The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  My little prince had a hidden talent I only noticed through surreptitious observation. When he thought no one else was listening, his voice, high-pitched like a girl’s, would ring in melody around the house. As soon as another person came near, he would stop, but once alone again Weng Yu would resume, whistling and humming as Father used to. It appeared I had passed Father’s love of music on to my son.

  This was an unusual talent and one I did not wish to encourage. Even if Weng Yu was gifted, singers in the Federated Malay States didn’t earn much, unlike businessmen or those in professions. I ignored my son’s talent. It was the best I could do at the time.

  Meanwhile Ipoh grew in the background. By then Old Town was full and there was nowhere else to build, except across the Kinta River. One of the towkays, Yau Tet Shin, courageously took up the challenge by announcing that he would build hundreds of new shophouses on virgin land.

  Everyone thought him mad. The largest project the town had ever seen just when the price of tin had started to fall? Speculation was rife that construction would never take place. Yet happen it did: in due course jungle and belukar – formerly cleared land already starting to revert to jungle – were cleared, and building commenced in earnest.

  Despite talk of a depression there was a buzz in the air. We were thrilled about a whole town taking shape in front of us, even more by the delicious prospect of fewer people on our side of the Kinta River. Some started calling the other side New Town to differentiate it from Old Town – our side of the river. The names have stuck to this day.

  In the midst of such excitement our fifth son, Weng Onn, was born. I gave thanks to Kuan Yin for such blessings: five sons and three daughters. And on top of that, my husband’s business was also beginning to take off! Life was going our way finally.

  We could even afford to hire a Malay washerwoman to attend to the household laundry. Unlike Ah Hong, Siti didn’t live in; she came at dawn six days a week to wash, scrub and iron and then returned to her kampong. But with eight children to look after, Ah Hong and I were rushed off our feet every minute of each day. We so badly needed an extra pair of hands that even Ah Hong, dear loyal Ah Hong, began to grumble. There were times she fell asleep in the evenings, totally exhausted, holding one of the children in her arms. Unfortunately, there was no room in the house for another servant.

  When Peng Choon suggested we move, I began the project I had long harboured: to search for a larger house to rent. This took months; in between nursing the newborn Weng Onn, I had seven young ones in different modes of running, walking and crawling about. Besides, I was exacting in my requirements: I had Mother in me after all.

  The delay turned out to be for the best, because there was a large flood in Ipoh in 1907. Thanks to the rising waters, Peng Choon and I decided to look for a house further from the river. We even considered moving across to New Town. Once completed, the houses would be wonderful, we thought, but most townspeople didn’t believe New Town would be completed. ‘Just wait! He’ll abandon his project!’ some scoffed. Or ‘This is a hare-brained scheme, and Yau Tet Shin will have no money left.’ The talk was that unfinished walls would be all that would remain of the New Town dream. With eight children depending on my search, I couldn’t take such a risk and focused therefore on those parts of Ipoh we were already familiar with.

  Peng Choon proved of little help in the house search. He was so busy that he couldn’t even attend the anti-opium conference, which took place that year. The conference had apparently been a success, following on the heels of a petition to London. ‘Hmm . . . ,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Wife,’ Peng Choon enthused, ‘the petition was led by a white man, the Ipoh doctor.’

  ‘We will see,’ I replied, too busy worrying about where we would live to think about much else.

  We eventually settled on a rented house on the Lahat Road, which was quiet in those days and not the busy thoroughfare it is now. With four bedrooms – two for the boys, one for the girls, one for Peng Choon and me, as well as two servants’ rooms downstairs – the house was a palace compared to what we were living in before. A new school was to be built nearby – Yuk Choy School, which we earmarked for the boys – so the house met most of our needs in one stroke.

  The problem which remained was a school for the girls. We could not think what to do, since there were hardly any Chinese schools for girls then. I worried about not sending them to school, but worried too that education would damage their ability to find husbands. Instinct told me that men didn’t like wives cleverer than them. Even my beloved Peng Choon, wonderful husband that he was, liked to think of himself as the smarter of us two, which for the sake of peace I allowed. What he said told me all I needed to know – ‘Ai-yahh! That is rubbish-lah! You talk just like a woman!’, as if talking like a woman were such a terrible affliction.

