Bitter Leaves

by Tabatha Stirling

  Uncle raises his eyebrows at that but centuries of smooth face and miànzi prevents him from commenting. The blue cab swings out of the hospital grounds and onto Napier Road. I start to giggle again. Mirth rising up in my gullet. An unwanted bubble in a jar of pickled plums. Not a flicker from Uncle. I keep the fifty-dollar note in between two fingers so he can see it at all times. The traffic around surges forward with as much motivation as a sun-baked lizard. Constant beeping, sighing, muttering and hand gestures accompany Uncle’s driving. I begin to feel listless and pull myself up straight in the seat. I haven’t bothered with a seat belt. Why would I? I am so disengaged from the world. It is impossible to be caught up in the here and now when I am straddling madness or worse.

  I am hopeful that after I’ve rid myself of the ‘debt’ my life will be transformed. I think it will possibly be easier and safer to let myself descend into the maw. I can hear it roaring on the edge of my psyche and it would not take much to allow myself to swallow-dive to oblivion. I am very tired. My cheeks feel hollow and I sense my complexion yellowing like rancid oil. I know I must stay lucid for a while longer. Uncle pulls up in the street I know so well and yet it feels completely alien today. Strange how a familiar stretch of tarmac lined with trees and detached houses can feel so odd. That odd sulphurous smell envelops me as I open the door. I try to hand Uncle the fare but he pushes me off and stares at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Get out. Get out. Mogui!’

  The taxi screeches off and I watch the dust rise in its speedy wake. Suddenly I long for the cool of some lake water. Where the cranes pick their way elegantly through the reeds, those dignified assassins of the waterways. Just to rest my head on the mossy ground and let the yinghua carpet me with their sugar pink blossoms. Maybe, after this is over, I will travel with the boys to the countryside again. Perhaps home-school them for a while with hugs and kisses. Remove their glasses and let them hop about naked in the eager sun as it tickles the brown into their little boy-skin. Yes, that is what we will do.

  I adjust my eyes to the harsh sunlight. Even at this mid-morning hour the glare is unforgiving and makes my nerves wince. I edge towards Little Ping’s house. Soon to be dead Little Ping’s house. I can’t help but giggle again. It’s terribly funny really. There I am edging towards my nemesis about to take membership of a very élite club and all I can do is giggle. In fact, I laugh so much I have to wipe saliva away from my mouth to prevent it dripping onto my chin. I receive a couple of odd looks from a maid but nothing that makes me particularly anxious. Why would I worry about a maid’s opinion? The day that happens is the day I know I’ve really lost sight of myself.

  The house looks empty but then it usually does. Little Ping enjoys quiet, such an odd thing for an Asian woman, and she lets her maids have a free hand, allowing them to watch television on their breaks and use their cellphones indiscriminately. Still at least that means there won’t be too many eyes on me. I don’t bother with the front door and instead crouch and run through the heavy undergrowth around the periphery of the garden until I arrive at the back of the house. I take time to appreciate the beautiful space that has been created, then step through to the kitchen. It is empty and I select a large butcher’s knife from the block conveniently located for me on the nearest surface.

  Gripping the knife I totter through the house. Fizzy flashbacks erode my concentration as echoes of parties and laughter flow past me. I head for the living room where I can hear Haydn, no, Bach, it is definitely Bach. I catch myself wondering if Bach is a good composer to die to. I push the door open and find Little Ping sitting alone, eyes half-closed, paying rapt attention to the music. She starts up when she sees me and looks of horror and confusion battle on her face.

  It is over very quickly but there is so much more blood that I thought there would be. It decorates the walls with a Rothko intensity and the colour is majestic, ranging from scarlet to ruby and then into streaks of a deep jam-colour. I drop the knife and walk out of the front door.

  There is no memory of travelling back to Sabre Green. I do not know if I walked, ran or hailed a taxi. But I when I come to a young, ill-looking Indonesian helper is shaking me gently.

  ‘Madam? Madam? Are you all right? Are you hurt?’

