The room was packed as the Half-Dozen swung into action and soon George was at the front awaiting his cue. Helped by Mike, he made his stately way to centre stage, pausing regally to shake my hand before he took his seat.
‘Old rockin’ chair’s got me . . .’
The power in his voice was still amazing. Our back-chat patter proceeded smoothly enough and at the end, following a top E flat, Louis Armstrong style from my cornet, the audience rose to its feet. Diana was smiling. And regularly, as the set proceeded, the cameraman skilfully panned between the two of them as well as following the solos of the Half-Dozen. This felt like a good night.
And it was. Shots completed, Diana left at half-time (‘Now I can tell dirty jokes,’ said George with a wicked gleam) and, although the vocals took their own eccentric course at one or two points, there was a great deal of useable footage at the end and the crew headed by Sally George and Katie Buchanan from Walkergeorge Films were delighted. So was the audience who gave our star a deserved standing ovation as ‘Nuts’ came to an end.
‘It’s nice how you all look after him,’ said Sally.
I was always disarmed by the compliment, occasionally offered by friendly onlookers. ‘It’s a pleasure and a privilege,’ I said.
The day after was Easter and I took the opportunity to spend a couple of relaxed days with friends. Then on Tuesday, as the Easter weekend turned back to the everyday business of the year, the phone rang and it was Jack Higgins.
‘Oh there you are!’ he said. ‘How was Saturday?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘George was on fine form. The crowd was packed. And we had a standing ovation. I’ve got lots of money for you.’
‘Good,’ said Jack. ‘Send it all off! I’ll deduct the VAT and George’s fee and send you the rest. The usual one-and-nine.’
‘Fine,’ I said laughing. ‘And how was Easter?’
‘Well, quiet,’ said Jack. ‘But all right!’
‘I’ll look forward to seeing you. Take good care!’
‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said.
But then the phone rang again and it was George. ‘I’m very cross with you,’ he said in mock ire. ‘Did you tell Mike that we shouldn’t sell at the end of the gig?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I did tell him he might have to help as we were busy with the film company.’
‘The film company,’ said George, ‘is there to film. Your job is to sell. And we might have sold a lot more had you been there.’ It was nice to know that I was indispensable on occasion!
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say that. And I’ll end with a west-country motif. Had you been caught by some country constable – shall we say scrumping apples – you would have been led back to the scene of the crime and given a thick ear.’
I laughed, still amazed at the diversity of his thought processes. ‘I’m sorry, as I said. And please give Mike my love.’ It seemed likely that we were all coming in for a little bit more of his censure. But quickly I shook off the feelings of regret.
Then Diana Melly was on the phone. ‘What are we to do with George on future gigs? Who’s going to look after him?’
That day, a new email arrived. Diana wanted to discuss arrangements for getting George to gigs, how George needed help with dressing and that, as he now needed a minder, another room would have to be booked at gigs.
The next morning I rang Diana, full of sympathy at her situation. We spoke at some length about George’s plight.
‘I only have a few minutes as I have to take George to the hospital. But now we’ve agreed that George needs a full minder at all times. So I’m arranging two single rooms, and Mike, or Chris who lives with us, will be with him. And I’m very concerned that at no time does he turn into a totem-pole for ridicule.’
‘I absolutely agree,’ I said. ‘And we’ll take care of that.’
‘He is getting absolutely impossible to live with,’ said Diana. ‘The other day he started talking to me about Mannie Shinwell – remember him? He was one of the Attlee government. And although he lived to be a hundred he’s been dead for twenty years. George started talking about him digging a coalmine in someone’s back yard just because they were rich. And he said, “It’s last month.” I said, “George – I don’t think so.” And he started to shout at me.’
I remembered the fatigues and frustrations that go with attending invading sickness; I had had them even with my own mother. ‘It must be absolute hell,’ I said. ‘I know a little of how you feel.’
