“How did you know that I know about Haji Kahar’s house?” Pansy asks aloud, looking at her son curiously.
“Don’t you remember?” Anthony says. “You used to tell me the story of the day you met dad. And how you had noticed Haji Kahar’s house on the hill with the green shutters? I don’t know why but the way you described it made it stay in my mind. And when I returned to Singapore for my NS, I went to look for the house and was surprised to see it still standing. It was not difficult to trace, as it’s the only house on the hill that’s traditionally built. And the shutters were still painted green! You also told me how dad was on a runaway bicycle being chased by a buffalo and he nearly landed in the lake…”
As Anthony speaks, that day comes back to Pansy as if it was happening now. Her first sight of George. The day that changed her life forever. It all comes flooding back. It shows that the memory has been there all along, slipped into the many folds of her brain, hidden even from her debilitating consciousness.
“Did I tell you all that? Amazing that you should remember…”
“Wah, so funny! Grandpa being chased by a buffalo,” says Winona. “Did anyone take a video of it? I can post it on my Facebook account or YouTube. Sure to get lots of ‘likes’.” “Did we really have buffaloes in Singapore in the old days?” Andie asks. “I mean, real animals roaming around Singapore? Did we have hens and ducks? How about wildlife?
Did we have elephants and tigers?”
“A lake! Oh, goody. Is it like a reservoir? Can we swim in it? Can we go and see it, grandma?” Goldie asks.
“Sadly, no,” says Anthony, before Pansy can respond. “The lake has been filled in. Now the area has been taken over partly by the NEWater manufacturing plant and partly by SMRT, which uses it as their Changi Depot, to store the MRT trains. All the forest in that area has been cleared…”
The ache that catches Pansy at the news that her Windermere is gone surprises her. Why should it matter now? After all, she and George had gone to the Lake District and had seen the real Windermere. Sister Catherine had described the Lake District to her so many times when Pansy was at Convent school and had always enthused so much over its beauty that Pansy almost expected to be disappointed.
So for Pansy to see the lake for herself for the first time was a hugely emotional experience. She could hear Sister Catherine’s voice, telling her about this and that. All those years of longing, those hours of imagining it, and she was now seeing the region for herself. The place was more beautiful than she could have imagined, the fresh air, wide open spaces, hills, green fields, craggy outcrops of rock and of course the various lakes themselves—Windermere, Buttermere, Grasmere. The names that George had told her on the day they met. She remembers how she and George had stood on the hill the first time, their hair windswept, looking down at the vast Windermere, and they had laughed, comparing it to the piddling little pond in Singapore which she had nicknamed after it.
George had made her dream to see Wordsworth’s country come true, had kept his promise, and showed her William Blake’s cottage in Felpham, John Keats’s home in Hampstead, Rudyard Kipling’s in East Sussex, Thomas Hardy’s in Dorset. The greatest regret was that she didn’t get to see Sister Catherine again. By the time, they arrived in England, Sister Catherine was already in her seventies and had died. They only got to put a posy of pansies on her simple grave in the convent churchyard.
“Do you know that the Lake District is also Beatrix Potter’s country?” George had asked her, the day they stood on the hill overlooking Windermere. “We will introduce her Peter Rabbit books to Anthony. Beatrix Potter had moved up here from London and had fallen in love with the area. To prevent the countryside from being destroyed for development of housing estates and shopping precincts, she had bought large farms and huge tracts of land with her own hard-earned income and bequeathed them to the people so that the countryside would remain beautiful, open and accessible.”
“What an amazing lady.”
“Indeed. She overcame huge odds and became an author in the nineteenth century, when it was not easy for a woman to be published. She loved the countryside and animals with a passion and drew them as illustrations for her own books. But one tragedy marred her life. She had fallen in love with her editor, Norman Warne, but her parents objected to their marriage as his social standing was not on par with theirs. But because she was adamant, her father relented and said that if after three months of their summer in the Lake District she was still in love, she could marry him.
