in a cauldron. She didn’t expect Jim to bring her breakfast in bed. With the memory of last night still fresh in her mind, his sweetness seems hollow. Horror and shock are still on the edge of her senses. She doesn’t know what to do, her mind is jammed. She wishes the bed she’s lying on now was in the luxurious bedroom of the red brick house. How’s she going to deal with the next few minutes, let alone the rest of her life, facing the man who robbed her of that?
Time passes and the silence lengthens. Laila looks at the food.
‘Thank you for this,’ she says.
‘I’m not the world’s best cook. But hey, it’s edible.’
‘What about you?’
Jim points to the table. ‘Mine’s over there.’
She hesitates, starts to get out of bed.
‘No, you stay in bed. It’s your first day in Australia.’ He smiles, reaching for the curtains. ‘Do you mind?’
‘No.’
Hooks grate on rods. Shafts of light enter and gather in little pools. Through the tiny window, she sees patches of sky, pale golden rays peeping through gaps between other caravans.
She eats her breakfast. The eggs are delicious and she suddenly realises how hungry she is. In the longhouse they had eggs done this way with rice for dinner, soya sauce drizzled over them. Jim has sprinkled pepper and salt over the eggs. Laila sips her coffee. Energy seeps into her body.
‘Was it cold sleeping in that bag?’ she says, shifting her gaze to the pile on the floor.
‘Nah. Made for minus-five-degree conditions, these.’ He lifts a corner of the sleeping bag and shows it to her. ‘See how thick it is?’
‘Hmm,’ she says, and butters her toast.
She watches Jim eat. He tucks into his food with abandon, biting off his toast in one hand while the other hand scoops the eggs with a fork. He shoves the fork into his mouth quickly but the runny yolk drips. He reminds her of Anjing, the mongrel dog in the longhouse. He would sit on the verandah and bite at flies buzzing around him but would miss them all. Jim cuts a piece of toast and wipes the yolk with it and sticks it into his mouth like a child. Laila stifles her laughter.
Jim grins. ‘Nothing like shortcuts.’
She pretends not to hear him and continues eating. After some time, she says, ‘You needn’t have waited for me for breakfast.’
‘I wanted to.’
She gets out of bed, unsure what to do, where to place her feet in the tiny space, even a slight movement of the arm sending reverberations throughout the caravan. Her uneasiness shows on her face. Jim drags out a chair and motions for her to sit on it. She sits down and looks at the door.
‘Can I?’ She gestures towards the door.
‘Sure.’ He gets up and opens it for her.
She drinks her coffee, trying to get a glimpse of the view outside. She only sees gravel and the side of Jim’s car. Something rustles in the shadows. A scuffing sound drifts in, followed by the sound of steps. A huge elongated bill of a bird appears at the doorway. Laila places her palms on her chest, raises her eyebrows. She opens her mouth and is about to say something when the creature pokes its head into the doorway. Then its full form appears, its white wings tucked under its stout squat body, a splash of jet black feathers on its back. Its legs are short, like a duck’s. The bird stands there looking at her, a massive pouch hanging under its bill. Its round red eyes stare straight at her, then it tilts its head as if surprised.
Laila laughs. ‘What’s that?’
‘A pelican,’ Jim says. ‘Annoying creatures, scavenging for food.’ He shoos it away.
‘Don’t.’ Laila says. ‘It’s so cute. Can I see where it’s going?’
‘Sure.’ He reaches for his jacket draped over the chair and hands it to her. ‘Here, it’s cold out.’
Laila puts on the jacket and steps outside. The pelican is ahead, waddling along paths between caravans. She trails it, snatching glimpses of its feathered behind. It moves fast. When she finally catches up with it, she finds herself on a riverbank. Spreading out before her is a massive waterway, the pelican already swimming away. She hadn’t realised all this was so near. Jim had mentioned that Renmark was located on the bank of the Murray River, but when they arrived yesterday it was already dark.
The sprawl of the river takes her breath away. Bluey grey, water perfectly still. Only the faintest of ripples, the reflection of trees and bushes from the opposite bank blurred. Bands of burnt orange and green repeating in the water but in a softer hue, like the after notes of perfume, so that she almost can’t tell where the bank ends and where the water starts. Puffy white clouds turn into a spray of silver in the water. In front of her a straggly branch protrudes, the dark wood etched in relief by the shimmering water.
