The Brothers Craft

by Peter Corris

  Craft paused to drink beer and wipe his mouth. He had spoken in a soft tone, oddly musical in his thin, high voice. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He had not removed his jacket and something about his formal appearance and his impassive controlled delivery compelled Bright to believe every word he said. But the reporter's instinct asserted itself. 'Your birth certificate says Richard Craft was your father.'

  'In a way, he was,' Craft said. 'He found my mother in Hong Kong and helped her. He arranged for his name to appear on the birth certificate. This was to give my mother access to certain minimal benefits in the Crown colony—admission to British medical clinics and so on. He sent her money regularly through the 1950s. The money stopped in 1960, of course. By then my mother was running a small handicrafts shop. She worked in leather and wool and the things she made were in demand. But Hong Kong is a hard place for an outsider and she had always to keep a low profile. She paid higher rents than she should have in order to keep out of contact with officialdom. Fear of deportation to Mongolia haunted her all her life.

  'As for me, I may be ugly but I am very intelligent. I attended a reasonable school with the aid of the money from Richard Craft and I attained very high marks indeed. An operation, paid for by Richard Craft, corrected my deformity. I was Randolph Richard Craft, half-English, half-Chinese, totally brilliant. I went to Oxford, not without misgivings. I had delayed going up for several years. I left my mother for five years. Her health declined. She was born in the open spaces with generations of nomadic freedom as her heritage. Twenty years of living in Hong Kong began to kill her slowly. I returned as soon as I completed my articles in 1970.'

  A sadness had settled over Craft's broad, bland face. He was speaking more slowly, almost slurring the words and Bright tried to count the number of bottles of beer he'd drunk. Certainly six, possibly eight. Gluttony, drunkenness and celibacy, he thought. The diseases of bachelorhood. He felt for a question that would steer the conversation away from introspection. 'Did you know that Basil and Richard Craft had attended Walsingham College in the '30s?'

  Craft shook his head. 'No. You have to understand. At that time nothing of what I am telling you was known to me. I believed I was half-Chinese. I believed my father had died in the war. My mother moved heaven and earth to conceal from me the bizarre facts of my genesis. All that pain she bore herself.'

  'So, how did you find out about it?'

  'My mother took thirteen years to die. She died little by little, day by day. I cared for her. I had a first-class degree from Oxford and articles from a leading London firm but I did not practise law full-time in Hong Kong. I locumed, filled in, worked part-time when my mother was well, not at all when she was ill. I did not prosper and I did not keep pace with the changing times. The newest developments in corporate law are a mystery to me. I have never consulted on a takeover. This is where the money has been made in Hong Kong lately.'

  Bright nodded. 'Everywhere.'

  'Just so. I made a living, no more. My mother died nine years ago. I was in debt after I paid for her funeral. A decent funeral in Hong Kong is a very expensive affair. I was finally able to give all my time to the law but I had missed the boat. I wasn't young any more. I had acquired bad habits—sleeping late, eating and drinking too much. I had no contacts. I do work for the boat people—you can imagine how much money that brings in.'

  'Yes,' Bright said. 'So your mother told you the story of her life before she died?'

  'No,' Craft said. 'She told me a little towards the end. But she had written it all down, or rather, she hired an amanuensis, someone who could understand Khalkha Mongolian. There were very few such in Hong Kong and she had to be careful not to place herself in jeopardy. Eventually she found an octogenarian Lamaist monk. He wrote her story down in the old Uigiar Turkic script. Very safe. It took me years to learn to read it after I found the book among my mother's effects.'

  'I get it,' Bright said. 'The book in your briefcase.'

  'Yes. It is an extraordinary document. My mother's life was a tragedy. I was its only achievement. Can you wonder that I dedicated myself to bringing her comfort right up to her last breathing moment?'

  'No. But I wonder why you didn't take some steps to trace your father. . . the Crafts . . . when you found out about your origins.'

  'I tried, a little. But I had not much to go on. I did not know that Basil Craft had published a book. I found no reference to it in the literature I consulted. An article in a geographical journal by Richard Craft, yes. Lies, according to my mother's account. The journal ceased publication twenty years ago. I had no other leads and I am, regretfully, somewhat lazy by nature. I confess I do not like to work hard. In this case you did the work for me. I was astonished to read your notice in the Legal Letter.'

