Fortune’s Bastard
By
Peter G Bailey
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PGPublishing on Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Peter G Bailey ©
William Shakespeare
Sonnet CXXIV
If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfather’d
As subject of Time’s love or to Time’s hate,
Weeds amongst weeds, or flowers amongst flowers gather’d.
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First published in Great Britain by PG Publishing
ISBN 978-0-9569572-4-5
All characters in this book are fictitious and bear no relationship to any person, alive or dead, known to the author.
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Dedication:- To Joy
One crowded hour of a glorious life in not worth a peanut without Joy.
One sentence synopsis:- Privilege succeeds where merit doesn’t.
Two Paragraph synopsis:-
Personalities and emotions clash violently when two men from different backgrounds meet in the Far East and ambition dominates sullen adversity until humbled in a court of law. Relationships do not improve when the men discover they share the same woman. Reduced to an elemental struggle one prospers materially while the other succeeds in love, or does he?
Synopsis:
When Chief Petty Officer Philip Palmer joins the aircraft carrier HMS Victorious in Singapore little does he suspect his naval career is about to be destroyed by the ambitions of Lieutenant Commander Le Voir. Autocratic and strongly opinionated Le Voir instantly dislikes the over-confident Palmer and the antipathy turns to hatred and physical violence when the two men discover they share the same woman’s love.
Circumstances run out of control when Le Voir is physically attacked by disgruntled ratings and Palmer finds himself accused of causing the loss of an aircraft and the death of a young observer.
Facing a courts martial for striking Le Voir in a drunken rage Palmer deserts his ship only to be arrested trying to flee Singapore on a civilian liner with his new wife and her daughter.
At the trial Le Voir is exposed as an ambitious bully with no consideration for the men under him. Found guilty of desertion Palmer is sentenced to be discharged from the service but while waiting for confirmation of sentence he discovers the Admiralty intend to make him an example for the poor discipline on the squadron. They recommend dishonourable discharge and a two year prison sentence with hard labour.
Unable to accept the punishment Palmer and his new wife escape to Australia just before the naval patrol arrives to arrest him. On the way to Australia Palmer discovers that Le Voir has been promoted.
Fortune’s Bastard
Chapter One
Singapore 1965.
Philip Palmer arrived at Changi airport hot, tired and irritable; conditions that did not improve as he made his way through the crowded airport reception to find his luggage piled, along with the contents of the aircraft’s hold, in an untidy heap near a counter staffed by an RAF Flight Sergeant.
‘Is there any naval transport scheduled to pick us up?’ he asked not too politely. As a service the RAF were not his favourite animals and he wondered if this specimen had lost his way travelling to Brise Norton or any other mamby-pamby place where they seemed to congregate in dumb unrestrained numbers.
‘Name, service and rank?’ the Flight Sergeant responded picking up a clipboard labelled, ‘Flight List’ and regarding Palmer dubiously as if deciding if the civilian suited enquirer justified the obligatory salutation due to a commissioned officer.
‘Palmer. Royal Navy. Chief Aircraft Mechanician,’ he was informed wearily. ‘I’m joining HMS Victorious.’
Normally he liked winding the RAF up, but on this occasion he felt tired, unwashed, unshaven and smelt like a tramp’s armpit, unlike the sweet-smelling immaculately uniformed sergeant before him.
Satisfied that his decision to omit the salute was justified the Flight Sergeant studied his list more closely before looking up.
‘Royal Navy, huh?’ He referred to the list again. ‘You know any of these people?’ He reeled off a few names, but desisted when Palmer shook his head. ‘When these people turn up I’ll telephone the naval base and get transport sent over. Meanwhile, it’ll help if you find your baggage and look after it. You can change money at the kiosk.’ He pointed a biro vaguely in the direction of the crowded airport building behind him. ‘There’s about three Singapore dollars to the pound. The exact rate will be posted at the counter.’
Passing on that curt information the Flight Sergeant dropped his list into its stowage and prepared to answer questions from other confused arrivals.
Moving aside Palmer mentally debated whether to change his English money into local currency or wait until he boarded the aircraft carrier he had come to Singapore to join. There he would get a better rate of exchange because the Royal Navy did not charge commission, or didn’t last time he passed through. With that important problem settled he moved away from the Movement’s desk to seek his luggage amid the frenetic activity around him.
At the nearby custom’s desk a tall thin young man struggled to find his travel papers while an unperturbed custom official waited patiently with one white gloved hand raised with imperative expectancy. After fumbling through the pockets of his clothing, then his hand luggage a second time, the youth discovered the missing documents in a coat pocket already searched. A few passengers queued behind him, but after the long UK flight they looked distinctly unimpressed by the delay and the cause of it. Once the Customs and Excise Official certified that the tall youth was unarmed and medically fit to enter Singapore he collected his disturbed luggage and person and made for the Movement’s Desk. Watching from a distance Palmer frowned as the Flight Sergeant pointed in his direction.
A few seconds later the tall young youth joined him as he collected his scattered luggage ready to load when the RN transport arrived.
‘Excuse me.’
Palmer stood up as a well-modulated voice, slightly breathless with over-active exertion, addressed him nervously.
‘Are you joining the Victorious?’ the tall youth asked. ‘I am too. My name’s Michael Dawson-Taylor. Lieutenant Dawson-Taylor, actually.’ He added the latter information after remembering that the Flight Sergeant had identified Palmer as a Chief Petty Officer in the Royal Navy and he was an officer. ‘I’m joining 893 Squadron. I believe you’re doing the same.’ He held out a slim wristed hand in amiable greeting.
Palmer shook it distastefully and quickly released it. Dawson-Taylor; soberly dressed in grey flannels, blue sports jacket with Fleet Air Arm tie knotted askew from a white if crumpled shirt collar, was the more practically attired of the two men as he sheepishly confessed to never having been to Singapore before.
‘I’m an Observer,’ he went on, driven by a need to explain his presence in the hot crowded airport many thousands of miles from home waters. ‘Just relieving Nobby Clark. Do you now him? Awfully nice chap. We were at Dartmouth together.’
