Any Human Heart (22 page)

It was a little overcast this morning, so Tim Farino and I went to play golf at the Plateau du Phare Club in Biarritz. Tim’s not a bad player, but we were both rusty with lack of practice. I had just birdied the ninth hole and was teeing up at the tenth when a man in white flannels and a blazer approached us, announcing himself as secretary of the golf club, and asking if we would mind allowing a distinguished visitor the opportunity of playing the back half ahead of us. Our green fees would be reimbursed, he added by way of incentive, and gestured at a couple of men walking down the gravel path from the club house, followed by caddies.

‘Are you English or American?’ the secretary asked.

‘I’m
English,’ I said.

He leant forward and whispered, ‘It’s the Prince of Wales.’

And of course I recognized him immediately as he drew near. He’s a small, delicately made man and was wearing immaculate plus fours with ankle boots. He was carrying a flat tweed cap and his blond hair was thick and oiled in an immaculate part. He was with a taller, older, slightly untidily dressed man who was not introduced — an equerry, I supposed.

The secretary, bowing and scraping, explained that these English gentlemen had kindly agreed to give way.

We shook hands: I introduced myself and Tim.

‘Awfully good of you,’ said the Prince. ‘We just want to get in a quick nine holes before luncheon. Don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.’

We stood back and watched them drive off. The Prince had a stiff, awkward swing — not a natural sportsman, I would say. They strode off — and then the Prince came jogging back, an unlit cigarette in his hand.

‘Got a light?’ he said. I took out a box of matches and lit his cigarette.

‘Couldn’t spare the box, could you?’ he said and gave me his famous smile.

‘All yours, sir,’ I said, handing them over.

‘Thanks. What was your name again?’

I told him. Logan Mountstuart, sir.

Later. Ben says the Prince has taken a house here and that the American woman, Mrs Simpson, chaperoned by her aunt, is with him. Some ribald speculation ensued. Tim says he knew her vaguely before she married Simpson — knew her first husband, a terrible drunk, by all accounts. Freya didn’t understand our innuendoes, so we explained about Lady Furness being supplanted and the new favourite. She was amazed: she knew nothing of all this. I realized I’d heard all the gossip from Angus Cassell. Ben said it was common knowledge in Paris.

Worth noting these encounters, I think, however nondescript — the gift of a box of matches to the future King of England. We forget, otherwise. What else? He was wearing no tie.

Freya goes back tomorrow and I intend to stay on until the end of the month — perhaps go on to the Lot and stay with Cyprien. ‘Think of me on Monday morning walking into the BBC,’ Freya said, as we lay in bed, giving a half groan, half scream. ‘And think of me thinking of you lot down here. IT’S NOT FAIR!’

‘You’ve got to give up your job,’ I said, reaching for her.

‘And what would I do then?’ she said. ‘Become a writer?’

Freya off on the train to Paris. I begged her to stay on in Draycott Avenue, to think of the flat as hers and she promised to consider it. ‘If I move in,’ she said, ‘I’ll be paying my share of the rent.’ I demurred half-heartedly — every little helps. ‘I’ll not be your kept woman, Logan,’ she said sternly. How I’ll miss her.

These have been magical days down here on the coast. I am burnt brown but Freya, my northern goddess, doesn’t like the sun as much as I do. To remember: wading hand and hand into the big surf at Hendaye. Standing naked at the window, looking out on the garden at night, feeling the cool air on my body, listening to the drilling noise of the cicadas, Freya calling me back to bed. Long conversations around the lunch table — as extra wine is fetched to see us through the afternoon — Cyprien, Ben and me arguing about Joyce; Geddes making the case for Braque against Picasso; talking about the spitefulness of Bloomsbury — Freya stoutly defending Mrs Woolf against all comers; analysing Scott Fitzgerald’s new novel
²¹
(apparently his wife is insane, Alice says). Nights in the casino, dancing to the jazz band. Freya winning a thousand francs at blackjack — her unmitigated joy at this unearned gift of money.

Ben has been a discreet and true friend, given he was an usher at my wedding. I tried to explain the situation vis-à-vis Lottie but he didn’t want to hear. ‘I don’t care, Logan. You live your life and I’ll live mine. I won’t judge you — just as long as you’re happy. I’d hope you’d do the same for me.’ I assured him I would.

