Browning Sahib

by Peter Corris

  Forty-eight hours after Mathers had given me his guarantee he turned up again and I was let out of the cell. My watch, braces and shoelaces were returned to me and I was shown into a slightly more salubrious interviewing room than the one I'd been in initially. Mathers sat at a table while a distinctly uncomfortable-looking Detective-Sergeant Harrington stood by the window.

  'Ah, here we are,' Mathers said.

  'Yeah, I've been here all along but you're a day late.' I reached rudely for his cigarette case and took one, lighting it with my own lighter.

  Mathers chuckled. 'Unavoidable, I'm afraid. But a happy outcome just the same.'

  Harrington hadn't said a word. I sat down and put my wallet on the table. Not trusting the gardener at Notley, I'd taken to keeping my money on me. There were several hundred pounds in the wallet. 'How much is this going to cost me?'

  'Not a thing,' Mathers said. 'All charges against you are dropped.'

  You might think that the heart of a man in my position would leap up at these words, but I'd been around police and lawyers too much to feel any elation. Harrington was looking sour but not defeated. I drew on my cigarette and tapped off the ash. 'Yeah? What's the deal?'

  Harrington's ferrety features arranged themselves into the best he could do in the way of a smile. 'The deal is, Mr Browning, that the charges will not be proceeded with on the condition that you leave Britain within seventy-two hours.'

  8

  In my time I've crossed borders illegally, fled countries and been arrested at air and sea ports, but this was the first time I'd been threatened with formal deportation. And me a former citizen of the British Empire, brought up to think of England as 'home' and the Crown as the untarnished symbol of just and fair government. Of course I'd found out while in the army and subsequently in Australia, Canada and England itself that this was hogwash, but nevertheless I was deeply offended. I looked at Mathers, who was wearing herringbone tweed today and a red bow tie.

  'Are you going to let them get away with this?'

  'Not much to be done, old boy. Got you dead to rights on the smuggling and the driving charges, I'm afraid. It's what you Americans call a trade-off, I understand.'

  'I'm not an American. I'm an Australian, and I fought for this bloody country . . .'

  'Can't understand a man giving up his nationality myself,' Harrington said. 'A sort of treason I'd call it. Certainly not something popular with most judges.'

  Mathers adjusted the red handkerchief tucked into his right sleeve. 'You see how it is, Dick. Best thing all round is to . . .'

  'Kiss ass?' I said.

  Harrington smirked. 'No need to be offensive to Mr Mathers, Browning. He's done his best for you.'

  'You can't deport me. I haven't got a passport.'

  'Nobody said anything about deporting you. You're being . . . invited to leave, and your passport is waiting for you at the front desk.'

  My resistance collapsed at that point. Looking through the window I could see a steel-grey English sky, threatening rain. The prospect of grabbing my passport and heading back to sunny California was suddenly very appealing. I shrugged my shoulders. 'You win. I suppose I have to sign something?'

  'I've already signed it, dear boy. Let us collect your belongings and go.'

  I stood up and gave Harrington a hard look, but with a roughly scraped chin and a wrinkled shirt and suit I suppose it didn't make much of an impression. 'You've got a couple of West Indians running around breaking into houses and shooting at people, Detective-Sergeant,' I said. 'I hope you run into them some dark night.'

  Harrington's pasty face paled even further. He took a step towards me and I was so angry I would have welcomed an attack, especially as he was several inches shorter and a good deal lighter than me. Mathers shoved his chair back and stood up.

  'That's enough, Browning. Assault on a police officer would land you in the Scrubs, and compared to that this place is a common room.'

  Harrington sneered, as angry as I was. 'Didn't go to a public school myself,' he said. 'Perhaps you'd like to show me how things are done there?'

  'He would not! Browning!'

  I allowed myself to be led from the room. Mathers soothed me while my wallet, necktie and passport were returned. We left the police station and tramped along the high street. Mathers strode out, tapping the pavement with a furled umbrella. From the look of the sky, he was going to have to open it at any moment.

  'I need a drink,' I said.

  'I couldn't agree more. Through here.'

