Little Paradise

by Gabrielle Wang

  ‘Margo! Margo!’ A lady holding a tray of sandwiches beckoned from the kitchen area. ‘Come quickly, dear. Someone brought a telegram for you.’

  ‘A telegram?’ Margo’s eyes lit up. ‘Maybe it’s from Harry. I’ll be right back.’ She touched Mirabel’s arm and walked away.

  Mirabel looked around the crowded hall, wondering if she should leave. She recognised a few girls but didn’t know them well enough to break into their circles. She took a big mouthful of punch. The alcohol tasted bitter but the sensation it brought was pleasant – a warm, numbing feeling down her throat, followed by a burst of light-headedness.

  She watched the dancers jitterbugging, flinging their arms wildly, throwing their partners over their hips, or scooting them through their legs. Mirabel rocked on the spot, the beat penetrating her body.

  If only a boy would come up and ask her to dance right now.

  Her gaze fell on two young men in Chinese army uniforms standing by the far wall. Was it the alcohol that caused her heart to stir and her breath to quicken? She was struck by the taller of the two. The feeling was so intense she couldn’t stop staring at him. He was handsome with thick dark hair and a bright, intelligent face. He leant over and said a word to his friend. They both laughed. But in that moment, to her horror, his eye caught hers. He straightened up and looked at her with interest, a half smile on his lips.

  Mirabel’s breath caught as she realised he was going to approach her, but then a girl rushed up to the two soldiers. She put an arm around each of them, swaying to the beat of the music.

  From the kitchen came a sudden cry, a high-pitched shriek like that of a wounded animal. Mirabel spun around and saw Margo staggering through the door, her face white as alabaster. She was supported by her mother, also pale, who was looking around for help. Mirabel rushed over.

  A crowd of people soon surrounded them.

  ‘It’s Harry …’ Margo’s mother said. ‘He’s been seriously injured.’

  Soon after, Margo, dazed and faint, was taken home by her parents. The band had stopped and the guests were filing out, murmuring. Mirabel was still in shock. She looked around for the young soldier, but it seemed he had already gone. Great Auntie May had said many times, ‘When a peach is ready to be picked, it is sweet and juicy. Picked too early, it is bitter and hard. Timing is everything.’

  It was obviously not meant to be.

  That night, Mirabel lay in bed, unable to sleep. She tried pushing the young soldier out of her mind but he would not leave her alone. The look he gave her across the room had burned into her memory. If only Margo hadn’t received the telegram, they might have talked. He might have even offered to walk her home …

  Guilt washed over her. Margo was in dreadful pain right now and here she was fantasising over a stranger.

  At the sound of soft tapping, she lifted her head. Lola’s face appeared on the other side of the glass. Mirabel slipped out of bed and pulled up the window.

  ‘About time,’ Lola said, her lips trembling from the cold. She smelt disgusting – a stew of alcohol and vomit.

  ‘You’ll break your neck one of these days climbing up the roof like that.’ Mirabel turned to go back to bed.

  ‘Damn it,’ Lola cursed. ‘I’ve just broken a heel.’ She dropped her shoes on the floor then closed the window and unzipped her dress. She threw it in the corner and sat down on the bed to unfasten her stockings from the suspender belt. ‘How was Margo’s party?’

  ‘It finished early.’

  Lola looked up. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Margo got a telegram. Harry’s been seriously injured.’

  ‘Gosh, he’s not going to die, is he?’

  ‘They don’t know yet. He’s in a hospital somewhere all shot up and they can’t move him.’

  ‘Poor Margo.’ Lola put on her nightdress and climbed into bed.

  ‘Father is mad, you know. He wanted to know where you were.’

  ‘So what did you tell him?’

  Mirabel hesitated.

  ‘You told him I was with Bill, didn’t you? Why you little bitch!’ Lola threw herself back on her pillow then turned over.

  Mirabel stared up into the darkness. She had never felt this way about any boy before. It was as if he had grabbed her heart and taken it away with him. Lola’s words could do no harm tonight.

