Asylum – 8th instalment of my serialised novel
To catch the beginning of this story go to Asylum – a novel in weekly parts
It’s Christmas in Perth and Yvette, estranged as ever, makes a startling discovery…
2.19
Christmas decorations were sparkling throughout the mall and an overly adorned Christmas tree standing in the centre of the main thoroughfare assaulted Yvette’s unfestive mood as she walked by. Tinsel draped window displays and lumbering from glitzy shop to glitzy shop, a man in a Santa suit ho ho’d, ringing his bell. Even the café had silver tinsel arcing along the counter front, in cultural collision with the Turkish delicacies piled on platters beside the till.
Pinar greeted Yvette in her usual appraising way and asked her to clean the coffee machine.
A steady flow of customers occupied an otherwise tedious four hours.
Towards the end of her shift, when she’d relinquished any hope of seeing Heather, her friend, strikingly dressed in a flowing emerald skirt and matching blouse, entered the café. She took her usual seat by the windows that overlooked the car park and caught Yvette’s eye with a friendly wave. Trapped behind the counter, Yvette returned Heather’s smile as Pinar went to her table.
There was by an unexpected rush of customers. A harried-looking mother with five boisterous children ordered chips and soft drinks while ignoring their demands for everything else. A group of six men wanted extra-large kebabs and iced coffees to go, and an elderly couple, who took forever to make up their minds, settled on baklava and flat whites.
More grannies, more mothers, more kids and thankfully, not a love-hearted latte among them.
When at last she removed her apron, Heather approached.
‘Sorry I didn’t get a chance to chat,’ Yvette said.
‘I could see you were busy.’
In the mall, Jingle Bells played cheerily on. A clutch of excited toddlers jostled around Santa. Yvette followed Heather into the glaring daylight and they stood in the shade of an awning. The car park, a mass of metal and glass on tarmac, radiated heat like a kiln.
‘Christmas in Australia?’ Yvette said. ‘It’s an ironic celebration.’
‘Beach and barbecues and the start of school holidays.’ Heather chuckled. ‘Not exactly Hogmanay is it?’
She had a flash of memory, something wholesome and sweet. ‘Do you remember our Christmases when we were kids?’
‘Sure do.’
‘I adored going to your place. Especially after Christmas Day. All those presents!’
‘It was guilt. My father making up for the absence of my mother.’
‘I never knew why she wasn’t there.’
‘Neither did I. She walked out on us when I was six.’
‘That must have left a hole.’ She paused. ‘You had a terrific dad though.’
‘Yeah. He’s great,’ Heather said, with a measure of warmth. She rummaged through her shoulder bag and took out her car keys.
‘Your back yard was a playground,’ Yvette said, caught in the reminiscence. ‘Swings, slippery dip, a swimming pool.’
Heather looked off into the distance. ‘We had a ball.’
‘Heaps of balls.’
‘Of all sizes.’ She returned her gaze to Yvette. ‘I never did see your place.’
‘I wasn’t allowed to have friends over.’ She winced inwardly, her mind belted by an unbidden image of her father in a frothing rage, hurling her Christmas presents down the back steps of the veranda. The anguish she felt watching that little girl gather her presents off the lawn. Little wonder her mother preferred to keep her and Debbie in a domestic fortress, the draw-bridge shut fast. She recoiled at the thought of walking in her mother’s shoes, choosing for the father of her offspring a Vesuvius of a man, spewing his bilious guts at any time.
They hugged. Heather’s embrace was strong and lingering. ‘Happy Christmas Yvette,’ she said as she pulled away.
‘You too.’
Heather was about to head to her car when a thoughtful look appeared in her face. ‘Do you still sing?’
‘Sing?’ She’d forgotten the afternoons when they’d stand in front of Heather’s bedroom mirror, hairbrushes in hand, opening their lungs to Whitney Houston playing on the radio. ‘I do a bit,’ she said, cautiously. ‘Not very well.’
‘I’m in a choir. The Cushtie Chanters. We meet every Saturday in Fremantle. I thought you might like to come along.’
A choir? Straight away she thought of Simon and Peter and Debbie’s motherly pride. Resistance pinged in her guts. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, with forced warmth.
Heather handed Yvette her business card with the address for the choir neatly scribed on the back.
‘We start at two. I hope to see you there.’
‘You will. Definitely.’
2.20
It was the summer solstice and after a long morning toying with the idea of dipping one of Dan’s brushes into a splodge of acrylic paint in an effort to break through her hiatus, Yvette slipped on a summer frock, grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and left the flat. In the northern hemisphere, pagans of yore had cavorted, revelled and wassailed through winter’s deepest night. Here in Australia she wondered what went on, two-hundred, three-hundred years before now, before the whites took over?
