“No, silly boy. I enjoyed everything you did to me.” Then she said, “Peter, I have no wish to embarrass you, but you were a boy-virgin. Is it correct to call it that?”
Peter’s cheeks flushed hot. “I told you, I’ve had lots of girlfriends before you.”
“Maybe, but not as you have had me.” She then said, “We did not take tea. By now you must be very hungry.”
“I am. I’ve not eaten since breakfast,” replied Peter. “We’ve not gone to the pictures so please allow me to take you out to dinner,” he offered.
“No, but thank you, Peter. We shall eat here. The amah can fetch us dinner from a nearby coffeehouse. I will call her, then we must wash. Go under the sheet,” she bade him, and wrapping herself in the sarong, she called out to the amah, who hurried up the stairs, knocked on the door, and was asked to enter. She grinned at Peter, and said, “Hello,” in Chinese.
“Wan Ze speaks no English,” said Lai Ming to Peter. “So you can practice your knowledge of Chinese on her,” and she smiled at the amah who, not knowing what was said, shrugged her shoulders and grinned even more.
“Peter said, “How are you?” in Cantonese. To which the amah replied, “Very well. And you?”
Peter wanted to say, ‘Quite fucked, actually,’ but instead said in Cantonese, “Rose has treated me well.”
Lai Ming smiled graciously and then spoke to the amah who nodded her head in acknowledgement, and said, “Yes, yes, I can get. I go now.”
Turning to Peter, Lai Ming asked, “Peter, what would you like to drink?”
“A bottle of beer if it’s possible, please,” he replied.
“Chinese beer?” Lai Ming asked.
“I don’t care,” he said, laughing. “Any beer.”
Turning again to the amah, Lai Ming said, “One large Tiger beer.”
The amah, still grinning and nodding towards Peter, jokingly asked, “Is he old enough to drink beer? Wah! Tsh! Tsh! He looks very young, like a little boy.”
“He is old enough,” replied Lai Ming, “And we are both hungry.”
“I wonder why,” teased the amah, and without more conversation she left the room. Lai Ming waited until the amah’s footsteps could be heard descending the stairs before saying to Peter, “Come, we must wash.”
With an enquiring look on his face, Peter slid from between the sheets. ‘God! What a hard bed,’ he thought, ‘and the mattress is so thin.’ He felt underneath the mattress. Instead of bedsprings his hand contacted a layer of wooden boards. Shaking his head in wonderment, he followed Lai Ming into the bathroom.
There, Lai Ming said to him, “I will wash you,” and she took from under the sink a wide enamel bowl and filled it three-quarters full with cold water from a tap in the shower stall. Turning, she carefully placed the bowl down on the floor. Then, taking a bottle of Dettol disinfectant from beneath the sink, she poured a little of its contents into the bowl, which immediately turned the water to a cloudy, milky white. She then squatted down, almost over the bowl, and beckoned Peter to squat down likewise, to face her, over the bowl.
She smiled what could have been a motherly smile. “I must make you a nice clean boy,” she said, dipping the face cloth into the water. Peter, unable to resist the temptation of the closeness of her breasts, reached out, took one in each hand and felt for the nipples. “Naughty boy. Be serious,” she admonished, pushing his hands away. “There is plenty of time to play, later.” Then, taking his genitals in one hand and the washcloth in the other, she gently and carefully washed them. Peter flinched at the coldness of the water, and her touch tickled. “You don’t like to be washed?” asked Lai Ming.
“It’s rather different from what I’ve been used to,” said Peter, “but it feels nice.”
Lai Ming smiled a reply. And when satisfied that he was clean again, she dropped the wash cloth into the bowl, got to her feet and handed Peter a towel. “Now, you wipe,” she said. “My turn to wash,” and she again squat herself down over the bowl. Standing over her, Peter watched fascinated as the little Chinese lady performed her own ablutions, first by washing her stomach, then the whole area where her pubic hair grew. Then, with one hand she splashed water up into her vagina, and cleansed herself. Unconcerned, she smiled up at him. She did not mind him watching her. “You make much,” she said.
“It was all your fault,” Peter said, laughing, “but I enjoyed it.”
“Me, too,” she said.
