The Rose of Singapore (7 page)

“Thank you,” she said to him, and suddenly she felt confused no longer; Pop had made her mind up for her, just through those few words. Why not, she thought. She needed someone kind, someone she could trust.

She was about to speak when Peter got up from the table, and in a sad voice said to her, “Rose. I'm going to change,” and he gathered up his clothes from where he had left them on a nearby stool and disappeared into one of the changing rooms.

Ah Ling and Susy, having kept at a respectable distance by walking the beach during the long conversation, entered the shack moments after seeing Peter get up from the table.

“Well?” asked Ah Ling, intense curiosity plainly written on her face. “Is he going home with you?”

“No, I have no wish to take him to my home. He is a good boy,” said Lai Ming, “but he is very young.”

“If you don't want him, I will take him,” teased Ah Ling. “I will teach him fucky-fuck,” and she giggled and looked at Susy for her to say something.

She did. “Ming, he is young, but you need a boy to call your own. And he looks to be a good boy.”

“I am sure he is,” Lai Ming said, almost in a whisper.

“Well, why not enjoy him? I can see by his face that he will respect you as a friend, as well as be a good lover,” said Ah Ling.

“You are right, Ah Ling, and you are a good friend. You are both good friends,” she said, startled by her own admission. “I will speak to him, and I will surprise him,” she said.

Her heart was pounding when Peter, looking sad and rejected, emerged from the changing room and joined the three girls at the table. Lai Ming waited for him to sit down, which he did, opposite her. Then, taking his hand in hers she stroked the back of it with her fingers. “Peter, I have changed my mind,” she said softly. “I would like to go to the cinema to see that picture with you. What is the name of the picture? I forget.”

Speechless, Peter could only stare at her in disbelief.

“Well?” she asked, a gentle smile playing on her face as she looked into his bewildered eyes.

“‘The African Queen'!” Peter spluttered. And now, suddenly filled with relief and happiness, he exclaimed, “I don't believe you, Rose. What happened?”

“I told you, I changed my mind,” Lai Ming answered quietly, her soft eyes not moving from his.

“Oh, God!” Peter gasped, “Rose, I just don't know what to say. Suddenly you've made me the happiest man in the world.”

“I am glad for you,” Lai Ming answered, again very quietly, and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Shall we go this evening?” asked Peter.

“Why not?” A lock of black hair fell across her brow. Lifting a hand she deftly swept it back over her head. “Yes, I would like to go to the pictures with you this evening,” she said.

“That's fantastic!” Peter exclaimed. Elated, he said, “And after the pictures, I'll take you to dinner, and we'll have cocktails together, and maybe we'll dance.”

Lai Ming smiled at his enthusiasm. “You make me laugh, Peter,” she answered. “You make everything sound so wonderful. I know we shall enjoy spending this evening together.”

Susy, listening to the conversation, said in Chinese to Lai Ming, “Now that you two love birds have decided what you are going to do, we must go because it's getting late, and soon it will be dark. We must return to the city.”

“Yes, you are right, it is time for us to change and go,” said Lai Ming. She got up from the table and, accompanied by her two friends, walked towards the changing rooms.

5

Changi Village had only the one road running through it, a tarmacked road bordered on both sides by a strip of unpaved land, stony and dusty when the weather was dry but full of muddy potholes and wide pools of water when it rained, which was often. On these strips of unpaved land huge shade trees grew. Their main purpose, though, were as parking places for vans owned by local merchants and the few cars which visited the village; the public generally used the frequent and excellent bus service to and from Changi and the main city of Singapore. Planked boardwalks, about eight feet wide and raised a few inches from the ground, ran much the length of the street. These provided pedestrians protection from the mud and the dirt beneath, and upon which they could walk and browse at leisure the varied open shopfronts lining both sides of the street. There was much to see: the Indian emporiums, Chinese clothing and tailoring shops, china and glassware shops, and those which sold ivory artefacts, animals carved from mahogany, leather suitcases, picturesque wall mats, chess sets and music boxes. There was something to suit everyone's taste.

