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Authors: Martin Booth

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My mother, who watched this procession with me, remarked that she preferred firecrackers to the assassination of music but she had by then forgotten the five-day migraine that marked Chinese New Year.
 
 
My father returned for good from Japan in the early summer of 1953. The Korean War was winding down, truce talks had been held and his job at the Sasebo naval base near Nagasaki was becoming redundant.
Immediately after my father's return, moves were put underway for us to leave the Fourseas. It was deemed an unsuitable billet for a family. There was, however, a shortage of quarters due to the pull-back from Japan, so we were tabled to move temporarily into a flat on the top floor of a building in Boundary Street, pending a more suitable quarter falling vacant.
Although less than a mile or two from the Fourseas, I was, at first, reluctant to go. I had many friends and acquaintances amongst the hotel room boys and in the streets of Mong Kok, with which I was as familiar as a rickshaw coolie or a pedlar. It would seem strange living in a self-contained home once again, without them around.
As the name implied, Boundary Street marked the periphery between British Kowloon and the hinterland of the New Territories, ceded to the British for ninety-nine years from 1898. As our flat was on the northern side of the street, this worried me. We were being housed in a no man's land that was only provisionally British. For several weeks, I had nightmares of being overrun in my sleep by Communist Chinese troops, bayoneted in my bed or sent to a slave labour camp, nevermore to see my mother.
In spite of my misgivings, I was beginning to feel excited by the impending move. It meant new horizons, new challenges and, more importantly, a new area to explore. Yet, two weeks before the move, the most dramatic event of the months I lived in the Fourseas occurred on Ho Man Tin hill.
Late one afternoon, I was walking back from school alone when I saw a thin wisp of smoke rising from over the hill. I gave it no thought and trudged on down Waterloo Road. As I reached the hotel, I saw the wisp was now a column. People were running down the track by the school and spilling out on to the main road, blocking the traffic. In a few minutes, the smoke was denser,
rising faster with sparks glimmering in it, despite the sunlight. Then I heard the far-off bells of fire engines.
I ran into the hotel garage, dumped my Hong Kong basket and headed for the hill. Hordes of squatters were pouring off it, every one carrying something. Even toddlers, one hand held by their mother, clumsily dragged a cooking pot or enamel basin. Adults laden with bedding – men with complete beds – struggled down the track, slipping on the loose gravel. Laden rickshaws wove between them. The exodus was orderly but noisy. Everyone was shouting.
The police and the fire brigade turned up simultaneously. In minutes, hoses were snaking up the track and the police had instigated a cordon to prevent squatters returning to the fire to rescue more belongings. This, however, was soon considered futile so they took to directing the flow of people and getting the traffic moving again.
I hurried to the bottom of the track. The smoke was by now hundreds of feet high but, the squatter area being over a ridge, I could not see the seat of the blaze. Consequently, I joined the throng of people returning to save their belongings.
Cresting the ridge, I was so shocked by the scene before me I just stood still in stunned wonderment. In my naïvety, I had assumed a squatter shack had caught fire and those running away with their belongings were simply being cautious. What lay before me was an inferno. At least half the squatters' shacks had been reduced to piles of smouldering ashes with, here and there, uprights burning brightly. The conflagration was moving through the area like a forest fire through a plantation of pines. The noise was terrifying, with tin sheeting cracking as it warped, explosions caused by tinned food and the incessant hiss and spit of burning wood accompanied by the crash of shacks caving in. A strong wind blew towards the fire, sucking in paper and scraps of cloth,
feeding it with oxygen and peppering my legs with fine gravel. As the fire progressed, it instantly ignited whole shacks at a time. One moment, a flimsy building looked intact, the next it was alight. Before my eyes a shanty exploded as if an artillery shell had hit it. A fountain of flame rose from it only to die in the rising smoke.
Ahead of the fire, people were running in and out of their shacks, piling their belongings on the ground, on handcarts, on their children. I circumnavigated the blaze, upon which the fire brigade were preparing to play their hoses, and started to gather up armfuls of clothing from a pile, folding them in on themselves to make a tight bundle. A young Chinese man ran out of a shack to accost me, stopped and went back in. I tumbled the rest of the pile into a sheet, tying the corners together, using them to pad out some rice bowls and other crockery. The young man appeared and added a framed sepia photo to the bundle. It showed a family group seated on upright chairs. In the centre sat an ancient woman with a baby on her knee, her feet tiny where they projected from under an old-fashioned long gown.
I waited. The fire was moving nearer, and quickly. I could feel its intensity on my bare arms and legs. My eyes began to weep from the heat and smoke.
‘Wei!'
I shouted.
