Handpicked

by Siew Siang Tay

  She stretches her torso outwards, bends down and gazes at the legs of the jetty, gentle waves lapping against them. The sound echoes, travels upwards.

  Pointing her fingers, Laila says, ‘What are those things stuck there?’

  Jim looks down. ‘Barnacles. They feed on little creatures in the water.’

  ‘Really? Can they be eaten? In Sarawak, we have a lot of shellfish, like clams, cockles. These things remind me of our shellfish.’

  ‘Oh yeah. People collect them to make burley.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Burley. Fish bait. Made from breadcrumbs and shellfish. They slowly break up and float away with the current so fish will follow the stream back to the bait on the hook.’

  ‘Burley,’ Laila repeats after him, pronouncing the syllables carefully.

  The wind picks up. Laila’s hair tosses in Jim’s direction, strands brushing his chin, his neck, but he makes no attempt to sweep them away. He catches a whiff of her skin, and stands perfectly still.

  Laila turns towards him. ‘Sorry.’ She tames her hair by bunching it up in her hands.

  ‘No worries, sweets.’ He smiles, fakes a straight face and looks out into the distance, resisting the urge to pull her against him, to wrap his arms around her and sink into her hair.

  ‘Jim…’

  ‘Yes, babe.’

  ‘I haven’t actually thanked you for paying for my airfare here.’

  ‘Yes, you did, in your letter.’

  ‘It’s not the same.’ She pauses. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ah, no worries.’

  ‘It was a lot of money.’

  ‘Nah, chicken feed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It means no big deal…not a big thing…’

  ‘It was. I also bought the bag and the jeans and the red skirt with the money.’

  Jim shrugs his shoulders and waves his hand in a dismissing way.

  ‘It must have taken you a long time to save that money.’

  Jim thinks for a few seconds before shrugging his shoulders. ‘Nah…’

  Laila looks closely at him. She is about to say something, then she turns away and brings her lips together.

  ‘Hey, you got to watch this. It takes split seconds,’ Jim says.

  The sun is about to lower itself into the horizon. Jim shields his eyes with his palm and looks ahead, focusing intently on the view. Laila follows his line of vision. The moment the sun touches the silvery horizontal strip, Jim makes a sizzling sound with his mouth.

  ‘Sszzsszz…’

  Laila turns to look at him, raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Jim!’ She bursts into laughter. She is so tickled she covers her mouth with one hand and slaps his arm with the other.

  ‘My dad used to do that when we watched the sun set into the river.’

  She laughs some more, continuing to hit him.

  ‘More, more, don’t stop,’ he says, offering his other arm, grinning.

  ‘Your father was a funny man, just like you.’

  ‘Sure was. The local comedian. Bless his soul.’

  ‘You remember? You were seven when he died, right?’

  ‘Eight. Yeah, I remember. All those years. Imprinted in my mind. He used to take me to see the sunsets from the time I was three or four. Mum would be washing up after tea, and he’d say, “River time, Jim?” I’d jump up and be by his side in secs. No matter what was on TV.’

  ‘That’s so nice.’

  ‘Yeah, great times those. I wanted Mum to come along as well but she’d always have stuff to do around the house.’

  ‘You are so lucky,’ she says, a pensive look spreading over her face.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To have a father who loves you so much.’

  ‘Yeah, he was a good fella, Dad. Always making people laugh. The whole town loved him. I remember following him to the butcher shop, the mechanic, everywhere, and he’d have a funny word to say to everyone.’

  ‘It would be so good if I could meet him.’

  ‘Damn right. Too bad he kicked the bucket so soon, poor bugger.’

  Laila looks at him in a curious way, her head angled.

  ‘Died, you know—kicked the bucket.’

  ‘Oh.’ Laila sighs knowingly.

  ‘I never did get a chance to ask you. How did your old man react the day you left?’

  ‘Bad,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Really bad.’

  ‘Cracked a fit, did he?’

  ‘He went crazy. And my mother was very sad. But that’s all finished now. I don’t have to think about it anymore.’

