The Rose of Singapore (10 page)

Peter chuckled. “Oh, he's just miffed at having to change the menus at the last moment,” he said, knowing full well that the sergeant cook and the overweight messing corporal seldom saw anything eye to eye. “So what else is new, Sarge?”

The sergeant sighed. “Not only has Lou Fook burned the meat but this morning the fool served cold sausages to the Chairman of the Messing Committee (CMC) for breakfast. The CMC came into the kitchen about an hour ago and blew his stack at me. Me! Sergeant Muldoon! The other mess staffs will be laughing their heads off, and Christ knows what the catering officer will think if he hears about it.” The irate sergeant finished by saying, “If I had my way, I'd wring this blasted fool's neck.”

“Aw, come on, Sarge,” laughed Peter. “He's not as bad as all that!”

“Oh no! Is that what you think? Well, yesterday he put curry powder in the steamed fruit duff, the spotted dick as you call it, that was supposed to be served with custard as one of the luncheon desserts.”

“It was just a little mistake, Sarge. He must have thought the jar contained mixed spice. Anyway, what did you do with Lou Fook's curried spotted dick?”

“I served it as a savory pudding with the roast pork.”

Peter, still laughing, said, “You really did?”

The sergeant eyed Peter suspiciously. “What are you so damned chirpy about today?” he asked.

“I met a girl on the beach last Saturday, a Chinese girl,” Peter replied. “She took me to her home and I spent the weekend with her.”

“You did what?” spat out the astounded sergeant.

“I met a Chinese girl on Changi Beach and spent the weekend with her. I'm sorry I'm late, Sarge. It's because the bloody bus broke down after it left Geylang,” he apologized. “Christ! I'm absolutely fucked. But what a weekend I had!”

“Nice Chinese girls don't mess about with servicemen,” growled the sergeant. “And most certainly not with other ranks. Is she one of the whores that hang out at the beach?”

“Certainly not, Sarge. She's a lovely little lady. And you've got to remember, Sarge, times are changing.”

“Maybe they are, and maybe they're not, but I don't like the sound of it. Don't come to me when you've a blob on your knob, or worse. You're better off staying in camp overnight.”

“Aw, come on, Sarge,” and Peter laughed, “we only live once.”

“I know. But just be bloody careful. Anyway, changing the subject, I've something to tell you, something important. Come into the office. I don't want this getting around.”

Peter silently followed the sergeant into the combined office and food store, waited until the sergeant was seated on the lone chair behind a small table which also served as a desk, then perched himself on a corner edge of the table. “What's up, Sarge?” he asked.

“I'll tell you what's up, Pete, and it's not pleasant. Remember those bumps which appeared on Wee Lim two or three weeks ago?”

“What about them? At first I thought he had a bad heat rash from standing over the stove.”

Wee Lim was the very dependable, hardworking number three cook who, though young, was excellent at his profession. Only a year older than Peter, he was of the same slight stature and of a gentle and friendly disposition. He and Peter had hit it off as friends right from the start. Also, during Peter's first weeks at the sergeants' mess, Wee Lim had taught him many cookery tips, as well as many words and phrases in Cantonese; and Wee Lim, who had known only a smattering of English, had constantly improved his knowledge of the language through conversing with Peter.

Unusually grim of face, the sergeant said, “Get ready for a shock, Pete.”

“Well, come on! Let's hear it.”

“Leprosy,” answered the grim-faced sergeant.

“Leprosy?” said Peter incredulously.

“Yes. He's got leprosy.”

“My God. I can't believe it! So what happen's now?”

“I don't know. I intended sacking old Lou Fook and making Wee Lim number two.”

“He would have been a good replacement, but that's out of the question now. Where is he?”

“He's at a leper colony in Singapore. I've written down the name of the place.” Sergeant Muldoon looked at a scratchpad on his desk. “The hospital is on Yio Chu Kang Road,” he said, reading off the name from the pad. “It's an isolation hospital, for lepers only.”

Peter shook his head in disbelief. “There's no cure for leprosy is there, Sarge?”