He spoke quickly, eager to establish a rapport with his new, if dour companion. This was somebody who would share, albeit at different degrees of risk and comfort levels, the perils of an unknown future: above all, someone in the Royal Navy, better still, someone at the airport.
As Palmer introduced himself he wondered if the verbosity was intended to emphasise the social gap existing between them, but after a few seconds he decided Dawson-Taylor was probably too naive even to realise a gap even existed. The one-sided tirade ended with the arrival of Flight Sergeant.
‘It seems,’ he began apologetically. ‘The Naval Base is full of both officers and senior rates at the moment and they can’t put you up in service accommodation. You’re both accommodated in a local hotel for a few days.’
Palmer frowned. ‘How’s that a problem?’ he demanded. ‘We’re joining the Victorious, not the naval base.’
‘Well, sir,’ the Flight Sergeant addressed Dawson-Taylor as though he had asked the question. ‘The Victorious is at sea and will be for a few more days. You’ll be informed when she gets in. Meanwhile, there’s a taxi outside to take you both to your hotel. Just wait here a moment.’ He hurried back to his desk.
Almost immediately an RAF erk-type arrived and like the Flight Sergeant, he too was sparing with service courtesies, but was absolutely certain that he should carry Dawson-Taylor’s baggage and not Palmer’s.
The two naval men followed the loaded erk-type to a waiting civilian taxi while Dawson-Taylor enthusiastically approved of how ‘switched on’ the RAF were that far from home. Following under the weight of his own personal baggage Palmer merely grunted. As a senior chief he was entitled to the same courtesy as the officer in having his baggage carried, but he bit his lip and remained silent. The distinction seemed unimportant in the chaotic conditions surrounding them.
A turbaned Indian taxi driver took them from the airport to an elegant, plush hotel in Orchard Road in the outskirts of Singapore City. Seeing the building from the comfort of the taxi Palmer was pleased by the navy’s apparent consideration for his status and seniority. It was infinitely better than anything he would have been offered in England under similar circumstances. In the forecourt, cascades of illuminated coloured water sprayed into a central sculptured bowl while inside the air-conditioned tastefully furnished hotel the decor could be accurately described as modern with little else to distinguish it.
At the reception desk the two new arrivals accepted allocated rooms and with signing formalities complete one of the hotel’s Chinese ‘boys’ carried Palmer’s luggage to an elevator and escorted it and him up to the fourth balconied floor; another took Dawson-Taylor and his baggage to a different part of the building.
After opening the door of his room and placing the baggage at the foot of the crisp linened bed the Chinese boy left Palmer to unpack. Only he knew what was needed for his unscheduled stay. As the door closed the air-conditioning system sprang into life flooding the room with a refreshing coolness to replace the aggressive end-of-day Singapore heat. As the temperature dropped he realised how hot tired and travel weary he was and how much he needed the bathroom opening off the bedroom.
Flinging his clothing, worn for two days and over many seas and countries, in a pile on a bedside chair he quickly immersed himself in as much tepid water as the bath would comfortably hold without spilling scented suds onto the tiled floor. He needed a long soak to cool his overheated blood and revive travel weary muscles. As he luxuriated in the water he considered if he could tackle the dinner the hotel would undoubtedly provide at navy expense, but the thought had little appeal. The memory of RAF airline catering lingered languorous in his memory like a bad dream. Food was out for the next week, he decided, but he needed a long cold drink, possibly several. He had overflown many sandy deserts, not crawled through them, but his desiccated body hardly knew the difference.
After drying himself on soft white hotel towels Palmer pulled on something lighter and more appropriate for the tropics. His English winter suit could be pensioned off until he returned to his native shores where its comforting thickness would be better appreciated.
Satisfied with his improved appearance and sporting a less jaundiced outlook on life he took the lift down to the cool cellar bar where a partitioned dining area served hotel guests and casual drinkers seeking an evening meal. The bar seemed to be patronised by Chinese and Malays customers and as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he could also see a reassuring number of fair-skinned Europeans, all males.
Taking one of the few empty tables remaining in the bar he ordered a long cool Tiger Tops from a hovering burgundy coated waiter. He needed something wet and cold and a lot of it. Before the drink arrived Dawson-Taylor, looking refreshed, younger and more gormlous, wandered into the bar and regarded the surroundings with curiosity mixed with a full measure of anxiety. The ambience was not to his county taste, but spotting the seated Palmer his face lit up.
‘Can I join you?’ he asked.
Palmer nodded without much enthusiasm, all he wanted out of life was to relax and ease himself into a totally new world, especially as had not expected to spend his first night in Singapore this way.
‘Did you know the Victorious was at sea?’ he ventured as his companion slid long legs under the table and ordered a drink. Officers often knew things not revealed to members of the lower deck. It was part of the mystique of command.
Dawson-Taylor shook his head to indicate that he was not in the information loop on that particular subject. ‘I heard there was some sort of flap on out here,’ he commented helpfully. ‘I expect that has something to do with her being at sea instead of in harbour.’
‘Flap?’ Palmer repeated, trying to grasp the significance of comment. To him a flap was an aerofoil device fitted under a mainplane of an aircraft wing to increase or decrease lift, or it had something to do with an unexpected panic he knew nothing of.
‘You know! This Indonesian confrontation thing with the Federation of Malayan States,’ Dawson-Taylor explained patiently. His eyes, at first, round with curiosity and interest in the strange surroundings, began smarting in the thickening tobacco fumes. He blinked rapidly to ease the irritation as he went on. ‘The Victorious is providing emergency front line cover for Singapore and Malaysia in case the Indonesians launch air attacks against them.’ Sensing his companion was not in the mood for deep conversation and even less interested in the complicated politics of the region, he added: ‘We might even see some action if we can get on board before the fun starts.’
