Scatter the Stars, page 12
In this far-flung colonial outpost, the inexperienced young man was to be swept up in circumstances far beyond his capacity to cope with them. His ultimate slide to despair, disgrace and his final denouement, was an actor’s dream. Richie had become fascinated with the drama of Robinson’s life and had begged for leave to go to Goaribari Island in the Papuan Gulf, to see the actual site of the murder of Chalmers and what had later become the scene of Robinson’s senseless massacre of the natives.
The film crew’s local liaison officer, interpreter and general dogsbody, Ammo – short for ammunition because he was always ready to fire back an answer – had shaken his head. ‘Out of the question. The Goaribari are still wild men, among the worst of the tribes. They live like pigs in mud, sell their women as slaves and prostitutes, even sacrifice them for young men’s initiation orgies or so I’ve been told.’ And to make his point more forcefully, he added, ‘They still headhunt. The place has bad water, many diseases and crocodiles. Too bloody dangerous. Was back then, is now. If you go there, it will be on your own head – that is, if you keep it.’
Richie cocked an eyebrow after this tirade. ‘Apart from that, what’s wrong with the joint?’
Ammo didn’t join in the laughter. ‘I’ll take you to a safe little sea village, take you fishing,’ he suggested.
Ammo, real name Alfred Henson, which no-one remembered, had served in the Australian Army in New Guinea. He’d been demobbed in Port Moresby and had never gone back to Australia. He had no family back there that he was close to and he’d found the attraction of the free-for-all atmosphere of New Guinea appealing. For a while he’d run a plantation for an absentee owner who’d been only too happy to find a white boss, despite the fact Ammo had never done such work. He’d had few qualifications for anything much. But an ear for languages had later found him work as a roving government officer, known to the villagers as the kiap – a pidgin corruption of captain, applied to all white men who’d sailed into New Guinea in the last century, whether they’d been government officials, pearlers or rogue traders.
Ammo was a natural to work with the film crew; advising on locations, finding native extras and helpers, interpreting and generally ‘putting the boot in’ to keep things working.
He had an offsider, a villager from Elevala down the coast, who loyally carried out all Ammo’s instructions. To the foreigners, Ammo treated Woolly, his native helper, harshly. Woolly kept his place as servant and Ammo represented white colonial supremacy. But below the surface, they were joined together as brothers.
Richie opened the thick porthole glass window to let in some air in the faint hope it might cool the cabin a little. Biff was still filming the natives greeting the Merrie England’s arrival. One of the canoes packed with extras – natives with painted faces, wearing feathers and little else, spears and arrows at the ready – slid alongside the yacht.
‘They still have to do the scene on deck where the constables recognise the blokes who murdered Chalmers and Tompkins,’ the soft voice said as the film’s leading lady stepped into the captain’s cabin. ‘Be ages yet before we’re needed.’
Richie raised an eyebrow at Ivy Chase. The delicate English rose was playing the intrepid Beatrice Grimshaw, writer and lady chronicler for the London Gazette, who had travelled to New Guinea to find out more about the death of the missionary, James Chalmers.
Ivy, a leading actress of the British theatre, was also making her major Hollywood film debut. From the later screen tests that the pair had made, the studio executives back in LA had cherished high hopes that Biff had unearthed a magic screen duo. There was no doubting the scenes between Richie and Ivy sizzled. With Hollywood creative licence, Beatrice had been written into the script as a fiery redhead, an unconventional free-thinker who matched Robinson’s ego and sex appeal.
Ivy tugged at the high collar of her Victorian era dress. ‘This heat is killing me. How did women survive in the tropics in these clothes?’
‘Like you said. We’re not going to be called for at least an hour or so.’ Richie began unbuttoning the brass buttons on his formal uniform and turned the bolt on the cabin door. He pushed the two portholes open as wide as they’d go, draped his jacket over the chair at the captain’s desk and swept her into his arms.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, not too hesitantly.
‘What’s it look like. Let’s make love. Nothing better to do. You know very well every time we’ve kissed you’ve aroused me. You’re driving me crazy, my darling.’
