Miss Seetoh in the World

by Catherine Lim

  He caught her, and held her with one hand while he pulled out something from his shirt pocket with the other. ‘The greatest mistake of my life!’ he cried, waving the Tiffany ring before her eyes. ‘Good thing I managed to find it. With the help of Maggie.’ The girl appeared from behind a door, dressed in a sexy nightdress, simpering. ‘I’ve been good and honourable all my life, and what has it brought me? Nothing. From now on, I’ll be selfish. I mean to have all the sex I want. You hear that, you cold, unfeeling bitch?’ And he struck her again.

  She awoke with a start, almost falling off her chair, and saw her students’ work scattered on the floor around. She heard her husband say, ‘Come and rest with me,’ and he made place for her on his bed.

  Sixteen

  Dr Phang’s visit was the most welcomed because her husband was most cheered by it. On the verge of entering the next life, he seemed more interested in the affairs of this one, and, in his frail voice, asked his boss about a number of pending matters in the office. Was the deputy prime minister still making his regular visits to the department? Who would be the delegates for the coming conference in Bangkok?

  Maria said, each time the visit ended and Dr Phang bade a brief goodbye in his usual cheerful manner, ‘Thank you. I hope you’ll come again soon. You cheer Bernard up, like nobody can.’

  She was grateful to this man. Her pitying kindness was the wrong kind, only emptying out her poor husband’s pride; his boss’s, tactful and gracious, put back some of it. For Dr Phang had one afternoon brought the draft of an important ministerial paper and consulted him on it. A faint flush of restored pride had actually animated his pale face and sunken eyes, and given a new strength to his voice. The incident would have given her far more pleasure if he had not thought to use it against her, as she was arranging the pillows to enable him to sit up.

  He said slowly, without looking at her, ‘It’s good to know that I’m appreciated.’ It was not only the cancer that was consuming him but his own obsessive torments which, with the clarity that the last deathbed moments were supposed to bring, he was casting at her door: see what you have done to me. I’ll make sure you don’t forget.

  She had thought once of a desperate move to remove that even more virulent cancer – explain the whole situation to Father Rozario or Dr Phang, tell the whole story of the colossal failure of their marriage and her part in it, with the unflinching honesty that she would never again be called upon to show. Throw herself at their feet and plead: you know my husband best, tell me what I should do; better still, you take over where I have failed. She could imagine their shocked faces as she looked into their eyes and repeated the centerpiece of the entire melancholy narrative: ‘I never loved Bernard.’

  Father Rozario would likely try to save the situation by saying, ‘But you were a good wife. You were faithful. You were loyal. You’ve done your duty very well,’ and she would have to say, ‘But Bernard and I were both romantics in our own ways. We both saw that it was not the real thing, and we are both suffering for it.’ As for Dr Phang, she could not imagine his reaction. He must have married both times out of love, first to the intellectual woman, and then to the flamboyant model.

  It was an existential impasse beyond the counselling power of any priest or good friend.

  The idea was abandoned as soon as it arose, for the possibility of complicating a situation already so hideously complex was simply insupportable. She would not be able to survive the heinousness of one last blunder, one last accusing look from her dying husband that said, ‘So this is your coup de grâce? You want to destroy my standing with two of my closest friends in the world?’ The bizarre Gordian knot of their marriage, with its many impossibly twisted strands, could only be undone by the swift, cruel stroke of death’s sword that would leave its own wound on her long after her husband was gone.

  By now she understood and accepted the final state of her dying husband’s feelings towards each of those committed to being with him in the remaining weeks of his life on earth: genuine love of his Third Aunt, high regard for his priest and his boss, continuing active anger against his wife, and tolerance of everyone else. She alone of all the inhabitants in his world stood denounced and unforgiven, because upon her alone he had placed the highest stakes and lost. If it was true that stress caused cancer, she alone was responsible for the death of his body too. There could be no greater devastation. His deathbed balancing of accounts could not take the usual gentle course of seeking forgiveness. Instead, forgiveness was something for him to give and even then only conditionally – she had to come as a true penitent.

