Angus Mackay Diaries Volume VI (1985 - 1986)

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 59

April 16 1985 - June 10 1985

Tuesday April 16 1985 cont.

It is safe to say that just as I never go through the lower hall and bathroom without a pang, so I never walk on to the tube platform without wincing at the thought that I could go straight to Holloway Road from that platform. Sometimes I can’t even look at the run of stations to H. Rd on the signs.

2:45 – Niceish night with Simon except that Infernal Machine is September. And that he and D are worth a million of John or Nicholas Grace or anyone. D. K.

Wednesday April 17 1985

I don’t think I can be bothered to describe the drunken night with Simon. Altho’ it was pleasurable, it was a bit useless. The end, with Nicholas Grace hovering repellently over our table, was a bit horrid. S is extraordinary in not sticking to the point. It is curious my mixed feelings to S just now. Let’s see whether my letter about Nicholas will show it. We scarcely discussed the Cocteau.

Woke this morning very hurriedly at 9.10 just in time to clear the kitchen for Mrs E with a dirty mouth and bursting head. Decided not to lunch with John N because of hangover.

At 10.15 Roy rang to say he was coming down to stay. So I said I would try to arrange Ken Branagh to meet him because they want him for the football film.

At 11.00 K rang. I said Don Boyd had said he can go on with the film by himself and with his own choice of lyricist. Me? But he wants a screen-play writer. Can I suggest anyone? I mentioned Friday. He snapped a bit. But he does with me, I just must face it, like moving into the flat. He does it to no one else.

Rang David Parfitt. Got Michael. Very animated as I asked him to dinner. Rang Sandy Johnstone. Fixed that dinner. David P had given me Ken B’s number – he’s moved into Camberwell Grove. Lo, he rang himself some half hour later. Oh, he recovered himself completely to me. He comes out with Roy and me tomorrow. And when I told him of the football film he said how odd as he’d love to be in football film. The film he might do Sept is Charles Wood Falklands Isles and a bit iffy. To film of Captain Invincible with my hangover, at the Minerva. Quite funny. Scene in warehouse where animated hoovers attack the hero and heroine. When he fights them off, he says ‘No wonder nature abhors a vacuum.’

Roy rang to say he couldn’t be here for lunch with Joe S. I don’t believe it.

Oh, still, the whole day shot through with just the one talk. I wish he’d told me what songs.

Thursday April 18 1985

Joe to lunch. After interview for ‘Absolute Beginners’. He comes through to me, especially after the main course. He is star material, I think. But hasn’t much personal stuff to offer yet, a late developer, but I love him.

He left about 4.30. Roy arrived at 5.0. Desultory talk. We decided to go to Carmen. It was superbly good. Café Pelican, Ken arrived, – I must describe it tomorrow.

Because all the time I just wished he was there. The flower song made me nearly sob.

No, I can’t write. What did Pepys do when he was drunk?

Will he want to go out tomorrow night? Will he cry off again? It is terrible to me that I still can’t rely on him. No, I mustn’t write.

Friday April 19 1985

Yes it was a good evening, tho’ I realised today that I must have a session alone with Ken, as he couldn’t speak so freely in front of Roy. He was tired but in fine form all the same, describing Shakespearean gagging hilariously, and what he’s gone through with the RSC. I am happy to say he is completely disillusioned with them. Happy because I despise them so much. He found out he was getting the same money as, for instance, Roger Allam, and stood out for £16 a week more, to come into the Barbican. It was all unpleasant and finally some creep had him up to the office and said how awkward he was, and that they’d have to manage it out of a special fund. And all this is their new star! With the result that he’ll leave in September and not go back except very much under his own terms. I think we were better off with Binkie Beaumont and Bill Linnit. He made us split the bill which was a relief to me, as it was £84.

Today David Parfitt came to lunch partly to talk about the broken drain pipe and the redecorating of the dining-room. He is a responsive chap and bright. He told me of Ken’s scheme. He and Ken and Kate Burnett are starting a company which hopes to go into production next year. Brian Blessed has given them £47,000! and interest. Plans now are for Romeo and Juliet in Ulster, opening in Belfast, then Scotland, Newcastle, Bristol, Reading, London? We talked a bit of all the problems – D said they hoped to bring in a package deal, one man shows, perhaps our musical. What about K as musical director? Altogether invigorating. K rang at 3.30 and would have come out, but confessed to feeling lethargic. So we changed it to tomorrow night. Nothing gave me such a vivid picture of his life than him saying What are you doing tomorrow night? and going away to find his diary and saying Yes, it’s free. He hasn’t thought of his diary for days.

Saturday April 20 1985

11.20.

Oh perfection.

Sunday April 21 1985

6.30 a.m.

Do you know, I can’t remember what I did yesterday, except wait for the evening? Roy was about, wasn’t he? Got there at 7.45, upstairs, and I knew it would empty fairly quickly, with most people having a pre-cinema or theatre meal. He arrived on the dot looking so much better, shaved and well, not dressed up but fresh, his face soft and responsive. (In the tube, not having seen him for ten days I thought do I feel the same. ‘Across the crowded lift’, I saw long hair and a forehead. It wasn’t, but my stomach was.)

Settled, he said, ‘Now for the good news. I sent a tape to WEA in November, you remember. Well, someone played it. He’s called Lindsay Wesker, and he’s knocked out by the songs. He kept saying That’s a hit, - that’s a hit. And when I sent him another tape he kept ringing up after playing each one! He is in liaison with the man at Warners! But it’s only a coincidence.’ I think the thing that most impressed me, by instinct, was that after K. had told a bit of his troubles and, at some other point, revealed that he couldn’t buy all the tapes he wanted, L.W. said ‘You want tapes? I’ll give you tapes’, took K’s little plastic case, went to a cupboard, and filled the case with tapes. And, you see, he couldn’t do that with everyone, or he’d have none. They turned out to be demos sent in by, among others, Howard Jones! He played them when he got home and Howard Jones was almost the only one which was any good, and he was good, but ‘some of those tapes made Joe and Azaar’s tapes sound good’. And ‘I went to the Embassy to hear Joe’s group. It was awful. Heavy metal! I just heard his keyboards for a tinkly moment at the beginning.’ So you see, he does see Joe and Azaar straight, contrary to Chris P. (Chris P is certainly too negative).

All in all, he feels as I do – that L.W. is certainly more genuinely enthusiastic than anyone before. He sounds more genuine, at least more real ‘no bullshit’. For example, the other morning K had to meet him at the junction of Seven Sisters and Holloway at 9.45 (I’ve forgotten why – couldn’t K have got wherever it was easier by himself – certainly as it turned out!) At 10.25 he was just going to leave, when there was L.W. with his wife and child in the back. His wife they dropped at the Royal Court, ‘where she’s writing something.’ Dear K. ‘And she’s a pain.’

So I’m carefully hopeful. ‘I didn’t tell you until now in case nothing happened.’ He went with Caroline to the last night party of Gems, and hasn’t seen her since. ‘It’s a bit iffy.’ That same day he dropped in to see Simon Lee, who’d rung and made peace. In a ‘lovely’ rented flat in Neal Street. Hair as long as mine and said to me I can’t write original music like you.’ So far, so good, he was there half an hour. As long as he isn’t drawn into any tat... Oh, did he say Caroline was going to the Royal Court... Help.

Chris stayed there all the week, playing on the new tapes. Phil Sterio, too, whose new black girl- friend sings on the tape – ‘a wonderful voice, notes like Claire’, I hope so. We both started carefully, but when he’s in this mood – I think it’s time – it isn’t difficult. For instance, when we talked again of Lulu, he took back his snubbing defiance at Tutton’s the other night, – ‘yes, it was seven episodes, not twelve.’

A silly little moment I’ll remember. I went to the loo, gripping his shoulder on the way because of the joy we’d both felt with the possible record deal, the loo is on the level we were on. I went down the stairs. K said laconically ‘Angus’. I came up the stairs, looked over the wall at him, just a head. He may not remember, but that’s the sort of lifelong memory I’m lumbered with. We both had watercress soup, venison medallions. He made me have the house wine. I hate not going on but that would be stupid. But his emotion matches mine when we leave. Sunday night. In bed. After waiting interminably for Roy M to leave me alone. Had to say to Roy M that I wanted Hazel to myself, with one or two remarks about his laugh and general possible crudeness, in Hazel’s eyes. I wasn’t worried myself! Anyway, he went out to a film with someone. She arrived with her hair lose, looking much younger, tho’ the hair is still badly bleached. We had a fruitful day, reshaping Part 1 completely, and making some progress with Act II. Roy came in some ten minutes before she left, behaved impeccably, and gave her a sense of seeing life.

But all this is a filmy shadow. The reality was K ringing at 1.15 and 6.0.

I have forgotten to say that he was supposed to bring two scripts and a tape of M. Youth to the dinner. I’d rang at 2.0 ish and reminded him. He forgot! He covered his face and blushed, – he’d put them out to bring and still forgot. He meant the evening to be smooth and still he forgot and it’s his musical! Ah well. So we arranged for him to bring them over on Monday as he was going to the agents, and would come over to lunch. (He intimated that he might go to his agents in the morning!) But when he rang at 1.15, he said he wouldn’t come to lunch, as Peter H was coming at last to pick up his synthesizer, so he could drop the scripts off. Also he could go to Caroline’s, and clear that up, or some phrase of that kind. So I wasn’t upset at all. It is an awkward step here from MLR, altho’ it’s so comparatively near. A long walk, a long wait for a bus or a taxi. And he was having Phil Lawrence round in the evening. ‘They’ve just got engaged. Phil seems very down’. ‘Well perhaps that’s why.’

He rang again at 6.15. Peter was on his way, ¾ of an hour. He’d promised me a tape of the Manon and the two new songs and Ann’s song. ‘Have you managed to – Yes.’ So there was Peter at the door, looking as he sometimes does, desperate and finished. Drained. He handed me the bag, I looked in, saw two scripts, two tapes – forgot Paul Unwin already had a tape, and thought he hadn’t sent the new stuff and said so. P said ‘Is he alright? He seems pretty low’. ‘No’ I said, ‘quite the reverse’. Peter seemed unconvinced. I thought that perhaps K hadn’t told him about Lindsay W. That might account for it.

So to the end of the evening. Roy’s forensic pathologist, Sue Dodd, turned up to take him off for a fish and chip supper. Of course she was supposed to arrive at 7.15 and it was more like 8.15, so it considerably interrupted my preparation of my dinner. But it’s no use, I do like her, her clothes and her style. And Oh God how badly Roy manages her. The ceaselessly heavy irony alienates her before they even start. However, in the end they went, and I have to admit, the chicken was deliciously well done.

Played the tape. First impression. It’s so easy – more, the same again, but might be better sung by someone else. The black girl really good in No sooner have you gone, and a really good song. In fact, it suddenly made me wonder whether he was in love – it’s a much more sensuous song – ‘I can’t wait to touch your skin.’ It even made me tie up with Peter H’s saying K was down and being down himself, whether it was Lysette!! But only for a moment.

Ann’s song, extraordinary. Very short. Too short. Almost funny, it’s so short. But extraordinary. He’s put Video Shop on, too, because the other tape was muddy. And to cheer me up.

Monday April 22 1985

Up especially early. Breakfast at 6.45. Late last night rang Jon H and Paul Ryan, – they’re coming to lunch. Good, as he isn’t.

Roy came in about 11.15. Their sex life, or lack of it, is really extraordinary. Last night, I mean.

He left about 11.30 this morning. Mrs E said, when I told her he was here, ‘Well, he’s got a nerve, after what he’s done.’ So I smoothed that over!

Jon H and Paul Ryan bearded me in the street, having gone to the house and found it locked. At 12.10. Ah well. Hilarious lunch. J. starving almost literally. Over the weekend with Steve Thorne, they’d had one baked potato each, one baked onion and a tin of tomatoes between five. No drink and no cigs. Oh. Oh. I gave him £5 when he left.

J was in a state of rut. No other word. Spring and frustration. Touching. They went about 3.0. Paul to Su Pollard’s service of blessing for her marriage, to her bisexual husband. Rang K at 6.0 to tell him about the tape. What with one thing and another, didn’t expect to find him there. But he was. Told him – he said he was pleased. But he was low, just as Peter had said. But let us chart it. I told him what Peter had said – I don’t think it’s a secret affair with Lysette. All he said was, he was tired of being pissed about. I said What is it? He said I’ll work it out. I said Well, tell me. He said Angus, I’m working it out.

I asked him if it was Caroline, and he said, unmistakably, that it wasn’t. Now, I don’t think he was worried yesterday – I think Peter mistook – possibly because K isn’t so into Peter as he was. So, ‘pissed about’ is a phrase I’ve only heard him use about work. I reckon something happened at MLR. I don’t see how Sunday could have done it – he was all right Sat night and both calls on Sunday.

By the way, said quite savagely that he didn’t want to see Lulu. ‘All the way to Watford for 3 ½ hours of boredom.’

Tuesday April 23 1985

Yes, well, another time perhaps I can ask him to tell me what it is, if I promise to advise or comment. It’s just that I sit and worry about every part of his life, wondering what it can be. I mean, if only he’d tell me he thought he had cancer, I’d know where I was.

Another amorphous day, waiting for the evening. Peter H didn’t ring about Lulu, so at 7.0 ish I went off to Richmond. Joan Hoar had said 7.15. So, of course, I rang the bell at 7.15. Oh dear. There was Joan in a collapsed shift, and a really nice man, Paul Beech, with flexible responses and manners. He’d been here since 5.0. We had a lovely talk after Joan had made me pour out the drinks in the kitchen, – I rather wished nobody else was coming. By ten past eight Joan was getting restive and rang Sally, who, it turns out, had already left. She arrived – more drinks – I’d already had too many – Joan rang the others, who were all under 30 and arrived about 8.30! We were an ill-assorted crowd, as the new arrivals were both young men with foreign girlfriends, one Danish, one Turkish. The Turkish one was genial enough, but rather crude and pushy and no idea of the general good! Her boy was Nick Franks, the son of John F. a director D. worked for once or twice, a tall Hooray Henry denim-clad chump and not quick at all. Vaughan? is going into computers and was much better value, a good mimic. His Danish girl hardly spoke – she hardly got a chance but her English was obviously excellent – she was always catching allusions. I was sorry not to talk more to her. I think I was in good form. I hope others did. Pate and kedgeree and strawberries. The k. was deliciously bland as it should be, just rice, fish, egg and butter. Left with Paul and had a good laugh over the evening. He and I held it together, no doubt, especially at the beginning, when all might have been a disaster, as Joan made no hostess efforts at all.

Home by 11.45.

Wednesday April 24 1985

To Lunch with John N. Heavenly comfort as usual, especially as I was low about K for some reason, missing him badly. Told J all about Joan H. I rest in John. He told me how little he has seen of Neil in the last two years. I think he underestimates N’s reaction to gays.

To a movie straightaway to keep my sadness at bay – a thin little film with one beautiful performance from a middle-aged Hungarian actress called Makay.! Walked home, crying all the way down The Mall and Green Park simply because we can’t be together all the time. Why am I inflicted by this? Poor boy.

At home rang various people. Philip D rang to say goodbye – off to Liverpool. Spent last night with K! Went to that movie at Camden Plaza. Seemed to go all right. Just as I was beginning to feel hopeless again, like a dream, he rang at 6.30. How about Friday? Told him about Simon ringing which is more than I’ve told this diary. Well, Simon rang in answer to my letter about the Nicholson. I suppose I was partly hoping S. would say ‘Since I got your letter I have arranged a platform perf at the National.’ No, it was just an abject apology and acquiescence in letting me go on alone. I think the most wounding part of the whole process is the lack of pressure, of excitement in Simon, about it and me. Not mentioning it that day back from LA was the last unforgivable straw. He’s taking us to Jumpers on Monday, perhaps see Foo after.

Told K a bit of the story. V. sweet. Rang Edna. Mercy has collapsed now, in hospital for ten days. Has never shed a tear. That’s why Edna, even, doesn’t really know what she’s feeling.

Later.

Chris P rang, from home, ‘Can I stay, up at 6.0 to busk.’ He’s spent all that money, so there’s no bed-sit for the moment. Just been a week with K. How I envy that! And yet K tells me things he never mentions to Chris! So.

Thursday April 25 1985

He nearly gave me a heart attack by coming into the dining-room at 12.30! Saying he still felt tired. I must talk to K about him, are we spoiling him?

Friday April 26 1985

4.0 p.m. ish.

Rather the worse for wear after sitting up till 3.30 with Michael Parfitt. He came to dinner with Sandy Johnstone, the director of some of The Young Ones series. I have seldom had two people to dinner of whom I knew less. It was a decided success, so to description. Sandy is rather stocky, smiling, going to be plump, with a huge dark red handlebar moustache. Very pleasant, mild, and a good guest but a bit of a disappointment in some ways. I was expecting more independence, more originality. He must have been just a yes-man to Rik Mayall etc. In an intelligent way, of course, but too mild for creation. Michael P., on the other hand, David Parfitt’s younger brother, whom D had presented to me as wild and druggy and difficult, I found an immediate friend, with ‘the supple manners of the sensitive.’ I played our video, which Sandy praised and then M.P. played his, which was all about suicide and full of clever tricks. Very healthy stuff for an 18 year old. Sandy disappointed me again – he didn’t take enough responsibility in praising or dispraising. He ought to have taken the boy more seriously as a film maker even to the point of saying it was rubbish.

Yes, I like him but I see him as a bit lazy.

But Michael is unusually sensitively intelligent, an extremely active sense of humour and quick. We played the Joan Rivers, but talked of many better things. But it wasn’t beneath him to scream with laughter at J.R. We sat up until 3.30. He stayed to lunch today, and both felt we’d made a new friend. Oh, he’s about, 5.8, very slim, thin even. Hair just cut into flat scrubbing brush on the top, shaved at the sides. Oval face, very white, rather large slightly slant dark eyes. Would be good-looking with more hair and flesh! Told me a lot about his girl-friend, who sounds a real pain. I think he will do better later. Whole evening basking in glow of seeing K tonight.

6.30. Agony. Rang him. Record deal off. Too depressed to come. Just managed not to tell him of my own feelings of emptiness and a lonely evening. And my whole week built around him.

Oh the poor boy tho. Could the pigs not even ring and say No - Oh God, oh Kevin.

What has he done to deserve all this?

Saturday April 27 1985

Yes, I felt very desolate. Not least because he didn’t want to be with me in his misery. But then I suppose I suffer alone, too.

Exactly what he said. ‘I’ve been sitting by the telephone for two days. I rang you on Wed because I was on a high and we were going to go out tonight and I was going to tell you all my plans for the future. Now I just want to get drunk and oblivious. But I‘ll come on Monday.’ I tried to persuade him, and, as I said, managed not to bring myself into it for once. But he wasn’t to be moved, and I put the receiver down and cried most bitterly, for both of us. (Of course he doesn’t quite understand my pain at not seeing him, but to me life is not infinite and I know that it is bound in the nature of things to take him further away from me than he is now.)

There is still some hope for this record deal or publishing deal, I think.

Lysette rang at last to thank me for the rosemary, I forgot to say. And Peter rang on Friday about Lulu, altho’ I’d kept Wed free! When I asked him what he wanted his synthesizer for, he said he was going to work with Ray Burdis. So K does listen to me! Vide his b’day.

Chris P rang at 7.0. With his Sue. ‘Can’t get hold of Kev.’ I explained and told them not to call round, or rather I said he’d rather be on his own. Hope I did right.

As usual, I dragged myself out to a film in the afternoon. ‘No One’. Bob Geldof is certainly a star. But the film is thin. I didn’t dis-enjoy it.

9.20 p.m. I haven’t been thinking of him at all. I’ve just been thinking of being deprived of him.

Sunday April 28 1985

Rang Simon last night to arrange about tomorrow night; thought I could go round at 11.30 a.m., but rang later to say I couldn’t. I’d just get drunk and come back here in despair. So he said he’d come here after lunch with Stewart Hopps. Well, what a love-hate relationship, now I’ve cut off the Nicolson. He is a loving friend provided his ego mania can have its way as well.

I only wanted to talk of Infernal Machine really. It is by no means definite. ‘Can I get a star?’ So he isn’t saying anything to K tomorrow. I made it clear there must be no bullshit. S was slightly miffed – just as if Nicolson hadn’t been invented! And then went on to say how wounding it was that Hare and Brenton had said they were writing a part for him in Pravda and gave it to Anthony Hopkins! And then said again I ought to be playing Canon Beebe. He really doesn’t connect.

So he shouldn’t be in a Forster adaptation. He is at once coarse and sensitive. Difficult.

So he went. And at 6.45 rang K. His voice was warm and loving. A. ‘Are you all right?’ K. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Well, I had a bad two days.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I was worrying about you.’ Well, I had a bad two days worrying about me.’ I murmured something about putting Chris and Sue off last night and I think he murmured something about me being right.

Arranged to meet tomorrow at 6.15-30 Opera Tavern.

I think I’m on the edge of something.

When he said ‘Wait a moment’, I said ‘The play is at 7.30, so it’s only an hour with – ‘No, he said, I don’t know where you’re talking about.

All I cling to is my love for him.

Monday April 29 1985

A film part. A few tiny scenes, but all with John Cleese, script by Michael Frayn. Might be quite funny.

To rather good movie to fill the time, always difficult when on the way to him. Got here, Opera Tavern, half an hour early, partly to get a table, partly on the off-off-off chance of him being early.

Later.

He turned up at 6.40. Hair tied up hideously, the old grey dungarees above the ankle. Closed face, tho’ not to me. Waited in all day for the ‘phone again. But we got through various points, till he told me this deal with Warner Records, not Lindsay Wesker, who was separate. Trying to get it really clear, I asked one too many questions ‘No, Angus, I don’t want to go into it. I’m pissed off with them enough as it is. I want to be distracted.’ So I distracted him by telling about Michael Parfitt.

I also told him about Peter’s message. His eyes narrowed and he said I think I know who is.’ I hope he won’t do it. How can he work with amateurs? So to Aldwych. Glossy zizzy audience. Sold right out. Painful for me as now I can never play Jumpers. Simon said in interval Paul is not in the same world as Angus in this part. Which is true. Apart from my dislike of his acting, his voice in this is thin and on one note and his diction decidedly poor. Foo K is in danger of liking her parts to her charms instead of the other way round. Production twisted. The Jumpers are all plainly dancers or acrobats. K was partly bored, partly disgusted. As by the whole evening.

We went to pee together in the middle of the first Act – how other people don’t?! I saw why he’d gone into the cubicle to pee when others were there. He had to let down the flap of his dungarees so that the whole of his stomach was bare. After we had a bottle of champagne with Foo. Shashi Kapoor was there, handsome, quiet, dignified. Michael Rudman turned up a clamping American-jargon bore. After he’d let off a stream of such verbiage about Simon’s book, I murmured ‘I’m glad you found so many good things in it.’ And heard K react! Foo is sweet, but worrying. So to Joe Allen’s. I hate it, it’s no good. And Simon spent most of the time talking to others. Horrid food, and neither of them would have a starter, and there’s no cheese, so I had to have some bread and butter at the end in order to fill up.

Still Simon talking to others was good as it left us alone. I couldn’t have got through tonight without him. Simon doesn’t understand, he really doesn’t. Maxine Audley was there with a new terrible husband.

Tuesday April 30 1985

He rang at 11.10 this morning. He’s got the deal. £10,000 for a year and option on another year.

I am so happy, I’ve been so worried. Yes, materially, of course, his flat and has mortgage and whether I could afford to pay it.

But mainly, I’ve been worried that he might become bitter, permanently bitter, if this went on much longer.

Oh I rang Edna and Lalla and Ken and John and Jon and anyone I could think of - Because I think it’s genuine this time.

Wednesday May 1 1985

Full day. More tomorrow. Ken B, Phil Sterio and Doretta due to dinner.

Both a bit anti-K.

But all I carry away from talk with his friends is how infinitely superior he is, how much he comes to them from another plane. They are only here - not quite only. I’m fond of Phil, because he can meet me on more than equal terms. Because he is an exceptional human being.

He is unusually generous and forgiving. Always hoping for the best.

Willing to wait for the best to surface. I always end an evening like this with only deep love for him confirmed.

Thursday May 2 1985

Yes well, Ken B came at 11.0 and stayed till 2.00, going off to be interviewed by the E Standard. He outlined his company plans as David P did the other day, so I won’t describe them again. I was much struck to his view of his position. ‘I am uniquely lucky in my generation, and I want to spread a bit of that luck about.’ He has strength in his personality, and these plans are already well laid. £50,000 capital already, a major movie for further backing in Sept, and the company starting a year in Sept. He opened his mind to me, and it was inspiring. I shall ask him to take on the Nicolson one way or another. He had a script in his bag and had noted down some words for me to define, slightly to my amazement, ‘fronds’, ‘maquillage’, ‘traceries’ and what was the other? Jon H arrived at 12.15 and we had a very jolly lunch. K was v funny about what’s her name Tomelty, Sting’s ex-wife, who is rather an undisciplined actress. ‘I wonder, do you think Portia should suddenly go downstage and put her head in a bucket of cold water?’ ‘I felt like it, Kenneth, I just felt like it.’ In a sloothing Irish accent.

When he left, Jon told me in flattering detail, how grateful he was for my talking to, and how it had really woken him up at the right moment. Also that Paul had left a note in the flat saying how disgraceful that he’d left it in a disgusting state. He read it to me and really it might have been to a chambermaid. All the more irritating as Jon says he does most of the tidying and cleaning. I’m inclined to believe Jon, as Paul is the spoiled youngest child of a big Catholic family. And he’s never quite genuine, so that I’m still not sure what he’s like. J says he can’t talk to him either. And I’ve met some of Jon’s very real friends, and none of Paul’s. I went off to a commercial interview. Jon to a ‘happening’ at Steve Thorne’s Art College, where someone was going to walk amid a lot of raw meat. Very old-world. I bought him his ticket to Wood Green. I expect he’ll move out soon.

So, yes, Phil and Dor. I enjoyed it, because she’s jokey. But she’s also insecure. She has taken Phil’s tone about K., which is condescending. As sometimes, so is Roy’s. I wonder if it’s the same thing in K that made that man hit him!

K rang up three times today, last time quarter of an hour!! ‘Bring your new lyrics’. Pissed-off with Phil. Got a 16-track on loan from Roper and Wayman to make a demo tape for them. So sucks to that awful man last year. That is a real compliment, and also he has one of his dreams for a week to use for himself, hence my lyrics.

At quarter past seven I looked at my watch and thought this time tomorrow night I’ll be starting out to RSJ.

Friday May 3 1985

He arrived 5 mins late, having been running! With that scornful look he often has at first, and I have realised is a sort of a shyness. When it had melted away, we had a magical evening. A time like this makes up for all the pain and suffering, – makes up is a totally inadequate word. When suddenly he opens his soul to me, and I see myself in the centre of it, the one person he can unreservedly love and depend on, I feel such joy as I only felt with D. He just laid his life in my lap last night.

Details. He’s finished with Caroline. ‘I’m off sex at the moment.’ Later, ‘I’m in love with another secretary, Maxine. I only saw her today.’

‘And as another bonne bruche, – isn’t that your phrase?’

Off to the flat to write a number for Kenny Rogers! tomorrow afternoon. He even admitted Peter must be kept away from music! ‘Could he be my manager?’ He laid his life in my arms.

Saturday May 4 1985

Shopping in the morning. Neil came round with a video of 45 mins of gens from A.D. Gems of him, I mean. I was surprised, of course, the piece is the usual ponderous bore with carefully ironed dialogue, delivered in reverent tones. But he has learnt to be still, and in a scene in the arena, over a dead girl, let rip with some effect with some showy ‘emotional’ acting. He is certainly good enough to do well while his looks last. He’s very sweet to me.

Off to K’s at 2.15. The bed is in the front room, and all the equipment in the bedroom. Quite a good idea for next week, but otherwise it’s ruined the flat! Well, ‘ruin’. I imagine some of all the changing round has been part of his unhappiness. In any case, he has now reached the end of the road, and can only change by going back to the status quo. Worked well, tho’ he’d written most of the number before I got there. It’s good, but the music may still not be simplistic enough for someone like Kenny Rogers. The other number for Claire is terrific! He described the emulator. It has real sounds in it, not synthesised. S. There’s a whole grand piano in there. In the middle of all this, let me register that Kevin Malpass for the past ten days at least as his synth is on the blink, has only been able to compose on an out of tune old upright and a guitar!

Apart from that, our time together was again of completely sympathy and marvellous warmth and intimacy. Perhaps one day I won’t even need to describe it. I left him without regret – especially as he was going with Nigel and Joy to dreary Rosie’s for dinner! And he’s off to Brighton for the day with Phil M.! Now that’s the working class b’ground coming out in Phil – you have to be very simple like Mr M - to think driving to Brighton on Bank Holiday Sunday is going to be fun on any level. Only hope he doesn’t get involved in any violence whilst there. I am glad I had Hilary and Ian to come back to. We had a relaxed and cosy evening and they’re staying. I love Kevin so.

Sunday May 5 1985

1.45 a.m.

Staying at John N’s for the first time! How interesting that the moment I shut my bedroom door, I forgot, till now, half an hour later, that John and Simon were in the flat.

But I didn’t forget that K is, I hope, still in the world, and well, and happy, and facing the emulator at 12 on Tuesday.

Monday May 6 1985

It’s so restful going out with John – no worry about being late, or having no money. And having a lovely meal at home, – even made him cook the veg enough. Played him some of K’s new tape - he was really impressed. Also taped some Poulenc possibly for K and Infernal Machine. The film was the one K went to with Philip D. We loved it, as K rather had, and I think would have more if he hadn’t been with Philip, who nit-picks, sometimes during the film by restlessness. The notices made it out to be far more ‘difficult’ and indeed avant-garde than it was. The thing is, it was very quick, and moved much as K’s and my mind do, so we liked it, as John did. Back to John’s, and a lovely talk. Simon coming in at 11.30, did a bit, put a kybosh on it, but not badly. And, of course, both of them lack our vitality. But I love John. I stayed the night on their new spare bed, very comfortable. Up at 7.30, rather hung-over, had some tea, and out at 9.0. One station on the tube, felt a bit queasy, so got out and walked home across the park and Ken Gdns so beautiful, freshly green.

A lot of people rang. Steve and Jon. Jon no money again. Quiet day, rang Fay Pepper terribly breathless. Disgraceful nobody does anything. K rang at 5.45. Oh, so soft and loving. Doesn’t like that last line any more. We had a laugh. He said they went into the country, a little path and old rotting trees and a wood and a stream with daffodils, - he said he thought of the cottage and I expected to see that dick fungus at the side of the path.’ He’s expecting the emulator at any moment, and the paper and W. Tomorrow. ‘Must go’. Oh, Marjorie rang – a long talk, she wants to stay with me, because of his mattress on the floor.

Met Jon Henson and his friend, Steve, at the cinema. Didn’t tell them I’d seen the film before, but thoroughly enjoyed it again. To Café Pelican. Service a bit bad again, that silly little waiter. Steve is a strong character I think. Another tramp! It was touching to see them tucking in. Jon is a shocking flirt. Strange. How K went in and out of my mind, how he does.

Tuesday May 7 1985

I suddenly see him fresh, as so intensely fastidious and delicate in his reactions. How could he appear on the blunt end of a chat show or music programme? That must be - why otherwise would he need, or notice me and my finenesses. After all, these last three years, he has always come back to me. He has been furious only when I have been either disgustingly crass and angry or unexpectedly fastidious.

Yes, the bond between us, I suddenly see, for him, I mean, is one of subtlety.

Jon H stayed the night and to lunch. A bottle of pills for the acne on his back – he left it behind. He is a very pleasant boy, with an easy charm that is a great temptation to him. He can coast on it.

Expected K to ring today about me taking over his telephone calls, but he didn’t - and I didn’t mind at all.

The 16-track came today and of course all goes down before it.

Wednesday May 8 1985

Have picked up Vol IV of Hardy’s letters again, which shows how tranquil I am. ‘Florence dies, and all the flatness of so much of the letters or rather the playing of it so far down, is most acutely and abundantly justified. After so much lack of emphasis to the days when we were much to each other – in her case and mine intensely much’ – that intensely much rings sounds like a crash of thunder. Unlike this melancholy document, – but I would certainly have gone mad without it. ‘Gone’ – can it be over? Is the tranquillity of the moment the result only of knowing he’s concentrated completely on using that instrument, after saying to me most carefully that he wouldn’t be seeing me, because he knows himself? Yes, perhaps, because I know where he is and what he’s doing and that he’s doing it all himself. Perhaps. But perhaps those last two gentle intensely intimate meals have really laid the ghost of insecurity. Insecurity? Is that what I’ve disgracefully felt? But oh how I’ve longed to get past that contemptible grabbing at him. No, I haven’t really, but certainly since those two meals I’ve felt something different. No doubt he’s been saying for months, Why doesn’t he rest in this that we have?

I was thinking yesterday, after Reggie Smith dying at 70, how K doesn’t of course see it, this way, – I’m only 11 years off 70. Life is infinite to him. But it is, oh, I do pray, a bit different.

I told him his mother was going to stay with me. ‘God’, he said, mildly.

Thursday May 9 1985

Neil round with the script of Sins. Poppycock, of course, will it even work with the public? Perhaps, just for a bit longer. He said the cast was all names, – he said to the producers ‘I’ve heard of everyone but me.’ We went through the first volume – Neil’s part only O.K. and quite a lot of it middle-aged. To National to meet Barbara New for Coriolanus. Not looking forward to it, so was disgracefully delighted when she didn’t turn up. I stole away, and saw The Bay Boy, a thin film, but Donald Sutherland’s boy is very good.

Still tranquil

Friday May 10 1985

Rang Ba at 10.45. I had felt guilty for not looking for her more. She wasn’t there. She was stuck in Park Lane in a bomb scare, quite penitent for ruining my evening!

Rang him at 12.30 as he’s said Come round on Friday. He was sweet but a bit remote naturally, ‘come round about 5. It’ll only for an hour or two, we’ve had a difficult time till now, so it’s going to be tough.’ Good. To my amazement he rang back but about 1.15 to say that he’d been in the middle of something, and was I alright? And he told me more of the difficulties, and how pleased he was I wanted to be part of it and he’d get some food in. So it’ll be longer than an hour or two. Lovely. His closeness hasn’t gone even into a long session. Is Peter there? No, he’s been a bit vague - I think Chris and I have been a bit hard on him. And I remain utterly calm and loved.

1a.m.

Oh to describe it all tomorrow.

Enough to say that he is, just as I thought, and dreamt of, in fineness and strength combined, of which the strictest artists are made. He loves me

Saturday May 11 1985

After my silly commercial interview, to K. I met Edward Jewesbury there – rather a dear, his wife, Christine, is dead too. So we had a talk about that. She had leukaemia, – I think the same as Mollie.

So to K. Chris and Phil S in sitting r. Just said hello to K in bedroom, with £22,000 worth of equipment. Talked well with Chris, whose hand I held and squeezed warmly over his girl-friend leaving him. After a little, K came in and at last (after years!) greeted me warmly! Ah, but he’s wide open with the work and therefore can smile and open himself to me and show to the others that he is delighted to see me.

So we went on talking, he went on working and after twenty mins or so, to Phil S. ‘Do you feel you could do your track now?’ ‘No’. It seems that Phil had not been able to play in tune, a G sharp was mentioned, and had been thrown, as has happened before. K, so good and calm as ever, did persuade him to try again – I think Phil was slightly reacting against his sound being programmed into the emulator. Amazing, one floppy disc has the London Phil on which is at K’s fingertips on the key-board. So Chris and I went on talking, and off to the drink shop - poor boy, he’s a baby, he knows little of women and his hectoring domineering style is fatally divorced from his real self. Gin, tonic, big white wine, half whisky. So back, and its 7.15, on my first gin, K. ‘Come and have a listen to this.’ I stayed to pour my second. K – ‘Where’s Angus?’ with real urgency. It was ‘Maxime’. It’s an extraordinary invention, the richness and scope. Oh, he must have all these machines to realise their possibilities, and his own. And then he played the Claire Moore song. Oh I was moved to my roots. It’s big. Everything is worthwhile.

1.0 a.m. statement is true. I cried.

So Phil and I wanted to eat. K and Chris said they’d eaten at 3.30? (Chris tried faintly to give the impression that he wouldn’t eat ever again, as he’s slimming). Off we went, Phil and I, to my virgin fish and chip shop. I brought four portions, in case! Phil said I’ll tell K... ‘No, I said, we’ll eat and see.’ So we did. Chris of course would eat all day, unless stopped. K came in and said Ooh – it was about 8.30. The two portions were put in the oven, and when they were warm, K ate his, sitting on the mattress on the floor, with the plate on that little round stool, exactly level with his face!

Back to work he went. The emulator, push in a floppy disc and any sound – my voice, for instance, – can be made to cover a spectrum. He faces these opportunities. Another young–old division – he still has all that wonderful leeway to be interested in means.

His ends are there, already, partly without him knowing. So, after his meal, and a bit more fiddling about, we went to the pub for one drink before he went on. Very sensible, as a change. His dear pub seemed changed. Unknown people behind the bar (‘customers’ said K) a squalid row, with ears pulled between a married couple, a juke box and a general atmosphere in which it is impossible to imagine those nice old men singing. At our table was a rather nasty man in a hat, v. drunk, with a middle-aged blonde. They both drunkenly identified Chris and K, who told me later in an undertone that the man had assumed K was gay, because of his hair! Also at the table was a big fat old man who kept lifting his bottom off the seat, so often, and yet with such a vacant unfocused stare, and skin so yellow, that I was careful to tell K, really forcibly after, that I thought he was really ill. It was K’s George. A dear. And K bending to talk, – kneeling sometimes, - in the middle of all the intensive work, was a beautiful sight.

So off home. I wonder. To the tube. A delay. Someone under the train at Caledonian Park, at 10.45. Tall, taller than me, youngish 32 half caste? In smart uniform and neat collar and tie, not in the least over-bearing, as near to taking pride in the job, as I’ve seen lately, talked to me, in that free-masonry created by late hours and disaster. ‘Go back to Finsbury Park, and change onto the Victoria Line. We can’t tell yet how long it’ll be. If they’re dead, it’s quicker. But otherwise, it’s a crane, to get the train off them and that takes time. It’s two or three a week. Sometimes it’s the head or chest. Sometimes it’s the legs.’ He had a confident and unsmiling, unseeing black man with pale skin. Other occupants of the platform, a white bore and a white drunk. Went back to F. Park on to Green Park. Interminable wait, train so full, taxi.

But whole day matchless. I realised I must just go and do what I can do for him, and not talk about it. That’s what throws him. I am the central fact of his life at the moment. And it’s my fault if it isn’t right.

Sunday May 12 1985

Another good day. A little marred at the very end by me not taking my own advice. Got there at fiveish. Peter Orr was there playing away like mad – guitar – in patched jeans and winkle pickers and long bleached hair. Chris P echoed my thoughts when I said, Is he after or before the fashion? His girl-friend Sue is sweet and ordinary, – as is he! Despite being the lead singer of a group called Agents of the Shout. (And I’d be surprised if anything happens to it!) At 6.0 ish Claire M arrived looking a bit tired, even her - well, a long run is a very tiring thing. I love her. She told me all about the National job, – what luck, with little or no acting experience. To be taken up by Ian McKellen and Tom Stoppard, with her singing voice as an unknown extra. She recorded his wonderful new number in about an hour and an a half, never having seen words or music. I was thrilled, because her approach is now theatrical and may teach K that speed can be a good thing. Chris P cried during it, over breaking up with his girl-friend. I’d brought over some chicken pieces and got a few more things from the super market. Cooked dinner, K was grateful, and said so. About nine, I left. I was rather tired and knew there was nothing I could do, except sit there. Alas, I said I’d come back on Tues. K said ‘No, it’s going to get very heavy.’ So I saw. He asked Chris to stay because he can be of some musical help. But I wasn’t much upset. Good.

Monday May 13 1985

To Joan Hoar’s. Agreeable company. Passed the time. Kedgeree again.

Tuesday Saturday May 18 1985

The most odd week, of absolute lethargy. Not despair, lethargy. I had no engagements except Michael Parfitt on Wed and never got hold of him. Did nothing, saw no one. Lay in bed every morning till one. Read a lot of trash. Didn’t ring K on purpose, and partly out of lethargy. Only today began to feel something. Roy then rang at Euston. That inspired me to ring K. Just off for day in county with Phil M and Sarah. Slightly wished I could go, too, but thank god, only slightly. Hope I don’t see any of the photos. He’s got his contract. Says he will ring me a lot tomorrow to go through it. He thinks it’s rubbish, but agents think it’s good. I said can’t I come round. He said snubbingly – I wish he wouldn’t – ‘Oh, no, don’t’ as I have Roy to lunch and Paul R to dinner - Is he afraid I’ll stay? Seriously, it isn’t at all to see him, it’s so much better to read the contract, – just to see what it doesn’t say. He suggested Tuesday. He’s seeing the music publishers on Monday. I love that boy and he knows it.

Sunday May 19 1985

Whole day built round him ringing up about his contract. He didn’t. Cancelled guests in evening to be sure. He didn’t. Rang him at 10.0 and just two brisk sentences. Can I relax that your contract is alright? ‘Yes, I can understand the English enough to etc. Right see you on Tuesday. Will he ever know the painful suspenseful agony waiting for him to call? No? No.

Later.

The fact that I think of him every waking second and minute and hour and every week and every month and every year, does that make me a fine craftsman in antique relationships? Do people feel now? Certainly my friendships are unsatisfactory too, in their un-commitment.

Later still.

And, if you think of it, the agony of exchanging two sentences only, and that’s more than enough for him.

Monday May 20 1985

Yes, well, of course, drunk but still in Vino Veritas.

But the bitterness comes out too much, as if it’s against him and his fault.

Suddenly today a wretched commercial has blown up. Outside Windsor, tomorrow. I didn’t ring him, in case.

I don’t think I can write a reasonable statement of the position now.

Tuesday May 21 1985

All is changed. What a tiresome see saw I am. As now I am perfectly happy.

The commercial was trying, as they always are. Had a car waiting, dashed back, got a bath and changed. And to RSJ. And there he was, hair really back in a pony-tail, with a long wisp either side, no more Widow Twankey. Still, I’d like it cut for beauty not style.

First, produced tape of new numbers! Told how Warners man was a bit overturned by the new numbers today. He is asking for £30,000 instead of 10. Man keeps saying you should let your lawyers do this. Oh, I do hope he’s doing it right. Full of happy plans, like, when I told him of chiropodist, ‘I’ll go the same week as I go to the dentist.’ He’s breaking off relations with Badminton! Imagine it. We talked of his IS – that’ll be alright – it’s separate. I hope!

I said What about your day in the country? Oh, we only got to Dulwich Park! After all my agonising..!..

Perhaps I should describe it, while I still remember it, the venue of the commercial – Dorney Court, nr Windsor. Real tatty lived-in country house, with basin in a cupboard in the bedroom where we changed, but only the cold tap ran. Everything a bit upside-down and higgledy piggledy. Small dining hall where we pretended to be the House of Commons, was hung thickly with family portraits of the Palmers from 15 – to a Mrs. Simpson-like picture. Chancellor of the Garter, Admiral of the Fleet under CII. In the hall, on a vast Tudor chest, a hand written letter, ‘So glad you’ve come again, and we hope you’ll see what lots we’ve been able to do since you were here last. (I suppose re. greeting a coach party.) But there is still lots and lots to do. Please don’t sit on the cane bottomed chairs, or touch anything you don’t have to touch. We do live here and don’t like to have chains or notices. Cream teas finish at 5.0. Signed, Peter? Illegible. Felicity? Palmer. It’s where the first pineapple ripened, in England, and there’s an engraving of a 17th Century Palmer presenting it to CII, and a huge wooden pineapple in one hall to prove it. More of a sense of genuine continuity then I have ever felt elsewhere.

But whole day leading to dinner and the sweet proportion that friendship gives.

Wednesday May 22 1985

To Mary L for lunch with my hangover. Unexpectedly a delicious lunch. Smoked salmon pate, quiche and six strawberries, nice cheese. Big bottle of white wine. Just stayed long enough for me. Self, self. But – I think a success, now that I have learnt exactly which bits of myself to withhold.

Forgot to say that K said he was going out with Maxine tonight to that ZTT thing at the Ambassadors Art of Noise etc. ‘Oh, Kevin’ I said. Because, you know, one chat under the influence of a contract. Write a song called Maxine and well!

Quiet evening, picturing him having a – wonderful time?

Thursday May 23 1985

No he didn’t! She stood him up! Malpass! I don’t know whether she simply didn’t turn up or whether she put him off. Well.

Jon H came round to lunch, – I played him ‘All in Vain’ – it is sensational. He trembled and rang K immediately. Which is when K told me about Maxine. It is amazing. I think she stood him up. Perhaps the song and his looks and speed were all too much. Interesting. Perhaps she doesn’t like him! It is odd his - well, not lack of success but lack of real interest in his women this last year or so. Only Linn has really engaged his interest, as well as his cock.

Jon as ever, a really agreeable companion. He massages my ego as I like to have it massaged. In the evening took Joe Searby out, - we went to Smiths, in the basement of that art gallery. Big open room, superficially a bit dreary, with suburban dining-chairs and paper-napkins. But on closer examination v. pleasant, and Time Out or whoever it was, are quite right that it is a better mixture. Waiters and drinks – girl sweet, food above average and altogether much better value than anywhere else in C.G. looked at realistically. Joe continues to intrigue and please me. His closed, rather jerky speech, his good sense and good looks, his interesting contradictions. A part vegetarian, a fitness well, not freak but he is pretty fit, I’d say, he nevertheless drinks and smokes copiously. He is v. interested in Ken’s company.

Was reading Raliguet’s what’s its title? The one that isn’t Diable au Corps, in a first edition that cost him £10.

Friday May 24 1985

To lunch with Ken B at Café Du Jardin, he was already there, a pleasant change from others. K! Lovely happy fruitful productive lunch. Gave him Nicholson, he talked of it with such interest. More of his plans, and raising of the money. To the dear picture framers, to see about his first- night present, one of the last of the 1840 lithographs most of which are in my bedroom. This was Charles Kemble as Cassio. Almost as I gave it him I remembered that it was a part he’d played, happily the quotation was his favourite line. Chose a gold mount and gold frame, but different from mine. Left him to go to Old Enough a good ‘little’ film about New York teenagers, delicately but not completely satisfactorily done. One of the girls was too old, too nubile.

Ached to ring K but made myself not. It upset me, tho’. The usual, why can, others be with him etc.

Saturday May 25 1985

Today he starts rehearsing with Peter Orr, so even more. And the boys come - poor K, they always seem to come at a busy time. I said to him on Thur. Why don’t they come over on Sunday. Which I’d wanted him to do, but impossible.

Hazel arrived, late for her, about one; although she has a couple of glasses of wine, she never brings any – yes, she did once – and keeps bringing honey and marmalade, which I only eat in theory.

She had put the new script under my door the day before. I was able to say that it was vastly improved. I had only minor suggestions. I thought it was now good enough to show to Dottie again. What a relief. There are far fewer extracts, the whole flow is better, the whole thrust of the thing clearer, and of course infinitely more theatrical. She has loosened her hair and looks softer and more attractive. About 3.30 Prim rang, quite right to cancel dinner tonight. Really. I suppose she just had one drink too many and couldn’t face me. So I thought what do I do with the duck and asparagus etc. I was hurt yet again, but I won’t be again. That has finally decided me that I can never depend on Prim again. A pity as I was just beginning do so. She spun me a yarn about going into hospital on Tuesday because the pin in her ankle has slipped. Now, as always, no doubt that is something to do with truth. But what?

As for my ruined dinner, fate was kind. Jon H turned up, to gather props for the video he’s working on, and he could stay and eat, and Ben Unwin was turning up later. And, of course, Roy M. In the end, neither of them got here in time for the duck. Which Jon and I shared v. amicably between us. He is a disgraceful flirt. Ben arrived about 9.30 and Roy not long after so I cooked them bacon and eggs, and they never knew what they’d missed. Ben has a black suede jacket and black leather trousers with studs and sharply winkle picker shoes, and long badly bleached hair. Altogether, I’m not sure if he means to be ahead of the time or behind.

But the main news of the day is that Ken B rang at 3.50, in the middle Hamlet, to say the Nicholson is a knock out, ‘I’m carried away by it, it’s perfect for you, it’s sensational. I’m now going to kill Roger Rees.’

It was such a lift.

I longed to ring K, but didn’t want to interrupt him.

Sunday May 26 1985

An empty hopeless day. Slipped back to tears and envying Peter Orr and his group for just being there. Did nothing. Felt everything.

Monday May 27 1985

The same.

Rang Adrian Argent, the man who may repair the drainpipe.

Tuesday May 28 1985

Rang K. 2.30 at last. Got little Steve, Nigel’s friend. They’ve been down with Phil while K’s been rehearsing. ‘K’s asleep, no, he’ll speak.’ He did, and got on his weary, ‘the equipment’s coming tomorrow, so it’s not possible’ – he sounds pitying and I hate that. However, we got over that, and I asked the boys if they’d like to come over after the Brussels match, and Nigel came on and sounded much more responsible and we arranged. Back to him, I told him about Ken B and the Nicholson, and of course that was – there’s no one like him. Now she’s gone.

Wandered about the West End and the flat. And worked a bit.

Wednesday May 29 1985

Equipment arrives at K’s today.

Signed on. Remembered to write to Ian Burns at Coventry.

Roy came back, and I was grateful for the company. While I am talking, I can forget.

Later.

The most fearful thing. Roy wanted to watch the football from Brussels. I didn’t want to, so I said I’d tape it in case I wanted to watch something else. I watched a bit of it out of politeness, and suddenly the most frightful situation unfolded. Riots and charges and all the woeful paraphernalia of football hooliganism led to a wall collapsing, rows of people lying on top of one another head on, with the ones underneath unseen dying as we watched. In between times, we were regaled with the spectacle of the idiot football commentators, lackeys of an over-blown nonsense anyway, attempting to encompass tragedy.

It is obviously a major disaster, not because of the number of deaths, 40 so far and 350 injured, but because of the last straw feeling in the air. To my amazement, the match went on and went on being transmitted. And Roy watched. Both the BBC – and Roy – justified the going on, by the argument that there would be a worse riot if they didn’t. I think that was the nadir, the moral nadir, that is.

But of course the main horror for me was in worrying about Nigel and Steve, and thinking of their poor parents. What can they be feeling, when I know what I’m feeling? Just the thought, for a second, if it were him…

It can scarcely be a worse position for poor Mr and Mrs M tonight.

Thursday May 30 1985

Forgot to say Neil rang up last night on his way to Joan Collins and Sins. Contrite for not having come round, but I’m not surprised, what with all the fittings for Sins and publicity for Biggles. Of course, he artlessly reveals he’s seen other people and it’s fascinating to think what I’d feel if K did that. He almost never does and never deceitfully, but even an imagining of it, I suffer for hours. (Don’t think I am defending it). If only I could be with K as I am with Neil, since I am on an unqualified success with N and never row. But I am definitely getting better.

Roy still here but off this p.m. Spent a few hours still worrying, thinking, hoping K hadn’t heard, and if they turned up here first, I could tell him of the horror and that they were safe in the same breath. But no, at 2.30ish Nigel rang from K’s. So he had had the worry. We arranged for him to come - K was working. An hour or so later N rang again, ‘we haven’t started yet, we’re very dirty and don’t want to come to you until we’ve had a bath and Kevin says we can’t run the water ‘cos it comes out as clicks on the tape.’ ! So I said ‘Come – I’m running the bath’. Of course they arrived much later than coming straight round. Even at 17, they looked tired and, I didn’t think I was imagining it, a bit humbled. They’d been in the very YZ block, but half an hour before N had said Let’s get out of here and they’d moved. Jon H was sweet with them. I took Steve to the b-room - he was in the bath almost before I was out of the room. Later, coming down to look at the dinner, I met N coming out of the b’room starkers. ‘Oh sorry’, he said, ‘I’ve dropped my underpants in the bath.’ Hasn’t quite enough shoulder but legs v. like K. Chicken pieces, sausages, mange tout, jerseys and two sorts of ice cream, melon, bread, lots. And off to ‘Witness.’ Steve fell asleep at one point and N at another, but woke each up, so I hadn’t got to be a school master. Jon H went off on the tube. The moment they got on they asked if they could see the tapes of the crowd, and had a beer. They watched till into the fearful moments, and N suddenly picked up Time Out said ‘I don’t want to watch anymore.’ One tear ran down. I held his hand for a moment. They tossed for the bed or the sofa. They were asleep in seconds. Upstairs I felt a faint sweet echo, with N. downstairs.

Friday May 31 1985

In the morning took in tray at 10.0 with 6 pieces of toast, all gone. N. was curled up on sofa, with feet sticking out, all v. like K. In the tube last night, in profile, he laughed and suddenly was K for a moment. I said so.

Off they went with N muttering ‘Thanks very mooch, I’ll be in touch.’ Because he talked so much more, I was conscious of the speech impediment. There is thickness. And of course the Liverpool of both is strong. Any loud aggressive way of talking, American, L’pool, Yorks etc. easily lend themselves to stupid macho behaviour. Devon and Somerset don’t seem to love riots.

As they walked away, Steve turned to wave but N didn’t.

To lunch again with Ken B at the Pelican. This time he was there before me again. Good. He wants to direct it! Do it at Croydon Warehouse because of Norwood. Or/and somewhere obscure if I like. Kate B to do sets. Music? Oh, it was as inspiring a lunch as I’ve had for years. Can I do it? All his suggestions were good. It gives me real hope. And we picked up his picture. £17.00 odd, and I forget to write on it.

Back in the afternoon for David Parfitt’s handyman, Adrian Argent, to come round. Mild slightly mad and defeated, as most ‘little men’ are. But I think I can use him for the moment!

The evening spent in mild preparation for Hull tomorrow. Have brought Shaw’s letters – the third vol. has just come out, with an acknowledgment to me for my corrections. Tho’ he doesn’t list the best one. Also discovered a new detective story writer – very late – Ruth Rendel. E Crispin says as good as Allingham Marsh, Sayers. No. But the next best thing. Have read 4 and bought 4 more. A good drug. Spent much of the evening as usual. Envying Peter Orr et al.

I suppose I am standing out for the luxury of delicate personal relations in an age where there is no room for them. Why do I say that, as he is capable of the utmost delicacy. I think it’s partly age. I am so much more conscious of life being short. Naturally he isn’t. Does he ever miss me?

Saturday June 1 1985

Royal Station Hotel, Hull. Rang K 12.30 to say I was off. Mildly there. He has only a glimpse, I think, of how violently I suffer from not speaking to him every day. He can say ‘I’m sorry not to have been in touch’. He’s been working, nothing to say, and he needn’t apologise, he’s absolutely sure of me, so… Which is marvellous. Told him – and he asked eagerly - of the boys. (I suppose I should register how completely he assumes I take them on so that he didn’t thank me. That would be superfluous between us.) He agreed how good it was they were here, with an ordered house and clean towels and so on, to assert solid life after Brussels. Chuckled much over their youthfulness, and felt for their shock and pain. He wished me luck and we made a tentative date, ‘It won’t be till after Wednesday’, and I wished my life away till Thursday.

So off I went, first return £68, to Hull. No restaurant car so the 2.35. No wonder I’m not a traveller, as I was wound up just to get to Hull. And when at Doncaster, I got on to a sort of railway bus with no 1st class and a lot of awful Yorkshire women with that terrible clacking clattering violent voice. I had my ear plugs in all the way. Read 3 Ruth Rendels and began 3rd vol. of Shaw’s letters.

The wash? Most beautiful on last bit of the journey. Hotel a bit off but big, and all right if you make up your mind. And the location is just outside the door! John Bardon is here. Odd, a bore, but he is, somewhere inside estimable. You see? I am not in despair. At 6.30 a party to launch the film. Never been present on that before. Producer M Codron! Very unlikely tan. Clothes so smooth they were worrying. Greeted me smoothly, also worrying. Made my way away earlyish, on the pretext, partly true, of working. Met M.C in big lounge when he introduced me to Michael Frayn, gentle, smiling, mild. Sparkled too much, being a bit drunk, and blurted out all my plans. I felt I’d let K down. Not that I mentioned him. But I didn’t collapse in the bedroom. I felt settled.

Sunday June 2 1985

Called at 7.30. The wardrobe was in room 104! At 8.30 I was in train with John Cleese, blocking. At 8.30 was back in hotel, in the Gatsby Bar, – the Green Room, – where I stayed, give and take an hour or two, alone till 6.45. After a good lunch, smoked salmon and lobster! – I said to the caterer, ‘What, no caviar’? ‘Well yes, there is usually but not today.’ Met Stewpot from Grange Hill, Mark Burdis, brother of Ray Burdis, round at K’s the other day! Nice boy. Lost all his spots since had chicken-pox the other day!

Wrote to K at end of day, of which more in a minute. End of day, I mean, and said among other things, re needing to see him, – ‘I need to see you. I need what only a talk to you, as my closest friend, can give me, comfort, understanding, restoring a sense of proportion, a reassertion of our values. At 6.45, I sat in the train again, – they’d stopped shooting ‘cos of the light – as John Cleese just missed the train. I was sitting reading. The train stayed outside the station, moved a bit further on, and stopped again. After about 10 mins I came to, and realised they’d forgotten I was there. The railway men, I suppose, thought it was the film men’s job to tell me, and vice versa. One of the funniest things to have happened to me.

The hotel’s restaurant gave John Bardon my haddock grilled and I had his place fried. Clever. Managed quiet evening after by pleading work. Very hot in hotel, restaurant details only in German.

Monday June 3 1985

Walked out in Hull for half an hour. Merely Boots and Woolworths interlaced with three-lane roads.

When I paid my bill, I said that the teas-maid had no tea-pot or tea. ‘Oh yes, they’re all like that’, said the receptionist.

Good journey, except for being asked at the last moment in Hull, and therefore in a fluster, to change to the first-class carriage at the front of the train. ‘I’m turning this into a second class.’ ‘What a barbarous place Yorkshire is’, I said, totally unfairly in my rage.

Back here, Roy was here. Strange boy. Deep neuroses, as he knows. There are deeps of other kinds ahead, I would say. But I was glad of the company. He went off. I had a quiet night.

Tuesday June 4 1985

Took Edna’s watch to lunch with Mary L. Talked over Prim again. I fear over the years one’s love does get worn away by the lies.

Mary very funny reminding me that that awful uncle who said ‘She always meant me to have this’, also said at M’s father and mother’s funeral – they’d died on successive days and been buried in the same grave - as they walked away from the cemetery - ‘You know you’ve buried your father in my space – that’s my mother and father down there.’

‘Well’, said M, there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Wednesday June 5 1985

Annoyed with Jon H. He didn’t get in touch for our date last night, or bring my umbrellas back, and there’ve been big thunderstorms. I bought another on the way Simon’s this morning.

Entertaining as ever. But he does worry – he’s a bit beside himself. And v. unhappy really. But who am I to talk?

To Hungry Horse where at 1.35, we were the only guests besides one single man. Simon buying a house for his mother.

First rehearsal day for Roy went well. Goodness knows. I still miss him, tho’ we meet tomorrow.

Thursday June 6 1985

Again perfection. That’s all

Saturday June 8 1985

In Hull again. Badly run hotel, but all right if you make up your mind not to ask what they can’t give you.

Well, what can I say about Thursday?

Sunday June 9 1985

I love him despite our telephone conversations.

I love him before all others

Monday June 10 1985

What I meant by that is, of course, the usual rather too short chat. But also when I said What are you doing on Friday? he said, in that repressive voice ‘I don’t know about Friday yet, Angus’. As if I habitually make impossible demands on him, which he can only just keep at bay. It occurs to me that what with the money and so on, perhaps he feels like that. Anyway, I took it.

As for Thursday, the only crumpled rose leaf was that he hadn’t read my letter. I know he’d been working, but if he has time to go to the pub, he has time to read my letter. But, he was working and my letters have so often been reproaches. Otherwise it was – well… We talked of Peter Orr and Co. Of course he won’t be their key-board player. He knows he couldn’t, for the social side alone. ‘I might do it for a month.’ What he couldn’t do is play the same numbers over and over again. Very sane he was, as always in the end.

I told him about Simon and Matt, and sucking him off in the Prado. He said ‘Why do you let him tell you these things – they upset you. I said ‘Do they upset you?’ ‘Yes, he said, but I don’t mind hearing them if you need to tell me.’ This lead on to the football. He did go on working, at something mechanical but found it very difficult. He kept thinking I’d ring, but when I explained I was hoping he hadn’t heard anything about it, and I could say all in one There’s been a horror, but they’re here and safe.’ He was really touched at the thoughtfulness. Completely forgot to record that Nigel wrote me a lovely thank-you letter. He said he was sorry they went to sleep in the cinema. ‘But I was glad to be in a civilised crowd after the horrifying night before.’ Showed it to K. He was quite surprised, I think. But then 17 year olds can surprise you – both ways. He asked me what I thought of them not cancelling the match, I said I was disgusted. He said he knew nobody else except us who would have cancelled, because we didn’t think there’d be more riot. Nobody stands up against these wrongs enough, not even The Queen. ‘She hasn’t said enough about violence.’ He’s a great admirer!

I must rely more on the implicit content of our relationship. Like his love making, he likes it un- said.

As for Hull, very funny. Arrived after a good journey, except for the last hour. On the train from Doncaster to Hull, or rather the train-bus for that’s what it’s like – there is no first-class, so I was enmeshed in a crowd of ill-smelling parrot-voiced Yorkshire women and children. God, how I hate Yorkshire and its accent. Same room. Cocktail-bar awful. Went out to dinner with Karen Hore, wardrobe assistant, pleasant-faced, but otherwise plain and dumpy, but turned out to be intelligent and literary and Australian. I had a very pleasant evening. We’d been advised on the restaurant by the production manager, Gregory Darke. Quiet small neurotic man, expressionless face, v. calm. Might still not be a good organiser despite this.

The shooting-day was very easy again, and another delicious lunch, lobster and smoked salmon. Did all my bits with John Cleese. He’s got something strange behind his eyes. I also saw the usual comedian’s disease – he asked lots of people ‘I think that was funny, don’t you?’ Sat up at end of day with Gregory Darke who was so drunk I couldn’t get away. So this morning I felt bad and had to wait till the afternoon to go back!

Roy had gone when I got back. I was glad. Oh, tomorrow I must write about his play. On Friday. No, now. It was good, tho’ he was angry with the leading man ‘not as good as Thursday’. I don’t think he could ever be good. He rewrote it over the weekend. It might work.

You think I can bear anything you send me. No, I can’t, I’m near breaking point. Love can be stretched so far. Love thins and stretches, Pulled out like toffee Then you go off it But alone, always alone.

Silvine

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY No. 60

June 11 1985 – July 15 1985.

Tuesday June 11th 1985

Did absolutely nothing all day but read – partly Ruth Rendell, an excellent detective story writer I have just discovered, and the new volume of Shaw’s letters. As brilliant and wonderful as ever. This volume seems less full of the theatre, but perhaps his life was because of the war. I think time will decide that the vast majority of the theatre letters should be Printed. After all, in a hundred years he will only be known as dramatist. Is now for that matter to the vast majority.

He suddenly rang at twenty past nine to my delight! (Oh, I forgot to say that, on Sunday, he told me the play with Caroline Goodall in it, ‘Susan’s Breasts’ was good, ‘you should see it’ (and she was ‘brilliant’). So I was quite surprised when I told him of Jon H’s new girl, ‘four nights on the fuck’ that he said ‘I wish I could find someone like that.’ Oh I said, Caroline? ‘I haven’t fucked her for ages – it’s over.’!! Isn’t it strange? I presume from the way he spoke that she finished it. Still, I’m not sorry – as I’ve said, it could never work. He went on to say ‘what are you doing tomorrow night?’ He still hasn’t heard anything about the contract. I think he’ll need some money. I’m in dire straits.

I’d give everything I have to him if he wanted it.

Thursday June 13 1985

It’s three years tomorrow since he arrived to live here.

Wonderful beyond words. Poor little soul he needs £200. Poured it all out. Back to L’pool fine again. Had to tell the ticket inspector he’d no money. I pushed £25 into his hand and he took it. Robin’s paying the mortgage. He’s utterly with me, there as my friend and I wish he were my son. He is, he is.

Friday June 14 1985

11.30am

Too full and joyful to write much last night. Waiting for him now, he’s coming to lunch with the bills to pay. It is as always difficult to describe the exact relationship between us, when it’s as close as this. Why is happiness harder to describe? Where does this perfect sympathy come from?

He has had no money from the dole for two and a half months. But he’s come to me (I’m glad Robin and MLR are doing the mortgage – they should, it keeps them up to the mark more. But he’s come to me, to owe me more – that says so much. He loves me enough for that.

When he told me about the tube and the dole, I felt that uprush of protective feeling when I would fight the world for him. And closed his hand round the money that instant over the table. The feeling caught both of us. He explained about the contract, that Robin had said you could have had £10,000 but you stood out for £30. What real good will be £10,000 be? I know what he means but only up to a point. His urge to get some equipment permanently is what it is really. His urge to make a mark in the world isn’t I think as strong as his urge to compose. I don’t know. I must talk to Robin, I think. Also said that John Sterling said he ought to have a manager. He said I would be perfect because I knew his songs better than anyone but I’m not in the music business. He’s keeping the musicals out of it, - I’m not altogether clear why, nor is he clear about my place in it. It can’t, I think really be left for him to pay me out of his royalty! I’d better speak to Felix.

He had steak and kidney pie, I had salmon. On the way out we met Denis Lawson and Diane. Actors talk. Don’t like K to hear it much. We found taxis all too soon, I pushed another £5 in his hand, we embraced.

I am learning.

Later

He arrived in a scarf, it’s so cold. He had the same idea as me, bills first. He sat on the red chair, and we did them – ‘oh I forgot the stamps’. ‘That’s all right.’ ‘I need one more envelope.’ ‘In here,’ opening the stationery drawer. ‘That’s organization.’ £76 for telephone, £73 for gas, £31 for electricity and £18 for water. He wasn’t silly about it either way. He was like me, just practical. He never jars. He has unusual taste in this way. Like her.

He left about 3.30. Despite last night – now, I felt a bit of a pang when I left him at Piccadilly, but only a bit. I am recovering, I think. Just think, he loves and trusts me enough, despite everything to put himself under another huge obligation. (To him, I mean, not me). Did various jobs in West End. Tea at Berteaux. K with Chris Parsons because Chris is off to Switzerland next Thurs. Quiet evening, still enjoying Shaw’s letters and sandwiched in Richard Buckle’s second vol. Strange man, unmistakeable style. Always was.

Saturday June 15 1985

Bloated with food. Thought that was it but it wasn’t. About midnight the ‘phone, Chris in K’s pub.

‘Kev and I have quarrelled - can I stay with you?’ ‘Yes’, I said, all agog. I suppose I was relieved that he can walk away from someone else. They’d been having a drink in Upper Street and come out and seen a banner? on the Town Hall about 19% unemployment. Chris had said ‘Anyone can get a job if they try – there are jobs etc etc.’ K had said, - and oh I can see his face ‘not in Liverpool.’ Chris said, ‘I said that’s nothing to do with it’ and Kev just walked away from me. Well nobody does that to me etc etc.’

Of course, I rang K straightaway and said fill me in: Which he did. I think he was a bit ashamed of losing his temper, but I don’t blame him. Chris is so crude. So he said he would dash to the pub and try to catch Chris and make it up.

Chris was supposed to be staying there last night.

Half an hour or less later, he rang back. He hadn’t caught him. Sorry to land this on you.

Chris arrived. It seems he got back to the flat first and then K came in. More trouble. So Chris left.! Of course Chris tried to have the argument all over again. I sent him to bed, he said ‘Can I have a gin?’ Came back after it and said ‘did you ring Kev?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But – we very nearly had that talk about, but Kev’s great friend of mine and so are you etc behind my etc back! How surprised he’d be if he knew I only do for him what I do do, a little for his own sake and talent, but mainly to help K. The whole situation only interests me as it affects or reveals K. Funny Chris, not, it seems, at all to see how immeasurably K comes first with me, above everyone, let alone him.

Oh he told me K was ‘v depressed’ about his contract. More? Surely not.

Sunday June 16 1985

Found Chris had cooked a meal from Malpass Corner. Cheek. He didn’t get up till 1.0 – I was in the middle of lunch, and didn’t offer him any. He left. He comes for proper dinner on the Wed before going to Switzerland to earn, he hopes, £10,000 busking. I think we’ll both enjoy the breather.

Forgot to record K saying on Friday that what he loved about M Youth was its implicit point.

Dear boy.

He rang at 4.30 about Caroline’s play and has arranged seats. Gracious. Will take Ba New. Hope she is not in crabby mood. He was v organised about it and rang back to confirm.

Later

I must remember he pays me the compliment of taking me seriously in what he doesn’t do for me as well as what he does. He loves things to be implicit.

When he saw the blue plant pots on Friday, I knew he thought ‘I should have thought of those for presents.’

Yes. Dinner with Ba was too creamy. I felt bloated. Also too quiet as it was just the two of us.

Monday June 17 1985

Lunch with Simon, at Brinkley’s Wine Gallery. He looked a bit jaded. Buying his mother a house, financial crisis over tax, etc. Jolly lunch all the same, scabrous. Was amused when I told him Neil had been advised before a rape scene with Joan Collins, to be inoculated against silicone poisoning – K rang at 6.0. Coming here for lyric session, as hasn’t seen agent. Lovely.

Tuesday June 18 1985

1.20

Back from ‘Susan’s Breasts’ and dinner with Caroline Goodall. Full report tomorrow but must record my pleasure at her not understanding him. Nor Peter H. He reveals himself only to me. So far.

That’s true.

Amazing.

Wednesday June 19 1985

Well, what a day yesterday was! He arrived at 1.40 having run to say he’d be late. Hair held up badly by a band, hideous. The long hair makes his delicate face look small. And lots of stubble - ! I don’t care.

Sat on red sofa and said ‘I added up on the tube all my debts – (a glance worth everything) except what I owe you. £2,000 to the Nationwide, £400 to Nat West, £2000 and to MLR. I buy the equipment (he listed it) and pay the debts, and out of the Warner £10,000, I’ll have £400 to live on.’ True. We had lunch. Smoked salmon and strawberries. He enjoyed it.

‘Thanks for the lunch.’ We had coffee, watched ‘Corsaire’ from the Eurovision Dance Comp – he expressed his view on classical ballet again! – he talked of the Octophonics scheme – how he’d talked to a few of his friends about technical details. He told me a few incomprehensible technical facts. Invisible tunnels for the sound to go down – no, I did understand really – and then suddenly started to tell me he was going to see Chappels for a deal. He was really pissed off with John Sterling. I felt fearful for him- I wondered what would happen if he lost both. Did I show it? I thought and talked around it, and of course, gave him my full support.

He does give me the willies, but I must let him be bold. I’m on a knife edge. I said to him ‘Adding up all the finance, you are solvent – that’s what counts!’

He read the lyrics. He loved The Bradford Brussels one, loved it. And the other with a bit of reservation.

At the time table, ‘Oh can I ask you a favour? When Chris stays here on Wed, can you give him £15 which I owe him? This was fully against the background of everything we said about money before. I held his shoulder and we had an oblique smile about it. He rang MLR for some money and Robin answered and chattered. So off he went in a mini-cab. ‘Have you got enough money?’ ‘Yes’. ‘Are you sure?’ He asked the driver, and looked. I gave him £5.

That he of all people, takes all this now is incredible.

So to ‘Susan’s Breasts’ at the Theatre upstairs with Barbara B. Much enjoyed the play, with certain reservations and a lot of the acting. Caroline very good and vital and glowing. Also Felicity Montague and Jason Carter good. Packed and rather deserved to be. Round to Caroline’s after and took her out to Pelican. She is a lovely looking girl, blonde with big dark eyes, well-shaped but not skinny, (small breasts happily for the play). We chattered very happily all night, partly actors’ sympathy, partly genuine sympathy. I like her attitude to the theatre, and she is much less superficial than she appears at first sight.

She told me of her visit to Russia and how much she enjoyed it and how freely the actors talked to her. John N. you see, never spoke to anyone as simpatico. She was surprised how much dissatisfaction they felt able to express. She bought the rights of a new play and brought the script out! Amazing, I somehow never felt you could. It’s for three old people all over 75, so it wasn’t just an ego trip. Fancy K never mentioning it to me! We have to tell him about that – for another time. We all have to know news like that in case (early on I said ‘We won’t talk about K yet’ so that I wouldn’t be taken unawares. She revealed that she had an affair with Jonathan Gems, last summer. The more she talked of him, the less I liked the sound of him as so often, he sounds more like his less pleasant characters! Also, I thought less of the play at the end of it, as he more or less seems to be writing down his life as it happens. His latest girl is called Mariana, for instance. She was v. complimentary about Misspent Youth, thank goodness.

So we did get onto K, but gradually, in my way, so that it wasn’t openly discussing an ex lover. As for the ex, ‘we both decided we weren’t committed enough.’ We both laughed about his looks. He’s still rather depressed, isn’t he? But he won’t talk about it. Peter and I have said why doesn’t he talk about it? That’s what friends are for. If only he’d let us get through and comfort him! Ah, yes, I’ve sometimes felt that. But that must be his decision. And his taste in those matters is perfect. He is proud. Talking of which, at two different points, she said something of the same thing. ‘Barbara de Vries – do you know who I mean? says he’s so off hand when she rings up, she can’t be bothered anymore.’ I said ‘Well she did reject his music.’ and we have that out and I said I thought less of her for letting her producer decide for her. So we had that talk, of course he is very cool on the ‘phone! How I’ve suffered. But I can’t be sorry about B. de Vries, after her remarks to Peter H. And Peter H! He said to Caroline, ‘K’s so arrogant now, I just can’t cope.’

Well.

The whole evening and day made me humbly joyful and ashamed. Joyful because I so obviously know more of him that anyone and understanding him better than anyone. He has told no-one else literally about going to Chappells. Ashamed because I have mistrusted him and his love and myself, for so long.

Thursday June 20 1985

Read the play, or part of it. Hm. Translation v. Poor. But I fear the play may be pretty poor, too. Little happened so far – end of first act.

Meeting Hazel with Felix today, shall suggest we do one of the famous novels for TV, not Crampton Hodnet.

Rang K 2.0 and suggested getting some equipment for the Bradford lyric. He thought it a good idea – as I said, the lyric is so topical. He said come to lunch after I’d told him about the art exhibition. He showed signs of not wanting me to be there over the weekend. I want to do this song with him, and must tell him so and get it straight. Remember the previous page!

Time with Felix and Hazel good. I think he was impressed. Took a copy of Crampton Hodnet to read, and was mildly encouraging about adapting it for TV.

Hazel calmly said she was going back to Oxford. And left me with an empty evening.

Friday June 21 1985

To K’s at 1.30. Very taciturn at first, as so often, but I’ve learned. Chappell’s had gone well and he’s going again on Monday, with the tapes we’ll make this w/e. They think, unlike Warner he should be a performer too. I hope not. How any possibility simply, disgracefully, presents itself as a separation, physical or not.

Played me the Bradford Brussels number. Excellent, askew rhythm angled to the metre.

Played me two new songs, one fascinating in its simplicity, the other with a lyric that made me cry, it was so nakedly describing his misery. Those are the three. Lunch, tried some grated carrot in the omelette. Not a success. Too sweet.

Am worried about him going to Chappell’s rationally as well. He may lose Warners, Chappell’s and MLR at one go.

Talked of the Caroline evening. Told of Caroline and Peter saying why couldn’t they comfort him. It was comic. He wanted to hear all the bad things, and said well I could cry on their shoulders, because they want me to, and anyway in the end, they only talk about themselves. If I had to cry on anyone’s shoulder, I would choose Barbara de Vries. I think, just because I didn’t know her very well! So I went on and told him what she’d said! He was amused, and said – But she’s only rang me twice: I hope he’ll gradually drop them all. A very good couple of hours. And he is coming to the film!

Off to Wood Green. Jon H to meet us. Told me that after a party, he and this new girl and Steve and Tom all slept in the same bed. He’d gone downstairs to sleep cos he got so hot after a bit. The girl threw herself on Steve and they fucked. Not on. Steve was drunk and did confess. The girl did not. So that’s the end of her. Just a slag and she’s got the sack from that restaurant.

So to the M’sex Poly. Student show. Most of it pretentious or feeble rubbish. Happily the person I’d come to see, Steve Thorne’s flatmate, Dominic McGill, had by far the best exhibit. Especially a series of brass weights fitting one on top of another on a thick central wire. All fire objects just offered. D McG is square, solid, strong looking. Very square head and face, very merry twinkling dark eyes. Took them to The Pizza Hut, D McG no money at all and the term two more weeks to go. Fun talk. Whatever can they think of me, really?

Back to Smith’s, and settled down a bit early to wait for Hilary. Offered a newspaper, choice by the waiter. Lovely dinner. She is so true and good and sensible for so young a girl. And so responsible. I think I said some good things.

Saturday June 22 1985

11.15pm

He called out to me, a good day when I left at 9.45. Oh, a good number well on its way. A good meal.

Oh my little boy. My big talented more than talented boy.

Sunday June 23 1985

Arrived at 3.0, exactly as he’d said. He turned with his headphones on and said, quite angrily, ‘You’re early’. As if I were threatening him. Yes, I am flattered now. Everyone else he greets easily. He can work with me there, but perhaps I disturb the harmful dream.

