The Rose of Singapore (28 page)

On his return to the catering block he hastily took off his shorts, filled his glass with beer, lit a fag, and said, “OK, fellas, let's play cards. Remember, we've all been here for at least the past hour.”

Within five minutes three RAF police corporals arrived and towered over the card players.

“OK, Brent! Get your clothes on! You're coming with us to the guardroom,” said one of the police corporals officiously. He was a newcomer to Changi, putty-white and obviously just off the boat.

Everyone in the card party looked up in feigned surprise at the intrusion by the three military police, and at Christmas time too.

“Why? What for, Corp?” asked Ginger Brent.

“You know what for. For being in the WRAF block.”

“Me? In the WRAF block? What are you talking about?”

“You were seen in the WRAF block just minutes ago.”

“Are you serious? I've been playing cards here for over an hour. I haven't left the game, have I, chaps? Well, I did go for a quick piss, but only as far as the latrine.”

“He's been playing cards with us,” said Cleaver Jennings.

“He has.”

“That's true.”

“He's never left the game,” chirped up others.

“It's Christmas, so would any of you chaps fancy a beer?” asked Cleaver, looking innocently up at the three uniform-clad policemen.

“Just get your clothes on, Brent” repeated the unsmiling police corporal. The other two police corporals were standing aside, aloof and saying nothing. They knew Brent only too well, and they knew better than to mess around with any member of the catering section; that's if they wished to eat well. At this moment they preferred to allow the newcomer to Changi to handle this tricky situation by himself.

Eventually Ginger Brent, still adamantly denying having been anywhere near the WRAF block, accompanied the three police corporals to the guardroom, where he was ordered into a cell and promptly interrogated by an SIB sergeant. Again Ginger Brent swore blind that he had never once left the catering block that afternoon.

Soon, dozens of WRAFs reported to the guardroom and identified Ginger Brent as being the intruder. But an equal number of WRAFs also showed up, who, for various reasons, didn't wish to see Ginger Brent get into serious trouble and denied having seen him.

Finally, Maggy Smith, the fat and jovial flight sergeant, arrived panting and puffing at the guardroom to have her say. “Yes, the airman that I saw in the WRAF block most certainly looked like Brent. He was ginger-haired, fat, a real slob,” she admitted. “But, no, it was not Brent. Brent doesn't have the other airman's good looks.” She didn't mention that on those occasions when she was orderly sergeant and making her rounds of the airmens' mess, Brent or one of the other cooks usually fixed her a grilled steak, eggs and chips, and allowed her to enjoy her meal in the privacy of the little dining room adjacent to the kitchen, that was reserved for members of the catering section.

On his release from the guardroom, with no charges preferred against him, Airman Ginger Brent returned to his card game and his Tiger beer. He didn't collect his ten dollar winnings from those who had bet against him because to a man they had stood behind him.

As for Flight Sergeant Maggy Smith, whenever she passed the servery when Ginger Brent was on duty, he would yell out, “Hey! Flight! I've seen yours!” And she would laugh and wag a disapproving finger at him.

Further west, in the city of Singapore, the Yuletide spirit was no less in evidence.

“O come, all ye faithful,

Joyful and triumphant,

O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.”

On hearing the carol singers, Peter Saunders, on a sudden impulse, alighted from the over-crowded bus at Geylang Road. He hadn't heard carol singers for such a long time, not since celebrating Christmas two years ago at his home in Plymouth. After listening to the carol singers, he would take a taxi to Rose's home. The fare would be the same two dollars whether he took the taxi from the bus terminal at the Capitol Theatre in North Bridge Road or from here in the market square at Geylang, the last stop before the bus continued into the city centre.

Milling crowds surrounded the group of young carol singers, teenage Chinese boys and girls smartly dressed in blue neatly-pressed school uniforms. Most likely they were students from the nearby Catholic College, thought Peter. Alone, he stood among a vast crowd of happy people of mixed ages and many races, listening to the young voices of the choir. How sweetly and sincerely they sang, their open carol sheets held high in front of uplifted, joyous faces.

Half the population of Singapore appeared to be here in this market square, although, in fact, the same crowded conditions prevailed throughout much of the city. Europeans, Malays, Indians, Eurasians and Chinese jostled one another good-humouredly, shaking one another's hand while wishing each other, ‘Merry Christmas.'

