All of Them, One of Us
THE HAUNT PROJECT IS PRESENTED IN PARTNERSHIP WITH WRITERS SA, AND IS SUPPORTED BY ARTS SOUTH AUSTRALIA.
fiction by Melati Lum
I’ve never believed in ghosts. Creepy apparitions floating around doing God-knows-what. When the howling wind weaves its way through the dusty passages of our old Victorian home on Little Gilbert Street, it’s just that. Howling wind.
‘Spirits,’ Poh Poh says when she visits. ‘Have you been whistling at night, Huan?’
‘Of course not.’
I’ve reassured her a hundred times. Even though I don’t believe in the old superstitions. But neither my restraint at whistling at night, nor my lack of belief, stopped the ghost from following me home.
He’s with me now, sitting at the small study desk in my bedroom. Making himself comfortable amongst the haphazardly strewn textbooks and used t-shirts littering the thin carpet. He’s kind of pale and see-through and dressed like he’s just come off the set of some olden-day movie. Fitted grey waistcoat over crisp white shirt and tailored pants. He’s Asian, like me. Chinese, I think. Slick black hair parted on the side. About my age too, 17, maybe older. I envy his height and strong build. His straight nose.
‘So, what now?’ I ask.
He shrugs and looks around the room. Spies the photograph on the pinboard. Me and the boys on our school trip to the Coorong.
‘You’re the only Asian,’ the ghost says.
‘So what?’ I can’t help a prickle of irritation. Why do people always have to point it out?
He glances at me and raises a brow. An image of Steven Chen, one of my classmates, pops into my head. The way he looked at me before walking away from my laughing friends. I ignore the memory and focus on the ghost in front of me.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘I don’t make friends based on that.’
‘Noted.’
✷
Earlier I’d taken a detour into the West Terrace Cemetery after catching the bus back from school. The place helps get my mind in a good place. Hardly any people around. Trees dot winding asphalt bike paths. Traffic is a distant buzz. Birds sing as if it’s a cheery place. I stop at random tombstones, some cracked and crumbling, their epitaphs worn away.
Today I walked all the way to the grey-stone monument towering high above its neighbours, heart calming down though my face was still red. Sweat pooled under my pits.
The grey granite pillar rose five metres into the clear blue sky. Gold writing shone from its heavy rectangular base.
In loving memory of
Albert Ying
Beloved son of Ying Yu Chen & Mary Edith Ying
Born February 5th 1899
Died December 11th 1917
‘Oh,’ I murmured.
I know Ying is a common Chinese name, but I haven’t come across any others in Adelaide. Ever. Around the other side was more inscription.
Here lies
Ying Yu Chen
Born 1867 Died 1929
Something told me to touch the stone, granite cool against my fingers. Oh. For an instant it felt as if a heavy weight clutched at my neck. A burst of light, the sound of a siren, and I opened my eyes to find myself stumbling backwards, falling onto my backside and scattering the pebbles beneath me. I was embarrassed and started to get up when a guy held out his hand and pulled me to my feet.
‘Thanks,’ I said as I dusted my pants.
There was no reply. I looked up; took in the snowy white shirt, elegant waistcoat, the kind gaze. He was real, of course he was, but there was a soft glimmer to him, something not quite solid. As if he could just fade into the breeze at any moment. I furrowed my brow. Glanced at the stone pillar.
‘Albert?’
He smiled. ‘Why did you come here today, Ying Huan?’
✷
My mind flicked back to moments before I entered the graveyard. It’s not the kind of thing I would ordinarily share, not the kind of thing you say out loud, but something told me I could trust the kind face in front of me. Soon, the words wouldn’t stop, even though saying them made it more real. More unavoidable.
I’d gotten off the bus on Grenfell Street when an aggressive shout pierced the air.
‘Go back to where you freakin’ came from! Don’t infect us with your freakin’ virus bullshit!’
I turned towards the voice. An older man with a scraggly beard stood in an alcove beside the nearest building, eyes boring straight into mine.
‘Yeah, I’m looking at you, chink. No one wants you here!’
People started giving him a wide berth. A few pitying glances were thrown my way, but no one said anything. I slid my eyes away from his and walked away with my head held high.
There was no point in saying anything, I kept telling myself. No point in saying anything at all.
