by Peter Corris
The narrow pavements were crowded with students and townspeople going about their business; bicycles wove in and out among the traffic. Bright mentally filmed Gothic spires and cobblestoned courtyards. He wandered along to Blackwells, went inside and browsed among the collection of travellers' tales and accounts of the Sahara and Gobi Deserts. The bibliographies contained no references to Basil Craft's book and his name did not appear in any of the indexes. He bought a swag of guidebooks covering Mongolia, Morocco and the American southwest and a paperback copy of Thesiger's Arabian Sands, carefully tucking the receipt away in his wallet. He drove to a motel on the outskirts of the city, unpacked his bag and swam laps of the small pool until he reached the state of tired relaxation that he knew would ensure him sound sleep. A steak and a few beers would help the process along.
He dawdled over the meal, letting his mind run on the questions his day's work had thrown up. He wished he had brought the copy of Walking Across the World with him to confirm his impression that Basil Craft made few, very few, references to his brother. Back in his room he ignored the TV guide the management had supplied and settled down with the books. The lecturer had been right; Bright was a quick study. By the time he dropped the Thesiger beside the bed and fell asleep, he had absorbed much of the history and characteristics of three of the landscapes the Crafts (he was thinking in the plural again) had crossed. The eerie, whistling wastes of Mongolia, the scorched sand sea of the Sahara, the punishing cauldron of Death Valley. One thought nagged continually at him. He was beginning to doubt that the Englishmen could have done it.
Miss Millicent Cooper, MA, was a pleasant-faced woman in her late fifties. Bright was disappointed; he'd hoped for a withered retainer whose incumbency extended back to the '30s. Hardly likely. What she lacked in first-hand knowledge of the era she made up in a command of the records. Seated in her wood-panelled office in the bowels of the ancient building, she impressed Bright by her efficiency. She listened while he outlined his request, nodded and issued clear-voiced instructions into the intercom. Then she excused herself politely and dealt with papers on her desk while Bright waited.
Fifteen minutes later a thin stack of file cards was delivered, along with a pot of tea. The secretary smiled. 'Australians drink tea, do they not?'
'Thank you. White, no sugar.'
Miss Cooper poured the tea and riffled through the cards. 'Basil Craft. Very little here, I'm afraid.'
'He was a student?'
'Oh, yes. For a time. Medicine as you said. Trinity term 1929 to Michealmas 1931. Sent down.'
'Expelled?'
Miss Cooper sipped her tea. 'If you will. I don't think I'm at liberty to divulge the reason.'
'Scandalous?'
'Unusual, certainly.'
Bright drank some tea to give himself and Miss Cooper time to think. In his experience all but the most disciplined secret guarders enjoyed gossip. It was a question of putting the right question. 'I don't know much about Oxford in the 1930s . . .'
'Nor do I, apart from what I read in these records and in novels. It's sometimes difficult to reconcile the two.'
It was hardly an opening but Bright tried his disarming grin. 'Can't you give me a hint?'
'I'm afraid not. The fifty-year rule does not apply to these files. He may have a family.' Miss Cooper shuffled the cards. 'Now if you had wanted information on Richard Craft, that would be a different matter. There is nothing prejudicial . . .'
'I do want information on him. I'm interested in him as well.'
More card shuffling. The bulk of them evidently referred to Richard. 'I'm not surprised. A most distinguished career. A double first in Greats . . .'
'I'm sorry,' Bright said.
'Classics. Awarded a fellowship . . . not taken up. He was no mean athlete either—rowing blue, athletics blue for cross-country running. He was a debater and won a prize for poetry. I should think you would be interested in him.'
'Yes. But now I'm wondering how he managed to get on so well after his brother's, what would you call it, disgrace?'
'I imagine he was a very different sort of man and people recognised that.'
'Mmm. I don't suppose there's anyone around who'd remember them?'
'It's almost sixty years ago, Mr Bright. It's unlikely.'
'I saw an oldish chap out there by the gate.'
'Briggs. He's been here since the year dot but I think that means just after the war. Still, you could talk to him. He may have knowledge going back further, picked up from his elders, if you see what I mean.'
