“What about them? At first I thought he had a bad heat rash from standing over the stove.”
Wee Lim was the very dependable, hardworking number three cook who, though young, was excellent at his profession. Only a year older than Peter, he was of the same slight stature and of a gentle and friendly disposition. He and Peter had hit it off as friends right from the start. Also, during Peter’s first weeks at the sergeants’ mess, Wee Lim had taught him many cookery tips, as well as many words and phrases in Cantonese; and Wee Lim, who had known only a smattering of English, had constantly improved his knowledge of the language through conversing with Peter.
Unusually grim of face, the sergeant said, “Get ready for a shock, Pete.”
“Well, come on! Let’s hear it.”
“Leprosy,” answered the grim-faced sergeant.
“Leprosy?” said Peter incredulously.
“Yes. He’s got leprosy.”
“My God. I can’t believe it! So what happen’s now?”
“I don’t know. I intended sacking old Lou Fook and making Wee Lim number two.”
“He would have been a good replacement, but that’s out of the question now. Where is he?”
“He’s at a leper colony in Singapore. I’ve written down the name of the place.” Sergeant Muldoon looked at a scratchpad on his desk. “The hospital is on Yio Chu Kang Road,” he said, reading off the name from the pad. “It’s an isolation hospital, for lepers only.”
Peter shook his head in disbelief. “There’s no cure for leprosy is there, Sarge?”
“I believe there is,” answered the sergeant. “It’s a long job though. The MO said that Wee Lim must remain at the colony for at least nine months. But he also said he expects it will be for a much longer period.”
“I’d like to go and see him, Sarge.”
“No, Pete. It’s probably not allowed, and it wouldn’t be wise. Do you understand me?”
“Gosh, Sarge, I wish we could do something for him. Poor bugger, he must be in an awful state.”
“That’s for sure. I don’t know what we can do though. I’ll ask Charlie. He’s Wee Lim’s uncle. We could send him packets of biscuits and boiled sweets from the K ration boxes. We could even send him some tinned fruit.”
“How would we get the stuff to him?” asked Peter.
“Charlie could take it. He’ll want to visit his nephew.”
“It’s a good idea, but it’s taking a big risk. It’s stealing as far as the RAF is concerned.”
“I know. But I’m sure Charlie’s too smart to get caught. And if the police stop him, I’ll sort them out.”
For the first time since arriving in the kitchen that morning, Peter almost felt like laughing. God help anyone who got in the way of the fiery little sergeant. He’d sort out anyone who crossed him. “It’s good of you, Sarge,” Peter said. “Wee Lim’s a good fellow and a damned good cook.”
Then, thinking of the awful illness, he shivered with a chill of sudden fear. “Christ, Sarge, he’s been in close contact with everyone in the kitchen, and all the while he’s been cooking for the mess members. Is leprosy contagious?”
“I don’t know,” the sergeant replied, but by his troubled looks, he too was fearful.
“I bet there’ll be a hell of a panic if the mess members get wind of this. The sickquarters will be swamped with enquiries.”
“The less said the better,” said the sergeant.
“The less said the better about what?” boomed a man’s voice from the kitchen. The next moment the office doorway was blocked by a huge hulk of a man wearing an RAF police uniform, a service revolver in a white holster slung at his hip, and on each sleeve of his khaki drill (KD) jacket a grey armband with the letters SP written on it in big white letters. Flight Sergeant Cameron was a man to be reckoned with. Not only was he a tough rugby player, a judo expert and the station boxing champion, he was also the chief of the RAF provost police in Singapore; a twenty-two year man serving his last five. His only health problem was that he suffered from ulcers. Instead of eating in the dining room, he often frequented the cooks’ domain in the kitchen where he enjoyed a meal of lightly boiled eggs or milk pudding before going on duty patrolling the red-light districts of the city. “About what?” he repeated, propping himself up in the doorframe and pushing his square, granite-like face menacingly forward as if ready to tackle the first person who opposed him.
With no more than a glance in his direction, Sergeant Muldoon answered, “Oh, nothing important, Jock.”
“G’morning, Flight,” greeted Peter Saunders, momentarily putting Wee Lim from his mind.
