Mercury and Me

by Jim Hutton

  The truth was that I couldn’t see what good my having a test could do. If I was HIV positive or had Aids, I thought there was a real possibility that Freddie might suffer some kind of guilt as in all probability he’d have given it to me. If the test proved negative and I was in the clear, I felt that it would be equally unfair on Freddie, like saying, ‘Yah, boo, sucks. I’m all right Jack!’ The only thing that mattered was looking after Freddie and trying to keep him healthy.

  That was the last time we referred directly to his Aids condition. He never liked talking about his illness and from that moment, if anything came up on television to do with Aids, we would turn over to another channel or switch the set off. It’s not that he was unsympathetic to others with the illness; he simply didn’t like being reminded of his own fate.

  Mary was the only other person at the time whom Freddie confided in about his condition, except for Jim Beach. (He did later reveal his illness to Roger Taylor’s partner Dominique after she told him she had breast cancer; he wanted her to know that his was a shoulder she could lean on any time.) Joe was on holiday in America when Freddie told me.

  ‘Should I tell Joe?’ Freddie asked me.

  ‘Of course you should,’ I said.

  Until I discovered Freddie had Aids, we’d thrown all caution to the wind: he and I never had safe sex when we made love. But when I knew of his condition, everything changed and we never had intercourse again without a condom. In fact, condoms were put on Joe’s weekly grocery order. Freddie had more tests carried out in the weeks ahead, but they were always done on the quiet and we never spoke about them.

  Driven by such devastating news, Freddie seemed more determined than ever to throw himself into work and finish decorating Garden Lodge to his own exacting demands. The rooms and walls, which were still fairly bare, would soon be transformed.

  The koi pool in the garden was finished and ready to take fish. To try it out I’d bought a dozen or so goldfish and golden orf, but they were so tiny you could hardly see them. Terry learned of a fish wholesaler in Enfield, Middlesex, who stocked koi and Freddie and I set off one night to look at them. The man told us a new cargo of koi was expected from Japan in a few days and he agreed to let us know the moment they arrived so that Freddie could have first refusal. A few days later the phone rang: the fish had landed. We dashed to the wholesaler. Because of a hitch at customs, we arrived before the fish did. When the precious koi arrived, about fifty of them in all, they were gently lifted from the carriage boxes and placed in holding tanks. Most of them were about 18 inches long and would grow to almost twice that length.

  They looked magnificent and Freddie was mesmerised. Then he asked how much they were, and was told between £75 and £2,000 each.

  ‘OK,’ said Freddie. ‘Give me a good price on the whole lot.’

  Without blinking, the wholesaler worked out the sum on his figures and Freddie agreed to buy them all for £12,500. The fish man wanted to call at the house to check whether the pool was suitable. When he did, he insisted we install a mechanical filter. Otherwise, he said the set-up was ideal.

  The fish should have been held in quarantine for a minimum of two weeks at the wholesalers, but as soon as the filter was fitted they were delivered to Garden Lodge. The fish soon became the new centre of attention when friends came to visit. We used to make a big thing of Sunday lunch, which became something of a tradition. Usually six or more people turned up late morning for drinks and we’d sit down to eat around two in the afternoon. Lunch would last until four or five, and then the rest of the day would be spent lazing around in the house or garden. The main ingredient was always laughter.

  On 4 May Freddie was devastated by another story about him in the Sun. And so was I. After all that Freddie had done for him, Paul Prenter had stitched him up.

  ‘Aids Kills Freddie’s Two Lovers’, it declared, and the story was run across three pages. Tony Bastin, from Brighton, and John Murphy, an American airline steward, had died from the disease in 1986. And Prenter claimed that Freddie had called him late one night and poured out his fears about Aids.

  The feature also named me as his lover. My immediate thoughts were of what my family back home in Ireland would make of it. I was due back for a visit, and if word was out that I was the lover of someone so famous they would certainly be disappointed to hear it third-hand from the press. It was something I’d certainly have preferred to tell them in my own time.

