‘I don’t think this is actual labour. What you need to do is try to relax. Walk around a bit to relieve the pressure. I can rub your back. Would you like that?’
‘Yes, Ma’am, yes. Thank you, Ma’am.’
We walk a bit and I talk to Jocelyn. Not about the baby because she dislikes talking about the baby. So we discuss magazine gossip and talk about her travel plans in the future. It is a strange relationship, with both of us knowing that we’ll never meet again after the baby is born, and yet I am taking as much care of her as I would my own daughter. I don’t even like her particularly. She has a hard and atavistic quality that I suppose has been engineered by living and working in Singapore. I try hard not to judge by my limited western standards. What do I know about growing up in a slum in Manila or being used cruelly by a first-world country so emotionally deformed that some foreign domestic workers still toil through seven-day weeks? I keep it light and empty my mind of her previous hurts and insults. I feel I am being paid in full for those indiscretions.
I go downstairs and make lemonade. The old-fashioned way with juice and water. Jocelyn loves hers very sweet. I like mine tart and friendless. I eye the wall clock and time is dragging its heels. I check my new phone and the screen is untroubled by flashing icons. Technology has this tiresome habit of keeping you completely up to date. Even if you want to lean backwards into more restful times there will be a beeping or a flashing that will tear you sharply from your dreams.
The pastoral epics of Wordsworth and that particular type of agony that Owen’s poetry describes in the grip of war would be impossible now. There is more to fear in the world, more to hunger for, and the stakes are higher. Our triumphs and disasters are spot-lit for the world to rake through and to comment on and they are wearing thin.
I once hoped for a better world but worked out that you make the best of what you have. Keep your circle small and raise your head only when it’s vital. The papers might be signed and Jocelyn absolutely adamant that she will not change her mind, but I know that until the baby is in my arms I won’t believe it. So much relies on human capriciousness and so much on patience. I glance at the clock face again and curse how time creeps when there is something to look forward to. I am becoming an expert at waiting.
Wherever Ralph was, above or below the ground, he will appear again in my life somehow. And Jocelyn will give birth when the time is right. And Norfolk, curse him, will trip up to my door at precisely 3.30pm with his laconic smile and air of absolute capability.
I hum with happiness.
I am dusting the same spot near the door where I can see the gate but not be obvious about it when the sleek black saloon draws up smoothly at precisely 3.29 and Norfolk stares at the house a minute before he steps out from the car. I watch him smooth his hair back, not through nerves but through habit, and adjust his cuffs. I wonder if there is a woman in his life who notices these things. A woman should notice these things. The scent at the nape of his neck. The strength in his hands. The twitch in his jaw when under duress.
I move to the door and open it and true to style Norfolk shows no surprise that I have anticipated his arrival, just, Mrs B. How lovely to see you.
He expresses no interest in Jocelyn and accepts a glass of lemonade and three slices of Madeira, exclaiming in the tempered way of an Englishman how very delicious it is. I feel pleased with myself, watching as he eats heartily but not indelicately. This is a man of many talents and I suspect some are not as legal as others. A good man to have on your side. Probably a lethal one to have as an enemy.
He watches me with interest and no apparent guile. Asking the odd question about my life and how I am coping without Ralph, and then, gently, after a lengthy pause, ‘Shall we?’
I take rather a ragged breath and stand up shakily.
‘Gently does it, old girl, gently does it,’ Norfolk murmurs.
I can feel him behind me as I lead the way to Ralph’s study. His presence is reassuring and he has substance and solidity, something that is surely comforting in a man. This man in particular.
‘Would you like to stay or leave me to it?’
I glance sharply at Norfolk. Does he want me to go? ‘Can I do both?’
Norfolk smiles gently. ‘Absolutely.’
So I stay a while and watch as Norfolk takes great care searching Ralph’s papers and drawers. I have no idea what he is looking for but still find myself flabbergasted when he finds a secret button that when pushed reveals a deep double drawer behind a false one.
I close my eyes briefly. Please let it be treason, please let it be secrets, I beg the universe.
