“Yes, I’ll remember that,” said Peter, still unnerved by such a close call. He looked around him, at the people on each side of the street, at the traffic flow coming from ahead, then turning, he made sure there was not another military police jeep behind him.
Once in the alleyway and approaching the door, Lai Ming gave a nervous laugh, and said, “Peter, please, in future, when you come to my house you must ask the amah in Chinese to let us in. I have my key, but it is good practice for you. Do you remember the words I taught you?”
“Yes, of course I remember them,” said Peter. He knocked on the door, and when he heard movement behind it, in not much more than a whisper, he said, “Amah, hoi mun ah, fai di ah.”
“Who is it?” he heard the old amah ask in Chinese.
“Ming and Chicko,” he replied, laughing, recalling how the old amah had referred to him as Chicko, a boy, during that last visit.
He heard the amah muttering and swearing behind the locked door, but after working with the many Chinese help in Hong Kong, and among the kitchen staff at the sergeants’ mess, he believed that although the majority of Chinese people swore a lot, it rarely meant anything to them.
“Ming. Is it you?” he finally heard the amah ask.
“Yes. It’s me. Open the door.” And when the door opened and the two had stepped inside, Lai Ming said to her amah, “It is good. From now on, when you hear Peter’s voice, you will know to open the door.”
The amah’s toothy grin greeted Peter, and she replied, “Wah! He is a good boy for you, Ming, that I can see. If he is not a good boy,” and she wagged a skinny finger at Peter, and said, “Tsam koi ge tau!” (I’ll cut off his head.)
“She is a good watchdog for me. She would protect me with her life,” said Lai Ming in English to Peter.
“Yes, I think she would,” he acknowledged. “But I am sure that you are very good to her.”
Lai Ming smiled at this remark but made no comment. Instead, she said, “Now that she knows you are my boyfriend, she will also protect and obey you.” Thus saying, Lai Ming again turned to her trusted friend and maidservant. “I need you to visit Wang’s shop to buy a bottle of Green Spot and a bottle of Carlsberg beer. No, make that two Carlsberg beers.” Turning to Peter, she said to him, “Today, I make special for you, two beers. After fright from police, I think you have great need. But remember, it is special. I no like boyfriend drink too much.” Lai Ming took money from her handbag and gave it to the amah, saying, “Please, you go now. Hurry.”
“Tsh! Tsh! Ming, I wonder why you are so impatient,” teased the amah, and she laughed, saying, “but I go and come back quickly.”
Without another word the amah took to the alleyway, the loud clip clopping of her wooden-soled clogs audible on the concrete until she reached the street. Lai Ming smiled at Peter, and said, “Come,” and he followed her up the narrow stairway.
The moment they were in the bedroom, and with the sliding door closed behind them, she came to him, put her arms around his neck and drew him close so that her face nestled against his chest, and his face became pillowed in the waves of her silky hair. She held him thus without a word between them for several moments, then her face uplifted to his, and smiling lovingly, she said, “I love you, Peter. I love you very much.” Then, in almost a whisper, she said, “You are my boy. I want always to make you happy and content.” Her hand slid down and felt his manliness. “He is very big and hot,” she whispered to him. “He needs me. I make something special for him. You undress, Peter, and lie on bed.”
“I think we should first wait for the amah to return,” said Peter matter-of-factly.
“No. The amah will not enter my bedroom without my permission. Come! I undress you. I shall take good care of you.”
Peter laughed, “You are a funny lady. I’ve never met anyone quite like you before,” he said, realizing that she had already taken off his tie and was now unbuttoning his shirt. He helped her take it off, and then she undid the belt to his slacks and unbuttoned his fly. “I’ll do the rest,” he said, kicking off his shoes, but she, giggling happily, persisted by pulling both his slacks and underpants down around his ankles.
When he was naked and lying on his back upon her bed, she crooned over him, her lips running over his body and her hands feeling and exploring his private parts. “Oh! Peter. You are so ready for me,” she whispered. “And I am in much need of you.”
