Lai Ming’s eyes opened. “I have been thinking much on that question, Peter,” she replied. “This is my answer. You have two more years in the RAF. During that time you will be able to think clearly what is best for your future. Mr Ng has offered you a good position within his empire, and I believe that you will return to Singapore and accept that position. As for me, Peter, if after those two years you want me as your wife, return to me, see if I have changed, see if you still love me and want me as your wife. If you then ask, ‘will you marry me?’ I shall reply, ‘Yes.’”
“That is a promise?”
“That is a promise. I also promise you that I shall take no other man during your absence. I shall await your return. I do not want or need another man in my life.”
Peter kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Rose, you’re my little darling. I love you so very much,” he said, cuddling her to him. “I shall return, and I’ll always want you as my wife. I shall love you until the day I die.”
“And I, you, Peter.”
She lay watching him as he undressed and untidily dropped his clothes on the floor, just as he had done that very first day they had met. She smiled up at him as he climbed on top of her. And as he mounted her and she felt the weight of his body bearing down upon her, she opened her legs wide. Now they were kissing and embracing one another, he tenderly caressing her, she exploring him, slipping a tiny hand so lightly over his body it tickled, to eventually feel and hold that which must soon dominate her.
Soon it was time for him to leave the house. Lai Ming telephoned for a taxi. Peter would take it only as far as the Capitol Theatre he wanted to travel the fourteen-mile remainder of the journey back to Changi by bus, just for memories. Lai Ming suddenly decided she wanted to go with him, as far as the bus terminus at the Capitol. Together they would wait for the cab at the front gate.
As they walked along the gravel path, Peter looked sadly back at the house. He wondered when next he would see it. The taxi’s headlights fell on them as it rounded the corner and drew up alongside them.
Peter opened the rear door, and when both had got in and were seated, Lai Ming said to the driver, “Capitol Theatre.” The driver grunted an acknowledgement, the taxi sped on its way, and all too soon drew up at the Changi Bus Terminus situated between the Union Jack Club and the Capitol Theatre on the corner. Peter paid the driver two dollars. Both he and Lai Ming got out. Peter looked at his watch. Three minutes to twelve. Three minutes to when the last bus back to camp would leave the terminus.
Taking Lai Ming in his arms, Peter pressed her warm and cuddly body to him, crying, “Oh, Rose, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you.”
“You must,” she whispered, sobbing against his chest.
Holding her tightly to him, his lips met hers for a long last kiss; then Lai Ming drew herself gently away from him.
“You must go, Peter,” she said in a husky voice, “Before I break down on you.”
He again took her in his arms and embraced her. Passers-by stopped and stared, but neither Peter nor Lai Ming cared; they did not see the many smirking faces.
“I don’t know how to say goodbye, Rose. I just cannot say goodbye. You are with me now, but in moments you’ll be gone; and tomorrow we shall be hundreds of miles apart.” Choking back tears, he gave her a wry smile. “Be a good little girl, won’t you,” he said.
“I will,” she promised. “Look after yourself, Peter, and always do what you think is right. Goodbye, Peter.”
“Goodbye, Rose.” He bent over her weeping face and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Goodbye,” he repeated, and was gone from her, walking with the noticeable limp to the waiting bus, his heart breaking.
“Goodbye, Peter,” she whispered after him. But he did not hear her or turn around. She lingered on the sidewalk waiting for the bus to depart, seeing him seat himself in the rear seat. She could see only the back of his head. Why would he not turn around and wave a final goodbye? She wanted to board the bus herself, to be with him, but she checked herself; to do so could only worsen these unhappy moments.
The driver climbed into the cab and started the engine. The conductor pressed the button, which rang the bell. Then, on an impulse, Peter stood up, faltered for a moment, then making up his mind, stepped off the bus. He watched as the last bus back to Changi that night moved away from him.
“I couldn’t do it, Rose,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I just cannot leave you.”
“But you must, Peter. You must go, or you will get into big trouble.”
“We’ll go by taxi. We can catch the bus up and I can catch it when it stops at Geylang. There I’ll leave you.”
She was smiling up at him with tears streaming from her eyes as she said, “You fool, Peter. You darling fool.”
A taxi cruised by. “Johnny!” Peter shouted. He turned to Rose and said, “This will be our last journey together for a long time.”
