It was at that moment that Sharp came to our rescue. He reappeared in our midst, and immediately offered to drive me with all the baby beef, as we called it, in his small Land Rover truck down to Freetown – which he could do in a matter of a few hours, whereas the lorries would take all night to do the trip. We could also travel by day in his Land Rover and stop whenever necessary in order to feed the babies. So, early one morning, Joe Sharp and I left the beef mines with all the baby beef packed into the back of his Land Rover. Long John was to follow that night with the BBC team and the lorries. As we drove away from the beef mines for the last time I glanced over my shoulder at the sloping range of hills with its beautiful forest. I don’t think I have ever been so sorry in all my life to leave a camp site.
Joe drove as rapidly as he could without making it too bumpy for our animal passengers, and we reached Freetown in record time. Here the Diamond Corporation had once more been kind enough to lend us the superb Hollywood flat that we had had at the beginning of the trip, and moreover, had put at our disposal two large open garages for the animals. I installed the baby beef in the flat and went to bed immediately, for I wanted to be up and about when Long John arrived with the convoy of animals. They were due at six o’clock in the morning, but six o’clock came and there was no sign of the convoy. At quarter past six I began to get a little worried; at half-past six I was even more worried . . . Had one of the lorries run into a ditch and overturned, killing all our precious animals? Or was it just something holding them up, like a puncture? At seven o’clock I was just getting desperate, though there was nothing I could do. Joe and I kept peering out of the windows hopefully, but there was still no sign of the lorries. Then, at about a quarter past seven, the first dusty vehicle lumbered up and drew to a halt in front of the flats. By this time all the other occupants of the flats who knew of the animals’ arrival were waiting eagerly on their balconies to get a view of what we had caught. As lorry followed lorry and was parked in the courtyard, their eyes grew rounder and rounder with astonishment. We unpacked all the beef and, to my great relief, I found that none of them seemed to have suffered at all from the journey, except the leopard, Gerda, who was in a slightly worse temper than normal. We stacked them in the garages and then got on with the job of cleaning and feeding them as hurriedly as possible, for I had to go down to the docks to meet Jacquie when she arrived on the Accra .
Joe drove me down to the docks, and I took with me a small cardboard box which contained a comfortable bed of cotton-wool and a baby forest squirrel that had just got its eyes open and had been brought in by a hunter at the last moment. These diminutive squirrels are the most enchanting creatures. They have greeny-gold bodies with a white stripe down each side, neat little ears, and a great plume of a tail which is fringed with black on the outside and red in the centre. I knew that Jacquie adored squirrels and it was the only thing I had to take her as a welcoming present. After a certain amount of confusion, because I hadn’t realised that you needed a pass, we were eventually allowed through the gate and there was Jacquie standing on the docks, looking mutinous.
‘Where have you been?’ she said, as a nice, wifely greeting.
‘Trying to get on the bloody docks,’ I said.
She came forward to kiss me and I said, ‘Don’t squeeze me too hard because I’ve a broken rib.’
‘What the hell have you been doing?’ she asked belligerently. ‘Have you been to see a doctor? Are you strapped up?’
‘No, I’m not. I’ve only just arrived. Here . . . This is a present for you.’
This was an effort to take her mind off my problems. She took the box with the utmost suspicion.
‘What is it?’ she said, looking at me.
‘It’s a present,’ I said. ‘Go on . . . open it.’
She opened it, and immediately forgot all about my broken rib, and everything else, as she crooned over the tiny little scrap of squirrel that lay in the palm of her hand.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get back to the flat.’
‘It’s absolutely sweet. When did you get it?’
‘About five minutes before we left, as a matter of fact. But I took her because I thought you might like her.’
‘She’s adorable,’ she said. ‘Have you fed her yet?’
‘Yes, it’s had its feed,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. You can change its nappies when we get back to the flat. Only let’s get back there, for heaven’s sake; there’s a lot of work to do.’
‘All right,’ she said.
‘Oh, by the way,’ I said, ‘this is Joe Sharp. A friend of mine.’
‘Hallo, Joe,’ she said.
‘Hiya,’ said Joe.
So, after this demonstrative greeting of a husband and wife who had been parted for some four months, we made our way to the Land Rover and drove back to the flat.
As soon as we got back to the flat Jacquie installed her squirrel in the bedroom and then said to me,
‘Where’s the telephone directory?’
‘What on earth do you want a telephone directory for?’ I inquired.
‘I’m going to phone a doctor about that rib of yours.’
‘Don’t be silly. He can’t do anything.’
‘He can do something,’ she said. ‘You’re going to see a doctor. I’m not going to do anything else until I’ve done that.’
‘All right,’ I said reluctantly. ‘I can go to the flat above. There’s a chap called Ian up there. He’ll know of a doctor, I suppose.’
So I went up to Ian and got the name and address of a doctor from him, and went down again to the flat. Jacquie was on the phone to the doctor in a few minutes, and explained the situation to him. He very kindly said he’d come round. When he arrived he peered at the large bruise on the base of my spine and told me that I’d probably cracked my tail bone, and then he prodded me vigorously in the ribs so that I leapt about twelve feet in the air with a yelp of pain.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve broken two ribs.’
