Kirkby Reunion: 50th Anniversary(1959-1960 batch)

By Wan Chwee Seng

Many years ago, they answered the call to return and serve their homeland _'The Golden Chersonese'. Now, in their golden years they have come together again to celebrate their Golden Anniversary

A stranger who happened to stroll by the building that December morning would be forgiven if he thought he was in Paris. From somewhere inside the building, the melodious and sentimental strains of ‘Under the bridges of Paris’ rose and wafted across the balmy morning air. If he had paused to peek into the dining hall he would see a singer, replete with a red beret and swirling scarf, giving a rendition of the song in exquisite French.

Lean Aing accompanied by Ruby on the keyboard with their rendition of 

                         'Under the bridges of Paris'

However, no river, no bridge, no lover and no vagabond could be seen in the immediate vicinity. And instead of the murmur of the Seine flowing by, the room echoed to the sound of excited voices and spontaneous laughter. Not a single Caucasian could be seen among the sea of faces. Instead the room was filled with people of different colours and creeds conversing in fluent English.
Fifty years ago, in the middle of a cold winter night, 120 young Malayan landed at London Airport and made the long coach journey to the Malayan Teachers’ College in Kirkby, on the outskirts of Liverpool.

'Kampung Kirkby', Liverpool

Here in ’Kampung Kirkby’ which would be their home for two long years they learned to work and play as one big family.
On their return to Malaya, with the passage of time and separated by distance, some of the family members lost touch of each other.
On a warm December morning of 2010, inside the Sime Darby Convention Centre, most of the family members had come together again to renew and strengthen the family bond, fostered five decades ago. Although it was a joyous occassion, those who had left us were not forgotten. As Rama read out the names during the one minute silence, it left many with lumps in their throats and a few wet eyes.

Sime Derby Convention Centre

Much water has since flowed under the bridge, but the many happy moments they shared during their two years stay in Kirkby will remain as precious memories etched in gold.






Writer’s notes
My sincere thanks and appreciation to the following:
1. Chew Hing, Vimala and all the members of the Organizing Committee. Your tireless effort and commitment have made it possible for us to meet many of our family members.
2. Our sifu photographer, Chong Hong Chong, for all the well taken photos.
3. Lean Aing and the evergreen ‘Dream girls’ for their lively entertainment. Hope you will continue sharing your dreams with us.
4. Cheng Swee, Vin Quen, Patsy, and Cheah for being such wonderful company at our table.
5. Cynthia, Emily, Cheng Bee, Rama and Poh Yuk and others for taking the trouble to join us at our table.
6. Zainal, thanks for reminding me that I used to paint a long time ago. I can still remember the words you said that morning.
“Wan, do you still have the painting of me playing the
bongo? I want to buy it.”
Unfortunately, the painting has gone missing or else I would gladly give it to you as a souvenir. Perhaps, I should start searching for my brushes and paints that are gathering dust somewhere in the store room.

"Under the bridges of Paris "A song that evokes memories of our vacation in gay Paree

Kirkby College: Random recollections of a summer vacation in 1959

Kirkby College: Random recollections of a summer vacation in1959

by Wan Chwee Seng

"Here's the folder," my wife said, as she handed me a folder she had finally found buried under a pile of old files. It was just a plain green folder, now frayed and coated with fine dust. It has no intrinsic value, but I felt as if she had unearthed a precious archaeological relic. The folder was one of the projects we did for our Art and Craft lessons at Kirkby College. What I treasure most are the papers within the folder.

A page from the folder

On the pages now mostly stained yellow with age and written in my cursive handwriting was an account of our 1959 summer vacation in Europe. As I flipped through the pages, memories of a summer vacation that had lain dormant all these years came flooding back. 

Some members of our tour group

I hope the account will bring back memories of those halcyon days when we hardly knew boredom and college life was not only confined to poring over books, but of time spent on planning for weekend's trips, mid- term breaks and the long summer vacations.

Here are excerpts of the trip as recorded in the faded pages of the folder.


