The Chinese population accepted Queen Elizabeth II as their ‘number one’ even though she was a woman, and they showed their reverence and respect for her in their own special way. After dusk had fallen on Coronation Day, a two-hundred-foot dragon, belching great gusts of fire from huge nostrils to ward off evil spirits from the queen during her reign, weaved a crazy pattern through the waters of the outer harbour. Illuminated by a thousand coloured lights, the dragon was towed hither and thither by small boats without lights which, in the darkness of the vast harbour, could not be seen from the shore. Thus, the fiery dragon, an awesome sight, rode the swell in lone magnificent splendour.
Closer to shore, junks and sampans, coated in fresh, gay-coloured paint, lost their normal drab appearance, enhanced by new sails in red, purple and gold, and by great red banners splashed with gold Chinese character writings proclaiming ‘God Save the Queen’. In a warm breeze, red and gold buntings fluttered gaily from mastheads, and fire-crackers hanging from yardarms loudly snapped and crackled as they leapt up the masts and spat sparks from off lowered booms.
Not to be outdone, the Indian population erected two man-made, illuminated, larger-than-life elephants on either side of one street, their trunks reaching inward towards the centre of the street. On their backs and heads the two elephants carried Royal Coats of Arms, and between the tips of their outstretched trunks they held a colossal replica of the crown which the queen would wear at her Coronation.
Mounted on the roof of the tallest building in Singapore, the newly opened Cathay Building, was a brightly-illuminated crown, where, immediately below the crown, a brightly-lit, intricately designed royal coach drawn by four horses moved clockwise electronically around the top of the building. And below, at the Cathay Theatre, the words ‘A Queen Is Crowned’ shone from thousands of clear, brilliant electric lights.
At the Capitol Theatre, where the picture ‘The Miracle of Fatima’ was being shown, the whole front of the building was adorned by Union Jacks and a colossal banner proclaiming ‘Long Live the Queen’. An equally huge plaque of a Union Jack with a crown above it adorned the roof, reaching for the sky in majestic splendour.
The day was declared a national holiday. Many British colonial officials and military officers played cricket and drank gin and tonic, whereas British servicemen, other ranks of course, drank beer and played football, often against swift and agile Chinese players.
There were street parades, too, not only by the military but also by various ethnic groups, joyfully marching in colourful display, with bands blaring, flags flying and fire-crackers popping everywhere to ward off evil spirits.
All British military personnel, except for those detailed for parades or performing necessary duties, were given the day off. And all were issued a chit, which could be exchanged in the NAAFI for a free soft drink or a bottle of beer of their choice with which to ‘splice the mainbrace’ and to drink the Queen’s health. Also, all military personnel were issued two hundred State Express cigarettes, twenty to a tin. These flat, gold-coloured tins, collectors items really, had the inscribed words ‘State Express 555’ displayed on their lids. Below these words was a picture of the Royal Coat of Arms and the words ‘Coronation June 1953. HM Queen Elizabeth II.’ At the bottom of the lid was the company’s address, ‘210 Piccadilly, London’ and finally, in small letters, the words, ‘Made in England’.
Peter Saunders gave away eight of his ten tins of State Express cigarettes. Those he chose to receive a tin were Charlie, the number one cook, Yip, the number two cook, Kah Seng, the kitchen boy, Chuff Box, the junior kitchen boy, Wang, the head waiter, Yong, the barman, little old Sew Sew, the camp’s seamstress, and Wan Ze, Lai Ming’s amah. Lai Ming graciously accepted the ninth tin as a souvenir, and for the same reason Peter kept the tenth.
Now, hand in hand, Lai Ming walked with Peter Saunders along brightly lit Stamford Road, then along St Andrew’s Road, passing a brightly illuminated St Andrew’s Cathedral, and onward until they reached the waterfront where they could clearly see the fiery Chinese dragon.
“Queen Elijabef is my queen as well as yours, isn’t she?” asked a serious Lai Ming looking up into Peter’s face.