Palmer nodded sourly. Small talk was hardly sustainable above the background burble of animated conversation filling the rest of the bar and the effort made a dry throat ache with the need to raise the voice even from the distance of a few inches and neither men wanted to be seen leaning into the other’s necks to make themselves heard, a practice adopted by many of the bar’s male clientele. He was not much interested in why the carrier was still at sea and the outbreak of fighting between two Asians countries with him trapped on board an aircraft carrier was not an occupation he regarded with any relish. Instead of responding, he took a long pull at his frosted glass and kept his unpatriotic thoughts to himself. Involvement in an armed confrontation in which he had no personal interest was not high on his fun list.
The conversational background noise level in the bar also neutered the gentle introduction of live music, a sound that diverted both men’s curiosity from the reason they were in Singapore, to a five-piece band occupying a raised plinth in one corner of the bar. Having completed a rest period they had began playing with a tolerable degree of musical competence that Palmer, not over fond of modern music, found pleasantly relaxing. Along with the surroundings the soothing sound added something to the exotic ambience of the rapidly filling bar.
Palmer noticed that most drinkers were not interested in the music, nor in a female singer with black lustrous hair trailing over her face as she picked up a microphone from the piano and made her contribution to the evening’s entertainment. They merely accepted the sound as a challenge to their conversation level.
After a while, Palmer muttered. ‘This should be interesting.’
Dawson-Taylor looked around uncomprehendingly. ‘What should?’ he asked, following Palmer’s gaze across the dance area. ‘What’s the matter? What’s wrong? Is there going to be a fight? We should leave if there is.’
He had been relaxing, now his knuckles whitened as he gripped his glass fearful of what his attention was being drawn to. The dancers danced; the drinkers drank; the band played and the singer sang, nothing untoward was happening anywhere that he could see, but then he was a stranger in the Far East. Things could be happening that he might be unaware of. A frown creased his brow as his gaze returned apprehensively to Palmer. What was his dark and taciturn companion trying to show him?
‘This is a gay bar,’ Palmer informed him. He shook his head as he took a sip from his glass before replacing it on the table with a sliding motion.
‘A what?’ Dawson-Taylor’s voice emerged from his long thin throat as a bewildered and uncertain squeak. His eyes, with distended pupils, seemed beseechingly innocent as his gaze darted amongst the shadowy figures on the dance floor and at the bar looking for something he could identify.
Palmer nodded towards a group of Chinese males simpering over a young Malay youth of slight build and effete mannerisms. The youth obviously enjoyed the attentions of his oriental admirers as he laughed and smiled in coy appreciation.
‘They seem friendly enough,’ Dawson-Taylor observed after a few moments spent trying to draw an understandable conclusion from the intense self-absorption of the group.
Palmer looked at his companion wondering how much of a sheltered life he had led before joining the navy, and more to the point, since.
On the stage, the dusky singer carried on with her version of a Frank Sinatra medley, but Palmer hardly noticed, his attention was drawn to a new arrival. With the Frank Sinatra interpretation appeared a vision so enchanting that all else became of secondary importance: his companion, the bar, the world, even life seemed to slide into insignificance.
‘Christ,’ he muttered in breathless admiration. ‘Will you check that out?’
The awed comment was occasioned by the appearance of a second female singer standing by the piano idly leafing through some sheet music and exchanging smiles with members of the band as they noticed her. Wearing a close fitting cheongsam of glittering gold Lame slit from ankle to thigh that offered a tantalising glimpse of slender leg promising elegance as sheer and perfect as the whole apparition, she drew his attention like a magnet. Palmer altered his position to gain a better view. A vision like this appeared only once in a lifetime. Like Halley’s comet the spectacle thrilled and utterly absorbed before disappearing into the heavens where it belonged.
‘I told you about her a few minutes ago,’ Dawson-Taylor reminded him petulantly glancing from the deviant groups by the bar towards the band. ‘She’s lovely though. Chinese, I’d guess from her appearance and dress.’
Lovely was an understatement breathtaking would hardly do her justice as one neat gold sheathed foot tapped soundlessly in time with, ‘Come Fly with Me.’ Thick blue/black hair fell bewitchingly across a brow slightly creased in concentrated study of the musical score in her hand. In contradiction to Dawson-Taylor’s untutored assessment her appearance had neither Chinese nor Malay origins. Somewhere in her make-up a European mixture added its allure, but percentages did not matter. The whole apparition was clearly designed in heaven and given life to torment man and drive him insane here on earth. Strangely, her effect on the other men in the bar remained one of total indifference. Her effect on Palmer bordered on the cosmic.
‘I must put the chats on her,’ he muttered determinedly.
‘You must do what?’ Dawson-Taylor asked leaning forward to look at his companion.
‘Get to know her,’ Palmer amplified, reluctantly dragging his attention from the glittering vision. He had seen his destiny and knew what he had to do about it. For the next ten minutes he never removed his gaze from the new arrival as he rapturously admired her grace and exquisite beauty from the distance of his seat. ‘Did you change any money when we landed?’ he asked.
‘Why? Yes I did,’ Dawson-Taylor confessed uneasily. ‘I changed some. Didn’t you?’
‘Sell me some Singapore dollars,’ Palmer ordered, rashly disregarding the normal courtesies of service life. He now regretted his decision not to change English currency at the airport when given the chance. He knew money could be changed at the hotel reception, but that would mean losing the chance to continue admiring the gold clad figure by the piano, an omission that would amount to a sacrilegious set-back and he did not want to be burdened with that guilt.
The young officer hesitated, unsure if it was proper for a commissioned officer to lend money to a member of the lower deck: especially for the immoral purposes obviously intended. The suggestion raised all sorts of ethical questions in his mind, although this did not seem the time, or place to debate the subject.
‘You’ll get it back tomorrow. I just forgot to change any,’ Palmer lied.
‘But I might need it myself,’ Dawson-Taylor objected. ‘We’ve only just arrived.’
This tricky situation had not registered, if indeed it had ever been discussed as a topic at any of the courses undertaken at Dartmouth, or at Greenwich come to that. He looked at his companion and saw something in Palmer’s expression and manner that made him meekly hand some Malay dollars. Palmer pocketed them without counting its value before calling a waiter and ordering more drinks.
