The Rose of Singapore

by Peter Neville

  “Terima kasih, tuan,” replied Kah Hin, thanking the guard in Malay. Engaging a low gear, Kah Hin drove the car slowly the short distance to the front of the security guardroom. Here, he stepped out of the car, immediately to be confronted by a white man in a British army uniform who had stepped out of the guardroom. “Are you a visitor?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “OK. See that white hut at the corner of the road. Please report to the officer in charge there.”

  “Thank you,” said Kah Hin. The uniformed figure was already disappearing back into the guardroom.

  Tan Kah Hin returned to his driving seat, restarted the engine, and again proceeded slowly towards the hospital. Driving on a freshly tarmacked, straight but narrow road carved between more manicured lawns and flowerbeds, he approached the hut. At one-hundred-foot intervals gravel paths led from the road towards white painted wooden bungalows surrounded by wide wood-decked verandahs. These were but a few of the many wards of the hospital. Further along Kah Hin could see more buildings, but made of stone, with wide concrete corridors between them, and no verandahs.

  Comfortably seated in the back seat of the Bentley, preoccupied with his own thoughts, Kwok Wing had neither seen the Malay guard’s face at the window nor the soldier at the guardroom. He still grieved the loss of Lim Seng Yew, his number one chauffeur, manservant and lifelong friend; also old Ping Jie, the much loved, respected and trusted amah. His thoughts, though, dwelt this moment on the young British airman who had saved the life of his daughter Li Li, and on the young man’s Chinese lady friend whom he hoped soon to meet. He certainly knew of both their pasts; not so much about the airman’s, but much about the young lady’s.

  It had been a wise move, he thought, having the investigative branch of his personnel office conduct a discreet investigation of the young airman, the sole purpose being for him to evaluate how best he could reward the young man. His investigative branch had been very thorough, not only learning details such as the airman’s name, age, rank and trade in the RAF, but also, surprisingly, that he spoke some Cantonese, and that his constant companion was a Chinese woman, a noted prostitute almost ten years his senior. Astonished at first, then curious, Kwok Wing then had the investigative branch delve into the woman’s past. Thanks to records, the Social Welfare Department and other agencies in Singapore, and also officials in Sumatra, his agents had collected an ever-thickening, incredibly interesting dossier on the woman named Chan Lai Ming. Finding and checking details of her years spent in Singapore had been relatively easy compared with the difficulties encountered tracing her life back through the years to when she was born in Palembang, Sumatra, to very respected parents bred from families of honourable ancestry. Though he must never mention his investigations, Kwok Wing was pleased that they had been conducted so thoroughly.

  Already he felt as if he knew the two and was impatient to finally meet them. He had hoped that they would be informed of his intended visit but the medical authorities decided such notification would be unwise, that it might cause unnecessary emotional stress to the recovering patient, who had already spent three weeks in the hospital. He had been advised, however, that a Doctor Henshaw would greet and escort him to where he would finally meet the man who had saved his daughter from certain death. Deep in thought and staring with unseeing eyes at the world without, Kwok Wing sighed and sank back into soft, velvet cushions.

  A gentle breeze was blowing that afternoon, taking away much of the humidity in the air and seemingly lowering the almost ninety-degree temperature by several degrees. For Malaya, it truly was a balmy day, with as yet not a cloud in the sky, a rare occurrence at two o’clock. The thunderstorms and rains to follow would surely come before the afternoon was out.

  In a wheelchair, rolled out onto the wide wooden verandah of Ward Five, SAC Peter Saunders, clad in military pajamas and a towelling robe, watched with keen interest the approach of the two men who were walking together towards the wooden steps leading up to the verandah of ward five. One he recognized as short, pixie-like Dr Henshaw, who was actually clad in a natty, lightweight grey suit, and even more unbelievably, he was wearing a conservative silk tie. Rarely did Dr Henshaw wear a suit and tie at Kinrara. When not in medical uniform, he preferred to wear white shorts, a white sleeveless shirt and a pair of rather worn white plimsoles. His companion was a tallish Chinese gentleman dressed in an expensive-looking, tailor-made, dark blue suit and a tie of similar colour. The two were an odd-looking couple, thought Peter Saunders. Nudging Lai Ming, who was seated in a wicker chair at his side, he looked at her questioningly and whispered, “I wonder who the Chinese gent is. I’ve never seen him before.”

