A Yellow House

by Karien van Ditzhuijzen

  She’d hinted she was going to do it several times already on the bus. Once I’d blurted out, ‘Well why don’t you? Are you scared? I might be a roach but at least I have guts.’

  Those guts pumped out a torrent of vile acid, and I tried hard to swallow it down without choking.

  Jenny just grinned. ‘Why would I do it straight away? Where’s the fun in that? I’m waiting for the right time. In the meantime, it’s much more fun to watch you squirm.’

  I wanted MOM to make her squirm more than anything in the world.

  Meena added, ‘How you’ll miss your precious aunty! But don’t worry, monkey might still like you. They eat shit. Yes, perhaps she’ll still like you. You never know.’

  I swallowed, swallowed, swallowed until I could speak. ‘Cat knows everything. She doesn’t care. She’s not a coward like you.’

  I stopped myself telling them that Cat had come up with the perfect revenge. I curled up in my corner. What could I do but wait? Wait and hope for a diversion to take my mind off things.

  The playground had been my second living room when I was younger, and now it seemed to have turned into our office. Aunty M would sit on the bench in front of the orchid tree like a doctor hosting a free clinic, and people stopped by for advice. Today, it was Indira.

  ‘You need to help me,’ Indira said to Aunty M. ‘Remember when I told you about my former employer? They still have not paid me.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Aunty M, ‘but you need to remind me. Where is that employer?’

  Indira spat out the words. ‘They left the country.’

  ‘They left?’ said Aunty M. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Malaysia, Johor they live now. They owe me my salary. Sir Tom’s company went bankrupt. They said had to sell their house in England. After, they could pay my salary. I waited. First, they moved to a smaller house, I had to sleep in the bomb shelter. Before, when they were rich, they were generous. They gave me good food. I had big room. Then, all stopped.’ Indira accentuated everything she said with florid hand movements. At the word ‘stopped’ she slammed the fingers of her right hand into the palm of her left.

  ‘How much do they owe you?’ Aunty M asked.

  ‘Nine thousand.’

  ‘Nine thousand dollars?’ I asked.

  Indira nodded. ‘Sir got a new job here and they moved to Johor, because it’s cheaper there. The kids changed schools. First I stayed with them, but I did not like it there. I wanted my salary and then transfer. Ma’am Tamsin bought a bus ticket to Singapore and gave me two hundred dollar. Because I did not know what to do, I went back to the shelter. I only have a small suitcase. The rest of my stuff is still in Johor.’

  Indira looked at me as well as Aunty M now.

  ‘MOM allowed me to get a new job. Ma’am’s phone, she does not answer. I called her many times. MOM is supposed to ask them to pay me, but I want my money now. It has been eight months already I wait. Also my luggage.’

  Aunty M said that if MOM was already on the case, she didn’t know what else to do. MOM was very busy. Indira had to be patient.

  A few days later, at breakfast, something weird happened. Dad said to Mama: ‘Do you remember my mate Tom, the one I played footie with? They’ve moved to Johor, months ago, without telling anyone. It seems he went bankrupt, and there were some rumours about fiddling the books. He tried to hide it for months, possibly years, but then MOM found out. He got a new job here, but moved Tamsin and the kids to Malaysia. He didn’t tell anybody! I mean, we knew they’d moved to a small flat last year. But still. They didn’t tell anyone.’

  I hadn’t really been listening; but when Aunty M poked me with her elbow I realised what it meant. ‘Dad!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, honey, what is it?’

  ‘Did they have a helper called Indira? From India?’

  ‘I have no idea. Why?’

  ‘Mama, remember Indira, I told you about her. The one who has to get married. She says her sir Tom, and ma’am Tamsin went to Malaysia suddenly. They owe her nine thousand dollars.’

  Dad looked at Aunty M. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She went to MOM, but they have not forced them to pay yet. She has a new job but needs her money. And also her belongings are still with them.’

  Aunty M told about how they had put her on a bus, without her salary, and Mama looked shocked. She glared at Dad. ‘Tom and Tamsin? Stuck up, that Tamsin, always looks down her nose, like a blonde I-am-better-than-you. If they couldn’t pay her, why did they not let her go a year ago? Stiff upper lip, pretend everything’s alright when really it isn’t? Can’t they get their hands on nine thousand some way? You need to do something. Shame them into paying up.’

