A Yellow House

by Karien van Ditzhuijzen

  Sri shot her a dirty look. ‘It is not fair. I am punished more than Anissa. She go to jail for four weeks, then go home. I already waiting for many months, and it might be many more. My employer, will they ever go to jail?’

  Aunty M tried to reason with Sri, but there was very little we could say. There was nothing we could do to help her, so we walked with her on the beach and had iced lemon tea at the food court. Right and wrong had never seemed more confusing.

  38

  Cat and I were on the swings in our condo playground. I was almost happy, doing my favourite thing with my favourite person. Until she showed up.

  She stood in front of the swings and laughed. She didn’t need to do more; her presence and the look in her eyes were enough to spoil everything.

  I slid off the swing and signalled to Cat to follow. We wandered over to the benches, where the aunties sat. Jenny followed, probably bored and in need of fun. Her kind of fun. When we got close, Moe Moe, who was wearing longer shorts than normal, guiltily pulled down the hem over one knee. I stared at her. The shorts couldn’t hide the purple mark at the bottom of her thigh. Suddenly, I could no longer take it. I felt the cockroach grow inside, brace his legs and burst out of my mouth.

  I turned to and shouted. ‘Can’t you control that horrible brother of yours? Look what he’s done to her. He’s an animal!’

  Jenny stood there and shrugged. ‘Who cares? She’s just a maid, I slap her sometimes. She’s a pussy. She’ll never tell mom.’

  Jenny left for the swings. I looked at Moe Moe, who turned her red face away.

  ‘We need to do something,’ I said to Aunty M.

  Aunty M looked at Moe Moe too. ‘Maya, we need to be very careful here. It is up to Moe Moe.’

  Moe Moe shook her head. She looked sad and empty.

  Cat, who for once had stayed quiet, grabbed my hand and pulled me away. Together we ran for the bushes. She squatted next to me to the ground and we spoke at the same time.

  Cat said: ‘We need to do something about Jenny.’

  I said: ‘We need to help Moe Moe.’

  Cat shrugged and was the first to speak again. ‘It’s the same thing. Either way, we need to act. Aunty M won’t. You saw her.’

  I sat on the muddy ground. Cat was right. We had to do something about Jenny, and if that helped Moe Moe at the same time, that would be perfect. Even just thinking about doing something made me braver, and I finally told Cat what had happened in the bus just before she got sick with the disease with the difficult name. The superroach comments, how Jenny was going to get Aunty M sent back to Indonesia – it all came out so easily, as if I hadn’t been struggling to tell her for so long. Cat didn’t seem surprised. She wasn’t one to ponder. She liked to act.

  ‘So that settles it,’ she said. ‘We can’t let that happen. We need to do something.’

  ‘But what?’

  Cat grinned. ‘I have a plan.’ She sat down too. ‘We’ll report her. Her and her brother.’

  ‘What do you mean? Report where?’

  Cat’s lips became a straight line and she said, serious now, ‘They are maid abusers. We’ll report them to MOM. Remember when Aunty M said you could call them on the phone?’

  As soon as she said it, it seemed completely right. We went upstairs before Aunty M and Chloe got back, pulled out our notebooks with the MOM helpline number in them, and Cat grabbed the phone and dialled. We didn’t give our names. We said we were concerned neighbours, that we had seen the marks on her legs, and that we suspected that Moe Moe was being abused by her employers. We gave the address, even the home phone number. Afterwards, Cat slapped the notebook closed. ‘Now we wait. Let’s get some Ribena.’

  We didn’t tell anyone, particularly not Aunty M.

  39

  Aunty M had become quite cheerful lately, and she was not paying much attention to Cat or me. I pretended things were normal. But inside me, the cockroach waited, tiny fists clenched. Aunty M was busy with a new project; a celebration for Kartini day that she was organising with some other volunteers from the helpdesk. There was to be Indonesian food, Indonesian dancing, music, and much more.

  ‘Can I come?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure,’ said Aunty M, ‘but it’s on a Sunday. You need to ask your Mama.’

  I sighed. ‘I don’t want to ask.’ Yesterday had been a Mamamonster day. I didn’t want to risk it.

