The Rose of Singapore (20 page)

Less than a hundred yards to the east of the fish trap and a short distance along the coast from Pop's coffee shack, eight more Chinese fishermen stood waist-deep in the murky water. Slowly, they were hauling in the two ends of a net stretched crescent-like one hundred yards out across the water. Only the murmuring of the still receding tide on the sand and the occasional loud, “
Aiyah,
” from these fishermen could be heard as their glistening brown bodies heaved in unison, hauling in the heavy net yard by yard to where a
sampan
wallowed at anchor in the shallows. The
sampan
was tended by its owner who skillfully shook the incoming net over the gunwale, emptying a flashing silvery harvest of fish into the bilges of his narrow craft.

It was almost low tide. The water had long receded from the sand, exposing a muddy coastline. Reeds and several species of sea-grasses, unseen when the tide was in, now rose several inches above the surface of the water where they swayed to and fro in the gentle breeze.

Left stranded high and dry on the burning-hot sand and far from the water's edge, the coffee shop owner's boats lay overturned and unneeded, their green and white paintwork blistering in the intense heat.

Clad only in brief swimming costumes and seated on rough wooden stools at an equally rough table in Pop's shack, LAC Peter Saunders and LAC Gerald Rickie, Pop's only customers, sipped on cooling orange drinks while they studied a road map of Singapore. Twenty minutes prior, whilst waking through Changi Village, Peter had purchased the map at Jong Fat's Emporium.

“See, Rick, that's where she lives,” Peter was saying, tapping an index finger on the map where Bendemeer Road met Lavender Street. “I'm sure I could find her home easily enough by taxi, or even by walking from the bus stop at Geylang. It doesn't look too far to walk from Geylang to Lavender Street, then to the junction at Kallang Bahru, and finally to Bendemeer Road.”

“Aren't you scared walking in that part of Singapore alone?” asked Rick.

“No, not at all. The people there won't harm me. In fact, Rose's neighbours are quite friendly towards me.”

“I'm not thinking of the people, I'm thinking of the bloody military police! Her home's in the middle of the red-light district.”

“I know,” said Peter, “I'm certainly nervous of the patrols there. But I'd keep a watchful eye open for them, Rick. Anyway, perhaps I still don't look old enough to pass for a serviceman. They probably wouldn't take a second look at me. If they should try to stop me, I'd run like hell.”

“Well, if you're caught, it's your funeral.”

“I won't get caught. Anyway, what shall we do now? The tide's too low for swimming.”

“Let's sit here awhile and take life easy,” said Rick. “We'll think of something.”

The mongrel dog came to where Rick sat, placed his furry chin on a bare knee, looked up into Rick's face with sad-looking eyes, and as Rick patted and stroked the nuzzling head, the happy dog wagged its brown stump of a tail contentedly. Two of Pop's children, naked as usual, came and petted the dog, and then began to tease him, so that he lost interest in Rick and ran away, scattering chickens that had been busily scratching for insects in the sandy dirt behind the shack.

Peter Saunders scanned the calm Johore Strait, the palm-studded green islands blurred by a heat-haze, and the almost indistinguishable coastline of Malaya in the far distance. He watched as an old Chinese junk with its tattered squaresail hanging limp and idle, chugged laboriously upstream, powered by two huge outboard motors, its great hull low in the water, and its decks heaped high with an assortment of cargo; but there were no crew members to be seen.

Shifting his gaze from the junk, Peter's eyes swept past Changi buoy to where a much smaller vessel, a motor cargo launch, cut a swift passage through the calm water. Silver spray swished and leapt from her narrow bow and white foaming water churned around her stern. She was but one of many vessels which plied the waters between the islands and the mainland during the course of a day. Peter watched as the craft slowed, turned from the main channel and entered the short and narrow channel leading into Changi Creek and a little harbour where many small cargo boats docked; a safe haven from storms. The cargo boat navigated a sandbar before disappearing round a bend at the entrance to the inlet.

Pop, wearing just a pair of dirty shorts, came and collected the two now empty glasses. “Two more, Johnny?” he asked Rick.

“Yes please, Pop. Green Spots.”

