“Shh, quiet,” the man cautions Pansy. “Look there. The red-legged crake is feeding her chicks. She’s a water-bird.”
“Oh they’re so cute, like fluffy black cotton balls.”
They are at the Kidney Pond near Satay by the Bay, which is an eatery selling satay and other local food, and it has a splendid view of the bay, which is walking distance from the domes. Satay by the Bay tries to capture a bygone 1950s attraction, the Satay Club, which used to be on Beach Road. It was where customers sat on low stools whilst the hawkers roasted their satay on charcoal spits, the delicious aroma made more delicious because the hawkers used sheaves of pandan to oil the satay and when the flames caught the pandan, they sent a mouth-watering fragrance into the air.
The young man is an officer with the Gardens, one of several experts on its wildlife.
“Do we get many migratory birds in Singapore?” Pansy asks.
“Of course,” he says. “All the birds escaping the cold from Asia, North America, Scandinavia and Europe stop here. Last year, the Botanic Gardens had three million visitors throughout winter. But of course our Gardens here are still young and we haven’t finished recording our feathered guests yet, though we get about a hundred different species of birds at any one time here, and probably about half of them are migrants.”
“Gosh, how astonishing,” says Pansy. “How foolish of me not to know. What types of birds do you get?”
“All sorts, really,” the man says. “Singapore gets visits from shore birds who love the mudflats, like at Sungei Buloh and Chek Jawa: the whimbrels, black terns and grey herons. They feed on fish and crustaceans that are easy to catch there. Our Gardens get visits from the purple heron, the scarlet back waxbill, pitta and orange-headed thrush, that feed on berries and nectar.”
The information makes Pansy rather happy. To know that the city is alive with nature and wildlife gives her enormous joy—that it’s not just a mausoleum of architectural magnificence.
After she has thanked him and said goodbye, she decides to go into the Flower Dome to see what the current display is. She finds it lovely that the exhibition in the Flower Field is changed from time to time to showcase a particular region, country, or flower. She had enjoyed the display of Dutch tulips and Dutch houses in spring. They had reminded her of when she and George had gone to Amsterdam to visit Anne Frank’s house. The French Parisian theme brought back memories of Paris, of them having coffee and croissants at its cafes, and when they strolled along Champs-Élysées, the bridges of the Seine and the cobbled streets of Montmartre. The Persian display had brought back the holiday she had with George, skiing in Andorra, after which they motored through Spain, stopping to visit the Alhambra Palace. This time, when Pansy enters the Dome, she is delighted because it’s an autumn scene, displaying red maple leaves, flaming acers and even a miniature English oak!
She understands that the temperature in the Dome can be regulated in varying sections to promote the appropriate seasonal climes, to seduce the plants and trees into thinking there’s a change of season. How twenty-first century is that? To Pansy’s utter surprise and joy, she sees a widespread display of blackberries everywhere! Here, in Singapore. It’s mind-boggling as they seem so out of context. Blackberries in pots and flower beds. There are even some tangled amongst the orchids, of all things, which is a strange juxtaposition of two plants that could not exist in an unengineered reality. Without doubt, blackberries always connect her with George, reminding her of the times they went blackberry picking in the countryside of England. Wild and thorny brambles in summer yielded fat, juicy blackberries in autumn. Pity she didn’t manage to get blackberries when she was showing Goldie how to make apple pie. Apples go well with blackberries in a pie.
“Now, now,” George had said. “Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been eating them as you picked them! Look at those tell-tale signs on your lips!”
The hedgerow alongside the path skirting the wetlands at Roman Landing was full of berries. They were dark and plump. George and Pansy had come prepared, parking their car at West Wittering, and walking along the quiet path, each armed with a Tupperware box. They took care not to be pricked by the thorny brambles or be stung by the stinging nettles that grew in abundance in the countryside, and at the feet of the blackberry bushes. George and Pansy always competed to see who would pick the most.
“Look who’s talking,” Pansy had replied, pointing to the fresh purple stain on the collar of his windbreaker. “Sneak!”
He did not try to deny it, but burst out laughing instead. His laughter rang in Pansy’s ears. She was content to be beside George in this beautiful and tranquil setting. The tide was high and the inlet was dotted with sailboats. As far as the eye could see, there were sand dunes, pebbled beach and harvested fields. Not a single motor vehicle in sight.
Pansy is caught in the stranglehold of the memory. George’s laughter is in her ears. Something starts to shift within her, and she is transported back to that time and place, losing all sense of where she really is. She is simply aware of being so delighted that she’s back in England in a season which is visually stunning. She tells herself that she needs to pick enough berries for George’s apple pie, and perhaps extra to make blackberry jam, a coulis, or to freeze some. She loves cooking for him and making him happy. Now, where is George? She turns this way and that to look for him. Has he moved along to another hedge, hidden from her view? Or has he gone back to the car to get the Tupperware? Where has she put hers? But she is not worried, confident that
