To George, who loved this view. Pansy.
It was what they had agreed upon—that whoever died first would have their ashes strewn there and a bench sited, to give rest to those who walked the shingled beach that stretched for miles to Selsey in the east and Bosham in the west. In some respects, Pansy was unsure if the pact they made was helpful. Would she have coped better with George’s death if there had been a tomb for her to visit, or even an urn she could touch? She cannot even say to Anthony “when I die, bury me next to your father” or “mingle my ashes with his in the same urn”. How is it possible for someone to have lived with her for so long, shared such personal intimacy, and yet not leave a visible trace of that union in her life? Except for Anthony, there is nothing else that visibly records their having been together. For some reason, this hurts Pansy more than anything else. She wants George to be carved onto her forehead, etched into her face, so that anyone looking at her will know George and she had once been one; that upon seeing her, they can see George as well, that he has not vanished, just because his body has.
For more than fifty years they had been together. More than half a century. You cannot erase that length of years from your heart and mind like you erase the writing on a blackboard, or press ‘delete’ on a computer keyboard. George is branded on her consciousness in so many ways. For months after the funeral, Pansy had gone out with her thermos of hot food, soup, chicken curry, sayur lodeh or noodles, and sat on George’s bench, talking to him whilst she ate. If the weather permitted, she stayed for hours, but if the wind was howling and the waves were spitting, freezing her in minutes even when she was well wrapped up, she would beat a hasty retreat. She was not as firm as before, and a ferocious wind from the wide open sea could easily chill her, and even lift her off her feet. She was sure that at such times, she looked quite mad to others, this foreign-looking woman, muttering to herself, her limbs and clothes in a tangled mess, her grey hair in disarray, eating rice and noodles out of a thermos on a bench by the beach, when the red flag was flapping furiously in the wind and in the face of the board that warned of ‘No Swimming’.
Where in Singapore had she seen a similar board before? One that said, ‘No Swimming’? Pansy rakes her brain, leafs through her brain, but she cannot retrieve the memory.
East Coast Park is well planned, planted with instant trees to simulate the old forests, coconut palm, rain trees, casuarinas, sea figs and sea apples. The trees were transported from elsewhere by huge cranes and slotted into fresh-dug holes. Long sandy beaches are created from sand carved out from hills around the island, flattening the landscape so much that modern youngsters are not aware of how hilly Singapore used to be. The excavations created quarries which the heavy monsoons filled, turning them into lakes, like Pansy’s special lake near Koh Sek Lim Road or the fish ponds in Kampong Potong Pasir whose name meant ‘cut sand’ in Malay. All along the shoreline are open spaces for people to picnic, barbecue or erect their tents, after they have acquired an official permit. Two parallel bitumen tracks run side by side along the coast, one for bicycles and one for walkers and joggers.
There are not many people in the park right now so the young lady walking briskly catches Pansy’s attention. Wrapped around her head is a metal band fitted to enormous earphones over both ears. Her arms and legs are moving in unison. Even in this heat, she is wearing a track suit with long sleeves and long trousers. Chinese Singaporeans have an aversion to the sun: golfers and drivers wear long sleeves or slip-ons to prevent its effect. The young lady’s outfit is in eye-catching pink with applique letters stretched across her bosom, JUICY. When the girl passes her, Pansy notices that a similar applique of letters saying JUICY is splashed right across her pert bottom. Perhaps she is not aware of its allusion.
Tak seronoh sekali, Pansy imagines she can hear her parents lamenting.
A young couple passes Pansy sitting on her stone bench at East Coast Park. They are sitting on a two-seater bicycle, laughing, the young man singing the perennial ditty, Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do… their joy filtering into the atmosphere.
Enjoy! Enjoy! Pansy wants to yell. Feast on each other whilst you can. But oh, beware! Time is a robber. Don’t leave to tomorrow what you can say to each other today.
The young couple park their bicycle, laughing as they run hand in hand towards the surf. Her eyes home in on their hands clasping each other’s. This is what Pansy misses, the intimacy of touch, that tangible contact of skin to skin. Not being held by another is the loneliest thing about being alone. Perhaps now she has some idea as to why some single people indulge in promiscuous sex. It is not just for the orgasmic experience, but for the deeper sense of being touched, of being needed and wanted. Since her return, she misses being hugged. People here are less demonstrative, less inclined to take someone into their arms, body pressed against body. Maybe she ought to get a dog.
Someone to take my hand
And be a team with me
So nice, life would
