by Peter Corris
'I'd like to bloody ride them,' Peter said. He was fresh from a long plane trip and a rough drive and he wanted to ride a horse. That was Peter—hell for leather. I left them to it and went off to steam open Ranu's letter and take a look inside his box. After all, I still had money to collect from Pelham-Smith and I wanted to know what was going on.
20
Pelham-Smith surprised me. I thought he might have sent the boy a long, haranguing letter about duty and family and all that rubbish. God knows what I thought might have been in the box—clean underwear? Instead, the letter was a calm, deeply affectionate try at winning Ranu's esteem and love. I almost felt ashamed of myself for prying as I read it. Almost. I'm a born snoop, so I won't pretend I didn't get some sort of a kick out of it. The father assured the son he respected his political ideas although he did not share them. He urged Ranu to study for a profession in order that he might be useful in the world. 'A driver', as he put it, not 'a passenger'. He wrote of his own study of the Hindu religion, undertaken out of regard for his wife, and his longing to discuss all these issues and more with his offspring.
Moving stuff. Then he got down to practicalities. He enclosed a British passport made out in the name of Ranjit Smith. I opened it. The photograph of the bearer resembled Ranu reasonably well—a bit rounder in the face and with the hair cropped even shorter, but not bad. Pelham-Smith said, without further explanation, that it was a photograph of Ranu's cousin and that in most respects the document was genuine. He also enclosed an airline ticket for Ranjit Smith from Colombo to London and two hundred and fifty pounds in cash. As far as I could see, there was nothing to prevent the boy from hopping on a plane any time he chose.
Then came the stuff that interested yours truly. Ranu was to inform me that I would receive the rest of my fee the minute he arrived in London. Fair enough. Then came some subtleties. The Oxford and Cambridge entrance examinations were held in May. Application forms were enclosed. Pelham-Smith wrote that he understood that Ranu might have matters to wind up and obligations to see through. He urged him to complete the forms and seriously consider being back in England in time to prepare for the exams. Handbooks from both universities were duly enclosed. The man was big on giving the boy a choice, although a limited one. I hoped Ranu hadn't set his heart on going to the LSE, which I'd heard spoken of as a hot-bed of radicalism.
The box contained the university handbooks along with a packet of family photographs that I didn't examine, and a selection of books—A Passage to India, Cry, the Beloved Country, and several volumes of something called A Study of History by one A. Toynbee. Pretty heavy-going it looked to me, but I assumed old Aubrey knew what he was up to. I put everything back together as I'd found it and deposited the envelope and the box in the room Ranu rated in the hotel because he was the security chief. He'd grown a moustache (that would have to go if he was to travel as Ranjit Smith), and he looked the part. I went away with a number of things to think about, but principally how to get Ranu on a plane. Four thousand quid was a hell of a lot of money, and the sooner I had it tucked away safely the better.
I wandered out onto a balcony to have a smoke and met Andrews who was doing the same thing. 'Feel like a drink, Dick?' he said.
That's how long those kinds of resolutions usually last. Andrews had been doing his share of drinking from day one. 'Matter of fact I don't,' I said. 'I was thinking of driving to the plantation. Finch is taking a horse ride out there. Maybe you'd like to come along?'
What I really wanted was a heart-to-heart with Ranu after he'd seen what was in his father's letter. But it wouldn't hurt to sound him out a little beforehand.
'Why, sure,' Andrews said. 'Kinda dull around here. I'll just get my hat.'
Andrews was a nice fellow and we chatted along happily on the drive. Andrews broke into song at one point—'The Road to Mandalay' I think it was—and I complimented him on his voice.
'Yeah, I can sing a bit, but I always kept it dark in Hollywood. You're likely to end up in those dumb musicals with straws sticking outa your ears.'
'I hear you were a bookkeeper, too.'
He laughed. 'I worked for Gulf Oil, but I keep that very dark. Comes in handy dealing with agents, though. Who's yours?'
I told him.
'Jeezus. I bet he's been stealing you blind. Lemme tell you how they do it.'
