If It Were Up to Mrs Dada

by Carissa Foo

  “What letter?” Cheryl Dada asked, annoyed by his foolish grin.

  “This one,” Daniel replied, quickly retrieving a brown envelope from his back pocket. “I’ll leave it here,” he said, sidling back into the room and placing it on the coffee table.

  “I’ll get the drinks and let you know the seating arrangement as soon as I get back,” said Daniel, trying to back up and leave the room and its occupant.

  “I won’t forget this time.”

  “You’d better not.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll see you later, Mrs Dada,” he said quickly, walking out and closing the door behind him.

  Alone again, Cheryl remembered Cheok’s words: “They very gum you know?” Did he mean tight? Sticky? Like siblings? Thick as thieves? Or did he mean—

  Cheryl stopped her thoughts. They very gum, she repeated silently in her head. But was it really that? The thought was ludicrous to her.

  But one must try feeling now. If it feels right to them, then go for it. If colour did not matter, why should nationality? Or age? Or gender? And language issues were secondary. The home had taught her that gestures could make up for speech impairments. Unless one were physically impaired, of course. A few things could stop the heart from wanting: a stroke being one of them. Most of the time the heart wants and keeps on wanting. “Feeling, feeling, feeling,” said Cheryl Dada, repeating her life’s motto to the rhythm of the beeping that came from no direction. One must feel, feel, feel—

  At the last beep of the watch, her concentration broke and Cheryl Dada remembered her party. It was already five—she must go back and change.

  Making her way to the door, Cheryl noticed the brown envelope that was sitting on the table. She picked it up and lifted it to the light, trying to peer through the paper.

  “To Lee Chia Le,” she read, dragging her fingers over the curlicue words in blue, feeling the dents on the envelope, and tracing the pen strokes. The name was strange to her as the address on the back.

  “The Beeches… Cardigan Road…” Cheryl murmured the words slowly, relishing each syllabus, “Marlborough… Wiltshire…” They were like stars twinkling, confusing but wondrous, like some beautiful nonsense taken from one of Roald Dahl’s books. But nobody she knew lived in the UK.

  Just then the sun began to illuminate the room; beams of light entered through the shut windows, unfurling across the marble floor, as if privy to the contents of the letter. Cheryl carefully tore along the edge of the envelope and pulled out a pastel blue card.

  Dear Le,

  I hope you haven’t forgotten me because I think of you every 9 August. Remember the poem we read about the world being mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful? Now that I’m older, I see it. Do you?

  I hope you’re having a smashing day. I hope many good things for you. Happy birthday, human bean!

  scrumdiddlyumptiously,

  Sarah

  The name tugged at her heart; she blushed, rested against the door, and for a moment felt a youthful energy return to her. Cheryl had thought of her too. She remembered the poem; every word of it. The little lame baloonman; the queer old baloonman. Balloon spelled wrongly. The baloonmen were far and wee, they were whistling. Cheryl remembered all of it. How could she forget? Even now, as she was sliding the card back into the jagged envelope, she was thinking of her.

  Sarah was running, she was always running towards her. Cheryl saw her running to the gate behind the canteen. Her face was scarlet, she was panting. She said she was sorry she was late; that she had been given two demerit points for talking to Constance Tan in Maths class when she was only trying to help her pass a letter to Ruth Goh who was sitting behind her; that the teacher was a stupid bitch. Her face was forcing a smile, but petulance knitted her brows together.

  “I wasn’t talking,” she said, “I swear I wasn’t.”

  “How did she—”

  “I was only whispering.”

  “Did Constance get a demerit point?”

  “No.”

  “What did she—”

  “I just passed the stupid message.”

  Her lips, Cheryl remembered, were pink and full, set into a natural pout that eased the sobriety of her thoughts. They were quivering as she drew deep breaths through her mouth. There the girls stood, face to face, Sarah still panting, her chest heaving; Cheryl was standing in the afternoon sun. They came close; closer.

