Box Office Browning Page 2

  I strode across the lobby like a man on his way to see the Governor and I positively raced up the stairs. Packing my bags barely took a minute. I tore up a bedsheet to make a knotted rope. My window gave out onto a dark laneway, much too high to jump but it was an easy trick to lower the bags down. After that I waited until the coast was clear and scooted to the bathroom. I piled the crumpled paper in the bath with some of the torn sheet and set fire to it. An open window gave a bit of draft and some sprinkled water produced smoke as well as fire. I ran down the hall shouting 'Fire!' at every door. I bellowed 'Fire! Fire!' up the stairs and saved 'Help! Fire!' for yelling down the stairs.

  Before I could catch my breath the place was full of women shrieking and men swearing. They were running around clutching clothes and hats; one woman even held a dog in her arms which was against hotel rules. Some people give no thought to others. The desk attendants bounded up the stairs; the doorman left his post and I walked out of the Hotel Metropole and around the corner where I collected my bags. I recall that I was giving my impression, highly regarded in sporting circles, of Peter Dawson2 singing 'The Road to Mandalay' as I strolled off towards Circular Quay.

  2

  If you've heard of Sydney at all, you've probably been told that it has a wonderful climate and is warm all the year round. This is eyewash, as we would have said in Sydney in 1916, or horseshit as we say in Pasadena. Sydney gets cold in July and that's the way it was that night on the Quay. You see, the idea of going to Watson's Bay had got hold of me and I didn't give any thought to where to spend the night. I wished pretty soon that I'd thought to find a boiler room somewhere or at least a pie stall. I hadn't even had the foresight to take one of the hotel blankets with me.

  I froze as I waited through the night for the shops to open so that I could sell a shirt. My companions on the Quay didn't have shirts and would have stripped mine from my back given the chance. So I kept moving, whistled Scottish airs and looked as if I could handle myself at any time of the day or night, and they kept clear. But it was a long, cold night and I was glad when the shops opened soon after seven o'clock. Trouble was, the pubs opened too, and the smells of food and drink tormented me.

  I laid out my best cambric shirt in front of the little Jew tailor. He picked it up (I have to admit his hands were cleaner than mine), and carried it over to the light.

  'One shilling and sixpence', he says.

  I exploded. 'It's worth a pound at least.'

  He shrugged. 'To me, Abraham Rosenbloom at your service, it's worth one and six, maybe less.'

  I took the money and headed for the nearest pub where I had a rum against the cold and a roast beef sandwich for my growling stomach which had had nothing but a bottle of stout in it for twenty hours. That left me the price of a one-way ticket and threepence to spare.

  The harridan of a ticket seller looked at my bags: I had a heavy, strapped-up leather bag and a light canvas to swing on my shoulder. She looked so long that I began to wonder if the police had put about a description of the man who'd raised the alarm at the Metropole, but her eyes only flicked over my face.

  'You're going the wrong way, son.'

  'And how is that, madam?'

  'Should be off to the war.'

  'Watson's Bay,' I said firmly.

  I went directly to the washroom and did the best I could with soap, cold water and my cut-throat while the ferry ploughed through the water. I've always, been a good sailor and grateful for it because a lot of my voyages have been made at a cut below first class as you'll see. I scraped the whiskers off; the moustache needed a trim but I thought I was likely to lose half of it if I tried. I went up to the enclosed deck and looked out at the white capped waves riding in to shore. I don't know why it is, but a big dose of nature like this always makes me thoughtful: this time I thought about the war and Richard Browning, or rather, about Richard Browning and the war.

  Maybe it was my Irish heritage but more likely it was reluctance to engage in physical conflict – in any case, I just couldn't feel that the war had anything to do with me. I was twenty years old and, like a young fool, I couldn't imagine living beyond thirty; little was I to know that I'd see eighty and more. I didn't want to spend any of it shooting at Turks and Germans who'd done me no harm and who might shoot back and cut the time left down to nothing at all. Some said that it would be over by Christmas; if it wasn't and the conscription demanded by hot heads (old chaps mostly I'll be bound) went through, I'd be caught. Meanwhile I wanted none of it, and if I had to join the army, I'd try to delay it until it was time to throw my slouch hat in the air and cheer in the peace.

