The song runs in Pansy’s head.
“Oh, stop being so maudlin!” she tells herself off yet again.
Heaving another sigh, she takes off her sandals and steps onto the sand with the sprig of yellow bougainvillea she had picked where the taxi had dropped her off, near the Bougainvillea Garden. Not that she should have taken the flowers. This is a country where laws are stringent and rules are meant to be obeyed. Here, few people would consider vandalising or damaging government property. In the days when there used to be red telephone boxes, like the ones in UK, Singapore’s were reputed to be the cleanest in the world: no litter, no torn directories, no slips of paper advertising the services of masseurs and prostitutes, no urine pooling in a corner. In the rest of the world, the tome is attached to the wall by a thick chain and even then, the directory gets stolen or has pages torn out. Even the chain would be sold for scrap.
Pansy had given in to her naughty streak. After all, who would miss one small sprig? She had been pleased to see the many varieties of bougainvillea that were in the cultivated garden, their petals light, like shaped tracing paper: red, orange, pink, yellow, mauve and white, trained into hedges, round bushes, arches and towers. The most delightful thing was that the flowers brought the beautiful butterflies, which had learnt to survive in densely populated urban conditions—the Cabbage White, the Common Grass Yellow, the Orange Emigrant and her favourite, the Painted Jezebel. They had flitted playfully with each other amongst the bougainvillea bushes, bringing with them a sense of gaiety and light-heartedness.
What was that poem of Wordsworth’s about butterflies? Oh, her brain is useless now.
The sand yields to Pansy’s feet: warm sand, not quite as white as the sand of the expunged coast, but it is still fine. The sand at Kampong Tepi Laut and neighbouring villages had been so fine that it was quarried to be made into glass. That’s right! Oh, how nice that she has remembered something! The sand near her village had been used for making glass! Only wealthy homes had windows with glass. Sheet glass and panes were so expensive that kampong houses could not afford them and had to make do with wooden shutters instead. Ah, it’s good that she has remembered something which she didn’t know she had forgotten. Maybe her brain is not so bad after all. She relishes in the thought and the sensation of grainy sand under her feet and in between her toes. It’s a rare pleasure for her to feel such soft sand these days. Only when the tide was low could she feel such softness of sand under her feet on the shores of Bracklesham Bay. Usually, the soles of her feet had to endure and crunch painfully on a huge, sloping mattress of pebbles on her way to the sea and back, pebbles in different stages of erosion but nearly all smoothed by the waves and time. She is grateful for small things and kneels at the water margin.
“Take these to George please,” she whispers, kissing the flowers, then slipping them into the moving water, sending a tribute to her beloved. She knows they will never get there, but she has to believe they can.
Creaking back into an upright posture, Pansy reminds herself to up her dosage of Evening Primrose capsules, to massage her legs at night with the essential oils of lavender.
Flowers can be so healing. But she knows that the human body has its own sell-by-date, and that it will gradually break down before its last surrender. She prays George will wait for her on the other side, to lead her into her new life. No matter how fit she had kept herself with her walks and her ministrations of herbs, nature has taken its toll. Already her skin lacks the lustre of youth, pigmentation forming blotches on her face, arms and legs, the harsh tropical sun making them worse. Knowing that her body is only an instrument of her soul and that she would be reunited with George in the afterlife gives her enduring comfort. She does not follow any faith, yet has an intrinsic belief that there is something greater. She can understand why people tend to turn to religion, especially in their old age. To fall into an abyss of nothingness must be frightening. What is the purpose of life if there is no afterlife?
Pansy stands in the surf for a while, luxuriating in her feet being bathed, taking in the view. On her far right, the iconic building of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel Resort stands proudly—three separate wide towers looking as if they are supporting a giant, concrete surf board that holds up the world’s first sky-park and swimming pool at its top. The curved white ribs of the Gardens by the Bay are also visible, like the bleached bones of a pre-historic animal. In their foreground is the giant Ferris wheel, the Singapore Flyer, proclaimed to be taller than the London Eye. All these are planted on reclaimed land, like the patch of earth she is standing on. She has indeed returned to a country that has sprouted new limbs and become softer, more open, with a new prime minister at its helm.
Pansy spreads out her arms as if to embrace sea and sky. The casuarina, banyan and palm trees observe her silently. She must look weird to others, this aged woman looking as if she’s performing some ancient ritual, face tilted upward and arms open. It is in this position that she is presented with a glorious view of the birds. They fly out of and over the tree tops into open space. They’re larger than ordinary birds, so Pansy’s breath catches. Why, these are birds of prey! How wonderful! Wildlife. There is something special about seeing birds and animals in the wild, to see them enjoying being themselves and
