by Unknown
Quite frankly Aunt Hester was glad of the money. Life was ANYTHING but easy in Kings Park. Goodness, how kind she was. How we ganged up on York when he had his ‘huffs’ .. how careful I was laying out the table for his weekly Bridge parties. How they managed with me I’ll never know. But they did, somehow …
[…] I dont, honestly, think that my reportage was ‘vengful’ in my book. I did my best to explain that it was mostly MY fault. The absolute impossibility of the two very different temprements joining or even understanding each other. Hopeless; they did their best, I did my best, but we were never going to make it work. Except when he went off to Ireland .. then Sadie was a quite different person. Almost jolly, always smart and trim, and ready to do something exciting! Like going to the cinema or to hear the Orpheus Choir, or some thing .. she was a very different person.
Anyway: that time is all over and gone. They were part of a lost age. Brave, genteel, always hard up but ever proud.
Jimmy1 was another thing. You have caught him well. My Mama got him his big break with the 600 Group, he used to come and stay with us in the country with his very ‘good pal’ Hugh Heather .. and Other Uncles … but he jolly well knew that being with the Murrays was to be the death of us all. He was wonderfully kind: gave me small gifts of money, a scarf, a shirt sometimes. Always rich and elegant and adored by the family. I speak, of course, of the early ’thirties. I never knew him in the later years. Or Nona, come to that … and apart from Sadie and Willie,2 whome I saw for a meal when I was in Glasgow with some play, I never saw any of them again … goodness me.
Thanks for writing anyway. It was really strange to find out ‘What Happened Afterwards’ and how extremely good and patient you were during all those years. They must have cherished you greatly … I am only sad that Hester did’nt live to see you rewarded academically, she so desperatly wanted it for both of you. It was the dream she held closest to her heart all her life. I know that for a fact … And you both rewarded her!
I’ll finish this rigmarole now … with great affection, ever ..
Your Cousin
Dirk
To John Coldstream Cadogan Gardens
17 August 1992
My dear John –
I am truly sorry: I really cant deal with this chap.1 I am a simple (in all senses of the word) man .. and I am, to a large extent fairly logical.
I cant make this effort out. It is, in my opinion, over-written, pretensious, poetic, illogical and incomprehensible.
It would be quite wrong for me to attempt to review it, I have no doubt whatsoever that it will win all the prizes.2 It’s that kind of book, but I defy any ‘ordinary’ reader, and I count myself as one of that ungainly group, to carry on to the end without longing to chuck the thing at the wall.
It is a book written by someone who obviously adores the English language but who does’nt know it as a ‘mother tongue’.3
It dazzles with cleverness and research. But unless you get a real cock-stand from de-fusing bombs, unless you can really believe in someone so appalingly burned that he looks like a tar-baby but is still capable of quoting, chirpily, chunks of Herodotous and manages to exist on morphine .. unless, in fact, you can suspend belief on a very high level, then this fails utterly.
Sure, he’s done his homework (too much) sure he knows his mines and his Classics. He does’nt know much about the Human Heart or the people about whome he writes. And the moment that impossible ‘Kip’4 enters stage left all belief vanishes.
A most irritating Sunday! Irritation with myself for my ignorance, irritation with the pretensiousness, irritation that I am not capable of ‘reading’ Kandinksi or Jason Pollock. This fellow is the literary equivalent of those two painters. And that sinks me.
With humble apologies. I did think, after two chapters, that perhaps I MIGHT make it … foolish fellow.
Yours
Dirk
To Penelope Mortimer Cadogan Gardens
15 December 1992
Penelope –
A relief to get your letter. I did not write or telephone for fear of disturbing you. Or whatever. I am so very relieved that the book1 is ‘finished or otherwise’ (whatever that might mean) but more to the point that you appear to be alright.
Of course use anything you consider useful from my letters .. they were sent to you anyway. I cant really believe there is anything ‘funny and good’ to use, but I have’nt seen them since writing them! I am locked half way through my FINAL auto. Difficult. I have destroyed one half already (I bought myself a shredder from Rymans. Glorious fun!) so I will be late for the dead-line in Feb. Sold already .. thats the third book sold this year. Do I swank?