  When I got home from work that day Freddie and I talked about Prenter’s kiss-and-tell. He couldn’t bear the betrayal. He couldn’t believe anyone who had been so close to him could behave in so mean-spirited a way.

  We later learned that Prenter had been paid about £32,000 by the paper for his story. Freddie never spoke to him again after that, and he was also frozen out by Elton John, John Reid and others.

  For the next few days there was more in the Sun, and at each episode of Prenter’s story Freddie became angrier. Prenter sold the paper several photographs of Freddie posing privately with various lovers, such as my predecessor Winnie Kirkenburger, and these were thrown over two pages under the heading ‘All The Queen’s Men’.

  Prenter told the paper in great detail and at great length about Freddie’s wilder days with drugs, when he’d regularly shared lines of cocaine with Rod Stewart and David Bowie, sometimes laid out on gold discs. Prenter also revealed that Freddie and disc jockey Kenny Everett had ended their friendship after an argument over cocaine.

  Freddie had indeed fallen out with Everett. Apparently, at one get-together Everett had claimed that Freddie was helping himself too freely to his hospitality. But really Freddie said it was the other way around, Everett had taken advantage of his generosity. They never patched things up, and Everett didn’t come to Garden Lodge once while I lived there. Even when we went to gay clubs in London, if Everett was there the two of them never spoke to each other. (When Freddie died the papers ran made-up stories of Everett visiting his bedside regularly until the end.)

  Speaking to my former boyfriend John Alexander about the trouble Prenter had caused, I learned that Prenter had been bitchy behind my back over Christmas. John had had a run-in with him at a party at Kenny Everett’s home. Prenter talked at the top of his voice about me, throwing in plenty of barbed remarks for good measure. Eventually John tired of the tirade and challenged Prenter. He asked him just how well he knew me and, as Prenter mumbled an answer, John told him that he was my ex-lover. Prenter shut up and avoided him for the rest of the night.

  A few times after the Sun sell-out, Prenter rang Garden Lodge, but Freddie wouldn’t speak to him. Prenter tried to excuse his appalling behaviour by saying that the press had been hounding him for so many weeks he’d finally cracked under pressure and told them things by mistake. Freddie didn’t want to know of Prenter’s excuses; he felt unforgivably let down. The saddest thing of all about the Prenter episode was that it crushed Freddie’s ability to trust others, except for a select few. He certainly made no new friends after that.

  I often felt sorry for Freddie. For all he had – the money and the success – he could never live a normal life. He couldn’t walk down a street or go shopping without being stared at, a pet hate of his.

  Feeling bruised by Prenter and the Sun, Freddie decided he needed to get well away from them both and we flew to Ibiza for a week’s holiday. Joe, Phoebe and Terry came too.

  At airports we would adopt a specific formation procedure to shield Freddie; it only took a few fans to spot him, and the next thing we knew we’d be engulfed by a small crowd. If nothing else, they could be time-consuming incidents. So I always walked ahead of him while Joe, Terry or Phoebe flanked him either side. Freddie would walk along with his eyes glued to the floor to avoid all eye contact.

  It seems unlikely, but for the man crowned the world’s most flamboyant and outgoing rock performer, Freddie really was an excruciatingly private person. If he was caught unprepared by fans he would get terribly embarrassed and say to us under
his breath, ‘Get me out of here!’

  Another thing he would whisper to us from the corner of his mouth always amused me. If we were out in public and he needed the loo he’d say two little words: ‘Pee! Pee!’ One of us would escort him to the nearest lavatory and hang around to make sure he could pee in peace.

  Also accompanying us to Ibiza was something which from now on went with us whenever we travelled outside Britain – a small medical trunk. This had everything from paracetamol tablets and plasters to Freddie’s treatments for Aids. The only thing the trunk never stocked were syringes, which were usually supplied locally.

  On that trip to Ibiza we stayed at the remote and luxurious Pike’s Hotel, a five-hundred-year-old former farmhouse. We’d been there only a few hours before Freddie nicknamed me St Francis of Assisi because of the way the cats and dogs roaming the grounds of the hotel kept running up to me for attention.

