Handpicked

by Siew Siang Tay

  ‘Of course. In the beginning it used to upset me. One time I didn’t talk to him for a week. But I’ve found a way of dealing with it. I don’t even argue with him anymore. I just agree with him, and if he’s been really unreasonable he’ll apologise later.’ Marietta sits up. ‘It evens out in the end, considering what Peter puts up with when I get depressed.’

  ‘Depressed? I can’t imagine you depressed.’ Laila looks at Marietta.

  ‘I get into lapses. Some days, I’ll get like flashbacks of my time in Jogjakarta. I feel so horrible about myself and give Peter a hard time.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I yell at him and he’ll yell back. Sometimes I feel as if I’m choking. I become so full of self-hatred, I feel as if I’ll explode if anyone comes near me. The only way out of that is to be on my own.’

  ‘What does Peter do when that happens?’

  ‘He’ll go stay with his mates.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Oh, sometimes for as long as three days.’

  ‘What do you do then, on your own?’

  ‘I keep occupied, do things. I also go to church for long hours and pray.’

  ‘That’s very understanding of Peter.’

  ‘Yes, Peter is a sweetheart. But thank goodness those episodes don’t happen that often.’

  ‘Since I’ve known you, I haven’t seen you get like that.’

  ‘It’s got better. What I’m saying, Laila, is that there’s no perfect marriage. There’ll always be problems, but it’s up to the couple to work out a way of getting along. It may take a while, but it can be done.’

  ‘I can’t see a way out of my situation. I cannot bear to live in the caravan anymore. And besides…’ The word Sean dangles on the edge of her tongue.

  A group of birds screeches past and heads for a nearby tree. They both look in the direction of the tree. The birds flap their wings and peck at the leaves.

  The people come in drifts and droves. Each day as she takes her afternoon walk along the River Murray Houseboats walkway, she sees them arriving in fancy cars, cars that look like mini-trucks, cars with jet skis or bicycles attached to the backs or tops. They file through and park in front of the houseboats moored at the waterfront. Throughout winter she had walked past the rows of dark empty boats lying idle, curtains and blinds drawn, barbecues covered with plastic covers, and wondered what they were. Now they tumble into life, the sun beating down on the roofs.

  Instead of catching up with Marietta at the riverbank, Laila has been taking afternoon walks by herself. She’s starting to tire of the stories about Peter doing the dishes, giving Marietta back rubs, their happy conversations sitting outside the caravan. She’s sick of hearing how happy they are.

  A houseboat embarks from the waterfront. Laila watches it move away, hears the brr-brr of the paddle steamer. The boat coasts down the river, leaving behind ribbons of froth. Memories of the speedboats on the Rejang River spring back—but instead of villagers clad in sarongs, old T-shirts and open-toed slippers, carrying jungle produce, foodstuffs and slaughtered animals, here she sees four occupants in the houseboat, dressed in checked shirts, halter-neck tops and cargo shorts.

  Elsewhere, glasses clink as people gather at the front decks, talking, laughing. Scents of barbecued meat waft out. In one boat, Laila notices a blonde-haired woman flinging her head back—her mane of curls cascading over her shoulder—laughing, her teeth showing, her hand, bedecked with gold rings and bracelets, flinging in the air. The man standing beside her leans in, chuckles, then brings a glass of wine to his mouth. Then he encircles her waist with his arm, pulls her towards him and plants a kiss on her neck. She laughs even more loudly.

  Every houseboat is occupied, everyone’s having a whale of a time. They look and dress differently from the people in Renmark. They are probably from Adelaide, the type Sean would hang out with. Her loneliness swells.

  Jim had wanted to hire a riverboat for their honeymoon. ‘You’ll love it, honey. If you love the river, you’ll love the riverboat, miles and miles of this beautiful water,’ he’d said. It was going to cost $1000 to hire for a week.

  ‘No, Jim, too expensive, you need to save that money.’

  ‘Nah,’ Jim had said, ‘plenty of time for that later.’

