The Rose of Singapore (22 page)

Both girls responded by giving coy smiles, and for moments they spoke quietly among themselves. Eventually, the girl draped in the
sarong
murmured, “
Terima kasih, tuan. Terima kasih.
”

“She's thanking us, Rick. She said, ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.' Now isn't that cute?”

“What's her name? How old is she? Good job that nasty old croc didn't have you for his dinner, isn't it, sweetie pie?” teased Rick.

The poor girl didn't understand a word he said, and a tear suddenly rolled down her face. She held out a hand and touched each boy lightly on the cheek. “
Terima kasih,
” she whispered shyly. “
Terima kasih.
”

Both boys grinned at the naked girl.

She glanced down at her nakedness, then up into their admiring faces. Blushing more and smiling shyly, almost in a whisper, she again said, “
Terima kasih.
”

“Pete, can you ask their names?” asked Rick.

“Yes, that's easy,” replied Peter, and turning to the girls, he asked, “
Nama siapa
?”

The girl wearing the
sarong
answered by pointing to herself and saying, “Siti.” Then, pointing to her naked companion, she said, “Faridah.”

“Well, those are nice names,” said Peter. “Siti and Faridah, eh?”

Both girls shyly nodded their heads.

“Miss Siti and Miss Faridah, that's their names, Rick.”

“Well, it's a pleasure to meet you both,” said Rick.

Unperturbed by their own nakedness, both girls looked at Rick in wonderment, at his muscular physique and handsome face.

Walking over to the canoe, which he had pulled up onto the beach, Peter took from it a wet, white RAF towel. Returning to the group, he offered the towel to the naked girl. “Later, we'll try to find your
sarong,
love,” he said.

Taking the towel from him, Faridah giggled as she slipped the towel around her waist, and demurely said, “
Terima kasih.
”

“Oh, please don't mention it. Anything to oblige a lady,” laughed Peter. He sat down again. There was no point in hurrying away now. “Sit down, Rick,” he said, and to the girls, “
Mari sini, duduk.
” And they all sat down except for Rick, who lay down, on his back in the warm dry sand. “Right. Now that we're all comfortable, we can have a chat.”

The girls blushed and giggled.

Gazing at their loveliness, Peter tried to remember words in Malay, those he had learnt whilst stationed at RAF Kuala Lumpur. Eventually, he asked, “
Awak tahu cakap Inggeris
?”

There were more blushes from the girls, giggles and shakes of their heads.

“They don't speak a word of English, Rick,” Peter said.

“I didn't think they would. But talk to them, Pete. Ask them something. Ask how old they are.”

“OK, I'll try.” Thus, with considerable thought, Peter translated words in his mind before saying slowly to the girls, “
Berapa umur awak
?”

Faridah, still blushing, pointed a finger at herself. “
Lapan belas,
” she murmured coyly, and nodding towards her companion, said, “
Tujuh belas,
” whereupon both girls fell into fits of giggles.

“Faridah is eighteen and Siti is seventeen,” said Peter to Rick. “I'll try to tell them that they're really beautiful.”

“Yes. Count me in on that one,” agreed Rick.

“
Awak banyak cantik,
” Peter told the girls, pleased with himself at remembering so many words of Malay, and smiling at their obvious embarrassment.

“
Terima kasih, tuan,
” said Faridah, hiding her blushing face in the palms of her hands.

Suddenly, from behind banana clumps sprang three angry, tough-looking, young Malay men wearing only
sarongs,
two brandishing big sticks, the third armed with a
parang.
Menacingly, they advanced on the four sitting in the shade of the palm tree, and glared angrily down at the two intruders to their island. Fortunately the angry looks of two of them turned to that of bewilderment at seeing the two girls sitting at their ease unharmed. One of the three youths, however, as if jealous of the situation, hovered over Rick, threatened him with the stick, and spoke angrily in Malay to both him and to Peter.

“Hey, wait a minute,” snapped Peter. “We aren't bothering your women.” Turning to Rick, he said, “He thinks we've molested the girls. They must have heard the girls screaming.”

Getting to his feet, Rick breezily said to the Malay youth menacing him with the stick, “I say, old chap, it's not what you think. So you can put that damned thing down. We're not hurting your women.”

