Bitter Leaves

by Tabatha Stirling

  At the agency we have to wait on benches around the office. There are thousands of these tiny little offices dotted about Singapore serving every catchment area. I notice Blossom Wide Resources, Sincere Maid Station and Sunnyvale. Pretty names for ugly business.

  At about ten in the morning Chinese women who are prospective employers begin to wander in and they glance at us with less interest than they would a duck on offer at the wet-market. And so the process starts. We all hope for a western employer but none comes through the doors. It’s not that we expect the ang moh to be the good fairy. They also can be snappish and cold and forget your birthday and sigh and jealously guard their husbands but you are much more likely to get a weekly day off and a slightly better salary. These snags of information are handed down from maid to maid through what is a well-constructed oral grapevine. Every aspect of your employer is discussed. It is always the main topic of conversation or at least the initial one. It makes you more popular however if you sigh and complain like the other girls.

  You will keep any happiness that you might find to yourself because it is a rare thing within our community and to discuss it is to make others sad and jealous. Other maids who are living in much less forgiving circumstances with fussy aggressive employers don’t want to hear about your happiness. The fact that your skin begins to plump and your hair begins to shine again is bad enough. Everything is compared. From food rations to hours, Ma’ams to Sirs, charges to off days. It is quite normal for the other maids to disbelieve that such happiness exists and will disregard such ‘fabrications’ as boastfulness or crazy talk. Friendships have been spat out and tossed aside and enemies made and never forgiven over employer talk.

  A flat-faced pig-nosed woman comes over to me. I stand up quickly with my head slightly bowed and wait for the inevitable questions. You have children? Boyfriend? You work hard? Healthy? Strong? I don’t want lazy maid. Last maid was a terror. Whine and complain like little dog. How old? Muslim?

  And then after a long appraising look and a nod at Joo she walks out. Joo calls me into her tiny, rabid office. ‘Sit down. Madam Y want to hire you. Here is the contract. Do you want me to read it to you?’

  I shake my head. As I read through the contract Joo’s long yellow nails beat an irritated staccato onto the desk.

  She sighs heavily several times. ‘I don’t have all day. Problem? No? Then hurry, hurry.’

  But there is a problem because this contract is unrecognisable from the papers I have signed in Manila. There is no provision for a day off and until I pay back my ‘debt’ to the agency I will receive no wages. My hours are 5am to 10pm. I am not afraid of working hard. I will work the full day and night if I get money to my parents.

  ‘This is a different contract,’ I say.

  ‘So?’ Joo shouts, her annoyance bulging out her eyes and blooding her cheeks.

  ‘There is no day off here or public holidays,’ I say as quietly as I can.

  ‘You work first, pay off debt, and then see. Why you expect so much, huh? Are you lazy? Are you going to be a problem? Your mother sick? She needs your wages. Are you selfish daughter or obedient daughter?’

  The futility of saying to her that I wouldn’t be paid wages for eight or nine months anyway is beyond me. The apathy I am feeling is more like I am thinking this is not really real. When you have no power at all and there is no room for a discussion minds often retreat to a more peaceful place.

  I pick up the pen and I think perhaps now I am signing away my life.

  MA’AM LESLEY

  35 Sabre Green

  I’m not sure what I am expecting when I return to the house. I am still in a moderate amount of pain and wince as I retrieve my bag from the back of taxi. The driver has looked at me oddly a few times. My face isn’t looking particularly pretty: a riot of mud-coloured bruises decorate my face. I stand at the gates for some time staring at the house. I suspect it would look quite innocuous in gentle, dappled sunlight but the afternoon glare of a relentless sun is unforgiving and the house stands stark and combative. For some reason I glance up at the top floors I become aware that Ralph is observing me. There is no wave or greeting, just an ominous stare. I think it is now that I realise that he probably wants me dead or to quietly disappear, and I feel chilled. I have no safe harbour, no friends and certainly no champions. I am as adrift as a Victorian governess, reliant on my husband for whatever scant provision he might make for me.

