Golden Boy Read online

  I was placed with the men. The room in which we were to sleep was on the second floor, had a low ceiling with beams that were nothing more than tree trunks supporting the roof. The beds were plain wooden kangs surrounded by screens, each one covered by a woven mat and a thin cotton quilt with a hard Chinese traditional pillow. Lighting was provided by three guttering oil lanterns which cast a timeless orange glow on the dark wood. It reminded me of the opium den in Kowloon Walled City.

  My father, having struggled to escape the clutches of his knapsack, unpacked it. He had brought a dressing gown, flannel pyjamas and the slippers that doubled as instruments of summary justice back home. These neatly laid out on his kang, he took out his red leather wash bag and a towel, placing them beside his clothing. When he was done, his possessions looked like a naval rating’s bunk in a lower-deck mess awaiting a daily kit inspection. No-one else bothered to unpack.

  ‘Here’s your stuff,’ my father said, producing a wash bag from the knapsack. He rummaged further. ‘I can find your towel …’ he said at length, handing it to me ‘ … but I’m damned if I can find your pyjamas. Your mother seems to have forgotten them.’

  A sonorous bell, almost as deep as a bass drum, boomed in a nearby building. I went outside to discover Mr Borrie standing by the moon gate.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I asked, breaking into his thoughts, ‘but why are we allowed to stay here when we aren’t monks?’

  ‘Good question, young Booth,’ he replied. ‘Buddhist monks take a vow of hospitality. That means, they are obliged to give succour – food and shelter – for free, to anyone who demands it. But when people like us come to stay here we make an offering to the monastery and pay the cost of our food and lodging.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we are rich gweilos and they are poor Chinese monks,’ Mr Borrie replied. ‘A dollar to us is a pack of cigarettes, but to them …’ He paused then went on, ‘Tonight, you’ll live like a Buddhist monk, just as they have for a thousand years.’

  ‘I’ve not got any pyjamas,’ I admitted. My mother’s omission was worrying me.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Mr Borrie reassured me. ‘Neither have any of us. Except perhaps your father.’ He winked at me and went on, ‘We’ll be having supper soon. Don’t be late.’

  I left him and went into the temple. It was like all the other temples I had visited, with an ornate altar, smouldering incense, embroidered tapestries, offerings, lanterns and censers. The one difference was the statue of Buddha. In the curio shops and gold dealers of Hong Kong, Buddha was represented by a fat, grinning man with a paunch of obese proportions. This Buddha, by contrast, was a benign seated figure with a peaceful expression, its right hand raised in blessing. There were no demon warriors or guardians of heaven. I lit a joss-stick, genuflected – after checking my father was not about to enter – and placed it in the sand-filled urn. Had my father, who professed Christianity but never went to church, caught me worshipping false gods and idols, I dared not think of the consequences. He would probably have personally condemned me to eternal damnation.

  Returning through the moon gate, I followed the sound of the bell and came upon a hall in which lines of monks sat at a square of low tables finishing a meal. At one end of the room, a monk stood at a simple lectern reading a collect as his brothers ate. The only sounds were his chant-like reading and the tolling of a bronze bell which was shaped like an inverted tulip. It was rung by a log of wood suspended horizontally by two ropes from a ceiling beam.

  I lingered in the doorway. The monks paid me not the slightest attention and, after a few moments, I slipped away.

  ‘You forgot my pyjamas,’ I said to my mother as I came upon her by a small pond in which a number of red-eared terrapins floated in the water or lay on a rock in the centre.

  ‘Do you know why they keep terrapins?’ she rejoined.

  ‘To eat?’ I ventured.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It’s because terrapins and turtles – especially marine turtles – are considered very lucky and stand for longevity. That means long life. The turtle supports the elephant upon whose back rests the world. A long time ago, the Chinese believed the world was a giant turtle’s shell. Besides,’ she finished, ‘what do you want pyjamas for? It’s going to be far too cold for py-jams. When you go to bed, just take your shoes off, keep all your clothes on and wrap yourself up in the quilt.’

