Fleming liked to say that Casino Royale wrote itself, but in fact it was the product of hard work and discipline. Every morning, for three hours, he sat at his desk and typed 2,000 words. He then put the sheets of double-spaced foolscap aside, and took the afternoon off. He repeated the process the next day, and the next, until by 18 March the book was finished. Occasionally he and Ann lit off on a spree: there was an outing to the Milk River Spa – ‘the highest radio-activity of any mineral bath in the world’, according to Fleming – and an abortive foray to shoot alligators at midnight when ‘their red eyes shine in the moonbeams’. But he always returned to the task. ‘I rewrote nothing and made no corrections until my book was finished,’ he said. ‘If I had looked back at what I had written the day before I might have despaired at the mistakes in grammar and style, the repetitions and the crudities. And I obstinately closed my mind to self-mockery and “what will my friends say?” I savagely hammered on until the proud day when the last page was done. The last line “The bitch is dead now” was just what I felt. I had killed the job.’
He also killed his bachelordom. He and Ann were married on 24 March 1952, with little pomp and much hilarity in Port Maria. The ensuing festivities were dear to his heart, with copious amounts of goodwill from a select guest list that included his neighbour Noël Coward. The evening was illuminated by Fleming’s personal concoction: Old Man’s Thing. (Take a glass bowl. Peel, but do not break, an orange and a lime. Put them in the bowl, add a bottle of white rum and light with a match.) The next day they flew to Nassau and then New York for further celebrations. At the beginning of April the newly-weds finally returned to London where they moved into Fleming’s Chelsea apartment, 24 Carlyle Mansions, to be joined by Ann’s children, Raymond and Fionn, plus a talking parrot called Jackie.
Amidst this new-found domesticity, Fleming pondered the manuscript. Compared to his later output Casino Royale had involved little research and was taken from imagination and experience. It introduced the world to agent 007, licensed to kill, whose first fictional mission was to confront a Soviet agent, Le Chiffre, and bankrupt him at the gambling tables of a small French resort named Royale-les-Eaux. The resort was based on Deauville, which Fleming had often visited, and the idea of bankruptcy by casino was one that he had deployed during the war in neutral Portugal when he played against a Nazi operative in a futile attempt to deplete the Abwehr’s exchequer. There was drama, high-explosives, cocktails, secret weaponry, a car chase, torture, a double-agent heroine and, of course, the famous first line: ‘The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning.’ It was exotic fare for readers in post-war austerity Britain, but what really made it stand out was the immediacy and freshness of the writing.
Fleming was faintly appalled. ‘I did nothing with the manuscript,’ he wrote. ‘I was too ashamed. No publisher would want it and if they did I would not have the face to see it in print. Even under a pseudonym, someone would leak the ghastly fact that it was I who had written this adolescent tripe.’ Instead he busied himself with publishing matters. As a wedding present his employer, Lord Kemsley, had appointed him Managing Director of a new imprint, Queen Anne Press. He delighted in the role. After a failed attempt to acquire an unpublished book by Proust, he turned to one of Ann’s friends, the acerbic novelist Evelyn Waugh, who at first agreed to a collection of reviews called Offensive Matters, which Fleming suggested he embellish with ‘a short introduction on the virtue of being offensive and the decline of the invective’, but settled in the end for a discursion on the Middle East titled The Holy Places.2 He also wrote to travel writer Patrick Leigh Fermor, whose study of monasticism, A Time for Silence, he published the following year. For both projects he used his wartime friend Robert Harling3 as designer. Less successful was a proposal to his Sunday Times colleague Cyril Connolly that he produce a 10,000-word novella. In the same period he also acquired from Lord Kemsley The Book Collector, a respected but ailing magazine for bibliophiles which he ran with the assistance of Percy Muir, John Carter and John Hayward, the friend and muse of T. S. Eliot. The first issue under Fleming’s stewardship was published by Queen Anne Press and came out that August.
