Frog Under A Coconut Shell Read online

  “I will not marry unless my mother and brother come with me,” Soon Neo had said all those years ago when the Old Aunt came with a proposal of marriage.

  Grandmother, only in her 40s, suddenly widowed, suddenly plunged from riches to rags never recovered from her loss. There was the loss of her husband, and then the loss of all material comfort. It was up to Soon Neo to take charge. My father was really generous because he took a bride, mother-in-law and brother-in-law into his home. Uncle Kanchil was only 12, he was my grandparents’ last attempt at getting a male heir. When they first arrived in Singapore, starting their new life in a small hut, Kanchil had sat with thumb in mouth, eyes wide as if the shift from an opulent house to this basic existence was a nightmare he was struggling to wake up from.

  “Eat, eat,” Soon Neo said to him gently. “You are the only male in our family.”

  “Third sister, I’m so scared,” he said in a shivery voice.

  “You don’t have to be. I’ll take care of you, what.”

  She was five years older than him, third youngest of the four sisters. Yet Soon Neo took care of her little brother and her sisters until they were married off, the youngest one, Fourth Aunt, to die so soon after giving birth to two children. Grandmother caused few problems, she simply sat and stared at the wall. But Yong Tong paid for Kanchil to go to school to continue his education. Soon Neo was so grateful to her husband that she did everything possible to make him happy. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why in later years my mother will not tolerate anyone speaking ill of my father.

  So, of all his sisters, Kanchil was closest to my mother. She became his mother. Brought up to be served by servants, he did not know how to fetch water from the well to bathe himself, nor did he know how to get his meal or how to comb his hair. When Soon Neo tried to do these things for him, Yong Tong would bellow, “Let him do it for himself! He’s not a child anymore.”

  Kanchil would shrink at the sound of Yong Tong’s voice, unused to being shouted at. He had been the only heir back in Grandfather’s household in Malacca and had been treated rather preciously. It was quite a shock to be told to find kindling to start the clay stove or to blanco his own school shoes. Often, Soon Neo would find him sitting on the cement floor, legs drawn up, one arm around his knees, sucking his thumb, forelock over his face.

  “You don’t have to cry, lah,” she said to him. “But he is right, you know. We don’t have servants to do things for us anymore and you must learn to take care of yourself. One day, you’re going to be a man and you must take care of your family. Meanwhile, study hard and you can get a good job. Maybe someday, you will earn enough to have servants of your own.”

  “Why don’t you run away with me? He’s not very nice to you.”

  “Shhh! Don’t say things like that. We’d still be in that small hut if not for him. It’s just that he has a lot of worries. He’s got his mother and three brothers to look after, too. So he has to work very hard, what, and he gets tired a lot of the time and loses his temper. Take no notice of it, lah.”

  From that day on, the young boy never uttered a word against his benefactor.

  I remember distinctly one of Uncle Kanchil’s visit to Potong Pasir because he came in a uniform which made him look so handsome. He was quite tall and had the same delicate features as my mother. He was very smart, quite incongruous in our surroundings of shanty huts and outside bathrooms. I used to wonder why he came only in the daytime when Ah Tetia was at work. He never used to say much, not the kind of uncle to bounce nieces on his knees nor regale us with his adventures. He was actually a rather shy person, his presence the only way he knew of telling his sister how much he cared for her. At one stage he probably did write to her. But then Mak could not read so could not reply. The only thing my mother could read was her name, and that probably from recognition rather than knowing the letters which made up the words. Perhaps one of my brothers helped read Uncle Kanchil’s letters or maybe not. So the letters stopped coming and soon, even he stopped coming. When he married, his wife wrote the occasional letter and the annual Chinese New Year and Christmas cards. For a time, I used to read them to Mak and after I left home, Bernadette would read them to her. Her link with her brother was through us. She was dependent on our translations of his words and his meaning, unable to read between the lines herself. I think it is terrible to be unable to read, so much knowledge, so many worlds would be beyond one’s reach. When you walk on the street, you can’t understand road signs, shop signs or notices, a foreigner in your own country. Though she was illiterate, my mother understood the power of education, the power that comes from the simple ability to read. I am in awe that she should have had the great foresight to give me this precious gift which enables me to continually scale frontiers that are new to me. For this and everything else, I shall be eternally grateful.

