The Last Days of Empire and the Worlds of Business and Diplomacy

An Inside Account

Charles Cullimore

• Publisher: Pen & Sword History
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781526789051
• Topic: Negocios y empresa
• Subtopic: Biografías de negocios

A personal story, a colorful travelogue and an inside experience of politics and international relations, which includes a poignant 'imperial' sidelight with the discovery of his grandmother's grave in India. Charles Cullimore's was a varied life from the end of the British Empire to high-level business and finally with major roles in post-imperial British policy. He rounded off a career appropriately by lecturing at the School of Oriental and African Studies in the University of London, underpinning academic study with his hands-on experience in international diplomacy. The account is modest, graphic, full of incident, personality and anecdote, and face-to-face encounters with leading actors. After the 'Devonshire course' for entrants to the Colonial Service came appointment to Tanganyika and here is an intimate personal and 'official' account of district administration and the rise of TANU - Tanganyika African National Union - and decolonisation. The moving letter from Julius Nyerere reproduced in the text sums up a close relationship at the end of empire between the administration and the rising politicians assuming power at decolonisation when Tanganyika became Tanzania shortly after. A spell at ICI in 'personnel' followed in Scotland, Malaysia and Singapore. And then back to government service in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office focussed on Overseas Development, followed by a posting to Bonn at the height of the Cold War. The author came back to British Commonwealth service as Head of Chancery in India, Deputy High Commissioner in Australia, Head of the Central African Department in the FCO covering relations with the 'front-line States' and their conflict with South Africa. Finally, he was High Commissioner in Uganda at the time of state-recovery under Museveni - an intimate account full of fascinating personal contact. A personal story, a colorful travelogue and an inside experience of politics and international relations, which includes a poignant 'imperial' sidelight with the discovery of his grandmother's grave in India.

Chapter 1

Early Life in Ulster

I grew up in a rambling old Rectory at the top of a hill in Omagh opposite the large grey neo-Gothic pile of St Columba’s parish church of which my father was the rector. Behind the house on a west-facing slope was an overgrown Victorian garden of fruit trees, shrubberies, and flower beds. There was also an assortment of out-buildings on three sides of a large yard which at various times housed chickens, a goat optimistically christened Buttercup by my mother though it never produced any milk, the winter’s supply of turf, and my father’s Morris10 car. Pride of the garden had been a large, dilapidated hot-house with huge rusting iron pipes and a rambling vine which still managed to produce an abundance of grapes each year. With its old iron flue serving as a periscope it doubled as a make believe submarine where my friends and I could play our wartime games.

I had no brothers or sisters but I did have an irascible Irish terrier, inevitably called Paddy, whom I loved dearly. There were also two resident cats – Mina (because she was mine) and Pinkle Purr. Paddy had an implacable foe, a large white-haired mongrel with a marbled eye. On many occasions I had to haul Paddy away from attacking him. When they did fight the contest was hopelessly one-sided but Paddy never seemed to learn. Victor, the mongrel, belonged to the church sexton – a formidable Boer war veteran with a waxed black moustache.

My father was a saintly man but not very practical, the last of which traits I share though sadly not the first. As the Church of Ireland rector he was unavoidably part of the Protestant establishment. But he abhorred bigotry and did his best to ignore the sectarian divide which then, as now, ran through the town. He often met the priest in charge of the huge Roman Catholic church with its soaring twin spires just down the hill from the Rectory. Probably neither the priest’s flock nor my father’s would have approved of these meetings. During the war my father organised ecumenical services in the local cinema on a Sunday night for the troops of all denominations, and none, from the Infantry Training Centre on the edge of town. The cinema was always packed even though attendance was entirely voluntary, unlike the compulsory church parades on Sunday mornings to St. Columba’s. In contrast to many of his fellow clergy he had nothing to do with the Orange Order and, as far as I know, never attended their parades. In short he was well ahead of his time for a Protestant churchman in Northern Ireland.

I should add that he was also devoted to his parishioners, and much loved by them. On week days we hardly saw him during the day as he was usually away visiting the sick either in hospital or in their own homes. I now realise that in those days priests and clergy had a vital role in ministering to sick and depressed people. There were, of course, no social services and no such thing as professional carers. He was also much involved in numerous committees and local organizations.

The Rectory stood opposite the church and at the top of a steep street of mean houses lived in by poor Catholic families. Unimaginable today, there was no running water in the houses and the whole street depended on a single standpipe for its water where the women collected it in buckets and pails. Typically my father had no objection to my playing in the back garden of the Rectory with Catholic boys of my own age from the street and from the nearby housing estate graphically known as Gallows Hill. If they had known many of his parishioners would not have been amused. I was also often sent to buy milk and bread from a little Catholic grocery shop at the bottom of the street. I took all this for granted at the time and only later came to realise that such behaviour was quite unusual. Protestants normally only bought from Protestant shops, and Protestant and Catholic children did not mix.