  ‘But Daddy’s got his,’ I argued, ignoring the homily on the universal and divine turtle which I already knew from my visits to numerous back-street temples.

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ was my mother’s response. We ate by lamplight in a large room at the other end of the monastery from the monks’ hall. The food was delicious, the flavours subtle and the textures exquisite. Yet, although I was an experienced dai pai dong diner, I was unable to recognize many of the dishes and asked my mother what meat was in them.

  ‘None,’ she answered.

  With my chopsticks, I picked up a piece of what looked like and tasted like braised duck’s breast.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ my mother said, ‘but it’s not duck. It’s against the Buddhist religion to take life. All the food is made out of dofu, fungi and herbs. The vegetables are grown in the plots we saw as we arrived. The monastery is virtually self-sufficient in everything except paraffin, candles and joss-sticks.’

  At nine o‘clock, we turned in. There were eight of us in the dormitory. My kang was in a cubicle on its own, my father’s the far side of the screen separating my space from the others’. I removed my shoes and snuggled under the quilt fully clothed. Outside, a cold wind had sprung up, rattling the shutters of the window by my head. My father came round the end of the screen to say goodnight. He was wearing his dressing gown over the flannel pyjamas. His slippers clicked on the wooden floor.

  The boards of the kang were hard, as was the pillow block, but I soon fell asleep, a cold draught blowing over my face.

  During the night, I was woken by a strange noise. It sounded like castanets being played in slow motion or a convention of geckoes. On consideration, I knew it could not be the latter. One rarely saw geckoes in the winter: it was too cold for them. It then occurred to me that it might be the skeleton of a lonely spirit wandering the earth. If there were spirits anywhere, they would surely be in a monastery high in the mountains.

  Then a muted voice said, ‘For heaven’s sake, Ken, put your clothes back on. Your shivering’s keeping us awake.’

  Around dawn, I was woken again but this time by muffled chanting. Slipping my shoes on, I tiptoed down the stairs and went outside. The sound was coming from the temple. I went to the main door and stepped inside. The monks were kneeling in front of the altar, chanting prayers. Their shaven heads shone in the lamplight. Buddha seemed to hover in mid-air in the semi-darkness, the lamps glinting off the brass cups. The joss-stick smoke hung marbled in the air, moving only when a finger of breeze blew in. It was an unearthly experience. I felt I was wrapped in the pure essence of divinity. Somehow, I had transcended the ordinary in my life and was now in what an adult might have termed a state of grace.

  By the time the prayer session ended, it was fully daylight. I left the temple to find the men from my dormitory sluicing their faces at a water trough fed by a small stone-lined gully. A few had loosened their shirts and were rubbing their armpits. I followed their example. The water was only a few degrees above freezing and tightened my skin the moment it touched it, stealing my breath. The cold breeze chilled my wet skin until it hurt.

  I was pondering on whether or not to fetch my towel when my father appeared, fully dressed but dishevelled, his towel around his neck. Not greeting me, he balanced his wash bag on the edge of the trough and removed from it a razor, shaving brush and a bowl of shaving soap. He wet his face with a flannel, soaped himself without being able to build up much of a lather, and started shaving. Several of the other men gave each other knowing glances.

  It must have been hell. Over the sou
nd of the wind, I could hear the blade of his safety razor rasping at his stubble. More than once, he winced but kept his jaw set and his razor hand firm. He had just finished his chin when the towel slipped from his neck, caught his wash bag and the two of them fell into the water. His shaving brush followed, the weight of its ivory handle sinking it to the bottom of the trough. My father had no alternative but to strip to the waist and immerse himself to the shoulder to retrieve it.

  An hour later, warmed by a bowl of tea and a serving of congee, we bade the guest master farewell by bowing to him and left the monastery. We headed for Mui Wo, otherwise known as Silvermine Bay, seven and a half miles away over the mountains. It was quite heavy going in places but, by mid-morning, the sky was cloudless and blue, the sunlight sharp and warm on the skin.

  As on the day before, I forged ahead of the party and thought over my brief stay in the monastery. I could never, I decided, adapt to the life of a monk, yet it certainly held a distinct attraction. The monastery had been so peaceful, my father’s chattering teeth apart, and the chanting had somehow lifted my soul. I knew, there and then, that I would return to the monastery one day.

