by S. P. Hozy
She went into the living room where her mother had set out the tea things. She sat on the old sagging sofa her mother had found in a second-hand shop during what now felt like another lifetime.
“Something’s shut down in me since Peter’s death,” she told her mother as they sipped Earl Grey and munched on butter cookies. “I’m deflecting stuff and I’m not sure how to reverse that.” She had called her mother after Peter’s murder and they had talked for an hour. But much had happened since then and Spirit could see that Maris was having trouble putting it all together.
“It’s only been about four months, Maris. That’s not very long. The grieving process is different for everybody, but most would agree that it takes many months, often years, to work through.”
“I haven’t been able to paint,” said Maris. “I look around and I don’t see the colours. I just see shapes and sometimes texture. But I need the colours to paint. I need them to connect to the story I’m telling. I’ve always been able to see the story in whatever I’m looking at. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do,” said Spirit. “You feel as if you’ve lost your inspiration. Was Peter a kind of muse to you — if that’s the right word?”
“More like a mentor,” she said. “He was my biggest supporter, and he made me want to work. I don’t mean he forced me or anything; he just always pointed me in a direction I needed to go. He let me find my own way, but I think he was always guiding me.”
“That’s a big loss,” Spirit said. “Of course you’re feeling this way. You’re kind of untethered right now.” She reached over and touched her daughter’s hand. “You’re like a beautiful animal that’s been separated from her herd and you can’t find their scent. But you will, Maris. Your instincts will come back, and when they do you’ll start to paint again. Right now you need to focus on what you can do and not worry about what you can’t.”
“I want to work,” said Maris, “but I can’t concentrate. I’m in this beautiful place and nothing speaks to me. It’s like, trees, mountains, rivers — so what?”
They looked at each other for a few minutes and then Spirit got up and went into a room she had been using for storage for the past few years. It had once been designated as a future bathroom, but Spirit had decided she really didn’t need another bathroom in the house now that everybody had moved out. She rummaged around for a couple of minutes, and when she emerged, she was carrying a large pad of drawing paper and a box of charcoal. She set them down in front of Maris.
“Let’s get back to basics,” she told her. “If you can’t see the colours, then don’t look for them. Use charcoal. If all you can see is shapes, then draw shapes. Don’t you remember those art classes I sent you to a million years ago? The teacher would set a timer and you had to start drawing something freehand, even before you knew what you wanted to draw. Sometimes it was just shapes, but sometimes it would be something real, like a human figure or a tree or a horse. Remember? You used to come home and tell me how free it made you feel.” Maris nodded, remembering the Saturday morning drawing classes. They did make her feel free. The teacher gave them permission to dream, without the pressure of explaining or understanding what they were doing.
“We can get some of those Japanese brushes and black ink, too,” Spirit said. “And you can do some of those haiku drawings — you know, fast, strong brush strokes. I used to call them your haiku drawings because they reminded me of Japanese haiku poetry: disciplined and essential; spare and unadorned. They were so contained, but at the same time so open-ended.”
Maris smiled. Maybe her mother was on to something. Maybe this was something she could do while she waited for whatever she had lost to come back. She laughed.
“I love you, Mom. You never give up.”
“Hey, kiddo,” she said, “giving up is not an option.”
The Happy Ending
A Short Story
by
E. Sutcliffe Moresby
I happened to be in Singapore during the winter of 1926 and was invited to dine at Government House with the current governor of the Straits Settlements, a man by the unlikely name of Sir Lawrence Nunns Guillemard. I had arrived at the Istana (which is the Malay word for “palace”) a few minutes earlier than expected, and took the opportunity to admire the handsome mansion and its surrounding gardens. Typical of the style of buildings designed by the British for their many tropical outposts, it displayed statuesque columns in the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian modes (Why have one style when you can have them all? I thought), and was ideally suited to the hot climate with deep, covered verandahs and louvred windows that promoted cross ventilation and kept the sun’s rays from penetrating its many magnificent rooms. Built in the late 1860s on a former nutmeg estate using prison labourers, the sumptuous gardens, or what I could see of them for it was already dark, afforded a splendid view of the sea through the massive trees that must have dated back at least to the time of the estate’s construction.
