Fleming’s outlook was not improved by the death of his mother, who died on 27 July 1964. Recognising that he was the most fragile of her brood, she had always been a support. But now she was gone, and with her went what remained of his spirit. Her funeral was held at Nettlebed, the Fleming heartland, with a wake at his brother Peter’s house, Merrimoles. Everybody noticed how ill he looked, and, when he asked for a glass of gin, Peter’s housekeeper remonstrated that this wasn’t what the doctors recommended. ‘Fuck the doctors,’ came his reply.
The shadows were gathering. When Michael Howard last saw him, ‘on a dark and thundery afternoon a few weeks before his death, he told me suddenly that he knew how hostile I had been to his first book. It was generous of him never to have challenged me about it earlier.’ This wasn’t the first act of generosity. Despite receiving grander offers from other publishers he had stuck with Cape, and from being an annoying upstart he had risen to become the mainstay of an increasingly moribund publishing house. By Howard’s admission, his books were by now the only thing that kept Cape in profit.
In the following weeks Fleming smoked and drank his life to a strangely symmetrical conclusion. He had moved into a house in Kent at the start of his Bond career, and now that it was over it was to Kent that he returned once again. That August he and Ann motored down to Sandwich where Fleming was due to be elected captain of the Royal St George’s golf club. After dinner on 11 August he suffered a heart attack. The following morning, on his son Caspar’s twelfth birthday, he died.
A memorial service was organised on 15 September by his sister Amaryllis at St Bartholomew’s Church, Smithfield, a spot she chose not only for its central location but because it was said to be the oldest church in London – and with its dense and massive interior it certainly looked the part. Anticipating crowds, Amaryllis had arranged for police cordons, but in the event they were not needed. She played a Bach Sarabande on her cello, and William Plomer, Fleming’s friend, ‘gentle reader’ and editorial companion, gave the address. Meanwhile, if they had failed to appear at the service, the wider public had their own memorial in the form of Bond. The Man With the Golden Gun was published in 1965,1 and the next year Cape produced Octopussy and The Living Daylights containing the two stories they had to hand, plus ‘Property of a Lady’.
Yet, as William Plomer remarked amidst the massive pillars of St Bart’s, this was only one aspect of the man. His envoi was heartfelt: ‘Let us remember him as he was on top of the world, with his foot on the accelerator, laughing at absurdities, enjoying discoveries, absorbed in his many interests and plans, fascinated and amused by places and people and facts and fantasies, an entertainer of millions, and for us a friend never to be forgotten.’
TO ALAN WHICKER, ESQ., The British Broadcasting Corporation, Lime Grove Studios, London W. 12, England
The journalist and broadcaster Alan Whicker wrote in the erroneous belief that an approach had already been made, to enquire if Fleming might like to be the subject of a 50-minute episode in his investigative TV series, ‘Whicker’s World’. As an enticement he added that, ‘I have interviewed Paul Getty; Baron and Baroness Thyssen; and have considered in depth the lives of such diverse groups as the Indians of the Guatemala and the Quorn [a British fox hunt].’ Understanding that Fleming was currently in Jamaica, Whicker proposed he bring his film crew there in April. He received a stony reply.
23rd January, 1964
Dear Mr. Whicker,
Thank you very much for your letter of the 16th, but, if you will forgive me, I am not greatly impressed by being equated with any of your previous victims!
Moreover, I do not greatly seek publicity and I am daunted by the idea of working away for several days for the benefit of the BBC; apparently without payment.
And I leave here on March 16th.
Wouldn’t you rather do the Battersea Dogs Home and forget about me?
TO WILLIAM PLOMER
From Goldeneye, 2nd March, 1964
My dear Wm,
Here is my end, nearly, of term report as usual.
I have somehow managed to write a, nearly, book. Not long, about the same as ‘The Spy who loved me’. But it is nevertheless a miracle – in my opinion – because I felt empty as a Jamaican gourd when I left. It is called ‘The Man With the Golden Gun’, which I like & is set, once again, in Jamaica. I’ve no idea what it is like, but then one never does. I am not enthusiastic, but then I have lived with this joke, under your lash!, for so long, that the zest is seeping out through my Dr. Scholls. Anyway, I am proud not to have failed you, whatever your verdict! Perhaps I am getting spoiled by success. You must lecture me about this when I get back. Incidentally, & for your ears only, there is a big take-over bid for Glidrose underway.2 A huge City company! Golly, what you started at the Ivy 13 years ago!
