New digs, some amusing anecdotes from London and sailing back home

Excerpted from the Memoirs of a Cabinet Secretary by BP Peiris

At the end of my third year at Sutton, I had, with deep regret, to find another home. As I stated before, each lot of girls left in December to be at home for Christmas and the next lot was not due till the February following. Miss Overton, who was old and wealthy, preferred to spend the cold English winter in Italy or on the Mediterranean coast. The house was therefore let for a couple of months.

In the three years I had been at Sutton, I had accumulated a fair collection of books other than my law books, about 300 in all, and it was inconvenient to move just for a month or two with such a deal of baggage. I explained the position to Miss Overton and she agreed that when I next moved out, it would be a move for good. The loss was mine. I was losing a good home, a very kind hostess and a charming lot of friends.

In finding a new home, luck was again with me. My brother, S. W., who was doing engineering, found the traveling from Sutton to London a bit tiring and had found a good home in Ealing, about nine miles to the west of London. He invited me to come and stay with him and I was glad to accept the offer. Soon afterwards, he left for Berlin to continue his studies with the world-famous firm of Siemens.

I moved with my baggage and my books to a delightful and cultured home, that of Captain and Mrs Woodward and five children, two girls and three boys.They had been a wealthy family but had come down in the world after a crash in Vickers-Armstrong in which Woodward had invested. Some of the things in the house showed that they had been used to a very high standard of living. There were rare Chinese art pictures hanging on the walls, exquisite antique tables in the lounge, and one set of books, a complete leather-bound set of the works of George Bernard Shaw, which Mrs Woodward knew almost by heart.

The conversation at table was of a very high level. The eldest, Nancy, at that time aged about 19, spoke French and German fluently. The next, also a girl, whom we used to call ‘Jimmy’ was a beauty of 17 and an artist’s model. The two elder boys also knew their French and German and the older boy was sent to Russia to study that language with a view to entering the diplomatic service. The youngest, Mike, was a mischievous fellow of four who spent his time in climbing trees in the garden.

His broad-minded mother did not put him into shoes till he was nearly five years old and used to take him barefooted along the streets, both summer and winter. On one occasion when Mike was walking barefooted on the snow with his mother, an angry lady came up and threatened to report her to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. Nothing came of this; but Mike never caught a cold.

Mrs Woodward’s father, a man nearly 80 years of age, used to have a dip every morning in the Serpentine in Hyde Park and, in winter, if the lake was frozen, used to break the ice to have his plunge. He never caught a cold either. The doctors probably have some explanation for this.

There was also a German girl in the house, Felizitas Tillmann. Woodward’s eldest boy had been in a German home to study the language and this was an ‘exchange’. She paid no fees but ran the house with typical German efficiency, relieving Mrs Woodward of most of her household work. The house ran like a clock. I never had breakfast because Fay, as we all called her, ordered the table to be cleared if we were not down before a particular time.

She was a charming girl and we became very friendly. Hitler had made an order prohibiting women from using lipstick and rouge and from wearing stockings. Like any German, she loved her beer, and we used to walk a mile to the pub every evening. I sipped my beer; in German style she put her’s down at a ‘sitting’. The English people’ present were amazed at this strange girl without make-up, bareheaded and stockingless, knocking a beer down faster than they could. One day, she was unable to come with me and I went alone. As I ordered my pint, one of the Englishmen, all friendly people,

walked up to me and whispered “We have all admired the way your wife puts down her beer”.

On one of these trips with Fay to the pub, we found Mike about half a mile from the house, in the middle of the street on his bicycle, right under the arm of a policeman controlling the traffic. I shouted “Mike! What are you doing here?” and walked across to him. The policeman asked me “Are you the gentleman from Queen’s Road?” and allowed me to take him away. My name, as one of the darkies in the area, was on the books of Scotland Yard and every policeman in the area knew me and, I presume, was expected to keep an eye on me.

