by Peter Corris
Thoughtfulness for the comfort of others wasn't normally Peter Finch's outstanding characteristic. Not that he was particularly selfish, it was just that he was used to people making a fuss over him and generally didn't have to put himself out for them. Men, I mean—he'd go to pretty extreme lengths of generosity for a woman. So when he came back from the bar with what looked like a treble scotch and a packet of Senior Service, all for yours truly, I could see that he was serious.
'Cheers.' I drank half of the solid slug and it was great to taste a good malt again. I lit up and looked Finch straight in the face. 'Okay, Peter, let's have it. I meet you pissed as a parrot in a lowlife club where you claw at the women and toss a punch at Freddie Mills. Freddie Mills, for Christ's sake! It has to be woman trouble. Wife trouble's the worst kind. Tamara's left you, is that it?'
Finch sucked down some scotch and shook his head gloomily. 'No, I could cope with that. I have before, probably will again. No, it's worse, much worse. More complicated.'
The pub was quiet after the afternoon shutdown and the drinkers were only just starting to drift in. We had a table to ourselves in a corner a fair distance from the bar with no one else in earshot. But Finch was almost whispering. He took one of my cigarettes, forgetting that he had a easeful himself. 'You have to help me, Dick. For old times' sake and for what I can do for you now and in the future.'
I was getting impatient and finished the drink too fast. 'Look, Peter, you're sounding like one of the crappy films we play in. What . . .'
He noticed my glass was empty, tossed off his drink, jumped up and headed for the bar. If we went on at this pace, neither of us would know our own names by six o'clock. We must have looked a strange pair—Peter, very much the gent in his tweed suit, and me in my tuxedo, with my shirt gaping open, lacking tie, studs and cufflinks and very much in need of a bath. But the English will mind their own business right down to the gates of hell, and, besides, Peter was known there and, if I knew him, he'd probably been carried out at closing time more than once. He came back with the drinks and a couple of pork pies and some scotch egg on a plate.
'You look a bit peaky, Dick. Thought you might fancy a bite to eat.'
In fact I was ravenous—the food in the nick hadn't been good or plentiful and worry about my loss of memory had taken my appetite away. But I wasn't going to let up on Finch. I pushed the plate aside. 'Tell me what's going on, Peter, and no more bullshit.'
'I'm in love with Vivien,' he said.
'What?'
'Not what, who. God help me, I wish I'd never left Australia. I wish I was back in my monkey suit doing those bloody radio serials and plays.8 I'm in love with Vivien Leigh, and I'm the most miserable bastard on earth.'
4
In 1952 Olivier and Leigh were the biggest show business double act since Fairbanks and Pickford. She had won an Oscar for Gone With the Wind in 1939 and had just picked up another one the year before for Streetcar Named Desire. He had bowled them over in Henry V and Hamlet a few years back, collecting a couple of Oscars along the way, and he'd just finished Carrie, which everyone in Hollywood was saying was his best work in pictures. Of course, movies were more or less a sideline for him—he could fill any live theatre in the world for a year and was co-director with Ralph Richardson of the Old Vic. He could sing and dance; he could do any bloody thing, including pluck a young actor named Peter Finch out of Australian obscurity and launch him in London. I grabbed the drink and took a slug. I could see Peter's problem, but I couldn't see how I was supposed to help him with it.
'Have you . . . ?'
'Christ, no,' he groaned. 'That's part of the problem.'
'What problem?' I said. 'Just don't do it. Take cold showers, use professionals a couple of times a day if you have to, but just don't do it!'
'You don't understand. I'm insanely jealous.'
'Peter, you can't be jealous of a married woman. It doesn't make sense.'
Finch stopped looking sorry for himself and took on the steely look he was so good at. 'I didn't say it made any fucking sense, did I? The marriage is over to all intents and purposes. Larry's more queer than straight anyway, and . . .'
'Is he?'
'Didn't you know? Noel Coward, Danny Kaye, all that sort of stuff. Apparently Larry and Vivien agreed to live as brother and sister, though a bit of incest goes on, I gather, especially when Vivien's tanked.'