  She lifts her head up and her face takes on a steely expression, something Jim has, in their short time, learnt to read as ‘subject closed’.

  ‘So, what other funny things did your father do?’ she asks.

  ‘Gee, it’d take days, Laila, to relate them all to you.’

  ‘I have time.’

  It is music to his ears. Jim tries to stop himself from grinning.

  The sun has set. Last traces of light linger above the horizon as a deep violet band. Jim watches the definitions on Laila’s face disappear as darkness falls over them, notes her hair picking up the odd streak of light from buildings and street lamps.

  ‘Okay, how about we get some ice cream from the shop and I can start telling you.’

  They make their way towards the shore. The click clack of their steps echoes along the jetty. Laila keeps turning around to look at the sea.

  ‘We’ll come back to watch many more sunsets, hon, don’t you worry,’ Jim says.

  ‘Can we?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She looks down at the wooden planks as she walks. ‘I can see the sea below us.’

  Jim looks downwards and catches glimpses of the shimmering water in gaps between the planks. ‘Yeah.’

  Bursts of lights and the sprawl of buildings appear in front of them. People mingle around Moseley Square, the tram visible at one end. Adjacent to the square are restaurants and shops teeming with life. To the right, the Stamford Grand is an imposing sight, the rooms of its twelve floors sporadically lit, conifer trees lining the frontage. Pink and orange hues bounce off the walls and reflect on the water at the foot of the building like brush strokes. Jim watches Laila take in the view, hears her gasp.

  ‘Nice, huh?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Their hands brush occasionally. Jim is dying to grasp her fingers but checks himself. His breath quickens.

  ‘Talking about Dad, he used to give me piggyback rides all the time.’

  ‘Piggy what?’

  ‘Piggyback rides.’ He pats his shoulders. ‘He’d wade out to the river in his gumboots to fish or whatever, and because I was only little, there was no way I could walk beside him without the water coming up to my chest.’ He gestures, arms spread out like a person about to drown, eyes rolling, imitating a choking sound.

  Laila looks at him in amusement, but continues to listen intently.

  ‘So what he did was give me piggyback rides the whole time. I used to love them, watching the whole world from a high spot.’

  She smiles. A couple walks past them, the sound of their footsteps synchronising with Jim and Laila’s. They inch aside to make way.

  ‘Want me to give you a piggyback ride?’ Jim says.

  Laila looks surprised. ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah, right now, all the way to the ice-cream shop.’

  ‘People around.’

  ‘Screw them. Who cares?’

  She hesitates, then says, ‘Okay.’

  Jim crouches in front of her and pats his back. ‘Alright, hop on then.’

  She drops her arms over his neck and carefully rests her body on his back. Jim hooks his elbows under her knees and stands up, lifting her. She feels as light as a feather. He may as well have been carrying a child.

  ‘Woo…’ she squeals.

  As he begins to walk, she tightens her arms round his neck. Then she giggles uncontrollably.
r />   ‘Comfy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Yes! Very.’

  She continues laughing. ‘You are so tall.’

  ‘Hey sister, some people are just naturally well endowed.’ He laughs.

  When there is no response from her, he gathers it is because she doesn’t understand him. He whistles, then pretends to slip, dropping one knee down. The sudden jerk makes her scream.

  ‘Oops,’ he says.

  ‘Jim!’ She slaps him on the shoulder and giggles.

  He walks on, feeling her hair falling over his head and neck, her breath on his ear.

  ‘Tired?’ she asks.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking. You’re no Amazon woman, kiddo.’

  People passing by stare, but Jim ignores them.

  After some time, she says, ‘Jim, what is Marietta’s surname?’

  ‘Jeez, buggered if I know. I never did ask her. Some Filipino surname I guess. Why?’

  A few moments of silence.

  ‘Well, I just want to know if she has changed her surname. After marrying.’

  ‘You mean like taken on Peter’s name.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He wants to shrug his shoulders but can’t with her weight on him.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Do Australian women do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Change their surname to their husbands’?’