Introduction

“We sat on a long wooden bench in Ostend’s famous garden, the Leopold Park. We listened to the throbbing music of the Belgium Band, while the fragrance of flowers assailed our nostrils. Tourists in tight-fitting shorts and colourful summer dresses strolled passed us, occasionally throwing inquisitive glances at us. Out on the emerald, shimmering water, boats skimmed its surface. A peculiar warmth pervaded the atmosphere. The warmth, odour, and colour made a sensuous pattern in my mind into which memory weaved meaning. Memory of our journey from Dover to Ostend came flooding back.”



Cologn




“We’re in Cologne!” shouted a voice closed to my ears. With drowsy eyes I slipped on my shoes and clambered hurriedly down the train with my luggage.
The clock on the wall registered the hour of three.
“Where’s my camera?” inquired my friend, Jin Eng.
It suddenly dawned on me that in the mad rush to get off the train, I had left the camera on the side table. We stood on the platform and watched helplessly as the train pulled out of the station and vanished into the pre-dawn darkness. Our voices drowned by the blare of ’Achtung! Achtung!’ we explained our predicament to the German station-master. He made a phone call to the station at Bonn and within hours we had the camera back in our hands. A railway officer than helped us to find accommodation at the nearby Railway Hotel.”

Munchen





"It was on 16th August(Sunday) that we arrived in this wonderful place. A dark and gloomy weather greeted our arrival. We arrived at an impressive hotel, just before a downpour, with a Brinsford boy and two other girls from Rama's party. After the rain Jin Eng, Cheng Swee and I went for a walk to the city centre. We stopped at a self-service stall and helped ourselves to four sticks of skewered liver. As we stood there and savoured every single morsel with relish, they reminded me of our own pungent satay back home in Malaya."



18th August(Tuesday)

“Another gloomy day. A boy approached us and asked for money. We ignored him and walked away. We were coming down the steps of a railway station when a German lady attired in black stopped us. She looked like a poor farmer. She asked us something in German and as we could not understand her we just shook our heads. She took a purse from a basket and fished out ten marks which she offered to us. Using sign language we tried to tell her we did not want her money. However, after much persuasion we took the ten marks and thanked her. Suddenly, she held my hand and led me to a fruit stall where she bought grapes for each of us. Her unexpected action and generosity remained a mystery to this day. As we left Germany and headed for Italy we were full of admiration at the efficiency of the German administration and greatly touched by the friendliness and kindness of the people we met.”



Rome

St. Peter's Basilica

" We were deeply engrossed in marvelling at the artistic creation of Michelangelo that none of us noticed that Rosalind was not with us. We made a frantic search for her in the basilica, but all was in vain."

"After lunch we were in the midst of browsing through some postcards when we suddenly caught sight of Rosalind strolling calmly down the road. We were relieved to have found her."


Below is a video of the summer vacation

Writer's Notes:

All the photos in the above video are courtesy of our late friend, Jin Eng who was our cameraman during the trip, as he was the only one with a camera. If not for his kindness and generosity there would be no visual records of that trip. I lost contact of Jin Eng after our return to Malaya and was looking forward to meeting him at the Penang Kirkby Reunion. However, I was sad to learn he had passed away just before the Reunion. 

I had a dream

A decision had to be made; it had to be fast. The letter that arrived that November morning was succinct. 

It read:‘If we do not receive your reply within a week, your name will be struck off the list’

Weeks earlier another letter had arrived - a letter that would have been greeted with much joy by successful applicants. The letter informed the recipient that he had been offered a place at a Teachers’ Training College in England. Like the other successful applicants, his initial reaction too was one of excitement and jubilation. But his joy was short-lived. As memories from the past came flooding back and the reality of the situation dawned on him, his hope and dream collapsed like a house of cards. He sank into a dismal mood.

