Handpicked

by Siew Siang Tay

  Laila shrugs. ‘Don’t know. She told me last week she was working till Friday. She might have already left.’

  Marietta holds Laila’s hand.

  ‘Where will you be going?’ Laila says after some time.

  ‘Flinders Ranges. Peter’s always wanted to go there but never found the time. We’re taking the caravan.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A month and a half.’

  ‘A month and a half? Six weeks.’ She stares ahead. She sighs. ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘Two weeks before Christmas. We’ve still got the next couple of months together, Laila. Besides, our holiday will pass so quickly, before you know it, I’ll be back. You’ll see.’

  ‘No, it won’t. Summer will be gone by then.’

  Laila rests her chin on her knuckles. Darkness creeps into her vision.

  She wakes up with the sensation of something pressing on her chest. Her arms fling out, then she realises it’s the hot heavy air seeping into the caravan. She parts the curtains and sees the first signs. Cars speckled by starbursts. Light pooling on caravan tops. Her first real taste of hot weather in Australia. Forty-five degrees today, the weather forecast said on TV last night. Summer is truly here.

  Spring had been unbearable as well. In the caravan, icy plumes had vibrated out from the walls. She wore two pairs of socks to bed, a parka indoors all the time. In the bathroom, for the few seconds between removing her clothes and stepping into the warm shower, a thousand pins pricked her body. Immediately after the shower, she would bundle herself up again, and soon she forgot what her skin felt like. The cold was permanently embedded there. She couldn’t move. It turned into a physical pain.

  Surely things will be better now. The heat will ease her loneliness, take her back to Sarawak. Stop her from agonising about the house, about Marietta going away. She places her palm on the window and feels the warmth breathing life into her.

  Jim has already gone to work. These days she cannot bring herself to wake up early. Jim hasn’t complained, hasn’t insisted that she get him breakfast and prepare his packed lunch. She can’t remember when she let that slide. She doesn’t know when he has breakfast, what he has for breakfast. She doesn’t hear him leave the caravan.

  Once she slept until midday. When she woke up, she didn’t know where she was. She jumped out of bed, her head throbbing, and started talking in Iban:

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll be good from now on, I promise.’

  With Marietta’s Christmas gift to her tucked under her arm, Laila clings to her friend. Marietta strokes her cheeks.

  ‘Have a lovely Christmas and New Year’s,’ Marietta says.

  ‘You too,’ Laila says.

  ‘Before you know it, we’ll be back.’

  Their caravan is hooked onto the towbar. The car door is open. Peter is standing by the car, holding a satchel, looking on. There is pity on his face.

  Don’t go, please don’t go.

  Jim pulls them apart. Laila sniffs and tries to hide her tears. Jim puts his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Only six weeks, Laila. She’ll be back in no time,’ Jim says.

  They wave as Peter and Marietta get in.

  Laila stares after the car until it disappears from view. She feels as if someone has just gouged out the contents of her heart.

  Laila puts the recipe cut from Woman’s Day back into her scrap folder. The two plates of spaghetti bolognaise sit on the Formica-top table. She snips a few sprigs of parsley and places them on each plate, proud of her culinary experiment, a new activity to kill time now that Marietta’s gone.

  Jim should walk in any minute now. She turns on the TV. Today Tonight is on. A landlord evicts his tenants when he finds the house infested with cockroaches. They hadn’t thrown out their rubbish for the six months they’d been living there. Every room in the house is littered with rubbish. ‘Tenants from hell,’ the anchor woman says.

  Laila’s stomach growls. She only had soup for lunch. Looking at the spaghetti makes her hungrier. Outside the sky is turning grey, washes of pink lingering. She draws the curtains and turns on the lights. She flicks the channels and watches more TV. The time passes a little quicker. When the clock clicks to nine-thirty, she starts eating. The spaghetti is cold and feels dry and tough. She pours on some water from the kettle to moisten it.

