The Hungry Ghost

by H. S. Norup

  The beach is sheltered behind small artificial islands with palm trees. Between them, I’m trying to spot something that resembles the curious floating brightness I saw from the banyan tree, but a wall of container ships blocks my view of the horizon.

  Loud music blasts from speakers behind the pool, which is so full of people that they’re standing in the chest-deep water. I glance back at Dad—I thought he would hate a place like this. It couldn’t be more different from the peaceful wilderness of the Swedish lakes. He’s lying on a lounger in the shade. He must’ve fallen asleep, because his phone has slid out of his hand and is sticking vertically out of the sand. Perhaps he was sleepwalking again last night. I wish I could ask him if he saw Ling.

  Before driving home, we have tea at the beach club. I order a burger, but when it arrives, I can only eat a few bites. I press my fists against my navel.

  “Oh dear,” Clementine says. “It looks like you’re getting one of those awful tummy aches. Are you nervous about school?”

  I remove my hands and shake my head. To be honest, I haven’t thought about school. What with worrying about Ling and Mum and making everyone sad… I’d almost forgotten I’m starting school tomorrow. Somehow my brain has kept it a secret.

  —21—

  Clementine drives me to school, although I tell her I’d be fine on the school bus. My hands are squeezed between my knees, to stop them from cradling my aching belly. I’m thinking about Ling. Last night, I stayed up till midnight, waiting, but she didn’t turn up.

  Outside the school gates, Clementine gets out of the car, while pushing her sunglasses up into her hair.

  “You don’t have to come. Dad showed me the reception on Friday,” I say. I can’t believe he isn’t here. But when I got up this morning, he was on his way out the door, travelling to Manila or Malacca or Mumbai. Somewhere starting with M.

  “I’m sure your mum would take you all the way.” Clementine reaches over and adjusts the collar of my polo shirt. When I pull back, she lets her hand drop.

  I almost answer that she isn’t my mum. “She wouldn’t,” I say instead. “You don’t know her.”

  Clementine looks away into the playground where kids are milling around. “I suppose I don’t.” She slides the sunglasses back into place. “Would you like me to pick you up after—”

  “I’ll take the school bus.”

  She stands there for a moment, and I realize she’s about to give me a hug. But I don’t want her to give me a hug on my first day in a new school. I want Dad. Or Mum.

  “Bye.” I slip through the gate before she can touch me.

  “Good luck, Freja!” She calls so loudly several people turn in her direction. Slumping, I try to hide behind my school bag, while I hurry towards the reception. I expect a teacher will bring me to the classroom, where I can sit in a corner, feeling awkward and new. After such a catastrophic beginning to the day, I just want to get it over with, so I can return to the graveyard and search for Ling.

  But I’ve only been waiting for five minutes, when two girls run into the reception area.

  “Are you Freja?” one of them gasps, brushing a mass of red curls out of her freckled face.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Kiera. This is Sunitha.” She tugs at the arm of the other girl, who beams at me with warmth in her dark eyes.

  “We’re your buddies,” Sunitha says.

  “We’ll show you everything, and you can ask us absolutely anything about anything.” Kiera flings her arms outwards.

  “First, we’ll take you up to registration in our classroom,” explains Sunitha. “You have to be there at ten to eight every morning.” She leads the way out of the cool office and into the sticky heat. She’s almost as tall and thin as me, but her black ponytail is longer than mine and reaches her waist. She’s wearing long black leggings under her skirt and a black hoodie with the school logo over the polo shirt.

  “Sooo, this is the canteen.” Kiera points to an open area on the ground level. “Don’t eat the burritos. They’re absolutely vile. The roti pratas are good, and their chicken rice is okay.” She waves at one of the dinner ladies, who grins and waves back. “Auntie Goh always gives me extra fries,” she whispers.

