by Boris Hembry
Guthrie’s encouraged their planters to take annual local leave, and from 1937 we started our yearly trips to Fraser’s Hill, a hill station 6,000 feet above sea level, where the days were cool and the nights could be positively cold. Guthrie’s owned the Whittington Bungalow which could accommodate about 20 people, so one was always assured of meeting kindred spirits amongst the other paying guests. The staff was well-trained, and the log fires in the evenings made for a relaxing break. There was a good nine-hole golf course, a small club with a well-stocked library, and many varied and interesting walks. The flora and fauna, particularly the birdlife, were so different to that which one normally saw on lowland estates, that there were always lots of interesting things to see. After the war I was to become a director of Whittington, but by then we tended to go up to Cameron Highlands, as it was nearer – one could go there for the day – and Fraser’s tended to become over-full with the younger KL-ites and the military.
We were spending one Sunday at Cameron Highlands with Pat Martine and, amongst others, an acquaintance by name of Crowther-Smith. Pat had borrowed Rajah Brooke of Sarawak’s bungalow. One night after dinner, when the girls had gone to the bedroom to powder their noses, the men, as was customary, went out to water the cannas, followed by the resident dog who, as it was obviously the custom, also raised his leg – but on this occasion squirted all down Crowther-Smith’s beautifully creased white drill trousers. Ever afterwards he was known as ‘Trouser-Smith’. He was to die most gallantly during the battle for Singapore.
During 1939 I was admitted to Batu Gajah Hospital to have my appendix removed. By way of convalescence, and in view of the fact that I had now been back in Malaya for four years, having had but one spell of home leave in eight and a half years, and was beginning to feel rather run down (I had also had a couple of bouts of malaria), Humphrey persuaded the agents in KL to agree to my taking a fortnight’s sick leave, on full pay and at Guthrie’s expense, which included Jean and John. This was most pleasant and unexpected as, prewar, companies did not pay their employees when they were on leave, nor, as I have mentioned, the fares of their employee’s wife and children.
We decided to take the Straits Steamship Kuala for the round trip from Penang to Moulmein, the Burmese port south of Rangoon, further north than Mergui which I had visited in 1934. I thought that Jean would find the trip enchanting and the sea breezes most welcome. The Kuala would be sunk by Japanese shellfire while it was evacuating European women, mostly nurses, at the fall of Singapore, with great loss of life. We were to lose several friends on that ill-fated voyage, many of whom were ‘rescued’ from the sea, taken on board the Japanese cruiser, raped and then, it was rumoured, murdered by simply tossing them over the side. I have often wondered whether the Japanese captain was ever called to account for these hideous crimes. I hate to think that he ‘honourably’ went down with his ship. And we are supposed to let bygones be bygones, even after 40 years?
The whole trip was most enjoyable and, as expected, Jean was entranced with the scenery. In some places the deepwater channels were so close to the islands that it was possible to throw bottles on to dry land on either side of the ship. The jungle came right down to the water’s edge and we once saw a panther slinking away from our unwarranted intrusion. I also remember a mass of sea snakes swimming alongside the ship. These snakes are very poisonous; they look just like land snakes, but with a flat vertical tail like a fish.
We spent an interesting couple of nights at Moulmein, and amongst the sights saw Kipling’s ‘old Moulmein Pagoda’ and ‘the flyin-fishes play’, but not, alas, ‘the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay’ – that was poetic licence. We had become friendly with a fellow passenger who was governor of Moulmein prison, and he loaned us his car and syce. We saw the elephants at work in the Steel Brothers’ timber yards, moving great baulks of teak around, some of the older, more experienced ones without even the supervision of a mahout.
Our return journey followed exactly the same route as the outward trip, and again we were to marvel at the helmsman’s skill in negotiating the narrow passages between the islands. On New Year’s Eve 1938 a Straits Steamship Company vessel, on its way from Penang to Singapore, had run aground on the rocks off Pangkor Island, off the coast of Perak, and was a total wreck. As we sat at the captain’s table one evening I asked him, by way of small talk, which silly ass had celebrated Hogmanay so much that he had wrecked his ship – a very foolish question, because not only could there have been very exceptional circumstances for this shipwreck (there were), but it might have been the very person to whom I was talking (it was).
