A Yellow House Read online

  What was I, brown or pale?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I answered, pulling myself together. I needed something else to think about, something to distract me from the cockroach inside me. ‘Tell me about the helpdesk. And the shelter.’

  Aunty M sat across from me at the table and pushed a glass of Ribena my way. ‘I saw them at the hospital. They came to pick up Sri. She could leave the hospital but she had nowhere to go. She cannot leave Singapore, as the police are still investigating. They say if she was beaten, it’s a criminal offence. But they need to prove it first.’ She raised her hands. ‘But who jumps off a sixth floor balcony for fun?’

  I nodded in agreement.

  ‘The police called the shelter. I’m not allowed to visit, but the officers also got Sri’s phone back.’

  ‘Had the employer stolen her phone?’

  Aunty M laughed. ‘Stolen, ha! Taken away for safekeeping so that Sri could focus on her work. At first she was allowed to use it one hour every Sunday, but later they never gave anymore. Remember how we gave her my phone to call her family?’

  I remembered how Sri had cried on the phone. ‘But now you can call her?’

  ‘Yes. They even have wifi so we just whatsapp. And as soon as Sri is well enough to go out, I can meet her. And I’ll go to the helpdesk again too. I went last week to have training. I learned about the rights of the domestic worker and the employer. You know, you can complain to the MOM if you are not happy with the way they treat you.’

  ‘What’s MOM?’ I asked.

  ‘The Ministry of Manpower. They issue the work pass, and they have rules that employers have to stick to.’

  This sounded much more interesting than maths and the iPad. In any case, a nobody like me didn’t have to do her homework.

  ‘So, we need to let all the domestic workers know that they can complain to this MOM?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. But they need to be careful. You need to have a serious complaint and be able to prove it to MOM. Running away will make an employer angry. The employer can send you back to your own country.’

  I was starting to get this. ‘And they don’t want that, because of the deductions.’

  Aunty M nodded. ‘Exactly. Well, some do want to go home, but others want a transfer instead.’

  I was learning a lot here. ‘What do you mean, transfer?’

  ‘To quit and change jobs, get a new employer.’

  ‘But you said before that quitting isn’t allowed for maids, right?’

  ‘Correct. Normally, you can’t, but you can if MOM or the employer says you can. So you need to prove to MOM that your employer did not stick to their rules. Or make sure your employer likes you, so they will allow the transfer.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they allow a transfer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Aunty M considered for a while. ‘I think, some prefer to send her home, to protect other employers from a bad maid. Or they want to keep her, because they have invested a lot in the maid. The agency fee. And time and energy to train her.’

  Investing, that word I knew. Mama had tried to teach me about it once. ‘You need to realise how important it is as a woman to provide your own bread and butter,’ she’d said, and when she’d lent Jenny and me money to buy limes for our very own lime juice stand by the playground, she’d insisted we pay her back with interest. Mama had taken more than she’d given us, and the word ‘investment’ acquired a citrusy, sour taste.

  Now I savoured that flavour again. It was turning from acid to acrid.

  Was this the same problem the aunties were having? Could the employers keep the aunty until the interest had been paid? I felt a light switch on in my mind. The deductions! Were they the interest? But after the deductions had finished, they still couldn’t leave. There was also the contract. It was all so complicated

  The aunties couldn’t leave because of the deductions, and the employers would keep them because of the investment. I was almost there. But aunties weren’t limes.

  ‘How can the employers keep them?’ I asked. ‘Aunties aren’t things!’

  Aunty M laughed. ‘No, we are not. But still, some employers feel that way. They call themselves owner, not employer. Because they paid good money.’

  ‘But I thought the maid paid the agency? The deductions.’ I really didn’t get this.

  Aunty M looked pensive. ‘Yes, they do. I don’t know.’

  We were quiet for a bit. Then I said, ‘Will Sri be allowed a transfer now?’