  On Hong Kong-side, in addition to rickshaws, taxis and buses, there was a double-decker tram system that ran from Kennedy Town in the west to Shau Kei Wan at the eastern extremity of the city. A branch line veered off to Happy Valley where it went in a circuit round the racecourse and was diverted to the tram depot. The newer trams were made of metal panelling on a steel chassis, the seats were wooden slats and the windows went up and down on a sash. Power was supplied by overhead poles connecting to wires, the trams driven by electric motors. On those that were older, the front and rear upper decks were open whilst one or two very old models had upper decks that were completely open to the sky.

  The trams were slow and noisy as they rattled and ground their way along tracks set in the metalled surface of the streets, yet they were also almost romantic, a means of locomotion from another age. Furthermore, they were cheap. The fare was ten cents, no matter how far one travelled. This was ideal for me. I would walk towards Kennedy Town and mount a tram heading east. If I got on near the start of the journey I was assured a top-deck front seat.

  The vehicle seemed to clatter and clank its way through a history of urban Hong Kong. From Western District with its narrow nineteenth-century streets lined with traditional Chinese buildings as old as the colony itself, the tram tracks entered Central District, swaying by the plush prestige stores such as the Dragon Seed Company. Running down the centre of Des Voeux Road, it went along the edge of Statue Square, by the façades of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank and the Bank of China – under the impassive bronze gaze of Stephen and Stitt – before skirting the Hong Kong Cricket Club pitch.

  From my vantage point on the top deck I could look down on the pedestrians, coolies and rickshaws, old crones pushing wheeled trolleys piled with bags of laundry, Chinese school children in pristine uniforms, amahs immaculate in black and white, policemen in their khaki uniforms, with their black Sam Browne belts and revolvers in holsters, directing the traffic from their pagoda-like platforms. Conservative-looking British and brash American cars drove by. Cyclists wove in and out of the traffic.

  Next, the tram would enter Wanchai, sliding past bars, tea houses, mahjong schools and restaurants. Passengers boarded or alighted at tram stops on small traffic islands, getting on the tram at the front and off at the rear. Onwards then along the edge of the Causeway Bay typhoon shelter, North Point, Quarry Bay and Sai Wan Ho. Eventually, after more than an hour, the tram would reach Shau Kei Wan where, turning in a circle by a junk-building yard, it would set off on the return journey. I would break my journey here, sit on the sea wall over which I knew the invading Japanese Imperial Army had swarmed in 1941, drink a Green Spot and watch the carpenters shaping planks to make a junk before me, the keel laid and the air scented with the perfume of teakwood shavings.

  One summer’s afternoon, I was sitting on the upper deck of an eastbound tram when an elderly European woman carrying a silver-topped walking cane and a bunch of yellow roses wrapped in cellophane sat next to me.

  ‘Excuse me, young man,’ she said, ‘but can you tell me if this tram is for Happy Valley?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, ‘this tram goes to North Point.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ she exclaimed, suddenly clearly distressed. ‘I need to get to Happy Valley. It’s all most confusing.’

  I realized then that she was not a gweipor and offered to take her there. She readily accepted and, after changing trams at the Percival Street switch-over, we proceeded around the race course perimeter.

  ‘Where exactly are you going?’ I enquired.

  ‘To the cemetery,’ was her answer.

  The Happy Valley cemetery was the second oldest in Hong Kong, the earliest graves dating to the foundation of the colony.

  As we approached the tram stop by the cemetery entrance, she asked, ‘You wouldn’t help me, would you, young man? I’m afraid my legs aren’t what they used to be.’

  I helped her down the stairs and across the road into the cemetery. The graves were arranged on a series of stepped terraces running up the side of the valley.

  ‘I need to find a grave,’ she said as we entered the cemetery.

  I looked in dismay at the serried ranks of perhaps a thousand tombstones. Those higher up the cemetery were overgrown with creepers. Ideal snake terrain, I thought. And I was wearing shorts, short socks and sandals.

