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Lake House: Then and now

Our own Coroner in the Daily News

The party began, everybody was drinking except Gerry. Then the party was reaching an accelerando. Everybody was singing, some dancing the Baila. Gerry was only clapping. His wife elated was enjoying the show. Then it climaxed. The guests were getting sozzled. Then suddenly one mad reveller picked up a food-laden expensive plate and sent it flying like a sputnik in the sea

Gerry Perera was the Daily News hospital and morgue reporter. He was a timid and inarticulate man though somewhat garrulous totally married to his work: the hospital and the coroner’s court. He was an established institution and also a noted personality in both areas - his ‘rounds’.

In the coroner’s court it was said that he held sway; the real coroner was only a sitting figure. Gerry Perera pronounced the last judgement; he was the unofficial magistrate.

The official coroner always consulted Gerry on any complex matter and did not mind Gerry presiding the court.

Gerry was also the head parliamentary reporter. He loved coverage of the old House of Representatives then located in close proximity to the Galle Face seashore. About a dozen of us including free-lancers were in the reporting staff.

Hilarious story

Veteran newspaperman Bertie Abeynaike was the Parliamentary Editor but Gerry ran the show. When Parliament recessed Gerry went back to his regular rounds - the morgue and the hospital.

Clarence Fernando, CDN’s deputy editor then, used to relate the hilarious story of how Gerry sent his brother, Leslie, an acclaimed boxer to the Editor’s home one morning to deliver the simple message that Gerry, presumably ill, was not coming to office. Leslie was boxing-mad and even whilst walking on public highway was shadowboxing sparring with some invisible opponent. At every traffic light he stop would pause and oblivious to his surrounding start his crazy shadow boxing. The man was a boxing nut.

Leslie started carrying his brother’s assignment in earnestness, boxed his way to the editor’s home as the sun rose. With gloves (also imaginary) on he rang the bell dancing in tune with arms throwing punches in the air. The editor still in his night clothes opened the door and came out to see some mad guy shadow boxing, throwing upper cuts, under cuts, jabs in the empty air.

Boxing exercise

The editor did not shut the door immediately; like any good newspaperman he was curious. He was even thinking of calling the police. Then the boxer still punching in the air, pommelling some imaginary foe began to mutter something unintelligibly, he was panting heavily after the boxing exercise, he was uttering that something beginning with “Gerry......”, still absorbed in the shadow boxing ... again the muttering, “Gerry... then breaking away from the monosyllable warning....”look out this guy is coming to throw a loft hook.... and “Gerry says ... excuse this time it is a straight one .... “Gerry says he is not coming...” And then Leslie, Gerry’s nutty boxing brother boxed his way out of the editor’s house. The editor was relieved but totally amused by the strange drama. The ‘boxing’ message was now clear - Gerry was not coming to work. Clarry related this story replete with all the humour in detail - enacting the exact boxing exercise of Gerry’s brother Leslie. We screamed in laughter until our eyes ached with tears.

When Parliament sat Gerry as the most senior reporter drew up a roster by himself alone not consulting the Parliamentary Editor Bertie Abeynaike. Bertie had given Gerry a free hand. There were so many reporters on the list that no one could sit in the press gallery for more than few minutes to cover the proceedings. I was one member in the odd tribe. No sooner you sat down with pen and paper in hand the next man on the list tapped you from behind indicating that your allotted time was over and you had to leave not having taken down a single sentence. It was comical but also maddening. Smugly Bertie Abeynaike, full-suited perennially rubbing the low tip of his nose with his index finger as if he were contemplating some complex legislature problem sat behind us and kicked us in the ass if his guru J.R. Jayewardene was on his feet. Bertie’s footwork was to signal that JRJ should be given full coverage. Nobody took any notice because Bertie himself was a comic figure but when William de Alwis was covering proceedings from the press box and Berties gave him a kick, Willie caught him in the act like a judo expert and gave Beritie hell in the choicest of unparliamentary language. I think after Willie’s outburst Bertie gave up his dirty kicking habit.

