Her father must have been a foreigner, for Lydia had fair skin and black hair that occasionally glinted brown in the sun. Her nose rose sharply from her forehead, unlike the gentle flare of Lola and Lolo’s appendages. She did not look like them at all.
Malibay was a small town, and Lydia was shunned by the other OFW kids. When she was growing up, she was often teased. “You must be bad, because you don’t have a father and your mother never comes to visit,” Anna Rivera would say, while a crowd of girls nodded with her, sneers on their faces. Lydia couldn’t say anything in her defense, because it was true. She had never seen either of her parents. So she just hung her head and walked away, as she heard Anna and the other girls laugh at her. She didn’t mind. Or rather, she told herself that she didn’t. She would choose the forest over any of them for company. Any day.
She thinks back to her last conversation with Mayang, one week ago. They had talked of the usual things, with Mayang ending the conversation by saying that she longed to see her. Lydia hated it when she said that. This time, she wasn’t going to let it go.
“You’re never going to come home,” she said. “Stop telling me you long to see me when you don’t plan on doing anything about it.”
“Anak...” Mayang started to say. She didn’t want to hear anymore. She pressed the red button on her cellphone to end the call. Lola was staring at her, openmouthed, but she glared at her. She stamped all the way to her room, and slammed the door. It felt good.
Now that she thinks about it, she feels guilty. She acted like a spoiled brat. She’ll tell Mayang she’s sorry the next time they talk.
She has everything she needs to be happy—loving grandparents, a comfortable home, more than enough to eat and wear. But instead of being happy, she feels empty. She wants to see Mayang. She’s imagined their reunion so many times. Mayang will come home laden with gifts, but she will drop them all when she sees Lydia. Lydia will rush into her arms. She’ll choke back tears when Lydia finally calls her Mother.
Lydia comes home to find Lola weeping. She holds a crumpled letter in her hand. She reaches out to hug Lydia. “Your mother’s dead,” she says. Lydia stands still. She feels Lola’s hand stroking her back. She feels her chest constrict. The grand reunion she had imagined would never happen. She lets her bag drop down to the floor. She knows that she was supposed to feel sad, but she doesn’t feel anything at all, except for a tightening beneath her breast. How is she supposed to mourn a stranger she had never known, a voice that she had only occasionally heard?
Mayang had suffered a massive heart attack. Her employer, grateful for her many years of devoted service, paid to have her body shipped home.
Lydia wants to see her before she was buried, to say goodbye, but Mayang’s body had already started to decompose. Her coffin remains closed.
It is sky blue, and made out of steel. It cost ten thousand pesos. In Mayang’s will, she had asked to be cremated, and that her ashes be scattered in the forest. Lola ignores this.
“That was what she would have wanted,” she tells Lydia.
No, Lydia thinks. Even in her death, you still feel the need to keep up appearances.
Mayang died as she had lived. Alone.
She left one hundred thousand pesos for Lydia. That was enough for fifty round-trip plane tickets from Italy to Malibay.
She left fifty thousand for Lolo and Lola. With Lolo’s pension, it gave them enough to live on, as long as they lived within their means. Lolo stopped going to the sabong when Mayang’s coffin came home.
No one comes to the funeral, except for a phalanx of Lola’s friends from church, who sniff into their handkerchiefs whenever they think that someone is watching. Lola wails as Mayang’s coffin is lowered into the ground. Tears slowly trickle down Lolo’s cheeks. Lydia does nothing. She leaves Malibay the day after Mayang is buried. She leaves all of her brand-name clothes behind. She packs only what is necessary.
Whatever her destiny is, staying in Malibay is not an option, nor is going to Italy. She would go to Manila and see what awaited her there.
She would see.
Discipline
By Rebecca McFarland Kyle
Discipline. We’ve got plenty on this estate. Lord Campbell makes good and sure of that. The men among the downstairs ranks call us girls ‘lucky,’ but I’ve never seen it that way. I worry about those what do.
You see, His Lordship whips any man who steps the slightest bit out of line. And that line moves depending on His Lordship’s mood and how much whiskey he’s got in him.