He apologised later, tho he needn’t have done. We had a good afternoon’s work fitting in the speaky bits, some of which are good. He still said he was going to Birdy for which I’d got the seats last week, before all this, at ten to six. I said I really didn’t mind, I’d much rather he did the work which I’d suggested. We rang around to find someone else to go. No good. Across the road to Kate B’s. But no. Finally he said all right and I tore the tickets up. I think it was the money being wasted! He minded. He said he’d got some chicken and did a casserole. I went on scribbling, had an idea of getting Nigel and Steve to contribute on the telephone from Liverpool. Arranged with N. Read him the lyric, long pause ‘very good’ in a low voice. A lovely tribute from a 17 year old. So today we’ll hope to do it. Tomorrow he sees Chappell’s with a tape with three new no’s since last Thursday!

Two hilarious calls both from Steves. Chris’s Steve rang to say he’d missed the plane to Geneva, got the next but been turned back because he is banned from Switzerland! Changed a number on his passport. Just a minor crook. Steve Wilson, Nigel’s friend, rang about the song, but really to see if he could stay with K or me on the 19th.

Yesterday was one of the best, the happiest days of my life.

Monday June 24 1985

No, Sunday and today are absolutely equal. I arrived at 2.0, he was having his brunch. He’d done a lot. I thought I would be here for an hour or two. I think that’s what he thought. I was there till eleven, and missed the last tube home. We worked on the Brussels number mainly, I on the lyrics for an hour or two in the afternoon. We rang Nigel and Steve about 2.30. Back and fore a bit, leaving it to them to compose and talk. Perhaps a mistake to give them too long, but I suppose if we’d jumped them into it they mightn’t have said anything. K went on recording. At about 6 they rang. K re-arranged all the mikes and amplifiers. While he was doing this, they did their little dialogue, which they said was forty secs. More like 2m40s. And, alas full of purple passages and acting. Steve, of course, Nigel remained obstinately real. K went on setting up. We rang them back and started again. Sound no good, so off we rang, and on he went. Took the ‘phone to pieces and wired it direct to the speaker and so on. And on. At one point he turned to me with a wry smile, as he propped one speaker up on the lavatory, there are times when I wish we had a camera.

Eventually, all was on the stretch, the disembowelled telephone in pieces by the door. K in the bed, dialling the caseless ‘phone, speaking into the mouthpiece, but their voices coming into K’s head’phones. The Tim signal was perfectly all night, but then no go. I suppose the distance. Again perhaps as well as we couldn’t have used it anyway. So a little later K asked quite emphatically for dinner! I’d been to the shops for some things and brought some things with me for today really. And completely washed up – with only boiled water! ‘Have you washed up? I’m starving.’ Later, ‘when will it be ready?’ I wonder who he’s put off with that – so much the worse for them, if they don’t understand the demands of work inside him. Later, he said, ‘We must have something else instead of the boys; so you’d better get on with that.’ I thought I wouldn’t be able to think of anything, but suddenly I thought and wrote, in one go, a father ringing up a radio ‘phone in about his son at Brussels. I just did it without letting him read it. He cried. Left him at 11.15. Last tube had gone, so had to come back and get him to get me a cab.

Oh, Peter H rang to get his equipment back by 8.0, and was a bit shifty about us sending it there in a cab. The second time he gave in, an address in Back Lane, Hampstead. V smart. It’s another girl! Well, Well. I think what with one thing and another, K feels differently about all of them. I hope so. He has so few real friends. In my sense.

Today was beautiful.

Later

Except – today meant Sunday. Today was utterly empty. He rang at 4.15 about the Chappells interview. ‘He loved the tapes’. Well what about Wed for Birdy? He was short, as he is. I felt miserable. Now that is not right.

I’ve just been with him for two whole days and a lot last week. It is not right and not fair. I must get out of it. Or see someone about it.

Tuesday 25 June 1985

Had to ring K as the gas bill I’d paid came back because he he’d forgotten to put the counterfoil in! Otherwise I never would have and felt sick still because of the possibility of hurt. How long have I been writing this? I must cure it. Our friendship is too good for this. He was sweet and said he was seeing Warner’s on Thursday now. ‘What are you doing Wed night?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘How about Birdy?’ ‘Right’.

11.30pm

To register.

Utterly tranquil and ‘phone left in drawing room instead of outside bedroom door, cos he arranged tomorrow.

As long as I know I have a meeting settled, it is all right. Nothing else.

Wednesday June 26th 1985

Oh God, have I said the right thing? Oh Kevin, all that I have is for you.

Sitting here in bitter tears after a lovely evening.

So it is my failure all these years.

My.

Thursday June 27 1985

‘The right thing’ refers 11.40pm. Suffering agonies in case he’s sleeping with Barbara de Vries.

Friday June 28th 1985

Well, I am a self-centred indulgent fool. So back to Wednesday night. The drunken Have I said the right thing was, of course, about his career. We discussed the other two offers exhaustively. The performer thing is really attractive to him because of the much greater control he would have over the numbers. True. And he sees the difficulties quite clearly and would embark on heavy tours and so on. But, couldn’t they make him? I think it cleared his mind. I think I said the right thing. Otherwise, we had a lovely evening. To meet at the cinema at 5.30. He arrived about two minutes before the actual film started, very out of breath. Of course it worries me, as I’m always punctual and paced up and down for twenty minutes. But I have learned not to mind and to say nothing or I might begin our every meeting with a rebuke. ‘Birdy’ is distinctly good. Very American in its very nearly slick surface, but an unmistakably European ‘feel’ about it somewhere. Both of us thought the soundtrack below par in various ways. He analysed the music illuminatingly. Three beautiful chords enough in themselves ruined by that ‘tune’ over them. And he sang it all, of course.

To Smith’s. They’d got his sweater. Very warm and jolly meal. It is so lovely to see him laughing. He said Barbara de Vries had rung up! So he’d been ‘very responsive.’ She’d wanted him to go and look at her new showroom and advise about a sound system for it. So she gave him lunch ‘in a café’ and has asked him to dinner on Friday. That did depress me when I thought of my talk with Peter. I felt she was after him. The element I disliked was the ‘Shall I have an affair with Kevin?’ - her and Peter’s assumption that she decides, crooks her little finger, and then the affair begins. I’d hate that, and them all comparing him. What a set. He said she didn’t attract him anymore. Still, you never know!

I’d waited in all Thur. to hear the result of his interview at Warners. He didn’t ring. However he did later on and I said oh don’t leave me like that again. He was good – he said Angus, you should know by now that if I don’t ring by an hour or two after, there’s nothing to say. Don’t give so much importance to these interviews, - I want to keep these men small in my mind: Good.

Still, I can’t help worrying, and more so, that he overslept, got there 50 mins late and John S was too booked up see him – said Maxine ‘I noticed she had rather a belly’. He missed his DHSS interview on Tuesday by oversleeping.

I’m sleeping 14 hours a day just now. Does it matter much, either of those? Probably not. Poor child, the escape of sleep.

He rang from the pub down the road, as his ‘phone is maddeningly out of order again. I had told him about Adam Desforges possibly coming to stay, so I said could we come over on Sunday. So he said ‘I’m on the scrounge. Could you lend me £10?’ I’d given him £25 over dinner. He’d brought a tape with one good number on! I thought he’d got through it a bit quick. But I sent him £12.

Joe Searby cried off last night. Spoke to Adam D’s parents. Father not keen, and anyway he’s working on Sat. No word from him, so it’s off. I’m quite relieved!

Saturday June 29 1985

To lunch with Simon looking very puffy or tired and hungover.

Been on TV AM again. We went to the Brinkley Wine Gallery again. It’s nice and a good menu, but we waited half an hour for the first course. Two bottles of Aligote, Arbroath smokie mousse and roulade of salmon and crab for me, chicken and herb terrine (the Jewish fringe P Wright) and baked potato with what filling? for Simon. Strawberries for both. Bill, just £30, v good. I think our waitress was a bit hopeless. But it’s good.

We had a much better talk than for some time, partly because it was much less talk of Matt, and more of work. Also the drink worked perfectly for once with both of us. More of that. But first, K rang at 11.0ish. ‘The money didn’t come.’ Disgraceful. I suddenly saw it was for dinner. I was offering to take some up, when I realised. Good thing, as in the end, I didn’t leave Simon’s flat till 6.30 or so.. ‘How was your evening?’ ‘Oh all right. Lysette was there. She and Peter have broken up, but we didn’t talk about it much. We couldn’t really. I got the impression she’s given him the push! Well few people admit in public to having had the push. K does ! Sunday 30 June 1985

Wonder above wonder of a day.

I had all the food, shoulder of lamb, Jerseys, tiny little turnips, cauliflower, strawberries. A half bot. of whiskey. Arrived at 5.30 as per. Despite his desk being in the sitting room, he was writing at the table. He’d got the play about him and Glyn out, and written a lot more, sketched the whole thing out to the end. He read it to me once. Took three quarters of an hour to do. It was really good. It’s always fascinating to contrast two childhood friends growing apart. Because he feels intensely and sees truly, for his age, he has simply set it down and it works. Of course it was also fascinating to see, thro’ the web of the play, the whole of his real time with Glyn. I was absolutely right about them. The last time they met, Glynn actually said ‘we’re chalk and cheese now, aren’t we?’ He pleased me acutely by saying he could tell bad writing now. We had the talk about taste. I reiterated that he had unerring taste about almost anything artistic, as I have. We can always tell quality in art and people. We talked a lot about the play – I made some suggestions, and told him he must go on with it. We went to the drinks shop for some gin and wine. I was thrilled that he said ‘we’ll have this as well’ and picked up half a bottle of whisky. We talked of money later – I gave him another £20 on top of the £12 arriving tomorrow, and said it’s all for you, you know. And he said, fully, ‘yes, I know’. The whisky was lovely; at this moment in this life, to be able to take so much from me.

We played the new tape I’d brought of Scritti Politti, utterly without anything, though it took a year and £250,000 to make! So in the middle of dinner, he played me the two Peter Orr tapes. One poorish, the other which he had far more to do with, and made Peter sing differently. He just said he can’t do with the group socially, ‘the drummer has verbal diarrhoea.’ - ! The second track had something, and the contrast even of that little bit of his work, with Scritti Politti; - He said ‘Oh my strawberries’ cos I’d finished mine. He told me about the Barbara evening. She wants him and Peter to be models at the next show! April! I’ll believe that …

Coffee, and talk of acting and music. He described what he felt acting must be like. Exact. ‘A little scotch?’ And we talked of women, and his girlfriends. Only Judith has been really good in bed. And Linn, but then him Linn was the only one he felt anything for. I know it sounds ludicrous to say this again and now, after all this time, but I felt him open his very self to me. All my fears and jealousies and sulks are self-created and self-perpetuating. There is nothing inside him but simple love for me and admiration and concern. I said if he was really rich, I could be a tax loss in my old age. ‘Oh that’ll be expensive. You’ll still be around at 120, won’t you?’

There’s nobody like him, so fine, so true, so tender,

Monday July 1 1985

Further memories of yesterday!

He talked with the usual mingled consideration and irritation, of his family. His mother staying with me, slightly worried him. His father might feel his pride impugned, and want to take her to a hotel. I said it would be a bit expensive. K said he might like to do it all the same. I don’t care really either way, except I suppose I’d like the increased intimacy. But a genuine reason for it, is that it might not be a bad thing for them to be a little apart. After all, when were they last? She might be nicer to him, as a result.

He spoke, at one moment in throwaway, of ‘your beautiful voice’.

Sitting looking at him in the evening light, I saw further than I ever have.

To some student films at ICA, with Steve Thorne and Dominic McGill. Left after the first four. Coo. Enjoyable drink in the bar for half an hour. Home by 9.30. Hoped he might ring but his ‘phone is still out of order, despite me on to the exchange for two hours this morning, clearing up his bill. I suppose he has nothing to say about his talk to John Stirling this aft.

Tuesday July 2 1985 Wednesday 3July 1985

An interesting expedition to the Pryors. It partly worked, on the Principle of the toothache getting better on the dentist’s doormat. It was nice to be told, great feeling, great wisdom. How pretty Hampstead still is. But I don’t think I could live there.

John Henson here when I got back having some coffee on the balcony. Faint echoes. He is good company. In his cups said quite easily, that he was bi. Had an affair with a man three months ago. Must tell Simon, who seems to like him. Got very drunk, and this is really Wed with me getting over it!

Felt really queasy. Jon got his own omelette – I just lay drown. He went about 1.30 and later I went off to the Pryors to pick up my glasses and chequebook and diary which had dropped out of my pocket in my confusion. Very hot at last. Just before I went out, K rang to say his ‘phone was on – just for that, but we had a long talk. He’d seen John Stirling who says he must decide this week. He’d been to the DHSS – obviously fairly unpleasant, very hot and nasty. But they’d said they’d sort it out. Also Peter Orr had turned up, - he has an open MG - and they’d had the afternoon in Epping Forest – ‘so you see, Angus, nice things do sometimes happen when people drop in.’ I said ‘I expect you don’t want to go out tonight.’ That’s when he said about John Stirling. ‘So all this will soon be over Angus’. He has to think. I am getting there – it’s because I matter to him more that he doesn’t want to see me on these occasions.

Later

So off I went. Got the things. Basement flat in a way in a huge block. Beautiful plants leading to front door. Posted K some money in regd envelope this time. That £12 never got there. Disgraceful. £20 this time. Also letter to Nigel re their little scene. Sat at outside café table and had a lemonade. My first sustenance today except a couple of Alka Seltzers. Was going to pictures, but tired and Ken B tomorrow with Nicolson. K range at 7.30 ish. Perfect. How do you spell Sebastian? He’s finished the Glynn play! and that’s one of the names he’d thought of. Also Justin. I pointed out why they were unsuitable and we decided on Tony and Paul. Or George. ‘What are you doing for lunch tomorrow? Oh, yes, it’s Ken B. Well, Friday.’ I told him about the money. ‘Oh great.’ But so naturally. Like a son, really like a son.

Which is to say, he comes before everything and everybody, except contracted work. And even that, if he were really ill.

Thursday July 4 1985

It is better.

Desperately disappointed tonight after a good no, exciting afternoon’s rehearsal with Ken B on Nicolson, by him announcing over dinner that it can’t be till January.

I’m in no better case than K.

Friday July 5 1985

Oh, there is nobody like him. All day with him. Out with John N and Simon R.

Back here with Roy M.

It’s nothing to do with attraction it’s to do with fineness and selflessness.

Saturday July 6 1985

Yes, the rehearsal with Ken was very good. We found we could work together, all his suggestions were good, both superficial and deeper. We had good talk, avocado and salmon for lunch. Kate Burnett turned up at half six, as the whole Newbury – Archer thing had folded up. As it turns out you stand all the time. Virtually. We went off to the Wine Galleries. The food or rather the menu, is really good – for me. All was delightful, except, faintly, that Kate B. tended to talk only to Ken. That may be me, or Kate’s shyness, or -. Anyway, when he revealed that the Nicolson couldn’t be till January. That’s depressing enough, considering I was expecting at least a reading before Oct. But when I think of Ken’s involvement in two, possibly three major movies, the chances of him being free long enough, and knowing about it long enough before, for me and the venue to fit in as well, is, well, unlikely. I felt low when I got home.

However, I had him to go to. I have him to go to. I don’t know what has changed lately. Both of us probably. We seem to have moved into another gear, or to change the metaphor, into another dimension. He got lunch after finishing copying out the play. (Another way in which he’s like D. is that he never talks at once and I’ve learnt not to bust in with things – it’s a sort of violation to him, just as it was to her. For instance I showed him the Nigel Oakes arrest at the wrong moment.) After lunch I told him about last night and he was very helpful and thoughtful, and wouldn’t let me leave it. So we talked it out and I felt better. He also told me I’d left a bit of snot of my check – I don’t think he’s ever done that before. Also rubbed by bad shoulder. Then he read the play. It’s real life written down, and now that he’s finished it, it’s quite difficult to find fault with it. I have few complaints. I was really touched when he said ‘I want to throw it on Robin’s desk to show him I haven’t just been sitting on my arse waiting for the publishing deal’

I said I had two good things to say about the play, first, that the animas between the two boys goes back and forth, they keep falling out and retreating into the safely of early memories to make it up. Second, that the Kevin character he’s given such generosity of spirit, probably without knowing cos it’s his own.

I was able to get in quite naturally the end of Wed’s entry. He took it, as he takes the money. Was I right to say it? Yes, on balance, I think so. As long as I only say it once. He takes it.

And he brought up Liverpool. And started all the arrangements. I arranged with Philip D. for Friday after lunch, and he arranged with Ernie and Marjorie to stay the weekend. P. D. says no furniture. Well, I can always go to the Adelphi. While we were doing all the dates, he realised our Saturday date clashed with Nigel coming up, and Phil and Sarah coming over to take them back with them! I didn’t care much especially as he said ‘What are you doing Sunday?’ So we fixed on him coming over to talk over the play and do a film and have dinner. Well, I daresay we can’t do all that.

Sunday July 7 1985

Forgot to say that he’d been asked to a barbecue at Peter Orr’s at Tooting Bec. So he thought he’d go for the last two hours, the best bit. Possibly, but it’s a little dangerous arriving when everyone’s elevated. Anyway, he rang at 3.0 already there, and ‘I’m having quite a good time, do you really to go to a film?’ I said I didn’t see how we could and cook a joint in time. ‘Good, I’ll be with you about 8.0’.

And still I didn’t mind. Isn’t that good? Tho’ there is that residual gut feeling of wanting to be with him and all those lucky people who can look at him and talk to him and all/most of them don’t care. But, bearable. Heavens, I was with him for five hours on Fri, came away with his play that I’m having typed, he’s coming here tonight, we’re going away for the weekend.

Later

I was all ready for him to arrive at 9.0, full of food. Planned the joint for 8.30, on no 4 in case it had to be kept going. To my amazement there was a door bang, - I thought it was perhaps next door, but in the open bathroom door was that hideous blue plastic case and his keys, and it was 6.0 ish. Of course, it isn’t amazing to me that someone should ring at 3.0 saying ‘I’m having quite a good time’ and then need to come away from an open air barbecue in Tooting by about – well 5.15, I suppose by the time he got to me. But, oh dear, he was, controllably, in the depths. I know why basically, but there was no point at which I could fruitfully ask whether anything had happened at the barbecue. (I think perhaps something had – I mean something professional).

He was set-faced. Walked into the garden, stayed there a bit. ‘Can I do anything?’ ‘Pod the peas’, we’d had a drink and fiddled about a bit with my new tapes, Prefab Sprout, Sting and Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark. We had that conversation again and he did take the Sting and Prefab S. away with him. (I must say, I was annoyed to hear he’d lent (but will never get it back) the previous P.S. to Sam! Someone I don’t even like. But then of course he has no feeling for possessions. I must try and be grateful). We had a drink, he had gin, and said one thing which expressed a bit of his depression. He talked to a girl for a long time and then she mentioned her boyfriends. So that’s perhaps why partly he was down. He said ‘I feel such a berk not having a girlfriend in this weather’ but he didn’t say it at all passionately. More resigned. In fact I said all that – no, just that, about his music at the moment meaning more, and when that was settled, his hair would be cut, his face would smile and a girl would turn up. We talked of John Stirling and Paul Carron etc etc etc. He said that the contrast between the recording of Maxine and Continuous Cable, had been remarked on, and it maddened him. It maddened me too, to think that all these creatures could listen for the expense of the sound and not to the point of the song. It maddened me all the way around, seeing that he is looking for fresh, opportunities and thinks they are too. Even he thinks too much of the means. But I said nothing, I just exuded sympathy. He suddenly burst out and banged the table, as he almost never does. I can’t work with those little 4 and 8 tracks any more. It’s like – It’s like writing with a blunt pencil. And now there was real passion.

And thank god, I said nothing. Oh, if only I’d always taken it. But it’s wonderful that he can still shout at me, after all the times I haven’t taken it. So back upstairs and coffee, and he poured a whisky. We went on about it all. Poor child, he doesn’t know quite what to do. Nor do I. What will be best. I’m so worried he’ll lose control of his songs, for too long. However, he’s decided to take me to meet John Stirling when he comes back from the States. I can’t quite believe I’ve heard that from him.

We talked over L’pool a bit more. He said it would be silly for him to stay with me, because it would then take getting on for an hour to get out of London, cos of the rush hour at 8.30 in the morn. So, he’ll come over to lunch on Thur., pick up the car, go to this record interview, and then we’ll see and I’ll stay with him so we’re on the right side of London. He wants to have an evening with Peter H, get him a bit tight, and try and well, not straighten him out, but make him talk out the very definite tension and tightness so visible the other day. Peter H is a restless boy, whose refuge is to turn from thing to thing. And is quite clever about getting away. I wonder if he’s on some drug? Certainly he is the sort who might surprise K by his final reaction. He is a suicidal type. He has such a defeated exhausted look. As K has never looked at his most despairing. Defeated. So it’s either Tues or Thur., he’ll do that. I hope it’s Tues. I would be frightened if it were Thur. He might go somewhere else so as to go right thro’ it with Peter and oversleep etc etc. And the Friday talk is a professional engagement.

But tonight. How difficult it is to describe intimacy. Of course, it is just there.

Monday July 8 1985

Day spent mainly writing Liverpool talk. Booked car for it. £82 all in, VAT, full insurance, unlimited mileage. Rang him to tell him, in case it wasn’t right. He was impressed. It was cheap. Did I say I got the first instalment of the dog commercial on Sat? £2,301! Philip D rang, and it was borne in on me that not only was the new flat without any furniture or beds, but he’s also giving a no-carpets party. On Sat night. Imagine one block from the Malpass’ waiting for the party-goes to go before I lay down on the carpetless boards! So I booked into the Adelphi, and found to my delight it was only £15 a night on Fri, Sat and Sun.

Marjorie range about 7.0. Ernie was out – I could tell! Sweet talk, all working up, very slowly to ‘Aunt Amy will be there, will you mind?’ Ha! K’s favourite auntie? Is she mad?

Tuesday July 9 1985

Felt a bit fluey yesterday. Hayfever? Today.

Strange how my colds are always accompanied by heartburn. I daresay if I’d asked a doctor about that, I’d have had something removed by this time.

You know obsession? A garage at Biggin Hill was mentioned on the traffic news. I thought perhaps he passed it when he was driving about with Glynn.

Have written about half my talk. Peter H rang up trying to find K. Oh, why won’t I learn? I’d never ring anyone to find him. Tonight will suit him (Peter). Good. K not in till six. Hope he’s picked up driving licence. Told him of Marjorie’s call couldn’t take it in a dream. Glynn staying, and might come over here. Ha. Later G’s Sarah rang from her new flat in Hornsey. Is Glynn there? So bang went my evening’s work, till I rang her again at 9.30, to see. She is a silly girl. I don’t think K will like being so near eventually!

Reading Cecil B’s biography. Authorised Affair with Coral B! and others. He is more complex that I supposed. But oh dear. A baddish book. Author chosen by him!

Wednesday July 10 1985

Lyndon took me out to dinner, at a local restaurant, Hippo Campo. It looked all right, but service v slow. Food inexpert, not a trained chef and we heard about her husband’s difficulties! from the owner. However we were outside on a stuffy night, and we know one another quite well enough to be amused at a dud meal.

We made a move forward in our friendship, I think. She said she would come to me in any difficulties. She said ‘Your friendship is so precious to Neil’ that’s why I haven’t met so many of his friends, in case I think less of him for knowing rather awful people. Not what she said, but what she meant! That might well be. She was elevated, as again well she might be, and held my hands across the table for a lot of the meal. She and I have largely unspoken wisdom and agreement about Neil. (If he read this he might feel betrayed. Not at all, it is an agreement from loving knowledge of his mercurial nature, of both our worries that success may imbalance him). I think perhaps the biggest link between us is that we really know what is means to love someone completely, to accept of them forever, as I have done twice in my life. I’m lucky I see suddenly.

Tuesday July 16 1985 (inc July 11 – 15)

For once, a retrospective. I’ve just spent the last five days with him, and couldn’t write.

So, a mammoth entry. So much experience. Written in the immediate tense.

We had arranged to meet for lunch on the Thursday and collect the car, but only tentatively and he didn’t know where the car hire was. I rang him late Wed afternoon to get it settled, as I was to be out all night. He seemed to have forgotten about lunch. As it turned out after he hadn’t, but he sounded as if he had, which is maddening. He said something about Glynn’s new car, and that lunch wouldn’t be possible. I was irritable and finally put the receiver down with the words ‘you are the most disorganised creature on earth’. As it turned out, he had very good reason for not lunching but he is so bad at that sort of explanation. So off I went to my aforesaid eve with Lyndon, having snapped ‘I’ll see you at two in H’smith station’.

Thur 11 July

We met without constraint, but with carefully working out how to say that he must pick me up after his interview with Geoffrey Chegwin, bro of that terrible man on Saturday morning TV. We signed for the car, and it was a different man, so I didn’t have say he was my son again! With this very long hair and shabby clothes, I sometimes have to give him credence. It was parked at a meter in Hammersmith Grove. Nice little white car, new and well designed. Off we drove to his interview, and me to get a road map of L’pool. I was just phrasing my reminder, when he said ‘I’ve got to go MLR afterwards, so I could pick you up about 4.30.’ I glowed. He went off leaving the car parked in Russell Square, and I went off to the book shops for some drugs for the weekend. I purposely made the time go by. Got back in the house 4.45. There was the car. He was playing the new tapes, utterly at home like my fantasies. He picked out some tapes for the journey, I packed and we were in Bryantwood Rd by 5.30. I said Why didn’t we eat somewhere near him? A pasta place? As a fact I was a bit stomachy, what with my flue – the cold had dried up and the bad restaurant. He said he knew a place. He fiddled about with tapes. We chatted. He told me about Glynn staying. He’d brought a secondhand MG and gone to Cambridge with K on Tues, cos there’s a special spare part MG shop at Camb. On the way back the gearbox conked out in Finchley, fortunately in a traffic jam. Apparently a car won’t go at all without a gearbox, so there have been many comings and goings, and K, because Glynn had an RAF meeting this morning, couldn’t come to lunch because he had to go up to the garage in Colindale for Glynn. So I did see. At that moment the ‘phone rang. Chris Parsons back from Switzerland! Two months early! Wants to come round tonight and pour it all out. Of course. K said yes, and of course I was organised. I mean, I’m giving a talk tomorrow and do not want to stay up late or drink too much or yes, let’s look at it, I want his undivided attention to keep me going for tomorrow.

I expressed my disquiet, but mostly silently. He went at me. About Glynn and Chris. How could I not do these things for my best friend and best friend (sic) and I’m his best friend as well. He went back to me being cross about no lunch. It’s no use getting angry about me being unpredictable – we’re all poor and out of work and we’re going to be unpredictable. Shouting by now. ‘If you can’t put up with it, you’d better go back home and come in the morning. How can I turn Chris away when he’s come back a failure?’ I turned away to fiddle with my bag. ‘So you’re going home?’ ‘No’. I went and had my bath. When I came back, he said I’m sorry I shouted just now.’ ‘I’m sorry I sulked.’

Worst of all, for his day, so no wonder he’d shouted, was a letter from Warners, taking back the deal: Apart from the money, I’m not sorry. He could never have got on with John Stirling, who is obviously a real stick in the mud. With a graciously furnished office and a dog. No, I’m only sorry for him. He was almost laughing, it’s so awful.

We went to that v. busy Italian place Aquilino, in Camden Passage, a little off-hand but cheap. A bit fragile, I relished the pasta pesto. We had one thing each. We talked of Liverpool. He said ‘When I say I must go back to L’pool, you don’t understand quite. I must go back to write about it and in it, for a bit sometime.’ He sketched a little of what he wanted to show me.

I went to bed in his bed – he was on the little bed – while he was having a long bath and hair wash – an undertaking with it halfway down his back as it is – getting ready to face his mother. At the end of it he came in to get some pants out of the box under the clothes rack. A couple of white pairs were on the floor. ‘Are these yours?’ ‘Well, they might have been once.’ Fancy not knowing all your pants. He stood up to put them on half turned away; between his legs his balls squeezed out, big and pink and loose from his bath. They looked so fresh and full and I thought ‘How young he is and full of life and how good he is to me’. A friend who really loves me in spite of all. When he needn’t.

During dinner, he said something determinedly factual, and happened to look straight at me. I saw straight into him and tears came into my eyes.

He said ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I said, with one of my flashes, ‘I suddenly saw how unhappy you are’.

Friday July 12 1985

I was up at 6.45. Tea, shit, read, shave. Watched him a bit. The young at sleep, infinitely touching. Woke him at 8.0. He got up easily!! We started at 8.40. He is such a good light-hand driver. Both our spirits were raised by skimming out of London. We talked of the jingles he may do with Peter H and Ray Burdis in a week’s time. I sometimes wish those two were at the bottom of the ocean. He mentioned Keith Foster, just as I was thinking of him, because the country to our right was like that just before Badminton. Interesting, my stomach doesn’t turn over at all those inferior things any more. I am annoyed the proper thing hasn’t turned up yet, but I trust him now.

We stopped off and had bacon and toast (me) and bacon butty (him) at a sprawling café by the side of the motorway. Strange life in these places, which seem in the middle of nowhere. Where do the waitresses live? He pointed out by B’ham – it would be – a ghastly collection of high-rise flats too many to count and a little further along where he spun off the road in the ice, driving up to M’chester. No, back from M’chester. So we got there and he was rather fascinated by A-Z of L’pool. Never seen one before. Metel, a big old red brick Victorian school. Security men paged Philip and let K come in with me without checking him. He happened not to speak and be behind me as we went in, and they assumed he was with me, now way for security men to behave. We sat in reception for five minutes, I found a card among the clock-in cards, T. Venus! Philip came down with a collar and tie and he’s grown a silly little beard. Sat down and signed a lot of forms, without making enough of a joke of it. Hope he’s not going to turn into a stuffy little schoolmaster. So we went upstairs to see the room, large, light ‘make a good art studio’ ‘it was one’! P.D. had to unlock a security system with a code number to get into it because there’s quite a bit of sound and video equipment up there. Four youngsters were working on something on the small screens, as we were shown round. K perked up! We went to the rather rough and ready canteen Sole Morney. It’s run by the catering students. I said to a beardless boy, ‘I’ll have the sole.’ Blankness. ‘The sole’. ‘What?’ K began to laugh silently. Eventually a middle aged woman had to translate my strange foreign tongue. The sole was in an oval dish covered in sauce, but perfectly eatable. The plate was completely piled with chips, enough for three. P says lots of them have nothing but chips and sauce for lunch. I started to feel nervous. K glanced. We went back to the room. I sat far back in the circle of tables so as to be able to catch their eyes. I felt a little constrained at first and wished I’d been able to rehearse more. I made one or two gestures involuntarily and too many times. But, as K said after, I’d got them by the third page. I finished with the Siddons/Hazelitt extract in my best style and hurriedly said ‘Now anybody want to ask questions?’ To sidestep applause – or no applause. P D leapt up and said they always had notes at the end. He’d taken copious notes, and wrote them up on the whiteboard, glossy plastic surface written on by felt-tip pens of all colours – a great improvement on the blackboard and chalk. P wrote down all my stages of argument and all the students dutifully copied them. And he seemed even more of a schoolmaster. K took the opportunity to go off with the technical man! to look at the equipment. But back on the dot for the questions. And oh dear they were blind and conformist and respectful! The nearest to an attack was from a Chinaman with an unplaited pigtail to his waist. And his apparent aggression was only a complete lack of humour. I cannot remember one of the questions. K asked two good ones. On the second, I said ‘Why didn’t you ask me in the car?’ and got a much needed laugh.

The only one who came and sat with us at XX, before a second question session, was castigated by P afterwards as very rich and very lazy. I liked her! So off we went, about 3.30, and he drove me round Liverpool a little. A little? We went first to the dock. He told me how good my talk had been. And when I say that I mean that he was behind me with the talk all the way. I mean, there he was as my friend from London, standing or falling by how good the talk was.

The visit to the docks was extraordinary. It is not too much to say that he was possessed. We drove into three yards, which said Danger, Strictly Private, Not open to the public etc etc. He ran about them, partly looking for the place where he and Roy sat, while he was describing ‘Visiting Day’ and then they talked about it. We went down to the warehouses, now being restored. Part of one is to be the new Tate Gallery of the North. That group of four plain terraces are grouped in a square with water instead of a garden in the middle. They are of a grand plain Georgian simplicity. 1840? It was very satisfying to come at this stage and see them half restored. There is a shopping arcade, nice in itself but filled with trumpery shops and a silly café.

But that should change when it’s all finished. The sight of all that airy space in those buildings fired his imagination. I’ll take those five floors of that one, with a view out over the Mersey, as well as into the square. And pointing to that hidden tower with a restaurant on top that they plonked behind the poor old Playhouse, he said ‘and the first day I’ll go up on the roof, and with an enormous paint brush, I’ll paint a huge snake up and down that tower’. The tower is about a mile away.

We drove to the new Festival Garden. They already look a failure. It’s July. No-one was there. There is an ugly prison fence around them, entirely unhidden. Nobody there, the huge car park empty, the pub, restaurant shut; a lunch menu had ‘There is a more expensive menu served in the evening’. We passed the Philharmonic Hall, still well kept up, where he played his first concert. ‘It looks smaller’. ‘When did you last see it’. ‘Six months ago’.

Back at the hotel, I found my room v unsatisfactory, hardly room to move around the room, next to the lift shaft. But hadn’t time to change it. We sat in the lounge, Philip turned up rather early, about six. We had some drinks in the bar, nice warm chatty barmaid, just became a grandmother. Philip said there was a TV prog he wanted to watch, an Arthur Miller play being done in China, and perhaps in my bedroom …? Really. He often does that, and seems not to see how it circumscribes the conversation and cramps the evening. Secretly neither of us was having that. We went off to the Italian place P.D. had booked – it seems ties were needed, and it looked pretty stock. So we were off to look at the Armadillo. It looked sweet, so we sent K back to cancel the table. He said they looked at him very askance, in his jeans and long hair until he cancelled. A really nice meal at the A. P. had hummus, I had a fishy mousse, K had lettuce and courgette soup. We tasted each other’s, K’s soup was memorable, intensely green-tasting. So often such soups taste like the water you’ve cooked the vegetables in. As we talked – we had two bottles of Aligote – it appeared that P.D. who got rather quickly rather tight, was not sure that he wasn’t depressed by this job. It is being borne in on him that it is a come-down from being a proper director.

And, of course, that we couldn’t, I suppose conceal from him, our unspoken feeling that his students were rather uninteresting.

There is an artistic timing in him which I hadn’t noticed before. During dinner – we were sitting in the window – an Orange Day procession started to make itself heard. Deeply thudding drums. The Armadillo looks down a short street to a big main road. The procession came in sight, a brass drummer appeared with memorably loud big round thuds and crashes and booms. K’s ears picked him up and carried him bodily on to the pavement, where they thirstily luxuriated in the sound. The second course, salmon, trout. P.D. left at 10.15, pretty drunk to watch the prog! I couldn’t have watched anything at that point. He’s a bit of a greedy baby in that way. K and I talked over the day with a great comfort to me. Scotch and home.

All day he’s been in the grip of strong creative emotions and has let me see it.

Saturday July 13 1985

Up and out by 11.0 with my new camera! Tried to pick up a few notes of my walk round. Went to the Anglican Cathedral. Shocked by much, I saw all around. The shrubberies are full of rubbish and weeds. A little Sanctuary Chapel fully restored in 1981, is now quite overgrown. Thought of him going into the Cathedral to play in concert, sick with excitement. I love the Cathedral, it does for me what every great church should do, it leads my thoughts to proper humility. I went into a tiny side chapel, knelt down and just said ‘please let him have some decent work’, again and again.

Lunch alone at hotel, glue soup and reasonable fish. This hotel will have to decide what market it’s aiming at, or it will get none. Lay down and snoozed. It’s the Live Aid mammoth concert today, K was offered a ticket, 72,000 and a great event for his generation. Well poor boy, by his own disorganisation meant he’d fixed this w/e with his parents before he realised it would clash! He arrived to pick me up, and I knew straightaway he was in one of his cross, scornful moods. ‘Why haven’t you got it on?’ The aerial had broken off at the socket, as it chanced, I expect he was a bit annoyed at having to interrupt watching it to fetch me. We got to Ernie and Marjorie’s (Aunty Amy there, of whom more later – I liked her very much). And the day just mounted to disaster. He sat and watched it, not only more or less – all the time, but with a mounting weight of social consciousness ‘I am feeling deep emotion about Ethiopia and so should all of you’ expression on this face. He made no attempt after the first 15 mins to entertain me or mediate between his father and mother and me. Tho’ we have dangerously little to talk about but them and him! and eventually his ‘social consciousness’ took expression and he just boringly bored away all night, forcing poor Aunty Amy to say that she did give to charity etc etc. I can’t be bothered to detail his jejune primitive useless arguments, and attacks, which none of us deserved. He’ll grow out of it – it’s his student side, because he never went to a proper university to talk it all out, or has never read anything either, so has no idea how very déjà vu most of his pronouncements in this mood, are to someone like me. I lost my temper eventually, he drove me home, we had a violent quarrel in the car. For once I had nothing but right on my side. It was his selfishness in going on like that I concentrated on. A long bit when he said ‘You don’t contribute to charity’. ‘Don’t I?’ I said meaning him.’ ‘I don’t want your charity etc.’ I went to bed miserably unhappy.

And yet, and yet somewhere underneath there is no longer that despair when we quarrel. Some solid basis has mysteriously asserted itself.

I have forgotten to record that before he drove me home we went at 5.0 to Metel to see the video directed by each of P.D.’s students. Hm! I felt a little more hopeful about one or two of them, but on the whole the imaginative level low. P.D. latest, a red-haired girl called Lesley, was there, being trained as a homeopath. We helped them load up the van with P.D.’s household goods and a lot of chairs for a party tonight he wanted to go to. At the flat, top floor, of a pleasant Georgian house near the Cathedral, we unloaded and carried up three floors. I was in my pale grey clothes, and definitely didn’t want to get hot and sweaty. But I saw K and (and P.D.) never think of that. I was much struck by K’s attitude in turning to and setting up the Hi Fi for P.D. This generation has had to do all these things for themselves. He worked one way or another about 20 minutes.

Of course he just called in on the party to say I was too tired and he’d got to get back to this family.

Sunday July 14 1985

Slept badly. Stayed in bed in the morning. We are getting better. He rang at 11.45 – again I could tell at once he was making it up, admitting he’d been wrong. ‘Do you want to come for a drink with Steve and his friend Nigel, at the pub near Steve’s?’ I said ‘What about lunch?’ So we had that talk. It would upset your routine, would it? and rang back to say Steve says the pub food. All right. He arrived at 12.30. We took trouble. We drove past a big park ‘I fucked a few girls in there’.

A 60’s building flush-fronted with bit of green plastic every now and then appeared on the left. ‘That’s my school, that’s the junior school. There’s the swimming bath.’

We got to the pub in a villagy sort of bit, called Childwall. We went into the first bar we saw – it was a big place. I took possession of a table in the window, K got the drinks. As he came over, a fortyish woman in a light dress, came behind him, and as he sat down she said, with a notable caesura in the middle, as she suddenly saw my respectable figure ‘We don’t really allow jeans in this bar’. Most interesting, so off we went to another indistinguishable bar. Steve Wilson, bright, small, dark, unbalanced somewhere, and his friend Paul Rook. Square, stocky, genial unformed face, wants to go into forestry.

Oh, before they arrived, Miss fortyish came and talked to someone next to us, and I said ‘Have we moved far enough round into pariah dom?’ K said ‘No, no, think of Steve’. Happily she didn’t hear, but I was amused that he isn’t really as Bolshy as me.

So then I went and enquired about the food, getting hungry. Various dishes were on the counter in the no-jeans bar. ‘Can we take some food into …. ‘Only in that room at the back, people complain’. ‘That room at the back’ was full, so …. Happily half an hour later there was room, and I got a plate of steak and kidney pie as good as any I’ve tasted. So the two boys – Steve wants to be a barrister, mm! The social side – went back to Sunday dinner 2.30! which their mothers were keeping for them – oh, these strange exotic lives I touch with him – the suburbs of Liverpool, what perilous uncharted lands - and we went, without preamble – how he loves no preamble. The delicacy, on a journey into his past.

First, to Reynolds Park, a small run down park not far from his house. I didn’t see the point at first, we walked through an overgrown, untended box garden – ‘Oh there used to be three tennis courts there’. ‘These used to be beautifully kept’. Then to an uneven hillier bit, where the ground fell away to the right to give a big view of houses and factories and a distant green horizon. On the left, a tall well-kept wooden fence, with a Yale-locked door in it. He clambered on to a little hill rock. ‘That’s the Bishop’s Palace, that black and white place. This is where I used to bring Jinny out when her parents were in’.

We walked down thro’ the box garden, then a shrubbery, and along a narrow passage between the shrubbery and wall, stretching as far as the eye could see. Just my sort of place. ‘I like the passage’ he said. And we both had a pee.

We went back past his school. He took the road behind it, stopped. There was this utterly anonymous modern building, each window identical. Except the last set of windows on the top right, where the blinds were all at sixes and sevens. With grim satisfaction, he said ‘That’s the music room’.

So without telling them, back to the parents. They were disconcerted as we’d parted in anger (Tho’ not remotely with them). We both passed it off admirably, he collected himself, showed me the rabbit! and his bike. Went up to his room where four or five big cardboard boxes, of his remaining ‘things’ which we’d use the car to take away. He opened one full of school exercise books, a scrapbook as a project at school with an even younger photo of the Naïve Duo. I was happily going along with all this rather amazed that he seemed, unexpectedly to be an even greater hoarder than me when he said ‘I thought you’d just come up for a pee. This is rather private’. I left the room like a scalded cat, I wish he’d said it straightaway.

Oh, forgot in some ways the most ‘touching bit’ of all. While we were on the way to the pub, I think, he suddenly turned up a small well – lane, tho’ tarmacked, and stopped in the yard of a tacky modern building, muttering ‘I wonder if they’ve knocked it down’ twice. Behind the school, in the L formed by the new school, there was a very untidy series of floor surfaces where something had been knocked down and not cleared away. It’s difficult to think of anything so disorganised as a new building with this just by it. But that’s not what he meant. We went on a little further, where there was a big raised lawn, a little bigger than a tennis court, with another floor surface, this time concrete with the marks of floor boards still on it. With an indescribable expression, perhaps quizzical, shy, amused, disillusioned, he said ‘This is my old scout hut. My troop’s den was up there, pointing to the first floor’. He looked round resignedly, ‘All that was bushes and trees and undergrowth we could get lost in. We played football a bit here, and if we kicked the ball over, we didn’t get it back!’ He parts the bushes, a vast yawning black space. Woolton Quarries, from which came the stone for the Anglican Cathedral. We walked back down the path, staring at the trashy school – it’s half empty. They built is as the birth rate was falling and ‘This was just a mud track in my time, and we felt we were escaping to a secret bit – I can’t expect you to feel that’. But I did. I remember so clearly the feeling of shutting oneself away in a small copse on the very un-mysterious cliffs at Boscombe. But here comes the saddest thing. I speak of the cliffs of fifty years ago, and might well have changed. K is only 24, and is talking about the Liverpool of only a very few years ago.

So, we were back with the parents, K suggested going on the ferry, which we watched empty and fill yesterday. Mrs M cried off because of the wind. Aunty Amy, Ernie, K and I drove down. I revealed I hadn’t been on a boat for thirty years, and only K could have made me do it. Ernie and Aunt Amy where naturally inclined to scoff at the idea of sea-sickness. That’s all right. But, after I made myself clear that I was serious, I was amazed at the crudity of Ernie’s remarks – even after I said I was serious in being nervous, and he had said he was taking it seriously - and he was – he still said such impossibly crude things that he actually made me feel sick and insecure. So I saw what a deprived life Ernie has had – that his coarse comments are the small change of his life. He doesn’t think they’re coarse. He just hasn’t had much fine life. I don’t mean I despise him for it – I was just amazed that his jocularity was so course. It was pleasant on the ferry – K and I spotted some jellyfish, one quite big and white and orange about nine inches, but I think it was dead. After, it was suggested that the ferry might close. Ernie suggested going up the snake tower. We revealed it and the restaurant were both boarded up, fifteen years later! But we went to see a 60’s bucket and water sculpture that K and Ernie, in their way, remembered. There it was, a fun object, really fun, was standing empty and derelict. Surely it can’t cost all that much money to run water through it. But alas it’s simply in a square created by three dreary blocks of offices. Why isn’t it somewhere more obvious? K climbed into the empty basin.

So they dropped me at the hotel, and I had a little lie-down and a bath and waited for them for dinner. Marjorie and Amy and Ernie had of course changed. And K had, not only shaved again, but had on one of his small checked cotton shirts, and a pair of ordinary grey shoes his mother gave him the money for, and a pair of beige trousers his father gave him. And best of all, he’d brushed his long hair back at last into a proper ponytail at his neck. So that the proportion of his beautiful face and head is at last restored. So we had a drink and a discussion on long hair. I hope I made it clear that my objections, such as they are, are only aesthetic.

So now I think I’d better describe Aunt Amy. She has Marjorie and K’s features, much coarsened and foreshortened but great vitality and breadth. She reminds me of Ada in her grasp and vocabulary and her compulsive need to describe and remember and her need to override the conversation because without education after 14, she thinks that only she has seen these things. I see a distinct link with her and K, more than with his parents. I was amused at their talk of the family with things coming out in front of a stranger. Only tiny things. This broad story was already known to K. His paternal grandfather, Tom, left Marjorie and Amy’s mother and lived with a woman called Daisy, for 34 years. Daisy died. Tom asked to be taken back. And was! Four and five years later he was driving when his wife was killed. He drank himself to death in a year.

Later they were all taking K apart. ‘Well, dear you’ve got your grandmother’s hair and Ernie’s mother’s eyes and your grandfather’s charm’. Pause. ‘Well, I hope his charm was all I’ve inherited.’

In our row, I said his parents wanted a nice chatting evening. He said we’d had enough chat. We didn’t. But we did tonight. And I think I recouped my bad behaviour for them. I think I gave them a good evening. If he hated it, he hid it well.

Terrible restaurant!

In the lobby, when M was in the loo, I said to Amy, ‘I think Marjorie’s not so good even as two months ago. She’s walking very badly and she’s lost weight.’ ‘Oh, Angus’ she said taking my arm ‘she wrote to me last week and said I just want to die. Why can’t I just die?’

I confide, only here, I am not quite sure about Ernie, either. There’s suddenly a bit of a yellow look to his skin. K said pick you up at 10.0.

Monday July 15 1985

My 59th birthday. He knocked at the door to my great surprise, at 9.30. I was naked and thought he was the chambermaid, so he was surprised to be kept waiting. He took against the rather snooty girl on the reception desk ‘she’s probably got the job because she’s got rid of her Liverpool accent’.

Off we went in that little white car. I thought more seriously of what he did get from his family. Or what anyone gets. So let’s speculate. His grandfather’s charm. His grandmother’s hair (she had a plait she could sit on. His other grandmother’s eyes. His Aunty Amy’s vitality? His father’s fairness and mildness? But where did his talent and himself come from?

Oh, when I asked Amy for ‘some embarrassing tales of K’s youth’ she said, ‘Well, for the first five years, he wouldn’t be separated from his mother, not for anything, and hid behind her when anyone came in’.

We stopped at another motorway café for sausage rolls and coffee. In front of us at the cash desk, two women paid for ham and pineapple and chips and tea, £8.40! Ours was £2.50. We got to H’smith and returned the car. Difficult to describe the keen pleasure of sitting beside for those hours in that neat little box. Lunch at Lyric, Ham, on the terrace. K much taken with the pigeons on neighbouring empty tables, fighting over abandoned gateaux in that nasty brainless way. I’d picked up my letters. Among them a letter from Ken B commenting on largely politely withdrawing from the Nicolson. It depressed both of us, as K said, it was just a letter really, to get out of it and make himself feel alright at the same time. He seems to admit shame and guilt, but really … He had to go off for his interview with Virgin in Harrow Rd. I said ‘When we meet, let’s have thoughts for the future’. Tutton’s 7.30. So there I was, and he arrived, looking round for me with that individual mixture of wariness, openness, disappointment and expectation. We went off to the restaurant tho’ it was only 7.40. Mon Marche in Endell St. Only open three weeks. Pretty girl waitress, who turned out to be one of owners. Very trad. café. Cream walls, French posters, nothing décor as if had always been there. We both liked it. Bass en papillote, courgette, carrots, cheap. Aligote – nice. My ideas, platform part at National, Paul Unwin and Bristol, Felix and musical, Ian. He thinks he might form a band, not a group, but a fount of his music, as he did in M’chester. He has no belief in Ray Burdis – necessarily. He’s only doing this at all, the possible jingles etc because there’s nothing else.

The talk about charity at Liverpool was meaningless from both of us. He took £20 from me at lunch and said tonight ‘Well I’ve been living on that £2,310’ my dog royalties.

He’s sexually very frustrated at the moment. It’s amazing to me when he could so easily get a fuck, if that’s all he wants. But as it isn’t, in spite of what he says, he doesn’t get it. We had quite a sexy talk as we do sometimes swopping cock sizes. Again, he said he fancied the waitress, I said I thought a) she was part of the patron in both senses b) how would he meet her outside after! ‘I know.’ Later, she chatted . She is the... ‘There is nothing in common with Mon plaisir except the Mon.’

Did we like the food? Did we like the place? We said. K said (well) ‘If the carrots had been cooked a little more and the courgettes a little less, they’d have been perfect!’ Tonight was the perfect ending to a wonderful five days despite the row, or because of it. He both, consciously or unconsciously, made tonight a perfect sympathetic day. We hugged on the platform on the way to the restaurant, gave me a card. His only money at the moment is from me. He has never protested or said I wish I could buy you etc. He simply and plainly gave me a card he had by him, and put on it With Love Kevin.

Perfect taste.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 61

July 16 1985 – August 23 1985

Tuesday July 16 1985

So now to today. To Bengal Lancer, the one man show Tim Piggott-Smith has put on at Lyric, H’smith. Elaborate set by Bob Crowley in the main auditorium, Tim P.S. goodish as other people, feeble as the narrator. Script a poor first draft. A bland and level series of anecdotes, without a proper establishment of place and person. When he mentioned ‘Yeats, Brown’ in the second half I doubt if anyone but I knew it was the narrator and the centre of the piece.

George to drinks first, and dinner after. Quails’ eggs, smoked turkey, French smoked ham. I went to Harrods for them this morning. For the first time I was part of a morning queue from the train all along the hall of the tube station, herded by policemen, across the road to the very doorway of Harrods. And vice versa. Is this the American lawyers’ convention? I was interested that the vast majority coming out of Harrods had not visibly bought anything.

Mid evening with George exchanging delicate little scholarly quips and obliquities. Never irritates me. A little oasis of civilisation. Good. It seems some people have signed for me at the Garrick!

Wednesday July 17 1985

Jon Henson forgot we had a date. Joe S has cancelled tomorrow. I’m not in much demand. Spoke to Simon. Matt and career and money and Bruno. Called in on Julian on way back from shopping exped to buy glasses at Self. – no - and spend book tokens. Maclaren-Ross Memoir of the Forties and Frames Partridge A Pacifist’s Diary.

J. a wreck. Hair fallen off to reveal as bald as me. Shirt undone to reveal huge stomach, trembling with hiccups. Rancid with sentimentality, he launched into a long and oblique tale about Julian Sands nude scene in A Room With a View. ‘Yes, it did upset me, etc etc.’ I fear all he exhaled was a strong aroma of his own frustration. It’s a mark in their different ways, of that kind of homosexual, that they insist that the other cases are like their own.

Thursday July 18 1985

Arranged to see Gerry Gardner on Friday, but she also had free tickets for She Stoops this pm. Would I like to go? So I said ‘Come to lunch first at RSJ’ as she seemed pretty low. Well I always said he sounded hell. And he is. I got there and it’s a pretty place, because it’s plain. Pink and white flowers, white cloths, cane chairs, rather camp maître, sweet tho! Convulsed when I said ‘Hallo Geraldine’ to a man coming up the stairs behind some plants. He sounded exactly like her. So did almost everyone. Bad for her acting. She was nearly half an hour later, but rang up to say so. She started to say ‘Things were difficult’ and I said one sympathetic word and she burst into tears. He is cold, leaves her alone a lot, gives her no money, snubs her and yet relies on her completely. Any they’re only married two months. So I’d better hear his side – no, I hadn’t. Nice lunch and she calmed down. I don’t think her mad (as Simon calls her) or hysterical (as he calls her) she has, if she’s to be believed, many legitimate grievances. So, to the National. I thoroughly enjoyed it. What a surprise! The second cast. No Tom Baker, no Hywel Bennett, no Tony Haygarth. That dear girl, Julia Watson, was excellent as Kate – I never thought to see again a pretty womanly properly roguish perf. Lovely. Making up to Hardcastle, Michael Bryan v good.

Nicholas Jones very good as Marlowe, give and take a few farcical touches which he would lose in a better theatrical climate. So much high comedy is played as farce now, to try and destroy the idea that high society ever existed. ‘She St’ is a romantic comedy, and it was funny and romantic. Amazing. Of course Kelly Hunter was still in it. I think she’s not naturally talented she throws herself into everyone’s arms exactly the same way. Met her at the stage door, as she knows Gerry a bit. She, with a friend took me upstairs and left me to see Julia. Very cold. Anything to do with K’s one night stand? Saw Julia. Adorable. We had a great get together. I asked for her number, she said 385 and I said ‘No’ and 36 Averill St. W-6 - three streets away. Well, Gerry, in tears again, borrowed £5 to pay the parking fee!

Quiet evening, for which I was grateful.

Friday July 19 1985

Commercial interview for Smith’s Crispy something, 6 Percy St. Reading a biog of Julia Strachey. Lived in Percy St. possibly 6, coincidence. Certainly pretty Georgian rooms.

Helen Christie in waiting room. Always loved her, tho’ unreliable, I think, socially. Very amusing. She obviously kept the interviewers in a roar, as I certainly did. V hot in my suit. It dragged at my knees on the way upstairs at Barons Court. I must say I have different feelings when I wear it, which worries me. Superior feelings. Tho’ as I only wear it now for commercial interviews...

Was sitting flushed with food and drink at 8.0, K rang ‘I’m having a sort of party, What are you doing?’

‘Nothing.’ ‘Well come’ So I washed up, and bought some beer and eight cans, and a large white Soave £4.49 and a bottle of whiskey. I knew he’d depend on me for that. Got there about 9.0. Nigel Rook waved from the window! Only stranger there a tallish fairish young man turned out to be Phil Finch the boy who painted that David Bowie cover. There was a jejune argument going on. I threw a few frivolous bombs. I must be firmer on these occasions. I am too old to join in such student delights as an earnest and uninformed argument on important (sic) issues. I extricated myself, talked to Joy and Nigel. The danger is K – I am drawn in because of him. And I must resist it. Such stupidity.

Otherwise, I enjoyed myself. Nigel M confided he didn’t like general arguments. I felt sympathetic! Of course, K was never at a university.

Peter H arrived with that boy, Simon – what? Hayward, from Grange Hill. Very much fatter and squared and bearded. Hardly recognised him. Saw K talking animatedly to Peter. Later talked to K about She Stoops. Most interested, that it’s better now. He never lets me down, he did fancy Julia, very much, because of course she came back with them, too, living in the same street as Lysette. And he only slept with Kelly because he couldn’t with Julia! Trust Lysette to be more friendly with the worse actress. Dear thing. K I mean! Peter H left quite early. I said at door that I was sorry I’d suggested LA and intros from Neil etc, when he’d got quite a lot going on, thinking of Roy Burdis and the jingles week and some sort of partnership between them ‘Oh’ he said ‘nothing particular’s going on. Nothing of any importance’. ‘Oh great’ I thought to myself, how pleased K will be. Eventually left about 12.45 taking a pleasantly drunk Phil Finch with me.

Only when I got back here, did Ann’s accident really hit me. Her car went under a lorry. It’s a write off. One side of her face is much cut and her left arm and hand. It’s amazing she’s alive. When I told K he just said ‘We must go down’ straightaway.

Saturday July 20 1985

We met at Waterloo at 2.0. Watched him walk across the concourse. Yes, it’s a wary look. Strange because he isn’t really. He’d washed his hair and shaved. And had his hairbrush in his jacket pocket. Aah! Lovely chats on train. I told him of Peter’s remarks. He said ‘Peter’s a fool’. He was telling me last night he’s been offered a play by Contact, so he was going to read it really thoroughly today, Saturday. I’d been telling him to come round and help with these two numbers, you know, to give him something to do, some encouragement. I almost asked him to produce them. He couldn’t cos he was reading the play. Well, this morning he did at least bring the equipment this morning as I’d said I could borrow it as he was looking at the play. He rushed in with it, and said he and Simon were going to Brighton for the day. ‘What about the play?’ ‘Oh’ I’m taking it with me’.

Well of course, K feels insulted and thinks less of Peter, all at the same time. I can’t say I’m surprised – he’s very lightweight. I can’t say I’m sorry either. I sense that Peter is going off K. He takes people up – as he did K and puts then down. I’d say. He can’t sustain much, I’d say.

We talked of Donald and Ann. ‘Are they still going on with the house?’ I didn’t know. ‘Lysette’s lost that house in Stoke Newington, you know’. Good, I thought! He told me Steve W had written a song called Diplomatic Community with some help from other boys, and he was going to record it tomorrow. ‘Come round and do that voice bit, about 2.0 if I don’t ring’. In Guildford, we got a taxi straightaway. Ten minutes. Very new hospital. She was in a private room, beautiful country view. Touching K found it worse than he expected, I better! First of all, she was recognisable, a lot of the swelling is already down. She swung her legs out of bed to show the few cuts and bruises so they’re all right.

Bad cuts much stitched on forehead and above right elbow. Left side of her face a mass of extravagated blood but cheekbone not broken, a great relief as it’s so much harder to get a good skin heal after a lot of fiddling about with the bone. I suppose the wounds are stitched there, too. The left arm is broken, and in plaster. There is a bad wound on the back of that hand. Still the fingers work perfectly. So all in all, it could have been infinitely worse. The car is a write off. The roof was sheared off. The engine was pushed into the passenger seat. So she’s lucky to be alive. She was a bit over animated, but slid about in the bed in a way that showed she wasn’t in pain. The only thing I worry about is the delayed shock. After all, she’s going to a psychiatrist anyway. K was perfect with her and Donald and Hannah. Played with the child. Perfectly composed, he is a miracle.

As we came away, and we were waiting for the taxi and train, he talked about Ann. Of course, he’d like an affair with her, what normal young man wouldn’t? But he said he was sure she didn’t get loved enough in any way. ‘I’d just like to get her to the flat with three or four friends of our age, and have a good time’. It’s true, she seems to have so few friends of her own age. He feels for her. At the station he said ‘I’m going to have a cup of British rail tea.’ He got it and me a cup of coffee. On the train he said with a twinkle that he had a confession. ‘I was out with Paul Finch and we had a Wendy burger in The Strand. First one he’s had for – oh years. He said ‘It was awful. I’d forgotten or never realised how awful they are. After years of real food. And it went down and it was as if I hadn’t had it. I was just putting it in and chewing and swallowing’ I said ‘yes I see’, ‘The machine made feel even reaches out down your mouth and throat. It’s a wonder it didn’t come straight out in shit into the loo built into the Wendy Burger seat. For all the good I felt it did me, it might as well have done’. Despite Ann’s injuries, I’m afraid I enjoyed the intimacy of the day with him. It’s only just occurred to me that our visit today was just like a father and son in many elements.

Parted on the tube about 5.30. ‘See you at 2.0’. Had a little rest, bathed and changed; Lynda picked me up and off we went to wildest Raynes Park. Ian Dickson, Neil’s younger brother had asked me to a party. He behaved so badly the night John brought him to dinner at Manchuria Road, that I suppose he’s felt guilty all these years. Rather sweet, as I’ve scarcely seen him since. If it was a real crackhouse, as its name, it has been ruined by metal framed windows and chromium door handles. Garden is sweet and well stocked. Not many people at first and v chilly in garden. Better when Ian Burns and Hilary arrived. Ian D was touchingly assiduous for a party, I didn’t find it too bad. Interesting to meet Ian D’s wife, Bea. One charming 2 year old and a 3 weeks old second effort.

Spiky blonde hair, pleasant enough but looks dissatisfied. And if she looks it now – I was so pleased that I had Lynda to whisk me away at 10.30.

Later. The image that I call to going up and down the stairs, Kevin is not a false image. It’s the real one. It’s the real Kevin I call to, and wish the palpable living presence was here.

Sunday July 21 1985

For the very first time, I rang at 1.30 and said I can’t make it at 2.0. I’ll be there at 3.0. He said ‘You’ve interrupted our session!’ As if one ought to be clairvoyant. I know it all now. As later I came away because I was disturbing more than the boys. Because I’m me, not because I’m doing anything wrong.

Anyway there the boys were, now Nigel M is a bit censorious. I suddenly slightly took against him. Recorded my bit on the DI record. Bit monotonous. Not one of his best. But it’ll fill up a space on the Anti Album. He was at it all the afternoon and I wrote most of the jingle without talking. Only interesting moment was when Peter H rang crying off tomorrow! I was slightly amused to hear K reacting not unlike me. Did I imagine hearing the words ‘disorganised and unpredictable’. Surely not. I certainly heard ‘No, I’ve turned them out of the house tomorrow specifically’.

Came away at five-ish, for the first time genuinely glad to get away from the 17 year olds who were playing football in the bedroom! and back to my middle-aged dinner, as he was working.

Monday July 22 1985

It’s no use pretending if I spend an evening with anyone else, particularly someone who knows him, even more someone or two who are going back to his company, I feel the most poignant regret. I know I was a great success with those two youngsters tonight, but it was him and for him and of him and by him and to and with him. That I talked of him so little was a miracle.

Tuesday July 23 1985

It was a touching evening. Eggshell all over. I was in Tutton’s by 6.45, with the tickets for Up and Under, just about to have an extra drink and to think thro’ the evening. With such young boys, a little thought is necessary. They were on time, and had dressed up looking cleaner and trimmer than he usually does! Nigel in a white T shirt, smart black blouson, Steve in a very loose white blouson.

They were constrained at first – so was I! Steve had a vodka and orange, and Nigel would have had a lager but I made him have a short, so he had some Southern Comfort in a tumblerful of coca-cola. In fact, things were so tight! That I was glad to go to the theatre. The only real chat was of the rowing outing. I’d rung him at 12.0 to ask of the jingles and arrange with the boys. I said did he want to come too. Thought he would, he said, for a bit, but then thought he’d be by himself. Of course I’d like him to have come in a way, but he hasn’t been by himself for days. He said he was having the afternoon off (as Peter had let him down!) and going out rowing on the Serpentine in the middle of the afternoon, while I was finishing the jingles – (quite funny and authentic – whether what he wants is another matter) there was a terrific gale of a rainstorm. They were caught in it!

‘Can Kevin row?’ I said. Because they’d been laughing at Nigel M for going round in circles. They gave each other ever-such-faintly-pitying looks. ‘Not really’ Steve said. ‘He’s got a big blister between his thumb and fingers’ ‘From rowing? ‘No, from putting drums on that track and being out of practice.’

Getting soaked. Having a blister. I’d like to be there.

The play, Up n Under was an anecdote but inventively directed and played with thorough simple brio. But very slight. Happily its qualities and setting specially appealed to the boys. In the interval, Nigel revealed it was his first theatre. ‘Nice little theatre’ he said, looking happily round the bar. The play was a real success with them both, - thank god, it was wholly in Northern accents and they fancied the one girl in it. In the restaurant the two bottles of wine warmed things up. I think its miraculous that we can get on at all, with such a gap, I don’t suppose that they ever talked on equal terms, as eventually we did, with someone 20 years younger than me.

Nigel is sunny, sturdy, straight-forward. ‘First play and now first courgettes.’ Had squid! Steve is to be a barrister and is sharp and bright and I’m not sure about him. He’s a bit too sure. We talked of Nigel M. Interestingly Steve said very firmly ‘his first gift is socialising. That’ll never let him down. I’ve never seen it let him down, except after Brussels. Which isn’t surprising’.

But it is very surprising to me and K. I think Nigel M is at the moment snide, selfish and cold. At least, let him show me more.

Don’t like to think of K in partnership with Ray B etc !

Thinking of success, just success as if he wanted just that. If he really wanted ‘success’ he would get himself up, meet Shirley Bassey or Elaine Page, fuck them and get them to sing All in Vain.

I find I wrote 6000 words on Liverpool.

Later

Won’t see him till next week. Perfectly justified. I shouldn’t feel like this. If I pursue it late, I shall upset myself. Will write tomorrow.

Wednesday July 24 1985

Well, I do trust him. Though I’d rather he wasn’t working with those two cos I think them no good, I trust him.

But that doesn’t alter the feeling of a little death sentence at the week ahead of course * we can’t meet, I’m not free tonight or tomorrow night. He’s working during the day and I was a moment ago, and Sarah W comes on Fri. But I must try to fight the grey feeling. I think it may be partly Ken B and not hearing from Dotty and finding that the Contact man hasn’t even read MY yet.

Roy is here and his company helps. He liked the adverts and told a friend about them who’s presenting some material to Channel 4 in a fortnight and is interested.

So –

Rang him to go up and copy them tomorrow. He had rung about that too on Tues and loved them. This time when I said about Channel 4 and a possible tape, he said ‘We haven’t started work on them – we’re working on something else’. Pity. I bet it’s not good.

But of course it’s the age old thing of being jealous of anyone being with him, because it would mean so much more to me. I must get over it.

Thursday July 25 1985

Not exactly depressed, just utterly lethargic. Last night with Dominic McGill really good. He is a man of few words, but more deeds. I want to write more when I am sober tomorrow morning.

To Simon Thorney and Christine. A lot to say. Not to K’s.

It’s no use, I hate writing songs with them. Ridiculous. Of me, I mean.

Friday July 26 1985

Shaw’s b’day. At the moment, experiences crowd so fast, I can’t get sober to write about them and above and below etc is this all-pervading concern. And shameful jealousy for me and shameful jealousy for no known reason, after all look at the B de Vries night! So Dominic McGill. He is medium height, very black, hair at the moment nearly shaved at the sides and tight curly, like a Rastafarian ball on the top. Squarely faced, squarely bodied. Twinkling – there is no other word – very dark eyes. Cheekbones, dimples and a mouth always curling with amusement. Sturdily built. Big square hands and nails, thick black. He is working for some firm restoring a shop front in Camden. The paint is decades thick over fine work over a long brass panel. He never talked generally, but whatever he said was down to earth. We talked of my drainpipe. He convinced me he’d do it, and could do it. Roy said for what it’s worth that he liked him or was more impressed by him than anyone else he’d met here. He was in a v clean t- shirt and jeans, I thought what trouble he must have taken to look like that after such hard manual work. He is 21 and I think has a still centre.

He finished every morsel of every bit on his plate. Quails eggs, cold salmon, rasps, lovely cheese Caerphilly and brilliant Savarin. So Thursday. Rang K to say I’d like to pick up adverts I wrote but would be later than I said. Keep the Woody Allen for me. He was sweet. Later I rang at 6.30 said I couldn’t make it. Even now, a day later I can’t remember why I couldn’t, oh yes I can, it was because I started out to Simon and Christine without their address. Got to Knightsbridge or so and came back, met Josephine Woodford on another train! Good gracious! That distracted me, but, in the real end and when I rang him, I was glad, I wasn’t going to that filthy, dirty, untidy flat, to watch him working with two untalented people, with at least six of my lyrics still be set (that gets rid of a bit of my bile).

So to Simon and Christine’s at last. Just round the corner from their last place. Not unlike Manchuria Road. All stripped except for previous tenants utterly unsuitable habitat, décor touching. They’d said 7.15 – 7.30. My taxi from Kings Cross – for it is fairly inaccessible – got me there at 7.15. Simon opened the door in a t-shirt and swim shorts. She didn’t come down till oh at least 20 minutes after I got there. Didn’t appear to be elaborately made up, tho I am not good at telling with black girls, and was in perfectly ordinary blouse and skirt. So - !. They were both apologetic, ‘you’re always so organised’ – well I know I don’t work in an office and only get home at 6.15 or whenever, but I do put my guests first. They had done no cooking till I got there – correction no preparation. Still, I had an agreeable evening, melon, salmon (with garlic), house will be lovely if they do it right. Room where we ate is really the drawing room, huge bay window, the centre door into a nice little garden, the hugeness was underlined by an enormous and very electric thunderstorm in the middle of dinner.

She is small, neat, close cut hair – I never like that – but many people do! Good dress sense, she is in a successful firm of advertisers doing pretty well. She is bright, rather than intelligent, doesn’t seem to have over much confidence, tho not at all in a tiresome way. It is quite a surprise to find that she holds down a rather good job – she seems too diffident, she does rather better than he.

Simon is very blonde, nearly good looking, clever, diffident, fatally undecided as to where he’ll put his weight in his life and career. He is 28, has always had artistic leanings – witness his turning away from his father to me – but without either talent or courage, enough to launch it. It is a big step for a successful young businessman to take even with an over-riding talent. Without - ? or if he is one, where is it? He poured out a bit of his feeling about it. To my amazement she said ‘You never tell me any of this, I think you should go out with Angus on your own and talk it through’ but said entirely without huff or rancour. So I’d better. But I can only say no. They are still utterly devoted in a touching way.

Friday July 26 1985

Rang K, very quickly to remind him of Phil’s b’day – P’s away in Spain, apparently and felt the atmosphere of work! Oh dear. And he’s working with them next week, too. Oh dear, oh dear! Yes, I feel jealous. I’d like to work with him on some songs for a fortnight. And, yes, I don’t like him being utterly unavailable for a fortnight. I hate feeling terrified before I ring him. But so much of this is in my head.

To the Bush to see Californian Dog Fight. So symbolic are play-titles nowadays that I was just amazed to find that it was about a dog fight in California,

Pretty well acted, especially Deborah Norton, and Daniel Webb, who Simon said ‘had sex coming out of his ears!’ I couldn’t see it. But it was an anecdote, a short, short story. Brilliant set, in a tiny space, real distance.

Roy had brought round the new girlfriend, Lucy Crystal. I took to her at one. Handsome cheekbones, classy. Hildegard Neil but intelligent and humorous. I liked her at once. Well, manners do help. I felt as if I’d always known her. Very easy. What a change from Liz. Afterwards we went to the Hat Shop, the restaurant opposite. As I thought from silly front, a rather sleazy bistro, white wine unchilled, ordinary pizza. Bit dreary. I enjoyed their company. Sarah Wickham came to stay with K today. Hope he enjoyed the weekend – he deserves it, poor boy.

Nigel rang from Farnboro. Can he stay ‘cos K wants to be alone with Sarah?!’ So I nurse my aching heart by taking trouble over his young brother. For him, only for him.

Saturday July 27 1985

There is no doubt I now feel grey all over again. But I must attempt to exorcise it. I’ll ring him on Mon, when the Sarah w/e is over – I don’t want to interrupt it.

Nigel arrived. A bit shy and brash, but better. If he stays we shall get somewhere. Left him in tonight – seemed all right. But to recount. Neil came round about 12.0! Just the same. And told a good deal, Nigel arrived in the middle and sat open mouthed. I was not so entranced, as all the stories were just what I expected and not very interesting. Joan is not a real ministre sacre and Neil hasn’t the penetration! Though he is dear dear man and can be very amusing. Her scheme to get £30,000 more an ep, out of Dynasty didn’t work. Aaron Spelling simply sent a cable to Paris saying ‘Linda is loving saying all your lines’!

Neil feels he was good. J said to him ‘You have the best part, - except mine, of course’. Good, if you can be. I felt most at one with Joan when she said ‘If we’re going to make this rubbish work –!’

In the evening to Hampstead Theatre Club to see a dreary working class play Roy wanted to see. They were ten mins late! I was delighted – under the guise of not missing an opening on Principle. I pushed them in and sat peacefully in a pub and read Gerry R’s repertory book and hers. Book excellent, in judgement and arrangement.

They joined me in a new little restaurant in Belsize Park, the Orchard. Charming room and good. We had a surly and slow waiter who had little English. Gave us a more jaundiced view of the place that it deserved. Of course if only passed the time.

Sunday July 28 1985

Nigel day. Silences of some awkwardness still fall and he is still wary of me. Of course. We went to two movies to pass the time, for me, as I’d already see them, but they are both v good, and he had missed them both in Liverpool. First impression is of how little he does. Not exactly lazy, but he dabbles the time away. We went to Tuttons, I think he enjoyed the evening. The films are both good, v good and I did not at all mind seeing them again. Eddie Murphy so crisp and exact, a technician and like all v good comedians, really serious when needed.

Before we went, he told me such a funny touching characteristic story of K. When they were children, K was 12, N 7 and both interested in model railways. K used to take N on the ferry to New Brighton to see a v big railway all set out in a castle? – can he have said a castle? – over there. Well, I’m always touched at the picture of a small child looking after a smaller child. And K! So Ernie made a landscape for their train to run around. There was an empty space in the middle, and - a phenomenon I know so well – K had a wonderful idea. He decided there should be a volcano there. So paper mache was – inexpertly – mixed. It looked a little lumpy and uneven. So Kevin had another wonderful idea. That path Dad was making. There’s some cement left over. So cement was mixed, and applied. It looked wonderful. It cracked a little, but K painted over the cracks.

A little later the four corners of the clipboard were bending upwards under the weight. Kevin had a wonderful idea.

He hung a brick from each corner.

I presume the climax was the eruption of the volcano downwards.

Monday July 29 1985

Awful start to the day. Determined to ring K quite ordinarily. Sarah’s gone, and I thought he’d finished with the terrible two. So I said ‘now that you’re in circulation again’ and he took against that. He’s working with them all this week too, and they’re writing songs. ‘Oh, pity’ I said, before I could stop myself ‘Why?’ ‘Because they haven’t any talent’ ‘Yes, Peter has. (Acidly) ‘Unfortunately’. I started to start some arrangements about the commercials which they still haven’t touched and he suddenly said ‘Bye’ and rang off.

Worse than my worst imaginings. I began to clear away and wash up, unable to think. If only I were unable to feel – I have over the last few days so often written that letter – I don’t think we’d better meet on – or if the foreseeable future. Sorry, etc etc.

I do sometimes feels as if the friendship is run for him, just as he likes it. And I pay £40 odd a week for three hours of his company. And then I don’t, I felt terrible anyway, but determined not to ring back. I felt old. Three quarters of an hour later he rang back, to talk about the C4 commercials ‘Exactly what is the situation?’ as if – almost as if – nothing had happened. So we talked carefully about the C4 stuff. I want to do it etc etc. So we sort of arranged to work next week. He meekly wrote down The Seagull seats and a date on ‘no not Friday, in case I’m not finished, to be sure, Saturday’.

So, back to precarious happiness.

Why is it so difficult. Oh.

Paul Ryan to dinner. Put against Nigel, he seems to have grown up. Thank God, they got on really well – when I came back from the kitchen, they were chattering, and I thought how odd it is that such youngsters come here. We had the North and South argument – I got carefully hot headed, and all was productive. I saw N’s face begin to change and soften and show. Shall I ever be able really convince K that I do only lose my temper with him? I’m afraid it’s hard to explain properly why.

So I got into bed, grey with the thought of another empty week.

Tuesday July 30 1985

Dorothy Tutin rang to say she did want to do the B. Pym. Of course, there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip, but still – she thinks she might try it on radio first – I think she’s nervous of launching on it cold. I’m not surprised. She said it was so much better than the first version. I was thrilled as this second version is nearly all me. Rang Hazel and told her and Simon. Rang K at 12.30, and kept it to a sentence, so as not to be disappointed if he kept it to a sentence. I shouldn’t feel like that, it’s so much in the air. But, alas there’s the pit of the stomach at it. I must work at it. I keep saying that.

Nigel said K was going to ring back about Joy and Marks and S. But he’s hopeless about ringing back. His imagination does fail him in not making the ‘phone call that says there’s no news.

Wednesday July 31 1985

Nigel in and out to job interviews. He doesn’t get up early enough to get the jobs. I haven’t said anything – it’s only a holiday job, and it’s only his pocket money that’ll suffer. It’s bitter sweet hearing him echoing about with me missing K so much. Curious mixture of brashness and shyness even for 17.

To Simon’s 6.0. He rang in the morning to confess he’d got to go to a poetry reading in an art gallery in Cork St. Whoever it was who was doing it, or running it, is married to one of the Saatchi bros. She’d asked S to what he thought was buffet supper and look at some pictures and they’d waited an hour and a half at the formal dinner table! So he’d got to make up for it and go to this poetry reading – only an hour and a half but its Gayle Hannicutt and Lord Gownie, reading American poetry!

So we went. And left in fury as smug and incompetent and glib and amateurish display of complacency as I’ve ever been present at. He wasn’t even remotely nervous, kept losing his place and laughing, and read with two inflections, like a stupid person.

To a newish place in the Fulham Road. Pretty, but two maître careless and a bit crude. Only two other couples there. Food here? Back is S’s flat, I noticed a very raw red ring on his arm, still scabby and bleeding in one place. He said ‘I haven’t told you about this’. Julian Sands and that other boy starring A Room with a View, were sitting in the caravan waiting for the sun. Julian was bending a plastic coat hanger back and forth, rubbing the plastic bits over the metal bit. ‘We used these to tease people in the changing room.’ ‘Oh did you flick people with them?’ said Simon, repelled ‘No, like this’ said J leaping forward like a snake, and pressing the metal bit heated to red hot, on S’s arm. To make the wound I saw, a fortnight old. I consider that really sinister. I thought there was something wrong with that boy, but I didn’t know what. I enjoyed my time with S much more than lately.

I’ve left till now to say that Nigel rang K at 2.0 and proposed himself for tonight and K said ‘Yes come round tho’ he was going out to the West End at 9.30 with Peter H’. Ah, well perhaps he’s meeting someone for the work. And I wouldn’t want to go round just till 9.30. All the same, if I’d rung and asked I expect he’d have said no. Perhaps he’d have been right.