Dawson-Taylor ran nervous fingers around the inside of his shirt collar as though the material had inexplicably shrunk several sizes since arriving in the night club and was now too small for his slender neck.
‘It’s hot in here,’ he commented uneasily. ‘Are you sure it’s safe? We seem to be the only white Europeans here. This isn’t just for the natives, is it?’ His glance flicked apprehensively around and behind him as if expecting to be knifed between the shoulder blades at any minute. His vivid imagination owed a great deal to avidly read, and not forgotten, sixth form fiction.
‘Look!’ he said a little later, touching Palmer’s arm and nodding toward the dance area. ‘There’s two chaps dancing together. Do they do that sort of thing out here in the Far East? I mean, it’s not done in England, is it?’
Several male couples had been dancing in each other’s arms for some time, but the young officer had only just noticed the peculiarity.
‘Perhaps they’re good friends,’ Palmer suggested cynically, ‘or maybe one of them likes doing things backwards.’
‘But the girls standing around the bar, can’t they dance?’ Dawson-Taylor objected, mystified by this manifestation of the vagaries of oriental life. He seemed genuinely upset at the apparent inconsistency of the arrangement, even scandalised.
‘I expect so,’ Palmer agreed, retrieving his lighter and cigarettes from the table and preparing to leave. ‘Why don’t you ask, but be sure to grope their crotch first or you might find a toggle and two instead of a furry purse.’ He flicked cigarette ash into an empty glass to avoid leaning forward to use the ashtray in the centre of the table.
‘You mean some of these people might be transvestites?’ Dawson-Taylor breathed incredulously, eyes widening in shocked wonder. He could scarcely believe what Palmer was suggesting. ‘But they all look like women.’
‘The most attractive ones are probably blokes,’ Palmer warned him mischievously. ‘Men make up better than girls out here.’ He grinned roguishly. ‘Go across and ask one for a dance, but keep a hand on your wallet.’ He nodded confidently in the direction of a group of girls. ‘There, try that one at this end of the bar. She looks female to me.’
His attention drifted back to the plinth where the music had stopped to allow the two singers to change places and the musicians to rearrange their play order. The shimmering glory now stood under the spotlight illuminating the pianist and the hum of conversation in the bar abated not one jot. The unsophisticated clientele did not appreciate the stunning beauty displayed in its full glory before them.
Palmer felt momentarily enraged by the lack of appreciation. This was no ordinary female. This was a Goddess of unparalleled beauty. The biblical parable of pearls being cast before swine came unbidden, but aptly, to his entranced mind. She was too good for a place like that. The feeling of righteous indignation swiftly passed with the realisation that he had to move quickly. There was no time for pompous attitudes. His chance had come and if no one else was going to make a move on her, he would.
He stood up. ‘Save my place. I might be back’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’ Palmer heard the lieutenant mutter in a voice that sounded mechanical, as though he had reached a decision that went against his better judgement. His cigarette smarting eyes ranged over the many girls lined up at the bar, trying to select one that did not appear too bogus. ‘When the music starts, I’ll move,’ he ended lamely, delaying a decision a few more moments.
Palmer smiled mirthlessly at the prevarication and drained his glass before replacing it with exaggerated care where a wet ring marked its previous location. On the plinth, the band struck up a dance number that prompted several male couples to take the floor in anticipation of another dance interlude.
At the sound Dawson-Taylor swallowed hard and stood up purposefully. He had not drunk enough to be unaware of his actions, but had downed enough for the alcohol to fortify his wavering courage. Had he been sober and clear headed he might have stayed rooted at the table, instead he moved resolutely towards the girl Palmer had indicated as a good choice for a dancing partner. His mind and purpose were clear to him if not to his intended victim.
By the table Palmer suffered a moment of panic as the music started, but for a different reason: had he missed his opportunity? A quick glance towards the plinth told him that although the musicians had begun playing, the singers remained by the piano. For a few dances the music was unaccompanied by their vocal efforts. Relieved, Palmer threaded his way through the dancers to where the two singers stood talking quietly to each other.
As he joined them both girls stopped talking to look at him quizzically. The gold singer, he noted with a thrill of exaltation, was even better close to than when viewed from afar. She was almost doll-like in stature and in appearance, unbelievably small and exquisitely perfect in every detail. Her dark eyes squinted in the smoke rising from a cigarette held mid-way through an elegant gesture she had been making to her companion while slightly parted lips showed white even teeth. In the gloom she looked as beautiful as an exquisite ivory carving.
‘Ya?’ Enquired the dusky singer looking the intruder up and down with calculated interest. ‘Apa Tu.’
She spoke Malay a language Palmer did not understand. For a moment he stood perplexed. He had overlooked that problem. The dusky maiden had sung in English and he assumed both girls would speak his mother tongue with the same fluency as they sang it. He smiled and shook his head to show his incomprehension.
‘I came to ask you for a dance?’ he informed the golden one brightly. Not an original chat-up line, but dancing, in that place, seemed to be the entre’ between the two cultures.
Unapologetically he moved her raised hand aside to allow the cigarette smoke to drift away from her face. He enjoyed the feel of her soft flesh and even more the sight of her ungrimaced face as she fully opened her eyes for the first time. The effect was dazzling. Nothing existed outside the world of fantasy could compare to this vision of loveliness. He felt his mouth go dry as his usual glib facility with women deserted him.
Her lips parted with a breathless ‘Tidak.’ Then as if searching through her mind for something, she replied in English so perfect Palmer could not believe his luck and had he been religious he would have offered a prayer of thanks to whoever controlled these meetings in heaven.
‘I can’t dance,’ she told him simply. She glanced down at her closely sheathed figure and smiled in needless explanation. ‘My dress is too tight.’
To emphasise the point she ran the palm of her free hand over the full contour of her waist and hip in a calculated gesture that did not escape her admirer’s fevered imagination. The movement sent his pulse rate into geo-static orbit.