  “Look at Great Aunt and Second Aunt’s children. Look at the lives they are leading.”

  It was Mak’s way of reminding my siblings and myself of her endeavours that had kept us in school. She fed on our acknowledgments that she had done right. Both Great Aunt and Second Aunt did not place as much value and emphasis on education for their children. Unlike my mother, they did not understand what education could do. Or perhaps they did but were not prepared to forego their own pleasures to scrape and save for book-learning which didn’t mean much to them. And so their children became janitors, factory workers, drivers and rubbish collectors and they in turn married janitors, factory workers, drivers and rubbish collectors. (Fortunately for my cousins, in the 1960s, the Singapore government set up Lembaga, adult education centres to educate adults who had left school early or had no schooling at all. It was this which pulled them out of illiteracy and so some of them moved up a rung on society’s ladder.) We knew very little of our cousins by Fourth Aunt because when she died, her husband refused to let them communicate with my mother and her sisters, so they lost contact. I cannot describe the feeling of enormous fortune that I feel every time I think how my life could have been different if my mother had lacked the determination to put me through school. Little do we realise as children how much the landscape of our future is going to be shaped by our parents’ decisions. I am much aggrieved at my mother’s loss of herself, that she who has given so much, now in her ailing years has to wait to be given. It seems unfair that having put others before herself throughout her life, she is sentenced to this continuing nightmare that is now her existence.

  “Why don’t you meet up with Mak and Bernadette in LA?” David suggests. “It will only be three weeks earlier than our trip to Vegas. And I’m sure you will find plenty to do whilst waiting for me in Vegas.”

  My fondness for a few hands on the Blackjack table has become a source of his lighthearted digs at me. He can afford to jest because he knows that I will never spend more than US$100.00 in gambling. We are due to be in Vegas because one of our guided tours for our travel company begins in Las Vegas and ends in Seattle. He and I were scheduled to fly out at the beginning of July, which is the start of our summer season in the USA and Canada. David and I own a 40-foot luxury motorhome for our travels around North America. It is our home away from home complete with modern conveniences, renovated to accommodate a desk that serves as our computer stations. It has a queen-sized bed in the rear, a hip-bath with a shower, a separate toilet, a very practical kitchenette and even a washing machine. It is certainly more luxurious than our attap hut in Potong Pasir had been! And the hut had not been that much longer either, only a little bit wider. At least this motorhome has running water and our own private loo. It is our home and workplace for more than four months a year.

  Although we have two Wagon Masters with each group, we like to personally supervise the tours. We pride ourselves on providing a unique holiday, taking older people on a soft adventure holiday, where they drive themselves in motorhomes away from cities into the wilderness. We are the first travel company to provide this service. This particular tour will take us through
nine National Parks, which include the Grand Canyon and Yosemite. My cousins in Los Angeles have decided to give Uncle Kanchil a big celebration for his 81st birthday, in case he doesn’t make it to the next. It would be a chance for me to see Uncle Kanchil again after all these years and get to know my cousins. Also with our tours not ending until October, it will mean that I won’t see Mak till Christmas, a whole year since I last saw her. So David’s suggestion makes sense. He alters my flight ticket and I tell Bernadette my plan. She is coming out of Singapore with Mak and Andy. I have to pick up one of our company vehicle in Seattle and drive more than a thousand miles on my own to LA to meet them at Uncle Kanchil’s, before I meet David in Vegas. So I would have to start out a few days earlier than them. Just before I leave, Bernadette calls to say that Mak has been agitated and is in total confusion. She fears that Mak will be unable to handle a long flight and trip. We have visions of her panicking whilst on board the plane and creating a fracas. So Bernadette decides against taking her. I am disappointed because I was so looking forward to seeing her but have to go by my sister’s judgment. After all, she is the main carer. She also reminds me that though I thought of our uncle as Kanchil, he himself wished to be called Uncle Joe. But I don’t pay too much attention to this.