  Her hair is very odd as if someone has hacked at it with hedge shears and suddenly she frightens me. I push her away and notice some of the blood from my hands has smeared itself onto her cheek and pockmarked her white shirt. The girl backs away from me slowly and disappears like a ghost into the air. Perhaps she is one. I’m learning that the world has turned on its head. Attempting to stand is a fruitless exercise and as my legs sag under me I manage to sit cross-legged outside the front gate on the pavement. I’ll just rest a bit, I think, hearing the hysterical drones of sirens but not feeling involved with them at all.

  I can feel myself falling asleep.

  MA’AM LESLEY

  35 Sabre Green

  Days have passed after I crumpled in front of Norfolk and evidence of Ralph’s infidelity. I have experienced an odd sense of relief. After years of guilt and emotional self-flagellation I feel vindicated. I look at myself in the cracked and dirty mirror in the room I now sleep in and exactly the same image is reflected back at me as the one in the Venetian mirror that steals attention in the master bedroom. For the first time in many tear-stained and darkly shadowed days I realise that who I am is based on the recurring image I see in the present and not the ever-changing, ugly self-portrait that I harbour in the attic of my mind.

  Norfolk had been conciliatory and anxious. He wouldn’t leave until he was sure that I was quite recovered. But my infatuation with this man had halted abruptly. Loyalty to his country and his job far outweighed any muted affection he might have felt or demonstrated for me. His dramatic revelation of those pictures had been a purposeful device intended to shock me into an honest reaction. I wonder how disappointed he is that I have proved myself an innocent party. Is this what healing feels like? A profound but gentle sense of recovery? I am invigorated by this idea, and find myself relaxing into the old rocking chair in the garden. I had always imagined breastfeeding in this chair and letting time wash over us, and the idea that I would be feeding my child here in the future excited a smile of plenty.

  Ralph is never far from my mind but he exists only as a construct from my past. Even if he returns he can never be present in my life again. I was beaten by a fallacy of a man. A deceit so unworthy of my tears and pain I don’t think I will ever grieve again.

  I sigh and think about juicing some fruit for Jocelyn. I am beginning to find her presence really tedious and ache for the time when it will just be the baby and me and I can begin my journey of motherhood. The lack of milk in my breasts is nothing when I think of the breathless yet fluid love that rolls from my pores and threatens to overwhelm me. I am so crazy for labour to start I find myself watching Jocelyn carefully, determined to leap on the first twitch of her body beginning to move through into the birth. It should start any day now. I have been warned, though Jocelyn is not in the least bit interested, that because of her diminutive size the baby could be premature. This doesn’t pose any immediate health problems but I should be watchful.

  And as these things generally play out in this world full of realities and coincidences, Jocelyn goes into labour at 2.09am. One of the worst hours of the night for me is the battle between two and three. There is usually an agonising hunger for the light of morning and yet the demons caper on through the darkness. But when I first hear Jocelyn groan and shift her position in the bed I wake quickly. I have been sleeping next to her for the last few weeks and my sleep has become light. Yowling toms, insensitive drivers and the Singapore haze have all contributed to a lack of rest. But I feel ready for anything and adrenaline lasts a surprisingly long time in the body.

  Jocelyn wakes up as her waters break and she panics. I murmur nonsensical calm things to her and encourage her to get off the sodden sheets. We need to get to the hospital, I tell h
er, but then as she sinks to the ground I see it is far too late for that. Her hair is already matted with sweat, strands clinging to her perspiring face.

  ‘Ma’am, Ma’am,’ she pants.

  ‘It’s okay, love, it’s okay.’ But is it? Despite all my anticipation, I have no real idea at all how to birth a baby. The only fact I can remember from books is that in all cases, whether it be Anne Boleyn’s or Mrs H’s from ’Ackney, towels and hot water are mandatory.

  The poor girl is crawling around the floor screaming every few minutes. I grab some towels and a bowl of hot water from the bathroom.

  ‘I’ve got to push, Ma’am! Aye! It hurts, it damn hurts!’

  I hunkered down beside her and shouted, ‘Well, just bloody do it then!’

  So my baby comes into this world brown-skinned, bloody and the most glorious thing I have ever seen. Jocelyn is exhausted, panting and desperate. She glances at the baby once and wrinkles her face. ‘Why are they so ugly? You can’t change your mind, Ma’am, you signed the papers!’