‘It’s called acting, Richie.’ A wicked smile broke the contours of her innocent Clara Bow lips. As he began kissing her, she kissed him back.
He released her, smiling with delight. ‘You kiss for real, don’t you? Even on screen.’ He began unbuckling his belt.
‘You’re crazy. Make love? Here? Now?’ She started to laugh. Far from being outraged, the actress was excited by Richie’s audacity.
‘Come on my Ivy rose, life is for living, not sitting around some ship’s cabin watching the paint peel.’
He was naked. He sat on the captain’s desk and any further protestations caught in her throat. He was so sensual. A body made for lovemaking. Firm, lean, faintly muscular. His body proportions were perfect. An artist had stroked the fine dark hairs on his olive skin that glowed with vitality. He stood, hands on hips, proudly waving his enormous manhood at her and grinned. ‘So whaddya reckon?’
‘I give up!’ She burst out laughing. ‘Help me get out of this wretched dress.’ She turned her back, not from modesty, but so Richie could unbutton the length of her bodice. She slipped from the period costume, laid it carefully on the floor and fell back on the neat narrow bunk bed. She wiggled from her silk underwear and opened her arms to him. Richie stood over her, fanning her body with a large paper chart of the South Pacific.
‘That feels nice.’ She closed her eyes as the air brushed across her pale body. Dewdrops of moisture sparkled on her fair skin from the humidity.
‘Does this feel nicer?’ Richie knelt over her, running his cool damp tongue down her throat, between her breasts, over her belly to stop at the startling blush of auburn hair between her legs. He nuzzled the tight curls, thrilled to discover this secret fuzz matched her natural colouring. He dipped his head to lick and arouse her. When she began to arch her hips, softly moaning with pleasure, he rolled her on her stomach and stroked and kneaded her back and buttocks, till her body rose and fell on the hard mattress. His hand slipped in and out of the moistness between her legs. Her panting plea to enter, ‘Quickly, quickly, now,’ was muffled by the pillow. When she thought she could bear it no longer, he pulled her to her knees and plunged into her more deeply, more passionately than she had ever known. She lost all sense of time as sensations rose and soared through her body. Then in a deft move, he lifted her on top of him. Lying back in the bunk, hands behind his head, he grinned at her as she strained and pleasured herself until satiated she collapsed over him, breathless. His fingers barely touching her skin, he caressed her back as she lay on top of him, each feeling their hearts pounding together. As she gradually relaxed, he gently changed places. He lifted her legs high and slowly then wildly dove into her.
The assistant sent to fetch the star for his scene tried the door handle, then smiled and turned away. Biff called a tea break.
‘Okay now, Richie, your crew has enticed the natives on board with trinkets and your officers grab the two murderers.’ Biff took a drag on his cigar. Richie sighed and summarised the next sequence of the script before Biff had a chance to continue.
‘And the rest of the mob attack, one fellow goes to fire an arrow at me and he’s shot by one of my armed constables. Then we have general scenes of fighting and chaos. Robinson orders rounds of shots to be let off, it gets out of hand and two hundred natives are killed. Then the rest of them take off and we’re left with the two captured wild men.’
Biff waved an arm, pointing with his cigar. ‘It is still a question – factually as well as for our film – of whether Robinson deliberately ordered the killing of so many hapless natives. How threatened were the white men, or did matters get out of control? Was it simply severe although unlawful retribution for the killing of two white missionaries?’ said Biff with cigar held high in a gesture that reinforced the hypothetical question.
Ivy tilted her parasol. ‘Did they really eat the missionaries?’ she asked.
‘Down to the bones, it seems. Robinson went back to claim the skulls which the natives kept as trophies. A charming local custom.’
‘Ugh. What happened to their bones?’
‘Actually it’s your character, Beatrice, who in the film goes back two years later when they are recovered. Relations with the Goaribari were better by then.’
‘Was she really in love with Robinson?’ asked Ivy.
Biff grinned. ‘Beatrice Grimshaw was famous in New Guinea in the early 1900s. But in real life they never met. We’ve introduced a bit of screenplay poetic licence. Gotta have a woman in the piece, eh? Sex sells, puts bums on seats.’