  His mother’s inheritance again. Foolish to think he was ever going to be able to save. She’d married a child, a slacker. The things he’s been wasting his money on—movies, eating out, the blue dress that she didn’t even want, the yellow skirt from Myer in Adelaide that cost $69 that she didn’t really like, a brand new TV to replace the old one that was still working fine, his cases and cases of beer. If only she could turn the clock back, read more into his letters, dissect his words better. She remembers his skill at distorting reality when she asked how he was going to support her.

  No problems, honey, we’ll sort all that out when you get here. My boss Rick has been renewing my contract for donkey’s years. Unless an earthquake happens and all the orchards in the Riverland go cactus, I’ll have a job till the cows come home. Hah hah…bet you’re going to ask me what ‘till the cows come home’ means.

  Laila kicks the gravel and scurries past the houseboats, turning her face away, shutting out her emotions. At the end of the walkway, loud music thumps from one of the last houseboats. Three men with beer cans in hand are gyrating to the beat of drums. They sing at the tops of their voices, throwing nuts at each other. One of them with a coloured cloth tied round his head notices her. He stops dancing, lurches to the railing of the front deck.

  ‘Hey, check this out, Luke, an Asian babe.’

  His two friends stop dancing and join him. ‘Tight little pussy, I bet,’ one of them shouts, then bursts into laughter.

  ‘Think you can find out?’

  Laila quickens her pace, staring at the ground.

  The first guy waves a hand at her and says, ‘Wanna have some fun, babe? We’ll show you what real Aussie fun is.’

  The others jeer and clap.

  Laila runs ahead, stomping past clumps of bushes, ignoring the twigs and branches scraping her legs.

  She angles her body away from a couple standing on the opposite side of the road. She’s now a long distance from the boisterous men in the houseboat. She opens the door of the telephone booth, her heart pounding.

  Taking a deep breath, Laila pulls out the business card from her wallet. She stares at the words and numbers for a few seconds before lifting the receiver. She slides in some coins, punches in the number. The ringing tone booms in her ear. Her fingers clutch the receiver. The ringing seems to go on forever. Please don’t answer, please don’t answer. Click, the sound of someone picking up the phone.

  ‘Hello, Sean Timmerman here.’

  Laila presses her finger on the lever. The phone goes dead, static hisses in her ear. With the receiver cradled in her elbow, she crouches, chews her fingernails. Oh my God, what am I doing? Her heart hammers in her ribcage. The husky tone of his voice, the self-assured way he smiles, the intoxicating mix of the scent of his skin and his aftershave burn in her memory.

  20

  TWO QUEUES LEAD TO the counters, and people are milling about in the job notices area. The dole office is more crowded than he remembers it. The last time he stepped in here was four years ago, shortly after his mum died.

  That was a period he doesn’t want to think about. The dole queue, filling out the forms, making up employer names and efforts at contacting them to look for work. And the fat lady at the counter who always wore that crummy green cardigan, no matter what the season, and who looked at him like he was worse than scum. Just because he was temporarily out of work. She had glared at him as if she knew why his last employer hadn’t renewed his contract. He’d tried hard to keep the details to himself, about not showing up for work for five, six days (he can’t remember exactly) over a three-week period, and how that had not impressed his boss, Kevin. But in a small town like Renmark, stories have a way of leaking out.

  At
first, when Kevin had learnt of Jim’s mother’s illness, he’d been sympathetic. Told him to take as much time off as he needed. Contract staff weren’t eligible for compassionate leave but even after Jim’s mum finally died, Kevin told him to take a week off for the funeral. It was only when he started not showing up for work much later that it all caved in.

  Jim remembers the day Kevin called him into his office.

  ‘Mate, I do want to help, but it’s become a little out of control, if you know what I mean,’ Kevin had said. ‘It’s been months, yeah, since your mum passed on, but it seems to be dragging on and on for you.’

  Jim looked at him blankly. ‘Yeah, okay, I know what you’re saying.’

  ‘I’ve given you plenty of chances, but it just doesn’t seem to be getting any better.’

