Jayne was waiting outside the Santiphap Accounting office, sipping a plastic bag of iced coffee, when Police Major General Wichit’s nephew Chai arrived. He’d been expecting her and ushered her into a private office with a computer and printer. She took a seat and set about producing a fictitious resume that listed among her previous positions several childcare jobs in Australia and one in Thailand.
The idea came to her the night before whilst reading the pamphlet from the New Life Children’s Centre. ‘Our Centre welcomes enthusiastic volunteers to assist in acclimatising orphans to the customs and languages of adoptive parents overseas through our intensive one-on-one pre-departure program. Volunteers are also welcome to assist with fund-raising, gardening, cleaning and administrative duties.’ No way was Jayne going to volunteer for cleaning or gardening— tasks she went out of her way to avoid at the best of times— and fundraising and administration weren’t really her forte.
That left childcare, and it seemed appropriate for her to follow in Maryanne’s footsteps.
As well as falsifying her employment history, Jayne selected the Presbyterian Ladies College in Melbourne as her alma mater and lopped nine years off her age, citing the date of birth on the fake student ID card she’d bought on Khao San Road, which made her a sprightly twenty-five.
She took a compact mirror from her daypack and peered into it. Trying to pass for twenty-five was pushing it. Years of self-neglect were taking their toll. The whites of her eyes looked jaundiced and she had the beginning of crow’s feet.
But there was no trace of grey in her black curls, and thanks to a decent night’s sleep her freckled skin looked healthy enough. She applied a light coat of mascara, pinched her cheeks and restored the mirror to her bag.
Next step was to write herself a glowing character reference, describing how her ‘strong Christian values’ were evident in her ‘attention to the wellbeing of the children in her care’ and her ‘high standards of personal conduct’. Then she called Police Major General Wichit.
‘Can I use you as a referee? I need a Thai person who’ll say I did a good job of looking after his children.’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realised her gaffe.
‘It’s a cover story,’ she added quickly. ‘I’m pretending I have experience looking after small children.’
‘Mai pen rai,’ Wichit said, the ubiquitous Thai phrase meaning ‘it doesn’t matter’, even when it did. ‘Give them my mobile number to ensure they reach me directly.’
He sounded fine, but Jayne could have kicked herself.
Looking after Wichit’s children—at least his daughter—was precisely what she had done. She didn’t want to insult Wichit by implying that he needed reminding of his debt to her. The Police Major General was a powerful ally and she wanted to stay in his good books. She had been in the bad books of a Thai cop once before and had no desire to relive that.
She added Wichit’s name and mobile number to her reference, printed it out and sealed it in an envelope. The condensation from her bag of iced coffee had formed a puddle on the desk. Chai put a stop to her attempt to wipe it up and despatched the mae ban to take over. Jayne thanked him for his hospitality and made her way to the New Life Children’s Centre brandishing her application.
She’d dressed conservatively for the occasion: sky blue T-shirt, knee-length grey denim skirt and flat sandals. As a finishing touch, she slipped a silver crucifix on a leather thong around her neck. She’d bought it to go undercover as a Christian missionary in a dangerous red-light district of Chiang Mai, and it had sat tarnishing in her toiletries bag until she’d plucked it out and polished it that morning.
Although Jayne wasn’t religious, she hoped that if God did exist, He wasn’t offended by her habit of impersonating His followers.
It was ten thirty when she entered the gold-gated compound and headed for the administration building. At the reception desk, a young Thai woman with long, frosted pink fingernails tapped at a computer keyboard. In keeping with her cover story, Jayne didn’t let on that she spoke Thai.
She said she wanted to volunteer at the centre and was told to take a seat.
The walls of the reception area were decorated with posters of puppies and kittens sitting in baskets, entangled in brightly coloured balls of wool, propped up in toy cars, or tucked into prams wearing ribbons around their necks. The popularity of these images knew no bounds amongst the Thais, though urban myth had it the animals were actually dead, stuffed and posed for the photos.
‘Hello, I’m Frank Harding.’
Jayne turned and stood up. She recognised the foreigner from the previous day. He had the colouring of a calico cat, patches of grey, black and ginger on white, but his bushy eyebrows and large nose made him look like a bird of prey.
He wore his conspicuous crucifix over a white short-sleeved shirt, grey slacks and loafers.
‘I’m Jayne.’
She extended her hand. Frank pressed it between both of his and caressed rather than shook it. She noticed his eyes lock on the cross around her neck.
