The students of 96A05 stood to each side of me, enjoying the spectacle provided by the disruption of their A-level Literature class. It was 1996, and ten years later I heard that A-level papers were replaced with a different set of exams. Gayatri, 96A05’s class monitress and sole scholar from India, pointed downwards. ‘Mr Caulden’s down there with Mrs Lau.’
‘Why don’t they get her to a hospital?’ Naomi Koh asked.
‘She’s lost enough weight so they can squeeze her into the ambulance.’ Soraya deadpanned.
‘Ladies, tsskk!’ Cordelia Lim chided in mock dismay, ‘show some respect for the dead.’
As she surveyed the quadrangle, Cordelia bunched her lips together as if she had bitten down on a hard seed; I had seen that expression before when she had received unexpected midterm test results. I ushered my class back inside the classroom and tried to steer them back to The Duchess of Malfi. Their minds had already bolted and remained down in the quadrangle with Mrs Lau’s body.
* * *
The world was rumbling during the mid 1990s. Ebola virus outbreaks and the imminent Hong Kong handover all scheduled a year before the 1997 recession had sent Southeast Asia into economic free fall. These events were dress rehearsals for similar future incidents early in the next century, but at the time, I interpreted them as pre-millennium tension. External tensions combined with personal tensions drove me away from London. I left the UK with the same attitude as I left my ex-girlfriend: both of us needed a time-out, an intermission in our relationship for an unspecified duration. Wary of the threat of mad cow disease, shootings in primary schools, and IRA bombs in London, I applied for a teaching contract in Singapore.
I received a reply letter in dot matrix print, requesting my attendance at an interview. I showed my interviewers evidence of my PGCE, teaching experience in comprehensive schools and two summers at adult education colleges. I appreciated routine, but I mistook it for structure. I was a polymath, dipping my toes into too many areas for my own good. My scattered interests showed in my magazine subscriptions: New Scientist, the British Medical Journal and the Times Literary Supplement. After my change of country, there was an additional charge for overseas delivery and the magazines arrived a month late.
My first semester was three months long. I was assigned to 96A05, a class of girls orphaned before the holidays when Mr Greenfield, their former Civics tutor, collapsed of a heart attack outside his rented apartment. When accepting a new position, never step into a dead man’s shoes because you are expected to continue his legacy, of which you know nothing. But no one mentioned that I also had to sit at his desk. Nevertheless, the Humanities staff was already thinly spread.
* * *
When I entered the double swinging doors of the staffroom on my first day, the place was more like a police station on a busy night: telephones and pagers going off, and students standing around desks as if they were suspects hauled in for questioning. Stacks of unmarked papers teetered on in-out trays, filing cabinets lined the walls, their drawers jutted open like mortuary freezers and exposed their contents to the Antarctic air-conditioning. Wednesdays were the worst: memos materialised on my desk and assignments from Monday clogged up my pigeonhole. By Friday afternoons, staffroom activity normally wound down. I spent the time in my cubicle, reading my magazines and marvelling at the latest wonders of science, such as Dolly the cloned sheep.
My first impression of Mrs Dora Lau was also my first brush with her. After my first week on the job, she asked to see me in her office. A large woman like her should not get agitated. The thick layers of foundation streaked down her double chin making her face resemble an animated tribal mask. Once I was inside her room, the glass walls looked like a police captain’s office. I hoped the walls were soundproof and smiled to show my new colleagues that I was enjoying myself.
‘Lydia Ang attempted suicide over the weekend—are you aware of this?’
I had called Lydia Ang’s house number in my new tenure as Civics tutor of 96A05 after she was absent for two days with no explanation. I did an exaggerated slow nod to show concern and reported that I had sensed nothing amiss in Lydia’s conduct in the week before her absence.
‘You should be more observant. As a Civics tutor, one of your main responsibilities is pastoral care,’ Mrs Lau emphasised. ‘Both mental and physical welfare. More serious personal problems should be referred to counselling.’
I walked out of Mrs Lau’s office, trying not to notice the heads retracting into cubicles as conversations suddenly resumed. A petite woman with dark curly hair walked over from the Science section and leaned over my cubicle wall, sympathetic and conspiratorial.