  ‘I hope so. But they say it can take very long for the police to investigate. A judge needs to decide if Ah Mah is guilty, and the son and daughter-in-law who locked her in. They say it can take years. And Ah Mah is very old. Maybe her brain is no longer good.’

  ‘Years? But isn’t it obvious? They have the pictures of the bruises. Why should it take so long?’

  Aunty M sighed. ‘I don’t know. That’s just the way it is, they said.’

  ‘And what will Sri do in the meantime?’ I asked.

  ‘She can stay in the shelter while she waits. She has no money to send to her family now.’

  ‘And who pays for the hospital? The shelter people?’

  ‘No,’ Aunty M said, ‘they don’t have a lot. She has medical insurance. The employer got that for her. But the insurance people they say they won’t pay because it is her own fault. She put herself in danger by climbing out that window. Legally, the employer is responsible for the medical costs.’

  Aunty M gave a knowing smile. ‘The hospital is expensive.’

  Watching Aunty M smile now, I realised something had changed. It was not that she smiled less often, or that her smiles were more sincere; but they were different in a way I couldn’t describe. It seemed that that was more to her now, and the only way she could show her new powers was with those tiny muscles around her lips and the determination in her eyes.

  I don’t think Mama or Dad noticed. Neither did they notice the invisible thread that connected Aunty M and me since we had started helping Sri.

  13

  After that first day with its nuclear bus ride home, the rest of the week at school was slightly better. But still I had a nervous knot in my windpipe. What if they started again? At school there were escape routes. I could move around, hoping people wouldn’t notice me. I could read in the library, or spend forever in the toilet. But on the bus it was them and me in a space that was much too small.

  Every afternoon I hoped something exciting would happen, that the helpdesk would call Aunty M and we’d have to rush out to save someone. But Aunty M said that wasn’t the way it worked. She was just there on Sunday to help and advise people, and during the week they had staff to rescue women and help those who were staying in the shelter. Besides, she had her own job to do.

  ‘But if you really want to help, I have an idea. Do you remember Win?’

  Oh no, Win! I had forgotten all about her. No wonder I had no friends. ‘Yes. Win. Of course. From Myanmar.’

  ‘She needs to learn English. Maybe you can help? Her employer is always back late, she is alone in the afternoon. She finish her work by then. You can visit and talk to her.’

  That evening I dug out some easy reading books and put them on my desk. There was a tingle in my tummy. Would I manage to make a new friend? The next day at school passed even more slowly than usual. I wanted to make this work but was worried I’d screw it up again, like with Sri. What if I was doomed to be a horrible friend? And what if Jenny and the others found out that I was friends with an aunty? I had to hope for the best.

  Finally I was home and could take out my books and visit Win. I had a drink and snack, shouted to Aunty M that I was leaving, and rushed over there. I remembered reading somewhere that if you smiled you’d automatically feel better, so I curled up the sides of my lips like Aunty M always did, and rang the doorbell.

  When Win opened the door she didn’t seem surprised to see me. Aunty M must have told her I was coming. She smiled, and I stared at her. Her face was painted with swirls of a
yellowish creamy stuff, like she was ready to go on the warpath but in a friendly way. She smiled all the way to the dining table, where she had set out drinks and biscuits for me.

  I thanked her and sat down, pulling out the books I had brought and a notebook.

  ‘What do you have on your face?’ I asked Win, pointing at the swirls. ‘Your face, what is it?’

  Win grinned. ‘Thanaka,’ she said.

  ‘Thanaka?’ I asked. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Thanaka good,’ she said.

  It was as if a face painter had used a crude brush to decorate her face. ‘Is it like a face mask?’ I asked. ‘Good for your skin?’

  If that was it, wouldn’t she have covered her whole face, like Mama did?

  Win nodded, ‘Good skin,’ she repeated. ‘Feel good.’

  ‘Is it cream?’

  ‘No, no, thanaka,’ Win replied.

  On a blank page of my notebook she drew a tree. I looked at her, not understanding. How did Aunty M communicate with her? She must have told Win I was coming. Did she manage all that via whatsapp, or had she seen her this morning when I was at school? And how could I teach her anything if I couldn’t explain things?

