Bitter Leaves

by Tabatha Stirling

  The colour of things here makes me tremble. Nature is intense and at times intimidating. The flat browns and greens of Hampshire in the winter and even the brick-red clay cliffs in Devon pale in comparison to this garden state in flower. But Britain in the summer could rival it. I think of the rape and linseed fields in the Wiltshire of my youth; its pear-drop yellow and dusty blue squares have burnt themselves into my memory.

  My grandmother loved horticulture. She had a taste for gaudy, overly sweet roses. Blue Moon, Peace and Black Magic. Polar Star, Iceberg. As a nine-year-old I would pore over the garden catalogues committing the colours and names to memory. I have vivid memories of watching her defy the hosepipe ban to water her flowers and the inevitable, ugly rockery and I remember thinking how mundane her activities were and how much effort it all required. It has taken me years to understand why she loved it so much and even now, standing amongst the plants that I have cared for and helped to achieve their present beauty, I feel a closeness to my grandmother and to the natural world.

  A connection born of millions of years of an arrogant notion that we live in harmony with nature, when the truth is that we are barely tolerated by the elements, and when this tolerance ends the earth lashes out like an older sibling keeping its charge in line.

  I have an urge to run naked into the garden with my arms open wide shouting at the sky with pure joy and acceptance. But I am aware that it is the strong pain medication that can make exhibitionism seem like a really good idea. I bite my lip, quelling my impulses. imagining Ralph’s outrage as he witnessed my sky-clad romp. His disbelief would make it worth it, but the battering that would follow would not.

  I find myself in a strange state of suspension. Part of me is terrified of Ralph and his nonchalant aggression and I have no doubt at all that he will eventually kill me, death by misadventure. But there is another Lesley that is pushing its way to the front of my personality – a stronger, less meek woman. I can’t work out if this is disassociation from the abuse and Jocelyn’s alleged pregnancy, or if I am beginning not to care about my present circumstances. I suppose I am like a novice standing at the gates of the convent full of radiance and total belief in her actions before turning to wave a final goodbye to her family. Her lip begins to tremble and she has to turn away, to face the gates, to will herself to concentrate on the small but compelling sculpture of the Holy Mother, and, taking a deep breath, to corral her courage as a child does before returning to school after the holidays.

  An unusual, chill wind blows through the gap in the houses to the back of our garden. It catches me by surprise and I shiver involuntarily. I can hear a trilling of a small bell inside the house. It becomes more and more insistent. I wander back in, tying my sarong around me tightly because I have actually lost some weight. Not much, but it’s a start, and I feel lighter and less out of breath. I go back through my room and into the kitchen feeling the floor strong and hard beneath my feet. The bell is coming from upstairs, and so I duly begin to climb, summoned by an invisible dual force of curiosity and bemusement.

  The door to the master bedroom is ajar and I push it gently. Jocelyn is lying on my bed, eating chocolates and watching television. Nothing has really changed except she has moved upstairs. She regards me coolly, weighing up my attitude and what she might need to do to crush it. I cock my head to one side and return her stare. Jocelyn takes a deep breath and I brace myself for a list of incredibly arduous and complicated demands.

  ‘When I ring the bell you come. You come quickly. You will make three meals a day and anything else I ask for. You will treat me as important person. I have Mr Ralph’s baby here. I am very important now. You will respect that or I tell Mr Ralph.’

  It is almost comical. She is such a petulant, bolshie little thing like a toddler who isn’t getting her way. I feel another wave of sorrow for her, not understanding where it is coming from.

  ‘Of course, I will help you as much as I can.’

  ‘No! You will help all you can. Or Mr Ralph… ’ and she mimes hitting me across the face. I sigh and nod.

  ‘Should you be eating those?’ Pointing to the Charbonnel et Walker champagne truffles she is stuffing her face with.

  ‘Shut up! Not your damn business.’ Jocelyn’s pixie face screws up red and hot. She thumps her fists down on the bed either side of her hips and starts to bawl. Tears leap out of her eyes and down her face, a turbulent salty stream. These are tears of bitterness, grief, frustration, and something else. Is it fear?

  ‘Would you like some herbal tea and fruit?’

  ‘I want champagne and cigarettes and dancing!’ she screams.

  I understand now that the trap, if that’s what it is, that Jocelyn has set for Ralph has not been thought through. The difference between the fantasy of having a baby and the reality of it is kicking in. Jocelyn is a very rare Filipina in that she does not have a natural maternal bone in her body. She is an endless teenager, hormonal, self-absorbed and skittish.

  And she is terrified.

  The pregnancy hormones are making her feel vulnerable and ill and for the first time she is acutely aware of her situation. But I feel very little towards her. The momentary empathy has drained away to a few drips and her plight doesn’t really affect me.

  But the baby’s fate does. And in that tiny moment of greed and need I make a decision to save that child from its parents. I have no plan and no supernatural message has written itself on the screen doors outside.

  It is just my instinct, my gut reaction that I need to stay here and suffer whatever presents itself because I have a greater purpose. A raison d’être.

  A baby.

