by Peter Corris
'You'd better make sure your precious Mr Finch keeps his end of the bargain,' she said. 'D'you think he can?'
I nodded. 'Regular operator, Peter. I'd trust him with my life.'
'Oh, don't give me any of that chaps-together rubbish!' she snapped. 'He's wonderful looking, of course, and he has that amazing voice, but does he have any brains?'
Implication: I do, you don't, who else has? A formidable woman, Grace, but not such a hard one to read.
I gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek as I pulled on my jacket. 'You'd better hope he has, Gracie, he looks like being everyone's ticket out of this bloody mess. When's the genius of the modern English stage due back?'
'Tomorrow.'
I took a risk. 'You know he's got the hots for Finch, of course?'
'Don't be disgusting!'
As I said, a very complicated household.
Things returned to normal at Notley over the next few weeks, which is to say they returned to abnormal. Laurence Olivier and the Danny Kayes visited; Finch visited; Dorothy Tutin did not. I drove people around in various combinations and observed the steady improvement in Vivien's health, looks and behaviour. According to Grace, she had virtually stopped drinking.
'Just a little white wine with her meals and sometimes a drink or two at night after dinner to help her to sleep.'
'Good,' I said.
We were sitting in our usual meeting place out of the wind, having a cigarette and discussing the lives of our employers. It's one of the ways, I discovered, the servant class manages to remain sane. Pilfering, eavesdropping and watering the gin are a few of the others.
'What do you think of the script, Richard?'
Grace had got a copy of Elephant Walk to me and had badgered me until I finally got around to reading it. Somehow, reading has never appealed to me. I've always found other things to do when faced with the printed page, especially when faced with a great many printed pages. Elephant Walk was bulky for a shooting script because a good number of 'alternative scenes'—survivals from earlier drafts—were included in it, along with extensive notes on the psychology of the characters and the history of Ceylon. It wouldn't have been tolerated thirty years later when the time of a director and producer is measured in the thousands of dollars per minute. Nowadays, a final version of the script is a pared-to-the-bone thing that doesn't carry any signs of the pain that has gone into making it so skinny. I've known a good few scriptwriters in my time—Anita Loos, Dalton Trumbo, Ray Chandler, Hart Sallust, Ring Lardner Jr,17 mostly drunks—and I know all about the third- and fourth-draft blues.
Briefly, the movie was about the brand-new, fucked-up marriage of a tea planter named John Wiley who takes his newly acquired wife, Ruth, from the suburban penny library she was running, back home to Ceylon. The huge house they call a bungalow is named 'Elephant Walk', and there's a vast plantation with scores of workers. Plenty of house servants, too. It looks as if Ruth has hit the jackpot. The trouble is that John Wiley is all hung up about his dead father—'the governor'—an old tyrant who ran a tight ship and is buried in the garden in a tomb. 'The governor' built the house right across a trail the jungle elephants had used since time began to get to the water. They still try to use it from time to time, but a high wall and shouting beaters keep them back. By government regulation, elephants cannot be killed. Wiley hates and fears the trunkers.
Wiley has a lot of friends who tend to stay for the weekend, getting pissed, playing billiards and a weird game of bicycle polo through the marble halls. Ruth doesn't take to any of this, particularly the worship of 'the governor'. The only civilised white man in sight is Dick Carver, Wiley's overseer, who seems to have read a book or two and can tinkle the ivories. Things then get interesting. Supposedly. I have to confess I only skimmed the thing and I was struggling to come up with a solid answer to Grace's question.
'Er, very interesting.'
'You ninny. You haven't even read it.'
'I've read enough to know there's nothing much in it for me.'
Her eyes opened wide in surprise. 'Why, I thought you'd be hoping to play the part of Carver. He's older than the Wileys and . . .'
