A MATTER OF FACE
Bruce Vaughan
Smashwords Edition
Copyright-2011-Bruce Sinclair Vaughan
All rights reserved.
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1
You can either love or hate Hong Kong and at that moment I was more inclined to love it. Little did I know how that love was to be severely tested in the coming months.
I was standing, wrapped up against the cold early morning wind on the observatory deck of the British cruise liner SS Canberra ― on her Farewell World Cruise ― as she made her majestic entry into Hong Kong Harbour through the Western Approaches. It was early morning on the first day of the Chinese New Year, 1997 ─ an auspicious year for Hong Kong because on July the first the British Crown Colony would become a Special Administrative Region of China. Shelley Young, my wife of eighteen years, joined me at the rail of the Observation Deck where I had been since the liner had approached Hong Kong Island from the South. Shelley’s face was illuminated by the soft, cool, early morning light that was filtering through the thin layer of cloud.
“So you finally made it, lazy bones.” I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her gently towards me, half to protect her from the wind, but perhaps more to enjoy the closeness and share the moment. I leant over so that I could kiss her. We could feel the wind against our cheeks; it was a fresh, bracing, winter breeze coming down from the North. The Observatory Deck, just forward of the bridge, was a favourite spot for the curious and the interested amongst the mostly elderly travellers.
“Good’dy Michael, Shelley, It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” An Australian fellow traveller joined us, bundled up in a yellow and blue padded anorak.
“Is this your first time in Hong Kong?” I enquired, without taking my eyes off the moving scene.
“Yes. I have heard so much about Hong Kong. It really is quite spectacular, isn’t it? How about you? Is this your first visit?”
“No,” I laughed. “I actually live here, but this morning I am seeing it as if for the first time. My wife and I joined the ship in Singapore.”
“My husband worked here for some years. But that was many years ago, before we were even married. He is so excited to see it again.”
“Where is he?”
“Oh I don’t know. He is running around trying to see everything at once. I am sure I will catch up with him sometime.” She hugged her shoulders as a gust of cold air caused her to shiver. “I think I will go inside for a while.”
I turned back to the view as Shelley snuggled a little closer. Together we watched in silence as the full panorama of what must be the most exciting and spectacular harbour in the World opened up, as the liner drew abreast of Stonecutters Island at the entrance to the harbour. High above us was the familiar, towering Peak to the South — historically the preserve of the Colonial masters and their wealthy non-Chinese citizens, now, however, open to all who can afford the high prices —and the rugged Nine Dragons mountain ridge to the North, were like a giant jeweller’s hands proudly exhibiting his prized and most precious gems. These gems are the two exciting, dynamic and legendary cities Victoria and Kowloon, separated by the narrow but vibrant stretch of tidal water that is Hong Kong Harbour.
Shelley and I, who both knew Hong Kong so well, were still awed by the spectacle. It was eerily quiet now, in the calm of the early morning, but we knew that beneath that calm there beat a heart that never stilled. Here was an ecosystem as vital, courageous, heartless and ruthless as any jungle kingdom, where predators were the victors and the victims. Survival was dependant on the single-minded pursuit of wealth; success measured solely by its accumulation — and yet there also beat a kinder heart that fostered love, charity and caring, where the vanquished could find solace and support.
On that crisp February morning it was movingly peaceful and yet sensational, as the soft, morning light danced amidst the glass covered buildings and twinkled off the surface of the water; kept in constant motion by the myriad of smaller craft, busy in spite of the festive break. Shelley and I, now joined by other passengers with whom we had made friends during the eight days aboard the Canberra, pointed out Green and white ferries crossing the harbour, black and white ferries setting out for the offshore islands. Small hovercraft, half hidden by their spray, headed for the inner harbour.
“Those are the Macau ferries,” Shelley pointed out to the small group of people who gathered at the rail.
“Some go to China.” I explained.
A thirty six foot, white sloop, sails set, getting an early start, detoured to pass close to the Canberra; its occupants, obviously in high spirits in spite of the early hour, waved to people standing at the rail, who waved back as if they were old and cherished friends.
“I guess this view is old hat for you two.”
I was silent for a moment as I gave the question some thought. “Yes and no. I feel as if I am seeing it for the first time, or at least from a different perspective. This is the harbour and the city that we have known and loved for years — Shelley since she was a child and me for the last twenty years. We have crossed and passed through, under and around the harbour so many times, in ferries, yachts, launches, cars and trains, that it had just been routine. Now, however, we are seeing it from the deck of the Canberra and through your eyes as the oyster of the Orient opens up to reveal its precious pearl.”
The morning still was disturbed briefly, as a green liveried Cathay Pacific jumbo jet passed a few hundred feet above the ship, heading for Kowloon Peninsula. As it almost brushed the roofs of the buildings the great bird dipped its right wing and made the famous last minute turn, just before disappearing from sight, to land at Kai Tak International Airport.
“That is a sight you won’t be able to see for much longer,” I explained. “There is a brand new airport at Chek Lap Kok, almost ready to open. Then Kai Tak will be history. It should have been open by now but China has caused a series of delays. I think that the Chinese leaders do not want to see it opened by a colonial governor. It would give the Chinese great face for their leaders to come down and open it. Face is so important to the Chinese.”
It had been a relaxing week for us; I had, a little reluctantly, agreed to Shelley’s suggestion to travel down nostalgia lane. We had both travelled by P&O when we were very young, but under very different circumstances. This was, as Shelley liked to tell people, our second honeymoon. It was the first opportunity for a break without the kids. Seventeen-year-old Martin was at school in England and our thirteen-year-old daughter Jennifer, away from home for the first time, was on a school trip to Beijing.