Got back at 2.0. Heard radio in N’s room, my radio I’d given up to him, the self-sacrifice - and light on. Leant over the sleeping babe, one arm flung wide and turned both off. He’s been with him and I haven’t.

Thursday August 1 1985

Nigel told about K’s yesterday. He was alone. And he was complaining of Peter and Ray, Peter didn’t come, Ray Burdis had another engagement, and so on and so on. ‘I’m prepared to work 24 hours a day, but they ….’ Well, what did I say? Only a fortnight ago. K called Peter a fool, ugh.

To a commercial int. Oh I did make them laugh. If I’d written the script beforehand I couldn’t have fitted in more laughs. So I expect I won’t get it. I simply couldn’t help being cleverer that the director.

Talking of which, Sandy Johnstone rang to ask me to be in a commercial in-house film, thinking the agents had told, me. It’s a take-off of Dallas with Mel Smith as J. R. Heartburn, £200 a day, two days next week Wed and Thur.

Joe Scarby to dinner, bringing Tessa for the first time. And of course, Nigel. All went well, N fitted in well. I was amused and touched that Joe got tighter than I’ve ever seen, and was generally more animated. So often happens because he was showing me so much more of himself by bringing her along. She’s sweet, pretty, diffident, very conscious of being 25 to Joe’s 22.

Heavens, what a gap. I fear she’s the sort who goes into the interview saying ‘you can’t want me’. I showed bit and bobs of clothes to her, and gave her a pair of D’s earrings.

Back to him. Of course. When he was telling me about the jingles, he said ‘this flat’s sort of sacred to me, because of the quality of the things I’ve written here’. Hm. Only two days now.

Friday August 2 1985

To lunch with John N, Michael Tippett, in Greece, opened the talk by saying ‘I will try to be good, but I must tell you, I’m very naughty’. It is a little surprising how little J.N. has to say on these occasions. All he’s said was M.T. had that absolute honesty and directness and integrity that gives such strength – he was reminded of D.

Evening with N. I felt he must be so bored and we couldn’t – or I couldn’t – sit facing one another after dinner. So we went down to one of the riverside pubs. Talked of K. He told N of his debts. ‘Did he’, I said, thinking it unwise but curious. ‘Yes. £2,000 to the mortgage, £200 to his agent’. ‘I see’, I said. Good.

Amid all my upset, and struggle, it is salutary and encouraging to remind myself to remember, that K is nearest to understanding what I feel about him. The object of the love perceives more of it than anyone else. Not usual in these circumstances.

I am so nervous about tomorrow, let me keep my real love flowing to him, not self self.

Saturday August 3 1985

Tonight we did it together, we made it go right together. I have never felt such satisfaction.

Sunday August 4 1985

The evening very nearly started disastrously. There was a big queue at the cinema. I only just got two seats. He didn’t come and didn’t come and eventually no more seats were sold and knew the only seats left would probably be in the front row.

Nigel had said they were rowing on the Serpentine, as Glynn had ‘turned up’. Almost as the film was about to begin, and I’d sold the tickets back he sauntered up holding a football, with Glynn and Sarah, obviously about to join us. I went black. A fortnight without him and now this. He said ‘Let’s go to one of the other films’ going pink. I’d seen them all, but I might have said so even if I hadn’t. ‘Well, let’s go and have a drink’. Glynn and Sarah went to the loo in the pub, and he gave me one of those intent looks. I got rid of Nigel, but they said ‘Let’s come and have a drink with Angus. I couldn’t say no, could I’. ‘But they’re not coming to dinner with us, so don’t get upset’ I felt better. What I’d felt was a rash of pure rage and terror, quite uncontrollable at the thought of not being alone with him. We had a drink, rendered a little uneasy by a man at the next table having a long conversation of great fluency, lasting unbroken in its flow and admirably audible, with the empty chair opposite. It’s revealing that people who talk to nobody like that, are invariably having a bitter conversation. I got up thinking we were going to another pub, but no, we were off. How my heart rose. Poor Glynn, I’m sure he felt shut out. I don’t suppose he really saw why we must be alone, (as quite apart from my own wishes, it turned out we had to be). But I think Glynn is like K, a very generous soul, and perhaps doesn’t. I hope not, as it is such a wretched feeling. And oh how I despise myself for feeling it, so often and unnecessarily.

He said aren’t we going to Mon Marche, isn’t that going to be our haunt for the next while? So we did, there was a table, and I cancelled Smiths on the ‘phone. And there we were. He took a moment early on to say ‘That was insensitive, to say they had no talent, three days into it’. ‘Was it’ I said sadly. Sadly because I should have said it earlier. That was the only cross – not even cross - note. He showed me his drum blisters, great inch long red just not raw places. He told me of Sarah Wickham. They went to Jo and Azaar’s wedding, which wasn’t in Anglesey after all. Azaar looked awful. Well of course, now he sees it. Afterwards he and Sarah came back and drank, threw off all their clothes and got into bed, but didn’t fuck. Isn’t it amazing? ‘Oh, we rubbed up against each other a bit’. So it wasn’t a great orgasmic weekend at all. So I could have, should have rung. ‘It was just nice to have someone’s arms round me again, and mine round her’. Poor boy.

Then he propounded his new scheme. They like the second skin idea, and he has said I must be in on it as it was my idea, and split it five ways. Spend a week bashing out a scheme. I questioned in detail. He assured me again and again that all the artistic decisions would be taken by him and me and Phil Finch, the nice graphic artist I took home the other night. I queried whether Ray Burdis was worth working with, and he explained that he had some connection with Saatchi and Saatchi. It seems to me exceedingly unlikely that the harsh big world of advertising would let any remotely lucrative work slip away to unorganised amateurs (for that is what we’d be to them). However there’s no chance that I wouldn’t do it. At the worst, it gives me more of a chance to protect him from the consequences, if it goes wrong. He’s seeking them both again tomorrow, I have not much hope for it all. Peter H is so light and shallow, sweet, but shallow, that I can’t see it coming to anything. I’ll wait till I meet Ray B. I didn’t say yes at once, which upset him for a bit, but I said I had to let it lie. He then told me had 72 hours to clear up this mortgage. £2,030 odd. Can I pay it? Thank God I can – just. He amazes me – the trust. We will tell no one. No one would understand. Either he’s a gold digger or a parasite or a wastrel. Or making use of me. He’s none of those things. He’s asking out of the centre of our friendship, which he sees can bear it. They haven’t looked in his eyes.

The rest of the evening passed in that sympathy that I find impossible to describe, because I know he has found it with no one else. ‘Let’s walk around for a bit’. We’d had quite a bit of scotch. I was brave enough to say, without complaint, that a fortnight was too long without even a talk. He saw it all, all. Before I could get far, ‘Don’t say any more’. Four of the best words he’s ever said to me, so packed with feeling.

Forgot to say he rang, he rang this morning, Sunday at 10.30, already working on Flash flame song, ‘What’s Freud’s Christian name?’

Monday August 5 1985

Seem to be a day behind. Catch up time. Yesterday Jon H came to lunch, it was nice to see him. Took him and Nigel to a poor film ‘Breakfast Club’. Inaccurate and self-indulgent rubbish. They enjoyed it because there was a lot of tilting at authority. Nigel has many unattractive traits at the moment. He asked Jon H all about his finances. He asked Ian Burns this evening what he’d done, in such a crude way that it sounded like what justification have you got for calling yourself an actor. And a horrid loud rising inflection for such remarks as ‘you’re getting to be quite a good cook’. I make full allowance for being 17, but still find him too interested in money, lazy and possibly quite consciously calculating. He’d stay with me cos it’s more comfortable and more drink and he can do even less that at K’s.

At one point he mentioned his diary. I said idly ‘I am writing this diary’. He looked amazed. ‘How did you know?’

Back to dinner here, chicken and straws and rasps. N doesn’t like rasps! Jon H is off to York again with this new girlfriend. Simon wants to make a play for him all the same!

Ian and Hilary to dinner tonight. So dear and sweet. He was a bit beside himself, as he’s hoping for a part in the new John Lennon thing. He’s been back three times, they’re to let him know tomorrow. What actors have to put up with, a year’s possible work, hanging on a ‘phone call. And him in penury, being a bingo caller. Nigel otherwise behaved quite well.

Tuesday August 6 1985

He rang at 9.45. He definitely is getting up much earlier. Well he’s 24 and no longer growing. However, it turned out that why he was up, was because Peter H had rung at 9.30. ‘Why does he do that? He knows he’ll wake one up, and yet he keeps doing it. He said ‘I’m coming over’. I said ‘Sorry, you’re not. I’m finishing off the anti album. Come tomorrow’. Good. Tomorrow. They will work on the jingles. Why, if we’re taking the artistic decisions. For the Channel 4 thing, we fixed Friday.

‘Now my mortgage. They want the money. £2,031. Can we manage that?’

‘We’. We! He is extraordinary. I was going to say later that he must not think of it as a loan for that is destructive. But as money of his own to be called on in an emergency. And he did it in a word.

Tuesday August 6 1985

To lunch with Simon C at Mon Marche. He’d had dinner with Alec Guinness the night before – a deux, in Alec’s room? Suite? At the Connaught. Most fascinating. Best food in London.

Alec very fat and rather bent, shuffling about. Ate greatly.

I must warn you the Spanish waiter has not altogether mastered my name. Spanish waiter, ‘I hope everything is satisfactory, Sir Alice.’ Talked much of his own dullness and dissatisfaction with his own work. I was moved to tears three times. Once at a passage in his auto biog. a proof copy of which Simon had with him, where he almost said in so many words what I said about him, that you could see this Catholic convert visibly trying to be good, consciously not saying the malicious thing that rose to his lips. The combination of his struggle and my exact perception of it being confirmed, moved me. Then Simon described AG going to the Salisbury Playhouse. ‘I’d forgotten I’d opened it’ and treading the stage, and realising all over again that I’m a stage actor.’ ‘I hate films and filming now.’ ‘They asked me to do that reading at the studio – they’re making a prog. about him – no, I didn’t mind, but it wasn’t the same.’ His description of the space and the energy of the space reminded me of S’s book.

And the third time I cried was because of his judgement of Larry and S’s tacit acceptance of it. ‘Larry never gave me a vision of higher thing’s, not in any of his performances. It isn’t in him.’ I remember we were staying at John G’s and Larry and Jill Esmond were leaving and offered me a lift. John said ‘Why don’t you stay on?’. I was just about to say ‘No’ when I saw on Larry’s face that expression of Oh we know what’s going on? and made me so cross, that I said I would. Next day at the Vic, Larry said ‘Well, did you stick it in him or did he stick it in you? Martita said Larry’s like that. He can’t change.

And of course John has never made any overture to me of that kind at any time. I cried for an age that can call Laurence O a greater actor or man than John G.

John has such grace.

S had a truly titanic cold and gave a spectacular display of sneezing and nose blowing, even for him. But it was lovely. We certainly can keep a fountain of talk playing.

Anti-climax. Met Richard Haggett.

Wednesday August 7 1985

Filming today of which more perhaps.

But a truly memorable laugh from Nigel tonight about his insurance card.

Later

Through all the web, the difficult clinging web of my life, the one think I cling to now is the conviction of his talent and friendship.

Thursday August 8 1985

Still in the middle of it. Well, no, not more, a sketch perhaps when I’m not in the middle of it.

He rang last night to speak to Nigel, but spoke more to me. Gave the ‘phone to N. ‘What did he say’? ‘Just said Mind you come over here to me the moment your job’s over’. He’s concerned that it’s too much for me. He said ‘But you’re filming’ and I knew that he knew that I knew (ha!) that he was thinking of that night in his first time with me. It must seem aeons ago to him. But I knew it came back to him, which is why he wasn’t so short with N.

No, I don’t want to describe the film really. Do I?

What about Nigel’s joke? Well, it needs a lot of building up, and I think I shall have to wait till he’s gone.

Later

Took Nigel out to dinner tonight. One or two flashes? No sparks? No smoulderings. Yes perhaps.

But oh that dreary succession of football mates. The suffocating feeling of suburban matiness.

In bed at 11.0 with him watching Top of the Pops which he’d asked me to record. He’s dreary. But all the way through I think I kept him in countenance. And he might think I was more complacent and less demanding than I am with him.

Of course. I don’t care about Nigel in the same way.

Oh, how my focus is all one way.

Friday August 9 1985 Saturday August 10 1985

So full of joy and drink last night, I couldn’t write.

He rang to say he’d muddled it a bit, as when I’d rung earlier to say when shall I come it wasn’t to work as I thought but just to go out in the evening. ‘I’m copying tapes because Chris is taking away his what? tape-deck (any way that special one) tonight. Right, I said, and we arranged to meet at 7.15 at Screen on Green for the Woody Allen film. A bit later, - I had Neil with me – he rang again. It seems he’d forgotten he’s asked Ray and Peter round, so would I come as well about 4.30, and ‘do me a favour, don’t use your key, just ring the bell’.

I was all right but the tormenting pangs of jealousy grew and grew. The irrationality of it is frightening. He didn’t put them off because he was making tapes. He is ashamed of me having the key. He is working with them but not with me. And so on.

Neil has brought round a very short scene from the new Michael Caine film. He could register sex in a very glib way, but it’s literally a page and half – a ‘bit’. Is that wise? I can’t judge. Why did he turn down the soap in US if he’s going to take this? Hm. We rehearsed it. Goodness he does want to go through and through and through it. Kills it stone dead to me. A bit embarrassing with him doing sexy looks right into my eyes in my own drawing room.

So, off I went, my heart in my mouth, trying very hard to be logical. Got there. Chris just coming out to get something. So glad he’s going to be at Peter Orr’s, the taking of the tape-deck is symbolic. I’m tired of him being there so much. I think it’s bad for both of them. Upstairs Ray Burdis. 25? 26? Cockney, not very bright, but sharp. I hope. At first a bit off but that was shyness of me. Final impression, not formidable or creative.

Also their very nice busker friend of Chris Bob? 43ish, mild, gentle, quick, we understood one another and he asked and answered some intelligent questions.

And, of course - I am ashamed - all my jealousies ran out of my head. They weren’t working, K was doing tapes. And he’s only done two copies of their songs and ten of the Anti-Album. As for the key, he was getting me into this, and didn’t want Ray B to think that it was just because I was so close. The talk went well. I was in form. Chris and Bob left. And we began. First off, Peter must be out of any serious talk. He has a complete grasp of inessentials, and wasted virtually all the time he talked. We have the ideas and we must work them out. Ray B will market them – I presume. I am still very sceptical of the genuine commercial possibilities. But will get nothing done artistically with Ray and Peter. We sort of decided on 3 campaigns my second skin and a 30-sec one liner of Ray’s and A N Other to be a real song, good graphics for Phil Finch. But I can see we’ll have to decide. What with one thing and another, my spirits rose by the minute as I saw myself placed in front of them as K’s closest ally, subtly as he can so beautifully do things.

So off they went, I thought Peter is more with Ray than he is with K. now. Good, I always knew he would be off one day! We saw and thoroughly enjoyed the film. Tho’ I felt a bit zeligy about it, that he hadn’t finally enough weight.

And, to the Aquilino. We were ¼ hour early, so had to go and have a drink round the corner. He said at once about the money. I said I couldn’t send it till it was in the bank. ‘No, don’t tell them it isn’t a loan or that man will say Couldn’t that friend give you some more’. Which I do see. What intimacy.

Wonderful talk over dinner. ‘Peter is really getting to me – he comes round and plays the same chords as he played the first time he came. I put him altogether this week. And I’ve put off talk of their band. ‘What if something comes of this tape?’ ‘It won’t, but if it does, I’ll get out of it somehow’. ‘Are you going to write with them again?’ ‘No’.

About this jingle. ‘I made it all happen. I got you and Phil F in on it. I made it happen. True. He was very sensible about Ray, is just as sceptical as me. I was surprised at how contemptuous he was of Peter. But not when I remember the way he waffled on, yesterday afternoon.

I copied out Rough and he had a very funny time with it. He said revealingly ‘I’d better do it quickly, so I don’t make it too clever’.

He also described looking at a series of chords, and ‘I could only tell you I didn’t need to play them, I could hear them’. This was very early on and he didn’t tell anyone. Also described doing a session for Sam’s bro and enjoying it, and getting £10. For a group, like Aztec Camera! All good experience. Sam herself dropped in for ten mins only and a cup of tea. In the tube on the way in, I met XX who hasn’t dropped round since she got her good job.

So all the way round, a lot more dead work has fallen away.

I am so happy. We work for a week from Tues.

Hazel this morning. Rather useless social visit but pleasant Nigel left. I could have gone to K’s, I could now, but I don’t want to. I want to be on my own.

How good.

Sunday August 11 1985

To Are You Lonesome Tonight, or rather first half of it. Gosh. Ponderous.

K rang at midday. ‘What you doing tonight?’ Wants me to meet Phil Finch properly. In the end they came to dinner here, with Nigel on his way back to Farnborough, as I had a duck etc. Earlier I’d been to see Prim in hospital having had that screw taken out of her ankle. It was all Arabs and gold plate. Burns everywhere. Took Prim the bottle of red wine opened she’d asked for.

So Phil arrived first, tall, fair, broad, enthusiastic, cheerful and laughs. And irony. I liked him at once the other day drunk, so - K and Nigel a little later, – of course. Gave K the peas to pod. It is really exquisite how delicately he shows his familiarity with the flat. How he could lord it, if he were another.

V jolly evening. Nigel left and we talked of the jingles. Phil was with me in wanting some assurances of Ray’s credibility. He asked eagerly what I thought of Peter and Ray, so I said and we made some stringent conditions. K got more and more depressed and quiet. But became firm at the end. The only thing that depresses me professionally about him is that urge to go into a musical dream at the keyboard. Yes, there must be a dream, but you must watch Ray Burdis from inside it. He shouldn’t have written those songs with them before, it’s an intimacy he may have to get out of.

Monday August 12 1985

Rang K at 12.0 to say I could do the £2,000, tho’ strictly speaking I can’t till the end of the week. Told the bank. ‘I’ll go to Nationwide.’ ‘Why don’t you drop in’.

Tuesday August 13 1985

Will go on and finish yesterday.

Today blew Ray B out of his life with his consent.

And Peter and Phil subservient. No I don’t mean that.

But oh how I hate him working with cheats and wallies. I expect Ray Burdis will go on and become a world famous entrepreneur on the strength of my disapproval.

Wednesday August 14 1985

No, I couldn’t go on. Went over to Nationwide, asked to wait till Mr Brockley came back but after a bit she’d asked one of the other girls and it was all right, there was a receipt. I got to the flat, he was tidying up, good it needed it, - espec. as the shelves in the music room have fallen down! That’s the third lot! I gave him the receipt and he gave me his ‘ooh’ chortle as if he’d had a present. But we made little of it. I think it’s at such a moment that I see what we’re both made of. In that, we are the same, in that we are genuinely disinterested in money either way. We need it for work and dignity and that’s it. He didn’t refer to it again, except to say Thank you for everything, when I left.

We started in on the Real Foods advert that we had thought of on Sunday. We sat and struggled with it for 2½ hours, during which he strummed on the piano and I walked around the block. But we got it done enough for him to get going on it. Then he stopped and got restless, and I said Did he want me to leave? And he did, so I went, feeling a bit flat. He rang later, saying he’s really cracked it and would I be in in case. Yes. He said he had to have a good old yowl by himself.

So to last night. (It’s so wonderful seeing him almost every day like this). He asked me to get there before the others at 6.30 to do a bit on the ‘Rough’ thing for Channel 4. It’s going to be good. We perfected our strategy for the meeting with Ray and Peter. Phil F arrived on time. They were ¼ hour late. They’d been at ZTT Records with the songs they’d written with K. (I hate it – it’s no good, that they’ve got what he admits to be not of his best, to ZTT).

The meeting rapidly went downhill as we discovered that Ray B had not brought a list of contacts, answered evasively whenever we said ‘What will you do tomorrow?’ and worst of all had not booked the studio for Sat. It was an unedifying discussion and as always lasted for too long. Phil F was excellent in calm reasonableness, but for too long after it was obvious that Ray B was a stupid liar. I lost my temper calmly twice to try and bring things to a head. Finally, I went for a long pee. K joined me saying Phil was talking about the name of the Co and didn’t seem as if he was going to condemn Ray. I said ‘what about you?’ As we were talking, Peter came to the head of the stairs, to join in our talk, to explain, to persuade, to flap. I said very sharply ‘This is between me and Kevin and nothing to do with you’.

We quickly agreed we wanted to withdraw altogether now, and did so. The meeting broke up. I refused to shake Ray’s hand as I didn’t shake hands with liars. Phil went with them for the lift. We had a drink, rang for a taxi, got to that Italian place in Camden Passage just in time to have that delicious pigeon each that I had last time. We were high and up and - happy, in a sort of way. Purged. There and back at the flat, I said a lot to him, and we got a lot straightened out. George Fenton, my unset songs, and so on and so on.

One way and another we looked at each other in deep full confidence.

Later

The Seagull. Utterly unmoved. K retired in 4th Act feeling sick. But really claustrophobic.

Chez Solange

Dreadful perfect evening.

Perfect dreadful evening.

There’s no one like him but D.

We must leave the old life.

Thursday August 15 1985

I think it was as much as anything the audience. Almost entirely foreign, or American. A suffocating air of acceptance, added to a curious disjointedness among the east, not to mention some fearful vulgarities – Trigorin and Arkadina rolling pornographically on the floor together – left me, and him utterly detached. At Chez Solange, Madeline was sweet as ever, but the food and the clientele had both gone off and I don’t think we’d go there again.

All the way round, it is August, but still last night’s entry remains as good as anything to show.

This morning felt ghastly – I don’t quite know why – possibly that last big gin at Chez and a better bottle of wine – really sick. So much so that I went one station on the tube and then walked from Gloucester Road to Covent Garden! If I hadn’t been the host, if I hadn’t known that I was the host, and neither of the boys couldn’t afford to pay if I weren’t there, I might have cried off. I got there at 12.34, and saw Phil Finch having a beer outside the pub opp Smiths. He said he was always punctual, and so far has been. So we settled down at a table. I had some Dry Martini’s and immediately felt better, ate a whole lunch and will mention my hangover no more. K arrived about ten to 1. We got down to it. We talked business and creation. The creation was all right, but the business was hopelessly in the air. I kept trying to suggest that we had a proper contract etc and what would happen if we got an order at once! At any rate, I did get them to see that we must have a letter-head and paper. Paid for by me, of course. Many practical problems, insoluble at the moment. Even creatively, there was a dud patch, when K got on his soap box about the Real Foods song. I hope he’s not going to develop into an agit. prop. composer! Seriously, I felt a certain terror at his exposing his generous and innocent convictions to any ordinary businessman. We thought up a few things. Smith’s let us sit till 4.30, then off to K’s for Janet. K remembered my umbrella, but forgot his own blue plastic case. It had three master tapes in it as he’d been to Chappell’s. He didn’t want to talk about it ‘Nothing to say’. Hm. I wonder. Has he mismanaged all these interviews by being too earnest? No.

At least at the end of the lunch we felt more like a team.

Loo paper advert. Toilet roll dressed as James Hunt. Coming out of a night club, jumping into a sports car and zooming off to the horizon, the paper flying out from his neck like a scarf.

V O. He’s such a tearaway.

Back at K’s, waiting for Janet, 5.30. Curiously delightful mild time. Exactly what I meant by an ordinary time. We are doing it, being ordinary together. She eventually got to us at 6.45, already late, she got a Spanish minicab driver on his second trip in England. She is very short in the leg, lovely open amused face, lots of comic force rather undirected. I would be doubtful of using her for much. She can’t hold things but we got some good fun out of Rough and some firm info on the C4 thing. I think it’s worth going on.

At the end of it, Paul K scooped together a few things into a bag to go to Jess and Sarah’s for the weekend. To dog-and-equipment-sit. He gave Janet a lift back to Highgate. I walked to the tube and had a quiet evening. Good. It’s a full day tomorrow. At first.

Friday August 16 1985

An odd day. To Alliance with the papers, but no go. Rang bank. To Atlas Service Bureau in Ealing to pick up Nigel’s money. Small shop, with whole frontage covered in the blue and red handwritten posters advertising jobs. I pushed open the door and far from a long line of disgruntled bitter dole takers, I was engulfed in a warm clump of pleasant girl interviewers with apparently nothing to do. ‘Could I speak to Frances?’ ‘I’m Frances, come downstairs’. I have sort of a feeling she mentioned Nigel first, but she can’t have can she? Anyway, downstairs slightly to my surprise, the talk while I was forging Nigel’s signature at their request turned into quite a paean of praise Nigel. ‘I would have him back anytime, he’s one of the most cheerful and hardest working people we’ve ever had’. Got his money and orders to pick up. Paul Ryan and his mother at the station, she is a thoroughly genial, warm, Irish woman quite unlike Paul in feature, deep-bosomed, quite flirty in a safe way, was a nurse. Really enjoyed my lunch in mild way. Unusual, just lately!

Back to flat to work with Geraldine, can’t help saying how lovely it was when she cancelled. She’s off to be in Jeanne, a new rock musical about Joan of Ark. Coo!

K rang about 7.30 to say he’d left some things he’d needed at the flat! Also the second car is broken down so – yes I’ll go over there before I come at 10.0.

So, up at ?

It is so important that he has the maximum time with the equipment.

Saturday August 17 1985

Up at 6.30 and out to do weekend shopping for myself! Before 9.0. Bought something only for K and my omelette pan remembering the hopeless pans at Sarah’s last year. To K’s flat with blue plastic case as well (picked up all the little keys of his guitar etc and his cassette deck). Rang at 8.45 to say had he thought of anything else? ‘Yes, my tape-deck’. I was on my way out of the house, I said to him and thought what would he have done it if I hadn’t rung? It still slightly worries me that he doesn’t visualise time. He said to Janet and me 9.30 – 10.0, so of course I’d be on my way out, let alone going to Bryantwood first and yet he hadn’t rung me.

Got there. Janet arrived shortly after. Charlie, the dog, gave me his usual hysterical welcome. Flat re-arranged. We did Rough. She betrayed her lack of exactness, but we got a good take in the end. Janet and I went off shopping about 12.0 and we bought far too much food as usual. Well, not really – I didn’t know who might turn up for a shoulder of lamb and chicken etc etc. Phil F arrived. Peter H had had his car clamped. Phil didn’t want anything so it was omelette for three. Oh, while we were out, Janet told me she’d just finished with R - ? S - ? after 7 years and 3 years with Dave Threlfall. I always choose the wrong man and my greatest friend is Jonathan Barlow! Gosh! Every now and again we get the hots for one another and don’t see each other for a month.

Later ‘Yes, I’ve gone to bed with him quite recently’. She is an innocent in relationships all the same. Quite interesting about K. She met him in Manchester (much laughter because he couldn’t remember at all. She talked of him then while he was in Music Room. I saw him playing at Jabberwock. He was such a poseur, he had blonde hair, a string vest and such tight trousers. He kept tossing his hair back and so on. Well, of course he had his gay period but I don’t think that probably had much effect on his behaviour as it wasn’t central enough But then he certainly was spoiled. Very good looking, very successful. The golden rebel of his year etc etc. Why, when I first knew him, he was v spoiled. Poor boy, these last two years. No wonder she said how much he’d changed! I wouldn’t have known him and said about the vein of granite and him giving up smoking, surprisingly. ‘Oh no, he’d never take to drink or drugs. Look in his eyes’. She went. Phil, K and I talked business again for a while. Hopeless in its middle, that is what a business basis is, going by already available rules, to stop useless individual discussion. For instance, poor K outraged by Phil saying that if one us was taken up but not the others, the money resulting goes back into the company. K said he couldn’t take money he hadn’t earned. Oh dear, he has a vision of it all staying loose and free. Yes, if it were just him and me. Phil, no. I’d say. I’m leaving it at the moment, because between you and me I think nothing will come of the whole thing, but I support K, as usual, all along the line. I hope Phil isn’t going to be bore, his sweet reasonableness does go on a bit. He and K had a bit of a session over Real Foods, called me in, we decided a few things I think. It’s the weakest of the three. Of course, it’s K’s favourite because there is more of it and it represents more of his convictions! Peter H arrived – we’d kicked Janet out by this time – and we had another utterly abortive bus. talk. I kept saying back to the equipment, as poor K had only got it for the day or so. They went about 5.30. I stayed and saw K’s face fall. I said about the food and he said ‘I knew you’d do this. Why did you buy all this?’. But nicely, so I knew I had to go. So about 6.0 I walked to Warwick Avenue tube, a bit sad, but not much.

Back here, I see that David Shepherd and the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Liverpool were booed and catcalled halfway thro’ trying to have a little service at the beginning of the new football season at Liverpool. The service was for Brussels.

I wrote quite a bit more tonight, and expanded two of the campaigns – the Loo Paper and Tie Neck or nothing.

Later

It isn’t my heart It isn’t my mind It’s isn’t my legs or my head It isn’t my lungs It isn’t my feet It isn’t my life that is dead It’s just that myself, my heart and my mind, my legs and my feet and my head Can’t go on Can’t be there Can’t go fro Unless are you there You’re are the need

He rang to say about the Real Foods song and V O and come to lunch 12-1.

Later still

Alone in bed, I lie in wait And in my head, I see a gate The gate is closed, my path is straight I climb the stile, I know I’m late The gate’s a stile, the path’s a field I know the way, my fate is sealed? What does that mean What does that mean? The worst it seems. I know what’s been I know what’s been? I see ahead? Perhaps I do a bit. ‘Nough said.

Sunday August 18 1985

Got there 1.0. He put the joint on, got the vegetables ready, he called me to do the V O. I said about lunch, ‘The later the better for me.’ So why 12.0 – 1.0?

Later ‘I had such a huge breakfast, don’t give me much’ but then collected himself. I gave him a delicate but sufficient plateful ‘these carrots are lovely’ and without comment he had seconds – I didn’t. Then we talked for half an hour, he got all his work done. I cleared up the kitchen very thoroughly. I wonder if Sarah will notice. We talked of Janet and her comments and men. They are a strange lot that polytechnic lot. High artistic success level but male chauvinist pigs. My comment made him go a bit pink. He remembered she’d been 7 years with R - ? S - ? I straightened everything out as far as I could and said ‘I’m off’. Seeing him tomorrow.

Monday August 19 1985 Tuesday August 20 1985

Yes, I was rather drunk and rather tired last night. But I didn’t write because I was so full of tremulous but profound happiness. I didn’t want to touch it, just lie in and sleep.

To Selfridges early to buy Lucy’s birthday present. She is two. I bought her a small picture about 6x5 and a thick brown mock Victorian frame. It’s a print of a Victorian picture, I don’t know, a battlemented castle in a misty distance over a lake. There is a knight on a charger near the castle and rather small. A brat being rode towards it in the foreground with a solitary swimmer near it. All swirly and mysterious and misty. I hope hung near her cot, it’ll start her imagination going. She is a most enchanting child with a captivating mischievous expression, huge blue eyes, fascinatingly set and Neil’s charm. I said to Linda ‘Don’t you think we better warn all the parents of boys about her age to be ready to remove every means of suicide in about 18 years’ time?’. They were very sweet to me.

Back home on foot and a quick cold lunch, then off to K’s for Nichola Slade to tape the V O for the snake-skin advert. He was washing up, the flat is in quite good order. Mild time, Nicola didn’t arrive. He went off to cash his dole cheque and post some letters (forgot to say at Kilburn he posted two letters of Sarah’s, her writing looked like his so I thought who is this Christine Gilbert! and an envelope to British Telecom with his telephone bill of £76 paid by me). Nicola arrived about 3.30, half an hour late, didn’t apologise enough. After all it was a taping professional engagement, we had a bit of Slade talk and then K came back. We had a cup of coffee (tea for K) and did the V O. She has a good growly voice, but of course little experience. We got a reasonable take, about half an hour, Phil F arrived while Nicola and I were out for a walk, leaving K to finish the mix. Phil, genial as ever, and rather struck with Nicola’s looks he had said he wanted to get the money talk straightened out with Phil. Dear little boy, if talk in the pub would do that. So off he went. Nicola and I had a second drink in the flat and taxi to the Aquilino. K had said he’d join us (Phil wanted an early night) but also said Sam might be coming round as she was in various sorts of muddle. We ordered and had just been served our first course when he got to us, ten minutes earlier than I expected. Rang Sam a bit later – she’d got another confidant so that was alright.

So why was it such a lovely evening, at least for me? First because Nicola does see the point of me – from her class and her getting away from her class, from her family and getting away from her family (just the profound contrast with Julian) and her early interest in middle-aged people, she sees acutely how special I am. In some ways more than K can because of his smaller experience, so whenever we talk of K, she pleases me by seeing my position in his life as it really is, without flattery (J has given her a salutary horror of sentimentality), second because all through the day as always with others there, K was delicately teasing and funny, affectionate and rude, silent and talkative and when he got to the restaurant, I saw he was keenly looking forward to the meal. At one point, I talked about D for quite a long time and another about Ruth Draper. I felt him to my left as I talked to Nicola, hearing so much I’ve said to him so many times before and I felt him proudly supporting me in saying it. I even said at one point of his integrity, apropos of D’s, giving some sign that they have been the truly rare people in my life apart from the fact that I have loved both of them.

Oh, innumerable things after all the events of this week, it is quite wonderful to me that he would say ‘Shall we have another bottle of this?’ I didn’t say yes or no, I hadn’t time. ‘Can we have another bottle of Soave?’ Need I explain the miracle of truth that this represents in a boy as proud as this?

The compliments he pays me in thus submitting himself to me and in front of someone else, is really humbling (I can just imagine they cynic’s comments ha, well cynics don’t see the whole picture).

I have never felt so close to him, never felt him so much a part of me. From the quiet un- pumped three quarter hour at the beginning, to the professional partnership to the complete partnership of the evening. Joy.

Wednesday August 21 1985

9.40 in bed, with Mrs Endean cleaning the bathroom and dining room.

So a few forgotten items from Monday. We went to the post with some blank cassettes to replace the ones he used at Jess’s. I’d rung from Selfridge’s to say I was in Oxford Street and was there anything we needed from HMV. ‘Yes, 10 DSK SA-60’s’. He’s a mystery to me! What would he have done about Jess’s tapes if I hadn’t happened to be in Oxford Street and had the impulse to ring? Also, while he was out, I took a call from Sue, that nurse who he had a little fling with (and her sister Judith – the 7 times a night girl – I wonder if Sue ever did get to hear about that!), ringing up to say she was having a party on Thursday I think, or was it Friday and would he ring back without fail!etc etc. Also that she had given up nursing and is taking a social sciences degree. Oh good, said K when he heard. Another set I never liked the sound of like Lysette etc. So I dare say seeing them again after a year, he’ll see them straight.

Yesterday I should have recorded, I was thinking of asking John H round, not having seen him for a while. Lo and behold he rang. He wanted to ask me something he needed to ask ‘in the morning and face to face’ so it had to be lunch. Anyway he was off to Camb. to see his father for an hour or two. I knew at once he wanted to borrow some money. He was slightly constrained all through lunch, unusual silences falling. Over coffee, he was amazed I’d guessed. Ah, yes. He is off to the Gulf of Lyons to Steve Thorne’s foster parents who live in a former monastery, sounds idyllic, wanted £50 for the fare, lent it him, he’ll get his dole when he gets back. He was so delightful and charming but I fear he is weak and will probably be a bit of a failure from drifting.

After all that intensive work and deep draughts of his company, idiotically I still miss him but it is a faint echo of previous pain. Because there is double – triple commitment between us.

1.30

Went to H’Smith to shop and again faint echoes. I suppose if I cultivated it …

It is interesting to me as proof if it were needed of the irrational nature of most of the feeling and therefore the danger of indulging it and the necessity of seeing it clearly – holding on to that clarity – for what it really is. Otherwise how desperately unfair to him.

I mean rationally it is actually desirable not to see him for 3 or 4 days.

Then by the way, equally rationally we must have a session to write the C4 stuff, quite systematically.

2.20

In the cinema to pass the time before dinner with Prim. Didn’t feel on the tube station about train to Holloway Road, thought but didn’t feel good. There is no doubt that paying his mortgage and him accepting it, has had, not an economic effect, not a ‘after all I’ve done for you’ but, but a certain comfort of commitment, I don’t mean that I feel him tied to me by debt, no, it’s like marriage or any deep commitment. He hasn’t, despite his extremity, felt able to borrow from any other individual, but he has from me, because he obviously doesn’t mind being tied to me for some time.

Later, took Prim out to Wine Gallery. Great success. Actually told me more about herself, and we made a date for when her bandage comes off on Friday.

When she is in form there’s no one else I could talk about D but Edna.

Restaurant delightful for what it is, Aligote, three courses, two ports, 3 coffees, £26!

When we came out, it was pouring. I can’t believe it. It wasn’t supposed to rain today, for the first time for weeks. No mistake, this is the worst summer I ever remember. Where’s he tonight?

Later

But no, I’m not suffering. Perhaps I should be! No. He has never betrayed me. Only got embroiled with inferior people. Why so often?

After all, he ditched Lionel Bart! Without assistance from me. I must remember that!

If I push open your door, Why do I find an empty bed? I don’t care that I talk to you. If I say Kevin its 8 o’clock Who is there to be troubled. When I see you in reality I don’t suffer for it. Our talk is still as real.

The hair is brown and glowing, The shoulders broad and thin The skin is nothing extra The

Thursday August 22 1985

Took to K and Phil Finch out to Plummer’s’. Oh well, life is too much. For both of us. We’re a couple of highbrows. For good or ill.

Friday August 23 1985

In Prim’s doctor’s waiting room, while she has stitches out. A bit of reality at last!

Yesterday was a bit of a depressing day for various reasons. K rang to say cheque returned, which I know, and put right. He rang a bit later to say it wasn’t Friday, it was today we were meeting Phil. Good thing I was free! Got there. His usual blank face. As usual waited. But it stayed blank and it turned out he’d rung Janet and said Rough was ready. She said some friends were bringing some food round so why didn’t he come to? So he did. She didn’t play the tape and the friends came. About five hours! Later, they went. He ventured to suggest playing the tape, she did and didn’t say a word. He also got the impression we didn’t come very high up on their list. So he doesn’t want to write any more.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY 62

August 23 1985 (cont’d)

(Oh dear, I am surreptitious fool – does this change of notebook make a difference? I feel apprehensive! Not really).

So on.

For them, I mean. He was washing up all through this. Phil arrived, and we looked at the story- board of Second Skin. Goodish. Though less finish than I expected, and K and I both missed, as I’ll tell later, a vital point. We went through it and started on Real Foods. K showed in another new light – a bore! He missed the point of the discussion and kept describing a detailed screenplay matched exactly to the music. Useless. ‘We are doing something new, aren’t we?’ Words dominating one, visuals another, this is the music one’. Well, we aim at that, but the director will have other ideas! Also as Philip said to me over the video, ‘K always wants shots, he’s seen in other videos. In other words, his originality doesn’t extend to the visual, too. Not surprising. Other way and another, Phil’s and my eyes met, as he went on in detail, off the point.

We decided on the toilet-roll for our third campaign.

We had a drink and decided to go out to supper. K revealed that he and Phil were going out on Sat night, on the pull. Phil, I should think is very good at ‘getting off’ and K is bewilderingly, not. Which is why he’s always slept with girls who are there. Which is why so many of them have been so unsuitable, I suppose. I felt a little pang of pure jealousy, for once, that I am not his age and going out with him myself. But then that would give me pain, too! Ha! So we talked of the party tonight, given by Sue, the nurse. He described a bit of the situation, and Phil was riveted in a dirty mag. sort of way. ‘Can I come too?’ K actually mentioned the Haymarket evening – he must have been drunk – I wished he hadn’t mentioned such an in intimate memory, and yet now I think it was a sort of purging by him, of something he’s still very ashamed of. Later still, he said ‘I may only stay half an hour’. I warned him, tho’ not in so many words, he might look at them all and feel amazed, and come away. They sounded worrying to me. Two girls, who’d fucked him separately, and each other, and then wanted a threesome? Well, he loves sex – so do I, – but I don’t think he’d really like girls like that. We’ll see. But ok, he does just need a fuck, poor boy. Would anyone looking at him believe it? It’s the same as the work, of course. Anything just won’t do. I found myself, for instance, shouting my repudiation of Clockwork Orange to Phil on no other grounds than its hideous association of the 9th Symphony with violence. Phil said he didn’t appreciate classical music. That was while K was in the loo, after nodding his head in fervent agreement.

That’s why I said we were highbrows. He rang today, to say come to lunch Sat, as that’s the only time Peter’s got two hours to spare. That made me feel better. Also a date on Tue for the King’s Head. I know I’ll see him.

Saturday August 24 1985

Up early to shop again. To him by 12.0. He was alone – Phil to be late. Asked him about party, it was all night. ‘You saw them all there?’ ‘Yes, Phil went home with Sarah’. He went home with nobody. Didn’t look tired or hungover. Didn’t snap my head off for asking, but didn’t go on much either. I wonder if he knows how very usual it is for best friends to talk after a night out! Found out a little more when Phil arrived. He’s never silent when other people are there! Heard him say to Phil ‘Judith was being very strange to me all evening’. Fancy. I shall hear more if it’s meant anything to him, but he certainly can sometimes produce a startling naiveté. Peter arrived and could only stay an hour. We had a sort of talk, Peter seemed to want to go ahead in a half-hearted way. We decided one or two peripheral things, and we proceeded on our recklessly un-businesslike way! When shall I have to put my foot down again? I do love his enthusiasm and originality.

After Peter left, the talk between us three became more general, partly because of the Anti- Album, shading on to nuclear war. I was too much struck by two of K’s statements. This time he quoted me openly, saying ‘It’s one of the main statements of yours that remains with me’, I can’t bother to quote it. The other was when he said, fairly passionately ‘That’s why I shan’t ever have a child’. Because of bringing it into a nuclear world.’ Phil is a genial soul. They arranged to meet tomorrow to go over the Anti-Album cover and for K to start typing ‘Reselection’ on Phil’s girlfriend’s typewriter. Earlier, I’d been surprised by Phil saying calmly that tonight ‘on the pull’ was off. As it was then 4.30, I thought it was a bit cool of Phil to leave K with an empty evening. Happily Nigel and Phil M. wanted to come round, and Nigel is staying, but I know K was shaken for a moment. Perhaps they’ll go out tomorrow night, but Sunday is not the same. Again I felt left out. Which is ridiculous.

Left to get ready for Ian and Hilary’s party. Victoria to a station called Nunhead, which although it is only a quarter of an hour from Victoria, I have never, after 40 years in London, heard of let alone been to. Fairly rough-looking area. Turned a corner and there was the shell of a yellow saloon car, half on, half off the pavement, with children jumping about on it. An obviously wild dog nosing in the dustbins. Two black youths who jeered at me as I went by.

Flat a basement in a scruffyish main road. Inside it was really rather pleasant. A bit cramped, but a good kitchen and bathroom. Hilary in a v smart black suit-dress and high heeled court shoes. Much constraint at first, – if I hadn’t talked, I don’t know what would have happened. When we sat down to dinner, it was even worse at first. I was sitting opposite an intelligent young man called Michael Parsons, and we talked well. But Ian and Hilary didn’t keep the talk going their end, nor Hilary’s father his end. (No doubt if Lalla had been there she’d have said I was showing off and monopolising the conversation!) I enjoyed my talk with M.P. thoroughly, we stayed at the table after everyone else was in the other room, and Ian B. was playing them Beatles songs on the guitar from the show he’s rehearsing. It’s wonderful to think that Beatles songs are now nostalgic antiques, their words not known necessarily to people under 30. We had a good talk. I came away in a taxi, more or less as soon as we moved into the other room. It was an ill-assorted party and the rooms didn’t conduce to anything but general conversation, except at the dinner table. Pace poor. Lalla, general conversation is useless. To me or any cultivated person. Taxi £9.50. Nice middle-aged driver.

Sunday August 25 1984

Rested all morning, and felt a little desolate, facing a completely empty day. Dozed off again, and had a revealing dream, for two reasons. First, because it is not a symbolic dream, it is a rather emphasised picture of what I constantly feel. Second, it perhaps means things are better if I’m dreaming about it. Do obsessional feelings seep away at the bottom of your mind or the top? I hope the top, as I think it’s better for it to be more conscious. So the dream.

Long and elaborate, in various (public) places, ending up in a cinema, K sitting next to me. The film, which I want him so much to see with me, has begun. K goes back for something, and is longer than I expect, and the film is going on.

Len Rossiter suddenly comes in and makes me move to the other end of the row. Agony. I can’t refuse Len – it may be his film and yet K may not find me, or someone may take the next seat to me before he comes back. More agony. Does K come back?

Rang him at 12.0 and suggested he got Phil to do the logo today. ‘Good thinking’.

Later.

Still feeling only echoes of despair, thank god. Rang Marjorie to talk about Nigel. Halfway through the talk, she told me she was having a hip replacement op. in six weeks’ time. Being off the gold injections has led to such a rapid degeneration of the joints, that this op. is now urgent. Ordinary hip ops are 3-year affairs. I’m not telling the boys. So Liverpool has not lost her to my confidence. I actually rang Edna to take a sounding whether I should tell K or not. She said not. ‘What good would it do?’ But what good did it do telling me? I suppose it relieved her in some way. She has a residual delicacy that’s in him, and isn’t in Ernie, except in extremis, I expect. And she feels it in me, I suppose, or why would she tell me?

I tell you what I do feel in her. She knows how much I love him. She doesn’t say so to herself even. But she knows, and at the deepest level, understands, likes it and takes comfort in it.

Later. Watched Shirley Bassey for a number or two. Remarkable finish and no interest, like Joan Collins.

Monday August 26 1985 Bank Holiday

Usual dead day. Made myself go for a walk in the afternoon. Except for ringing him on Sun, I have spoken to no-one since Sat. I shouldn’t miss him, seeing him tomorrow! Well it hasn’t been so bad. I do know.

To Grease done by the Cambridge Independent Theatre. Not clear how amateur they are in status. The perf. was full of good energy and delightful.

Tuesday August 27 1985

Michael Parsons to lunch. He is a very level headed boy, and won’t be a drag on anyone. If he is an actor, he is not like many others I have met. Played him Misspent Y. Amazingly he had started writing a play about a youngster being put upon in a restaurant!

He is amused and amusing, loved much of the music and is only 21.

To K. Forgot typewriter because of M.P. and had to go back for it. He was sitting, working with a list of things to be done. It seems Peter rang up this morning and waffled on, finally announcing he was going away for 2½ weeks. That’s after Saturday! So surely that’s the end of poor Peter. It is odd – I like him for me, but I’ve always wanted him out of K’s life, I don’t quite know why! But I’m proved right yet again! I can’t help but be pleased really. He gave me a lot of jobs, and expressed faint unease about Phil after Sat and not getting the typewriter – he’d rang up to ask for mine. It’s us really, managing Phil and whoever we get to push. I rang Simon T. We’re meeting on Monday.

We got everything settled that could be. Off in a cab to the King’s Head. Talk of Nigel, he said he agreed with me that you get rather awful glimpses of rather yobbo life. He was sloshing back the gin. We saw The Lover. Alas the King’s Head is not sympathetic to quiet plays, with long silences. Much talk audible from the pub in the pauses. Robert Morris is still a non-actor. Karin might have been so much better with someone better. She wasn’t bad, too studied. No wonder Mary L likes her, she’s like a rich man’s version of Mary L! And younger.

He didn’t get it quite right. He is showing signs of his ordeal now, and knows it. He said ‘Perhaps it’s the state I’m in.’ I must watch his money.

Read him a lovely bit in the Millgate. Hardy about protecting genius. He’s seeing Chris P on Sunday. Chris had a little weep yesterday, it seems. His new girlfriend was down. Cannot quite remember how it was phrased, but she’d said, I think, II suppose, something about filling up a harmony exercise, completing this, and finishing that. ‘What if it were a blank page’ said K. It made me cry. He still has little real idea of his originality.

Some people at the next table were thoughtlessly loud and began to spoil our pleasure.

But nothing can spoil my pleasure at seeing him take command of this venture. But more deeply, my pleasure at being all in all to him, the only person he can count on.

P.S. At one moment, he made me laugh so much, by saying, with great decision ‘I’m going to do – I don’t know what’.

Wednesday August 28 1985 Thursday august 29 1985

Rested a lot. I am very tired these days when I am alone.

K rang to say he was coming round - no, he didn’t, that was yesterday - he rang to ask me how to spell ‘Paul’s’. Where the apostrophe went. He’s typing the Glynn play.

Got enough dinner for four, in case. He and Phil arrived about ten past six. K, was, for a moment, cheerful ‘we could sit on the balcony’. We had a practical talk, again he got a bit too serious. But still we got what could be settled, settled. Good. Phil and I were talking and suddenly I saw a pall of black despair fall over him. I had to ask, because Phil was troubled. He just said ‘No, it’s nothing to do with this project’ and tried to brush it aside but couldn’t remove my concern. Phil went to pee – I’d already said Stay and see Ian B and have a bite – No, I don’t think so, I couldn’t, – he stood up and said ‘Angus, I haven’t got any music’. I haven’t got any equipment and I’m not writing any music.’

Thank god he said it. At last. And we were alone.

Simon had rung up earlier to say, back from Greece and Edinburgh, could he come round for half an hour and a glass of wine? I think K couldn’t face that either, and I quite understand. So K and Phil went, Ian B arrived followed hard upon by Simon. We had a very cheerful evening, Simon of course staying for dinner, finishing everything solid and liquid, talking non-stop and entrancing dear Ian. It’s strange, I can never remember much of what Simon says! Mind you, I’m writing on Thursday because I was rather drunk, because I knew I could be. Dotty Tutin had cancelled our Barbara Pym lunch today, because Amand W has fearful flu and lost his voice, antibiotics and all sorts, and the first preview of Gigi on Sat. Oh dear.

Simon, while Ian B was in the loo, each time, told me he’d sucked Matt off, and Matt’s girlfriend aged 35 was pregnant this time and when Ian was there, equated him and Matt and me and Kevin to a maddening extent.

That apart, the evening went well. I was genuinely glad K had gone. He couldn’t have borne it. Ian stayed the night and was sweet. He’s very special in his own line. He let me read the John Lennon play. Rather good – I think it might be a success, properly done. What’s it called?!

Gave Ian breakfast in bed this morning. And off he went. K rang about 11.30. ‘Did you have a good evening?’ (Has he ever asked that first?). He wanted to know the name of the noise an ambulance siren makes, I got it wrong first and rang back and said Klaxon. Thinking he’d meant it was the inventor’s name standing for the ‘thing’ like Hoover. No, it turns out he meant the effect of one, of such a sound starting in the distance or swelling past one and dying away again. We arranged about tomorrow.

Oh, Chris P rang up last night too, to say he’d written something! Could he show it to me? I said send it. He rang up tonight about 10.30 to know if it had arrived! Ah.

In the course of reading the Lennon play, I came across this little trouvaille.

15 June, ’56. Woolton Parish Fete, when the Beatles was called The Quarrymen. That was the way John Lennon met Paul McCartney.

But I still see his poor stubbly face and burning eyes saying those painful sentences.

I must start thinking and planning all over again.

Friday August 30 1985

2.30

Yes, I believe I have come through. To Ken B’s. Tell Me Honestly at the Warehouse. Good bits, but overall structure a great mess. Both girls amateurish. Had no idea there was so much music or that it would be so ineptly performed. Except for the pianist, whom both of us thought was just a pianist at first. His slightly jaundiced eye was occasionally cast over the whole proceedings – I would like to think that wasn’t acting!

Worst disappointment was that the satire was not nearly savage enough. There were one or two moments near enough to the knuckle, but not enough. For far too much of the time it was written from inside, I got too much smell of a great big cosy situation. After all, the RSC seasons gave him the time and the money to write it! There was some comic invention which just kept us going, but the second half was quite blurred for both of us. K excellent about it. Arrived shaved, hair washed and flowing. It’s now to his shoulder-blades, and fully spread out with all the lights in it, it is a magnificent sight, so thick and - yes, it’s good hair.

We went to Smith’s – I said ‘Come on, have one thing, you can be home by 3.0’ – he’s retyping ‘Reselection’ still – so he had an omelette, which he has most days at home! and a glass of Perrier water. He’s working, you see. He knows work needs pressure, and poor boy these days, he has to create his own pressure. After half an hour, off he went. And I felt and feel nothing but keen pleasure that he has something he’s making himself do, keen pleasure in seeing and judging something with him as always and mild pleasure in watching him walk away from me to D’s typewriter. Need I say the only real pain I felt was the pain of him having no music. Is it true? Have I really learnt to love him?

Please grant me a while longer alone with him like this, so that I can go on building my defences for life taking him away from me. Physically I mean. I don’t think he’ll leave in any other way.

Later 12-5pm

So what did I do then? Sat and had two more coffees and a Baume de Venise. Then to the National Portrait Gallery to look at few favourites, and buy a fresh supply of favourite postcards. Rather amazed that both people in front of me were buying like me, quantities of Ellen Terry, ‘Choosing’ Watts. !! How Graham Robertson would be pleased. Then to a quite intelligent horror film, which is a goodish drug to me. Tho’ I feel the wasted passed time. Then drearily hotly home. With faint pangs of loneliness, but nothing to do with him. I look at my life, and wonder. I didn’t wait to see Ken. How could I talk in that melte? And with Daniel Parfitt and Kate B. I was whisking thro’ by the way, and said covering things. Waited at the bottom of the steps three mins. at least for K. He is a nit in those ways.

But then so was D. Hopeless, but catching on to what needs to be done socially! I must plan for him again.

Saturday August 31 1985

1.15am

He rang at 12.15, so like my dreams, I can’t write now. I will recollect my emotion in tranquillity tomorrow.

Sunday September 1st 1985

Sept. and no summer yet. Yes, he rang as I always want him to ring, to talk. He’d more or less finished typing the play – he keeps ringing up by the way, for a sentence correction, or a bit of punctuation, or spelling. Just for a second. ‘I’ve been typing since I left you’.

Janet had rung up and been very affable and did seem to want us after all. Good. Some friend of hers had mentioned K and used the word ‘poseur’ again! I wonder if it’s that gesture he makes with his hand through his hair, and tosses his hair back. It certainly true that the conventional gesture for a show off is a toss of the head. We had a long talk about Chris. I told him of the short story Chris had sent me. We talked of C4 and the adverts and Monday. What I’ve always wanted, an ordinary getting up to date chat.

The ordinary unpumped talk sent me back to bed in a state of such happiness, I felt I must go to sleep quickly before I attracted the attention of the gods.

Monday September 1st 1985 Tuesday September 2nd 1985

Such a hangover after last night, which is why I didn’t write. All I scribbled on a bit of paper was, ‘In loo, can anyone of 59, be as happy as this?’ When I got to Smiths, the whole place was a mess of men carrying out what turned out be the remains of a fashion-show, so I went to pub opp. And was standing at the door when he appeared early. At once, I saw he was in a good mood – he was able to smile almost at once. Read him a bit of the Simon Gray diary of rehearsals of the Common Pursuit. If I were three or four of the actors in that play, I would be really hurt or sue him or both. I do not mean to imply he’s not talking the truth, rather the reverse. Oh, I haven’t described the Redgrave Gala, another time. We went down, he gave me the play. And an Author’s Note as preface. Which I corrected then and there. We talked a bit about Raw Ingredients and then Simon T arrived. We had arranged that K would play it by ear and stay if it seemed right. It did seem right, Simon said he was more reconciled, and K in fact stayed until the end. Quite early on, we started on Raw I., - I had warned Simon we wanted to pick his brains. He’s cautious but realistic, and made no false promises, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t come up with someone. K outlined the whole thing very well, and I was very amazed at how impressed S.T. was with our naïf, utterly un-businesslike affair. Somehow the evening took wing. The drink worked well of all of us. S.T. was very relaxed and funnier than I’d ever dreamed. He and K hit it off well and my happiness came about because I saw myself and my relationship with both, thro’ their eyes. For instance, Simon told of the day I took him out to dinner so that he could tell me about Christine. I said to K, ‘and the whole shape of his features had softened and altered.’ S.T. said ‘I never told you this, but we were so emotional that night, I saw someone think we were a gay couple!’ K said, ‘Yes, we have trouble that way’. He said. Later ST, apropos I’ve forgotten what, took my hand and said ‘Angus has always been there’, after describing that first visit. In came over me in an extraordinary flash that those few desultory evenings of mild interest and possible good advice constitute to him, a profound and enduring and supportive paternal relationship. (I was able to say ‘Real fathers and sons … etc).

Yes, I saw myself as they sat opposite me and talked about me. Not all night, of course. It was one of the most satisfying nights of my life.

And oh the anti-climax! Fearful sick hangover. K had said come to lunch, so I crawled there, just avoiding being sick on the tube by shutting my eyes and counting on my knee. Flat so tidy it was uncanny – he watching TVC! He had withdrawn again. We had talk about the play, he cooked lunch, talked about Raw I., he read my work and we tried to think of a name for the loo paper cos he didn’t like ‘Look’. He went off to the bedroom to re-type the Author’s Note with my corrections. And – I realised I must go. So about quarter to four I went, to another empty evening.

But, I went quite differently. I went thinking about him and not myself. I saw it all round more.

i) He is at his lowest, with almost nothing in prospect – after all, the adverts aren’t much for him. ii) I know he is low, and he knows I know. iii) He owes me such a lot of money and so much of everything else and he doesn’t always want to be reminded of it. He must often get pangs. iv) I had been with him the entire evening before!

Well, those reasons are nothing new but my calmer acceptance of them is! It really is, that you show your worst side to those who can it take it. And if his worst is no worse than that - ! Remember moving into the flat.

Wednesday September 4th 1985

Slept in.

K rang 4.15 to say Phil couldn’t make it round here tonight. He’d see him Friday lunch. Oh, I hope Phil isn’t to be a broken reed too. Took the opportunity to go to A State of Affairs. Full. No doubt a good boulevard play but the acting was rather self satisfiedly second-rate. Gary B and Nicola McA very well matched. A. Boxer really good. Left at interval.

Thursday September 5th 1985

To film ‘Perfect’. Well I can only say John Travolta can look as if his whole world depends on one person so I felt something.

In evening to Lucy and Roy in her new flat in Greenwich. Pretty little basement. Lucy is still good news. Lovely meal, salami and pasta. Has big overdraft to pay off, bother. Thought she was rich. (She yet may be). Another guest Camilla Chalmer, who can answer and listen and talk. She is there and herself. And drove me home.

I only mentioned him two or three times and not centrally. He’s at Jess and Sarah’s wedding party. I just pray he hasn’t found another dead duck.

Friday September 6 1985

Sent cheque for £2,000 odd for his mortgage. Hope it will go through this time!

He rang at 11.30 to say he was ‘all right’ and could we go to Roy’s play tonight, if it’s on. Well, it wasn’t, so it’s the matinee tomorrow at 4.0 and Phil knows somewhere we can eat near him.

So to lunch with John N. Dear John, it is such relaxation to be with him. He is behind me, I know. Tells me Simon’s parents are upper class Army people. Surely not. Oh well then. But it was good.

To Donald and Ann for Hannah’s b’day. V short as Ann’s parents were taking them to tea at The Ritz. Hurried as he’d had to book a table and the only one he could get was 3.15! ‘Do come. Um. To film ‘Subway’. No. Young and clever, both as pejoratives. How has he passed these three days? My little one.

12.35am

So I bought some books David Niven’s biog by S Morley. Straight crib in school mag. of article by A.A Milne.

However, have only reopened this, to say how any story, any radio or TV, any book, any sentence leads me back to him and his good!

Saturday September 7 1985 Sunday September 8 1985

Got to the Shaw at 3.30 and a bad start. The box office girl denied all knowledge of Rochelle Stevens having booked the seats, without her finding out whether I expected free seats or not. I paid and told her off. Roy arrived, then K. I introduced them to one another. Andrew P arrived with A.N. Other, looked nice. The play was a simple affair, very primitively played and produced, plenty of natural talent among the teenagers as usual. In the taxi on the way to Phil Finch, K was gloomy about the crushing of that talent by etc. Well, yeees, but most of it goes because it isn’t real talent, just the bubbling over of youth. Our business talk went well – we got as far as we could at the moment. Phil’s girlfriend, Elaine, came in dressed for a party. Beautiful bat wing black dress, exquisite make up on which I complimented her, bright blonde hair and one of these short awkward styles – suited her – easy, bright and yes she loves him unmistakably. We went off to a pub nearby which serves meals. Perfect. But alas, disaster struck. Simon T has sent the magazines along as he’d promised. I had made a tentative date to take them to the Sambourne House on Sunday and suggested K and Phil came, too. K got on his fatal high horse of integrity ‘Why do I need to come to the house?’ etc. and grilling me in front of Phil, that I was ‘using’ the visit to the house to etc etc. Oh dear. Poor Phil, with us ‘being temperamental’ again. And K gave as part excuse that he was meeting that nice friend of Chris P.! Phil left, and we were alone. Poor K. knew he had been entirely in the wrong – it’s because he’s so low. We talked it over, I wasn’t angry, just thoroughly upset for him. A new departure again. We had go to Phil’s to get my things and walked away to Victoria. K quite suicidally depressed. I was at once confused, depressed, moved, worried. I couldn’t comfort him. He was not so lost in his depression that he couldn’t see my upset. He put his arms round me to comfort me. I walked off to get a cab – we both knew there was nothing more to say. When I got round to the taxi rank, I saw him still drifting across the other part of the station, his white unhappy face between those curtains of hair.

He mentioned the new Guinness campaign based on the echo of ‘Genius’, but in the middle of our talk I thought at first he was referring to himself, so when I rang him later about 1.0, as well as asking him if I could write, or try to write, the replacement lyric for the Anti-Album – (I was amused that Phil said there was one he didn’t like and K said it was Video Shop. ‘Oh yes’ said Phil ‘Perhaps it was’. But I also said ‘only a measure of genius can justify how you sometimes behave!’ That was in the context of me saying something earlier about his impossible integrity. There was also a moment when I said he must expect to pay some price for his lack of success. ‘What price?’ he said with burning eyes. How could I answer frankly? I have sat all day without dressing or shaving, or pulling up the blinds. I haven’t cried or exactly suffered. I have just felt dead and flat. How can I help him if he remains so unrealistic? We meet tomorrow to see Janet about the C4 thing.

Monday September 9 1985

To K’s for afternoon. He was abstracted and a bit hopeless, without hope, I mean. We talked of the C4 stuff. He tried to apply his mind, and did so every now and again, fruitfully. But said, very well, once or twice, ‘But I don’t know about comedy’. We got a shortlist of things out, and off we went to Janet’s flat, In a block in a nice tree’d road in Highgate - Crouch End. Michael Bray turned out to be a contemp. of Ken B. at RADA and had heard of me there. Well. Pleasant fair chap, outgoing, we could work – if he’s any good. They seemed impressed by our ideas. They read us a list of theirs, none of which they’d written, and very few of which we were impressed with! As we came away to the car we’d ordered, K said ‘Well, you’ve got plenty to do’. Of course it is mostly verbal, but they’d said why don’t you do the send up of Andrew L Webber? So he has got that at any rate.

To the Aquilino. All interesting. Then we got onto Sunday again. It maddened me to think of all the awful people he has written with, all those compromises, - which of course he didn’t think of as compromises at the time, only I did! They were great new friends to him – and then to refuse such a little thing, such an ordinary social thing. We went to the pub next door to be alone and have a Scotch. It became a little heated – he admitted all the awful people, said he’d come to dinner but still won’t come to the Sambourne House. Held his end up as he always does, implacably – it’s so good that the money means nothing to him – went to the loo at the height of the acrimony, – I collected myself, and said ‘Do I attempt to impose my opinions on you, too much?’ We both realised, screamed with laughter and went home.

Meeting him and Phil at the pub at 6.0 for exchange of scripts etc, before Paul R.

Tuesday September 10 1985

To Slug and Lettuce at 6.0. K early. Good. Elaine and Phil arrived. Good talk. Elaine is a nice solid suburban girl, with a good head. Wants to start a theatre magazine. I said she could use my library as reference. K said he’d come round tomorrow at 8.0, on his way from Phil’s, back to his own place to interview Dina, friend of Elaine who might be a lodger. Bother.

Oh, K revealed he tried to go to Subway on the same day as me, was too late, and went to the James Bond instead. He must have been desperate. Why didn’t I ring him? I didn’t dare. I said so. ‘I was out’ he snapped. I hate him at moments like that. For a moment.

To dinner with Paul R. He is growing up well, but hard to attend to him – or anyone ….

Wednesday September 11 1985

7.30am

That little pasta rest. is rather sweet and so cheap, £14.

I must register again that I don’t think our advert. scheme will come to nothing. That is not to say I won’t put my best into it.

11.30 pm

Fairly considerable shop this morning. Prim rang at twenty past eight, to say her skin thing had come on very badly on her face, and her doctor was on holiday, there was no locum, and no answering machine. It was obvious that she was frightened and helpless. I rang St Stephen’s, they said she could go to casualty. I rang back and said ‘Can you get yourself there?’ She hesitated, so I shaved and dressed quickly and was there by 9.20. Her face was a real shock. It was purple-red, swollen to the utmost stretch of her cheeks, so that it was absolutely round like a melon. The centre of each cheek was weeping yellow pus. Her eyes were so closed, she was tilting her head to see. I’d picked up a taxi in Warwick Way and she talked animatedly about other things all the way. Usual sitting about, with maddening questions as if she’d never had it before, she’s had it on and off for twenty years. I left about 12.0, as she was admitted. Bright spot – at least I have seen her disease as really bad. It partly solves her possible hypochondria – it is a real disease! Poor Prim, that she tends to make you feel she’s fantasising. Back home, feeling of course especially well and hungry! Worked all afternoon and made sure there was enough food for K if he wanted to stay. Eight o’clock came and went, at 9 ish he rang from Phil’s. Claimed that he’d always been coming round at 9-9.30. No so, as I asked as I left the pub and put it in my diary. He was seeing Phil, coming to me and interviewing the possible lodger at 9.0. So. A little argy. And a bit more when he got here. And of course, I’d drunk one too many gins waiting for him! He wanted to go quite quickly, I pleaded a bit, he stayed half an hour.

Later.

The person you love put before you for a quarter of an hour and no more.

What worse torture!

Thursday September 12 1985 Friday September 13 1985

Julian rang up at sloppy length to say he was going off to Majorca? to stay with John Merriman! Lots of slosh about where I’d find Dear Brutus score and ‘my father died on Fri Sept 13, so I haven’t reminded my mother – air-crashes etc etc!) Worked a little. Simon rang for lunch.

Friday

So today. S rang at 12.0 to say, could I come straight round as the schedule had changed. Hurried and of course was there half an hour early. What a nasty pub The Bush is. We went off to a wine bar in Wood Lane, - the cold roast beef the most delicious I have ever tasted. Matt’s Chas is having a baby, quite appalling. Even S thinks so now. S is on the wagon, partly weight, part rehearsals. I had a half bot. of Cotes du Rhone. S paid. Play going v well. Mark Rylance sympathetic, talented, not quite focused. Went back with S to rehearsal. Chatted to Mark R, tall, dark, earnest, oh dear. S told me over lunch that Mark R remembered my name from Ken B, who he said, was told by me that you’d never be any good unless you refrain from sex. Can you beat it? I wracked my brain as to where that came from., I think I once said that some people say, (thinking of Peter Wood!) that you should store up etc. that frustration etc. How many people there are in the world who don’t hear ‘Some people say’ and quote whatever it is as your opinion. Oh dear. Mark R struck me as an earnest, and rather humourless, tall, thin and dark. Certainly is unrecognisable as Ariel. S left me with his review of Alec G’s autobiography. Very good, espec. as book is so diffuse. Left S at 2.30 and to Café Pelican to finish the sketches. Then to K for 4.0. He was out but got there a second after me with the dinner. Phil had cried off, and off Sunday as well. Pity. K withdrawn as usual, but melted quicker than usual. We had an excellent hilarious writing session. K had a brilliant idea for the Lloyd Webber – an adoring congregation singing a hymn to L.W ‘Immortal, Invisible’ with the words changed. I’d finished most of the sketches for him to type. We made a good start on L.W, had a quiet dinner, a last drink in the pub. He said he’d ordered a paper and Time Out. So I was able to say again, that, yes, he needed to know more. I do worry for later years, when he fully finds out ignorant he is of things he will want to know about.

I went home grateful.

Saturdays September 14 1985

He saw Phil at lunch time, and rang me. But Phil rang me at 11.0 to cry off formally. Perhaps as well, in view of everything.

Sunday September 15 1985

Simon T and Christine arrived on the dot of 3.30, with two bottles of wine. Off to Linley Sambourne Hse. Somehow, almost at once, I was glad the others weren’t there. House more fascinating on a second visit. They were very interested, I think. Back here, tea and quite funny chat. I enjoyed the evening, except for two things. As ‘All in vain’ began – I only played two numbers! – she began to read the front of The Times beside her on the sofa! And over dinner, discussing whether, if ever, to have a baby or not, I saw the seeds of perhaps serious disagreement. I noticed S noticing her read The Times, and one or two other things. I felt close and familiar. I still like her very much, but saw a cloven hoof or two. He mentioned our scheme very well and believably. Both people who might help us are still on holiday!

On the doorstep, to my amusement, she mentioned exactly what I’d said to K ‘Is he trying to avoid me?’!

Monday September 16 1985

Quiet day. Neil rang from France, car’s broken down. Wanted number of Westbury Hotel to tell Jean-Pierre Aumont they might not make the first night of Gigi. More work.

O, had a dream earlier this morning. Previous dream some weeks ago, D was sitting on my neck with arms snaking around me and I was pulling them away, screaming. So much so that I woke up, as I thought, to find Mrs E in the room, looking concerned. So much so that I asked Mrs E later if she’d heard me. I wasn’t absolutely sure she hadn’t actually come in.

This one, I was in a carriage with mummy driving down a busy road. Suddenly I thought I saw D in the crowd. ‘There’s D’ ‘Yes’ said M. Eventually stopped carriage; as we got out, I apologised to driver (Mr Harris?) who knew of D and her death. ‘There’s someone over there who looks like my wife.’ We’ll just go and see if it’s her.’ But I really believed I might see her. We hurried off. M stopped to buy an ice-cream. The dream petered out.

Later

He rang at 10.15, to arrange a meeting tomorrow, he and Phil to come round about 6.0. Jon Henson had rung about 6.0 and was coming round too. ‘Will you stay to dinner?’ ‘Oh, - yes’. Heaven.

He sounded down. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘I’m all right now I’ve talked to you’.

Tuesday September 17 1985 Wednesday September 18 1985

Jon H arrived very brown and sweet. Put his name down at temp agency. K arrived at 6.0, on time! We talked over all we needed to do very merrily. Phil arrived rather obtrusively, tired after a long day. He seems to be getting a bit aggressive. He certainly has that attitude to K. I have seen one or two people before behave like to him. Pityingly, patronisingly and all without having known him long. Hm. All the same, we had a jolly evening. K left about 10.45 to see Peter Orr about doing cover versions. Oh, poor boy, that he’s even thinking of it. Phil stayed till the last tube, very drunk, alternate glasses of wine and whisky. Jon stayed night.

I was pretty drunk, too. Felt bad in the morning. Phone at 8.30 Temps Bureau for Jon to go and be a kitchen porter in Charlotte’s! in Goldhawk Road, so he’ll stay on.

Walked from K X to K’s as was feeling so sick. Lovely afternoon, cracked the Lloyd-Webber skit. He’d got out some of my lyrics, - because of our talk the other night in the pub.

There is no one like him. He’d also set ‘I can’t spell help’. Was just about to play it to me when Phil arrived, early, and sat in the music room door, as K played it to me for the first time. That was a big black mark, and he even opened his mouth about it at one point. He did see, and shut up. Writing a song with someone is a private business.

Earlier, I’d said to K ‘Phil’s a bit hard on you isn’t he?’ ‘I’ve found a way of wearing it’. Well, I wasn’t wrong. When we talked over all the printing etc, Phil got even ruder and said at one point ‘‘Kevin, I’ve had a long hard day etc’. K had been simply calmly trying to find out exactly how much something was going to cost and when it would be ready and Phil was quite rude in a pitying way. I think I see people take this attitude to him, who are knowingly or unknowingly envious of his artistic integrity, what keeps him still not kowtowing in any way to me because of the money, which a lesser man would. (A poor sentence.)

Eventually we went to the pub. They played pool on and off. K was very protective and loving and explained the game to me simply and plainly. I went home in great contentment.

Thursday September 19 1985

To K’s at 2-3 ish. Chubb lock still on, he had to come down out of the bath to open it. Has no one left the house this morning?

Oh yes, Phil F. told him to wash his hair more often, at my house, cheek. If only Phil knew.

We polished and finished the Lloyd-W and talked over the arrangements for the weekend, me to bring the £60 for the XX on Friday aft. Left again in great content.

Friday September 20 1985

To Pelican for second lunch with Dorothy Tutin. She is now committed to it, and thinks the first half of the script is there. He talked of the second half and she made some excellent suggestions. Hazel tends to say ‘Oh, that’s quite easy’ and just suggest another chunk instead of thinking more flexibly of moment by moment. Dotty certainly lacks a certain confidence, not, I think, in her acting, but in her push. She comes from the days from when someone like her wouldn’t have to push. She told us much of Gigi. John Dexter it seems, gave no notes at all to Amanda, except to say at one point ‘Now you’ve got to act, go on, that’s what they taught you at RADA, isn’t it, tho’ I haven’t seen any signs of it yet’. She said she’d been offered a play at Chichester and if I could think of anything…. And so we parted.

I went up to K’s with the money and gave him a bit extra for taxis etc. £70 odd. I found him in a cheerful mood, cooking. There was a chicken casserole in the oven, a big bowl of rice, sweetcorn and tuna-fish on the dresser, and he was making some Bolognese sauce. Who would have thought it a few years ago? He said he was doing the cooking now to save time with the equip. I was delighted – even more so when he said he was expecting me to buy and cook Sunday dinner, about nine when all the others have gone, besides Chris, of course, who is helping.

So off to the Bush, to see Simon’s first night, Kiss of the Spider Woman. Oh, first, we had a little talk about that hypnotist we talked about all these years ago, he’s on the stage in L’pool at £1,000 a night and he raised a woman without wires in front of K at college. Now K thinks him a complete phony. Then he was furious with me for disbelieving. Now he reveals that the man couldn’t hypnotise him at all so he isn’t so easily led. He’s genius investigating us all.

So to the Bush. Excellent prison set. Floor and seats raised so cell looked sunk. Miracles are performed in this theatre. Simon as good as I have ever seen him. About the first time I’ve seen a queeny perf. ‘done’ artificially. He selected from camp talk, some sibilance, some emphasis, some movement physically. Established them and then gradually withdrew them as the evening went on. Mark R a little monotonous ‘like Gerald Kaufman’, one of the papers said. I was moved, and wept in the dressing room.

Afterwards, at the party, I was introduced to Snoo Wilson and Bruno Santini. Snoo W said Hallo and totally ignored me thereafter. B S was suspicious and protective of Simon!!

I told S about Dottie. He said James Roose-Evans, who directed 84 Charing Cross Rd had a novel by B Pym on his table yesterday. ‘Why don’t you meet him? He’s over there’. I did so. We got on a treat. Not only that he’s doing a play at Chichester too and thinking of Daphne Laureola. Was thrilled at Pym and Dottie, and H Nicolson. And Dotti as D.L. So. We lunch at Garrick on Monday.

Extraordinary coincidence.

Saturday September 21 1985

Worked quietly on Pym etc and thought the satisfaction of him putting down all those boring (to me) basic tracks. I could be there, but I chose not to be.

Sunday September 22 1985

Almost entirely happy with day, except for Sam. And even she was all right in the pub.

Arrived about three with the joint, and cauliflower and runner beans. He was about an hour behind. I wrote and he never complained. Phil F and Janet Rawson arrived, K was still fiddling with Immortal Invisible. We sat about for a bit and he said again he was behind. I knew he didn’t want three people sitting staring so I said ‘Would you rather we went out for a walk?’ So we did. Saw Sam driving to the flat. She sat there while we were out, but she is musician. She is a bit jeery and show-offy, but we couldn’t have done without her. I made one protest about K bringing us in; he doesn’t realise non-musicians need to be brought in on the first syllable, not the first beat. Later, he must have seen me wince as he asked Sam to do a Lordy Lordy on one of the funny lines.

Otherwise all was rosy. We broke off for half an hour for a drink and then he went back. I went to the drinks shop, and started the dinner. Chris got back in time to eat it, and what with that, and the drink and the pot, passed out on K’s bed. We did, or rather K did! ‘Immortal, the Toilet Roll, ‘Short Sharp Shock’ and She only had to love him. All mine. I left him to work all night.

Monday September 22 1985

To him, rather hungover and having lost my cheque card, great struggle to get the £73 together. Cashed part of it at the wine shop! There was also the taxi and the poor boy was absolutely broke, only had a penny-hapenny. I gave him twenty pounds and kept ten. I said Did he want to have lunch. Not really, cos he’d worked till seven so had just got up. We walked up to Upper Street. He said, realising I was a bit dashed, as we got there, ‘Shall we have one thing, tho’ I’ve got loads of stuff left at home’. I said we hadn’t the cash; I thought he’d ask me to the flat at least to hear the tape, he didn’t and I said ‘See you’, turned away, he said ‘Are you all right?’ I said ‘Yes’ untruthfully and walked drearily away to the Angel, feeling very low. He just didn’t think. And I think, inside, he was sick of being paid for again.