‘Ché! Ché! Fide! Fide!'
(Hey! Go! Go! Quick! Quick!)
My pronunciation and the grammatical accuracy of this dog-Cantonese were doubtless atrocious but more than sufficient. The man came out of the shack followed by a woman carrying a babe-in-arms. He was laden down with a very battered suitcase and a wooden box. I gathered up the pile of linen and crockery and, hugging it to my chest, started down the track. I could not see my feet and frequently stumbled. Once, I fell, but my burden broke my fall. In a crowd of others, I reached the police line and was allowed through by an English inspector.
‘Got a squatter hut, have we?' he enquired with a wry smile.
‘I'm just helping,' I answered.
He looked at me for a moment and said, ‘Where do you live, son?'
‘Down the road, sir,' I replied, jutting my chin in the direction of the Fourseas and hoping my politeness would deflect the ticking off likely to be coming next.
‘Well done, son,' he said and he patted my head. ‘Go up that road over there.' He indicated Soares Avenue which, closed to traffic, was now a sort of squatter holding pen.
Once there, the young man gave his name to an official and we were guided into Emma Avenue where the pavements were filling up with groups of squatters. They sat chattering and tidying their belongings. To my astonishment, no-one was looking miserable or crying or showing any real sign of distress.
There was a touch on my head. It was the young man.
‘You luckee boy for me,' he said in pidgin English. ‘T'ankee you plentee plentee.'
‘Martin,' another voice remonstrated, ‘you're filthy.'
My mother stood before me, arms akimbo. I put the pile of clothes and bedding down at my feet and studied myself. My legs and arms were covered in ash: no doubt my face and hair were, too.
‘What have you been doing?'
‘Dis you littul boy?' the young man asked my mother. ‘He plentee good littul boy. Plentee good for me. You no beatee, missee. No beatee.'
At this point, it came to my mother what I had done. She hugged me, ash and all. The young man touched my hair again, either for luck or in gratitude. His wife did likewise. I was sent in for a bath and my mother offered her assistance to a Red Cross worker.
Lying in the warm water smelling of my mother's perfumed salts, I realized just how fragile life was, that everything one counted upon could come crashing down in less than the time it took for a double maths class. I also learnt that whilst it was one thing to live in a large box, a shack, a cockloft or between the shafts of a rickshaw, it was quite another to lose everything.
DENS, DUCKS AND DIVES
133 BOUNDARY STREET HAD BEEN BUILT IN THE 1920S AS A BIJOU residence on the edge of the countryside. By the time we moved in, it had gone down in the world. The exterior stonework was blotched with dead lichen and algae, the kitchen was dark and dank, the servants' quarters smelt of mould and the flat roof leaked into the bathroom. The city had reached out to it and the countryside was no more, although the barren foothills of the Kowloon hills did come down to within a hundred yards of the garden of the ground-floor flat.
Moving to a flat necessitated my mother employing more servants. As it was usual to employ a husband and wife wherever possible, the wash amah who had replaced Ah Fong was let go. She was genuinely sad at leaving us but my mother secured her a good job with an Army major and his wife who preferred to do her own cooking so only required an amah. That they had a blond-haired daughter no doubt helped to sweeten the bitterness of parting.
After an in-depth culinary interview, my mother took on Wong and his wife, Ah Shun. With them came their four-year-old son,
Chan-tuk, to whom my mother took an instant liking and nicknamed Tuppence.
So far as we knew, Wong – whose references gave his name as Hwong Cheng-kwee – was a Shanghainese who, like so many others, was a refugee from Communism. He and Ah Shun had several other children whom they lodged in the New Territories or had had to leave with relatives in China. A tall, round-faced man, Wong had apparently worked in a top-class hotel in Shanghai as a pastry chef. At least, that was what one of his well-thumbed references stated. My mother gave him a month's probation. This ended after a day when he made his first sponge cake. It did not so much sit on the plate as float over it. We had never tasted anything like it. He had a permanent job from my mother's first mouthful. Ah Shun became the wash and sew-sew amah and the two of them shared the chores of keeping house.
To say that Wong was a one-in-a-thousand cook-houseboy was not to be guilty of hyperbole. He was utterly superb, with the attentiveness of a high-class butler, the culinary skills if not of Escoffier then certainly of his
sous chef,
the attention to detail of a water-colourist and the mien of a true gentleman's gentleman. He and Ah Shun wore the customary
sam fu
white jacket and black, loose-fitting trousers with felt slippers, in which they glided across parquet floors they had so highly polished you could see the reflection of the windows in them. They also served at table, which at first I found most peculiar. I had been served in restaurants, on the
Corfu
and the like, but in our own home … It was like being a member of the aristocracy.