“Well Michael, what’s going to happen to the Hong Kong people after June thirtieth?” One of our shipboard friends asked.
“That’s what we have all been wondering.” I answered.
“Are you worried?” He continued.
Shelley, looking at me for a moment, answered. “Quite frankly; yes.”
I gave Shelley a half smile. “There is a lot of uncertainty still and many unanswered questions,” I explained, “but there’s no slowing down in the business sector. Stocks keep going up and property prices are strong, so someone must know something.”
“Hong Kong is going to be run by the communist government isn’t it?” Eileen, who had been at our dinner table asked.
“No! The Hong Kong Government will stay very much the same as it is now. There are already Hong Kong Chinese people in senior positions in all the departments of government and have been for years.”
“What about the PLA?” Someone piped up.
“They’ll definitely be there,” I agreed, “but we have been told that they will not interfere. The police will control internally. The PLA would only be used where there is an external threat.”
“That’s what they say. Can you trust them?” Eileen looked at Shelley as she asked.
“I don’t know.” Shelley answered with a slight tilt of her head. She raised her eyebrows as she shot a quick glance at me before answering. “I guess I was brought up to see them as a dark enemy, just across the border, ready to invade at any moment. I cannot just pretend that that has all changed and they are now the good guys.” She looked at me again; I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Shelley was born in Hong Kong, of second generation colonial British parents.” I explained. “She has spent all her life, except for boarding school in England and finishing school in Switzerland, in Hong Kong and has always regarded it as home, as well as essentially a part of Britain. It is hard for her to make a paradigm shift and become a foreigner in her own home-town.”
Shelley’s eyes flashed as she added. “That’s what we will be. At least I will. Michael is after all half-Chinese.”
Until then I had not realised the intensity of Shelley’s concern about the handover, we had rarely spoken about it in recent months.
We remained on the Observatory Deck, on our final morning of our break, as the great liner, with the discrete assistance of two tugs, eased gently to her berth alongside the Ocean Terminal, at the tip of Kowloon Peninsula.
“We don’t need to hurry to go ashore,” I reassured Shelley. We made our way leisurely up to the Island room on the Games Deck, for the buffet breakfast. We had usually preferred the casual buffet to the more formal breakfast at our allotted table, at the Pacific Restaurant — on E deck, in the depths of the ship. We decided on a ‘full-grease,’ English breakfast, and then chose a table facing the familiar towering office buildings of Central.
“Well we will be coming down to earth with a bump once we leave the ship,” I pointed out rather cruelly.
“I know.” Shelley contemplated our next few days. Most businesses, shops and even restaurants would be closed. Our own Filipina maid, Mira, would be away for the holiday and we had not been able to stock up on the essentials before the holiday. For a moment Shelley’s shoulders slumped at the prospect, and then she leaned forward, eyes brightening and gave my hand an affectionate squeeze. “Let’s just enjoy our last moments in the lap of luxury.” She smiled and reached for the peppershaker.
“Better eat up, we may have to starve for the next few days,” I laughed, leaning over to kiss Shelley. “It is sad to think that the Canberra will be scrapped soon,” I looked around, taking in the familiar sight of the morning breakfast crowd, laughing and joking in anticipation of another exciting day ashore. “It will mark the end of an amazing era in British shipping.” I cradled a cup of coffee as I looked across the harbour at the reassuring sight of the Hong Kong waterfront, with one of the world’s most concentrated assortments of dynamic high-rises. “Talking of an end of an era, Hong Kong is coming to the end of an era as well.”
“Don’t remind me.” Shelley followed my gaze and saw the city that had been her home since childhood.
We were blissfully unaware that the biggest impending change for us personally would have nothing to do with the 1997 transfer of sovereignty, and it would impact our lives forever.
2
“Goodbye love,” I called, as I headed for the door. It was the first working day after the Chinese New Year holiday. With the maid back at work, I had enjoyed a breakfast that I had not had to cook for myself.
“Goodbye.” Shelley called from the bedroom, where she was enjoying a little lie in. Jennifer had already left for school. She attended the German Swiss International School, which was conveniently located at the end of our road; a mere two minutes walk from the house. The teaching was in English, but there was a heavy emphasis on European languages, which Shelley was keen on.
I felt happy to be going back to work, as I backed my Mazda MX5 out of the garage and eased out into Watford Road. I paused at the intersection near the small shopping mall and looked across the road at my daughter’s school. She seems to be happy there, I thought, at last seems to be doing quite well. I turned into Guildford Road for the fifteen to twenty-minute journey down to Central. I was relieved to find that the traffic was light; many people took a longer holiday than the official four days, I reminded myself, it won’t last long. At the bottom of Garden Road, at sea level, I turned into the Murray Road Car Park, where my little car would sit for the day earning someone a good income. I was glad to be back to my normal routine, short changes were fine, I told myself, but I am happiest with the normal routine at work and home. There had been no rain during the Chinese New Year festival, which was seen by the Chinese to be a bad omen. Rain at the beginning of the year, according to superstition, meant prosperity. The word for water in Chinese, soi, has a second meaning; money.