He remembered that day, long ago, when his father had passed away suddenly. His grieving mother, a homemaker, was left with the daunting task of raising eight school-going children. Untitled to any pension, except for a meagre gratuity, his mother had to eke out a living. The hardship she had to endure was beginning to take its toll on her health. 

As soon as he and his brother had completed their secondary education, they quickly sought employment as their father’s gratuity money was fast depleting and they knew the little that they earned would go a long way in alleviating the family’s financial burden.

Now, as he stared at the letter, he realised that if he accepted the offer the family would have to rely mostly on his brother’s income and his brother would have to make a lot of personal sacrifices. Not wanting to add further anguish to his mother’s frail health, he kept the news to himself. The letter was neatly folded, slipped into the official brown envelope and stuck at the bottom of a cabinet drawer.


The unexpected arrival of the final reminder that November morning left him in a dilemma. Should he tell his mother about the offer? After debating the question in his mind he finally decided to inform her.

“Well, it’s up to you to decide,” she answered noncommittally. 

She paused for a moment, lost in thought, and then continued, “Maybe, you should accept it. 

You know your late father always wanted his children to acquire an overseas education. Perhaps, you’ll be able to fulfill his lifelong wish.” 

They were encouraging words, but beneath the calm and brave front he noticed the pain and sadness in her eyes.

On a December morning in 1958, with his mother’s blessing, he joined 119 other students on board a flight to England.

Boarding a plane

With so much college work and social activities, there was little time for him to think about home. Occasionally, he would receive a postcard or an aerogram from home assuring him that everything was fine at home. However, on cold and dreary winter days as he sat by the window and gazed forlornly at the the winter birds pecking at the scraps of food on the frozen college ground he would be stricken with  nostalgia and his thoughts would stray to his family.He wondered how they were faring in his absence.

He gazed at the winter birds

With the advent of spring, the winter blues were quickly wiped away and college life resumed with renewed vigour.

Art lesson

Tutorial group

Teaching practice

Games

Summer found him vacationing in Europe with his new-found friends. 

Summer vacation

The years rolled by unnoticed and he found that his two years stay in England had come to an end. On his return to Malaya he was posted to a remote school. Although distance separated him from his family, the thought of being able to contribute something to the family’s coffer provided some consolation.

Forty nine years on. 
On a stage, against a backdrop emblazoned with the words‘KIRKBY REUNION 2010' the college golden nightingales, the ‘Dreamgirls’, are belting out their opening number, ‘I have a dream’.

'Dreamgirls'

As the sentimental strains drift to the table where I am seated with my wife and old college friends, the song strikes a chord in my heart.

Among friends

I sit in a quiet reverie and let my mind wanders to a morning in 1958 when I had to make a momentous decision in order to pursue a dream, a dream that was only made possible by the encouragement of a loving and understanding mother and the support and sacrifice of a brother. Although mother is no longer with us , to her and my elder brother I wish to say a big thank you for letting me have that dream.

By Wan Chwee Seng

                      

_________________________________________________________________

Writer's notes: My sincere thanks to Lean Aing, Johnny, Ooi Tee and others who have taken the trouble to forward photos for this article.

Lessons for life

The Star Lifestyle
Monday June 30, 2008

Lessons for life 

By Wan Chwee Seng

Life’s first experiences offer lessons that stand us in good stead in later years.

“WALK faster, freshies! This is England, not Malaya!” The raucous shouts reverberated across the dark, narrow corridor that led to the recreation hall. Disorientated and shivering from the bitterly cold English winter, we huddled together and jostled past the seemingly endless lines of “Our most honourable senior sirs and ladies”.
I remember that cold December morning in 1958, when 120 excited and high-spirited young Malayans landed in London airport on a BOAC Jet-Prop Britannia.

BOAC Jet-Prop Britannia

For most, if not all, it was our first trip overseas, our first plane ride and our first experience of snow. We boarded a waiting coach and made the long night journey to Kirkby Teachers’ Training College, on the outskirts of Liverpool, which would be our home for the next two years.