  Jim ran his hand over his bald head, sucked in air through his teeth.

  ‘I was thinking of extending your contract for another year but your no-shows, and the excuses you give…’ He paused then shook his head. ‘Well, I’m afraid they just don’t cut the mustard. We have a business to run here and it won’t do if we can’t rely on our pickers.’

  It wasn’t as if he’d cut work to hit the pub. Jim can’t recall what he did during the days he skipped work. He only knows that a few times he just couldn’t get out of bed. He’d felt drugged, as if a force outside himself was pinning him to the bed. He would open his eyes and, no matter how hard he tried, his limbs wouldn’t move. The feeling that he was all alone, the sense of not being connected to anyone or anything stripped him of energy. His body felt weighed down, and falling to pieces. Sometimes he couldn’t even push himself to eat—shocking, considering how he loved his food.

  The regular pattern before Mum was admitted to hospital simply slipped away. Knocking off after work, calling past Mum’s to have tea, chatting with her about this and that…He remembers thinking how transient life is, you never know what you’re going to find around the corner. One day, she was fine and they were cracking up about how she’d walk to the kitchen and not remember what she was there for, the next day she got the stroke, fell into a coma, regained consciousness, and a few days later was gone. Overnight the structure that had propped up his life gave way.

  When Dad died, his world had shrunk. Although he was just a little boy then, he can still remember waking up the day after the funeral—relatives gone, pandemonium settled—and finding the walls giving out a silence he’d never experienced before. And as he got out of bed and walked to his mother’s room, as he creaked open the door to find her lying under the quilt, staring up at the ceiling, tears sliding down her cheeks, as he ran towards her and shook her by the shoulder until she finally tore her eyes from the ceiling and lifted him into the bed with her, the silence had seemed to crystallise. Cuddling up to his mother, that silence continued to swallow him. He felt there were only two people left in the world. Mum and him. Mum and him. She was all he had and he was all she had. For twenty-eight years after that, it had been that way. And then it all disappeared overnight.

  How was he to explain to Kevin that these things took time to get used to? That he needed time to come to terms with Mum’s death. You had to experience this yourself. How could he tell Kevin that spinning around in his head every day were images that would not go away: Mum tying his shoelaces in the morning; packing mettwurst rolls with gherkins, and chocolate doughnuts, for a picnic by the river; slipping fifty dollars into his hand after he’d blown his first pay in less than a week?

  So he stood up, shook Kevin’s hand, and muttered that it was okay, no worries. No point trying to persuade Kevin. It would be, as his mum used to say, tantamount to rowing a boat upstream.

  The visits to the dole office had followed. At first he went once every two weeks to submit his forms. Occasionally he would check out the positions vacant. This went on for about three months, and no jobs jumped out at him. After a few months, when his bank account started drying up, he increased his frequency to twice a week. He still couldn’t bear to touch Mum’s money.

  It was a good two months more before he landed himself his present job, but not through the dole office. Someone who knew someone who was a friend of his present boss, Rick, had mentioned it. Jim had gotten the job instantly. But the months of visiting the place had taken their toll. The fat lady for one, and the unsavoury characters, with their tattoos and unkempt clothes, for another.

  Today Jim ambles to the job notices area, scans through the boards. Panelbeater, chef, kitchen hand, butcher. His eyes land on an ad for sales representatives. No experience needed. Training will be provided. Jim has encountered many a sales rep and often thought he could make a sales person, someday. All you needed was the gift of the gab, and he’d been known to be able to talk in his time. He scribbles down the vacancy number and joins the queue.

  ‘Next please!’

  Jim approaches the counter and comes face to face with Green Cardigan.

  ‘How can I help?’ She looks at him, face glum.

  Layers of fat sit under her chin and huge plasticrimmed glasses cover half her face. Her eyes are too close together.

  ‘Hi, I was just wanting to know more about a job,’ he says.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘This one.’ He shows her the note paper.