  By day we all flopped around the pool sunbathing, while by night we headed off to Ibiza’s gay bars and clubs. But even there the Sun was on Freddie’s tail, and their photographer also snatched a photograph of him looking overweight as he played tennis.

  Freddie developed a bad wound on the bottom of his right foot. It would dog him for the rest of his life, and eventually made it increasingly difficult for him to walk.

  At the end of the trip Freddie and Montserrat Caballé made a surprise appearance at the Ibiza ’92 festival to celebrate Spain’s staging of the Olympics five years later. The night was wonderfully decadent, held at the lavish Ku Club in San Antonio in front of an elite audience of about five hundred – the Beautiful People of Ibiza, as we called them. Several bands played that night, including Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, Marillion and Chris Rea. Freddie and Montsy were being saved up to appear as a surprise at the very end.

  As usual, I went out among the audience on my own. When the last band came off the stage there was a feeling of anti-climax. Then Freddie and Montsy strolled on together and the crowd erupted. As soon as the first chords of ‘Barcelona’ struck up, everyone fell silent and every hair on my body stood on end in anticipation. The crowd didn’t know what they were in for. While Freddie and Montserrat were singing ‘Barcelona’ in public for the very first time, the crowd remained absolutely silent. You could feel the pride the song was instilling in them all. Some even shed a few tears.

  At the end of the song the audience exploded into applause. Some jumped in the air, waving their arms; others took off their jackets and threw them towards the stage. I overheard a group of young Spaniards saying excitedly: ‘This is the new Spanish national anthem!’ Then the sky lit up with one of the longest firework displays I’ve ever seen.

  After the show Freddie really whooped it up, first at the Ku Club, then on to Pike’s for a whopper of a party. ‘Barcelona’ had been such a success with the crowd that it made him feel as if he’d won first prize at everything. Several of the Olympic committee so liked the song they vowed it was going to be their anthem for the Barcelona Games.

  Back in London, Freddie and Queen were renegotiating their contract with EMI for their next album and tensions had been running high. I came home from work one day and I could sense something was drastically wrong. Joe was standing by the sink in the kitchen and Freddie was sitting at the table looking very stern.

  ‘And you’re fired, too!’ Freddie snapped at me.

  ‘Pardon?’ I said.

  ‘You can’t sack Jim,’ Joe told Freddie with a gloriously smug expression.

  ‘Why not?’ he snapped.

  ‘Because he doesn’t work for you!’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no he doesn’t, does he?’ Freddie replied. Then he sat quietly for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. Apparently Freddie, in a foul mood, had sacked all his staff on the spot. Then, at a stroke, he reinstated everyone.

  Although Freddie couldn’t sack me, I came to discover I did not have much job security at the Savoy. Things at the barber’s shop were coming to a head. I’d started telling some of my regular clients that there was a chance I would be leaving, although I had no idea where I’d go next. By mid-July I’d had enough. When I’d done my last trim of the day I phoned the owner of the shop and asked to see him, but he was too busy. ‘Fine,’ I told him. ‘As of 4.30 this afternoon, I’m finished.’ He didn’t ask me why, but asked whether I would work a month’s notice. I said I wouldn’t.

  I rang Freddie at Garden Lodge to tell him what had happened. Joe answered and told me he was in the dining room in a critical business meeting with Jim Beach and others. He’d given strict instructions not to be disturbed. I insisted Joe got Freddie to the phone, and told him what I’d done.

  ‘All right, dear,’ Freddie said calmly. ‘You start working for me tomorrow in the garden. We’ll work your wages out when you get home.’

  When I got back to Garden Lodge, Freddie was waiting for me. ‘Give us a cuddle,’ he said. ‘Well done! I’m glad you’re not going to work there any more.’ Then we talked about me taking over from the part-time gardeners. I told him I’d work as his gardener on one condition – that no one, not even he, could interfere in what I was doing or the way I worked. It was agreed. Not only that, I even got a wage increase; he put me on £600 a month after tax.