Malayan Teachers' Training College, Kirkby, Liverpool

As we pushed past the lines of shouting seniors, I felt like a sheep being led to the slaughter-house. Soon I found myself in the brightly-lit recreation hall and I sensed more trouble. Through the corner of my eyes, I saw other seniors prowling round the hall like vultures that were about to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.

I tried to slip away to a secluded corner of the room. Then above the muffled shouts from outside the hall, a feminine voice close to my ears drawled: “Freshiee! Where’re you going? Sit here.” I soon found myself sandwiched between two charming girls.
“Freshie, did you study Malayan history in Form V?”
“Er, yes,” I replied hesitatingly.
“Tell us what you know about the Treaty of Pangkor.”
I must have done reasonably well as I was told to report to them the next day.
Ensconced on the sofa between two ladies, I was about to relax when a dark figure loomed over me. I looked up. A huge, bearded senior glared down at me with steely eyes.
“Come here, freshie!” a voice boomed above the din. A crooked index finger beckoned me.
“Can’t you see he’s engaged,” a voice snapped back.
The figure stalked away. A smile flitted at the corner of his lips.
I heaved a sigh of relief. It was a welcome reprieve. Lunch was another welcome break. As we dug into the white rice and Sputnik curry (hard-boiled eggs cooked in curry), the morning incidents were soon forgotten. The clock in the dining hall was ticking extra fast and it was time again to report at the recreation hall. With our heads lowered and eyes fixed on the floor, we tried to sneak past the seniors who were pacing the corridor.
“Freshie!” a voice barked. A junior bolt upright.
“Where are your manners?”
“Er, er ? Good ... good morning, my ... my most honourable senior sir,” he stammered.
“Your ribbon is withering, freshie! Make sure you water and iron it.” A slight smile played on his lips.
“Zip that smile freshie!” Two firmly pressed fingers glided across clamped lips as the owner tried to suppress a dimpled smile.
We finally made it to the recreation hall. The moment we stepped into the hall, all eyes gravitated towards our direction. Above the blare of television could be heard a cacophony of voices.
“Let us hear you croak, freshie!”
A quavering voice belted out a song which was clearly out of tune.
“Do you know how to go on a bombing raid, freshie?” A senior was soon giving a detailed explanation on the proper use of the toilet.
In one corner of the hall, a loquacious senior was busy telling jokes to a group of solemn-faced juniors who were the butt of his jokes.
“Hey! Listen to this. This freshie boarded a double-decker bus to Liverpool. He clambered excitedly to the top deck. He was about to take his seat when he noticed the bus was moving without a driver. He ran down screaming with fright.”
There were many more jokes that day and each was followed by boisterous laughter from the seniors, while the juniors joined in with forced laughter.
One morning a senior approached me and inquired whether I had been to Liverpool.
“No,” I replied.
“Follow me then. I’ll show you around.”
A group of juniors was soon following doggedly behind his confident steps. Our ungloved hands were numb from the cold. As we made our way to the nearby bus stop, he pointed to us the makeshift night stall where we could buy fish and chips or spring rolls for our supper, and the pub at the corner where we could join the locals for a pint or two.

One of the pubs outside Kirkby College

Through the thick, low-hanging fog, we could make out the indistinct outline of an approaching bus. We peered intently through the fog to make a mental note of the bus number. Was it 922 or 92? We were not sure. The number was fogged and our vision blurred.
The bus screeched to a halt at the bus stop. We quickly clambered on board and were soon on our way to the small town of Blackbull. Our senior showed us the bank where we could withdraw our monthly allowance of £10 (about RM80 then).

We popped into a grocery store where a smiling face behind the counter greeted us with, “Hello luv. What can I do for you, luv?” They were words which would soon become familiar to our ears.

