The Man with the Golden Typewriter (26 page)

On the plus side, Bond was aided by his old friend Felix Leiter and a lesbian aviatrix named Pussy Galore who started in the employ of Goldfinger but was successfully turned (in more senses than one) by 007. The climax came when the combined efforts of Bond, Leiter and Galore succeeded in thwarting Goldfinger's attempted assault on Fort Knox. But this was just a false horizon. As with
Diamonds are Forever
, further sensation awaited. This included not only the death of Goldfinger but the satisfactory outcome of Oddjob being extruded at high altitude through an aeroplane window.

Fleming was at the top of his game.
Goldfinger
was full of energy and the longest of his novels. But his personal life was becoming ragged, his relationship with Ann having reached a state that could kindly be described as one of mutual bewilderment. Increasingly they went their separate ways, which in Fleming's case took the form of a prolonged trip to the Seychelles in April 1958.

He was travelling on journalistic business for the
Sunday Times
, the object being to report on a treasure hunt – not just a haphazard quest like his metal-detecting efforts at Creake Abbey in 1953 but the genuine, copper-bottomed article supported by maps, historical research and a share issue with a potential return of £120 million. That the prospector (an ex-officer at Buckingham Palace) genuinely believed he was on to something, and did so with a fervour that by most standards would classify him as mildly insane, made it all the more enticing. The shareholders alone were of interest. As Fleming wrote of one: ‘In 1938 an elephant knelt on his left leg while a tigress chewed off his right. But that is how it is in this story. Even the smallest walk-on parts have a touch of the bizarre.'

Getting to the Seychelles was itself an adventure, involving a twenty-four-hour flight to Bombay followed by a four-day journey by ship.
Fleming was delighted by the fact that as they neared shore they were greeted not by seagulls but a large bat. And when filling out the customs declaration, ‘Instead of the usual warning about importing alcohol, agricultural machinery and parrots, I was cautioned that “Passengers must specifically state if they have in their possession OPIATES, ARMS AND AMMUNITION, BASE OR COUNTERFEIT COINS.' The treasure hunt fitted perfectly into this scenario, carrying as it did a whiff of skulduggery, piracy and subterfuge. But it was the Seychelles themselves that took centre stage. Fleming was absorbed by their colourful history and the eccentric lives of their inhabitants. He noted that the cathedral clock struck twice in case people hadn't heard it the first time, that it was an offence to carry more than one coconut, and that a local paper had just recorded the case of Regina v Archange Michel (indecent assault). ‘What do you make of that?' he wrote.

The flora and fauna were equally theatrical, including sang-dragon trees that oozed red sap when cut, cowries twice the size of golf balls that glittered like aquatic jewels, emerald lizards with blood-red toenails, and white terns that flew out to sea in pairs, seemingly with locked arms ‘like perfect skaters on a giant rink of blue ice'. Best of all was the ‘Vallai de Mai' – which no less an authority than Gordon of Khartoum had located as the Garden of Eden – whose trees bore fruit and flowers that were, as Fleming explained, of ‘grotesque impudicity [. . .] When it is dark, they say that the trees march down to the sea and bathe and then march back up the valley and make massive love under the moon. I can well believe it.'

The result was published in three consecutive issues of the
Sunday Times
under the title ‘Treasure Hunt in Eden'. Part travelogue, part mystery story and part paean to a romantic outpost on the rim of the British Empire, every paragraph shone with enthusiasm. It was one of his finest pieces of journalism, yet one that for all its energy carried a wistful coda. ‘I could convey no picture of these treasure islands,' he wrote, ‘without explaining that the bizarre is the norm of a visitor's life and the vivid highlights of the Seychelles are in extraordinary contrast to the creeping drabness, the lowest-common-denominator atmosphere that is rapidly engulfing us in Britain.'