“What’s so good about it?” asked the flight sergeant.
“What’s the matter? Your ulcer playing up again?” asked Sergeant Muldoon.
“No, touch wood,” answered the flight sergeant. He entered the office and tapped the wooden desk with giant, vice-like fingers. “But having the wife and kids out here gives me more headaches than I need,” he said.
“Oh! Come on, Jock! You don’t mean that. How are they, anyway?” asked the sergeant.
“Oh, they’re all fine,” replied the flight sergeant. “Flossy is settling down to the life out here. Slowly, mind you. She’s still a wee bit scared when I’m on nights. And she’s still complaining of the smells.”
“She’ll get over that,” said Sergeant Muldoon. “How about the kids?”
“Oh, they love it here,” the flight sergeant answered. “The heat doesn’t bother them like it does their mum, and there’s lots for them to do.” Then turning to Peter Saunders, he said, “That reminds me, Cookie, there’s something I want to ask you.”
“Don’t try pinning anything on me, Flight,” laughed Peter. “I ain’t done nuffink,” he joked.
The flight sergeant’s stony face lost some of its hardness to actually crease into a smile when he said, “I probably could pin something on you if I wanted to, but this is something personal I want to ask you.”
“You want me to cook you something special.”
“No. It’s nothing about food.”
Puzzled, Peter said, “Then what?”
“I’d like you to do me a favour.”
More puzzled than ever, Peter said, “Me do you a favour? A favour for the provost police chief? What is this, Flight? What are you getting me into?”
“I’ll ask you later. It’s nothing so dreadful, nothing to do with police work, and nothing to do with the RAF. So don’t look so concerned.” He turned to the catering sergeant. “Changing the subject, did your leave pass go through, Paddy? Or did the old man turn it down?” he asked.
“It’s still down at the catering office. The Warrant Officer (WO) in charge of catering turned it down. He’s got a bee in his bonnet. The Command Catering Officer is coming to inspect all messes at Changi next month. The WO said he didn’t think he could spare me until after the inspection.”
“That’s tough. So there’ll be a lot of bullshit going on around here for awhile, eh?”
“You can bet on that,” answered Sergeant Muldoon. “By the way, how’s the banana situation with you? Do you need any? An issue arrived yesterday.”
“That’s what I came in for, Paddy. There’s nothing like eating a banana or two when I’m touring the city at night.”
“I’ll get you a bunch,” said Peter, who was still perplexed as to what the flight sergeant wanted to ask him. “How is that stomach of yours these days, Flight? Still playing you up?” he asked.
“Thankfully, it’s been quite settled this last week or so, but if I eat pastries or fatty foods, I pay for it.” The flight sergeant gave a gruff laugh, “Cookie, the lightly boiled eggs and egg custards you serve me in this office are my life-savers.”
“Would you care for a couple of eggs now?” volunteered Peter. “I’ll have them ready in a jiffy. It’s no trouble.”
“No, but thanks all the same. I’ll just take some bananas. I’m in rather a hurry.”
And as Peter disappeared into th
e fruit store, he shouted, “Flight, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
The flight sergeant waited until Peter emerged from the fruit store before saying, “I’d like you to babysit my two kids.”
“What?” shouted Peter, completely taken aback. “Am I hearing you right, Flight? Did you say babysit?” he asked. In one hand he held a brown paper bag containing a big bunch of bananas.
“Yes, babysit. What’s so mind-boggling about that?” asked the flight sergeant. “There’s nothing new in the job. I’d like to take the missus to a show in town. All I’m asking is for you to babysit my two kids for a few hours whilst we’re away. The amah won’t stay evenings, and it would just be for the one evening. I’d pay you, of course, and there are perks. All you have to do is come around to my home this Thursday evening, say around six, and look after the kids until about ten or until we get back. The favour I’m asking you is nothing more than that.”
“Christ! Some favour,” said Peter scornfully. “Thanks, but no thanks, Flight. Can you imagine what everyone in the catering section would say if they hear I’m babysitting for the chief of the provost police? They’ll call me an arse-kisser. I can just see Ginger Rundle lying on his bed laughing his fat head off. And Mike Chalmers calling me a little sissy and a creep, bumming around the police chief.”