‘Besides,’ she went on, tossing her head disdainfully in the direction of the dance floor. ‘I wouldn’t want to go out there.’ She said something in Malay that made the two girls giggle at a shared private joke.
‘Just one?’ Palmer smiled encouragingly. He knew the answer before she opened her mouth.
‘Pouf,’ she exploded with a half-concealed contemptuous smile. ‘You don’t know the boys from the girls out there. Proper boys, I mean.’
‘I’m a proper boy, and I definitely like proper girls. As long as they’re not too proper.’
Palmer offered the unthinking comment teasingly, but stopped when he realised she might not understand his penchant for bad puns. Most witticisms sounded trite when critically examined as second language speakers tended to.
Nor did she understand. She regarded him impassively from behind the smoke haze. There was the merest hint of the Orient in the dark eyes studying him from the pale oval face shrouded by the glossy blue/blackness of her hair.
‘You’re English,’ she concluded after a speculative pause. ‘Sailor?’
‘Sort of,’ Palmer agreed. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the table he vacated a few seconds ago remained free. It was. ‘If you can’t dance. Let me buy you a drink while we talk.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed with a slight grin of triumph at her sultry companion. ‘Fair exchange. Not for long though. I have to sing in a few minutes. It’s my job.’
She spoke to her companion, who shrugged with a knowing half-smile and turned to talk to the pianist. The same thing had probably happened many times.
Palmer helped her down from the plinth and escorted her to his table where he held out a chair for her to slide on to, a process that proved more interesting to him than difficult for her as she showed an intriguing length of slim thigh and a beautifully contoured knee.
Joining her Palmer was even more intrigued when she pressed against his knee in a way that could not be construed as accidental. Appearing not to notice, he ordered drinks from a hovering waiter.
‘You Merchant Navy?’ she asked, brushing back a lock of hair that fell across her face, a movement effected with elegance, but the disobedient tress returned.
‘No,’ Palmer responded shortly. ‘Royal Navy.’ Discussions on the subject of personal occupations wasted valuable time; he wanted more than that. ‘You look lovely in that dress,’ he told her, more interested in her presence than in his vocation. She probably knew nothing about the Fleet Air Arm and this was no time to explain. Maybe later; over breakfast if the subject remained that important.
She glanced down at her slim figure confidently knowing she dressed well and looked good in whatever she wore.
‘Yes,’ she agreed immodestly. ‘The dress is beautiful. It’s my favourite. I designed it myself. Aren’t I clever?’
She smiled teasingly.
‘You have the right shape to fill it,’ he acknowledged approvingly, eyeing the full breasts, flat stomach, rounded hips and elegantly slim waist. ‘What time do you finish here?’ he asked, acknowledging the waiter placing fresh drinks by their elbows and departed without asking for payment, doubtless he knew Palmer’s room number and could extract settlement later.
‘Just after two o’clock most mornings,’ she replied, leaning forward to raise her glass to her lips as the waiter placed her glass on the table by her elbow. ‘Why?’
‘I’d like to see you then...’ he began simply and stopped speaking as she laughed softly.
‘How do you know I don’t have a husband, or a boy friend waiting to take me home when I finish?’ Her voice teased while dark eyes weighed his intentions against her own inclinations.
‘Perhaps you have,’ he conceded. ‘I’d still like to see you though.’
‘You might be beaten up.’ She regarded the firmness of his shoulders, the deep chest and the muscular forearms and quietly accepted that he did not look the type to take punishment without retaliating in full measure. Her face remained expressionless, and at that moment, exquisitely oriental in composure. She leaned back to regard him calmly. ‘I wouldn’t like to see you hurt. You’re too beautiful.’
He smiled bleakly at the improbable compliment.
‘It might be worth it.’
As he gazed in fevered contemplation of where this exchange might lead he mentally observed that it probable wouldn’t be worth being beaten up just for seeing her after hours, not in Singapore at any rate. Somewhere in the back of his mind lurked the knowledge that the local natives played their protection games by a different set of rules to those envisaged by the Marquis of Queensbury. Disputes in Singapore were often settled with knives, cleavers, axes and acid sprays, and they were the gentler means of dissuasion. His memory contained vivid stories of acid and knife attacks in the crowded streets of Singapore with little mercy shown to the victims and he remembered feeling horrified by the sheer brutality and callousness of the assaults. On sober reflection perhaps seeing her after the bar closed was a risk not worth taking, but as a bargaining exercise, in the comparative safety of the hotel, the suggestion had merit.
She leaned forward to replace her glass on the table before taking his wrist to check the time shown by his wristwatch. Satisfied, she leaned back again and studied her red painted fingernails as though interested in their cosmetic excellence although she knew they were perfect.
Palmer mentally willed her to decide in his favour.
‘All right,’ she agreed after what seemed an eternity. ‘I’ll see you when we finish.’ She smiled fleetingly as though regretting her impulsive rashness.
‘I have a room here in the hotel,’ he suggested, mentally thanking the admiralty for making such a convenient arrangement.
‘Let’s go to my place,’ she demurred. ‘It’s not far. You want to bring a friend?’ She looked across at the tall Dawson-Taylor dancing somewhat incongruously with a small, but infinitely nubile Malay bargirl.
‘Not if you don’t mind,’ Palmer hastily dissented. He did not want his style cramped by the insufferable long-legged observer, nor did he want to explain why officers and men from the lower deck did not usually share the same entertainment venues, even if the present circumstances appeared to contradict whatever he might tell her. For a moment he wondered if the two singers shared a communal flat and his solo arrival would strain their settled relationship. He was about to change his mind and suggest a foursome would be acceptable when she shrugged.
‘I don’t mind. I was thinking of your friend.’ Her smile dazzled. ‘They tell me three is a crowd, anyway.’
‘That depends on the crowd I suppose,’ he conceded cautiously.
He was not unaware of the economics of making assignations with women who worked in Far East nightclubs where they often augmented modest incomes with sideline prostitution, but he was not about to question the morality of such arrangements, not this side of breakfast.