  In the room, Cheryl stiffened. She kept very still, worried a slight movement might let escape from her the memory that she ached to relive. She felt the strain in her neck, sweat streaking her lower back. It was a hot afternoon. It was still St Joan’s.

  In a moment of impulse, Cheryl reached to touch Sarah’s face. She wanted to feel if it was as warm as it was red, but it wasn’t. Embarrassed, she looked down at her shoes:

  “I’m sorry, I was…” she mumbled; the words faded away.

  “What?”

  A pause.

  “Say it, say it!”

  Nothing was the reply. Cheryl kept her eyes cast down, and then watched as the other pair of shoes disappeared from her sight.

  The memory slipped from her mind; her hand loosened its hold on the creased letter. Like a part removed, a phantom pain burned in her chest. Cheryl Dada looked round at the aching void of the room. She could feel it whirling, every moment of the day closing in on her. Hoping some open space would salve the strain of laboured breathing, Cheryl Dada grabbed the door knob.

  But why now? Why this? she thought, stepping out of the room. She quickened her steps, walking as fast as her ailing legs could take her. Why was she missing what she barely knew? Did Sarah think about that too? They were 13, for goodness’ sake! They knew nothing. They only felt tenderly for one another, their hearts clubbing away inside, her hand fast in hers, they hadn’t realised that they needed a language for touch. How could they? How could they have known that light pecks and modest fondling between girls were the lust of the flesh? Like most kids, and adults too, they thought they had time to figure things out. When did they start losing time and how, so quickly? Cheryl stopped at the doors of the lift. Back then the world seemed so big, the world was hers and Sarah’s. What they made of it was shared, and what they lost was doubled up.

  Cheryl got into the lift and stood restlessly in the corner. The world, she thought, as the doors were closing, had become smaller as she got older. It narrowed into different tunnels, each tunnel boring its way into a set destination. The tunnels did not cross, and there was no turning back for anyone. She had taken one tunnel—and here she was. Sarah had taken another and ended up in London.

  If only she had known better… If only she hadn’t listened to her mother, who knew, she might be in London too. If-onlys were no good for her. John was quite right about that. Instead of thinking, she should be doing something about her thoughts. Journalling might help; filling up another one of those three-column table sheets might too. They would help her to “clear her mind” and “break the negative thinking pattern”, according to the doctor. Yes, she decided that she would write to Sarah. She must write!

  Thinking about this, Cheryl paced back and forth in the lift. She felt an urgent need to return to her room; she wanted to capture the thoughts before the questions departed from her. What is London like? Does it really rain all the time? Does Big Ben really strike every hour? Have you seen the Queen? The farthest place she had gone to was Islamabad—about nine hours away. Perth and Taipei tied for second place. Both were five hours away, give or take. She might go to Canada someday since Clare was moving there, probably a two-day flight or something. London, in comparison, seemed near—just a 14-hour flight away. Thinking in terms of hours made the distance less insurmountable. Sarah did not seem too out of reach like that.

  Cheryl wanted to write to Sarah, beseech her to describe the world as it was supposed to be. Is London the world they dreamed of? Is life really greener on the other side? What exactly did this mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful world look like? For her lif
e was not that. Not in the slightest. She thought of her crazy neighbours, Juwel, Vikash, Lulu, the healthcare staff, Management. She looked around at the shiny walls, the poster that was falling off: JOIN US FOR KARAOKE NIGHT ON 1 AUGUST 2016! The lift was making a wheezing sound. Cheryl felt a tightness in her throat. She was certain that this was not a wonderful world.

  The lift doors opened and in walked Cheng Hong, holding a piece of drawing paper.

  “Hello,” said Cheryl.

  “Hey, Cheryl,” said Cheng Hong, her hand aiming for the door close button.

  “Art class?” asked Cheryl, rubbing her nose.

  “Nope. I just saw Pitts—he got me to draw my house,” she said. Her finger was still pressing the button.

  “Oh. He makes me draw too,” said Cheryl.

  “Draw what?”

  “People, flowers, stuff. Once I drew a house.”

