Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 8.2.

by Lady Charlotte

THREE QUESTIONS

2. Question Two

"Tell me, Julia," said Signora Moretti, "back when you were the youngest ever Professor of History at Cambridge, did you reckon yourself an atheist?"

I looked at my employer in surprise. For months now, ever since our chat about my one-time feminism, she had only ever summoned me to discuss matters more appropriate to a domestic: cleaning, childcare, errands. Now, out of the blue, an unexpected question once again.

‘I… when, Madam, I…’

Signora Moretti raised a hand. "Silence, Molly. There is no point trying to have a discussion on such a topic with someone whose English and intelligence are as limited as yours. As it happens, I know the answer to my own question. Look."

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 8.1.

Lady Charlotte, the author of the original story Arriving in Milan, has kindly agreed to take the story where Monica Graz (will a little help from yours truly) have left it. This is the first of at least three questions that our heroine will have to answer. I hope you enjoy this installment as much as I did. And to make reading previous installments of the story easier I've created a Molly saga label. 

by Lady Charlotte

THREE QUESTIONS

1. Question One

“Tell me, Julia,” said Signora Moretti, “Back when you were the youngest ever Professor of History at Cambridge, did you reckon yourself a feminist?”

I stared in consternation at my employer. It was a long time since anyone had called me by my original name – and even longer since mention had been made of my original career. I could feel myself going red – and then I paused to wonder if someone as dark-skinned as I now was could actually go red. I tried to meet Signora Moretti’s eye. Of course, it was impossible. As I did instinctively now, whenever I looked at a European, I found myself lowering my gaze to the floor, and fiddling with the hem of my apron.

“Well, girl?”

I tried to find my voice. “I… I…” A cascade of thoughts and memories had come unbidden into my mind; but my words were humiliatingly inadequate to expressing what I wished to convey. “When I… first… when I no maid, Madam… I no want…”

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 7.

by Camille Langtry and Monica Graz

I was so tired! I was in bed for over an hour and I couldn’t fall asleep. My whole body was aching and my cheap cotton nightie was clinging to my skin because of the everlasting heat and humidity. But my mind was racing, thinking how my life had changed once again since my arrival in Singapore as a FDW.

I wasn’t certain anymore how long I have been in Singapore. I have lost track of time completely, but it should have been well over a month. The tropical climate wasn’t helping either since there was no change of seasons and the days were repetitive and, for a FDW like me, full of the same mundane chores which were endless and of all kinds.

All the past month’s scenes of embarrassment and frustration were coming back to me as I was lying in bed dead tired but with my eyes wide open and my mind in a race mode changing from one scene to the other like being in the middle of a very lively dream. I remembered how embarrassed and stupid I felt when Mr. Singh took me to the settling-in program, the traumatic visit to the health center and to see a plastic surgeon the day after...

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 6.

by Camille Langtry and Monica Graz

On the way home I couldn’t get Linda’s question out of my head. “You don’t want to be a maid a decade from now, do you?” Indeed, did I? Who did I see myself as in the future? Did I want to return to my real home country? Would I want to return to being Julia? Or did I see myself sinking deeper and deeper into my new identity as Molly the Filipina maid until my old life was nothing but a distant memory? Is that the life I truly wanted for myself? Or will I end up regretting it - if not now, then in a few years when it would be too late to change anything?

Ever since I landed in Milan I had all the decisions made for me by other people without asking me what I needed or wanted. I have completely surrendered all the authority to Signora Mattei, Conchita, then her sister Juanita and, now, finally, Signora Moretti.  As a matter of fact, the thing I really wanted - even if I didn’t fully admit to it - was to have all those life-changing decisions made for me.

My path of submission got me to where I was now. Where would it take me further? I was still young, I still had at least 30 years of active work life ahead of me. I tried to picture myself as an old and destitute Filipina maid, her knees swollen and her skin rough from many years of scrubbing the floors and doing other endless household chores. Was that the life I really wanted for myself? Part of me screamed “yes”, it was a dark and disturbing - yet, strangely appealing - fantasy of mine. But the other part of me found the prospects incredibly scary.

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 5.

by Camille Langtry and Monica Graz

I wasn’t sure what to wear for my orientation day, but Signora Moretti made the choice for me, grabbing a simple light blue maid’s dress from my small wardrobe and putting it on the bed.

“You are an FDW in this country, Molly, there is no reason to hide this fact,’’ she said casually. She turned her back to me, but not before urging me to dress as quickly as I could as Mr. Singh was already waiting to take me to the orientation, or the Settling In Program.

“Yes, Ma’am. I be bery past”, I uttered in my thick Filipino accent, but she’s already left the room.

I slipped on the dress and, almost without thinking, tied an apron around my waist. I quickly brushed my pitch black hair - I dyed it again just days ago when still in Manila to conceal my natural auburn color - and put it in a simple ponytail, when I heard Signora Moretti shout from the hall: “Girl, are you ready yet? Mr. Singh is waiting! You are running late!”

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 4.

This is an experiment for me. As much as I admire Monica Graz's writing I had still been bombarding her with endless ideas and suggestions. As I result she has kindly agreed to allow me to write a chapter of my own. The next chapter will come from Monica herself, possibly followed by one from me.

Molly in Singapore. Part 4.

by Camille Langtry I was sitting in a small room with a table and two chairs and nothing else. The grey door was shut. There was a mirror, taking up half of the wall to my right. I’ve seen enough movies to know that in reality it was a one-sided window that allowed people from an adjoining room to monitor me. I didn’t know how long I’ve been there, but it must have been a while.  Suddenly the door opened and a Chinese officer in a navy blue uniform entered, holding a thin folder, and set in front of me.

“Do you know why you are here?” he said by way of introduction.

I nodded nervously and the officer took it for a “yes”. He opened the folder and took out my passport and several pieces of paper.

“Are you Molegunda Angelica Apuya, born on September 10, 1986 in Romania?”

“Yes, sir, I am, sir.”

The officer shook his head disapprovingly and put my passport away.

“We both know this is not true, Molly. Or, shall, I say… - he grabbed a piece of paper from the folder and read from it in a rather dramatic manner - Julia Ann Simmons, born on September 10, 1986 in London, the United Kingdom?”

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 3.

by Monica Graz

When Signora Moretti departed I had the chance to inspect more carefully my new room. It was tiny and hot but I noticed a small ceiling fan. I managed to start it by turning a switch next to the door and a soothing current of air embodied me gently.

I inspected the tiny bathroom as well and I found in the wall above the toilet a small window looking to some sort of back balcony. That was a huge relief because I started having claustrophobic feelings in the windowless room.  

I looked more carefully at the uniforms in the closet. They all looked brand new; six different dresses plain or stripy were hanging in various pale colors. Nothing unusual there, typical front buttoned maids’ dresses with the usual white collar, and white piping around the short sleeves and the front pockets. I felt the material, light but hardwearing polycoton material, the right kind for multiple washes. Next I saw two more dresses a dark blue one still plain looking and a fancier black one with a lace collar, clearly the ones for formal use as Signora Moretti mentioned before. Then I noticed a dark green tunic and matching trousers with an elasticized waist, the kind that hospital orderlies wear. That puzzled me a bit; I couldn’t imagine myself wearing something like that.

I also saw several aprons of all kinds and plain cotton underwear, several bras and panties in a dull cream color, nothing fancy there as well.