She’d decided to venture into the festive melee of Perth, determined to purchase herself a Christmas present to compensate for the anticipated disappointment she’d feel upon opening the pre-loved Christmas paper from her mother. Through all of her ten years away, Leah sent her a small gift, one year a tea towel and a pair of oven gloves, another an apron with I Love Bermagui plastered across the front, and always wrapped in what Yvette presumed was the wrapping paper she’d received from Debbie the year before.
The air was unusually still for midday and it must have been at least a hundred degrees. Surely Malta was never this hot? Or had her tolerance for heat inexplicably diminished? The air was cooler in the shade of the plane trees that lined the street. Beyond, the aggressive brightness rendered every building sharp and distinct. In this oxymoronic setting, Christmas had lost all meaning, all warm fuzzy associations of a freezing day at Grandma Grimm’s house back in England, with aunties and uncles and cousins everywhere, with cheers and chatter, mince pies and vol au vents, and the smell of roasting turkey. Her Christmas spirit was as empty as a wizened walnut shell. Yet she had to summon a modicum of enthusiasm for Christmas for the sake of her soul.
She wandered into Myers department store, relishing the air-conditioned cool and her spirits lifted, rising further with the ascent of the elevator and a crooning Bing Crosby dreaming of white Christmases, glistening tree tops and sleigh bells in the snow. Bing knew how she felt.
As she neared the women’s clothing department she garnered her resolve, scanning the racks for special offers and searching to the bottom of the bargain bins. She found a thin scarf and a T-shirt among the marked down mark-downs and went to the checkout, stoically ignoring the woman in front of her clutching a giant teddy bear under one arm, the other struggling to hold a basket overflowing with apparel.
On her way down the escalator she felt reluctant to head back into the heat. So she took the next escalator down to the basement and walked around the racks of suits and shirts. A young man with neat fair hair was replenishing a display of novelty boxer shorts in red and green satin with ludicrous ‘jingle my bells,’ motifs. As she approached he turned to her. ‘Can I help you?’
‘No.’ She felt confused and couldn’t fathom why she was even in the store.
She went back up the escalator and exited the store through sliding glass doors as Brenda Lee rocked around the Christmas tree, with no expectation of a flurry of snow but maybe at least a sea breeze. Her head spun for a moment. She walked quickly towards the shade of the awnings in a nearby arcade, narrowly avoiding colliding with a man in a suit laden with gift-wrapped parcels in bulging shopping bags.
Back in the flat, Yvette opened the sliding door as wide as it would draw and stepped outside. The sun was high in the western sky. The row of jacarandas in the street below was a feast of blue-lilac. Directly beneath the balcony, in the garden of the neat suburban house next door, a large gathering was whooping up a shivaree of pre-Christmas celebrations. Even six floors up, she could pick out children’s squeals and sudden rushes of laughter. Heading for the front door, she went back inside, wincing in the sudden gloom. She propped open the door with a sandal, allowing the stale air of the corridor – at least it was cool – to waft through the flat. She went back to the kitchen and was about to flick on the kettle when, in an isosceles of light on the scuffed vinyl floor, a cockroach caught her eye. She made to stamp down her bare foot but thought better of it. No doubt the critter and his cronies had festive plans of their own. With a swirl of defeat rising in her belly she decided to leave them to it.
She’d reached her threshold of endurance in this entomological flat share but she hadn’t a clue what do to do about it. The cockroaches had made it clear they were not about to move house, so it was down to her, but to where, how, and how would she afford it? She doubted Pinar would give her more shifts at the café and her casual wage wouldn’t cover any rent.
And she wasn’t about to fly back to her mother’s farm.
She felt suddenly queasy, which she tried to ignore, but the bilious wave rose inside her and she ran to the bathroom.
Back in the living room she sat on the sofa and stared blankly at the drab-cream of the opposite wall. She knew without needing to visit a chemist or a doctor what that vomit meant. She was pregnant. She couldn’t be certain as she hadn’t had a period since her abortion, but she felt that vague sense of self-containment. She hadn’t thought falling pregnant again would be so easy. Only counting back the weeks she realised she had no way of knowing which one of her recent liaisons was the father. Two days after Dimitri the prurient photographer had seduced her in the park, she’d slept with Lee the music teacher. It had been a lacklustre tryst and he’d turned his back to the wall the moment he was done but conception had nothing to do with pleasure.
She didn’t even know how to contact either man. The day after she’d met Varg she’d discarded all evidence of the men’s existence. She couldn’t even recollect their surnames. She supposed she could track them both down through Love Station but it hardly seemed worth the effort. Why bother? It would be sure to bring her more trouble. She didn’t like either man and recoiled at the idea of negotiating the terrain of shared custody.
