The Singapore air was thick and heavy with heat and humidity. A faint sewer smell mixed with sickly-sweet smells of Asian cooking and the powerful odour of chicken blood from a nearby market, where a native slammed a heavy cleaver rhythmically against a stained counter, severing heads, wings and legs from freshly plucked pink bodies. As we slid into the back seat of a battered Mercedes, the stench of Malay sweat added to the mélange.
Horns blasted and brakes squealed as the taxi weaved perilously from lane to lane. Occasionally, it veered to miss a panicked pedestrian dashing for the safety of an opposite crowded sidewalk or a panting runner or cyclist pulling a tourist–laden rickshaw. The cab rattled to a halt in the courtyard of an austere U–shaped building. The front blue–painted concrete walls wore four neat lines of evenly distributed apertures. Next to every fourth one, little half–walls marked a tiny front balcony.
“We’re moving into the proverbial little box made of ticky–tacky,” I said, washed by a sudden wave of depression.
From dormitories to ticky–tacky boxes furnished with army–issue linen and crockery. Well, at least I can go home at night to a meal of my own choosing and the privacy of my own bedroom and bathroom.
Our flat was on the top floor. There was no lift, so I was relieved to be met by two housing corps clerks who gallantly offered to carry some of Fran’s luggage up four steep flights of polished concrete stairs. The stairwell was narrow and dark, fully enclosed by green–painted walls and opening at each floor to two facing blue–painted doors. At the top, the housing clerk produced a large ring of keys and opened the door on the left side. Inside, a long, narrow room stretched from the front door to a rear balcony accessed through heavy wooden concertina doors. On one side, near the centre, two more blue doors opened to tiny, dark bedrooms. On the other, a short hallway led off to the kitchen, and an open door revealed a much larger, lighter bedroom dominated by a double bed covered with a faded blue and white printed linen spread.
I guessed the closed door near the kitchen entry must hide the bathroom facilities. I took care, glancing into the master bedroom, to point out to Fran that there was, indeed, a fan over the bed. That had been the carrot I offered Fran when I proposed and she teased me about it forever.
At the front–door end of the narrow living room, a metal–edged laminex table with four steel V–legs perched between two pairs of vinyl–covered kitchen chairs. At the other end, a cane lounge covered in electric–blue cotton and two matching armchairs were arranged around a chunky coffee table on a faded square of red, blue and white patterned carpet. Apart from the carpet square, the blue and white mosaic–tiled floors were all bare. The mid–green painted walls were bare. There were no curtains in the main room --- only heavy, folding shutter doors. The bedroom windows were covered with what looked like the sides of hessian flourbags.
I wandered into the kitchen. It was a long, narrow room with a raw wooden table on one side, a raw wooden bench and sink with two open shelves above and a freestanding gas cooker on the other, and a tiny louvered window beside a door at the far end. The door opened to a long side balcony from which you could have reached across through the neighbour’s kitchen window to steal scones from cooling trays resting on their sideboard --- except I later discovered the only thing they cooked in there was fried rice and pork and soy dishes, creating nauseating smells that were later to seriously aggravate Fran’s frequent bouts of morning sickness. At the end of the balcony, a cluster of cleaning equipment included an old–style cotton mop, gal squeeze–bucket, broad broom, straw broom, dustpan and brush, gal wash tub, and an ancient wooden washboard.
I returned to the living room to find that Housing Division Clerk Number One, a Lance Corporal, had flicked the switches to start two heavy overhead fans whirring. Clerk Number Two, a private, had seated himself near the now open folding doors and was fumbling with his papers. I glanced across the rear balcony --- equally reach–out–and–touch–me close to the adjacent flat --- and noted the neighbour’s large collection of erotic underwear and negligees pegged to two wooden clothes horses. Two scantily clad, silken– haired Chinese girls were lounging on canvas chairs with open newspapers spread face down across their bellies.
“You’re in a prime position here, mate,” the Lance Corporal declared with an evil grin.
