The Rose of Singapore Read online

  Turning his attention again to the crab, Peter slid a toe beneath its broad back and with a swing of his foot hurled the creature upward and away from the shore. It plopped with a splash, and quickly sank from sight below the surface of the water, leaving little ringed ripples where it had disappeared.

  “I suppose both of you are counting the days,” Peter said, turning to his two companions and walking over to where they lay. “Supposing you find your girlfriend knocking around with someone else when you get home, eh?”

  “She won’t be,” assured Leading Aircraftman Jimmy Edwards sincerely. “Not mine. Not my Sheila. I know her too well.”

  “I hope so, for your sake,” said Peter, who then smiled and said. “You know, I hated KL, but now that I’m here, I’m in no hurry to return home. I like it here. And besides, I’ve no one to go home to except my mother and my three brothers.”

  Both Jimmy and his companion, Leading Aircraftman Dylan ‘Taffy’ Evens, sat up. Jimmy, scooping up fine sand and allowing it to pour between his fingers, said, “I also like it here, but I prefer to be home.”

  “Why?” asked Peter. “It’s always cold and rainy in the UK, and you’ll never find a beach over there like Changi.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Jimmy Edwards. “But in Brighton at this time of the year I’d be making a small fortune, what with working with the film company as well as helping my mum run her guesthouse. There’s good money in guesthouses, and plenty of tips. You can make a lot on the side. And when I go to the beach, it won’t be with a couple of chaps. No, sirree. There’ll be no cold nights in bed for me in England either, because I’ll have Sheila with me. We plan to get married as soon as I get back.”

  “Good for you. It’s nice to see someone who has such faith and confidence in his girlfriend,” Peter said, sitting down between the two. He watched as the water lapped to and fro over the word that had been SHEILA but was now nothing more than smooth wet sand. The tide was coming in fast.

  The three young men looked over with considerable interest at a Women’s Royal Air Force (WRAF) personnel, one of the few that came to the beach, stripping down to a brief bikini.

  “All right,” laughed Taffy, sitting up and tossing his chin towards the near nude WRAF, “Which would you prefer, Jimmy, putting a screw into one of your damn Vallettas or screwing her?”

  Jimmy ignored the question. Instead, he said, “As I’ve said before, Sheila and I are getting married as soon as I get back. She’s the only one I’m interested in.”

  Peter lay back on the hot sand, but so close to the water’s edge he could feel the incoming tide foaming over and around his feet. He watched the water rush in, stop, and then recede, to trickle away, leaving what had been hot, dry sand, smooth, wet and cooled by its passage.

  His thoughts were of his two companions who like himself were serving a full two-and-a-half year overseas tour of duty in the Royal Air Force Far Eastern Command.

  Jimmy Edwards, the elder of the three, was twenty, tall and handsome, with a suntanned, muscular body. He spent most of his time outdoors, either at the beach or outside one of the large hangars near the dispersal unit where he was employed as an aero-engine mechanic working on Valletta aircraft. Khaki shorts and a pair of plimsoles was his normal rig-out, even on duty.

  Dylan Evans was altogether different. He, too, was suntanned, not brown, but a blotchy red. Short and plump, his sun-bleached blonde hair was a tangled thatch topping a podgy, usually happy face. Born nineteen years ago in a little mining village on the eastern border of Glamorganshire, he was the youngest son from a family of generations of coal miners, yet here he was, a leading aircraftman cook at the officers’ mess at RAF Changi in Singapore.

  Taffy Evens and Jimmy Edwards were just two of the many RAF friends Peter had made since his arrival at Changi. They had become beach buddies and met almost daily. Now, contentedly lying on his back watching wisps of cloud floating across an otherwise clear blue sky, Peter’s attention was suddenly drawn to the arrival of three young Chinese women, clad in colourful cheongsams, who were making their way single file along the narrow, much-trodden dirt path which wound snake-like through knee-high grass. The path led all the way from the far end of Changi Village, down past a boat-landing stage, across a narrow concrete bridge, then onto and through this stretch of waste until it reached the beach, to eventually end at Pop’s coffee shop.

  “Now, to me, those three girls are much more interesting than your prattle,” Taffy said, grinning.

  “Yeah, a bit of all right,” agreed Jimmy.

  “But, Jimmy, they are not for you. Remember, you’re saving yourself for Sheila,” joked Peter.

  “And they’re not for you either. You’d never get that lucky,” replied Jimmy.

  “But I can look,” said Peter. “I love those cheongsams. They really show off a woman’s figure. Why don’t English girls dress like that?”

  “English girls like to keep you guessing. That’s their idea of teasing,” said Jimmy, grinning. “What you’re seeing here is the Chinese method.”

  “In that case I prefer the Chinese way,” said Peter.

  “Me, too,” agreed Taff. “Hell! Just look at those curves. Boy oh boy, just think what I could do with them! Well, there’s three of them and three of us. The question is, how do we get to know them?”

  “Perhaps Peter can get you an introduction. He speaks a bit of their lingo,” said Jimmy. “Personally, I’m not interested.”