  ‘Could you help me find it?’

  I was beginning to think I had been suckered by this sweet old lady but decided to assist her nevertheless.

  ‘What is the … ?’ I was not sure how to refer to a corpse.

  She gave me the surname, adding, ‘He died in 1879.’

  While the elderly lady perched on a grave, leaning on her cane and wiping her brow, I started to trot methodically along the lines of graves. In three-quarters of an hour I had viewed all the graves except those in the cover which I was most loathe to approach.

  All the graves were of Europeans, predominantly men under the age of thirty. Some were military graves, others civilian. Yet what astonished me was their causes of death. Diseases I had expected, but not ‘fell from the rigging’, ‘lost overboard’, ‘murdered in the pursuance of his duty’, and ‘killed by pirates off Cheefoo’. Many of the memorials had been erected ‘by his shipmates’ or public subscription.

  The elderly lady was disappointed I had not found her grave but she gave me a ten-dollar note.

  I thanked her and asked why she was seeking the grave.

  ‘It’s my great-grandfather,’ she replied. ‘He was one of the first British people to live here.’

  I thought for a minute then said, ‘The oldest graveyard is in Stanley. I go swimming near there.’

  ‘And how might I get to Stanley?’

  ‘There’s a bus,’ I told her, ‘but I don’t know where to catch it.’

  She bent down and kissed me on my cheek. ‘You are a little angel,’ she praised me.

  At that, she picked up her roses and hailed a taxi.

  ‘Can you tell the driver where I want to go?’

  I leant through the window and said, ‘Chek Chue.’

  With that, she was gone. The last I saw of her were her yellow roses on the back parcel shelf of the taxi.

  When I arrived home, I told my mother what I had been up to.

  ‘Well, you did your best for the poor soul,’ she remarked.

  ‘But the graves …’ I said. ‘No-one died of old age.’

  ‘No, I’m sure they didn’t,’ my mother replied. ‘That was their sacrifice. Those people founded Hong Kong. They set the ball rolling for all of us.’ She was pensive for a moment before adding, ‘I wonder what they’d think of it now.’

  That evening, I sat on the balcony with all of Hong Kong spread out at my feet and tried to imagine it without streets and buildings and ferry boats. Instead of grey British and American warships I
attempted to visualize men-o’-war and opium clippers and war junks. And it came to me that I was a descendant of those men, keeping the ball rolling merely by my being there.

  My father had a fierce hatred of the trams based upon the facts that they had no brake lights, they caused traffic jams at tram stops where vehicular traffic had to give way to alighting or embarking passengers, and they had a right of way over the traffic lights. Worse, however, was their inability to stop as quickly as a car.

  The first incident happened on Yee Wo Street. My father wished to turn right into Kai Chiu Road. Disregarding a tram coming up behind, he pulled smartly into the centre of the road – where the tram tracks lay – and waited for a break in the traffic. There was the sound of tearing metal. Sparks flew from the tram wheel. A North Point bound tram slid into the back of the Ford at an impact speed of about three miles an hour. I was mildly jolted in the back seat. My father got out to survey the damage. The rear offside lights of the Ford were smashed, the bumper and rear wing dented and deformed. The tram driver alighted, surveyed the situation then gesticulated for my father to get his car out of the way. On the tram, all the passengers were leaning out of the windows.

  My father refused to move. My mother and I joined him. A crowd began to gather on the pavement expectantly awaiting what was an inescapable confrontation.

  ‘Move the car towards the kerb, Ken,’ my mother suggested.

  ‘No, Joyce! Not until the police have seen it.’

  ‘You’ve got me and Martin as witnesses.’

  ‘No!’ my father repeated bluntly. ‘I want independent third-party verification. The law clearly states that the driver of any vehicle that goes up the back of another vehicle is liable. I’m not at fault here …’

  My mother sought to placate my father. ‘No-one says you are, Ken.’

  ‘He’s culpable,’ my father said, pointing an accusatory finger at the tram driver, who took umbrage at being pointed at and let off a stream of invective in Cantonese that even I could not translate.