A Yellow House

by Karien van Ditzhuijzen

  ‘Don’t you have anything higher?’ Cat asked. ‘A table?’

  Maricel and Cat brought out the kitchen table. They put the chair on top and Win climbed onto it, Cat supporting the chair from behind. Win could now lean over the wall, resting her elbows comfortably on top. She started to talk to someone on the other side.

  After what felt like several long minutes, she turned around.

  ‘She hungry,’ she said.

  Cat looked me straight in the eye. I guessed this was the time. I had to act decisively, something I hadn’t done since the paper planes that hadn’t worked. I walked past Maricel and resolutely pulled open the fridge. I rummaged around until Maricel tapped on my shoulder. ‘Maya, please. That is my employer’s food.’

  ‘Are they hungry? I’m sure they can spare some.’

  Maricel smiled. ‘Yes, they can. But let me pick, before they start accusing me of eating all their expensive food.’ She took the apple and packet of cheese I’d been holding, and put the cheese back in the fridge. ‘Do you know how much cheese costs? Myanmar people don’t even like cheese.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I muttered, my cheeks glowing red.

  Maricel got a Tupperware bowl and spooned in some rice. She added cherry tomatoes, two slices of chicken breast, and a dash of chilli sauce. Of course that was what someone from Myanmar wanted. Rice and chilli. Maricel handed the bowl to me, and I passed it to Cat on the table. ‘Here.’

  While the person on the other side was eating, we got Win to interrogate her. Her name, it seemed, was Nee Nee – at least, that’s what it sounded like to me.

  Win managed to report back a few words; her English had improved, but was still limited to simple observations. Nee Nee started work at five in the morning. At ten, she would get breakfast, which was a slice of bread and a glass of water. Lunch, if any, was instant noodles. Dinner was a scoop of rice. Only rice.

  It wasn’t the first time Aunty M and I had heard of malnutrition. But it was the worst. Win talked on, and every so often turned around to share more details with us.

  ‘I smell good cooking wafting over the wall every day,’ Maricel said.

  ‘Nee Nee cook for ma’am and sir,’ said Win. ‘Chicken curry today. She get, erm, left over. But they eat all. She only rice, sauce some time. Bones from the chicken.’

  ‘Is she very skinny?’ asked Cat.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Win. ‘And, she says, pain go toilet.’

  ‘We need to feed her,’ said Aunty M. ‘She needs vegetables and meat.’

  We came up with a schedule to bring her food that Maricel would hand over the wall. I resolved that I would get the right food, at the right time, and to take things my parents wouldn’t notice. I would do this properly.

  Win promised to stop by regularly to chat, as Nee Nee needed companionship as much as food. Win had tears in her eyes when she tried to convey the way in which Nee Nee had hugged the wall.

  ‘He need food. He need friend,’ she summed it up.

  I did not correct the use of the pronoun.

  When we got home, I’d expected Cat to start analysing and giving me all her opinions, but she mostly looked confused and brooding. I wanted to discuss courses of action, make plans for what else we could do on top of our research, but I said nothing. We watched TV. Then she said she was thirsty and went to the kitchen for some water. I had barely noticed her get up until I heard loud voices from the kitchen.

  I rushed over, but the only thing I could still hear was Aunty M telling Cat she needed to mind her own business. Aunty M had never said such a thing to me, or anything in that tone, and I couldn’t believe her being defiant like that. She and Cat were standing silently, eyes locked, until Aunty M broke off and handed Cat her water. When we were back in the living room I asked Cat what it had all been about. ‘I told her I felt she should use the pool. Fight for it.’

  I gasped. ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said that it was easy for me to talk, that I was privileged. That I didn’t understand, and something about not risking a good thing, that it wasn’t worth it. And then I said I was happy to help her, and that we should all go together and I would talk to the guard. Or your parents would. But she got mad. I don’t understand why.’

  I thought I did, but I didn’t know how to explain it to Cat.

