World on Fire

South Vietnamese troops battling the Viet Cong in Saigon during TET offensive

A life- another instalment of my autobiography before I revert to my normal blogs

My husband’s affairs – in every sense of the word – meant that he and his intended had stumbled into a mine field. When Candida, as I’ll call her, told her naval husband of her plans, he hit the roof. He had no intention of parting with his elegant sweet-natured wife. The thing began to take on diplomatic proportions, and the General and the local naval boss now got involved, and Candida and husband were posted hastily back to England to avoid further scandal.

This meant that my husband was storming tactlessly and angrily around the place, and the padre came to see this cold, unloving wife who had driven her handsome, charming husband out of his unloving home. There was probably more than a grain of truth in this by now, as I certainly didn’t love him any more!

It was that tense turbulent year of 1968 when the world seemed on the edge of drama month after month. After North Korea captured the US ship Pueblo, imprisoning and torturing all eighty- five of her crew at the end of January, the ripples of the surprise Viet Cong Tet offensive in Saigon then reached us. Friends from the office were holidaying in Saigon, and were caught up in that murderous mayhem which continued all through February.

When Martin Luther King was shot in April, I hurried up to see Pat Hangen to somehow try to comfort her. When Robert Kennedy was shot in June, it seemed unbelievable. I shall never forget the silent shock in the newspaper office, before I rushed up to see Pat again…it seemed a devastating thing to be American at this time…

This was also the time of the Prague Spring when another mid European country tried to throw off the Russian yoke. And now in August, we listened with anguish and watched television as the Russian tanks rolled into Prague to crush freedom, as they had done into Hungary nearly nine years before.

We were in the middle of a very destructive typhoon, and in spite of the wooden shutters over the windows, the towels laid along the window sills and carefully led into bowls, were soaking wet. I went from window to window wringing out wet towels and feeling intimidated by the storm while I watched the Czechs being intimidated by the tanks. My heart was wrung for Anton Dubjek as my hands wrung my wet towels!

A few weeks later, I went to the doctor who gave me some pills to check the constant nausea I’d been feeling, and taking one straight away, I only just managed to drive home. Tottering into bed, I woke to consciousness in the evening, having slipped into a coma with pills that had apparently knocked out my liver. The next day the doctor rang and said he was sending an ambulance round straight away – my tests had come back – and I had hepatitis with secondary infections of glandular fever and jaundice.

The children went to play school in the mornings, and before this happened, I’d just organised a gentle, friendly, eighteen-year-old school leaver out from England to come every afternoon to read to the children and play with them. I was worried that their vocabularies might stagnate with just their loving Chinese amah to talk to, and I hoped now that my husband would stay with them in the evenings.

In hospital in Kowloon, I lay in my room overlooking the harbour, and watched the glittering water sparkling in the magical light of the sun at the change of the season. I also put myself together and found my inner strength again. My doctor had given me a book of D.H. Lawrence’s poems, and ‘The Song of the man who has come through’ became a sort of prayer and affirmation.

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!

A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.

If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!

If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!

If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed

By the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world….

And his other words… ‘It is not easy to fall out of the hands of the living God…”

The Red Cross trolley with library books came round every day, and along with the biographies and books on travel and exploration I gobbled up, there were some Elizabeth Goudge. ‘The Dean’s Watch’, about the power of love, shifted me on from my little local world into a larger perception of all that is, and I was ready after five weeks to go back and transform my little world.

I wrote to my step-grandfather who was still writing to me, and asked him if he could loan me five hundred pounds to get started, but he replied rather pompously that he would have no hand in breaking up a family with young children. (Many years later, when an old man, he wrote to say he had a guilty, nagging feeling that he had let me down over something, and I spared him and wrote to say he had always been a loving friend)

Meanwhile my husband, who was still marking time over his enforced separation from his intended, every now and then suggested that we have another go with our marriage. Not convinced that leopards change their spots I told him that I would be gone in a month, after Christmas, and his response was that he would smash me mentally and physically before then.