“What, four floors up without a lift, other flats on two sides and walls as thin as paper? Christ, I’d hate to see a crook place! You guys have got some weird ideas!”
“I didn’t mean that. The missus’ll hate it, but hell, you gotta see the bright side of life. Look out there. ” He pointed to the balcony opposite.
“It’s worse than I thought. Either we open everything to public view, or suffocate in this hellhole. Next you’ll tell me the neighbour’s got a peephole to the bedroom.”
“Come off it. That lot out there aren’t going to bother you, but you’ll get a free floor show now and then.”
“Meaning?”
Just then, a Malay girl emerged from another room and wandered out on to the balcony. She was wearing a semi–sheer housecoat and she carefully laid out several pair of skimpy panties and bras on the railing to dry. Then she flopped on to a banana lounge and began brushing her long hair.
“It’s a den, junior. A whorehouse. Massage parlour as the nice folks say. Christ, this place is wasted on you. It ought’a be reserved for randy guys with frigid wives. Next you’ll tell me you’re a newlywed.”
“I am.”
“Oh God! Talk about takin’ coal to Newcastle. Well, what the hell? Honeymoons don’t last long. You’ll learn to appreciate the place before your time here’s up and meanwhile you can gain a lot of handy information watching who comes and goes. They turn a red light on in the window when they’re open for business. Oh, and if you’ve got a thing about chinks, there’s a damn good white whore in flat nine, but the price is high.”
I was careful to keep my back turned to him. “Can you get your paper–work done and get outa here? I told you. We’re on a honeymoon.”
“Sure thing, Junior. Whatever you say.”
When darkness fell that night, Fran glanced across to see the washing gone, men smoking on the balcony, a dozen or more girls prancing about half–naked in a dimly lit lounge room, and, outside, on the front corner of the flat, a single red lamp burning.
“Wonderful,” she exclaimed. “A thousand miles from home and family, a uniformed husband who will be away from home half the year, and I’m to live in a little box sandwiched between an endless traffic jam, a Chinese kitchen and a brothel! There’s only a portable galvanised tub and wooden washboard for a laundry and four steep flights of stairs to climb to see the outside world, whatever it might comprise, apart from rickshaws, men in colourful dragon costumes, insane Chinese taxi drivers, and stinking markets selling freshly butchered dogs and cats.”
“Welcome home,” I said, thinking that this was infinitely better than dormitories or barracks. At last, I had a home.
#
I came home the next day from my first day at work in a new unit angry and humiliated. I was welcomed with the usual initiation trick. It was standard in most institutions and I should have expected it, but it was six years since I’d stepped --- as the new boy --- into the unknown. I let my guard down.
I didn’t tell Fran, because I was embarrassed to have fallen for their silly pretence. I wanted to fall into her arms and be comforted. I wanted to enjoy at last being in my own home with my woman.
For 15 long years I had retired at the end of the day to a tiny cubicle in a crowded dormitory --- rank with the smell of fear --- and struggled to sleep amid the tossing and turning, farting, and snoring of blokes I’d never choose for room-mates. For 15 long years I’d risen every morning on command, to barked orders and inspections and breakfast in cold, institutional dining halls. At last I could look forward to freedom and privacy at the beginning and end of my workdays.
Fran was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. I wrapped my arms arou
nd her and began to caress her, but she pushed me gently away and protested that the oil would burn if I distracted her. A comforting warmth wrapped itself about me.
“Have you been told today?” I asked, and answered for her, “You’re beautiful.”
She turned and smiled at me.
“Do you know how good this feels?” I knew there was no way she could. “Get changed, Paul, and let me finish making dinner, and then I can make you feel very much better.” A mischievous glint flickered in her eyes, seductive, inviting. Ecstatic, I started for the bedroom.
The mood changed. Tight bedcovers, hospital corners, my boxer shorts folded and stowed neatly under the pillow. My drawers were rearranged, with all the civvy clothes I’d pulled from my suitcase and shoved in carelessly now folded in perfect neat piles. The assortment of coins and cufflinks I’d dumped carelessly on the dresser now neatly arranged in a small dish. Everything orderly. Everything neat. The faint odour of detergent rising from a freshly washed floor. The smell of fear!