Norfolk pauses and pulls out a high-resolution black-and-white photograph. He glances at it but says nothing. I shake my head and leave the room. He finds me kneeling underneath my beloved frangipani rubbing dropped petals as soft as angora between my fingers like worry beads. He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder and squeezes very gently communicating only compassion.
‘I had no idea, you know. He was very violent. It distracted me from engaging with his life at all. I would never betray my country.’ I still can’t look at him.
‘Mrs B? I have to ask you a question of some delicacy. May I proceed?’
I nod.
‘Did you know that your husband was bisexual?’
This time I look at Norfolk. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask stupidly.
He hands me the picture that he has taken from the hidden safe. ‘I suspect your husband was being blackmailed because of his relationship with this young man.’
I glance at the photograph. I can see Ralph sitting in a booth in a bar looking incredibly happy and relaxed. He has his arm flung round a young man, a boy really, of Asian origin who has his hand on Ralph’s thigh. There is no mistaking the intent of the photographer or the subject matter he has captured.
It makes so much sense. The anger, the cruelty, the lack of sex. The child with Jocelyn probably some sort of smokescreen.
I bury my head in my hands and sob for a long time. Norfolk kneels down and holds me, murmuring quietly the sort of things one would say to comfort a child, and after a while I begin to relax. I am happy to stay that way until the sun drops and the inky black night of Singapore drapes itself around our shoulders.
SHAMMI
110 Sabre Green
Ebony Ma’am is back with her family and I am glad. Like herons to storm clouds and black pigs in mud glad.
I am handwashing as I do this every day and there is a never-ending pile of clothes to wash carefully. When Madam wants to punish me I sometimes must wash all sheets, pillowcases and bedcovers by hand too. I don’t mind too much today because the water is cool on my chapped hands. I would like to use a soft detergent that I’ve seen in Fair Price but I don’t think there is much point. This cheap liquid shreds my skin like the razor-sharp blue coral in the shallows back home. But none of that matters because Ebony Ma’am is back and she is my good luck talisman.
Her kindness heals every little thing and I missed her sorely when they went on holiday. A tiny space in between my ribs ached on the days she wasn’t here, but when I checked the place where she leaves things there was a box with a tiny crystal fish through a leather thong, a packet of sweets, 150 dollars and a card with a name and address on it in black ink. The money didn’t interest me much. Where would I spend it? How could I send it home without time off? So I squirrelled it between my legs and kept the card for later.
I think I hear Madam moving in the house so I move out of the sun’s glare and back into the shelter of the back porch. Cheeky Asian blackbirds hop about on the lawn pecking indiscriminately. The casual rainfall attracts them with its steady tapping. Move quickly, little birds, my Madam doesn’t like you on her grass. She doesn’t like free things. Quick. Quick! But nature doesn’t care about my Madam and why should it, having existed for so much longer than she has, and the birds eye me with cold, yellow stares and continue to hop and peck at will. I enjoy their wilfulness and envy it.
&nb
sp; I gaze at Ebony Ma’am’s house. Yesterday, when I saw her dreaming in the garden, even the flowers seemed to bloom more fragrantly. I often compare her to Our Lady because she has a light that I can’t see but always feel its warmth. Sometimes, I feel ill with love for her. Wanting to be near her, just touching the hem of her soft skirt or the sun-loved leather of her sandals would be enough. I could sleep at the end of her bed or in the kitchen serving her during the day with loyalty and love.
She is the kind baker who gives Sara Crewe sugar buns to eat. Like her, I gave my last biscuits to the more needy. In her case younger children, and in mine skeletal, stray cats, abandoned early on in the Asian quest for perfection. And she is my Ram Dass although I can’t speak Hindustani. I don’t speak anything really, any more. Just an attempt at human. These thoughts I have are easy enough to frame in my mind but impossible to voice. Who would I tell them to? Abandoned in my ‘attic’, frozen with loneliness and need. Sara and I have much in common. And suddenly I crave my Ebu and her gentle voice and the way that story unfolded in a different tone each time.
