This is a long story. It is all written. It takes the form of an extended diary going back five years in time. I’ll post it in a number of instalments in the coming weeks. I hope you like it.
Part 1
September 10th 2016: My name is Susie. I’m 10 years old and tomorrow they are sending me to England on a plane so that I can go to boarding school. I don’t want to go.
When I say “they”, I mean my dad. He was the one who decided. He says he loves me lots but that I can’t stay at home with him right now because he couldn’t look after me properly. Not since my mum died, anyway.
We live in Singapore, we have done for the past five years. Dad has a job working as an architect for a big company. He builds bridges and big office blocks. He used to take me into work and they were all very nice, but says he can’t now because he has to travel a lot. He’s out of the country quite often.
Since Grandpa and Granma went home there’s only Amah there to look after us and she doesn’t speak much English. She cooks for dad and she’s nice, but she’s not like mum. She goes home at night and has her own family to look after.
Dad reckons that I’d be lonely in the house on my own, especially as Sarah is off to university herself this year. Sarah is my sister. We both have names beginning with “S”. I don’t mind but Sarah hates it. Dad joked that it was so that I could wear all of Sarah’s hand-me-down clothing without changing any of the name labels. I never have, of course, but Sarah didn’t think that was much of a funny joke.
My dad is called David. My mum was called Miriam. We all came out to Singapore together – me, mum, and Sarah, my big sister who is 18 years of age. This was five years ago. Dad was offered something called a partnership.
He said it was an opportunity he couldn’t turn down, a promotion from what he was doing in London and he would be building much bigger things – bridges and tall skyscrapers. We’d be going on a huge adventure in an exciting foreign country.
And when it was all over and he’d made enough money we could all go on a big trip around the world and then settle down wherever we wanted. I was only five then. I wanted to go round the world and see giraffes, camels and pandas, I couldn’t wait.
Then, not long after we arrived, mummy became ill. At first we were still able to do lots of things together. She was receiving treatment. It made her tired but she said she was getting better. Mum and dad were really excited. He even said he might cut his job short and we could all go on our round-the-world trip sooner.
Then mum stopped getting better. Dad said we needed to stay in one place where she could receive good treatment and where he could earn the money to pay the bills. He had something called insurance, which meant mum could get the treatment she deserved – but only as long as he kept working here in Singapore.
At one point, Dad flew mum’s parents, Grandpa and Granma, all the way from Scotland to help look after us and mum here in Singapore. They stayed for a year but not long after mum died they decided to go home. They hated the heat and humidity, they said. I think they were so sad they didn’t want to stay any more.
Mum’s been gone almost nine months now and I miss her so much. Even though she wasn’t well for a long time before she died, I could still go to her and tell her things. She would still give me a cuddle, even when she was very sick.
I used to love lying on the bed and just spending time with her, often without talking at all. She would doze off and I’d take her glasses off her nose, clean them and put them on the bedside table so that she knew where they were when she woke up. When she became very weak towards the end, I would put them on her and adjust them around the ears so she could see properly.
Mum told me that she had worn glasses since she was 10, more or less my age today. She’d known she couldn’t see very well for some time, but somehow thought it was like that for everyone. It was only when her classroom results started to suffer before she went to big school that Grandpa and Grandma took her to an optician.
It was a big surprise to everyone when she started to wear her glasses. They were actually very strong for a first pair, she said. Much stronger than anyone else in her class at the time and – as she later found out – almost everyone in the school. At the same time, mum realised how much she had been missing by not seeing well.
With hindsight, she couldn’t believe how much she’d not been able to see. So there was no chance of not wearing them. And her eyesight kept getting worse and worse, so by the time she was 15 her glasses were very thick at the sides, she said. Mum gave me a number which she said meant her glasses were very strong. I think it was 12.
Mum tried contact lenses when she was in her teens and wore them for years, past her time at university and until she met dad. Back then, mum said, if you wore strong glasses people thought you were either stupid or unattractive, or both. Mum didn’t think she was either and in fact liked how she looked with her glasses, but she gave into what everyone else was saying about “boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses”. During this time her eyesight kept getting worse, but it didn’t matter as she was wearing contact lenses, so no-one could tell.
