When a Flower Dies Read online

  Anthony had been eleven when they migrated to the UK, after George was disillusioned with the Singapore authorities. George had found a place by the sea, which reminded them of their old home in coastal Bedok in Eastern Singapore, the home that was destroyed. George had bought a house in Bracklesham Bay, on the south coast in West Sussex. This was ten miles from the Roman walled city of Chichester that has a canal that runs to the sea. Bracklesham was near the area where the Roman army had landed in the south to invade Britain in 43 AD, giving rise to the eponymous name, Roman Landing.

  George had fallen in love with the English countryside and nature, and so had Pansy. It resonated with her homeopathy, treating people with medicinal plants, flowers and herbs. In the wild forests, fields and hedgerows of England, she could find many healing plants—dandelion for the urinary system, hawthorn for improving blood circulation, burdock to treat skin problems and hundreds more. She was a qualified staff nurse, but when they moved to the UK, she decided to resurrect the skill she had inherited from her mother, Kim Guek, whose name meant ‘golden moon’ in Teochew, one half of their ancestry. The other half was assimilated and borrowed from Malay culture, creating their unique Peranakan heritage. Kim Guek had been good at cooking, especially her nasi ulam. She was also famed for her bunga rampay and knowledge about jamu, the Indonesian art of healing with spices and herbs. These gifts, Pansy had inherited like a treasured heirloom.

  “Kalau nak jaga diri, mesti pakay jamu,” Kim Guek had said in their Peranakan patois, with her usual wisdom. “To care for your body, use jamu. Herbs and spices use the body’s innate capacity to heal itself. They’re not as intrusive as manufactured chemicals.”

  George and Pansy had taken long walks in the woods, on coastal paths and hills, enjoying the outdoors and the fresh air. They felt alive when they felt themselves at one with nature. Pansy would cook some mee goreng, nasi goreng or nasi lemak to carry in their backpacks and they would picnic in the highly scented bluebell woods, amidst wild heather in the hills, or on rugged cliffs studded with yellow buttercups and white daisies overlooking the sea. In England, you can lie down safely on the grass, baring your face to the sky, blue clouds, and sunshine. This might be a bit iffy in the tropics, where you probably need to watch out for grass snakes, or red ants with their piercing and long-lasting bites. England soothed them after their tussle with bureaucrats in Singapore when their home and village were destroyed. England was a balm to their spirit and soul.

  Anthony had seemed happy enough to scuttle about, trying to catch butterflies and dragonflies, chasing seagulls, crows and magpies to coerce them into taking flight. He often busied himself with taking things apart and then putting them back together, searching for their inherent form and design, from dandelions and daisies to Meccano and Lego sets. He could be an engineer but his artistic side persuaded him otherwise. The varied buildings of Great Britain, fashioned from local materials which were available a horse ride away in days of limited conveyance, made him conscious that architectural designs had to express the flavour of its locality.

  Pansy had been overjoyed when she learnt that Felpham, the thatched village where the prophetic William Blake had seen his visions, was only the next village on their arc of shingled coast, and that Rudyard Kipling had lived just a little further along in East Sussex. Buoyed by the same joy when in Hampstead, she had walked the high-walled, narrow dirt path past John Keats’s home, strolling on the beautiful heath which he had walked on. Pansy loved poetry though she had no talent to write it herself. To be able to live in a country where her favourite poets had lived and penned their memorable poems was her dream came true. It was better to have the opportunity to rub shoulders with their spirit and ghost than not at all.

  Anthony, however, became less enamoured with his adopted country as he got older. He felt his complexion and features set him apart and he seemed estranged from his ang moh schoolmates. In West Sussex, there were just a few Asian classmates, mostly children of those who owned the Indian, Chinese or fish-and-chips restaurants, or convenience stores. He felt he stood out in an uncomfortable way.