On one side of the street were several bars and eating places, some catering to the palates of the local population, the others to the many military personnel and their families visiting the village. Those which catered to the locals were mostly out of bounds to all British military personnel, but Peter Saunders could not understand why this was so, especially as they appeared to be clean and well-run establishments. Perhaps, he thought, it was a leftover from the old colonial days when the white man considered himself superior; it was just ‘not done' to mingle and fraternize with the ‘natives'.

On this evening, although the tarmacked road had already steamed itself dry, the parking places were muddy and filled with pools of rainwater. Saturday evening, early yet, but in an hour or so the boardwalks would be alive with throngs of people wandering up and down that two-hundred yards of shopfronts, enjoying the vibrant noises, gaudiness and exotic smells. Changi Village was not a residential area but simply a district where people of many ethnic backgrounds—Chinese, Indians, Malays and Caucasians—came for pleasure and to shop. Everyone, or so it appeared, coexisted with easygoing tolerance for one another.

At the seaward end of the village, Peter Saunders, accompanied by Lai Ming and her two girlfriends, left the already darkened beach path and stepped into the brilliantly lit area surrounding the police compound and customs offices. Across the street was the Changi bus terminal and taxi rank. Peter had already decided that he would take the three girls by taxi the fourteen miles to the city, but first he had to return to camp to shower and change his clothes. He would wear his brown slacks and a sharkskin shirt, both painstakingly ironed to perfection by him, the same style of clothing worn by most military other-rank personnel when off camp in the Far East.

While he went off to change, Lai Ming and her two friends would wait for him at Changi Eating House. Next door was Jong Fatt's provisions store situated directly opposite the taxi rank. Peter made sure the three were comfortably seated at a table overlooking the street, ordered them coffee and from there took a taxi the mile or so back to the catering block where he instructed the Chinese driver to wait. Dashing madly up the four flights of stone steps to the third storey, he threw off his beach clothes, hurriedly washed, and then quickly donned his walking-out clothes.

“Hey! Saunders! Where are you off to in such a bloody hurry?” shouted one of the cooks from halfway down the billet.

“I've got a date with a lovely Chinese girl,” Peter shouted back breathlessly. “I'm taking her to the pictures.”

“Not one of the Saturday afternoon whores who frequent the beach is she?” shouted back the other.

“No. She's a real lady,” Peter answered.

“Well, watch out she doesn't give you the clap,” the other sang out as Peter dashed from the billet. In his eagerness he almost flew down the four flights of steps and into the open door of the waiting taxi. In less than half an hour from when he had left the three girls, he had rejoined them, finding them completely at their ease, talking and laughing among themselves and still sipping coffee at Changi Eating House.

“Shall we go?” Peter asked Lai Ming.

“Yes,” she replied. Her two girlfriends giggled and joked, speaking Chinese words that Peter did not understand. He was not sure whether Lai Ming was amused or annoyed by their remarks. She said to him, “Come! It is late,” and together the four left the coffee shop and clambered into the waiting taxi. Peter found himself snugly squeezed into the back seat between Lai Ming and Ah Ling. Susy sat up front.

“Singapore,” Peter instructed the driver, indicating that he intended to be taken to the main town on the island.

His face expressionless, the driver mumbled his acknowledgement, the taxi moved forward and soon was speeding rapidly away from Changi Village.

On arriving at the outskirts of the city, Lai Ming gave instructions to the driver, who nodded, slowed and weaved in and out among the dense traffic. Ah Ling was the first to alight. The taxi stopped at the entrance to a brightly-lit amusement park blasting out Chinese music from giant amplifiers. Ah Ling giggled when she said, “Goodbye, Peter. Have a good time.” And he watched as she got out of the car and entered the place through a garishly lit turnstile. Minutes later the taxi entered a street where foreboding red, white and black ‘OUT OF BOUNDS TO HIS MAJESTIES FORCES' signs were clearly visible. Peter had no idea as to which part of the city he was in, knowing that never before had he ventured into this street, and he became slightly nervous at being in an ‘out of bounds' area.

Two streets further on, Susy said it was time for her to also leave their company. She smiled sweetly at Peter and held out a dainty hand for him to shake. Instead, he kissed it. She giggled and said that he and Lai Ming would surely enjoy each other's company. Saying, “Goodbye,” she alighted from the taxi and disappeared among the multitude of people thronging the sidewalk.

