They switched to another. Jinky’s employer always cooked her own food, so Jinky never got to cook.
The others looked at her, baffled. ‘You are lucky you don’t have to cook,’ Mary Grace said.
‘I know,’ replied Jinky, ‘but she makes a mess! She drops the peel on the floor, splatters tomato soup on the tiles. She burns the bottoms of the pans black. My fingers are red from scouring. And I have to eat her food. She always cook potato. I don’t like potato.’
Jinky wrinkled up her face in disgust. Everyone laughed. I grinned too. I quite liked potato. Dad did too, but Mama hated it and she set the menu. Only on my birthday would she ask me what I wanted. I wondered whether Jinky would get rice on her birthday, but couldn’t ask since I was eavesdropping.
‘So never rice?’ Merpati asked instead.
Jinky shook her head. ‘I cook for myself, sometimes only. She gives me good food, meat as much as I want. How can I tell her I don’t like it?’ She fell silent, her hands on her stomach.
‘I had a friend,’ Jenalyn said, ‘before, when I lived in Tampines. She was never even allowed rice in the house. The ma’am hated the smell. If she got it from her friend she had to throw it in the garbage chute. My friend lost fifteen kg.’
Life without rice in Asia was impossible, even I knew that.
Jenalyn continued, ‘Some employer so stingy. You must take what you need if they don’t give. Mine is ok, just lazy. But at night, I always take from the fridge. When Charlie is finally quiet, I can’t go back to sleep. So I tiptoe to the kitchen. Ma’am got this chocolate from Australia last week, from her family, it was so good. She thinks sir ate it.’ Jenalyn laughed and patted her belly. ‘That’s why I’m so fat. It’s Charlie’s fault for waking me up all night.’
‘Did you hear about Wati, from tower four?’ Khusnul said. They hadn’t. ‘She has a new boyfriend again.’
Another aunty, Maricel, joined the group together with her dog, Toy-toy. ‘Who has a boyfriend?’ she asked.
They gossiped on about the boyfriend until, becoming bored, I started to drift towards the slides. Then Merpati, who had so far said little, finally spoke. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask. Have any of you spoken to Sri this week?’
I instantly felt a jolt in my stomach and an urge to hear the answer. I crept back and sat behind the aunties’ bench, pretending to be engrossed in making patterns with the leaves on the ground. Meanwhile, Khusnul was telling the aunties how she’d seen Sri from the balcony.
‘Our tower is opposite, same level. I can see her, I can shout her, but she cannot hear me. So I wave, she waves back.’
‘Do you think she is ok?’ Merpati asked.
Khusnul shook her head. ‘I think she has black eye. I could not see for sure, but she pointed at it. I tried to throw her a note, but I can’t throw that far. The paper flops,’ she mimicked a downward loop with her hand. ‘I had to go down to pick them all up. Maybe someone find them.’
Mary Grace said, ‘The door has been closed all week. No one can talk to her.’
They all sat quiet.
‘It is our fault,’ Merpati said finally. ‘Her ma’am caught us talking to her in the hallway. She closed the door.’
The cockroach scuttled its way up, and I hadn’t even thought of Jenny or PoPo. I shuffled the leaves again.
‘How to contact her?’ Maricel asked.
Surprising myself the most, I ran around the bench. ‘I know. We can try a paper airplane!’
The aunties gazed at me. ‘How did you throw the note?’ I asked Khusnul.
She looked at me suspiciously. ‘I made it like this,’ she demonstrated, making a ball from her hand. ‘But too slow.’
‘No, it would be,’ I said. ‘But if we fold the paper into an airplane, it will glide. Like this.’ I tried to demonstrate with the large leaf I was holding, but it broke when I tried to fold it. ‘With paper it works, really.’
Khusnul stood and looked down at me. ‘Sweetie, I don’t think games will help Sri.’
Merpati stood up too. ‘I think it’s a great idea. Let’s try now.’ She nodded at Khusnul. ‘Is your ma’am out?’
Khusnul looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, she is, but we need to be careful. Many cameras in my place.’
I was intrigued by that, but right now Sri was more important. I felt more energised than I had in a long time.