They were still drying themselves in the bathroom, and hugging and kissing each other when the amah returned carrying a wicker basket containing the dinner. Placing the basket upon the table, she called out, “Ming, I have your food and drink, and beer for the little boy. Wah! Tsh! Tsh!”
“Thank you. We shall be right out,” shouted Lai Ming, laughing at the words of her amah. Reaching into a small locker, she took from it a brown and gold coloured sarong. “For you, Peter,” she said, handing the cloth to him. She then showed him how to put it on, and how to keep it in place without fear of it falling down around his feet. She then put on the sarong she had previously worn, winding it around her, but taking it higher than her waist so that it also covered her bosom. There she tucked a corner snugly into her cleavage. “We go eat,” she said to Peter, and he followed her into the room where the amah awaited them, and where the food smelled good.
With the basket came plates, dinner napkins, sauces, and even a knife and fork. “I use chopsticks or a spoon,” apologized Lai Ming. “I have no use for a knife and fork. The eating house has loaned us these.” She made a mental note to buy a knife, fork and spoon for Peter. “And see, the amah has brought you beer,” she said, taking from the basket a large bottle of Tiger beer and a glass tumbler. “It is much to drink. I hope you don’t get drunk,” she said. Next, she took from the basket a bottle of Green Spot orangeade which she placed on the table and put a straw beside it. “For me,” she said. “I seldom drink alcohol. Ah! Here is our dinner. I hope you will like it.” She took from the basket three covered containers held together by a wire frame with a carrying handle. Unlatching the frame and placing the containers to form a triangle on the table, she lifted the three lids. “There! A Chinese dinner!” she exclaimed smiling at Peter who had sat himself at the table.
“Oh, it looks delicious,” said Peter enthusiastically. “And I’m so hungry. Everything looks so appetizing.”
“I am glad,” said Lai Ming. “Let me explain each dish.”
“These are fried prawns, aren’t they?” interrupted Peter. “They really are a jumbo size.”
“We call them Cantonese fried scampi,” said Lai Ming. “The sliced cucumber among the scampi makes the dish more pleasant to the eye, and in this hot weather it gives the hot food a cool and appetizing appearance.”
“You should be a cook,” laughed Peter.
“I like to cook. Some day I shall cook for you,” replied Lai Ming. “And I like to look at cookbook pictures.” Pointing with a chopstick, she continued, “Here we have pork fried rice, which I like very much. And in this third dish we have Chinese vegetables. These are snow peas, fresh water chestnuts and bamboo shoots in a soybean paste.” She turned to the amah. “Everything is good,” she said. Reaching for her handbag which lay on the dressing table, she took from it money and paid the amah, who wished them, ‘Good eating,’ left the room, and loudly clip-clopped on wooden shoes down the stairs.
Peter was in a quandary. Should he offer to pay for the dinner, or would the offer insult his lovely hostess? He decided to simply say ‘thank you,’ which he did. Lai Ming, bowing her head, said, “It is an honour to have you as my guest, and it is a pleasure to share a meal with you. Come. Eat before it gets cold. I will open and pour your beer.”
What service! This is really living, thought Peter, as he again thanked Lai Ming whilst helping himself to the fried scampi.
When the three containers were almost empty and they had eaten their fill, Lai Ming suddenly asked, “Peter, when must you return to camp?”
&nb
sp; “I’m due to report for duty midday on Monday,” Peter replied. Then he thought a moment and remembered that Sergeant Muldoon had mentioned eleven or sooner on the Monday morning as he wanted to take his wife to an afternoon show. “I must report for work at or before eleven on Monday,” he said.
“And today is only Saturday, so you have all day free tomorrow, and also a little of Monday morning?”
“Yes, that’s right,” answered Peter.
With the chopsticks she held, Lai Ming prodded the one remaining snow pea on her plate as if studying it. “Would you like to stay here, stay with me, sleep with me? I would enjoy your stay,” she said, without looking up.
“Oh, Rose, I’d love to,” Peter replied. “We could do such a lot together. Go to the cinema or even visit the zoo.”
She looked across the table with an impish smile on her face. “Or we could stay here and make much love,” she said coyly.
