Mirabel found the Box Brownie and Great Auntie May ordered Rose and Mirabel into the armchair. It was a tight squeeze. The old lady, wobbling on her tiny feet, stood back and clicked the shutter.
‘I’ll see you next week,’ Mirabel said as Great Auntie May stood at the door, waving.
‘Ciao bewa!’ she called.
As the girls walked out onto the street, Rose said, ‘I can’t believe her bound feet. Have you ever had a chance to see them naked?’
‘She showed them to me once for about a second. They are so horribly deformed.’ Mirabel shivered at the thought.
‘You know it was a way of keeping women subservient to men,’ said Rose. ‘Bound up like that, women couldn’t do anything for themselves. I wonder how such a cruel practice began?’
‘Great Auntie May told me that hundreds of years ago an Emperor had his concubine bind her feet and dance before him. He thought it so beautiful he ordered all the women in his court to do the same. Am I glad I wasn’t born in China last century. But I guess stumbling around on high heels is almost as bad,’ Mirabel giggled.
They crossed the road as a beautiful Italian song drifted from an upstairs window.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s Mr Lupini, the singing waiter, warming up for work,’ Mirabel said. ‘Great Auntie May is learning Italian from him. She told me he was initially put in an internment camp like all the other Italians in Australia because Italy was allied with Germany and our government was afraid of sabotage. But now he’s out and back to his normal happy self.’
‘It’s amazing she’s learning the language,’ said Rose.
‘Yes, but she’s terrible at it, as you just heard.’
‘When did she speak Italian?’ Rose asked, surprised.
‘When we left she said, “Ciao bewa!” What she meant to say was, “Ciao, bella!” ’
The girls’ laughter rang out as they walked up the street arm in arm, hats catching in the wind.
For a brief moment, Mirabel had forgotten about her troubles at home. Life felt good.
Angel
Mirabel had not slept well. She had dreamt of seeing Mama’s reflection in a mirror and inside that mirror was another reflection and so it went on, reaching into infinity. No matter how hard Mirabel searched, she could not find the real flesh and blood of her mother – only a cold glass replica. And always in the back of her mind were Mama’s words: I am not the person you think I am.
Mirabel walked through the deserted streets towards the Queen Victoria Market. It was too early for the crowds. Normally, Father took Sunday off, but he was behind in his orders and had asked Mirabel to help out for the day. She was glad to have something to do to take her mind off things.
She smelled the market before she saw it – that raw earthy odour of damp soil – the goodness of the countryside brought to the heart of the city. She had grown up in and around the stalls, playing hide and seek with the other market children, and listening to stories about its long past.
The market had been built on the site of the old Melbourne cemetery. Before the buildings were erected, most of the graves had been exhumed and the bodies moved to a new cemetery a few miles away. But some of the graves of the poorer people, those whose red-gum markers had rotted away leaving no name and no date, were simply left behind and forgotten. Mama had told her how the ghosts of those poor souls wandered the stalls of the market at night, searching for a proper resting place.
As Mirabel walked through the door of Father’s storehouse, she saw Old Sung sitting at a cane table drinking tea, his grey-and-white woollen cap pulled low over his ears. He fumbled in his padded jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of spectacles, then opened a magazine, holding the page close to his eyes.
Father provided this haven for the old men from his family’s local area in China. A warm pot of tea, a water pipe, a comfy place to sit and chat.
Old Sung looked up when Mirabel entered and his face wrinkled into a smile. He welcomed her in the strong guttural sounds of their village dialect. ‘Helping your daddy out today? Good girl,’ he said, his head bobbing on his small frame.
Mirabel greeted him politely. She stayed a moment as he picked up a bamboo water pipe. She never tired of watching this ritual.
The old man set the pipe on the ground between his feet. On the side of the pipe, halfway down the long stem, was a small bowl which he stuffed with tobacco. Then he lit a taper made from tightly wound paper, put it to the tobacco, and sucked on the end of the pipe. The water made a galoo galoo sound as it bubbled in the stem.
‘Lei An,’ came Father’s voice from the mezzanine above.
Mirabel said goodbye to Old Sung and went through the bamboo bead curtains into the back of the storehouse.