  If I were sensible I would keep my head down and my mouth shut. Find a way to squirrel some money together and then leave. But if I were to leave where would I go? This is my burning question. My family have ceased contact and the friendships that grew when I first arrived have vanished with my own withdrawal. The police? They don’t like to get involved with expatriate problems and are more likely to support Ralph.

  There really is nothing for it except to pick up my bag and begin the torturous steps to the front door. As I walk I become aware of the soft wind, the almost sickly fragrance of frangipani and my own mortality. Fear bites into my marrow and my breath quickens as the adrenaline spikes my blood. I swallow, once, twice. Trying to encourage some saliva onto my lips.

  The house has not changed at all and this leaves me surprised. I had thought that perhaps all traces of my existence would have been removed like a shabby secondhand suite that had been re-upholstered long ago to make do. It is clean and the sun streams in through the top windows, arcing across the marble floor, dividing it like a chessboard. For several moments I just stand, my plastic bag still in my hand, swaying slightly trying to get centred. I have an urge to giggle violently but stop myself when I realise that Ralph is standing on the little oak landing just above me.

  ‘So.’

  I wait for more but nothing is immediately forthcoming.

  Ralph moves down the stairs to the yew bar cabinet that is an heirloom and very pricey. My husband loathes it, thinks it has terrible lines and is as dumpy as a maiden aunt. I think it is quite beautiful but have never had the courage to voice that particular thought, having learnt the painful way that Ralph’s rules on speaking about certain subjects are as mercurial as a Scottish summer. He pours himself a large single malt – large for three o’clock in the afternoon – and leans against the wall, watching me speculatively.

  ‘So. Things have changed whilst you’ve been away. Jocelyn has become pregnant. I know this might be a shock to you, and I’ve not behaved in the most gentlemanly fashion about it, but as you know, an heir, a son, is… well, it’s everything. Not your fault, of course, Biology, genetics. Whatever it was. But I’m delighted. Absolutely delighted.’

  I miss the end bits. I think he is talking about having to change arrangements. That Jocelyn is going to need care and attention. Of course, she would have to move out of the maid’s room. For all the scenarios that I have contemplated this has never been one of them. I have understood they are having an affair and have remained as dignified as possible about it although, until now, I have received no absolute admission. And I am a coward. I am terrified of Ralph’s systematic violence.

  Ralph has paused somewhere during this uncharacteristic outpouring and is clearly waiting for me to reply.

  But I am dumbfounded. ‘Congratulations,’ I manage.

  A nanosecond of relief lightens his face before the conceit returns. ‘In the circumstances I’m afraid divorce is the only way forward. I have to make the child legitimate before the birth. I’m sure you see that. You are a good girl, Lesley. I’m sure you don’t want to make any trouble for me. Obstacles and such. Not a good idea. I think that would probably end badly for you.’

  Another conscious pause to make sure I understand absolutely the consequences of anything less than obedience. So Jocelyn is commanding Ralph, as Anne Boleyn did hundreds of years ago, and she had better give him a son otherwise her currency will become useless for all the same reasons. If noble birth and powerful family members could not save Anne Boleyn from the axe then what hope does Jocelyn have? I feel q
uite protective of her suddenly. Maybe there is something I can do to help this petulant, arrogant little girl who has no idea what she is taking on. Hubris does not protect youth from the evils of this world. It may delay them for a while and even lessen their impact but eventually the wheel of fate must turn.

  I pick up my bag and start to move up the stairs. Jocelyn will be more comfortable upstairs for the time being. ‘In the spare bedroom?’ I ask.

  Not the spare bedroom, no.

  I am still standing with my back to Ralph, hovering with one foot on the step that leads to the second floor.

  ‘So where?’ I ask.

  The silence that follows communicates more than his words ever could. It takes me a few seconds to catch up. To comprehend that I am destined for the maid’s room and am mistress of this house no longer. As if I ever had been!