There were some teething problems. Ah Shun starched my father's white shorts which he wore to the office. The hems chafed his legs raw. Thereafter, she artfully starched only the crease. When the monthly provisions bill came, my mother found Wong had used six dozen eggs, which accounted for the levitatory
sponges. My mother asked him to cut down: then she saw he had used nine bottles of Heinz Salad Cream. As Wong did all the basic shopping, only discussing the matter of provisions or menus with my mother if she were holding a drinks or dinner party, this wanton purchase of salad cream seemed not only extravagant but suspicious. Wong was called into my mother's presence. It was not long before I was summoned too.
‘What is this?' my mother muttered, glowering at me as she held out the invoice.
I was inclined to tell her it was the bill, but kept my peace.
‘This!' she repeated, indicating an item on the bill. ‘And this. And this. Wong tells me this is your doing.'
I had no idea why she was cross but I admitted I ate salad cream.
‘Eat it!' my mother replied. ‘Wong tells me you put it on your bloody breakfast!'
Every morning, I ate breakfast alone, after my father had departed for work in HMS
Tamar
and whilst my mother was still preening herself for a hard day at the canasta table. Wong always provided a fried egg on crisp fried bread, a fried tomato and stiff rashers of brittle, grilled bacon. I ate the bacon first with my fingers then waded into the remainder which I smothered with salad cream. How I first discovered this curious amalgam of tastes I do not know, but I loved it. Indeed, I could go through a bottle in three days, especially if I asked Wong for salad cream instead of Marmite and lettuce sandwiches to take to school. My father being at the office, I was not punished for my abnormal gourmandizing but that avenue of pleasure was promptly closed.
Wong was paid $300 (approximately £19) a month plus an allowance of $75 for food. He lived with Ah Shun and Tuppence in the servants' quarters beyond the kitchen: a closed-in balcony and laundry sink, two small bedrooms equipped with cast-iron
bunks and a shower room with a squat-down toilet which my father referred to (in what he claimed to be submariners' slang) as
the shit-shave-shower-shampoo-and-shoeshine.
Wong and his family used our kitchen to prepare their food but they ate it squatting on the balcony until my mother found out. Thereafter, they ate at the kitchen table.
My mother found having servants somewhat disquieting and, if anything, ambiguous. She was a humanist at heart who believed no man should lord it over another. Yet here she was with two people who were there at her beck and call. Indeed, there were to be many times when my parents returned from a party in the early hours to find Wong staggering into the lounge, bleary-eyed and dopey with sleep, to see if they wanted a nightcap or a sandwich. She suffixed every request with
please and thank you
and made sure I did, too. It was impressed upon me that I should never make unreasonable demands of Wong or Ah Shun and I was never to say
Fide! Fide!
or
Chop! Chop!
(Quick! Quick!) at him. (I did once, out of pique, and he clipped my ear, whereby a mutual respect was born.)
Although not much more than a mile from the Fourseas, the environs of the flat were very different. Close by was La Salle College, a major Roman Catholic school primarily for Chinese. To the north-west was the one-time garden suburb of Kowloon Tong, to the north were the barren lower slopes of the nine Kowloon hills. Indeed, the name Kowloon derived from the Cantonese
gau lung,
meaning
nine dragons.
To the south was a residential area and the wooded grounds of the Kowloon hospital. Only the foothills offered the slightest opportunity for exploration and that was soon exhausted, my only find being that of a white plaster-of-paris death mask in a cave and a large chunk of mauve transparent volcanic rock. My mother and I hoped it was beryllium, a piece of which had been found in Hong Kong the
month before, making its finder rich. She took it to the geology department of the University. It wasn't beryllium but silicate – glass.
Not a mile to the east, however, was the most romantic and allegedly dangerous place in the colony. It was called Kowloon Walled City.
The name was a misnomer. It was not and never had been a city. It covered not much more than 25,000 square yards and, although it had been surrounded by a crenulated wall, the defences had been demolished by British prisoners-of-war under Japanese command and used as hardcore for an airport runway extension and sea wall.
According to a history of Hong Kong owned by my mother, it had originally been established in the eighteenth century as a far-flung outpost of the Chinese empire; its subsequent history was convoluted and its sovereignty confused. After the British gained control of Hong Kong and, later, Kowloon at the end of the Opium and
Arrow
Wars in the early 1840s, the Chinese imperial government insisted on maintaining a local presence so the British turned a blind eye towards Kowloon Walled City. Behind its walls, a nominal Chinese garrison was maintained which primarily kept a watch on the foreign invaders and enforced Chinese law in the area not under colonial control. Pirates being a problem in the region, the mandarin stationed in the settlement was kept busy suppressing and executing them. When the New Territories were ceded to the British, Kowloon Walled City was to find itself twenty-five miles from the border with China, completely surrounded by British territory. The cessation treaty was also ambiguous. Kowloon Walled City was now, in effect, cut off and ruled and possessed by neither – or both – countries.