“Oh, Rose, I don’t think I shall ever really understand you,” said Peter, and getting up from his chair and going to her side, he bent over her and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll love you always, Rose. Always,” he murmured. “I know I shall.” And he put his arm around her, and placed a hand upon her breast.
She did not push his hand away from her. Instead, she placed a hand upon his and pressed it to her bosom. “Thank you, Peter. I hope I never cause you problems. I never want to hurt you,” and she got up from her seat and put her arms around him. “You stay until Monday. I will make sure you catch a bus or taxi back to camp in time for your work. You stay with me, Peter, and we’ll be very greedy. I will give you all of me, all that you can possibly want, and in return, I want all of you, everything that you can make with me. I want you to be my boyfriend, my lover, and I will be everything you need of me.”
Peter cuddled her in his arms. She was so soft, so warm, so lovely. “You’re a darling,” he said. “I’ll always treasure you,” and again he felt himself getting an erection.
“Peter! Look! You are being naughty again,” exclaimed Lai Ming, laughing and sliding her hand down to that which stuck forth beneath Peter’s sarong; they both looked down and laughed.
“I can’t help it,” said Peter, almost apologetically though grinning boyishly.
“I think he needs me,” said Lai Ming. “Let me relax him. Let’s go back to bed.”
6
Sergeant Muldoon, the non-commissioned officer (NCO) in charge of the sergeants’ mess kitchen at RAF Changi, was having a bad Monday morning. His troubles began the moment he awoke with his wife complaining of a severe sore throat. Next, his bike’s front tire was flat with a nail in it, forcing him to walk the mile from the married quarters to the sergeants’ mess. On his arrival at the kitchen, he saw that the plate-wash boy had ringworm, so sent him to the medical officer, who sent him home. Two hours later Muldoon was asked to report to the hospital where he was informed by a medical officer that his number three cook had been diagnosed as having leprosy. LAC Saunders, his cook and right-hand man had still not shown up for work and it was already past eleven o’clock. To make matters worse, he had been told that Saunders had not been seen on camp since the previous Saturday afternoon. Now, to top it all, Lou Fook, the number two cook, had burned the roast beef that was to have been served for lunch that day.
Sergeant Muldoon shook his head in resignation. “Lou Fook,” he said icily, “When it’s brown it’s cooked, but when it’s black it’s fucked. Can’t you get that into your daft head?” It was not in Sergeant Muldoon’s nature to lose his temper or get angry, but today everything had gone wrong causing him to be in a foul mood. “You call yourself a cook. You’re not fit to be a kitchen coolie. I want a cook working here, not a damned charcoal-burner,” he shouted, prodding the still smoking joint of beef with a long-handled kitchen fork. “Look at this mess! Just look at it! Sixty mens’ rations gone up in smoke,” moaned the exasperated sergeant, shaking his head in despair.
A very dejected Lou Fook stared solemnly at his toes, muttering, “Me very sorry, sergeant. Me very sorry me forget meat.”
“Sorry! Sorry!” fumed the sergeant. “Sorry won’t bring back the damned meat ration. Hey! Chuff Box! Fetch a swill-bin.” And when Chuff Box, the young kitchen boy, brought the swill-bin from the kitchen yard and placed it near the table, the sergeant angrily lunged at the blackened beef with the fork, lifted it from the burned-out roasting pan of still smoking fat and hurled it into the swill-bin.
At that moment, Peter Saunders, clad in clean cooks’ whites, brown shoes, and with his RAF blue beret at a jaunty angle, strolled into the kitchen. In brown shoes he was improperly dressed but, since remustering to become a cook, such RAF rules and regulations meant little to him. Nor did his improper dress bother the sergeant. But then, few in the catering section bothered with rules and regulations or took any notice of Station Standing Orders and Station Routine Orders. The cooks simply didn’t bother to read them. “Sorry I’m a bit late, Sarge,” he sang out, and was about to explain how the bus had broken down this side of Geylang when he realized the sergeant was angry, but not at him.
“What’s the matter, Sarge?” he asked. Then, eyeing the still smoking roasting pan, said, “Ah ha! And what have we here? Have we cremated a corpse, Sarge?”
“Damn it, Pete, it’s not funny,” fumed the sergeant, nodding his head towards the swill-bin. “It’s in there, the roast beef that we should be having for today’s lunch.”
