The Rose of Singapore (35 page)

On returning to the office, Peter Saunders sat at the desk, the open menu book in front of him. But he was not concentrating on it but just staring at the black ink written on white paper and thinking to himself, fancy Flight Sergeant Cameron knowing so much about Lai Ming and their affair.

Thus, deep in thought, Peter looked up quite startled when his friend Rick, dressed in a perspiration-soaked KD uniform and an RAF blue beret worn on his head at a jaunty angle, fairly crashed through the screen door of the kitchen and came rushing into the office, his face aglow.

“Peter, I've found myself a girlfriend,” he excitedly exclaimed.

“You have? Where? Who?”

“A Portuguese woman.”

“Really! Come on in for a cup of tea and tell me all about her. But Rick, have I got news for you! You won't believe this but Flight Sergeant Cameron knows all about Rose, knows that she lives in an out-of-bounds area, and he knows everything about our relationship.”

“Christ, Pete, that is bad news.”

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe, but maybe not. I don't think he'll let the cat out of the bag. Knowing that he's got me by the balls, I've agreed to babysit his two kids.”

“Bloody hell! He's got a nerve.”

“Maybe. But some good has come out of this. If I'm caught out of bounds by the RAF police, he's not going to let any charges go further than his own desk. The red caps and shore patrols are a different story. I'll have to watch out for them. Anyway, let's change the subject. Let's hear about your Portuguese girlfriend. What's she like? Do you think you're on to a permanent thing?”

“Yeah, I believe I am. She's a smashing-looking bird, Pete. You should see her.”

“Where'd you meet her?”

“In the Blue Rajah Cafe. She's a waitress there. You know the joint, the Indian restaurant just off Dingham Road. Don't you remember the place? We went there once and had a curry dinner. That was before you met Rose.”

Peter chuckled. “Yeah, I remember the place. We ate curried chicken, really hot stuff, the hottest curry I've ever eaten.”

“So bloody hot we needed a gallon of cold beer apiece to wash it down, remember?” laughed Rick.

“Could I ever forget! The next morning that damn curry came out the other end so hot it burnt me a new arse.”

Rick laughed. “But you've got to admit, Pete, they do make smashing curry. Anyway, about two weeks ago, my mate Corporal Jameson of my section and I, he thinks he's a connoisseur of good curry, went to the Blue Rajah for dinner. He ordered beef curry and I had the shrimp curry. Anyway, right from the beginning, what really fascinated me was our waitress. She smiled at us with big flashing brown eyes. She's a real corker, Pete, darkish skin, long and glossy black hair, and sex appeal splashed all over her. She took our order, served us, and as I ate my shrimp curry I watched her and made up my mind that I was going to get into her pants.”

“And did you?” Peter asked with increasing interest.

“You bet I did. Last night, or should I say, in the wee hours of this morning, for the first time. I'll tell you what happened, and it's the truth, I swear it.”

Kah Seng, bearing two cups of steaming hot tea, entered the office, his usual friendly grin creasing his aging, weather-beaten face. “Two teas, Chicko,” he sang out as he placed the cups and saucers on the desk. “One you. One Mister Rick.”

“Thank you, Kah Seng,” Rick said.

Peter said, “
Do tze,
Kah Seng.”

Kah Seng nodded his head, grinned and silently withdrew, returning to the kitchen to resume his task of dicing oranges for that day's fruit salad.

Rick, taking a sip of tea, stared at a blank page in the menu book as if in deep contemplation. Eventually, he said. “I've been going to that bloody restaurant for dinner every damned night, ever since I set eyes on that Portuguese woman.”

“You mean you've eaten curry there every night?”

“Yeah, believe it or not, every night for two weeks. And I drank gallons of beer to wash the stuff down. Beef curry, chicken curry, shrimp curry, fish curry. My ass was on fire from eating so much damned curry.”

“I bet it was. So, what happened?”

“She didn't take a blind bit of notice of me. Well, until a couple of nights ago. I went there the same time as usual, sat at the same table I've sat at for the past two weeks, she came to serve me but instead of ordering a curry, I ordered only coffee. She looked at me kind of funny-like, so I told her that I had been coming in every night, not to eat their blasted curry but only to look at her beautiful face.”

