Authors: Martin Booth
Golden Boy (7 page)
They wore small, domed rattan hats with numbers painted in scarlet on them: it was from these I learnt to count and read
numbers in Cantonese â
yat, yee, sam, sei, ng, lok
â and the coolies were called by their number. Of the half dozen who lingered near the hotel, I always chose number 3, hailing him by shouting, âAh Sam!' I never knew his real name.
numbers in Cantonese â
yat, yee, sam, sei, ng, lok
â and the coolies were called by their number. Of the half dozen who lingered near the hotel, I always chose number 3, hailing him by shouting, âAh Sam!' I never knew his real name.
What really fascinated me about him were his legs. First, he was barefoot, the slap of his soles on the road as distinct as the sound of a shod horse. In the hot weather, this was accompanied by the suck of warm tar as he took the next step. Every varicose vein stood out, the sinews like cables, his calf muscles huge and powerful. One day, I witnessed an altercation between Ah Sam and a taxi driver. With one kick, the coolie stove in the taxi door, deforming the panelling and frame to such an extent the door would not close.
In a letter to her mother, my mother wrote,
Ken gone to Japan. Lonely.
She was also anxious, even though she knew my father was not going into the actual line of fire. To counteract her solitude, if not her apprehension, she turned to me and I found myself exploring Kowloon with her.
Ken gone to Japan. Lonely.
She was also anxious, even though she knew my father was not going into the actual line of fire. To counteract her solitude, if not her apprehension, she turned to me and I found myself exploring Kowloon with her.
We started after school one afternoon by going to the Peninsula Hotel for tea. Known locally as the Pen, the hotel was considered one of the best in the world. We sat in the grandiloquent entrance lobby, surrounded by gilded pillars and serenaded by a string quartet. Silver pots of Indian, Earl Grey or jasmine tea, cradling over methylated spirit lamps, were served with wafer-thin sandwiches and delicate little cakes. The bread and butter came with four different jams. My mother was in seventh heaven. To her, this was a film star's existence. When the bill was discreetly presented, she blanched.
âMartin, go outside and wait round the back of the hotel. I'll be out in a moment,' she said abruptly.
âWhere are you going?' I enquired.
âFor a pee,' she replied.
I did as I was told. Five minutes later, my mother appeared, walking briskly along the street. Taking hold of my hand as if I were a baton in a relay race, she headed for the nearest bus stop.
Yet my mother was a woman of honour. Returning the following afternoon, she made straight for the head waiter's desk. Holding out the previous day's bill and payment, she blushingly explained the situation. He consulted the
maître d'hôtel.
I am sure my mother was anticipating the view from the nearest police lock-up. The
maître d'hôtel,
a Frenchman, stepped over and said, âMadame, these accidents may happen.' He closed her fingers over the bill and money in her hand. âPlease, be our guest for tea for yourself and your son this afternoon.'
maître d'hôtel.
I am sure my mother was anticipating the view from the nearest police lock-up. The
maître d'hôtel,
a Frenchman, stepped over and said, âMadame, these accidents may happen.' He closed her fingers over the bill and money in her hand. âPlease, be our guest for tea for yourself and your son this afternoon.'
And we gained more than four free teas from this escapade.
Leaving the Pen, my mother made her way down Hankow Road, one of a grid of back streets, window-shopping the jewellers' shops. She paused outside the Hing Loon Curio and Jewellery Company. In the window was something that caught her eye and we entered. Thereupon began a friendship that was to last decades.
The interior of the shop was like a treasure cave. Heavy Chinese furniture stood piled piece on piece to the ceiling, layers of cardboard protecting them from marking each other. Glass cabinets contained cloisonne trinkets, ebony carvings, ivory figures and beads, trays of gold rings set with multicoloured stones, displays of unmounted gems, gold chains, pendants and brooches. One display case was filled with netsuke, another with jade miniatures and Chinese snuff bottles, Siamese silver and enamel fingernail covers and models of junks.
The proprietor, Mr Chan, approached my mother, smiling. âYou like a drink? Very hot today. You like a Coke, Green Spot, San Mig.?'
My mother, not knowing one from the other and feeling
it impolite not to accept such a kind invitation, went for a San Mig. At this, Mr Chan poured her an ice-cold beer. I, being adventurous, asked for a Green Spot and was passed a bottle of sickly orange juice.
it impolite not to accept such a kind invitation, went for a San Mig. At this, Mr Chan poured her an ice-cold beer. I, being adventurous, asked for a Green Spot and was passed a bottle of sickly orange juice.
Whilst well intentioned, the drink was of course a means of keeping a would-be customer in the shop. For twenty minutes, we sat on leather-topped stools in front of a glass-topped counter. My mother bought a curio or two to send âhome', which meant Britain. When she was done, Mr Chan asked me, âWhat year you born?'
