Hard Word

by John Clanchy

  But the Asian ladies aren’t like that but much quieter and take their shoes off at the door, and at first I think it’s because they’ve seen how clean I’ve got the carpet, but Mum says, ‘No, they do that anyway.’ Imagine taking your shoes off every time you went into Toni’s house, especially if they’re runners and you’ve just come from the gym or netball, and Toni’s mother would be going, ‘What’s that dreadful stink in here?’

  And the other thing the Asian ladies do is, you go to say hello and suddenly all you can see is the tops of their heads, and if you bow back … there was this one girl – Mum says they’re all women not girls – but one of them looks like she should be in Katie’s grade, anyway I bow back to her and she’s Japanese and what happens is, she bows back and it’s much lower than I bowed in the first place, so I think, God, and bow again, and in half a minute we’re under the carpet and our heads are banging on the floorboards we’re bowing that low. And if they don’t bow that low, they’re joining their hands and just bowing their heads like they’ve just come back from Communion or something and still have the bread in their mouths and you don’t know whether to speak yet because they might still be swallowing something, and so you both wait till their arms fall off and they become normal again and smile and say something that you kind of think is English but you can’t understand a word of it and wonder what Mum has been teaching them for the last fourteen hundred years.

  And Philip – I feel sorry for Philip because if you think you’ve mucked it up, Philip makes a mess of it all right from the start, and you can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him because he’s the only man and most of the women say hello and ignore him, and I’m sure they think he’s been hired for the day – but he gets better later, and some of them like him and even start talking to him as if he was a real person like everyone else. But at the start, when he’s trying to be helpful and get everybody drinks and chips and trying to find out whether they like chicken better or beef, or a few of them from the Middle East, Mum says, might like lamb, and he’s asking them to see what proportions of kebabs and things to put on the barbecue, he gets himself hopelessly tangled up – like the first woman, Maria, comes out into the yard, and Philip smiles at her and he’s in an apron with a fork in his hand like some ad for KFC or something equally dorkish, but he’s trying and you give him credit for that, and he says to Maria:

  ‘Ah, now here’s a lady looking for a drink.’

  And this crazy woman Maria, she stops and puts one foot right forward like Miss Temple when she does the bit from Julius Caesar when Antony goes ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen … only Maria doesn’t say this but says, ‘What does it look like?’ and then bursts into laughter, and poor Philip doesn’t know what’s going on, and I see him mouth Jesus and pretend the chicken’s burning and rush back to the barbecue and yells over his shoulder:

  ‘Drinks over there, please help yourself while I look after this.’

  In the end I have to rescue Maria who’s still saying to herself, ‘What does it look like?’ except that she says it with the emphasis on different words like, ‘What does it look like?’ and ‘What does it look like?’ which, when you hear it – especially the second one – sounds pretty weird.

  And then this Greek woman comes out into the yard, and she’s not like the others so much, she hardly smiles and she’s got a face that’s just like the Black-Faced Madonna on Grandma Irini’s wall back at home, at my second home, I mean, in Greece, and she’s carrying this plate with gladwrap over it and brings it to Philip who says, ‘Hello, and what have we here?’ and pulls the gladwrap off. ‘Ah, dolmades,’ he says, and then holds them out to the Greek lady and says, ‘Would you like to try one?’

  And she says, ‘No, thank you, I don’t like them’, and goes and sits in the sun with her back to the Sandersons’ fence and puts her hands in her lap almost as if she’s meditating, and won’t take a drink either, and I’m sure Philip’s mouth says Fuckkk –

  But then all these pretty Asian girls or women – I never know which to call them – come out, and Philip’s forgotten about the Greek woman, she may as well be part of the Sandersons’ fence now for all he cares, and he’s racing round after the Asian girls and perving down their dresses like the fake he is, and the Japanese girl he’s chasing in particular, and she’s trying to get away from him, and he’s coming by every second minute to fill her orange juice again and she’s getting embarrassed and I see her tip half of it into Mum’s zucchini patch just so she can show she’s polite and drinking it, but this only brings him back with the carafe, and if she took any more her bladder’d be bursting and she’d be sitting on the toilet for the rest of the afternoon, and I wonder where on earth Philip thinks she’s putting it all, in her handbag or something.