  After finishing the meal, she idles around the caravan, tidying things up and clearing away clutter. She folds her tops hung over backs of chairs to dry. As she opens the drawer, her shoebox where she keeps important items peeps out. Placing her tops on the bed she takes the box out. The stack of letters sits in the middle of the box. She remembers how she’d sorted them all out with care, arranged them chronologically before tying them with a rubber band and packing them away in the suitcase. That period in her life now seems a lifetime ago. She randomly pulls out one of the letters and scans the contents.

  …sure it’ll take you a while to get used to life in Australia, I mean, gee, you’re crossing continents, but I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re happy here, my darling. I want so much for you to be happy as you’re taking a big step leaving the country of your birth. Not long now, four more months and you’ll be hopping off the plane and straight into my loving arms…

  Laila reads the lines again before folding the letter and slipping it back into the envelope. She looks at the stack of letters, forty-three all up, including the cards and little notes that came with the gifts. What value do words have over actions? What does it take for things to become right? Why do things work out for some and not for others?

  By eleven, after having watched the late night news on TV, she gets up and covers the other plate. The spaghetti won’t taste half decent now. She turns out the light and climbs into bed, the taste of the bolognaise sauce no longer in her mouth.

  The song plays over and over in her head. On countless afternoons, they had sung local songs to each other, taking turns, the other humming along. Now on her own, Laila hums the Visayan tune, imagines Marietta’s voice, sees in her head the lift in Marietta’s eyebrows as the notes peak. Sunlight blinds her vision as she lies down, face up to the sky, the grass soft under her body. Her aching for Marietta turns into a dull pain in her temples. She can’t even bring herself to sing ‘Geylang Si Paku Geylang’.

  She rubs her forehead with the tips of her fingers to ease the ache, shifts to another position nearer the gum tree where it is shaded. Turning towards the river, she takes in the flowing waters. Summer rolling away before her eyes. Her life slipping by.

  The pale blue linen dress has a slit on one side. It rides all the way up to her mid-thigh, revealing only glimpses of flesh when she walks. Jim had bought her the dress despite her protestations. It cost $89, enough money to feed her family for a whole month.

  This is the first time Laila has stepped into Jim’s boss’s house. It looks even more imposing close up than it does from a distance. The big pillars holding up the porch remind her of a fortress.

  ‘Hello, there. Rick’s my name.’ He motions for them to enter.

  ‘This is Laila, my wife,’ Jim says to Rick, squeezing past a bunch of people who have arrived at the same time.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, finally.’ Rick offers his hand, which Laila shakes timidly. ‘Come on in.’

  The size of the hallway astounds her. It is only slightly narrower than the bilik back in the longhouse. Two statuettes stand at each side of an elaborately carved table, on which is a huge vase of flowers. A full-length mirror framed in gold graces another wall. Before Laila can take in the lounge room, a tall woman with orange hair ushers everyone into the backyard. Laila sneaks a peek at the two sofas in a creamy colour with gold patterns before being led past the sliding doors.

  The barbecue is twice the size of the coin-operated one in the caravan park. Jim and Laila sit with a group of people next to a water feature with a statue of a naked boy holding a jug. Water flows out of the jug into a pond.

  People
have already started to eat, pouring wine into glasses. Others are mingling around the table, spooning food onto their plates. Laila notices that she is the only Asian person there.

  ‘So, how’s it going, Jim?’ a tall thin man sitting two seats from them asks.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, getting there…’ Jim says.

  ‘Another Christmas, another year older.’

  ‘What’s it? Nine years now you’ve been with Rick?’ Jim asks.

  ‘Shy of. Can’t believe how time has flown by.’

  Laila listens to the conversation, her eyes jumping from face to face.

  ‘Adelaide Crows have switched coaches. Again,’ someone says.

  ‘Now why aren’t I surprised?’ someone else says.

  The inevitable, football talk. It’s so predictable. When Jim’s friends come over to the caravan park for a barbecue, it is the same. Once she tried joining in. She sat beside a man called Danny. In between footy talk, they exchanged about ten words, something about where she was from, then silence. Danny kept turning his body away from her and talking with Jim and the other men. The conversation went back to football.

