Uncle Joe takes a sip of water and then clears his throat. “Mandy knows how to cook all kinds of recipes. Not just Middle Eastern food. She knows Spanish, Chinese, French. She’s a very well-rounded Australian.”
Alan doesn’t know what to make of Uncle Joe’s outburst and smiles awkwardly. “Yes . . . I’m sure she is. . .”
“Mandy is, mate. A fairdinkum cook who knows all kinds of recipes.”
“Come off it, Dad!” Samantha groans. “You sound like the Crocodile Hunter guy!”
“See, Alan, how my daughter talks to her old man? No respect.”
“Dad called himself old!” George yells in delight.
“Old man is what we say about you,” Samantha says. “You’re not supposed to say it! You’re just insulting yourself.”
Uncle Joe looks embarrassed and a blush creeps over his neck. He darts a glance at Alan who, thankfully, is gracious enough to pretend not to have heard and mercifully changes the topic back to sport. My dad and Alan go off into their own world and Uncle Joe pretends to be occupied with the task of refilling everybody’s glass.
“Bloody hell, when’s he ever going to get over the slang?” Samantha whispers to me.
“When he realizes that flip-flops and a Bonds singlet aren’t going to make him more Aussie.”
“In other words, I’m doomed to hear him say fairdinkum, crikey and mate for the rest of my life!”
“Too right, Samantha, you beaut sheila.” We look at each other, groan and erupt into giggles.
22
This Friday evening I’m at Leila’s house watching a Ben Stiller comedy. We’re sprawled on the couch, stuffing our faces with chips and Tim Tams and laughing over the movie when Hakan walks in. He nods at me and grunts a hello.
“What time did you get home last night?” Leila asks him.
“What the hell is it to you?”
“Dad woke up this morning and found the front door left wide open. He freaked out! Anybody could have come in the house. We could have been robbed. Attacked. We’re on a main road, for God’s sake!”
He chuckles. “Hear that, Amal? I’ve got a frigging paranoid family. They start hallucinating about robbers because a door’s left open. Bloody wogs think so stupid.”
I ignore him, not wanting to interfere, and pretend to be watching the movie as they argue in front of me.
“You left the door wide open! Were you off your face again?”
“Got a problem with that?”
“What was it this time? Drugs? Alcohol? You’re so predictable.”
“I enjoy life. Not like this crap family, stuck in the Dark Ages. Bloody villagers.”
“At least Mum and Dad aren’t alcoholic weed-heads like you!”
“Why don’t you frigging stop trying to show off in front of your friend? Trying to act like the Queen of Sheepa.”
“It’s Sheba,” Leila says, rolling her eyes. “Jeez, why don’t you go read a book?”
“Shut your face.”
I adjust my position on the couch and start biting my nails. This is getting really uncomfortable.
“So I guess they haven’t told you off about it yet? You’re in big trouble. Mum and Dad are going to chuck a fit at you!”
“Me? Huh! Like those old wogs have the guts to tell me off. You think I’m going to listen to them?”
“You’re so full of it.”
“Watch your mouth, you bitch, got it?”
“Don’t you dare call me a bitch!”
“Ooh! Leila’s upset! What’s she going to do? Run to Mummy? Sweet talk Daddy? What are they going to do? Tell me off? Huh! Like they would! Man, you’re warped. I’ll say and do what I want and nobody’s going to stop me!”
He storms out of the room and Leila stares at the coffee table, her breath heavy and angry. “Sorry you had to see that.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s me. Family fights. Way normal.”
“I swear, Amal, I hate him. I absolutely hate him. How can a sister hate her brother? He’s my blood brother but if he left home now I wouldn’t feel one single atom of sadness.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about him. He’s all show. Just macho and full of himself.”
“But what he said was so true. Mum and Dad probably won’t tell him off. Mum has this almost reverential fear of him. Her first child. Her only son. I know she cries about what he does and I’ve heard her and Dad talking about how to control him and pull him into line, but they won’t do anything about it.”
