Read The Rose of Singapore for Free Online Page B

Astonished, she asked in Cantonese, “You speak Chinese?”
    Peter chuckled. “A little,” he said, again in Chinese.
    â€œWhere did you learn Chinese?” she asked.
    â€œHere and in Hong Kong, and mostly in the kitchens where I work. In the kitchens many of the workers speak no English, so I learn Chinese and speak to them in Chinese. And I can write a few Chinese characters, too,” Peter boasted. Eagerly he bent forward and with his index finger drew a short horizontal line in the wet sand. “Yat,” he said, “One.” Then he drew two horizontal lines, “Yee, two,” He followed by writing in the sand all the characters up to ten, reading them in Cantonese as he wrote them. “I can write up to a thousand,” he bragged. “And look, I can speak and write ‘one cup of tea,’” This he also did in Chinese. “I can speak and write several other kitchen terms in Chinese,” he said.
    â€œYou are a very clever boy,” said the girl in a surprised and delighted voice.
    â€œAnd look!” said Peter laughing. “See if you can read this.” Carefully, and with considerable thought, he moved his index finger through the wet sand until he was satisfied at the characters he had drawn. “Well?” he asked.
    The girl studied the characters. She was not sure, but she thought she knew and she began to giggle.
    â€œIt means,” said Peter seriously, “There’s a fly in my soup.”
    Clapping her hands in delight, the girl exclaimed, “Oh, you are so funny. The kitchen boys teach you all these things?”
    Returning to English, Peter said, “Well, not only the kitchen boys but also the cooks and waiters. There is one kitchen boy that I especially like who teaches me Chinese. He’s the one I fight with.”
    â€œFight with?” asked the girl, perplexed.
    â€œYes. He’s called ‘Chuff Box.’ That’s his nickname. We fight often. He’s smaller than me, but he always wins. He’s teaching me to fight Chinese style. Really, though, we are very good friends.” And then he said with a grin on his face, “Perhaps you and I could teach each other something,” followed by, “Please, won’t you tell me your name?”
    Amazed by him, she looked into his enquiring face, a little boy’s face full of kindness and innocence, she thought, and she suddenly thought of her late husband. He had been just like this boy when they had first met. There were the same characteristics, the same show of caring, the same qualities, the same youthfulness. Her late husband was not European, he was Chinese, yet she could not help but see a likeness. Perhaps it was just her imagination, she thought. “Why?” she asked Peter. “Why you want know my name?”
    Imitating her voice, Peter mimicked, “Why you want know my name?” Then he answered her question quietly and affectionately. “It’s because I like you,” he replied. “I like to be with you.” And at that moment he felt something towards her he had never experienced before with a woman. Without knowing it, he was falling in love.

4
    Chan Lai Ming was her Chinese name, but she was also called Rose. Living in a British colony, many Singapore Chinese adopted an English name.
    â€œLai Ming is a lovely name, and you’re lovely, too,” said Peter. “But I shall call you Rose. It’s such a pretty name,” and he gave a little laugh, saying, “it’s easy for me to remember.”
    She smiled. “My friends are Ah Ling and Susy Wee,” she said. “Susy is my very special friend. She is soon to be married to a business man who owns a beauty parlour close to the Cathay cinema.” Then she asked, “Do you come here often?”
    â€œAlmost every day,” replied Peter.
    â€œTo look for girls?” she asked, looking up into his face and smiling