A Yellow House

by Karien van Ditzhuijzen

  I replayed the statement in my mind.

  The aunty went on. ‘She told me I could go out sometimes if I wanted, in the evening, but now I told her I will go out Wednesday and Friday, she can do other days. She did not like, hehe. But she is afraid to say so, or I think she is a bad employer. If I leave, she worries the kids will be very upset. So I can do what I want.’

  Afterwards, Aunty M had tutted that she was a spoilt child, that women like her gave domestic workers a bad reputation. ‘With such an attitude, she is asking for it. Trouble will come. She can’t appreciate a good thing. Many would be happy to take that job.’

  The world would have been easier in plain black and white.

  I ran into Aunty M that Sunday evening. She did not say much, just that Nurul was fine, and would stay with her dad for a few months, at least until the summer, when Aunty M would go home on leave and sort things out. He lived in a village a few miles away, but he had promised to make sure to send Nurul to school every day. He had a motorcycle. Aunty M said that as long as Nurul could attend school, things would be fine. But her eyes told a different story.

  Since I knew now that things were grey and complicated and not black and white, I started to make lists in my mind. Reasons for Nurul to be mad at her mother. And reasons for Aunty M to leave her and Adi. Both lists were long. I briefly started making a similar list for Mama and me, but stopped as it made me

  feel bad.

  I wasn’t sure whether how I did at school really mattered to my parents. Now and then Dad asked whether I’d done my homework without checking. Mama believed in hard work and graft, and would occasionally get fanatical about school work – but then she forgot about it, and as long as my report card was good neither of them were really on my back. I found out that not doing my homework had little effect on my results. Doing my own science project, I told myself – studying people, domestic workers – was a much better subject to spend my time on.

  Cat was worse than me; she did even less schoolwork, and her parents let it go. Her mother believed kids developed best when left to their own devices after school, to learn through play, preferably outdoors. She practised what she preached and left us alone, even though she was there most of the time, at work behind her laptop.

  I loved hanging out at their jungle house. I had managed to convince my parents that, like Cat, I could take the public bus home from her place. That meant I was always back before Mama, and if Aunty M missed me she never said so. It never occurred to me that it was mean what I did, deserting Aunty M when she needed me most; but I guess I wasn’t sure whether my presence comforted her or just made things worse. She rarely mentioned Nurul, and only commented on Adi now and then. In any case, she had plenty of friends of her own.

  The only time I still spent time with Aunty M was when something came up at the helpdesk. We both loved losing ourselves in a case, and Cat joined us whenever she could. And if there was nothing active to be done, Cat and I did our research. My favourite fantasy was that we grew up to be famous anthropologists and Mama was so proud. Would she be? I wasn’t sure who Mama was these days.

  One afternoon Aunty M gave us some papers to study. It was a photocopy of a schedule and a set of rules. One of the women who had come to the Sunday helpdesk had given it to her.

  The woman’s name was Mindy, as was written at the top of the first page, and Mindy’s schedule of daily chores started with a cheerful ‘rise and shine’ at six in the morning.

  ‘She would have had to get up earlier than that,’ Cat pointed out, ‘as she’d need to shower first.’ She flicked ahead to rule one in segment D, headed personal hygiene and cleanliness. You must bathe at least ONCE a day.

  ‘And do those,’ Cat added, pointing at numbers two to four – brush your teeth, put your hair up in a bun, and change your clothes daily respectively.

  The whole schedule was a minute description of things to do, set out in blocks of half an hour. They included feeding the kids, cleaning various parts of the house, and cooking lunch for Ma’am and the baby boy. There was a half an hour slot for Mindy’s lunch, but it wasn’t clear whether she would have to prepare her own food in that time, or whether she could eat some of Ma’am’s food. For dinner, there was a similar set up: dinner had to be ready at six, but the maid’s eating time was after washing up, at eight. Breakfast wasn’t mentioned.

  ‘She gets at least two meals a day, and time to eat them,’ I said.