Goodwill towards men, thought Peter Saunders, with considerable reservation. Just two days ago he had received a letter from his mother in which she had written that Percy Savage, his best friend at Plymstock Modern Secondary School, had recently sailed with the Dorsetshire Regiment to Korea. Peter wondered how all those other unfortunates, the soldiers of the United Nations fighting at that moment on the bloody battlefields of Korea, were faring.

On this Christmas Day evening, Geylang was a tumult of noise—of shouting, laughing and singing, the blare and shriek of cardboard toy horns and trumpets, brass cymbals crashing and gongs sounding and Chinese firecrackers exploding among the crowd. And wherever Peter Saunders turned, he heard the same joyous greeting, ‘A Merry Christmas to you.' The choir was now lustily singing, ‘God rest you merry, gentlemen.'

When the choir finished the carol, Peter hailed a cab, and moments later he was speeding away from Geylang towards Kallang airport and Kallang Road, a route illuminated by a million flashing, neon-lit advertising signs. The cab hooted a passage through masses of people gathered around the entrance to the Happy World Amusement Park. Then, with screeching tyres, it raced up Kallang Road, only to be stopped by traffic lights at the crossroads where the city gasworks stood. When the light changed to green, the cab immediately pulled away at a fast speed. Swerving around a stationary trolley bus, it turned sharply to the left into Crawford Street, the homes and work places of the city's ship builders. Turning to the right, it entered the beginning of long North Bridge Road, then made a left into Sumbawa Road, returned to Kallang Road, and finally entered Lavender Street. Every time Peter journeyed by taxi to Lavender Street the driver seemed to take a different route, but he didn't mind, he liked the change of scenery, and the fare was always two dollars.

As they had been all day, Peter's anxious thoughts were on Rose. A month had passed since Peter had last seen Rose and for a month he had agonized over whether to see her again or not. Part of him felt repulsed at the very thought of sharing Rose with other men but he couldn't hide from the fact that he was still very much in love with her. What would she be doing at this moment, he wondered. Would she be putting on her make-up, preparing herself for an evening soliciting at the Butterfly Club. Had she missed him?

The cab swerved violently to avoid hitting a trishaw, which without warning had turned and slowly cruised across its path. The taxi driver cursed the trishaw
wallah
in Chinese, bringing damnation upon the head of the unfortunate wretch, and shouting out the window that the man was the illegitimate son of a loused-up whore. Peter smiled to himself, thinking how strange it was that these people swore so much at one another, vulgar words that meant little to them, yet, as with this driver, their usage appeared to sooth aggravated nerves.

A provost military police jeep approached from the opposite direction, a British army patrol, with a couple of watchful, stern and unfriendly-looking redcaps seated behind the windshield. Not taking any chances, Peter slid lower in the back seat of the cab. He'd already passed a black signboard with ‘OUT OF BOUNDS TO HIS MAJESTIES FORCES' written on it big red letters. Peter knew that the police could neither arrest a serviceman when in a moving vehicle nor legally raid the dwelling of a prostitute or any other abode in an out-of-bounds area without a search warrant. Nevertheless, Peter tried never to take unnecessary risks.

The redcaps in their jeep passed him by just as another military police patrol approached, this time a wagon manned by a naval shore patrol, the occupants clad completely in white—obviously they were sailors from Singapore's British Royal Naval Base. Peter sank even lower in his seat, sliding down directly behind the driver's back, noticing as he did so a boil on the man's neck that had turned septic. Pitying the man, Peter forgot the patrol, which passed without loss of speed.

It had just turned eight o'clock; it wasn't yet dark, but dimming. Here there were neither additional bright lights nor unusually big crowds, the Christmas spirit in Lavender Street being at a minimum. The car's tyres squealed alarmingly as the taxi swerved into Bendemeer Road at a frighteningly high speed, sped a very short distance then skidded to a stop.

Another crazy Chinese taxi driver, thought Peter.

“OK Johnny?” beamed the driver, turning his head and showing off a mouthful of gold teeth.