I was also glad to be out of the house; Mira, our cheerful, ever-smiling maid, had been away for the break and so we had had to fend for ourselves; tough when you are not used to it. I knew that the practice would be quiet for the next week or so, as people tended to stay away from doctors at the beginning of the New Year, another Chinese superstition, but I was still looking forward to sometime in the office to catch up on correspondence and some research reading. Two of the four chiropractors in the practice were still away from Hong Kong on a slightly extended Chinese New Year break. James Talbot, the senior partner, had taken his family to the Phuket resort area in Thailand and one of the associates had gone to Bali.
A brisk walk past the Kepinski Furama Hotel, then the Ritz Carlton, the Hong Kong Club and the domed and pillared Legislative Council Building, brought me into the heart of Central. A few moments after passing the stately Mandarin Oriental Hotel, I crossed Des Voeux Rd and ducked into Theatre Lane, leading to the entrance lobby of my building. The fourteenth floor of Tak Shing House was home to the partnership of Drs Talbot and Young, (Chiropractors). The Young part was me, Dr Michael Young. James Talbot, now in his mid fifties, had been in Hong Kong six years before I joined him as an associate. After a few years, as my practice grew, we formed a partnership and were joined later by a succession of associates. The two present associates seemed to be making a commitment of it and could well end up as partners in the near future.
* * *
Meanwhile across the harbour it was also just another routine day for the North Kowloon Magistracy. Not so however for a petty criminal called Kwong Man Choi, Ah Choi to his family and friends. Ah Choi’s case was the first on the magistrate’s list in court number 4.
Ah Choi stood, glaring at the rail in front of him as he listened to the charge read out. He had been caught cheating his latest employer out of fifteen thousand dollars. He had borrowed money from a loan shark to cover gambling debts.
”Ying Joy (guilty)” He answered when asked to plead; his voice was barely audible.
“Would the prisoner speak up.” The English magistrate demanded.
“Ying Joy,” Ah Choi shouted, without raising his eyes.
“Consider yourself lucky young man,” the magistrate cautioned. “I am willing to be lenient with you because you have chosen to plead guilty.Your previous convictions have been for minor offences and there seems to have been several years since your last offence. Let this be a lesson to you to stay away from loan sharks. You are ordered to pay back the money you have stolen, within six months and to do two hundred hours of community service.”
Ah Choi left the court and waited for the court officials to explain what would happen. He slumped into a chair in desperation. What can I do? He asked himself. He shuddered as he remembered how the loan shark’s thugs had been getting more than a little unpleasant when he was unable to repay them.
“There will be some broken bones in your family.” Was one of the threats the thugs had used.
Damn my luck, he almost said aloud. He had gambled the money he had stolen on a hot tip on the 5th race at Happy Valley race track, hoping to pay off the loan shark and then return the money before his boss knew it was missing. It had been a sure thing at 15 – 1, he lamented the little shit of a-horse came fourth and now I am in deeper than ever.
Ah Choi felt relieved that at least he would not be doing a jail term, but not grateful. Where was he going to get that much money? He had no job and even if he could find one it would take years to get that much money. On top of that he had to work for two hundred hours, for nothing, for the community. Perhaps a few months jail would have been easier.
He started to rack his criminal brain for a way out of his troubles.
* * *
Shelley Young spent the morning at the Ladies Recreation Club carved out of the steep rock face in Old Peak Road. She was with her regular group of tennis friends. In spite of three sessions of tennis a week and the occasional round of golf, Shelley’s figure was beginning to show the signs of her age. She was forty-two and fighting the dreaded cellulites and an expanding waist line, not to mention those telltale crow’s feet, character lines, wrinkles, whatever, at the corners of her eyes.
The tennis crowd had changed over the years. Shelley could well remember the days when the Ladies Recreation Club was entirely European, mostly British and very class conscious. Today the club was multi-racial, with Chinese being in the majority.
Shelley’s parents had been born and raised in the East, originally in Shanghai and then Hong Kong.
It had been at the Ladies Recreation Club in 1978, that Shelley had first met her husband Michael. He had been a competitor for an inter-club tournament. Michael was a keen tennis player and had been the centre of attraction; partly for his tennis shots, which were good enough to win the tournament, but more because he was a very good-looking man, with an extremely athletic figure. Shelley, not unattractive herself, had set her sights on Michael that day and, with her determination and a lot of underhand scheming, he hadn’t had a chance.
It was too cold to sit out on the terrace where the girls, as they still liked to think of themselves, usually sat after a morning’s tennis overlooking the courts, as well as a good view of Hong Kong Harbour. The four players relaxed in the long bar with a drink before going in to lunch. Shelley’s three companions were amongst the dwindling number of old-timers. Jean Reaves was her oldest friend and Gregory, her husband got on well with Michael. Alice and Angela made up the foursome.
“Are you going to the RSPCA Ball?” Jean asked.
“Not this year,” replied Angela. “We are the ones who need charity.” A little bitterness sounded in her voice, in spite of the smile. Her husband worked for government and had recently lost a lot his expat perks.
“I have to be there, I am on the committee.” Alice said, a little smugly as she ordered another Margarita with crushed ice.
“How about you? Shelley.” Jean pressed.
“Oh you know how Michael is. He is not that keen on the formal occasions. I keep telling him he has to mix in the right circles to remind people that he is still here, but he hates it. I’ll see; if he won’t go then I may just go on my own. It’s at the Hyatt Regency isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Jean assured her. Jean was a great organiser and had been a great help when Gregory left the police force and started his own security company, Care Guard.
