The Rose of Singapore (53 page)

Many of the more seriously wounded had already been flown to Kinrara; others, the less injured, had to wait their turn; the majority of the helicopters could airlift only two wounded at a time.

Two helicopters had just lifted into the sky, and another was waiting its turn to become airborne yet again, to make its third flight to Kinrara. The rotor blades of Her Majesty's Royal Naval helicopter SN 186 revolved slowly, fanning the short grass and a cluster of assisting naval medics, the flying-machine itself standing as if an oversized beetle at bay, glinting silvery blue in the fading final light of day enhanced by moonlight. A full moon had already risen over a faraway hill and was sweeping the dark greenery of the surrounding jungle with its pale, watery light.

On his arrival at the golf course, SAC Peter Saunders was promptly examined by a medical officer who, confirming that he was still alive, though barely, gave him priority and immediately ordered his stretcher to be placed in a sling and hoisted to the doorway and slid into the waiting helicopter SN 186. The stretcher was placed alongside another occupied by an unconscious soldier, and then the two stretchers were secured to the aircraft by leather safety straps.

An RAF medical officer carrying a peacefully sleeping Li Li in his arms climbed aboard the helicopter. He sat down near the two stretchers in the wide body of the craft.

“All right, Captain, they're secure,” the medical officer shouted above the din of the engine to the pilot sitting up in the cockpit. Nodding towards the airman, he said, “I don't think this one will make it.”

The pilot, looking back over his shoulder, shouted, “Sir, we'll get him to Kinrara as fast as we can.” He then said, “What a bloody awful mess here today.” He sighed and shaking his head, said, “I've never seen anything quite like it. I'm used to hoisting guys out of the water from downed aircraft. Never anything like this.”

Revved up, the motors roared even louder, and the whole craft vibrated and became enveloped in a great cloud of dust that billowed up from the dry grassy sward beneath where SN 186 stood. Finally, as the rotating blades became rings of flashing silver, intensified by the flood lamps lighting that one small area, the helicopter's four wheels lifted off the ground. Quickly rising to one hundred feet, the helicopter swerved and banked like a great bird changing course in flight, to immediately swoop downward low over the mountainside and the moonlit jungle-clad slopes of Fraser's Hill. In a matter of minutes the helicopter would be landing at the British Military Hospital at Kinrara.

32

In the quietness of that upper room, an American merchant seaman, a young man in his late twenties, lay naked on Lai Ming's bed brooding and staring vacantly at the ceiling. His baleful eyes were weak and watery, and on his face there was an expression of quiet but seething rage, as if he had been cheated out of something he had paid for. It was not forthcoming, and now he was sulking and clearly showing feelings of venom boiling within his intoxicated mind. Within easy reach, on the bedside table, stood a half bottle of whiskey and an empty glass.

Sitting on the far side of the bed, with her back to the wall and a
sarong
wound around her body, kept in place by a corner tucked within the cleavage of her breasts, Lai Ming eyed with disgust and contempt the naked man lying in front of her. She loathed the very nearness of his presence.

He had been an easy pick-up, this American sailor. The moment he had approached where she sat at a table in the Lucky World Amusement Park, it was obvious to her that he was looking for, and needing, a woman. A friendly smile, coy flutters of her eyelids, a cheeky nod of her head beckoning him to sit down at her table, that was all it took to attract this client.

Before meeting him, she had already unsuccessfully solicited for almost two hours whilst keeping company with Mary Lau, a prostitute and long-time friend of hers, at Mary's pitch at a coffee stall at New World. Sipping until she finally finished her second glass of coffee, she began to get downhearted at not being approached by any potential customers. Mary accosted a young, handsome British soldier and had the good fortune of taking him to her home for an all-night session. And she, Rose of Singapore, alone now and eager to earn money, became restless. Contemplating taking a taxi to the Raffles Hotel to sip on a green Creme De Menthe at the hotel's Long Bar, she had already paid for the coffee, gathered up her handbag from the table, risen from her seat, and was about to leave when she suddenly spotted him.