My father could scarcely have imagined that ‘our wee town’ would one day be the scene of the worst single atrocity in the entire IRA bombing campaign some forty years later.

He had grown up in a modest semi-detached house in Rathmines, South Dublin, where he was one of six children, four boys and two girls. He was the only one of his siblings who ever married. Although the family were not well off, he managed to get himself through Trinity College, Dublin, paying for his studies by working as a clerk on the Great Northern Railway (Ireland) which ran trains from Dublin to Belfast and from Belfast to Derry via Omagh. From TCD, with an MA in Divinity, he went into the church and was for several years a curate in a busy Anglican parish in south London before becoming Rector of Raphoe in what was then thought of as the wilds of Donegal. While there, at the height of the earlier Irish ‘troubles’, he had several encounters with the notorious Black and Tans. On one occasion he flatly refused to allow them to mount a machine gun on the square tower of the little cathedral church. On another he risked arrest at a Black and Tan checkpoint by telling the officer in charge of the checkpoint, when asked if he had anything to declare, that he had five revolvers. As they became rather agitated at this revelation he explained that he was referring to the four wheels on the car and the spare, or stepney as it used to be called. They were not amused.

In due course, after a spell in the suburban parish of Glendermott outside Derry, he became Rector of St Columba’s in Omagh with Mountfield, and a Canon of St Patrick’s cathedral in Dublin. He was an eloquent preacher and a considerable theologian.

I only once saw my father lose his cool. This was during a ‘junior church’ service as we used to call them – a kind of mix of bible class and Sunday school held in the church itself on Sunday afternoons. One of the children at the back of the church let out a shrill whistle which caused my father to demand in a resounding voice ‘who dared to whistle in the house of God?’ The only answer was a stunned silence but the rest of the service was conducted with due reverence and I never heard another whistle. Towards me he was far too indulgent which left my mother having to impose such discipline as there was, i.e. not very much.

My mother was partly English (a fact of which she never ceased to remind us) and an evangelical Christian ever since she had attended one of the famous Keswick Conventions. She was also an accomplished pianist and painter in water colours. She carried out the duties of a parson’s wife with enthusiasm and panache whether running the Mother’s Union or organising meetings of the Girls Friendly Society who, much to my delight, came to the Rectory every Saturday morning to sing choruses. My mother had suffered a severe Victorian up-bringing as a child at the hands of her step-grandmother, and also her step-mother, with whom she had been parked at an early age after her mother had died in India aged barely twenty-one. She saw little of her father who was a Colonel in the Indian army having transferred from the Royal Dublin Fusiliers. He was killed trying to lift the Turkish siege at Kut Al Amara in Mesopotamia, now Iraq, in the First World War.

My mother was immensely proud of her descent, on her mother’s side, from the Gilbert family and thereby from Sir Humphrey Gilbert and Sir Walter Raleigh. Her great ambition was for me to join the navy and go to sea, in the tradition of the Gilbert family, via Dartmouth. Fortunately for me, and for the navy, this was ruled out early on by my poor eyesight. Perhaps because I was an only child, and as a reaction to her own very strict upbringing, I was allowed a virtually free rein to come and go as I pleased and to roam about the town.

Living in a remote part of north-west Ireland, the war years affected us remarkably little. The main impact was that the town was full of soldiers. In the first three years they came from a succession of British army regiments stationed at the Infantry Training Centre at Lisanelly camp. Later in the run up to D-day they were joined by large numbers of American GIs who were billeted all over the place including in the Church Hall next door to the Rectory. Consequently our house became a kind of home from home for many GIs and for officers and men from the ITC including on one occasion both Hedley Verity and Norman Yardley who were stationed in Omagh with the Green Howards. Verity was later killed in Sicily, but Yardley went on after the war to be vice captain and then captain of England. I cheekily wrote to him when he was in Australia with the first MCC side to tour after the war led by Wally Hammond. To my great joy he wrote back with the autographs of all the England team including the great Wally Hammond himself, Len Hutton and Denis Compton, who was my boyhood hero. My father was a keen follower of the game. One of his favourite stories was of how he had seen Jessop, of Gloucester and England, hit a six from College Green in Dublin clean through a window of the Kildare Street Club, well beyond the college grounds.

