A QUIET HOUSE (2001)

“Yes, Darling, what’s up?” Chin Chiew answered over his direct telephone line in his office overlooking Singapore River. “You are crying, aren’t you?”

 

In between sobs, she managed a faint: ‘Honey, I don’t think I could go through with it. It… ittt… would be ….too excruciating… painful..scary...you name it.’

 

Chin Chiew could imagine his wife Suyeen having a go at biting her fingernails as she tried to straighten her thoughts. He knew that he had to stay level-headed and not sweep aside her apprehensions of having their first child, who is expectedly due in two months time. “Darling, everything is going to be alright. Let us talk again about this at the pre-natal class this evening, okay?”

 

“Ya, but what if the worst should happen?”

 

“There is nothing to fear. I will be standing by you throughout the entire delivery. Dr Yap is highly competent and has lots of experience,” Chin Chiew said in a natural-sounding calm and steady tone, mindful of what had befallen his mother-in-law during a surgery.

 

“Ok Dear, but don’t be late this evening (sniff, sniff). We start at six-thirty.”

 

“Alright,” Chin Chiew replied with a grunt. “Oh, before I hang up, could you please say hello to Junior for me.”

 

Over the telephone he could hear her saying: ‘Junior, Daddy said he loves you very much’.

“Bye Dear.”

“See you.”

 

Relieved, Chin Chiew turned to gaze at the distant Compass Rose Restaurant on the top floor of the 73-storey tall Westin Stamford Hotel. He recalled with fondness how they had just celebrated their ninth wedding anniversary there last December. Now, the late afternoon rain of April was cascading down lightly as short, glistening needles amidst the sun's glowing rays, blurring the outline of the hotel where the lights from its columns of guest rooms and restaurants shone forth as dabs of yellow intermingled with dashes of orange watercolours. He felt snug in his blazer and reached for his disposable, plastic cup of Starbuck’s coffee to sustain the warmth within him. The Honeywell-treated air-conditioning system in his office was highly efficient and generated much-desired, cool and refreshing mountain-like air.

 

Seeping his coffee he indulged himself by reflecting a bit on fatherhood. Nobody ever said, expressly, that the road to fatherhood is long and arduous; men just take it all in when the time come. In any case, fatherhood is not a macho thing -- as in something a man would hold out and brag to all and sundry. It is, at best, a quite enterprise of contributing good bricks to build a robust and progressive society. What is true is that fatherhood could come sooner than expected, whether by a deliberate attempt or otherwise, and the bundle of joy would land on mommy’s lap. Joy, no less, is fittingly for the mother as she would have travailed for some nine months before baby pops his head out. This is reason enough for fathers to command, yes, command that a child – who made it, treats his mother with kindness all the days of her life, and not forget her birthday for she would indelibly remember that of her beloved child. He resolved to imbue this honour factor into their firstborn once he reached the age of reason.

 

In anticipation of Junior’s introduction to the world, a wooden cot, a red plastic bath tub, Pampers, cotton diapers, Johnson’s baby shampoo, Tollyjoy bottles, an Aprica pram and other baby stuffs were on standby. The services of a ‘confinement’ lady from Johore has been secured to mind baby and mom during the first two months. Chin Chew reviewed the preparation with glee. He had, with much enthusiasm, been capturing their preparation-cum-acquisitions on his video camera so that he could regale his charges of young couples from their church in a light-hearted manner during marriage preparatory workshop. More video works were to unroll. Nevertheless, keeping a lookout for number one, his wife, remains as his chief concern. He has even learned how to prepare and cook double-boiled black chicken, a tonic food, using an assortment of porcelain bowls placed within a metal pot and heated over a gas-stove.

 

*** * ***

 

 

Seated on the parquet flooring of their living room and looking up from his Sunday Times, Chin Chiew asked, “How are you feeling, Dear?”

 

Suyeen was sprawled out on their black leather three-seater sofa with her head propped by the left armrest. She said, “Fine. Not breathless yet.”

 

“You will be fine. We have been practising those deep breathing exercises haven’t we? It will be a matter of reflexes when the day comes,” Chin Chiew said, knowingly.

