In the centre of the table was a two-and-a-half-foot-long model of a Royal Navy destroyer, exact in every detail. It was painted battleship grey with its identification letter and numbers on the hull. At the bow hung the Union Jack, at the stern the White Ensign. On the bridge were the Aldiss lamp and searchlights, the wheel and a brass compass and engine room telegraph. On deck, the guns pointed fore and aft, the anchor chain lay on the deck and there were rope loops on the Carley floats and lifeboats. Even the rigging existed, thin lines of what I assumed to be fuse wire running from deck to mast.
Models such as this were only to be found in maritime museums. I was speechless. Wong stood by my side.
âDis you cake, young master. Happy burfday for you.' In the background, Ah Shun smiled, bemused by the whole affair.
âCake?' I replied.
âYou say you wantee warship cake. Wong do for you.'
I just hugged him.
The cake had taken Wong a fortnight. He had worked every spare moment he could afford, often late into the night. The hull and superstructure were a rich fruit cake chock-full of glace cherries and sultanas and covered in hard royal icing, the lifeboats made of marzipan and icing, the main armament and gun turrets of solid icing. Most astonishing of all was the rigging, made of spun sugar. To keep the cake as it was assembled, it had been hidden in the windowless dry room off my parents' bedroom where clothes and shoes were kept to avoid them going mouldy in the humid tropical air. Despite this precaution, they still quickly grew a hazy fur of fungus, and the cake would have grown a microscopic lawn in hours, but Wong knew a trick. A small charcoal burner was kept alight in the room which absorbed any humidity that got in.
I did not want to cut into it. Neither did my mother. At the end of the table was a smaller ordinary cake with candles on it. We ate that instead but, the following day, we started on the destroyer. I forget what presents I received.
The destroyer was not Wong's only artistic culinary masterpiece. He could carve chrysanthemum blooms out of raw carrots and decorative leaves out of cucumbers. Mashed potato was always served in small volcano shapes with the tops slightly browned under the grill. Crown roast New Zealand lamb arrived on the table with the rib ends culminating in parsnip, not paper, decorations. For cocktail parties, Wong prepared what was known as
small chow,
but which my father preferred to refer to as finger fodder, possibly a naval term. Mushrooms stuffed with anchovies, cheese and soy sauce sticks, thinly sliced fresh pineapple and shrimps on toast with home-made mayonnaise and a scattering of sesame seeds â his repertoire and penchant for experimentation seemed inexhaustible.
At drinks parties, Wong being occupied in the kitchen, my
father delegated me to help him wait on the guests. My responsibilities were to see that no-one's glass was empty and to serve the trays of
small chow.
At first, I regarded this as an onerous chore but I came to look forward to it. My father taught me how to mix drinks, I was able to consume Wong's delicacies on the sly and I became privy to the world of adult conversation which, on occasion, I found fascinating. It was by such eavesdropping that I learnt the true story of HMS
Amethyst,
attacked by Chinese forces on the Yangtze River in 1949 and the Rape of Nanking by the Japanese in the winter of 1937. Such parties also had their lighter side. On Christmas Eve morning, 1953, I went into my parents' bathroom to get a new tube of toothpaste only to discover a Royal Navy Commander, resplendent in mess uniform with gold braid and medals, asleep on his back in the bath, gently snoring, his arms crossed over his chest with a tiger lily thrust between his fingers. I tip-toed out and never saw him again.
That same winter, my father returned home in the early hours from a mess night with the Royal Air Force at Kai Tak airport. He was well oiled and humming tunelessly. This was most unusual, for my father was typically morose and self-pitying when the worse for booze. His dinner suit was caked in congealed blood.
I stood by as my mother, simultaneously concerned and furious, stripped my father to his vest and Y-fronts, sat him in the bath and washed him down. He had a nasty gash on the inside of his arm but it was insufficient to account for the quantity of blood all over him, even matted in his hair. When he was clean, my mother pulled the plug, sent him into the spare room, covered him with a sheet and went back to her own bed. I withdrew to mine.
In the morning, my mother held a breakfast inquisition.
âWhat the hell were you doing last night, Ken? Your dinner
jacket's ruined. So's your shirt. And you've lost two of the gold studs your father gave you.'
My father made no reply.
âThat's not a rhetorical question, Ken.'
âFan cricket,' my father admitted at length. He looked down at his arm, his wound covered by a large adhesive bandage.
What had happened was that, after the formal dinner, the RAF officers' mess members had decided on a game of fan cricket, mess vs. guests, which involved everyone present forming a circle around a ceiling fan. This was set at maximum speed and an empty beer can tossed into it. Wherever it flew out from the spinning propeller, it had to be caught. Of course, after the first toss, the metal was mangled into pieces as sharp as razor blades.
âYou'd better visit the
Tamar
MO and have a tetanus shot,' my mother stated. âGod knows what bacteria were breeding on the can.'
My father got up to leave the table, his breakfast untouched.
âSit down!' my mother commanded imperiously.
My father obeyed. I had never seen him so docile and compliant.
âWhat's more, your trousers are torn and the remnants of your jacket smell of petrol.'
âBetter than perfume,' my father answered back, smiling sheepishly and hoping to bring some sense of levity to the breakfast table.
âWhat ⦠!' said my mother, her jaw set and her eyes wide with rage.
My father confessed how the evening's jollity had ended. The mess piano had been carried outside and placed at the rear of a Hawker Hunter jet fighter parked on the apron. The engine was then fired up and the piano incinerated.
My mother listened to this in silence then commented, âA fine example for Martin. Now eat your bloody breakfast.'
My father prodded his fried egg with his fork and made to stand up again.
