by Boris Hembry
The custodian of enemy property had taken over large quantities of looted possessions, and people were able to inspect and claim anything they had lost. Unfortunately, the custodian’s staff was not particularly good at establishing true provenance, and also there were some rather unscrupulous claimants, so many items were not returned to the true owners. Much more disgraceful was the manner in which one or two senior British generals, whom I could name, sailed home with packing cases full of carpets, silver and other treasured possessions of ex-POWs and internees. All we discovered of ours was a silver egg cup stand, minus the egg cups. The armed forces, being the first to arrive back in the country, had the first choice of anything they could find for their respective messes, and several of our friends managed to claim back the odd piece of silver or furniture they recognised whilst being entertained by the officers. But, other than the sherry glass, the piece of silver and the opium stool, Jean and I lost everything. For several years afterwards we took little interest in material possessions.
After nearly five years for the most part living alone or surrounded by men, it seemed strange at first having Jean run the home, welcome me at meal times, join me in excursions to friends’ houses or the club and, above all, to offer encouragement when I sometimes got disheartened at what I considered to be slow progress back to normality. I was happy and contented, but I knew that Jean felt the separation from John terribly.
Soon after Reid Tweedie first returned I began to feel off-colour and he diagnosed shingles. For some reason completely unknown to medical science he decided to inject emetin, a drug then usually prescribed for dysentery. I bared my bottom, lay on the bed, and he started jabbing. After a whole series of jabs, each one more painful than the last, Reid at last managed to penetrate my skin. When I had stopped yelling and cursing I asked him how long he had had the needle. He said it was one of only two he had used throughout his three years in captivity!
Strangely enough, malaria had not flourished over the war years. Without the anti-malarial measures just the opposite would have been expected. But the malaria-carrying mosquito only breeds in shallow water exposed to sunlight, so, with the neglect of the rubber estates, drains becoming blocked and undergrowth covering the streams and water courses, its breeding grounds were lost. In any case, the disease could now be held at bay with the new wonder drugs Mepecrin and Plasmocrin, so much so that I was to suffer from it again only when I went down with German measles whilst on leave in 1947, and with mumps after retirement in 1973.
Jean was free from malaria, too, but she went down with something far more serious. One day, soon after her return, she complained of aches and pains and was obviously running a fever, so Reid treated her for malaria. However, she quickly got far worse, her temperature reached 105, and she became delirious. Reid and I managed to get her wrapped in one of my sarongs and we drove at breakneck speed to Batu Gajah Hospital, me sitting in the back with her in my arms. The hospital was functioning again, just, but the only bed available was in the maternity ward and we were warned that, should a new baby arrive, Jean would have to be moved. All that night and the next day the doctors struggled to get her temperature down, but without success. I was beside myself with worry. I stayed at the nearby Batu Gajah rest house, from where I made frequent visits to the hospital. On the evening of the second day the doctor said that if they could not get the temperature down that night the consequences would be fatal. To my great relief they rang at about midnight to say that the temperature had broken and that Jean was sleeping peacefully. From then on she slowly recovered and I was allowed to take her home after three weeks. I visited her every day, and usually stopped off at the Ipoh Club for a few stengahs on the way home. She had been desperately ill, and the diagnosis was urban typhus.
I learned that there were two types – scrub or river typhus, and urban typhus. The first was spread by the ticks that feed on rats, the second is contracted from rat urine. After nearly five years lying derelict the bungalow had become infested with rats and we saw many running around, even during the day. Kim caught several. It was obvious that they were getting into the built-in cupboards in the servery where our china and cutlery was stored, and contaminating the dishes. I therefore had the estate carpenters construct new, free-standing cupboards lined with tin, and Jean instructed that all china and cutlery was to be washed immediately before being used, and no food of any description was to be left out in any circumstance. At the same time I instituted a drastic rat extermination campaign. We poisoned literally scores. On the very first morning, having put down more than 50 pieces of poisoned bait overnight, we picked up 20 dead rats, at least two as big as a large cat. I continued the campaign for a month, throughout the whole compound, until we were only picking up the odd one or two each night, which I judged to be strays from outside, which we would always get, and I considered the problem to have been overcome. I also instigated a similar regime throughout the estate with equal success although, unfortunately, we also killed quite a few dogs, cats, and wild animals.
