portia

In a quiet street in downtown suburbia, a row of factories lines one side, orange tri-fold doors shuttered fast. The conjoined buildings are all made of identical beige bricks, their sawtooth roofs like a row of teeth.

It’s inside one of the factories that I stand, surrounded by boxes, my hands encrusted with dirt. I’m holding something that, to anyone else, probably looks like cardboard tubing lashed together with masking tape, its tatty ends all curled and yellow.

          We—my mother and I—have spent all day packing, but we’re still surrounded by stuff. It’s piled high, almost to the dilapidated roof; strewn across the floor; stacked on every crowded surface. My parents had this factory for thirty-six years, so it’s not surprising that it’s cluttered. Now they’ve closed down the business and are moving out; the landlord wants his premises back to its ‘original condition’ … But how can this place go back when it echoes with thirty-six years of collective memories?

          Most of the stuff is junk, but every now and then I come across a treasure, like what I’m holding now. Supposedly a sword, I made it from discarded trash one summer when I was six.

          Curling my fingers around the makeshift handle, I brandish it before me. It still fits my hand, though it’s shorter and thinner than I remember.

          “Hyah!” I shout, slicing through the air, and my mum startles and drops what she’s holding.

          “Aiyah,” she scolds, bending over and picking the box of thread spools up. For the first time today, I notice how stooped her posture is. “You scared me, lah!”

          “Sorry.” I lower the ‘sword’ and run my fingers along its ‘blade.’ “Do you remember when I made this?”

          My mother lowers her reading glasses and squints at it. “No,” she says, eventually, then goes back to what she is doing. “Recycling bin by the door.”

          I frown at the sword. She might not remember, but I do. I remember being so proud of it and running to show my mum. She’d told me that swords, real or no, weren’t suitable toys for girls. Then she’d gone back to her work.

          Cradling the homemade toy, I pick my way around the teetering piles of stuff until I reach the bin. But just as I’m about to stuff it into its overstuffed depths, I hesitate.

          Casting a quick glance over my shoulder at my mother, who by now has replaced her glasses on her nose and is peering at a tiny label on a box, I turn away, hunch my shoulders, and slide it into my bag.

​

I used to spend every school vacation here in this building—as well as occasional weekends and late nights. We were factory kids—more common than you’d realize. Kids who learned how to work machinery and handle sharp objects before we even learnt to write.

          My parents’ factory was a treasure trove for a kid like me. Filled with giant rolls of fabric, broken furniture, and layers upon layers of greasy dust. The ceilings were high, their splintering wooden beams exposed. The only insulation was tinfoil, and—as we later found out—asbestos.

          The two enormous embroidery machines used to sit longitudinally, one against each wall. They’ve been sold now to an internationally-owned chain of factories, but their positions are still demarcated by the faded floor beneath. The floor itself is concrete, though so caked with grime it’s hard to tell.

          It was no place for kids, but we went there anyway, my older sister and me. Being immigrants, my parents had limited choices. There was not enough money for nannies or daycare, though of course I didn’t know this at the time.

          If I close my eyes, I can still recall the sound of two dozen embroidery needles hammering simultaneously. As loud as thunder—the kind that rattles right to your bones. My mother, wearing ear protectors, used to pace the aisles, fixing the machines when they get stuck. Wearing out the soles of her shoes. But it was me, the little one, that changed the bobbins to new ones when the underthread ran out. I was small; my fingers were quick and clever. I used to relish ‘helping,’ though I got tired of it quickly.

 

Wind the bobbin up, wind the bobbin up, I’d sing as I ‘worked.’

Pull, pull, clap clap clap.

Point to the ceiling, point to the floor

Point to the window, point to the door.

​

          The rolls of fabric were like forests of multi-colored trees. The bobbin winder was the tool I used to make weapons; I needed them to defeat the monster machines. My sword I stuck together from the discarded middles of thread spools.

          I still remember the first time I used it. “Hyah!” I had shouted, jumping out from behind a machine, holding my ‘sword’ aloft.

          My mother had turned and given a wan smile. “You scared me,” she’d said, lifting one ear muff, though she didn’t look scared, not really. Replacing the ear muff, she’d then turned back to the machine.

          Boring, I thought.

          My sister was in the office, reading a library book, her feet propped up on my father’s desk. It was lucky he was out visiting customers and hadn’t seen her—he would have thought it disrespectful. I stuck my head around the door.