  Once past Rose Bay the water got calmer; the sun was going up into a clearing sky and the breeze had lost its edge. I went out on to the deck and looked enviously at the mansions of the rich. That was the place for me, driving home to slip into the blazer and flannels and carry the drinks out on to the terrace.

  The ferry made a few stops which, as far as I was concerned, were of interest only for the quality of the women getting on and off. Nothing to report. There were only three or four passengers left aboard when the wooden jetty at Watson's Bay came into view.

  Watson's Bay was not a pretty spot at that time. (I've heard that it's now crammed at weekends with people eating fish and chips and swilling down Australian wine which is horrible to contemplate, especially the wine.) There were a few smart houses on the hills overlooking the bay, but that elevation was mostly commanded by the Catholic church and associated buildings. There was an unpaved road and a lot of bush. I suppose there were less smart houses lower down and among the trees but I never got to see them. The bay was home to a down-at-heel fishing fleet; there were fishermen's shacks along the beach, slipways and a few crumbling jetties. The ferry bumped against the one solid jetty and I went ashore lugging my heavy bag and vaguely disappointed that the film people weren't on the beach with the cameras set up.

  I was looking about, hoping I wouldn't have too far to walk when I heard sounds of disputation behind me. A woman was struggling with one of the ferry hands, a brawny type who had hold of her by the arm while his other hand was trying to get a grip elsewhere.

  'Let go!' she yelled. 'I want to see the captain.'

  'You'll see him all right. And the police.' He tugged her loose from the rail and started to half-carry her towards the back of the ferry.

  None of my business you might think, and you'd be right, but she was an uncommonly good looking woman with a great mass of dark red hair and a stylish costume that showed off her figure. I got a flash of silk-covered ankle as the deckhand lifted her. That sort of thing is a green light to Browning and I was back at the rail hollering to set the lady free before I knew what I was doing.

  Despite sleeping out and a cold water shave I retained the clothes of a fashionable salesman and the bearing of a Dudleigh man, and the sailor showed the natural deference of the lower orders by releasing the woman.

  'What's the trouble?' I barked.

  'No bloody ticket, that's the trouble. It's back to the Quay for her.' He looked at me more closely and perhaps saw for the first time that I was young, or perhaps I sounded less assured than I thought, for he made a grab at her and snarled. 'An' what's it to you?'

  'An oversight, surely,' I said. 'Madam, you can buy a ticket at the office here.'

  The man attempted to seize his quarry again but she dodged. 'She ain't got no money.'

  I looked down and the bold, handsome face nodded sadly up at me. Again without thinking, my hand went to my pocket. 'I'll take care of it. Let her go. Come along, Madam.'

  I had the coins out and would have thrown them but if I'd missed and they'd gone in the water my noble gesture would have been for nothing. Noble gestures are not for wasting. I bent, very dignified, and placed the money on the rail. Money out of my pocket and a woman's hand in exchange, it's the story of my life. I helped her from the ferry while the sailor scooped the money. When he was satisfied he slung a bag made of black velvet stretched o
ver a bamboo frame up on to the jetty. Glass tinkled and broke inside the bag and he laughed.

  'Brute.'

  'Whore.'

  There didn't seem to be much to add to that so I shepherded her along the boards towards the land. She came willingly enough as women do if you handle them right. I took the opportunity to look her over thoroughly and my estimate of her value went up. She was quite tall and well-made, age about thirty. That was all right with me; my first woman, the mother of the chap I'd laid the bet with at Dudleigh, was a good ten years older than that and I can remember the sweetness of her flesh even now. Over the years I've had women younger than me and a good deal older (not lately of course) and I couldn't say that I have a preference either way.

  'Thank you, sir.' Those brown eyes were nicely painted up and while I wouldn't say that the sailor had got her profession exactly right, she wasn't from the Salvation Army either.

  'Dick,' says I, 'Dick Browning. And you are . . .?'

  She thought for a minute. 'Suzanne Select.'

  I swept off my hat. 'Miss Select, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I didn't see you on the boat and can't think how I could have missed you.'