Annie sits & reads Keats & Quennell & moans about the ‘Tristes Tropiques’ but gets sleek. She sends her warmest love, as do eye.
TO MICHAEL HOWARD
From Goldeneye, 3rd March, 1964
Dear Michael,
One sudden, brilliant notion.
I am surrounded by books of reference here – about birds, fish, shells, tropical shrubs, trees, plants, the stars, etc. etc. – but every guest says “what does ganja look like?” (marihuana)
Why not do a cool, well-illustrated book on the “narcotic flora of the world”? Expensive. Definitive. With medical effects, etc. I would certainly underwrite it. You can’t miss. Get cracking before Weidenpuss or Thames & Hudson do it. A £5 job.
I have spoken!
Thanks for your gen. Sorry about Monday but after the flight & signing all those books we will be in purdah. Anyway, why promote each other?
Now, get off the [launch] pad!
Cape did, in fact, investigate the possibility. But their enquiries were half-hearted and extended little further than the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew from whom they received a prim and slight disapproving list of plants in which the only curiosity – and one that Fleming would have enjoyed – was that lettuce (reputedly) had mild narcotic properties. But by then he was dead and they dropped it.
TO MICHAEL HOWARD
‘57th Birthday’, 28th March, 19643
My Dear Michael,
Warmest thanks for your messages and the Googarty [sic].4 He was in fact a great friend of my mother tho. she only gets a mention. He contributed to my first publication “The Wyvern”, a one-time-only mag I produced at Eton containing my first piece of fiction – a shameless crib of Michael Arlen! But I made £90 out of my venture as a publisher which is more than many can say.
Out this weekend & then to Vic. Square for a week where I promise to finish correcting my book. Then to the country for a while.
I say, Cape’s are in the news with their books these days! Many congratulations to you all.
Got some sweet peas from Andre Deutsch!!! Humpf!
Salud,
Ian
P.S. Happy B-day to you too.
TO VICTOR WEYBRIGHT, ESQ., The New American Library, 501 Madison Avenue, New York, 22
7th April, 1964
My Dear Victor,
I have had your comments on the title of my next book, “The Man With The Golden Gun.”
I had thought of Algren’s “The Man With The Golden Arm”, but am I not right in thinking there is no copyright in titles? And, in any case, Algren’s was in such a different vein of literature.
And was there not a man called Apuleius who wrote “The Man With The Golden Ass”! However, I have two alternative titles “Goldenrod” or “Number 3½ Love Lane”, to fall back on in case of emergency.
But heaven knows when I am going to get around to correcting the typescript and doing a certain amount of rewriting.
I am absolutely deluged with junk from which I simply don’t seem to be able to free up existence. So please be excessively patient this year.
TO WILLIAM PLOMER
While laid up with pleurisy in the King Edward VII Hospital, known
as Sister Agnes, Fleming wrote to congratulate Plomer on the recently published diaries of Richard Rumbold which had given him, as editor, an extraordinary amount of trouble. Fleming also made clear that he was finished with Bond.
Chez la Soeur Agnes, 10th May, 1964, Saturday
My dear Wm,
Alas I am ‘gisant parterre’ here for the past 10 days with another 2 weeks to go – pleurisy. I thought only aunts got it, but no one will say how ill I am – the usual mumbo-jumbo – and in fact I feel totally ‘remis’ though not yet up to correcting my stupid book – or rather the last 3rd of it, but I shall get down to it next week and then you & I will plan whether to publish in 1965 or give it another year’s working over so that we can go out with a bang instead of a whimper.
Your fine opus arrived just in time & saw me over the first 3 days. Oddly enough, on my first night, the night nurse exclaimed when she saw the picture on the jacket. She had been R[umbold]’s nurse at Midhurst in ? 1956. She had much liked him but said he was terribly ‘mixed up’ (indeed!) and his looks had gone (who’s wouldn’t have?) She remembered Hilda well (what a saint!) Odd coincidence.
