In memory of Sir Leonard Appleyard (London)

I have just been sharing fun anecdotes with someone about my FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) student Sir Leonard Appleyard, British Ambassador to Beijing 1994–97.  

Went online to check the date he started his ambassadorship in Beijing, as I’d thought it was 1993, when I discovered he’s just passed away: on 7 February 2020.

I’ve written a couple of blogs about him (only a couple out of many stories):  see blog entries I’m the imperialist, and A Chinese teacher’s status.

Here’s one I never got round to writing, so this is a good moment, as a tribute to his sense of humour which made our one-to-one lessons such a laugh.

I like to play the Devil’s Advocate and challenge students, asking why to everything they say, getting them to explain themselves, justify their comments, just to make them talk and use the language.  

So, one day, for conversation, I said to him, in Chinese of course: “You’ll never be able to understand the Chinese people, will you?  For a start, you’re a Westerner, so they’ll never show their true side to you.  What’s more, you're a diplomat, which makes it even more unlikely for them to establish a real relationship with you.  Now that you’re going to be the big boss, the ambassador, they’ll definitely keep you at arm’s length.”

He said, in Chinese, “You’re right.  When I was working at the British Embassy in the 60s, during the Cultural Revolution, I used to sneak out at night to read the 大字报 dà zì bào / big character posters.  所以我跟中国人的关系就是他们打我 / Therefore, my relationship with the Chinese people is with them beating me up!”

R.I.P., 苹果院.  Your sense of humour will bring much laughter to the community up there.  Lucky them!  (For his sense of humour, see blog entry I’m the imperialist.)

*大字报 dà zì bào / big character posters were a form of political writing, hand-written on paper in large characters (hence 大字) and posted up on some wall in a public place for everyone to go and read.  Appleyard was beaten up because the Chinese didn’t like a Westerner reading their (usually critical) comments about their own system and ways of doing things.

*苹果院 píngguǒyuàn / “apple yard”: my code name for him when he said his ambassadorship had not been confirmed, so I was to keep it quiet (see blog entry A Chinese teacher’s status).  

(China, 1960s; London, 1993–94, 2020)

“I’m the imperialist” (Peking)

During one of our one-to-one lessons in 1994, my British ambassador student, Sir Leonard Appleyard, told me about the time in the 60s when he was serving at the British Embassy in (the then) Peking.  

It had been negotiated for the White Russians who’d been living in exile in north-east China to leave for another country (maybe America).  

Appleyard had been chosen to escort them, on the day of their departure, between the train station at which they were arriving from the north-east, and the airport to catch their flight out of China.  He had been chosen because he could speak Russian and Mandarin, and Britain was also a neutral country.

The route between the train station and the airport was lined with Red Guards, shouting angrily, in Chinese, “Revisionists!  Revisionists!  Revisionists!”  

When the group of White Russians and Appleyard arrived at the airport and got out of the vehicle, with the Red Guards thronging them and still chanting angrily, “Revisionists!  Revisionists!  Revisionists!”, it was well nigh impossible to make their way to the airport building, not to mention a bit hairy and threatening to turn ugly.

Appleyard, ever so quick, said in Chinese, “They are the revisionists.  I am British, so I’m the imperialist.”  

The Red Guards were stunned into momentary silence, amazed at his wit, and his ability to be witty in Chinese on top of that.  

Then, they burst into laughter and the sea of red parted to allow the group to go through.

(China, 1966–1968)

A Chinese teacher's status (London)

I was told one day that I’d been assigned a new student from the FCO* who was not a beginner.  So the first thing I did upon meeting him was to try and establish what his level was, what his learning and assessment needs were, so that I could prepare him accordingly. 

After questions like, “When did you last do any Chinese?  What level did you get up to?  What textbooks did you use?  What exams are you doing?” he stopped me with, “Before you go any further with this line of questioning, let me tell you now that I don’t need to do any exams, because I’m the new boss.  But my post has not been confirmed yet, so please keep this to yourself until it’s formally announced.”

I said to him, “OK, since you have not been officially confirmed as the ambassador, I don’t have to address you as géxià [阁下 / Your Excellency].  You will have to address me as nín [您 / respectful form of ‘you’], however, as I’m your teacher.”  

I added, “And by the way, a teacher is a nín for life in the Chinese culture.”

We got on famously after that because he found my irreverent sense of humour refreshing.

(London, 1993)

*Foreign and Commonwealth Office [UK’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs]

I cannot say (London)

My new British ambassador student, Sir Leonard Appleyard KCMG, asked me during a tea break one day, “I understand you teach evening classes as well.  What are your evening students like?”

“Well," I said, "when I first started in the mid-80s, we used to get mainly OAPs* who wanted to learn the Chinese language more because of their interest in the culture and the poetry — to help them read Chinese literature in the original — than for using the language itself out in real life.  It also got them out of the house, gave them a social life and, from what I heard, saved them a bit on heating in the winter months.  A decade later, we started to get younger types:  people who’d either come back from time out in China, were about to go out, would like to get a job out there, or who’d married Chinese spouses.

“Let me tell you about an interesting one.  He’s just retired from the MOD**.  When you asked him, for oral practice, things like what his job was, where he worked, what his telephone number was, his answer was always: ‘我不能说 / wǒ bù néng shuō / I cannot say.’”

My ambassador student got quite interested, “MOD, eh?  And just retired, eh?  I might know him.  What’s his name?”

In reply, I said, “我不能说 / wǒ bù néng shuō.”

(Event happened 1994) 

*OAP = Old Age Pensioners

**MOD = Ministry of Defence.