She nodded. Dr Wesley was a Tamil obstetrician. He was upgrading his surgery in Strathfield and had given them all of his old furniture. It was much better than the pieces she’d seen at the St Vincent de Paul’s shop—Vinnie’s.

Siva knew Dr Wesley from Colombo General. He was a devout Catholic who had been forced to perform tubal ligations in Sydney, curtailing the propagation of the species and contravening his religious beliefs. He enlisted Siva for an arrangement that was beneficial to both. Once a week at Concord Hospital, Dr Wesley would surgically open the female reproductive system and gingerly uphold the sacred fallopian tube. Saying a quick prayer to Mary, the Holy Mother, seeking her forgiveness, he would look away. Siva, a devout Hindu, would step in and cut the tube, saying a quick prayer of thanks to Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, for helping his struggling career.

Priya watched her husband decant the paint into the tray and set it down heavily. He stretched his left rotator cuff, then his right one, wincing a little. She helped him knead out his shoulders. He was only thirty-five years old but almost completely grey. He refused to dye his hair like everyone else.

‘My mother is an artist, remember? I know what to do with paint. You rest for a moment.’ She gently pushed him out of the way, wet her roller and began.

•

Priya sat in her car, waiting for the pre-school bell to ring. She waited a few more minutes until she saw her friends arrive. She never went in first. She’d rather walk in late, even though she always arrived at school early. Her father said timeliness was next to godliness. Or was it cleanliness? It probably was both. Every mother had a group: the Chinese, the Italians and the Whites. She waited for hers—Malathy, Ranji and Shanthi—and walked in with them.

The ladies stood on the side and watched.

‘I think you should’ve bought Vivek a larger uniform,’ Ranji teased her.

‘I’m going to get at least two years out of those clothes,’ Priya replied, hoisting her eighteen-month-old daughter onto her hip.

‘You’re such a villager!’ Ranji laughed. ‘You’d never guess you’re from Colombo 7.’

Priya laughed too, not taking her eyes from her son. He was friends with all the children, running, playing and laughing easily. When he saw her, he ran over and hugged Smrithi first.

‘Amma, McDonald’s? It’s Friday, please?’ he implored predictably.

‘Okay.’ She kissed her friends goodbye with a ‘see you this evening’. They would all meet in a few hours at the local community hall they used as their makeshift temple.

Siva didn’t approve of McDonald’s. Occasionally they were allowed the Filet-o-Fish but nothing else. Priya secretly took her children every Friday before temple and fed them all the Junior Burgers they could eat.