‘It’s just one of my little ruses,’ he said. He was getting just a trifle smug now. ‘No one’s going to suspect me of wearing a wig if I’ve got dandruff, are they?’
‘Certainly not. It’s quite brilliant. But why bother doing it here? There aren’t any Sikhs on this ship.’
‘You never know,’ he said darkly. ‘You never can tell who might be lurking around the corner.’
The man was as potty as a pilchard.
‘I see you have more than one,’ I said, pointing to the black leather case.
‘One’s no good,’ he said, ‘not if you’re going to do it properly like me. I always carry four, and they’re all slightly different. You are forgetting that hair grows, old man, aren’t you? Each one of these is longer than the other. I put on a longer one every week.’
‘What happens after you’ve worn the longest one and you can’t go any further?’ I asked.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s the clincher.’
‘I don’t quite follow you.’
‘I simply say, “Does anyone know of a good barber round here?” And the next day I start all over again with the shortest one.’
‘But you said Sikhs didn’t approve of cutting hair.’
‘I only do that with Europeans,’ he said.
I stared at him. The man was stark raving barmy. I felt I would go barmy myself if I went on talking to him much longer. I edged towards the door. ‘I think you’re amazing,’ I said. ‘You’re quite brilliant. And don’t worry about a thing. My lips are sealed.’
‘Thanks old man,’ U. N. Savory said. ‘Good lad.’
I flew out of the cabin and shut the door.
And that is the story of U. N. Savory.
You don’t believe it?
Listen, I could hardly believe it myself as I staggered upstairs to the bar.
I kept my promise though. I told no one. Today it no longer matters. The man was at least thirty years older than me, so by now his soul is at rest and his wigs are probably being used by his nephews and nieces for playing charades.
SS Mantola
4 October 1938
Dear Mama,
We’re now in the Red Sea, and it is hot. The wind is behind us and going at exactly the same speed as the boat so there is not a breath of air on board. Three times they have turned the ship round against the wind to get some air into the cabins and into the engine room. Fans merely blow hot air into your face.
The deck is strewn with a lot of limp wet things for all the world like a lot of wet towels steaming over the kitchen boiler. They just smoke cigarettes & shout, ‘Boy – another iced lager.’
I don’t feel the heat much – probably because I’m thin. In fact as soon as I’ve finished this letter I’m going off to have a vigorous game of deck tennis with another thin man – a government vet called Hammond. We play with our shirts off, throwing the coit as hard as we can – & when we have to stop for fear of drowning in our own sweat we just jump into the swimming bath.
Dar es Salaam
The temperature in the shade was around 120ºF on board the SS Mantola as she crept southwards down the Red Sea towards Port Sudan. The breeze was behind us and it blew at exactly the same speed as the ship. There was, therefore, no movement of air at all on board. Three times during the first day they turned the ship around and sailed against the wind to blow some air through the port-holes and over the decks. This made little difference and even the sinewy sunburnt gophers and their tough bony little wives became silent and exhausted. Like me, they sprawled in deck-chairs under the awning, gasping for breath while the sweat ran down their faces and necks and arms and dripped from their elbows on to the wooden deck. It was even too hot to read.
During the second day in the Red Sea, the Mantola passed very close to an Italian ship which, like us, was going south. She wasn’t more than 200 yards away from us and her decks were crowded with women! There must have been several thousand of them all over the ship and not a man in sight. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked one of the ship’s officers, who was standing near me on the rail. ‘Why all the girls?’
‘They’re for the Italian soldiers,’ he said.