The Rose of Singapore (12 page)

When business was bad at the Butterfly Club, she roamed Lavender Street soliciting military men of the Australian and British army, navy and airforce, American sailors, too, when the US fleet visited Singapore, and men from the many merchant ships which put in to Singapore's vast harbour. The majority of the military men she approached were young, sex-starved and eager and willing to pay as much as twenty Malay dollars for a short time. For a couple of hours she charged a few dollars extra, and if they could afford her price, they could enjoy her favours in an all-night session. She brought them to this upstairs room, fulfilled their sexual needs and sent them on their way satisfied and happy—from the lowest-ranking soldier to the men in high positions. She charged them accordingly, depending on their wealth and status, also depending on how much she liked or disliked the man. She had often liked a client but had never fallen in love with one. But Peter was different from all the other men she'd had sex with. He was not a client. He was and would remain someone special, her boyfriend and lover. But, she repeatedly told herself, she must keep him in ignorance as to how she earned her livelihood. She could not afford to allow him or anyone else to disrupt her plans for the future. Also, there were always the many bills that had to be paid. Yes, of course she would see him again. She would keep her promise and meet him at the bus terminal on Thursday, and together they would visit the zoo. After, and she smiled, she would again take him to her bed. Already she was eagerly looking forward to Thursday afternoon. She would not tell him of her dirty business. And if he should find out! She shrugged. It would be up to him. She would never ask him for money and would readily give herself to him knowing that she needed his friendship, love and affection as much as he needed hers.

She chilled as she thought of another serious problem that might arise. Supposing she gave him a sickness. I must be much more careful, she thought. From now on I must always examine the penis of the man before he enters me, and from now on I must always make the man wear a contraceptive. Also, I must make sure to visit the social welfare department for my monthly checkup. I cannot allow Peter to get sick. She picked up her watch and looked at it as she slipped it onto her wrist.

Giving her hair a few final strokes before placing the comb down upon the dressing table, she gathered up her red handbag from a nearby chair, opened it, checked the contents and then snapped the catch shut. She lifted a hand mirror from the dressing table and peered into it, studying her face awhile before patting her cheeks with the powder puff. ‘I must go,' she told herself. ‘Already men at the club will have consumed several drinks and should be ready to have a woman.' She gave a final reddening touch to her lips. Satisfied, she replaced the lipstick on the dressing table, then turning, gave Wan Ze a faint smile.

“You are different tonight. You are troubled, Ming,” ventured the apprehensive
amah.
“What is the matter with you? Are you sick?” She stood her ground, awaiting an answer.

“It's nothing,” replied Lai Ming. “Perhaps I am a little tired tonight. Do not be concerned.”

The devoted old
amah
nodded, cracking the millions of lines in her wizened face as she attempted a smile. Ming would tell her if something were wrong, she told herself. Ming always did. But she was different tonight—not at all talkative, but quiet, even moody. It was not like Ming to be moody, and she wondered why, but said nothing.

“I am going to the Butterfly Club,” said Lai Ming. “I hope to return within the hour, so stay awake to unlock the door for me.”

The
amah
nodded gravely and said, “Yes, I shall stay awake and await your return.”

Then Lai Ming, Rose of Singapore, left the room and quietly made her way down the narrow staircase to her tiny kitchen and the apartment's rear entrance. There she unlocked and opened the heavy outer door and, with dainty steps in her red high-heeled shoes, she quickly walked the deserted alleyway into a moonlit street. It was already late, with few pedestrians and little traffic to be seen. She walked as far as the intersection of Bendemeer Road and Lavender Street. There, she hailed a cruising trishaw.

8

Having completed his morning shift at the sergeants' mess, Peter Saunders rushed back to his quarters to prepare for his date with Rose that afternoon. When he reached his bedspace at one o'clock, the many cooks and other members of the catering section who had worked the early shift had already returned from duty. Several had immediately flopped down upon their beds and were already sound asleep.

LAC David Simmons, an airmens' mess admin' orderly, was seated on a folding chair in the shade of the wide verandah, an open book hiding the high-powered binoculars focussed on the open three-storey WRAF block situated directly across from the catering block.

Five other young airmen sat around a bed playing blackjack, the favourite pastime for quite a few members of the catering section. Two cooks, still in their cooks' whites, were watching.