  Next day at dawn, before anyone else in the house had stirred, I started my new daily routine out in the garden. Another routine began then, too. Every morning when Freddie got up he started his day by looking out of our bedroom window on to the garden. He’d look for me, wave and call ‘Cooee’ before coming down for his morning tea.

  I soon realised I’d taken on an eight-day job in that garden. Although it was nicely laid-out, it still needed many more plants to build it up and add dashes of colour.

  Although I was only meant to work at Garden Lodge, occasionally I would go over to Mary’s flat to potter around her garden as well, tidying things up. It was on one such trip that Mary and I spoke for the first time about Freddie’s illness. It was always impossible to fathom what Mary was thinking, and I don’t know whether she was as shocked at the news as I was. Anyway, both of our voices faltered as we touched on the subject. Although I never mentioned anything to Freddie, Mary and I decided we had to do everything we could to ensure that everyone continued to look after him and that his condition was kept from the press at all costs.

  Freddie’s condition was soon showing physically. A few large, red marks appeared on the back of his hand and on his left cheek. These were called Kaposi’s Sarcoma or KS. He got the first marks neutralised by special laser treatment, and they faded slowly. But the treatment left slight blemishes, so whenever he went out in public he would cover the marks on his face with a little make-up. Freddie also developed a painful open wound at the side of his right calf. We treated it with special preparations to stop the weeping but it would never heal properly.

  Freddie always seemed to be more anxious about the kois’ health than his own. In August we noticed that the fish had become rather lethargic. Then one morning I discovered two of the smaller ones dead, floating on the surface. We rang the wholesaler who supplied them and he came over to take a look. He told us about several diseases they could have caught, but left without finding an answer to our problems. We were flummoxed.

  6

  OVERTURES AND BEGINNERS

  Barbara Valentin was staying at Garden Lodge in the summer of 1987 and she and Freddie, dreaming up something to do, decided to fly to Austria for five days. I didn’t know a thing about their trip, and when the two of them left for the airport I was up the ladder trimming the ivy around the house.

  I spotted Freddie looking up in a bit of a huff and he called up to me, though I didn’t hear what he said. I guessed they were probably going shopping. It was only when I came down from the ladder and went inside that Joe told me they had gone on holiday for a few days.

  Freddie and Barbara were due back the following Sunday, but instead came back a day early, on the Saturday. Freddie sought me out straight away and we kis
sed. I asked him why he was back so early.

  ‘Because I wanted to be with you,’ he said.

  And Barbara confirmed that he had been pining for me. ‘He really missed you,’ she told me.

  I never met anyone who enjoyed having a bath as much as Freddie. He had one every day of his life, either when he got up or some time later in the day, and favoured them as hot as possible. He could easily spend an hour soaking in the tub, and sometimes these baths became such a performance that Joe and Phoebe would turn up to watch.

  One Sunday after mowing the lawn I went up to change, and as I walked towards the bedroom I heard the unmistakable sound of Freddie singing in the bath. In the bathroom I saw an image of Freddie I’ll never forget. He was in the jacuzzi, entirely surrounded by bubbles. It was the first time he’d put bubble bath in the jacuzzi and, of course, he’d wildly overdone the amount. Once he turned the jets of water on the whole place was awash with foam. I could just make out two eyes and a mouth in the living blob of bubbles, and there was Freddie singing camp Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland songs at the top of his voice, kicking a leg in the air every so often for good measure.

  Although Freddie liked a bath, he wasn’t one to spend ages tinkering with himself in front of a mirror. He’d clean his teeth and have a wet shave, but that was about all. Nor did he go in for a selection of soaps and shampoos; he would only ever use the range by Lancaster – wildly expensive, of course.

  On many occasions, no sooner had Freddie gone to the bathroom to clean his teeth before bed than he’d come running out screaming. ‘Spider!’ he’d say. ‘You’ll have you get it out. I can’t do it.’

  He was a bit of an arachnophobe: he hated spiders. I’d get up, catch the spider and pop it out of the window. Freddie didn’t like spiders, but he meant them no harm and would never ask me to kill one. He liked me to catch it in a glass or a box and throw it outside.