The Rose of Singapore (11 page)

Suspicion, Peter thought, was already in the flight sergeant's tone of voice. “She not a ‘pro' if that's what you're thinking,” he said indignantly.

“I didn't say she was,” said the flight sergeant, a hint of a smile creasing his rugged face.

“But you're thinking she is, aren't you?” said Peter, becoming more ruffled.

The flight sergeant placed a heavy hand good-naturedly on Peter's shoulder. “Look, lad, I think on many things, but I don't always say what I think. But what does she do for a living? She must do something.”

“I don't know. I didn't ask her,” answered Peter, feeling interrogated and already cornered. “I think she's a school teacher. She speaks better English than any one of us.”

The provost police flight sergeant was not impressed. “Where does she live?” he asked.

“I don't know. I didn't ask her,” answered Peter.

“But surely you must know which area she lives in. You must have seen street signs.”

Peter had seen several street signs. He had seen the sign which had Lavender Street written on it and another at the intersection, which read Bendemeer Road. He had also seen at least three of the dreaded ‘OUT OF BOUNDS' signs, meaning out of bounds to all military personnel. In fact, he had passed by them, both to and from Lai Ming's home.

“I didn't take much notice,” lied Peter uncomfortably. He never liked to lie, especially to the flight sergeant, not only because the man was head of the provost police and might easily suspect that he was lying but also because during the short time he had been at the sergeants' mess, he and the big Scotsman had become quite friendly. But how could he tell him that Lai Ming lived on a road just off the infamous Lavender Street, knowing that the whole area was out of bounds to service personnel. Weakly, he said, “It was in the centre of the city somewhere. Where the streets and buildings all look the same. You know, little Chinatown.”

“And you're going to visit her again on Thursday. You'll be going to her home, so if that's the case you must know her address.”

“No, I don't know her address, Flight. I'm meeting her at the Green Line bus station. We've made plans to go over to Johore to visit the zoo.”

“Hmm, you'd never make a policeman, that's for sure.”

“And you'd never make a cook, Flight. That's for sure,” answered Peter, considerably cockier than he felt.

The flight sergeant laughed. “I just don't want to see you getting into any trouble, Cookie. However, I can only presume that the woman is not a bad type if she's going to the zoo with you. All right Saunders, skip the babysitting for now. I'll ask you again at a later date.”

“You'll be wasting your time, Flight.”

“We'll see. I'm still a wee bit curious about this woman you met at the beach, where she lives and what she does for a living.”

“Don't be nosey, Flight,” replied Peter, now laughing and feeling more at ease. “You can leave my girlfriend out of your detective work. You do enough snooping as it is.”

“Once a policeman, always a policeman,” replied the flight sergeant. “By the way, changing the subject, when do you sit for your senior aircraftman's trade test?”

“I don't know. I've passed the education test. As for the practical and theory, I'll have to wait until the catering officer puts me down for those.”

“Isn't it about time he did?”

“Not really. I've been an LAC for less than eight months. I'm in no hurry to be promoted to an SAC. I've still got more than three years to do.”

“It will mean more money and put you in line for your corporal's tapes.”

Sergeant Muldoon interrupted them by saying, “I'm expecting him to be sent to the aircrew mess here at Changi in a month or two. The Far Eastern Command has decided to open a school of cookery there. There'll be a cook chosen to represent every RAF station in FEAF (Far Eastern Air Force). I'm expecting Pete to be the chosen cook from Changi.”

“Only one from Changi?” asked the interested flight sergeant.

“Yes. There'll be just the one LAC selected from every catering section in the Far Eastern Command. The two other RAF camps on the island, Tengah and Seletar, although short of cooks, will probably each send one. And Kai Tak, KL, Penang and Colombo will also send a man to make up a seven-man course. It's supposed to be a ten-week advanced training cookery course.”

“It sounds good,” said the flight sergeant. Turning to Peter, he asked, “Are you hoping you'll be the chosen cook from Changi?”

Peter shrugged. “I don't care so long as I get back to the sergeants' mess after the ten weeks are up.”

“Who'll be the instructor?” asked the flight sergeant.

“There'll be two, both chosen from Changi,” answered the catering sergeant.

