The Rose of Singapore (54 page)

“No, I promise you he is not dead.” Irene Bethony did not dare say that she was not sure whether Peter Saunders had died or not since the envelope had come into her hands only an hour ago. The welfare department had called Kinrara Hospital immediately, only to be informed by the hospital staff that SAC Saunders lay in a deep coma.

“Then, if he is hurt, I must go to him,” said a wild-eyed Lai Ming. “Where is he? What can I do?”

“That is the very purpose of my visit here this morning. I have come here to ask you to go to him. He is in a coma. His doctor thinks that your presence might possibly give him a chance of survival.”

Burying her head in her hands, Lai Ming moaned. “Yes, I'll go.”

“Madam Chan, please dress. You have a long journey ahead of you. A military car is waiting outside your door. The RAF will take you to him.”

In the driver's seat of the military police patrol car, big, tough, square-jawed Flight Sergeant Cameron, head of the Singapore Provost Police, chewed the end of an unlit cigarette. He wondered how Lai Ming, Rose of Singapore, was taking the news. He wondered if she was already preparing herself for the long, two-hundred-mile journey ahead. He knew that she would go, and that she would travel with him. He had never spoken to her before but had seen her often enough. She was quite a girl for young Peter Saunders to handle, he thought. He smiled grimly to himself. I'm really taking a prostitute for a ride this time, he was thinking. Normally, it was his duty to separate the airman from prostitutes. This was the first occasion that gave him cause to bring the two together. He prayed that it would be worth the long drive up through Malaya to Kuala Lumpur escorted by the regular nine o'clock military convoy, which left from the Johore side of the causeway. Damn the Communist terrorists for pock marking the airstrip at KL two nights ago. To his knowledge it was the first time mortars had been used by them. If it wasn't for the terrorists the airstrip would be in use and Lai Ming could have flown up to Kuala Lumpur on a DC3. It would be at least a couple more days before the airstrip would be in service again, or so he had been informed.

Of course, all of Changi, in fact all Singapore had heard of the massacre at Fraser's Hill. Later, Flight Sergeant Cameron had been handed the bloody envelope and had seen the name of the airman on the report sheet the dispatch rider had brought around to the main provost office. It was he who had contacted the Social Welfare Department to ask their help, and it was he who had volunteered to make the drive to Kinrara.

The powers that be in the Royal Air Force had not exactly sanctioned this Chinese woman accompanying him on the long journey to Kinrara Hospital. No woman was mentioned when an officer at SHQ Changi handed him sealed documents supposedly required immediately at Kinrara Military Prison situated close to the hospital. On this occasion the RAF would look the other way and not see the pretty Chinese lady seated at his side in the patrol car.

He was curious to speak to the woman that Cookie had so often spoken of and bragged about. He wondered if she was as nice as Cookie had made her out to be. It should be quite an interesting journey. It was strange, though, he thought, that his ulcer was not playing up. His thoughts went to Cookie feeding him softly boiled eggs in the sergeants' mess kitchen office, and supplying him with fresh fruit. He and his wife thought the world of Cookie, and their kids loved him, too. He had turned out to be a wonderful babysitter even though he emptied the refrigerator of beer during his each and every visit. He now hoped and prayed that Cookie would survive and that it would be worth the effort put into it by all those involved.

The door was creaking open again. They were coming. Tossing the unlit cigarette onto a pile of roadside rubbish, Flight Sergeant Cameron restarted the engine.

33

Nurse Mason!”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“What's the time by your watch, please? Mine seems to have gone haywire again. The wretched thing still shows eight o'clock.”

Chuckling, Nurse Mason looked at her watch. “It's precisely twelve noon, Doctor, time for my lunch. I'm starving.”

“Thank you, Nurse Mason. I must get rid of this damned thing, it's never kept good time. I'm hungry, too. Oh, by the way Nurse, as I've yet to complete my rounds of the wards, how's that boyfriend of yours progressing?” The good doctor had a sly grin on his face as he asked the question. “Wendle, Rendles, or some such name. I never can remember it. Come to think of it, Nurse, I haven't heard you mention his name once today. Is there a problem between the two of you?” and his face beamed with delight at his teasing.

