by Peter Corris
'No chance of anything oral, I suppose.'
You couldn't make that sort of remark nowadays to a young woman, but things were different back then and she didn't even blink. 'I wouldn't have taken you for a coward, Mr Finch. Trousers down, please.'
I dropped 'em, yanked down the BVDs and leaned across the examination bench. The injections hurt like wasp stings and I suppose I flinched.
'Big baby,' she said. 'I thought you Australians were supposed to be brave.'
'Eh?'
'You're the actor, aren't you? You look a bit older in the flesh but I suppose that's the make-up. Pull your trousers up. It's all over now. You might feel a bit dizzy and sluggish in a while. Don't drive a car or operate any machinery for forty-eight hours, and whatever you do, don't take any alcohol.'
'And I was just about to ask you out for a drink.'
She smiled, showing big white teeth and pink, healthy gums. 'Your colonial charm won't work on me, Mr Finch. Try it on your wife.'
11
Dr McMaster's parting sally depressed me more than a little. My marital affairs had always been pretty much of a moveable feast. My most recent wife, May Lin (I was never sure whether she was my second or third, the legality of my union with Carol Smith-Canneti being somewhat doubtful), had divorced me a couple of years back and I was sometimes acutely conscious that the only person who cared whether I lived or died was me. There was Bobby Silk, of course, but he was only interested in ten per cent of me, not the whole person.
I wandered back to Bailey's in the cold London afternoon, trying to cheer myself up with the thought of white beaches under the tropical sun—a bit hard when you've been threatened with malaria on top of cholera and typhoid. I collected my key at the desk and was heading for the lift when a tall, grey-haired man wearing a beautifully cut suit and a club tie approached me.
'Mr Richard Browning?' He had the accent of the British upper class overlaid with something else, a touch of army perhaps.
'That's right,' I said.
He stuck out his hand and we shook. The hand was hard in the way that only a hand that has done a lot of physical work gets. The strength of his grip contrasted oddly with the elegance of his clothes and made me look at him more closely. His skin was deeply tanned and the grey hair was premature; he couldn't have been much older than forty. His eyes were blue but deeply sunk; he was about the same height as myself and I was suddenly aware that he was studying me as intently as I was him.
'Aubrey Pelham-Smith,' he said. 'I'm very glad to meet you.'
I don't like double-barrelled names, never have. I finished the handshake, having tried to match him for firmness of grip. 'Mr Smith,' I said. 'You have the advantage on me. You seem to know who I am and I don't have the faintest idea of who you are.'
He laughed in a quiet, well-bred way. 'No reason you should, but I hope we can be useful to each other. Can I buy you a drink?'
There's no better way to get yourself acquainted with Dick Browning. We went into the bar, which was quiet at that time of day. I'd run out of cigarettes and accepted one of Pelham-Smith's Players. He glanced at his watch, a no-nonsense affair on a leather band. His hands were large as well as strong, and his wrist was thick, almost freakishly over-developed. 'Half past four, near enough. I generally have a gin sling about this time at home. I imagine they can make it here. What's yours?'
'Scotch. Useful, you say. What does that mean?'
He gave the order and did not answer me, watching while the barman made his drink. When it came he raised his glass briefly and then sipped. 'Not bad. Not bad at all.'
I drank and it tasted like scotch. The thought crossed my mind that Pelham-Smith might be part of what they now call 'the intelligence community'. Back then we just called them spies. I'd had a bit to do with them, specifically the FBI and Australian Military Intelligence. But I rejected the notion. He didn't have the look—neither the arrogance of the top brass nor the furtiveness of the lower ranks. But he had something on his mind, and the best thing to do with someone in that state is to let him spill it in his own good time, especially if he's buying the booze.
He took a solid belt of his drink and put the glass down, not really interested in it. 'I own a tea plantation in Ceylon,' he said.
Bully for you, I thought. I wish I did. 'Is that so? Nice business to be in, I should think.'
'It was. My people have been in Ceylon ever since we kicked out the Dutch, in fact. The Pelham-Smiths did very nicely there for over a hundred years until I put a spanner in the works by marrying a Tamil. You know who the Tamils are, I suppose?'
