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| Fred Mitchell |
September 21, 1947, Hong Kong:
I had seen through the porthole that we were steaming slowly into Hong Kong harbour. On the one side was the mainland, with its port of Kowloon, and on the other the island with its modern city of Victoria. The city lies mainly on the narrow strip of land near the water, but then begins to climb in steep streets up the mountain behind. A railway takes one to the top of the peak if one chooses.
By seven we were drawing alongside the dock where officials and Chinese dock porters with their brown skins and bright red jackets, bearing the words ‘Dock Porter’ to distinguish them from others, appeared. On the starboard side small houseboats were drawing in and boys were soon diving for silver coins. At 7:45 our call to breakfast sounded and we left the decks. On our return the excitement was greatly increased and very soon port officers came aboard and turned the hose on the boats and boys and so drove them away. At the slightest respite, however, they came back again!
We now approached the British officers who had come aboard for permission to go ashore which was promptly given. The man who saw my passport, noted I was born at Scholes and told me he had lived for 15 years at Wibsey. I was glad to see a Yorkshireman again. There is a saying, as you travel, that Britishers consist of English, Scotch, Irish, Welsh and Yorkshiremen!
We took the ferry to the island and made our way to the Cathedral for the 11 am service. Walking along the streets we were suddenly disturbed by a cry after us. A police officer whom we found to be a detective, had seen a boy of 10 take Mr Griffin’s fountain pen and so caught the boy. There was a real scene; the boy crying to be free clutched Mr Griffin who would have been pleased to get away with no greater loss. But the police insisted on prosecuting so the boy was to be taken to the police station. The boy was then whisked into a taxi and driven away. A little later we called at the police headquarters and Mr Griffin signed for the pen, and we gathered that when the boy appears before the magistrates tomorrow morning he will likely get a good number of strokes of bamboo on his back. Will that cure him with such a background and home life?
St John’s University is a beautiful cathedral, fairly modern and of Gothic architecture. It was damaged by the Japanese but is now largely, though not completely restored. Certainly it was bright, for the chancel window was of clear glass and was kept cool by huge fans rotating horizontally all over the cathedral. The clergy, four of them, were in white, and there was a choir which hardly functioned of boys and girls, with a few men and women. The boys and girls looked angelic in their chorister’s dress. We noticed all the clergy bowed to the altar which was an unhappy indication of high church tendencies. The service, all in English, was mainly conducted by the Dean. It was reverent, but, alas, followed the Revised Prayer Book of 1928. The Te Deum and Magnificat were sung to poor, uninspiring tunes, and so was the Psalm, and I confess I felt keenly sympathetic with our American friends who are not accustomed to such kind of services. As one who greatly loves the Anglican service when well conducted, I could imagine any stranger attending this morning’s worship would be put off for ever.
Our visit to Hong Kong gave us an opportunity of seeing something of Chinese life for we walked through truly Chinese streets. As we passed we peeped into the poor homes, saw the food shops where numbers were sitting at round tables and using their chopsticks. Returning to our boat we watched the innumerable coolies loading and unloading. Life seems very simple to many of these people, though we should consider ourselves living at the edge of ruin. As one had this first view of China’s millions my heart was sad. Here they are only concerned, as far as one could see, with the obtaining of life’s necessities. One seemed to see the raw material in abundance and the products of grace at least in samples.
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| Fred's daughter Audrey Taylor during her time with the Kaiwa tribe in Brazil |
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| Fred's son Alan Mitchell, daughter Audrey and granddaughters today |
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