From his vantage point above, Father could see all the comings and goings of his business – the trucks pulling in with their daily delivery of tomatoes, bananas, and pineapples; the staff going about their work, loading and unloading and sorting; even the front of the shop where Old Sung sat drinking his tea and smoking his water pipe.
‘Yes, Father?’ Mirabel said, looking up.
‘I want you to take this parcel and deliver it to the address written on the front. Follow the map I’ve drawn. Give it to a man called Chen Su Ting.’ He threw down a small rectangular package tied with string. ‘Keep it in your handbag until you get there.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Mirabel studied the map Father had drawn on the parcel. Then she stuffed it into her handbag and stepped outside. She looked up at the gathering rain clouds, wondering if she should take an umbrella. If she hurried, she’d make it there and back before the storm hit.
The map had told her to keep to the main roads. But it didn’t make sense to be going all the way around when she could cut straight through the lanes and alleyways and get there in half the time. She decided to take a shortcut.
The stores in this part of town were old and motley, pawnshops and drab clothing shops – the kind Mirabel imagined could be found on the frayed edges of any big city. The windows were filled with second-hand watches, cameras and jewellery – jumbled piles sprinkled with dust, dead moths and flies. Armless naked plaster mannequins stared out through the dirt-stained glass. They left Mirabel with a sad foreboding and she hurried on.
Inside the maze of laneways, the early morning quiet was broken only by the distant singing of two drunken sailors as they stumbled down the street. Brick and wooden cottages, strung together like old men’s teeth, formed crooked canyons along the cobbled streets. This was a world Mirabel had not known existed before today. Strange how nothing stirred inside the houses. Some lanes dead-ended and she had to retrace her steps. She soon became disoriented.
The morning grew darker as storm clouds pressed in from above. I should have followed Father’s map and taken the long way, Mirabel thought, and picked up her pace.
In the middle of an alley, she stopped and looked around. There was not a soul on the street. That was the strangest thing of all. People should have woken up by now. It was already eight-thirty.
The sudden creak of a door made her turn. A well-dressed man placed his hat on his head, glanced around, and walked away up the lane. Mirabel was about to call out to him when she noticed a tendril of smoke curling from the bright-red doorway where the man had just appeared.
A girl in a thin dressing gown stepped out into the light. She leant against the doorframe, took a slow puff of her cigarette and watched with lazy eyes as Mirabel approached.
‘Excuse me,’ Mirabel said.
The girl tilted her head.
‘I was wondering if you could point the way to the main road.’
The girl considered Mirabel then pushed away from the wall, flicking her cigarette on the ground. ‘That’s the quickest way,’ she said, pointing back the way Mirabel had just come. Her grey eyes looked Mirabel up and down. ‘Where do you want to go?’
Mirabel hadn’t committed the address to memory. Remembering what Father had said about kee
ping the package in her handbag, she felt uneasy as she took it out. Suddenly she realised why. It felt like a thick wad of banknotes. She read the address out to the girl, trying not to look nervous.
‘You’ve taken a wrong turn,’ the girl said, her eyes lingering on the package. She glanced up and down the street, then turned to look more closely at Mirabel. She hesitated briefly, and a small sigh escaped her lips. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I’ll draw you another map.’ She went inside.
Mirabel thrust the package back into her bag and fastened the latch.
An acrid, stale smell wafted from inside the room and she could just make out a bed and an enamel bowl on a washstand. The rest was in darkness.
A few moments later, the girl returned with a stubby pencil and an old scrap of paper. She leant the paper against the wall and began to draw a map. Mirabel looked at her hands, her face, her delicate features. The girl couldn’t have been much older than Mirabel, eighteen at the most. Her skin was fine, ivory white and unblemished – beautiful skin. And her hands were small with long fingers and manicured nails. Her cream silk dressing-gown was loosely tied at the waist and gaped slightly, showing the curve of a small breast. And yet this girl had something old about her, something knowing.
Mirabel wondered if she lived here with her family, whether that man she saw leaving was her father. But somehow that seemed wrong.