Relieved, he raised his glass to toast his first potential Oriental lay of his latest Far Eastern tour. ‘Here’s to two o’clock, and may it come soon.’
The singer acknowledged his gesture with a coy smile but did not raise her glass. ‘May I?’
Without waiting for an answer she took a cigarette from the open packet on the table and put it to her lips. Hastily, he flicked his lighter into action and held the flame to the cigarette until it glowed red in the smoky gloom.
‘Your friend seems to be enjoying himself,’ she remarked with the cigarette lit.
‘Do you know her?’ Palmer followed her gaze to where Dawson-Taylor and his partner occupied a small portion of the dance floor and moved with the assiduity of hibernating sloths.
The singer shook her head after a brief inspection. Bargirls and entertainers rarely mixed socially, she told him. Not out of choice, she added hastily, but through clashing personal interests. By the time the singers finished performing in the early hours of the morning, most bargirls were paired with willing customers for the night and that left little time for female society between staff preparing to leave work.
A few minutes later Palmer noticed the piano player trying to attract his absent singer’s attention. Nodding her acceptance of the warning, she took a hasty drink, replaced the half-empty glass on the table, stubbed her cigarette and stood up.
‘See you later, beautiful,’ she murmured, bending towards him so that he could hear her words over the band and chatter. Having delivered the message she walked away without a backward glance.
He would be waiting, he muttered to himself with a smile of self-satisfaction. Things were going better than he ever thought possible when he disembarked from the RAF transport aircraft three hours earlier. He frowned as an ungenerous thought intruded, too well perhaps? There had to be a catch, gorgeous girls like her didn’t make themselves so freely available to marauding sailors without good reason. He watched her slim gold encased form shimmy the short distance to the plinth. She was certainly beautiful, he conceded approvingly, and all female. Whatever the catch he would be willing to fall into her trap.
On the crowded dance floor Dawson-Taylor seemed to enjoy the sensuous pleasure of holding his small Malay partner close to his chest, or with more anatomical precision, pressed firmly into his pelvis. Unlike Palmer he recognised that the girl he selected to dance with him would not necessarily speak English; something more inventive like performing a few awkward shuffling dance steps in front of her and pointing to the dance floor while mouthing: ‘You - me - dance?’ was required. She might not understand the second most widely used language in the world, but she could probably interpret basic sign language.
‘Sure,’ she responded in English throwing herself into his arms with a flashing smile of acceptance. Standing upright in high heels she just about reached his breastbone and with the average Chinese or Malay being generally shorter than the average European, he, the tallest man in the room, had chosen the shortest female and it never occurred to him that Palmer might be making a fool of him, a novice to the Far East. With his mind uncluttered by such corrosive and unworthy thoughts he overcame the relative height difference by stooping his shoulders and bending his knees into an ungainly crook and in this inelegant manner the pair took to the overcrowded floor and moved sluggishly when space permitted. At other times feet shuffled in the approved floor-scratching manner sufficed.
Although pleasant Dawson-Taylor found the closeness of his female partner altogether too intimate for his physical comfort and it was not long before he became acutely aware that her soft warm body pressing into his pelvic regions was having a predictably unwelcome effect and he soon began to feel uncomfortable lest she became aware and embarrassed by the nature of his discomfiture. Whenever possible he tried to ease her to a distance more suitable for un-introduced couples, but she resisted his attempts and pressed closer making him hotter and more uncomfortably stressed. This was not the way it was done in the wardroom Ladies’ night dances, he decided unhappily. Officer’s wives never danced like that with junior officers even if they secretly desired it that way.
One stage the golden singer taking the microphone from the dusky maiden brought a pause long enough for some dancers to leave the floor and for others to take their place, a respite that gave Dawson-Taylor an opportunity to step back and ease the strain on his cramped spine and knees.
‘You speak English?’ he asked, aware that neither of them had exchanged one word of conversation since taking to the floor. By nature a communicative and loquacious person the omission was unusual.
‘Sure honey. You want woman?’
His partner looked up at him with dark earnest eyes gleaming with soft appeal.
He stared down at her for a long moment, a bemused expression crossing his face like a cloud passing over the sun on a warm English day. She uttered words heard many times in crewrooms and in wardroom bars, but he always felt cheated when admitting that he did not understand the gales of laughter that followed, hilarity that often came as the punchline to some elaborate and lengthy shaggy dog story, or to an unwholesome joke whose dubious origins he did not fully understand. The uncontrolled amusement of his fellows suggested that the comment smacked of something smutty and he never pursued an enquiry beyond a wan confused smile. No one enlightened him.
Now, as he looked into the smiling brown face below him, he felt he ought to laugh. His stifled chuckle caused the smile to disappear from the red lips and an offended scowl to cloud the once appealing eyes. The chuckle died in his throat. The joke was not half as funny in Singapore as it was in a UK wardroom.
‘You want woman?’ she repeated, tugging his shirtsleeve urgently, face blank, tenderness gone.
Confused by the changed attitude he realised there were serious shortcomings in their mutual understanding of the breadth, extant and variation of the English language.
‘I have one,’ he informed her, hoping to bring back the smile. ‘I’m dancing with her.’
‘You want woman?’ she repeated, a third time. The coy manner and half-smile returned although her eyes remained sharp, penetrating and watchful.
‘Hey! Can you speak any English?’ he demanded, increasingly concerned by her repetition of the same question.
Suddenly the smile broadened as understanding dawned. Standing on tiptoes to increase her modest height, she looked around the fast thinning dance floor until she saw someone, or something, she wanted. Dragging her confused partner by the hand she made for the edge of the floor and spoke to a willowy Malay youth in her native tongue.
The young man wearing a white open necked silk shirt exposed a gold chain and a heavy round medallion of the same metal on bare flesh. On his feet he sported expensive shark skin shoes of the same colour and between them he managed to ease into form-hugging white leather trousers that left little to the imagination of what was supposed to remain concealed. He looked every inch an effete pimp, although the classification escaped Dawson-Taylor as the young man listened to the girl’s urgent outpouring while studying his footwear with evident pride. Of the two, his footwear interest clearly absorbed most of his attention.