I remember well, at the Charing X, was it 3 years ago? you telling me that this shower had emptied itself on your head – bales & cases full of letters & papers, & how I commiserated. Well, now time has passed & an infinity of labour (which you don’t mention, of course, in your excellent introduction), and the work is done & the memorial stands. What a wonderful & good achievement! I read every word & shall now always remember this man I never knew OR heard of. Echoes of Denton Welch5 – perhaps because of the introspection & Ceylon. What a monster that father was! One of the great ogres as you bring out in a few lines. Wish I had read ‘My Father’s Son’. And Ronnie Knox – really! Did this foul deed come in E[velyn] W[augh]’s biography? I bet not. Of course I adored your occasional asides & intrusions – rather like a Zen master with his stick! I would have liked a photograph of HOW he was at the end but that might have been unkind. Interesting his admiration for Paul Bowles whom I think a cold-hearted bastard but I can see that his compactness and discipline would have impressed R.
Anyway, enough of these maunderings. I must have my “sensitive areas” rubbed (bottom in hospitalese!) Thank you for the spiffing P.C. I am better without visitors but we will gnaw a string of spaghetti when I get out.
1,000nd congratulations on a beautifully accomplished task.
FROM SOMERSET MAUGHAM
Maugham, aged eighty-eight and nearing the end of his life, wrote a sad note to thank Fleming for his latest, You Only Live Twice.
7th May, 1964
My dear Ian,
Thank you for sending me your new book. I read it, as with all the others, with great delight and excitement. It was very sweet of you to think of me; I was touched and much pleased.
Forgive me for not having acknowledged it before now but I have been very seedy and distraught. I have just returned from Venice, but with the realisation that my travelling days are over – it is a great grief to me.
I hope we meet before too long. I think of you with great affection and should like to see you once more.
TO SOMERSET MAUGHAM, ESQ., C.H., Villa Mauresque, St. Jean, Cap Ferrat
13th May, 1964
My dear Willie,
A thousand thanks for your charming but rather triste letter of May 7th. Cease at once being “seedy and distraught”. Move about as much as you can, even if it’s only short distances, and don’t forget that today’s news wraps tomorrow’s fish!
I have been seedy but without being much distraught, pleurisy and shut up in Sister Agnes for two or three weeks.
I shall be about again in a fortnight or so and I am going to try and persuade Annie that we might fly down to Nice and invite ourselves to you for a week-end, if you will have us. I would see that Annie did not exhaust you with her chatter and, as you know, I am as quiet as a mouse. But we both long to see you, particularly as you missed your London visit last year.
If you think this would be a good idea please scribble Annie a note and command her to your presence. She is your slave and will do anything you tell her to.
Now please don’t treat yourself like a piece of Venetian glass, it is not your style at all and you have always had the courage and fortitude of ten.
With all my affection,
Dictated by Mr. Fleming and signed in his absence
TO AUBREY FORSHAW, ESQ., Pan Books Ltd., 8 Headfort Place, London, S.W.1.
Aubrey Forshaw of Pan Books wrote to invite Fleming to a party where he was to receive an award for having sold one million copies of Casino Royale.
20th May, 1964
My dear Aubrey,
I am so sorry that I missed our lunch and, alas, I’m afraid it may be another couple of weeks or so before I shall be fit to take part in this splendid beano you are arranging for me.
Griffie will let you know just as soon as I am back in circulation.
What the devil do these Oscars consist of? I assume they are at least 18 carat and the whole way through, unlike the Hollywood Oscars which are made of the basest of metals!
Anyway, it really is wonderful what you have managed to do with my books, and it certainly is a far cry from the day when you and Cape gingerly handled “Casino Royale” with a pair of tongs and gaze averted!
I don’t think much of Harry Saltzman’s new jacket for “Goldfinger”. The golden girl looks like a man and there is far too much jazz about the film. Why the hell should we advertise Saltzman and Broccoli on one of my books? And on the back I see that Sean Connery gets at least twice the size type as the author.