  “Nor they with us,” said Peter. “Nice Chinese girls don’t have anything to do with servicemen, especially low-ranking ‘erks’ like us.”

  “How bloody true,” admitted Taff.

  One of Pop’s nude children, a two-year-old boy, ran gleefully out to greet the three young women, closely followed by the tail-wagging mongrel dog. They were now only twenty yards from where the three airmen sat ‘girl watching’.

  Each girl carried a small handbag, and each wore a sexy, tight-fitting cheongsam, the timeless and very popular high-collared dress buttoned at the neck, with the skirt slit to well above the knees, cut to reveal shapely legs all the way to the thighs.

  “Perhaps they’re school teachers,” suggested Peter.

  “School teachers, my ass! You must be joking!” said Taff. “Not with faces and figures like theirs.”

  Conversation ceased among the three youths as they watched the army lads get up from their table and leave the shack accompanied by Molly and Lucy, the two Chinese prostitutes. “Hi, gorgeous!” a soldier said to one of the three Chinese girls as they passed each other on the path. The girl ignored him.

  Several other people were also leaving the beach; it was time for a late lunch, and afterwards, a siesta.

  The leading Chinese girl was met by the mongrel dog, which barked and wagged its tail frantically in a big show of friendliness. Pop’s nude little boy greeted her by running to her and raising his arms expectantly. She picked him up and hugged him, all the while laughing and talking to him in Cantonese.

  On entering the coffee shop, the three were greeted by a friendly nod from Pop, who got up from the table where he was repairing a fishing net and gestured for them to sit down upon wooden stools provided at one of the half dozen weather-beaten, wood-planked tables. Momma, smiling and showing off her many gold teeth, said, “Hello,” in Chinese and asked if she could get them something. One of the girls ordered three cups of coffee.

  “It’s a pity Chinese girls are not friendlier to us servicemen,” Peter said sadly. “I would really like to make friends with one.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have much to offer them,” said Taff.

  “I know,” said Peter. “The little one with the nice smile is so lovely. I wish she was my girlfriend.”

  “There’s no chance of that happening,” said Jimmy.

  The three watched as the girls drank coffee, talked to Pop and Momma, played with the children and laughed a lot. They were now the only customers, the other patrons having taken the path back to
Changi Village. The beach was also thinning out, probably because the sun worshippers had seen the ominous black clouds darkening the horizon, which were rapidly rolling in towards Changi.

  Hurrying along the path, a class of Chinese school children headed towards the shack, about thirty little boys, each with a neatly rolled-up towel tucked beneath an arm. Onward they came, seemingly as if walking amid waist-high grass, some singing, others shouting happily to one another, their lone teacher, a thin, bookworm of a man, bringing up the rear. Noisily, the procession passed close to where the three young airmen lay on the sand, and then, in a long line, still laughing, singing and shouting, they wound their way in front of the coffee shop, playfully kicking sand into the air and at each other as they headed up the beach. Eventually, on rounding a far bend, they were lost from sound and sight.

  Pop’s three children came down to the water’s edge. The little girl fell in and began to cry. The two boys ignored her, their attention happily focussed on rocking to and fro one of the several rowing boats drawn up on the beach. At a table in a corner of the shack, Momma began nursing her baby; and when the baby began to cry she placed her into the cradle of cloth hanging from the overhead beam and gently rocked her to sleep.

  Meanwhile, the three young women had retired to two rickety little huts annexed to the main shack. Constructed of equally rough, weather-beaten wood, these huts were the changing rooms Pop had built for the use of his coffeeshop clients. And on the hot sand above the incoming water’s edge, the three young airmen watched expectantly and waited. Within minutes the two rickety doors opened and, clad in one-piece bathing costumes, the three young women stepped cautiously out onto the hot sand and into brilliant sunshine.

  “Wow! Get a load of that!” exclaimed Taffy. “They’re beautiful.”

  “Let’s wait for them to come down to the beach, then we’ll try talking to them. They’ll probably ignore us, but it’s worth a try,” said Peter.

  Once away from the changing huts where there was no shade, the sand was a real foot-burner, so the three young women, laughing and shouting, raced down the sloping beach towards the water and did not stop until they were in knee deep. There, less than fifty feet from where the three young airmen were ogling them, they splashed each other, and screamed with laughter.

  Watching the girls but saying nothing, Peter wondered how he could become acquainted with them. On an impulse, he said to the others, “I’m going for a dip.” Standing up, he waded into the water, then suddenly dove with hardly a splash, to slide from sight beneath the calm surface. Meandering his way along the bottom through a forest of tall grasses firmly rooted in mud, he eventually reached deep water. He then turned and swam towards the girls. And when he could hold his breath no longer, he rose to the surface quite close to where they were standing waist-high in the shallows.

