Andy picked up the bottle of wine and topped up Meg’s glass. ‘What did you do for a job?’
‘Lots of things. I worked in a library, and a bookshop. Later on I got a job at Australia Post.’ Meg could feel a buzz from the alcohol. ‘But I would’ve loved to have gone to university.’
Andy raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘What would you have studied?’
Meg ran her finger around the base of the wineglass. ‘Literature,’ she said and couldn’t help but smile as she said it. ‘No question.’
Just then the waiter arrived with their dishes—a steamed barramundi and a sizzling hotplate of beef and snow peas. Meg stared at the milky eyes of the fish.
‘Would you like some?’ Andy asked, his spoon poised above a bowl of white rice.
Meg nodded and stabbed a piece of beef with her fork. She watched Andy use his chopsticks to pick an eyeball from the fish and pop it like a boiled lolly into his mouth. Her stomach churned.
‘The eyes and cheeks are the best bits,’ Andy said. ‘You have to try.’
Meg chewed the piece of beef. It was sweet and tender, but she couldn’t bring herself to swallow it. She spat it into her napkin and shovelled some rice into her mouth. ‘I’m not a big eyeball fan.’
‘Australians like to chop things up and shape them into burgers and sausages so they can pretend they’re not eating animals,’ Andy said, taking a sip of his wine. ‘In Hong Kong we go to the market. We choose a live fish from a bucket and a live chicken from a cage.’
Andy was right, of course, but it hadn’t always been that way—Meg remembered going to the butcher as a kid and seeing the carcasses hanging from giant hooks out the back.
‘The sausages you eat probably have eyeballs and all sorts of balls in them,’ Andy said, and chuckled.
They ate in silence then, listening to the chatter of the other diners and the chink of porcelain and glass. Meg ate the beef while Andy devoured the fish. When she looked up again she saw red blotches blooming like peonies on Andy’s neck.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You’re going red.’
Andy touched his face. ‘I’m like my dad. He can’t tolerate alcohol either. It’s a kind of allergy. It’s common in Chinese people.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s actually a good thing. I spend less money getting drunk.’
Meg giggled. She could feel the eyes of the other patrons on them, but she couldn’t care less. After another glass of red wine her appetite returned and she even tried one of the fish cheeks, which was really nothing more than a crescent-shaped piece of especially sweet flesh.
It was Meg who suggested they catch the tram home. She felt bad that Andy had paid for the Uber and spent so much on dinner—she didn’t want him to waste any more money.
‘But what about your arthritis?’ he said, looking at her knees.
‘It’s not too bad tonight,’ Meg said, moved by his thoughtfulness. She wasn’t lying—the alcohol had eased her pain. For the first time in a long time, she felt as if she was floating.
It was nine o’clock and the tram was packed. When Meg hobbled up the steps, a pretty woman in a suit got up and offered her a seat. She thanked the woman and sat down. Andy stood beside her, clinging to a hand-strap. A group of Chinese students were chatting and laughing loudly near the door.
Meg didn’t hear the commotion at first, but when the tram came to a stop near the State Library, a man’s voice boomed from the back.
‘Get out of the way, you fucking Asian cunts,’ he yelled as he elbowed his way towards the door. The students stood tall and sucked in their tiny bellies to give the man more room. ‘We have rules in this country. We don’t pick our noses in public, we don’t eat dogs and when we’re on a tram we fucking let people through!’
When the doors closed again the tram was quiet. The Chinese students stared at their phones with knotted brows. A man in a pink shirt apologised to them in a soft voice as if he was, in some small way, responsible for what had happened. Meg looked at Andy, who was gazing through the window with a stony face. The red blotches had disappeared from his neck. At each stop, witnesses alighted and fresh passengers got on. After three stops people were chatting again as if nothing had happened. Only the Chinese students remained shaken—their heads hanging, their shoulders collapsed, their chests caving inwards. Meg knew that look. She’d worn it for most of her adolescence—the look of someone willing the earth to open up and swallow them.