Kirkby Store

The next day, I had a fever and landed in Sick Bay. There were many juniors to keep me company. Gradually they were discharged and I was all alone.
As I rested on the bed and gazed at the spotlessly white ceiling, I had plenty of time to reflect on the Orientation. I realised that the taunts, jokes and embarrassing activities we had to endure at the hands of our seniors were all done in good faith. They were meant to teach us social skills and etiquettes, and inculcate in us the norms and values of society. All would prove invaluable during our two years’ stay in England and stand us in good stead in our later years.
That night as I lay awake in bed and listened to the wintry wind howling outside, a desire to be among my newly-found friends stirred within me.
I woke up the next morning to find a transistor radio and a bottle of orange juice at the bedside table. I knew they were placed there out of care and kindness.
One morning I was awakened by the sound of approaching footsteps and Sister’s cheery voice called out: “Wakey, wakey. It’s time to leave.”
As I stepped out into the sunlight, I was greeted by a shower of snowflakes. The air was filled with a strange silence.
I looked around me. Not a soul in sight. The students were already in their classes. The Orientation had ended, but my journey had just begun.
Fifty years later, a group of silver-haired men with thick dark glasses, men with receding hairlines, and women with fine lines etched on their faces, are sitting around a table in the comfort of a coffee lounge.
They are reminiscing about the exploits of their youths with child-like exuberance. They are oblivious to the customers at the next table who listened with amused smiles on their young faces. They smile knowingly.

MTTC Kirkby closed down after its last intake (1960-1961).
Readers who want to know what became of the College can view the below interesting and informative video, courtesy of Datuk Zainal Arshad.

 

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Moments to savour

Precious memories

Moments to Savour

The Star

Lifestyle

Wednesday July 21st 2010

Moments to Savour

Story and illustration by Wan Chwee Seng



Adventures in the kitchen that add spice to life.



IT began on a lively note. The thumping blare of Cliff Richard’s latest hit, Living Doll, resonated across the Block Nine common room. Fingers snapped and knees bounced as the young listeners kept time to the rocking music.

Block Nine Common Roo0m
L to R; Johnny Khoo, Tan Vin Quen

Then as if on a given signal the turn-table came to a stop and the lights were switched off. The listeners strolled reluctantly to their respective rooms.
In the other blocks of Kampung Kirkby, as Kirkby College, in Liverpool is fondly known by its young Malayan students, the lights, too, were disappearing gradually like stars being sponged by the light of dawn. It was lights-out time and most of the students were already snugly curled up under layers of woolen blankets.

'Kampung Kirkby', Liverpool

However, in the small pantry of Block Nine, a light still glowed. The tall figure of my friend, Seripala, hovered over a pot of noodles which was simmering to a boil. In the adjacent common room, from behind drawn curtains, I gazed out at the blackness of the cold winter night. All that was clearly visible from my vantage point was the frost-covered driveway which glistened under the golden glow of the street lamp. Beyond the driveway was a shrouded landscape of indistinct outlines of low buildings.
The savoury aroma from the pantry rose and drifted along the corridor to the common room where I stood watch. My stomach started to rumble, but above the faint rumble came a more audible sound. Footsteps!
I pressed my nose against the icy panes to peer and strain into the darkness. A dark figure loomed from behind a veil of low-lying fog and lumbered up the driveway. The hulking frame and familiar gait told me that it was the object of my surveillance.

A hulking figure loomed from the gloom
Insetl; Mr. Struthers, the Co;;ege warden

With heart pumping fast, I rushed to the pantry.

"Warden," I called out.

Seripala turned off the stove and flicked off the light. He sprinted to his room at the end of the corridor, while I bounded the few metres to my room next to the pantry. From behind closed door, I waited, ears straining in the silence. The minutes ticked away. Then I heard the rhythmic pounding of heavy footsteps on concrete floor. The pounding stopped. An uncomfortable silence ensued.
I could sense the warden’s presence outside my room and pictured him scanning the long corridor for any tell-tale signs of nocturnal activities.
My thought strayed to the pot of noodles in the pantry. Would he catch the whiff of the aroma emanating from the pantry?
I gave a sigh of relief when I finally heard the sound of footsteps receding into the distance.
I crept warily to Seripala’s room and gave the all clear signal. We resumed our cooking without anymore interruption. Back in my room, we sat in the stillness of the night and savoured every single strand of the soggy noodle with relish.
Watching Seripala scrape the last bit of noodle from his plate with a long sigh of contentment, I could not help suppress a smile as I recalled another incident. It was a late autumn night when we made our way to the makeshift fish-and-chips stall just outside the college gate, only to find it had already closed for the night.