  One of my cousins is picking Bernadette and Andy at LAX Airport whilst I make my own way towards Uncle Kanchil’s home. He is like the last piece to the jigsaw that was my mother’s earlier life. I want to hear from him, his views about the exodus from Malacca and how they coped when they arrived in Singapore. Surely, Uncle Kanchil must have a great deal to tell. His son, Barry, whom I have not met, e-mails me a long list of Do’s and Don’ts for my journey. He worries that I might fall asleep at the wheel, that I am not aware of the distance and vast country I am covering and the lonely nature of the drive. I e-mail him back to thank him for his concern and assure him that I will be all right as I have driven all the way to Alaska and the Yukon, though I didn’t mention that it was with David. He is sweet really and I am touched that he can be so caring about someone he doesn’t even know. It rains all the way on my drive from Washington State through Oregon. But as soon as I cross the Cascade Mountains into California, the rains cease as if someone has turned off the giant tap. The sun comes out with a tenacity that equals its tropical brother. The journey from Sacramento to LA is boring, with a flat desert landscape that stretches for miles. Throughout my long drive, David keeps in touch with me on the mobile telephone.

  “Don’t talk to strangers,” he says.

  But at one of the rest stops, a stranger is the one who comes to talk to me. I have been to the restrooms and is getting into my car when he comes right up to the open window of my GMC Jimmy. He is a big, white American. I am instantly on my guard, I lock the door quickly and start the engine, ready to back the vehicle up and run over his toes if necessary.

  “Do you have $10 to spare?” He says. “I’ve run out of petrol and I’ve left my credit card behind.”

  I am aware that it is likely to be a con and I want to get rid of him. Keeping my eyes on him, I reach out for my handbag, take out my wallet and hand him a $10 bill. He thanks me profusely but not with any indication as to how he is going to pay me back. Not that it matters. I am just eager to get away as quickly as I can, grateful that there has been no trouble. Apart from that, I cover the 1,600 miles in two days without mishap, stopping at a motel each night. I choose one that is not too quiet nor isolated and looks safe. I indulge in a little self-pride about my own daring, about this kampong girl who has come a long way from her days in the shanty village. I can’t help thinking that if my mother hadn’t given me the courage to grab life by the horns, I, at middle age, like many of my contemporaries, would be swapping menopausal symptoms and talking about bad backs. I could have lived a safe life without ever breaking out of my routines and predictability. Because of how my mother had nurtured me and had given me a firm foundation and a zest for living, I am capable of notching university degrees and of handling an exciting career; capable of skiing down snow-clad mountains and climbing the treacherous Chilkoot Trail in the Gold Rush Mountains. My achievements are her achievements, because of what she has slaved and done for me. I don’t know how my brothers and sisters see her role in their lives but there is no doubt in my mind of her immeasurable gift to me. So I blow her a kiss of thanks as I drive up the mountains on my last leg towards LA. Still in the mountains, I can see a canopy of dense pollution hovering over the town. I have flown in to LA before but not driven into it from this direction.

  From a double lane that is almost as straight as a ruler through the desert, I am surprised when the road suddenly wraps around the mountain tops and multiplies into four. I am startled by the immediate change of pace, cars zip pass me at maddening speed and recklessness. At each entrance to the freeway, more cars join the flow until every bit of space between cars is totally taken up, so much so that movement of traffic is reduced dramatically. It is late afternoon and it costs me two hours of my life just to cross the town of LA. At one point, I am very conscious of my car being poised under several concrete archways of flyovers and I recall the carnage I saw on television during the San Francisco earthquake when one freeway had collapsed to fall on another. I can’t wait to get out of the congestion! With relief, I leave LA behind, following my cousin’s written instructions and directions to the suburbs. I get to the house without further problems. At last, I am at my destination’s end. Because of my mother, and particularly because of her deteriorating mind, this meeting with Uncle Kanchil means so much to me. Uncle Kanchil and his wife, Angeline, have a typical suburban Californian house. My cousins’ Mercedes Benzes are parked in the driveway, so different from the capacity of my Aunts’ children. Bernadette and Andy have already arrived. My nephew throws his arms about my waist at the sight of me. For a moment, I am non-plussed to see him and my sister out of context in a different environment. For them, the LA evening is cool and they have sweaters on. Cousin Barry introduces himself and says, “So you are here safe and sound!”