After lunch Shelley drove back up the Peak to the townhouse in Watford Road. It was overcast and quite a few degrees colder than it had been at the club, being one thousand feet above the town. A low wisp of cloud swirled around the hill just above the house. Shelley barely glanced across the balcony, where she would often spend the warmer days, reading and sunning herself. The view from the house was overlooking the Aberdeen Marina and a long stretch of the south coast of the Island. On a sunny day it was a beautiful sight, but today it was less than inspiring. She went up to her room for a short siesta, instructing Mira, to wake her with tea before Jennifer returned from school.
* * *
It turned out to be a busier day than I had expected. After the long break, a number of people needed my help and so the afternoon passed quite quickly. Between the two of us we had to cover for our colleagues as well as attend to our own patients, which helped to fill the waiting room. I was quite satisfied with the day, as I did the day’s books and closed the office. I stopped off at the Mandarin Cake shop to buy some Truffle Cake for the evening’s dessert. I always claimed that the cakes and desserts I bought were for my daughter Jennifer, but my sweet tooth is my Achilles heel that is bound to catch up with me sooner or later. I always enjoy a dessert after dinner and biscuits or cake with my afternoon tea. So far my figure has not betrayed me.
After paying the daily ransom for my car I started the drive home, up Cotton Tree Drive and then Garden Road, into Magazine Gap Road, which winds steeply up the sheer face of the Peak. Above and between the trees, the top half of the huge China Bank Building still looked down on my car as I managed the several sharp U-turns before joining Peak Road at the top. Traffic was still quite light and so I reached the turn-off for Guildford Road within fifteen minutes from the Car Park. It was good to be home, especially with everything back into the normal routine, with a lot of help from Mira, who had been with us for four years. It was Mira who greeted me at the door, with a cheery “good evening, sir.” Boris, the ginger cat, leisurely, languidly stretched and yawned before deigning to allow me to greet him with a brief chuck under the chin — he was still a little put off by having to spend two weeks in a kennel.
“Hi Boris,” I offered, tickling him between the ears. “I’m home,” I called out as I entered the house. “Where are you?”
“Hello darling,” Shelley called. “We’re up here in Jennifer’s room.” I hurried upstairs to join them.
3
I was puzzled and sensed that something was not as it should be. The patient was complaining of an acute low back pain with pain radiating into the left leg and yet the signs were all wrong. The young Chinese man had been a walk-in, willing to see anyone. I had had a free slot so the front desk had arranged for me to see the patient. At first the case had made sense.
“I was lifting a spare wheel and suddenly my back hurt. Later my leg started to hurt all the way down to the foot,” Kwong Man Choi explained. “I can hardly even walk.
I had taken a detailed case history and then led Mr Kwong into the treatment room for an examination. What had first caused me to frown was when I was testing for leg pain, which appeared to be caused by irritation on the sciatic nerve, commonly referred to as sciatica. The patient had cried in pain when I had tried to lift his straightened left leg off the table. At twenty degrees, with the foot just a few inches off the table, the man had reacted dramatically. This should mean that the sciatic nerve was being impinged where the nerve left the spinal cord in the lowest vertebrae of the spine. Further stretching should cause great pain, yet a follow-up test proved negative. I had the patient sitting, knees at ninety degrees, feet hanging free. When I raised the left foot to bring the leg straight and level with the floor, there was no reaction. This should have caused as much pain as when I had tried to raise the straight leg lying down.
“Let’s get you back on the table, lying face up again.” I said. “Now I want you to try to lift this leg.” I indicated the good, right leg. The patient was able to do that without pain. Leaving my hand under the right leg, I instructed the patient to lift the left one.
“I can’t. It hurts.” Kwong Man Choi grimaced as he spoke.
I knew then that the man was faking. In order to lift the bad leg and experience any symptoms, the patient would have to exert some downward pressure on the good leg. I felt no pressure on my hand.
“You seem to be experiencing a lot of pain with this,” I conceded at the end of his examination. “I am, however, not able to find the cause for the pain. We should take some X-rays and if they show nothing then we could send you up to the hospital for an MRI.”
“Could you just give me a letter to say that I cannot do any physical work because of my back?”
My alarm bells started to ring. Could this be an agent provocateur? I wondered. There had been a number of such cases in the past, where the Health Department, at the instigation of the medical profession, had sent in a ‘patient’ to try to get the chiropractor to do or say something that could give them an excuse to arrest him. Surely that nonsense is over, I thought. Two recent cases had brought the matter to a head and it looked as if the practice had stopped. I had better tread carefully, I decided.
“I feel that it would be better if you went to the hospital and got a thorough check-up. I do not feel that your case falls within my field. Perhaps a neurologist or an orthopaedic surgeon might be your best bet.”
“But I just need a letter to say I can’t work,” Mr Kwong insisted.
“Well get it from the hospital. It would carry a lot more weight.”
After some insistence, I agreed to write a report, but had no intention of saying anything more than the truth about my findings. “The report will be ready for collection this afternoon. I will leave it with the front desk for you to collect.”
The patient had left and I went on to the next case. It had been a reasonably busy morning, but as I had no lunch appointment I was able to write a brief report during the break. The afternoon was a little quieter but still not as bad as I had expected. It was still early in the Chinese New Year.
The buzzer on my phone rang and Connie the receptionist’s voice came through the intercom. “Your patient, Mr Kwong, wants to talk to you.” At first it did not register, but then I remembered my strange patient from the morning, the malingerer. Assuming that he was going to complain about the report, I rather reluctantly reached for the phone.
“Dr Young.”
