Shortly before noon the clatter of clogs heralded the arrival of a podgy woman dressed in a white cotton coat and black silk trousers. She wore her hair in a long braid that reached the small of her back and was equipped with the usual paraphernalia of an amah: a wicker basket and a waxed umbrella. Curiously, however, she also had a Baby Brownie camera slung from her shoulder.
A noodle-seller greeted her. “Ah Pou, gam zou lei, mei sek ah?”
The woman whom they called Ah Pou, and whom Arthur recognised as a laundress working for a wealthy family living in Bendemeer Road, was a rather companionable patron at the eatery. Once she made the newspapers for her pursuit of photography—a rather singular and noteworthy hobby for someone of such humble vocation, and was reported to have allegedly used up hundreds of rolls of film. A week ago the owner of Prosperous Hong had chanced upon her on one of his rare visits and unabashedly asked for a portrait of himself. Ah Pou gladly acceded to the request, and ended taking portraits of every stallholder.
“Mou see gan sek la.” Ah Pou, all clammy from the sweltering tropical heat, fanned herself with flicks of her wrist. “Gam yat lei bei nei dei seung pin mah.”
The noodle-seller laughed. “Nei mou gong ngor dou mm gei dak.”
The laundress began dishing out the monochromatic photographs like they were pay cheques. Everyone received theirs with bows of the head and gilded words, probably because most of them never had their photograph taken, especially one that required no payment.
With similar conduct Arthur received his photograph from the laundress. It showed him sitting on one of the wooden stools at the eatery and resting an elbow on the marble table. Poppy was perched on his left thigh wearing the grandiose smile of a simpleton, his head thrown pompously upwards.
The portrait, well-composed and proportioned, revealed its photographer’s skill. If it weren’t for the newspaper article Arthur wouldn’t have believed that the portrait had been the work of a common laundress. He offered Ah Pou cakes and tea in return for the photograph, and instead attracted a salvo of laughter for his mispronounced Cantonese. For the rest of her visit Arthur spoke no more.
Later, Arthur went to the back of the eatery, where Poppy had been toying with a ball of crushed paper alone. He presented the photograph to Poppy, holding it conspicuously between his thumb and forefinger. Enticed by the novel inducement Poppy inched closer, and plucked it from Arthur’s hand. He tenuously ran his little fingers along its edges. Then they stole over the faces of Arthur and himself.
Poppy concealed his glee by precociously miming the frown of an adult, as if deep in thought, and then scurrying into the backroom to retrieve his biscuit tin from a rickety wall-shelf. He pried open its lid, cleared a space among the other paltry trinkets and laid the memento at the bottom of it.
At the table Poppy began removing the tin’s contents one by one and arranging them neatly in a sequential order, just so that he could go on admiring the photographic miracle beneath them all. Arthur had to sit through the safekeeping ritual before the child would agree to eat his lunch.
Lunch was congee that day. Arthur ladled it steaming from a clay pot into ceramic bowls and doggedly tried to whistle a tune that came out hopelessly flat. It was a special day because Hannah had at last agreed to a ‘date” that evening at a nearby fair. The prospect of it kept him in excellent spirits even though a relationship had scarcely existed between them.
He hoped it might be embryonic at the very least.
Between Geylang Road and Grove Road a triangular tract of land sported a glittering fair known endearingly to locals as Happy World. It still crackled with a bustling atmosphere, particularly in the evenings, though the spot had seen better days.
Coloured electric bulbs flared against a smouldering evening sky. The colonnaded gateway to Happy World retained a good deal of its former grandeur. But its weary paintwork and shabby interior were testament to the inexorable erosion of the changing times.
Arthur and Poppy alighted at a stop near the Kallang aerodrome and picked out Hannah in a snug floral dress. She was strolling the length of the gateway, under a series of neon Mandarin ideograms, watching them approach with a sidelong glance.
Arthur’s heart grew heavy; he was supposed to be early. Without mercy he lugged Poppy along and broke into a run.
“I’m so sorry,” he said as he reached her, his lips parting in a wobbly smile.
Hannah twitched an eyebrow. “Quite a fawner, are you?”
Arthur, his chest heaving, gave her a quizzical frown.
“What’s there to apologise for, except to please me?”
Arthur’s face burned. What was she expecting him to say? His mind wrestled with the dispiriting prospect of a botched evening.
“I’m always early for dates because I like a leisurely wait.” Hannah’s cheeky titter subsided into a coy little smile. She thumbed at the entrance behind her. “Shall we?”
“You don’t mind Poppy tagging along?” asked Arthur. He had meant to ask if she had many dates before.
“Of course I do. Dates are meant for only two.” She flapped her fingers at Poppy, who responded with an effusive, innocent smile. “Stop being neurotic, Arthur. Let’s go.”
An octagonal roofed stadium stood like a monument at the centre of the fair. Inside, a wrestling match was taking place. Tickets were still on sale, but Hannah said she loathed violence and suggested the game booths instead.
At one rickety shack Poppy was beside himself with joy after winning a sack of glass marbles on his first attempt at tikam tikam. At Poppy’s insistence, Arthur was inclined to allow a second attempt at the game, but Hannah disagreed. Arthur had to drag the bawling child away from the shack when Hannah marched off.
“Don’t be naïve, Arthur.” Hannah scoffed over her shoulder. “He’s won the only prize in the game. There’s no sense in slashing profits for more prizes when the very rarity of winning is the name of the game. It’s like getting nations to drop self-interests for the pursuit of world peace.”
Arthur felt the numbing pangs of embarrassment. “Shall we catch a movie?”
Hannah turned glumly to the direction of the Victory Theatre. “It’s the dullest of dates to be staring at a screen. You have two more tries before I dump you, Arthur.”
“Dance?” Arthur suggested. Poppy, impatient with the grownups” indecision, swung his arms and began to stir a ruckus. Arthur ignored him. “There’s a nice band going on,” he added. “I heard the big blues when we passed the hall.”
“Nice try,” she said. “But we need a prelude.”
“And what might that be?”
Hannah joggled her eyebrows. “The Ghost Train.”
Arthur laughed aloud and led the way. Hannah cajoled the operator into letting them cut the queue for in a final pair of seats on the next ride. They had to pack their bums into a fibreglass crate and Arthur never felt so privileged as to be rubbing shoulders with Hannah, literally, even with Poppy propped stiffly on his knees. As the train jerked and rattled through the farcical, macabre props he caught the scent of her hair. Perhaps it was intentional.
They poured out of the raggedy ghost train shack chortling over the ride, which had tickled rather than terrified. Arthur headed straight for the dance hall. This time Hannah expressed no objection.
The space was copious. Marble columns skirted an elliptical dance floor of excellent waxed teak. Three-quarters of the tables were filled, and on stage a band in white jackets was playing Let’s have a Natural Ball by Albert King.