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We had two framed photographs on display in our flat in Sheung Wan District. One was a large black and white portrait of my grandfather. It is the only existing picture we have of him and for as long as I can remember, it took pride of place in our home. The other was a postcard-sized black and white photo of the man I was named after, meeting the Queen of the British Empire. I don’t know much about my great-godfather, but he was known as JJ. I am told that for a short while we lived with him in his spacious flat near Stanley. He must have left Hong Kong soon after, and died back in Britain when I was six years old. I remember my father being very upset, and the agony he went through deciding what to do with the organ that was bequeathed to him in his godfather’s will. In the end he sold it, but he had the trunk of sheet music and books shipped over.
JJ was the British Council representative in Rangoon, Burma, and the choirmaster there. His posting to Hong Kong in the late 1950s, and my father following in his footsteps, resulted in my parents meeting. My mother was working in the British Council as a secretary, with a speedy shorthand she constantly practised at home and efficient office administration skills. When I visited Britain in the summer of 1978 I had the opportunity of being the house guest for a few days of JJ’s sister, a lady we called Aunty Dock. Already 80, she was a very active and social lady, who wore bright colours and took pride in her appearance. I was fascinated by her makeup and hair, and her circle of friends. She drove me around the local area sightseeing and took me to a number of social events during my stay. She didn’t tell me much about her brother, but did mention her son, who was or had been Dean of the medical school in Manchester, I can’t quite remember now.
However, it was obvious she was particularly proud of the achievements of her young grandson, Richard Branson, from her daughter Eve. Richard apparently set up his first business venture at the age of 16, and is best known now as an entrepreneur and the founder of the Virgin Group. Aunty Dock had a small collection of newspaper cuttings and memorabilia which she shared with me. It was in the early days of Virgin records, the chain of stores he opened in the early 1970s, with the release of ‘Tubular Bells’ on the Virgin Record label. When subsequently I stayed with distant relatives in Croydon, I made a point of visiting the local Virgin record store. Aunty Dock also came to our wedding reception in London, and quite by chance, it was at the same establishment where she and her husband had celebrated their marriage.
JJ was also the organist and choirmaster at St John’s Cathedral, one of the oldest buildings in Hong Kong. In fact, it is probably one of the few that have survived Hong Kong’s entire colonial history intact. It was built to cater primarily for the needs of a non-Chinese, mainly British community and a large military garrison. When I returned decades later, after the handover of the colony back to China, I was somewhat impressed and reassured to find it offered weekly services in Mandarin. The cathedral marked the half way point for me when I walked home from school each day. Its colourful stained glass east window is etched in my mind; a memorial to those who endured and gave their lives during the Japanese Occupation of Hong Kong, the original having been destroyed during the war. It is the first sight one sees on entering the west door, the main entrance from where the choir began the weekly processional hymn.
Each Sunday morning, my sister and I would walk all the way from home, allowing enough time to cool down and put on our choir robes before the Sung Eucharist at nine o’clock. The walk involved a steep climb up Battery Path, lined with lush trees and ferns. Often we stopped by a hawker, squatting with his basket of bamboo leaves. He created the most amazing grasshoppers from the thin blades of green. We couldn’t afford to buy one, but I do remember owning one as a treat, and the disappointment I felt when it eventually dried and lost its form and appeal.
As the calm oasis of greenery and tower of the Cathedral came into sight, so would a group of female beggars dressed in black ‘sam fu’, some with empty tins and others with outstretched palms. Beggars were a common sight, especially on the pavements in Central District, near shops and the Star Ferry. At times it felt like a contest for who could display the most disabling condition worthy of monetary donation; there were men with open wounds and amputations lying on sheets of newspaper, and others hobbling or crawling along the streets hitting their begging tins on the ground. The able-bodied ones pursued passers-by, pestering them to give. I remember the exposé in the news about how much some of them earned and how after a day’s begging they would return to their air-conditioned flats and television sets. We were taught never to give money to them. But one birthday, I was given a wallet, which in my eyes could have passed for crocodile-skin had it not been for its shiny, red plastic. However, because it is a bad omen to give an empty wallet or purse as a gift, my parents had put in a range of coinage as well as a low denomination banknote. I felt so plush, and so privileged. I walked to church that Sunday morning with my wallet in my Burmese hand-woven shan bag, bursting to share my joy and good fortune with the world. I spotted an elderly woman begging, and promptly fished out my wallet to give her a coin. Before I knew it, a group of them had converged on me and soon all my coins had gone, even the one I had set aside for the church collection. They muttered and flapped their hands dismissively when I said I had no more to give.
My secondary school was housed in the former British Military Hospital, built in 1907 upon a hill in the mid-levels.