“Do you remember me? I am Kwong Man Choi. You saw me this morning.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“You did something to me this morning. I think you owe me some compensation.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?” I was beginning to hear the alarm bells going off again.
“You know! You touched me. If I don’t get compensated, I shall talk to the police. I know that professional people like you would not like that to happen.”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?” My mouth was suddenly as dry as a desert wind.
“Not blackmail, it is compensation for touching my penis. I want twenty thousand dollars by tomorrow or I will take the matter to the police.”
I slammed the phone down, but my actions appeared to be in slow motion. I could feel myself shaking with anger as I continued to stare at the hateful phone that had been so innocent just seconds before. So that’s what his little game was, my befuddled brain finally realised. After what seemed like hours but was probably seconds, I recovered sufficiently to look away and do what I had to do. James Talbot was still away, so I called a friend and patient who was a fairly senior police officer.
“This is Michael Young here, sorry to call you, but I need a little advice.” I forced myself to calm down and not sound too panicked, and then went on to explain what had happened.
“I would suggest that you make a report to the police. It is important to get it on the record. He may not call again but if he does, the police already have a complaint on record. Then if this guy makes any further contact, call the police immediately,” was the advice given.
Well that seems like good advice, I thought, as I replaced the phone. I had calmed down after hearing from my friend and my hands were quite steady. It is just possible that we won’t hear any more from him, I tried to reassure myself, but it is better to be ready in case we do.
I finished the day with less relish than I had started it, and then headed up to Hollywood Road to the old historic, colonial Central Police Station. I was in no mood to admire or even notice the grand old building. I just wanted to make my report and head home. The police were able to trace the criminal record of the blackmailer, which I was able to get a glimpse of. Apparently Mr Kwong was not new to petty crime.
The report done, I left the police station and was glad to be heading home. Shelley had arranged a small dinner party for the evening. Just a few close friends, well, Shelley’s friends really. I would not have been very enthused on a good day, so my reaction was a little less than cordial when Shelley reminded me on my arrival. Well perhaps it would help to get my mind off my troubles, I thought. I could not help feeling however, that this blackmailer was not going to go away.
I was glad to know that Gregory and Jean Reeve were coming. Jean had been an old childhood friend of Shelley’s. The friendship had suffered for a while when Jean had, at least in Shelley’s eyes, married beneath her station; Gregory had been with the police at the time. All had been forgiven when Gregory left the police and became quite successful in turning a fledgling security company into a major player.
Gregory was a good tennis player and he and I had done battle many times when we were both keen competitive amateurs. I enjoyed Greg’s company and we had remained friends over the years.
During dinner the conversation turned, as it often seemed to these days, to the good old days.
“You know, in the fifties and early sixties Hong Kong was a wonderful place for the British to come to. It was English in all things except the weather, the scenery, taxation and the social life, not to mention ninety eight percent of the population. Britain was miserable at that time, still suffering from the post-war austerity, but here in Hong Kong life for the British expat was fantastic. It was everything you imagined colonial life would be,” opined John Waterhouse, husband of Angela, one of Shelley’s tennis friends. He was an enormous, red-faced Englishman, who was about to retire after working for the Hong Kong government since 1960. “I arrived in Hong Kong from a very average family from Exeter. I had never been outside Devon until I joined the P&O liner SS Chitral in Southampton. Suddenly I was in another world.”
“Hong Kong was a very different place back then.” Gregory Reeve said. “I came out to join the Royal Hong Kong Police Force in seventy three, but it must have been fascinating back in the fifties and sixties.”
“It certainly was,” John continued. ”The contrast between East and West was extreme. The streets of Hong Kong were pure Chinese. The sights, sounds and smells embodied the most exotic fantasies of the orient. It was pure, picture book China, and yet just round the corner were the icons and trappings of British colonialism in all their glory.”
“I came out for a school summer holiday back in nineteen fifty one.” Jack Henderson offered. The Hendersons were visiting their daughter and son-in-law and, more importantly, their latest granddaughter. The younger couple were neighbours of ours, but were away for a short holiday, insisted on by the grandparents who were going to be mom and dad for a week. Betty, Jack’s wife of nearly forty years, had stayed home to baby sit, while he had accepted the invitation for dinner. “My father was working for the Royal Insurance here for a while. I remember the trip so well. Imagine coming out of grammar school in Bristol, never having left Avon and Somerset, let alone Britain and then flying half way around the world, stopping or night-stopping in Rome, Bahrain, Karachi, Calcutta, Rangoon and Bangkok, then after five days arriving in the height of summer in Hong Kong. As I left the aircraft it was like an oven door opening in my face. I was a lad of sixteen and loved the adventure of it. There was that smell in the air, as you said, George, that was Hong Kong. It was essentially oriental. I don’t know what it was; it must have been a cocktail of many things. It was incense from the joss sticks that were burning in every building and every home or shop or office within those buildings. It was camphor from the furniture stores and factories, herbs from the Chinese medicine stores, spices and pickled eggs, dried fish, oysters and scallops. The wonderful smell of new bread and char siu buns fresh out of the oven, jasmine tea and rice wine from the food shops and restaurants.”
“Open drains. Rat droppings. That awful smell of chow dow fu.” Angus Stewart added. This is a type of bean curd cooked in rancid oil that the Chinese liked to eat, but the smell could reach for several blocks from the vendor.
“Oh yes, there were the bad smells too.”
“What about the flower markets with the frangi panis and ginger flowers?” Shelley joined in.