But she stopped with the contact lenses after she got married to dad and my sister Sarah was born. Too much trouble when you are always getting up in the middle of the night to feed your kids or change their nappies, she said, and are always so tired you don’t quite know what you are sticking into your eyes, mum said. Not wearing anything meant walking into doors.
Mum laughed when she told me she’d broken her nose by walking into door one night when Sarah was very young. She started back with glasses and never went back to contacts even when Sarah was older, although I suppose I’d come along by then. By now, her glasses were something called a 16, I think she said.
Besides, mum said, she preferred her glasses now. They made her look different to anyone else. And when she wanted a bit of peace and quiet all she needed to do was take them off and the world became lovely and blurry. That sounded really nice to me.
Although her optician said her eyesight would stop worsening eyesight by the time it got into her 20s, mum said it hadn’t stopped changing even after she had Sarah and me and only a year or two ago she needed a new prescription and she was in her 40s.
Maybe it was all the stories she told, but I loved mum’s glasses myself and wished I could have a pair like hers. Sometimes, when she was asleep I would try them on for a minute or two. They were very thick and strong and I couldn’t see anything out of them. They made my head spin trying to look through them. But I liked the way they reflected the light on her face, all sparkly, when the sun shone in her eyes.
A couple of months after she died, they disappeared and I never saw them again, like all of mum’s clothes. I asked where everything of mum’s had gone and Dad said something about starting over again, which is why he got rid of the clothes. Grandpa and Grandma had also taken some things to remember her by. Dad never asked me if there was something of mum’s that I wanted to keep. If he had I’d have asked for her glasses.
Out of all of us – mum, dad and Sarah – I have perfect eyesight. Dad wears glasses. They aren’t as sparkly as mum’s were or as thick at the sides. Sarah, on the other hand, does have thick glasses. She’s worn glasses since the age of eight, apparently, just before I was born. For a long time they were like dad’s, not very strong. Then, about four or five years ago she started to have a new pair at least every year, sometimes every four to six months or even less. They are quite thick now, although not as thick as mum’s were.
I don’t think Sarah likes her glasses very much. She wears them all the time, like mum, but whereas I knew that mum didn’t mind hers and looked really gentle and dreamy, Sarah always seems a bit angry when she wears hers. She doesn’t like comments about her eyesight and I know she dumped a boy who asked about her glasses last year. I don’t have boyfriends and I’m not sure I’d like to. They always seem to make Sarah cry after a while.
I remember Sarah saying to mum that she wanted contact lenses and mum promised that when she was old enough she could have them. But in the past year or so, she hasn’t really tried to swap out of glasses – and doesn’t mention her glasses either. Maybe she’s changed her mind?
What’s also strange is that she hasn’t got rid of her old glasses, the ones that she was prescribed years ago, at least, not all of them, as far as I remember. She keeps them in a wooden box in her bedroom, tucked at the bottom of the wardrobe.
There must be at least seven or eight pairs in there, not every pair she’s ever owned since the age of eight, but a lot from after that. Some of them look quite new, others go back to when she was 12 or 13. There are ones she hardly got the chance to wear a lot before her eyes changed again. They must be the ones she’s had since she we have been living in Singapore and has been to see Dr Tak, the optician we’ve all been to at least once in my case, or many times in Sarah’s case.
I’ve been in the box a few times and tried them on as well. While some of them are difficult to see out of, a few pairs from four or five years ago are not so bad. I can see fairly well out of them, as long as I scrunch my eyes a bit.
Sarah’s not at home tonight, in fact she flew to London two weeks ago. She’s starting at University in a big city called Edinburgh next month, not far from where Grandpa and Grandma live. That’s in Scotland. Sarah said she wanted to go early so she could set everything up, find a flat and get used to living in Edinburgh. Secretly, I thinks she also wanted to get away from Singapore after mum died.
Talking of her glasses, I’ve just been in her room, having a look through her glasses box. I’ve done it before. She has a big sign on the door that says “KEEP OUT, NO TRESPASSING – AND THAT MEANS YOU SUSIE!” But she put that sign up years ago and probably doesn’t mean it any more. In any case, she’s not here, so how would she know that I’ve been in her room?
