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.
“Wah! Chicko! How are you?” She spoke slowly through creased smiles. “Aiyah! Come in!” she invited. And when he had entered the kitchen, she said, “Very pleased to see you again, Chicko,” and nodding her head towards the stairway, and clasping her hands over her flat tummy, she bowed to him as if in reverence.
So Rose was up there, the amah was telling him to go to her. “Thank you, Momma,” Peter murmured. Slipping off his shoes, he crept noiselessly up the narrow stairway until he reached the small landing at the top. Peter felt sure that Lai Ming would be alone in her room. The amah would never have allowed him entry into the house, much less so graciously invite him up those stairs had there been a customer with her mistress. Furthermore, if Lai Ming had departed for the evening, the amah would have told him so. Lai Ming just had to be in her room. His heart pounding, his nerves on edge, he paused for a moment before knocking softly on the fragile wicker door. As there was no answer, he slid the unlocked door to one side and drew back the heavy curtain.
Inside, the shutters and the drawn cotton blinds had darkened the room, so much so that Peter had to wait awhile until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He sniffed the air. Her perfume greeted him. How well he had come to know that exotic, exciting fragrance. He walked to the window and opened one of the two shutters, just enough to allow the moon to filter in its silvery rays.
Lai Ming lay asleep and alone on her bed. A deep sigh of relief escaped Peter, his nervousness left him and he suddenly felt relaxed. He smiled to himself as he gazed lovingly down upon her. She lay in sleep as would a playful kitten exhausted by its frolicking; curled up, her black hair flowing over one of the two pillows which had ‘Good Morning’ embroidered on them. She slept peacefully in the centre of the big bed, her body naked except for a multi-coloured sarong of browns, greens and gold, which covered her buttocks and waist in a single swathe. Peter was sorely tempted to bend over her and kiss those small breasts, which rhythmically rose and fell to her peaceful breathing. But no, he ought not to disturb her. Feeling much sadness, he gazed down upon the girl he loved. Here, lying so still and unprotected was the first and only woman he had ever really known. How small and frail she appeared to be, lying so quiet and without movement upon that bed. To think that fate had brought such grief and misery upon her. Peter leaned over the sleeping little figure and pressed his lips to a warm cheek. “Hello, Rose,” he whispered in her ear.
At first she must have thought she was dreaming because she smiled in her sleep but did not open her eyes, not for several moments. Then puzzlement appeared on her face and her eyelids flickered open.
“Hello, Rose,” Peter repeated softly, smiling down at the surprised face. “It’s me, Peter.”
Now she was rolling over onto her back, but not taking her eyes from his.
“Is it really you, Peter?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s me. Were you expecting someone else?”
She didn’t answer, but instead said, “So you have come back to me.”
“I have given the whole matter thought, Rose, much thought.” Peter became silent, not knowing what else to say.
“You think too much. You always think too much,” Lai Ming said, a touch of annoyance in her voice.
“I know, Rose. I can’t help it.”
“Well! No think!”
“I’ll try not to,” Peter said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’ve missed you.”
“Have you, Peter?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“I have missed you, too.”
“You have?” He sat gazing down at his stockinged feet as if they held all the answers. “Rose, shall we begin again?” he finally asked.
“No, Peter. We cannot begin again.”
“No! Why not?” He was genuinely surprised and taken aback by her abrupt answer.
He felt her arm encircle his waist. “Peter, we cannot begin again something never finished.”
The realization of her words sank in causing Peter to give a big sigh with relief.
“I expected you to return to me sometime today,” she said matter-of-factly. “That is why I am not ready to go out.”
Surprised by her words, Peter said, “I don’t understand you, Rose. Why today?”
“Because today is Kissmus, a happy time for you,” replied Lai Ming, her face serious for the moment. “But I had much feelings you would not be happy not loving me today. You have many friends at the camp but you still feel lonely and in need of me. Holiday times can be lonely times especially at Kissmus. I knew you would be lonely for me. I expected you to come back today. It was today or never. Lie down by my side, Peter,” she commanded him, and Peter lay, even more surprised, for he saw that she had begun to cry. “I knew you would return to me. It has been a long, long wait, but I knew you would come back to me someday,” she sobbed, laughing through her tears.
With his hands on her bare bottom pressing her naked body tightly to him, he kissed her on the nose, laughed and said, “Where would you like to go?”
“Oh! Any place you like. First go see Kissmus lights, then go some place nice to eat big feast.”
“There’s a brand new club open for servicemen directly opposite the Raffles Hotel,” said Peter. “I’ve heard it’s a first class place—good food, dancing, bars, a swimming pool, everything. Let’s spend the evening there.”
“Yes, that I would like,” assured Lai Ming, but still preferring to spend the evening at home. “What is the name of the club? I have seen it, a great red brick building, but I don’t know its name.”
“It’s called The Britannia Club.”
“The Britannia Club,” Lai Ming repeated.
“Yes. It’s really a NAAFI.”
“What is a ‘naafi’?
Peter laughed and cuddled her. He was so very happy at being with her again. “Oh, you’re a little dope, Rose. NAAFI is the abbreviation for Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes. It’s for the convenience of rabble like me. It’s a club for servicemen and their guests. I’ve not been in the Britannia Club yet.”
“Then we spend our Kissmus evening in NAAFI, Peter. I like everything you like. But it is necessary to spend good time here first,” she laughed, her face aglow. “First I make tea and bring biscuits.”
“No! After!”
“After what?”
Lai Ming teased.
“You know what after.”
“Oh, Peter, you’re so impatient,” and Lai Ming giggled, knowing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Thus they remained, in sheer bliss, locked together, having beautiful sex and reunited.
Seeping from a neighbor’s radio through the thin walls into the quietness of that little room could be heard a Christmas carol sung by a female choir, softly sweetly and full of sincerity of devotion.
“Silent night! Holy night!
Where was dark all is light.
Angels to the shepherd sing.
Glory to the new born King.
Peace. Goodwill to men.
Peace. Goodwill to men.”
Listening, each with their own thoughts, Lai Ming and Peter remained silent, not wishing to break the spell of that moment.
“Silent night! Holy night!
Guiding star shine ever bright.
While the eastern Magi bring
Gifts and homage to our King.
Peace. Goodwill to men.
Peace. Goodwill to men.”
“Girls from Shanghai,” whispered Lai Ming, so quietly as if not wishing to interrupt those angelic voices infiltrating into that darkened room.
“I know,” Peter whispered. “They sing beautifully. I love listening to them.” When stationed at Kai Tak in Hong Kong, while lying in his bed at night, he would often listen to the singing of these same girls. Originally members of a Catholic choir in Shanghai, they had been expelled from their homeland when the Communist regime came to power. Now they were spending Christmas singing in Singapore, on tour from Hong Kong.
How sweetly and clearly these girls now sang, like mocking birds singing out of sheer joy after a fall of rain. Yet, when Peter concentrated on those uplifted voices praising God and the newborn King, he detected sadness in them. He closed his eyes to enjoy listening to the last verse. It was as if a host of angels were singing to just the two of them.
The Rose of Singapore Page 22