Tuesday September 23 1985

To Park Royal Station to lunch with Hazel at her friend’s house in Ealing. Jon H came to stay last night. I said it was a long way. It didn’t look all that long, but I thought it might be a long way between the stations. It wasn’t, and I stood in the station for half an hour. Big house, they’re rich-ish – he was Director of the Central Information Office, is in hospital with a by-pass operation. Curious errors of taste in the decoration. Suburban, and the furniture. Good lunch at St. Estephe, smoked beef, good salad. He did a good hour and a half in the morning and another in the afternoon. Sketched out the second half in detail and chopped Crampton H up into five sections, four of which finished naturally, really effectively. Sylvia James is a v pleasant woman and v good audience.

A good day’s work. Back home, K rang at 5.45. Steve Wilson staying, just back from Cambridge. Asked for me, and was very sweet, having gone over the Bridge of Sighs, and looked at my rooms. K so kind and said ‘Let’s meet on Thursday’. I said I was off to Goldsmith’s so he said ‘Friday, we’ll do something on Friday’.

He is rehearsing with Peter Orr tonight.

Wednesday September 25 1985

Very worried about money and cheque card etc. To get my hair cut, and saw Felix. He was encouraging about the musical and said it’s no use just sending out scripts and tapes, that probably no one reads or plays. We talked of all the other projects and he was helpful and encouraging. I rang K when I got home and told him that F was going to get in touch with Exeter and Salisbury and one or two others. And we’d see them and sell the musical. His voice warmed with pleasure, ‘That’s really encouraging’. He’d seen the manager he’d advertised for. Office in Holloway Road. Mark something. A bit of a wanker. Again. He was, thank god, cheerful and the man hadn’t been rude. Had he suggested anything, was going to do anything? ‘Oh no. See you on Friday’.

Back home Jon H asked me what I’d think if he took K’s room. I knew I could stop it if I liked. But I thought he must have someone. I can’t go on paying his mortgage. And I know Jon well, and how far we can trust him. Of course I will have pangs of wishing I could live with him instead! Better the devil - and Jon is so perceptive and mild. And admires me greatly! I think he’ll be very careful not to tread on my corns. He moves in on Friday.

Thursday September 26 1985

1.15am

Went down to pee sleepy, and found water pouring out of Ascot. The inside had burst. Horror. Tried to turn stopcock off. Ran tap instead.

Friday September 27 1985

V drunk, just home from K’s. Thank God £813 in post from Budgie and K had got dole. Outburst in pub before film. Sweetest ever known. Nobody will come for to solve everything. Not now. I must be strong for him. I suddenly see that I can love him even by the way I die.

Saturday September 28 1985

4.30pm

A little re-capping needed. The boiler bursting couldn’t have happened more tiresomely, just as I was going to bed, and I had toothache! The cupboard was an inch deep in water. No plumber. In any case it’s a gas co. thing. So, I mopped up, after a mauvais quart d’heure and a bit of a panic, turned the basin tap on, put a bowl under for any drops and shut the door and went to bed. Thank God the water running hadn’t disturbed Mrs E. Gas-man cometh about 11.0. Nice young man whom I felt I could believe. ‘Inside’s gone, it’s copper, so a replacement would be £90 if they could get it! A new one would be £260’ – But, - it would be room-sealed, I could get rid of that awful chimney and the heater could be put in the cupboard. So what can I do?

So, Thursday night, I went to Goldsmith’s College to see Mike Parsons in an adaptation of Dostoyevsky’s Notes from the Underground – I think that’s the title, in a ramshackle studio. Very Dosto. figure sitting staring into the floor, wrapped in a big black overcoat. On some kitchen steps behind him, a small man reading out the Bible, as far as I could tell because of his low tone and Ulster accent! Oh dear, it was a young affair. The opening was heralded by a young man in white and a skinhead haircut, (or rather, that nearly shaved at the sides and flat scrubbing-brush top) closing the metal door with a loud clang, shutting out the daylight, and sitting down formally in the middle of the front row. Turned out to be director.

Of course it was very bad, in one way, but some ideas. Thank goodness Mike was so much the best that I could say so, with sincerity. He has some idea of variety, and following-through, and has already a really beautiful voice under some control. Sturdy, square, solid appearance. Fair, one of nature’s Horatio’s. Hilary came with me – what a dear soothing girl she is. We went to the pub and I had a time alone with Mike, enough to tell him the private truth, a lot of the other students came in, too, and there was a free-for-all. Mike etc were taking the play to Dublin, so he had to say a lot of goodbyes. He brought the aforesaid fearsome looking Director over; he turned out to be an intelligent humorous bun faced boy called Dick Bird. He’s going to spend a year in Dublin. I must try and have him round.

So to Golden Friday. John, or rather Jon, went off to get his things and take them to K’s. I felt a bit lonely, but not because of where he was going. Good. Dottie rang, to say she was v interested, and would I send over her Daphne Laureola. She had seen Edith in it, ‘and she was so definitive.’ I feel that part needs something so special. That special ... I..’ ‘Well, Dottie, some of us think you’ve got that special …’ ‘I’m going on a little holiday’.

So there we are.

To K’s at 5.30. Jon was there with case, felt nothing but pleasure. K much more cheerful than lately. And of course Jon is such a satisfactory light talker. K then played tape and Jon showed his tact by going off to unpack when we got to the real songs. I’d told him I did need to be alone with K on first hearing the songs, and he did not forget. I had also warned him we would of course go out by ourselves, and it is quite good that it happened the very first night.

The two songs were very good, especially Short Sharp Shock. That is brilliant and exactly carrying out what I put into the lyric, and in its actual variety and effect. I cannot understand why no one has yet taken up his music. Jon came back and we talked again, K saying in the course of conversation, ‘This group I’ve joined.’ ‘Oh’, I said, ‘You’re going into it.’ ‘I’ll tell you about it later’. Good. So off us all went about seven, showed Jon the shops, and he went to the launderette while we jumped on the bus. Got to the cinema, K bought the tickets with money I’d given him, because he had his membership card, and of course, mine was in the note-case I lost on Sunday. We went to the Slug and Lettuce opp., branch of the Pimlico one, and he burst out with pleasure at the rehearsal of the group. Peter Orr had booked the rehearsal room on Tues in south London and no one had turned up to open it. So in the end they went earlier to a party where you had to be dressed as from a shipwreck. (How each age accommodates itself to the economic conditions! – no expense in absence of things!) ‘I was in my grey overalls so that was all right, with a dirty face. Glynn – he’s the bass guitar, he’s sweet, a great bloke, he was in a suit only no trousers, and got out to fill up the car at a garage with no trousers. But the drummer, - he’s the best I’ve ever worked with, he’s amazing. And the musicianship. I know it’s only covers but we did the 8 nos just like that, and it was satisfying ‘cos it was so easy.’ If they’d have had to struggle to do covers, more humiliation. The actual rehearsal was Thursday. Two days telescoped in the joy and energy of him having something positive to tell me. In the middle of it, absolute sense. Peter O ‘in those out of date clothes, banging away’ ‘I’m doing it to make some money, we’ve got a gig next week, £15’.

I must try to put my finger on why it moved and exhilarated me so much. The resilience of him partly, the making music – he, who never thought of himself as a keyboard player, not being a drummer and the nice less effort and the drummer being first-class so he feels no guilt. Mainly the overwhelming knowledge that his joy in doing something can be communicated fully to me, with all its qualifications. It was the unmistakable feel of untrammelled communication. Christ what a phrase. It is so stupid that I mind the abrupt ‘phone talks when I get this, the whole mind poured into mine without anything held back.

So to ‘Desperately Seeking Susan’. The man in the B.O said the main film was 7.0, as we wanted to avoid the Madonna videos. Of course, they started just as we sat down at 7.0! Madonna as it might be, Marilyn in Diamonds Are a Girl’s etc, a sheath dress. Her mouth looked as if she were blowing someone all the time. Crass. D.S.S – well. We both said after, we nearly came out. So inept. And it got such notices. So to Aquilino. Oh, as we walked away, from cinema, he said ‘Have you booked?’ not having mentioned dinner before at all. I had! Confidence in me, God. But oh how he loves it to be implicit. Over dinner, about the film, he said ‘I decided to stay, perhaps naughtily, so that I could say to other people I left halfway through, and then they would say oh, but you missed the best part, that wonderful bit when they ….

I said, how lowered I have been lately, the last year or two, by the really good notices given to poor films or plays. It is not as simple as me losing track of fashion. After all, K finds so much wanting too. It’s the ineptitude of so much now, – in the past, even with shows I don’t like, I could see the quality which had drawn the notice from the critic. Lately, no longer. It’s bad if 24 + 59 both find a show quite empty.

Over dinner, he asked if I was pleased at having started writing. Oh how strange, just the sort of self-conscious question he reacts against! But he is human. And he knows I started writing entirely because of him! So it was good to reply.

He had Rigatoni something, I had the pigeon. Again. ‘Was it nice? Again?’ he said.

I must register yet again how infinitely graceful he is about paying and being paid for. (Earlier, Jon H I’d told about K getting on with any sort of society with no hang-ups at all).

So back we went for a bit to the flat, as it was Jon’s first night, and he was my protégé. I’d given him ten pounds to buy some whisky and beer. We got back about 11.45 to find Jon’s washing still outside the door of K’s flat. After a bit, J came up from Eliana’s! where he’d had to spend that last 4? hours because the big key for K’s inside door didn’t work. Oh dear, I did feel guilty, but K didn’t, much. Their generation doesn’t expect much comfort! So we sat down to a very jolly drink. K showed the oven brilliantly clean. I couldn’t believe it. You could see the blue and grey mottled pattern on the bottom of the oven from across the room!

Oh and the second thing he said to Jon about being his lodger was, that if he got his record deal and started really working, Jon would have to go. Good.

Left with no worries at all. Driver mad man, played that Sam Cooke tape all the way home again.

Off to him again now.

Still Saturday. 1.30am. Not in the least drunk.

Because of the boiler, had said I would bath at K’s. On the ‘phone he asked Chris P and Bob to come 7-7.30. Jon H was to come as well. I was determined not to get there too early. At the last minute I forgot to go to bank in case his dole cheque hadn’t come, so got there at 7.15. He was sitting there alone! (incidentally the Chubb lock was on again and he had come down – he’d forgotten to get me one, too!) I wondered what he’d wear for a party. That old sweatshirt with a landscape on it that he wears inside out, short jeans just below the calf. No socks. Hair washed, looking good. He had expected me at 7! Ha! How very very often etc etc.

I showed him the list of possible names for the group. He said ‘I knew you’d only go by association. But you lost it after the first three – the rest are crap’. He said it quite sharply. I am very aware at these moments that he never speaks like that to anyone else seriously. I’m the only person he cuts off short and is nasty to. Good. He has real confidence in me professionally. Who else has he got? Isn’t it awful?

Phil F had come round yesterday, and among deciding a few things he’d played him in the end, the whole of Visiting Day. He hadn’t seen it for, oh, two years, a long time at his age. ‘You were very funny’ he said, ‘but you looked younger’.

‘Well’, I said, ‘look what has happened to me’. He smiled, little does he know of the fearful strain it has been. By being wonderful as well as fearful. He was interested about the show and its structure. His original idea was to begin at the second half, or rather the first 25 minutes were put on by Roy and June. I saw the point, as I always do with him. How seldom have people trusted his instinct! It seems all his life he has been easily patronised. Not me. Music he thought not bad – too poor nos. Singing v poor except for Claire!

Phone rang. Chris. He and Bob would make their own way. ‘Oh and Jon is working and says to say sorry’, K said. I was amused that he was a bit miffed at all this when he so often has etc etc! About now I had my bath, rather quickly, in his very narrow bath! And about 8.0 we set off in a mini-cab as it wasn’t so far as he had first thought. On the way, he said a lot of Manchester chums might be there. ‘Bill Snape might be there’. B.S wrote some of Visiting Day, and, I hadn’t realised – they conceived it together. So when Roy was brought in, Bill Snape was given the push, and has always felt K betrayed him. ‘He felt I didn’t fight hard enough for him. I don’t think I did now.’ ‘Oh really, how?’ ‘I’ll tell you about it one day’

We got to the house in the wilds of Leighton past some really outstandingly nasty flats called Nightingale House. We were, after all that, the first. I was dreading the party for all sorts of reasons. My protective instincts are so strong for him that I have to consciously stop myself watching to see he isn’t ‘getting in with the wrong people’, or am I missing an important moment in his life? Disgusting, but it’s no use pretending you don’t feel things you feel, I just hope I conceal it from him most of the time.

In the event, I enjoyed it. I talked a lot of the time to Bob White, a friend of Chris P., a quiet smiling man, with really remarkable perceptions and delicate manners. A very silly pushy little girl sister of the hostess. Telling us how she never got any jobs she went for, and wondering why, and demonstrating with every clattering bossy word and turn of the head, why. The dreaded curry and chilli con carne as before, but Clare’s influence shown by a later dish of sausage and baked beans. Bob W and I were in the passage and I caught a sight of K’s legs across the black quilt of the lodger’s room. The silly little girl came out of it, to get some food and said ‘He says he’s bored’.! Bob and I went in and sat, and had a tiresome talk with her, at least it saved K. I decided to go, rang for a car. K said idly he thought he’d stay on a bit, but when the car got there, he said ‘No I’ll come with you’ and did. Phil v drunk, as usual, kissed us both. The car rolled away. K said ‘God, what a bore, and wasn’t she a pain?’

Met towards the end the only beautiful girl there, a student mezzo Yvonne Burnett.

Sunday September 29 1985

Quiet working day. Jon H rang from Rachel’s for advice about temp stage job.

On Friday he and K stayed up for about an hour and a half, three or four more drinks. Quite a heavy talk about art. Too little interesting apercus. I sensed that K is going to be too heavy going for Jon finally. Jon is a sweet but shallow boy artistically. Also that K was not at all the centre of the talk for Jon.

Monday September 30 1985

To Garrick for one. Was early, so went to Arts Council Shop to buy the new Iris Murdoch, ‘The Good Apprentice’. There was Ewan Hooper! Looks very much the same – v solemn. Of course I was in my suit and buying an expensive new book, and on way to lunch at the Garrick thereby underlining forever my, – I’m sure for him – hopelessly frivolous image.

So to lunch. He’s smooth and humorous and possibly devious and dangerous. But I haven’t yet disagreed with him artistically. He said very few very amusing or interesting things. But few without sense. He knows, by his own admission many well-known people. He was amazed that we’d written it! Quails eggs, guinea fowl (he’d never had it! can that be true, and a member of the Garrick!) and I had stem ginger and vanilla ice, he had b-berry and apple crumble. I gave him Act One. Twenty four hours he said.

K rang. We meet tomorrow. Phil might? ‘It’s like that, Angus’. Oh. I went to Camila at the Curzon. Both v attractive. Passion done well.

Oh, Simon C rang in the half yest. Someone had given him a 1lb of fresh runner beans straight out of the garden. He’d eaten them raw in ten minutes. He was then sick sixteen times in a restaurant with Matt!

Richter has died, ten days after Mexico City earthquake. The TV obituary said he was obsessed with the seismic. He obviously died from a surfeit of ecstasy.

Tuesday October 1 1985

Bad.

K rang at 11.10 to arrange this evening. He said it was on, and he would come and eat ‘if you’ve got some nosh’. And Phil, working at Heathrow, would come along later.

Rang Ernie as its just about time for Marjorie’s possible operation. She is in hospital, but not for that; having her gold injection and check up. They found out she had anaemia, and was taken in the following day. I’m not sure I like the sound of that.

I went out to get all the food, and hadn’t been back half an hour when K rang to say Phil couldn’t get here and wanted to meet at Slug and Lettuce at 9.0. So he couldn’t really come to dinner. Oh dear. I do behave badly at such moments, – and with nobody else, – but then nobody else …

So I crammed my dinner down and there they were, K in an extraordinary t-shirt I’d never seen before, more like a halter, with no sides. All went well until Phil began to criticise K’s music, and said he ought to have a producer to tell him to sit in the kitchen and scream from there. Also, about other people to help, and a woman called Sarah at Ed Co Reed, who wanted a CV and tape, in case she could use him for adverts. Oh dear. He meant well, I snapped. He said, don’t raise you voice to me etc etc. He also kept saying he’d had a hard day without wondering whether we had. We avoided an open fight, except that when we were alone outside, he said it all again, and I was a bit cold. And off he went before K came out. K wasn’t upset and had defended himself much more strongly that usual, and I suppose I should have left it to him. I didn’t say much, but how I said it.

We walked off. He said ‘He’s the first who’s really tried to help me, after all, he’s not in music himself. ‘He’s the first - I said ‘The first?’. He saw what I meant, and said, in that funny way he does when really moved ‘Yes, the first. You’re not the first or the second. I never think of you as the first’. One of those funny glimpses I get of the centre of him, which I am too greedy to be satisfied with. Meaning that I am unique! But he prefers not to say so. I said ‘It’s only you, you know’. He rubbed my arm up and down, and was moved.

Wednesday October 2 1985

Rang K at 12.0 to warn him to listen to the radio on the way back from Badminton, in case of riots in Tooting, as they seem to stop cars and loot them and/or burn them, a van with quite a lot of good musical equipment, so easy to dispose of, might be quite a target. ‘Good thinking’. He rang about 1.30, in the middle of lunch, ‘Oh, sorry’. He’d spoken to Phil, who’d walked away because I hadn’t seemed at all sorry. K explained that, as Phil was doing the sleeve for the Anti Album, he had a right to talk about it. (Not to me!). I do see a certain something about that, but he does sound his mouth off. K ‘I’ve learned how to deal with his remarks about music, it isn’t like Peter H who was working with me on the music.’ (So now he admits it). I can look after myself you know. If you come to my defence so much, it’s going to be pathetic’ and so on. Of course I knew that he is being harsher on me, and ‘pathetic’ might mean two things, ‘pathetic’ for him having a visible nurse-maid, and ‘pathetic’ for me to be it. And I am v. conscious that my Achilles heel is my intense pre-occupation with him (as witness this diary!) and concern for him, must not be expressed, beyond a point in public. The slightest expression of him feeling this, any shame of me. Oh God.

The talk deeply depressed me, and for the first time, when not drunk! I considered finishing the whole thing, for his good really. I shouldn’t have to talk to people like Phil seriously, with his cheerful and angry coarseness. He’s quite an ordinary artist, I fear, doing what he’s told in a big firm. ‘Just because seventeen of my friends have turned out to be no good, it doesn’t mean the eighteen is too.’ Hm.

After all, just think of the people I haven’t pushed out his life, Chris (I might easily), Roy, Joe C, Glynn etc.

‘I can look after myself.’ Oh? £4000 in debt, no prospects, just a bit of genius.

Later. 4.30

I am really low, it seems pointless. I am too far away from them. K is so sensitive (Christ the phrases love leads you to) so responsive to fine shades, and over such a wide range of people, that it blinds me to the fact that he can cope with the course end of the range as well. It’s the surprise of course reactions or in-roads into yr. life.

No, I must finish it. It’s odd composing that letter sober.

Later still, 12.30

You see, you never know. Walked out in despair, - I just had to walk. And thought I’d drop in on Lynda, but Neil was there, too, at 4.0 in the afternoon, with wife and baby. Imagine, in a few years. Fascinating. When fame really descends. I feel lonely, achingly lonely sometimes, and have to go out, let alone today. But Neil seems to feel exactly the same, with a lovely wife and baby, another on the way and a blossoming career. And yet he’s restless and a bit miz and dissatisfied! Lynda was feeling rotten, has evening sickness, eaten nothing today but a glass of hot water, and is right off the thought of meat or fish. This means that she can’t go out with him in the evenings. He said ‘I’ll run you home, and perhaps we’ll go to a movie, if John Abbott has to go to Cats’. On the way home he eyed at least two girls with fairly raging lust. Oh dear.

Later he rang to say ‘Let’s see Rambo and eat first’. So went to the Wine Gallery. It was full of Sloane Rangers attempting a private view. A young artist in a tattered white shirt, whose name I never caught. Quite charming, lightweight, moodish watercolours and a lot more in a big portfolio. This all faded away, and we ate. We had moules, which he relished. Me, cold broccoli soup, he, sliced chicken and avocado, I smoked salmon and prawns roulade. Joined later by Nigel–upstairs’ ex-girlfriend, a big fair girl who’s now a photographers’ agent. Very agreeable for half an hour, with as far as I could see, nothing of any special interest. Rambo quite hilarious, a boy’s own panto, with an endless supply of unexplained bullets. He’d need a truck behind him, instead of one little sling. They’ve spent a lot of money.

Only troubling moment, Neil showed me the two little gaps between his two bottom eye teeth and the next one. He’s had a little piece made to fill in the gap and showed me the first version. Kept coming back to the subject. Hope that side of it all doesn’t grow on him. What happens when he starts to go bald? He told me to drop in more often. It certainly passed the time, – if only passing the time could be cheaper. Rang Jon H at 7ish, first time just to speak to him, knowing K wasn’t back.

Thursday October 3 1985

To K’s for 10.0am. Quite expecting sleepy surprise at me turning up at all. Not so. Rang bell because of Jon H, and Jon, bleary eyed, was coming out of his room just having woken. Said K had let me in and gone back to his room. Tip toed along and to my amazement, he was up, dressed and writing the CV for the Sarah thing. Said later he’d been up for a couple of hours! Whether on purpose of just woken, I never enquired, as I didn’t want to tease him. Jon wanted a bath, so, after he brought a rough draft in to show me, he lay on the floor to fiddle with whatever has gone wrong with the heating so that it takes him five minutes to coax it to come on.

The CV isn’t typed, and is a letter more than a CV, describing the music and slipping in information on the way. Real Food Stores, Children Playing and a bit of Studio. Much amused by him saying of one piece, ‘and of course it will be magnificently played and beautifully recorded.’ I’m doubtful that he struck the right note for her. It ought to have been typed and documentary, I imagine. Hm.

So, how was his badminton day. ‘Oh, you know, Keith’s wife very cool. Opened the door in dark glasses, and said oh yes, you’re stuff’s over there, and didn’t even let me in the house’. The boys in The Carpenters’ say he hasn’t been home much, and he has been in the studio at weekends, so of course she hates me for helping him find that refuge.’

‘Did you get invited to Declan’s stag party?’ ‘No, we were going to meet in the pub but they didn’t turn up’. I said I thought it unlikely that anyone would buy the house and want to keep on a carpenter’s show just outside the back door. A rare person might, but – K said ‘They hadn’t been doing very well’. I think their PR is v poor and, – I guess, and the work that I saw is not superlatively good enough to make its own way.

I said he must get the heating repaired before the winter. He said Yes (raising his voice comically); that’s the first thing I’m going to do with Jon’s money. Jon was ages dressing and doing his hair.

Peter Orr rang up about the rehearsal this afternoon ‘No piano’. I could see K was really quite miffed, because he went a bit pink. ‘What’s the problem, why can’t you …’ ‘Well I can’t do Short People’. Bother, I do want at least those rehear. to go swimmingly as I’m pretty sure the gigs won’t. He started to set up the drums, the ‘toms’, with some new ‘skins’ still in their plastic’ from Badminton. He’s playing them as well as keyboards, in one or two numbers. I liked watching him set up those chromium tubes, handling and fitting them together.

There I am. Here I be. Where are they? Who can see?

Soft Air

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 63

Thursday October 3 1985 (cont.)

With the casual ease of a very familiar task. How many times he must have done it. Corrected his CV spelling and suggested one or two changes. Wrote a letter to Phil saying I jump to K’s defence too rashly, let’s start again. K came back in to pack up the cassette and said ‘I’ve read it’. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t’ I said, with a stab of panic. ‘Very good of you’ he murmured, suddenly putting the ‘phone call in perspective. He is an extraordinarily subtle boy. Jon came in, we had a coffee, he referred to my call last night. K said v characteristically ‘Oh yes, why did you ‘phone?’ thinking of course that it was for him! ‘I wanted to speak to my friend, Jon Henson’, I said. Jon cocked four rude fingers at K, and we all felt very friendly.

Jon and I went off to deliver the CV and cassette to Sarah thing at H’smith, and for Jon to get his money from Ealing, and I said we’d have lunch together (I can always be happy if I know where he is). So off we went. Jon and I laugh a lot, thank god, and he is a comfort to me. Went to Pastifico again, nice and empty at first, very pleasant and honest. Fresh pasta, fresh flowers, sweet waitress. Cheap, good value. After, we went to the new Ealing Shopping Centre, opened by the Queen. Very well designed and built. Brick with stone facings, everything solid and good. And the marble pillars are easily wipeable, unlike graffiti. Good solid wood seats fitted into brick bases. V. good range of shops. Went to Jon’s favourite clothes shop. Amazed that those rather common shirts are £39 and £45. Bit naughty, for the fashion, not the quality. Jon went quite faint over a cream self-patterned artificial silk. Called in at the old flat for his letters.

Something a bit wrong there somewhere. She said they’d forwarded some letters and she implied, by the way she spoke, that some of them were, as it were, summonsey. I dare say they were. The boy I so often spoke to who always said ‘halloo’ in a peculiar hooting way wasn’t in. A pity, I pictured him as mild and defeated, always in when no one else was. ‘He’s a fireman now, I think’, said Jon. ‘Goodness’, I said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he could say Halloo to a goose’. Jon laughed a lot, it just caught the moment. Went round the bookshops and then home. Worked.

Jon rang at 10.30 to ask which was the nearest tube station to ABC Fulham Rd. We had quite a long ha-ha talk, and at one point, I thought I’d tell K. latest news from B’mouth. He was just going to bed! So I said no, no. Paying price for getting up at 8.0. Youth, youth. Jon said rehearsal had not been good, no time to rehearse the new nos i.e. Misspent Y and Short People. If he showed that much to Jon, it was baddish. I’m sorry.

I suddenly saw the change that having Jon there may make. He’s so much my admirer and laughs and chats so much. I mean, I wonder what he thought of Jon ringing me up at all.

Now, and not till now, I truly see that Jon may keep me up to date, not on anything important, but day by day, between the meetings when K tells me everything, so that I don’t worry. But I must be very careful to remove from the recesses of my mind, let alone my tongue, any suggestion of spying. How horrible it would be if K felt that. Ugh.

But oddly, I do feel better that Jon’s there. Because I think he does sense the depth of my feeling for K, without silliness.

Wednesday October 9 1985

In my local pub! Nasty! I think this is the first real break for some time. Since when? And it’s curious, it isn’t really for any deep break or reason. And yet it has been a slough of despond.

So, for a very short re-cap, because, since that Friday night, I have spent very nearly every min. since then, sitting on my sofa, watching TV, not writing, worrying about money.

Phil rang me from K’s about five – he’d been there most of the afternoon – about not having written the script of The Toilet Roll. K was typing Immortal Invisible. All right. I said I’d been told not to get there till 7.30. Phil had the vulgarity to say ‘Oh I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if …!’ Ah, well.

So I arrived, and all was as merry and dull as a marriage bell. K was cooking and said happily he had something for dinner I would hate, and yet I’d never had, and I might like. Intriguing! I mean, genuinely so because he was really intrigued. As we had half crossed swords at our last meeting, I put myself out to be accommodating to Phil. (He seemed quite nice, tho it turned out afterwards he’d never found my conciliating note on the cassette!) Suddenly, sitting across a glass table that I bought, tho’ that has nothing to do with it, I faced yet another quarter-educated, semi-illiterate, ex-student talking about Dune, as if it were a serious subject. K served it – it was beef burgers. But real ones he’d made himself, ‘A little flour and egg etc.’ Delicious, but terribly filling. Over the gin, K had said, And we’re going for a game of Pool after dinner’. I thought he was joking. But about 9.15, he got up and started to get dressed, as did Phil. I was paralyzed with astonishment. The (very) limping talk, was getting going? at least enough to suggest to me Phil might be a bit real. But he’d already got patronising to K. So, what with being really surprised, and bored, I said – I’ll join you in a little while. For one drink. And he said, Yes, for one drink, rather pointedly, but seeing I wasn’t angry. And in half an hour, I looked in the pub and said ‘No, I don’t think I’ll stay’, and didn’t. It was then about ten. Phil said he was going quite soon, but I still went. I wasn’t angry, just fatalistic! Walked away and without exactly being depressed, have spent the last few days in a furious state of apathy, in bed till lunch, dozing on the sofa, not able to work.

For the first time, I’ve considered ending it all because it seemed hopeless, facing yet another – oh, I’ve said that. And K. not sufficiently imposing our standards on Phil. But it isn’t in him to do that, until later on. But seriously, soberly considered not seeing him anymore. There are too many practical obstacles, the money, the musical and so on. But I finally faced the fact that I couldn’t. An odd gloss was given to the moment, by my telephone going quite dead from Saturday to Tuesday lunchtime. Sitting shut away from the world, I saw and spoke to no one, except Mrs Endean, - and saving my life, Philip D rang up on Sun and came round to dinner. He was at his nicest, tho it’s odd his need to watch TV against any manners. I left him watching something and as I shut my bedroom door, the sickness crept across my chest and throat and I thought What would you think if you knew that every evening I spend with anyone else, I’m only waiting till I can be alone to be disappointed or enraged or enraptured or touched with you? What would he say?

On Monday, I went to film interview for Tom Bussman, the dog commercial man. Whoops Apocalypse. Quite a good part, over a good few days. They seem to be offering it but I won’t count my etc. for it might be a bit of much-needed money.

Jon H rang on Tuesday to ask advice on a job, and I asked him to go to the gig with me on Thursday. I can count on him to be sympathetic. He agreed with me about Phil being rude to K in a patronising way.

At about 6.15, K rang. Jon had said he’d been rehearsing, but had gone out, perhaps for a drink. No, he was ringing him from somewhere in Nth London, where the group were having their photo taken (I’m glad I don’t hate all this as much as I thought. Experience!) His voice was warm, loving and so concerned. His ‘How are you’ made up for all. He had rung on Monday, was in Kensington and would have come round. The ‘phone rang normally! Sad. He was perfect about Phil, said he, Phil, hadn’t seen my note on Sarah’s cassette which ‘accounted for him being a bit off’ – I’d thought he had seen it and was nicer than I expected! I said about the boredom. ‘I know.’ Suggested we meet on Saturday ‘as I shan’t see you now before Thur. I think’. He thought of me in the middle of the photo session. As usual, I have to remind myself most forcibly of my unique place in his life. And I think I am weak and self-indulgent that I have to. To him, my friendship needs neither mention or confirmation.

I must go on trying. Told me the name of the pub, The Woodman. Two side by side, one called The Original Woodman. ‘Ours isn’t the original’.

Rang at 11.15 to ask time. Phil was there again. Clearing out the wasp’s nest in the loft. I don’t care – look at Peter H. And he must have a mate to go about with a bit.

So, to today. Jon H rang again to arrange. He called round while I was out and can come.

7.0 at Gloucester Rd underground. Good. No money, tho’.

In the afternoon, for my walk, walked from Gl. Rd. tube to look at the pub, to be sure of where it was and to see what it’s like. The Original W is a real old dreary pub that you can’t see in. The Woodman is much smarter with a good menu outside and brass lamps, looks good, not surprising that it’s the one with the live music. What would he say if he knew?

In the early evening, Phil rang to thank me for the blank cheque, and obviously to ‘be nicer’ to me. (K said, after I left the pub, Phil had said I was moody and K said ‘I was very tactful and, suspecting he hadn’t seen the note, I got him round to see there might have been a note, without giving away that I knew about it.’) ‘It won’t be anything like £50.’ Phil was rather interesting about the rehearsals. At least he agrees with me that it isn’t K’s line at all. ‘They’re just gung- ho musicians who want to get on and get the money. Through that I can see K wanting to do interesting things and them not wanting to bother. I’m sure they are good musicians – he doesn’t say ‘the best drummer I’ve ever worked with’ for nothing, but, that doesn’t of course mean that they have either conscience or imagination.

But, equally of course, while I was pleased to hear that things weren’t very smooth because I wish he wasn’t doing it at all! as usual, I was also angry with Phil even more for his attitude to K. He went on ‘They can’t even agree on the order of the numbers. Kev didn’t like that. You know what our Kev’s like when he can’t get his own way. He’s not coming to the gig’. Oh dear, the coarseness. Will he never find a sensitive friend? Well, there’s Jon.

Thursday October 10 1985

Jon H rang at 10.0 to say could he bring Rachel. As long as she’s not late. He agreed with me too about Phil’s attitude to K. Phil apparently went at him, that he shouldn’t do Ashes to Ashes, a David Bowie number. Kevin doesn’t go at Phil about artistic matters. They are going to varnish the wasp’s nest into an ornament.

I am nervous about tonight. Probably the worst that will happen is that nobody will take any notice at all.

12.45

All right, I was grateful for Jon H being there as a sounding board. K gave me four piercing glances and we exchanged a sentence or two, but it was controlled by me saying early on ‘I’m not going to say anything’.

Friday October 11 1985

5.0 p.m. He’s just rung to cancel tomorrow night. Peter O asked him to play drums for another group at a working-men’s club in Hammersmith. ‘I’d hate you to come, it’s really a poor group.’ ‘Poorer than last night?’ ‘Even poorer, we’ll be playing My Way and things. But it’s £25, rather needed at the moment .’ He was very sweet and said ‘What are you doing Sunday? Let’s make it Sunday’.

I think it’s important to put that with last night. So to last night. He told me about 7.30, so Jon H and I met at Gloucester Rd tube. Rachel didn’t turn up, so we left at 7 as I’d threatened (she rang this morning to say she was there but downstairs and waited half an hour). Got a taxi at once. Quite a different pub inside and very deep. First part a conventional pub with a central counter, one division into two rooms, then up a stair or two to a very long thin room, at the extreme end of which there was a balding heavy built man of about 35 setting up some equipment. If I needed any proof of my feeling for him, it was the nervousness that flooded over me, ‘That’s one of the men who’s playing with K and has had all that time with him and seen him stirred etc etc etc. On one of the seats nearby, was a squarely built young man, really snogging with a girl with big breasts, and I mean really snogging, half sitting up to get all the way down her mouth. This turned out to be the drummer, who did indeed turn out to be brilliant. Jon and I talked of his, Jon’s, future and the two possible art schools. He seems to be sticking to his plan, but it’s early days. I was drinking some nasty watery lager, knowing I had a long haul ahead. Peter Orr dressed not in black leather in studs, thank goodness, arrived about ten to eight. They carried in a lot of equipment bit by bit, but first he stopped by me and said Hello and put his jacket over the back of the chair by me. That’s so like him. A lot of boys would simply have cut themselves off, but he ‘gave me his coat to hold.’ The ‘gig’, as it’s called, began about 9.0, went on about 3/4 of an hour, interval of 20 mins. then nearly another hour. To start with, I’ll list the numbers as far as I can.

1. How Sweet It Is 2. Road Runner 3. Short People, sung by K 4. Lady Lady Lady (Dylan) 5. Misspent Youth, sung by K 6. Riders on Storm (Doors) 7. You’re My Baby (T-Rex)

Interval

1. Can’t Help Falling in Love 2. Don’t Blame Me 3. Come Back and Stay by P.O. 4. Fight, sung by K 5. Ashes to Ashes (Bowie) 6. Look Around by P.O. 7. Walk on the Wild Side (Lou Reed) 8. Debs Song, sung by K 9. Cocaine 10. Nigel Making Plans 11. Oliver’s Army (Costello) 12. High Noon, by Peter O 13. Wake Up

These all come from the time when I heard little pop. I think most of Peter’s nos by himself and others sounded a bit samey, but that’s because Peter himself is a bit samey. He has, to me, some definite talent, but his appearance and his movement and to a certain extent, his singing, quite lack original impulse. None of it comes from inside. As for his intros and chat, that was quite cringe-making. For example, although this is the first time they’ve played together, he said ‘We’ve been together five or six years and next week we’re at Hammersmith Odeon’. That went to the speakers in the main part of the pub. His girlfriend and a few more of his friends at the front laughed and clapped a bit too much. When I say that after K getting me to think up all those names for the group, the name scribbled on the blackboard was Polly Orr and the Weirdos. Dear me. The sound was good, not great, but certainly promising for a first. Every now and again I heard a clever bit of K’s, and it was very interesting to see him perform in public, screws his face up too much and shuts his eyes too often. In at least one number, he was too blurred for even me to hear the words, thro’ singing straight into the mike, strange after all his experience, cos P.O managed all right.

As for him doing it at all, what do I feel? Well, not pain or outrage, at all, as I might have done two or three years ago. The poor boy must do some music-making with somebody besides himself, and his enjoyment was obvious, because the musicians are good.

But, it’s only a cover band, tho’ he did get three of his nos in, and he’s not in charge really, as we agreed he always must be. P.O looks wrong with the other three and is probably second-rate. And has already involved him in tomorrow night, which he would possibly not have done without the other group. As long as it doesn’t get too demanding, and - the main thing, - doesn’t depress his inner picture of himself, I suppose it doesn’t matter. But oh how I hope life will be kinder to him. There is no escaping the fact that three-quarters of the time any keyboard would have done, and nobody would notice him. Not right.

In the interval, he came and talked and later introduced me to Christine? a big girl who works at the British Council with John Nick and when I got back to my seat, after ten mins or so, I saw K talking to Peter O’s girlfr. and a blonde curly head. A little something there, did I notice? I hope so.

Jon and I came back here, as of course K would be at least 3/4 of an hour packing up and then drive the van back to North London. Gave Jon a little meal, and he stayed the night. He was very kind and sensitive about it all and I was glad he was here. But oh how I would have liked ______:

Oh, a madman called Bob, whose van it was, sat next to us. Help.

Saturday October 12 1985

How interesting, my antennae about him are so sensitive, I was right. The blonde went back with him! Jon came over to lunch to discuss a project of which more in a moment. J got back and found them still in bed. They hadn’t fucked, just lay and talked all night – not that there was much of the night, I expect. She’s off to Australia in seven weeks, for good. K naughtily said ‘Good.’ ! Hope he tells me all tomorrow. He and Jon had long talk about group. K, I know thinks of Peter O as I do. But why can he never get hold of anyone with his own taste?

To Cop au Vin and enjoyable Chabrol thriller. Felt a bit desolate about K, but partly because I am so lonely anyway.

Forgot to say lovely, friendly evening at John Nick’s last night – had a bath!

Oh, Jon came round because he wants to get together a portfolio. I suggested he does it all round the same book, and that I write a children’s story for him. Suddenly thought of Zentapuss, in K’s Time is Running Out. Wrote him a letter for Jon to take back, asking if I could use just that strand. Jon thought perhaps Nicky, the blonde, might go to tonight’s gig and back to flat, as K is having people to Sunday lunch.

In the note, said I don’t want you arriving having eaten at ten to four. I went to the pictures and got back about eight. Jon rang at 10.15 to say it was all right, so I wrote the first two pages. Quite funny.

Sunday October 13 1985

Waiting for K. He rang at 11.30. Just up. How quick can you do a joint? and he’d come round as soon as he could. No, for there is no possibility of escape. He arrived about 6.45. Obviously just answering my letter tacitly, for a long slow evening and stay. All came to pass ‘I must go out and get some tonic when the shop’s open’. Later, he said ‘Shall we go and get the tonic?’ I’m not sure if it’s not the first time we’ve ever been to the drinks shop together! Very pleasant. Back at home, a long talk about the group. As always his central serious preoccupation is saved for his work. We talked of Niki a bit, he’s going to ‘Subway’ with her tomorrow and ‘then we’ll see, she wasn’t ready to make love on Thur. and you know I never want to make someone.’

For the group, the main point is the musicianship. The main difficulty is Peter O. I told him all I wrote about him. He agreed entirely, to the point of stopping me saying how cringe-making his intros were. ‘Just don’t Angus, please just don’t say them again’ quite strongly. (I must record how interesting that he snaps at me quite savagely on these occasions, at me, quite the most sensitive, delicate person in his life, for grating on his sensitivity. How much he must suffer from a lot of his other friends and acquaintances! I am far from resenting it – it is only a proof, if proof were needed, of the release and confidence he has in my friendship. He can’t shut them up! Cos they wouldn’t understand!). He knows he’s got to tackle the Peter problem. But it’s difficult as P started the group and paid for rehearsals. I said I thought confrontation was no use, ‘State the case and let silence work for you, your will is stronger than Peter’s’. He described fantastically his fight for ‘Fight’ – that was the argument Phil had heard and got wrong! Peter didn’t want to do it, but I put my foot down and it turned out to work best of all – I heard it catch the audience and silence them.’ I took the opportunity to say about shutting his eyes and screwing up his face. We talked long and much. Finally ‘I’ll give it till Christmas’.

Oh, after Sunday lunch with Jon H, Rachel and Tracy, a friend of Rachel’s, they played strip poker. Before it had got to more than a shoe off, Jon went off somewhere, ‘So there I was with these two girls and we were down to my pants and their t-shirts with no pants. I don’t know what might have happened. I was quite excited’. ‘Did you get a hard on?’ ‘Yes, but I controlled it’.

I asked him where he slept at Peter’s ‘With Chris now, as he’s got a nice new mattress. Before I slept once or twice on an old mattress, belonging to someone really filthy. Look.’ he pulled up his t-shirt and there on his stomach were three angry red flea bites ‘They were very itchy, but they’re all right now.’ I had a spasm of pure rage that he should be associated with such a house and such people.

On the way to September, the car passed the working men’s club where he played the drums last night, just round the corner, next to a betting shop. £25 for drums for about 1¾ hr. Pretty terrible – I think he felt a bit creased about it, but it is difficult to depress at the moment, thank God.

September still a lovely rest. but Sunday night pretty awful people. We enjoyed it, but only just. He had vegetarian Shepherd’s Pie! Well, he had a joint for lunch, so I didn’t care! We walked home at his request, talked sex on the way, which we don’t often. Back here, he went and got the ice and settled down on the sofa. I quite expected him to go to bed, but I am cleverer now, and did not say that I wanted the terms of my letter carried out! In fact, I’m getting to understand that in him better all the way round. Except that I said about visiting Edna – ‘Yes’ he said ‘We’ll get a funny little car from that place in H’smith’ – and that it might be the last time we might see her alive. We were on the stairs, he looked up at me and said ‘I know that, my mother’s ill, too’, I know that’s why we’d go, why do you have to say it?’ How hurt I’d once have been!

It’s lovely to think of him asleep down there. It’s 5.0 a.m. on Monday really.

Monday October 14 1985

He was up by 9.45 and dressed! Had a dear chat with Mrs E, mostly about his hair, which he undid for her! He’d made his breakfast and brought it up to the d-room. Too big pieces of toast with a lot of butter. ‘Those rice crispies have gone’ he said with a grin. He left about 11.0. I said ‘This is all I need’.

Oh, he asked who was the old lady by my basin, D’s grandmother. I told about D feeling guilty not staying with her more, oh the face with its delicate feeling of it in his own guilt.

After he’d gone, two things. He made his bed! Never before! Not his own at home, except when a girl’s coming. Odd, as that’s the time when it doesn’t need it! I went down and washed up. The tea caddy was half open on the fridge. I thought I expect I need some more after his big pot. Closed it, put it back, picked up the pencil to write Tea on the list and laughed aloud as there is was in K’s writing. As if he’d spoken.

Jon H turned up at 9.0, and we decided to go on writing the little children’s book together, and I read him what I’d done. I’m glad it’s K character. Stayed night.

Tuesday October 15 1985

To Joan H for lunch. Or to take her out. The Refectory. Very prim and proper nursery lunch. She is good company for an hour.

K rang, very up, seeing the Manager he’d advertised for on Thur. night, so can we change the Bush to Friday. So I put Roy and Lucy off to next week, and rang Simon re tickets. That means Jon H goes alone, quite fortuitously. I wonder if I should warn him about Simon! ‘It’s work Angus’ but I wasn’t miffed. Isn’t it good?

He rang again at 9.30 ‘Where’s Jon?’ Seven people here, that’s why I’m being quick ‘Who?’ ‘Mind your own business’. ‘How was Subway?’ ‘We didn’t go. So it’s tonight’! I think tho’ he didn’t, couldn’t say so outright, he wanted Jon not to come back, as it was ‘first fuck night.’ ! I felt pleased for the poor boy.

Wednesday October 16 1985

Jon rang at 11.0 ish from K’s about the letter from K’s man. he was going to deliver here in the morning. He was waffling! said K wanted to speak to me. In that voice he sometimes uses – not always when he’s asking for something! – that turns me right over, because of it’s confident soft intimacy, he said his opera singer friend, John Connell, was being kept awake in his digs and going mad, with rehearsing and playing at Covent Garden. He could give him a floor, but there’s the traffic. Could I have him? Of course. So I’ll bring him over on my way to P Orr’s tomorrow. Can’t stay to lunch cos of time and won’t come, I think when he’s really worked it out,

As for the letter, I said I’d pop round after Donald and pronounce on it.

So off to Donald. From Highgate tube I walked to Muswell Hill. Found I remember nothing. Even the cinema wasn’t where I thought. All looked prosperous. Their road is not great shakes. House give and take details, is Manchuria Road. Nicest room is kitchen/diner, - just as well, as they’ll live in it. Décor bland but vaguely unpleasant. One wall of main bedroom mirrors. ‘Rather forbidding’. ‘We put that in.’ Ha. I couldn’t sit up in bed and look at myself, looking old in that hard white light beside Ann. Ah, well. No proper lunch, just bread and cheese. Left at 2.45 because bored. Looked again at The Broadway, still couldn’t remember it. I suppose I just bussed to the pictures and back again.

Rang K and said I’d come straight round. In an off putting voice, ‘I’m going out for half an hour’. It took me more than half an hour, and he got in only a minute after me. I read the letter, two pages filled with single-spaced typing. K said he’d written quite a cheeky letter, by which he means boastful, I think. The first thing that struck me was how he doth protest, because he said (he’s called Mark Thompson, by the way) many times how he had come to terms with the demands of commerce and art, quite plainly, showing by repetitions that he hasn’t. The usual request to be realistic, to make the same acceptances as everyone else etc etc. The very acceptance that prevents one being original and truly creative. Obviously K has flicked him on the raw, just by being what he is, a being with integrity which he naturally breathes, like D. The letter is such a giveaway in its poor little appeals to expediency, interspersed with ‘your music is very impressive indeed’. I want to know how you etc. But don’t think (underlined) I’m going to change my opinion of its commercial possibilities as at this moment in time. The last para is revealing. ‘Finally, don’t be so bloody touchy. Of course you have talent, but you are possibly too touchy and precious at present.’ Very poor choice of adjectives!

It’s strange that he can’t see his own unease in praising K’s music so much, complaining of his lack of commercialism, and say ‘Why are you thinking of making money?’ I don’t think he’ll be any use to K in any general or deep way – of course. The only use will probably be in the paragraph saying he might be able to help with jobs to make money, viz arranging, etc. K sees him at home tomorrow night.

To PEN Club for B. Pym meeting. Odd little affair. Henry Harvey spoke! Still a charmer, and very witty. Bob Smith, Hazel Hilary, all very funny. Shall ask for a tape of it, for there is nothing else to record but the talks, as it was an occasion without atmosphere. Back home by 9.45. Shed idiotic tear over a line in a TV series. ‘Retain custody of Kevin’.

Oh, I didn’t finish the afternoon, but I’m glad I left it till the end. He saw eye to eye with me over the letter and said he would go step by step. Then a little later, he said ‘I’ve got to borrow some more money – the ground rent has mounted up. £143’. The simplicity with which he asks is wonderful to me. I gave him a cheque straightaway. I hope it doesn’t bounce before all the money comes in. He later said, with a smile, ‘Well, I’ve got a lot to do’, – I was going anyway, – but I speculated, as I went, that of course he senses, like the fine gold wire he is, my need for him, that I would be perfectly happy with him all the time. But I wouldn’t, you know.

Thursday October 17 1985

Jon Connell came half an hour early, very heavily built, jovial and, at first blush, delightful. Gave him lunch and played some music. Hazel came round and glanced through the work too quickly. Jon H called on way to Simon’s play.

Later. TV.

It has always seemed to me that if you look at a newsreel of a concentration camp or Olympic Games or whatever, and if you don’t see it in terms of the person you love, you betray humanity.

Rang Lalla. ‘How’s Myra?’ ‘She’s looking a little tired. Well, she’s held her Friendship Club.’

Later still.

Thinking of the money I am providing him with, a very clean source. Very rare now. No holds barred, I hope.

Friday October 18 1985 Saturday October 19 1985

5.20 p.m.

I think last night was one of the happiest of my life. So I couldn’t write!

To lunch with John N so that he could look over the managing agency stuff for the B’mouth flat. ‘I suppose we’re having a Trustee’s meeting.’ I stayed behind to write in here and think about him and his career. Then to a silly film and back to change and to the Bush, faintly hoping we couldn’t get in. Isn’t that awful?

Jon H went to the play last night and S rang this morning to say thank you, as they’d gone to bed together and how wonderful it was and Jon was still there. Oh dear, how silly.

Got to the Bush and John Sessions was there. Insisted on buying me a drink. I wish people could take hints to be private! Hope my love will get thro’ to Ken. Simon arrived, a fresh complication, Bruno Santini his current lover, who has a key, came in at 4.0 and found them asleep together. He was just showing the wounded postcard Bruno left, when K came in, – why show me such an intimate thing? - we had quite a merry talk in the Hat Shop, with a secret bit for me at the cash desk about Jon H. It had early become apparent that we wouldn’t get seats, but I was rather agonised that S said to K ‘Are you free tomorrow night – I could get a single.’ I don’t think he wants to be alone with S again! I think S realised I must go as well – it’s one of my keenest pleasures to watch him enjoying something. Even if I don’t get in, I’ll wait around to look after him! I was pleased the upset only lasted a minute and that K was very much on my side. So I cancelled the little French restaurant in the Uxbridge Rd and booked the Wine Gallery. We sat down, he said ‘Yes, this is our sort our place!’ He had spinach and bacon salad and baked potato and s. salmon and he talked, how he talked, all evening it just flooded out, his whole self and dreams and visions and thoughts and feelings and ideas. First the manager, Mark Thompson ‘Oh about 3 hours and it could have been six. A really grotty flat in the Holloway Rd, though his offices are quite flash, and a staff of three.’ Not like the letter really, or rather, it was, cos he isn’t logical. I was not troubled by anything I heard, or K’s reaction. He is certainly not an out and out commercial man, for example. All in Vain he hated, although it would bring the house down, and he wouldn’t promote it without liking it. In which case how can he call K precious? When he’s written a number that’s too commercial for him?! K was extremely sane about it all, and had obviously enjoyed himself without going overboard. Right at the end – he was smoking joints all through but K didn’t! – he made a definite suggestion, well two, write a song and tape it and bring it on Monday (to show he could do it quickly, I suppose) and he would submit it and others for a children’s TV prog b’ground music. For money. How much? ‘Well, the last composer got £12,000.’ So I got out Roper-Wayman’s new catalogue, which had just arrived …! He also was interested in our adverts, and K told him about me. Especially as he said he especially liked the lyric of White Stick and Flowers. ‘He’s 58.’ ‘So what?’

‘So, for the quick song, I got our Spider Ladder.’ Well! I am so far pleased rather than not. He talked a little about writing with the band, it’ll end up being 85% him, of course.

So with that that lovely merry smile, ‘Then there’s Niki’. They still haven’t fucked! He went round to her after Mark T, partly to have a reason to get away, and stayed talking till 4. ‘What about?’ ‘I don’t know, really.’ Apparently at one meeting, he parted saying ‘And next time you’ll give me a proper kiss’ and she took grave offence. He doesn’t just want an affair, but he is quite full of sex after all this time, and as he said to me, ‘If only she could see that I don’t just want sex, I want to go into a bit of a relationship, but I want to make love to her and as it were, get that over and take the pressure off.’ and go ahead after that’.

She can’t see that. I’m not altogether surprised. If she’s not very bright it would sound like a man who just wants a fuck. Of course his absolute openness and confidence present a fearsome maturity. He wants precisely what D and I had, who didn’t like even one another much until after the first two or three months of making love. We laughed a lot ruefully and otherwise, but I fear he’s drawn a dud card again, it’s odd after such a successful early sex life! He said ‘I’ll give it twice more’. She doesn’t sound very bright.

They went to the same dreary pub as I went to with Nigel, so we talked of him, ‘He’s shooting up’, said K. I thought he meant heroin! And we talked of S and Jon H. I sketched it out in the taxi. He thought it a pity, too, and was very sane about it. If Jon tells us nothing, we know nothing. We came back here, he got the ice and drinks again – oh, in the pub, we had a tiny set- to about books, because he’s reading Simon’s. ‘I read some pages and then I want to use my ears.’

Back here, I told him about the clean money, brave with drink. It was just right. He looked back with that luminous, transparent glance – a glimpse of his feeling.

I am amazed all over again about last night. On the doorstep, he hugged me. I said ‘When shall I see you again? (Fatal words). I don’t like not knowing when I’ll see you again.’ ‘I don’t know’ (Hug). ‘Yes, tomorrow, it’s tomorrow’ and he was down the steps and haring for the last tube. Which, unfortunately, he caught!

Saturday October 19 1985 cont. 12.15 p.m.

Well, I didn’t get in to the last night, but I didn’t really care. I think I’d have been a bit bored.

He was on time, looking especially scruffy! Was in slightly more withdrawn vein, as always after such a night. Spider Ladder is just off the piano onto the cassette recorder. ‘As a bonne bouche’ on top of the film music. Everyone seems struck with children playing except me. I fear it’s one of the very few things of his I do find a bit pretentious – brooding music and the voices of little children, it’s too obvious, not to say clichéd, a concept. However, if it nets him a few thousands, I shan’t complain.’ No, he didn’t mention the musical much, as, when he did, M.T. said ‘So you’re not interested in making records?’

I spoke of his illogicality. If All In Vain is too commercial or too coarse, you can’t also be too precious.

Jon H hasn’t rung, and he should have to thank me for Thur. eve. tho’ not the last bit of it! So we agreed we’d say nothing if he didn’t stop. K said ‘He came in while I was in the bath, I’d better watch out.’

Oh, last night back here, he said ‘Have you never had a flea bite?’ I was moved to middle-class outrage, because of course they’re caused by dirty irresponsibility. Poor K! It wasn’t his fault!

I came home and had a meal and went back. K came out with a young boring actress – no, not boring, too intense, poor girl. She’d got the first return, that I might have had. Well, I’m glad. To drinks in the d-room. Jenny T asked us both to lunch, or said she would. Good. Bruno and Simon were fondling one another - I wish people wouldn’t, of whatever sex, in public. K was, as ever, deeply satisfying with me in public. K was, as ever, deeply satisfying with me in public, teasing just enough, intimate just enough, a perfect mixture of collaborator, friend and son. He went off, again to catch the last tube. I left not long after as I saw Bruno S. wouldn’t like me to come in S’s taxi! K. ‘Yes, Angus, I will let you know how your song goes.’ Heavy irony.

Sunday October 20 1985

8 a.m.

Woke hideously early to hideous depression.

Have just had a spasm of pure pain like physical pain, of longing for him to be here. After the last two days? It should not be. p.m. 11.55

Wretched all day. Crouched in front of TV. Worked for 2 hours. At this moment curiously apprehensive for him. Any reason? How often I’ve felt this, and it has been entirely subjective. He’s probably just come back from the pub. I don’t know why I have to bear the burden of loving him as I do, and worrying over him like this. But I do, and of course I wouldn’t really be without a bit of the pain. I suppose – as I could be and I’m not.

Monday October 21 1985

6.55 p.m.

A slight cold. Decided to make it an excuse not to go to the probably dreary play S is directing in Chalk Farm. When I saw Kafka mentioned in the blurb and what Simon said about the acting, I thought that my faintly balloon-head might relieve me of seeing Simon’s depressing circle of first night friends! I did feel a bit strange at Geraldine’s, not dispersed by a fashion parade, including her putting on her whole wedding dress, white veil, shoes and all. As their marriage is already rocky after only 4 months or so, surely this is fearfully bad luck, even if you weren’t superstitious?

As for me, I am perfectly tranquil today. Is it perhaps physical? Alcoholic poisoning? I don’t know, but so far it has been good being alone today. Even Jon ringing from K’s didn’t make any difference, although Jon will be with K tonight, and I won’t be. Interesting. Jon said nothing of his Simon fuck – he’d been with Rachel the entire weekend! I shall be interested if he says anything to K!

How strange my attachment to this diary is – in this sense; it is a release and a challenge and a record, but I fear for the last three years, it has been a letter to K. Partly attempting to record his life without, I hope, him noticing. (It will be a record of his life such as he might be hard put to remember himself or certainly find anywhere else. Because it is difficult to remember.

Such is the help, the release of writing, that these little notebooks - are there? – I have just been to count – nineteen of them since 1983 – these notebooks are now, each current one is my most precious position – Freud – possession. I keep the current one always with me, perhaps on end my fingers flipping over the pages, till I can get round to writing about him again.

Is it perhaps a comforting thought that he will never read this. When I die, he will read one part of the first vol. and dip - a bit.

Saw Bob Geldof on Wogan. He moved me by his simple directness. So much so that I was in tears when Wogan turned to John Boorman, and so warm had B.G.’s reception been, and so simple had been his goodness, that it was nauseating that John B didn’t say ‘how can one follow that?’ He just talked about his film as if nothing had happened.

Wrote lyric about a wild wolf boy. Was going to ring K after dinner. At 7.30, Jon H rang, quite bland, to talk about Zentapuss. Perhaps come round tomorrow, give my love to K. Didn’t mention a thing.

So at 8.0 K rang. Rehearsed well, in Moat Place, Stockwell. Miracle call. ‘I may not see you ‘cos it looks as if we’ll work through, but I might crash with you Wed or Fri.’

I told him of Bob G, even referred to Liverpool and Band Aid, ‘I support you because Bob Geldof must have some music to inspire him.’ Read him new lyric, took it down, impressed. Rang later with second verse. Still impressed.

Told him Jon hadn’t told me. ‘No, nor me.’ Hm.

Oh, the contract. Odd, the lyric and reading it and him taking it down, was, for the first time, properly humdrum. Professional, in fact.

No, I must not comment further. Except -

Tuesday October 22 1985

7.20 p.m.

Mary Llewellin to lunch. Very jovial and mild. When she’s like that, which she is almost always now, she’s very good company. After all, she is intelligent and well-read and we have a common love of Dorothy. Of course I have to be careful what I say, whereas I think she says what she likes. (I was interested that she said for the first time, in a ‘funny’ voice, ‘Of course, I never had a college education.’ Oh dear, it’s always those people who don’t need to apologise for their brains, who do). Prim, for instance.

And talking of Prim, we had quite a good deal out! It seems that Mary has recently suffered from Prim coming round ‘just with a little casserole and this and that’ and has just got her keys back for good. The two worst things, a bottle of champagne vanished (well, alcoholics!) but also, while Mary was in Nairobi last time, Prim opened all her letters, ‘I’ve dealt with so and so, I’ve written to so and so.’ The champagne amazed me not at all, but the letters! Not so much either the invasion of privacy, as Prim’s fearful need to be needed. I am glad D isn’t alive to witness Mary and Prim being divided by old age.

TV.

Oh, I can’t wait For no-one ever to be thrilled by a car again.

David Long sent a bill for £245 after saying he would charge nothing. But I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but him.

I hope last night’s call wasn’t a put-off, I mean, being so warm because he knew he wouldn’t see me for a bit.

Never mind that either. I bathe in the thought of his continuing friendship.

Remember his pain over Peter O’s vulgarity, which he expressed only to you. So he carries that with him throughout the rehearsals. I must remember that I am always there as a groundwork. I don’t remember often enough that he brings everything back to me, actually and figuratively.

Wednesday October 23 1985

5.30 p.m. Another tantalizing time, no money come in, Simon Thornley not rung up, Hazel hasn’t sent the extra material so I can’t send the Pym to typists, the movie hasn’t turned up, even Jon H hasn’t come round for Zentapuss. And K is rehearsing. An extraordinary lethargic paralysis sets in on me on these occasions. Again, I have sat and read or watched TV, and not even worked today.

I must start pushing again tomorrow. Also I have got a cold!

11.40 p.m. Well. So I got a little piece of veal in and I laid the table and left a note on the stairs. In case. But I am not on tenterhooks. Nor will I be in despair tomorrow if he’s not there.

I am really getting into the real paternal attitude of knowing his place is here, even if he isn’t here.

Because after all he didn’t say he would come. He just said ‘he might crash here, if he were really tired.’

Thursday October 24 1985

Bother. It sounds like the old days. And it wasn’t. I just went to sleep without earplugs. And afterwards thought nothing of it. I really think I have let him go.

11.35 p.m.

Could not sit in the house all day again today. Rang Roy M in M’chester to see what he said about dinner tonight, as he hadn’t rung back, - I mean yesterday. As he hadn’t rung, I rang Andrew P and left a message for him to ring when he got there. Half an hour later, he rang from Dave Threlfall’s, and said No it was off, as he had to go to the BBC to talk about a series they want him to do. Then he asked me for Lucy’s number! And he still has my key. How hurt she’d be if she knew that. And at 8.30 she rang me to ask where he was! He’d said he was staying with her. Oh dear.

So, I’d rung to get it straight, so that I could go out. Went to see Crimes of Passion, for two reasons. Neil Dickson had said it was ‘terrific’ etc. I’d seen one Ken Russell years ago, besides ‘The Boy Friend’ fiasco. A second chance? Well, memo, don’t trust Ken R or Neil. It was as before, violent sentimental unfocused rubbish. Poor man, he is swirling down a drain of sensation. But I was tranquil enough.

Jon h rang tonight to say could he bring Rachel round on Saturday for a couple of hours. Of course. So I get a little glimpse of K. He came in last night ‘very drunk’. (Oh, the young – that turned out to mean, in our vocabulary, very up! as we’ll see.) Encouraged by Rachel, he did the crab round the room, having taken his jeans off. He seems always to undress when Rachel is there! I shall be interested to meet her. He’d been drinking with the drummer!

Jon knows nothing of the manager or my new lyric. !

Friday October 25 1985

Another hopeless eventless day. To the pictures. ‘Catholic Boys’, quite good – again.

It really isn’t him. Tho’ I wish he would ring.

9.30 p.m.

The truth is, I shouldn’t depend on him like this.

It isn’t fair.

But.

Saturday October 26 1985

Jon and Rachel coming to lunch, so I rang him, not wanting to hear his news from J. (Actually J has hardly seen him). Was working, but ‘What are we doing tonight?’ transformed my day. He is my only real ray of hope. I had been a little nervous of seeing Jon because … but I must not feel that it is disloyal. When have I ever found him out doing something behind my back? Never. They arrived. Rachel is very pretty and very attractive. And very sensible, so far. I liked her very much. Especially one moment. We were talking about Phil Finch and Elaine. I said they had a very open relationship so much so that he never seemed to go out with her at all or spend an evening with her. Jon said ‘I expect he finds it more relaxing going out with his mates.’ Hers and my eyes met in perfect and amazed understanding. Poor Jon.

He stammered his way out of it. It is interesting how such sentiments persist.

I felt a little odd every now and then, thinking of Jon and Simon, and that pretty creature not knowing about it. He must have slept with her the very next night.

12.30 p.m.

Dinner with K. I will write in detail tomorrow. For the moment I record for the first time, deep depression after an entirely amicable meeting. Why? I’m not sure. Not entirely because but I’ll write tomorrow.

Perhaps it is physical. From the drink?

All that matters is that I love him. I have not been wrong to support and believe in him as I have.

Thursday October 31 1985

No, no great drama. I think it was the drink and withdrawal symptoms. Perhaps because he was going on to a party? In some ways, that should be cheering, - he might very well have wanted to cancel, a lot of young men would, but he stayed till 11.30. I suppose it is just the separation. Such as I felt again by Monday.

Philip D rang on Sun. morn about Mrs W’s Profession for Thur. So I rang K about 6.0. ‘How had the party gone?’ ‘All right’. Yes, he might have got off. ‘I’ll tell you on Thursday’. Good. It’s simply pressure on the scrotum that ought to be relieved apart from anything else! Yes, he would come, tho’ he’d half promised the Shelagh Delaney daughter a Halloween party, so that will be after.

So to the talk during dinner on Sat. He went exhaustively through rehearsals, - he kept stopping to say it was difficult to be more specific or definite, as they had three more days of rehearsal to go, from Mon to Wed, ‘so I’m only halfway through’. But it’s not going well. He and Peter Orr are not agreeing.

Fancy. I was firmly on the same side as usual, saying he is much more likely to be right, and has the stronger will. In some ways, the clash is good, - there can hardly be a working relationship without one. But it doesn’t sound promising, I fear. I just don’t think P.O. likes K’s music all that much, just wants his arranging and creative skills for backing. Also doesn’t like his voice. Hm.

It’s all over with Niki – she stood him up yet again, cancelling their visit to Peter Pan. How odd these girls are!

(Jon H told me, in a ‘phone call yesterday, that he was there when that happened and K slammed the ‘phone down and said ‘That’s it’, but J. went on to say she was round one night Tues? and J and Rachel thought he’d had someone sleeping there on Sat night, so perhaps Niki was at that party?!

4.30. In Pelican.

I wish I didn’t feel nervous, I shouldn’t, I must try not to, but it’s never easy to meet him or leave him. Only to be with him.

He said ‘Have you heard any more from my mum?’

1.30. Well, I was right to be nervous. I rang him from Pelican to say we’d better not meet at Nat. because Phil might be early, as he’d said something of that. Café de la Gare. ‘I’ve been ringing you, I’m going to be late, I’ve got to get this party ready.’ I felt a bit grey, as if he didn’t get there at all, I’d have 2 ½ hours to kill. In the event, taking a cab, he was only quarter of an hour late. 6.15. But I saw at once he was in one of his really awkward moods taking me up impossibly, questioning, snapping, thoroughly difficult! I was finally reduced to say I didn’t know what to say next for fear of saying the wrong thing. Only he ….! But I didn’t get upset, we got over it, we made talk and I see that it is to me and no-one else, he expresses this irritability. No doubt to one or two of his girls! In the National we were all right. Extraordinary coincidence, I’d read that morning of death of Brian Kent; a man spoke to me, Tristram Jellinck, not seen since the same Salisbury Co. in 1956, he then a golden-haired juvenile, very cocky. Now a sad tired bald middle-aged man with no looks left.

‘Mrs Warren’ pretty good. K very taken, very good about the acting. And all the time such warmth and to-ing and fro-ing between us. We ran up the slope from the National for a taxi. As we got in, he said ‘I hope I can run like that when I’m yr age.’

So to his Halloween party; he’d hung apples everywhere, and A big bowl for drinking, but filled with cider and champagne, not water. Chris P was seen to be just slurping not bobbing. I got one, plunging my head in boldly. I had a long talk to Niki’s great friend? Very nice and bright, which is more that I can say of Niki, whom I just chatted to as I was ringing for my cab. Good figure, goes for a lot when you’re 24, but something askew with the face and therefore with her. She’s a bit unbalanced, I thought. Otherwise I enjoyed it, incl. a talk to Peter Orr. He’s quite determined, and may be a help, if only K can stop him being the front man. Left at 1.15, K so sweet, - ‘I wanted to play you Spider Ladder.’ I said ‘Ring me on Sunday before I go filming.’ Not believing he will, but he was v. loving.

Friday November 1 1985

Yesterday’s entry is significant for my real resilience with him being unpleasant. Because he was! At last I did take it and was a rock for him to dash against. He said again, in irritation, but he said ‘I see you more and tell you more than anyone else.’

So, Jon H came over in p.m. to talk, Zentapuss. His drawings are all right, but not inspired. But he was able to tell me that K has finally given up on Niki. They slept together, but again without fucking, I expect, no, I’m sure, and he won’t try again.

Steve Thorne came round in the evening, and we had a good go thro’ his life. He’s in a good state of ferment. Some event or other on the 3rd. I think he found the eve. purging and stimulating. Very good about K. He spent a couple of hours there the other week. Said K wasn’t like he’d imagined, nicer. (Well if people say so good looking, so talented etc. of course you’re surprised to find them in the least nice!) Then he was so welcoming. Ah, yes! And (I liked this best) the flat was ‘spotless’ and yet there was such a feeling of hard good work having been done there. He’s staying the night. We talked of Jon’s gayness. He’s never had a gay encounter of any kind.

Saturday November 2 1985

To the first night of ‘Lennon’. Hm. Bits of scenes between a gig of Lennon numbers. Quite genial and funny and quick. I wasn’t exactly bored, it was all a bit ‘quite’. Dear Ian Burns came out of it much better than I thought he would. I think he’ll get some work out of it. I got away after because of the rather dreary relations-of-Hilary hanging around. But Ian’s agent not dreary, very funny and quick at first blush, and we sparked one another off. No doubt if I pursued it, I’d find him and his standards pretty impossible.

I sat down to my solitary supper with more enjoyment than for some time.

I wonder if he ever knows that he comes back to my mind at least every three mins or in any pause.

Sunday November 3 1985

Preparing to go to Maidstone, when he rang at 12.15. Sublime, sublime. He remembered and why. Wished me luck, and said we would go to Emerald Forest and I said he’d better ask me to dinner with Jon H. and talk about his idea for J to design a set for M Youth. He never said a word about Thur. but it was in every warm word. He likes it to be just under the surface like that. I’m learning. There’s nobody etc etc. It sent me off on my journey in such happiness.

The train was cold and a window stuck open blowing on my head and a baby was crying. Got a taxi straightaway to a motorway hotel where my room was freezing. A nice littler porter came up, and tho I thought I’d have to move, the radiator was boiling in a moment. Awful restaurant. Rainbow trout raw. In bar met Bill Brayne, directed me in Dempsey and Makepeace. Nice and unconfident! Room hot!

Monday November 4 1985

Had said to K that I might be wanted on Tuesday, or I might be back by 4.30. I stepped in on 4.30 and rang him. The gig went better than last time, though they went amusingly wrong in the intro. to one number Video Shop great reception.

Has anyone noticed I didn’t drool last night over not being there?! I didn’t think about it till about eleven, although it’s the first time one of my songs was sung in public and he was there with a cold.

Forgot to say he said on Sunday he was having gin and sparklers at 6.0, going to Highbury Fields, and then whisky and sparklers. Again a good step forward. I told about Mike P’s evening, and that I’d come for a bit. Went to the shops and enjoyed a quiet evening alone. Without loving him less.

Well, for instance, you know obsession? Reading a report on British fashion in the Sunday papers. I just skimmed the article for Barbara de Vries’ name. (Incidentally I’ve never seen it anywhere yet!) Looked at Operation Julie. About six bars of music! So much for Peter H.

Again, a small Habitat catalogue, which I kept to turn over with tremulous nostalgia.

Oh, he also said today that Mark Thompson is on holiday and they’d hear today about the other management.

Tuesday November 5 1985

Imagine. Here I am looking at D’s picture on my desk, and she is dead and I’m alright. Odd, I have finally got over that. Not forgotten. Got over.

Went to Harrods to get some indoor fireworks, Harrods Indoor Firework Tour of London. On impulse bought a Bombe Surprise which sprays whistles and streamers over the guests! Got two sets, one for Mike Parsons’, and set off for Felix’s. Got script of Pym and sent it to James R.E and D.T. Good.

I said to K could I have a bath. He rang about 4.0 saying could I bring a pint of milk and 1/2 of gin. He’d got a big bottle, but was suddenly feeling twenty people might get through it. Rang back to remind him to turn hot water on. ‘I’ve just turned it off again to answer the ‘phone’.

Got there. He played me Spider Ladder. It is strange how his settings of my words are always exactly as I imagined them. Of course, he has forgotten that he didn’t think much of it two years ago. It was a bit beyond him then. Oh how he’s grown.

So gradually others arrived. That slightly mad plaited man and another with a vast dark red beard and moustache, – he would only answer to the name Fang. Poor darling, why has he had to hide, what has he to hide behind that name and that beard? Nothing much except a nice wit and sharpish brain! Jo Kavanagh, looking, with an ‘up’ haircut and much healthier skin, a different man, and much more ordinary. About 7.0, the entry-phone rang. I answered, and said to K ‘It’s someone called ‘Sharron’.’ ‘Oh’ - and he was down the stairs like greased lighting! The new girl! So we had the fireworks. Too funny. All called Buckingham Palace and River Cruise (green, you see). Variants on sparklers and those odd expanding snakes which have a distinct sexual charge. Partly like an erection, but K put it best when he said it looked like shitting feels. I stayed just long enough to enjoy it. Was introduced briefly to Sharron and got a nice genial impression. Big dark eyes and warmth.

So off to wildest Rotherhithe. Council 30’s flat, narrow balcony walks, Mike P., angular girl who’d done the food and turned out to be a nurse, MP’s monosyllabic girl-friend, and a sharp young man who is going to be a stockbroker and proved it by scarcely being off the telephone all night. Literally. Delicious party cold food, volauvents, pie, cold meat etc but really nice. Gin, wine, whisky.

None of them very interesting, especially as MP was strangely withdrawn and silent. I suppose shyly regretting having asked me. Except for Dick Bird, looking totally different. And a bit electric. I must get him to myself and find out.

Went across Tower Bridge.

Wednesday November 6 1985

Mike P had suggested going to the play. Ian’s Hilary is SMing. As it was at the Finboro’ I said yes, and it was David Mamet. ‘Sexual Perversity in Chicago.’ Steve Wyckes v. good for an amateur, and the whole thing quite a cut above some professional fringe stuff. V. small theatre, only 50 seats. But pub very pleasant, very well decorated. Quite sweet youngsters after. Came away by myself because of course it gets difficult for them financially.

Thursday November 7 1985

K rang at 11.30. When are we meeting? What about tonight? So I said I would put it off, but when he remembered it was Phil and Clare, he said ‘No, that’ll be nice, don’t cancel it, we’ll see Emerald Forest tomorrow night.’ So we arranged to ring again.

I shopped. Hot prawns, pheasant. They arrived. She’s fair, straight pretty features. Clare Harmsworth. Turns out to be a Harmsworth Sir Harold’s daughter. Phil is quite quenched! Overall it was a successful evening – for them. Over the main course, Phil said without warning ‘Would you say that Kevin has had a great influence on you?’ !! So I said. She went on and on later about him going out with a number of her girl-friends, a little element here, is he never went out with her, but only a little) and the point that I said ‘Do you mean he behaved badly?’ ‘Oh no’.

The same patronising attitude to K because they cannot forgive him being the pure artist that he is. Oh, how I carry away how he has escaped them all! Phil’s question was the expression of his irritation that I should have been influenced by his charming flibertigibbet.

Later.

Reeling in such joy and contentment. Nancy Mitford. Yes, she knew about love.

Thinking of the beloved’s lovers, The past doesn’t matter. Only the future can frighten me.

Friday November 8 1985 p.m. Reading Colette.

‘I know what it’s like to have someone in your life, who only has to say one word to put you in heaven or hell.’

12.30 p.m.

Rang him at lunchtime to arrange. He had to wait in for a possible verdict from the management, and 5.30 for Emerald Forest was rather early. Apart from that, an impulse made me suggest Letter from Breshnev instead. It’s nearer to him, film later, so he could wait in longer, but mainly I thought, good or bad news, he wouldn’t be so much in the mood for Emerald F. It turned out I was absolutely right. I got to the Slug and Lettuce after getting the tickets and started getting nervous about him being late! Rang at 6.30, to say it was going to be sold out so not to wait until 6.50 as he’d said. But he arrived at 6.35, with Peter Orr and Glyn. They’d been having a bit of a rehearsal and I could tell at once from their faces that they’d heard nothing – or at least from K’s. One drink and we went in, the other two going off to another gig.

The film was very young, rawly Liverpool, touching, hopeful, funny and fresh. Everyone had worked for more or less nothing and the love showed. The soundtrack was tinny and the accent so strong that even I found it hard at first, no, even K. But we enjoyed it as anything for a long time.

We walked off to the Aquilino. After a silence, he said ‘thanks for choosing that, it was just what I needed.’ ‘Well?’ I said. ‘Fucking brill’ he said, just like the girls in the film. It was a film really of 1985. Lovely, fascinating meal. We talked of Chris P and not practising. I talked to P. Orr about him and K said quite passionately ‘Don’t listen to anything P.O says about Chris, Chris owes him £80 or even £100’. I said ‘What he isn’t even busking?’ He said he’d had a long evening with Chris ‘really getting quite hard on him.’ I wonder. Then, to my amazement, he said, ‘You know my giving up smoking. With Peter H? Well, I’ve promised to help Chris by joining in giving up drink from Sunday night’.

That got a very frosty reception from me! Apart from him not drinking with me, (well, I would have to cheat on that’) it’s so wrong for Chris. He depends on K far too much as it is, emotionally and artistically. I put all the arguments, until he suddenly said, as only he does, ‘I see it all. Don’t say any more.’ All the same, without emotionally troubling me, I did think oh dear, what poor judgement! Then I reminded myself how v young he is, and how seldom I have to remind myself of that. I told him what I thought of Niki, and he said she’d rather loved me! He said again, about her, ‘Don’t say any more.’ Which always means he’s understood and agreed.

Told me a bit more about Sharron. ‘We snogged a lot round the bonfire. No more girls arrived and the party got a bit rough. But I managed to keep her out of it.’ Roy, the drummer and Chris P had a real quarrel, over the Armistice Poppy Appeal. Oh dear. Well, Chris can be a real pain. If he goes on like this, even K will give him up.

We talked of Joe K, and how much better he was looking. ‘But did you hear his tape?’ Poor K, another idol in the dust.

He’d gone to Granada to have lunch with that man, what’s his name? and seen Linn. She’s moved to her new place, and seems happy with her new boyfriend. He said gravely, ‘She’s looking older.’ !

So back to Sharron. She spent the night. ‘So have you broken your celibacy?’ ‘Very nearly. She is coming to stay most of tomorrow and over to Sunday. So it’ll probably happen then. She wants to go to the National Sat. eve.’ ! She’s a student silversmith. I met her at that party and we talked and I just asked for her no as she was leaving! So I was pleased when she rang one day to say ‘I need cheering up.’ A bit of silver had dropped off, she had to start again, and it would take a week.’ She seems better news. ‘She’s coming to the gig. You talk to her.’ He laughed. ‘I may have gone off her by then.’