  Lai Ming, dressed in a light blue cheongsam, and looking relaxed and happy, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, replying, “No, he must be a visitor. He looks very distinguished.”

  “Yes, he does,” Peter replied.

  Indeed, the Chinese gentleman, Ng Kwok Wing, was not only of considerable means and importance but also was liked and loved by many, and most certainly well respected. He owned several of the largest and most modern oil tankers in the world, was a building contractor of roads, bridges, office buildings and hotels throughout Malaya and Singapore, and now, in Singapore, he was the builder of whole suburbs of reasonably priced homes for an exploding population. Also, he owned considerable amounts of shares in several thriving businesses throughout Malaya and Singapore. Undoubtably, Ng Kwok Wing was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the Far East who, not content with his great wealth, constantly sought ways to increase his millions by making use of his extraordinary business sense and power. However, regardless of his ruthlessness in business, Kwok Wing was a good man, kind and charitable, a benefactor to cancer research, the TB clinics, to hospitals and schools, and to the leper colony situated on a small island off Singapore. Unknown to them, many hundreds of poor and destitute people in Singapore were fed, and the sick treated, all through the aid of this man’s generosity. Rightly so, Kwok Wing was proud of his many achievements in the interest of public welfare. Seeing and understanding the immediate needs of Singapore and Malaya, not only was he philanthropic towards them but also he was a visionary predicting the needs of the future. On paper and in his head he had many ambitious plans. Ng Kwok Wing was justly proud and a true gentleman of the Far East.

  At that moment the swing-door behind Peter Saunders and Lai Ming swung open and a male nursing orderly came through the doorway carrying a round wicker table.

  “May I help you?” asked Lai Ming, getting to her feet.

  “No, but thanks all the same. You’ve volunteered enough these past three weeks,” laughed the orderly, placing the table in front of them. Another orderly and Nurse Mason brought two wicker chairs. These they put down facing the table. The two orderlies smiled at the pair as they made their exit. Nurse Mason remained.

  “Nurse, are we having company?” Peter enquired.

  “Yes,” replied a smiling Nurse Mason. “You have a visitor.”

  “Really!”

  “Yes. And believe it or not, I’ve volunteered to play waitress for the afternoon, just for you and your guests.” She laughed saying, “But I won’t be serving ice-cold beer or Singapore gin slings, not this afternoon. I shall be serving lemonade only.”

  Puzzled, Peter asked, “But why? And who’s the Chinese gent?”

  “Ah! You’ll find out soon enough,” sang out Nurse Mason, as she too departed through the swing door.

  Dr Henshaw was the first to speak as the two men reached that part of the verandah where Peter Saunders and Lai Ming waited. Waving a hand indicating Lai Ming should remain seated, for she had begun to rise, he smiled impishly at the pair.

  “Good afternoon, Miss. Good afternoon, Saunders,” he cordially greeted them.

  Peter Saunders replied, “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Lai Ming smiled and said, “Hello, doctor.”

  “How are you feeling, Saunders?”

  “Much be
tter, sir, thank you.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Guess what! I’ve brought you a visitor!”

  Peter stared at the two men with growing curiosity, but was lost for words.

  “Please, allow me to introduce you to Mr Ng Kwok Wing,” began Doctor Henshaw. “He has come all the way from Singapore to visit you.” Turning to the Chinese gentleman, he said. “Sir, this is the young man whom you wish to meet. This is Senior Aircraftman Peter Saunders. And this young lady is his friend, Miss Lai Ming.”

  Kwok Wing smiled benevolently. “I am deeply honoured to have the pleasure of finally meeting you both,” he said, bowing a greeting to Lai Ming and then extending a well-manicured hand to Peter. “I am most honoured,” he repeated.

