In My Wildest Dreams

by Leslie Thomas

  But the night diminished, we left the train and the morning saw us crossing the glassy channel between the mainland and Penang, sampans, junks and large ships all around. The island rose beautifully into the paper sky. We could see its white buildings and the beaches embroidering the green bays, and behind them the hills rose lucidly. Spices, scents and sounds drifted from the land. I wondered what time the City Lights opened.

  XII

  It almost did not work this time either. There was I, eighteen and determined to lose, abandon, throw away my unwanted virginity, and the first night I was in Penang I fell in damned love again. Spruced, brushed, prepared for the wickedest of the world's women, we travelled into Georgetown and after some jovial beers climbed the stairs of a restaurant for chop, egg and chips. Sitting in the place were two young girls of film star loveliness, glowing and blonde. They were sisters, members of a Penang Eurasian family who liked to entertain young soldiers at their beach house. Breathlessly they talked with us, their fawn shoulders rippling, their bodices full, their eyes blatant. After the meal they invited us to their home to meet their parents and play some records. My comrades, still intent on the cheap thrills of the City Lights, were sidling towards the door. But I, the blind and ever-hopeful romantic, could see only what I imagined was a certain promise in the smile of the older sister. Her eyes were like pigeon's eggs. I was lost. Yes, of course, I would enjoy going to their house. The others were tugging me towards the door and a night of sin, but I told them nonchalantly that I would see them the next day. After all the City Lights would always be there; like a second parachute.

  So my fellow adventurers left for the illuminations and the ladies, and I walked home with the two sisters to their house by the shore. As we strolled I held the hands of both. The parents, a handsome and wealthy couple, greeted me as they might greet some new stray to a house where strays were welcomed. We drank Cola-Cola and listened to Kay Starr and Frank Sinatra on the gramophone and at eleven o'clock the elder girl, whom I had decided to choose, walked to the gate with me and kissed me luxuriously on the lips. I could smell mimosa in her hair, or it might have been a shrub hanging over from the garden.

  'We always attend the football matches,' she mentioned. Her voice was throbbing but strangely official. 'The boys from the leave centre play every week against the Penang team. I'll be there tomorrow. Will you?' Certainly I would. We kissed again and her heavily lounging bosom, under the embroidered blouse, pushed against my new cream sharkskin shirt. God, it was wonderful. Returning to the leave centre I did a whirling, romantic, waltz in the empty road. As I did so a lady, furtive and dark, slipped around a corner and asked me if I would like a good time. 'No thanks,' I said like the lofty prig I was, 'I've just had one.'

  'Hope you didn't get the pox,' the dark lady warned. 'There's plenty of poxes around.'

  They were not where I'd been, I thought blissfully. Jesus, I had to get in that football team tomorrow. There she would be on the touchline, beautiful tears of pride in her eyes, waving her silk scarf, jumping up and down in her summer dress, her bosom bouncing as I fooled the full backs and scored spectacularly. What a twerp!

  To my gratification there was no difficulty about getting into the leave centre football team. The man who arranged it (when I got him out of bed that night) said sleepily that there were always places because so many men got drunk or ended up staying away with women. I went to bed and thought of Dolores, or whatever she was called. That scent, that smile, that promise. At four in the morning two of my comrades returned, one so drunk he could not climb into bed and so spent the night on the floor. The other, Smudge Smith, took off his clothes and lay groaning. 'Fuckin' 'ell,' he murmured in the dimness. 'My love muscle's like a lump of liver, Les.'

  I informed him of the prevalence of various poxes and said I had to get my rest. "Ow did you get on then?' he enquired. 'Get your leg across?'

  Brusquely I told him that it was not like that. But it would be. 'It's there, all right, Smudge,' I breathed. 'But it has to be right for her, see. But it's there. She's coming to see me play football tomorrow.'

  'Football?' he muttered. 'Gor blimey, football. I'm keeping away from that lark. If anybody kicked me in these balls they'd fall off.'

