Little Paradise

by Gabrielle Wang

  Soon Mirabel was designing clothes for friends and family. She loved seeing her drawings come to life when Mrs Lam, the dressmaker, wove magic with a piece of cloth, a pair of scissors and a sewing machine.

  Design became her refuge.

  Standing before the door to Mr Cochran’s office, Mirabel unclenched her fingers from the oracle bone bag, took a deep breath, and knocked.

  ‘Enter,’ came Mr Cochran’s voice.

  He was sitting at his desk, marking history exam papers. Mirabel’s heart sank. What bad timing. Then she saw her painting book resting against a small white bust of Beethoven. A wave of relief swept over her.

  Mr Cochran lifted his head, swivelling his chair around to face her. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘If it isn’t our little Picasso.’ He fumbled through the pile of papers. ‘Did you even study for this?’ he asked, slapping her test with his hand.

  Mirabel’s mouth went dry. She lowered her eyes, tracing the outline of leaf and tendril on the Persian rug at her feet, waiting for him to explode.

  The clock on the wall ticked, eating up the seconds. ‘You young people don’t understand the importance of history. If you don’t know history, you don’t know why things happen to you. Do you even know why there is war in Europe between Germany and England?’

  Mirabel shook her head. His voice grew louder.

  ‘Do you know where that maniac Hitler came from? Do you know why Japan invaded China, or why they tried to invade Australia? We could be speaking Japanese now if it weren’t for those boys on the Kokoda Track last year. You know about that, I suppose?’

  ‘I heard something about it …’ Mirabel’s voice trailed off.

  ‘There are great forces at work, Mirabel.’ His voice softened. ‘Forces that can reach out and touch us, grab us. Forces that can whirl us out of our own little world to some place halfway around the globe …’ Mr Cochran looked away and sighed once more. ‘How are you doing in your other lessons?’

  ‘Art is my best subject. I always get A plus,’ Mirabel replied.

  ‘Art is a hobby, Mirabel, not a proper subject,’ Mr Cochran snorted.

  This was an impossible situation. How could she find something in common with a man who didn’t value art?

  ‘How long have you been in Australia?’ he asked.

  She looked up, surprised. ‘I was born here. I’m third generation. My great-grandfather came during the gold rush.’

  ‘So it’s not your English that’s holding you back then.’

  She wanted to yell at him, ‘No, it’s you English who are holding me back. Just because I look Chinese …’ But she held her tongue and pressed her lips together. She thrust her hands into her blazer pockets to still them and glanced around the office.

  In a dark corner Mirabel noticed a cello. The instrument was a deep reddish brown with a long neck and graceful curves. But it was covered in dust.

  ‘Do you play, Mr Cochran?’ she blurted before she could stop herself.

  Mr Cochran looked at the cello and his shoulders drooped.

  Mirabel went on, ‘My Great Auntie May says that everyone should have a place they can escape to, a paradise of their own.’ The thought of Great Auntie May strengthened the new-found boldness in her. She thought of her painting book and pressed on. ‘My paradise is my art. All I’ve ever wanted is to be an artist. When I’m painting or designing clothes, I become lost in another world. Is that how it is when you play the cello, Mr Cochran?’

  She stopped suddenly. Mr Cochran had gone pale. Had she said too much? Her palms were damp with sweat. The slow ticking of the clock and the teacher’s breathing seemed to fill the small room.

  ‘I used to play …’ he began softly, ‘ … once, a very long time ago.’

  The chair squeaked as he leant forward and an almost imperceptible sigh passed his lips. ‘Here, take your book and don’t bring it to class again.’ He held it out to her.

  She stepped forward and took it.

  ‘Now go!’ He waved her to the door.

  ‘Yes, Sir, thank you.’

  Outside, in the sunlight, Mirabel smacked a kiss on the painting book’s shiny black cover, hugging it to her chest. ‘Thank you, Rose,’ she breathed.

  Foreign Devil

  That afternoon Mirabel arrived home and checked the mailbox, hoping for a letter from Eva, her penfriend. She heard Mama’s voice, raised in anger, coming from the upstairs balcony. When she looked up, she saw Father’s leather suitcase sail over the wrought-iron railing, stripping leaves and snapping branches as it fell. It opened up like the mouth of a whale, spewing clothes onto the front yard.