Peter chuckled. However much he corrected Lai Ming, there were letters in the alphabet, which she could never pronounce no matter how hard she tried. The letter Z became J and TH became F making the word Elizabeth particularly difficult for her to pronounce.
“Yes,” Peter assured her. “Queen Elizabeth is our queen, yours and mine.”
Lai Ming smiled knowingly, nodded her head in approval, and was satisfied.
Three months after the festivities surrounding the Coronation had died down, Peter, now back to his regular routine of afternoons at the beach, fish and chips evenings and the frequent nights with Rose, found himself sitting in the kitchen of the airmens’ mess with his best friend Rick. Both now had girlfriends in Singapore and were enthusiastically comparing notes when the ringing of the phone at his elbow interrupted him. Lifting the receiver, he said, “Hello. SAC Saunders speaking. Duty cook, sergeants’ mess.”
“Oh! Hello SAC Saunders. So I’ve finally contacted you. This is SHQ Movements Section. SAC Williams here,” came back the brisk reply.
Movements Section, those very words sent a sudden sickening shiver through Peter. “Oh, Christ. Now what?” he heard himself saying under his breath. A call from Movements could mean only one thing, a new posting. But it couldn’t be back to Malaya with his malaria. Perhaps he was being posted back to Hong Kong. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions but his mind raced. Could this call be merely a message advising him of impending new arrivals at the sergeants’ mess? Normally such messages came through a different office at SHQ but perhaps procedures had changed and they were now coming through Movements. “Hello. Yes.” Peter heard himself saying, his voice filled with uncertainty.
“Ah, yes, SAC Saunders. Could you report to Movements sometime today. You’ve been posted. I’ve a form here for you to fill in.”
Posted. That one word hit Peter so hard he suddenly felt weak at the knees. “Posted!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “To where?”
“Oh, not too far away, and not for long. It’s to a place called Fraser’s Hill, up in the Highlands of Malaya.”
“The Highlands of Malaya?”
“Yes. You’re to spend a month up there on detachment from here. Changi will remain your parent unit.”
“But why am I being sent to Fraser’s Hill?” blurted out a dismayed Peter Saunders. “I’m not supposed to return to Malaya. I’m on medical repat’ from KL. I’ve had malaria.”
“I know. I have your file in front of me. However, there’s nothing written on it about you working as a cook at Fraser’s Hill. It seems they’re sending you up with a bunch of other chaps who are marksmen with a rifle. You are a marksman, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t fired a rifle since I first joined the RAF nearly three years ago.”
“Is that so? Well, I suppose the powers-that-be consider that once a marksman, always a marksman.”
“But I’m a cook. I’m not in the bloody RAF regiment,” said Peter, exasperated at the news.
“Look here, old chap, you sound pissed off over this posting but it’s not my fault, this is Movements. We instruct you as to where you are going, by what means of transport, and when. Nothing more.”
“I know. But where the hell is Fraser’s Hill? And what am I supposed to be doing there with a rifle? And when am I supposed to be going?”
“Very soon is the answer to your last question. Can you come down to see me at SHQ this afternoon, say, before three?”
Dazed, Peter said, “Yes.”
“Good. As for Fraser’s Hill, there’s a small RAF radar unit at the summit. The camp’s main purpose these last few months, though, is a place for R and R, a health camp at a high altitude. It’s about 5000 feet above sea level, so I’ve been told, where the climate is dry and cool.”
“But where is it?”
“God, I still can’t believe it!”
“You can’t believe what?”
“Oh, never mind. I never wanted to see that part of Malaya again.”
“Well, unfortunately, you are going to see it.”
“Fuck it!” exclaimed Peter, exasperated.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I’m just mad at being posted away from here.”
“It’ll only be for a month. Look, come over to SHQ and I’ll give you all the gen. We’ll get your clearance chit signed and you’ll be able to collect your air passage form at the same time. You’ll need to attend a casual pay parade tomorrow.”
“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.
The Rose of Singapore Page 29