His biggest punishments are for wasting.
“Waste not, want not,” is his cardinal rule. We learned the hard way if you killed even a snake on the estate, you had to eat it.
“Him that kills shalt partake.”
We couldn’t find that one anywhere in the Bible, but then again, the nobility makes their own rules under the belief that God gave them their position and the absolute authority what goes along with it.
Whippings were done out in the stable yard, no matter the weather. If it’s raining or snowing, Lord Campbell’s valet holds an umbrella over his head. The poor valet’s sure to be the next under the whip if His Lordship gets one snowflake on his fine jacket. I’ve no doubt the old devil’s arranged to have that happen on more than one occasion
Sure, the littlest and handsomest boys get a few less stripes, but every below-stairs male back on this estate carries a road map of scars. Some of them so thick it’s impossible to see the hide beneath.
Girls get turned over the table in Butler’s office with their bottom bared to be spanked. But the rules change here. Pretty ones and little ones get more. Those beatings occur in the Lord’s chamber with none in attendance to witness what happens after.
His Lordship likes to turn flesh red. And nothing gets his blood going like a ruby rear and a few tears. I’ve told every woman-servant in this place to cry early in their punishment even if their constitution is opposed to giving in.
I learned my lesson the hard way, and I’ve never forgotten. I was a stubborn English lass assigned to Cook’s Helper when I tripped over His Lordship’s foot, which I suspect he’d placed in my way for his convenience, and spilled a tray of lamb. The food went to the foxhounds, though much of the staff would have gladly eaten the delicious-smelling roast.
I went to His Lordship’s study.
“Bare yer arse,” the red-haired Scottish barbarian ordered. I was told after I got the position he’d only gotten his place because Queen Victoria’s many-times Great-grandfather rewarded the Lord’s kin for betraying his own countrymen in the Battle of Culloden by trading his estate in the Scottish Highlands for another in England.
I had no choice. It was work in the kitchen or on the streets. In retrospect, I wonder if the Madams would have taken better care of me.
I bared my arse. And I bent over his knees as he told me.
Then, blow after blow fell on my bottom until my eyes blurred and I finally gasped out in pain.
A smiling Lord Campbell turned me over, opened my legs and put a babe inside of me. A red-haired son who looks just like the old bastard. It was far better than his proper lady wife could do. By law, His Lordship is childless.
Of course, having four of the man’s bastards don’t help matters, either. I’ve lost three husbands and only His Lordship’s seed takes. Sure, and he still thinks of a reason to call me up to his study and give me a swat or three when he farts too much after a meal or whatnot. I think of chopping onions and I’m in tears straightaway now. No point in causing myself too much pain since my milk-pale bottom pinks up real nice with just a light slap.
Pity Lord Campbell can’t die in my bed like my poor three husbands. Oh, I know the whispers. I’m a man killer, all right, but all of them died in the saddle with a smile on their faces and there’s no disputing that. Despite the gossip, I’ve had more offers than the younger and prettier women below-stairs.
Experience counts for a lot. Well, and all cats are gray in
the dark. Not that I’m going to turn myself into any fancy woman now that my children are mostly grown, but I’m certainly not going to refuse a handsome young man when he makes eyes at me.
Lately, they’re starting to make eyes at my daughter. Jennie’s the best of her father and me, even if he doesn’t claim her. She’s got my blue eyes and rosebud mouth and that flaming red hair the Scotsman must’ve gotten from one of those Vikings of long ago.
Like her brothers before her, she bears the name of the manservant kind enough to wed a pregnant cook, but every one of us below-stairs knows the truth even it if wasn’t evident from that rowdy cap of ginger curls.
I don’t know why I’m the only one of the women who’s borne the Lord’s children. I’ve certainly taken the same precautions as the others. Mam told me to keep a copper in my ‘purse’ to prevent such things happening. Every time the man futtered me, I ran to Cook and got a douche of herbs and cold water.