18
Andy was lying on his bed. He could feel the sizzling beef at the back of his throat. When he closed his eyes, he saw the tram man’s snarling face—the dilated pupils, the tobacco-stained teeth, the spittle on his fissured lips.
Andy had heard about people being abused on public transport before, but he’d dismissed the perpetrators as ignorant, or drunk, or both. Now, having experienced it firsthand, he was surprised by how much it affected him. He was less surprised by his fear. He’d long suspected he was a coward—now he knew it to be true. Like everyone, he’d heard about people who, in a flush of adrenaline, had rushed into blazing buildings or lifted cars with their bare hands. But he’d also read about men and women who’d died during acts of heroism. Nobody on the tram had said or done anything—they’d probably read the articles too. When Andy had looked over at Mrs Hughes, she’d averted her gaze, as if she’d been the one shouting slurs.
Just after ten pm, he was roused by his phone. It was his aunt.
‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Andy, happy birthday to you,’ she sang in a loud voice.
‘Thank you, Auntie.’
‘What’s the matter? You sound depressed. You’re only twenty-two, for God’s sake—wait until you get to forty!’
‘It’s nothing. Just something that happened on the tram.’
‘Let me guess—some racist idiot.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s happened to me plenty of times. After twenty years in Australia I’ve got skin as thick as a rhinoceros! Try putting up with your very own mother-in-law—the grandmother of your children—rolling her eyes at everything you say!’
Andy had never given much thought to how hard it must have been for his aunt, marrying an Australian. He knew his grandparents had been disappointed at the time, but it hadn’t occurred to him that her new Australian family might reject her too.
Winnie’s voice softened. ‘I know it’s hard, being in a new place, with new people.’
Andy felt his throat tighten. The wine had made him emotional. He’d forgotten how funny and kind his aunt could be—it was hard to believe she shared blood with his father.
‘When will you be coming to Melbourne again?’ Andy asked. ‘Maybe we can go for yum cha.’
‘Yum cha? In Melbourne?’ Winnie said, shocked, as if, rather than lunch, Andy had suggested a trip to the moon. ‘Andy, you know I’d love to. But with the kids’ school pick-ups and drop-offs and Auskick and ballet and grocery shopping, I hardly have time to do a wee. Australia’s not like Hong Kong—you can’t just get an amah to do everything for you.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘The women here work like slaves.’
Andy forced a laugh.
‘You think I’m joking, but it’s true. That’s why they all look ten years older than they are.’
‘My friend’s mum said it’s because of the hole in the ozone layer.’
Now it was Winnie’s turn to laugh. ‘That too.’
Andy heard the murmur of a male voice, presumably his uncle Craig’s.
‘Anyway, I’ve transferred some birthday lai see to your bank account. You should get it first thing Monday morning.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, don’t give that racist dickhead another thought.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Focus on your studies.’
The next morning was Saturday. When Andy got out of bed a
t eleven, he found himself in an empty house. Mrs Hughes must have left in a rush, because her unwashed teacup and plate were still in the sink. Though she was lazy with dusting, she always washed up after breakfast, and Andy wondered if he should be concerned. He thought about texting her, but worried that might be overstepping some line. She was a grown woman, and this was her house—she could come and go as she pleased.
Andy washed his cup and plate and placed them in the rack to dry. When he was finished, he gazed through the window above the sink at the unruly garden. Buds were sprouting like beads of jade along the branches of the trees, but he could hardly make them out through all the grime on the glass. Feeling restless, he picked up the newspaper lying on the kitchen table, separated the pages and scrunched them into loose paper balls. It took him three hours to clean all the windows, but it was gratifying work. Once he was done, he made himself a cup of coffee and sat back down at the kitchen table to appraise his efforts. The branches looked bright and crisp through the newly polished panes. It reminded Andy of the first time he’d put on spectacles—how amazed he’d been to see the black flecks in the concrete footpath and the people in neighbouring apartments. When he’d described it to his father, his dad said that if change happened slowly, people were less likely to notice it. He’d compared it to parents watching their children grow—it was only when going through old photos that they truly appreciated the transformation.