“Don’t you think you’re making too big a deal of this? It would only be for those few hours,” said the flight sergeant.
“No thanks, Flight. I’d consider most anything else, but not babysitting.”
“Too bad. You’d enjoy it. You’d have a lot of fun playing with my kids, and there’s always plenty of beer in the fridge. It would get you out of the block for awhile,” said the flight sergeant seriously. Then he said, “I think you’d like my kids. They’re easy to get along with. Anyway, I’ll ask you again tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Flight, but no thanks. The answer will still be, ‘No.’”
“Perhaps, but think about it.”
“I have thought about it. Anyway, did you say Thursday?”
“Yes, Thursday.”
“Well, that’s put the lid on that.”
“Why?”
“I’ve a date on Thursday.”
“You’ve a date!” exclaimed the flight sergeant, frowning. “Who with?”
“A Chinese girl I met down on the beach last Saturday.”
“Really! Not Molly or Lilly or The Bucket, I hope, or one of the other prostitutes that hang out down there,” said a now serious Flight Sergeant Cameron.
Proudly Peter said, “Nope, she’s not one of them. She’s a real lady and the most beautiful woman in the whole world. I was down on the beach swimming with her. I asked her for a date, she accepted, and she took me home.”
“Just like that?” asked a challenging Sergeant Muldoon.
“Yep, just like that. Well, more or less.”
“What do you mean, more or less?” asked the sergeant.
The flight sergeant interrupted the conversation. “What does she do for a living?” he asked.
Suspicion, Peter thought, was already in the flight sergeant’s tone of voice. “She not a ‘pro’ if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said indignantly.
“I didn’t say she was,” said the flight sergeant, a hint of a smile creasing his rugged face.
“But you’re thinking she is, aren’t you?” said Peter, becoming more ruffled.
The flight sergeant placed a heavy hand good-naturedly on Peter’s shoulder. “Look, lad, I think on many things, but I don’t always say what I think. But what does she do for a living? She must do something.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask her,” answered Peter, feeling interrogated and already cornered. “I think she’s a school teacher. She speaks better English than any one of us.”
The provost police flight sergeant was not impressed. “Where does she live?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask her,” answered Peter.
“But surely you must know which area she lives in. You must have seen street signs.”
Peter had seen several street signs. He had seen the sign which had Lavender Street written on it and another at the intersection, which read Bendemeer Road. He had also seen at least three of the dreaded ‘OUT OF BOUNDS’ signs, meaning out of bounds to all military personnel. In fact, he had passed by them, both to and from Lai Ming’s home.
“I didn’t take much notice,” lied Peter uncomfortably. He never liked to lie, especially to the flight sergeant, not only because the man was head of the provost police and might easily suspect that he was lying but also because during the short time he had been at the sergeants’ mess, he and the big Scotsman had become quite friendly. But how could he tell him that Lai Ming lived on a road just off the infamous Lavender Street, knowing that the whole area was out of bounds to service personnel. Weakly, he said, “It was in the centre of the city somewhere. Where the streets and buildings all look the same. You know, little Chinatown.”
“And you’re going to visit her again on Thursday. You’ll be going to her home, so if that’s the case you must know her address.”
“No, I don’t know her address, Flight. I’m meeting her at the Green Line bus station. We’ve made plans to go over to Johore to visit the zoo.”
“Hmm, you’d never make a policeman, that’s for sure.”
“And you’d never make a cook, Flight. That’s for sure,” answered Peter, considerably cockier than he felt.
The flight sergeant laughed. “I just don’t want to see you getting into any trouble, Cookie. However, I can only presume that the woman is not a bad type if she’s going to the zoo with you. All right Saunders, skip the babysitting for now. I’ll ask you again at a later date.”
“You’ll be wasting your time, Flight.”
“We’ll see. I’m still a wee bit curious about this woman you met at the beach, where she lives and what she does for a living.”
“Don’t be nosey, Flight,” replied Peter, now laughing and feeling more at ease. “You can leave my girlfriend out of your detective work. You do enough snooping as it is.”