'What does he do here?'
'Makes tea, runs errands and lends authenticity I suppose. Oxford's changing awfully quickly, some of us like to cling on to a few things. Briggs was a scout here and then the head porter until he became too old.' Miss Cooper detached a couple of cards from the bottom of the stack. 'Are you interested in Randolph Craft at all?'
Bright was considering what a scout was and the name startled him. 'Who? I'm sorry, I didn't . . .'
The secretary adjusted her glasses and read from the card. 'Randolph Craft, came up in 1965. Read Law. Some sort of relative I should imagine.'
'That's very interesting. Do you have an address for him?'
'There's a London address, 23 Wilesden Road, Hendon, but it's long out of date. He graduated in 1970 and apparently hasn't maintained any interest in the college. Like so many, unfortunately.'
Bright was scribbling notes. 'Can you give me any more details about him?'
'I'm afraid not. The boot's on the other foot, Mr Bright. If you manage to contact this gentleman and if he turns out to be a descendant of Basil or Richard Craft and is willing to allow you to see the records, then I could be of further assistance.'
'Thank you. You've already been a great help. Who would I see about filming in the college?'
'The Master.'
'Would you be willing to be filmed yourself, Miss Cooper?'
The secretary removed her glasses and smoothed her dark, silver-streaked hair. 'I would be delighted, Mr Bright.'
5
'Excuse me, Mr Briggs?'
The old head, totally bald and somewhat shrunken, turned slowly. The face was a mass of wrinkles and sunken flesh; the eyes were pale points of light, deeply socketed, but the voice was surprisingly firm and clear. 'Yes, young man. What can I do for you?'
Bright explained his mission in general terms, laying emphasis on Miss Cooper's assessment of his value to the college.
The old man chuckled. 'Like a monument, eh? Here totters Albert Briggs, a relic.'
'You seem pretty spry to me, sir,' Bright said. It was true; Albert Briggs was a small man, somewhat stooped, but his movements as he lifted a newspaper off a stool and gestured for Bright to sit were fluid. He sat on a chair near the porter's shelter, looking out the high open gate towards the imposing bulk of the Ashmolean Museum.
'I'm good for a few years yet if I pace myself. Well, you'd be an Australian, wouldn't you? I recognise the accent. Been a good few of your countrymen through here in my time I can tell you. Good chaps, most of them. Bit overfond of beer, some of them. Now, who was it you wanted to know about? Australians?'
'No. I'm interested in two brothers named Craft. Students here in the '30s.'
Briggs shook his head. 'Before my time. I started here in '41 when I got back from the war.' He touched his right leg. 'Machine-gun bullet nearly took it off. Doctors wanted to finish the job but I wouldn't let them. I was right. It still works. Gets a bit stiff in the winter though. Now, let's see, the name's familiar—Craft.'
'Miss Cooper told me there was a Randolph Craft here about twenty years back. Possibly related to my two.'
'That's it! Randolph Craft. I remember him. Dead serious type he was. I recall a Yank once called him Randy. Young Craft just looked at him and the Yank shut up. Mr Randolph Craft. He lived on the stairway just yonder. More work than play. 'Course, some of those fellers are like that.'
'What fellers?'
'Chinese or w
hatever he was.'
'He was an Asian?'
'Would you like a cup of tea?'
One cup of tea per day was enough for Bright and he was reluctant to interrupt the conversation, but he sensed that old Mr Briggs wanted to spin things out, to fill in time in one of his diminishing number of days. He nodded and helped the old man with the tea bags and matches. Albert Briggs hummed a tune Bright recalled from his childhood but could not name. Seated again with a steaming mug, Bright struggled with impatience while Briggs chatted to a couple of students who seemed to be paying their respects, a serious ritual. When they departed, Briggs stirred the three spoonsful of sugar in his mug vigorously. 'Asian's the word for it. Not Chinese, at least not like any other Chinese I've ever seen. But yellow skin like, and black straight hair. Slanty eyes. A huge big fellow he was. How tall're you?'
'Five ten.'