With rapt admiration, he watched as she undressed just feet from where he lay. Sensuously, she slid the cheongsam from her body and dropped it to the floor. She was so lovely standing there in the half-light of early evening. She undid the little red bra and dropped it across the back of the chair. Her breasts were small but they were firm, round and so deliciously inviting he was tempted to grab her, pull her to him, and kiss and suck upon them. She saw that he might get up from the bed and come to her, so she held up both hands as if to ward him off. “No! Wait!” she said. “Watch me, but no touch.” Her eyes were on him as she slipped her tiny red panties with white lace fringes down about her legs and stepped from them. As if a statue, she stood there, knowing that his eyes were feasting on that triangular-shaped black fleece shrouding that little place which so intrigued him. “You still like me, Peter?” she was saying in a quiet, almost inaudible voice.
“Oh, yes, Rose, you’re beautiful.”
“Everything is for you,” she said, and she came to him and sprawled her naked body upon his. “And all that you have is for me,” she whispered, and she put her arms around him and hugged him.
10
From six that Sunday evening until nearly one the following Monday morning, a constant rain had drenched the streets of Singapore. But the rain had finally stopped and the streets, now glistening wet, silver-streaked and grey-shadowed by the moonlit night, were almost deserted; a far cry from the previous afternoon when the city had bustled with an anthill-like multitude of people. A great majority of the people had sought the dryness of shelter when the rains began, a sudden heavy downpour which quickly turned into a street-flooding torrent. Thus it rained unabated for almost seven hours, and when, after midnight, it finally did stop, most of the populace slept, as did Peter back with his unit at RAF Changi.
Already it was almost two in the morning. Back in the city, a few people still roamed Lavender Street: those seeking pleasure and those supplying pleasure. The in-betweens were the trouble-shooting police, both military and civil, who vigilantly cruised the almost deserted streets in their jeeps and patrol wagons. Also, there were cruising taxicabs driven by weary, overworked drivers scanning the doorways of the many bars, nightclubs and brothels for likely fares because it was in this street that they could expect to find them, this being the centre of the red-light district. Here, at this time of night, there was sure to be more customers than in any other part of the city.
At Lavender Street, near the junction of Serangoon Road, an old Indian hawker, swathed in a filthy, tattered white robe, sat asleep cross-legged on the wet pavement, his basket of fruits, nuts and sweetmeats at his side. He catered mainly to the late night revellers coming and going from the noisy, garishly lit, all-night hotel bar facing where he sat. But tonight he was just too tired; his eyes would not remain open, and he had fallen asleep.
A drunken German sailor, on shore leave from his ship out of Hamburg—now lying at anchor in Singapore’s vast harbour—crashed through the swing doors of the bar, tripped over the old hawker’s basket, staggered a few feet, then fell face down on the wet road. Moaning, he rolled over onto his back, cursed loudly, lay awhile, then slowly regaining his feet he tottered a few yards, groping as he did so for some support but there was none. He slipped and fell again, and rolled with a splash into the filthy water of a flooded monsoon drain running parallel with the sidewalk.
The old Indian hawker, awake now and cursing for all to hear, scuttled about the sidewalk gathering up the scattered contents of his basket. A rather old and fat Chinese woman ran from the bar and in her haste
almost fell over the hawker. Recovering, she ran to the German sailor’s aid and pulled him by his hair from the fast-flowing water. Wet, dirty and drunk as he was, she would take him home, as up until now business had been bad that night. Surely this man would not complain after being rescued from the monsoon drain, taken home and given a good time, she told herself—at least not until he was sober. Previously, she had seen him flashing money around at the bar for all to see, and he had bought drinks for several of the barmaids whilst bragging to them about his ship and how he had come ashore at Clifford Pier by launch. Now, the fat Chinese woman was ready to relieve him of some more money. But she would be fair. Like the majority of Singapore’s Chinese prostitutes, Fatty Fanny had certain scruples and was always fair. He would stay the night with her. She would attend his needs and entertain him as best she could, then she would take from his wallet the amount of money she thought due her, and no more. And in the morning, when he was in a fit state to leave her, she would call a taxi and send him back to Clifford Pier. Stopping a passing taxi, Fatty Fanny and the cab driver wrestled the drunken sailor upright and helped him into the back of the taxi. Moments later the taxi disappeared down a moonlit alley.