He told me a lot about Gris and how ill he had been at the end of his life. He said, if I were interested, he could lay his hands on a small ‘but exquisite’ late still life. How much? I said. £50, he said, cash. I can’t afford it but something in me made me say I’d take it. He went off immediately to make a telephone call to Paris.

Vague ideas rove around my head about setting a novel here, around such a summer house-party as this.

The Juan Gris, ‘Ceramic Jar and Three Apricots’, hangs above the fireplace in Draycott Avenue. The walls are covered with my other drawings and oils. In August Freya painted the room dark olive and on these gloomy evenings, with winter coming on, the lamps seem to glow with an extra warmth, backed against the earthy greenness that surrounds them.

Freya has decided to live here on condition that she contributes something to the rent (£5 a month). She punctiliously hands me a fiver on the first day of each new month (I’m not ashamed to say every little helps — but I see I’ve already mentioned that above — which doesn’t make it any less true). I’ve now borrowed to the full extent of my
Cosmopolitans
advance. All the money I made from
The Girl Factory
is tied up in blue-chip shares and insurance policies, which I can’t cash without alerting Lottie, or Aelthred, even worse. Wallace urges me to deliver
Cosmopolitans,
but I keep telling him I haven’t the time to spare as I’m doing so much extra journalism these days, to make ends meet. I suggested doing a monograph on Gris, but Wallace shot that down at once — saying I’d be lucky if I got £10.

At lunch the other day:

WALLACE: I thought you said you had an idea for another novel.

ME: Just a vague idea. About a group of young people, couples, sharing a villa at Biarritz for the summer.

WALLACE: Sounds excellent. I’d read that.

ME: I thought of calling it
Summer at Saint-Jean.

WALLACE: You can’t fail with ‘Summer’ in the title. I could get you £500 tomorrow.

ME: Wonderful. But when am I meant to write it?

WALLACE: Write a synopsis. Two pages. A few lines. Time’s running out, Logan.

That sounded ominous — clearly my
Girl Factory
credit is all but used up. So I sat down and tried to put something on paper. As a simple experiment, I took our situation at Biarritz, changed everyone’s names, created extra tensions, external pressures (wives, ex-lovers). Suddenly, like Wallace, I could see the huge potential in this idea — the sex appeal, abroad, the freedom of summer heat by the ocean — but I couldn’t unleash it, no matter how I tried.

Snowed-in at Thorpe. Snow piled up to the window ledges. It would be rather beautiful and romantic if I were here with Freya and not Lottie and Lionel, who seems to have whooping cough. I hear the raucous mocking call of the rooks in the elms — Freya-Freya-Freya — they seem to cry.

Udo Feuerbach has asked me to do a piece on the Bauhaus and lent me photographs from his collection. I marvelled at the pictures of the girls in the weaving rooms — beautiful and free. One of them looked like Freya. I can’t escape.

We dined at LuigI’s and went on to the Café Royal. It was busy, full of unfamiliar faces. Spotted and spoke briefly with Cyril and Jean who were with Lyman? Leland? [unidentified]. They left shortly after. Then Adrian Daintrey
²²
came in with a party in evening dress — which included Virginia Woolf,
²³
smoking a cigar. I let them have our table and during the general milling around that took place I introduced Freya to Woolf. ‘Are you two here alone?’ she said to Freya. ‘What a ghastly crowd. How it’s changed.’

‘We were here with Cyril Connolly, a moment ago,’ Freya said.

‘Was his black baboon with him?’ VW asked.

Freya didn’t know what she was talking about.

‘His little gollywog wife.’

I turned to Freya. ‘Now you understand Mrs Woolf’s reputation for charm.’ Back to VW. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

We strode out and when we reached home had our first serious row. Freya was a little shocked at VW’s spite. I said you would never imagine the person who wrote all that lyrical breathy prose was steeped in such venom. ‘At least she writes,’ Freya said, without thinking. But it cut and so we looked around for something to argue about and duly found it. Now I’m writing this, about to go to sleep on the sofa, and I can hear Freya sobbing next door in the bedroom.