The pleasant two weeks did us both the power of good. On our return to Penang we tiffined with the Martines, who were in the process of packing up to move to Kuching, in Sarawak, and promotion for Charles as it was the senior managerial job in the Borneo Company. We rescued a Chinese carpet that they had discarded and took it home rolled up on the top of our car. Shortly after I got back to Kamuning after the War to find our bungalow had been totally looted, I was browsing around a shop in Sungei Siput when I spotted a rolled-up carpet standing in a corner. I unrolled it and immediately recognised our Chinese carpet. The shopkeeper swore that he had bought it quite legitimately in Ipoh, and it could not have been looted from my bungalow. But I would brook no argument, gave the man $20 and marched out with the carpet under my arm. It looked good in its old place on the sitting room floor, and I wrote to Jean with the good news of its recovery. When Jean returned to Kamuning in July 1946 the first thing she said when she entered the sitting room was ‘That’s not our carpet!’. Nevertheless, it served us well, and was only discarded when we moved from Suffolk to Canterbury in 1972. A good $20 worth – about £2.50.
Whilst all this was going on the news from Europe, in the letters from home, in the newspapers and on the wireless, became increasingly ominous, and it did not take a genius to realise that we would soon be at war with Germany again. Many of us contemplated returning to England to join up, but it was pointed out, quite rightly, that we could contribute far more to a war effort by staying on in Malaya and producing those vital commodities, rubber and tin. In any case, some of us, but by no means all, considered that we could well be required to defend this part of the Empire against the Japanese in the not too distant future. Nevertheless, we worried for our families in Britain, most of whom had been involved in the Great War, so we were aware of the horrors to be expected, and the sacrifices that the nation would be required to make. But it simply did not enter anyone’s head but that we would beat the Hun again.
We were having supper with a few friends, including the Butlers, and the Northcote-Greens who had come down for the weekend, on 3 September when we heard news of the Declaration of War from the Prime Minister’s own lips. In spite of expecting it, all present were stunned, and the party broke up in a sombre mood. On reflection, though, it cannot be too usual for a dinner party to be broken up by the declaration of a world war.
For the first few days after the declaration we lived in fear and trepidation as to what we would hear on the news. But when it became apparent that there were to be no immediate and devastating air raids on London we relaxed and life returned to normal.
Training of the Volunteers increased and staff sergeant instructors were seconded from various regular battalions to assist. Attendance at annual camp, usually at Port Dickson, had always been encouraged but was not compulsory. In 1940 it was made so, and for all able-bodied Europeans under the age of 35, whether they had previously served or not. Thus hundreds of men who had hitherto avoided military training were called to the colours. In order to improve the standard of fitness and training it was decided that the Volunteers would be embodied for a minimum of a month. We old hands took great delight in seeing the ‘box wallahs’ doubling around the parade grounds and padangs, cursing and sweating profusely, often under the command of their office and estate juniors. I had two senior Guthrie managers from the KL office in my platoo
n and, whilst I did not pick on them, they certainly were made to perform as well as everyone else. One of them, Peter Taylor, became a good friend and eventually managing director of Guthrie’s, Malaya.
Towards the end of September Humphrey Butler informed me that the company wished him to retire at the end of the year. He was 59, a good four years over the normal retirement age, but nevertheless very fit and at the top of his profession. Naturally we were all concerned as to who would take over, and you can imagine my delight when I learned that it was to be Bob Chrystal.
