The Rose of Singapore (38 page)

“Why the hurry?”

“Did you ever hear about Sir Henry Gurney?”

“I've heard his name mentioned. He was once the High Commissioner General of Malaya or something like that, wasn't he? Why?”

“Sir Henry was the High Commissioner of Malaya. He was also one of the first to be ambushed and murdered on the road to Fraser's Hill. Communist terrorists ordered him out of his car and then shot him dead at the side of the road. That was back in 1951, October the sixth to be precise.”

“So? That's history. What's the connection? Why am I being posted to Fraser's Hill?”

“Unfortunately, ever since Sir Henry's death, there have been frequent acts of terrorism in that area. An army staff car was ambushed there only last week and three British soldiers and a high-ranking officer were killed. Now, marksmen are being used to help guard the twice-weekly convoy that makes the run. You're one of those lucky sods that's been chosen to help guard Thursday's convoy.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake! This Thursday?”

“Yes. You'll be flying from Changi to Kuala Lumpur this coming Thursday morning, and from KL you'll travel by road to Fraser's Hill in the convoy. You're slated to arrive there Thursday evening.”

“Thanks very much,” said Peter dryly.

“I'll see you this afternoon, then?”

“Yeah. About three.”

“OK. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” muttered Peter. Returning the receiver to its cradle, he said resignedly, “Well, Rick, that's that.”

“Good Lord! What bloody bad luck,” said Rick, who had overheard every word of the conversation and who was equally shocked at the news. Then, optimistically, he said, “You may enjoy the change. I've heard stories about Fraser's Hill. It's a rest camp where all you do is eat, sleep and relax. No shagging, of course, but you can still knock a few balls around. You can play golf. The Sultan of Pahang had a nine hole golf course carved out of the jungle there, so I've been told.”

“I don't play golf! Can you picture me belting a stupid little ball around a golf course?”

“Well, not really. But I've heard there's also an English pub at the top of Fraser's Hill; darts and all that sort of twaddle, and real English beer. You'll probably have a damned good time up there.”

“A good time, my ass, Rick. Hell, don't you realize that going there will mean a month away from Rose? Now, every day is precious to me and they want to take away a whole bloody month of my remaining time here.” Angry now, Peter said, “A month, perhaps even longer. God knows how many men will sleep with Rose during that time.”

“Well, while you're away you'll have to forget her.”

“Don't be stupid, Rick. You know me better than that. How on earth do you expect me to forget her?”

“I don't know. But you'll have to forget her sooner or later, unless you marry her.”

Marry her. The two words sank into Peter's numbed brain. On a number of occasions he had asked Rose to marry him, but always she had refused his offer. Also, he knew only too well that if he put in an application to the commanding officer to get married to a Chinese woman, especially to a Chinese prostitute, he would be bundled aboard the next plane out of Changi. He'd probably never see her again; certainly not whilst still in the RAF. But, he thought, he would ask her again and, if she agreed, they could get married secretly. Why should he lose her forever? He could take care of her. He didn't convey his thoughts to Rick. The calendar lying on the desk caught his eye. Vaguely noticing a young and beautiful Chinese girl posing in a one-piece swimming costume on the cardboard cover, he picked it up, turned the pages to the month they were now in and began studying it, checking the dates.

“This leaves me only three days,” and turning to his friend, Peter said, “I was hoping never to see KL again. I hated the place, not the town so much, but the camp and the jungle. I'm not looking forward to this trip, Rick, not one bit.”

Rick shrugged, and wanting to get off the subject of the posting said, “Tell you what, Pete, after you've visited SHQ how about having a couple of beers together down in the village?”

“That's the best idea you've had all day, Rick,” answered Peter. “I'll tell Rose the bad news tomorrow.” And then a sudden thought occurred to him. Rick was also a marksman with a rifle. “Hey, Rick!” he began, and then he thought, ‘no, I'll say nothing.' He'd check the list of names of those bound for Fraser's Hill later, when he visited SHQ. “Let's hear some more about your Portuguese bit of stuff,” he said. “What happened last night? Where did you both go? I want to hear something that will cheer me up.”

