Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [95]
1 Advance of atrocious enemy.
2 Cannon fires.
3 Miss Olive Kennedy-Walsh, BA (Pass Arts), H Dip Ed, TCD will hurtle through air towards advancing disagreeable aggressor.
4 Treacherous aggressor smashed. (Mgt not responsible.)
5 Voluntary contributions to China Heroic War Effort gratefully received.
6 God sake King.
7 End.
8 Please to exit. Thank you for custom.
Paper model supplied courtesy Chou & Son, Undertaker and Funeral Preparation. All Religions catered for. Sago Lane, Singapore.
‘End as you wish you had begun.’
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Monty to Matthew, who had remarked on the excellence of the imitation armoured-car. ‘You should see the Cadillacs and houses and ocean liners and whatnot they make for rich towkays to take away with them to the next world. It’s a skilled profession. The Chinese can be pretty simple-minded,’ he added with a sneer.
‘Where are those suh … suh … suh … sisters? This is a duh … hm … liberate swindle, don’t you think so, Monty?’
But a pink-faced young planter nearby, overhearing Sinclair’s complaint, assured him that the Da Sousa Sisters had already made their appearance. They had sung a number of songs, including ‘Chocolate Soldier’ and, of course, their signature tune: ‘Halloa! halloa! halloa!’ He doubted whether they would appear again that evening.
‘Just our luck,’ grumbled Monty.
‘I don’t think Jim will ever find us,’ Matthew was saying, but at that moment he saw Ehrendorf shouldering his way into the enclosure. Meanwhile, a portable gramophone was being vigorously wound by one of the stage-hands. Another Chinese in a white dinner-jacket took the microphone. ‘Just in time,’ said Ehrendorf cheerfully. ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.’ Joan was sitting at the end of the row and he sat down next to her. But she stood up immediately, saying to Monty and Sinclair: ‘Move along. I want to sit next to Matthew.’ With some confusion, because the gap between the rows of seats was narrow, she struggled to the place which opened up between Sinclair and Matthew. Ehrendorf flushed and stared grimly down at the arena.
Now the star of the performance, Miss Kennedy-Walsh, was being announced: she was a strongly built woman in her thirties, dressed from head to foot in an aviator’s suit of white silk which perfectly modelled her impressive figure: the audience murmured in appreciation of her well-formed thighs, her generous breasts, her strong jaw and pink face.
‘Will she ever squeeze down the barrel?’ joked Ehrendorf tensely.
‘Big ah blests number one!’ remarked a smartly dressed young Chinese beside Matthew giving the thumbs-up sign. Matthew had already noticed by the pin-ups displayed at the ‘virility’ stall how the Chinese seemed to admire big-bosomed women.
Miss Kennedy-Walsh, indeed, was not finding it easy to insert herself in the barrel. Her splendid thighs she fitted in with comparative ease; somehow, aided by the slippery material of her suit, she also managed to cram her hips into the muzzle. But her breasts remained obstinately stuck on the rim and with her arms pinned to her sides she was helpless. Stuck! Her face flushed with irritation. A murmur of concern arose from the audience. ‘Glory be to God, will ye give us a shove, y’lazy gombeens!’
A hasty conference of the Chinese organizers was already taking place. They scratched their heads and stared at Miss Kennedy-Walsh’s too ample bosom and then they stared at the cannon and scratched their heads again. The master of ceremonies put his hands on her shoulders and shoved politely, but that did not help. If anything it made things worse. Miss Kennedy-Walsh slipped down a few inches but her bosom remained on the rim and her face grew redder.
‘Will we be stayin’ here all the night or what?’ she demanded furiously. Her mouth could be seen working but her further comments were drowned by the martial music which suddenly started up. Matthew,