Still feeling frail and ill I managed to find a flat for us. It was always hard to compete with Americans who had large housing allowances and lots of money compared to the rest of us. But I drove round Repulse Bay, hoping to find ‘flat to let’ signs. By a miracle I found one hanging outside twelve -foot high, brightly painted gates, with painted peacocks embossed on them, the mansion behind hidden by high walls. It had been built by a Chinese millionaire for his family to come and live with him, but they had refused.

When he showed me the flat, and told me the price, I said I couldn’t afford it. So he said, what can you afford? And when I told him, he said I could have it for a year. I lived for that first year of independence beneath the splendour of chandeliers, with an elegant panelled walnut entrance hall and an amazing, huge, pink marble en-suite bathroom.

Back home, my husband came to me in tears. His bank was threatening to foreclose on his debts, and this would mean being cashiered by the army, and no financial help at all from him for the children. I wrote him a cheque for half my savings and feeling sorry for his humiliation said he didn’t need to write an IOU as he offered, but that I would trust him. I never saw the money again.

I persuaded my husband to ring England and tell his parents what was happening,  and the first response of my father-in-law was to ask if his son had got good legal advice. Yes, he’d been to see an old school friend who was a lawyer. As I listened, I felt a cold hand over my heart. No concern for me, it was going to be a power struggle aided by the law and family. I felt truly alone.

I thought I’d better get some legal advice too. But when I went to see the army legal services, my husband had been there first, so they would have no truck with me. It was the same at the navy and the RAF. All the free legal services were closed to me. My husband had been to see them all, and this debarred them from giving me advice, they each insisted.

The establishment had closed ranks. In those days male chauvinism was alive and well, and it felt as though all the men had ganged up on me. The army lawyer then sent me a letter telling me I was no longer allowed to set foot in the garrison. Being an army daughter, a serving officer and an army wife was a part of my heritage, and I was devastated by what felt like a gratuitous insult.

The result of these snubs was that I was driven to find expensive, civilian legal advice. I contacted a friendly solicitor who I’d met at a party. He felt there was some urgency when I rang him, so that Sunday I spent at his stylish flat, curled up in an elegant orange Arne Jacobson ‘Egg’ chair, dictating my divorce petition to him.

It was a cold winter’s day, and still feeling fragile a couple of weeks out of hospital, his warm, cosy flat in the Mid-levels seemed like a safe haven away from the stress of my own home. As I dictated, my eyes wandered over stacks of beautiful fabric -covered boxes on the bookshelves. They housed his collection of precious snuff bottles, but as a philistine, I thought then the boxes were prettier than the bottles.

He rang a few days later. There was an alarming hitch. It seemed that no woman had ever divorced her husband in Hongkong before – this was 1968 – and there were no legal precedents. He was at a standstill but would try a few other avenues. He came up with something from Indian and Colonial law. It was possible for an Englishwoman in India to get a divorce in that country if she had been resident there for at least three years.

Peter said he would try to get me a divorce quoting this Indian precedent. The element of uncertainty was unnerving. By the date of the hearing my husband had followed his intended wife back to England, so it was a very empty court I attended. I had already left the army quarters, packing all my belongings into the Red Cross ambulance the doctor lent me. I realised as I looked back that nearly every other army wife was standing on her veranda watching the astonishing sight of another wife leaving her husband under their very eyes.

Before the divorce Peter told me the judge was homosexual. I didn’t know how this would affect the outcome in which the custody of the children was at stake. I dressed very carefully in a demure, white dress with a hem at knee level, in this year of mini skirts. When the case began, the judge questioned the validity of it, and Peter provided him with the Indian and Colonial volumes.

I sat in suspense while the judge pored over the pages, and finally agreed the case could go ahead. Called into the witness box, for some routine questions, to my horror I could feel tears coming. I had left my handkerchief in my handbag on my seat, so had to sniff through my answers. The tears were pouring down my cheeks by the time I returned to my seat. And the white dress was wasted, the judge didn’t even look in my direction.

