The monsoon season is upon us and the sky has become a dark grey bruise. Rain will come soon and the heat will break for a little. The humidity hangs low and the air is thick. Even the birds are quiet in the tembusu trees, delaying their feast until the weather has settled. It is oddly quiet when the birds stop their chatter. I find them friendly company in my isolated state. Even their stares seem softer, less prehistoric.
As the sky darkens the yellows and greens of the trees and plants seem to hum with a natural vibrancy. The vermilion stems of the sealing wax palm flicker in the shadows and bend in the prevailing wind. The rain starts with tiny drops, then splats, and finally a torrential downpour that makes the soil dance with its intensity, and a comforting, earthy odour accompanies it. Soon the gullies and drains are riotous with water and small lakes and rivers pool in the parks and sally down the drainage ditches.
The Javan minah birds gather in gossipy groups picking off the worms as they head up towards the pattering rain. It will probably pour down for about two hours or more, hard and defiant. It will wipe clean the surface of Singapore and drown a few cockroaches and other street vermin and then stop as suddenly as a snapped finger. You get so used to it that the beginning and the end of the storm become a continuous process.
I only have four more days to bear. Then I will be back amongst the devils I know.
MADAM EUNICE
134 Sabre Green
Oh! Little Ping’s fall from grace was perfect. Her trembling mouth, her look of incomprehension, the slow dawning realisation that I had planned and schemed this for weeks. I think it is important for your enemies to know when you have outwitted them. Discord and unease chip away at their marble hearts until the victor decides to accept them back into the fold – at a reduced rate, of course – or to dismiss them entirely from the circle. I haven’t yet decided what is to be Little Ping’s fate. I am actually quite fond of her and she is one of the few people who can amuse me. Joyce is much more tedious. In fact, I can’t remember why I am her friend at all. I suspect it is something to do with our husbands’ work, although they are not on the same pay grade.
Joyce is lacking in accomplishment. There is nothing she can do well. I suppose her peasant stock is more prominent in that respect. I can sing reasonably well, arrange flowers, play traditional instruments and cook an enthralling Beef Hor Fun. Joyce works three days a week at a hospice for the terminally ill. I suppose it’s good of her. Not my cup of tea at all. I just don’t have the patience. I do my bit. Well, more than my bit. Look at the CWA dinner. I helped arrange that and earned thousands of dollars for charity. I prefer to ‘do’ than to talk. I find it difficult to just sit. If I do, I feel myself pinging with energy. My body starts to twitch subtly and I have to move.
Little Ping and Joyce have been silent again. I thought I might receive some sort of apology for their behaviour over the Mahjong party but clearly they are still under the misapprehension that I have lost some power.
You should never underestimate a tiger unless you are suicidal.
I’ve had other things to worry about. I have seen the elusive ghost again in another reflective surface. This time I was washing my hands and peering out of the window into the dark garden when exactly the same figure materialised behind me. I still couldn’t see its face but this time it looked as if it would remove its hood, and then the maid knocked at the door and asked if she could go to bed now. I tsked at her, and told her to water the plants, then she could go to bed. And it was the minute the maid knocked that the figure evaporated, and I was alone. I was left with a feeling of uncertainty but more than a decent gobbet of relief. I felt sure that bad things would happen if I ever cast my eyes over its face. I know this all sounds absolutely insane and, believe me, I am not normally a superstitious woman. Not overtly, and not when you compare me to other women of my generation. Certainly, I respect traditions like Hungry Ghost. It is paramount to appease one’s ancestors with a ritual burning of paper money and papier mâche versions of elaborate and fine gifts. We even make extra food and put it in front of an empty chair for each of the ancestors that we want to worship. Food and incense are burnt all through the day and night for a month. I once heard of a very new expatriate woman living on the East Coast who smelled the burning late at night and called the fire brigade saying that an elderly couple with possible dementia were burning what looked like money and valuables. How could the firemen keep straight faces? I’m sure the street laughed at her for months afterwards. I know we did in our salons and on our cellphones: Did you hear about that Caucasian? Gossip was shared and clucked over for some time.