  September, 1943

  My dear Eva,

  Father is leaving soon for Adelaide, so I’ve enclosed a gift with this letter – a watercolour painting I did of a white cat lazing under an arch of purple wisteria. I hope you like it.

  Married life must be wonderful. I can only imagine what it is like to wake up every day next to someone you love, to know he’ll always be there, and to feel safe, secure and protected.

  I’m looking at the photograph of you and Aubrey on Henley Beach. You both look so happy.

  I have some bad news. Mama had to go away again. It’s hard without her, not that I mind the cooking and housework, but Jimmy needs a mother. Poor Jimmy. He’s already acting wild; wilder than usual, I mean. And this time she had to go to an awful place called Forest Glades. You should see it, Eva. It’d like a prison! The weird thing is that she seems to feel as if she somehow deserves to be in that place, ad if she were guilty of something terrible. It’s strange. I can’t describe it.

  Anyway, it will be my graduation soon. I can’t believe school will be over forever! I’m already ecstatic knowing that I will never have to open another textbook. I just have to get through the exams. Then it’s freedom freedom freedom!!

  Write back soon with all your news.

  Love Mirabel

  Freedom Freedom Freedom

  It was Mirabel’s final day of school. A ray of sunshine had broken through the grey clouds at last. She would miss Rose, who was going on to do matriculation. Not seeing one another every day would be hard.

  ‘We can still meet after school,’ Rose said, as they walked towards a grassy embankment in the Royal Botanical Gardens. They sat down in front of the ornamental lake.

  Mirabel watched a swan arch its long neck, dipping its red beak into black plumage. ‘You’ll be busy with schoolwork,’ she said, ‘and with Dave. I’ll probably never see you. By the way, what’s he doing next year?’

  ‘He keeps changing his mind. A few days ago he said he wanted to join the air force. That really scared me. All those boys leaving, and never coming back.’ She rested her chin on one hand, picking at grass blades. ‘Has Margo heard any more news of her husband?’

  ‘Harry’s still in a hospital in the north of England. His wounds are serious but he’s not going to die.’ Mirabel smiled. ‘But the best news of all is that they’ll be shipping him home soon.’

  Rose sighed. ‘Margo must be ecstatic. I don’t know why men have to fight. It all seems so futile.’ She rolled over and threw a crust of bread into the water. A tangled mass of eels fought over the crust, breaking it up into smaller bite-sized pieces and disappearing with their prize into the murky depths.

  ‘Those eels are like the Chinese,’ said Mirabel.

  Rose sat up, a bemused expression on her face.

  ‘Jimmy did a project on them. They migrate all the way here from the Coral Sea, then come up the river and swim into the lake through stormwater drains. Or if it’s wet, they slither across the roads at night and get into the gardens that way. They can live up to twenty years here before they go back to their birthplace thousands of miles away to spawn and die.’

  Rose laughed. ‘So Chinese slither across roads, do they?’

  ‘Go home to die, that’s what Chinese people like to do.’ Mirabel paused. ‘Maybe that’s what my mother wants to do. Just go home.’

  Rose stopped smiling. ‘Your mother is still young; she’s not going to die, Belle.’ She fidgeted. ‘Hey, I’m getting hot. Do you want to move up into the shade?’

  Mirabel followed Rose up the embankment. They crossed the path and sat under the shade of a huge Moreton Bay fig tree.

  ‘I can’t
understand why you don’t want to go to Melbourne Tech and do fashion design,’ Rose said, as she leant back against a protruding tree root.

  ‘I’m just not interested in learning how to draft patterns.’ Mirabel took off her shoes and socks and stretched her legs. Soft sunlight between the leaf shadows played across her bare skin. ‘All I want to do is design clothes and I can do that already.’

  ‘So why don’t you then? If you charged money for your designs instead of doing them for free, you could probably earn enough to live on.’

  Mirabel shrugged. ‘When I’m trying to create something beautiful, I can’t think about the money. That just makes it all seem … I don’t know …’ She screwed up her face. ‘Cheap, or something.’