  Mirabel ran up the path, and stopped as her eight-year-old brother came rushing out of the front door. His white shirt was spattered with blood.

  She caught him by the arm, lifted his chin. One cheek was puffy and a bruise had come up under his eye. ‘What happened, Jimmy? Who did this to you?’

  ‘A boy at school spat at me, called me a ching chong, so I punched him in the nose.’ Jimmy re-enacted the blow with a punch into his open hand. ‘Then his nose started bleedin’ all over me. Our teacher, Mr Arfurs, came an’ he set up a proper fight for us arffa school.’ Jimmy’s frown flattened into a smile. ‘Everyone was there to watch, Mir. Mr Arfurs gave us real boxing gloves and we had free-minute rounds just like they do in the real boxing ring.’ Jimmy put his hands on his hips. ‘That boy was bigger ’an me, but I beat ’im. Mr Arfurs told us to shake hands after an’ now me and Rollo are best mates.’ Jimmy puffed out his chest.

  ‘Well, I’m glad of that. What’s going on inside?’ Mirabel glanced through the open doorway.

  ‘Mum’s mad at Lola again,’ Jimmy replied.

  ‘What did she do this time?’

  Jimmy shrugged. ‘I dunno but I’m sick of all the screaming. I’m leaving home.’ He looked out at the street.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The park. I’m gonna live wif the blanket people.’

  ‘You’ll freeze in the park, and what are you going to eat?’ Mirabel said, humouring him. She put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I’ll hunt around in the rubbish bins an’ I got this.’ Jimmy lifted up the cloth bag dangling from his neck.

  Mirabel smiled. ‘The government doesn’t want you to eat those things just any old time. That food is for an emergency,’ she said. The bag contained cotton wool for earplugs, a wooden peg to stop you biting your tongue from the shockwaves of exploding bombs, a water bottle and some snacks. All primary school children had to carry the bag in case of an air raid.

  ‘This is an emergency!’ Jimmy yanked himself free and ran through the gate. ‘Bye, Mir.’

  ‘Be back for dinner, okay?’ Mirabel shouted after him. She knew he’d be home as soon as it got dark.

  She sighed. The thought of going inside the house made her stomach churn. It always did when Mama was in one of her moods.

  As she walked through the door, she saw Lola stomping up the stairs, a scowl on her face. Mirabel said nothing, waiting for the thunder that was about to descend.

  ‘Why did you throw my clothes out the window?’ Lola screeched.

  ‘I forbid you to see that foreign devil!’ Mama screamed back in her coarse village dialect.

  ‘You can’t stop me. I’m nineteen. You treat me like a child.’ Lola’s voice grew louder and louder. ‘I wish … why don’t you go back to the madhouse and stay there forever!’

  Mirabel sucked in her breath.

  The words were poison. Lola knew their effect.

  Life had become so complicated. One minute Mama was laughing, the next something would plunge her into depression. Mirabel had hoped that after her latest stay away she would come back cured. But she had been home only six weeks and now she had found out about Lola’s boyfriend.

  ‘Lola,’ Mirabel said, as her sister came running downstairs.

  ‘I hate her,’ Lola hissed and stormed out of the house.

  In a way, Mirabel felt sorry for her, too. Mama
had never met Lola’s boyfriend, Bill. Mirabel had written to Eva about him: he was a gentle man with a great sense of humour and he brought out the good things in Lola. She seemed less emotional, less selfish. Well, a little less selfish. He also had plenty of money, taking Lola around in taxis, buying her perfume and nylon stockings – a luxury now that nylon was being used to make parachutes for the war.

  But for Mirabel’s parents, being a nice man was irrelevant. Colour, background and status – in that order – were the only things that mattered. And Bill was not Chinese. Even worse, he was an American soldier.

  But what of the person inside? What of the heart and the soul? Mirabel wondered. She sighed as she turned and looked back at the clothes draped on bushes, hanging in branches and littering the ground. As she began picking things up, she noticed Mrs Turner staring at her from the doorway of the pub across the road, cigarette in hand. Mirabel gave an embarrassed wave. Mrs Turner returned a knowing nod and gave a slight smile of encouragement.