Peter peered into the bin, then at the burned-out roasting pan, and finally at the wretched Lou Fook. “Oh! I see! It’s like that, is it? Well, in that case, there won’t be a need to make Yorkshire pudding today,” he said jokingly, grinning and winking at Lou Fook.
Lou Fook remained silent, his eyes fixed upon his toes.
“This idiot burned it,” said the sergeant.
“Anyone can forget once in a while, Sarge. We’ll just have to make do with something else. We can use the tinned spam. Make fritters out of them.”
“The spam’s for this evening’s salad.”
“Oh! Well in that case I can nip down to the airmens’ mess and nick something for this evening’s meal. What else is on for lunch?”
“Braised rabbit and Lancashire hot pot.”
“So, what’s wrong with spam fritter as a third choice?”
“I suppose it’s OK,” the sergeant answered wearily, accustomed these last few weeks to allowing his new RAF cook to sort out these nagging problems. “All right, spam fritters it is,” he said with some reluctance. He picked up the telephone and called through to Percy, the corporal in charge of the sergeants’ mess dining room staff. By the look that came on the sergeant’s face it was obvious that Percy was not happy at having to change all twenty luncheon menus, especially at having to substitute spam fritters for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. “I’ll stick them up your bloody ass if you don’t watch it,” Sergeant Muldoon growled, banging down the receiver. “What a nerve! Stick ‘em up my ass, he said, and he’s queer. He should stick ‘em up his own ass,” he said testily.
Peter chuckled. “Oh, he’s just miffed at having to change the menus at the last moment,” he said, knowing full well that the sergeant cook and the overweight messing corporal seldom saw anything eye to eye. “So what else is new, Sarge?”
The sergeant sighed. “Not only has Lou Fook burned the meat but this morning the fool served cold sausages to the Chairman of the Messing Committee (CMC) for breakfast. The CMC came into the kitchen about an hour ago and blew his stack at me. Me! Sergeant Muldoon! The other mess staffs will be laughing their heads off, and Christ knows what the catering officer will think if he hears about it.” The irate sergeant finished by saying, “If I had my way, I’d wring this blasted fool’s neck.”
“Aw, come on, Sarge,” laughed Peter. “He’s not as bad as all that!”
“Oh no! Is that what you think? Well, yesterday he put curry powder in the steamed fruit duff, the spotted dick as you call it, that was supposed to be served with c
ustard as one of the luncheon desserts.”
“It was just a little mistake, Sarge. He must have thought the jar contained mixed spice. Anyway, what did you do with Lou Fook’s curried spotted dick?”
“I served it as a savory pudding with the roast pork.”
Peter, still laughing, said, “You really did?”
The sergeant eyed Peter suspiciously. “What are you so damned chirpy about today?” he asked.
“I met a girl on the beach last Saturday, a Chinese girl,” Peter replied. “She took me to her home and I spent the weekend with her.”
“You did what?” spat out the astounded sergeant.
“I met a Chinese girl on Changi Beach and spent the weekend with her. I’m sorry I’m late, Sarge. It’s because the bloody bus broke down after it left Geylang,” he apologized. “Christ! I’m absolutely fucked. But what a weekend I had!”
“Nice Chinese girls don’t mess about with servicemen,” growled the sergeant. “And most certainly not with other ranks. Is she one of the whores that hang out at the beach?”
“Certainly not, Sarge. She’s a lovely little lady. And you’ve got to remember, Sarge, times are changing.”
“Maybe they are, and maybe they’re not, but I don’t like the sound of it. Don’t come to me when you’ve a blob on your knob, or worse. You’re better off staying in camp overnight.”
“Aw, come on, Sarge,” and Peter laughed, “we only live once.”
“I know. But just be bloody careful. Anyway, changing the subject, I’ve something to tell you, something important. Come into the office. I don’t want this getting around.”
Peter silently followed the sergeant into the combined office and food store, waited until the sergeant was seated on the lone chair behind a small table which also served as a desk, then perched himself on a corner edge of the table. “What’s up, Sarge?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you what’s up, Pete, and it’s not pleasant. Remember those bumps which appeared on Wee Lim two or three weeks ago?”
The Rose of Singapore Page 7