“I’m George Chan,” he said, extending his hand for a formal handshake.
“Named after the king, were you?”
“Not my fault if my parents are anglophiles,” he said. “These days it’s fashionable, isn’t it, to drop the complicated Chinese names?”
“I suppose so. Mine’s Pansy. My mother likes flowers. Pansy Lim.”
“But not a local flower. English I think…”
“I found out from the Encyclopaedia Britannica that the flower comes in various colours—pink, blue, purple and yellow. The flower looks like it has a happy face and has two upper overlapping petals. But how is it that you know about flowers?”
“Oh, just an interest. I like knowing what plants, flowers and herbs are good for healing. If I am not mistaken, I believe that a pansy is a natural aphrodisiac…”
“Oh really?” Pansy said, bemused. “I know that the word, ‘pansy’ is derived from the word ‘to think’. In French, penser; Spanish, pensar or pensamientos, ‘thoughts’. In English, it’s pensive.”
“I am impressed,” George said, looking at her with renewed interest.
Pansy was still unsure whether to take his extended hand. Suddenly remembering the taboo and her earlier touching of his hands, she blushed. So she didn’t. There was an awkward moment when his hand was held out but not grasped, so he busied himself by dusting off the grass and mud which had clung to him. His brushing only made it worse, smearing mud all over his store-bought clothes. Pansy laughed.
“You know, I love the way you laugh! It’s so full of joy.”
Pansy didn’t know how to react to this compliment, so she remained silent. She observed George curiously. He tucked his well-tailored shirt back into his shorts, held up by an expensive looking leather belt. He was obviously someone who lived in a brick house, yet his voice did not sound like the irritating whine of her schoolmates or their pretentious accent.
“You’re not from the kampongs, are you?” Pansy said.
“No… why? Does it make any difference to you?”
“Why should it?” she said with a jutting out of her chin.
“And you’re a kampong girl, right, with that perfect English!”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“I’m just complimenting you on your English. Such articulation…”
“I am a kampong girl actually. From Kampong Tepi Laut.,” she said. “I’m just lucky that the Missionaries chose to educate me...”
“What? One of the hidden villages? Your village is famous, you know. All the boys I know think of it as some adventure place.”
“Does it matter?”
“Does what matter?”
“That I’m a kampong girl. Not one of your kind.”
“What do you mean one of my kind? What kind do you think I am?”
“The kind who lives in a house with a flush toilet…”
This time, it was his turn to laugh. A hearty laugh which seemed to echo round the open spaces, making Pansy smile inwardly.
“This is absolutely refreshing,” George said. “I’ve never been defined by a flush toilet before!”
Pansy could feel the heat rising from her neck into her face.
“Well!” she said in a huff. “If you’re going to be sarcastic…”
She bent down to retrieve her book, which she had let fall in her urgency. She cleaned it on her sarong.
“Don’t be mad,” George said in a soothing manner. “I’m not being sarcastic. Just surprised at your command of the English language. I didn’t expect to bump into someone like you here. And what is this? A real old-fashioned book. William Wordsworth, no less. We read him at St Patrick’s. Before I left for university. You must be a convent girl. From St Teresa of Avila?”
“Yes...”
“I bet I know your favourite poem…
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of golden daffodils
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”
The fact that he knew the poem astonished her. The fact that his voice was rich with resonance in its recitation sent shivers down her spine.
“Now you’re making fun…”
“No,” he said, a lovely smile cracking his face. “I’ll tell you a secret. And I will admit this only to you. It’s one of my favourites too. People assume incorrectly that only women and girls enjoy Wordsworth’s poem about daffodils. But his poems are not just about flowers. They’re about nature in the wild, about the need for people to go into nature to re-energise themselves, away from the mundane routines and stresses of life. His poems express the necessity of freedom of the human spirit…”
Never in all the time that she had been enamoured with Wordsworth’s poem did Pansy think she would meet a boy or man who would even remotely like the poem, let alone love it. And here he was. She was overwhelmed. This love for the same poem suddenly seemed like a meaningful connection. Was it something they had brought across from their past lives together? Was this their code to recognise each other’s soul? They looked at each other afresh.
When she recovered from the impact of the serendipitous moment, she said in a softer voice, “For calling you an idiot, I will share my tea and epok-epok with you.”
What on earth was she saying? Her father would have been livid if he was alive. Her mother would bring the rotan down on her to think that she was having a conversation with a boy she just met. And to invite him for tea whilst out here on her own would make both parents apoplectic! But Pansy knew it had to be done. A deep instinct told her she could not pass up the chance. If she were to be whipped for this, well, so be it.
“It’s my lucky day,” George said. “In more ways than one.”
“Let us sit here,” she suggested. “This is the best view of Lake Windermere…”
The name slipped out and she regretted it immediately. But maybe she was being over-anxious. Just because George knew the poem did not mean he knew anything about William Wordsworth’s life or where he came from. She saw his eyes gleam and she wondered if he was going to come