  Suddenly, from Changi airfield, the piercing whine of turbo-jets broke the tranquillity of the afternoon, screaming higher and higher until they had reached their maximum pitch. And then the whine settled down into a fast approaching whisper, until suddenly, from off the main runway, and flying low over their heads, shot a British Overseas Airways Corporation (BOAC) Comet named Yolk Peter, the first-ever commercial passenger jet airliner. Glinting in the dazzling sunlight, her undercarriage already gracefully folding up into huge wings, her vapour trails and hot air flow descending on those below amid a whiff of unburned jet fuel, and with the roar of her mighty jet engines following her passage, that graceful, beautiful aircraft rapidly ascended over the Strait, the nearby islands, and then the mainland of Malaya far in the distance. Within seconds she became nothing more than a dot on the horizon, and then she was gone. Her first stop would be Rangoon in Burma, then on to Calcutta in India, and in a matter of hours she would once again swoop down and land at her home terminal, Heathrow Airport in London, England.

  The three RAF boys and the three Chinese girls watched in awe as the jet aircraft passed low overhead and streaked out across the water. But now, out of sight, the aircraft was forgotten, their attention concentrated again on the pleasures of their immediate surroundings. Peter, showing off, swam outward for several yards in a fast crawl and then lay floating on his back. He spat out salt water, hoping he would be noticed by the girls and wondering whether he could speak to them without appearing too forward.

  Seemingly oblivious to the young man in the water who had approached so near to them, the three girls, up to their knees in shallow water, were wading along the foreshore, splashing each other and laughing in delight.

  They were just a few yards from him. Peter watched as one of the girls slipped and suddenly sat down in the water. This caused considerable amusement among them for they shrieked with laughter. Peter, fascinated, could not take his eyes off them, especially the smaller of the three who had waded out from the beach and who was now standing up to her waist in water. He watched as she plunged forward with her arms outstretched, swam a few strokes, and then, almost immediately, was on her feet again, but now shoulder deep in water, spluttering and laughing, and a little closer to him.

  Drifting with the tide, the fibrous husk of a coconut floated towards Peter. Holding out a hand, he caught the water-sodden husk as it drew near and, without a second thought, tossed it towards the girl who, at that moment, had turned her face towards him. The husk dropped with a splash not more than an inch from her nose. Giving a little cry of feigned annoyance, she rebuked him in Chinese, wagged a finger at him, and then catching hold the husk tossed it back at him. He laughed and again plonked the husk near her; then he dived under the water, swimming with the tide, allowing it to carry him towards her. Bobbing up alongside her and laughing, he greeted her, “Hello.” She ignored him. He blew out a mouthful of water. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” he pleaded, smiling. Then the fast tide carried him away from her.

  The girl had an amused smile on her face when she again threw the husk back towards him. But the husk plopped into the water halfway between them. Both hurried towards it, Peter swimming, whilst she waded out into even deeper water. Each reached for the husk and were soon fighting for it, all the while laughing and splashing each other. The Chinese girl took hold of the husk and would not let go, and Peter felt her floating hair sweep across his face. Reaching out a hand he playfully pushed her head under the water, just for a few seconds, then let go but she seemed to lose her balance and was floundering, and the next moment she disappeared below the surface. She came up choking and gasping for air, then with a gurgled scream she sank again. Peter, to his horror, suddenly realized that the girl could not swim. Frantically grabbing her floating hair, he pulled her head to the surface. He then slipped an arm around her to keep her from sinking again. She was coughing and spluttering but she did not struggle as he pulled her towards the shore. Obviously frightened at what had taken place, her two girlfriends waited in the shallows until Peter was close enough for them to help their friend to the safety of the beach. There she lay on the sand, shaking with fright, coughing up water, spluttering, and eventually swearing loudly in Cantonese at Peter.

  Embarrassed, Peter was standing over her saying, “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me.”

  The girl swore at him again. Eventually, though, she sat up, still coughing and stared at him angrily.

  “I didn’t realize you couldn’t swim, and I did say I’m sorry,” said Peter.

  “Go away. You very bad boy,” the girl said, glaring at him.

  But Peter did not go away.

  The two girlfriends began to giggle and appeared to joke about him to each other. Then they left their friend alone with him and returned to the water.

  Not knowing what to do next and certainly not wanting to leave her, Peter sat down beside her on the wet sand. At first he looked out to sea, and then he looked at the girl sitting at his side. How beautiful she was, even in anger. A strap of her costume had slipped from her shoulder partially revealing small breasts so appetizing he wanted to bend his head and k
iss them. In open admiration he studied her face, her tiny hands, her shapely legs stretched out upon the wet sand. Her skin, the colour of fresh cream, was smooth and without blemish. Reaching out a hand he gently touched her arm. “I am sorry,” he repeated, quietly and sincerely.

  “Please go away and leave me alone,” she answered coldly, pulling her arm away from his touch and looking not at him but instead out across the water.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he said to her. “I’m sorry, but not too sorry. At least I’ve had this opportunity to meet you. My name is Peter.”

  She remained silent. He’s very young, she thought. Perhaps fourteen or fifteen. He must be a schoolboy, and all schoolboys do silly things. And he didn’t look evil. Surely he meant her no harm. He was only a little boy wanting to play. And he seemed to be a gentle boy. Looking up into his sincere eyes, she said, “You are young boy. You make bad because you young.”