The Rose of Singapore

by Peter Neville

“OK! But it would be safer if you go my home in taxi.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you know what street you are in? This is Lavender Street. You’re out of bounds.”

  “Christ! Am I? Well, who gives a fuck?”

  “You should. So far you have been lucky. If you get picked up by the military police you will be in big trouble, and there will be no fucky-fucky for you tonight.”

  The soldier began to laugh. “I don’t give a damn about the military police, but I’d hate to miss the fucky-fucky. All right, twelve bucks it is. Get a taxi.” Then he said to her, “I hope you’re clean.”

  “I’m clean, Johnny. I can show you my card. It’s stamped and signed up to date.”

  “I believe you,” the soldier said.

  Having watched and awaited the outcome of the bargaining from his cruising taxi, the driver, seeing his services were now required, drew level with the odd-looking couple standing talking together on the sidewalk. He reached back and flipped open a rear door. “Where to, Johnny?” he asked quite pleasantly. Business had been brisk for him while it was raining, but for the last hour fares were few and far between. Now, he did not mind going short distances, even a street or two.

  “Wherever she wants to go,” answered the soldier.

  “OK Johnny,” said the driver, smiling a hello to the girl. She used his cab often. He watched as the soldier followed the girl into the back seat, and when they were seated he spoke to her in Chinese. She nodded. He knew where to take them.

  The taxi sped along notorious Lavender Street, a street where brothels, opium dens and gambling houses flourished. But for those who were unaware, it was just another street where dilapidated living quarters overhung shopfronts, the stone walls and woodwork a mass of blistering, dirty paintwork. In the daytime when sunny, laundry, like flags of many nations, hung from long bamboo poles stretched from window ledges out across the street. And where there were no shopfronts and tenements there were shoddy garages, scrap metal dumps, boiler repair works and other eyesores.

  Passing a ship’s boiler repair shop where several huge boilers lay grotesquely shapeless in the shadows of the moonlit yard, the taxi left Lavender Street and turned into Bendemeer Road. Soon the girl’s home was reached, a building typical of the Chinese architecture common in that area—a house within a row of houses, the second floor overhanging the sidewalk and supported on stone pillars. Laundry hanging from poles sticking out of windows normally festooned this street, too, but not on this rainy night.

  The taxi stopped. “Is this it?” asked the soldier.

  “Yes,” replied the girl. “Give the driver two dollars.”

  The soldier did as bid and, on alighting, he followed the girl into a narrow alleyway. A mongrel dog sniffed at his ankles, and chickens in a wire enclosure clucked nearby, annoyed at having been disturbed at such a late hour.

  On their arrival at a green painted door near the end of the alley, the girl took a key from her handbag, unlocked the door, pushed it open and stepped inside. She beckoned the soldier to follow her. Locking the door behind them, she led the way through a small kitchen where a wok sat on a fire that had long gone out, and where there were blackened cooking pans hanging from a whitewashed wall. Watched by the eyes of a wrinkled-faced old Chinese woman, she ushered him up a flight of canvas-covered stairs where, at the top, she pushed open a sliding door made of wallpapered bamboo. Drawing aside a heavy curtain covering the entrance, she said, “Come, step inside, soldierboy. Don’t be bashful.”

  Again the soldier did as he was told by stepping into a room that was a living room and bedroom combined. The bed was the main feature of the room, its headboard backed up against the far wall. The soldier looked at the inviting bed, at the two pillows and he smiled ruefully as he read, ‘Good morning,’ that was embroidered on both pillows in letters of silk. In a corner of each pillow, also in embroidered silk, was a pair of blue and yellow swallows in flight.

  Casually, the young soldier looked about him, at whatever else furnished the room. This wasn’t the first whorehouse he had been in, not by a long chalk, but he was curious; unless drunk he was always curious when visiting a whorehouse. The canvas on the floor was freshly polished he noted and the room was clean and tidy. But the majority of whorehouses were clean and tidy, those that he had visited these past two years since his arrival in the Far East.

  “Do you like my room?” the girl asked.