I hadn't a couple of hours ago, but thanks to the article in the National Geographic I now had some idea—southern Indians, brought to the island to work on the plantations. I trotted this information out and Pelham-Smith nodded. 'That's right. Fine people, beautiful people, but very dark, and the Singhalese look down on them, of course.'
I'd had about enough geography for one day and was losing interest when Pelham-Smith tossed off his drink, ordered two more and said, 'How would you like to earn five thousand pounds?'
That got my attention. That was serious money, much more than I could expect to make from a few weeks work on the movie shoot. In general, the more money you have in your pockets in Los Angeles, the better chance you have of making more. Still, no one hands out that sort of dough for nothing. 'It depends,' I said. 'What would I have to do for it?'
Pelham-Smith smiled. His teeth were very white in his tanned face. 'I know you're going out to Ceylon soon. I've got a few contacts in the film business, you see.'
Oh ho, I thought. You're looking to get your spread picked as a location. That would bring in a few pounds, right enough, but not enough to cover a five grand bribe for yours truly. There was something interesting here, but the size of the fee was a bit of a worry. That kind of money smelled of danger. 'I'm off to Ceylon,' I said, 'you're right there. But I'm just a . . .'
'Production assistant. I know. But that's perfect for what I want. Look, I'll try to put it briefly. I got kicked out of Ceylon shortly after Independence because I was on the side of the Tamils. Made a lot of fuss, got into a spot of bother with the police. That sort of thing. Long and the short of it is that I had to hop it quick, leaving my wife and son behind.'
He spoke in a brusque tone, trying to keep all emotion out of it. But I could tell that he was finding it very difficult to maintain his composure. He lit another cigarette and his hand shook fractionally. 'My wife was killed a few weeks after I left. The boy got away and some people I know looked after him. He's nineteen years old now and causing the powers-that-be a good deal of trouble. Agitating and so on. But I want him here, with me. I want him to go to university, have a proper start in life. Then, if he wants to . . . well, you know. You can't stop young people doing what they want to do.'
'But what do you want me to do?'
'I want to get Ranu back home. You can give him a job on the film and then I'll find some way to smuggle him out. The government is enthusiastic about the motion picture business. It believes it will be good for the country's tourist trade. You film people will have a great deal of official support and latitude.'
I could scarcely believe my ears. Me, Dick Browning, risk my neck to spirit some wet-behind-the ears, half-breed radical out of a newly independent country that was probably overrun with trigger-happy soldiers? I was about to say no when Pelham-Smith whipped out a chequebook and began to write. 'I can't ask you to commit yourself, not here, not without knowing the lie of the land. But I'm willing to give you a thousand pounds now just to accept on a provisional basis. To look around and decide if you think it can be done.'
How could I refuse that? I nodded. He tore out the cheque and handed it across. I folded it and put it in my pocket. 'I was told you were a resourceful chap.'
It was time to do a bit of probing. 'Who told you that? Who do you know in the film business?'
We'd both finished our drinks and he signalled for another round, relaxi
ng a little now that he was past what he probably saw as the hard part. 'One and the same, actually. Peter Finch. Family name's Mitchell, as you must know, and the Mitchells have Indian connections. I think Peter is by way of being a second cousin of mine, something like that.'
'And he suggested to you that I might take this on?'
'Yes. I met up with him at a polo game the other day. I knew about the family tie, you see, and I got talking to him . . .'
'Just a minute. If you've been kicked out of Ceylon, how do you manage to play polo and write thousand-pound cheques. Didn't they confiscate your estate?'
'Good lord, no. Nothing like that. They're not Communists, this lot. Just flexing their muscles and desperately down on the Tamils. No, I've got a manager in and he's doing splendidly. Revenues are up. But I can't enter the country and my boy can't leave, not without your help. I'm really most terribly grateful, Browning.'
'Richard,' I said. The scotch was getting to me but Pelham-Smith seemed unaffected by his three gin slings.
'Richard. When you get to Colombo go to the stall on the corner of the Street of Gold and the Street of Silver in the old town and ask for Mrs Tirrundrai. She will be able to tell you about Ranu and she can arrange communications between us.'