  Attempting to rise from the wheel chair, but ushered back by a vigorous shake of the head from Doctor Henshaw, Peter cordially shook the extended hand. “The pleasure is mine, sir. Won’t you both please sit down,” he said, gesturing towards the recently brought chairs.

  “I would very much like to join you, but you must please excuse me,” said Dr Henshaw. “I have a patient to see in ward six. Nurse Mason will take care of your needs.” Turning to Mr Ng, he said, “I shall return in one hour, sir, when your visit is concluded.” With those words, he departed through the swing doors.

  Kwok Wing sat himself down in one of the wicker chairs and faced the pair, silently studying both for several moments before saying to Peter Saunders, “I expect you are wondering who I am and why I am here!”

  “Yes, sir.” Peter answered.

  Kwok Wing clasped his hands together and rested them upon the tabletop, displaying on long fingers several gold rings encrusted with jewels, and on his wrist he wore a gold, diamond-studded Rolex watch. The man’s cufflinks, too, were of gold, a large diamond embedded and twinkling on each.

  “I had hoped to visit you sooner,” he began. “But the hospital authorities would not permit it. Until yesterday I was continuously informed that you were too ill to receive visitors.” With compassion in his eyes, Kwok Wing studied the young man seated in the wheelchair. “I am saddened that you had such a terrible encounter at Fraser’s Hill,” he said, sincerely. “However, I was thankful to hear from Doctor Henshaw that you are making such excellent progress towards a full recovery.”

  “Thank you. Were you at Fraser’s Hill on that day?” asked Peter.

  “No. I was in Singapore. But do you remember a little Chinese girl you chanced to meet in the jungle during that terrible day?”

  “Yes, of course I remember her.”

  “And do you remember her name? Do you recall the name Ho Li Li?”

  “I do remember her telling me her name. It was just before … He stopped in mid-sentence. “If it wasn’t for Rick,” and he stopped again, his eyes brimming with tears. “I lost a good friend up there, my best friend.” Wiping his eyes on the cuff of his pajama sleeve, he said, “Please excuse me. I’m still very upset over his death.”

  “Yes, I can well understand,” said Kwok Wing, who would like to have said, ‘I, too, lost two good friends on Fraser’s Hill that day. I am also sad.’ Instead, he said, “I am very sorry. I have heard that you suffer from a bereavement.”

  Peter sighed deeply. “Yes. I’m very sad about losing Rick,” he said. “He saved my life, and for that matter, he saved the little girl’s life, too.”

  “My young friend, you have my deepest sympathy. You see, I have heard from a witness the tragic story of what happened to you on Fraser’s Hill that day; a story told to me by my young but very bright and observant daughter.”

  “Your daughter!”

  “Yes. Li Li is my daughter.”

  “Well, fancy that,” said an astonished Peter, staring at the man seated opposite him. “Is she OK?” he asked.

  “Thankfully, yes. Thanks to you and to that other brave young man my daughter is in good health except for tormented memories. I know she has such memories because she awakens at night screaming, and I must go and comfort her.”

  “She will eventually forget bad memories,” said Peter. “We must all try to forget bad memories and remember only those that are good.”

  “You speak wise words, those of a true man, a man who was brave enough to save my daughter from certain death.”

  “Well, honestly, I didn’t do such a lot for her,” Peter answered modestly. “I helped her down from a tree. I bandaged her leg. Then that bastard … excuse me,” he muttered apologetically. “Then that fellow came along, appearing from nowhere.”

  At that moment Nurse Mason pushed her way through the screen door, balancing on the palm of one hand a round tray with a jug of lemonade and three glasses on it. “Lemonade anyone?” she called out, her face all smiles.

  The three at the table smiled back, nodded a reply, and in turn said, “Thank you,” as she poured a glass for each. Nudging Peter, she whispered jokingly, “Where’s my tip?” as she made her exit.

