The Half-Child

by Angela Savage

  These were expert hostesses. They flirted, flattered, kept the drinks flowing and the conversation lively. They challenged patrons to drinking games, applauding those who drained their glasses, sipping demurely from their own drinks. They laughed at bad jokes and feigned innocence in the face of bawdy innuendo. Time spent chatting with lonely guys paid off in large, grateful tips. However, the main game was to get customers to drink more, and faster, for longer.

  They didn’t count on Jayne being a money-spinner in this regard, which was short-sighted on their part but par for the course. Being a farang woman rendered Jayne invisible to both Thai staff and farang patrons in a place like the Coconut Club. Once it had bothered her but she’d grown used to it, learned to turn it to her advantage.

  When the woman from the Children’s Centre finally approached to clear her empty bottle, Jayne seized the chance to strike up a conversation.

  ‘Busy night, sister?’

  The woman looked up, noticing her for the first time.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You seem to be having a busy night.’

  Confusion gave way to astonishment, then delight. ‘Put thai dai mai?’

  Jayne nodded.

  ‘Hah!’ The woman clapped her hands together. ‘Jin, come here,’ she said, summoning her companion. ‘You won’t believe it. This farang speaks Thai!’

  Jayne was used to this, too.

  ‘Jing jing reu, Mayuree?’ Jin said joining them. ‘Really?’

  Mayuree nodded at Jayne. ‘Go on, show her.’

  Jayne’s Thai was good, but decorum required her to be modest. ‘Put ngoo-ngoo, pla-pla,’ she said, literally ‘speak snake-snake fish-fish’, meaning just the basics.

  Mayuree and Jin whooped with laughter.

  ‘Not true,’ Mayuree said. ‘You speak just like a Thai person.’

  ‘Not as well as you both speak English,’ Jayne countered.

  ‘I heard you talking to the customers.’

  ‘Put ngoo-ngoo, pla-pla,’ Jin giggled. ‘My teacher is a farang volunteer.’

  ‘A volunteer?’ Jayne sensed an opening. ‘I thought I might work as a volunteer in Pattaya, too. Only thing is, I can’t work out whether I should teach English or work at this orphanage.’

  She took the pamphlet out of her bag and held it out to the Thai women. The photo on the front showed a group of young adults cuddling babies and small children in front of a distinctive set of gold gates.

  ‘Mai roo,’ Jin shrugged and returned to the bar.

  Mayuree looked from the pamphlet to Jayne and back again and frowned.

  ‘Teach English,’ she said.

  She turned to follow Jin, but hesitated.

  ‘Actually, it would be good to have a volunteer who speaks Thai in there, provided she…’

  She sat down at Jayne’s table and leaned close.

  ‘I have a son, Kob. He’s eleven months old. My friend

  Wen has a boy the same age called Moo. Our boys are living in the nursery in that centre—’ she gestured at the pamphlet ‘—but only until we’re able to look after them ourselves.’

  ‘As a volunteer, would I get to spend time with your children?’

  Mayuree shook her head. ‘The farang volunteers work with babies and toddlers who are going to be adopted into Western countries. That’s not our boys. Not ever, no matter how hard they try.’

  ‘What do you mean, no matter how hard they try?’

  Mayuree looked over her shoulder. ‘Sorry, can’t talk now. Got to get back to work.’ She nodded towards the table of Eastern Europeans. ‘It was nice meeting you—?’

  ‘Jayne,’ she said with a wai. ‘I hope to see you again.’

  ‘If you do end up volunteering at the orphanage,’ Mayuree said as she backed away, ‘check in on Kob and Moo for us. Remember they’re in with the boarders, not the orphans, okay?’

  Jayne nodded, left a large tip under a coaster on her table, and set off in search of somewhere to eat and collect her thoughts. Her conversation with Mayuree made her think there might be value in a little undercover work at the New Life Children’s Centre.