  On our way up the stairs, Sunitha’s walking backwards ahead of me, while she explains the layout of the school. “We have most of our lessons in this building,” she says. “But later today, we have third-language lessons, so I’ll show you where the Danish classroom is in the morning break. Kiera has Mandarin as third language, and I have Dutch.”

  “Why Dutch?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

  “I know, you’re like me, you think she looks more French.” Kiera giggles.

  “Moi?” Sunitha says. “Je suis Dutch. Both my parents came to the Netherlands as Tamil refugees when they were kids. But we’ve lived in the US and Hong Kong before we came here.”

  “I’m like the apple that fell close to so many trees, it landed in the forest. I’m half French and half Irish and half Swiss and a little bit German,” Kiera says. “And I’m totally boring because I’ve only ever lived here in Singapore.”

  “You can’t be three halves, Kiera.” Sunitha waves at an older, red-haired boy, who passes us in the hallway, then giggles behind her hand.

  “How can you like that oaf, Sunitha?” Kiera rolls her eyes. “It’s my youngest, incredibly annoying, older brother,” she says to me. “I sooo wish water was thicker than blood in his case.”

  “What about you, Freja?” Sunitha asks.

  It’s the first time there’s been a pause in their chatter, but I like them. “My mum’s Danish, Dad’s English, and I’ve never lived outside Denmark.” Then, without knowing why, I add, “My stepmother’s half English and half Chinese. Hong Kong Chinese.” Clementine always stresses that.

  They both nod, without asking questions. Being a mix is normal here. Not like in my small hometown in Denmark, where almost everyone is just Danish.

  In the car to the airport in Copenhagen, Aunt Astrid kept telling me how fantastic it would be for me to experience Singapore’s melting pot of cultures and religions. At the time, I thought she was only trying to cheer me up, but I’m beginning to think she might be right.

  I wonder if Singapore was a melting pot when Ling was alive, and who her parents were. She looks Chinese, the sign on her grave is Chinese and she’s buried in the pauper’s section of a Chinese graveyard. But she speaks English, and if we’re somehow related… She did say she remembered someone with yellow hair and blue eyes. Like Dad’s. Like mine.

  We’re in a cool hallway, when a loud bell sounds. Students push past us, to and from lockers and classrooms.

  “Come on,” Sunitha says, “We’ll find you a locker later.”

  —22—

  Inside the classroom, the other kids flock around us. Before our form tutor arrives, most of them have told me their names and I’ve forgotten almost all of them again.

  Sunitha pulls me onto a chair between her and Kiera.

  “Can I sit next to Freja in Maths, then?” A girl called Cheryl Yi asks.

  “It’s freezing in here.” Sunitha zips up her hoodie.

  Kiera rolls her eyes. I think it’s nice to come into the chill after the heat outside.

  Ms Jones, our English and tutor group teacher, makes me stand up in front of everyone, which isn’t as bad as I’d feared, because they’re all so nice. I say my name and where I’m from and tell them I’ll be here until next summer. Although, as soon as Mum’s better, I’ll be leaving.

  After English and Maths and double Arts, it’s lunch break. I’m sitting between Kiera, Cheryl Yi and Sunitha, with a crowd of boys and girls, up where I saw the monkey the other day. Everyone’s chatting.

  They ask me questions about Denmark and my old school. I’m not used to talking so much in a
group. One of the things I’ve always liked about the scouts is that we do practical things together, and as long as you participate, no one notices if anything’s wrong. It’s easy to be invisible. But here they’re listening and making me feel like I belong.

  Sunitha nudges me, pulling me out of my thoughts. “We’ve all been the new kid,” she says.

  “Four times!” Cheryl Yi sighs.

  “Except me and Sam and Rohaan.” Kiera points at two boys I met in the morning.

  “Oh, poor you,” another boy says. Bits of food start flying around, after Kiera flips a crisp in his face. Behind us, less than two metres away, a hopeful monkey appears on the railing. I’m about to point, when I realize that this is normal.

  “So, Singapore’s your real home?” I ask Kiera.