Finch, I thought. Bloody Finch. Putting me right in it. But what did I have to lose? The whole thing was probably unmanageable, almost certainly so by me. Perhaps I could talk to some embassy character in Ceylon and sort something out. 'I'll do what I can,' I said. 'But I can't promise anything. I haven't got any experience with this sort of thing.'
Pelham-Smith shook my hand and stood up. 'Nobody has, but I have to do something. I can't just sit around in this bloody awful climate doing nothing. If this doesn't work I'm going to go in myself.'
Like any old actor would, I slipped easily into the role. 'That doesn't sound wise. Let me see what I can do first. You never know, I might be lucky. Will the lad want to leave?'
He stood there, suddenly and for the first time, irresolute. 'I don't know. I just don't know.' He shook his thick grey hair and placed a card on the table in front of me. 'You can get in touch if you need to before you go,' he said gruffly. 'And I've written the name you need on the back of this. Tirrundrai, have you got the hang of it?'
I repeated the name. He nodded and strode out of the bar, looking neither to left nor right. Of one thing I was sure—he was sincere about what he had asked me to do. Either that, or as an actor he made Laurence Olivier look like a rank amateur.
I went up to my room, thinking to have a quiet nap before dinner. I planned to get on the phone and rustle up some company, possibly including a female or two. I was in funds, in work and with the prospect of some interesting times ahead. A thousand pounds to put in the bank. Things could have been much worse. I pulled off my shoes, slipped off my socks and lay down on the bed. I was about to close my eyes when I saw that Pelham-Smith's cheque had fallen onto the floor. I retrieved it and looked at it as pleasant pre-nap reading. It was drawn on the British & Foreign Bank, Colombo, Ceylon.
Clever bastard, I thought. Well, just let anyone try to extract any tax from it. I drifted off into sleep. Some time later I must have dragged the coverlet over me but I woke up shivering and with my teeth chattering violently. I burrowed under the blankets, desperately seeking warmth, although the room was heated and the air wasn't cold. Then I realised I was sweating even though I still felt cold. My throat was dry and my head ached. I got up to get a drink and my legs collapsed under me. I crawled back into bed and lay there, sweating, shivering and twitching with four-inch guns going off inside my head. I rolled over and my backside hurt where the needles had gone in. Then the plummy voice of Dr McMaster came back to me: And whatever you do, don't take any alcohol! Three double scotches. I moaned and thrashed, cursing all whisky distillers, Peter Finch and Aubrey Pelham-Smith.
12
My head was still aching and my knees were still weak when I got off the plane at Colombo airport four days later. Only a supreme effort of will had got me travelling at all. That plus a message from Dudley Mathers that a Home Office official had been in touch with him and had been gratified to learn of my imminent departure. I hadn't told Mathers about it. Finch again, no doubt. In those days you were only allowed to take a ridiculously small amount of hard currency out of England. I had a good deal more than the limit so I was nervous on the trip. My usual method of coping with nervousness is to take a little alcohol, but, of course, I couldn't bear the thought of it. The result was a very uncomfortable flight.
Moist, hot air wrapped itself around me as soon as I left the plane and the amazing thing is it made me feel a great deal better. God knows why. Perhaps I sweated the last of the unholy blend of vaccination and scotch out of my system. The combination of my height, obvious affluence (I'd managed to buy a smart cream linen suit before leaving), and the US passport got me smoothly through the entry system. The terminal was a modern building with tiers and decks something like a cruise ship in design. It was well maintained. I stood, fanning myself with a copy of Time and looking around for my contact.
A short, immensely fat man in a dirty white suit was holding up a piece of cardboard with the word 'BROWNE' printed on it. He was leaning back against a giant pot with a slightly wilted palm in it, smoking a cigar and looking unconcerned. No one else from the plane was paying him any attention so I crooked my finger at him—important to get off on the right foot in these situations, I always think. He saw my gesture, thought about it, took a drag on his cigar and sauntered over, rudely elbowing a few people aside.
'Are you Da Silva?' I said.