“Yes, thanks.” It being Christmas, and Peter feeling like the last of the big spenders, he pushed three dollars into the man's hand. “Merry Christmas,” he said. He was now only steps away from the alley which led to Lai Ming's home.

“Thanks. You have girlfriend here, Johnny?” the taxi driver asked.

“Yes.”

The driver grinned in a friendly manner. “Many boys have girlfriend here. This house make plenty good business for me,” he said.

Sucking in his breath, Peter looked at the man with thoughts incommunicable raging in his mind, perceiving lucidly the many callers to this house. A knot seemed to pull taut within him, and pulsating through his muddled brain he repeatedly heard the words, ‘Many boys come here. Plenty good business.' Peter's eyes, icy cold in a suddenly angry face, clashed with those of the driver's.

Startled, the driver averted his gaze from those angry eyes, wondering how his few words spoken merely as idle conversation to his passenger could bring forth such enmity.

However, just as suddenly as Peter had felt anger he relaxed and sighed. “Thanks for the ride, Johnny,” he found himself good-humouredly saying in Chinese.

The driver, noting the sudden change and surprised by his passenger's knowledge of Chinese, quickly took a philosophical view of the situation. Now he could make amends for anything wrong he had said. “A good girl, that one, Johnny. All taxi boys are friend of Ming. She has a big heart and a true smile. We know her well,” he said, in Cantonese.

Peter, nodding his head in agreement, replied, “Yes, she is a good girl.” He gave the serious-faced driver a wry grin. “Perhaps you and I will meet again one day,” he said, lifting a hand in a salute of friendship as he stepped from the cab. “Cheers, Johnny. Merry Christmas.”

The driver's head nodded in the affirmative, answering the salute by a wave of his hand and a parting farewell grin which displayed again his mouthful of gold teeth, Peter counted six but felt sure there were more. The cab moved away, quickly gathering speed as it headed towards the junction of Boon Keng Road. “Good boy for Ming,” the driver muttered to himself. “Bit crazy but good boy.”

Peter Saunders looked down the length of the short alleyway, and then up “at the shuttered window on the upper floor, the third window on the left above the sidewalk pillar. Up there was her room, quiet, in darkness, and strangely fascinating and mysterious. Suddenly he became keyed up and nervous. Supposing a man was with her! What would he do and what would he say, he wondered. Anxiously, he walked down the alleyway until he reached the green door at the far end. Softly he knocked his usual knock, the knock Rose had taught him. Then he waited, nervously and with a pounding heart.

Creaking on rusty hinges, the big door swung slowly ajar, just enough for Peter to see the wizened face of Wan Ze, the old
amah,
peering at him through the gloom of the kitchen darkness. At first she appeared as if puzzled. Then, on realizing that it was Peter standing outside the door, she opened it fully, a big smile suddenly appearing on her wrinkled face. She looked just the same as when he had last seen her a month ago. Her greying long hair was done up in a bun on the crown of her head, and she was wearing her usual garb, a black
samfoo,
the pajama-type costume comprising loose black cotton trousers and a jacket with a collar buttoned at the neck.

“Hello, Momma. How's tricks?” Peter greeted the old woman in English. He then said in Chinese. “Good evening, Momma. How are you?”

Surprised at seeing him, the old
amah's
face cracked into so many wrinkles it became one mass of tiny creases. She had liked Peter from the very first moment she met him. He had always spoken nicely to her, in English that she did not understand, but also in Chinese, which he seemed to have no difficulty in learning. Always respectful to her, he was never rude in his speech, nor did he make rude gestures at her like so many of Ming's clients. And he was never drunk or rough. Well, except for that one occasion but that was understandable under the circumstances, she had decided. What she infinitely more appreciated, and what was more beneficial to her, was this boy's thoughtful generosity, his gifts of money to buy food for her and for her ailing, bedridden son who had tuberculosis. In addition, this boy had regularly given her his twice-monthly ration of free cigarettes, plus perfumed soap, chocolates and many other little gifts that were far beyond her financial means. Sardines in tins he had often brought her, and tins of herrings too, some in oil and others in tomato sauce; delicacies shared by her and her dying son, luxuries she could never afford. He had also brought her eggs, packets of tea and tinned fruit. Seldom had he missed bringing her a gift of some sort on his frequent visits to Ming, her mistress.