          “Jie jie?” I still used to call her ‘big sister’ in Chinese back then. “Play swords with me?”

          My sister had sighed and lowered her book, her finger stuck in the page to keep her place. “I’m busy,” she said, in her haughty pre-teen way.

          “But I’m booooored.” I pouted.

          “Go and play outside or something.” With that, she raised her book again, stuck her nose in it, and went back to firmly ignoring me.

          My head grew hot, my chest flushing with anger, but I knew when my sister used that tone that it would brook no argument. So, charging to the front of the factory, I threw the doors wide open.

          It was summer then, and it was hot. The kind of hot that sent shimmering mirages rising off the asphalt. When I cracked the door open, a gust of scorched air rushed in, followed by a snuffling sound.

          Hot air? Snuffling? Could it be … a dragon?

          I opened the door a bit wider. It was no dragon. It was just Portia the poodle, sniffing some weeds that had pushed their way through a crack in the concrete footpath.

          During those long hot summers, Portia was my only friend. She belonged to Dora, a larger-than-life woman who lived next door and dressed all shiny-bright. Dora had red hair, wore lots of make-up and two big gold hoop earrings, one in each ear. I’d always thought she was fabulous.

          But my favourite thing about Dora was the fact that she owned Portia. As a child, I was not allowed a pet, so I’d beg to see Portia almost every single day.

          Portia was a miniature poodle, Dora told me. Her black fur was coiled and springy like carpet. She had a pink tongue and a cold wet nose she sometimes pushed into my arm.

          That day, though, was the first time I’d ever seen Portia without Dora.

          “Portia!” I cooed, from my spot behind the door. If there was a dragon about, I didn’t want to wake it.

          Portia raised her head. She eyed me with beady eyes, then turned and trotted off down the street.

          Forgetting the dragon, I flung the door open wide and gave Portia a shout. But she didn’t listen. Didn’t stop. She just continued down the street, alone, until she turned the corner and was gone.

          It had taken me a few seconds to understand what was happening.

          My chest heaved. My tongue felt thick. It didn’t take long for tears to follow.

          I knew then, in my six-year-old heart, that the worst thing had happened: Portia, the poodle, was running away.

​

It’s almost evening, and my mother and I stop for a break. She’s elderly now, and tires easily; besides, the electricity to the factory has been cut off so there’s not much point in continuing to pack. We’ll have to come back at first light tomorrow for another day of slog.

          The huge front door closes with a creak, and my mother locks up with a slightly rusted key. On both sides, the factories sit silent, dark, like monsters lurking in the shadows. I glance at what used to be Dora’s factory. It looks abandoned, the windows all boarded up, the paint on the front cracked and peeling.

          At some point over the past thirty-six years, Dora had left. Or maybe she had died. She was, after all, old—even when I knew her.

          As I climb into the driver’s seat, I cast one long lingering look at Dora’s factory. How strange it is, I think, that you can spend so much time with someone for one season of your life … and then never, ever see them again.

​

The day that Portia ran away, I don’t know how long I stood there, crying, framed by the front door of the factory. By the time my mum found me and asked me what was wrong, I could barely speak.

          “Portia,” I’d gasped, spluttering out words between my sobs. “Portia is running away.”

          “Don’t worry,” Mum said, closing the door. “I’m sure she’ll be back. Keep the door shut. It letting all the heat in.”

          When my mum had gone out back again, I’d reopened the door and slipped quietly through. The roar of the machines hid the sound of the door slamming shut behind me.

          Outside was quiet, the kind of silence that only exists in the most extreme, oppressive heat. Inside my head, the nursery rhyme cycled, as my eyes roamed up and down the street, trying to catch a glimpse of Portia.

​

Where, o where has my little dog gone

Where, o where can she be?

With her ears cut short

And her tail cut long

O where, o where can she be?

​

          Heat had leached through the thin soles of my shoes. I ignored it. Instead, I swiped away my tears and started down the street.

          I went next door and banged on Dora’s door, softly at first, then harder. Louder. But there was no answer. Dora wasn’t in.

          Next stop was our other neighbor, Tony, whose factory was on the other side. His job was to fix cars, painting them and making them all new again. On fine days he sometimes worked with his doors thrown open, music blaring out into the street. I could never make out the words; Mum had told me once that Tony was Greek, so probably his music was Greek, too.

