The Rose of Singapore (59 page)

“Why?”

“You're flying home on tomorrow's Comet.”

“What! Are you kidding?”

“No. I'm not kidding, mon. You're going to fly home in style.”

Astonished but not too elated by the news, Peter asked, “Is there any tea on the stove? I could use a cup.”

“Tea! Away wi' ya, mon, ta see the laddie in charge of the transit block, before he gives the wee ticket to some other laddie.”

Calmly, Peter Saunders said, “Thanks, Jock. Keep the tea hot. I'll be right back.”

On walking around to the transit block office, he met there the corporal in charge, seated at a table, poring over a stack of papers.

“G'evening Corp',” Peter said.

“Hi!” responded the corporal, looking up from the stack of papers.

“I'm SAC Saunders. Corporal McKnight in the airmens' mess said something about me flying home on tomorrow's Comet,” said Peter.

“Oh! So you're SAC Saunders,” said the corporal in a relieved tone of voice. “I've been wondering when you'd show up. Yeah, there are four vacant seats on the Comet,” he said, reaching across the table for a lone pink travelling form and handing it to Peter Saunders. “You're one of the four lucky stiffs chosen to fill those seats,” he said. “Does that make you happy?”

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it should, Corp,” he said. “I haven't had much time to think about it.”

“OK. You'll be getting an early morning call at four-thirty, so you'd better get some kip.”

“Yeah, I'll do that,” replied Peter, shoving the pink slip into his pants pocket. “Goodnight, Corp,” he said.

“Goodnight and good luck,” replied the corporal, already settling back to again study and work on the piles of forms in front of him.

So Corporal McKnight was right, thought Peter. His news had been confirmed, numbing just a little more his tired and depressed mind. He really should get some sleep, he told himself, because within only four hours from now he would be getting an early morning call.

Within six hours, SAC Peter Saunders and three other airmen were due to fly out of Changi, Singapore aboard the first commercial jet aircraft ever, British Overseas Air Corporation's sleek, fast and beautiful Comet 1 G-ALYP, manufactured proudly by the de Havilland Aircraft Company.

36

It was dawn on the tenth day of January 1954. Torrential rain had fallen during the night but it had abruptly ceased an hour ago leaving the tarmacked apron of the dispersal unit glistening in the early morning light.

From the isolated, white stucco, one-room building which served as customs and immigration as well as an arrival and departure lounge, the passengers walked in a ragged file, in ones, twos and threes, to where the silvery-looking Comet 1 G-ALYP, the pride of British Overseas Airways Corporation, awaited them.

With mixed emotions, SAC Peter Saunders watched as a trim, neatly dressed, young and efficient-looking BOAC stewardess shepherded her flock across the fifty yards or so of rain-wet tarmac to where a flight of metal steps on wheels led up to the entrance of the plane. A BOAC air steward greeted the passengers at the doorway of the plane. Peter wondered just how many of those passengers, like himself, were sad to be leaving Singapore.

“Too bad we couldn't be among them,” said a freckle-faced leading aircraftman to Peter, who was standing next to him amid a group of between twenty and thirty other airmen watching as the passengers boarded the Comet. “We'd be arriving in England within hours from now, instead of days.”

“I suppose we would,” said Peter, indifferently.

“Wow! Listen to this!” exclaimed the LAC “After leaving here, the Comet is going to touch down at Bangkok, Rangoon, Calcutta, Karachi, Bahrain and Rome, and will be landing at Heathrow in a matter of hours; not days, like our old Hastings. We won't get to England for at least three days, maybe four. God! I'm so disappointed at being bumped from the Comet. Aren't you?”

“It doesn't really matter,” said Peter, sighing and hoping there would be something wrong with the Hastings so that his flight would be delayed a day, perhaps two.

In fact, Peter really didn't care how long it took the Comet to fly to England. Neither did he care nor was he disappointed that four paying passengers had purchased tickets during the night to make a full complement aboard the Comet. This meant that he and the other three airmen who, only late the previous evening, were told that they were the lucky ones chosen to fly home on the sleek jet aircraft, were bumped from its passenger list. Instead, the four airmen would be flying home on an RAF prop-driven, four-engine Handley Page Hastings aircraft of Transport Command, which was due to take off shortly after the Comet's departure.

