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‘Feed the body food and drink, it will survive the day,
Feed the soul art and music, it will live forever.’
As already mentioned, I fell in love with the Rodgers and Hammerstein’s film ‘The Sound of Music’ from the moment I saw it, at the impressionable age of five. I remember sitting in the darkened auditorium, asking my father whether it was really possible to sing so loudly on a public bus when one is trying to find confidence and reassurance. I remember my mother saying this was the way I should wear my hair, as it was short and practical for the humid Hong Kong weather. I remember in the film watching Maria sitting on a pinecone as she joined the Von Trapp family for her first evening meal. I was so confused; I had never seen a pinecone before and could not, for the life of me, fathom out what the little creature was that rolled on Maria’s seat and caused such a stir at the dinner table. The grandeur of the Captain’s home was something I could only realise in my dreams. It took my breath away, and I gasped with the audience. We could only afford to see the film once on its first general release, but the soundtrack played over and over again on our old gramophone player. My sister clearly identified with the children. She happily sang Liesl’s part in ‘I am sixteen going on seventeen,’ and ‘Edelweiss’ and Gretl’s part in ‘So Long, Farewell’. But for me, I only ever sang Maria’s part – and I loved it. I loved the music, the songs, the scenery, the storyline, and most of all, Julie Andrews’ portrayal of Maria von Trapp. For me, it was the most magical film. It was the first time anything had touched my soul.
At the age of 12, over the Chinese New Year break and with a few days off from school, I was able to enjoy a new television series called ‘The Julie Andrews Hour’. It was a revelation to watch the woman who had been the Maria of my childhood fantasies singing and dancing as herself. I discovered to my joy that a copy of an unauthorised biography was held at the main City Hall library. I borrowed it, and kept renewing it continuously until I finally obtained my own copy, many years later, from the rare books department of Hatchards in Piccadilly, London. Its ‘rarity’ made it all the more precious. I was fascinated by the interplay of her public persona and private life, the fickleness of the general public’s adulation, the power of the media and the phenomenal talent of Julie Andrews.
As I was walking up Battery Path on the way to choir practice one evening, the cover of MacCalls, a glossy imported American magazine, caught my eye. It bore a picture of Julie Andrews, and I knew I had to have it. In those days I was given regular pocket money – a grand total of four Hong Kong dollars a month. The exchange rate was something like sixteen dollars to a British pound. The magazine cost almost eight dollars, but because I did not have enough money, the newsagent kindly agreed to keep a copy aside for me until I did. I saved my pocket money for two months, and the magazine was the first tangible thing I ever bought for myself. The cover was scratched and a little torn when I got it, but I still have it, tucked away amongst my collection of memorabilia.
Music became a big part of my childhood, and remains so. My favourite teacher at primary school, Mrs Edwards, gave the most enjoyable music lessons. At school assemblies, she taught us many lovely hymns such as ‘Morning has broken’, ‘All things bright and beautiful’ and ‘Hills of the north rejoice’. I still find myself humming and singing hymns when I’m driving or doing housework, much to my children’s annoyance! Mrs Edwards also led the school choir through many school festivals and competitions, as we sang our way to first place on most occasions. One year, she asked me to sing a solo for the school’s nativity play. I remember almost every detail of that performance, the school hall filled with expectant parents anxious to see their child, chosen to perform on stage. I remember the calmness I felt before the performance, and the chatter of the audience on the other side of the curtains. I can still see and hear Mrs Edwards, sitting at her piano at the side of the stage, accompanying me as I sang to my little doll of the infant Jesus. I can feel the hand of my classmate, Adrian, who played Joseph, as he touched my shoulder whilst I sang. Everything came together, and it was magical.
Mrs Edwards tutored me in breathing technique when she entered me for a solo singing competition. I remember the song, and her tremendous encouragement.
‘Have you seen the cobwebs on a misty, misty morn?
Spun upon the hedges of a leafy, leafy lane.
Gleaming bright with silver light, the mirrors of the dawn,
Touched by every tiny drop of rain.’
Soon after leaving primary school I joined the Cathedral Choir, rehearsing every Friday evening and singing at two services on a Sunday morning, with the occasional wedding or funeral on a Saturday afternoon. Marriages for officers in the British Hong Kong Garrison usually meant a service with full honours. Royal visits to Hong Kong almost always included a stop at the Cathedral, and a full choir was expected. I have so many fond memories of my years there: singing my favourite anthem, Stanford’s Te Deum in B Flat; the annual procession for Remembrance Sunday, not only in the Cathedral but to and around the Cenotaph in Statue Square; the Christmas invitation to the Governor’s House where we sang for him and his guests before indulging in a wonderful selection of mince pies, hors d’oeuvres and drinks. The residence was a short walk from the Cathedral, but carrying the heavy lantern became a memorable challenge. The occasion I remember most of all was the special service to mark the Queen’s Silver Jubilee in 1977. The guest of honour was Princess Alexandra, with her husband, Angus Ogilvy. We rehearsed for weeks leading up to the service, with trumpets and a military band joining us just days before. Naturally the Cathedral was packed with the elite of Hong Kong society, but as the choir we had pride of place. I was so excited at seeing my first ever Royal Princess and walking past her, just a few feet away, as I processed down the nave. I was blown away on hearing the military band play Walton’s ‘Crown Imperial’ for the first time, and their majestic introduction to the National Anthem.