“What about your dad?”
“Sometimes he has a go at Hakan. Like when Hakan gets home really late or when he’s all doped up and has a hangover. When he’s like that, Dad orders him to get out of the house and Hakan storms out and shouts he’s leaving for good and then Mum breaks down and fights with my dad for losing her son and blah blah blah. So then Dad gets fed up because Mum gets hysterical that Hakan might not return. So now he lies low, for Mum’s sake. If Hakan left, Mum would never forgive Dad and Dad’s just too attached to Mum to make her angry at him like that. It’s all a big mess. . . Let’s just not talk about it.”
She snuggles up next to me and places her head on my shoulder.
“Amal?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you rewind the movie to the start? I missed the whole thing and I can’t even remember what I’ve watched!”
I rewind the movie and we watch the comedy in silence.
23
On Saturday night I stay up late and watch Erin Brockovich on TV. It makes me feel kind of emotional and do-gooder, so on Sunday morning I tell my mum I want to visit Mrs Vaselli and she chokes on her breakfast.
“Has my daughter seen the light? Can this be real?”
“Maa, don’t make a big fuss. Do we have anything to take over?”
“Want to make her something?”
I’m not exactly in the mood for getting all domestic but she looks so excited that I smile and say yes. Fifteen minutes later we’re caked in flour and butter, rolling out biscuits filled with fresh dates and cinnamon.
It takes us about two hours. When the biscuits are cooled, we arrange them on a platter and my mum hands them over, beaming at me.
“I’m proud of you, Amal.”
“Maa! Stop acting like I’ve turned into Mother Teresa.”
I manage to escape my mum’s You’ll-be-rewarded-for-your-kindness-to-the-elderly speech and knock on Mrs Vaselli’s front door, feeling idiotically nervous. It takes her a couple of minutes until she opens the door a fraction and sticks her head out.
“Hi, Mrs Vaselli. I . . . thought I’d come over for a visit. Mum and I made you fresh biscuits.” I hold them up for her to see and she peers out at me suspiciously. We’ve been living next to her for over a year now and she still looks at me like there’s a record of assault-and-battery-of-the-elderly convictions hanging over my head.
“Visit?”
“Er . . . yeah.” I notice the edges of a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and immediately recognize it as the one my mum bought her. I try not to grin as she looks out at me, hiding herself behind the door.
“One minute.”
She closes the door and returns shortly afterwards, leaving me to follow her down the hallway. No sign of the shawl now. As I enter her house, I take a closer look around. I don’t know why I expect it to smell mouldy and damp. It’s what you always read about in books. Poor little old ladies in damp, stale houses, filled with mothballs and dusty photographs. But her house smells of talcum powder and scones. As I walk through the corridor, stickybeaking around me as I go, I notice a blue tassel dangling out of a cupboard in the hallway, and I bite my lip to stop myself from saying something.
She sits down on her rocking chair and I put the biscuits on the kitchen bench.
“So,” I say, facing her, “would you like
to try them?”
“Hmm . . . I guessing you want tea too? You not have tea at your house? You have to coming annoying me for it?” I grin sheepishly at her and nod. She does the sign of the cross and shakes her head. “Do I looking like supermarket? Wanting tea and coming here to finish mine.” I ignore her because I can see a twitch in the corner of her mouth and her brow has loosened up.
“Well? What you wait for?” she says gruffly. “Don’t pretend you no know where everyzing is.”
I leap up from my chair, chatting away as I make the tea and set the biscuits out.
“I just made za scone.”
“Really? Yum. I love scones.”
“Of course you do. You love anyzing zat free . . . zey in ze pantry, in a box. You can try one if you want.”
I smile at her and she looks back at me. But she doesn’t scowl or frown and it makes me feel good. I put out the scones and take a seat, talking to her about school and Adam and Tia and Simone and Eileen. She doesn’t say much, just listens and nods when she thinks I can’t see her. And it’s strangely comforting. So I tell her everything.
