Obituary for my Friend,

Shanghai Brown

By Peter England

SHANGHAI loved the Sepik; he should be quite pleased with the place we picked for him, on the slope below the airstrip, overlook ing the river, with a grove of hibiscus and frangipanni a few yards away.

He loved flowers, too.

Captain Hugh (“Shanghai”) Brown died last week. People dying, dying everywhere, dying all the time—l know. But here, in our small com munity, death leaves a deeper scar.

We shall miss him; yes, there was only one Shangai.

A few weeks ago, at the Club — we had been discussing poetry and, in particular, the Death of Danger our Dan MacGrew —he said: “Now, Peter . . . Peter . . .”

He had a number of tricks, half rhetorical and half theatrical. One was to emphasise a word or phrase by repeating it two or three times; another was to spring up from his chair, take a few quick paces across the room, and then turn suddenly as if he had come to some tremend ous decision.

“Now, Peter. You’re a sort of half-baked writing chap. I’ll tell you . . . I’ll tell you . . . (taking a turn to the door and back) . . .

I’ll tell you what I want you to do.”

He took a sip of his beer, and gave a deep chuckle: “Yes, what I want you to do, Peter; what I want you to do: I want you to write my obituary. Now

it’s got to be good, really good; I’ll edit it myself. I want to be The Man Who Edited His Own Obituary . . . (with an even deeper chuckle as he savoured the phrase) . . . The Man Who Edited His Own Obituary!”

Well I’m sorry that I’m writing this too late for Shanghai to read it. He went up-river again and he came back, came back earlier than we expected: and he came back dead. Sorry, Shanghai, old chap— but, better late than never. Here it is: The Obituary of Shanghai Brown. * * * This is an obituary, not a biography. Someone else can tell you how Shanghai was apprenticed in sail at twelve years old; how he sailed the seven seas before he reached his mid-teens; how he got stranded in Philadelphia, and jailed in Cape Town. How, with Cedric Durham (who is still here with us), he joined the Intelligence Service in the ’l4-18 stoush, and, as an observer in one of the crazy aero planes of those times, he nosed out and caused the destruction of a German cruiser hidden a thousand miles up an African river.

Someone may tell you of his later career on the China Coast; as Customs officer, pilot, executive with BAT Company, member of exclusive Shanghai Yacht Club. Then his ser vice in World War II with the Aus tralian Navy all round the New Guinea islands and up to Shanghai again. . .

Of his post-war activities as re cruiter and shipmaster with BGD Company and, lastly, crocodile hunter, trader, and gold-digger up around the Chambri Lakes.

An adventurous enough list, but a hundred men could have lived a similar life, held the same jobs, been to the same places, and still not have been Shanghai Brown.

I’d known Shanghai only for the last eight or nine years. I’ll just give you the impressions that etched themselves most deeply in my memory. * ♦ ♦ I remember convivial nights at the Angoram Club, when we’d all sunk our fair share of grog, and the singing had started; and Shanghai, equipped with cane and straw-hat on one side of his head, took the floor with “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.”

I remember his extravagant rage when any defect appeared in one of his numerous items of mechanical equipment. Radio set, outboard motor, shot-gun, battery charger— no matter what, when they went wrong he had one cure. He would seize the offender in both hands and, with horrible maledictions, hurl it into the Sepik.

I remember Christmases when, down at his thatched house on the river bank, he would spend a mysterious day behind closed doors; and then invite all the children of the tiny settlement down to a party with a sparkling Christmas Tree

loaded with presents, and ice-cream, and soft drinks, and sweets, all prepared by his own hands.

I remember when, having received some real or fancied offence from officialdom, he would write a letter to the head of the offending De partment—a real stinker. He would bring it up to the Club, and pass it round for everyone to read, point ing out, with chuckles, the phrases that had especially pleased him. He would put it in an envelope, stamp it, seal it, and then, on the point of sending it up to the Post Office, tear it up and throw it to the winds.

I remember how his native servants stuck to him through thick and thin. There was often, lately, a lot of thin— wages long in arrears, rations whatever the country could provide. When it was thick, he would make it up to them, he would give them anything they asked for.

I remember how he used to borrow my spanners and my books.

The spanners frequently followed his recalcitrant machinery into the river. Where the books went I don’t know, but they seldom came back.

He was a voracious reader; he would crouch in front of my book case, throwing the contents right and left on to the floor, muttering disgustedly: “Rubbish, rubbish, nothing but rubbish 4 ”

Finally he would select half-a dozen volumes, and, with a snort of contempt for my literary tastes, carry them away.

And lastly, I remember how, last week, we buried him. There was, I suppose, a rough dozen of us, and as we lowered him gently into his grave—that rascally, colourful, lovable irascible, kind-hearted old scoundrel Shanghai Brown, there was not a dry eye amongst us.

Angoram, Feb. 23, 1956.

Sepik River, TNG.