A Yellow House Read online

  Every day, she told us, Julia had to sprinkle the house with the liquid. She showed us the bottles standing outside the kitchen. She also had to put stickers on the mains water pipe so that all the water would be infused with the power of light, impregnated with holiness.

  As a cure for the rash, Julia had to bathe in a special basin filled with water, salt, and some of the holy water. She had to drink the holy water too.

  ‘It tastes just like water. Do you want to try?’ We shook our heads.

  Once, when she had started to lose her hair, the employer had taken Julia to see a regular doctor. The doctor had said it was stress, that the hair would grow back, and she was prescribed some cream for the rash. Julia was allowed to keep the cream, but it was a very small tube. The rash spread.

  ‘What about your medical check?’ asked Mary Grace. ‘You need to have it every six months? If you skip it, MOM will complain to your employer.’

  ‘I always go, but the last one was a long time ago, it was not so bad then. Only the last few months it got worse. The itch. I can’t sleep. I worry. My employer shouts at me, because my work is slow now. They say my brain is upside down.’

  ‘It’s their brains that are upside down,’ said Mary Grace.

  Aunty M grew serious and said this was medical neglect, and that Julia should not accept it. MOM would help her. Or the agency.

  ‘But who will hire me like this?’ Julia said.

  ‘We need to get you medicine first,’ said Aunty M.

  MOM could force the employers to pay for it, so she needed to file a complaint. The rash spoke for itself.

  I wanted to know more about this mysterious lady with the holy water. ‘Where are your employers from?’ I asked.

  ‘They are Singaporean, Malay.’

  ‘So is this holy lady Malay too?’

  ‘I don’t know. They only took me to the temple one time, but I stayed outside. Many people were there. Korean. Chinese. White people.’

  ‘And she was called Nan Yan?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It sounded like that.’

  It all seemed so random. Julia had got an employer with weird beliefs, and because of that she had to live with those rules too. I knew that children had to take on their parents’ beliefs. My parents didn’t really believe in anything – well, Mama believed in money, and Dad was originally a Christian but never went to church. PoPo had practised some Confucian rituals and Aunty M was Muslim, but I never saw her pray and she ate pork. She said her previous employer ate pork every day, and she had started eating it because she was afraid to ask for beef or chicken. She said she hoped Allah wouldn’t blame her.

  I wasn’t sure about God, but I figured life might be easier if I had one of my own. But which one? Would Julia have started to believe in the crazy lady herself, had she stayed long enough? And, if your former best friend believed you were a cockroach, would you eventually start to believe it yourself too? Would you become one?

  ‘So what will we do now?’ I asked Aunty M.

  Aunty M said that Julia could run away and approach MOM herself if she wanted to. Or she could confront her employer and demand to see a doctor. When Julia said she’d had enough, she agreed to meet Aunty M on Sunday, her day off, at the helpdesk office.

  ‘Bring your luggage,’ Aunty M said. ‘They will take you to the shelter, and send you to MOM on Monday.’

  ‘And a doctor.’ I added. It was really a question, but I said it like I knew they would. Thankfully Aunty M nodded. ‘And a doctor.’

  I was proud of myself for speaking out, and I hoped Julia hadn’t sensed the inexperience I’d tried to hide. Aunty M had been supportive when I’d spoken to Julia, which strengthened my resolve to be the best helpdesk assistant I could be. Later, I tried to find out more about the strange religion on the internet, but I couldn’t find anyone with that name. I tried different spellings. The Chinese name for South East Asia was Nanyang and many things in Singapore were called Nanyang – universities, schools, shopping centres. But no crazy holy women.

  Dad would help, I thought, if I told him it was for a school project. We googled together, and came up with nothing. ‘It sounds like a cult,’ he said. ‘None of the common religions would be that extreme.’

  I didn’t know what a cult was, but Dad went on, ‘Religion is supposed to bring people together, but it usually does the opposite: anyone who isn’t a believer is out. And a cult is an extreme form of religion. It brainwashes people until it is no longer a way of thinking, but the only way.’