‘Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,’ Atticus squawked from his cage. Andy had forgotten all about the bird. He looked at the floor of the cage, covered in poo, and opened the door.
‘How rude!’ Atticus said before jumping out.
Andy removed the soiled paper and buried it in the rubbish bin. He spread clean newspaper over the bottom of the cage, folding the corners in to make a rough circle.
‘In possum land the nights are fair!’ Atticus said from his perch on the back of a chair.
Andy laughed. ‘That’s old. Say something new.’
‘Something new!’
Andy found a bag of birdseed on a shelf above the cage. He filled up Atticus’s bowl. ‘There you go.’
‘There you go,’ Atticus said and hopped back inside the cage. He dipped his beak into the food and re-emerged with a large sunflower seed.
‘That wasn’t so bad,’ Andy muttered to himself as he closed the latch. Perhaps his dad was right—little by little, he could get used to anything.
19
Meg was five minutes early. She hadn’t wanted to arrive early, but the bus had made good time. It was a sunny spring day, and people were out walking and cycling. Meg pulled at her skirt. She hadn’t been sure what to wear—it was years since she’d been to the boathouse in Fairfield. As she waited, she looked around at the children in scuffed sneakers and the parents in stained and shapeless T-shirts. Feeling conspicuous in her pleated skirt and patent-leather heels, she rubbed her toe in the dirt.
She had been getting out of the shower when she heard her mobile phone ring at nine am. She’d assumed it was Jillian or the phone company—the only people who ever called her these days—but she recognised Patrick’s voice straight away.
‘Remember me?’
‘Maybe,’ Meg said, her cheeks flushing.
‘It’s a bit hot for it, but I was wondering if you’d be up for some scones and tea later today?’
‘I’d love that.’ Meg wasn’t lying—she enjoyed a Devonshire tea.
‘I promise to have you back before dark.’
Meg watched Patrick stroll down the muddy embankment, hands tucked into his pockets. He was dressed in slacks and a polo shirt—an outfit that said he cared, but not too much. Meg got out a tissue from her handbag and wiped away some of her lipstick.
‘You’re looking lovely,’ he said when he came within speaking distance.
Meg tugged again at her skirt. A button was digging into her flesh. ‘I’m a little overdressed,’ she said. She’d planned on being coy, but there was something disarming about him.
‘In Mary Poppins, Dick Van Dyke wore a candy-striped suit to go punting along the Thames,’ Patrick said, jumping up and clicking his heels together. ‘So perhaps it’s me who’s underdressed.’
There was no table service at the boathouse. Patrick ordered two Devonshire teas and carried their tray to a corner table of the balcony. They sat opposite each other. Below them a family of four rowed across the lake.
‘Best scones I ever had,’ Patrick said as he lathered a scone with whipped butter, ‘were from the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong. Fluffy things served with rose-petal jam and clotted cream.’
Meg started at the mention of Hong Kong.
‘Have you been?’ Patrick asked, sensing her interest.
‘Only very briefly.’ She picked up a knife and helped herself to a knob of butter. ‘But I have a student from Hong Kong living with me at the moment.’
Now it was Patrick’s turn to be intrigued. ‘So I’m not your only male companion.’
Meg didn’t like his teasing tone of voice, but she was pleased to hear him refer to himself as her companion.
‘It’s called homesharing.’
‘Some call it marriage,’ Patrick said, and laughed.
‘A few months ago, a man broke into my house,’ Meg explained. She wanted to make him feel bad for what he’d said. ‘I feel safer having someone else around.’
‘Of course.’ Patrick stuffed the rest of the scone into his mouth. Flour coated his lips.