  Upstairs, Mirabel paused outside Mama’s bedroom, pressing her head against the door, listening before moving on to her own room. She could smell incense burning and hear Mama praying. She pictured her mother kneeling in front of the small altar, staring into the face of the Virgin Mary. Tears welled in Mirabel’s eyes. She wanted to go in and hug her, comfort her, tell her that Lola didn’t mean what she’d said, that everything would be all right. But once Mama was in one of her moods, nothing could bring her out of it until she had slept it off.

  As Eva had written to her in a letter the year before, it was up to Mirabel to be strong. Taking care of the family, day to day, had become Mirabel’s job. She had to realise that Mama couldn’t take care of them, and Lola wouldn’t.

  Father did business with Eva’s father, and Eva wrote that he often talked about Mirabel when he came to visit them; he said that he had come to rely on her more and more.

  Mirabel knew it was true. ‘You’re the pillar of this family, Lei An,’ Father always said. ‘You would never shame us.’ The words made Mirabel cringe. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not at sixteen. How she wished she could be left to follow her passion – to be free to paint and draw and design clothes. But duty always came first. That’s just how it was in a Chinese family.

  Mirabel entered the small bedroom she shared with Lola. It consisted of a double bed pushed hard against the wall, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe.

  She stood on the end of the bed and reached up to the top of the wardrobe, where she kept her artist’s box. Grasping the leather handle, she pulled it down. This was her most prized possession, apart from her painting books. Mama had given it to her last year, a present for taking care of everything while she was recovering at Mrs Pettigrew’s.

  Mirabel took the box downstairs into the good room – the only uncluttered room in the house, the room reserved for visitors. She opened the blackout curtains to let in the natural light and pulled a small table up to the couch. In this space her imagination could wander. An idea might be borne on a gentle breeze or come in a whirling tornado, but there was never an idea that was too big for the good room.

  Outside the window a mournful mechanical wail grew steadily louder. She ignored it. She had grown used to the practice air-raid sirens keening across the city every afternoon.

  Mirabel took up her brush and began painting the dress for Margo’s twenty-first.

  Half an hour later, Father opened the door and poked his head inside. ‘You’ll need to cook dinner tonight, Lei An. Mama is not well.’

  ‘Almost done,’ Mirabel replied, outlining Margo’s skirt with a grey brushline. She hadn’t quite finished. There was still the detail on the bodice to add.

  Life always seemed to get in the way.

  From the ice chest, Mirabel pulled out eggs, tomatoes, a bunch of celery and a small piece of pork. She would make two dishes and a soup. Mama liked soup when she wasn’t feeling well. Breaking the eggs into a bowl, she whisked them with a pair of chopsticks, then diced the tomatoes. She enjoyed the ritual of cooking – the chopping, the marinating, the arranging in neat piles like Mama had taught her, and the stir-frying. Every dish was a work of art. Choosing the right colour, texture and taste for a meal was like painting, the red tomatoes with the yellow egg and a sprinkling of green spring onion. While the meat was marinating in soya sauce, sherry and cornflour, Mirabel washed the rice and put it on the stove to cook.

  As she was slicing the celery into fine strips, Jimmy ran into the kitchen. ‘When’s dinner ready, Mir? I’m starving.’ His hand darted in to grab a piece of celery from the chopping board just as Mirabel came down with the cleaver.

  ‘Stupid boy!’ she said. ‘I could have chopped your fingers off.’

  Jimmy grinned and got himself a glass of water.

  ‘Go upstairs and change before Father sees you. And do you have any homework?’

  Jimmy finished the water in one swallow, wiped his mouth, and said, ‘Mr Arfurs wants us to write an essay ’bout how we can raise money for the war. But it’s so boring. Why can’t we write about footy instead?’

  ‘Stop whining. Football does not help the war effort, Jimmy.’ Mirabel threw the celery into the wok, stirring it with a spatula. The vegetables spat and hissed in the oil. ‘Now hurry, dinner will be ready soon.’

  The room was in darkness except for a small lamp sitting on the dressing table. Mama sat hunched in front of the mirror, dark shadows under her eyes and mouth. When she saw Mirabel, she looked up, blinking.