On the way home in my battered Morris Minor convertible – all I could afford after I’d given my husband half my savings – it broke down and ran out of control down the hill to Repulse Bay. Apparently, the rust which held the chassis together had finally weakened, and there was no connection between the steering and the wheels.

It took thirteen monthly instalments to pay the huge bill to patch it up. The floor in the back seat had rusted away, so I tucked cardboard over the holes, and the children would complain their feet were getting wet when it rained. I always had to drive over the Peak in wet weather, as low-lying Wanchai would have flooded it.

I discovered quite by chance that some of my rich American friends thought I’d chosen this broken-down form of transport as part of my English eccentricity. It never crossed their minds that the South China Morning Post paid women so badly that I earned two thirds what a cub reporter earned. Another subtle local distinction was that people recruited from overseas for their jobs earned far more than impecunious “locally employed”.

The first months were tough. The doctors hadn’t told me I would be depressed for six months after my illness, so I didn’t realise until my six- monthly check-up that the fatigue and depression I was felt was normal. Instead, when I thought longingly of walking into the sea and never coming back, it was only the thought of the children that had kept me going. I was so run down that my teeth packed up and I racked up big dentist bills, while my husband’s American bank – one of the many he had swapped around – wanted me to pay his debts.

I worried that I couldn’t afford my son’s play school anymore, and I worried when my husband’s small cheque didn’t arrive, which spelt disaster on my tiny salary. I kept a pocket diary which I filled in every day at the office. No words, just two colours – red for good red-letter days, blue for bad blue days… at first the blue days far outnumbered the red.

I had copied two quotations into it – one from William the Silent: ‘There is no need of hope in order to undertake, or of success in order to persevere’… and the other from Clement of Alexandria: ‘We may not be taken up and transported to our journey’s end, but must travel thither on foot, traversing the whole distance of the narrow way…’ I read these rather grim exhortations regularly to inspire me to ‘just get on with it!’

And with all the struggle, I would gloat to myself that I was an independent woman now. I had two beautiful children, a home through my own efforts, a car, and a job I enjoyed. I knew that life could only get better. And, of course, it did. The worst was behind me.

To be continued

 Food for threadbare gourmets

When I make one of our favourites, feta cheese and courgette fritters, I usually serve them with chilli jelly, salad and hot rolls. But I really love beetroot relish with them too and decided to stop buying it from the supermarket and make my own.

Place in a pot three peeled and roughly grated beetroots, one finely chopped onion – red if you have it – a cup of brown sugar, half a cup of cider vinegar or balsamic, quarter of a cup of water, a table spoon of olive oil, half a teasp of ground cumin, salt and black pepper. Heat gently for thirty minutes or until the liquid has been absorbed. If it dries up, add enough water to keep it moist and juicy. Place in a jar or bowl and refrigerate until ready to use.

Food for thought

 A certain percentage of those who have survived near-death experiences speak of a common insight which afforded a glimpse of life’s basic lesson plan. We are all here for a single purpose: to grow in wisdom and to learn to love better.

We can do this through losing as well as through winning, by having and by not having, by succeeding or by failing. All we need to do is to show up open-hearted for class. So fulfilling life’s purpose may depend more on how we play than what we are dealt…  Kitchen Table Wisdom by Rachel Naomi Remen


Filed under army, books, colonial life, consciousness, cookery/recipes, great days, happiness, history, The Sound of Water, Thoughts on writing and life, uncategorised, Uncategorized

34 responses to “World on Fire

  1. Jane Sturgeon

    Ohh Valerie, I had a sense that the thinking of the time would be at odds with what you needed and your poor body was bound to rebel and show it’s stress too. My heart went out to you when you turned to your step-Grandad for help and it is typically, lovingly, gracious of you to soothe him in later life. Your ex.husband’s fear and complete denial on how he had created all this, must have been a bitter pill to swallow. Bless the Chinese man who helped you get a home for a year by being open to negotiating the rental. People’s assumption that it’s British eccentricity with your car, rather than poor pay…well, words fail me. You showed up, dug in and got on with it. Bravo my lovely, bravo. xXx hugs ❤

    Liked by 3 people

  2. to grow in wisdom and to learn to love better—-sigh! I couldn’t stop reading, although (as always) you put a kind spin on everything. I think that horrible dis-ease is the beginning of your life-long liver problems. Yet you don’t mention it and just truck along.