When she finished speaking the youth looked up at Dawson-Taylor’s considerable height with a double take as if hardly believing the evidence of his eyes.
‘Your friend say,’ he volunteered in a high pitched incantation that brought grave doubt to the efficacy of the substantial bulge in the front of his sleek white trousers. ‘You want woman. She wants $35 dollars all night; $15 dollars one time; $10 dollar economical.’ The brief translation ended as the youth turned away and returned to his casual conversation with his friends. Clearly he gained nothing financial from the information just exchanged.
Bemused by the conversation in a language he did not understand Dawson-Taylor tried to make sense of the incomprehensible message as the girl regarded him with keen smiling interest while trying to influence a decision by making herself attractive and agreeable to his wishes. The confusion in the naval officer’s mind arose from the fact that he had not expected to pay for a dance and this simple misunderstanding explained why so few bar girls were on the floor. The privilege cost money and the male clientele of the bar were clearly reluctant to prefer them when their predilection favoured their own gender so strongly. Ruefully, he wished Palmer had mentioned that before he asked his partner to dance. More to the point, before he lent Palmer most of his small stock of Malay dollars.
To hide his confusion and gain more thinking time he glanced furtively at his watch. The hands showed one-thirty in the morning and the cellar, he knew from Palmer, closed at two o’clock. That left half-an-hour, he calculated. To keep his tense partner happy he might as well pay for the time already used and add a little for what remained before the bar closed. An all night dance ticket, he reasoned shrewdly, could not be justified. Suppose he wanted to dance with someone else? He didn’t relish paying twice for such a dubious pleasure. The solution, when it occurred to him, was so blindingly obvious he wondered why it did not occur to him before.
‘How long is short time?’ he asked the youth.
Such a nice young man, and so helpful, if over-stated in his dress sense.
The girl strained forward to listen to the answer. It was now obvious that she could neither speak, nor understand, even the rudiments of the English language; except in its most basic acquisitive form.
‘How much?’ the youth repeated, puzzled by the nature of the question. His eyes sharpened suspiciously. ‘Fifteen dollars! I told you.’
‘How long?’ Dawson-Taylor corrected patiently. The youth turned his attention to the girl and grunted something in surly Malay.
‘One hour only,’ the youth interpreted her answer by slapping the inside of his elbow and raising his forearm in a spasmodic jerk that would have been recognised as an erotic gesture anywhere in the world.
Dawson-Taylor grimaced and ignored the gesture; even he recognised its ancestry. One hour was $15 dollars; a lot of money considering how little time remained.
‘Eh! How long, economical?’
Another lengthy conversational exchange followed during which all the Malays turned to look at Palmer speculatively under hooded eyes while the girl continued smiling prettily despite the devaluation of her services.
‘Twenty minutes, no more,’ the youth responded blandly. He was bored by the sterile questions and answers and wanted to continue talking to his friends.
‘OK,’ Dawson-Taylor agreed hastily to avoid the situation becoming unpleasant. The young Malays looked as though they could turn nasty and his refusal to pay something for the girl’s limited services looked likely to provide any excuses needed. ‘I agree to that.’
The conversation’s conclusion marked the start of the band’s last selection of soft and seductive music as dancers began filling the floor again.
Satisfied that honour was satisfied on all sides Dawson-Taylor took his diminutive partner and set off to circle the floor, again in his crabbed bent-kneed posture, but they scarcely completed one circuit when she wriggled free, took his hand and pulled him towards the exit. Dawson-Taylor followed, not understanding the reason for abandoning the floor so hastily, and half-resenting the loss of dancing time he had just agreed to pay for. They needed tickets, he surmised trying to keep up with her swerving progress through the dancers. Apprehensively he glanced over to where Palmer had returned to the table they recently occupied, but with his attention centred exclusively on the gold singer taking the spotlit position on the plinth he guessed Palmer was going to be no help. His absorbed concentration made him totally oblivious to the fate of his future comrade in arms.
At the exit Dawson-Taylor pulled to a halt uncertain that he should leave the cellar without letting Palmer know he was leaving, a precaution that seemed elementary prudence. This was the Far East after all and alarming things happened there.
Her progress halted, his partner looked puzzled and seeing no reasonable excuse for the delay, she tugged his arm impatiently.
‘I give you good time,’ she hissed, extending her English vocabulary to its maximum fiduciary range. She could not understand the reluctant behaviour of the tall foreigner, but was determined to have her way. She pulled harder and with a fatalistic shrug of narrow shoulders he followed her from the bar and towards the hotel lobby. There, he pulled to an adamant halt again. He would venture no further than that. Outside the hotel, in the darkness of the hot Asian night, stretched the great unknown orient with tigers, malaria inflicting insects and untold dangers waiting for thin-skinned Europeans to fall prey to their edacious enticements.
Jerked to a stop for the third time the girl burst into voluble Malay he could not understand, but wished he had no part of. Passers-by looked at the incongruous couple curiously, most with salacious grins on amused faces. They understood.
While delivering her tirade a helpful reception clerk appeared with the key to his room. At his appearance the tugging stopped to be replaced with a smile and a look of relieved delight. Everything was clear now. He was booked into the hotel and they could use his room for whatever she had in mind. Plucking the key from the receptionist’s outstretched hand she patted him appreciatively on the forearm. Her tall friend was not so stupid after all. He had been trying to tell her they had somewhere to shack up for the short duration of her fricatory services.
‘Morning tea for two?’ the receptionist asked as Dawson-Taylor once more found himself being dragged by the arm, this time towards the lift.
‘Yes,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘I expect Chief Palmer will want a cup.’ The lift doors closed on his last words leaving the reception staff smiling knowingly amongst themselves. Taking a stick of chalk the receptionist marked two against Dawson-Taylor’s room number and meticulously dusted his fingers on a cloth kept for the purpose. Life was predicable with the white folk.