Our estate keeps one of the finest herb gardens in the country. The cooks before me started it to make sure we had both cooking and healing herbs. I learned what would cure you and what would kill you on my mother’s knee and expanded that knowledge in that garden. Servants come from miles for some of my ointments and for the herbs that will stop a baby growing.
Now, I am the Cook and I tell the boys to buy a safe and keep it clean between times. That’s kept the population down below-stairs. So far, my douches of honey and lemon have kept the disciplined maids from bearing as well.
There are no secrets in a big house. While Butler keeps his lips sealed tighter than our Scottish Lord’s purse, we all knew something was up. Physicians from London, then the infamous College of Surgeons at Edinburgh were summoned to attend His Lordship.
We all heard the bellow after the last doctor left in haste.
The Lord was dying.
Next came the family researcher. Since Lord Campbell had no legitimate heirs, they would research back up his line to see if his father, then his father’s father and on up his family tree had a younger brother who’d carry on.
“Extinct! I’ll not let that English whore Victoria have my property!”
The Lord’s bellow rang through the house followed by a string of oaths that’d make a sailor blush. I braced myself, sweat running slow down my spine as I stirred the cook pot.
Someone was going to get beaten and soon. My skin crawled when I saw my helpers all look pityingly in my direction. Even Jennie, who’d taken a spot as a kitchen maid, could not look me in the eyes. Likely, His Lordship would choose his old favorite.
I took a deep breath and kept on carving the joint for the stew, wishing it was His Lordship I was cutting up instead. I felt a light hand on my arm and glanced down to see Jennie looking up at me.
“I’ll be fine,” I reassured my youngest child. Despite their heritage, I love them all. Perhaps that was why I was the only one of the lot ‘blessed’ with four of the Lord’s ‘wee bairns.’
Though I couldn’t prove it, I suspected the Lady herself got rid of more than one of his get, probably fearing the wee devil would beat its way out of her, if it in any way shared its sire’s proclivities. Lady Jane was so pallid and full of trepidations; I sometimes thought the woman a haunt long before she fell from the cliff into the cold river below.
‘Accident,’ they called it. More than one of us saw her weeping when she left the house that winter day.
I shivered and stopped my thoughts from running in that direction. Before my first husband offered to wed me, I’d thought of just such a terrible thing. Eternity was far less frightening than facing the shame of bearing a bastard child in a household dominated by fear.
Joe loved our son and treated him like he was his very own even though he knew better. Bless him.
I hastened cutting up the beef for the stew into fine bits, knowing Lord Campbell got particularly peckish if his dinner was late. Though lately he scarcely had an appetite, even for haggis. For that, I gave thanks and prayed I’d never have to cook the disgusting stuff again.
Jennie worked silently at my side, chopping the veg required. I was hoping to find her a position as a Cook’s Assistant at the neighboring estate. Jobs like those were scarce as bonuses from our employer, but I knew the Cook and Lady to be kind. And the Lord and his sons did not dally with the help, either.
I near cut my finger off when I glanced up to see Lord Campbell framed in the doorway. For a moment, I felt a tear of pity in the corner of my eye. When I first worked here, the man’s shoulders spanned the width of the narrow opening and he was near tall as the lintel. Now, he was stooped, leaning on a crutch—and all alone.
“Dinner’s late,” he declared.
It wasn’t. The clock hadn’t rung six bells yet and supper was served promptly at eight. But there was no arguing with the man, particularly when the smell of peat from his breath was near strong enough to knock me down halfway across the room.
“I’ll hurry, Milord.” I pulled a quick curtsey while the rest of the staff committed the required murmurings and obeisance.
That left only Jennie at my side: Jennie, who’d never seen her real father because I’d done my best to keep the two apart. Jennie, who I’d bribed, wheedled, and begged every member of the staff to keep protected from the gossip. Jennie, fair as a rose in her first bloom and standing upright, staring incredulously at the man who looked more like her than my late husband.
“Curtsey!” I hissed.
Too late.
“Now, who is this wee lass?”