  The only penitence she was capable of was the bruising honesty unacceptable to his pride: ‘I beg forgiveness because I married you after those terrible events connected with the ring that made me feel so sorry for you.’ She could twist the act of contrition to suit his pride, ‘I beg forgiveness because I realise now that I’ve loved you all along but was just too carried away by my career and other interests,’ and in the process give him some measure of satisfaction while committing the greatest falsehood in her life. She thought grimly, I will not let the close of your life blight the beginning of mine.

  One thing she was clear about: she would redouble her acts of kindness and compassion towards him, and if they fell uselessly against the great wall of his unresolved grievances, she would not be daunted.

  Kindness, not convertible into love, still converted into an incredible amount of physical stress and personal sacrifice – her colleagues and students in St Peter’s had expressed alarm at her loss of weight, her loss of spirits. It gave her some satisfaction that the price she was paying for her injustice to her husband was by no means small. She knew of women who put their dying husbands in homes and hospices because they could no longer cope with the terrible physical exertions of the caregiving.

  It would be her own private purgatory, very much like that awesome state of punishment with its cleansing flames, prior to admission into heaven, by which she would have to fully discharge her debt to her husband, down to the last farthing, before being allowed to enter a new life of pure joy free from the treacherous pitfalls of love and marriage. In bidding a final goodbye to him, she would also be walking away from that institution for which she had been so woefully unqualified. If the fervent masses and prayers offered by Father Rozario, by her mother and the church prayer group, earned for Bernard’s soul immediate entry into heaven, she and her husband would be entering their respective paradises at the same time.

  The thought struck her with such force that she paused in her marking of students’ scripts to dwell on it as Bernard lay in fitful sleep beside her. Meeta and Winnie had told her of caregiving spouses for whom the sense of relief when it was all over was in proportion to the stress suffered. Winnie’s cousin who had cared for a particularly difficult husband bedridden after a massive stroke, even described it as her hallelujah moment. ‘I was almost ashamed I could feel such relief,’ she had said. ‘I went on a cruise with my girlfriends, looked at the gulls circling in the sky and said to them, ‘You know, I feel freer than you!’ ’

  It was that perilous word again. Women from time immemorial sought freedom in its every form, and if they won it through the death of a spouse, felt guilty and were ashamed of having betrayed the ideals of wifely duty that society had held up for them. Freedom stood opposed to the sanctity of marriage and had become a bad word.

  But the future, increasingly showing itself in tantalising glimpses, would not be allowed to intrude upon the present. And the greatest duty of the present was to allow her dying husband to go to his death in the only way he wanted – to discharge upon her submissive head all the years of grievances she had caused him. For him only this restoration of equilibrium would bring peace to his tortured soul.

  Dr Phang had an idea which she took up eagerly, to allow for a bright spot in the terrible gloom of those days. It would be Bernard’s birthday in a few days; if it happened to be one of the good days when he could get up from bed
, would he like a celebration lunch in a private room of the Pavilion Hotel? It would be a short outing only, and everything would be done for his convenience and comfort.

  Maria said to Dr Phang, with the tears coming into her eyes, which they did very frequently in those days, ‘Thank you so much. Would you tell him, encourage him?’ and had to mention that on no account must he give the impression that she had anything to do with the idea, as that would only meet with opposition.

  Dr Phang looked at her and said quietly, ‘I understand.’ How much did he understand of the awful complexities of their marriage? How much had Bernard told him?

  She would be taking extended, no-pay leave from school soon, to be on round-the-clock duty by her husband’s bed. It was unfortunate that Bernard’s birthday coincided with the celebration of Teachers’ Day in school, when she knewshe would be given a special award for her work in the steady improvement of the English language examination grades over the years. She would make known her wish to leave the celebration as soon as she could to be in time for the all-important lunch at the Pavilion Hotel.