Ghosts and demons are not strangers to me. Culture and religion are steeped in myths and frightening tales that may or may not have some truth to them. What I mean is, to see a ghost behind me wasn’t the most frightening thing that could happen. There are many references to ghosts in Chinese culture and they have been worshipped in one form or another for thousands of years. Even Confucius mentions them from time to time, although he counsels keeping a distance between us.
What I am more worried about is discussing it with anybody. I had what is termed, I suppose, a breakdown when I was in my forties. I think my husband’s affair with his Polish mistress was over and he sought comfort from me. I don’t know if it was the onset of the menopause or the shock of him coming to my bed, but I began to cry at the smallest things. I lost weight, couldn’t sleep and would powerwalk around town trying to out-distance the pain that would engulf me if I stopped. It was a raw and tender time and I suppose I had some sort of conviction that life was not feasible for me any more.
I don’t want to labour this point but suffice to say I was prevented from throwing myself off the sky deck at the Marina Bay Sands. I’m still incredibly angry with myself for choosing such a public place. The papers got involved and I don’t know how much my husband had to pay to keep our names out of the story but he managed it. I was settled in a nursing home, a strange choice for recovery, surrounded by elderly Alzheimer’s patients and the odd depressive. It was the most peaceful I had ever felt. I had no competitiveness and no fight left in me. And so, for the first time in my life, I just let myself be. All the patients were just existing in the twilight world between sanity and dementia, life and death. But it was a very tranquil place, considering. There was a small but fragrant garden ringed by bougainvillea and a creamy yellow and pink frangipani whose flowers were as aromatic as orange blossom. I could time my recovery by my sentience of the garden.
When I was very ill my life occupied only as far as my peripheral vision, blurred and sepia tinted. The fragrances from the blooms were nuances, nothing more, but, as I recovered, more colour seeped into my consciousness. It was as if I was awakening inside myself, like a snail that, having retreated into its shell when threatened, then emerges when danger has passed. While I was in the grip of the depression I took very little notice of my fellow patients. Chronic depression has the effect of quarantining the sufferer. Feeling isolated from the flow of life and unable to access a single joyful thought in any minute in any day is apparently an exhausting and debilitating state. For me, it was bliss. I gathered myself and my emotional strength ready for life outside this sanctuary where nothing was expected of me bar taking my medication on time and the odd talk with a doctor.
The bad part was when my husband visited. He was desperately uncomfortable, wearing a business suit on a Sunday because his grandmother had always told him to look smart around doctors. Everybody else was drooling and in elasticated trousers and he was wearing a Hugo Boss suit. I would turn my face away to the wall when he came. I didn’t have the energy to deal with his discomfort. When the nurses left he would pinch my arm and try to shake me out of my gloom. Once, he slapped my face in frustration. But never in front of the nurses.
I asked him not to come until I was ready to leave. But he ignored me, I suppose for the sake of appearances. And then as my sanity returned I began to smell the woman on him. He reeked of her and
it made me nauseous. It was during these dark hours that I reconsidered my marriage and moulded it into what it is today. I had never loved my husband, but I think I fell out of like with him then, too.
LUCILLA
19 Sabre Green
With my first employer I had had only a mattress on the floor beside the children. The first Sunday I came to work for my present Ma’am she showed me to my room as if I was royalty. It wasn’t huge but there was a pretty quilt and matching pillow, a basket of toiletries and not cheap ones either. A mirror, some flowers and a bedside table. I tried to get things I thought you would like. To make you feel at home, Ma’am said. To tell the truth I felt at home from the day that I met her.
I am sitting on the hard benches at the agency. I am wanting to transfer to another employer, an ang moh. I want a day off to be able to attend church and time off in the evenings and enough sleep that my head isn’t full of bees every day. And I see this smiley woman come through the doors holding the hand of the most beautiful golden-haired child. As she stands waiting for Joo to see her she smiles at all of us. There are eight of us lined up on the wooden benches, and I see her take the time to acknowledge everybody.
