They both prop up their ladders. It is a mild day and they pick at a good speed. The sun streams down through gaps between the branches. Jim whistles, savouring the warmth, going up and down the ladder. After some time, he removes his parka.
‘Wanna come around tonight? Tom’s bringing over some beer and a couple of videos,’ Danny asks a bit later.
‘What kind of videos?’
Danny grins. ‘Need you ask?’
Jim gives him a half-smile.
‘So coming or not?’
Jim hesitates. ‘Hmm…dunno.’
‘Why, clamping on the brakes, is she?’
‘Umm, not really. She hasn’t actually complained. But mate, I feel sometimes I need to be doing the right thing, you know.’
‘You chose to get married, buddy. Wouldn’t catch me doing it, you can be sure of that.’ Danny whistles out air through his clenched teeth, shakes his head.
‘I know, I know. It’s just that she gets into these moods sometimes. Won’t say a thing, stares into space. Just don’t want to do anything to aggravate it.’
‘Jesus.’ Danny shakes his head.
‘Bloody women. Like, what can you do, man?’ Jim says.
‘You’re asking me?’
‘Right. What can you do?’
‘PMS or PMT or shit like that?’
‘Whatever. Mate, sometimes it lasts for days.’
‘Jeez. Glad I’m not there.’ Danny makes a face.
‘It’s all part of married life, I suppose.’ Jim shrugs his shoulders.
Danny gives him a cheeky look. ‘Well, you win some, you lose some. Sex on tap can’t be bad.’
Jim picks an orange and throws it at Danny. Danny ducks and the orange hits the branches and bounces to the ground.
‘Good shot, trimmer,’ Danny says, laughing.
Jim shoots Danny a half grin. ‘Okay, count me in for tonight. What seven, seven-thirty? I’ll come around after tea.’
‘That’s the way. You gotta live, mate.’
The pull of slumber is strong, his body is lulled. But Jim stirs, drifting in the space between wakefulness and sleep. In his drowsy state, he catches the sound of soft, punctuated breaths. He strains to listen. The breaths give way to drawn-out sighs. They stop and start, stop and start, each breath lurching him into wakefulness. He tries to open his eyes, forgetting for a moment where he is, whether it is night or day, which day of the week it is.
He had fallen asleep the instant his head hit the pillow. Early, at nine, after watching Pacific Drive on TV. A typical winter night’s slumber, deep, capping a long hard day of non-stop picking. The mandarins were full and swollen, littering the trees, hanging off branches, the orange luminous against the sun. He’d worked from seven in the morning to five in the afternoon and filled nearly a whole bin.
In the darkness, he rolls over to Laila’s side, his legs intertwining with hers. Since their wedding night, he’s developed this habit: he places his thigh snug against her buttocks, the warmth and softness of her sex next to him. But tonight he opens his eyes and realises Laila’s head is tucked under his chin. Her arms are folded and pressed firmly against his torso, her body stiff and still. He slides his arm over her waist and pulls her closer to him. Her sighs intensify even though her eyes remain shut.
‘Hey, babe, what’s the matter?’ he says.
She curls up closer, draws her hands to her chest.
He feels her body trembling. ‘Honey, what is it? Are you okay?’
Laila opens her eyes. ‘Cold,’ she says.
She pulls the covers up to her neck, closes her eyes again, her eyebrows gathered into a frown.
Jim reaches for her hands. Her fingers are icy cold. He squeezes and rubs them but the cold seems to be trapped under the skin. He lifts the covers and finds her clothed in fleecy trackies. He, on the other hand, is down to his singlet and underpants which he wears to bed all seasons of the year. He half considers turning on the radiant heater beside the fridge. It’d take the chill off her, but he has this thing about not leaving the heater on all night. One time he did that, the corner of his bedsheet touched the heater. He’d woken to the smell of smoke, rushed out of bed and tossed the smouldering sheet into the sink.