To a dull exhibition of collages and photographs at the Mayor Gallery. Enlived only by being cut dead by Mrs Woolf — positively spun on her heel to avoid me. Clearly I am not forgiven.

Went on to
artrevue
offices and drank wine with Udo. He listened patiently while I raged at the mediocrity of English art. He told me they have signs up in every German town now saying
Die Juden
sind hier unwünscht
[No Jews wanted here]. You can hardly believe it possible. But Udo said it put things in perspective: we could tolerate a moribund art scene without too much pain, he said: there were other consolations for living in London.

Movements: Norfolk — London — Norfolk. Paris — Rome (for Easter. Three days with Freya). We plan our summer: Greece. What do I say to L. this year?

Heroic efforts see
Cosmopolitans
finally completed. I took it into Roderick, who commented, a little acidly, on its brevity: it will come out at under 150 pages. (I explained I had planned, then abandoned, the idea of an anthology of translated poems appended, which would have bulked it up.) Well, at least you’ve got it out of your system, he said. Now what about this rather sexy novel Wallace has been tempting me with? I let him believe it was a possibility.

Freya follows the development of the P. of Wales/Mrs Simpson affair with fascinated interest — she can read about it in the American newspapers they have at the BBC. She thinks it utterly disgraceful that the population at large remains in near total ignorance. ‘I tell everyone about it,’ she said, ‘everyone I meet.’ I must admit to a curious interest in it myself since my encounter with the Prince on the golf course. Angus is a reliable source — he must know somebody in the inner circle — he says the Prince is utterly besotted with Mrs S. — follows her around like a dog.

In the end I lied. Said I was going to France to work. Freya and I met in Paris and flew to Marseilles. Then from Marseilles by boat to Athens. Hired a car and motored: Delphi — Nauplia — Mycenae — Athens. Intense heat: we longed for rain and cool weather. We

resolved never to spend our holiday like this again, constantly on the move. Last year in Biarritz was an idyll. And I just can’t take a constant diet of ancient culture — guided tour after guided tour of individual ruins, however beautiful, however freighted with history. In my mind Greece is reduced to one vast pile of shattered marble, shimmering in a heat haze. Dust mantled olive groves, sweltering hotel bedrooms, flies. We vowed to come back one spring. Mind you, it was incredibly cheap. Flew Athens — Rome. Then train to Paris, London. Exhausted, irritable, not the success we had imagined. And now I have to spend a month with my family. I think Freya will relish her solitude.

Dick [Hodge] comes to the rescue. A quiet month at Kildonnan with Lottie and Lionel. Angus and Sally for a fortnight also. I golfed at Gullane and Muirhead with a friend of Angus from the City, Ian Fleming.
²⁴
He was off to Kitzbühel. I told him about the scorching heat of Greece and he recommended the Alps in the summer — loves the Austrian Tyrol. I wrote to Freya and told her to pick her favourite mountain for next year.

At lunch today Peter [Scabius] presented me with a copy of his thriller — or his ‘Teccie’, as he referred to it with disparaging modesty. It’s called
Beware of the Dog,
published by Brown & Almay next week. Just a bit of fun, really, he said, not in your league. We drank rather a lot to celebrate and Peter confessed he was having an affair with the wife of another journalist who works on
The Times.
He said he had fallen out of love with Tess but would never leave her because of the children. ‘She’s a dear thing and a good mother, but I was far too young to marry her.’ He asked me how things were with Lottie and I said wonderful. Lucky man, he said: it’s not always ‘marry in haste repent at leisure’. I was on the point of telling him about Freya and then resisted: the idea of telling Peter, here and now, would cheapen my relationship with her. My life with Freya is no ‘affair’, no fling. And I felt obscurely hurt for Tess; felt her betrayal and resented Peter for including me in his duplicity. And all this has, of course, made me reflect on my own situation. I feel nothing for Lottie. And I feel nothing negative about her either. Sexually our life is at a virtual standstill — though I notice that lately she has started talking about a little brother or sister for Lionel. Since Lionel’s arrival I always make sure I wear a condom on our rare fucks. The last time (in Scotland) she said: ‘Must you, darling? Not tonight.’ I said we couldn’t afford another child. She started to cry and the need for prophylaxis was over.