  9

  Jayne was waiting outside the Santiphap Accounting office, sipping a plastic bag of iced coffee, when Police Major General Wichit’s nephew Chai arrived. He’d been expecting her and ushered her into a private office with a computer and printer. She took a seat and set about producing a fictitious resume that listed among her previous positions several childcare jobs in Australia and one in Thailand.

  The idea came to her the night before whilst reading the pamphlet from the New Life Children’s Centre. ‘Our Centre welcomes enthusiastic volunteers to assist in acclimatising orphans to the customs and languages of adoptive parents overseas through our intensive one-on-one pre-departure program. Volunteers are also welcome to assist with fund-raising, gardening, cleaning and administrative duties.’ No way was Jayne going to volunteer for cleaning or gardening— tasks she went out of her way to avoid at the best of times— and fundraising and administration weren’t really her forte.

  That left childcare, and it seemed appropriate for her to follow in Maryanne’s footsteps.

  As well as falsifying her employment history, Jayne selected the Presbyterian Ladies College in Melbourne as her alma mater and lopped nine years off her age, citing the date of birth on the fake student ID card she’d bought on Khao San Road, which made her a sprightly twenty-five.

  She took a compact mirror from her daypack and peered into it. Trying to pass for twenty-five was pushing it. Years of self-neglect were taking their toll. The whites of her eyes looked jaundiced and she had the beginning of crow’s feet.

  But there was no trace of grey in her black curls, and thanks to a decent night’s sleep her freckled skin looked healthy enough. She applied a light coat of mascara, pinched her cheeks and restored the mirror to her bag.

  Next step was to write herself a glowing character reference, describing how her ‘strong Christian values’ were evident in her ‘attention to the wellbeing of the children in her care’ and her ‘high standards of personal conduct’. Then she called Police Major General Wichit.

  ‘Can I use you as a referee? I need a Thai person who’ll say I did a good job of looking after his children.’

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realised her gaffe.

  ‘It’s a cover story,’ she added quickly. ‘I’m pretending I have experience looking after small children.’

  ‘Mai pen rai,’ Wichit said, the ubiquitous Thai phrase meaning ‘it doesn’t matter’, even when it did. ‘Give them my mobile number to ensure they reach me directly.’

  He sounded fine, but Jayne could have kicked herself.

  Looking after Wichit’s children—at least his daughter—was precisely what she had done. She didn’t want to insult Wichit by implying that he needed reminding of his debt to her. The Police Major General was a powerful ally and she wanted to stay in his good books. She had been in the bad books of a Thai cop once before and had no desire to relive that.

  She added Wichit’s name and mobile number to her reference, printed it out and sealed it in an envelope. The condensation from her bag of iced coffee had formed a puddle on the desk. Chai put a stop to her attempt to wipe it up and despatched the mae ban to take over. Jayne thanked him for his hospitality and made her way to the New Life Children’s Centre brandishing her application.

  She’d dressed conservatively for the occasion: sky blue T-shirt, knee-length grey denim skirt and flat sandals. As a finishing touch, she slipped a silver crucifix on a leather thong around her neck. She’d bought it to go undercover as a Christian missionary in a dangerous red-light district of Chiang Mai, and it had sat tarnishing in her toiletries bag until she’d plucked it out and polished it that morning.

  Although Jayne wasn’t religious, she hoped that if God did exist, He wasn’t offended by her habit of impersonating His followers.

  It was ten thirty when she entered the gold-gated co
mpound and headed for the administration building. At the reception desk, a young Thai woman with long, frosted pink fingernails tapped at a computer keyboard. In keeping with her cover story, Jayne didn’t let on that she spoke Thai.

  She said she wanted to volunteer at the centre and was told to take a seat.

  The walls of the reception area were decorated with posters of puppies and kittens sitting in baskets, entangled in brightly coloured balls of wool, propped up in toy cars, or tucked into prams wearing ribbons around their necks. The popularity of these images knew no bounds amongst the Thais, though urban myth had it the animals were actually dead, stuffed and posed for the photos.