  My participation in the soccer match the following day was brief and sordid. The game was scarcely in progess when a cubic Mongolian half-back kicked my legs from under me when I was glancing towards the touchline to see if my beloved had yet arrived. It was both blatant and vicious but no one else seemed to witness it, least of all the Chinese referee who was enthusiastically keeping up with the ball at the remote end of the field. The wryly named Sporting Club scored and it was not until the teams were trooping back towards the centre of the field for the new kick-off that someone noted that I was curled like a wood-louse in the home penalty area. The moonlike Mongolian's expression never changed as I accused him of breaking my ankle. A faint cheer wimpered from the small crowd as I was carried off by two of the opposing side and it was only when this was happening that I saw the delectable Dolores, laughing and lolling on the arm of a second lieutenant in the Medical Corps. She seemed to have some difficulty in recalling who I was and the officer added injury to the insult by giving my swelling ankle a heavy prod and diagnosing that I would be lame for the rest of my leave.

  Miserably I was transported to the hospital where the joint was embalmed. It was a bad sprain they said, but cheerfully confirmed that it would be better in time for me to get back to duty in Singapore. Hobbling about the leave centre, anger and despair mixing inside, I decided to tell Dolores what I thought of her perfidity. Smudge was lying on his bed in the room when I returned to get some coins for the telephone. I told him how my ankle was throbbing.

  'Nowhere as much as my love muscle, mate,' he groaned.

  'I'm fed up with hearing about your bloody love muscle,' I said nastily. 'You've got a dose, I expect.'

  'Nah,' he retorted. 'It was 'er teef. She 'ad teef like a wood saw.'

  Moaning slightly I went out into the mocking sunshine, dragging my parcelled leg. It was all damned well passing me by again. Christ, now I could not even dance. Furiously I dialled the number of the house on the beach. Yes, Dolores was in and she was expecting my call. My foolish heart began to beat harder at this and even more violently when she came on the telephone with honeyed condolences for my condition. No, that young officer was only a tennis friend. She would love me to go to her house again. Yes, that night. We could play some records and drink Cola-Cola. She had the new Rosemary Clooney.

  As dusk drifted over Penang I dragged my lump of a foot up the gravel path of her home, making a track in the stones. They had a large and randy dog which throughout the evening kept trying to have sex with my ankle. I knew how he felt. When I was gaseous with Cola-Cola and weary of Sinatra, Clooney and the rest (although I did clumsily try to jive with her to 'Put another nickle in . . . in the nickelodeon . . .' sung by Teresa Brewer) she said she would walk me to the moonlit gate. Her eyes were dreamy, her lips wet, her breasts protruded with promise. We reached the gate, below the mimosa. I picked a blossom and she put it in her hair. We kissed, engulfing each other and, getting my balance on my uninjured leg, I slid my hand up to the flank of her bosom. She stopped kissing and drew back. 'Don't please,' she requested softly. 'Please don't spoil it. Not now.'

  Spoil it! Spoil it! Spoil what? Seething, I punched the air as I hobbled away from the gate. I heard her swaying back down the gravel path and close the door of the house. Oh God, why did I have to drag romance wherever I went, even to the Orient? I was still cursing when the lurking lady I had met the first night crept from her private shadow and accosted me. Briskly I refused and dragged my leg on. 'You got poxes,' she called after me with a cackling laugh. 'That's what you got boy, poxes.'

  When I reached the City Lights three sailors were coming out with six girls, every one giggling, the sailors with their hands on bottoms and other parts. In my anxiety to get in I dropped my entry fee an
d picked it up with much pain and difficulty. Then, like a thin monster, 1 dragged myself through the rosy smoke and into the wonderland of iniquity and fulfilment. My time for holding hands, for kissing at gates, was finished. Here, in all its tawdry hues and raucous noise was the real and certain world.

  I stomped around the dim perimeter looking for my friends. The girls, Chinese, Eurasian, some Indian and Malay, sat primly at the edge of the huge dance floor, waiting for partners. Other swirled to the music in the sweating clutches of British servicemen. At the distant end, like rowdy ghosts, the band moaned through the haze.

  Hobbling to the bar I discovered Smudge hanging onto the handle of a beer mug as if it were his sole means of support. 'Give 'er it tonight then, did you?' he asked, smugly certain of the truth.

  'Shut up,' I said testily. 'Would I be here if I did?'

