Mirabel had not seen Rose for several months as Rose’s law studies at Melbourne University had kept her social life at bay.
They walked past an old timber mill and crossed a suspension bridge that bounced under their weight. Mirabel and Rose stood in the centre, facing upstream, feeling the urgency of the water rushing towards them, and passing away behind.
‘How’s work?’ Rose asked.
Mirabel shrugged. ‘Nothing’s changed yet. Jock and Murray are still as crazy as ever. They say hello, by the way.’
‘And what about JJ?’
Mirabel could not answer immediately. A tightness welled up in her chest, and to hide the moment she turned around to face downstream.
‘I don’t know where he is.’ She swallowed. ‘I haven’t heard from him, not even one letter.’
‘Hey girl, you don’t look too good,’ Rose said. ‘You’ve gone pale. Let’s get off this bridge.’
On the other side of the river, the path grew even muddier and it began to pour. They crouched for shelter under a fallen tree.
Mirabel took a deep breath, then said it. ‘Rose, I’m pregnant.’
Rose’s eyes widened then dropped down to Mirabel’s belly.
‘I’m only about two months. You can’t see anything yet.’ Mirabel crossed her arms over her stomach.
‘What happened? I mean, didn’t you use anything?’
Mirabel turned her head away. ‘I … we …’ she sighed.
Rose placed her arm around Mirabel. Her voice softened. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Get rid of it, of course.’ Mirabel leant her head against the dead trunk and closed her eyes.
‘You mean an abortion?’
Mirabel shrugged. ‘What choice do I have?’
‘Maybe JJ will come back and you can get married.’
‘I’ve hoped for that, but without even one letter … I don’t think he’s coming back. I can’t have this baby, Rose. My parents …’ Mirabel wiped the drops of rain from her face.
‘You’re not going to try any of those do-it-yourself tricks, I hope. Even an abortion is not as dangerous as that. I know good doctors won’t do them, because they’re illegal, but maybe we can find someone … Oh, Belle.’ Rose hugged her and they stayed that way for a long time.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll think of something,’ Rose whispered.
Mirabel burst into angry tears. ‘I keep sending letters to his headquarters. Surely they would forward them on to him.’
‘It’s this damn war. Nothing is how it should be.’
It was true, Mirabel thought, in the midst of her misery. Yet she would never have met JJ or fallen in love if the war had not taken place.
‘What can I do to help, Belle?’
Mirabel shrugged miserably. ‘Just give me a shoulder to cry on when I need it. That’s all. I think I know where to go.’
‘I’ll skip class and go with you – ’
‘No.’
Rose stared at Mirabel. ‘But you can’t go through a thing like that by yourself …’
‘I’ll be all right. Please, it’s … it’s something I have to do alone.’
Mirabel sat on the floor, her head in Great Auntie May’s lap, tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘Shhh … shhh,’ Great Auntie May soothed, stroking Mirabel’s hair.
‘I have made such a mess of everything,’ Mirabel choked.
‘Perhaps it is meant to be like this,’ Great Auntie May replied in the village dialect.
Mirabel lifted her head. ‘You mean me being miserable and JJ deserting me? Oh, Auntie May, I wish …’
‘I don’t believe he has deserted you, Lei An.’
Mirabel looked into Great Auntie May’s eyes. ‘Then why haven’t I heard from him? I’ve almost forgotten what he looks like.’
‘We don’t know the situation in China. Maybe he never got your letters. I have seen you together …’ She smiled and looked up at the portrait on the wall. ‘He is so like my Neng Bo who was always true to me.’
‘I can’t have this baby, Great Auntie May. I can’t. Father will – ’
‘Do not worry about your father. I believe it will all work out. This baby was meant to be.’
Mirabel was more confused than ever. Both Rose and Great Auntie May wanted her to keep the baby. But how could she?
‘I have to have an abortion,’ she whispered helplessly.
The old woman sighed and kissed Mirabel gently on the top of her head.