‘Hi, I’m Maria De Silva, Chemistry.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Is this your first week here?’
‘Does it show?’
Maria nodded in the direction of Mrs Lau’s office, ‘Dora likes to roast the fresh meat as soon as it arrives. My Science Head of Department only troubles us if we do anything to trouble him.’
I summarised the details of my ‘roasting’ to Maria.
‘Everyone knows about Lydia Ang.’
‘The suicide attempt?’
‘No, lahh!’ Maria tapped me on the shoulder with the A4 file she was carrying. ‘She’s a lesbian! One Saturday after CCA, Mrs Lau saw Lydia kissing another girl at the bus stop.’
‘I’ve just started working here and Mrs Lau is trying to hold me accountable for Lydia’s behaviour after school hours? That’s unreasonable!’
‘Human nature is never reasonable—you never noticed Mrs Lau looking at you during assembly while the college band plays? Mrs Lau wants what she cannot have. That’s why she’s so hard on you.’
‘But I’m not hard on you,’ I said.
Maria hid her blushing behind the A4 file, but she remained professional. ‘Then do me a favour and make your working life easier. Flatter Mrs Lau the same way you flatter me.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I called to Maria’s departing shoulders and elegant neck. I opened my desk drawer and took out my modest rock collection. Like a meditation, arranging the specimens on my desk calmed me: a cluster of quartz, an ammonite and a chunk of galena encased in transparent plastic.
* * *
I wrote the word ‘REVENGE’ on the whiteboard as Gayatri handed out the photocopies.
‘Has anyone here heard of Francis Bacon?’
‘Is he related to Kevin Bacon?’ asked Soraya.
‘Francis Bacon, the writer, died in 1626. He’d be more than six degrees separated from Kevin, the actor.’ I tried to avoid discussion of unrelated topics in class, but the atmosphere was more relaxed during my Literature Clinic on Friday afternoons. Lit Clinic was not compulsory, but I had four regular attendees. Yet, I wondered whether these girls had something better to do.
‘So, you’ve all read Of Revenge?’ I asked.
A chorus of hesitant ‘yeses’.
Naomi Koh adjusted her tortoiseshell spectacles and put her hand up, ‘I read it, but I’m not sure what it means.’
I asked Naomi to read aloud the first line about revenge being a wild kind of justice, before I distilled Bacon’s essay to its essence: revenge, though sweet, may not be the best way, and committing an act of revenge does not ameliorate the outrage.
‘In the texts you have been studying, such as Hamlet and the The Duchess of Malfi, you will find that revenge is a Pyrrhic victory. Even if the characters could achieve vengeance and get away with it, there is a great personal cost.’
They jotted in their foolscap pads and swished fluorescent pink highlights onto their hand-outs.
Cordelia spoke for the first time from the rear row. ‘What about real life?’
‘It’s so nice to hear from you at the back,’ I teased. ‘Well then class, what about real life? Is there anyone you want to take revenge on?’
‘Mrs Lau,’ replied Cordelia after a pause.
I detected a dangerous moment that threatened to dominate the class, especially when she said it with
a complete lack of jest and hesitation. The others sensed the unease too.
‘That makes everyone in this room,’ Naomi declared, but she then considered my presence. ‘Except for you, sir.’ I gave a noncommittal shrug.
‘Can’t stand the old bi—’ Cordelia stopped herself from saying the word. ‘When she became HOD of Arts and Adviser in Student Matters since the start of term.’
I knew ‘adviser’ was an euphemism for enforcer of disciplinary issues. Cordelia’s remark set off a ripple of unanimous agreement. I decided to indulge them or this sentiment would simmer and manifest into disruptive snide glances and notes.
Soraya went first. ‘Last semester, she banned us from sticking posters on our lockers.’
‘I’m sure she wanted to conserve their appearance?’ I sat on the desk nearest to the whiteboard and folded my arms.
‘No! Sticking posters on the inside!’ Soraya continued, ‘Haven’t you noticed sir? She conducts these random spot checks and makes someone open up their locker. It’s worst now. She’s got a thing about lateness. If the boys are late for her General Paper class, she makes them do ear-squats outside the classroom for every minute they’re late. For the girls, she makes them sit on the classroom floor for the entire lesson.’