  “Yah, me too. I told him I can’t draw. But he said never mind, it’s just an exercise. I asked him which house to draw and he said anything. So I drew my attap house. You got live in one of those last time?”

  “No. I don’t remember. We were relocated to Toa Payoh.”

  “I remember a bit. But aiya, I anyhow draw. He also won’t know what is kampong.”

  Cheryl chuckled. Cheng Hong held out the drawing for her.

  “See, ugly right? I don’t understand why he always makes me draw. Last week was flowers. The week before, I think, was what I like to eat.”

  It was a simple drawing in crayon; a pointed roof over a square. A house for a stick man.

  “I’m not a drawer lah,” Cheng Hong told her, as she tucked the paper under her arm. “I’m a cutter.”

  The lift doors opened again; there was no one. Both women reached for the door close button and their fingers touched briefly.

  “Sorry,” said Cheng Hong, withdrawing her arm.

  Cheryl nodded abstractedly. Me too, she thought. “Me too.”

  She rehearsed over and over in her mind the words that would erase the distance between them. As if she could, on Cheng Hong’s behalf, erase the lines on her wrist.

  Cheng Hong understood without her saying anything. They were of the same kind, standing in the lift; both were haunted by the life outside its doors; the lines of age and love graven on their skin.

  The lift came to a halt at the highest floor. The women barely moved.

  “You first,” said Cheng Hong, gesturing to the doors.

  “Thanks,” said Cheryl.

  Without a parting word they exited the lift. Cheng Hong turned right and Cheryl went into the adjoining corridor.

  VIII

  Mrs Dada walked along the corridor, thinking about Cheng Hong. The jasmine notes of her perfume followed after her. Strange to feel like she knew her even though they hardly talked. Strange, Cheryl Dada thought, to feel that Cheng Hong knew her too, that she did not have to explain herself. They were not friends, just neighbours who had a dependence by virtue of being in the same place, alike in their afflictions. Like the verso and recto of a coin, they shared the currency that was—as John Pitts put it—stress. But perhaps what it really was was the lack of familiarity that enabled them to be conjoined without the burden of giving, of feeling too much for each other; theirs was a connection without the promise of a relationship. What is this strange mutuality of feelings? Cheryl Dada thought, her eyes surveyed the opposite block, the red and white streamers moving regally in the wind. Whatever it was, it refused to die away.

  The feeling of being with a woman comforted Cheryl. She paused and leaned over the balustrade, feeling the breeze on the fifth floor. It was a nice feeling, nice to be alone together, understood but left unbothered. A more noble feeling than being married, tied to a husband, a child, a grandchild. It was a teaser of freedom, of what it might feel like to be unglued—the feeling of release, this being taken out of all the moulds that were fitted to her figure. Here, on the topmost floor, Cheryl Dada was above roles. Here, she was invisible.

  She stretched out her arms to embrace the wind. At this time of the day the sun had mellowed and was retreating over the neighbouring block. That was block C. C for Cherry. It was the only residential block in the home that had an additional handrail mounted on the parapet wall of the second floor in memory of the beloved Yap Choon Eng.

  The ghastly bar, which doubled as a protective barrier, would have been an eyesore if not for the quasi-flowers painted in shades of pink and purple, thanks to Yu Yu, who had decided it was a great idea to get the still-life painting class to decorate the home. “To foster a sense of belonging,” she explained to them. Daniel chimed in; it was something about unity in adversity. The rationale was rubbish but everyone appreciated the distraction. Even those who were not in the class participated, slapping paint on the railing with their bare hands. Cheryl’s handprint was near the stairwell; it was the colour of periwinkle, Choon Eng’s favourite flower.

  Cheryl Dada turned away. She looked up to the sky that was filling up with clouds. Finally, it was getting cool. Tonight will be cool. What a perfect weather for a party, she thought. “Smashing weather! Smashing party! The party will be smashing!” Cheryl uttered excitedly, like a child trying to retain a newly learned word.