You betcha ..
Anyway I am no longer an actor I now write only. The 16 shows I did all over the UK were a glorious realisation that people actually read what I wrote and liked me anyway. Tears and love. Sickening if you did’nt realise it was true. I have stopped, prudently, at the top … no more now.
But I still would love to see you when this daft business is over .. in the New Year? You write … meanwhile all my love .. I seem to think, probably quite wrongly, that I pushed you to get this book written that day in your garden?
If so I’m proud, if not so, I’m thrilled that you have done it!
The bloody M. whatever, is feet high. It must be the growing season in S. Africa, or Beth Chatto2 ‘spelled’ it. It’s glorious. And no frost.
Yet.
Great love –
D XX
To Mary Dodd Cadogan Gardens
23 February 1993
Mainie my dear –
Your letter has moved me greatly.3 I wanted to write this to you rather than just telephone. But I have had to wait for various bits and pieces, rather like you!, to go away or be dealt with before I could properly sit down and concentrate.
Lu has been with me for the week-end, I took her home yesterday, she had read the MS which had shattered her but, like you, she offered no criticism. Just wept!
I am so deeply grateful to you for the care and trouble which you have taken to read, and consider, the book. Because of your re-action and also because Lu’s so agreed with yours, I have told Viking to go ahead. I had, as you know, grave doubts about it all.
My main terror was that I might have sullied, in some way, the wealth of those years which I was permitted to spend with Tote.
Capatalise, I think is the word I want. But I really did’nt think of that while I was writing. And I was on the thing for eighteen months as you know! I tried, very hard, to keep as calm, clear, and uncluttered as possible … because I have to remember that it is to be read by strangers. Sometimes hostile strangers at that. I did’nt want in any way to spoil what was for me the most perfect relationship of my life. The sheer ‘goodness’ of Tote had to be preserved at all costs. I pray that I have done that. You so much as suggest that I have.
It is a tribute to him. I know that he would have been very embarressed if he had ever thought that he was considered so highly, and with so much affection and respect: as well as love. For love it was .. is.
All the events took place, I have naturally disguised place names and the names of the people. I am not in the Mayle1 pitch.
Otherwise, this, is how it was. I was not ready to try and write dispassionatly really. It took a lot of courage and a lot of diciplin. And it was exceptionally painful. I finished on the 4th of this month feeling relief but, the next day, discovered a gigantic cold-spot on my lip, an agonizing back, and a deep longing to sleep for years!
I had not realised that 18 months of ‘going back’ could be so very disturbing. All the time I have been wondering if I could have done better .. NOT left the hill, kept, somehow, going up there. But finally Tote’s own fear of ‘being ill in a foreign language’ convinced me that we simply had to close up the shop. So, for better or for the worst, that is what happened. I feel that what he had to contend with, and always with such grace and good humour, had to be honoured.
If that is not too silly a word? He was as brave as could be, as strong and un-complaining as you could imagine. His main worry was how I would be able to cope. Naturally! So I was determined not to let him down, and I honestly, hand on heart, dont think I did.
Hope not.
Your help has been invaluable. Really and truly. For had you felt the least twing of distress over any matter of taste or behaviour I know that you would have told me so. Equally with Lu; I begged her to say if I had erred, or caused her distress.
She assured me not [ … ] She just was appalled that so many quite dreadful things happened in such a short time. Nothing seemed to go right .. and nothing did! [ … ]
We have, or rather I have, added a short piece at the very end of the book about re-discovering your book, JERICHO,1 in the office on the day I got back from filming in France. It is essential really. I dont know why I dropped it .. but I wanted to end on an Up Note .. and the film seemed to be the right one. Fanny Blake (My Editor) said that JERICHO was every bit as important to me, she thought, because from it I gained confidence to write on, and then go on stage and ‘do’ the Concerts. I think she’s probably right. Anyway: it’s there, just before the very last lines. I DO think it was fortunate to hear a recording of an Operetta of Offenbachs’ with that splendid last line!