Guardian Angel
Mirabel passed Queen Victoria Market then crossed the road to enter the maze of lanes and alleyways where she had become lost two years earlier. It took her a while but she found it at last. The red door with a shiny brass handle. She hesitated, then rapped on the wood.
‘Go away. I’m closed!’ a voice called out.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Mirabel, ‘but I need to talk.’
There was a pause, then, ‘What do you want?’
‘Please, please, open the door.’
A chair toppled. There was an outburst of muffled swearing. The door opened a crack.
‘You may not remember me,’ said Mirabel, standing back, ‘but I came to ask directions once.’
Recognition flashed in the girl’s eyes. ‘Yeah, Miss Priss, all superior and everything. I remember you. Are you lost again?’ The eyes now held curiosity, with the hint of a laugh. ‘What was your name? Estelle or something?’
‘It’s Mirabel – and you are Angel.’ Mirabel smiled, hesitated. ‘Angel, I need your help.’
The curiosity gave way to surprise. ‘Need my help?’ Angel opened the door wider, but as Mirabel started forward, she held up her hand.
‘Hold on a sec there, honey. What’s this about?’ She poked her head out of the doorway and looked up and down the street. ‘Is someone after you? Are you in trouble? Because I don’t want any trouble around here.’
‘No, it’s not that. Well, sort of.’
‘Which is it?’ Angel drummed the door with her fingers. When Mirabel did not answer, her face softened and she sighed. ‘Okay, look, maybe you’d better come in.’ She stood aside. ‘The place is in a bit of a mess but …’ She shrugged and righted the upturned chair, gestured at it, and sat on the bed amongst the mess of crumpled sheets. ‘Now, what’s this got to do with me?’
Mirabel stared at her hands, not knowing how to start. Angel gave her an appraising look, then reached for a packet of cigarettes and offered her one. Mirabel shook her head.
Comprehension suddenly dawned on Angel’s face. ‘Wait a minute. You are in trouble! You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Mirabel shifted uneasily in her chair.
‘It’s just that you’re really pale and what else would you be doing here?’
‘I didn’t know who else to ask. I’m sorry to disturb you.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Angel lit her cigarette and drew in the smoke.
Mirabel felt almost too ashamed to say the word. She cleared her throat. ‘I need an … an abortion.’
Angel looked at her, eyes sympathetic. ‘Hold on, honey. Do you love this guy or was it just a one-night stand?’
‘I love him with all my heart,’ Mirabel replied.
‘So why an abortion?’
Mirabel felt the first stirrings of real feelings for the baby. No, that wasn’t true – she had felt them from the start – but the consequences, the thought of Father and Mama, the social pressures, had overwhelmed them, blocked those feelings out.
‘I doubt I’ll ever see him again. I must have an abortion; there’s no other way.’ She fought to hold back the tears.
‘Oh, a soldier, right? How many times have I heard that story?’ Angel touched her arm. ‘Don’t worry, love. I know someone who can help you. There is a lady who lives only three blocks from here. She’ll take care of everything.’
Angel wrote down the address on a slip of paper. ‘Do you want me to go with you? I can, you kno
w. I’m not working until tonight.’
Mirabel shook her head and stood up.
‘Sure, I understand.’ Angel opened the door. ‘If you go up the lane, then turn left at the third street, you’ll find the house near the corner. Number four. It’s got a broken fence. Tell her Angel sent you.’ She hesitated then said, ‘You know, in another life we might have been friends, you and me. Good luck, Mirabel.’
Mirabel reached over and hugged her. ‘Thank you, Angel,’ she said, then hurried up the street.
A broken paling fence, an old green armchair on the front porch, a motorbike in the driveway, black oil oozing onto the pavement like blood.
Had she come to the right place? Mirabel checked the address Angel had written down. It would have to be number four. Si, the sound of death. A bad luck number for Chinese.
Mirabel breathed deeply to calm her nerves, then rang the doorbell. She heard footsteps – heavy-booted footsteps – coming up the hall. Then a man dressed in workers overalls opened the door.