The box has lots of glasses cases, most with little paper slips inside them. Each slip has Sarah’s name, a date and lots of numbers on it, something to do with “RX”, “Axis” and “OD” and “OS” and suchlike. I don’t know what these numbers mean. But I can tell which ones are thick and which are not so thick. I can see better out of the not-so-thick ones. I’ve tried them on several times before, so I know which ones are easiest to see through.
But actually, I like trying on the thicker ones as well. I put them on and stand in front of Sarah’s wardrobe, with my face up close to the big mirror inside the door. From close up, I can see that my whole face and eyes look a lot smaller and further away, a bit like mum’s used to be. I like how that looks. The ones that are easier to see out of don’t have the same effect in terms of shrinking my face, but at least I can see through them.
And that’s when I make my snap decision: I’m going to take a pair of Sarah’s glasses with me to England and try wearing them from time to time. Or maybe more often, who knows, I haven’t made a plan yet.
Sarah won’t miss one pair, I know she won’t. Wherever it is I’m going, no-one will know they’re not mine and wearing them will remind me of mum and make me feel close to her. I’d love to have had mum’s glasses with me to try on now and then. But these are the next best thing.
Making that decision makes me feel almost light-headed. I look through the box. From past experience of trying them on, there are about three pairs I might take: they are the ones I can see out of right now. The oldest is the easiest to look through, except it looks worn and dog-eared. The arms are loose and the lenses are a bit scratched. Not that one then. The second looks in slightly better condition but is a bit old-fashioned, with a metal frame. Pass.
The third is about four years old. I think Sarah was 13 or 14 when she had this pair. But they are quite smallish, red and oval shaped, more or less my size. They don’t seem scratched and they aren’t loose on my face. I can see out of them, just, although it takes a bit of an effort and I have to concentrate when I’m looking at things far away.
The little label wrapped round the glasses inside the case says something about OD -2.75 and OS -2.75. Not sure what that stands for, but the important thing is they don’t look bad on me. When I put them on and look in the mirror, my eyes look a bit smaller and my face is narrower. But not hugely so. They are a bit big on me, but not impossible to wear. Almost what I might have chosen for myself if I’d been given the chance.
I put the glasses case to one side, close the lid on the wooden box and return it to its place at the back of the wardrobe. I pick the glasses case up, walk out of the door and down the corridor to my bedroom. I reach into my backpack, which dad says I’m allowed to take on the plane with me tomorrow and hide the case at the bottom of the backpack, where no-one will find it unless they are looking hard.
Then I go downstairs.
Dad is waiting for me: “Everything OK sweetheart? You all packed up and ready for tomorrow?” I mumble something. I’ve been packed since yesterday, Amah put six of everything into a large suitcase, along with a variety of smart casual clothes for me to wear outside school and at weekends. When I get over to England, I’ll go and be fitted for a school uniform and weekday wear. If I need anything else, I can buy it there, dad says.
If I’m honest, I don’t know what to say to dad. Tomorrow I’ll be on a plane thousands of feet up in the air, with each minute putting more and more distance between everything I know and the new life I’m supposed to be going to. I feel kind of numb and sad.
Perhaps dad senses my sadness. “Why don’t we go out to the McDonald for a special treat and then come home and watch a nice film on?” he offers. Dad hates McDonalds, so this is a big deal coming from him. I try my best to sound enthusiastic. I know he misses mum just like me and I’ve heard him cry in the bedroom at night when he thinks no-one is awake. I wish I could stay but it’s too late now. The flight is tomorrow lunchtime.
So we go out, dad and me. We have our MaccieD and fries and a milk shake, which he pretends to enjoy, as he cracks jokes and teases me to hide the pain of our coming separation. We walk home, hand in hand and put on the TV to find a film on one of the channels. Both of us pretend to watch it, our minds elsewhere. Then I go to bed. Surprisingly enough, I fall asleep almost instantly and sleep deeply. I dream of mum wearing her glasses.