  We debated education for months, until Peng Choon threw up his arms. ‘Wife, let’s move first and then see what we do.’ This left me prickly, but my husband assured me we would deal with finding a school for the girls at some point. ‘One thing at a time,’ he said. ‘We have to think of the boys first. The girls will get married after all.’

  Just before we moved, Siew Lan came on one of her visits. Unusually, she was without Flora that day, which pleased me, as it meant more time chewing betel nut leaves and chatting.

  I had just placed a folded leaf on my tongue when my friend made her announcement out of the blue.

  ‘Chye Hoon, I pregnant again.’

  Next door, feet trampled down a set of wooden stairs while I thought about what to say. I knew I would have to ask about the white devil – I had no choice. I took my time. With the leaf already inside my mouth, I chewed slowly. Moving the cud round and round, I mixed it with saliva until I could no longer bear the sensation, at which point I hurled the bloody juice out with the full force of my breath straight into the brass spittoon.

  ‘He know-ah?’

  ‘No, not yet.’ Siew Lan bit her lip, which looked paler than normal. She remained quiet, her face glum.

  I called out to Ah Hong for more coffee and a refill of the betel nut box. We would need reinforcements.

  ‘Siew Lan,’ I said as tenderly as I could, ‘I want to help you – you know that-lah – but you everything also must tell me. You can do that-moh?’

  With eyes averted, my friend poured out her story: how she had tried to stop sleeping with her boss after Flora’s birth but had eventually caved in – ‘He so persistent’ – until over time she became increasingly fond of him and didn’t want to stop, even though she wasn’t sure where it would lead. At first, the white devil had continued his life much as it had been without her: he went to his club in the mornings, saw his friends, had lunch, drank, and then came home late in the afternoons smelling of whisky and sleep. He would wake for dinner, during which he consumed even more alcohol. Under her influence he reduced his drinking, because she refused to sleep with him if he stank badly. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I know he always must have a drink . . . He cut down good enough already-lah.’

  As Flora grew older, her father started spending time at home on some mornings. The old devil loved his daughter. He gave her piggyback rides, happily took her for strolls and was teaching her to read.

  When Siew Lan paused, I urged her to marry her boss, amazing myself in the process.

  Siew Lan pounced on my words, sparkles of disbelief showing in the middle of her irises. ‘Hah, then you change your mind-ah?’ she asked. ‘So, whites now different-ah?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, but like this now you cannot go on. How many more children you can have with no father? Not fair on them.’

  ‘What, you say with white devil marry, hah? Must be you think they not so bad, then.’

  I continued shaking my head. ‘Look, I not sure I can explain better.’

  The patter of little feet was once again heard next door. Spitting out more betel nut juice, I swallowed hard, the words weighing on my tongue.

  ‘My
friend, you wrong before that time,’ I said. ‘I no hate anyone – white skins people too, like us. But they put on airs here.’

  Siew Lan muttered a protest, which I ignored. ‘Yes, I tell you! They look at me, they not really look – like I not there at all. Like I just thin air in front of them, invisible.’

  ‘Maybe you speak their language, Chye Hoon, things different.’

  ‘What, you think they start not treating me like air-ah?’

  ‘I only say may be good idea to learn a bit of English. I already pick up one or two words from Se-Too-Wat.’

  ‘Ai-yahh, Siew Lan, got nothing to do with language-lah! I tell you, all about attitude. They act like masters here because they are masters. I no like how they treat us. Don’t tell me they no look down on us – I feel it when I outside. You know they call us Chinamen-ah? That not a compliment, you know.’

  ‘And we call them white devils. What so different-ah?’

  ‘What is different,’ I cried in exasperation, ‘they rule over us. They make all laws. We say ten words also not so important than they say one word!’

