Francis Bacon in Your Blood

by Michael Peppiatt

  ‘My impression is that you’re working way outside photography while actually absorbing a lot of its techniques,’ I say, ‘a bit the way photography did when it first appeared and had to appropriate so much from painting.’

  ‘Well, I hadn’t thought about that, Michael, but it’s probably true,’ Francis says. After his initial surprise, he’s clearly enjoying the chance to talk more openly about his work. ‘At the same time, there is this very mysterious thing about the actual texture of paint. For some reason, we don’t know why, it comes across on to the nervous system in a more immediate, more abrupt way than, well, the surface of a photo for instance. What’s so strange, too, is that the medium of oil paint is so fluid that you can try to manipulate the chance marks it makes into suggesting how you might be able to develop the image in a way that lies outside illustration. Illustrational form tells you immediately what the form is about, whereas non-illustrational form works first on your sensibility, then gradually leaks back into fact. So that if you’re very lucky, if this sort of accidental thing works for you, you see for a moment how you might be able to bring off this image outside illustration which makes it both a recording of appearance and something that unlocks sensation about life more deeply.

  ‘Of course what one would really love in a portrait is a kind of Sahara of the appearance. To make it so like the thing you’re trying to record, yet seem at the same time to have the distances of the Sahara. As you know, I myself terribly want to avoid telling a story. I only want the sensation – that thing Valéry said, the sensation without the boredom of its conveyance. What I long to do is to undercut all the anecdotes and story-telling yet make an image filled with implications. Make it more specific, yes, but at the same time more general. A kind of concentration that makes it more general. I’ve always believed that great art comes out of reinventing and concentrating what’s called fact, what we know of our existence – a reconcentration that tears away the veils that fact, or truth if you like, acquires over time . . .

  ‘What would be marvellous, in the end, would be to have something like the whole sea at the end of a kind of box you could look into. Just like that. So small and yet to have the whole sea in it. I expect that sounds ridiculous, Michael. It probably is ridiculous. But then life itself is so ridiculous one might as well try to be as brilliant and ridiculous as one can. Now, why don’t we go to Muriel’s and have just a leet-el bit more to drink.’

  We do, copiously, and when I get back to Knightsbridge I tiptoe into David’s flat like a caricature drunk with my shoes in my hand. I try to settle down on the unfamiliar couch, but snatches of what Francis kept saying go round my head so obsessively – ‘great wave of instinct’, ‘more violently on to the nervous system’, ‘brilliant and ridiculous’ – that I think I’ll be up all night and feel even more exhausted tomorrow. Then gradually the wine begins to burn down. I lie there watching the yellowish-orange light from the lamps outside make a gash on the ceiling over my head. So this is London, I remember saying to myself shortly before I fell asleep. This is London, and I travel from one illusion to another.

  I’m going to have one last dinner with Francis before flying back to Paris. We’re meeting at Sheekey’s because that’s where George likes to go. It’s still early evening and I’m going to try to catch John Deakin at one of his haunts in Soho. I know I’m in something of a minority but I’m quite fond of John, perhaps because I like anyone who makes me laugh and also because I’m grateful to him for having introduced me to Francis so adroitly. If John isn’t in the Caves de France, he’ll probably be in the Coach and Horses or the French House. I haven’t been to the French in ages so I go in and find John exactly as when I first met him, hunched in his sheepskin coat on a stool by the bar, cigarette and glass in hand like a saint with his symbols. I shake hands with Gaston behind the bar, like one Frenchman greeting another, and order two large white.

  John is full of news and gossip but lets drop right away that he is now, at last, making sculpture.

  ‘What kind of sculpture?’ I ask. I’m genuinely surprised because I thought photography was his whole life.

  ‘My dear, I see that only hard facts will satisfy your ardent mind,’ John says, drawing out each syllable. ‘If you must know, I’m engaged on a cycle of figurines.’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting,’ I say, a bit too hesitantly. ‘What are they of?’

