The Rose of Singapore

by Peter Neville

  “Would Pop be agreeable?”

  “I’m sure he will. It saves wasting his time fishing. And it saves his wife’s time cleaning and cooking the fish. He was as chuffed as a pig in shit when I gave his wife a few cans as a gift a few days ago. And so was she. She told me the kids loved fish in tomato sauce. They never cook theirs in tomato sauce.”

  “Pete, you’ve got one helluva nerve. Don’t you know that you’re stealing RAF supplies? You’ll do time over the wall if you’re caught.”

  “If I’m caught, then it’s just too bad. The mess members rarely eat tinned fish, but the Chinese staff love them. To them it’s a luxury. But the damn tins keep piling up every time the ration truck arrives, so I have to get rid of them one way or the other. I’m doing the sergeants’ mess a favour by trading them away.”

  “Doesn’t Sergeant Muldoon keep a check on the stores?”

  “No. That’s left to me. Anyway, he’d never check tinned fish. I’m sure he’s only too glad to get rid of them. Just watch me sign out a few dozen tins from the stock sheet during the next few days and put on the menu sardines on toast and marinated herrings as appetizers a few times. The mess members rarely eat tinned fish, but as far as I’m concerned, they’re going to love them for awhile.”

  “Well, it’s your funeral. If you think it’s OK, I’ll call Pop over. Shall we return to camp for tea?”

  “Definitely. I think we should be back by four or four-thirty.”

  “You’ve a date with Rose this evening, I suppose,” said Rick.

  “Not really. I’m supposed to see her tomorrow afternoon. But as Sergeant Muldoon has given me the day off, I thought I might as well surprise her this evening. I’d like to arrive at her home, say at six, and take her out for dinner. It’ll be the first time that I’ve made my way alone to her apartment. She’ll be thrilled.”

  Calling Pop over to where they sat, Peter explained to him their financial problem, and could they borrow a canoe in exchange for tins of fish.

  “You take boat, Johnny, anytime,” the good-natured shack owner said. “You good friend. We always make good bargain.”

  “Seems like you’ve fixed it, then,” said Rick. “I’ll pay for the drinks.”

  “Thanks. That suits me,” Peter said, laughing. He then jokingly said, “But remember, it’s my turn to sit in the stern, where the action is.”

  Out in mid-stream, between Changi and the island of Pulau Ubin, a Chinese motor junk passed closely across the stern of their canoe, its high bows cleaving a curling passage, and its huge bulk and surprisingly high speed ploughing up the smooth surface of the Johore Strait.

  Seated in the stern, Peter skillfully spun the canoe around to head into the junk’s wake. For a few moments, as the canoe turned, the little craft rolled drunkenly over a dangerously high swell. Laughing lightheartedly and without a care in the world, Peter shouted to Rick, who was sitting amidships, “I bet that bloody great thing is making at least ten knots. Here we go!” and with ease, he stroked the double-bladed paddle into the water until he brought the bow around so that, although slapping noisily and bouncing hard, the waves created by the passing junk rolled harmlessly beneath the little craft. Such waves, if taken on the low, square stern of the canoe, could easily have swamped it. The square stern accommodated a small outboard motor used by Pop during those rare occasions when he did go fishing. The little craft itself was seaworthy and could safely ride big waves like a cork in a bathtub if handled properly.

  A brown-skinned Chinese seaman dressed in khaki shorts appeared on the raised poop deck of the junk, looked with disinterest as the canoe bobbed up and down in the wake astern, and then turned and disappeared down a hatchway. The two boys in the canoe watched as the fast receding hulk, with its two huge outboard motors thumping, moved farther and farther away, heading towards the RAF seaplane base at Seletar. The swell passed and soon the water became still again, allowing the canoe to ride a calm surface. Only the gentle lapping of water against the bulwarks could be heard as Peter plunged the paddle into the water bringing the canoe back on course, to head for Pulau Ubin.

  Porpoises rolled and played some distance up the channel, and there were flurries of sparkling silver as shoals of small fish leapt from the water in an attempt to escape from them. A seahorse skipped across the water on its tail in front of the canoe, and transparent jellyfish could be seen floating lazily by as the canoe made fast headway among them.