  We entered a pub, apparently known to Mathers because he steered me to the snug and was back with a pair of double scotches before I had taken two drags on a much-needed cigarette.

  'Cheers.'

  'You sold me out,' I said sulkily. 'What about false arrest, damage to reputation, loss of wages . . .'

  Mathers sipped his drink. 'In a word, dear boy—cobblers. You apparently have no idea how savage this judicial system can be. Your middle name, I note, is Kelly and you have changed your nationality. Not something well understood in England as the good sergeant indicated. They could have tagged you as a dangerous IRA bomber quicker than you could turn around if they so chose.'

  That pulled me up. I'd been in something like that position before.14 'Perhaps you're right,' I said grudgingly. 'But I can't get out of the country in seventy-two hours. There are arrangements, things to take care of . . .'

  Mathers lit one of his Turkish cigarettes and gestured at the few quiet drinkers in the pub. 'Do you see anyone actually watching you now? Do you feel as if you are under surveillance?'

  'Of course not.'

  'Nor will you for, I should say, at least a month. Possibly more. Plenty of time to get your affairs in order. But they'll come looking sooner or later, you can be sure of that.'

  'I wonder if I've still got a job?'

  'My information is that Larry's been in London and knows nothing about this. Vivien has been ill. I'd say you'll be able to sneak back with no one the wiser.'

  I didn't like his choice of words much, but, all things considered, I'd have to admit that I'd come out of the messy business in reasonable shape. 'Well, I'd better say thank you, Mr Mathers.'

  'Dudley, dear boy. And don't bother thanking me if you don't feel like it. You could pay me instead.'

  The scotch and his campy cheerfulness made me feel better. I took out my wallet and the passport came out along with it. My California driver's licence was tucked inside.

  'There you are,' Mathers said. 'All your ID, as you say over there. I must come to Hollywood one of these days. They do say there are some very interesting people to be encountered.'

  'You'd find a few mates,' I growled. 'How much?'

  'Let's say seventy-five pounds and I'll throw in another round of drinks.'

  Mathers gave me a lift in his yellow MG sports car to the nearest railway station where I caught a train to Thame and then a taxi out to Notley Abbey. After all I'd been through I was relieved to see the ghastly place. I checked that the Rolls Royce was undamaged and then took a long, hot bath. After having a shave and climbing into some fresh clothes I went up to the house to get the latest from Grace. Mrs Witherspoon gave me a sour look as I entered the servants' wing but I ignored her. She had a right to be sour. Anyone with half an eye could see that the Oliviers' marriage, and therefore at least some of the servants' jobs, were hanging by a slender thread.

  I knocked on Grace's door. She threw herself into my arms when she saw me and, just for a minute, I thought I might be in for a splendid homecoming, but she pulled away before things got too ardent. 'Where have you been, Richard?'

  A chap doesn't like to make too much of things. 'Ran into a spot of bother with the law, Gracie. Nothing serious.'

  'I heard you were arrested for drunk driving.'

  'I hope that's not getting around. Quite untrue. I was the temporary victim of a gross miscarriage of justice. What's been happening around here?'

  'Oh, it's been terrible. Quite terribl
e.'

  'Vivien! She's not seriously ill, is she?'

  'No, at least, I don't think so. But she and Sir Laurence had a dreadful row before you went off to London the other day. They're both in a frightful state and no one knows what's going to happen.'

  Including me. 'Has Finch been around?'

  'Yes, he's been ever so helpful.'

  I'll bet he has, I thought. This was tailor-made for a seducer of his calibre, just like one of the situations in those dopey Renovation plays,15 where Lord Prickleberry is screwing Lady Luscious while remaining the best of friends with Sir Simpleton Luscious, who is fucking Lady Prickleberry—you know the sort of thing I mean. Peter had the perfect opportunity to play the manly supporter of Sir Larry while insinuating himself ever more deeply into the regard of Lady Viv.

  'I don't suppose he's here now?'

  'No, but he phones every night. She won't take his calls. She's trying so hard to be . . .'