I would occasionally accompany him on his parish rounds to visit the sick or parishioners with other problems. On such visits I would sometimes be invited into the living room for a welcome mug of ‘tay’. This would often be when my Dad was visiting in the remote parish of Mountfield in the foothills of the Sperrin mountains some seven miles from Omagh. Mountfield was a small farming community of old stone cottages with thatched roofs. The ‘living room’ was often the only room in the house. It had maybe a table and a few wooden chairs on a rough stone floor and always a turf fire burning in an open hearth with a black kettle hanging from a hook above the fire. Outside there would be a cow or two and a few chickens. Once or twice I also went with him to select a turf stack from the nearby turf bogs. This would provide fuel for the Rectory fires to see us through the winter. The outing was a major annual event as it was important to ensure that the turf was of good quality and reasonably dry, at least in the middle of the stack. Once selected the turf would be delivered by a large, high-sided lorry into a turf shed behind the Rectory.

There was rationing of a sort and I think I saw my first banana when I was thirteen or fourteen. The blackout was however quite strict, and many decorative iron railings disappeared to help the war effort. However, with typical bravura, my mother managed to persuade the local authorities that the Rectory railings, and those around the church, were somehow special and should be preserved. She also persuaded the Home Guard that they should not use the ornamental aperture in our garden wall, which overlooked one of the main roads into town, to site a bren gun during their exercises. The reason for denying them this vantage point was that the bren gunner would have had to sit on her white arabis of which she was inordinately proud.

Eventually, aged ten, I was sent off to Rockport Preparatory school beautifully situated on the shores of Belfast Lough. Not before time. I had by then a number of chums from Omagh Academy, which I attended for two years, with whom various exploits were undertaken. I never really engaged with the school itself which seemed to me to be rather alien. I do recall that I had a particular problem with maths where I encountered algebra for the first time. I had somehow got the impression that every letter in the alphabet had a fixed value and that all would be revealed if only I could discover what those values were.

However our exploits out of school were many and varied. One popular pastime was shooting pellets at cows with my Diana air rifle which caused them to jump into the air in, to our eyes, a highly comical fashion. I believe the occasional pellet did no lasting harm though it may not have been good for the milk yield. We also tried our hand at making gunpowder in the backyard with saltpetre, black powder and sugar. In those days the hardest ingredient to obtain was sugar because it was rationed.

On another occasion a couple of us managed to find our way into a converted barn in the middle of town where a number of Bren gun carriers were parked, presumably having been allocated to the Home Guard. At any rate they were unattended so we climbed into one and to our great delight managed to start it before we were intercepted and sent packing. So much for security at the height of the war!

My proudest achievement was on a snowy day in winter when I knocked off the peak cap of a young RUC policeman with a snowball. Fortunately he saw the joke and we subsequently became good friends – a friendship which lasted a lifetime and in later life has led to our spending many a happy holiday in his partially converted boat house on the wild and beautiful Atlantic coast of Donegal. I say partially converted because it was, and still is, necessary to remove the boat in order to get in.

The area is still overwhelmingly Catholic and many folk also have Gaelic as their mother tongue. Yet when the tiny Church of Ireland church in nearby Dungloe was in urgent need of repair much of the cost was met by the surrounding Catholic parishes. Why do stories such as this never get into the press?

At Rockport I encountered serious discipline for the first time in my life but also discovered that I enjoyed learning. I was therefore in continuous competition with my peers to be top of the class. The Headmaster, Geoffrey Bing, who had founded the school before the First World War, was a stern but genial disciplinarian. He was an imposing figure with great black bushy eyebrows and a heavy walking stick which he wielded with frightening effect when roused. This was long before any notions of health and safety, still less of children’s rights.

The war was still on and there was a constant procession of warships and Liberty ships in the Lough which were a source of great interest. Even more interestingly for us schoolboys there was a Luftwaffe prisoner of war camp in the field next to the school grounds. Thus many a half-holiday was spent happily trading our sweet ration through the barbed wire fence in exchange for German badges and insignia. This was all carried on under the benevolent eye of the camp guards though I doubt whether the school ever knew about it.

From Rockport I won a scholarship to Portora Royal School in Enniskillen which in those days was a leading all-Ireland school. It is probably the best known of the five royal schools founded by King James the First in 1608, and numbers among its past pupils both Oscar Wilde and Samuel Becket as well as Henry Francis Lyte the great hymn writer and author of ‘Abide with Me’. The scholarship must have come as a welcome relief to my parents who were finding it quite hard to make ends meet on a Church of Ireland parson’s meagre stipend. They never bought any clothes for themselves and even after the war we never ate out. The one luxury we had was an annual summer holiday either spent in a seaside boarding house in Portrush on the beautiful north Antrim coast, or occasionally in a country rectory near Dublin where my father would act as ‘locum’ for the regular rector. Although the war was still raging we hardly noticed it. In Portrush we had fun watching Spitfires carrying out target practice out at sea. In Dublin the main difference I remember was that cars and taxis were driving around with enormous gas bags on their roofs as there was very little petrol. However Belfast was heavily bombed on several nights in 1941 and large fires were started. In an early example of cross border cooperation Dublin’s fire engines were rushed over the border to Belfast to help put out the flames.