Richie leaned over and touched Ivy’s arm. ‘Beatrice is one helluva gutsy character. I like the way you play her so strongly. It shows that underneath the prim manners, there is a woman to match a man.’ Richie touched her knee and the look that passed between them left no doubt to the crew that their lovemaking had moved off the screen and into life.
‘A smart modern woman. I can identify with that.’ She gave Richie a cheeky look. ‘In the film, Beatrice writes up the story for a London newspaper and effectively destroys the reputation of the man she loves. She puts duty, truth and her job above what her heart feels.’
‘I always put love first,’ said Richie with a wink. ‘To hell with duty and what the world thinks.’
‘That’s not always the wisest course,’ advised Biff. ‘But I have to say the screenplay writers on this one had it handed to them on a platter.’ He dragged on his cigar. ‘It’s a helluva story, of man’s perception of duty, of government ineptitude and of the arrogance of the missionary churches. And romance. What more do you want?’ He staged a double take as Ivy and Richie gave him questioning looks. ‘Oh, yeah. And possibly, the launch of two new blazing stars of the silver screen! But you still have to compete with this.’
Biff waved an arm around at the colourful scenery, the backdrop of the steep mountain ranges that sometimes glowed to a deep purple, guarding lands and people still unknown to white men. Along the foreshore, the film set designers had created a sea village; thatched longhouses with peaked roofs and shaded verandahs perched on wobbling poles that had been sunk into the mud over the dark green water. All linked to a long shaky bamboo walkway. Shallow long wooden canoes were pulled up to the shore under graceful strands of palms. Bare-breasted women wearing their ramis, grass skirts puffed out like short crinolines, tended children, prepared food or sat and watched while men lazily smoked pipes. The locals had been bemused at the mocked-up village, and had moved in several families and relatives to ‘help’ these strange white men playing out their ceremonies. The construction crew had hired local labour to make the set as strong and durable as possible. A thatched mission house and a rebuilt government rest house were made from thick, double-layered tar paper.
Remains of the war were also real here, though not as bad as in other places. Tons of equipment from landing barges and tanks, to construction equipment and supplies had been bulldozed by the Americans into the sea rather than left behind for any useful purpose. There had been so much debris of war near the towns Biff had originally checked out as their site location that it would have been impossible to achieve the long shots of deserted coastline he needed. Because of that, Biff had decided to go for authenticity and film in the isolated Papuan Gulf.
Richie would one day make movies in the deserts of Africa, in India, the valleys of the Amazon, in remote mountains of Central America. But nothing would compare with the appalling conditions of Papua New Guinea in 1951.
The cast and crew had been warned the filming of Voyage to Paradise wouldn’t be any picnic. Everyone had accepted the warning but the reality was worse than they could have imagined. Biff’s vigour and constant upbeat expostulations of how sensational this movie was going to be were wearing thin.
It was Richie, the star, who was most at home. He’d felt immediately comfortable in the Third-World setting. He demanded little and when not needed on set, he rambled around the villages down the coast picking up pidgin phrases and some Motu words while fishing with the old men.
Biff’s call for an extra day’s break for the crew had been organised and Ammo, with Woolly’s help, had arranged an early start on Sunday to go hunting mudcrabs, and calling into a village with one of the oldest longhouses to meet the elders, for anyone who wanted to go.
Most of the crew declined, saying they’d rather sleep in. The idea of wading through mangrove swamps, digging for giant crabs with the possibility of surprising a crocodile didn’t appeal. Though they agreed a fresh crab feast wouldn’t go astray for dinner.
And so it came down to Richie, Thommo, and Walshie, the electrician, to join Ammo and Woolly.
Ammo turned up looking the part in khaki shorts and shirt, a wide-brimmed bush hat and equipped with sugar bag, pliers, a rifle and a crowbar. Crabbing was serious business. Woolly wore his dark blue lap-lap, army boots and a jaunty kerchief knotted around his neck. His ear lobes had been pierced and stretched and in one he’d pushed a short length of painted bamboo. In this he’d tucked his few precious cigarettes.