  ‘You have a choice, Lesley. You can leave but no court will compel me to give you alimony as you cannot bear me a child. I can cite mental stress, terrible mood swings and, of course, I have a witness to this. Or you can stay on and look after the house and Jocelyn for a bit while the dust settles.’

  And I realise just how mad Ralph actually is. Not in a sectionable way, but mad with greed and lust in the way colonial men of a certain background are prone to be. He honestly believes he will win, believes it with the absolute certainty that is born of those years of education at a public school with a history that started in the fourteenth century, a history that my grammar school might have envied but was better off without.

  At this moment the little fight I may once have had deserts me, and I feel my body become tired and old. Self-pity floods my already listing and fragile psyche. I move off the stairs and through the kitchen and push open the door to the former maid’s room. She has been very thorough; I’ll give her that. All her clothes are gone. A few shoeboxes lie scattered about giving the impression of post-coital lethargy.

  It occurs to me that they might have had sex in this room, but I bat the idea away quickly. What does it matter in the great scheme of things? And I am too tired, much too tired, to contemplate any other indignities. There is so much I need to think about and I need time to do it. Some relief is required. I hope that perhaps now, as I won’t be disappointing Ralph as much every single day, he might turn his attention elsewhere. Maybe not to Jocelyn while she is pregnant – well, probably not, but I don’t want to think about that too deeply. It is the most disturbing part of my marriage that, although I have tried never to underestimate my husband, I’ve done just that, and done it when it matters the most. I used to think that if I could keep as quiet and invisible as possible, the violent episodes would minimise and I would find a safer place in this wheezing, tubercular existence. But I had misjudged my husband’s affection for brutality and his talent for it – sadism is a talent. It takes a particular type of person to create monstrous mazes within a relationship that are governed by decrees and statutes that disappear and reappear like invisible ink. As volatile as a mistral and as deadly as a rabid dog. The submissive person spends his or her life navigating choppy waters, setting off traps and flares, blundering though tests and exhibiting failure like a wartime art gallery.

  I lie fully clothed on the bed, the sweat from my body chilling my bones as my body temperature fluctuates wildly. Pain medication, shock, fear and chronic fatigue are competing for my wipe-out. I give in. The narcotics in my body can gently remove me from worry for a few short hours.

  And I am barely aware of the cockroach that I think runs over the bed in the night or of the vocal Labrador two doors down. Or the mostly hushed but sometimes shrill conversation that is taking place in the bedroom above me. Can I hear her plink-plink heels on the stairs? Is that the door opening? Can I sense her standing over me with her fists clenched or her leaving shortly afterwards? I drift in and out of restless sleep and pray to have answers in the morning. But nothing comes easy for me any more.

  SHAMMI

  12 Pasir Ris Terrace, Tampines

  It will happen soon. It is inevitable as the sunset and the fresh sprigs on the banyan tree. As sea salt encrusts barnacles and a broken string disrupts play. Sir is playing a waiting game and he has the patience and the desire born of the master’s right. I am conscious only that I will not fight. I will accept it and turn my face away from the drool that will spool onto my cheek from his mouth and then I will send myself to a river and dive and swim until I am transformed into a glittering fish that jumps and twirls and is forever free. The mossy stones will be no obstacle. Evolution will direct me to the source and peace will await me there.

  But that will be then and this is now and I have to find a way to accept the now, in my present, to accept the inevitable assault on my body. The rape that will not be rape. That will be consensual in his eyes because I do not react when he pushes himself against me. My silence and immobility is understood as willingness. This is the justification that he will allow himself.

  As I peel the potatoes, whittling down the white flesh until it is almost nothing, I can see myself in each piece of starch so small that it is pretty much useless. I think of my life here as a treadmill of predictability. I will die, or I will be deported, eventually. Both scare me although one offers more relief than the other. I am no good at home. No use to my parents in the village. I can’t grow food from my bare hands or perform miracles. Money will not pop out from behind my little nephew’s ear. I have to stay. I’m already too broken for Orchard Towers although the men who trawl the brothels of Geylang may not be so fussy. It is as if I am wishing death on myself. I don’t want to feel this pain any more. I think God has abandoned me. I say this out loud and I’ve never voiced it before. It makes the idea more real and I’m feverish with anxiety. My thoughts are becoming staccato and jolting. Things are not connecting. Sometimes I come to, and I find myself standing completely still and I have no idea how much time has passed.