Of course he was an American, even a fool could see that. He was a big man, tall, heavy-set, his hair cut short to the crewcut style of the day, and he was chewing on an expensive-looking cigar. Wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt half buttoned and hanging loose outside faded jeans made him stand out among the milling crowd, mainly Chinese, as he walked towards her with an exaggerated roll which seaman are apt to do. She had smiled to herself, thinking of Maxwell Clinton, her American sailor friend, the radio operator from the Southern Star, and wishing that it were him who was approaching. Comparable to, or even better than almost all other Americans she had taken to her house, ‘Maxel' was a kindly man, gentle and very generous. Here, definitely, was a Maxwell-type customer, an American with plenty of money to spend. Returning her handbag to the table, she had sat down again, smiled up at him, and he had smiled back and said, “Hi, babe,” in return to her nodded invitation for him to join her. Sitting down opposite her, he ordered a fifty-cent glass of coffee for her and a beer for himself. They had then talked and bargained until a price was agreed upon, had taken the short taxi ride home, and immediately got down to business.

He hadn't argued her price and had paid her in American dollars. She had been pleased that he had not argued or given her a hard time as did some of her customers. There followed the usual procedure on her bed, the labour of a loveless union between a man and woman. For him, a sex-starved sailor, it was lust, a few minutes of blissful ecstasy, then satisfaction. For her, it was the weight of his sweaty body flattening her to the bed, fat clammy arms embracing her, hands mauling her, kisses that reeked of his obnoxious cigar, and meaningless words uttered lasciviously from garrulous lips. Satisfied for the moment, his limp, heavy body had rolled from her, and he had then wanted to talk, which was all right by her.

After the man left later that night, Lai Ming returned to her bed and lay down. Outside, light rain had begun to fall, and menacing black clouds rode the night sky. Faraway lightning flickered and there began a grumbling of distant thunder. Suddenly, a terrific flash of brilliant white light illuminated the whole room so that all within it became clear, with no shadows. Startled, Lai Ming looked towards the window, and wide-eyed saw what appeared to be a white flare hovering high in the sky. Now, frightened, she could not take her eyes from that bright light. Then the flare seemed to rent the sky apart in one great terrifying flash of lightning and deafening peel of thunder. Her room shook. Clamping her hands over her ears, Lai Ming slid into the sanctuary between the bed sheets. There followed more brilliant flashes of lightning, illuminating the room and causing weird dancing shadows, followed by one, two, three, four more deafening claps of thunder, a cannonade rending apart the stillness and quietness of the night, shaking the house with its fury and rattling everything within it. Then, suddenly, there was darkness again, and the sky became silent.

Lai Ming sighed, her thoughts again turning to Peter, and on what, during these past weeks, she had contemplated doing. Now, there would be no further contemplation. Her mind was made up. The American sailor had made it up for her. That sailor would be the last man to pay for the use of her body. There would be no more short times or all-night sessions. From now on there would be no man in her life except Peter, at least not until he had said his final goodbye and had departed from her. As soon as he returned from Malaya, she would tell him she had given up prostitution. She smiled to herself, knowing how happy he would be, and seeing his face light up as she explained her intentions to him. That was what he had wanted all along, and that is how it would be during the remainder of the all-too-little time they had left together before his departure to England. No other man but Peter would have sex with her during that short period. Again she told herself, he would be so very happy.

She was still smiling as she fell into a sound non-dreaming sleep.

Some four or five hours later she was awakened by a military police patrol car stopping beneath her window. She knew it had to be a military vehicle simply by listening to the note of its engine. The engine, suddenly switched off, became silent. Puzzled, Lai Ming stirred, sat up, yawned and listened.

Getting up from the bed, she went to the window and was surprised to see at this hour of morning an RAF police patrol car parked beneath her window. The roof of the car hid from view the driver and any other occupant it may contain. For a brief moment she wondered if the military police were waiting for Peter to step from the alley, so that they could arrest him for being out of bounds. No, that was not possible, she told herself. The driver was probably simply killing time and had stopped for a cigarette.

