I walked up to the door anyway, and knocked. A small woman opened the door and I knew I was at the right address. She was Burmese. She looked at me quizzically, saying, ‘Yes?’
In Burmese, I said, ‘I have come to see Mr McPhedran.’
She invited me in and called out to my father. It was an emotional meeting. He enveloped me tightly in a big bear hug. It was the only time I can remember his hugging me.
‘Ah! Here you are, lad. The last I heard, you were in Scotland! Donald said you left and he hadn’t heard anything since. Where have you been?’
‘Oh, just here, there and everywhere. I only found out you were here yesterday.’
My father was never known to display his emotions, but he was obviously happy to see me once again. He sat me down in the sitting room and asked the Burmese lady to make some tea.
‘You’ve grown a lot since India. Where are you staying?’
Many thoughts went through my mind. I wondered why he had brought a servant woman from Burma to keep house. I thought he must have grown used to having servants in Burma, and was continuing the lifestyle. But then he said something that shocked me:
‘Colin, I’d like you to meet your brothers and sisters.’
My immediate reply was, ‘But my family died on the trek out of Burma!’
He then said to the lady, ‘Please call the children down from their rooms.’ Two girls and two boys entered.
My father said, ‘Meet your new family – Eddie, Mary, George and Daisy. Children, this is your brother, Colin.’
I had barely recovered from the shock when he gestured towards the Burmese lady and said, ‘Ma Taw Tin May is my wife and the mother of these four.’
My initial reaction was not anger but thudding disappointment. I made quick mental calculations and realised he must have fathered these children while still married to my mother.
We began to talk. The four were a fine bunch and well behaved. Eddie, born in 1936, was six years younger than me. Next came Mary, born in 1938, George, born in 1940, and Daisy in 1941.
They had arrived in England quite some time ago, and were already settled in schools, as my father had bought the house in Neasden after he arrived.
We chatted for a long time and I realised that they knew a great deal about my family. Mary confided, ‘I’ve always wanted to meet you.’
They seemed well informed about my mother. While my father was out of the room, Mary said, ‘In Burma, your mother was held in high regard.’
She mentioned my mother’s relationship to the Prime Minister of Burma, Dr Ba Maw.
‘I even heard it said that your mother had guided the doctor before he became Prime Minister.’
I felt a glow of pride, even though I knew my mother had had her doubts about Uncle Ba Maw. I had always believed that she was a great person, a compassionate soul who cared not only for her family but for every living person, and it was wonderful to hear her praised after all these years.
My father had his wife prepare a bed for me for the night. I resisted initially, but my new-found brothers and sisters pleaded.
‘You can’t go. We’ve only just met you.’
Somehow, I was talked into moving in with the family.
Weeks went by and, despite the extraordinary circumstances, I grew to love my brothers and sisters. I also grew very fond of their mother, who, I know, loved me as her own. She was a gentle woman and seemed out of place in this cold, sunless country. We talked a lot while my father was at work and I enjoyed the shopping trips for the groceries. We communicated in Burmese and other customers would look at us strangely as we chatted away. Whenever the opportunity arose, she would invite me into the boiler room to share a cigarette.
I DISCOVERED YEARS LATER FROM DONALD in Canada that he had known for years about my father’s second family. He had found out not long before Burma was invaded. This is how he described what must have been a terrible burden of knowledge for a young man of his age.
After my first year in college a few drastic changes took place in my family’s life. I became aware that my father had acquired a second family and that it consisted of two boys and two girls. This was most disconcerting to me …
My mother had done an excellent job of concealing the facts from us. When she did disclose the facts to me, I was so incensed that I wrote my father a stinking letter. This was a very bitter pill that I and my siblings had now to swallow and out of righteous indignation, combined with the confidence of a person on the threshold of young manhood, I wrote to my father letting him know exactly how I felt, and predictably, he wrote back to say, in no uncertain terms, that I had better mind my own business and that what he expected of me was complete obedience and no criticism.
Since he was the fount from whom would flow the wherewithal to continue my higher education, I did, with the pleadings of my mother, acquiesce and behaved as a ‘dutiful son’ should. These days it would not be unheard of to hear a person wonder why I had not stuck to my guns and weathered the storm, come what may. Regrettably, I was not equipped to do otherwise. One must try to understand that we were reared in the lap of luxury and we were sheltered from any extraneous influences that may have tended to harm us…
When my mother was having her problems with my father, she was not without relatives who made it quite clear to her that she could expect their entire support and that this was not just lip-service. My mother, I am very glad to say, only replied that she was not about to disgrace the father of her children by any legal action that would eventually reach our ears. She was happy to be with us and enjoy, with a feeling of satisfaction and pride, our flowering into manhood and womanhood.
Sadly, she was deprived of this because my father took my siblings away from her and had them enrolled in schools in Rangoon, miles away from her. None of them were happy with the move and when I visited Bobby and Colin at St Paul’s School in Rangoon, the change that had come over them was patently obvious. I carried a heavy heart within me from then on and when I went up to Maymyo during a college break, I saw the abject misery and heartrending descent into the depths of loneliness that this deprivation of the company of her children had left my mother.
