Her rostered day off was Tuesday, the slowest day of the week. Travelling home to the village and back again in one day was going to be a challenge.
She waited until the following week, when she had been at Pantai Raya Resort for a fortnight, then caught the earliest bus back to where she had met the petrol seller and his son. She imagined telling them of her success in Sanur, assuring them that it wasn’t all bad. But when she arrived, it was still too early and the stall was deserted. She cycled home without stopping, hoping to arrive before the daily chores started.
She stopped outside the high stone wall of her family compound. As she hoisted her bicycle through the narrow gateway and leaned it against the wall, she caught sight of her mother. Busy as ever, she was draping wet washing over the bushes in the yard.
‘Bu,’ Made called.
Instantly her mother dropped a sarong and rushed at her.
‘Oh, you naughty girl,’ she cried, throwing herself at Made. ‘I thought I had lost you. Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? I have been worried, sick to my heart.’
Her mother was thinner than ever.
‘I am sorry, Bu. I didn’t mean to worry you. I wanted to make you proud.’
‘You do, my little Made. You do.’ She hugged Made to her.
‘Bu, I have found work.’ Made removed the white envelope from her pocket and closed her mother’s hand around it. ‘Eighty thousand rupiah a month. It won’t make us rich, but it’s something.’
Her mother frowned. ‘You don’t have to do that, Made. What sort of work is it?’
‘Cleaning,’ Made replied. ‘In a big resort for foreign tourists. The same place Ketut works.’
Her mother appeared to relax a little. ‘And Ketut is there with you every day?’
‘Yes, except her day off is Sunday. Mine is Tuesday. We live in the same staff quarters.’
Her mother hesitated. ‘Well, as long as it is a proper job and you are only expected to clean. Come and talk to your father about it. I will make some tea. You’ve lost weight. Have you eaten today?’
Made shook her head. She was ravenous from the cycling.
They walked towards the bamboo pavilion in the centre of their compound, where her grandmother sat washing soybeans.
‘Hello, nenek.’ Made stooped to kiss the old woman.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked in her gentle, wispy voice.
‘Working.’ Made smiled, proud of herself.
Her grandmother gripped her hand. ‘Good girl.’
There was no sign of her aunt, uncle or cousins. They must be in the field, Made thought.
‘Bapak! Komang! Made is here,’ her mother called. Komang emerged from the cooking area and ran to Made, throwing her arms around her waist.
‘I missed you,’ Komang cried. ‘Please don’t go away again.’
Made patted her sister’s hair. ‘I’m working now, little sister. I have to go back to Sanur today.’
Komang began to whimper.
‘Now, who would think you are a big girl of fourteen? Only babies cry.’ She stroked Komang’s face and whispered, ‘I missed you too.’
Her father appeared, scythe in hand. From the mud caked around his ankles she could see he had been working in the field.
‘Made,’ he said, his face grave.
‘Good morning, Pak.’
He didn’t return her smile. ‘Why have you made your mother sick with worry?’
‘I wanted to help. I have found some work.’
Her father stood silent, waiting.
‘As a cleaner in Sanur, at a resort for foreigners. Ketut helped me to get the job.’
He cocked his head. ‘How much?’
‘Eighty thousand rupiah a month.’
Made could hear the hens scratching in the dust, squabbling over tiny scraps of rice thrown out with the dishwater. It was a familiar, comforting sound, one she had grown up with.
‘Good,’ said her father finally. Then he turned and walked towards the gate.
Made looked at the ground, resisting the urge to cry. But what had she hoped for?
Her mother took her hand. ‘Your father still misses Wayan.’
Made nodded, the tears tumbling down her cheeks.
‘I am very grateful, Made.’ Her mother cupped her face in her palms. ‘You are a good girl. Not every daughter would do what you have done. Are you sure they treat you well?’
‘Yes,’ said Made.
Her mother lowered her voice. ‘Well, if that changes, promise me you won’t stay there. I don’t want you mixing with lowlife in Sanur. The city can be a dangerous place. Smiling faces can hide ugly hearts. And a pretty girl like you . . . just be careful. There are too many village girls working as prostitutes in Sanur, Kuta, Legian. Don’t you ever, ever, do anything like that. It would break my heart.’
Made nodded, solemn. Her mother rarely spoke with such vehemence.
‘I won’t, Bu,’ she promised.
The day passed all too quickly. Word spread around the village that Made had returned, bringing news of a job. Many of the villagers stopped by and her mother was kept busy serving endless glasses of tea. She even made a batch of her best sweet cakes, usually reserved for formal occasions.
After lunch, Made sat with her mother and sister on the cool white tiles of the central pavilion, fashioning an offering. Komang threaded the young banana leaves together to serve as the container, while Made wove the circle, triangle and square to represent the moon, the stars and the sun. Her mother then placed f lowers in their cardinal points: red in the south corner of the offering, white in the east, blue in the north and yellow in the west. They added rice, betel vine and several sweet cakes.
‘It is ready,’ announced her mother.
