‘An Old Friend.’ Fiction. Harry Bennett.
Someone once wrote, ‘if a person stands on the corner of London’s Piccadilly for just one hour, the whole world passes by.’
That truth still holds and the same can be said of Hong Kong. Both cities are where many travellers fetch up at some point in their wanderings, so it came as almost no surprise one pleasant spring evening in crowded Hong Kong to bump into Eric Prior.
Eric and I grew up on the same south of England council estate. Not a 1960’s city tower block, our 1920’s estate of two hundred identical semi-detached two-storey houses with front and back gardens had been built next to open countryside.
I barely remember us moving into number seven. It was 1939, war was imminent, and I was four years old. My father, then aged 21, worked for the local council as a lowly labourer, qualifying him to be allocated the three bedroomed house. I can remember the happy sound of my mother’s voice as the keys to our first proper home dropped into her hand.
Dad was drafted into the army and ended up badly wounded on a Dunkirk beach. A sailor carried him along a makeshift jetty onto the last navy ship to leave. After a spell in hospital, dad returned home with a medal and an honourable discharge.
Mum was glad to have him back and ten months later my sister Joan was born. My second sister Carol came along a year later.
Every house had children and each child had pals of his or her own age. My best pal was Eric Prior.
The Prior family was unlike any other. For a start, Eric’s dad, a genial man with an acute sense of humour, was the local poacher, using the results of his illegal activities to feed his family. Every morning he left for the nearby countryside, returning at dusk. His outdoor life had turned his ever-smiling face to wrinkled leather. Winter and summer he wore the same heavy brown overcoat with huge pockets in which he concealed his equipment and catches. He had to be a good poacher because Mrs. Prior was a baby-making machine. I don’t know exactly how many children she birthed but guessed at more than twenty.
We wondered about the Prior family. How did they fit into the three-bedroomed house? And who was who? It was difficult because they all looked alike. Short wide and powerful with dark eyes, straight black hair and round smiley faces. And they were tough, even the girls. I suppose they had to be tough to survive within such a large family. They were also extremely loyal to each other. Never once did I see a Prior pick a fight with an outsider but we all knew that severe punishment awaited any outsider picking a fight with a Prior!
Although no Prior was an academic, every one of them had good school reports. It was rumoured that a bad report brought a good belting from the old lady. Nevertheless, Eric was a problem to his teachers. He had an inquiring mind that needed filling, causing him to ask questions - many, many questions.
On Sunday afternoons the parents dispatched their kids to their respective Sunday Schools, and because it was the nearest, most went to the Methodist Hall. I didn’t mind going. I enjoyed singing the hymns and listening to the bible stories. As a grown-up I realized that almost none of the families were believers. Sunday school was an opportunity for parents to be alone.
Our age group walked there together. When it was time to return home, Eric almost always stayed behind to ask his questions.
Although Eric looked like a Prior, he was an altogether different character. Tough? Yes. A scrapper? Yes. Mischievous? Yes, and something else, an indefinable extra. He seemed to be in a constant battle with himself. At age fifteen he grew morose and grumpy. Then he began to break into shops at night. Much of the stolen money bought alcohol. Eventually, his under-age drinking and getting on the wrong side of the law got him in front of Magistrates in the Juvenile Court.
He was arraigned before three people, a woman sitting between two men. Eric’s punishment was a severe talking to by the lady. His second appearance resulted in another stern warning and probation for a year, and his third brought him two weeks in a remand home for social and psychological investigation.
‘This boy has almost no criminal tendencies,’ said the report. ‘He has problems, but reform school is not appropriate in his case. Strong discipline should straighten him out. We recommend he be sent to Aldershot Barracks for acceptance into the army as a boy soldier.’
After that Eric and I lost touch. At age seventeen I signed up for twelve years in the Royal Air Force. Trained as a telegraphist, I was posted to Famagusta in Cyprus.
At that time the Greek Cypriots were fighting for their freedom. So too were the peoples of all the occupied Middle Eastern countries. Trouble was brewing for the occupying British, forcing the Government to send thousands of stand-by troops to Cyprus. In Famagusta a huge tented area sprang up almost overnight and was quickly filled with soldiers.
The R.A.F. camp was doing secret work, so we air force types in our secure unit were set apart from the British army and the townspeople. However, the need for extra protection from raids by the Cypriot Freedom Fighters resulted in soldiers being sent to patrol our camp perimeter, and when off duty, they were allowed to use our NAAFI. Who did I see sitting at a table with a few of his mates? Corporal Eric Prior.
He looked much the same. A little older, harder and tougher. We gabbled out our gossip. He was only there for that one day then he was off somewhere. He didn’t know where. I noticed his parachute badges. Yes, he said proudly, he was in the Parachute Regiment attached to the Commandos. The decision to send him to the army had been exactly right. He was army middleweight boxing champion and he hoped for promotion to sergeant. The knuckles of both his hands had seen plenty of action, and his face had many scars, but he looked well. His dad was still poaching and his family was bursting out of the house, despite the Council building an extension at the back. We talked until it was time for him to return to his unit, and that was that.
After an interval of almost thirty years we met again in Hong Kong. I was a tourist between planes whilst he was now a Hong Kong local. He hadn’t changed much but I had. Less hair - now grey, and more belly. After a handshake we gave each other a spontaneous hug of friendship before Eric guided me to a teahouse. In Cantonese, Eric ordered green tea and nibbles. He was happy, that was obvious.
With a laugh he said, ‘As you can see, I am still in uniform. The army first brought me to Hong Kong and I fell in love with the place. It was here that I got my third stripe but by then I was tired of fighting and killing. Not expecting much but needing advice, I went to see the Regimental Padre. When I asked my questions, he gave me the answers. I owe him a lot. He helped me get my head together. After demobilisation I returned to Hong Kong, worked my way through college, got my theology degree, and here I am with a parish and parishioners, in perfect tune with myself and my God.’