Three aunties, six children, and two dogs thronged together in front of Khusnul’s apartment, and I peeked inside. It was just like ours but tidier, even though her employers had two small children. Besides the children, Khusnul looked after Snoopy, a yappy cotton wool Maltese who was fussed over more than the kids.
‘We better stay in the kitchen,’ Khusnul said, ‘No camera there. I’m not sure they like me bring people over.’
I was still thinking about that camera when Maricel shooed me, Merpati and Khusnul inside. ‘I’ll stay out here with the kids. You go fly planes.’
Khusnul took paper from a drawer and Merpati wrote the note. Khusnul and I went out to the back balcony behind the kitchen.
‘There,’ Khusnul pointed across the stretch of grass to the next block, ‘that’s her place.’ The blocks mirrored each other, and other kitchen balconies were opposite Khusnul’s. Laundry hung there and aircon fans puffed out hot air noisily. There was no one on Sri’s balcony, but the door was open.
The distance between the two blocks was bigger than I’d expected.
‘Who lives next door?’ I asked, pointing at the apartments whose balcony adjoined Sri’s. From there we would be able to talk to Sri over the concrete barrier.
‘I don’t know,’ said Khusnul. ‘No one is ever there.’
Merpati came out and started arguing with Khusnul in Javanese. I grabbed the note from Merpati’s hand. ‘Write some more,’ I said to Khusnul. ‘We’ll probably need more than one go.’
I folded the paper into a plane and threw. Time after time, Khusnul and Merpati wrote, and I threw.
None of my airplanes got close to Sri’s balcony.
When we got home, I felt sheepish, as if I’d been playing with a toy that was too big for me. Khusnul had been right: it had all been a game to me, some fun to be had since I was a sorry person with no friends. When they’d spoken about how their employers treated them like irresponsible children, I’d felt a connection between us. I’d been so excited when I imagined I could help. It had made me forget everything else, and the excitement had felt close to happiness.
But the way they’d all looked at me afterwards showed how wrong I’d been. Of course, they were friendly and polite; after all, my parents and people like them paid their salaries. They kept saying it didn’t matter, and how sweet it was that I’d tried. I understood then that the only real child there was me.
I made more airplanes, different models, and threw them out of my window over the parking lot. Some actually went fairly far. But none went far enough.
7
That night Mama was home early from work, so Mama, Merpati, Chloe and I ate together. Dad was away on business, and when he was away, Merpati usually ate with us. We had rice and stir-fried beef with green beans, which Merpati generously dosed in ketjap manis, an Indonesian sweet soy sauce which had fast become the family favourite. We ate rice most nights, and I figured that Merpati would not have to lose fifteen kilograms in our house.
Mama was in a chatty mood. Work must be going well. She asked how school was.
‘It’s ok,’ I said.
‘How is your new class? Have you made some friends? Such a shame you’re not in the same class as Jenny now. But you see her on the bus, I suppose. Does she still come to the playground, or are you girls too big for that now?’
‘I don’t know. She’s busy, you know. Homework.’
‘There should be plenty of time after. They hardly give you any homework at that international school.’
Please, let it go, I thought, and Mama did. But she found a new bone to pick.
‘Did you make any friends yet in your new class?
Why don’t you ask someone over for a playdate?’
I kept quiet for a bit. I’d been in this class for months, so it was hardly new. There was no one I wanted to have over, let alone anyone who’d want to come to me.
I said: ‘Yes, I’ll ask someone. Maybe next week.’
Mama seemed satisfied and turned her attention to Merpati. ‘And how are you settling in, Merpati? Have you made any new friends? There are nice helpers at this condo, Indonesians too.’ Merpati nodded, but Mama was on a roll. ‘Your English is very good Merpati. They always say Indonesian helpers speak bad English. How come yours is so fluent?’
Merpati turned red and gave a shy smile. ‘Actually, my first ma’am – no, my second – she was an English teacher. She taught at a school for girls. A very famous school. The Raffles one. You know it?’
Mama nodded. ‘It’s a well-known school.’
‘My ma’am, she taught me better English. She gave me lessons, and many books to read. Her kids were big already, so I could borrow theirs. I still like to read English books. My ma’am said reading was the best way to improve your vocabulary.’