Just before Jean’s sickness we had paid our first visit to the Kuala Kangsar Club, where the old Chinese head boy embraced us, and we spent a good half an hour swapping stories of our lives since we had last met. The club had only started to function again shortly before. But he seemed rather disconsolate all the same and when I questioned him he complained bitterly about the behaviour of the British Military Administrator acting as district officer and, therefore, ex-officio chairman of the club. The old man’s summing up was succinct: ‘Tuan DO, dia tida ada gentleman’ – Tuan DO, he is not a gentleman. This, of course, had nothing to do with his schooling or his accent, but everything to do with the way he behaved and spoke to the Asian employees.
Several functions were held in the Kuala Kangsar Club. ‘Function’ was a very popular word with Asians, and covered every gathering of more than a half dozen people. At one such function the Sultans of both Perak and Pahang were present. The former was charming and spoke very good English, whereas the latter seemed rather surly and insisted in speaking only raja, or court, Malay, so that much of his conversation was beyond us. However, towards the end of the evening, and probably due to judicious mixing of gin with his orange juice, he suddenly broke into fluent Oxford English, and told one or two rather risqué jokes.
Also present at that party were two Sikh army officers, tall and handsome, with their immaculate beards and turbans. We got on well, especially when I found out that we had been at the Battle of Donbaik together. We asked them to dinner the following week and had most enjoyable and interesting discussions over supper and lasting well into the small hours. They were both far better educated than either of us, could recite much English poetry and pages of Shakespeare. One’s favourite was Henry V, as befitted a fighting man, while the other’s was Romeo and Juliet, and John Donne and Keats. They were very practical men, admitting that, though swearing allegiance to the King Emperor, they were basically mercenaries and would be happy to fight for the best paymaster, all except the Communists. We then analysed the precise meaning of ‘best’ in this context, and I was pleased to learn that it included things other than just pay, such as regimental traditions and the competence of senior officers.
Then came the New Year and the expectation of home leave. Guthrie’s had promised me leave early in 1947 as recompense for my agreeing to take my discharge in Singapore, although I realised that they were hardly being generous on that score. We made plans to sail in the Oranje at the end of March. The liner had been restored to her former glory since Jean had travelled out on her, so we looked forward to almost a second honeymoon on what was then the most luxurious liner on the Singapore–East Indies run. We were not disappointed.
I handed over the managership of Kamuning to Ian Murray, who also agreed to look after my old friend Kim, having learned the few essential Japanese words. The estate was well on its way to making reasonable profits, the roads were in good shape, devastated areas were gradually being replanted, the
new clearings were now in bearing, and some of the oldest machinery had been replaced. All in all I was satisfied with the progress my staff, European and Asian, had made, and I knew that this would be maintained by the extremely competent in my absence, supported by my equally efficient senior assistant, Charles Ross.
We drove down to Singapore via KL and Linggi Estate, where we stayed the night with Donald and Betty Gray, before going on to Singapore in Donald’s car. We embarked the next morning, accompanied by the usual large party of well-wishers and scroungers, who disembarked at the very last moment. We had a very comfortable suite, comprising cabin, day cabin and bathroom. The ship was air-conditioned throughout, so it was no longer necessary to be POSH. The passengers were, naturally, predominantly Dutch, but there were quite a number of British aboard, including a number of old friends with whom we shared a most lively and not altogether alcohol-free table in the saloon.
The trip was restful and enjoyable, calling in at Balawan Deli, Colombo, Suez, Port Said and Genoa, where many passengers disembarked to travel overland to Holland. The ship then continued past Gibraltar and turned northwards into the Atlantic.