    I am glad that the ex-moved on. In typical slimy fashion, but gone. I am also glad that you loved your job. The joy of the children and great wonder, in spite of your horrendous loss.

    This life—of growing in wisdom and learning to love better can sure have its ups and down.

    Love you, my dear friend! As I always have.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I read your last sentence with a sigh of relief. While thinking about your heart-wrenching account of the worst episode of your entire life I contemplated about the love you felt for your husband, as it was dying a slow death with each new cruel blow he struck you with. Your disadvantage in your struggle for independence was that you were capable of true compassion, whereas your faithless husband was not. How else can I explain the fact that you helped him out by giving him half of your life’s savings! Reading your blog always gives me reason for digging a bit deeper into the complexities of life, Valerie.
    By the way I took a picture of Robert Kennedy, as he was participating in the parade of the Calgary Stampede in 1965.


    • How lovely that you have your own picture of Robert Kennedy, it must be one of your treasures,Peter…
      Thank you so much for your thoughtful and kind comment, it’s such a gift that you read my story with such interest and insight,.
      Yes, life is rarely simple, is it !!!

      Liked by 1 person

  4. Perhaps it was a good thing your husband had a girlfriend. It kept his focus there. I hope there were no custody struggles that followed. Great chapter as always.


    • Thank you Kate, always good to see your thoughts… actually it was a whole series of girl friends.. only the last one lasted !!!
      Thank you as ever for sticking with my story, and making me feel it”s interesting !!!

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Thank heaven for those last words! I don’t think I (and you, of course) could have taken much more of that! ‘Fraid the only thing that could be said of that husband is that he was an out-and-out rotter. I feel sorry for ‘Candida’ The one thing that strikes me is how you so often managed to attract palatial residences!

    Liked by 1 person

    • I love your spirited comments…uummm… the funny thing was that when my husband re-married a sweet helpless woman who needed looking after, he grew up, and has been a good husband, as well as having such a successful career that he ended up as a senior officer and courtier running the Queen’s finances !!!! Life is very strange !!!
      How perceptive of you to notice that I always ended up living in lovely places … I think I inherited that belief from my parents who usually found lovely places to live. That good fortune has lasted throughout my life, I am glad to say !!! And my chldren have carried on the tradition !!!

      Liked by 1 person

      • Strange indeed, and rather unfair. I would like to have learnt that he got at least a good return of karma for a while in repayment for his earlier behaviour.
        I wonder what one would call that lovely-home gift — mansionetism?

        Liked by 2 people

  6. It is hard to imagine the pervasive chauvinistic attitudes last century and for many centuries before that. There is much work yet to be done, but we have come a long way…and perhaps no one has come a longer way than you dear friend. That toxic man and then illness as well just seem so cruel. Like Peter, I was so relieved to read that last line… xxx

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Ardys, I love reading your thoughtful and perceptive comments.. thank you. Yes, male chauvinism like that which we endured back then has all but disappeared now, thank heavens.
    This country has a much kinder attitude towards women.. perhaps not surprising since women won the right to vote back in 1893, one of the first countries in the world to grant it…and one of the good things for me, was that earned equal pay when I came to this country…


  8. Juliet

    Oh Valerie, what tough, tough times. I couldn’t bear it when you gave your husband the money that you needed so desperately for yourself. You are such a survivor, to come through all that with your humanity intact.


  9. 1968 – now that brought back memories. I recall sitting glued in front of the TV devouring all the news regarding the Tet offensive and then, the front page of the local papers with file images of Russian tanks and news on Prague.

    And to think of the terrible battles you were fighting alone. Good Lord!

    My buddy, Jane Thorne, said it all and much better.