Determined to keep drabness to a minimum, he embarked on an Italian holiday with Ann, followed by a trip to Monte Carlo where he had arranged a meeting with shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis to discuss scripting a film about the casino. Although they reached a verbal agreement Fleming had to turn it down because he was shortly afterwards invited by CBS to write a series of Bond adventures for television. That June he flew to America to discuss matters, but for one reason and another the deal fell through. It was a disappointment but not too much because a further opportunity arrived in November when he was introduced to film producer Kevin McClory who was keen to develop Bond for the big screen.

All in all, life was looking good, and the year had supplied so much novelistic material that it was hard to distil it into a single volume. Accordingly, he decided that Bond's next outing would best be served by a collection of short stories.

TO GRAHAM HUGHES, ESQ., Goldsmith's Hall, Foster Lane, Cheapside, E.C.2.

In the course of his research Fleming approached several experts, some of whom found his queries too dubious for their normal course of business. Mr Hughes was among them, and directed Fleming towards a more accommodating firm, Johnson Mattheys.

30th August, 1957

I really am most grateful for the trouble you have taken over my questions, and would you please thank Mr. J. S. Forbes for having provided many of the answers.

I realised that a lot of my queries were most improper ones to address to The Worshipful Company and I confess that your maidenly question marks in answer to some of my murkier questions made me smile.

I do apologise again for all the trouble I have caused you and for the many raised eyebrows there must have been at Goldsmith's Hall in the past few weeks.

I will now proceed to pester Mr. Roberts of Johnson Mattheys and I hope he will be as indulgent as you have been.

TO S. C. ROBERTS, ESQ., Messrs. Johnson Mattheys, Hatton Garden, W.C.1.

30th August, 1957

Your name has been given to me by Mr. Graham Hughes of Goldsmith's Hall and I wonder if you would be kind enough to help me. I am writing a novel of suspense in which Gold plays a conspicuous part and I am most anxious to document myself on some out-of-the-way aspects of the metal.

Mr. Hughes has helped me over many of my questions and he suggests that you might be kind enough to educate me on some other aspects of the subject.

I would also greatly appreciate being allowed to watch the actual process of melting miscellaneous gold objects at your refinery. May I call upon you at any time when you have half an hour to spare?

Please forgive me for enlisting your help in these author's problems but experts in gold are very few and far between.

TO ANN, Goldeneye

Ann refused to come to Jamaica that year. It wasn't her fear of flying, or the prospect of a stormy crossing by sea, that put her off. Rather, it was the slow disintegration of their marriage. The past few months had been hard for both of them and Ann saw Goldeneye as one source of their woes.

Sunday [early January, 1958]

My darling,

It is all just the same except that everything is bigger and more. The flight was perfect, only five minutes late at Mo Bay. Mrs D'Erlanger was on board with her daughter, which may have helped.
¹
She seemed quite pleasant and was very queenly with the ground staffs at all the stops. I arrived in a tempest and it has stormed more or less ever since – torrential winds and rains which are going on now and look as if they would go on for ever. Thank God for the book at which I
hammer away in between bathing in the rain and sweating around the garden in a macintosh [. . .]The sofas were covered with [stains] as it appears the servants have used the house as their own since I left. Paint peeling off the eaves, chips and cracks all over the floor and not one bottle of marmalade or preserves. So I have had to set to and get in the painters etc. who are still banging away after a week. Noël and company aren't coming out till April. The
Nude
is to have a season at San Francisco. Apparently Noël wears a crew cut in it which must look horrible.

Well, that's what Flemings call a Sitrep, just to show you I'm alive. I can't write about other things. My nerves are still jangling like church bells and I am completely demoralised by the past month. I think silence will do us both good and let things heal. Please put your health before anything else. Try and put a good face on the house
²
and don't let your hate of it spread to the others or we shall indeed end up a miserable crew, which would be quite ridiculous to say the least of it.

Take endless care of yourself.