  The soldier shrugged his shoulders, “I’ve seen better, but I’ve seen a lot worse,” he answered. He walked to the door of the bathroom and looked inside. A look of surprise came upon his face. “Wow! Now that’s different! That’s the first modern bathroom I’ve seen in any Chinese whorehouse. Real plumbing, eh?”

  “It was specially put in and paid for by me,” said the girl. “It’s better for business.”

  “You must be the queen around these parts to be able to afford a shithouse like that. Here’s my twelve dollars. It’ll help pay the water bill.”

  “Thank you,” the girl said, accepting the paper money and putting it into the middle drawer of her dressing table.

  Taking a packet of twenty Players cigarettes from his shirt pocket, the soldier opened the pack and with a flick of his fingers flipped a cigarette to where it could be easily accepted. He offered the cigarette to the girl. “Care for a fag, Mag?” he asked.

  She smiled up at him. “I don’t smoke,” she said. “And my name is not Mag, It’s Rose. What’s your name?”

  The soldier lay the cigarettes down on a glass-covered bedside table and began stripping off his jungle-green jacket. “Bill,” he said, “Bill Eldridge. I’ll have a fag later.”

  Unfastening her cheongsam, the girl slipped it down over her body. “Bill is a nice name,” she said. She told every man that came to her room that he had a nice name. She carefully folded the cheongsam and placed it over the back of a chair. Next, she unclipped her dainty bra and placed that over the cheongsam. Finally, she slipped her tiny panties down around her legs and stepped out of them. She had repeated this undressing act far too many times now for her to be embarrassed or ashamed.

  “OK Bill, hurry up. I make for you good time,” she said.

  She lay on the bed on her back, watching him take his pants off, and awaited the encounter.

  Less than an hour later, and not more than ten minutes after the soldier had made his exit, the girl, already douched and dressed, again picked up her little blue handbag and placed it under her arm. As soon as she left the house her amah would make the bed and clean up the place, making sure the bedroom would be inviting and ready to be used by her next client. Slipping into her shoes at the bedroom doorway, she quietly made her way down the stairway. And as she passed through the tiny kitchen, she spoke a few words to the old woman sitting half asleep near the dead charcoal fire, opened the door that led into the alleyway, and then again stepped out into the moonlit night. Locking the door behind her, she walked through the narrow alleyway until she reached the road.

  A trishaw took her back to her pitch at the hotel doorway where she had met the soldier. There she would seek a new client. She had not long to wait. Two US sailors, dressed immaculately in white uniforms, on shore leave from a US submarine visiting Singapore on a good-will mission, came out of the hotel bar and walked towards her. One was tall and skinny, the other short and fat. They appeared to be friendly and perfectly sober. She approached them and said to the one who looked the nicer, “Hello, sailor. You and your friend like good time, good fucky-fucky?”

  The two American sailors stopped and smiled at the cheeky, diminutive and beautiful Chinese woman confronting them.

  “Why not?” the short one said.

  “Sure, why not? She’s cute!” his companion exclaimed. Both then began bargaining with her. She knew she would get a good price from these well-paid US navy men, and they were sober as well as friendly. Good fortune certainly seemed to be with her this night after all.