Her little one makes a sudden break for the glass door. Without thinking I dash to his side and guide him gently back to Ma’am. The smile she gives me speaks words. Salamat po! she says and squeezes my hand tight.
Joo appears at the door scowling. Always scowling but she changes it slightly into what I suppose she thinks is a smile. Ma’am grins at her and goes in. Two minutes later Joo beckons me in. I stand in the doorway but Ma’am gestures for me to sit in the chair beside her. Joo is talking to me in Singlish as if I don’t speak a proper language and then she turns to Ma’am and speaks very western. My Ma’am looks confused. Why is she talking to you in that ridiculous accent? she whispers while Joo’s back is turned. I cover my mouth to stifle a giggle. We share a conspiratorial look and then Ma’am winks at me. I come away with one day a week off, and all evenings. All public holidays and my birthday. My wage is set at 850 dollars, which is very high wage for a foreign domestic worker. I feel the sweet rush of happiness and want to call my mother and tell her that her prayers have been answered.
Ma’am says, ‘I hope you will be very happy with us, Lulu. May I call you that? You are so pretty. You look like a Lulubell.’
I tell her she can call me whatever she likes because I am so joyful.
This I hope will be a turning point for me. The beautiful child who is named Rory looks at me and beams. I feel my heart wrench. This child I could love.
As I have said I have a boyfriend. I don’t speak about him very much because I am a private person but also because he is my secret, except from my Ma’am. Having a ‘boyfriend’ is a very good thing to have in Singapore. Firstly, maids get terribly lonely. Many of us have left love behind in our native countries and comfort becomes a precious thing. Secondly, it often stops an amorous Sir or at least gives him pause to think. Sir has no idea what your ‘boyfriend’ looks like. He could be a huge Malay with warrior ancestors or a passionate beefy Scot or a possessive emotional American. It is our security if you like.
My boyfriend works long hours as a driver carting the wealthy Chinese, Malays and Indians around the casinos, bars and hotels in the town. He also gets the airport run. I never get to see him on Sunday until past 4pm but then we make up for lost time. We eat out in simple hawker centres, chicken rice and noodles. Sometimes we go to a cheap seafood restaurant and share chilli crab or prawn stir-fries. Mostly we just get on with each other acting as large debris in the aftermath of a tsunami.
We can pretend we are a normal couple in a society that doesn’t condone us. There is usually a party at the weekend, often a dinner party with everybody bringing something to eat and drink. A Filipino tart or some satay and chicken. And twice a month a group of us will drive over the causeway into Malaysia and go clubbing in Johor Bahru. It is no problem getting in with a passport and everything is cheaper there. Malaysia is huge compared to Singapore. Vast tranches of tropical rain forest and idyllic coastlines and a bubbling metropolis. It reminds me of the Philippines and I think that is why I have such great affection for the country. The Malays have much more evolved cultural identity and are more tolerant towards workers. Although corruption in Asian politics is rife and the nepotism in the top jobs and the courts is shameless. I have never been to Penang or Kuala Lumpur but I plan to soon.
It is a sad and shocking story in the paper that catches my eye in Mr Mong’s corner shop. Another maid has died falling from an HBD flat cleaning the windows. Some employers still expect you to climb out on the windowsills to clean the outer panes. I think a law was talked about being passed but nothing yet. I pray for her family and if she had children. I cast my mind forward to her body being collected at the airport and the funeral that follows.
Was she a mother, daughter, sister? Did she feel relief and relax as she fell, giving herself up to God, or scrabble for a handhold as she began to panic? Were her last thoughts meditative or was her mind blank with terror? When this happens it sends ripples of muted outrage and fear through our little communities. What if I am next? We think and share and shake our heads in unison. Feeling momentarily guilty that we are still alive to share a picnic in the Botanical Gardens and mock the gangs of Banglas that jostle for superiority. And do any of us feel envy that her life is now uncomplicated? She has no guilt or shame or fear. No anxious sending of cash to Western Union addresses in Manila or Leyte or Candy or Rangoon. Queueing for hours sometimes on a Sunday as every foreign domestic worker waits patiently to send money home. Imagining the recipients gratefully relaxing as the bills will be paid this month.