  SHAMMI

  12 Pasir Ris Terrace, Tampines

  One more night to bear. One more night to grit my teeth and fall asleep with my clothes on – jumping at even the minutest sound of a gecko gently flexing its tail on the stucco walls. A single night to pass with my heartbeat jumpy and profound, my blood pressure bulging out my veins and arteries in readiness for fight or flight. I have wedged a cracked but solid garden chair against the door that opens into the house. My mouth feels desiccated as if every single drop of liquid in my body has been spent on keeping me alert through the night. I gulp water from my big bottle and despite the cloying heat shiver through my thin clothes and musty blanket.

  More than once I’ve jerked upright mistaking a noise from the neighbours or a natural creak from the house as the doorknob turning. This is not a healthy way to pass a night but what choice do I have? I’m protecting my virtue, which is my dowry. If I am violated tonight it will be the end of my marriage hopes. Prospective in-laws are not interested in the hows or whys of your loss of virginity; they are only interested in the physicality of it. Being raped or coerced against your will is something that a woman is supposed to prevent at all costs. Even to die trying is thought honourable, and preferable to the concept of damaged goods. They don’t want a daughter-in-law who didn’t try hard enough to stop her own violation. Or a wife for their son who can’t have children because of the damaged caused. It is not a two-way street in this world. For women like me there is no grey area. No territory open for negotiation. It’s right or wrong, white or black, positive or negative. The world is so much more complicated than this. The real world has a million consequences for each choice. And the women? Well, we are left to sweep up our own leftovers. Place a pad between our legs to stem the bleeding and pray to God that the rapist’s seed lacks the courage to go the distance.

  Dawn is breaking over the grey outline of the building blocks nearby. The sun’s colours are playful at this stage of its cycle. Cocktail bold. I feel a tingle of hope. That I might have just managed to survive this last night intact and will leave this house as I came in.

  I hear the sounds of the children waking and quietly open the door. The kitchen is clear bar a baby cockroach that scuttles towards the cooker and the safety of darkness. I will it away before Madam sees it and scolds me for the rest of the day. I am leaving at 9am and t
he kitchen clock tells a story of early morning. I wait at the bottom of the stairs for a little, straining my ears against the damp silence. What action will be the safest? Should I start sweeping outside now – at least I will be afforded the protection of being visible to the outside world.

  Even the most conservative of Singaporeans would revolt at a sexual assault being perpetrated in daylight. And so I put the kettle on and walk towards the front door, grabbing the broom from the small hallway cupboard. The deadbolts slide back easily and the third lock is a 90-degree twist. Morning greets me with the smell of victory and freedom. I suddenly long to be able to return to what, despite everything, feels like my own mattress again, and to sleep in that familiar hallway, content and drowsy from the baby’s breathing.

  Madam comes through the door and regards me sourly because I disappoint her. Even as I sleep. Even as I breathe. I slow my sweeping but keep my head down.

  ‘You make breakfast and tidy bedrooms before you go. Also, the plants need to be watered. Did you finish the washing? No? What you expect? That I do it after you gone? You are such a lazy girl. I will tell your Madam just how lazy you are.’

  And she will tell her and my Madam will delight in punishing me for it. But even when I am forced to hit my own face with her shoe, trying to avoid my eyes and nose, but aiming for my mouth because it bleeds easily and Madam stops suddenly when she sees the blood, even when that is happening, that is still my home in Singapore. It is the only one I’ve got and it is where I belong.

  My Sir is too old to try anything. He might want his shoulders massaged or his legs petted from time to time but it is not a sexual need. It is not threatening and he usually grunts and then falls asleep very quickly. He has never shouted at me. If anything he is unaware of me. We are taught during our maid training to put our backs against the wall when a member of the family comes down the stairs if we are sweeping them. And to bow our heads if we carry some washing through the living room while the family is watching television. My Madam dislikes me eating in front of her so I have to squirrel it away in the kitchen behind the huge, silver refrigerator before she catches sight of me.

  But that is better than waiting for my own rape.

  After the sweeping is finished I move back through the front door and towards the kitchen, checking the marble floor as I go. It looks pristine, but an oily smudge or a fingerprint can start my Madam off for hours.

  I see his shadow before I see him. A long crooked shadow that stretches out from the kitchen doorway towards the oak dining table. He is represented as shade. His shadow hands clawed and long, his back bent and deformed. I brace myself but can hear Madam starting down the stairs with the children, so surely I must be safe. I turn into the kitchen and I am grabbed, quickly, violently. He forces me back against the wall between the kitchen bins, his right hand around my throat and his big-lipped mouth against my ear.

  ‘A little present.’

  And he thrusts his hand up between my legs, tearing aside my cotton underwear and pushing his fingers up inside me. Brutal, sharp, agonising. And then it is over and he is gone. I lean back against the wall, holding onto the bins for balance. My mind is blank, my eyes stinging. I turn my head slightly to the doorway. Madam stands there staring at the floor. There is an ocean between us. A field of landmines, a mountain range, chasms of space. There is everything and nothing between us. She has a choice then; I can see it in her eyes. Deciding which way she will go. I’m almost sure I see a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. I wait to see what will happen because I can’t move my legs yet.

  She makes her choice and leaves me to it.