'Which is pretty often I hear. But surely that gives you a clear run. Oh, I get it. If you start screwing her, he'll put your career down the john.'
'This is my big chance and I can't afford to blow it. But I meant it when I said I was jealous. I'm obsessed by her and I can't bear to think of anyone else . . .'
'Is there anyone else?'
'Perhaps not at the moment, but there will be.' Finch looked gloomily into his glass, and clearly not only because it was half empty. 'She can't help it. Men just naturally gather round her, wanting to do this, eager to give a hand with that. It's only a matter of time before someone fills in the void Larry's left.'
'Isn't she a bit older than you?'
'A couple of years. That's neither here nor there. Larry's flat out setting up LOP. I'm doing Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet at the Old Vic and . . .'
'You've lost me. LOP?'
'Laurence Olivier Productions. At the St James. He's an arrogant bastard under all that great man carry on. I need to finish the run and nail the film part. Then Vivien and I can take off together for a bit and see what happens. Larry'll understand, more or less, if we're working on a film together.'
'You're getting ahead of me again. What film, and what's all this got to do with me?'
I could see that Finch was nervous about spelling out what he wanted, and I wasn't sure how to play it. Basically, I didn't want to get up from that table without some substantial sum of money changing hands. I yawned impolitely and looked at my non-existent watch. 'Those bastards pinched my Bulliver,' I said. 'Look, Peter. I hate to ask, but what about twenty quid to get me square at the Regent? Then we could meet again for a meal and . . .'
'I can get you a soft job that'll pay you twenty quid a week and I'll double that,' Finch said abruptly. 'Plus, if things go right, a trip to Ceylon and a part in the film.'
This was confusing. I didn't know what bit to ask about first. 'Ceylon?'
'That's right. Ever been there?'
'No.'
'I have. The most beautiful country in the world, bar none. With the most beautiful women.'
'What job?'
'Chauffeuring for the Oliviers.'
'Jesus. What film?'
'It's called Elephant Walk. Vivien loves it, but Larry's not sure. I want you to encourage him to hate it.'
'As well as driving him about?'
'Exactly. And as well as keeping every other randy bastard out of Vivien's knickers.'
I didn't like the sound of it, but what choice did I have? I honestly thought about phoning my agent in LA collect and asking him for the fare back to the States or if there was any work going in England. That idea died suddenly—Bobby Silk wouldn't even have accepted the charges. I hemmed and hawed and we had a couple more drinks, but in the end I agreed. Larry Olivier had given Peter the job of finding a chauffeur acceptable to la Leigh—she didn't like fast or talkative drivers apparently, and Olivier himself was both.
'Larry mainly drives his own car,' Peter said. 'So you'll basically be working for Vivien. They've got a place at Thame, a bit out of Oxford. Know it?'
'I know Oxford,' I said. 'Got laid there once by a lady professor of philosophy.'
Peter grinned. 'What the hell did you talk about?'
Now that he'd got my agreement his mood had lifted and he was being witty. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I extracted twenty pounds from him and agreed to present myself at the Oliviers' the following day. Peter forked over the money and scribbled down the directions on the back of an envelope.
'Notley Abbey,' I read. 'What kind of a joint is this
?'
'Twelfth century. Very grand, which means bloody draughty and fucking damp until they spent a few thou on it. It's got a tennis court, a swimming pool and a croquet lawn. Pretty nice at this time of the year. Just two things, Dick.'
I finished what must have been my third or fourth solid scotch and wondered if I'd be able to handle things back at the Regent. The rustle of the fivers and tenners in my pocket convinced me that I could. 'Yes?'
'Hands off.'
'Goes without saying. I thought she was terrific in Streetcar, but you know me, Peter, I've got a weakness for blondes.'
'Your weakness for blondes is just a bit ahead of your weakness for redheads and brunettes and everything in between. Lay off.'
'Okay. What's the second thing?'
His grin was malicious now. 'I'm afraid you're going to have to wear a uniform, old son.'