Fleming was also distracted by matters of golf. He had long hankered after Noël Coward’s recently vacated house White Cliffs in St Margaret’s, near Dover. There was nothing exceptional about it: the wallpaper was sun-stained, with dark patches where once there had been pictures, and repairs were needed where Coward had damaged the brickwork by removing a statue of Mercury. But it had a view of the sea, was in Fleming’s favourite county, Kent, and most importantly was within easy reach of the Royal St George’s, one of England’s premier golf courses. After much bickering about damages he took the lease in mid-May. Only then did he muster the courage to do something with Casino Royale.
His approach was oblique. Over lunch at the Ivy restaurant with his friend William Plomer,4 who happened also to be a reader for Jonathan Cape’s publishing house, he asked him how to get cigarette smoke out of a woman once you had got it in. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘This woman inhales, takes a deep lung full of smoke, draws deeply on her cigarette – anything you like. That’s easy. But how do you get it out of her again? Exhales is a lifeless word. “Puffs it out” is silly. What can you make her do?’
Plomer, himself a novelist, looked at him sharply: ‘You’ve written a book.’ Fleming pooh-poohed the idea, saying it was hardly a book, merely a Boy’s Own Paper story, but was grateful when Plomer asked to see the manuscript. All the same, it took several months and a reminder from Plomer before he actually sent it off. ‘He forced Cape to publish it,’ Fleming wrote. And it was true: although the decision was eventually carried by a majority, Plomer pushed it through in the face of strong opposition. Jonathan Cape disliked thrillers in general,5 and his editorial director, Michael Howard, was repelled by this one in particular: ‘I thought its cynical brutality, unrelieved by humour, revealed a sadistic fantasy that was deeply shocking.’ Howard acquiesced with an uneasy conscience, and when he met Fleming in October forbore to mention that the very idea of being associated with its publication gave him sleepless nights.
Plomer would remain Fleming’s mentor throughout his literary career, providing detailed and encouraging comments. Notwithstanding his first opinion, Michael Howard also came round to the notion of 007 – albeit his remarks were sharper and less generous than Plomer’s. Together with Howard’s father Wren (aka ‘Bob’), Cape’s other reader Daniel George, and briefly Cape’s son David, they formed a group that Fleming called the Capians, or Bedfordians (Cape was based in Bedford Square) whose input and approval he trusted implicitly. He addressed some of his most lively correspondence to them and it is fair to say that without their input the Bond books would not have been as finely tuned as they were. Others who bore the brunt included Al Hart of Macmillan in New York, Tom Guinzburg of Viking and the long-suffering Naomi Burton, his agent on the East Coast.
Once accepted, Fleming threw himself into every detail of the book. He liked to joke that he was Cape’s hardest working author, and to an extent this was true. He had made a career in journalism, ran a network of foreign correspondents and was, indeed, a publisher himself. There was little Cape could tell him that he didn’t know already. ‘I enjoyed his enthusiastic interest in the technicalities of production,’ wrote Michael Howard with surprise – which soon turned to alarm when it became clear that Fleming had more in mind than simply delivering a manuscript. He designed the covers, organised reviews, invented sales tactics and cast a steely eye over the finances. At one point, to everyone’s horror, he airily suggested he should take a stake in the company. It was an unorthodox approach that took some getting used to and would trouble Cape for as long as they published him.
Behind the confidence lay a measure of uncertainty. Fleming had always longed for success, but failing that would settle for the trappings. So, in anticipation, he ordered a gold-plated typewriter from New York to congratulate hims
elf on finishing his first novel. It was a Royal Quiet de Luxe, cost $174, and to avoid customs duty it was smuggled in by his friend Ivar Bryce as part of his luggage when he visited on the Queen Elizabeth later that year. It wasn’t a custom-made machine – Royal had produced several of them – and his literary acquaintances considered it the height of vulgarity. Fleming did not care. It was the sheer, ridiculous delight of the thing. He owned a Golden Typewriter!