“Sadly, Norman Warne died from leukaemia before the end of summer. She was devastated. The greatest love of her life had been snatched from her. That’s why I wanted us to get married straightaway, and not wait. It could have happened to either of us and I would have regretted it forever. We mustn’t let fear and prejudice stop us from doing things and living out our dreams.”
“I’m glad you were courageous for both of us, George…”
Pansy is swept up by the memory of George, and for a few moments, she forgets where she is. Theirs was not just a marriage, theirs was a beautiful friendship and a sustaining love. She recalls how he often made her laugh. He saw goodness in others; his parents’ attitude towards Pansy grieved him and it was not until the adult Anthony brought them together again that he spoke to them. He forgave, but never forgot how they cut him off because he would not give Pansy up. He proved he could be a doctor even without their support. Initially, Pansy did not want the rift and begged him to reconsider the loss of his family and inheritance, but he had been adamant. He gave up so much to be with her. She will never forget that. Scores of images of George come rushing in to assail Pansy’s mind, and she is suddenly overwhelmed.
“Grandma, are you all right?” Goldie asks.
“Mum, are you okay?” Emily says.
A visible change has come over her, making her family anxious. They see that her eyes had taken on a faraway look. Pansy had not realised that she has risen from her chair and has stood up abruptly, looking this way and that in confusion, around the restaurant, her face agitated.
“I think I’d better get going,” Pansy says, her voice tremulous. “George is all alone at home. I don’t like to stay away too long. I have to prepare his tea. I think I’ll bake him a nice pie…”
Chapter 8
“Your mother is definitely losing it,” says Emily. “Maybe we need to send her for more tests. At his deathbed, your father thought it might be some type of dementia—it might be Alzheimer’s. It may not be safe for her to live on her own. Maybe she needs to go into a nursing home…”
“No way,” Anthony says. “Mum loves her independence too much. She’ll suffocate in a nursing home…”
“Then what’s your suggestion ah? What if she does something stupid? Like not turning off the gas? Or not blowing out the candles she uses for meditation? What if she gets into her woolly state and crosses the road, thinking it’s a kampong road with no motorised traffic? I don’t think all that talk about the old kampong is doing her much good. She’s already acting confused, sometimes thinking that your father is still alive, like last month when we were at Flintstones…”
“You’re right, honey,” Anthony gives in yet again. “I’ll set up an appointment for her to see Dr Kwa. Maybe we can get a helper to go in every day to check on mum.”
“That’s going to cost money, you know…”
“You look lovely, grandma. What’s that lovely fragrance?” Goldie asks as Pansy gets into Anthony’s Mercedes Benz.
For her trip to visit her home of past times, Pansy had put on her sarong kebaya. It seems appropriate. Her granddaughter has arrived promptly at her condominium for their excursion. They have chosen a weekday when places won’t be overcrowded. Goldie has taken time off from work. She is still wearing a shirt and jeans, but the shirt is less mannish than before, printed with tiny hearts. She has not gelled her hair in rigid spikes, so it is softer around her tanned face. She can look really pretty if she allows herself to be s
o. There is something about the shape and angle of the face which reminds Pansy of someone. But she can’t remember who.
“I have to confess, I made a quick dash this morning to Geylang Serai wet market by taxi to buy it. It’s bunga rampay. Do you know what that is?”
“No,” says Goldie, pulling the car out to begin their journey.
“It’s a potpourri of fresh flowers. I used to put it together to sell to people. My mother, your Cho Cho, taught me how to select the right flowers and to get the right mix. Do you know it now costs $2 per packet? I used to sell it for 30 cents! I thought I might scatter it in the sea… near where our village used to be… for the villagers… and my… parents…” Pansy’s voice breaks a little, the memory of the last time she had scattered the flowers into the sea threatening to unsettle her. No matter how long ago a painful incident occurred, its memory doesn’t really go away, but lies buried, suddenly to surface at the slightest reminder or provocation. In Buddhism and yoga, this is called a klesha, an imprint that has settled in our psyche and cannot be eradicated until we learn to resolve its corresponding issues. Pansy wonders what other kleshas will surface on this trip.