 

“Easy for you to say.”  Continuing,  Suyeen said, “By the way, do you think you could get me ….”.

 

Chin Chiew was all ears. He waited in earnest to gather her next in-season compulsion for a specifically-identified food. It would be all in a days’s work for a seasoned hand like him now. Of late, he had brought her to satisfy her cravings for the likes of: Changi Village’s nasi lemak; Taman Serasi’s soursop, mee siam and satay; Hong Lim Complex’s fish beehoon soup and prawn noodles; Market Street’s popiah; Jalan Kayu’s roti prata; Pow Sing’s chicken rice; and Chomp Chomp’s satay beehoon.

 

“Gotcha! Just pulling your legs,” Suyeen said with comic triumph.

 

With his anticipation squashed, Chin Chiew changed course and proceeded to plant kisses on Suyeen’s ballooned abdomen accompanied by ‘Dad and Mom loves you very much’. And, he went on to kiss her lightly on the lips.

 

“Ouch!” yelled Suyeen.

 

With immediate concern, Chin Chiew ceased from his kissings abruptly and withdrew himself from her. “Sorry dear. Did I hurt you ?!”

 

Suyeen was all smile and said, “Not you! It’s him! Junior just gave me a kick!”

 

“Wow! He must have been listening on us and got excited.”

 

Stroking her abdomen soothingly with her right hand Suyeen said, “It’s all right Junior. Mom and Dad are right here with you.”

 

Chin Chew snuggled up to Suyeen and smothered her with kisses on the right cheek. There and then he was minded to let there be laughter and good cheer always in his home with mother and child. He cringed with despondency as he thought of Mr. Lee’s house.

 

*** * ***

 

 

Chin Chew remembered well his first close-up take of Mr. Lee’s house when accompanying Suyeen home on a Saturday afternoon. And, that was after they had been courting for some three months already. The house, being a familiar sight to him, generated an inner struggle on his part to contain his amazement. He wasn’t about to blurt out to Suyeen though regarding his pre-conceptions and what-not of her home, at least, not on his very first visit.

 

When he was a child, Chin Chiew had as a matter of fact passed by Mr. Lee’s house on many a weekends in his Dad’s Mini Austin en route to his young uncle’s house. Initially, he took no particular interest of it until, one day, when about twelve years old, he overhead his Mom and Dad talking about Mr. Lee’s rather forlorn-looking wooden quarters as they drove by. Its inside appeared dark, and the garden and fencing were in a state of wanton neglect. His Mom said that there had been a death a few months back. A mother and wife had gone for a procedural sterilization but she never made her way home. It happened just like that. His Dad said that it was a sad death. To assert his point, Chin Chiew’s Dad told Mom and him, in a measured tone of seriousness, that there are three kinds of death. The less ghastly ones give forth early warnings such as deteriorating health, bleak medical diagnosis and waning of encouragement all round. The traumatic ones consist of freak accidents occurring simply out of the blue, hitting one deftly and swiftly; the precision work of a sniper. The sad ones, he postulated, are those that come about when we are pursuing what we set out to do. The doctor’s name was tabled by his Mom and followed on with public scrutiny at his father’s younger brother’s home. Having adjudged the matter, the adults’ consensus was that it was not an occasion to place blame on the good doctor (in their small town) who was a kind man, and it was unthinkable for him to commit any  wrongdoing. Thereafter, based on his own impression of Mr. Lee’s house, Chin Chiew felt led to believe that Mrs. Lee’s death had ushered upon the house a solemn assembly for its residence going by the blatant neglect of its external premises and in the light of the circumstances leading to Mrs. Lee’s death.

 

As Chin Chiew became better acquainted with her, Suyeen revealed that her Mom’s passing on had indeed dispelled their usual bantering and laughter, not to mention, the whirl and stitching of Mrs. Lee’s Singers' sewing machine. Since then, her Dad and her did not receive anymore of Mrs Lee’s customary home-made pyjamas and quilted blankets.

