As the weeks passed, the skin around Siew Lan’s fingers grew into crinkly cages; lines became permanent features on her face. Her hair turned white, and though I knew this to be the consequence of no longer using dye, it still came as a shock. Even those of us who saw her regularly stared, unable to take our eyes off the veins of white. I would arrive at her house to find Siew Lan crying, her heart stirred by some object or other that reminded her of Se-Too-Wat. A memory loomed in every corner, and my poor friend found no peace. She even considered selling the house they had lived in, complaining that it was too big for just her and the servants.
I sympathised. After Peng Choon’s demise, I too had wanted to flee Lahat Road. If it hadn’t been for the children and my worries over whether Peng Choon’s spirit would find us, I might well have moved us to a new home.
The same concerns plagued Siew Lan. She wished to make any new house easy for Se-Too-Wat’s spirit to locate, which meant it could not be far from the English quarter, nor could the house be too large. Moreover it had to have all the conveniences to which Siew Lan had become accustomed, such as the English toilet most of us could only dream about. The first time she had shown me the contraption, we had stared at the white porcelain while giggling over the sitting position it required. With its long metal chain and its flush of water, the toilet struck me as peculiarly English – clean, self-contained and not for us.
But Siew Lan now announced that she could not live without her white bowl, which made finding another house a tall order. I looked in every neighbourhood where there was a house for sale. ‘Toilet can build,’ I told my friend. ‘Place must find first.’ My search took me even into Green Town, the leafy area where the plots of Wong family land stood.
Despite my best efforts Siew Lan was never ready to make a decision. Whenever the time came, she would deflect me with reminiscences. One day it was the pair of magnificent mahogany chairs in their small sitting area; another day it was the rolls of fabric she and Se-Too-Wat had brought me shortly after Peng Choon passed away. There was always something to recall.
At first I thought that what Siew Lan needed was time. I expected her to make a decision eventually, as she had always done throughout our friendship. Yet when the weeks passed and our options dwindled, my concerns grew. My friend continued to vacillate, apparently unable to make up her mind. On the one hand, she sobbed that she simply had to leave because it was too painful to stay; on the other hand, whenever an opportunity arose she grew flustered, too afraid to leave the neighbourhood with which she had grown so familiar. ‘What to do?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘So hard-lah!’
Reaching across the barlay one day, I said to her, ‘No, Siew Lan, not hard. You make up your mind only-lah. Move also can, no move also can. If you move, must pray a lot-lah. Just like that. Not hard.’
This brought a flood of tears. ‘Sometimes . . . ,’ she told me breathlessly, ‘he in the room.’ Siew Lan’s fingers shook so much at this confession that she had to put down her well-loved Nyonya cup, the one whose pink borders and green dragons had faded with time. Siew Lan said she could feel Se-Too-Wat at night and wondered whether her time too had come.
‘Chay! Why you say such things-ah?’ I retorted, horrified.
I sighed, knowing then that Siew Lan would never move from the house she had shared with Se-Too-Wat.
The business of moving house was a matter to which I had given much thought, because when I saw our land in Green Town, I once again imagined a wooden house painted completely in lime green. I knew I too would have to make a choice: remain cocooned in Lahat Road, where I knew Peng Choon’s spirit was safe, or head for the promise of Green Town, to the land he had given us.
Green Town was by then a sprawling neighbourhood dotted with fine houses, many of them built for government servants. Rubber smallholdings abounded, but with a hospital and an English-speaking school nearby, Green Town had potential. Our land had continued increasing in value, a thought which pleased me. I loved the neighbourhood, not least because Peng Choon had picked it. Siew Lan’s indecision made me realise that if my dream of a Green House were to become a reality, I needed to act.
As for Siew Lan, she never moved. She stayed in her house with its English toilet, ensconced by the trimmed hedges and memories which washed over her in waves.
Weng Yu was equally downcast after Se-Too-Wat passed away. For many weeks his face remained as mournful as the ponies that had once dragged gharries across Ipoh town. Two months elapsed before he came towards me as I sat with my betel box on the barlay. He stood at the edge of the wooden platform, uncertain whether to join me or to stay where he was. From the look on his face, I could tell that the gloom had lifted. I invited him to sit.
