IT turned out that the move to the head office in England in 1984 was not easy. The glamour in it was hard to find.
When I left Kluang, Roy Brown quickly found a replacement for me. He was heard to have said: “Mahbob will do anything to avoid the pressure of work here at Pamol.”
But the productivity improvement that he had pressed all to do was already going on, with only minor glitches that had to be sorted out.
Major tasks were in front of me, including closing my bank accounts, paying the bills and finding a buyer for Maznah’s car while she had to apply for unpaid leave for a few years, which did not please the education department.
She had to decide what to pack or leave crates in the estate store.
She pulled the children out of school and tried to identify the public schools that could accept them in England.
We arrived in London with Ah Moy who had to accompany us as she was close to Anwar.
By then she had worked for the family for nine years.
Maznah had many pre-conditions before we moved and this was one of them.
Another condition was that I could not question her about the luggage and we had about a dozen big suitcases that would come with us by air.
In London, we stayed in the Cavendish Hotel at Jermyn Street in the middle of the shopping area of Mayfair.
A celebration happened one night with fireworks in the sky to announce that Prince Harry was born. But in the hotel room, I had no reason to feel joyful.
In the first month, I was hardly in the office. Each day a car would arrive, a stretched Mercedes to take the family to a list of houses in Surrey where the agent would be waiting.
One had a nice location but in the centre of the living room was a table that looked like a coffin, made of old wood.
Maznah had said it had to be newly-built houses and not one of the ancient buildings that might have a basement.
Finally, we settled on a detached house in a cluster called Ferndown Gardens just up the hill from the small town of Cobham in Surrey.
It had three bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining room and a sitting room.
The small backyard could allow Anwar to play football beside some small apple trees.
The heater was working, although with a slight roar when Maznah made it work harder.
The next exercise was to find the schools.
We were told that they should be in one direction from the house.
Maznah would have to drive the children each day and it could be bad in winter with ice on the roads.
One school that we liked for Fazal had a big playing field, with a long road from the gate to the buildings.
The headmaster sat us down and explained that he had filled all the classes.
He looked at our tired faces and said we would get the places for the children eventually.
We had heard that for some schools the bookings were made years ahead.
Maznah also wanted to see that the schools should not be too academic, in case the children could not cope but also should combine sports for all-round development.
Another school was ruled out too, for the students arrived in big cars, as Maznah said it could give a complex to the child who might grow to look down on us for not having the same wealth level.
Another school, with a ruined castle and a big graveyard, was rejected by Fazal.
In the end, we got the children their places. Fazal the eldest went to Reeds, near Oxshott, and Maria went to Parson’s Mead by the road going into Ashtead.
Anwar went to The Rowans at Leatherhead.
They had different uniforms and that meant another series of visits to the shops.
An attraction about the transfer was that all fees and expenses were paid for.
At work, I began to get to know the culture of the head office.
Unilever House is by the Thames next to Blackfriars Bridge, with a curved frontage with figures of horses on its massive stone walls, and the tube takes you to the steps of the imposing building.
You walked in and flashed your card to the blue-uniformed security guard at the lobby and you walked up the stone steps to the first floor where the Plantations Group office was, where about a dozen management staff and twenty staff worked, including secretaries.
I shared an office that was a cubicle with an open cupboard to hang your overcoat in. The measurement would be the same as the next five cubicles for senior management, with the same carpet size. The secretaries worked in an open space, together with the office boy, Joe, a personable man who was a West Indian.
I was taking over from Dick Reger who was a planter in Kluang in the 1950s when his manager was shot by the communist terrorists.
He joined Unilever and was posted to Cameroon, in West Africa, where he worked until he was a few years from retirement. Leslie Davidson gave him a job in the head office.
Dick Reger would arrive each day promptly in his overcoat, deer stalker hat and a battered leather briefcase.
He would be in the office, smoking his pipe and studying the figures and telexes that would have come in from the plantation heads in many countries.
He would meticulously write his replies.
I got to know his serious approach to work and he made sure he did not get too much attention from anyone higher than Leslie Davidson.
I began to reflect that life was different compared with being the head of a plantation business in a country, where you could jump in the land rover and head where you wanted to go in the domain that has been entrusted to you.
Many estate managers do not understand this and hanker for a head office job.
Now, in contrast, it was a rush to the tube after five, stopping only to get the Evening Standard from the newspaperman at the steps, and try to catch the usual train at Waterloo station.
You look up as the signs rattle high overhead to inform where you should be rushing to, and find the same coach and the same seat that you sat on each day.
Others did the same, and after some weeks you almost knew them. No one spoke.
The one sitting opposite you would be reading the evening paper or taking out a company file, or a brochure to read, or anything to avoid eye contact.
You got to know which firm he worked for and where he was likely to go on holiday.
You must not try to speak to him, a ghastly thing to do if you did, as you have not been introduced.
The writer has extensive experience in the management of oil palm plantations.
Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
