Madam

A real life story from 1996 when I befriended two lovely young women from The Phillipines.

It’s 1996 and I manage the kids club in the ‘Amathus Beach’ hotel in Limassol, Cyprus.

The Amathus, a boxy 5 storey building, sits on the beachfront, a shadow of its once opulent self. You just know that in its 70’s hey day, the dark wood and brass interior would have been *the business*. Now, it looks as dated and shaky as my mum’s globe drinks cabinet.

It clings to the edge of town like a dusty spider waiting to be whisked away.  There are newer, fancier hotels on the strip and the ageing Amathus just ain’t getting the love anymore.  But like Liz Taylor in the 90’s when she was making shit films like ‘The Flintstones’,  The Amathus is still treated by her staff as the queen she once was.  Like an upmarket Cypriot version of ‘Crossroads’, there are a loyal team of local Benny and Dianes on hand to keep the legend alive.

I am given strict instructions by management that during my time off, I am not to be seen. Not at the bar, pool, beach area or anywhere. Clearly, I would lower the tone, hit the wrong note. Early days, I spend a lot of time in my room.

My staff accommodation is on the top floor at the end of an extremely long carpeted corridor. It reminds me of the twins scene from ‘The Shining’. Especially when I’m tottering down it drunk at stupid o’clock after exiting the lift.

Sometimes, there are cockroaches which make me shudder. I catch them by doming them with a glass before phoning reception who never fail to dispatch a brave, handsome Cypriot porter to dispose of them. I flirt like a minx in my going-out white platforms, batting my lashes and feigning more fear than a bomb scare would merit. It becomes a favourite new game for all involved - except the cockroach.

I have only been here a few weeks and have already pissed off management massively - bizarrely by providing information about meningitis. After reading some of the scare stories in the British press regarding rising cases of it in Cyprus, parents had been approaching me for reassurance. I did what any respectable place in the UK would have done. In the name of transparency, I had put a poster up saying there had been no cases locally but had provided a list of signs to spot, whilst highlighting my first aid training.

As Maria, the receptionist had pointed out, you just didn’t do that in Cyprus. Here, culture dictated such issues were dealt with in one way only - denial, denial and more denial.

The clientele of the Amathus is a mixed bag. There are British and Germans but also lots of Russian and Middle Eastern families.  At the moment, most of the children attending my Kids Club are from Saudi Arabia, Quatar and Kuwait.  As with most clubs, the parents deposit the children then collect them later. Today, however, two Filipino women stay behind. They are not parents. They introduce themselves as Mylene and Grace, the nannies of Lara, a little girl of junior school age.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to stay!”

I tell them.

“You go have some free time, enjoy the beach! She’ll be fine here, it’s my job to take care of her. That’s what everyone else does”

The two young women briefly exchange glances and then their lively almond eyes dart back to me.

“No…..thank you but we stay.”

Mylene says smiling at me.

“Honestly…..”

I say.

They politely decline once more.

I glance at the pretty dark eyed little girl and wonder if maybe she is shy and they feel they should settle her in, but no, she is already chatting away with others in my club.

“It is Madam”

Mylene offers by means of explanation.

“The girl’s mother. We are her nannies and Madam expects us to stay.”

‘Madam?’ The way they speak of their employer sounds so horribly dated, like ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ or something.

As Lara plays, I pick up on a strange dynamic. I can’t quite put my finger on it.  The child is only about eight years old, yet she appears to call the shots, lord it over the other children.  Whilst I do not understand the language they converse in, I comprehend tone. Sometimes the girl’s voice stamps like an angry boot. Probably just spoilt, I think. Used to having her own way.

When she enters the playroom at the end of the session, I get a first glimpse of Lara’s mother. ‘Madam’ is not so much a lady who lunches but one who spas, massages, manicures, pedicures then lunches.  She looks like many of the well-to-do women who stay here. A floaty Middle Eastern take on that classic look of ‘old money’. Understated tones of cream and navy are paired with well placed pieces of expensive jewellery and softly accenting designer handbag and shoes.  Why she isn’t staying next door at the much classier ‘Four Seasons’ is beyond me……

Her daughter runs over to greet her with a half coloured in activity sheet in hand and Madam utters something that immediately reins in her carefree exuberance. Like a fly zapped by one of those lights in a takeaway, Lara is instantly halted.

The body language of Mylene and Grace changes in Madam’s presence too, rather like the way a scolded dog nervously scoots around the heels of his master.