  Aunty M smiled. ‘Sayang, you think your mother is evil, but she is not. She is just stressed. I’m sure she will be fine with it.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. And when you ask her, tell her… Wait. Do you actually know why we celebrate Kartini day?’

  I had no idea.

  ‘Kartini was a famous Indonesian feminist.’

  A celebration for a feminist? Maybe Mama wanted to come too. I googled Kartini. She was born in 1879, in Central Java, like Aunty M, but in a rich family, and was allowed to attend a Dutch language primary school. When she turned twelve she was ‘secluded’ at home, in preparation for her marriage, as was the tradition for aristocratic Javanese girls. Kartini became pen friends with several Dutch women who sent her magazines, books and letters. Kartini started to write too. She saw that women’s struggles for equal rights and education were part of a wider movement. I read some fragments on emancipation of the Javanese as well as women, but none of them I understood.

  At twenty-three Kartini was married, as a fourth wife to an older man. I made a mental note to ask Aunty M about that later. Kartini was ‘lucky’ – her new husband allowed her to start a school for women in the village. A year later she died in childbirth. After her death, some people started a foundation in her name to build schools for women all over the country. Even later Indonesia, by then independent from the Dutch, decided to dedicate a national holiday in her honour.

  After I’d memorised as much as I could, I went to talk to Mama.

  ‘Mama, have you heard of Kartini? She was this famous Indonesian feminist.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of her. Didn’t they name a holiday after her?’

  ‘Yes,’ I enthused, ‘that’s the one. Did you know she wanted to send all the girls to school? She wrote a book about it.’

  Mama nodded. ‘It’s great that they still celebrate her, although these days the Indonesian government tries to make her look more like a model housewife than the activist she really was.’

  She was quiet for a bit. ‘When I was younger, I wanted to do social studies not finance. My teachers said better not, I was too good at maths.’ Her eyes turned dreamy. But then, ‘Where did you hear about Kartini?’

  I panicked. I couldn’t tell Mama that Aunty M was involved with the helpdesk. I stammered, ‘From Aunty M. They celebrate in Singapore too. Aunty M is going. Can I go with her?’

  ‘Sure. When is it?’

  ‘Next Sunday,’ I said, crossing my fingers behind my back.

  Mama calculated on her fingers.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, ‘Dad is away that weekend, and I have an important presentation on Monday. Ask her if she can take Chloe too.’

  I was disappointed Mama didn’t want to join us, but elated that I could go.

  ‘Aunty M, Mama says I can come to Kartini day, and she says can we please take Chloe too? She needs to work.’

  Aunty M beamed back at me. She loved showing off Chloe to her friends.

  ‘Aunty M,’ I said, ‘can I ask something else?’ She nodded. ‘Kartini had to marry an older man, as a fourth wife even. Do they still do that, in Indonesia? Did your parents make you marry your husband? Is that why you didn’t like him and split up?’

  Aunty M smiled. ‘No. Not really. It was a bit different. I met him myself. I was very young and thought he was cute. And then we went out, just the two of us. Some people in the village saw us together, holding hands. That’s all we did, hold hands, we didn’t even kiss.’

  Gross. I hadn’t needed that sort of detail.

  ‘Anyway, my father said people would gossip,
and I should marry him, which I did. But I found he was not the right man for me. That is why we split up when Adi was one. He could not provide for the family.’

  ‘So do other girls have arranged marriages in Indonesia?’

  ‘No, not anyone I know. Maybe rich families like Kartini’s. Her father was nobility, very important in government. For them marriage is like politics.’

  That I knew from fairy tales. ‘Like the princess having to marry the prince of the neighbouring country, to join the two and get bigger.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Aunty M. ‘Not in the villages. I think rich people don’t do it anymore either on Java.’

  ‘But Indira is from the village. Hardly a princess?’

  Aunty M sighed. ‘They do things differently in India.’

  A few days later Aunty M was called out to another case. Cat wasn’t there, and I didn’t want to go. I had to stop risking Aunty M’s job. Jenny still hadn’t done anything, but who knew when she would. Cat asked me every day whether there was any news. ‘Not yet,’ I’d reply. ‘You know MOM is slow.’