  ‘But we can’t see what she eats,’ Cat complained, turning the paper in her hand. However precise the schedule was, outlining the details of the kids’ snacks and water bottle content, it made no mention of Mindy’s food.

  The evening was reserved for ironing and the schedule finished at eleven, when, as clearly outlined, the maid had to go to bed.

  Aunty M said the schedule was good evidence for this woman to make a complaint to MOM about excessive working hours. Cat got very interested in MOM and questioned Aunty M on the rules, and how to make a complaint. Aunty M explained that the best way was for the domestic worker to go to MOM herself, in person, and try to prove her case.

  ‘Can’t someone else do that?’ Cat asked.

  ‘Someone else can complain, but it is better if she does it herself. A complaint will get back to the employer, so she needs to be sure she wants to lodge it.’

  Cat pondered this. ‘But anyone can go there to complain?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aunty M nodded. ‘Or you can call. They have a helpline for domestic worker matters.’

  Cat picked up the papers again. ‘So this Mindy, did she go there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aunty M, ‘she went, and now MOM is investigating. The working hours are too long, and she has the schedule to prove it.’

  Cat and I added it all up, and Mindy’s total working hours were seventeen. Minus the two half hour breaks that still left sixteen, more than even Mama and Dad worked. Aunty M said there were no working hours set by MOM for domestic workers, so it was up to the case officer to decide if this was too much. The paper stated that Mindy would get an off-day after she completed her first six months, but that she could not leave the house before 11am, nor arrive home after 7pm. If she was late, the next off-day would be forfeited. The off-day segment further stipulated that she was not allowed to bring any items in or out of the house without the ma’am knowing, and that her bag would be searched, both on leaving and arriving.

  The daily chore schedule seemed tiring even to read, and Cat and I quickly flipped to the two pages of rules. The first eleven rules were on the subject of laundry and ironing. An hour and a half every evening was assigned to ironing, so it must have been an important matter to this ma’am. The rules were very specific. First, all ironing had to be done on a progressive basis. We had no clue what that meant, and we wondered whether Mindy would have had.

  The rules went on, stating Mindy could not mix her laundry with her employers’, and that although she was allowed to use the family’s soap powder for her personal clothes, she should by no means use the softener. The next rule listed which items had to be hand washed.

  Rules four and five were back on ironing; no sitting down when ironing, and no fan.

  ‘I never iron,’ Cat said, ‘but if I ever were to do it, I’d do it sitting down, with the fan on high.’

  I agreed. ‘Look what they need her to iron.’

  The items listed included T-shirts, pyjamas and underwear. There was one notable exception: Mindy’s personal home wear need not be ironed.

  After personal hygiene and cleanliness, there was a long list of rules on personal conduct. It stated that the hand phone was to be used only between ten and eleven thirty in the evening; but, as Cat pointed out, the ironing didn’t finish until eleven, and bedtime was straight after – so how would there be time for phone calls, especially if the mandatory showering and tooth brushing were to be observed?

  The list went on and on. Cat and I marvelled specifically over do not be fussy with your food, do not eat at the dining
table, do not ‘bad mouth’ your employer, do not engage in an argument with the children, do not gossip, never allow the child to hit you, do not show ‘black face’, and lastly, do not go on a diet.

  Cat and I looked at each other, and were, rare enough, lost for words.

  ‘So,’ Cat said finally, ‘it must be great for the kids. It sounds like they can control their aunty easily.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said.

  I couldn’t imagine ever controlling Aunty M. Even Mama couldn’t do that. Cat and I guffawed over the paper, making up crazy rules we imagined Jenny had for Moe Moe. After that, we came up with a list of rules we wanted Jenny to stick to, which was even more hilarious. For me, this imaginary revenge was safe enough.