At the Regent, as I'd suspected, they'd stuffed my belongings into my suitcase and deposited the lot in a cupboard, no doubt planning to sell it to cover the bill. I was able to do that and high hat them a bit, playing the eccentric American, something they believe in quite as much as Americans believe in the eccentric Briton. I spent the night in a cheap hotel near St Pancras and caught a morning train towards Oxford. The month was September and the warm spell, which had mercifully lasted while I was in the lock-up, was coming to an end. As soon as we got clear of the suburbs the country began to take on a wintry aspect, with bare trees and grass looking as if it was flattening itself, getting ready for cold winds. It made me yearn for California or Australia.
English trains were badly-ventilated and rattled a good deal, the third-class carriages anyway, and that was how I was travelling because I only had what was left of Peter's twenty quid to work with. Someone had left a copy of the Guardian in the carriage and I looked through it without much interest. Writers for the Guardian always seemed to assume that you read the paper from cover to cover every day and were fully abreast of everything the paper was interested in. I wasn't. The Charing Cross nick's favourite rag was the News of the World, much more to my taste. Still, even the Guardian had a bit of interesting news and sports stuff: the American Vice-President Dick Nixon had gone on television to say that his wife didn't own a mink coat and that the only gift he had ever received was a spaniel named Checkers. I could just hear them in Hollywood sniggering over that. Marciano had KO'd Walcott to win the heavyweight title. Bad news for me; I'd bet a hundred bucks on Walcott with Johnny Stompanato, who bet on every paisan who knew how to get his hand in a glove. Still, it was going to be another hard bet for the 'Stomp' to collect on.9
Train travel in England is a very different proposition from train travel in the States. There, you'll almost certainly get into conversation with someone, especially in the smoking compartment.
'Going far, buddy?' someone will ask, or they'll say 'Sure is the way to travel', or 'Say, that's a pretty little town we just passed through—reminds me of Forked Tongue, Minnesota'. Not so with the English. The other passengers read their papers and books and did their crosswords or stared mutely out the window and I did the same. I'm not sure what behaviour I prefer. All I know is that there's no happy medium between the two. I looked at the birches and elms and oaks or whatever the hell they were, saw them bending to a stiff and no doubt cold wind, and began to feel the need of a drink. There was a canteen on the train and I passed through several carriages to get to it. One good thing about the English manner in those days was that my luggage was safe in the rack above my seat. No one would have dreamed of stealing it.
After a couple of pints I began to feel better. English beer tastes like soapsuds until you get the second one down, and then you begin to like it. I sipped the third pint leaning against the swaying door jamb with a Senior Service going and the countryside unrolling. I had no passport, and no driving licence, for that matter, but such things could be attended to. Surely the Oliviers would be getting down to London a fair bit, and a chauffeur gets a considerable amount of time off. The money was certainly good if Finch kept his word. Everything found was the rule, so I might actually save some cash. Knowing actors, there was bound to be a maid or two on the premises and perhaps a nanny—I couldn't remember whether they had any children or not. I had my doubts about the trip to Ceylon and whether I could do anything to steer Olivier away from the film role and Finch into it, but I'd give it a shot. By the time the train reached Thame I'd decided that, all things considered, the prospects were good; I had four pints inside me and was feeling pretty chipper.
'Mr Brown?'
That name again, but this time it was being spoken by a rather pretty young woman standing beside a Rolls Silver Ghost. The car dwarfed her and she seemed to be trembling so much I didn't have the heart to correct her. I took off my hat and gave her one of Browning's reassuring grins. 'Are you with the Oliviers?'
'Yes, I am. I was sent to meet you and it's the very last time I drive this monster. God, I was in a blue fit every inch of the way.'
She held out the keys and her hand was shaking as if the gold ring and leather gizmo weighed as much as a house brick. I took the keys and gave her slender, green-gloved hand a squeeze. 'Richard's my name. What's yours?'
'Grace Drewe. I'm Miss Leigh's . . . dresser and . . . companion, I suppose you'd say. There was no one else to drive the car and I happened to let slip that I had a licence so she made me drive this beast, although I've scarcely driven at all. God, I'm rattling on . . . I was just so frightened! The lanes are so narrow, you see, and . . .'