“That must have really grabbed her. What did she say?”

“She gave me a big smile and as the place was not busy she sat down at my table, had a glass of coffee with me, and we talked for several minutes.”

“And then?”

“Last night I went to see her, asked her for coffee, and as the place wasn't too busy, she sat down and we talked for quite a while, maybe an hour. I asked her where she lived. She replied, not far from Changi Gaol; so I asked if I could escort her home. She appeared to be a rather stuck-up type, so imagine my surprise when she said, ‘I thought you'd never ask.'”

“Really?”

“I took her home in a taxi. Naturally I turned on the jolly old Gerald Rickie charm.”

“Which didn't help one bit.”

Rick ignored this remark. “She lives in a little wooden house behind the gaol,” he said. “I told the taxi driver to wait for me as I fully expected to return to camp in it. Anyway, whilst wondering what might happen next, I walked her to the doorway, shook hands with her, told her I had had a lovely evening, and asked if I might kiss her goodnight. Instead, she invited me into her home. So I paid off the taxi and followed her in.”

“So you made out with her there and then?”

“No. But this is all pucka gen, Pete. I'm not making anything up, not shooting a line at all. So listen.”

“I'm all ears.”

“OK. The house is very small. To be truthful, it's just a native hut with two rooms. In one room were two young kids and an old woman asleep on mats. It shook me for a moment. Marie, that's my girlfriend's name, whispered to me that the kids were hers and that the old woman looked after them whilst she was at work. She told me she's no longer married, Pete. Who knows? But that's what she told me.

“She said she didn't want to wake up the kids, and as it was such a lovely moonlit night, would I like to go for a walk with her as far as the nearby beach. Well, we walked past the main gates of Changi Gaol, and then she held my hand and led me through a Malay
kampung
built in a palm grove, and then along some wasteland until we reached a low cliff overlooking the sea. There was a nice sandy beach below the cliff.”

“How romantic. But let's get to the gory details, the sex scene on the sandy beach.”

“It didn't happen on the beach, Pete. On the edge of the cliff there's a concrete pillbox, a leftover from the war, built on a grassy bank. We both sat down on it.”

“You sat on the pillbox?”

“No, idiot, we sat on the grassy bank.”

“Oh! Of course.”

“The setting was perfect. A full moon overhead, gentle waves lapping the shoreline, and the wind gently sighing through the nearby palm grove. It was gone midnight, the whole place quiet and deserted except for Marie and I.”

“Well! What happened?”

Rick shook his head, “Patience is not one of your virtues, Pete.”

“Oh, come on, Rick. Get on with it. Did she or didn't she?”

“Of course she did. You don't think for one moment that she took me to that secluded and romantic spot just to show me the scenery or to listen to the wind and the lapping of the waves, do you? She fell into my arms and looked into my eyes with those big beautiful eyes of hers, pleading like. But, believe it or not, I was still a bit doubtful as to what I should do. I've heard that if angered, Portuguese women have terrible tempers.”

“But surely you could tell, Rick. She must have thought you awfully slow.”

“A perfect English gentleman, that's what she thought. She told me so.”

“Oh, bullshit! She can't be that daft.”

“She wore a tiny gold crucifix hanging from a chain around her neck. She slipped the crucifix inside her dress and laughingly dared me to try taking it out. Of course, she was just asking for it. We playfully wrestled on the bank for a minute or two; then she gave in and lay quietly on her back with me sitting astride her. I opened her blouse, slipped off her skirt, and soon had her completely naked beneath me, the whole scene lit up as clear as daylight by the full moon. My God, Pete, you should have seen her. She's lovely! And what a body!”

“How did you get back to camp?” laughed Peter.

“I walked most of the way. Then some chap from the MT section came along in a lorry and picked me up. He dropped me off at the signals section block.”

“You were lucky. How old is this girlfriend of yours?”

“About thirty. I'd say she's about the same age as Rose. Maybe a bit older.”

“Are you seeing her again?”

“Tomorrow evening. She's got the evening off. She's going to meet me at the London Bar in Changi Village. Care to join us for a drink?”

“Thanks. I'd like to meet her, Rick, but I'll be at Rose's home. Perhaps we can make it a foursome some other time.”