“That exotic smell of paper umbrellas in the rain,” Jack countered. “Yes it was a cocktail of odours; all mixed together like an out of control perfumery, condensed by the hot humid air that was so heavy at times it almost floored you.”
“As my father drove me from the airport, through Kowloon, that first exciting day,” Jack continued his narrative. “The montage of alien sights and sounds were so far removed from Bristol and Somerset and all that I had known before. As I sat there in the car, a Ford Consul, I wondered if the whole thing was not just a dream of fantasy, to be interrupted any moment by an alarm bell, telling me it was time to get up for school. The buildings were festooned with colourful but illegible Chinese signs, painted on the walls or in windows or hung from every ledge and corner: many even hanging far out over the street. Every upright pillar advertised a dimly lit shop, barely visible beyond the crowded sidewalk, shielded from the sunlight by the over-hanging building.
“People mingled amongst the offered wares, walked briskly by, sauntered, or just sat and chatted. Old men in pyjamas, women carrying babies on their backs, coolies trotting with their rhythmic gait synchronized to their springing bamboo pole, heavily laden with goods. Slender girls in slit cheongsams allowed the observer tantalising glimpses of their thighs as they walked. Heavy bottomed, pigtailed women in black trousers and white, high collared jackets flashing gold-filled smiles, busied themselves as they moved amongst the shops; their purchases dangling from strands of sisal. Cheerful, near naked children played, oblivious of the bustle around them, laughing and calling each other, always on the move. The street echoed with the clip-clopping sound of intricately painted wooden sandals, sold from small alcove shops that were a blaze of colour, with sandals of every hue and design hanging from the walls. Motor traffic was quite light, but the streets were busy with coolies, rickshaws, peddlers’ carts and precariously balanced bicycles that zigzagged through the bustling crowd. I was startled at my first sight of a mother holding her bare bottomed baby over the gutter for a toilet, as other people walked by, oblivious to the domestic scene.”
“One thing I will always remember about the shops of those early days,” Shelley said, as Jack paused to take a mouthful of desert. “Every one of those shops had a large wall clock on the back wall, facing the street. It was so convenient, as few of the poorer people owned watches. Wherever they were they could just look into a shop and see the time. As a child I did not have a watch until I was sixteen, so I would often find myself looking at the clock in the back of a shop.”
“Yes I remember that too, “Jack replied. “Another vivid impression was of the traffic police. As we stopped at an intersection, I watched fascinated as the traffic policeman, immaculately uniformed in heavily starched light tan jacket and shorts, standing on a raised and ornately sheltered podium, turned the mundane act of directing traffic into an art form. Each movement was carefully choreographed and performed to perfection; the body, arms and white-gloved hands responding to some silent haunting rhythm as he directed and controlled the chaos that confronted him. Each time he changed direction he did so with a precise military turn, slamming his highly polished boots onto the ground.
“Having driven through this exciting kaleidoscopic oriental medley, that first trip across the harbour on the vehicular ferry was different but certainly no less dramatic. For those twenty minutes I had one of life’s great experiences. My father and I stood in the bow of the Yaumati Ferry, flanked by an ancient lorry piled high with rice bags, on top of which two coolies slept precariously, and an equally old Ford Zephyr, from which there emerged, like a circus clown act, twelve people. As we crossed the harbour, I saw, for the first time the magnificent Victoria waterfront, backed by the massive grandeur of the Peak. The harbour was alive with bobbing sampans, junks with patched red sails catching the wind, ferries and walla-wallas, water taxis. Rusted, grimy, coastal freighters, lighters and tugs passed across our bows churning and splashing the dirty brown water. The buildings are all so much more spectacular today, but it is just another modern busy harbour. There is none of that exquisite, exotic orient left.”
“Was it just the one holiday?” Jean Reeve asked. “You seem to have a vivid memory of it.”
“Yes; unfortunately. My father had one contract here. My mother hated it and insisted that he get a home posting after that. I fell in love with the place but I haven’t been back until this time.”
“Do you remember much about life amongst the Europeans?” Sally Goldsmith, Jennifer Young’s teacher asked.
“For us kids it was pure heaven. Nothing but a round of parties, golf tournaments, launch parties and trips to the seaside. The beaches were virtually empty in those days, even at the height of summer. The Chinese did not seem to get out of the urban areas. Even on Sundays in the middle of summer, Deep Water Bay, the closest beach to Central was empty, except for a few children off the fishing junks and sampans that often anchored in the bay. I don’t remember my parents having any Chinese friends and I certainly didn’t have any, which was such a shame to come all this way and yet be totally British.”
“You are right; they probably did not have much contact with the locals. The Europeans kept very much to themselves.” John Waterhouse responded. “The Chinese also were not keen to have much to do with us, except for business, so it was a matter of mutual separation. Even within my department of government there was a clear racial division. Chinese occupied very few of the senior posts and the social lives of the two groups seldom mixed. Even the wealthy Chinese businessmen, entertaining their counterparts amongst the expat community, would never invite them to their homes. They would always arrange a banquet in a Chinese restaurant, no expenses spared. The senior expat, on the other hand would expect to have a home compatible to his status, in which he could entertain business and social equals. The Chinese saw no point in wasting good money on a lavish home for an occasional dinner party, so they lived more humbly than their European counterparts. Clubs were equally segregated, which meant that the expats and the locals rarely met socially.”
“A bit extreme I would think,” I felt that I had to point out. “Surely one of the joys of travelling abroad is to meet people from different races and cultures.”
