by Cate Kendall
He told her she was gorgeous and for the first little while she believed him. By the time she decided that he'd been making it up just to be polite, they were already married with a baby on the way. And boy, that was an ugly time of life; she shuddered, remembering her swollen ankles and elephantine stomach. She didn't realise that her skin had glowed, her eyes had sparkled and her hair had grown thick and glossy. She didn't hear it when Tony had told her over and over.
So Sera dedicated herself to getting beauty into her life whenever she could. She was always searching for the next nail polish, gardenia bush or curtain fabric. All she wanted was enough lovely things to obliterate the memory of the shabby farmhouse with its overgrown front lawn, the tin roof so rusted it could no longer hold onto its gutter and the ugly kitchen with its dirty smells. And her scar.
Sera looked at her backyard in the late summer darkness. A heady scent from the last flush of the rose-bushes wafted over and she smiled as she looked at their full droopy heads. She thought of her beautiful children tucked up in bed, and felt a rush of guilt that she hadn't kissed them goodnight.
She looked up at the rich silk drapes over her bedroom windows. Her world was beautiful. A tiny smile came to her lips as she stood to go next door. There was beauty everywhere. She leant down to pick up the box of pies that had fallen next to the fish pond. She caught a glance of her reflection in the still water.
Well, nearly everywhere.
~ 13 ~
Chantrea's car screeched into the Babyface Childcare carpark. Today of all days, her flight had been delayed. Parent–teacher interviews freaked her out at the best of times: she always felt as if she was the student and the teacher was assessing her performance. She glanced in the mirror and ran her fingers over the temporary tattoo on her bicep. What had she been thinking? This was not a good week for experimenting.
Sally's room leader was conservative at her most way-out. Plaid was her idea of crazy. An eager young graduate, Nancy Thistlethwaite had rushed into the childcare system with a knapsack full of good intentions. It had been her dream to take the clay of the infant mind and mould it into intricate and sophisticated sculptures.
She had quickly discovered the crèche system was more about red-tape than cultural enrichment; that there were more soiled underpants than child prodigies and the thrill of intellectual conversation with like-minded souls in actual fact turned out to be bitter twenty-year-olds backstabbing each other in the tea-room, but Nancy remained steadfast in the face of tedium and was still determined to make a difference.
Chantrea rushed to the school's front door, passing a couple of mothers on their way back to the carpark. Chantrea vaguely knew them both – certainly enough to know that they prided themselves on being loosely linked to Sydney's social royalty. In their minds, the closer one's connection to the Murdoch family the higher up the blueblood ladder one was.
The woman with the platinum bob, Suzette Martin, spoke with a nasal upper-class twang and was aristocratically beautiful – as refined as white sugar. Suzette's cousin had actually sat next to young Sarah Murdoch last year at a luncheon. Her companion, Virginia Cross, looked like a duller version of Princess Anne, with her dowdy fashions and dishwater-brown hair. These women's Bellevue Hill homes sprawled across one of the city's most exclusive slopes, with pristine gardens and to-die-for views.
As Chantrea rushed toward them they stopped chatting and appraised her with critical stares.
'Evening, ladies. Gorgeous night, isn't it?' Chantrea chirped, smiling widely at them.
'Err, what? Oh yes . . . lovely . . . quite,' Suzette stammered, clutching at the pearls around her neck.
'Yes . . . rather,' was the best Virginia could manage. Accustomed to freezing others into embarrassed silence, both women had expected Chantrea to lower her eyes and walk past in silence.
Chantrea grinned happily to herself as she watched the women's reactions. She had learned years ago that attack was the best form of defence, and the sweeter and more well-mannered the attack the better.
She glanced through the classroom door to see Nancy deep in conversation with another mum, so she slipped back outside to enjoy the warm evening. Sitting on the playground bench, Chantrea quickly realised she could hear Suzette and Virginia chatting in the car park, their voices carrying on the still evening air.
'Of course I'd much rather not have to use childcare at all, but three short days a week isn't much,' Suzette was saying.
'But of course, darling, it's so good for their development and socialisation. My young Edward only comes two days.'
'It's just a scandal that some mothers use this facility almost as a boarding house for their children,' Suzette said. 'Do you know there's a little five-year-old who's always the first in and last to leave every day of the week?'