The shiny prize arrived shortly after a milestone in his life: the birth of a son, Caspar, on 12 August 1952. For a short while he was uncertain how to spell Caspar (he wasn’t very good with his wife’s name either) but to have a family gave his life a dependability it had previously lacked. By modern standards he was a distant parent, and by any reckoning he was an unreliable spouse: within a few years both he and Ann were conducting extra-marital affairs. Yet however tempestuous their relationship they did indeed love each other, and the fact of being both husband and father provided Fleming with a solid platform from which his imagination took flight for the next fourteen years.
TO IVAR BRYCE, ESQ., (address unknown)
In the early 1950s Ivar Bryce and his wife Jo made the transatlantic crossing four times a year and Fleming often asked them to smuggle items past customs. On one occasion, Bryce recalled, he wrote, ‘Could you execute one chore for me? I badly need a .25 Beretta automatic and I can’t find one in London. Could you pray purchase one in New York and bring it over in your left armpit?’ In 1952, however, Bryce was detailed to carry a particularly important item.
May, 1952
Dear Ivar
Now here is one vital request. I am having constructed for me by the Royal Typewriter Company a golden typewriter which is to cost some 174 dollars. I will not bother for the moment to tell you why I am acquiring this machine. Claire Blanchard6 has handled all the negotiations and I would be vastly indebted if you would advance her the necessary dollars for the machine and also be good enough to slip it in amongst your luggage, possibly wrapping it up in Jo’s fur coat and hat!
TO NOËL COWARD, ESQ., Goldenhurst Farm, Nr. Aldington, Kent
After much to and fro about the state in which White Cliffs had been left, for which Fleming insisted that repairs would cost at least £100, Coward replied with an offer for £50. In the spirit of playful banter that marked their correspondence, he added the words: ‘If you do not want it I can give you a few suggestions as to what to do with it when you come to lunch on Sunday.’
15th May, 1952
Dear Messrs Noël Coward Incorporated,
The mixture of Scottish and Jewish blood which runs in my veins has been brought to the boil by your insolent niggardliness.
Only Ann’s dainty hand has restrained me from slapping a mandamus on your meagre assets and flinging the charge of bottomry, or at least barratry, in your alleged face.
Pending the final advices of Mann, Rogers and Greaves, my solicitors, I shall expend your insulting ‘pourboire’ on a hunting crop and a Mills bomb and present myself at one o’clock exactly on Sunday morning at Goldenhurst.
I shall see what Beaverbrook7 has to say about your behaviour at lunch today.
Tremble.
FROM JONATHAN CAPE, 30 Bedford Square, London W.C.1.
Writing to congratulate Fleming on the birth of Caspar, Cape was ambivalent about his new author’s capabilities either as a parent or a writer. He had little interest in thrillers, believing them to be short-run phenomena that rarely covered their costs. Nor did he think much of their authors, and suspected that Fleming was a dilettante. Remarkably, Casino Royale was the only Bond book he ever read.
13th August, 1952
My dear Ian,
The Times this morning tells me of the good fortune that has come to you and to your wife with the birth of a son. My congratulations and best wishes. You have succeeded I should imagine brilliantly, and I hope and believe that you will be equally successful when you have done a thorough job of revising the MS which I have read and about which William [Plomer] is corresponding with you. You are entitled to a certain amount of congratulations on the MS at this stage and I look forward to you having as much success as a novelist as it would seem you are likely to have as a parent.
To which Fleming replied, more or less cheerfully, on 16 August:
My dear Jonathan,
It was very kind of you to have sent me such a charming note on the birth of my son, but it was not so friendly of you to commit me to such a heavy holiday task.
The story was written in less than two months as a piece of manual labour which would make me forget the horrors of marriage. It would never have seen the light of day if William had not extracted it from me by force.
However, in view of your interest I am now at work on it with a pruning and tuning fork and we will see what it looks like in a week or two. At the present moment it is indeed a dog’s breakfast and I am ashamed that William passed on to you such a very rough and slovenly version.
Already the corpses of split infinitives and a host of other grammatical solecisms are lying bloody on the floor.
We will see.
Again with many thanks for your note.