‘What is this,’ she asked, ‘about George getting a lawyer to get Len Skeat to fill in his lottery forms?’
‘Oh, that comes from an old argument. Len tends to get under George’s skin as he likes to try and top him and George of course is very bright and tends to resent the competition. So months ago he told Len that if he had regular numbers and they came up – and Len hadn’t filled his form in, especially as he was once very rich and isn’t any more – he would have great cause for regret. And it’s turned into a sort of mantra, with a germ of truth in it, to be fair. That sometimes happens when people begin to approach senility.’
‘He’s not senile,’ returned Diana. ‘He has vascular dementia. The Society gets very upset if people say “senile”. Humphrey Lyttelton could be called senile because he’s old. The word just means “old”.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘Humph certainly isn’t senile. He’s in fine shape and as sharp as a tack. And it’s only a word. But I’ve always understood the word to mean that old people’s mental capacity is reducing.’
‘Look it up in a dictionary,’ she said.
‘Certainly,’ I said and made for my Collins office volume. ‘According to this definition, it is “mentally or physically weak or infirm on account of old age”.’
‘Well, that’s wrong,’ said Diana. ‘Look it up in some others. I have to take George to the hospital now.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s not argue about it. Have a good day. Goodbye!’
Two days later a note from Diana arrived, scribbled on the back of a textbook explanation of dementia in which text had been highlighted for my benefit, explaining why the term ‘senility’ should not be used. She had become a devoted sympathiser to the cause.
Over the next few days it became increasingly clear that Diana’s campaign to publicise George’s decline had worked her into the public’s consciousness. However, one less-than-sympathetic onlooker had unfairly accused her of ‘banging on’ about the matter. At numerous venues I was constantly asked not just how George was, but also whether he had ceased working, or had even died. And it occurred to me again that, given my friend’s wish to perform until the end, her well-meant campaign might not be encouraging that situation to remain a reality.
Jack Higgins felt so too. Our conversations had become those of old friends.
‘I don’t know what she’s up to,’ said Jack. ‘But you might be interested in a chat I had with her last Sunday, at 8.30 at night.’
‘What was that?’ I asked.
‘Some time ago George was offered a part in a film; just making an appearance to sing a song. Nothing came of it. But Diana rang and said, “George is convinced that he’s making a film and that he’s going to play Jesus in it. And consequently he’s growing a beard.” Can you imagine that? Given George’s views on religion, I would have thought that an appearance as the anti-Christ might be more suitable.’
We laughed together. But reports from his west London home were becoming more limited as the days went by. Mike remained a regular visitor and guardian to look after George, along with his in-house guest Chris, who was now to take on some of the driving chores. Then on Wednesday, 18 April, just after I’d come back from an enjoyable but boozy governors’ meeting at Southend High School, at 10.30 a.m. the phone rang and it was Diana again. She sounded disturbed and the undertone of hysteria that had occasionally entered her voice of late was present again.
‘Digby,’ she said. ‘I want to talk
to you!’
‘What can I do?’ I said.
‘George is completely mad now! You’ve heard that he’s grown a beard? And you know the story?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think it’s impossible for him to go on. Now he thinks he’s John the Baptist. He can hardly walk from his bedroom to the bathroom. He’s even afraid of the stairs now. So he would need help to get from the wheelchair on to the stage. How’s he going to do that? And Chris, and his partner, who are living with him, are occupational therapists and they’re convinced that he’ll be nothing but a laughing stock on-stage. Look at the Bull’s Head last week.’ Her voice rose.
‘I think everybody knows now that George’s performing days are numbered. The publicity that’s surrounded that issue means that I’m constantly being asked if he’s even able to appear on-stage. I know you have his best interests at heart, Di, but I wonder if his ambition to sing until the end of his days is being threatened by that.’
‘But during the last ten days things have got much worse. And I need your support, Digby,’ she continued.