‘Great meeting you. Miss Lah—’ he nodded at the receptionist ‘—says you’re interested in volunteer work.’
‘That’s right,’ she began. ‘I’ve brought my CV—’
‘Oh, let’s get to know each other first,’ Frank said. ‘Why don’t I show you around?’
‘That’d be great.’
‘Phom mee tula, ja chai wela praman samsip nahtee krup,’ he said to Miss Lah, literally, ‘I have business that will take about thirty minutes.’ His Thai was businesslike, grammatically correct.
‘Wow, you speak Thai!’
‘It’s a God-given talent,’ he said. ‘You?’
‘I wish. I’m one of those people with no talent for languages,’ she lied.
‘I’m sure you have other skills. Everyone has something they’re good at.’
That’d be drinking, smoking and inappropriate relationships, Jayne thought, as she followed him into the building.
‘The New Life Children’s Centre is an orphanage that processes adoption applications on behalf of the Thai government,’ Frank began. ‘Do you know how the adoption system works in Thailand?’
She shook her head.
‘All applications have to go through the social welfare department, but some organisations, like ours, are authorised to process applications on the government’s behalf.’
He opened a door, stepped aside to let her through. The room was subdivided by low partitions like a call centre.
Each cubicle contained a desk, phone, filing cabinets and a staff member preoccupied with paperwork. Mostly Thais, from what Jayne could gather.
‘This section—’ Frank gestured to one half of the room ‘—processes adoption requests from overseas, matches prospective parents with a baby or child in our care and submits the information to the authorities for approval.
While the basic criteria for prospective adoptive parents is stipulated under Thai law, our centre prioritises applications from Christian couples in the United States, Europe and Australia.’
‘Christian couples,’ Jayne repeated, keeping her voice neutral. ‘And the Thais don’t object, this being a Buddhist country?’
‘Now that’s an easy mistake to make,’ Frank said in a tone that suggested he might pat her on the head. ‘True, Buddhism is the dominant religion. But Thailand is a secular country, and the children in our care are being adopted into countries where Christianity is the dominant religion. My Thai colleagues agree it’s in the child’s best interests to be brought up as a member of the dominant religion to ensure they are better integrated and less marginalised.’
‘Hmm,’ she murmured, thinking that while Maryanne Delbeck might not have been a religious fanatic, she sure worked for one. Jayne would need to watch her step.
‘On the other side of the room is investigations. Here we do family traces and background checks when a child is found abandoned or comes to us with missing paperwork.
Birth certificate, proof of relinquishment, maternal death certificate—these documents are necessary for the child to be legally available for adoption.’
‘And if you can’t trace the documents?’
‘The process is outlined in the law. If all possible lines of inquiry have been exhausted and a thorough investigation has failed to produce results, the child can be recognised as abandoned and made eligible for adoption.’
‘A lengthy process.’
‘It is,’ Frank said, ‘but we can’t be too careful. The system has been open to abuses in the past and we need to be able to reassure both the adoptive parents and the Thai government that the child is legally available before we admit them into the adoption process.’
Frank led her back outside.
‘The role of our foreign volunteers is to work one-on-one with a child whose file has been allocated to adoptive parents overseas to prepare them for their new life. They need to get used to foreigners, learn their language. Some are old enough to learn songs and even start to read and write.’
The chatter of children’s voices grew louder as they approached the orphanage building.
‘See for yourself.’
The door opened on to a large foyer converted into a communal play space, the floor crawling with babies and children. Foreign volunteers—mostly women—sat amongst them. Frank gestured for Jayne to enter.
She caught snatches of conversation as they walked around the room.
British accent, middle-aged woman, helping a small boy with a puzzle: ‘You can do it—clever boy! Now let’s try…’ Australian accent, student type, talking to a pot-bellied girl wielding a coloured pencil and a piece of paper: ‘What are you going to draw next?’
German, pushing sixty, admiring her charge as she dressed him in clothes so new they still had the tags on them: ‘Zeig mal Liebchen. Oh, siehst Du aber fein aus…’
Young man—Korean or Japanese—captivating a group of toddlers with his animated reading: ‘The Good Samaritan took pity on the poor man…’
She glanced at the titles on the bookshelf behind him.
Classic fairytales from the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen, some hard cover picture books and an impressive collection of Bible stories.