“Let's do that, Pete. Anyway, thanks for the tea. I've gotta get going. I'm supposed to be on duty.”

As Rick rose from where he had been sitting on the edge of the table, the telephone rang at Peter's elbow. Picking it up, Peter answered it, saying, “Sergeants' mess kitchen. LAC Saunders, duty cook in charge speaking.”

“Saunders, I'm glad I've caught you in. This is Warrant Officer Whitehead, Chairman of the Messing Committee. Do you have a minute?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good! Now listen! We're challenging the aircrew mess to a dart match this coming Saturday evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We're holding it in the sergeants' mess bar. I'm expecting over fifty senior NCOs to show up, and I'm wondering if it's possible for you to oblige us by putting on something to eat during the evening, say from eight to eleven. We're thinking of fish and chips, English style, wrapped in newspaper just like at home.”

“Well, sir! Eh! We could do it at the mess but I can't use RAF rations.”

“Hold it, Saunders. Let me finish. If you'll go along with this, what the mess members and I are proposing is for you to buy sufficient fish, potatoes, fat and whatever else you need to make fish and chips for at least fifty men, at the village grocery store with your own money. Probably there will also be WRAF NCOs present, as well as a few wives from the married quarters. You cook and serve the fish and chips whilst the darts match is in progress, and you can charge a fee per serving. Naturally, for all your extra work we expect you to come out of this arrangement with some sort of profit, and most certainly not a loss, so it would be up to you to charge what you think is reasonable. Of course, if you did make a loss the Messing Committee would reimburse you. If it's a success, then we expect to put on some sort of do every Saturday evening, such as a whist drive or a dance, with fish and chips laid on by you. It would be just like running your own fish and chip shop. How do you like the idea, Saunders? No, don't answer that right away. Think about it. At the moment I'm at SHQ, but I'm coming right over to discuss this matter more fully with you.”

The phone went dead. Peter put down the receiver and turning to his friend who had been listening to the conversation, exclaimed, “God! What a morning, Rick! I've been posted to Ceylon, blackmailed into babysitting, forced to listen to your sex life, and now I'm expected to open up a fish and chip shop in my spare time here in the sergeants' mess kitchen. The president of the messing committee, old Warrant Officer Whitehead, is on his way here right now, I guess to give me the official go-ahead.”

Rick, seeing dollar signs before his eyes, said, “You could make yourself a nice bit on the side, Pete, without even fiddling. Anyway, I'm out of here before that old geezer Whitehead shows up. I'll come around and sample your fish and chips on Saturday. Cheers. Good luck.”

“Thanks. I'm going to need it.”

Peter watched as Rick hurried from the kitchen. Alone now and seated at the office table, he was thinking of the sizeable quantity of fish, potatoes, cooking fat, flour, eggs and other commodities he would need to buy in order to feed fifty or more hungry people. In fact, he should be prepared to cater for at least a hundred. It just wouldn't do to run short. But what if much of what he bought remained unsold? What then? A brilliant idea suddenly came to his budding entrepreneurial mind. He could buy a small amount of the required foodstuffs at the village, and if need be he could use rations from the sergeants' mess. Better still, there were always sacks of seemingly surplus potatoes in the airmens' mess veg room, also there were boxes of frozen fillets of cod, halibut, turbot, hake and other fish stacked high in one of the three walk-in deep freezers. He could ask the ration truck driver SAC Jock Mackenzie if he would throw a couple of extra sacks of potatoes, a few boxes of frozen fish, a sack of flour, a twenty-eight pound tin of cooking fat, and a couple of dozen eggs onto his delivery lorry. All on the QT, of course. He was sure Jock would oblige him. They were good friends. When Peter was on duty, Jock often ate his lunch in the sergeants' mess kitchen office, at times washing his steak, lamb chops or whatever down with a cold Tiger beer from the bar. Yes, he was sure Jock would do it for him. However, and his mind was racing, he must be sure to create legitimacy by having bills of sale which, if necessary, he could present, meaning he must buy at least a small quantity of each commodity at the village grocery store. Ten pounds of potatoes and five pounds each of fish, flour and fat, a dozen eggs, some salt and a small bottle of vinegar should do the trick, he calculated.