  Green Cardigan takes the paper from him. ‘LK89012C.’ She punches in the code on her keyboard. Minutes tick by. She looks at the screen, making whistling sounds with her lips. ‘Tee tee tee tee…’ She taps her fingers. ‘Right-tee-oo, here we go. Sales representative for a large South Australian company based in Berri. Training provided to familiarise with qualities of product but sales experience preferred. Some sales qualifications an advantage.’

  ‘Does it say what company, and what product?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It just doesn’t.’ She shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘How can someone advertise a job and not mention the company or the product?’

  ‘Not all employers advertise their names, okay?’

  ‘You sure you read it through?’

  She looks him squarely in the eye. ‘Yes, I am sure.’

  ‘Which company would want to advertise a job and not do that?’

  She pulls the cardigan across her chest and glares at him. ‘They just don’t.’

  Jim purses his lips and makes a face.

  ‘Well! Interested or not?’

  ‘What were you saying again about experience?’

  She exhales air and her curly fringe moves. She places a hand on the mouse and studies the screen, moving her eyes up and down. After some time, she says, ‘Here we go again. Sales experience preferred, sales qualifications an advantage.’

  Jim bites his lips, fidgets around. ‘It says no experience needed on the notice.’

  ‘So?’ she says.

  ‘Jeez, I haven’t got either.’

  ‘Well, bad luck.’ She looks back at the screen, and her index finger clicks a few times on the mouse, closing the page. Without looking at him she says, ‘Try looking for something you have qualifications for. Plenty of other jobs on the notice board.’ She points.

  Rolls of fat on her arms spill onto the desk as she leans forward. Her bosom brushes the edge of the desk. Jim has the urge to slap her. His body shakes. He takes deep breaths. The queue behind him lengthens, faces irritated, some staring up at the ceiling, some standing on tiptoes to catch a view of the counter.

  Jim turns on his heels, pads across the foyer and goes out the door.

  Lately he’s got used to sitting out on his own after tea, watching people having a cuppa, smoking a cigar or having a conversation. Mildred is not outside with her husband today. They live a few caravans away. She has a habit of walking past to visit the bathroom exactly five minutes after Jim appears, and it didn’t take long for Jim to discover her real intentions.

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ she’d say, followed by, ‘Missus not with you today?’ Without waiting for his reply,
she’d peer into the caravan.

  Jim has devised a way of sipping his coffee, swigging at his beer or lighting a cigarette, timing it for the precise moment the question is asked, smiling and nodding, his mouth so occupied that no one could fault him for not answering her.

  This evening he’s staring absently at the neighbour’s car when the door of the caravan creaks open. Laila walks out with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  Jim looks up at her, surprised.

  ‘Want another beer?’ she asks.

  He swivels his can. ‘I’m alright, thanks.’

  Laila pulls out the chair next to him and sits down. She drinks her coffee, gazes into the distance.

  ‘So, what’s up?’ Jim says.

  Laila shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘What did you do today?’ he asks. They had not exchanged one word at tea.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You can’t have spent the whole day doing nothing.’

  She shifts in her seat and looks in the opposite direction, face sullen.

  ‘So, it’s another one of those talk-to-yourself-Jim moments,’ he says. ‘How did I guess?’

  Laila locks her fingers around her cup.

  Jim looks into the distance, at the drab view of rows of caravans in front of him. To his right, a sliver of the Murray.

  ‘Thank God it’s Friday. You’ve no idea what a week it’s been.’

  She looks him up and down and then turns away. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh you know, same shit, different day.’ Flies buzz around his face. He shoos them away with his hand, slaps his neck. ‘Bloody flies.’

  Mildred walks past. She flings her head across at them, eyes wide open, peering with interest.

  ‘Hello there,’ she says.

  ‘Hiya,’ Jim says, a fake smile on his face, teeth clenched. ‘And thank you, goodbye…stupid old bag,’ he mutters under his breath. He sticks his middle finger up underneath the table in Mildred’s direction.

  Laila gazes after Mildred. Turning back to Jim, she says, ‘Any news yet?’