Further along the street, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were in a red-light district and that they might be seized at any moment by the military police, a group of rowdy British soldiers returning to their unit split the night air with their hollering. One of the soldiers, following in an unsteady gait some distance behind the others, began a bawdy song about a girl who sold her ass in Piccadilly, but his comrades drowned out his feeble efforts with their own rowdiness. A taxi glided alongside them and with a lot of shouting and coarse language they all bundled into it, and the taxi sped away.
Nearby, another British soldier, tall, broad-shouldered and clad in a jungle-green uniform, stood outside the bar chatting up a vivacious and petite Chinese girl of less than five feet in height, dwarfing her. He had consumed a few Tiger beers, but not enough to make him drunk, just a little tipsy. And why shouldn’t he be a little tipsy? This was his first night of R and R on the island after spending eight months with his tank regiment up in the northern part of Malaya. He had done his share of killing, and he had seen several fellow British soldiers in his regiment killed. Now, he just wanted to forget the war and have a woman. Those were his regiment mates who had bundled themselves so noisily into the taxi. They were looking for a rowdier bar and more beer but he needed a woman, not more booze. Bareheaded, his khaki beret loosely rolled in his hand, he stood looking down at the lovely almond eyes beneath silky black hair which reached no higher than his navel. He liked the smiling little face that peered mischievously up at him. He also liked the way she was dressed; her light blue cheongsam hugged her smooth and tightly, accentuating the curves of her petite body. Admiringly, he looked her up and down, at the little mounds that were her breasts beneath the tight-fitting dress, and at the creamy-coloured thighs displayed provocatively between the splits in her dress. Her hands, too, he noticed, were delicate and tiny, and her arms soft and creamy-coloured in the moonlight. Under her arm she carried a small handbag that matched the colour of her dress. He looked into the uplifted face again. She had a lovely face, he thought, not a hard face that one might expect of a prostitute; and he liked the way her shining, jet black hair fell in waves down around her shoulders. He wanted her, and he wondered how much she charged.
She, in turn, was studying him. Could he be more than just a little drunk? Was he a mean or nasty type, or violent, or an abuser of women? Almost always these thoughts went through her mind during the initial encounter and bargaining time which normally followed. But whatever her feelings towards him, he had money, and she needed money. Obviously he had consumed alcohol but he was steady on his feet and his voice was not slurred. He seemed all right, so she hoped to make him a customer.
So far that night business had not been good, she had had only the one customer. At the Butterfly Club the competition had been fierce. There had been too few men and far too many younger girls than she, so she had left there unescorted. The Long Bar at the Raffles Hotel was surprisingly quiet and lacking in men, too, so, disappointed, she departed from there also without a client. And on catching a taxi to the Lucky World amusement park she found that the open-air coffeeshops, where at times she solicited her business, had been drowned out by the many hours of rain. Most people, on coming out of the theatres, night clubs, bars and dance halls, finding a deluge of rain pouring from the heavens, had done the sensible thing, they had gone home, or back to their unit, or had returned to their ship. Because of the rain most men had not made that planned excursion to have a quickie or an all-night session with one of the girls; that venture could wait until a drier night. So now, this prostitute, as well as the majority of the other girls who worked the streets, had had very little, if any, business. They cursed the rain, even though it had ceased over an hour ago. Now, a bright full moon shone overhead in a cloudless sky full of stars.