In talking of Joe K, I said about changing. And then even more in telling about Phil and Clare. He saw all that very sanely and clearly – he senses the spiritual jealousy. I said, ‘Clare talks of you as you were at college. That’s four years ago, and you changed a lot in four years’. He said, so delicately, that I only just caught the phrase, ‘Look how you’ve changed in four years.’

It is moments like that, that I presume his young friends just don’t notice. (I expect his girls notice physical delicacies in bed.) The slightness of the reference, the vast intimacy in a few words, because he knows the changes have been entirely done to him, and the implicit admiration for my consent to, and capacity for, that change, all speak of the extraordinary subtlety and depth of his character. If only he can develop such judgement with more people more quickly.

Saturday November 9 1985

Yes, I have thought enviously and warmly of him today and tonight. But I have remained my own man. By one of those odd coincidences that seem to come to me, especially over him, I went to see The Passport, directed by S. Callow. Oh I did hate it. Kafkaesque ugh. And boring. Very middle European, in the most tiresome clichéd way. Peter Bayliss v. good. Saw S for moment after. We meet a week today, for a Laughton Conference.

But the coincidence was that K’s pub, the Monarch, was four or five doors away. I had an hour and a half to kill, and spent it in the Monarch. Quite small, but pleasant. Almost everyone there (not many) were young.

But outside, there was a Dayglo poster, saying Every Sunday at 8.0, The Band with No Name.’ !

Later. Obsession! Nancy Mitford again looking at a baby born in 1960, and suffering from ‘60’s young people.

‘His generation, easily amused and anxious to please, may be on the way to rejecting the anti- charm which is fashion now, may even develop a sense of humour and seek to attract rather than repel.’

Sunday November 10 1985

In limbo most of the day, wondering what I should feel this evening. I know I keep describing this, but I have to – the blow in the pit of the stomach at the first glimpse of the edge of one of the window-sills of the Monarch. Took a photo of the poster. K sitting up, looking a little tired but not bad, considering what probably went on. They didn’t go to the National but to the National Film Theatre to see Local Hero. He did love it. But of course we had no time to chat. Little Steve Wilson was there ‘and this is Jason.’ ‘Ah, the famous Jason at last’ – but it wasn’t. The band set up on the very spot I’d been sitting in last night! So it started. Here’s the programme.

1. How Sweet It Is 2. Road Runner 3. Lay, Lady, Lay 4. Stringing Along 5. * Deb’s Song, sung by K 6. Nigel Making Plans 7. * Video Shop 8. Jeep Star 9. * Misspent Youth, sung by K

2nd Half

10. Can’t Help Falling in Love 11. Don’t Blame Me 12. Come Back and Stay 13. * Fight, sung by K 14. Riders on the Storm 15. Look Around 16. Walk on the Wild Side 17. Office Canteen 18. Cocaine 19. Oliver’s Army 20. High Noon 21. Wake Up

It was good, but a bit stock. The drummer seemed duller, which K confirmed. And Fight and the Deb’s Song were almost totally inaudible – I think because K is too close to the mic for his breathy voice. I also had more strongly the feeling that it is Peter’s group, and he wants K to be the keyboard player, and 85% of the time he is, and it’s razors cutting grindstones again. It might be anyone.

For me personally, of course, it was the singing of Video Shop that was the strange moment of the evening. To have a rock song one has written, performed by a rock band in a pub gig in the Chalk Farm Rd is, at 59, a strange experience. Even more when up till now, it has only been a private song between him and me. Even more that the music is by the one closest to me of all.

I was frightened I might cry from feeling so much and set my face into a Fijian Stone God expression of fierceness to hide it. Except to shoot once glance at K at the end. Which he caught.

Spent a lot of what audible time there was talking to Claire Johnson, Chris P’s girl down for the weekend. It seems C.P went off in a huff on Friday and hasn’t been seen since! We had a lot of talk about him, she seems a nice enough girl but it’s difficult to think of her coping with the tiresome side of Chris. She is sending me her poems! And fell for me in a big way. I think it made her see Chris in a new way. But of course, it’s really for K.

Back to the gig. Of course, the cover nos are useless, and I can see K hates playing them. I was interested that Peter O’s girlfriend turned round after Video Shop and asked twice, in different ways, what I thought of it, almost before it was over. I am always on the lookout for that sort of concern, as it gave me a glimpse of my importance to her, and therefore of K’s importance to her and Peter. Considerable. Good.

Forgot to record, he rang at 6.0 to ask when Faulty Towers was on so he could tape it. I get keen pleasure from such a casual contact as that, the hum drum dependence, that I’ll be there and tell.

Arranged for him to ring when he was free from Mark Thompson, and then we are off to Bournemouth.

Monday November

No. I can’t write. I’ll have to do it when the B-mouth visit is over, as a retrospect.

Being with him all the time is too rich, too full.

Wednesday November 13 1985

Back home, and I haven’t got to go off to Maidstone tonight, which is nice.

So. He rang at about ten past one to say he’d been a bit late for the interview with Mark Thompson! So he was just going in now. So I said I could do a bit of shopping, and he said ‘Do that, I’ll be about an hour’. Right. Went to the bank etc. and the ‘phone rang as I walked in. ‘Meet you at Shep. Bush station in twenty minutes’. As it was Kilburn, it was nearer 35 minutes. ‘I must have a hamburger.’ I’ll make you something at home if you like.’ ‘No, I just want to cram down a cheeseburger.’ And we were away. ‘No, I won’t eat it now, I’ll wait till we’re on the motorway.’ ! But I see that he means, there are fewer decisions and no corners. The moment we were on a straight stretch he said ‘Now! the gig. ‘What was wrong with the Video Shop? Your face!’ I said, ‘How even one’s closest friend can mis-read one’s face if both are feeling a lot. I was keeping my face like granite in case I cried in front of a lot of strangers.’ Relief. We went into it all. I said about 85% of the time, it might be anyone on the keyboard. He said how much he hated doing the covers and that next week they were going to do all the original numbers in the second half. Then he could say to Mark Thompson and Lindsay Webster, come at 9.30. He confirmed that Roy wasn’t good last night. ‘So what about Mark T and the interview?’ ‘It was good.’ He didn’t make any definite promises, except that he would take him on. K thinks he’s about to buy a studio of his own, as he’s got a lot of people to house. Tone of the thing, ‘Well, you’re very, very talented but I can’t place your music.’ And I gather in both senses of ‘place’. So to Sharron. ‘Oh, yes. She’s not on the pill.’ ‘Oh, was all right?’ ‘Yes. So we did other things. I came many times.’ She’s a jewellery student, not silver. She’s in a muddle about her career. ‘She’s quite a big girl. We didn’t get much sleep.’ So I wasn’t surprised that he said, ‘I feel rather tired’, just after Lyndhurst, and remembering stepping on the thistle in his pants! ‘I was up most of Saturday night with Sharron and I’d woken up at 6.0 that morning. By the way, I often do after having scotch with you, perhaps that’s what does it. Then last night, Steve Wilson lost his way on the tube so he was much later than I thought he’d be. We started watching Faulty Towers later, as a result. I wasn’t in bed till 3.0. Up at 10.30.’ Well yes, I do see. I thought wistfully to myself how often I get the tired K, the depressed K, the penniless K. A lot of his merriness he saves for others. But I should be proud, really I am! It’s just that I enjoy his gaiety so much. Stopped to get some whisky and said not to mention my camera or Edna. He knew. Lalla was sweet and welcoming, so much better with him there. After a chat, K said ‘I fancy a brandy’, - this was about 6.30. (next vol).

‘I’m black, I’m British and I’m Conservative, and I’m proud of all three’.

Lurline Champagne at Conservative conference.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 64

November 13 ’85 – December 30 ’85.

Wednesday November 13 1985 (cont.)

I think Lalla thought he wanted a brandy to drink now, and sent him up to the Commodore. I knew he meant a little bottle for later. So he had to go up Fisherman’s Walk to the shops. I said ‘Brandy? I’ve never known you to have a brandy. Don’t tell me, Sharron. ‘Yes’ he said with that smile full of awareness of everything! Brought back an utterly unknown brand. There was a bottle of gin already there from last time, quite a treat. Had my bath, house freezing cold. Dinner, and washing-up. K so good with Lalla. About ten, we went for a walk on the beach with the bottle of brandy. The sea looked so beautiful, calm, with silvery ripples. There was nobody about at all, the pure gold sand was smooth without a footprint as far as you could look, both ways. It was windless, curiously warm. We walked for about an hour and a half, drinking the quarter bottle of brandy, turn and turn about. I can’t remember what we talked about, but the reason I couldn’t write about it that night was simple. I was transported, irradiated, carried away and dazzled by the perfection of the sympathy between us. I felt so grateful so thankful, so humble, I mean to fate!

I’d told him to sleep in – by the way, he did quite a bit after he said he was tired! He got up about 11.0. Mr Sawle arrived at ten to, at ten past, I said ‘I hope he hasn’t rung the side door bell and gone away’. ‘Oh’, said Mr Sawle, ‘I’m sure he’d use his intelligence. At twenty five past, after K had brought his breakfast tray in and cheered things up, I said ‘There, you see, he didn’t use his intelligence, better ring him.’ So Mr Sawle rang him. Ten minutes later, the side door bell rang – we went out. There was Mr Crisp, of Crisp and Foote, the decorators, and another man at a little distance. ‘Oh Mr Crisp’, I said ‘I’m sorry, we’re a little behind schedule. Could you wait in your van for a while?’ He could. I went over to the other man and said ‘Hallo Mr Scott’. Mr Sawle said ‘That’s not Mr Scott.’ ‘Oh’, I said ‘who is it?’ Mr Crisp said, ‘That’s Mr Foote.’

Mr Scott, a rather hard-faced 30ish man went round the flat. He isn’t specially sympathetic, but then he can’t afford to be.

Left Crisp and Foote to go round. Took K up later, he really loved the flat. At the end, he went off to the sea. After I’d seen Crisp and Foote, off I went on the cliff too, caught him crawling out thro’ the bushes and gorse just as I did as a child.

After lunch, we set off on our round of errands. First, the bank. I talked to two women, very pleasant, one knew Lalla. I told them a bit of the situation and had them in fits. Finished. Turned round. There he was, ‘Your car is at the door, sir’. On to carpets, curtains, in Westover Road. Lalla had said the night before that she’d like to take up the piano again. ‘Couldn’t I buy one of those little electric pianos?’ I encouraged her for all sorts of reasons, chiefly because K was there to help her. We tried the shop I remember by B’mouth Arcade. The one up in Boscombe was surprisingly much better, with huge cases of flutes, oboes, clarinets etc.

Upstairs, K said to a young man with a huge built-up hairstyle not unlike Betty Grable, ‘Hi-ya’. Before I could look round, they had one plugged in, K pressed the Rock button, set the chord and beat going and it continued automatically. Lalla laughed and laughed helplessly, with her hand over her mouth like Thumper in Bambi. Encouraged by us, she bought it on the spot, £99. ‘But’ she said, ‘with the left hand playing automatically, it would be cheating.’ K said, ‘Lalla’s bought a synth! Lalla, I like your style.’ We drove miles for a DIY factory Lalla wanted to look at, to get the kitchen units cheaper! We missed it, because she couldn’t remember where it was!

Back at home, K put the Casio together, the plug and so on, and then spent about 20 minutes making her feel really sure how to use it. ‘Start it. That’s right. Now what do you do? No. Yes, that’s right. Now start again’ etc etc. Very good. Kind, understanding and firm. Tea and crumpets. He said ‘So Lalla, I went into the bank and he didn’t know I was there behind him. Guess whose voice was dominating the whole bank. He was charming them out of their heads, eating out of his hand.’ I was completely overthrown by this – he’s proud of me. He had a bath and washed his hair, ready for Sharron tomorrow night!

Lalla asked him after dinner, ‘What do you think of old people?’ His answer was that I had opened his eyes to so many things. ‘It’s all through Angus.’ He made her come out for a walk on the beach, with us either side to save her from slipping. I think a real treat for her. K was running and leaping about like a little boy, suddenly saying I want to take some sand back. Can I put it in your glove Lalla? She’d lent him a brown fabric pair of gloves, - he rapidly filled one till it looked like an erect brown udder. Back in the kitchen, he turned it inside out and began extruding the sand. It was a mixture of milking and shitting and reduced all three of us to helpless cling-to-the-sink wordless laughter. Lalla said, ‘Kevin certainly knows how to enjoy himself.’

(Forgot to record that, just before lunch yesterday, after the men had gone, we saw a squirrel on the lawn, shortly joined by another, they chased one another, came quite close, dug for nuts, sat up and ate them. K was charmed, not having seen many, I suppose. In the gardens, in the afternoon, we saw more squirrels, one without a tail at all. K was much struck, and his tender heart touched).

This morning we left at 11.30, telling Lalla we were going back to London, but really going to lunch with Edna. I lost the way and he kept turning the tape off in a huff, and then turning it on again with a little smile when we were on course again. She was a little more bent, a little older, a little more remote partly from seeing so few people. To the hotel. They both had pork! She had some flashes. ‘The Passport’, Kafka-‘esque’, the words were hardly out of my mouth, ‘I wouldn’t go near it, I wouldn’t be paid to see it, I wouldn’t listen to a word.’ Took a photo of them, but no flash alas! Said goodbye and tried not to think about it. Started back to London. Listened to Sade ‘Promise’, no good. Kate Bush pretty interesting. Talked more of Sharron. She’s not on the pill, but he’s asked her to try it. ‘How can she know about the side effects if she doesn’t try it? Talked around it, then, ‘She’s certainly not just a fuck.’ As long as he goes fairly slowly. He certainly said to Lalla and Edna, ‘I’ve got a new girl-friend. I haven’t had one for a year.’

Interesting.

Nearly ran out of petrol, just saved. He was meeting Sharron at 6.0 at her college in Southampton Row, so by 5.0, when we got here, he was worried. Especially as the idiot tele- enquiries at Edna’s hadn’t been able to find the College number, although I’d got it from Lalla’s, and he had left in on the table!

He unlocked the car and said Try to get to her and say I’m on the way. Of course, the College has three entries! Got her so all was well. Suddenly thought of him almost certainly stuck in the Fulham Palace Rd so rang the car hire firm to say she would wait. Hope it got to him. As the woman who was dealing with it was on the ‘phone, I couldn’t tell whether he’d been and gone.

Rang Bolina. Not called till 11.15 tomorrow. Wonderful. Restful evening, able to think calmly of him being happy. Must have been a relief just to be with someone of his own age!

Thursday November 14 1985

9.58 Victoria. Met at Maidstone 11.04. Taken to location, in a Priory of some kind. Rather beautiful buildings, tho’ very modern insides. Made up by 11.30. Sat in Don W’s caravan and read and wrote till lunch, Duck a l’orange, more solitary reading and writing. Don sent home, as only time for my scratched close-ups. It did turn out to be just that, - they hadn’t even listened to the dialogue.

At 4.45, the second unit director drove me back to the hideous office block in Chatham, the lighting and camera men arrived twenty minutes later. We were set up and ready to go twenty minutes after that, and then they realised my make-up had worn off, and it took another quarter of an hour to get a make-up girl. Did it, home by 7.30.

Forgot to record I lit a big £1.20 candle for him in one the chapels.

Friday November 15 1985

Chris and Bob to dinner tonight, but only Chris turned up, couldn’t get in touch with Bob. He is on the wagon, produced a carton of pineapple juice. Of course, a bit subdued. I don’t know what is to become of him – he could go either way. I think I wagged my finger just enough. He’s very touchy, no, thin-skinned. I quite enjoyed it.

Saturday November 16 1985

Simon arrived about 12.0 and we had our usual in and out of laughter and gossip and allusion.

The day was ruined for me by two things, a nasty letter from the bank-manager, which just made me feel dull – again – and the hectic coarseness that is growing in Simon.

We went to a terrible play at the Lyric Studio, came out at the interval. Simon said, as we slunk away across the terrace and down the fire staircase in the rain ‘We’ll never get a taxi, as all the audience will want one’. Soft Shoe Shuffle by Mike Hodges. Witless plays attract witless actors and directors. To September. At S’s I signed a Co. document,

I was tiresome about Italian films out of bitterness, nothing to do with S at all.

Sunday November 17 1985

Sat and anticipated the gig all day. Got there, flash worked this time! Even emptier. K in a temper, snapped. I’d heard from Jon in the morning that he’d been with Sharron Fri night, and that he’d had to do a gig at a Working Men’s Club on Sat. Well, of course he was cross! Soon after Nigel M the famous Jason and Sharron arrived, Phil Finch and Elaine. So of course I talked to Sharron. Well, she’s lovely. To look at, yes, dark, fine olive skin, beautiful eyes, cloud of hair. She is Jewish. But lovely in other ways. After a bit, I forgot she was anything to do with him, and enjoyed her company. Funny, quick, perceptive. She laughed, as I thought, at a name- drop, but, at the next, twenty mins later, picked it up and retrieved the laugh! Said he’d been in a mood all day Sat about the WMC gig and that he’d had a row – that’s her word – with Peter O – about the order of the nos this afternoon. I presumed over putting all the original nos in the second half, as it turned out. I really got on with her, I think she’s already picked up K’s and my friendship.

Just pointed, when our view was obstructed, that you could see him in the big mirror. I felt really comforted about her, where a girl like Rachel ….

Running Order

1. Road Runner 2. Little Red Rooster 3. Stringing Along 4. How Sweet It Is 5. Video Shop 6. Nigel Making Plans 7. You’re My Babe

2nd half

8. Can’t Help Falling in Love 9. Don’t Blame Me 10. Come Back and Stay 11. Fight 12. The Debs Song 13. I Look Around Me 14. Walk on the Wild Side 15. Office Canteen 16. Misspent Youth 17. Movie Screen 18. Here to Stay 19. High Noon 20. Wake Up

K joined us after, looking a bit wrecked, but cheerful. Said about row, ‘It’s just I wish people would keep their word – I had to completely re-programme the synth, that’s why I couldn’t speak to you this afternoon.’ Sharron, by the way, said to me that when she saw the other people in the group, she ‘couldn’t believe it, they didn’t go with Kevin at all.’ I only hope he will go a bit gradually at first.

Phil and Elaine gave me lift home, affable, obviously expecting me to be cross about the adverts. Phil and K getting drunk tomorrow!

Monday November 18 1985

To Neil and Lynda at 11.0, to do the garden. Delightful happy quiet day. Lynda is a most soothing and comforting person. Neil really loves and admires me. The child, Lucy, knows my name at 2 and a bit, and ‘has really taken a shine to you.’ I loved the gardening. And I had a bath. I was really happy. What more do I want? - Guess.

Tuesday November 19 1985

Ben Unwin rang and asked to stay; hitching down from York. So glad he could ask. He arrived about 2.0. Just the same, but he’s coming to London and he’s cutting his hair. Very funny about his lifts. Lorry-driver talked a lot of the B’ham lads who are forced to sell their bodies that he picks up ‘I’m not gay, you know’ but went on all the same. He went off to meet Jon H. Rang Jon and K thinking of tomorrow night, K just gone to brunch with Sharron at 3.30! Hm, is that gradual? Got J to leave message to ring. We’re working on Zentapuss and M Youth tomorrow.

Later.

He rang at 11.45. Heavenly. Decided against having Ben as well. Said about Sharron, he’d said ‘You look Jewish in that photo.’ ‘I am.’ She really went into being part of a minority. Parents are Polish Jews. ‘So we got round that.’ ‘Oh, one thing we’ll have to get her out of tactfully, she holds her knife the wrong way.’

Funny boy, his only comment should be a criticism.

Wednesday November 20 1985

To K’s 6.30. Jon H doing his exercises. Oh, as for us, all perfect. Off to pub. Had Peter Orr all out, settled Saturday. As for work, Jon had done nothing. Very awkward. But we were utterly together. He played me Doesn’t anyone else cry in the street. All wonderful. Poor silent utterly un-contributing Jon. While we worked on the song, especially silent. Boring mini cab madman. Break here. Ben with Dawn. Sweet, but demanding. Staying here!! Bliss was in that Dawn to be alive.

Thursday November 21 1985

Went thro’ Misspent Youth so as to be ready for the night. Got there about 6.25, a nice smell of food in the hall, loud music and a smell of sweat in the living room, Jon H doing his exercises! K in the bathroom, said hello coming out in those little pants like a Union Jack that he wore on the beach at B’mouth two years ago. Amazed they survive! He called me in, he’d put the duvet cover and pillowcases on, I gave him for his b’day. Sharron wanted to try them. I’ll hope she’ll make him try things again – he needs hope. I can give him so much, but his own generation have at least as large a part to play. Jon went to have a bath. K said he wanted to go to the pub for one drink ‘I haven’t been out of the flat.’ Actually he’d taken three loads of washing to the laundrette, but I know what he means. Other things being equal, I would have stayed in, but as I said ‘It’ll give us a little time without Jon’. ‘Exactly’, he said.

So he started in, (and certainly that pub is a good place for a talk with the seats far apart, and empty, and a game of pool clacking on so it’s not too quiet.)

The main horror was an amplifier he lent a chap called, I think, Chris, in exchange for a couple of speakers. The speakers didn’t work, he rang up to say so, and ask for the amplifier back. ‘No, not till I’ve used it.’ Really bad, and not what the general weal of musicians is used to. He had a bad time getting ready for the gig altogether, what with Peter changing the orders of the nos – which, by the way, it seems he didn’t really. He said he was going to, they had the argument, come Sunday, K said ‘Where’s the running order? In the end, Peter O threw the list down and said ‘You do it’ and walked out! I said ‘There, you see, I said, he was weaker than you.’ He said ‘Yes, but the worst bit was an argument, a row I had with Peter and Roy in a pub in Islington.’ I told them about the amplifier, and Peter didn’t take my side at all. He said ‘Well he doesn’t think much of you either.’ I said ‘I don’t want to see him again.’ ‘Nor he you’ said Peter. You were so short with him, you let one of those boys be sick all over his van (etc etc).

Roy said ‘You say you never want to see him again. I didn’t say I never wanted to see Chris Parsons again, but I could have.’ Then K said ‘I really went off pop and it took me twenty mins to explain to them the difference between a personal and a professional disagreement. (Chris P and Roy had a row ‘oh yes, it was terrible’, over the Poppy Appeal!)

I said ‘Oh dear, if only you could work with intelligent people’. He said curtly, ‘I will if you’ll tell me where to find them.’

I said ‘Was one of the boys sick in the car?’ (This was Saturday night when the boys came with him to that Working Men’s Club somewhere in Clapham). Of course it was all terrible, only lightened by two raunchy numbers they played, to an accompaniment of protests from an elderly working man – the number finished so unexpectedly to him, that he was still protesting after it was over. One of the boys said in the car ‘Open the window Kev, no wider’. He then did that solid column of beer sick into the road. Some dribbled down the outside, but we wiped it off with the beer mats the boys had nicked in the Club.

I left a pause or two, and said ‘Well you mustn’t do one of those awful gigs again.’ ‘Oh no, I won’t.’ I hope he means it. I hate to think of him there. I’m not all that keen on the Monarch.

John joined us, after we’d talked a bit about Sharron, and we went back to the flat. I asked about the new numbers, which he’d said would be new, but they’ve rehearsed two more covers. Why? But they are putting in Up at the Shops. Fancy. Lovely dinner, my steak cass! Lovely talk, lovely evening, except that when we started work, we found Jon had done nothing to Zentapuss except finish the three drawings he’d shown me, and nothing to Misspent Y. I tore into him kindly and eventually he just sat saying I’m thinking. K eventually took me to the other side of the room, to play me the latest. ‘Doesn’t anyone else cry in the street?’ !! We became engrossed, and I hope gave J an example of work. K supported and backed me up completely. I left eventually on a high wave of creativity and love. And hoped J wasn’t too low. He came in my taxi and I dropped him at KX. An idiot taxi-driver.

Later.

To my surprise, J rang at 10.20, to say he was in Ealing and could he stay the night as he has an early call. He arrived, a bit subdued. Neither of us mentioned his back-sliding, except that I gave him the simplified version of Zentap. He liked it.

Friday November 22 1985

And left it behind this morning! I took him a cup of tea in bed, to be sure I did the same as ever, vide. Persuasion and the fire in the bedroom.

How could I forget – well I know how – that I had lunch with Ian Burns, darling Ian Burns, in the Pasta Fino. He is so warm and so full of feeling, that he is a joy to be with, because he can match me. He is also perhaps the only other person in the world besides K himself, who has any idea of the depth and strength of my feeling for K.

He talked a lot of Victor Spinetti with whom he’d been up till 5.0. V.S lives in one of those new flats in Charing X Rd. The shops aren’t open yet. Poor Hilary. I feel doubtful he’ll stay with her – there’s a part of him that is very immature still.

2.02 a.m.

Phil Finch and Elaine just gone. Have made myself found out all over again why K likes Phil. And I have. A violently – I think – successful evening. During which Phil said ‘You love Kevin.’ In so many words. Interesting.

I loved it. Elaine is the real thing, except real conversation. But a rock. Strange, Phil resisted me about K and then just said what I say, that he must have artistic freedom.

But what I’ve carried away from tonight is how achingly wildly hopelessly I wait for her to come back or ring up or something, so that I can get back on an even keel.

Later.

He rang at 6.0 ish, to ask what film to go to. He’d forgotten about My Beautiful L. But not much either way, as ever. Catholic Boys, St Elmo’s Fire?

Can she have been pleased he asked me?

Hm.

Nevertheless, good talk. Shall I have a word? She’s gone to the loo.

Latest development. Glyn, bass guitarist, said at rehearsal ‘I just want to say I don’t want to play another number of yours, I don’t like your music.’ !

Well, that’s it. ‘Yes.’ ‘Up at the Shops.’ !

‘And it’s a knock-out.’

Saturday November 23 1985

Tight-fitting banquettes.

To lunch with Paul Ryan, in Victoria. Angus Steak House, never again, v expensive for what it is. V. old-fashioned. He told me about Nicky, his 24-year-old lover. With a child. It is his first real ‘affair’, and ‘very heavy.’ I don’t think I can tell the story – she’s lost her work and her marriage thro’ the malice of a friend – Paul must be so fresh and sweet and easy in comparison. She’s very pretty – I hope she’s true. It’s really moved him – it’s most fascinating how emotion can shift the very lines and planes of a face. He made me shed a tear at one point. He’d written saying he’d be there if she needed him. She came straight down to Southsea. Saw his show The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Very good little show which held the full house of children completely; it was quick and well-projected. Paul was very good and very funny. Only failure was the sets. I was pleased with him. Went home for an hour then to meet K.

Saw at once he needn’t the usual careful handling at first. It’s useless to compel response. I still can’t chart exactly what it is. It could just be shyness or the very depression he must feel. I don’t know. It results in a sort of sullenness and touchiness. At these times he’s apt to jump down my throat. They hadn’t enjoyed Catholic Boys or Pasta Fino! Although he said a little later, he wasn’t blaming me, you’d never have known it at first! I never said Catholic Boys was great, - I said it had merits, such as the acting. ‘But the plot, the story is what matters, first, and can’t be saved by the acting.’ Well ye-e-e-es. I said Pasta Fino is cheap and it is. Everyone else has liked it, he hasn’t, but that’s why I love him. It’s Sharron’s 21st on Dec 1. She’s taken Visiting Day home to look at! He’s played her a few bits here and there and she’s said nothing. Thank goodness he would talk about the group. What a week he’s had! The traumatic weekend. Monday, the row with Roy and Peter O. Evening with Paul Finch, two drinks and Phil was off. Tuesday, he had Brunch with Sharron, but Chris didn’t turn up in the evening. Wed was the Jon H fiasco. Thur. was rehearsal horror day. Friday, Phil Finch cancelled the advert trip and the film and rest were a bit off. I trembled for the rest of our evening. Thank God it was all right, despite a few rocks. By the way, Sharron wasn’t mentioned after that. She didn’t loom large – he’s still standing back.

So the group. Well to me it’s about as bad as it can be. He can’t go on. He says he will if the management suggests a week’s rehearsal on Monday, because he can’t deprive Peter of that chance after he’s set it up. Also he’s arranged a gig at City London Poly with that black friend of Colin’s on Dec 11, so he’ll do that. But if the man doesn’t come up with anything on Monday, he’ll have to give in his notice, as it were. He very nearly walked out on Thur. Personally, I think it’s hopeless and I loathe him staying a second. He looked at my set face over dinner, and protested on the usual sad lines, ‘What else can I do? except sign on?’ True, but my set face was because life has completely unfairly, reduced this gifted boy to this.

We talked of films; the four best films of the last year have been for him, Private Function, Splash, Letter to Brezhnev and what other two? And perhaps Water. Some of them didn’t get specially good notices. No, that’s how it is. Curious defiant hectoring tone he takes. How it must put off people who don’t know him! Not that I ever see him use it on them!

The new Metro Cinema is, inside, quite pleasing, like a bunker. The actual cinema well-raked, comfortable. Film My Beautiful Laundrette. Good, but a fraction too much overt message for me. Indian boy not too hot. Usual curious slightly embarrassing tone of S. h films. On the four films, at dinner, I saw what a shock all the entrepreneurs are going to have when his generation’s taste takes over in a big way, in the next few years. In plays and films, restaurants etc.

Over dinner, food not much really, in Mon Marche. I asked him to write a song with me for Lalla’s 80th birthday. He was very snotty and dismissive at first, as only he can be but at the very end felt ashamed and said ‘Let me see it when you write it.’ I had pointed out it was for Lalla’s pleasure.

Isn’t it strange that I hadn’t seen long long before, (or felt and convinced myself rather) that it is him getting his own back at the world. He knows that I will still love him whatever he says or does.

We had a long talk on writing lyrics. I must write out slowly and carefully what I mean. It’s important. The form of a song is so important – that I don’t think we should leave it at me writing and him setting, fiddling about with it to fit the music that comes to him. I mean, I can serve him better. I’m sure.

Last words on the gig, which includes of mine (and his!) not only Video Shop but Up at the Shops and the new one, Isn’t anyone else unhappy?

‘You can imagine how little I’m looking forward to it. But really I’m doing this gig entirely for you.’

Saturday November 24 1985

As usual, could think of nothing but the gig (what a strange word to have become the usual one!)

Neil called round at 6.0, so that I could tie his black tie to go to Joan Collins’ big party at the Stocks. It was so near the time for going, that tho’ there was no question of Neil making me late, - he couldn’t - I could hardly think of anything else, so much so that he picked it up. I did teach him, but in the end I had to tie it for the actual event!

So off the Chalk Farm. Pub much emptier. K setting up, Sharron and Jon H at bar. So I had them alone for about twenty minutes. Alas, I didn’t like her so much this time. I noticed her Watford whine this time, and a certain lack of vitality? Inarticulacy? Slightly phlegmatic? As I suppose, represented by her not saying anything about the music he played her. But I suppose it was mainly sparked off by her not having liked Visiting Day. She said she didn’t know what to say, ‘except your bits.’ ‘There wasn’t much acting in it’. What K didn’t like, ‘I thought four (!) of the numbers were too alike.’ I thought perhaps these were surface complaints, but, when I said to Jon H back from the ‘phone, ‘She didn’t like Visiting Day at all’, she didn’t contradict me. She’s got the use of a car, ‘I’ve been chauffeuring’. I tried not be jealous.

As for K, he seemed jolly enough in the show, jokey even, but I saw that the jokeyness was a bit wild and defiant; after all, he may never play with them again. I picked up the strain. (Surely Glyn putting on a smooth suit and collar and tie is a sinister sign?!)

The programme was:

1. Riders on the Storm (during which K did a bit of funny talk ‘Seaside? You want seaside? No, no seaside on this machine. Thunder and lightning? No.’ Peter said ‘How about the good old H-bomb?’ So K did a loud roar, and brought to an end an awkward passage.) 2. Straight Cats Stutz 3. Road Runner 4. Cry in the Street (New, written by me in 1983? It worked, it really worked very well). His arrangement! And in face of that hostility). 5. Lay, Lady, Lay 6. At The End of the Day 7. Office Canteen

2nd Half

8. Can’t Help Falling in Love 9. Come Back and Stay 10. Fight 11. Misspent Youth 12. You’re My Baby 13. Red Rooster 14. Video Shop 15. Look around 16. Walk on the Wild Side 17. Don’t Blame Me 18. Movie Screen (Little solo from K clear as a bell) 19. Nigel 20. Cycle Rock 21. Wake Up

Typical of Peter O’s lack of originality, to have the last no called Wake Up. Just to contrast with Good Night. Not that it’s not a good number to finish with, as a number.

So, after a quick post mortem in a corner, off I went to the tube with Jon H, who couldn’t go in the car ‘cause the synth had to go in the car. I hope Sharron appreciates him. I think she does – at least for such an early stage.

Forgot to record that he said over dinner last night that Sharron had to ask her father for her grant, or quite a lot of it. ‘Imagine having to do that, I would hate having to do that’. I looked at him incredulously. He pursued it ‘But wouldn’t you?’

He didn’t see, I think. So I didn’t pursue it!

Monday November 25 1985

Had said I would ring at 5.0 today. To hear any news about the group etc and tell him mine. I thought I’ll bet he’s gone out. Far from it. He rang me at 4.30. Well? Told him all including that Sharron hadn’t liked Visiting Day, which he didn’t seem to know ‘Is that what she said’. Bother, I wouldn’t have told him if I dreamt she would have said anything different to him.

He was a bit trying about Roy and Peter and dinner because he doesn’t quite like feeling part of me on these occasions, though I’m afraid he is. I mean Roy and Peter certainly think of us as very close. After all, we write songs together! But time will tell him that. I mean that what he doesn’t seem to see is that what he does and is reflects on me, and vice versa. I mean I couldn’t possibly have Glyn to dinner. Especially as he told me Glyn had cried off the Dec 11 gig, I presume because it is K’s gig rather than Peter’s. I expect he just doesn’t like K as well as his music. I expect he is one of those who thinks K needs taking down a peg. God save us.

Later.

Further to Sat, he mentioned Christmas to me, telling me he was going to L’pool from the 18th for a week because the 18th is his mother’s birthday, and of course there’s her operation. Poor boy. Poor Marjorie.

Oh, and he asked what book I was reading. That’s back to the wall stuff! But he asked what I’d been doing. Ah!

When I said ‘Do you want brandy? because of Sharron liking brandy and him saying whisky makes him wake up early, he said rather brutally ‘No, I’ll have whisky’ and he suddenly said ‘What are those two gashes on your bald head?’ I said they were rose-thorn wounds from my day at Neil’s. I said about not being bald enough – he said ‘Oh all that little fuzz on the top, its sweet’. He meant it, you could knock me down with a feather, or some fuzz.

Later.

Just looking up the Dec 11 gig on the map helps. Or even B Road.

Oh.

Tuesday November 26 1985

To soothing lunch with dear John N.

In ‘Night and Day’ at the end of a funny article by Graham Greene, describing a luncheon during which Louis B Mayer talked for 40 minutes, a description which apparently lightly satirises Mayer and Hollywood, the fatal thrust is kept to the end.

The writers, a little stuffed and a little boozed, lean back and dream of the £100 a week - and all that’s asked in return, the dried imagination and the dead pen!

12.45 Dinner with Prim at Eatons. Very soothing and reminiscent. I bring out her best.

Food – hm. Service hm. Restaurant gayish and Americanish but talk satisfactory. All the same, I walked away groaning for him and passed Phil Finch and thought is he there. Where is he?

Wednesday November 27 1985

Dreadful grey low nothing nothing day. Despite Dottie ringing up this p.m.

Bob White to dinner. He is just as perceptive and mild and solved as I thought.

To my surprise, Chris has treated him as badly as everyone else. I hadn’t seen him for 2 or 3 weeks till Sunday. He owes me £15 for the dope. He said give me £15 and I’ll put £15 and get the real stuff. Since when I’ve seen him with dope, but he’s never given me any, or my £15! I read Clare J’s letter to him. ‘All women lie.’ But he didn’t mean that. About the money, he said that Chris spent £150 on her before. (Before what?)

Although her letter is ‘lady protests’, I’m much more inclined to believe her than him. After all, she could just give him up.

Bob is my sort. ‘I hardly know Kevin.’ Why not? Why hasn’t K cultivated him?

But oh how I’ve longed for him to ring today because surely something must have happened. That is, either they’re rehearsing or they’re not. He did say if the management didn’t say on Monday, he’d finish. Well? I daresay there has been a half-mess as usual.

And I only spoke to him on Monday, but but but

Thursday November 29 1985

Woke, as so often now, about 5.0. Started to read and, as also so often, after about an hour, started to doze again. I don’t resist this, in case I need the sleep. Sometimes I just doze for five mins and read again. One of the dozes this morning was more like half an hour and I had a horrible dream. It was horrible dream because I was horrified while I was believing it to be happening, and horrifying when it was over because I was ashamed of having had it. It was a very straightforward jealousy dream. This is what I wrote. ‘Went to flat. It was all hung with blue Chinese style hangings. He was papering the sitting room having done the other two rooms. He was evasive though admitting it was Sharron’s influence. Later, in a grandish house, on first floor, he was living with her in antique style flat. He was removed from me. Later still, his hair was cut, in smart clothes and shoes, and seemed a bit ill, in bed, emasculated. Head slightly misshapen. He could not see me. She passed me going towards him, wearing the suit I gave him and a cat got the cream smile.

Now the horror of shame I won’t dwell on – that’s obvious and I feel too much to do anything but try to control and destroy it.

But the other horror - it was being divided from him taken to its utmost, for a start, but worst of all, was the terrible feeling that he had lost himself, abandoned all his principles, social and emotional, and that even his music had gone.

The feeling stayed with me for some hours. I don’t need any more acute illustration of how much he means to me; it frightens me to think that I have built all my hopes and affections and future on his friendship, on his future, on his place in my life. It simply isn’t right is it?

As always, right or not, the doing of it is done. It’s how I use my love that matters.

Saturday November 7 1985

It is indeed. Friday night was quiet and domestic. Him finishing putting up the shelves and I putting back the cassettes while he got the dinner. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I know that, by the time I was writing out the two new lyrics after dinner and he was finishing off the cassettes, he had stopped responding to me. As always, it gradually maddened and terrified me and I ended up screaming at him and tearing up the lyrics. Of course I was drunk, but it cannot always be as he wants it. He likes all to be implicit, but it cannot be like that all the time.

I rang when I got back with one sentence of defiance, he said ‘I’m glad you got home safely.’ Dick Bird and Mike Parsons came to dinner on the Sunday evening. Ben was still staying and Jon H turned up, so I was very glad for the distraction, especially as I was missing the gig. We had a good theatre talk, - Dick and Mike have a scheme to run Worthing with just enough money to employ actors on their dole money. I meekly pointed out that that was amateur, and that Equity might be cross. Still, they must find out for themselves. We agreed fervently, often and rightly, that ‘something must change.’ They all stayed the night and Dick and Mike stayed till 12.30 the next morning. Jon H looks a bit shifty these days.

On Monday went with all the Laughton references to meet Simon at the BBC. Went to one Photopoint where the girl said straightaway ‘Oh no’. Went to one round the corner and a nice young man was yea-saying also straightaway. No that is a difference I notice, that some women do like being able to say ‘no’, waitresses for instance. To Vie en Rose for lunch. Quite nice, very amused by waitress, (Swedish said S) saying ‘There is no Sole, have some monkfish, it is the same fish in a different shape’ !! S very funny about Ralph R. Tony Hopkins has told him of an actor going up to R.R. on a Monday night ‘How are you Sir Ralph?’ ‘Not too good, my brother was burnt to death at his cottage over the weekend’. ‘My God, how awful, I am so sorry Sir Ralph.’ ‘Well, it can’t happen again.’

Back home, there was a note to ring K ‘I’m after addresses.’ He lost his a. book last week.

It was a good way to break back. We both know really. This whole week sunk in career and financial misery and apathy. Rang Jon H on Tues night at 9.45, and got K! Rehearsing at home. No news from Mark Thompson.

Lalla rang on Thursday eve. Mr Picton has begun the central heating. Yesterday I went to see Steve Thorn’s little showette. No talent. Alas. And it was reigning.

The whole week has been a haze of misery and apprehension and apathy – mainly apathy.

As for us, all was made well. He rang at 10pm with full news of everything. Initially to say that he hadn’t known till that afternoon that Roy had cancelled our dinner for the gig, but the gig hadn’t been changed! I had been a bit miffed at him for not telling me. As he said, ‘I’d hardly ring up to say a gig hadn’t been changed.’ He hadn’t seen Sharron since Sat. As for the group, very interesting.

‘The vibes are bad’. Its Glyn mainly. But ‘I don’t want to lose Roy and Peter’s playing’. Hm. Roy, I quite agree, but Peter – his playing may be all very well, but I don’t think he and K will ever finally get on, and I don’t think their music goes together. We’ll see.

You know astrology? He wants me to pay £200 of his mortgage and I am pushed. Three entries from the E. Standard. I might have written this of K – ‘At all times and in all situations remember you have a unique talent which must not only be expressed and developed but bought.’ But this is uncanny about that Friday, for me and him – ‘You may not think you are over-dramatising situations or endangering important relationships, but you are. Therefore, think long and hard before issuing ultimatums, even when you feel others are not being totally honest about finances and resources.’ And yesterday both our stars mentioned joint financial arrangements.

The ‘phone call also contained this sentence, ‘You’re really the fifth member of the group.’ He’s to let me know whether ‘Wolf Boy’ is ready for Sunday or not.

It was a curious talk, slow, utterly relaxed, open, calm and no mention of the row – as ever! His choice again! Also, well, I love him and can forgive him - not to mention myself – anything.

Sunday December 8 1985

I just couldn’t be bothered last night to write about David G’s 40th party. How much such an occasion would once have meant to me! Sizeable house, a drawing room four times the size of mine, pale peach carpets. About 100? people. Patricia Hodge, Peter Bowles etc. Food not till 9.45, very good plain food. Lots of wine. Now apart from my usual dislike of big parties and my sudden wish to go home and stop having superficial talk after the first hour and half, I was also depressed (no, not depressed because I was in some way uplifted) by the fact that I think I probably had the most radical opinions of anyone in the room! I fear he has allied himself with the moneyed establishment in a big way. After all, what could be staler than the Haymarket play?

I gave him two of D’s letters from twenty years ago, about him. He looked touched, but of course hadn’t time to read them as the guests were pouring in. I may never hear another word.

As I left, I said, not quite ingenuously, ‘Imagine what it means to see you set up like this.’ ‘Yes, that’s why I asked you.’ !

K rang today, a longish call, sorry not to have rung the day before. The group’s broken up. Mainly due to Glyn. I can’t say I’m sorry. He doesn’t want to lose Roy and Peter’s guitar playing. I said I didn’t think his and Peter’s music went together, Peter’s nos making poor back- gr. for his. Peter will consent just to be a guitarist, all right. (Tho’ even then I don’t think they’ll finally get on and P.O has an air of failure.) I asked him about the 19th and Christine and Richard and he said oh that’s the night we’re having our first fuck. She’s gone on the pill and that’s the first day it’s safe. I hope. I wonder what he would do, or feel, if he got someone pregnant. It’s a great tribute to the pill that he’s never done it!

They went to see the Sean Mathias play at The Bush on Saturday. Odd, if I’d accepted Neil’s offer to go to the first night the night before. He said (K, I mean) that I should go, it was good, it might be that I’d say that I’d seen it all before (it’s about MS.) but it made him cry at the end.

‘I’m sorry but I can’t see you till Thursday the way things have worked out. But Colin has hired some equipment so we can do some recording next week. We’ll talk over what we need to hire and the money on Thursday.’

He didn’t want to come to the gig – the last one, as it wouldn’t be a very happy one.

Monday December 9 1985

Felt a little better with the arrival of a cheque or two delayed in the mini-postal strike. A quiet day till Ian Burns suddenly rang up at 7.0 and could he and Hilary come round and play the video of his film that won a prize at Munich Film Festival. He had never seen it himself, so I was much touched. It was called Liebe Mutter (was it?) and starred Ian and a German actor, was very funny and brilliantly directed by Michael Caton-Jones, who’s 27 and still a student at the Nat. Film School. Ian never put a foot wrong, and I was able to praise him unreservedly. He also photographs like a dream. They brought a bottle of wine and turned a grey evening into a happy one. He is a good friend and I love her, but I feel he will make her very unhappy before they part.

K rang at 8.30. ‘I’m after addresses.’ Pause. ‘Have you got my brother Phil’s address?’

Tuesday December 10 1985

Hopeless day.

Wednesday 11 1985

Lots of talk, which helps to distract. Neil came round to lunch and we went thro’ his Biggles publicity and I pulled it into shape, shortening it by about half. He was naively surprised by cutting it to pieces and stapling the bits together! He was in poor spirits, flagellating himself for his thoughtlessness with Lynda. ‘Things are bad between us.’ Well, yes, they would be. ‘I can cry over someone opening a birthday present, I can cry over someone I don’t know opening a birthday present, but inside I’m cold. I’m a cold cunt.’ And so on. But of course, despite some actual selfishness on Neil’s part, so much of it is due to his ambition which has driven him as far as he’s got and will no doubt propel him further. If Lynda can’t accept that, she must prepare to leave him, sooner or later. Because it isn’t just selfishness, he is being driven forward. He left about 3.30, I changed and went off to a commercial interview, for Carlings Black Label. Idiotic, sitting in a stage box and reacting to Hamlet starting to kick the skull about like a football. They couldn’t seem to tell us what they wanted us to react like! We were out in two mins, hardly worth changing into my suit. ‘We’ were me and a middle-aged actress called Lala Lloyd. She knew D, so we had nice chats and as she was due at Riverside at 6.30, she came in for a drink. Pleasant.

Joe S was very nearly an hour late. Looks what? A little more weight and redness in his face. A bit wilder. What happened in Chester?! But he was just as responsive and intelligent as ever. Has £4500 in a bldg society. So what does he do? I was amused when I said if he got a flat, Tessa would – ‘Exactly.’

Oh, these boys.

K rang at 3.0 to ask for Colin Booth’s address!? Which I hadn’t got.

Thursday December 12 1985

So there we were. And discussing about M Youth and money and. - . and …

And all is swept aside in a tide of perfect friendship.

Simon was in the restaurant and pushed in too much. Unfair, I expect, as anything but perfect privacy is inimical.

I want no-one and nothing but him, and will give him everything.

Friday December 13 1985

He arrived in the pub with a large spot where that blackhead always used to be, after a maddening talk in the middle of the afternoon when he was working on Wolf Boy. He didn’t want to come here and thought we were seeing Back from the Future. I’d bought the dinner, but that’s all right. The only bore was having to go straight back to the West End to book the seats, I’d just come from there, lunch with Hazel and Tom Holt (‘Tom has come specially from Oxford to hear that Ralph Richardson story’) at the University Women’s Club, so cosy in the middle of the wicked Mayfair.

It’s so strange, at once I saw he was his softest self. And how my heart bled for him! Not only has the group split up, £15 a Sunday, but Jon H announced he was leaving just before K came out. £25 a week, but also he had all his clothes stolen in the launderette, well, all his shirts, all his t-shirts, all his underpants, so of course he had to spend £30 or so on something to wear. He keeps his spirits remarkably. We got something settled about money, tho I hardly know where I’ll find it. I don’t care. He told me about the group break-up, it was mainly Glyn. ‘He behaved stupidly, jealously and nastily, I think, no, I’m sure.’

We had long comprehensive talks about Misspent Youth with a view to redoing the second half for June over Christmas. He had some good suggestions which he always expects me to remember!

Parted with the closest of hugs, and a reminder to ring me without fail about the recording, as Colin might ring him anytime up to 3 a.m.

Sunday

He didn’t in fact ring till during the party on Sat, by which time I had a wasted w/e. So I had another dead time. Started to tell him off and he rang off, naughty. Still, he’s coming tomorrow for a writing session. So I am less upset.

The stars for Thursday were again startlingly relevant.

His. Eventually you will look back on this period in your life with a certain amount of affection. At the moment however, you are too hurt and shocked to realise the difficulties you are experiencing at home and at work will stand you in good stead in the years to come.

Mine. (Memo. I have to pay £200 off his mort.) One reassuring aspect should remove much of the current tension in a very special relationship. However, this is not a signal to go overboard financially. You have many pressing obligations which have to be met before you can afford to indulge yourself or others. !

Had vivid and unpleasant dream of K having just had a skinhead haircut from who? And turning to look at me coming in, half amused, half ashamed.

Not pleasant, as I do want him to get it cut, but only a bit!

Monday December 16 1985

Will write in detail tomorrow, but just register perfection again. Good work, perfect sympathy. What an in and out boy he is, and how he loves me.

Tuesday December 17 1985

Mrs Endean died early this morning. Her friend, Mrs Rees came round and burst into tears when she realised I didn’t know. I’ll describe her progress, and go into Monday. She left me a note on Friday, saying she had a rotten cold ‘flu, really, one of these viruses’, she felt lousy and wouldn’t come on Monday. I thought it must be quite bad for her to know she wouldn’t be able to come on Monday and she didn’t say she was sorry. Both very unlike her. I got quite a shock to get a further letter on Sunday, written by a drunk spider, almost unreadable, and asking me to get the doctor. He came about 3.15, examined her, and said it was heart-failure. He told me he was going to tell the hospital it was acute, because otherwise she wouldn’t me admitted. If she has a few days rest, she can be out for Christmas. If not, it’ll drag on. He said to the ambulance men ‘non-urgent’. He told them to ring my bell – Mrs Eyre was with Mrs E by this time, but alas they rang hers. So not only was our session slightly distracted by listening for the bell, but we missed saying goodbye to her. How strange that it should be K who was here.

She died at 2 a.m. and I am very sorry. I shan’t be able to afford a cleaner again.

So our beautiful day together was shadowed in retrospect.

The work was good. He was full of invention and we did really feel we integrated all the new stuff into the old and made both twice as good. The computer theme is now properly expanded and dealt with and the end is now far stronger – and truer.

He was so sweet about the Christmas arrangements. We’ll have our Christmas on that first Monday he’s back. He’s going on Friday for over the weekend following Christmas. Too long, I think he may find. He said to Sharron ‘Not Tuesday, because I must have one night to go out with Angus.’ Actually we couldn’t tonight because of the work, and anyway he made an appt with Mark Thompson to play him the new numbers (I rang him tonight about a line and she was there, so he got the best of both worlds – just that he’d kept a night, that’s what I liked). I was much and wryly amused when he said Mark Thompson was supposed to ring back the other day and he didn’t ‘Why didn’t people ring back?’ Why indeed?!

The gig had been terrible, predictably. Sharron, hadn’t been at either of them either. Good.

He burst out that he was really quite glad Jon H was leaving. That was after I’d asked him if he’d been eating garlic. He hadn’t, it was just Jon cooking! It was so strong that K had to go back out into the street for a bit!

‘Have you, – the £200? And of course, I hadn’t. But I will, when it comes in.

So we were really stuck into the work and he said (this is still Monday) ‘We’ve got tomorrow and Wed and Thur. and even Friday morning, if necessary, tho I’d rather not, cos of Sharron the night before (it’s their first proper fuck, since she started taking the pill.)

I took his measurements in case I buy him some clothes, no tape-measure so I used bits of string, and then mixed them up. He left about 6.30, I said Had he any money? And he said £15 and it was enough!

It is so heavenly knowing I’m going to speak to him or see him every day till he goes.

How he felt Mrs E’s illness!

And her death when I told him this morning!

Jon H came to start on the kitchen and dining-room. So, to the endless dripping soaking of the bathroom, is joined the chaos in the kitchen and the absence of Mrs E. I felt strange. Jon worked well, after we’d bought the paint. White and very very very pale pink.

Wednesday December 18 1985

A crowded tiring but very satisfactory day.

Woke at five or so as usual. Worked and copied and worked on all our notes and ideas. To Simon’s at 12.0, with the rest of the Laughton books, about five. Jolly time. ‘Jake’s’ we both had scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, fresh tomato soup. Even there some dreary office parties, taking dreary flash-light photos of their dreary selves. He shocked me by telling me that he’d bought Matt a complete Hitachi hi-fi system like his, - about £1000, I suppose. Very wrong.

Off to K’s, dead on the dot of 3.0. Went through all the stuff I’d finished. He is good at being definite. We had another excellent session tying up references and ironing out inconsistencies. Andy now takes down the words for the last number all through the show!

And it’s on the computer. Stayed till about 6.30. He said come to lunch, 12.0 and afternoon, before Sharron. Off to Dick Bird’s in the Old Kent Rd. Felt suddenly a bit ill in the tube. Disaster, as goodness knew what I’d get to eat. Thank goodness, it went off. Fascinating eve. To Elephant and Castle tube. Taxi (not bus as suggested) down the Old Kent Rd. To Kinglake Rd. Quite narrow for a few yards, opening on to a large area of council flats. All very run- down, with large holes in the pavements full of water, few signs except Beware of Sleeping Policeman. I supposed there was a cadet police hostel nearby. I arrived at Dick’s block, Barnham House. Filthy stairs smelling of pee, first flat gutted, with a half-burnt, half-ripped up sofa prone in the door-way. Dick’s flat had one window and the door boarded up, with a card saying Yes, Dick does live here. A warm welcome. The kitchen window was a break-in last night. Living room good strong curtains, what on the floor? A new-looking sofa and chair in buttoned chestnut leather, a really good cassette player, a lot of books in packing cases and packing cases for occasional tables. Rather sweet Hock to drink, but then all Hock is sweet to me. Oh, deep red lights which cover up a lot of deficiencies. Good.

In to dinner, in his bedroom. More packing cases, but covered with a white cloth. Seats, two joined red plush cinema seats. In front of me, a pretty dinner plate with an olive-green saucer on it. On the olive-green saucer a good rich dollop of (as I afterwards found) sardine mousse (we had the rest of the cream with the coffee!), on the top a sprig of parsley, and a slice of lemon. On the dinner plate, arranged symmetrically four triangles of toast. Followed by spaghetti carbonara. And a cake with the coffee. There was another glass of wine but no more coffee. Ah.

Played the tape of the musical, as they’d read the script. They really liked it – I think. But it spoiled the evening’s ordinary development. They walked me to the bus and waved goodbye really warmly.

On the tube there were two young gentlemen next to me in pinstripe suits and black overcoats. Both v. good-looking, so I couldn’t quite see why they were on the tube together, and one of them, the more selfish looking, was talking all the time to the other one. I couldn’t see that either, until I realised he was worried because the other was so drunk. Finally, at Sloane Sq, the drunk one got up, stepped on to the platform, and as he did so, his mouth bulged and he was violently sick. He pulled himself together in time to step back on the train with a few streaks of sick on his smart clothes. The really handsome one, aged 23 or 4?, retained unbroken aplomb. ‘Hold it in till Earls Court.’ I changed carriages in case my lap might be the receptacle for the second volley.

Thursday December 19 1985

Simon to Geneva to try and do some work on the Laughton – he has to go somewhere where he knows no-one.

To K’s for 12.0. Chris still there, but did not stay for lunch. Peter H! cancelled on Wed ‘So that lets us work’!! Autres temps, autres moeurs! Very subdued, indeed every now and again looked as if he were going to cry. Bags of change on the floor, the £65 he’d busked for yesterday! When he’d gone I said ‘He looks a bit low’. K said ‘Well, I have a go at him whenever I see him.’ So lunch. K said he and Chris went to a pub in the Holloway Rd and there was a pool competition. K got through to the final! And was the runner-up and won £3! Proudest moment of my life. How many contestants? About 15-20? We settled down to work. He was full of invention and sweetness. We laughed a lot, laid out the final load of work. New scene for Jenny and Arthur, a hard nut. Once he saw that it was only work for me – true – he said he would go off to get Sharron’s Christmas present (Where would I get a frying pan like the two you gave me?) and one or two odd bits. He reckoned it would take two hours – I said one. It did take him exactly two, why I don’t know, as it was only Shaftesbury Ave and Cov. Gdn., four stations away. I struggled on, cracked everything but the Jenny and Arthur scene. Did 2 versions.

When he came back from the shops, he was a bit beside himself, aren’t we all, after Christmas rush? Was that all? I showed him what I’d done. He forced himself to concentrate, and we settled it. Interesting, I didn’t get any sense of impatience, wanting her to be there. Just impatience at how tiresome and trying it was with a lot of opposing demands. I got myself as undemandingly away as soon as I could, after he’d said we’d have to meet tomorrow to hand over the finished script. Last words – ‘Thank you for all you’ve done.’ Odd.

Later.

He rang at 8.15 to say don’t give me an address book because Sharron has and she says she’s sorry.

Seemed alright.

Jon is getting on famously with the painting.

Forgot to say I measured him with a tape measure before he went out.

Waist 33’ Chest 38’ Inside leg 30’ 31’ (These jeans are 30 and I can’t do them up!)

Later still

Yes, he was in an odd mood for someone expecting a girlfriend. Nothing to do with today. A general observation for the past and future. He is like YOU – he is purposely COLD. He is pacing himself to the emotional demands of our future. There’s a long way to go.

Friday December 20 1985

Up at 5.0, recopying and bits of polishing. Rang Coach Station to see when Liverpool coaches went, to see how my day would go! There’s only seats left on the three o’clock and seven o’clock, and you ought to go straight to a travel agent now to get a seat on the three o’clock! I debated whether to book a seat or ring K, or both. In the end, rang K about 11.30. No answer. So perhaps he was out seeing her off. In any case, he rang at 12.0 ish to say meet at Victoria at 2.0. So I leisurely got lunch, the bacon was on, it was 12.50. ‘Plans changed, I can’t get on the coach so meet me at Euston at 1.30 for the 2.0 train. I’ll just have a bite to eat’. ‘So will I’ I said, optimistically. Put the ‘phone down and realised it was only four stations for him, but thirteen for me! So, grabbing two slices of bread and the two rashers out of frying-pan, I ran. Got there and was looking at the time display after one visit to the ticket office. Back to the ticket office and there he was, glistening with sweat, an unfamiliar cream cylinder bag he’d borrowed from Sharron with his things in. Good, I can give him a new cylinder bag. I’d looked up the trains, no 2.0 today, only a 2.30. As it was now 1.35, I busied myself in case there should legitimately be a whole, nearly, hour. There was. We went – ‘Shall we have a half of lager?’ – to the pub – ‘I know it’s an awful pub’ – on the station. It’s no use, its perfect and he knows it, and sometimes wishes it wasn’t, but it is.

‘Oh, Mark T on Tues night. He didn’t like either of the nos’. Um.

I still haven’t quite given him up, but I shall unless he gives K a lift of some sort soon. Told him of Rachel, Jon H’s Rachel, saying, when I said ‘Clear up a bit before Lalla and I come, because Jon is quite untidy’, assuming we both knew how charming that was. R said ‘You know if it wasn’t for you and me, I don’t know where that flat would be!’ A misjudgement, because it implied a judgement on K, whose flat it after all is. And he keeps it pretty well.

Enabling all of them to go on living there. Coarse. But very Yorkshire.

We talked around his time with June. And John Rae. And his mother being bed-bound. We watched a wind-cheater for the young man sitting next to us. We shoved one another up about the show. He said he’d had a ‘lovely’ time with Sharron, he’d played her ‘MY’, she’d liked it all but the Break Dance (‘well, all my friends say that the odd number out’) well, it is, he put it in to be up to date! Can’t remember what they were watching, he and Sharron, after that, something ‘and then I went down on her.’ With a little complacent smirk – even dear sensitive K – so he isn’t smitten yet.

So on the talk went, and another half, and further invention from both about the show (the other night we parted with ‘You are brilliant’, ‘No, you’re brilliant’. Basis of a good partnership).

And then it was 10 past 2. ‘I’d better get in the queue’. We got there. ‘Love to your parents’. That brief body crushed against body, cheek against cheek. And, then, ‘I won’t wait’. And all my life’s blood draining and leaking and pouring away till Monday week.

Saturday December 21 1985

I went on to meet Roy Mitchell, who has turned up again. Most of his projects seem to have ground to a halt, too. The film and all those plays! Oh dear. Still we had a jolly time at Maison Bertaux and then at that wine bar round the corner from Leicester Sq tube, spacious, never packed, with booths so you can be fairly private. He’s finished with Lucy and is back with Sue, the forensic pathologist! Oh dear, I liked Lucy. He went off about six to meet Sue, I quietly home.

Although we swap quotations, and he’s read everything I’ve read, there’s no comparison. Odd, isn’t it?

Jon H’s Rachel is certainly after him – they’re setting up house together. Hm. He needs somebody strong, but – to illustrate her slight pushiness, two remarks to me which jarred. I had rung and got her, Jon still at work, - at K’s flat, I mean. ‘See he clears up before Lalla and I arrive, eh?’ ‘Oh Angus, I don’t know what would happen to this flat if it wasn’t for you and me!’ I’ve met her twice? three times? She doesn’t know me nearly well enough to say something like that, not to mention the dismissing of K in his own flat. I pointed out mildly that K could clear up perfectly if and when he wanted to, with his own. I disliked intensely the suggestion that K is a helpless male. He is very domestic and can clean and cook as well as anyone, but, like not matching up socks, he has better things to do with his time, most of the time. Also, she doesn’t know his mother!

The other remark was of the more familiar belittling of K ‘I’ve bought him a little thing for blowing bubbles – Kevin likes that sort of thing’. Dear little Kevin, Huh! It’s always people who don’t acknowledge or comprehend, and yet uneasily sense, the existence of that great deep well of feeling from which, among other things, his music comes, that attempt to diminish him to a more comfortable size. That tender firm merry intensely sympathetic poetic spirit.

Sunday December 22 1985

The drips from the Ascot got so bad I finally had to get the plumber who did the drain-pipe. Terry Earls, no front teeth, very sharply pale blue eyes, rather small pupils. Did it, and said it was usable! Maddening. Not him, the gas people. Did no cards, no presents.

Monday December 23 1985

To H’smith B’dway to meet Lalla. Terrific traffic jams. At one moment, walked to corner of H’smith Bridge Rd, and watched the stationary files of traffic, stationary – I timed it – at one point, for seven minutes as far as one could see, in every direction.

Met her. She’d forgotten we were going straight to K’s, and as usual, made it a reproach. Settled in at K’s – I had to go off at 6.0 to Simon Stokes and Jenny Toppler’s party. Rather dreary little affair, talked to Wilson, who promptly asked for an audition for his young brother, Rory, the moment he heard about the musical. Also long talk with John Woodvine! Both remembered me vividly! God, John Woodvine is a safe cautious stupid man. No wonder he’s always been in work.

Had to take two taxis to get back in reasonable time for Lalla’s dinner. She thought she was tolerant about it, but she wasn’t.

Tuesday December 24 1985

An immense pall of apathy, bitterness and boredom descended on me last night. And continues today.

Lifted only for a moment at 10.45am when K rang. I had wondered why he didn’t ring last night, but I know so well how it could have happened at home. And when? While I was at the party probably!

So the whole evening with June went v. well (He didn’t stay the night!). Jo Ward was there. So socially it was pleasant, he certainly felt he had re-established his friendship with June and she certainly didn’t choke him off at all. He read the ‘cartilaginous’ scene to here, ‘very Angus’ she said. He played two or three of the songs on the piano! And left her the tape. When I say ‘choke him off’, she didn’t say in any way at all that she didn’t want to do it, or that she never wanted to work with him at all. On the other hand, she didn’t say anything positive. Well, she wouldn’t.

I was mildly amused that, despite snubbing me last week, he did forget to ask Lalla about her keyboard! He asked me to tape ‘The Snowman’, a cartoon, at 6.30 this afternoon.

Lalla made me go to Oxford St to push thro’ the crowds. ‘We always went out on Christmas eve’. At the flat, she stands so close to me, and looks at me cooking and wants to subdue me into the ghastly dribble of trivial domestic chat she and her friends wallow in.

That sounds violent. It is on her part - without her knowing. But I grow increasingly cold, and it will end in tears.

Wednesday December 25 1985

Usual ghastly flat day. Rendered worse by the central heating going on and off, and me saying during dinner that we disagreed profoundly on almost everything, and let us just find another TV prog to watch, to pass the time without serious conversation – she didn’t like that! And I escaped. She has no idea how selfish and uncharitable she is.

When Jon H came round yesterday, she said among other things ‘Yes, we thought he was going to do more comedy, but he hasn’t managed to get it’.

Rang K at 3.10. Lovely.

Thursday December 26 1985

Heating still erratic, needing turning on again every hour and half or so. Thank God, this was a sort of excuse, we could both use. But I was surprised that she announced she was leaving a day early, by saying it to Ann, when she arrived to pick us up! How cross she’d have been if I had been ‘deceitful’ like that. But oh, the release! Off we went with me chattering to Ann – the contrast – delicious lunch. After lunch, Hannah wanted to watch Superman. Did so, for a few minutes at a time. Was amused that Ann and I were left nodding off. Easier. At one time, Hannah was sitting between Lalla and I, on the sofa, wiping her feet on my trousers, fidget, fidget, fidget, no matter how far I edged away. Lalla very scornful that I complained. Then a lot of dull nice people turned up, among them Mrs Trinsey. Great theatre lover, great bore. Told some stories which made her more awe-inspired and more boring. Left at 6.30, was driven back by one of the friends, boring but kind.

So at last, a whole evening and night alone at K’s. A time at my own rhythm and arranged to my taste, without the disturbance of his more fluid life and most of all without the constant pressure and heat of my love for him. It was somehow a step forward. It made me love the flat more, having it to myself, and will give me more strength in it, when he’s there.

Friday December 27 1985

I was on the point of going out to get my haircut at 2.15, when K rang. In his mother’s bedroom. Nigel had given her a cordless telephone for Christmas. What a good present. She can use it in the hospital. K as soft as silk. Told Mrs M about Mrs E. He hadn’t. She said I’d been so good to K, he ought to help me with the housework! Do you know I couldn’t, though in a sense he ought to, but he’s too good to be a drudge, even for an hour.

She is to have the operation for replacement hip on Jan 7. She told me at length of her symptoms in her quiet little high voice. The line wasn’t too good, (or perhaps it was the new ‘phone) so I didn’t catch all of it. She sounded all right, but she must see Jan 7 as a great hurdle.

To the barber and back to K’s to pack up and tidy up and leave it all as it isn’t usually! Stayed another hour or two, inhaling the atmosphere of this life – when the original sound is there you don’t bother about the echo. But it’s interesting on its own.

Saturday December 28 1985

To first rehearsal of Hot Metal. John Gordon Sinclair not discernibly different from Gregory’s Girl. So quite adorable. Geoffrey Palmer claimed to know me, unformidable. Robert Hardy, very pleasant but of course my tie and my accent – otherwise it might be different.

Rehearsal room icy, despite portable gas fires. The factory underneath was shut and the heating was shut, too.

Sunday December 29 1985

To rehearsal again, seeming prosperous no doubt, with all my financial difficulties throbbing overhead. I will protect him.

Monday December 30 1985

He rang at 10.45! to say what are the arrangements for tonight. Just a meal. Here. Oh good, because mum’s gone off to have her hair done, and then she goes into hospital and of course wants me to be here when she does, so I may have to get the 6.0 which gets in at 8.45, so I’d be with you at 9.30. Is that impossible? Nothing’s impossible if it’s you.

So I was quite glad really, as I had to clean the flat.

Shopped, veal and new potatoes and mange touts. Got all absolutely ready and then genuinely tried to forget. I was rewarded by a shout at 8.15, ‘I’m here’. He was really up, released, ‘I’ve left your present in L’pool. I’ve written the tag. Oh, no, wait, I’ve put Love on it, no, that’s printed on, I’ve put Kevin, but it ought to have, too, the shape of things to come.

I screamed and cried with laughter as he spread all his luggage all over the hall. He rang Nigel to see where he’d left it, - it turned out to be among the blankets on his bed! He finally told me what it was – a white curly lead, so he redo all my wires. At last! Very sweet. During Nigel’s call, it was obvious he was speaking of a girl Kevin had seen, and Nigel mentioned her, when I spoke – Sarah. K said, ‘Tell her I hope to see again, and how nice it was!’ ‘Oh yes, I met her in a pub.’ Brushed it off a bit, but Nigel had thought something of it.

Rang Sharron. Doesn’t know her number off by heart yet. Sweet with her, ‘can’t wait to see you’, but not affected by her yet, at all deeply. Never mentioned her again and had only the seven sentences he had tonight with her, once while away. Lunch.

So we had dinner. And he told me all about - oh no, we had my presents, a big shoulder bag, and in it an automatic tape-measure (for when the shelves fall down again), a chopping board (so that the next Jon H doesn’t garlic the breadboard), a Mason-Pearson hairbrush (‘to prove I really do like your hair long’), a Beryl Bainbridge novel – Liverpool – and some telephone pads for his new telephone table.

Then I had the full story, such as it was, of June H. Jo Ward was there and two or three (or four?) others. No wonder she never has me alone. She is too inchoate and vague and unfocused. It strikes me both of them were simply solving their consciences for having forgotten about him for two years. Both of them suggested vague undecided but vaguely unsettling ideas. He read me a letter he’d written to June (and Jo incidentally) which initially irritated me because it was forgiving ‘You gave me such a chance’, and equated them with me. But, of course, I’ve never given him a chance – I’ve only supported and encouraged him, I’ve never had a chance to give him. The letter was good. I see that now, and will tell him. After he went to bed, tonight, (tho’ I went to bed first, because of rehearsal tomorrow, I wandered back into the sitting room for another drink and found his letter and new little address book on the floor. Read the letter – unashamedly, and It was in context, good. (After all, it was partly about my musical as well). So I shall say tomorrow he must send it. But what an unsatisfactory encounter. What brainless people they are! June and Jo! And K isn’t. And yet has no intellectual trappings. But is my closest friend. And vice versa. So! In the address book is almost everyone. Chris, Phil S, Peter O, Sharron.

But not me.

It would not bore me to have a film of every minute of his life from birth till now. 24 hours a day. I would have to fast forward, I daresay, every now and again, but ….

The letter I wrote with his presents finished up, I think, I have not changed by a jot, tittle, iota or drop, my faith in your talent and success.

Nor has my love altered either.

//NB. This diary contains an envelope of auburn hair.//

DIARY NO. 65

December 31 ‘85 – February 18 1986.

Tuesday December 31 1986

Wrote a long letter/note to him sitting up in bed this morning at 7.30, thinking of him, sleeping in the room under mine. I do believe that feeling of him being safe, of knowing he’s safe, is truly parental, really what parents feel. I said to him again that he was the great central fact of my life, that made it worth living. Worth living for. I wonder if he’ll ever know how literally true that is. I also talked about ‘our money’. Because it is. I mean, I feel the same when he tells me of a bill of his, as I do about my own. I know I pay a lot of them, but now I feel and assume it.

So off to rehearsal, leaving him to sleep. He said last night he’d wash up, and he did. Leaving a note on two saucepans These have not been washed. Not much fun washing up without running hot water, but he did it, tho’ on his way to meet Sharron.

So to him at about 7.15, having rung a couple of times to see if I could bring anything. No answer. Got there. No answer till the second bell (didn’t use my key in case he doesn’t want to underline it to her. I didn’t think they’d still be in bed by 7.0, nor were they. I did use my key in the end, and he was on the stairs saying Didn’t you see the note? They’d been up with Nigel and Joy and just not got to the ‘phone either. The note was on the table upstairs! Sharron went off home after my bath and they were eating upstairs, so I had him to myself for a blessed ¾ of an hour. She’d gone to get her cat! I had a bath and a drink. He got in a quarter of gin and wine and a half whisky. No-one else coming. They’d obviously had a long love afternoon. She looked glowing. He looked just the same. Interesting. He scarcely talked about her again. We talked about Max Headroom, and an idea I had about earth being the hall of a better planet. He told me the shopping had been £23, all he’d got, and a parking fine of £10, as he’d gone in the car she can sometimes borrow from her father. Pity. I think I must make him pay his mortgage the moment he gets his dole cheque. And make up the rest that way. God knows where any of the money is coming from.

She came back with the cat in a smart new cat basket, nice healthy cat, walked around inquisitively. Bad mark that she has it at all and brought it. But good mark that she was prosaic about it. K described leaning out of the window to get it back into the room at her digs, presently his bare bottom to the man in the next room. After dinner, went up to Nigel and Joy’s. Sweet, dull people, talked to sister-in-law, fascinating little narrow life. I said I didn’t want to be too late. Sharron said she’d drive me home. I think K suggested the drive to my flat, see the New Year in there, then I could get to bed when I liked. After 12.0 we sat and talked until about 1.15. He betrayed our intimacy. I think she probably realised the depth of our friendship for the first time. Behaved well and composedly in negative ways. Still don’t know what she’s like or how much of her there is. Or not.

He left with much affection and shot one glance back thro’ the back door in the knowledge of me being alone. And my note in his eyes.

I hope he goes on with her.

Friday January 3 1986

3.30 a.m.

Apart from rehearsals, the blackest depression yet, and bleak financial outlook. Sat in apathy.

Tonight did Hot Metal. My scene v. successful. To South of the Border, rest. off The Cut. Borrowed £500 from Simon. And even that is only a palliative. S talked about himself, (altho’ the eve was for me after a troubled letter) for most, too much of the time, to give me time to purge my despair. Still I was grateful for what I got. Back to S’s flat, was going to stay, but Bruno S was there and it was like a vault it was so cold I never took my coat off let alone think of sleeping there. No money. So walked home in freezing cold. Feel ill. But it was all for you, for you, for you.

Sunday January 5 1986

Forgot to say that I rang K on Fri p.m. so he could wish me good luck. Said he was up to his eyes in it (Glyn answered, so perhaps he was telling him about Reselection) and he’d ring me on Sun for possible work on M Youth on Monday.

Hasn’t rung. Not even 2 mins in 24 hours?

Monday January 6 1986

I was alone and unhappy. He was at Rye with Sharron on a day out in the car. He would not expect me to ring all day so I must not either. It is ridiculous. He rang today when he got back from work. (He’s taken over the job at the art shop that Jon H had just round the corner in Holloway Rd. He started on Saturday mornings only restocking the shelves, 9.30-1.45 ish, £2 an hour, £40 a week, first payment at the end of the first fortnight – I hate him having to do it, but even if I had no worries about money, I might not stop him; as so little is happening, it may be better for him to have anything to do).

Suggested I came round between 5 and 6, ‘I’ve got a lot to do.’ And told me a bit about Rye, ‘very cold and a horrid beach, but beautiful country.’ They had fish and chips in Hastings! And might have gone to Battle! We were to go through ‘MY’. Got there about 5.30, and met Sharron coming out – she’d just called in to see him. Ah! Quick talk about Rye. He went out to pay his red ‘phone bill. I looked round the flat and laughed. He’d changed it all round again. Desk back in music room, little bed folded up. Dirty clothes-basked in bedroom, with dirty clothes in it at last. Bread-board and my new chopping-board hung on wall. Bathroom shelves completely sorted, all the rubbish thrown away. I realised all the girl-rubbish was Rachel’s, not Sharron’s, a relief that she’s not like that. It all shows he’s still house proud. He came back and I told him I’d had a laugh ‘It’s my flat again, isn’t it?’ he said, a little fiercely, and I suddenly saw how he hated letting even more than I had him having to do it. Rye and the cottage – they went to Camber Sands, moved me strangely, thinking of Sally Wright.

We settled down to the show, going through it as I wanted, page by page. But not for long! ‘No, I don’t want to look at the first Act’. So we started on the second. I was asking him what he thought of all my rewriting, but, after we’d gone on a bit, he said he couldn’t go on, he’d rather read it my himself, and then tell me (I never remember enough that he can’t run his eye down a page of print in a glance). But then he gathered strength, and in an extraordinary display of firmness, (considering our respective ages) told me, more or less in so many words, that I must go off with it and think it out for myself, and make it move as quickly as the score. So the score’s perfect eh? He’s right, of course, but I don’t know whether I can bring any more to it. It’s very interesting that I feel no offence or hurt about the work. Secretly I’m just amazed I’ve got away with it so far. In so far as I have. Two directors have said to him that the script lets the music down. Ray liked it!

I’ll try.

I thought for a bit, then we had dinner mildly, and talked for a long time – Jon H was coming round after work at 11.30 to pay his debts. We watched ‘Chance in a Million’. Oh dear. It did seem feeble. It is partly Michael Mills’ lack of timing in his editing, but also S does force. K was kind about me. Perhaps he’s right.

During the talk, which was good, tho I can’t remember much of it, I gave expression to some of my deepest beliefs, as I can virtually only to him. It’s like him composing, when I talk like that – my words take off.

At another point, we watched his tape of the Philip Larkin film and I saw him react to Being Alone. He obviously feels that strongly at the moment, which is odd with Sharron and all. And he didn’t mention her at all.

At another, and the last point, he said ‘You’re good’. Saw my face and said ‘Why are you looking like that?’ I said ‘Because, well, I’m not’. He insisted, I said how badly I behaved sometimes and what unpleasant thoughts I had. With a speaking look (oh, those looks) he said, ‘Same here’.

Jon H arrived fresh from Flexi. But shifty. He is doing something he knows we’d disapprove of. K was quite pleasantly naughty with him, knowing his will is the stronger. Jon and I got nearly the last tube together. A perfect day.

Tuesday January 7 1986

Dear Neil came round for lunch. All he had was a little dish of chicory with lemon and oil, and a bit of brown bread. (He said had I got a glass of red wine, no, only white, so he didn’t have any. Odd). He’s better again. ‘How’s Linda?’ ‘Great, really great’. Well of course he’s off for a month foot-loose to L.A. where he goes on Friday to publicise Sins etc. Oh well! I must see a lot of her.

Rang K at 3.0ish to say I was concerned about Servowarm. His central heating had finally packed up, and he had no money except what Jon had given him. He’d shown me a note saying Servowarm p.m. if possible. Yesterday his bedroom was like a vault, and the whole flat only warmed by a convector heater, not very warm and hideously expensive.

I said I’d come and Servowarm-sit. ‘I’ll be there by 9.20’. ‘Thanks.’