Finally Peter was alone with Lai Ming. Smiling to her, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

At a junction in the road there was another ‘OUT OF BOUNDS' sign, and above it, a street sign which read Lavender Street. The taxi turned into Lavender Street and sped along for some considerable distance before turning right into a narrower, less busy street where a sign read Bendemeer Road. Less than a hundred yards farther, Lai Ming requested the driver to stop.

Peter looked out the taxi window to view a dilapidated, wood and stone, two-storey block of flats. Long bamboo poles alive with fluttering laundry reached out from windows on the two upper floors. The building looked very old.

“Is this where you live, Rose?” Peter asked, apprehensively.

“Yes,” Lai Ming replied flatly. “Please. You must come quickly. Many military police patrol here.”

“At this time of the day?”

“Yes. You must be careful not be seen by them. I will take you to my apartment where you'll be safe and can remain while I ready myself for the cinema.”

Paying the driver, Peter then looked in all directions, but seeing no sign of the feared military police, he alighted. Hastily he followed Lai Ming through a short, narrow alleyway until they reached a green painted door in a red brick wall. “This is the side door,” said Lai Ming to Peter. “It is safer for you to come this way.” She knocked on the door and called out a name in Chinese. The door creaked open, and confronting them was a grey-haired, gaunt, sickly faced woman who was no more than four-feet in height, clad in a pajama-type costume of black cotton trousers and jacket, a
samfoo.

“This is Wan Ze, my
amah,
” said Lai Ming to Peter. “She is a servant of the building, but I pay her extra to take care of my needs.”

“Oh,” said Peter, mystified but less nervous of the situation. However, he said nothing more and followed her into the building.

Once inside, Lai Ming led the way up a short flight of narrow linoleum-covered stairs to the next floor, where there was a bamboo door, which she unlocked and slid to one side. “Please, come in,” she said. And when he thanked her, she said, “Welcome to my home,” and ushered him into a small but surprisingly clean and tidy bed-sitting room. Obviously, the inside of the building is better maintained than the outside, thought Peter.

“Please, sit down. I will make tea,” Lai Ming was saying, a wisp of a smile hovering on her face.

“Thank you,” said Peter, sitting down upon a wicker chair, one of a matching pair at two sides of a small glass-topped wicker table. He was no longer nervous, just curious, so that when Lai Ming left him he looked at all that was around him. Dominating the room was a king-sized bed with two clean, very white sheets on it, the top one neatly turned back, and without a wrinkle to be seen on either. At the head of the bed, stretching its whole width, were two white pillows with the words ‘GOOD MORNING' embroidered across each in pink and green silk; and in a corner of each pillow was embroidered a blue and yellow bird which resembled a swallow in flight. A glass-covered bedside table stood at the head of each side of the bed. And against the wall at the far side of the room was a large, crescent-shaped mirror overlooking a glass-topped dressing table on which lay an assortment of make-up paraphernalia. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a lacquered wardrobe with its door ajar, a Chinese calendar hanging on the inside of it. Peter could see many colourful articles of ladies clothing hanging from a rail inside the wardrobe, and many pairs of dainty shoes in two tidy rows covering its whole floor. All the furniture appeared to be fairly new and modern, and spotlessly clean floral-patterned linoleum covered the floor. I like it here, it's cosy, Peter decided, already feeling at ease and completely at home.

He heard water running and the clink of china coming from below as Lai Ming prepared tea in the downstairs kitchen. Also, he could hear Chinese voices, Chinese music, and the rattle of pots and pans, sounds filtering in through thin walls. It must be the neighbours, thought Peter. He could also hear the sounds of traffic passing along the street below, outside the bedroom's one window. Peter picked up a Chinese magazine from the table and thumbed through it, looking at the pictures and studying the Chinese characters of which he recognized few. He looked up, relieved when Lai Ming returned to the room and came to where he sat. She was carrying a round wicker tray, which she placed near him, on the table. On it was a floral bone china teapot, matching teacups, a sugar bowl, a plate of assorted biscuits, dainty cloth napkins, and two silver teaspoons. Lai Ming smiled graciously at Peter. “You are my honoured guest,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I will pour you tea.”