Lullaby

Cat-lady Auntie Helen giving further goss. on goings-on in our duplex here. The pretty young shapely Mainlander upstairs next door is in fact the kept mistress of none other than landlord Tan's brother. Yes indeed. There you go. Didn't know that I warrant. Earlier there had been precious little news of Tan's family apart from his own mistress, who doubled as an assistant for his rental concerns. "My Assistant", he had once referred to "Jacqueline". Shiva during his term here when he had been palsy with Tan heard Tan's wife had complained about the mistress, had threatened to leave. After a talking-to from her husband that included such bullets as 1. Haven't you got everything you could possibly want? and 2. Why would you be crazy to walk away from this and make everything harder for both of us? Mrs. Tan folded back her wings again and one marriage sensibly saved. Hand it to him, for an illiterate Tan was a good talker. A bullock, but there was force of reason apparent too. If you wanted to best the pugilist in the rhetorical ring better prepare your best punches in advance. (Auntie Helen had needed some tutoring in petitions for rent reductions.) How had Tan earned the dollars one wondered. Running girls and nothing else. Currently the man ran a Karaoke Bar around in Joo Chiat somewhere, as well as a kitchen renovation business in the same strip. A big-noting big time bullshit artist too by the same token. Given a lift early days, Tan had casually dropped the detail of his proprietorship of eighteen houses in Singapore. One-eight. You believed him? responded Auntie Helen when she was served the tidbit.
         This next door Master of the Mistress was likely a half brother, Auntie Helen speculated. Nothing in features shared; and this chap might have brains given that friends included doctors and the like. Nice shiny blue-black Merc pulling out the driveway prompted the line of conversation. Glimpsed down in the driver's seat it did appear an unlikely fit. Blue striped shirt, dark trousers, greyhound more than bulldog. You would not think boxer Tan's dad stayed at home sweeping in front of the family compound and feeding the chooks, right enough. Mistresses in the family line.
         Further, Mr. Toh is the name of the horse-head granddad next door. Aunt provided the English spelling. Nice, genial chap, always ready with a greeting, pulling up on his tall handle-barred bicycle in the driveway Christmas morning in order to wish Happy New Year. Barely a word of English. New Years were the standard markers for all the ethnic communities in Singapore, easy to confuse. Sing-song Good mornings extended into the dark for Granddad Toh. Early on there had been a correction and a blushing apology, lesson failed to be learned. Let slide. That Chrissy morning the penny finally dropped too for Granddad Toh. Belatedly. Fifteen, sixteen months later up close again shaking the hand the simple realization Mr. Toh could be parachuted behind the lines into any European city, dress him up in the local garb and an immediate pass as a native at any pub or supermarket. Half caste of some description, or mixed blood, as they said in Singapore; granddad of his own perhaps not far back in the works. Crystal clear. How in the heck had it taken such a blessed time for that realization to strike? Quite remarkable given not an ordinary eagle eye.
         In Block 21 here at the Haig Road towers Mr. Toh has an elder brother. This man is a father of eight children: eight hungry mouths. That was the reason for the progressive sale of the inheritance. In fact Mr. Toh now owns only the second storey of the middle, sandwiched house in the row. Above, the third floor, owned by Brains Tan, where the mistress is ensconced. Often the other three rooms there left vacant, confided Auntie H. Wise perhaps to safe-guard the Pretty, though Aunt’s point seemed to be the ample resources—no shortage of dosh. Occasionally Brains T. will let to foreigners short-term. The glimpse left uncertain who was the elder, Brains or Brawn. One would need a better look to judge properly.
         Upstairs in our own front house a pretty young Viet has been installed in the last month by her own Sugar Daddy. Quizzing Jap Tour Guide, day-time TV addict Richard, the dad had been generously described as “middle-aged”. Hohoho! Yeah right. According to the standard of the CCP Executive Council a couple generations ago maybe. Rich himself was a transgressor, marrying an Indon woman about thirty years his junior only four or five months ago. The new Sugar Daddy might be quietly celebrating his seventh decade a hop step and stumble away, like Richard keeping up fortnightly dyes. Man has already alienated Auntie Helen by washing his late model white Toyota Max 1 in the driveway close-by Auntie’s door. No scrimping on soap, the run-off later was lapped up by auntie’s mogs of course. Thoughtless. Sugar cooks for Pretty when they are both home, dries the dishes at the sink. Many of the Viet brides here are part-Chinese with some language share. The Courts TV salesman who has taken over the former front room has a Viet wife himself, much more respectable age differential in that case. Devoted good couple, lady’s job to keep herself trim, cook and wash the company livery. Rewarded with flights back to see her family periodically, when back-sliding hubbie reverts to the bottle.

         Auntie Helen is passed the newspaper lunchtimes after the morning tea, gratified at the consideration shown her. Most in the house avoid the Cat-lady. She smells, her day shift carrying the yellow stain of the close loving bestowed upon her litter. There might be six or seven mogs who have the run of the front room, special favourites. Otherwise nightly Aunt feeds perhaps a dozen others in the near neighbourhood with her specially ordered premium food delivered regularly in 20 litre plastic buckets to her front door. Taking pity on some of the local association, Auntie provides feed where she can. One old hunchback from Haig Road could not be ignored poor thing. For a time there were stretched canvas banners behind the Haig Road bus-stop warning of thousand dollar fines feeding birds and cats just where the permed hunchback deposited nightly.