It was an attractive red brick Edwardian building with arched verandas and balconies overlooking the harbour. It opened as a school in 1967, to provide children of expatriates living in Hong Kong with the same educational curriculum as the British system. Most graduates went on to university education back in the United Kingdom. As a second language we learnt French; Mandarin or Cantonese was not an option at the time. In the early years, we studied the history and geography of Britain. We had long academic terms and an even longer summer break, allowing our teachers a good two months to travel back home and escape the height of the heat, humidity and typhoon season. Many of my friends socialised after school, or played cricket, hockey and rugby. In the evenings and at weekends they frequented country clubs and establishments where we never got a look in. I barely knew they existed until when one year, whilst at primary school, I got an invitation to a pool party at the Ladies’ Recreational Club, to celebrate a classmate’s birthday.
When I left the strictness of my last primary school year, where the onus was on discipline and academic achievement with weekly tests and desks re-arranged to reflect one’s results, I met a teacher who would in the years to follow, become a lifelong mentor and personal friend. She was an American teacher of English language and English literature. Instead of concentrating on grammar and academic abilities, she was more interested in what each of us had to say. In that first year of secondary school, how we said it was less important. It was a complete shock to the system, and it left me very confused. She rarely used set pieces from text books and was creative and unconventional in manner and approach. Homework would consist of analysing the lyrics to popular songs played on the radio. This posed a problem for me, because apart from typhoon bulletins we never listened to the radio at home. I resorted to asking my choir friends, who were all much older than me, for words to their favourite songs, such as Paul Simon’s ‘I am a rock’ and James Taylor’s ‘You’ve got a friend’. She allowed us to sit where we liked in the classroom, even on our desks and on top of lockers. She asked our opinion and encouraged debate, proposing the most absurd statements and allowing my classmates to express themselves in language I found totally inappropriate and unacceptable for eleven and twelve-year-olds. I hardly said a thing. I hardly asked a question. I was trying to understand this whole new world, and where I fitted in, whilst not putting this teacher in the position where she would lose face if I asked something she could not answer adequately.
For the first time, I also had male teachers. My mathematics teacher in that first year was quick to throw the blackboard duster at us if we were not paying attention; he also took to flicking pieces of chalk at students, and never missed. I was terrified about what would happen when I couldn’t complete my homework, having chosen probably the most complex 3D model to construct out of paper. My parents wrote him a note to explain, and I was literally trembling when I gave it to him. It turned out he was very impressed by my ambition and perseverance, and I never had any problems with him after that.
I liked a challenge. I was never one to take the easy path. I liked taking things apart to see how they worked, and then putting them back together again. My construction kit, in its red box complete with a little black hammer, gave me hours of play as a young child. When we had a choice at school, between domestic science and metalwork, I chose the latter and enjoyed soldering and hammering with the boys to create my copper ashtray which I later polished and presented to my father. I did enjoy the cookery classes though, and taking back to the family baked treats and puddings we never made at home.
In secondary school we were all encouraged to learn a new musical instrument, so I decided on the trombone. I was able to have one on loan from the music department, but it was so heavy to carry to and from school each week that I gave up after one term.
All the girls had to play netball and hockey. I wasn’t very good at either but preferred hockey, mainly because I liked the feel of my hockey stick, especially its weight. I thought it would come in handy as a useful weapon if ever I was to be attacked or had to make a quick getaway. That wasn’t very realistic as I didn’t have it with me all the time, but it was a reassuring thought.
In spite of the heat and humidity I enjoyed the walk home from school, particularly as the route between school and the cathedral was away from the frantic bustle of the city, and afforded some peace and shade under the banyan trees. Their wood has no practical use, but the tree spirit lives in Chinese culture and often, amidst their magnificent roots, would be a small shrine. I have vivid memories of a Chinese film about an elderly woman who at the end of the story is absorbed into the tree trunk, thus confirming her magical powers to be those of the tree spirit.
My journey took me along Bowen Road, and at times I would make a two-mile detour, backtracking along a narrow mountain trail, to Amah’s Rock, (now known as Lover’s Rock), a granite standing stone 9 meters tall and overlooking a cliff. It is believed to be the home of the God of Love, and is frequented by young couples. Around Maiden Festival, women made offerings of roast chicken, suckling pig, oranges and joss sticks, praying for eligible husbands, faithful partners or fertility. I often felt a little disappointed if I made the extra effort to climb up close to the boulder, because to me it looked much more impressive from the ground. On a Friday, my arrival at the Cathedral would allow me an hour to start my weekend homework in the coolness of the cathedral library or reading room, before choir practice began. It was preceded by a simple spread of dainty sandwiches and pots of English tea, taken with milk. On other days, I continued down Battery Path and into Central District, filled with noise and traffic and people. However, it didn’t have the frenetic, kaleidoscopic feel it does today. Traffic police, uniformed, gloved and standing in their isolated pagoda-like pedestals in the middle of the road, directed drivers and pedestrians alike.