  We had fun fantasising together about washing our brains with holy water, and how smart we would become, or more likely, how crazy. I played with the idea of telling Dad the truth: about Julia not having a choice, having to wash herself with the holy water to cure her rashes, which only got worse. But he would of course tell Mama. And Mama was busy with her career, being stressed, and she hated busybodies. They would argue, and it would end with them forbidding me to go with Aunty M and telling me to focus on my schoolwork.

  If only Dad were around more. He would have been a good help with our cases. Dad knew a lot, and everything he didn’t know, he could find on google on his phone. Unfortunately, most of the time that phone would start ringing and Dad would be back at work. PoPo used to say life was much better without mobile phones. Dad would laugh and agree.

  16

  I had plenty of opinions about Mama, and if I listened to her talk for long enough they’d always be confirmed.

  One Saturday afternoon I was playing a game of Monopoly with Dad. Mama had some friends over and they were sitting on the patio, chatting and gossiping. Dad had to leave the room halfway through the game to deal with a phone call, so I hung back, eavesdropping on Mama and her friends. They were gossiping about their helpers.

  Linda had a new one, her third in a year. ‘I don’t know why I’m so unlucky. I always get the bad ones. The first one couldn’t clean. I had to point out every single bit of dirt! She was so short, she only cleaned up to here.’ She pointed halfway up the wall. ‘Everything above that, she couldn’t see. And what dirt she couldn’t see apparently wasn’t there.’

  The friends hung on her every word – even Mama, who wasn’t interested in anything about cleaning.

  Linda rolled her eyes. ‘And the next one, she couldn’t handle the boys.’

  No shit, Sherlock. Linda had three sons, and not even Linda could handle them. They were vicious. Nobody commented on that, but every single one of Mama’s friends tried to speak next. Nadia won. She had just hired a Filipina maid, who had said she could cook Indian food as she had worked for an Indian family for eight years.

  ‘So, I ask her to make chapattis, and she looks at me if I am crazy. “But ma’am, where is the electric chapatti maker?”’

  Everyone laughed. ‘So lazy,’ cried Cynthia.

  Nadia continued. ‘She is nice though, good with the children and willing to learn. But she does not know how to make vegetarian food. I am sending her on a cooking course next week. Spice Kitchen. Have any of you tried them? It’s supposed to be good.’

  ‘Mine is so stupid,’ Cynthia butted in. ‘No cooking course could help her. She did tell me she didn’t cook at the interview, but I thought, how bad can it be? I don’t like to pay for so-called ‘experience’, which is really just bad habits taught by former employers. I cook myself, and I train her so she learns my way. Much better. Fresh maids, I tell you. But this one, she beats it all. So, I asked her to boil some eggs. Hard-boiled eggs. You can’t spoil that, can you?’

  Everyone nodded. They sat back, and Cynthia helped herself to more biscuits. Aunty M and I had baked them together the day before. We baked a lot now, after the debacle of the pineapple tarts, and I was becoming good at it. Mama offered the plate to Mei Li and Linda.

  ‘No thanks, I’m gluten free. No biscuits for me,’ Linda said.

  ‘Really?’ started Mei Li. ‘I was thinking of that. How do you feel? Do you have more energy?’

  ‘Hello,’ Cynt
hia cut in, stuffing the remains of her biscuit in her mouth. She wagged her hand to keep the others quiet while she chewed. Finally, she swallowed. ‘Wasn’t I in the middle of a story? Can I finish?’

  Mama looked sheepish. I knew she didn’t like Cynthia, who acted as if she were better than us. She had a big house and two cars. Her kids were stupid and shy, but she still bragged about them. I didn’t understand why Mama had invited her to tea.

  ‘So, I asked her to boil the eggs while I went to lie down for a few minutes. I must have fallen asleep, and before I knew it, I hear this knock, very softly. She can’t even knock properly. “Ma’am,” she is calling.’

  Mei Li stared at the uneaten biscuit in her hand, while the others tried to look attentive.

  ‘“Ma’am, can you help with the eggs, I maybe did it wrong,” she says. So I haul myself out of bed – I mean, they can’t ever do anything right, can they? So I go into the kitchen and there is this burning smell. How on earth you burn a boiled egg, I ask you?’