Seriously, although Saltzman is a splendid salesman, do please keep a sharp eye on this tendency of his to use my books for advertising his films.
Longing to see you as soon as possible.
Dictated by Ian Fleming & signed in his absence.
P.S. By the way, Griffie just tells me you have a different cover in mind once the film is out of the way. She might have said so earlier!
Forshaw replied: ‘Our PAN is 9 3∕4’’ high – a replica of a 2nd Century statue owned by the British Museum. It is of bronze, as is the original, but is plated with matt 18 ct. gold to prevent tarnishing. He stands on a 4” Mahogany plinth bearing a plate engraved with your name, the title of the book and the fact that the book has sold a million copies in our series.
‘Poor man you are now due to receive eight – i.e. all titles except “FOR YOUR EYES ONLY”. Within two or three months this too will reach the million and will be an all time record-holder, short stories being notoriously difficult to sell in any numbers.’ He further pointed out: ‘Saltzman’s films have done an enormous amount to spread the cult.’
TO WILLIAM PLOMER
20th May, 1964
My dear Wm,
Thank you for warming peecard & spiffing letter. I am satisfied with your reviews [of Plomer’s book on Richard Rumbold] except for that pretentious booby Francis King. He reminds me a bit of Grigson6 in the way they PECK and denigrate. I would like to have read great accolades for you, really great ones, but few people can know how much dung had to be shifted by how staunch a beetle. I remember so vividly your throw-away phrases in the Charing X and my immediate understanding of what you had taken on. Odd!
Don’t do it again! Write for fun now.
Have just been condemned to another week or so here – but by the best mechanic in England – Stuart Bedford. I could have told him so before he said it. One knows one’s old vintage car by now. Reading voraciously but I find I can now only read books which approximate to the truth. Odd stories just aren’t good enough. That’s most of the reason I shy away from Bond. Not good enough after reading ‘Diary of a Black Sheep’ by Meinertzhagen7 & even Francis Chichester8 with all its omissions. But in due course I will hack away & you will be honest with me. I don’t like short-weighting my readers, myself or you.
Just finished Post’s “Heart of the Hunter”. Liked first third bu
t got bogged down in Praying Mantis. You must bring me up to date with him one day. Also Deighton’s “Funeral in Berlin” in proof. Amusing cracks but I simply can’t be bothered with his kitchen sink writing & all this Nescafe. Reminds me of Bratby. I think Capes should send him to Tahiti or somewhere & get him to ‘tell a story’. He excuses his ignorance of life with his footnotes & that won’t stand up for long – nice chap though he is.
Please tell Michael to send me some books – any I.Q. but good ones!
Sorry for the long waffle but I’ve just had the extra sentence & Annie has a smart dinner party & I wanted to communicate.
Gruss aus Beaumontstrasse
P.S. Please read the Amis M.S. & put him right where you can.9 You blew the whistle. You’ve seen the whole game! No reply please.
TO WILLIAM PLOMER
June 1964
Another 10 days, Brighton
My dear Wm,
You have calmed my temperature & blood pressure, reduced the albumen in my urine & sent my spirits soaring.
But I would still like to tinker with the book [The Man with the Golden Gun] & skip a year. We will discuss, but bless you as usual.
TO LEONARD RUSSELL
15th June, 1964
Dear Leonard,
Forgive the typing and the signature, but I am still not firing on all cylinders.
I will certainly see that you have an early look at “Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang”, but there is so much text that, apart from the brilliance of [John] Burningham’s illustrations, I think you may have difficulty in finding room for it.
I wrote the three books three years ago when I got stuck in hospital and someone sent me Squirrel Nutkin which, apart from the illustrations, I thought was most terrible bilge – particularly the idiotic riddles.
Laid low again, I am now thinking of a musical called “Fizz-an-Chips”, but I haven’t got further than the title.
I’m afraid I entirely agree with your criticism of my critique of Norman Lewis’s book, but I was not nearly as well up on the subject of the Mafia as you – strangely – appear to be. And though I never see him I am devoted to Norman and am sorry that he always just fails to come off.
The Man with the Golden Typewriter Page 36
