The Rose of Singapore

by Peter Neville

  “You should have seen your face,” hooted the sergeant.” I thought you were about to crap your pants.”

  Like a suddenly deflated balloon, Peter relaxed and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Well, it wasn’t funny,” he said, nettled at having had such an upsetting joke played on him.

  The sergeant’s laughter subsided as he soberly said, “Well, I won’t be able to play that one on you this time next year, Pete. Neither of us will be here. God only knows where we’ll be.”

  “You’re right, Sarge,” Peter agreed. “And there’s one thing that’s certain, I’m not looking forward to leaving here.” Shaking his head sadly, he said, “I truly believe that I would’ve sat down and cried if I’d really been posted away from Singapore.”

  “It’s surprising what a bit of skirt can do,” said the sergeant, chuckling. “Anyway, changing the subject, I want you to check the rations and then write in the book the menus for the next three days. I’ve not had time. I’ve been down at the catering office most of the morning talking to the old man.”

  “About anything important?”

  “Mainly about you. The catering officer said he’s pleased with your progress here. He’d like you and a couple of the other LAC cooks to have a shot at getting your SAC. It would be a feather in his cap if at least a few of the cooks at Changi passed the SAC trade tests and got promoted.”

  “What about the ten-week catering course that’s been talked about for so long, the one I’m supposed to go on?”

  “For the time being it’s been scrubbed. Instead, you’ll be taking the practical test for your SAC over at the aircrew mess five weeks from now. There’ll also be a written and oral test.”

  “Crikey! Do you think I’ll pass? What sort of menu will I be required to cook?”

  “It’s here,” said the sergeant, tapping on a sheet of paper lying on the desk. “The catering officer made it out, but I’ve altered it somewhat to include a couple of your favourite dishes, those you’ve prepared and cooked a few times since working here. Take a look,” he said, handing Peter the sheet of paper on which the menu was written.

  After studying the menu, Peter began reading it aloud and at the same time discussing the various dishes with the sergeant. “Consommé julienne. That’s easy enough,” he said.

  “But everything’s from scratch, remember, and must be as per the RAF manual of cookery, the AP87,” said the sergeant. “Do you have an AP87?”

  “I have one in the billet.”

  “Good. You’re going to need it.”

  Peter shrugged and carried on reading the menu, “Fillet de sole au gratin.”

  “You can substitute any similar fish if you wish,” said the sergeant. “Halibut, even cod if there’s nothing else.”

  “OK. That sounds all right. I’m not so sure about the main dish though, chicken fricassée à la minute. I would have preferred a lamb dish, like à la Nivernaise.”

  “Well, there’s still plenty of time to change the menu. You can manage the Vichy carrots and Duchess potatoes. Those are easy enough.”

  “Sure, there’s no problem with those. And tarte aux apricots. I suppose that’s just an apricot flan.”

  “Yep, that’s right,” said the sergeant. “There again you may substitute some other fruit, perhaps tinned peaches or pears if there’s no apricots. The menu’s simple enough, right?”

  “Yes, Sarge, no problem.”

  “OK. However, you must remember to read up on your AP87. Really study it. Every question in the written exam will have its answer in that book, and there will be one hundred questions. Anyway, Pete, I’ve got to be going. I’ll see you at noon tomorrow, and then you can take a couple of days off and work the weekend. Is that OK with you?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Sarge.” Momentarily dwelling on how he would spend those two whole days and three whole nights with Rose, he suddenly remembered that in the walk-in refrigerator there was a plump hen sitting in a baking pan, ready for the oven.

  “Hey! Sarge! There’s a fresh chicken in the refrigerator,” he shouted after the sergeant who was already on his bike and showing off the yellow and purple socks he was wearing as he pedalled out through the kitchen doorway. “It’s just waiting for you to take home for Mrs Muldoon to cook for your dinner,” shouted Peter.

  “You can’t catch me with that one, Pete,” Sergeant Muldoon shouted over his shoulder. “One April Fool is enough for this morning.” He was disappearing out of the courtyard as Peter shouted as loudly as he could, “Wait! I’m not kidding, Sarge.”

