A night drive with Vivien
Richard Boyle’s fascinating piece on Vivien Leigh reminded me of my encounter with that beautiful star while she was filming Elephant Walk in Sigiriya. I was post-University pre-job and accompanying my father, Asst. Archaeological Commissioner, keeping an eye on the film crew to see they did not desecrate historic sites. I wrote on this in my story “Star Struck on Lion Rock” [in “Quest for Shangri-La”] from which I give this extract:
“Vivien insisted on a ‘day off ’ to visit the ruins of Anuradhapura……the trip was to be made at night – and I was picked to be the tour guide.
It was an unforgettable trip. We set off at dusk whooshing along the rarely travelled highway……The jungle lowered darkly as we sped along and, once in a while,we passed the dim glimmer of lonely lamplit huts. At last we reached the Sacred City. This was in that magic era before the peaceful ambience of the ruined temples was despoiled by asphalt roads and over-bright street lights… We briefly halted by the most imprssive dagabas – Ruvanveliseya, Abhayagiri, Jetavana and Mirisavetiya where I summarily recounted their histories, learnt from my father, while their massive blackness loomed, the flames of little oil lamps flickered and the flowers heaped on the ‘ mal asanas’ faintly perfumed the night air. ….A farewell drive along the tree shadowed Tisaweva bund enchanted her with with the quiet lapping wavelets of this huge expanse of water stretching far to the jungle horizon.
As we sped back through the jungle and our car slowed down at a bend in the road Vivien, showing her star temperament, excitedly called a halt. “Let’s have a bonfire.” A heap of brushwood she had glimpsed had inspired this whim.. It was a totally unexpected adventure and our drivers and our ‘support staff ’ set to with a will to collect more twigs and branches to satisfy our star. The brushwood was then set alight amid general jollity. Vivien then said “What’s a bonfire without a sing-song?” All of us now linked arms and swayed around the bonfire inspired by an atavistic impulse towards togetherness. My memory is vague when I try to recall the songs we sang that memorable night. Most of them would have been those hardy perennials “Tipperary”, “Roll out the Barrel”, My Bonnie lies over the Ocean”, and “Irene, Good Night”. As the fire burned lower and our repertoire was running out of steam Vivien asked “Does any of you know this?” and began quietly singing that mildly ribald ballad “Foggy, foggy, dew”. Fortunately, I did. And that night as as the bonfire quietly dimmed, my tuneless tenor joined Vivien’s soprano to sing of the fair maid whom “the weaver took into bed, and cuddled up her head / To keep her from the foggy, foggy dew”. Tissa Devendra
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