  Part Two


  11

  In the year 1952, Singapore, the Lion City, the gateway to the Orient, was a tropical garden-like island paradise and a very cosmopolitan city. Chinese were by far in the majority but there were also Malays, Indians, British, and minorities from many other parts of the world. Here lived the very rich, the poor, the honest men and rogues, students intent on an education, barebacked coolies and prostitutes galore. And on every part of this small island—twenty-six miles east to west and fourteen miles north to south—British soldiers and members of the Royal Air Force and sailors of all ranks from His Majesty’s Ships could be seen. Also enjoying the island’s many amenities were seamen from every part of the globe. Mostly, these men were on shore leave off modern, luxury cruise liners, old and rusty tramp steamers, huge oiltankers and merchant ships, as well as junks, dhows and other such small craft loading and unloading cargo in the world’s second largest seaport. The thirty-six-square-mile harbour boasted the best facilities in Southeast Asia, with giant warehouses and many long concrete docks lining the port. The city of Singapore was itself built around the harbour. Local fishermen and boat builders rubbed shoulders with adventurers, airline crews and pearl divers. And there were the tin-mine managers and rubber planters who journeyed down from Malaya to enjoy a spell of rest and relaxation on the island. Added to these was the gradually increasing number of tourists, mostly wealthy Americans, sight-seeing the Far East. Chinese women with babies strapped to their backs were numerous, as were the peanut, sweetmeats and fruit vendors, trishaw wallahs and taxi drivers. They mingled jostling each other, shouting, cursing, singing and laughing, each and every individual seemingly talking in a different language in this grossly overpopulated city. But what a city! So beautiful, so richly colourful, surprisingly clean in many parts, though ugly and drab in others, especially in the poorer Chinese tenement sections of which there are many. A strangely exciting, almost intoxicating aura captivates the visitor. The exotic smells, and the bright fluorescent lighting of advertising signs flashing rainbows of colours at night. The many and varied colourful costumes of the populace, the multicoloured sarong, the slinky cheongsam, the pajama-like samfoo, the graceful sari and the baju kebaya, to name but a few. The steady roar of traffic, and the constant blaring of horns from impatient drivers, mostly taxi drivers. The spirited bargaining with the trishaw riders, the orangeade and fruit carts which are like little islands on the overcrowded sidewalks, the clothes-lines of bamboo, like flag-bedecked yardarms, stretching from windows often halfway across the street. There’s the drying of fish, with only a layer of newspaper separating it from the unsanitary pavement. The fish lies there baking under the torrid sun, smelling to high heaven, until it turns a rich yellowish-brown and becomes a delicacy. Street urchins and beggars clutch at the arms of passers-by, and ragged shoeshine boys grope at the legs and feet of potential customers to attract their attention. One could hear the quick talk of the street-traders selling a fantastic assortment of goods, their voices mingling with the loud clatter of mahjong tiles coming from doorways and open windows where games were being played.

  Leading Aircraftman Peter Saunders loved Singapore. To him it was a gay city, full of excitement and adventure. Even the gaudy black, red and gold Chinese characters splashed on walls and pillars along the sidewalks stirred an awakening within him, making him feel completely at home and at ease with the environment.

  Now, around and above him, neon advertising signs winked incessantly, their bright lights illuminating in multiple colours traffic, shopfronts, and the million and one people who crowded within their glaring light. Mingling with the seething mass of humanity, he threaded his way expectantly among the milling crowds, knowing that Rose would not fail him; she would be there, waiting for him at their agreed-upon meeting place at the Capitol Theatre. By now Peter worshipped Rose. She meant everything to him.

  Five weeks had already slipped by since he had had the good fortune of meeting his lovely Chinese girlfriend on Changi Beach. Five whole weeks, during which time they had spent many, many happy hours together—at theatres, dining at good but inexpensive restaurants, taking strolls along the sea front, visiting the zoo, the beaches and, on one occasion, dancing at an all-night cabaret. Regardless of where they visited, their afternoons or evenings always ended with the two of them in Lai Ming’s bed, where she taught him the art of loving a woman. Also, and with great patience and repetition, she taught him her dialect, Cantonese. In her bed they kissed, talked, touched, caressed one another and had wonderful sex, and the hours flew by, and at times whole days passed without them leaving her home.

  This evening, though, as Peter made his way among the masses, he did not feel well, and he was becoming increasingly apprehensive. Early that morning he had reported to the camp medical officer to receive his annual TABT injection prescribed to all British servicemen on a tour of duty in the Far East. And after the injection was given to him in his right arm, he read with grim humour ‘Wellcome’ the name of the vaccine maker printed on the medical form lying on the MO’s office table. But to Peter, the shot had not been at all welcome, as he knew he would suffer terribly from the effects of the injection for days. He was already feeling sick, as if he was suffering from a bad bout of influenza and his arm had become painfully stiff. On the bus which had brought him from Changi into the city, he had experienced feelings of nausea, but had paid little heed, repeatedly telling himself that it must be the effects of the injection. Now, though, he felt feverish.

