Inside, the courtyard is covered in hundreds of tiny black and white pebbles laid carefully into a beautiful pattern. There’s a flying bat at each corner, and around the edges is a border of curling leaves.
In the middle is the big rock – the one in the photo on our hall table! Now it looks like a sentry standing guard, with two holes for eyes and a round mouth full of surprise.
Beside the big rock is an oval fish pond. On the sides of the pond are weird symbols. They look like ancient Chinese characters but I’ve never seen this style of writing before.
‘Show Little Cloud the fish while I water the bonsai,’ Por Por says to Ting Ting.
Ting Ting smiles and calls me over. But it’s not a friendly smile. I look into the water. There are about twenty goldfish swimming around. Some are orange, some white, some have black and red spots.
They seem to be waiting for something.
‘See that big fish,’ Ting Ting says. She points to a fat red fish with a mouth almost as wide as its body. ‘He understands human talk. Ask him if he’s hungry.’
I shake my head. I’d feel stupid talking to a fish.
‘Go on.’ Ting Ting prods me in the back.
I look across at Por Por. She’s busy pulling weeds out of a small pot on a wooden ledge.
‘Fine,’ I say. I lean over the pond and look down into the water. ‘Are you hungry?’ I say hurriedly.
The other fish are still swimming around, but the big mouth fish stops and stares. It’s weird. He looks at me with his great big googly eyes and I’m sure he’s going to say something.
‘See, I told you,’ laughs Ting Ting. ‘Go on, get closer to the water and ask him again. He’ll answer you.’
I look at her. I look at the fish. I feel as if she’s playing with me like a cat plays with a mouse. But I do as she says. I kneel on the edge of the pond. ‘Are you hungry?’ I say to the fish.
The fish closes his mouth and darts away, flicking his thick tail. A wave of foul water splashes into my eyes and mouth. It’s disgusting. I cough and splutter.
‘Oh, Little Cloud,’ says Por Por, coming up to us. ‘You have to keep away from that naughty old fish. Aiya. Didn’t Ting Ting tell you?’
Por Por doesn’t see Ting Ting giggling behind her hand. She takes a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to me. ‘Would you like to feed the fish? It’s their meal time.’
‘No, thank you, Por Por,’ I say, wiping my face. ‘I’ll just watch. Maybe next time.’
Por Por takes a pinch of fish food from a blue jar and sprinkles it across the water. ‘There, you see? That’s how it’s done. Not too much and not too little.’
As soon as the fish flakes land on the surface, the fat red fish chases the little ones away. Then he opens his huge mouth and sucks in most of the food. He’s such a bully.
‘What about the little fish, Por Por?’ I ask. ‘Won’t they go hungry?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about them,’ she replies. ‘Those little ones are smart. Watch.’
And she’s right. The little ones swim down and wait for the food as it sinks to the bottom of the pond amongst the weeds.
‘When you are small, you have to be smart to survive,’ she says, smiling. I know Por Por is talking about herself. Mama told me that Por Por left home when she was only twelve years old.
‘Come, let’s go inside,’ Por Por says.
The house is old and made of wood. I step through the carved front entrance and Por Por hands me a pair of silk slippers to wear. We do that at home, too. It’s a Chinese custom. I take off my shoes and slide them into a compartment in the shoe cabinet. As we walk, our slippers make shush shush shush sounds on the wooden floorboards. Then we step onto a big blue-and-white rug that fills most of the room. It’s beautiful and so soft to walk on. There are white cranes flying across ribbons of clouds. Mama told me that white cranes are the symbol of long life.
‘Take Little Cloud’s coat, Ting Ting, while I make some hot chocolate,’ says Por Por, and she disappears into what must be the kitchen.
‘I can make it, Por,’ Ting Ting calls out.
‘No, you two get to know each other. I won’t be long.’
Ting Ting takes off her rainbow scarf and throws it onto a chair. She doesn’t take my coat, so I put it on the arm of the couch and sit down. I can see her out of the corner of my eye circling the room like a hungry lioness. She’s making me nervous.
Against one wall is a cabinet with a row of little brown teapots and some framed photos. I stand up to take a closer look so that I don’t have to think about Ting Ting.
