A Different Sky (59 page)

Upstairs, Little Sparrow heard Bertie moving about. She longed for him to come down and crouch by her chair, putting his head on her lap as if he understood the years they had lost. This happened rarely now that she had arranged for him to go once a week to a brothel on Lavender Road; his mind was filled by thoughts of women other than his mother. In the depths of the house the servants quarrelled, the knock of pans and the hiss of running water from the kitchen heralding the preparation of dinner. The earthy smell of onions came to her through the open window and gave her a feeling of consolidation. She had got used to having a small vegetable garden during the war, and continued to keep one; it reminded her of home. As a child, the smell of onions and the family's own ordure was always around her. Every day they had spread their own night soil over the earth, beneath the puffball heads of the onions her mother sold in the market. They all helped with the job, ladling out the stinking mess from a wooden bucket.

Lim Hock An had ridden past her home on a tall horse and stopped for a drink of water, ordering it boiled and cooled before he would touch a drop. While he refreshed himself she had sat outside the hut with a bowl of green beans her mother had given her, stringing them for dinner. She remembered the sound of her mother's soft sobbing coming from inside. When Lim Hock An strode out and mounted his horse, her father had lifted her up to sit behind him. At first the ride was a novelty, but soon the animal's sweating back and the smell of the man she clung to filled her nose unpleasantly. As it grew dark they reached an inn and he lifted her down in his arms.

‘I want to go home,' she had said.

‘Your home is now with me,' he answered, and showed her a rough sleeping pallet in the corner of his room. All night she remembered she had lain awake listening to the sound of him turning and snoring, her body numb with terror. Little Sparrow sighed sadly as these memories washed through her.

Now, at last there were sounds of arrival and the gate swung open with a metallic ring. Greta entered the house in a rush and made straight for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Little Sparrow jumped out of her chair.

‘Where have you been?' she shouted, following her daughter into the bedroom. Greta did not turn. Busily she pulled out clothes from drawers and the cupboard and stuffed them into her schoolbag.

‘Where have you been again? Do you want to kill me with worry?' Little Sparrow clenched her fists and shook them at her daughter.

‘Why should I tell you? You don't understand my life,' Greta yelled in reply, the hacked-off fringe of hair a hard jagged line above her angry eyes.

‘This time we're going to hold out for as long as it takes at Chinese High; we'll organise our own lessons, cook our own food. We'll force the government to listen to us,' Greta shouted.

‘I am your mother!' Little Sparrow screamed, afraid she might cry, the frustration was so big inside her.

‘You are bourgeois. The Party is my family now,' Greta replied, and returned to her packing. Little Sparrow could not comprehend the strange words her daughter used, but she understood that she was disowned.

‘What about your duty to me?' Little Sparrow thought she might choke on the words.

‘Duty to parents is from the old life. Our duty is to uplift the masses who break their backs in the fields for people like you.' Greta spat the words out scornfully.

Little Sparrow drew a breath of pain. For the first time she realised that her daughter knew nothing of her past, had accepted only that she was the wife of a rich man, born to ease and comfort. Suddenly she needed to sit down, but there was no chair.

‘The Party is my mother,' Greta yelled, swinging the bulging schoolbag over her shoulder.

‘I'm leaving. I will go to China and give my life for the revolution.' Greta turned and ran down the stairs and out of the door. Once again Little Sparrow heard a car engine start up. A door slammed as the vehicle drove away. She stood transfixed at the top of the stairs, looking down at the open front door and the dark vegetable garden beyond. She bent to pick up a white cotton sock that had fallen from Greta's schoolbag. The faint perfume of onions came to her from the garden.