  And, of course, when the first meat’s cooked and Philip’s totally forgotten who wanted what because he’s been too busy telling Yuriko, the Japanese woman – that’s her name, Yuriko – how he’s always wanted to study haiku and calligraphy and Zen Buddhism … and I think, Philip –? Zen Buddhism –? What a fake. Zen bottoms is all he’d be interested in studying … And all this time poor Yuriko’s nodding and saying ‘Ah!’ and ‘Ah!’ over and over till her head’s about to come off and fall in the barbecue, Philip, of course, gives her the first kebab – it’s chicken – and she goes:

  ‘No, someone else.’

  But Philip insists, he claims he’s cooked it specially for her, so in the end she takes it, and he waits and says, ‘Aren’t you going to try it?’

  And she goes, ‘Yes, of course,’ and picks a bit of capsicum off the skewer and slips it between her front teeth, and says, ‘Verr-ry good.’

  Philip laughs then and says, ‘Now, try the chicken,’ and I’m thinking she’s too embarrassed and shy to hold up the skewer and eat off it because the skewer’s laden with chicken pieces as thick as her arm, but she smiles again and says:

  ‘I vegetalian.’

  And Philip just looks at her in his stupid apron and says, ‘Oh,’ and goes back to his barbecue, and she’s free then for the rest of the afternoon. Philip can be such a fake.

  Except she’s not really free even then because I have to go over and rescue her cos Philip’s so stupid he hasn’t taken the kebab thing back from her and she’s standing there not knowing what to do with it and covering herself with meat smells, and I know she’s going to be sick any moment or throw it over the fence behind her and Tiger, the Sandersons’ dog, will gobble it up, skewer and all – he ate a T-bone once, I saw him, in one gulp, kerrunch and glomp – and be spiked in the heart and Mum’ll be up for murder – the Sandersons are such maniacs when it comes to their stupid dog – but then I think, no, it’ll be Philip because he cooked it and gave it to her and I almost don’t do anything, but then I think Philip’s a lawyer, he’ll get himself off on some fake argument or res or something, and Tiger’ll be dead for nothing, and so I take pity on her and go over and take the kebab from her, and I’m glad I did because Philip’s right, she’s so pretty and tiny and delicate and I like her straight away and am feeling very happy until I look down and see her feet in these tiny silver sandals which must be about size four or five at the most, and opposite them there are these pair of runners which are about size twenty-four and a half with twelve inches of rubber under the sole.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘You are Laura?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You are vegetarian?’

  ‘I am Yuriko,’ she says, and I think just listening to people talk can be weird sometimes. But then I realize I don’t know how good her English is, so maybe she thought I was asking her name, so I speak really clearly, pushing my lips out so they’re almost hanging over the Sandersons’ fence in the end.

  ‘Would-you-like-some-salad?’ I say. ‘And-rice?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, and her English is excellent. ‘Salad and rrr-ice.’

  And I don’t laugh or anything because I know about Japanese people from Mum. And remembering she’s from Japan, I say
– because I don’t know whether it counts as meat or not – ‘And some fish? Would you like some fish?’

  ‘There is fish?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ And I point to one end of the barbecue. ‘There,’ I say, and she looks.

  ‘It is cooked?’ she says, and her hand covers her mouth, and if it’d been Toni who’d asked, I’d normally just have said, No, it’s just been splatted by an atomic bomb actually. But since she’s Japanese and she’s so nice, I just say:

  ‘Oh, yes, Philip’s cooked it already.’ And I’m thinking, maybe she’s worried she’ll have to cook it herself and won’t know how to use the long forks and tongs and things, but she just says, ‘No, thank you. Salad and rrr-ice will be good.’ And this time she says rrr-ice with so many r’s, she has to put her hand back up to stop her spit putting out the barbecue.

  ‘If you’re sure?’ I say, and take her back over to the salad table. As we go past the barbecue, I put the kebab back on the grill, but Philip just looks away and pretends that he doesn’t notice, and I hear Mum say:

  Ah! Here’s Sorathy and Njala. How wonderful. Everyone’s here now. And this must be My Huoy,’ she says. ‘Isn’t she just gorgeous?’