‘If you cant have what you love, you must love what you have.’
Very, very true.
Thank you darling girl … I feel braver now that I have your views, and indeed your approbation … the Editors, the Publicity, all the others at Viking dont really count for me. They did’nt know Tote .. with the exception of Fanny Blake, who did and adored him. But they have all been wonderfully patient and have not pushed me into publishing at all. Until you and Lu had read it .. and no one could be closer or wiser than you two .. I held off. They understood. I wrote today to say it was all alright. I’d take the can. As my agent, Pat Kavanagh, rightly said, ‘Dirk! After all that, surely you have grown another carapace?’
I suppose I will?
Thank you again. I treasure your letter … it is more helpful than you could ever imagine.
With my profound love & gratitude.
Ever,
Dirk XXXOOO
To Daphne Fielding Cadogan Gardens
5 May 1993
Dearest Field –
I should be doing one of three urgent things: I should be planting out my vile little pansies .. and then watering the buggers, I should be scurrying on with Chapter 2 of the sequel (!) to ‘JERICHO’, I should be filing the Statements from Lloyds Bank, and I should be finishing off an imagined view of the Piazza San’ Marco which I have scribbled for some bloody Charity. Instead I write to you in reply to your lovely letter of last week. I do thank you. You seem to be getting back into form again .. and that is good news, handwriting same old elegant loops and swoops, Basildon Bond yet!
Easter was loathesome, and as if that was not enough I got back from Italy just intime to have May Day .. Christ! And it was howling with rain and bitter wind and I’d just left Milan the day before in blazing sunshine and bright Italian skies. How GOOD it was to be back! How wise I was to accept the chance to do the ‘promotion’ of ‘JERICHO’ in Italian. My first foreign promo. and my first time back in Italy for over twenty years! And it was exactly the same. Not a thing had changed. Apart, that is from the waiters and bar men and conciergies in the Hassler. But I was treated like a Prince. They were so wonderfully kind and loving, and I honestly felt that I had only just driven down the road from dotty Villa Bertie to get the London papers. But of course I had’nt.
Frankly I was alarmed to go entirely on my own. So I didnt. I took a very nice girl from my Publishers called Nicki1 who was bright, clever, and had never set foot in Rome before. But I feared that I’d fall over, get a rush of blood to the head, limp everywhere, and feel exhausted and faint with terror.
Quite, my dear, the reverse! I simply adored the whole four days .. it was the best fun. Not a wheeze of asthma, not a hobble, not a moment of doubt. I just lay back, worked my ass off with interviews and TV, and was put up in the old Hassler with a view down the Steps, in Rome, and in the Principe de Savoya2 in Milan .. with a glorious room and a view over a Fun Fair called Luna Park.
However there was double-glazing to the room. So that was alright! Mind you I never left the hotels, except to dine, and then by super Mercedes, and never even trod on a pavement in Rome .. there simply was’nt time.
We started at eight every morning, four interviews (together) each hour, until eight in the evening. Remember: the Italians work late! And hard … but everytime I felt weariness overcome me someone handed me a flute of Krug and I very soon recovered all my strength! What was splendid was that none of this splendour cost me a thing. I just hope that Longanesi, my very grand publishers, sells some books. Certainly the reviews were favourable, and I got plasted all over Italy in two top TV shows .. (which terrified me.) Except I had a marvellous translator, a girl, who works normally in Brussels for the Common Market people. So she does instant translation … you just chatter away and she translates there and then, quite brilliantly. She was called Olga, was as black as a chimney and came from Putney! But she was quite marvellous .. four fluent languages and she was only about twenty five or so.
So that took the fear out of the job. One program was an hour and a half long, at ‘peak time’ and devoted ENTIRELY to books and writers! Can you imagine that happening here in the UK? The other programme was a sort of Chat Show but composed, that evening when I did it, of Doctors, Surgeons, and Consultants! How the hell, I wondered desperatly, will I fit into this! I was Special Guest and left to the last, which was useful, because, with Olga’s help, I could understand the dialogues .. so I was able to pitch in as Vice President UK of Voulantry Euthanasia, and one of the Vice Presidents of B.A.C.U.P .. my cancer charity. So that was all very fortunate … thank goodness I paid some heed to being a ‘Pollyanna’ inspite of some jeers here!