And for once she doesn’t snap at me. Her wrinkled hands are wrapped around her mug of tea, the crumbs of three biscuits down the front of her dress, as she rocks back and forth, giving me her full attention.
“Zis Adam boy. He good boy?”
“Huh?”
“You very stupid. Your scarf too tight maybe and squash your brain. He maybe liking you.”
I can feel my cheeks burning. My body is so annoying. You’d think after living with me for sixteen years it would owe me some loyalty.
“Your face red. You liking him and he liking you?”
I cough. “Yeah right.”
“Eh?”
“Um . . . we’re just friends.”
“Pah! No such thing. Boy and girl. Friend. Boy zink of one zing only.”
I shake my head and laugh at her.
“You always laugh. Laugh over anything. Silly . . . zis biscuit . . . it . . . OK. Your mum make?”
“I helped her.”
“Huh! So you knowing how cook?”
“Not really. Just basic things.”
“Zey making you into good wife so you get married and have kids?”
“No! I’m only sixteen! My parents would shoot me if I even mentioned marriage now!”
She leans back in her chair and gazes up at the ceiling. “You know, I marrying at fourteen.”
“What? Fourteen?”
“Yes. But we no . . . being husband and wife really . . . until I sixteen. You understanding?”
“Wow. How old was your husband when you got married?”
“Twenty-six. We were cousin. I live in village in Athens. He live in next village. He come my house and ask my papa if we marry. I was school zen. My papa he come to me and he say, you want marry? And I say yes because I wanting to wear make-up and high heel.”
“That’s why you agreed?”
“I wanting to be old. Like woman. You understanding?”
“I guess.”
“And my mama she fight with my papa and me and say I too young. Because if I go she have no one talk to when she home. I have no brozer and my sister die when she two.”
“So when did you come to Australia? Did you come straightaway?”
“Yes. I marry and I go to what zey say luck country. I cry and cry when I saying goodbye to my parent and my friend. I no want marry and I want go home but my husband he was good to me. Always good to me. I, how to say, vomate all way on za ship. First time on water. I come Melbourne. I see sky dark and sad. People look me and my husband and zey smile but bad smile not good smile. You understanding?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“No talking to anybody. We no speak ze English. We using hand to talk and zey laugh. In Greece, we talk. We hug. We know everyone. Here, we know nozing. No one. When we arrive we live in small house and my husband he work in factory. He work, work, work. I alone at home all day. No speak ze English. No speak to people. Only house and clean and cook. No friend. No family. I cry all time. I cook, I cry. I wash, I cry. He leave work, I cry. He come home, I cry. He come home and he tell me he no wanting me make him lunch because zey laugh at him. He vanting white bread, zey say tost. Very stupid bread. No taste or shape. He wanting tost with this Veg—Veg—”
“Vegemite?”
“Yes!” She makes the sign of the cross. “Oof! Like eat salt.”
I laugh and it’s the first time she laughs with me. Her eyes dance around making a stage debut amongst her wrinkles, and her heavy chest heaves up and down.
“I crying for all night. Because all I knowing to do good is make him good Greek lunch. Zat what I am. And he take from me. And I feel . . . I feel I nozing in day. All I do is pray to Jesus to make easy for me. So I now making him white tost and this Vegmate, and I hating Australia and white people and zere stupid food and I want Greece and my parent.”
“What about kids?” I ask her.
She makes the sign of the cross again. “You asking za questions all za time.”
And she frowns at me, but it’s only small and it’s so obviously forced that I grin widely back at her.
“My babies zey die in my stomach.”
“You had miscarriages?”
“Yes. My husband, you know, he get sick of factory. So we say why not open ze shop and sell ze fish and chip.”
I chuckle and she gives me a suspicious look. “Why so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. I just remembered when kids at school used to find out I was Arabic they’d assume my parents owned a newsagent’s or 7-Eleven.”
