7
Later that evening, the lovely Chan Lai Ming, the popular Chinese prostitute known locally as Rose of Singapore, was at home, the home so many men knew as a place to gratify their sexual appetites. The majority of these men departed satisfied; many were repeat customers.
Lai Ming was in her bedroom, a cozy room kept clean and tidy by her amah Wan Ze. After a two-hour nap, she had risen from her bed, bathed, put on her make-up, combed her hair, and was now standing in front of the shuttered window meditating, a frown on her face, thinking about him; not of any of the many other men who visited her but only of him, the young British airman she had met on the beach and brought to her home. What a wonderful time they had spent together, she mused. Now, already ten hours had gone by since he had given her a final kiss goodbye and had departed, to return to his work at the sergeants’ mess kitchen at RAF Changi, exhausted but very happy.
Standing at Lai Ming’s side was Wan Ze, a thin, sickly faced, diminutive woman clad in a black samfoo of cotton trousers and matching jacket. Her grey hair was brushed straight back, flat across the top of her head and hanging down her back to her waist in a single plait. Wan Ze had been a loving and caring nurse to Lai Ming’s son from birth and had watched him grow through good times and bad. Now, she remained with Lai Ming as her faithful amah and loyal friend.
“What is the matter, Ming?” asked Wan Ze, a concerned look on her parchment-like face.
“It is nothing,” replied Lai Ming, turning for a moment to face her amah. She gave a weak smile. “It is nothing,” she repeated. Again she turned to stare at the closed shutters, and to think of the young airman who had spent the weekend with her.
Wan Ze said nothing more. She knew when to remain silent. But she was puzzled. Never before had she seen her mistress in this mood.
With some apprehension she watched her mistress walk without a word across the green and brown coloured canvas floor to her dressing table, to pose nude before the tall mirror fixed to the wall. The mirror reflected fully an artistic picture of oriental beauty at its finest.
Lai Ming studied herself, her eyes caressing her naked body. She remembered how Peter had reacted at seeing her naked that first time, and she smiled at the memory as, with a pink powder puff, she patted the nipples of her breasts. Then, as her thoughts changed, a frown came upon her face and she turned sadly away from the mirror. What should she do? What future lay ahead for both her and her son? How could she alter her way of life? And now she had Peter, the young Englishman. Would he turn out to be just another, like the rest of them, wanting her only to satisfy his sexual desires? No, of course not, she told herself. He was different from all the others. But why did she think he was so different, she wondered. Why had she felt so completely happy and relaxed when with him? Why had he made her feel like a real woman again? The hours they had spent together were mutually exquisitely pleasurable hours. She thought of those two dreamy nights together when she would awake to find him snuggled up behind her, an arm thrown across her and his hand upon her breast, always her breasts as if they were his comforters. She would slide a leg back over his and push herself gently against him. He would awaken, and they would make love, silently and sweetly, and then fall back into a deep, blissful sleep. Frowning and shaking her confused head, she told herself that time alone would tell. She walked to her dressing table and from a drawer chose a set of red, flimsy underwear. First slipping into the tiny panties, she then covered her small breasts with the lacy bra. Next, from the mahogany wardrobe, she selected a blood-red cheongsam. The amah watched her every move but said not a word.
Sliding into the clinging, sexy-looking dress, Lai Ming again posed in front of the mirror. Satisfied, she sat down at the dressing table and again combed her hair, which flowed in black, silk-like waves down around her shoulders. She had a thoughtful expression on her face. Was it correct for her to lead him on in such a manner, she wondered. When at Changi Beach, should she have persisted with a firm “No”? She had repeatedly said “No” but he had looked so sad and lonely and she had felt sorry for him. And she, too, was lonely. She needed a real boyfriend. She liked him, but would it be right to encourage him further, she wondered. And how would their relationship end, this beautiful love affair they had so suddenly created? Would it end in jealousy, anger, despair, or even violence? He was so very young, so trusting and naive, yet so eager for her companionship and desiring so much to love her and be loved. His honest eyes so reminded her of her late husband. Behind those eyes was surely the same understanding and caring, she told herself. And his habits, too, were reminiscent. Even the way he had fidgeted with his cup in Pop’s coffee shop on the beach, and more so, the way he had spoken to her in a kind, gentle voice and reassuring manner. He brought back memories sweet and dear to her, of life that was so full of happiness when with her husband, especially those last few short years with him after the Japanese no longer ruled the island.
And his body, it was so youthful and full of vitality, of love and passion. She had wanted so much to be properly loved, and he had satisfied those wants. She hated the kind of love asked and paid for by the men to whom she sold herself at the Butterfly Club—to the aloof British military officers, the prosperous businessmen and government officials, and the many other men who visited the club where she worked as a ‘butterfly girl’. She thought of how many of those men were so pompous and so high and mighty when at their office desk yet crude and ignorant in the art of lovemaking. Many clients whom she took to her bed were British civil servants and colonial administrators of Singapore. Also, there were the rubber planters, tin-mine owners and managers, high-ranking police officers and other British officials from the mainland of Malaya, down for a few days rest and relaxation on the island. Those from Malaya, having spent lonely months up north, were generally nicer and more generous to her than the officials on the island. They never objected to paying the high prices she asked.