  ‘If you really must know,’ says John, rolling his eyes to convey the suffering of the eternally misunderstood creator, ‘they consist of a suite of small sculptures of Apollo. Fashioned in terracotta. Et voilà! But of course as with all great art they nearly, literally, killed me.’

  ‘You’re kidding, John?’

  ‘I sure am not kidding, kiddo,’ John says, his voice rising indignantly. ‘In order to bring the figurines forth, first of all I completely stopped drinking.’

  He pauses to let the enormity of the notion sink in.

  ‘Then one morning, it was such a fine morning and the work had been going so well, I thought surely one tiny glass of white wine could do no harm. So I went to that loathsome house on the corner and ordered just one small glass. And the great clodhopper behind the bar – I still don’t know whether it was because he simply didn’t understand what white wine was, or because he thought it funny – served me a glass of Parazone.

  ‘Yes, my dear, Parazone, I know, it simply staggers belief. It’s like Jeyes Fluid. You can imagine. They shoot it down lavatories and things. And it’s mighty strong, I can tell you. To make things worse, I happened to knock the filthy stuff back in one go. And then of course I just did not know what had hit me. I went out like a light, straight off my stool on to the floor. And the very next thing I knew, I was lying in bed in hospital.

  ‘The doctor, who was quite delightful, told me that had my stomach not been so thoroughly lined with alcohol I might well have died,’ John concludes, his voice dropping to a scandalized whisper. ‘Suspended between life and death, my dear, and all because that knucklehead could not, or would not, tell the difference between white wine and lavatory abrasive.’

  By the time I get to Sheekey’s, Francis and George are already sitting at their table. I sense Francis’s irritation as I sit down because I’m a bit late. He himself is punctual to the minute, unless, very rarely, he’s so drunk he’s completely forgotten where he’s meant to be. It’s strange to feel so many contrary extremes in one person: genial and easy-going but also harsh and strict; generous with his time, help and money and mean in his opinions about people; sympathetic, even tender, and cruel. He can also show extraordinary, down-to-earth common sense one moment, then rely on chance or ‘instinct’ the next.

  I tell them about John and although they already know the story this makes them laugh for a moment. But there’s a tension between them. Francis is curt and testy, while George is looking particularly pale and withdrawn.

  ‘The thing is,’ Francis says, ‘poor George hasn’t been feeling at all well, have you, George?’

  ‘No I ’aven’t,’ George nods, with an affirmative snort.

  ‘He’s been on the drink for so long he can’t actually eat.’

  ‘Can’t keep anyfink dahn.’

  ‘So I thought we’d come here because they do a kind of eel broth that sort of just slips down.’

  Francis confers for a moment with the waiters. Then a chef appears and they all stand round nodding.

  George continues to gaze down at the table, pulling hard on his cigarette, his brows knitted in concentration, as if he were trying to work out an insoluble problem.

  ‘I’m going to have to leave you with George,’ Francis suddenly says to me. ‘I hope you don’t mind. There’s somebody I have to see about something, and unfortunately they are not free at any other time. Just order anything you want.’

  I’m surprised, not only because Francis usually seems to have all the time in the world, and also because, however open-handed he is in introducing his friends to each other, he doesn�
�t like the idea of their getting together when he isn’t present. I wonder if Francis’s in some kind of trouble. A gambling debt to settle, perhaps, or some trouble with the gangsters he knows from Tangier. He’s mentioned the Kray twins several times. They’re like celebrities now, always in the news, even though it’s tacitly accepted that they torture and kill people.

  The eel broth arrives. Chef and waiters group round our table. A motherly figure, perhaps the owner, joins us. A bowl of slippery-looking green is slid under George’s nose. George stubs out his cigarette, mindful that he is at the centre of attention. He dips his spoon into the broth and hesitates, raises it to his mouth and hesitates, then manfully swallows it down. A small ripple of applause rewards him. A second, then a third, spoonful follows. George looks up. A faint colour has crept into his cheeks. I think it might be embarrassment. Once the staff have gone back about their business, I try to change the subject.

