So Who's Your Mother

by Tarquin Olivier

‘Ooh sir,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind if you have an awgy.’

  I had never had an orgy, but let it pass.

  ‘But sir,’ she added, ‘I won’t let you have any Chinese.’

  I had rather looked forward to that. After all.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re terrible, sir.’

  She went through some of the names in the Legislative Assembly, list-ing the men who had been compromised and blackmailed by Cantonese girls having affairs with them, pretending to get pregnant, or actually giving birth.

  ‘No sir. If you have a Chinese I shall leave.’

  She was in charge. I had almost double the work load normal for a regional manager, which I was extremely happy about because it was therapeutic. With the Pacific Islands still for me to visit, the distances were immense, from Pakistan to Tonga, South Korea to New Zealand. Hong Kong was the most ideal home in space, but I also needed a home in time. I decided that whatever happened, the first week of every month would find me there. My Hong Kong friends coped with this. We all loved last-minute arrangements. I could give a dinner party at a day’s notice for twelve, after only asking eighteen if they could come. And as they knew when I would be home their invitations awaited my return. Without Ada things would not have been the same. She managed me, the apartment, and all the entertaining I did.

  I hurried to Kuala Lumpur where the Governor, Tan Sri Ismail, had complained fiercely of serial numbering errors on our banknotes. Why that always happened with the Bank Negara Malaysia was a mystery. My predecessor at Kilombero Sugar, Richard Beacham, was in CDC’s Regional Office for Asia and the Pacific. I asked his opinion of our agent, John Annersley, the local director of Harrison and Crosfield, a classic plantation company. He said that while Annersley was scrupu-lously honest, as an agent for us he could not be more inappropriate.

  I was met by an H & C Malay trainee for a meeting with the Deputy Governor, who was an ebullient Malay in a white suit and colourful shirt. When he bent over you could see the garish patterns on his boxer shorts. A twit. So was the agent’s trainee. The currency officer was Chinese, so was the Bank’s Director of Finance, both adroit and informed.

  John Annersley and I lunched together with the Malay trainee and their Chinese executive who did all the real agency work. Annersley was a bull of a planter type, fluent in Malay but with no local sensitiv-ity. I spoke to him of the people I knew in KL, starting with the Commissioner of Police, Claude Fenner, many still in government, in businesses and the arts. Annersley was not on friendly terms with Claude nor any of the others I mentioned. Richard Beacham was right. As always in every country of my region I introduced myself to the local HSBC manager.

  In England, before the sales conference, Riddelle wanted me to meet her lawyer. I went straight from Heathrow to her parents’ little house in Whitchurch where she and the children were ensconced. It had been an all day flight from KL and I asked her if I could have a bath. She rushed upstairs to draw the water; something she had never done when we were together. The children were all over me in a restrained rather pained sort of way, which was easy to understand. She shouted down that the bath was ready. It certainly was: about a foot deep in luxurious suds.

  I felt much better after the bath and lay down on the floor beside Riddelle, in front of the log fire. The doorbell rang and Tristan opened it to the solicitor, a pleasant man called Alan Edwards. As he came into the room he stopped in amazement.

  Eventually he said: ‘What nonsense is this about you two getting a divorce? I have seldom if ever seen such a happy couple.’

  We discussed what we had to in a friendly way, and he left. Then Riddelle came up with her suggested compromise.

  Supposing we shared a house in England, fairly large, with me at one end and she at the other, so that the children would be with both of us, and I could develop the whole place with my carpentry and decorating. She wanted to have more babies. I said I did not want further children; three was quite enough. She said she wanted to have a baby by another man, not me. Anyone in mind? No she had not met him yet. I said that I could never live like that. A couple of years later she did give birth to a baby, now a chartered accountant in her late twenties. A nice intelligent girl and very pretty.

  I went to Manila for a further meeting in Wak-Wak Golf Club. Andy Liboro introduced me to one of President Marcos’s principal movers and shakers, a rather sinister man. He said that his associates had been impressed by the genuineness of my apology. In view of the importance of our factory project he had decided to further our cause. I was to have breakfast with Mario D’Urso at 9.30 that Saturday, 6 December 1975, at the Hyatt Hotel. I was invited to a State Dinner in Malacañan Palace in honour of President Ford and the following day to accompany them on the Presidential yacht, Ng Pangulo,for a journey to Corregidor Island to commemorate General MacArthur and the Second World War.

