by Dirk Bogarde
I remember, ages ago, saying to Forwood when things had got really wrought, that if he desperately wanted me to rummage in the tartan wash-bag I would do so. He had thanked me and told me that the time had not yet come. He would still try to hang on. I remember saying then that I would get the last brick off the top of the chimney for him, if I had to, but if he felt he could manage that he should. He said that he would manage, for as long as he could. He was not frightened, just, as he said, ‘bloody angry, there is so much I still want to do’.
Looking down across the snow-capped peaks sliding slowly below, I decided to put my self-administered fatwa on hold. I had learned my lesson, there was still so much that I wanted to do now, and, as far as I was aware, I was being permitted to do those things. The first mission had been accomplished.
And then we were over Kew Gardens, belts were fastened, last cigarettes stubbed out, the pagoda swung into view, the Palm House, the coiling loops of the river swung away. I was back again. I felt a drift of pleasure when I thought of the fort waiting for me and, if I was very lucky, Maria. It was a Wednesday, her day to clean things. And then all at once there was Ron, leaning over the rail at Immigration, taking my luggage. All well? A good flight? All well, this end, thank you, sir. No news, not to speak of anyway, and yourself? I looked very well. Brown. Good weather? The trivia of pleasant small talk as we drove through the grey light up the Cromwell Road.
Maria was there, smiling, dressed moderately today: no longer the florid colours of Colombia, now the more sober greys and browns of Kentish Town. I had bought her a glittering bird of paradise brooch in red, green and blue glass. It weighed a ton and looked a little out of place on her in London. It had seemed perfectly all right in the sunlight of Bandol. Typical. But she liked it and showed me, with enormous pride, the clean ticking cover on the settee. ‘I wash. In machine. But is now more small.’ It was ‘more small’. But I didn’t really give a fig. I was home. I remember that I said that aloud to Maria, ‘I am home and she laughed with relief and said that I wouldn’t notice the cover really because she had found ‘string and needle. I put all right. You see.’ It looked very like an overweight man in a too-tight suit. Gaps and bulges. I gave her a kiss and told her to go away, I’d see her on Friday. The fort, the flat, house, whatever, looked sparkling and bright. She’d polished every piece of wood, every bit of glass, washed every bit of porcelain. They all looked welcoming, familiar, cherished, in place. Well, she had had weeks in which to do it all.
I unpacked, suddenly felt dreadfully flat and weary. A fine rain spilled down the windows. On the terrace the pots and tubs were draggled and sere with the last of the summer. I’d deal with all that later. Now to walk. I remember I wanted air. Even London air would do, the aircraft smells of paraffin and stewed coffee lingered.
Maria had not spared my little office: clinically neat, pens all in rows, books on the shelves according to height, not title. I’d never be able to find anything ever again. Three piles of mail stacked according to the postage: first, second, foreign. Perhaps she’d been a shelf-stacker in Colombia. Beside my shrouded typewriter, a pile of tidy paper: ‘JERICHO.’ DO NOT SHRED – the stuff which Barbara had saved. Who were these odd people? William, James, Helen? I had three chapters here of an unremembered novel. What was the idea? The idea was to write to deflect apprehension, waiting for X-Rays, scanners. Abandoned when darkness fell. Who were they all? And Florence? I had no recall. Perhaps I could rejig the stuff? It seemed to be set in Provence. I’d been in Provence only four or five hours ago; while it was still vibrant in my mind perhaps I’d better start to think about these people again? I’d think about them later.
I shouldered into the old anorak, felt for my keys, and clattered down in the lift to the street. I walked up under the dripping trees to the square, the damp cold biting through the anorak, misty rain on my face, my leg dragging a bit, but better after its ten-week exercising; I even managed to breathe fairly easily. I’d go up to the top, turn right, come down into the square, that would be enough. Managed to weave my way through a crocodile of squealing, laughing, punching schoolboys on their way to somewhere. So much life ahead of them! So many things to do, so many pits and traps before them. And they hadn’t the least idea. Yet. As it should be: ignorance can be bliss.
However, I knew, more or less, what was ahead for me. I was back after a long time away. Now it was a return to work. A new phase was starting up. I turned right at the top of the square and headed home.
But no dogs leaping in idiot welcome, no scent of freshly cut hay, no scuttering lizards on the stone walls, no quick ‘plops!’ from suddenly disturbed fish in the pond. No pond. No voice from the terrace calling, ‘Were the London papers in yet?’
Emptiness sighs. Perfectly all right. No problem.
Offenbach said, in one of his lyrics, ‘When you can’t have what you love, you must love what you have.’
Fine. I’ll go along with that.
Why not?
London
4.2.93
A Note on the Author
Sir Dirk Bogarde was an English actor and novelist. Initially a matinee idol, Bogarde later acted in art-house films such as Death In Venice; between 1947 and 1991, Bogarde made more than sixty films.
In his writing career, as well as completing six novels, Bogarde wrote several volumes of autobiography. For over two decades he lived in Italy and France, which was where he began to write seriously. In 1985 he was awarded an honorary degree of Doctor of Letters by the University of St Andrews and in 1990 was promoted to Commandeur de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by the French government.
Sir Dirk Bogarde has a legion of fans to this day – an extraordinary commitment to an extraordinary man.
Discover books by Dirk Bogarde published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/DirkBogarde
A Gentle Occupation
A Particular Friendship
A Period of Adjustment
A Short Walk from Harrods
An Orderly Man
Backcloth
Cleared for Take-Off
Closing Ranks
For the Time Being
Great Meadow
Jericho
Voices in the Garden
West of Sunset
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1993 by Viking
Copyright © 1993 Motley Films Ltd
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
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printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
ISBN: 9781448208302
eISBN: 9781448208319
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