✷
It’s near dinner time, and I need to help Ma Ma with the prep.
‘Will you be here when I get back?’ I ask Albert.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Take this.’
He drops a small circular jade pendant onto my palm. I feel its smooth weight as it becomes corporeal the second it touches me. It glows like those glow-in-the-dark stars I used to have as a kid. A Chinese character is engraved into its face.
‘What does it say?’ I ask.
‘Our family name. Ying. Do you recognise it?’
‘No.’ I feel self-conscious. ‘I can’t read Chinese.’
He nods and fades away.
I thread the pendant onto an old string of leather and slip the necklace over my head.
✷
I wake to sun streaming through the window. Everything looks and feels yellow. The walls, the light, the air. There’s a clattering sound of activity outside. And something’s not right. This is not my room. Decorative plastered patterns grace high ceilings. Cream curtains frame open box sash windows. My doona has pink roses all over it.
I poke my head out the window. The wide dirt road is busy with the rattling and rumbling of horses pulling carts. The city’s state buildings are familiar but what’s in between them is wrong. The people are in posh hats, stiff suits, and heavy dresses even though the summer sun is beating down. The air is fragrant with flowers, mixed with the mustiness of all that goes with horses.
The bedroom door opens and Albert walks in wearing a grey suit. His hair styled neatly in a side part. But this time, he’s not transparent.
‘Hey Albert,’ I exclaim. ‘What the hell’s happening man?’
He doesn’t respond.
‘Hey man,’ I repeat.
Again, no answer. I follow him downstairs into a spacious living room. An older gentleman takes a book from the mantelpiece. Albert fidgets with his pockets before clearing his throat.
‘It’s time, Ba Ba,’ Albert says.
The older gentleman raises his head. ‘You’re making a mistake,’ he says in a low tone before returning to his book.
A muscle ticks in Albert’s jaw. He hurries out the front entrance and I follow him all the way down Rundle Street until we reach the gothic red and taupe gables of Beehive Corner. But Albert doesn’t stop. He crosses the road to an office building displaying large posters on the walls.
Albert straightens his jacket and enters the building. An elderly man at reception furrows his brow.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to sign up,’ Albert says.
The man remains silent as he stares for an uncomfortable amount of time. Albert doesn’t move. Nor does he lower his eyes.
Finally: ‘You’ll have to see the recruitment sergeant. Go through.’ He tilts his head towards a room down the hallway.
Albert clenches and unclenches his fist as he heads to the room. An officer sits behind a table piled with papers in a high-ceilinged room. Old fashioned scales line the far side. Big, bulky metal things that come up to shoulder height.
‘Name?’ he says as Albert stands before him.
‘Albert Ying.’
The officer studies Albert for a few moments and sighs.
‘I’m sorry mate, but you know I can’t let you in.’
‘I’m Australian,’ Albert says.
The officer shakes his head. ‘You know the rules, mate. We can only accept soldiers of sufficient European origin or descent. And you aren’t that, are you?’
‘But you need more soldiers,’ Albert says. ‘There aren’t enough volunteers.’
The man chuckles. ‘We’re not in such desperate straits as that yet, lad. Go on home. The population could do with your people’s vegetables and what not.’
Albert’s face goes red. It looks like he might say something else. But he closes his mouth and exits. Out on the street, Albert walks extremely quickly, body and shoulders tense, jaw clenched. He crosses north into the parklands, the twin gothic towers of St Peter’s Cathedral standing watch. A moment later, the unoccupied rotunda looms before us, and he sinks onto the steps, sighs, and drags a hand through his hair, mussing it up. He takes out an object from his jacket pocket and twists it over and over between his fingers. I don’t understand what I’m looking at until suddenly, I do.
It’s a white feather.
✷
I wake in my own room. A rectangle of light shines around the edges of the familiar block-out blind.
And Albert is sitting at my desk.
My hand flies to my neck and I pull on the leather strap to find the jade pendant winking at me like a glowing, green eye.
‘Good morning,’ he says.
I jump up and chuck on a pair of jeans from the wardrobe.
‘Did you see something last night?’ he asks.
‘I saw you in my dream.’
‘The pendant,’ Albert says simply. It lets me see his memories. ‘What did you see?’
‘The white feather.’
His mouth twists in distaste. ‘Oh that.’
‘Did you feel forced to go?’