âWong gets up before six to see you have a breakfast,' my mother remarked, âso kindly show him the respect he deserves and eat the bloody thing. And one more matter,' she continued, âwhen the mess bill comes in, the cost doesn't come out of my housekeeping money.'
This was the second occasion during our years in Hong Kong when my father's drunken escapades had cost my mother dear. When stationed in Japan, one night he and a friend had gone into a saloon in Sasebo where there was an American naval rating shooting his mouth off about the Royal Navy, the Queen and the British in general. He made it abundantly clear that the Royal Navy was not worth the water it sailed on, the Queen was âa nice piece of ass' and the British as a nation were spineless, gutless and worth less than their navy. My father and his friend agreed with him and kept his glass full until he was paralytic. They then carried him out of the bar and down the street to a tattoo artist who tattooed his entire chest in full colour with the White Ensign, the Union Jack and
God Save the Queen.
My mother's housekeeping allowance was somewhat short that month.
As time went by, my father's increasing delight in and reliance upon the company of Johnnie Walker, Messrs Justerini and Brooks and his namesake (but no relation) Mr Booth â not to mention his friend, Mr Gordon â grew. When he arrived home from the office, his first visit was to the drinks cabinet, Wong running in from the kitchen with a jug of water, a container of ice and a cold bottle of tonic, covering all the angles with them. Sometimes, my father returned late having, as he put it,
just popped into the wardroom.
His favourite snifter was pink gin,
popular in officers' messes on every warship afloat. It consisted of gin diluted with water, with a dash of Angostura bitters. My father took it without the water.
My father's drinking never got him truly, staggeringly, equilibriumly challenged, sad-song-singingly, punch-flingingly, bosom-friend-makingly drunk. Furthermore, he never suffered from a hangover. Consequently, my father never felt himself to be sozzled, as my mother termed it, trying to make light of the situation for her own sanity and self-respect. Worse still, he would never admit to being under the influence. No matter how much alcohol slid down his gullet, my father remained vertical, comparatively lucid and even able to drive without incident. The only obvious sign of intoxication other than his breath was his attitude towards my mother and me. He was psychologically abusive, skilfully criticizing or belittling us in front of our friends. His attacks were never short, sharp, soon-to-be-forgotten, even forgiven, episodes. They were calculated, long-term personal projects bent on undermining his subject's spirit and, as his drinking increased, these melded together into a continuous animosity which drove people â my mother, myself, my parents' friends â away in disgust. As a result, my father was tolerated rather than liked and became a lonely, disenchanted and bitter man.
He never praised but only criticized or admonished, muttering through clenched teeth that my mother and I did not come up to his standard â but then he never told us where the benchmark lay. After one confrontation with him, my mother declared to me that we had already exceeded his standard and that that was the problem, but I did not understand what she meant.
One Saturday lunchtime, not long after we moved to the Peak, my father arrived home in a foul temper. Something had gone wrong at the office.
âWhat's the matter, Ken?' my mother enquired, coming in from the kitchen.
âDon't you start!' he snapped as he mixed himself a quadruple pink gin.
âI was only askingâ'
âWell bloody well don't!'
My mother let this roll over her and said, âLet's have lunch. Philip and Ray'll be here at two.'
âI'm not going swimming,' my father replied. âBloody waste of time.'
Normally, this would have upset my mother. She did not drive and we were therefore reliant upon my father or public transport to take us everywhere. But Philip and Ray Bryant were close friends of my mother's and owned a huge pre-war grey Jaguar saloon with massive headlights and leather seats. I sensed Philip was critical of my father's naval pretensions and despised his treatment of my mother. A handsome and jovial man, he was a Royal Navy Commander, Ray a vivacious and pretty woman with black hair and the refined movement of a ballet dancer. They had met in Egypt during the war.
âWell, we're going swimming,' my mother rejoined firmly. âYou can do what you like. You can sleep all bloody day for all I care.
At this, my father grabbed a cushion off the settee and hurled it at the glass doors to the balcony. It was a hot day. They were open. The cushion spun through them without touching the sides and sailed, like a brocade extra-terrestrial craft, out into the air. It disappeared from view on its way down the steep mountainside towards the city below. My mother and I rushed downstairs and out on to the lawn that surrounded the building. Arriving at the retaining wall, we looked down. Hong Kong and the harbour, with Kowloon in the distance, lay at our feet. The cushion was
lodged in some bushes about fifty yards down on a not quite sheer slope. A short distance beyond it, the angle of the hillside sharpened before dropping into a band of trees.
âYou're right, Ken,' she said as we returned to the apartment, âyou're not coming. You're going down the bloody hillside and you're going to retrieve my bloody cushion.'
As we drove to the beach in Philip's Jaguar, my mother recounted what had come to pass. I asked what would happen if my father slipped.
âNo need to worry,' Philip answered. âLugard Road'll break his fall.'
When we returned at dusk, the cushion was back on the settee, cleaned by Ah Shun. A filthy white shirt, shredded by thorns, lay on my mother's bed, a sort of trophy of war.
At home, when my father threw things, they were always items â books, the newspaper, cushions â that were sure not to make a dent in the wall or parquet flooring. In the office, it was a different matter. There, midway through berating a Chinese clerk or typist standing trembling before him, he would, to emphasize a point in his tirade, grab the black bakelite telephone and hurl it at the wall. It would smash to pieces. Women would burst into tears. The men would keep on quaking. If the telephone was not handy, he threw the office wall clock. In the end someone fitted a shorter cord to the telephone so that, when he flung it, it reached the extent of its flex and fell harmlessly on to the carpet. The Chinese staff called him
mok tau
(blockhead) and worse. They often used these names to his face but as he spoke no Cantonese, they were safe. I once heard a clerk call him
gai lun jai
(chicken penis boy): the clerk must have assumed that, as I was my father's son, I spoke no Cantonese either.