Читать книгу The Thorn of Lion City: A Memoir - Lucy Lum - Страница 8

Five

Aunt Chiew-foong was nearly twenty and still unmarried. She had a dark complexion and was less than five feet tall, but she looked even shorter because she walked with a stoop. Compared to my mother she was no beauty, but she liked to smile and show off her decorative gold-capped front teeth. Her voice was high-pitched and shrill, and she would imitate the screeching calls of hawkers, peddling their noodles and chicken congee.

When my mother gave birth to her fourth child, plump and happy with stiff black hair and a chubby face, we nicknamed her Wang-lai. It means ‘pineapple’ and we thought she looked like one. While Mother tended Wang-lai, Aunt Chiew-foong looked after Beng, Miew-kin and me. She liked to play with us – she was still a child at heart – but Popo couldn’t forget that she was still single with no children of her own. She worried that her daughter never had any boyfriends, and I often heard her complaining to her chimui about the hard task of finding a husband for her. ‘Daughters must be married by sixteen, when they are like flowers coming into full bloom and can fetch large dowries,’ she said, ‘and parents can have the choice of suitors. At twenty, women are past their prime. Over twenty-five, they are old maids. Then we must pay the costs of marrying them off in whatever way we can.’

According to Popo’s calculations with the Chinese calendar, one year had to be added to my aunt’s age because she had been born just before the New Year, which made her even older than she was. ‘Time is not on your side, you should already have many babies, like your sister,’ Popo nagged, day in, day out. ‘You wasted many years at school. What work can you do? You can’t read or write. You have no luck with matchmakers. How will you find a good husband?’

‘Why don’t you tell brother-in-law Poh-mun to find one for me, Ma?’ Aunt Chiew-foong asked.

My father was persuaded to invite his bachelor friends home at weekends for lunch, in the hope that one might become Aunt Chiew-foong’s husband. Sometimes three or four young men would join us, and every week there would be new faces. They enjoyed the food but had no idea why they had been invited. Popo was a good cook, with a discriminating palate, and she had taught my mother and aunt well. Now our Sunday lunches became more and more sumptuous and the menu was planned meticulously days in advance. There were always tasty bowls of thin noodle soup, flavoured with herbs, steamed fish, pork or chicken and sometimes snake, bought live from a stall in Chinatown. After dinner on Thursday or Friday, Popo, my mother and my aunt would begin to discuss their strategy.

‘I’m going tomake this Sunday’s lunch extra special to get aman for Chiew-foong,’ my grandmother said one evening.

‘No rich bachelors coming this Sunday,’ said Mother. ‘Poh-mun’s invited people who work in other government departments. We don’t need anything special.’

‘What do you know?’ Popo shouted. ‘Another son-in-law in the government service would be most satisfactory.’

Recipes were proposed and discarded until Mother suggested clay-pot chicken. ‘You’ve always liked that,’ she said to Popo. ‘We’ll need chicken, tofu, pork, sea cucumber, Tientsin cabbage, ginger, bean sauce and black vinegar. One taste of the clay-pot chicken and all the men will want to marry her straight away.’

That Sunday the food was the best it had ever been and the guests paid many compliments. At every opportunity my father heaped praise on my aunt’s cooking.

One man said, with his mouth full, ‘This clay-pot chicken is so good. Better than any restaurant.’

‘My sister-in-law prepared everything,’ said my father, winking at my aunt.

With all eyes on her, Aunt Chiew-foong rose shyly from her seat with a bowl in her hand and left for the kitchen, apparently to refill it. When she was out of earshot, Father added, ‘She’s such a good cook. It’s a shame I’ve no brother-in-law.’

Despite the clay-pot chicken, there was no interest in my aunt, and soon my father tired of playing matchmaker. Apart from the cost of the food, it prevented him enjoying quiet weekends or going swimming with his friends. In a rare moment of defiance, he stopped the lunches altogether. But Popo did not give up hope. She had consulted a fortune-teller who had told her, ‘When the time arrives, Chiew-foong will marry a good, caring husband.’

Then, unexpectedly, one of the bachelors who had attended a Sunday lunch approached Father and asked for Aunt Chiew-foong’s hand. He was called Cong and was a government employee from the Municipal Department of Public Utilities. Father was dismayed. ‘He’s short, balding, and has a squint that makes me uneasy,’ he said to my mother. ‘He never meets my eye.’

‘Why did you invite him to the house, then?’ Mother asked.