Then it came to her. Was this girl a prostitute? One of those bad girls people talked about? And then a more frightening thought: Was this whole area a red-light district? Was that why Father wanted her to go the long way around?
Her heart began to beat hard in her chest. How stupid and naïve she was!
The girl nudged Mirabel loose from her thoughts. ‘Hey, honey, did you hear me? This map should get you there. Just follow the arrows. Probably take you about ten minutes.’ She smiled at Mirabel and lit another cigarette. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’
Mirabel shook her head, holding the paper gingerly in her hand. It felt unclean. How could this girl sleep with that old man? How could she have sex with strangers for money? The thought disgusted her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and turned to go.
‘My name’s Angel. What’s yours?’
Mirabel hesitated. She didn’t want to start up a conversation. Their lives were as different as night and day.
‘Mirabel,’ she said, then she rushed off up the lane.
‘Maybe we’ll meet again, Mirabel,’ Angel called after her.
With the new map in her hand, Mirabel soon found the main road. Thunder cracked open the sky, sending down a deluge of rain.
She hurried along the street, reading the house numbers.
At last she found a small, neat cottage and dashed up onto the verandah. Wiping the rain off her face, she opened the flywire door, lifted the knocker and gave three sharp raps.
There was no reply. She peered in through the window. No movement. Again, she banged hard on the door. Again, nothing.
There was a letter slot in the front door, so Mirabel squeezed the package through it. She heard it land on the floor with a thud. Then, putting up her coat collar, she dashed back out into the rain.
A Wild Moth Flutters
The night was cool; the moon a dusky yellow orb like a Chinese lantern. Mirabel was wearing a short cream jacket over a pale-blue chiffon dress, and heels that made her two inches taller. It wasn’t a new dress, but she felt good in it … well, good enough.
‘Mirabel has the magic eye,’ friends and relatives would say. ‘With just the cut, colour and drape of cloth, she can make anyone look beautiful.’ And yet Mirabel could never design that one perfect dress for herself, the dress that brought out her own true essence.
Margo’s twenty-first was being held in Celestial Avenue in Chinatown, behind the banana-ripening warehouse. The street lamps, hooded against air raids, cast mute shadows as Mirabel and Lola walked down Swanston Street. Mirabel could feel the energy of the city as it carried them along.
At the corner of Little Bourke Street, a white cat ran out of the door of a pub, hopped down the two steps, and started to weave itself through Lola’s legs. She kicked it away in annoyance, then gave a squeal of delight as she pointed up the street and waved.
It was Bill, strolling towards them. Lola rushed to meet him. While Mirabel watched the two lovebirds kissing, a thought struck her. Her eyes narrowed. Bill had not been invited to Margo’s party, yet here he was. This was too much of a coincidence. Lola had planned it all along. Typical. She had never intended to go to Margo’s party at all.
‘You go on ahead,’ Lola said. ‘Bill and I are going for a walk. I’ll be there a little later.’
Bill smiled and greeted Mirabel.
‘But … but … I can’t go in by myself.’ Mirabel’s confidence was fading fast. ‘I won’t know anyone there. I was depending on you, Lola.’
‘Honestly, Mirabel, you are such a baby. You don’t need me to hold your hand. Just grow up.’ Lola took Bill’s arm. ‘Come on, honey. We’re wasting time standing around talking to my little sister.’
The smell of whisky and beer drifted out of the pub as the door opened. An American soldier stumbled down the steps. He reached for a pole but grabbed Lola’s arm instead. A stream of vomit splashed over Lola’s shoes.
‘Hey!’ she shouted in disgust, shaking the drunk off. ‘You bloody idiot! Look what you’ve done!’ She stepped away from him and burst into tears. ‘Bill, look what that brute has done to me! My shoes, my stockings, they’re all ruined!’
Bill picked the man up off the ground. ‘On your way, soldier,’ he said, gently pushing him up the street. He knelt down on the footpath. ‘It’ll be all right, babe. I’ll have you cleaned up in no time.’ He shook out a handkerchief and wiped down Lola’s shoes and stockings. Then he put his big arms around her. Lola nestled into him.
Bill looked at Mirabel over Lola’s shoulder and winked. She couldn’t believe it. No matter how Lola acted, he still loved her.