  Cat suggested that maybe we should call the police, that they would act quicker; but a nagging feeling in my stomach told me to convince her to be patient.

  Aunty M knew nothing about my worries. ‘Come on Maya, let’s go. We need to catch the bus.’

  ‘I have a lot of homework. Can I stay here?’

  ‘No, I promised you mother I wouldn’t leave you alone in the condo. You can stay in when we go to the playground. Not if I take a bus somewhere. It isn’t far, just next to the Botanic Gardens.’

  I supposed I could pretend that we were just going to the park. It turned out not even to be an interesting case, just someone overworked, shouted at. Nothing we hadn’t heard before.

  When we got back, Khusnul approached us in front of our block. She had red eyes. ‘Help me sister, help me! I have been so stupid!’

  Khusnul started stuttering about how stupid she’d been, and that it was an accident, she’d never meant to hurt him, and that it really, really had only happened once. Yesterday.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Aunty M. ‘I don’t understand you at all.’

  The story came out in fits and starts. Khusnul had hit one of the kids in her care.

  ‘Only one time, believe me, only the one time. He was screaming, and I had not slept that night. He had been awake at night too. Then, he didn’t want to eat breakfast. He threw the food in my eye, poked the spoon in my eye. I was so tired, my eyes was almost closed. I got very angry. Very stupid. I hit him in the head. Then he stopped crying.’

  Aunty M had a serious look on her face. ‘Was the child hurt? Where is he now?’

  Khusnul pointed at a playground behind her. Both her kids were playing happily. They seemed fine.

  ‘He is okay. He did not cry after. He sleep more last night. But I, I still don’t sleep from worry. I should not hit him. They will fire me. Or worse, call the police. I will never, ever do again.’

  ‘But how will they find out?’ I asked. The boy was too little to talk properly.

  Khusnul cried out. ‘It’s on the camera.’ She started crying.

  ‘Did they see it yet?’ I asked.

  Khusnul shuddered. ‘They always watch in the weekend only. What do I do?’

  Aunty M said, ‘Tell them. Tell them before they see the film. That it happened only once, and that you know it is wrong, that you will never do it again. And say sorry.’

  ‘But what if they don’t believe me? Can they send me to jail?’

  ‘That will be for the judge to decide. If they will see it anyway, being honest is the best way. Show them they can trust you.’

  Khusnul had started crying again.

  I wondered whether Jenny’s parents had cameras. If they did, maybe we could find proof of Harry biting Moe Moe.

  40

  We all went together to Kartini Day, Aunty M, Khusnul, Chloe and I. Khusnul had cheered up. She had told her employers everything and they had reacted surprisingly well. She was on probation now, but because the kids loved her so, she was allowed to stay. Her sir had mentioned that he was considering putting a camera in the bedroom Khusnul shared with the little girl, and Khusnul had been worrying about it all week. ‘If he does that, I will leave,’ she said. But she was scared they would not sign the transfer papers after what happened. She told us she didn’t want to discuss it further. ‘Today I have fun,’ she said.

  There were at least a hundred Indonesian women, and none of them in the usual aunty uniform of shirt and shorts. Some wore long sleeved dresses and headscarves. Others wore straight skirts in colourful batik prints that fell to the floor, or short, pretty dresses. Aunty M and Khusnul were wearing batik too, Aunty M a simple knee length dress in purple with butterflies, and Khusnul a similar one in green. Aunty M had put a batik dress on Chloe, which I remembered from when I was little. PoPo had bought it for me, and there was a photo where I was wearing it, held in PoPo’s arms. Seeing it on Chloe that morning had stung my eyes. I felt plain in my shorts and yellow T-shirt.

  The programme for the day was full of singing, dancing, and a fashion show, alternated with speeches. One of the speeches was about Kartini, but it was in Indonesian and I couldn’t understand it. Aunty M translated some but stopped after the question, ‘What would Kartini have to say about the rights of domestic workers in Singapore?’