  I looked at the picture of the tree again. It had curly branches and three round leaves. ‘What has the tree to do with the stuff on your face?’ I repeated the last word. ‘Face? Why?’

  Win got up and left though the kitchen. A minute later she came back with a piece of wood, a stone and a dish. She rubbed the wood over the stone, grinding the bark into a soft powder in the dish. Then she added a few drops of water, and swirled it into a paste.

  ‘You?’ she asked.

  She pointed at my face. Did she want to put the stuff on me? Lesson number one, I decided, would be body parts.

  I nodded. ‘Do my cheeks first,’ I said, pointing at the appropriate bits.

  With her fingers she made what felt like two large circles on the side of my face. ‘Cheeks,’ she repeated.

  The paste felt cool and soft. ‘And now the nose.’ I pointed again.

  Win giggled. ‘Nose,’ she said after me, ‘Thanaka nose.’

  She put her finger in the paste again and smeared it in a long line from the bridge of my nose down to the tip. She ended with a dot. ‘Nose.’

  It tickled.

  I pointed at her nose. ‘Your nose.’ And mine again. ‘My nose. Now do your nose.’

  She draw a line on her own nose. ‘Your nose,’ she said.

  ‘No, no, when you say it, it should be my nose,’ I corrected her.

  After a few more attempts she got it. Up next was the forehead, then the chin. When we got to the ears we both giggled, unsure if we should put the paste there too. Win shook her head, so we carried on without. We visited all the body parts down to our toes and back up again, repeating, testing, until she knew them all.

  When we were done, Win got a tissue and removed the paste from my forehead, chin and nose, leaving just the two circles on my cheeks.

  I left the books with her. She stared at them for a while, until I realised she didn’t know our alphabet. I wrote it out for her in the notebook. I told her to practise by copying the letters. I mouthed the sound of each one to her, and she repeated it back to me.

  ‘Just practise on your own,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  When I got home, Mama was already there. I didn’t understand why she was looking at me strangely until she pointed at my painted cheeks. ‘What’s that?’

  I’d forgotten the paste was still there. I had to recover quickly. ‘Oh, that. Jenny has an aunty from Myanmar. They put that on their faces, like a beauty mask. It’s made from tree bark.’

  None of that was a lie. Jenny had an aunty from Myanmar. Her name was Moe Moe and her English was only slightly better than Win’s. Jenny called her stupid. Mama looked amused, and before she could say anything else I left for my room. On the way I passed Aunty M, who stood there looking at me with her lips pursed. I smiled at her and realised that my afternoon with Win had made me feel happy. I wouldn’t let a white lie to Mama spoil that.

  Win always had snacks when I dropped by – iced gem biscuits, ginger snaps, and on some days even home baked chocolate chip cookies – none of which she touched herself. It was as if my presence was her treat, one that she savoured. Slowly, Win started to pick up some English, and we were able to have simple conversations, more signs than words. Every time I left she hugged me and thanked me profusely, more than I felt comfortable with as I had done so little. Win had blossomed just by being my friend, and that made me feel good too. I was starting to think that Mama must be wrong, about helping and interfering making someone’s life worse. But I would not risk telling Mama this.

  Helping wasn’t all pink puffy clouds anyway. From her helpdesk, Aunty M had dark stories that nibbled at my happiness: stories of maids that had their hair cut off against their will, who got only a few hours of sleep every night, who had no breaks, or got treated worse than the dog. One had to look after sixty cats in her employer’s house. Another had an employer that punished her for mistakes by dipping her hands in bleach. They were stories of loneliness and sometimes cruelty. Most wouldn’t make the front page – many maids who approached the helpdesk were merely shouted at, overworked, or so homesick they wanted nothing more than to go back to their own country.

