I take my time and cover each cage with its individual coloured cloth and then begin the big sweep up, coughing and choking as I go, marvelling in my sacrifice and its consequences. I feel elevated by my own goodness and under my breath tell all of them to fuck their mothers as I wait for the glazier who is charging double because of the haze. I open up a bottle of Johnnie Walker to sip from, and contemplate this burden that is my life with a slight smile on my face and a hum in my heart.
After all, for a few moments, my dismal whore of a shop was a place of strange power. The power that is outside in the choking, burning, poisonous wind that fills lungs with dust and hearts with fear, and the power that is here in my mind because of who I know I am and because of what I see. For once, I was able to give those westerners and those whores a very big fright indeed.
LUCILLA
19 Sabre Green
Today Ma’am visited her head doctor for a check up. She travels once a month up to Orchard to see Dr Pauline at Mount Elizabeth Hospital. Ma’am does not like travelling in Singapore and the family has no car allowance so we take taxis everywhere.
Ma’am says she feels imprisoned without a car and if she had one here she would be driving to Malaysia on the weekend for the experience. Ma’am is an adventurer, a nomad. Her childhood was spent everywhere and nowhere. I think her Papa was an oil man and Ma’am says she dodged some bullets during her childhood and then laughs nervously. She speaks a little about her early childhood in Nigeria, just after it had become a bit safer and just before it got much more dangerous.
It sound like the Philippines except Ma’am says the people there have midnight skin, almost blue-black in its beauty. Her nanny had soft, kinked hair with fiery lights that she would roll into seashell shapes and tie with brightly coloured twine. She would rock and croon Ma’am and put her dry-palmed hand on the little girl’s face, gazing in wonder at the whiteness and smallness of her charge. And Ma’am loved her with all the passion of a small child and still talks about her to this day. She says that I remind her of Imari the way I tend to Rory and she says how lucky her son is to have a woman like me in his life. Ma’am says because of me Rory will love and respect women.
Sometimes, he calls me Mummy, and sometimes, Ma’am Lulu. And she chuckles and says I’m his second mother. Some western Ma’ams get very angry when their children call the helper ‘Mummy’. But if that woman is caring for the child fourteen hours of the day then it is natural that a bond will form. Guilt makes these women angry, snapping at the little ones and helper alike. They should remember that children love the little things. Grand gestures mean nothing to them. They would rather you build a town out of blocks with them than organise a complicated outing somewhere. Children really don’t need very much. Just some good attention, love and consistency.
I hope I have my own children. I worry that I have left it too late and for a Filipina I am positively ancient. Most of us give birth during our twenties. I am thirty-seven and still have no child. Ma’am says I’m a spring chicken and that she had Rory when she was forty-three. You have years, Lulubell! Better to get it right, my darling. Nothing wrong with being an older mum. I pray that Ma’am is right and that God will grant me a child one day. I know I will make a good mother. Sometimes the longing is so great I have to breathe in and out quickly to shoulder the pain. How can you feel the loss of something you’ve never had? I’m not greedy. I’m not asking for three or even two. Just one beautiful brown-eyed baby with my smile and my lover’s shining eyes.
A part of me, a legacy, and someone I could pour this passion and dedication into. Sometimes the baby’s eyes change to blue or green if my dreaming has lassooed a western man. Would his family take to me like a lost daughter or would they shun me, turning from my brown skin and soft-lipped smile in tight circles of shame?
My last boyfriend, he was Singaporean, and took me all the way to Malaysia to meet his parents. They treated me stiffly, without courtesy, and I ended up cooking and serving along with the other helper to make life easier for everybody. I never forgave him for that. He must have known what was in store for me. Perhaps he didn’t care or maybe he thought I would be the one to change their attitudes. I found out later that their stiffness had nothing to do with my nationality and everything to do with him being married still.
It’s difficult to trust when so much of life is based on trust. And so much is betrayed in the name of trust. When I confronted the man about his marriage he shrunk before me – almost grateful that I had found out. It cleared the air, he thought, a fresh start.