  ‘Hello, I’m Frank Harding.’

  Jayne turned and stood up. She recognised the foreigner from the previous day. He had the colouring of a calico cat, patches of grey, black and ginger on white, but his bushy eyebrows and large nose made him look like a bird of prey.

  He wore his conspicuous crucifix over a white short-sleeved shirt, grey slacks and loafers.

  ‘I’m Jayne.’

  She extended her hand. Frank pressed it between both of his and caressed rather than shook it. She noticed his eyes lock on the cross around her neck.

  ‘Great meeting you. Miss Lah—’ he nodded at the receptionist ‘—says you’re interested in volunteer work.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she began. ‘I’ve brought my CV—’

  ‘Oh, let’s get to know each other first,’ Frank said. ‘Why don’t I show you around?’

  ‘That’d be great.’

  ‘Phom mee tula, ja chai wela praman samsip nahtee krup,’ he said to Miss Lah, literally, ‘I have business that will take about thirty minutes.’ His Thai was businesslike, grammatically correct.

  ‘Wow, you speak Thai!’

  ‘It’s a God-given talent,’ he said. ‘You?’

  ‘I wish. I’m one of those people with no talent for languages,’ she lied.

  ‘I’m sure you have other skills. Everyone has something they’re good at.’

  That’d be drinking, smoking and inappropriate relationships, Jayne thought, as she followed him into the building.

  ‘The New Life Children’s Centre is an orphanage that processes adoption applications on behalf of the Thai government,’ Frank began. ‘Do you know how the adoption system works in Thailand?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘All applications have to go through the social welfare department, but some organisations, like ours, are authorised to process applications on the government’s behalf.’

  He opened a door, stepped aside to let her through. The room was subdivided by low partitions like a call centre.

  Each cubicle contained a desk, phone, filing cabinets and a staff member preoccupied with paperwork. Mostly Thais, from what Jayne could gather.

  ‘This section—’ Frank gestured to one half of the room ‘—processes adoption requests from overseas, matches prospective parents with a baby or child in our care and submits the information to the authorities for approval.

  While the basic criteria for prospective adoptive parents is stipulated under Thai law, our centre prioritises applications from Christian couples in the United States, Europe and Australia.’

  ‘Christian couples,’ Jayne repeated, keeping her voice neutral. ‘And the Thais don’t object, this being a Buddhist country?’

  ‘Now that’s an easy mistake to make,’ Frank said in a tone that suggested he might pat her on the head. ‘True, Buddhism is the dominant religion. But Thailand is a secular country, and the children in our care are being adopted into countries where Christianity is the dominant religion. My Thai colleagues agree it’s in the child’s best interests to be brought up as a member of the dominant religion to ensure they are better integrated and less marginalised.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she murmured, thinking that while Maryanne Delbeck might not have been a religious fanatic, she sure worked for one. Jayne would need to watch her step.

  ‘On the other side of the room is investigations. Here we do family traces and background checks when a child is found abandoned or comes to us with missing paperwork.

  Birth certificate, proof of relinquishment, maternal death certificate—these documents are necessary for the child to be legally available for adoption.’

  ‘And if you can’t trace the documents?’

  ‘The process is outlined in the law. If all possible lines of inquiry have been exhausted and a thorough investigation has failed to produce results, the child can be recognised as abandoned and made eligible for adoption.’

  ‘A lengthy process.’

  ‘It is,’ Frank said, ‘but we can’t be too careful. The system has been open to abuses in the past and we need to be able to reassure both the adoptive parents and the Thai government that the child is legally available before we admit them into the adoption process.’

  Frank led her back outside.

  ‘The role of our foreign volunteers is to work one-on-one with a child whose file has been allocated to adoptive parents overseas to prepare them for their new life. They need to get used to foreigners, learn their language. Some are old enough to learn songs and even start to read and write.’

  The chatter of children’s voices grew louder as they approached the orphanage building.