  Mario was one of the best-looking men. Tall, slim, broad shoulders, pointed Italian features and amazing green eyes. Everyone knew of his closeness to Imelda, the First Lady, and sometimes referred to him as the Second Lady, but I don’t think they were more than good friends. He was in the Hyatt penthouse. We had actually both had our break-fasts. He was still in his dressing gown awaiting a telephone call at ten.

  He had an arrangement with the operator in Rome to call him at fixed times. This enabled him to make calls to wherever he liked, and put anyone in direct contact with whomever they wanted, anywhere in the world no matter how incompetent the local exchange. This was long before reliance on telephone operators was replaced by our own personal cell phones. I explained the informal approach I would like him to adopt as a contact man for me, and said that if this worked then an arrangement would be made with Basingstoke. He was happy with this. He put on his swimming trunks, towel robe and we went down to the pool. I took my leave and he dived in.

  That afternoon Air Force One landed at Manila Airport. Thousands and thousands of children filled the streets in gay new shirts and dresses and lined them as the motorcade proceeded. The Philippines welcome, masterminded by Imelda, must have been the most decorative and ebul-lient, the most spontaneously joyful that President and Betty Ford ever received.

  I wore a Filipino barong tagalog. Mario wore one too. His chauffeur drove us to Malacañang. The car had flashing lights on the front, as if for a minister, and we were waved through the gates of the Spanish-built wooden palace. It had small windows to keep out the sunshine, and air-conditioning against the vapours of the squalid River Pasig. An impressive staircase lead up to the State Dining Room. The distin-guished visitors, mostly men, were in black ties. The Filipina ladies were exquisitely dressed, especially Imelda’s closest companions, her ‘Blue Ladies’. The younger ones, the most beautiful in the world, exceeded even their own supreme standards in jewellery, fabrics and shapeliness.

  Speeches came with the coffee. President Marcos referred to the Philippines’ identification with a large number of American causes, his words fluent and with an attractive accent. His speech was the first time I had heard any leader say the much repeated line, that while the United States could not be called upon to solve the world’s problems on its own, none of the world’s problems could be solved without it. Presi-dent Ford said, among much else that was poorly articulated, how totally overwhelmed he and his wife had been by their welcome. At the end we all lined up to shake hands with both Presidents on our way out. Gerald Ford looked impaled with fatigue. Marcos and Imelda remem-bered the names of every single guest.

  Our driver dropped Mario at the Hyatt and took me on to Andy Liboro’s in North Forbes Park, lights flashing all the way. Next morning he returned and we collected Mario. In the harbour was the Presidential yacht: the liner Ng Pangulo,Filipino-designed and built by the Japanese as part of token reparations. It was the Philippine Navy’s flagship.

  The top brass were waiting in the stern, including Secretary of State Henry Kissinger and Undersecretary Habib. The two Presidents and First Ladies were piped on
board. The engines thrummed and we put to sea amid a flotilla of patrol boats. Jet planes flew high in the sky above a few clouds. There were plenty of chairs and tables for the thirty of us so we settled down, changed places or wandered around during the two-hour voyage. The breeze helped reduce the intense damp heat. Even Imelda stood laughing sadly as she mopped her temples with tissues. Light refreshments were served.

  A long table was set for lunch and we sat down. In the next room was a sofa-sized black container with the thermonuclear triggering devices within easy reach of President Ford, the Commander-in-Chief. It was tended by three or four signals experts who murmured to each other urgently but inaudibly. Just in case. Always in contact with Amer-ica’s immense defence network worldwide.

  After lunch President Ford read a speech about the Philippine people’s heroic resistance during the Japanese occupation; how they had suffered so terribly, and yet protected American soldiers against capture at great risk to themselves. He dwelt on the symbolism of Bata’an and Corregidor, how they had held out for weeks in early 1942 even after General MacArthur had been ordered home by President Roosevelt, and left with the memorable words ‘I shall return’. Marcos gave a better speech in reply, with no notes.