‘In the case of your locker, she was looking for stray Kevin Bacon posters!’ Naomi tossed a crumpled Post-it Note at Soraya’s head, who ducked out of the way.
‘One lunch hour, she made us attend one of her talks in lecture theatre 2. She said, “Judging from the sort of posters in your lockers, you all are getting too many ‘corrupting’ American influences!”’ quoted Gayatri.
‘Then I wonder why this college hired Mr Caulden?’ I mused.
‘And remember the blood donation drive before the midterm break!’ Soraya said.
The four of them issued a united groan at the memory.
‘Mrs Lau said during assembly that we didn’t give enough blood compared to the other colleges!’ Gayatri protested, ‘My living expenses are already high enough without having to give my blood.’
‘My father’s a doctor, and he says that you can’t give blood when you’ve got your period!’ Naomi said.
I held my hands up to indicate that I had heard enough. ‘Young ladies, please!’ I soothed. ‘So far you have mentioned collective grievances. But what about individual grudges? Would you act on those?’
They lapsed into a reluctant but thoughtful silence.
Ever the no nonsense student, Gayatri sighed as if holding grudges was beneath her. ‘What is revenge when compared with karma? Divine justice will prevail in the end, sir.’
‘That’s an excellent observation. The concept of divine justice is prevalent in a lot of other works …’ I leapt off the desk to seize this chance to steer the discussion away from the subject of Mrs Lau. Cordelia looked out of the window as it began to drizzle. After class, I returned to the staffroom and consulted 96A05’s student contact details—just in case I had to call Cordelia’s parents about her behaviour. After all, I had been instructed to be more observant. Cordelia had provided a postal address of a shop in Johor Bahru called Lee Huat Hong TCM.
I associated the abbreviation TCM with the cable channel, Turner Classic Movies, and assumed it was a video rental shop.
* * *
On the Monday after the Lit Clinic on revenge, Mrs Lau summoned me into her office after morning assembly. Maria passed my cubicle on her way to the photocopier and flashed me a thumbs up. I opened the office door and greeted Mrs Lau with my best Hugh Grant impersonation.
‘Good morning, Dora. Gosh! You look quite stunning today.’
‘Sit down, Mr Simon.’ My flattery went unappreciated.
The hard plastic chair teetered on two good legs as I took my seat. Mrs Lau rubbed her temples and reached under her desk. She placed three squat bottles labelled with Chinese characters on her desk and took a sip from one bottle. When Mrs Lau put the bottle back on her desk, I saw dark syrup resettling itself through the glass. Yellow plastic bags were stashed on the carpet next to her desk.
Mrs Lau rested her forearms on her desk, with her hands folded. She leaned forward in earnest as if she wanted to sell me life insurance. ‘Mr Simon, I happened to pass by your class last Friday afternoon. It sounded like a very stimulating lesson. When I came back to the staffroom, I checked your personal timetable; you have no classes scheduled with 96A05 on Friday afternoons.’
Mrs Lau’s vigilance did not surprise me.
‘You’re correct,’ I agreed. ‘That class was my Literature Clinic for 96A05. It’s an extra class that’s also like a pastoral care session. I give them some supplementary material and we have a discussion.’
Mrs Lau coughed into her sleeve before saying, ‘I’m glad to see you have followed my suggestions.’
‘I’m just doing my duty as a—’
‘But listen to me!’ Mrs Lau had no intention of letting me get too comfortable. ‘Your students don’t require supplementary materials. That’s only for the Special Paper in second year. And you don’t need to give them extra Literature classes. All these Arts students get A’s for Literature, for sure!’
‘You want me to stop holding this Literature Clinic?’ I asked.
Mrs Lau pointed outside her office to the staffroom. ‘It’s a good idea that can be applied to other subjects. Such as General Paper. Science and Commerce students always struggle with GP. I’d be more than happy to increase your teaching hours.’