‘I had no choice. Your mother forced me to consider any man as a husband for your Chiew-foong,’ Father replied.

But Popo had her eye on Cong and confided to my mother that she did not mind his odd appearance. ‘All that matters is that I will gain face when my chimui find out where my second son-in-law works.’ With a toss of her head, she added, ‘They will be so envious. None of them has any family in the government service, but two members of mine will be.’

In view of my aunt’s age, Popo did not demand a dowry and insisted that the pair marry as soon as possible: she was relieved that my aunt was soon to be off her hands.

Aunt Chiew-foong and Cong married and moved into his house in Rangoon Road, a few miles from Chinatown. After their honeymoon, Popo allowed them time to settle in, then made her move. One morning, she packed a bundle of clothes and set out, intending to spend a few days with my aunt: she said she wanted to get to know Chiew-foong’s blind mother-in-law who lived with them – but really she wanted to test the water, find out if she could get my aunt’s family under her thumb as well. She returned the same day, tight-lipped and ill-tempered. It wasn’t until some hours later, after much snorting and cursing, that we found out what had happened. At the midday meal Aunt Chiew-foong had served Popo a bowl of rice congee and a small saucer of pickled sour greens left over from the previous night’s dinner. Popo had eyed what was placed in front of her in disbelief and asked my aunt what kind of food they were having.

‘Teochew,’ Aunt Chiew-foong said apologetically. ‘I have learnt to prepare their kind of food and to keep to a very strict budget. My husband and his mother don’t believe in eating as much as we Cantonese, and I am given enough money each day to buy one meal at the market. I must have meat on the table for dinner.’

‘So, Poh-mun was right about your husband,’ said Popo, sniffing the congee. ‘Yesterday’s leftovers.’

‘I have hardly anything for myself, Ma, so I have to pocket a few cents from the housekeeping for my daily stake on the chap-ji-kee,’ Aunt Chiew-foong moaned.

She was addicted to the lottery. She had a cigarette tin that contained the numbers one to twelve written on small squares of paper rolled into little tubes. That tin went everywhere with her. Whenever she came across burnt-out joss sticks at the foot of a tree, a bush or at the corner of a street, she took that as a sign to ask for numbers. She would kneel, if it was a fine day, or squat, if it was wet, then mutter a prayer, and shake her tin until two numbers fell out, which she would scribble down. Her favourite place to consult the tin was by the pond for rescued turtles at the temple, near the market in Balestier Road. If she struck lucky, she would celebrate by going to the stall that served turtle soup. She kept a record of each day’s draw in a length of red paper rolled up like a scroll.

My aunt told Popo that if there was nothing left from dinner the day before, she and her mother-in-law would have plain congee, with a sprinkle of soy sauce, for lunch but she insisted, miserably, that she was content and adjusting to married life.

When my aunt admitted that she had no say in how the family’s money was spent, Popo’s hopes of staying for a few days and taking control of the family were dashed. It was hardly likely that her second son-in-law was going to part with any of his wages. Still, she was curious about what he did with his money. My father had a large household to feed, and my new uncle earned almost as much as he did. She decided that as a bachelor he must have saved a large amount. She began to press my aunt for the truth about her husband.

‘Is he gambling?’ she asked. ‘Does he go to prostitutes? What does he do with his money?’

Finally Aunt Chiew-foong lost patience. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘He never goes to prostitutes. We go to bed early every night because he wants a fat son quickly.’ Then, in a hushed tone, she added, ‘I wouldn’t dare ask him for money but he talks about it with his mother. She has a lot of gold jewellery.’ She nodded towards her mother-in-law’s room and whispered, ‘It is hidden under her mattress and she never leaves her bed.’

‘Why? Is she lame?’

‘No, only blind. The jewellery keeps her in bed. She is afraid to leave it unguarded.’ Aunt Chiew-foong told Popo that as her mother-in-law never left her bed, her legs had become weak. She took her mother-in-law’s meals to her and the woman ate them leaning against the pillows. She wouldn’t even take a bath, but was wiped with a wet towel as she lay on her bed. Rather than go to the toilet, she used an enamel pot.

‘My husband used to pay someone to come in to help a few times a week, but he sacked her after we got married. Emptying the pot and cleaning her every morning is my duty now,’ said Aunt Chiew-foong.

Popo shook her head. ‘How can you do this without complaining?’ she scolded. ‘Aiii-yah, after all the trouble I took to find you a husband, you are a servant to a blind old woman.’