'That's just appalling. Why do these people even bother to have children anyway?'
'Disgusting, isn't it?' sniffed Suzette. 'It's that little Cambodian girl in the kindergarten room; her mother is that wild-looking creature we just passed,' her voice dropped at this point and Chantrea couldn't hear what was said, but their peals of laughter made it clear it wasn't complimentary.
She sat grim-faced and shocked. How dare they? Sally wasn't here that often.
'Oh, it's typical though.' Suzette had returned to her normal speaking voice. 'You know what those Asians are like.'
'It's terrible how they come to this country just for the free government hand-outs,' Virgina sniffed.
Chantrea's head was spinning. She sat motionless, trying to process the ugly racism that made her feel separate – different and inferior – with just a few casual words and it didn't feel good. Not good at all.
Just then the kindergarten door opened and it was her turn. Chantrea felt scrambled and lightheaded, which made it hard to concentrate on the interview, but she heard enough to know that all was well with her daughter. As she nodded numbly, her mind raced. Did she leave Sally here too much? Were the women right? Was Sally suffering?
As she got up to leave, Nancy made a comment that brought her hurtling back to the present. 'Of course there is one thing that interests me,' she said.
'What?' Chantrea asked wearily.
'It's probably nothing,' the young woman said. 'It's just that she's become fascinated with her culture.'
'Culture? What do you mean? Like ballet? Art galleries?' Chantrea asked, very confused.
'No, her culture – the fact she's Cambodian,' Nancy explained.
'She's Australian!' Chantrea said defiantly.
'I know she was born here, I mean her heritage. She's become very interested in her background and has actually been sharing some fascinating insights into her people,' Nancy explained.
'Her people! What in the hell . . . ?' Chantrea was now speechless. What was this woman on about? She glanced up at the 'Who I Am,' wall behind Nancy and it suddenly struck her. The rows of children who attended crèche in this predominantly Anglo-Saxon area all stared back at her, many with the Nordic blue or green eyes. They had white-blond hair and English surnames.
And there was little Sally. Chantrea had always looked at her beautiful brown-eyed daughter with the golden skin and the dark brown hair and seen her for what she was: a gorgeous baby girl. But now she could see what others saw. She had a Cambodian daughter.
Chantrea had thought by giving her an Aussie dad and an Aussie name her little Sally O'Leary would be able to fit in. She didn't want her precious little angel to have to go through all the shit she went through. She didn't want Sally to have to contend with the racial taunts; the teasing; the loneliness. And now it seemed Sally was actually boasting about being different. As a child Chantrea would have given anything not to have been born in South-East Asia; not to have been one of the 'chinks' at her western suburbs primary school.
'It's been wonderful, actually,' Nancy kept raving. 'The other children are fascinated. She's been telling us about Angkor Wat, teaching us some Cambodian words and even bringing in Cambod
ian food for us to try.'
'WHAT?!' Chantrea exploded. What in the hell was going on? Even as she asked herself the question she knew there was only one answer to this mystery.
Her mother.
~ 14 ~
'Oh, you're early.' Jacqueline did not sound impressed.
The light from the hallway bathed Chantrea in a warm glow as Jacqueline opened the door, but the welcoming atmosphere was spoilt by Jacqueline's frosty greeting. Earliness was akin to tardiness in Jacqueline's book of etiquette.
'Yeah, sorry . . . it's just . . . I finished up early at school.' Still feeling sensitive, Chantrea uncharacteristically started stammering her apologies until she glanced at her watch and realised she was only five minutes early. 'Oh, for God's sake, Jacqueline, it's twenty-five past.'
'Hmmm,' demurred Jacqueline, 'well, you might as well come in. Sera's early too.'
She led Chantrea into the 'good' room where Sera was already seated. 'Make yourself at home and I shall fix us all Fluffy Ducks,' she smiled, heading for the kitchen.
'I am never going to forgive you for including her in this group,' Chantrea hissed to Sera after she'd hugged her hello. 'She's a fucking nightmare.'
'I know, I know, I'm sorry,' replied Sera, rolling her eyes. 'She was so nice to me when we moved in, though.'
'Didn't you see at the time how superior she could be?' Chantrea whispered.