He then proceeded to bandage the whole of my chest very tightly so that I could hardly breathe.
‘You are not to bend down, or carry anything heavy, or do anything like that,’ he said. ‘Not for a while, anyway. By the time you get back to England it should have healed, though. I’ll give you some pills that’ll take care of the pain.’
The painkillers worked, and I felt better in consequence, but wearing the bandage tightly wound round me in the heat of Sierra Leone was almost more than I could bear, and in the end I was forced to take it off.
‘It’s obvious that you’re not going to be much good on board ship,’ said Jacquie, ‘if you can’t bend and you can’t lift heavy things. And if you and John are going to be busy with the filming, that leaves me to look after the entire collection, practically.’
‘Oh, we’ll manage somehow.’
‘Well, I don’t think it’s very wise,’ she said. ‘What about getting Ann out?’
Ann, as I have explained was my secretary, and she had just returned from Argentina with Jacquie.
‘Do you think she can get out here quickly enough?’ I asked. ‘The Accra will be back here fairly soon, you know.’
‘If we cable her today I think she might be able to get a plane,’ said Jacquie.
So we cabled and received a reply almost instantaneously, telling us that she’d got a flight. A couple of days later Ann, a brisk and efficient blonde, arrived and was enchanted by the collection. She’d always had a great love of animals and to help with the cleaning and feeding on board the ship was no chore as far as she was concerned.
I explained to her about the Colobus.
‘The trouble is that they need finicking with,’ I said. ‘And, quite honestly, we won’t have the time to do it on board ship. I’m not sure how they’ll take the new diet, either. So I want to
make the entire Colobus group your responsibility and even if you do nothing else, just get the damned things to feed so that we can get them back alive.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘But from what you’ve told me it doesn’t sound as though it’s going to be very easy.’
‘No, it won’t be easy,’ I said. ‘At least, I don’t think so, unless they suddenly go mad over cabbage or something. Anyway, we’ll just have to wait and see.’
It was not long after Ann’s arrival that we got a new addition to the collection, which proved to be one of the most enchanting of all the animals. As we were having our pre-dinner drinks one evening, the telephone rang and Jacquie answered it.
‘It’s Ambrose,’ she said to me. ‘He says he’s got a pig for you.’
Ambrose was Major Ambrose Gender of the Sierra Leone Army and I had met him previously when we were in Freetown. He had been introduced to me principally because he appeared on the local television as ‘Uncle Ambrose’, doing a children’s spot in which he always had an animal of some sort to show them and talk to them about. I picked up the phone.
‘Hallo, Ambrose,’ I said.
‘Ah, Gerry!’ he said, his deep voice ringing musically. ‘I’ve got you a pig. It’s a lovely pig. It’s called Blossom.’
‘What sort of a pig is it?’ I inquired.
‘I’m not sure, but I think it’s what you call a Red River hog.’
‘Good lord! That’s marvellous!’
Red River hogs were my favourite of all pigs. When adult they’re covered with bright, ginger-coloured fur, and they have long tails and great white plumes on their ears.
‘Can you come and collect it?’ said Ambrose.
‘Yes. Where are you?’
‘Well, I’m just going down to the studio to do my spot. Why don’t you come down and watch me, and then you can pick up the pig.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘What’s your spot tonight?’
‘Oh, I’m showing the Police dogs again. They went down so well last time that we’ve had letters pouring in asking for a repeat performance. Only this time I’m not going to let them bite me.’
The last time Ambrose had shown the Police dogs he had wrapped a cloth round his arm so that one of the dogs could attack him, which it did with such vigour that it bit him in the arm, straight through the cloth.
‘Right. What time do you want us down at the studio?’
‘In about half an hour,’ said Ambrose.
‘O.K. We’ll be there.’
We had a hurried dinner and went down to the studio. It was small but well equipped. The extraordinary part about it was that the great swing doors were never locked when they were on the air, and there was a row of chairs at the back, so that anybody from outside who happened to be passing and wanted to see what was going on in the television studio could simply wander in and sit down. This laxity horrified Chris to the core of his soul.
‘It would never work in the BBC,’ he said.
‘Ah, but this is not the BBC,’ said Ambrose. ‘This is Sierra Leone Television.’
Ambrose was of medium height and very good-looking, with enormous glistening eyes that always had a sparkle of humour in them. It must have been his military education, undertaken at Sandhurst, that had forced him to grow a magnificent black moustache which he curled up at the ends.
‘I’m just about to do my spot,’ he said to me. ‘So can you wait till afterwards and then I’ll give you the pig?’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’d like to see you with these police dogs, anyway.’
Recently, there had been great outbreaks of burglary in the Freetown area, and the police, in desperation, had imported three trained police dogs as a deterrent. They certainly seemed to act as one. The three dogs and the three handlers stood there, the dogs panting with the heat of the studio and the lights. Ambrose took up his position in front of the cameras.
‘Good evening, children,’ he said. ‘This is Uncle Ambrose with you once again. Now, we’ve had so many letters asking to see the Police dogs again, that I’ve got them on the show for you tonight. First, we will show you how obedient these dogs are. They follow their handlers everywhere.’
