Through Mother’s diet I recovered my strength. Meanwhile I nursed my daughter, who grew bigger by the day.
To celebrate Hui Fang’s first month and the end of my confinement, we made the traditional Nyonya meal of many colours. I was stronger by then and able to help in the kitchen, but Siew Lan also joined us, as there was much work to be done. We joked while stirring coconut milk into the yellow turmeric rice in a steamer, and I laughed so much I had to sit down. I watched Mother prepare the chicken curry, its rich sauce dripping red with chillies. The aroma of shallots and garlic frying – smells so familiar to me – drifted through the air. As I looked at Mother and Siew Lan, I was reminded of our boisterous kitchen in Ah Kwee Street, where women had congregated to gossip, giggle and make delicious food. A longing for times past hit me. I was suddenly proud of my kitchen, of what I could do inside it. This, I thought, is what being a Nyonya means. Deep within my bones I felt my culture stir – the calling of my ancestors.
Later that night we delivered peach-shaped angkoo kueh and pink-coloured eggs to our new friends in Ipoh. For Nyonyas and Babas, the gifts mark a baby’s first full month in this life. We had been uncertain what to do with friends who were not Nyonyas and Babas. Under my direction Siew Lan made extra angkoo kueh, which were one of my favourites. When my husband returned from work, I persuaded him to carry the angkoo and pink eggs all around town in our sia nah, our black-lacquered containers. In total he visited thirty households. For some the angkoo were a novelty, for others a pleasure, and in some homes there was surprise that so much was done to greet the arrival of a girl.
10
Mother returned to Penang when Hui Fang was five months old. I was sorry to see her go. We had grown close again, and the house felt tomblike after she left, its silence broken only by the sounds my baby made.
In those first few days I hated hearing the little one cry. I really missed Mother then. In between double boiling bird’s nest soups and preparing herbed rice to dispel the winds of pregnancy, Mother had managed to calm my daughter. She made it look easy, at times rocking Hui Fang, at other times bringing her to me.
Then she was gone, and all I had were instructions. Among these I recalled the simple words ‘Sometimes you must let her cry.’
But that was easier said than done. With Mother no longer there, I was awake at all hours of night, able to steal only a few moments’ rest during the day.
As the weeks passed, my rage gathered. There were times when it became too much, when my head felt as if it would burst. I would scream unwittingly, and my poor terrified daughter would bawl. Remorse filled me then; I would pick my daughter up to hold her close – so close I could feel her breath on my skin – and be overcome by this tiny bundle in my arms who seemed to want me no matter what I did or didn’t do.
Until I learnt to put Mother’s strictures into practice, I walked in a fatigued haze, ground down by my daughter’s push and pull. I wondered how Mother had done it, how she had ground spices into pastes, chopped and fried, braised and steamed, made lunch and dinner over and over while we three older ones had torn around, bruising her in our wake. Mother had toiled on her own, yet she had found the time to nurse mangoes and limes and papayas in her garden and pickle them in glazed jars. I felt sudden shame. I had not even thought to thank her.
It was also Mother who had brought Soraiya to us. Within days of her arrival Mother found her way to Kampong Laxamana across the Kinta River, where, on making discreet enquiries, she discovered this gem seemingly without effort. I hardly knew Soraiya, yet I trusted her instinctively. I had not seen her since the seventh day of Hui Fang’s birth, but I knew I would call on her again.
Peng Choon missed Mother too, except he may not have realised it. I was livelier when she was with us. Without Mother I could barely stand by the time I saw my husband.
He did not help. In his head he knew life had changed, but in his heart he did not like sharing me. No longer could I wait breathlessly for his return or dine uninterrupted. Instead I would cast my eye in the direction of the little sling, a piece of soft cotton cloth hanging from a nail in the ceiling, where the little one was cradled while we had our meal. Peng Choon never said anything, but his dimples disappeared, which told me he missed being the centre of attention. There were moments when I had to rush to Hui Fang’s sling. Those were the times Peng Choon looked at me with eyes full of reproach, as if to say, What about me? He was just like a boy sometimes.