At his room the girl opened the door and ran inside with boundless curiosity and delighted excitement. After looking around she flung herself on the bed to test the resilience of the springs before removing her shoes to ran to the long wardrobe mirror where she regarded her reflection with mixed curiosity, all the time chattering in rapid Malay to the mute uncomprehending figure standing in the doorway. Clearly she rarely visited the hotel’s bedrooms and revelled in the novel luxury.
Standing by the door Dawson-Taylor felt himself sinking into a hebetatic morass as the orient took over his life. He felt drawn along with no brakes he could to apply. This had nothing to do with paying for dancing time of that he was beginning to feel sure.
Slowly, almost fearfully, he followed her. His cases and personal belongings lay neatly stowed in drawers and on shelves and his blue pyjamas lay across turned down crisp white linen of the bed. The scene looked set for a night’s rest and relaxation and his fevered companion seemed intent on inviting herself to share the comforts.
For a long moment he stood in the centre of the room wondering how he could rid himself of the now unwelcome and potentially embarrassing female without causing hurt and acute embarrassment to them both. A naval officer should not entertain young ladies in bedrooms and if anyone in the Victorious wardroom discovered his predicament he would never be allowed to forget the experience.
Unperturbed by his obvious discomfiture rather more than by his confused moral ethics his diminutive companion continued to revel in the cool flow emanating from the air conditioning unit. Between whiles she opened and closed wardrobe doors to peek inside; turned on the bathroom taps to watch the water gurgle wastefully down the drain and the steam rise to condense momentarily on the mirror surface above before returning to the bedroom to gaze thoughtfully at her reflection in the tall wardrobe mirrors again.
Turning impulsively she looked at her victim for several seconds a delighted smile spreading from lips to dark eyes. He was perplexed, while she was the mistress of the situation. He had no experience of the position he found himself in; she had plenty. In fact, she had more sexual experiences in her short eighteen years of life than his local vicar’s wife would ever dream possible in several libidinous rural wife swopping circles in her home village. His only claim to sexual indulgence had been in the hesitant and hasty fondling of the small brassiered breasts of his faraway student girlfriend and in the number of erotic thoughts arising from that reckless, sterile incident. Now, his long-standing virginity seemed at serious risk as he stood rooted to the floor like a mesmerised rabbit.
Walking past him she pushed the door firmly closed and locked it with the key still grasped in her small warm hand. With his exit barred she slipped out of her clothing until she stood naked and unashamed before him, smooth body glistering in the overhead lights while her lips parted in an inviting smile. Her scheming brain plotted to relieve him of more than the $10 dollars he unwittingly agreed to pay for a job that would take five minutes and would only involve washing her hands afterwards.
Stupefied, Dawson-Taylor stared at her naked body wondering what to do about the growing sensation in his crotch.
With an extravagant gesture the dark temptress flicked off the overhead lights plunging the room into subdued gloom lit only by balcony lights shining through opaque glass shutters. In the background the humming air conditioning unit quietly continued to chill the air.
He started as small brown fingers fumbled at his waist belt and he felt his trousers drop to the floor. Moment’s later cool hands pulled him unresistingly towards the bed.
Chapter Two
Michiko
Back in the Cellar Bar, Palmer swirled melting ice cubes around the bottom of his almost empty glass. Approaching his capacity for drink made him pause before ordering a refill. The dehydration suffered during the twenty-four hour flight from Lynham had made him drink too much to relieve a deep craving for liquid. Plain cold water would have quenched his thirst better but brandy and dry ginger sat more happily with his mood. It took nine or ten glasses before the nagging pangs of thirst abated and that might be too much for his plans for the remaining night hours.
From past experience he knew too much drink made him sleepy and worse a poor bedroom performer, and that was not how he wanted to feel with the beautiful shimmering gold vision at the microphone. If he could get her into bed he wanted total control of his facilities for a long time. Above all, he wanted to remember her as the greatest lay of his life as well as the most outstandingly beautiful. Such a memory would fortify his fantasies during the many days and endless nights looming ahead of him in the months spent fighting off the Indonesian hordes with the unlikely Dawson-Taylor leading the charge into battle.
He allowed his gaze to wander for the thousandth time to the plinth and to the gold singer. Standing there, she sang not to the bar and dance floor as she had earlier on, she now sang exclusively for him. Occasionally, she smiled at him through the smoke and the ruck of the milling dancers as a reminder of their hastily arranged assignation, each time he raised his glass in mute acknowledgement.
Twenty minutes later the band began packing their equipment their stint finished until the following night. The two singers chatted by the piano for several minutes before the object of Palmer’s overheated desire joined him at his table.
‘Wait here,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll change into something more suitable. I’ll not be long.’ She smiled with a coy dip of her dark head and left to disappear through a scarcely identifiable doorway behind the piano. The other musicians had already departed leaving the plinth deserted and the magic of the evening gone.
Ten minutes drifted by on leaden feet before the singers reappeared from the same doorway, the gold dress replaced by a neat white cotton costume of more conventional length and style. The long black hair that once flowed loose was now pulled into a single thick ponytail restrained by a neat diamante clip at the nape of her neck. In new clothing the fairy tale princess looked every bit as exquisite as the dressed version in her performing outfit, but more approachable.
In contrast her companion looked less well presented and a little more jaded even allowing for the lateness of the hour; but anyone facing comparison to perfection would inevitably suffer. Perhaps sensing unspoken impatience the Malay singer did not remain long before follow the stream of departing customers.
Left alone Palmer felt elated. ‘What’s the ‘M’ for?’ he enquired pointing to a gold monogrammed letter on the white leather handbag carried over her shoulder and pressed tightly into her right hip.
‘That’s me, Michiko.’ The owner looked down at the monogram as if verifying that it still adorned her bag. She took Palmer’s arm as they moved towards the same door where Dawson-Taylor had suffered his severe misgivings earlier. ‘Michiko is as close as the Malay version can be anglicised,’ she added helpfully. ‘I believe it has Japanese origins.’