  'Thought you was just coming to see what the real thing is like.'

  'I am.'

  'My gonga still hurts,' he confessed. 'I reckon your ankle will be better before my gonga is. I need a doctor.'

  'From what you told me, son,' I said. 'You want a dentist.'

  He was not upset. "Er teef,' he repeated. 'Them teef.'

  Decently he bought me a Tiger Beer and I had just leaned back on the bar giving the impression of an aficionado surveying the prospects when a small bow-legged woman waddled over to me.

  'Big dick,' she began as if she had known me for years. 'You wanna buy a nice pussy cat?'

  Smudge gave me an encouraging push and before I knew where I was I was performing a tango with this scrofulous creature. She was agile, like a circus tumbler, whisking this way and that while I towed my hurting leg after her. She tried to press the key to her house onto me and confidently promised a night that would not only be memorable but work out economically as well.

  'My leg,' I pleaded. 'I can't because of my leg, see.'

  'You no do it with your leg,' she said as though correcting a serious design fault. 'We lying down, you let leg hang from bed.'

  I told her that I had been medically advised to give it a few days' rest and we parted less than amicably. While we had been dragging around the floor I was glancing around to see what the other girls were like; there was no denying they were a pretty poor crowd. 'Late, that's why,' judged Smudge. 'You ought to 'ave got in early. All the good 'uns 'ave gone.'

  But not quite all. I saw her sitting near the corner of the room, wearing a white blouse and a tight black skirt, with her shining Chinese hair piled high, her face and her eyes reposed. In my anxiety to get to her before any of the other prowling squaddies I hit my ankle against a table and let out an agonised howl. Her eyes flicked towards me and she smiled.

  'Dance?' She looked surprised at my enquiry. 'Me hat check girl.' She looked at her watch. 'But finished now. You got ticket?'

  'Stay there,' I pleaded. 'Don't move. Don't go off, will you?'

  'I wait,' she promised and she did. When I returned with a two-dollar book of tickets she was standing at the edge of the floor tapping her foot to the music. All the girls were taxi dancers and you had to have a ticket before you could travel around the floor with them. It was a little like getting on a bus.

  There were four tickets in each book but she deftly plucked the whole lot from me and slid them down the front of her dress. 'You don't dance with no more girls tonight, all right?' she said.

  'No. No, of course not. Mind my foot, please.'

  'We dance slow,' she promised. 'No hurt foot then.'

  We closed against each other and began to move through the cloying smoke, through the noise and the perfume and the sweat, the beery laughs and the raised retorts. A girl fell on the floor and another began to kick a drunken soldier on his shins. I hugged my partner protectively to me, felt her breasts indent against my shirt. Her lips went to my perspiring cheek and she rubbed the lipstick off with her nose. 'You come home with me,' she said quietly. 'I good girl and clean. I cost you fifteen dollars. Okay?'

  'Okay,' I mumbled from the vicinity of her neck. My heart was hammering. The feel and the smell of her filled me. True romance was here. The real thing at last.

  Her name was sometimes Rita. It was also sometimes Doris and then sometimes Veronica. Much depended on the female star of the current film at the Georgetown cinema. Later, when she arrived in Singapore, she kept to the same simple system, Rita Hayworth, Doris Day, Veronica Lake (for whom, in addition, she attempted a hairstyle that hid one eye) and other beauties were honoured in their turn. Although I got to know her very well, on an amateur basis in addition to her normal professional life, I have never remembered her true name. One Wednesday afternoon, in Singapore, during the army's traditional and jealously guarded recreation half-day, I spent some time on her sunlit bed embroidered with a giggling dragon, reciting her Chinese name under her instruction. But soon it had slipped my mind again. In The Virgin Soldiers I called her Juicy Lucy. The story of our first fifteen-dollar night together is told as honestly as it will ever be in that novel:

  It was not so much a bedroom as a storeroom, Lucy was apparently a collector. Of anything. There were dolls, fans, and three stuffed poodles. Boxes and trinkets, books and comics, gramophone records, lubricant jelly, three sizes of contraceptives, a picture of Mao Tse-tung and a beautifully embroidered plaque saying: 'Happy New Year from the Gordon Highlanders'.