“I believe there is,” answered the sergeant. “It's a long job though. The MO said that Wee Lim must remain at the colony for at least nine months. But he also said he expects it will be for a much longer period.”

“I'd like to go and see him, Sarge.”

“No, Pete. It's probably not allowed, and it wouldn't be wise. Do you understand me?”

“Gosh, Sarge, I wish we could do something for him. Poor bugger, he must be in an awful state.”

“That's for sure. I don't know what we can do though. I'll ask Charlie. He's Wee Lim's uncle. We could send him packets of biscuits and boiled sweets from the K ration boxes. We could even send him some tinned fruit.”

“How would we get the stuff to him?” asked Peter.

“Charlie could take it. He'll want to visit his nephew.”

“It's a good idea, but it's taking a big risk. It's stealing as far as the RAF is concerned.”

“I know. But I'm sure Charlie's too smart to get caught. And if the police stop him, I'll sort them out.”

For the first time since arriving in the kitchen that morning, Peter almost felt like laughing. God help anyone who got in the way of the fiery little sergeant. He'd sort out anyone who crossed him. “It's good of you, Sarge,” Peter said. “Wee Lim's a good fellow and a damned good cook.”

Then, thinking of the awful illness, he shivered with a chill of sudden fear. “Christ, Sarge, he's been in close contact with everyone in the kitchen, and all the while he's been cooking for the mess members. Is leprosy contagious?”

“I don't know,” the sergeant replied, but by his troubled looks, he too was fearful.

“I bet there'll be a hell of a panic if the mess members get wind of this. The sickquarters will be swamped with enquiries.”

“The less said the better,” said the sergeant.

“The less said the better about what?” boomed a man's voice from the kitchen. The next moment the office doorway was blocked by a huge hulk of a man wearing an RAF police uniform, a service revolver in a white holster slung at his hip, and on each sleeve of his khaki drill (KD) jacket a grey armband with the letters SP written on it in big white letters. Flight Sergeant Cameron was a man to be reckoned with. Not only was he a tough rugby player, a judo expert and the station boxing champion, he was also the chief of the RAF provost police in Singapore; a twenty-two year man serving his last five. His only health problem was that he suffered from ulcers. Instead of eating in the dining room, he often frequented the cooks' domain in the kitchen where he enjoyed a meal of lightly boiled eggs or milk pudding before going on duty patrolling the red-light districts of the city. “About what?” he repeated, propping himself up in the doorframe and pushing his square, granite-like face menacingly forward as if ready to tackle the first person who opposed him.

With no more than a glance in his direction, Sergeant Muldoon answered, “Oh, nothing important, Jock.”

“G'morning, Flight,” greeted Peter Saunders, momentarily putting Wee Lim from his mind.

“What's so good about it?” asked the flight sergeant.

“What's the matter? Your ulcer playing up again?” asked Sergeant Muldoon.

“No, touch wood,” answered the flight sergeant. He entered the office and tapped the wooden desk with giant, vice-like fingers. “But having the wife and kids out here gives me more headaches than I need,” he said.

“Oh! Come on, Jock! You don't mean that. How are they, anyway?” asked the sergeant.

“Oh, they're all fine,” replied the flight sergeant. “Flossy is settling down to the life out here. Slowly, mind you. She's still a wee bit scared when I'm on nights. And she's still complaining of the smells.”

“She'll get over that,” said Sergeant Muldoon. “How about the kids?”

“Oh, they love it here,” the flight sergeant answered. “The heat doesn't bother them like it does their mum, and there's lots for them to do.” Then turning to Peter Saunders, he said, “That reminds me, Cookie, there's something I want to ask you.”

“Don't try pinning anything on me, Flight,” laughed Peter. “I ain't done nuffink,” he joked.

The flight sergeant's stony face lost some of its hardness to actually crease into a smile when he said, “I probably could pin something on you if I wanted to, but this is something personal I want to ask you.”

“You want me to cook you something special.”

“No. It's nothing about food.”

Puzzled, Peter said, “Then what?”

“I'd like you to do me a favour.”

More puzzled than ever, Peter said, “Me do you a favour? A favour for the provost police chief? What is this, Flight? What are you getting me into?”