They changed their clothes and walked to the ancestral temple. Her mother presided over the placement of the offering, while Komang lit incense sticks around the shrine. Then they stood, three as one, with Made in the middle. Holding a jasmine flower between her fingertips, she pressed her hands to her forehead and closed her eyes, whispering her thanks to the ancestors.
They walked home in silence, their arms linked. They all knew it was time for Made to leave, if she was to be safe in Sanur by sunset.
She changed out of her ceremonial clothes and bade farewell to her father, who had just returned from the field. He wiped his forehead and, for a moment, she thought he might embrace her.
‘Made,’ he said, with the briefest of smiles. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then turned away.
Her mother and Komang stood by the gate, waving. As she cycled, Made kept turning her head to glimpse them again, until they were blurred specks in the distance.
Weeks became months and Made began to see the effect of the extra income on her family. Her mother’s face was fuller and brighter, her father seemed more talkative. Most importantly, Komang returned to school. Komang was naturally clever, adept at school in a way Made had never been. Every week when Made returned to the village, she would sit with Komang and quiz her on her studies. And every week she would return to Pantai Raya with renewed energy to continue her work. It gave her enormous satisfaction to see Komang complete her first year of middle school, and then her second.
Within a year of starting work at Pantai Raya, Made had been assigned the most important cottages to clean—those of the highest-paying corporate clients. After two years, Ibu Margono gave her a pay rise.
‘You have done well for me, Made,’ said Ibu Margono, an uncharacteristic softness in her voice. ‘From now on, you will receive one hundred thousand rupiah per month. And if you work hard for another year, I will make you my assistant manager.’
Made was astonished.
‘Thank you, Ibu Margono,’ she said, pressing her lips to her hand.
*
The next morning, Made rose before dawn and, as she always did, carried the day’s first offering to the sacred banyan tree growing at the edge of the beach. The tree was ancient
and sprawling, a mystical guardian of the shore. The lower part of its bulbous trunk was draped in black and white checked poleng cloth. As she placed the offering on the stone altar in the semi-darkness, she noticed a Westerner walking along the beach towards her. It was hard to make out his features below a shock of white hair. He seemed oblivious to her presence as he sauntered, barefoot, across the sand. She stood up quickly and, in so doing, startled him.
‘Oh!’ he said. An indistinguishable string of words followed.
She opened her hands, palms up in an apology. Then she gestured towards the offering in the tree.
He pumped his arms quickly. ‘Walking,’ he said. It was, she realised, a reciprocal explanation.
‘Ah, jalan-jalan,’ she said. She lifted the edge of her sarong, which was trailing in the sand, and nodded at him. ‘Goodbye, sir.’
‘Goodbye,’ he replied.
As she was walking away, he called something out to her which she couldn’t understand.
She turned and smiled over her shoulder.
The man laughed, then continued along the beach.
Later that morning, she knocked on the door of Cottage 12.
‘Hello, cleaner,’ she called out.
In her two years at Pantai Raya she had memorised a number of useful English phrases—‘How are you?’, ‘It’s a nice day’ and ‘Come back later’. She’d also learned how to say ‘good morning’ and ‘thank you’ in Japanese, Mandarin and Dutch.
‘Hello, cleaner,’ she repeated, louder this time. She inserted the master key into the lock.
The door swung open, revealing a man in a white bathrobe.
She immediately averted her eyes.
‘Come back later,’ she said, backing away.
‘No, no,’ said the man. She looked up at him. Was it the Westerner she’d met on the beach? She couldn’t be sure; they all looked the same. But the white hair was similar.
The man smiled and said something, gesturing over his shoulder.
‘No English,’ said Made, shaking her head.
‘Come in,’ said the man.
She followed him inside. A laptop was perched on the coffee table, surrounded by large sheets of paper with elaborate diagrams on them.
‘My work,’ the man said, pointing to the table. ‘Engineer.’
She nodded and looked away. She didn’t want the man to think she was prying.
She began her cleaning routine in the kitchenette. One used coffee mug, one glass, one plate. She glanced into the bedroom; the bed was rumpled on one side only.
The man’s mobile phone rang. He picked it up, slid open the glass doors and stepped out onto the tiled balcony overlooking the beach.
Made listened to his muffled words as she changed the sheets, dusted the furniture, adjusted the curtains and plumped the cushions. She wondered where he came from. America, she guessed.
Made pushed her trolley into the bathroom. She replaced the shampoo, disposed of a used razor and shaving cream, and changed the toilet roll. Then she commenced the painstaking process of cleaning the tiled walls and floor, and scrubbing the toilet bowl. No matter how repugnant the task, she thanked the gods every day for her work in Sanur.
The man’s laughter floated in from the balcony. It was a deep, rich laugh and, for some reason, it reminded her of Wayan. He’d always been a prankster. Wherever he went, someone was always laughing. But humour had almost entirely disappeared from their house since his death.
Something moved behind her and she jumped, bumping her head against the cistern. It was the Westerner, standing in the bathroom doorway.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. She’d seen enough Western movies to understand. She shook her head, indicating that she was fine.
‘Are you alright?’ the man asked.
She shook her head again and carried on scrubbing.