  ‘Aw, some do, some don’t. Depends on what she wants, what they want, what they agree on.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘My mum took Dad’s surname, but hey, that’s Mum, you know.’

  They are now at the start of the jetty, the ice-cream shop about fifty metres away. He struts towards it.

  ‘Jim, do you want me to change my surname to yours after we get married?’

  Jim almost loses balance. He only just avoids stumbling on the curb. His jaw drops, he becomes tongue-tied.

  ‘Jim?’ Laila shakes his shoulder lightly.

  ‘Yep, yep, I heard you,’ he says, swallowing his saliva. ‘Well, I think it would be nice, but it’s really up to you.’

  They have reached the ice-cream shop. He gently lowers his body and Laila slides off his back. She arranges herself and smiles at him.

  ‘Thanks for the piggyback ride.’ She neatens her hair. ‘I’ve decided, I will change my surname to yours.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jim says and quickly turns to head towards the ice-cream shop in case she catches the Cheshire smile on his face. As he opens the door and lets Laila through, he feels his heart leaping inside his chest. He wants to kiss everyone in the shop including a weird-looking man at the doorway, his eyes bulging, his mouth looking as if it has been twisted in a fist fight. Jim reaches into his pocket for his wallet, secretly thanking Marietta for whatever she has done to Laila in such a short space of time.

  Bloody hell. Miracle-worker or what!

  11

  LAILA LOOKS ACROSS THE river and rests her eyes on the ribbons of burnt orange and green above the water’s edge. Trees merge into earth, the water mirroring the parallel bands of colour. The river is so still today it resembles a photograph. Only the faintest of movements, a tiny bubble caused by an underwater creature feeding on something, a faint ripple trailing a duck.

  She stretches her arms and lies down. The background music suddenly plays in her head. When she thinks back on her wedding, the same images repeat themselves. The spray of pink, yellow and white blooms in her bouquet, long tables covered with white tablecloths, the glitter of sequins on her neckline, her body floating as Jim whisked her around to chat with small groups of guests, the unbelievable variety of foods on platters the waiters brought around. The church ceremony remains a blur. All she remembers is the high ceiling, the candles, faces along the aisle staring at her. The rest, what the priest looked like, what he said, what was behind him, is all hazy.

  Laila looks up at the sky. Solid blue and cloudless. Tonight will be dead cold. Lack of clouds means there’s nothing to act as a blanket to retain the heat of the day in the atmosphere. Jim said that.

  Jim tells her lots of things. At night, if they’re not watching TV, they’ll lie in bed and talk. Laila loves listening to the stories, enjoys the fond way he talks about his mother.

  He told her once he could remember the precise moment his love for his mother became clear to him. He was three years old and a couple had come to visit them. They were chatting in the hallway. Being shy, he had clung to his mother. As she told the visitors stories about Baby Jim, he’d felt heat flooding his face. The couple would not stop looking at him, reaching down to stroke his cheek, cajoling him to come forward. He looked around for a place to hide, thought of the trunk in his bedroom, the broom cupboard—but any attempt to get there would only draw more attention. So he crouched, lifted his mother’s long skirt and crawled under. There he stood, clutching his mother’s leg, safe, warm and protected. His mother continued talking, letting him hide there, and in those few moments his love for her surged and swelled.

  ‘It was as if I was in a cocoon.’

  ‘Oh, that is so sweet,’ Laila said.

  His simplicity touches her, the way he views things in a straightforward, uncomplicated manner. Happiness to Jim is getting up in the morning, going to work, having a few laughs and spending the evening with her.

  Last night, he mentioned that when daylight saving begins, they’ll be able to sit outside and have their yarn. She’d thought about the old people who stare at her. They stare at her all the time, at the laundromat, the boom gate, when she walks past them to get to the river. She hates the way they fix their eyes on her as if they question her being there. She scurries past, pretending not to notice. It’s her brown skin, her black hair, her wide nose. They stare at her because she’s different. But she didn’t say this to Jim.