Rick laughed and said, “OK, I'll make it juicy. I'm really looking forward to having a couple of beers with you later. It will be just like old times.”

Peter Saunders did not guess that Rick was thinking the same thoughts as himself, that he, too, was a marksman and was his name on that list of marksmen bound for Fraser's Hill.

22

Lai Ming studied the calendar hanging on the inside of her wardrobe door, and then looked at the clock on the bedside table. “Five o'clock,” she murmured. It was the evening of 9 September 1953.

Walking to the window, she gazed down upon a moving mass of humanity in the street below, where a celebration of some sort was taking place. There seemed to be people everywhere, shouting, laughing and singing; whilst others were trying to get through the crowd, pushing, shoving and hurrying, always hurrying. The city was alive, as if it were a giant anthill, its population scurrying hither and thither, forever on the move. Beggars were crying out for alms whilst shuffling along the street. Trishaw
wallahs
weaved their machines slowly in and out of the crowd. There were many shouting hawkers touting their wares, which lay displayed on sheets of newspaper and in boxes on the pavement, taking up much space on the five-foot way that lay directly beneath Lai Ming's window.

Sighing, Lai Ming looked towards the sky to where the sun was already slipping down over the western horizon, its final rays of that day casting red and silver dancing shadows wherever they touched. The sky had lost its blueness. Now, high in the sky, there was a greyness, though there were no clouds. But towards where the sun was sinking, the greyness gradually melted away to become not one but a diversity of colours: turquoise and silver streaked with orange and reds, and smudged with a bluish haze rising over the distant skyline.

The sounds from the street below grew fainter as her thoughts again turned to Peter. Her mind dwelt heavily upon him and upon last night when he had again asked her to marry him. Indeed, he had begged her to marry him, and at this very window where she now stood. However, as with his previous proposals of marriage, she had refused him. She loved Peter, of that she was sure, and except for her son, he meant more to her than anyone else in the world. But as for marrying Peter, it would not be fair to either of them. She, Chinese and almost ten years older than him, a widow, and a mother with a child sick with polio. A marriage between them could never be.

The National Health Service in England would provide excellent care for her son, Peter had repeatedly assured her. But she had no wish to leave Singapore, especially now that her son was beginning to show signs of recovery. Anyway, she told herself, she could not start life afresh in a cold and foreign land among strangers who could well be hostile towards her and her son. Everything in England would be so vastly different from Singapore: the culture, the food, the climate. Marrying Peter and travelling to England was too great a risk, especially now, after she had worked so hard, had repeatedly degraded herself but had watched with cold satisfaction the balance in her bank book growing with every passing month. Soon after being paid her first fee working as a prostitute she had decided upon her plan, and she must stick rigidly to that plan. Within a matter of months she hoped to have enough money to buy her first bungalow in one of the new suburbs springing up on the island. This she would rent to the British Government who would pay without question the amount she asked, and always on time. The British were always in need of good rentals for their civil servants and military personnel, and the house would be safe in their hands. She was determined to eventually buy three, four, or even more homes before retiring, and then live off her rentals. Marrying Peter and going with him to England was completely out of the question, yet, when the time came for his leaving her and returning to his homeland, she knew she would be heartbroken. She loved him far too much for him to simply say goodbye to her forever. She smiled to herself and thought, I love him, yet he is still a little boy full of childlike curiosity. He knows so little of life, yet he knew far less when we first met a whole year ago.

However, in ten years from now, especially if they were married, would he still want her, and would he still love her, she wondered. Or would he despise her and think what a fool he had been to marry a Chinese prostitute almost ten years his senior? What then? Would he shun her, cast her from his home and find himself a white girl his own age? And what would become of her son?