A baby started howling. In a practised gesture, the German woman scooped him up, placed him over her shoulder and patted his back. The baby gurgled.
At a signal from Frank, Jayne retraced her steps. She noticed dormitory-style bedrooms off both sides of the main room, mosquito nets bunched up on ropes over the sleeping mats that lined the floor. The Australian girl smiled and nodded as Jayne passed.
Frank’s office, marked ‘Special Adviser’, was in the administration building. He removed the chain from his neck to unlock his door, the key secreted behind the crucifix. Frank’s desk was against one wall beneath a map of Thailand. The office also contained a small sitting area.
Frank pulled up a rattan chair and invited Jayne to take a seat on the couch. On the wall above Jayne’s head was a picture of a kitten dangling from a bucket beneath the words, ‘Hang in there’.
She handed over her resume but Frank gave it only a cursory glance.
‘I’m sure your credentials are fine,’ he said, putting it to one side.
Jayne thought Frank was staring at her breasts, but his focus was her crucifix.
‘Tell me, Jayne, what is it that motivates you—’ he invested the word with great significance ‘—to work as a volunteer?’
‘Well, I want to help people in need, to make a difference, and to do that in a way that’s consistent with my values.’
‘Ah,’ Frank nodded.
‘And even more so than Bangkok, Pattaya strikes me as a place desperately in need of God’s work, if you know what I mean.’
The increasing tempo of Frank’s nods told Jayne she was on track.
‘The wages of sin must take a terrible toll on the women here, and their children, too. And if I could make a difference to just one person…Well, as Saint Luke says, “Joy shall be in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety-nine just persons, which need no repentance”.’
This was her coup de grace, memorised that morning from the Gideon Bible in her hotel room.
‘Praise the Lord,’ Frank said.
Jayne bowed her head with what she hoped came across as humility and bit her lip.
‘You’d be a perfect addition to our volunteer team.’
‘Oh, I’m so pleased—’
‘First, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to ask you, Jayne: how would you describe your state of mind?’
‘My state of mind?’
‘Your mental health.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.’
Frank left his chair and sat on the couch beside her, so close their knees were almost touching.
‘Would you describe yourself as a person who is easily depressed?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Why?’
‘Because this place can really test your faith and I need to be sure you’re up to it.’
Jayne hesitated. ‘It’s because of that other girl, isn’t it?
The one who killed herself.’
Frank raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m from Australia. The story was in all the papers.
Don’t worry,’ she hastened to add, ‘I’m coming into this with my eyes open.’
To Jayne’s alarm, Frank reached over, took her hands in his and bowed his head.
‘Let us pray,’ he said.
Jayne let her hands go limp in Frank’s clammy grasp as he gave thanks for ‘delivering Jayne unto our organisation’.
He added a prayer for the repose of the soul of Maryanne Delbeck, and finished with an entreaty to continue to bless their work. In Jayne’s history of job interviews, this was without doubt the weirdest.
They agreed she would start the following morning.
‘I have one last question before I go,’ Jayne said. ‘What happens to the children who don’t meet the criteria for adoption?’
Frank glanced at his watch. ‘Come and I’ll show you.’
He led her back out the golden gates, where a different guard from the previous day saluted as they passed. Jayne was careful not to let on that she knew the way and made sure Frank reached the blue gates first.
A muscular man in a navy blue uniform, New Life Children’s Centre logo on his chest pocket, sat on a white plastic chair just outside the compound reading that morning’s edition of Thai Rath. A blue tiger tattoo stretched along his inner right arm. This man Jayne recognised—the tough guy from the previous evening. He looked even tougher up close, his dark face pockmarked with scars.
He leapt to his feet when Frank approached.
‘Sawadee krup, nong,’ Frank said to the man as he unlocked the gate. ‘This is Mister Chaowalit,’ he added in English. ‘He’s the guard and handyman for this part of the centre.’ He turned back to Chaowalit. ‘Sabai dee mai?’
‘Sabai dee,’ Chaowalit said to him. ‘Farang khon nee put thai dai mai?’
He was asking if she spoke Thai. Frank shook his head and Jayne pricked up her ears.
‘There’s a problem—’ Chaowalit said, but Frank cut him off.
‘I don’t have time now,’ he said in Thai. ‘I won’t be long with her and then we’ll meet, okay?’
Chaowalit scowled but stepped aside.