  She shrugs. “For me, home is wherever my heart actually is. When I’m in Ireland during the summer, that’s my home. And when we visit my grand-mère in France and my uncle in Switzerland at Christmas, those places feel like home. The rest of the year, I guess, Singapore is kind of home.”

  “I’m not sure…” Sunitha pauses. “Amsterdam, I guess… I mean, that’s where my grandparents and cousins are.”

  “When did you last live there?” I ask.

  Sunitha counts on her fingers, mumbling. “We moved to the US when I was four, and to Hong Kong when I was seven, but then we lived in Amsterdam for one year when I was nine, before we moved here.”

  When I peek back over my shoulder, the monkey has gone. Instead, a boy is sitting there, leaning against the railing. His face is hidden behind his long black fringe and a thick book with a dragon on the cover.

  It’s Jason. I hadn’t noticed him in class, and he wasn’t one of the kids crowding around me this morning.

  “Is Jason in our tutor group?” I whisper to Sunitha, when we’re walking back to the classroom.

  She nods.

  “I feel bad for him,” Kiera holds the door to the hallway for me. “His parents aren’t here, and he’s lost his best friend. It’s sooo hard when your friends move back to Europe and forget about you.”

  “It’s just as hard when you’re the one who has to move.” Sunitha shifts her school bag from one shoulder to the other.

  “I’ve had sooo many friends move away. And I’m never ever the one to leave.” Kiera sighs. “I know people who won’t make friends with anyone who isn’t here long term. They simply don’t want to suffer the heartbreak.” She glances sideways at me. “Don’t worry, Freja, I’m not like that. I’m more of an if-there’re-plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea-I-want-to-catch-all-of-them kind of person.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, Kiera,” Sunitha says, snorting.

  They chatter on, but I’m not listening any more. The whole morning, I’ve been busy and surrounded by people who want to be my friends. I haven’t thought about Mum at all. What’s even worse is that I’ve completely forgotten about Ling. The knots in my belly tighten. I want to be friends with Kiera and Sunitha and Cheryl Yi and the others, but first I have to find Ling and help her remember.

  By the end of the school day, I’m exhausted by heat and newness. Although the classrooms are air-conditioned, in most breaks we’re outside in the clammy heat. Everyone else is used to it. They don’t even notice their damp polo shirts sticking to their backs.

  After the last lesson, school buses are parked inside the school gates like plastic vehicles in a game of logic, waiting for someone to solve their traffic-jam puzzle. Kiera helps me find the minibus labelled L1. She lives two streets away from me, but she takes public transport with her big brothers because the school bus costs “a hand and a foot”.

  I almost automatically say “an arm and a leg”, but I don’t want to correct her. I’m only bilingual—Kiera must speak at least three languages, so it’s understandable if she messes up a few phrases.

  I’m the last person to squeeze inside the school bus, and the only empty seat is next to Jason.

  “Hi,” I say, when I sit down.

  He glares at me and his lips twitch, before he turns away and leans against the window. That’s what he does the whole way home, with his earphones plugged in. The volume’s so loud I can hear buzzing voices speaking between peals of thunder, despite the rain which beats on the roof and cascades down the windows. The bus drops me off outside the gates to the house. Jason will be getting out in a moment too, but he doesn’t even look up.

  —23—

  After unlocking the gate, I sprint across the empty driveway through the downpour. My phone pings, and I stop on the veranda to read the message. It’s from Aunt Astrid, saying how sorry she is that’s she’d forgotten to send me a good luck message last night, and she hopes I’ve had a great first day. She also sends love from Mum.

  One word stands out in the text: forgotten.

  I haven’t talked to Mum since I came to Singapore. They—Dad and Clementine, and possibly Aunt Astrid and perhaps Mum—believe it’s best that way, but I’m not sure if it’s best for Mum, or me, or any of us. Aunt Astrid had forgotten me. What if Mum forgets?

