Next came ‘potty patrol’, another pride-swallowing exercise of wiping shit from little bottoms.
Without Dianne’s prompting, she remembered the face cloths and cleaned up the children before releasing them to play. She helped the Thai staff clear the breakfast things and started on the laundry. While the linen was washing, she helped prepare morning tea and repeated the whole nappy, potty, face-wiping routine, at which point the laundry was ready to be hung out. She volunteered to mix the bottles of infant formula and ended up feeding one to a little girl who, with a Mohawk of black hair and a blue-black smudge of a birthmark on her left cheek, looked like a baby punk.
When lunch was done, she helped sponge down the babies and bathe the older children, and by one o’clock they were all settled for a nap. The Thai staff slept with the children, Hilde and Marion made themselves scarce and James had called in sick, leaving Dianne and Jayne to tidy the playroom.
‘Sabai-sabai,’ Dianne said. ‘Peace at last.’
‘You speak Thai very well,’ Jayne said. ‘How long have you been volunteering here?’
‘About six months now. I’m supposed to start uni in a few weeks, but I can’t decide what I want to do. I mean, my parents want me to do law, and I got the marks to get in, but I really want to study early childhood development.’
Jayne nodded, doing the sums in her head. Six months.
That meant Dianne’s time at the centre overlapped with Maryanne’s by about a month.
‘Follow your heart,’ Jayne said. ‘Life’s too short. Just think of what happened to that other Australian girl who was here—what was her name?’
‘You mean Maryanne,’ Dianne said in a hushed voice.
‘But she killed herself.’
‘You believe that?’
Dianne shrugged. ‘I didn’t at first. Maryanne didn’t seem like the type to do that. She seemed so…cheerful.’
That word again.
‘Then Frank sat us down and told us she was seeing a shrink and taking antidepressants, and we had to face the truth. We were all so shocked. I mean, it makes you realise how little you know someone.’
Jayne murmured, wondering what gave Frank Harding such sway. No one seemed to think Maryanne killed herself until Frank convinced them otherwise.
‘You were interviewed by the police?’
Dianne nodded.
‘So were you and Maryanne close?’
‘I only knew her a short time, but we were close, yes. We were the only two Australians here and she helped me get on my feet. You know, it’s a lot of work moving countries.
You’ve got to get the right visa, open a bank account, find somewhere to live. There’s a guy on staff here who’s supposed to help, but all the places he showed me were in, like, high-rise apartment buildings.’ Dianne made a face. ‘I think his relatives owned most of them.’
‘You were lucky to have Maryanne’s help,’ Jayne said, steering the conversation back on track. ‘What about a Thai teacher? I mean, you must have had lessons—I’d like to get some too. Maryanne give you any good tips?’
‘She put me on to her teacher, but he left Pattaya just after Maryanne…passed away.’
‘Oh?’
‘Shame really, he was such a nice guy. Taught high school English in Kanchanaburi but quit his job to come to Pattaya when his sister had a baby. She wasn’t married and apparently the parents couldn’t handle it. So he came to help her look after the baby. Can you believe it? I don’t know about you, but no way would one of my brothers do something like that for me.’
‘That’s dedication,’ Jayne said. ‘But he’s gone now, right?’
‘Right.’ Dianne lowered her voice and leaned closer to Jayne. ‘If you ask me, I reckon Sumet had feelings for Maryanne.’
‘Really? Was she keen on him, too?’
‘Oh, I doubt it. I mean, it’s not really the done thing for farang women to go out with Thai men. It’s usually the other way around.’
Jayne let that pass.
‘Did you mention this…what was his name?
‘Sumet.’
‘Did you mention this Sumet to the police when they interviewed you?’
‘I couldn’t see the point. It wasn’t like there was anything going on between him and Maryanne.’
Jayne found it hard to believe this woman knew anything she didn’t broadcast.
‘Besides, he was such a nice guy.’
