It was one of Pansy’s greatest pleasures to see a flock of geese in flight and in formation. If George was not with her when she saw it, she would rush home to tell him about it. Every year, geese would fly out from the Arctic, Canada, Scandinavia, and Iceland, to avoid the harsh winters there and stop by in England, some on their way to South Africa. They came for food and warmth. The salt marshes and mudflats at West Wittering, near Bracklesham Bay provided them with an easy catch for their dietary needs. The surrounding acres and acres of open fields were dotted with campers and motorhomes in summer, but in autumn, would lie bare to welcome the birds back. It was quite special to see them arrive in their huge fluttering flocks of hundreds, their large wings flapping, shouting greetings to each other in their distinctive sounds. All this exists regardless of man’s awareness or lack of it.
“Oh dear. I’m not going to see the geese this autumn,” Pansy sighs. “But maybe I can find out what migratory birds do come to Singapore at this time of year. Maybe I will go to Sungei Buloh or Chek Jawa to see them. Perhaps I will pay another visit to the Gardens by the Bay. Its extensive gardens will naturally be a good place of rest for the birds that have flown thousands of miles.”
Ah, autumn, Keats’s season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. It’s a time of reflection and of gathering: squirrels gathering their nuts for the winter, bears filling their bellies before going into hibernation, farmers bringing in the harvest. It is her time to reflect as well. Has she been a good mother? A good wife? What kind of grandmother? What do we each have, when on the threshold of our demise? What can we say about ourselves?
But when you’re not in a land of four seasons, you don’t have their rhythm to follow, tending to be stuck in a groove of sameness. Pansy’s thoughts return to the leaves turning from green into brown, red and gold. Then several pages of visual scenes flash through her mind. Colours. Red, brown and gold. Suddenly, Pansy manages to snag the wisp of memory she has been trying so hard to remember. It was an autumn scene that George had shown her—right here in Singapore.
“I have a surprise for you,” he had said with a secretive smile. “I’m going to give you a special treat. You have to trust me because when we get close, I need to blindfold you.”
“That’s sounds really intriguing,” Pansy said.
They were newly married, faced with so many challenges—George’s parents disowning them, her mother and herself struggling to put George through medical school. Yet, they had never been happier, their love for each other exciting yet steadfast. To wake up in the morning with him by her side was the greatest joy she had known. She had feared that his transition from his parents’ wealthy home, with servants to wait on him, to their simple kampong house would be difficult. But George took it in his stride, saying how free he felt. It was magic on days when both of them didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to make their way to the hospital on Outram Road.
Kim Guek had given up the one bedroom and created a sleeping space for herself near the verandah, where Hock Chye’s fishing boxes, nets and tackle still stood. She said she was contented. George and Pansy would sit up in bed, their arms around each other, to watch the sky brightening up with pink and orange as the sun rose in the sky with its usual rapid ascent.
“We have to cycle there,” said George. “It’s a bit of a distance. Not many people go there, so it should be quiet. Bring your Wordsworth. We’ll picnic there and I’ll read you the poems. I’ve been practising my English accent with Prof Enright.”
“You’re so romantic.”
“I’ve made some nasi lemak for your picnic,” Kim Guek said, handing them the green pyramids of nasi lemak, with all the condiments wrapped in banana leaf.
“Thank you, Mak,” said George. “You can come with us, you know.”
“I know, but you don’t need chaperoning now that you’re married,” Kim Guek said. “Anyway, I’ve got Cik Aminah coming to see me about her knee problems. Now off you go and enjoy yourselves.”
They packed a thermos of tea and other snacks.
“Let your hair down,” George said to Pansy. “I love to see the wind blowing your hair about as you ride.”
“Don’t ride too fast,” said Pansy. “I can’t ride as fast as you in my sarong. I will one day, when I start wearing trousers.”
“I’ll rue the day. You look ever so sexy in a sarong kebaya.”
They rode out of the village, turned right after the Canossian retreat and made their way up the dirt path towards Kampong Somapah. They crossed the wooden bridge over Sungei Ketapang and turned down Tanah Merah towards the eponymous red cliffs. The hilly, mud-packed road with thick forests on both sides, undulated towards the sea—sometimes you could see the sea, sometimes you couldn’t. They were young and fit, so they rode fast. After a few hundred yards, George directed them to a track through the forest which she had never noticed before.
“Don’t worry!” he shouted above the wind. “We’ll make our way back before sunset. But I brought the torches, just in case.”
They passed tall mahogany and tembusu trees, lallang fields and creepers with beautiful flowers, with numerous birds and butterflies flitting here and there in peaceful abundance. Finally, George stopped and disembarked.
“We’ll leave the bicycles here and come back for them and our picnic in a while,” he said. “It’s just round the corner from here. We’ll walk from here so that I can