Peter Saunders was soon taking a cold shower and, in his strong Devonshire dialect lustily singing, “Jan Pierce, Jan Pierce, lend me yer grey mare. All along, down along, out a long lee. Fer I want ta go-o to Widdicombe Fair.”

Suddenly, from a bed near the ablution area, a voice shouted, “Hey! Saunders! Rap up that bloody noise! I wanna get some sleep.”

“Yeah, shut your gob,” someone else shouted.

Finishing the song, Peter ended with a loud, “Tra la la! Tra la la!” He then began to loudly sing, “Rose, Rose, I love you, with an aching heart.”

“Hey! Saunders! For Christ's sake, shut up!” the first voice shouted.

“Don't you like my singing?” shouted back Peter Saunders, chuckling to himself as he washed soapsuds from his body beneath a shower of ice-cold water.

“That's not singing. That's one ‘orrible row,” shouted the second voice. “What d'you do with the money, mate?”

“What money?” shouted back Peter, turning off the flow of water.

“The money your mother gave you for singing lessons, idiot,” the voice answered.

Peter Saunders laughed and stepped out of the shower, letting the louvered door swing shut behind him. Naked and bronzed by the sun, his sinewy body dripped water onto the concrete floor that separated the ablutions from the sleeping quarters. Reaching for a towel that hung from a hook on the outside of the shower door, he wound this around his midriff, slipped his wet feet into a pair of Chinese flip-flops, and then entered the spacious living quarters of the three-storey block.

“The trouble with you chaps is that you don't appreciate good bathroom singing,” he said, grinning at his critics. “You ought to be glad there's such talent in your midst.”

Milton Smith, an airmens mess cook, replied, “Talent! My ass!”

Peter was about to comment when the man lying on the other bed said, “What are you so happy about, Saunders?”

“I've a date.”

“Who with?” asked Milton, who, except for a sheet covering a small part of his mid-section, lay on his bed naked.

“With a Chinese girl.”

“Wheredya meet her?” asked the other airman.

“On the beach,” replied Peter.

“One of the whores?” asked Milton.

“No! Of course she's not a whore,” replied Peter indignantly.

Milton sat up and rearranged the sheet so that it covered a little more of his body. He shrugged white shoulders. He never went out into the sunlight unless he really had to. “Well, watch yourself, or you might end up with what I caught. It was no Far Eastern chill, the MO assured me of that.”

Peter shrugged. He was well aware that the majority of the cooks were great womanizers, especially after a gut full of local beer, and most of them were heavy drinkers. “It could happen to anyone. The girl I met on the beach, though, she's different. She's decent. She's a regular nice girl.”

Another cook, Airman Blondie Phillips, rolled his naked body over, farted, then pushing his pillow behind his head, propped himself up into a sitting position, and said, “Women are all the same, Peter. Great deceivers.” Farting again, he exclaimed, “God, those shirt-lifters have really got to me,” and his fat face broke into a big grin.

Peter smiled but said nothing. Blondie Phillips wasn't really a bad sort although he was uncouth at times. Peter looked down over the two rows of beds on his side of the floor, several now occupied by sleeping off-duty cooks and others in the catering section. Flip-flopping towards his own bedspace, Peter reached the card-playing group who were too intent on the game, and on the growing pile of Malayan dollars stashed in the centre of the service blanket covering the bed, to give him more than a fleeting glance.

For these five airmen, playing blackjack was definitely their favourite pastime when off duty. It was either that, sleeping, or consuming large quantities of Tiger beer in the NAAFI or the Malcolm Club on the camp. And as gambling was strictly forbidden in the camp institutions and a military offense, members of the catering section took their bottles of beer to the block where there was little likelihood of being disturbed. A couple of the card players smoked cigarettes, others were drinking beer, but all were engrossed in the card game. The bedspace around them was littered with fag ends, dead beer bottles and glasses in various stages of fullness. Stored in a bedside locker were more bottles of beer, warm, of course, but no one in the card-playing group ever thought of drinking beer other than at room temperature.

Peter stopped at the foot of the bed and waited until the players had finished the hand before saying, “Hi, Rick,” to the dealer.