Doctor David Reid Tweedie had arrived in Sungei Siput by now, together with his Pathan bearer Thulasi. Reid, as he was to be known throughout Malaya and beyond, had spent several years in the Indian Medical Service in the North West Frontier province. I shall never forget his arrival; dressed in a plum-coloured suit, he looked like a caricature of an East End Jew – short, tubby, large bald head, prominent nose and heavy blue jowl. For a short time, I must admit, I viewed him with suspicion, but very soon fell under his spell. Reid and Jean and I were to remain close friends for the next 30 years. As I write he still lives in the ‘White House’, perched on a hill, on the Kamuning Estate, and still in practice in Sungei Siput, in spite of having a large house in Surrey where his wife Ruth lives. John and Linda stayed with him during one of their visits. Not so long ago he appeared on Whicker’s World, on BBC Television, with his faithful Thulasi still in attendance. Reid boasted that he had not removed his shoes or boots himself since the mid-1930s. That was what a bearer was for.
Bob Chrystal arrived to take over Kamuning early in December 1940. The actual handover of the estate did not take very long, but the numerous farewell parties, given by everyone from the estate workers and office staff, to the British Adviser, spun out the Butlers’ departure for several weeks, during which Bob and Babs stayed with us in the senior assistant’s bungalow. One party was particularly memorable. It was given by the Chinese community and held in a Chinese restaurant in Ipoh. The alcohol flowed freely. There were many speeches, in English, Tamil, Malay, Punjabi and several dialects of Chinese, all of which were translated by Sohan Singh into the other languages of those present, each speech followed by the cry ‘yam seng’, after which the full glass is emptied in one. At a late stage in the proceedings I went for a pee, stepping over a large block of ice in the middle of the lavatory floor. Whilst I was in full flow one of the boys came in with a tray of glasses, said, ‘Tabek, Tuan,’ and, to my horror, proceeded to chip off lumps of ice and drop them into the glasses before returning to the party to serve another round of drinks. I could only conclude that the whisky and brandy were sufficiently strong to disguise any unusual flavours, and hoped that the large quantity of alcohol we had consumed, which for the Chinese would have been the very best five-star cognac, had killed off any germs.
After dinner some of us went on to the local dance hall and stayed until the early hours. It seems that when we came to leave I sailed down the steps, sat myself in a rickshaw and demanded to be taken to Sungei Siput, all of 19 miles away. We set off and I soon fell asleep. Luckily the rickshaw driver was recalled to the dance hall where Jean and the Butlers were waiting with the car. My syce was the only one with any money so he had to settle up for the rickshaw. Apparently I fell into the monsoon drain when we got home, stumbled up the stairs, woke up John, undressed by splitting my jacket in two, threw myself onto my bed, but missed it by a good few feet and crashed on to the floor. I was not at all popular with the mem.
Bob and Babs, together with their daughter Helen, settled in very quickly before departing to spend Christmas at Cameron Highlands. The war seemed a long way away, although the wireless became a much more important feature in our lives than hitherto. I had booked to telephone home but was told that the lines were now reserved for official communications only.
Bob returned shortly after Christmas, leaving Babs and Helen at Cameron Highlands. About a week later he was taken desperately ill with a perforated duodenal ulcer. It seemed that he collapsed during the night and the boy, hearing the groans of agony, ran to McNicholl, the new junior assistant, whose bungalow was nearby, who called Reid Tweedie. They rushed Bob to Batu Gajah Hospital where they contacted Mr Chitty, one of the best surgeons ever to go to Malaya. He was waiting for them when they arrived, confirmed Reid’s diagnosis, and immediately operated. Another hour and it would have been too late.
I knew nothing of these goings on until McNicholl told me at muster in the morning. I telephoned the hospital and the sister advised that Babs should be told to get there as soon as possible. I telephoned Babs, told her the news, and arranged to meet her at Tapah, where the road up to Cameron Highlands turns off the main north-south road. We found Bob in a critical condition and barely conscious. Happily, after two days on the danger list, Bob began his remarkable recovery and we could all relax. It is still difficult to believe that, within 15 months, Bob was to take to the jungle and to stay there, living with the Sakai, for over three and a half years.