A wave of panic gripped me. All the accumulated suffering of 15 years of discomfort and pent–up frustration at the sterility and coldness of my world --- 15 years of suffering torment and abuse for the tiniest wrinkle or the smallest flaw in the shape of a mitre; 15 years of “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” when I wanted to spit and swear and throw things --- shaped itself into a simmering ball of rage and wrapped me in sheets of fire.
I reefed at the bedcovers. I tugged at the sheet corners until they loosened and then gathered the sheet up in a ball and thrust it on the bed. I pulled drawers from the dresser and emptied them on to the floor, throwing the drawers down on top.
“Damn you!” I screamed. “What do you think this is? An army barracks? A bloody orphanage dormitory? Don’t you think I’ve had enough of bloody mitred corners and disinfected floors and clothes folded with military precision?” I swiped my arm across the dresser, sweeping coins and jewellery and her hairbrush and comb on to the floor in a clatter.
She was in the doorway now, white–faced and trembling. “I’m going to the pub,” I shouted.
“But dinner is ready,” she protested in a whisper.
“Fuck your dinner. And fuck you.” I stormed out and bounded down three steps at a time. I was striding up Katong Road, searching for somewhere to buy beer, before I realised I was still in uniform, with my shirt buttons undone.
The fifth vile, warm Tiger beer finally quenched the fire in my belly. Stiff limbs relaxed. A misty image of her appeared before me and I was a frightened little boy again. I reached out, but my arms were too short. I tried to call to her, but the words stuck in my throat and choked me. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut to stop them watering. I forced myself to take deep, slow breaths.
I finished my beer and drank several more. I lost count after about the eighth. I stumbled back to the flat and climbed the stairs slowly, reluctantly.
She was asleep when I entered. She had replaced the dresser drawers and the piles of clothing were gone. There was an untidy pile on the dresser. She had made the bed up after a fashion. No tightly pulled covers. No hospital corners. Just a lower sheet tucked rather carelessly under the mattress and a top sheet draped casually over her. Her pillow was wet. A pile of screwed–up tissues littered the bedside table.
I pulled off my clothes and thrust them in a pile on the floor, climbed in bedside her, and fell instantly into a deep sleep.
In the morning, I found my clothing folded somewhat casually and dropped in not–too–precise piles in drawers. Neat, but not to military standards. I stepped from the shower to the smell of toast and bacon. She took care to keep her back to me and said nothing. Remorse weighed on me. My stomach churned and my head ached. I tried desperately to do justice to the breakfast she served, but after the fourth mouthful I charged from the room with a mouthful of vomit.
I went to the bedroom for my socks and boots. The bed was made. Neat. No tight covers. No mitred hospital corners. I went to Fran and put my arms around her and kissed her tenderly. “Have you been told today?” I whispered, hoping she wouldn’t push me away. “I’m so sorry, Fran. I don’t know what came over me.”
She kissed me, but it was reluctant, grudging. “I’m trying to understand, Paul,” she whispered. “But I need you to help me. Talk to me, please!”
I shook my head. “I don’t want you to be part of that world, Fran,” I said. “I don’t want to live in that world when I’m with you.”
#
The days passed in a haze of happiness. I woke in the morning to stroke Fran’s hair and ask her when she was last told. She decorated the little flat with wall hangings and ornaments and pretty bedcovers, and dainty antimacassars on the backs of the lounge chairs. She cooked me wonderful dinners, and when I was home in the evenings she snuggled against me to watch movies. When I had time off before an evening concert, we lay on the floor listening to symphonies together.
She had taken piano lessons for a couple of years and sang. She said she never understood music though. She told me I opened a new world. I told her the stories the music told and how to understand the tale. I talked about the composer’s life and the society he lived in, how different styles of music evolved through the ages, and which parts of a piece were difficult to play and challenged me.
