Handpicked

by Siew Siang Tay

  The kits rustle as the old woman wades through each one of them again, bending over to take a closer look. Laila waits anxiously. After some time, the old woman straightens up with difficulty, rubbing her back. She shakes her head. ‘Strange. I can’t seem to find it.’

  Laila casts her eyes around the shop, hoping to spot the mislaid kit. But everything is neatly stowed away.

  ‘Would you like to choose something else? Plenty of other patterns here.’

  But Laila is making her way to the door. The old woman heads back to the counter, a weak smile across her face.

  ‘Why don’t you come again next week? My daughter should be back in the shop by—’

  Laila is already opening the door, the bell muffling the words of the old woman.

  ‘That’s okay, thanks,’ she says as she leaves the shop.

  A few metres on, Laila hears a sound behind her. She looks around. The door is open and the old woman is waving frantically and calling.

  ‘I found it, I found it,’ she’s saying, her eyes excited.

  Laila turns back towards the shop.

  ‘It was hidden beneath the piles of fabric under the counter.’

  As Laila walks back into the shop, her eyes are fixed on the packet in the old woman’s hands, taking in the outline of the flower pots in the front of the house. Her heart leaping, she reaches for her wallet and pulls out her notes.

  Soon she’s walking out of the shop, Our House clutched snugly against her chest.

  14

  AS JIM SETS DOWN his beer on the bar, he feels a slap on the shoulder. He turns to find Peter pulling up a stool. It is four-thirty in the afternoon and the pub is starting to fill.

  ‘So, how’s married life?’ Peter says.

  Tom, standing next to Jim, puts his hands over his face and says, ‘Oh no, please, spare me.’

  ‘Shut your face, you idiot,’ Peter says. ‘Just because you want to stay a bachelor doesn’t mean you have to be a deadshit.’

  ‘Much more fun, I can tell ya.’ Tom smirks.

  ‘Shaddup, wanker. And grow up,’ Jim says.

  ‘Look who’s talking.’ Tom giggles. He signals for Rodney. ‘Another round?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ Jim says.

  Peter turns back to Jim. ‘So, Laila going well?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, great,’ Jim says. ‘Tell you what, nothing beats Asian.’ He pats his gut and drools. ‘Cooking may not be gourmet, but it sure is regular.’

  ‘You’d eat bat poo, if I remember rightly,’ Tom says, chuckling.

  ‘Shut your face, I’m warning you,’ Jim says.

  ‘Pay up, drink up and go for a hike, Tom,’ Peter says. Tom ignores them and looks around the pub, checking out the door each time it swings open.

  ‘So, as I was saying,’ Jim continues, ‘nothing like a warm meal every evening. The caravan’s so tidy I can’t recognise it. Launders and folds all my clothes. Wanted to iron my underwear at first but I said it wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘Get out,’ Peter says, laughing.

  ‘How’s Marietta going?’

  ‘She doesn’t iron my underpants, that’s for sure.’

  Rodney brings them a jug of beer and an empty glass for Peter. Tom drops a note into Rodney’s hand.

  ‘Cheers to my married mates—oops, I mean happily married mates,’ Tom says.

  Jim and Peter jab Tom in his ribs. Their glasses clink.

  While drinking, Tom’s eyes travel over the pub and focus on something. Jim and Peter follow his line of vision and spot a blonde woman with a cowgirl hat striding into the pub with two other women. She’s wearing a pink knitted top, tight jeans and high-heeled black boots. Tom narrows his eyes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Well, guys, I’ll leave you to your talk about marital bliss.’ He takes his beer with him and heads in the direction of the women.

  Jim and Peter gaze after him, shaking their heads.

  Then Peter says, ‘Marietta’s good, but we had a bit of a domestic last night.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Nothing major, was about money.’

  Jim winces. ‘Always about money, ain’t it?’

  ‘Nah, not like what you think. Marietta’s generally really good with money, but lately she’s been spending a lot on phone calls to Rose.’

  ‘Who’s Rose?’

  ‘This other girl who was in the brothel with her in Jogjakarta. Remember I told you about her ordeal?’

  ‘Yep, yep.’