'Yeah, sure. Well, we'll see.' I didn't need her to be going on about who was older than who and I knew I had no chance at all of the Carver part. Even with Leigh and Finch in it, they'd need a name actor for that role. An American too, unless I missed my guess. This was to be some kind of British-American co-production deal, and the folks in Boysie, Idaho, won't go unless there's at least one American name on the marquee. No need to tell little Gracie all that. She was such a schemer that it felt like necessary self-protection to keep as many things from her as possible.
I went back to the cottage to brood, drink and even have another look at the script. The story wasn't bad but it had its problems. There was something unlikely about the psychology of it. Do mature men still worry about their fathers? And even if they did, who'd care? I'd got away from my domineering old bastard as soon as I could and hadn't had any contact with him for thirty years.18 It was odds on he was dead. Maybe Finch could make something of it. The woman's part was good; the Carver character was sketchy, but the sequence where the elephants break down the wall and reduce the bungalow to rubble promised to be exciting if they could bring it off. Well, there were various characters hanging around the house, planters, merchants and such. I fancy there was a policeman—could be another spell in pukka uniform for old Dick.19
10
The job at Notley became very boring. I was sick of driving the Rolls and polishing the damn thing, sick of the smell of its leather seats and the purr of its transmission. I'd gladly have swapped it for the Caddy I'd had back in LA, bad springs and all. Grace was cool and there wasn't any other female company about.
Vivien didn't go out. After Grace took her in hand she seemed to shed years and become more beautiful than ever. It was a slightly haggard beauty, of course, but none the worse for that. If she'd said the word . . . but I was merely 'Rich' the driver, always on call but not much called upon. I spent a lot of time just hanging about. I got pretty good at croquet, just from having not much else to do, and was occasionally invited to join the guests for a game. It gave me a chance to get my own back on them for their high and mighty ways. But being good at croquet isn't of much use and is nothing to boast about.
My month was almost up and I started to get anxious. I had a fair bit of money saved, enough to survive for a while in Hollywood while Bobby Silk tried to find me work. I guessed that the trouble there would have pretty much blown over by now.20 But, like Grace, I was devoted to Vivien's interests as well as my own. I didn't want to leave her, even though my bounty from her table amounted to no more than an occasional touch on the arm or a smile. That's the sort of effect she had on people. Why Olivier looked elsewhere I don't know—unlikely case of familiarity breeding contempt, I guess. I was in this nervy state, two days short of the calendar month, when Finch phoned.
'It's all set,' he intoned in his most impressive voice.
'What is?'
'I've got the part.'
'Terrific, Peter. What about me and Grace? And do they know how fragile Vivien is?'
'So, it's "Vivien" is it?'
'Come on. I call her Miss Leigh to her face as you very well know. Answer the questions.'
'On Vivien's health, assurances have been given. I've secured a small part for Miss bloody Drewe, god damn her eyes, and I've got you on the production strength. Sorry, Dick, it's this American-British thing. The parts have to be farmed out according to a formula. But I did my best for you and there's one good aspect.'
'What's that?'
'You can leave for Ceylon in a couple of days. Your job is to scout locations, deal with local big-wigs, line up labourers, that sort of thing. You go on the payroll straight off, of course.'
What could I say? The quick departure was the right move and a few weeks swanning about in Ceylon on the production budget's money couldn't be too hard to take. I thank
ed Finch and told him I'd find a replacement driver locally.
'Thought you'd be pleased,' he said, obviously very pleased indeed with himself. 'This chap Andrews is playing Carver. Don't happen to know him, do you?'
'Dana Andrews?'
'That's right.'
Of course I knew him. Dana Andrews had been around Hollywood since the early forties. He'd been trained as a singer and a bookkeeper but what he really wanted to do was act. He was an enthusiastic drinker, and I'd got sauced with him a few times. I don't know what his accountancy was like, but his singing was pretty good and he was a competent actor. 'Sure, I know him.'
'How old is he?'
Just like an actor, you see. Only worried about how he'll stack up against the rest of the cast. 'He'd have six or seven years on you. Looks it, too. He's a pretty fair drinker. Did you ever see The Ox-Bow Incident?'
'No. Sounds like a Western.'