“You mean Captain Vernel, Doctor,” the nurse corrected him, blushing. “He's improving, but his temperature is still a wee bit high.”

“Ah! Only when you're near him, I'll be bound,” laughed the doctor. “Mark my word, he'll be as fit as a fiddle before this week is out. Then, Nurse Mason, watch your step. It's just a touch of malaria, that's all he has.” Then he asked, “How serious is it, Nurse?”

“The malaria, Doctor?”

“No, my dear girl. The romance blossoming between you and the captain.”

“Oh!” Startled by his blunt question the nurse hesitated before saying, “I really don't know, Doctor. I like him a lot, but at times I wonder if I'm his ‘Miss Right.' He speaks so often of other women, those whom he knew in the past, so much so that I wonder at times whether his thoughts dwell more on them than on me.”

“Oh dear, that doesn't sound good. However, I'm sure that by feminine wiles you can rectify the situation.”

Fortyish, fat and jolly, Doctor Henshaw, an army medical officer at British Military Hospital Kinrara was a doctor not only respected by everyone at Kinrara but also liked by all the hospital staff, and patients, too. He was one of those rare officers with whom other rank service personnel could talk frankly man to man; a person who would listen to their problems, he being a doctor and not a military type man.

Standing on the wood-planked steps leading up to his personal quarters, a pile of papers stuffed untidily under an arm, and wearing no hat which showed off his bald suntanned head, Dr Henshaw reminded Nurse Mason of someone she had once seen in a film, but she couldn't remember which film. To her, he looked somewhat like a cheeky gnome, or was it Happy, the dwarf in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, minus his pixie hat?

Nurse Mason, the baby of the nursing staff at Kinrara Hospital, was petite, had a curvaceous figure, flashing, laughing brown eyes, chestnut-brown hair, and lips meant for kissing. As well as being the youngest staff nurse she was decidedly the favourite. In the wards, the bed-ridden young servicemen loved to see her flit from patient to patient, their needs happily attended to by her. She was never grumpy. And now there were rumours of her big romance with young Captain Vernel, a patient at the hospital, another malarial victim. Recently, it had been learned that the two had known each other for years, and were born and raised in the same farming village that was within walking distance of Bugle, a small town in the county of Cornwall. In fact, both had gone to the same hilltop village school at Treverbyn, which overlooks a valley of hedged fields, open moors, and many clay mines from where white china clay or kaolin is still being extracted, much of which is made into the finest bone china in the world.

Now, a trifle nervous, Nurse Mason stood on the steps at the medical officer's side. “Yes, Doctor, I shall have to do something about it,” she said thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, I really don't know if I mean anything to him. He doesn't seem to encourage me.”

“He doesn't? He must be a bit of a twit.” Doctor Henshaw cleared his throat with a short cough. “I wish I were his age again. I would compete with him,” he said.

“Would you, Doctor?” Nurse Mason blushed as she heard herself saying, “Knowing you as I do, Doctor, you'd stand a good chance of winning.”

Laughing, the doctor did not carry the conversation further but instead nodded his head towards a rosy-cheeked woman of generous proportions, dressed in a white nursing uniform, who puffed and panted as she hurriedly approached the pair. “Ah! Here comes my dear friend Matron Finch, and hurrying, too. And by the look on her face, she brings happy tidings.” He waited until the matron reached the foot of the steps before singing out, “Good morning, Matron. You're looking positively radiant this morning. Has the major been telling you yet another of his rather risqué jokes? If so, let's hear it. We all need a good laugh.”

Her arms swinging, her cheeks aglow, and with everything bounceable bouncing, the good matron happily ascended the stairs, and on reaching the top she stopped and confronted the pair. “Good morning, Doctor Henshaw. Good morning, Nurse Mason,” she said, a gleeful expression on her face. “No, the major has not been telling me jokes, risqué or otherwise.”

“No? Then you must have something devilish up your sleeve, I'll be bound,” said Doctor Henshaw, a note of curiosity creeping into his voice.

Beaming with merriment, the matron said, “It's the patient in the post-surgery room of ward five, the young airman, Saunders. I'm happy to say that about an hour ago he came out of his coma and is now fully conscious.”

“Is he, by Jove! Well, that is excellent news!” exclaimed the obviously delighted Doctor Henshaw.