There’s the one taken at home on Christmas Day a year ago. Papa took it as Mama unwrapped the earrings we gave her and held them up to the camera, smiling. I’m pulling a funny face and Robbie has his arms around Mama’s neck. I look at our faces and think how happy we were back then. It’s like looking at a forest before a bushfire. Every tree standing tall, leaves facing the sun, taking in the warmth, not suspecting what’s going to happen next. Papa said once that forests regrow. That after a devastating fire they become stronger than ever. But I’m not so sure about that anymore.
There’s also a picture of my aunt and uncle, Mama’s brother and his wife, outside their milkbar in Tiger Bay. Tiger Bay is a small town, right on the sea, about eighty kilometres from where we live in Australia. Mama said we’d buy a holiday house there one day. But that won’t happen now.
Suddenly, Ting Ting swoops on me, shoving her face in mine and making me jump. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she says.
I don’t dare look into her flashing eyes, so I stare instead at a silver locket on a black silk cord hanging around her neck. It has Chinese symbols delicately carved into its surface. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s mesmerising.
Ting Ting stands over me, then straightens, sniffs the air and walks out the front door, slamming it shut behind her. I stare after her in disbelief.
‘Hao le, hot chocolate is ready,’ says Por Por, carrying a tray with three mugs into the room. She puts the tray down on the table. ‘Where’s Ting Ting? I heard the front door. Did she go out?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Did she say where she was going?’
I shake my head.
Por Por lets out a small sigh. Then she hands me one of the mugs and a steamed bun filled with red bean paste.
Por Por and I sit and talk. I tell her about my best friends, Jess and Bronte. How we’ve known each other since kindergarten and how we play music together. We’re an all-girl band called Cedar Jam. Jess plays drums, Bronte is on bass guitar, and I sing and play lead guitar. I want to be a singer when I grow up. Por Por says she would like to hear me sing when I feel like it. She tells me about Mama when she was a little girl and shows me lots of black-and-white photos.
Sometimes there’s a gap in the conversation and I hear the singsong cry of a peddlar out in the alley, the tinkle of a bell talking on the breeze, the walls stretching and sighing around us.
‘Come, Little Cloud. I’ll show you to your room,’ Por Por says when we finish our afternoon tea.
I walk with Por Por down the hall. She opens one of the doors. ‘This used to be your mama’s room when she was a little girl,’ she says, smiling. ‘Have a rest. I’ll wake you when dinner is ready.’
‘Xie xie, thank you, Por Por,’ I say, suddenly feeling tired.
There’s a single bed and a low bedside table with an orange lamp. Under the window sits a chest of drawers, and next to that a small desk and chair. On the wall above the desk hangs a photo of Mama standing beside her father. Mama looks to be about my age when the photo was taken. I touch her young face.
I open my backpack and take out the brown box with Mama’s ashes in it. I put it on the low table beside the bed.
It’s strange lying in Mama’s old room. I look up at the ceiling, the same ceiling Mama used to lie under, and as I drift off to sleep I know I’m hearing the same sounds Mama used to hear a lifetime ago.
Por Por wakes me up and I smell something delicious. I wasn’t hungry before because I ate so much on the plane, but suddenly I’m starving. Por Por has put a big plate of fried dumplings on the table.
I’m glad that Ting Ting is nowhere to be seen.
Before we start, Por Por says a prayer. ‘Thank you to the animals who have given up their lives so that we may eat,’ she says. ‘And thank you to the farmers who laboured so hard to put this food on our table.’ Por Por picks up her chopsticks. ‘Let’s begin,’ she says, smiling.
The dumplings are the best I’ve ever tasted. They are filled with vegetables all finely chopped. I dip one in Chinese vinegar, and when I bite into it the delicious juice fills my mouth.
‘I suppose you’re wondering about Ting Ting,’ Por Por says after a while. ‘I don’t know if your mama told you about her.’
‘Just a little,’ I say.
Por Por puts her chopsticks down and sits back. ‘She has been with me ever since her parents died three years ago,’ she says. ‘They were in a bus accident. Poor Ting Ting was at school that day. There was no one else to take care of her, so I took her in.’
I feel a sudden rush of sadness and pity for Ting Ting. It’s not just me she’s mad at. She must be mad at the whole world.