She was just one of the more than thirty girls who worked without salary at the Butterfly Club, persuading the customers at the all-male club to spend their money on expensive drinks. In return, the girls were allowed to use the club as an ideal place to solicit free from harassment. The owner of the club did not mind the girls taking home a club member providing enough drinks had been bought and paid for by him beforehand. As for Lai Ming, she was so popular with the men at the Butterfly Club, they had given her the name, Rose of Singapore. Many of the other girls at the club were much younger than she, and possibly more beautiful, but Lai Ming had such a lovely smile and a gentle, charming manner which enticed to her a continuous clientele.
When business was bad at the Butterfly Club, she roamed Lavender Street soliciting military men of the Australian and British army, navy and airforce, American sailors, too, when the US fleet visited Singapore, and men from the many merchant ships which put in to Singapore’s vast harbour. The majority of the military men she approached were young, sex-starved and eager and willing to pay as much as twenty Malay dollars for a short time. For a couple of hours she charged a few dollars extra, and if they could afford her price, they could enjoy her favours in an all-night session. She brought them to this upstairs room, fulfilled their sexual needs and sent them on their way satisfied and happy—from the lowest-ranking soldier to the men in high positions. She charged them accordingly, depending on their wealth and status, also depending on how much she liked or disliked the man. She had often liked a client but had never fallen in love with one. But Peter was different from all the other men she’d had sex with. He was not a client. He was and would remain someone special, her boyfriend and lover. But, she repeatedly told herself, she must keep him in ignorance as to how she earned her livelihood. She could not afford to allow him or anyone else to disrupt her plans for the future. Also, there were always the many bills that had to be paid. Yes, of course she would see him again. She would keep her promise and meet him at the bus terminal on Thursday, and together they would visit the zoo. After, and she smiled, s
he would again take him to her bed. Already she was eagerly looking forward to Thursday afternoon. She would not tell him of her dirty business. And if he should find out! She shrugged. It would be up to him. She would never ask him for money and would readily give herself to him knowing that she needed his friendship, love and affection as much as he needed hers.
She chilled as she thought of another serious problem that might arise. Supposing she gave him a sickness. I must be much more careful, she thought. From now on I must always examine the penis of the man before he enters me, and from now on I must always make the man wear a contraceptive. Also, I must make sure to visit the social welfare department for my monthly checkup. I cannot allow Peter to get sick. She picked up her watch and looked at it as she slipped it onto her wrist.
Giving her hair a few final strokes before placing the comb down upon the dressing table, she gathered up her red handbag from a nearby chair, opened it, checked the contents and then snapped the catch shut. She lifted a hand mirror from the dressing table and peered into it, studying her face awhile before patting her cheeks with the powder puff. ‘I must go,’ she told herself. ‘Already men at the club will have consumed several drinks and should be ready to have a woman.’ She gave a final reddening touch to her lips. Satisfied, she replaced the lipstick on the dressing table, then turning, gave Wan Ze a faint smile.
“You are different tonight. You are troubled, Ming,” ventured the apprehensive amah. “What is the matter with you? Are you sick?” She stood her ground, awaiting an answer.
“It’s nothing,” replied Lai Ming. “Perhaps I am a little tired tonight. Do not be concerned.”
The devoted old amah nodded, cracking the millions of lines in her wizened face as she attempted a smile. Ming would tell her if something were wrong, she told herself. Ming always did. But she was different tonight—not at all talkative, but quiet, even moody. It was not like Ming to be moody, and she wondered why, but said nothing.
“I am going to the Butterfly Club,” said Lai Ming. “I hope to return within the hour, so stay awake to unlock the door for me.”
The amah nodded gravely and said, “Yes, I shall stay awake and await your return.”
Then Lai Ming, Rose of Singapore, left the room and quietly made her way down the narrow staircase to her tiny kitchen and the apartment’s rear entrance. There she unlocked and opened the heavy outer door and, with dainty steps in her red high-heeled shoes, she quickly walked the deserted alleyway into a moonlit street. It was already late, with few pedestrians and little traffic to be seen. She walked as far as the intersection of Bendemeer Road and Lavender Street. There, she hailed a cruising trishaw.
8
Having completed his morning shift at the sergeants’ mess, Peter Saunders rushed back to his quarters to prepare for his date with Rose that afternoon. When he reached his bedspace at one o’clock, the many cooks and other members of the catering section who had worked the early shift had already returned from duty. Several had immediately flopped down upon their beds and were already sound asleep.
LAC David Simmons, an airmens’ mess admin’ orderly, was seated on a folding chair in the shade of the wide verandah, an open book hiding the high-powered binoculars focussed on the open three-storey WRAF block situated directly across from the catering block.
Five other young airmen sat around a bed playing blackjack, the favourite pastime for quite a few members of the catering section. Two cooks, still in their cooks’ whites, were watching.
Peter Saunders was soon taking a cold shower and, in his strong Devonshire dialect lustily singing, “Jan Pierce, Jan Pierce, lend me yer grey mare. All along, down along, out a long lee. Fer I want ta go-o to Widdicombe Fair.”