  I laugh at the absurdity. Not ugly at all. Absolutely beautiful. Jocelyn relaxes visibly, reassured that I won’t be giving the baby back because it is unappealing. ‘Do you think you can breastfeed? For a little bit? It’s so good for the baby.’ I know it is unfair to ask but a mother’s selfishness for her child is upon me and I want Lily – because that’s what I will name her – to have the very best start. I have considered the chance that Jocelyn might re-bond with the child but this doesn’t happen.

  ‘I won’t. The idea make me feel sick. I don’t want my suso getting old and saggy.’ So I sigh gently and lay Lily on the bed carefully before making Jocelyn comfortable. Lily watches me with an intense stare and I realise that her eyes are as green as a Cornish rockpool. I had supposed they would turn brown, but then Ralph’s eyes are an extraordinary olive colour. Perhaps his genes will be strong enough.

  Gathering Lily from the bed I move downstairs and put the kettle on, humming to myself. My daughter, how wonderful that sounds, needs a bath and bottle. But feeding first. I make up the bottle with little grace. A measured, easy routine is out of my reach at the moment, but I do my best and Lily seems to like it. Sucking away contentedly, a rosy glow appearing on her cheeks. I pick a bottle of water for Jocelyn and shove some fruit, biscuits and crisps into a plastic bag and climb carefully back upstairs.

  Unfairly, I begin to resent Jocelyn imposing on my time with Lily. I have fallen in love irrevocably, finally. All I want is to hold her near to me and breathe in the wonder of my child. I find Jocelyn’s behaviour odd but reassuring. Her lack of interest in the baby and her desire to leave quickly clearly mean she has not bonded with the child. I have been unwilling to admit to myself how much I have feared her reaction. I am weary from the weight of recent struggles and would have had little spark left to defend our agreement if pushed.

  I am grateful that Jocelyn seems intent on leaving our lives as soon as possible accompanied only by her shabby Hello Kitty suitcase, my gratitude and a large cheque. Ralph I now hardly give a real thought to. Do traitors have parental rights? I wonder briefly if he will pursue us if he is still alive. It is unlikely because of Lily’s gender. A boy would have been far more interesting and useful to my husband. A baby ‘beard’ to demonstrate to the world his masculinity and vigour. Poor Ralph. He wouldn’t be the first closeted gay man to have had children. Children tend to distract from a person’s sexuality unequivocally.

  And so I bide my time and wait for Jocelyn to heal and take her baggage, emotional and physical, to faraway climes where she can maintain a well-fed life and, no doubt, find other men to entice and enrapture. And her departure doesn’t sound with trumpets or fanfare. There is no proclamation with the dawn. Just a blue cab for a brown girl. Eager and fulfilled, with money and an escape.

  And our goodbye is faltered and awkward. Jocelyn hesitates at the taxi door and turns to look at me and then for a second longer, at Lily.

  ‘Ingat, Ma’am.’

  Then she ends and Lily and I begin.

  SHAMMI

  112 Sabre Green

  I wake to white. And I think with great peace that I am in heaven. And then the light becomes too bright and I can hear voices pushing at the sides of my head. I feel woolly and insubstantial like a shabby duck feather that has absconded to a muddy river. The intensity of the light increases, becomes whiter and forces my eyes open to acknowledge it. I can see faces moving around me and I’m hopeful that they might be angels. I am totally at ease with where I am. It will be the end of distress, pain and endless wondering about the sanctity of my life and the mortal sin I might have committed.

  But these feelings of peace start to recede as pain engulfs my body and I cry. Sharply and quietly like a bloodied mouse. A cool hand soothes my forehead and I ask that my sins be forgiven. And then white beckons again through that angelic voice.

  Later, I wake to a hospital room. It is more than I have ever had. I am lying on a bed with a mattress that is soft. I hear machines and when I bring my hand up to my eyes I feel a snag in my hand where the tubes enter. I feel panicked and try to shout my fear but only a cracked memory of voice remains in my throat. Bandages cover my wrists and I am swamped with shame and a disconsolate sadness that sits heavily on my shoulders, an iron shawl embroidered with tears and ribbons of grief. Lying rigid with my self-disgust I await my fate passively. I will not protest or excuse myself but talk to God truthfully. I will say that I will do better and that I fear I have failed him most miserably and take whatever judgement he pronounces.