I went, with my ‘Team’ from the Publishers, down to Bologanaisi in Piazza del Popolo1 for supper. Although the patron, who was marvellous and kind, had retired, his son now about forty, had taken over and I got the best table and great affection .. and not a picture on the wall, not a chair, table, curtain, nothing at all had changed! It was so odd, twenty something years older, to be in the very same setting as once I had been as a younger man. I liked it enormously … and the grub! Well .. need you ask .. all the spring vegetables, the baby lamb, the kid, the freshly made tortolini, ravioli, brains in butter, zucchini, figs and tiny attichokes .. it made Nicki fall spell bound! And the next night, on the roof at the Hassler I showd her Rome at night and she just burst into tears. No noise, just quiet tears spilling down her face. I told her I had done exactly the same thing on my first night looking down on Rome. So that was rather nice for me to be able to hand on cherished memories to a younger person who would, one day I knew, count that as one of HER cherished memories. So sometimes there is a pleasure in growing old. Not often, I know, but just sometimes.…
I have now been asked to go to Athens in October .. but I dont think I’ll go.. ‘A Short Walk ..’ is published then. It would be tiresome to miss that here, although I am certain to be slagged off … never mind. It would be cowardly to duck out and chuck it all. ‘Great Meadow’ goes out, read by me, in Whitsun Week at 8.45 am BBC .. it’s a very important ‘slot’ I gather. It’s in the Whitsun Recess .. but why that makes it important I dont know. Do all the Politicians listen in then? Or what? ‘Jericho’ is a Book At Bedtime in June-July. Read by me … I would’nt let anyone else do it. I’m recording an abridged version of ‘A Short Walk ..’ on Wednsday. This is on cassette, as ‘GREAT MEADOW’ is, for private sale.2
A new venture of Penguin! Rather a good idea. Talking Books are becoming very popular now. Not just for the blind but all over. So that all helps the coffers a bit.
Oh dear, yes […] I seem to be forever dipping into my pocket.3 It’s so damned difficult. I appea
r, to the world at large, to be without responsibilities! No wife, no children, and so I have to spread myself a bit all round [ … ] Lally needs a bit of help .. not to mention Thomas, my adopted grandson! Now at University on a grant of £50 a week. What in the name of God can you do with that? So Uncle has to work .. which is really just as well. I’d be really in a pickle if I hadnt got something to do … and I do rather like my Scotch at six!
[…] I was watering a hanging geranium, just before starting this letter, it’s in a pretty terracotta wall-pot just above Bacchus’s1 head! So instead of wine, his libation, which he does’nt altogether care for, is a mix of water, earth, peat and Growmore! He sports a narrow brown moustache … I better go and wipe it off. It’ll be dry now. Then I’ll look out something to eat for supper. No lovely Hassler grub here .. or Bologanasie goodies … I really MUST try a rissoto on Saturday. Tide comes up from Sussex for her monthly spoil … just three days […] I cook her delicious things .. and Nicki bought me a huge packet of dried porcini mushrooms in Rome as a prezzie .. I’ll use them in my rissoto … juicing up, I leave you, with love and hugs ..
As ever, dearest Field – D XXXOOO
To Penelope Mortimer Cadogan Gardens
9 June 1993
Penelope –
Well: alright then. Sulk if you want to .. or whimper away that we are, or have, ‘drifted’.
What a soppy word. I certainly dont feel drifty .. not at all .. I am still your friend and always will be. I dont drift. I remain prudent and dont intrude. Alright? ‘Little Boys Should Be Seen ..’ and all that stuff. The fact that ever since I started out as an actor I have denied that edict (is it one?) and never stopped drawing attention to myself in every disgusting way is neither here nor there.
