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Black Mac had decided that we were surplus on the bridge and were on ‘day-
work’, mainly lifeboat maintenance (Oriana had twenty) other things changed.
The evenings were now clear, but this was not much of a social advantage; there
was little to be had (though this was not entirely true, for I enjoyed a pleasant
evening with Cherry, but this was her first voyage and her naivety so disarming
that I felt ‘the rule’ to be warranted).

We were quickly through Aden and fully bunkered, it being a very expensive
proposition in virtually every other port that we expected to visit during the
voyage, with the possible exception of the less costly Los Angeles. Arrival in
Colombo late in the evening of May 27th was a bit like a home-coming for me. But
it was on that day that Nehru died, and ‘arrival’ was oddly ambivalent. During the
1960s, the triumvirate of India, Yugoslavia, the short-lived U.A.R. and some other
states had formed a loose assemblage of ‘Non-Aligned Nations’ (though India
was the only member of the UN that voted with Russia respecting the invasion
of Hungary; in reality, the assemblage was ‘loose’ indeed). As a consequence of
the removal from the world scene of such a seminal figure, Colombo on that day
was witness to much personal anguish, many of the crew included. By one of
life’s unforeseen coincidences, on our list of ‘Important Passengers’ appeared the
name of Sir Harry Brittain (born in 1873). This austere gentleman, who was listed
inaccurately as the founder of the Royal Commonwealth Society, was plainly a
very eminent man, but for precisely what reason was difficult to disentangle; he
had been to all the right schools and university, had practiced law in London for
one week (!), became an eminent journalist, worked for years in establishing good
working relationships with American journalistic societies, and incorporated or
founded many obscure societies (who now knows of the Yorkshire Society, the
Inter-Parliamentary Union or the Incorporated Sales Managers Association? I
suggest that even their members would not claim those groups to be currently
of any real moment … if they still have any members!). I believe that the Indian
High Commission on this day found a role for him in the memorial of a great
man, but to that ceremony I was not privy. I never met Sir Harry personally,
but saw him around the First-Class Lounge, a cadaverous old fellow who looked
as though he appreciated the verity that each day did not count for much until
such time as each day became one’s pre-occupation. However, he had longevity,
shedding the mortal coil when 100 years of age.

But again, as I have said so often, life had to go on. Although the next day saw
the ship crossing The Line (with its attendant High-Jinks for the young at heart,
though I had by this time crossed that particular Rubicon twelve times) with
soap-suds, champagne and rum playing their central role, I was perforce available
when boat-drill duty for the new passengers arose, a suddenly interesting job for
there, in tourist and among a group of noisy and uninteresting passengers, was a
young lady, perhaps of twenty years.

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