C hild of a
B ygone E ra
Peter Hunt
Austin Macauley Publishers
2021-04-30
Child of a Bygone Era
About the Author
Peter, the only child of John and Margaret Hunt, was born in Brighton in July 1940 but, at the age of five, began his life as a child in post-war Hong Kong.
At the age of seven, this idyllic life was shattered when he was sent back to England to enrol in a Catholic boarding school in Sussex and later a Catholic boarding public school in Somerset.
His later life was spent in advertising and marketing as well as being the author of five books about Jersey where he now lives with Jennifer, his companion of 20 years.
Dedication
This memoir is in memory of my parents but also in the memory of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of colonial parents from the time of the reign of Queen Victoria who made the sacrifice of sending their children back to boarding school in Britain at the age of seven.
It is also in memory of the children, some of whom found life difficult and hated their British education and resented the decisions that their parents had made. Fortunately, I was not one of them because as a child I seemed to have the temperament to just accept whatever was in front of me.
Finally, it is a memory of the two worlds in which I was brought up. On one side was my life at school in England in a post-war era that was grey, rationed and bleak. On the other side was my life in Hong Kong, a vibrant, colourful and booming island life which just seemed full of sunshine.
My personal thanks must go to Annabel von Hofmannsthal and Poppy Eskekilde, both of whom shared my Hong Kong experiences and helped my memory, and to Jennifer, my partner of 20 years, who continued not only to put up with me but also encouraged me to produce this memoir.
Copyright Information
Peter Hunt (2021)
The right of Peter Hunt to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of authors memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528938495 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528980456 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2021)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Other than personal memories, sources for this book included:
Martin Booth, Gweilo, Doubleday (2004)
Vaughan Grylls, Hong Kong Then and Now, Pavilion Books (2016)
Auberon Waugh, Will This Do?, Century (1991)
Photographic acknowledgements and permissions:
From Peter Hunts collection:
Downside Abbey, Worth School, Valerie, Hotel Homo, me at 17, my parents, my grandmother, our yacht, my mother and me, Hong Kong Harbour
From Hong Kong Then and Now:
Hong Kong Central, Peak Tram, Bank of China, Rickshaws, Star Ferry, Tiger Balm Pagoda
From the internet archives:
Branksome Towers, MV Victoria, Kellett Island, Ladies Recreation Club
Chapter 1
A Memoir of a Colonial Boy
I was born on the 5th of July 1940, in Brighton, a seaside town in the south of England. A few weeks later, the German Luftwaffe unleashed its first and comparatively infrequent bombing display over and into the town. My mother later told me that my father commented: They are bombing the shit out of this place. We had better move up to London. We moved, me in my swaddling clothes, to a flat in Notting Hill Gate, West London, where we spent the next year of my life, living through the constant German bombardments.
There are only flashes of memory of my early childhood. I do know that when I was two years old, in order to escape the worst of the bombing, we moved to Gerrards Cross, the home of my godfather and at four years old, we returned to West London, to Wimbledon. From that move to Gerrards Cross, I remember only falling off my childs bicycle. The scar in my knee is still there to remind me. In Wimbledon, I remember only that I and the other children collected for swapping pieces of shrapnel from destroyed German aircraft. Swap my piece of a Messerschmitt for a piece of your Junkers, was a popular cry.
The worst and most dramatic memory concerned pain. The bedrooms in our flat were heated by single electric bars set into the wall. One night, I climbed out of my cot, put my right hand on the unlit electric bar and turned it on with my left hand. My screams woke my parents and my mother had to pull my hand off the electric bar. The skin of one of my hands was repaired but, to this day, I have a slightly hooked fourth finger, where the reset was not correctly finished.
Other memories are aided. One night, as happened quite often, the air-raid sirens sounded their alarm and my parents sped down to the neighbourhoods air-raid shelter. My mother asked my father, who, in turn, asked my mother where was their precious only son and heir, Peter. I had been left, gurgling happily, in my pram in a recess under the chimney breast.
My mother was from Durham and came to London in the 1930s as a nurse. She was half Irish, half Scottish and brought up in a mining family. She was an attractive and streetwise lady who met my father on a No 9 bus, was courted and married my father in 1936. As a young bride, she could never have imagined what the next ten years were to bring. Her parenthood has remained a mystery. Many years later, I discovered that she had a number of half-brothers, all miners, some of whom survived the war. That was the most I ever knew of this side of my family.
C:\Users\Admin\Contacts\Desktop\Hunt002.jpg
My driving licence photograph, aged 17
Chapter 2
My father was a chartered accountant in the firm of Peat, Marwick and Mitchell, later to morph into KPMG, one of the largest accounting firms in the world. He was half Italian through his mother and half English through his father.
We are not sure how his mother, who came from a small village called Casino de Castro, an hours drive north of Rome, arrived in London. The story is that a childless couple of rich Americans somehow arranged to take her on as a daughter and brought her to London. This would have been in the first decade of the 20th century. The Americans suffered a financial disaster, so my grandmother set out to find a rich husband.
Meanwhile, my grandfather, English to the core, whose sole activities seemed to be painting and fishing, came from a middle-class Essex family with a paper business in the City of London. He had three sisters and a brother, all of whom believed that money grew on trees and spent it accordingly. My grandfather needed to find a rich wife.
