Bitter Leaves Read online

  About the Author

  Tabatha Stirling is a published writer, poet, book cover artist and indie publisher living in Edinburgh, Scotland with her husband, two children and a depressed beagle, called The Beagle.

  Her publishing credits include LITRO, Spelk, Literary Orphans, Mslexia, Feminine Collective, Sick Lit Mag, Scottish PEN and The Magnolia Review.

  An extract of her addiction memoir is to be published in the Wild and Precious Life anthology edited by Lily Dunn and Zoe Gilbert.

  When she’s not writing, reading grimdark fiction or designing she enjoys watching dark, blood-splattered dramas like The Walking Dead, Ray Donovan and Sons of Anarchy. Tabby is absolutely ready for a zombie apocalypse.

  Bitter Leaves

  Tabatha Stirling

  Unbound Digital

  This edition first published in 2019

  Unbound

  6th Floor Mutual House, 70 Conduit Street, London W1S 2GF

  www.unbound.com

  All rights reserved

  © Tabatha Stirling, 2019

  The right of Tabatha Stirling to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-78965-021-1

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-78965-020-4

  Cover design by Mecob

  First and foremost, I dedicate this book to Clarita Dumadora Baer. My heart sister and great friend whom I based the character Lucilla on, and she was kind enough to let me use her mother’s name for the character’s name.

  Without her testimony and courage and the moving accounts from so many maids and helpers in Singapore – this book could never have been written.

  Thank you, Clarie Bell, Mahal kita po. Xx

  Acknowledgements

  To my darling Bub and Boo – you have made me a better woman, person and mother. Your love is a blessing and gives me so much strength.

  And my Papa Love – for being the first person to actually tell me to commit to my writing or just give it up – but make a choice. And I did.

  To my mother, Diana, life will never be the same again. You’ve gone and I miss you every day. So much I want to share and can’t, but your loss has helped me to produce some of my best work – so your influence still shines through.

  And my father, Brod Brodhurst, in your words, ‘a bit of a bastard but I do what I can’. I loved you anyway.

  Robs, my brother – God! I miss you. I wish you’d see your worth and brilliance because I do.

  Desiree and my darling Rory and Gabs. Don’t see you much but know that I love you.

  Ria and Auntie Colin. My BFFs. Probably wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you both. Constant love and support, worry and acceptance – you are both beautiful human beings. And to my Godsnorks, Louis, Ella-Jane and Elsie.

  To my Muv and Farv – thank you for being so supportive of my endeavours and forgiving of my foibles. Best in-laws in the world – and Rachael, Abi, Owain, Corey and Stuart.

  Johnny Coburn – because… well, you know. x

  Authonomy friends – so much talent. Kate, Angelika, Big O, Mr Maitland, Bradley Darewood, Skippy, Di Dickson, Sebnem, Matteon, Katerina, Nutkin & Russell, my favourite ‘reds’; Polly (if I only had half your talent); Ellie (first review on Authonomy, which snowballed because you are so respected – thank you); Tottie Limejuice … bonkers and glorious; Tee Tyson – so full of grace; Robarticus – also bonkers and glorious and a brilliant actor – take note Hollywood but hide your green plants! And all in our Facebook Write and Rant group.

  Once upon a time there was an online writer platform called Authonomy. It was a complex and at times quite insane window into the minds and craft of writers. This was the first outing for Bitter Leaves, formerly Blood on the Banana Leaf, and it was a wild ride. I met some incredible friends and extraordinary talent and if I missed anyone please forgive me.

  To all my Unbound author chums – Colgers, Sarah, Helen, Ian, Shona, Emily and the rest of the Unbound Social Club.

  To the Society of Authors for the encouragement and safe harbour. Your ongoing support is just brilliant and generous grant was vital to my work.

  To the ones I’ve lost. Judith Williamson: oh! darling Jude, how I miss you. So much more for you to have written – so much more to discover about each other. Swing on, sister x

  To my editor Scott Pack, who found me on Twitter and put up with my Aeschlyean tragedy that was happening because ‘writers are needy buggers’, aren’t they? To Mary Chesshyre – frankly my respect for copy editors has risen stratospherically because of her insight, ideas and thoughtfulness – thank you.

  To Lesley Glaister, Jean Rhys, Lionel Shriver, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Simone de Beauvoir, Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, Flannery O’Connor, Denise Mina: your contributions to literature and blinding talent have shaped me into the writer I am today. Thanks doesn’t seem enough but you have mine. To Sylvia Plath for showing me how poetry should be written – authentic, brave, true.

  To the first reviewers on The Pigeonhole, in particular Lesley and Pheadra. Incredible reviews that made my heart sing – enorme merci.

  To everybody at my super-cute publisher, Unbound, for the support and for publishing my book; they have given writers a credible but unconventional route to traditional publishing.

  Everybody who pledged for Bitter Leaves – this is your book too.

  All the maids and helpers in Singapore and all over the world – I hope they see you now, brave women.

  Dear Reader,

  The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound.

  Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.

  This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. Here, at the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.

  Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.

  If you’re not yet a subscriber, we hope that you’ll want to join our publishing revolution and have your name listed in one of our books in the future. To get you started, here is a £5 discount on your first pledge. Just visit unbound.com, make your pledge and type STIRLING19 in the promo code box when you check out.

  Thank you for your support,

  Dan, Justin and John

  Founders, Unbound

  Super Patrons

  Kathryn Backhouse

  Festive Barclay

  Papa Big Beard

  My darling Clarie Bell

  John ‘Brod’ Brodhurst

  Johnny Coburn
<
br />   Claire Crowe

  Susie Driver

  Lesley Glaister

  Clare Jenne

  Emma Macaulay

  Yvonne Marjot

  Nick Matthews

  Jock Hoots McCrivens

  Hannah McGoran

  Cass McMain

  Evelyn Mitchell

  Rachel Moore

  Barbara Morgan

  Kate Murdoch

  Pat Murdoch

  Nicole Nic

  Matthew Ogborn

  Diana Robinson

  Maria Simpson

  Michelle Simpson

  Fiona Spence

  Roslyn and Iain Stirling

  Jill and David Wall

  Sabre Green is a pseudonym for a genuine neighbourhood in the West Coast area of Singapore and the characters created and described are fictional. Most of their experiences, however, are not.

  Singapore and related countries have a complex and quite ritualised system of Foreign Domestic Worker employment. The employers are called Ma’am and Sir and the employees are referred to as the maid or helper. Quite often these women’s Christian names are changed for the convenience of their employers.

  LUCILLA

  19 Sabre Green

  The black clouds gather in the distance over the South China Sea. The storm comes here soon; I can smell it in the steamy air and the overheated frangipani in the garden. My throat chokes on homesickness. I miss the fresh air of the Leyte Mountains and the cool streams of the gorges there. I miss my mother and her smell of banana leaves and woodsmoke.

  Ach! This missing will do nobody any good.

  Here it comes. The rain. It bloody pours down, as my Ma’am would say. She is making bread and kneads the dough with a wistful expression. My Ma’am says it remind her of her mother who died five years ago and my Ma’am still misses her with much pain. Sometimes, I find her crying softly and I tell her, mahal kita, Ma’am, and she reply, mahal din kita, Lulubell. And I hug her and her perfume smells like Moh jasmine. She has black hair too and green eyes like mossy rocks in the river back home. And her smile is light up the world smile. And her heart is God filled.

  Other days, she has the sad sickness and sometimes she stays in bed all day. She never closes her door though. Ma’am say she always wants her little boy to know she is there for him. Ma’am loves her child more than rain in a desert. She is like a Filipina in that respect. Not like the other expat ladies often drinking and having parties. And she has good figure not like other western Ma’ams. They look so old with their wrinkle skin, cloud-white hair and bones sticking out like hungry branches. My mother always exclaims, ‘Who would choose to be thin when you have so much food available to you?’ And I have no answer for her.

  Asian woman are naturally slender. Our frames are small and our smiles are big. Some Sirs have an agreement with the maid and pay headache money to them. When the Ma’am has headache the maid keeps their Sir ‘company’.

  My Ma’am and Sir are very in love. They cuddle and kiss all time except when Ma’am has her sad sickness. Then Sir brushes the hair gently from her face and his face loses sun too and becomes dark like night. And he don’t smile properly until Ma’am feels better and begins to smile again. I will know she is better because she will sing down the stairs and hug me and cry, good morning, Lulubell, and smile that big smile and hug me again and all the sparkle returns to the house in a blink. And she has energy to do her yoga or running.

  But not today. Today Ma’am is in the grip of the sadness so I chop some fruit and arrange it prettily for her and make a cup of tea. Ma’am prefers strong black tea from the terraces that line the mountains in her homeland in Sri Lanka. My Sir met my Ma’am in London and they fell in love. But my Ma’am’s father was very angry because he wanted his daughter to marry an older, wealthy man who had been chosen when my Ma’am was just a little girl. Her jadestone eyes and skin just a few shades darker than mine are much prized in her homeland.

  But my Ma’am refused and eloped with my Sir and they married and had Rory. And this beautiful boy’s grandfather was so in love with the baby that he forgive my Ma’am and welcomed Sir to the family too.

  Sometimes my Ma’am shows me pictures of the big cities in Europe where some of the women look like me. Ma’am says that is because my ancestors were Aztec princesses. She sighs that my hair is like a midnight waterfall and my skin like café con leche. I think I look ordinary like all girls from my village but my Ma’am is right because I do have good hair. It is silky and shines in the sun. Western men like it very much and always want to touch. They see women like me as exotic butterflies. My friend says the ang moh like to capture butterflies and stick pins through their wings. I’m not going to let that happen. That’s not love.

