by Carissa Foo
“Ah Le next time zor tai tai.” The words—her grandmother’s foretelling—which she could not fully comprehend when she was a kid had come to pass. Rich as she was, with many people at her beck and call, Cheryl Dada still had to get the flowers. A tai tai in this Ang Mo Kio home did not entitle her to as many privileges. But she did have a private room—which was the mark of affluence.
Which flowers to get? she thought, stepping down on the grass. She hoped there would be lilies, especially the white ones. Sunflowers would do; red roses would be lovely too. But Cheryl Dada had a hunch that the only flowers left in the garden would be the azaleas. She might get some rosemary sprigs from the herb garden on the way back. They would spruce up the red and white tables.
It was her mother who had told her that a woman is like a flower: a pure and white and small flower. Her pep talk was flowery. She was very fussy about species and colours. Women, most women, are like little white flowers. Only a few are likened to the white rose and lily in the valley; and Cheryl was not that—not as beautiful, not as favoured as the girls in school and in the neighbourhood.
“Don’t be stupid. You think you so good is it?” her mother would stress. Be humble, be like most girls. “You are strong and pretty in bunches,” she complimented, though the remark sounded more motivational in nature and tone than praise. Cheryl was one of those little white flowers in a bouquet, a filler flower. One that was functional rather than ornamental, like the elderflower that’s medicinal as well as nutritional, made into teas and syrups, treated like an herb and a garnish.
From her mother she learned that her petals would wither and flake off when she got older. So she had to stay white and pretty, stay in a bunch, until someone plucked her and brought her home. “Don’t give yourself away,” said her mother. But who was she going to give herself to? She was in a girls’ school and all her friends were girls. And she was not allowed to go out after school. Weekends were spent at home too. Did she mean the neighbour boys? Or her twin cousins Han Yang and Han Yew? That would have been incestuous. What was she thinking? God, what was she thinking? How many petrifying and obscene scenarios did she have to conjure in her mind in order to psych herself into being so protective, so motherly? Cheryl shuddered at the thought of her thoughts.
A mother’s mind runs very wild, Cheryl realised later in her life. It must have been, as they say, a mother’s instinct, which turned out to be primal and imaginative. Once the child starts to blossom, her breasts pink and budding beneath her first bralet, the mother becomes watchful. Cheryl understood this; she too had become watchful because she knew what puberty did to young girls. She often found herself becoming the mother she hated. The more she tried to stop herself, the more she resembled her. So she gave up on motherhood; in doing so, she gave up the child that would have been her daughter, the Cheryl to her mother.
Walking in the yard, Cheryl Dada saw many mothers. Some were wheeled by younger women, presumably their daughters; some were struggling to walk, their wedding bands loose, knocking against the walking canes. Cheryl bent her head low and kept walking. The sight of mothers scared her. She could not bear even a wee reminder of the woman.
The path cut in the grass ran straight to the back garden, bringing Cheryl past the recreational ground where women were exercising and unwinding; some were sitting in their chairs, doing nothing. There was a band playing down the water fountain and the screeches drifted towards her.
One did not need to look up to know that it was the erhu group: Soh Lay Hoon, Leung Wing Man, Yong Ching Yee, the sisters Gina and Gracie Koh. They usually gathered at this time of the day, thrice a week, same place and same tunes, always the few Huang Fei Hong theme songs. Routines were important for the senior women: the structured activities provided a sense of control for they who had little agency in so many areas of their lives. The Koh sisters, as a case in point, chose to join the group over the ukulele ensemble because they thought that they could easily master the erhu due to their familiarity with the violin. Switching from classical to kung fu film music was difficult but at least they could use their bowing techniques and feel relevant. Gina and Gracie were determined to become erhu virtuosos even though they loathed Chinese orchestral music. Such commitment and, to a lesser extent, contentment seemed to be achieved best in the scarcity of options.