'He'd have six inches on you. Great big head on him. Shoulders like this.' He held the mug and spoon a metre apart. 'I can't tell you much about him, 'cept that he worked hard and got his degree. I'd be sure of that. A lawyer he was going for. I can tell you, I wouldn't like to be standing up against him in court, or in a pub or anywhere else.'
Bright decided against note-taking. 'You don't happen to know whether he was related to the blokes I'm following up? He never said anything about it?'
Briggs shook his head. 'I didn't know him, like. Just to say good day, give him a message or his mail.'
'Did he play any sport?'
Briggs slurped up a long draught of his tea. He held the mug in both hands and dipped his head towards it. The action seemed to stimulate memory. 'That he did. He was a rower. He was in the crew when we won the race. Let me see, that'd be '68 or '69.'
Bright hid the mug on the cobblestones beside his stool. 'That's very interesting, Mr Briggs. I'll follow up on that. What I was wondering though, was if there might be anyone still around who was at the college in the '30s. Someone like yourself, or one of the academics perhaps? They'd have to be older than you.'
'Should have said you didn't want tea,' Briggs grumbled. 'Think I'm blind? You're mistook. Happen there is someone who was here back then. Old Prof Devendish. He used to drop in near every day and we'd have a yarn.'
'Used to?'
'Yes, poor soul. One day he was hale and hearty, just like me. Next thing, he's had a fall, got sick and couldn't look after himself. He's in a nursing home now and sinking I'd say.'
'But still alive?'
'Far as I know. I went out to see him a couple of weeks ago. Bloody terrible place that is, and I'm not given to strong language. Oh, they looks after them all right, but they're rotting away. The Prof, his mind's wandering. Sharp as a tack one minute, off in the clouds the next.'
'I'd like to talk to him. I'll give him your regards. Where is this place?'
'St Michael's Nursing Home. In Sefton village, 'bout twenty miles out. You'll find it.' Briggs seemed to have recovered his good humour. He gestured to be passed the other mug. 'Mustn't waste good tea.' He sipped and pulled a face. 'Can't see how anyone could drink a brew like that.' He spooned sugar into the mug. 'You do that, young feller. Go and see the Prof. If he's not having one of his spells he'll remember Bert Briggs. Tell him I said hello.'
Bright agreed to do this, took down Briggs' address and shook the old man's hand. As he walked away he took off the jacket and loosened the tie he'd worn for his interview at the college. Jackets and ties irked him but he'd grown used to wearing them in England, where they seemed to be de rigeur for any meeting not conducted in a pub. The day was warm and bright for autumn; in rolled-up sleeves and sunglasses he almost felt as if he could be back in Sydney, except that in midsummer the countryside wouldn't look like this. Once outside the town the English greenery began—miles of it, trees and fields, stretching away into the soft distance. The village, east of Oxford, spread out around a crossroads that hadn't yet suffered conversion to a roundabout. Perhaps it never would; the area around it was sparsely settled farming country although a scattering of renovated cottages indicated the presence of commuters.
The nursing home was located at the edge of the village and had the look of a converted farmhouse. But on a grand scale. The long two-storeyed building was set in a gracious garden and featured a broad gravel driveway and winding flagstoned paths. There were sheltered areas for sitting in the open with views over the country towards distant hills. A few people moved slowly around between the trees and flower beds; some sat placidly on park benches. As he turned into the drive Bright noticed another wing of the establishment, possibly converted stables. The walkway between it and the main building was covered and bordered by shrubs and flowers. A long row of high-tension-wire pylons cut diagonally and intrusively across the grounds at the rear.
Bright parked his Mini Cooper and approached the imposing front steps, shrugging into his jacket as he moved. A white-coated figure emerged and waited for him at the top of the steps. He patted his pocket for his notebook and slipped up the knot of his tie.
'Good morning.' The woman in the white coat was large and solid. She stood in the exact centre of the steps.
'Good morning, doctor,' Bright said.
'I'm not a doctor. I'm the administrator. Isn't it a lovely day? I've just stepped out for a breath of air. Can I help you?'
'I'd like to see one of your . . . residents. Professor Devendish.'