  And when I turn round to look, Mum’s got this tiny Chinese doll in her arms and she’s kissing her on the cheeks and going oh and ah and clucking all over it and making everyone vomit into the bushes and over people’s fences just to watch her, but even I have to admit she’s beautiful and I hope when Mum’s finished suffocating her and tearing her hair out which is as black and shiny as ink, she’ll turn around and say, Look, Laura, isn’t she beautiful? Look after her for a while for us, will you?

  And she does.

  And this starts another round of poking and holding and looking into people’s teeth, till Katie appears and rescues us, and I leave My Huoy with her and go and help Mum because people are already finishing their first course and don’t know where to put their plates, and I pack some up and take them up into the kitchen to get them out of the way, and from the kitchen I look back down into the yard, and the sight – although I’ve been part of it too till now – almost makes me catch my breath, because I look down and all I can see is this blur of colour, of people moving back and forwards across the yard and all this cloth is flowing with them, saris and scarves and veils and billowing pants things, reds and blues and yellows – some gold – and the people themselves are coloured too, brown and white and yellow, and one, Renuka, nearly black, even though she’s only Sri Lankan and not African at all. And I realize I love this, this colour – and the noise, it’s like a column rising above the lines of the fence, and I imagine Mr Sanderson looking down from his house next door, and he’s about as dumb and thick as Tiger, his dog, and I can almost hear him grumbling under his breath the way he does and saying, ‘Well, I’ve seen the lot now,’ and he’ll call his wife, Cynthia, who’s nicer than him but just as dumb, and say, ‘Cyn, look at this, willya? The Trents or the Harcourts or whatever they call themselves, are turning their yard into a fucking chookhouse.’ Only I don’t care because when I grow up I’m going to be an English teacher and go to Greece, and India and China and everywhere – except I won’t marry someone like Dad and have someone like me on the way.

  And just at that moment, I realize how soppy and sentimental I’m getting, and when Mum looks up at the window and catches my eye and blows me a kiss to show how happy she is that everything’s going so well – and I bet when she does this she doesn’t even remember not inviting Philip – I frown back at her and stare hard, as though the sun’s glaring in my eyes and I can’t tell who she is, and in this crowd she could be an Eskimo or a Zulu, or Hottentot, or something. Instead of my mother.

  As I come down the steps from the back door, Grandma Vera is sitting on a cane chair in the sun and next to her there’s the Spanish woman, or Chilean or something, Maria, the one who arrived first, and she’s still poking people. She’s poking Grandma this time, not telling her she’s her daughter and she’s going to take her home, but:

  ‘Fatso?’ she’s saying, poking Grandma Vera again. ‘You just watch who you’re calling Fatso, Fatso.’

  And as I go past I can’t believe it because Grandma Vera’s giggling like a little kid, and she reaches out and – well, she doesn’t grab, because she can hardly even hold anything any more – but she lets Maria put her pokey finger in her hand and she closes her hand over it, and they both start giggling together. And I’ve never seen that before.

  Anyway, this all goes on for about three and a half years, and by two-thirty everybody’s scattered to different parts of the house and the yard, and Mum’s in the front room teaching Yuriko and Sorathy and Hué to play Scrabble – that’s after she’s taught us all to sing ‘Advance Australia Fair’ in the backyard, and I’m sure the Lebanese lady, Njala or someone, next to me was singing ‘Australia’s sons are ostriches,’ and I imagine Mr Sanderson looking out from behind his curtain and saying, ‘Well, they can cluck and they can sing, but will they lay?’ And others are sitting round the yard in groups and talking, but under the shade of the trees now because they’re afraid of the sun, because even though they’re as brown as nuts already they think they’ll get burnt, and all this is so Mum can say it was a ‘language event’ and justify the Cambodian lady’s getting out of prison, and she’s the first prisoner we’ve ever had in the house, even though Philip’s a lawyer and must be dealing with criminals all the time and getting them off on fake alibis, and My Huoy has gone off to play with Katie and her toys and Grandma Vera’s with them, and last time Mum sent me to check on them, Grandma had stopped giggling and was just sitting and singing over and over ‘Goodnight sweetheart, Sleep will banish sorrow …’ but neither Katie nor My Huoy even looked like going to sleep but were busy dressing dolls.