  I patted her shoulder, and a very nice shoulder it was. I realised I couldn't go on like this. Another week of celibacy and I'd be starting to find Mrs Witherspoon attractive. 'When he rings tonight, fetch me. I need to talk to him.'

  'What about?' Her jealousy was flaring in all directions.

  'About the future.' I realised that she had moved back towards me and that her hand was on my arm. She was wearing a sort of silk sarong with a loose tie at the neck. From the look of it, undoing that tie might collapse the whole structure. 'I'm being deported, Grace,' I said in my most manly tones. 'It's quite unjust, but there it is. Other people are involved and I can't give you all the details, but . . .'

  'Oh, Richard, you poor, poor thing. That's terrible. When do you have to go?'

  'Few weeks, maybe sooner.'

  She was pressed tight against me now, smelling like flowers with a touch of musk and unwashed silk sheets. I struggled to control myself. Always wary of women, my recent experiences had made me especially cautious. The last thing I needed was an accusation of rape. I needn't have worried; if there was any raping to be done she was going to do it. Her mouth fastened onto mine and threatened to draw the last breath from my body. She hugged me to her with a strength that had more to do with lust than muscle. My resistance gave way like a sluice-gate opening. I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

  'Peter, oh, Peter,' she whispered. 'Yes, oh, oh, yes.'

  I was past caring. She could have called for Larry, Vivien, Ralph and the whole company of the Old Vic for all I cared. I threw her onto the bed and we clawed off each other's clothes. I was right, the sarong fell away and she was wearing only panties underneath it. Who removed them I don't know—the whole thing was a mindless, frantic grapple with buttons popping and fabric tearing and hormones relaying their urgent messages. I entered her and she gripped me with thighs that must have been developed by horse-riding or hockey-playing or both.

  'You're in,' she gasped. 'It's lovely. Stay there, please. Oh, please be slow.'

  I was bursting, frantically trying to detach myself from the hot, sweet rush threatening to overwhelm me. I tried a trick a German whore had taught me. 'B iss der most boring lettter in zee language off Englische, ja? Bicycle, brick vall, Bonox. Zink off zose zinks, Richard, und hold on.' The image of a bicycle propped up against a brick wall with a sign advertising Bonox behind it helped me to stave off the orgasm until Grace had come in a series of short, trembling eruptions that shook her entire body. I followed her, bellowing, I'm afraid, until she clamped her hand over my mouth. She was lucky I didn't bite her, I was in such a state of ecstatic release.

  'Be quiet, Richard. Shut up. Someone will hear.'

  'Sorry,' I groaned. 'Got carried away. It's been so long, you see, and . . .'

  She had rolled away and was rummaging in a drawer. She pulled out a sweater; a pair of slacks lay over the back of a chair and she dressed quickly. 'Yes. Well, it was very nice for me, too. And I'm sure it did us both a lot of good.'

  'Gracie, I . . .'

  She touched a finger to my lips. 'Not a word. We might even do it again some time. Now, what are you and Peter Finch going to do about all this?'

  I stopped pulling on my pants and looking around for my shirt and stared at her. 'Do?'

  'Yes. You don't think I'm stupid, do you? It's obvious that Mr Finch has some kind of a plan and that you're part of it. I want to know all about it.'

  She was going too fast for me. I was still in a sexual daze. I shook my head. 'I don't know . . .'

  Something very hard came into her tone. 'Do you want me to tell her that you've been under arrest and that you're going to be deported? Do you want me to tell him?'

  'Of course not.'

  'You'd rather we stayed . . . friends, wouldn't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Tell me.'

  I couldn't see the harm in it. I told her about Finch's angling for the part in Elephant Walk and his hopes for a tropical sojourn with Vivien. She laughed when I said I'd been supposed to put Olivier off the idea of being in the film himself.

  'He hates it,' she said. 'It's one of the things they've been quarrelling about. One of the many things.'

  'How sick is she? She won't be able to do the film at all if she's not well. Bloody hot place, Ceylon.'

  She tidied her hair and straightened the bed. 'I'll make some tea.'