  ‘They escaped together and they’re real close. Rose lives in Darwin.’ Peter drinks his beer. ‘Marietta gets into these funny moments, you know, which mind you I can understand, having gone through what she has. And when she gets like that, she needs to talk to Rose.’

  ‘Blimey, yeah, heavy stuff. Can’t imagine.’

  ‘It’s just that she hadn’t told me beforehand about spending that money and when the bill came in the mail yesterday, I got a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Phew! Thank God my Laila hasn’t been through shit like that.’

  ‘It’ll blow over, I just need to be more aware. Last year, I had to put her on a plane to Darwin. She was strung out, started talking about her life not being worth living, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Hell, gets expensive, doesn’t it?’ Jim scratches his neck.

  ‘Don’t mind, though.’ Peter looks across the room. He laughs and shakes his head when he sees Tom, gesticulating as he speaks, his body arched towards the blonde woman. ‘In the end, what’s a few hundred bucks? You can earn that money back in no time. And Marietta is worth every penny, believe me.’

  ‘Onya, mate.’

  On his way home, Jim goes over his conversation with Peter, grateful that Laila doesn’t have any psychological problems. Most days she appears stable and content.

  He owes Peter one—Marietta, rather. He thinks about Laila, about the pleasure of snuggling up to her petite form last thing at night. Her soft and smooth skin under the covers, their moments together in their little space stretching and swelling like a balloon. And the gushing, that huge rushing sensation each time he’s intimate with her. Happy as Larry, he really is. Could he have predicted that happiness would drop into his life unawares like this?

  As he makes a turn at the intersection near the caravan park, he decides he’ll take her on a trip somewhere, maybe Sydney or Melbourne. She hasn’t seen much of Australia except Adelaide and Renmark. She’s as precious to him as gold, and he wants her to know that.

  15

  ‘WOW, THIS IS BEAUTIFUL,’ Marietta says. She takes Laila’s cross-stitch work from the table and holds it up. ‘You really are good with your hands.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Anyone can do it,’ Laila says.

  She doesn’t tell Marietta the frenzy with which she’s been stitching. The moment she got home from the craft shop, she’d ripped the package apart and poured the contents onto the table. While eating her two-minute noodles, she’d read the instructions, blowing the steam from the soup to clear her view.

  Now, only a week later, she’s completed the wall hanging. Each day as the house took shape, as the slate grey of the roof came into form, as the pots of red tulips in the front garden burst into life on the canvas, her excitement escalated. While Jim sat watching TV, she sewed, unable to tear herself away from it. Don’t stay up too late, honey, Jim would say as he lifted the covers of the bed. Plenty of time to finish it, why the rush? Bent over the tiny Formica-top table, she would ignore him, fingers holding down the canvas, needle going up and down, up and down.

  ‘Not me. Last time I sewed was at the sweatshop,’ Marietta says, studying the cross-stitches. ‘Didn’t need any creativity, just sweat.’

  ‘Ah! That’s why it’s called a “sweat” shop, hey.’

  ‘Yeah. How long did it take you to sew this?’

  Laila ignores the question. ‘Should the frame be wooden or gold?’

  ‘Wooden I think, to go with the cottagey look.’

  Laila prances a
round the caravan, holding the wall hanging against the wall in various spots, stretching the top two corners. Up down, up down, she holds the piece of fabric. The caravan shudders. Marietta watches her.

  ‘Want me to hold it up for you so you can see it from a distance?’ Marietta says.

  ‘Good idea.’

  Marietta holds it up.

  ‘I think better over there. No, there. No, it’s not good there either.’ Laila sighs. She sits down. Then she gets up again, walks up and down. ‘This stupid caravan is too small. There’s not enough space to hang anything.’

  ‘How about there? By the fridge?’

  ‘No, too squashy.’

  ‘Or there?’ Marietta points at a section of wall above the foot of the bed.

  ‘No, no.’ Laila shakes her head, pouts her lips.

  ‘Hey, it’s just a wall hanging.’

  ‘It’s not just a wall hanging.’ Laila’s voice is shrill. She frowns.