âNineteen forty-four,' I replied.
âWhat mumf?'
âSeptember.'
âYou
mahlo
.'
mahlo
.'
From a jam-packed cabinet behind him, he produced a small, crudely carved ivory monkey.
âFor you,' he said, handing it to me. âI see you again.'
Mr Chan was to be my mother's jeweller for the rest of his life and his two sons thereafter until the end of her life. She never bought a single item of jewellery from any other Hong Kong shop, declaring to all who would listen that Mr Chan was the only man of his trade who had not once attempted to swizzle her. For years, she directed friends, acquaintances, visitors and even tourist strangers who accosted her for directions in the street to his shop â âJust mention my name â Joyce Booth â and you'll not be done,' she would tell them.
It was not long before my mother acquired a social life. The wives of my father's colleagues began to invite her out during the day, and to dinner or cocktail parties in the evenings. When this social whirl began in earnest, she delegated the job of seeing me safely to and from school to one of the hotel room boys. Tall for a Chinese, he was handsome, in his late twenties and spoke English
without the usual Cantonese accent or pronunciation. His full name was Leung Chi-ching, but we called him Ching. In a very short time, I came to love this man as if he were a favourite uncle. Every morning, he guided me across the traffic on Waterloo Road, Chinese-style. This meant crossing to the central white line and lingering there as vehicles zipped by on either side, waiting for a gap in the traffic to complete the journey to the far pavement. He insisted on carrying my rattan school case â an oblong sort of picnic hamper-cum-briefcase known as a Hong Kong basket â containing my books and some sandwiches wrapped in translucent greaseproof paper. Some of my fellow pupils were taken to school by an amah; some came by car. I stood out, accompanied by this imposing but obviously gentle man who acted like a bodyguard.
without the usual Cantonese accent or pronunciation. His full name was Leung Chi-ching, but we called him Ching. In a very short time, I came to love this man as if he were a favourite uncle. Every morning, he guided me across the traffic on Waterloo Road, Chinese-style. This meant crossing to the central white line and lingering there as vehicles zipped by on either side, waiting for a gap in the traffic to complete the journey to the far pavement. He insisted on carrying my rattan school case â an oblong sort of picnic hamper-cum-briefcase known as a Hong Kong basket â containing my books and some sandwiches wrapped in translucent greaseproof paper. Some of my fellow pupils were taken to school by an amah; some came by car. I stood out, accompanied by this imposing but obviously gentle man who acted like a bodyguard.
One day, I asked Ching where he lived. He was reluctant to inform me. However, he embarked upon his life story, which he told me over the next few days, walking back slowly from school with the warm, late-afternoon sun in our faces, little eddies of wind lifting miniature dust tornadoes off the road surface.
His father had been a wealthy landlord in Kwangtung province, not far from Canton. I asked how he came to speak such good English if he had lived in China. He replied that his father had been rich enough to send him to a Christian missionary school.
âIt was a very good school. The brothers were trained teachers, men of learning. I was taught by them, not only English but mathematics, geography, history. One, a Chinese brother, also taught Cantonese and Mandarin. Then, one day when I was eight years old, there was much fighting. People were shot in the street and the paddyfields. It was Japanese fighting Chinese. Then, when I was seventeen years old, there was more fighting. This time, it was Communist Chinese fighting Kuomintang Chinese.'
âWhat are Kuoâ' I began.
âNationalist Chinese,' Ching explained. âThe army of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek.'
âWhat happened?' I asked.
âThey lost,' Ching said candidly. âThen the Communist soldiers came, and the officers, and they took away my father's land and our house. Our belongings were taken, our farm animals killed. My father had a motor car. They burnt it. We had horses to ride. They shot them.'
âWere the horses ill?' I enquired. I knew sick horses were shot: I had stayed for a holiday on a farm in Devon the year before when a dray horse broke its leg and was put down.
âNo.' Ching shook his head. âThey just shot them.'
It seemed incomprehensible that anyone would deliberately set fire to a car and barbaric that they should shoot a perfectly healthy horse.
âWhat happened to you?'
âWe were told to go, so we went. If we had not they would have killed us. They killed our friends who refused to go. I came to Hong Kong.'
âIf your father is so rich,' I ventured as we waited to cross at a busy junction, âwhy do you work as a hotel room boy?'
âI have no money,' Ching answered. There was no regret in his voice. âAll I have are my clothes. When the Communists drove us away, we could only take what we could carry.' We crossed the road and started walking slowly along the pavement towards the hotel. âThere are many, many people like me in Hong Kong.' Ahead of us, the Fourseas Hotel transport, a cream-painted, American shooting brake with varnished wooden bars on the side, drove out of the hotel garage and across both lanes. âYou see Mickey, the hotel driver?' Ching asked. âHe is one who escaped from the Communists. At least half the room boys have
escaped from China. Some with their families, some, like me, alone.'
escaped from China. Some with their families, some, like me, alone.'