Dianne sighed and Jayne understood. Whatever her thoughts on farang women dating Thai men, Dianne had harboured feelings for Sumet, and she’d kept the object of her affection out of the police report.
‘Now he’s gone to…?’
‘Kanchanaburi.’
‘Kanchanaburi, right,’ Jayne said. ‘So, no chance of having Thai lessons with him. Who else can you recommend?’
Dianne prattled on and Jayne made a show of taking down her new teacher’s mobile number as her mind ticked over with possibilities. Was it significant that Maryanne’s Thai teacher left town just after she died? Did Sumet have feelings for Maryanne and, if so, were those feelings reciprocated or rebuffed? Was Maryanne the victim of a love affair gone wrong?
All pure speculation but, if nothing else, she’d found a line of inquiry the police hadn’t pursued. The only problem was how to find Sumet, and how to raise that prospect with Dianne without generating suspicion.
‘Do you reckon I could look Sumet up if I went to Kanchanaburi?’ Jayne ventured. ‘I was thinking of going there for Thai New Year, you know, to visit the Bridge on the River Kwai and all the sights. My grandfather was a war veteran. It would be great to have a contact there who speaks English.’
Dianne shrugged and leaned forward to brush an imaginary speck from the children’s play table.
‘I don’t have contact details for him.’
‘Pity.’ Jayne thought for a moment. ‘What about the sister? You said he had a sister with a baby here in Pattaya.’
‘Don’t know what happened to them. For all I know, the baby ended up here.’
She swept her hand across the room.
‘Speaking of babies…’ Dianne nodded towards the door to the nearest dormitory where a collective snuffling and shuffling was underway. ‘We’d better get moving.’
16
Sumet shielded his eyes from the sun as he made his way down the uneven concrete stairs from Wat Tham Seua to the base of the hill. The grandiose Tiger Cave Temple was his mother’s idea. Sumet had hoped for a quiet retreat, but Mae insisted on the busy pilgrimage site. He was her only son and his ordination was the biggest merit-making opportunity his mother would ever have. It was natural she rejoiced in seeing her son enter the monkhood to become thit, a ‘fully ripe man’. Little could she know Sumet had already had enough of manhood to last one lifetime.
He lifted his robes a little as he navigated the steps. He was still getting used to the restricted movement, though he welcomed this and all the austerities of monkhood. Ascetic and celibate was a far cry from the life he’d expected to lead by now—it was fitting he should suffer.
During the ordination ceremony when he prostrated himself in homage to his ancestors, he pressed his bare chest against the hot earth as if it might brand him the coward that he was. He prayed the elders might slip up as they took turns to cut a piece of his hair, or that the lotus leaf containing his shaved locks might be caught by a sudden gust of wind and fall to the ground in an ill omen. But these things didn’t happen. Sumet scratched at the stubble. His eyebrows had been shaved off, too, a practice adopted by Thai monks to distinguish them from the Burmese. Most novices, intending to stay only three months, let their eyebrows grow straight back. Not Sumet.
He passed by the entrance to the Tiger Cave. The hillsides in the area were dotted with caves, and it had been part of the ritual to inform their resident spirits of his intention to become a monk. His family made a big show of it, their voices echoing through the caverns, but Sumet barely spoke. There was one spirit on his shoulder whom no a
mount of chatter would distract, no Buddhist ordination would appease.
He recited the ten Buddhist precepts as he made his way to Wat Tham Khao Noi on the adjacent ridge.
Refrain from killing living beings. Refrain from taking what is not given. Refrain from false speech. Refrain from intoxicants that cause carelessness. Refrain from eating at the forbidden time. Refrain from dancing, singing, music and other entertainment. Refrain from wearing garlands and using perfumes. Refrain from sleeping in high, large or comfortable beds.
He was missing two. What were they?
Refrain from accepting gold and silver.
The words came back to him, sending ice through his veins.
Refrain from adulterous conduct.
Greed and lust: the twin pillars of his misfortune.
