The Rose of Singapore (57 page)

Kwok Wing had not intended to admit that he knew of the woman's past lifestyle. He had journeyed to Kinrara for one reason only, to thank and reward the young Englishman. Now, he realized that he had to reassure her, that her way of life would not be mentioned ever again. “An acquaintance of mine, an English gentleman employed by the Social Welfare Department in Havelock Road, has assured me that you are very much a genteel lady. Your past is behind you. We shall never discuss that part of your life again. It is time for change. A time to begin anew. Are you in agreement?”

“Yes,” whispered Lai Ming in a faraway voice.

“Excellent. Then that's settled. This is the present situation. My wife, whom I brought from Shanghai, speaks very little Cantonese; and I, unfortunately, cannot devote as much time as I would wish with my daughter. My sudden idea, therefore, is that my daughter has need of a Cantonese tutor, and I believe that you, Lai Ming, have the desired qualities and qualifications to fill such a position. The position is open for your consideration. Of course, to take on such a responsibility, the remuneration will be fitting, of that you can be assured.”

Both Peter and Lai Ming looked at each other in wonderment, but said nothing. They did not wish to interrupt and break the spell of this moment. Peter sank his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes, thinking, ‘Perhaps I am dreaming.'

“You will need a suitable home, a place where you may quietly and safely tutor my daughter,” Kwok Wing was saying. “Finding the road journey tiring, I shall return to Singapore by plane. However, I shall leave my business card with you. If you decide to accept the position, call my office and I shall have you flown down in a company aircraft, in fact both of you, if that is at all possible. On your return to Singapore we shall tour my new estates in the Upper Serangoon Road area. All my new homes are one-storey villas. You, Lai Ming, may choose a villa from any one of my estates, and I shall immediately transfer the deed of the house into your name.”

“Sir, are you serious?” Peter asked incredulously.

Lai Ming, lost for words, simply stared at Mr Ng in disbelief.

“I have never been more serious in my life,” said Kwok Wing. “Anyway, I ask you please to consider my offer.”

Almost inaudibly, Lai Ming said to Peter, “I go, yes?”

“Yes, you must.”

“Good!” exclaimed Kwok Wing. “Now, Peter, to discuss your future. You have considerable time still to serve in the RAF, I believe.”

“Yes, I'll be demobbed in January ‘56,” Peter replied, wondering what was coming next.

“Do you enjoy living in Singapore?”

“Oh, yes, I love Singapore. It's the most wonderful place in the world.”

“And you have much affection for this lady.”

“Yes, very much.”

“In that case, on completion of your military service career, you will wish to return to Singapore.”

“If possible, yes, of course.”

“Do you know what the word Singapore means?”

“I have heard it mentioned, but I'm not sure.”

“Actually they are two Sanskrit words,
singa
and
pura,
together meaning Lion City.”

“That's interesting. And I do know that Singapore is known as the Lion City,” said Peter.

A faraway look came into the steely grey eyes of Kwok Wing as he was saying, “During these years since the departure of the Japanese, Singapore slumbers like a sleeping lion. But that sleep has become restless. Soon, only a matter of a few years from now, Singapore will gain her independence. And then, my young friend, we shall see the awakening of the lion, the awakening of Singapore the Lion City. And when the lion awakens Singapore will prosper as never before. Singapore will increasingly need young people of your calibre. I want you to work with me, to assist me in making my dreams come true.”

“But how can I assist?” asked Peter.

“You are of material that builds, not destroys. Together, we can help make Singapore the finest city in the world, a city and an island of which we shall be proud, a clean city where crime will not be tolerated. I would like you to be already settled in Singapore on our Independence Day. I want you to see the awakening of the lion. Think about that which I have said, and when you are discharged from this hospital and return to Singapore, please honour me by a visit. We have much to discuss, and I am sure that Li Li will be truly delighted to see you again.”

Seeing Dr Henshaw approaching, Ng Kwok Wing rose from the table and extended a hand to Peter. “It has been a rewarding meeting for the three of us,” he said. “And for me it has been delightful. But I see my time is up. The honourable doctor does not allow me to bother you further. Here is my business card. In the very near future we shall meet again.”