  Laila switches off. She studies the elaborate pattern of pavers, the beds of roses and flowers she doesn’t know the names of, the manicured lawns, edges perfectly trimmed. The surroundings make her uncomfortable. She feels she needs to stay still or she’ll break or wreck something.

  Beyond the laughter and clink of glasses, she aches for Marietta. She pictures Marietta in their caravan, parked in a scenic spot in the imaginary Flinders Ranges. Peter would be hooking up the cables and things while Marietta would busy herself preparing the evening meal.

  Laila looks in Jim’s direction and finds him chatting with his friends. Three of them have moved to the barbecue, beer cans in hand, laughing, poking each other in the arm. One of them reaches for the long metal tongs, waving them around as he speaks. Another arranges slices of meat and sausages on the hotplate.

  ‘Woah…’ Jim stands back, shielding his face with his hand as the meat sizzles and crackles.

  She looks around to see if there is anyone she vaguely knows, maybe someone who works in one of the shops in town. Then she looks down at her dress and feels the urge to spill her orange juice on it, watch the colour spread over the fabric into a big round patch.

  After fidgeting in her seat for some time, she decides to get something to eat. She peers across the backyard. Jim is now in his element. His face is bright red, and he is gesturing and making funny sounds, swinging his beer can around. When ‘Jailhouse Rock’ blares out from the speakers, he does a jig, swaying his hips and jiggling his knees. The others cheer him on, clapping and nudging with their elbows. She gets up and heads for the table of food.

  A large array of dishes is spread out there, foods that look strange and foreign. She has never seen so much food in her life. Four types of salads, bowls of what looks like blended baby food, cold meats, chicken wings, different types of bread, a platter of tiny foods in various shapes and colours. At the far end of the table, cheeses, nuts, strawberries, grapes, cakes, jellies and desserts in bright colours. She stands gazing, overwhelmed.

  ‘I’d start with the dips, if I were you,’ a voice behind her says.

  She turns around and finds herself face to face with a man with a lean build and angular face. He has the most exquisite blue eyes she has ever seen. The man gives her a smile.

  ‘Dips?’ she says.

  ‘Yes, these.’ He points at them. ‘You have a choice of hommous, tzatziki, and this one I suspect could be either sun-dried tomato or roasted capsicum—oh, and this, judging from the colour, could be pink salmon.’

  Laila raises her eyebrows.

  ‘And you’d want to dip them with either those celery or carrot sticks or this Mediterranean dipping bread.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says.

  He places two triangular pieces of dipping bread on her plate. Then he spoons some hommous next to the bread. He is standing so close to her she catches a whiff of his scent—a mix of aftershave and a faint trace of sweat. As he moves, his shirt collar opens out, and she notices a gold chain round his neck, a pendant in the shape of an ‘S’ sitting among fine brown hairs. Laila shifts her gaze back to the table, to force herself not to look at him. He spoons food onto his plate, circling the table, taking his time.

  ‘Friend of Rick’s?’ he asks, his eyes alternating between her and the table.

  She looks at him blankly.

  ‘The host, Rick?’

  ‘Oh yes…I mean, no. I came with my husband. He works for Rick.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  He is now at the opposite side of the table and Laila has a full view of him. He’s better looking than she thought. Slightly shorter than Jim, short-cropped brown hair, head held up with poise. Laila’s eyes fly over the contours of his chest, over his short-sleeved white shirt. His jeans, she notices, are well cut.

  ‘He throws great parties, Rick. Always a sumptuous spread. Never any shortage of booze.’

  ‘This is my first time.’

  ‘So I noticed.’ He gives her a sideways glance, eyes holding her gaze. ‘I’m Sean.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Laila. My name is Laila.’

  ‘Laila. Pretty name. Spelt L-E-I-L-A?’

  ‘No, L-A-I-L-A.’

  ‘Ahh.’

  Blood rushes to her face. She is suddenly conscious of how she looks in the dress, wonders if her hair is falling in the right way over her shoulder. She wants to run back to her seat, to end the conversation, but she finds herself lingering.

  Sean sets his plate down, ambles to the side table and reaches for a bottle of wine. He studies the label, puts it down, takes another bottle.