The Chinese girl talking to the soldier had been lucky enough to have already entertained an Australian sailor that evening, but it had only been for a ‘short time’. The sailor had, however, made a date to spend Saturday night with her. Financially, Saturday night was usually her busiest and best night of the week, so the price agreed upon was high; it had to be high, as generally she could earn far more money on ‘short times’ than by men paying her for an all-night session. But her price had not appeared to daunt the Australian sailor, for on leaving her home his last words to her were that he was prepared to pay any amount she asked, and that he looked forward to seeing her again on Saturday night. He had spent a little more than half an hour in her bed, had paid her well, departed satisfied, and ten minutes later she was back on Lavender Street.
Her thoughts returned to Peter, and she winced at the thought of him finding out what she was doing. He would be asleep now, in the cooks’ billet at the camp, unsuspecting, trusting and completely ignorant of the life she led. What would happen if he found out the truth about how she earned her livelihood, she wondered. But how could she keep it from him? She had thought of him often and she was thinking of him when, at the entrance to the bar, she had met the soldier who now stood towering over her. Almost angrily she had shaken Peter from her mind. She needed money, and the only way she could get money was to earn it—the old-fashioned way.
“Hello, soldier,” she said. “You like go my house for good fucky-fucky? I give good ‘short time’.”
The soldier winced, momentarily taken aback by the crudeness of this lovely little woman. But he asked her, “How much?”
Without hesitation, she replied, “Twenty dollars.”
“Aw! Come on, luv! I want to borrow it, not buy the damned thing,” he said.
The girl shrugged, laughed, and she again thought of the funny little Frenchman who had visited her some nights ago and who, while in bed with her, had jokingly said that Parisian prostitutes had the saying, “Beesness is ze beesness, and love is ze bullsheet.” The saying and the way the Frenchman had said it had amused her; she had remembered it and now wanted to repeat it to this potential customer balking at her price.
Stifling a giggle, she said, “My price is twenty dollars.”
“That’s too fucking much,” said the soldier.
“Have you spent all your money on beer?” asked the girl.
“So what if I have?” the soldier replied irritably. “Today’s my mate’s birthday, and we’ve just come down from up north. We’ve been on a bit of a piss-up.”
The girl ignored his remarks. “My price is still twenty dollars,” she said, and she gave him a big smile, “Come on, Johnny, you look a nice boy. I give to nice boy very good short time for only twenty dollars. Don’t you think me worth twenty dollars?”
“Hell, I don’t know! But I can’t afford that much.”
“Then I suggest you go back to camp and do what other boys do,” she said indifferently. “You know, wanky wanky,
money in the banky.”
Annoyed, the soldier said, “Go to hell!”
Also ignoring this remark, the girl turned from him. She was disappointed. For a Sunday night, customers were few and far between. Still, it was not yet two o’clock. She might find someone yet, especially as it looked as if the rain would keep off for the remainder of the night. She would walk Lavender Street for another hour, then, with or without a client, she would return to her apartment, go to bed and sleep. She had walked only a few yards when she heard heavy footsteps following her. Turning, she saw that it was the soldier, who with long strides was catching up to her.
“I thought you were on your way back to camp,” she said.
“Look ‘ere,” he replied. “Stop a minute. Let’s talk.”
“Well, you heard my price,” she said.
“Look! I’m not a bloody officer, and I’m not a rubber planter. I’m a squaddy. I can’t afford twenty bucks, but I’ll give you ten.”
“Make it fifteen and I’m yours,” she said. “Because I like your looks.”
“Atta girl. Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the soldier. “You make it twelve and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
She studied his face for moments before replying. He was very young, probably not yet twenty. It was a pity he had been drinking, she thought. She never trusted men who had had too much to drink. They could be dangerous. However, a client was a client, drunk or sober, and she thought of the money. Twelve dollars wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. She knew that it was a lot of money to this young soldier on his lowly pay; not like that of many of her customers. Low ranking servicemen were the lowest paid white men in the colony, which made her feel some empathy towards him. Agreeing, she said, “OK Johnny, twelve dollars. But you pay taxi driver.”
“What taxi driver? We’ll walk!” said the soldier.
The Rose of Singapore Page 12