  34

  Another afternoon at the playground started off calm. Jenny was playing with Meena behind the bushes, but I managed to duck past them unseen, and went up to Mary Grace who stood alone behind the slide staring at her phone. Since the make-up incident I’d felt like there was a special bond between us. I wanted to talk to her about the thing I’d been worrying about, especially since that morning when Dad had yelled and Nurul ran away. I checked over my shoulder to see whether Aunty M was around. The coast was clear and Mary Grace just pocketed her phone.

  ‘How is your husband?’

  Mary Grace’s affable eyes clouded over. ‘He has a girlfriend. I spoke to my daughter the other day; the slut wants her to call her mother. My daughter refused. She stays with my mother now.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Divorce him? Ma’am Tan gave me a ticket to go there, speak to him, sort it out. When I came, he cried, was on his knees, said he’d come back to me. He pleaded me to forgive him. He also asked for money, saying he needed to turn around the business. So did I give the money?’

  My eyes grew big. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Hehe. I’m not that stupid. I gave him only a little bit. He got angry. I told him it was all I had, he threw it in my face. If he only wants my money, well, he does not get it.’

  ‘You did well. You don’t need a guy like that.’

  Mary Grace looked dejected. ‘I know. But I still miss him. He is angry at my daughter now too, because she picked my side.’

  I wasn’t sure what to answer to this. I had no notes in my red notebook for this scenario.

  We walked together back to the benches. Aunty M was telling us about an Indian girl, Indira, who had been staying in the shelter a very long time, but had finally got a new employer. ‘A friendly Indian family, and guess what? They have moved into our condo.’

  ‘Does she have kids?’ I asked.

  ‘No, she is very young,’ Aunty M said. ‘She is not married.’

  I blushed. ‘I meant, does her employer have kids? Will she come to the playground?’

  ‘Actually, I think she does. Wait, let me message her. She might come down.’

  Indira appeared with two dark-haired boys dragging behind her, one my age, the other a bit older. They greeted us shyly. Aunty M hinted I should play with them, being my age and all, but luckily they spotted the football boys and were off. I much preferred to hear Indira.

  Everybody was full of questions, and we gathered in a circle. I sat on the floor towards the back, out of sight of Aunty M, just in case. Indira seemed at ease in the middle of her audience. She looked like a supermodel, long slim legs in skinny jeans, a waterfall of curly brown hair, and the biggest green brown eyes. I would have loved to have had wavy hair, and once had tried hot curlers to get the effect. It must have been the Chinese genes kicking in, but the curls would droop within five minutes. My hair just frizzed. I stared at Indira jealously as she regaled us with her once-upon-a-time.

  ‘My mother died when I was only six months old. My father did not want me. He threw me away. He threw me in the river.’

  We weren’t sure we’d understood correctly. ‘Where did he throw you?’ Aunty M asked.

  Indira repeated, ‘You know, the river. Where water goes?’

  ‘What happened then?’ Mary Grace asked.

  ‘Some people picked me up. They gave me back to my father, and told him he could not do that. That he had to take care of me.’

  Indira’s father had had no idea what to do with the baby, and soon after he married a widow with three sons.

  The stepmother was fairy tale evil. Favouring her own children, the three she already had and a baby boy she had with Indira’s father, she had no love left for Indira. After school Indira wasn’t allowed out of the house, and had to occupy herself with the housework. She didn’t have any friends; how could she, if she couldn’t go out? The only person in her life who was nice to her was her baby brother. She was beaten, not just by her parents but by her older stepbrothers too. By the time she was sent to Singapore to work, she was all skin and bone, and happy to get out of there.

  The tale darkened further. Her first employers, Indian like herself, did not treat her any better. They locked her up in the storeroom for days on end, letting her out only to clean. Once when they were out of town, she was shut in for six days in a row. They had taken away her hand phone, but when she found it while cleaning, she smuggled it into her storeroom. She texted her younger brother in India, who in his turn contacted the Singapore police. They sent an officer to rescue her, minus the white horse. The officer, a young bloke, felt for the pretty Cinderella he’d released, brought her to the shelter, and helped her press charges against her employer.

  We had sat in silence, waiting for the they-lived-happily-ever after.