He smoked Chesterfields, took a few judicious swigs of gin and lime juice from a hipflask, and his talk was of Hollywood—the Brown Derby, the lots, Selznick and Goldwyn and Huston—and I realised how much I missed it all. I became keener than ever to deliver Ranu to his dad and collect the loot. I saw myself back in Hollywood with money in my pocket, perhaps with a respectable credit for Elephant Walk, and the friend of the up-and-coming Peter Finch. I felt like singing, too, but Andrews would probably have jumped out of the car in fright.
'We found Ranu and Finch in the saddling yard. They had just finished their ride and Finch was full of praise for the boy's style. He and Andrews had spent a bit of time together but were still circling each other warily. Andrews seemed to know how to handle himself around horses, increasing Finch's respect. I left them sharing the hipflask and Chesterfields, and talking about horseflesh and the movie.
'Andrew, a word.'
'Yes, Mr Browning, sir.'
'Don't be a little prick. Remember who rescued you from the jaws of death.'
He laughed. 'Remember who rescued you! Peter is a very fine rider, and a good teacher. Why is Mr Andrews so pale?'
'He spends a lot of time indoors. We haven't talked much lately. Is everything okay with you?'
'Yes, of course. I'm looking forward to the making of the film. When does Miss Leigh arrive? Is she as beautiful as everyone says?'
'Is that what they say?'
'It's what Mr Finch says, and some of the others who have worked with her in Hollywood.'
Not recently, I thought, but I didn't say so. 'Yes, she's beautiful. Look, are you still planning to head for England when this is over?'
He plucked my Players from my shirt pocket, extracted one and lit it deftly. 'Don't worry, Dick. I know there is some kind of advantage to you when I reach England. I'll be going. I'm just not quite sure when. I am enjoying this so much.'
This wasn't too bad, but it could be better.
'Great,' I said. 'But don't kid yourself. People could still be looking for you and you never know who can sell you out.'
He'd taken to wearing a broad-brimmed hat to keep the sun off and his skin had paled to a colour not much darker than mine. The disguise was still good, but I didn't want him to think he could keep it up indefinitely. His hand shook a fraction as he took the cigarette from his mouth.
'What do you mean?'
'Come on. That woman I met in the Street of Gold, Mrs Tirrundrai. She wasn't any pushover. Your pals could be coming up with new plans all the time. What if they grabbed Da Silva? How long would it be before he blabbed everything?'
He was really edgy now. 'I did not think of that. I must watch over him. Where is he?'
'Easy. Easy. I'm just talking, just reminding you to stay on the alert. Well, I'd better be getting back to Kandy.'
He dropped the half-smoked cigarette on the ground and stood on it. 'I will come with you and see what is in my father's letter. I'll leave the jeep for Mr Finch and Mr Andrews.'
'Good idea,' I said.
Of course I was working on him and he was only a kid and I shouldn't have done it, but I had my own interests to safeguard. Here he was, only nineteen, and looking forward to life with a rich father and Oxford and Cambridge, sherry with the tutor, the bloody boat race, deb balls and all that. I had nearly three times as many years on the clock30 and not many more grabs left at the brass ring. We drove back to Kandy and I told him I'd put the stuff in his room. He went off without a word and I adjourned to the bar for a contemplative smoke.
Vivien was due in the following day and the shoot was scheduled to start two days later. All preparations seemed to have
been made satisfactorily. There were bicycles for Finch and his mates to ride through the (convincingly faked) marble passageways of the house; the extras, including some Tamils, had been engaged and Da Silva assured me that everything to do with the elephants was under control. That was one aspect of the business I refused to have anything to do with. We'd had a few nasty experiences with the brutes in Kenya on King Solomon's Mines, where a couple of the handlers had actually been killed. Experts can talk until they're blue in the face about the differences between African and Indian elephants—an elephant is an elephant, too big and too unpredictable.
I was mulling these things over when Ranu and Da Silva joined me in the bar. Ranu had had a terrible headache the day after he'd punished the scotch some weeks back and had sworn off liquor. He was drinking Coca-Cola, of which a big supply had been flown in for the Americans. Da Silva, sensibly, brought me across a scotch and soda and had a gin sling for himself. They looked like two worried men, almost as if they actually were uncle and nephew, worried about cousin Fred.