To make it up to my husband, I took extra pains preparing his favourite dishes and sweeping and dusting, so that the house looked welcoming when he came home. I never knew whether he realised how much harder I had to work after Hui Fang’s arrival. A word of acknowledgement now and again would have done wonders, but this never came.
Yet it thrilled me that my husband depended on me for his every need. I fed him, warmed his bed, gave him solace and provided order in the house while also seeing to our daughter. Between the two of them, my daughter and husband kept me on my feet, but at least Peng Choon had no reason to be tempted anywhere else.
Meanwhile Siew Lan found work in the house of a white devil, a Scottish planter who was a bachelor. She knew I didn’t like the idea. ‘The red-haired devils like to drink,’ I said. ‘Who knows what he might do?’ But my friend brushed me off, pointing out that there were other servants – a gardener who lived in and a washerwoman who visited each morning to do his laundry. I told her this made it worse, as it meant she spent her nights with two unmarried men. Siew Lan merely smiled. ‘That why the pay so good-lah!’ Although she said this breezily, I could tell she was twitchy, because her thick lips trembled. ‘Anyway this red-haired devil not so bad.’ Peering closely at my friend, I asked, ‘So, he pay how much?’
‘Ten dollars a month’ came the reply. It was a lavish sum; I only hoped he wasn’t expecting additional services. As I said this, Siew Lan looked away hastily. She started talking about him, about how old he seemed, but then declared that it was hard to tell the ages of white devils because their skin wrinkled earlier than ours. Even the younger women who visited had lines on their faces and crinkles around their eyes.
Peng Choon never took an interest in these conversations, deriding them as ‘women’s talk’, but when I told him about Siew Lan’s new employment, my husband listened intently. His immediate reaction was that she was out to snare the white devil.
‘Ay, this my friend,’ I retorted indignantly. ‘She not like that-lah.’
‘You wait,’ he replied.
Taking a deep breath, I bit my tongue. Siew Lan’s refusal to meet my eye told me she liked the white devil. But who was I to know what she was hoping for? Given the life she’d had, I did not wish to stand in judgment. I only hoped my dear friend would have enough sense not to damage her reputation.
Not that I had time to worry, because I soon fell pregnant again. This time, when Peng Choon suggested that we hire a servant, I consented. He had just received a pay rise and money was less tight.
When I mentioned to Siew Lan that we were looking for a servant, her eyes lit up: she said she knew a Cantonese girl called Ah Hong who happened to be looking for work. Ah Hong came knocking one morning, and Siew Lan had liked her instantly. There are some people, she told me, who you just know will be dependable. Ah Hong was one of these.
Ah Hong was a slender seventeen-year-old when we met. Her hair, tied up into two dainty braids that hung down over her shoulders, made her look younger. She was painfully shy and would only smile in answer to questions. At the time I thought it was because she hadn’t understood. Between us, with my Hokkien and Hakka and her Cantonese, we were like hen and duck and had to resort to sign language. Over time, when Ah Hong did not speak even when she could, I realised she preferred to smile, brightening up the whole room with her face.
After Ah Hong came to live with us, my second pregnancy passed in a flash. Ah Hong proved a rock, but I longed for Mother. I would have felt so much more secure if Mother had been by my side. That was
not possible, since one of my sisters needed her. Despite Mother’s absence I was more relaxed, as if knowing what to expect would make it less painful. In the end the second birth was difficult; if it hadn’t been for Soraiya’s wealth of experience, I would have died. I could feel every twist of Soraiya’s fingers as she tugged and cajoled. The towels she dabbed me with were soaked red. I shrieked and screamed and ground my teeth hard. Outside, Peng Choon covered his ears. When he finally came in, his face was white and his hands shook.
The fears my husband harboured must have taken the edge off his disappointment, for we had another daughter, Hui Ying. Once again I worried, because whatever his outward demeanour, I knew that my husband would have preferred a boy.
Ah Hong, though, who was in the room when Hui Ying came into this world, took to our baby immediately. She would cradle Hui Ying for hours, blowing garlic breath on to her nose and tickling the little one’s fingers.