  So he was glad, when he was eighteen, to escape to Singapore to serve his compulsory military service. National Service (NS) was a requirement that he had to fulfil to retain his citizenship. To his delight, he discovered he felt more at home there. He loved the bustling city, its efficient transport system, its cleanliness, and most of all, its sense of safety and security. Also, its culture and roots called out to him. It seemed that having been away from his native land made him the fonder of it. So he decided to return there in 1975 after NS to study architecture at the University of Singapore.

  “Mum, dad, it’s much more fun for me back home lah!” he had told them on his return from his stint with the army. “I have so many cousins, uncles, aunts and grandparents. In England, you’re the only family…”

  It was Anthony who at least partially repaired the estranged relationships between them and George’s parents, locating them in Singapore, searching for his maternal great-great-grandparents in Malacca, tracing his roots and putting the family tree together. His interest in heritage became an obsession which Emily put a stop to. Anthony returned to Singapore and embraced its culture readily. So, George and Pansy had to let him go.

  When Anthony made his move, George considered if it was time that they too should return to their home country, but George wasn’t sure if he was ready. He heard that laws had become stricter since they left. He had become used to the liberal way of living in the UK and could not see himself coping with all the restrictions in Singapore. George decided that it would probably make better sense for them to return when he had retired, perhaps when he was toothless, so that his bite would no longer be potent. Perhaps the powers that be would have forgotten his short burst of rebellion.

  After all, when Anthony did his NS, they were only in their thirties, still active, and England offered them beautiful walks, woods, hills, rivers, lakes, open spaces and seasons, which were lacking in Singapore. Pansy could take herself off to the Lake District whenever she desired, and visit Wordsworth’s former home in Hawkshead. So, they stayed on.

  Subsequently, Anthony had met Emily Yip, a fellow undergraduate, studying Finance and Business, and they had fallen in love. George and Pansy had returned for the graduation and wedding. As Anthony now had his own life and commitments, they felt it was fine for them to stay on in England, although Pansy had initially wanted to return when their grandchildren were born.

  In retrospect, George felt he should have bought a small apartment for them to retire to in Singapore. Property prices were not as astronomical as they had become lately. But the apartments had all looked so cramped and tiny, unlike their beautiful house in Bracklesham Bay, with its front and back garden, and a lovely glass conservatory where they could sit under the weak, wintry sunlight, and yet be warmed by the electric radiators. Their conservatory had French windows which opened out to their back garden with its low hedge, affording them a glorious view of the bay and the expanse of clear sea, horizon and sky which stretched all the way to France. There was something spiritually uplifting about large, open space unadulterated by any buildings. At night, the moon and stars became intensely bright twinkling jewels against a dark canopy of sky. When the January tides were high, the giant roiling white waves would rain pebbles onto the beach, and the rattling sound they made gave them great pleasure. Pansy would definitely miss all of that.

  “Find her a nice apartment that’s not too far from you in Newton so that you can drop in regularly, yes? There’s enough money to provide her with a maid to care for her, if her condition should worsen,” George said weakly, concerned that he himself was not going to be around to take care of his beloved wife. “Get her one of those ground-floor apartments in a luxurious condo, where there is a small garden or patio. You know how she loves her garden. Maybe one with a water feature as well, as she’s going to miss the sea. I know that it’ll be too costly to buy an apartment by
the sea in Singapore…”

  “Don’t worry, dad. I’ll see to it,” Anthony had vowed.

  The recently opened Gardens by the Bay is a godsend. If Pansy had returned from England earlier, before the gardens were opened, maybe she would have been more disillusioned with Singapore’s frenetic city life, a complete contrast to the countryside where she had spent so much of her adulthood. One of the first things she did upon her return was to visit the Botanic Gardens so that she can see old tembusu and kapok trees, familiar flowers and plants. She was pleased to discover that they had a section called the Healing Garden, reminiscent of the one she and her mother had cultivated in their seaside kampong with common kitchen herbs, roots and vegetables that could be used for healing: lemongrass, ginger, galangal, garlic, onions, pepper, pandan and many others. She had stood in their midst, breathing in their different fragrances and recalled standing in their garden by the sea, with butterflies flitting all around her, the Painted Jezebel with its lovely colours being her favourite. She imagined Kim Guek smiling at her, beautiful as ever in her sarong kebaya, eternally youthful. She never even reached fifty.