  The house is quiet. When I drop my school bag with a plonk by the stairs, Maya comes out of the kitchen. She moves so silently in her bare feet that I only hear the soft swishes of her baggy printed trousers.

  “How was school? You want a drink? And food to snack? Ma’am and the little ones are not home yet.” She’s all kindness and helpfulness, and that makes me miss Mum even more. I wish I could call Mum right now and tell her about my first day in school. Or Dad. But I’m not supposed to call him unless it’s an emergency. Clementine isn’t even here.

  I follow Maya through the swing door into the kitchen. On the counter is a plate with sliced melon, papaya and pineapple, another with transparent rice-paper rolls containing salad and shredded carrot and shrimps, and a third with biscuits.

  I gape at the generous spread. At home, I’d usually have a slice of bread with cheese and strawberry jam and a glass of milk. Or cordial if Mum had forgotten to buy milk.

  “I don’t know what snacks you want after school…” She finds a glass and asks me if I like watermelon juice.

  I stay in the kitchen with Maya while she’s chopping vegetables for dinner. Between mouthfuls, I tell her about the school and Kiera, Sunitha and Cheryl Yi. Talking distracts me from worrying about Ling. The thunderstorm’s raging outside, so I can’t go to the graveyard.

  When Maya leaves to collect laundry upstairs, I take a look around the kitchen. The black-and-white tiles of the floor lead to a back door with a window to the driveway. From an open doorway next to the washing machine shines a purple light, through thin purple fabric. I wonder what’s in there. I didn’t notice it on the tour Clementine gave me the first evening.

  I step nearer and lift the fabric aside. Inside is a small room with a miniature window. There’s a tiny bed, fit for the smallest bear in Goldilocks—definitely too short for me—a chest of drawers, and a pinboard hidden behind layers of photos. Everywhere else is covered in pink, purple, orange and red shawls with golden threads—even the lamps—transforming the tiny room into Aladdin’s cave. Without the treasures.

  When the kitchen door hinges squeak, I let the fabric fall and turn.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  Maya smiles.

  “D’you live in there?”

  She nods and places the laundry basket by the washing machine, before she takes my hand and leads me inside.

  “It’s cosy. I like your… er… colours.” The room’s smaller than the bathroom I have to myself upstairs. My bed wouldn’t even fit in here.

  “I have my own window.” She points at the small square, as if that’s the room’s best feature. “Last time, I live in a bomb shelter.”

  I’m searching for something to say, when I catch sight of the photos on the pinboard. “Who are th
ey?” Almost all the photos are of children.

  Her smile lights up the whole room, as she shows me a photo of a girl and a boy in blue school uniforms. “That is my Emilia. She is eight. And this is my angel, Raphael. He is seven in one month. And here are my nephews and nieces.”

  “So, where are they? Emilia and Raphael?” I ask.

  “They live with my sister in the Philippines.”

  “All the time? But don’t you miss them?”

  She nods. “But I’m happy with such a nice family as this one, with sweet boys. And I send money home, so my children go to a good school. Sir gives me a ticket home for my birthday and Christmas and summer, so I see my babies three times in one year.”

  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll forget you?”

  “No,” she says, without a hint of doubt.

  “But what if… what if you forget them?”

  “Never! I can never forget them. They are here…” She taps the pinboard. “And here,” she says, placing a hand on her heart.

  Afterwards, the kitchen seems too big and colourless. Maya is washing salad, and I’m drinking the last of the watermelon juice, when the gates to the street open with metallic creaks. Outside, white reversing lights beam through the glittering raindrops. Maya wipes her hands.

  “Thank you, Maya.” I surprise myself by giving her a hug.

  “Tell me what you want to snack after school, and I have it ready for you,” she says. But from the way she hugs me back, I think she understands that I’m not only thanking her for the food.

  A moment later, she’s by the car, with a large umbrella, opening the door for Clementine, then carrying the twins, one after the other, into the house. Both boys are whinging.

  I pick up my school bag.