‘This section of the centre is for children whose parents place them in institutional care but don’t consent to them being adopted out. We call these kids boarders to distinguish them from orphans.’
He led Jayne into the nursery. It had much the same layout as the orphanage, but with fewer toys and no foreign volunteers. The smaller babies dozed or wriggled around on grass mats. Older children—Jayne guessed around age nine or ten—played with the younger ones. The Thai carers were dressed like nurses. One sat on a chair mending a mosquito net.
‘Most of these children come from families too poor to educate, house or even feed them. So they send them to the centre,’ Frank said. ‘Many of the parents are itinerant workers with irregular income and no stability. We become the keepers of the children’s birth certificates, vaccination records, even school reports.’
‘Why don’t the parents give them up for adoption?’
‘Different reasons. Many intend to maintain family ties.
Others count on a change of luck putting them in a position to care for the child. This is particularly common among the…ah…working girls in Pattaya. They think marrying a rich Westerner will solve all their problems. It doesn’t occur to them their future husband might not look too kindly on raising another man’s child. Nor do they consider whether such an arrangement would be in the child’s best interests—’ He stopped mid-sentence.
‘Forgive me, Jayne. Once I’m up on my high horse, I get a little carried away.’
She gave him a polite smile.
‘The sad fact is that most of these children are abandoned.
They’ll remain in our care until they finish middle high school, at which point we are obliged by law to release them to fend for themselves.’
Jayne recalled the words in Maryanne Delbeck’s letter home. It seems so unfair. It’s not as if their families visit them all the time. Some never come back for them at all.
‘It seems so unfair,’ she echoed.
‘Tragic, really.’ Frank gestured around the room. ‘Many would be perfect for adoption. Thai girls and half-ca—I mean, mixed race—babies are particularly sought after.
And as you can see, we have a lot of the latter here, both Eurasian and Afro-Asian.’
A tinny rendition of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to joy’ sounded from Frank’s shirt pocket. He took out his mobile phone and glanced at the screen.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to Jayne. ‘Feel free to have a look around.’
She wandered into the main room. The children might not have as much stuff as the orphans, but they looked well fed and cared for. On the plus side, their bookshelves were free of Bible stories.
She watched one of the older girls encouraging an infant to walk.
‘Come on Dollar, you can do it,’ the girl coaxed.
Jayne smiled. It was trendy among Thai people to give a child an English cheu len or nickname and not uncommon, as in Dollar’s case, to choose words rather than actual names.
‘Look, watch how Kob does it!’
The girl pointed towards a little boy who stood upright using the edge of a chair for balance. He was what the Thais called look kreung, literally ‘half-child’ but meaning half-Thai. With dark skin and corkscrew curls, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, he looked like something from a utopian society where humans were designed to be beautiful.
Jayne wondered if this Kob was Mayuree’s son.
Casting her eye around the room, Jayne spotted a few more look kreung, or what Frank referred to as Eurasian and Afro-Asian. She supposed these were the offspring of the working girls.
‘Can you wipe Moo’s nose?’ A Thai staff member gestured to a boy at Jayne’s feet.
She almost fished a tissue out of her bag before remembering she wasn’t supposed to understand Thai.
‘Sorry?’ she shrugged.
The nurse made a wiping gesture and pointed again at the child.
Jayne nodded, suppressed a shudder and squashed the slug of snot beneath the child’s nose.
Frank reappeared.
‘Already putting you to work I see.’
‘Just trying to be helpful,’ she said, holding out the used tissue.
‘There’s a trash can just outside the door.’ Frank motioned for her to follow him.
‘This section is only down the lane from the orphanage, but the two facilities are separated by a yawning chasm when it comes to opportunity,’ he sighed.
Jayne threw away the tissue and held out her hand.
‘Thanks for the tour. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Not necessarily. Nurse Connie and the others will put you through your orientation. If you need me, I have offices in both parts of the centre. I’m usually in one or the other.’
‘So you work with the boarders, too?’
‘There are sometimes opportunities to counsel families to reconsider their decision and relinquish the child for adoption. It’s part of my role at the centre to pursue those opportunities. As I said, many of the children would be ideal for adoption and we have such a long waiting list of suitable applicants.’
‘Do you ever have foreign volunteers working in this section?’
The mild curiosity underlining the question surged when Frank blanched in response.
‘We tried it once but decided it wasn’t in the children’s best interests.’
And there was Jayne’s answer: Maryanne had been granted her wish to work with the boarders.