He scoffs. ‘Not at all. I’d made the decision well before that. But when the girl gave me the feather, I took it as a sign of death. Not cowardice. It confirmed my path.’
I think about how Albert died so young.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ I say.
I grab a glass of water from the kitchen. A pot of congee simmers over the stove, the scent of ginger and chicken stock causing my stomach to rumble. But I know it’ll be a while before it’s ready, so I grab a muesli bar out of the pantry instead.
Albert looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘You’re not going to take breakfast?’
‘Nah, this’ll do.’
We head south on my street in the direction of the Adelaide Mosque. Albert gazes at the tall white minarets gracing each corner of the building, rising higher than any other structure in the narrow street. I’ve got my arm slung around a soccer ball. The sun gently warms our faces as we stroll side by side.
‘I used to have a friend who lived on this street,’ Albert says as we pass the green arched gate of the mosque’s front wall. ‘His name was Kamal. He’d skip classes every Friday afternoon to come here.’
‘Did he get in trouble for it?’
Albert smiles. ‘Did he ever. He didn’t care though. I would have died of mortification, the number of times they made him sit in the corner.’
‘Which school did you go to?’ I ask.
‘Adelaide High School.’
‘I guess there wouldn’t have been many Asians there in your time.’
‘You guessed right,’ he says. ‘But judging from the photograph of your friends, things have not changed much.’
‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘There are heaps of Asians here now. It’s normal. Like, it’s no big deal anymore.’
I think of Chinatown and Gouger Street and how on a Saturday night I could imagine I’m on Petaling Street, Kuala Lumpur, where Poh Poh used to take me when I was younger. Absent though is the old Kaya man on the corner, each day selling cups of the delicious coconut jam from an ice bucket next to his battered wooden stool. Here, crowds of Asian students litter the sidewalks; the mouth-watering scent of garlic and chilli wafting from open restaurants; snippets from different languages lacing the air. I think of how it makes me feel as if I belong.
‘So, I take it the Chinese Immigration Restriction Act is no more?’ Albert asks.
I stop and stare. ‘That was actually the name of the law?’
The side of his mouth twitches. ‘Yes, unfortunately.’
I shake my head and continue walking. ‘No, thank God. They got rid of the White Australia policy.’ The image of the man who abused me yesterday pops into my head, but I force it aside.
‘Hey, come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get to the field. This ball isn’t going to kick itself.’
We spend the whole day together.
We discover he’s not too bad at soccer despite being a cricket man. He snuck two goals past me even though he refused to take off his fancy waistcoat.
We jump on a tram to Glenelg. I was hoping we’d get the old-fashioned carriage, but it’s one of the sleek modern bullets with large glass windows and a tapered nose. I wonder whether we’d get away with not paying a ticket for a ghost, but the driver calls us back when we scan the Metrocard only once. Albert doesn’t stop looking around at everything.
At the beach, we sit on the stone wall facing the sea.
‘I forgot how much I missed this view,’ he says.
The breeze lifts his hair as he says this, and he tips his nose to the sky.
‘Did you come here often?’ I ask.
‘We would stay for a few days over summer. Ba Ba would fish while my sister and I would collect abalone. They were happy days.’
We wait for the sun to set over the water, painting the wide sky in tones of orange and pink and purple, Albert whistling a discordant tune softly as he fades with the light.
✷
I wake in the bed with the rosy doona. Carriage wheels rumble outside the window. Out in the hallway, soft conversation drifts from an open doorway. I recognise Albert’s voice as I approach and slide into a room decorated with pale pink walls and curtains. He kneels on the rug with a young lady who I assume must be his sister. She’s crying and he holds her hands in his.
‘You had better write home every few days.’
‘I’ll write as much as I can. I promise.’ He takes her in his arms and kisses her forehead.
After some moments, Albert stands and helps her to her feet. He picks up the leather duffel bag and walks out the front door. I watch as he raises his hand to his father, standing watch in the window. The old man doesn’t wave back. Albert turns his head, the sides of his mouth drawn down. But as he steps away from his home, I look back to see Albert’s father reaching towards the glass, his stoic features crumbling to pieces. The old man’s hands cover his face before he disappears behind the curtains.