'It is. Dana was very good in that. The movie got an Oscar nomination. He was in The Best Years Of Our Lives, too. I think that picked up four or five Oscars.' I was sticking it to him, you understand, knowing how he'd react to this sort of stuff. I was jealous and envious of him, I admit it.
'Has he won any himself?'
Even then, Peter was obsessed with winning things and, of course, it was the pursuit of the Oscar that finally did for him.21 'I don't think so.'
'Is he a pants man?'
'Not that I've heard.'
Like all competitive people, Finch liked to know as much as he could about the opposition. His natural confidence and optimism carried him on and he told me who to see in London about the job, where and when. 'When will the rest of the crew arrive in Ceylon?'
'December,' he said. 'We'll all be there for Christmas. It'll be great.'
I gave five days' notice to Vivien, who was having one of her vague days. She scarcely seemed to understand what I was saying and she just said, 'Thank you, Rich,' as if I was opening the car door for her. I didn't tell her I'd be seeing her again soon in exotic Ceylon. Although she looked better, she was still very pale and fragile, and she was going to need plenty of air conditioning, mosquito netting and parasols. When I told Grace that I'd soon be off she came up close and kissed me on the cheek.
'You've been very sweet, Richard.'
'Thanks, just what I like to hear from a woman.'
'Don't be like that. I was nice to you when you really needed some affection, don't forget. Now I want you to do something for me.'
'What?' I said, far from gallantly.
'Teach me to drive the Rolls Royce properly. I don't want some village idiot driving her about.'
'You mean you want to keep an eye on her, night and day. You're afraid she might drop in at the old Chiltern Arms.'
'It's for her own good. You will do it, won't you?'
I stipulated a fee and she agreed. One thing you have to say about Grace Drewe, she was as determined as she was capable. At first, she hated driving the big car but she set herself to mastering it. She had naturally good reflexes, excellent eyesight and a sound road sense, which is all it takes really. Once she'd overcome an understandable hesitancy about being in charge of a small fortune on wheels (my giving her the details about the insurance coverage helped), she handled the Roller with flair. I enjoyed the lessons, particularly the last one when I claimed my payment. The back seat of a Rolls Royce is a much bigger space than you'd imagine—quite big enough for a man and a woman to engage in an energetic bit of coupling. Grace and I parted as good friends, maybe even a bit better than that.
I had several hundred pounds in my possession when I caught a London train from Thame. This time I travelled first class and enjoyed the comfort—much more legroom, the aroma of quality cigars and a couple of very good brandies in the bar to ward off the chill. It was towards the end of October, and the English countryside is no place to be that late in the year. The further south you can put yourself the better, preferably somewhere with central heating, a few decent restaurants in the vicinity, and only a short dash to the tube, the pub and the off-licence. All that added up to Kensington, and I installed myself in Bailey's Hotel in Gloucester Road, near the station.
The movie production office was in Hammersmith. I caught a cab there and introduced myself to the bulky, middle-aged woman who seemed to be organising the show single-handedly at this point. Hannah Charles was her name and if efficiency wasn't her middle name it should have been. She had lists for me to consult, papers for me to sign, a cheque for me to deposit and my airline tickets to Colombo in two days' time.
'You'll be met by a Mr Da Silva who's already done a bit of the groundwork,' she said. 'You're to find locations for the scenes marked in this copy of the script and line up vehicles, support staff and caterers. It's all set out in the roneoed sheets you've got there.'
'Thank you.'
'Any questions, Mr Browning?'
'No, I don't think so.'
'Are your vaccinations all in order?'
I had no idea what was required but the first rule with someone like Hannah is, don't let on. I nodded manfully.
'Good. You can telephone or cable this office if necessary, but please keep any such communication to a minimum. I'd like a fortnightly report by airmail, please.'
'Sure. But the whole box and dice'll be out there in a couple of weeks.'
'There may be some delay.'
'Really, why?'
'That is my information. I'm not at liberty to say any more. Have a good trip, Mr Browning.'