“I knowing many Greeks owning fish and chip shop. We making best fish and chip. Zen no McDonald’s and zese food fast shopping. I working wiz my husband in shop all day. We no have people working for us. We open shop, we cut potatoes, we cooking, we cleaning, we doing everyzing, every day. Zen I coming home to clean my house. Seven day a week we work. On Sunday we closing za shop but my husband he doing work paper.
“So I be pregnant and I working. And I writing my mama in Greece and she writing but take long time to have letter. And she telling me to take rest but I working because we no affording za workers and I no having family to help us. My husband he good. He temper man but he look after me. But what can do? We must working zen. And I one day frying za chips for customer in shop and I feel want make toilet. You understanding?”
“Yes, Mrs Vaselli.”
“We having many people in za shop zen. Busy. And zen man come. How to say? Spec—spec—spectatating za shop?”
“An inspector?”
“Yes. Zat. And my husband he so nerves. He scared zey maybe close us down because zen hard to, how to say, communion wiz people, you knowing my mean? Hard to talk with za people zen because we no speak ze good English. And he worry maybe say somezing and man no understanding and close down. And man he talk hard to my husband. He like . . . like sandpaper, you understanding? His words like sandpapering on my husband. So I going toilet quick because I feel I maybe doing accidental and I go and, Amal, I seeing blood in toilet and on my underwear! It bad and I want to scream, because I want my mama. I nineteen and I wanting my mama because I seeing blood in toilet and I knowing no blood when I pregnant. You understanding my mean?”
I nod frantically, my eyes transfixed on hers.
“And Amal, you knowing what I tinking? I tinking if I go inside and telling my husband he maybe scream and man close down shop tinking we crazy people. . . I no telling him zen!” Her eyes are open in horror as she sinks into her memories. “I wait to telling him! I putting tissue down zere and I wiping my face because I no stop za crying. And I go and fry chips, Amal! My baby die and I frying chips! And my husband he looking so scared when za man talking to him and I say Jesus please help us Jesus. Give me za strength Jesus.”
> My eyes are watery as I listen to her, my hands clasped tightly together.
“When we closing za shop I telling him. He sitting drinking tea after we cleaning. He look so tired and worry. And I telling him and he smash ze drink on to ze wall and screaming and crying. I so scared. But he no screaming at me. He screaming at zis country and he screaming at lonely and no family and me wizout my mama and I crying and he quick take me hospital and I feel I going funeral not hospital because zey tell me my baby die and I dying wiz my baby too.”
We sit in silence for a while. And then she heaves a sigh and closes her eyes, leaning back against her chair. And then with her eyes still closed she continues: “I having tree more babies dying in me. Each time I feeling like I no woman. My husband he wanting baby so much. And I wanting baby so much. But we no understanding zings zen. I still working and doctor telling me somezing wrong in me. So we no have za sheeldron for years.”
“But you do have a son, don’t you?”
Her eyes darken and she sits up abruptly, slamming her mug down on the table.
“None business!” she snaps, her eyes fixed on the floor. I don’t say anything and sit still, waiting for her to say something. But she doesn’t. It’s like she’s forgotten I am here.
“Mrs Vaselli?” I venture nervously. “Are you all right?” Such a stupid, obvious question.
She doesn’t answer. So I get up and pack the dishes away, wipe the bench, clingfilm the biscuits and straighten my chair behind the table.
“It was nice having tea with you, Mrs Vaselli. Thanks for the scones.”
“Go to drawer in hall.” She’s still looking at the floor.
I look at her in surprise. “Oh, OK, sure. What do you want?”
“My cigarette.”
I just about do a belly dance on the table. “Huh?”
“Right drawer. Ashtray next it.”
Five minutes later Mrs Vaselli is lighting up a Marlboro and is ensconced in a haze of nicotine smoke.
When she gets to her second cigarette, I can’t contain myself any longer. China tea set, Vegemite sandwiches or lonely old woman, I’ve got issues to clear up with her.