  ‘Mama, I brought your dinner.’

  Mama forced a smile. ‘I’m not hungry, Lei An.’

  ‘Just drink some soup then.’ Mirabel put the tray on the dressing table. ‘It’s seaweed and egg drop soup. Your favourite. It will make you feel better.’

  Mama picked up the spoon, then put it down again as if the weight of it was too much.

  ‘Do you want me to brush your hair?’ Mirabel asked, taking the brush from the glass top. ‘Your hair is so shiny and black, just like a young girl’s.’

  ‘… young girl …’ Mama repeated mechanically. She began to sing a wistful Chinese folk song. ‘The mountain mist swirls in the valley. The scent of jasmine calls the girls home …’ A strange noise escaped her throat and she began to cry.

  ‘Everything will be all right, Mama.’ Mirabel held her shoulders. ‘Lola upset you, that’s all.’ She stared at their reflection in the mirror – mother and daughter. Here the roles were reversed. Mama usually wore her hair in a bun but she had pulled out the pins and let it fall down her back. It was naturally wavy and wisps of it framed her face. She looked different. Younger. Mirabel brushed and watched her mother’s sad eyes. Mama never spoke of her past, her childhood, how she came to Australia, even though Mirabel had asked many times.

  ‘I am tired now, Lei An. Go downstairs and have your dinner. I will be all right.’

  Mirabel placed the hairbrush on the dressing table. ‘I’ll come back later to pick up the tray. Just try and eat a little, Mama, please.’

  Father and Jimmy were eating in silence when Mirabel entered the kitchen. She sat down at the table and picked up her rice bowl and chopsticks, but she had no appetite.

  Father put both hands flat on the table and looked steadily at her. ‘I will have to send your mother away again,’ he said. She could see the effort it had taken him to say those words.

  ‘It’s Lola’s fault,’ Mirabel protested. ‘She’s the one who should be sent away, not Mama.’ But she knew that Father was right. Mama had grown worse in the past few weeks; her mood swings were more violent, less predictable. The doctors had warned them that she could harm herself, could even harm someone else.

  ‘It’s for her own good,’ Father said.

  He was waiting for her approval, she realised. Mirabel nodded and looked away.

  Jimmy was quiet, staring into his bowl.

  ‘I’ll call Forest Glades tomorrow then,’ Father said softly. ‘This will mean you will have to cook and look after th
e house for a while. I’m hoping to bring down my cousin’s daughter from Bendigo. If I can arrange that, things will be easier for you.’ He sighed.

  ‘It will be all right. I can manage,’ said Mirabel.

  He reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. ‘You’re a good daughter, Lei An. Not like your wild sister, always running around with those rough soldiers. She’ll get herself into trouble one of these days.’ Father stood up from the table. His face brightened a little. ‘I am going to Adelaide next week on business. Would you like me to take a letter to Eva?’

  Mirabel nodded. ‘I would like that. I owe her one.’

  ‘Good.’ Father stood in the doorway. ‘Your mother … she … I know it’s hard for you and Jimmy …’ He didn’t finish his sentence but walked out of the room.

  ‘Go do your homework, Jimmy,’ Mirabel said as she stood up to clear away the dishes.

  ‘You’re too bossy. Mama never tells me what to do.’

  ‘Well, I’m not Mama, so go do it. Now!’ She could feel the strain of the night closing in.

  She went upstairs to her bedroom. With Lola gone, at least she had the whole room to herself. Flopping down on the double bed, Mirabel stretched out like a star, looking up at the ceiling rose – a plaster tangle of leaves and birds. She was too tired to think about Mama.

  Clasping at Shadows

  Mama had first become sick when Mirabel was ten. At least that was when Mirabel first noticed it. The doctor had said Mama needed rest and a change of scenery, so Father found Mrs Pettigrew, a widow with large sagging bosoms, a gentle voice and a house that rocked to the sound of the sea.

  Mirabel remembered the band of tiny broken shells that ran along the water’s edge, the fizzing sound of waves over sand, the lonely cry of seagulls. Once she found the neck of a bottle, its edges worn smooth by the waves. As she held it up to her eye, light refracted through the cloudy amber glass, a small window to a warmer world.