‘Don’t worry, Mirabel. I’ll make sure she gets to the party later,’ he said. Then they turned and walked up the street.
Mirabel pressed her lips together. She was angry, but mixed with the anger was a kind of delicious guilt. She’d enjoyed seeing that soldier puke all over Lola. She deserved it! This night had been planned for months. Mirabel had even written to Eva about it and Rose knew every detail. It was not only the thrill of seeing Margo wearing her creation, but it was a party with boys. What was she going to do now?
Three soldiers, cruising past in a taxi, wolf whistled at her.
‘Going our way?’ the one in the front asked.
Mirabel put her head down and crossed the road. Going home would be the easiest solution. But then she wouldn’t see Margo’s dress. Perhaps she could go in, stay long enough to say hello to Margo, and leave. Hesitating, she noticed the white cat again, sitting ahead of her. It stood up, arched its back, yawned and walked up the street towards the banana-ripening warehouse. After a few paces it stopped and looked over its shoulder. There was something about it that was familiar and Mirabel was drawn to follow. Outside the warehouse, the cat slipped between some old barrels and disappeared.
Mirabel could hear live music coming from inside and an unexpected ripple of pleasure passed through her body. A group of young men were talking and laughing in the doorway. Distractedly, she gripped her purse, which held her small oracle bone, then threaded her way between them, all the while repeating the words: Be brave, Belle. Be brave.
The hall was full. Some people were dancing, others stood around in small groups, talking and laughing. Pink and white balloons hung in clusters in the corners, and streamers crisscrossed the ceiling. Up on the stage, an all-girl band called The Joybells, whose name was written in fancy pink lettering on the bass drum, played the jitterbug.
In the centre of it all, and drawing every eye, stood Margo in her dress of cornflower blue. It was sleeveless, with a V-neck, tight-fitting bodice and
skirt that hugged her hips then flared to the ground. She looked stunning.
Mirabel smiled, proud of her achievement. Margo had even matched the dress with a pair of blue strappy evening shoes. And her hair was piled on top of her head and adorned with a diamanté brooch.
When Margo saw Mirabel, her face lit up and she beckoned her over.
‘You look so beautiful,’ Mirabel said.
Margo spun around. ‘My wedding dress was a work of art, and this one is too!’ She put her arms around Mirabel. ‘Good to see you, little cousin,’ Margo said, smoothing down Mirabel’s hair. ‘You always look so pretty. How’s school?’
‘It’s my last year, thank goodness.’
‘You sound as if you’ll be glad to graduate.’
‘I will.’
‘Hey, where’s Lola? Didn’t you two come together?’
Mirabel hesitated, then said, ‘You know Lola, she’s always late.’
‘I heard she has a boyfriend.’ Margo lifted one eyebrow.
‘Yes, an American soldier called Bill. He’s nice.’
‘Hmm … Lucky girl. Those soldiers certainly have plenty of money. Now, what can I get you to drink?’ She dragged Mirabel towards the punchbowl, whispering, ‘I added another bottle of Champagne when Mum wasn’t looking.’
‘Hope the oldies don’t pass out on it,’ Mirabel said.
They both giggled.
‘How’s Harry? Have you had any news?’ Mirabel asked, sipping the punch. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Still flying with the RAAF. His last letter was about four months ago. The mail is so slow. God, I can hardly bear it. But I write him every day, telling him all the little things, just as if he’s sitting across the table from me. That way he’ll fit right back into our lives when he returns.’
Mirabel remembered first meeting Harry at Great Auntie May’s eightieth birthday, where he’d been so nervous he’d spilt punch all over the old lady’s dress. Luckily, it was a dark cherry red, the same colour as the punch. Great Auntie May was a good sport and made a big joke of it, saying, ‘Oh, you Toi San people are always so clumsy.’ Margo’s family had laughed – they were all from Sun Moi. But Harry had spent the rest of the afternoon apologising to everyone. That event turned an otherwise dull family get-together into a party to remember. Not long after that, Margo and Harry married, just before he was shipped off to war. That was a year ago.
Little Paradise Page 4