Wednesday January 8 1986

Got there at 9.20, he was just putting his coat on. Met Elaine and her lodger on the way in! Off he went, and I saw he’d had some tea and some Weetabix. Alarm clock set for 8.30. Amazing to think of three years ago. (Tho’ of course it’s early days on the job). Did a bit of work, but it’s difficult to do much when you’re waiting for the bell to ring. The man came about 11.30, took about half an hour, cost £39. Two bits had gone wrong, so perhaps it wasn’t too bad. Went out to the shops and bank, met him coming from a coffee break, chewing a Mars bar! Very loving, when I said I’d be there for lunch, and so I went off and bought a few things to stock up. He came in about two, and I got the lunch.

We discussed a date, and Sharron. He said they’d have the weekends and Wed so Thur. would be a good night for us.

Well, a death knoll of more fearful empty black weekends. Nothing new. We talked, well he started to bustle round, ready for launderette, so I put my coat on. But I didn’t want to stay. Interesting, I knew we’d had enough of each other with Monday as well.

I think I should sum up how things are now.

We have made some significant steps forward in the last two or three months. There is a calm acceptance of each other in private as well as the closeness we’ve had for a long time in public. Certainly for myself I have achieved an actual hum-drumness with him, the proper solid stuff of friendship.

I did wonder whether it was all connected to Sharron’s arrival, him not being so frustrated etc, but I don’t see any real connection. The change has been more in me in my inner security about him, the lack of which has been, I suppose, such trouble as there’s been. I think my letters at Christmas have had an effect, too, as he’s that much older since he last heard my views!

There is a difference. A step forward.

Our discussions on money, his acceptance that it’s our money are rare expressions of trusting intimacy.

Thursday January 9 1986

One or two bits and pieces. Jeremy Spenser, Simon tells me, is literary manager of the Norwegian National Theatre.

I heard a girl in ‘‘phone-in’ on the radio say ‘Two weeks ago-go’.

When he came here from L’pool that Monday, he told me that he’d sat next a YTS boy in the pub with the boys. I took down all the details and lost the piece of paper, in a book. Here it is. There are 12 groups of ten young people on a course in the Lake District. Two in each group are YTS, which makes 24 YTS out of the 120. They do 4 days a week on the course, 1 day at college. His partner is 35. They get £3.80 an hr. He keeps £17.50 a week, with board, £25 altogether.

Out of the 24, 1 gets a job through college qualifications. Between 16-18, you either do YTS or you don’t get the dole.

Also heard on a ‘phone in, after a long diatribe by someone on the lack of freedom in the media, etc. The presenter finished it by saying ‘You say we can’t raise these questions on our media. You just have’!

I thought of a series demonstrating the origin of clichés. For instances, what does ‘fighting for your life’ really mean?

Later

He rang at three to say he was still at the shop. I said ring when you get home. Waited till a quarter to six, he rang again, still at the shop, stock taking! ‘Let’s meet and – what do you want to do, have you got any food in?’ ‘No’. ‘So I won’t go home, let’s meet now in that pub across from Warner’s now, go to an Italian, I’d like an early night’.

So that’s what we did. Mild and beautiful.

It seems the ‘weekend’ is going to mean Fri night as well. Hm. So I’ll XX for a bit on my feelings at this point. It is all so much better because I am so much stronger about him, so much more sure of me being a settled thing in his life, the only settled thing I sometimes think. I don’t know who etc he can really count on, except his parents in their limited way. No one else knows the full extent of his money difficulties, I suppose no one but his agent, knows anything about them at all. He doesn’t need to see me any more that he does – yes I am at last beginning to disentangle the different strands of my pain and identify their relative importance and thus deal with them. (If only I can keep his good in the forefront of my mind). He doesn’t need to see me any more than he does, because he’s absolutely sure of me as it is, as I am say, of Edna, whom I telephone once a week, in perfect communion of spirit that lasts the week without strain. That’s how he sees me, if not more so. But of course he does need to see a lot of Sharron – I am discounting the sexual attraction for the moment, as that needs no analysis! – because he doesn’t know her at all. Which is why he hasn’t talked much about her, - he doesn’t know what to say yet. She is obviously not a chatterer. I said ‘What did she think of my flat? ‘She didn’t say much’, he said, ‘She may have been overwhelmed’! So she hadn’t said, and he (of course) hadn’t asked! I heard a little more this time. He told me Eliana complained about the noise they make love-making. (Really one doesn’t do that with young lovers – complain, I mean!). He was wearing a new-jerkin, I suppose you’d call it, in a soft palish blue. I think the colour suits him and said so. He said ‘I don’t like it at all, all these flats and this big pocket in the middle of the chest with a flap, this great pouch. Sharron gave it me, I think she got it in a sale. I think she knows I don’t like it.’ !

I asked what her criticisms of Reselection were. They were all three good practical ‘I don’t think this is clear’ crits, and she laughed while she was reading it.

He also described amusingly, ‘We’d decided not to go to bed straightaway the other day, but to work a bit first. She was at the desk, and he was at the keyboard in the sitting room, working away at something, making that maddening repetitive tinkling that he does when he’s working out the chords for the song in his head. ‘I suddenly heard the door of the music-room being closed very slowly and quietly.’ ! When we parted at the tube, I said ‘Have a lovely weekend. I’m so glad it’s good. It is, isn’t it?’ As he didn’t come out to me about it, I repeated it. He gave me a mixed look ‘Yes, well ….’

No, it wasn’t doubt exactly, but he isn’t deciding yet. Of course, there’s a way in which a lot of successful bed, stops you getting to know one another!

So that’s how it seems to me at the moment – Sharron, I mean. But me, well I suppose that knowing him so well and now having gone thro’ so much and many with him, I am at last getting the benefit of that experience, and the confidence of knowing what his words and actions mean. And of simply having lived through a lot of him before, four years of knowledge that I have had his full confidence. At last I really do know.

Friday January 10 1986

Arranged Servowarm, as it’s still a bit wrong, for Tues afternoon. Rang to tell him and found his ‘phone cut off again. Got that put right, went out to see Legend, no, and got back to the ‘phone ringing. K knowing I would be ringing about Servowarm. ‘How did you get it put back?’ ‘Told them I went with you to pay the bill on Monday’.

I’d finished my poem for Lalla’s 80th by then and read it to him. Suitably awful. He was amused. Three years ago he would have been more disapproving!

Eighty! A weighty A horrible Sound

Eighty! Though matey The friends All around

Eighty! But eighty Has very Few rhymes

So eighty Can’t chime For that Many times

(And Elsie Has Chelsea And Lalla Has valour And that’s About it Except for Valhalla

So let’s change the metre As fast as we can And celebrate Tuesday The fourteenth of Jan To survive in this world Seems sometimes sublime But to live eighty years Is to conquer old time. But to conquer old time Isn’t all of the story It’s to live eighty years With humour and glory !

Saturday January 11 1986

Telephone this morning Robert Tanitch, that curious creepy man who came researching into Leonard Rossiter.

Now writing a book about Peggy Ashcroft, Theatre museum shut, ‘fearful cheek, I remembered your wonderful cuttings-books.’ So, as I had a hideously empty weekend, I was delighted …. And I was. As always, he will be better alone. Neil was here last time. So let’s see.

Sunday January 12 1986

So there he was, on the doorstep, a bit cringy. Brought me a present of his Old Vic magazines, when he was Education Manager? Well, I liked them. And he was better. He is, poor chap, repulsive physically. And knows it. Have I known about his head injury? In a tonsure on the top of his head, is a deep, greasy cleft. ! An injury? A birth defect? It needs cleaning out, whichever. -

Later.

Was electrified to get a call from K about 7.15. ‘I just want a few addresses, Lalla, Prim, Edna’.

(Well, he lost his address book and owes them all a Christmas letter).

‘So you’re coming over tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I’ll get there about 1.30, and cook yr lunch whenever you come in’. ‘It might be a bit later, three, as I said, or later’.

‘All right, I’ll have mine and get on with some work’.

‘So what about Tuesday? The central heating’s still going wrong’.

‘I’ll come in on Tuesday afternoon and see to the man’.

‘That’s great. Because I’m out on Tuesday evening, Phil Finch and Elaine have asked me to dinner’.

‘Oh, to talk about the adverts?’

‘Yes, he says he’ll have something to say and arrange’.

‘Oh, they said on my Christmas card they were going to ask me to dinner’.

‘No, they’ve asked Sharron’.

‘Oh, well’.

‘No, I mean I’m really annoyed about that’.

‘Yes, well’.

Pause, while I took this in, because he was really annoyed, tho’ on the face of it, it’s much more suitable for one hard-up couple to ask another hard-up couple to their sort of a meal.

Me. ‘So have you had a nice weekend?’

‘Quite’.

‘Only quite?’

‘Well –’

‘You sound tired’

‘Yes, I am quite’

He sounded depressed.

‘Looking forward’ etc.

I put the ‘phone down and thought what’s he doing writing these letters during a romantic weekend? He sounded alone. What was he doing thinking of me, let alone ringing me? Oh, don’t let anything have gone deeply wrong. I did say to myself Friday Sat Sun was too long so soon. (Actually it’s as well not to go to Phil F at the same time as K cos I always get cross at the ‘dear little Kevin’ tone.

Amazing he rang me. Is he ever going to get romantically lost?

Later still. 1.5 a.m.

Forgot to say rang Ernie to thank for sending the present. Oh, his description of getting the tray ready for Marjorie. At 6.0 a.m.

‘How’s Nigel?’ ‘Well, he had some late nights over Christmas. He went to Margaret’s next door, and came staggering in at 8.30, saying I’ve just been helping to clear up next door.’

Marjorie too tied up to come to ‘phone.

Later. 1.25am

Yes, it’s incomparably better. Nevertheless it’s still necessary to write that I love that boy more than I ever expected to love anyone again.

Monday January 13 1986

I must register, just in case I’m wrong (or right), that I did get a distinct impression that he wanted to talk to me for a minute, to breathe my air for a sentence or two. Perhaps her silence hides little. That was my impression.

Later, much later.

We’ve had a sort of quarrel, but the sort that leaves him upset, not me. Bother. But it means little, - except for the upset. So, to recap. I went over there to get my lunch, do some work on Crampton Hodnet, and finish ‘MY’, cook his lunch and go through ‘MY’ with him. Found the flat door ajar and Chris P asleep on the camp-bed all across the sitting room, in complete chaos of dirty washing up etc. And her cat and cat-box. I wasn’t exactly angry, but I just couldn’t face clearing it all up and turfing Chris out, not giving him lunch etc etc, - and the waste of time. I got no further than the door, left the bag of food, wrote him a note, turned tail and ran, feeling a bit cross. Lunched, and about 3.30 ish he rang ‘I’m awfully sorry’. Is that the first time he’s just begun with a straight sorry? It may be. ‘Give me ten mins and I’ll tell you what I’m doing.’ He’d rung the minute … Ten min later, he said he’d eat and come straight here. And, yet more changes, was here half an hour before I’d calculated. We had a very good fruitful work session, finalising and slotting together all sorts of bits and pieces. He liked very much my idea of the break-dance being Andy and his YTS class. He’d brought the mince and onion I’d taken there, but as he’d had spag bol the night before, I did the chops instead. All was perfect. He was very good about my letter to David G, made two excellent alterations to it. D.G has still not acknowledged those letters of D’s I gave him for his b’day. And then, it went askew – and this is why I’m not upset really – as it sometimes does when he starts to take my ironies literally, for instance, or questions the sincerity of the simplest statements. I think the real trouble started when I said, really lightly, ‘Tell me something nice about Sharron, - you’ve only told me she holds her knife the wrong way, has fat thighs and doesn’t like the course she’s doing, all rather negative things.’ That made him take umbrage, and it turned into my argument about frankness. We dropped it for coffee and a look at the cottage ordnance maps. I took him up the cottage path. But something he said triggered it off again. No, he doesn’t want to ‘say’ – I express my affection, why can’t he? If he prefers the ‘plicit’, that’s all very well, but it gives his taste, his feelings, the advantage. To withhold the expression of his feeling for me, (which he seems to regard as a weakness) is to put his feelings before mine. On we went, not a shouting match. Suddenly, he was leaving, saying, as if it had been wormed out of him and as if it might be the last straw for me, ‘Yes, something did happen between Sharron and me that’s been churning me up’ and went’. He came back a second later to say he had no money for the tube.

I’m afraid I laughed. It’ll blow over.

Later.

I see yr feelings are more important than mine.

All right all right we’ll say nothing.

Until you do, you know nothing of friendship. What friend sticks with you – who understands you.

Tuesday January 14 1986

9.30 a.m.

Well, there you are, yesterday’s first entry was right. But why didn’t he tell me at once, so that I could say ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ and if he said ‘No’, then I would say nothing. Perhaps he didn’t know that’s what it was. For once I don’t feel guilty.

Later.

At K’s, waiting in for Servowarm. Again.

Well. There was a long note – I’d said yesterday ‘You might at least have left a note’. So there it was. Two detailed paragraphs about the heating. Then ‘Sorry about the mess. There is enough food for your lunch. I’ll be late back, maybe even 3.30, but if you want to go, leave any queries about MSY on paper.

Kevin

P.S. Sorry about the mess in the kitchen. Try to work round it.

!

Oh, so sweet. And there wasn’t any mess except the floor needing a hovering, and the washing- up from Sunday! Settled down and finished the work, and read, - and read. He arrived at about 4.30, and as usual we were both so relieved to find everything was all right really, that we had the usual extra surge of love and sympathy. He said he’d have to get a new alarm clock, as mine didn’t always work.

He was just off to H Rd to get it, when he realised he hadn’t got enough money, so I said I’d go – better for him to speak to the Servo man. Got back about 5.30, to find the man there, same one as before. New thermostat, another £36! I was writing, and when K came and said ‘We have to pay the man now’ I wrote the cheque and he gave it to the man and I really felt like his father, because it was so casual. It’s very odd, we’ve taken yet another leap forward. I left about 7.0, perfectly happy.

Wednesday January 15 1986

Forgot to say it was Lalla’s 80th b’day. She loved the poem, unbelievably. Donald went down for two hours. She rang me at 7.30 just as I got in.

Out to lunch today with Ian Burns, oh he so sweet and warm and nice to me. He’s going to give me a video of that film he was so good in. He said ‘I had a present for you, but then I thought you might –’ ‘What is it?’ ‘A picture of me’. Well, I’d love it. Pasta Fino, again, I don’t know what’s wrong with it, Kevin, it’s really cheap. And then Back to the Future. It entranced me again, made me laugh and cry. K will see it again at 40 and laugh and cry. To a pub in Wardour St to pick up Hilary after work. They are moving because she was mugged. While Ian was picking her up, a large drunk sinister man said ‘What would you do if you found three men raping your 15 year old daughter?’ ‘I expect I’d be very angry’. ‘I killed them.’ The trial is tomorrow’. A conversation stopper.

Forgot say, rang K last night at 9.45 to say the Monkee film was all that was awful about the 60’s.

Thursday January 16 1986

To a commercial interview at 1.40, so had a fearful lunch at the Glasshouse. 3 glasses of wine, gammon, a lot of cold things, horrid £7 odd! Still, I was alone. Rang him having booked for the film at the late show, Eat before. He said other way round, as usual. So we saw the saw The Riddle of the Spider Woman. At a rough computation about an eighth of the impact of the stage play. Very watered down, just a political thriller. To Le Renoir, a new place in that big new building on one side of Charing X Rd. All yellow and white. Girl at entrance in rather strange lace dress with unlikely ruffles and flounces. ‘Did you see?’ he said.

Later

Oh she’s a pianist, that’s why. Rather delicious and cheap. Enjoyable. He told me of a Mike Leigh TV Sharron had showed him which had impressed him. We had a bit of the improvisation argument. A bit difficult, when one knows it all, to let him have his say and not grind him into the floor, but also not to let him think improvisation is a complete answer. Tricky. But that side of our friendship is in good health. And as I’ve said, his absolute faith in me as a provider is extraordinary. It doesn’t seem to weigh with him, thank god. He has taken my standards in that, all right. So, how to sum up tonight and Mon and Tues? Somehow – he’s right – he has said those things I want to hear without saying them. I am a terrific support to him. He does listen to me, take my advice and live by my example and tenets. We are extraordinary friends. He does love me – very much.

Friday January 17 1986

To lunch with John N, he took me to the ICA – a bit salady, quichy arty for a cold day but he bought it all and two glasses of wine for me, as he’s on a diet. At the counter, ran into Laurence Harbottle! One of my male lovers from 1952. I expect I looked as middle-aged as he did. Mary L to dinner. Mellow occasions these days. It’s amusing to think that I daresay she supposes I have changed. Not at all, I enjoyed it especially as she was gone by 9.40 to avoid being mugged.

Saturday January 18 1986

Quiet domestic day, polished the silver and brass. To fearful film Re-Animator. Came out.

Sunday January 19 1986

To ABC Cinema in Shaftesbury Av. for private showing of a film I appear v. briefly in, ‘Clockwise’. From the first moment, of the music by George Fenton it was chirpy and light and beautifully timed. I think it will be a hit on all levels. Prim came with me and said afterwards ‘I’m just working out who I’m going to take to it, children and adults.’ Off to Café Pelican where we spent a delightful two and a half hours. Then off to Prim’s treat, an afternoon with Judi Dench and Michael Williams. No, not readings, just the Theatre of Comedy Club asking questions about their life on the stage. She was absolutely entrancing, as ever, he a bit heavy going – oh the repetitions in the funny stories – but the stories were good. They have all gone out of my head for the moment. A very pleasant day.

Monday January 20 1986

K rang about 4.30 to say it was still on for Phil Finch’s ‘Do you know how to get there?’ Got there before 7.30, so wandered a bit and there he was looking very fresh shaved, with clean hair, yellow scarf with white sweatshirt.

Strange, crude evening. Elaine is just a Cockney secretary under the surface. Her partner, Jill, is a bit snide. Phil is a bore, no other word. K went silent half way through and the moment we were alone said ‘Sorry about that’. Nothing to report about the half-baked talk except that I was a bit surprised that K told so much about his creativity, or lack of it. But that’s him of course. He cannot not be open. Also, apart from Phil’s attitude which I’ve always disliked, the three of them together were really jeering at K. At one point ‘Come on Kev, something else you dislike?’ I could see they think at best, he’s a little absurd, at worst ‘Nothing is ever good enough for him.’ Walked to Victoria with Jill, - thank god she went to catch the 38 bus and didn’t go back with K (she lives in Islington) so we had a few minutes alone. I’d asked him to get that New Zealand wine for tomorrow ‘Have you enough money?’ ‘I’ve got this’. About five pound coins. He leant over my hand and plucked a £10 note out, and put back a fiver he found in his pocket. Oh, I am so grateful that he has the confidence to do that. He was paid by the art- shop on Friday, £52 for the first week, so he’ll have a week owing at the end of the job, £12 of that over-time. The Paki owner came shouting at the door of the loo ‘Kevin, Kevin, what are you doing?’ ‘I’ve having a dump.’ ‘You should do that before you come’.

Tuesday January 21 1986

Rank K twice about the wine and peanuts. He’d already got the wine. He turned up about seven, still looking fresh. Perhaps I should have made him take some sort of work before – it seems to be helping to make him more reliable! He had eight or nine sheets of notes on MY. Some slight ones, some bigger ones. Most thorough. I was impressed all over again. We’d only got to the interval by the time the boys arrived. They were in collars and ties and much cast-down. Of course, they had a complete failure at Worthing. They showed me their report they’d prepared for the council, alas couched in fearful jargon, on purpose, it turned out. But misguided, I fear. A drink and dinner cheered them up and K got on well with them. And how proud of him on these times, his manners are so good. He was much amused when talking of Christmas, he said, ‘I have an ambition to get on well with my parents’. After the coffee, K settled down to clarify his notes so that I could look at them alone. He’s going with Phil F to do our adverts and they’ll go on in the evening, and I certainly don’t want another evening with Phil. However, Friday’s on, at least at 4.0 to go thro’ the notes. Forgot to record that Sharron cried off going to Phil F’s because she doesn’t like him. K has cried off going with her to a Sting concert at the Albert Hall on Fri. They are cool.

He left with much love, forgetting to take the electric fire and measuring jug.

The boys are staying the night.

Mike and Dick downstairs. Remember it was just all for possible help to you. That was all.

Wednesday January 22 1986

Michael Williams was filming in Yugoslavia with Ralph R. A disastrous morning for both. Off to a pleasant restaurant for lunch. Ralph: Strange business acting. There one day, gone the next.

11.45pm

To Lala Lloyd’s round the corner, in a road off Lillie Rd, Chaldon Rd. Round, roly-poly figure. Small, neat face, all rather square. Must have been delicately sculptured and pretty as a girl. Apparently ‘an actress’ and rep at that, as it might be Mary L in some ways. But a much wider mind. Some goodish paintings, enough books. Alec McCowan was there. David Gilmore lived with them for five years, from as it might be 18. Dinner, eggs florentine, chicken Marengo. Good wine. Gin. Cointreau. And the deep comfort of my own age and the beginnings of common ground.

Thursday January 23 1986

Day of continuing, deepening gloom.

Friday January 24 1986

10.15

Oh the loss, the loss, the loss.

Saturday January 25 1986

Well, it wasn’t much of a loss really, just an hour or so of his company. Worth explaining after a review of the day. Got there at 4.0 and heart sank slightly to find Sam there, but then un-sank, partly because she’s got her record deal break and that’s why she was there, partly that she’s a year older and therefore nicer, partly because I could tell he wouldn’t let her stay. Because he doesn’t know she’d brought her boyfriend a canary, pretty lively bird in as pretty cage as you can buy, which isn’t saying much. It’s for his birthday, which isn’t for a day or two, but she can’t conceal it, so he gets it straightaway. K offered to keep it till the b’day, I scotched that firmly. Sharron’s cat! Off Sam went. I said ‘Will there be anything for you from her record deal?’ ‘Shouldn’t think so’. Or something even sharper. He was a little flushed and I could see he was churned up at his lack of a record deal. But he said nothing. He is v. good in that way. We worked. Well and more or less finished. Just as well, as Colin arrived at 5.0, two hours earlier than K expected. But it was quite good, as I’m fond of Colin, and we had a lot of good talk about YTS, as he teaches them. It’s long and full, and is with my notes for the musical, so I won’t copy it here. Enough to say it seems the most awful con trick. There are YTS managing agents who are making money out of it, by skimping on the training! I must look through the musical again in the light of all this information. Colin is a dear. Very tall, very big, very fair, very open and honest. With a curious switch-off in his personality. Not unpleasantly, but some of the time you’re talking, he seems not to be listening. He is, I think, but he doesn’t turn his face to you and um, and yes, and so on. Yes I think he has a touch, of the ‘schoolmaster’ about him – for instance when we ask about YTS, it is very difficult for him to talk about it in terms of our musical. So we get a long talk about it with a lot of material we can’t lose.

So we went down to K’s pub for a drink – oh, it’s sleazy now – no, they went off for a game of pool while I had a bath but they never got on the table. And then into Colin’s old banger with no passenger seat in the front. To eat ‘somewhere in Upper St.’ ‘No.’ ‘Pizza’. ‘No’, Colin knew a pub in Ealing. Longish drive with K and I longing to pee. On Ealing Common, very pleasant inside and out. Cold and hot food. I had turkey and ham pie, K had cold beef ‘Can’t resist cold beef’. First I’ve heard of it. Colin is satisfied with the thought of his life, tho’ not yet with the reality. He’ll find his niche. Then on to Waterman Centre at Brentford. As such Arts Centres go, it was pleasantish. Liz Kitchen was supposed to have her group playing there, but wasn’t. So it was a bit of a frost. After about half an hour, K started to look tired and said ‘Let’s go, we’ll drop you off and then Colin and I can have a drink at my pub before bed.’ Quite right because poor Colin, being conscientious, had only a couple of beers and one glass of wine all night, because he was driving. I was drunk enough to feel low at being deprived of an hour of his company – it was 10.15 – and at his being able to give up an hour of mine. But then he’s 24 and has all time ahead! So I had a nice cry and turned on TV and thought that it is precisely good programmes or good music I can’t watch when I feel like that, because good reminds me too much of him.

So today, Saturday, I at last wrote to David Gilmore to ask him why he hadn’t acknowledged my gift of D’s letters.

Dear David

It is now six weeks since I gave you these letters of D’s, because they were very precious to me and I thought they would be so to you. Were they only an embarrassing reminder of a past you’d rather forget? If so, I’m sorry about that. Perhaps you could return them, as they’re still precious to me. But do say something.

Yours, Angus

K’s emendations were ‘Were they only’ instead of ‘I suppose’ and the last sentence.

Sunday January 26 1986

D’s b’day. 73! To my surprise, Caroline Goodall rang up this morning. Had I copy of ‘The Relapse.’ She felt sure I would. I had, despite lending my other to Mike Parsons last week. So she came round after the full length Heaven’s Gate that she’d been fool enough to go to. Rang about 5.15 to say it was the interval from 2.30! She came with a - seemingly – very nice girl called Sarah? who produces commercials/videos? and was going on to the Bush and did so, leaving me with Caroline. She stayed until about 9.30 on g and t that she’d given up! Her vivacity can be embarrassing, but it is theatrical so I can cope with it. Horrid stories of her RSC audition, which didn’t surprise me in the least.

But, of course, the only real interest for me was to get the talk round to him unnoticed. ‘We never really hit it off.’ (All this said in a calm, mild way). ‘He’s so arrogant about things, Northern arrogance, I suppose, everyone’s wrong but him. I wish he’d signed that contract with Warner’s. It’s no use sitting down and saying people should give me work. Why he and Peter stopped working together, I don’t know. (Me. I think it was Ray Burdis. C. Well, he’s a wash- out.) Peter and Lysette have split up again for good. Lysette is the strongest of us all. ! K never rings me, he’s too arrogant. He’s also got no money.’

Now, what’s interesting about all this, was that she never betrayed by a flicker, or I’m sure felt or thought, that K might have said something to me about her, or that he found her wanting in any way! Also obviously no shade had escaped Peter or Lysette about how much they don’t like me. I presume both ways. Odd.

None of them understand the imperatives of genius.

But the moment of the day was K ringing at 3.15 for D’s b’day. I never thought he would remember, but he did. No one’s voice can be more gentle or tender. ‘She’d be 73’. I read him a letter or two ‘How can David G not have answered those?’ Wonderful. How striking that I have won his friendship without any of the weight of my scholarship or bookishness having anything to do with it.

Monday July January 27 1986

Wishful thinking it’s so cold. To a commercial interview in the afternoon for Branston Pickle – and Bunny Fildes. There she was, white make-up, black hair, black lipstick, a bit wrinkled otherwise unchanged. I wonder whether I recorded it at the time – 1969? An American commercial, everyone to be paid a flat £100. My agent said No, £50 and royalties. Most unethically, Bunny rang me at home, starting with that oldest of chestnuts ‘You’re making it very difficult for everyone else. Why not take the £100? There aren’t going to be any royalties.’ I thought of the right thing to say at the time, unbelievably ‘If there aren’t going to be any royalties, why are you going to pay me £50 more than I’m asking?’ I got royalties and received £60 a quarter for the next 3 years, quite respectable in 1967 or 9. We went in, in pairs, lots of old contemptibles, Peter Howell, Freddie Treves etc. Fancy them coming. I went in with a young man, Adam Norton. We went for a cup of coffee at Valerie. Public school, small neat boyish features, new baby. Intelligent, mild, we hit it off. On the tube, he said, as he left ‘Oh, I can get you through your agent.’

Tuesday January 28 1986

Another commercial interview, this one in Lexington Street. For National Provincial Bank. A very superior bank manager and nervous customer wanting a mortgage. As explained by the very simple young director, it seemed to me a wonderful anti-advert for never going to the NPB at all. However. We had to improvise. So of course I was a steam-roller! And made all the youngsters laugh to an absurd extent. I made a good exit. And then had to come back, with the next victim as there were no more bank managers. This time I think I was even better – and how easy improvising is, no wonder the ‘60’s took to it – and finished off with a good last line. The ‘little man’ said ‘You don’t mean you have to have children to get an endowment mortgage?’ ‘You? have children? God forbid that you should reproduce yourself’.

In the evening John N came round by himself to watch the royal videos. I told Simon C about this as he doesn’t like the royal family either and he was much amused that John was coming to watch them exactly like a business-man grass-widower coming to watch porno films with a friend. Because Simon R is a bit of an absurd ‘Radical’.

Despite my depressing money worries, I did enjoy my evening with my dear old friend. He is so kind and soothing.

Wednesday January 29 1986

Forgot to record that Lalla rang in the middle of me dishing up the dinner to tell me in that ‘sensational’ style that I seem to have been plagued by all my life, Julian, my parents etc – with the difficulties with the decorating. She knows I dish up at 8.0 and that’s why she rang. She also knows that I don’t want her to interfere in these difficulties. All she had to do was tell Mr Crisp to ring me. I was really angry for a bit, tho not openly to her.

To ‘Death in a French Garden’. Smooth, chic, passed the time. Very depressed re money.

K rang at 10.45pm from Sharron’s to arrange about tomorrow. I said I’d come from lunch with Simon ‘Give me time, I’ve got a lot to do’. They’d been to Bouncers at the Donmar Theatre and he hadn’t liked it much. ‘Tell you tomorrow’. Why at Sharron’s? So much further from his shop, he’ll have to get up so much earlier. I hope she’s not going to be silly about that. I wouldn’t have thought so. He sounded low.

Thursday January 30 1986

He was tired, apart from anything else. Sunday, Sharron. Monday night, somewhere. Tuesday, stayed at Colin’s girl-friend’s in Tooting. Last night, Sharron’s again, so he had been out of the flat for four or five nights? and late on all of them. Got there at quarter past five. We worked thro’ the script. He said he’d keep the script and go on looking at it. Rang Colin and found he could use the word-processor. We have made it much richer and clearer and better constructed, I’m sure. His suggestions have been, without exception, practical and worthwhile. Neither of us wanted to see anything, so we went to the Holloway Rd and got a bus to the Slug and Lettuce, stopping on the way to book a table at Mr Bumble. Walking into it was just like walking into a country tea-shop. Red tiled floor, Windsor chairs, beams and a girl in a flowered apron – and it’s visible from Islington Green.

I feel absurd saying yet again that it was even better, even more the perfection of deep and easy friendship. It is his just opening himself to me so completely. He told of Bouncers ‘Just a series of review sketches making the same point and rather out of date. Some of the acting was really good, but the play, no. And the music was deafening and never stopped, so my ears were really hurting by the end. It was all a bit unfortunate, as Sharron treated me, and she’d seen it twice before and loved it.’ I said did she see it thro’ yr eyes and not like it so much. ‘Yes, because it was more drawn out, with an interval’. Of course it was Hull Truck!

He asked what I was doing on Sunday. ‘Nothing’. ‘Sharron and I are going to a house-boat party on the river at Cheyne Walk, it’s Sue Bird’s sister’s boat, and a boat warming – so I thought we’d come to Sunday lunch’. I was pleased, and threw away in a quarter phrase – I’m learning – ‘I haven’t seen enough of her’. First time he’s brought a girlfriend round properly since – when? Well, I did meet Caroline, but no other. I wonder what exact significance him bringing her has. Move off, move on? Two months on. Hm. Because, when we were discussing next week, I said So not Wed because that’s Sharron’s, he made a gesture of ‘No – wait a minute’ and said we don’t have to stick to Wed. We’d already agreed not to meet this weekend. Oh, last Saturday, as he was reminded by talking about bus fares, he paid 90p to Brixton tube and then 40p to an ‘awful party’, friends of S, nobody spoke to me at all, about 20 people already in groups. I talked to S and the host and after an hour, we left. Now some boys would just mean they were shy and self-conscious and making it others’ fault. Of course, it’s quite the reverse with him. Any social lack of that kind would certainly not be his fault with the easiest of manners and thoughtfulness. (By the way, as it was her friends, why didn’t she draw him into it?) I was able to say and he embraced it, that they were meeting too regularly and too long. After only two months, Friday to Sunday every week is dangerous. That is something you embark on rather later on, I think. (And knowing K!) Oh, he also said at another point when I told him all that Caroline had said ‘Sharron’s rather big to take hold, too big for me, like Caroline’. He was very amused and interested at my evening with C., and I think I did get over to him her real unawareness of the possibility of my opinion of her. He thought for a bit that she was fishing for my opinion. I don’t think so, but if so, she didn’t get it. After all that, to bracket S and C together seemed strange. I don’t know quite where he is with her. Sunday may tell more.

The food wasn’t specially good, but it was a perfect evening, I’m sure for him too. He walked me to the Angel.

How do you describe friendship? Many clichés. But Kevin, well he catches every ripple on the surface. No, he isn’t knowledgeable or well informed or well-read, but no one catches every turn of the head, every set of the lip, every eighth inflection, as his infinitely delicate receiving machinery does. I cannot feel anything that he does not catch. He doesn’t always understand it (and my god what’s he learnt in four years) but it is so very precious to me to have someone so attached to me, that my feelings affect him so strongly.

Friday January 31 1986

Waited in all day for the delivery of the new gas boiler. It came. Forgot to go to dinner with George Rowell. Amazed and ashamed. Amazed, as it was very dreary at home.

Saturday February 1 1986

K rang last night to fix dinner, as I’d asked him earlier in the day because of my filming. So I got the beef, £7.17.

Off to Thames in my suit and a sweater as it was so cold. I was annoyed that the wardrobe mistress was mad - they always are - and that Jamie had my suit, shirt and tie all ready from the last series. Held a filing cabinet drawer - very heavy - with live baby – very crying – it in and various shots were taken. Then lo! the director said ‘Oh my god, it’s the wrong baby’, so we had to do it all over again! Only there about two hours. Saw Gerry, her tummy’s quite big – it was really cosy to see her – she was very comforting in her sweetly mad way. I feel differently about her since I saw the flat, so practically in order – she’s so handy and having a baby.

Sunday February 2 1986

So round they came, only ten minutes late and they’ve just gone at 6.20. So what do I think? Well, he was low as he said. No work, no music. He’d been to see the group whose advert he’d answered. They thought his music too laid back. He’d been cagey about theirs. ‘Yes, I liked them.’ Said without much conviction. It didn’t sound to me as if he ought to go with them, even if they wanted him. I feel more and more strongly that the pop world is no place for him. George Fenton’s is the position for him, I’m sure.

He certainly didn’t look the happy thriving lover, not glowing. His hair was all twisted and he hadn’t washed it for her, as he’s done before. I asked him to try a Campari and orange. Did so, quite liked it and promptly upset it all over the rug ‘He’s been like that all the weekend’. ‘You can talk’. He’d missed Colin cos of going to the interview, but the word-processor is on for the weekend after Liverpool next weekend to see his mother, who’s had the hip operation, and is in good shape. Walking. So no Sharron weekends for the next two!

Phil Finch came round also unsatisfactorily. K says he doesn’t feel the proper pressure, tho’ his excuses were genuine.

As for him and her, the talked limped for a time. She and I talked art, looked at the pictures. I showed her various things. The Ellen Terry programme etc. anything that I thought might be interesting from a design point of view. He didn’t help much. He ought to have said ‘Sharron likes’ or ‘S went to’ or something to guide me. He did say that yesterday they’d been to The Photographers Gallery and The National Portrait Gallery. ‘There were some good photos at the first, but the second was an exhibition of British screen stars and was just what you find in Films and Filming.’ He was quite scornful. Dinner was alright and he cheered up a bit. (He’s tired, for one thing, all those late nights last week. But he waited till she was out of the room, (I think purposely) to say about Misspent Youth.

So to sum up, I can’t really. He was sitting on the other side of the room from her in both senses and doesn’t I think register any specially strong reaction to her as yet. She smiled and spoke and was silent in much the proper proportion. He again said ‘She’s still holding her knife the wrong way’ on the ‘phone when we were arranging. Hm. A puzzle.

Later. Forgot to mention Mr B night, he had a love bite bruise on his neck. He said ‘Oh god, why didn’t you tell me’ and pulled up his sweater to cover it. I hate that sort of thing! I must tell her!

Monday February 3 1986

The gas-heater fixed. So I have hot water at last. After nearly five months.

Rang K at 11.30 to tell him Phil Lawrence was still there, but went in the middle of our half hour talk! I wanted to tell him about the water, but also about David Gilmore’s letter which arrived today. A reasonable apology pleading tremendous pressure of work, but even his lack of imagination saw that wouldn’t do and he went on ‘Not much of an excuse, I’m afraid’. He said he’d read them ‘several times’ but made no mention of the contents, or any mention of D – an extraordinary failure of imagination as ever. K wonderfully responsive to all this as he was on Thursday to the three letters of D’s I brought to read to him. I see him apprehend her, and see what I miss. He is getting better on the ‘phone as witness tonight. We went right thro’ everything incl. arranging to meet at the Vaudeville at 7.0.

He and Sharron are not meeting on Wed as he’s been asked to go over to Dulwich by the nice engineer who did Wayne’s Dad with us and get, possibly, some work out of it. Good. So they’re meeting Thur. after. at 4.0. ‘Then we can meet you at the Vaudeville at 7.0’. And then poor Sharron can walk away alone, while we go to a theatre and supper. Hm. Perhaps she’ll see that wouldn’t be very nice and go straight home from him. I don’t know. I’d be hurt if I were she, but then I’m not.

Tuesday February 4 1986

To first rehearsal of ‘Chance’. Just a joy to have something to do in the morning. Gerry gave me a lift to Hammersmith. At 6.15, Nigel rang ‘Could I look up a girl’s name in the London Directory, cos he wanted to send her a Valentine’. The name’s Hessen and a 546 number, I haven’t got her Christian name. There were three Hessens, none of them 546. I said That’s a Wimbledon number. ‘Oh, Wimbledon, Wimbledon, then I don’t want to send her a Valentine at all.’ Hilarious.

Jon Henson arrived, thought he was too tired to stay to dinner, but he did until 8.30! He’d brought Zentapuss with him and to my great surprise, it was finished in a proper folder with each page of printing and each illustration on a separate plastic liner – I could send it to a publisher tomorrow. I made very few suggestions as layman. Except for the spelling. How do they spell like that? Propally is reasonably the right sound, but ‘the’ for ‘they’ is impossible. A pleasant evening with John.

Rang K when he left at 8.30. You see I can ring him – and told him of Nigel – he screamed with laughter, and of Zentapuss. He nearly burst out enthusiastically with pleasure at the fact that Jon had worked at it and done it, and we could send it to a publisher almost at once. Phil F had been there for an hour and depressed him.

Wednesday February 5 1986

To Joan Hoar’s after rehearsal and lunch with her and Sally. Sally is extraordinary, of to Australia next week till May and hoping to go to New Guinea, where I’ve almost meant to go. Soothing talk about people and books. Lent her the Beaton and Mitford biogs, both unsatisfactory, but still. She lent me David Malouf’s latest. To that English rest. Chicken and mushroom pie, steamed jam roll and Australian wine.

Thursday February 6 1986

To a film interview at Yorksh. TV in Bedford Row. Malcom Drewry, casting director. Tall, camp, grey-brown complexion. Smooth spiel about ‘filling me in with the situation’, told me it was Graham Greene’s ‘Has Anyone Seen My Husband?’ (or wife?) adapted by Dirk Bogarde and starring him. Shoot in hotel in, or near Nice, convenient for Dirk and his ill boy-friend. ‘Bob Mahoney is a bit of a Cockney boy. I was nervous of him meeting Dirk, but it was the attraction of opposites. He wears jeans. (!) Don’t be put off if he only sees you for a minute or two. Jeans, good heavens, how bizarre and daring! In the end, I was five minutes with MD and half an hour with Bob Mahoney. An intelligent man, films and theatre, brother-in-law of Duncan Weldon. He explained properly that it was only four or five lines, but it was an important part, being the only one of the hotel residents not being cast in Nice, important as being the suffocating background for the action, all there most of the time. He explained properly that it would be boring, but it would be important. ‘Can’t be bad to go to the South of France on a day like this, - if you are not wanted, out with the expenses and off for a day in Nice.’ It’s no use, I’m dreading it and, no doubt wickedly, in view of our money situation, I hope I don’t get it. So off to the Pelican for a cup of tea, coffee, I mean, - they only had two cakes left at five o’clock. Cold. So the Vaudeville where he arrived on time with Sharron! We went to the old Peacock. She went straight to the loo and I said ‘I haven’t got a ticket for her’ and he said ‘Oh no, it doesn’t matter, she isn’t expecting it.’ She had one drink and left. I suppose I attributed my feelings to her. It is of course possible that she put a brave face on it (as I do – sometimes!) and cried all the way down to The Strand, having to trudge home alone. But somehow I don’t think so. They made a date, he had to take his diary out! Ah, well.

So to Blithe Spirit. V. smart audience in the sense of furs and money. Moira Lister and three friends took their places in the middle of Row G just as the lights went down. Rather cold, clinical museum-like set. Carl Toms giving us a forties drawing-room in inverted commas. Simon Cadell the best, but a nasty shade of self-consciousness of the style, resulting in too many gestures, just touching on the farcical, helping lines out by twirling his foot etc. Marcia Warren serviceable, you would be thrilled by her in a rep – if you weren’t me! Jane Asher still that ‘white’ harsh voice, one-dimensional perf. Joanna Lumley very decorative, but alas can’t act. Oh, that fatal out of tuneness on the throwaways. The laughter only just came and a lot of it was a determined tribute to Noel’s reputation. Perhaps it will be better when the plays retreat into the distant past.

I am thankful that K got it absolutely right, not only each perf. properly placed, but he was able to say what a marvellous play it was. We left at the second internal and to the Café du Jardin. I thought it had gone off, the vegetables were under cooked to an absurd degree. Can’t remember what we talked about, tho I do remember he said with great weight, ‘That’s really good advice’, but I can’t really remember what I said! Tho’ it was about his difficulties and his attitude to the future. But it was all quiet and loving and deeply intimate.

It occurs to me how wonderful it is, when things are so difficult financially for me, and in other ways, depression for instance, and because the financial difficulties are mainly due to my support of him, and some of the depression is thro’ wanting to see him all the time, yet we go from strength to strength.

I'm glad I'm going to Linda’s tomorrow night.

Friday February 7 1986

Linda cancelled. Lucy’s ill. I rang bravely.

I sit here in greyness. K to Phil M for the weekend with Sharron.

Saturday February 8 1986

Lunched with Simon on Thursday. He was kind, but I need an evening to talk it all out. To Flex to pick up Jon Henson for lunch, and get Zentapuss. I rang K to see if he was free for an hour to go thro’ it too, as his name was on the front. Yes, he was. Good, it's nice to have an extra unexpected time.

To Pelican for lunch, v. quick as a friend of Jon’s had a stall of Original American Clothing at a Lesbian and Gay Sale at County Hall. ! Taxi there and back, as Jon only had an hour. His friend wasn’t there, and the sale seemed all that was gloomy and sad. Trestle tables with little on them and little worth buying. Hugely solid, hugely labyrinthine building. Up to K. In his long johns and vest. And his arms thinner? They are certainly rather sticklike for a tall young man! He was a bit dour as always at first, but oh it’s so good I can deal with it! He looked thro’ the draft of Z and said some good things, such as the loose bit no good, pencilled dialogue no good. I said nothing, he agreed with me completely. Good.

How strange that it's all so different! I think of how he feels about me now I know, and it has made me let go. To even greater love.

Monday February 10 1986

Met Jon H at Victoria after tearful lunch with Gerry G. Oh, she was sweet and it was helpful just to talk. I must try and do it more. Jon had rung for the meeting last night just as I got in. Wanted to borrow £40 to get to York. Silly boy, he should have let me buy lunch as well the other day. It did look bad giving a black-jacketed young man £40 in the middle of Victoria station. Steve Thorne arrived and they had an animated talk in the middle of the station about their council flat. I’m glad I don’t know all the chicanery they get up to, or care. We – Jon and I – had a cup of coffee, went thoroughly thro’ the book, and he was constructive and co-operative.

Yesterday was painless. S said of Malcolm Drewry, ‘I had to cut a line about him from my book. Casting Directors are mostly women; except Malcolm Drewry, who is all woman.’

K rang at 6.15 about tomorrow. First words were ‘Phil and Sarah are engaged!’ and he's asked me to be the best man! He thought I’d laugh. I did when he said ‘I’ve already written seven speeches’.

I rang back about 9.45, during The Rock Pop Awards because I was so disgusted that Norman Tebbitt presented one of the awards, apparently with everyone’s approval. I know nothing about pop music but I wish all industries earned as much money. Ugh.

Tuesday February 11 1986

Had arranged to meet K at 5.30 but we changed it to 6.30 as he was seeing hippy Bob in the afternoon. We were going to buy him some thick-soled trainers for his cold floor at the shop, and I thought it would be too late, and it was. I didn’t mind, but he was the loser. We went off to Victoria and had a half-hour’s drink in a pub halfway down the Belgrave Rd, just as well, as there were a few things we couldn’t have talked about at Prim’s. June has rejected Misspent Youth, having only read the synopsis and without mentioning the music! ‘It may not be welcome to you to hear it, but people want escapism on TV today. We’ve had enough of this sort of thing’. Dreadful not to have read the script, even more dreadful not to judge the music in some way. He misunderstood me at first, thinking I meant ‘She should as a friend’ etc. I was cast down, but didn’t show it, I hope.

We talked of Phil and his engagement. He said ‘I was surprised at Phil’s consenting to a white wedding.’ I said ‘Well, it Sarah’s parents, because it's the bride’s parents who decide it.’ I asked whether Sharron had liked them, and vice versa. ‘Yes’ he said, and, as so often, didn’t enlarge on it, tho’ equally often he does analyse social concatenations minutely! But not with Sharron. He said he’d played her Flanders and Swann and she’d loved it. (She’d better). I don’t know why, but dropping in on people came up. He said ‘I love it when I'm doing something, but I hate it when I'm doing nothing, like now.’ And ‘Let’s make a date now – I want to talk to you.’ ‘What about?’ ‘Everything’.

We went to Prim’s. She was a little blurred i.e. drunk, but not to any disastrous extent! So I'd better say at once that the evening was a great success. He was utterly enchanting with Prim. The delicate responsiveness of his manners, both practically, going to help in the kitchen so easily and amusedly, in his expert catching of the tone to get Prim to skate over her little incoherences. And just keeping the talk going. He sat on the bed and, although it's a small thing, it was the exact degree of his choosing to half sit, half-propped on one arm that showed the perfect judgement between sitting up and condemning the bed as an awkward seat and lying down and slopping about. A lot of theatre talk, tho’ some of it was about D and childhood etc. I was v. struck when flicking with wet towels in the changing room was mentioned. A flicker went over his face ‘I couldn’t have done that, in fact I stopped some people doing it, I said you could have someone’s eye out.’ And he wasn’t a sports wimp like me, he was a swimming champion and an Adventure Scout!

As we came away, we were again talking about the theatre, oh yes, we were talking of ‘Blithe Spirit’. ‘I keep hoping for the theatre but the only time I really feel I’ve found it, is talking to you and Prim.’ How true, and how sad! We parted at Victoria tube and I felt - stupidly - awful. He’s booked tomorrow and Thursday, and is immersed typing MY the whole weekend. It’s just I hate even now leaving him without knowing when exactly I will see him again.

He’s seeing Jez from Sydenham tomorrow.

Wednesday February 12 1986

Sat down to look ahead to little money and nothing in my diary at all.

Grey.

Thursday February 13 1986

Another entirely grey day until, at 6.15, he rang! Lovely, cheerful, hopeful call. First, Phil Lawrence’s advert man might have some more work. Second, he'd been back to see Paul Curran, played him Doesn’t anyone else cry the street? ‘He really liked it, except for the chorus. And when I got out at Holloway Rd, it came to me and I shouted it out in the street.’ How appropriate!

Third. Steve Wilson had sent the tape of Anti-Album to Radio Liverpool and Continuous Cable, Third World Tigers and Diplomatic Immunity will be played on Feb. 27. Fourth. The night with Jez at Sydenham was good. He wants K to do something. But more mysteriously, apart from working together, he said, ‘And he has another really big thing coming, that I might be associated with.’ ‘What?’ ‘I’d rather not tell you now.’ ‘Oh, have you got someone with you?’ ‘No, but I can't tell you over the ‘phone.’ ‘But – this is me the other end.’ ‘No, I’ll tell you next week.’ ‘Do you think the ‘phone is bugged?’

Goodness knows what will come of any of it, but it was so good hear hope and brightness back in that dear voice again. When I said I'd got nothing to do at the weekend, he said gaily ‘Well, find something.’ He meant it so sweetly with all the force of his so easily revived youth. I can't tell him, can I?

Friday February 14 1986

A lovely surprise. Neil rang fresh from LA, if fresh is the word for LA. Came round and showed me two bits of publicity – colour centre page of The Star. He was adventure hero of the boys, now he's going to be the hunky hero for the girls. Also a fashion spread in a magazine called Company. Clothes not interesting except for S. Ducrow’s sweater.

She's gone to Australia just in time to miss any possible orders. He stayed about two hours, showed me more photos of himself with Joan C and her sister Jackie, who has become a great friend. Asked me to preview Sunday.

Later. Julian rang at 9.45. Sober. Quite short, quite funny. A girl from Bristol Evening Post who knew nothing about him and the shows. I'm glad to say he wasn’t surprised. ‘And you wrote them with someone else?’ ‘Dorothy Reynolds.’ ‘And did she appear in them, too?’ ‘Yes, in all of them. In ‘Christmas in King St’ she played the ghost of Sarah Siddons.’ ‘The what of what?’ It might be the title of my biography of her!

Saturday February 15 1986

Watched a 1932 film ‘The Man I Killed’. Good pacifism. Phillips Holmes. Too old character women who I didn’t know at all, unusually, were so good I made a note of their long dead names – Ethel Griffies and Zeffie Tilbury. No, it wasn’t in the same film! It was in Werewolf of London.

Geoffrey Dickens M.P making accusations of child abuse brothels in Islington, said of them ‘I’d strangled them with my bare hands’, with such an inflection that you felt he should have gone on ‘because that’s my particular kink.’

Forgot to record that I met that funny little camp boy from Granada in Piccadilly, rather suitably. I suppose it's five years since that show. He looked ghastly but said bravely, ‘I remember your wonderful stories and your lovely cooking.’

Later. 10.0 p.m.

Rang K to say I'd be out tomorrow and when. Subdued. ‘It’s hard.’ Really keen to know where I'd be, went away to get a bit of paper for Neil’s number. Not ‘it doesn’t matter.’ Not at all.

Dear little boy, he was there and working on my script.

Is there any possibility that my life will get better?

Sunday February 16 1986

Neil and L called for me at 10.20, or rather Tony and Caroline, as it was their car. We dropped off Lucy at the babysitters and on to Empire, Leicester Sq. Neil wearing a beautiful pink sweater, pink scarf and greyish silk suit. I sat up at the back in the cinema, although it turned out there was room in the reserved seats. I didn’t want to be next to Neil. So I was behind a row of 12-14 year olds, who were held, I think. The film will be a medium success, and no harm to Neil. I wasn’t bored except by the action bits as always. Neil a bit stiff at the beginning and hair wrong but good later on and looked good. I wanted to go to Pelican, but we went back to Neil’s for a salad meal on our knees. And babies and little chance to talk. But it was all so good- hearted and sweet. He walked me to the end of the street, when I left at 5.0, and said in effect, ‘Could you bear one of those messy meals again?’ Of course I could, for him. He needs me just now, he really does. I was moved to see BIGGLES NEIL DIXON appear on the huge Empire screen.

Later.

If I hear a ‘phone-in presenter say ‘Hello, Kevin’ and he doesn’t speak, I always feel outrage and let down. ‘That isn’t Kevin.’ Really strongly. Isn’t it strange and silly?

Monday February 17 1986

Another nice surprise. Lucy Chrystall, Roy’s ex, rang to ask me to go to the Bach Choir concert tomorrow night, because the other soloist with Ann, is her cousin, David Thomas.

Later.

By one of those odd chances, Roy rang this evening. Moved here and will come round tom.

Tuesday February 18 1986

So Roy arrived at about 2.0, fresh from Pinewood interview. Sounds useless to me. Looking very spruce, shorter hair, rather young officer moustache, matching blue sweater, shirt and slacks, tie and socks with same red in. Very easy. He's moved down to London, wonder how long it will last. Loves Eastenders! Look forward to seeing more of him and chatting a lot.

While he was here, rang K about tomorrow and they had a chat.

K chatted to me! Will I come early and see the boys, five of them this time! They want to hear me speak.

And oh the typing! They had trouble with the disc, as it was an old one, spent Friday experimenting. ‘I was up till 4.30 on Sunday morning. Thought I’ll get up at 9.0 and work all day and I can be finished by midnight. I actually finished at 6.30 a.m.! Had two hours sleep and went to the shop like a zombie.’ ‘Did you have a good night last night?’ ‘Oh, yes’ ‘When did the boys arrive?’ ‘Yesterday afternoon.’ ! He said how amazing it was how one could go on with so little sleep. Ah, that’s the first time he's noticed that he had to go on. Not carelessly young anymore. He is so dear to me.

Later.

The concert was really enjoyable, Bruckner’s Te Deum, rich and magnificent. Mathias’ Organ Concerto, quite lively, very lavish use of percussion, wished K had been there for that. Paul Patterson’s Mass of the Sea also lively, but lightweight. I would never have known that it was a religious work if the title and the programme hadn’t told me. Both were, to my ear, rather carefully accessible. Yes, I enjoyed them because they were charming. With their subjects they should have been – all that the Bruckner was – not charming. Lucy was just as nice as I remember, easy and laughing and quick. I can’t say the same for David Thomas’s black wife, called? She looked across the foyer during all our talk away from us both. He was spikey in the dressing room. I was intrigued but after about five? mins at most, Donald shouted ‘Out!’ So, out we all went. I was grateful to go off alone, supper with the two spikeys would have been difficult.

That stupid woman, Rosemary Browne, who takes down music from dead composers, now claims to have taken down some of John Lennon’s. She told his son, Julian, who said it was ghoulish, impossible and he wouldn’t pursue it. Julian Lloyd Webber, on the other hand, completely believed it.

A swindler conned a vicar into believing he was destroying a Satanic cult. The vicar got one of the Sainsbury wives to contribute £78,000. Lord Something bought him a Rolls, £35,000. He was described as a record producer. ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 66

February 19 1986 – April 5 1986.

Wednesday February 19 1986

Forgot to say that K on the ‘phone to Roy yesterday, said to me ‘It’s tomorrow, isn’t it? Well, the boys are going on an early evening train, so why don’t you come round at 4.30?’ Very well judged, a couple of hours and off! So, I got there. K doing a mammoth washing up and Steve W and nasty Avo – oh, that self-conscious, self-regarding humourless expression – and Jason, whom I met and liked at the Monarch insofar as you can meet and like anyone at pub gig! – and a new one, Andy, plump, silent, but mild. Most of the talk was to Jason, because he is by far the most articulate and intelligent. (Steve W will have to modify his accent and speech generally before it will be a real pleasure to speak to him, not because of the accent, but because of the lack of clarity and expressiveness and suppleness. Undiluted Scouse is all very well for vituperation and shock, but after that – well …. As K has abundantly found out for himself and so has more or less abandoned it.) Jason has a frame of reference and information to use inside it. Avo has always sullened on the floor. Andy was silent. K having finished the washing up, sat behind me - I think, from something he said after, taking pleasure in my talk with Jason.

About a quarter to six, I said ‘Do you think it would be a nice idea if I took them all for a drink in the pub before their train?’ They had to start for Euston at about twenty to seven, said Jason. They bustled around to get ready, most of them were. Only Nigel, a true Malpass, as they gathered to go out, was seen to start to change his trousers and generally re-arrange the inside of his hold-all.

At the pub, I said ‘What do you want?’ Suddenly K, Steve and Nigel weren’t there. ‘Steve can’t find his keys.’ I gave them their drinks. Hideous Avo without a word or a thank-you, got the balls out for a game of pool. Ugh. Rude. Jason joined him, after a glance, I think feeling it would be easier to keep him in countenance, so as it needn’t be talked about. K and I sat down together and exchanged a glance. Only Andy was with us. We talked to him and uncovered a melancholy story. ‘I left school two years ago, I thought it would be nice to have a rest for six months, but it didn’t work like that. I’ve been out of work all the time.’ ‘What does your father do?’ ‘He’s in the Merchant Navy, just about to be made redundant’.

Jason soon abandoned the pool table and came and talked to me with pleasure to both of us. He was the first to get up and organise himself to go and catch the train. ‘Sometimes I think I’m too organised’.

When he left he said ‘You remind me of my father, you’re very like him to look at, except that he’s got a full beard.’ ! Off they all tumbled. We looked at one another, and blew sighs of relief. We decided to go to Mr Bumble – he didn’t want to go to a film or anything. A pity, my food has been so bad at Mr B – it’s otherwise useful. I don’t think I can eat there again. So out it all poured. Another advert he answered in the Melody Maker has come up, two French boys who live in Brixton, he saw them there and liked them. They’re getting some equipment and they’ll do two songs next week. I wish I had the chance to meet these people first – I mean, I know I can’t, even if he wanted it, because they wouldn’t understand, but oh dear if they’re more duds - . He'd been to see Paul Curran with the new chorus of Cry in the Street, and ‘I poured my soul out, and he didn’t like it all.’ He is also using the equipment to do something with Colin’s girl-friend’s ‘little song’. I see why he’s doing it, to pay back for the word-processor, but I wish he wouldn’t work with amateurs. This is an issue that can only be broached by me, by example, not precept. And it's further complicated by the position being more blurred in the musical world. It's so easy to pick up an instrument and start playing.

As for Jezz, that seems a bit in the air too. The great news that he couldn’t tell over the phone was that, apart from, I suppose, some songs – Jezz was very impressed with the songs, amazed when K told my age – Jezz wants them to get out a great new arrangement to be a best-selling 12’, of - ‘The Stripper’. ! Oh, how are the mighty fallen! When I think of Kevin Malpass saying ‘I had to lower my standards to write Visiting Day.’ It sent a pang thro’ me, and would it work? Of course I encouraged it, he’s so low in reserves. We bought some whisky and went back to the flat, so much cheaper and nicer. He said he was doing these two things and then he was at a dead end. He’d been thinking he might sell the flat and use the money over to buy some equipment and do some real work – he said how difficult his room is for recording with the traffic, and so on. I didn’t like the idea practically, for various reasons. First, I didn’t think he’d get nearly as much as he did - £50,000, and he has no leeway for gazumping or whatever. Second, can you get a mortgage from a standing start on the dole? Third, anything he could then afford might be much further out, and, despite the visit to Phil & Sarah’s, which I think made him think of this – he hasn’t thought it through. (Personally, I hate it as I can only just stand him as far off as he is, but I must try not to let this weigh). However, he's not going to do it without my approval! He’s pretty desperate, poor boy!

I wrote a long letter of advice when I got home. All the same, a day with every minute relished.

Thursday February 20 1986

An empty grey blank.

Till at 10.45 p.m. he rang! He and Sharron had been to a concert at The Barbican. ‘Lovely Ravel, but I see what Chris means about the LSO.’ But it was really to say he’s not going to Liverpool, ‘Phil’s got flu and tomorrow’s off because Colin’s got flu. So come to lunch on Saturday. I’ll confirm.’

Lovely talk.

Friday February 21 1986

Phew, what a full day.

Neil came round at 11.0. He’s been so funny – ‘Do you want me to tell you Biggles was all right again?’ ‘Oh, no, (laughing) no, of course not. (pause). Was it all right?’ We went through the Francis Ford Coppola script – three lines! He was a bit fluey. ‘This girl gave me a blow-job in L.A and now I’ve got the flu. Do you think it could be AIDS? It's serious out there, you know.’ I composed my face bravely, and thought it wasn’t very serious in here.

Off after lunch to a commercial interview for Lloyds Bank. Although it was £250, I could ill afford to do without, it was an in-house film and they are always so boring and amateurish. Met Nicholas Courtney, who’s with Bruna, and said he’s been without work for 7 months. That didn’t help me.

Oh, lunch was with Jon H in the Trocadero Centre. Mario & Franco’s Fresh Pasta Restaurant with fearful ‘Italian’ scenes, a gondolier’s pole stuck into two inches of water, a small fountain in a black box next to us. Spag Bol was really good value, and a very good glass of wine in a big glass. Ambience poor, value good. Under £10 for two. Spent two hours at Back to the Future as it was so cold. Off to Savoy for drinks with Simon in the American Bar. Had to borrow more money. Showed him the new Zentapuss. Impressed. He’s off to USA tomorrow or Monday. He was very kind, and I am very low.

Still, I kept up for George Rowell. He lives in a block of flats very like a prison, just like the set of ‘Sing Sing’. Inside the basement flat is the very picture of a pied a terre, a few water-colours, a studio couch, everything hideous. Perfect flat for a perverted child abuser. Poor George, who is as innocent as can be. We had a drink, I tried once or twice to ring K about tomorrow, but no go. So off we went in the freezing icy arctic cold to a restaurant called The Hermitage. Hm, good notice in the Time Out. But something going wrong. My fresh sardines were good in a light creamy sauce, and the escalope in lemon all right, ‘Orange au caramel’ was a properly sliced orange in a spoonable mass and a light syrup, but certainly not caramel. And the coffee. A large white tea cup of nes. with a lot of foamy milk. Who, in a restaurant that produced two respectable dishes, knows so spectacularly how not to make coffee? Soothing, mild talk, tho’ I thought George seemed suddenly a bit older and less buoyant. Of course, it is very cold. Eventually got K. They’d been to a concert at The Barbican! Lunch is off, ‘What are you doing Sunday night? I’ll come round to you.’ Lovely.

Saturday February 22 1986

The enmity I felt – I feel – the agony as he said at the back door, when I said ‘When shall I see you, I don’t like now knowing when I'm going to see you’, he said brightly and cruelly, ‘Well, it won't be till a week next Wednesday.’ I said ‘Well go, go, go’ and shut the door on him.

The enmity is because he doesn’t know his independence is only possible to him because of my support. And I can't tell him how much that costs me.

And there is just the pain the pain, the agony of not seeing him for ten days and the terrible feeling that he rather likes the thought.

Oh I must finish with him, I must, it's too much for me. I can't bear it, I can't bear it.

Sunday February 23 1986

I cried myself to sleep, with screams of pain. I don’t know that the neighbours think. I am calmer and saner (and doubtless less drunk) but the pain is real and the tears real tears, and I feel whacked.

One of us had mistaken the day. I had the food happily, and a little warning, as Colin rang to speak to K. So up the stairs he came at 7.30, saying he was knackered. I suppose I ought to feel flattered. Last night I just felt that he doesn’t save himself for our nights in any special way; when, of course, to me they are the very pivot of my life. But it wasn’t a bad night at all till the very last sentence! He talked a bit about the concert. Sharron had never been to a classical concert before. She didn’t like ‘all the dead faces’ of the musicians, and didn’t know where to look, ‘there was no focus in the concert hall.’ He said ‘It’s no use, I hate the Barbican, everything, the announcement Go to Level No 3 and son on, and all that awful wood.’

I played him the little tape of Hywel Williams-Ellis, and he really liked him. We went thro’ the script, first me and then both of us.

He enjoyed his dinner. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been thinking all the time of the moment the empty ten days would begin.

We discussed my letter, which I hadn’t had the time to send.

Later. 11.30pm

Feelings transformed by him ringing at 3.30 and 5.00, first of all to arrange our next meeting, aaah! As always, tacit. (Alas, he can't call back the hours of pain.) Thursday he’ll come early and do my curly wires and celebrate his birthday. So I said ‘Let’s go to Progress as well.’

He also said Colin wd come to dinner on Friday with the script corrected. He further said that Susie, the black girl, had finally left home, or been turned out by her mother, and wanted to sleep on his floor. Sharron was there, and he wondered if he could send her here. Well, it would be very awkward for him. He rang again at 5, and said she'd said she might come round at 6.0. She might be able to stay with her boy-friend.

I rang at 11.0 to say can I go to bed now. She hadn’t turned up, so we’d both been had.

Monday February 24 1986

Paul Ryan came round after rehearsal in a pub on the river.

‘It’s hard work.’ Well, his first real play, a three-header with two v. experienced middle-aged actors, it will be hard work. Read his scene in The Boundary. Could be quite resonant and sub-Pinter. But it is a very strange species of play to send round sixteen mostly obscure theatres. Really I didn’t know there was a Seccombe Theatre at Sutton. Harry, I suppose.

K rang in the middle of dinner, about another guest, this time a school-fellow of Nigel and Steve, David Cheng. He's apparently run away from home and school and come to London to go on the stage.

Sharron was still there, lucky girl, so that was awkward enough, but after this, it will be impossible with the recording going on. Of course I said yes. In fact I don’t even like him to ask, except whether the room and I are free. He has a right to everything of mine. David C sounds a bit of a pill.

Paul is changing. His affair broadens and deepens him. Good.

Tuesday February 25 1986

To get my hair cut at 3.0. Wandered round the bookshops, got home about 5.30.

K rang at 6.15 to say that David Cheng would come over if that was all right. The French boys were there, and altogether he was rather guarded. ‘He’ll be with you in about three-quarters of an hour.’ Quarter of an hour later he rang again, to speak freely. ‘David Cheng is Hong Kong Chinese. He has come down with all his possessions, to go on the stage. He has left home and school. His father gave him £200. School doesn’t know yet. He's written a play that Willy Russell’s assistant said was - promising? I asked him for a bit more about the acting. K said he's got a video of himself at eight in a Hong Kong Kung Fu movie. K was obviously turning him over to me for reasons beyond the impossibility of him staying. Well, the running away from school is a bit much for K. He’s too near school himself and the same school, and same masters!

So – he arrived. Small, square, with a pudding potato face, bristly hair. Very, very incomprehensible speech, Hong Kong overlaid with scouse, compounded by naturally bad articulation. As I talked to him, the absurdity of his position became apparent. He’d rung some drama schools, but had no idea that he had to prepare some audition pieces. As he and his family have only been over here 2 ½ years, he is not eligible for a grant, and in any case he will not be able to go to drama school at all till he's 18, next December. He thought he could get an Equity Card far more easily than is possible. Not to mention that he needs to go to an elocution teacher for six months before he would be fit to be turned down by a drama school. He seems composed, but I think it's a combination of Oriental impassivity of feature and juvenile incomprehension.

He produced the Hong Kong video. It was wound on about a half inch. ‘Oh’ I said ‘I’ll reel it back. How did that happen?’ ‘That was as much of it as Kevin could stand.’ I stood a little more, with him as a plump child of eight, and all the absurd violence and bursts of meaningless laughter. I told him to show it to no one if he wished to be taken seriously. He gave me his play to read. Twenty pages of good typescript, the rest in spidery handwriting. Read a little in bed, and felt unable to go on. The banal story of his life wildly unidiomatic words and grammar.

He tells me his mother is unsympathetic but he loves his father. Oh dear, how primitive families depress me.

Later.

Dear Ian B rang. Our meeting tomorrow alas not for his film. But just lunch. Worse fates!

Wednesday February 26 1986

K’s twenty-fifth b’day. So like him that he arranged this recording forgetting his b’day.

Met Ian B at Pasta Fino. Well, I can't help it, K, I think it's very good value. Ian is all emotion and matches something in me as a result. Hilary joined us during the coffee, all was sweet. I kept ringing K after two, when he should be back from the shop. No go. So about 2.45, we left and walked out, in the intense cold, to look for a film. About the only one we both might see, ‘Mr Love’ began ten minutes before we got there. So we walked in St James Park, in the piercing cold, with strange echoes of me walking there with Myrielle. Or Merry Hell, as he know calls her. I walked him back to pick H up. We called on the way there and back on Jon H in Flex. Jon at his most unsatisfactory, extraordinarily shifty and unsatisfactory.

Is it that he just can't decide on the next five minutes, let alone next week? Or is he doing something he knows I disapprove of? Both!

Eventually, taking Ian to the National G to look at the Wilton Diptych, rang K and got him. He'd been to get some equipment. Poured out about David C. Made all the points. K burst with relief. ‘I'm so glad you feel that’ etc. So I got Steve’s number. I asked about the sixth-form tutor, Mr Parry, whom David C seemed to take a certain something from. Perhaps just that he wasn’t against him! K was v. nothing about him.

‘Well ….’

‘So, if you get to Wolf Boy, I’d like to be there for ten minutes before you fix or mix it.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll have enough time for it now.’

Pity. Ridiculous.

‘Are the shoes working?

‘Yes. Great’.

I forgot to record that he'd bought some thick-soled bootees on Saturday, ‘cos I told him to. There they were on Sat night, and just before the last sentence on Sat n., I gave him £12.95. He is naïf, he expressed astonishment that I had the exact sum ready. Well, I hadn’t it ready, but I had it there. Oh, if they keep him warm.

And at the end, I said Happy Birthday. ‘I thought you weren’t going to get round to it.’ I said was he doing anything. No. Is Sharron coming round? No, but she sent me a lovely bouquet of flowers. Good.

So off Ian went. And I couldn’t face David C for afternoon and evening. So I went to ‘Mr Love’. Nasty slow self-conscious whimsical film. Deserves its bad notices.

David a great fat Chris Parsons-like lump. Everything he does is wrong by instinct.

In the E. Standard star column, which of course I looked at, as it was his birthday, his last night’s ‘if it’s yr b’day tomorrow’, said, ‘Then the coming year really has to be one to remember. The Sun, magnificently aspected by Pluto on your anniversary, indicates you will be travelling much further afield over the next 12 months and ringing the changes in just about every area of your personal life.’ Oh, gracious me, isn’t it good that astrology means nothing or I'd be terrified! And yet, if I really loved him, I'd want that all to happen!

Thursday February 27 1986

Back from B’mouth. David C was out at a film – that dreary Spies thing. He’s been here 3 nights and hasn’t gone to look at London which he's never seen. Tore into him after he’d said What’s the first train back to Liverpool. But I must get straight. To B’mouth. Oh, the staleness of that journey. Lalla amenable. I can't say more. Met the Byfields. Nice bright Canadians. She rather sweet and retiring, but iron will. ‘Can we move furniture round?’ Well, I should think so at £70 a week. So that’s all settled, tho’ of course, Mr Crisp has got the colours all wrong. (Train down, first-class loo, choked with shit. Basin blocked, flooding corridor. Door of compartment wouldn’t close, on this piercing day, day return, £38).

Back here, got myself together, bathed, ate. Doorbell rang. Giles Kavanagh, a young lawyer who put a little slip through the door to buy Mrs E’s maisonette. He was all right, if a bit pushy. Has a practice in the Temple. He went. Rang K. 9.20, because of Colin and the script, and getting rid of David C. He rang back 10.20. Work was going well, but D.C. can't go to K Friday, because that’s the day they’re really going at it. Told him all about D.C.

Later.

David C came in from his infinitely dreary film at 11.0. He has a genius for upset. The whole stove was covered with fat. So I went at him a bit. But stopped when he said What is the earliest train to Liverpool? We had a bit of restricted chat while I ate my meal, which I’d salvaged from a devastated kitchen. Then he went downstairs to go to bed, as I thought, so I rang K. 11.0. Poured it all out again. D.C came back during K ‘Can I speak to him?’ (How rare, he might so easily have slagged off responsibility onto me.)

So. Then D.C unwisely asked me again what I thought of him. So I told him. All my hatred of mediocrity and phlegm came out. Good, as I think. I think it injects energy.

He says he’ll catch the 7.20 tomorrow.

A.M.

Friday February 28 1986

The key was on the mat. He’d gone. What a relief. He left a pathetic letter, an excellent illustration in its grammar and incomprehensibly, why his play is no good. And a disgraceful testimonial to the teaching of English at his school – K’s school. Perhaps he has the same awful English master. Pathetic, but showing a certain spirit. ‘You gave me a good lesson which I would never forget. Do you realise how bad I felt. I guess you don’t. But it doesn’t matter because you’re right, I’m going to change. 2 years this time is the time I come back. I’ll prove everything.’

Prim rang to say she wasn’t reading in High St Ken, so could she come here? So she did, and she was at her very best, which is saying something. She'd brought some lovely letters from D, lovely. Makes me think it should be her letters not just her letters to me. After all, there’s nothing about Prim’s accident in my letters as we were together all the time. Also a very good letter detailing her shock and horror at P having to audition for S.D. When she is herself, it is the nearest thing to being back with D. Rang K at 2.10 to tell him D.C had gone. He’d begun work already! ‘We’re recording.’ So I just said that, and rang off.

Prim went about three, I felt all right.

Colin, big simple good. Colin arrived, having lost his way. I was a bit dashed that he’d only done half the first Act. But, when he realised that it was only proof-reading errors, he said he could do it alone. I hope so. It turns out the girl I spoke to, isn’t the one who’s written the song K’s arranging. It's the black girl I met at the Monarch! I had a pleasant evening with Colin, in spite of that faint feeling that he regards us both as a bit lightweight.

K rang at 10.40 or so. They were off to the pub. He asked Colin to go, as I thought, to fetch something from Tooting and go off to the flat. Colin left, K saying he’d ring later. I sat down, following Colin all the way to Toot then to the pub and back to the flat, and having a jolly drink – and then drearily, here I am.

That’s what I imagined, in my self-pity. (And of course, it's true over the next two or three days!) But, when K rang sometime after 12.0, Colin was only going to Tooting! So much for the elaborate pyramid of self-pity I’d built. K so mild and quiet and slow, possibly tired! Not dismissive. Read him David C’s letter and got all that settled. ‘What about the French boys?’ ‘Yes, it's all right, it's good.’ We exchanged without saying, that it was a pity Colin hadn’t done more of MY, but you cannot expect an amateur to be professional. I read D’s letter to Prim just after her accident. I said to him every now and again, we think people are interested in the truth for its own sake – D did - but most people are not. Those of us who are suffer. But sometimes we get through to one another. Him and me, for instance. That’s why others think us both odd and difficult sometimes and ‘wonderful’ and ‘special’ at others.

I forgot to record that I was somehow moved by the map K drew for David C. I just knew it is the second most familiar place to him in London. Also, and even nicer, I asked David C if K had warned him of my age and so on. And in his funny broken English he said that K had said ‘He is middle-aged, but don’t worry, there are no barriers.’

Saturday March 1 1986

I was looking forward to a day and evening to myself. But it soon palled.

The truth is that I can never be the same as I was before. I am a great raw mass of vulnerability to him and his needs.

What is that like? It means that never more than a minute or two goes by without him coming back to my mind. There isn’t a single word or joke, or meal or film, or allusion or happening, that doesn’t turn my mind to him and his life, and how it may or may not be modified by it. All my spare money and some that is not spare, goes on him. I am hurt by his pain, and happy if he’s happy. One quarter-glance from him is enough to set me on a different path, or make me wretched, or make me perfectly happy.

Later.

So. What is become of me? How can he be expected to face that? How shall I face him going away – perhaps for years?

I wish there was someone who really understood the overwhelming force of my feelings on every level. D would have.

Sunday March 2 1986

Stewed in bed reading the Sunday papers. Hazel rang. Sweet. Mike Parsons rang, also sweet. Later in the afternoon, dear Ian Burns rang to say let’s meet at the Astoria at seven. This threw me for a minute, then I realised this was the party given by his film’s director, Michael Caton-Jones. He’d said after the show on Sunday, and I’d forgotten the only ‘show’ on a Sunday was the 4pm matinee. So off we went to an address painfully near K at Highbury, St Paul’s Rd. Young party, a lot of food already gone, I only saw our drink. Ian had asked me so that we could all watch his film together. Alas, there were 30 or 40 people. I talked fruitfully to Walther, a German cameraman, but mainly to director Michael C.J. Quiet, shy, Scots, stage carpenter during Balthazar B. Loves S. I might do a bit there. I think he's the real thing. Left shortly after, as I’ve no rush to see the film with 40 unknown people. I’d prefer a real audience.

Oh, the concert K went to, was the London Symphony; Gennadi Rozhdestivensky, pianist/conductor. Debusssy: La Boîte à joujoux. Ravel: Une barque sur l’ocean. Rite of Spring.

But perhaps the worst thing this evening is that bloody Myrielle is moving back to Holland, and taking Briony with her. Ian said he cried all through the half on Wednesday? No, he must have meant Thursday or Friday – Oh, well, she was always hell.

Monday March 3 1986

On the radio yesterday, Richard Adler, the author of The Pyjama Game, was heard to say (by me) ‘And of course I know Lord Dudley, he’s a very lovely man and so is his wife.’

12.45 p.m. I have lost all will. I can do nothing. I hardly write the necessary letters. Why should he ring? He likes me having a life of my own. Look how I rely on Edna just being there and happy in herself. How long can I be strong for him? Please help me to help him.

Tuesday March 4 1986

Streaming cold all day. I’d meant to go out to buy his presents. Phil M rang tonight about cost of commercials. Had rung K. Was a little dismissive about the work he was doing, I suppose because of Colin. Well, so am I. Rang K straight after 8.30, not there. Ignoble suspicions. Unworthy feeling that he quite likes being free of me for ten days.

But I put that behind me. So many times …. And if he did, poor boy, how ignorant I must make him feel so often and unwittingly. Just that alone. But I have still missed him and gone round the flat calling to him. I am beginning to think I must let him sell the flat and pay me back and hear the full story.

Lynda rang and we talked of N with such love. You must always go with him to previews – he mustn’t go with these people. No, I agree.

Nice letter from Marjorie.

I miss him every moment. Every time I look up from the TV or my book.

Wednesday March 5 1986

Up and rang Jon H to have lunch, thinking this might give me a chance to get to the Warehouse to get K’s T-shirt. Jon couldn’t get off, so lunched here. Had an extra glass of wine and went straight to the Argyll Rd. one. Nasty little girl in 60’s make-up said ‘A year ago, oh no.’ Went to Flex on the way and they confirmed Pineapple. Got two, in more knitwear, but possibly quite possible! The wide neck, with no rib, just a seam. Could be quite right, but you never know with the young. I remember that much about myself. One red, quite a good red, £29 odd. One blue, hm 21.