I felt a terrible sadness for Ching and took hold of his hand.
âYou've got me and my mum,' I said comfortingly.
I never discovered where Ching laid his head, but I found where others did. A week or so later, my mother was invited out to a dinner party on Hong Kong-side.
It was already dark before she left in the Studebaker shooting brake for the Star Ferry to cross the harbour to Hong Kong island. I waited a respectable time, got dressed and walked out of the hotel tradesmen's door, a steel gate that gave on to a street called Emma Avenue. I turned left and headed for Soares Avenue, a fairly busy thoroughfare used by traffic taking a short cut to the next main road, Argyle Street.
At the time I was not to know it, but these streets were to be my patch, my playground, and I was to become as well-known in them as any of the shopkeepers.
The streets were warm, the air heavy with the unfamiliar scents of exotic food cooking in the tenements. Traffic fumes fought to suppress these smells but failed. Above the sound of passing cars was a trill of argumentative birdsong from the trees. Finches in bamboo cages, hung outside the tenement windows for an evening airing, joining in the conference with their free-living brethren.
Walking along the streets was mildly hazardous. First, one was periodically peppered with bird seed and desiccated droppings as a finch had a scratch-about in the bottom of its cage three floors above. Second, one was dripped on from laundry hanging out to dry over the street on bamboo poles. Third, and less benign, was the fact that one could be hit by a chicken bone or other detritus from a completed meal. This I found curiously incongruous. The Chinese were a fastidious race and yet here they were throwing
their garbage out of the window and into the street. Without looking first. From some way up. When I passed my thoughts on to Ching, he explained that it was habit: in China, one threw waste food into the street and the local pigs or dogs ate it. That there were no pigs wandering the streets of Kowloon seemed immaterial to the residents. At least there were pi-dogs â stray mongrels â although none of them looked porcinely overfed.
their garbage out of the window and into the street. Without looking first. From some way up. When I passed my thoughts on to Ching, he explained that it was habit: in China, one threw waste food into the street and the local pigs or dogs ate it. That there were no pigs wandering the streets of Kowloon seemed immaterial to the residents. At least there were pi-dogs â stray mongrels â although none of them looked porcinely overfed.
In Soares Avenue, there was a line of shops. I crossed the road and started to inspect them. They did not have front windows, being more like square caves giving directly on to the pavement. One sold everyday kitchen utensils, but even some of these were alien to me. Shallow, cast-iron cooking pots, which I subsequently learnt were called woks, hung from hooks overhead, a shelf bore what I was to discover were rice steamers and there were sets of woven baskets, one inside the other. Packets of chopsticks, rice bowls, serving dishes, quaint porcelain spoons tied together with string, minute bowls, soy sauce dispensers, teapots decorated with red and gold dragons and handle-less tea cups and bowls with lids stood or lay in profusion on a table board balanced on trestles. Near by were displayed wooden cutting blocks bound by steel hoops, meat choppers and knives of medieval ferocity.
Moving on, I came to a fruit seller whose stock, spread out under bright lights, was even more unusual. He sold oranges, lemons, bananas and apples, but the remainder of his offerings might well have been picked on another planet â waxy-looking star-shaped fruit reminiscent in texture of my grandmother's hat flowers only not as dusty; huge grapefruit-like fruits, split open to show pale citrus-like segments within; knobbly custard apples; deep sea-green watermelons bigger than footballs; spiky ovals I discovered to be durians; and what appeared to me to be short lengths of leafless tree branch.
The shopkeeper, seeing me standing admiring his stock, came
round the front and spoke to me, picking up the grapefruit-like pomelo and holding it out. By now, I had picked up more than a smattering of Cantonese and said,
âM'ho cheen.'
To emphasize my impecuniosity, I patted my pockets. He laughed, stroked my blond hair, took out a sharp knife, sliced open the pomelo and offered me a segment. It was time to keep my promise.
round the front and spoke to me, picking up the grapefruit-like pomelo and holding it out. By now, I had picked up more than a smattering of Cantonese and said,
âM'ho cheen.'
To emphasize my impecuniosity, I patted my pockets. He laughed, stroked my blond hair, took out a sharp knife, sliced open the pomelo and offered me a segment. It was time to keep my promise.
I accepted it, said,
âDor jei,'
and put it in my mouth. It was sweet and tart at the same time, the cells of the segment erupting upon my tongue.
âHo!'
I said and I meant it. It was very good.
âDor jei,'
and put it in my mouth. It was sweet and tart at the same time, the cells of the segment erupting upon my tongue.
âHo!'
I said and I meant it. It was very good.
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