'Well, she did bang on a bit about her precious boys, but that's just a proud mum, isn't it? You're right though, she is getting worse.'
'Ya think?' said Chantrea, leaning forward to select a dainty hors d'oeuvre from the floral tray. 'Bleargh!' She spat it into a pastel-coloured napkin. 'What the hell?'
Sera fell laughing onto the over-stuffed chintz cushions. 'I was going to warn you, but then I decided, bugger it, it would be way more fun to watch your reaction! She made asparagus spears out of icing. Tonight's theme is apparently "Sweets for the Sweet".'
'Bitch,' Chantrea grumbled, shoving the evidence into her handbag.
'So how are you, anyway?' asked Sera, when her laughter subsided. 'I haven't seen you all week. Everything still crazy busy?'
To her great surprise, tears sprang into the eyes of her tough friend.
'Oh no, what's wrong?' Sera leaned forward with concern.
'Bloody bitches at bloody crèche. Bloody cows,' Chantrea sniffed. She quickly related the evening's events.
Sera knew Chantrea kept her past to herself, in fact she only found out where she'd been born after an in-flight mix-up once, when a Chinese passenger was having difficulty communicating and the purser asked Chantrea to help out. Sera had never seen such an explosion.
'How the fuck dare you!' Chantrea had hissed at the white-faced purser, 'Just because I look Asian you think I can suddenly speak the hundreds of languages and dialects scattered around the entire region? You'll be asking me to translate for the Pakistani passengers next. What about you? Why don't you go and translate for those Croatian passengers? You've got bulbous round eyes and so have they. You must be cousins!'
The purser had tried to calm her down. 'Look, Chantrea, I just thought I'd ask. I don't know, do I? I thought you'd speak Mandarin because you come from China.'
'I'm from Cambodia, you ignorant bitch,' Chantrea spat, storming into the galley. The purser had reported her and Chantrea had been suspended for several weeks.
Now Sera was outraged at what she was hearing. 'That's disgusting, how dare they!' she fumed. 'We need to go to the police; they can't go around saying things like that!'
'That's a bit much, Sera,' Chantrea said. 'Anyway, I couldn't give a shit. They can rot in their Escada for all I care. What I am so angry about is my bloody mother.'
Sera had often heard Chantrea complain about her mother, the hard-working and feisty Dara Kim. To make ends meet, Chantrea and Dara lived together, both working long hours and co-parenting Sally. Although Chantrea hated that her mum raised Sally half the time – often completely ignoring her parenting rules – she desperately needed her help.
But Sera had never seen Chantrea so angry with her mother as she was tonight.
'I can't believe it, I just can't believe it.' Chantrea was practically shaking as she clasped her hands and leaned forward staring at the ground. 'I thought it was over, I thought I'd shaken it. I had made the break, I'd put that . . . all that . . . horror behind me . . . behind us.'
'Chantrea, I'm sorry, I just don't understand. What's to be ashamed of? Why aren't you pleased that Sally is proud of her heritage?'
'Proud?' Chantrea looked up at Sera, her eyes glowing with bitterness. 'What can Sally be proud of, Sera? That her mother's a refugee? A stinking boat person?'
Sera hadn't realised her friend had arrived in Australia as a refugee. She stared at Chantrea wide-eyed. They sat looking at each other, with only the gentle tick of a crystal clock on the mantelpiece punctuating the long silence.
Suddenly Jacqueline's voice floated down the corridor. 'I'll be there in a shake of a lamb's tail – the Fluffy Ducks are nearly ready.'
'Hellooo!' Mallory trilled from the front door a moment later. She always let herself in and yodelled through the house, which Jacqueline found incredibly annoying. But, overloaded as she was with a tray-full of ornate cocktail glasses, a jug of yellow foaming liquid and an array of little paper umbrellas, it was quite handy that Mallory was able to let herself in.
'Mallory, darling, do come in,' Jacqueline twittered triumphantly – still managing to maintain her control as a hostess, just seconds before Mallory's little foot actually crossed the threshold.
'Mwah, mwah.' Jacqueline air-kissed the latest arrival from a distance, over the tray of goodies, then indicated with her head. 'They're all in there, darling, I'm just serving cocktails.'