  From his position sitting amidships, Rick stretched himself out full-length on his back in the shell of the canoe. First brushing powdery salt from his body, he relaxed, his face turned skyward to watch little puffs and patches of white wispy cloud lazily sailing across an otherwise clear blue sky. Knowing the tide was coming in, taking them on its strong current steadily towards the far shore, he was content to allow Peter to paddle alone for awhile. He knew it was easy paddling. Of more importance was keeping the craft on its course so that the tide would take them close to Pulau Ubin, and not out to sea. But Peter, he had found, was an expert at handling the canoe, thus did not need help.

  When the canoe was almost at the shores of Pulau Ubin, Peter woke up his now sleeping companion by singing out, “Rick, wake up. We’re almost there.”

  Rick yawned, then studying the land ahead, said, “It looks so peaceful. Just a few huts among palm trees.”

  The canoe passed a long reef of brown sand and grey coral on its port side, a tiny islet about two hundred yards from the main island of Ubin. Guided by Peter, the canoe drifted silently into a wide, shallow bay of calm, clear water, lined by a green, palm-lined shore. Below the surface of the water the seabed showed off many of nature’s wonders; minute fish, their scales glittering silver and gold, and blues and reds, swam lazily just inches below the surface, while others glided cautiously over the sandy bed or meandered among submerged rocks and aquatic plants. A young barracuda, not more than a foot long, with cold beady eyes, lay motionless in the water. It was in no hurry to go anywhere. Its swiftness, when needed, could catch it a meal in a moment. A purple and brown jellyfish, the size of a dinner plate, and tinted with orange spots, drifted upward alongside the canoe. On making contact with the huge foreign object, the jellyfish changed its colour to blue, then to a deep green as it sank from sight amid the sanctuary of seaweed growing on rocks. Seahorses leapt from the water, their long, pointed heads poised alert as they skipped on their tails across the calm surface, away from the intruders.

  The two boys had arrived at the luxuriant and fertile Pulau Ubin, where tall coconut palms grew on the foreshore in abundance, their crowns heavy with ripening nuts. Further inland, knee-high green grasses rustled and swayed in the gentle breeze. Here, at this part of the island, all was peacefully silent and deserted. The two boys knew from a previous expedition that a Chinese fishing village of a dozen huts built on stilts lay further along the coast. Also, they had seen a number of Malay atap huts, made from coconut palms and grasses, scattered over the island, some close enough together to form a small kampung, or village. Generally, though, there were individual huts, with a small vegetable and fruit garden, and a clearing where chickens scratched for bugs and worms and where goats chewed on rank grass.

  Peter allowed the canoe to drift along the shoreline to where the palm trees and beaches ended and mangrove swamps took over.

  “Let’s turn around,” said Rick. “It’s more interesting at the other end of the island.”

  “OK. But we’ll be fighting the current. It’s going to be slow going.”

  “I know. But it won’t be too strong here in the channel between the island and the reef. I’ve never known a strong current here.”

  “I have,” answered Peter. “But that was when the tide was going out. Believe me, one person has little chance of canoeing against a receding tide. I was caught once by it when alone.”

  “What happened?” asked Rick.

  “I couldn’t fight the current, so I paddled until I got to the shore, then waded through the mud
dragging the canoe behind me in about four inches of water until I reached the other end of this island. Then I got back in and paddled like hell for Changi Beach, with the bows pointed almost towards Seletar. Even then I was almost carried out to sea. When I finally reached shore, I was far from Changi.”

  The bow swung to starboard and for some moments the canoe was caught and carried by the tide broadside on. But the bows quickly came around until they faced the incoming tide, and the two boys dug their paddles in, fast and deep, and the little craft slowly gathered speed.

  Returning to where the coconut palms came down to the beach, they followed the coastline until they reached an outcrop of rocks. Further along, they could see a narrow stone jetty jutting out across mudflats, where a boat landing stage reached out across shallow water. The water was still very low, even though the tide was coming in.

  “Let’s head for that jetty, Peter,” said Rick. “We’ll secure the canoe there and go ashore for an hour or so.”