When Burma was brought face to face with war by the Japanese, all the schools were closed and my father, not being able to have my brothers and sister with him in Syriam, sent them to Maymyo to my mother. In retrospect, although it would seem quite unlikely to be called a blessing by anyone who was affected by the war, it actually was, to my mother. It enabled her to have her children with her, albeit for a very short time. Nevertheless she did have us with her and to her that was all that mattered.
IN MANY WAYS MY FATHER’S SECOND WIFE was similar to my mother, even though they came from completely different walks of life. She was a typical Burmese woman, a caring person who was willing to share one’s burdens and joys. We talked about her own people and how she missed the warm weather and the family gatherings that are part of Burmese life.
‘When we were still in Burma I tried to find out more about your mother,’ she confided one day.
Although she had never met my relations she knew of their backgrounds, their social positions and their connections with the University of Rangoon.
Perhaps surprisingly, the whole family got along famously, but I was concerned that the children were not encouraged to get out and about. Their social life was sadly lacking. I got around as much as I could, catching up with friends from Burma who had arrived in England.
Among them was the Van Bock family, who were also Eurasians. Diane, one of the daughters, was my age and I became sweet on her. They lived on the other side of London in Ealing. I was invariably late home from my visits and my father took to staying up until I arrived, sometimes at 2 o’clock in the morning.
‘You should not be associating with a Roman Catholic family. They are not in our class.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked. ‘They are very nice people.’ It was becoming obvious to me that I needed a brea
k. One day I was glancing through a newspaper.
‘Oh, look, here’s an advertisement for a seasonal assistant on a farm in Devon. I’ve a mind to apply for it.’
My father seemed rather disappointed, but said, ‘It’s a pretty part of the country and it will keep you busy.’
I wrote away and was accepted, to begin work immediately.
My stepmother was unhappy that I was leaving, but I had made up my mind. I hopped on a train and was met by my new employer at Holsworthy. The farmer, a retired officer of the Royal Navy, owned a small-holding a few miles out of town. The farmhouse was a delightful old place, rather like a manor. I spent the best part of eight months there and learned a lot about dairy farming. When the work finished I headed back to London.
‘Well, Colin,’ my father said. ‘You’ve been working hard at the farm. How would you like a holiday in Glasgow?’
I was always open to suggestions of travel, and said so.
‘I would very much like you to visit a friend of mine who owns a guesthouse in Kelvingrove, which is one of the better suburbs,’ he went on. ‘Mrs Millar’s guesthouse is a well-run establishment where the clients are mostly businessmen seeking a short break.’
Off I went.
Mrs Millar was a lovely person, very attractive and rather refined, not in the line of the usual proprietresses of the day. She had a daughter my age who was given the duty of showing me the sights of Glasgow. I was treated royally. Glasgow in those days was a centre of live shows and boasted many theatres.
We were beginning to become rather amorous when a fleeting thought went through my mind. I began to wonder about my father and his friendships with women. I remembered Miss Coutts in Kalimpong, and he often mentioned other ladies.
I took a good close look at the Millar girl. She had dark hair and light brown eyes; she bore a striking resemblance to my Scottish cousins. There had never been any mention of Mrs Millar’s husband, so I began to conjure up all sorts of connections. Could she be another half-sister? I was probably way off the mark; nonetheless it put a damper on our brief relationship.
I returned to London. Father, who now seemed eager to have me around, said one day, ‘There is an opportunity for you to join the oil company as a filing clerk.’
It was a fancy title for a messenger boy, but I did not mind. It was a job and a source of income. My stepmother was delighted to have me back and we carried on where we had left off.
However, after some months the novelty wore off. The nine-to-five routine was not for me. One morning, I had to take a document up to my father’s office. I had never had the privilege of climbing the stairs to his office before. I entered and walked over to his desk. There were two men with him and, rather than hang about, I handed him the papers and said, rather innocently, ‘Is this what you wanted, Pop?’
He looked at me through his hornrimmed spectacles.
‘Are you aware of office protocol?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ I said.
‘Well, protocol demands that you address me as “Sir”.’
I looked down at him and said, ‘What are you talking about?
You’re my father!’ I walked out of the room. One of his staff followed me down the stairs and, stopping me at my desk, repeated what my father had just said.
‘You must call Mr McPhedran “Sir” whether he is your father or not.’
‘I’m not in the mood to take this rubbish,’ I told him.
‘You had better think about changing your ways,’ he muttered, but I had had enough.
‘Please instruct the paymaster to have my wages made up until 5 pm today,’ I said.
He mumbled something further, about informing my father. ‘Don’t worry, I shall tell him myself when he gets home tonight.’ I wandered out into the streets of London. It was my lunch break. It was a dreary day, and cold, and I looked for a tea-house. As I walked along, anger welled up and I wished I could get out of this country.