When Bob came out of hospital the company rightly insisted that, after regaining his strength, he should go on accelerated leave, and he and Babs and Helen left for Australia in June 1940. Bob had advocated my appointment as acting manager during his absence and the directors agreed, much to the annoyance of a number of other Guthrie staff who considered that they had prior claim to this senior position. This was made very plain to me when I went to a meeting that several senior Guthrie planters had to attend in KL a few months later, when it was obvious that ‘young Hembry’ was not very popular. In fact I rather enjoyed it, as I knew that I was there solely because of my ability rather than seniority of service. It still rankled some 14 years later when Jean was asked to act as Sir John Hay’s hostess at a gathering at Port Dickson. One planter’s wife made it very clear that she still thought her husband, both older and senior in service, had been slighted all those years before.
As was the custom, Jean and I moved over to the manager’s bungalow where, after redecorating the verandah to Bab’s wishes, we settled down to enjoy the added space and, above all, the large swimming pool and tennis court. We entertained a lot and Jean enjoyed the large mature garden, ably assisted by the two Tamil kebuns, one of whom even knew the Latin names of some of the plants.
Early in 1941 it was my turn for the compulsory two-month Volunteer embodiment at Port Dickson. Guthrie’s sent Ian Murray, a cheerful and very efficient Scot, to take my place on Kamuning for this period. We were destined to be in tandem for most of the rest of our careers. He acted for me on Kamuning again when I went on leave in 1947, he took over from me on Bukit Asahan Estate, in Malacca, in 1952 and again as general manager of Ulu Remis Estate, Johore, in 1953.
We had not been in the manager’s bungalow very long when both Jean and I heard running footsteps along the whole length of the verandah, across our bedroom and into the nursery. I flashed the torch but saw no one. Then, only a few weeks later, when Mary Rawson, who was staying with us whilst her husband John, the manager of Chungkit Salak Estate nearby, was away for Volunteer embodiment, asked us one morning what I was doing running along the verandah in the middle of the night. Jean explained that it was not me but that we too had often heard the footsteps. We had heard servants’ talk that the bungalow had a ghost but had taken no notice, especially as neither the Butlers nor the Chrystals had remarked about it. It was a wooden bungalow and the most likely explanation was that the timbers were contracting in the cool of the night after the heat of the day.
But footsteps are footsteps. And some 22 years later, when the Butlers stayed with us in Suffolk for a weekend, and naturally there was much reminiscing, Jean raised the matter of the haunting and asked whether they had ever heard the footsteps. They looked at each other and Sheila said to Humphrey: ‘I think it’s safe enough now to tell them the story, don’t you?’
Back in 1929, when their son Tony was a small baby, his amah (nanny) was the cook’s wife. They were an excellent couple in every respect. However, th
ere came a day when Sheila became aware that all was not well in the servants’ quarters. She had seen a strange Chinese woman hanging about and had asked who she was. It seems that she was the cook’s number one wife who had suddenly turned up from China, and was most unwelcome. Matters soon deteriorated to the extent that there was continual and very loud quarrelling, often well into the night, until eventually the Butlers insisted that one of the women, preferably the latest arrival, must go. Very soon after this ultimatum the newcomer, obviously demented, seized baby Tony from his pram in the garden and ran with him up the bungalow steps, along the whole length of the verandah, through the main bedroom and into the nursery where she threatened the baby with a knife. She was overpowered and taken to Tanjung Rambutan mental hospital where she remained for some months. But when she was eventually released she returned to the estate, and very soon the trouble reoccurred.
The Butlers had arranged to take some local leave and before leaving had instructed the cook to get rid of his first wife before they returned. If not, all three would be dismissed.
When Humphrey and Sheila returned a fortnight later they were pleased to find that the woman had left and was presumably on her way back to China. Peace reigned and quietness returned to the servants’ quarters. However, after a little while, Sheila noticed that Amah was frequently in tears and appeared very distrait. Sheila said nothing because there could be several explanations and anyway Tony was being looked after in the old excellent way. But eventually they could stand it no longer and Humphrey and Sheila summoned the couple and said that unless they told them exactly what the problem was they would have to go. After denials that anything was wrong they finally broke down and told the following story.
