Jane Vejjajiva Read online

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  Pan and spatula

  The lunch container

  The washtubs and the pegs

  The paddle-boat

  The old shelter

  Big jars, small jars

  The scraping rabbit

  The pot-scourer

  The urn for incence sticks

  Peacock feathers

  Wind crabs

  Sea morning glories

  Jellyfish

  Frangipani

  Sandflies

  Sea pines

  Cicadas

  Leadworts

  The key ring

  The drawers

  The suitcase

  The mirror

  The swing

  Postbox

  The old Thai house

  Epilogue

  the happiness of Kati

  the happiness of Kati

  Jane Vejjajiva

  translated by Prudence Borthwick

  This edition published in 2006

  First published in Thailand by Preaw Juvenile Books / Amarin in 2005

  Original title copyright © Jane Vejjajiva, 2003 English translation copyright © Jane Vejjajiva and Prudence Borthwick, 2006

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander St Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Vejjajiva, Jane. The happiness of Kati. ISBN 1 74114 753 0.

  I. Title.

  895.913

  Cover and text design by Sandra Nobes Set in 11½ pt Berkeley Book by Tou-Can Design Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Teachers’ notes available from www.allenandunwin.com

  part one

  the home on the water

  Pan and Spatula

  Mother never promised to return.

  The clatter of the spatula against the pan woke Kati that morning as it had every morning she could remember. The warm scent of freshly cooked rice also played a part, not to mention the smoke from the stove and the smell of crispy fried eggs. But it was the sound of the spatula hitting the side of the pan that finally broke into Kati’s slumber and roused her from her dreams.

  Kati never took long to wash her face and get dressed, and Grandpa joked that she just waved at the washbasin as she raced past. Grandma turned to look at Kati when she came into the kitchen. Grandma seldom smiled or greeted her. Grandpa said Grandma’s smiles were so rare they should be preserved and canned for export overseas, like top-quality produce.

  Kati ladled rice into a silver bowl. The white of the rice matched the freshness of the morning air as she cradled the rice bowl against her. The warm steam rose and seemed to fill her chest and her heart, which began to beat faster and harder as she set off at a run for the pier. Grandpa was already waiting – reading his newspaper, as always. A tray containing curry, vegetables and fried fish, each in a small, clean plastic bag, was beside him. With the addition of Kati’s steaming bowl of rice, their daily merit offering to the monks was complete.

  Before long came the sound of oars slapping the water, and the bow of a boat appeared round the bend. The vermilion robes of the venerable abbot added a flash of colour to the morning. The abbot’s pupil and nephew, Tong, flashed his teeth in a smile that could be seen from afar. Grandpa said Tong should join an acting troupe and go into comedy theatre, his smile was so contagious. Tong’s smiles came straight from his cheerful heart, made for his lips and twinkling eyes, and sent out ripples like a stone dropped in a pool so that people around him were affected too.

  Under the big banyan tree, Grandpa poured water from a little brass vessel onto the ground, completing the offering to the monks. Like a river flowing from the mountains to the sea, the water symbolised the merit they had earned and passed on to departed loved ones. Kati joined her prayers to Grandpa’s and prayed silently that her own wishes would be granted.

  Breakfast was waiting for them at home. They had a big meal like this every morning. Grandpa took the boiled vegetables with the pungent chili sauce, leaving the stir-fried vegetables and fried fish almost entirely to Kati. Grandpa avoided fried foods of all kinds. He complained behind Grandma’s back that eating her cooking was like eating everything coated in varnish, and that one day he would donate Grandma’s pan and spatula to the army to melt down for a cannon for King and Country. If Grandma heard him, she’d make such a racket with her spatula and pan that it was a miracle they were still able to do their duty afterwards.

  The Lunch Container

  Kati waited every day for Mother.

  Kati loved her tin lunch container. Grandpa called it ‘the food-mobile’ and it was compact yet held just enough food to fill you up nicely. Grandma didn’t want to see leftover food brought home to rot and she knew exactly the capacity of Kati’s stomach. Grandma’s lunch menu never missed the mark, not with ever-tasty minced basil and chili chicken with a fried egg on top, or boiled eggs, rich brown because they’d soaked up the aniseed gravy overnight, or crispy fried ‘son-in-law’ eggs with their sweet-and-sour tamarind sauce, or smooth and creamy steamed egg custard, or quail eggs dipped in batter and fried. Grandpa called Kati an ‘eggivore’, for as long as the lunch menu included eggs there was never any need to coax Kati to eat – she would devour the lot every time.

  Every school morning the bus would stop to pick up Kati. The route of the little open buses ran past the mouth of the lane leading to their house. Grandpa would give Kati a lift to the bus stop on the back of his bicycle. Kati liked hanging on tightly to Grandpa’s back. She liked the smell of his cologne that came from the bottle with the sailing ship on it. She liked the little breeze that dried away her sweat. The bus would be crowded with children because it was only a short way to the school, and Grandpa would call out for the passengers to make room for Kati and tell Uncle Loh to drive slowly and not to lurch about. ‘You’re taking them to school, not driving in the grand prix, so make sure you don’t end up spilling them out the back in a heap,’ Grandpa instructed, but Uncle Loh just laughed in reply.