“Yes, I agree with you, but it was the way of the colonial British of that era. As far as they were concerned Hong Kong was a part of Britain. The Chinese population, expanding as it was, were in some sense a necessary evil and in others a convenience. The government paid little attention to the gradual increase in the refugee population. The British concentrated on their own community and business interests. It took a major fire in a squatter camp in nineteen fifty three that left fifty to sixty thousand homeless, to persuade the government to do something about housing and a riot in fifty six, for them to seriously consider the Chinese population as part of their responsibility.”
“The two communities were still very much apart when I arrived in the sixties.” John continued. “As young men we were fully expected to have a little recreation with local girls, but if there was any hint of marriage to one of them, the lad involved would probably find himself on the first ship back to Blitey.” John winked at his wife. “Angela and I were married on my first home leave.”
“He claims that he did not meet a Chinese girl on that first contract, but I still don’t believe him.” Angela raised her glass to John. “But I forgive him.” John raised his glass and smiled a wicked, feral smile.
“You forgive me for all of them?”
“Ha, thinks he’s quite the Casanova.” Angela took a sip of the wine. “Shelley, you know Hong Kong from those days. What was it like living here as a child?”
“It was wonderful in some ways and yet very restrictive in others. We were taken to school and taken to the club, or to parties in friends’ houses. We were never free to just go out and play with other kids. To us as children, the Chinese were servants or waiters or perhaps lowly workers in our parents’ offices. We certainly did not have Chinese friends. Boarding school in the UK was a real leveller for us,” Shelley continued. “We went from being served hand and foot and feeling important to being one of a hundred children, with no favours, no servants and certainly far from important. At first it was tough, but I eventually enjoyed the freedom of being with other children my own age.”
“The 1966 and 67 riots changed the face of Hong Kong.” John Waterhouse inserted a sobering note. “I was still very a very junior member of the government, but it was a scary time. There were thousands of PLA troops massed at the border, ready to take Hong Kong the moment the order was given.”
“I was a very raw police inspector and found myself in the front row of the major confrontation on Garden Road. Hundreds of police in riot gear faced off perhaps thousands of well organised Red Guard, or at least the Hong Kong version.” Gregory shuddered at the memory. “The clash, when it came, was short but for a moment violent. I was in the front row and found myself confronted by angry, screaming Chinese youths. They pushed us until a young PC lost his cool and struck one of them with his baton, and then all hell broke loose. But within seconds they retreated and, playing to the rows of photographers standing on the Hilton balcony, collapsed screaming in mock pain, daubing themselves with red paint or tomato ketchup. They even had bandages already stained red, which they quickly wrapped around their heads or arms.”
“I remember that day,” John said. “I was off duty at the time and having a late lunch at the old Cricket Club, just across from the Hilton. A few of us walked over to the fence and in true colonial style, nursed gin tonics while we watched the show. Mao Mad Mary was screeching out her anti British rhetoric from speakers on the Bank of China building.”
“The International Press made quite a thing of that.” Jack recalled. “I watched in horror as pictures of the ‘slaughter’ in Central and the Mao Book waving fanatics chanting outside the gates of Government House; bomb squads shown approaching suspect and real bombs. I really thought that Hong Kong was finished.”
“A lot of expats fled Hong Kong but those who stayed somehow got used to the nightly news of bombs and confrontations with the police; mostly by young kids who were paid to throw stones and burn cars. I was hit by one of those stones and ended up with stitches,” Gregory added. “It was amazing really that not as many people were killed or injured as it had appeared. There were some notable incidences of police being killed and one well respected army bomb disposal expert being killed or maimed, but there were relatively few deaths amongst the community. The total for the Colony was about fifty including 5 police during the eighteen months of unrest. Expats, who worked in Central and lived in the Mid-levels and the Peak, did not really feel threatened. Most of them watched the evening news or read the newspapers with as much surprise and distance as people in the UK or the US.”
“It was a terrible period though, and Hong Kong came close to collapse commercially as well as dragging the morale down to zero.” Shelley reminded them, “I was still at school and missed a couple of holidays here, but on the positive side, my father was able to buy some property at bargain prices. Only to lose them later when he declined mentally in his twilight years.”
It was not until after the last of the guests had finally said their farewells that I remembered what had happened at the office. I unburdened myself on Shelley.
“But that’s preposterous!” she exclaimed. “He can’t get away with such nonsense.”
“Well hopefully he won’t call again.” I said without commitment. “Damn the little jerk.”
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“Yes I know; it just leaves a nasty taste. It’s like having your wallet stolen or the house burgled. It just gives me a creepy, soiled feeling. This sort of thing is quite common in the States, with people trying to sue doctors with false or staged incidents, but so far it has not been common in Hong Kong,”
“Come on, it’s late. Let’s go to bed.”
“Yeah. That was a good party tonight, love. I always enjoy hearing about old Hong Kong.”
Boris was already curled up in the middle of the bed, not interested in going out into the cool night air.
4
When James Talbot returned from his short stay at Club Med, in Phuket, he found a very unhappy office. I explained what had happened.
“This sort of thing is fairly widespread in some Western countries, but not so common here,” James noted. “At least it was uncommon, but I have heard of some isolated cases of extortion amongst various professionals in recent years.”
“I feel that we should take some precautions against this sort of thing happening again.” I suggested. “Some sort of surveillance system might work. It would mean a camera in each room and a recorder. It’s worth thinking about.” I kept having the feeling that that little bastard was not going to go away.
“That’s an idea, Michael.” James agreed. “Let’s get someone to quote for us.”