 

Fronting Mr Lee’s house was a rusty wire fence which was partly covered by wild runs of morning-glory tendrils. A pebbled and downward-sloping cement driveway led through a squeaky aluminium-painted metal gate to a sheltered porch, big enough for just one automobile -- Mr. Lee’s white and reasonably well-looking Peugeot with a rounded behind, of which, Chin Chew found uncanny resemblance to that of an African gazelle. To the right of the narrow driveway there was a small garden with marshy soil holding up two slightly sunken piles of overturned and unused flower pots which, in turn, were partly covered by green, lushful and upright leafs of tall lalangs sprouting all about. A three-metre high wooden rack stood with a slight sway near the fence-in-common with the neighbouring house. Earthen, skeletal pots of orchids with roots held by charcoals and coconut husks hung suspended by a wire-hook each from the rows of equi-distance planks nailed on both ends to the top of the rack.  

 

From the porch, a flight of five steps brought him to the verandah with a waist-height barricade constructed from rectangular wooden beams. The double-leaf main door opened with a slight creak to a dim-lit living room. Inside, the varnished wooden walls deflected sunlight variably at different vantages, revealing their deep-brownness interspersed with shadows of darkness. Above him, a three-finned white KDK ceiling fan kept the living room airy and provided some signs of motion. The television, housed within a wooden cabinet with long legs, was covered with a layer of dust on its glass panel and stood at vigil in a corner. There was no radio or vinyl record player airing any sound of music within earshot. The occasional vehicle trundling by along the road outside the gate though, would break the silence momentarily before the swirl of the ceiling fan re-gain prominence. And, so it went: round and round; on and on.

 

Straight on was the dining area where there were five frames of opaque glass-shutter windows allowing for the encroachment of glorious sunlight from the backyard. Peering through Chin Chiew could see a guava tree and square cement slabs leading to several wires for hanging  clothing on and between two T-shaped cylindrical metallic poles planted firmly to the ground in cement stumps. A circular-like patch on the ground was charred from the common practice of burning off dead leafs, fallen twigs and other combustible refuse. Beyond the back-fence was a stretch of undulating, marshy and vacant land covered all over with yet more lalangs.

 

Mr. Lee was not a talkative person. He was reading Borneo Bulletin when Suyeen introduced Chin Chiew to him. He did not show disdain but neither did he show interest upon their first acquaintance. As a matter of fact, after a short while, he just gathered the newspaper, picked up the attendant Asia Magazine and retreated to his bedroom, closing the door gently after him. He left them alone to their own devices, which to Suyeen encompassed: boiling water, bringing in the clothes for folding and/or ironing and preparing dinner. Gardening though was a no-no. Chin Chiew chatted with Suyeen while she used a charcoal-heated iron to press the clothes on a folded-out, small, oblong table overlaid with a thick spread of beige canvas. The well-contained coolness on the inside of the house as opposed to the seething heat radiating off zinc roofs and tarmac on the outside; the recurring twirl and audible ‘tocks’ of the ceiling fan; and the alternating humdrum of an occasional vehicle rushing along the road outside and leaving behind an ensuing hollow,  crept upon Chin Chiew. By the by, Chin Chiew succumbed flat-out to the sweetness of an unperturbed nap on the maroon vinyl three-seater sofa of  black metal frames and wooden armrests. He dreamt of burong pipits chirping amongst the orchids hanging from the wooden rack in the garden, only to be chased off by Mr. Lee who was dressed in a sky-blue-and-white striped pyjamas and clutching a red rake in his raised right hand. He was like a ferocious  scarecrow doing what it does best and dutifully at that. Later, over dinner, Chin Chiew asked Suyeen what kinds of birds make stopovers at her compound. She could not recall any distinctively but added that one could find egrets co-habitating with buffaloes waddling and cooling-off in their miry pits further out in the distant farms across the road in front of her house.

 

This homecoming was quite in contrast to Chin Chiew’s own at Sunny Hill Village, some three miles eastward. His parents owned a stilted wooden house on high ground near an unnamed ridge. And, oftentimes in the evening, he would sit on the stairs leading to the front balcony and wait for his parents to return from work. There and then he could catch a cacophony of sounds what with calls from neighbours summoning their children home for bath and dinner; the clanking of busy wok-works from many a neighbourhood kitchens; the rustling of leaves including that stemming from tall Chinese bamboos; the calls of  two huge eagles circling over their nest lodged in one of two looming and lumber-worthy trees high up on the ridge; and the variety of social discourses penetrating the atmosphere in his village. There was so much living to do, in being and staying alive. And, oh, how could he forget the oft-repeated strains of, notably, Guantanamera, Mei Lan Mei Lan Wo Ai Ni, Zhing Tian Bu Huei Jia and, of course, Sunday Morning. It was such a hue and cry.