Turning to Lai Ming with a smile, he shook her hand, saying. “Regarding your son. Please, have no worries concerning future hospital bills. There will be none. I have donated a sizeable grant to the hospital in which your son now receives treatment. My donation is sufficient to build a new wing as well as to take care of all your son's medical expenses.”

With those words, Kwok Wing smiled and bowed to the pair, then turned and walked slowly towards Doctor Henshaw who was already climbing the steps.

35

The words of the song, “Just One More Night” flowed softly, sweetly, but with a melancholy air from a radio in a neighbour's villa at the junction of the road leading to Lai Ming's home.

With a heavy heart, Peter Saunders stopped walking and listened to the words of the song. “Just one more night,” he whispered sadly, “alone with you,” and standing on the curb of the sidewalk, he sighed deeply as he drank in the singer's voice, that of a young Chinese woman who often sang on Radio Malaya. She sang so beautifully, he thought. Waiting until the song had ended and the voice of the male radio disc jockey announced the name of the next number, Peter resumed his walk slowly towards the red-roofed villa standing in shaded greenery halfway along Meadowlark Road which junctions on to Dickens Avenue. Mr Ng Kwok Wing had named all the roads in this new suburb after birds; and having been an avid reader of classic works by British authors in his youth, he had named the crossing avenues alphabetically after famous British authors and poets. Abbott, Byron and Carlyle were the first three avenues in the huge development. Dickens was the fourth.

“The three o'clock Hit Parade,” Peter murmured to himself, pausing again to listen as that sweet melody ‘Moon Above Malaya' filtered through thick banana clumps lining the road. Again he sighed; this night would be the last time for at least two years that he would see that lovely yellow moon flooding Singapore with its light. And he told himself that he would think on the lyric ‘Moon Above Malaya' whenever the moon shone its ray upon him, no matter where.

He was out of the city and far away from its many noises and smells, its rush and tear, its bright lights and gaudiness. Here in the outer suburbs of Singapore tranquillity reigned, the peaceful silence of the afternoon broken only by the occasional honking of bullfrogs hidden in nearby grass, the sleepy murmuring of birds in the tree tops, and the soothing voice of the male singer on that unseen radio.

Overhead, the sun rode high in a cloudless sky, flooding the young palm groves and banana clumps in their warmth of yet another tropical afternoon. Except for himself the road was deserted of people, and there was not even a stray dog or cat to be seen. At this moment Singapore seemed incredibly empty to Peter Saunders.

Treading on springy short grass growing in a long narrow strip parallel to the gravel sidewalk, he slowly made his way, limping noticeably and walking with the aid of a cane. He knew that it would have been quicker and less tiring to make the whole journey by taxi, but this being his last visit he wanted to walk the last half-mile. A taxi journey would have been too fast; he would have missed some small detail in this peaceful, lovely area that he now knew so well. He wanted to remember this, his last day in Singapore. And especially he wanted to remember this suburb that he had visited so many times during these past ten weeks; the neighbouring houses and gardens, and, of course, the beautiful new villa here in Upper Serangoon Road so kindly deeded to Lai Ming by Mr Ng Kwok Wing. He wanted to see and to remember everything, for fond and loving memories.

He arrived at a silver-painted wrought-iron gate, which he opened, passed through and closed behind him with a click of the latch. Sadly, he gazed upon the carefully tended colourful display of orchids growing in hanging baskets of charcoal, sand and moss. He looked at the ruby red bougainvillea reaching upward from beneath a loquat tree, and at the young papayas which Lai Ming had grown from seed and had planted out just a few weeks ago. He sighed and walked towards the front door.

The villa was a low-built bungalow nestling between two tall coconut palms which, bending towards the house, hung as if sentinels over the sloping, red-tiled roof. At the front of the house, even the doorway was partially screened from view by a cluster of tall zinnias of mixed colour, sunflowers and marigolds surrounded by a recently mown green carpet of grass. This was Lai Ming's home, almost a replica of the house she had dreamed of and had described to him during their first day together when they had met on Changi Beach. Here, she lived her life as a lady, secure from want, and enjoying tutoring little Li Li, who was brought to the house in a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce or the new Bentley. Occasionally, especially when the weather was bad, Lai Ming was driven the short distance to her young student's home, a mansion built in a park-like setting.

