Miss Seetoh in the World by Catherine Lim Page B

Winnie a silly echoing voice, Anna Seetoh too much in
awe of the soft-spoken Bernard Tan to say anything, and Maria acutely
embarrassed by it all. She now had the dubious honour of being solely
responsible for any act of generosity coming from this noble man at the end of
his search.
    That evening Meeta and Winnie took turns on
the phone to give Maria their impressions. Meeta said with self-deprecatory
humour, ‘Aiyah! Winnie and I, and for that matter, your mother, Por Por,
everyone else, are just around on sufferance only. We are just pathetic
wallflowers!’
    She shared the rumour she had heard of a
prim and proper minister who wanted to be introduced to a beautiful woman at a
glittering function, and for propriety’s sake endured the introduction to a
dozen unattractive women before achieving his purpose. There was also the
memorable episode from a novel, where the hero heroically carried four stranded,
rather stout and plain-looking girls, across a river, one after the another, in
order to reach the fifth, the prettiest in the group.
    Maria laughed merrily at the tales, but
dissociated herself from their message. ‘Please,’ she would say and instinctively
put her hands to her ears.
    ‘Winnie, you and I from now onwards should
leave poor Bernard to woo Maria in peace!’ The contrast with their own
situations produced a momentary bitterness: if only their men had shown but a
fraction of Bernard’s devotion.
    ‘Look, Mother, I’m not going to church
anymore, I’m not helping you with the breakfasts anymore, I’m not helping
Father Rozario with the Bible stories classes anymore; everything’s getting
just too ridiculous for words,’ cried poor Maria.
    She was beginning to experience some of the
revulsion of the pursued against the excessive pursuer, and every act of
kindness and magnanimity on the part of Bernard increased the desire never to
see him again. In every encounter, there was the obligation of gratitude to clothe
her words and demeanour with a polite civility that the man was clearly taking
for encouragement.
    I will say a direct ‘No’ the next time, she
thought, rubbing the sides of her forehead against an onslaught of headaches.
    The determination was, alas, betrayed again
and again by the combined impact of her mother’s eagerness, Father Rozario’s
smiling approval, her friends’ manoeuvres and her own sense of civil
reciprocity.
    ‘Why can’t I learn to say ‘No’?’ she moaned.
She might have rephrased the rhetorical lament: why couldn’t he be less
thick-skinned and see that she was simply not interested?
    Invariably each nervously smiling response
was seized upon as acceptance of the countless offers to give her and her
mother a lift home in his car, to take over whatever heavy parcel or bag they
happened to be carrying, to hold an umbrella over her head in the hot sun. Her
mother, used only to years of abuse and neglect by a worthless husband, could
only break into little effusive cries of gratitude.
    ‘How can you blame him,’ said Meeta. ‘You’re
encouraging him!’ ‘No, I’m not!’ protested Maria. ‘Anyone can see I’m in fact
discouraging him.’ ‘Well, clearly he does not,’ said Meeta. The alarm bells
screamed in her head, as she sensed the encroachment, so soon to grow into a
stranglehold, upon the precious world of private thoughts and dreams that had
been hers from childhood. Back then it was a little hiding space on a mat
behind door curtains, or on the cool floor under a table, enclosed by a large
tablecloth, where, with only her comic books and her dolls for company, she
spent long happy hours until dragged out by her mother or Por Por.
    Maybe I should write him a note, she
thought, a polite note to say I’m not interested. But always, something would
happen to paralyse her energies and cause her to be swept further along the
powerful stream of his determination. Once or twice, as she was carried along
the relentless current, there was a saving branch