Mercury and Me

by Jim Hutton

  I am certain Freddie had never intended me to be ousted from what he’d always asked me to consider as our home. I’m also convinced he’d expected me to continue looking after the cats. If my circumstances changed and I had to move from Garden Lodge, he would assume I’d do so with some of the cats. I asked Mary if I could take Miko with me. The answer was short and to the point. No. Technically Joe, too, was entitled to Goliath and Delilah, and he spoke to me about looking after them for him. But we were firmly put in our place about the cats. None of them would be leaving. Then I was told I might be allowed to take Goliath, but only if Goliath didn’t get on with Mary’s baby son when she moved in. Goliath was allergic to children, so there was a chance he wouldn’t settle down. I never heard about it again.

  On 6 February, Freddie was posthumously honoured at the British Phonographic Industry’s ‘Brits’ awards. Joe, Phoebe and I weren’t invited. The Queen organisation clearly didn’t deem us close enough to Freddie to ask us to be there. It was cruel of them; I watched it on television instead.

  That day I was in the Garden Lodge kitchen with Mary. I still wonder whether what she said then was because her conscience was beginning to prick her.

  ‘Jim,’ she said, ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe you can stay on in Garden Lodge until you can find yourself a place.’

  ‘Mary,’ I said, perfectly politely. ‘Thank you very much. But I think you should clear that with Jim Beach first.’ We said no more of it.

  Next day Mary returned to the subject. ‘Things are as they were,’ she said and the matter was closed.

  Relations between Mary and me continued to be strained. I had a collection of photographs in the house and some I wanted to have back, to remind me of my life with Freddie, but I didn’t just want to help myself. When Mary and I were in Freddie’s bedroom one day, I asked her if I could take the framed photographs of Freddie he had placed for me on my side of what had been our bed. She didn’t reply.

  In the kitchen the following morning with Mary, Joe and Terry, I asked again if she’d allow me to have the pictures on my side of the bed. Her response startled me.

  She spun around and denied I’d ever asked for the photographs. She said she hadn’t heard me and nor had Terry – who wasn’t even there. She began asking him if he’d heard anything.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Terry wouldn’t have heard you, Mary.’ She kept on about not having heard me ask. She could be like a dog with a bone whenever she got something into her head. She was throwing a tantrum and being totally selfish. So I’m sorry to say I lost my temper.

  ‘Mary, I’ve lost my friend, my lover, my home, my life,’ I said. I stormed out into the garden. Terry and Joe were frozen in the doorway, certain that I was angry enough to hit her. In all the years they’d known me, they had not once seen me lose my temper.

  In the garden I calmed down and ten minutes later went back to the kitchen. I went up to Mary and hugged her. ‘I’m sorry for that outburst,’ I said, but I got no response from her. It was the last time I spoke to her before I moved out.

  12

  LIVING ON MY OWN

  As the 1 March deadline to leave The Mews loomed in 1992, I still didn’t have anywhere to go. Fortunately, at the last minute a friend helped me out by offering a room in his small flat in Shepherd’s Bush for a while.

  Phoebe, Joe and I were then informed that Mary had arranged for someone to move in as soon as we’d gone. She needed someone to look after Garden Lodge until she could move in herself. Her new housekeeper would be arriving the very day we were to leave. This total stranger would be the first person to stay in Freddie’s world since our expulsion from the house in December.

  We were assured that the outsider, out of consideration for us, wouldn’t arrive early; we would each be given enough time to reflect and say our farewells to our memories of Freddie. The memories still poured from every square inch of every room. Saying goodbye to Freddie’s Garden Lodge was going to be difficult.

  I made two or three journeys to Isleworth in Middlesex, to take some of my bits and pieces to store with friends. On one trip I felt so depressed I nearly had an accident on the motorway. I couldn’t even listen to Mr Bad Guy; I just cried my eyes out.

  As the days wore on it became evident that Mary had no intention of coming over to say goodbye to any of us in person. It was a great shame. Our last month’s wages arrived in the post that final weekend – the only time they weren’t delivered by Mary herself. We were also given redundancy money, in my case the equivalent of four weeks’ wages. And we learned that, although the three of us returned our keys to Garden Lodge, within hours of our leaving all the locks were to be changed. It was such a sad end to such happy years of our lives.

