He waved the guava, saw her stop, held it out to her. It was light green, ripe, that’s when they’re the sweetest. She knew because of the times Mother had taken her to Grandmother’s house and she had picked the fallen guavas in the garden. Now Mother was gone, and she would never visit Grandmother’s house. Had Grandmother died and no one told her? But that was because she was only eight. Grandmother’s guavas were never so large. She wanted it not to bring home to Father but to eat it like she ate all those little sweet guavas in Grandmother’s guarden when Grandmother was alive.
The old man handed her the guava and tugged at her to follow him. The front room was empty and dim, it didn’t look like anyone lived there. He put his hand under her dress and stroked her front. She didn’t think anything of it. He was shivering, the folds of his face matching the folds of his arms. She didn’t know skin and flesh could drip and drape like spotted grey cloth over a body. He put one hand through her sleeve and twisted her nipple. It didn’t hurt, but she moved away, then ran out.
The next day, he was sitting by the bench waiting for her. This time he had a ten-cent coin, all shiny and new, and she stayed just a little longer while he stroked her arms and chest, his eyes shut mysteriously. But when he called to her the day after, and the days following that, she ran past without looking. He had only money to give her, and the ten-cent coin did not make up for the terrible pleasure of ignoring his pleading eyes and wavering hand.
“TA’ MALU!”
Mei Sim wriggled at her mother’s words.
“You no shame! Close your legs.”
Mother was standing five steps below the landing, the soft straw broom in one hand and her head level with Mei Sim’s shoulders.
Mei Sim stared down her legs which she had spread apart the better to balance her body as she half-lay on the smooth wooden landing and thought her thoughts to herself. Up came the broom and it thumped against her knees. She pulled them together and tugged at her short skirt.
“What you do here all day? Go ask Ah Kim to give you a bath.” Her mother’s round pretty face was troubled. She had had a perm just last week, and the fat curls sat like waxed waves over her brow, wrinkled with vexation. “We’re going to visit Tua Ee. And don’t sit with your legs open there. She think I bring you up with no shame.”
“Ya, ma.” Mei Sim sidled past her mother’s solid body down the stairs, glad for something to do. Every day was a problem for her until her brothers came home from school at three when they would shout at her to go away but still could be persuaded to give her a piggyback ride or to let her hold their legs in a wheelbarrow run. The house was empty and dull until then, containing only chairs, tables, beds, cupboards, photographs and such like, but no one to play with.
Ah Kim was scrubbing her brother’s school uniform on the ridged washboard. Drub, drub, drub, slosh, slosh. Mei Sim squatted beside her. Ah Kim’s stool was only a few inches high and she had her legs thrust straight in front with the wooden board held firmly between. Her samfoo sleeves were rolled up high and the pale arms were wet and soapy up to the elbows. Taking the chunk of yellow laundry soap in her right hand, Ah Kim scrubbed it over a soiled collar. Then, seizing the collar in a fist, she pushed the cloth vigorously up and down the ridges. Her knuckles were red and swollen, but her face was peaceful. “You wait,” she said, not turning away from the washboard. “I wash you next.”
Bathtime was directly under the tall tap in the corner of the open-roofed bathroom. Mei Sim was just short enough to stand under the full flow of water pouring in a steady stream from the greenish brass tap while Ah Kim scrubbed her chest, legs and armpits with Lifebuoy. She was six and would soon be too tall for this manoeuvre. Soon, Ah Kim said, she would have to bathe herself with scoops of water from the clay jar in the other corner of the bathroom. Dodging in and out of the water, Mei Sim thought she would not like to have to work at her bath.
Mother dressed her in her New Year’s party frock, an organdy material of pink and purple tuberoses with frills down the bib and four stiff layers gathered in descending tiers for a skirt. She picked a red and green plaid ribbon which Ah Kim threaded through her plaits and, her face and neck powdered with Johnson Talc, she waited for the trishaw, pleased with herself and her appearance.
Mother had put on her gold bangles, gold earrings, and a long heavy chain of platinum with a cross as a pendant. Her kebaya was pale blue, starched and ironed to a gleaming transparency under which her white lace chemise showed clearly. Gold and diamond kerosang pinned the kebaya tightly together, and the gold-brown sarong was wrapped tightly around her plump hips and stomach. She had to hitch herself up onto the trishaw and, once seated, carefully smoothed the sarong over her knees. When Mei Sim climbed in, Mother gave her a push to keep her from crushing her sarong.
Grandaunty’s house was all the way in Klebang. Usually Father took them there for visits in the evening after their meal. It was enough of a long way off for Mei Sim to always fall asleep in the car before they reached home.
The trishaw man pedalled vigorously for the first part, ringing his bell smartly at slow crossing pedestrians and hardly pausing to look before turning a corner into another narrow road. At Tranquerah he began to slow down. There was much less motor traffic, a few bicycles, and now and again a hawker’s cart got in his way. Green snaky veins zigzagged up his calves. His shaven coconut-round head was dripping with sweat. He didn’t stop to wipe it, so the sweat ran down his forehead and got into his eyes, which were deep-set and empty, staring vaguely down the long road.
After a while, Mei Sim grew bored with watching the trishaw man pump the pedals. She leaned forward to stare at the houses on both sides of the road. What interesting things to see that she had missed on their evening car rides! Here was a small stall with bottles of cencaluk and belacan neatly mounded on shelves. She glimpsed through an open door a red and gold altar cloth and bowls of oranges and apples before a dim sepia portrait. Two neneks in shabby sarong and kebaya sat on a long bench by the covered front of another house. Each woman had a leg pulled up under her sarong, like one-legged idols set for worship. Here was a pushcart with a tall dark mamak frying red-brown noodles in a heavy kwali. How good it smelled. Mei Sim’s stomach gave a little grumble.
Now they were passing the Baptist Gospel Hall where on Sunday evenings she had seen many people standing in rows singing sweetly. In the morning glare the shuttered windows were peeling paint and a crack showed clearly on the closed front door which had a huge chain and lock on it.
“Hoy!” the trishaw man shouted. The wheels swerved suddenly and bumped over something uneven. Mei Sim hadn’t seen anything.
Her mother gripped her arm and said aloud, “You bodoh. Almost fall off the trishaw. Sit inside all the way.”
“What was that, ma?”
“A puppy dog.”
She turned her head to peer behind but the canvas flaps were down.
The trishaw man was talking to himself in Hokkien. A small trail of saliva was trickling down the side of his mouth. Mei Sim could only hear mumbles like, “Hey . . . yau soo. . . chei . . .”
“What is he saying, ma?” she whispered.
“Never mind what he say. He angry at puppy dog, bring him bad luck.”
Mei Sim looked at the bare brown legs again. They were moving much more slowly, and the mumbles continued, sometimes louder, sometimes quieting to a slippery whisper. Her mother didn’t