The Rose of Singapore (14 page)

Dismayed, Peter groaned and said, “Damn! Damn! Damn!” Rick was right. Rose was not going to turn up. A feeling of disappointment swept over him the like of which he had never experienced before.

9

Hurry, driver,” Lai Ming urged. “I'm late. It's already time for the bus to depart.”

“I drive as fast as I can. It is not my fault that we are late. If that son of a coolie had not pedalled his trishaw in front of my car, we would have been at the bus stop ten minutes ago,” replied the taxi driver. “He cost me a day's pay.”

“Precious money for you, precious time for me,” said Lai Ming. She made no mention that it was the taxi driver's fault, that it was he who had run a red light, had collided with the trishaw crossing the road on green, and had crushed the trishaw's right rear wheel. It had taken a whole ten minutes for the two angry drivers to settle the dispute. Eventually, however, the taxi driver, knowing he was at fault, had sullenly given in rather than have the police called, and had paid the trishaw driver not only the price of a new wheel and tyre but also compensation for the man's lost earnings.

The taxi rounded a bend and squealed into the bus terminal.

“Your bus is still in its bay but about to depart,” reassured the taxi driver. “I will drive in front of it so that it cannot leave without you.”

“Thank you,” said Lai Ming, sighing with relief and looking towards the already closed door of the bus. She saw Peter standing outside the bus looking crestfallen. The taxi swung into the bay blocking any forward movement of the bus. “You have done well,” she said to the driver, handing him ten dollars instead of the two dollar fare. “That will help pay for the wheel,” she said.

“Thank you. You have a big heart, Ming. All the taxi drivers know that you have a big heart. We shall meet again.” The driver leaned back and opened the door for her.

“Most probably,” replied Lai Ming as she stepped out and into the shade of the covered bus bay.

Peter had seen the uncommon sight of the taxi drawing up in front of the departing bus and was looking in that direction when Lai Ming suddenly appeared from around the front of the bus. All fear of rejection immediately left him, and his disappointment was replaced by a big smile of happiness. It was her, every lovely little inch of her. She had kept her promise and was walking to where he stood.

Uplifted at the sight of her in her blood-red
cheongsam,
Peter heard himself saying, “Oh, Rose! I'm so very happy to see you again.”

Lai Ming gave him a reassuring smile. “I'm late,” she whispered to him as she boarded the bus.

Lightheartedly, Peter followed her on and sat down in the seat next to her. The taxi had sped away. The conductor rang the bell and the bus pulled away from the shelter.

“Hello, Peter. How are you?” Lai Ming's eyes twinkled mischievously as she spoke.

“Gosh, Rose, I'm all right! But you had me worried. I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up, that you didn't want to see me again.”

“You thought that?” Lai Ming asked as if surprised.

“Yes,” he answered. “I did.”

“Silly boy. When Rose make promise, me keep promise. Me go zoo. You go zoo.” She was laughing, knowing that she was speaking pidgin English, but not caring. She purposely lapsed into pidgin English at times. It was easier for her. She didn't have to think so hard for the correct words.

“I'm sorry for doubting you, Rose,” Peter said apologetically.

“That's OK, Peter. You happy to see me?” she asked.

“Oh, yes! You've made my day, just by being here beside me,” he answered.

“Thank you. I happy for you,” said Lai Ming, and then asked, “You wait for me long time?”

“Just a few minutes, but it seemed like ages. I suppose I did get a little anxious.”

“You funny boy,” she said, and taking his hand in hers she gently squeezed it and placed it so that their two hands rested in her lap. Smiling lovingly up into his face, she said, “Today we make happy times together, yes?”

“I'm sure we shall,” said Peter. “I've been looking forward to seeing you again.”

Lai Ming gave his hand another reassuring squeeze, then turned and looked out of the open window. “You know this road, Peter?” she asked. “We now travel on Singapore's main highway.”

“I don't remember it,” said Peter. “Is this Bukit Timah?”

“Yes, Bukit Timah Road. We go from the city, then straight through the centre of the island until we reach the northern coast. There we shall arrive at the causeway, which will take us across to the mainland of Malaya. I shall point out and try to explain to you the places of interest.”