Gerry Perera loved to work ‘overtime’ to earn a few dollars more. So he always put down his name last in the roster. He was the last reporter to cover proceedings - it was his self-imposed prerogative.

We had given over our copy to the subs desk. They had finished their job but were still awaiting the last copy from Gerry Perera. Parliament had adjourned for the day, Gerry unhurriedly and perhaps in his heart counting to himself the number of overtime hours he had put in, languidly and leisurely walked back to Lake House.

Parliamentary copy

The subs were kicking their heels anxious to go home after the last Parliamentary copy of Gerry Perera. “No, I am not finished yet,” Gerry confessed but without any regret or remorse. In office he resumed his typing on his old, rickety portable showing no sign of any intention to go home. Disgusted the subs closed up the page and went home. Gerry’s copy would be used only the next day. Soon the News Desk was empty except for Gerry Perera. Gerry was still typing and the OT hours were ticking and accumulating.

Gerry Perera was not a gregarious man, hardly a mixer even. But once his colleagues persuaded him to host a party at his home which was near the sea. Gerry was not very enthusiastic but after several rounds of talks with his wife finally relented but with great reluctance.

The party was a grand affair. All his Lake House friends were there. Gerry though a confirmed teetotaller had set up a sizeable table of booze. He knew his friends were Bacchus-friendly. His wife had prepared a special sumptuous dinner, she had laid out her prized cutlery collection: dozens of imported exotic glassware and beautifully designed and decorated plates.

The party began, everybody was drinking except Gerry. Then the party was reaching an accelerando. Everybody was singing, some dancing the Baila. Gerry was only clapping. His wife elated was enjoying the show. Then it climaxed. The guests were getting sozzled. Then suddenly one mad reveller picked up a food-laden expensive plate and sent it flying like a sputnik in the sea. Another drunk not to be outdone grabbed two plates and whirled them to the sea. Mrs. Gerry Perera looked on petrified. The plate-throwers gradually grew in numbers. Mrs. Perera was now weeping, sobbing her prized culinary collection destroyed one by one.

The anti-climax which was her horror was that her husband too in some mad frenzy joined his crazy friends - Gerry too picked some plates and sent them like some flying saucers into the ocean. The revellers stopped only after the last plate was drowned in the sea. And then they staggered out. It was the last party that Gerry hosted.

Gerry in his hospital rounds was the ever too eager, keen investigative reporter.

He was also a prober. When some victims of a motorcar accident lay in hospital bed Gerry interviewed him. Gerry wanted the whole story from the victim himself - not his relatives or even bystanders. He wanted to extract the entire story, as it were, from the horse’s mouth. It was not a difficult matter if the accident were a minor one. The victim volunteered the information. But in a serious tragedy relatives and even doctors resented Gerry’s unrelenting probe. But Gerry was a persistent questioner and he never gave up even if the patient was struggling with death to stay alive. He thirsted for the story - it was an inhuman ravenous craving.

Hapless man

Once a seriously wounded man lay, half-conscious in bed, his life hanging on various medical paraphernalia, wires sticking out from his mouth, his legs precariously lofted high resting on dozens of props. His concerned relatives were at his bedside, anxious about the man’s health condition. Gerry stormed in, brushing everybody aside rushed to his bedside insisting he should interview the hapless man. It would be a great scoop, a world-shattering story. The angry relatives seized him by the scruff of his neck and threw him out of the hospital. Gerry was not bitter - it was only a professional hazard.

Gerry used an old ranshackle scooter to come to office and also transport his children to school. He was a reckless rider cutting in and out of busy traffic with a load of kids on the pillion. Colleagues who had seen his wayward riding warned him. “But it’s my right of way,” Gerry argued.

“Your right of way or not you are going to get killed the way you are playing with your mad contraption.”

And so it happened - unfortunately. Gerry claiming his right of way in the middle of rushing traffic was run over by a lorry that did not respect his right of way at the Thummulla junction. Mercifully that day his children were not riding with him.

To be continued