  I need to make a decision about myself and I fall to my knees and pray for what might be the last time for guidance and comfort. For a sign that I am still in the Father’s grace and that he loves me. I only have four more days here and if I can just hold on and take whatever comes with fortitude and courage I will survive. And then I realise I can’t remember what either of those things feels like.

  When I feed the children and get slaps for my trouble, I bear it stoically. They delight in these stinging blows, not maliciously, but with the consummate glee of a child who is without boundaries. It is a game for them. How many slaps does it take to make the Indonesian maid cry? Not many is the answer. Lack of body fat and iron makes for a bruised landscape. If I were a painting I would be quite beautiful. Their mother either ignores it or smiles encouragingly. Can you imagine smiling as your children beat another human being? So much sadness behind the shuttered doors of Singapore.

  I start to prepare the vegetables for dinner. All of this must be done by hand and they must be cut into impossibly small slivers for stir-frying. My bones ache in my hands after several minutes and I shake them out. A squirrel runs lithely across the border fence, beady eyes alert and aware. I envy the creature its freedom and its brain too small to contemplate the more complex details of life. How I wish I could stop thinking sometimes. To float in an unconscious shell, ferried as if by coastal tides, buoyant in ignorance and bliss. I think about the sea often because it is a great leveller of humankind. All are equally vulnerable beneath the surface; ruler, peasant, eastern or western, man or woman. The swell and roughness of the waves have no desires or premeditating motive. They exist and act on the caprice of the moon. There is a freedom in these thoughts that comforts me, but I allow myself the luxury of them only sparsely. Too much dream comfort makes the reality of my life unbearable.

  Madam has returned from her outing. When I hear the car swing its way through the gates I am slightly late for the ‘standing outside’ ritual that she insists upon. I get a slap across my legs for that, but not outside. She waits until we are in the darkened hallway. I w
ince but hardly flinch. Is it a positive or a negative thing that the hurt hardly bothers me any more? She is angry, I can see it etched into her face and the pinched state of her mouth. Something trivial will have happened and it has irritated her. She runs through a list of chores that she has expected me to have finished. An impossibly long list that I could have had no hope of completing, and Madam knows this. I have accomplished all the washing, the food preparation, the weed pulling and before she went out I cleaned the car, but I haven’t managed to iron all the sheets and pillowcases.

  Not good enough. Lazy. Lazy. You stay awake until you finish all the chores. I know you stand dreaming. I don’t pay you to dream. Her litany about idle village girls is her favourite, and drones on for some time. It is hard not to be affected by the constant barrage of criticism. However rusty your soul has become and your body a negative frame, the insults still make contact. Pummelling away at your self-esteem like a drunk boxer. I mutter my apologies knowing that nothing I say will make any difference. She is bored, frustrated and spiteful. A hateful combination. And yet seeing her with her children you would challenge my version. She is full of mother love and tenderness. Her children are her entire world to the exclusion of all others in the family. She reads stories and encourages their learning, holds them when they fall and soothes them in illness. She is patient, tender and awed by the beauty of her offspring.

  Meanwhile, the dismissive attitude towards us, the maids, until we have the status of the lowest beasts, is so deep in this culture that employers drop insults and jibes like litter. They have no recollection even of doing so. It is as natural to them as breathing. But our lack of education which they see as ignorance doesn’t make us stupid. In our world, education is a luxury, not a necessity. What good does education do if you can’t afford to stay on past eleven years or take exams that might earn you jobs? What good does it do your family when they need paper dollars to survive? Pencil shavings will not buy rice or flour. You can’t barter text books for medicine. Everything must be paid for in blood, sex or tears.