  “And do some exploring,” said Peter, “like Robinson Crusoe.” Both laughed. It was such a happy, carefree day.

  The jetty, just a narrow, concrete walkway built upon iron girders, was about thirty yards long. From the water, one could see that the walkway was spider-webbed with cracks and broken in places, and that the girders were eaten away by rust and encrusted with barnacles and slimy green muck.

  Peter swung the bow of the canoe around and drew the frail craft alongside the jetty. Clutching at an iron strut, he quickly let go his hold on it. “Hell! That’s damned sharp!” he exclaimed, holding up his hand and seeing blood running from cut fingers. Cursing, he sucked the wounds and spat blood and saliva over the side, noticing now that the rusted strut and lower parts of the jetty were thickly coated in shellfish and jagged coral. “I should have known better,” he said to Rick as he nursed his hand. “Christ! That coral’s bloody sharp. Let’s move on and find a better place to go ashore.”

  After allowing the canoe to drift away from the jetty, the two boys resumed paddling. Minutes later, on rounding a headland, they arrived at a sandy beach half hidden by grey coral rocks alive with penny-size black crabs, sea-lice and masses of clinging barnacles and limpets.

  Suddenly, a ringing peal of a girl’s laughter broke the silence. Both boys immediately stopped paddling and listened as more laughter followed. It seemed to be coming from behind a headland of rocks a short distance ahead.

  “Shh,” whispered Rick, motioning Peter to be quiet. “There’s at least two of them. I bet they’re Malay girls. Let’s go and take a peek.”

  “OK. But be quiet. If they’re Malay girls they won’t hang around once they know we’re here.”

  “I know.”

  Again they allowed the canoe to drift, this time away from the rocky shallows in which they had found themselves. They then lifted their paddles, and as quietly as they knew how, brought the canoe around another spur of rocks and a low headland to find themselves wallowing in a picturesque, palm-lined bay. There, carefully and quietly, Peter eased the stern of the canoe between two concealing rocks. More laughter came from behind those rocks. Obviously they hadn’t been seen. In silence they crouched behind the rocks and peeped over the top.

  Playing in shallow water were two Malay girls wearing sarongs, and both were bare from the waist up. Totally unaware of the intrusion on their privacy and place of bathing, they sat in the water playfully splashing each other and shrieking with laughter.

  Without making a sound the two boys watched the girls with amused interest.

  “I’d say they’re both are about eighteen,” whispered Peter.

  “Yes,” agreed Rick. “Let’s paddle over and give them a surprise. You can ask them in your best Malay if they’d like a ride in our boat.”

  “I doubt if I know enough Malay to hold a conversation,” said Peter. “I only know phrases such as ‘what’s your name?’ and ‘will you give me a cigarette?’”

  Rick laughed. “You can forget about asking those girls for a cigarette. But you’re the linguist around here. I don’t speak any of their lingo.”

  Using their hands, the pair eased the canoe carefully and quietly around the rocks, drawing it slowly closer to the unsuspecting girls who were too engrossed in their frolicking to notice the approach of their captivated audience. A sarong fell from one of the girls and drifted away on the tide. The girl, now nude, her mood gay and uncaring, laughed and chatted happily as she lay on her back splashing with her legs in the shallow water.

  “Excuse the much-used cliché, Pete, but you’ve as much chance as a snowball in hell of getting close to those two,” whispered Rick.

  “I know, but it’s fun watching them,” Peter replied.

  “As soon as they spot us, they’ll be gone,” said Rick.

  He was right. The nude girl suddenly pointed a finger in their direction, and shouting, “Aiyah! Aiyah!” she sprang after her sarong, which by now had been carried several yards away from her. The other girl, immediately on spotting the two boys, turned and raced through the shallow water and headed towards the beach. There, she disappeared behind a great clump of bananas growing just yards above the high water mark.

  “What did I tell you? I knew they wouldn’t like our company,” said Rick. Then, looking towards the girl who was still in the water, he commented, “She’s lost her sarong, Peter. Let’s be perfect gentlemen and help her retrieve it. Grab your paddle.”

  No sooner had Rick said those words, he froze in horror, aghast at what he was seeing. Quite close to the canoe, nostrils and a pair of eyes had risen to the surface of the water, followed by a brownish-coloured flat head and a scaly back that was moving silently and swiftly towards the girl chasing after her sarong.