  ‘I wonder why Francis had to leave,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, ’e’s alwus upter sumfink,’ says George, enigmatically. ‘’E’s alwus seein’ people.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘it’s very nice to see you again, George.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says George. He seems to have perked up considerably. ‘Fing is, I terribly like seein’ you. ’Ere, do you want an ’ave a drink in a really special club? I mean it’s full of really orful people, real villains. But I spose’, he adds, with a cunning look, ‘you college boys git all fright about going to them sort of places.’

  ‘I’m not fright, I mean frightened,’ I say airily. ‘If you say it’s special.’

  ‘Lot of me old friends go there,’ George says. ‘Wenneycan.’

  ‘What d’you mean, when they can?’

  ‘When they’re ahter prison.’

  We clamber into a taxi and I soon lose any sense of where we’re headed. I’m dulled by too much drink over too many days, although my appetite is unimpaired. I wonder how Francis does it, so much booze and so many rich restaurant meals, day in, day out. I may have dozed off in the taxi, because the next thing I know is that George is presenting his member’s card to a large commissionaire in a gold-braided black uniform.

  ‘’Ere,’ he says, ‘’e’s gotta ava tie.’

  ‘You gotta ava tie,’ George repeats rather reproachfully.

  The commissionaire wraps a gaudy Hawaii-style number round my polo-neck.

  ‘Our quaint old English customs,’ I quip.

  We move into a dimly lit space with candles winking at various spots round the room.

  A girl in a Bunny-like outfit takes us to our table.

  ‘We’ll ’ave gins and tonics,’ George says grandly.

  He looks round the dark space.

  ‘They’re all ’ere and an’ all tonight,’ he announces.

  The girl brings the drinks.

  ‘Same again,’ says George.

  The drinks slowly pile up on the table, some drunk, others still fizzing softly away.

  A cabaret begins.

  ‘Them’s reely orful,’ says George admiringly, nodding in a vague direction across the room to a party that’s just arrived. ‘Them’s slit froats.’

  I peer across the room to a group of men in very white shirts and very dark suits.

  ‘Them’s the Twins,’ George says with quiet pride.

  I take this information in and tell myself I should be concerned. I have heard what the Krays do and never imagined I would be in the same room with them. At the same time, the drink has dulled any real sense of panic.

  A new girl has come on. She is pretty and does a dance routine where she keeps changing dresses before going over to an imaginary window, which she rubs vigorously with her hand to look for someone outside.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ George says, following my gaze. ‘That’s my girl. Just in case you fink there’s sumfink funny goin’ on wiv Francis and me. Ain’t nuffink funny.’ He gives an assertive snort and stubs out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray.

  ‘I never thought there was anything funny,’ I assure him. ‘Perfectly alright.’

  The table has filled up with glasses. I’m conscious that some outrage might erupt from a neighbouring table. A throat cut or a head blasted away with a shotgun. I know I need to leave but I can’t, a bit like a recurrent nightmare I have where I get stuck in cement-like mud. But here it isn’t the mud clinging to my boots, it’s George.

  ‘You wanna come back with me?’ George asks out of the blue.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, George,’ I say stoutly. ‘You know there isn’t anything funny.’

  The Bunny lookalike offers to clear the table, but George sends her away. We fumble among the empty glasses to find one that is full.

  ‘I’m on this big job tomorrow,’ George announces suddenly. ‘Knocking off a load of TVs. But of course you college boys don’t ’ave the balls for that kine of fing.’

  I’m drunk and I’m exhausted. I know that. I also know that we shouldn’t be having this conversation. But I’m susceptible to people telling me I don’t have the balls for things.

  ‘Oh I’ve got the balls, George,’ I drawl, taking a long pull at a glass that turns out to be empty. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘Alright then. You’re on,’ says George. His manner has become almost businesslike. ‘We do the job together. Fifty–fifty on the TV sets. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at twelve noon, punctual mind, outside the Dominion on the Tottenham Court Road.’

