Garden of Empress Cassia Read online

  ‘Why didn’t he ever come back to visit?’asked Mimi.

  ‘Aiya . . .’ sighed Mrs Lu. ‘Your daddy angry. He say Uncle Ting lazy, because he not find good job. Lu family lose face, make ancestors unhappy.’ She sighed again. ‘Maybe they now make peace.’

  ‘Will he die soon?’

  ‘Doctor say any time. You want something eat, Mimi?’

  ‘Later, Mum, I’m going outside to do a drawing for Uncle Ting, okay?’

  Mimi took the box of Empress Cassia Pastels from her school bag and went out into the street. The footpath was her giant drawing board. Drawing would calm her heart when she was angry, or cheer her up when she was sad. And when she was happy, she would draw as freely as an eagle catching thermals in a clear blue sky.

  Mimi knew all the regular shoppers by their shoes – and sometimes even by the sound of their footsteps. Mrs Jacobs always wore high heels. They made a dock, dock, dock sound as she hurried by. Those bright red shoes of hers with the pointy toes could be used as lethal weapons! And then there was Mr Honeybun. One day as Mimi was inspecting a tiny ant dragging an enormous breadcrumb across a crack in the footpath, she heard loud farts coming down the street. How gross, she thought, holding her breath as a man came limping towards her. Twelve farts in a row. Should be in the Guinness Book of Records.

  It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Mimi learned Mr Honeybun’s left leg had been blown off by a bomb in World War II. He had to wear a plastic leg held to his stump by suction. The limb didn’t fit properly, so it made a farting noise as he walked. Now Mimi always said a special hello to Mr Honeybun.

  Mimi knelt on the pavement and carefully opened the box of pastels. Once again her imagination exploded with colour. Wonderful images of gardens floated into her mind. She took a shimmering sapphire blue and began to draw a pond. A soft summer breeze blew down the street, so Mimi drew gentle waves rippling around the shore. Long-necked swans dived for snails. Their tails bobbed on the water like fluffy white meringues.

  Mimi already had a keen eye for detail, but today she even surprised herself. The two-dimensional world she had drawn in pastels on the footpath was truly beautiful.

  ‘Dinner’s ready, Mimi,’ Mrs Lu called.

  She was just packing up when Gemma and Phoebe passed by holding their noses and wrinkling up their faces.

  ‘What’s that disgusting smell?’ Gemma said. ‘Oh, hi Mimi, I didn’t see you there. Is your dad still giving people garden sweepings to boil up and drink?’

  Phoebe giggled.

  Why can’t I stand up to her? Say something back, you wimp. But Mimi’s words caught in her throat.

  ‘Wanna come ghost hunting tonight?’ Gemma asked, a smirk on her face. ‘They say Ghost Gum Park is totally swarming with them.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Mimi coldly.

  ‘Your loss, our gain. Come on, Phoebs.’ Gemma turned to leave, then spied the box of pastels lying on the footpath. ‘Hey, these are cool. Where did you get them?’ She bent down to take a closer look.

  ‘Get away!’ Mimi was surprised at the anger in her own voice. She rushed over and grabbed the box, holding it protectively to her chest, then ran into the shop leaving an indignant Gemma standing on the footpath, her mouth gaping.

  The next morning, Mimi was eager to beat the Saturday morning rush of shoppers. Last year, Wattle Valley Council had laid large concrete pavers along Rumba Street. It was a much better surface for Mimi to draw on than the old footpath. She was no longer restricted by the cracks, or the big black blobs of chewing gum that freckled the ground.

  An idea had come to Mimi during the night. She wanted to draw the images before they dissolved into air. She opened the box of pastels. In her mind she saw spring flowers bursting into full bloom. She chose a pastel the colour of velvet moss on a rainforest floor in the early morning – and drew a crisp cool spring day. A young woman jogged past, then stopped. She looked down at the drawing and wiped her brow with her sleeve. It was as if she could feel the coolness in the air. ‘Great painting kid,’ she said and dropped a dollar coin into the lid of the box. Before Mimi had a chance to return the money, the jogger was up the hill and out of sight. Another passerby stopped to look into the painting. It was Mr Holes. Mimi didn’t know his real name. She called him that because his coat was so full of holes it looked as though mice had mistaken it for cheese.