  My thoughts drifted away on the cadence of the speaker. What would she have to say? Would she be proud of all that had been achieved, or disappointed in what had not? Kartini had been rich, would have had her own servants. Had she treated them well? Being rich had not made her life much easier – I mean, being married off to an old guy as wife number four. I shivered in the chill of the aircon. If life wasn’t easy at that level of society, I could only begin to imagine what Kartini’s servants’ lives had been like. Hopefully they were the lucky ones, like Aunty M. Mama was a good employer, and the thought warmed me a bit.

  The speaker was still going on and I was starting to get bored. I imagined being Kartini, helping other girls go to school, fighting for their rights, and now, more than a hundred years later, having people still celebrate my birthday. Helping is interfering, Mama had said. But Kartini and Mother Teresa were both famous, and where was she? Home alone, doing a stupid presentation that everybody would have forgotten in less than a month. Cat and I had done the right thing.

  In the break, I went to the toilet together with Khusnul. One of the competitors in an amazing dress was ahead of us in the line. Khusnul fingered the dress appreciatively. ‘Where did you get it?’

  The woman looked at her as if about to tell her a secret. ‘This one I made. These ones,’ she said, pointing at other dressed-up women in front of her, ‘many people buy, very expensive. But I made this one myself. I got the fabric in Sumatra cheap. Then I make it here.’

  I looked her up and down. ‘It’s beautiful. It’s batik too?’

  She nodded. ‘This is the theme of the fashion show, you see? Everyone has batik.’

  Only now I noticed; all the dresses were batik. Not plain like ours, but special gold-threaded batik.

  Khusnul looked shy suddenly, but excited too. ‘Actually, I sew too. I made this one.’ She pointed at her own dress, much simpler, but also batik and still pretty.

  The other woman looked at the fabric admiringly, inspecting the seams. ‘Good job.’

  Khusnul pointed, ‘But I cannot make a dress like that. I need to learn.’

  ‘Then take classes,’ the other lady said. ‘I do, on Sundays, here in Singapore.’

  The two of them chatted some more and exchanged numbers.

  ‘Did you make Aunty M’s dress too?’ I asked, having noticed the similarities.

  ‘Yes,’ Khusnul beamed.

  ‘It’s very pretty.’

  ‘Thank you. I think I will take this classes. You know, I plan to go back to Java in two years to start my sewing business. I have my savings and I will open a shop. I need to go back so
I can find a husband.’

  ‘Can’t you find a husband here?’ I asked.

  Khusnul huffed. ‘In Singapore, very difficult. Many guys, they don’t treat us maid serious, they just want to have fun. I don’t want fun. I want a family.’

  I smiled. ‘Fun is fun too.’

  ‘Yes,’ Khusnul smiled, ‘but not that kind of fun. You are too young to understand. Four years ago, I went back to my village. I was fed up with the work here, the cleaning, the screaming babies, not even my own. I went back to Java. But the village, it was so boring. No cinema. No shops. And worse, no jobs. Now I am old already. I have money, so I can make my own job. I will start the sewing business with my savings, and then I will find a husband.’

  ‘Don’t give him your money though.’

  ‘What do you mean? If he is my husband, we can work together. And have many babies…’

  Khusnul started to look dreamy and I grabbed her hand, pulling her back to the hall.

  It had been such a fun day that I almost forgot about everything else. But it hadn’t gone away: Jenny, superroach, MOM, or that I’d been drowning in cockroach bile. I felt dread mixed with excitement. I dreamed of fame, like Kartini’s, and being the hero that saved Moe Moe. Why then did my stomach hurt when I thought of her?

  I slept well that Sunday night, and woke up feeling happy for almost a whole minute. Then I realised the bus was due in forty-five minutes, and there was no way of knowing what it was going to be like. The worst thing was the anticipation, which made everything taste vile at breakfast. I fantasised about breaking and snapping to Jenny, throwing MOM in her face, just you wait, they’re coming for you… But she could never know what we’d done. She’d go straight to Mama, and it would be over for sure for Aunty M.

  Why had nothing happened yet? Had MOM even investigated? Had they decided there was no problem? Or were they just being bureaucratic and slow? Something needed to happen before Jenny went to tell my parents or hers about superroach. I didn’t understand why she hadn’t done it already.