Feeling depressed and sad about leaving Lai Ming and Singapore, Peter watched with little interest as the remaining passengers and a couple of the crew climbed the metal steps and boarded the Comet. He watched as the stewardess waved to a BOAC official standing on the tarmac, and saw the doors of the Comet being closed and the steps being pulled away. Within moments an increasingly loud whine of jet engines broke the quietness of the early morning, and the first commercial passenger jet aircraft ever moved gracefully forward across the tarmac, to begin, what could be, yet another world record speed-breaking flight. He watched as the plane headed towards and then onto the perimeter strip. He followed her with his eyes as she taxied towards the Changi Gaol end of the main runway until she eventually disappeared from his view. Minutes later, he heard the whine of her jets reaching a crescendo, and seconds later saw her reappear, just for moments, streaking down the runway, until she became lost from his view behind hangars and palm trees as she headed out over Changi Beach and the Johore Strait.

Then it was their turn.

Orders were given by the NCO in charge, and SAC Peter Saunders walked with other airmen across the tarmac to where the Hastings aircraft awaited them, its huge silvery body glinting in that day's first rays of sunlight. He presented his pink travelling form to the Movements Officer standing at the bottom of the flight of metal steps. Ascending the steps, he entered the plane and walked down an aisle between tall, leather-bound seats. He sat down near a thick glass porthole looking out over wing flaps, and strapped himself in by the safety belt.

Minutes later the double doors were slammed shut and secured. A red light came on in the cabin. The plane shuddered as an engine started. A pall of black smoke and red flames belched from the exhaust. Then, one after another, the three other engines spluttered and came to life, and the plane trembled as the engines ticked over. Minutes passed. To Peter Saunders those minutes seemed an eternity. Eventually, the heavy wooden chocks were wrenched from beneath the wheels, and the aircraft trundled forward from the dispersal unit towards the number one runway, the main runway that stretched the whole length from Changi Gaol to Changi Beach overlooking the Johore Strait. The Hastings swung to starboard before cruising at a fair speed down the long perimeter track until she reached the far end. There she swung around to port and taxied to the beginning of the runway. Behind her stood a grove of palm trees and behind these the notorious Changi Gaol. On the perimeter track, less than a hundred yards away, an ambulance and a fire tender stood by ready and waiting in case of an emergency.

All four engines were revved up, in turn and then in concert. Now, no black smoke came from the exhausts, but instead, a haze of greyish-white fumes and a lot of sparks. The engines roared at full throttle, brakes came off, and the aircraft lurched forward, steadied herself, then gained speed rapidly as she raced faster and faster down that very long runway. The dashed white line appeared to speed beneath the aircraft's broad belly. Flickering lamps of the flare path still spluttered, though it was already daylight. At an ever-increasing speed the plane reached where the runways crossed. The white control tower on the hill to the left seemed to flash by as she sped down the runway parallel with the green embankment carrying the two-lane road that ends at Changi Village. Peter watched as they flashed past the tiny post office, and next, the billets of the RAF Regiment Malay Squadron to his left. Halfway down the runway the tail wheel lifted. The plane no longer bumped on the tarmac but gracefully skimmed the flat, even surface until, pushed forward by her four powerful engines, she lifted and gradually ascended into an azure sky. The runway at RAF Changi quickly slipped away below. Just for moments, as the plane flashed over them, Peter Saunders stared sadly down at Pop's coffee-shack, the fish trap and upon a deserted Changi Beach. It was far too early for sun worshippers to grace its sands warming in that day's first sunlight.

Wisps of cotton-wool-like cloud flashed past the ports as the plane headed out over the Johore Strait, the water below twinkling and looking cool and calm, with fishing
sampans
dotting its surface and a Chinese junk chugging its way towards the mainland. The aircraft altered course and approached the city's boundary. Quite clearly Peter could see the detached mole, Clifford Pier and Telok Ayer Basin in the Inner Roads. He spotted the Raffles Hotel and the Union Jack Club, and of course, but further away, he could see the tallest building in Singapore, the Cathay Building, towering above the city. Fort Canning in the King George the Fifth Park seemed to glide silently by below; and to the north, he could make out Institution Hill. He continued to look down, sadly wondering where Lai Ming might be.