We had known that northern Europe was experiencing one of the severest and most prolonged spells of extremely cold and bad weather ever recorded, so we were not particularly surprised when off the coast of Portugal the sea began to get really rough, with the crests of the waves sometimes many feet above us. Jean had met the Captain on his rounds and he had warned her that the Oranje’s sister ship, the Indrapura, had met gales and seas in the Bay of Biscay of monstrous proportions and had warned us to proceed with the utmost caution. But our captain went on to say that he had received instructions from Rotterdam to reach port before the Easter holidays at all costs, and that he must do his best to obey these instructions. A very high price was to be paid for these orders.
We entered the Bay at over 20 knots, and the deeper we sailed into it the worse it became. The passengers had been warned of the weather ahead and advised to remain below decks. Jean and I, being good sailors, thought that we would view the wonderful sight of these massive breakers from the grandstand – the top deck. The Oranje was a large passenger liner, over 27,000 tons, and standing very high out of the water. But still the waves towered above us. It was truly awe-inspiring. After a few minutes Jean decided to go below, leaving a friend and I clinging to the rail and relishing the spectacle. Suddenly along came a truly terrifying wave, at least 60 feet higher than the ship. Before we could retreat it broke over the ship, swept us off our feet, and the next thing I knew I was hanging on to the ship’s rail for dear life, with my legs and feet at right angles to the deck, over the side. I was getting very frightened wondering just how long I could hang on; how long it would be before the ship rolled back again in the opposite direction. It did so as suddenly as it had rolled the other way, and I was dumped on the deck with so much force that it split the seat of my trousers. Then the siren sounded signalling ‘man overboard’. It could very easily have been me.
The pair of us crawled to the saloon on all fours; it was simply impossible to stand. In the saloon the grand piano, despite having been bolted to the floor, was piled up against a bulkhead with other pieces of furniture, smashed to little more than matchwood. It had come adrift and skidded across the dance floor before pinning two lady passengers against the wall, breaking their legs, and injuring several others. I was most relieved to see Jean huddled up on a settee which had held firm. A ship’s officer announced that the mountainous wave that had nearly done for me had broken the main steering and that we were now using the emergency which was situated right aft over the rudder.
The sea anchor was put out, and for the next 24 hours the great liner just wallowed. No meals were served, not that many were in the mood to eat. Every time the ship rolled the crash of glass and crockery could be heard. Until then I had rather scoffed at the Bay’s reputation for bad weather, but no longer. It was no myth.
When the Oranje finally got under power we made our way slowly through the Bay and the Channel into Southampton more than 36 hours late, to be greeted by the Daily Mail headline: ‘Dutch Death Ship Arrives’. In all five of the crew had died, either washed overboard or crushed to death on the deck by the sheer weight of water – the fourth officer, an engineer officer, a steward and stewardess and a nurse. Those not washed overboard were buried at sea. We learned later that several quite large ships had been lost without trace, one not many miles from where we had been wallowing.
It was a joy to be home again with a united family, although the weather continued to be bitterly cold. We made our base at the Cuthbertsons’ home in Hornchurch.
It was not my intention to buy a car, but I soon realised that for the full enjoyment of my long-awaited leave a car was essential. Through Grandpa Cuthbertson’s contacts I got hold of a Standard Fourteen. A really first-class car, I took it back to Malaya with me and eventually sold it to Tim Earl, my senior assistant, in 1950.
The cold spring gave way to one of the hottest and driest summers on record. Compton and Edrich were in their prime and scored many runs. I saw them bat at Lords, Chelmsford and Dover. The South Africans were touring as well and I managed to get tickets for the Lords Test through the East India Club.
One of my first excursions was to drive over to the Guthrie’s office at Dorking, to where they had moved from the City to escape the blitz. They had taken over the large country house formerly owned by the Webbs who had founded the socialist Fabian Society. My first meeting was with the Kamuning company secretary Keith Anderson, another son of the man who had put Guthrie’s on the planting map in the early days of the century.