  'I see,' Bright said. 'Well, it's a very lucky stroke you did. You can be of enormous help to us, Mr Craft. Randolph.'

  'I hope so. Perhaps of more help than you realise.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Haven't you wondered how Basil Craft was able to travel to Mongolia, a Soviet satellite, in 1942? And to Hong Kong, which was under Japanese control, the following year?'

  16

  Craft excused himself to go to the toilet, which was scarcely to be wondered at after the amount of beer he had drunk. Bright ordered coffee and sat amidst the sea of dishes and bowls, picking at a chapatti and trying to think. Of course the question posed by Craft had occurred to him. But there were so many questions. Bright now had another of his own—what did the big man want? A waiter cleared the table. The coffee arrived and Craft returned to the table.

  'Coffee, excellent. Have you thought about what I said?'

  'The question had come up. It applies to all his other expeditions as well. None of them was a Cakewalk—all in tricky spots at tricky times. I may have some idea of an explanation as far as Morocco is concerned . . .'

  'Really? How interesting. Excellent coffee. Would you object to me ordering a few sweets?'

  Bright waved his hand. Craft summoned the waiter and ordered. The two men sat silently until the sugared fruits and sticky cakes arrived. Craft bit into a cake and smacked his lips. 'Delightful. I wonder if your explanation for Morocco is consonant with mine for Mongolia.'

  'We'll see. First I have to ask you, Randolph, what benefit you expect to get from helping me with the film?'

  Craft first licked, then held up, three massive fingers. 'One, to expose Basil Craft as a monster. Two, money from the production company in return for acting in the capacity of advisor or consultant. Three, entry for myself to Britain before the bloody Chinese take over Hong Kong and turn my home into a rubbish dump.'

  Bright nodded. 'I can pretty well guarantee you the first, the way it's looking. There could certainly be some money, within reason. About the third thing, I'm not sure.'

  'Most of that I can handle myself. I may need a little help but I'm confident that with your support I can succeed. I've taken the liberty of drawing up a contract for myself. If you will introduce me to your legal chap, I'm sure we can sort something out.'

  Bright, who normally disliked gluttons, could not dislike Randolph Craft. There was something comfortable about him. He seemed like a man mostly at ease with himself. Confident, but not aggressive. Quite possibly, a man to trust. 'Are you a good lawyer, Randolph?'

  Craft ate a sugared apricot. 'Very good—but, as I say, lazy. I may have negleted to protect myself sufficiently in this contract. I may have to rely on your goodwill.'

  Bright laughed. 'I wouldn't do that if I were you. Not with Andy McKinnon. It's best to tie everything down. Are you giving us access to your mother's manuscript?'

  'Of course. Once it's translated. For a fee.'

  'I think you'll cover yourself well enough. We better get that arranged first and then I'd like to take you up to Oxford.'

  Craft drained his coffee and ate a sugared almond. 'Excellent,' he said.

  Three hours later, after a visit to the legal firm that handl
ed contracts for Highland Productions, Bright and Randolph Craft caught the tube to Camden Town where they were to collect Marsha and drive to Oxford. Craft was courtly through the introductions but he eyed the Mini Cooper dubiously.

  'I'm not sure I can fit inside this machine or that it will run if I do manage.'

  'Don't worry,' Bright said. 'D'you know what the world record is for fitting people inside a Mini?'

  The big man shook his head.

  'Neither do I, but it's a hell of a lot. I've moved house with this car, haven't I, Marty?'

  'If you call this a car and a few books and bottles a house, yes,' Marsha said.

  Bright jiggled the keys impatiently. 'Let's go. Marty sits behind me. You can push the passenger seat all the way back, Randolph. You'll do it easy.'

  Craft, more massive than ever in an old-fashioned trench coat with padded shoulders, squeezed into the passenger seat. They motored in silence for a while. Craft seemed intent on soaking up the sights and smells of London. Despite the cool day he had the window wound down and Marsha pulled her woollen coat around her. 'Would you mind putting the window up a bit, Randolph. It's bloody cold back here. The heater in this thing's not worth two bob.'