  Dad said nothing but looked at his plate, nodding. ‘Erm. Yes. I guess.’

  ‘Put your money where your mouth is, Mr British. You think that Ang Moh treat their servants better, right,’ Mama laughed.

  Dad grinned sheepishly. ‘I suppose I ought to, then. Defend our honour.’

  You know how in some fairy tales, miracles do happen, and there’s an unexpected happy ending? I’m not sure what Dad did, but it worked. They paid. Dad said his friend was very embarrassed, and had pinned all the blame on his wife. She’d planned to completely ignore the whole thing. MOM hadn’t really pressured her, and she’d thought she could get away with waiting a bit longer to pay Indira. But now the story was out in public and they were ashamed. Mama looked very smug when Dad her told that.

  Aunty M had looked at Dad with a proud, almost maternal expression.

  41

  I started spending most afternoons after school at Cat’s place to avoid having to do the school bus ride more than once a day. Spending less time with Aunty M and the other aunties seemed less risky anyway. Mama and Dad knew I went to Cat’s a lot, but they didn’t mind. As long as I finished my homework at Cat’s, Dad said – which I rarely did, but no one checked. I did a bit more homework than before, especially for Mandarin, as the threat of the tutor still haunted me.

  Cat had now decided she was completely opposed to homework. To support her case she’d found research online proving that homework at primary schools was bad for kids. She hadn’t yet dared present it at school, but planned on doing that the next time she was asked to write an essay on a free subject.

  One evening when I came home just before dinner, Aunty M was frantic. She pulled me into the kitchen, and in loud whispers said: ‘Did you see Jenny today? MOM officers came to her house. Someone reported them to MOM, claiming Moe Moe was being abused. They interrogated Moe Moe, the brother – I guess Jenny too. The mother is crazy angry. She says Moe Moe called them. She will send Moe Moe away as soon as MOM finishes the investigations. She says the accusations are ridiculous and they won’t do anything.’

  Aunty M stared at me with piercing eyes. ‘Maya. You need to tell me the truth. Do you know anything about this?’

  I was the worst liar in the world. I leaned into the wall, trying to disappear into the concrete and stammered. ‘I know Harry bites her. And Jenny slaps her. Isn’t it good that MOM is going to help?’

  Aunty M’s look pushed me further into the wall. ‘Don’t you understand? Moe Moe will lose a well-paid job. She will be sent back to Myanmar. She has been crying all day.’

  Tears began to well in my eyes too.

  Aunty M asked again. ‘Maya. Did you call MOM?’

  I blinked away the tears, and looked her in the eye. ‘No,’ I said. Cat had been the one on the phone that day.

  I ran to my parents’ bedroom and called Cat, tears pouring down my face. Between hiccups I told her that MOM had been round and was now officially investigating Jenny’s family.

  Cat was elated. ‘No way! That’s great. Why do you sound so weird? She’s finally getting what she deserves. And this is just the beginning. Tomorrow at school…’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I cut in. ‘We’ve been stupid. Moe Moe is going to lose her job now. It’s our fault.’

  ‘Moe Moe will be fi
ne. She’ll get a new job. I’ll ask Mama, she’ll have some friends looking to hire.’

  ‘Jenny’s mother will never allow her to transfer. She can’t apply for a new job without signed transfer papers. When she is back in Myanmar, how can she interview with your mother’s friend?’

  ‘You’re such a worrier. This is the best news ever. I’m so happy.’

  The way Aunty M kept looking at me that evening made me feel the opposite.

  In the morning, I stepped onto the bus with trepidation. Jenny didn’t say much. She simply gave me a dirty look and said, ‘I suppose it was you, Superroach, you and your superaunty? This isn’t over. You can count on that.’

  She went to sit on the other side of the bus, alone, as Meena wasn’t there that morning. She didn’t say another word for the entire bus ride.

  At school, Cat was as excited as on the phone the night before, and before lunch she’d told most people in our class. She said that Jenny was a bully at home as well as here, and that officials were going to sort her out, as being a bully was unacceptable. She’d wanted to tell them about us too, that we were the ones that had made it happen, and I’d had to beg her not to.