  I let myself wander slowly round the house. It is not a big house but still takes some cleaning. With my beloved little boy, Rory, running here and there pulling the world’s dirt behind him, like a baby elephant hard at play. Today I find myself in his bedroom and I let my fingers trail over his bed covers and smell his boy smell. Sweet and sour; delicious like mangosteen. And I love him like a bleeding heart. He has many toys and every Christmas time he chooses some to send to my village. And good ones too. This boy is full of spirit and God’s love. He will grow into a man who respect women and do not fear them.

  My Ma’am says that western men here see us as fresh starts. That most of them would never get a girlfriend back home unless they pay for it. She says they are disgusting and wrinkles her pretty nose. We were shopping last week on Orchard Road and we pass many old men with young young girls. The men are sweating with pride and the girls look pleased with themselves. Ma’am says that they should be ashamed, strutting around like peacocks, and that these men are no better than slave traders, buying girls with diamonds instead of shackles. I smile small at her because no ang moh can truly understand how poor we are. My village in Leyte is a bamboo-shack village. No electricity and no medicine. Some of the kids don’t have slippers and walk to school barefoot. Barefoot is okay, but there are snakes and creatures that bite in the jungle. Sometimes a child steps on spider and it is a long time to the doctor on a moped.

  Ma’am wants to visit the village but I keep making excuse because I am both ashamed and proud of my village. I don’t want her to see our shabby clothes and the dirt. The cockroaches that run up and down the walls like drain water. The toilet is a hole in ground. But I am proud of the love and laughter. And that I am a fortunate daughter indeed to have Rodrigo and Mayella as my parents. My mother stiff-limbed but full of grace and my father, handsome still and proud of his family

  My Ma’am cannot understand. Praise God! How could she? I look around my room which is much bigger than other maid rooms and I have a double bed with a soft mattress. I decorate the walls with stickers of free, pretty things. Butterflies, flowers and birds. My friends are so jealous. Let me work for your Ma’am, they cry, and sigh over the maganda leather shoes my Ma’am gives me for Christmas and tiny bottles of pabango from France.

  My Ma’am gives me all her little creams. She calls them samples. I have Chanel and Lancôme and Guerlain. They smell so good. Most I send to my mother in the big boxes back to the Philippines to my village that smells of dirt and rain and banana leaves. Where hope dies for many. But not for me! I have hope. I’m not going to become angmoh weekend girlfriend. Or China man’s mistress.

  I have a boyfriend. He is China Malay. He is kind. Sometimes too jealous. He tries to read my texts on my phone and demands who that, and who this? It wears me down but it’s so lonely here and worse if you are single. Sometimes, he takes me for seafood on the East Coast and we watch the shipping lanes and listen to the foghorns. When there is a sea fog the big container ships look like ghosts in a strange dance and we play a game guessing where each ship has come from and where it will go to next. But when I see the word Pinoy painted onto a hull homesickness haunts me for the rest of the evening. Sometimes my boyfriend is understanding but often his face sours lik
e old durian and he lights another cigarette and sighs heavily between puffs.

  Singapore is a city of glass and light but it isn’t friendly to us. The Ma’ams stare us down like lions and work their maids too hard. The Indo and Myanmar girls get a much worse life than me and they are paid less. Like sad Shammi who lives next door. She is paid 350 dollar one month. But until her debt is paid off to her agency she won’t get paid at all. Eight months, no day off, no wages. And now she looks like a multo, a pale, slow walker living between two worlds.

  I see her washing that damn car at 5am every morning. What is the point of cleaning a car in Singapore? Bloody rains, lah! Every second. My Ma’am says it’s about oppression. The employer make the maid clean the car simply because he have the power to. Ma’am’s face darkens as the light leaves. Like when she grieves her mother. And she mutters about modern-day slavery and bloody Nazis. And she sigh very deep like it hurts. And I say, oh, Ma’am. And her clear eyes mist and she trudge upstairs as if her heart is broken.

  And I so want to make her smile again so, like I say, I prepare the fruit the way she like it. I arrange the blueberries and strawberries like a flower, and cut up the cantaloupe into sweet wedges and perfect mouthfuls. And the longan that my Ma’am say are like delicious eyeballs. I’ve never eaten eyeballs and I’m too scared to ask Ma’am if she has really eaten one. If a person can eat an eyeball what else could they eat? I cross myself quickly and offer up a prayer to Jesus and St Jude and take the bowl up to my Ma’am. The bedroom is dark and breezy from the fan but she lie still and sad and I hover like a worried Mama until she gently ask me to leave.

  Later, I move slowly up the stairs, sweeping gently. Ma’am has beautiful wooden stairs although it keeps dust too close like lovers who can’t let go. But I find the sweeping a peaceful job. My Ma’am is not fussy and she never checks or runs finger over the furniture to look for dust like Chinese employer, and my face sours at the thought. Even the Singaporean taxi drivers complain about the China man, and their fists clench and their mouths screw up into a tiny ball like a baby wailing. The Uncles, they smash their fists onto the taxi steering wheel and whine like dogs. Damn China man this and damn China man that. And also I have a friend who like pretty Filipina. You want give me your number? He very rich.