Well, I may be bottom of the heap in this dung trench but I’m still strong enough to understand my worth. My parents were very careful to nurture my self-esteem and honour. My mother has such dignity and grace that is not easy for a poor woman. But she always keeps her head up high and refrains from bad words. This sets her apart a little from the other women in the village. It inspires jealousy and bad blood. One time a neighbour came into their shack on the pretext of borrowing their kettle but stole a hand mirror, something personal. She gave it to the local voodoo woman to torment my mother. At the same time my mother’s diabetes flared up worryingly. It was touch and go for her for a time.
My Ma’am says to put mirrors facing outwards on every side of the house to reflect back evil intention. She has also mentioned salt to keep out demons. Ma’am is happy to talk about ghouls and witches and has natural oils and herbs for all sorts of ailments. I think the haze was frightening for her but Sir came like a hero and that strange moment in the shop is like a bad dream now. Perhaps my Ma’am would be at home in the village. I can see her sitting there with my mother, making bread and chatting using hand signals and my translations. I think I would be proud to have her there. Maybe. Maybe. I will think on it. Maybe next year.
MA’AM LESLEY
35 Sabre Green
Some suited men came by the house today. If they thought it odd that I showed them up to Jocelyn they didn’t reveal it. No shadows passed over their faces, no twitch of shock registered. They spent a very short time up there with Jocelyn and then returned and cornered me in the kitchen.
Ralph has disappeared with some rather sensitive documents. Do I know anything about this? No, no, of course not. Am I aware that Ralph has not returned for some time? Has there been some trouble with the marriage? So sorry to ask such sensitive questions, but they have to be asked.
I am standing facing these unwelcome men, my back against the fridge – my bottom and shoulders are becoming cold but I don’t feel safe standing any closer to them and need some physical distance between us to think. I explain that things are complicated at the moment and that as far as I am concerned Ralph is on a business trip. This prompts another flurry of unconcerned questions. Do I know where? Have I found any stubs or receipts? Would I please look out for any in the next few days, and, of course, if Ralph were to contact me, I must encourage him to call into his department. It’s probably all a misunderstanding; these things do happen. This is said in a tone that leaves me in no doubt that they believe Ralph guilty of something heinous and unforgivable and they don’t want the little woman to give him the heads up.
As Her Majesty’s representatives drone on about my husband and his very delicately implied treason I study their faces. They are both wearing suits but the differences in material and cost are startling. The older man, Mr Norfolk, created from centuries of aristocratic breeding, exudes a hypnotic charm. His suit is cut from navy blue linen. The expensive sort that hardly ever creases. Free from sweat he lounges against the opposite wall observing me with a detached amusement. I can imagine him leading the charge over the trenches or facing down the proud Zulus in Africa but I don’t trust him in the least. Mr Suffolk, who is younger, gives the impression of being totally out of his depth. His suit is cheap and fashioned from a man-made fabric that is absolutely the wrong thing to wear in the tropics. It positively encourages sweating. He is puffy, red faced and carries his anger and class insecurity like a
tatty battle standard. The foreign office, if that is where they hail from, are an odd bunch. Still bound by Oxford conventions, contemporary pressure has forced them into accepting an eclectic crop of officers, and I believe the British security services are in a similar position.
Mr Suffolk is not comfortable and every glance and sharp retort makes me realise that he has already decided my guilt. Some British just don’t do well in the tropics. It heats their cool island blood and promotes drinking and inappropriate behaviour. Maddened by the lack of a soothing chilliness, they drink to forget their homesickness and memories of the club in London. Others turn into monsters. Bullying house boys and waiters with fists and words. This, I believe, is Mr Suffolk’s future. He is being rude to me in my own kitchen and as every woman knows that is most insulting. A kitchen is the hearth and the heart of home. Historically, a woman’s domain, where she cooks and cleans and provides for her family. The chamber that most represents the womb – the essence of feminine influence.