  ‘Think about me,’ I said. And Aunty M, I thought. ‘I’ll be in so much trouble if Mama finds out.’ We, I meant. And Aunty M especially.

  Cat looked at me like I was talking nonsense, but she kept her mouth shut about that part of the story. When Meena, who’d shown up around lunchtime after a dentist appointment, confirmed, snickering, that it was true about Jenny and MOM, something about Jenny seemed to shrink. Like she’d been wrapped in cling film that made it difficult for her to breathe. On the bus home, she sat alone whilst Meena chatted with the older kids. They sometimes gave Jenny sidelong glances. Once, I picked up the words biter and MOM, and I saw laughing and shocked looks. I felt almost happy, and if it hadn’t been for Moe Moe, things would have been perfect.

  Both Mama and Dad were home early that day and in a good mood, and we all sat together for dinner. Aunty M ate in the kitchen. The table was still small, and Dad insisted on quality time together on some days, so I didn’t speak to Aunty M much, at least not about the things that mattered. I felt happy, but at the same time selfish and guilty for feeling that way. And still there was a nagging worry. Jenny was right. It wasn’t over yet.

  Jenny looked tired and miserable the morning after. I’m not sure how the rest of her day was, but she looked even worse in the afternoon. On the bus home she hissed to me that Moe Moe was so fired, and that she knew it had been me, and that getting Aunty M fired was the next thing she was going to do. MOM had found nothing, and she wasn’t going to tell her mother that it was me and not Moe Moe who had called them, because Moe Moe was stupid and had got what she deserved. ‘I was bored of her anyway,’ she said.

  I didn’t know what to do. Aunty M seemed to believe that I’d had nothing to do with reporting Jenny to MOM. She’d just got off the phone with Nurul when I came in, and started telling me about her plans for the summer, when she was going back to Indonesia for her holiday. Her eyes glimmered with anticipation about seeing her children for the first time in almost three years. When I asked whether she knew anything about Moe Moe, she said she hadn’t spoken to her that day. ‘I’m worried about her,’ she said; but to her it was just another case. She couldn’t get upset about everything, I supposed. She had no guilty conscience.

  I called Cat, but Cat was more occupied with whether it was true that MOM wouldn’t do anything about Jenny. Jenny’s public exposure at school was good, but Cat wanted more. But when I told her about Jenny’s threat to get Aunty M fired, she stopped me. ‘Maya, there’s only one thing to do about that. It’s simple.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need to tell your mother first. Tell her as it is, and it will be fine.’

  I started thinking up all sorts of excuses, reasons, fears, for doing anything but that; but before I could voice any of them, Aunty M put her head around the door. ‘Maya, I’m going to see Mary Grace to pick up a recipe. Do you want to come?’

  My head was spinning so much I took the escape route.

  ‘Coming.’

  Instead of Mary Grace, it was an old lady who answered the door. I froze, and Aunty M stuttered, looking at her feet.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ the lady said, ‘you must be Merpati. Mary Grace said you’d stop by. The recipe you need is on the kitchen table. Do come in.’

  She opened the door wide, signalling us in with her hand. ‘Mary Grace went on an errand, she’ll be right back.’

  Almost as shy as I was, Aunty M stepped over the threshold, but I hovered by the door.

  ‘Maya, do come through. Do you want some milo? Hot or cold?’

  I took a few steps forward. Mary Grace had said her ma’am was nice, the best, even. She’d asked me to come in herself, so I had to suppose I wasn’t putting anyone’s job on the line.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t you remember me? Aunty Tan?’ The lady smiled down at me. ‘I was a friend of your dear old PoPo.’

  42

  I looked up from my toes and stared at ma’am Tan. Suddenly I remembered four old ladies in our living room, grouped around a small green table full of mah-jong tiles.

  Aunty Tan beckoned me over to the kitchen table where Aunty M was standing, turning the paper with the recipe around in her hands. Chloe had climbed out of Aunty M’s arms, and was toddling around the table.