On the same day he wrote to Ann, using his golden typewriter.
My love
This is only a tiny letter to try out my new typewriter and to see if it will write golden words since it is made of gold.
As you see, it will write at any rate in two colours which is a start, but it has a thing called a MAGIC MARGIN which I have not yet mastered so the margin is a bit crooked. My touch just isn’t light enough I fear.
You have been wonderfully brave and I am very proud of you. The doctors and nurses all say so and are astonished you were so good about all the dreadful things they did to you. They have been simply shuffling you and dealing you out and then shuffling again. I do hope darling Kaspar [sic] has made it up to you a little. He is the most heavenly child and I know he will grow up to be something wonderful because you have paid for him with so much pain.
Goodnight my brave sweetheart.
TO JONATHAN CAPE
Following a meeting with Jonathan Cape, Fleming outlined the contract as far as he understood it. Wren Howard, who had little time for such impertinence from an author whom he privately considered a ‘bounder’, added his comments [in square brackets] for Cape’s attention.
18th September, 1952
Dear Jonathan,
It was very nice of you to be so patient with me yesterday and here is a note of the points I think we covered.
1) Royalties
10 per cent on 1 to 10,000;
15 per cent on 10,000 to 15,000;
17½ per cent on 15,000 to 20,000;
20 per cent thereafter.
If you are feeling in a more generous mood today, for symmetry’s sake you might care to include 12½ per cent on the 5,000 to 10,000, but I will not be exigent. [NO]
2) Print
A first print of 10,000 copies.
I hope this figure will not give you sleepless nights. You may be interested to know that Nicolas Bentley’s first thriller, “The Tongue-Tied Canary,” published by Michael Joseph in 1949 – a very moderate and conventional work – sold 13,000 and is still selling. [It is pointless & most surely unnecessary imposition upon publisher in recent circs & in a falling paper market & with quick facilities for reprint. Especially in view of point 11, I should decline.]
3. American Publication
I suggest that our efforts in this direction should be mutual, but whether I am successful or you are, the publisher will receive 10 per cent of all monies resulting. [OK]
4. Serial Rights and Film and Theatre Rights
The same applies as with the American rights. [First serials, certainly, but we want joint control over 2nd sers.]
5. Television, Broadcasting Rights, etc.
The same applies. [and after joint control]
6. Advertisement and Promotion
I hope you would agree to consul
ting with me on the text of anything you publish regarding the book. [May be quite impracticable if he is e.g. in Bermuda]
7. Design
I will submit some designs for a jacket and for the binding of the book (conforming with your very high standards), to which I hope you would give sympathetic consideration. [yes, but NO MORE]
8. Blurbs
I will submit text for the inside flap and biographical material and a photograph for the back of the wrapper. [OK]
9. Publication Date
Shall we aim at 15th April? (The “Royale” in the title may help to pick up some extra sales over the coronation period). [RATS]
10) Copies For Personal Use
For the fun of it and to make useful copy for gossip paragraphs, etc., I would like to suggest that I toss your secretary double or quits on the trade price for any additional personal copies I may require. (The odds will be exactly even for either side!) [OK up to Dep.]
11 Next Book
I would prefer to make my decision on this when the time comes, but all things being equal naturally I would first submit my manuscript to you. [See under (2) above]
12 Proofs
I shall return to you my corrected manuscript within a week and it would be most helpful if proofs could be forthcoming as soon as convenient thereafter and if I could have three spare copies, since I shall have an early opportunity of having it read in Hollywood. [OK]
13 Page Proofs
As I shall be going to New York about 15th January, would there be any possibility of having page proofs available by then? [possibly]
I do hope you won’t find any of these suggestions unreasonable since I am only actuated by the motives of:
a) making as much money for myself and my publishers as possible out of the book; and
b) getting as much fun as I personally can out of the project.
Finally, I am sincerely delighted that you are to be my publisher and I hope we will both enjoy the adventure.
P.S. I return William’s report which doesn’t give me many hints on improving my style.
The Man with the Golden Typewriter Page 2
