Martin Amis

by Richard Bradford

  Both of them, as writers, take possession of their subject matter and even though each might sometimes present himself as daunted by it we know that any sense of trepidation on his part is contrived. Read Martin’s encounters with Capote, Vidal, Burgess, Polanski, Asimov, Mailer, Spielberg, Vonnegut, Burroughs, Updike et al. – the cultural first team of the 1980s – and note a singular, persistent feature of his approach. Frequently the overture will combine caustic documentation – pointing up the grandeur or shabby appeal of the location – with a hint of apprehension. One will require no further proof that the latter is fabricated than in what follows: his account of their exchange. We have no reason to believe that the spoken words themselves are anything other than authentic but quite soon we become less interested in what these individuals have to say than in their role as motifs in a skilfully executed spectacle. They certainly come across as beguiling charismatic figures – by degrees unsettling and enviable – but at the same time we begin to suspect that some of these qualities have been conferred upon them by Martin Amis, novelist.

  Kingsley’s preoccupation with style relates closely to his private spectrum of fears and idiosyncrasies. Behind the legendary mimic and raconteur was essentially a shy individual. Even among those he knew best, and with whom he felt most secure, his manner was that of the performer who would choose deliberately controversial even offensive topics not merely to antagonize others but to sustain the momentum of an argument for its own sake rather than allow the exchange to settle upon matters he would rather keep to himself. He used his considerable linguistic skills in the club, the bar, or the dining room as a protection mechanism and on the page we encounter a comparable, immensely impressive exercise in control. That fact that he could in his novels distil from this a convincing range of emotional registers and personal dilemmas testifies to his greatness as a writer. But, as with all works of literature, we should be careful to distinguish between sincerity of effect and collateral affect. Martin’s portfolio of anxieties was slim compared with his father’s, in all likelihood because through his formative years he had acquainted himself by instinct with various techniques of intellectual immunization and avoidance. Even his rapid exchange of fecklessness for scholarly acuity in the late 1960s was not so much a transformation as a strategic remarshalling of innate skills. When I asked Colin Howard for his earliest impression of the teenage brothers, Martin and Philip, he recalled that while both ‘appeared equally reckless and anarchic it gradually became clear that while Philip’s behaviour was guileless, perhaps even showing a degree of vulnerability, Martin was shrewd. He knew how people would react to what he said and did and he could almost manipulate them by predicting their responses.’ It was not, therefore, too difficult for him to adapt his reading of other people to his writing. Thereafter a common feature of Martin’s trajectory through early adulthood and precocious literary success is a tendency towards refashioning of the otherwise unavoidable burdens of existence – emotional or ideological commitment, personal responsibility – as conceits, in the most basic terms the exaggerated grotesques that stalk and dominate all of his fiction of the 1970s and early 1980s. In this respect father and son were very much alike; writing for both was a form of displacement. They differed in an equally significant way. Martin was fascinated by mechanisms of invention while for his father they provided the opportunity for disguise or realignment.

  There were other more manifest signs of attachment and compatibility too. Angela Gorgas recalls that for both, the ritual of greeting others was limited to verbal acknowledgement but that the convention was suspended when the two of them met. ‘As far as I remember, the two of them would hug, and even kiss each other on the cheek in greeting. When we were in London, nearly every Saturday would be spent at Flask Walk; a long and often very liquid lunch would be followed by University Challenge on television with Martin and Kingsley in fierce competition.’ Angela reflects on this: ‘Let’s put it this way – if I or anyone else had been up against either of them it would have been unsettling. You would feel in danger of being humiliated. It’s true there was a certain amount of one-upmanship and they enjoyed the verbal jousting but there was no real bitterness or antagonism between them at all.’ Even as far back as 1970 when he first met Martin at Oxford Anthony Thwaite was fascinated by the public displays of affection between father and son. He had known Kingsley for fifteen years. ‘For Kingsley, body language was generally an appendix to his verbal performances, part of his famous repertoire of imitations. The rest of the time he was physically reserved and it was something of a shock [at a drinks party in John Fuller’s rooms in Magdalen College] to see him embracing his young son, particularly in public.’