  ‘And, now, you have a good employer? You are happy?’ Maricel finally asked.

  Indira shook her head. ‘It took a long time. Actually, I stayed at the shelter until the police finished, and then I got a new job. I thought I was lucky, as I worked with an Ang Moh family. First, they were nice. Then they did not pay me, and deserted me when they left the country. They asked me to come to Malaysia, but I did not want. So they put me on the bus back over the causeway, with 200 dollar only, not my whole salary. So I went back to the shelter for help. And finally I was lucky. Now I am with good people, from India. But you know what the best thing is? I made friends at the shelter. Merpati here, she is my friend too.’

  ‘We all your friends,’ Jinky added.

  After everyone split up, I went to Indira. I can be your friend too, if you’ll have me, I wanted to say. But instead, I said to her that she ought to sign up for Asia’s Next Top Model. She didn’t wear the standard domestic worker uniform of shirt and shorts, but was modern and stylish in her black skinny jeans and white T-shirt, several colourful armbands wound around her thin wrists which were, on closer inspection, rosaries.

  She shook her head at my suggestion. ‘My parents would never allow it,’ she sighed. She said that in any case, in India she was not considered good-looking. Way too skinny. Way too tall. In rural India beauty was voluptuous curves and full hips. Indira’s spindly legs might do well on a Paris catwalk, but at home she was ugly.

  ‘So what do you want to do when you grow up?’ I asked. Adults to me seemed all the same, grownup, bigger than me; but Indira, even though she must have been at least twenty, acted closer to me in age than to the other aunties.

  ‘My parents will make me get married. They have someone arranged, after I have sent enough money home to satisfy them.’

  The gap between us gaped wide open again.

  I mulled this over for a while. Jenny and Meena always giggled over boys, but me, I preferred to play with girls. Boys only talked sports, Minecraft or their favourite football team.

  ‘Is he cute, the guy you’ll marry?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him. He is young, only like thirty something, I think. My cousin married a fifty-year-old one. Thing is, once I finish my job here, I’m old. Actually, I’m old already. I’m lucky to get a young husband.’

  ‘You’re not old.’ I stammered, and changed the subject. ‘Do you send all your salary home?’
>
  ‘Yes,’ she shrugged. ‘They expect that. It’s what you do. What do you want to do when you grow up?’

  ‘I want to be a scientist, I think.’

  ‘Cool. I have a dream too. I want to be a lawyer. At the shelter, people helped me. I want to help others. There was a lawyer, she had only just finished law school. She had a job at this high profile law firm but still helped people like me. I want to be like her. Make money. Help people.’

  ‘Yes. You should do that. Go to university. Why not?’ I said.

  ‘How would I pay for it? I need to send my salary home. It’s never enough for law school anyway.’

  ‘There must be a way. I’ll find out,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask my mother, she knows these things.’ But then I realised I wasn’t sure anymore whether she did.

  We sat watching the boys play football for a while.

  ‘You know what I really want in my future. I want a house of my own. And to be alone. No one bothering me.’

  ‘All alone?’ I asked, ‘No one else?’

  ‘Yes. I like alone. You know, on Sundays, I like to go to East Coast Park. I go to the jetty, just me, and I sit there and stare at the sea all day long. I love the sea and its rhythm; it makes my mind quiet. So, my house should be by the sea.’

  I loved the sea too, so I nodded. But it still didn’t make complete sense.

  We stared at the bushes for a while. There was a sort of rhythm in how they swayed in the wind. I remembered how Win had blossomed just from me visiting. Being alone wasn’t good.

  ‘But you said the best thing in your life was that you’d made friends.’

  Indira’s eyes clouded with thoughts. ‘Yes. Yes, you are right. Actually, you know, one day, at the shelter, I went to East Coast Park with my two best friends. We wandered, chatted, shared stories, had some food. It was the best day of my life.’

  ‘So maybe you don’t want to be all alone really? What about your brother, the one who saved you?’