This was to be an evening of “culture and conviviality,” as the invitation stated, for Sir Lawrence was reputed to be a great reader. During the course of the evening, I discovered that the governor clearly loved a good yarn, and we were all encouraged to share our stories.
Seated next to me was a medical man, a Dr. Samuels, who, when prevailed upon, told a story that was both moving and, to my mind, tragic. I have remembered it all these years. It concerned a young Englishwoman named Elsie Townsend who had come out to Singapore some years earlier to marry her fiancé, an aspiring writer of limited talent but unbridled hope and ambition. Henry Withrow believed with all his heart that if he could make his meagre savings last five years, he would produce a manuscript worthy of publication and his fortune would be made. Before he left, he told Elsie that he could not do that in England, where the cost of food and lodging was prohibitive. He had decided that Singapore would afford him such an inexpensive existence that could buy his five precious years. Once there he wrote her many letters — pleading, cajoling letters — to persuade her to come to Singapore and marry him. Hadn’t Joseph Conrad written Lord Jim here? he said. Didn’t Rudyard Kipling write wonderfully about the “steam-sweat” heat, and the excellent food (but bad rooms) at the Raffles Hotel? It was a place of writers, and he was a writer, by God, and could be a writer of note if given half a chance.
He begged Elsie to join him, promising her the future — a future filled with their love and his books. But she was understandably reluctant. Singapore was far away; it was, for her, an unexplored and frightening unknown in the middle of the jungle. She also worried about what would become of her widowed father if she left. She would have given anything to have Henry abandon his foolish dream of being a writer, but she, Elsie, knew she could not be the one to make him come to that decision. Henry would have to make it for himself. In her heart of hearts, Elsie knew he would not give up. Finally she relented, but without enthusiasm. It was her deep and abiding love for Henry that prevailed. She could not disappoint him; she could not abandon him at the edge of his dream.
As Samuels told the story of Elsie and Henry, I stole a glance at Sir Lawrence seated at the head of the table. We had just been served the fish course, a quite delectable red snapper that had been steamed with fresh ginger, red chilies, and lime juice. The governor’s eyes and attention were fixed on Dr. Samuels. He had scarcely touched the fish.
“They were married within a week of her arriving,” continued Dr. Samuels, “as was only proper.” Several women at the table solemnly nodded their heads in agreement. The doctor, a portly, balding man with a fringe of fine sandy coloured hair ringing the base of his skull, paused and tasted the fish. Sir Laurence did so, as well. We were all picturing in our minds the wedding of Elsie and Henry. I saw two slim young people, he, several inches taller than her, both nervous, overdressed for the climate in dark (probably wool) suits. She clutching a small bunch of flowers; he nervously pulling his starched collar away from his neck, as if to release the steam that had accumulate
d inside his shirt. The minister, pious to the expected degree, and his equally pious wife, no doubt required to be witness, would have recited the marriage vows from a well-worn, leather-bound prayer book he had brought with him from England many years earlier.
Elsie hated Singapore, according to Dr. Samuels, especially the steam-sweat heat. The few articles of clothing she had brought were totally inappropriate. She could never have imagined — even if she had laboured in a Chinese laundry, which she had not — the stifling, dripping wet, suffocating hotness of the place. It gave new meaning to the word “sweltering,” a word she had heretofore encountered only in books, never in real life. Now she knew all too well what those writers had been referring to. Sweltering meant boiling, like limp, sodden vegetables in a soup pot; it meant steaming, like a clam in its shell; it meant stewing, like meat falling off the bones in thick, unforgiving gravy.
I saw several women dab their foreheads with lace-edged handkerchiefs, even though the room was not hot. A few of the men gulped down ice water. Clearly, the doctor was a master storyteller. We were enthralled.