‘You always have my support, Di. Nobody wants George to appear a fool on-stage. And the moment that happens we have to stop. But meantime your first refuge is Jack – Jack Higgins.’
‘I don’t want to tell Jack that he can’t perform any more.’
‘There’s nothing to stop you doing that,’ I said. ‘George has never signed a single contract with Jack. They’ve worked together on a handshake – always. So Jack hasn’t got a leg to stand on in legal terms if he chose to take a stand, which is very unlikely. And I think you have to say when enough is enough.’ I was aware that aligning myself wholeheartedly with Diana’s view might turn me into a graceless pig-in-the-middle, roasted on the spit between artist, agent and wife.
‘But I don’t want the venues suing me,’ said Diana, ‘for breach of contract.’
‘They’d never do that. Illness is a sad thing, but unavoidable. But how about his minders – Mike, Chris and his partner?’
‘They all think it’s time he should stop,’ she said. The recurring thought crossed my mind and I entered dangerous territory.
‘But how much are they there?’ I asked. ‘Chris and his partner have a day-time job, don’t they? So do they perhaps just see him when he’s tired in the evening?’
‘Tired?’ returned Diana. ‘He’s not just tired in the evening, Digby. He never gets out of bed. Last evening I went up to see him and he asked me when lunch would be ready.’
‘It’s a sad thing for him – and for all of us. But in the end the decision belongs with you.’
‘But,’ she said again, ‘I need your support, Digby. You and other friends.’ She sounded distressed and I felt sorry for her and the inevitable trauma she was struggling with.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I come round tomorrow? To see the man. Remember that I’m still really an outsider. But I can talk to him and see for myself what’s happening. Then you and I must have a talk and see where we go from here.’
‘OK,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But ring me before 4.30. I’m going out and George is going to an art exhibition with Mike Pointon.’
‘That sounds hopeful,’ I offered.
‘But he thinks he’s opening it,’ she responded. ‘And that was three weeks ago.’
‘Never mind. Let’s talk tomorrow. And don’t worry too much. Sleep well.’
But deep down I was unhappy. At one side of my stage sat an agent who continued to book an old act – and friend – because he wanted them to do so. At the other stood a distressed woman with her own deep emotions; who clearly loved her husband of almost fifty years, but who was understandably exasperated by him and who seemed (quite admirably) to want to see his career come to a halt before invidious insanity took hold in the public view.
The only answer seemed to be to go back to west London.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Farewell Old King
Thursday, 19 April 2007 dawned bright and sunny, a full-blooming spring morning. It would be a good day in the main; I was due to record my second show for the new radio station the Jazz before my trip to see George. But, despite the optimism of the promises of spring and a visit to the newly flourishing radio station which played jazz music to the nation 24 hours a day, I was still beset with doubts and concern: for George’s future, my own and my beloved band. This could mark the end of our career and what was left of my income. Not for the first time I began to cross my fingers for a Premium Bond win. And strangely, there was one on the mat – for £100! I accepted this small gesture from a kindly deity with gratitude, but was still far from sure about what to do.
Perhaps a second opinion might be a good idea? I rang my constant support Dominic Ashworth whose creative playing and fine judgement had turned him into a close friend in the Half-Dozen. His wife Catherine, wide awake at 7.40 a.m., was a welcoming voice.
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘He’s not up yet. But I think he’s free, though he has a job tonight. And I could pick up the girls from school.’ So Dominic agreed that we would meet that evening to – in Fagin’s latter-day words – ‘review the situation’.
But meantime I decided to call Diana Melly. ‘Hi, Di,’ I said.
‘Hello, Digby. I think it’s a very good idea that you come around and see George. But you know – what you said last night about his being tired in the evening – that’s simply not true. You don’t live here with him.’
‘No, of course I don’t,’ I said.