Cheryl walked along, thinking about the changes the sisters had to make in order to learn and play those horrendous tunes. Soh Lay Hoon could have added other songs to the repertoire but she was too big a fan of kung fu dramas. That Jet Li’s a Singaporean was something she harped on all the time—which was also her excuse to celebrate local heroes, as Daniel had explained to Gina and Gracie Koh when they aired their unhappiness regarding Soh Lay Hoon’s song choices. This information somehow reached the ears of Mrs Rohan, who passed it on to Felicia Phua and Chin Siew Eng; by the time it reached Cheryl and the rest of the women, they were told that Soh Lay Hoon and her followers were communists and Daniel was a spy working for them, that the wordless Chinese songs were relaying propaganda.
Soh Lay Hoon was the home wrecker. Thankfully she was a day care client and so Cheryl had little contact time with her. Her dislike for Soh Lay Hoon had to do with her deep-seated resentment towards the day care people who came in and out of the home as they wished and assumed they had as much right as she who was here for good. They were just passing through; they had no business whatsoever in the home’s affairs.
Their only direct encounter, which was enough to make a lasting impression on Cheryl, was about this time last year when Soh Lay Hoon wanted to put up a performance for National Day, suggesting that the group play “Home” and the national anthem on the erhu. Cheryl objected immediately, but Soh Lay Hoon stood her ground, which resulted in a heated argument; the two women argued in different languages and did not appear to share the same musical preference. In the end, the non-resident was victorious; Cheryl gave in on condition that there would be no such travesty next year. Today Soh Lay Hoon would keep her side of the bargain and leave after practice.
Cheryl Dada reached the allotment within a few minutes. The humble garden gate had no bolt, no lock, only a sign nailed to it that said TRESPASSERS WILL BE COMPOSTED. As if that would keep the wild boars out. Cheryl Dada was no trespasser; she was the donor, one of its rightful owners. She took a few steps and gently pushed the gate. Its hinges were squeaking and the paint on the wood was chipping.
“Juwel needs to fix this,” she said, dragging her finger over the jagged edges of the gate. This is too flimsy, she thought, and the wood is splintered. It’s not going to keep anything out of the garden. Cheryl Dada lifted her eyes to the overgrown land behind the fence and wondered what was hiding in those bushes. What’s hiding in the…PROTECTED AREA? Cheryl Dada focused on the red signboard. The bold white text glared at her. Was this new? She did not remember seeing it yesterday. NO ADMITTANCE TO UNAUTHORISED PERSONS. The white-painted figure of a man—was it a policeman or an army guard?—was mildly intimidating. It was his rifle that demanded obedience.
What could be so precious in the tangle of ungrazed land that required tight security? Cheryl Dada wondered; and went over the kinds of dangers in the area: there was talk of wild boars, snakes, and recently there were reports of a bunch of otters in Bishan Park. There had been the dead body in the water tank but that was old news. She heard about the breakout of tuberculosis in Avenue 4, although such danger could not be warded off by sturdy fences or men with guns. What were they trying to keep out? To the right of the field was a canal—were they afraid of illegal immigrants climbing out from secretly-dug tunnels? Was that even plausible? It was plausible, she thought.
On the far left was a primary school; Cheryl Dada was sure that students posed no threats. Maybe they were trying to deter unruly teenagers from the HDB area from playing football in the field. Worse—it suddenly occurred to Cheryl Dada—the man in white was pointing the rifle at her. It was trying to keep her out, keep them out; a warning to thos
e who wanted to leave. For the only way out of here, out of the blue and white house, if not via the van or ambulance or—touch wood!—a hearse, was to climb the fence and cross over the field to the other side to civilisation. It must have been the two that got away last year. The sign was preventive, no doubt enforced with hidden cameras.
The red and white warning was an eyesore, rude and uncalled for. Did the man with a rifle honestly think he could stop anyone of them from leaving if they really wanted to? About that he was wrong. This was not Woodbridge; they were not locked up in that way. There were no great walls to scale, no barbed wires—the residents were allowed the bit of dignity that reminded them of their humanity. For to the residents—and Cheryl was thinking about herself—leaving was only a matter of time; and it was going to be a spectacular and transcendental departure. So, why would she escape? Cheryl was sure that the ones who got away, the ones whom Management did not want to name, were staff. The women would have known if it was a neighbour; they always knew when one of them disappeared overnight and what it meant when her long lost next-of-kin suddenly showed up the next day. Those two that went away…they were not one of them.