Stepping up wearily, he crossed his legs one way and then another before clearing his throat. ‘Mama,’ he began hesitantly, ‘it’s time I got married.’
‘You meet already a girl?’ I asked. After nodding, Weng Yu remained strangely silent. When I prodded my son to reveal more, he mumbled that Hui Lin must surely have told me. ‘What? But is you want to get married. You should with me speak,’ I said, thinking what odd behaviour this son of mine had. Fancy wanting to marry and not saying more than three words!
There followed the much-curtailed story which his gregarious sister Hui Lin had already related. Days later, when Weng Yu brought Mei Foong to our house for her first family dinner, I had the satisfying opportunity of scrutinising my intended daughter-in-law at close quarters. The meal itself was a test I had devised to see how the girl would deal with spicy cuisine in a dining room devoid of the comforts she was used to. The young lady seemed unperturbed. She came gliding across the threshold in a Chinese tunic and trousers made of fine silk, her back straight and head held high – a regal bearing which reminded me of Peng Choon’s. Though her clothes were loose-fitting, I could see that the girl had a slender figure and long creamy fingers unsoiled by work.
She was a striking beauty, of that there was little doubt. As well as the hair I had heard so much about, she had a fine complexion, discreetly enhanced by a coating of powder, though she would have been equally striking with no make-up. Her lips were coloured, not the bright red I was used to but a modern pink – the result, I guessed, of the new wave of imported goods that had reached our shops.
Throughout the meal Mei Foong’s famous manners were on display. She didn’t eat with her hands. She and Weng Yu were given their rice in bowls with a pair of chopsticks each, for which she seemed grateful. The girl tried and praised every dish. Having evidently been warned about the spiciness of our cuisine, she had come with a strategy in mind, and I watched as she mixed her dishes up to tame the effect of the chillies, which must surely have set her tongue on fire. Mei Foong delicately broke up the morsels of fish in her parcels of otak-otak before taking a sip of water, and then she would lift strands of kangkong fried with our infamous chilli paste and follow that with a spoonful of clear vegetable soup. It helped that she was accompanied by her personal maid, a tiny girl who seemed determined to keep her cool. The maid, attentive to every bead of sweat on her mistress’s forehead, shook a triangular paper fan throughout dinner.
Despite her wealth, Mei Foong’s kindness was obvious, for she treated her maid respectfully. After we finished, she insisted her maid not follow us into the inner hall. ‘You must eat now, Chang Ying,’ she said simply, thereby forcing Chang Ying to have her own meal with our servants. I was impressed and more than surprised that there was nothing I could find fault with. Indeed, my younger sons were in such awe of Mei Foong that they were clumsier than usual throughout the night, incapable apparently of filling their lettuce leaves or eating their braised pork without spilling gravy everywhere. What I remember best was Mei Foong’s aura of tranquillity and the fragrance which lingered in the air after she left. When I recognised it as the smell of roses, presumably from the foreign scented water she dabbed on her skin, I coloured, remembering the story of Helen.
Weng Yu was adamant that his wo
uld be a Western wedding, and I had to conceal my disappointment. ‘Mei Foong and her family, they don’t mind-ah?’ I asked quietly.
My son would have none of it. He assured me that his fiancée’s family were happy to break with tradition. ‘We have to be modern after all,’ he told me drily. Conscious of my promise not to interfere, there was nothing I could say, especially since going ‘modern’ was all the rage in those days.
Even Siew Lan chided me for being supposedly conservative. ‘You must not be so square, Chye Hoon,’ she said playfully. ‘Look at our buildings. These days they also round!’
My friend was referring to a new three-storey block on the Laxamana Road with, of all things, a curved corner. It was part of another spate of construction which had accompanied the recovery in Ipoh, except that this time the boom was no longer just about having more buildings, but also about making them taller, bolder. This famous curved building was an example. I thought it highly impractical, but everyone else loved it and the place, called the Lam Look Ing Bazaar after the towkay who had built it, became a focal point in town. I was one of the few who had never stepped foot inside, despite Siew Lan’s attempts to change my mind. Having heard about the hotel and the dance hall on the top floor filled with pouting girls, I simply had no desire.