XXX

Ian

TO ANN, Goldeneye

The tribulations of Goldeneye aside, Ann resented having to spend time in Kent, where she knew nobody and languished alone while Ian went off happily to play golf. She wanted them to find a new home, away from his old stamping grounds. Fleming was uncertain – Ann had recently spent time in a clinic and was taking a variety of anti-depressants – but he went along anyway. They eventually settled on a house in Sevenhampton, near Swindon, which, after extensions and several years' building work, had all the attributes they required but managed at the same time to suit neither of them very well.

20th January, 1958

My love,

At last a letter from you after more than two weeks. They both arrived together – a left and right hook! Well, if life somewhere else will make you happy we must move, as anyway living with an unhappy you is impossible. But do remember that one cannot live by whim alone and chaos is the most expensive as well as the most wearying luxury in the world. And for heaven's sake don't hurry. Do let's take real backbreaking trouble before we spend all this fresh money and have to spend more keeping up the sort of house I suppose you are looking for. And I beg you to have a stream or river in the grounds, I shall simply pine away if we go to live in the middle of a lot of plough with deadly little walks down lanes and dons every weekend.
³
But anything, anything to make you smile again and find you somewhere where you will rest and not tear yourself to pieces. I'm terribly worried about your health and I pray that Enton's prison walls have mended your darling heart and somehow got you off this tragic switchback of pills which I implore you to stop. They have nothing to do with the [Bekesbourne] Palace but are a way of life which is killing you, and me with you because it horrifies me so much. You've no idea how they change you – first the febrile, almost hysterical gaiety and then those terrible snores that seem to come from the tomb! Darling, forgive me, but it is so and all I get is the fag end of a person at the end of the day or at weekends. If a new house will help all that let us move as soon as we can and I will have to invent a new kind of life for myself instead of golf which I shall want to play neither with Michael Astor nor Hughie. I'm fed up with other people's neuroses. I have enough of my own. But don't pretend that I am always travelling or am always going to travel. One changes and gets older and anyway by next summer I will have seen the world once and for all. Here is different because it is peace and there is that wonderful vacuum of days that makes one work. And do count the cost. Your pot is down to about 70,000 and two more years at 10,000 a year will reduce it to your iron ration of 50 after which we shall just have to live on income. Mama can easily live another ten or twenty
years.
⁴
Living on our combined incomes means that we shall not have more than 5000 a year which is as rich as one can be. One can live well on that in one house but not in two. These facts have got to be faced just as it had to be faced that we should leave St Margaret's quickly.

My darlingest darlingest love get well and write me a happy letter. I would give anything for one. Bless you and hugs and kisses.

TO ANN, Goldeneye

Tuesday [undated]

My sweetheart,

A vulture is sitting on top of the roof above my head. It is squatting on its stomach across the gable like a hen roosting and looks too ridiculous. When I walked out into the garden just now away from my bondage I thought this would be a bad omen and that there would still be no letter from you. I have spent a whole week getting up and peering towards the tray to see if something has arrived. But the funny vulture was a good omen and there was a nice fat packet from you which I have now devoured. I think you manage to write very sweet letters in answer to my vehement ones most of which I always regret when they have gone, and I promise I understand every bit of your point of view. If I FIGHT my case it is just for the same reason as you FIGHT yours. We both feel the other is getting too much of the cake when in fact there's plenty for both if only we'd sit down peacefully and share it instead of grabbing. I envy you your life of parties and ‘the mind' and you envy I suppose my life of action and the fun I get from my books. The answer is that compared to most people we are both enviable and lead enviable lives. I perfectly see your point about the house and I only beg that where we finally settle will have something that appeases my savage breast – some outlet for activity, because I am hopeless and like a caged beast in drawing- and dining-rooms and there is nothing I can do about it. It's instinctive. You used to sympathise with
it and in a way I admire it in me, but I realise it must be hell to live with and I can only say that if it has an outlet I can keep it under some sort of control.

I must now go and bathe in the grey sea and then go for a long walk up a mountain to sweat the gloom away. I shall be home in a minute my love. Kisses and kisses and kisses.

FROM WILLIAM PLOMER

28 June, 1958

My dear Ian,