In the darkness, he tries to locate the thermometer on the wall. The metal glints in the pale light from the window. He gets up, takes the thermometer and checks the reading. It is too dark to make out anything so he moves to the window. Minus four degrees Celsius. He shakes his head and looks again, tilting the instrument towards the full glare of the light. Poking his nose to the window, he peers outside. Clumps of frost on the ground. Edges of lawns fringed in white. Crikey. He hasn’t experienced a winter this cold in ages. Rubbing his arms, he tiptoes back towards the bed.
Laila’s sighs have given way to a soft whimper.
‘It’s so cold, Jim.’
‘I know, I know, babe. Crazy winter.’
Jim cuddles her and rubs his hands over her back to warm her up. Her whimpers continue. After some time, he gets out of bed again. He stumbles to the kitchen sink, fills the kettle with water. Reaching for the torch, he opens the wardrobe and shines it at the top shelf. He rummages through his things and fishes out the hot-water bottle. He hasn’t used the bottle since his mum was alive. He slides the bottle out of the furry pouch, catches a whiff of moth balls.
After pouring in hot water, he returns the bottle to the pouch and crawls back into bed. Gently untangling Laila’s arms, he places the bottle in the curve of her stomach. Then he pulls the covers right up to her chin. It is about ten minutes later that he dozes, after he checks that her arms and lips are no longer quivering.
The next day watching the Channel Ten news, they learn that it was minus five in Renmark the night before. Jim has just stepped into the caravan. Laila is folding a pile of clothes from the laundry basket.
‘Unbelievable,’ Jim says, throwing his jacket on the bed.
‘The Weather Bureau confirmed that last night was the coldest night in thirty-five years in South Australia,’ the newsreader says.
Laila stares at the TV screen. ‘That’s below freezing point.’
‘Sure is. Bloody hell, and it’s supposed to be the end of winter. Did you see the frost this morning?’
She nods, continuing to fold the clothes, her eyes still on the TV. Then she takes the folded clothes and puts them away in the wardrobe. She returns and sits down.
‘Jim,’ she says.
‘Yes, hon?’ He slouches into his favourite chair, feet up on the bench.
‘Marietta says there are women who work as fruit-pickers.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘She knows one of them.’
‘Haven’t seen many.’
‘Marietta just met this girl. She’s from Sierra Leone. Peter introduced them when she went to give him his lunch at the block.’
‘Hmm.’
Jim reaches for the fridge and pulls out a can of beer. Laila gets up, takes the dishcloth and sweeps crumbs from the table into her palm. After dusting the crumbs into the sink, she pulls out a chair and places it directly in front of Jim.
Sitting before him she says, ‘Jim, I want to work in the orchard.’
Jim takes a swig of beer, studies the label, turning the can round and round in his hand. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘I can help earn money for us.’
‘No, you don’t need to do that.’
‘I do, Jim.’
‘Why? Don’t I give you enough to spend?’
Since they got married, Jim has been giving her about half of what he makes, regardless of how much or little he takes home.
‘You give me enough but we need to save.’
‘Save? What for?’
‘Well, it’s good to save. You never know when you might need money.’
His stomach starts to churn. He sees in his head Laila climbing up the ladder, struggling to hold up the fruit bag, losing balance as she steps down. He sees her nursing the
thorn pricks on her hands at night after tea.
‘Work’s too tough. You won’t be able to handle it.’
‘Who says?’
‘You’ve never worked before. What makes you think you can hack this kind of work?’
‘I can. I know I can. At the longhouse, I worked everyday. I cleaned, cooked and washed clothes.’
‘That ain’t work, babe.’
‘I used to slaughter the chickens, and sometimes I would help Pak chop wood. Remember, I wrote in my letters? About that time Mak and I had to skin the wild boar because Pak was sick?’
‘Yeah, sure you did. But that doesn’t mean you need to work now.’
‘Jim, you’re not listening to me.’
‘Sure I am. I just don’t happen to agree that you need to work.’
Laila looks at him as if she can’t believe what he’s saying. She starts to open her mouth, then pauses as if her tongue is unable to form the words. She gets up, walks to the bed and lies down on her side, looking out the window.