  The children put their lunch containers in the dining hall before putting their bags away in the schoolrooms. The lunch containers stood together, big and small, tall and short, and many different colours. They probably conversed about the food they each contained: how tasty and spicy their food was and who had cooked it, and whether the rice had been served out lovingly or only dutifully. Did they hold just enough cold leftovers to fill the owner’s stomach, or the most delicious secret recipe from a market stall so popular the stallholder could hardly dish out the food fast enough? Some containers had a sticky rim, still unwashed from the day before. Some had ants. Some were battered and dented because they’d been handed down many times. Finally, the lunch containers would probably whisper about that really flash lunch container and whether she would turn up to strut her stuff as usual.

  Flash was the air-conditioned car that drove up to wait in front of the school. Flash was the lunch container that came with the maid wearing a uniform like a servant of some aristocratic family. Flash were the embossed designs on that lunch container, which
would open to reveal piping hot rice, steaming clear broth and exotic dishes the other lunch containers never knew about because they never had the chance to discuss these things with the flash lunch container. She only arrived at the school just before lunchbreak and was whisked away with the start of the first period of the afternoon.

  The school bell clanged for lunchbreak. Kati raced her friends downstairs and ran past Tong walking in the opposite direction. Tong was three years older than Kati and in Year 7 at school. He smiled at her before he left on his way home to the temple. Tong said that at lunchtime he had a whole buffet meal waiting for him from the varied offerings people had made to the monks.

  In the afternoon when Kati got home from school she washed her lunch container and placed the sections in a basin in the kitchen to drain. Later, in the evening, she would dry them and put them by the stove, handy for Grandma in the morning. Perhaps at night the lunch container would strike up a conversation with the stove to pass the lonely hours, asking how Grandma spent her day, and if she did anything else but get angry with Grandpa.

  The Washtubs and the Pegs

  In the house there were no photos of Mother.

  Kati’s job was to take the clothes from the line and put them in the washtub for Grandma to sort. This had been her chore even when she was too small to reach the clothes pegs on the line. Grandpa had made her a little set of moveable steps with a basket attached to hold the tub. He would push Kati and the steps slowly between the clothes lines. The wind blew,

  fluttering wildly, filling with air and straining against the coloured clothes pegs like birds that spread their wings but could not fly away.

  The clothes pegs had been plain wooden ones when they were bought, but Kati had coloured them with crayons, pencils and paint progressively, as she mastered each medium. It had started one day when Grandpa said that as a young man he had been a children’s art teacher. The funny look that came over Grandma’s face only encouraged Grandpa to go on about primary colours, warm and cool colours, complementary and opposite colours. He finished by reaching for the nearest object to hand on which to demonstrate his skill. That day the clothes pegs had been right beside him.

  The moveable stairs reflected Kati’s height. Now, at the age of nine, she needed only the first step to reach the line. But Kati liked to climb up so that she was higher than the clothes line. She would move her arms like a music conductor, like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia. The clothes danced to the song of the wind, and the moves were always new. Sometimes the sun was low in the sky before she finished taking in the clothes.

  In the all-purpose room known as ‘Grandma’s office’, the washtubs waited in a line. Kati had to sort the clothes and place them in the correct tub: Grandma’s clothes, Grandpa’s clothes, Kati’s clothes, each in their own tub. The pillowslips and sheets, tea-towels and table napkins, the cleaning rags or ‘yucky cloths’, as Grandpa called them, were separated out, not only as a hygiene measure (an over-the-top hygiene measure, according to Grandpa) but also for the convenience of Sadap when she came to do the ironing for Grandma.

  Grandma would come in and arrange the tubs in order of priority. Kati’s school uniforms took pride of place, as these had to be washed, ironed and worn again within the week.

  The sound of the rain hissing and splashing on the roof was greatly improved by the plink-plonk drumming on the tubs which had been left outside. Kati lay and listened with pleasure. But she would begin to get jumpy if the rattle of the rain was drowned out by thunder rumbling from the skies. The sound of lightning strikes seemed always to be echoed by a cry of heart-stopping despair. Kati was never certain if this was just the thunder ringing in her ears or a cry coming from somewhere in the darkest recesses of her memory. Grandma would open the bedroom door and come to lie down, holding Kati in her arms until they both fell asleep. Kati lay curled up in Grandma’s embrace. She didn’t want to hear the sky, the rain, the cry, the sound of that woman.

  Grandma’s cool smooth skin was faintly scented. Grandma never sang her a lullaby or told her a story to calm her agitated spirit, but she stroked Kati’s back softly, regularly, rhythmically, sending her to sleep. Once Kati half-opened her eyes to look up at Grandma and saw her eyes shining. A distant flash of lightning gave just enough light for Kati to see that, in the darkness, Grandma was crying.

  The Paddle-boat

  No one ever spoke of mother.