‘Yeah?’ he said, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Angel sent me,’ Mirabel’s voice came out in a whisper.
The man looked her up and down. ‘Well, I suppose you better come in.’ Then he turned and yelled, ‘Hey, Morta! Got another one for ya!’
Mirabel fought an urge to turn and run.
‘Siddown in there,’ he said, pointing into a bare room containing two old chairs and a low table with a vase of plastic flowers. ‘Morta won’t be long. She just has to wipe down the bed.’ He clomped up the hallway.
Mirabel sat on the chair. She looked around at the grey lace curtains, the brown linoleum curling away from the skirting boards, the bare light bulb coated in dead insects. A fly buzzed at the window in a futile attempt to escape.
Eager footsteps approached from the far end of the house, a lady with a limp, coming up the hallway.
Mirabel clutched at the chair. No, no. This was all wrong. This little baby was her only link with JJ. How could she let someone kill it? A scream fought its way up into her throat.
She ran to the front door, fumbled with the lock and stumbled into the daylight. The woman called out, but she kept on running and running and running.
Finally, Mirabel came to a park and collapsed on the grass, allowing the sun to wash over her, to purify her. She placed her palm on her belly, imagining her baby, JJ’s baby, growing inside her. She breathed in life.
Black Words
Waves of hopelessness came upon Mirabel in the weeks that followed. She had made the right decision, she felt, but sooner or later there would be no hiding it. Father’s reputation, the reputation of the family, would be ruined.
A bad girl. One of those. Who would think that such a respectable family … She pictured the stares, some hidden, some bold; people turning away to avoid greeting her. An unwed mother.
She would have to tell them, and soon.
Would they understand? Mama, maybe. Father, not likely. Forgiveness? Impossible. There were some areas of life where they were implacable. And still not even a cablegram to say that JJ had arrived safely in China. He had been gone now for almost three months.
Her resolve was faltering. But there was no going back.
And all the while, the prediction of the soothsayer repeated its refrain: Dressing the dead. Treasure not wed.
Mirabel sealed the letter to JJ. Anger, betrayal, shame and despair, it was all there, contained in that envelope, and she felt lighter. It would be the last thing she would write to him, she had decided, and she had held nothing back.
There, see what you’ve done? I am pregnant and suffering alone. If you wanted to end our relationship, why didn’t you tell me face to face?
You are a coward. Or was it just me, stupid enough to think that a peasant boy from China was different from the others, that it wasn’t just the war that had brought us together, that somehow our destinies were intertwined. But you are just an ordinary soldier who came to Melbourne to have a good time. And I fell for it.
I am going to have this baby and it will be raised without a father. I hope you suffer knowing that you have a son, for I am quite sure it is a boy, and that you will be tormented by this knowledge for the rest of your life.
I never want to see you again.
She held the aerogram poised above the dark slot. A tiny voice within her called Wait! But she pressed her lips together and opened her fingers. She heard it hit the bottom. It was over.
Mirabel was shaking as she entered the kitchen. Father sat reading the newspaper. The commanding presence he had in public was softened here at home in the kitchen. Mama was deep-frying sweet potato dumplings. Mirabel’s stomach heaved. She sat down, placed both hands on the table and waited for Father to finish reading.
She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the darkness would drive some of the pain away and give her the courage she needed. When she looked up, Father was staring at her.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I need to talk with you and Mama.’
‘Why so serious?’ Father said. ‘Is it something to do with work?’ He smiled.
Mirabel shook her head, close to tears. ‘It’s about … it’s about Lieutenant Lin.’
‘Oh? Have you heard from him?’ Father put down his newspaper.
‘He’s not hurt, is he?’ said Mama, her face showing concern.
‘No, he’s fine … I think. What I want to tell you is …’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘… we were seeing each other while he was stationed here.’ Mirabel glanced at Mama for support. ‘I knew you wouldn’t approve so I didn’t tell you.’
Father’s voice was brittle. ‘Why are you telling us now? He’s gone. It’s over.’