He gave off a strong smell of tobacco and various aromas I couldn't identify. He wore a Panama hat and was almost neckless, his third chin running right around and connecting his head to his broad shoulders. His black, bushy moustache either needed trimming or was on the way to becoming a full beard. 'I am Vasco Da Silva, yes.'
His accent was a mixture of English and something else, vaguely sing-song. His big teeth were stained bright yellow and I saw that the grubbiness of his shirt and jacket were entirely due to spilled cigar ash. I pointed to the sign he was now holding upside down. 'I'm Richard Browning.'
He looked at the sign as if he'd never seen it before. 'Brown-uh,' he said.
'No, Browning. From London, working for Paramount. You're here to meet me.'
He dropped the sign into a bin, threw his cigar stub after it and swept off his hat to reveal a head of thickly oiled hair. 'I am honoured to meet you, Mr Brown-uh.'
I shook the hand he offered and took what I've always thought of as the Australian option. When in doubt, keep it casual. I couldn't go through the next few months being called 'Brown-uh'. 'Call me Dick,' I said.
'Splendid! Splendid, Dick! Vasco.'
So Dick and Vasco went off to collect Dick's luggage which didn't amount to much—just the much-travelled bag I'd arrived with at Tilbury. It all seemed a lot longer ago than it really was. I had the canvas hold-all I'd taken onto the plane with a change of socks and shaving kit inside. I also had a bag containing two duty free bottles of scotch—I didn't expect my teetotal condition to be permanent. Vasco chattered the whole time as we walked to another building to collect the baggage but I didn't take in much of what he said. I hadn't been smoking lately either, and with all my senses alert I was picking up all kinds of exotic smells once outside the big shed.
The few glances I'd had of the coastline through the plane window on the way in had been satisfying enough—blue water, white sands and jungle, your standard tropical island—but what I saw now was really confusing. A cobalt sky with fluffy white clouds, low, dark green hills in the distance and flat, swampy country all around. A high, bright sun was casting the darkest shadows I'd ever seen in my life but, although the air was moist and hot, it was a pleasant kind of heat and moisture. I can't explain it, but the air of Ceylon had something special to it—perhaps it was just the contrast with the English late autumn.
We c
ollected the bag and Da Silva insisted on carrying it. We seemed to be out in the Everglades, more water than land in sight. I lit a tentative cigarette, inhaling shallowly. It tasted fine. 'Where's the city?' I asked.
'Twenty-five miles south. I have a car.' He smiled. 'That is to say, the film company has a car and I have the honour to drive it.'
'And we're going where?'
'To my humble house where you can rest and refresh yourself. Tomorrow we can set off for Kandy and I can show you some places that will interest you.'
I thought of my cheque. 'I'll need a day in Colombo first. Bit of banking business and such.'
'Of course. Very sorry to rush you. Of course, there is no hurry.'
We reached an unfenced, bituminised space where cars, motorcycles, trishaws, pushbikes and wagons were parked higgledy-piggledy. Da Silva steered me towards an ex-army jeep that looked as if it had done service in the Solomons, New Guinea, Thailand and Burma. There wasn't a smooth piece of metal on it; the spare wheel was fastened on with wire and a strip of duct tape ran across a crack in the passenger side windscreen. Against that, it had brand new tyres with a ton of tread on them.
Da Silva heaved my bag into the back seat. 'A fine vehicle,' he said. 'Just right for some of the rough roads we will be travelling.'
I resolved there and then to travel as few rough roads as possible. Da Silva waved away a few raggedy kids who'd clustered around the jeep and started the engine. The last car I'd sat in the front seat of had been Olivier's Roller and the contrast was shocking. The jeep's motor clattered like an egg-beater and when he swung the steering wheel it shrieked like a cat being tortured. I felt the return of my headache and pulled out sunglasses from my hold-all. Da Silva released the handbrake, allowing it to ratchet back slowly.
'Noisy, but a most wonderful motor,' Da Silva shouted.
I nodded and leaned back in the rock-hard seat. Surely the budget would run to a better crate than this? I wondered if Da Silva was skimming already. I didn't give a damn unless it subjected me to discomfort. I began to worry about the amenities in his humble home. Maybe I should insist on going to a hotel.