‘And,’ said Diana, ‘I’ve had Jack on the phone this morning. He suggested that he should speak to George’s doctor and I said “No, Jack! Of course he won’t talk to you!”’ Jack had then, apparently, gone on to suggest that George should be in a home, outraging Diana, though it was probably not a serious suggestion as Jack both wanted to help and had a natural agent’s reluctance to retire his acts.
Promptly at 7.30 a.m. Dominic and I arrived at George’s house to be greeted by a chorus of canine welcome from the yap-yaps and Tina, who introduced herself as one of George’s in-house carers, and welcomed us up to the sitting-room where we sat together to talk about things.
‘He is getting very frail,’ she said, ‘and I think there’s been a quite serious decline over the last ten days or so. He only seems secure in his room and even has a big job with the stairs.’
‘There are special nurses who look after people with dementia and such,’ said Dominic. ‘Do they come in?’
‘They do,’ said Chris. ‘But generally Diana sees them – and they also help with her own problems. Myself and my partner help people with physical and mental health problems. We’ve been here since last September and seen cases like this before. We take him his food and a cup of tea and keep an eye on him. But nowadays he’s reluctant even to take his medication.’
‘Should we pay a call?’ I said.
Chris led us up the stairs and tapped on the door.
‘George,’ he said. ‘Are you awake? Digby and Dominic are here.’
‘Send them up,’ came the regal command and Dominic and I tiptoed in. George was curled up in bed, a dramatically shrunken figure with a growth of white beard, wrapped in a shroud of sheets. The light was low and there was a drab feeling of mortality surrounding the antique bed, dusty furniture and old, once-challenging artefacts that stood in the room. Among them, on the floor, lay a pile of books, the unwanted remnants left by a book dealer who had called that day to assess valuable volumes and take them away for sale.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I have several things to say to you!’ And proceeded with a focused monologue covering many now-familiar areas: my non-appearance at the Bull’s Head sales ten days before (finger wagging); the need for our band to play far more with ‘sweet soft, plenty rhythm’; Len Skeat’s non-compliance to fill in his lottery forms despite financial penury; his determination that – should his final album take off – our band should receive at least a generous portion of the
royalties. ‘You’re a witness!’ he confirmed, pointing to Dominic.
When he came to a halt I leaned forward. ‘But how are you?’ I asked.
‘Well, you can see!’ returned George spiritedly. ‘I’m filled with cancer – from here to here. Vile fluids are leaving my body by day and night. And I’m dying. That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’
Then Dominic – compassionate and ever-ready to listen – leaned forward. ‘But, George,’ he said. ‘Do you want to carry on? Singing? And playing with the band?’
The response was immediate. ‘Of course I do! It’s the only thing I live for!’
Downstairs again, we talked to Chris and Tina. The worries over out-of-town appearances were reiterated; the concept of a ‘farewell concert’ briefly discussed, though it seemed to me we had more urgent matters to think of now.
On the way home I read two letters which had been handed to me by Chris on arrival at George’s house: cautionary warnings over the risks of the future from Michael Woods, his minder most days and, more unusually, a statement typed up by Diana, dated and signed – intriguingly – as ‘George Melly or George Melly’. In Mick Mulligan’s words, ‘there was still a lot going on in that ageing nut.’
But on the way back Dominic was his usual sensible self. ‘What we have to deal with, Dig,’ he said, ‘is an old man who’s dying but simply wants to perform. There mustn’t be contention; it’s gone beyond who’s done what or said what. We simply have to do the best for George. If I were Diana, I know what I’d do. But we have to consider a couple of important issues. One: should we simply suggest that he just sings on open invitation around London with us, so that the mountains must come to Mahomet rather than George feeling obliged to make those long trips? And if he does carry on with those, are we in legal trouble if George dies in one of our cars?’ This was indeed a thought to reckon with.
The next morning I rang Michael urgently. For some months he had been visiting George: washing his hair, listening to the frequently rambling conversations or just sitting to hold his hand. Sometimes the pressures had been considerable.
On the Road with George Melly Page 13