To Rocky IV out of sheer interest for Neil, as it’s so much No.1. Pathetic unlike Rambo. The ‘political’ side, oh dear. And it’s all unbelievable, not truthful. Ha.

Back here, had some soothing spaghetti, Paul Ryan rang up ‘cos I was meant to ring over the w/e and Mike Parsons, to say Saturday was on. (No. we didn’t go to Letter to Breshnev, we sat up talking till 9.30 a.m. and didn’t fuck!)

Then, of course, I longed for him to ring. But why should he? He knows. Alas, if he rang up every five minutes, it wouldn’t be too much for me.

Thursday March 6 1986

Good evening. Horrid end.

He rang when he got home. We almost had it out. ‘You decide.’ I did say to him What do I get out of it?

All the fuss started from wanting to photograph his hair. Sharron already had. He couldn’t see why I then didn’t want to.

!

Friday March 7 1986

Cancelled my lunch with John N. Felt bad. It was jealousy. Dead day.

Saturday March 8 1986

Lunch with Jon H in Troc. He's finished Zentapuss. Good. Simon rang up, back from L.A and like a dream asked me out tomorrow.

It’s so pleasant with Jon H, so undemanding. As also back at home with Mike and Dick for I cannot remember a single thing we talked about, but I felt I did something for them, and that is the main thing. They stayed the night.

Monday March 9 1986

Too drunk and unhappy to write last night. When I got down after seeing them off, I found they’d washed up. In that rather vague way the young do, and without drying anything, so it all has to be done again!

To Simon’s about 7.0. Room re-arranged so that the sofa is opposite the mirrored wall and you can sit on it. Simon was a little distant for a time, as Bruno was supposed to be back to leave the dog at 6.0. Eventually S thought to play back the answer phone! So off we went, to Pontevecchio. Last time with the bank manager. Omen. Talked of my troubles, and it helped – a lot. But I am helpless and frightened.

Monday March 10 1986

He rang at 2.30, and we both had good news to tell! George Fenton had rung and been wonderful to him. He’d take him out for a drink and meet his music publisher. He was most sympathetic about his troubles, and obviously must have liked the tape. ‘The publisher doesn’t give advances.’ If you haven’t made anything at the end of a year, you part company amicably. There you see, if I hadn’t made him write – !

My good news is that Kim Grant wants me to go along to read for the valet in While the Sun Shines, Oxford and possibly coming in. He said ‘Oh Angus’, with that downward inflection which is so emotive. Oh, that would be so good, ease me back into the theatre, and if it ran – oh.

Tuesday March 11 1986

Bruna rang this morning to say don’t bother to go, they cast it last night. I felt grey and old and tired. I got to him about 4.30, as far as he knew, fresh from the audition. He was cleaning out the bathroom. No one else on earth could have comforted me.

Later, we went to the Post Office and then on to Streetwise, that documentary about children living on the street in Chicago. Quite unusual in the finish of the dialogue. The scenes were so shaped and yet didn’t appear to be so by cutting etc.

We went round the corner to Grant’s Diner. Rather indifferent, but possible and spacious. On our way out, he said he’d been there before, not to that place but a wine bar further down with Sarah, Haymarket Sarah! (Before I forget, he said on the ‘phone yesterday that Sharron had wanted to go to Progress and he’d forgotten, ‘so you see, I do it to other people too.’ He also said while talking about the work briefly, of which more tonight, ‘Oh girl-friends’, in a pretty contemptuous aside. Hm.) He was impressed by the film, a little too much because it was real life. Was it? I must say however, in his defence, that the decay of so much modern acting does excuse him. Exactly contrary to what people say, there is far more stale ‘naturalistic’ acting about than there ever was. As usual, TV is to blame, I think. So much acting now is carefully copied from the continually churned out series and plays. Indeed people in real life are fast losing their individuality too.

He did talk a little more of Sharron this time. About her concern about being Jewish and the prejudice. K at his most naïf, ‘But Sharron, I said, you’ve haven’t a great big greasy nose – you’ve only got a little bump.’ ! Perhaps her father has a – She’s writing a thesis on Hitchcock and I might help. Again hm. I wonder if she knows I might help and would she like it? She's off to Venice on Thursday for a week, sent by her college. Saw a letter on the table and with my usual eye, read a sentence before I could stop myself ‘Of course I shall miss you, but I’m going to have a bloody good time.’ The language of love?

Over the rather indifferent meal, he touched me very much by saying ‘I didn’t mention it at the time in case it upset you, but wasn’t it your wedding anniversary just before my b’day?’

Wednesday March 12 1986

To Donald and Ann to do their garden. A strange day, during which I saw more clearly what Ann meant by him not taking charge. She met me at the old Highgate tube station, and talked freely. We picked him up in Muswell Hill, where he had quite obviously been buying my lunch. I wonder if my displeasure at last time, seeped thro’. People who ‘don’t really eat lunch’ and who expect guests to conform to their hosts’ usage – a principle! support within reason, - forget that in this particular case, guests used to a ‘proper’ lunch, go hungry. The other way round, they only suffer from having to refuse food. When we arrived, Ann took me to the music room, saying, I think with deliberate significance, ‘I love this room, I really love this room’, the significance being that it’s the place where she’s most often alone. She played me some tapes of herself, mostly mus. com. One tape of her singing Porgy & Bess with Willard White at the Festival Hall, was electric. She has come on even from that she was. I’d arrived at quarter to eleven, and it was now ten past twelve, Donald had not appeared again. I said I’d better have lunch in an hour, so as to make the best use of the light. So what a funny lunch! Two sausage-rolls, two Scotch eggs, an asparagus quiche, some rather unripe tomatoes, three sorts of cheese. All obviously bought for me. D had vaguely remembered I liked s. rolls and s. eggs! Ann firmly poured me a glass of nasty cold Perrier water, I removed my eyes from the wine rack, and tried to eat with appetite. Garden long, narrow, completely neglected, long left-hand bed a complete closed carpet of weed-like forget-me-not plants. ‘One thing I must have is forget-me-nots’ said Ann. Did quite a lot, and found various plants, irises, aquilegia, etc. Left at sixish. Ann had gone to rehearsal, and had left instructions I was to be bought a taxi to the tube-station. Stiff. Glad the hot water was working.

K and Sharron were having a quick meeting to say goodbye before Venice.

Friday March 14 1986

Lunch with John N. told him all, and he was good and firm. He told me about his visit to Vienna, so interesting that he so seldom makes a memorable tale of these things. He’s never boring but never memorable. No talent, you see, but he knows it, which is why we’re friends. He is the very soul of loyalty and trust.

Saturday March 15 1986

1.30 a.m. Have sat up and thought my way to being sober. On Tuesday I saw in K’s diary, for Sat, ‘Poss, A’. Oh, that made me see what a change. So there we were at the ABC Shaft Ave to see Clockwise. He was only five mins late as he is nowadays, and wearing one of his new jumpers from me, looking very clean and clear. We went for a drink at the dear old Marquis of Cambridge in Cam Circus. I had noticed the other day that they were serving teas! And so they were. The pub was quite fullish, but no drink for three minutes!

We got back in, and K was so sweet, bouncing up and down like a little boy, saying ‘Oh, I can’t wait to see you fifty feet high.’ The cinema was well filled and the laughter was fairly continuous. (Tho’ K afterwards in his intense ‘interest’ found it wanting.) As we came out, and were in the mass of people (on the way in, he’d said with glee that one of the black usherettes had done big double-take at me!). I sensed him longing to say something, but with his innate miraculous taste, he knew he mustn’t. But, the look he gave me, of pride and pleasure in me!

We went to Melange, first time for a long time. Still, much the same, a bit vague. But the food was good, even delicious. By 9.15, we were finished, he wanted to go to a pub, but I said ‘Let’s go to yr place’ because of him going to work early & buy some Scotch, it’s so much cheaper. So we did, meeting a rather sad actor who lives in Kate B’s house opposite – how he forbade us to ask him in, not that we would have. (I hope K is not ashamed of me on these occasions).

So, the practical events out the way. His praise of my poor little part was just and balanced, as was his estimate of the whole film, wanting the three or four strands of the plot to be cleverly intertwined. But even I was taken aback by the force of his pride in my perf. He stands and falls with me.

As for his work, it’s all fallen apart again. The month in the studio for Jezz and the woman singer he’d liked and was already starting to make arrangements for, has melted away. He’d kept the next fortnight free, and had even slightly put off the two French men, and lo, he rang and it was all vague. And he saw Steve Slack yesterday, (or perhaps he didn’t) but anyway that was all gone, too. ‘Two years ago I would have been really upset, but now I can laugh’. But it’s still bitter.

His evening yesterday with Colin was restorative, I’m sure, because of Colin. But has still not finished the scripts. They went to see Out of Africa (God, Kevin) and came out at the interval. Colin was grateful, ‘I wouldn’t have thought of it. Coming out, I mean!

But I simply cannot write of the complete freedom of talk we’ve arrived at. And the openness of him!

Sunday March 16 1986

Priscilla John rang at 11.0 to ask if I could put her in touch with Ken Branagh! Clever of her. As I’ve just had a Nicholson volume back from Ken! I could confidently tell her a few things. She wanted to change his interview at Pinewood for the new Frederick Forsyth film. ‘And of course you must come to see John McKenzie, too.’ I’ll believe that when I see it. Felt rather dreary, but was invigorated by Neil ringing up to talk about the garden. It turned into a trip to the garden centre, (and the car for my bag of compost and a couple of plants) and back to their flat for tea and gardening and lovely teasing chat – N has decided yet again to sell the flat ‘for £81,000, and buy for £160,000’. I said to Lynda ‘So you’re selling the flat.’ She gave me her wonderful look and said ‘So Neil tells me.’ We have an alliance, - I think she senses that I know the harsh road she will almost certainly have to tread. How up and down N is going to be, but I think I can calm him. It was a distinct mitigation of my loneliness.

Monday March 17 1986

Disquieting this muck-up at Bournemouth. Last night during the Bafta awards, I was much moved. I was only watching because of Gerry G’s husband, who actually won, for his Bernstein film. I was pleased and rang G. But what moved me was Bob G getting two awards, accepting them and saying ‘I couldn’t have done it without Paula. She’s had to put up with a lot, and worked to support us both.’ That young man certainly has a love of truth.

But the real core, to me, was Peggy A, receiving the Best Supporting Actress Award for Passage to India, ‘tonight’, she simply said, ‘I am so pleased to accept this award because it gives me the honour to have stood on the same platform as Bob Geldof.’ (Platform, not stage!)

Simon hasn’t rung. Happily I’m not so depressed.

Later.

I might write my life.

Donald wants me to!

Kevin wants to me. (Very different).

But how can I find the money and the peace of mind?

And the truth?

About Donald?

About Julian?

About Lalla?

About Daddy!!!

K. always.

Tuesday March 18 1986

A dead day. Tho’ I got some work done in the garden again.

Rang K to arrange tomorrow. That’s all.

Wednesday March 19 1986

To Goldsmith’s College to see ‘Macbeth’ for Mike Parsons. In parts really interesting, in parts hilarious. I don’t know why directors’ common-sense seems to desert them where Shakespeare is concerned. On came three girls in punk hairdo, and make up dressed in white from head to foot, in brilliant light, and were addressed as ‘secret black and midnight hags.’ Macbeth delivered all the dialogue after the murder at the pitch of his lungs, so that the knocking was much less noise than what preceded it. Lennox was a girl, and so on. And octoplings occurred!

But to the pleasures. The performance held an audience almost entirely schoolboys of 16. A-Levels, you see. Mike was respectable. A bit quiet and un-projected, and of course suffering from all the absurdities. But the Macbeth was naturally less affected, because he could get on with his part alone! One Steven Dykes. Tall but not too tall, figure neither thin or thick. Excellent stage face, neither too handsome, nor too plain, with expectancy in it. Well opened speaking eyes, and a really good clear ringing voice. Much potential. When he stopped chattering and shouting, he had some magic. The first soliloquy wasn’t rapt. He didn’t put a glass bell round himself as he should. Last example of idiot director. Banquo (Mike) was murdering and toppled off the stage on to the floor, and lay there. The banquet scene began, and I thought ‘Oh good, he’ll bloody himself up down there and get up and be a real ghost.’ But, believe it or not, he lay there in full view and Macbeth screamed at an empty stool as usual.

A quick chat, and rush away to meet K. I’d had to say not Tuttons ‘cos the bar has more or less vanished. So it was Warner’s bar, pub opp. Warner’s, I mean. Wearing the red jumper I gave him this time. We had one drink there, during which he asked if he could borrow £30 as he would just be short what with the mortgage and going to Liverpool. I got him some from a Bureau de change, and made it £45, as I don’t like him to be without at Liverpool. It’s a wonder to me that he can still ask me, so easily. It’s a real tribute to both of us. I think. The very large material obligation he’s under to me, doesn’t seem to oppress him, but that’s partly me, I suppose. He told me the French boys had been round, nothing had happened, but one of them wants to sing ‘Maxine’ and ‘I can’t see for tears.’ I said, ‘Well, I suppose that’s encouraging.’ ‘No, it isn’t’, he said gloomily. And certainly those are two of his less original songs.

So off we went to see ‘Jagged Edge’. Dazzling notices, ‘Hitchcockian in its –’. ‘The sort of film you can’t put down’ etc. Well. We sat it out and it was just saved by the corset of the courtroom. But very ordinary. Nearly full. So to Café Fish, to try it again. The menu as tempting as before, and no other deficiencies as before. I had the smoked fish, delicious, s. salmon, eel, halibut, sardine, mackerel. Lovely. He had filets de cabaillot, young cod (scrod!).

We talked of ‘many things.’ He mentioned D’s ashes! Because of course he’ll have to deal with them. He said was I sure I didn’t want to scatter them now, ‘you never know, it’s a long time ahead.’ We screamed with laugher about it.

He told me how he sat down to prepare a card for Nigel’s b’day, at about 3.0, and it took him till 11.0 to finish it. A door opening on a game of Monopoly, in L’pool, with all the forfeits changed to the dole and jobs and son on. Sweet. We also talked of Phil’s marriage. ‘I still am not sure if he really wants to. He was a bit half-hearted about it.’ ‘Well, that’s Phil.’ ‘Yes, I know, but I’ll still chat to him and find out in the car on the way to L’pool.’ ‘Got any further with your best man’s speech?’ ‘You know the worst thing about that? You’ll be out there listening.’

Amazing that he thought to bring up D’s ashes. I told him that I would shut like a trap with all people on the subject. That a boy of his age should think of it and be able to talk of it with concern, with comfort, with knowledge of my emotion and my amusement, is amazing. I am really very blessed that he has turned out to be a boy of such delicate perceptions and sensitive sympathetic imagination.

Thursday March 20 1986

K had taken a message from Bruna yesterday while I was out. I’d left the phone off the hook as well, while watching the Royal Engagement. I rang him from Goldsmiths to change the venue from Tuttons as their bar is closed. He’d been trying to get me. Priscilla John wanted to see me for the new Frederick Forsyth film. I said ‘Tell Bruna I’ve got the message and tell me tonight.’ I love it that he copes with my messages like that. Of course, he forgot to bring it last night! but that was nice, as it meant another call when he got in.

So off I went to Regent St. Up four floors in the lift, walk the last flight to small very unpretentious offices, marked in the hall ‘Mr Plunket Greene’. Talk of coincidence! She was very pleasant – and looks more attractive that she used to. John McKenzie?, the director, was middle-aged, mild, laughed a lot. I felt it went well. K rang about Sat. He’s having Kelvin round tonight.

He rang straight back to ask how the interview went.

And again to say they think, they’ll got to the matinee after coming to lunch with me on Sat. Not so good.

Mary L and Lala Lloyd to dinner. Mary likes to come and go early, to Willesden. So it was to be 6.0. Lala arrived at 5.40 and left at quarter to one, Mary having left at 10.0! In between, I found it a sticky evening. Lala launched – that’s the word – on a lot of the same stories, but of life. I’m afraid I was bored. And they both eat so slowly. But obviously they enjoyed themselves, which is the point. I suppose.

Friday March 21 1986

To do Ann’s garden again. Ann had to go off almost at one, and Donald didn’t stay out with me, so I was alone. Later still, D went to fetch Hannah so I was literally alone. Got a lot of work done and made more visual difference this time. Planted all the plants, but they need more annuals. Rang K, and got him eventually at 3.15. Still lunch and matinee. There’s a party at his pub in the evening to say goodbye to the publican. After my gardening, there was a b’day party. Ann Trinsey arrived, with Paul something, that PR man. A smoothie ‘You must be Angus’ brother.’ ‘I hear you’re quite a gardening expert. Can I got and look?’ ‘You wouldn’t consider doing anything to my - ?’ ‘No.’

Mrs Trinsey is a good woman, I am sure, but a terrific bore. Long discourses in a flat, New England voice, and these lovely friends of mine have some very dear friends who want so much to live in England – they are wild about it – but they live so near their dear little grandchildren, these friends of my friends, and you can’t move away from watching your grandchildren grow. These friends’ friends’ grandchildrens’ names are –

And their ages.

I was tired and v. glad K wasn’t round tonight. He rang at five past seven to say they would go to the matinee and come on to dinner. Much nicer. He rang again at ten past eight. ‘Two things. I meant to say that I will give those French boys yr. number for diction lessons. And you must charge.’ ‘How much?’ ‘Well, I said you would.’ ‘Five pounds?’ ‘Yes, I should think so. And the other thing. I thought of Phil Davis for our director. He was really interested, he lives near and he’s coming round for a drink.’

Good.

A black man kneeling on a tip-up seat in a bus-shelter filling in a supp. benefit form.

Saturday March 22 1986

10.30 p.m.

They have just gone and of course I’m a bit drunk – but only a bit. The evening was a success, - I think.

(I must one day tackle him on not using his key when anyone else is with him, almost. It isn’t honest, is it?! Tho’ I don’t really care).

She kissed me. He embraced as warmly as he ever has, and as spontaneously. It was quite strong. My first reaction is that it was a relief. Perhaps that’s wishful thinking. Perhaps it was ‘oh how good to be able to bring her here’, or ‘Let me make it up to you for –’ Or just high spirits. But I must register that I felt it as relief, ‘I am glad to be able to return to our standards.’ And certainly I liked her less than any other time, when I have liked her so much. She may have been in a mood, or got the curse, but she was too critical of everything for someone so young. I began to see an absence of appetite and gusto. She talked a little of Venice, I expected a flood. She sat slumped on the sofa, with one ankle up on the other knee. And for the first time she wasn’t wearing figure concealing clothes, and the position was not becoming. Not only are her legs rather heavy as he said, but her proportions are not good, short-bodied. I’d have liked more enthusiasm and less sitting back. At least she agreed with me about Phil F as I became a little severe over dinner about him. ‘How much worse must he behave before you ditch him?’

But I suddenly felt her not liking Phil F was perhaps only her not liking anything very much. However, we did expose more of our relationship than ever before, let’s see what she makes of that, because it is very important. I watched for their relationship. Hm. Outwardly, he moved to sit beside her when I was out of the room. They held hands at one time. But he said to her at one point ‘In the six months I’ve known you’ in quite a remote way, as if he didn’t know her very well. I don’t see him as at all modified by it or her yet. I must see her more to tell.

Oh odd. Caroline Goodall rang me this morning to ask me to go to the theatre and supper. I said Kevin was coming round with his new girlfr. ‘Oh goodness’ she said ‘give him my love. Has he cut his hair yet? Does he bath sometimes? I suppose she thought I’d be amused.

12.20 a.m.

An entire quiet sobriety. 2 hrs after they’ve gone, and no more drink. Calm, calm. Interesting. Another stage. He rolled his napkin up and put it in his ring.

Monday March 23 1986

Further thoughts. They may be well at a further stage, too, after six months. Perhaps I sensed that. To get closer or further apart? I sensed something. Perhaps tomorrow night he’ll say, or show, something.

Rang Neil. He asked me to watch AD on Sunday, with them. Rather suspiciously little publicity for it. I fear the English critics may be nasty. Or worse, indifferent.

To John N’s for dinner. They were both so sweet and welcoming. I was in cheerful form though why, God knows. But I cannot put my troubles on Simon.

So, it was a skimming evening, as of old. Didn’t stay, as I’d thought I might. On the way home, changed at Earl’s Court and there on the platform was Michael Parfitt! As corpse-like and delightful as ever. I do hope he rings.

Tuesday March 24 1986

To ‘Young Sherlock Holmes’ film alone, yesterday. The hallucinations too harsh for me. But something sweet about it. Period really good. How period the boy must seem to Americans. Ingeniously worked out, and very respectful to Conan D. Despair much less these last two weeks. Why? Finances are the same. It’s almost like something physical. Rang Roy about Wednesday. ‘Of course you’re coming to dinner, but can you pay, as my dole check doesn’t come till Thursday?’

!

Forget to s

Wednesday 12.45am. He’s gone. Till Wednesday at the earliest. Oh it’s the not being here.

How can I bear it.

Thursday March 26 1986

It is hard. It was such a lovely evening, and so fruitful about M.Y. Except for me telling him about his hair, and him calling me a liar, but we go over that.

How do you face being deprived of the person who matters most to you? I still don’t know how to deal with the lead.

She’s in the flat for two days, till Sat.

Later.

He said of Sharron, ‘I expect she suffers from being depressed’, or words to that effect.

He suggested a new number for the manager in the Dreaming sequence in Act II. We must try and get it in the new script.

1.45 a.m. At Roy’s. A really good bargain maisonette. I’m in a big double bed. Suburban furnishing. Digs.

Lovely evening really. Roy told me of all his various really interesting literary projects. And I did listen and did evaluate them and did admire them.

And I think did inspire him.

And coming up through the floorboards of every subject was, what is he doing. Will he be all right on the motorway tomorrow, why can’t I be with him all the time etc etc etc etc bloody etc. Why have I been cursed with this burden of love? Kevin

______

My hand is drunk but my brain is not. Even worse. I will write carefully tomorrow of today and Roy’s ideas. I made a list at last. Seven or eight separate schemes.

But Kevin, Kevin.

Thursday March 27 1986

Well, I must carry out my promise yesterday. Stayed the night and got on the no. 12 bus. It took over half an hour to get to Elephant and the lift stuck. I don’t think I could not live on a tube line. A rush-hour journey on a road would kill me with irritation.

So to Roy. He'd cut his hair to the bone again. Really these boys. Why do they, want to look hideous? Well, his work. He announced:-

1. ‘Eric’s Schooldays’ set in a T.I.E., - leading part based on Ian Burns. Possible TV series. 2. An episode of Eastenders to be transmitted in August. He’ll get £1500? with immediate repeats. 3. One episode of Dempsey & Makepeace, an hour long, £4000, immediate repeats making it £8,000! 4. News of the World. Being rewritten for the Bush. Terry Johnston wants to direct it at B’ham. 5. ‘Portland Bill.’ Payne’s Plough are doing it. 6. He’s thought of an idea for a TV series. Two women coming together from very different backgrounds to run a brewery. His agent likes it very much, and is putting it up to Euston Films. 7. Kenneth Trodd has Political Undertakings.

Only Eastenders is actually constructed, I think. Still it’s not a bad list. I am fond of Roy, and take pleasure in his company and conversation. He has some of the same literary tastes and others like the film we saw last night, ‘Return of the Living Dead’, a very funny take-off of a horror film – I knew K wouldn’t like it. (Any more than D would have – childish) But, the talk never becomes intimate. He can only disclose himself thro’ his work. He reads me his work – a new short story written from a woman’s point of view. Seamlessly good, except for a faintly, self-conscious couple of sentences which no woman would bother to put in – they were only there to emphasise the woman. But at least I’ve seen his home, he's cooked me a meal, I’ve seen his books. I enjoyed myself.

I was interested that when the lift stuck about four feet below the top level, I was frightened. My imagination rushed ahead not just to be stuck there for hours, days and watching to see who would be the first to pee in a corner, but to the machinery completely failing and crashing to the ground. Nobody spoke, except for the ticket collector having an inefficient series of yells to someone upstairs, who eventually wound us up to ground level. I thought I’ll get a taxi, and then gratefully noticed the others darting down the emergency stairs. Alas, London is in two halves now.

Later. Hovered, waited, decided not to ring K to say let me know you arrive safely. There are high winds, rain, bank-holiday traffic. It’s no use, I would love to know he’s safe. But I know also he thinks I’m a bit silly like that. I suppose I am, but as always, feelings are feelings, a nervous stomach is a nervous stomach. Anyway, he expects me to ring on Sunday – that’s something.

Good Friday March 28 1986

Prim came round at 10.0, dressed rather oddly, but at her best. She settled down to sew the curtains almost at once, never came into the sitting room. Worked right through till 1.0 when she’d ‘ordered’ lunch, and then went home, saying ‘Come to dinner and bring the other curtain I haven’t done, with you.’ It was a good day, and so was tonight. She’d changed and looked nice, was entirely herself. Smoked salmon, cold chicken done up and the claret she sent me to buy, as I thought, for someone else. Good talk, as always when she’s herself. Told her of Mary L’s suicide attempt. She was really riveted. No wonder.

I enjoyed myself. But the moment I got into the street – and incidentally passed Phil Finch’s dark – the division descended – no, the barriers – no, he just wasn’t there.

Saturday March 29 1986

‘Ann & Debbie’ on ITV tonight. All it most piercingly recalls to me is that fortnight we spent at Kilburn.

That was the strongest sensation tho’ it held me longer than I thought it would. Neil rang up this morning, ‘you are my lodestone etc.’ I’m glad. But why doesn’t life give me more money to be lode stones to all these people?

This afternoon to Daryl. Feeble little film, yet with a good impulse behind it. Like our musical.

But the Classic. T. Rd. So saturated with him and our visits there. For me. Ha!

Liverpool tonight.

Sunday March 30 1986

Rang at 5.20, 5.30, 5.40 and got Phil at 5.50. They’d just come in. K had been playing football with Nigel. ‘Ask him about his legs.’ Oh, so sweet, I can’t bother to describe the sweet draughts of water in a desert.

To Neil’s to A.D. A real experience. I am blessed in my friends and will describe it tomorrow. My dear little boy.

Monday March 30 1986

I sat feeling nervous about ringing him as usual. Rang at 5.20 etc as I said. I’d asked Phil about their mother and when I asked him his opinion, he said rather snappily ‘Phil’s just told you.’ As if he always agreed with Phil! I must try and get him out of making you feel in the wrong! He could simply have said mildly, ‘I’ve noting more to add.’ But I didn’t mind. They went to see ‘Clockwise’ for their Easter treat, and there I was in Ann & Debbie in the evening as well. He couldn’t watch it either. It took them six hours to drive there! Well, that’s the idiocy of travelling at these public holidays. Thank God I don’t have to. How on earth long was he playing football? He said he could hardly get up from the chair. So he must have been playing for half an hour at least, considering he isn’t all that unfit, standing in the shop all day. Funny little boy, but I love to think of him kicking a ball about with Nigel, and becoming a carless teenager for even half an hour. He deserves it.

So to Neil’s. How warmly they received me. A huge gin & tonic, chat. N. played me a little interview he’d done quite outplaying John Sachs on his chat show, and when we settled down to watch A.D. Linda stayed in the kitchen with Lucy until Lucy’s bedtime so that we could watch undisturbed. I couldn’t have done that. I am glad to say N said how wonderful it was of her.

Well now, A.D was a great deal better than I expected. The production values and the lighting were in particular, excellent. You could look around in any set deep into the detail and not be disappointed. There were many good points. The Times said this morning there were no spectacular effects, no troupes of dancing girls, and the set of the Crucifixion looked like a rubbish tip. But that’s just what I liked. Most of the acting was respectable and none of it was ridiculous.

As for Neil, tho’ a trifle self-conscious at moments – such a trifle that I shan’t mention to him in case it increases it! – otherwise really good. And something I hadn’t been prepared for, that made me cry, was the straightforward goodness and integrity he gave out. From the beginning, you felt you could follow him with confidence and not be let down, knowing him to be the central figure of the film.

Later. 1.10am

Still thinking and worrying about him – he said they mightn’t be back till 2.0. Knowing them they’d start so late. And the holiday drivers! It’s no use, I worry.

Tuesday April 1 1986

Cannot be bothered to list the seven calls I made today to start again, all tantalising, all unfinished. Not least rang K to hear Sharron answering. Which is sweet and understandable but not when he told me we might start work on Tuesday to finish the number for typing on Thur. which I gathered was the deadline. I settled for Thursday. But the pressure of the other calls and my financial failure has made me think again and again seriously, that I ought to fade away. Could I? Yes, I could live, as it were, at the cottage, and see no one. I do not know how much more I can bear, with B’mouth and all.

Rang Neil and went round. But Philip Lyons of all people turned up, just as I might have had a little time with N. I can’t cry over L on the edge of a baby.

Oh, if only I could confide in K, as I should.

But I can’t quite yet. It would be too much blackmail.

Wednesday April 2 1986

Forgot to record that Marjorie rang me about 5.45. Very sweet ‘Have the boys gone?’ ‘No, they’re down the bottom of the garden heaving a bin about.’ ‘A dustbin?’ ‘No, an old galvanised thing that my father in law used as a rain-water butt (lowering her voice in amusement) I think he's going to try to get it into that little car. He says he wants it for his plants!’ I screamed with laughter. Another of K’s ideas! Dear little boy.

Oh, and Christine came for lunch on Sunday and stayed till 5.30. She’s quite good company and we talked a lot of Donald and Ann, which was quite interesting, with a few Revelations, all of which I took with a considerable pinch of salt. I fear I can’t yet believe she’s really changed. And I find her attitude to emotion as embarrassing and false as Lalla’s and Mummy’s. And Jon’s. Poor darling, she’s been malformed. But then she said I had survived my upbringing so well. But of course her upbringing was a more difficult one to overcome than mine? Of course, it always is. And as she left, she said ‘Try and keep in touch more’ or words to that effect. From her!

Forgot to record that Donald said to me last time, when I mentioned Sharron ‘Is he thinking of getting married?’ Pure malice. Like May Slade.

Long talk to Linda this morning much worried in her mild way at Neil’s state. Hasn’t jogged for a month! Yesterday, or last night, came out with exzema, tons of spots and dandruff on head and eyebrows. Said he had temperature, but hadn’t. Taken two sorts of antibiotics. Ha.

He’s frightened. And I don’t blame him. He's frightened in a primitive way that for example, K & I, at our different ages, never would be.

Because he's not an artist. Tho’ he may be a star!

Thursday April 3 1986

K.

Complete utter communion.

Friday April 4 1986

I wish I could make myself write when I get home, and yet, when I am happy, I can’t, because it would somehow finish the happiness.

In the morning, I picked up Zentapuss from Printronics. Looks good, the repros are, if anything, more vivid than the original. The girl who did it, said she’d loved it ‘What age-group is it for?’ ‘About 5-8.’ She was twenty-three.

He arrived here about five. He’d rung about 2.0 to say he was v. tired and would have a nap first, and ‘then shall we go to Echo Park, it’s the last day.’ We were going to work, so I knew we wouldn’t much. Still we did talk over what sort and shape of number, and he did give an idea of two. I said about Tuesday – I’ve realised I mustn’t suppress my irritation – ‘The moment I heard Sharron answer, I knew we wouldn’t work.’ He answered with a definite dignity, ‘You knew I was seeing Phil Finch on Tuesday. It all fell through again, because he’s left Elaine and is living in Kent. But in any case, Sharron wouldn’t make any difference to us working.’ So we put that behind us, and went on with the number a bit. Then off to Chelsea. He had with him a number of cassettes that he was sending off, (into the air? please, no) and a bigger parcel. Glynn had been over, and K had been wondering whether to tell G at last about ‘Reselection.’ G had suggested the weekend for a get-together as it was his only one free for some time. ‘I thought I ought to talk to him about it. So I decided on that, but I could see Sharron was disappointed as she had the car, and I had promised her a country weekend. So I’m sending it to him.’ I do see it’s a big moment, Glynn may be hurt and a lifelong friendship finished. But I don’t know. I would be because I would sense from it how far apart they have grown but Glynn mightn’t see that. I think there’s little future for the friendship except on a meet twice a year for a ‘what about that time when we’ session. Glynn will ossify. I fear. It obviously weighs on K as he returned to it again and again, which he almost never does.

We talked of Liverpool. ‘Oh yes.’ It was a bit better than Christmas, but as Sarah was there as well, and she and Phil couldn’t sleep together, K had to sleep on the floor. Which of course was why he was tired! A great deal of talk of the wedding. He’d said ‘Angus and Sharron’ for the guest list, ‘just to assert myself.’ Ah, so he thinks they’ll still be together in August - ! didn’t say. I’m getting better at him. We had a lot of fun thinking of Aunty Barbara at the wedding. We also had another dear bit about Ernie and his selflessness. He wants to help pay for the wedding. Oh dear, just pride. It’s not necessary. How stupid big weddings are in these difficult days! And we are completely together on it. I must arrange the day carefully.

I asked about the iron bin, and he said he would use it for the fig-tree. It’s big and will hoist the tree up much higher, above the door. He wanted something for it to stand on to catch any water. ‘About 16’ across.’ That old gold tray of Julian’s was just the thing. He was pleased, so was I, at things fitting. We got to the cinema, the Old Chelsea Odeon. He’d a gin in the foyer – how odd we’d have thought that quite recently. The film ‘Echo Park’ I’d seen before, but didn’t tell him. Thin, agreeable in parts. Tom Hulce is not my taste. ‘Look at me walking naturally down this corridor’. We both agreed about the film and the very silly end.

We’d passed on the way, The Old Pheasantry, where it said Fresh Pasta Bar. Round there is bad, except for one or two v. expensive places, so we went. Thank God that we’ve got so far it doesn’t matter where we go for the success of the evening. ‘Mama Bellini’ it was called, slightly tatty-looking. A vague red- haired waitress showed us a table, took our gin & tonic order, and then openly did nothing at all about it! Later, another girl took our food order, we mentioned the gin & tonics, warned that we’d already ordered them. We didn’t get two, so sometimes disorganisation can work. The food was eatable, but we shan’t go there again. The waitress seemed to have exhaustively trained in the art of ignoring customers’ calls for service, so varied was their repertoire of blank stares and turnings away.

More talk of L’pool. He said he’d cook dinner one night, ‘and I don’t know how she did it, but Mum subtly turned it round to her doing it, really because Phil etc were against me doing it.’ I can just hear them, like everyone else putting him down, when’s he's the best cook of the lot of them. It’s funny how he brings jeers.

He’s worried about Nigel and his nothingness. ‘We were walking back home and there was a house all painted turquoise, and inside everything was turquoise, and I said how awful it was, and N said everyone had a right to their own taste, but it was really cause he hadn’t any opinion of his own about it, he hasn’t on most things.’

Sharron had been there all week, but goes back to coll. Next week. Has been working there. He’s been out Tues. Wed. to see Phil Lawrence and Thur. with me! He remembered Monday’s date. We parted in the Kings Rd, I gave him £10 for his taxi. I had £1,373 from the dog commercial this morning! He didn’t just hug me, he kissed me when we left.

Saturday April 5 1986

Too late last night again. To the Bush to see ‘China’. V. poor acting, production good except for Eddie O Conn. Monotonous, cocky but not disastrous or anything just below the level of the rest. Sian Thomas very good and funny. N. Richardson good. Stuart Wilson bricks without straw. Play has a hole in the middle, is a ten-minute anecdote. Drink with Simon S. He knew. Was with Mike Parsons. Very comforting and solid to be with. He stayed the night. He’s a dear. We talked of Steven Dykes. Tues. he comes.

To Prim’s at 12.0 to pick up my other bedroom curtain – oh. Neil came round last night with some scripts of a very ordinary series called ? I read it this morning before I got up. His part is the eighth in importance. ‘The money?’ ‘It doesn’t matter what the money is, you mustn’t do it. There is no opportunity at all, even if the whole last third was about you. Which it won’t be.’ I was glad Mike met him, just after reading Harpers-Queen article! And hearing N say after my opinion, ‘Isn’t Angus marvellous.’

So to Prim’s. I haven’t said that I’ve slept downstairs for a week. I keep forgetting and walking into my bedroom in the nude and rushing back into the wings, as it were. Neil brought the net curtains back which dear Linda had ironed with her steam iron, so it was back to normal.

Prim was looking pretty with her hair done so softly, and in beige and black looking really smart. We dropped the curtain here and off to Jake’s, for what turned out to be a perfect meal. The restaurant was empty for a start, and remained quarter-full. We had celery soup, delicious smoked salmon and scrambled egg, - I had crème brulee, and coffee. Prim had neither, and enjoyed her last glass of the delicious Meursault, the genuine pale greeny-yellow flinty taste.

Back at home I got ready for Nigel. Did I say N rang from L’pool to say could he come round on Saturday. With Steve, it was then. I said to K ‘Well you won’t be there to cook the dinner, so the only other person he knows…’ K laughed a lot. When I opened the door, it was Nigel and Jason. Big huge yachting Jason. I fell for him, he is special in his gentleness and mildness. So often big men are and he’s huge, great two-foot thick thighs. Intelligent, funny, a great success. He’s an old friend. ‘I remember Kevin leaning against the French windows and singing Happy B’day on Nigel’s sixth birthday.’ Jason was six too, I suppose and K 13! Tackled N at one point ‘Who would you go to if you were upset about something?’ ‘Sandra.’ ! All through I was tremulous thinking of him on the motorways, but good.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 67

April 6 1986 - July 4 1986.

Sunday April 6 1986

So they stayed the night and I went off about 1.15 – we’d been up till 2.30 – to lunch with Jon H and Rachel, leaving them at breakfast. I told Nigel to try and get some sense out of Steve Wilson about our tape being played on Radio Liverpool, and a letter from EMI that followed it. If it did!

Trocadero. V. full. No wine! As it was Sunday licence. Still I was glad as Jon was paying. He and R were very sweet. They are light without being trivial and I was at my best. It was a real relaxation. We liked the repros, indeed preferred one or two of them to the original.

In the evening to N and L’s again for A.D. Rather duller section though N at his best. He's not the world’s greatest actor, but he can radiate enough for the great public, I would say.

Forgot to record that Nigel said he’d never seen the flat so clean – the woman’s touch. And that K was v. keen on Sharron.

Monday April 7 1986

D died nine years ago. Am writing tonight.

Another marvellous night. Is it for him, yes it must be.

And it started in a nasty muddle. We’d made the date. It was D’s death day. I waited thinking I will let him so as not badger him. By 5.45, I was so miserable I rang and said I supposed we weren’t going out. He had forgotten. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I saw you put it in your diary, I suppose that doesn’t mean anything.’ ‘Oh, don’t be cruel. Look can't we meet for a drink?’ ‘Oh no, I can't go up to the West End just for a drink.’ I was sore and called it off. We hadn’t quarrelled, but it wasn’t good. I rang back to leave a better taste, with the result we met at Mon Marche at 8.0. He’d only said just a drink because ‘I didn’t think we’d be celebrating.’ ‘We’re both alive, so of course we celebrate.’

I was in the loo when he arrived and as I sat down he said ‘You all right?’ I wish I could convey how much feeling he can throw into his glance and his voice at such moments. It's not just my love for him – I am an expert at expressions and voices.

And in that way, he is nearly unique. So we had one of our most precious evenings.

Long talk of Nigel during which I think we took on the responsibility of his future together. I gradually eroded his feeling that he was complaining about Nigel.

I said to him about getting up Edna for one last day in London. For an exhibition. He said Sharron might help choose, and come too. That would be nice for Edna, I’m pretty sure. At last, he talked a bit of Sharron ‘Oh, no, she won't move in, I couldn’t have her work all over my desk all the time.’ He indignantly repudiated that the cleanliness of the flat was anything to do with S. Also said how silly N was about them, like all sexually inexperienced people. We were actually fucking when they came in one night. I said ‘Shall we stop?’ And S said ‘no, let’s go on’. ‘So we did. And that was all that night. And once in the morning. But I'm sure N says we’re always at it. Then we talked of the difference of morning fucks. ‘Is it piss-proudness or is it that your cock is half asleep, too, that makes it a bit less vivid?’

The country weekend collapsed around them. They were at Oxford for a drink then to the country. Three times they tried to go for a walk and when, the third time, they walked through a pretty little wood and came to the edge of it to find it being cut down and for the third time an electrified fence being put up, they gave up and came home. He said Let’s spend the money on a good meal and (smiling) ‘we went to the Wine Gallery. Fish cakes. It was good.’

I was pleased. Sensible, and somewhere I’d taken him.

He came back again to ‘Now Glynn’s reading Reselection.’ Yes he’s still heart-whole as far as I can see. Even about the wedding, he repeated it was only to have some guests!

Perhaps the only sign of anything is that he has been even warmer to me lately. (I must record a sense that he is relieved to be with me – I may be quite wrong.) Certainly on the platform between our two trains, he hurled himself into my arms and again kissed me most warmly.

Tuesday April 8 1986

Steven Dykes to dinner, the Macbeth of the other day. Interesting. Or rather not very, except for his acting. He is an actor, possibly a very good one, which might explain why I felt him to be a channel for acting. Comes from a simple home in Portsmouth. Saw Jonathan Pryce’s Hamlet on TV at 16! and that made him decide to act. He is balding and looks older than his 22 yrs. About 28, perhaps. He’s bigger than I thought. At Goldsmith, he has played Lopak in Macbeth and two other big leads I’ve forgotten. Still shy and embarrassed when I praised him and laughed in that unmistakable way that comes from not wanting to believe the praise and yet knowing somewhere inside it's true. Had two gins and a glass or two of wine, nothing after dinner. Nothing really loosened him up or made him disclose himself. The nearest I got was when I got him to wipe the smile of his face for a minute and accept the truth that he was an actor and an artist. At the moment he is only the sum of his (amateur) work and this may be good. I don’t want to give the impression that I didn’t like him or we didn’t have some good talk about the theatre. Mushroom soup, lamb chops in the lump, not best end of neck. Memo, not again, and banana in rum. He laughed quite a lot telling me he didn’t like fish. Social nerves.

Wednesday April 9 1986

To lunch with Simon, back from Scarboro. He said he was thinner – he is. He has a waist. When I got there, he was beside himself, and while we were there, about ¾ of an hour, the phone never stopped ringing on the answerphone, except when he was on it for his own calls. I had taken Zentapuss, having gone to the Covent Garden Graphic Centre to get two new holders for the text and illustrations. S was rather amazed that I had done this, but then he never takes my work seriously, tho he thinks he does.

He was more nearly beside himself than usual, hardly able to speak! Or decide where we should eat, in Fulham or W.E as he had to be in Denmark Street to discuss a possible tour of Amadeus that he might direct, of course it was W.E. He was troubled that I had just come from the W.E and would have to go back there and then back home. We went to Pelican. It's very strange and I can't account for it that I can remember so little of our talk whenever we meet. I can remember that the Amadeus tour carries £2,500 for each of the leads.

Said he'd love to see Jon H at the w/e. Hm.

Back home with the loo still not working. Plumber there for one and a half hours. Finally thought that the loo wasn’t on the mains, but on the storage tank upstairs. The tank ball cock may have gone wrong or the water turned off when Mrs E died and now I’ve used it up. About right for the time. I’ve already paid him £65.

It was tiresome, not the loo being out of order but sitting waiting for him to go every minute for an hour and a half.

Thursday April 10 1986

He rang up yesterday to ask what time. Good.

There he was at the Young Vic – early! Come in Sharron’s car. We went to the pub for half an hour. No news from either of us. No sound from Jezz. French boys waiting for record companies. Interview for keyboards not probable. Chap, 38, tour of universities for some weeks. Didn’t seem to like K’s music (also wrong age group, I'd say). I’ll meet his going if I have to.

So into the theatre. The whole back wall hung with white cotton draped around a lot of shelves with rows of skulls, broken statuary etc and a central arched opening, two or three steps up.

One of the programme sellers was Dick Bird. And there was Nan Munro with a friend, so we had to sit next to her, tho’ I kept her off K. The rest of the cast was black, West Indian I think, with all that implies of goodwill, animal spirits and lack of artist judgement and control. The translation was speakable and clever, the production possible. Possible for Eileen to give a great performance. I haven’t said that for a long time, but yes. It was so wonderful to see a performance where everything was done on purpose. where as it were, she had decided on the mould of the performance, designed every detail with minute care, refined it, polished it and strengthened it and then it was fit to have all that passion and despair poured into it. Oh those explosions of pantherish rage as she springs across the stage. The clarity, the audibility (that one should have to commend what one once took for granted.) We went backstage and I saw that beautiful worn humorous crooked fascinating face again. Nan Munro was already there – of course. We greeted each other, I kissed Eileen much. K stepped forward, shook her hand, kissed her and said ‘You were wonderful’ and nothing more. Perfect. They were going out with a large party across the road. Eileen’s husband’s office staff of 12 or 15, and Nan, and she warned me off that. I said I’d ring tomorrow and off we went to RSS. Although in décor and service and food, it was just as good, alas not only had the prices gone up – the cheapest main course was £8.95 – but there was no one else there without a tie except K. ‘Neither of us will have a starter he said firmly.’ I’m afraid we won't go again.

He told me he'd sent tapes off to advertising agencies. Jingles etc. I fear that won't come to anything. I told him I'd written to George F, he smiled. One secretary said ‘you want a young firm just starting. Ours is quite new, the head of it is our composer.’ ‘That’s no good then.’ ‘Why not come and see him?’ So, he is on Tuesday. You never know. If the man is running the co. as well, it may be he can't do so much of the music. Someone sent him a cyclostyled list of agencies, 4 pgs, 50 to a page. !

‘It’s my last fling.’ Ominous words. He showed me a letter from Nationwide – he is still £300 behind on his mortgage. He’s writing to them to extend the mortgage.

I was amazed when he suddenly said ‘I’ve been sitting at home and thinking about you. I have a sort of feeling, what with the dog commercial and so on, that you might get offered a really big commercial, which you’d be really famous for, like the Kit Kat man. Would you take it? and would it help your career?’ I started to answer him and he took the words out of my mouth ‘You might do it for me, mightn’t you? But you mustn’t. Don’t do anything to harm yourself to make money for me.’

It wasn’t a rebuke – it was an expression of the way in which our two lives are intertwined, like the starters!

We talked of D a little again, I said to him ‘I go for people with truth and you and D have more than anyone I know.’

Gave me a lift home in Sharron’s father’s car. What does she think of staying at home while he comes out for a ‘glamourous’ evening and a rich restaurant and deprives her of the use of the car? If she really doesn’t mind, she’s a rare girl. He didn’t mention her much.

He is the only person in my life who demands that I be more delicate, more careful in my choice of words.

Later.

All I know is I love him – that is the central, the only fact in my life.

Friday April 11 1986

Neil rang at length to talk about a possible appearance in a video to be made around one of the songs from Biggles. All right, if it's dignified, but must be thro’ his agent. They seemed to think he'd do it for fun! How innocent of him not to turn them on to his agent at once. He is in a state, there’s no doubt.

I am well aware that Neil is kept as much on the straight and narrow as much as he is by me and the memory of D. And, who knows the truth between him and L? Is he a real strength to her?

To a stupid film alone. Can't write.

Saturday April 12 1986

Ditto. Ditto.

Sunday April 13 1986

The film I saw yesterday was Heartwreckers. Rather tacky. About two friends who are both womanisers but really in love with each other, if you ask me. And because it was a muzzy-minded film, and nobody had really decided what the issues really were, except to be sensational, the result was a nasty mixture of a certain quality and soft porn. For example, two men who go to bed with one woman, must have a least a bisexual element in both of them to consent to it. Two friends of 30, each other’s closest friend, ought to know themselves better than that if they are to be believed as intelligent people. A nasty mixture. Not improved by endless intrusive music.

I was rather depressed this afternoon, had a little weep. Although I see so much of him, I wept for him not being here in a humdrum way – I still want long silent days when we didn’t do anything or say anything but I could look up and smile and go on with what I’m doing, but of course I can't have that – much.

It is better as these pages prove.

To Neil’s in the eve. for A.D again. One or two awful performances, this time both women, of course. Isn’t it strange? Jenny Lipman, whom I do like, but she surprised me for a friend of Simon’s by her rather low brown artistic judgements. She also lacks judgement overall. Linda was uncomfortable all evening and went to bed early. Baby on the way? Neil very effective – it can do him nothing but good. As the public etc will think he's only beginning, they’ll know he did because it was a chance, not because he necessarily thought it was good. I got home, dropped at F.P Rd and walked in the rain. Lovely. Oh I miss him! Ridiculous!

Monday April 14 1986

Imagine that I never said that Marjorie rang up on Sunday afternoon and talked for half an hour. ‘I’ve just been talked to Kevin.’ They are coming to Bournemouth in July’. So we had all that. She agreed that Jason was the nicest of N’s friends.

She reaches out to me no doubt. I’ve told her of Eileen’s remark (my God I haven’t recorded that either) and she said ‘Well it is extraordinary how feeling Kevin has become in the last five years, I never thought he would be as a teenager.’ Said he didn’t talk about Sharron much. No. She’s surprised that he's so keen on being best man at the wedding. We’ll, let’s see when it comes to the point. ! As for the ‘feeling’ by which I think M means partly consideration for others, I think of Sue Bird’s remark and hope I had something to do with disclosing to him the range and depth of his feelings. Much more to come. So, I rang Eileen on Friday morning to arrange our lunch. She’s asked us to l. on May 3rd after the play. I told her what I felt. She said ‘What a marvellous way to put it.’ It was the mould and passion line, only better spontaneously put. She said of K ‘What a wonderful-looking boy!’ I rang him straight after Marjorie and told him about B-mouth etc. I’d rung him at 3 on the Friday and told him Eileen’s remark. ‘What can I say?’ after a pause. I don’t think I explained well enough that she didn’t mean ‘handsome’ (tho’ she did as well). She meant wonderful looking, a wonderful look. She had seen in that one glance from his eyes, not only his response to her acting, but her own creativity had pierced to the centre of his in one glance.

Of course, I don’t miss these things in either.

All the same, a dead day. Although I picked up a £5 note in Margravine, nobody in sight, and it was by the wall of the cemetery. So even I kept it.

Later.

I wonder if he sits and thinks, how oppressive our friendship is. Because in one way it is.

Neil and I are, give and take, the paradigm.

Kevin.

Tuesday April 5 1986

On Sunday, when I was alone with Linda and Lucy at the beginning of the evening, Linda was laying the table and putting out bright red paper napkins, folded on each side plate. Lucy wanted one, so Linda gave her one which she proceeded to tear to shreds. All right. A little later she was half on and off my knee and Linda was turned away cooking. Lucy made a grab at one of the folded napkins. I took hold of it without pulling at all and said ‘I don’t think mummy would like that.’ I was shocked that she screamed the place down and despite being comforted by L for some minutes as if some injustice had happened to her, went on crying for some minutes and after that stood, saying ‘Mummy Mummy’ continuously for some minutes after L had gone back to the cooking. L said to her ‘Angus doesn’t understand.’ No, Angus doesn’t understand why Lucy has obviously never been checked at all, or my little ‘rebuke’ wouldn’t have had the effect it had. Actually I do understand. I suddenly see L’s Achilles heel in her (often loneliness and unhappiness), she has compensated by giving Lucy everything she asks for. A recipe for trouble.

By the way, Linda told me on the phone this morning that Jenny L had asked in the kitchen if she could do anything and then asked if there was anything wrong between N and L. Aren’t people absurd? Even if it were fruitful, it's not a question you ask at the beginning of the evening.

Today, lunch with Philip Draycott at a wine bar called Shampers, a few doors from Kingly Street! Quite good, an informal restaurant really. He described his and Damien’s visit to Istanbul. I must say he made it sound very attractive, even to me – for a minute or two. Except for the noise. No pictures. Muslim you see. But wonderful buildings and mosaics and frescos and tiles, all non-figurative. Quite a lot of Turkish baths. Fancy. People very warm and easy and friendly. Incredibly cheap. Dinner £1.00! Moved by this. They went to go on a boat to one of the holiday islands in the middle of the Bosphorus. P thought, in view of other prices, that £2 change out of £10 was rather steep. Damien, on the boat said ‘You’ve been done.’ A young Turkish man heard, swept them off the boat back to the ticket office, saying to the Captain ‘Have we 5 minutes?’ ‘Yes.’ The ticket-clerk knew and handed the money back straightaway. They turned back and the boat was going out! With the young man’s briefcase on board. He had an important interview and there wasn’t another boat for seven hours. He said he’d take a bus round the edge of the sea. Very long. But seemed comparatively undisturbed. P. is going to send him a present, a cashmere sweater? They exchanged addresses. I said ‘There are good people everywhere.’

I wish I were one of them.

Wednesday April 16 1986

I saw a very funny take-off of a documentary about a Heavy Metal rock group. Sample: (of a dead drummer).

A. He choked on his vomit. B. It wasn’t his own vomit. C. They never found out whose vomit it was.

8 p.m. I think it will be good to describe, now that I am so much calmer in general, the state of my mind at lunchtime. I had to ring him, if we were to meet this week. I had only tomorrow free, bravely. So my stomach was churning the butterflies were flying, in case I would be left flat because he wasn’t free. Of course the real bravery is still to come. Leave the poor boy to ring me. And yet - with no money? No, I don’t think that would stop him, - he's so rare like that. So I rang. And ‘Hiya’. So we talked and it seems he was coming round anyway but even more so because he has to go to the firm’s other shop in the afternoon tomorrow, which is in the Fulham Rd, so he’ll probably stay the night! The whole transaction was so like a fantasy. It left me bemused. But he said it’d all be quick. Meaning ‘I have nothing to say to anyone.’ Which he said. ‘I don’t like sitting there and saying nothing.’

Yes it is having an effect now, of course, how can it not!

I knelt by my bed and prayed, in abject humility, for George Fenton to ring. If only to say no.

12.45. Jon H. sweet. What are we to do with him? He’s the dearest man. Still, I long for tomorrow night with all its difficulties.

Kevin.

Thursday April 17 1986

Met Joe Searby at Pasta Fino. He looked really good – and has been out of work for four and a half months. In looks and talent, he seems to me at least eighty percent ahead of eighty percent of the young actors I see on TV. I must try and get him another agent. I don’t care what K says, I think that rest. is v. good value.

So I got the food in and cleaned his room really thoroughly. As I was watching for him, Giles Kavanagh arrived. He’d rung and asked if I could let him in, to save him going all the way to Chiswick for key. But turned out Mrs E’s flat was open! So up we went. It could be very nice, but there is a lot to be done in the decorating way. The biggest structural thing is knocking down a wall, because there is a little dressing-room! So the space is badly used. He kept saying he hoped the Blding Society would lend him £3500. Amazing that he should even have to wonder when he is paying £5300 and doing it up to about another £10,000!

We were down on the doorstep, with Giles deciding to ask at the house opposite how much their alterations were costing, when K arrived, looking tired and pale. Giles went over to the house opp. K came and curled up on the sofa. He was in such a black mood that I was glad that Giles came back to wait for the builders, and stayed some time as they were an hour and quarter late. It turns out that G was at John’s! He’s 26, only a year older than K and looks ten years older. We talked animatedly of Cambridge for twenty minutes or half an hour – I purposely went on partly to give K a chance just to sit there and not be bothered to talk, at the end of a long day.

However, when he's in this mood, nothing is right. And when Giles had gone, K said acidly as soon as he’d left ‘Well if you run short of things to say, you can always talk about Cambridge.’ He knew perfectly well he was being provocative, although when later I protested, he disingenuously said ‘I only said …!’ I was riled for a moment, for a bit more than a moment, but things are different now. So that I said ‘Well, never mind’ and sat for a bit, feeling a bit sick but silent, and then turned the conversation. We had dinner, he told me a bit about the stockroom he was sorting - god save the mark -, and almost got animated, and although I was glad to see him smile, I was sickened to think that what he was doing there is all he has to talk about. For literally nothing has happened in any department.

We talked of A.D. He watched some of it on Sunday night. Sharron was finishing her essay or thesis on Hitchcock. He watched half an hour of A.D and then turned over to something else, and then went to sleep. She sat up till 3.0 to finish it. ‘What’s it like?’ ‘I don’t know, I haven’t read any of it.’ ! By the end of dinner he was more himself. He said, ‘Do you want some coffee?’ and made it. He saw the notebook and said ‘You’ve been working?’ So we got into that, really into that and I see my way through it now. I think. Thierry Lescant rang up in the middle and K was really chirpy and jolly to him, thank god.

We went back to the lyric and he talked me thro’ the music, ‘it’s a full orchestra, not just that dirty little synthesizer.’ It's remarkable enough on the d o s. He was, as I say, back in spirits. But neither of us talked of his depression or of his recovery.

Alas, only temporary, I’m sure.

The evening had a funny, but in some ways revealing, tag. We went to bed about 12. Ten minutes after I settled, I heard a scrabble at the door. There he was in his pants, having obviously got out of bed, ‘I forgot I was going to ring Sharron about tomorrow - have you got her number?’ Even I was slightly shaken by this, first he'd forgotten to ring, second, after six months of seeing a lot of her, he hadn’t her number on the tip of his tongue. Yes, even I was surprised. I thought how wounded she might be if he knew. Did he not remember the number because he seldom rings her?

There was only one way in which it made me feel better, that he really cannot help forgetting, whoever it is, and that I receive exceptional treatment!

Friday April 18 1986

He’d asked to be called at 8.30 ‘and go on at me.’ Took him tea and 2 Weetabix at 8.30, drew the curtains. Came back ten minutes later, he was pouring some tea. Ten minutes later again, he was eating his Weetabix on the edge of the bed, having lit the fire. ‘What time is it?’ ‘Five to nine.’ ‘I’ll have a couple of pieces of toast.’ He came into the dining room to have it, commented on the tea being nice ‘Lyons Red Label isn’t it?’ Went to the window and chatted about the garden. He left about quarter past nine with a hug that left me warmed thro’ for the day.

I only described all this in such absurd detail to remind myself how much he has changed and grown up, since that leggy boy stayed in the bed every morning till 12.0 and never did a hand’s turn. I wish I saw him every day, all day, but I must be greedy. Or possessive.

Got myself together and went to the Pelican to be given lunch by Mary L. Got there first. Ordered a Dry Martini. Thought of the ‘etiquette’ of such a lunch. Perhaps I ought to be early because a single woman shouldn’t be allowed to sit alone? But then according to ‘etiquette’ a single woman shouldn’t ask a man out at all! Lunch marred by a typical Mary/Prim spikiness. I mentioned a lunch P. and I had had, thinking of Mary’s remark as relayed by Prim of the scrambled eggs and smoked salmon ‘You could do that on a gas ring’ when M did her wicked face, and said, ‘Ah, well, I heard the other side of that.’ clearly implying that Prim had slagged the lunch off to her. I was too proud to ask what Prim had said and felt thoroughly sick of both of them. I had stuffed plaice again as there is little of it and easy to eat. I was feeling blown up after the rich food and drink, indeed I had squitters and cramps this morning, no wonder. And with a dud loo! Felt tired.

Went home and rested. At twenty to six, K’s French musician arrived, Thierry Lescant. Gentle, smiling, quite nice looking (thinking of the band), leather trousers. Very fluent idiomatic English but accent very variable. Right one moment, wrong the next. The trouble is, you can make people copy you till you’re blue in the face and they say it properly straight after you, but don’t concentrate and remember until it becomes second nature.

I was slightly put off by him saying, while praising K quite highly, ‘I think we are complementary’ plaining implying that he supplied the creativity and K the musicianship! He said he thought K was drunk on the ‘phone because he was so animated! They’ve only met him for the session and once or twice besides. I felt him to be a charming loser alas. He's 29. First came to England at 15, by himself, when his parents split up. Lived at Oxford and had four hours English lessons every morning. Music brought him over. Yes, a loser, I’d say. But I liked him. Who does he remind me of? Eric? Surely not.

About ten, the ‘phone rang. Simon. Tried and tried to get me. Someone had stood him up – he was eating at home! Could he come round for a couple of hours? Why can I never remember his jokes? He often makes me laugh so much. He has spent quite a lot of time on Bruno. I really think he loves him – I mean, more than he ever has anyone before. They’re going to set up house together!

Saturday April 19 1986

Prim’s 70th. Rang her at 4.30, undrunkest time I hoped. Yes, she was all right. Going to Robert’s. He’s richer!

Was going out with Roy but cried off cos of my squitters. Didn’t feel ill, but went a lot and had crampy gripy pains. Said to Linda I thought I was having sympathetic labour pains, adding, in my head, instead of Neil!

Sunday April 20 1986

I scribbled on a piece of paper last night, ‘how conscious I am just now at last of what a tiny little life I am.

All my great pyramid of feeling will vanish with me, and I don’t think it's registered at all.’

Talked to Roy of Robert Atkins. Why never before? He screamed and shrieked and squealed with laughter, even for him. Mentioned this to Prim who told me what Fay Crompton thought of the Open Air Theatre. ‘Half pay and double pneumonia.’

Heard on radio that famous Brian Johnstone commentary (cricket) ‘And now in the 76th over of this 3rd Test, the batsman’s holding the bowlers willey.’

To Neil and L’s for AD. N decidedly effective in big scene. He’s quite as good at acting as many big and prosperous stars. I'd like to get him out of holding his mouth in ‘a position’. Like Charlton Heston. All self-consciousness must be scrupulously laid aside.

Tuesday June 10 1986

Wrote to K. Have not seen him for five weeks on Thur. But will write no more.

Wednesday June 11 1986

He rang. We meet on Friday 13th.

Friday June 13 1986

He came to the house. A little constraint. But on the balcony for drinks for the first time since the year before last. That helped.

But we got back. He told me all, but it was nothing. Nothing has happened. Poor boy, poor boy.

In private life, only signpost. ‘So I said Sharron and I aren’t a pair.’ !

We got back. In the hall, between the doors, he held me so long, so long. I said ‘I’m so sorry’, not just for the upset but for adding to his difficulties at the wrong time.

I shall recap. A bit. But not yet.

Saturday June 14 1986

K arrived to stay here, four years ago.

Jon H to stay. Sweet.

Sunday June 15 1986

Neil and Lynda to come round ‘for a drink’. L and Caroline and the children arrived at about 6.30. Wonderful weather thank god. L and C on balcony. Took Lucy, who knew me on the doorstep – odd – into the garden. It suddenly became her scale. She waved to her mother on the balcony, from each huge trek thro’ the jungle. Neil and Tony arrived. All golden. I felt caught up in what the papers call real life.

But I was glad it went on no longer.

Monday June 16 1986

At 7.30 to Gerard’s retirement service. Oh what a turning-back thirty years. Glimpsed half a dozen people I met in Kingly St. and never since, thirty four years older. I sat in a transept railed off from floor to ceiling from the high altar. I felt it a suitable position for an infidel. It is interesting that all the high flown ritual instantly repels me. It would be impossible for me to pray while it was going on and difficult for me to imagine someone worshipping thro’ it. By quarter to nine, I'd had enough. I’d heard the address, couldn’t face the reception and slipped away, thro’ that area made eerie by the day of D’s death.

Tuesday June 17 1986

To Porto Fino with a lighter heart, after a £300 odd cheque. That and Ed Fox’s wonderful generosity have transformed the financial scene for the moment. Lunch slightly spoiled by Roy M supposed to be there and never arriving. Every pair of legs coming down the spiral staircase might be him, so the conversation limped along the edge of possible interruption. Also I kept thinking of Clare and being slightly disgusted by Ian, especially as they were joined by dear Hilary and I thought how hurt she’d be.

I went off to get Michael and Ba’s dinner ready. Ben Unwin rang to ask to stay. I told him to come along about 11.30. I think even they might be a bit taken aback at the long bleached hair, the winkle-pickers, the studded black leather. Calm and peaceful eve. They seemed to enjoy themselves and are very faithful friends. But are certainly amazed that I can cope with the young! Well, what about the last five weeks?

Ben arrived, his original self.

Wednesday June 18 1986

During the blank time, I also had a bad financial crisis. The Garrick Club nomination brought a letter from Edward Fox and lunch at The Caprice. His kindness and the rediscovered deep friendship between us, almost overwhelmed me in my low state on the phone and it was difficult not to cry in the restaurant. He said I must ask him for help. I will have to pay him back. How? But he sent me a case of a dozen lovely bottles of wine and two bottles of gin as well before the cheque.

So tonight I went to see him in Interpreters at the Queens, with Maggie Smith. A poor thin little play, a one joker really. Ronnie was lucky to have his stars. Maggie Smith had some very funny moments, some touching moments when she looked beautiful, interspersed with her usual display of Kenneth Williams impersonations when she looks hideous. I don’t imagine that she thinks about her acting at all. The K.W passages strike me as the pathetic expression of total insecurity, ‘I must get a laugh somehow here!’ Graham Armitage. If she were not so gifted, I wouldn’t care. Ed was remarkable. He has had no praise for getting so far away from himself. Even from me, a different person looked out of his eyes. The passion, the unbalance, the exuberance all swirling about above the deep feeling that is Edward. (He’s also said if I’m elected to The Garrick, he’ll pay the subscription till I can afford it.) In the taxi home, we gabbled out our agreement over the play and Maggie S. I sensed he’d had very little praise for it – no wonder, it's an unconventional performance from an angle strange to today.

At the flat, the door of the downstairs flat was open. He called to Joanna, got no answer. Went up and had a glass of champagne and Jo came up. Just the same, as beautiful as ever, as apologetic as ever. Sorry that supper wasn’t ready. Hastily laying the table, saying it was much more ready than it looked etc. I was touched and amused that she is no different, no nearer the poised hostess part of Ed, I think, wants. But as the next few minutes showed, I’m glad she hasn’t changed. No woman can be everything. She was downstairs to tend the woman of 93, doubly incontinent since Christmas. Ed and Jo have been looking after her since, changing her nappy etc. She is compos mentis and lets them use her money (she found £10,000 she’d not known she had) to hire two nurses at the weekends so that Jo can have a rest. (A rest? This weekend she drove 2 1/2 hours to Dorset to try to put the garden to rights!) and they discussed seriously whether they could afford the £300 a day needed to put her in a home. The doctor was there and is putting her into a sort of convalescent home for 3 weeks to give J a rest (A rest? she’s going up to Manchester to play a leading role in Kane & Abel.) And they listened to me as I talked too much, and too much about myself. He’d called a taxi and put £5 in my hand.

Oh, we had scrambled egg and smoked salmon and more champagne. Ed said ‘Oh, do you remember I had indigestion – I’ll just have the egg.’ She looked worried, he looked a bit ill later on. An ulcer, I think.

Thursday June 19 1986

Mike Parsons brought his new girlfriend, Nicola, round. I was of course prejudiced in her favour by her saying the moment he left the room how much he admired me and how much he talked about me. But she is an intelligent feeling girl with a supple responsive temperament. She spent some time after dinner asking me about me, an unusual experience. She’s a good thing. So far!

Friday June 20 1986

Today I got a cheque for £903 odd from the dog commercial. So I had a day for me. I had asparagus for lunch, I saw a silly horror film in the afternoon and used the ticket for Cage Aux Folles in the evening. Memo, self-indulgent days are not much of a success!

Oh, Nigel called round yesterday and sat for a couple of hours on the balcony and never stopped talking

Saturday June 21 1986 Sunday June 22 1986

I was too drunk last night to write in here, but not too unhappy to write a lot of drunken but good notes. So …

I rang him at three ish to see what we were going to do (he’d rung me on Thursday to say What are you doing on Saturday?) He couldn’t decide and laughed and said we’d just eat. An hour later he rang back to say that there was a film he wanted to see, ‘Zenn’ at the Gate, with a score by ‘that nice man at Esher.’ It wasn’t still on, so I suggested the new Martin Scorcese ‘After Hours’ at his local. ‘Oh yes’, he said eagerly, (I’d told him of the cheque) ‘and then we can eat at that nice Italian place’, Aquilino, he meant. I was so pleased that he embraced this. When we were just eating, he’d said ‘8.0’. Now he said ‘Let’s meet in the Slug & Lettuce at 6.30.’ An hour and a half extra.

I went to a Bureau de Change on the way, to get £50 to have £25 to give him. The tubes were poor, and although I left B.C at 5.30, I didn’t get to Angel till 6.35. He was already there in a black T-shirt. Not his colour. A new buy of Nigel’s, that K had taken out of its packet and put on to come here. I said I hadn’t been able to book at Aquilino’s as they didn’t answer. Eventually, he said Why don’t we eat at that fish and chip shop? I’d told him about it as being in the Time Out and he'd been and liked it. ‘Let’s go and get a bottle of wine and they can put it in the fridge while we’re in the cinema.’ He also said that the café did salmon and so on. Not just fish and chips. How interesting, after all this, he still feels I need a grand restaurant - a bit.

So off we went to a big supermarket, got a bottle of Macon Villages £2.99. Oh and he’d said then we can go back to my place. !! First time since February.

‘After Hours’ by Martin Scorcese. Oh dear. A lot of talent, a lot of invention. Some goodish acting, but oh dear, one picaresque night when everything goes wrong and goes on getting more and more twisted and wrong and nothing goes right. Which is just as silly as ‘happy ever after’. Still, we sat thro’ it, and were not too irritated by it. So out to the same supermarket for a bottle of Scotch (he said ‘And a half bottle of Bills.’ I said, ‘A bottle’ and some ginger ale for him. To the fish and chip shop. A nicely done up fish and chip shop with the usual longish tables for six or eight, American cloth on the tables. He greeted a nice plump middle-age good barmaid type. ‘Olga’, the maitresse. He had obviously charmed her before. ‘This is Angus.’ He then went to a table in the window for three – the only intimate table in the shop.

He had poached salmon, I poached halibut, delicious herby egg sauce, salad each good, portion of excellent chips £12.80!!

Went back to B. Rd. Dear familiar place, despite all our difficulties. No changes. Sharron hasn’t stamped herself on it at all. She is certainly of his generation in that – in not expecting much. Unlike Rachel!

Because I am describing it afterwards - only a day late, but still not genuine diary – I will say, that it was a wonderful evening. We see things the same way, Irrelevancies. Nigel came back about one fifteen, thankfully too late to disturb our serious talk, which was over by then. He described a talk in the pub, which by its incoherence and vigour and non-sequitur and general irrelevance, reduced us both to screamingly memorable hysterics. Now of course we had dined well and drunk the best part of a bottle of Scotch, and Nigel had been in the pub all night. So, allowing for all that, I still must be convinced that Nigel has social gifts for the discerning. For the public bar, yes. The saloon, I wonder. Now to our real conversation.

The first of my drunken notes reads ‘Let me register that I am just as unhappy after a happy night as after an unhappy one.’ There you are, you see, in vino non veritas. What I meant was that I feel just as much sadness to be without him at any time and in any mood! The ‘nice (nice, but dim) man at Esher’ is an established musician and jingle-writer, (tho’ not much of a musician, it seems) who may genuinely offer him a jingle, as will, they say, another firm he wrote to. He made a real effort while we were apart. It seems Thierry has been again to Paris and has come back and said if nothing happens by? he’d go back to Paris permanently. But the other one, Stanis las Laubiere, will stay, there’s his equipment in the flat, and ‘he’ll be a friend.’

In the fish and chip shop, he'd started to outline a new idea he'd had. The main problem is distribution, getting to the customers. He has the product. He has had the idea of putting twenty or so all varied tracks on one cassette, and selling it for the postage. Then the customer can order from all the tracks they hear, the album that attracts them. Sounds stupid, and needs organising. But has the simplicity of a great idea. I think even he was surprised at the way I took it on and began writing out a sample questionnaire. We went into it quite considerably, but, as always, tho’ I never like to say, at first, it all stems from the funding!! Which neither of us seem to be good at! I can encourage him but all I could practically suggest was meeting Giles K (Oh, he’s sent ‘Octophonics’ to the man at Esher.)

Nevertheless, this idea was the central fact and peak of the evening.

He's also going to make a bid for the music for my series!

We talked little of Sharron, tho’ not without revelations. He has said nothing general, except for saying, when we talked briefly of him selling the flat and leaving London, ‘There’s nothing to keep me here but you and Sharron if the work were right.’ A great compliment, to me.

I mentioned Ian Burns’ film premiere, and ‘Oh, no, Sharron won't come. That’s where we’re not a pair.’ He also said he had only just come to see anything in her jewellery. She was top of her class, got a B. I asked about her view of his music. Hm. He is very guarded. There is still a great division between them. He certainly hasn’t centred his life in her, nor does she assuage in his creative despair, as far as I can see at all. Not that that stops her from being a Good Thing.

We drank all but an inch of the bottle of whisky.

I gave him the £25 just to have. ‘Don’t spend it on a treat for Sharron’, I firmly said. And he agreed lightly. Because there is no leeway. I also gave him two blank cheques to pay the gas and electricity. And later, when I found he’d had to wipe off eight copies of MY to do his other tapes, I gave him £10 just for tapes. I left in perfect happiness.

Monday June 23 1986

Nigel Stock died aged 66. I’ve never quite understood why you can't tell the truth about the dead. Not to the widow of course, today, but it must be told eventually. In my experience he was talented, hard- working but financially and materially, intensely absurdly mean.

Clare Johnson rang up to ask me to dinner! In her room! I’ll go. I told her about K’s job – oh, I haven’t said that Simon has offered him Infernal Machine definitely and let me tell him.

‘I’m really made up.’

It's been brooding so long, I’ve got blasé. I’ve known so long!

But she said, quite unprompted, ‘that day I stayed with him, Angus, he was so depressed.’

That was the 10th, at the very end of our separation, the day I wrote him.

Tuesday June 24 1986

One of those days when I got quite a lot done. I had lunch at 11.45 and off to Hammersmith to buy another pair of those grey shoes I liked 12.99, and those Chinese rope-soles 2.99 and a pair for K.

And some dabs for dinner. Which held together better than plaice, memo. Then to the optician to adjust my glasses. To the bank to get a new cheque book, saw dear Mr Hawkins for a moment and told him of the Nicolson. He was sweet. To spend a bit of time in Waterstone’s, then to get my hair cut. £4.00!

To the Portland to see Geraldine. Even bigger. Twins now 6lb and 5lb. Showed me and I felt and saw a little hand respond to her. And me! To Harrods to buy a jasminum polyanthum. All changed. Florists’ dept less than Selfridge!

Back here, rang K re Thur. and musical chair and cheques. Asked me about David Askey, as we’d talked on Sat. He told me about the amount of the cheques, and agreed to pick up the musical chair.

Oh, and Thierry wants to come here and drink a bottle of wine with me! Hm.

Poor love. He sounded so low. But perhaps not.

I love that boy. Could you love a son as much? I wonder.

Wednesday June 25 1986

Yes, a little recap. I lost my temper with Phil M on that Friday even in the midst of his misery. He admitted I was probably right in what I said. Of course, I shouldn’t have lost my temper, but are such failings and dishonesties never to be rebuked? After Phil and his fiancé had gone – K was staying – I tried to express the reason. Part of the anger is of course, with him. But I can't say that as it isn’t his fault. When I kept saying I might have to finish it, as I couldn’t bear it, it occurred to me – at last – during that terrible five weeks, that perhaps all the dreary times I’ve said it, he thought I meant I couldn’t bear something he'd done. At least we’ve cleared that up, I think.

On the Thursday after we met in the wine bar by L. Square. Ghastly. He was so bitter. I tried to tell him my pain straight for once, and in a letter he sent me some weeks later, he called it old wives cackle. But he sent a tape with an extraordinary song on it called Hope.

Of course I shan’t go to the wedding. I must say I’m almost entirely relieved as I’m sure it would have tried my social patience beyond endurance. Weddings always amaze me by their vulgarity, so - even K’s speech might trouble me by moving me and wanting to be private about it.

I have certainly been punished. He was working at the Fulham Rd branch of the shop – why he was staying that Thursday – he also worked there the next Mon, Tue & Wed and would of course have stayed here. He didn’t. That in itself would be punishment enough. How early he must have had to get up, poor boy.

I have a few interesting notes for the night before the row. Thur, we went to the Bush to see a Liverpool play Watch. Adam Katz Roy M had thought ‘brilliant’. Hm. I'd have to see him in a few more perfs. K’s harshness on me, tho’ deserved, may also have something to do with his increasing bitterness over no work. It is incredible that he remained so little bitter for so long.

But this Bush night he was hard on the play and rabid against Jenny, not only because it was canned music, but also because ‘your friend didn’t remember I was a musician.’ Quite out of proportion. For once.

We went to that restaurant down the Uxbridge Rd. Rather outmoded. Two trout each etc, not specially expensive and not especially nice. K savage and low.

We worked on Ann’s lyric a bit. He ordered breakfast for 8.30.

And I might have had three more days like that.

Oh, on Sat. he said he’d written a number because of hearing Jimmy Young sniggering before he could stop himself over someone ringing the Radio Dr. and saying he was 19 stone and had piles. ‘Jimmy, Jimmy, I’ve got nothing but hate for you.’

Roy is having News of the World put on at B’ham, about to be run by Terry Johnson, so I thought we’d send MY there.

Later.

Further filling-in of lighter things.

Have been three times to see Geraldine G. Have never seen anyone so large. Felt her vast stomach, one twin 5lb and the other 6 and felt a little hand move across in a wave. She has told me two funny Andrew Lloyd-Webber stories. A L-W runs up to Alan J Lerner and says ‘Why does everyone dislike me at first glance?’ Alan J Lerner, ‘Saves time?’

Someone says to Edward Easterbrook (?) ‘Oh, well, A L-W is his own worst enemy.’ E.E ‘Not while I’m alive.’

I saw Ed Fox again partly because the Garrick election came up and I had to give him some more information before the ballot. I'd said I didn’t think I could let my name go forward as I couldn’t afford the subscription. He said he would pay it as long as I needed it to be paid.