          That day, it was too hot for Tony to open the front doors. I was scared to knock; he was a big man, and even though we were neighbours, we’d hardly spoken. The people who worked in these factories—mostly immigrants—kept to themselves. We’d all learned to keep our heads down. Keep quiet. Out of trouble. To stay hidden, and unnoticed, safe in the margins of society.

          But I knocked anyway, even though I was afraid. I had to find Portia.

          The sound triggered a round of booming barks, and too late I remembered Tony had a dog, too. The dog was as tall as me, with a black-and-brown coat; according to a book I’d read, it was a German Shepherd. Mum had once told me it was a guard dog. She’d warned me to stay away.

          The door had creaked open. Tony squinted at me, holding the dog back by the collar. The factory smelled like grease and wet paint. “Yeah?” he’d said.

          “Have you …” I swallowed, my eyes flicking to the dog and then back up at Tony. “Have you seen Portia?”

          “Portia?” The dog jerked forwards, stopped only by Tony’s grip.

          I flinched, and my voice wavered. “The poodle. The one that lives at the factory on the other side.” I pointed at Dora’s factory.

          Tony gave me a funny look. “Nah, mate,” he said, finally.

          The next factory along was owned by Chinese people, like my mum and dad, though their factory was for importing things, unlike ours which was for making things.

          One of the workers had answered the door when I’d knocked. I can still picture him now: a cloth tied tightly around his head; a grubby white jumpsuit. When I asked him about Portia, he’d shaken his head. I couldn’t tell if he hadn’t seen her or just didn’t understand.

          The next factory didn’t know where she was, either, and the next one hadn’t even heard of her. Losing hope with the factories, I decided to go after her myself.

          Portia had short spindly legs, so she couldn’t have gotten far. I was bigger than her, much bigger, even though I was only six. Surely I could catch up to her? I broke into a run, my canvas shoes slapping the pavement, the sound slicing through the heavy silence of the street. Sweat stuck strands of hair to my forehead; impatient, I pushed them back.

          When I reached the corner, I looked both ways. I’d never been here before, but the next street looked exactly like ours: drab, quiet, lined with factories. Some had regular doors, others roller doors—all of them were shut. A hot breeze had swooped past, blowing the occasional straggly pieces of grass so they waved about in the wind.

          There were no people. No signs of life.

          And no sign of Portia.

          I picked one direction, past an overgrown block and a factory with a rusted door. “Portia!” I called. My voice sounded strange, falling flat into the dead, still air. It didn’t echo. The only other sound was the faint hum of traffic from a very-distant road.

          All alone, I began to cry again, my vision blurring as I ran down one street and the next.

​

Why are you weeping,

Weeping, weeping,

Why are you weeping,

On a bright summer’s day?

​

          By then, I’d made so many turns. Crossed so many empty roads. I hardly knew where I was anymore. More factories surrounded me, silhouetted against the sweltering sky. They all looked much the same.

          I knew it then: just like Portia, I was hopelessly, hopelessly lost.

          I started crying harder now, because I hadn’t found Portia and I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know how to get back to our factory, to Mum, to my sister, to the fabric forests and the machine monsters and the piles of empty bobbins. Mum always said that if I got lost, it was best to stay still, because if she was looking for me and I was looking for her, we would keep missing each other and that wouldn’t be good at all.

          So I sank down, cross-legged, in the only patch of shade on the pavement.

          Would she even notice I’d gone? She was always so busy. Would she bother to come looking?

          I don’t know how long I sat. I watched the sun sink behind the canted factory roofs. I shivered; but not because of cold. The air was still stagnant, burning my nostrils. Cicadas started to sing, drowning the sound of traffic, heralding the slow bleed of daytime into night.

​

It’s the next morning, and we’re up early and back in the factory, packing more boxes. My memories are like cold porridge, sitting turgid in my stomach. Even my mother, who has been pre-occupied with the end of the business and packing up the factory for days, notices that something is wrong.

          “Why the long face?” she asks.

          “Mā,” I start, then stop. My swallow is painful. “Do you remember the day when Portia disappeared? I was six.”

          My mum’s mouth twists in confusion. “Portia?”

          “The dog next door.”

          She thinks for a moment. “Tony’s dog?”