“Perhaps forever.”
“No, don’t say that. It’ll be January 1956, and then we’ll be together again, forever.”
He opened the door of the cab for her, and she got in. He sat down beside her and said, “Geylang,” to the driver, and sat back in the seat, brooding, feeling the warmth of Lai Ming’s body pressing against his, and not knowing what to say. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her; it all saddened him. He watched in silence as she dabbed her eyes with a tiny purple handkerchief. Eyeing the handkerchief, he said, “Rose, let me have that for a little souvenir,” and he reached out a hand. “Please,” he implored.
She understood. Opening fully the tiny handkerchief, she pressed the centre of it to her lips, so that when she drew it from her, her lip marks were clearly imprinted on the cloth.
“A little memory,” she said, smiling through tears. “I have another handkerchief in my handbag.”
“Thanks.”
“And Peter! I must give you something else! Something you may return to me when you return to Singapore.”
Holding up a tiny hand, she took from a finger a gold ring with a dullish green stone embedded in it.
“Only now I think about this ring, Peter. It is Chinese gold. The stone is jade. Hold out your hand.”
Peter did as bid.
“See! It fits your little finger. It is for you, not given, but loaned. You understand?”
“Thank you, Rose. Yes, I understand.” And as he kissed her he noticed the eyes of the driver watching them through the rear-view mirror fixed to the windshield. Peter didn’t care. Nothing mattered now; time was too precious and too quickly running out on them to care. He had existed on its terms; now it was coming to an end. It was all he could do to stop tears forming in his eyes. They had shared a short spell of time of each other’s very existence in harmony of temperament in love and sex and companionship. They had been happy and had become completely content in their loving partnership. Two whole years away from her! It seemed an eternity. He knew that during those two years he would look back and think to himself, ‘I really lived when with Rose. And I shall begin to live again when I return to her.’ Life was going to be empty without her. But, fortunately, it would not be goodbye forever. He would return to Singapore immediately on completion of his RAF commitment and work with Ng Kwok Wing in his thriving business organization.
“Rose, I shall write to you as soon as I get home,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“Impatiently I shall await your letter,” Lai Ming replied. “And I shall reply immediately. We must write often to each other.”
“Yes, we must.”
“I am happy that our correspondence is in the hands of Mr Ng’s secretary. She translates well. Mr Ng is so thoughtful to suggest her as our go-between,” said Lai Ming.
“Yes, we both owe Mr Ng such a lot. If it were not for him the burden of leaving you would be far greater. It would be devastating.”
“Yes. For me, too,” and Lai Ming squeezed Peter’s hand and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. The taxi driver glanced at the p
air in his mirror, then again turned his attention to driving his cab, for although midnight had passed, milling crowds of people swarmed over the sidewalks, spilling out over the road in thousands, especially at road junctions.
The taxi passed banks where armed, bearded Sikhs stood guard at the entrances. There were shops still open, owned mostly by Indian merchants. Huge neon advertising signs in glitzy Chinese character writings lit up the night. On the arcade pillars more Chinese characters were splashed in crimson and gold. The taxi stopped for a traffic light. A group of Chinese men squatting in a doorway rattled and banged mahjong pieces. The Lion City, even though past midnight, was full of noise, colour and excitement, a city very much alive. Peter realized he was going to miss all this, the familiar sights, noises and smells. Taxi drivers cruised hooting after fares. Mingling trishaw wallahs peddled their three-wheeled conveyances in and out among the dense traffic. Friendly crowds of Indians, Malays, a few Europeans, and hordes of Chinese swarmed and jostled in all directions, dallying at food and drink stalls after coming out of picture houses or an evening’s entertainment at one of the amusement worlds. It was late but hawkers still tended their stalls of sweetmeats, fruits, and curios, and were doing a brisk trade. Coolies, their bodies brown and glistening with sweat, jogged among the masses beneath great loads slung across their shoulders on long bamboo poles. There was the constant clickety-clack of a million wooden clogs upon the sidewalks.