Jim turns up the TV volume. Ads scream out. The Cunninghams ad man curls his two fingers at the camera, screaming, ‘Two dollars, all this for two dollars each!’ Jim tries to ignore the sight of Laila’s still body on the bed. He wants to continue drinking, to ignore his anxiety, which grows more nagging by the minute, mounting with each ad, but his eyes keep being drawn to her. Thoughts clamour in his head.
Lots of women work at the cutting shed. They slice apricots into halves, remove the pips and lay the halves onto trays. While the men do the heavier work such as wheeling the trays into sulphur kilns, driving the forklifts, pressure hosing the trays, the women do the bulk of the menial work. But that’s in summer and Laila wouldn’t have seen them yet. A few women even pick in the blocks, the big strong ones, they go up on the cherry pickers and toil like the men, but he won’t disclose this to Laila.
He puts his beer down, walks towards the bed.
Resting his hand on her shoulder, he says, ‘Want me to get some takeaway? You don’t have to cook if you don’t want to, babe.’
Laila turns over to face him. ‘That’s okay. I’ll cook. I’ve already taken the pork chops out.’
Gently brushing his hand away, she goes to the sink. She removes the plastic wrap from the meat and is about to reach for the fridge when she bends over and crouches on the floor. Then she brings her hands to her face and she weeps, softly.
Jim has never seen her cry before. He looks at her crouched on the floor, hair tumbling over her shoulders, her body shaking, and while his instincts tell him to go and comfort her, something makes him hesitate. He stands by the bed, the sound of her tears reverberating in the tiny space.
The sight of a woman crying takes him back to his childhood, to the long nights after his father died. His mother’s wails, seeping through the wall separating his bedroom and hers, now rush back to him. He remembers the times when they would be chatting at tea, and suddenly the mention of something, wood needing to be chopped for winter, an unexpected letter with Dad’s name on it, and Mum would lower her head, turn her face away, her mouth quivering. Then she would cover her eyes with her hands and weep.
‘I can’t take the cold anymore. This caravan,’ Laila says amidst her sobs, ‘it’s so cold.’
Jim remains silent. He stares at the floor.
Laila gets up and rushes to his side, tears streaking her cheeks. ‘Jim, let me work so I can help save some money.’
He rubs his forehead.
‘Please Jim, please. Between us we can save up. I don’t care how long it takes, we can save up to buy a house.’
The dreaded word. Jim looks out the window. He shakes his head.
‘Why? Why can’t I work?’
‘No wife of mine is going to work.’
Laila holds his arm and gently shakes him. ‘Please, Jim, if you let me work, I can help you save. Like the way you saved up to pay for my airfare and for the wedding.’
Jim shakes his head. ‘No, no, it’s not as easy as that.’
‘Why? What are you saying?’
‘Laila, that money wasn’t from my savings.’
‘But you said…’ Laila pulls back and looks at him. ‘If it wasn’t from your savings, where did the money come from?’
Jim walks around the caravan then sits down. ‘When Mum died, she left behind some money. I used that for your airfare and the wedding.’
Laila stares into space. ‘So it wasn’t from your savings.’ She frowns and shakes her head in disbelief. ‘It wasn’t from your savings.’
‘Wasn’t a huge amount but it was enough for our expenses at the time.’
She stares into space. ‘Remember that day in Adelaide, when we went to the jetty? I asked how long you took to save for the airfare and you said it didn’t take long.’ There’s a shrill edge to her voice. Her face has turned red, anger is brewing in her eyes.
‘Did I say that?’
‘Yes, you did.’ Her eyes are accusing.
‘Oh, that was such a long time ago, I can’t remember exactly what I said.’ He can’t understand why the inheritance is now a big deal.
Laila hits her head with her hands. Almost hysterical, she paces round the caravan. ‘Shit, shit,’ she mutters to herself. ‘Then you are saying we will always live here?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
Laila stops short, gathers herself. Then she throws herself at Jim, wraps her arms around his knees. She turns her face up to his, her eyes pleading. ‘So when, when can we move into a house?’