          “No.” I shake my head. “Dora’s dog. The lady on the other side.”

          She stares at me for a moment. Something about her expression fills me with dread.

          “There was no lady on the other side,” she says, eventually. “And no dog.”

          It’s as though she’s drenched me in cold water; all the blood drains from my extremities. I clutch the edges of the box I’m packing, hunching over it, trying to catch my breath.

          No lady?

          But I so clearly remember Dora and her earrings and her outrageous outfits and her dog. And I remember petting Portia, the way her springy hair felt beneath my hand. Or was that my violin teacher’s dog, Molly, the one she’d gotten when I was five? The dog I’d loved so much I always wanted to go to music lessons early just so I could play with her?

          The memories are morphing and merging into one another, spinning beyond my reach. I grasp at them, but they slip through my fingers, as though I’m trying to catch a spinning leaf swirling in a pond. And suddenly, I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know how to reconcile this knowledge with the memories I hold in my head.

          A single tear slips down my face and splatters onto the dusty floor. It leaves a small, clear, wet circle—a temporary stamp of bittersweet sadness.

          “You know,” my mum says, thoughtfully, turning to another box. “I did my best with you. With your sister. You know that, don’t you?”

          I think about how now, in the latter half of my life, I know what it’s like to make sacrifices. About how I, as a mother, make mistakes all the time. I think about the backbreaking work my mother did and how she never found time to play with me and how my sister escaped into books as a way of dealing with all the bullying.

          About how my parents were products of their own generation, with customs and attitudes appropriate for their time. And trauma—so much trauma.

          How we’re all trying our best, and failing, in a multitude of tiny ways. And how that’s okay, because we are human.

          “Yes, Mā,” I reply. “I know.”

​

The day that Portia ran away, I’d jerked awake to voices; I’d fallen asleep, curled up in a ball, my face tear-streaked and swollen. Night had fallen. Torchlight blinded me through the darkness, glowing like embers when I squeezed both eyes shut.

          “There she is!” And I’d started crying again, because I knew that voice, it was Mum’s voice, and there was the sound of running footsteps, and, all of a sudden, I was gathered into her arms and my sister had tumbled in and I was hugging them and they were hugging me and we were all crying—great big splashy tears.

          “Portia,” I’d sobbed into my mother’s chest. “I went looking for Portia but I—I never found her.”

          “She’s here!” voices had shouted. “We’ve found her!” More people ran towards us, torchlights bouncing through the shadows.

          I squinted up through my tears. A police officer was towering over my mum, my sister, and me. Crowded around us was everyone I knew from the factories: Tony, with his big German Shepherd, the leash wound tight in his hand; all the Chinese importers, peering at me curiously … Even more people, a crowd of shuffling strangers who I’d never seen before.

          But no Dora. And no Portia.

          The police officer was saying something to my mum. I heard Mum’s voice somewhere above my head.

          “She went to look for a dog,” my mum was saying, “who she says lives with a lady called Dora from the factory next door. But—”

          “But?” The officer was scribbling in a notebook. He didn’t look up.

          “The factory next door is empty,” Mum had said, arms tightening around me. “It’s been unoccupied for years.”

          The officer had snapped shut his book. “Sounds like an overactive imagination,” he’d said. “Kids sometimes do that when they’re lonely.”

​

A week later, and the factory is finally packed up. For the very last time, my mother and I shut the squeaking door behind us. The lock turning feels so final.

          I never did see Portia (or Dora) again. But despite the loss of my imaginary friends, what emerged from that day was something else: community.

​

The more we stick together
Together, together
The more we stick together
The happier we'll be.

​

          I give the streetscape one last glance, seeing the outlines of my recollections take shape; tremulous and translucent, mired in my memories.

          In a back street of downtown suburbia, a row of factories lines one side, orange tri-fold doors thrown wide open. A Greek man encourages a young girl to pat his German Shepherd, despite her trepidation. An Indian family stand in front of a moving van, ushering in new furniture into a once-empty factory next door. Three doors down, Chinese workers wearing white jumpsuits stick their heads out, waving their cigarette-stained fingers to say hello.

          People are smiling. Workers congregate, sharing thermoses filled with tea.

          And in the midst of it all sits a big German Shepherd. He closes his eyes, enjoying the attention, his tongue lolling out over a row of shiny teeth.