'It's quite all right. You obviously did very well. As far as I can see there's not a scratch on it. Now hop in and you can show me the way.'
It was colder out here than in London and Grace Drewe was wearing a coat, making it difficult to assess her figure except in general terms, but she showed a very pleasing ankle and leg as she climbed into the big car. I put my bag in the boot and settled into the leather seat behind the wheel. Driving's one of my few genuine accomplishments and something I've always taken great pleasure in. To have the chance to drive this Rolls was a bonus and any lingering misgivings I might have had about the job (I still wasn't too keen on taking orders from actors or wearing a uniform) were quite swept away. I started her up and automatically raised my voice to speak above the engine noise.
'Grace, which . . .'
'There's no need to shout.'
And there wasn't. The car hardly made any noise at all. I slipped it into gear and moved off. 'Sorry. American cars are noisier. Which way do we turn?'
She gave me directions and slowly relaxed into the comfort of her seat. She'd been wound up tight, as any inexperienced driver suddenly put in charge of ten thousand pounds worth of car would be. She unbuttoned her coat and the promise of her shapely legs was fulfilled. The car handled perfectly and after a few gear changes and brakings I was familiar enough with it to drive it from Land's End to John O'Groats. I reached into my pocket for my cigarettes.
'You can't smoke in the car.'
A bit of a problem, that. I like to smoke while I'm driving, helps the concentration. 'She doesn't smoke?'
'Oh, yes. She does but you mustn't.'
Return of misgivings. 'Difficult to work for, is she?'
'No,' she said flatly, and I realised that I had a lot to learn about the servant game.
Thame wasn't much more than a village, with a few shops and houses collected around a couple of churches and a square. We were soon past all that and bowling along down a lane with high hedges on one side and open fields on the other. The farms looked prosperous—solid fences, painted gates, sound roofs on the barns and houses, sure signs in the countryside that there's money coming in from somewhere else.
'Please don't go so fast. You never know what's around the corner. There are cyclists and hay trucks and all sorts of things.'
I wanted to get in her good books so I slowed down. 'Tell me what your job is.'
She chattered away for a while. I didn't take much of it in; it sounded as if
she waited on la Leigh hand and foot from midday, when Leigh got up, to the early hours when she finished her last drink. 'I believe you got this job through Mr Finch? He's divine!'
I sighed and speeded up a bit. Another female smitten by Finch. I rather hoped that Lady Viv would be able to resist him—it'd make a pleasant change.
There were a few cyclists but no hay trucks and the only other vehicle in the lanes was a Morris Minor, which managed to squeeze past the Rolls by crowding up against a hedge. I really was enjoying driving the sort of car that everyone wanted to give the right of way to. I wondered if I might be able to make a bit of a splash with it—turn up at an audition, say, or a garden party. I was daydreaming along these lines when the lane joined a road. The corner was blind to my left.
'Turn right,' Grace said.
I slowed to make the turn and suddenly a big green car was coming at me on the right. It was moving fast and I could tell that the driver had seen me too late. And there was a van coming in the other direction. It's these situations that separate the real drivers from the wheel-turners and gear-changers. If I'd stopped, the speedster would have hit me amidships and probably collected the van as well. I changed down and trod on the gas and wrenched the wheel all in one motion. The Rolls surged foward and the car on the left missed me by inches; that put me in the path of the van; but I was already spinning away from it. I steered into the skid and let the Rolls slide until I had spun in almost a full circle, but clear of the van.
My hands were skaking and Grace was screaming when I trod on the brake. 'It's okay,' I said. 'Everything's okay.'
Everything had happened too quickly to allow me to think, but now it all slowed down. I climbed out of the car and lit a cigarette. I couldn't have gone another second without tobacco. Both other vehicles had stopped and their drivers were walking towards me. The guy from the van was closer. He wore overalls and a cap and his face was pale. He seemed to have trouble walking. He grabbed my hand.
'That were greatest driving I ever did see. Well done, lad. Well done.'