  “My God, Pete! That’s a crocodile!” Rick cried out. “And the girl’s still in the water!”

  Peter Saunders glanced at his friend. Rick was good at jesting, but this was the first time Peter had ever seen Rick look scared. He looked towards whatever Rick found so horrifying and saw unblinking eyes in a grotesque head that had a long and narrow snout, gliding rapidly towards the girl in the water. The girl had already spotted the dangerous reptile and appeared to be paralyzed with fright. She stood waist-deep in the water watching the approach of the crocodile in horrified amazement.

  Rick was shouting, “She hasn’t got a chance.”

  Peter thought fast. Rick seemed to be right. The brute was quickly closing in on its intended victim. They must do something, and fast. They were the girl’s only hope of survival.

  “Rick! Hurry! Grab a paddle,” he found himself shouting. “No! Throw something at the bloody thing. Anything. I’ll head for the girl.”

  In feverish haste, Peter desperately drove the paddle deep into the water, sweeping his arms down and back again and again; the canoe surged forward, gaining speed with his every frantic stroke. Rick was shouting at the crocodile hoping to distract it from its prey. He had already thrown the bailing can, empty bottles, and even his pair of tennis shoes at the brute, but to no avail; it was quickly closing in on the terrified girl. Now, her screams echoed across the water as she watched the horrifying head come between her and the sanctuary of the shore. Her screams suddenly ceased. Gasping and whimpering with fright, she began splashing and floundering towards rocks jutting up from the water. But the crocodile was much faster than her.

  Immediately behind the crocodile raced the canoe, with both Rick and Peter paddling furiously. And they were gaining on the huge reptile, drawing alongside it and almost riding on top of the huge, scaly back. That damned thing is even longer than the canoe, Peter agonized, and he paddled harder.

  A few yards from the sanctuary of the rocks, the terrified girl tripped and fell. Whimpering, she lay kicking and thrashing her arms, her body sinking into gooey mud.

  The crocodile, now almost on top of its prey, seemed sure of its meal. Long, tapering jaws opened to display a gaping, vicious mouth surrounded by wicked-looking teeth. Then, as if the beast seemed unsu
re from which angle to make its attack, the jaws snapped shut. For moments the huge body swirled right over the fallen girl; then again those awesome jaws opened. Momentarily Peter stared into a cavernous throat, the upper and lower jaws of the mouth surrounded by ragged-looking, yellowish teeth. And then Peter struck. Standing up and balancing himself in the rolling canoe, with all his strength he rammed the double-bladed paddle into that seemingly endless cavern. Savagely twisting the paddle and pushing all the while, he forced the wooden blade further down the reptile’s throat. There was a sickening crunch, followed by just one terrified scream from the girl as the crocodile hit her with its huge, writhing body. Losing his grip on the paddle, Peter fell backward on top of Rick, almost capsizing the canoe. In a frenzy, the crocodile, with half the paddle jammed down its throat and the other half sticking out from its jaws, churned and thrashed the water furiously as it tried to rid itself of the inedible object. Smashing itself against the canoe, it jarred every plank, almost throwing the two boys into the water. Then it slid beneath the canoe, and for an awful moment Peter thought the brute would capsize their frail craft. But the crocodile, sliding into deeper water, sank from sight. Moments later a splintered half of the double-bladed paddle bobbed to the surface and floated on muddied swirling water.

  Peter turned a wan face to Rick, who looked sick with fear, not for himself, but for the safety of the girl still in the water.

  “I say, old chap, do you think we’ve given that old meanie indigestion?” Peter asked, trying to sound calm.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Pete!” answered his shaken friend. “Let’s see if the girl’s all right.” Rick got up and cautiously clambered over the side of the canoe into knee-deep mud and water to where the girl lay face down and very still. “We must get her ashore.” He was surprisingly calm now. All fear had left him, his thoughts preoccupied in getting the girl safely out of the water. “If you see that big bastard, try to keep him occupied,” he heard himself shouting. “If it gets close enough, hit it with my paddle, but don’t let it get near us.”