‘96A05 doesn’t need a GP Clinic. They’re smart young students.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Lau stretched her mouth into a knowing grin. ‘They’re smart, young and also quite attractive students. I don’t want rumours starting about the new Literature teacher from the UK who’s too close with some girls from his Civics class. Reputation is everything in education.’
‘I’m a professional; you don’t have to worry.’
Mrs Lau picked up the receiver of her desk phone, pointed it at my face like a gun and replaced it with a bang. ‘But Mr Simon, you should be more worried. It just takes one or two phone calls from me to the right people and the result will be an inquiry into your misconduct. My word against yours and you’ll be on a plane back to the UK.’
She coughed again, this time hard enough to make her eyes water. Again, she sipped from the bottle of syrup.
‘You should see a doctor, Mrs Lau. You don’t look well.’
‘No!’ Mrs Lau cried, horrified at my suggestion, ‘I don’t trust Western medicine, the drugs all have side effects. That’s how my late husband died! The hospitals only wanted our money! I just know it! Traditional Chinese Medicine is still the best for middle-aged aches and stomach pains. And this new job’s giving me so much stress!’
‘More serious personal problems should be referred to counselling,’ I parroted her exact words to me during our first meeting. Unsure of how to respond, Mrs Lau folded her arms, rocked back in her chair and said nothing.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your late husband,’ I added out of civility, as I rose from my chair, anxious to get out of her office. I stumbled over one of the bags, and noticed the words printed on the yellow plastic: Lim Huat Hong Traditional Chinese Medicine Shop. This abbreviation of TCM did not have anything to do with classic movies.
Mrs Lau noted my interest. ‘You know Cordelia Lim from your Civics class? Her father owns a Chinese medicine shop in Johor Bahru. Last term, I asked her to drop Geography for the second year, because History and Geography is a suicidal subject combination, it has a very low pass rate. Next thing I know, her father stormed into my office! No respect for teachers these days. To my surprise, Cordelia started bringing me complimentary bottles of cough syrup and sesame powder for the last three months. Cordelia told me it was her father’s way of saying sorry.’
‘How thoughtful.’ I commented. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Lau.’
I returned to my desk and looked at the Teacher’s Day greeting cards and paper flowers pinned to the inside wall of my cubicle.
As gifts of appreciation, three months of free cough syrup and sesame seed powder seemed excessive—more like bribery than apology.
* * *
The Summer Olympics in Atlanta had long finished and Hong Kong edged closer to its handover when Mrs Lau died. Her only daughter had arranged for a cremation, which all Arts staff were invited to attend. A cremation meant that the family did not want an autopsy. The staff talked with a mixture of feigned concern and schadenfreude of how she had looked ill and her sudden weight loss that people put down to a diet or dubious products. I did not join in, although I had much to say.
Later on the day she died, I broke into Mrs Lau’s office by sliding an old credit card through the gap between door handle and doorjamb. It was easy with those push-button locks. I had to investigate before they cleared her possessions and handed the office and job over to her successor. The inconsistency between Mrs Lau being so loathed by Cordelia Lim yet showered with the same gifts over three months made me suspect more than mere bribery.
The half-finished bottles of cough syrup still stood on her desk from our last meeting. I lifted each bottle and was struck by their curious heaviness. The plastic jars of sesame meal powder had the same kind of weight. The new bottles and jars were stashed under the desk, and upon examination, I noted the unopened cough syrup bottles and jars had no seal or pop-up button on the cap to indicate tampering, just a plastic stopper on the opening of the inner rim. Dubious products, I knew, had questionable packaging.
I carried the opened syrup jars and the sesame powder back to my cubicle and tested their weight again. Big time scientists and investigators have their expensive equipment, but me, the armchair scientist had to improvise with what was available to me. I laid out three sheets of A4 paper on my desktop and opened the jars of cough syrup. After dipping a pen inside each jar, I dropped syrup from each onto the sheets. I smeared the liquid onto the paper and saw powdery dark grains showing up against the whiteness of the paper. I rubbed my finger on the rim of one bottle and touched my fingertip to my tongue. I tasted a metallic sweetness that was perversely addictive, similar to the gustatory compulsion created by MSG.
Crime Scene: Singapore Page 4