  When Siew Lan looked away, I reached across the table to touch her on the shoulder. ‘Look, this not important – make no difference to our friendship. You always be good friend. Even if you marry him, we still friends. I think you should tell him to marry you for children’s sake.’

  Siew Lan smiled then, for the first time that day, a wide beaming smile which animated her face. Both our backs straightened in relief. My friend added timidly, ‘I have favour to ask you, Chye Hoon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I marry him, I want you stop calling them white devils in front of me. I know everyone do, so you no stop; just not in front of me or my children. Okay?’

  I smiled sheepishly, promising to do my best. Over the years I curbed my tongue. Though I continued to think of them as white devils, I was careful not to mention this in the presence of Siew Lan or her children.

  Thus it was that Siew Lan, erstwhile maid, sometime mistress of Stuart McPherson, the Scottish planter with the unpronounceable names, finally became his wife in 1908, several weeks after the birth of our sixth son, Weng Choon. I attended their wedding on my own, because Peng Choon remained unsure of the bridegroom and refused to go with me. He planned an outstation trip on the exact day. The marriage ceremony was held in a room called a registry office – a first for me. Siew Lan was beautiful in a gorgeous red baju, while Se-Too-Wat, wearing a suit so white it sparkled in the sun, looked better than I had ever seen him. But the ceremony itself was a dull affair, so different from any other wedding I had ever been to. It served to accentuate what I already knew – that these white devils came from another, duller world. Admittedly, I could not understand a word of the proceedings, but I doubt if knowing what was said would have made it any more colourful.

  14

  When the Emperor Kuang-hsu and the Empress Dowager passed away in 1908, Chinese shops in Ipoh closed as a mark of respect. Most of the sinkehs were staunch supporters of the monarchy. Nonetheless, everyone was stunned when a two-year-old – the dead emperor’s nephew Pu Yi – was named emperor. This seemed so absurd it beggared belief. In those years it appeared that anyone with the means to leave China did so. From newly arrived sinkehs, Peng Choon found out that his father, by then elderly, was unwell, and his son, whom he hadn’t seen since he was a toddler, was nearly a grown man.

  Despite the torrent of bad news, Peng Choon remained reluctant to leave us. Something always held him back. In the early years, when we weren’t financially secure, he couldn’t have gone. Yet even after we had moved into our house on Lahat Road and employed two servants, Peng Choon continued to hesitate. It wasn’t that he thought less about China; China remained on his mind, and feelings of guilt about his first wife and son haunted him. A powerful force must have kept him in Malaya. Somewhere in his heart my husband seemed to fear what would happen when he did go.

  Finally, when even the sui-hak, who could be relied on to describe water as wine, told Peng Choon that things were getting bad in China, he was spurred to a decision. By then port cities like Swatow had deteriorated; lawlessness was rife and travel hazardous.

  It was a balmy night when Peng Choon took me aside. I often looked at the stars; they reminded me of the births of my children. I was surveying pricks of light in the sky, recalling the exact hour, day and month each child had arrived in this world, when Peng Choon touched my right shoulder. ‘It’s now or never,’ he said very softly. The words shook me out of my reverie. ‘I’d better go before things get worse.’

  I heard the emotion in my husband’s voice and turned to face him, but he moved away quickly. When he had regained his composure, I saw that his eyes were moist. ‘I promise to come back,’ he whispered. ‘I promise.’

  The moment I had been dreading, when it came, was worse than I had imagined. I could not sleep that night and for many nights afterwards. The worries that had brewed in Matsuo’s tent while we sat watching moving pictures boiled inside my head, forming vicious bubbles. What if he did not return? Silly, I told myself. Your husband is not like that.

  But then I thought about his father, his first wife, his firstborn son, the village he loved and the pull that had always been there. My husband’s split loyalties dangled before my eyes like strings of birthday noodles, with China on one end and Malaya on the other. He loves his Malayan-born children too. I had to remind myself of this and of how much Peng Choon would miss them, especially his daughter Hui Ying and his son Weng Yu.

  Nonetheless I woke with bags under my eyes. They stayed with me until my husband left.