Another incident comes to my mind. I invited Fay to dine with me at Veeraswamy’s in London. It was a very expensive place – a rice and one curry costing about ten shillings and six pence. We were served by the head waiter, a fair, military-looking man with a row of war medals on his breast, a silver chain like a Lord Mayor’s round, his neck and dressed in white sherwani, jodhpurs, red sash and red; turban. I took him for a Kashmiri.

Having finished dinner, Fay and I retired downstairs for smokes and liqueur. I do not know how many liqueurs we consumed, but when I called for two more, the ‘Lord Mayor’ refused to serve saying that I had had enough. “You are in charge of a lady, Sir’ he said “and you have a long way to go.” How he knew where I lived, I did not know. I asked him to bring me the liqueurs or to call the manager, and the following dialogue ensued:

He: I will certainly call the manager, Sir, but I think you have had enough.

I: That is not a matter for you.

He: Are you from Ceylon, Sir?

I: I am from Ceylon, but that has nothing to do with the liqueurs.

He: What school Sir?

I: Royal.

He: I am Poulier from St Thomas’, Sir. Been here 25-years. I think you’ve had enough, Sir.

I: Thank you, Poulier. I am going.

Some time later I invited a Spanish friend of mine to dine with me at Veeraswamy’s. He returned the invitation by asking me to dinner at the Royal Alphonso in Regent Street, another exclusive restaurant. He said he would order a special dish which would take about 15 minutes to prepare. And it came: about three spoons of boiled rice with a sliced, fried banana on top.

One summer, we had a delightful holiday in the Isle of Wight with the Woodwards who had booked a large house for a month. Apart from the family, there were several new faces. There was the late Dr B. E. Fernando of revered memory. There was Mr V. Coomaraswamy (later to be knighted) and Mrs Coom as everybody called her. And Jimmy, Woodward’s daughter, had brought a male friend whom she introduced as a student of the Slade School of Art of the University of London.

From the very first day, his behaviour gave room for suspicion. Art students are poor, but during the month, this student traveled several times from Southampton to London, “on business” he said, and he traveled first class. On moonlight nights, the art student used to take the entire household to the pub after dinner for liqueurs. Mrs Woodward was curious to find out the identity of the person introduced to her by the daughter as a Slade School student. On one of our friend’s frequent trips to London, Mrs Woodward, against all the rules of British ethics, searched the student’s luggage and closely inspected every article of clothing. There were no initials on anything to disclose the identity of the guest and she drew a complete blank.

Coming down to the hall, she saw his overcoat hanging in the hall-stand and looked into it. In the inside pocket, there was the usual tailor’s tab which he had forgotten to remove. It said “G. Brockhurst Esq – W. J. Pickett, Bond Street, Tailor.” A well-known artist had been caught masquerading as a poor art student.

Gerald Brockhurst, at that time about 35 years of age, was already an Associate of the Royal Academy, a Royal Etcher and a Royal Portrait Painter. As soon as it was known that he had commenced work on a picture, an etching or a portrait, it was booked by some wealthy person for about two thousand guineas. He was in the surtax grade and was, at that time, paying tax at the rate of nineteen and six in the pound.

He had a Rolls-Royce car and kept his wife in Dieppe across the Channel, paying her almost weekly visits. In spite of his wealth he was the simplest of men. He told me he came from a very poor family, so poor that his parents had not sent him to school because they could not afford the fees. He started very early in life helping his mother by carrying coals on his head in a basket for sale. While he was waiting on the doorstep for a favourable order, he would draw on the step with a piece of coal. So are great men made.

Was it Emerson who said that the truly great man is he who is never conscious of his greatness? With his lack of education, he was deficient in grammar and spelling. He rarely wrote a letter, always preferring to send a telegram, which often went into many pages, because, as he said, plural subjects can be mixed with singular verbs. Always modest, always conscious of his small beginnings and his lack of learning, he kept his head on those artistic shoulders and never talked ‘money’. In later years, he reminded me of that other great artist, Lionel Wendt and his brother Harry, both the most unassuming of men.