  The note of urgency in Peter’s voice prompted the sergeant to stop, turn around, and return to the kitchen and watch as Peter opened the walk-in refrigerator, stepped inside and promptly emerged carrying a baking tray containing the fat hen ready for the oven. “This bird was running around the kitchen yesterday on the end of a piece of string,” Peter said. “Charlie chopped its head off and Kah Seng plucked and cleaned it for you. That’s how fresh it is.”

  The sergeant, dismounting from his bike, said, “Boy’o! It’s been months since the wife and I had a fresh chicken.” Taking the tray from Peter, he eyed the bird suspiciously. “Where’d you get it?” he asked.

  Peter smiled but made no reply.

  “Well?”

  “Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies, Sarge. Just take it home and enjoy it.”

  Peter thought it best not to mention the deal he had made with the pigswill man who owned a pig and chicken farm near Changi Gaol. Two ten-pound tins of dehydrated vegetables for one plump fresh hen seemed to him a reasonable trade, especially as there were at least another thirty tins of the stuff cluttering up the vegetable room. God knows how long they had been there. There were many more there now than when he began work at the sergeants’ mess and weekly, when the ration truck arrived, one, two, and sometimes three or even more were added. With considerable imagination and ingenuity he had tried numerous recipes to make use of the dried confetti-like cabbage, the strips of carrot, the mixed vegetables, and potato strips and potato powder. He had make bubble and squeak with the cabbage and potato, potato pancakes, Duchess and creamed potatoes, and toppings for cottage and shepherd’s pie. Delicious fish cakes had been made with tinned herrings and potato powder and a whole variety of soups and various other dishes created out of dried vegetables. But, regardless of whatever form of disguise the dehydrated vegetables were presented to the dining mess-members, they were neither well received nor enjoyed, the proof being that almost all that had been served ended up in the swill-bin for the Chinese farmer to cart away daily. So, had thought Peter, why bother wasting time and energy cooking the stuff. It was far easier and certainly more convenient for the swill-man to tote the stuff in its dry state to his farm via his three-wheeled bike than when it was cooked and swollen heavy with water. At the farm the owner himself could reconstitute and cook the quantity needed to feed his pigs and chickens without waste. The Chinese farmer, delighted with the idea, had kept his promise of delivering to Peter fresh eggs, live chicken and fresh portions of pork in exchange for the huge square tins of dried vegetables. Most of the fresh goodies found their way to Rose’s home, where she promptly made them into delicious Chinese dinners for them both to enjoy.

  Thus far, during the past six weeks, Peter had rid the vegetable room of almost two dozen tins of various dehydrated vegetables but the supply was constantly being replenished.

  “That’s a good looking bird,” said Sergeant Muldoon approvingly.

  “I’ll wrap it up for you,” said Peter.

  “It’s from the swill-man?” ventured the sergeant.

  “He’s happy to get the swill,” said Peter nonchalantly.

  “That’s funny, he’s never given me anything.”

  “Well, you don’t speak to him in Chinese. I do.”

  Sergeant Muldoon laughed good-humouredly. “You’re a bit of a devil, Pete. Nevertheless, this bird’s going to look damned appetizing when it’s a golden brown and sizzling sitting on our
dining room table. You know, Pete, it really is a long time since I’ve eaten fresh chicken. Frozen stuff is never the same.”

  “I must agree with you there, Sarge.”

  Minutes later, whistling a merry tune, and with the hen wrapped in paper under his arm, Sergeant Muldoon again pedalled his squeaky bike out of the kitchen. “Thanks, Pete. See you tomorrow,” he shouted as he disappeared, homeward bound.

  Peter returned to the office thinking how he and Sergeant Muldoon were a good working team. Neither of them put up with RAF bullshit, and together they kept the kitchen running without undue problems. Of course, there was the occasional complaint from one or another fusspot member of the mess. Peter always allowed the sergeant to deal with these. But generally, all went smoothly. He sat down at the table and was about to open the menu book when the chief of the provost police, Flight Sergeant Cameron, strode into the office.