The Fish and Chips stall which is located a few metres from the College gate.
From L to R; Tan Ooi Tee, Ramakrishnan

We trudged forlornly back to the pantry for another humble dish of noodles. White steam was soon billowing and curling from a pot of noodles flavoured with Knox chicken stock. Seripala took a peek at the open pot and suddenly announced: “I think we need to add some vegetables.”
He slipped out of the pantry and disappeared into the dark night. A while later he sauntered into the pantry clutching tightly to his protruding “pot-belly”. He dug under his gabardine and with a flourish withdrew a freshly-plucked cabbage which he proudly displayed in his outstretched hand. Where did he get the cabbage at this late hour? I thought to myself. I had my suspicions, but I kept my silence.
The next morning as we busied ourselves threading colourful threads at the loom in the Art and Craft room, the nocturnal incident was soon forgotten. Around us could be heard small pockets of conversations. Next to us a group was talking excitedly in low whispers.
“Hey, did you hear the college gardener is raising a hue and cry because a cabbage went missing from his cabbage patch. He suspects one of us.”
The words drifted to my ears. I paused at my work to look at Seripala. He beamed a faint smile in my direction. My suspicions were confirmed.
Seripala, an avid cook, preferred to cook during the weekends when he could use his culinary wizardry to whip up divine mouth-watering dishes, especially his signature dish – fish curry. The fragrance of his cooking would send ravenous students scurrying to the pantry to investigate the source of the pungent odour and they would often be rewarded with an invitation.
I remember the freezing winter night when a group of us with different creeds and colours would gather in my room to share his cooking. As our fingers dug into the steaming white rice generously topped with spicy curry, sweat formed and trickled down our cheeks, to provide additional warmth to the cold winter night.
Long after lights out, we would sit in the darkness to share stories and talk about our hopes and dreams.

Block Niners(1959-1960) From L to R
Sitting: Low Mui Chuan, Tan Teong Kooi, Chelvarajah, Jaikishan, Lionel Koh, Siva, Wan Chwee Seng, Nagarajah, Choo Ewe Keat, Teh Tien Chong
Standing: Michael Shum, Douglas Gomez, Johnny Khoo, Liew Pek Siew, Rahim Esa, Seripala, William Sabaratnam, Ahmad Omar, Joseph John, Tay Soo Hock, Tan Vin Quen

Block Niners at the College ground
Standing from Lto R: Seripala, Teong Kooi, Johnny Khoo
Sitting from Lto R: William,Nagarajah, Vin Quen, Soo Hock
Photo courtesy of Johnny Khoo

Fifty years on, Seripala and a few of my friends who shared that delicious fare are no longer with us. Today, as I reflect on the many fond memories of my college days, those late-night incidents and the few moments we shared together are among the most precious.

They helped to add spice to our otherwise mundane college work and are the little threads that lend more vibrant colours to life’s tapestry. In our golden years, these are moments to savour


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Lessons for life

Precious memories

Precious memories

The Star

Lifestyle
Wednesday February 17, 2010

Precious Memories

Story and illustration

By WAN CHWEE SENG

Magic moments that live on in the catacombs of our mind.

ON A cold winter night in January of 1959, two thickly-clad figures could be seen making their way slowly down the approach road to Kirkby College, Liverpool. The road was virtually deserted. It was past midnight and well past lights out.

The road leading to Kirkby College, Liverpool

Towering trees which lined the road stood stark naked like silent sentinels, while the fish-and-chip stall and a farm house beyond it were just murky shapes.