  Mama looked up. ‘Burn a boiled egg? No, even I don’t do that.’

  Cynthia looked around the patio triumphantly. ‘Yes. She had burnt it.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘There were two eggs in the pan and they’d completely boiled dry. She’d only put them in half an inch of water. She boiled them for an hour. The water had gone, and the pot just boiled dry. Pan all black, spoilt. How stupid is she? I’m taking it out of her wages.’

  Everyone agreed, very stupid.

  ‘Hadn’t you explained to her how to boil an egg?’ Mama asked. ‘Maybe she only ever ate them fried?’

  ‘Explain how to boil an egg? Do I need to explain everything? How to wipe her own bum? She should know this. And if not, she could have asked, right?’

  I imagined being Cynthia’s maid. I wouldn’t dare ask anything.

  Linda said, ‘Mine isn’t stupid. But so slow. She drives me crazy. Sometimes I watch her do it, and think I could have done it in half the time.’

  When you’re eavesdropping you can’t say anything, but it doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion. I kept mine to myself. But Mei Li finally put down her biscuit. ‘You should just do it yourself. I fired my maid last year, and it’s such a relief. I don’t have to get annoyed anymore, or be polite, or take her into account.’

  Cynthia reeled in shock. ‘Be polite? Why would you be polite to your maid? You spoiled her, I suppose. I make it a point never to spoil a maid. Last week, mine asked for strawberry jam for her breakfast. I bought her pineapple jam. I mean, she has to eat, but a maid should not be able to choose her own food. What kind of a signal would that be?’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit mean?’ I felt warm inside: My mama was the one asking that question.

  ‘Mean? Mean, that is not mean. The pineapple jam was good quality, it cost more than the strawberry jam. I take good care of my maid. But she should not get an attitude. I make sure she doesn’t. Would you let your maid pick?’ she snapped at Mama.

  Actually, Aunty M did all the groceries, and Mama let her buy whatever she wanted. Aunty M had gradually become the one who decided what we had for dinner. She would show her shopping list to Mama, who would glance over it for appearances’ sake then nod. What would Mama say about this to Cynthia?

  ‘Oh, Merpati is great. She does all the groceries. I have no idea what she has for breakfast. My new role at work doesn’t leave me any time at all. Did I tell you about that project we are starting, in Myanmar?’ Mama’s face seemed to glow. ‘I’m hoping to be the project lead. It will be amazing, not just the financial side, but the human angle. Going into a country like that, that is genuinely developing, and at such a pace. We can make money and help the community at the same time. It’s amazing.’

  Watching Mama blossom as she told her friends about the project, I was confused. I thought her work made her unhappy? This excitement wasn’t what I wanted. She had to hate it! She had to quit.

  Mama’s friends asked some polite questions, but their lack of interest seemed to disappoint her and she smiled uncertainly. Cynthia didn’t even pretend. ‘Yes, yes, your work, very important and all, but let’s talk about that maid. While you’re out squeezing money from Myanmar, if you don’t pay attention she’ll be ripping you off. Do you keep a tight rein on her? Do you check her shopping lists? You need to know how much cash to give her.’

  Mama turned red. ‘I gave her a bank card.’ I could see Mama was getting irritated. ‘I check the receipts, of course.’

  Aunty M always put them on top of the kitchen cabinet, but I hadn’t seen Mama look at them for longer than a few seconds before tossing them into the bin.

  ‘You need to check thoroughly, or your maid will start taking advantage of you,’ Cynthia said.

  ‘You know what, Cynthia, I trust Merpati with my most treasured possessions, my daughters. Why would I not trust her with a bank card? It’s just groceries. She’s meticulous.’ Mama’s tone had become high-pitched.

  I thought about the aunties in the playground, and how their lives seemed to be ruled by their employers so that they couldn’t make important choices for themselves. Aunty M had become quite independent, and this worked well for our whole family. I leaned back, proud of my mama and my aunty, who seemed to have worked it out so well.

  But Mama was less content it seemed. Her face clouded over and she lowered her voice. ‘No, I trust her. But you know what the problem is with Merpati?’

  I shrank back, trying to make myself invisible.