  It would appear that the whole school was in a conspiracy to be kind to her during this most difficult time in her life. Even Teresa Pang came forward with a few kind words and offers to take over some of her classes. At a time when she was anxious to quickly get done with the various ceremonies of the festive day and rush home, everybody seemed to be making demands on her time and attention. Brother Philip stopped her briefly as she was hurrying along the corridor to say, ‘You may no longer believe in the power of prayer, but I’m praying for you and your husband.’

  She said, ‘But I do believe in the power of kindness. So continue to pray for me, and thank you so much.’

  ‘Miss Seetoh, I want you to meet the most important person in my life,’ said Maggie and she pushed forward a young girl of about twelve. ‘This is my sister Angel. She is in Mansor Secondary School. Today a holiday in her school, and I have brought her here so can introduce you. Angel, this is Miss Seetoh, the most wonderful teacher in the world I tell you about!’

  Maggie slipped in and out of the many roles she took upon herself; she was playing this one, of older sister or surrogate mother, with greatest pride and enthusiasm, suddenly looking older than her years.

  The younger sister who was extremely pretty, said shyly, ‘Hello, Miss Seetoh,’ and held out her hand.

  ‘I give her the name ‘Angel’; don’t you think it suit her? Her old name ‘Ah Choo’ – yuks – so low-class and common; I told my mother I want change it. Now her name, in school register, is ‘Angel’,’ cried Maggie, smoothing the girl’s hair with such a display of maternalistic pride that Maria wondered, as she had wondered many times, about the home background which the girl was so assiduously keeping hidden from her teachers and classmates.

  Maggie confided in hushed tones, ‘You know what, Miss Seetoh, my little sister Angel, she’s very bright, only her English not so good. I want to get her into St Peter’s Secondary School, so you can teach her, Miss Seetoh. I will go to see the principal and the inspector of schools at the ministry. Angel, she must go to the university. I not so good, cannot study well, will go to work after GCE O Level, but Angel, she is very intelligent girl, must go for further studies!’

  The award-giving ceremony would start in twenty minutes. Maggie suddenly took her by the hand and, followed by Angel, dragged her into a small room sometimes used as a private study room by students and teachers.

  ‘Maggie, what on earth –’ she began, noting the girl’s look of eager intent and Angel’s excitement which she was trying to suppress by pressing her mouth with both hands. Inside the room, she saw Mark and Yen Ping, unlikely companions in any prank devised by Maggie and yet just now looking as if they were close co-conspirators in some worthy plot.

  Maggie said, ‘Miss Seetoh, today your special day. We want to make you look beautiful when you go up to receive award from the principal. You are already beautiful but we want to make you look like film star!’

  The purpose of the ambush into the private study room was clear as soon as Maria saw, laid out on a table, an assortment of make-up items. ‘Oh no,’ she said laughing, ‘you’re not going to put all that stuff on my face!’

  ‘Please, Miss Seetoh,’ begged Yen Ping, and Mark joined her in her entreaties.

  It turned out that the idea, in the oddest way, had originated with this shy, pale-faced girl who was far removed from the world of make-up and glamour as the pig-tailed, jacket-wearing girls of Mao’s Cultural Revolution must have been. It had come about in a roundabout way that reflected how in a Christian school the ancient superstitions it sought to eradicate were very much alive.

  Yen Ping told Miss Seetoh that when she was about fourteen, an aunt who worked in a beautician’s parlour and was involved in various community activities, made her go on stage one evening to sing a song with some other girls during the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts. The transforming power of powder, lipstick and rouge extended to behaviour, and she sang with unabashed ardour and thrilling confidence before a large crowd, enjoying herself thoroughly. There was a picture of her at the event, completely unrecognisable even to family.

  ‘You know what, Miss Seetoh,’ said Yen Ping, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘The evil spirit could not recognise me anymore and I was cured of my asthma!’

  If there was any superstition that was the most laughable, it was this belief that the evil spirits who roamed the earth with malicious intent were so stupid that they could be deceived by the most superficial of disguises. Mothers protected their precious male children by giving them female names or making them wear earrings. There was a special evil spirit who killed healthy, able-bodied men in their sleep; those wishing to be left alone went to bed wearing their wives’ sarong, lipstick and nail polish.