  I make it to the mattress on legs as weak and shaky as a newborn foal’s and collapse. I have so few things to pack up. I take my time. My sense of victory has vanished and I’m left with a feeling of impotence. He was always going to win and I was foolish to think that I could outwit him. He had all the time in the world to bide and a feudal attitude towards possessions in his house.

  The tiny spark of happiness that the dawn had brought with it has been whipped away on a gust of sadness that threatens to end me here and now. By the time I manage to get outside to wait for the taxi I am emotionally numb. Conscious only of the throb between my legs, the trickle of blood gradually soaking my underwear and my overwhelming shame pinned to my lapels like Akar Saga seeds.

  MADAM EUNICE

  134 Sabre Green

  I loved my grandparents. They were able to show love without conditions or buttoned-down emotions. They never showed that they cared one yen if I was a disappointment because I was a girl; instead they revelled in my star-crossed gender. For during my youth I was acutely aware that I should have been born a boy, and this ultra-feminine silhouette you see before you is a fairly modern take on Eunice.

  For years during early childhood I tried to become boyish enough for my father to take notice. I had much more to me than either of my brothers. I was more intelligent, more resourceful and more ambitious. From the age of four I was bringing home certificates and commendations for my language skills, my maths, my reading, and for deportment. The aim was to transform my father’s attitude so that he took me seriously. I would cut the lawn and watch sports on television, attempt to understand the maze of Chinese politics while at the same time being feminine and obedient.

  I often wonder whether I would have tried so hard if I had realised that my father knew exactly how remarkable I was but was so constrained by his concrete beliefs and creeds that he was buried in them. Incapable of movement either forwards or backwards, he remained static and unconvinced. Life was a disappointment to him. Brainwashed by the cult of Mao, his whole life had been mapped out by a party that despised and condemned individual thought. My mother always argued that he was good man, but the physical hardships created by the famines, and the paranoia that was created to deprive party members of any committed relationships save for complete devotion to the party, meant that men like my father paid an emotional and a physical price. In his later years he was physically frail and always had a look of displacement about him as if he wasn’t quite sure where he belonged. And he was incapable of trusting even his own family. Even as a younger man he would remain apart, detached from and uninterested in family life. I have no idea how he produced children. Perhaps we were conceived before his mind broke. But I am sure that even had I understood the extent of the damage in my father’s heart and mind, I would never have stopped trying to impress him or buy his love with achievement. One of the many useless roads insecure children travel for their whole lifetime. And I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that my choice of husband was directly influenced by my father. We are attracted to those we understand and share a connection with. A shared passion can be as strong a connection as deep love or friendship. And my marriage is centred around our joint ambition.

  But lately I have been distracted by glimpses of my hooded figure. I’ve been ribbing myself about these sightings attempting to keep it lighthearted but the truth is I’m on edge.

  The apparition is appearing with more frequency and there seems to be an urgency about it. I jump like a scalded cat every time I see something flicker or move. Constantly seeing black shapes weaving in and out of the edges of my vision does not make for good sleeping and I’ve developed an unsightly eye twitch.

  Seeing the doctor is out of the question. Our family physician is my husband’s golfing partner and would inform him immediately of my visit and the reason behind it as he has every other time over the past twelve years. My husband’s generation is unimpressed by the ethics of confidentiality, believing that secrecy breeds secrets and even medical secrets set a dangerous precedent. Much better to have everything out in the open, making blackmail obsolete. Also typical of his generation, Dr Fong has kept his own transgressions out of the public eye, notably two sexually transmitted diseases picked up from one of his playmates in Thailand. The good doctor’s professional hypocrisy rages long and hard in keeping with the norms of the old boys’ n
etwork. These trips to Thailand and Indonesia for golf and other leisure activities are an annoyance that I suffer. I know what happens – I’m not blind or deaf – but I have no interest in my husband physically so I am content to let him dally providing he is responsible and does nothing that could harm the children.

  After a disturbing incident three years ago, my husband has used a pseudonym in certain situations to protect his shreds of dignity. A young woman he had a brief liaison with took umbrage when the affair was cut short. She became enraged and used his business card, which she had kept, to wage a war of emails and texts at me. It is the most surreal experience to receive an email from another woman who calls herself Candy writing that she is distraught for hurting me but do I know that my lying, cheating husband has being doing X and Y with her for months. I might have taken that email and her subsequent tirades more seriously had they been from a woman called Victoria or Pauline.

  This incident was never discussed directly between us, but I left printed copies of the emails on his study desk – underneath the children’s reports file. The messages stopped abruptly and a rather splendid diamond choker made its way onto my dressing table. Tiffany-blue for betrayal. I have so much jewellery that most of it lies neglected without skin to dazzle on: a safety deposit box in a bank in Central Singapore plays host to a collection of jewels given in guilt and shame. A thousand pieces for a thousand adulterous acts. I store them, in keeping with the tradition of other deceived wives, as insurance, for the day, should it come, that my life becomes unbearable and I need to take the children and run. This plan of mine is at odds with my external ideology and most forbidden, but I don’t believe in playing the odds and have a feeling that when the rainy day comes it will be a tsunami.