  The Singapore Pansy returned to was not even remotely like the Singapore she had left. The old attap-thatched villages had been expunged; huge tracts of forest and fields had been uprooted and cleared, concrete and more concrete poured in their place.

  As it is, she has already missed a whole spring in England which makes her edgy, as if something is missing; she somehow feels unfulfilled, waiting for something to happen which doesn’t—and cannot. Much as she loves the local flowers, bougainvillea, bunga santan, chempaka, bunga melor, orchids and other species, their continual sameness of presence all year round doesn’t create the same sense of urgency or delight as that of a flower which has a transient, short-lived life. There is a kind of magic to watch a bud pushing to burst forth, folded leaves starting to unfurl, a bare tree with bare branches suddenly acquiring a crown of foliage like in a time-accelerated photo sequel. This movement in nature seems less obvious here.

  Anthony had brought her back soon after her accident.

  “I want to stay here,” Pansy had said tearfully after George’s funeral in England, resisting Anthony’s initial suggestion to go back with him. “This is where the memory of your father is for me. This was where we spent nearly fifty years of our lives together. Every piece of furniture we bought together, every plant that is in the garden has his touch!”

  “Mum, you can’t live here on your own lah!” Anthony had said. “You’re nearly eighty. If anything happens to you, I’m too far away to deal with it immediately. It’s not a hop in a taxi to get here, you know. It will take almost a whole day of air travel before I can even see you! And then it’s another two hours from Heathrow…”

  “Why is your mother being so difficult? Really stubborn leh!” Emily said.

  “Honey…”

  Later, Goldie said to her, “I’d love for you to be in Singapore, grandma, so we can see more of each other. But I know it will be a wrench for you to leave this place. Because of grandpa and because there can never be a house in Singapore to replace this glorious view and idyllic setting.”

  Despite her turmoil, Pansy could hear the concern in Goldie’s voice. And she was grateful. She was so fortunate to have a granddaughter who was so understanding. The girl dressed in a masculine way and acted tough but Pansy could sense her softness and her femininity. Her sisters wouldn’t even think of expressing such meaningful sentiment to Pansy.

  For Pansy, the Gardens by the Bay is a treasure trove, a plethora of plants and trees from many different countries and climes, evoking lovely memories. They are her connection to her mother and also to George. Every flower and plant she sees reminds her of George and their happy times together in England, Europe, the USA, Canada and South America, including a gnarled and ancient olive tree that reminds her of their holiday in Roberto in Italy. Without modern technology, the Gardens could not have been created so swiftly. This was LKY’s pièce de résistance. His tribute to nature. He wanted his people to experience and live in nature despite the necessity for a modern metropolis of concrete, steel and glass. Pansy learnt that fully-grown trees, like the olive trees, bottle trees and cacti, were transported from their native lands and craned into place.

  Pansy goes to the Flower Dome to enjoy the cool air; the seasonal changes in its floral displays help her to make the transition from summer, then autumn, and into spring. In a country with a consistent climate, which affords no respite from the intense heat and humidity, the conservatories, particularly the Cloud Forest with its mock mountain of alpine flora, complete with artificial waterfall and swirling mists, has a delicious coolness which she loves. She smiles to herself when she sees locals who visit the domes, wearing jumpers, cardigans and hooded jackets, shivering. Using her annual Senior Card, which gives her unlimited entry, she sits for hours, savouring the sound of the cascading water or sitting on a seat under a pergola in the Flower Dome, breathing in the fragrance of the huge display of scented hyacinths, some pink, some blue, and imagines she is back in her own garden in England. If she closes her eyes, their lovely fragrance will carry her back to Bracklesham Bay. Any minute now, George might come out to the conservatory where she is seated, carrying a tray, covered with a white lace doily, the dainty china teacups filled with piping hot Earl Grey, some toasted teacakes, English muffins or scones on the side, with one of her homemade jams—strawberry, blackberry, apricot or quince.