  Mr Holes spent the night wherever he could find shelter from the wind and rain. Sometimes it was in a shop doorway, sometimes it was in a dumpster. He had no set place. He was a wanderer. Mr Holes scratched his head. His dreadlocks wriggled like thick, curly worms. What was he trying to remember?

  By noon, more people gathered. Mimi drew a beach streaked with seaweed and dotted with laughing children. Above them, seagulls caught crusts in mid-air.

  ‘Daddy,’ said a small boy. ‘I want to play, too.’ He struggled with his safety harness, trying to get out of his pusher. His father smiled. ‘Beautiful day for a swim,’ he said absent-mindedly even though a curtain of cloud now covered the sky.

  ‘I think I’ll take the children down to the beach after lunch,’ the lady standing next to him replied.

  By late afternoon, Mimi was drawing the swirling leaves of autumn floating across golden hills. The crowd by now was two deep but nobody pushed or shoved as they watched the Garden of Four Seasons grow. They were amazed at the colours and fine sensitive lines. There was something in the drawings that each person understood – as if a distant memory had been awakened. The perfume of roses floated in the air even though there wasn’t a rose within at least five kilometers. And if there was a lull in the traffic, was that the sound of a waterfall cascading over rocks?

  As dusk approached, Mimi completed the full cycle. A snowman, with a carrot nose and corks for eyes, bravely withstood the icy winds of winter. In the centre of the four drawings, she drew a yin yang symbol. Uncle Ting had shown Mimi this ancient image that went round and round into itself. It fascinated her as a little girl. He said that it represented the never-ending cycle of change in the universe – day turning into night, summer into winter, good into bad. And then the whole cycle was repeated all over again.

  Mimi thought of Uncle Ting lying in hospital in the winter of his life. Would he be reborn to continue the cycle? Her mum believed that everyone came back to earth many times. She was Buddhist. That’s why she was a vegetarian and wouldn’t even kill an ant. Mimi hoped it was true.

  ‘Uncle Ting . . . the Garden of Four Seasons is for you,’ she whispered.

  As the sun sank low on the horizon, the people awoke from their stupor and remembered their families waiting at home. There was homework to be done, dinners to prepare and children to bathe. They had completely forgotten about their day to day lives for just a moment. Visiting the Garden of Four Seasons was like going on a wonderful holiday.

  News of the amazing garden in Rumba Street travelled like an infectious yawn in the span of just a few short days. Even the neighbourhood dogs, downwind of the garden, smelt something delicious in the air and whined at their gates to be let out.

  Mrs Lu was surprised at all the people outside her shop. Mimi often drew on the footpath, but never had there been such interest.

  Ding ding-a-ling.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Lu,’ said Mr Honeybun, his bald head popping into the shop. ‘You have a real little Picasso there. This is my third visit in two days and I still haven’t seen it all.’

  ‘Seen what all, Mr Honeybun?’ asked Mrs Lu.

  ‘Why, the Garden of Four Seasons. You haven’t seen it yet?’

  Mrs Lu came out of the shop, curious to see what all the fuss was about. She cast her eyes over the garden drawn so beautifully on the grey paving stones. Instantly, memories of her life in China during the 1960s returned.

  She saw herself, a young girl in Hangzhou. Her hair in neat plaits, a red scarf tied around her neck. It was the time of the Cultural Revolution. Out in the street, a loudspeaker was spitting out slogans, ‘Be good childr
en for Chairman Mao. He is the bright golden sun. Study hard and you will go to the top.’

  Through the lattice window of her bedroom, she could see a ginkgo tree. Its fan-shaped leaves fell to the ground like golden snowflakes. The ginkgo is one of the oldest species on earth. It has survived 300 million years, since before the dinosaurs. The young girl loved this ancient tree as much as she loved Chairman Mao, the leader of China. Everyone loved Chairman Mao. Some children loved him even more than they loved their own parents.

  Mimi opened a drawer in the medicine cabinet and grabbed a handful of tiny red berries to snack on. When she turned around, there was the smiling face of Josh Rudd on the other side of the counter. He was dressed in baggy khaki pants and an orange shirt. His fair hair was gelled to look intentionally untidy.

  ‘Hi, M.’

  ‘Um . . . What are you doing here?’ Mimi stumbled over the words and her face flushed red with embarrassment. Seeing him outside of school felt awkward and unnatural.