A few metres from the college gate, the pair caught sight of something which made them stop dead in their tracks. Under the golden pool of light, cast by a solitary street lamp, stood the hulking figure of the warden.
“Mr Struthers,” a voice whispered.
The figures made a quick about-turn and started to pace back and forth along the icy road. They wrapped their scarves tightly round their necks to protect themselves from the biting wind and their gloveless hands dug deeper into the pockets of their gabardines.
The low-hanging fog and the darkness of winter, they fervently hoped would render them unrecognisable. The warden finally stalked away. The two figures made a dash for the college gate, made a quick right turn and vanished into Block 9.
In the silence and comfort of the recreation room, they warmed their numb hands over an electric heater. For both figures, my friend Seripala and I, it was not the end, but the beginning of our troubles.
I remember well that particular evening. Earlier in the evening, young men and women could be seen heading for the gym hall to seek warmth and company from the darkness and dreariness of winter. It was the evening of the informal dance.

Young Kirkbyites at the College informal dance. Can you identify those in the photo?
Photo courtesy of Johnny Khoo. Forwarded by Mimi Foo.

“Shall we go to the dance?” I asked Seripala.
Stroking his goatee, he mulled over my suggestion.
“Er…er... I think I prefer to go to the Jacaranda Club,” he replied with a faint smile that flitted at the corner of his mouth.
“Like to go?” he inquired with his trademark smile.
“Okay,” I replied.

Quiet escapade

After an early dinner, we slipped quietly out of the college gate. We took a bus to Liverpool and soon, I found myself trying hard to keep pace with his long striding steps. We made our way along unfamiliar roads flanked by indistinct buildings and came to a stop at the entrance of an inconspicuous building.
Seripala whispered something to the doorman and we were ushered in. The moment we stepped into the building, the metallic rhythm of steel band music reached our ears. As my eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit surroundings, I realised we were standing on some kind of landing.
A short flight of steps led to a cellar which was filled with a seething mass of hip-swaying bodies. To the left was a small counter that served light refreshment. A mural adorned a wall, only its black and white outlines now visible in the dim light.
We pushed our way past the milling crowd to the centre of the room. Soon we found ourselves dancing with two English college girls to the rhythm of a Calypso music provided by a Caribbean Steel Band.

There was no room for any fancy footwork and the din made it impossible to engage in any extended conversation. So we “danced” in silence, hardly moving from our spots. Caught in the excitement of the moment, we soon lost count of time. Then above the din a voice next to me said: “Hey! It’s nearly 12!”

We shouldered through the crowd, grabbed our gabardines and headed for the nearest bus stop. The last bus to Kirkby College screeched to a halt. 

The bus screeched to a halt

Talking and laughing in childish exuberance, we scrambled up the bus and plopped ourselves in the vacant seat behind the driver.
We had hardly settled down when the not-too-familiar figure of a college lecturer boarded the bus. Without even glancing at us he strolled calmly to the back of the bus. As the bus hummed its way towards its destination, we sat in complete silence as both of us had the uneasy feeling of someone watching our every move.
After what seemed like an eternity, the bus finally came to a halt at the college bus stop. We sat and waited for the few passengers at the back to disembark. I stole a glance at the disembarking commuters.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the lecturer. He was standing next to our seats. His eyes were fixed directly at the open door and the darkness beyond. I heaved a sigh of relief as there was not the slightest sign of recognition. Then, above the silence of the cold night air came a crisp voice: “See the warden, tomorrow.”

As we stood in the recreation room and warmed our hands over the glowing electric heater, I wondered how the lecturer knew we were from Kirkby College. Then it dawned on me that like typical “freshie hobos”, we were naïve enough to don our college scarves!

A lesson in charity

The next day, we found ourselves outside the warden’s office. We tapped lightly at the door and without waiting for an answer, stepped into his office. The warden peered at us over his thick-rimmed glasses.
“Yes, what can I do for you, young men?”
We explained to him about the night’s incident and waited anxiously with bated breath for the expected long lecture. It never came. Instead in a slow, calm voice he said: “Young men, you can enjoy yourselves, but be careful. The English girls can be naughty, you know.”
With those sagacious words of advice, he waved us out. As we left his room, we realised that behind the table sat a big man with a big heart.