Why point the rifle at the helpless? Cheryl Dada thought. She was half-resigned, turning her eyes from the red and white board to the surrounding green expanse, which seemed to stand for the unbridgeable distance between the man with the rifle and herself. Why single out those who were already left behind? There was no way she could be like them living in those letter-box units, no way she could defend herself against the rifle or hold up one of her own. No way to hit the reset button.
Finding her habitual resignation give way to a welling righteousness, her body unexpectedly overcome by rage, Cheryl Dada made her way to the fence and locked her fingers into the green wired netting. She took a long, deep breath and shook the fence with every erg of energy she could summon.
“Fuck you! All of you fucking people!”
She tugged and tugged at the fence, attacking the void and screaming into nothingness. “Bloody hell. Damn this place!”
As soon as the last words left her mouth, fatigue came upon her and she released her grip on the netting. Slowly, step by step, she moved away from the fence and caught her breath. Then Cheryl Dada tucked her hands into her pockets and resumed her journey, walking towards the greenhouse. She kept her eyes on the path, taking care not to step on any snails in her way.
On the way there she wondered what they were going to do with the protected land. It had been there for the longest time, at least for the past seven years, and was still undeveloped. It’s unlike the land authorities to leave such vast space alone for so long, she thought, tramping about the vegetation, the greenhouse in sight.
They are going to build a hotel, she surmised. Heartland tourism could be the next big thing. Just look at Ang Mo Kio Hub. Most of the healthcare staff hung out there in their free time.
It was a decent greenhouse, small but not too shabby. As she approached, it dawned on her that Juwel had built the entire thing from scratch with plywood and PVC pipes. Looking around, she was amazed by his contribution to the home. Before Juwel came, the garden had been a wretched-looking green space behind the kitchen where the staff would go for smoke breaks. Lucky’s kennel was also there. If not for Juwel’s greenhouse, Management would have put Lucky down to save the trampled garden.
For all that work we’re not paying him enough, Cheryl Dada thought. Juwel, Vikash, Lulu and the whole lot of them—they were paid peanuts. But who was she to judge when she would have called them out and demanded that their salaries be docked if they did any less? Besides it was she who added to their workload, more so than the average resident did. So much work, so much effort. Why did they care? Did they really care, or was it about the money? Perhaps they truly took pride in their work. If this was home to them, then it made sense that they would strive to make it a better place. Because of them the country has smoother roads, brighter lights, trees that remain at a certain height, trees that never seem to shed. Still, in spite of her willingness to befriend them, Cheryl Dada kept a distance from the foreign workers. She thought that they always stared a little too long, their lips too eager to smile—as if they wanted something from her. But she could not say exactly why she felt this way.
Friendliness was suspect; indifference was the norm. It was true that Cheryl Dada preferred neutrality to kindness; she thought that being rude and snappy was sometimes considered more genuine than being friendly. Most acts of kindness towards her were often misinterpreted, for she could not understand that which was unfamiliar to her.
Only a few weeks ago she had lashed out at a schoolboy who had given up his seat on the train to her. The poor kid was almost in tears, but Cheryl Dada felt certain that she was the wronged one. For she did not need any priority, she did not need pity.
“Stand up for what?” she interrogated, although she already knew that he stood up because he saw her as lacking in something. “Do I look weak?” Cheryl Dada went on. Her limp and slow gait did not give him the right to judge her old and sickly. “I’m not that old,” she asseverated, and continued: “Do I look like an ah ma?” The boy remained silent, guilty, cowering in terror.
The boy exited as soon as the train arrived at the next station. Cheryl Dada exited at the following station and insisted that Lulu take her home. Her day was already ruined. No shopping or walking was going to improve her mood.