The Malay man, not understanding a word, simply stared back in puzzlement at Rick but he did lower his weapon.

Siti now spoke a fast flow of words to the three Malay men, all the while pointing to Faridah. Then Faridah had her say. Within moments, the faces of the three men turned from bewilderment to smiles of relief as the two girls related to them the near fatal encounter with the crocodile, and of how the two boys had saved Faridah from certain death. This was followed by giggles from the girls, and by utterances in Malay of “Oh! Good men!” as the now suddenly very friendly locals vigorously shook the hands of the two young adventurers, slapped them on their backs and invited both to return with them to their
kampung.

“Do come,” the girls were saying. “Allow us to show you our hospitality.”

“We thank you, but we must go now,” answered Peter. “We shall return and call on you another day.”

“You promise?” said Faridah.

All the while she had been speaking in Malay, and Peter was quite chuffed with himself at being able to converse with her. “Yes, I promise,” he replied.

A short while later, the two boys, now seated in the canoe, were preparing to depart the island. The canoe, however, was not yet completely afloat, its stern being stuck in the mud. The two boys waited for the next wave to come rolling in, and when it did the canoe lifted, and both boys used their paddles to clear the little craft away from the beach. But then another wave came and sped them back onto the mud. Rick and Peter were laughing hilariously at their predicament. “It looks as though we're not going to leave the island after all, not just yet,” said Rick.

As for the two girls, they stood nearby, ankle-deep in mud, plus there were now several other villagers clustered around them, and still more were arriving on the scene. All were in a festive mood, laughing and calling
‘Selamat jalan'
(goodbye) to the pair in the canoe but the two girls, though laughing, had tears in their eyes. Faridah approached Peter, touched him lightly on the arm and murmured, “
Terima kasih, tuan. Terima kasih. Jangan lupa datang lagi, ya
?” (Thank you, sir. Thank you. Don't forget to come back again, OK?)

“Goodbye!” said Peter.

Grasping the canoe's blunt stern, the two girls pushed, and the canoe, caught on a receding wave, slid from the mudflat into shallow but deep enough water, where it was immediately caught in the flow of the current and carried away from the land.

“
Selamat jalan,
” the two girls shouted, waving their arms above their heads. “
Terima kasih. Jangan lupa, ya? Jangan lupa
!”

Rick and Peter dug their paddles in deep, sending the canoe quickly away from the island. And when a goodly distance from the shore, they put down their paddles and waved and shouted their final farewells. The two girls and the crowd on the shore waved back. Taking to their paddles again, they heard a last,
‘selamat jalan'
and watched as the two girls and the crowd, still waving, passed from sight as the canoe rounded a headland.

Now, all was silent except for the paddles slipping into the water, the lapping of waves beneath the bow, and the gentle splashing of water against the gunwales. There were no gulls wheeling in the sky, crying in their search for food, nor were there motorcrafts chugging noisily up the channel, and from the distant Changi airfield all was quiet. This tiny portion of the world was at peace, if only for the moment.

“I bet that old croc is still gnashing its teeth and spitting out splinters!” joked Rick.

“I wonder what Pop will say when we return this busted paddle to him. I'll offer to pay for it, of course.”

“We'll split the cost,” said Rick. “Anyway, he's bloody lucky to get the canoe back in one piece.”

Both boys resumed paddling, dipping their blades in deep, which sent the canoe shooting forward to steadily close the distant between it and the beach at Changi.

With a powerful forward stroke of the paddle, Rick said wistfully, “You must be looking forward to seeing Rose tonight. You're lucky, Pete.”

“She's better than tea and crumpets, Rick. Just think, I'll be seeing her in a few hours from now. That's if I'm able to find where she lives.”

14

The sun was quickly sliding down over the horizon, casting its last golden rays over Singapore, to end another day of scorching heat. The moon was already riding the heavens, pale and full, drifting lazily higher to take its majestic stand in the sky. And as the sun sank from sight and the sky began to darken, a few stars appeared, faintly at first, mere twinkles of light flickering in the dusk of evening. Gradually, though, more stars appeared until galaxies of shining fairy lights and the full moon drove all darkness from the sky.