 

 

*** * ***

 

During the day Dad would busy himself at the newspaper company with his duties as a senior clerk while I, Suyeen, attended secondary school. After school and on weekends I would cook for both of us. If  I am too tired, then we would just walk over to the nearby food-stalls, which was housed in a wooden shed with zinc roofing and cement flooring, for our meals. Dad was, as usual, keen to keep abreast with the going-ons at school and the activities that I participated. I obliged him perhaps slightly more than what I would have allowed for had poor Mom been around still. As can be expected, he would offer unsolicited advice whenever he felt that it was appropriate. His mannerism was as before: gentle and affectionate. But, I couldn’t help noticing that he would withdraw himself to the master bedroom immediately after the evening news. When Mom was around he would sit around in the living room and chat with us over supper with beverages and snacks whisked by her. I did offer him supper but he would give me a grin and said his stomach was full. He would switch off his room light and turn in to bed after a period of an hour or so. Being the devout Christian that he was, I am quiet certain he would have read his Bible and prayed during this interlude.

 

Before long, I went without supper too. It was like a solemn observance or preservation of our remembrance of  Mom. She was present, but yet not with us in the physical. I did not blame her or Dad or the good doctor for her death. She made a deliberate choice and it was not a foolhardy one at that. She merely fell prey to an inherent risk. She was brave. (I still think of her often, recalling her firm soprano-like voice and no-nonsense chidings.) At the same time though, I did not want to die on account of an operation, if I ever had to have one, at least, not when Dad was still around. It would, I imagined, be too painful for him to receive a second blow. Thank goodness I was still young then. The closest imaginable thing to an operation for me would possibly be that of child-bearing by natural means or, if need be, by Caesarian section. But, that is, if I ever get married.

 

But I did get married! Getting married to Chin Chiew brought Dad a slight, but noticeable relief. He appeared more at ease for once since Mom’s passing away ten years ago. Perhaps he had a pact with Mom to see that I get married off to a decent and reliable guy for good. Now that I was out of the way, so to speak, he could re-direct the excess energy to re-build his life to some extent. Why, he even took up a writing course by correspondence and became active in church activities. However, our house and garden were in much disarray as before. Very little were done to them. Dad would slice the lalangs with a parang once they came to his height, and used a pair of shears  to prune overgrown morning-glory vines weaving along the front section of our fence. Chin Chiew offered to re-do the gate, driveway, fencing and garden, and paint the external walls of the house. Dad was, however, adamant and would have none of it. All he said was that some things need to be changed but others should be left just the way they are; untouched and unexpurgated. An unexpected turn of ill health took Dad away. (Vaguely, the doctor said something about a weak heart; or was it a broken-heart?) Soon after, Chin Chiew and I set our sights for Singapore and took up permanent residency in this much-touted Garden City, a city famed, inter alia, for its Keppel Harbour, budding industries and entrepot trade.

 

Thanks to in vitro fertilisation Chin Chiew and I are finally expecting our firstborn. I placed my latest copy of DBS’ InvestorLine on the glass coffee table, switched-off the reading lamp and stretched myself out on the sofa in our condominium. The yellow wall light gave off a warm glow, and the sofa held me up firmly and reassuringly. I turned to glance at the television which was screening an OAC Insurance’s commercial of the good old kampong days, for a Gen-Xer, like me. And, I wondered how Dad’s house would look now under the present owner. Then, again, perhaps, it has been demolished by now and, in modern-speak, made way for progress.

 

Turning to my hunk, whose eyes were glued to the television, I called for his attention.

 

He turned to ask, “What is it, Darling?”

 

“I am hungry. Do you think you could get me …ummh.., let me think.”

*** THE END ***