'Dick, my friend,' Da Silva said, 'we have a problem.'
I lifted the fresh drink in a silent toast. 'Problems are for solving.'
'I hope so,' Da Silva said gloomily. 'Ranu believes that one of the Tamils engaged for the film may have recognised him.'
'Jesus!' I took a gulp of the drink. I needed it. Admittedly, I'd wanted to put the wind up Ranu slightly, but I hadn't wanted him to start jumping at lamp posts. 'You didn't say anything about this to me before. What makes you think . . .'
Ranu's eyes were moist. I indicated to Da Silva that he should take himself off and he did, winking at me and patting Ranu's shoulder as he went. Da Silva always tended to overdo the body language.
I gave Ranu a cigarette. 'What's going on?'
'My father has written to me as you know. I am deeply affected by his words and the things he has sent. I do not want him to be disappointed.'
Me neither, I thought, but I didn't say anything, just nodded sympathetically.
'I am most anxious to go to England but I feel I should stay and fulfil my obligations here to everyone who has been so good to me. Mr Finch wants me to help him with . . .'
'Well, I'm not so sure about that,' I said. 'You've done a very good job as it is. I don't think anyone would blame you for going to England.' I almost let slip something about the entrance examinations, but I managed to hold it in.
He shook his head vigorously. 'No, a job should be seen through. But I am worried about being recognised and perhaps some reprisal being taken. If not against me, then against the film.'
There was no doubt about Ranu's capacity to think things through and see the angles. He was going to make a hell of a politician, if he lived long enough. It was a worry. I'd raised the spectre of the Tamils grabbing Da Silva and squeezing him for information. Now we had a possible double threat as far as I was concerned—to Ranu and the movie—under our noses.
Ranu swilled the ice around in the dregs of his Coke. 'I have much to think about.'
'Maybe you could get a message to some of the Tamils about your long-term plans. How you're still on the side of freedom and all that?'
'Possibly. It would be very difficult for them to understand. By the way, Dick, my father says he will pay you the remainder of your fee when I arrive in London.'
'Good,' I said. And that's where we left it, with Ranu fingering the Webley in its holster and calculating the odds. Finch and Andrews came bowling up to the hotel in the jeep, going too fast and sliding into a skid. I could hear them laughing as if they didn't have a care in the world. I was worried about Ranu and my money, missing Louise and anxious about Vivien's arrival. Monkeys chattered in the trees, sounding alternately angry and happy—not so different from the rest of us.
21
The location shoot of Elephant Walk was a struggle from start to finish. I knew we were in trouble when I met Vivien at the airport. She'd lost weight and was pale and fragile-looking. When she was at her best, she had a certain toughness along with the kitten quality. But there was none of that now. She was on some kind of medication for her various ailments and either this, or a couple of vodkas in flight, gave her a strange kind of brittleness. She kissed me on the mouth, a thing she'd never done before. Pretty solid sort of kiss, too.
'Why, Rich. How wonderful to see you. And isn't it grand here? It feels like coming home. I spent some time in India as a child, you know.'
I groaned inwardly. Another one. She and Finch could maybe go fire-walking together and talk to the monkeys. With her pale complexion and nervous disposition, it seemed to me that Ceylon would be one of the worst places in the world for her. It had got hotter and more humid and there were a hell of a lot of bugs and lizards and snakes about. There was also the press of bodies. Even at the airport, I noticed Vivien's alarm at the simple mass of humanity—the first thing you have to get used to in this part of the world. Some people never do.
We piled into the Citroën and set off for Kandy. Vivien got a wide-brimmed hat from a box and insisted that we drive with the top down. 'I want to breathe the air,' she said.