Madam, I conclude, is a Snow White stepmother of a woman. A skin palace of polished attractiveness that momentarily hoodwinks before escorting you to the depths of a rotten core. The ebony eyes are voids, the rosebud lips, poison chalices.  Although she is nothing but polite to me with her courteous smile and nod, I read her as a dark spell.

I sleep a little uneasy that night, thinking about Mylene, Grace and Lara. Something isn’t right there.

Next day, bright and early, they return to the kids club. We play games and Lara wins some hotel branded Mini Club merchandise; a T shirt and pen. She tosses them to the side, clearly unimpressed by the hotel’s efforts to appeal to its younger guests.

Lara is a spirited child, it is evident she holds authority to the point of being over bossy with the others. Thankfully, some of the older girls put her in her place a little bit. There are some who have been here weeks now and do not take kindly to a bolshy new upstart.

Mylene tells me they too will be here for a few weeks, maybe a month before they go on to the US where Madam is visiting friends.

As time goes by, Mylene and Grace relax with me a little. They begin to open up and trust me. Although I am not of their world - whatever that may be - they grow confident I am not of Madam’s.  We become friends and as Lara plays with the other children, we chat about our backgrounds and home countries. They tell me of The Philippines, how pristine the beaches are, how wonderful the waterfalls. Most of all, they tell me how warm, friendly and generous the people are.

“You would not need any money, everybody would look after you if you visit. Give you food. We always look after visitors.”

Grace says as she sees my eyes catch light with globetrotting dreams.

One day,  I catch sight of Mylene showing Grace a photo. As I come closer, her eyes fill with tears and she goes to put it away. I place my arm around her shoulder.

“Hey, It’s okay, you can trust me”

I say, wondering why she cries so.

And then I see the picture.

A boy of around the same age as Lara.

A Filipino boy.

“Julie, this is my son”

She says, the tears falling.

Instantly my stomach knots as I notice the resemblance. He has the bright of berries in his eyes, a luminous smile and a mop of shiny black hair.

“Your son?”

I repeat in disbelief.

“Yes he is in Philippines with his father ”

“You don’t get to see him?”

“It’s better this way. I can make more money and send it back home so he can have a better life”

I am truly astounded.

“He is beautiful, Mylene”

I say, taking in this gorgeous child and his sunny, cheerful energy as his mother weeps.

I let her tell her story.

Mylene has not seen him for three years. The reason she has left him with relatives, is so she can lift him from the poverty she herself has known in her homeland. The wage she earns working a 6 day week for Madam, sounds like buttons to me but to Mylene it is four or five times more what she could make at home. The money is sent back to her husband who is able to make life more comfortable, buy shoes and better quality food.

She had only intended doing it for a few months but when she tried to leave, Madam confiscated her passport and told her she was keeping it until she had ‘repaid’ her air fare. She does not know when she can return home. The country she now lives in has poor women’s rights and corrupt officials . If she goes to the authorities, she knows she will not be listened to.

I have never in my life heard such a harrowing, unjust tale. I am filled with the feeling of wanting to do something…..but what? What can I do? Nothing can make this right.

I gather together a few pieces of the Mini Club merchandise I have and place it in a bag. It’s not much but there is a T-shirt, pen, pencil, eraser and a pack of cards.

“Here”

I say.

“Send these back for your son. A gift.”

“No…I couldn’t, thank you….but I can’t…”

“You must.  Look at all these privileged kids in this room and all they have. Your son should have some nice things too. Please, next time you write, send them to him as a present.”

She looks at Grace who seems to give it the okay, then takes the bag.

“Thank you so much Julie. He will love these things. You are so kind.”

That night, I can’t sleep. I cannot imagine what it must feel like to be a mother separated from her own child, yet working round the clock to take care of someone else’s.

The injustice of the situation consumes me. Her own passport being denied to her! Can anything be done, I wonder. Eventually I drift off in the knowledge that today, I have at least done one tiny thing to lessen her pain. I picture his smiling face opening the package from his mother and trying on his new T-shirt.

The next day however, any slight gain I feel I achieved, is rapidly dissolved as Mylene enters the kids club head down and sheepish.

“It’s Madam”

She tells me timidly as Lara finds her playmates.

“She found it in my bag…..the stuff you gave me for my son. Accused me of stealing from her daughter. Said those things were hers and took them away”

Her eyes well.

“And then….. she beat me….”

She lifts the cotton of her sleeve to reveal a fresh bruise on her arm.

“She hit you?”

