Pansy raced to the back verandah in the nick of time. The breeze caressed her face, sweeping her long hair back from her nape. She readjusted her sarong that had threatened to come loose in her short flight. She and her mother slept with sarongs tied around their bosoms. Metro, the department store on the High Street, their main shopping precinct, had begun to sell factory-made nightdresses, but the majority of villagers could not afford them, and had to pedal their Singer sewing machines to make their own. How well made an item of clothing turned out to be, rested on the skill of the seamstress. Sometimes kampong children walked around in ill-fitting shirts and baggy shorts, dresses that nipped in the wrong places, knickers that let in the air. Sometimes a woman would buy a bolt of cloth on the cheap at Robinson Petang, the Thieves Market along Sungei Road near Rochor Canal, which parodied the name of the smart store. In such a situation, the whole family—mother, father, sons and daughters—would be dressed in one single pattern of fabric, made worse and incurring mirth from others when the cloth was floral and the boys had to wear it too.
Pansy gulped in the fresh salty air, her lungs expanding. The sky was already streaked blood orange. In the distance she could see the kelong, an offshore fishing trap, its thicket of skinny legs still in dark silhouette, the small hut perched in the middle, a couple of sampans bobbing up and down the shallow waves near it. If her father had been alive, he too would be out there in his own sampan, hauling in his nets and getting ready to make his way home with his night’s catch, to sell to wholesalers up river in town or on their own beach. But Hock Chye had been claimed by the sea in a fierce storm four years previously during the monsoon, just as Pansy was entering secondary school at the convent.
If not for the generosity of the English missionary nuns, particularly Sister Catherine, and her mother’s tenacity, her education might have been curtailed by his clipped life. The villagers had nurtured them through the ordeal, bringing in cooked meals on a rota basis, manning their market stall whilst Pansy was at school, all to give Kim Guek time to regenerate herself.
That was gotong royong, community cooperation. Kampong spirit at its best.
Pansy could see the bright curved rim of the sun at the edge of the sea. Then suddenly, as if it had been catapulted, the ball of orange did not hesitate or stop, but instead leapt swiftly into the sky. Her breath caught, as it always did when the sun rose upwards with such purposeful strides, throwing out streamers of red, orange and yellow light in its path. She could weep for the sheer beauty of it. Pansy mumbled the words that William Wordsworth had composed on Westminster Bridge when he saw the sunrise with his sister, Dorothy:
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty.
What a brilliant, sensitive man he must have been, to have been so moved by nature that he could capture its essence and convey it to others in verse. Pansy felt that she would have been the poorer without having known Wordsworth’s poetry.
“One day I shall visit the Lake District,” she vowed.
On her last day of school, after she had passed her Senior Cambridge Certificate, Sister Catherine had called her into the office. It was their last, private farewell. Pansy already felt the loss even before it happened. Pansy knew she would long for Sister Catherine, her articulate voice, gentle words and impeccable manners. Even seeing Sister in her usual white habit and cowl made Pansy’s heart turn over. Sister was sitting in the study when she walked in. She smiled, her cheeks creasing as she got up to hand Pansy a book. Despite her age, Sister Catherine still towered over her. Pansy reached out eagerly and saw that it was a leather-bound edition of The Complete Poetical Works of William Wordsworth.
“Wow!” Pansy exclaimed. “A really old book! By William Wordsworth!”
She could smell the reddish leather: the pages were yellowed with age, its golden edges worn from frequent handling. On the fly-page was a dedication scrawled in faint ink:
To my darling Isabelle
the light of my life, Dad
“That was my name before I took vows. Now, I’m returning to England to retire,” Sister Catherine had said. “Teaching you has been one of my greatest joys. The light in your eyes when you recite the poems is an absolute treasure! Your love of Wordsworth reminds me of the richness of his words and rakes up memories of the beauty of England. I’ve got to see my homeland one more time before I die. But I wanted to
