If Nan scowled and started making a list of what could go wrong on a Friday, May would get in first.
‘It’s Friday and I’ve got two best friends and nine prawn-and-ginger dumplings,’ she’d say. ‘How good is that?’
With a carefree skip, May went in through the school gate. And discovered it wasn’t as good as she’d thought.
Nowhere near as good.
At first, as May went across the playground, nothing seemed miserable or doomed at all.
Just a bit different.
She saw that somebody else was with April and June. A girl. The three of them were sitting in the Calendar Club meeting place under the climbing frame. The place where April and May and June always had breakfast together.
May squinted, trying to see who it was.
The girl was a bit taller than April and June, and looked a bit older.
‘Hi, May,’ said April.
‘Lo, May,’ said June. ‘This is Julie.’
‘Julie’s joining our club,’ said April.
May felt shocked. And annoyed. Nobody had asked her.
‘We had a vote,’ said June. ‘Me and April voted yes, so there wasn’t any point waiting for you to vote, cause you’d be a majority.’
‘Minority,’ said Julie, looking May up and down.
‘Julie’s Dad’s got an amazing car,’ said April. ‘It’s a Jugular.’
‘Jaguar,’ said Julie.
May didn’t need to be told about the car. She recognised Julie now, the new girl who was repeating year six and who people said had been expelled from her last school.
Each morning her father dropped her off in the No Drop-Off Zone and then did a wheelie in the staff carpark.
‘Hello,’ said May quietly.
Julie didn’t reply. Just stroked her very elegant hair which May calculated must have taken about a million hours to do. Unless going round corners very fast in a Jag made your hair get elegant by itself.
‘So,’ said Julie after a while, staring at May’s tea-towel bundle. ‘This must be the dumpling.’
There was something about the way Julie said it that didn’t sound very friendly to May.
She saw June and April glance at each other nervously.
‘Not dumpling,’ said May to Julie. ‘Dumplings. I’ve only got nine, which doesn’t really divide into four. But you’re the guest, so me and April and June will have two each and you can have three.’
May unwrapped the tea towel.
Julie looked the steamer up and down.
May was shocked to see she was doing it with what looked like a sneer. Nobody sneered at Nan’s dumplings. They were famous throughout the district. Well, maybe not the whole district, but they were famous throughout the Calendar Club.
‘We’re having organic sourdough toast,’ said Julie.
She stood up and pulled a toaster out of the most expensive-looking schoolbag May had ever seen. It was also the most expensive-looking toaster May had ever seen. Gleaming. Elegant. Not a crumb on it.
‘Where can I plug this in?’ said Julie to April and June.
April and June scrambled to their feet.
‘Over there,’ said April, pointing to the porch outside the library.
‘It’s where the teachers plug the loudspeaker system in for jazz dodgeball,’ said June. ‘I’ll show you.’
May wrapped the steamer back up to keep the dumplings warm.
Dumplings and toast. Quite nice actually. She’d often had it.
She watched June and April setting off towards the library porch with Julie and reminded herself of another piece of Dad’s traditional Australian wisdom.
You’re a mug if you don’t give people a second chance.
Julie was probably just nervous about being in a new school and anxious about making friends.
After a few steps, Julie stopped and turned back to May, holding out some very expensive-looking bread.
That’s nice of her, thought May. She’s going to ask how I like my toast.
‘I’ve only got nine slices,’ said Julie. ‘Not enough for you. But you’ve got dumplings. Enjoy your dumplings, dumpling.’
She headed off to plug in her toaster.
May stared.
What did she just say?
April and June were looking shocked too.
The year before, when May had started at the school, the head teacher had taken her aside.
‘We’re a friendly and very inclusive school community, May,’ she’d said. ‘So I don’t expect you to have any trouble. But if anybody does call you a name, you must tell me, OK?’
May had been puzzled.
‘What sort of name?’ she said.
The head teacher looked uncomfortable.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Dumpling, for example. Something like that.’
May was still puzzled.
‘My mum and dad call me dumpling all the time,’ she said.
The head teacher looked more uncomfortable.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but if someone calls you that here, it’ll be different. They’ll be trying to hurt your feelings. On account of where your family comes from and you being a bit plump. If anyone calls you dumpling here, I need to know, OK?’
Nobody had. Not the whole year.
Until now.
May glared at Julie, who was crouching by the jazz dodgeball socket.
That was your second chance, thought May. I’m starting to think you’re not just an anxious new girl, I’m starting to think you’re also an extremely rude person.
She waited for April and June to give rude Julie the flick and come back over to the climbing frame and have their Calendar Club breakfast as usual.
So far they weren’t moving.
Julie turned from the jazz dodgeball socket and called to them.
‘Toast’ll be ready soon,’ she said. ‘You’ll love this marmalade. It’s from Paris.’
May snorted.
This new kid didn’t have a clue. If she thought a bit of organic toast and Paris marmalade was going to break up the Calendar Club, she was dreaming.
Except April and June still weren’t coming back.
They were looking at May guiltily.
April was giving her a shrug.