  Their relationship is fascinating, not least because of the apparent anomaly between their sometimes hostile views of each other’s lifestyles, opinions and work, but also as a more intimate sense of mutual recognition, something they shared but withheld from others. I raised this question with Rosie Boycott who has known both of them since the 1970s and was Kingsley’s regular luncheon companion and confidante in the early 1990s. ‘Kingsley was particularly concerned with Sally who by then had a serious drink problem and I suspect he felt something close to guilt about Philip, whom he thought he had neglected. But with Martin, when he spoke of him, and even if he was criticizing him – which was largely bluff and bravado anyway – I felt he was far more at ease. He was certainly proud of him and although he would never have admitted to it in public there was a feeling of rapport, communion between them. I sensed that when he was talking about Martin he became relaxed, his anxieties – and he still had plenty – seemed to lift. I think there was a deep rapprochement, empathy between them.’

  Then, in the 1990s when Boycott talked regularly with Kingsley, differences in age and perspective were of slight significance but it was in 1980, shortly after Martin’s return from Paris, that events began to accelerate the reversal of traditional roles of father and son. On 1 November Jane left Gardnor House for a ten-day visit to Shrublands, a health farm in Suffolk she had used on several occasions before, mainly as a retreat from the mood of attrition and subdued bitterness that now dominated her relationship with Kingsley. This time, however, the visit was a calculated hoax. Following their return from a cruise in the Mediterranean, a period in the Dordogne and, briefly, the Edinburgh Festival – all of which Kingsley endured with very thinly disguised displeasure – she had visited her solicitor and there deposited a letter with instructions that it should be delivered by hand to Kingsley at the Flask Walk house on the day she was due back from Suffolk.

  Apart from her solicitor Jane had informed several others of her intentions: Jonathan Clowes, Kingsley’s and her agent; Mrs Uniacke the housekeeper and Colin her brother. Notably she said nothing to Philip, who had been staying with them for the previous nine months following his marriage break-up. The day the letter arrived the only person immediately available to whom Kingsley could break the news was his elder son. Philip telephoned Martin and the three of them spent the night in the otherwise empty house; Colin was at the time working in Huntingdonshire and lodging there for much of the week.

  According to Martin neither he nor his brother spoke to Kingsley on what he might do to rescue the marriage. They were aware that he had replied to Jane, via her solicitor, within days of receiving her letter, but aside from commenting on having done this he said nothing of what he had written. ‘It was clear’, recalls Martin, ‘that an exchange, of sorts, was going on, though they did not actually speak to each other directly, even on the phone. The letters between them have been lost but later Kingsley told Bob [Conquest] and Larkin that Jane would only come back if he agreed to some inflexible conditions, mainly that he should give up alcohol completely. Kingsley was not an alcoholic.’

  Martin did not move in to Gardnor House. By then he was already committed to lengthy, regular visits to the US. These would have clashed with what became known as Dad-sitting, but in early December 1980, even as exchanges b
etween Kingsley and Jane continued, he and Philip sat down to discuss the prospect of something neither had previously envisioned. For the time being they would be responsible for the general well-being of their father.

  Colin was looking to buy his own property in North London but during his final months at Gardnor House he and Kingsley remained on amiable terms. ‘There was no pressure on me to take sides and Kingsley and I got on well enough during those months. Although no one formally took charge it seemed clear that Martin was the gadfly, the inaugurator. Phil was certainly in residence, making sure that Kingsley’s repertoire of fears and problems was taken care of – panic attacks, terror of the dark and so on – but Martin was – how can I put it? – he coordinated things, even though he was not always there.’