  Peng Choon was to be away for four months, and though we did not discuss it, thoughts of his other wife stabbed me. No matter how my husband tried to reassure me, I could not erase her from my mind. He reminded me that he had chosen me himself, whereas his first marriage had taken place out of deference to his father’s wishes. None of that mattered, because she would still be there with him, ready to do as he desired.

  Above all I feared for our little ones. Peng Choon, too, worried about how the children would react. In this my husband was exceptional; most men would have left the burden of communication to me.

  In the end we gathered seven of our children together – our three daughters and the four sons who were aged three and above at the time – and without fanfare broke the news of their papa’s impending trip. The children remained remarkably composed. In my anguish I had forgotten that stage of innocence, when all life seemed straightforward, its dangers unimaginable. Only our eldest daughter, Hui Fang, sat as still as Kuan Yin, while the others started talking all at once, so that no one could be heard. When calm was restored by a clap of Peng Choon’s hands, my little prince Weng Yu remembered the stories I had told him and asked which part of China his papa would be visiting. He was shouted down by his second sister, Hui Ying, who true to form asked without a second’s hesitation to go with her papa. This brought howls of protest from the boys, who all wanted to sail in a boat. The loudest among them was Weng Yoon, our fourth son, then only three but already fierce. He would make a face if anyone tried to bully him, clenching his snub nose until his nostrils were tight and his eyes narrow, so that he looked like a pugnacious bulldog. I admonished Weng Yoon every time I saw the face he pulled, but it made little difference, because my scolding merely gave the boy the absurd idea that he was brave.

  We had many more family discussions about their papa’s trip, none as long as the first. Over the weeks our eldest child, Hui Fang, guessed my mood and continued looking wistfully at me. Alas, my husband didn’t make it easy: he dragged the process out, forever extending his departure date further into the future, until the younger ones stopped believing he would actually go.

  On the one hand, the delay was understandable: Peng Choon wanted to make sure we were well provided for, but the flurry of activity included projects that seemed of dubious value at the time. First he acquired seven plots of land deep in the heart of N
ew Town, which by then had been completed. Peng Choon bought land away from the river, because he thought that was where the greatest profit would lie. The lands, being undeveloped, were covered in jungle and belukar and went cheaply – the area didn’t even have a name. Six of the plots were intended for the six sons we had then – one plot each – and the seventh Peng Choon bought simply for good luck. Next he acquired three shophouses on Hale Street in the Old Town. The three lots, in good condition, were rented to tenants on long leases. ‘The income may turn out helpful,’ he said, ‘in case I’m delayed in China.’

  When the acquisitions had been made, Peng Choon came home with a brown cloth bundle, the small sack in which he always carried his income. There was urgency in his step that evening, but his breath was soft. He ushered me into our bedroom and emptied the contents of his bundle on to my dressing table. Silver and copper coins crashed on to the wood, alongside five- and ten-dollar notes.

  ‘The last payments from my clients,’ Peng Choon said.

  Finally a thick roll of yellow paper fell out, beautifully tied with pink ribbon. When Peng Choon unfurled the ribbon, the roll of paper turned into ten sheets, each scrawled with Chinese writing.

  ‘A deed for each plot of land, and one for each shophouse,’ my husband added in an even voice.

  He rolled the deeds up, tied them once more with the pink ribbon and put the scroll into his cloth bundle. Back, too, went the coins, followed by the dollar notes, with their pictures of white kings and queens. Holding the cloth bundle with both his hands as if bestowing a gift, Peng Choon handed me the pack. His eyes were dewy.

  ‘Wife,’ he said, ‘you have always been the head of our household. These are for you. I hope they keep you all safe while I’m gone.’

  I accepted the bundle from Peng Choon with a bursting heart. This is what it means to be a Nyonya, I thought. A dream I once had came back to me: I imagined myself as a sword-wielding warrior who slayed dragons in my path. At last I had found my sword: it was what I ran our household with. I knew then that I would always be a Nyonya, and I wanted the same for our children, especially the girls.