‘Are you human?’
The monks put this question to him during the ordination ceremony. Sumet knew what was behind it: legend had it a naga serpent in disguise tried to become a monk. The Buddha explained that his ordination was impossible as only humans could be ordained. The question struck Sumet with particular poignancy. Was he human? Could someone with a human heart have done what he did?
There was a titter among the crowd of family and friends as they awaited Sumet’s answer.
‘Are you human?’ the monk said again.
‘Sumet,’ another monk whispered, ‘answer yes.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sumet said mechanically.
The crowd let out a collective sigh.
‘Are you a man?’ the monk continued.
Another tough question.
‘Yes, sir,’ Sumet said.
But not man enough.
‘Are you free from debt?’ the monk said.
‘Yes, sir.’
But I might have been rich.
‘Do you have your parents’ permission?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sumet said.
He could anticipate his mother’s lament once she realised he was never leaving the monastery.
What about grandchildren? Who’s going to carry on the family traditions, look after the ancestors?
Would Sumet be able to resist pointing out that she had a grandson whom she ignored?
‘Are you fully twenty years old?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are your alms bowl and robes complete?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Venerable sir, my name is Sumet…’
Phra Sumet, as he was now known, felt the sun beat down on his shaved head as he climbed the steep staircase to the Little Hill Cave Temple. The Chinese-style pagoda at the summit had seven tiers, and it was to a small octagonal room on the first floor that Sumet ascended.
At its centre was a statue depicting the Buddha during his retreat to the forest—the incarnation for Wednesday afternoon. At the Buddha’s feet were an elephant offering a water pot and a monkey holding out a honeycomb.
It was the monkey he came to meditate on, a skinny little figure with hands raised in supplication. To Sumet it looked like a human foetus with a tail.
17
Mayuree slept so deeply that when she woke, she wondered if the horror of the night before was just a terrible dream. She checked her bag. There was no denying it. That cop had robbed her and forced himself on her. The money was gone and she’d have to pay it back. She’d lost ten weeks’ salary and would need to work at least three times as long to cover her costs while repaying her debt—longer, as she’d have to borrow money in the meantime, incurring more debt. It would take more than a year to recover lost ground.
Mayuree put her head in her hands, wondering what she could have done in a past life to incur such bad fortune in this one.
For the first time since Kob’s birth, she contemplated getting back into the game, sleeping with customers for tips and gifts. She thought of that fat cop shoving his gamy cock in her mouth and knew she couldn’t do it.
She ran to the bathroom and dry-retched into the toilet. She rinsed her mouth, doused her face in cold water and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the basin. Her almond-shaped eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Her lips were swollen and the skin around her mouth rubbed sore where the cop had rammed his pelvis against her face. She’d scrubbed him from her skin when she got home and went to bed with wet hair, which now hung down her back in matted strands.
Mayuree picked up her comb and started running it through her hair, but it caught on a knot bringing tears to her eyes. She put the comb back down on the edge of the sink and looked inside the bathroom cabinet behind the mirror. Her gaze fell on the orange tube of sleeping pills Wen took on occasion to counteract the amphetamines. It was half-full. Enough to put her to sleep for good.
She moved the orange tube to one side, found a strip of paracetamol and closed the cupboard. She washed down the painkillers with a glass of water and splashed more water on her hair. Then she smeared her comb with conditioner and went to work straightening out the kinks and untangling the knots, until her hair felt smooth and sleek again.
Mayuree used haemorrhoid cream to shrink the bags under her eyes—a trick Wen had taught her—and massaged whitening cream into her skin. She rubbed lotion all over her body, working it into her elbows, knees and ankles, and finished with a spray of cologne.
Her clothes from the night before were scattered on the floor of the main room that served as bedroom, lounge and eating area. Mayuree bundled these with the rest of the washing into a plastic bag to drop off at the Chinese laundry next door. She pulled on a pair of clean jeans and a blue top, a colour supposedly lucky for those born on a Friday. Then she grabbed her handbag and laundry and headed down the stairs.