In the midst of such rapidly changing times, Weng Yu married Mei Foong in 1933. The only concession my son made to Chinese custom was to let me consult the priest over a choice of dates. Apart from that everything else was supposedly modern, though the food at the banquet remained Chinese. The official marriage was even conducted inside a registry office, an act considered seriously fashionable by some.
Afterwards a grand reception was held, to which hundreds of guests were invited. Knowing my limited financial means, Mei Foong’s father had kindly agreed to foot all expenses. When I saw the decorations laid out on each of the round tables, all beautifully covered in white linen, and the ten-course Chinese banquet that was served, I was thankful for Kwok Man Leung’s generosity. Not that I would have begrudged my son the wedding of his life, but we would never have been able to afford such a sumptuous feast for so many guests.
It was exhilarating to see my little prince marry in such fashion. My jubilation was the greater because my surviving children were all present – even Weng Yoon, my fourth son, had by then returned from London, a qualified lawyer with the right to set up his own practice. Yet I was conscious also of a weight gnawing at my heart, for it was clear that Weng Yu would never pass the values so dear to me on to his children. I was square, as Siew Lan had put it, and I realised I could never be otherwise.
My most enduring memory of Weng Yu’s big day was the three-tiered cake which greeted the bride and groom at the front of the reception hall. From a distance the cake resembled three thick slabs one on top of another, each covered in white icing and dotted with artificial roses in red and yellow. It was only when my son and daughter-in-law had cut through the lowest and biggest tier that the secret within was revealed. To our utter astonishment a handful of pigeons flew into the air, soaring above us in the hall. Everyone clapped, never imagining we would live to witness such a spectacle.
The next day, my pride overflowed when I was shown a picture of the moment as captured by a local newspaperman. The photograph itself was in black and white, but the scene in my mind is forever in colour. There, sprawled across two pages, were the pigeons fluttering over my son and daughter-in-law, he resplendent in black bow tie and white suit, she wonderfully glamorous in a lace-bedecked gown, the skirt sweeping down to her ankles and hovering over a pair of stunning red shoes. It seemed a wholly auspicious start to my little prince’s married life.
The birds that flew out of Weng Yu’s wedding cake had a strange effect on the Wong family: within just twelve months two of my other sons had also entered into marriage.
The first of these entanglements was somewhat unfortunate. Weeks after Weng Yu’s wedding a letter came from Seremban, from my second son, Weng Koon, who at the time was still a teacher in that town. My daughter Hui Lin read it aloud to me, and when her breathing grew short and sharp I knew that a girl was involved.
‘Tell me,’ I commanded.
It transpired that her brother Weng Koon had married a Cantonese girl without informing me. I was so stunned that I had to ask Hui Lin to repeat herself.
After she confirmed the bare facts, I began yelling into the steamy afternoon air, ‘He why do like that? His wife got problem-ah? She deformed-ah?’
I continued hurling abuse in this vein at both my son and his wife, whom I hadn’t even met. I wondered what I had done wrong in this life. Why were my children turning their backs on me? This second boy of mine had truly taken disobedience to new heights. Why, even his eldest brother had not dared to go behind my back. All felt lost, for without filial piety, our family, indeed our whole community, would be adrift.
When Hui Lin added that Weng Koon had asked to bring his new wife for a visit, I shrieked in disbelief. My screams disturbed the neighbourhood cockerels and dogs, which crowed and howled in unison, causing a symphony to rise over the hill on Lahat Road. Hui Lin, fearing that the slightest provocation would stoke my anger to new heights, wisely let my rage cool itself. By the time I cried out for the fourth time – ‘The boy of course say something else in his letter!’ – she knew that the moment had come.
Touching me gently on the shoulder, Hui Lin whispered, ‘It’s done, Mama. You cannot change it. Please go and rest. All this shouting is bad for your health.’