Suddenly, from a bed near the ablution area, a voice shouted, “Hey! Saunders! Rap up that bloody noise! I wanna get some sleep.”
“Yeah, shut your gob,” someone else shouted.
Finishing the song, Peter ended with a loud, “Tra la la! Tra la la!” He then began to loudly sing, “Rose, Rose, I love you, with an aching heart.”
“Hey! Saunders! For Christ’s sake, shut up!” the first voice shouted.
“Don’t you like my singing?” shouted back Peter Saunders, chuckling to himself as he washed soapsuds from his body beneath a shower of ice-cold water.
“That’s not singing. That’s one ‘orrible row,” shouted the second voice. “What d’you do with the money, mate?”
“What money?” shouted back Peter, turning off the flow of water.
“The money your mother gave you for singing lessons, idiot,” the voice answered.
Peter Saunders laughed and stepped out of the shower, letting the louvered door swing shut behind him. Naked and bronzed by the sun, his sinewy body dripped water onto the concrete floor that separated the ablutions from the sleeping quarters. Reaching for a towel that hung from a hook on the outside of the shower door, he wound this around his midriff, slipped his wet feet into a pair of Chinese flip-flops, and then entered the spacious living quarters of the three-storey block.
“The trouble with you chaps is that you don’t appreciate good bathroom singing,” he said, grinning at his critics. “You ought to be glad there’s such talent in your midst.”
Milton Smith, an airmens mess cook, replied, “Talent! My ass!”
Peter was about to comment when the man lying on the other bed said, “What are you so happy about, Saunders?”
“I’ve a date.”
“Who with?” asked Milton, who, except for a sheet covering a small part of his mid-section, lay on his bed naked.
“With a Chinese girl.”
“Wheredya meet her?” asked the other airman.
“On the beach,” replied Peter.
“One of the whores?” asked Milton.
“No! Of course she’s not a whore,” replied Peter indignantly.
Milton sat up and rearranged the sheet so that it covered a little more of his body. He shrugged white shoulders. He never went out into the sunlight unless he really had to. “Well, watch yourself, or you might end up with what I caught. It was no Far Eastern chill, the MO assured me of that.”
Peter shrugged. He was well aware that the majority of the cooks were great womanizers, especially after a gut full of local beer, and most of them were heavy drinkers. “It could happen to anyone. The girl I met on the beach, though, she’s different. She’s decent. She’s a regular nice girl.”
Another cook, Airman Blondie Phillips, rolled his naked body over, farted, then pushing his pillow behind his head, propped himself up into a sitting position, and said, “Women are all the same, Peter. Great deceivers.” Farting again, he exclaimed, “God, those shirt-lifters have really got to me,” and his fat face broke into a big grin.
Peter smiled but said nothing. Blondie Phillips wasn’t really a bad sort although he was uncouth at times. Peter looked down over the two rows of beds on his side of the floor, several now occupied by sleeping off-duty cooks and others in the catering section. Flip-flopping towards his own bedspace, Peter reached the card-playing group who were too intent on the game, and on the growing pile of Malayan dollars stashed in the centre of the service blanket covering the bed, to give him more than a fleeting glance.
For these five airmen, playing blackjack was definitely their favourite pastime when off duty. It was either that, sleeping, or consuming large quantities of Tiger beer in the NAAFI or the Malcolm Club on the camp. And as gambling was strictly forbidden in the camp institutions and a military offense, members of the catering section took their bottles of beer to the block where there was little likelihood of being disturbed. A couple of the card players smoked cigarettes, others were drinking beer, but all were engrossed in the card game. The bedspace around them was littered with fag ends, dead beer bottles and glasses in various stages of fullness. Stored in a bedside locker were more bottles of beer, warm, of course, but no one in the card-playing group ever thought of drinking beer other than at room temperature.
LAC Gerald Rickie, or Rick, as he preferred to be called, was Peter’s best friend, and certainly the friend he had known the longest since joining the RAF. He was one of the surplus fighter plotters who had been dumped off the MV Empire Pride at Hong Kong and had helped Peter at many and varied odd jobs before he eventually remustered into the Signals Section at Kai Tak. Shortly thereafter he was posted, first to Kuala Lumpur, where he and Peter met again, and then to Changi, Singapore, where they resumed their friendship. Except in physique, they had much in common. Both were excellent swimmers who had often swam together in the waters surrounding Hong Kong and now in the sea off Changi Beach. Both loved and respected the sea. They enjoyed boating, too, venturing out together across the Strait of Johore in one of Pop’s fishing canoes. Also, both were marksmen with a rifle, though neither discussed the latter nor gave it thought.
Rick’s billet was approximately a hundred yards from the catering section block, and next to the senior non-commissioned officers quarters. Rick, however, spent very little of his free time at the signals section block, preferring to visit the catering section block to see if Peter was off duty and wanting to go for a swim, or to enjoy an excursion to the islands offshore in one of Pop’s two canoes. When Peter was not around, Rick sometimes played blackjack with the card players. He’d also joined the catering section’s dart team.
“Hi, Rick,” Peter repeated.
The Rose of Singapore Page 9