         The party wall dividing the former garage converted by Boxer Tan into two extra rooms lacks any acoustic insulation. In front Auntie Helen has the benefit of a separate entry door and two large windows looking onto the Tohs row of pots and fringe garden. Breeze curling in perfumed by the greenery, bird song, early warning of the landlord’s comings and goings. Aunt had no time for cooking, no wifi reception out there, her own refrigerator and LED TV bought at her own expense. (A mountain of matter for the rental relief petition, once added to the recent downturn in the market that was well reported in the newspaper.) For Number Ones Auntie would use the shower, one or two of her indoor enemies speculated. For her “shit” no such luxury. When Aunt entered for the shared WC’s beside the washing machines the import was unmistakable. (Some Malay-Chin prejudice, sad to report. Nothing major.)

         Outback behind Auntie a different story. A fully equipped bathroom was one thing, sit-down throne included. Strongest negative however the lack of ventilation: windows opened onto the passage to the utility area, machines and twin bathrooms. (Notice lacking for prohibition of post-11pm washing.) Add the shared waste pipe with Auntie’s rich feline perfumes and the problem compounded. Small wonder the Courts husband always had his door open and the side door of the house likewise angled hopefully for any breath of air. What to do?

         Morning and night one wondered at the piercing fluted notes sounded by Aunt Helen in front. Was it telephone conversation with friends and family? Aunt had professional sisters in Singapore; convent educated like herself no doubt. Perhaps chat with the girls and women from her chapter who came regularly to her front door. There was radio later in the morning and seemingly TV nights—it was not difficult to differentiate the two media even in a foreign language through a wall. After eleven at night deep peaceable rowing across the wide lake of Auntie’s sleep. A former Chin woman who had been in the back room earlier had complained. Auntie had asked the question soon after the return to the house. Later the thought occurred for the reason of attempting to establish her privacy within her own domicile—if snoring was hardly audible there might be free reign given otherwise.

         The rhythms and lilt were striking. Captivating would not be putting the matter too strongly. One regularly found oneself straining to listen. Aunt was a smooth, garrulous talker once she got going. Initial encounters could find Auntie H. slightly cross-eyed and askew: head tilted to one side, firm defensive posture, patient hearing out without interruption as if readying for any barb that might be fired in her direction. Once relaxed perfect smoothness and good humour. As an older, educated woman and fluent English speaker, confident and strong in temper, Aunt Helen was the natural leader of the Cat-lovers at the top-end of Carpmael. Recent de-sexing issues, the problem of strays and then rats attracted to food left out for animals all featured in the Home section of the newspaper in recent weeks. An on-going story concerned a Cat Café somewhere on the other side of town where in a few months there had been seven fatalities. When it first broke this particular story had been highlighted in fluro for Auntie Helen. Horrid heartlessness. Typical business instinct over-riding all compassion. The man operating the establishment had been photographed relaxing in his cosy interior with cats all round. What might Aunt have done with that paper indoors and the large picture of the Smiler?... Had she been an employee of that café by golly….

          It took some while to comprehend the full extent of loving Auntie Helen was devoting to her brood. Mornings the rousing calls were of a distinctly different pitch to Beddy-byes. Night Gucchi-gucchi-goos fairly stunned a listener and took the breath away. Oh dear lord the depth of that tender loving from the overflowing heart. The stain in the middle of Auntie Helen’s shift was recalled. Meeting with Aunt thereafter one’s eyes wandered unavoidably. One black green-eyed beauty that slept afternoon under the front entry porch bore buck teeth and a persistent dribble of phlegm which was sometimes left on the newspaper awaiting Auntie Helen. (Some of the papers were re-cycled after reading for softening hard seats for the felines.) There was another more regular black and one handsome full-bodied black and white. No ginger in this household of Auntie H.’s and precious few in the entire neighbourhood—it always seemed to be the gingers that drew the strongest attention from captivated children along the paths, for many of whom these free-ranging beasts  of the animal kingdom were the strongest form of untamed nature in the city-state. Remarkable scope of loving delivered by Aunt. What an abundant well of feeling she drew up from deep within her heart. No fond mothers nursing babes at their breasts rejoiced more passionately in the glory of their blessed station, sending their rooms spinning away into starry heavens. Perhaps only in song-and-dance Bollywood movies there might still remain segments of such heady exaltation. Aunt’s arias morning and night were a miracle of their own kind. As in the circles of other displays of love, one was privileged to witness. 

         The deepest night secret in the house however in fact centred on the downstairs bathroom, the right more spacious than the other. Time is witching 4am. Most recently—last night—duration was sixty minutes, give or take seven-eight either side. Periodic bursts of running water. Guttural screeches. Wretches. Strangulations and choking. A terrible battle joined. Long gaps in-between brought dripping taps, dribbling in the piping in the floor. Other kinds of movies followed this particular pattern of development. Again tearing regurgitations and purges behind the door heaved into either the pan or the basin. Water drips. Cut away to the figure of the victim. Was she lowered to her knees, or rather leaning all the while against the mirror with blinded eyes? Brief gushes of water washed away the evidence; toilet flushes intermittent. Since her marriage breakdown Shafeera the Banquet Manager at a near-by five star hotel has had her younger cousin Susie staying with her, keeping company. Thirteen-fourteen months now Susie has been traveling to Changi for her shifts at one of the boutiques at the airport. Shafeera's husband up and left fourteen-fifteen months ago. Does Susie know? Did the husband leave because his wife had gotten so large? Cigarettes during pauses in the battle within. Darkest night secret. Canna tell. Who is the sadder, Auntie with her cats or this other? Canna tell.