“Yes. Punishment. Said I was a thief for stealing from her daughter. She often hits me when she is unhappy with my work but I work really hard. I only have Sunday I am not working. It is okay here when I am staying in this hotel but usually, when Lara is asleep, Grace and I must clean and cook too. Often Madam has dinner parties with many guests. I am up until midnight then must be up again at six o o’clock to be ready for the child when she wakes…..”

I can see her in the distance, ‘Madam’.

She is talking to another hotel guest, demure as you like. A plume of dark energy accompanying her like an obedient cartoon storm cloud. She wears Armani on her back and the desert in her heart. I suppress a building desire to go over and knock her teeth out.

“Sometimes she encourages Lara to hit and kick us too. And say bad things to us.”

She looks at Grace who confirms this with a nod.

“I think she wants her to learn that she too has power over me, that I work for her too.”

It makes sense now, the ‘little diva’ attitude I had been picking up on. Behaviour I’d mistakenly put down to spoilt brattishness. The way Lara tried to rule the roost.

It’s hard to know what to say in a situation like this that doesn’t sound like a clumsy western platitude.

“Would you like me to talk to her. Tell her the stuff was for your son and not her daughter?”

I offer.

“No! She won’t believe you and she might stop us coming here to this club.”

“Oh….”

I often wonder why there are two of them seeing as there is only one child, and one day, I broach this. I am told that employing two maids is supposed to make them happier, having another from their home country stops them getting too depressed and provides company, much like keeping two dogs instead of one.  Also, if one runs away they will worry about the fate of the other, they are therefore less likely to try it.

One Friday, we have lunch together as part of the Hotel Mini Club activities. As we eat, I hear Mylene and Grace chatting about their upcoming trip to America next week.

“We have a friend from Philippines. She worked for a woman like Madam too, was treated badly but she managed to escape when the family had a vacation in America….”

Mylene says.

“She has a green card now. Has a nice life”

“Oh, my goodness, why don’t you try and do the same?”

I beg of them.

“Both of you. Please! Run away! Make a new life in America! If you tell the officials in America what has been going on, the hours you work, the beatings….that she took your passport…..they will help you, they will!”

I feel myself getting incredibly carried away on their behalf.

“No. If she catches us trying to escape she will never ever return our passports. She will make life worse than before. I may never see my son ever again….”

“Well it’s your call, but I know what I’d be doing. Your life is shit as it is. How much shitter could it get?”

They have been here a few weeks now and are accustomed to my Northern bluntness.

My innocent early twenties logic does not compute the nuances and complexities of their situations. I oversimplify, seeing only a prison and a huge opportunity of escaping it.

“Give it some thought anyway. Think of your friend, the life she has now…”

The day before they depart for America arrives and I furnish them with my English address. Mylene takes it and offers me a slip of paper with her own on it.

“Write to me here”

She says. It is her Phillipines home.

“If you write here, my husband and family will forward them to me. When Madam sees a Phillipines sender she is not suspicious. If it just looks like a regular letter from home, she will not check inside the envelope,”

We have a long goodbye with tears and hugs.

“Thank you so much for the kindness you have shown us both”

Grace says.

“Listen”

I tell them.

“As soon as I am back in the UK, I will do all I can to try to find you jobs in England with good employers who pay you well, where you work under good conditions. Lots of rich people in my country have nannies.”

They smile and shrug.

“I promise. I will do everything I can to help you.”

I say.

A few months later, I return home. I find myself looking into employment laws and visa requirements. I write to the embassy. Unless she were to marry a UK citizen, there is sadly no way in. Someone would have to sponsor their arrival with vast sums of money. Sums I simply do not have.

I write to Mylene a few times more. In my attic I still have her replies. Neat black hand writing sits like ants on candy coloured wafer-thin paper. After a while, the letters tail off.

I will never know if they were intercepted.

To this day, I still dream of visiting The Phillipines, locating the address on the letter. Of knocking on the door, being reunited, treating her family and community to all manner of wonderful things.

But most of all, I want to go and apologise.

Mylene and Grace, I am so sorry I could not do more to help you both escape that dreadful situation you were in all those years ago.

It’s more than half my life ago now but I still think of you often. You deserved so much more. I was young, naive and I really believed I could do more for you than was possible. I simply did not have the money, skills or expertise required.

My dear friends, I failed you.

PS: I write lots of different things. If you appreciated this piece, you may appreciate more of my stories, both real life and fictional, located under ‘Stories’ at the top of my ‘Mother Of Hope’ home page.