  10. Dear Eric, how fascinating that you remember those dramatic times in ’68!
    Isn’t it interesting to look back after all this time and see how everything has resolved… Vietnam now a popular tourist destination, and Prague the same- troubles forgotten !!!
    Who is your buddy Jane Thorne? What did she say, and how can I find it?????
    Love and peace to you, Valerie


  11. Oh Valerie – I couldn’t help but think of Job 5:11 – “He sets on high those who are lowly, and those who mourn are lifted to safety.” What you endured while you were in ill-health and responsible for two beautiful children was unimaginable. I too, breathed a sigh of relief when I read that you had reached a turning-point. You also reminded me that there are people who come into our lives at precisely the moment that they are required. Your story is full of these moments, a testament to the idea that we are not alone, that acts of kindness are necessary and must be integrated within our lives. Because when we do – we will feel complete.


  12. Rebecca, what lovely thoughts and words… how do you always know the perfect quote for every occasion ??
    Yes, it’s amazing to look back and see how people come into one’s life at the moment they were needed… I often couldn’t see it then, as I muddled through, but now I look back, and feel that angels are always around us, whether in human form or otherwise.. giving the kindness and love which ease us through life.
    I love those words of Richard Wilbur, which always lift my heart:
    ‘Outside the open window
    The morning air is all awash with angels’
    They remind me of the exquisite mystery of life….Thank you as ever, dear friend for Your thoughtful lovely words, Valerie


  13. Your story continues to astonish and inspire. I can’t wait to read the next installment!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Jadi, thank you. You are wonderful to stick with my long sagas, and I greatly appreciate it and your lovely encouragement ..Knowing how beautifully you write, your words to me are a real gift – .thank you again

      Liked by 1 person

  14. Dearest Valerie,

    I can’t imagine what it was like for you. I found my gorge and anger on the rise as I read about your unfaithful husband. Not to mention how he clearly had the advantage and thoughtlessly left you and your children destitute. These continuing stories are a testament to your strength, courage and determination.
    Much love to you and himself. (I hope he received his birthday card).




    • Dearest Rochelle, thank you for your words of support! Yes, knowing what happened, it has meant that my son has bent over backwards to make sure he never hurt and has always been utterly generous and supportive to his family…
      Himself is hard at it whenever the sun shines, – as it is now, and he loved the beautiful card which arrived the other day… I know he will be in touch…
      much love, Valerie


  15. I’m so glad that the worst is over Valerie, and yet you wouldn’t be who you are without all these experiences, I’m sure that they gave you such a sense of strength in the long run.


  16. Wow, Valerie! You had me spitting and wanting to get that husband of yours around the neck and give him a good throttle for you. As I’m a young 56 year old, I can’t imagine being treated like this, this degree of sexism, and the closing ranks of the army officials was outrageous. As well as your husband saying effectively that he wanted to ‘break you’ – so insidious. But you stayed true and stayed strong – I can’t imagine, either, being able to be this strong. I’m so happy to know you and think you are a special person, though I know you will deny it! Can’t wait for the next installment and i’m greatly relieved to know things improve.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Lovely to hear from you, I enjoyed your thoughtful comment…no, that sort of sexism has mostly disappeared thank heavens … there were so many other aspects to it, like the War Office -as it then was- replying to my solicitor’s letter trying to get my husband to have his maintenance sent to me directly, so I had some security – and they replied by sea mail ( six weeks delay) saying he was an officer and a gentleman who would always fulfill his responsibilities !
      You are very generous, Lynne to say the lovely things you do… letter on the way !!! The feelings are mutual… love V

      Liked by 1 person

  17. 1968 was indeed a very unique year. I find the quote absolutely right-on. It’s possibly true that only those who’ve seen death very close can appreciate the fact that we are all alive for a certain time. Love this post, Valerie. See you soon.

    Liked by 1 person

  18. Dear Evelyne, apologies for not acknowledging this warm generous and perceptive comment before… have only just found it… my excuse !!! is that I’ve been up against it for the last month with health problems and dentist, so please forgive my seeming indifference to your generosity…love V


  19. cntafyDuspima



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