The coffee shop owner gave the pair a friendly smile and went to where he kept his supply of soft drinks in an ice-filled chest. These two boys were his most frequent customers. He was aware that Peter was having a love affair with the pretty Chinese girl who had played mahjong weeks ago during that stormy afternoon. At times he would ask of her, and Peter would smile and reply, “
Ding ho,
Pop.” Pop liked both Rick and Peter. They were good boys who spoke kindly to both him and to his wife, and often they played on the beach and in the water with his children. He returned with the drinks and set them down in front of the boys.

“Thanks Pop,” said Peter.

Having finished hauling in their long net, the fishermen were now seated in the
sampan
sorting out the fish and placing them on ice in boxes in the bilges. Soon they would depart to drift down the shoreline in search of another likely fishing spot in which to cast their net.

The sun, higher now and almost overhead, cast few shadows. Newcomers had arrived on the beach, mostly off-duty RAF and WRAF personnel. None were in the water yet, the tide being so low. At least another hour must pass before the water would be deep enough to swim in without tangling with the sea-grasses. Now was the time to sunbathe in idleness, beachcomb, play ball on the sand or, preferably, to relax in Pop's shack.

Rick, sipping on his orange drink, gazed out across the water. It looked so lovely out there, the water was calm, blue and sparkling. He looked at the boats drawn up on the beach; half a dozen up-turned rowing boats and two fishing canoes, one of the latter slightly larger than the other. It was just the day for a few hours on the water, he thought. Turning to Peter Saunders, he asked, “Feel like going for a trip in one of the boats?”

“Do you?”

“Why not? Let's take the big canoe over to Johore, or pay a visit to a couple of the islands.”

“OK. It's better than sitting around here.”

“Right, then. I'll speak to Pop. By the way, Pete, do you have any money with you?”

“Just about enough to pay for the drinks. Haven't you any?”

“About a dollar.”

“That's a fat lot of good.”

“Well, what shall we do? Put it on the book?”

“No. I think I can make a deal with Pop. The next time I come to the beach, I'll bring him some more tins of sardines and herrings from the sergeants' mess.”

“Would Pop be agreeable?”

“I'm sure he will. It saves wasting his time fishing. And it saves his wife's time cleaning and cooking the fish. He was as chuffed as a pig in shit when I gave his wife a few cans as a gift a few days ago. And so was she. She told me the kids loved fish in tomato sauce. They never cook theirs in tomato sauce.”

“Pete, you've got one helluva nerve. Don't you know that you're stealing RAF supplies? You'll do time over the wall if you're caught.”

“If I'm caught, then it's just too bad. The mess members rarely eat tinned fish, but the Chinese staff love them. To them it's a luxury. But the damn tins keep piling up every time the ration truck arrives, so I have to get rid of them one way or the other. I'm doing the sergeants' mess a favour by trading them away.”

“Doesn't Sergeant Muldoon keep a check on the stores?”

“No. That's left to me. Anyway, he'd never check tinned fish. I'm sure he's only too glad to get rid of them. Just watch me sign out a few dozen tins from the stock sheet during the next few days and put on the menu sardines on toast and marinated herrings as appetizers a few times. The mess members rarely eat tinned fish, but as far as I'm concerned, they're going to love them for awhile.”

“Well, it's your funeral. If you think it's OK, I'll call Pop over. Shall we return to camp for tea?”

“Definitely. I think we should be back by four or four-thirty.”

“You've a date with Rose this evening, I suppose,” said Rick.

“Not really. I'm supposed to see her tomorrow afternoon. But as Sergeant Muldoon has given me the day off, I thought I might as well surprise her this evening. I'd like to arrive at her home, say at six, and take her out for dinner. It'll be the first time that I've made my way alone to her apartment. She'll be thrilled.”

Calling Pop over to where they sat, Peter explained to him their financial problem, and could they borrow a canoe in exchange for tins of fish.

“You take boat, Johnny, anytime,” the good-natured shack owner said. “You good friend. We always make good bargain.”

“Seems like you've fixed it, then,” said Rick. “I'll pay for the drinks.”

“Thanks. That suits me,” Peter said, laughing. He then jokingly said, “But remember, it's my turn to sit in the stern, where the action is.”

Out in mid-stream, between Changi and the island of Pulau Ubin, a Chinese motor junk passed closely across the stern of their canoe, its high bows cleaving a curling passage, and its huge bulk and surprisingly high speed ploughing up the smooth surface of the Johore Strait.