‘You’ve not been here long, have you?’ I enquire waspishly. Mr Norfolk tries to suppress a chuckle but is unsuccessful.
‘I arrived last week,’ he snaps.
I nod. ‘Yes, I thought so.’
Norfolk intervenes at this point and asks Suffolk to wait outside. It is my turn to suppress a smile at the thought of the spiteful boy sweltering in the heat. Suffolk looks furious, but it is clear who is in charge and so he obliges.
‘Sorry about that. He’s new. Have to break them in somehow. Not a sophisticated bone in his body I’m afraid. As subtle as a North Korean general.’
I smile as Norfolk hands me his card.
‘Look Mrs B. I don’t know the set up here. But as you say, it looks complicated. Your husband could be in trouble. I hope against hope it is not what I think it might be. Ralph’s always been a good chap. We were together from the start, you know. But his undoing is his love of beautiful things.’
I blush at this. I think he knows exactly what is going on and is trying to get me on side. I feel more embarrassed than gratified, although Norfolk looks genuine. But that is when the British are at their most dangerous. When they are bumbling around and the world stops taking notice.
‘Have you been here long?’ And then I feel ridiculous for asking. Do I even care?
‘Yes, a long time. In and about Asia for thirty-odd years.’
‘Don’t you miss England?’
‘Not often. That landscape has become pretty uninhabitable for chaps like me. Dinosaurs and relics.’
‘Are you married?’ I blurt out. What the hell is happening here? Norfolk considers me.
‘No, but you are.’
I blush again, humiliated that he has misunderstood my intentions. But has he? There is something about this man. A connection wavers between us like the hum of bees.
‘Please. Contact me if you hear from him or about him. It’s vital.’
I nod my understanding and he smiles for a final time before leaving to relieve an angry Suffolk. I watch through the hallway window as they have a brief conversation. Suffolk blustery and lobster-like and Norfolk Arctic-fresh and smooth. I watch the car drive off and think it’s all rather obvious for a clandestine visit, but then I realise there is nothing secret about this. The foreign office is simply demonstrating its belief that Ralph is scrumping apples. I am just a chess piece and truth matters little if the outcome is satisfactory. I have no idea where Ralph is and am unsure of how long he has been away this time.
I look at the stairs and think it is time to speak to Jocelyn candidly. I push open the door gently and can see she has been crying. Pregnancy does not suit her at all. She looks sallow and insipid as if the baby is leaching the colours away from her. Her skin looks gritty and dull, her eyes red-rimmed and a sickly yellow. Her stomach has swelled quickly because of the heat and her small bones. It stretches tightly and rather obscenely under the form-fitting dress. I sit on the bed and to my surprise she doesn’t react.
‘Do you know where Ralph is? Any idea at all? Those men, they were from the British government and they think Ralph might be in trouble.’
At first there is no reaction and I think perhaps she has either not heard or is just ignoring me. In this state Jocelyn might be more volatile than ever and I need her to stay calm.
‘Jocelyn?’
She pushes over her mobile phone.
‘I haven’t heard from him in three days. Not even to ask how baby doing. I think he not coming back.’ She looks so sorrowful I feel pity for her. I really do. The circle of fate has turned and pointed me back towards harbour.
‘Can I look?’ I ask, indicating the phone. Nothing. Just the same dull, desperate stare.
And then. ‘I don’t want baby. Please will you take baby, Ma’am. I just want to go home.’
The use of Ma’am is not lost on me. In her frightened, beleaguered state Jocelyn has fallen back into old patterns and now she needs me. I might expect to feel more powerful and victorious but mostly there is a sense of disbelief in the quite extraordinary way life is unfolding. I know Jocelyn doesn’t want the child. Every fibre of her body is trying to reject it but Ralph’s genes, though treasonous, are strong from rugby and cold showers. I know that she will go to full term and I know, in those swollen seconds, with absolute certainty, that I will take the baby.