  That final Sunday morning started with the doorbell ringing at 7.30am to announce the arrival of Mary’s zealous new housekeeper. There he was on the doorstep, suitcase in hand, ready to move into his new home. Even the promised dignity of our last morning was taken from us.

  Phoebe went first, mid-morning. The farewell wasn’t tearful. The time for tears had come and gone by this stage. Though we were parting company, we knew we’d always keep in touch. Joe and I hugged him and he left. There were many tears, though, when Joe left. He was flying straight to America. I helped him pack, and when it was time to go we had a long hugging session in The Mews doorway.

  I decided I wouldn’t leave until two in the afternoon. Apart from the alien housekeeper and Sean, the security man on duty that day, I had the place to myself for one last time. I went over to Garden Lodge and looked around wistfully.

  ‘Jim, what about your bedroom furniture?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Well,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got nowhere to store it.’ Much to my regret, I was leaving it all behind: the Biedermeier table that Freddie had designed for me, the Biedermeier bed-head dotted with his decorative ormolu designs, and the chests of drawers.

  I took a slow look around the house and walked out of the front door, gazing back at Freddie’s bedroom window imagining a final ‘Cooee’. I went to The Mews and picked up the last of my things. Then I walked to the door, looked up to his bedroom window for the very last, lingering time, and left.

  It was Mary’s birthday on 6 March, so I sent flowers to Garden Lodge. As far as I was concerned there would be was no more animosity between us: I hoped there might still be some kind of lasting friendship. I’d always promised Freddie I’d be there for Mary – always – and whether or not I remained in Garden Lodge made no difference.

  It took a while to realise that I had been ousted from what was left of Freddie’s life. Some nights I couldn’t bear it. I was depressed, felt lost and suffered some kind of breakdown. They were bleak weeks and months. I’d walk back to Garden Lodge late at night when there was no one around and call quietly for Miko and the other cats. To my great delight, one or two would pop over the wall on hearing my voice. I’d play with them and stroke or cuddle them, often emptying my heart to them through my tears. Seeing the cats again brought me just that bit closer to Freddie. It made such a difference.

  Through March, April and May I was putting myself through this ritual about four times a week. I could think of nowhere else to go or anyone better than the cats in whom I could renew memories of Freddie. I paid regular visits there right up until the first anniversary of Freddie’s death in November 1992. After that the cats stopped coming when I called. I never saw them again.

  The cash advance that Jim Beach promised the three of us eventually arrived, to be offset against the money we were eventually to inherit. We hoped for the £50,000 that had been promised but were given only £20,000 apiece.

  On Easter Monday, 20 April 1992, the world collectively rocked to the beat of Freddie’s drum with the tribute concert to him at Wembley Stadium. I ordered my ticket through the Queen office and, like everybody else there, didn’t begrudge paying one bit. All the proceeds were helping Aids causes and raising public awareness of the illness.

  Joe and Phoebe were
there and we all had limited passes to go backstage to meet Brian, Roger and John in the interval. It was the first time I’d seen them since the cremation and they were very welcoming and friendly.

  As I stood among the 72,000-strong crowd for the second half of the spectacular, I had mixed feelings about the concert. I was pleased that something had been staged in memory of Freddie, but still unsure of the event itself. Although I knew Freddie would most definitely have approved, I wasn’t sure about some of them performing that day. Quite a few acts Freddie didn’t know; I thought the performers were only meant to be his intimate friends in the business. And where was Montserrat Caballé? Where was Cliff Richard? Where was Peter Straker? Or the musicians he loved. Where was Aretha Franklin? Where was Dionne Warwick? Where was Natalie Cole? I don’t think they’d even been asked.

  That summer, I received the rest of my inheritance from Freddie. Joe, Phoebe and I hadn’t been informed when probate was granted; we’d read it for ourselves in the press.