Mirabel took another deep breath. ‘It’s not over, Father … I’m … I’m …’ She looked down at her hands, afraid to see her father’s reaction. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Mama gave a little cry. Her teacup crashed onto its saucer, then rolled off the table. Shards of china scattered around Mirabel’s feet. Silence fell over the kitchen.
When he finally spoke, Father’s voice was shaking. ‘This is not possible.’
He stood up, knocking his chair backwards onto the floor. ‘I’ll kill him. Coming into my house, taking advantage of my daughter … What sort of man does this to a decent girl from a good family?’
Mama’s face was white. Oil dripped off the ends of her cooking chopsticks.
Father turned, his voice firmer. ‘You must get rid of it. I will find a doctor.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ Mirabel said. ‘I’m four months. And I’ve decided to have the baby.’
‘You decided? Who are you to decide these things? You are my daughter and I am the head of this household.’ He paced the kitchen, first folding his arms across his chest, then running his hands through his hair. He repeated these actions, over and over, as he paced and talked as if to himself. ‘This is a good family. I know government ministers, diplomats, many important people who come to me in respect.’
Finally, he stopped and faced her. ‘If one part of a family is infected, it must be cut out and thrown away.’
‘But we … we’re going to get married.’ Mirabel stammered the lie.
‘How? When? Even if he wanted to come back, the government wouldn’t let him because he’s Chinese. He will disappear, Lei An, like any man would. He does not want the burden of a baby, believe me.’
‘That’s not true. We love each other.’ Mirabel held onto these words as if they were true.
‘You have committed a sin,’ Mama spoke at last. She was staring blankly at Mirabel. ‘A sin against God.’
Mama’s words were the final blow.
Mirabel wanted to flee to the sanctuary of her bedroom but Father spun her around, gripping her arm, hurting her. ‘You are to give up your work in the mapping office immediately, you hear? You are not to leave the house. You have brought shame upon our family. Do you hear me, Lei An? Aft
er it is born, you are to give it away.’
Mirabel felt the room darken. Father and Mama became shadowy silhouettes. She sank to the floor, drew her knees up to her chin and covered her ears with her hands. The room was dissolving, melting away.
She was alone.
Despair
Trembling, Mirabel slit open the envelope.
Qing ai de, My darling,
I have wanted to write to you so many times since I left but there was no way any of my letters could get through. Now that the war is over, I finally have a chance to sit down and write. I travelled through Burma to reach Chungking, over the Stilwell Road; the Japanese blocked every other path. So many men died to build that road, but it broke the siege of China.
I am still in Chungking for a while longer. Things will not be normal in China for a very long time. The countryside is in ruins, people are starving, there is widespread famine. But do not fear, Mirabel, I will find a way to come back to Melbourne and we will get married.
I miss you so much. I miss Melbourne and the peace and quiet. I even miss Luna Park.
I do not know where I will be sent next. You can try to write to me at this address but I probably won’t receive your letter. I will write as soon as I am settled.
Be patient a little while longer.
JJ
Mirabel crushed the letter to her breast. If she had been patient a little while longer, if she had trusted in his love, she would never have penned those poisonous sentences that were now on their way to China. Her mind whirled.
If fate were kind, the letter might be placed in the wrong pile and sent to Egypt. Or fall out of the postman’s sack. Or a breeze might push it off the sorter’s desk into a crack where those hateful words would grow dusty and fade.
She trudged up the stairs to her room and sat on the edge of the bed. His letter smelt of mildew. A few droplets of candlewax had hardened on the pale-blue airmail paper, and the last character of his name was smudged, as if he had been in a hurry to send it and hadn’t blotted it dry. She saw him sitting at a desk in his room, writing the letter by candlelight. It would be the height of summer in Chungking when he wrote it – hot and steamy even at night. He had once described it as one of the five ovens of China. Perhaps his room looked out over a busy street and there was a constant stream of pedestrians, bicycles, cars and trucks. The fan would be whirring in the background, providing little relief from the heat, and he would have a damp towel on the back of his neck.
Little Paradise Page 11