Jim remains glued to the chair. Laila’s words echo in his head. A tightness grows in his chest. Slowly, he disengages himself from her arms, gets up and walks to the door. Then he goes out and sits on the steps. The screen door slams shut behind him. He looks at his shoes, at the ends of the shoelaces, brown and soiled from being trudged on. Leather once-white, edges of the heels dirty and cracked from wear. He half expects the door to creak open and Laila to rush out, to continue her pleading with him. But not a stir comes from the caravan. He doesn’t want to look in, he doesn’t want to know what she’s doing.
Ahead, the darkening sky spreads out, greys flaring, wiping away pinks, the onset of the night imminent, inevitable. A stirring emerges from somewhere in the distance. Then silence. Then another sound, a creaking, sliding past from an unknown place.
Jim takes a breath and sighs. He thinks about his mother, about the last days before she died. It was enough for him to just be by her side. The hospital walls cold and silent. No place for words. Only the stillness, their sharing of last moments. Both of them, only them.
Where is she now? If she were still alive, what would she say to him? What would she tell him to do?
17
THE LAUNDROMAT IS EMPTY. It is two in the afternoon, long past washing time. Laila lets out a sigh of relief. She opens the lid of the machine, drops the clothes in, checking the pockets of Jim’s trousers and shirts. She finds a soiled handkerchief and some coins.
While the machine runs, she sits in her usual spot by the window and leafs through New Idea.
What is your PMS personality? Lip gloss to bring out the animal in him. She scans over the before and after photos of film stars. Miracle diet that helped Kirstie Alley shed 20 kg.
She’s pulling out the washed clothes from the machine when Marietta scurries in, a little out of breath.
‘There you are. I was looking for you at the riverbank,’ Marietta says.
‘Oh sorry, Marietta,’ Laila says. ‘I woke up late this morning and it threw everything off.’
‘You okay? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’ve something to tell you, Laila.’
‘What? Something bad?’
‘I’ll help you hang these up and we can talk at the riverbank.’
Outside, they hang the clothes in silence. Then they take their usual spot under the eucalyptus tree by the river. Spring wild flowers dot the opposite bank, bursts of yellow and white. Near the
office, visible from where they are, lavenders spring forth from shrubs.
‘Laila, there’s been a change of plans. Peter and I won’t be attending the Christmas party.’
Laila’s heart drops. ‘What? Christmas is over two months away. Why are you making plans so early?’
Marietta hugs her. ‘I know you’re disappointed, sweetie.’
‘But why?’
‘Peter wants to get away. Christmas is not a good time for him. Family members get together, old issues flare up. Every year he’s around because he doesn’t want to upset his mum. But he says this year he’s not going to try to please anyone anymore.’
‘I won’t know anyone at the party. What am I going to do?’ She shakes her head.
‘Sweetie, I’m so sorry.’
Laila stares into the river. Two birds dive towards the water, peck at the surface. One sweeps up into the air, something wriggling in its beak, triumphant. The other flaps its wings, screeches and squawks. Her loneliness balloons.
It’s the thick of spring, the sun is up earlier every day, and soon the cold weather will be truly behind her. She was looking forward to spending summer with Marietta. But now she sees herself sitting here on her own, the river her only companion. The afternoons will drag, she’ll wrack her brain trying to think of things to do to kill her boredom. She won’t have Marietta to talk to about the latest guests on the Oprah Winfrey Show, nor to go to Bargain Basement with, their regular fortnightly haunt. And when she cooks special Iban meals, she won’t have Marietta sampling them and saying how delicious they taste.
‘How am I going to spend the afternoons? It’s going to be so boring,’ Laila says, her face gloomy.
‘What about the girl who works at Bargain Basement? What’s her name?’
‘Corinne.’
‘That’s right, Corinne. Remember you said you were starting to like her, that she’s one of the few Australians who takes an interest in you?’
‘She’s gone.’
‘What? Gone?’
‘Moved to Mildura. Followed her boyfriend, he found a job there.’
Marietta sighs. ‘When did she leave?’
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