“Oh! Who?”

“Flight Sergeant Bates, the Cornishman, and Warrant Officer White. God knows what Bates can teach anybody other than how to make Cornish pasties but the WO knows his stuff. A good skive that's what I think it'll be and a waste of public funds.”

“Not if it improves their catering ability and knowledge,” argued the flight sergeant.

“But will it? I bet Charlie, my number one, and Wee Lim have taught Pete here more in the few weeks he's been with me than what any instructor can teach him in ten weeks. And he will be a great loss to me. I doubt if the old man will send a replacement.”

Peter, ready to head off to the airmens' mess pantry to pilfer something for dinner, said, “OK, I'm away then. Cheerio, Flight.”

“So long, Cookie. Watch your step with that lady on Thursday.”

Peter laughed and said, “Thanks for the fatherly advice, Flight. I'll be back in a jiffy, Sarge.”

“OK Pete,” the sergeant replied. “Don't be long. I want to get home.”

“Don't forget your bananas, Flight,” Peter sang out as he departed. He walked through the small, square courtyard surrounded by a high wall and out onto the hot, shimmering, sun-drenched road. Taking a short cut, he walked across grassy banks where tall palm trees stood and huge poincianas decorated in great clusters of red blossom shaded the area. The airmens' mess was only a couple of hundred yards away, perhaps less, but it was a long, hot walk in the heat of the midday sun.

“Has he told you anything about this woman he met at the beach, Paddy?” asked the flight sergeant.

“He hadn't mentioned her until a minute or two before you came in,” replied the sergeant.

“Maybe I can find out something about her. I'm curious, for his sake,” said the flight sergeant.

“You're a nosey bugger, aren't you?” said the sergeant, laughing.

“Perhaps I am. But if she is of bad character, I'd hate to see Cookie get mixed up with her. He's so damned naive.”

“He's just young,” said Sergeant Muldoon. “We all learn by our experiences, good and bad.”

“You're right, Paddy. Anyway, I must be off. I'll see you tomorrow.” Striding out of the kitchen office the giant flight sergeant departed, heading for the guardroom which was just over the hill. He was still wondering about the Chinese girl. Who was she? Where did she live? How did she earn her livelihood? He liked Saunders and thought him to be very clean-cut and honest. He could trust him. That's why he had asked him to babysit. He arrived at the guardroom with Saunders and the Chinese girl still on his mind. He would, he decided, have a couple of his SPs keep an eye on the lad.

7

Later that evening, the lovely Chan Lai Ming, the popular Chinese prostitute known locally as Rose of Singapore, was at home, the home so many men knew as a place to gratify their sexual appetites. The majority of these men departed satisfied; many were repeat customers.

Lai Ming was in her bedroom, a cozy room kept clean and tidy by her
amah
Wan Ze. After a two-hour nap, she had risen from her bed, bathed, put on her make-up, combed her hair, and was now standing in front of the shuttered window meditating, a frown on her face, thinking about him; not of any of the many other men who visited her but only of him, the young British airman she had met on the beach and brought to her home. What a wonderful time they had spent together, she mused. Now, already ten hours had gone by since he had given her a final kiss goodbye and had departed, to return to his work at the sergeants' mess kitchen at RAF Changi, exhausted but very happy.

Standing at Lai Ming's side was Wan Ze, a thin, sickly faced, diminutive woman clad in a black
samfoo
of cotton trousers and matching jacket. Her grey hair was brushed straight back, flat across the top of her head and hanging down her back to her waist in a single plait. Wan Ze had been a loving and caring nurse to Lai Ming's son from birth and had watched him grow through good times and bad. Now, she remained with Lai Ming as her faithful
amah
and loyal friend.

“What is the matter, Ming?” asked Wan Ze, a concerned look on her parchment-like face.

“It is nothing,” replied Lai Ming, turning for a moment to face her
amah.
She gave a weak smile. “It is nothing,” she repeated. Again she turned to stare at the closed shutters, and to think of the young airman who had spent the weekend with her.

Wan Ze said nothing more. She knew when to remain silent. But she was puzzled. Never before had she seen her mistress in this mood.