“I’ll look into it and let you know what the damage is going to be. If it can avoid this sort of nonsense it’s worth spending a bit of money. I will have to clear it with a lawyer to make sure that we are not violating patient’s privacy.”
“Yes I agree, Michael.” James said. “That’s a valid point, let’s see what he says.” He was called to see a patient, so we parted. “Are you going to make it to Rotary today?” James asked as he left.
“Yes, I think so.” I replied, with little enthusiasm, I was never that excited about the weekly meetings even on a good day and that was definitely not a good day. I had to admit that I usually enjoyed the lunch meetings when I got there and I have met a lot of people I would not have met otherwise. I also had a patient to see, so returned to my room.
James and I walked the few blocks to the Furama Kempinski Hotel in time to arrive just a few minutes before the lunch bell sounded.
“How did the market go this morning, Henry?” I asked Henry Chan an investment banker, as we settled down at the lunch table.
“It looked strong, finished the morning up thirty points. It should stay strong this afternoon. There is enough confidence around and the offshore fund managers are buying. There is a land auction coming up and people feel that the prices will be good.”
“Do you think the confidence will hold? The hand-over is just a few months away.” An American visiting Rotarian asked.
“Hong Kong’s fundamentals are not going to change.” Henry answered. “The economy is sound and self-dependant. Hong Kong’s strength does not rely on a lifeline from Britain.” He spoke a little harshly. He was tired of hearing the comments of outsiders who had no idea about Hong Kong. They seemed to think that without British support and know-how, Hong Kong would sink. “You must realise that Hong Kong has thrived through Chinese enterprise and hard work. Sure Britain gave us the stability to do it, for which we are grateful, but the British alone could never have built today’s Hong Kong.”
“I did not mean to imply that Hong Kong would fail without the British, but one hears so much about the people leaving and their fear of the future.” The American ventured.
“Many of those who left have now returned.” I pointed out. “For every company that chose to move, other companies have opened. Many people went to the United States, Canada and the UK, and found life very difficult. Once they got their green cards, or whatever, they came back.”
“You sound as if you were one of them.” The American noted.
“No. I was born and raised in Britain. That is why I sound British.” I explained.
“And do you intend to stay here?”
“Yes.” I replied emphatically, realising as I did so that I was speaking for myself alone, Shelley was far from certain.
The conversation changed to other topics. There were eight people at the table and usually there were several conversations going on, occasionally expanding to include everyone.
The afternoon started with several patients already waiting when James and I returned to the office. It was about four thirty when my buzzer sounded and the receptionist informed me that Mr Kwong had come and was demanding to see me.
“Tell him he will have to wait.” I did not like the sound of ‘demanded’. I knocked on James’ door and asked him to come out for a moment.
“That blackmailer is here in the waiting room. I should call the police immediately but we have several patients in the waiting-room and I don’t want to give him a chance to create a scene out there.”
“I’ll call the police. You see if you can get him into one of the rooms, but have someone with you. Do not let him get you alone.”
My heart was skipping a few beats and then catching up on them as I went reluctantly out to the waiting room.
“Do you have something you wish to talk to me about?” I asked. “Come into my office.” I glared at the young Chinese youth, who in spite of a frail appearance had the characteristics of a street-wise punk. I indicated my office door.
“We can talk here. You have some money for me.” Kwong Man Choi said with an all-too-confident smile, unflinchingly meeting my glare.
“You must be mistaken.” I replied. “I have nothing for you.” I realized as I said it that I was not saying the right thing if I wanted to get the man out of the waiting room. “If you have something to discuss, I suggest we go into my office.”
“There is nothing to discuss.” Ah Choi said defiantly, standing his ground. “The money or I call the police.” He edged threateningly towards the phone on the wall― put there for the patients’ use.
“Go ahead, call. We have already called them.” I turned and went back to the office, confident that the man was bluffing, but realizing as I did so that I was still not being very clever. I turned to try to find a way of keeping the man occupied until the police came. I should not have told him that they had already been called. Before I was able to say anything Ah Choi reached for the phone and dialled.
Speaking in a voice loud enough to be heard easily by the patients in the waiting room he declared, “I have been sexually assaulted by my doctor. I need police help.” He gave the address.
Three policemen arrived within a few minutes. They had had a call from the station that two people had asked for assistance, one reporting an attempted blackmail and the other making an accusation of sexual assault.
Within minutes of their arrival Kwong Man Choi was ushered into one of the treatment rooms to make a statement, whilst I went with two other policemen into my own room to make mine. I barely recognised my own office as I fumbled for my chair with shaking hands; I was in such a state of shock. The scene that I had just left in the waiting room had become extremely unpleasant. Patients had looked on in horror as the drama unfolded.
What could have made the man carry out his threat instead of trying to get away? I asked myself through the fog of my mind. The whole thing just seemed surreal. He has nothing to gain, but we have so much to lose.
I was questioned for a good half-hour by the police sergeant in the presence of a constable. The questioning had been fairly polite and respectful, but unpleasant nevertheless. I found that my sexuality and honour were being repeatedly questioned and I strongly resented it. I realized that the men were just doing their duty but I came away feeling soiled.
Kwong Man Choi was in another of the clinic’s rooms being questioned by a CID officer, who had joined the police party, and a uniformed constable. Eventually the police were satisfied that extortion with threats had taken place and Ah Choi was cautioned, arrested and taken down to the police station. It had been a very unpleasant afternoon for everyone.