  A sudden chill went through him and he shivered and belched foul air. Stopping for a moment, he looked at the lights and noticed that his vision was blurred. The air was hot and humid, and although he was sweating, he shivered again. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his clammy, fiery hot brow. Suddenly, a dreaded thought came to him. Supposing the way he felt was not caused by the injection but instead by another bout of malaria. These first tell-tale symptoms were certainly similar to those he had experienced during previous attacks of the dreaded disease.

  On legs that felt like jelly, he arrived at Capitol Theatre, entered the crowded foyer and made his way to the corner where he knew Lai Ming would be awaiting him. She was there, greeting him as always with her lovely smile and a “Hello Peter.”

  “Hello, Rose. How are you this evening?”

  “Very well,” she answered. “And you?”

  “Oh. All right I suppose.” He felt like saying, “Bloody lousy,” but there was no point in causing her concern.

  She was smiling up at him, a smile that he now knew so well, a sweet, tender smile in a lovely little face. Her eyes, too, betrayed her feelings for him. Always they were so full of love and kindness towards him.

  On this rare occasion she wore a European style pale turquoise dress which reached an inch or so below her knees. In one hand she held a little handbag of a matching colour, and in the other, two theatre tickets.

  “I arrived a little early so have already purchased the tickets,” she said. “The crowd grew quickly and I thought, if I wait, we may fail to get a seat. Here, you take them, Peter.”

  Accepting the two buff-coloured tickets, Peter said, “Thank you. I’ll pay you later.”

  “No, Peter, I pay this time,” said Lai Ming. “You are always generous and good to me, and I am happy with your company. I shall pay, just this one time. It is my way to say, thank you.”

  “But Rose …!”

  “Don’t argue, Peter, or I shall get angry.”

  Rose turned and headed towards the marble stairway that led to the circle. Peter caught up with her, and at the upper foyer he opened the felt-clad swing door so that together they entered into the magnificent, air-conditioned auditorium.

  A petite Chinese usherette dressed in a smart brown uniform inspected their two tickets before escorting the pair up the centre aisle to the rear row of seats. “Please. Sit here,” she said, smiling and giving them an ‘I know what you have in mind’ look. She then returned to the exit doorway where she whispered and
giggled with another brown uniformed and equally petite usherette while awaiting other patrons to arrive.

  Looking at Rose seated beside him, Peter felt very happy. How different to have her company than to go out on the beer with the boys, he thought. Taking her hand in his, he said, “Thanks, Rose. Not only for buying the tickets but also for your good company.” He placed an arm around her and drew her close, wincing as pain surged through his arm. “Oh, bloody hell!” he exclaimed.

  Turning an enquiring face towards him, Lai Ming asked, “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Peter replied.

  “Nothing? You are OK?”

  “I’m all right,” Peter said, drawing her closer to him.

  “No! Please, Peter, don’t put your arm around me,” she rebuked him. “Not yet. Wait until the lights are out,” she said, pulling herself away from his encircling arm.

  “Oh! Oh! Don’t!” Peter groaned as she put pressure on his arm.

  “There is something wrong with you, Peter,” Lai Ming said, becoming alarmed. “What is it?”

  Feeling sick and shivery, Peter slowly and gingerly took his hurting arm from around her. “I had an injection in my arm today,” he said. “Once a year all British servicemen get this injection. It’s to stop them getting certain diseases.” He did not mention his having had malaria.

  “Oh! I am sorry to have caused you pain,” Lai Ming said as the first advertising slide splashed itself colourfully across the screen.

  More patrons arrived and sat down, and more slides were shown. Soon, the auditorium was full, the news began, and the lights gradually dimmed until the cinema was left in darkness except for the glow from cigarettes, and from the one bright beam of light shot down from the projection box.

  Suddenly, another feverish spasm surged through Peter’s body, and he shivered and shook violently, just for seconds, and then it was gone again. Settling back in his seat he closed his eyes as if in sleep.