With some apprehension she watched her mistress walk without a word across the green and brown coloured canvas floor to her dressing table, to pose nude before the tall mirror fixed to the wall. The mirror reflected fully an artistic picture of oriental beauty at its finest.

Lai Ming studied herself, her eyes caressing her naked body. She remembered how Peter had reacted at seeing her naked that first time, and she smiled at the memory as, with a pink powder puff, she patted the nipples of her breasts. Then, as her thoughts changed, a frown came upon her face and she turned sadly away from the mirror. What should she do? What future lay ahead for both her and her son? How could she alter her way of life? And now she had Peter, the young Englishman. Would he turn out to be just another, like the rest of them, wanting her only to satisfy his sexual desires? No, of course not, she told herself. He was different from all the others. But why did she think he was so different, she wondered. Why had she felt so completely happy and relaxed when with him? Why had he made her feel like a real woman again? The hours they had spent together were mutually exquisitely pleasurable hours. She thought of those two dreamy nights together when she would awake to find him snuggled up behind her, an arm thrown across her and his hand upon her breast, always her breasts as if they were his comforters. She would slide a leg back over his and push herself gently against him. He would awaken, and they would make love, silently and sweetly, and then fall back into a deep, blissful sleep. Frowning and shaking her confused head, she told herself that time alone would tell. She walked to her dressing table and from a drawer chose a set of red, flimsy underwear. First slipping into the tiny panties, she then covered her small breasts with the lacy bra. Next, from the mahogany wardrobe, she selected a blood-red
cheongsam.
The
amah
watched her every move but said not a word.

Sliding into the clinging, sexy-looking dress, Lai Ming again posed in front of the mirror. Satisfied, she sat down at the dressing table and again combed her hair, which flowed in black, silk-like waves down around her shoulders. She had a thoughtful expression on her face. Was it correct for her to lead him on in such a manner, she wondered. When at Changi Beach, should she have persisted with a firm “No”? She had repeatedly said “No” but he had looked so sad and lonely and she had felt sorry for him. And she, too, was lonely. She needed a real boyfriend. She liked him, but would it be right to encourage him further, she wondered. And how would their relationship end, this beautiful love affair they had so suddenly created? Would it end in jealousy, anger, despair, or even violence? He was so very young, so trusting and naive, yet so eager for her companionship and desiring so much to love her and be loved. His honest eyes so reminded her of her late husband. Behind those eyes was surely the same understanding and caring, she told herself. And his habits, too, were reminiscent. Even the way he had fidgeted with his cup in Pop's coffee shop on the beach, and more so, the way he had spoken to her in a kind, gentle voice and reassuring manner. He brought back memories sweet and dear to her, of life that was so full of happiness when with her husband, especially those last few short years with him after the Japanese no longer ruled the island.

And his body, it was so youthful and full of vitality, of love and passion. She had wanted so much to be properly loved, and he had satisfied those wants. She hated the kind of love asked and paid for by the men to whom she sold herself at the Butterfly Club—to the aloof British military officers, the prosperous businessmen and government officials, and the many other men who visited the club where she worked as a ‘butterfly girl'. She thought of how many of those men were so pompous and so high and mighty when at their office desk yet crude and ignorant in the art of lovemaking. Many clients whom she took to her bed were British civil servants and colonial administrators of Singapore. Also, there were the rubber planters, tin-mine owners and managers, high-ranking police officers and other British officials from the mainland of Malaya, down for a few days rest and relaxation on the island. Those from Malaya, having spent lonely months up north, were generally nicer and more generous to her than the officials on the island. They never objected to paying the high prices she asked.

She was just one of the more than thirty girls who worked without salary at the Butterfly Club, persuading the customers at the all-male club to spend their money on expensive drinks. In return, the girls were allowed to use the club as an ideal place to solicit free from harassment. The owner of the club did not mind the girls taking home a club member providing enough drinks had been bought and paid for by him beforehand. As for Lai Ming, she was so popular with the men at the Butterfly Club, they had given her the name, Rose of Singapore. Many of the other girls at the club were much younger than she, and possibly more beautiful, but Lai Ming had such a lovely smile and a gentle, charming manner which enticed to her a continuous clientele.