  Grandpa bought a little flat-bottomed boat to paddle in the flooded fields when the rainy season came. He said it was a nice way to escape Grandma’s bustle. Kati and Grandpa would go off, just the two of them. They set off in the late morning, Grandpa paddling in a leisurely fashion, passing down the waterway, looking at the fruit trees growing along the banks: mangos and rose apples mingled with casuarinas that liked to grow by the waterside. Grandpa didn’t stop and rest but called greetings to all the people he saw. Uncle Sohn was hauling up his net from the pier in front of his house, and it looked like he had a good catch of tapean fish. Grandpa said that on the way

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  home he’d stop and get some for Grandma to marinate in anchovy sauce for Kati’s dinner.

  The little boat drew away from the deep shade of the waterway and moved towards the open field that seemed to stretch as far and wide as the eye could see. The water in their wake was ruffled by a gentle breeze, and away in the distance the paddy fields glinted bright green. Grandpa let the boat drift in the centre of the field and began to pick lily stems. You had to look carefully to make sure that you had the pun lilies not the peuan lilies with their dry bitter taste. The pun lilies had bright yellow flowers and round leaves with no veins. Their crisp fresh stems were delicious dipped in the pungent chili sauce which Grandma had wrapped in lily leaves along with newly harvested rice for their lunch. Kati had fun breaking the lily stems up into little pipes and fitting them back together as a necklace. Sometimes Kati would see a raft of krajup growing together. She liked them better than water chestnuts, and Grandpa would gather them in the bottom of the boat to take home to boil and eat. Then there were the water hyacinths with their fragile pale-purple blooms. If you held them in your hands, in no time at all they would wither away. The white morning glories were pretty too. Grandpa said if you were an artist like Monet you could make them just as beautiful on canvas.

  Grandpa would paddle peacefully, not worrying about what time he left home, where he had to be next and when he had to be home by. Grandpa said they weren’t on a tour according to the dictates of the railway timetable. They were on a tour according to the dictates of their own hearts.

  The flat-bellied boat with its stubby bows made an excellent conveyance. It did not pollute the environment, but cut through the clear waters to the stroke of the paddler. If you paddled into a flock of pond-skaters, the insects would scatter wildly, making mayhem. Grandpa and Kati didn’t need to speak. They let the little boat and the water greet each other instead. The sun seemed far away in the sky even though its rays were stronger now. But around them the water completely covered the field, acting as a coolant to cut out the heat. Time seemed to stop still. Water and sky, wind and sun framed a picture in the centre of which floated the little boat. Nevertheless, a boat can’t keep going forward without eventually reaching its destination, no matter how enchanting the journey.

  The Old Shelter

  Kati no longer remembered Mother’s face.

  The destination Grandpa chose, on the basis of his rumbling stomach, was the little waterside shelter under the big East Indian walnut tree.

  This was their usual rest stop on trips to the field, because it was so well placed. The lone walnut tree stood at the edge of the field, its broad canopy left to grow freely and gracefully, casting a convenient shade over the dilapidated roof of the old shelter. The thick planks of the shelter still held good, though they creaked and squeaked with every step, sounding like an elderly person greeting a long-awaited visitor. The gentle sunshine filtered through the leaves and branches of the walnut
tree. Sunlight penetrated a hole in the roof, falling on the raised wooden platform below. Grandpa gave the platform a cursory wipe, before spreading out his long cotton scarf for them to sit on like a picnic rug. Kati opened the basket Grandma had packed for them: rich sweet chili sauce, crispy fried catfish salad, sweet pork, and salted eggs which they mixed with rice and finished off, with Grandpa muttering that it was for this reason and no other that he loved Grandma.

  There was not even time for their eyelids to grow heavy after the big meal before they heard someone hailing them from across the water. A number of boats were heading towards them. Headman Boon was bringing the villagers to meet with Grandpa. They had not made an appointment, but Grandpa was their counsel in times of trial, and everyone in the district was courteous and considerate to him. Word spread quickly in the little community when Grandpa was out and about, and the old shelter was a convenient meeting place for those who wished to consult him.

  Tong was a member of the deputation too. He gestured for Kati to come over to him while the grownups talked. But Kati liked to hear Headman Boon’s introductory remarks. He always said the same thing: that the village by the water was indeed lucky that Grandpa had chosen to return from Bangkok and retire to his ancestral home, which at the time had been left completely deserted and had fallen into disrepair; that Grandpa, who had studied abroad and was a first-class lawyer, was well-known throughout his home and, indeed, the entire kingdom; that Grandpa had made a fortune but had helped so many people; that if it had not been for Grandpa the villagers would have been exploited, taken advantage of, and the land of their ancestors… Here Grandpa raised his hand to stop the flow of words and asked smoothly if they were planning to conduct the Kwan Narc recital, that part of the Buddhist ordination ceremony where the ordinand recalls his debt of gratitude to his mother for conceiving him, bearing him and delivering him. Grandpa asked if they would like to include the nine months he spent inside his mother’s womb in their recitation. This raised a shout of laughter that could be heard clear across the water.