  And all this time I’m thinking Mum’s in such a good mood, I’ll ask her if Philip can come to dinner tomorrow night and he can help me with my Maths homework which I’ve put off doing all week and now it’s due on Monday and I haven’t even started, but suddenly at quarter to three – it’s weird – it’s like a silent alarm or bell’s gone off that they can all hear but I can’t, and they all get up and drop whatever they’re doing, and start belting out the front door like there’s a tourist bus waiting and it’s been honking and revving its motor and is about to leave them in the middle of the jungle or somewhere and there won’t be another bus for four and a half weeks, when in fact it’s completely silent except for the racket they’re making them selves rushing towards the front door, and I whisper to Mum, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s perfectly normal,’ she says. ‘It’s a more Asian style of visiting.’

  ‘Normal?’ I say. ‘What, eat and run?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. And anyway, they’re all starting to feel guilty about enjoying themselves so much, and worrying about their families.’

  Weird, if you ask me. But they’re going, and cars are starting up and everybody’s yelling and saying, ‘See you after the break, See you in class,’ pronouncing everything perfectly, and saying thank you to Mum, only the Greek woman, Eleni, says Mrs Miriam, which sounds so funny, and they’re all kissing and poking me and Katie who’s come out to say goodbye, and I’ll never be able to wear short sleeves again I’ll be so bruised. It’s lucky I’m not a haemophiliac, I’m just thinking, when Mum says to me, ‘Besides, Sorathy’s got to get back by three.’

  ‘To prison?’ I say.

  ‘Well, not quite prison,’ Mum says. ‘The Detention Centre.’ But we look at Sorathy who’s getting her things and is about the last to leave, her and the Lebanese lady, Njala, who’s driving her back.

  And that’s when it happens. And the day falls apart. Like Mum’s face. I see it when it happens. Mum’s just turned from waving someone off and Philip’s out on the lawn, waving like a mechanical windmill to all these people he still doesn’t know – just as he doesn’t know he’s still got his stupid apron on, and he doesn’t look like a lawyer at all but more l
ike a butcher throwing meat instead of newspapers over people’s fences – and when Mum turns, her smile’s still on her face. And I see her look at something, and her face freezes. And then she says in this strange voice:

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  And I wonder what she wants, because Katie’s right next to me, and has been waving her arm off too for the last seven hours, and why would Mum be asking Katie her name. Or maybe it’s not her name she’s asking.

  ‘Katie,’ she says, and I know when her voice is as steady as this something’s really wrong, it’s like there’s a snake on the carpet just behind Katie, and Mum doesn’t want her to move a muscle but is just trying to keep her still as a stone with her voice and hope that that way, everything will be all right. ‘Katie,’ she says for the third time, and I wonder if she’s ever going to get it out. But she does, eventually. ‘Where is My Huoy?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Katie says.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ she says, but this time she’s smiling – but not a real smile and not at Katie but at Sorathy who’s standing behind Katie now – and just then Philip comes in the front door behind Mum and I can see from the look on his face, he’s about to say Thank Christ for that, when he sees there are two of them still left, and he puts on this fake smile, so both Mum and him are standing there like two store dummies in a Brack painting. ‘But My Huoy was playing with you,’ Mum says to Katie.

  ‘That was before,’ Katie says. ‘Then she went for a walk with Grandma Vera, but I didn’t want to.’

  A walk?’ Mum says, and that’s when her face falls apart. A walk where?’

  And even Katie’s scared now.

  ‘Just in the yard,’ she says.

  And, hearing this, I suddenly know what Mum’s thinking. Usually the back and front doors are deadlocked, and with the beeper and things one of us always knows where Grandma Vera is, because if she gets a chance, she’ll just wander off. Like Mum does now, only she’s not wandering, but running out towards Grandma’s flat. ‘Mother?’ she’s calling ‘Mother?’ And Philip goes after her, and both of them, I see, as they go past, give Sorathy this grin, like they’re saying, It’s all right, it’s okay, we’ll just go and get her. But the weird thing is, Sorathy’s face doesn’t change at all, and – just for this tiny second – I look into her eyes, and they’re oval and huge and not like My Huoy’s at all, and I find I’m looking into something that’s black and empty and has no bottom at all, and I’m really more frightened by this than anything else.