During the months that followed Ei Ling's arrival at Bougainvillaea House, Mei Lan found that the things she had worried about were decided for her. The wide press coverage of Ei Ling's court case had spread Mei Lan's name amongst a deprived community. No sooner was Ei Ling settled in a small room with two of her children, than the
sister of a woman trapped in a similar marriage appeared to beg Mei Lan's help. A young prostitute fled a brothel, and arrived on her doorstep having heard of her through a sympathetic client. A mother brought her teenage daughter, beaten and molested by her stepfather, to Bougainvillaea House. Another prostitute, half dead from a botched abortion appeared, as did two sisters who had escaped from the hold of a ship during abduction to a brothel in Penang. A girl covered in burns and cuts from torture by her stepmother collapsed at the gate one night, and was found almost dead the next morning. A First Wife, poisoned by a Second Wife and their common husband, was brought to Mei Lan by a housemaid. Unmarried mothers, raped women, battered wives: soon Bougainvillaea House was filled to capacity by this needy population and Mei Lan was hard pressed to cope, finding it impossible to turn any woman away.

Almost every day she was in touch with the Salvation Army or the Poh Leung Kuk, and moved some girls to their care. Both institutions were themselves stretched to the limit and reluctant to offer help. Ah Siew, and the houseboy and two young housemaids she had been forced to hire, were worn out and struggled with the cleaning, feeding and organisation of the growing crowd. Every few days a fresh arrival appeared as, by word of mouth, Mei Lan's reputation grew. She took extended leave from Bayley McDonald & Cheong to deal with developments at home, and Mr Cheong was not approving. Ei Ling then surprised Mei Lan by a sudden show of assertiveness, ordering servants about like a martinet, standing no nonsense from anyone, running the house in a capable way. Her face brightened, she began to take care of her appearance and became almost stylish, her hair drawn up and secured with a long ornamental pin. Mei Lan had managed to get custody for her of her remaining two children, standing guarantor for them herself. All were now settled in Bougainvillaea House with Ei Ling, a rowdy crowd of small boys and girls who were packed off each day to school and kept busy with chores when home. The children, who had been scrawny rascals, filled out almost instantly on the plentiful food and responded to care and attention.

At the first medical emergency Mei Lan had called upon Cynthia for help. She had been grateful to find Cynthia at Belvedere when she returned from England, acknowledging against her will that this link again with Howard stirred emotions she would rather not face. Cynthia
began to go each day after work to Bougainvillaea House to check on the sick women, setting up a makeshift clinic in the kitchen. In the worst cases she contacted Dr Wong who, still at Joo Chiat Hospital, was prepared to take some patients as charity.

Bougainvillaea House was small and already crowded to overflowing. It was Cynthia who suggested they ask Rose for use of the Belvedere kitchen with its huge gas rings and cooking pots. Rose was hesitant at first to oblige someone she had previously viewed with such suspicion, but frail with angina and bored with the sparse events of her day, Rose found herself suggesting menus and imparting domestic advice, even lending Belvedere linen and mattresses to Mei Lan. Once or twice when Bougainvillaea House could take no more inmates, she had accommodated Mei Lan's bedraggled women in Belvedere's empty rooms.

On Howard's return to Belvedere from Sydney, it had begun to rain and Ah Fong had hobbled from the house under a large black umbrella to help with his suitcases. Howard saw with a shock that all the old man's teeth were gone. In the rain Belvedere stood sadly, weeds sprouting from guttering, paintwork worn, metal rusting, shutters crooked or missing. His mother had thrown herself upon him, sobbing to such an extent that he suddenly felt responsible for the decay about him, just because he had escaped it. He was upset to find she suffered from angina and had told him nothing about it. She now spent much of her day resting on the old chintz sofa that he saw had been recovered in the usual pink design. The squatters had gone in his years away, and Rose had refurnished his old room with salvaged bits and pieces. Nothing in it was familiar except his saxophone, which stood in a corner in need of a polish. The rain had pelted down all day, drying up only in the evening. Within a few days he was to start work in the Social Welfare Department of the civil service.