I push my hair behind my ears, squat near the bowl of soapy water and look again at the card. I have smudged the first two lines a little but can still make out the letters. I think it is a name and address with ‘Switzerland’ in bold letters at the bottom. And a stamp at the top that reads, ‘We are moving!’ in happy letters. Who is moving? I feel confused and a very real sense of dread rises up from the depths of me. No, no, no. Please don’t let it be her. Please, God, Father, Jesus, Oh! My mother! No, no, no.
I duck my head beneath my arm and rock and sob. If they leave I will be alone. Abandoned again without hope or any daily kindnesses. I will become thin and ill again. My new hard-won sleekness will disappear along with the flesh on my bones. My eyes will dim like the forest at dusk and I will become invisible. No more running in the park or stepping outside to feel the crispy earth between my toes. No more presents and no more Ebony Ma’am. I run to the fence not caring about consequence and hook my fingers through the slats. I shake it in fury and fever and howl like a wild dog in a bamboo trap. And no one comes. Because my cries are silenced by grief and my strength evaporates quickly and I sink to the ground and rest my feeble head against the fencing. Eyes closed against the glare of the sun and the heaviness of loss. I stay in the same place, willing the sun to bleach my bones to dust and my soul to return to a place of love and light, but then I hear the click click of my Madam’s shoes on the path and start.
‘What you do? What you do? Why you not finish the washing?’ Slap. ‘My silk ruined!’ Slap. ‘No wages.’ Slap. ‘No food. Ungrateful, lazy, filthy!’ Slap.
I have no energy or will to protect myself but from practice, I curl into a ball and cover my head with my arms. Madam never kicks my face. Her violence is quick to rise and quick to stop and she will pause soon, panting and spent with froth spilling from the corners of her mouth. Then I will crawl to the back porch and, like the injured dog she believes I am, I will lick my wounds and keen softly and hope that my life ends soon.
I’m sorry Ebu. I’m so sorry, Bapa. I am not the daughter you deserve. I am not the strong, bronze-limbed, stout-hearted woman in God’s grace any more. I am a shadow. The leavings of a whole person after they have been filed down by disappointment. I sit and stare at the sky. Please forgive me. Please forgive me. I don’t know what to do any more. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me, Mother, for I am nothing.
The water in the handwashing pot is tepid now. I fill it with the hottest water I can boil. And lift the sheets and delicates and the ‘white as snows’ and push them down under the surface until they are twisted together. A few suds make it to the water surface and pop in surprise. A tiny slice of sharp and then blood starts to flow into the water and drips onto the ground. The copper-red water will stain the clothes and as I fall sideways the water tips and flows into the parched grass. And I watch as my blood and ashes meander towards Ebony Ma’am’s fence.
I am not afraid as my eyes become heavy. The sun begins to blaze my trail, tiny snippets of shine dusting my vision, and day turns to night and I feel colder than I’ve ever felt but I’m travelling to a better place and leaving hell behind.
MADAM EUNICE
134 Sabre Green
It is very early morning and I find myself outside Dr Chan’s consulting rooms before the staff have arrived. My night was plagued by visitations and earnest recommendations from dark shadows that I dispatch Little Ping without losing another moment of sanity.
But who am I to trust? My belief system lies broken on the floor and the voices that I’ve been hearing for days now are just getting more insistent. I can’t decide if I’m mad, bad or dangerous, or even if I am real.
Dr Chan will probably prescribe more drugs and a nice holiday in Bintan. I’m looking pretty shabby and when the noises in my head pause I hear sirens blaring in the background and I wonder if they are for me. I remember that one of the signs of breakdown is deteriorating physical appearance. I researched psychosis in minute detail after my first illness, so I know what I’m looking for. My skin smells odd too. Sulphurous and tainted. They say madness has a stink of its own. Maybe a haunting does too. Fretful and anxious I feel myself slump to the floor and in a cold daze watch the early shop-workers take a wide route around me. Today I am not a wealthy, vibrant and high-achieving Asian woman. I am dusty inside and out from exhaustion, and this heavy fear deep rooted like a truffle in the earth. I hear the work-shy jingle of keys and turn my face slightly to see one of the receptionists staring at me, mouth agape. I’m not aware that my appearance is so distressing and I feel anger suddenly coursing through my veins as venomous as a Chang Mai centipede. I start to stand, and my legs buckle.