It remained a backwater for fifty years, visited at the turn of the
twentieth century by Europeans in Hong Kong for vicarious excitement, a fragment of the ‘real' China on their doorsteps. Ruled by a mandarin from his
yamen
in the centre, it was quaint and exotic. The salacious aspect of the place lay in the fact that British law did not necessarily apply there, depending upon the interpretation of the treaty. Few Hong Kong policemen patrolled it and no government official collected taxes. The power supply was illegally tapped from the main grid and the water supply from the main. Kowloon Walled City was in effect a minute city state all on its own, arguably the smallest ever to have existed.
When China fell to the Communists in 1949, many criminal refugees fled to Hong Kong, some of them gravitating to the walled city area where they quickly established fresh enterprises. When the buildings were full, they built more, many little better than substantial squatter shacks. A disastrous fire in 1951 destroyed half the city but gave the new arrivals the opportunity to clear and build: it was said they set the fire in the first place. Thereafter, Kowloon Walled City remained an enclave governed by no-one. It was to Hong Kong what the Casbah was to Algiers, with one exception: it was more or less closed to outsiders. Trippers avoided it. It was said that any European who entered it was never seen again unless floating out of it down the
nullah
that served as a sewer. If ever the police entered the area, they went in armed patrols of three.
We had not been in Boundary Street a day when my mother took me aside.
‘Martin,' she started, signifying her seriousness, ‘I know you like to roam and explore, and round here that's all right. But,' she continued, unfolding a map of Kowloon, ‘you do
not
go even near here.'
She pointed to the map. Kowloon Walled City was left as a blank uneven-sided square.
‘What is it?' I enquired.
‘Ask no questions and be told no lies,' my mother replied evasively, ‘and
don't
go to find out.'
To utter such a dictum to a street-wise eight-year-old was tantamount to buying him an entrance ticket.
The following afternoon, homework hurriedly completed, I had a quick glance at the map and headed east down Boundary Street. In ten minutes, I was on the outskirts of Kowloon Walled City.
Nothing indicated to me why this place should be forbidden. A number of new six-storey buildings were being erected, with several already occupied or nearing completion; and a lot of shanties and older two-storey buildings were leaning precariously. It looked like a squatter area but with permanent structures in the middle in ill repair. A
hutong
lay before me, winding into the buildings and shacks. There being, I reasoned, no way my mother was ever going to find out, I set off down the alleyway, easing my way past a man pushing a bicycle, the pannier laden with cardboard boxes. He paid me not the slightest attention.
Through the open doors I spied scenes of industrial domesticity. To one side would be a
kang
or metal-framed bed, piled with neatly folded bedding; to the other several people seated at a table sewing, assembling torches, placing coloured pencils in boxes or painting lacquer boxes. Behind other doors were businesses, pure and simple. In one a baker was placing trays of buns in a wood-fired oven; in another, two men were involved in making noodles, swinging sheets of thin dough in the air around a wooden rolling-pin, the interior of their shack ghost-white under a layer of flour dust.
Wherever I went, the air was redolent with the smells of wood smoke, joss-sticks, boiling rice and human excrement. The effluent from this community, I soon discovered, flowed down
open gullies at the side of the
hutongs
to disappear through holes in the ground lined by stone slabs.
Arriving at one of the older stone buildings, I was about to peer in through an open door when a Chinese man rushed out and slammed it shut. Stripped to the waist, he bore a coloured tattoo of a dragon on his back. He glowered at me.
‘W'at you wan'?' he asked.
‘Nothing,' I said, fighting to stop myself sounding guilty, although of what I did not know. Then, hoping it might soften him a bit, I added,
‘Ngo giu jo
Mah Tin.' I held my hand out. ‘Nei
giu mut ye meng?'
He was much taken aback by my introducing myself – especially in Cantonese – and it was at least thirty pensive seconds before he took my hand and firmly shook it. During that time, he eyed me up and down, much as a butcher might a bull being led to slaughter.
‘Mah Tin,' he said at last.
‘Ngo giu jo
Ho. Why you come?'
‘Just looking,' I answered, shrugging and adding in pidgin English, ‘Come look-see.'
‘You no look-see,' he answered sternly. ‘No good look-see for
gweilo
boy.'

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