  Yen Ping said, ‘Miss Seetoh, you may not believe this, but my mother took me to one doctor after another for my asthma, but it was no use. Then after my aunt put make-up on my face that evening, my asthma disappeared. She took me to a temple medium who told us that the ghost who used to trouble me for years could no longer recognise me and left.’

  Together with Mark, she came up with her plan, ‘Miss Seetoh, if you put on make-up today – it is a special day of spirits – the bad spirit causing all your misfortunes will go away and your husband will be cured.’

  Years later Maria would remember, how in her little world of St Peter’s Secondary School, the Christian prayers of Brother Philip and the ancient practices of Yen Ping’s ancestors, coming from opposite directions, had merged into one large, warm, comforting power sustaining her in her hour of need; for her, they would never clash but be perfectly harmonised by their common intention of goodwill and kindness.

  While it would have been easy to reject Maggie’s aim to make her look like a film star, it would have been impossible to disappoint the gentle Yen Ping who was looking at her in trembling expectancy.

  ‘Alright,’ said Maria, and everyone yelled with delight before Maggie took charge of the entire proceedings, and the rest were contented to assist by following her instructions to do this or that – stand watch at the door to see no one was spying, fan Miss Seetoh since it was a hot morning, get ready comb, hairbrush, lipstick, eyeliner and a myriad appurtenances that supposedly formed a woman’s survival kit in a world dominated by men with an eye for beauty.

  ‘Would you please hurry, the ceremony will start soon and then I have to be off!’ urged Maria, as Maggie worked furiously. The girl never looked happier as her fingers worked expertly on her teacher’s lips, cheeks, eyes, eyebrows, finally taking off the ponytail hairclip, and letting the lush hair fall down to her shoulders. She had a special brush to tease the hair into a riot of soft waves framing the face. With a dramatic bow, she held up a mirror for Miss Seetoh to look at her new self.

  Maria gasped. ‘Talk about evil spirits!’ she said. ‘I don’t even recognise myself.’

  Maggie said, ‘Never mind evil sp
irits. You look like a film star!’ Angel, completely infected by her sister’s exuberance, was clapping her hands in delight.

  Mark said admiringly, ‘You know, Miss Seetoh, you look like the actress Gong Li. Maybe even more beautiful.’

  There were tears in Yen Ping’s eyes. As a final touch, Maggie produced a beautiful, expensive silk scarf and draped it round her neck. ‘Sorry I can’t give it to you, Miss Seetoh,’ she said, ‘but you keep it as long as you like.’

  If she did not have to rush away so soon, she would have responded, with warmth and wit, to the students’ enthusiastic reaction to her new appearance as she stood on stage in the school auditorium and received the award, a wooden plaque with gold inscriptions, from the principal. After the initial stunned silence, they broke into loud cheers and scrambled to have a closer look at Miss Seetoh. A few of the more rowdy boys let out wolf whistles. The principal managed to say, with great propriety, ‘You see how they are all responding to your new look.’

  She said, ‘It isn’t a new look that I’ll wear to school everyday. Some crazy students gave me this makeover on a whim.’

  The anxiety of wanting to be in time for the lunch at the Pavilion Hotel, of wondering how her husband was taking all the stress of the outing, and whether Dr Phang had ordered special food for him, caused her to keep to herself, for the time being, yet another student howler guaranteed to enliven life at St Peter’s. The class prefect, enjoined, with the task of deciding on a suitable inscription for the plaque, had made the mistake not only of taking up valuable space with the completely unnecessary mention of the ornamental tablet itself, but of misspelling it, so that Miss Seetoh, for being the best English language Teacher, was awarded, as a token of deep appreciation by all her students, a ‘plague’. Maria was so amused she almost let out a laugh. The mistake had gone unnoticed even by the teacher in charge of school trophies and medals; held up high in the air by Miss Seetoh in acknowledgement, it was probably unnoticed by everyone. She had only time to point to it surreptitiously to Brother Philip, saw his face crease in a broad smile and then rushed away.