The chairman of Guthrie’s, throughout my years with the company, was Sir John Hay. He had joined the company in 1904 as a junior bookkeeper and, after a year or so, had transferred to the estates department. By the end of the 1914–18 war he was in charge of the department and had been appointed to his first directorship, and in 1925 had become general manager, at the age of 42. He was knighted in 1939 for his services to the rubber industry.
John George Hay was a great man. He was vain, at times petty and spiteful, and on the whole unpopular within the company, particularly towards the end of his reign when he became almost a total dictator. But he could also be most generous and charming. Jean and I took to him from our first meeting and, throughout the years from 1947 until his death in 1963, we were the best of friends. Sir John had no time for ‘yes men’. If one stood up to him the bullying stopped. When we were introduced by Keith Anderson almost Sir John’s first words were, ‘D’yer know, Hembry, the only thing I have against you?’ ‘No, Sir John.’ ‘You are not a Scot.’ But this error of judgment on my part did not appear adversely to affect my progress within the company as, in less than four years, I had been appointed to the top position in Guthrie plantation management.
The long leave seemed to pass very quickly. In spite of all the pleasures of seeing family and old friends, and watching first-class cricket and John playing at Milner Court, where he had gained a place in the XI, I looked forward to getting back to Kamuning. Although I was pleased with the results so far, there was still much to do to make Kamuning a jewel, if not the jewel in the Guthrie crown. And I missed my old friend Kim. Guthrie’s had booked me on the old Cunard liner Georgic. She had been burnt out and half sunk at Suez during the war, had recently been refloated, and was being used as a troopship. I had avoided sailing on a trooper hitherto, and was not best pleased to have to now that I was a civilian, and a reasonably senior member of my profession. It was certainly a comedown from the Oranje. But passages were still controlled by the Government and in short supply. I refused to allow Jean to accompany me, in spite of our having to be parted from one another yet again, as I knew that conditions on the ship would be fairly awful. Anyway, we thought that it would be good for her to have an extra four months at home so that she could spend Christmas with John and her parents. In the event it was a fortunate decision as it wa
s the last one that Grandpa Cuthbertson was to have. I did not see him again after we said our farewells that September morning.
We sailed from Liverpool. My first glimpse of the sleeping arrangements filled me with dismay. Through the cabin doorways I saw 20 or so double and triple bunks, some, to my horror, occupied by women. The steward, however, showed me to a cabin with just three singles, which I was to share with another planter and the Postmaster General of Malaya. I was put at the captain’s table. Captain Gradidge was a most interesting man, and kept us enthralled with his seafaring tales. He was to become Commodore of Cunard, to command the Queen Elizabeth, and be knighted. Many a night he made life bearable, particularly in the Red Sea, by inviting me up to the bridge and his quarters which faced forward and so caught what breeze there was. The trip was very uncomfortable, and must have been hell for the several hundreds of service personnel and service wives who were confined between decks for most of the time, only allowed on deck for exercise in strict rota. As the Georgic had been burnt out there was scarcely any wood to be seen. The walls, ceilings, stanchions and pillars were all just white-painted steel, which gave off the heat horrifically.
We called in at Suez, Asmara and Colombo before reaching Singapore about 30 days out of Liverpool. I watched my Standard hoisted out of the hold on to the dockside, and saw that it was only slightly damaged, I suspect by a Liverpool docker very obviously having walked over the bonnet in his hobnailed boots. He was probably related to the dockers who stole the monthly cigarette supply which Jean’s parents had kindly sent out to me every month throughout the war. I did not receive a single one. A door handle had been wrenched off, too.
I drove over the causeway and up the long weary road to KL where I stayed the night with the Walkers, Trevor now being in charge of the estates side of Guthrie’s. The next day I reached Ipoh in time for a late tiffin at the club, before getting back to Kamuning in time for tea.