  ‘What’s the matter, Laila?’ Marietta takes a close look at the wall hanging. ‘You’re obsessing about the house again?’

  Laila slumps into the chair. ‘I’m tired. Can we call it a day? I think I should have a nap.’

  ‘Sure, sweetie.’

  ‘No, Jim, I don’t want to go to Sydney or Melbourne.’

  ‘It’ll be fun. Those cities are beautiful, much better than Adelaide.’

  ‘I haven’t even seen much of Adelaide. Don’t need to see those cities.’

  ‘It’s a holiday both of us need.’

  ‘I don’t need a holiday. I have so much free time already.’

  ‘Oh honey, come on.’

  ‘No, Jim, we need to save.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that.’

  ‘No, Jim, we must save now, my Mak says everyone must save.’

  ‘We have a whole lifetime to save. Jesus, give me a break.’

  Laila gets out of bed, turns off the TV and checks that the door is locked. Then she gets into bed again, turns the bedside lamp off, pulls up the covers and rolls over. The bed rocks.

  The stench of meat hangs in the caravan. Last night they had grilled sausages for tea. She’d cleaned the tray as well as the inside of the grill. With the soapy scourer she’d scrubbed at streaks of coagulated grease. They were stubborn but after some time she was able to get most of them off.

  But still this morning she wakes up to a lingering meaty odour. She sniffs to try to trace the source but it seems to be suspended in the air. The grill looks clean so she checks the kitchen benchtop. Except for discolouration at the centre and chipped edges that have permanently trapped dirt, it looks clean. She checks the cupboard doors and finds the top of the doors coated with layers of grease. She immediately fills the sink with soapy water and starts cleaning. She scrubs, rubs, rinses and wipes. Where grease is trapped in gaps and crevices, she uses a toothbrush to scrub it off. Finally, with even more stubborn dirt, she uses a butter knife, scraping, digging, poking until all traces are gone. The water in the sink turns a cloudy brown.

  Then she cleans the Formica table and the vinyl chairs. Throwing her hair back, she pulls up her sleeves, crouches and works away. The caravan rattles with her vigorous movements. After she finishes, she takes a deep breath to check.

  The smell of meat still lingers.

  It reminds her of wild boar meat her mother forced them to eat as children. The thought of it still makes her want to gag.

  She thinks maybe the smell is trapped in the lino floor. So she fills a bucket with soapy water, gets down on all fours and works the scrubbing brush over the entire floor, wiping with a chux as she goes along. It is only after she has cleaned every bit of floor that the smell dissipates a little.

  That night she dreams about Sarawak. In the dream she’s suffocating from the stench of rotting, clogged-up rubbish on the Rejang. It is pungent and sharp, rising above the river, where branches and debris have caught some outgrowths and blocked the water flow. The water is a murky brown.

  In another dream, she steps on bloodstains dotted along the verandah of the longhouse. It is gawai time and menfolk are slaughtering wild boars and chickens for the gods, swinging the dead animals around in a spinning circle while chanting an incantation, droplets of blood flying in all directions. She tries to tiptoe along little stain-free trails on the planks but it’s impossible. Blood and slime coat her soles.

  Children’s voices travel along the riverbank. Squeals of joy, shrieks of laughter, the tapping of their feet.

  Someone calls out, ‘Don’t wander too far, kids.’

  Laila raises herself on her elbow and looks in the direction of the sounds. She was about to doze off, lying on the grass in her favourite spot by the riverbank. It’s unusual to find children here, as most residents in the caravan park are middle aged or older. She peers across at the woman, who’s busy taking things out of her basket and laying them on a picnic table. Laila doesn’t recognise her. She must be here on a holiday.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, look at the ducks!’ one of the boys screams. His eyes light up in excitement.

  Laila has the urge to go to the boy and talk to him but checks herself. Since she got married, the idea of having children has sometimes risen in her mind but each time she considers it, she tosses it out. She can’t imagine bringing up a family in the small caravan. There isn’t even enough space for the two of them. No child of hers is going to grow up in a suffocating environment. The disease has to stop at her generation. The only option is to wait until Jim can afford to move them into a proper house. The red brick house.