She breathed air for about ten minutes before falling asleep and I had a chance to examine her closely. I was shocked by what I saw. She was carefully made up, of course, but some of the powder and paint had come adrift in the humidity and I could see the network of lines beside her eyes and around her mouth. She was still what you'd call well-preserved, remarkably so, but the Technicolor cameras would be cruel to her. They would age her beyond the powers of the make-up artists to redeem. I thought about the script. It called for her husband to reject her sexual advances because he had all kinds of what we'd now call hang-ups. Could it work? She had a slim, shapely body. She would look oldish but sexy. I decided her looks could be a plus, if she could carry on after seeing the rushes.
We were stopped at a train crossing and she jerked awake. 'Why are you staring at me like that?'
'No reason, Miss Leigh. How are you feeling?'
'I'm fine,' she said in her Scarlett O'Hara accent, a trick she employed to make people laugh, usually when she was feeling lousy herself. 'And don't call me Miss Leigh. You don't work for me now. You're employed on the film, aren't you?'
'Production assistant. Maybe I'll get a small part.'
'Call me Vivien. We Britishers will have to stick together against these blasted Americans. You're really a sort of Britisher yourself, aren't you? Despite your LA ways?'
'I guess so. Australia's more English than American, though I suppose that'll change.'
'Yes,' she said. 'I remember Australia very well. I was out there with Larry not long after the war, you know. It was sort of a mixture of England and California. Tell me, Rich, how's Peter?'
She pronounced it 'Or-stralia', something that has always annoyed me, but before I could answer a riot broke out all around us. We were in a line of vehicles stopped at a level railway crossing, two or three back from the tracks. A train came through slowly, with the third-class carriages crammed to the limit as always, and people sitting on the roof. Someone fell or was pushed off the roof. People shouted for the train to stop but it didn't, not soon enough, and the person who fell went under the wheels. There were howls and cries and men leaped from the roof and began attacking people on the ground. Others jumped from the carriages and joined in. There was a tremendous amount of shouting and wailing and stones began to fly. A couple hit the Citroën. The thrusting, milling crowd seemed to be turning its attention to the vehicles.
Vivien screamed as fists drummed against the car. I slammed into reverse, revved up and tried to slew out of the tight space. I hit the car behind me but managed to get enough turn to spin the wheel and miss the one in front as I lurched out of the line. The manoeuvre enraged some of the rioters, who clustered closely around the car. I was terrified that they would start jumping inside so I put it in neutral, stood up and pulled out the .38. I bellowed, 'Get out of the way, you black bastards!' and fired three shots in the ai
r. They fell back and I hammered down on the gearstick, swung the wheel and ploughed through a few of the stragglers until I reached the rough footpath that ran alongside the road. I barrelled along it, nearly running into a ditch, forcing people out of the way, with my fist thumping on the horn. When we got clear I was drenched with sweat and trembling from head to foot. I shot a glance sideways and saw that Vivien had gone into a dead faint.
A bad start and things got worse. Peter and Vivien fell on each other. A lot of pent-up passion being released, I suppose. It was hard to say who was the more obsessed and, since they were both highly strung and moody, the relationship was stormy. The booze didn't help. Along with Andrews and others they were both drinking heavily, never a wise move in the tropics. Finch and Andrews could handle it, but the combination of drugs, alcohol, strange food, the heat and the strain of filming, took a terrible toll of Vivien's strength.
Part of the trouble was that she and Finch were treating the shoot as a sort of working holiday. They went riding and driving and were late for calls. Some nights they camped out in the jungle and sat up around a fire, drinking and talking about Krishna and Shiva and all that jazz. Or so it was reported to me. I didn't go on any of these crazy jaunts but Ranu did, discreetly, and reported back to me. Grace Drewe presented another problem. Faced with the Finch-Leigh cataclysm, she was driven into a sulking, jealous antagonism and I believe she did everything she could to bring Vivien unstuck, in order to regain control over her.
Louise came to Kandy for a weekend after shooting had got under way and ventured the opinion that filmmaking was more boring that emptying bed-pans.
'And dirtier,' I said. 'Wait till you see two stars trying to hog a scene. What do you think of Grace?'
Louise shook her head. 'A nutcase. Watch out for her, Dick. One of these days she's going to do something dreadful.'
'She already has.' I told her about some of Grace's little tricks—losing make-up, spilling perfume, smuggling drinks to Vivien on the set.