  “Good morning, Cookie,” he said, pleasantly enough.

  “Oh! Good morning, Flight. How are you? Can I help you?”

  “You can, by babysitting at my home this Thursday evening,” replied the flight sergeant matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, come off it, Flight. You know I don’t babysit. I’ve told you enough times that if I did, I’d be the laughing stock of the catering section.” Changing the subject, Peter said, “Would you like some bananas? A fresh supply came in yesterday.” Peter was well aware that the flight sergeant was a living-out member of the mess and therefore not entitled to any foodstuffs from the mess, not even a few bananas. Regardless, Peter often supplied him with fresh fruit, especially when the flight sergeant was about to go on night duty, which was often. Also, because of the flight sergeant’s ulcer, which at times played up, Peter cooked him soft boiled eggs and toast, which the flight sergeant ate in the office.

  “Cookie, thanks, but no thanks. I don’t want bananas today,” he said, shaking his head and frowning. Always there had been a definite ‘no’ from Peter to his requests for him to babysit his two children. But Thursday night he and his wife were invited to a special event. He needed a babysitter he could trust and LAC Saunders was certainly that, and seemed to be the ideal person for the job. Smiling gravely to Peter, he said, “You’re a hard nut to crack, Cookie.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Flight, but I’m not cut out for babysitting. I’m not interested.”

  “Och, man! But you may become interested. I do have certain information which may change your mind.”

  “What do you mean, Flight?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “No. You’ve lost me.”

  “Well, let’s put our cards on the table. By visiting this girlfriend of yours, you must be aware that you are breaking at least one military regulation and quite a serious one at that.”

  Peter shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe,” he said.

  “There is no ‘maybe’ if the girl happens to live in an out-of-bounds area.”

  “Flight, you must catch a person in an out-of-bounds area before you can charge him or her with breaking that regulation.”

  “Perhaps, but don’t be too sure. Your girlfriend lives in an out-of-bounds area close to Lavender Street, correct?”

  “How do you know where she lives?” asked Peter, suddenly ill at ease at the flight sergeant’s knowledge.

  “It so happens that I am the head of the provost police on this island,” answered the Flight Sergeant. “I know the Lavender Street area like the back of my hand. I know every brothel, almost every pimp and just about every woman who solicits in that area. I certainly ought to know your little girlfriend by now.”

  “You know her?”

  “Och, man, of course I know her. As a matter of fact, I knew her long before you ever set eyes on her.”

  “You did,” said Peter, amazed.

  “We keep tabs on almost all the working girls, as well as where they hang out. Most of them are OK. Generally they are clean, almost always honest, and only a few use pimps.”

  “And my girlfriend, what do you know about her?”

  From an inside pocket of his tunic, the Flight Sergeant calmly withdrew a yellow sheet of paper that had been torn from a legal pad. “Here, read this and correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, handing the sheet of paper to Peter, a peculiar smile playing on his rugged face. “You’ll read and find that all the facts are correct, Cookie, I assure you. I, myself, have checked every detail.

  “You’re a nosy bugger, aren’t you, Flight?” said Peter. He carefully studied the contents of the double-spaced lines of typewritten words, his face not showing the surprise and indignation he felt as he finished reading. Then, slowly he reread the lines, his face expressionless. It was all there, everything about the girl he loved. Black typewritten words upon yellow paper. At the top of the page a heading seemed to scream out at him, followed by facts.

  ROSE OF SINGAPORE

  Name

  Rose Chan Lai Ming

  Age

  28

  Height

  4 foot 10 inches

  Hair

  Black

  Eyes

  Brown

  Race

  Chinese (Indonesian)

  Nationality

  Singaporean

  Address

  Currently known

  Marital status

  Widowed

  Children

  1 son

  Profession

  PROSTITUTE

  There followed a brief account of Lai Ming’s activities: her main sources of contact were made at the Butterfly Club and the Raffles Hotel. It was all there in writing, even mentioning the date and facts concerning her last visit to the Social Welfare Department for a free-from-infection check-up. She had no known criminal record and had never been arrested. Below these remarks, written in ink were the words, “She’s a good woman, Cookie. You’re a very lucky man. But the fact still remains that her home is a brothel in an out-of-bounds area.”