Initially they stayed at the Raffles Hotel, the doctor went on. But Elsie went out daily, on foot, to look for cheaper lodgings where they could cook their own food and where she could make a home of sorts for them. Living in a hotel was not Elsie’s idea of married life.
But they were happy, said the doctor. They were young, he said, shrugging his shoulders and turning up the palms of his hands in the manner of a Frenchman. Several chuckles emanated from the guests and Sir Laurence laughed outright, as if remembering the folly of his own youth. The fish course was cleared and we were served the roast beef, delivered to us on gold-rimmed plates with the governor’s crest, along with perfectly prepared Yorkshire pudding, golden roasted potatoes, and boiled green peas. A fine, robust red wine was poured. For a few seconds we could believe we were in an English manor house in the dead of winter.
Eventually Elsie found them rooms at the top of a shophouse owned by a Hindu who sold cloth cut from bolts of silk and cotton in every colour of the rainbow. The Hindu owned several shops and was prosperous enough to be able to rent out the apartments above his shops and keep his family in a large house on Serangoon Road.
The rooms were modest, but furnished adequately with a bed, a table and chairs, a cabinet for dishes and utensils, and a small writing desk and a bookcase, which was what had decided the matter for Elsie. Henry would have a place to write. She would be busy enough with washing their clothes and learning to prepare their meals using a small wood-burning cooker.
Again, Dr. Samuels paused to eat, and we all contemplated a life without the kind of sumptuous meal we were currently enjoying as guests of the governor.
“How awful,” murmured one of the women.
“Poor girl,” said another. “Living like a native. How she must have hated it.”
“Indeed, she did,” continued Dr. Samuels. “She had no servant to help her with the heavy washing, and not enough pennies to take it to a washerwoman. It was a hard life for Elsie, what with the crushing heat and all. But Henry was writing, and in the evenings he used to read to her what he had written that day by the light of a kerosene lamp. She told herself it was all worth it. She believed he was a wonderful writer. Alas,” said the doctor, as an aside, “nothing remains of his scribbling. At least, not to my knowledge.”
The air in the room took on a disquieting heaviness that had not been there before. “But I get ahead of myself,” he said. “In due time, in fact, within three months of her arrival, Elsie became pregnant.” There was a collective gasp from the assembled company. “Oh, dear Lord,” someone murmured. “The poor girl.”
“Yes, poor girl, indeed,” said Dr. Samuels. “She was not at all well in the early stages of the pregnancy. She lost weight, couldn’t keep her food down, and said she felt like she was cooking inside her skin.” At this point the dishes were cleared and an assortment of fruit and cheeses was served. The governor asked for the tawny port to be poured. It was a most excellent vintage.
“Go on, go on, Doctor,” Sir Lawrence urged. “You have us on the edge of our seats.”
The good doctor chewed on a slice of Japanese pear, contemplating his next words. He had our complete and undivided attention.
“Elsie, it seems, was made of sterner stuff than her husband. After three months she started to feel better. She was able to keep her food down and began to put on a little weight. She became stronger as each day passed, and it looked as if she and her baby, both, would survive the ordeal.” Again, he paused to eat. We waited, as if for the other shoe to drop.
“But then,” he said, and shook his head, “just as things were looking up, Henry came down with fever. And it was bad. Burning up one minute and freezing cold the next. Elsie sent for a doctor but he could do nothing but prescribe some powders to help him sleep. He told her to make sure he drank clean water as often as possible, but, as he told me later, he knew that if the fever did not diminish within forty-eight hours, Henry would most likely die. The fever was malarial, and Henry was exhibiting delirium and experiencing difficulty breathing. Any doctor of tropical medicine knows the signs.”
I looked around the table. A couple of the women were dabbing at tears and most of the men were shaking their heads. Tropical malaria is one of the greatest threats to the well-being of the expatriate. Everyone in the room had either experienced its consequences directly or had heard of someone who had expired from it. It was a grim moment.
“And so Henry died on the fourth day,” said the doctor. “And Elsie was devastated, as you can imagine. She buried him in the cemetery of the church where they had been married just six months earlier.” He sipped his port and looked around the table. We were all silent. None of us knew what to say.