  The heroines of Aunty M’s helpdesk stories were at the mercy of their employers, who, in my mind, took the shape of evil kings and stepmothers, like those in the fairy tales PoPo had sometimes read to me. Aunty M’s maids became modern day Cinderellas, forced to clean all day but never allowed to go to the ball, or Snow Whites, made to drudge first, then sent away to foreign shores when the employer-stepmother felt unsatisfied or threatened.

  Listening in on their playground talk had shown me how these women, living in a faraway land, would fantasise about romance with men from this different world. They were just like the little mermaid, hoping for men who would sweep them off their fins, give them legs, and take them to live happily ever after. I too wanted to live a fairy tale life. Were my own problems horrible enough for me to deserve a happy ending?

  In reality, not many of Aunty M’s stories ended that way. Neither had many of Grimm’s or Andersen’s, for that matter – but I still believed in the Disney version of the world, even if my daily examples showed that real life wasn’t like that.

  The more Aunty M went to the helpdesk, the more she learned, and in turn she told me about the laws in my own country. MOM had rules to protect domestic workers, but the problem was, the workers didn’t know about them. How could someone who wasn’t allowed to leave the house go to MOM to complain about their treatment?

  By now I understood what a contract was. The problem was, said Aunty M, if you didn’t know much English, how could you know what was in it? And because of the deductions, not signing the contract wasn’t an option.

  I sat and listened to Aunty M, amazed to learn all this, and amazed at Aunty M too. She did all her helpdesk work and still looked after me and Chloe. The house was clean and the food was good, all of which kept the Mamamonster at bay. Aunty M obviously loved Chloe, but how did she feel about me? I wanted to love her, but not if she couldn’t love me back. And not if she would leave me again one day. So I had to keep her at arm’s length, always making sure I didn’t care too much.

  Aunty M loved teaching me things: about the helpdesk, the cases, cooking. She would look at me with all her different smiles, many of which I didn’t understand at all. Sometimes when she smiled at me, her eyes were full of sadness. When I had a new dress, or did something special at school and rushed over to tell her first, before Mama came home, she was never as proud as I’d expected her to be. She would nod and say, ‘Well done, Maya. Why don’t you show your mother tonight?’ And she would do that smile.

  I did my best to be good and help her with her cases. Learning about the domestic workers, I couldn’t help wondering whether other people knew how they were treated. Not o
ther kids, of course, but grownups like my parents and their friends. I absorbed all that Aunty M told me, and mulled it over. If I couldn’t be Prince Charming on the white horse, at least I could be one of the dwarves in the wood that offered food, friendship and

  advice. But how?

  People started to seek out Aunty M for help. We noticed it first at the playground. All of a sudden everyone had a friend or cousin, an old neighbour or aunt, who had a problem. Aunty M made a note of them all and handed out her number. I was always there – after all, I didn’t have much else to do. But I craved to do more than just sit and listen.

  14

  One day, Aunty M took me to meet a friend of a friend of Mary Grace’s, who lived just opposite our condo in a landed house with a small garden. Bella was a large, pretty girl. She cried when she saw us, smiling through her tears.

  ‘You are Mary Grace’s friend? You can help me?’

  We sat at the back of the house on a small concrete stoop. In front of us drying clothes flapped on washing lines in the breeze of a standing fan. Chloe toddled underneath them, catching drips of water in her outstretched fingers. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to say or do anything, so I kept silent.

  Aunty M pointed at the washing. ‘It will dry fast, outside like this.’

  Bella said, ‘If it doesn’t rain. Always, when I put the laundry, it rains. Five people in the house, plus me. So many laundries.’

  She held up her hands for Aunty M to see. I couldn’t really see from where I was sitting, but I didn’t dare say anything. ‘This is my problem. The laundry,’ Bella said.

  Now she turned to me and I saw her hands. They were red and blistered. Bits of skin flaked off around her nails. ‘The laundry hurts my hands. I cannot take it anymore.’

  Aunty M took Bella’s hand in hers and tracked the palm with the tip of her finger. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘You have a washing machine right? Why does it hurt your hands?’