  She’s married now. She recalls her Mak, while pounding chillies in the mortar, her voice quivering with the vibrations, telling her a married woman must behave like one, a wife must know her place. She misses her Mak. She pictures her mother bending over the pua kumbu loom, which she’d borrow from the neighbour. The loom would occupy the entire depth of the verandah, reels of hand-dyed yarn looping over the spools. Having use of the loom for a limited time, Mak would burn midnight oil and toil away. As a child, Laila would sit and watch her, amazed at how quickly and meticulously Mak’s fingers moved, at how fabric materialised from raw yarn like magic.

  Having Jim means she’s safe, protected. She imagines him physically lifting her into the car in a flood or earthquake, throwing their important things into a backpack, hurling it into the ute and driving off to safety. While he isn’t rich and can’t provide a good life for her, she has a husband and they’re living in Australia. Jim does love her, she knows. He pays for everything and he takes her out to dinner often. Most evenings, after she’s done the dishes, he gives her a foot massage. He sits her on the bed, rubs fragrant oil on her feet and works away, avoiding the arches where she’s most ticklish.

  ‘Hey, Mrs Treloar,’ a voice calls out from behind her.

  Laila turns around and breaks into a smile.

  ‘Marietta, hi.’

  She wasn’t expecting to catch up with Marietta today. Marietta had told her she was going to Adelaide with Peter for a few days. Laila holds out her arms.

  ‘Back so soon?’

  ‘Peter got called back. One of the pickers fell sick and they needed him to fill in.’

  ‘How was Adelaide?’

  ‘Good. Even though it was raining quite a bit. Winter, typical.’

  Laila pulls her jacket close around her neck. ‘Is it always this cold in winter?’

  ‘This year especially. All I remember is that after Easter, it suddenly turns into winter.’

  Marietta sits down beside her. ‘Close your eyes.’

  ‘Why?’ Laila looks surprised.

  ‘Just close your eyes.’

  Laila does as she is told. She feels Mariett
a taking her hands and placing them on her lap. She thinks maybe Marietta bought a dress for herself and wants her to look at it and comment. She stretches out her palms. A plastic bag crackles, a weight goes into her palms, more crackling. Familiar scents rise and envelop her.

  ‘Okay, open your eyes now.’

  Laila sees a plastic package. ‘Oh, what is this?’

  She opens the bag to find an assortment of food: glutinous rice, palm sugar, sago, dried prawns, coconut and red bean pudding, and chilli paste. She undoes some of the packets, fingers the food, brings it to her nose and sniffs it.

  ‘Oh, Marietta, do you know how much I was missing this pudding? A few nights ago, I dreamt that my mother was making this and I went crazy eating it.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘How did you guess what sort of foods I like?’

  ‘It’s not hard.’ Marietta hugs her knees. ‘Each time we go to Adelaide, I check out different Asian grocery shops.’

  ‘But Malaysian food is quite different from other Asian food.’

  ‘Easy, I just ask the shopkeepers. They know everything about what they have in their shops—Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Indian, Chinese. Some Filipino foods are similar.’ Marietta picks up the packet of palm sugar. ‘See this? We use this for a lot of our desserts.’

  ‘Thanks so much. Let me give you some money tomorrow. I haven’t got my purse with me now.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘But you’re always giving me things. What about the wedding present?’

  The cooking set—three stainless steel pots and a frying pan, expensive looking—now sits in her cupboard. Laila had never seen utensils of that quality before. She remembers opening the box after the wedding reception and catching a distorted reflection of herself on the gleaming surfaces.

  ‘That’s nothing. A great way to get you started on some serious cooking.’

  ‘Yes.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘But I haven’t used the set yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s too precious. Jim keeps asking me to use it but I refuse. His old pots and pans are still okay. Why waste?’

  Laila had stowed them away after the wedding. New items at the longhouse were kept aside, preserved, packed away in their wrapping for as long as possible. At the back of her mind, Laila is saving the utensils for when they move into a real house.