Somewhat disconcerting, that last bit. I didn't fancy hanging around in the Colombo heat on what didn't seem like too generous a budget (the tickets were second class and the advance payment wasn't princely), while the stars got (as we would now say) their shit together. But that's the movie business—it's mostly waiting around for things to happen and praying that they turn out right. I dropped in at a travel agency, discovered that I needed typhoid and cholera shots for Ceylon, and took myself off to a doctor in the Old Brompton Road.
'National Health?' the receptionist asked.
'No.'
'Seventeen and sixpence, please. Fill in the form. Dr McMaster will see you soon.'
'Why do I have to fill in the form if I'm not on the National Health?'
'Don't be difficult, sir. Fill in the form. Next please.'
'The shingle says Dr McPhail.'
She ignored me. Out of annoyance, I filled in the form with a fictitious name, age, address and medical history. The only truthful thing I wrote was what I was there for. The wallpaper and carpet in the waiting room suggested that the premises had been a lodging house at one time. A fake chandelier and a tasselled velvet curtain perhaps indicated that it had done service as a knocking shop. The room was occupied by a pregnant woman, another woman with two mewing brats at whom the mother-to-be was looking uncertainly and an ancient gentleman with a hacking cough. I scooped up a couple of magazines and sat as far away from the cougher as I could. He had the look of someone who'd be happy to start up a conversation on any subject under the sun. To tell the truth, I've never felt comfortable about having needles stuck in my hide and I was feeling a trifle edgy. How people can do it for enjoyment I'll never understand.
As luck would have it, one of the mags was the National Geographic and it had an article on 'The people of Ceylon', suggesting that the original inhabitants, the Vedda, might be the ancestors of the Australian Aborigines.22 As far as I could tell, Ceylon seemed a more pleasant place than most of Australia and I couldn't imagine why these Veddas would want to leave an island paradise for a place that is mostly desert. Still, it was only academic speculation and most probably wrong. There wasn't a lot of useful information in the article, but enough to suggest that the British planters who'd stayed on after the place became independent were having a hard time of it and that the Tamils, who'd done all the hard work for the past couple of hundred years, were looking to do a bit better for themselves.
'Mr Finch.'
I was deep
in an article on 'The seaweed eaters of Yuzhuno' and didn't pay any attention when the receptionist called the name I'd put on the form.
'Mr Finch!'
'That's you, chum.' The phlegmy oldster who'd had his turn tapped me on the shoulder as he was leaving. Other eyes swung suspiciously towards me as I dropped the magazines and scrambled to my feet.
'Not much wrong with you, young feller,' a crone cackled. "Less it's your hearin'.'
I grinned to cover my confusion. 'Piles,' I said.
'Had 'em all me life. Winnie's got 'em. Why not us common folk?'
I was almost into the surgery before I realised she meant Winston Churchill. The British are quite impossible to understand. While all the paraphernalia in the surgery—equipment, textbooks, telephone, ashtrays—looked at least fifty years old, Dr McMaster was a young woman in stylish clothes and an expensive hair arrangement. She saw my surprise and smiled.
'Dr Ewen McPhail's my uncle.' She had an Oxbridge accent that set my teeth on edge. I'd have preferred a touch of the bonny banks and braes. God knows what the old hawker and spitter had made of her. 'I'm doing a locum for him.'
'Fine by me. As long as you're fast and painless with a hypodermic.'
She glanced at my form. 'I see, Mr Finch. So you're off (she pronounced it 'orf') to Ceylon?'
'That's right.'
'Will you be in villages and that sort of thing?'
'I imagine so.'
'You'll need protection against malaria. I'll give you some chloroquine. It's the latest thing.'
Old McPhail would have been a quinine man for sure, and my malaria protection has always been plenty of tonic in with the gin. But I've never minded getting the best and latest from quacks, as long as it doesn't hurt or cost too much. She scribbled on a prescription form and handed it across. Then she got up and busied herself with metal dishes and little bottles. This was the part I hadn't looked forward to.