Peter tried the handle on the front door. As he expected, it was locked. Lai Ming would be asleep, this being her siesta hour during the days when she was not teaching. He had no wish to wake her. He walked around the outside of the house until he was at the rear of the garden where there were more carefully tended lawns, three young coconut palms which took up much space, and a rockery encircled by a walkway of stone. Pale blue forget-me-nots dominated the rockery, although here and there natural bouquets of tiny white flowers broke through the blueness. At the bottom of the garden, beneath the tallest of the three palm trees, a heart-shaped lily pond, with tall, thick bamboo growing in its centre, glittered where falling water from a fountain fell. Lily pads covered much of the pond, hiding from view the numerous bullfrogs, which seemed to croak unceasingly. In the few open spaces goldfish lay still in the water or glided silently to and fro. When they rose to the surface, their scales of silver and gold glittered like jewels in the sunlight. The bungalow itself was entirely secluded from other properties by carefully landscaped ornamental trees and flowering bushes, mostly hibiscus of numerous varieties and colours. The house and gardens were Lai Ming's home, her pride and joy.

Peter let himself into the house by the rear door, and into the kitchen of a modern, all electric house. Just a flick of a switch for almost everything: oven, grill, water heater, washing machine, a sizeable refrigerator, and an electric kettle; and Lai Ming now owned a radiogram from which she derived much pleasure.

The house was comprised of three attractively decorated bedrooms, all in sunny positions, and each in a different colour. The master bedroom had its own spacious bathroom, and another bathroom was located off a short hallway which led into every room: a lounge, dining room, and a library in which Li Li not only took lessons in Cantonese from Lai Ming, but also English lessons from Peter. She was learning fast. At times Peter had wondered if she would be the only Chinese girl who would speak English with a strong Devonshire dialect. He had become very fond of the little girl. Yesterday he had given her a final hug, and in return had received a tearful goodbye kiss. He would miss Li Li.

Tip-toeing quietly into the main bedroom, Peter found Rose as he had expected to find her, lying nude, curled up on the bed, very small and lovely, a sleeping Chinese doll. A
sarong,
which she must have cast off in sleep, lay near her. Sadly, he gazed slowly down upon all four-foot-ten inches of her beautiful body, which was so full of love and laughter, and upon a face that rarely lost its exquisite smile. Today, though, there was a total difference. There was no smile on that little face, but instead a look of sadness, her cheeks stained by dried tears. She had, this day, cried herself to sleep. He would not disturb her. Instead, he would make himself a cup of tea and wait for her to awaken.

Returning to the kitchen, he plugged in the kettle, waited for it to boil, then switched off the current and reached for the hand-painted periwinkle-decorated china teapot from the house-warming tea set he had bought Rose. Rose would like a cup of tea; she always liked tea on awakening.

Minutes later, carrying two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on a tray, he went to the bedroom and placed the tray on the bedside table. Stirring at his entry, Lai Ming's eyes flickered open, and seeing him standing at the side of the bed, she said in a dreamy voice, “Hello, Peter,” and like an awakening cat she yawned and stretched out her arms and legs to their full length.

Peter knew full well her needs when she stretched herself in such a manner. “Did you sleep well?” he asked, sitting down beside her and caressing a naked thigh. “I'll pour you some tea,” he said, already knowing the one word that would be her answer.

“After,” she said.

“After what?” he asked, grinning boyishly at her naked body.

“You know what after.” She gave him a mischievous smile and encircled his waist with an arm. “Undress and come on top of me,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“No tea? Are you sure you want no tea?” Peter teased.

Laughing, Lai Ming shook her head. “No tea.”

“How about a biscuit?”

“No, no biscuits. We take tea and biscuits, after.”

Peter felt the arm pulling him towards her. Naked and with the sun streaming in upon her through the open window, her creamy-coloured body lay invitingly beneath his gaze. Always enraptured by her beauty, he sank his lips to her breasts, kissed them in turn, kissed her navel, then kissed her all the way down her smooth belly until he finally playfully plonked a kiss amid her thick bush of black pubic hair.