I spoke first. “Whatever happened to her?”
“Yes,” said Sir Lawrence. “What became of her? Did she have the child? Did she go back to England?”
“I wish I knew,” said Dr. Samuels. “And my friend, the doctor who attended Henry and who told me this distressing tale, never saw her again.”
“How strange,” said one of the women. “How terribly sad and strange.”
“I agree,” said the doctor. “But I’m afraid there are only rumours. After she buried Henry, we can’t be sure what happened to her.”
“Rumours?” I asked. “Tell us what you heard.”
“Well,” said Samuels, taking another sip of port, “there was a rumour that she had returned to England and had the child there. A boy, I believe.”
“That would be the wise choice,” said Sir Lawrence, and several of his guests agreed.
“And the other rumours?” I persisted.
“Another story claims she stayed and had the baby here, but no one knows where she went after the birth. Perhaps she remarried, but that seems doubtful. Not many women in her situation find a husband in the East.” Samuels pursed his lips and shook his head, as if he were reluctant to relate the final rumour.
We waited expectantly, almost on the edge of our seats.
“The last rumour,” he said, his eyes fixed on the glass of port in his hand, “is that the baby was stillborn and that she went mad. Some people say she is still here in Singapore, and that she roams the streets at night, searching for Henry.”
“Oh, how dreadful,” someone said.
“Yes,” Samuels agreed. “Dreadful.”
“And which story do you believe, Doctor?” I asked.
He turned to me and took a sip of his port, as if giving himself time to decide. “I prefer to believe in a happy ending,” he replied. “That she went back to England and had a healthy baby boy.”
“Hear, hear,” said Sir Lawrence. “I quite agree. The only sensible conclusion.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “The happy ending.”
Chapter Eleven
Maris closed the book of Edward Sutcliffe Moresby’s short stories she had been reading. This one, “The Happy Ending,” stayed in h
er mind as she closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep. A tragic love story set in Singapore in the 1920s, it made her wonder if any of it were true. She had been to what was left of the old Christian cemeteries in Singapore and had read the gravestones of people who had probably come to the Far East to find their fortune, but had succumbed to illness and infection within the first year. Many had been soldiers not yet twenty years old. Or young women dying in childbirth, their babies, often unnamed, buried with them. She thought of poor Elsie Townsend and wondered what she would have done in her position.
Would I have come home, as I’m doing now? she wondered. Probably. And what did that say about her? That she lacked courage? But she had set off for Singapore almost on a whim and without a second thought. Hadn’t that taken courage? Or maybe she was an emotional coward, lacking a different kind of courage. The shock and pain of Peter’s death had sent her scurrying into a protective hole, a hole like the ones they’d tried to dig to China as children … only this one led straight back to Canada. Was she looking for the comfort of home, the kind that came with no effort, the kind that didn’t require her to stretch herself? Was she looking for the easy way out? She could become like Emily Dickinson, never leaving her room, never taking another risk. Except that Emily Dickinson had a whole world of imagination in her head that she explored fearlessly, brilliantly. Have I closed my eyes to that world? she wondered. Is that why I can’t see colours?
Finally the sleep that had been eluding her came, but it didn’t last for long. She woke up well before dawn and her eyes felt dry and scratchy when she opened them. She got out of bed and found the eye drops she always carried in her kit bag. She squeezed two drops into each eye and stood with her eyes closed for a minute. Then she splashed some water on her face and headed back to the bed. But she knew there would be no more sleeping that night. It was a little chilly in the bedroom so she dug around in her still unpacked suitcase and pulled out a dark green sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. Her eyes went to the trunk that she and her mother had dragged into the corner of the room. Surely Peter had not planned on an early death, but had he known that his death, whenever it came, might leave her bereft not only of his guiding hand but also of her own confidence in her abilities as an artist? Was that why he had left the contents of the trunk to her in his will rather than giving them to her while he was alive?