Seated in the stern, Peter skillfully spun the canoe around to head into the junk's wake. For a few moments, as the canoe turned, the little craft rolled drunkenly over a dangerously high swell. Laughing lightheartedly and without a care in the world, Peter shouted to Rick, who was sitting amidships, “I bet that bloody great thing is making at least ten knots. Here we go!” and with ease, he stroked the double-bladed paddle into the water until he brought the bow around so that, although slapping noisily and bouncing hard, the waves created by the passing junk rolled harmlessly beneath the little craft. Such waves, if taken on the low, square stern of the canoe, could easily have swamped it. The square stern accommodated a small outboard motor used by Pop during those rare occasions when he did go fishing. The little craft itself was seaworthy and could safely ride big waves like a cork in a bathtub if handled properly.

A brown-skinned Chinese seaman dressed in khaki shorts appeared on the raised poop deck of the junk, looked with disinterest as the canoe bobbed up and down in the wake astern, and then turned and disappeared down a hatchway. The two boys in the canoe watched as the fast receding hulk, with its two huge outboard motors thumping, moved farther and farther away, heading towards the RAF seaplane base at Seletar. The swell passed and soon the water became still again, allowing the canoe to ride a calm surface. Only the gentle lapping of water against the bulwarks could be heard as Peter plunged the paddle into the water bringing the canoe back on course, to head for Pulau Ubin.

Porpoises rolled and played some distance up the channel, and there were flurries of sparkling silver as shoals of small fish leapt from the water in an attempt to escape from them. A seahorse skipped across the water on its tail in front of the canoe, and transparent jellyfish could be seen floating lazily by as the canoe made fast headway among them.

From his position sitting amidships, Rick stretched himself out full-length on his back in the shell of the canoe. First brushing powdery salt from his body, he relaxed, his face turned skyward to watch little puffs and patches of white wispy cloud lazily sailing across an otherwise clear blue sky. Knowing the tide was coming in, taking them on its strong current steadily towards the far shore, he was content to allow Peter to paddle alone for awhile. He knew it was easy paddling. Of more importance was keeping the craft on its course so that the tide would take them close to Pulau Ubin, and not out to sea. But Peter, he had found, was an expert at handling the canoe, thus did not need help.

When the canoe was almost at the shores of Pulau Ubin, Peter woke up his now sleeping companion by singing out, “Rick, wake up. We're almost there.”

Rick yawned, then studying the land ahead, said, “It looks so peaceful. Just a few huts among palm trees.”

The canoe passed a long reef of brown sand and grey coral on its port side, a tiny islet about two hundred yards from the main island of Ubin. Guided by Peter, the canoe drifted silently into a wide, shallow bay of calm, clear water, lined by a green, palm-lined shore. Below the surface of the water the seabed showed off many of nature's wonders; minute fish, their scales glittering silver and gold, and blues and reds, swam lazily just inches below the surface, while others glided cautiously over the sandy bed or meandered among submerged rocks and aquatic plants. A young barracuda, not more than a foot long, with cold beady eyes, lay motionless in the water. It was in no hurry to go anywhere. Its swiftness, when needed, could catch it a meal in a moment. A purple and brown jellyfish, the size of a dinner plate, and tinted with orange spots, drifted upward alongside the canoe. On making contact with the huge foreign object, the jellyfish changed its colour to blue, then to a deep green as it sank from sight amid the sanctuary of seaweed growing on rocks. Seahorses leapt from the water, their long, pointed heads poised alert as they skipped on their tails across the calm surface, away from the intruders.

The two boys had arrived at the luxuriant and fertile Pulau Ubin, where tall coconut palms grew on the foreshore in abundance, their crowns heavy with ripening nuts. Further inland, knee-high green grasses rustled and swayed in the gentle breeze. Here, at this part of the island, all was peacefully silent and deserted. The two boys knew from a previous expedition that a Chinese fishing village of a dozen huts built on stilts lay further along the coast. Also, they had seen a number of Malay
atap
huts, made from coconut palms and grasses, scattered over the island, some close enough together to form a small
kampung,
or village. Generally, though, there were individual huts, with a small vegetable and fruit garden, and a clearing where chickens scratched for bugs and worms and where goats chewed on rank grass.