  “Tea for my lady?” he would say, acting the butler.

  She would lift her face to look at him and the corner of his eyes would crinkle in joy and her heart would turn over. The memory of George both delights and grieves her. She is afraid of forgetting him, yet the memory of their love is tinged with the pain of their separation.

  “I thought you were going to get me an apartment with a patio garden?” Pansy had said to Anthony when she was shown into her new home, after he brought her back to Singapore. He looked sheepish, glanced at Emily, then cast his eyes down, wordlessly. Pansy continued, “This place is… so… small. There’s nowhere here to plant my flowers and my vegetables.”

  But her voice is frail, defeated by the loss of George.

  “Very cheap to buy vegetables from NTUC what. What for plant?” Emily said in her CEO voice. “Here, you have the condo garden what. This way you can enjoy the garden without all the hard work. At your age, you should just relax. What for dig and dig? Do you know what kind of crazy prices they charge here in Singapore for apartments with gardens? All the girls need their own room now so we have to upgrade to a bigger condo. Where to find more money for an apartment with a garden huh? Do you know how many square feet that will be? It’s more than a thousand dollars per square feet in this area, you know…”

  People who don’t work with the soil, planting seeds or seedlings and watching them grow, would not know the intense pleasure and joy of gardening. Pansy loves being in the fresh air, loves the digging, the planting, the caring, and even the weeding. There is a deep connection to the rhythm of life when one’s fingers touch the earth and living things. To see something you have seeded and nurtured bloom into a thing that is alive and beautiful is akin to a small miracle. It’s almost like bringing forth a child.

  To know how to select and grow flowering shrubs that bring the butterflies or the bees is a delight; to understand the crucial moments to plant seeds before the ground is covered by frost, for them to sprout at the precise season, is a skill. Maybe her mother, Kim Guek, had foresight when she gave Pansy her floral name. Her mother who was not even articulate in English! One of the nuns at the Catholic convent had mentioned that a pansy was a flower in England with a happy face, and Kim Guek had seized on it for her daughter’s name. She had gifted her daughter with green fingers too.

  Gardening was also George’s way of relaxing when the weather was kind and the light was still good when he got home from the surgery. He would don his gardening clothes to mow the lawn o
r trim the hedges. Other times, they would work together in their garden, loving being outdoors. They would chat and discuss what was to be done, which plants needed immediate attention or compost, which needed trimming, which were plagued by snails or moles. But sometimes they would simply work in companionable silence. They would squat by the flower beds with their spades, forks and shears, deadheading wilted flowers and leaves, or just refreshing the earth by tilling it, so it would re-oxygenate. Occasionally she would turn to look at him whilst he was unaware, and felt that her cup truly runneth over.

  “Wah! Straight from plant to wok,” George used to exclaim. The courgettes, runner beans, carrots, potatoes, or tomatoes she had plucked or picked just before their meal could be prepared simply because of its freshness, sautéed lightly with butter and crushed garlic and maybe a touch of light soya sauce. “So delicious. Can’t get fresher than this man!”

  Occasionally, just for the fun of it or to remind themselves of their former home, they slipped into playful Singlish. They may have been away for years but in their hearts, Singapore was still home. For dessert, Pansy would serve him strawberries from their own patch or blackberries she had picked from the brambles in the countryside hedges, laced with Dorset cream, crème fraiche or ice-cream. They had their own miniature cooking-apple tree and she would combine the sliced apples with the tart blackberries to bake into a crusty pie. George would invariably comment on the delicious aroma wafting through the house when something was baking in the oven.

  “Oh, the fragrance! The fragrance!” he would enthuse. “Wangi sekali! My mouth waters! This is the epitome of homeliness.”

  Usually, George’s eyes would light up and he would express his joy as equably, wrapping his arms around her from the back if she was busy at the sink or busy cooking, nuzzling her neck. How she longed for his touch again, his breath on her neck.