I stopped before a shop window that had on display a model of a passenger liner. Always interested in ships, I studied the name Largs Bay on the bow. I walked into the shop and approached a young lady at the long desk.
She was pretty and, in an Australian accent, said, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Thank you. Is this a travel agency?’
‘Yes, a travel agency and a trading house,’ she said cheerfully.
I looked at the wall behind the counter and saw the name Dalgety and Company (Australia).
‘How much is the fare to Australia?’
‘British migrants are going out on a £5 fare and other visitors have to pay £75,’ she said.
‘That will be fine. When can I get a berth?’
She laughed. ‘Maybe in five years if you’re lucky!’
‘But I am prepared to pay the full fare,’ I repeated. She laughed again.
‘It makes no difference,’ she said. ‘All the ships to Australia are booked out. But I will put your name on the waiting list if you like.’
‘No, thanks,’ I said. Five years was a long time.
Out of the blue, I said, ‘I wonder whether you would have dinner with me this evening?’
She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Yes!’
I collected her after work and we walked to a Lyons Cafe. Over the meal I told her of my circumstances at the office and I learnt that she had only recently arrived.
‘I’m already missing the warm weather. It’s summer at home and I’d be at the beach instead of freezing here in London. Have you heard of Bondi Beach? It’s beautiful.’
She raved about the country and the prospects. My mind was filled with vivid images of a happy, sunny place full of cheery people just like her. I made up my mind to get there one day. Just before she left, she asked for my address and phone number.
‘If anything crops up during the next 12 months, I’ll get in touch with you,’ she said.
‘I appreciate your gesture,’ I said. ‘And I hope to see you again.’ The following day a message was left at our house.
‘Would Mr McPhedran please call into the office of Dalgety and Company as soon as possible.’
It was midday when I walked in, to be greeted by my new-found Australian friend. First, she gave me the sad news that an Australian booked to return home had passed away.
Then she said, ‘You can have his berth if you can find the fare and a permit from the Australian authorities.’
I was overjoyed.
‘Thank you! It’s very kind of you. I’d love to go. Please get the papers in order. I’ll be back before the end of the day,’ I said.
I hurried down to my father’s office and was shown in. ‘Father, I have secured a berth on a ship to Australia, leaving tomorrow. The only drawback is money. Would you lend me £100?’
He stalled for a moment and began to preach about going out into the world and getting caught up with the wrong types.
‘Father, I have travelled around half the world without falling victim to the work of the devil.’
‘I visited Australia in 1939 and found nothing attractive about the place whatsoever. The Australians are a lot of gamblers with the curse of the evil drink. Why don’t you go to Canada?’
‘Canada’s too cold. Australia sounds good. Who knows, I might even contribute to a change in their ways!’
He was in no mood for fun, but he did produce a cheque for £100 and said dourly, ‘Well, lad, I hope you’re doing the right thing by yourself and the family.’ I rushed off to the Inland Revenue Bureau for a tax clearance.
The next stop was Australia House to apply for an entry permit. The man there was most helpful.
‘Australia is a wonderful country and it is full of opportunities for people who are prepared to work hard,’ he said. He studied my passport.
‘I see you were born in Rangoon, in Burma. What is your nationality?’
‘My mother was Burmese and my father is a Scot.’
‘Oh! You don’t look lik
e a Eurasian,’ he said.
He went on to tell me of the country’s White Australia Policy.
I was not concerned. All I wanted was to get out of this cold, dreary place. I had visions of golden beaches and warm seas.
With all my documents in place I walked down to Dalgety’s, paid my fare and again thanked the young woman.
‘I’ll see you in Sydney,’ I told her.
Back home, I packed my small suitcase and waited for my father to return home from work for a further lecture.
Unbeknownst to me, he had invited a woman friend for dinner. I had hoped to spend a a quiet evening with the family. Instead, I was subjected to a lot of questioning about my sudden decision.
The evening got off to a bad start, even though the woman had brought an expensive bottle of champagne and presented me with the cork to remind me of my last dinner.
‘Where is your wife?’ I asked my father. ‘Shouldn’t she be at the table with us?’
‘She is busy in the kitchen,’ was all he would say. I was furious. How dare he bring a girlfriend home and flaunt her like this?
My father kept on about my move to Australia.
‘The Australians are a bunch of heathens, penal settlers without a spiritual base. You will find it a friendless country.’
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. As soon as his guest left I said, ‘Speaking of Christianity, having another woman over for dinner while your wife acts as a servant is hardly a Christian thing to do.’
He did not respond.
Before he retired for the night, however, he said, ‘I will accompany you to Southampton tomorrow.’
I joined my stepmother in the kitchen. We walked out into the cold night, lit our cigarettes and talked about many things. She talked about the years the family had spent at their farm in Syriam during the Japanese occupation of Burma.
Unlike many people, they had fared reasonably well, although food had been scarce.
‘As you can see, the children all look very Burmese and so the Japanese left us more or less alone,’ she said.
After the war ended, my father had returned to Burma and had brought them to Britain.
White Butterflies Page 24