Ammo told them they would be going to an offshore island, just a short trip in the hired motor launch. Thommo had brought his box of potions and lotions and as they chugged across the narrow strait, he suggested Richie smear his face, arms and legs with a mixture to stop sunburn and bites. ‘Can you imagine what Biff would have to say if you turned up tomorrow all red and covered in lumps?’
It was everyone’s dream of an island paradise. A place to escape and live in tranquil beauty, plucking fruit from trees, catching fish that wanted to leap into your nets, a beauty at your side, a toddy at sunset. The same thought came to the three men as they gazed across the vivid blue water to the glittering white coral-sand beach where palm trees arched towards the sky. Further inland, steep emerald hills rose in protective walls.
But it was no deserted island. Ammo cut the engine and jumped into clear water to drag the boat onto the shore next to dugout canoes painted with simple designs, some decorated with shells. Immediately villagers whooped through the palm trees. Richie always got a kick out of the wild enthusiasm any encounter with white people seemed to trigger from the natives. Giggling, they fluttered and fussed over the visitors.
‘Did we bring presents?’ asked Walshie a little nervously.
‘Beads, mirrors, trinkets? Come on, you blokes, you’re not serious,’ laughed Richie.
Ammo held up a canvas sack. ‘We’re a little more practical these days. Tobacco, tins of treacle and tinned beef.’
Ammo seemed to know some of the local dialect, though he settled on a mixture of dialect and pidgin. Woolly spoke Motu. Few of the whites in Papua New Guinea knew more than a smattering of the islands’ nine hundred languages.
Woolly kept silent, waiting for directions from Ammo. The men clambered ashore, Ammo telling Woolly to bring all the gear. Richie glanced back and seeing how overloaded Woolly appeared to be by carrying everything at once, made a move to help him. But before he could reach him, Woolly slipped off balance and dropped a canvas sack and Ammo’s rifle into the water.
In an instant Ammo sprinted to the shallows to retrieve his rifle, bellowing at Woolly who hastily dumped everything on the shore to grab the wet bag that held Thommo’s medical kit. Ammo’s anger exploded as he held the dripping gun which he swung, slamming the wooden stock onto Woolly’s shoulder. Woolly winced and cringed under the verbal and physical attack from Ammo who strode off, ignoring the stunned reaction of the others.
The villagers had fallen back at the sight of Ammo’s anger. Richie picked up the tools and threw a sack of gear at Thommo. Walshie stood watching and, as they set off along the sandy track after Ammo, he muttered, ‘Serve the silly bastard right. They smell like pigs and can be just as stupid if you ask me.’
Richie grabbed his arm. ‘Hang on, mate. He’s helping us. A mule couldn’t carry all that gear in one go. I think you and Ammo are out of line.’
‘Not from where I come from, buddy.’
‘Would that be the south? You still string up your slaves, do you?’ Richie’s temper flared.
The electrician looked down at Richie. ‘I hear you guys don’t treat your blacks too good Down Under. Don’t lecture me . . . mate.’ He gave the Australianism a sarcastic emphasis.
Thommo stepped in, worried Walshie and Richie might take a swing at each other. ‘Hey, you fellows. Come on . . .’ Under other circumstances a fight was their own business, but in film hierarchy the crew members were far down the totem pole below the star of the picture. Not to mention the headache Thommo would have if Richie’s face got marked. He took his bag and indicated that Woolly follow Ammo. Walshie hesitated, picked up the crowbar and they set off, the villagers at a distance behind them.
The track was bordered by banks of scarlet and orange flowers, scattered palms and old trees covered with ferns and fungi. Colourful vines and richly perfumed blooms trailed in abundance. No gardener could have created this casual exuberance of lush and exotic flowering foliage.
They were surprised when they reached the village. Bigger than the shanty-style fishing village they’d seen earlier, this was a tidy township. The thatched houses sat on stilts above crushed coral sand which was obviously swept clean on a regular basis. There were cultivated gardens by the front edge.