That first night Howard heard the scuffling and squeaking of rats, the clank and wheeze of ancient pipes, sniffed the odour of decay and knew he was back in Belvedere. He was no longer afraid of the lurking presence he had sensed as a child in the dark heart of the house, yet, as he lay in bed, he felt the weight of the pace creep over him. He pushed aside the mosquito net, got out of bed and went to the window. The empty white light of the moon spilt over Bougainvillaea House.
The fence was gone from the canal and a bridge now stretched across it linking the two plots of land, but in the years he had been away, nothing else appeared to have changed. He had heard from Cynthia that Mei Lan had returned from England some time before and was involved in a prominent court case reported in all the newspapers. In the distance there was the rumble of thunder; lightning shot across the sky. The restlessness he had felt all day took hold of him again. It had begun even before he disembarked from the ship and the clamour, intense odour and heat of the city closed about him again. Anticipation had quickened his pulse as, from the deck of the ship, he watched the green shoreline of Singapore approach.

Howard asked Cynthia about Mei Lan the next evening, when he sat alone with her in the dining room after dinner. Cynthia looked at him sharply but Howard's face gave nothing away. She told him then about the interlocking arrangements between Belvedere and Bougainvillaea House and the history of Mei Lan's shelter.

‘She's changed many women's lives for the better, and for her it's a way of healing; by helping the damaged she's helping herself. It's like Wilfred writing his book,' she said, listening to the shuffling feet of Belvedere's three old lodgers as they left the dining room.

Howard said nothing as Cynthia spoke, knowing she was waiting for a reaction from him but refusing to show how any talk of Mei Lan still affected him. His sister had aged, he noticed. The stress of long hours of work at the hospital and her committed care of the invalided Wilfred had taken its toll. Wilfred was walking again, although with a limp and the aid of a stick, grim faced and speaking little; his preferred communication with the world was now through the written word. Wilfred's book,
Lost Paradise
, had been published in London to great acclaim the year before. He had made some welcome money and his reputation as a writer was sealed; he and Cynthia were leaving for England within a few weeks. A lecture tour of the country had been arranged, and also a big reunion with other men who had survived the camps along the Thai–Burma railway. Cynthia worried about leaving Rose.

‘You've come back just in time. I didn't want to go with Mummy in this condition, although I know Mei Lan would have kept an eye on her. Wilfred needs me and this is such a chance for him. He's talking of settling in Wiltshire where he was born; but we'll see how we feel when we get there.'

Howard nodded absently as Cynthia talked, absorbing her news of Mei Lan. Over the years while they lived at opposite ends of the world Mei Lan's unbridgeable distance, both physically and emotionally, had shrunk everything there had been between them. In anger he had turned to other women. He was older than most at the university and knew he was attractive to women; he had the looks and manner they liked. Gossip returned to him; he'd heard it said he was suave and worldly and was considered a catch. It was said he was destined for a brilliant career; he had taken a good degree in Politics and Economics and not found the study too arduous. He had relationships with many of the women around him, sometimes balancing several at a time; one or two he had even considered seriously. There had been one called Jacky and another called Sandra and both had been small, dark haired and determined. He wondered even then if he chose them because they reminded him of Mei Lan.

Marilyn had been different, tall and blonde with a face that was in constant motion, talking, laughing, thinking; never still. Individually her features were not attractive, but put together they had a striking effect. People said she was beautiful and then wondered why they said so; her hazel eyes were too close together, her nose was long, her mouth too generous and her strawberry blonde hair hung limply. She was aware of herself, and this gave her the confidence to take what she wanted from life; she was never without a boyfriend. Marilyn worked as a journalist on the paper where Howard had a part-time job; a colleague had introduced them. Those who did not like her said she had slept with everyone in the office. When his turn came, Howard saw no reason to resist. Her sun-warmed body, always soft and scented from the tanning oil she used, and the invitation offered in her eyes, demolished him quickly. In bed she was far more experienced than he, and taught him things he thought no woman should know. On the small balcony of her studio apartment she liked to sunbathe naked and once, at a party in the midst of a crowd, she drew him into a corner and slid his hand beneath her skirt, and he found she wore no underwear. It had driven him mad. Marilyn wanted him to marry her, and the affair had drifted on for months on the promise that they would announce their engagement. Howard always found excuses to delay, and in the end they parted. Now he was back in Belvedere, he knew the reason he could not marry Marilyn was because of Mei Lan.