May felt a chill wind touch her deep inside. The sort of wind you feel when a truck’s brakes have failed in the distance and the truck is hurtling towards you.
It wasn’t actually a truck, but when April and June walked away from her and over to Julie, it felt like one.
May sat under the climbing frame, miserably chewing a dumpling.
She felt numb.
How could they do it? Invite an outsider to join the Calendar Club? A rude pushy outsider who didn’t even like dumplings. And who didn’t even have the right name.
May had always known that April and June were hopeless at spelling, but April, May, June, Julie? That was ridiculous.
The things people do, thought May, for the chance of a ride in a Jag and the hope of non-frizzy hair.
Pathetic.
‘Nice dumplings,’ said a voice.
May looked up.
A boy was grinning down at her from the top of the climbing frame. May recognised him from one of the other year-six classes. She didn’t know his name and she didn’t particularly want to, not at the moment.
‘We have dumplings too where I come from,’ said the boy. ‘They’re called Mantu. Those look good.’
May remembered that the boy was from Afghanistan.
‘What’s in those?’ he said.
May could see he was hoping she’d offer him one.
She was tempted to say prawn toenails and pigs’ bumholes to get him to leave, but she didn’t. They might be delicacies in Afghanistan.
‘Do you mind?’ she said. ‘I’ve got important things to think about.’
‘Sorry,’ said the boy.
He was still looking at the dumplings and his dark eyes were so wistful that May suddenly grabbed a d
umpling and held it up to him.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it. ‘My name’s Karim.’
May realised to her horror that he was climbing down towards her, probably to sit next to her.
That’s all she needed. Word getting around that poor pathetic Dumpling May was so desperate for a friend, she was hanging out with a boy.
‘I’m very busy,’ she said.
The boy’s face clouded.
‘OK,’ he said quietly. ‘Thanks for the dumpling.’
As he headed off across the playground through the yelling kids, May felt a twinge of guilt. She pushed it away.
She’d been telling the truth. She was very busy. Waiting for her best friends to come to their senses. To remember who their real friend was. To spot the difference between a real friend and a pig’s bumhole.
‘Nan,’ yelled May, rushing into the kitchen. ‘I need dumplings.’
Nan came in from the backyard with the scrap bucket, frowning and deep in thought.
‘The chooks have stopped laying,’ she said. ‘I think it’s global warming.’
May sighed.
‘They haven’t stopped laying, Nan,’ she said. ‘I collected the eggs before school.’
Nan took this in and looked at May sternly.
‘We’ve talked about this, Mabel,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you getting up so early. You must sleep in as late as you can on school mornings. Knowledge seeks a rested mind.’
May resisted the temptation to argue. Or to remind Nan how much she hated being called Mabel. This was more urgent.
‘I need your help, Nan,’ she said. ‘I need you to help me make some very good dumplings.’
‘What about the ones we made yesterday?’ said Nan. Her eyes widened with alarm. ‘Did they get stolen? I told you to watch out for thieves on the way to school.’
‘Trucks, Nan,’ said May wearily. ‘You told me to watch out for trucks.’
‘Those as well,’ said Nan. ‘Why do you need more dumplings now?
May told Nan about Julie and the toast and the Jaguar and the Paris marmalade.
She told her about all the times during the day she’d thought April and June would come to their senses.
And how they hadn’t.
Nan put her arms round May and hugged her for a long time.
‘I understand now,’ she said softly. ‘You want special dumplings.’
May felt relief seep through her like the broth in freshly steamed Xiao Long Bao, which when Nan made them were dumpling magic.
‘You want dumplings so special,’ said Nan, ‘so delicious, so tantalising, so irresistible, that all who smell them will fall under their power and no toasted breakfast treat in the world will stand a chance of stealing your friends away.’
May felt tears of gratitude filling her eyes.
Sometimes ancient Chinese wisdom was a wonderful thing.
‘You want superdumplings,’ murmured Nan. ‘Megadumplings. Dumplings that will blow July out of the water.’
‘Her name’s Julie,’ said May. ‘But apart from that you’re spot on.’
Nan gave a long sigh.
May felt a stab of anxiety. She’d heard that sigh many times before. The relief started to trickle out of her like the broth in a Xiao Long Bao that some idiot has tried to pick up with a fork.
‘Oh Mabel, Mabel, Mabel, Mabel,’ said Nan. ‘Dumplings aren’t weapons of war. And even if they were, no friendship has ever been won with a weapon of war. Trying to win friendship with a weapon of war is like trying to pick up water with chopsticks.’
May gave a despairing groan.
For Nan, everything in the world that she didn’t agree with was like trying to pick up water with chopsticks.
‘Please,’ said May. ‘I’m desperate.’
Nan grabbed a pair of chopsticks and reached over to the sink and tried to pick up water with them.
May gave another groan.
Nan gave her another hug.
‘If a friendship is a friendship,’ said Nan, ‘it will be a friendship. Now help me get dinner. We’re having fish fingers.’
May slumped back in her chair.
It was hopeless.
She’d never hated ancient Chinese wisdom as much as she did now.