Mama nodded. She pointed at our bookcase. We had a lot of books. ‘You’re welcome to read our books in your free time,’ Mama said.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Merpati, looking not at the bookshelves but at her plate. She picked up Chloe’s spoon and scooped up some finely shredded beef.
‘Was she the one who didn’t let you use her plates?’ I suddenly needed to know.
‘Yes,’ Merpati said. ‘That was her. She was a good employer, a good woman.’
‘How could she be good when she didn’t want to share her stuff?’
‘Maya,’ Mama said, ‘Let it be. I’m sure Merapti isn’t comfortable discussing this at the dinner table.’
Merpati shook her head. ‘It’s ok ma’am. It’s like this, Maya: she is very particular. She needs things to be done exactly how she wants them. But she is generous too. She bought me everything, because I did not have off day, and at first, I had no money.’ She giggled, reminiscing. ‘The first time she bought me bra, it was the wrong size. I was afraid to say, so I wore it until it spoilt already.’
Mama seemed interested now. ‘Why did you leave?’
‘I wanted to have off day. So I asked for the transfer. I told you, she was a good woman. She let me go.’
‘How long did you stay with her? And how long have you been in Singapore?’
‘Over eight years now, ma’am. I stayed with her for four years, then with another employer, also for four years.’
‘But your first employer? Did you not stay long?’
Merpati shook her head. ‘No ma’am. The sir, he always stared at me in the wrong way. I went back to the agent. The third employer, I looked after Ah Kong, the grandfather, until he passed away. The last one, I stayed four months only.’ Her face clouded over.
‘Why did you leave?’ I asked.
‘Ma’am was bad. Very fussy. Always shouting at me. One day she screamed so loud and she hit me.’ Merpati rubbed her cheek.
I wanted to ask more, know more; but Mama’s look stopped me. ‘And what about your family in Indonesia? Are you married?’
‘No, ma’am, I’m separated.’
Mama ignored that. ‘Do you have any children?’
Merpati beamed. ‘I have two.’
‘You have kids?’ I blurted out. ‘No way.’
‘Maya, don’t be rude. Of course Merpati has children. What do you have, boys, or girls? And where do they live? Who looks after them?’
‘One girl, she is twelve, one boy, he is ten. They live with their nenek, my mother.’
‘How nice,’ Mama said, and speared some more beans on her fork.
Nice? How was that nice?
Everyone was silent for a while. How come nobody had known about Merpati’s kids? The thought of them infuriated me. And Mama had stopped me from asking more. I looked at the two of them, eating quietly. Merpati alternated her own eating with feeding Chloe.
‘Merpati did make a lot of friends today,’ I said. ‘All the aunties at the playground like to sit and gossip. Merpati too.’
Mama looked angry, but not at Merpati. ‘And who likes telling tales? Nobody likes a tattletale. Do you know what your PoPo would do when I would swear or tell tales when I was little? Rub chilli on my mouth.’
A much more uncomfortable silence ensued. Merpati looked at her plate again. Finally, Mama spoke. ‘But nobody likes a gossip. I don’t want my family business out on the playground. And don’t tell me gossip either. You know, this happened to my friend. Her helper told her about a neighbour’s husband having an affair. What was she to do with that information?’ Mama looked around the table, facing blank looks. ‘God, I wish we could have some adult conversation sometimes. It must be the main reason to go back to work, so I can use my brain rather than lose it.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway. How was school?’
‘You asked already, Mama,’ I said.
‘Oh. Well, you start a conversation then.’
Her happy mood had evaporated. I racked my brains, going over the day, the playground, the paper planes, the aunties.
‘Mama, why do we call aunties that? They aren’t actually our aunts. Not like Aunt Lauren.’ Lauren was married to Dad’s brother.
We were back on neutral territory and Mama’s face cleared. ‘It’s a sign of respect. Like you call the lady in the school bus aunty, or someone who works in the shop. Anyone older than you. It’s friendly. I would say aunty to a friend of my mother. Or an old lady at the market. Or uncle to the guard or taxi driver. It’s a Singapore thing.’
I knew that. I’d been calling people aunty and uncle my whole life. I could still feel my mother’s hand on my back, urging me to speak the magic words: thank you, uncle. But that didn’t explain it. I wanted to ask again, but thought better of it. Mama’s moods were fragile.