The light turned green. The taxi was moving again, passing through a junction which led into Lavender Street. Lai Ming glanced down the familiar street. Turning, she gave Peter a wry smile. They were now on Geylang Road, passing the entrance to the Happy World Amusement Park, one of the three world parks where cosmopolitan Singapore has its fun. Tailor shops, photo studios, bazaars, barbers shops, eating houses and other such establishments lined the opposite side of the road. From the majority of side streets bamboo poles draped with laundry protruded from window ledges, to stretch almost across the full width of the street. There were the smells of dried fish and curry and joss sticks; smells, noises and colours. How Peter loved Singapore. To him there was no city its equal. Here he felt completely at home.
The taxi turned to the left, passing Kallang airport on its right, then down a dual carriageway, and within minutes arrived at the bus shelter at Geylang.
“Well, here we are at Geylang,” Peter remarked almost casually. “And there’s my bus waiting.”
“Yes, I see it. Please go, Peter,” Lai Ming begged. “Go quickly.”
With a hand on the door handle, and with an aching heart, Peter bent over and kissed Lai Ming lightly on her lips, looked sadly into her eyes, then hardly able to force the words out of himself, whispered, “I love you, Rose.”
“I love you, Peter.”
Their eyes met and held for only seconds. Then Peter pushed the door open and got out, feeling sick and unsteady on his feet. He stepped across a water-filled monsoon drain and onto the sidewalk. He did not want to look back. Stiffly, he climbed aboard the bus, the conductor looking surprised at seeing him again. He sat down in the same rear seat as before. The bus moved off. He turned his head. The cab had swung around and was facing the opposite direction. They were moving away from each other, and the gap was widening. He caught a glimpse of her shiny black hair, and her face peering through the rear window, a tiny hand waving to him. He lifted his hand and waved back. Then she was gone, the taxi disappearing amid the mêlée of pedestrians and dense traffic; and he found himself alone, returning to RAF Changi for the last time.
Two stops before reaching the terminus at Changi Village, Peter dejectedly got off the bus and took a seldom used, short cut along a narrow, grass-lined path. He passed the rifle range to his right and, further on, passed close to the rear of the sergeants’ mess and kitchen, all in darkness. Such a short time ago, just a matter of twelve hours or so, he had said goodbye to Sergeant Muldoon and to the Chinese staff who were on duty at that time. “I’ll see you again, Charlie,” he had said to Dai Yat, the number one Chinese cook. “I’ll drop in to see you all again one day.”
He walked the road which led to number 128, the block which housed personnel of the catering section, and which had been his RAF home ever since his arrival at Changi. This night, though, he would not be sleeping in the catering block. Already he had shifted his kitbag and suitcase out of block 128 and around the corner to the transit block where he would sleep for a few hours before getting an early morning call. Before entering the transit block he decided to first call in at the kitchen for a mug of tea and to say goodbye to friendly Corporal ‘Jock’ McKnight and the two LAC cooks working the night shift.
No sooner had he stepped behind the long servery, he heard the voice of Corporal McKnight shouting from within the kitchen, “Pete, where the hell have you been? Have you heard the news?”
Peter found the corporal preparing meals for a plane load of airmen in transit, fresh out of the U.K. and bound for RAF Kai Tak, Hong Kong. “What news, Jock?” he asked.
Corporal McKnight shoved a tray of bacon into a very hot oven and closed the door. Looking up, he exclaimed, “Hey! Pete! The corporal in charge of the transit block has been looking all over for you. He’s waiting for you at the transit block.”
“Why?”
“You’re flying home on tomorrow’s Comet.”
“What! Are you kidding?”
“No. I’m not kidding, mon. You’re going to fly home in style.”
Astonished but not too elated by the news, Peter asked, “Is there any tea on the stove? I could use a cup.”
“Tea! Away wi’ ya, mon, ta see the laddie in charge of the transit block, before he gives the wee ticket to some other laddie.”
Calmly, Peter Saunders said, “Thanks, Jock. Keep the tea hot. I’ll be right back.”
On walking around to the transit block office, he met there the corporal in charge, seated at a table, poring over a stack of papers.
“G’evening Corp’,” Peter said.
“Hi!” responded the corporal, looking up from the stack of papers.
“I’m SAC Saunders. Corporal McKnight in the airmens’ mess said something about me flying home on tomorrow’s Comet,” said Peter.