Faintly, through her despair, May heard the distant sound of Dad’s voice in her memory. The advice he’d given her the day she’d left to come to the city to live.
‘Pay attention to the wisdom of others,’ he’d said, ‘but listen even more carefully to your own heart.’
She’d almost forgotten that.
Now she was glad she hadn’t. Because he was totally right.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ she whispered.
May sat on her bed, deep in thought.
A new club. That’s what she needed. A new Calendar Club with really good friends in it. Friends who wouldn’t dump her the first time French marmalade came along.
Trouble was, there were only three girls in the whole school with Calendar Club names.
April, May and June.
May stared at the wall, desperate.
So desperate that for a few crazy moments she seriously considered letting boys join the Calendar Club. And making them only use the first few letters of their names.
Augie.
Septimus.
Declan.
Maybe one of them would even have a pet called Octopus.
For a brief moment it all seemed possible. Until she remembered she didn’t know any boys called Augie, Septimus or Declan. And even if she found some, they were boys, so what would she talk to them about? Plus she was pretty sure boys liked marmalade even more than girls did.
No, it would have to be dumplings. And if Nan wouldn’t help her, she’d make them herself.
They would be the most amazing dumplings anyone had ever seen. Dumplings that April and June wouldn’t be able to resist. Dumplings that would have them begging to be let back into the Calendar Club.
Strawberry dumplings.
Chocolate dumplings.
Marmalade dumplings.
May grabbed her school bag to find a pen to make a list. There was usually one somewhere in the bottom of the bag. It just took a bit of rummaging.
She rummaged. And felt something.
It wasn’t a pen, it was a small piece of paper, folded tight.
She unfolded it. A note.
Dear May,
Sorry we broke up the club, but we got sick of dumplings. Totally sick.
We’re over them. We never want to eat another dumpling in our whole life.
Sorry.
April and June.
May stared at the note for a long time.
She thought about Mum and Dad and how happy they’d be if she went back to live with them on the farm. And did school on the computer like before and told them she didn’t mind living hundreds of kilometres from civilization and never seeing another kid in actual person.
Happy, but they would know it wasn’t really true.
‘May,’ Dad would say gently. ‘Friendship’s not a hobby, it’s a job. And you don’t get to knock off early on Fridays.’
‘Life isn’t meant to be easy,’ Mum would say, because she was an expert at traditional Australian wisdom too. ‘Fun, but not easy.’
May felt tears stinging her eyes.
Mum and Dad wanted the best for her, she knew that. They loved her so much they were prepared to only see her during school holidays, so she could have the best. A real school. And real friends.
They’d be really sad if they knew how lonely she felt right now. And really disappointed.
May heard a sloshing sound coming from the backyard.
She knew what it was, but to take her mind off Mum and Dad, she peered out the window.
Nan was doing what she did every night. Tipping the washing-up water onto the roots of her cumquat tree. Well, Nan called it washing-up water, but it wasn’t the ordinary sort. For a start it had veggie water in it, plus the water Nan s
oaked her fermented bean curd in. And floating in it were leftover bits of the dried Chinese herbs and twigs Nan boiled up to make ancient potions that cured flu and kept cutlery shiny.
‘Very good for the cumquats, this water,’ Nan often said. ‘Look at them. Supercumquats. Megacumquats.’
May looked at the cumquats now, small orange fruit glowing against dark green leaves in the light from the kitchen.
They didn’t look particularly super. Or mega. They never did. Just like small oranges really.
But May knew they were different. And quite unusual. She hadn’t heard of a single other garden in the whole district that had a cumquat tree.
Perhaps, thought May, it’s not the size that makes them super and mega. Perhaps it’s their flavour.
Except the flavour of cumquats was bitter.
Which was why people made marmalade from them.
‘Mabel, what are you doing? This is not sleeping. Knowledge will not seek a mind that is banging around in the kitchen at three o’clock in the morning.’
Nan stood in the doorway, glaring.
May sighed.
She’d tried to be as quiet as she could, but obviously she hadn’t been quiet enough.
Nan was staring at the pile of cumquats on the kitchen table. All washed and some of them cut into pieces.
‘What are you doing?’ said Nan again.
May suddenly wished she’d talked to Nan about this before she’d started. Got her permission to pick the cumquats.
‘I’m making marmalade,’ said May quietly.
She knew exactly what Nan would say next. A cumquat picked sneakily in the dead of night is an unhappy cumquat. Marmalade isn’t a weapon of war. Things like that.
‘Marmalade,’ said Nan, ‘isn’t a victim of war.’
May looked at Nan.
That wasn’t what she’d expected, and she wasn’t exactly sure what it meant.
‘Those cumquats you’ve cut up,’ said Nan. ‘They look like they’ve been stabbed and shot. To make marmalade you need to slice the fruit very thin. And where are the pips?’
‘I threw them out,’ said May.
‘You need the pips,’ said Nan. ‘The pips make the marmalade set. Don’t throw any more out. And cut the fruit thin. Here, let me show you.’
Nan rolled up the sleeves of her nightie and started slicing a cumquat.
May watched, feeling a bit dazed and not just because it was three in the morning.
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