  It is nice to put a face to the e-mails that zipped into my computer. There is no necessity for introductions to Uncle Kanchil. He is sitting on the settee with oxygen tubes coming out of his nostrils that lead to an oxygen tank. He is very thin and frail. Although I am already aware that he and my mother look alike, I am still struck by how similar they are in features, even to the spread of their age-spots. He also reminds me of Matthew, in the curve of his head and the line of his jaw. He is very pleased to see us and asks after Third Sister. His wife, Aunty Angeline, and cousin Barry have prepared a sumptuous meal of chicken rice, steamed chicken and roast duck, which is so typical of Asian hospitality. With all that unexpected spread which they must have slaved hours over, it seems hateful to confess that I am a vegetarian. But I had not eaten meat for nearly 20 years and my digestive tract would not be able to tolerate it.

  “No problem!” cousin Barry says.

  He has a very cheerful disposition and is the size of someone who loves his food but not exercise. Totally unflustered, he whips up a chilli omelette in minutes, fry some tofu and dao miao. He is so unlike my stepdaughter, Sadie, who invited me for dinner, knowing I am a vegetarian and yet did not prepare anything I could eat. Barry and I are six months apart and we get off to a great start the moment we meet. When I tell him that Asian, particularly Singaporean hawker food, is hard to get in England, especially in Surrey, he says he’ll take me for laksa the following day. Later, whilst Bernadette is regaling everybody about her the ups and downs of running a business, I have a chance to get Uncle Joe on my own. I sit beside him and I say, “My mother always speaks so well of you. She always says Kanchil this, Kanchil that ...”

  Up until then, he had spoken quietly, his demeanour laid-back. Suddenly, his nostrils flare and his rheumy eyes flash, as if I had mentioned the unspeakable. In a tone that seems rather sharp and one that bears no comment, he says. “He’s that other guy. My name is Joseph! I am Joe.”
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  Seventeen

  “Makan! Makan!”

  True to his word, cousin Barry takes me out for laksa, thosai and all the foods I had missed, even though it is only six months ago that I was in Singapore. He feeds me like I’m a refugee who hasn’t seen food for a long while. Of course I protest about his taking time off from work to feed me, but not with great enthusiasm. It is great to find someone who enjoys food as much as I do. My sons, like my nieces and nephews, do not look for Singaporean food when they go abroad. They’re just as happy to eat pizzas, burgers and steaks. They think it’s because they are adaptable. Actually, it’s because they have already been exposed to western food from an early age. For older folks like myself, whose families were not in the income group to frequent restaurants when we were growing up, western food was very much out of our reach, except for the occasional fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. And that constituted a special treat. What you eat when you’re growing up is a decisive factor in what you look for in your diet in subsequent years. Cousin Barry understands my needs perfectly. We drop Bernadette and Andy off at LA’s tourist attractions: Disneyland, MGM and Knotts Berry Farm, places that I have been to before, whilst Barry and I eat our way around LA County. He is fun to be with and his knowledge of where all the best foods are is typically Singaporean, although he has lived in California for many years. Although he speaks grammatically correct English and not Singlish, his accent is still Singaporean, unlike his daughter’s, nieces’ and nephews’. Apparently, they had lived in Singapore for a time and then returned to California. His sister, Jennifer, takes me out to an Asian hypermarket so that I can stock up my motorhome fridge and freezer for when I get to Vegas. She buys me spices, sambals, durians and mangoes. LA, like San Francisco, Vancouver and Toronto, has a huge Asian community, much more collossal in population size to London, so all imaginable Asian food and ingredients can be found in these cities. Jennifer still maintains Singaporean mores, she drives around with sleeves-envelopes, cut off from a blouse so that her arms would not be darkened by the sun. I am quite sure that she regards Bernadette as the more wealthy, more refined sister because Bernadette is so fair whereas I am the colour of the Mexican girl who comes in to help her with the housework.