‘I’d be interested to hear what you thought of Hong Kong,’ Meg said, in a conciliatory tone. ‘My guest doesn’t talk much.’
Patrick wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘It’s a big city. Like New York but with a lot of Chinese people.’ He picked up his cup of tea, took a sip. ‘Back then it was filthy—people spat in the street and there were rats the size of cats. Pickpockets were everywhere—you had to be careful. A guy in an electronics shop ripped me off, swapping my camera for a cheaper model after I’d paid for it.’
Meg had been hoping for something more romantic, along the lines of rose-petal jam and clotted cream. ‘There must have been something you liked about it?’ she said.
Patrick thought for a moment. ‘I liked how the waiters at the restaurants gave us hot towels to wipe our hands before and after our meals. And the view from Victoria Peak was rather beautiful. It felt different to be up there, in the mist, away from all the hustle and bustle. As if the air was easier to breathe.’
After scones they sat on a bench by the water. A young boy was feeding the ducks. It was warm in the sunshine, and Meg took off her cardigan. ‘Do you have grandchildren?’ she asked Patrick.
‘I have one granddaughter, Daisy. A miracle child. Born two and a half months early.’
‘That must have been hard,’ Meg said, hating herself for opening this can of worms. It was too early, too depressing, to talk about her complete lack of family.
‘It was hard, at the start,’ Patrick said. ‘But she’s a little firecracker. She wasn’t going to let anything stop her from coming into this world.’
Fearful of silence and the questions it might prompt, Meg drew Patrick’s attention to the boy throwing oats at the ducks.
‘I wish I could be like him. Living in the moment. Not thinking about the past or the future.’
Patrick put his hand next to Meg’s, which was clutching the edge of the bench. She felt the brush of his skin and relaxed her grip, just a little.
In the car on the way home, they fell into an easy silence. When Meg sneaked a look in Patrick’s direction, he was smiling.
‘You can turn left here,’ she said when they reached the end of her street.
Patrick parked in the driveway. He pulled up the handbrake but left the engine running. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t offer to pick you up,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit out of practice at this stuff.’
‘I take the bus all the time,’ Meg lied.
‘Well, next time I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Okay.’
‘And I’ll wear a candy-striped suit.’
Meg laughed, thanked Patrick and got out of the car. As she picked her way, in heels, down the gravel path to the front door, she was conscious of his eyes on her. Once inside, she flicked off her shoes and stumbled to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. The room seemed brighter than when she’d left it—the walls whiter, the colours richer, the windows practically gleaming.
20
Andy didn’t hear Mrs Hughes arrive. He was lying on a towel in the backyard, sunning his face and listening to music. His chin had broken out in pimples, and Ming had told him that UV light was good for acne. He’d found the one patch of lawn beneath the jacaranda tree that wasn’t choked with weeds. Grass was so precious in Hong Kong, it was often cordoned off with rope like a museum exhibit. Sometimes there was even a small sign erected in the middle, warning people that they risked a heavy fine should they sit or walk or run on it, or do anything other than admire it.
Andy opened his eyes to find Mrs Hughes hovering above him, her hair a white aura around her face. He pulled out his earbuds.
‘I didn’t hear you get back,’ he said, sitting up.
‘Don’t get up,’ she said, and knelt beside him. There was a crunching sound, like tyres on gravel.
‘Was that your knees?’ Andy asked.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Hughes sighed.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t be sitting on the ground.’
‘It sounds worse than it feels.’ She arranged herself on the grass.
‘There’s a name for that noise in your knees,’ Andy said. ‘It’s called crepitus.’
‘I like it,’ Mrs Hughes said. ‘It sounds like what it describes.’
‘Yes,’ Andy agreed.
‘We have a word for that too—when something sounds like what it describes. It’s called onomatopoeia.’
‘Ono what?’
‘Onomatopoeia.’
Andy tried, unsuccessfully, to pronounce the funny word. ‘It sounds like something a kid made up.’
Room for a Stranger Page 6