With an uneasy feeling she turned from the window, adjusted her
sarong,
sat down at the make-up table and looked into the mirror. Picking up a comb, she ran it through her hair, and was about to do so again when she was surprised to hear a loud knocking on the front door. All those who knew her used the alley door. Putting down the comb and turning and looking at the alarm clock standing on the bedside table, she wondered who it could be at this early hour. It was not yet seven o'clock. Surely it was not the military police raiding her home. Most of the police knew her, several had been her customers, at cut-price rate, of course, and all liked her. Never once had the military police bothered her. Puzzled, she heard the door's heavy iron bolt being drawn back by the
amah,
and the door creaking as it opened. Next, she heard the
amah's
nasal voice demanding of someone the meaning for disturbing the house at such an early hour. Lai Ming was surprised to hear a girl's voice answer, first in perfect English and then in Malay.

Quickly going to the head of the stairs from where she could view the front door, Lai Ming became even more surprised to see a young and beautiful Indian woman standing in the doorway. The woman was of about twenty years of age, had very dark skin, and glossy jet black hair that flowed down her back in one great wave to her slim waist.

From the top of the stairs, with a quizzical smile playing on her face, Lai Ming greeted the young lady, “Good morning. Can I help you?” And as the eyes of the young lady rose to meet hers, she saw black glittering pools of beauty in a warm, serene and friendly face.

“Oh! Good morning! Are you Chan Lai Ming?” asked the young lady.

“Yes. I am,” replied Lai Ming, puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

“Please, I wish to speak to you.”

A moment of silence followed as Lai Ming studied the upturned face. What was she doing here? More and more puzzled, with a wave of her hand Lai Ming beckoned the young lady to enter the house. “Please, come up to my room,” she invited.

“Thank you,” and the young lady, a flurry of darkness clad in a colourful cotton frock, carefully ascended the narrow stairway.

When both were in the room, the two women studied one another. Looking into each other's eyes, Lai Ming saw mingled awe and pity. The young Indian lady saw only curiosity.

“Now, who are you, and why do you wish to see me?” asked Lai Ming. She could see that this young lady calling on her was no prostitute as were the majority of her female visitors.

“My name is Irene, Miss Irene Bothany. I am here on behalf of the Social Welfare Department in Havelock Road,” she began. And on seeing that Lai Ming was about to interrupt her, she held out a delicate hand for silence. “Please, one moment,” she said graciously, and she gave a hint of a smile, showing off pure white teeth in a perfect mouth. “I know your medical card is stamped up to date and that you have had your monthly check-up, but it's not your welfare that we're concerned with at the moment.”

“Are you acquainted with a British Royal Air Force serviceman named Saunders, a Senior Aircraftman Peter Saunders?” she asked.

Lai Ming's heart sank at the very mention of his name. “Yes,” she quietly answered. “I know him. Why?”

“I have news of him. Please, you will need to compose yourself because I bring you bad news.”

“Bad news! What bad news?” snapped Lai Ming. “Is Peter sick?”

The young Indian lady reached into her handbag and took from it a torn, soiled and bloodstained envelope which she handed to Lai Ming. “As you can see, your name and address is written on this envelope in both Chinese and English. It was delivered to the authorities at RAF Changi late last night by a dispatch rider that had ridden all the way from a hospital near Kuala Lumpur. A military police officer stationed at Changi brought this envelope to the social welfare department. He has requested our help.

Numbed, Lai Ming stared wide-eyed at the bloodstained envelope she held in her hand. Her head was swimming. She felt dizzy and about to faint.

“He is dead,” she said, finality in her voice. “My Peter is dead. That is the bad news you bring me.”

“No. Peter Saunders is not dead,” Irene Bethony answered in a gentle voice, putting an arm around Lai Ming and steadying her, because she, too, thought the little Chinese lady was about to faint. “No. Peter is not dead,” she repeated.

“No?”

Perceiving the wretchedness of the woman at her side, the young Indian lady said compassionately, “No, he is not dead, but he is hurt. He is very badly hurt.” She allowed Lai Ming, sobbing her relief, to fall across the bed.

“He is not dead. He is not dead.” Lai Ming gasped between sobs.