  ‘See for yourself.’

  The door opened on to a large foyer converted into a communal play space, the floor crawling with babies and children. Foreign volunteers—mostly women—sat amongst them. Frank gestured for Jayne to enter.

  She caught snatches of conversation as they walked around the room.

  British accent, middle-aged woman, helping a small boy with a puzzle: ‘You can do it—clever boy! Now let’s try…’ Australian accent, student type, talking to a pot-bellied girl wielding a coloured pencil and a piece of paper: ‘What are you going to draw next?’

  German, pushing sixty, admiring her charge as she dressed him in clothes so new they still had the tags on them: ‘Zeig mal Liebchen. Oh, siehst Du aber fein aus…’

  Young man—Korean or Japanese—captivating a group of toddlers with his animated reading: ‘The Good Samaritan took pity on the poor man…’

  She glanced at the titles on the bookshelf behind him.

  Classic fairytales from the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen, some hard cover picture books and an impressive collection of Bible stories.

  A baby started howling. In a practised gesture, the German woman scooped him up, placed him over her shoulder and patted his back. The baby gurgled.

  At a signal from Frank, Jayne retraced her steps. She noticed dormitory-style bedrooms off both sides of the main room, mosquito nets bunched up on ropes over the sleeping mats that lined the floor. The Australian girl smiled and nodded as Jayne passed.

  Frank’s office, marked ‘Special Adviser’, was in the administration building. He removed the chain from his neck to unlock his door, the key secreted behind the crucifix. Frank’s desk was against one wall beneath a map of Thailand. The office also contained a small sitting area.

  Frank pulled up a rattan chair and invited Jayne to take a seat on the couch. On the wall above Jayne’s head was a picture of a kitten dangling from a bucket beneath the words, ‘Hang in there’.

  She handed over her resume but Frank gave it only a cursory glance.

  ‘I’m sure your credentials are fine,’ he said, putting it to one side.

  Jayne thought Frank was staring at her breasts, but his focus was her crucifix.

  ‘Tell me, Jayne, what is it that motivates you—’ he invested the word with great significance ‘—to work as a volunteer?’

  ‘Well, I want to help people in need, to make a difference, and to do that in a way that’s consistent with my values.’

  ‘Ah,’ Frank nodded.

  ‘And even more so than Bangkok, Pattaya strikes me as a place desperately in need of God’s work, if you know what I mean.’

  The increasing tempo of Frank’s nods tol
d Jayne she was on track.

  ‘The wages of sin must take a terrible toll on the women here, and their children, too. And if I could make a difference to just one person…Well, as Saint Luke says, “Joy shall be in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety-nine just persons, which need no repentance”.’

  This was her coup de grace, memorised that morning from the Gideon Bible in her hotel room.

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ Frank said.

  Jayne bowed her head with what she hoped came across as humility and bit her lip.

  ‘You’d be a perfect addition to our volunteer team.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased—’

  ‘First, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to ask you, Jayne: how would you describe your state of mind?’

  ‘My state of mind?’

  ‘Your mental health.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.’

  Frank left his chair and sat on the couch beside her, so close their knees were almost touching.

  ‘Would you describe yourself as a person who is easily depressed?’

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this place can really test your faith and I need to be sure you’re up to it.’

  Jayne hesitated. ‘It’s because of that other girl, isn’t it?

  The one who killed herself.’

  Frank raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m from Australia. The story was in all the papers.

  Don’t worry,’ she hastened to add, ‘I’m coming into this with my eyes open.’

  To Jayne’s alarm, Frank reached over, took her hands in his and bowed his head.

  ‘Let us pray,’ he said.

  Jayne let her hands go limp in Frank’s clammy grasp as he gave thanks for ‘delivering Jayne unto our organisation’.

  He added a prayer for the repose of the soul of Maryanne Delbeck, and finished with an entreaty to continue to bless their work. In Jayne’s history of job interviews, this was without doubt the weirdest.