  I hear the door opening and close my eyes tight like a child expecting pain. I hear her calling me but I can’t quite believe this is real. Perhaps I am hallucinating.

  ‘Shammi, Shammi, darling, dear one. Please come back to me. Babu? You are safe now.’ I open one eye slightly unwilling to commit myself to the mockery of an illusion. And there she is. My Ebony Ma’am. Her blueberry-black hair in an industrious plait and her face tight with worry. ‘Can you sit up, little one. Look, see the things we have brought you.’

  My Ebony Ma’am helps me shuffle up the pillows. I grimace with stiffness and disbelief. ‘Are you real?’

  ‘Yes, Babu, I am real. Look, feel.’ And she puts my hand very gently onto her face. I trace the lines of her bones like a blind woman imprinting the planes and inconsistencies into my memory.

  ‘I did a terrible thing. A mortal sin. You shouldn’t touch me. I’m bad.’ I withdraw my hand and turn my head away to face the wall.

  Ebony Ma’am walks to the other side and faces me again. ‘Not bad, darling girl, never bad. Sad and abused and badly done by. It is I who should feel guilty. I didn’t save you hard enough and for that I am deeply sorry.’

  I realise she is asking me for forgiveness. An incomprehensible idea swims towards me. This woman who is so much more than I can ever be is humbling herself. I nod because I’m unable to do more. She acknowledges this and a trickle of her sincerity, a sign of her goodness runs down her cheek. I feel myself warming in her sun shadow. A place of greater safety. And as quickly I remember my Madam and suddenly I am very frightened. I tense and swallow. ‘I can’t stay here. My Madam will be very angry. I must let her know.’

  Ebony Ma’am draws a breath in sharply. ‘Your Ma’am is being questioned by the police, Babu. You have many old wounds and two ribs are fractured. Your eye is black and your face is swollen. She faces prison for what she has done.’

  I am shocked to silence. ‘But what will happen to me? I need money for my parents! The agency will ask for more money.’ My chest starts to constrict and I can feel myself panting a desperate beat. My hands claw at the bedding.

  ‘Babu, Babu. Everything is taken care of. You won’t have to work here again if you don’t want to. You could come with us. Work for us. Or I will pay for you to take a course. Massage or beauty, maybe. You could work in a big hotel. A luxury chain.’

  Ebony Ma’am is hopeful for me. I barely hear what she says, enjoying just look
ing at her face. Her beautiful, calm face that is for the moment racked by worry.

  A nurse enters and I cringe away reflexively. Drawing my knees to my chest with my chin down. Eyes down. Everything low and submissive. I hear her whispering to Ebony Ma’am but still I can’t open my eyes. There is too much at risk. I’m still not convinced that this isn’t a figment of the devil’s imagination. As I lie, as tightly drawn as a viola’s strings, I start to see the room in focus.

  Flowers in vases everywhere, beautiful, painted with God colours. Some leap from the vase like shadow puppets daring you to look away. Others are more demure like nuns lining up for Mass. And then the details of the room begin to emerge. I see an impossibly beautiful silk robe thrown casually over a chair. There are clothes hanging in a cupboard. I see three soft toys, a rabbit, a dragon and a bear, sitting, happy with their status, ready to love. There Ma’am sits, watching me take in her efforts and waiting patiently for my satisfaction.

  We are quiet for a time. The rain has begun again but the prevailing winds have been kind to some of us. A feeling of quiet and calm, quite unfamiliar to me, is present in the room. I realise that for the first time since arriving in Singapore I have time for myself. Time to think, time to cry, time to live. From now on I will never let myself be compromised again. I will never sell myself for a pittance, or clean another woman’s house, or betray myself to such dark self-esteem, or lie bruised for a night, or allow a man to place hands on me.

  I gaze at the blue robe, the sunburst in the corner of the room, the pattern of lethargic dust, the dove flying high, and now these things can be meaningful for me. I can be red and green and brown. I can be rose, lemon and grey. All these colours contain me and tiny fingers dusted with pigment beckon towards freedom, towards a dusty road to my past or a carpeted corridor to my future.