At the end of our third month there, I took her to a ball. Dances were regular events and army wives delighted in the chance to don their finest gowns, coiffure their hair and ‘strut their stuff’. Fran bought a new dress for the occasion. She looked radiant and stunning when I opened the taxi door for her. She beamed when I asked her had she been told today, and reminded me I had asked her several times that day already.
I wasn’t much of a dancer and disliked the sport. I planned to spend the evening sitting in a quiet corner, sipping beer and watching. I guess I just assumed Fran would sit beside me, quite content with a glass of wine and some nibblies and my lewd comments on the officers’ harlots and the sergeants’ dragons.
We enjoyed a pre–dinner drink. I introduced her to mates’ wives. We chatted easily for a time, and then we dined --- a sumptuous feast of prime steak.
I walked to the bar for another beer, and I brought her back another glass of wine. We sat for a while to let the dinner settle. We chatted to friends and watched the dancers. It was perfect. My friends admired my gorgeous woman and I basked in their compliments to her.
“Are you going to ask me to dance, Paul?” she asked when the Master of Ceremonies announced a slow waltz.
“I don’t dance.”
“I can teach you. The waltz is easy.”
“I don’t want to learn.”
“Come on, Paul. I love to dance. You’ll enjoy it.”
“What are you now? A bloody drum major?”
“What? What are you talking about?” How could she know that the drum major had announced the event with the barked order, “You will all go and you will enjoy it”?
“OK. One dance,” I said, washed by a wave of remorse and desperate to make amends. We took half–a–dozen turns around the dance floor. I hated every minute of it.
“It’s an obscene sport,” I said, returning to my seat. “It’s for cheap women and men on the prowl.”
“What are you talking about? That’s nonsense, Paul. Honestly! It’s ridiculous!”
“Women come to dances to tease men and flaunt their curves,” I said, “and men come to dances to rub up against women. When the women get a few drinks in them they want more than rubbing and they take off with any bloke who’s handy. They get it off on the back seat of his car or in a dark corner of the yard behind the dance hall. Half the time they are so bloody drunk they don’t even remember in the morning.”
She stared at me, astonished. “That’s insane, Paul. You’re being ridiculous. Cheap women and unfaithful men will get together one way or another, but most people just enjoy dancing as a sport. A dance is a great social event. Everyone enjoys dressing up. People enjoy the company. It’s good exercise and i
t’s fun.”
“That’s your take on it. Fine,” I said, and strode off to the bar for another beer.
When I returned, she was gone. I searched for her. She was on the dance floor. A warrant officer’s arm rested across her back and he held one hand in the air. She rested her other hand on his shoulder. Their bodies weren’t touching.
I felt the heat rise into my neck and my lips tighten and my head start to throb. I strode across the floor, gripped her upper arm and pulled her savagely. “We are leaving,” I said harshly. “Say goodnight to your boyfriend.”
She stumbled, tripping on the hem of her dress, but I dragged her behind me down the stairs and across the parking lot, pushed her into the back of a waiting taxi, slammed the door, and climbed in the front. “Katong, driver,” I snapped. “Step on it.”
We rode in stony silence. She climbed the stairs without a word and went straight to the bedroom to change. She washed her makeup off. I stood in the doorway watching her.
“You see what I mean about dancing,” I said. “I leave you alone for half a minute and you’re off flirting with another bloke.”
“I wasn’t flirting, Paul. He asked me to dance. There was nothing in it. It was just a friendly whirl around the floor. Totally innocent.”
“Is that what you thought? Stupid, naïve girl! There is no such thing as an innocent whirl around the floor with a bloody uniform. Every bloke in this army is out to get it from every bitch he can con into taking her clothes off. And every bitch in the world will have it from any man who offers it if she thinks she can get it without her husband knowing. I know what women are.”
“I’m not like that.”
“No? Of course you’re not! You’re miss little sweet and innocent who closes her eyes and thinks of England when her husband wants it. You don’t even enjoy it and you would never do it with anyone you weren’t married to.”
The Pencil Case Page 18