  Martin admits now that he had no realistic expectation of a reconciliation between Kingsley and Jane. ‘Everyone close to them knew from around the middle of the 1970s they were simply postponing the inevitable. When Phil phoned me and said “It’s happened” I knew what he meant and that any rescue attempts would be pointless.’ Until something permanent could be arranged for Kingsley Martin decided that it would be best to maintain those aspects of life at Gardnor House and Lemmons his father had enjoyed most. Consequently, from the end of 1980 until June 1981 the house was the site of an extended low-key wake, commemorating the demise of two minor institutions, Kingsley’s reign as the most indulgent host of the London literary scene, and the 1970s culture of the New Statesman. James Fenton often visited alone to talk with Kingsley about poetry in general and their particular ongoing endeavours, matters they had previously touched upon cursorily at the Theobald’s Road lunches. Barnes, Pat Kanavagh and McEwan would call either on their own or making up a larger group which included probably the most regular visitor, Hitchens, who ensured that the supplies of beer, usually cans of extra-strong lager, wine and spirits – whisky predominantly – never ran low. Kingsley had always enjoyed Hitchens’s company. Tony Howard: ‘Hitch, even before he gave up on his Trotskyite zealotry, was an endearing parcel of contrasts. He could sound like a humourless advocate of Socialism and within seconds revert to what appeared to be self-caricature or stand-up-comedy cynicism. He was, is, priceless company and I’m certain that he would have reminded Kingsley of himself thirty years earlier.’ The elegant walled garden of Gardnor House was most evenings a thoroughfare for ‘Dad-sitters’ hulking large bags of alcohol and takeaways, to the front door. A decade earlier Kingsley had written that ‘the collective social benefits of drinking altogether outweigh the individual disasters it might precipitate. A team of American investigators concluded recently that, without the underpinning provided by alcohol and the relaxation it affords, Western society would have collapsed irretrievably . . . Not only is drink here to stay; the moral seemed to be that when it goes, we go too.’3

  While Martin has never commented on this period in print Colin portrays him as ‘the unseen hand, the choreographer. The New Statesman set were all convivial sorts who treated Kingsley with varying degrees of respect and affable caution, but the team spirit behind those months at Gardnor House was not spontaneous. It was effectively organized by Martin.’

  Angela Gorgas had been to weekend dinners at Gardnor House on a number of occasions before she and Martin left for Paris and now became one of the regulars, forming a close attachment with Kingsley. He was, she recalls, more relaxed than he had been in 1979 before Jane left. He seemed particularly happy about the prospect of his son’s imminent marriage. In a letter to Conquest in March Kingsley responded to his friend’s enquiry: ‘. . . Martin still sees a lot of Angela. Vile piece in [the Evening Standard] getting his age wrong and saying Ang had tried to get him to dedicate new book to her but he had “churlishly” dedicated it to “his mother, Elizabeth Jane Howard”.’4

  The social columnists of the Standard and the Express in particular had since his return from Paris swarmed like parasites upon the spectacle of Martin and the woman who was officially something other than his latest girlfriend, his fiancée. News that they had lived together in France had soon spread, and speculation on when the wedding would take place supplemented diarists’ reports on Angela’s presence as his partner at the launch of Other People at the beginning of March. The dedication to which Kingsley referred was ‘To my mother’ and the Standard had obviously forgotten that this person was Hilly, now Lady Kilmarnock. Hilly, then living in Buckinghamshire and supplementing Ali’s House of Lords allowance with a tiny income from waitressing, was telephoned by Phil some time in spring 1981 with the suggestion that she might secure a more comfortable home and stipend by ‘looking after Dad’. Certainly Phil was involved in the negotiations that essentially resulted in a famous domestic trinity of Hilly, Kingsley and Ali. Angela’s account, however, suggests that matters were less straightforward. She recalls meeting Hilly in Ronda shortly before she and Ali left Spain for England. ‘A really generous and affectionate woman. Interestingly they met once again in England when Martin visited his mother in Winslow near Buckingham. Angela remembers that it was then that Martin talked with his mother about her looking after Kingsley and moving in with Ali.

  After all parties had agreed in principle to the arrangement an exploratory weekend was held at Gardnor House on 24–27 July, attended by Kingsley, Hilly and Ali, James (then aged eight), and Martin and Philip. Once the sale of Gardnor House had been agreed Kingsley, Ali, Hilly and James moved into a rented flat around the corner and six months later in January 1982 Kingsley purchased a small house in Leighton Road, Kentish Town.

  Martin’s continued role would be dutiful, but with no regular commitments. When they were together they were according to all witnesses closer and more relaxed with each other than ever before. And while Martin could never hope to excuse or defend all of his father’s more provocative performances, nor did he reprimand him. Instead he took a position of aloof guardianship.