  She let her elbows rest on the railing and peered down at the four women playing mahjong on the patio. There was Siew Eng (Cheryl recognised her over-permed hair); Felicia and her distinct hunch; Loudspeaker Leow—her real name was Leow Mei Ling—was shouting “Pong! Pong!” as she slammed the tile on the table. The fourth woman was unfamiliar. She had grey, medium-length hair and was wearing a shawl over her shoulder. There was something about her—obliqueness in her figure, blurriness of her face. Cheryl had a sudden urge to find out who she was. She wanted to rush down, take the stairs if she had to, to see her face. In her mind she was already there; but her legs would not take her. All she could figure out from where she was standing was that the woman was Chinese.

  Downstairs, on the patio, the women’s arms kept reaching forth to the middle of the table, one after the other, swiftly, never bumping into one another. A lot like hungry hippos chomping marbles, Cheryl thought amusedly. Each one extending forwards but never ever touching the other. She found the game ridiculous, an absolute waste of time—a bunch of silly hippos sticking their heads out for marbles. “For what?” Cheryl would ask. “Winner gets most marbles!” Adam said. And Cheryl would try again: “I mean for what?” “For the marbles!” he said. So they wasted hours on marbles. The game demanded no strategy or dexterity. Only fast fingers required. Nothing about it was educational. Cheryl much preferred Clare to play masak masak. She’d rather buy books and colouring sets. But it was his money so Adam bought whatever he wanted. He later got another set of Hungry Hungry Hippos because one hippo head had been dislodged. It was Rosie; Adam called the pink hippo Rosie. Though he was older, Cheryl seemed to have caught up with him, and Clare might have too.

  Siew Eng, Felicia, Loudspeaker Leow and the mystery woman were mostly quiet, except for the occasional “pong” and “chi”. The game looked synchronised and civilised from afar, but Cheryl was very familiar with the way of the game. She knew that underlying the seeming order was an unspoken urgency. “Faster lah,” her mother used to say to the other aunties. “Why you so slow?” she would say impatiently. Sometimes she’d switch it up: “Fai di, fai di!” or “Ka kin lah!” depending on who the other players were. Some days when the table was filled with Hokkien aunties, Cheryl would not be able to understand a single word they said.

  Although she was a bystander, Cheryl felt the anxiety at the table. She had to be extremely alert, listening out for cues so that she would know when to go and buy food. When it was the third hand—she had trained herself to note the shuffle and the change in feng—she would rush to the market across the road and dabao food so that the packed dinner would arrive home warm and ready to eat when they were done after a full game.

  It was nerve-racking for her when she was just a kid buying food
from the lecherous uncle at the noodle cart. The way he said “Ah Muei”, his inflection, the greasy hair. How he played with the ladle in his hand, the whistling and kok kok kok rippling behind her as she scurried away.

  The sound of mahjong tiles shuffling was like thunder claps. The four women at the table had a different rhythm. Though the arranging of tiles was fast, the actual playing was moderate. It wasn’t competitive, unlike her mother’s games. There was no rush to win. This made sense to Cheryl, considering the fact that no real money was involved. They were most probably betting on cigarettes. Cheryl considered the other possible bets: a better seat at tonight’s party, microphone privileges, choice of television programme to watch, an extra bowl of dessert, then decided that cigarettes made more sense. Of course the prize had to be the most destructive one.

  The currency was different in the home. Worth was subjective, changing from day to day. If dinner was awful, then whoever had a storehouse of food was the winner. Once it was Oi Leng who possessed power because she had half a dozen of kueh lapis from Bengawan Solo that she exchanged for Milo and white coffee packets. Another time Cheryl had the upper hand because she had kept the box of maple shortbread Clare had bought for her from Canada.

  Money wasn’t valuable to the women. Not in a direct way. Even if it were of importance, most people preferred shillings. A $10 note was useless if they wanted to get something from the vending machine. Even $50 could not get them a drink. Nescafé and Yeo’s did not accept notes and five-cent coins. Besides, having notes would mean asking a favour from someone for change. And favour would beget another favour. It was too much trouble for a canned drink.