  Rose laughed and wiped the beads of perspiration from her brow. ‘I bet you won’t be talking like that in twenty years’ time when you’re a starving artist living in a hovel somewhere. You’ll be saying to yourself, oh, I wish I’d listened to my smart friend, Rose, who’s now a famous lawyer living with her husband Dave in a mansion in Toorak …’

  ‘In Toorak, eh?’ Mirabel raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm … perhaps by then this poor starving artist will be hungry enough to visit her friend in her mansion in Toorak. She will stand on the doorstep, begging to be taken in.’ Mirabel put on a sad face. ‘ “You were right, Rose,” she will say, looking into the huge foyer with the chandelier and sweeping stairway dotted with Rose’s ten children.’

  ‘Ten!’ Rose protested, mock horror in her eyes.

  ‘All right, fifteen then. The starving artist will come into the foyer and look out towards the swimming pool, where her rich friend’s no-good husband Dave lies around all day sipping martinis …’ At this, Rose gave an outraged cry and punched Mirabel’s shoulder, but Mirabel pulled away smiling and continued, ‘… and she will say, “Please let me stay with you and Dave … in your servants’ quarters if there’s no room anywhere else …” ’

  Rose pulled her hair up into a ponytail then let it fall. She gave an evil grin. ‘And do you know what Rose will reply?’

  Mirabel shook her head.

  ‘Rose, the fabulously rich and extremely generous lawyer, will say, “For years I have watched your talent grow, waiting for this moment. I will be your patron and give you all the money you need to open a dress shop at the top end of Collins Street … on one condition … ” ’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘ “You must call the shop The House of Rose.” ’

  Mirabel pretended outrage. ‘I will never give up my name, not even if you offer me a boutique in Paris! And so this starving but heroic artist will turn and walk away from fame and fortune and return to her hovel to struggle once more.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Fifteen children. God, I can’t even imagine having one child.’ Rose turned to look at Mirabel. ‘Seriously, Belle, what are you going to do next year? You know the law – if you don’t go on to study, you’ll have to get a job to help the war effort.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see you working in a munitions factory making bullets or building tanks.’

  ‘Neither can I. Dad’s putting the pressure on me to do a secretarial course so I can help him in his business later on. I don’t mind working at the market, but the thought of doing it for the rest of my life …’

  Mirabel sat up. ‘Hey, here comes Dave.’

  Rose stood up and waved. ‘Over here!’ she yelled.

  Dave was with two of his friends. The boys strolled towards them with their shirts hanging out of their trousers. For them, school was over.

  Mirabel looked up at the sky as a cloud passed across the sun. A warm summer breeze picked up strands of her hair. Next year, which of these boys would be training as soldiers, soon to be packed into troop carriers and sent away to fight? And which of them would be lucky enough to come home?

  They sang and laughed and ran and played, but another side of life marched along beside them, step by step, keeping pace, biding time.

  And the dark clouds gathered.

  Part Two

  THE LIBERATOR

  In the high trees – many doleful winds:

  The ocean waters – lashed into waves.

  If the sharp sword be not in your hand,

  How can you hope your friends will remain many?

  Do you not see that sparrow on the fence?

  Seeing the hawk it casts itself into the snare.

  The fowler to catch the sparrow is delighted:

  The Young Man to see the sparrow is grieved.

  He takes his sword and cuts through the netting:

  The yellow sparrow flies away, away.

  Away, away, up to the blue sky,

  And down again to thank the Young Man.

  Wu Di, Emperor of the Liang dynasty (464–549 AD)

  Secret Maps

  MELBOURNE

  1944

  Margo made a pot of tea, took a cup to Harry who lay stretched out on the sofa reading the newspaper, and returned to the wooden table in the kitchen where Mirabel was sitting. It was the first time Mirabel had seen Harry since he had arrived by ship three weeks earlier. She was shocked at how gaunt he looked, his eyes sunken and vacant.

