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Mr Watson, an Englishman, lived next door to us in the
cluster of government bungalows in Gloucester Park. He
came to Singapore with his wife during the war and had
stayed on because he liked the tropical climate. His
wife died a few years ago. Mr Watson used to work in the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs. He retired at the age of sixty and started a
second career as a writer. He did not have many friends
and kept to himself most of the time. His only companion
was an Alsatian which he called Hutch. Every other day,
he would go to the market to buy bones for his dog. He
seldom spent money on himself and led a simple life.
Some of us in the neighbourhood tried to make friends
with him. However, he was very shy and seldom said more
than the casual `Hello' or `Good Morning'. Hutch was a
wonderful dog and I always played with him after school.
Mr Watson had never joined us in our games although he
would occasionally smile when he saw us play.
One day, I noticed that Hutch was not outside his house
at our usual playtime. "Mr Watson must have kept him in
today," I thought to myself and went home to complete my
homework. The next day, Hutch was not around again. I
decided to ask Mr Watson. I knocked on his door. There
was no response. I looked through the bedroom window and
saw Mr Watson lying quite still on his bed. Hutch was
beside him. I called softly. Hutch did not move and
neither did Mr Watson.
The police was called. In the drawer, they found a bank
account book and a copy of a will. Mr Watson had sixty
thousand dollars in the bank. He had left all his money
to his dog. |