  'Gallant, sir. You weren't supposed to see me. You'd have been badly out of place if you had.'

  'Ah.' We smiled at each other; I found that I was still holding her hand and she wasn't wrenching it away. We got to the end of the jetty and I helped her down. The strap of her bag was cutting deep into the fabric of her glove and I took it with my free hand. I nearly overbalanced at the unexpected weight. We seemed to be two of a kind, Miss Select and I – carrying everything we owned with us.

  I grunted. 'How did you expect to get off the boat?'

  'I thought there'd be more people. I didn't even know where Watson's Bay was. I only arrived from New Zealand a few days ago. Then I heard about the film.'

  I took another look at her and damn me if I couldn't see a tint or two in her skin and a few kinks in her hair that indicated Maori blood. If New Zealand hadn't come up I doubt if I'd have noticed.

  'We seem to be on the same course,' I said. 'Are you hoping for a part in the film?'

  'Yes. Where are they, d'you think?'

  I looked up the hill and to east and west. There wasn't much to see – a grubby beach, and more trees than houses further up as I've said, which is the wrong way round for me. Then I noticed that one of the buildings wasn't a house at all but a hotel. I'd mixed a bit in theatrical circles while peddling grog and, in my experience, when an actor wasn't acting he was drinking or more likely doing both at once. I pointed to the sandstone pile.

  'Let's ask at the pub.'

  It was after nine and getting warm; the grey clouds of the day before had given way to clear skies the way it happens in Sydney and the bay was sheltered from the breezes. I was beginning to sweat with the weight of the bags and the steepness of the climb when we reached the steps of the hotel. It was a big place, thrown up any old how and much added to over the years. I sat on the steps and mopped my face with my kerchief. Miss Select had beads of sweat on her upper lip but otherwise looked as if she'd just stepped out of the powder room. Her eyes were bright, her lips were red and she was already in my debt. I gave her hand a squeeze.

  'Around the back like workers, d'you think? Or in the front?'

  For an answer she picked up her velvet bag and climbed the steps.

  The hotel was a plain sort of place with a good but well-used carpet, and fittings that could have done with a dust cloth. I caught sight of a saloon bar door half-open and inviting but it was a bit early. We went across to the desk where the attendant looked up with the sort of smile I hadn't had from hotel desk attendants lately.

  'Sir? Madam?' He was a little bantam of a fellow with his hair parted in the middle and slicked down. His collar was very white and his dark suit was scrupulously brushed. I was suddenly aware of my own need for pressing and brushing.

  'We are looking for Mr Longford's film company,' Suzanne said.

  'Are you players?' He seemed ready to leap the desk and do anything we asked. I couldn't pass up that kind of reception: I inclined my head and looked determined.

  His voice became breathy. 'Timothy Goodluck, at your service. Miss Lyell and Mr Longford are in the courtyard. Please leave your bags here and follow me.' He banged a bell and a kid came scuttling in from the east; Goodluck indicated that he was to take care of the bags and then he came around the desk and set off through an archway towards the back of the hotel. He was moving in such sprightly fashion that I could see the new leather on the soles of his buttoned boots. I shrugged, gave Suzanne one of my wide grins, the kind that used to enrage the masters at Dudleigh, and we followed Mr Goodluck down a hallway that became rather more grand, with mirrored walls and some marble facings, as it progressed.

  Suzanne took a look in the mirror and adjusted her jacket and lace blouse on the move. I own I slapped away some dust and made sure my tie was properly centred – there's nothing like the company of a smart woman to keep a man up to the mark himself. Goodluck led us through a sitting room to a set of French windows which were full of light flooding in from a flagstoned courtyard. A couple of tables were set up out in the sun and twenty or more people were milling about. We stepped out into a buzz of voices and a metallic clicking that turned out to be a cameraman cranking his equipment. His swearing contributed considerably to the noise. Goodluck smiled at some of the people, a motley bunch, some in street clothes, some dressed like sailors and others wearing grey dusters, like clerks in a dry goods store.

  Everyone ignored Goodluck but he pressed on until we fetched up at a table where a dark-haired woman, wearing what looked like riding costume and smoking a cigarette in a red holder, was sitting. She was scribbling on some papers with a pencil stub while trying to listen to a woman who was talking into her left ear. She also argued the toss with a man who was trying to correct what she was writing as she wrote it.