LAC Gerald Rickie, or Rick, as he preferred to be called, was Peter's best friend, and certainly the friend he had known the longest since joining the RAF. He was one of the surplus fighter plotters who had been dumped off the MV
Empire Pride
at Hong Kong and had helped Peter at many and varied odd jobs before he eventually remustered into the Signals Section at Kai Tak. Shortly thereafter he was posted, first to Kuala Lumpur, where he and Peter met again, and then to Changi, Singapore, where they resumed their friendship. Except in physique, they had much in common. Both were excellent swimmers who had often swam together in the waters surrounding Hong Kong and now in the sea off Changi Beach. Both loved and respected the sea. They enjoyed boating, too, venturing out together across the Strait of Johore in one of Pop's fishing canoes. Also, both were marksmen with a rifle, though neither discussed the latter nor gave it thought.

Rick's billet was approximately a hundred yards from the catering section block, and next to the senior non-commissioned officers quarters. Rick, however, spent very little of his free time at the signals section block, preferring to visit the catering section block to see if Peter was off duty and wanting to go for a swim, or to enjoy an excursion to the islands offshore in one of Pop's two canoes. When Peter was not around, Rick sometimes played blackjack with the card players. He'd also joined the catering section's dart team.

“Hi, Rick,” Peter repeated.

“Hello there, Pete,” Rick answered. “Going to meet Rose?”

“Yep.”

“Lucky you!”

“Yeah. We're going to the zoo over at Johore Bahru.”

“Good for you!”

“She's nice, Rick.”

“So you've told me, ten thousand times since last Monday. And I believe you. Taffy Evens told me he was with you when you met her. He said she's a good-looking bit of crumpet. You're a lucky bugger, Pete. I wish I could find someone nice.”

“You might if you stop wasting time playing bloody cards.”

“Is she sexy?” asked LAC Jimmy Brown, another airmens' mess cook and one of the card players.

“She's beautiful.” said Peter.

“In other words, she's got one on each side and still breathing,” said Jimmy Brown. “Come on, Rick, deal the damn cards.”

Rick said, “You're just jealous, Jim. Perhaps we're all a bit jealous.” He quickly dealt another hand and without looking up from the game asked, “Pete, what if she doesn't turn up?”

“She'll turn up, Rick,” Peter answered. “What makes you think she won't?”

Rick shrugged his broad, deeply suntanned shoulders. “I don't know. I'm surprised you've got as far as you have with her. You know these Chinese bibbies, the respectable ones, they're seldom interested in servicemen.”

“I suppose she's taken a fancy to me. I don't know. But she'll be there. I know she'll be there,” said Peter with certainty in his voice.

Scooping up a pile of paper money, Rick turned to Peter, grinned and said, “My luck's in today, the first time in ages. I suppose it's because I'm banker for a change.”

Peter, who was not a gambler, said, “Perhaps.”

“I think you're in love,” laughed Rick, shaking his head.

Peter chuckled, suddenly remembering what his mother had told him when he became so despondent at knowing Elsie was seeing someone else. “Love is like a mutton chop, sometimes cold and sometimes hot. Love is heavenly. Love is strong. And so is a mutton chop if kept too long.” Peter chuckled at his own words. He still thought the verse silly, but nevertheless, funny.

“Oh! For crying out loud,” said Rick, shaking his head.

Other card players shook their heads as if in despair, but faces brightened, some laughed, pillows were thrown at Peter, and someone threw his socks up into the whirling blades of the overhead fan where they spun for moments before being whisked away into the unknown.

“Well, I'd better get my finger out or I'll be late,” Peter said, turning his back on the card players.

“Good luck,” said Rick, who was already dealing the cards again.

“Don't come back with the clap,” shouted Bertie Brown.

Peter hastened towards the main road where he could catch one of the frequent buses which would take him into the city centre. The meandering camp road was sizzling hot, so in places he left the road and hurried across slopes of cool, well-tended grassy lawns overhung by tall coconut palms and blooming poinciana trees full of scarlet and orange flowers. Eventually, he arrived at a little used path almost buried in overhanging tall grasses, took it and continued onward, passing the rifle range, until he finally arrived at the almost deserted, two-lane road which ran parallel with Changi's main runway. On crossing the road, he stopped beneath a concrete shelter which had a sign with ‘Bus Stop' written on it in red letters.