  Kwok Wing sipped awhile on his lemonade before continuing. “Though very young and truly not much more than a baby, my daughter has been able to tell me the full story, not once but a number of times. It is always the same story, of you climbing the tree and helping her down, of a terrible man hurting her, strangling her, almost killing her. And of you getting angry with that awful man, so much so that you attacked him, causing him to throw my daughter from him. And then he had a big fight with you. As I previously stated, she has tormented memories, but they will eventually pass. Thankfully, she is alive and in excellent health.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Peter. “I have wondered at times whether or not she remembered that day. I was told that she had been flown home to Singapore. Perhaps I shall meet her again some day.”

  “You shall indeed,” said Kwok Wing. Turning now to Lai Ming, he spoke to her in Cantonese, who answered him in the same Chinese dialect.

  When about to speak to Lai Ming again, Peter interrupted him, saying, “Excuse me, sir, but I’m puzzled. I’m wondering why it is that you speak Cantonese, yet your daughter does not. She spoke to me in Malay, and also in a Chinese dialect that I could not understand. It certainly wasn’t Cantonese.”

  “Yes, the difference in our language has puzzled many people during the six-month period Li Li has lived with me. You see, the child is my adopted daughter. Her departed father was my first cousin. She was born in China, near Nanking, a city in the northeastern part of that great country. As she grew from babyhood to being a young child she learned to speak a little of what is considered the real Chinese language. She has yet to learn how to speak Cantonese.”

  “She speaks no Cantonese, yet she speaks Malay! I find that puzzling, too.”

  Ng Kwok Wing chuckled, saying, “Yes, I admit it is most unusual, but really, there is a simple explanation. My daughter plays often with Malay children who are our neighbours, and as the Malay language is not as complicated as Chinese, she has quickly learned many Malay words. And that’s why she speaks very little Cantonese. Now, with your consent, let us return to the purpose of my visit.”

  Peter glanced at Lai Ming. Their eyes met but they said not a word.

  “My visit here is to thank and reward you for saving my daughter’s life,” they heard Mr Ng saying. “As I have already stated, I know the full story. Therefore, what can I do? I can thank you, yet I cannot thank you enough with mere words. I can clasp your hand in gratitude. I can weep my happiness upon your shoulder, but neither would satisfy me. Should I seek to bestow money upon you, would you be offended? Or if I offer you a gift as a token of my thanks, would it be sufficient? I know not.”

  Peter held up a hand. “Sir, have you travelled this far simply to thank me for helping your daughter when she needed help?” he asked. “I would have done the same for anyone in such a predicament as she that day. You have come to thank me, sir? Very well, your words of thanks are sufficient. I’m glad to meet you, and I’m happy to know that Li Li is well.” Peter paused for a moment, conscious of being stared at and studied b
y Kwok Wing’s steely grey eyes. Peter sipped on his lemonade before saying in a lowered voice, “As I have said, sir, I would, though, love to see your daughter again some day.”

  “Oh, you shall! You shall indeed!” exclaimed Kwok Wing, adamantly. “However, I do wish to show you my gratitude. I am a wealthy man, one of the wealthiest in this part of the world. There is much on this earth that is obtainable to me, yet out of your reach. I ask you to think, Peter, and I hope you will allow me to call you Peter. Please think of something that money can buy, and if it be in my power, it shall be yours.”

  “Wow! Just like in a fairy tale,” laughed Peter. “Are you serious?”

  “I have never been more serious.”

  Suddenly confused, Peter passed a hand across his damp brow. He closed his eyes. Was he dreaming? Was this Chinese gentleman an illusion, a mirage? He opened his eyes. The man was definitely there, sitting opposite him at the table sipping lemonade, watching him and awaiting his answer. He thought of Rose, and in a flash he knew what he wanted.

  “Anything?” His voice was tense from withholding the excitement he felt welling up within him. “Anything?” he asked again.

  “Anything that is within my power.”

  Peter sat back in the wheelchair. “Please, give me a few moments to think this over,” he said.

  “Of course. Take your time. If you’ll allow me, I should very much like to speak with your lady friend.”