A morning chill laces the air. Laila tightens her jacket. The pelican is now far away, paddling downstream, leaving behind a ribbon of the vaguest white. She follows the line of the Murray into the distance. Ahead it turns and the land makes a sudden stark outline against the disappearing glint of the water. She feels a pull, as if the river is taking her along with it, and at once remembers: that was what the Rejang River used to do to her.
Laila covers her face with her hands. A sudden longing wells up, a yearning for the touch of Mak’s hands on her brow, pushing her hair away from her face, a damp cloth patting her forehead. She thinks about her school days, about feigning sickness so she could stay home for this.
Her family will expect a letter, but what will she say? She remembers the day Mak quietly slipped 1500 ringgit into her hand, eyes on the door of the bilik, watching out for Pak. Laila had looked at the wad of notes, her eyebrows arched in shock.
‘Take this, you will need it in Australia,’ Mak had said.
‘No, Mak, so much money. You saved up so long for this.’ Laila knew how difficult it was for Mak to save even 100 ringgit from the little Pak gave her after a trip to Kapit, where he’d sell the sambar deer, the wild boar or the ubi kayu and hill padi from the collective farms across the river.
‘Shhh, just take it. They gave me good money for weaving the puah kumbu and baskets last month.’ Mak clenched both fists and brought them behind her back, refusing to take back the money.
Laila crouches on the riverbank, buries her head in her hands. There’s nothing now to write home about. She recalls her excitement at meeting Jim, the magic starting when he gave her the roses, then burgeoning, moving back and forth between them at the café, and how within the same day it all turned.
She could admit her mistake to her family. Mak would understand—but the memory of Pak lacerates her. She feels once again the blow on her cheek. She has aged ten years in one day, travelled all that distance to return to the same spot, the thrill and adventure all petered out now into flatness.
She stands up, the grass soft and damp under her bare feet, dew collecting on her toes, the coolness rising up her calves. Her situation weighs heavily on her shoulders.
An earthy scent rises from the riverbank. Vaguely familiar but with a different edge, a different texture from the tropical scents she grew up with. Scuffing sounds come from the upper slope of the riverbank. The caw-caw of birds, stark in the stillness of the morning, echoes among the nameless sounds of her new surroundings. She recognises the crows, four of them, big strong bodies, pecking at the ground, then beaks up in the air, squawking. They look like the one
s in Sarawak, except they are black and white whereas the ones back home are pure black.
Laila faces the river, tries to locate the pelican, but it is nowhere in sight. The water is now a long flowing mirror. The stillness envelops her, chokes her. She cannot bring herself to move.
4
JIM OPENS HIS LADDER and stands it near a navel orange tree. He looks up into the sky. Thick clouds hover like monsters waiting to pounce. In the distance, expanses of grey cloak the horizon outlined with fruit trees. He yawns and breathes in the fog. Cold air chafes his nostrils. Something tells him his day is buggered even before it has begun. He climbs up the ladder, an effort because of his paunch, and his legs feel like lead.
Seven o’clock on a chilly autumn morning and he is battling the elements for another day’s wages. Today the inertia seems greater than usual. Fruit-picking is part of his life; he neither likes nor dislikes it. It’s just something he has to do. Now that he has a dependant living with him, the pressure to work mounts.
Like most folk around the place, he stumbled into fruit-picking because it was all around him. His earliest memory of orchards is of sitting on his mother’s lap on the verandah after she’d given him his morning bath: while she drank her tea, and rocked him back and forth on the spindle-back chair, he would take in the pear and apricot trees sprawling in front of them.
As he reaches for an orange, that familiar feeling overcomes him. Since his first wet dream at thirteen that sent him lusting after the girls at school through to the years of stammering, fumbling and agonising, women have always proved to be a no-go zone. And yet, he yearns for the feel of feminine fingers, the brush of fine hair against his cheek, being shrouded in a scent of female perfume. After a long day of climbing up and down the ladder, his clothes grubby and his arms sore from thorn pricks, he longs for the comfort of a hot meal in a cosy dining room decorated with trinkets. But the costs have been high. Way too high.
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