“Thanks, grandma, for letting me come with you,” Goldie says. “I know it must be emotional, going back to where your village used to be. I’ll try not to intrude. You be quiet when you want to be. No need to talk all the time. I’ll understand.”
“You are such a sensitive soul,” Pansy says. “I knew that your hard exterior was all an act. Sometimes when we wear a protective casing, we’re also in danger of not letting kindness and love penetrate it. To be receptive to love, we have to open a window of vulnerability. You must learn to trust and to let yourself be who you are…”
“I know what you’re saying, grandma. That’s part of my problem,” says Goldie. “I’ve always been told I’m not good enough. Mum never lets me talk about what I wanted. She went ballistic when I said I wanted to change my name and my job. So I don’t know who I am…”
“As my mother would say, take off the layers that you are hiding under…”
“Cho Cho sounds like a spiritual soul…”
“She was,” says Pansy. “She always reminded me that the true purpose of life is to discover who we really are and what we are meant to do here. Don’t take on board labels that people slap on you. The way to cope with other people’s name calling is to unstick the labels from yourself. Don’t play into their script…”
“I guess I’ve always felt that my mother wanted a boy instead of me. Maybe I was unconsciously trying to get her love by dressing in a boyish way,” says Goldie. “But she never notices me anyway. It’s always Winona or Andie who gets her attention. They’re so pretty that I decided not to compete. And now it has become a habit, I never think of buying dresses or making myself look pretty…”
“Well, you are pretty!” Pansy says. “If you like, we will go out on a shopping spree together and buy some dresses. Or maybe a sarong kebaya? We can go to Katong.”
“Actually,” admits Goldie. “I wouldn’t mind that at all. Let’s keep it a secret. My mother might flip to see me in a sarong kebaya…”
“Right now, I must admit to a slight sense of trepidation. Going back to one’s past is never easy. But it must be done, to lay my ghosts. I’m really glad you’re with me, though. It would be harder to face it alone. And perhaps your generation might like to understand the past too, so that you can forge the future with greater compassion.”
Pansy tells Goldie more about the bunga rampay, how Peranakans and Malays love to perfume their homes with it, how her mother used to put it on the altar in front of Hock Chye’s spirit-tablet. Unlike the monologue type of conversation they had at Flintstones, their conversation in the car is freer, inquisitive but in a refreshing, interested way.
“How did Kong Cho die?”
The question still wrenches Pansy’s gut. But this is what today’s journey is all about, passing her memories on to the next generation. One generation’s memory is like a baton that needs to be passed to the next generation so that the race of life continues with awareness and knowledge of their history. History is the foundation that anchors people to their roots. Without this firm grounding, a people can easily flounder and topple.
“My father was a fisherman…”
Pansy worries in the silence that follows this pronouncement. Would Goldie feel ashamed of this side of the family?
“I can’t tell you what this knowledge means to me. Now I know I’m not weird,” Goldie says, as if she too had to pause in order to recover her normal voice. “I’ve always felt like I was a changeling in our household, and often wondered whether mum and dad took the wrong baby home from the hospital when I was born…”
Pansy reaches across and pats her granddaughter’s arm.
“You mustn’t think that,” she says. “We’re family. Look how brown we both are. I know your parents love you just as much as they do the other girls. I certainly love you as you are. Maybe you take after my family more than the Chans…”
“You see, that’s the trouble. Dad hardly talks about his grandparents, your parents I mean, so I don’t know if I take after them…”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Don’t say I told you… but mum is a bit of a snob. She wants people to believe we’re from a pedigreed heritage, what with grandpa being a doctor, and great-grandpa and great-grandma who had lived on posh Nassim Road. She didn’t want to talk about our ancestors from the kampong…”
“Oh, I see…”
“To be honest, I was selfish too. I was uninterested. I suppose that’s what being a child is all about. But I’ve grown more mature, I hope. I’ve become like many young people these days, questioning the meaning of identity, of being Singaporean. I think to know who we are, we need to know who our ancestors are. Lately, there’s so much talk in the country about heritage, kampong days and the Peranakan culture. I began to realise that I have not valued the richness of my heritage. The trouble is that mum is not Peranakan, so she’s not interested, and so she didn’t encourage us. She never lets dad talk about his childhood in the village, only about the part of his childhood in England.”