In the weeks following Hui Ying’s birth, Hui Fang demanded more attention than ever. Already able to walk, the child crawled on to every table and chair, lifting bowls and chopsticks and whatever she could grab before she was stopped. It was a battle of wills, the first of many I was to have with my children.
Thereafter, the days and nights merged into one. With Ah Hong’s help I learnt that, except for the lurching of my heart, nothing terrible happened when I left the newborn to cry. My own recovery proved painful. Despite Ah Hong’s heroic efforts at replicating Mother’s recipes, weakness seeped into my bones. I did not lose weight this time. On the contrary, with my bajus tight and my waist generous, it was clear that my girlhood figure would remain a distant memory. As soon as I was able, I snipped at the rolls of fabric Siew Lan had brought to make the clothes more appropriate for a mother-of-two.
For Ah Hong, work multiplied. She was up for twelve hours every day scrubbing, shopping and cleaning. She never complained, even washing her three pairs of samfoos – the Chinese tunics and trousers she wore – twice a day, after they were soiled by baby Hui Ying’s persistent dribbling. More than once I thanked Kuan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, for the gift of Ah Hong, who supported me the way a column holds up the temple roof.
Peng Choon took the adjustments in his stride. Our nights were disturbed, my state dazed and fragile. Those months proved difficult for other reasons, because it was then out of the blue that my husband received news about his mother.
This was brought by a sinkeh from a neighbouring village, who told Peng Choon that his mother had fallen ill and become thinner. After the doctor in the nearest town had prescribed herbal concoctions, my mother-in-law stopped spending long hours in the fields. But with her upbringing, she was unable to cease completely and insisted on doing work.
For the first time since our marriage, there was a faraway look in Peng Choon’s eyes. It would only flicker for a moment, but it was there long enough for me to glimpse. I knew at once that a longing was growing in him for his mother and his homeland. It was a feeling against which we could not compete. As I grappled with my failure to bear him a son, my husband’s yearning for China cut through my heart.
Other children followed. When Weng Yu, our first son, arrived in 1902, I breathed a sigh of relief.
With his birth I understood how important it was for a woman to bring a boy into the world. As soon as Soraiya handed me my newly washed baby, she whispered, ‘Sayang! You have a beautiful child. A boy this time. Well done.’ Even in my feeble condition I saw that her eyes shivered with a glimmer that hadn’t been there at the births of my daughters. When Peng Choon stepped into the room, he was on fire. My husband glowed, barely able to stop looking at his son. ‘My boy,’ Peng Choon murmured, stroking Weng Yu’s head. ‘My Malayan-born son, you will continue the Wong family name here.’
My husband showed more understanding after Weng Yu’s birth than after the arrival of our daughters. It was as if, having borne him a son, I could be forgiven anything. During my confinement he worried about keeping draughts out of the house and even started pestering Ah Hong about my food! ‘More ginger,’ he would tell her. This solicitude made me proud. I had been the woman to make his dream come true.
At the end of my confinement the celebration of Weng Yu’s first month was a big event. Once again Siew Lan spent the day at our house, and, with Ah Hong helping, we prepared the celebratory meal. Finally, I was able to bring out the angkoo moulds I had purchased in anticipation of a son. The moulds were special: beautiful wooden blocks with the furrows of exquisitely carved tortoises.
Making angkoo kueh was an activity I had enjoyed since accepting my destiny as a Nyonya in Mother’s scorching kitchen on Ah Kwee Street. The angkoo intended for the full moon of Weng Yu, my firstborn son, took on added significance. Nyonya angkoo had to be just the right shade of orange red, neither too orange nor too red, unlike the angkoo the Chinese women made, which looked like freshly squeezed blood. I took special care while adding water and colouring to the dough for the angkoo skins – tiny spoonfuls of red followed by orange. Rolling a small piece of dough on to my palm, I put it into a bamboo steamer for testing. When the colour came out perfect, we were ready to begin.