  “Obviously it was you who wrote those last few words,” said Peter.

  “Och! Of course, mon. But do you find anything written there that’s incorrect?” asked the seemingly jubilant chief of the provost police.

  “Not quite,” replied Peter acidly.

  “No! Then what’s incorrect?” demanded the flight sergeant.

  “You’ve omitted the fact that she has a big brown birthmark on her backside,” Peter said, his voice full of sarcasm.

  “Och! Has she now? Well, you should know. I’ll enter that wee bit of very important information into my records. Would you say that birthmarks come under ‘other means of identification?’” the flight sergeant asked, a grin appearing on his face.

  “Also for your records, Flight, and if you’d like to jot this down, she wears super-duper delux, sheer black silk knickers, lace-edged, zip-fastened, with ‘all police are a shower of bastards’ embroidered on them,” said Peter, pouting.

  “Cookie, there’s no point in you getting up the pole with me,” said the flight sergeant. “What I’m getting at is the fact that you visit her frequently. In fact, you more or less live with her. Unfortunately for you, her home happens to be in an out-of-bounds area. Do you catch my drift?”

  “I do, Flight. But you must catch me before you can charge me or prove anything against me,” Peter answered testily, his face tense and beginning to show anger towards the giant of a man confronting him.

  The flight sergeant’s rugged face barely concealed his amusement. Chuckling, he said, “It may interest you to know that a couple of my men tailed you to the home of the lady in question on or about your third visit to her. That was months ago. Since then the same two men could have nabbed you on several occasions but it was on my orders that they did not arrest you. On the night you had the attack of malaria they were sorely tempted to return you to Changi but at the time they were not sure whether you were sick or drunk. Regardless, so I was told, your little friend appeared to have the matter well in hand, so they simply waved her goodnight. You were much
too sick to notice their jeep stopped behind your taxi when you stepped from it and staggered through the alleyway to the door of the lady’s home.”

  “That’s true,” acknowledged Peter. “Rose did tell me some days later that RAF military police had seen me get out of the taxi. She wondered why I was not arrested.”

  “Oh, aye, it’s true,” smiled the flight sergeant. “Furthermore, Cookie, it may interest you to know that I, myself, accompanied by Corporal Symes of the SIB, trailed you one afternoon as you walked along Lavender Street towards the lady’s home. It was a sort of relaxing fun game for us. But we could have nabbed you at any time.”

  “So! Why didn’t you?”

  “Och, man, I couldn’t do that to our wee Cookie, now could I? Especially when he is so obliging to my needs. And can you imagine how The Muldoon would react if I put you away for a while? Live and let live, that’s what I say, especially when dealing with the sergeants’ mess cook.

  “At least that’s nice of you.”

  “Yes. We thought so, too. We considered the incident amusing. We both laughed about it and let you go unsuspectingly on your way, to enjoy, I presume, a delightful afternoon with your lovely lady.”

  Peter simply shrugged his shoulders, and apart from saying, “Thanks,” he remained silent.

  Flight Sergeant Cameron also paused from further speech. Instead, he stroked his chin and appeared as if deep in thought. Eventually, he said, “The two SPs who trailed you have since been posted to Kai Tak. And Corporal Symes has returned to the UK and is now demobbed, so you have nothing to worry about from those three.”

  “Therefore, I presume you’re the only cop who knows.”

  “Yes.” The flight sergeant coughed an artificial cough, as he was apt to do. “She’s a lovely wee lass, Cookie, and I admire your taste. If I were single I’d envy your luck in having such a beautiful girlfriend. But I’m married and I also happen to be a cop so I should do my duty when need be. You are well aware that you’re breaking SSOs, and if caught it means seven days over the wall for you. Twice caught and you’ll get six months. You understand me, of course, don’t you, Cookie.”