'Are you a relative?'
Bright mounted three steps so that his head was almost on a level with the woman's. She didn't move back. She seemed to be accustomed to having other people move around her. He handed her a card. 'No, I'm a journalist. I'd like to talk to the professor about his academic career, and to pass on the best wishes of a friend of his.'
The woman glanced at the card. 'And who would that be, Mr Bright?'
'A Mr Briggs, from Oxford.'
She held out her hand. 'Oh, the professor will be pleased. I think Mr Briggs has been his only visitor. I'm Mabel Whitelaw. You'll have to forgive me barring the way like this. We have to be careful.'
Bright shook the firm, dry hand. 'I don't quite understand.'
'Come this way. I'll take you to Professor Devendish's room myself. We have some rather affluent people here, Mr Bright. Some of them get very unwelcome visitors—relatives trying to get them to sign things, solicitors and the like.'
'I just want to talk.'
'Good therapy for him.' A wide glass-panelled front door was standing open; Mabel Whitelaw ushered Bright through it and up a set of stairs. The carpet runner was deep piled and sunshine flooded in from a skylight above the stairwell. The corridor they entered was also well lit and the widely spaced doors indicated that the rooms were large. There was a smell, though, of institutional cleaning, medication, dependence.
'Did Mr Briggs tell you anything about the professor's condition?'
'He said his mind wanders.'
She nodded. 'One of the many kinds of senile dementia. Unfortunately, he doesn't react well to the medication, but he's quite lucid lately. With luck he'll be rational and you'll have a nice talk. He'll tire quickly so don't overdo it. You seem like a sensible young man. I propose to trust you.'
'Thank you. Is there anything, any subject I should avoid? I mean . . .'
'I know what you mean. It's quite impossible to say. These people are often very confused, very fragile. If he becomes distressed push the button above the bed and help will come. Here we are.'
She knocked on a door. Bright heard a faint response. Mabel Whitelaw pushed the door open. 'Someone to see you, Professor. Feel like a visitor?'
Looking past the administrator, Vic saw a man sitting in an armchair by the open window. A light breeze was blowing the curtain back into the large, airy room holding a bed, a chest of drawers and a number of overflowing bookcases. The man lifted his head from the book in his lap. 'Visitor, Mabel? What a surprise. Who is it?'
'Mr Bright, from Oxford. He's seen your Mr Briggs.'
'Briggsy,' Devendish sa
id. 'Old Briggsy. Is he here?'
'No, Professor. Someone else. Come in, Mr Bright.' As Bright moved past her, Mabel Whitelaw whispered, 'He seems fine. Twenty minutes?'
Bright nodded. He crossed the room and shook hands with Devendish, who raised himself slightly in his chair. He wore pyjamas and a light dressing-gown, leather slippers. The bones of his hands were dry twigs. So far this job is all senior citizens, Bright thought. Not like the AIDS thing. They were mostly young. But they were dying too. Bright sat on the bed a few feet from the old man. 'Bert Briggs said to say hello.'
'He was Mr Albert Briggs when he was the head porter. Nothing else would do.'
'He's a character. Three heaped sugars in his tea.'
Devendish chuckled. 'And they say it's bad for you. Well, it's kind of you to come. Were you just passing or . . .'
'No, Professor. I'm a journalist. I'm doing a film about two men, brothers, who were students at Walsingham in the '30s.'
'Didn't they tell you what's wrong with me?' Devendish's voice was sharp and irritable suddenly, the mildness gone. He slapped the side of his long head. The flesh was stretched tight over the bones; his thick white hair grew vigorously but everything else about his face and head was waning. 'This bloody senility. I can't remember much . . . the '30s you say?'
'Yes, before the war. They . . .'
'I know when the war was.' The old man smiled suddenly and blinked his pale eyes. 'I do know when the war was. Quite clear about that. Sorry for the sharp tongue, young man. I get angry when I lose the track and that's most of the time.'
'I don't want to stress you.'
'Is stress in common use as a verb nowadays? How remarkable. Well, I hope I can help you but perhaps you'd better be quick. This piercing clarity may leave me at any moment.'