  ‘Why don’t both of you sit down, I’ll make a nice milo. And biscuits. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, Maya, but Mary Grace has been telling me all about you. It makes me very happy to see you; you make me think of your PoPo. She was very dear to me. I hope you don’t mind having a quick milo with an old lady, to please me? Sit down. You too,’ she said, nodding at Aunty M.

  ‘Of course,’ Aunty M said, taking a chair, and pointing to me to do the same. ‘Maya loves milo.’

  Aunty Tan put two steaming cups in front of us, together with a plate of pineapple biscuits. It was hot in the room, where only a ceiling fan whizzed the thick air around, yet it was comforting to warm my hands around the chocolaty drink.

  ‘You’ve got so big! How long has it been since I saw you last?’

  PoPo’s funeral, I thought. I didn’t think I’d seen Aunty Tan after that. That was more than a year ago. Chloe was not yet born, and now she could walk and was learning to talk.

  Aunty Tan must have thought the same. ‘How old is your sister now?’

  We all looked at Chloe, who was under the table munching a biscuit.

  ‘Chloe turned one last month,’ I said. We hadn’t really celebrated. Aunty M had made a small cake, but Mama had been too busy to come up with anything more than a few presents and Chloe’s favourite dinner of spaghetti. That other day, that had also marked a one-year anniversary, but no one had commented on that. My eyes were drawn to a small cabinet in the corner of Aunty Tan’s room. On it were a few old statues, photographs, an incense burner, a candle, a little vase of flowers, a cup of water, and five beautifully stacked oranges. Aunty Tan’s eyes followed mine. She smiled quietly.

  ‘You must miss your PoPo a lot.’

  She looked at me in a way that made me feel so full I was going to spill over, and tears welled up in my eyes. One slid into my mouth, salty after the sweet milo.

  I tried to memorise all the items on the cabinet. My own little altar for PoPo didn’t have more than a photo and a candle. After I had repeated the items three times in my mind, I turned back to Aunty Tan.

  ‘I sometimes worry I’m forgetting her. She had so much more to tell me, I only know half her stories. Mama never talks about her because every time she tries to, she starts to cry. In any case, Mama is too busy working. She thinks work is the only important thing. PoPo was different. PoPo lived life…’ I paused to think of the words. ‘She lived life like it just was. Sorry, that’s a bit vague,’ I added, ‘but do you see?’

  Aunty M pushed a tissue
box in a crocheted cover towards me. She and Aunty Tan both smiled, but it was Aunty Tan that spoke.

  ‘Do you know, sweetie, that people are the way they are for a reason. Their upbringing, their experiences, and also where they are in their life. By the time you knew your PoPo she was an old woman. Older than me even.’ She paused and laughed. ‘She could rest in her memories. Life was not always like that for her. When your mother was young, PoPo had a hard life, trying to bring up a daughter on her own. Her family wasn’t helping her, her husband died too young.’

  We sat in silence for a short time.

  ‘Can you tell me about PoPo?’ I asked. ‘Did you know her already when she was young like that?’

  ‘No, I only met her when your mother was already in secondary school. Your PoPo was so proud of her, her smart, successful daughter.’

  ‘I don’t know anything. Did PoPo have a job?’

  ‘Yes, and that was hard at first. She had been brought up a Peranakan lady, raised to be a good wife, not a breadwinner. She went to the kind of school that did not teach the skills to do anything more than find a good husband. Even after the war, her family did well. They were well off, but PoPo was stubborn, and refused to marry what her parents considered ‘a good match’. She chose your grandfather, from a different culture as well as poor. And when he died she was all alone with your mother.’

  This I knew already. ‘And then?’ I asked. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She had to find a job. First, she worked in a shop. She studied in the evenings. You think your mother is always busy working and PoPo was always there for you, but when your mother was young it was different. To make money to support her child, your PoPo became a school teacher.’

  How could it be I never knew this? I felt small.

  Aunty Tan continued. ‘That is when I met your PoPo. We worked together at a primary at Henry Park. Your mother was smart, and managed to get a scholarship for university. But before that, PoPo had to work hard to get herself and your mother out of poverty. Later, when your great-grandparents died, your PoPo’s brothers, your great-uncles, were generous, but still. Your mother learned the value of money the hard way.’