“Yes, it is good news. Doctor Hogan's with him now.”

“What excellent news, Matron,” the doctor repeated. That young fellow has had me worried. We've had to pour gallons of blood into him, or so it seemed. How long ago, did you say, Matron?”

“About an hour, Doctor. Doctor Hogan says he believes Saunders will survive, that's if there are no complications. It's a miracle he's alive. I suppose it's God's will.”

“I believe his lady friend has played a major part in his survival, and she could play an equally big part in his full recovery,” expressed Nurse Mason.

“I think you're right,” agreed Doctor Henshaw. “I believe that our first ever volunteer supernumerary nurse is a great asset to the young lad's recovery. I'm so glad we managed to have her brought here. I was afraid that military red tape would interfere. By the way, Matron, how is she taking it?”

“The poor mite is shedding tears of relief.”

“Is that so? Is she still with him?”

“She hasn't left his bedside since she first set foot in the ward.

“When Saunders was delirious he kept repeating the name, Rose.” said Dr Henshaw. I presume he was referring to the same Rose who is now seated at his bedside.”

“That's correct, Doctor.” replied the matron. “Rose of Singapore, that's whose company we have the pleasure of here at Kinrara.”

“Rose of Singapore?” repeated the puzzled medical officer. “Is she a film star? Of course she's definitely of the Chinese upper class. She's most refined. Where does she live in Singapore?”

“Just off Lavender Street, Doctor. She lives in what one might call a brothel,” replied the matron matter-of-factly.

“I beg your pardon, Matron,” gulped the surprised medical officer.

“She lives in a brothel, Doctor,” the matron repeated. “She's a prostitute. Quite a noted prostitute, too, so I've been told. Noted enough to earn her the title, Rose of Singapore.”

“A prostitute! Really! I find that hard to believe. Why don't the three of us pay a visit to ward five? Lunch can wait.”

Doctor Henshaw led the way along a narrow concrete pathway bordered by flowering hibiscus and well-tended green lawns until, eventually, they arrived at a flight of planked wooden steps leading up to a wide verandah encircling ward five, one of several white painted, one-storey wooden huts built in rows.

Mounting the wooden steps, the doctor pulled open a screen door and held it for the two ladies to enter. He then followed them down between a double row of beds all occupied by military personnel, many of whom were those wounded at the Gap. Giving the patients words of encouragement as they passed through the ward, the three came to a door at the far end. Pushing open this door, they entered into a room specially equipped to treat patients needing intensive care. Senior Aircraftman Peter Saunders occupied the only bed. Lai Ming sat on a chair at his bedside holding one of his hands whilst gazing into the ashen face peering upward from a snow-white pillow.

On hearing the door open and seeing the approach of the three, Lai Ming turned her head, smiled timidly, and then rose slowly to her feet, a tired, appealing look on her face, her cheeks swollen and wet from weeping.

“Good morning,” Doctor Henshaw greeted her in a kindly manner, a reassuring smile upon his gnome-like face.

Respectfully, Lai Ming bowed her head. “Good morning, sir,” she replied softly.

Matron Finch also said, “Good morning,” and Nurse Mason said, “Hello.”

“Please, sit down and relax, my dear,” said the medical officer.

“Thank you, sir.” Lai Ming sank wearily back into the chair. “I am in your way, yes?” she asked.

“In our way? Oh, no, not at all! On the contrary, we're glad you're here.”

“I am happy. I am honoured to be here,” and Lai Ming turned and smiled down upon the wan face peering up from the pillow. “Peter will be all right? He is going to be all right, isn't he?”

“Oh, good gracious me, yes. Before you can say ‘Jack Robinson,' he'll be on his feet and as fit as a fiddle again.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the patient's white face; the first smile.

“You see! He's smiling already. It appears that you have performed a miracle. Therefore, young lady, I thank you. We all thank you.”

“Peter is my boyfriend. I love him very much,” Lai Ming softly said, dabbing tears from her eyes with a tiny colourful handkerchief.

“Hmm! Yes.” Doctor Henshaw coughed a dry cough. “Hmm, yes,” he repeated, coughing again and not knowing what else to say. “I suppose you must,” he finally said.