I always send half my wages to my parents. They put some of it aside for medical bills but my Ma’am contributes. She says, they are like my family now, Lulubell. I have never had a pet name before and I try it out again and again on my tongue and around my mouth savouring its warmth and character. Ma’am has asked me to call her by her Christian name but I can’t. There needs to be some boundaries between employer and maid otherwise things can go very wrong. I say to her that even when I marry I will still call her Ma’am. It is a symbol of my respect but also of my love. When I say my Ma’am that is how it feels. She is mine, this ang moh who has shown me more love than I thought possible.
Ma’am sometimes invites me to lunch at the Marriot on a Sunday. I meet her and sometimes Rory up there. We eat sandwiches and fries and maybe have a glass of wine. The servers are mostly Filipinas and they love that Ma’am takes me out. We have become celebrities. I sit looking out at the river of people passing by, Chinese to temple, Filipinas to Lucky Plaza, Banglas watching the girls go by. Sometimes, you see western men at a table with three or four pretty girls. Ma’am thinks this is very funny since I told her last time that one of them was a man. Now we always look for the Adam’s apple. It’s hard to tell because the lady boys are so accomplished at being beautiful. Their hands are sometimes a little too big and their jaws a little too wide but their poise would be envied by anyone. Do you think he knows, Ma’am asks, and what does he need three for? I raise my eyebrows at her and she squeezes her eyes together and bites her lip in amusement.
One time in the Marriot a Chinese woman was staring at me. I was used to it. I recognised her from the neighbourhood, always scowling and head up in the air. She didn’t like me sitting at the table as an equal. I shrugged it off but Ma’am became crosser and crosser.
‘What the hell does that old bat think she is doing?’ And then Ma’am turned her chair and stared right back at the stone-faced woman. And they just stared at each other and Ma’am’s face got red and her breathing got rapid and she gripped the arms of her chair and began to rise. ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this.’
I placed my hand on her arm and pleaded that it didn’t matter and she was not worth it.
‘But it does matter, Lulubell. You matter.’ And she came round to my chair and hugged me tighte
r and then tighter still as if by keeping me close she could dispel all the poison in the world. And in that instant I saw the faces of the Chinese woman, the ang moh man, the Filipina servers and the Bangla boys and wondered how it would all end.
MA’AM LESLEY
35 Sabre Green
I’ve been having vivid rolling dreams, which seem to have gone on all night but in truth it’s probably been just the last few seconds. I wake slowly, my face full of sleep and opiates and I’m hot, sweating through the sheets hot. I lean up on my elbows and then it comes charging back into my consciousness like a limp rerun of a soap episode. If I wasn’t so dazed by these painkillers I would probably weep with despair, but I find myself curious instead.
Curious as to how my new life will reveal itself. I swing my legs gingerly off the bed and feel for the floor with my feet. A blast of nausea blindsides me and I clutch the duvet to steady myself. Easy, girl, I caution. Slowly, slowly I stand and then overwhelmed with a desperate need to pee I hobble to the loo that adjoins Jocelyn’s – now my – room. It’s not too bad. Quite cosy really. There is a shower, which is fine as I’ve never been a bath person. I like to feel I’m rinsing the dirt off not absorbing the roads of Singapore through my skin.
Later, I stand outside on terracotta tiles warmed by the sun and watch huge snails trail slowly through the garden. We have a big garden by the republic’s standards and when we first arrived I spent hours at the nursery in Clementi Road with the idea of creating a fragrant, tranquil space where Ralph and I would sit in the evenings and our future children would gurgle and crawl and trip around on chubby wrists and legs. Now it represents the loss of all those things. But the bougainvillea always thrive and their wooded stocks grow and their blooms shimmy in the breeze from the South China Sea.
Bitter Leaves Page 10