Hammond Innes - The Lonely Skier

He nodded casually at my greeting, put the empty beaker down on the counter and looked hard at me for a moment as I made my purchase.

‘What are you doing now, Neil?’ he asked at length. He had a quick abrupt way of speaking as though his tongue worked too slowly for his mind.

‘I haven’t been back very long,’ I told him. I had heard him sneer at failure too often to let him know the truth.

‘Demobilised?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve been in a long time, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. I signed on for an extra year.’

‘A good-time Charlie, eh?’ he jeered.

‘I don’t get you,’ I said. But I knew what he meant. Living conditions had been pretty good at the end — much better than at home.

He gave a harsh laugh. ‘You know very well what I mean. All the bright boys were getting out when I left nearly eighteen months ago. The only ones staying on, apart from the regulars, were the duds and the adventurers — and the good-time Charlies. That’s what is wrong with our European administration. There’s no real future in the job, so it doesn’t appeal to the sort of men we ought to have out there. Well, which category do you put yourself in?’

‘Of the three categories you mention,’ I replied, ‘I think I’d prefer to be classed among the adventurers.’ My voice sounded sullen. I couldn’t help it. I was angry. I wasn’t going to tell him how I had hated signing on for that extra year, when I had seen so little of Peggy since we had been married and I had barely seen the kid since he was born. And I felt uncomfortable, too. In the old days I had managed to stand up to Engles; not because my personality was as strong as his, but because I knew my job. But to face up to his volatile and domineering personality now, when things were going badly, was too much. I wanted to rush out of that shop before he pried too deeply into my circumstances.

‘And now you’re back,’ he said. ‘Still running that tuppenny ha’penny little rag down in Wiltshire?’

‘No, that went smash,’ I told him.

His dark eyes were watching me closely. ‘Then what are you doing now?’

‘I started a small publishing house with a friend,’ I replied. ‘What about you — are you working on another film now?’

But he wasn’t to be put off so easily. ‘It needs a lot of money to start up in publishing these days,’ he said, still watching me. ‘A whole crop of them sprang up like mushrooms soon after the war. They’re mostly in difficulties now.’ He hesitated. Then suddenly he gave me a queer puckish smile. He could be charming. He could turn it on like a tap. He could also be a cruel, sneering devil. But suddenly, there was the well-remembered smile and I felt a great relief as I realised that, despite his hangover, it was to be charm this morning. ‘I think you need a drink,’ he said. ‘I know I do after that filthy stuff.’ And he took my arm and led me out of the shop. As we crossed the road, he said, ‘Done any more writing, Neil? Those two one-act plays of yours I produced on the ship going out — they weren’t bad, you know.’

‘I wrote a play whilst I was in Austria,’ I told him. ‘But you know what the theatre has been like — nothing but musicals and revivals. Even established playwrights can’t get a theatre. And anyway, I doubt if it was good enough.’

‘You sound as miserable as hell,’ he said. ‘Life is fun. Don’t take it so seriously. Something always turns up at the last moment. Do you want a job?’

I stopped then. I could have hit him. His unfailing instinct for a man’s weakness had told him I hadn’t got a job and he was going to enjoy my discomfort. He was ruthless, unscrupulous. How he hated failure! How he revelled in attacking any man at his weakest point! It was incredible how that Welsh intuition of his smelled out a man’s weakness. ‘Life may be fun,’ I said angrily. ‘But it isn’t as funny as all that.’

‘Come on to the pavement,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot safer. So you think I’m not serious?’

‘I think you’re behaving stupidly,’ I snapped back at him. I was goaded by the thought that I had worked with this man on terms of equality and now he was in a position to cast me crumbs for the amusement of watching my reactions.

He took my arm in a firm grip and steered me through the glass door of a long gin palace of a saloon bar. He ordered whiskies. ‘Here’s fun!’ he said, and raised his glass mockingly at me. He was laughing. It showed in his eyes. ‘You think I’m not serious, eh?” he said. ‘I am, you know — quite serious. Do you want a job or not?’

I downed my whisky at a gulp and ordered another round. ‘I don’t want your charity or your sneers,’ I said. I was feeling very bitter.

‘My God! You’re prickly,’ he said. ‘But then you always were. Did you ever know me charitable? I seem to remember you telling me — more than once — that I was the most ruthless person you had ever met. Just because I wouldn’t stand incompetence. It’s a strange thing, but just at the moment I can’t think of any one I would rather have run into. But life’s like that. If you want a job done, the right man always turns up at the last minute. There are only about a half-dozen men I met in the Army who would be right for a job I have in mind. And if they’d all applied for it in a bunch, I’d have picked on you without a moment’s hesitation.’ The build-up was obvious. But I began to be interested. Engles never bothered to build any one up unless he really wanted to make use of them. He gave me a sudden warm smile. ‘You know — I’m quite serious, Neil. If you want a job, I’d be glad to have you work with me again.’

‘What sort of a job is it?’ I asked.

‘Three months at Cortina in the Dolomites as a script writer for K.M. Studios,’ he replied quickly. ‘A hundred pounds a month and all expenses.’

I gasped. It was the chance of a lifetime and I had walked bang into it in a chemist’s shop. But why me? ‘What makes you think I can produce the sort of script you want?’ I asked him.

‘I don’t want you to produce a script, I’ve got one already.’

‘Then what in the world do you want me to do?’

He reacted immediately to my disappointment. He patted my shoulder. ‘Three months in the finest skiing country in Europe isn’t a bad offer,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said hastily. ‘But I couldn’t help being disappointed. You offer me a job as a script writer, and then you say you don’t want a script. You know I always wanted to be a writer.’

‘I didn’t mean to disappoint you,’ he said. ‘Look, Neil. It’s best to be frank with you. I don’t think you could write the sort of film script I want. But if you do write one, I’ll promise you this — I’ll read it and if I can use it in preference to the one I’ve got, I will. That’s fair, eh?’

‘Very fair,’ I agreed. ‘Now, what do you really want me to do?’

‘You speak Italian, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘Enough to get around,’ I replied.

‘Good!’ He smiled. ‘Since you class yourself among the adventurers, you might find this quite amusing. On the other hand, it may be a complete wash-out. In which case you will have to be content with three months’ holiday in the Dolomites. It’s just a hunch I have about something. I can’t follow it up myself. I’m finishing off my next film. What I need is somebody I can trust to hold a watching brief for me and keep me informed — somebody with a sense of responsibility and plenty of initiative. You’re just the man.’

‘Thanks for the build-up,’ I said. I was becoming excited despite my previous disappointment. Engles’ excitement was always infectious.

He laughed. ‘That’s not a build-up. You just happen to possess those qualities. You can also write, and that gives me a pretext for sending you out. Now — do you want the job?’