  ‘The doctors were able to save his leg, thank goodness,’ Margo said, glancing into the living room. ‘But they say he will always have to walk with a stick, and he’s still very weak.’ Her lips trembled, tears swimming in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sure he just needs rest. He’ll be back to normal before you know it.’ Mirabel tried to put a bounce in her voice.

  Margo wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Harry’s changed,’ she whispered. ‘I hardly recognise him anymore. And he dreams. Nightmares. Terrible nightmares.’

  ‘I know he looks thin, but some nourishing soups will build him up again. Ask Great Auntie May. She knows all the right herbs to use, like ginseng and –’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It’s how he acts. It frightens me sometimes. All he wants to do is stay at home. I suggest going for short walks to get some fresh air, but he tells me to leave him alone.’ Margo let out a sob and buried her head in her hands. ‘He speaks to me so harshly, Mirabel. You don’t speak to someone you love like that, do you?’

  Mirabel put her arm around Margo and looked over her shoulder at Harry, whose eyes were closed. She had read in the newspaper about the soldiers who came back feeling lost. But to see it happening to someone this close …

  ‘He just needs time, that’s all,’ she said awkwardly.

  Margo dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. ‘I don’t want him to see me like this. I thought it was hard when he was away but now he’s back it’s far worse. Sometimes I think it would be better if he had …’

  ‘Don’t, Margo. Don’t even think that. It’s only been three weeks. Give him time. So much has happened to him since he left. It must be ghastly the things he has seen.’

  Margo took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to dump my problems on you, Mirabel. Yes, you’re right. I am being selfish.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that …’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Margo smiled.

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  ‘Oh! That must be Fred, Harry’s friend. I invited him for dinner too.’ Margo stood up, wiping her eyes and straightening her dress. ‘I must look a mess. Do I? Can you tell I’ve been crying?’

  ‘You look as beautiful as ever. Go powder your nose and put on some lipstick. I’ll let him in.’

  Margo nodded. ‘You’re a treasure, Mirabel.’ She turned and rushed into the bedroom.

  Mirabel opened the door to a tall man in his early thirties. He had a square jaw and long comical face.

  ‘I’m Mirabel,’ she said, stepping aside to let him in.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Margo.’ Fred smiled and took off his hat as he ducked under the doorframe. ‘She told me you’re quite an artist.’

  ‘Is that you, Fred?’ Harry called out. His voice had a differ
ent tone to it, Mirabel noticed. One bloke to another.

  ‘How’re ya travelling, Harry?’ Fred said, walking into the living room.

  Harry struggled to sit up. ‘The Jerries’ll have to try a bit harder if they want to see the end of me.’ He smiled. They shook hands warmly.

  Over dinner, Fred and Harry reminisced about the footy club they used to play for.

  ‘The year the war broke out, we won the premiership,’ Fred said. ‘Harry enlisted but I was deemed unfit for military service. I have a weak heart. Imagine that. A big, strong bloke like me not able to fight.’

  Mirabel could hear the disappointment in his voice.

  Margo chimed in. ‘But now Fred’s the most marvellous cartographer.’

  ‘A cartographer?’ Mirabel’s interest quickened. ‘I used to love drawing maps in history and geography class. Can anyone be a cartographer or do you have to have special training?’

  ‘You just need to be a bit of an artist. The rest you learn on the job,’ Fred replied.

  ‘How are maps used in war?’ Mirabel asked.

  ‘The army will use them in case of an invasion,’ Fred said.

  ‘An army without a map is like a soldier without a gun.’ Harry lifted his bad leg onto the empty chair beside him.

  ‘It’s very important work. Exacting, too. You can’t have a shaky hand or you might end up with a peninsular instead of a bay.’ Fred laughed, cocking his head to one side. ‘You seem interested.’

  ‘Well, I have been looking for something to do now that I’ve finished school.’

  ‘I think it’s the perfect job for her. Don’t you, Harry?’ Margo raised her eyebrows at Mirabel, giving her an encouraging look.

  ‘She is a wonderful artist, Fred,’ Harry agreed. He looked a lot better since his friend had arrived. There was more colour and life to his face.