  Craft laughed and wound up the window. 'You are taking on the colouring of your colonial companion, Marsha. The new vigorous cultures prevail over the old.'

  'Thanks, that's better,' Marsha said. 'We'll see about colouration. So far, I've trained him to say off-licence instead of bottle shop and football instead of soccer.'

  'League's the only game,' Bright said. 'Much of a one for sports yourself, Randolph?'

  'I was a rower and a considerable wrestler in my youth,' Craft said.

  'Like Basil Craft,' Bright said. 'He claims to have wrestled Yhurr, the Mongol chieftain, to a standstill.'

  'He may have done,' Craft said gloomily. 'My mother records that he was a very strong man. It is little comfort. His next action with Yhurr was to murder my grandfather and uncles.'

  'You'll have to fill me in on all this,' Marsha said.

  Craft did so as they drove towards Oxford. He repeated much of the detail he'd given to Bright but added a touch or two—Basil Craft's fondness for drink and his passion for young female flesh. In return, Bright told Craft of Abdullah Hamil's allegation that the explorer had impregnated several women from the Sudan after instigating a massacre of their tribe.

  Craft stared at the monotonous landscape bordering the motorway. 'So, it seems that my half-brother, or cousin perhaps, may have several siblings. I knew my origins were unusual, but that is quite a surprise. Ah, Oxford. A trifle cleaner and brighter than I remember it. Who are we to see?'

  'Miss Millicent Cooper at Walsingham,' Bright said. 'She's interested in the history of the college. She'll be thrilled to meet you, especially since you got a first.'

  She was somewhat surprised, however, when the party of three entered her small office.

  'Really, Mr Bright, I hadn't expected a delegation.'

  'I'm sorry, Miss Cooper. It's not meant to be anything like that. This is Mr Randolph Craft who was a student here in the 1960s, and Miss Prentiss, the senior researcher on the project.'

  The secretary invited them to sit and turned her attention to Craft. 'I recognise you from one of the college photographs, Mr Craft. Debating, was it?'

  'Indeed it was, Miss Cooper. I didn't see Mr Briggs at the gate, otherwise nothing much seems to have changed.'

  'I believe Mr Briggs is unwell. I'm quite convinced of your identity, Mr Craft, nevertheless, perhaps some documentation?'

  Craft handed over papers, some of which carried the college crest. The secretary examined them carefully. 'Thank you. I had someone fetch the files on your predecessors. Father and uncle, would it be?'

  Craft nodded.

  Miss Cooper handed the thin stack of cards to Randolph Craft. 'I see no reason to play the custodian here. Perhaps you and your associates would care to examine the cards yourselves. I'll arrange to have some tea sent in.'

  Craft managed something like a courtly bow from where he sat. 'Thank you, Miss Cooper. Tea would be most welcome.'

  Bright rolled his eyes at Marsha. Craft had consumed a packet of peanuts and several candy bars during the drive. Now he was removing his coat and unbuttoning his jacket, apparently preparing for a full-scale meal.

  'Let's see the cards, Randolph,' Marsha said as soon as Miss Cooper had left the room. 'I've never been a "senior" anything before. Seniors come first, right?'

  Craft handed her the cards. Marsha flicked quickly through them, moved her knees apart and arranged them in three lots on her lap. She tapped the piles in turn—Basil, Richard, Basil's expulsion.

  'Cut to the chase, Marty,' Bright said.

  'Marsha has a sense of the dramatic, Vic,' Craft said. 'Patience, patience. I wonder what sort of tea they do here?'

  'I'm surprised she didn't offer you sherry, you being an old boy and all. Marty?'

  Marsha looked at one of the piles of cards, lifted her eyes to stare at the two men and then read the cards through again. 'I don't believe this,' she said.

  Bright reached for the cards. 'What? What?'

  'He was sent down for getting three girls pregnant. Three!'

  Randolph Craft's face took on its Western look again—regret showed, and suffering. 'I could do with something stronger than tea,' he said, 'but I suppose we'll have to get through that first.'

  17

  Marsha dipped her finger in her half of mild and wrote figures on the surface of the pub table. 'It's almost sixty years ago,' she said. 'Who'd remember?'