“I'll ask you later. It's nothing so dreadful, nothing to do with police work, and nothing to do with the RAF. So don't look so concerned.” He turned to the catering sergeant. “Changing the subject, did your leave pass go through, Paddy? Or did the old man turn it down?” he asked.

“It's still down at the catering office. The Warrant Officer (WO) in charge of catering turned it down. He's got a bee in his bonnet. The Command Catering Officer is coming to inspect all messes at Changi next month. The WO said he didn't think he could spare me until after the inspection.”

“That's tough. So there'll be a lot of bullshit going on around here for awhile, eh?”

“You can bet on that,” answered Sergeant Muldoon. “By the way, how's the banana situation with you? Do you need any? An issue arrived yesterday.”

“That's what I came in for, Paddy. There's nothing like eating a banana or two when I'm touring the city at night.”

“I'll get you a bunch,” said Peter, who was still perplexed as to what the flight sergeant wanted to ask him. “How is that stomach of yours these days, Flight? Still playing you up?” he asked.

“Thankfully, it's been quite settled this last week or so, but if I eat pastries or fatty foods, I pay for it.” The flight sergeant gave a gruff laugh, “Cookie, the lightly boiled eggs and egg custards you serve me in this office are my life-savers.”

“Would you care for a couple of eggs now?” volunteered Peter. “I'll have them ready in a jiffy. It's no trouble.”

“No, but thanks all the same. I'll just take some bananas. I'm in rather a hurry.”

And as Peter disappeared into the fruit store, he shouted, “Flight, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

The flight sergeant waited until Peter emerged from the fruit store before saying, “I'd like you to babysit my two kids.”

“What?” shouted Peter, completely taken aback. “Am I hearing you right, Flight? Did you say babysit?” he asked. In one hand he held a brown paper bag containing a big bunch of bananas.

“Yes, babysit. What's so mind-boggling about that?” asked the flight sergeant. “There's nothing new in the job. I'd like to take the missus to a show in town. All I'm asking is for you to babysit my two kids for a few hours whilst we're away. The
amah
won't stay evenings, and it would just be for the one evening. I'd pay you, of course, and there are perks. All you have to do is come around to my home this Thursday evening, say around six, and look after the kids until about ten or until we get back. The favour I'm asking you is nothing more than that.”

“Christ! Some favour,” said Peter scornfully. “Thanks, but no thanks, Flight. Can you imagine what everyone in the catering section would say if they hear I'm babysitting for the chief of the provost police? They'll call me an arse-kisser. I can just see Ginger Rundle lying on his bed laughing his fat head off. And Mike Chalmers calling me a little sissy and a creep, bumming around the police chief.”

“Don't you think you're making too big a deal of this? It would only be for those few hours,” said the flight sergeant.

“No thanks, Flight. I'd consider most anything else, but not babysitting.”

“Too bad. You'd enjoy it. You'd have a lot of fun playing with my kids, and there's always plenty of beer in the fridge. It would get you out of the block for awhile,” said the flight sergeant seriously. Then he said, “I think you'd like my kids. They're easy to get along with. Anyway, I'll ask you again tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Flight, but no thanks. The answer will still be, ‘No.'”

“Perhaps, but think about it.”

“I have thought about it. Anyway, did you say Thursday?”

“Yes, Thursday.”

“Well, that's put the lid on that.”

“Why?”

“I've a date on Thursday.”

“You've a date!” exclaimed the flight sergeant, frowning. “Who with?”

“A Chinese girl I met down on the beach last Saturday.”

“Really! Not Molly or Lilly or The Bucket, I hope, or one of the other prostitutes that hang out down there,” said a now serious Flight Sergeant Cameron.

Proudly Peter said, “Nope, she's not one of them. She's a real lady and the most beautiful woman in the whole world. I was down on the beach swimming with her. I asked her for a date, she accepted, and she took me home.”

“Just like that?” asked a challenging Sergeant Muldoon.

“Yep, just like that. Well, more or less.”

“What do you mean, more or less?” asked the sergeant.

The flight sergeant interrupted the conversation. “What does she do for a living?” he asked.