  ‘She is, like, too good. She is worse than my own mother, who at least talked back to me. Sometimes I feel like I’m living with Mother-bloody-Teresa. Always nice and polite. She’s a great cook, and doesn’t hesitate to show it. The house shines and sparkles. Do you know what she said the other day? That she likes the floors to be so clean they squeak when she walks on them with bare feet. She mops the whole house every single day. Even though I told her it wasn’t necessary.

  ‘My husband, kids, they all love her, making me feel like a bad wife and mother. My mother always told me I cannot cook, and that that makes me less of a woman. Do I need her to look at me and think the same? Bad mother, bad cook, bad wife. A mother that loses her temper and shouts at her kids. As if I don’t have a high profile banking job. I’d like to see her do that for a day. My maid is little miss perfect. Always helpful. Always right. It does my head in. Always on the lookout to help someone in need. Busybody bitch. I hate those holier-than-thou types!’

  Mama’s voice went up with each new sentence, until her screeches echoed through the room. She stopped and looked up in shock. Her friends stared at her. Mama had never shown the Mamamonster outside the family. But there it was, in plain view, saying bitch and all. No-one spoke until Dad came back, cutting through the stillness with, ‘Well Maya, let’s see about that Chance Card.’

  Into the broken silence Mei Li said, ‘Well, you’re lucky, you know? Count your blessings.’

  Mama sighed. ‘I know. More biscuits, anyone?’

  After Dad had crushed me at Monopoly I went to my room and googled Mother Teresa. She had been a nun in India, but left the convent to help poor people. The poorest of the poor, as she said herself. That did sound a bit like Aunty M, who was always helping people too. Did Mama suspect that Aunty M worked for the helpdesk? She hadn’t mentioned it in her tirade. If she knew, she wouldn’t like it one bit. But then she’d told off Cynthia for being mean. Was one the real Mama, the other one the Mamamonster? Which one could I trust?

  If I wanted to be grown up and independent I needed my own opinion on matters, so I read more about Mother Teresa. She had grown up poor herself, having to beg for food and clothes. According to Wikipedia, she’d said that her mission was to care for ‘the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the crippled, the blind, the lepers, all those people who feel unwanted, unloved, uncared for throughout society, people that have become a burden to the society and are shunned by everyone.’

  We had not really helped the n
aked or blind, but we had seen our share of women who were hungry, unwanted, unloved, uncared for. What were lepers?

  I wasn’t sure what shunned was, or a burden to society, but if I understood this correctly, Mama was right. Aunty M and I were acting a bit like mother Teresa, and I liked it. It made me feel good. By taking action the part of me that felt ashamed of living in a country where people did this was overshadowed with pride, pride that like Mother Teresa we were trying to make things better.

  But Mama hated Mother Teresa. I still wasn’t sure what I thought, but I knew I couldn’t ask anyone. Just before I closed my laptop I noticed a quote tucked away in the corner of the screen. It read, ‘Forgive others not because they deserve forgiveness, but because you deserve peace.’ I went to bed with that thought on my mind.

  17

  I had started to go to the playground again with Chloe and the aunties, eavesdropping and playing the good big sister at the same time. But when we arrived one afternoon, I felt the air leave my lungs. Jenny was there.

  She was sitting on the ground behind the swing, fiddling with a bag. I decided to be big, ignore her, and went to sit with the aunties. Mary Grace was handing out iced gems, so I hoped it didn’t look like a weird thing to do. With any luck, Jenny wouldn’t even notice me at all.

  Of course she did. She wandered over and grabbed more than her share of the iced gems. ‘Alright you girls, go off and play,’ shooed Mary Grace.

  ‘Yes, let’s play,’ singsonged Jenny, grabbing my hand and skipping towards the bushes, to what used to be our favourite secret spot. Her good mood made the tiny cockroach feet inside my stomach jump for joy. I turned to Aunty M for help, but she looked at me encouragingly. I eyed the gloomy bushes and hesitated. The quote I’d read about forgiveness came back to me. I felt I deserved peace, so should I forgive Jenny? Just like that? And, the bigger question, could I trust her? I decided yes to the first, but to be careful with the second.