We were now back after our summer holiday in the Isle or Wight. One day, it was the August Bank holiday, I suddenly came across three of my good friends in London: A. F. Wijemanne, later to become a Senator and Minister of Justice, Siripala Samarakkody, later to become a member of the State Council, a very good and fluent speaker, and Hilton M. Fernando, a linguist who knew his English, Latin and Greek and spoke French, German, Italian and Spanish. The last two have been taken away from us to their heavenly rest.

Wijemanne said his landlady had gone away for the weekend holiday, his house was empty, and would we come? Naturally, with the holiday feeling, the three of us jumped at Wije’s invitation. I invited them, as a quid pro quo for Wije’s impending hospitality, to dine with me at a Chinese restaurant and, on the way to dinner, turned in at the first pub for a ‘touch’.

The invitation had been so sudden and unexpected that none of us carried a razor, toothbrush or pyjamas for the excursion. Our host had, I believe, one drink at the pub and left to “get the place ready”. In our excitement, we forgot to ask him where his landlady lived. But Samarakkody knew. Siripala, a teetotaller took port, Hilton drank beer and I anticipating trouble, took creme de menthe before dinner.

And so, we walked along the Edgeware Road to dinner in Soho but turned in at every pub we passed just for one more until we were at the 13th place and the 13th port went into Siripala’s head. The pub was full with the Bank holiday crowds. Suddenly, Siripala, in his loud and perfect diction, started “Gentlemen of the Jury, if the prisoner be guilty etc. etc.” quoting Galsworthy from memory. The barman came and requested us to leave if we could not remain quiet. As we were leaving, two persons shook hands with us saying “Congratulations. We are Irish”.

There was no point, now, in going for dinner. Instead, Hilton went for a taxi while I was looking after the casualty who was shouting, about once in every half-minute “Independence for India”. This was the time of the Indian Round Table Conference when Winston Churchill referred to Gandhi as that half-naked fakir walking up the steps of Vice Regal Lodge.

In the taxi, after a great deal of coaxing and in the midst of his shouting, we extracted from Siripala that Wije lived in Golders Green. With more difficulty, we got the name of the street and the number of the house – 13. When we got to the house, Siripala said “Give my bloody wallet to the good old English bastard” and there was another row with the man.

We were standing on the pavement. It was nearly midnight. There was an “Independence for India” shout and a torch was flashed in our faces. They were two policemen on the beat and we inquired for number 13. They flashed the torch up the gravel path saying “Quiet, now, quiet”, and we crept in quietly. Having put Siripala to bed, we looked about the house for something to eat as we were hungry.

There was a roast chicken in the refrigerator. Wije said it was not his, but we ate it nevertheless.Many years later, back in Ceylon, I was invited by my cousin, Professor G. H. Cooray to a party at his house. There I was introduced to an English girl who was then matron at a private hospital. I related this story to her and she asked me whether I remember the number of the house. When I said “Thirteen” she shouted to her mother who was seated at the other and of the room “Mummy, here is the gentleman who stole and ate our chicken.” So small is the world.

Woodward was a charming man. He would tiptoe into my room and say, “Let’s slip out for a pint of beer, old boy”. To his wife he would say, “Mummy, Percy and I are going to post a letter”. On one of these walks to the pub to post a letter we were accosted by a pretty, painted young thing, clearly a tart who, addressing Woodward, said “Hello. Good evening. What about it?”

Woodward, who was a clean and honourable man who had served in the Duke of Westminster’s Regiment in France in the First World War, politely raised his head and said “What about what?” The girl, probably realizing that this was the wrong type of fish she was trying to hook, said “Aren’t you the gentleman I spoke to yesterday about a house?” “No, madam,” said Woodward, “You are making a mistake. I’m not a house agent.”

When we were out of earshot, Woodward asked me what he should have done in the circumstances. I told him that if she had addressed me, I would have asked her across the street behind the coffee stall and inquired what it was all about. All Woodward said was “You naughty boy”.

The time was now coming for me to leave Ealing and England for good. I had passed the LL.B and been called to the Bar. Captain Woodward himself packed my several hundred books in a crate and sealed it. I took the Dutch liner P. C. Hooft from Southampton and arrived in Colombo towards the end of May 1932.