  With some of the money I bought a modest, three-bedroomed end-of-terrace house in Stamford Brook and set about redecorating it from top to bottom. At last I had a permanent home again in London where I could keep my Freddie treasures and trophies. I threw myself into transforming the garden and even built a small pool for ten young koi.

  I will never forget any of the Garden Lodge cats, but as they couldn’t live with me I found myself two new feline friends to take their place – British Blues called Zig and Zag.

  My family came over to visit and so did my friends; they were always exciting and warm-hearted occasions. I went off to Italy in the summer of 1992 with a friend; it was a country I’d never been to with Freddie. There were no more chauffeured limousines and being waited on hand and foot, of course. One of the simple joys of travelling, I found, was actually having to lug my suitcase everywhere we went.

  Back in London, while I was painting the outside of the conservatory windows I had Freddie’s Barcelona album on loud all day long. My neighbour asked me to turn the music down, then another neighbour came along and asked if I’d been having a party. I explained I hadn’t been.

  ‘What was the music you’ve been playing?’ she asked. ‘I sat in my garden listening and really loved it.’

  Then a man who worked in a little factory at the end of the garden saw me one day and was even more specific. ‘I heard you playing Freddie Mercury’s music,’ he said, admitting he, too, was a fan.

  Since Freddie’s death, I feel proud whenever anyone tells me how much they enjoy his music. And I always think to myself: ‘That’s my man.’

  I was invited to the annual Queen convention for the ever-loyal family of fans in spring 1992. It was my first visit to this event and it felt good to be with people who, like me, just wanted to remember and celebrate Freddie as the greatest singer ever, then whoop it up. The fans held a charity auction of Queen memorabilia and one of the lots was a beautiful lifelike portrait of Freddie in oils, painted by a fan. Joe had commissioned a portrait of Freddie, but he had taken it with him. I fell in love with the picture, and bought it and took it home. I had a place for it in mind.

  Joe was now going to and from America most of the time, coming back to Britain for his Aids treatment. He’d always said he’d visit me in my new home, but on his flying visits back to Britain he couldn’t find the time.

  On 5 September 1992, Freddie’s birthday, I packed the portrait I’d bought of him at the fan club convention into the car, picked up two dozen red roses for my darling, and drove over to Garden Lodge. I arrived rather early, unannounced, and rang the doorbell. Mary answered and pressed the button to unlock the gate. As I stepped in she came out of the kitchen and walked towards me. For a moment I actually thought she was going to give me a hug. Sadly, when she got about four feet from me her attitude changed. I told her I’d bought a portrait of Freddie at the convention and wanted to leave it, to be hung anywhere in the house she thought suitable.

  ‘I bought it for here,’ I said.

  When I left a few minutes later, she said, ‘Keep in touch.’

  Two months later, on the first anniversary of Freddie’s death, 24 November, I returned again to Garden Lodge. I rang the doorbell and Mary let me in. I was armed with a bouquet of colourful mixed flowers, the kind of thing Freddie loved, with lots of every different sort. I went into the kitchen and we talked for a few moments. This time, just as I was about to leave, little Miko appeared. She came into the kitchen and purred at me for a few minutes. I smiled at her, but knew it was time for me to go.

  Then I was in Chiswick High Road one day, strolling with friends past a restaurant called Tootsie’s, when I spotted someone jumping up and down and waving like crazy. It was Joe; I didn’t even know he was back in town. I didn’t recognise him at first, he’d lost so much weight. His condition was plainly getting worse. We agreed to meet the next day when, over coffee, we caught up on all our news. He smiled a lot, but I don’t think he was having a good day on his medication. It made him irritable and drowsy.

  We talked about everything that day and the memories of Freddie flooded out of us. He came to visit me for about four hours to see my home. He told me he was planning to set up a small business, perhaps a bed and breakfast place somewhere, and enthused about it. He also said he was planning a trip to Japan and asked if I’d like to join him. I said no. I felt it was one of those places which held just too many memories of Freddie for me to handle so soon. I ran Joe back to his home and we hugged and said goodbye.

  About ten days later Phoebe rang me out of the blue. That morning an old friend of mine had died and I told him I was feeling a little down.