SHAMMI
112 Sabre Green
Today, I have been shopping with Madam in the wet-market. I had thought the smell of fresh fish would remind me of my Ebu, but not today. Today, the slime, scales and eyes make me retch. It is like the poison of decay or meat left in the sun for too many days. Rotted and sticky, making every breath a difficulty. Madam enjoys haggling with the market traders. She is proud that they call her a ‘hard bargainer’. She crows about it to me on the journey home. I suspect they have a very different name for her when she is absent. Madam haggles and whittles the price down to a fine point. So sharp you have to watch yourself. I hope they give her the older fish and fowl that is not at its best or is beginning to turn. It gives me small comfort that the family may be eating putrid food. But Madam is so full of the devil perhaps it will not harm her. Perhaps it will make her stronger and she will turn her true face to me and rise up on six black legs, high, high above the apartment blocks, to visit her fury and hatred upon the earth.
As we pick our way through the slippery wet-market, we pass other Madams with other maids. Some I recognise as Indonesian girls and we pass a secret smile between each other. More a twitch of the lips but a little something for us. I breathe in and hold my breath as Madam enters into a violent bartering with the spice seller. I only half-listen. My eyes are bewitched by the earthy powders racked up in lines above us. I can see saffron, the queen of spices, very costly and difficult to grow, its mustard glow casting an arrogant stain on the wall behind it. Cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, ginger – all compete in a dance of muddy warmth. I inhale and surrender to my dusty memories. I am transported through the bus stops of my life in quick succession. Images flash and my stomach clenches with the hurt. A clicking of fingers brings me back to the present. Come on! Come on! Always dreaming. These village girls always dreaming. Madam looks to the spice seller for confirmation and receives none. The woman is of Malay descent and her hair is covered by a burnt-orange hijab. Once she has received the money she ignores Madam and speaks directly to me. As-Salaamu Alaykum. I nod my thanks. I recognise it as a blessing and receive it gratefully although I will pay for it later. Madam does not like to be thwarted. I can feel the cold worm of doubt burrowing into my mind. Then, when we have walked maybe twenty paces away, Madam tuts and orders me back to collect one forgotten package. As the woman hands it over she winks and says, I sold her the cheap saffron and the damp cinnamon, the ugly nutmeg and the stale cloves. And then she winks at me before turning away to tend her wares, whistling an innocent tune. Everywhere there are surprises today. A half-smile here, a conspiratorial wink there, proving that I’m not so transparent after all. I hold t
his knowledge close and allow myself the luxury of a brief inner glow and quicken my step to catch up with Madam.
We cross the street and enter the large shopping mall. It is bright and airy with a very vigorous air conditioning system. I am regretting that I have not brought my warm top. The icy air drums onto my skin until the little hairs stand up to be counted. My teeth begin to chatter and I hug myself to keep the last bits of warmth in my body. I trail after Madam, holding the basket as she throws things in, muttering to herself, never acknowledging the counter or checkout girls. I don’t know how someone can live with such stone inside them. I think of gushing rivers that move so quickly and the flat slabs of rocks that lie immobile being etched and slowly reduced by the relentless shaping of the water, and I think that Madam is the same way. Perhaps her mother love will save her because that is the only light I see in the darkness of her heart.
I am cursed for dreaming but it is more remembering. I need to commit this shabby, sad life to memory. I can’t forget it because my fear is that if I do then I will forget myself. My sense of Shammi will dissolve slowly and I will have no legacy except perhaps a smudged imprint on my Madam’s mind. And I want more than that. I can’t become a figment, some erstwhile smoke in the background of a life more distant already than most.
Following Madam out of the door my skin is greeted with a cheery burst of sun. Caressing and comforting. The warmth is important to me and I turn my face to the brightness, soaking up as much as I can. Clouds are swirling towards a big storm I think. Soon the sky will be slashed with lightning and the thunder so loud it can make you yelp. I wonder if the other countries have such vivid storms. Other thunderous realities where lightning sirens whine themselves into a hysterical pitch and mopeds stop on the expressway under purpose-made bridges to wait out its threat.
Bitter Leaves Page 16