  ‘OK,’ I say decisively. ‘See you there. Now I’m going to going, I mean I’m going to go.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says George, with a snort. ‘If yer can.’

  I get unsteadily to my feet and weave through the tables. Will one of the Krays trip me up or shoot me in the head? I wonder vaguely, pulling my jacket collar up protectively.

  In the gloom I brush against a muscular shoulder, apologize profusely and am acknowledged by a grunt. The lights in the foyer blaze at the other end, beckoning me on.

  Only another few steps, dodging this table and that, and I emerge into the brightness of freedom.

  Loftily I bid the commissionaire goodnight.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he says, and a big red hand goes for my throat. This is it, I realize in panic, I should be carrying a knife.

  ‘’Ere,’ he says, ripping off the tie. ‘Them’s my ties.’

  ‘His ties, his silly bloody old ties,’ I say to myself as I stumble out into the welcome dark of the street. ‘His silly bloody old ties.’

  Next morning I wake up feeling distinctly hung over and queasy. David has gone off to do some research or other on Persian history at the exotic-sounding School of Oriental and African Studies where he can use the library, so I’m free to douse myself with strong coffee and work out a plan. I’ve said I’ll meet George to do a job, so I’ll meet George. That much is clear, and pretty bloody stupid. I haven’t got myself into a fix like this since my short-lived revolutionary activities. From Mao to the Krays in three easy steps, I think to myself bitterly, you must need your bloody head examined. I get myself together with all the enthusiasm of a man mounting the scaffold, then make sure I arrive at Tottenham Court Road tube in good time. There are several other people waiting outside the Dominion, whom I scrutinize carefully. Are some of them here to do a job with us? There are four American tourists whom I discount immediately. The others are a mix of timid provincials, I think, and blasé Londoners. Miss Beston’s words about George come back to me. ‘I’m not surprised George always gets caught on a job,’ she said. ‘He can never even find his house keys.’ While waiting for my partner in crime I treat myself to a few headlines in the popular press: ‘Art Critic Caught in TV Haul’ or ‘Cambridge Grad in TV Grab’. All very catchy. Gusts of gritty wind keep coming up from the tube and getting into my eyes. I got this far, but now I’m beginning to weep. What the hell am I doing here? It’s 12.20 and the tension of waiting is almost worse than the idea of being caught smashing shop windows and looting. There’s no George on the horiz
on. All the people who were here have been replaced now by other little groups, all of them about as apt to do a job nicking TVs as me. And George. Where’s George? Punctual mind! He can’t be serious. Perhaps he’s still looking for his keys or passed out with drink. The hands of the clock meet at 12.30 and start slowly crawling up the other side. I’m not going to stand here all day, I start harrumphing to myself. Got better things to do. Far, far better things. And startling the couple next to me with a loudly snorted ‘Who doesn’t have balls now?’, I move on, away, God knows where, but with my head held high in the still gritty, strangely healing wind.

  I must have drunk more in one week in London than in an average month in Paris, and now the drink has returned as in a Faustian pact to claim the man. I have been matching Francis and George glass for glass, sometimes over twelve hours or more. One binge with Francis went from champagne at the Ritz to a dinner in Soho with several vintages through several clubs on champagne to a late-night supper at Annabel’s accompanied by more champagne and claret. So we got through a dozen bottles between the two of us, and I’m probably lucky it was just wine, with only a little of the Armagnac that was being lavishly pressed on us by the Soho restaurant manager with a view to pushing up his tip. I like to think I can hold my drink but it’s caught up with me, and from having felt vaguely woozy I am now definitely off-colour. How would Francis cope with the problem, I wonder, as I often do when I’m trying to resolve a situation, but I already know the answer: crack open yet another bottle to wash your liverishness away. I can actually picture Francis, pink with health and chuckling, filling my glass once more to the brim. My gorge rises, and I almost vow, like John, never to touch the stuff again.