Peter gazed upon her lovely face with the cute dimples. Her jet-black hair smelled faintly of gardenia perfume. Her lips were a dark shade of red, and a hint of powder showed upon her cheeks, dabbed lightly over rouge. Her dress, sleeveless, was buttoned at the front of the high collar so that it hid her neck, and her shapely body was as if cocooned in a sheath of silk, which accentuated her curvaceous figure.

“We are approaching Bukit Timah Racetrack, Peter,” Lai Ming said, breaking the silence. “Soon you will be able to see where the horses run, and if we are lucky, maybe we shall see them practicing on the track. Do you ever bet on horses, Peter?” she asked.

“I think any form of gambling is a mug's game,” he said, looking out of the window at the passing scenery. “You don't bet on horses, do you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “At times.”

“You do?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes. I am a member of the Turf Club.”

Peter was even more surprised, and showed it.

“Why are you surprised?” she asked.

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know,” he said. “You don't look the gambling type.”

“I don't know what a gambler should look like, but I like to gamble occasionally. Most Chinese people gamble. Anyway, Peter, to gamble is not the only reason I go to the race meetings. There are other reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I like the excitement that goes with horse racing, the glamour and the colour. I love horses and I love to watch them race. There! See! That's the entrance to the track,” and she pointed a dainty finger towards a wide gravel pathway leading through green parkland. “That's the gateway to great wealth or to the gutter.”

Again surprised by her words, Peter now faced a serious Lai Ming. “I suppose you are just one of the countless unlucky ones,” he said.

“Yes. I have lost money at the track. But one day,” and her eyes sparkled as she paused for breath. “One day I shall win, and I shall win big, a fortune. I shall win either on the horses or the Chinese lottery.”

Peter did not interrupt her. Instead, he listened.

“And when I do win, do you know how I shall spend my money? I shall buy a villa here on the outskirts of the city. And, oh, it will be such a nice house, and it will be mine. I see it often in my dreams, a red brick house, with frilly, white lace curtains at the windows. There will be a green lawn at the front with borders of pretty flowers, red, pink, yellow and blue flowers, all growing happily together. And at the back of the house there will be a vegetable garden and fruit trees, and an ever-flowing fountain in the middle of a tiny lake full of silver and gold fishes hiding beneath lily pads. Ducks will splash in its cool water. And there will be a little stone bridge spanning the lake.” Suddenly, she stopped talking and smiled wistfully at Peter. “I talk too much,” she said. “Please forgive me. It is only my dream. Nothing more.”

“It's a beautiful dream,” said Peter. “I sincerely hope that one day it will come true.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

The bus sped onward, along the miles of Bukit Timah Road, with the new housing projects left behind and the countryside now all around them. They were heading towards the almost mile-long stone and cement causeway that not only carries the highway but also railway tracks and a fresh-water pipeline, and which reaches out like a long arm, linking the island of Singapore with Johore in Malaya.

The sun was way past its zenith when the Green Line bus pulled in and halted at the customs shed at the Johore Bahru end of the causeway. After carefully adjusting his tie, Peter followed Lai Ming out of the bus onto the scorching hot roadway.

At the customs shed they stood with the other passengers who had stepped off the bus, but it seemed that people of European origin were treated differently. An official waved Peter on, and then realizing the Chinese woman at his side was in his company, he also waved her on. The other local passengers were lined up, questioned, and some of them searched.

A canvas-canopied trishaw pulled up alongside Peter and Lai Ming, its bronzed, skinny driver clad in an old pair of sun-bleached khaki shorts, a very wide-brimmed straw hat secured by string to his head, and on his feet he wore old canvas shoes. “Where to, Johnny?” he asked, with a friendly smile.

Lai Ming answered him in Cantonese. The journey, being some considerable distance, caused the trishaw owner's smile to broaden in anticipation of receiving a big tip. He gestured in a friendly manner for the two “to get in. Peter assisted Lai Ming to her seat and then sat down beside her. The conveyance was no more than a light sidecar attached to a bicycle, similar to many thousands of others plying their trade, both on the island of Singapore and throughout Malaya, where transportation by trishaw was popular. Unlike in Hong Kong, there were very few coolie-drawn rickshaws for hire.