The man walked away. A moment later he returned, a large dictionary in his hands.
‘Anda sehat?’ he asked. Are you well?
Made sat back on her heels and laughed aloud. She immediately clapped her hands over her mouth, horrified by her impertinence. The man might report her for rudeness. But he’d said the words with such an odd accent, she couldn’t help but giggle.
‘Saya baik-baik saja, terima kasih,’ she responded slowly. I am just fine, thank you.
The man looked delighted.
‘No Indonesian,’ he said.
For a moment they simply looked at each other, smiling.
‘My name is Gordon,’ he said. He stepped gingerly across the damp tiles and crouched down, his hand outstretched. She wiped her hand on a rag before she took his.
‘Made.’
The man’s phone rang again.
‘Working,’ he said. ‘Always working.’ He took the phone and walked out onto the balcony once more.
Made completed her tasks in the bathroom, then sprayed air freshener throughout the apartment. She wrinkled her nose as she did; she didn’t like its artificial smell.
She closed the front door behind her.
The next day, she had only just arrived at Cottage 12 when Gordon opened the door with a flourish.
‘Selamat pagi, Made,’ he said. Good morning, Made. He was clearly proud of this achievement.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she replied in English.
‘Gordon,’ he said. ‘Call me Gordon.’
She said nothing. It was resort policy to refer to guests as ‘sir’ or ‘madam’.
‘Come back later?’
‘No, no, come in.’
She commenced her cleaning routine and watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was sitting at the table, referring to his dictionary and writing words on a piece of paper. It looked like a laborious exercise.
Twenty minutes later, just as she was preparing to leave, he beckoned to her.
‘Made?’
She walked over to the table and looked at the words he had written: Anda tidak di pantai tadi pagi? You were not at the beach this morning?
She smiled. Gordon had obviously been out walking again, just as he had the previous day. It had been an unusual morning for her. The night before, despite her fatigue, she’d been unable to sleep. When she’d finally closed her eyes, she’d heard the distant crowing of a rooster. Then, what seemed a moment later, Ketut was banging on her door. It was six forty-five. Made had scrambled out of bed in a panic, donned her uniform and reported for duty.
‘Besok,’ she said.
Gordon shrugged and held out his pen.
She grasped the pen and, as neatly as she could, wrote: B-E-S-O-K.
Gordon thumbed through his dictionary, then smiled.
‘Tomorrow? Good.’
He seemed satisfied.
‘Finish,’ she said.
She pushed her trolley out onto the path and closed the door behind her.
The next day she spotted him walking along the sand before dawn. He saw her, too, but waited at a respectful distance while she made her offering at the banyan tree. Completing the ritual, she turned in his direction.
‘Selamat pagi, Gordon.’
‘Selamat pagi, Made.’
He fell into step beside her and they walked along the beach in silence. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be doing, walking with a Westerner she barely knew. He was old, probably older than her father. But he had kind eyes, and a mouth that curved upwards even when he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t as large and intimidating as the other Western men she’d seen at the resort.
They picked their way along the shoreline and once, when Made stumbled in the sand, Gordon caught her arm and steadied her.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘You’re welcome.’
When they reached the timber pier at the far end of the beach, they turned back towards the resort. The sun’s rays were just starting to warm the sand.
Made wondered if Gordon would join her again the following morning. She pieced together the English words in her head as they stood at th
e junction of a pebbled path leading to staff quarters in one direction and guest cottages in the other.
‘Gordon stay tomorrow?’
Gordon nodded. ‘Yes, I’m staying four weeks. Working.’
Made couldn’t be sure that she’d heard him correctly. Four weeks? She would check again later, when she cleaned his cottage.
‘Made work now.’ She gestured towards the staff quarters.
‘Me too. Thank you for the . . . jalan-jalan.’
She smiled at his attempt. ‘Yes, thank you for the walking.’
A fortnight later, she borrowed an Indonesian–English dictionary from Ketut. Her daily visit to Cottage 12 had become a pleasant distraction from the mundane aspects of her job. Gordon had started writing more and more Indonesian sentences on paper, reading them aloud so she could correct his pronunciation. She discovered that he was from Australia, not America; that he was a civil engineer contracted to work in Bali on a large retail development in Legian; that he enjoyed his job, but enjoyed surfing more. In turn, she’d begun listening to an English language CD on the small disc player he had given her. Every night she plugged in the headphones and lay back on her bed, mouthing the foreign words. She imagined Gordon doing the same with the Indonesian for Beginners CD he had purchased.
Their early morning walks became a fixture in Made’s day. Gordon always waited by the banyan tree, watching quietly while she made her offering. They walked the same route, but never failed to discover something new along the way: a silvery shell glinting in the sun’s first light, an ancient piece of timber washed up on the shoreline, a single shoe with a US dollar note curled inside it.
One Saturday morning, they almost fell over a Western couple, half naked in the sand. The pungent smell of alcohol hung in the air as the woman writhed on top of the man. A tattoo spiralled down her sunburned back, bold purple letters inscribing a word Made didn’t recognise: P-U-R-I-T-Y.
The Mothers' Group Page 9