What could be more picturesque and peaceful than the moon over Malaya thought Peter Saunders as he happily hurried along the crowded pavement. Carefree though he was, he kept a wary eye on the slow-moving traffic approaching him from both directions. He knew that come early evening the dreaded military provost police in their jeeps and patrol wagons vigilantly cruised the red-light district; and he was a lone European on foot, out of bounds, and in the very heart of that district.

In the monsoon drains, ditches, and amid patches of grass growing near the roadway, bullfrogs had awakened and were setting up a chorus of never-ending din. A few black bats flitted through the still air in search of their first meal of the night; the setting of the sun had ended their slumber. But Peter Saunders paid no heed to the little creatures. Instead, he concentrated on following the route he had memorized from the road map bought that morning at Jong Fatt's. He was also thinking of how he would surprise Rose and how pleased she would be at seeing him a day earlier than planned. Also he was still wondering whether or not he should tell her about the exciting afternoon he had spent with Rick, of how they had rescued a Malay girl from the jaws of a crocodile at Pulau Ubin.

Walking north on Lavender Street, he had already passed the junction of Kallang Bahru. Soon, he would arrive at Bendemeer Road, where a turn to the right would bring him to Rose's home. He knew he was walking in the right direction because he remembered many of the places he passed, having seen them on numerous occasions from taxi windows.

As he walked onward, hoards of people flowed in all directions around him. Chinese were by far in the majority. But mingling among the Chinese were Indians, mostly Sikhs wearing white turbans, white flowing smocks of cotton, and sandals on their feet. Malays, the gentlemen of the Far East, all wore the traditional
songkok;
their women, dainty and coy, were swathed in colourful
sarongs
and tight-fitting
kebayas
glittering with gold and silver threads.

The roofs above him here in this neighborhood were as uneven as a rough sea, living quarters overhung shopfronts, the streets littered with junk and refuse. There were shacks, too, in places, built from plywood and rusted corrugated iron, many supported by sagging bamboo poles. This was where many of the coolies dwelt, a playground for the city's many mongrel dogs and semi-wild cats, a breeding place for rats, and a home for a multitude of poor. Strangely enough there was next to no crime in this wretched area, hence Peter felt no fear.

He should have taken a taxi from the bus terminal, he told himself, but he liked to walk and had wanted to see this part of the city. He passed through a somewhat better area, where there were cheap hotels and boarding houses, most of these with tea rooms and some with gambling rooms where mahjong ruled.

Peter hurried on through little Chinatown, as it was known to differentiate it from the main Chinatown surrounding Boat Quay. Upper stories of tenements, supported by stone pillars, protruded over crowded sidewalks running parallel with deep monsoon drains. As if from a million radios the clash of gongs and cymbals of Chinese music and the loud singing in both Mandarin and Cantonese drowned out even the traffic noises, the babble of a million voices, and the loud clickety-clack of mahjong tiles being slammed down by players intent on their game in open doorways and windows. A Chinese tailor attempted to entice Peter into his shop by saying, “I make good suit for you, Johnny, very cheap. For you, very special.”

“No thanks,” said Peter. He passed dispensing herbalists displaying strange wares in huge jars, cotton sacks and raffia baskets. Eating houses were plentiful, with black and white striped eggs and great bowls of Chinese fried rice on display. Crisp-looking, reddish-brown Peking ducks and barbecued chicken and pork ribs hung from hooks in open windows. A windowless fishmonger's shop displayed the catch of the day, also several kinds of yellowish-brown, sun-dried fish called
ikan bilis.
All the fish were spotted with flies. The fishmonger's day had not ended at sundown. He would work far into the evening, for although his fish looked unappetizing to Peter, customers were plentiful and the trade brisk.

Above the street, as if flags of celebration, hung part of the city's washing. These colourful arrays of clothing were suspended from bamboo poles reaching out across the street from open windows, the far ends sagging towards passing traffic below. And in that street, as in numerous others in the city, trishaw
wallahs,
shoeshine boys, beggars, hawkers, tourists, and ordinary citizens going about their business, mingled and jostled.