  Hitchens tells of how after the UK publication of Stanley and the Women Kingsley’s novel was effectively boycotted by US publishers following pressure from those – ‘let us be honest – women’ he points out – who judged it an outright incitement to misogyny. ‘I was outraged. It was an extraordinary case of censorship and I was responsible for placing it with Summit. Anyway Kingsley phoned, thanked me and assured me that he owed me a night out when I was next in London. Well, he kept his word and it was a most bizarre evening, in keeping, I later learned, with what had become his routine. Drinks at Primrose Hill followed by more at the Garrick – predominantly whiskies – then a film before dinner. He insisted that we went to see Beverley Hills Cop II, perhaps one of the worst films ever made. Martin and I sat transfixed by its wretchedness but weirdly Kingsley was rocking back and forth with laughter. During the meal he continued, remarking on how this scene or the other had worked so well and again shedding mirthful tears at the recollection. I was confused. Was he genuinely impressed, amused? That seemed preposterous. Or was he involved in some kind of extended act of self-caricature? Was he trying to provoke us? I never properly worked out what was going on, but he was clearly in some sort of decline. What I also recall vividly was Martin’s reaction. He did not pretend to share Kingsley’s apparent admiration for the film but he showed no impatience or irritation. Undemanding affection is the best way to describe it.’

  The poet Dannie Abse recalls a dinner party he held perhaps two years later in the mid-1980s. ‘There were about ten of us. We’d invited Kingsley and whomever he wished to bring, and he came with Martin. Everything seemed to be going well enough and the drink flowed. Quite late on Kingsley began to contribute less to the exchanges, odd because he was generally such an enthusiastic conversationalist, and he knew virtually all of the people there. But it seemed clear to me [and it should be pointed out that Abse is a medical doctor] that he was having a panic attack. I noticed but I doubt that many of the others did – as I said we had all had plenty to drink and were just noisily chatting with each other. Except Martin. He was superb,
asked me quietly if he could use the telephone and summoned a taxi. Then by various means he manoeuvred his father into the next room after explaining to others that – well I forget the excuse, but it was convincing. Polite goodbyes were exchanged and no one seemed to suspect anything other than a need to be up early next morning. As I say, Martin was exemplary. You could see that he was devoted to him.’

  No one I have spoken to doubts the sincerity of their enduring mutual affection. Gully Wells: ‘As far back as when Martin and I were going out in Oxford, and later through the 1970s, they would argue furiously, mostly about writing – in those days Martin was apolitical, practically apathetic – but the vehemence of the exchanges belied the fact that they simply loved talking and that in turn was an extension of something deeper still.’ The only time that opinion would become a red badge against affection was when Martin’s literary interests began to blend with more obsessive preoccupations, the first of these involving nuclear disarmament. But as we shall see, even then he did not untangle the emotional bond; rather it became a counterpoint for new commitments, involving a recently acquired family of his own.

  Martin visited the US on three occasions between early 1981 and early 1983. First, he sampled the magnificent farce of Gore Vidal’s assault upon the US political establishment. Vidal, when Martin met him, was giving a series of lectures in Lynchburg, Virginia, hometown of Jerry Falwell, a fundamentalist Right Winger so intolerant of the Enlightenment as to embarrass even his fellow Creationist in the White House. Martin liked Vidal, admired his performance as debauched aristocrat and scandalous liberal, but we sense from his articles that he sees him mostly as a curiosity not quite worthy of serious intellectual investment.

  Norman Mailer, who during the same visit entertains him in his apartment overlooking New York Harbour, struck Martin almost as Vidal’s lost twin, albeit lacking whatever neural mechanisms govern temperance and restraint. Mailer opened all his campaign speeches when standing for Mayor of New York in 1969 with the same noteworthy mantra: ‘Fuck you! Fuck you all!’, thereafter detailing such manifesto proposals as capital punishment by means of public gladiatorial games, a penalty to be visited upon murderers, burglars and cancer researchers who failed to make progress after two years of toil. By then New York City would be the largely autonomous fifty-first state of the Union with Norman himself as its first leader, Mayor in name but Imperial in propensity.