When I told the patriarch what had happened, he threw me subtle but unmistakable looks. In a gentle voice Meng Seng reminded me that Weng Koon was still my son. ‘Chye Hoon, don’t be so hard.’
Only it wasn’t hardness I felt but pain and frustration. I could no longer control what my children chose. I simply had to accept their choices or risk losing them. I was a mother who preferred square corners, while my children delighted in the latest shapes, such as that of the exotic building on the corner of Laxamana Road. I lay awake at night confused and regretful, yet also ruling out any welcome for my son or his new wife.
48
After their marriage, Weng Yu and Mei Foong moved into a shophouse on Chung Thye Phin Road, beyond the girls’ school in New Town. The location, though close to her parental home, was almost an hour away by rickshaw. As a result I saw little of my son and daughter-in-law in the early years of their marriage, except when they came for dinner.
It must have been on one of those occasions when I gleaned that all was not well. At least not with my daughter-in-law. Picking over the half dozen or so dishes we always set out in our most beautiful china, Weng Yu seemed happy enough, but there were moments when I was sure I caught flickers of sadness in Mei Foong’s eyes. My son, detached as usual, didn’t seem to notice.
Not that Mei Foong would ever have complained, least of all to me, certainly not about my own son. She was faultless as a daughter-in-law: refined, courteous and ever respectful. Yet even she in less guarded moments let slip hints.
The first came when she told us how much she had loved school. Mei Foong’s normally calm eyes lit up when she talked about her favourite subject, which turned out to be, of all things, mathematics. Instead of the lulling tone I had come to expect, her voice became animated and her cheeks turned the colour of the pink eggs we gave away on a baby’s full moon. In vivid detail Mei Foong described the branch of mathematics at which she had excelled – the study of shapes and measurements and drawings.
She revealed then that she had once dreamt of becoming a teacher. This made everyone’s ears prick up. ‘What do you think of that, Elder Brother?’ Kwee Seng teased my son. ‘Your wife might go out to work!’
Weng Yu gave his brother-in-law a scathing glance. ‘No wife of mine will ever have to work,’ he declared in his booming baritone, inadvertently lifting his head so that his nose peered down at the rest of us. It was a posture to which we had grown accustomed, but his wife exchanged a look with
him.
What passed between them I could not tell, except that when she next spoke her voice was steely. ‘No need to shout. I’m sure it was a joke, wasn’t it, Kwee Seng?’ I watched dumbstruck as my son’s manners improved, to the extent that even his nose stopped staring down at us during the rest of the meal. For the first time I felt a grudging respect for the petite woman before me who seemed able to influence my son. I might have lost my way with him, but I began to perceive an ally in his wife.
That night I thought about Mei Foong’s revelations. I recalled how, when Father first taught me to count, I had been spellbound by the abacus and had spent hours moving the beads up and down, until I conquered them with a palpable feeling of triumph in my chest.
My daughter-in-law said that she had dreamt of becoming a teacher. Not that she had wanted to become one; rather, that she had dreamt of it. I remembered that I too had dreamt of school and of learning. Then, when I realised this would never come to pass, I kept the only thing I could: my spirit.
I wondered how much Mei Foong had really wanted to marry. Mei Foong, unlike me, had attended school and would have had other options. Though a teacher’s salary could never have bought the comforts she was used to, it would have given her independence. As it was, the girl had neither: not the chance of fulfilling her dream, nor the comforts of the truly wealthy – for it would have been impossible for my son to keep her in the style in which she had lived previously. The Chinese tunics and trousers she wore took on a shabbier appearance; her face too began to look subtly different. Gone were the creamy skin and the distinctive pink on her lips, to be replaced by what were seen on ordinary women – the white of common powder and the red of local lip rouge. Her scent of roses had also turned into a fragrance decidedly less powerful. When I asked whether she minded giving up the imported toiletries she had once used, Mei Foong smiled, replying matter-of-factly that one had to cut one’s cloth according to the size of one’s wallet.
The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds Page 37