I get doctor, the girl mutters as she furiously drives the key into the office door. After a moment’s struggle she darts inside and locks the door on me. On me! I crawl towards the door and start to batter on it. Through the glass I can make out the receptionist retreating further into the darkened room on the other side. I hear her on the phone, garbled and stuttering with fear.
This is ridiculous, I think to myself. I just need to get in and explain to her that I’m perfectly safe, but I’ve had no sleep, and am struggling a bit. I glance around and the only thing I can see is a heavy wooden chair, lacquered to perfection, outside the newly opened osteopath’s opposite. I bang on the door one more time to allow her to be reasonable. From the other side of the door she shakes her dark-skinned Malay moon-face at me and hunkers down behind the desk. I realise there is only one thing for me to do and I get to my feet, walk shakily to the door of the osteopath and hoist the wooden chair above my head. I stagger back towards the glass door and with my last gram of physical strength hurl the chair at the doorway.
I hadn’t really expected the door to collapse as dramatically as it does. I rather thought it would bounce off like in films, in secret labs and spaceships. Dr Chan clearly had not invested in expensive glass, preferring, instead, the cheap shattering version that explodes on contact with something hard and shoots pointy icicles in all directions. It is loud. It is noisy. It is very messy. I start to giggle slightly hysterically at the mess and at the girl hiding behind the desk and realise I had better pacify her quickly. Walking as steadily as I can towards the reception desk I hold my hands out in a placatory gesture, unconcerned about the blood streaming from my left palm down my clothes.
Why did this silly girl look so frightened? I am feeling angry again. My emotions are everywhere. A disorganised haystack.
And then, in the corner of my eye, I see the little ghost again, distorted by the half-shadow of the office but framed in a halo of oily light. I can taste that light on my tongue. It’s coating it thickly with a viscous bile. I feel myself gagging. I turn helplessly to the moon-faced cow standing staring at me and try to warn her, and then I hear a whisper in my ear.
‘Madam Eunice?’ And as I turn I see Dr Chan with a puzzled look on his usually inscrutab
le face. Pale, unlined and slug-like.
‘Don’t touch me!’ I warn him and push him away with my right hand. The shard I still hold slashes his face and tears a deep gouge. I hear, to my satisfaction, Dr Chan scream and watch him drop to his knees. The cow starts to low behind the desk and for a second I have absolute clarity. There is blood and glass. People screaming. And the little ghost girl just keeps pointing at the door, her mouth a silent scream, and I do the only sane thing possible. I gather up my crumpling body and my strength and I run.
Gleneagles Medical Centre is bustling and that is usual. I push through the patients and visitors, taking the stairs because I don’t want to encourage questions about my bloodied hand in the lift. I have already caught sight of myself in a window, and my own reflection shocked me, but I have no time to dwell on how I look. I have a limited amount of time to do a certain thing. And do it I must. I back into the ladies’ bathroom and wipe the blood from my palm. I have a deep cut through it that is bleeding steadily so I wadge some towels together and grip them in a fist. I brush my hair back from my face with water and dab the night’s dirt and recent tears from my cheeks. Brushing down my clothes I feel that a taxi will take me now.
I must have dropped my handbag somewhere at the HBD after the terrible fright of the child-spectre in the lift, but I find a fifty-dollar note in my jeans pocket. Don’t run, don’t cause alarm, I chant softly to myself. And so with all the presence and the iciness of a debutante at her first ball I stride swiftly through the lobby to the taxi queue and wait patiently. I refuse to meet anybody else’s eyes and stare stoically ahead.
The Uncle driving gives me ‘the’ look but doesn’t refuse my fare. I give him directions and assure him I don’t care how he gets there. ‘Take the AYE, the PIE, Alexander, Holland Road, I don’t care. Just get there.’
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