Now she hoped Varg wouldn’t phone. She’d slept with him as well, invited him into the flat that first night, and he too might be the father, she could have claimed he was the father, hoped with the might of Demeter that her offspring had red hair, but the pretence would have been unendurable.
Little wonder that palm reader had looked at her strangely the moment she’d released Yvette’s hand. She’d met the father of her children, that much was true, and the prophecy was fulfilled, but what about her? Twenty-nine years old, stuck in Australia on a holiday visa, here in this scummy flat with few friends, about to be a single mother to a child with a triptych of possible fathers. She had to summon all her resolve not to feel cheap.
She wondered if the department of immigration would look more favourably upon her status if they knew she were about to give birth to an Australian? Would that be exceptional circumstances? Did they have exceptional circumstances? Or would her baby be allowed to stay but her, the mother, deported? She couldn’t face finding out.
All she knew for certain was she would avoid telling her mother until it was too late for her to advise a termination.
2.21
An hour later and she had scarcely moved. She contemplated taking a shower when her phone rang. It was Thomas. After the ritual exchange of how are you’s, he invited himself round after dinner.
‘About eight okay?’ He sounded ebullient. Before she had a chance to tell him that was fine he hung up.
He arrived about half-past eight carrying his violin case and a bottle of wine.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, kissing her cheek.
He set down the violin case just inside the door.
‘Aren’t you going to serenade me?’ Yvette said.
‘I’ve just had an audition.’
‘Fantastic,’ she said, enthusiastically. ‘For an ensemble?’
‘For a gypsy folk band.’
‘I won’t have heard of them.’
‘The Romanas.’
‘How did it go?’
‘First rehearsal next week.’ He was grinning.
‘That’s great.’
‘I’ll let you know when we perform.’
She took the bottle from his grip and went to the kitchen, pulling open one of the drawers and rummaging through the contents for a cork screw before realising she needn’t have bothered. The bottle had a screw-top lid.
They sat out on the balcony. A light breeze cooled the air. Beyond the haze of the city, stars shone down from their lofty heights in a clear moonless sky.
‘I have something to tell you,’ Yvette said, but Thomas wasn’t listening. He was gazing at the city skyline. Without turning he said, ‘Would you like to come to my place for Christmas dinner?’
‘Thanks. Will Anthony be there?’
‘I believe so.’
She took a sip of her wine. It was surprisingly good.
He continued staring off at the skyline, the fingertip of one hand idly gliding round the rim of his glass.
‘Have you seen Varg again?’
‘No.’
‘I thought you two were an item.’
Yvette looked into her glass and said nothing. She had profound misgivings confiding in Thomas but he’d find out soon enough. Yet now was not the moment.
She relaxed somewhat after a second glass of wine. It occurred to her she shouldn’t be drinking but couldn’t bring herself to stop.
They chatted for a while about the great Australian way of life, exchanging a long string of light-hearted insults before agreeing that the culture wasn’t that bad.
‘You were lucky you came by plane,’ he said, wryly.
‘Yeah. It had occurred to me.’
They were silent for a while. Yvette made out patches of slow-moving high cloud that blacked out the stars. Then Thomas took a succession of quick gulps from his glass. ‘I better go. Thanks for having me.’
‘You’re always welcome.’
She followed him to the door. They exchanged goodbyes and he made to walk away.
Consumed by a sudden desire to confess, she stood on the threshold and blurted, ‘I’m pregnant.’
He swivelled round to face her. ‘What?!’
‘I said I’m pregnant.’
‘I heard you, but how, I mean…?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Are you going to keep it?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you’ll be a single mother.’
‘So?’
‘You’re crazy.’ His face had turned to stone. ‘Are you going to tell Varg?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I don’t know if it’s his.’
‘How come?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Yeah, I do. Besides, when you know a thing is right.’
‘When it comes to matters of the heart,’ he said, bitterly, ‘There is no right.’
‘I agree. But it feels right.’
‘I’m glad one of us is able to trust their feelings.’
‘Stop judging me.’
‘I’m trying to save you…from yourself!’ He sounded exasperated. She hadn’t expected censure from him.
‘I don’t need saving,’ she said, snappily. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
He shook his head and blew through his lips. Then he walked briskly down the corridor without a backward glance.
His reaction stung. Besides, she knew what she was doing. She was following where life led her. That was how she’d always lived her life. Besides, it was Thomas who invited her to Perth to live in his cockroach-infested flat. Thomas who invited her to that party. Why now try to rescue her from the very fate he’d been instrumental in manifesting?
She closed the door and made for the balcony, where she slugged the rest of the wine.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: asylum, asylum seekers, Australia, Australia Day, black comedy, boat people, free novel, illegals, multiculturalism, Perth, The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith, visa overstayers