Even now, she knew Peter was far from being content. Indeed, at times he was miserable, lying silently at her side brooding, depressed and tormented, ashamed at how little he could do for her. Yet, without her ever asking for one dollar from him, he was spending most of his fortnightly pay on her in one way or another. She was so moved by his unselfishness in giving all his hard-earned savings from his fish and chip enterprise to the hospital to help pay for her son's medical expenses. His thoughtfulness caused her to cry, but not in his presence.

In many respects both were guilty of interrupting each other's path through life, she thought. She had, in her mind, abducted Peter, had seduced him and had led him from his proper path. But was it entirely her fault, she wondered. She loved him and took care of almost his every need. She had at all times been kind and loving towards him, and he needed her as much as she needed him, for companionship and a loving partner.

Now, she wondered, how would her relationship with Peter end? Before knowing him, her road had been much easier to follow and her goal definite. Now, she must still aim for that goal, but to navigate the road ahead had been made far more difficult. Soon, though, in about four months, Peter would have completed his overseas tour and would be returning to his home in England, then her road should be easier to follow again. She knew that when eventually he bade her that final farewell, she must put him from her mind, as all that would remain of him would be memories, nothing more. But she would always remember him, and treasure those memories.

Sighing, with Peter still in her thoughts, she moved from the window and, so as not to awaken the baby she held, she carefully sat down upon the edge of her bed. She did not expect Peter to leave Singapore on his exact tour expiration date, but that his departure from the island would be reprieved by a few weeks. The signing of the truce agreement just six weeks ago on 27 July, hopefully ending the Korean war, could be thanked for that, because for several months to come the troopships and military transport aircraft would be full to capacity with servicemen who had fought in Korea. Ex-prisoners of war and the wounded had first priority, followed by the tens of thousands of British army boys, the lucky ones who had come away from the battlefields unscathed. Already troopships were passing through Singapore full to capacity. The servicemen and women stationed in Singapore could wait. But most of these did not mind the wait. For the majority, Singapore was paradise.

Nevertheless, regardless of those few reprieved weeks, she knew that. Peter's time in Singapore with her was fast running out. Soon he would be at home with his mother and brothers. Would he forget her, she wondered. She wished so badly that he could stay with her. In just another year, perhaps two, she could retire comfortably from this dirty business, buy her dream home, and live with nice ordinary people outside the city. She would visit the theatres, the amusement worlds, the racetrack, parks and beaches, and no one then could smirk and whisper for all to hear, “She's a prostitute!”

Her thoughts again turned to Peter. Tomorrow he was going away for a whole month, perhaps longer, and worse, back into the jungle. She had prayed that he would not leave her during his last few months in Singapore, and she dreaded the thought of him returning to the jungle. Concerned for his safety, she knew he would be sick with malaria again. Also, she had heard that there were terrible dangers lurking in the jungle. But what was the use of worrying, she told herself. Other servicemen went into the jungles of Malaya and came out unharmed, so why shouldn't Peter? And why shouldn't his good friend Rick, who was going with him, come back unscathed, too? That Rick's name was on the same Movements order of those airmen detailed to go to Fraser's Hill was to her the only piece of good news Peter had brought her regarding his impending journey. She knew he had a good friend and companion in Rick, for although she had never met him, Peter often talked to her about Rick. She wondered how Rick's girlfriend was taking the news, and if she had the same dread she herself now felt.

“He must come back. He must …” she heard herself saying, when suddenly she heard his special knock on the door below. Excited more than normal by his arrival, she listened, hearing the old
amah's
gritty voice asking, “It is you, Chicko?” And she heard Peter's voice answer, “Momma.
Hoi mun ah. Fai di ah.
” ‘Open the door quickly' he had asked her, for it was evening, and already the provost police would be patrolling the streets. Lai Ming heard the rasping voice of the
amah
who was swearing loudly as she unlocked the door. The
amah
often swore at Peter, but always in jest and in a friendly manner. She had a fondness for Peter, and would allow no other man entry into the house when he was expected or whilst he was present, especially on this day, which she knew was a sad day for her mistress.