We flattened small pieces of dough, filled them with balls of the mushy mung bean we had prepared and then wrapped the skins up by creasing the edges with our fingers. Pressing the balls carefully into my tortoise-shaped moulds, we knocked the angkoo out. Siew Lan and I cackled at Ah Hong’s initial attempts; instead of falling out naturally, her angkoo remained glued and emerged looking more like frogs than tortoises. She soon learnt. Together Ah Hong, Siew Lan and I spent hours making angkoo, laughing and all the while inhaling the ambrosial fragrance of pandanus which lingered. The spirit which pervaded my kitchen that afternoon has stayed in my mind. Life seemed so much less complicated then.
When Peng Choon carried the angkoo and pink eggs to our friends, congratulations poured in from every corner. We received messages of goodwill, fruit and ang pow, gifts of money wrapped in red envelopes. They came from all and sundry: neighbours, Peng Choon’s colleagues, even acquaintances who were near-strangers. My family of course were truly delighted. Mother asked Father to write a short letter in which she said, ‘Now breathe, Chye Hoon, you have a son.’
When I was well enough to go out, people on the streets rushed up to greet me. They would say, ‘Peng Choon Sau, many congratulations! You had son, very good.’ Or if we went for a stroll, with Peng Choon holding one of our daughters and me carrying Weng Yu, passers-by who stopped to ask about the baby would croon over him, ‘Ah . . . a boy! Good, good!’ Everywhere I went I was bathed in smiles and nods, the aura of approval for the mother of a newborn son.
Peng Choon was pleased with the attention showered on Weng Yu and me. Yet in a strange way his profound satisfaction also caused turmoil, because his loyalties remained split between Malaya and China. He had always sent money back to China via the sui-hak, but his mother’s illness reminded him of his Chinese wife and son, making him feel a guilt he hadn’t had before. He told me he had been selfish to leave them behind, seeking adventure and a life for himself at their expense. With the birth of a son in Malaya, the contrast between his two families was magnified, and Peng Choon was torn.
He toyed then with the idea of taking a trip back to his village, but the time didn’t feel right. The Khoo family had reneged on a promise to promote him if he did well, and Peng Choon was certain they would replace him if he went away for months. His worries puzzled me. ‘You can’t get another job-ah?’ I asked. Peng Choon explained that because he wanted to strike out on his own some day, he would remain with the Khoo family estates for as long as he could – they brought him a wide network of contacts. ‘You never know what may be useful in the future,’ he said.
So Peng Choon remained in the Kinta District with the Khoo family estates, savouring his Malayan-born son on the one hand, but with a mind half on China on the other.
Meanwhile we tried to save, but it proved impossible. Our expenses kept rising:
we soon had a third daughter, Hui Lin, and what with another mouth to feed, new clothes to be made and yet more to be done, Peng Choon couldn’t just leave for a few months. We simply did not have enough savings, and in those days it felt as if we never would.
11
Shortly after the birth of our second son, Weng Koon, the Khoo family estates brought in a young white man who had just stepped off a British steamship to be my husband’s boss. Peng Choon, normally calm and controlled, was so furious he could hardly speak. ‘There are plenty among our people who think the white man superior,’ he told me in disgust.
Peng Choon resigned. Fate finally spurred him to start his own business. Peng Choon felt he had enough contacts in the Kinta District to make a go of it. Nonetheless, given our expanding family, it was a decision we pondered extensively. We discussed every aspect in minute detail, going over the pros and the cons back and forth, until Peng Choon was sick with worry. In the process I learnt what was required to run a business. I could not have foreseen how pivotal this information would one day become.
After much agonising Peng Choon set himself up as a roving accountant. He visited businesses to inspect their books and then produced accounts as often as these were required. His clients included many of the plantation and tin-mining companies in the district, which turned out to be both a bonus and a drawback: good because he was never short of customers; bad because his fortunes were inevitably tied to theirs. When rubber and tin were booming, my husband was handsomely rewarded; when prices fell, his clients were often unable to pay. That was how Peng Choon ended up with parcels of rubber estates, plots he accepted in lieu of cash.
Around the time that Peng Choon began his business, my fears for Siew Lan came to be realised. She hurried to our house one day, flustered and out of breath.
The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds Page 9