Merpati, emboldened by Mama’s improved humour, spoke instead. ‘Chloe has been talking very well today ma’am. Show Mama, Chloe. Show her how you can talk.’
Chloe piped ‘Mama,’ obediently.
‘Now me, Chloe, say Maya,’ I asked.
‘Ma-ya,’ Chloe said. She smiled proudly and so did Merpati.
‘Such a good girl!’ Mama walked over to Chloe and Merpati’s side of the table and kissed her on the head. ‘Can you say dad, too?’
Chloe obliged. ‘Dada.’
Smiles all around. Chloe was the one thing we all loved.
‘That’s not that special. She needs to say something harder,’ I said. ‘Come on, say Aunty Merpati.’
It was a difficult name – even Mama still called her Merapi or Mertapi sometimes. Chloe would never manage it. I said again: ‘Aunty Mer-pat-ti.’
Chloe pursed her lips. ‘An-tee. An-tee Ati.’
‘No, not just Aunty. Aunty Merpati. It’s with an M. Aunty M-erpati. With an M.’
Chloe pointed at Merpati. ‘An-tee M.’
Mama laughed. ‘Aunty M. Sounds sweet.’
So that’s how Aunty M got her name. The problem was, Aunty M would prove much more difficult to hate than Merpati.
A name defines you, and my own name had no flavour. Mama said they had chosen Maya because it was used in many cultures and was ‘nice and generic’. Generic? What did that even mean?
What could you make from it? Ma? Ya? When I was a baby, I used to call myself Yaya. When I was a bit older, maybe seven, I decided Yaya would be my real name, and I started writing it on all my notebooks. When PoPo saw it, she laughed. ‘Heh, you ya ya? Ya ya Papaya!’
‘What’s so funny?’ I asked angrily.
PoPo called out to Mama, ‘Your girl, look at her yaya-ing around. She a little ya ya papaya already.’
Mama walked into the room and laughed too. I sat there, looking up at the two of them, feeling very small. They give me a stupid name, I pick a better one, and now they laugh at me?
Mama glanced at my notebooks and nodded, still smirking. ‘All right, miss.
We’ll call you Yaya from now on. It really suits you.’ She left the room with a bounce in her step.
I looked at PoPo, close to tears. ‘What’s so funny?’ Why were they talking about papaya? I hated papaya, with its mealy texture and flavour that was both bland and too sweet.
‘You know what it means, ya ya, in Singapore?’ PoPo said.
Obviously, I did not.
‘How to explain,’ PoPo pondered. ‘When someone is a bit up in the sky, high and mighty, feeling better than others, we call them ya ya. Or, in full, ya ya papaya.’
I thought about it for a while. I liked to be up in the sky, but the fruit was so yuck.
Mama and PoPo called me Yaya for a few weeks after that, always sniggering when they did. It was one of the few times I heard Mama use Singlish like PoPo; but when she did it, it didn’t feel cosy.
PoPo sometimes called me sayang. I had forgotten that until one day, out of the blue, Aunty M said, ‘Sayang, please can you get me a cloth? Chloe is making a mess with her porridge but I can’t leave her.’
I froze. Sayang was my special name, my PoPo name. Aunty M had stolen it!
I dragged myself to the kitchen, fetched the cloth, and handed it to Aunty M. ‘What did you call me?’ I asked her, my tone hostile.
Aunty M did not look up. ‘Sayang, sorry, I needed a cloth. I can’t leave Chloe, it’s not safe.’
She’d said it again! I stalked off.
Ten minutes later, Aunty M followed me to my room. ‘Maya?’
I huffed.
‘Sorry I asked you, but you know, Chloe is small. We need to help each other to look after her.’
‘I know that. But don’t call me that word.’
‘Call you what?’
‘Sayang. It’s my special name. From PoPo. Where did you get it?’
‘Sayang? Did I call you that?’ Aunty M’s face hazed over. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ She was silent for a while, and I could see all sorts of thoughts running over her face, good ones chased by bad ones. Then she said, ‘Why don’t you like it? It is a nice thing to say.’ She looked at me in a peculiar way. ‘I call my daughter sayang. It means dear, or sweetie in Indonesian. It’s the same in Malay. If your PoPo called you that, then…’
A Yellow House Page 4