  ‘You’d better brace yourself,’ he said softly. ‘Joe died this morning.’ I was shattered; totally devastated. I just couldn’t believe it. The shock of Freddie’s death hadn’t prepared me in any way for the pain of Joe’s.

  Since November 1991 the three of us had become very close. We’d got to know the chapters in our private lives we’d never discovered when Freddie was alive. From the moment we shared The Mews we bonded into close friends. Suddenly we were all fully aware of each other, both our good habits and our bad. I’m glad I remain in touch with Phoebe, and I’m reassured to think that he’s still there.

  I went back to Garden Lodge with my crazy bouquets for Freddie in September and November 1993. On each visit Mary invited me in for a few moments. I would have loved to have been allowed just once to take a look at Freddie’s garden to see how it is turning out, but it never seems right to ask.

  I’ve heard nothing from Mary since the second anniversary of Freddie’s death. I have spoken to her on the phone, but haven’t received a letter from her. I try to let bygones be bygones, and when I went to Italy I sent her a postcard. She told me how nice it was to hear from me.

  But Mary seemed to have some strange ideas about Freddie’s last days. She told me Freddie had lost his sight completely long before he died, but I don’t think he had. One day Mary and I were in Freddie’s bedroom and I switched on the television. Mary told me Freddie couldn’t stand the thought of the television being on, though it was news to me. He and I watched television together on many of our evenings when Mary had gone home, and he never once asked me to turn it off. No, if Freddie’s sight did fail him, it only happened on that final Sunday, 24 November.

  Mary also said a lot to the press after Freddie’s death about how much pain he had suffered. I resent her remarks. I never knew him to complain about his deteriorating condition, not once. And I’m surprised that if he did complain about pain he would only confide in Mary. After all, it was Joe and Phoebe who were giving him his medication. I consider Mary’s remarks a slight on the doctors who looked after Freddie so well right up until the end.

  Some of my things remain at Garden Lodge. I clean forgot about the trunk of goodies, including the ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ lyrics, which Freddie had got out of storage for me a year before he died. The chest is probably still in the workshop where I was stor
ing it. If not, then I hope the lyrics weren’t thrown out by mistake. That would be a tragedy.

  While I may not have the original lyrics to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ any more, I do have the original lyrics for ‘How Can I Go On’, written by Freddie in his own hand. I had a little old suitcase which was full of a bits and pieces and I guess Freddie slipped them in there for me one day. On the Barcelona album ‘How Can I Go On’ follows ‘Guide Me Home’, and I’ll listen to them together over and over.

  The papers constantly repeated an old quote of Freddie’s that everyone fell in love with his stardom. I can honestly say I didn’t. He could have been a road-sweeper for all I cared. His stardom was just part of his work and I didn’t fall in love with it, any more than he fell in love with my work as a barber.

  The final resting-place of Freddie’s ashes has become something of a riddle, but I’m pretty sure I know where they are. Maybe two or three months before he died Freddie was sitting in the sunshed, Number 27 bus shelter, with Mary and me, just after we’d fed the fish. He turned to us and said: ‘I want you both to promise me to have my ashes buried there, underneath the weeping cherry tree, so I can keep my eye on all of you!’ So Freddie’s final resting-place should be at Garden Lodge at the foot of the weeping cherry with a rare vantage point over the whole place.

  The ashes were not collected from the undertakers for the best part of a year. One report said his parents had collected them and they were on their mantelpiece, but I never believed that for a second. I’m sure Freddie is at the foot of the cherry tree, but perhaps the fact has never come out so as to dissuade fans from turning up at Garden Lodge uninvited.

  While Phoebe was making all the cremation arrangements at the North London Cemetery he’d also sorted out a memorial for Freddie there. The plot Phoebe selected was absolutely terrific and cost about £25,000. Initially everyone was in favour of it, but when it came to paying for it, £25,000 was deemed too expensive. The reservation was promptly cancelled. Am I angry? Yes. I’m only explaining this now because if the memorial had gone up, as we all hoped, it would have given the fans the chance to pay their respects in the right setting.