  'Miss Lyell,' Goodluck babbled, 'I've brought along two more players, Miss Lyell.'

  She looked up for an instant. She was pretty, with big eyes and a cleft chin. 'Good. See Francis. I'm busy.'

  3

  A woman who'd spoken to me like that would've got something sharp in return, but Goodluck just turned away and pointed across to the far wall. He was still beaming as if he was happy to have had his head snapped off.

  'Mr Longford's over there.' He sniffed. 'In his shirt sleeves. What shall I put on the bags?'

  'Browning and Select,' says I, giving him a wink and a pat on the shoulder. I'll see you later, Mr Goodluck.' He nodded and went off; if he'd known that that wink was all I'd had for him he'd have stepped less sprightly.

  Suzanne and I walked across to where Longford was leaning against a wall talking to the chief camera operator, the man who'd been swearing before and still didn't look too happy. Mind you, it was hard to read his expression because he wore huge, spreading moustachios; it's a wonder they didn't get caught in the sprockets. Raymond Longford3 was Mr Square-Jaw-and-Steady-Eyes himself. I heard later that he'd fought in the Boer War (more fool him, that was a duckable war if ever there was one), and had been a sailor and bushman. He looked all of these parts – tall and strongly built, ready to cross-cut saw a giant redwood or furl a topsail, if you know what I mean.

  I waited for a pause in the cameraman's stream of complaint and then stepped in with, 'Richard Browning and Miss Suzanne Select, Mr Longford. Miss Lyell sent us over to you.'

  Longford lifted his craggy jaw and looked at us. 'Lottie did?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  He was either very distracted or not very bright; either way in a condition to be taken advantage of. 'For roles in the film,' I said firmly.

  'Oh.' He glanced across to where Lottie Lyell was still scribbling and dealing with three people at once. 'Well then, excuse me, Fred.' The moustachios backed away and Longford, like a sensible chap, examined Suzanne closely.

  'Say fish,' he said abruptly.


  'Fuhsh,' says Suzanne.

  'I thought so,' he crowed. 'New Zealander, Maori too, eh?'

  'A buht.'

  'Fine. Excellent. Authenticity. Miss . . .?'

  'Select,' sticks in yours truly quickly, seeing which way the wind was blowing.

  'Miss Select. I'm keen to use Polynesians in the film. We've done so in New Zealand and Norfolk Island but, unfortunately, those people are not available for these sequences. I'm sure your services will be of value.' He reached out and touched her head. 'Excuse me, truly wonderful head of hair you have.'

  'Good,' says I, not wanting to be left out.

  Longford looked me up and down and frowned. 'I don't think . . .'

  'If I work, he works,' Suzanne said. It seemed like a noble gesture at the time and I squeezed her hand – it should have been her throat. Longford twigged as well he might; he was in a peculiar partnership himself. He sighed and pulled at his finely chiselled nose. 'I'm sure we can find something for you to do, Mr . . .'

  'Browning.'

  'See the wardrobe mistress, through there.' He pointed to a gate at the end of the courtyard. 'She'll direct you to the rehearsal area and make sure you see the paymaster after that.'

  'We will,' I said.

  He nodded and walked over to the table where he waited to get Lottie Lyell's attention.

  'Thank you,' I said to Suzanne.

  She winked. 'We're square.'

  The rest of that day I don't care to remember. It didn't start off too badly although it was a little like being checked over before a yearling sale. I was signed on to the payroll after a record was made of my particulars: Richard Kelly Browning, born Oakhampton, January 1895; height six feet two inches; weight twelve stone; hair, dark; eyes, brown; teeth, full set, intact etc. After that the nightmare began; they shaved off my moustache and stained me a nasty brown colour. I spent most of the next eight hours up to my chest in cold water, around two headlands from Watson's Bay and opposite a clean little beach, pulling on ropes and heaving at boats, doing the same thing over and over. I began to see what Les had meant about it not being much fun, although I'd still have preferred it to twenty threes with Jimmy Clabby.