  Throughout the day, like a visual magnet, whether standing or sitting, was Henry Kissinger. Even the bulging back of his neck exuded vigour. Those eyes behind thick pebble spectacles, that self-conscious accent and bassest of voices, all struck me as phoney. When he spoke he looked entirely absorbed by his own self-hypnosis, as if nothing anyone else said could ever disturb his chain of thought.

  The tunnel running through Corregidor Island was the only iconic testament to that terrible time. Here the two Presidents stood in silence, as did all of us, heads bowed. The temptation was to linger. President Ford leant over a car which was parked between him and Marcos and said, ’Mr President, unfortunately we have to adhere to our timetable.’

  From his tone I deduced that he had been well briefed on the Marcoses’ shameful aspects, their insatiable greed, martial law as they practised it, the use of torture.

  For the return journey I had a chat with Undersecretary Habib about the tribulations of People’s China, and what a superb and unforeseen breakthrough Nixon’s visit had been in February 1972. Habib told me an unforgettable story. After the two leaders, assisted by their inter-preters, had established a rapport, Nixon asked what Mao thought would have happened had it not been President Kennedy who was assassinated, but the Soviet leader Khrushchev. Chairman Mao was intrigued by the question. After some reflection he said he didn’t think that Onassis would have married Mrs Khrushchev.

  For the holidays that winter Tristan and Isis came to me in Hong Kong. Clavelle was too young. Away from the teeming arrivals hall I had the use of my travel agent’s driver with a black London taxi. The children loved it. Their voices yelped with excitement as they described landing at Kai Tak Airport, with the plane only a mile from the runway doing a sudden turn and banking sharply, so that you could see into people’s rooms. They were bursting with news of Rid-delle and Clavelle and the cat and school; and constantly interrupting each other.

  They shared my enthusiasm for flying kites so we bought a couple, shaped like falcons, and climbed to the top of Mount Stanley. They were excited by the strong wind and aimed each other’s kites at each other to attack, high in the sky until it was time to go home. There I poured myself a whisky and became the soul of contentment, hearing the odd thump from their bedroom of a pillow fight. Then there was a bang and a pained scream.

  Isis came running out with blood pouring from a big cut in her fore-head. She had hit the corner of something. It was serious. I wound a bandage round her head and drove the three of us to hospital. She needed five stitches. In a dazed state she lay back and clasped my hand as the doctor swabbed her forehead and reduced the blood flow. He was worried she might be concussed. While he worked on her she squeezed my hand harder and kept repeating endearments. The words almost broke me. I could barely speak. Once finished he said she must lie still for half an hour. Tristan gazed calmly into space.

  Back in my flat they had their baths, separately now that he was a prep school boy, and their dinner in dressing gowns. I tucked them up in bed, which amused them because they were rather old for that, and went back to my patiently waiting whisky. I meditated. I became aware of a disturbance, a series of disturbances in their room. I went in and saw the full pelt of another pillow-fight, Isis’s bandage knocked to the back of her head. Angrily I made them stop. They climbed back into their beds, meek and rebuked, and burst into laughter.

  In Manila we stayed with Andy and Teresita Liboro, in North Forbes Park. The house was a modern Spanish mansion with a pool, a pelota court and a garden. They were a childless couple, to their regret, and immediately took to Tristan and Isis. The three of us they installed in one enormous bed in Andy’s sound-proofed and holiest of holy dens, with stereo, colour TV, a bar and no windows.

  Dinner was served and the table heaped with tiny delicacies. I had explained that Filipinos were proud of their food, a series of strange concoctions reflecting their culture. Isis said she got the message, Tris-tan said he would try to remember. They piled their plates in an act of faith. Isis tasted three grains of boiled rice and said it was delicious. Cries of approval from Teresita, who translated the words into Tagalog for the servants in attendance. They said that in no time my children would be true Filipinos.

  Tristan said, with his mouth full, ‘This food is odd.’

  All eyes were on him.

  He swallowed. ‘I’ve never tasted anything like this before.’

  A fair statement.

  He edged his fork into a piece of chicken adobo,swallowed hurriedly and said, ‘Daddy, all this is absolutely extraordinary!’