  The boys are now circling their mother at the table, eager hands reaching out to receive doughnuts and rolls she’s doling out. One of them has climbed onto a chair and is rummaging in the basket.

  Laila shifts her gaze back to the riverbank, lies down and closes her eyes.

  Jim switches off the light and crawls into bed. He reaches out and pulls her towards him. His arms encircle her tummy. He nuzzles her hair, sinks his nose into the familiar hollow of her nape.

  ‘Thanks for mending my socks, babe.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ She angles her head towards him.

  ‘You seemed quiet tonight. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘It’s your first winter. Can’t blame you if you feel a little gloomy. I’ve lived through thirty-nine winters here and it still gives me the shits.’

  Laila musses his hair, smiles in the dimness.

  ‘You know, I’m not a romantic man and I have difficulty saying these sorts of things, but I want you to know you mean the world to me.’

  ‘Oh thanks, Jim.’

  ‘Next Wednesday, for my birthday, how about we go to the Club and have a nice meal there?’

  ‘Okay, that will be nice. What do you want for your birthday, Jim?’

  ‘Nothing, just you.’

  ‘But you already have me.’

  ‘I know, only kidding. Just be there with me, that’s all I want.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You make me very happy, sweetheart.’

  He kisses her on the cheek, then on her neck. Laila turns over and offers her lips to him. They kiss. There is no sound except their breathing. Jim sits up, places his hand on her back and lifts her. He moves her to the middle of the bed, his hand gentle on her back. It’s one of his pet habits, making love right smack in the centre of the mattress. Laila remembers how she felt the first time he lifted her this way on their wedding night. The feeling of being totally in his space, of yielding and receiving. It made her feel fragile and feminine.

  Jim looks at her face, the darkness of her lashes, her almond-shaped eyes, the shimmer of her skin only just visible in the dim light from the streetlamp outside.

  It starts to rain. Lightly at first and then, within a few minutes, a steady downpour. They hear the pitter-patter on the roof. Laila closes her eyes, imagines the raindrops hitting the surface, bouncing off and washing down the sides.

  ‘Just what the blocks need,’ Jim says.


  He runs his hands under her pyjama top, over her stomach, her ribs. They find her nipples and he works them in a way that sends her whimpering. He unbuttons her top, pulls it over her head. He peels off her pyjama bottoms and knickers. The feel of his hands on her bare skin makes her body tingle. He covers her with kisses, starting at the toes.

  Pulling herself away momentarily, Laila reaches for the bedside drawer and takes out the packet. With quick fingers, she rips it open, pulls out the rubber sheath and hands it to Jim. Then she holds his head, guides him to the dark secret places of her body. She plucks at his hair, his arms, rocks her hips in rhythm with his movements.

  Then as her breathing peaks, as he enters her, she looks in the direction of the drawer where the wall hanging is kept. The brick house flashes and explodes in her head, porch, door, windows, flowers, fence all colliding into one another. The image flares and booms, flares and booms.

  Jim lets out a moan, slumps onto her. Just before he turns over, Laila grabs her pyjama top and wipes away her tears.

  16

  ‘HI STRANGER,’ DANNY SAYS, approaching Jim, his feet shuffling through grass and dried leaves.

  ‘Hey, long time. Where’ve you been?’ Jim says, climbing down the ladder. He removes his fruit bag and empties the oranges into the bin.

  Danny loops his own fruit bag over his neck. ‘Aw, tried a hand at spraying for a while.’

  ‘Yeah, Rodney was saying that. Not doing that anymore?’

  ‘Nah, couldn’t stand driving that big monster.’

  ‘The spray plant?’

  ‘Yeah, clutch as heavy as a tonne of bricks. Plus, boring as fuck. Hours on your own in that stupid machine.’

  ‘So, picking now, are you?’

  ‘For a bit. Wayne says he’ll give me a month at the cutting shed when December comes. He’s pretty sure his apricot harvest is going to be a good one.’

  ‘Good-oh,’ Jim says.

  ‘So I’m just picking a bit here and there for Rick in the meantime. Casual.’

  ‘Rick’s good like that. He’s good with the casuals. Treats them like the rest of us.’