“Once a policeman, always a policeman,” replied the flight sergeant. “By the way, changing the subject, when do you sit for your senior aircraftman’s trade test?”
“I don’t know. I’ve passed the education test. As for the practical and theory, I’ll have to wait until the catering officer puts me down for those.”
“Isn’t it about time he did?”
“Not really. I’ve been an LAC for less than eight months. I’m in no hurry to be promoted to an SAC. I’ve still got more than three years to do.”
“It will mean more money and put you in line for your corporal’s tapes.”
Sergeant Muldoon interrupted them by saying, “I’m expecting him to be sent to the aircrew mess here at Changi in a month or two. The Far Eastern Command has decided to open a school of cookery there. There’ll be a cook chosen to represent every RAF station in FEAF (Far Eastern Air Force). I’m expecting Pete to be the chosen cook from Changi.”
“Only one from Changi?” asked the interested flight sergeant.
“Yes. There’ll be just the one LAC selected from every catering section in the Far Eastern Command. The two other RAF camps on the island, Tengah and Seletar, although short of cooks, will probably each send one. And Kai Tak, KL, Penang and Colombo will also send a man to make up a seven-man course. It’s supposed to be a ten-week advanced training cookery course.”
“It sounds good,” said the flight sergeant. Turning to Peter, he asked, “Are you hoping you’ll be the chosen cook from Changi?”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t care so long as I get back to the sergeants’ mess after the ten weeks are up.”
“Who’ll be the instructor?” asked the flight sergeant.
“There’ll be two, both chosen from Changi,” answered the catering sergeant.
“Oh! Who?”
“Flight Sergeant Bates, the Cornishman, and War
rant Officer White. God knows what Bates can teach anybody other than how to make Cornish pasties but the WO knows his stuff. A good skive that’s what I think it’ll be and a waste of public funds.”
“Not if it improves their catering ability and knowledge,” argued the flight sergeant.
“But will it? I bet Charlie, my number one, and Wee Lim have taught Pete here more in the few weeks he’s been with me than what any instructor can teach him in ten weeks. And he will be a great loss to me. I doubt if the old man will send a replacement.”
Peter, ready to head off to the airmens’ mess pantry to pilfer something for dinner, said, “OK, I’m away then. Cheerio, Flight.”
“So long, Cookie. Watch your step with that lady on Thursday.”
Peter laughed and said, “Thanks for the fatherly advice, Flight. I’ll be back in a jiffy, Sarge.”
“OK Pete,” the sergeant replied. “Don’t be long. I want to get home.”
“Don’t forget your bananas, Flight,” Peter sang out as he departed. He walked through the small, square courtyard surrounded by a high wall and out onto the hot, shimmering, sun-drenched road. Taking a short cut, he walked across grassy banks where tall palm trees stood and huge poincianas decorated in great clusters of red blossom shaded the area. The airmens’ mess was only a couple of hundred yards away, perhaps less, but it was a long, hot walk in the heat of the midday sun.
“Has he told you anything about this woman he met at the beach, Paddy?” asked the flight sergeant.
“He hadn’t mentioned her until a minute or two before you came in,” replied the sergeant.
“Maybe I can find out something about her. I’m curious, for his sake,” said the flight sergeant.
“You’re a nosey bugger, aren’t you?” said the sergeant, laughing.
“Perhaps I am. But if she is of bad character, I’d hate to see Cookie get mixed up with her. He’s so damned naive.”
“He’s just young,” said Sergeant Muldoon. “We all learn by our experiences, good and bad.”
“You’re right, Paddy. Anyway, I must be off. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Striding out of the kitchen office the giant flight sergeant departed, heading for the guardroom which was just over the hill. He was still wondering about the Chinese girl. Who was she? Where did she live? How did she earn her livelihood? He liked Saunders and thought him to be very clean-cut and honest. He could trust him. That’s why he had asked him to babysit. He arrived at the guardroom with Saunders and the Chinese girl still on his mind. He would, he decided, have a couple of his SPs keep an eye on the lad.
The Rose of Singapore Page 8