  I was beginning to understand. I hadn't just answered a momentary need; she'd probably heard I was back and popped in her diaphragm right after slipping into the sarong. Women. Still, I had to admire her. She was looking after number one and that's what most of us are doing as best we can, and she certainly hadn't done me any harm.

  'Haven't you got anything else to drink?'

  'I've got some gin. I took it away from her room the other day. We've got to stop her drinking so much.'

  'Gin's fine,' I said. So it was 'we' now, was it? Now it was my turn to wonder what her plans were. It was all becoming very confusing. She made two drinks and we both lit cigarettes. We weren't lovers and we weren't quite friends. I suppose we were conspirators, but it would have been hard to describe the object of the conspiracy. The phone rang and she answered it. 'Yes, I'll take it. Mr Finch, this is Grace Drewe. No, I'm afraid she isn't taking calls, but Richard Browning is here and he'd like to talk to you.'

  9

  There's almost nothing more frustrating and difficult than trying to have a three-party conversation on one telephone line. Everything Grace said to me I had to repeat to Finch and everything he said I had to relay to Grace. In addition, the line was poor and there was always the possibility that Vivien or someone else might pick up a phone somewhere in the house and listen in. In the end I managed to convey my problem to Finch as well as something of Grace's intentions. Essentially, she wanted to keep her position as Vivien's companion. She also wanted a part in the film.

  'That's absurd,' Finch said. 'Has she ever done any acting?'

  I conveyed this to Grace. 'That's not the point,' she said. 'I can get her well enough to go to Ceylon and work. I don't think there's anyone else who could. She's very close to a breakdown.'

  'Bitch,' Finch said when I repeated this. 'But she's probably right. Okay. Agreed.'

  I nodded to Grace. 'Can you swing that?' I asked Finch.

  'I don't know, but tell her I can. Why should we put all our cards on the table for a manipulating slut like her?'

  I didn't pass that on to Grace, nor to Peter my impression that Grace had designs on him as well as on Vivien. If we all made it to Ceylon there was sure to be some excitement. The only missing element would be Larry. Peter concluded with some words of solicitation about Vivien and I reminded him that I'd have to be out of the country in about a month and that I hoped he wouldn't let me down like Errol.

  'Errol?' Finch said.

  'You can rely on Errol Flynn,' I said. 'He'll always let you down.'

  Finch laughed, said he'd stay in touch and hung up. David Niven somewhere or other delivers this line as if it was his own, but I swear I said it fir
st. I'm not denying that Niven had plenty of experience—although not as much as me—of the bastardry of Flynn, but I still claim authorship. I suspect Peter repeated it to Niven some time and he slipped it into his book. Too late to ask poor Finchie now, of course, and Niven's much too grand these days for the likes of me.16 I expect he'll be Sir David before he's finished, if he sucks up enough to the right people.

  It was time to deal severely with Miss Drewe, sitting up in her sweater and slacks with obviously no intention of going a second round. 'You've got to get her off the drink. She has to eat and exercise. The last time I saw her she looked every day of forty-five.'

  'That's a dreadful thing to say.'

  'It's true. Finch is no spring chicken either, but they have to look roughly the same age in this picture, I assume.'

  'You assume,' she flared. 'Haven't you read the script?'

  I've always made a habit of not reading one word more of scripts than I have to—depressing and a waste of effort. I shook my head.

  'Idiot. I've read it a dozen times. It's based on a simply fabulous novel by Robert Standish. I've read that, too. It's going to be a wonderful film and there's a nice little part for me in it as a nurse during the cholera outbreak.'

  'How about me?'

  'Hm, I'm not sure about that. She's got a couple of copies lying about. I'll get one for you.'

  That was the big thing about Grace Drewe—in any exchange she always managed to get the upper hand. We left it there. All in all, I felt it hadn't been such a bad passage of play. (Funny how when in England the cricket language often seems appropriate, although it's not a game I've ever taken much interest in—too slow for someone of my impatient temperament and played with a bloody dangerously hard ball.) I was feeling relaxed after the sex and the solid gin. I could gladly have shuffled up for some more of both, but it was clear that Grace wasn't interested.