The warden ( Mr. Struthers ) standing on the right, welcoming us
to Kirkby College

Our trips to the Jacaranda Club came to an abrupt end though, as Seripala had somehow decided to take up ballroom dancing lessons at the Victor Sylvester’s Dance Hall. However, we filled our free time and weekends with other interesting activities.
Seripala, who was well-known for his culinary skills, would often prepare his signature dish – spicy fish curry. I remember the cold winter nights, well past lights-out, when the aroma of freshly-cooked fish curry would waft across the long narrow corridor of Block 9. Ravenous, pyjama-clad bodies peeped from half-opened doors and in zombie-like fashion would sniff their way to our bolted room. Then, there were the weekend trips to the brightly-lit town of Blackpool; the horse race at Aintree and the GP on the Isle of Wight.
I remember that particular trip because on the return journey aboard a ferry, a stranger had walked up to me and said: “Your countrymen did very well.”
I nodded. I knew he had mistaken me for a Japanese. I also remember the winter days when we would join our English family at Goodison Park to cheer for Everton and that special trip to Old Trafford in Manchester to watch the game between Everton and Manchester United.

With so much fun and activities, the years slipped by, unnoticed. Suddenly, we found our two-year stay in Kirkby College had come to an end and it was time to bid farewell to our friends.

At St. Paul's Hill , Melaka during a school vacation
From Lto R: Seripala, Chwee Seng, Joseph John

On our return to Malaya, Seripala and I were posted to different parts of the country. We met once during the school holidays and then lost touch with each other.

Seripala with Johnny Khoo at Cameron Highlands
Photo courtesy of Johnny Khoo

Years passed.

One morning, while scanning the local papers, my eyes fell on a news item about a Kirkbyite who had passed away in a foreign country. I saw the name. It was my good friend, Seripala.
I choked back the lump that rose to my throat as memories of our Kirkby days came flooding back.
Today, 50 years on, I still cherish that friendship and remember with nostalgia the magic moments that we shared, especially that unforgettable night at the Jacaranda Club




Some interesting facts about 'The Jacaranda' ( source: Liverpool Echo )


The Jacaranda, or the Jac as it is popularly known, has a rich history linked with The Beatles. It was founded in 1957 by Allan Williams, the Fab Four's first manager and "the man who gave them away".
Williams leased an old watch repair shop which he converted into a coffee bar. He named the venue the Jacaranda after an exotic species of ornamental flowering tree.
The Jac, as it became known, opened a year later in September 1958 and John Lennon, Stuart Sutcliffe and Paul McCartney were frequent customers.
Asking for the chance to play at the club, Williams instead put them to work redecorating, with Lennon and Sutcliffe painting a mural for the Ladies room. The Beatles finally began playing at the Jac and in the summer of 1960, Williams secured a number of bookings for the group at other venues.
In 1961, Williams and The Beatles parted company over money and in 1962 he famously told their new manager Brian Epstein: "Don't touch them a bargepole, they will let you down."Prior to its closure, the Jacaranda was known for its basement vault booths, chandeliers and a belting Wurlitzer jukebox.
The walls were covered with pictures of The Beatles, Cilla Black and Epstein, alongside posters for seemingly every Beatles-relamusic ted movie, play and revue.

Nestled among them is the celebrated 1956 school picture of pupils at the Liverpool Institute, in which can be seen McCartney and his brother Mike, George Harrison, newsreader Peter Sissons and various members of Gerry And The Pacemakers,Remo Four and The Quarrymen.

I learned that Balasubramaniam ( 58/59 batch ) who was in charge of playing music for the informal dance would always end the session with the evergreen song 'Fascination' .

Listen to Nat King Cole as he takes you on a sentimental journey down memory lane.   

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