“My daughter, Jennie.” I choked out the words, while I kept my hands moving. Idleness was the Devil’s playground according to some, but I knew not working would earn me a spanking harder than the first one.
“Why aren’t you bowing, ye wee numpty?”
Seeing the error of her ways, Jennie quickly curtseyed as was appropriate, and then to appease her drunken lord, she bowed as well.
“Poor excuse for a serving-maid.”
I moved forward, expecting Lord Campbell to take his frustration out on me as was his usual wont. However, he beckoned for Jennie instead.
“You can’t—”
A glance from a rheumy bloodshot eye silenced me. Anything I said now would only worsen my daughter’s beating. And to my lasting shame and regret, I had never told her to cry. If anything, Jennie was more stolid than I once was.
Jennie looked like she was walking on stilts, her legs were so wooden. My last sight of her was her board-straight back marching along behind our blue-and-green kilted lord to his private chamber.
I told myself it was the onions bringing a flood of water to my eyes, but I knew better. I never cried in public. Not when me Mam and Pap nor any of my three husbands died.
Nobody spoke. Bless them. I don’t think I could have taken a word of kindness. And nobody dared offer reproof.
One thing for sure, stew didn’t need any salt that night. I provided plenty on my own. And yes, I stood at that cook pot and stirred myself. I made every bit of that meal with my own two hands. My eyes were glued to the doorway, waiting.
Six and a half bells. I saw the Head Maid bustling around in the kitchen, busying herself with the honey and lemon for the douche. Bless her.
Seven bells. Butler himself came down to check on the meal. While he’d sit at the kitchen table with the rest of us, he had duties abovestairs that kept him busy.
“Smells lovely,” he commented with a brief nod of his head. His features were near as still as the stone wall behind him. We’d gone from roast to stew in favor of the Lord’s gullet recently. Good thing, the leftovers went further to feed us.
I forced a smile and a brief nod.
Seven and a half bells. Albert, my eldest son, arrived from the neighboring estate. I didn’t know who’d sent for him, but I was certain he’d not come on his own. I’d managed to place him and his brothers, Tom and Willie, as soon as I could. Nary one had taken a stripe or a slap from Lord Campbell and I’d hoped to accomplish the same w
ith Jennie.
My failure set anvil-like on me guts same as the old Lord’s haggis. I finished preparation of the meal, but I knew we couldn’t take the tray up. Nobody disturbed Lord Campbell in his chambers without receiving an even worse beating than the one inside.
Eight bells. My white-faced daughter stumbled downstairs barely able to walk, her cheeks streaked with tears and her gray uniform stained with blood at the back. She couldn’t meet my eyes and I couldn’t tend her because I had to ready the tray for Lord Campbell and hurriedly.
The Head Maid and Lady Jane’s former personal maid tended my child for me. They’d done the cleaning as often as I had. I was still needed to tidy up the kitchen and serve below-stairs.
“Go.” I was startled to see Butler standing before me as I served the staff, doing the job Jennie could not do tonight. “Tend to your daughter.”
I didn’t argue. I rushed to the tiny windowless closet Jennie occupied next to my room.
Jennie lay on her side curled up like a baby with her arms wrapped around her pillow. Grace, the Lady’s Maid still remained at her side, her expression a mixture of grief and memory.
“I didn’t cry, Mam,” Jennie whispered. “Not ever.”
“You should’ve, girl,” I choked out the words. “‘Tis no shame, and it gets the punishment over with faster.”
“He shouldn’t have—”
I shushed Grace. Lord Campbell had gone past ‘shouldn’t have’ long ago. I wish he’d been like the rest of his ilk, buggering sheep instead.
“Thank you, Grace,” I couldn’t think of words beyond those poor ones to express how grateful I was to her for doing for Jennie what her Mam should have been free to do.
“You’ve done the same for me,” Grace reminded me gently and rose to leave, after giving Jennie a final pat on her shoulder. I was grateful for the reminder. Grace hadn’t borne children and she’d faced even worse than the Lord from a roving band of drunkards one Guy Fawkes Day.
OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology Page 45