The Tartan (updated April24)

A little odd, if not bizarre. The matter emerged slowly over a cup of teh on a lazy afternoon, when thoughts had been entirely elsewhere. This particular old uncle had only announced himself in the last month, though evidently the man had had an eye on his quarry for quite some time. Handsome old chappie in his mid-seventies. Good English, good head of hair and good trim; the man had not allowed himself to go to seed. Sidling up for the first acquaintance ready with Shakespeare quotations. Mark Antony’s oration over the body of Caesar was gotten wrong way round on that first occasion, and then also the second. I come not to bury Caesar, but… Undaunted by the correction, another fragment of another famous speech had followed, with an attempted scouring of memory for third. Not bad for a primary school teacher retired fifteen plus years. That the chap lived in Tampines had not been difficult to guess; most of the Malays had shipped out one or two stops along the line. What was surprising was the regular weekend stay in the hotel behind Wadi, $85 a pop and maybe even $95 weekends. When the bus to Tampines was a half hour. Escaping the pigeon hole to give the youngest son who shared the run of the place it may have been. This unmarried lad was waiting on some funds from the intended bride’s side before they could marry. Eldest boy formerly married with a couple of children was now separated. Matter already a done thing. Uncle’s wife, however, the mother, remained in the dark. Uncle asked that the information be kept private. The lady, the wife, would only be met on the third or fourth encounter with Uncle. Usually the old man left his own table and approached for a little chat. The middle child, the daughter, had done well, an IT grad. of a foreign U earning $6-7k monthly; dutifully presenting dad $600. On top of the pension a comfortable existence. Collars, shoes and trousers—Uncle made a dapper chappie, taking an occasional ciggie over beneath the tree outside Wadi. One little peculiarity—not the only case encountered in these Tropics, where the blazing light wreaked havoc on optics: Uncle was one of those incessant flexers of the eyes. Men rather than women here seemed to be afflicted. During the course of conversation the Tampines Uncle regularly screwed tight both eyes together in a kind of half-grimace. Otherwise, again another Malay that you could safely parachute behind the lines anywhere in the Balkans, and lots of other European territory. His was an ancestry that included more than the former forests and river estuaries. Something about the uncle suggested he had never capitalised on his former good looks; unlike the wife, from the report that was eventually presented. The woman betrayed impatience with her husband; a kind of charge he had slowly become with memory lapses and little confusions. (They were going up the street, not down; man could not be entrusted with her food order; &etc.) Though not apparent on first sight, lady was ten years younger. Taller than her husband, it was in fact she who had been the real pretty. There had been a career in the police force; a definite looker in younger years, Uncle had added. This had been heard previously. One chief criteria it seemed for entry into the forces for females in these parts was good looks. A lass would have had a hard time getting in the door otherwise. Fact had been simply stated a number of times; such had been the case. (During one of the Indo stays the Jakarta Post had made mention of the matter. What was more, some time back during discussion of police affairs, again in the respected newspaper, as prerequisite for recruitment into the Indonesian police force, virginity had been stipulated. There had been testing. Muttalib at the Wadi table had suggested it was a means of reserving the career path for males.) The retired cop, Uncle’s ten year younger wife, was still working; in an allied field out at Changi, issuing visitor passes at the airport. Another curiosity too. Harking back to former times again, this Auntie had in fact been a musician. A pipe her instrument, Uncle said... A pipe?... Clarinet and flute signs were met with shaking of head from Uncle. Screwing of eyes Uncle. Unscrewing and screwing again. Bag Pipe. The auntie, this man’s scarved wife in her bright Islamic baju, with thick gold bracelets and over-sized watch-face, had blown the old Highland tunes. What was more, the lady had visited Scotland. In her scarf and dress presumably. Thirty-three years before after a seasoned bagpipe player from over there had been out to check proficiency. Edinburgh. Off she had gone with her fellow pipers for an entire month; extending the trip over on the continent too. Uncle screwed up his eyes at the Scottish capital that he had forgotten. Ya, Edinburgh! (A mouthful.) A Singaporean band back in ‘86 delivering The pipes, the pipes are callin, on real moorland to notables who were doubtless much struck and politely appreciative. Good show.