  'The children, the alleged children or whatever one would call them, would not be exactly ancient,' Randolph Craft said. 'It may be possible to trace them. I confess to a high degree of interest.'

  Craft had paused briefly in his eating and drinking to make this comment. Having made it, he returned to his beer and the three pork pies he had arranged on his plate. Bright and Marsha had contented themselves with beer and crisps.

  Bright pulled Marsha's notepad towards him. 'What d'you make of the names—Peggy Mclntosh, Gwenneth Williams, Maureen Darcy?'

  'Celts,' Marsha said. 'Scots, Welsh and Irish. Can't be a coincidence.'

  'Decidedly strange,' Randolph Craft said. 'Basil Craft appears to have had very deliberate notions about sowing his seed.'

  Bright swigged his beer. 'Briggsy's our best bet. I've got his address written down somewhere. Drink up, Randolph. Time to go.'

  Craft washed down the last mouthful of the third pie and stood. 'I'm still hungry, but if I eat any more I won't possibly fit into that sardine can. On expenses, Vic?'

  Bright nodded. 'When it changes, I'll tell you.'

  On the way back to the car Marsha said, 'What's wrong? You were rather sharp with Randolph then. He's only trying to keep it light.'

  'Yeah, I know. Trouble is, I've never liked slobs. He's a nice fellow but I can't stand the way he pigs in.'

  'You have to,' Marsha said. 'Besides, I get the feeling he's under pressure.'

  'Who isn't?'

  'Tolerance,' Marsha said. 'It's something for you to work on, love.'

  Bright located the address, which proved to be a two-up, two-down in a back street a few miles from Walsingham. 'He used to cycle to the college in my day,' Randolph said as he extracted himself in sections from the car. 'I bet he's always lived here. It's about the right distance.'

  A thin elderly man wearing a collarless shirt, cardigan and shapeless grey trousers and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette answered the door. Bright went rapidly through his spiel but had the distinct feeling of being upstaged by the silent Randolph Craft and Marsha. 'Well, the upshot is, we'd like to see Mr Briggs, if he's at home,' Bright concluded lamely.

  The sodden cigarette moved from the middle of the thin, collapsed mouth to the right corner to allow the man to speak. 'He's in all right. I doubt he'll go out again, except in a box. On his last legs our Bert is.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that,'
Bright said. 'Is he getting medical attention, Mr . . .?'

  'Weldon, Reg Weldon. Pleased to meet you.'

  Three handshakes followed before Weldon edged back and admitted the callers. The house was narrow and dark and Craft eyed the stairs dubiously.

  'You just go up,' Weldon said. 'I'll put the kettle on and bring up the tea. Not that Bert'll thank me for it. He's not said much these last few days.'

  Bright repressed an urge to bolt up the stairs. 'Have you and Mr Briggs lived together for a long time, Mr Weldon?'

  Weldon took the butt from his mouth and examined it. 'Nah, not long. Ten years p'raps. I'm from the north originally though I know I don't sound it now. It rubs off you, the north, if you're smart. Me 'n' Bert never got along that well, him being a southerner an' all. But old soldiers can make do. I'll get the tea.'

  He shuffled off and Bright led the way up the stairs. Albert Briggs' bedroom was the one at the front—a small, low-ceilinged room with Spartan fittings. Briggs was lying in the narrow bed, his head and shoulders supported by pillows. His eyes opened as the three entered the room. He looked older and thinner than when Bright had seen him but his eyes were clear and his nod was short and firm. 'Mr Bright,' he said.

  Bright introduced Marsha and Craft. 'You might remember Mr Craft was at Walsingham.'

  'Indeed he was,' Briggs said. 'So you found him did you? I thought you had a stubborn look to you. It's good to see you, Mr Craft.'

  Randolph shook the old man's hand carefully. 'And you, Mr Briggs. Though I'm sorry you're not well. What's the trouble?'

  Brigg's voice was wheezy. 'My own bloody fault. Went out in the rain and had a fall. Lay there a while and got soaked and starved. Haven't been right since. Reg says it's the finish of me and he could be right.'

  'Shouldn't you be in hospital?' Marsha said.

  'No, miss. I was in hospital once in France. They wanted to cut bits off me. Never believed in 'em since.' His wind ran out and the last two words were a whisper.