Lai Ming entered the wide, silver gates. Slowly, taking her time, she crossed the concrete forecourt then stopped for a few moments at the doorway of the main entrance to the Taoist temple. Looking about her, she involuntarily shuddered as she gazed upon the two ferocious-looking stone tigers, which stood one on either side of the doorway, guarding the entrance. She did not stand and stare as would a tourist but instead turned quickly away and entered the building.

Lai Ming wore her pajama-like, black two-piece cotton
samfoo,
the jacket buttoned up to the neck, and the trousers wide and flapping. On her feet she wore red wooden clogs. In one hand she carried a bone fan, and in the other a large wicker basket.

Fantastic carvings greeted her, and elaborate colourful glass ornaments glinted wherever she turned her eyes. She saw what must be the caretaker–priest in silent meditation at the entrance to the subterranean room beneath the seat where an effigy of Kwan Yin stood.

Placing the wicker basket down upon the stone floor of the temple, she clasped her hands together and held them towards the statue. Her lips moved slowly but no sound came as, with head tilted upward, she looked long and sadly into the Goddess of Mercy's eyes.

As she looked up into the face of her deity, her lips trembled. She hoped Kwan Yin would forgive her and answer her prayers favourably. For a fleeting moment a hint of a smile appeared on her face, accompanied by a bow of her head. She then bent down and drew from the wicker basket joss sticks in a ceramic vase. These she placed upon the altar. She lit the joss sticks then bowed three times in worship. Next, she took a bowl of cooked rice and one of sweetmeats and placed these also upon the altar, and bowed again. She then took from the basket a bowl of white loquat blossoms with yellow hearts, deep red in their centres—sweet-smelling flowers picked by her from her own garden very early that morning. These, she scattered upon the altar immediately in front of the Goddess.

Lai Ming picked up the two fist-sized wooden objects shaped like small elongated bowls, known as
yao bei,
and threw them onto the temple floor. She closed her eyes tightly and held her breath as they rolled across the ground before coming to a rest. She opened her eyes, hardly daring to see the result. One faced up and one faced down. “
Seng bui!
” whispered Lai Ming in her native Cantonese dialect, “how fortunate, the gods are looking down on me today.” The
yao bei
were showing different sides, which meant Lai Ming could proceed to the next stage of the divination reading. She reached for the worn bamboo canister, which contained a sheaf of numbered sticks. On bended knee she held the small canister in both hands and shook it gently forwards and backwards. After only a few seconds one of the numbered sticks fell out of the canister and landed on the floor in front of her knees.

She would now have to throw the two wooden
yao bei
again to confirm she had the right stick. She stood up and fetched the same pair of
yao bei
before tossing them once again into the air. Should they land the same way up, she would know her numbered stick was not the correct one and she would have to begin the whole process again. “
Seng bui!
” she exclaimed, relieved to see yet again that the two
yao bei
were showing different sides. But one
sheng bei
was not enough; Lai Ming would have to get three consecutive
sheng bei
in order to be totally satisfied that her numbered stick contained the answer to the question she had posed to Kwan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy.

Again she performed the
qiu qian,
and again she was lucky, the two halves showed different sides. Gathering up the wooden
yao bei
for the final time, she rubbed them gently to her bosom. She did not speak, but silently prayed. Three times, and this was the third, the last. “They must! They must,” she whispered to herself. She kissed and whispered to each block, her eyes wide and pleading. Casting both halves from her, they fell with a loud clatter on the stonework at the base of the altar. And when she looked down to where the two halves had fallen, she sighed a heavy sigh of relief.
Sheng bei
again. Lai Ming now knew the numbered stick that had shaken itself free from the canister contained the answer she so desperately needed to know.

She picked up the stick and memorized the number. Eighty-eight! With such a lucky number she felt confident of a favourable reply. She made her way to the back of the temple where she found the temple custodian, and she told him her number. The priest tore a strip of paper from a worn divination book that correlated to Lai Ming's number then studied it closely. Lai Ming held her breath as the old priest stared at the paper intently, his face completely devoid of expression. “The answer is yes,” was all the priest said before handing the strip of paper to Lai Ming, turning and shuffling away. Had she heard correctly? Yes, he had said. Breathing freely now, all tension flooding from her weary, heartbroken self, Lai Ming was suddenly elated. “He will return! He will return!” she whispered passionately, the words rolling over and over in her mind. He would not forget her. He would return.