The handlers walked solemnly past the camera, the dogs trotting at their heels. They did a circuit and came back and stood in a line.
‘Now,’ said Ambrose, ‘to show you how obedient they are their trainers will tell them to sit where they are, and then the trainers will go to the other side of the studio and you will see how the dogs will obey them.’
The trainers told the dogs to sit, which they did in a panting line, and then walked over to the other side of the studio.
‘You see,’ said Ambrose, a broad and happy grin on his face. ‘Now this dog, here, he’s called Peter and he’s five years old. This one here is called Thomas and he’s four years old . . .’
At this point the third dog, which had got thoroughly fed up with the whole thing, got up and walked over to the other side of the studio, away from the glare of the lights.
‘And that,’ continued Ambrose, unperturbed, pointing in the direction in which the dog had disappeared, ‘that is Josephine, and she’s a bitch.’
I regret to say that our entire party had to stuff handkerchiefs into their mouths to prevent their laughter being heard by the audience. After a few more demonstrations of how the dogs worked, Ambrose rounded up his little programme and then came over to us, beaming and sweating.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I can give you Blossom.’
He went over into the corner of the studio and came back with a remarkably small box. I’d been expecting a large crate. He opened the lid of the box and out trotted the most adorable piglet I’d ever seen. She was a dark chocolate-brown in colour, striped longitudinally with bright yellow bands so that she looked like a strange furry wasp of some sort. She had a delightfully snubbed nose, eager bright little eyes, long floppy ears and a long floppy tail. She came out of the box squeaking and grunting with delight, and nosed round our legs eagerly, searching in our turn-ups to see whether she could find anything to eat. We all fell instantly in love with her and carried her back to the flat in triumph. The following day I got a local carpenter to build a proper cage for her.
It was nearly time for us to leave, and I was getting rather worried about how we were going to transport all the animals from the Dicor flats down to the ship. I’d made inquiries in Freetown, but apparently it was very difficult to hire lorries. Ambrose came round for a drink one evening and I happened to mention this to him and asked him if he knew of a lorry firm that could supply us with three lorries for such a short journey.
‘What do you want to hire lorries for?’ he inquired.
‘We’ve got to get the animals down to the docks somehow. We can’t carry them single-handed.’
‘But you have the army, my dear fellow,’ said Ambrose.
‘What do you mean – I have the army?’
‘Well, the army, of course. I’ll give you three army lorries to take them all down.’
‘Ambrose, you can’t do that!’ I said. ‘You can’t just commandeer army vehicles to carry animals to and fro to the docks.’
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’m a major; I’m in charge of the army. Of course I can. What time do you want the lorries here?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘are you really sure this is all right? I don’t want to get you court-martialled or anything.’
‘Don’t you worry, Gerry,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll fix it. Just tell me what time you want the lorries here, and they’ll be here.’
So we fixed a time, and sure enough, when the day came the army lorries rolled up to the Dicor flats and the drivers got out and all stood in a line and saluted smartly. It was most impressive. We loaded up the animals carefully and drove down to the docks. Here,
they were slung over in great nets on to the ship and down into the hold, while I directed operations as to where each cage should go. The sailors from the ship, and the Chief Officer himself, were exceedingly helpful, but the operation took about an hour and it was in the blazing sun, so it wasn’t at all a comfortable occupation. I could only stand by helplessly as I couldn’t even lift a crate. However, at last all the animals were neatly stacked in the hold and then we went up on deck and had a last beer, while the ship drew slowly away, and Freetown grew into a mere glimmer in the distance, and the ship’s Tannoy blared out ‘Rule, Britannia!’ over the oily waters.
The first thing that Long John and I did was to go down below and make our mark with the butcher. He is almost the most important man on the ship when you’re carrying a cargo of animals, for it is he who has to hard-boil eggs for you or prepare rice, and it is he who is in charge of the cold-room where all your precious foodstuffs are kept. I was a little bit anxious because I hadn’t heard whether or not the foodstuffs that I’d ordered had been put on board in England. Fortunately, they were all there: stacks of carrots, crates of beautiful cabbages, apples and pears, and various other delicacies with which I hoped to tempt the Colobus. I told the butcher approximately how much we would need every day, but I warned him that, as the sea air always seemed to have the effect of sharpening the animals’ appetites, this order would probably be increased as we went along. He was most helpful and said that he would be glad to do anything to assist us.
The film work that we had to do was quite considerable because the team had not been with us when Long John and I had come out on the Accra, and so we had to film sequences of what were to appear as Long John and I on the outward voyage to Freetown, as well as those for the homeward trip. Then we filmed the routine work of looking after the animals down in the hold. There was a fair amount of work that Long John and I could do, but being occupied with the filming the bulk of it had to be done by Ann and Jacquie. Also, I was somewhat restricted in the jobs that I could do because of my wretched ribs. I could feed the leopards, for example, who were now eating chickens and rabbits with a ferocity that had to be seen to be believed. I could stand and chop up food for the other animals, and I also made it my special task to help to feed Blossom.
Catch Me a Colobus Page 12