  After Cat had been picked up by her father, Aunty M and I stood watching them from the kitchen window. I wanted to say something, but Aunty M beat me to it.

  ‘She is a nice girl,’ she said. ‘She means well, just sometimes a bit too much. She will be a better friend than that Jenny.’

  Anyone would be a better friend than Jenny, I thought. But I felt relieved.

  30

  School was good again with Cat, but bus rides were as bad as ever, especially after Jenny and Meena found out that Cat and I were friends. They had a new obsession, new ways of hurting me. Cockroach and monkey, they sang. Cockroach and monkey are best pals, BFF, what the F, it’s a gaff. Monkey see, monkey do, monkeys pee, monkeys poo. Who eats the monkey poo? Cockroaches do!

  Meena had real poetic talent.

  I hesitated whether to tell Cat. Did shared pain make it less, or double the load? In the end, I told her and she just laughed, making me repeat all the rhymes, saying they were hilarious.

  Cat didn’t understand why I was upset, offended even. ‘Why would you care about what they think? You don’t need them anymore, do you? You have me now. Rhyme back at them. Start a duel. I told you, you need to fight back.’

  For Cat, insults bounced off her like a ball against a wall. With me, it was jelly against a glass window, slowly slithering down, leaving a slimy trail behind. But when Cat saw the tears that the cockroach stampeding in my stomach pushed out of my eyes, she began to brood again. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll get her. I just need time to plan. Revenge is best served

  cold, you know?’

  I didn’t know what she meant, so I waited it out.

  Some days, Cat’s mother would pick us up in their battered old station wagon. Mimi would serve us Ribena and Oreos on the patio, while we sat at the large dining table colouring, writing, playing games, and dodging palm nuts slung at us by Ollie.

  One day, we were comparing notes in our red notebooks. Most of the time Cat wasn’t there when Aunty M and I were called out on rare case visits. I trusted Cat, but I preferred to go out alone with Aunty M, like we had before. Things were easier without Cat, who, as Aunty M described it, could be a bit too much. She always looked like she expected me to do things I wasn’t sure how to do. I was happy being supportive rather than taking the lead.

  Cat always asked to visit Nee Nee and Win when we were at mine, handing Nee Nee food saved from her school lunch. It was cheese sandwiches mostly, proving the point that Burmese women liked cheese just fine. Starving ones did, at least. Cat’s new passion was to learn Burmese, and with Nee Nee she exchanged snacks bought at the corner shop from her pocket money for words. With Win the trade was simply words for words, English for Burmese. She treasured those words, and spelled them out phonetically in the back of her notebook, as the Burmese script defied her. She did care, but in her own way, on her own terms.

  One day, when Cat had Dutch lessons after school, I went back to Maricel’s to give some food to Nee Nee.

  I had bought leftover goreng pisang, a bottle of Fanta, and a Tupperware box with papaya slices I was happy to get rid of. I hoped Nee Nee liked them better than I did; this ya ya papaya didn’t care for the mealy texture.

  But when Maricel and I climbed the table and softly called to Nee Nee, there was no response.

  ‘I saw her this morning,’ Maricel said. ‘And she can’t go out, so she must be there. You want to wait?’

  I nodded.

  Maricel pointed to the kitchen table. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Just water, thanks.’

  I had known Maricel for years, but never been alone with her. I wasn’t sure what to say. I looked at her, su
ddenly realising Maricel was a lot older than most of the aunties.

  ‘Maricel,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  Maricel laughed. ‘Did your mother not tell you it’s rude to ask a lady?’

  I blushed, and fell quiet.

  ‘You’re lucky, girl, I’m no lady. And I’m fifty-five.’

  Fifty-five? That was properly old, not old like PoPo, but a lot older than Mama. And Aunty M, I thought, though I didn’t actually know her age.

  ‘So old? Wow. Are you going to keep working? Or will you retire?’

  Maricel shook her head. ‘How can I retire? I have no money. And I am too old to get a job at home, in the Philippines. I have been working in Singapore for twenty-five years, and I will do so as long as they let me. My employers are good, my job is easy, just the dog. I hope they will keep me. Finding another job, at my age, I can’t.’