Dance also played an important part in my life. At the age of about seven or eight, my parents enrolled my sister and me for ballet classes. Initially on a Saturday afternoon at the City Hall dance studios, it soon moved across the harbour to Star House in Tsim Sha Shui. My grandmother offered to accompany us on the journey, as it took a good hour with the two -mile walk from our home to the ferry concourse, as well as the short Star Ferry ride across the waters. She socialised with the other adults sitting silently on the bench at one side of the studio, and enjoyed watching us dancing, often losing herself in the music. In fact, whenever we practised at the piano at home, it was my grandmother who would put down her kitchen towel or apron for a few moments to come into the living room to hear us play. After my grandmother’s death, I discovered that she had been sold to her ‘foster’ family, at the age of seven, after her own mother had died. This family owned a business making musical instruments. I’d like to think that in some small way, my daily practice on the piano spoke to her in ways I never could.
I was lucky enough to be chosen for a few dance roles on television well before my teens, although I never got to see any of them, apart from a brief excerpt when staff in the watch shop below our flat saw it screened and shouted out to us from the back courtyard. On one occasion a small group of us danced through the opening credits of a Mandarin film; I remember dancing in a red frock through artificial snowflakes and having to do numerous takes. We were in the film studio for the whole day, just for that one scene, and I did enjoy watching the film crew and sharing in a hot lunch on set. My Seventh Aunt saw the film in New York quite by chance. She had recently emigrated to the United States, and was so excited when she recognised us that she wrote to my grandmother about it. Again it was a film we never saw, and I don’t even know its title.
When we were old enough my teacher suggested my sister and I should join the Hong Kong Ballet. I am so glad we did, because shortly after, its patron, Dame Margot Fonteyn, came over to Hong Kong. She was the epitome of the Royal Ballet and its most famous classical ballet dancer, and of course her partnership with Nureyev was legendary. Much was made of her early connection with China, and with a ballet school in Hong Kong near the lower Peak Tram station, as well as her devotion to her quadriplegic husband following an unsuccessful assassination attempt on his life by a rival Panamanian politician. Dame Margot was to perform at the City Hall, I think, but in amongst her busy schedule she had agreed to attend a tea party the Hong Kong Ballet were hosting in her honour. My sister and I were on the selected guest list and I still have a newspaper cutting from that special afternoon. I remember being struck by her petiteness, seeing her small frame as she graced us with her presence; that broad elegant smile, those eyes and her gentle touch on my shoulder. She stopped by our table and spoke to us all individually. I asked her if she ever thought about teaching dance, but she replied she did not feel she would have the patience it required. Dame Margot invited our table of young dancers to join her at rehearsals the next day, to watch the company before the evening performance. I kick myself now, but at the time I was firmly convinced my parents would never agree to let me skip school for such a frivolous and non-academic pursuit, so I never asked them and they never knew.
We did have tickets to a performance, and watching Dame Margot dance on stage was the best education a ballerina could have. I learnt more about poise, grace and technique in watching that one performance than I did in a whole year at dance class. Her skills and flair and sheer brilliance outshone the other dancers on stage with her. It is sad to know that she died so alone, and with such little ceremony and recognition.
‘I never had my feet bound,’ my grandmother told me when I was a child. ‘It was out of fashion by then. But I can remember my foster mother did. I told her once they smelt like dead mice. I unbound them for her, slowly, a little at a time. My mother had taught me; she had bound feet. Such tiny feet. She could hardly walk, let alone go down the stairs on them. It was tragic. She died when I was seven, maybe eight. She was so young, only thirty-one. That was when I had to cook for everyone – all by myself. And my father, he was an official in the Manchu government. Cheung Zui Zhu was his name. He was a scholar; an excellent calligrapher with a fine brush stroke. You know, he was an official in the Chinese Court of Justice and earned a good income. He had one of those long pigtails at the back, like you sometimes see on television. It was considered treason if a man didn’t have one. I can remember the day when all the men cut their tails off. Their queues. But my father was killed in Peking, when I was two years old.
‘No mother and no father. His youngest brother wanted to sell my mother and us two girls, as slaves. So we ran away. We had nothing, just ourselves, but we ran. We were very poor. I have been dead three times, you know. Taken for dead. Thrown away with the rubbish. My mother threw me away. But a woman picked me up, and three times gave me life. I tried to find her again, when I was first married. I went back to her village to look for her, but she had died in the floods.’