  ‘I came to see the garden. It’s so cool!’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mimi looked down at the berries in her hand. Come on, say something, otherwise he’ll think you’re a real dag. ’Ah . . . want to try some?’ She held out her hand.

  ‘Sure, what are they?’

  ‘Go Ji Zi. Good for the eyes.’

  ‘Got anything for untidiness?’

  Mimi giggled. ‘No herbs are that strong.’

  Mrs Lu came scurrying back inside.

  ‘Mum, this is Josh. He goes to my school.’

  ‘Hello, Josh.’ She put on her glasses and looked him up and down. ‘You nice strong boy, come with me.’ Mrs Lu dragged Josh by the arm to the kitchen.

  ‘What are you doing, Mum?’ Mimi had never seen her mother as excited as this before.

  ‘I open teahouse just like in Hangzhou. Many thirsty customers outside. Dragon Well Tea is best in China, my dumplings best in Australia. Daddy not come back for one week. Can make a little money this way’

  ‘People won’t like tea and dumplings, Mum. It’s so . . . so . . . Chinese. Everyone drinks cappuccinos. You should open a cafe. I’ll make chocolate cake . . .’

  ‘I think a Chinese teahouse is a great idea,’ said Josh. ‘It’ll be a goer for sure, Mrs L.’ He gave Mrs Lu a thumbs up.

  Mimi still thought it was a bad idea but her mum’s heart was set on it and Josh, well he did think it was kind of cool.

  From under the stairs, Josh pulled out two folding mahjong tables and eight chairs and set them up in the front of the shop while Mrs Lu began making dumplings. First she made die dough from flour and water, then rolled it into balls. Each ball was then flattened out to form a perfect circle. The filling was made from vegetables chopped up finely and mixed together with a generous lashing of soya sauce, sesame seed oil and a dash of sugar. Mrs Lu’s fingers worked fast as she folded the dumplings. They looked like little men sitting with outstretched arms, their fat bellies resting on the table.

  She saw Josh watching her intently. ‘Come on, you try.’

  He followed Mrs Lu step by step but his first attempts looked nothing like dumplings.

  ‘They look like grey lumps of dog vomit,’ Mimi whispered in his ear.

  Josh threw a handful of flour at her. Mimi ducked and the powdery missile hit Mrs Lu smack on the side of the face.

  ‘Sorry,’ Josh said.

  Mrs Lu laughed. Then Mimi laughed. ‘It no matter, Josh,’ she said, wiping her face with her upper arm. ‘Flour good for skin,’ and she rubbed it in so that her face was as white as a Chinese opera singer’s. ‘Your dumpling now look like podgy little caterpillar but one day they change into beautiful butterfly like mine.’

  Mrs Lu placed the dumplings into a giant five-tiered bamboo steamer and put it on the gas stove. Soon the kitchen was filled with a delicious smell. Steam belched through the woven lid like a dragon all fired up.

  Mimi made a sign which read:

  Mrs Lu’s Teahouse

  Serving

  Vegetarian Dumplings

  Healthy Herbal Soups

  Dragon Well Tea

  The Garden of Four Seasons and the Teahouse were an instant success. People viewed the garden, then went in for a refreshing cup of tea. Some neighbours met for the first time, even though they had lived in the same street for decades.

  They would say, ‘Hello, your face seems familiar. Live around here?’

  ‘Yes. . . Tango Street,’ would be the reply.

  ‘We’re neighbours then.’

  ‘Well fancy that. I hear the dumplings are sensational here. Want to join me for a cuppa?’

  ‘Why not.’

  Mimi enjoyed being a waitress, especially with Josh’s help. He made people laugh with his dazzling style of serving. As he weaved in and out of the tables with a tray of food held high in one hand above his head, he yelled, ‘Lai le, Lai le. Food’s here.’ He said he saw it in a Chinese movie once.

  The Wattle Valley Whisper wrote an article all about Mimi.

  Rumba Magic

  TWELVE-year-old Mimi Lu, a Wattle Valley Primary School student is a talent to watch. Mimi has drawn a garden so real on the footpath in Rumba Street that people come from all over the city to see it. ‘I call it the Garden of Four Seasons,’ Mimi said. Shopkeepers in the area say business has never been better. ‘They all want to see the garden,’ said Vic Taranto, owner of Vic’s Greengrocery. ‘It’s hard to get a park so people leave their cars at home and walk. It’s the best thing that’s happened to this little community.’ Mimi’s enterprising mother has opened Mrs Lu’s Teahouse where she serves Chinese tea and dumplings. It’s well worth a visit.