'Hiya all!' Mallory bobbed her pretty head from side to side in greeting. With her golden plaits and smocked mini-dress she looked remarkably like an extra from The Sound of Music. And as always, Mallory was blissfully oblivious to the room's thick air of tension and quickly dispelled it with her sunny presence. She had the happy knack of being able to radiate warmth, happiness and good intentions wherever she went.
Mallory and her husband Vince had had their surprise daughter while Mallory was still in her teens and the child's birth seemed to have stopped the clock for them both. They listened to Triple J, had Facebook pages, decorated their home with pinball machines and hip-hop posters, and Tilly, their fifteen-year-old daughter, was more like a flatmate than a child.
Mallory rather enjoyed the number of people who mistook Tilly for her kid sister. 'Omigod, it's like sooo funny,' she'd say with a giggle.
Mallory had always wanted lots of children, and for years had tried for more babies until she found out that Vince had different ideas and had taken himself off for a sneaky vasectomy. It was a terrible loss for Mallory but she eventually forgave Vince and came to accept that Tilly would be her only child.
'Oooh, I'm starving,' she announced as her hand shot out to grab a canapé.
Sera and Chantrea swapped small smiles, anticipating her reaction.
'They're sugar,' explained Jacqueline. 'It's a "Sweets for the Sweet" evening. Except for Sera's pies,' she added.
'Ooh, what fun,' squealed Mallory as she popped the sugary 'vegetable' into her mouth. 'Yum! It's delicious, aren't you clever!'
Jacqueline smiled serenely at Mallory's praise. 'Thank you,' she said simply, but inside she felt warm and soothed. Getting up at four am had been worth it after all.
'Now,' said Mallory, moving on quickly, 'what's happening? What did I miss?'
'Oh, nothing really,' Sera said. 'We've only just arrived.' She accepted an elaborate cocktail from Jacqueline. 'Delicious, thank you.'
'Good lord, we're all going to get diabetes after so much sugar,' said Chantrea, putting her drink back on the table. 'I don't have much of a sweet tooth, I'm afraid. Are those pies nearly ready? I'm starving.'
Jacqueline glowered at Chantrea. 'I'll just see how t
hey're going,' she said.
'God, imagine the calories!' Sera moaned when Jacqueline was safely out of earshot. 'I've gained two and a half kilos from that drink alone,' she complained, while sucking in and patting her tummy.
'Tell me about it,' whinged Chantrea. 'I've had to go up to a size ten in my uniform. I've NEVER been a size ten.'
'You know,' giggled Mallory, shovelling another sugar asparagus into her mouth, 'no matter how much I eat I just can't put on weight.'
When the doorbell sounded, Sera went to open it. 'Hey there, Sam,' she said to the leafy figure she found on the doorstep. 'Why are you camouflaged as a bush?'
'Tussie-mussies for everyone,' he exclaimed as he entered the house, handing out small bouquets of herbs to the girls. 'There's sage, chives, coriander and continental parsley. Oh, and mint of course. There's bucketloads of mint. I had no idea that mint absolutely takes over. I can't get rid of the bugger now. And I don't know what to do with the stuff, apart from the odd leaf in yoghurt with Greek food, does anyone know?'
'I do,' came the enthusiastic response from Jacqueline from down the hall. 'Let me get you my peppermint ice-cream recipe.'
'Of course, I knew you'd have something Jacqueline. How are you?' Sam turned to follow her voice and present her with a bouquet of herbs.
'You don't think he's gay, do you?' said Mallory, looking at her herbs in doubt.
'No!' the other two women said immediately and in unison.
'Have you seen the shoes?' added Sera. 'So grubby, and he wears the same Converse Allstars every week.'
'And last week he was definitely a bit on the nose,' said Chantrea.
'Absolutely,' agreed Sera. 'Not too stinky or anything, but definitely BO. Like he'd been working in the garden and not showered before he came out. What gay man would do that?'
'I guess,' demurred Mallory, 'and I suppose the fact he's asking me about my friend Phoebe the bikini model . . .'
'What?!' said Sera eagerly. 'Give us the goss!'
'Oh, I just saw him down at the beach with his girls and I was there with Tilly and Phoebe. I introduced them and that night he called me and asked about her.'