After the war, in the glorious summer of ’47, we had the gorgeous Georgian Rectory at Dalkey complete with tennis court and within five minutes bicycle ride of the famous ‘40 foot’ men only bathing pool in the rocks opposite Dalkey Island where skinny dipping, as it would now be called, was the norm. It was also close to the Martello Tower made famous by James Joyce. If it still exists the Rectory would be worth millions today.

At about this time I also had the annual excitement of being sent on summer camps under the aegis of an organisation called Varsity and Public Schools Camps (known as Veeps for short). The first was in the Glenmalure valley in the Wicklow mountains, and the second was near the coast in Co Wexford. There were about forty boys from a variety of boarding schools mainly in southern Ireland. The camps were inspired and run by a commandant (commie for short), the Reverend E M Neill, who was an evangelical Church of Ireland clergyman. We slept on palliases, hessian bags stuffed with straw, in seven-man bell tents, and cooked mainly on open fires. When not busy on camp chores we climbed the nearby hills including Ireland’s second highest, Lugnaquilla, or swam in the river or the nearby lake. At the Wexford camp we swam in the sea. The camps were a kind of microcosm of open air, muscular Christianity with daily prayers in a central marquee.

My life changed for ever at fifteen when my parents died within two months of each other. But I was extremely lucky in having my mother’s half-brother as my guardian, and a very supportive Headmaster at Portora, the Reverend Douglas Graham. He even offered to let me bring the only other survivor of the family, Paddy the Irish terrier, back to school with me after my mother’s funeral – an offer which I sensibly declined. My uncle had already had a distinguished career in the Indian army before independence having fought the Italians in Abyssinia, the Germans in North Africa and the Japanese in Assam and Burma. In his early thirties during the Burma campaign he became the youngest brigadier in the Indian army. When I asked him years later how this had come about his laconic reply, typical of his generation, was ‘ the brigadier was shaving one morning and he got shot, so I took over’. Nothing more to be said.

By the time my parents died (in November 1948 and January 1949) Uncle Harry had transferred to the British army and was posted to Malaya, as it then was. Later, when he and his wife and family were back in the UK they generously offered me a home from home during school holidays and beyond. It says much about my mother’s attitude to life that several years earlier, during the battle of El Alamein, in which he was in the thick of things with the 4th Indian Division, my uncle received a letter from her asking if he would take care of me if anything should happen to my father and to her. He told me years later that the letter had done wonders for his morale! It was also my good fortune that the family of the policeman who had befriended me in Omagh took me into their home in Enniskillen for many a happy holiday. I owe them a debt of gratitude which I shall never be able to repay. With support like this, although I had lost my parents at an early age, and had no siblings, I came to look upon the world as a friendly oyster.

Portora at that time was dominated by the said headmaster, a commanding figure in his long black cassock and white bow tie. He was a classics scholar, had taught at Eton, and been a chaplain in the Royal Navy during the war. His wartime service included sailing to Murmansk on a cruiser escorting the Arctic convoys and being torpedoed. He had also been a keen boxer in his day and a front row forward for Trinity College, Dublin where he was chosen to play in a final trial for the Irish XV. The story was that the selectors eventually passed him over because his style of play was considered to be too ‘robust’.

The school also had a number of talented and dedicated staff to whom many of us pupils owe a great deal. One who stands out still was the diminutive George Andrews, inevitably known as ‘titch’. With a degree in French from Cambridge he had served as a liaison officer in the Free French navy during the war. He had been awarded the Croix de Guerre for his actions in saving a French destroyer which had been damaged by German shellfire in the Mediterranean. Apparently nearly all the French officers, including the captain, had been killed or injured when a shell struck the bridge. So George, who was unhurt, simply took over the ship and got it back safely to port.

He was way ahead of his time in his teaching methods in which spoken French was the language in the cl...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Preface
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction
• Chapter 1 Early Life in Ulster
• Chapter 2 Oxford
• Chapter 3 The Army
• Chapter 4 Tanganyika and Colonial Service
• Chapter 5 The ICI Years
• Chapter 6 Late Entrant
• Chapter 7 A Small Town in Germany
• Chapter 8 India
• Chapter 9 Australia
• Chapter 10 London Again
• Chapter 11 Uganda
• Chapter 12 New Horizons
• Chapter 13 Reflections
• Appendix A
• Appendix B
• Plate section