  ‘Very good,’ said Andy.

  I took them to the rapids of Pagsanjan. There we climbed into a canoe, Isis between my knees, Tristan between hers, and the boatmen fore and aft paddled us up the magnificent gorge – ferns, lianas, flowers and tiny rivulets from high up on either side. The men strained to push us up each series of rapids, a dozen or so, and at the very top was a majestic waterfall tumbling down, the sun making rainbows in the spray. The boatmen turned the canoe round and we shot the rapids. The cries of joy added to the excitement. In the calm water between rapids we sang ‘Greensleeves’.

  On the way home, a couple of hours away from Manila, I parked the car and took them for a walk. We picked our way along the bunds between fields of young rice, and watched the people planting, and looked at the tadpoles and frogs. There was a village hidden under coconuts and fruit trees. The people stared suspiciously from their atap huts. Two scrofulous dogs barked and wagged their tails.

  Once through the village the bunds between fields became narrower and we fell in several times. We turned back. The villagers’ curiosity got the better of them and a family of children asked us to sit down by their poor hut. Two very pretty girls, aged about twelve, took care of Tristan and Isis. They started to comb their fair hair. This gave Tristan unac-customed pleasure. The girl gazed into his face admiringly, her dark eyes shining keen. She combed and combed round his head. She stroked his face with her cool brown hands. He looked up at her and breathed in.

  ‘Daddy, this has never happened to me before,’ he said.

  On our return to North Forbes Park, Andy asked how they liked the Philippines.

  ‘Number one,’ they said.

  ‘Very good,’ said Andy.

  We all went to a big party in his sister Nena Benitez’s garden. We joined in the craze of the day, a dance in unison called ‘The Hollywood Walk’. At sunset over Manila Bay the generous cumulous shapes of the entire sky, all the way from the west overhead to the east, were daubed from palest pink to scarlet and solferino. As it darkened there was the crackle and pungent smell of suckling pig roasting over the flames. Lovely girls with manicured hands stuck their nails like talons into the crisp skin, and pulled out gobbets
of hot meat; the best way. When we got home Isis said, ‘Let’s have a swim’, so we did, the three of us at midnight, and the moon was new, and the cockerel kept crowing and I went to sleep with my children, one in each arm.

  The next day I took Isis to see Andy’s brother Oscar who was a doctor. He took out her stitches. We then had lunch at the Interconti-nental Hotel, the first time they had seen such a place.

  While in Manila I had to leave them several times to fight on behalf of the Royal Mint for a $5 million contract. They bathed and played pelota. With Mario on side my lobbying in the Presidency was estab-lished, and in the Central Bank enhanced. I also had to put the finishing touches to a $2 million contract for a repeat banknote contract. That at least was safe. I joined Mario to dine with President and Mrs Marcos to try out a newly opened restaurant, something they often did. The President had me sit next to him. He wanted to know all about the manufacture of banknotes, coins and passports. He was attentive and pleasant. Opposite us was a beauty who was runner up in Miss Philippines. Marcos said that that morning he had signed a Protocol authorising the Central Bank to place a $2 million order for banknotes with us. I said I knew. This intrigued him. ‘Already?’

  To ease the conversation I told him of Undersecretary Habib’s story of Chairman Mao and Nixon and he laughed out loud, turning a number of heads.

  After dinner there was dancing and I asked Imelda. Andy had advised me never to forget that she was all woman. In high heels she was a bit taller than I, but easy to dance with. She said she was going to London soon. I said that in an English winter nothing would cheer Londoners more than a visit from her. She glowed with pleasure.

  I had a cable to say that Malaysia wanted to order £700,000 worth of banknotes. Away we three flew to Kuala Lumpur for my meeting in the Bank Negara. That too seemed safe. The Deputy Governor was his bumbling self though this time he wore a dull grey suit, perhaps as ordered by the austere and punctilious Governor Tan Sri Ismael. He gaily said he had bought a sheaf of lottery tickets and half of them were mis-numbered, so why couldn’t the Governor be more forgiving about our banknotes? He misread Tan Sri’s character. Comparing lottery tick-ets to national currency.