The Silver Thimble

The early eighties. Most Singaporeans were already living in public housing - gone were the days of zinc roofs and wooden flooring. The days of ordinary folk had gotten better.

And they had gotten better for the Lim family, who had moved into one of these public housing blocks. But not by much. Survival was still a struggle, what with dad Lim Tua Tow managing a minimum wage job as a welder and having to feed an entire family which included three sons and a daughter. 

His wife, Mei Kwei, pitched in by sewing dresses for the community. Her Singer sewing machine was her treasure. She never let her children near it, guarding it as closely as she would her life. 

Yes, life was hard but good. The children had a slightly rough but normal childhood. They scoured the playground daily...

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And that's where they found it. It was a silver thimble. The sterling-coated contraption looked the right size for their mother's fourth finger. 

It called to them, its silver coat gleaming with the help of the light of the morning. Of course, it was expensive; no ordinary thimble would sparkle like that. This was bona fide, the real deal. And something that could help.

Or so Chwee Say, the eldest Lim son thought aloud. "Mum could use a good thimble like this. Her fingers always pricked by needles, and we could make more money."

The children quickly grabbed the thimble, its sparkling beauty showing by the sunlight, and headed home. 

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"Mum, we found something you might like!" Chwee Say's voice rang so clearly that neighbours in the adjoining apartments were sticking their heads out of their windows to make sense of what was going on. 

"What is it? You've got the whole neighbourhood peering at us," Mei Kwei tried to curb his enthusiasm. 

But Chwee Say only incited hers. "Mum, look at this," Chwee Say produced the brilliant silver thimble and placed it gingerly in his mother's hands. 

"Chwee Say, Chwee Kow, Chwee Bah and Chwee Poh, you've made mama very, very happy," tears started rolling down her cheeks like a never-ending waterfall.

So the thimble remained in the Lim's possession. Or so they thought it was theirs. 

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The children went to sleep that night, content that they had contributed to the family's income in their way. They looked forward to the next day's jaunt at the playground. All was peaceful.

Until 3:00 a.m., that is. Chug...chug...chug...the sound of Mama Mei Kwei's sewing machine woke them up. Chwee Say sat up in bed groggily. "Wha.....mama doesn't work this late. What's going on?"

His brothers and sister, who were up by this time, tagged along as he made his way into the living room, where the sewing machine was. An eye-catching lady, wearing a cheongsam of crisp linen with intricate folds, sat patiently cajoling the machine. Her jet-black hair rolled in waves down her neck. 

"Miss," Chwee Say called out. "Who let you in here? Mum doesn't allow anyone to use the machine." He gestured grandly and pointed to the sewing machine that the family income was so closely tied to. 

She vanishes. The boys called out again, but there was no response. 

The children tried to contact the lady again, although they faced a few hurdles. They didn't know who she was, or even if she was real. 

They did the only thing they could - call out to her again. "Miss, miss, where are you?"

After a few tense minutes, there was a familiar whirring sound. Then she appeared, in her old-fashioned but intricately-embroidered cheongsam,

crying jetstreams of tears onto the sewing machine. 

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The children tried calling out for about a week, but there was no reaction to their  cries. 

They tried again on the seventh day. Then...

The well-acquainted whirring of the sewing machine sounded in their ears. The well-dressed lady appeared in her delicately-sewn cheongsam, sobbing as petulantly as she did before. 

Chwee Say approached her cautiously. "What's the matter, miss? You're crying each time we see you."

Her radiant, though old-fashioned cheongsam shone with vigour in the moonlight shining through the living room window. The patterns were clear

but too old for the eighties. The children's mother was a seamstress. 

At that point, they realised who she was, and nearly recoiled in horror.

"Please....don't go," the Cheongsam Lady spoke through constant tears. "I'm Mei Jun. And no one wants to hear me. I'm so glad you picked up that silver thimble."

She started telling the children a story of how she lost her husband in a genocide blitz during the Japanese Occupation. The death was gruesome - the Japanese had made prisoners dig their own graves, only to shoot them and fall lifeless into these monstrosities later. She stabbed her jugular vein with a pair of sewing scissors and died shortly after. 

The children cried along with her.

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Not knowing how best to help Meijun, the children went to her husband, Kim San's grave to pray. Chwee Say was vocal. "I know it's horrible what happened to you, but please help your wife. She's been soaking my mum's sewing machine with her tears."

The children spent a few minutes in quiet prayer, then left. But not in time to see the leaves on the grave rustle restlessly. 

They saw Meijun again that night. As usual, there was no turning off her tap of tears. That is, until..

A shaking of the living room window and the rickety main door. Then he appeared.

Mei Jun was nonplussed. "Kim San?"

"Yes, darling. Stop crying now. I'm in a better place, just like you,"The two threw themselves into each others' arms. 

"Awww." The children clapped resoundingly. The couple smiled, and disappeared, with only shimmers of moonlight evidencing their trail. 

There was no whirring sound from that day, though the children dared not pick up another thimble.