  ‘But what about your family? Your kids?’

  Maricel smiled, a little sad. ‘I was the oldest of six children. When my father died, someone had to make money to support the little ones. I was twelve already. So I went to work. First, in Manila, I cleaned houses. But I heard from my friend that the salary will be better here. So when I was twenty, I came to Singapore. My friends, my life, it is here now. Why I would want to go back?’

  I understood. ‘Are you going to stay here forever?’

  ‘No, when my contract ends and my employer will not renew me, I cannot stay. No more work pass. Too old. I’ll go back. My youngest brother, he will take me.’

  ‘But what about your salary? Didn’t you save any?’

  Maricel laughed. ‘The money in Singapore has wings. It flies back to the Philippines. First, my brothers had to go to school. There are five. Then, university, two of them. My mother, she needed a house to live in. My brother’s children, they need school too. Uniforms, books.’

  ‘So you still send it home? How much did you keep?’

  ‘I kept some. I bought a lot, and built a house on it, where my mother lived. And then, my mother was very old, sick. The hospital bills were high. And my youngest brother, he had an accident, so he cannot work. He lives in the house.’

  I looked stricken.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, little girl, I’ll be ok. I don’t need much.’

  She looked brave. Optimistic. It was a strange expression to see on such an old face.

  ‘My mother is dead, so I will start saving for the retirement soon. I hope my family, my brothers, my cousins, they will be healthy, and I can keep my money. If I get sick, who else will pay?’

  ‘Your employer,’ I pointed out, glad I’d learned that rule.

  Maricel grinned. ‘Right. That’s why I need to stay in Singapore as long as I can. Actually, it will be nice to live with my brother. His kids are cute. If I live alone I’ll be, well, alone.’

  If there was one thing Maricel loved, it was having people around her.

  Toy-toy ran up, yapping. ‘I can always get a dog, hehe. Toy-toy says Nee Nee is back.’

  It was true, when I climbed the table, I saw Nee Nee on her balcony. She took the food and thanked me, in English and with a smile. Then she signalled. She hurried back inside.

  ‘I guess she’s busy,’ I said.

  I said goodbye to Maricel, and went home. Of course I had to start thinking about Mama now, and her kind of feminism that was a financial kind. Maricel’s story seemed to confirm what Mama always said, about money being important, and that you couldn’t count on others to take care of you. I hated it when Mama was right. That night, the Mamamonster was there again, so that made it easy to dismiss any thoughts of talking to her about Maricel.

  31

  One morning I woke up to noise in the living room. Mama exploding and yelling was no news, although she didn’t usually do it this early in the day. What was more worrying was that Dad was yelling back. Dad didn’t yell.

  My room wasn’t far from the living room, and there was no way not to hear them. The screaming had stopped, but they were still speaking with raised voices.

  ‘Why don’t you just quit?’ Dad asked.

  The question dropped like a bomb. I sat up with a jolt. I had been thinking Mama should quit ever since she went back to work, but somehow hearing Dad say it, I had a revelation: not only was it clear to me it was never going to happen, but I didn’t want her to. Mama’s job was different from the jobs of the aunties. They worked because they had to – obviously, nobody would do that job if they had a choice. Mama worked because she wanted to. I understood it now, feminism and all that, and it wasn’t about being financially independent. Mama was wrong about that. It wasn’t about money. I’d seen Aunty M grow from a shy, meek servant to a strong and independent woman when she started running the helpdesk, and the helpdesk didn’t even pay her.

  What Mama needed was a better boss so she could create a job she enjoyed. So she could relax and work things out. I’d seen a glimpse of that Mama when she spoke about the role in Myanmar, and I knew that was the Mama I needed.

  How could Dad even suggest her quitting? Didn’t he know her at all? No wonder Mama screamed.

  ‘Quit? Quit? Are you mad? I need to prove that I can do this. I’ve had to work hard for everything, unlike some.’