  . . . He had been standing, an enchanted spectator, and was about to move forward into what he imagined must be the opening hold, when she rose coolly from the bed and began flopping her hair about in front of the mirror. Her blouse buttons were still free and as she raised her hands to her black hair, in that most graceful of all womanly movements, he could see her breasts attempting escape like prisoners trying to climb a wall. She pushed them back again with a pout. Then she smiled at him, a full professional smile in the mirror, all eyes and teeth, and simpered: 'You pay now. Then we have nice filthy time. Please fifteen dollars.'

  . . . After he had given her the dollars, he stood around awkwardly wondering what to do next, like a man waiting for casual labour. She looked at him peculiarly then moved away from the mirror and sat on the edge of the bed.

  'How you like me?' she enquired sweetly.

  'Oh,' he stammered, thinking she was awaiting instructions for the position she should assume. 'Just the usual.'

  'The usual?' she asked. 'What's usual? How you like me? I am pretty, yes?'

  'Yes, yes,' he hurried, annoyed at his mistake. 'You're very beautiful, Lucy.'

  . . . He fixed his starving, anxious gaze on her and scrambled forward in the crawl that infantrymen use over broken ground.

  When he was near, or thought he was near, he stabbed at her frantically and missed. It was painful. The second time he all but fell from the bed.

  . . . Brigg was sweating waterfalls. Where was it? Where in hell was it? Fancy hiding the bloody thing under there. He wiped the perspiration from his eyes so he could see better. Then he made another huge lunge. This time he did a fantastic pole vault, hurting himself, and landed heavily on top of her. She was holding her breath expectantly and he knocked it all out of her.

  She started to be angry, but looked and saw he was crying. With a tender, involuntary movement, she brought him close to her with his cheek against her breast and the tears wetting both.

  'You cry?' she whispered in wonder. 'Why so rough, then cry?'

  'It's the first time,' he sniffed like a schoolboy.

  'The very first . . .'

  Lucy emitted a round little whoop, sitting stark upright as though she had a spring in the small of her back. Her slant eyes were round and glistening with amazement.

  'First time?' she repeated as though it were the Hidden Name of God. 'Never have before?'

  'Never,' he mumbled miserably, waiting to be tossed with scorn from the bed.

  A virgin,' she breathed unbelievingly. 'A little virgin soldier.'

  Juicy Lucy is, in fact, the name of an old American jazz tune. Just after writing the nov
el I was appearing on a television programme in New York when one of the technicians enquired if I were a jazz historian. He then told me the origin of the name. After the appearance of The Virgin Soldiers it surfaced in a number of forms; there was a pop group called Juicy Lucy and a number of restaurants adopted it, those dealing in nature foods, fruit and vegetable juices found it particularly apt. It also appeared for several seasons on a newsagent's board in Soho. It would have been pleasant to think that it was the same lady, but the passing years and the width of oceans made me come to the logical conclusion that it was not, which was a pity.

  She had told me that first night in Penang, when I was lying smug, triumphant, and at last wise, that she wanted to travel south to Singapore. Her story was that she had run away from home in the north of Malaya, near the Siamese border, because her father wanted to trade her off in an advantageous (for him) marriage. She had found her way to Penang and at nineteen had set herself up in business. On the girls' grapevine she now heard that the rates and conditions were better in Singapore and she wanted to get there. Would I take her with me?

  After the first shock and the secondary confusion I explained that the army to which I was pledged might be unsympathetic. She argued she knew of several Chinese and Eurasian girls who had gone with soldiers to Singapore – and even married them. The thought took my breath away. Here was I, after all those worried years, at last rid of my virginity at a cost of fifteen Malay dollars – and she was talking of marriage. She must have thought my stunned attitude meant that I was considering the proposal because she offered to give me my money back. (The sequence in the book and in the film where Lucy actually does return Brigg's money is fiction. Some things have to be. Few hardworking Chinese girls, no matter how good-hearted, would have refunded the fee solely on account of it being the young soldier's initiation. The part about her offering cocoa is also made up. Although Lucy did have an opened packet of Cadbury's on a tray at the side of her bed she never offered any to me.)