“Oh! So you’re SAC Saunders,” said the corporal in a relieved tone of voice. “I’ve been wondering when you’d show up. Yeah, there are four vacant seats on the Comet,” he said, reaching across the table for a lone pink travelling form and handing it to Peter Saunders. “You’re one of the four lucky stiffs chosen to fill those seats,” he said. “Does that make you happy?”
Peter shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it should, Corp,” he said. “I haven’t had much time to think about it.”
“OK. You’ll be getting an early morning call at four-thirty, so you’d better get some kip.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” replied Peter, shoving the pink slip into his pants pocket. “Goodnight, Corp,” he said.
“Goodnight and good luck,” replied the corporal, already settling back to again study and work on the piles of forms in front of him.
So Corporal McKnight was right, thought Peter. His news had been confirmed, numbing just a little more his tired and depressed mind. He really should get some sleep, he told himself, because within only four hours from now he would be getting an early morning call.
Within six hours, SAC Peter Saunders and three other airmen were due to fly out of Changi, Singapore aboard the first commercial jet aircraft ever, British Overseas Air Corporation’s sleek, fast and beautiful Comet 1 G-ALYP, manufactured proudly by the de Havilland Aircraft Company.
36
It was dawn on the tenth day of January 1954. Torrential rain had fallen during the night but it had abruptly ceased an hour ago leaving the tarmacked apron of the dispersal unit glistening in the early morning light.
From the isolated, white stucco, one-room building which served as customs and immigration as well as an arrival and departure lounge, the passengers walked in a
ragged file, in ones, twos and threes, to where the silvery-looking Comet 1 G-ALYP, the pride of British Overseas Airways Corporation, awaited them.
With mixed emotions, SAC Peter Saunders watched as a trim, neatly dressed, young and efficient-looking BOAC stewardess shepherded her flock across the fifty yards or so of rain-wet tarmac to where a flight of metal steps on wheels led up to the entrance of the plane. A BOAC air steward greeted the passengers at the doorway of the plane. Peter wondered just how many of those passengers, like himself, were sad to be leaving Singapore.
“Too bad we couldn’t be among them,” said a freckle-faced leading aircraftman to Peter, who was standing next to him amid a group of between twenty and thirty other airmen watching as the passengers boarded the Comet. “We’d be arriving in England within hours from now, instead of days.”
“I suppose we would,” said Peter, indifferently.
“Wow! Listen to this!” exclaimed the LAC “After leaving here, the Comet is going to touch down at Bangkok, Rangoon, Calcutta, Karachi, Bahrain and Rome, and will be landing at Heathrow in a matter of hours; not days, like our old Hastings. We won’t get to England for at least three days, maybe four. God! I’m so disappointed at being bumped from the Comet. Aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Peter, sighing and hoping there would be something wrong with the Hastings so that his flight would be delayed a day, perhaps two.
In fact, Peter really didn’t care how long it took the Comet to fly to England. Neither did he care nor was he disappointed that four paying passengers had purchased tickets during the night to make a full complement aboard the Comet. This meant that he and the other three airmen who, only late the previous evening, were told that they were the lucky ones chosen to fly home on the sleek jet aircraft, were bumped from its passenger list. Instead, the four airmen would be flying home on an RAF prop-driven, four-engine Handley Page Hastings aircraft of Transport Command, which was due to take off shortly after the Comet’s departure.
Feeling depressed and sad about leaving Lai Ming and Singapore, Peter watched with little interest as the remaining passengers and a couple of the crew climbed the metal steps and boarded the Comet. He watched as the stewardess waved to a BOAC official standing on the tarmac, and saw the doors of the Comet being closed and the steps being pulled away. Within moments an increasingly loud whine of jet engines broke the quietness of the early morning, and the first commercial passenger jet aircraft ever moved gracefully forward across the tarmac, to begin, what could be, yet another world record speed-breaking flight. He watched as the plane headed towards and then onto the perimeter strip. He followed her with his eyes as she taxied towards the Changi Gaol end of the main runway until she eventually disappeared from his view. Minutes later, he heard the whine of her jets reaching a crescendo, and seconds later saw her reappear, just for moments, streaking down the runway, until she became lost from his view behind hangars and palm trees as she headed out over Changi Beach and the Johore Strait.
The Rose of Singapore Page 45