Mrs Dada was a cliché. She knew that she was reinforcing the stereotype, but she acted out just for the heck of it. There was no better time than now. She could be unreasonable. She could rage against the dying of the light. Rage, rage! Fight, defy, fight the dying flame. Rage was hers by right and fact. Seniority was often confused with superiority in this country; and old age was a privilege to be exercised, not preserved and bottled up in a crematorium. She could whine and stamp her feet as she pleased, she could say whatever she wanted. If the nation had a look, it was like hers: childish; spiteful; but nonetheless pacifistic. Frustration and angst had an expression and people wore it on their faces. Cheryl Dada blamed the heat and haze.
It was only natural, given the culture in which she was raised, to be suspicious of people. Everyone had a real face, her mother told her, and a face they hid from others. The equivalent of a wolf in sheep’s disguise. But why do we judge others by their actions and ourselves by our intentions? Perhaps her mother was right all along: “Faith it till you make it.”
Standing in front of the greenhouse, Cheryl Dada was still in awe. With only a ladder and his bare hands, Juwel had managed to lug those glass panels up to form the semi-transparent roof. He even part-cladded the sides with weatherboards and draped plastic sheeting over the windows. The garden should have been named after him, instead of the Garden City Fund.
Coming up to the door, there was a furry brown board nailed to it. Cheryl Dada stopped to examine. It was like one of those bulletin boards in Clare’s school that had photographs of HODs and teachers stapled to it. Except this was weather-worn, and the photographs were of sponsors and staff, arranged according to neither rank nor contribution. Perhaps by age or nationality—but who could tell? The faces taped to the lopsided board were mostly grey and blurry, some were identifiable only by the names inscribed on the stickers stuck below them. Cheryl spotted Juwel almost immediately. Farther down the row was a beaming Vikash.
Skipping to the third row of photographs, she fixed her eyes on the fifth face from the left. What bright eyes! What a smile! The woman had beautiful round eyes, accentuated by her defined eyelids. The life in those eyes could not be dimmed by the lousy quality of the photograph. Cheryl Dada tried to imagine a younger incarnation of the woman whose name was MADAM C— The rest of the name tag had fallen off, leaving behind a sticky residue of glue that trapped dust and flies. In her mind Cheryl Dada was colouring the woman’s grey fraying hair black and ruffling the unfashionable backswept bob. Looks aren’t everything, but surely one must have colour!
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nbsp; She strolled over to the other side of the greenhouse, stopping by the pond. The goldfish were swimming in circles, their mouths puckering at the surface of the water, as if coming up for a breather.
“You and I both,” Cheryl Dada said to the fish. She could still see herself playing with the carps, dipping her hands into the pond in Bishan Park. She used to go there with her mother to take pictures. She would watch the fish swim and turtles climb to the rocks while her mother walked around with her clunky Rollei camera, searching for pretty sights and interesting people to photograph. Sometimes she would come by the pond where Cheryl was and take pictures of children dipping their feet in the pond or feeding the white and orange fish. There was this one time, Cheryl remembered in detail, when her mother stood on the bridge and watched her and some kids play by the pond. Later, when everyone was gone and they were packing up, her mother told her how beautiful the kids were and wished Cheryl were like them.
As a child she had frizzy hair that made her head look round, like a mushroom. Rebonding was not yet a thing in the ’70s. Although Cheryl was slender, baby fat accumulated in her cheeks, causing her tiny face to puff up at the sides. Her primary school friends called her Pau because of her round face—the nickname stuck with her through her adolescent years. Even when she lost the baby fat, revealing her naturally high cheekbones and thin jaw, she was still conscious of her fat face. She always deprecated her fleshy cheeks, which seemed to her too prominent for her personality, singling her out as the pau face when she’d rather be obscure. To her friends, to her mother, she was still that pau face. To herself, she was always ugly. Even she would not want to get chummy with a kid like that.
Turning around to head back to the front of the greenhouse, Cheryl Dada approached the door once more. She paused to look again at the furry board. This time her eyes rested briefly on the photograph beside Madam C’s: it featured a darker-skinned man with a rectangular face. It was not clear if he had stubble or if it was the poor grainy quality of the photograph, but the specks made him look bristly and unkempt. If there was anything she disliked in a man, it was a beard. Irked by the face, Cheryl Dada rolled her eyes and wandered over to the next photograph.