Pansy tries to digest this bit of information.
“Would you be…? I mean are you ashamed of my having come from the kampong?”
“Grandma, no!” This time it is Goldie’s turn to place her hand on Pansy’s arm. “I’m not like my mother. I don’t buy into her way of thinking… That’s why sometimes I don’t think that I’m her child… Now, to know that my great-grandfather, my Kong Cho, was a fisherman, makes sense about my deep love for the sea.”
“You would have loved him! He was so handsome,” Pansy says, proud, at long last, to pass him on as an inheritance to his great-granddaughter. “You would have thought he was a mer-man, the way he could swim and lark about in the water…”
“Now I know I’m not a freak.”
“But eventually the sea claimed him,” Pansy says with sadness. “In his job it had always been a threat but it was still horrible when it happened. Especially since we never recovered his body.”
A pregnant silence descends, temporarily clouding the outing.
“But with hindsight,” Pansy continues. “His body has gone to where he was most happy, so I guess I should let go of the grief. Especially since I believe in an afterlife.”
“I imagine that the not-knowing for certain must have been quite challenging…” Goldie says. “But I personally wouldn’t mind dying whilst scuba diving! More exciting than dying in bed!”
“Eh, jangan chakap suay!” Pansy breaks into Peranakan-speak automatically to stop her granddaughter from saying something which is bad luck. “Peranakans are very pantang, superstitious. Mustn’t say things like that!”
But Pansy is determined not to allow the past to spoil present time. She is so happy to be out with her granddaughter. The years of separation had taken some toll on their closeness but now they are bridging the gap rapidl
y. She relaxes back in the passenger seat as she becomes confident of her granddaughter’s competence in handling the car. Goldie leaves the small road and gets onto the ECP expressway.
“All this is reclaimed land…” Pansy says, half to herself and half to Goldie.
From her position, Pansy can see glimpses of the sea on her right, the sunlight dappling through the parachute-like canopy of the rain trees, topped with delicate pink flowers in some, yellow in others. All along the expressway, the rows of mauve bougainvillea bushes send out vibes of good cheer. Other cities in the world might have buildings with historic character but here in Singapore, she has her garden. I guess I have you to thank, Mr LKY? she says mentally. Pansy watches with admiration her granddaughter’s driving skill. This is a different Goldie. It’s as if she has shed her mother’s shadow and, being herself, is less inhibited and more vocal, chatting about her travels, scuba diving in the seas around Pulau Tioman, Lombok, Koh Samui, the Red Sea, the Caribbean. Despite the severity of her hair cut, her face is feminine and soft. There is something about the girl’s profile and looks which reminds Pansy of someone again, and again she can’t place it.
“It’s a milestone, you know,” Pansy says.
“What is?” Goldie asks, keeping her expert eyes on the road.
“To be in a car for the first time with your grandchild driving. I feel the same pride as when I first sat in the car after Anthony got his licence in the UK. I’m very proud of you.”
“Oh that’s nice of you to say so, grandma. I hardly get any compliments from mum,” Goldie says, then as if she regrets badmouthing her mother, she quickly continues. “I know mum wants the best for me. I just wish she’d realise that we can’t all be like her, efficient, driven and so successful.”
“Don’t forget that there is not just one measure of success.”
Goldie turns the Mercedes off from the ECP onto Bayshore Road. Two sprawling condominiums about twenty stories high greet them. She stops the car at the lights, before turning right into Upper East Coast Road. Another high-rise condominium is on the left, followed a by a row of terraced houses. On the right is a private hospital and more condominiums. But wedged between them is an original, early twentieth century concrete seaside house, called a bungalow here, with raised concrete pillars, white walls and red tiled roof. A restaurant signboard says ‘Sea View Seafood’.
When a Flower Dies Page 15