For the next several hundred yards the rider slowly pedalled the trishaw along the coastal road, between avenues of coconut palms, lianas and loquat trees. To the right could be seen expensive homes surrounded by well-tended green lawns and, to the left, lay the Strait of Johore in placid tranquillity. Only the wash from the bows of small craft disturbed its calmness, leaving little wakes of sparkling white and silver astern of them. And, in the far distance, slowly heading towards Singapore's naval base, the British Royal Navy aircraft carrier HMS
Unicorn
stood out against the horizon. Nearer the coastline, two escort vessels, a destroyer and a frigate, overtook an ancient looking Chinese junk whose patchwork of a mainsail was hauled in tight to catch what little wind there was.

The driver stopped the trishaw beneath a giant rubber tree where, within its shade, there was a hint of coolness. Here his two passengers alighted. Peter handed the man a Malay dollar and told him to keep the change. Smiling happily, the driver thanked him in Chinese, took to the pedals again and rode slowly away to seek another fare.

“Well, Rose, where do we go from here?” asked Peter.

She laughed. “Come. I show you,” she said as she led the way up a twisting gravel path, which brought them to the zoo gates. The entrance fee was fifty cents each; Peter handed the gatekeeper a dollar. A crowd of small children immediately gathered around them, offering peanuts, still in their shells, at twenty cents a packet.

Hand in hand, the two lovers walked the many gravel paths that wound through the tropical growth and banks of spongy grasses. It was as if they were alone for they did not notice the other visitors, mostly Singaporeans enjoying an afternoon away from the jostling crowds of the city. At one of the garden benches they stopped and sat down. Lai Ming nestled against Peter just enough so that it was not too obvious to those who passed along the path, that she held his hand in her lap and stroked it with the tips of her tiny fingernails. “It is so very peaceful here,” she said. “I love to see all the different animals and birds. And I like to see fish, too. I love to see all these creatures among this greenness. It is so much nicer here than in crowded, noisy Singapore.”

“Have you been here often?”

“The first time was the only time. My husband brought me here.” She looked at him, and again he saw much sadness in her eyes, just as he had seen sadness in them when she had talked about her husband the day they had met on Changi Beach. “I fed the monkeys then, under the same tree, and we sat on this very same seat together. We had only been married a few months. It does not seem such a long time ago, yet a number of years have come and gone since his death.”

“I am sure he was a good man,” said Peter, in a sincere voice.

“He was! Believe me he was. I could not have wished for a better husband.”

Peter was unsure what to say next, and there was silence between them for several moments. Eventually, he said, “The good die young, Rose.”

“Unfortunately, that seems to be true,” she answered.

“It must have been heartbreaking for you, hearing the news that he had been killed.”

“It was. It was a bitterly cruel blow, especially after all we had been through during the Japanese occupation. Finally, with the war ended, I never thought anything like that could happen to my husband. It was terrible for me. I cried for months after his death. I could not eat. I could not sleep. I wanted to die. I hoped I could kill myself and be with him, but I had to care for my baby. Only because of my boy did I live. He was all I had, and all that I have now. All my family lived in Sumatra, but now they are dead, all killed by the Japanese.

“They were murderous swine, weren't they?”

“They were sent by the devil,” answered Lai Ming venomously. “Peter, after they conquered Singapore, I saw the heads of people chopped off by them like chickens' heads. At the naval base I saw the heads of white men impaled on the iron spikes of the gateway, with notices pinned to those heads informing the public just what the Japanese could do to the all-powerful, invincible white men who had ruled Singapore. The heads remained on the spikes for many days, blackened by the sun and half-eaten by birds and maggots. I saw the Japanese kill many people with their swords and bayonets—men, women and children, mostly Chinese. It did not matter to the Japanese who they killed, or for what reason. Human life meant nothing to them.” She paused for moments in thought, then continued, “I remember an awful day being forced to witness a group of about twenty Australian soldiers, prisoners of war, being shot to death outside the doors of St Andrews Cathedral. We were forced to watch the executions. It was supposed to show us that the Japanese are a superior race.”