Monday 22 was a big day, too. In the morning I met Simon at Marine Ices by Chalk Farm Station. He has bravely arranged to do the Nicolson at the offstage in September. The 29th. I think it’s interesting that I haven’t noted it before this; it’s for two reasons, I believe. One, I can't believe it yet, after all the let- downs. Two, the separation put everything else and I mean everything, out of my head. I couldn’t write here because of it, even getting the Nicolson takes more than second place.

To stand outside the Empire and watch Neil and Linda arrive and be photographed for two minutes and that RAF escort and the Prince and Princess of Wales, and so on and so on, made me remember I had a little weep over that 24 year old with the torn coat, I first took out in 1975. He was D’s last host. He is still the same simple emotional boy. I worry about him for the fame. I think L will keep him steady, I hope.

So tonight I go to Anthony Minghella’s play, with Felicity Kendall, whom Nicola Slade is understudying. What a strange concatenation of associations!

Later.

Another poor little play. Cumbersome production. I’m surprised at Codron. A touch of ‘I’m disgusted at all this disgustingness, listen while I tell you about it.’ Paul Shelley third-rate at the heart of the play. Foo, oh how she needs someone to tell her about her mannerisms. And age. Chris Fulford good, Ben Whitrow good. But I squirmed to leave. Nicola looking great, we had a good time. She is accurate - I believe what she says, within her own limits. Not too full house, off into 2 weeks.

Peter Bowles likely to be off in ‘Entertainer’ of course. He’s not big.

Yes, Nicola is accurate. How strange, after Julian. She had heard nothing about the Milne thing. The garden was looking wonderful. The cool and wet spring makes all the difference.

Thursday June 26 1986

Giles K to dinner.

Oh no, I’m too drunk to describe.

K. Oh oh oh.

Friday June 27 1986

Gracious, Mummy would have been 99 yesterday!

But yesterday had other claims to distinction.

Simon rang in the morning to say he hadn’t been able to get K. I reminded him that K worked in the morning, put him off ringing K himself, thinking of the shop. Rang K v. briefly, his voice (always an incredibly sensitive seismograph) surprised, protective, tender, guarded, and made the appt. for 3.30.

I had asked him the other day to bring the musical chair. It did not occur to me to tell him not to bring it, as it seemed self-evident that it was idiotic for him to drag the mus. chair all the way to Simon’s on a hot day, even socially, let alone for an important professional talk. Now that I look back, I’m amazed that he didn’t say it himself. Quite the reverse. About 2.15 he rang to ask for S’s address. (Well, he did lose his address book but he couldn’t remember which tube station. Amazing. Thinking of the time he was locked in!). He rang off very sharply, saying ‘No time.’ Ten minutes later he rang back to say the reason he’d rung off so sharply was because of picking up the musical chair. Even in his insolent youth, he'd thought it was too difficult. Poor love, I’ve taken offence so often, he doesn’t know when.

So I got the meal for him and Giles K, who I told we were going to pick his brains about K’s scheme. Dinner was £2 of asparagus. Three salmon steaks £5.50, Jersey Royals, little beans. Strawberries, English at last, from the market, 60p a punnet.

A young plumber was coming to unstop, at last, the rainwater drain in the yard at 7.0, so I had my bath a bit early so as to be ready for anything. So I was in the bath with all the doors open, when K arrived about 6.0. He went straight into the kitchen to get a beer, and without my glasses, he seemed to be in v. odd clothes. It turned out to be a singlet half white, half black, (which Simon gave him a year ago, which I supposed he wore to please him, tho’ I can't be at all sure of that!) and some jazzy shorts in lemon and white, and his great long white legs.

Affectionate.

So we landed up on the balcony together. Him hot from his talk with Simon. ‘How was it?’ ‘Lovely.’ ‘Do you think you can do it?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘How much music is there?’ ‘Loads, can I have a gin and tonic?’ He’d just had a beer and in his eye was that shine and gleam and happiness. Oh. I have waited years to see that again.

And felt such paid amid all my other pains that the gleam was dimmed.

He was amusing about Simon, confirming when I guessed that S doesn’t know as much about music as the size of his record collection would suggest! ‘What is a pentatonic scale?’ K talked well and I think I sensed that S had been impressed. K certainly hadn’t been in any way intimidated. It’s amazing how he isn’t. But I must take care to oversee it a bit and read the play carefully in case he misunderstands anything. He is very unread, it’s no use pretending otherwise. He knows so little, tho’ very quick to pick up ‘feel’. No one so quick. S had said Like film music, rather apologetically ‘little does he know.’ I just pray all goes well.

Giles K arrived with a bottle of champagne. Good, tho’ we shall have to break it to him later we don’t like it! Oh, I forgot that that young plumber who put cards in the other day, came and did the yard drain, so let’s hope the china-cupboard wall will dry out at last! He was nice and cheerful and finally arrived below the balcony with a yellow bucket full of gunge, saying ‘This’ll be good for your roses.’ I made him throw it in the shrubbery. I chatted to him downstairs, very pleasant. ‘How much?’ ‘Nine pounds.’ So I gave him ten.

Giles and K got on a treat, a tribute to both. He told Giles his scheme and Giles discussed it thoroughly with him. He has total recall and a great grasp of an argument, not surprisingly, but capital is the first thing. Did I say K had sent Octophonics to the man at Esher? Also that Glynn didn’t mind the play at all and wants to help write the rest of it!

Jon H arrived shirtless (it was 90 degrees) about 11.30. Giles left. K stayed till last train. When he left, he kissed me.

Saturday June 28 1986

Just to finish Friday. Woke up with a hangover, got Jon H off and was in Selfridges by 10.45. Bought some smoked salmon for myself quite deliberately, some cheap shoes, essential. Haircut, oil can, turps. A good busy ticking off a list of little tasks.

And yet another long afternoon of heat on the balcony and in the garden, which has never been in better order.

I was thinking about Thursday and him getting on well with a barrister and I wondered what difference it makes to him being met here as opposed to elsewhere. Because of the ho ho, ambience, perhaps he is valued differently. Wrong of course, but it happens. I wonder if it’s true and if so, if he's noticed.

Clare Johnson had idiotically asked me to dinner, only been in her shared house a week. I think I went out of my usual curiosity, but also to have further reason to be irritated with her! And she gave me that reason. Usual sort of shared house, – the sort of digs I'd have left at once! Kitchen a tip. But she had done nothing towards dinner except buy a couple of pieces of blue chicken. I'd brought a bottle of wine, a good thing as she evinced delighted surprise that I brought it; despite having lived a week or so in my house, she'd done nothing to provide the drink I always have. Now I know she might not be able to afford it, - I don’t believe she couldn’t have bought a couple of cans of beer, but she could have told me if she couldn’t afford it. You go nowhere without being offered a drink. Her self-consciousness is painfully embarrassing. The evening was only saved for me by one of the other inmates coming in with a Chinese meal and his girl-friend or at least someone who works with him, both of them rather smartly dressed. She a bright intelligent Jewish girl, rarely talked. I got home at 11.30. And by an extraordinary coincidence, (or clairvoyance?) Chris Parsons rang up at 12.15. She had told me that on arriving in London last Saturday to live here, she'd passed Chris busking at Kings X tube! He said that, too, but didn’t tell me in a long and boring talk, what she had told me, that Peter Orr had given him four weeks’ notice because he owed £100 rent. He is apparently counter claiming for £500 for some decorating he's done. Obviously it isn’t just the money.

He was boasting away as usual. He has got a place in Hampstead. He's got a job ‘in computers’, after I'd asked if he was practising. He said not to tell ‘Kev’ – if only he knew how ‘Kev’ hates that shortening – and when he'd last seen him ‘he'd been talking of selling up by August.’ Implication that K would be envious!

(Incidentally I wish K wouldn’t say these things to such people quite so freely!) Chris says he's still off drink and has lost 5½ stone. That’s something.

Still very hot. Felt very alone, as always, no matter how close we are, after only a day or so, I ache to be with him, however foolish that may be. And it is! I just despair at thinking of him somewhere – over there – in the sun, and I'd like to be there, too. Oh dear. And apart from him, I’m just plain lonely and useless.

I was just feeling that strongly when thro’ the bedroom window I saw Giles coming up the steps. It turned out he'd arranged to see the nice young plumber to do his central heating. He, Giles, was half an hour late. Hilarious passage with telephone who said plumbers no. was changed. Four calls later they said it hadn’t been. Thank God he's got the same sense of humour. Richard Smith arrived – for the second time. And up they went for half an hour. Giles liked him, so we’ll see. R.S thanked me for the recomm. And he only lives in Barons Court Rd. So. There I was again alone on the balcony. The doorbell rang. Nigel! Strange. Oh the irony. There he was, on the balcony, in his underpants. Fresh from the bed of a girl he met last night. Oh, those round shoulders. But the same legs. Quite amusing, telling me about the bar jobs he's been doing. Hayfever. Had a shower. Called me in to ask for a plaster. ‘Got two blisters on my bum.’ Apparently from an ammonia smelling-salts bottle in his back pocket leaking, and burning. Despite round shoulders, a pale sweet 18 year old body, all wet. Same sort of cock as K. More irony. But I was glad to see him and touched that crude boy spent 2 ½ hrs with me and found it very relaxing. I must apply my mind more to Nigel. He has now called on me twice, since he came to London. I wonder if I sense him coming to me because of my influence on K. I don’t know. Because we have so little in common!

So off we went to a pub in Goodge St. (He’d said two or three times ‘you like a good story, don’t you?’ !) About 6.0, K rang three times to ask for Simon’s tel. no and address. I sometimes think I love these ordinary prosaic calls best of all. He takes me for granted. Oh if only the day comes when I can take him for granted and be let off. This weight.

Sunday June 29 1986

Another boiling day. I'm getting better at flowing along with it. Expecting nothing. Not feeling guilty doing and expecting nothing. Read odd book about Vesta Tilley, with some ridiculous and revealing insights. More good work in garden.

John N rang amid laughter to talk of Phil D’s idiot dinner for me. He and Simon will take me out the day after my b-day.

K rang at 9.15! to say how could he get in touch with Clare, who’d asked him over on Monday ‘that number is a Wimpey bar.’ ‘I know.’ So I told him a bit. ‘I’m cooking.’ But it didn’t give a pang, I just said we’ll meet in the Warner pub at 6.30.

More sun. More garden. More balcony. Watched the out-takes thing. US TV reporter to 12 year old boy, ‘Did he say why he committed suicide?’ ‘No, he was dead.’

Ah why?

Geraldine rang, she’d had two boys by Caeser in the afternoon. Most horrendous. 8lb and 5lb. Alexander and Daniel. How dear of her to ring.

Monday June 30 1986

Intensely hot. To K Church St for 1st reading of small prog. Vicarage Gate. Hadn’t walked down there since deb. dance in 1952. Who?

I think it’s a very funny script, written by two actors I know well by sight. Dears.

Hardly anyone I knew. No stars. Two lovely girls I'll never see again as they're not in my episode. All over by 2.30.

Off to Neil’s by taxi, as it was so hot. Three o’clock, removal van still there, about 2/3 of the way thro’. Suddenly saw that I could do the garden and make it look meant. All raised beds. Lots of Herb Robert! From a nursery, I’d say I’ve seldom seen it in London. But a basis of plants all wrongly placed. Hosta in the sun, lavender in the shade etc. But it'll be nice. Worked for about an hour and half. Neil in and out took a photo of me, ‘seeing you there.’ Removal men left, all very young, well under thirty – left with really cheery waves and good wishes. Sweet. They're a lovely generation, vide the plumber. I was going to wait for L. who was clearing up in Harbord St. But time was going on, and N drove me home, so I had plenty of time for a bath and a think.

Lots of people rang and I had to go back for the ticket, so I didn’t get to the pub till nearly the right time, only a quarter of an hour early! K was early too, ten minutes. In my scarlet jumper present and those cut- off jeans. Dreadful, which at last he said. ‘I need some light trousers.’ Well, please …. All news about Clare etc.

Talked at length of Infernal Machine which he’s now read. He was incredible about it. Without any prompting from me before or after (I didn’t tell him he was so right as he’s still got a long way to go with it) he summed Cocteau up. He gets the weight of things right.

First act all music. But can't at the moment see all that much music in the rest. ‘Oh, I meant to bring the script for you, but you can have it another day. I must read it again, I purposely didn’t read it again. I don’t want to start work on it too soon, too much. Sharron asked to read it, so I put it in a folder as I was nervous of her not taking care of it, you know, people don’t always realise. But she only read about three pages and brought it back the next morning. I think it was a bit much for her.’

Oh dear. So much for her!

Stanislas had noticed a completely different look in his eye, without knowing he'd got a job! Good for him.

He sees the taradiddle and skill in Cocteau, remarkable, since he knows so little of self-conscious ‘theatricality.’

So after a few drinks, off to the film. Small, luxuriously furnished, bijou cinema in Wardour. Like an Indian brothel. Screen surrounded by panel studded with large gems made of coloured glass. Great big armchairs like executive chairs. Bar full of young unknowns, after Ian passed us on at the door, nervous. No sign of all the casting directors who’d promised to come. Not one.

Roy and Andrew Piddington melted away. Roy should have said goodbye. Ian B was seeing someone, so thank god there was no question of dining with anyone except for Ian Dickson and Bea, whose suggestion I quickly squashed.

We walked away in the steamy air, and decided to go to Mon Marche. It was stifling, but K swooped on the one table for two outside. They were a little doubtful ‘cos of sheltered flatlets opposite. They’ve promised not to make a noise after 9.0. So we promised. ‘We might laugh’ said K. ‘Laugh’ is one of his few words that are strongly L-pool or Northern. Very firmly ‘laff.’ As ‘but’ is ‘bot.’ But his accent like his voice, and everything about him is always graceful and pleasing.

So we found an ideal evening. The street was very empty, we were apart from other diners completely. Alone, yet served. Alone, in a warm enchanted circle of two. I don’t think ever have our minds moved so freely and vividly together, soaring with one another’s ideas. His mind is so direct, so delicate, his heart so true, so tender. He and D are the rarest people I have known.

Tuesday July 1 1986

I forgot to record that he told me he is now not to be best man at the wedding because of his long hair. I could scarcely believe it. We did not go into it, partly because we had to go to the film, partly because of the row with Phil. As usual with K – he is incredible - with one glance, he told me that he now saw even more truth in my strictures on Phil, and was of course much further away from him himself. Sharron isn’t going, he won't be making a speech. So now I positively wouldn’t want to go anyway. Unbelievable!

Rang K briefly at 9.15 or so about one or two things. He said he'd picked up the musical chair and I could pick it up on Thursday. 3.30. Realised with horror that I’ve asked Mark Thing to dinner on Thur. and we’ll be going on won’t we? Fuck. Met Mark again Joan H’s. Only asked him ‘cos he's once forgot to come, and has been wracked with guilt ever since. Can I put him off? Fuck.

Wednesday July 2 1986

First good news. K rang tonight at 6.15 to say ‘Could it be Friday?’ Perfect. Also he’s written a bit of music for Mr Pink, the Small thing. Did I say he’s written to David Askey to say can he write the music for the series. Fear the BBC will certainly have a resident, but didn’t say so. Sounded all right. Yesterday he said he was tired.

Rang Jon H at W’don yesterday to say where you on Saturday night. So he came last night and stayed today and do the greenhouse woodwork and re-concrete the floor. Good day, boiling hot. Smoked salmon on the balcony, excursions to get all the gear, tools etc. He'd finished the replacement of the woodwork by 6.30, with the excellent addition of a ventilating panel! Then we went off to the Bush, to the new three-play bill by Robert Holman. First two feeble, first one was obviously Denton Welch almost word for word. Why not say so? – also included both men stripping off – first time Jon had seen nudity on the stage, big deal. Second one, Jonathon Coy – very good concept, rated perf. Third one, Helen Ryan and Paul Copley workmanlike. Remarkable child perf. by Daniel Kipling. Great control and timing. Satisfying big screams from his fresh young larynx. Aged 12? 11? Back to cold meat and delicious salad.

Thursday July 3 1986

Off to buy cement and sand. Incredibly cheap. Under five pounds all in. Tuna fish salad (I love it) on the balcony. Alas, he doesn’t like anchovies or olives, so I don’t think it can really be said that he does like tuna fish salad. Concrete set by 6.0! Jon left at 2.0. Worked very hard – for nothing. And seemed to love it. He is such easy laughing company. His very weaknesses make him undemanding. It was really enjoyable. Over supper last night, he said ‘I love Kevin.’ Of course I loved him for that!

Sally’s Mark to dinner – at last. Rather an unsatisfactory guest.

Friday July 4 1986

It’s interesting – to me at any rate. The feeling is as profound and basic as ever. I look forward to seeing him and yet I am still always apprehensive. No, that’s the wrong word, it’s like Levin looking at his new baby. I am so utterly completely vulnerable to him.

Later 11.35pm.

Right to be apprehensive. I had foolishly thought he’d meant the aft and evening, but ‘Sharron is coming round at 7’. I’m an idiot.

Worse. Worse. He’d written for an advert in Melody Maker. Internationally famous group want two good-looking keyboard players. They didn’t want a tape, just a photo! He's auditioning on Monday. They're only seeing fifteen out of three hundred. Of course, if its good looks. It clashes with Infernal Machine. Nigel was there, so I could only be cold. Not cold, frozen. World tour from Oct to Feb.

Now, anyone who doesn’t know him would say no integrity. Not at all, he’ll do the Lyric, fit it in. He despises The Pet Shop, the group in question, and will only do it if he can play like a robot, not possible if I have to get into their music, I can't stand it, of course, they may not believe it either. But I'd get a lot of money for my own equipment, without which I can't do the ‘Lyric’ jobs so well. If I had the equipment now, what jobs mightn’t I get?

After my first frozen shock and him telling me in front of Nigel because he wanted to dull the impact for himself, I rationally saw the arguments. Nigel left, we did our work on various lyrics and talked it thro’. And I was rational. And it might be the answer, provided he really does the Lyric. He must be there for the dress rehearsal. But we’ll talk more of that when it happens. Whether it will, is interesting. Looks – overwhelming. But, when they discover he’s doing the IM, – and is a violently original and opinionated composer, I wonder. Look at the Monarch. I don’t think he could do it. Unless he really is a robot and what might that do to him over months of one-night stands across the world?

So that’s the rationale. He was so sweet to me, made a date for Wed. I walked away into my empty evening, looking with increasing horror at October to Feb. without him, without him. Worrying about him every minute.

The Nicolson no support. Selfish horror. Wondering whether I could bear the thought of it, let alone the reality.

Why am I asked to bear this? It isn’t his fault. He is blameless.

Later still.

He says he’ll come back to me after the audition. It’s only at Olympia. Tho’ he’s got the bit of equipment he’s got till Tues. which is why it’s Wed. His Jimmy Young song is good. And we did the questionnaire.

Later.

You see, his is the main spring of my life.

In someone’s loo, Bloomsbury? I forget

Ici s’ecroulent. En ruines Les triumphes De le cuisine. ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 68

July 5 1986 – August 14 1986.

Saturday July 5 1986

Torrential rail. A council drain clearance vehicle was in the street like an invader from outer space, deafening noise, at 11.45pm, at what cost to the taxpayer? How ruining piminy people are today.

Ben Unwin to stay.

Greenhouse leaking badly. To cinema to forget. Oh. Kevin.

A bit later.

I must, must take out of it all my own terror at him being away for six months. That must have nothing to do with it.

Brave words.

Can I discuss it with him without ….

As if I didn’t know he was the real thing, simply to embroil me in things like this.

Sunday July 6 1986

Mike Parsons’ Nicola rang up and cancelled dinner tonight. A pity as I needed the distraction. Tonsillitis.

Watched the Wimbledon final, how pleasant to see a pleasant smiling boy win so well, and none of those nasty little cross American faces. But the success and the emotion and the applause are difficult for me, as they release all those torrents of feeling. And that continual refrain recurs, why should I always have to give up things?

Why must I not only give up seeing him for six months but calmly talk to him and never tell him the agony of it. Why has my whole life been a giving up, a standing-by, giving the person I love what I want myself?

How much longer can I go on having nothing?

And yet his happiness means almost everything to me. I say almost, it can’t mean everything or I wouldn’t have lost my temper. Oh God, the huge preoccupation. He occupies the foreground and the middle and long distance.

Monday July 7 1986

Of course there are actual practical issues against it. I wonder whether he could be a robot for six months or so, under the very demanding conditions of a world tour, for instance. And all the influences! That terrifies me, thinking of the last three years. And I can see him coming back and gradually breaking it to me that he’s going back to live in America.

But I am sitting here at 12.45 and hoping that at 3.30 I will be able to pray that whatever happens will turn out to be best for him and career.

Then there’s his ears. And the probable lack of humour. He has physical endurance, but even that might be eroded by such a tour, and then all the other things wrong would upset him more. I just think it’s too long to waste all that time – artistic time – just for money.

After all, if he got his studio, and wrote his music as he wants it, there is still no more certainty that he’d find a market, rather less, perhaps, as his music would presumably become more complicated.

Later.

Ben is staying. I went out to meet Jon H to pay his tube fare! and met Ben at the station with the friend, Wayne? that he and Jon have talked of. What a face, what charm! Dark, witty, satanic. A star. Reading Moby Dick, - very slowly. Dressed like a refugee from The Wild One. Jon worked on the greenhouse, the two punks watched The Searchers which I’d taped last night. W. claims to be 20, Ben 23? and yet they are as mild and at a loss for something to do as any bank-clerk for all their savage clothes. Jon and I went down to the DIY shop for various things, talked of K’s interview. I am fascinated that everyone says he must do it. They don’t think of it in artistic terms at all – no one has, not even Edna. At least she was thinking of seeing the world and not just the money, but still…. Back at the flat, with Jon doing the greenhouse, the boys still watching the film, I went and sat in the bedroom, watching the corner for him. Life being that it is, Neil rang. Oh dear, I don’t know what to do about him, he’s beside himself with ‘I want to work’ – apparently forgetting that I haven’t worked since February, and am in a much worse financial position. He is in danger of boring me, - so I hope he keeps a braver front to other people. When I got back upstairs, he’d arrived. For this quite important interview, I was ridiculously pleased to see that he was wearing the red top I gave him for his b’day and the trousers of the suit I gave him. He’d shaved. And looked ‘up’. He was on the balcony with Jon, so I was able to join them there, Jon tactfully withdrew and we talked it out for half an hour. We batted the arguments backward and forwards. He said he’d hoped he would walk straight in and despise them both and it would be decided. But he quite liked them ‘they are quite straight-forward Northern boys.’ Neither of them are musicians, as you can see from the video! He joined in with them in that number, and said to the keyboard player – I use the term loosely, who, he said, was even miming what was being played! – ‘Why don’t you mime that little riff?’ and didn’t add ‘which is the only interesting thing about the song.’ ! And he’d never thought of doing so, tho’ the audience would take much more pleasure seeing the riff as it were. ‘They’d heard of John Cocteau.’ ! And were impressed by his job as they well might be. (I pray to God it doesn’t go wrong.) He said he thought, almost knew, that if he rang back and said the Lyric was off, he’d be offered it. ‘But I said Goodbye.’ The most effective thing I said was to point out first that I didn’t think he could bear it artistically, tho’ he might think he could now, but also there should be no question of doing a low-quality job instead of a high-quality job, for the reason I stated at the beginning. Nothing will come of the Pet job but money. He said he’d decided not to do it really, but went on talking. I think the turning point came when we were still discussing possibilities and dates. I said ‘Well obviously the next thing is ring Simon to ask how much you’ll be wanted and see if you can fit it in.’ And he didn’t. And I said it twice. So there we are.

(And perhaps the best personal moment, was when he said ‘The first gig, in England, is Sept. 28’ and gave me a sidelong rueful glance of such delicacy! That was our only reference to possibly missing the Nicholson.

He came back into the room, and took great pleasure in the bike boy’s antics. Left at about 7.30, stroked my back, gave me a look inside his head and left. It had been one of those times when we are one person. I went off to Tom H’s play at W’minster. As if the wretched producer reading the part wasn’t enough, as if the utter unpreparedness wasn’t enough, it was also in the open air! Frozen by the end. Happily sat next to that nice woman Hazel stays with. Didn’t like her husband much – snubbing. Play possibly quite witty in a rather booky way. He is a strange diffident boy, - his programme note is full of apologies. H’s husband seemed to me a bit of a nonentity, not formidable at all, at any rate, in these circumstances. Rushed away politely afterwards – only coffee in the interval – and was at supper by 10.30.

Ben is subdued this time and so far has done nothing about work or a flat. So I can’t allow him to get away with that for much longer.

Oh, Tuesday July 8 1986

At 1.30, off to Donald and Ann to do the garden. She insisted on meeting me. Different again. In apparently good spirits, but talked almost at once about Boris Becker’s thighs! She was quite sensual about him, more than I’ve ever known her do before. A lot of the plants have died, tho’ I think some of them weren’t inside their packets. Tho’ neither of them noticed! Strange atmosphere. They have nothing extra as a couple to offer. She has the generosity of her youth to offer, but nothing from their life together.

I found the Welsh Poppy in the garden. Just as I was deciding to ask Lalla to find me seeds, there were three or four beautiful plants, just at seeding time.

Meconopsis Cambrica.

Wednesday July 9 1986

To Labour Exchange at 9.15.

K rang at 11.30 to say he was behindhand and would like either to do my bit of the recording on Friday afternoon and just go out socially tonight. He’d forgotten that Nigel’s friend Jason was coming down with his girl-friend to stay, and he’d had to entertain them. Interesting. I remained entirely calm. Well, its work. All the same, he be better organised, since all it results in is in spending an evening with Jason etc and not with me. Does he want that? Rang off because he was at shop. He rang again at 2.0 and arranged to go round at 1.30 on Friday. I said no, don’t let’s meet tonight, I don’t want to interrupt the work. ‘What do you want for lunch?’

‘What about the evening?’ ‘No, I promised Sharron.’ Good.

And in some ways, I was really glad and certainly felt no despair. I hadn’t had an evening to myself for too many days.

And it wasn’t to myself I had it! At about 7.0, the bell rang. That kitchen design man and a builder, for Giles. Paul Fox, tall would-be personable, has been told by his salesman counsellor to concentrate on and flatter his victim. Does he think I’m going to buy a kitchen? Perhaps. Perhaps he’s really interested in the theatre. Either way it’s embarrassing. Tho’ other little man, quiet, mild. Just said at the end, I could listen to you all day. But not in an embarrassing way. They had a drink. Giles came and is unembarrassed. They were up there for an hour and a half, more! Giles’ bro Peter arrived, a ‘phone call. A great charmer.

A stimulating evening.

Ben back v. late.

Thursday July 10 1986

Ben, note, wake at 10.0. Gone by 11.0. May grow up. We’ll see. I must say he expects nothing from me, except the bed. But glad he’s gone. Just that I don’t have to remember to put my pyjama trousers on.

Gerard and Rose to dinner. Like a married couple. Because he's retiring, he a bit more fast-forwarding. (No wonder we are friends). He kept kindly correcting her and interpreting her, not nastily or frantically, but unnecessarily often. We haven’t seen one another for so long, so every now and again the evening limped, no-one’s fault. But oh how relaxing and lovely certain passages were. Nobody’s fault, the limps.

Friday July 11 1986

Rather hellish morning, with electrician putting in a new meter for Giles, and covering the hallway and stairs with plaster dust. I went out after a bit, to the shops and bank and wrote the piece for the Jimmy Y song in a new coffee shop in Hammersmith Rd. The dish-water was called freshly-ground. Off to K, ringing him first to see if I could bring anything but ‘I’ve just got it all’ so I realised he’d asked me to lunch, as opposed to giving me something to eat. He was starting the lunch when I go there, cutting up the salad in his vest and pants. A brief exchange with Nigel ‘Where are my cigarettes?’ ‘I shoved them with the rest of your stuff into the bedroom’, showed me they had words about untidiness. Later he told me that he’d come back with two bulging carrier bags and found the flat an absolute tip, with Nigel and Sharron sitting watching Rainbow in the middle of it all! (Hurriedly) ‘Of course it wasn’t Sharron’s place to clear it up.’ !! He then actually said ‘I know I was very untidy when I was with you, and you came back with the shopping.’ He actually said that. I couldn’t believe my ears. So we sat down and had lunch – no Nigel – cold ham and beef, a lovely salad – fascinating he’d never eat salad here, now he makes them for himself! Strawberries, ‘no cream, I’m afraid, life on the dole …’ He only got £15 last week.

He saw Sharron last night not tonight. She said ‘What are you going to do tonight?’ He’ll be alone like me. Good. Quite clear. And I liked it. I need a quiet evening.

So we started work. I rewrote the Radio Doctor piece a couple of times, and we recorded it, about an hour and a half. He’s doing the vocal tonight. He said to S ‘Shall I go to the pub and have a few drinks and come back drunk and do a Tom Waits?’ She, I’m glad to say for her judgment, said ‘No, he must be cold and detached.’ Quite right, drunk, you might slag anyone off. He went on fiddling – thank goodness, by the way, at last a girl with a bit of common sense – and I wandered round. A drawing of hers on the wall, cellos in black ink and a little mauve, on a background of a bit of his MS found in the bin! Quite pleasant. No specific talent.

Wedding invitation on shelf. Big card like a big party card, but fairly well engraved. Just Kevin on it, tho’ ‘Barrowby House’. Hm. I find it difficult to believe it’s a proper country house, but either way it’s going to be an awkward experience for K. The hair and me, all cut him off further. When he’d finished, and Nigel had gone, we talked of N, ‘he’s so cheeky when other people are here and he shows off’. N had earlier prepared himself a meal at about 4.30 to take him thro’ his evening in the pub, and K had to watch him every minute. Why do none of them ever put anything back in the cupboard after they’ve used it? ‘He’s sweet when we’re alone’. K teased him unmercifully but correctly. Some dreadfully wormy peas K was shelling at one point. One forgets the benefits of a good greengrocer. He actually said how cleverly he’d avoided going home! Never admitted it before. He said Marg and Eva wanted to see Nigel in B’mouth. Why didn’t we all go? So we’d better try Thursday. We continued our talk in the pub. I made up his money to the usual forty, gave him £25 to pay his share on Sat of my party, and £10 for tapes. B’mouth. ‘Your parents haven’t met Sharron.’ ‘Oh, that’s a point (not what I meant actually) ‘Have you taken girls home before?’ ‘Loads.’ And then made it perfectly clear, (as he had before, ‘we’re not a pair’) that it would not be at all bringing a girl home. Poor girl, I hope she’s not minding. I must see her again soon, oh well, I will if B’mouth comes off.

I know I say it every time, but we do get closer. When he opens himself to me, as he has today, phrases of absurd hyperbole seem to be the only ones to describe. It’s as if he melts, as if I see into his very soul, as if – no, it’s no use. All I want is for this perfect sympathy to go on. What laughs we’ve had over tomorrow night. He laughed helplessly when I said I was going to propose my own health at once and get it over and then announce that between the pudding and the coffee I would extend to them the general wisdom of my sixty years and that’ll serve them all right. That boy means everything to me.

Later.

Phil D rang to say how thrilled he was! And he wasn’t all that keen to sit next to Simon C ‘as I might be swamped!!

Later still. 12.30. Neil rang from a dinner party, drunk, I suppose to say should they bring a 53 year old Californian they'd met there? Another woman? A resounding No. People!!!!

Saturday July 12 1986 Sunday July 13 1986

Too drunk last night and really too sickly hungover today! As I knew I would be.

Monday July 14 1986

Waiting for Roy to take me out. I sort of enjoyed Sat night but I would certainly have enjoyed being alone with each of them separately. John and Simon got there first of course, and Philip and Leslie. We met in the Crosskeys, which he suggested. He’d been to a session for that young actor at some four-track studio in Camden Town. It’s casting his bread on the water, I suppose. ‘The engineer asked for my address again.’ I showed him the S.D article and for the first time, he said ‘perhaps it'll have a great come-back and we’ll make a fortune.’

At his own pub on Fri. he said ‘Thanks for the money’ and I said ‘Our money.’ Such as it is. So in we went. All went well and I think they enjoyed it. But there you are, I can't say any more about it. Tho’ I am grateful.

They’re nice people, my friends.

Rang him at 2.0. Stan answered using his equipment. He rang back at 3.0, still so close. It’s wonderful, wonderful. These last few weeks have been wonderful. The administrative director of the Lyric H’smith had a good session and didn’t die at K’s first figures. He was elated by it. Talk with Simon on Sat went well, too, wanted to hear how octophonics would work at the flat. Good. He’s so much happier.

Neil came round this PM and was a bit silly about his hair and his music. He doesn’t, I fear, understand real artists, only stars. I must, I fear, reveal a bit of that to him. Also talk about the B’mouth visit. All as soft as silk. It’s so good.

Oh I do hope my b’day goes well. I've never hoped that before.

Tuesday July 15 1986

12.30am

A very hot humid day. Was expecting him not earlier than two, coming from the shop. But he rang at 12.0 to say he was seeing one of Thierry’s record cos in Bond St at 1.0, so it might be 3.0. I said I'd have mine, and he said so warmly ‘Oh, can’t you wait? Can’t you have a snack now?’, so I have. But I wonder what he’d think if he knew I already had everything ready before he rang? That I didn’t know how to fill the time anyway? Of course, it is good news in a way, (tho’ I think Thierry is a bit feeble and they will disagree!) – it’s a tiny blot on the day, but one always possible in our work. And I am just sitting here thanking God that I no longer suffer as I did. That five week separation not only taught me that anything is better than losing him, but also that I could exist without his presence and day to day knowledge of his doings. Not only that, but after our reunion, our friendship is still closer and warmer and deeper. He has been so perceptive and kind and loving. As I hope I have been too.

I just want to record my great gratitude to fate, life or whatever, for sending this boy into my life, as expressed by his making his way across London to spend my 60th birthday with me.

1.5 a.m. Drunk.

Ayckbourn play quite awful, left at interval. But mitigated by meeting Peter Egan again. And dear Myra. More of that later. One of the most perfect days of my life.

At very end as drunk as I’ve ever heard him, but good scheme about stored up electricity in mini satellite over every building? city? Lovely cheap presents. Tactful beyond belief.

Dearest little boy, oh if only he were my son.

But he is like one. As the years go by, he’ll become one and we won't be mistaken for a gay couple any more. Oh my little boy. What do I mean, my little boy, my great artist.

Both.

Wednesday July 16 1986

Well, he got here at five to two, much earlier than I expected. Phonogram. The young man seemed only interested in Thierry! So much for his taste. He was in a vest and trunks – soon took the vest off, still very white, and a bit of a tan. He’s not a boy anymore!

‘When did you want your presents?’ We had the smoked salmon and the salad. He loves salad now, asked me seriously about my dressing ‘which is lovely.’ (It is, incidentally, odd that I have never recorded before, how very similar our eating tastes are. I haven’t come across anything he likes that I don’t. And by now, he’s grown to like/love more or less everything I like. Salad. So it is another way in which it’s easy to be together.) But after that he said ‘Shall we go in? I don’t think I could live anywhere hot.’ It was boiling. We had the raspberries indoors. And then my presents. As always, perfectly judged. He knows and I know, that they’re, as it were, bought with my money. So they can't be real presents. He used his visit to Fortnums! A packet of breakfast tea, a packet of Bath Olivers, and, sweetest of all, he recorded the two At the Drop of a Hat records on tape and drawn and written special covers. Costing nothing virtually. ‘I saw what pleasure the Ruth Drapers gave you.’

So then we had a long slow afternoon together, oh so precious. We talked of reading, of our work, of his meeting with Simon, of the family and B’mouth. He winced at his parents’ card – it is only quite recently that he has joined with me criticised them in front of me. Or, as it were, acquiescing in my standards rather than theirs. But the most important part of the talk was about my will. I realised that he still didn’t quite realise quite how absolutely I meant absolutely. When I quoted a bit of my last letter, and made it clear that the keys would be handed over, and no one could say anything, so I must tell him the people he must offer a memento to, it hit him. It went over his face.

Later, we rang them at B’mouth. He was thrilled that his mother sounded quite different. I think it may be better than any holiday they’ve had, not only because it’s monetarily free, but because they are free in every other way. We were supposed to have a drink in Nigel’s pub but left it too late. At the theatre, we were having a drink when a voice said ‘And there’s Angus Mackay.’ It was – Peter Egan. He lives at Stamford Brook with his lovely wife, Myra. I had a wonderful talk to him, telling him that my admiration for him was unaltered. He told me that he'd been offered a contract by the NT and RSC. Troilus, etc. But he hates them both so much, he turned them down. ‘It’s my own fault.’ We’re going to meet. They loved K, and he, them. His social ease still surprises me, tho’ I don’t know why. He deals with such moments perfectly – being unforcedly himself.

As for the play, oh dear for the Ayckb. I used to love. Deadly regular pace, some poor acting, some unpleasant passages of realism? simply awkward nastiness. Poor Colin B, forcing it along in case it fell to pieces entirely. Peter and Myra couldn’t stand it either, but didn’t leave as we did! So, off to Nigel’s pub, the newly got-up Chandos on the corner of St Martin’s Lane. Very pleasant, good mock-Victorian, theatre photos etc. I don’t agree with K that the mock is wrong, I think Victorian is the right line for a pub. Nigel very sweet, K quite fatherly. ‘Well go on, hadn’t you better get it?’ ‘Oh yes.’ My card. Ah. Rather jolly, scratchy drawing with a razor sellotaped inside to shave off my moustache and a touchingly gauche message. So touching to think of those two boys sitting in that flat making my presents. Ah!

So to Café Fish. No salmon. So I ordered crab and he decided to try it. When he saw the piquets and claw-crackers and little fork, he was intrigued. A great big shell. Lots of claws, delicious! He drank my health. I have the old merry Kevin back because of his job. And because he gave his whole self to me yesterday, as only he can. He chattered, he laughed, he told me his whole soul. We left one another by the Garrick. He kissed and kissed me. He gives me such pure intense happiness. I am so lucky.

Thursday July 17 1986

Last night delightful relaxing restful dinner with John N and Simon R. Jake’s ideal treat with no pressure on me, no pressure on anything. John’s aim.

Simon C and Bruno outside! But gone when we came out. Simon rang tonight and arranged to come round on Monday, and go to Cambridge on Sat. Good.

Rang K at 2.15, got a lot said about B’mouth. Oh, he’s so different. No doubt so am I. Further memories of Tues. He mentioned him having changed my musical tastes (Neil had said!) and he hasn’t taken up my tastes. Well, of course not. Fiddlededee. If he reads, he reads, but I don’t care.

He said – oh the innocent – ‘Everyone on Saturday night seemed to know everything that had happened to me.’ !! Nay, I know not seems.

I asked about the paying of the bill – he'd had to borrow seven pounds from someone, as it was £32 each. Of course it was Simon who lent it him. He kept £4 or £5 for his taxi, but as he said, they all let him walk away into the night with no money or means of getting home, as far as they knew. Even Simon! Oh, Simon said tonight how impressed Crgo. Fawcett was with him ‘He’d never ask me for anything he didn’t really need.’

Phone call about B’mouth was partly devoted to getting it right about paying for dinner! If Ernie takes us out, we must contribute. What about Sharron? Has she any money, poor child? They’re fucking this moment, no doubt, as he remarked on Tuesday.

Friday July 18 1986

Up at 7.0, and to Hammersmith to look for a possible place to eat in the Good Food Guide. Provence in Southbourne, £17 a head. Cheapish but no good for them and any way they wouldn’t like the food, I expect. Oh dear. So I rang at 9.30 (partly, to whisper it, in case he hadn’t woken, but I must remind myself that its ages since he did anything like that, that he’s 25 and has been getting up for 9.30 for six months) and I said I’d bring the towels. They were just leaving. They got to me at 10.15, him driving. He came to the door. Sharron got out, and I thought Good, I’m in the front with him. Then saw her get in the driving-seat. I thought there must be some reason – he’s too thoughtful nowadays – and there was. Pointing something out to them on the flyover, he’d very nearly crashed into the car in front. When I asked him later if it had shaken him, he said it had, which means it must have been quite bad. And it is Sharron’s father’s car, not even hers! I'd forgotten how beautiful her skin is. So white and pure and thick. And a mass of black hair and lovely laughing eyes. I think she is a bit too quiet, plenty of common sense and humour. She still hasn’t read the play! Amazing. How can she bear not to? She can't love him! We had a pleasant drive down – I bought petrol, talked mainly to K. Nigel listened to his Walkman. Stopped off for a coffee at a place looking into a pine-wood. Off a kind. After that, he drove from 11.20 onwards. Good. We remembered him changing his track-suit at the wheel and getting thistle prickles in his foot. It wasn’t a very good day, cloudy and cool. No swimming lesson for me. Stopped at Southbourne to pick up two bottles of white wine. Poor Ernie, with his usual bad luck. He'd bought a bottle of champagne, which neither K or I like, and we’d opened one of the bottles and drank it before Ernie produced the Champ. They'd got a birthday cake and ham salad and a quiche and … So we had that and went down to the beach. Nigel went in and a bit later K followed him and later Ernie. K was in about 15 mins and was really blue and chattering when he came out, but as usual felt great half an hour later. We built a sandcastle, he and I and Sharron who’d slept for a bit before. Then K said lets go for a walk up the beach. Ernie said he'd wait for Marjorie who’d taken Nigel to catch the train to London for his job. So I heard myself saying Why don’t you two go for a walk? So off they went, his arm round her shoulders, her arm round his waist. I was left with Ernie. I am thankful to say I could bear it. And I was glad I could, as Ernie used the time to pour it all out about M. Not only the rh. a. and the hip, but also a very sore mouth and she has to have a biopsy, ‘two days in hospital and a couple of stitches’, so it’s a big piece. And worst of all, another hospital for a test on two lumps under her arm. She has lost a lot of weight and is down to 7 stone. K was shocked by her looks, tho’ she was brighter than I've seen her, as the house and free holiday had excited her. But the number of things wrong with her is v. worrying. I had a long talk with her on the beach too. Ernie had changed into his trunks and gone in, and out of a silence she said ‘Of course, I wanted the boys to be circumcised, but by that time, you couldn’t get it done on the National Health and we couldn’t afford it. Ernie was circumcised, of course, but it was free then! Rather unusual for a woman of her age, particularly class, to speak so openly. It’s all on a par with them having no lock on the bathroom/loo door. Perhaps that (literal) bit of openness is where he gets his free spirit partly from. When we got back up from the beach, K took Ernie firmly off in the car ‘to look for a hotel where we can eat.’ Good boy. They came back 20 mins later having been down to B’mouth! He said the hotels were rather expensive and probably bad, he’d found ‘a wine bar/bistro down 14 steps. Mum - is that all right?’ So off we went, usual brick walls etc. Oh as we drew up, mum and dad gave K helpful (sic) back-seat advice ‘I’m just trying to help you’, and K snapped a bit. Sharron and I got out and exchanged a glance of perfect complicity. ‘Families’. One foursome in bar left, soon after we arrived and thereafter we were alone, in B’mouth at the height of the season from 8-10.30! Food rather below usual mass-produced level. K firmly ordered two bottles of the cheapest Claret. So off we set for London. K was by this time very tired. I forgot to say that he told me he'd hardly slept at all ‘got up at 3.0 with bags of ideas for the IM music whirling round in my head.’ She drove, we hardly spoke. He lay with his head back, and was soon full-length on the seat. Came too, all thick, to say goodnight and thank me with the closest of hugs. I felt I'd done a good deed and had a good day.

Sunday July 20 1986

K rang at 1.30 to say he was going into equipment purdah till Wed. night when he and Simon were having a session. So could Nigel come and stay? Of course.

John and Rachel came to lunch. R has some sort of tummy upset, for which she is taking Gavascon. What Gwen took for her hiatus hernia. She has had really bad heartburn for a week, didn’t drink, didn’t eat much, no raspberries. Jon planed down the door with much labour. We watched from the balcony. And when the door fitted, the lock didn’t.

I’m glad K’s started. What a thrill!! To bed early ‘cos of film.

Monday July 20 1986

Up and out by 6.30. Lovely clear light, always strange as seeming to come from the opposite direction. Nay, I know not seeming.

Oh, how pleasant it is to be familiar with the film scene! And not resent it as I once did so violently because it wasn’t the stage. Big old building by the Barbican. Arts Educational Centre or some such. Vague memories of my early theatre mags. just after the war. And in it a good little pros. arch theatre, hideously decorated as if to persuade any cheese-paring town councillor it was only fit to be knocked down. Which it is to be – The Golden Lane Theatre, nice name – tho’ I don’t know what I'd suggest as a policy for it.

Into the make-up van, the first source of information and comfort. Rosalind Knight and a grey haired comfortable-looking man being made up. A wig boy with a Gary Numan bleach fiddling with a wig up the other end. After a bit, and the second assistant giving me a script for the first time, I was made up. ‘You don’t mind having you hair cut, do you?’ Well, I don’t, as a principle. But, as we were in darkness most of the time and when I examined it at home later, it might have been done with a jagged pudding- basin, perhaps I should have complained. Especially as my hair, as it was, was by no means too long for an ‘arty’ drama instructor in a bow-tie! In 1949. After all, I was 23. And the make-up girl was about 30. She made up Simon in Room with A View. Quite nice, but plainly cannot cut men’s hear. It’s odd, or perhaps not, that women cannot understand the old concept of the gentleman, in clothes or anything else, vide my suit in the V.A. I wouldn’t mind them rejecting the concept, it’s not noticing it that is so dim. So we have a coffee, and Ros Knight is conscientiously spiky and eccentric, the legacy of being the plain intelligent daughter of a pretty, stupid mother. Whom I knew. But I like her, when you get her off it. We went into the theatre, sat down at our judges’ table with its bright reading-lamp. It all began. Gary Oldman appeared on the stage, line-up, lighting etc. went on, G.O. came down and introduced himself to us. Good. Curious equivocal weedy looking chap. Certainly poured some vitality into his Orton audition of Smee and Captain Hook. I got a really good laugh and round from everyone for my one funny line.

Stephen Frears, swarthy, course-featured, oddly awkward, with a capacity for making you feel awkward, too, which had doubtless gone with him thro’ life and obscured his view of others. Alan Bennett. What an enigma, but how we could get on, if only he would. I relish his wit and humour and I think it’s mutual.

Finished by lunch-time. Off like a released spring to get ready for Simon.

So there we were, with me expecting to work. He was getting on for an hour late, but when he arrived was as always adorable. I was a bit drunk by then, having given up the thought of working. And indeed the only time we mentioned it, was in the two minutes before his taxi came!

He brought me his b’day present – an answering machine, although I have told him I didn’t want one! It’s a very good one, I’m told, so -

Wrote to K sending him £7 to pay his debt to Simon, when he sees him on Wed. I don’t want him owing money to anyone else.

Tuesday July 22 1986

Julian’s first night of the play about A.A Milne’s early life. I said to Simon I suppose A.A M’s later life was too savage and gritty and realistic for J.

Wednesday July 23 1986

Royal Wedding Day.

Nigel still staying here. Watched entranced, ‘Doesn’t the Queen look young?’ I enjoyed every minute as usual! A secret vice I share with John N, almost alone among my friends. Went and had my hair cut about 2.0, to repair the damage done by the make-up girl, and shopped for Paul Ryan. Forgot to say he rang up and said tremulously that he’d like to see me. Jon H had told me it’d all gone wrong and they'd split up.

He arrived, looking bit quenched. We ate, over the coffee he told, the lip started to quiver, I sat by him, and in a second his poor little face buried in my chest, the hand holding my shirt, the other holding mine, and thus we stayed while the pathetic little tale was told. She sounds a pretty awful girl. She’s two timed him, gone to work in a topless club when she’d laughingly said she wouldn’t and is generally remaining a mess. But ‘I love her’. Unanswerable. I gave what comfort I could, marvelling at the power of love than which I think nothing else could persuade perky jaunty Paul to collapse weeping in my arms. Poor little boy, I know I helped, and he helped me to be distracted from imagining S and K together. Tho’ it was only professional interest, nothing like that agonising night two years ago. I’m seeing him on Friday anyway, so it'll be fresh.

Thursday July 24 1986

I'm seeing him on Thursday as well!

Roy’s Portland Bill was being read tonight at the Soho Poly, and I’d let him know and he thought he might come. But it worked out beautifully and we dined alone. That’ll be two nights running. Oh the joy.

So to the play reading. Hm. It’s no use, I just don’t think it’s as original as his others. The situation, dangerous outsider in closed circle, is too hackneyed. Certain passages fine. But it is too static a piece for the stage. A long scene tween husband and wife could never be animated into theatrical life. Acting indifferent to good. Girl striking looking and possibilities, mother passable. Ewen Hooper! V. low-key and rather hopeless. Jeff Rawle really vivid and good, odd open eyes, strong sex, often good. Why no more success?

When I met him, I guessed it’s because he’s personally weak and cringing. Can only command on stage. Met Rochelle, Roy’s agent. Usual gloss, but was acceptably touched by my genuine compliments. I have seldom see a friend’s prospects so genuinely transformed by a change of agent.

So after a few exchanges – Ewen, as awkward as ever! – our eyes met, and we escaped. Turned into Gt Portland St. I said ‘Let’s not go up into Oxford or Regent, that’s hopeless tourist country!’ ‘What about that?’ he said ‘That was a small Italian place on the other side of the road, only shop open. Aldo E Aldo. Promising hand written menu. Looks nice.’ More or less empty – it was 10.15 but filled up comfortably later. He had pasta, I had Chicken Grand Marnier with orange. Rather good. Raspberries. He had some!

He'd brought with him a tape for me, called First Ideas – Infernal Machine. He was v. good about Simon, whose creativity he recognises, but whose lack of musical knowledge he also recognises, and that his mind works in a very different way. For instance, triplets were a bit more of a mystery to S than K expected. Also that S seemed to think the First Ideas, which is – I haven’t played it yet – simply a continuous piece, and is just that, ideas to be mined for whatever S wanted – S seemed to think that K had written a symphonic poem in response to the play. In fact, he’d given him some samples in continuous stream. For instance K said ‘there was a little guitar riff at one point ‘cos S had said there are gypsy camps outside the gates’ and so on. And S said ‘oh if only that guitar bit could only go on all thro’. I said ‘Well it could, you know. I just put a bit in.’

And I chipped in and said ‘As if the designer meant an aque-duet to go right across the back cloth and only sketched in one arch’. ‘Exactly’ said K. S cannot seem to work like that and build, we’ll see.

There was a moment I hardly dare write of. He suddenly spoke seriously of the Nicolson. He told me to be firm with S about the rehearsal time being inviolable, was very good and firm himself with me about it. ‘You need someone to play to, I know. So whatever happens, I’ll be there.’

And the look in his eyes, I sometimes feel I don’t deserve him.

Friday July 25 1986

To Victoria Coach Station to meet Lalla and Myra. What a hellish place! Need they make it so obvious that it’s for second-class citizens? Absurdly over-crowded. And none of the incoming buses had the name of their origin on, only London. Myra small and shrivelled. Looks older than Lalla.

Off to house, she’s trying hard not to be irritating. And me. Soon off to Chandos, where I had a tranquil 20 minutes writing after a chat with Nigel. A pity it’s a bit hot; if it’s true it cost £5 million to re-do, it’s a pity there’s no air-conditioning. K arrived (on time these days).

I asked how Sharron had liked his parents and that she’d said to me, she couldn’t see anything of Ernie in K. (I can now, his benevolence, for a start).

He said ‘She said how sweet my mother is. All my girlfriends have said that.’ He also said he hadn’t seen Sharron for a week.

So to the film. Hannah and Her Sisters. A real step forward, but, as often happens, a less certain tone as a result. The sub plot of W.A as a hypochondriac, fits ill with the main burden of the film. And I am not sure that when we come back and see it again in the mainstream of his work, it may seem pretentious. Bits of direction, good. K specially liked the way the camera circled round the three sisters in the restaurant. We discussed it all minutely over salmon at Café Fish, I was specially impressed by his grasp and real thought about W.A. In fact, he made me feel I had been too affirmative in my first judgement. Incidentally it was very satisfying seeing a film at the Odeon Leicester Sq, with every row full to the last seat, no mean feat in a cinema that size. Café Fish still all right, had a bottle of Californian wine, white burgundy sort, Fume Blanc. Good.

Talked right thro’ the Simon thing. He sees him clear, thank God. Also Lalla! One look was enough. He suggested Tuesday when I told him I was going to Ed and Jo. And suggested it again tonight. ‘When are you going to Ed Fox?’ ‘Well, Tuesday before you go.’ Since that time, he seems really to have understood more might absolute need.

Saturday July 26 1986

Shaw’s 130th b’day! Simon came round at about three, to say no he couldn’t install the answer-phone because of the special point needed. We had a delicious chat, but what was my amazement when he said we must work. So we did, went right through Nicolson, decided on the sound, went through for mistakes and best of all, he said that he decided to make the middle weekend of rehearsal fortnight the production weekend, so with luck, if we have the theatre, I shall have a week of dress rehearsals. Bruno S turned up, said he wouldn’t interrupt and didn’t. Sat and read and took himself right out of it. Later, he said when Simon was out of the room, ‘If only one can pin Simon down.’ Do you know that was a relief to me? Isn’t it odd that with all my suffering with S, I hadn’t been disloyal enough to admit to myself that he was unreliable?!

A quiet evening, diversified by Lalla arriving home at midnight, just as I was nodding off. I cannot expect her to understand that I have my night cap and then must sleep. However, we are preserving an armed truce.

To Neil’s tomorrow for window-box time.

Sunday July 27 1986

At 2.30, as we were dozing after lunch and trying to pull ourselves together to go to Neil, the bell rang long and loud. Nigel looking much the worse for wear said ‘I rang an hour ago, I've been asleep on the doormat.’ ! We’d had the radio on in the garden and hadn’t heard. He'd gone off on Monday Saturday to meet Steve etc for a scratch cricket match. They only had seven on their side, so not surprisingly they lost. He’d drunk 10 pints of lager and three Bacardi’s and obviously had the hangover of all time. ‘Have you any Alka-Seltzer?’ When I came back, he’d flaked out on Lalla’s bed. Well it was his till two nights ago! But Lalla had to change, so I had to rout the poor sod out. We left him with Alka-Seltzer, feeling, I imagined, deadly sick. Off we went to Neil, usual rather convulsive time, Neil in an expansive mood, saying in so many words ‘Encourage me to buy all the plants and boxes, I may feel too mean tomorrow.’ We bought five, a longer one for the balcony and a large fuchsia in a pot to stand by it on the balcony. Planted and rammed in geraniums, begonias, campanulas etc, a little evonymus or hebe in the middle of each one. Two took me well over half an hour. All the time we were at the nursery, getting on for an hour and a half, Lalla had baby talk with Linda. A picture of her sitting on the sofa with Lucy cuddled up on one side and Chloe on her lap. I suddenly saw one secret of her way with babies and children, the confidence of simplicity and a completely round body with no angles or hardnesses anywhere. At 6.45 I said I’d had enough and must get the joint on. Back at home, a memorable picture presented itself. Nigel, in nothing but his underpants, was sitting with his head on his crossed arms at the dining table. On the table were the nearly empty packet of Alka-Seltzer and two empty bottles of Evian water. On the top of the refrigerator was a dish with two Weetabix he had been hoping to face!

K had rung half an hour before, saying he’d put the chicken on and he was coming home. After he’d left at 7.30 ish I rang K straightaway and told him all, and he chuckled away a lot. Evening with joint and raspberries, carefully avoiding difficult subjects.

Monday July 28 1986

To Neil’s again to finish off the window-boxes and bought a trough bit enough for the whole shelf in the greenhouse. The oleanders and bougainvillea D and A gave me which they didn’t want, look very well, not only filling it at last, but looking, not unnaturally real greenhouse material.

Forgot to record that when I spoke to him yesterday, told him all about Simon, he was pleased and said ‘There you are, now you must stop worrying, it will all fall into place’.

Tuesday July 29 1986

Oh, he is a rare creature. I sometimes now feel humble that he has taken me as his closest friend. As I did with D. Can this be? To his at 5.15, Lalla having gone off to Donald’s in a mini-cab to be paid for by him. !

At the desk in the bedroom that is the music room again! That quiet greeting. First, money. Chris Parsons turned up and borrowed £30, of which more later. Nigel borrowed £10 till he can cash his cheque, and when he and Sharron were doing the questionnaire in the Trocadero, the car was impounded! £70 to get it out. Sharron wrote a cheque, but he owes it her because it was his fault! After they got it out ‘in that way you do, you spend some more money. We went to the Wine Gallery.’ Ah, I was sympathetic with that, tho’ a lot of fathers wouldn’t be! Also discussed his overdraft as we were walking to the fish and chip shop, or rather the Slug & Lettuce. I said I could send Sharron a cheque for the £70 as she must really need it, if she’s to go on with her work and not take a holiday job. ‘No’, he said, and in that flash, without another word, I realised she knows nothing of the money I give, or have given him, nor must she. I don’t think I’d be human if I didn’t feel uplifted by this.

The Slug & Lettuce was full and the barman deliberately moved away from serving us, so he said Let’s try that pub we’ve been in to while waiting for the Aquilino. It’s been dolled up. Let’s see if we like it. Gosh. What a change. It was the dreariest of dreary pubs, now it’s a Dme, with sliding doors, Ranger clientele and tables outside. It was all right tonight, but not just to have a drink in. We might try it for a meal, but it’s a bit pricey for a casual drink, £3.50 for a lager and a large gin. And possibly a tip to a waiter as well. But acceptable on a close night.

He finished telling about the questionnaire. They questioned 36 people. The answers were very favourable for his scheme. But another time they’ll try somewhere else, so many of those questioned were foreigners, and an enclosed shopping-precinct with background music, needs a bit of topping. ‘It’s all very well for you’, he said, when I expressed surprise. ‘You’re an actor. But there are getting on for thirty questions, and by the end of it, we had both lost our voices.’ Ealing B’way. So to Chris Parsons. He’d called round. It’s a new disastrous girl. Disagreement, quarrels. £30 to buy her a present. K gave excellent advice, but I expect it will have no effect. C.P threatens to join a squat in Hampstead, also that computer bus., he’s put £250 into it! I asked about him practising and had he got the resolution? He looked v. thoughtful. Said he’d advised him to get a grotty bed-sit as they both had in M’chester ‘where I wrote ‘Visiting Day’, and practice. Asked me to back him up and advise C against the squat, where he’d never get the peace of mind or security of tenure. He said the ‘bare-bones’ equipment was coming on Saturday, or did he say Sunday? I said did he want more and he said no, he wanted to do the bare-bones for a variety of reasons. We talked of IM, a bit of Simon and almost simultaneously we realised I mustn’t be a go-between. I burned for a moment at the thought that I might have gone too far in that direction. But I haven’t. I have prepared him as far as possible to deal with S and now I must leave both of them or I would be in danger of interfering with the creative process. (Memo. I think S also sensed it, as when I gave him K’s tape, he didn’t read me K’s letter, which in any ordinary circs. he would have done. He was of course quite right (just took a bit to regard K in a work situation, after three years of the closest personal association.)

At the F and C shop, I was much struck when I came back from getting the wine, that Olga had said to him ‘Where is Angus going?’ The point being that she had remembered my name about a month after first hearing it, without prompting. Impressive and a small sign that she has chosen the right profession of restaurateur.

I had had a cheque for £500 in the morning, so bought him a bottle of whisky. At the flat, had a couple, no more, as I was travelling so early the next morning. Forgot to say, the answer-phone was installed earlier today. Hoped he’d be the first to hear my message and nearly made it to him, but too risky. So told him to ring as I listened, still hoping he was the first. As he was when I played it back at home. So I have a tape of my screaming with laughter in the b’ground and him saying ‘Hello, er that’s the voice of your master in background, well sleep well. All my love, Kevin’ in a very sloppy voice. And home on the tube for 20p on my newly acquired 60 year old Rail Card. As I walked off to the tube, I was so thankful that I – we – are now so much more settled and happy and I think, solved. By the separation?

Perhaps. It has certainly – seemingly, it was that – changed things for the better. Odd.

I looked in his engagement diary and saw a line down the side of the days ‘A to E. Fox’. Sharron was in York for the week. He didn’t mark that, nor had he her number. Odd.

Saturday August 2 1986

Just back from Ed and Jo Fox. Couldn’t write in their house, somehow. Well, tomorrow. Funny and fascinating.

Main news tonight, is card from Marjorie sent on Wed. thanking me for Bournemouth. A document I'll carry to the grave.

‘It was time away from home we both needed very much, having been so hurt, so broken-hearted over the sadness of Philip’s wedding arrangements. I will never be able to re-pay you, Angus, except in deep love and gratitude for all the love and kindness you have given Kevin and now the same valuable help you have Nigel is lucky to receive from you when he most needs it, so may I say just a humble Thank You.’

Well, I can live on that. For a good while.

Sunday August 3 1986

So to recap. Up on Wed. morn at 6.30 after my lovely evening. Had to wake Lalla at 8.30! to say I was going. She might have been drunk – her words were so slurred. So off I went to catch the 9.32 from Waterloo, the first time I have ever gone away from home without a jacket! Pleasant journey in a train to Bournemouth without the boredom and irritation of Lalla in prospect. Read that sixteen-year-old novel by who? Oh yes, Miles Franklin, ‘My Brilliant Career’ on the way. Not bad for sixteen or rather, in its literacy and control, quite impossibly beyond the capacity of any sixteen year old today. But still very unsatisfactory, very unlike life, not nearly as good as the film. In a separate compartment all the way, alone except for a busy businessman in grey, working busily at numbers all the way to Southampton. Memo. I used my rail-card for the first time, £7 instead of £20 something.

At Wareham, after the terrain changed, there was Edward, worn, tired, but infinitely considerate. How worn also was the BMW, which I remember bran new at the Round House. We went to the High St, parking the car off the High Street. We waited some while for Jo and the children, and while I didn’t find the lack of organisation trying in itself, I pondered on it, and how strange it is that the generations younger than mine, while claiming so much ‘freedom’, spends so much time shopping and cooking etc. that they take ages to get round to doing anything. Certainly Jo spent vast aeons of the time I was with them bustling uselessly about and served up no meal less than an hour later than she meant! Certainly I suffered indigestion and hunger, but I have learnt to be calm at having my routine disturbed.

Eventually they arrived. We wandered vaguely round a drapers’. Ed and the children vanished, to emerge mysteriously on a street corner without apparently having left the shop! So to Hyde House. Off a side road, to a lane, high hedges, two stone cottages, a big iron field gate, a track with a double line of concrete slabs for the car across a big field with Jacob’s sheep in, ‘I let the farmer graze them to keep the grass down’, to another big iron field gate, and the garden. Like the cottage at the beginning, rough grass no beds, I could see Ed spends most of his time down there cutting ‘things’ down.

Now to the good things. The absolute quiet; they left me alone; I don’t think I’ve ever stayed anywhere I could really stay in bed in the morning and really read in the drawing-room. I always had plenty to drink, and nice meals, the children never were allowed to bother me. A friend of Emilia’s called Flora, is going to be a lot of useless sexual bother in a few years time. Even at 12? …

Monday August 14 1986

Must record that Sat was the first time I came home and played back the answer-phone. A lot of calls, most of them bursts of laughter and no real message, except for George Rowe and K, who, to be fair, was the only one ready for it, to say he was at Sharron’s, on, I presume, Friday night. So, I rang him on Sat aft. V. sweet, ‘I’m just getting into it, the equipment comes tomorrow, I’m seeing Simon on Mon. night.’ ‘Any chance of seeing you this week?’ By Wed or Thur. etc.

Well, if it’s only for a half an hour ….

So they’re having a creative session tonight. And I don’t mind. Nigel turned up tonight, with a bottle of gin and the £10 he owed me. I read him Marjorie’s card. He said, re the ‘broken-hearted’ bit, ‘Hasn’t K told you, he and Phil aren’t speaking?’ !!

Oh, how fascinating, how his delicacy works every way – he told me about not being best man cos of his hair, and left me to draw conclusions that relations would be very strained.

But didn’t go into it or say anything definite, because it would be coarse in view of my row with Phil. Because my row must have some reference to K’s row. He hasn’t had it because of me, but he doesn’t want to tie it in too intimately with my row because it would have happened anyway.

But he has been closer to me than ever, ever before, ‘cos he sees I was right to blow Phil up. He found out for himself how low P. could be, and thought he’d been too hard on me!

Tuesday August 5 1986

Back a bit bad, but I think only injured, not chronic.

Got a lot done this morning, got Nigel off to his pub job and to meet John N for lunch, taking B Pym’s CV to Felix first, as he’s off to the States tomorrow. Met John with such quiet confident pleasure. Described the Ed and Jo w/e knowing he would catch every bit. Talked over Neil and both decided we’d encourage him go to L.A. What other way out?

Left John at 2.15, and wandered round the bookshops as usual, and tried to avoid going home to study.

Eventually bolted down that forty-five year old rabbit-hole, Leicester Square. Looked as always, longingly at the train going to Holloway Rd, but no longer painfully. Isn’t it wonderful?

He trust me with his young brother. I never gave that enough weight.

Later.

Prepared Nigel a proper supper, laid table, podded peas etc. Realised I had never done this because he was a scrubbéd lad, and a bit crude.

And not Kevin!!

How unfair. I must not treat him as a passing substitute for K.

He is changing visibly.

But I think of K up there working.

Wednesday August 6 1986

10.15am

In the Co-Op Coffee Shop after signing on.

Ran after the milkman to pay him. He was flirtatious, obviously taking a traditional view of his role. ‘Have a nice weekend.’

‘Nice weekend!’ I said, walking away, ‘it’s only Tuesday.’

Throwaway from Ken Branagh of his Romeo and Juliet at the lyric, Ham. His name three times on the poster, K B presents, leading part and director. Brave. Vain? I often wonder how far such ventures are fuelled by vanity. Certainly I didn’t realise years ago that he had quite all this. Went to leave him a note. Stage Door in oily car-park locked. Poor theatre.

On my way back from the shops, dropped in front of house to delivery my note and there was David Parfitt. So I got a bit of gossip: they were £1000 over budget before rehearsals began. They’re rehearsing in Macbeth St and opening on 13th. Later still George Rowell told me that Samantha Bond is a bit over the hill for Juliet. It turned out she’s 26! Oh and David saw K at the Lyric the other day! Envy again, and he couldn’t call in because of the equipment. Ah well, I’m really used to that now and just felt so grateful I’d been able to put the job in his way.

Oh, George is giving up his pied-a-terre, because he’s retiring a year early. He was due to go in two years’ time, but is going early because the new Head of the Dept is so impossible. How? Why? And Who is He? So I said he could use my spare-room as his new pied a terre, and he said Manna from Heaven. I said he could do his research without getting out of bed. He's sent me his dates, all long after the vital days. I am touched, as ever, by his old-world simplicity. He refers to the Terriss chapter I researched as if I’d written it.

Nigel is a nice boy but at the moment blunt-edged. Apt to try to get you into corners. ‘How much whisky do you get thro? Isn’t it amazing the difference? K was never crude at any age. His failings are always from having too much imagination, or too much selfish preoccupation with work – but always fine work, - after all, we excuse most things if they produce the 9th Symphony. It’s the coarseness of the mesh that one drops through. At the worst of his youthful selfishness, K was always demanding better of the work in some way.

Learnt the first five pages of Nicolson today.

Thursday August 7 1986

To my amazed delight K rang at 6.30 ish to redeem his possible promise for a date.

His opening sentence was ‘What day is it?’ Absolutely genuine. Oh dear, I’ve never not know what day it is was except when I was at the cottage. Very severe about Nigel and the shop K works at. ‘Unless he gets in touch today, I’ll be right off him in a big way.’ Monday was good. And they talked about the Nicolson. Oh, how piercing it all is! His real seriousness about Nigel would have been impossible only two years ago. And him ringing about the possible date too.

He said he was just getting on top of it, but he couldn’t step aside from it yet. ‘So I’ve got Monday or Thursday’. I said ‘Monday as I haven’t seen you for so long by then’. ‘Ah, but the equipment goes back Monday morning and I might be dead on Monday eve.’ ‘Oh, well Thursday.’

What’s happening Tues and Wed. Sharron? Thierry? Ah, well.

Friday August 8 1986

Nigel came back from his football, and told me a bit about the game. How impossible it is to think of sitting down and talking to him for a whole evening! There is a kind of bluntness of perception, an ‘out with his mates in the public bar’ feel that makes it impossible to begin on any civilised subject. There have been some glimmers of manners and so on, and he's nice enough, and can be quite funny not always knowingly. We have now lived together enough to rub along with chit chat, but I have never exchanged more than one serious (sic) sentence with him. His awkwardness is partly his age, but I fear is partly sui generis, like say How much whisky do you drink? and How can you write a sketch and watch TV at the same time? He’s very much the type of guest that doesn’t ever conceive that you may be living slightly differently because he’s there! K was selfish and casual thro’ youth, but never made the same mistake twice, and how swiftly he developed and changed, especially after he came back to London after studio. I fear it isn’t worth trying to develop or advise or influence Nigel (even if I could) because I think it would be kinder to leave him as he is, and let him ‘find his own level’ as schoolmasters say. He does not reach out to the finer things, the side of K that draws me to him and vice versa, simply passes him by, it seems. Of course, one side of modern youth I’ll never get used to, their lack of respect for things, especially other people’s things. There are three piles of carefully-sorted files and papers in his room, Mis Y, Pym and Nicolson. He’d piled them together haphazard to write on the chest of drawers – his timesheets at the pub! – and when I came down to check something for the typist tomorrow, it took 3 time as long to find it. I used to be nervous of going into my father’s study, let alone thing of moving anything. But then even K did that!

I’d rung Simon and asked for a typists’ name. He rang from, as it afterwards turned out, his rehearsal, and said he knew someone, we chatted, he said would I tell K that he wanted three mins of wedding music, as he hadn’t K’s numbers, and rang off without giving me the typists name and number! He rang later, we talked for half an hour. Rather illuminating about Anna Massey, with whom he’s starring in This TV. Although she’s very good up to a point, she’s worrying herself, ‘because I’m a plain woman playing someone plain, and goes on and on being plain.’ Precisely. S mentioned Ingrid Bergman. Precisely again. IB could make the audience feel she was plain, while being one of the most attractive women who ever lived. But it isn’t just the plainness (tho’ she is very thin now and flat on all aspects) it’s not the lack of skill or intelligence. It’s just the same with Daniel, (tho’ I think she is in a higher class for clarity and taste than he) – there is a lack of spiritual size. D had that, and so, very differently, did I.B. The trouble is Anna is intelligent enough to know it. That’s one of the reasons she’s so thin.

Back to Nigel. The real curse is that he has no talent. As far as one can see, for anything. I often wonder, vide Noel C, whether one child having fairly overwhelming talent means that the parents’ capacity for giving talent to the following child, becomes less! Or it’s just the consciousness of K’s gifts, that is inhibiting. Of course, he’s 18 and still rather insecurely jokey, like Paul was. I must ask again about that girl, the one whose shoulder he’d cry on, if he were low.

Simon’s seeing K tomorrow 2-6. He said bits. He’s still saying it’s a sea of music and mood. Perhaps if they have a real session tying things in to the text exactly, he’ll see that he’s not ‘dreamy’, in a dream. I think S will be surprised, perhaps, to get ‘3 minutes of wedding music’ exactly.

‘Perhaps thro’ not quite scrupulous enough reading of the text.’ Well, yes and no. He will have read it thoroughly, but not as I would. Now I know that’s no excuse, but S must allow, at least at first, for his known ignorance. S told me it was 2-6, and Bruno will come round and hear the musical ideas, and perhaps give him some idea of the set. Oh dear, I envy them tomorrow afternoon. Because of the sparks.

Later.

Of course, his ignorance worries me, because of his lack of references, of utter unawareness of the whole huge accretion of associations around Oedipus, and the fact that the whole play is comment on that and French and fifty years old as well.

Saturday August 9 1986

To Simon’s typist in morning. Basement of house in Portland Rd. Notting Hill. Curiously ramshackle, turned out they’d had rising damp. She seemed bright and catchy on. As all that money’s come in, decided to lunch out alone, for the first time since when? Went to Pelican, sat in corner of the front. Had cold mushroom soup, chicken in a red sauce, two glasses of their respectable house dry white and thoroughly enjoyed it. Drank a toast to K – and Simon – at 2.0. Came home to find Giles K there – forgot to say met his brother amazingly at Shepherds Bush on my way to typist, he recognised me after one glance on the stairs at St D Rd – and had a lovely half hour’s chat with G. We do get on. Trouble with his girl-friend wanting to move in! Oh dear. For him I mean.

Do dear Ian and Hilary in their new flat at Forest Hill. Very pleasant area, very quiet. Nice sized spare room. They are dear warm people. I hope they stay together as I love them both. I am at my best with them I hope.

Gums shrinking. Must go to the dentist.

Do hope today has gone well for him. Sent £300 to M’chester, oh I said that. I think, I plan, only for him.

Sunday August 10 1986

Went for a walk in beautiful park and then came back and had good old brunch. Lovely. Mild. They love me. Came back home and found Nigel had left all the washing up. Isn’t it amazing that I am still inhibited by the page? I’m sure that’s from being 14 when the war broke out, and no paper.

Haven’t seen him since a week last Tuesday and suddenly crying, and then saying to myself How dare you. You went away to Edward’s. So it need only have been a week!

11.55 am

I think of him as I go drunkenly to my bed, unable to study cos of no script, and cross with Nigel. I think of him writing against time all alone. As we always are. In work. My love.

Monday August 11 1986

When I got up this morning, there were two coffee cups on the d. table! So I didn’t disturb him. He’s seen the note about the washing up.

About ten the phone rang. The machine was still on. It was K from the shop saying N should be decorating the boss’ flat or house. Urgent. His voice sounded so nice, round and velvety, - had he been singing a lot? Surely not. I’d forgotten he’d been in the shop this morning. Oh poor boy. Probably up all Sat and Sun nights. Must tell him tonight that he could give up the job sooner.

So off Nigel went to decorate.

Off I went to do various chores. My watch repair. £28 six to eight weeks. The Lennon poster for Ian B, and so on. Back here, after a bad lunch at the Sad Wine Bar, why did I go there, never again, and some coffee at the Pelican to take the taste away, back here with Patrick Kavanagh’s excellent novel bought in the Charing X road, A Song & Dance. Very good, very wise. An indictment of 1968 that it was not better thought of.

Rang K at 6.45. Still had the equipment and was working. I was pleased. The longer he can have it the better all the way round for his health and his music.

Later.

Phil rang! To speak to Nigel. Cool. So was I. I think, quite apart from the row, it would be better never to meet again.

But I’ll do whatever he wants.

Tuesday August 12 1986 Wednesday August 13 1986

Kept yesterday free for Paul, but no sign. Ah well. Nigel will go soon. Good! Rang K and he said Send him back now. Poor N. Always being sent back somewhere.

Jon H came round to work on Zentapuss. And was hopeless. Wanting it all to be different but not knowing how to make it so.

I’m sick of talking to people who aren’t him.

Thursday August 14 1986

Endless wonders. He noticed my watch had gone. He recapped not just on his life, but on mine. Asked about Edward F visit. Told me about Peter Hutch visit, about the work, - well, let me start at the beginning. Nigel turned up at about 9.15! despite having been at his new girl’s in I suppose, Walton on Thames! Forgot to say she picked him up last night. I’d say she was she was more than 23, just as Nigel pretended to be 21! Frizzy auburn hair, rather dry lined skin, rather crowded biggish teeth, but the overall effect is pleasant and I should say she was highly-sexed. Just what he needs at 18! He says she’s a banker!

K rang at 2.0 ish from the pub. Nigel was buying him a drink to celebrate his A-level results. Bother, forgot to say that’s one reason why Nigel came round, to ring school for the results! And his mother. He was very pleased, though he only got C in Biology and whatever the other one was. And to pick up our songs tape for K to add to. So picked up the ‘phone after the answering-machine, and when K realised I was actually there, he said Hello with intense warmth, I was quite overturned. He was warning me he’d be a bit late. Imagine that, years ago! In the end he got here at 5.30, and hugged me, and I said ‘I’m sick of talking to people who aren’t you.’ We sat on the balcony and he consciously recapped lavishly and long, on both our lives. He really does see the point.

I told him all about Ed Fox visit. He was fascinated. He told me all about the working afternoon with Simon. (Bruno never turned up). He’s taped the talk so I’ll hear it. Fascinating. He was very accurate about S, his impracticality, and lack of follow-through (Did we ever get to the Act II of the Nicolson?) and indeed lack of musical knowledge (‘he never mentioned major or minor to me for instance, during the entire four hours’) but also for his genuine creativity. ‘Though he makes me smile, when I think perhaps he shouldn’t. He knelt at my feet and said ‘Now for the end, you must write the greatest piece of music of your life. It must be ….. light’, with a great gesture with both arms’.

K got up to do this and giggled over it all. He brought me a full tape of all the music so far, and our song tape with Stretch it on. He’d had a couple of hours with the 8-track, extra waiting for the man to pick it up, and done it straight off. Vocal first! Written it, I mean.

We talked about the wedding row with Phil. He brought it up, as he realised he hadn’t told me properly about it. Halfway through, I read him my August 4 entry, rather nervously. He looked at me amazed. ‘But, that’s exactly how my mind worked! Oh, I can’t wait for you to die, so that I can read the whole thing!’

I even read him the last paragraph, and he said yes, he had been too hard. ‘You’re right, as you always are.’

Poor boy, the Phil row took place, while we were separated. No wonder he was depressed. The wedding is going to be awful for him. We went off to the Wine Galleries for dinner. ‘I do love this place.’ Back here for a whisky. Gave him some little presents, wine glasses, Body Shop shampoo, Donald Swann songs. He thanked me for the £300, as nobody but he can. The endless wonder of his truth, and confidence in me, and total closeness and love. Endless wonder.

Ils s’eroulent Les ruines. Les triomphes De la Cuisine ?