✷
I wake with tears in my eyes and a sense of foreboding. No. He can’t be gone. I sit up, hands fumbling around my neck to whip out my necklace, the jade stone. It’s still there. But it isn’t glowing.
‘No,’ I breathe.
I throw on jeans and a t-shirt and race out the front door. My jog morphs into a run as I fly through the streets and head for the cemetery.
I dodge traffic over ten lanes on West Terrace, not bothering to wait for the lights. I speed alongside the stone cemetery wall until I get to the main entrance, rushing straight through. There’s an immediate change in the atmosphere as I pass the threshold. Hushed. Muted. Do Not Disturb.
I dash past hundreds, no, thousands of tombstones as I scan the horizon for a familiar grey monument. There. In the distance it towers high above its neighbours. The vice around my heart loosens, just a bit. I keep going, twin emotions of hope and hopelessness jostling for victory.
I arrive. It’s just as I left it on Friday. Sunlight glints off shiny gold epitaphs. Birds chirp overhead, oblivious to my desperation. My heart beats out of my chest. My breath comes in short gasps. But the imposing grey pillar stands still and silent. I make a slow circle around the grave.
There’s no ghost to greet me. Was it only yesterday we enjoyed the breeze in our hair, the fresh sea air leaving the taste of salt on our lips? Not long enough and my heart has splintered into little bits. Tender fragments scattered and weeping blood at my feet. I imagine Albert dying on a battlefield in Europe and I’m hit with a breathtaking sense of grief. My chest hollows out and my face is broken.
I remember how I must have called him on Friday.
I touch the base of the monument.
I grasp the granite corner.
Nothing happens. No head spin. No vertigo. Nothing.
✷
I don’t go home straightaway. I head to the war memorial section. I don’t know if Albert made it back here to die. If his body was able to be interred in his hometown. He could very well be one of the thousands buried on the other side of the world.
Why did he visit me? I think back to our conversations, back to the day we did everything and nothing. We spoke like old friends. But there wasn’t a moment where everything just clicked into place. If Albert had a message to impart, why didn’t he just tell me?
I think of his amusement when I spoke of the time Dave let off a stink bomb in class. How his laugh sounded all crackly, as if he hadn’t laughed for a really long time. I think of his surprise when I spoke of the number of Asian Australians here now. His observation about how I don’t have any Asian friends of my own.
An image of Stephen Chen comes unwittingly to my mind. Him and the other Asian kids at school. How they tend to stick together. How it makes me uncomfortable. I think of the man who abused me on Friday.
The discomfort rises into my throat.
I’ve been afraid.
‘Bloody Asians.’ A throwaway comment by Nathan replays in my mind. It had also come to mind during the Stephen Chen incident.
‘Hey,’ I remember blurting with a frown.
‘No, I don’t mean you mate,’ Nathan laughed. ‘You’re one of us.’
And I felt it too then. That I was inadequate. An imposter.
Not ‘Australian’ enough to be Australian. Not Chinese enough to be Chinese. Not enough of anything to be … enough.
And now, it occurs to me maybe this is what I need to learn from Albert’s story. Beyond my ignorance that Chinese Australians fought and gave their lives for Australia in the Great War. Beyond the frustration at the selective history we’ve been taught and how that plays into my sense of belonging. How despite everything, despite everything, in the face of opposition and blatant discrimination, Albert Ying was determined to fight for what he believed in. To embark on his own path with courage, no matter what the people around him might have perceived.
And right now, right now I’m thinking that must have been really hard to do unless he honoured himself first.
I grasp the jade pendant in my hand and bring it close to my heart.
✷
It’s Friday after school and I’m waiting for the bus. Stephen Chen walks past looking down at his phone. Backpack slung over his shoulder.
‘Hey,’ I nod towards him. He frowns as he looks up, his mouth tightening when he sees me. I swallow a lump in my throat when I recognise the part I’ve played in that reaction.
‘I’m … I’m sorry about the other week,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘I know. But I should have.’ I look down at my toes and take a breath before facing him again. ‘Look, I know I haven’t been the friendliest guy. But … would you like to hang out some time?’
✷✷✷
Melati Lum is a Malay, Chinese, Australian Muslim mum and the author of the Ayesha Dean Mysteries book series for pre-teens. She has a legal background in criminal prosecution, is an Ambassador for Australia Reads, and has work published in SBS Voices and OnLine Opinion.