  ‘To whom do you need to prove that? Why?’

  Mama was quiet for a second. ‘To myself. Who else?’

  ‘We’re doing well financially. We can afford it if you take a break.’

  ‘I just had a break! I had nine months of break. It didn’t do me much good, did it?’

  It was when she’d had the break that everything had started to go wrong with Mama.

  ‘That wasn’t a break and you know it. I mean a break without people dying or being born. A break where you can rest. Maybe we need a change of scenery. Release the pressure this city puts you under. Why don’t we move to the UK? That role in the Surrey office is still open for me.’

  ‘So that’s what this is about? It’s not about me. I should have guessed. It’s about you. You want me to quit, make me dependent on you, and then move me away. We decided not to go there. But you never gave up, and now you want to use this to force me?’

  ‘We did say we’d put it back on the table eventually. Why not now? You didn’t want to leave your mother, well, she’s gone.’

  ‘I know she’s gone, don’t remind me. And it’s not all about you, you know, or even me. Do you think pulling Maya out of school right now, uprooting her and sending her to a new country is a good idea? Can’t you see what a rough time she’s having already, how much she misses her PoPo? She’s not who she was before.’

  I wasn’t? Who was I? I felt an upsetting tickle in my tummy.

  ‘Yes. I can see that. Can you? I’m not sure you can be there for her, for Chloe, when you’re like this.’

  ‘Like this?’

  I wished I could see them, but the gap in the door let through only sound. I had to picture Mama in my mind, which was easy enough. The popping eyes. The brownish redness of her lips that would get darker. Her back rigid. Her hands, that would flop for a while next to her body before she would slowly, menacingly, raise them. That is when I would usually duck, even though she never really hit me. She’d aim a slap in my general direction, and I didn’t take any chances with being close enough for her to connect. Would she do the same with Dad?

  She was still silent. Was she counting to ten before she answered?

  Very slowly, in her monstervoice, she said, ‘What do you mean, like this?’

  Papa sighed so hard I thought I could feel the breeze in my room. ‘I mean, you’re obviously not happy. You come home, you’re stressed, you yell at the kids. In the evening you have no energy to do anything. Nobody in this house dares to mention your mother’s name, for fear of you falling apart. Something needs to change. I thought maybe, since my promotion, we could manage on my salary.’

  Mama said nothing.

  ‘Especially in the UK. We could
send them to a good state school, save a bundle on fees. We could have a house with a garden.’

  ‘I don’t want a garden,’ Mama said. ‘I want my job. I can turn this around, and get back where I was before. I loved my job. I can get that back.’

  ‘You could get a new job there. A better one.’

  Once I’d dreamed about moving to the UK. I mean, at school everyone moved everywhere all the time, so why shouldn’t we? But I always felt the dreams were better than the reality when we visited. In any case, it seemed I didn’t need to think about it anymore, as Mama was very clear.

  ‘I don’t want to move. Not now.’

  ‘You always say that. Always, but not now will become not ever.’

  I heard footsteps, and I pictured Dad staring out of the window, over the balcony to the row of condo blocks opposite.

  ‘I’m sick of it all. The long work hours, the materialism. Rules everywhere. Don’t you people get sick of the rules?’

  When Mama didn’t respond, he continued, ‘There are too many rules, written and unwritten. And then there’s the grey area, the manoeuvrability that we foreigners don’t see between the lines. The times I’ve had to hear a face-saving yes, and didn’t guess the real no.’

  Mama snorted. ‘It’s easy to judge from the side-lines. But this is my country. You knew that when you married me.’

  Dad spoke softer now, and I had to strain to understand him. ‘It was exciting at first, exotic. But now? I feel like we live in a bubble. On the surface, Singapore looks like this Disneyland state, all sparkly marble, but underneath it’s the opposite. No fun but work, work, work. And shopping or eating to spend the hard earned money on the weekend. Isn’t there more to life? Do you want to raise our kids like that?’