She needed to meet with her boss, explore the possibility of working additional shifts to pay off some of the debt in kind. Perhaps she could convince him to increase the frequency of her pole dances. They were good for tips.
Before that, she needed to visit Kob and apologise to him for this latest setback in their plans. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t understand. Mayuree needed to see him, to hold him. To know she could still feel love enough to outweigh the hatred and bitterness in her heart. To remind herself how he made it all worthwhile.
She pressed the bell beside the blue gate. Chaowalit ambled into view, registered her standing there, and disappeared again.
‘Older brother?’ Mayuree called. ‘Anyone? Please let me in.’
She checked her watch, waited a full minute, pressed the bell again.
This time it was Frank who appeared in the yard of the compound.
‘Khun Frank,’ Mayuree called. ‘It’s me, Kob’s mother.
Can you let me in? I need to see my son.’
Frank walked over to the gate and opened it, but not enough for her to enter.
‘Little sister, I was about to call you. It’s about your son.’
A stab of fear ran through Mayuree’s body. ‘What about my son?’
‘Don’t panic,’ Frank said, ‘but we’ve transferred him to the clinic for tests.’
‘Tests? What kind of tests?’
‘Medical tests. We’re worried about his health. Doctor Somsri thinks there are signs he might have a rare congenital disorder.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Mayuree said, trying to look past him. ‘Where’s my son? I need to see my son!’
Frank cleared his throat. ‘It’s better if Kob is kept in isolation, rather than being exposed to potential infection in his state.’
Mayuree grabbed a fistful of Frank’s shirt and threw herself against his chest. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘please let me see my boy.’
Frank raised his arms in the air and stepped back. The momentum brought them both inside the gate.
‘I need to see my son,’ Mayuree screamed, pounding her fists on his shirtfront.
Frank took her firmly by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. ‘Let me check with the clinic staff.’
He turned and took a few steps towards the mai
n building, punching numbers into a mobile phone as he walked. His spoke too softly for Mayuree to hear, but turned back and nodded.
‘You can see him for a few minutes,’ he said. ‘But don’t wake him.’
Mayuree pressed her palms together and raised them to her forehead in a wai. ‘Thank you so much.’
Kob was in a low-sided perspex cot. He was lying on his stomach with his hands raised either side of his face, wearing nothing but a nappy and a cotton vest. There was colour in his cheeks and his skin was warm to the touch.
‘Oh, my poor little boy,’ Mayuree murmured.
She stroked the skin of his upper arm. She leaned over, put her face close to the back of his neck and inhaled.
Through the antiseptic aroma of the clinic she smelled the unique scent that was Kob.
‘I’m so sorry, my darling. I want to take you home but I…’
She hung her head. How could she keep doing this to Kob, promising him a life together only to let him down?
How could she keep leaving him in the care of strangers, day after day, struggling to stay awake during what little time they spent together? Maybe Khun Frank was right. Maybe she should give him up.
Mayuree gazed again at her sleeping boy. His fingers were splayed, making his chubby hands look like little brown starfish. She remembered him at the beach on the weekend running handfuls of sand through those fingers, giggling as though it tickled. His mouth was open, lips squashed into a pout, soft pink tongue resting behind six tiny teeth. She lifted one of the black curls on his head. It recoiled like a spring.
She knew his body more intimately than that of any lover, and she loved him more than anything. She could never relinquish him.
She leaned forward so her lips were close to his ear.
‘Trust me, my beautiful boy,’ she whispered. ‘Please be good, get well, and it won’t be long before I can take you away from all this and we can be together all the time.’
She ran her hand from the top of his head to the soles of his feet and gave his cheek one final sniff-kiss. ‘See you soon, my lovely.’
Mayuree stepped back into the foyer of the clinic where Khun Frank was waiting.
The Half-Child Page 11