  ‘Care for some wine?’

  ‘Uh…I’ve never had wine before.’

  ‘Well, there’s always a first time. And what better occasion than at Christmas and with South Australian wine.’ He fetches two glasses and hands one to her. ‘You do know, don’t you, that we make the best wine in all of Australia?’ He arches one eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, I have heard.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’ He hands her a glass. ‘Chardonnay. Goes well with this food.’

  Laila takes the glass from him, notices that his eyes drift over the slit in her dress. She wants to pull the seam, to hide her thigh, but her other hand is holding the plate.

  ‘Cheers.’ He clinks his glass with hers, his eyes never leaving her face.

  Laila sips the wine, feels the citrusy taste on her tongue. The alcohol infuses her nasal cavities. It reminds her of tuak, but with a strong fruity flavour. She likes the taste of it.

  ‘Well?’ he says.

  ‘It is nice.’

  ‘Good. Glad I’ve been able to assist with your initiation.’

  Laila doesn’t know what he means so she keeps quiet. She looks around, trying to locate Jim. He is still by the barbecue with his friends.

  ‘Been in Australia long?’ Sean asks.

  ‘I came in March this year.’

  ‘Ah, still early days.’

  ‘It will be a year soon.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Malaysia.’

  ‘Aah, your prime minister and ours, our former one rather, have exchanged some very intimate words.’ A half grin spreads over his face.

  She doesn’t know what he’s talking about but she can’t take her eyes off him. She struggles for something to say, conscious that he must think her socially inept.

  Finally she manages, ‘Do you work for Rick as well?’

  ‘Hell no, I only do business with him. I’m sales manager for Sungold Fruit Juices.’

  The name of the company does not ring a bell.

  ‘You know the people who make Merrigold Juice?’

  The labels come flying back into her memory—she has seen them in the Woolworths fresh juice section.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she says.

  ‘Now we’re talking.’r />
  She looks in Jim’s direction. He is no longer at the barbecue. She is about to ask Sean more, when she spots Jim returning to their table carrying his can of beer.

  ‘Well, I have to go now,’ she says abruptly.

  And before Sean has a chance to reply, she rushes away, almost tripping on her dress. She doesn’t look back. Her eyes are on the ground, hoping that Jim has not seen her.

  ‘Hi honey, got yourself some food, did you? Great, I was worried you’d be hungry,’ Jim says.

  Saturday afternoon and Laila is at the checkout in Woolworths, her trolley laden with groceries. Jim has dropped her off and is coming back to pick her up later.

  ‘That will be fifty-eight dollars, thanks,’ the checkout girl says.

  After taking her change, Laila wheels the trolley past the cigarette and fresh flowers section. She’s about to head through the automatic doors when a man speaks to her. He has sunglasses on, and is wearing a black T-shirt with the word ‘JAG’ in white on it, and long cargo shorts in khaki.

  ‘Well, hello,’ he says. ‘The girl in the blue dress.’

  He flashes her a smile, removes his sunglasses and Laila recognises him immediately. His hair looks lighter in the daytime. She wants to backtrack, or swing past Sean’s handsome face, but she stays rooted to the spot. She meets his gaze.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she says.

  ‘Weekly chores, hey?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her hands fly to her hair and arrange it. She’s embarrassed by the Home Brand labels visible from her shopping bags. She wishes she could hide them.

  ‘Well, someone’s got to do it. I do it too, but not weekly. I shop whenever my fridge gets empty, which can vary from two days to two weeks!’

  She smiles. He looks so sophisticated, so rich, she fears anything she says will give away her peasant origins.

  ‘The good thing,’ he says, leaning against the cigarette counter, ‘is that the supermarket near me opens seven days a week, till late.’

  ‘Really? Where’s that?’

  ‘Henley Beach.’

  ‘So you live in…Adelaide?’

  ‘Yes, but my work brings me to Renmark quite often.’ He puts his hands in his pocket. ‘Listen, I got to run.’ He slides a business card from his wallet. ‘Call me when you’re next in Adelaide. We could catch up for a coffee.’