  Mr Honeybun sat at one of the tables sipping green tea from a small porcelain teacup.

  ‘Taste sweetness in back of throat, Mr Honeybun.’ Mrs Lu set down a plate of steaming dumplings.

  He took another sip and his eyebrows shot up like two bushy possum tails.

  ‘Yes, I can indeed,’ he said. ‘The tea is sweet.’

  ‘My dumplings very good, you try,’ said Mrs Lu. She stood back waiting for his reaction.

  He picked up his chopsticks and chased a dumpling around the plate as if it were alive.

  ‘You gotta stab it, Henry,’ said Alma sitting behind him on the next table. She made short thrusting motions with her hand.

  ‘Thank you, Alma,’ he said, politely nodding. He successfully skewered the dumpling. It dribbled with juice. ‘Mm . . . delicious, Mrs Lu.’

  For the past year, Mr Honeybun had wanted to ask Alma out, but he was shy about his plastic leg. This would be the perfect occasion. Mr Honeybun turned to face her, then quickly turned back again. She was putting on her lipstick. Maybe some other time.

  Mimi saw Miss O’Dell come into the shop.

  ‘Did you see it, the garden I mean?’ she asked excitedly. ‘The pastels are amazing . . .’

  ‘Shhh . . .’ Miss O’Dell gently cut her off then whispered, ‘Let’s make it our secret, Mimi. Remember. . . they can be very dangerous in the wrong hands.’

  ‘Oops. Sorry . . . I forgot.’

  ‘I came to see if you wanted to draw a mural on the art room wall. What do you think?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Mimi replied. ‘When can I start?’ ‘First thing after assembly tomorrow morning.’

  Mimi didn’t dawdle to school the next day. She couldn’t believe she was allowed to miss maths to work on something she really loved.

  She opened the box of Empress Cassia Pastels and drew a waterfall tumbling into a crystal clear waterhole. Three toffee-coloured children sat on the sandy bank kicking their feet in the shallows, laughing. In amongst the ferns and tall trees of the rainforest, colourful birds and animals watched them playing. The mural seemed to quiver as life stirred within.

  ‘Hi there, Smelly-Loo. Quite a celebrity now aren’t you?’ It was Gemma.

  Mimi pretended to take no notice.

  ‘You think you can make everyone like you by doing these drawings but don’t forget, underne
ath it all, you’re still the same old Smelly-Loo who lives on top of a smelly old shop.’

  Mimi kept on drawing. There was silence but she could still feel Gemma’s presence behind her.

  Instead of concentrating on Mimi, Gemma stood looking at the mural now. She stepped back to take in the beautiful world drawn on the wall then came up close to inspect a minute detail. Gemma was intrigued. She looked down at the box of pastels sitting on the purple silk scarf. Suddenly, a shimmer of light passed over them.

  Startled, Gemma looked at the pastels, then at the mural, then at the pastels again and then at Mimi. A devious smile pricked the corners of her mouth. ‘I get it now. It’s not you . . . you’re not that good . . . it’s those . . . those . . . crayon thingamies.’

  Mimi stopped drawing and picked up the box protectively.

  Bing bing bing bing. The lunch bell rang. As the teachers and children filed out of the classrooms, Gemma turned and walked away.

  Everybody stood in front of the art room wall, looking at the picture in silent wonder. It took every bit of their concentration. Then a Grade One said, ‘Shhh! Listen.’

  ‘What?’ asked a Grade Five.

  ‘Splashing and giggling. Can’t you hear them?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said a Preppy.

  ‘I can too,’ whispered another.

  ‘They’re pretending to be seals,’ shouted another.

  ‘We can hear the bats screeching,’ said the twins together.

  Soon all the children could hear. The mural had come to life for them. There was a buzz of excitement like bees finding the first nectar blooms of spring.

  ‘Children have such vivid imaginations,’ said Principal Cooper. ‘But I must admit. . . the mural does look almost real.’

  The other teachers nodded in agreement. All except Miss O’Dell. She, like the children, could hear it too.

  Mimi lay under her silk-filled doona and gazed out of the window at a pair of tiny bright eyes in the morning sky. The stars winked at her. The purr of the traffic was becoming a roar. It was six o’clock.