“And a Heaven in a Wild Flower. Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and Eternity in an hour. William Blake, ‘Auguries of Innocence’,” Pansy continued.
“That’s why you’re my star pupil!” Sister Catherine said as she clapped her hands, her rheumy blue eyes lighting up, her face folding into myriads of fine lines.
“How can anyone not want to learn poetry, Sister? It makes my heart soar so!” Pansy said. “Even when you live in the most abject circumstances, poetry can lift you out of them. Even if everything is taken away from me, I still have poetry, I can live. And it’s you, Sister, who has given me the precious gift of appreciating it. Whenever I think of poetry, I will think of you…”
“Sadly,” Sister Catherine shared, “people think that poetry and literature are vacuous subjects. That it’s more important to learn mathematics, engineering and all the sciences. Of course it’s good to be pragmatic and scientific but it’s as important to feed the human spirit. It doesn’t matter which country the artistic work originates from. There’s a universal truth in it. Literature is not just about a particular place like England, it’s about the place within us that we can’t easily reach. An inspired work of art takes us there. A painting, a good piece of music, or a poet’s and author’s words become a vehicle for us to make that inner journey.”
Sister Catherine had opened new worlds to her and Pansy admired her for having left the comfort of her own culture and world to provide service to others. She arrived, a fresh-faced young woman, full of devotion and zeal, giving everything of herself without asking for any rewards. She was like the palm tree, rendering and yielding precious aspects of herself without any expectation. Without the generosity of The Mission, Pansy would have been like many of the kampong children, uneducated and with no opportunity to break out of her straitened circumstances.
“Sister Catherine, I shall miss you,” Pansy said, hugging her, as tears streamed down her face. “You’re the best teacher. Ever! I will treasure your gift as I treasure my life.”
Sister Catherine had settled in a convent for retired nuns not far from the village of Chawton in Hampshire, one of the places where the eighteenth century novelist, Jane Austen, had lived. Pansy was excited every time a flimsy aerogramme with its borders of blue and red arrived from England, the stamp bearing the head of King George. Sister Catherine had a way with words that was so uplifting, describing the countryside and seasons to her.
The oak tree is my favourite tree. It’s majestic, very much like the proud banyan tree in Singapore. I love seeing a solitary oak standing in a sprawling green field, its trunk strong and solid, its branches spread out wide, set against a broad open sky. Its leaf is quite different from other leaves, and is considered a symbol of strength and endurance. That’s why the National Trust, an organisation that preserves the countryside and heritage buildings of Great Britain, has used the leaf as its symbol and logo. Tell your mother that the ancient Druids believed that the oak tree has strong healing powers, that the Rowan has protective energies…
Pansy had raced to the Raffles Library in the colonial building on Stamford Road. The library was Pansy’s heaven, thousands of books at her disposal for free when she could ill afford to buy any. She flipped through Encyclopaedia Britannica to check out what an oak and a Rowan looked like, why the oak leaf was so different. There was a picture of an oak with its nut or fruit, called an acorn. The leaves are more elongated than other leaves and have serrated edges and are arranged in spirals. It was a shame that she could not take the encyclopaedia out of the library to show her mother what an oak leaf looked like. Kim Guek loved Pansy reading and translating to her, and looking through picture books. For Pansy, the oak leaf became the symbol of Britain. Sister Catherine’s letters were Pansy’s first real and direct contact with England.
Now that she was out of school, waiting for the result of her application to be a nurse, Pansy helped her mother with their market stall. Kim Guek sold jamu potions, bunga rampay and her famed nasi ulam, a cold rice dish that makes use of raw or blanched vegetables, herbs and spices—healthy yet delicious. Fortunately, Kim Guek had these alternative means of supporting herself. The villagers knew that without Hock Chye’s daily haul of fish, Kim Guek’s income had been depleted, so Pak Abdul had suggested to Pansy in Malay, “You’re a clever girl what. Why don’t you give tuition to the village children lah? Teach them ABC. So many of them can’t afford real schooling. At least you can teach them to speak simple English. I’m sure the parents can afford three dollars a month or they can pay in kind. Then at least they will get a chance to get jobs as peons, waiters, salesgirls…”
“Boleh! Boleh! Can! Can!” Pansy had replied enthusiastically.
Pansy had toyed with the idea of being a teacher, but the healing propensity that she inherited from her mother would make her a natural nurse. Pansy debated between being a general nurse or a midwife. After all, she had attended several birthing sessions along with Kim Guek, and watched as her mother calmed the screaming woman, agog when the baby slid out in a watery and bloody trail. It seemed such a gift to help bring new life into the world. But if she became a When a general nurse, she would be exposed to a variety of medical conditions
